Without Further Ado

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

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

Hold your horses

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

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

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

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

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?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Mobile post sent by talesparkside using Utterz.  Replies.  mp3

Grumpy Girl

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

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.

Dear fellow Hudson Valley Democrats:
When it comes to Hillary Clinton, there is no shortage of unfair and unprincipled reasons for disliking her -- and if you listen to AM talk radio for an hour, you'll probably hear them all.

I reject the sexism of those who still think a former First Lady has no place in policy debates, just as I reject the absurd theories of those who think she had a hand in the death of her close friend Vince Foster.

Having volunteered on Clinton's first senate campaign, I get mad when I hear Rush Limbaugh savage her as a liar and an opportunist. I'm also grateful to her for keeping Rudy Guiliani and Rick Lazio out of the Senate.

But you don't have to be a sexist or a conspiracy theorist to oppose Clinton's candidacy.

I don't dislike Hillary; I distrust her. And my reasons are both substantive, and based on direct personal experience. When a major issue hit the Hudson Valley, Clinton was less than honest with her constituents, and all to eager to take credit where none was due.

For nearly 7 years, our communities were riven with controversy about a vast, coal-burning facility proposed by St. Lawrence Cement here in the Hudson Valley.

Given the harsh health, scenic, noise, traffic, economic and other negative potential impacts, opponents naturally wanted to get the ear of Mrs. Clinton -- and we tried everything. She was approached at campaign whistlestops, at private dinners, and public fundraisers. Printed factsheets were pressed into staffers' hands, and handwritten letters beseeched our new Senator to help end this dangerous idea. But
she refused to take any public stand.

Finally, as the leader of the grassroots opposition, I tried an old-fashioned political route. A friend identified a celebrity donor in nearby Dutchess County who was opposed to St. Lawrence's plans, and hecalled in a big favor. Driving to the capitol in his limo, we met with Hillary first in a chamber outside the Armed Services Committee, then took a long walk and tram ride under the Capitol to her offices. Hillary was both charming, and surprisingly well-informed on our issue.

At last, here was my big chance to make a full case for her involvement.

But when I launched into a carefully-prepared spiel, the Senator stopped me: "You don't need to do the presentation," she said. "The plant is a terrible idea. Just tell me how I can help." Delighted, I described the various Federal permitting processes in which she could intervene, and the benefits of her taking a public stand.

She called in her chief environmental policy advisor, and gave detailed instructions: Get a memo on her desk right away, listing the necessary action steps and the policy rationales for each, and she'd get right to work on it. Her performance was smart and convincing, and her celebrity backer and I practically floated down the Capitol steps
on the way out.

The rest was silence. After promptly delivering the requested memo, I was never able to get her staff (let alone the Senator herself) to discuss the issue again, let alone take action to stop the plant.

About a year later, Clinton was cornered on the SLC issue by an interviewer from The National Trust for Historic Preservation, who finally got her to say that she thought the proposal was "not the right direction for the Hudson Valley." These remarks were published in Preservation Magazine, which Clinton apparently thought no one
would read... because when we then alerted local media to her statement, Clinton's staff denied the remarks and claimed she still had not taken a position.

Only after nearly 14,000 residents and 40 groups wrote in opposition to the Republican administration of George Pataki did this terrible project get scrapped -- without any help from either of our Democratic Senators.

But there was one more damning chapter in our Clinton saga.

After we won, the group I co-founded received an award at the Waldorf-Astoria from the Preservation League of New York. During the awardceremony, it was announced that there would be a video tribute from someone who couldn't attend, but who wanted to pay her respects. Up on a giant screen came Hillary Clinton, talking about how we'd all fought
such a good fight together.

Those of us who had been in the trenches for years looked at each other in amazement. All the awful things people say about Hillary were horribly validated: She didn't deliver on her promises, and then she took credit for a victory achieved without her help.

Now, some friends say, "Come now, Sam -- all politicians are the same. They tell you what you want to hear, and then do the opposite. Get over it!" Others say, "Well, Hillary dropped the ball on that one, but I still trust her on health care, education, abortion, the economy, et cetera."

To these excuses I say: Other politicians from five states had the guts to take a stand on an issue affecting hundreds of thousands of downwind residents; why couldn't Clinton?

Why should we expect her to act differently the next time a major regional controversy hits? If she won't stand up for the health of children and the elderly, and won't expend any political capital to save a broad swath of her own adopted State as its Senator, why should we expect her to behave differently as President?

