tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-205912732024-03-07T13:19:10.777-08:00quietly is my favorite wordlmshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07087177603275725666noreply@blogger.comBlogger229125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20591273.post-63768319406054000112020-11-22T11:41:00.004-08:002020-11-22T11:41:39.349-08:00FATIGUE.<p><span style="font-family: Assistant;">It's the weekend before Thanksgiving. Covid cases are surging here, and our head-of-school won't close school, deciding instead to postpone re-opening for a week (So we essentially get two weeks of break? Or maybe the second week is online? I'm unclear.), but even a week doesn't put us at the 10-14 days we'd need to be sure there were no holiday infections. <br /><br />I imagine that someday in the next few days, they will shut the city entirely down, like in March. It will mean that we definitely won't be seeing family over Christmas. <br /><br />We usually go over to our friend Margaret's house for Thanksgiving. There are often 30-40 people there, but sometimes more. For most of them, Thanksgiving is the only time we see them, and we have gone - or at least made an appearance - every year that Arlo has been alive, even if it meant doing two Thanksgivings. <br /><br />Anyway, we're not doing that. <br /><br />Thanksgiving is my holiday. Christmas is ok, and I do enjoy waking up on New Year's day, but everything else is garbage compared to Thanksgiving. <br /><br />When I lived in Portland, we used to host an Orphan Thanksgiving, for friends who couldn't make it home for the holiday. It started with about 16 people, and grew and grew and grew. Years when our friends actually could go home, they instead convinced their parents to come to Portland, so they could all come to our house. One year we had to have three giant turkeys, each cooked at different houses and brought over. Maybe that same year, my roommate Sam and I built three tables out of saw horses and salvaged doors, and moved all the furniture out of the living room so we could all fit. <br /><br />Once I moved to LA, the holiday became kind of depressing, because who was I going to invite? But we did a few. In 2012, we hosted Andy's aunts and uncles, a couple of friends, and my mom and grandma. My mom and grandma came early in the afternoon to help cook, and they had already been arguing when they got to my house. Nothing made my grandmother more mischievous than a good argument, and my mom got so frustrated she left and went for a walk. My grandma and I opened the wine up at 2pm, and cooked together and had a blast. We were tanked by dinner, which meant my grandma was in fine form, holding court with all kinds of stories, and the entire table was laughing so hard they were literally crying. My friend's husband begged her to stop, because he was afraid he was going to laugh so hard he'd throw up her sweet potato casserole. She did, kind of. For a few minutes anyway, until dessert came out. <br /><br />Anyway. Three weeks later, she fell and broke her shoulder and had to have surgery. She was in the hospital for three days and when they were getting her ready to go home (my mom was already on her way to the hospital), she had a heart attack and died. <br /><br />So I haven't cooked Thanksgiving since then. We just went to Margaret's. <br /><br />Which we can't do this year. <br /><br />So, I'm cooking here, just for Andy and Arlo, which is more than slightly awkward, considering that we split up a year and a half ago, and I'm doing it in my kitchen, instead of the kitchen we shared for 14 years. I'm cooking a chicken, because neither of them like turkey, and I'm having some really big feelings about it...some kind of fuck this goddamn pandemic and trump and all these fucking people and how is this still going on and why didn't anyone listen to Dr. Fauci when he said this was going to get worse in the fall...<br /><br />So...all of that. The last 36 hours have been just rough. No matter how often I shower, I still don't feel really clean, and I have two cystic stress pimples, one on my jawbone and one smack between my eyes, and I just don't want any of this. <br /><br />I want the whole thing to stop. Lift the needle off this record and play something else. ANYTHING else. </span></p>lmshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07087177603275725666noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20591273.post-3899565863354601672020-01-09T22:25:00.000-08:002020-01-09T22:25:26.922-08:00Some things I know, some things I don't<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">But here's one thing: there's a thing with boys and their moms, right? I'm not sure what kind of thing, but definitely some kind of thing.<br /><br />He should know that. He was a boy left with his mom. But maybe his mom was never alone? Maybe his mom was always looking elsewhere, looking for whatever else there was: a new religion, a new man, a new apartment, a new city, maybe all four? And so maybe whatever thing there could have been between them was always drowned in trying to compete so hard with all the other things? How to get noticed when there are boxes to unpack, a new man to impress, new prayers to learn? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Meanwhile, here it's just the little and me. I'm not saying that's all I'll ever want, I'm not even saying it's all I want now. What I'm saying is that it's all that there is now, and I could not be more ok with that. And it feels like that's ok with him, too.