Tales from the Park Side

One down, one to go

2008-10-26T08:47:00.005-04:00

I'm moving. The blog, that is. Come check it out at its new, hopefully improved, home, and update your feed reader and links.

paigeorloff.com/blog

If only I could figure out how to embed this video...

2008-10-17T13:39:00.001-04:00

Life would be better. Instead, click through, and watch it. You will not be sorry.

What I need to get done before 2:35

2008-10-15T11:55:00.002-04:00

Run me and the dog.
Write this week's column for Rural Intelligence. If only a single source would return an email or a phone call, this would be a bit easier. Just a bit.
Finish researching and writing pithy, capsule descriptions of a zillion movies--for the double secret project.
Finishing reading two books and write something witty and wonderful about them--for the double secret project.
Feed the chickens. Gather the eggs.
Pick up the dry cleaning. Drop off the dry cleaning.
Buy the things I forgot to buy at the grocery store yesterday.
Mail things at the post office.
Shower,dress, and look presentable.
Drive to Lenox to get the small people.
It's nearly noon. The forecast is definitely cloudy.

If you haven't already seen this...enjoy. weep. vote.

2008-10-15T10:04:00.001-04:00

A for effort and E for eggs

2008-10-09T12:50:00.003-04:00

Over there on the far left, you see a nest, made by one of our hens. There are more than 20 eggs there, and she carefully cleared that spot, laid those eggs, and then sat on them diligently until the non-farmer (that would be me) foolishly decided to bring her some food, and scared her off. That was a few days ago, and they're now abandoned. Before I toss them into the woods to be eaten by the foxes and raccoons, I wanted to memorialize her effort. Mostly, domesticated chickens don't do this. They have had the "broodiness" bred right out of them; their instincts are decidedly non-maternal. I could probably hatch some chicks from my hens; I know that many of their eggs are fertile (with three roosters around, that's no surprise) but I'd need an incubator to do it.

Meanwhile, the new girls have begun laying, too, bringing Dido's dreams of a roadside egg stand closer to reality. Their efforts are in that beautiful yellow bowl--I should have put one of the big girls' eggs in for scale, because these new ones are tiny--maybe an inch and a half long. As I did with the first from the original hens, I'll save these. Why, I don't know. Maybe they're like old pictures: reminders of the way things started out, the difficult promise held in every beginning.

Twitter is the new Blog

2008-09-17T20:41:00.007-04:00

Sorry about that. I've been tweeting up a storm, but alas, blogging has been elusive. To recap, a few bullet points:

We had the Gillibrand/Obama fundraiser, which went really well. We raised a fair bit of money, had 25% of our town's registered Dems there, plus a lot of folks from other places, and proved, I think, to the local party that there is a younger crowd (when I say younger, what I mean is: middle aged) waiting to be tapped. All good. Plus Marshall Crenshaw came and played a couple of tunes, and that's just cool.

The day of the fundraiser and the following day, we had family visiting from L.A. We had a fabulous, fun visit, and I think we all ended the weekend feeling warm and fuzzy about each other, which was exactly what we all needed and wanted. It was great.

The next day, the kidlets started school. Dido LOVES school this year, loves it more than he ever has, wakes up in the morning raring to go to the point that he gets dressed and often MAKES HIS BED, unprompted. Let's just say that this is unprecedented. The Babe, while slightly less enthusiastic, is subject to the contagion of her brother's good mood, and thus, mornings have been easier.

That Friday, I had a big meeting on my double secret project, which went well, though it entailed (I kid you not) hair and makeup. See that pic up above? That's what I look like with hair and makeup. Don't get used to it.

Sometime over the weekend, Fiammo, aka the mighty hunter--not, got outside and came back with a weepy eye, which got worse and worse. Monday morning I took him to the vet, only to learn that he had managed to get a puncture wound in his eye. Since that initial visit, we've been medicating daily and have visited the vet three times. Ah, parenthood.

The following Monday, we had an impromptu overnight visit from the H's agent and his (the agent's, not the H's--not as far as I know) girlfriend. Apparently, Hollywood will hunt you down. I'm pretty sure when the four of us lunched at our favorite Hudson creperie we made the owner's week. (Ok, in my own defense about this blatant celeb-y news: it's for my best friend from elementary school, who loves this stuff. Blame lovely Mary. Mary, I hope you like this one!)

The rest of the week, I was working on the double secret project, working on my (weekly--check 'em out) story for Rural Intelligence, and prepping for our local literary shindig, the "Festival of Books." We had two of the authors (Lily Tuck and Mary Gordon) as our houseguests over the weekend, and I attempted to moderate two author readings/discussions (Lily and Sheila Weller.) I did a better job at the second than the first, much to my chagrin, but the audiences were engaged and asked good questions, and I think the authors were pretty happy--and that's what matters most. In between the two panels, I coordinated desserts for the big dinner shindig for the Festival.

This Monday....what the hell happened on Monday? I have no idea. I think I got some writing done. I think. I think I went back to the vet. Again. Or maybe that was Friday? Oh, I know why I don't remember: memory is kind, and allows us to block the things we can't bear. Monday was the day that Dido got the stomach flu, stayed home from school, and the Babe pitched a world-class, diva temper tantrum to try to avoid the cosmic injustice of attending school when her brother was busy running from bed to toilet. While she lost the battle, the outcome of the war remains to be determined. We were twenty minutes late, and both breathing heavily, when I finally, gratefully, deposited her at school.

Yesterday, I was down in the barn doing some long overdue chicken primping and cleaning, and felt a twinge in my lower back. This is not a new problem for me: the first time my back "went out", I was standing in the ladies' room at J. Walter Thompson (the ad agency where I worked after I graduated from college). In my own personal Peggy Olson moment, I had to gingerly navigate back to my cubicle and try to make it through the rest of the day in excruciating pain. (As I write this, I am remembering that this was actually not the first episode--how odd. The first time was actually when I was working in a gourmet food shop on Martha's Vineyard. I had totally forgotten. Funny. I digress.) This time seemed mild to moderate, until today, when I had to drive Dido to Springfield, Massachusetts (about 75 miles away) for a follow-up go round with the super duper Orthopedists at Shriner's Hospital. When we arrived, I couldn't get out of the car. No fun for me, and scary for poor Dido. I finally managed to hoist myself out, get him to and through his appointment (he's fine, but the experience today freaked him out because there were some seriously ill and disabled kids at the hospital; seeing them he described as both "scary and sad" and I have to agree. As always, he conducted himself like a total champ: courteous, cooperative and kind. I adore this kid. He is such a love.) We hopped (or, in my case, hobbled) back into the car and headed for Lenox so he could get at least half his school day. When we arrived, I was able to get out to walk him in--hooray! My euphoria was short lived: I collapsed to my knees in the middle of the driveway, just as the landscaper's truck was trying to drive out. Jordan was mortified, and scared that I was going to be roadkill. I managed to, literally, crawl out of the way, and after a few horrible moments, I pulled myself to a stand with his help and walked him into his classroom. I've spent the rest of the day lying in John's special zero gravity fancy-pants back chair, heavily medicated.

I twittered last week that I was fantasizing about knitting, alone, in a quiet room, but this is not the catalyst I imagined. I'll trade the knitting for mobility, thank you very much...Mom, Dan, Chris--am I forgiven? I hope so! (And is everyone proud of me for getting through this whole, long post without once mentioning ~~Voldemort~~ Sarah Palin?)

xx

My excuses, part 1

2008-09-14T20:49:00.002-04:00

It has been so long since I've blogged that my mother is expressing both irritation and concern. The rest of you, I presume, have just given up on me, and rightly so.

It's been a busy few weeks out here at Runaround Farm. I promise to give the recap if not tonight, maybe tomorrow or worst, the next day. I miss blogging, and at least I know my sweet mom misses it, too.

x

When will I ever learn?

2008-08-26T12:38:00.002-04:00

What song is that from? I can hear it, a chorus, in my head, but can't name that tune. Says something about the state of my brain these days. I am hiding in our guest room, writing my next piece for Rural Intelligence, blogging (duh) and fighting a headache of unknown origin. Miraculously, the kidlets are leaving me more or less alone, though they discovered my hiding place about 30 minutes ago. I was reminded today of one of the lessons I had already learned (duh) about life in a small town. Why do I always need to be smacked on the head? Please, someone, tell me why.

We are hosting a political shindig here this weekend, donations to Obama and Gillibrand, our Congresswoman, encouraged. It started as an Obama fundraiser and morphed, without my instigation though without my opposition, into a joint event. Then, as I am wont to do, I checked out a bit--though I was happy to have the event here, I didn't want to run point on its many details. When I saw the invitation, I definitely blew a gasket--it was all about Gillibrand, no mention of Obama. I am a supporter of Gillibrand, but it wasn't what I'd signed up for, and I was frustrated. I complained to a friend or two, vented to John, told the other organizers my feelings--I was actually proud of myself for confronting the issue directly, rather than simply stewing. Long, boring story slightly less long---dinner party gossip began, and resulted in the real organizers being told that I wasn't even going to show up at my own party, so irate was I at the supposed omission of Obama. Worse, other people apparently started to say they wouldn't come either, as Obama was being left out of the event. Egads.

This is kind of like the time last year when lovely neighbors stopped by to let us know that we were the subject of gossip in town--rumor had it we were planning to tear down our barns, reasons unknown! Umm, no. No such plans. This is what it is to live in a small town--with not much new happening day to day, games of telephone begin and grievances are magnified; an off the cuff complaint turns into a showdown. I don't know the source of either set of rumors (though I'm sure I could speculate) and it ultimately doesn't matter. It's just a reminder of why, in this kind of an environment (as in an office, say) feelings are best kept close.

Oh me, oh my

2008-08-13T23:02:00.002-04:00

What a month we're having. Unlike last month, which was full of doom and scares, this one has been busy, and full of friends, but still...phew. I am whipped. I haven't had so much work to do in, oh, the last five years (work work, you know, not the Domestic Management that sucks up my brain and energy all day, every day, no matter what. That is NOT a complaint. Not exactly, anyway. But I'm not sure where the work fits. Oh, right: that's what I should be doing now, instead of stream of consciousness blogging. Fine. Be that way.) Ok, so: we went to Maine, where we may have been the only folks to think that three days straight of drenching rain was just fine, such a good time we were having with our lovely and beloved friends. We had one glorious day, which we spent evenly divided between our dear friends' own little beaches (really, how spoiled are we? Very. Though perhaps not as spoiled as our dear ones, who are spending the whole summer on those lovely slices of sand and seaglass!) Then a long drive home in driving rain punctuated, rather dramatically, by slashes of lightning. I blared Tom Petty, hunched over the wheel, and powered through. We got home in time to recover for a day before my mom arrived for Dido's birthday, which was today. We got him a new bike, went out to lunch, played at home, baked a cake, and went out to his favorite restaurant. Tomorrow? Up early to visit the horses, then the day with mom and kids, more of same on Friday, with a column to finish and another to write, not to mention work due for two new projects. Have I mentioned, oh me, oh my?

Meet the Boys

2008-08-05T23:17:00.003-04:00

That's Dacos, a thoroughbred ex-racer, on the left, and Sebastian, a Lippizaner, below.
Does anyone have any opinions about whether or not they should come and live with us? I'm taking votes.

Rural Intelligence

2008-08-01T07:42:00.002-04:00

Let's hope I'm getting some. At the very least, I'm getting a dose of it from the so-named wonderful website that chronicles all things unmissable in the Berkshire-Columbia-Upper Dutchess-Litchfield Counties tristate area! Whew. That's a mouthful. As is the lovely recipe I wrote for them, published today. Check it out!

What you want to hear from an edtior

2008-07-31T17:24:00.001-04:00

And I quote, "Your piece is perfect in every way."

Oh, if only. But it's nice to read, anyway!

My news, in a list

2008-07-30T10:09:00.002-04:00

1. The mouse (or, at least, a mouse) is gone, dispatched not by the cat, who sat and watched while the lab, yes, the lab, toyed it into oblivion. Oh my.

2. My first national magazine piece (and it is a teeny, tiny thing, but it exists) is scheduled to run in October. Cross your fingers.

3. My latest regional magazine piece is available now around the Berkshires. If you live here, buy DinnerWhere! Read ME!

4. Next week, I start doing weekly food coverage for a wonderful website.

5. I am working with an amazing genius editor/mediatrix on a double secret, extremely cool project (her secret, not mine, or I'd tell you!) Stay tuned.

6. A wonderful person wants to give us two beautiful (rideable, trainable) horses. Am I insane? The H thinks yes. The kids think, bring 'em on.

7. I have to finish weeding the coop and build two ladders for the chiquitas so they can get outside already.

It is never, ever dull around here.

ROUS, part deux: le souris

2008-07-29T20:54:00.004-04:00

I have no idea why the French, except I visited my friends Cyril and Dayne today at their lovely shop, and I always try to speak a few words of French with Cyril (not because we're pretentious--though sometimes we might be, just a soupçon, you know) because he is actually French and is always encouraging me to not worry about feeling like an idiot and to try. So I do. And so I am trying to put a Continental gloss on my all-American problem: the country mouse. (Would that be un souris provençal??) In any case...

Tonight, I was about to "put the Babe to bed"--quotations necessary because the only person who puts that child to bed is, indeed, that child--the rest of us might die trying. She goes when she's damn well good and ready. But she's good-natured, of late, about going through the motions, even though we all know it's a charade, and in mere minutes, she'll be up and about, asking for snuggles, cuddles, water and a trip to our room to recover from the first of many bad dweams. Anyway--I was about to begin the performance when motion on her bedroom floor caught my eye. As with so many unpleasant things: I knew instantly what I was seeing, even as I forced myself to look closer. Indeed, I had seen a grey ROUsualSize scoot across her floor, towards the pile of books, games, toys and assorted other VERY NECESSARY STUFF in front of her bookcase. Vous (hey, more French!) the au pair heard me shriek, and I told her what I'd seen. Sotto voce I also said, "Go get the cat."

Now our cat, as I've written before, is less a mighty hunter than a kind of Mutual of Omaha Wild Kingdom nature aficionado. In our sixteen months here, I've noticed two (2) kills notched on his belt. Err, collar. But I can hope. Vous tracked him down, and to his credit, he instantly stationed himself in front of the bookcase, ears and whiskers twitching, head moving to the beat of some small mousey movements imperceptible to human ears. And again, to his credit, he didn't loll about, lick his rear, and then leave the room. As far as I know, he's still there, the mouse is still there and the Babe is in my room, playing with Kiki and Finn (aka her feet, or the "foot-babies") and refusing the unnecessary time waster that she considers sleep.