And why shouldn't I get behind another candidate who is just as strong on core Democratic issues, such as Barack Obama -- whose campaign overtly rejects this cynical brand of politics?

The whole experience brings to mind that phrase famously mangled by our current President: Fool me once, shame on me; fool me twice, shame on Hillary.

And that's why Senator Clinton doesn't have my vote on Super Tuesday. She will almost certainly carry this State, but our votes can help ensure that at least a portion of New York's delegates to the Democratic convention are awarded to a more deserving candidate.

Sam Pratt - Founder - Friends of Hudson

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:

This is a short (ish) letter about politics. From somebody with only the most basic understanding of politics. So, feel free to click over to The Washington Post right now. But I had a dream last night that George Clooney liked where I was coming from (and that's all. We were just friends, okay?) and I figured if Dream Clooney could dig it, maybe my friends could too.

A lot of people I know are very conflicted about who to support -- Hillary or Obama. What I'm hearing -- and what I have thought myself at times -- goes something like this:

Obama is smart and exciting, he's charismatic (okay, maybe not so much in debates). He's new and he doesn't have the baggage "Billary" does. But this is not the time for on-the-job training. Hillary may pucker up like she smelled something bad too often and I don't like her jewelry -- but she's brilliant and she knows what's up in Washington. (And she's a woman and how can you even think of supporting anybody else when you were raised by radical lesbians!?...or...maybe that part's just me...)

There are variations on this theme, but that's the basic script.

I checked Obama out early on and he didn't seem totally ready yet. Give him eight more years to "bake", I thought. But I've been pretty disgusted by Billary's entitlement act since Obama won Iowa - so I did some more homework. I saw Obama in person a few times, I read stuff and I talked to all my friends. Two things sealed the deal:

One -- Someone I know recently had dinner with a major GOP player. The player confided that the Republicans think they have a real chance against Hillary. Even after eight years of BUSH. So that's saying something. But -- they are scared of Obama. Really scared. Which leads to--

Two -- I watched Obama speak to community college kids in East LA. Most have you have seen how he can genuinely move a crowd, how fine he is at delivering his message of hope. And this day was no exception. But he also took questions and talked at length about policy and strategy. I don't agree with everything he says, but I no longer feel he is naive about "how things work" in Washington. But is he "dirty" enough? Can he "play the game?" Maybe not. And that is why I'm voting for Obama. The reason people are turning out in record numbers to see him, to vote and campaign for him, to finance his bid (NO money from special interest groups, ya'll) is because he rejects cynicism. He doesn't deny that he has to battle it, in the world and in himself. But if anybody can inspire people to become their better selves -- it is this man. I don't believe Hillary has that power. No matter how much she smiles.

We don't just need a new White House, we need a new populace. We need a new commitment from every person who can act, to act. Obama said he didn't have eight more years to wait because of the "fierce urgency of now." (thank you, Doctor King). He didn't want the hope he has beaten out of him over time. He understands how dire our place in the world is, and how dire the state of the planet itself. It's going to take more than a president to change it, it's going to take all of us.

Ted Kennedy, maybe the most effective democratic legislator ever, understands this too. He and his family are throwing down for Obama because they believe he can transform our country in the same way John F. Kennedy did.

The only thing that would make Omaba better for me is if he were a lesbian.

If you are wavering -- I urge you to take the leap. Decide to believe and, better still, get involved. Dream Clooney urges you too.

With love and, yes, HOPE,

[my friend]

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

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....

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

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)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

I want to blog, I do

But I am fried. Let's just say this. Tomorrow night, I am hosting a fundraising dinner for a local arts organization at my house. A bunch of people host dinners, the Academy sells tickets and hosts a big cocktail party, and then people pan out across our little corner of the world to different homes for festive meals. Ten people to dinner, a lot, but not scary. I've done bigger though not recently, it's true. In any case, everyone who's coming is a friend, and all but one of the people coming have eaten here before, at least once, some more. But that one person, who has not eaten here (though her husband has, a couple of times) is, as the H observed, one of the only people he's ever seen completely intimidate me and send me flying, gracelessly, tumbling, ass over teacup, off my ladder. She's got a big job, but I know lots of people with big jobs (I even had one, sort of, kind of, once--although it really wasn't so big, actually, lots of people pretended it was and kissed my behind, so the effect was similar, and, to be fair to myself, I actually did have a lot of responsibility and many projects and people and budgets to manage. But I digress into self-flattery.) She's a writer, but I know lots of them, too; most of my friends here, as it happily turns out, are writers or artists, and successful ones. But let's just say this--it's like some combination of Julia Child, Craig Claiborne, Nora Ephron and your older brother's impossibly cool girlfriend is coming to my house to dinner. I am insecure about a LOT of things. My cooking is not one of them. I know it's really, really good. But I am a little nervous. And I don't want to be.

