A little blue perfection

Our chickens made these today. I found them on the coop floor--the nesting boxes I so carefully mounted a few weeks ago remain unexplored, the wood shavings I filled them with lofty, pristine and untamped.

The kids were waiting for me in the car this morning, while I ran to open the birds' pen so they can range, and then into the barn to check their water. When I came back cradling these treasures, they were awestruck. So am I. For one thing, I can now be sure we won't starve during the seemingly-unavoidable Writers' Guild strike, that could begin as early as next week. Now if I can only talk the H into the sheep.

Monday, Monday

Oh right. It's Friday. Just feels like Monday, or, more accurately in my personal lexicon, like Tuesday, which, when I was working like a dog in a paying job, I referred to as the "Day of No Hope." Or maybe, today is actually Wednesday, because yesterday definitely felt pretty bleak.

In the last four days, the Lovely Swiss has decided that au pair-ing is not for her, and she's going to leave as soon as we find someone else (or the beginning of December, whichever comes first.) I am frustrated, and trying hard not to be angry, and a little bit--ok, a lot--at the end of my personal rope. The last six months, in truth, the last year, have been incredibly intense, from the decision to move, to getting our old house ready to sell, to juggling two houses, to moving, to fixing up this house to the H's exacting specifications, to dealing with the H being an invalid for a couple of months before and after his back surgery, then having him working seven days a week for pretty much the entire time we have lived here, meaning he was unable (or unwilling, you decide) to pretty much ever give me a break from the kids. Did I mention that the Babe is two with a bullet and completely willful, really f-ing smart, and prone to hysterical, cannot-be-assuaged temper tantrums and occasional sleep boycotts? All this--stress? stuff? pressure?-- led to a whole bunch of conflict between the two of us, between us and other family members and, to be fair to my husband, resulted in him admitting that he doesn't do his share of family stuff and that he needs to do better. I know he wants to, and I hope he will. (Let me just say that I know my problems are not divorce, or cancer, or poverty, or despair. They are, however, my problems, and I feel them, and they f*** up my life. So bear with me, and please don't tell me how lucky I am. I have enough guilt about my good fortune to choke a barn full of horses.)

So with B electing to leave (not, she says, because we're so awful, but just because she doesn't really want to do this, which makes it worse, somehow) I hit the wall. I pinned too many hopes on her helping me get caught up (remember the chaos post of a few weeks ago) and now I'm getting the payback for anticipating that one change would change everything. But today looks somehow brighter. I have found a couple of new au pairs to interview, B is still here (and at the moment wrangling a screaming Babe) and Dido, super big boy that he is, read his first book (Green Eggs and Ham) last night. This week, he also lost his first tooth. Change is afoot, and I just have to get on board.

Life and Time

It has started raining here again, after a long period without. We had our first storm in a while about a week or so ago, and it's raining again tonight, not hard, not too windy, but a steady sound made more pronounced by our house's copper roof. After many weeks of feeling fragile and blue, I feel better. We have pits and peaks and plain bad days, but we're all hanging in there, treating each other (mostly) with care and kindness, and as a very important and very dear friend said, describing what another wise soul told her was truly necessary in life, mostly we are moving forward together.

Meanwhile, I have friends who are lurching forward on rough waters without sound charts.

If you read me, you may read my darling Mieke, too. Mieke is the entire reason I blog. So for those of you who have (a lot of you, lately!) sent me such incredibly nice feedback about my writing, and your enjoyment of this little window into my little life, you are already connected to Miek. It's her fault that I do this, though I did almost stop when, Mieke, on her third glass of wine at our (misbegotten?) John Kerry fundraiser in 2004, outed me and my blog to about a hundred people (including Arianna Huffington, our guest of honor.) I wanted to kill her (Mieke, not Arianna.) Nobody knew I was blogging then, but luckily, most of my friends had also had too much wine, and promptly forgot. A couple, mostly people I didn't know very well, cornered me and asked for the address, and I wanted to drop silently into the ground under the cocktail tables. Since then, I've apparently become much more of a verbal exhibitionist, and I out myself, constantly. I think Mieke gets the credit for that, too. She is one of the freest, warmest and most utterly open human beings you could ever have the pleasure, or the awe, to know. She is a force of nature, and right now, she's having a tough time, and not much will make it easier, except more time. So take a minute, and send a kind thought her way. She deserves it, and right now, she needs it.