Sisyphus and the Simple Life

2008-07-25T13:34:00.002-04:00

The problem with me, according to the H, is that I take on too many projects, and complete none of them. I am, it seems, incredibly half-assed (except, sadly, literally.) (This is ONE of the problems with me. There are, in fact, at least several others.) As irritating as it is to admit, he's not wrong. But I think I question the assumptions of the question. At least, some of them.

I realized this morning, as I cried while pulling and hacking weeds higher than my head, getting chicken-poopy-dirt in my eyes, mouth and down my shirt, that some tasks are never done. I might get all 400 square feet of my chicken coop weed-free (not bloody likely, but I can dream) but as soon as I do, barring an unseasonable frost, they'll come back. The hopelessness of this led me to what I believe may be the first day of actual regret at having made this choice. One day of substantive regret in sixteen months is pretty good, I think, but that didn't make it feel any better.

Rodents of Unusual Size

2008-07-19T10:48:00.002-04:00

Do you know what a woodchuck is? I didn't, not really, before this year; I had vague notions of how much wood one could chuck, and thought it might be similar to that other famous odd creature, the ground hog. (In fact, they are the same, and are also known, according to the great prevaricators at Wikipedia as, get this, whistlepigs.) But this year--they're everywhere. They've chewed the boards at the bottom of one of our barns; they dash across the road in front of the car nearly as often as the little chipmunks, who always seem anxious, as they stiffly hold their tails high and run so fast their feet are a blur. As some of them seem to be about three feet long, they are, indeed, ROUS's.

According to the experts...

2008-07-14T22:49:00.001-04:00

the boy has a bad, bad pulled muscle, and nothing more. Time will heal it. Big sighs of relief, mixed with awe and the amazing place that is the Shriner's Hospital in Springfield, Massachusetts...more on that tomorrow.

Lemonade and chocolate

2008-07-12T05:40:00.002-04:00

On the down side, it's 5:23 a.m., and I've been up since 4:28 (never let anyone tell you that digital clocks are not a scourge.) Oh, and I was awake at 2 a.m. or thereabouts, as well, on the heels of a day where I had about three and a half anxiety attacks. This was a night where I needed sleep, and didn't get much.

As I was laying in bed with the Boy, scratching his back to help him fall asleep and silently praying to the god I don't believe in for health, I heard an odd rustling sound downstairs that could only mean one sequence of things: puppy. bad. chewing. I kissed him quickly and ran downstairs. I'm not sure what the expletive of choice was, but insert your own as you read what I saw. Two destroyed golden foil bags and one with a few remaining pieces of chocolate still inside. She'd eaten three bags of the best chocolate chips I could find at our crappy local market (as distinguished from the expensive health food market) to make a friend's birthday cake for a dinner party tonight.

We've all read about dogs and chocolate, right? It's rumored to be a lethal combination. I love my dog, but truly, after the week I've had, no emergency trips to the vet were going to happen. Plus, she seemed fine (duh, she hadn't started to digest it yet.) She usually sleeps in our room, but with visions of late night digestive explosions a possibility, we left her in her crate for the night. The H heard the 2 a.m. wake up call, and instead of just handling it himself (what I would have done, and, in fact, did on the night's second tour of duty) he woke me up too. He took her outside, I hosed out the crate (pretty much full of melted chocolate) and we put her back to bed.

She barked. She's not much of a barker, and never barks if she's crated--she likes it there, unless we're at the dinner table tormenting her by our presence and our non-shared food--she usually just turns around three times and then falls instantly asleep. But tonight, she barked some more: sharp, sad little cries. The H went down two more times to let her outside. Finally, he sacked out, but at 4:28, I opened up my Grinchy heart and went down to her. She went outside , again, sniffed and rolled around a lot while I sat hunched and bitter on the front stoop, and then she came back in, heading straight for the water. She drank--a lot--and then promptly headed up the stairs to her bed as thought nothing had happened. I followed, but couldn't settle, because neither could she--I heard her rustling and rolling and turning on her bed, agitated. And then--a geyser of chocolate scented water erupted. I sprang out of bed, herded her down the stairs, but not before another geyser. As I was about to get her out the door, again, I heard an emphatic, wide awake small voice: "Momma? Daddy? I need a CUDDLE." Ah. But of course. My feet were covered in chocolate dog vomit, so this was, clearly, the very moment that my daughter would awaken and need blanket arrangement and snuggling. I managed to find some towels to contain the mess, and spent ten minutes getting her back to sleep. Then I tackled the stairs, the entry hall, and my bedroom floor--all without the H so much as stirring.

On the plus side--I'm up early, and the house smells...like chocolate.

P.S. For Betsy--Pasha seems fine, if a little enervated (kind of like the time she found the two pounds of espresso beans the UPS man delivered and left on the front porch. That was a fun night, too.)

Charlotte's Web is just the beginning

2008-07-11T09:08:00.002-04:00

In case you doubted E.B. White's genius (and I know you're WAY too smart for that) consider this bit of brilliance, courtesy of The Writer's Almanac:

"Just to live in the country is a full-time job. You don't have to do anything. The idle pursuit of making a living is pushed to one side, where it belongs, in favor of living itself, a task of such immediacy, variety, beauty, and excitement that one is powerless to resist its wild embrace."

No way I could have said it as well, let alone better, for heaven's sake.

Oh crap, crap, crappity crap

2008-07-10T23:29:00.006-04:00

I had a lovely field trip today with my boy; he came with me to Springfield, Massachusetts on my Research Trip To Be Disclosed Later, and though he asked about a million times "Are we there YET?" once, we got There, he was pretty happy. (And he got that cheeseburger.) Then we headed off to the pediatrician, for our fourth visit in fewer weeks, trying yet again to determine what the hell is wrong with the beautiful boy's leg. The short answer is: there is no answer. Yet. We are being referred to a pediatric orthopedist in, get this, Springfield, Massachusetts. The boy, who was only half attending to my discussion with his doc, said, "Wait a second. We were just in Springfield. Are we going back there? TODAY?" His horror could hardly be contained. Mine either, as our pediatrician's best guess about what's wrong is something called Perthe's Disease. Not particularly serious, but not necessarily a walk in the park, either, for a preferring-to-be-active nearly seven year old boy. When the desperate mom, blaming her child's mental state, asked if it wouldn't be better for him to just go back to camp already, and, you know, try to keep reasonably still while there, the doc barely even cracked a smile. "Well, not if it causes him pain." Everything causes him pain right now. It ebbs and flows, but if that's the criteria--he's going to be stuck hanging out with me an awful lot for the next few weeks.

Oh, and did I mention that the poor H leaves for nearly a week in L.A. on Monday, a trip he's actively dreading?

Green Days

2008-07-10T10:31:00.004-04:00

It's been a slog around here: the boy's leg is not better, and we're making our fourth trip about it to the pediatrician this afternoon. Meanwhile, since the H is deep into his new project (or at least, trying to be) and the au pair is in school today, Dido has to come with me as my research assistant for a very exciting (for me, anyway) writing assignment that tumbled miraculously into my lap about two weeks ago. He's not thrilled, as the job involves a long car ride, but there's a good hamburger in his future, so he'll survive. I don't mean to be cryptic, exactly, but I don't want to jinx what feels like incredible good fortune. I will reveal all, shortly, I promise.

The Babe is utterly resistant to any idea of going to school/camp (what do you call it when daycamp is at school?) without her big bro. The bribes have been flowing like a creek after a strong storm. New baby doll? Check! Chocolate ice cream? You got it! Anything to keep her on a schedule--at least one member of the family, preferably the smallest, loudest one, has to keep to a routine or the whole precarious imperfect machine will collapse upon itself, gears and springs tangled and twitching.

And in my sphere: my "garden" suffers under too many weeds (I got some out last week, and it seems they're all back, with their friends), my big chickens need a good coop freshening, and my little girls and their surprise rooster companions need me to get cracking on building them two ladders to the outside world--they are almost old enough to venture out to pasture...or they would be, if their outdoor area were not choked with a terrifying tangle of waist-high weeds. I have, it seems, fallen woefully behind.

On the other hand: I have started work on not one, but TWO, books. (There, I said it.) I am working on the afore-mentioned semi-secret most exciting project, which I will finish tomorrow. I have a lead on some more writing for a wonderful outlet, not to mention the hope of bartering some writing work for wine--never a bad exchange. Raise a glass to the promise of summer, when all things seem nearly possible.

Blackbirds, and cows, and the dead of night

2008-07-03T15:28:00.003-04:00

Just a few minutes ago, I had a long exhale. Not an actual exhale, though I had plenty of those, too, but one of those extended feelings of release, where you just let go, a bit, of the tension that came before. Dido seems to be on the mend (and, I busted him for faking some of his reactions to his discomfort--that whole wincing and moaning thing? Yep. Fake. When he's actually all better, we'll talk about that one.) The H, after a truly horrible day yesterday dealing with two pieces of Really Bad News, is dealing well with one and taking the other one more or less in stride, looking for the lessons in it, and so on. Vous, the au pair, came home from her art class and almost instantly dove into an involved game of the Babe's invention, involving babies, blankets, monsters and, I'm sure, something scatalogical. And me? I sat on the front porch, feeling the pre-storm air and listening to the call of the red winged blackbird, two staccato whistles followed by a drawn out third note. I'm noticing the un-quiet here lately: the frogs are so loud at night it sounds like a truck driving by (the sound of vibration, without the sensation) and last night, during an outrageous (and these days, frequent, sorry to say) bout of insomnia, I could have sworn I heard a lost cow somewhere nearby. For a while, I entertained the idea that it was actually the black bear that everyone but me seems to have seen (kind of like the fox last year--this year, I've seen more of him than I care to) but I'm pretty sure it was bovine, not ursine. John says he heard it this morning, around five, and I heard it at two, so unless it was a shared hallucination, I think one of our neighbors' girls went wandering. We have dairy farms down both roads that lead towards our house, large ones, and I have yet to tire of seeing the cows in the fields as I drive by.

We're all on the couch

2008-06-30T08:51:00.004-04:00

Our family visit last week (the H's step-aunt, uncle and their son, Dido's age) went swimmingly, even though we failed on our mission to deliver swimming as an activity. (Are we weird that we didn't swim much at all last summer, save some welcome invitations to friends' pools? It seems that we need to embrace the lake culture. We're going to work on it.) It took a while for all of us (save the two boys, who call each other "Cuz" and leapt into an easy groove instantly) to find our rhythm, but once we did, we had a great time hanging out and exploring.

However...vacations are exhausting, and this was no exception. Saturday morning, their last day here, I ended up spending at the pediatrician, and then the hospital, where Dido received his first x rays in the quest to determine the source of a lingering pain in his left hip. The x rays revealed...precisely nothing at all. The H and I suspect that he pulled a muscle in his groin, but we're still not sure and if the pain doesn't get a lot better soon, we may be in for more tests. Think good thoughts for the little man, who has essentially been on bedrest since Saturday morning. As a result, he's had lots of TV time (joy, rapture) and we've been somewhat grateful for the excuse to lie low at home and skip out on some of the summer socializing. (Though I was really sorry to miss this. That's my cool friend Linda with the awesome short hair and groovy glasses.)

Meanwhile, I'm thinking a lot about some various things I've been reading and learning. Everywhere I turn, it seems, I am confronted with different expressions of the idea of universality. Whoof. As I read that, I think--too big and too pretentious a thought for so early in the morning. Or, maybe, any time. But here's the thing: I've been reading a bunch of stuff--novels, books on the creative process, the Mahabharata, for heaven's sake. And what they all have in common is this idea that is kind of metaphysical and kind of mythical, that there are spheres within spheres of energy, and that creativity and bliss arise when a window, or a door, opens in this most prosaic world to let all that beyond-our-perceptions energy in. Ok, I'm going off the woo woo deep end. Maybe. But the key to tapping into all that wonder is the most prosaic thing of all--call it focus, perseverance or discipline, the answer all comes down to putting your ass in the proper chair.

I realized last night that I am so tired of being disappointed by my answer to the "what are you working on?" question, and that my problem (duh, the H is thinking right about now, if he's reading) is about sitting down to work. The ideas, they come. I can see all the tantalizing beauty outside, but nothing will come through that window without my heaving up the sash.

Holy s*&%

2008-06-29T14:18:00.002-04:00

How in the world did I not know that beloved cook Lora Zarubin blogs? How? She's here. Dive in.

Back again, briefly

2008-06-28T07:35:00.001-04:00

We've had a lovely visit with family all week, which has been fun and exhausting both and kept me offline for longer than I had intended. I'll be back,soon, I promise.

My friend Margaret

2008-06-19T10:24:00.001-04:00

Love that internet. Love my creative friends. Read all about the former and one of the latter right here.

My vow of abstinence

2008-06-13T08:18:00.003-04:00

A couple of weeks ago, I decided to take a vow: to never go online after I put the kids to bed. I have found that too many nights are spent randomly blogreading, occasionally blogwriting, hyper-traveling through netspace when, in fact, I should be asleep. Since discovering the (very real, at least for me) lack-of-sleep/depression link, I have been trying to do better at getting 7-8 hours a night--and since we're up with the kids every morning at 6:30, latest, that means shutting my eyes by 10:30. Not easy to do, when they are often not really asleep until after 9.

This has been, overall, great. More reading time, more sleeping time, better mood. But...I've been a pretty irregular blogger during this time, too. And I am, in general, struggling with organizing my time now that the Babe has a regular school schedule, the Au Pair has a regular school schedule, and I...I still have five million things I'd like to do, a few that I must, and blocks of time that feel long on paper but somehow evaporate before me.