Mobile post sent by talesparkside using Utterz.  Replies.  mp3

When worlds elide

When this post started, it was going to be about last night's moon, which was a half moon, hanging low in the sky above the northwestern horizon, blazing a bright, fiery red at one a.m.; about the magic of Portuguese vocal music, which, perhaps because I don't speak the language, sounds like every word is melding and mixing with the next (we were listening to Ceu in the car today--check her out); about the way that events bump against one another and produce effects (that whole wings of a buttterfly cliche) that cannot be foreseen and are often unknown...but I'm too tired. With any luck, I'll hold the train of thought and get back to it tomorrow. If not--who knows?

When I'm not blogging

Really, is there anything else?

Today, the anything else was two children who refused to go to school (only one succeeded in staying home--feel free to guess which one), a trip to the pediatrician, amoxicillin, immodium, a trip to the hospital lab, a trip to Dunkin Donuts as a bribe to get [possibly sick child] to go to the hospital lab and have blood drawn, having blood drawn, a trip to school to pick up the well child, a brief lovely hiatus while the children, sick and well, played with Vous while I --gasp--WORKED! ACTUAL WRITING!--until the H came down from his office, pale and stricken, to announce the death of a woman he's known his whole life and who we both adored. She had a full, long life which we celebrate, but I can count on one hand the times I've seen the H cry. It was wrenching. He'll be headed west for the memorial this weekend.

I tend to move through life thinking (foolishly, I already know) that I am one step, one unsolved problem, away from getting everything organized, under control, running with the efficiency of some Operations case I skimmed in business school. Not so. HBS should write a case on motherhood, family and home management, because I'd like to hear what those smarmy balding 30 year old frat boy motherf***ers I went to B school with would have to say about how to do it better, when chaos is always waiting to disrupt the house of cards I call my plan. (Can you tell how much I liked B school? Mike, if you're reading I don't mean you.)

This all sounds terribly selfish, self-involved and needlessly self-pitying as I read it over, which makes me feel ashamed. Just last week I was doing some gloriously beautiful drive or other and thinking about how unbelievably great my life is. And trust me, it is. In ways I never anticipated. It is decidedly not, as an old friend wrote me last night after, I think, reading this blog for the first time, all "The Ice Storm" and "Away from Her." Ok, maybe once in a while, on the really bad days when the H loses his shit and I follow suit. But not much, not really. The things I don' t like about my life are largely things that I don't handle well, places where I fall down, disappoint myself or others, drop out, fail to perform or provide. So that's the question--how do you do better, knowing that life will always provide earthquakes just when you think the ground is steady? How do you keep everything running?

Snow and Sage

Once again, school was called off due to weather, but since Dido is on his antibiotic-fueled, post-strep mend, he wouldn't have gone today anyway, and the Babe had zero intention of attending without him. It's bad enough, this school every day plan, without the security blanket of her protective and doting big brother...so we breathed a joint sigh of relief when email revealed our reprieve.

I was restless last night, maybe got four or five hours, so the whole day wore that haze of fatigue that manifests more as slow than sleepy. Luckily, I spent the morning cooking--a butternut squash soup from a recipe given to be my dearest L.A. cooking buddy, and the whole house was perfumed with roasting garlic and simmering stock scented with sage. Lovely.

This batch of soup used up the last of a bundle of dried sage I carefully gathered from our house-before-last, our first home in Hollywood, perched high on a ridge with a jetliner view of downtown Los Angeles. The house was medium sized, a 1960s long and low box, nothing fancy, but its rear was walls of glass that made people gasp when they entered the front door, not so much, I like to think, from sudden feelings of vertigo but from appreciation of the beautiful, sparkling city laid out below, cleansed by darkness and distance of its grime, and the hideous traffic turned into magic, moving decoration.