I am, for those who don't know me, one of the least "new age"-y people I know, in spite of my penchant for yoga, meditation, and images of Buddha. (I'm not a Buddhist, I practice a vaguely Hindu form of meditation but without any basis in faith, and I pretty much reject all organized religion, though I do love the ritual and the music, and being in church at Christmas time. Call me what you will.) In any case, I don't so much know what the power is of those good thoughts sent spiraling off into the ether. But I do know she deserves them, and she needs to know that she is surrounded by hundreds of people who all feel some thread of attachment to her, some kinship with her and her struggle to survive and eventually transcend a very painful path.

Karma

A couple of mornings a week, I work out at a small gym across the street from Dido's school. Today, sweaty and rank (as I am after every workout--but that's a good thing, right?) I decided to pop across the street to a cool outlet store (in the same complex as the school) to get some new sheets for our guest room-to-be (B took the real guest room, but we have a spare room on the floor with our family bedrooms that is now going to be for guests. They now have to share a bathroom with our kids, but I'm not feeling sorry for us or them, because, let's face it, we're all living very comfortably. I digress....)

As I pulled out of the parking lot, I had to drive by the front of school. Today is Picture Day. In its honor, Dido pulled out all the stops this morning: collared shirt, beautiful green crew neck sweater (hey, folks, it's chilly here now!) and even let me comb and glue down with gel his (two) cowlicks. He couldn't have looked more handsome. So as I drove through the parking lot, I glanced to my right towards the school. Picture Day was in full swing, and who was perched on the stool in front of the gorgeous, still blooming zinnias, but my boy, grinning ear to ear, looking so big and happy and proud. He didn't notice me as I drove by; he was laughing about something with the photographer, totally engaged in his own joyful world.

Last night, I was beating myself up for not being as good as I'd like to be at all these tasks I've taken on--especially the parenting ones. Seeing him like that, unexpectedly, gave me so much joy, and made me think about what I want him to be and to have in his life. And here's what I came up with (and thanks to my old friend Gretchen over at The Happiness Project for helping me clarify these....since finding the site, I've been thinking a lot about what she calls the Commandments for being happy...)

1. Be yourself.
2. Be kind.
3. Keep learning.
4 (Hopefully as a result of the above) Be happy.

The trick for me is to not let my frustration, aggravation, insecurity and fear get in the way of my kids achieving the above. Today was a great reminder that the most important thing I need to do every minute I am with my kids is to allow myself to really, really feel and express all the love I have for them, which, as I tell them constantly, is bigger than the sky and the stars and all the planets.

Status report

The H is in L.A., holed up in a fancy hotel (thanks to his potential next job,) trying to finish the current job. He left on Monday morning, flies home tomorrow. B was away in NYC Sunday and Monday, taking the train back up here Tuesday night. While it hasn't exactly been the Fortress of Solitude here on the farm, it has been different.

I felt funky from Monday morning on--agitated, stressed, craving (and enjoying) chocolate, and any other sweet-y, starch-y comestible comfort I could lay my hands on. Yesterday was more of the same, culminating today in an agitated, spacey morning where I missed a yoga class and ran aimless, not entirely necessary errands just to fill time while the Babe and B went on a playdate with another au pair'd child. Driving through Pittsfield (which is not as bad as the name suggests--thanks, Cupcake, for allowing me to rip that snappy thought right off from your blog), I had the Homer Simpson-esque "DOH" moment. In a flash of insight, I knew what was wrong. I was lonely. Lonely is not something I have much allowed my self to feel. I am an only child; I crave solitude; I am good at entertaining myself. I like it when my husband is away: I treasure the rare moments I have alone in my house. These are closely guarded rules of how I think about myself. But there was no need and no desire to try to walk (or drive, or munch) away from this reality. It was simply there, solid, calmly filling every bit of me. And as soon as I recognized who, or what, was lurking in the corner of my head, the anxiety drifted off.