The H and I had a bit of a set-t0 this week: he was in a funk, and I finally sat him down and said some version of: "I can tell you're trying really hard not to lose your temper with me, but it's clear that you're angry and irritated with me, so--what's up?" (I thought this was a very mature and diplomatic way to confront my growing irritation with his irritation.) His response was that I was taking on too much--the chickens! the (sorry attempt at a) vegetable garden!--and other things (the decluttering of our home) were falling by the wayside. Now, whether or not or home is in fact messy is a matter of debate and opinion. Some say no, others would agree with him. My first reaction was an angry one--"you don't want me to have anything that's just for me--you want me taking care of you all the time"-- and there's probably some truth to the latter part of that statement, though not the former. But then it made me think about what I am taking on, and what my time goes towards. I don't think I have too much on my plate, but rather that I let the wrong things absorb too much of my time because I don't have a structure for getting them done. Freedom Filer and Nozbe, as wonderful as they are, can't plant my ass in my desk chair and write the checks for me when it's time to pay the bills. I have to impose structure upon my own cobwebby brain, and this is a challenge. Hence, the no 'net night rule, which I am hoping will keep me from spinning off into endless (and endlessly fascinating) hyperlink journeys which, though fun, are somewhat fruitless...stay tuned.

We find ourselves

2008-06-06T23:54:00.002-04:00

I find my self here north of Beantown, visiting with oe of my oldest dearest friends, ensconced in her home, a place of consuming, cossetting beauty and great warmth. Tomorrow, we will head into hte city to explore wiht the short people, plans to include the MFA, the Museum of Science, the Boston Children's Museum, and the US Constitution. Do you think we can pack it all in? If not, we will still be mad with joy to be here, and to be with our dear ones.

Of old friends, and new birds

2008-06-05T14:05:00.006-04:00

My mother may be the only person in the world who wants me to blog about my college reunion, and since I already talked to her about it, I don't really feel like I have to honor her request! But the first pictures are of one of the highlights of the weekend, a meal worth risking digestive drama for (happily, I had none. Apparently months of gluten free allow me a few indiscretions, which means that a) I don't have celiac disease and b) it's all worth it.) Those are from Pepe's, which makes the best pizza in the land. If you have the chance, go. The paler one in the second photograph is white clam pizza, second only to ambrosia as food of the gods.

And then, also for my mom, some new pics of the chicks, happily ensconced in a new, bigger enclosure in the coop they will call home. They're still not big enough to meet the other girls or go outside, but they seem very happy in their new digs. Today I added some perches and a nice screen cover, so they should be safe, and amused. The girl in the last pic is a mystery chick--note her feathered legs. Can't wait to see what she turns into, but if her plumage is as dramatic as I think it's going to be, I might have to name her Cher. Or Bob Mackie.

We interrupt the regularly scheduled bucolic musings...

2008-06-04T13:39:00.002-04:00

For some befuddled political....outrage isn't really the right word. Utter disbelief? Concern that perhaps certain candidates and their entourages ought to take a time out?

Make sure to watch the whole thing, to get the full benefit of Terry McAuliffe's delusional, party-destroying, solipsistic perspective. It's nice to know that gracious behavior and a firm grasp on reality flows all the way through the Clinton organization.

Flotsam and Jetsam

2008-06-03T22:42:00.004-04:00

It's a whole lot easier to blog than to talk these days. The cold I caught before leaving for the weekend (which I swore to myself Friday morning was just allergies) has wiped out my vocal chords.
My summer CSA share started today, which means there's stuff happening over on the other blog.
Does Hillary think she's the Decider? It would appear so from tonight's less-than-gracious speech.
The weeds are back in my garden. On the bright side, the grass down by the barn is now cut so I can (finally, really late) put in my raised beds.
I referred to my peers as being in the middle of their lives. The people I said this to, a good forty years older than me, took some exception. Good for them.
And goodnight.

Base Ten

2008-06-02T21:06:00.002-04:00

Scarily a propos given how I spent my weekend, here's a meme from Gina. Do you blog, too? Then guess what? You are tagged!

Ten Years Ago
I was in the home stretch of planning my wedding to the H. My favorite parts of my wedding were the cake (made for us by dear dear friends as their wedding gift,) arranging the flowers with my mother, my mother-in-law and her sisters the day before, the band, and the toasts from our best people, which were staggering in their breadth, humor and vocabulary. My only regret about not videotaping the wedding is that we don't have a record of those speeches.

Ten Months Ago
Last August I was stressed about the looming writers' strike, and depressed in general, as well as dealing with familial strife that still feels unresolved. Not a good time.

Ten Days Ago
I was trying to get kids to go to sleep--same as now.

Ten Hours Ago
I was working on a pitch for a small magazine piece. Nothing like an unanswered email query to set me obsessively checking my inbox.

Ten Minutes Ago
I was explaining--at length and occasionally at higher than preferable volume--to both children why insisting that they cannot fall asleep is counterproductive to all of our happiness. They were not persuaded. The H is now with the Babe, and Dido is lying in bed in silent protest (God bless him for this manner of self-expression.)

Ten Minutes from Now
I will read some more Laurie Colwin.

Ten Hours from Now
I'll be getting the kids out the door.

Ten Days from Now
I will be out on a date with the H.

Ten Months from Now
I hope I'll be reading a great script for my movie project, and be well into my own writing project. I feel like I'm jeopardizing both by even admitting that I want them.

Ten Years from Now
What does it mean that I cannot project that far ahead? I hope I'm really working, and that my kids like me better than they do at this moment.

A reun-ing we will go...

2008-05-30T07:17:00.002-04:00

I'm off to the big two-oh. Don't plan to be blogging from New Haven, but anything could happen, including throwing my healthy wheat-free system to the sharks by indulging in some Pepe's, the best pizza on the planet. Reports on Sunday, possible Utterz or pictures before...

Blogging in the right hemisphere

2008-05-28T08:54:00.004-04:00

I'm thinking a lot about the idea of the mind as its own place (thanks, John Milton) these days. As some of you know, I'm an inconsistent meditator, yogi and would be Buddhist. (Though lately I've been reading about Sufism, and that sounds pretty good to me.) In any case, some of what these things share (other than a healthy rep for being Eastern "woo-woo"--thanks Margaret) is that they all aspire to both tap into something beyond the self, a shared realm beyond consciousness that somehow links person to person to creature to plant to planet to universe, and also to place the self firmly in the moment, the now. (At least, that's my read on these practices. Scholars can feel free to augment and correct, as long as they're not nasty about my mistakes, intellectual or typographical.)

Last Sunday, I read the NYT's Sunday Styles piece on Jill Bolte Taylor, neuroanatomist, stroke victim, and advocate for the idea that the keys to the universalist kingdom, so to speak, lie within our own brains, specifically the right hemisphere. She asserts that the experience of bliss, nirvana, universality, peace (or whatever you want to call it) is accessible via the right hemisphere of our brain, that by accessing that part of ourselves, we can tame the left brain, which is all about chatter and worry and fretting about the past and projecting future and linear thought--in other words, everything but the experience of this particular moment.

I mentioned a few days ago that friends are enduring a particularly terrifying present. Their five year old son was diagnosed a week and a half ago with Wilm's Tumor, a cancer of the kidneys that occurs in little kids. Though it has around a 90% cure rate, it's not something you want to have to experience as a patient or a parent. If their blog is a fair representation of their reality (and I suspect it is, as much as any blog can be) they are dealing with this fearful adversity with great balance and love. Their ability to maintain calm and positivity speaks, I think, to all this right brain woo-woo stuff. I hope that as you all did for Mieke when she began her hard times this year, you will send all your powers of belief, hope and love towards Pablo and his family as they move through their cancer journey. Whatever your belief, it never hurts to send love in someone's direction.

For those who can't get enough...

2008-05-24T21:46:00.000-04:00

I've started updating my cooking blog again...in fact, kind of broadening it to include my so-called gardening life, as well. So if you're interested in those facets of, well, me...check it out. Some good recipes of mine, as well as links to things that have worked for me. I make no promises about whether or not kids will eat any of it though.

Can't believe where I left off...

2008-05-24T18:44:00.002-04:00

Nothing like a dose of self-pity mixed with a bit of embarrassing personal history to turn out the kind emails and comments--thanks to all who sent good thoughts in response to my little hissy fit. The sting of the comment is healed nicely, now, and I've moved on. To what, I'm not sure, as this evening finds me crashed out on my bed, waiting for the H to arrive home from a three-day trip to L.A. He's hard at work on an adaptation of this, to be directed by this guy, which is all pretty exciting. The books are good for kids 7 and up--Dido can't read them yet but listens to them on CD and is obsessed. He's taught all his friends to play at being owls on the school playground. It's pretty delightful to see them all swooping around.

Reveal yourselves

2008-05-21T17:03:00.002-04:00

I woke up this morning and (as I too often do) obsessively checked my email. Along with the daily junk, I always hope to find a note from a friend or a comment on my blog. Today I got both, and both were nasty surprises: the (anonymous) comment was unkind, and the friend's email contained sad news about another mutual friend. I can't do anything (except think good thoughts) for my friend who's going through rough times, and I can't do much around the random nastiness, either, except to change things a bit, and a disallow anonymous comments. I know I have a few real-world friends who read and like to comment anonymously, and to you, I apologize--I don't mean to invade your privacy. Unfortunately, it appears that my skin isn't quite thick enough to deal with random hostility. I'll work on that. In the meantime, sorry to any of you who are inconvenienced or made uncomfortable by this change.

And to Anonymous in Rochester, let me just share a couple of things. When I was in high school, some girlfriends and I (and I seem to remember that I was, I am ashamed to say, kind of the ringleader) took out anonymous snarky ads in the school paper (why we were allowed to do this, I can't fathom) making thinly veiled attacks on another girl. (We believed, I think, that she was chasing after another friend's boyfriend. It was high school, and I know, it was pathetic.) In any case, Anonymous from Rochester, I still regret having done such a cowardly, dopey thing--twenty five years later, I still think of it from time to time. So, really, why bother? And to address specifically your concerns about me. Yes, I went to Yale. But my classes were not pass/fail (perhaps you're thinking of Brown) and I did ok in English. Even so, my overpriced and overrated diploma fails to guarantee a typo-free existence. So for the grave sin of typing "an new New Yorker" instead of "a new New Yorker", I apologize, and hope you weren't too harmed by the experience of reading my words. I, too, loathe typos, try to avoid them, but I tend to blog quickly, and don't catch them all.

More friendly brilliance

2008-05-19T11:17:00.001-04:00

Check this out, and then go here to buy my friend Betsy's wonderful book. If you're an animal person, while you're at it, buy this one, too.

Green days; or, John, meet Chip, Muffy, Biff & Buffy

2008-05-18T20:32:00.004-04:00

This weekend was a flurry of green: a visit to lovely Margaret's paradise of a garden, a Saturday family adventure to what the kids labeled the "garden fair" followed by an afternoon of occasionally frustrated or frustrating planting.

Friday took me to tour my new 'net friend's corner of the earth. As with my class the other weekend at Hancock Shaker Village, the whole thing was almost too much to take in--so much beauty and so much knowledge. I kept reminding her that I know nothing when it comes to plants and gardening, and she was patient with my inane questions and gaping, awed face. I went home with lots of babies to plant and a hope that in twenty years, my little plot of earth might look half as good as hers. I cleverly left behind a bucket so that I'll have to return, soon.

Saturday we roused ourselves for a field trip to northwestern Connecticut to experience "Trade Secrets", an annual fundraiser that gathers boutique nurseries and garden furnishing purveyors in one field of horticultural dreams. And, it was in Connecticut. I repeat the location because, you see, other than the Hartford airport and a long ago trip to my college reunion, the H had never really experienced Connecticut. As he put it, he'd never seen so many 58 year old women who looked exactly alike (think blonde highlights and headbands.) He was also surprised to see the Bentleys and Rolls Royces in the parking lots. I realized, seeing this high WASP, high roller culture through his eyes, that Connecticut is a lot like Beverly Hills, only preppier, and we agreed that though there's much beauty to be found in the Litchfield hills, we prefer our ragged little farm-y county across the state line.

We dragged our bounty (from the show and from the Agway on the way home) into the yard, and started to dig. Thanks to Margaret, I had geraniums, and cannas, and angelicas and others to re-home, and the show gave me some gaudy pink heucheras to throw into the mix. I managed to get a good number of them in, but at a certain point, fatigue and despair took over. My beds looked like crap! No matter how many weeds I pulled, more seemed to instantly appear! I would never get all the hated boxwoods dug out and transplanted to their new home on the south side of the house, where they will help hide the air conditioners....And forget about getting the kitchen garden in. I can't even figure out what is already growing there...The babe took the moment when I was most discouraged to pitch an hysterical tantrum because I wouldn't let her have a Reeses peanut butter cup that Dido dragged home from a birthday party (why, parents, why??? do you give candy in party bags? None of us want to deal with our kids when they eat sugar, so why do you sugar up other people's kids??) After she calmed down (and it took a while) I lay on the couch on the screened porch with a pillow over my face, while the H mulched the (mostly planted) front bed. The rain had started, and the air was soft. Nothing looked that bad, and there's time to do more this week.

I told my mom this story when we spoke tonight, and she laughed. Why, she wondered, do I think I am exempt from learning? Why should I know how to do something perfectly, right away? Gardening is all about learning--I'll learn.

More friend brilliance

2008-05-12T23:59:00.001-04:00

My friend Colette is (yet another) brilliant writer. Check out her story "Lamb" here.

Farming, Hollywood and the Great Unknown

2008-05-12T21:22:00.003-04:00

I moved to Hollywood (from a kind of bi-city existence on the east coast, based in DC, but working in NYC two or three days per week) on Friday, September 13, 1991. I used the many frequent flyer miles accrued in my advertising job (my first career) to upgrade to first class, so though the day may not have been auspicious, the surroundings gave a transitory sense of calm. Once in L.A. (or, more precisely, Culver City; at the time, well-deserving of the nickname I gave it, "The land that time forgot", now, just another stop on the overdeveloped Westside) I stuck a toe into the waters of business school, hated it, and from that point on, felt like a raccoon trying to strap on water wings to pretend to be a shark. If that image is uncomfortably awkward--yep, that's it.

It didn't get any better when I started working in the entertainment business. My first job was easy, if time consuming; I was an assistant (code for secretary) to a producer (yes, with an MBA from a then top tier B school. Welcome to Hollywood, baby.) He was a good guy who needed a lot of attention but in return was thrilled to have an intelligent and rapt audience. He taught me a great deal about the kind of producer or executive I might want to be (one who cultivated relationships, did his own reading, said no in a way that was kind and constructive, one who had strong and well-founded opinions) and when I moved on, to my first "real" job, he sent me with his blessing and an enduring willingness to mentor and support me. I was lucky. But even when I worked for him, I had the nagging, itchy feeling that I was missing out on some key piece of information: everyone else understood the "business" in some innate and critical way that eluded me--if only I could see through their eyes, every decision would be obvious, every negotiation successful, I would always say the right thing.

