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.

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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?

Redux redux

Be careful what you wish for. As I was living my glamorous life yesterday, picking up piles of dog poop from the yard, while the H sniffled and coughed inside, I was hoping for snow, both to hide the stuff I couldn't pry loose from the ice, and to return my yard to the pristine smoth-complexioned beauty that only a coating of fresh flakes can provide.

It started last night, just as predicted (I am still getting used to weather, its forecasting, and the accuracy of those forecasts--as an addendum to my earlier snide posting about weather prediction in L.A., let me just add that though there was little weather to predict, what prognostication was offered was more often than not completely wrong) as this morning, everything is blanketed. No wind means a lush white impasto along every tree branch.

It also means deeply covered roads, and that the new au pair's fantasy trip to Times Square to see the ball drop has been delayed a couple of hours. I cannot express how little I would ever have wanted to spend New Year's Eve in Times Square, but that's her heart's desire, and heaven knows I want to keep her happy. That sounds snarky, and I don't mean it to--I genuinely want her to be happy, and if that means occasionally inconvenient trips to the train station, so be it. Today's, sadly, is incredibly inconvenient, because she wants to take the (much cheaper) commuter train, and the station is forty minutes away from us. In the snow? Who knows. Double that, maybe? It's going to be a long morning, though I got up at 6:15 to tell her that the 8 a.m. train was out of the question and she'd have to wait until 10. She looked a little shell-shocked, and I am hoping she understood that this is about safety as much as convenience. She's a lovely young woman, and she eats vegetables, which is more important than I could ever have imagined.

The lovely Swiss, who visited us this weekend to all of our delight, has the eating habits of an eight year old child from Suburban, U.S.A.--white food, meat, cheese. I shouldn't slander suburban children, because my son eats that way, too, and my daughter, despite her occasional affection for carrots, emulates her big brother and isn't much better. But to live with a European who only wanted fish sticks and pasta was rough. The Japanese, let's call her Shi, has a nearly exhausting enthusiasm for trying new foods, and the greener the better. I am, ridiculously, in the habit (only recently identified and admitted to) of cooking to please my au pair's palate, but this time around, the palate is a whole lot more sophisticated.

Good morning

From the rainy northeast. Vermont's gorgeous snowfall did not extend south to our little town, and last night, we got more rain (on top of a deluge last week), which means that our sledding hill is now just a slipping hill, and the whole world is patchy and indecisive.

Yesterday, my friend and I took a walk through her woods--they own acres and acres of forest along a ridge in southwestern VT--first visiting an old family gravesite (not her family's--the family who presumably farmed their land in the 19th century. Five graves, only two marked with names, the rest just with initials. One is a child, not even three years old. I wondered, looking at them, if those families thought that their ancestors would always be working this piece of the world, so no names were necessary? Or could they only afford to pay for three letters on the tiny stones?

After the gravesite, we followed fresh deer tracks as we wandered across a new bridge, along the top of the hillside and then down through great tracts of tall evergreens. Deer had been everywhere, big ones, along with fox and coyote. We heard from a neighbor here this week that he photographed bear tracks in his snow, so I've been seeking bear everywhere. So far, they remain in the realm of the imaginary, but I'll keep you posted.

Wonderland Redux

We survived Christmas--barely, truth be told: survival required Valium, hours of tears and more movie time for my children than I care to admit--and have come out onto a better, other side. We are still we, which is saying something these days, and we're both trying really, really hard. I tend to blame the H (either flippantly or deeply, depending upon the circumstances) when things are rough between us, but to be fair, I also have things I need to deal with, and I am working. Enough about that, except to say, again, thank you to all my friends who've been so diligent about sending thoughts my way.

We are back in Vermont, though we go home today, roads permitting, visiting our dear, dear friends, the neatest people in the world, and basking in their warmth and kindness and really good wine. It doesn't get much better than that, except when the children go off and play Playmobil for hours without fighting or beating on each other. Or when the husbands can sit in front of the fire playing go, also for hours, and my friend and I can cook osso buco and laugh about how funny it is that twenty years into knowing one another, we've become cooking buddies. It seemed unlikely, perhaps, back in college.

It's beautiful and profoundly quiet here, and we'll be looking forward to our next visit. Meantime, some things to share, photographically speaking: the first full dozen of my eggs, gathered on Christmas day; some of those eggs broken into a bowl--the yolks, yellower than the photograph allows, are so rich, and getting bigger, it seems, as the hens mature; some of our Christmas decorations (for you, Monika!); and an image of the beautiful bare trees here in W. Rupert.