The hill below the house was steep, and just scrubby when we moved in, covered in weeds and thoughtlessly-planted eucalyptus: though the trees are pretty, they are a dreadful fire hazard, and discouraged--highly--in the fire-prone hills of L.A. We always thought that someday, we might turn that lot, large by Angeleno standards, into something usable. Finally we saved some money and before bothering to remodel the kitchen or baths (all of which could have used some, um, freshening,) we leapt into reforming the earth outside.

We found a brilliant landscape architect who alternately infuriated and infatuated me, and who I quickly learned was more of a sculptor whose medium was things growing than a designer of walls or gardens. We pretty much put ourselves entirely in his hands, and within months, the hillside had been not tamed, but definitely calmed: it had a path, and a secluded deck with a magical view, and great swaths of native (read: low water need) plants, including a host of wild sages that we picked out together one day at an esoteric nursery.

Rob was the last person we told that we were selling that house, partly in fear that if he knew we were abandoning his work, he wouldn't want to finish some outstanding small tasks, but also because on some level, it broke my heart to leave that wild garden. It smelled divine, and to see that arid, ugly hillside accept and nurture a green and silver and red living carpet was moving in a way I never expected. Before we left, I wandered among the sages and clipped an enormous bunch of leaves, which I tied together with a silk ribbon and dried in my new kitchen. Whenever I needed sage for a recipe, I'd pinch it from the bundle and fly into nostalgia. Eating the last of it today felt a bit like savoring the last taste of my California life; and even though that life is still so present for me in my friendships and my memories, I know that like my fragrant, sage-y hillside, memory is where it now resides.

Waiting

Snow is predicted for tonight; six to twelve inches. I was relieved when I heard this; part of me feared we'd have to live through the rest of the winter with just the cold, without the beautiful white blanket that makes it worthwhile.

Not much else to report. Tonight we are in bed with our laptops, which is worse than the couch. Such is the exhaustion of life with two small kids, one of them down with strep, feverish and peevish, nearly ten years into this adventure we call marriage.

G'night.

Sitting....

on my couch. Laptop in hand, the H next to me, with his laptop similarly esconced. This is the fate of the middle aged when they don't have cable. Truly, truly pathetic. We're so boring that our au pair would rather watch "Titanic" on TV (she has cable, in her room only) than hang out with us.

I am glad to be home. Leslie's mom had surgery today and seems to have weathered it well. Her recovery will be long and hard, but Leslie sounded ecstatic to have it behind them. It's a cliche, but old age is not for the faint of heart. Odessa, Leslie's mom, is one tough lady, and she will need every bit of her iron will to get through the next few months. I was really glad to be there for them both, and loved being in the city (I haven't been since we went for the "Mighty Heart" premiere in May, which was fun, sort of, and stressful, lots of--this trip was intense, but also wonderful, and didn't involve midtown, which is always a plus.) I rode the bus and the subway, saw my darling friend, and went to Zabar's on the way home. Perfect.

Sitting in a railway station

Actually, already aboard Metro-North, en route to NYC. I realized last night as I was explaining my hasty departure to the kids how lucky I am to almost never spend the night away from them. True, I do complain bitterly sometimes about exactly that--but what a luxury,really, for us all. I am headed to Manhattan to be with my dear, dear friend, whose mother is very sick. Send good thoughts their way, please; in this situation, all anyone wants is to be home.

Ponder this

Courtesy of Garrison Keillor, and the divine Writer's Almanac, consider this:

Philip Levine said, "In a curious way, I'm not much interested in language. In my ideal poem, no words are noticed. You look through them into a vision of... just see the people, the place."

Me and my blobby

I've got lots of ideas churning through this big head of mine (literally, big--lots of "one size fits all" hats will not fit on my noggin, and it's not just the big curly hair--and when the H makes fun of it, I retort that it's due to my oversize brain. Ha.) but they're not all going to make it into the 'sphere tonight. A couple of friends and readers directed me to the Gloria Steinem New York Times editorial about Hillary Clinton, and I have some reactions, but not the bandwidth (mental, that is--so much for that big brain theory) to process them tonight. Politics will have to wait until tomorrow. I am planning a dinner shindig (a fundraiser for a local arts group) and the menu mulling has made me reconsider my abandonment of my food blog, so I may try to resurrect that (althought not before I turn in my long overdue book review, ahem. It's almost presentable. I swear) but again, not tonight. Tonight, the only thing I can write about is that dread 1950s concept--the hobby.