Instead, when I moved to that new job, I found myself working for an amateur machiavellian, the kind of guy who would gaslight his own employees just for the power rush. I kept notes in my journal about all things he was teaching me, by example, about how NOT to do my job. He was mean, capricious, mercurial and syncophantic-- everything I didn't want to be (though he had excellent taste in furniture, literature and music. So you can't say I can't find something nice to say.) Still, working for this evil non-genius, I felt like it was all about what I didn't know. If had that Key Piece of Information--I would know how to deal with him, how to do my job in a way that didn't constantly result in eye rolling, screaming and scapegoating.

Even when I moved on to a later position of arguable power (I could actually say yes to projects and mean it, meaning I had the power to decide which scripts my department would develop into films) I still felt like I didn't get it. (Maybe this was all the fault of the script I developed at the old job about Werner Ehrhard and est. If you don't get it, well....*) Eventually, I decided I had to stop worrying about what I was missing and do the best I could with what I had, which was wise, if perhaps a little too late in the game. I finally came to believe that Hollywood rewarded the appearance of certainty and confidence as much as it did the reality of those qualities, and though I agree with the H that Hollywood is in many ways a meritocracy, it also confers awards of merit onto those who merely bullshit very, very well.

Now I find myself living at more than arm's length from Hollywood, even as I stay somewhat engaged with it both personally and professionally. But my day to day present is about the place that surrounds me. And every time I look around my barn, I am absolutely certain that I lack information. Not a single idea that would make it all make sense (perhaps this is why I always hated Economics classes? Because I never believed that those theories could make it all make sense?) No, this time I lack generations worth of nearly-ancient knowledge: how to build things, how to take them apart, how to move water, or straw, or wood, how to handle, feed and nurture animals and plants, how to plan ahead for weather, how to clean the floor, the ceilings, the walls. What I don't know is immense, and I am aware of it constantly.

Today, I visited my intended asparagus bed. Indeed, there is a small spring feeding water into it. In fact, I have made asparagus crown soup (heavily seasoned with expensive bags of organic compost) and a big wet trench. This will not be the year that I start my asparagus patch. But I did manage to dig up two of the hated boxwood bushes (two down! Only eighteen to go!) and plant perennials in the empty spaces. Whether they will survive--I can't know. The pansies and violas I bought several weeks ago are thriving, their blossoms hardy and intense. While weeding in the kitchen-garden-to-be, I found a white violet, which I spared, and some sweet Johnny-Jump-Ups which arrived from who knows where. I bought two bird feeders and some seed, and tomorrow the kids and I will hang them. I know how to finish fencing the apple trees in the new orchard so that next winter, the deer won't feast on their still-soft bark. I can look with satisfaction at the immense pile of thorny brush I cut (and still need to burn) on the lower part of the slope, where it was threatening an old lilac. I am learning, and I will never, ever be done.

What I've Learned, Part 2

2008-05-11T09:01:00.002-04:00

Water isn't always standing, or the result of the rain. Sometimes, it's moving through the earth to find a place to rest. If that place is supposed to be your new asparagus bed...well, maybe it won't be.

Gardening is not rocket science. (Says the head gardener at Hancock Shaker Village. Me, I'm not so sure.)

Chickens may protest a lot when you clean their coop, but they sure a lot of eggs the next day.

I am thinking a lot about growing things, which means I may need to invigorate my other, long-neglected blog, Trip to Bountiful, in order to spare my less-garden-involved readers from such in-depth exposure to the greening part of my brain.

Where to begin

2008-05-09T08:06:00.002-04:00

Today is one of those days where I feel I have so much to type about, it's an overabundance of ideas, experiences and life to share. But it will all have to wait until later, because at the moment, I have to throw on some clothes, and run to the post office where twenty young trees--apples, pears, plums--await me, and planting. What begins, I hope, is an orchard. Stay tuned.

Spring Cleaning, or the Things I've Learned

2008-05-07T17:06:00.007-04:00

Stinging nettles do not look like the word "nettle" sounds. "Nettle" suggests something tall and skinny, like a tall grass tipped with small vessels that produce the sting...No. They look like any other weed, and they do, in fact, sting.

I like weeding. But it's not for the impulsive, the careless or the disorganized. You need to be willing, like an archeologist at a precious dig, to move slowly from one square patch of earth to the next, carefully removing every non-belonging plant, one at a time. I am tempted to do it with big grabs, heavy handfuls of green and root. It doesn't work so well that way.

Finding an earthworm in soil you've just turned is as thrilling as finding an egg in your hen's nest.

Chickens are upset when you shovel out their coop, even if you then layer the floor with lovely, soft, sweet pine smelling new bedding. It may be s***, but it's their s***, and they'd like it left alone, thank you very much. They are much like children in this way. At least, my children.

Make that 47

2008-05-07T11:08:00.002-04:00

Another Araucana was killed sometime in the last couple of days, presumably by the beautiful red fox that took Spot, though her body was abandoned, rather than taken away and eaten. John saw the fox in the fields beyond the coop the night before; maybe he was scared off somehow? Or maybe we also have a weasel, known for bloody and showy killings.

By the way, on a less gruesome but related subject, I learned recently that my lovely, blue-egg laying hens are not true Araucanas, but rather a sort of mutt-chicken that still carries the colored egg gene. No matter; I love them. They are the calmest and seemingly most intelligent of my birds, and I am so sad to have now lost two of them. It's time to get to work on repairing the mysteriously non-functioning electric fence; even though all the birds have been killed outside the fenced area, I cannot help but think the fence would be a help. Sigh.

As promised

2008-05-06T12:29:00.003-04:00

The Babe says she wants to "name the girl one 'Butterfly'." "They are all girls, "I say to her. "Can you think of other girl names?" "Yes," is her definitively reply. "BUTTERFLY."

Organize your fancy pants--prize day no. 2

2008-05-06T07:56:00.002-04:00

Unlike yesterday's prize (one of which is still available--comment soon, you unknown readers) this prize is not worth $9.95. Or, to be more precise, it's not priced at that reasonable point; rather, at least according to the manufacturer, it is worth a whopping (really, sit down, because this is just ridiculous) $495.00. Yes, you read that correctly. To be fair, it's worth about two thirds of that now, because, you see, it's a 2008 organizer, and --well, it's May. To quote the maker, that price tag is deserved because this day book isn't just for any joe shmoe; it's "for the connoisseur’s life…this diary and directory consists of listings of the world’s best art fairs, antique shows and auctions—from Art Basel to The Grosvenor—all are summarized in monthly listings that provide the world class traveler with invaluable references to the finest hotels, restaurants, museums and galleries." Yep. There you have it.

I have two of these bad boys, and I'm not using either one (they were part of the woeful swag from Hollywood Ego Smackdown) and maybe one of you will get a kick out of owning a pretentious day book that was part of the Independent Spirit Awards gift bag. So comment away--anybody can take these off my hands! (And, by the way, I have one in each color, so if you have a preference, let me know.)

Organize your bad selves--it's time for a prize!

2008-05-05T23:53:00.003-04:00

Ok, this is silly, but what the hell. It's the blogosphere, I can do whatever I damn please.

Remember my vow of better birthday remembrance? And how it's been helped along by entering loved ones' b-days into my special little red book?

Well, unpacking yet another box (yes, we moved a year ago. Let's not discuss that right now) I found some extras of the red book; it was something I gave as a little present at Christmas a couple of years ago, so I bought a bunch of them and ended up with leftovers.

The first two people to comment and ask for one of these little cuties can have one--I'll mail it off, maybe even promptly. Here's the catch--you can't already be my friend (you know who you are.) You have to either be someone I don't know at all, or someone I've been long, long out of touch with (let's set that line of demarcation at 15 years--how's that?)

(Am I trying to force some of you out of your lurky ways? Perhaps. But why not?)

My growing family

2008-05-05T22:40:00.003-04:00

I counted, and as of today, I have 48 dependents. (Ok, granted, I'm not the financial provider, but heaven knows I am the caregiver, so it counts.) This dramatic uptick in my personal responsibility (not my ability to deliver it, but rather my need to) is due to yesterday's new arrivals, 31 baby chicks. They came in the mail, and we went on the wild chicken chase to find the Albany central post office (which, in fact, is not actually in Albany) where they were being held. Despite friends'dire predictions of chicks arriving DOA, all are here intact and lively, at least for now. We have Spangled Hamburgs, Blue Analusians, a mystery chick, and brown single comb leghorns. I could not make this up if I tried. I'll post pictures tomorrow.

Good day

2008-05-04T00:43:00.002-04:00

You know those days that just work out, that work out so well that even the parts that aren't great (the broken glass, the discovery of the leak) don't make you crazy?

Today was one of those. Hanging out with new friends, catching up with old friends, cooking, playing, running with the puppy, curling up at the end of it all...

A good day. And a good night.

I have brilliant friends

2008-05-01T11:57:00.002-04:00

You all already knew that, didn't you? Of course, many of you ARE my brilliant friends.

So click on over here, and read what one of my brilliant friends has to say about that painful, scab-picking (without being as fun as that implies) process--writing.

And then buy her book, if you haven't yet.

I love the interweb, I really do

2008-04-27T09:07:00.004-04:00

So, some of you may have noticed that a month or so ago when I posted about the star-studded wedding we attended in San Diego, neither Justin nor Leo stopped by my blog to acknowledge my comments or even say a quick hello. I was ok with that; I know they're busy.

So imagine my delight and surprise when Margaret Roach (lately of Martha Stewart land, now of her own beautifully written, gorgeously designed gardening blog) stopped in after I posted about the ways her blog (and her advice via its forums) have been helping my baby steps into a greening life. I'm sorry, but that's kind of cool. It's nice to know you're being read (that is part of the reason we do this, after all) and even neater to know that the people you're referencing care.

Now, if only Justin, Leo, and Jai-from-Queer-Eye would pay more attention to THEIR Google alerts.

Are you there Margaret? It's me, Paige.

2008-04-24T21:52:00.004-04:00

Today didn't start out with so much promise, even though the kids woke up, went downstairs and entertained themselves for at least 45 minutes without coming to let us know that, as the Babe likes to say, "It's MORNING TIME!". They were able to ignore us so successfully because Dido now knows how to turn on the television and put on a DVD; we have D'Artagnan, Athos, Porthos and Aramis to thank for the brief quiet of the early morning.

When they manage to vidiot themselves in the morning, it's often difficult to motivate the kids to do anything else. (Surprise!) Today was no exception. The morning involved glue on the coffee table, Sharpie on the counter, and lots of shouts of "N.O." from Dido. Big fun.

After lunch, I finally managed to drag the two of them out of the house; I needed to pick up wine for the fundraiser I've been helping to organize, and I wanted to visit a local (plant) nursery to pick up some pansies and possibly some roses for our front flower beds.

For those who don't know me--I am not a gardener. I routinely tell people I have a black thumb, and it's true that historically I have been a plant-killer, just as it's true that prior to my becoming a mother, any time I attempted to hold an infant, it would start to scream. Perhaps these uh, qualities, are related.

In any case--while I am not a gardener, I have a longstanding affinity for the kind of domestic artistry promoted by the legendary ex con M. Stewart. I am not much for her recipes, but that crafty homekeeping, project stuff really turns me on. I read the magazine, even though every year I swear I am not going to renew my subscription because the content has become either repetitive or arcane. (Just how many uses for quilling paper can you come up with? I thought so.)

So let's just call my relationship with Martha love/loathe, and leave it at that. But I am intimately familiar with Martha, her mag, her writers and on and on. So when I learned that Margaret Roach, the former editor of MSL, apparently took an (early) retirement to return to her country house, which is, you guessed it, here in Columbia County, I was intrigued. Margaret, before taking over as the Martha mouthpiece, was a garden editor in New York, and she's gone back to her (forgive me, pun haters) roots up here, starting a (really wonderful) blog all about her (kind of obsessive) gardening interests, knowledge and practice. For an idiot like me, it's a godsend.

Yesterday, Margaret's recommedation sent me to an amazing local nursery. The kids LOVED it. If we'd had more room in the car and less caution (mine alone) we'd have come home with a trunk full of plants from succulents to ferns. Instead, I bought two flats of pansies and a fern Dido couldn't bear to leave behind.

When we got home (after a detour to the town playground) we got our hands really, really dirty, and planted a sweet pansy border along our forlorn (yes, UGLY) front flowerbed. We had a blast. Is it possible I'm going to begin to understand this digging in the earth thing, now that I have so much earth to dig in?

Dire predictions unwarranted, sort of

2008-04-22T08:09:00.005-04:00

In spite of my early morning irritation--hence yesterday's snarky, somewhat anti-child post--yesterday with the kids was lovely. We went to their favorite local museum, they got to eat forbidden fast food for lunch, and then the Babe passed out, Dido played, I napped (a hideous case of insomnia the night before left me wiped and, no doubt, cranky) and then we set out for Dido's violin lesson.

The day would have been perfect if only I hadn't gotten yet another speeding ticket. That's right, folks, watch out, Leadfoot Loretta is on the loose. Ack. 45 in a 30. In my defense, I thought it was zoned for 40, but--I was wrong. The cop was sweet (they all are here, which is a huge difference from L.A.--of course, in L.A., I had two experiences being stopped in sixteen years, neither for speeding...) but really. What the hell? In addition to everything else I have to work on, over in the crowded self-improvement section of my brain, apparently I also now must confront my crappy driving. Ok, universe, I get it! I'm paying attention! Thanks to the diet (and yes, Gina, I will blog about it--it's pretty great, overall) I am mentally more acute--so I have no excuse.

Today's agenda with the short people is still TBD--at the moment we're watching an old Charlie Brown baseball cartoon--but we got good news last night that Friday, we can scoot down to the city for the day and see some dear friends who are visiting from L.A...

The Trick is in Not Minding

2008-04-21T09:57:00.002-04:00

I think it is safe to say that it's not often that you'll find me paraphrasing the words of a Watergate co-conspirator.

But then, not every day is the first day of spring "vacation."

Sederless Spring

2008-04-21T00:34:00.002-04:00

Holy moly, where do the days go?

I don't know where but the how lately has been divine--we've had three or four days now of surprisingly SoCal-like weather, sunny, 70s, dry and clear, with a lovely cool breeze. It's been an idyllic taste of a fantasy summer, with no humidity and very few insects. All we want to do is sit on the porch, look at the view, and sigh.