Death in Henice

Do you ever wake in a dark funk, irritated by everything and everyone, no matter how benign? Do you ever, then, manage to talk yourself out of it, aided by strong coffee, a bite (or three) of a child's Nutella-smeared crepe and an lovely interlude of knitting by a crackling morning fire while children amuse themselves without whining about their need for television and computer games? I did all this this morning, and then, to top it off, I decide to convey myself down to the barn to do my chicken chores on our new, two person, inflatable sled.

If you have looked at any of the picture of where we live, you know that our house is perched atop a hill so high and gently rolling that I could probably use it as a skiing bunny slope. It's a great sledding run, and we've been enjoying it since this week's alternating melting and snowfall rendered the hill solid and slick enough (beneath a nice powder topping) to let us slide instead of sink. I sat atop the sled, holding a snow shovel, a grocery bag full of kitchen scraps for the chickens and an empty egg carton to collect my prizes. The trip down was exhilarating and erratic; I used my one empty hand to brake but still managed to hurtle downhill (part of the time backwards), fly over the lip of the barn drive and slide a bit more down the road before stopping about a hundred yards from the barn itself. I was laughing when I landed, in spite of a bruised and frozen left hand (brake.)

I left the sled in the road and took my provisions to the outside chicken pen to dig out the area in front of the gate so that the birds can continue to range in the snow. I noticed the other day that they seemed agitated: the Rhode Island Red rooster, Poo Poo Jolly (guess who named him?) pecked maliciously at one of the guinea hens and the Leghorn rooster, Spot, flew at my legs, talons out, when I came to refresh their food and water. I attributed the tension to their being, sorry for the pun, cooped up due to the snow piled up outside. I thought that if I could open the gate during the day, as I was doing before the snow came, they might settle down.

It took only a few minutes to clear enough snow to get the gate open, and I scattered the scraps--celery root peelings, stale bread and bagels, leftover arugula salad (with grapes and blue cheese, no less)--under the canopy that shields part of their outdoor pen from the weather. Then, back inside the barn, after first shoveling the entry by the big sliding door; this was my first trip down with a shovel since the snow fell, though we've had the road plowed, mostly out of fear of not being able to reach the chickens once the snow gets much higher.

When I slid open the door to the horse stall that serves as our chicken coop (the previous owner converted it, completely enclosing the roof and walls in chicken wire, opening it up to an outdoor enclosure that in turns opens into the electric-fenced outdoor pen--it's quite an elaborate set-up, and one I credit with the relative success we've had in keeping our birds safe from predators) I noticed one of the hens sitting still in front of one of the guineas. The guinea's position was odd--her feathers fluffed, but neither head nor feet visible. Sleeping? The other hen moved and I realized. The smallest guinea, the one the kids named Rudolph (as in Red Nosed Reindeer) lay dead, her head at an odd angle, its blue color dissipated, her feet stretched out beyond her body towards the back of the stall.

I don't know what happened. This bird was somewhat crippled; one of her feet had gotten tangled in some string, and though she seemed to get most of it off, I could never catch her to see if she was healing. Was she the one that Jolly was pecking? Were the roosters, certain to become aggressive, everyone tells me, responsible for her death? I don't know. I took the pitchfork my L.A. girlfriends gave me as a going away gag gift, and gently lifted her body. She was heavier than I expected, and it took some careful maneuvering to slide her into an empty feed bag so I could carry her to the end of her ignominious end, in our trash can. I took the egg carton into the coop, and gathered eight eggs. I refilled the waterers, and the outside feeder, and then carried Rudolph, the shovel, the eggs, and the sled back up to the house. I thought about the darkness of the morning, the euphoria of my slide down the snowy hill, and the death (and life) that greeted me in the barn. Inside, I scrubbed my hands, and then carefully washed and put away the new eggs.

Insight

Two great posts, from Heather of Dooce, and her husband, Jon, about the realities of depression and the miracles of meds. I related to them both; worth reading if you deal with depression in your own life or see it in someone you know...

Monika, this one's for you...

One more thing before I try to sleep--Monika, how do you feel about brussels sprouts? I have a no-fail recipe that even haters love. If not that, a divine broccoli puree, perhaps? Give me more about what you like and I'll make more suggestions, but those two are the first that come to mind--they're my holiday standbys.

Feast your eyes...

I should be sleeping. Thanks to everyone who's checked on me these last few days; I'm hanging in there. The storm isn't over but we're in the eye of it and hoping for a change in the wind.