It was too early to call any friends in L.A. Sending emails wouldn't guarantee contact. I felt weird calling the few people I know well enough here yet to call about, well, feeling lonely. So instead, I sent a text to a friend (I text now; this is what happens when you live with a 24 year old.) A new friend. One who lives here. We're having coffee tomorrow. I feel much better.

Of nature and nurture

This blog has been shocking lately in its lack of indignation. I used to blog politics all the time, and then Kerry "lost", and so I lost nearly all will to read the s0-called news. The impulse to outrage seems to be coming back, though instead of focusing on the horrors of our so-called democracy, I prefer to focus on really stupid public figures. So many! So little time! Interestingly, Bill Maher, despite his propensity for bimbos, is someone I usuallly find intelligent, if a little smarmy, and belligerent about some of his beliefs. This time, though, he's been just plain dumb in his rail against, of all vulnerable and exhausted targets, breastfeeding moms. You can watch it, and read my brilliant friend Sarah's noble riposte, here.

That pink sky up above? It was reflecting into our pond this morning, making the surface of the cloudy water shiny and pink (just the way the Babe likes, well, everything these days.) All that's missing is the quiet sound of deer eating just inside the edge of the woods, and out of sight, and the concurrent sound of my roosters, crowing.

Seeing the branches, and the trees

Now that the Lovely Swiss is here (I cannot, cannot, despite some readers' evident desire, call her the Swiss Miss. That's just too--weird) friends and mere acquaintances keep asking me what I am going to do with all my free time. Hmmmm. I want to answer, "What freaking free time??" and run out of the room, but that would be antisocial and not too productive. I do have more time; right now, as I type this, I can hear the Babe and the Swiss playing downstairs, and better, all seems to be amiable, which has not been the case every day. Having a new babysitter around seems to have made the Babe realize just how swank it's been for the last six months, free of babysitter fetters, free to cling to my legs, arms and abdomen all day, pretty much every day, save a few hours here and there in the playroom at the gym, the two-day-a-week daycare we started over the summer and a morning here or there "helping" our housekeeper clean. The lack of constant mommy has been translated into emphatic, "I no like YOU"s, directed at poor B (the Swiss.) So to overhear tantrum-less engagement is reassuring.

The truth, the ugly truth, is that I need to catch up. Our files, our finances, our basement, all the things in a family life that most require organization--none of them have any. I have to set up systems anew, since the ones I moved from L.A. were on life support, at best, during the year after the Babe's birth. I meet moms of little kids who seem to have everything so pulled together; if only. That is just not me. So the question becomes, after I catch up (and I have my Freedom Filer system glaring at me from across the floor) then what? That is the real question. My goal (and I'm putting it onscreen to taunt me) is to get all of the chaos under control by the end of October. Then, maybe, just maybe, I'll figure out what it is I am supposed to be doing with my life. (On that subject, visit here for some inspiration.)

Meanwhile, the leaves that started to turn two weeks ago are now falling, dancing like red and gold snowflakes in the exhaust wake of pick up trucks going too fast down our country roads. There's an old, fragile looking maple outside my window that is nearly bare, but the oak next to it is still green, except at some of its outer branches. Do you remember, if you live somewhere without fall, what eddies of leaves look like when they swirl suddenly on the ground?

Tuesday Meld

I am all betwixt and between today. Our new au pair, the lovely Swiss, arrived on Thursday. She couldn't make a better first impression. The kids adore her, fight over her, won't leave her alone. Meanwhile, my terror that she will implode from bucolic boredeom is manifesting by giving me the most intense feelings I've yet had that this has all been a terrible, disastrous, ill-considered, cliff-jumping, um, mistake. "This" being the family rural relocation, of course.