In spite of the paradise that surrounds me, though, I've been in a bit of a funk. It's not just the tease of the weather (yes, I know it will get cold again; the ground is likely to frost several more times, and neighbors knowingly warn us of past May snows.) That's not it. It's the holiday. We're used to celebrating Passover every year with our dear, dear friends. (Yes, we are godless and not Jewish. We like Passover. So sue.)

I miss brisket (which I wouldn't be eating these days anyway, thanks to my unbelievably strict, but making-me-feel-better diet) and tzimmes and matzoh ball soup and...ok, not gefilte fish; but we always had lovely sole instead, chez C & D.

One of my favorite pieces of (my own) writing celebrates Passover, our dear ones, and their awesome seders. It pretty much says it all. The only thing it doesn't say-- it sucks that we didn't get to do it this year.

Spring

2008-04-15T22:28:00.002-04:00

It's here. It wasn't just the flock of robins on the hillside last week--there are bugs, and frogs, and salamanders, and green shoots everywhere. So enough navelgazing. Pictures to come.

The end of the (massage) story

2008-04-12T08:54:00.002-04:00

Is here. Since I started writing it days ago, saved it, and only just finished it, it posted with the date it was begun, instead of today's. So if you've been anxiously awaiting the end of my self-flagellating confession, it's here. Enjoy. And don't forget to go to the Breast Cancer Site.

Happy, Happy

2008-04-10T07:00:00.003-04:00

Happy bookday to you, happy bookday to you, happy bookday dear Rebecca, happy bookday to you!

My dear friend Rebecca (you know, the one who's saved my sanity--as much as anyone can-- since I left all of my Angeleno peeps behind) wrote a novel. She wrote this novel in between caring for her baby girl (Dido's girlfriend, sources tell me) and helping her husband build his medical practice. She wrote this novel stealing time sitting in a local cafe, a cafe that was so wed to her success that they hosted a book party.

And the novel itself? It's lovely, moving, sharply observed, extremely funny, utterly relatable, and beautifully crafted to boot. And it's on bookstore shelves today. TODAY.

So do yourself, and me, and Rebecca a favor and go to your favorite local independent bookstore and ask them to sell you (or order for you, if, by some hideous error, they have not stocked it) Nice to Come Home To. You won't regret it. Or, if you're the instant gratification type, click
here, and Jeff Bezos and his elves will send it your way. If you're not in the area (you know, Berkshires/upstate NY) visit her website to find out how to get a custom made (really beautiful) bookplate signed by Rebecca to adorn your new read.

All Gob, No Action

2008-04-07T21:23:00.005-04:00

I would like to come up with some good excuses for why I haven't written the end of the massage story, but...ah ha! This is, it seems, the crux of the matter. Making excuses.

I have a bad habit of, well, bad habits. I am often late, as I was to the massage. I try to do one more thing before I race out the door to take the kids to school, or to pick them up from school, or to meet the person I'm having lunch with, or even, god forbid, someone I have to go interview for a story. I am easily overwhelmed. Sometimes I take it out on the people I love most, like my kids--snapping at them because I feel anxious that we're not going to be on time, keep a plan with someone and so on. This horrible behavior manifests in other ways, too. I am notoriously bad at returning phone calls, and even emails. Thank you notes? Only recently have I gotten a bit better at getting them written, but often, gifts have gone unacknowledged, too. Are you my good friend? Did you have a birthday? I may well have not sent you greetings, let alone a gift. This is terrible. I know better. The excuses I make to myself are all variations on the same theme: I am swamped. I am overwhelmed. I have trouble finding the time to [have a conversation] [type a response] [mail a gift.]

I compound the anxiety I feel about not responding promptly by...not responding belatedly, stressing out all the while. I know to whom I owe calls and emails and birthday wishes or thanks, but I feel so crappy about not having communicated on time that I delay and delay and delay until I make a small situation into a monster. And all the while, I have that little devil on my shoulder who stomps his feet, and gets angry at others' presumed expectations of me. (Of course, their expectations are no more demanding than my perceptions of what I should be doing--even as I am failing, miserably, to do it.)

This was an issue for me when I was working, too. A big part of my job was responding to ideas that people submitted to me. I received way more submissions than I could have ever hoped to say "yes" to, which meant that hours every week had to be spent saying "no." Sometimes, it was hard to work up the courage, so I'd delay...and you can guess the rest of the story.

So what does this have to do with the massage? In that moment, where Rebecca gently and humorously chided me for making us both late for our appointments, I realized: I do this to myself. I am the one who decides to squeeze in one more webpage view, one more errand, one more something instead of tackling the task that needs to come next. I don't know why. But this habit makes me feel pressured, overwhelmed, unable to cope, and results in my showing up late, or not at all (literally and figuratively.) This habit has caused me to lose friends, infuriated family members, and made me perform not as well as I could at work and at home.

An Aussie friend I was speaking to the other day described someone (else) as "All gob, no action." And though I'm not "no action", I am often "wrong action." Meaning, I prioritize poorly. I am trying to find ways to deal with this, and I welcome suggestions.

A couple of things that I'm finding helpful:

The Happiness Project I love this site, started by a college friend of mine. She's writing a book about her experiences trying out a bunch of different "prescriptions for happiness" and blog details things she'd found actually work. A lot of it boils down to knowing yourself, and doing what you know to be right in the moment. Check it out.

Nozbe I just started using this web-based project management tool, which is aligned with
the "Getting Things Done" philosophy. This is a way of approaching tasks to minimize wasted time and maximize productivity; it seems to be very much a Fast Company, Silicon Valley phenomenon (i.e., the province of 30 year old guys,) but it works. This particular tool is easy to use, has a fantastic iPhone interface, and it's free (at least the basic version, which is perfect for me.) You categorize the different projects (mine include my grocery list, a catch all to do list, my writing work, my film work) and then enter and prioritize the tasks in each. It's better than the million scraps of paper uh, "system" I sometimes use by default, and even better than the "carry a notebook with you everywhere system", which I like, and still try to do--sometimes you want to write, not type, especially when you have only a phone and no laptop with you-- but my kids tend to think I'm carrying that notebook so that they can have drawing paper at a restaurant, so it gets filled up fast.

A birthday book When we were leaving L.A., we asked just about every friend we could think of to tell us their family members' birthdays. (Fascinating, by the way, to see who gave us the year they were born--and who didn't.) In any case--one year later (ahem) I have (finally) transcribed them into a little red book, so that I can turn to April, say, and see who I want to send cards or gifts to. This doesn't mean it will always happen, or be on time (sorry, Willa! It's on the way, promise!) but I'm getting better. I actually already have purchased presents for three family members whose birthdays aren't until next month, so I'm feeling pretty cocky.

What do you do to keep track of your life?

Ahhh, April

2008-04-01T21:40:00.002-04:00

In a few days (and, truly, I don't know exactly which day--kick that Freudian football around a bit, why don't you) it will be the anniversary of our move east...at least, mine and the kids, because the H, as friends and loyal readers may remember, stayed behind in L.A. a bit longer to finish recovering from back surgery. Meanwhile,the kidlets and I decamped, along with our former nanny and her son, both of whom saved my a** for ten days while we got moved in, kind of unpacked, and a tiny bit settled. I could write reams about the glorious Ruth, my dear friend, the best person I know, the woman who taught me how to be patient and light with children (not that I always succeed, but boy oh boy, did she show me how. ) But I'll save that for another time. Tonight, stuck at home thanks to sick (again!!) girl and under-deadline H, when I should be here, with my dear friend, I am thinking about some other things.

Lately, I've been thinking, a lot, about the way I live my life. Not, like, where I buy my groceries, which jeans I am comfortable wearing, what magazines I buy subscriptions to versus those I only buy on the newsstand, why I love lipstick and white cotton shirts or why I feel ok about letting my daughter paint her finger and toe nails, but the way I move through my life and specifically about the way I relate to time, and to the people I consider my loved ones and friends.

A few weeks ago, the lovely Rebecca and I arranged a massage date at our local yoga retreat/spa/new age academy--a place where, as my mother in law said when I took her there last month during her visit (and I might be getting this wrong, because I think what she said was more incisive) you could immerse yourself in the "muck of metaphysics", and where, she observed, it became clear that all the people into the same stuff look kind of the same all over (she is way into that stuff, so she wasn't being snarky or judgmental, just observant.) Our kids were off school, so we had a sort of complicated transaction arranged whereby her kids and their sitter would come to my house, hang out with my kids and Vous, R and I would dash back to Lenox for our massages, and so on. She was a little late getting here and when she arrived, I was immersed in something (I don't remember what) in my office, didn't have on my shoes or sweater or coat (for you Angelenos, you need outerwear to go out here--really!) and I felt a big need to drag her up to the third floor to show her the new chairs in my office. All of this took time. She was kindly stressed, wanting to leave but trying not to make a big deal of it, and I was blase--"We can get there in 25 minutes, no problem."

When we finally left, I noticed that I was driving a lot faster than she was (we went separately, for reasons that aren't worth mentioning, but it was important at the time) and I also noticed that no matter what, we were, in fact, going to be ten minutes late. Parking at Kripalu is a nightmare, and you have to sign in, get upstairs to the massage area, and so on. My phone rang as I was nearing the parking lot. It was Rebecca: "Of course you can get there in 25 minutes! You drive like a bat out of hell! [she probably said something more original that that, because she's an original thinker, a think-on-your-toes, always-find-the-right-comment kind of girl.] Do you always make yourself late to massages, so you can be as stressed as possible when you go in?" She was laughing as she said it, and seemed less angry than bemusedly annoyed, but that last part stopped my brain dead in its willful little tracks, and started a chain reaction that is still unfolding.

Stay tuned for Part 2, "You go about in pity for yourself..."

Speak Truth to Tardiness, or, A Little Bit Crazy

2008-03-29T09:55:00.001-04:00

Or, the one wherein I confront and confess to some seriously bad habits that plague me.

Stay tuned.

Outclick

2008-03-28T22:06:00.002-04:00

Do me a favor, if you don't mind. When you leave my site, please click on the button you see to the right, the one that takes you to the "Help fund free mammograms" site. When you go there, you can click to provide funding to help with BC research, fighting hunger, protecting children, animals and the rainforest and promoting literacy. You can accomplish all of this in less than ten seconds per day, unless you have dial up (in which case, G-d help you.)

When I check my site stats, one of the things I know is what link you clicked out of my page onto...so make me happy by clicking out to a place that promotes charitable giving.

Putting my soapbox away, and going to bed.

G'night.

RIP Spot

2008-03-27T16:39:00.003-04:00

It is amazing to me how we notice the things we need to, but not always in time.

I don't always make it to the henhouse to check the chickens every day. Sometimes, I'm there twice in one day, but other times, I skip. I always give them enough food and water to get through more than one day, and truthfully, I like to encourage them to get outside, especially now that the ground is thawing, and look around for bugs to supplement their diet. It's good for them, saves on feed, and, at least in theory, should be good for the garden I'm hoping to start down near their coop. (I know the bugs are freed from whatever icy prison held them through the winter, because this morning, our lawn was flickering with gorging robins.)

I've been in a funk all day and when the Babe (about three seconds after practically shrieking, "I NOT TIRED" at me) passed out on my lap, I decided to take the opportunity to go down to the barn to feed, water and gather eggs. I took Pasha (the lab puppy) with me for a walk, though taking her to the chickens is always a dicey business, because she sometimes decides that they're big fluffy chase toys that might be tasty snacks. I saw something in the field past the outdoor chicken coop that I couldn't quite place; I had seen a chicken or two in the field earlier today, but now I saw large splashes of color that didn't belong on the straw-colored dead grass. I knew, before I knew, what I was seeing: a fox, in motion, and two chickens, still. As I drew closer, the fox flashed up the hill with an enormous clump of black and brown--one of the Araucana hens. His tail seemed two feet long, tipped in lush white fur. Everyone but me has seen this fox this spring, and it appears I saw him too late.

Also in the field, left behind, was a big white body--too big to be Penelope, the Leghorn hen. It was Spot, the aggressive white rooster I've periodically threatened with the stew pot for his habit of flying at my legs when I come into the coop. Because I had the dog with me, I couldn't, thankfully, just walk right over to his body. I didn't want Pasha to play with him, so instead, she and I went into the barn--but not before another Araucana, ranging outside, tempted her. Today, she couldn't resist, and I am horrified to admit that I chucked a (small) rock at her body to get her to lay off the poor bird. (It glanced off her--I didn't throw it hard--and stopped her attack.) The hen was able to fly up onto a fence post and get away, and so I went inside to do my chores. Everyone else was fine; the fox, in fact, has not been in the henhouse, which is good news.

After gathering the eggs, replenishing water and feed and dumping out the bag of table scraps saved for them, I took the bag and a pair of work gloves outside to gather up Spot's body. With apologies to the squeamish--he'd been beheaded, rather neatly, it seemed; this came as a relief as I've been told that foxes can be messily destructive when they kill. There was a huge pile of feathers where the other chicken must have been taken, but Spot shed almost none. Dido decided several months ago that Spot was the king of the chickens, that the other roosters were his body guards. Maybe today it was the hen who was trying to protect the top of her pecking order. I am hoping this isn't the beginning of a spring of loss.

Days of Whine and Noses

2008-03-27T08:37:00.002-04:00

Remember my triumphant post about solitude? Well, suckah, that's over.

The Babe is home sick, yet again. Coughing, snotty, feverish, and less miserable than she should be because she's happily watching a "Maisie" DVD.

One of these days, I'll fall into a groove. Can it not be in fifteen years? Can it be a teeny, tiny bit sooner?

All I Want is You

2008-03-25T23:06:00.002-04:00

I never thought I'd say this, ever, in my whole, entire life: I am sick of boots. I want to wear flats, where the top of my foot is exposed to the air; peep toe pumps that show off my lovely red toes; platform strappy sandals that make me instantly not only taller but at least ten pounds lighter (you know, like how the camera adds weight? The right shoes take it right off.)

Good morning, again

2008-03-25T07:48:00.003-04:00

I find myself in a quiet and nearly empty house. The H has, finally, rented an office for himself outside of the house. This is momentous and wonderful, for lots of reasons. He can drive the kids to school in the morning, because his office is in the same town. That's a big relief to the Woman Sick of Driving Two Hours Per Day. But even better is that I GET TIME ALONE.