The H was all at sixes and sevens today (just to keep the geriatric idiom flowing.) He was tense, bored and a wee bit cranky (and I was anxious about another bad morning drop off scene with the Babe, so my mood was keeping his company.) We went out to lunch together and talked through some of what ails him, and a lot of it, frankly, is being on strike. He was missing L.A., feeling like his career is perhaps, in some impossible to define way, being hampered by our move. I countered that right now, if anything, it would be worse to be in Hollywood, where it's all strike talk, all the time, than to be here, where we can take a walk, look out the window, or run to the post office and see nothing, no reminder, of the Industry and its toll. But, I told him (and I've said this before), he needs to have other interests. To limit his life to his family and his work (which is what he does) is limiting his possibilities for fulfillment and contentment. In short--the guy needs a hobby. He doesn't exercise, doesn't create outside of his job, doesn't cook, garden or fish--you get the idea. He works. He parents. He husbands. C'est tout.

"You don't have any hobbies..." he said to me, munching a cheese steak. Long, long pause.
"Well, I guess you knit."

Ahem. And I cook, and I meditate, and I practice yoga, and I (less frequently lately than I'd like) work out, and I care for my beautiful egg laying chickens, and I am a once and future silversmith...and I blog. I realized, as we talked about it, that this little blog o'mine has become, dare I say it, a hobby. An avocation. And I'm not sure how I feel about that, especially given some input I've had recently, in an email from a dear friend and simultaneously in this post, from a (former?) blogger I've loved reading, about the need to see ourselves not by ourselves, all on our own, self-defined, but instead the images reflected back from others.

And on that possibly profound note--I am off to watch Sopranos (Season 2--we decided to rewatch the whole shebang on DVD) with the H. TV before bed might be considered--his hobby...more on mine --and this--later.

Let's get political

Back in the days BW (Before He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named--let's face it, he and Voldemort have a lot in common) I used to post political musings. A lot. I got dispirited after the Kerry loss. And it's taken me a long time to decide who to support in the upcoming election. I like the idea of a woman president (what woman doesn't? Ok, don't reply. I know. A lot don't, but that's sad) but the woman running doesn't have a platform that meshes with my views, though I think she's a brilliant person and a consummate pol. From a pure policy standpoint, Edwards is more in line with my beliefs, but I don't think he'll go the distance. I'm not sure Obama can either, but I'm sure going to love the attempt. To finally be inspired by a politician is an experience that is so shocking that I am still processing my reaction to his post-Iowa victory speech.

I found this post on today's HuffPo enlightening. Not only is it an education in desperation politics, it also quickly clarifies some of Obama's positions, if you're not familiar with them.

Meltdown

After last week's violent cold, the world --our corner of it, to be specific--is growing warmer. We've been hearing the steady drip of melting snow and ice since yesterday afternoon, and when I pulled into the garage after the morning school run the sound of our neighbor's rushing creek was so loud that it stopped me, as I wondered if that much water could be running hundreds of yards away and make as much noise as I was hearing. Yes, is the answer. We are months away from mud season, but about, it seems to enjoy a preview. It's confusing to us as newcomers, so I can only imagine how the poor plants feel.

Today begins the Babe's first full week of preschool. She didn't want to go this morning; that was about the third thing out of her mouth after she climbed into our bed at 6 a.m., after, "Mommy! Daddy! I AWAKE!" and "Where my other be-be? Oh, here it is." and the ensuing contented slurpy sucking. (A "be-be", for those not initiated into Orloffese, is a pacifier, and the Babe, like her brother before her, is an addict.) Mondays are always hard, so I kept gently pushing everything forward this morning and we made it out the door and to school on time, with time to spare for the sorting and stowing of all the stuff.

But her tears started as soon as she saw that I meant business; her entreaties to come home with me and "have more mommy" were falling on ears that, while definitely not deaf, weren't exactly receptive. Or at least, that's what I pretended. The Babe is such a rock most of the time that for her to break down like this was really, really hard to see; as I told the H later, during a morning walk down by our creek and barns and checking in with the chicks, I expect protest and tears from Dido; he's sensitive, and dramatic, and prone to highs and lows. The Babe, on the other hand, lets you know when you've displeased her, but she's tough. Much tougher than me, for sure. So to see her really crumpling this morning was brutal. Her teacher gently guided her away from me and into the classroom before I had a chance to cave. I saw them hugging through the window as I walked back to the car.