Mind you, I don't really think we've done the wrong thing--it's great here. (Fall, anyone? It is truly divine.) We are finally making real friends. Dido loves his school so much we wonder what the heck was the matter with the old one. The Babe is, well, The Babe--demanding, opinionated, prone to screaming temper tantrums, preferably in restaurants, and so obscenely cute that we forgive her all of it. The H is happier than I think I have ever seen him--calm, less moody (really! LESS MOODY!), loving and focused on his work. And I--I feel like the same disorganized flake I was before. Aha. My old shrink warned me about this. She told me when I announced our plans that she thought I was just changing venue in the hope of escaping the bag of flabby demons I have slung over my shoulder at any given time. I feel like Anne LaMott trying to write her school report, before her dad gave her (and she internalized) the "bird by bird" advice.

Any advice out there for me?

Something to consider....

A dear friend, who's known me (ulp) more than a quarter of a century, wrote this after reading through this blog for the first time,

" Do you know what is interesting though - that occurred to me as I read them and thought of just seeing you - is how you seem more breezy, blunt, caring and also matter-of-fact in person - and then on these blogs - caring throughout but also much more contemplative, less assured, less edgy and more observer."

I have to think about this. This friend happens to be an extremely meticulous observer herself, so I have to really ponder this as truth, and figure out what it means....Anyone else who actually knows the real me, as opposed to the virtual one, I'd love to know what you think.

We interrupt the self-pitying navel gazing...

for a message from a neighbor.

Many, many afternoons after I pick up Dido from school, or, in the case of what we'll kindly call our summer "schedule", retrieve both kids from their two-day-per-week day camp, we stop on the way home at a place we call the General Store. It is not actually named General Store, and the lovely couple who run it are not actually named, as I tend to refer to them (mostly to clarify for the H, who can barely remember my name, let alone two names of two men he's only met once) General Store J----n and General Store H---. My children adore this place. It closes early most days, and we nearly race there (we would drive faster if I were not living in fear of speeding tickets in two states) to get there before closing time. Mostly, the kids like it because there, I let them choose snacks I typically ban: Doritos, crappy ice cream sandwiches, even an occasional soda. The store doesn't have a huge selection of healthy snacks (though they're adding some, as one of the guys proudly and sweetly pointed out to me the other week) and sometimes, I think a little junk food at the end of a long day is just fine. But I think the kids also like it because they feel a connection to it: it's near our home; the owners treat them with love and respect; they feel both empowered and safe there.

Yesterday, we got to the front door about 3 minutes after closing, but the guys were sitting up front apparently having a meeting and, as ever, graciously, sweetly accomodated us. Instead of sitting inside where the Babe could smear ice cream sandwich goo over every (just cleaned) surface, we moved to the front porch, where we were joined a few minutes later by an even-later, post-closing patron; he'd missed lunch and purchased some salads to down before heading off--wherever. His pickup was parked at a rakish angle to the front door--he too had raced in, hoping not to be disappointed.

He was probably in his fifties, and gracious about my kids racing back and forth on the porch as he tried to eat and relax. The kids were being pretty good, but arguing about sharing their treats, and highly resistant to my suggestion that they simply sit down. He watched me for a bit, as I attempted negotiation and occasionally sighed; he made a comment about his own daughters, now teenagers, and then said, very simply, "You know, don't you, how rich you are?"

Often, I forget. Thanks to the stranger from North Hillsdale for the reminder.

Part II

The sad truth is, like Her Bad Mother, I cannot write about the rest of the strangeness. Unlike Part I, the improbably story of finding unknown family here in the back woods, the rest of the strangeness was all bad, full of pain and hurt feelings and probably some much-needed personal growth, too, because they usually all travel together...but that doesn't mean it was good or kind or wished-for. I am, to use cryptic and uninteresting words, still processing it all.

Meanwhile, here at the ranch, uh, farm, I am having my first moments--now turned into days--of regret, indecision, and overt, teary sadness about our move. (Hey, I have some problems feelings my feelings, so maybe it just takes me a while? And maybe it's related to the emotional beat-down of last week? ) I'm not sorry, exactly, to have moved, but I have been feeling desperately lonely, completely inept, and downright woeful. Some of it, I think, is also about the turn in the weather: not just leaves are falling, but temperature, too, and it reminds me of short, dark, cold days to come. The breeze and the loamy smell of wet leaves that greet me on my morning walks this week are replacing the ethereal waft of ripening apples. I signed up for all this, of course, in moving here, but I fear it, too.