Maybe it's an only child thing, but I go a little batshit if I don't have time all by myself. I am sometimes the most sociable creature in the world, but at other times, I really, REALLY don't want to have a conversation. With anyone. I just want to be blissfully immersed in my own head. It drives the H crazy; he says, and he may be right (though I think he's just as guilty of this!) that I get so lost in my own world that I pay no attention to my family (or, say, more specificially, him, ahem.) Maybe it's true. I don't know. But what I do know (for sure, as Queen Oprah would say) is that quiet time alone is one of my greatest luxuries and joys, and for me to be productive and civil, it's an absolute necessity. So while I am not technically alone this morning (Vous is silent in her garret above the garage; the dogs are downstairs eating bones, and the cat is skulking around, no doubt soon to find me and jump up onto the desk, because that's where cats want to be when you're working--in the center of everything--) I have the sensation of solitude, and it's lovely.

It gives me time to contemplate the things I have to do--plan the vegetable garden I'm about to start to construct down by the barns (advice welcome--I have never done this before and am relying heavily on these two books to teach me); plan summer travels and kids' activities; continue the Great Organization Project of ~~2007~~ 2008, and so on. Do you like to be alone? Where does your mind voyage when you are?

This is what it looks like

2008-03-24T11:04:00.003-04:00

When I was a girl, I remember thinking (I still do) that my mother was really beautiful. She was a beautiful girl and a beautiful woman, both, and others apparently thought so, too, because periodically someone would exclaim, "No! You're not really xxx years old! You don't look xxx..." to which my mom's stock response was, "This is what xxx looks like." There was a mix of self-effacement and sarcasm in her voice, always, and I guess I feel the same way. I look the way I look. Sometimes I look at myself and see only lines and flab and feel ancient, and other times I think, heh, not so bad, really. But, like she said, this is what it looks like.

Today is my 42nd birthday. This is what it looks like. Happy birthday to me.

Without Further Ado

2008-03-24T08:06:00.009-04:00

At least you can't accuse me of burying the lede. But there's preamble, so you'll just have to bear with me.

After the endless emptiness of the blue carpet, we were ushered into the event space (not to be confused with the tent space) for the Spirit Awards. A Lance-Armstrong-esque stretchy yellow bracelet was the sign that we belonged. As a nominee, though, shouldn't the H have some sort of VIP status? We decided to try to go to the cordoned-off area to find out. By this time, the H's agent had found us, so the three of us approached the stanchions. Guess what? We had the wrong bracelets. The H had some sort of extra credential on his tickets, but that wouldn't admit the wife or the agent. Ah, but never underestimate the power of celebrity or its rub-off. Just as we were attempting to negotiate with the powers-that-were at the entry, another headset-wearer and a photographer rushed over. "John! How are you?" No, not the H, his agent, also named John. You see, that John lives with a very famous actress, and so, for better (unlikely) or (mostly) worst, is known to every photographer in Hollywood. Guess what? They let us in, and took our pictures. Amazing.

After seeing just how dull the VIP area was (a bar! more product placement!) we decided to head into the tent for the awards. The biggest part of every Hollywood event of any kind is devoted to the schmooze. It can be fun, like when I ran into an old friend at the pre-awards cocktail party, and she reintroduced me to some people I'd known peripherally in my old life. Fun, no pressure: I wasn't looking for anything from any of them, and vice versa. We had nice conversation about why we left L.A. and what our new life is like (always a favorite topic of mine.)

But often, the schmooze is stressful. You see this phenomenon everywhere: as people enter a room, they start to scan. Who is here that they know? Who is here that they wish to avoid? Who here is powerful, holds possible keys to their success, and can they manage to have a conversation with that person? You can feel people vibrating with anxiety; the H and I call it the hunted look, and it's one of the things that I am most grateful to no longer have as a part of my life. It produces rudeness (like on my second date with the H, when an agent I knew shook his hand, and at the same time called to someone else over the H's shoulder: at the time, the H was an unknown, just the date of a low level executive--now people routinely do the same thing to me, cause I'm just the wife) and a palpable discomfort that pervades every industry gathering.

In the Spirits tent, the schmooze was in full swing. I am a good spotter--I have a great memory for faces and names, while the H's is somewhat less acute. So I looked for people he should say hello to, and helped him navigate. Because there's no longer any pressure on me, I actually kind of enjoy it now. We saw some friends, I saw some more former colleagues from my days at HBO, and we at long last met a writer/producer who is our neighbor (a weekender) here in the sticks and who we've been wanting to meet. Then, after a too-quick hello to the H's uncle, we started towards our table.

One other rule of Hollywood is that the famous people always arrive last. When we found our table, already there was one of the film's producers, and her husband. I have nothing good to say about her, so let's just call her Dorian and be done with it. I'm sure her husband is a perfectly nice guy, just like the other lovely producer, who arrived shortly thereafter, with his normal seeming doctor wife. Just as the festivities, if you can call them that were about to begin, the buzz of voices let us know that THEY WERE COMING. We were sharing our table with the (yes, clearly pregnant) Brangelina. The H and I were seated as far away from them as possible, between the doctor and the studio head. Dorian, whose power derives from her proximity to Brad, had positioned herself next to him, while Angie's longtime manager sat to her right. Celebrities need insulation. Everyone said hello, and then the stupefying two hours of rubber chicken began. I don't remember much, except that there were cameras over my shoulder the entire time (sitting directly across the table from the CENTER OF THE MEDIA UNIVERSE, you know) and that Cate Blanchett is ravishingly beautiful. Everyone wants to know what Brangie are like--couldn't tell you. I exchanged maybe ten words with each of them the entire time. They weren't there to make friends, and neither was I.

When it was (finally) over, the room started to vibrate again. Seemingly in an instant, half the crowd moved toward our table. Everyone wanted to be near Brad and Angie. Everyone wanted to shake hands, take a picture, and so on. They were incredibly gracious; I found their tolerance for this onslaught really impressive. It's the price (one of them) of the celebrity they've assiduously courted, but they pay it without complaint, or at least they did on that day. We finally exited the tent (only after they left--we literally couldn't escape the crowd surrounding our table until they did) and headed to the afterparty.

It was insane, packed with people, dark and hot and unpleasant. I saw three people I knew, and then I was done. I called for our car to take me the three blocks back to our hotel (it was pouring rain, I had no umbrella, and I was dressed up.) I found the kidlets, and Vous, and headed downstairs for a dinner. The H met us, and we all breathed a sigh of relief. The "vacation" was nearly over.

Think of Boca Grande

2008-03-24T07:58:00.001-04:00

This one's for my old friend. Send her good thoughts today.

Hold your horses

2008-03-20T23:39:00.001-04:00

I'll get to it, I promise. In the meantime, do yourself a favor and go here, my new favorite place on the whole, entire, Al Gore-invented, interweb.

An Intermission, Wherein I Answer Your Questions

2008-03-20T12:12:00.002-04:00

No, the H's publicist did not resolve this little oops. No, the H didn't open any cans of whoopass on anyone after the unsweet suite. I mean, really, how f***ing spoiled would you have to be to complain to your publicist that the gifting suite didn't show you enough love? He did think about it, and then thought better. I was proud of him. As for it being horrible, I suppose so. But it was so funny, and all I could think the whole time was, "I cannot wait to write about this." So it was worth it. And thank goodness I don't go to L.A. more, because I don't think I could take it. It's exhausting, and leaves me feeling more guilty (about not having enough time for the people I love) than fulfilled.

As for Justine Bateman--she's really nice, very funny and extremely smart, and went to junior high with the H, where they apparently co-starred in a school play. He's never recovered from it, and carries a torch for her to this day. As to her face--umm, my face is different from when I was watching Family Ties, too. (Ahem. And I say that with love.)

Part Three: Le Tapis Bleu

2008-03-19T11:06:00.007-04:00

It's only in French to make it, you know, classier. Because God knows, Hollywood needs a lot of things, and classing up is definitely one of them. LiLo, anyone?

Saturday morning, the day after the gifting fiasco, dawned drizzly and cold. We had moved to the hotel the studio put us in for the awards (thank you, Paramount Vantage, for this part of our family trip--it was lovely) and after a breakfast characterized by only two temper tantrums (first the Babe, then her father) the H and I returned to our rooms to start getting ready for his moment of non-triumph. It was pretty clear (hello, Writers Guild Awards? Oscar nominations?) that the newly-legendary ex-stripper Diablo Cody was going to win, which was alternately kind of irritating and a bit of a relief. Lowered expectations and all that.

A black towncar arrived at 11:30 to pick us up for the three and a half minute trip to the tent on the beach where the awards were to be held. The H's publicist would meet us at the entrance and guide him through the gauntlet otherwise known as the red carpet.

But at the Spirit Awards, because, you know, they're Indie, the carpet is actually blue. This might be a case of being different, say, just for the sake of being different. Maybe. You can decide for yourself.

Over my long enough career in La-La Land, I spent long enough on red carpets. Unless you're famous, it's just floorcovering. You walk quickly, avoiding eye contact with the microphone and camera brandishers along the sides. They could care less about you, or you about them. Oddly, this is true for screenwriters, as well. Unless, say, they have a publicist at their side. (Or a compelling and well-publicized past as a sex-worker.)

God bless her, the H's lovely flack managed to garner enough interest in him to keep him occupied for a good half an hour as we slowly wended our way down the aisle. I did what any woman bored at an awards show would do: I looked at fashion.

Those are Ileana Douglas' feet in the first shot--I thought the shoes were fab. Not so much the ill-fitting dress worn by John's competition (though her ink is nice) and this poor starlet had a major wardrobe malfunction witnessed only, I think, by me and about a hundred or so journalists. Not her lucky day. But you know those stick on bra thingies? They really do stick on! Even when your dress falls off! So it could have been worse.

When the fashion got dull, I looked for people we knew. I said hello to a producer (sorry, no pictures--they don't make it onto WireImage) or actor or three, and tried (in vain) to live post pics I was taking to my blog. People, I tried. I can't help it that Utterz failed me.

But the best was going on, unbeknownst to me, with the H, hard at work amidst his media interviews. There he was, speaking earnestly with BBC Radio, and then with E!. Just as the ~~beautiful spokesmodel~~ reporter posed an insightful question, he noticed her cameraman hard at work--changing the battery pack on his camera. That's right, folks--he was being interviewed, but the camera was not running. Nope. Not turned on. Since the H, among his many talents, includes film and video production, he was savvy to this little snafu. Mid sentence, he stopped. "I don't think there's any reason for me to answer that question." "Why?" smiled the "reporter." "Look at your camera man. Thanks for your time."

Stay tuned for Part Four: THE CENTER OF THE MEDIA UNIVERSE

Part Duh--the Artificial Suitener

2008-03-12T15:10:00.008-04:00

So up we pull up to the address the H's publicist emailed him; two big bouncers, a nervous girl in a headset and a tiny sign reading "The Silver Spoon" let us know we've found our unholy grail, the much-publicized "gifting suite." (Yes, they are really called that.) John hops out, excited like a kid going trick or treating, and nervous girl instructs me to pull around the corner to the event's valet parking--we can all go inside to see the bounty. Mind you, we're traveling in our superfly rented Ford Fairlane minivan. "Rocking the minivan", as my (childless) (superhip) brother in law liked to say any time he had to drive our old one because he was taking the kids somewhere. John's already inside by the time I gather two crabby kids and Vous, the au pair, to whom I am vainly trying to explain what the hell it is we're doing.

Inside,it's dark, but not dark enough. Have you ever been inside a nightclub during the daytime, when too much light and too little alcohol makes the space a whole lot less daring and exciting and way more done on the cheap? This place had a faux Chinese decor, kind of like Grauman's Chinese Theater, with a big bar in the center of the room,, raised ramps along the sides, a staircase up the center in the back to another loft-like bar space. In every spare bit of room, a vendor--or, rather, a gifter--had set up shop: jeans, smoothies, coffee, luggage, gadgets, make up....you name it.

The first hint that we might be not exactly the giftees the gifters were looking for came when a shrill little woman (looking remarkably like the headset-wearer at the door) chased us down, all four of us, me, the kids, and Vous, as we squinted in the halflight trying to see the H. "You need BANDS" she shrieked. Umm, ok. Probably true, in many senses. She meant on our wrists. By this point, I had spotted the H, explained that we were with him, and she wrapped us all in bright yellow bands. (This would become a theme for the week.)

The H had spotted us, too, and pulled me aside to say that all was not as it seemed. He was excited to see the cool hardshell luggage being bestowed on someone we sort of recognized but couldn't say from where--but when the H tried to horn in, he had been told that he needed a different wristband. "Should we try upstairs and see what there is?" I suggested. Downstairs seemed like a sea of clothing from designers I'd never heard of and an enormous display of Busteles Coffee.

Up we went. Dead ahead, some kind of smoothie bar, again, from a vendor I'd never before encountered, but to our left--GADGETS!. Manna from the H's heaven. The "Jawbone", the hippest bluetooth headsat around, dozens of them stacked on a table mannned by beautiful girls. Except maybe in his fantasies, the H is no Eliot Spitzer (and more on THAT in another post) so this was pretty hot stuff for him. He picked up a box, admired it, one girl started extolling its many benefits, and then, when her spiel was done, the conversation trickled off into quiet. I found myself wondering, not aloud, how this is supposed to work. Do you have to ask? Is there supplicstion involved in being gifted? Aren't they just supposed to bestow things upon you?

Meanwhile, my children were getting restless and my overwhelmed and confused au pair was having no success in distracting or wrangling them. The lady in the next booth took pity on me. She was there from the super cool (yes, I know sarcasm is the lowest form of humor, thanks) Norton Utilities company, and, as I learned, was the preeminent authority on internet safety for kids. Uh huh. But bless her, she directed Vous and the kids over to the smoothie bar, and I gratefully took the software and a copy of her book. You never know, right?

The H was still locked in awkward silence with the Jawbone beauties. Finally, one of them (after a whispered conversation with the first lovely, who said she was new and wasn't sure of the process) informed John that they were running low (oh, really? That must be because there were only four hundred or so boxes stacked behind the table) and if he wanted to leave his information, they might be able to send something (unspecified) to him at a later date. Riiiiiight.