Good company?

I followed a lead from the Happiness Project to this site, and poking around, discovered this.

I always thought I was alone in feeling burdened by the tiniest things--mundane but necessary tasks, like, say, washing your face, or flossing your teeth: the sheer regularity of having to do something every single day seemed unbearable--not painful, but like a burden you cannot lift not because it's too heavy but because you simply cannot stand to raise your arms out of sheer boredom. When medicated, I generally feel less overwhelmed, but even with better living through chemistry, I sometimes feel unbearably put upon by flossing.

Few things I've discovered I have in common with others have surprised me more. I really thought I was the only person who is this nutty, but it's comforting to now know of at least one other.

At the hearth

One of the great weekend joys around here is a morning fire in the kitchen. Our kitchen is enormous, one end a big seating area with couches and a stone fireplace. While it's perhaps not the old-fashioned kitchen fireplace of my fantasies--some dear friends here have that in their much older house--the kitchen itself is right up there with anything I could dream up. The H became an accomplished firebuilder in our old house, which had a six foot wide hearth. Now that we have solved the dire problem of the crappy firewood, which, of course, I bought, and we have the much more expensive good firewood, we have fires a lot, but only on weekend mornings. Weekdays are just too pressured, since we have to be out the door by 7:30 in order to make it to school on time.

I slept in this morning--or, more accurately, stayed in bed with my eyes closed trying not to hear the erupting chaos of a typical morning--and the H got up with the kids. This is not the normal order of things, evidenced by our delayed exit for school on Thursday, when I snapped at both kids repeatedly, even though we were late not because they were uncooperative but because I allowed them to stay up too late the night before and because I failed to pre-pack the seven hundred things needed for a winter school day (1. snow pants. 2. hats. 3. mittens. 4. jackets. 5. lunches in lunch boxes. 6. snacks in snack boxes. 7. change of clothes for the Babe. 8. Napping blankie for the Babe. 9. Napping love object (HaHa, the horse--her choice) for the Babe 10. Dido's work folder. 11. Dido's learning log 12. Bag of cleaned eggshells for use in some Montessori lesson...ok, that's not seven hundred, but you get the idea. It seems less intimidating all typed out like that than it did at 7:15 Thursday morning.) Anyway, once we finally got on the road, Dido, trying to be supportive, I think, and jolly me into a good mood, said "How come Daddy always stays asleep in bed? How come you have to get up and do everything in the morning?" Good question. I had to laugh. And on weekends, I do occasionally get to be the one who pulls the pillow over her head and practices active denial of her responsibilities and the escalating decibel level.

I finally got up when I heard the H's voice rising in tension, and came down to playing kids, roaring fire and husband ensconced with coffee and internet. After playing short order cook (four poached eggs, two pieces of toast, one chicken quesadilla) I sat down to drink my own coffee and read email. Two friends have let me know of late that they have started blogs of their own. Another blog reader wrote to tell me of the travails she's facing with her own husband. A fourth thanked me for our lunch yesterday, which inspired me and filled me with gratitude (the lunch together, not the email of thanks, though that was nice, too.) Another let me know that she'd love for me to drop off some fresh eggs, long promised, this weekend. The fire was not the only warmth I felt early this morning.

School Days

Today marks the end of the Babe's first "week" (only yesterday and today) of honest to goodness preschool attendance. (I'm not counting the two practice days before Christmas, for no good reason other than that I think of them as practice days--in fact, there was no practical difference between those days and these, but this kind of arbitrary and irrational distinction is a mother's prerogative.)

I have been worrying about how I will use the seemingly endless daytime hours without a Babe to care for, while also knowing that each day will disappear so quickly that I'll barely see the minutes evaporating in front of me. Yesterday, after a relatively trauma-free drop off, I went out for coffee with a fellow school parent and friend, then sat in the coffee shop working, ran some errands, worked some more and picked up the kids. The day, indeed flew by, and I was exhausted when I got them home around 4.

Today, I took the children to school (where the Babe had to be pried, crying, from my arms and carried into her classroom,) the H to the train station for a quick trip to the City for work (interviews for his Independent Spirit Award nomination.) then ran more errands (where do all these errands come from, anyway?) and lunched with a friend before racing back to Lenox to pick up the kids again.