Strange Days, Indeed

First, something lovely. Every morning, almost, I walk Pasha the puppy and sometimes Tinker (our fourteen year old border collie mix old man dog) up our road for a while. We usually end up taking forty five minutes or so to walk a couple of miles, with plenty of time for sniffing (them) and waking up (me) on the way. Our road travels up hill (our house is already at 1100 or so feet, but the road rises more than that behind us,) past an enormous gentleman's farm owned by an amazing couple who have been so welcoming and kind to us that we sometimes pinch ourselves, past another old farmhouse with a beautiful Dutch-style barn, and finally starts downhill, changes abruptly from asphalt to dirt, and wanders through an enormous stretch of land still owned and farmed by a family that's been here for generations. Early in the morning, heir cows pasture far off the road, but you can hear them lowing, which always makes Pasha perk her ears.

One neighbor, on the paved section of School House Road (and indeed, the old school house is right across the street from us,) has a couple of old, feral apple trees in his yard; they seem to have been purposefully planted, like relics from an old orchard, but they stand alone near the driveway, with no other trees around. Another apple is improbably roadside, and I've been watching its fruit all summer. When I first noticed them, the apples were tiny, crab apple size, but they're now nearly big enough for eating and starting to color. Today, the dogs stopped right beneath the roadside tree, and I instantly knew why. As soon as I inhaled, my whole body filled with a lilting summer scent, so sweet and floral that it seemed impossible.

Continuing on, I found the first colored maple leaf fallen on the ground, and later today, when we were driving across Massachusetts for our very fun field trip to the Carle Museum of Picture Book Art, Dido said, "Mom! Look! The first leaves are turning color." Not many, not yet, but he was right.

***

That's the good part, not the strange part. The strange part started with lots of breakage: plates, glasses, a silver baby cup mangled in the disposal, culminating in a collapsing shower door shattered all over the H and Dido in the bathroom (they're fine.) I've written before about how things breaking always indicates or presages a period of some kind of instability, and this one was no exception.

My mother arrived in the middle of it for a nice, if somewhat too harried visit. (When am I not too harried? I'd like to know.) We were all so happy to see her, delighted to share our amazing new home with her, thrilled that she seemed to soak in the place and all the characteristics of it that make us think she'd love living here. We had our usual arguments (they are, ever and always, exactly the same--why IS that? We'd both like to know.) but it was a good visit nonetheless. Her first night here, we had a dinner party with some friends we adore and thought she would, too. One of them grew up in the same town as my mom and dad, and is around the same age, so I knew my mom would enjoy either reminiscing or dishing, depending upon how she related to L (our friend.)

Within moments of L's arrival, a bomb fell. Her aunt was my father's stepmother. We are, in some strange way, cousins. This is odd and coincidental, of course, but also thrilling. There is so much I don't know or don't remember about my dad (who died when I was seventeen, for those who don't know) and I have had dropped in my lap someone I really enjoy who knew him as a young man. I am still reeling from this news. L was very close to her first cousin, my dad's stepsister, who died when I was quite young. I don't even know how to write about this because it feels, as my mother said, like something you would scoff at in disbelief if it happened in a novel.

Stay tuned for Part II.

Stung

Sunday was a glorious day--beautiful weather, cool and clear, perfect for exploration and meandering, and, apparently, for a foul storm of moodiness for the H. The kids and I cleared out and left him to stew and work until he felt better, or at least, companionable.

We went to a local farm where the Babe got to feed a baby goat with a baby bottle, no less, and let's just say that I think we'll be going back. The place had a taco stand, and an ice cream shop, not to mention fresh produce for sale, so it was a monster hit for each of us.