We walked away, somewhat more confused than two intelligent people ought to have been. Another table, this one with cute little speaker sets for iPods, called to the oddly-hopeful Husband. As we walked up, another person we both sort of recognized, a handsome Latin looking guy with lovely skin and hipster hair, was being loaded down with (another) bag of swag. Maybe this would be our lucky booth.... Just as the (much kinder) rep for this company was awkwardly explaining that today they were only giving to people wearing the GREEN wristbands--he gestured with a nod towards the handsome guys walking away from us--but he'd be happy to send one to us at a later date (had we heard this before?) I realized who Mr. Handsome was.

Did you ever watch "Queer Eye for the Straight Guy"? For a few seasons, I was addicted. The giftee was none other than Jai. Remember Jai? The "expert" in "culture"? He was always the one you felt a little sorry for because his expertise and accomplishments seemed so amorphous, though he was always sympathetic and kind to the oafs he was coaching. But I'm pretty sure he wasn't nominated this season for any Golden Globes, Oscars, SAG awards or Independent Spirits. I'm pretty sure. Even without that validation, Jai, apparently, is still celeb-enough to rate the green band, while the H once again is reminded that in Hollywood, nothing and no one is lower than a writer. Just when you think you've made it---all the way to the gifting suite---Hollywood--efficient in nothing else--is quick to remind you not to let your self-esteem get out of hand.

(Stay tuned for Part Three--The Blue Carpet.)

Hollywood Babble On, Part Unh

2008-03-08T14:55:00.005-05:00

Our first stop on the west coast grand tour was San Diego, a city that always strikes me as the ultimate example of having no there. I don't mean to be an SD hater, but it's an oddly detached place, especially for a big city with one of the busiest border crossings probably in the world. There's more of a tourism vibe than of an actual urban center. What I mean is, when I go to New York City, even having lived there, albeit briefly, I am always acutely aware of being a visitor to a place that (millions of) others call home: they have knowledge of and a claim upon their home that will likely always elude me. San Diego doesn't feel that way. You visit and think, right, this is a place that is entirely about T shirt shops and campy restaurants, in other words, by not living there, you're not missing much.

We were there for a wedding, which is the perfect reason to go to San Diego, and managed to pack in Legoland and a trip to the San Diego Zoo as well. The wedding was beautiful and entertaining, appropriately star-studded, and it was fun to see the other hotel guests going berserk because Leo and Justin had been sighted. Neither of them sends me (though I do like Justin's music, and think "Dick in a Box" is genius funny)--but had George Clooney or Ralph Fiennes been there, I'm sure I'd be a lot less blase.

We left for L.A. the day after the wedding, expecting to stay in a house I'd rented. Unfortunately, when we arrived (at 9 p.m., after meeting John's brother, sister in law and my mom for dinner) it was kind of a disaster: construction debris everywhere outside, not cleaned from the previous tenants inside, and with a redneckesque mattress laying in front of the garage. The H flipped out, and within an hour, we were installed in a hotel in Hollywood.

The next few days were a blur of playdates, mostly for the kids, Disneyland (again, mostly for the kids) and pre-awards obligations ranging from shoe shopping to cocktail parties, the latter distinguished by running into a dear friend and former colleague--one of the highights of the whole trip.

The slippery slide into "I don't want to be here", though, began when the H's publicist emailed him--she'd gained him (us) entree into The Silver Spoon, an awards season festival of companies attempting to publicize their products by giving them away to celebrities--otherwise known as swag. We had heard that this could be a motherlode of cool free stuff--who who wouldnt want to check it out? Between hair appointments (both of us) and lunch with his agent (the H), we booked over to Hollywood, kids in tow.

Stay tuned for Part Duh.

Remember me?

2008-03-04T23:19:00.002-05:00

You know it's been too long when your mom calls to ask when you'll be blogging again.

It's not for lack of interest, or even lack of stories to tell. My sojourn in California taught me many things (or, at least, a couple) but the relevant one at this particular moment is "never travel without your laptop." I wanted to blog--a lot--while I was there, but blogging on the iPhone, as I've complained before, is just way too much trouble, particularly when there are short people around.

Since returning last week, I've also had many, many moments of consuming desire to sit down and spill my guts and my wine, but not much time. The digging out from the post-vacation pile of ~~crap~~ mail, bills, and paper odds and ends has been all-consuming, not to mention getting two kids out of jetlag and back to school...So much for the excuses. I'm back. I am going down to NYC tomorrow for the day, so I may not post tomorrow, but upon my return, I promise--funny (I hope) tales of Leo, Justin, Brad, Angie, and ordinary folk like me navigating the slippery, swaggy slopes of awards-season L.A.

Stay tuned.

Here came the sun

2008-02-25T10:43:00.003-05:00

We awoke today to the first sunny morning of our trip, and most of us (save Dido, who is in grumpy mourning for his friends here) are ready to head home anyway.

This has been a stressful non-vacation dominated by the poor H's fruitless Indie Spirit adventure. I had hoped this trip, especially with Vous the au pair along, would let me relax and have concentrated visits with my friends. Not so much, but maybe next time.

Fatigue and losing in Los Angeles

2008-02-23T23:57:00.002-05:00

I have lots of fun, hopefully funny and certainly pathetic tales to relate, and tried to post pics from the red carpet (which, oddly, was actually blue) but super-super Utterz failed me. All may have to wait until I am once again cozy in my snowy home, trusty iBook at hand.

Finally

2008-02-21T10:51:00.002-05:00

To be sure, this latest blogging hiatus is mostly the result of laziness--I have yet to master the art of iPhone tip-tap-typing. As much as I love this little gadget, I find it slow slow slow for typing. I was going to post about waking up last Thursday, nearly ready to leave for LA; reading an email early that morning from a friend who had read the blog and who sent good thoughts for me not catching the stomach flu; until that second, I had somewhat miraculously forgotten about the flu, and certainly had no thought of getting it myself. How funny, I thought , not a little smug. Within ten minutes, I was running for the bathroom, and after that, wracked with nausea so severe that the H joked I must be pregnant. No. Just sick as a dog with a plane to catch. I loaded up on Immodium and anti nausea meds and crossed my aching, feverish fingers. It was truly a miserable day, despite smooth sailing, travelwise.

Nowhere to go but up, after that.

Input, Output, Conflict, and Life as the Mood Manager

2008-02-10T20:31:00.000-05:00

There's a longer post coming that deals with all of those topics. Really.

But right now, I have to finish organizing our upcoming trip, and deal with Mr. Mood Swing, aka my darling H. He's having some Issues.

Stay tuned.

Cross your fingers

2008-02-10T00:51:00.001-05:00

The uh, outpouring, has stopped. Let's hope poor little Babe was the only O to suffer so.

And to all, a good night.

A dark and pukey night

2008-02-09T01:15:00.000-05:00

Not so dark, but definitely pukey. If you have a delicate constitution, you might not want to read what follows.

The stomach flu has arrived, dear readers, attacking the smallest member of the family first. She's a very rational puker, willing to have her hair pulled back out of her face, ok with sitting next to the toilet on her little step stool, calm in the face of the umpteenth towel/bed linen/t shirt change. It's kind of heartbreaking.

Meanwhile, I feel my own innards beginning to gurgle and I dread what's coming. I'm not so much of a good puker. I don't like throwing up. If I didn't object to it so strenuously, I probably could have made a good bulimic once upon a time, but I'll do almost anything to avoid vomiting. When I was pregnant with the Babe, I threw up every day, at least once, sometimes twice for about four or five months. I learned to be calm through that horrible spasming out of control feeling that I find the most awful part of the experience, even worse than the sheer grossness of it. (I, by the way, had nothing on pukiness compared to my friend Julie who threw up multiple times every day throughout her entire pregnancy. She wins that dubious prize.)

So here I sit, in the Babe's room, curled up in the glider chair I bought when I was pregnant with her, as I spent so many nights during her infancy. During those long nights, she was in my arms or latched on, drowning her sorrows, so to speak. But now, she's a big girl, in her pink-painted, wrought iron big girl bed. I am across the room, typing and listening to her breathe, stir, to the clock (also pink) ticking on the wall over her bed. If it weren't for the minor dread, it would be totally peaceful.

Feminists for Obama

2008-02-08T08:59:00.000-05:00

A great article from Kate Michelman, past president of NARAL, echoing my sentiment that it is absolutely in line with feminism to support Obama.

Check it out here.

My Little Town

2008-02-07T19:11:00.000-05:00

Remember the night of the dinner for The Foodie?

Here is what preceded the dinner: a cocktail party which I could not attend because I was home tending to short ribs, potato puree, swiss chard, pearl onions and nearly-flourless chocolate cake....

The first picture in the series shows my friend and my long lost cousin, for those with curiosity about such things...

Blah

2008-02-06T18:01:00.000-05:00

Post election letdown? Maybe. I am thrilled with the results, had a lovely day, and have spent every free moment slogging through my epic to-do list . Of course, having a to-do list is an accomplishment in itself, so I should, perhaps, cut myself a bit of slack. I still have five phone calls to make, more emails to send, a stack of bills to pay (but hey, they're opened, and the trash parts are thrown away! Do I get points for that?), a script to read, two trips to plan...and. and. and. More to come.

2008-02-04T14:51:00.001-05:00

Mobile post sent by talesparkside using Utterz. Replies. mp3

Grumpy Girl

2008-02-04T00:46:00.000-05:00

Yep, that's me. I woke up in a funk, and it's lasted all day, the kind of mood that makes everything so unbearably irritating that you want to go to bed with your head under a pillow all afternoon in the hopes that you'll wake up in a different mind, let alone frame of mind. I am annoyed by brainless advocates for one politician over another (fine to support who you want to support, but not because your boyfriend says it's a good idea), annoyed by others' insecurities that they take out on me, annoyed by...oh, everything, and I'm not saying, by the way, that any of those things are, you know, rightfully annoying. I am feeling very junior high, and hoping like crazy that it will pass. Quickly. G'night.

Pillory Hillary

2008-02-02T08:39:00.001-05:00

As a new New Yorker, I have something in common with Senator Clinton. As a Yale graduate, I have something in common with her, too. We're both women, smart women, women who have made professional sacrifices to support our husband's careers. I don't think any of these facts are reason to vote for her on Tuesday, in part because I also, proudly, call myself a feminist and a liberal.

I am so tired of New Yorkers telling me how well she's "reached across the aisle" (as though, as a freshman in the Senate and one who arrived with unliftable baggage , loathed by the other party, she had any other choice) and what a "great job" she's done for New York. This letter, from a local activist, begs to differ. I think it offers an interesting perspective on what's wrong with the consummate politician, Hillary Clinton.

It's not that I don't respect Hillary Clinton. I do. But I don't feel, as I fear she does, that she deserves to be president. I don't believe in dynasties. I do believe that the boomer generation is far from the "greatest" generation, and they've screwed this country up beyond belief. It's time for them, at long last, to step aside.

Now some more, from another friend, a friend from Hollywood:

The friend who wrote this is a (striking) writer, a brilliant and passionate (and funny) woman whose shows you probably watch. If she says it's ok, I'll put her name on the letter.

The Ice Storm

2008-02-01T16:42:00.000-05:00

We seem to be having an honest-to-goodness ice storm today, a thing that I previously thought was just a title, for say, a Rick Moody novel, or an Ang Lee film. But no, apparently there are actually days when for hours on end, tiny, soft pellets of ice--not snow, not hail, not rain--fall from the sky, coating the roads in a slushy pile that resists efforts at clearing it away and forms a slippery mush under car wheels.

Normally, I would seize an opportunity like this to spend the entire day, save school commute, at home, maybe continuing the massive office organization project I finally begun, to great delight, yesterday. Remember Freedom Filer? I got all my (two years worth!) of filing done yesterday in about three hours. I threw out a lot, got everything else organized in a system that will make taxes easier (I hope) and fit everything into one drawer of a wide two drawer filing cabinet. I am a convert. Now I just have to conquer the three eight-inch tall piles of mail that are still on top of my desk, and I'll be a new woman. I have some before, in the middle, and after pictures that if you're lucky, I'll post. Really lucky, that is, because what we all crave is pictures of other people's mess, right?

Anyway, Organize-Me Part Deux was not to be, because instead, we woke up this morning to a half-day of school, a half-day which as it turned out, neither of my children would attend because Dido woke up with a 101 fever and there was no point in forcing the Babe to go to school without her brother for a short day. Instead, I called the ped., and drove Dido to Great Barrington to confirm our suspicions that indeed, he's on his second bout of strep in three weeks. Home schooling looks good on days like these...except that I'd actually have to do the home schooling, and none of us would survive that. So...it's a day of online Elmo stories and Abbott and Costello movies and (fringe benefit) a lot of knitting time for me. I finished a scarf for the H last night and am midway through another project for myself that I had put aside to make his scarf, which turned out pretty well although (surprise!) he had some "notes" (Hollywood-speak for criticism) on the design. Welcome to my world.

Wh(oops) Here It Is....

2008-01-31T08:29:00.001-05:00

Gina very gently pointed out that I omitted about two thirds of her meme. Clever of me, no?

Here's the rest of it. Phew.

16. Last person I was in a car with: My husband.

17. Last time I ate at McDonald’s: A few months ago with my children, who know that the only time they're likely to eat there is when we're on a road trip, and therefore are likely to agree to long drives in hopes of a Happy Meal. Dido is trained to quickly assert, any time McDonald's is mentioned, that although it tastes good, it's not healthy, and In 'n Out Burger is much better. Amen to that.

18. Last thing I bought: groceries.

19. Last person I saw: My husband and kids.

20. Last time I cried: Monday morning at Odessa's funeral.

21. Last time I laughed: Last night watching an episode of "The Sopranos."

22. What is the temperature outside? 17 F. Brrrr.

23. What time of the day did I get married? Hmm. Good question. I think around 5 p.m., maybe a bit later. June 27, 1998.

24. What did I do two nights ago? Watched a documentary, "Helvetica", about the typeface. Better than it sounds,not as good as it should have been.

25. Whose birthday is coming up next? The H's.

26. What time did I go to bed last night? Around midnight.

27. What was the first thing I thought this morning? The dog needs to go out.

28. What are my plans for this weekend? Canvass for Obama in Hudson; friends to dinner; maybe a playdate or two for the kids.

29. Lemonade or iced tea? Iced tea.

30. What do I dislike at this moment? The chaos on the desk in front of me.

31. What did I dream about last night? Something about children, but I don't remember what.

32. What’s the last TV show I watched? "Sopranos." We're watching the whole series, in order, on DVD. God bless Netflix.

33. What is my favorite piece of jewelry? Tough call. Maybe the earrings my husband gave me for my 40th birthday, or the heavy modern bracelet my mother in law gave me that used to belong to her mom.