Searching for inspiration

I'm in that bad mode of blogging my head again, but mostly, I think, because time to contemplate (that is, quiet, alone, time) is in short supply at the moment. Our new au pair is wonderful but still acclimating, my mother is here, the Babe has started her "big girl" school (doesn't officially start until January but she's going this week to get acclimated--she's in heaven, which is reassuring), the H is in his customary holiday funk, and I am frantically trying to get Christmas organized for us and our extended family. I've done inspired things like somehow not having Amazon gift wrap my nephew's presents, and having them ship my mother in law's gifts here, instead of to her in Seattle. Sigh. I love and loathe Christmas simultaneously.

But it is winter wonderland here, and that is some sweet and serious solace. The H yesterday, driving in Lenox in the evening, said, with wonder in his voice, "Christmas decorations are so beautiful against the snow." (Or something like that.) My mom and I laughed--this is a guy who grew up thinking that the blue and white snowflakes hanging above Wilshire Blvd. in Beverly Hills were holiday decorations. He is through the looking glass here, and it is fun to see it through his newbie eyes.

Feast your eyes on the winter views of our barns, and the chickens, cooped up inside in the poultry penthouse and slightly peevish about the snow.

Snowfall

It's been snowing on and off all day today, which meant a slippery drive to the Albany airport to pick up my mother, who's visiting until Thursday to see the kids for an early Christmas celebration and to look at houses in the area, since she's planning to join us here sometime next year. I'm especially happy to see her, given the stress I've been under at home; she's been exceptionally kind, responsive and helpful to the issues the H and I have been having, without any judgement to make me more stressed than I already am. I'm truly grateful, and I love seeing her with Dido and the Babe; they are so connected to both their grandmothers, and I find it really moving to seem them engage so deeply.

Meanwhile, things at home are better, at least on the surface--maybe a blanket of new snow will do that. There's no resolution to speak of, but everyone is behaving nicely, and that's worth something. A lot. (Everyone, that is except the Babe--that's her, above, "reading" in bed next to me as I type this--mind you, it's ten p.m., long, long past her bedtime, but, according to her "I NOT TIRED!".)

I want to thank all the friends who reached out in person or via email or comment to check on me this week--it means a tremendous amount. Huge. It takes courage to admit you're suffering, but it also takes courage to reach out and acknowledge pain, so thank you.

I am going to go to sleep and see if the little not tired-one will snuggle up next to me and drift off, too. More to come.

Stormy Weather

It started snowing at 11 o'clock this morning, and didn't stop until after 8 tonight. There are about eight inches of sparkling powder on the ground; it is as magical as I remember.

Unfortunately, snow is not the only storm I'm facing. I don't mean to be cryptic, but things are a little rough around my edges right now, and I could use some good thoughts, so please send them my way. I need the support of my friends, real and virtual, right now.

I need something to read

My house is full to bursting with books, some, ok, many, of which I have never read, either because they're hardcore history tomes belonging to the H aka the amateur historian (history--never my best subject--dissect at will, Freudians among you) or because I fell in love with them in the bookstore but then they let me down on the second date.

For a while after we moved here, I couldn't read at all. No focus, no concentration. Then, slowly, I started again, basically by reading a really wonderful book written by a new friend. I only started because I like and admire her, but then I loved the book, too--bonus--and kept on going. Not so much later, I was lucky enough to encounter another talented writer turning into a new friend, so I read her book, too, and laughed and wept and didn't want it to end and was proud to know someone so wry and wise. Ok, there've been a couple of others in between. But nothing (besides those two) that has really captivated me, made me tell everyone I know and love about it, and so on.

I don't think the problem is all me--truth be told, now that I am once again taking SSRIs, I can focus again: I can read entire articles and short stories in the New Yorker, which probably sounds like a ridiculous, vaguely meaningless thing to brag about, but trust me, it's an accomplishment.

Back in L.A., I had a dysfunctional but still wonderful book club which at least made me focus on a particular volume every few months. They were all really smart, if not all really good, and if they weren't good, I had fellow travelers to whom I could bitch. No book club here. Does anyone out there in the 'sphere have any interest in a virtual one? I should put it right out there that I am a huge snob when it comes to literature (if that New Yorker reference didn't already start to make this fish smell from the head, now it's positively putrid, right?) I don't like most popular literature. I don't read chick lit. I like biography, incisive and profound non fiction, and extremely well written fiction. I laughed at the H earlier this year because he was forced to read a novel for work (a possible adaptation job) and he adored it--I think it was the first novel I've known him to read in about ten years. He couldn't believe how profound and beautiful it was, and I rather gently, I thought, tried to explain that there's a universe of that kind of writing out there.