Upon returning home, the H's clouds were still a little black, but we hung out outside together on the new swing set and made do. Pasha the Puppy (now nearly as big as our old dog, Tinker) was tethered on a long lead to prevent her from chasing the cat into the woods (their favorite joint activity.) The H decided she wouldn't run off (sometimes, it's true, she doesn't) and let her off lead. He went inside to get a glass of wine, while I watched her....chase the cat into the woods. I followed them a bit up the grassy bank that leads up the hill from our house to the edge of the (dense, as yet unexplored by us due to fear of deer ticks) forest. I stopped at the brush lining the larger trees, distracted by a wild blackberry bush--I picked one and it was unbelievably sweet. I wanted to share these with my family--started picking to find four perfect ones (not many were yet ripe) when I felt something prick my sandal-clad foot. I looked down to see my right foot aswarm with yellowjackets.

"Stung! Stung!" was the only thing I could say as I ran screaming down the bank, slipping and sliding and kicking off my sandal as I fell. I ran in the back door to the kitchen, clutched the counter and screamed some more. (As someone who's experienced the pain of unmedicated labor--at least for a little while--and a herniated disc, I can say with authority, this was worse.) My poor kids started to cry as I grabbed for the baking soda and a large steel bowl, poured some soda in, mixed some water and plunged my foot in. Dido got some ice for me and we added that, too, as the whole family looked on in horror. As I stood there, now whimpering, I felt something scratching my leg, inside my jeans. I haven't disrobed that fast since reuniting with my college boyfriend after a two week separation. The stalking wasp flew around the kitchen for a bit, prompting the H to chase it wildly with a flyswatter (thanks) while I continued to ice and soak.

I got off light, considering I stepped directly into a ground nest--only four stings, three on my foot, one on my leg. They hurt, a lot, for about 24 hours, and now just itch. I will never go near our woods without muck boots again.

Welcome to the country, sucka.

Lots of clever titles, come and gone

I've gotten back in the infuriating and unproductive habit of mental posting. John is in L.A. for a week, which means I'm flying solo with the kids, but I kind of like it, in spite of adventures that have included power and phone outages, a possibly broken toe (mine), a near miss with a New York State Trooper (Merry Christmas, again), several episodes of pee on the floor (child, not puppy), one mysterious animal skeleton on the mudroom floor and the joy of tax prep. I've had one glass of wine since the H left, and I think that's VERY impressive.

Meanwhile, bucolic joys continue.

Witness my chickens, my commute, and my view. Life could be much, much worse.

Sunset redux

A few weeks ago I posted a picture of one of our sunsets, proclaiming said sunsets of unending beauty and constant variation. But the picture kind of sucked. So here's another, better one.

Yesterday, unusually, showed us no sunset at all. For the first time either John or I could remember for the 4th of July, it was pouring rain. Not even lightning and thunder to stand in for the drowned-out fireworks. So we grabbed the kids and headed off to Great Barrington for dinner. With no particular plan, we decided to try a Mexican place that we'd heard was good. Unfortunately, what folks here think of us good Mexican food can be pretty awful (witness the much-extolled Mexican Radio restaurant in Hudson, which is so bad that even the kids aren't happy with their quesadillas.) Phew. This place was actually good--decent sauces, good refried beans, and margaritas better than those at the place we always went to in L.A. None of it was amazing, but all of it was good enough to help the homesick Angelenos perk up.

We have been homesick lately. We've had lots of visiting friends which is wonderful, but also a reminder of how many people we've left behind. Saying goodbye, again, is hard on all of us, even though we wouldn't ever pass up the opportunity to see our buddies or to show them why we're not insane for making this move. (It is to all of their credit that none of them have made us feel nuts, even if that is what they believed--for this, we all thank all of you.) John also went to L.A. last week for work, which seemed to make him doubly homesick, for homes old and new. (He did, however, get to eat both real sushi--definitely not abounding here--and Mexican, so no sympathy, really, for him.)