Now I've left Vous in charge of the kids, who are rebelling against my absence and intermittently intruding to whine, cry, cajole and stomp about my meanness, lack of love for them, and general failure to keep my work from intruding into their need for me. All this to say--the work and the errands and the Things That Must Get Done will, I fear, always expand like Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade balloons to fill every available cubic millimeter of space, and I have only my own self to carve out of these every-inflating responsibilities the room to move, create or be still.

Down to Zero

I woke in the still dark this morning (after hitting snooze once or twice) and pulled myself out of bed to let Pasha (the puppy) out for her morning ablutions. Cold air slapped me in the face before I could get the front door closed. When I checked the thermometer outside the mudroom window, I knew. Winter is now really, really here. That gauge read 0, and when I finally got the kids into the car to set off for school, I watched the car thermometer plummet--the low was -2.
This is the cold I remember loathing when I lived outside of SoCal before: the kind of bone chilling, skin freezing, inescapable assault; the stuff that makes you think you may never again be able to expose skin to air without feeling in danger of being immobilized.

Both kids asked if we could have a fire when they come home from school. No doubt.

No leaving out the handsome six year old

But he says his face is too cold (from sledding) to smile.

Blogging with a two and a half year old

Looks something like this.











Or this.

hjdsiojrwp9`0981-]ynsdl/vn

She likes to type with her feet, but only when I'm trying to blog, send an email, pay bills or shop online. Only those times.

"Vacation" ends tomorrow. Not a nanosecond too soon.

Perfect Days

I wanted to photograph everything I saw yesterday on my drive to and from Hudson, to take Shi (probably to be renamed Vous, or maybe Tu, at my dear Rebecca's suggestion) to the train for her Times Square hellride New Year's eve celebration. I decided to focus on driving instead, but I did manage to capture an image or two to share. That's the road that leads from us, more or less, to the nearest major "highway", which is a four lane, no commercial traffic allowed, FDR-developed, billboard-free beauty. The au pair keeps asking about the highways we use to get from one place to another, and I keep trying to explain that the Taconic Parkway and the Mass Pike are it. I guess it's confusing for someone whose frame of reference for American roads is more suburban than rural. (Hell, it was confusing for me after sixteen years of ten lane California freeways.)

But I digress. Yesterday was, other than the drive to Hudson, a low key, at-home kind of day. I am not much for the pressure and inevitable disappointment and self-loathing surrounding New Year's resolutions, but I did start thinking about happiness (also thanks to my old friend Gretchen's Happiness Project, which I encourage everyone to check out, in spite of her New Year's resolution advocacy) and what creates it for me, in the context of how to have a day, a single day, that feels successful and satisfying. This led me to the idea of a perfect day, and the immediate realization that it is, of course, unattainable. But an asymptotic approach is, I think, entirely realistic.

1. Physical activity, preferably strenuous. It could be a great vinyasa yoga class, or it could be snow shoveling and hill climbing (yesterday's activities of choice and necessity.) I am infinitely calmer, stronger and happier on days where I really exert myself.

2. A sense of accomplishment at some activity. Could be mundane--yesterday I ironed and starched a bunch of white dinner napkins. I've never bothered to do that before (my new focus on mechanics of successful ironing, evidenced by my recent google search for "ironing hacks," is probably really sad, but I have an excuse--the laundry/dry cleaning around here is so far sucky and expensive--not that I ever sent my napkins out anyway. But I got tired of them being rumpled and grungy, and, and and...) Or the accomplishment could be larger in scale, like the day before, when I rewrote (again) my book review for a local magazine.

3. Learning or appreciating something new. Since we can't get the New York Times delivered here (my single least favorite aspect of where we now live--really) this often comes via Garrison Keillor (who I always thought I loathed--it's often good to be wrong) and his Writer's Almanac, to which I am completely addicted.

4. Peace at home and with myself. Feeling like I am in control of my life and treating myself and others with kindess and respect. For something so simple on its surface, this one's complex. No need to explain further, I suspect.

5. Cooking something wonderful for other people. (Remember this is a perfect day--this doesn't happen every day, though it does happen a lot, because I am me.)

6. Some time alone, whether indulgent or simply quiet and solitary. I tend to think I need this so much because I am an only child, but maybe we all need it--maybe in order to achieve number four, above?

There are probably more things, but these are the ones that came to me first. What would your perfect day include?