Can any of you help me find more of it?

The Ice Storm

I don't remember ice storms occurring with such resolute frequency during my previous tours of duty in the northeast. We had one last Monday (it struck before we arrived back from L.A., leaving every tree we passed completely encased in ice for most of the morning) and another one last night, and a nervous person (say, like my husband) might argue that the first snowy day we experienced also started out as an ice storm--even I would have to agree that it was sleeting that day, at least at the outset.

There was ice half an inch thick on our driveway yesterday morning, and as a result--we stayed home. The little girl across the street came for an afternoon playdate, which broke up the kid tedium and kept the television off most of the day, which felt like a great personal victory.

We (well, the intrepid H--I slept in, because I went to the airport at 11:30 last night to fetch the new au pair, the lovely Japanese, who will get another nom de blog as soon as my clever switch kicks over) got the kids to their respective engagements this morning and now as I type this, there's a steady rainy drip of melting icicles falling on our copper roof. The clouds are blowing through the sky pretty fast,and though there's sun above them, rain is predicted for today. One thing I like about living in weather is that the predictions are often wrong. In L.A., there was no point in paying any attention to forecasts, because they didnt' much matter anyway.

Darling Monika (a lovely and loyal reader) has asked about Christmas plans and menu....our tree is up, as are gorgeous wreaths, all procured from a local tree farm. The H and Dido actually sawed our fraser fir down themselves, and we dragged it through the snow to tie it atop our car and bring it home. It was coated in ice and so we left it in the garage for two days to drip dry before bringing it inside to, as the Babe said, "decoration it." We built a gingerbread house (from a kit--god bless my favorite, Trader Joe's) and decorationed that, too. Now all that's left is wrapping and hanging stockings by the chimney with care--and planning a four person festivity when we're used to entertaining a dozen every Christmas morning. I need to start a new tradition, and I feel a little stumped, though I'm sure something will come.

Welcome, visitor from New Delhi!

Welcome, and you win the prize for this week's best Google search culminating in a visit to my blog: "stories: seeing navel of friends wife."

Now I just have to figure out what prize might be...appropriate.

More stories later from the frozen northeast. I am looking up at the sky from our guestroom window, and there are icicles along the copper gutter and snow all over the slate roof. The woods are very nearly a black and white photograph, and I can see all the way to the top of the rise, sunlight shimmering up over it. Ah.

Say Good Bye to Hollywood, or, Home Again

We're baaaaack. It's snowing. And I'm glad.

Our visit to L.A. was unremittingly fantastic. I have small complaints--I didn't get nearly enough time with my friends at our annual ice skating holiday party (if you read, live in L.A., and didn't' get invited, I am sorry, and let me know, and you will next year. It's a rocking tradition and one I am inordinately proud of, especially since it's the lowest effort party EVER.) I didn't get any time at all with one of my dearest friends in the world, because she and her partner and kids couldn't make it to the party, and we were swamped at every other moment with family and party prep and arranging times for Dido and the Babe to see THEIR much-missed Angeleno pals. I missed eating at one favorite restaurant, M Cafe de Chaya, which totally rocks, and whose salads (curried cauliflower, chick pea and kale with sesame dressing) I would happily die eating. (Cookbook, already, PLEASE...) Otherwise, we got it all in. The sushi I've already written about, take out divey Mexican with my mom and our dear friends and hosts, Yang Chow (yummy Chinatown staple), and soon-to-be-history Sam's Bagels all stuffed us to the gills all weekend. Oh, and don't forget Bob's Donuts--we had their donut holes at the party and I forgot to eat one and then they were ALL GONE. But my kids ate about seventeen of them, so I cannot complain. Dido proved himself an ice skating superstar, taking off on the ice with no parental accompaniment whatsoever--this freaked us out at first, but when he started doing 360 degree spins without panicking or falling, we were just proud. And as icing on the cake, both flights were smooth as could be and even the snowy drive home was uneventful and, need I say, beautiful.

Tonight, the snow is falling: those big, powdery, sparkling flakes that shimmer on the porch and look slightly unreal, they're that beautiful. Dido's school was canceled today, and I have a feeling that if the snow keeps up, it may be tomorrow as well. It is cold here, but magical, and our time out west reminded me of everything I love there. The city looked less crowded and less dirty than I remember it, which I take to mean that I love being there, not living there, and I have made the right choice. To all, a good night.