On the other hand, our new life continues to delight, at least me. We have chickens now, nearly three weeks old, pecking away in one of the stalls in the barn. Six guinea hens (apparently champion tick-eaters, which recommends them here in the Lyme Disease capitol of America), 3 Leghorns (white egg layers), 4 Rhode Island Reds--3 hens and one rooster, Jolly (or, as the Babe calls him for self-evident reasons, "Poopy Butt")--for brown eggs, and 7 Araucanas, six hens and a boy, now named Striper, for their gorgeous, Martha Stewart-endorsed pale blue and green eggs. It takes about five months for a hen to begin to lay, so it will be late fall or even early winter before ours are ready, which means that we may not see much from them until next spring. But they're sweet, and soon enough I'll have a use for the beautiful pitchfork and overalls my L.A. girlfriends gifted me with at one of my farewell parties. The kids are really into them--as though we have 20 new pets in our family, and I suppose we do, though I have been known to insist that at some point, we'll be eating some of them. I suspect I'll reverse that position, as more of them gain names. Chicken pix to come.

That New Project

It's here. Tell me what you think. And yes, Mieke, this mostly means you don't have to read recipes here any more...

Proud wife

The H's movie opens today. It's getting great reviews. Go see it.

Coming soon...

Since I can't seem to get my s&^( together to write for pay these days, I'm cooking up a new project for myself. Watch the sidebar for something new in the next day or two...

Where the hell I've been, part deux, and how to make something not at all about me...all about me

You'll all be thrilled to know I am no longer crying on the toilet. I did cry for about 1.5 seconds in the car today, because I was pissed at the H for not agreeing to help me, once and for all, resolve the hideous car registration drama--this would have required him to stop what he was doing and immediately get to the Hudson, NY DMV. I can't blame him for not wanting to go, but let's just say I've been trying to get this onerous errand off my mind and my phantasmic to-do list for some time now. The good vehicular news is that the lovely magistrate in Massachusetts dropped, all, yes ALL of the charges (speeding, driving without insurance--a criminal charge, mind you--and driving without registration) levied by the Psycho Cop. Actually, that's great news, and as the friendly, sardonic judge said to me at the time, "Merry Christmas." Couldn't agree more. But the cars still don't have their NY state plates or registrations, which makes me terrified/unwilling to drive my new car anywhere but in my own driveway. Not so efficient, except that the H has been on house arrest for two months trying to finish a script, and now has 30 pages of the next one due in two weeks. Fun times, but his incarceration means I get to drive his Prius. Ah, but wait....there's more.

It's not all gloom and doom for Mr. H-'o-mine. I'm outing us, right now, because I want all of you to go to the movie theater next weekend, and buy tickets to his first produced film. (He's been produced, beautifully, award-nominated-and-winning-ly, for television, but the holy grail for any screenwriter is a film: most screenwriters, like most actors, toil in inglorious, unseen dungeons of despair and rejection for years and years. I'm not kidding.) All that pain, suffering (his, and, let's be honest, anyone who knows us will confirm this, mine) was assuaged on Wednesday night, at the film's fancy New York premiere.

Buy tickets, please, and tell me what you think. Since the film is, as all films are, somewhat different from his original scripts, fire away with your honest criticisms.

Oh, and in case you're wondering the really important stuff, I wore this. Brown, not grey, and it's a much prettier color than the picture shows. I know, I know. In my defense, the only other times I've worn anything this expensive were 1. my wedding and 2. the Emmys, when the H was nominated. I think the occasion demanded it, and the dress is, I must say, way better than it looks in the picture.

Proud moments in parenting, part I

Item: on Tuesday, with Dido home from school puking and....running, I went down to the basement to iron rather than hang out with him and the Babe.

Item: yesterday, I sat in the bathroom crying because the Babe, who is now back in her crib after a brief vacation for no one in a big girl bed, still refused to take a nap.

Item: during said crying jag, the Babe followed me into the bathroom, saying "No cry, mommy. No cry."

Item: this morning, when I refused to find the Transformers cartoons on YouTube for him, Dido told me I was the meanest mom ever, and no one likes me very much.

Item: after that outburst, he remembered to mention that the reason he slept in our bed last night was because he peed in his.

Item: the H rolled out of bed awakened by Pasha this morning, but instead of just stumbling out with her for a morning pee, he took the time to find me (reading emails in my office at 6:30) and give her to me instead for the pee run. As I carried her down the stairs, I felt something warm cascading down my right leg.

Is it too early for a cocktail?