34. Am I a dancer? Yes, but the H is not, which is a bummer. As a result, I don't dance much anymore, and it makes me sad.

35. Have I ever cut my own hair? No.

36. What is my favorite treat? Good heese. Dark chocolate.

37. How many piercings/tattoos do I have? Pierced ears; one of them was triple pierced but I'm pretty sure the extra two holes have closed.

38. Where’s my favorite place to be? Paris, Kona Village or Big Sur.

39. Is there someone I haven’t seen in a while and miss? Yes.

40. Who was the last text I sent to? Leslie.

41. Do I care what strangers think about me? Sadly, yes.

42. Last person I talked to on Instant Messenger: Rebecca.

43. Last person to make me cry: The H.

44. Who can I tell anything to? My best friends.

45. What am I doing tomorrow? Hopefully having a visit here from Leslie; spending some fun time with the kids, since they have a half day at school.

46. Do I have alcohol in my home? Sure.

47. Do I like ketchup? Yes.

48. Do I think I will be on a vacation this summer? No, but where we live is like being on vacation all the time anyway.

49. What colour is my master bathroom? Ugly minty green. Someday, it will be a different color.

50. Do I wear a bikini at the beach? Not bloody likely.

51. Have I ever been to the Grand Canyon? Only flying over.

52. What is my favorite fruit? Mango. Or maybe a really, really good peach.

53. What did I really want to do today? Knit.

54. Am I always cold? I used to be, but not so much as I get older.

55. Does it annoy me when someone says they’ll call or text, but don’t? Not really. I am so often guilty of this myself, that I would be a giant hypocrite to get upset with someone else about it.

I tag: all bloggers who read this. If you don’t have a blog, please feel free to answer in the comments section.

Here we go again

2008-01-30T13:06:00.000-05:00

A writer meme, via Susan, who's here....

What’s the last thing you wrote?

Other than blog posts, I wrote two book reviews for a regional food/dining magazine. I am finishing a third.

Was it any good?

I think so. The editor didn't like my first draft of one of the pieces at all, so I had to rewrite it and it took me forever because I kept second guessing myself, but by the end, I was happy, and so, it appears, is the magazine.

What’s the first thing you wrote that you still have?

Somewhere, I'm sure, my mother has saved the stories I wrote when I was really little--second grade or so. I have old papers and stories from high school buried in a box in the basement.

Write poetry?

Yes, as a child, and secretly but infrequently as an adult.

Angsty poetry?

Nope. Observational poetry, if I had to describe it.

Favorite genre of writing?

Creative non fiction; superior novels.

Most fun character you’ve ever created?

Probably The H.

Most annoying character you’ve ever created?

Me.

Best plot you’ve ever created?

I haven’t created a plot I’m fully happy with yet. This, I believe, is my weakness. Maybe once I get a handle on this, I’ll finally write a novel. Yes, I’m scared of plot. Let’s not talk about it, okay? (I stole this nearly verbatim from Susan, because it’s exactly how I feel.)

Coolest plot twist you’ve ever created?

I said I don’t want to talk about it! (ditto, Susan)

How often do you get writer’s block?

On non-fiction, almost never. On other stuff, I live it.

Write fan fiction?

I don't even know what that is.

Do you type or write by hand?

Both.

Do you save everything you write?

Almost everything. If I trash something, it's usually accidental.

Do you ever go back to an idea after you’ve abandoned it?

Sure.

What’s your favorite thing you’ve written?

This essay for culturecloud.

What’s everyone else’s favorite story that you’ve written?

I have no idea.

Do you ever show people your work?

Yes.

Did you ever write a novel?

No, but I think about it a lot.

Ever written romance or angsty teen drama?

Nope.

What’s your favorite setting for your characters?

Upstate New York, the American South, or Southern California.

How many writing projects are you working on right now?

Not as many as I'd like.

Do you want to write for a living?

Yes.

Have you ever won an award for your writing?

Maybe as a child, but certainly not since.

Ever written anything in script or play format?

Married to a screenwriter. Need I say more? Seriously-- no. I've thought about it, have ideas for screenplays, but I find the form daunting. (Again with the plot problem.)

What are your five favorite words?

I loathe "favorite" questions.

Do you ever write based on yourself?

Do I ever not?

What character have you created that is most like yourself?

My autobiographical protagonist who has experienced everything I have (stolen, verbatim, from Susan.)

Where do you get ideas for your characters?

People I observe as I move through my life. Sometimes people I know, but not often.

Do you ever write based on your dreams?

I don't think so.

Do you favor happy endings, sad endings, or cliff-hangers?

Who gets as far as endings? That requires plot, you know.

Have you ever written based on an artwork you’ve seen?

Yes.

Are you concerned with spelling and grammar as you write?

Yes. I'm obsessive about both.

Ever write anything in chatspeak (how r u?)

Only if I'm text messaging, and even then, rarely.

Entirely in L337?

Beg your pardon?

Was that question appalling and unwriterly?

No idea.

Does music help you write?

Sometimes, but it can also be distracting.

Quote something you’ve written. Whatever pops into your head.

A pigeon stretches one red leg.

Part of a poem I wrote in middle school and always really liked.

I tag all writers!

Outrage(s)

2008-01-30T12:55:00.000-05:00

I know, I know, there's a lot to choose from lately. After reading this story a week ago Sunday, I inadvertantly threw the New York Times magazine across the room in horror. Be forewarned--this will likely disgust, disturb and profoundly upset you, particularly if you have daughters. If anyone out there has ideas about what to do about this, I'd love to know them.

Then there's this fine bit of news about our darling president and his liberal interpretation of his responsibility to this country's laws.

I want to scream.

Meme

2008-01-30T12:44:00.000-05:00

An acquaintance who I hope to someday call friend, a fellow California transplant to the northeast, Gina Hyams, tagged all her readers who blog with this meme.

She's a good writer (real books!) and has a wonderful new blog, so check her out. Meanwhile...

1. Spell my name as it sounds: Paje.

2. Am I a worrier? Yes.

3. What’s my favorite CD? This is one of those impossible questions. Anything by Tom Petty? Patti Scialfa's "Rumble Doll"? Lately, the soundtrack to that Todd Haynes Dylan movie that I always blank out the name of, even though I listen to it all the time....

4. Favorite colour(s)? My children say it's red. It might really be green, but lately I have purple and pale blue and even pink running around, so who the hell knows?

5. Does my home have an attic? Yes, but we finished it to make offices for ourselves--which does, in fact, make me the madwoman in the attic. (Or maybe that's the H, since he tends to go to his office first, and then get tense if I try to go work in mine...please, strike, end, so he can get an office out of the house again!!)

6. Have I ever been to Canada? Yes--my dad and I drove through Canada once on our way to Exeter. We saw Niagara Falls, which was lovely on the Canadian side, and deeply depressing on the American side. I hear the Canadian side is now pretty awful, too.

7. Have I ever gone fishing? Yes. Somewhere my mom has a memorable picture of me and my best friend at age 3 or 4, Alan Standefer, proudly displaying our catch. I don't think I've really been fishing since, though I did sort of try in Mammoth last summer...

9. Have I ever been on a motorcycle? Yes.

10. How much money do I have on me right now? Hmmm....my wallet's downstairs. Maybe $40 or so?

11. How many cars have I owned? Counting co-owning, eleven or twelve.

12. How many jobs have I had? I can count eighteen, but I'm pretty sure I've forgotten some...

13. How tall am I? 5′7″

14. Last person to call me: My friend Rebecca.

15. Last thing I yelled out loud: "Come brush your teeth. NOW!"

Praise II

2008-01-29T00:58:00.000-05:00

A few people have asked about this morning. These are the notes I used as the basis for what I said. People at the service, including Leslie, seemed to appreciate it. I think I captured what I knew of her mom as well as I could.

For the last twenty years I’ve been lucky enough to call Leslie my best friend. I met Odessa shortly after Leslie and I graduated from college, when I moved to New York for the first time, and Leslie moved home.

I should admit, that in my case, like many of Leslie’s college friends, my first affection for Odessa came through her cooking--specifically, her transcendent, superior, delectable green beans.

Over the coming years, Leslie and I would become best, best friends, and I would come to consider Odessa practically my second mother. When Leslie and I spoke about Odessa, she was always, simply, “Mommy.” “How’s Mommy?” “When is Mommy coming to L.A.?” This was the perfect way to refer to a woman whose life, in many ways, was defined by that role.

Odessa loved her food. Her nephew Reggie, visiting with Leslie after Odessa’s passing, called her “Auntie Zagat.” And she earned that nickname. In trying to explain Odessa these past couple of weeks to friends who did not have the privilege of knowing her, I’ve talked about her as the consummate New Yorker, a woman who rode the bus all over town, an adventurer, an explorer, in large part to try new restaurants. From homestyle cooking to fine French cuisine, Odessa tried it all. Leslie, by her own recollection, only ever introduced her mother to one favorite restaurant. Ever other place she brought up to her mother, Odessa had already tried. Odessa was always the first person to have tried someplace new, someplace hot. She loved this city, and explored and enjoyed it to the fullest.

But as we all well know, her greatest love, beyond anything else, was her darling, brilliant, beautiful daughter, Leslie.

My knowledge of Odessa is defined, simply and utterly, by her relationship to Leslie. Motherhood, mothering Leslie, was everything to Odessa. I have, simply, never known a mother and daughter who were closer, more intertwined, or more sure in their love for one another. A few minutes after Odessa died, Leslie called me to let me know. She said, and I hope she won’t mind my repeating, that she felt as though there were a hole in her, a hole that might never be filled or heal. And that makes sense, because Leslie and Odessa were that close, that supportive, that loving of one another.

Odessa was the type of parent who supported her child without indulging her. Everyone here, I’m sure, knew Odessa as a woman who was unafraid to speak her mind or her heart. She was that way with Leslie. Leslie always knew exactly where she stood with her mom, good or bad. Last week, in the hospital, Odessa was quick to mention her feelings about he state of Leslie’s hair. (You’ll all notice that it looks beautiful today, and I’m pretty sure Odessa’s looking down and muttering about the fact that it took her memorial service to get Leslie to the beauty parlor.) But Odessa supported Leslie through the hard times and the good. Odessa loved Leslie fiercely. She encouraged her to move to Los Angeles 18 years ago, to go to graduate school, even though it must have been incredibly difficult for her to see Leslie leave New York. Odessa loved Leslie unconditionally. When Leslie and her wonderful partner Natacha faced struggles, as we all do, with the responsibilities of home and children and work, Odessa was there for them both. Odessa loved Leslie completely.

I always knew how proud Odessa was of Leslie and her accomplishments, but I never saw Odessa as a sentimental person. Last week, though, as I sat with Leslie in Odessa’s apartment after her death, I learned differently. Odessa saved everything from Leslie’s baby pictures to a recent press release from her architecture firm. In looking through one of Odessa’s albums, I found Leslie’s school evaluation from the 1st grade. In it, the teacher praised Leslie to the skies--her intelligence, her sensitivity to others, her perseverance, her delight in achievement. But then, the teacher did something I’ve rarely seen: she also singled out Odessa, her dedication and empathy to her daughter. And as I think about the person I know Leslie to be, this all makes sense. Leslie is her mother’s daughter. She has the same feisty spirit as her mother. She has the same loyalty and pride, the same acute intelligence, the same ability to appreciate and befriend people from all walks of life.

The hole that Leslie felt in those moments after Odessa’s passing, she will continue to feel in the coming weeks and months as she grieves for Odessa. As the people who love Leslie, and who loved her mom, it is up to us to help her get through the pain that she will surely feel. But I think we also have a duty to remind Leslie that that hole, is, on some level, an illusion. Even without Odessa here, in the physical world, her legacy to Leslie is very real. Her legacy of love, of courage, of humor, and of persistence will, in time, fill up the emptiness that Leslie is now feeling. Her mother’s gifts will always be with her--they made her the person she is, Odessa’s daughter, and her mother would not have it any other way.

Praise You

2008-01-28T08:31:00.000-05:00

In psyching myself up this morning for speaking at Odessa's memorial service, I started thinking about the Fatboy Slim song, "Praise You." I don't keep music on my computer--too much music, not enough space--so it's all on an external drive that I didn't bring with me to the city. I wanted to listen to the song, so I googled, and this is what I found. It gave me a much needed laugh this morning.

Blogging Lite

2008-01-24T12:29:00.001-05:00

I've lost my blogging mojo. Don't know why. I feel that I just don't have much to say at the moment. But since we're going to be in NYC for a few days starting tomorrow (all of us, even Vous; god bless the friends who are so graciously loaning us their apartment!) and then Leslie's mom's memorial is Monday, the posts will by necessity be short and sweet anyway. Maybe some city pics or audio blogs...Everything will be via iPhone or Utterz, so pithy will be the order of the day. Hopefully.

Blog 365 Be Damned

2008-01-23T17:05:00.000-05:00

I probably should have audio-posted from the train home yesterday, but I was busy fighting with the H via text message, and one thing led to another, and no posts were recorded, written or frankly, even thought about until last night when I was nearly asleep in bed, nearly asleep for the second time, since I fell asleep first at 8:15 in the Babe's bed when I was trying to get her to go down. Dido came into her room around 9:00 wondering where the hell his bedtime lie-down with Mommy was and woke me up. I was so out of it that I thought it was morning...then managed to fail to awaken this morning (which never happens--I wake up between 6:30 and 6:45 every day with no alarm; it's a curse) until 7:18. Arrggh.

we're calling this Monday, damn it

2008-01-22T00:39:00.000-05:00

I am cozy in NYC with my dear Leslie, remembering her mom and, hopefully, helping her get through the day. I'll be back to the blog for real soon.

Can't sleep

2008-01-20T23:22:00.000-05:00

So why not fix a broken link. Try this, for the fantastic Suzanne Goin cookbook that provided our menu: braised short ribs, potato puree, swiss chard with two kinds of baby onions. Yum.

Broken

2008-01-20T20:00:00.001-05:00

My blogging streak, and my heart. My dear, dear, dear friend's mother died tonight. I am off to New York in the morning to be with her.

On a note that now seems totally trivial. for all that have asked about last night's dinner, it went swimmingly. The food was delicious and everyone seemed to have a great time. The menu came from this favorite cookbook, and here, and in addition, here.

More later.