<br /><br />Life is so different now; he feels it, he has to feel it. The contrast between the two houses (or rather between that house and this apartment). There's a housekeeper over there and meals at restaurants. Vacations, but no Christmas stockings. Amazon-purchased halloween costumes that are too small, and then too big, and then just right the third time except the zipper breaks the first time you try it because Amazon Halloween Costume. And there's a momentary panic that morning of the Halloween Carnival at school, and I'm plenty pissed, to be honest, because I would have gladly taken on the responsibility of The Halloween Costume, it would have been no big deal, I've done it for the past nine years. I'd have nothing to prove by doing it, save for knowing that the fucking zipper wouldn't break ten minutes before we have to leave for school. But I decided to step aside, to create some space and maybe make some grace, if grace is something you make. And instead, the dumb costume broke and we raced to the closet and threw everything around because all the dress up clothes that I curated and found and thought up still live at Dad's house, so we really didn't have much to work with, but thank God Grandpa loves a rodeo, so there's always a cowboy hat and boots around, and there, that did it. It felt temporary, but later that night when we were leaving for trick-or-treating at Dad's house (because everything always has to be at Dad's house because normalcy is our currency these days), he wanted to keep it on because cowboys are rad and way better than Amazon Bio Hazard costumes, because really, what even IS that? And boy was Dad mad.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And we laughed. The whole night. Because maybe that's mostly how life is different now.<br /><br />Anyway, here I am ranting about Halloween and it's January. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">But here are things that happen now: </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">- He volunteers to carry bags up from the grocery store. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">- Every time we walk by See's candy, we pop in, hoping the clerk will offer us free samples. If she doesn't, we tool around the shop pretending to browse but instead peek in my wallet. If we find $2, we buy two candies and eat them slowly on the way home, taking little bites so we can share. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">- I think he knows that there's no Santa, or rather that I am Santa, because Santa only came to my house, not Dad's house, and he brought me binder clips and shampoo and face wash (all things that were on the grocery list) and brought him - among more fun sundries - batteries and new underpants and bath bombs, which he promptly offered to share with me just like I knew he would. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">- On the weekends, when he gets up early, he feeds the kittens and lets me sleep. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">- He doesn't complain about walking most places anymore because he has figured out that the more we walk, the more a leisurely Sunday restaurant breakfast is, and he pretends not to notice that he gets the chocolate chip banana french toast and I get a plain croissant.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And he holds my hand a lot, and since the car crash (that's another story) wants to hug me more, and when I crawl up into his bunk bed and kiss him all over his face instead of just tucking him in and ruffling his hair, he gets all blushy and tries - just for a minute - to not act thrilled and then gives up and just acts thrilled. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">But also: OH! We get frustrated with each other, and life is less glamorous and less fancy and less adventurous and we're just HERE all the time, never anywhere fun and we get so so tired of one another, and we snap and we yell, but by and by we're able to explode and then a few minutes later circle back and explain. One of my favorite things to hear him say is, "You know, I've just had a really hard day..."<br /><br />Because I get it, dude. I really do. There are some things I know. </span>lmshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07087177603275725666noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20591273.post-23293751972455796822019-06-28T16:56:00.001-07:002019-06-28T16:58:37.896-07:00well, it's happening.I got the job; I start on Monday.<br />
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I got the apartment; I sign the lease on Tuesday.<br />
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July is here, friends, and it never seemed so strange.lmshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07087177603275725666noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20591273.post-74801608034354979202018-12-05T14:06:00.000-08:002018-12-05T14:06:47.175-08:00equal parts delightful and devastatingI've been listening to Destroyer since Nicole texted me from the show in Portland on Saturday. That's probably where it all began. <br />
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Chani said today called for "ceiling therapy". I tried to work, I did, but then school called and the kid was sick, and now he's home, and not sick anymore (such is the way), and I'm thinking of all the things I need to do, and all of the things that I want to do, and all of the things I don't do anymore, and here I am.<br />
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I dreamt of Jake last night, in the usual way I seem to dream of him: out of nowhere, he's there, confused at everyone's incredulousness. This time it was just him and me, and we were outside somewhere, here, and he looked around and said, "it sucks that it never snows here." And then I woke up, the first night I slept through until morning in months.<br />
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The first thing I read this morning was a reference to Kay Redfield Jamison's <u>An Unquiet Mind,</u> which was one of the two books I planned on sharing with him before he died. We didn't get to either one. I actually had a running list in my mind that week: Things to Tell Jake About When You Talk to Him. There was a lot. I knew I would need to set aside a good chunk of time. I couldn't seem to find it. And then. And then there was nothing but time.<br />
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Now it's the afternoon, and raining. Some chicken or pillow or something truck must have crashed on La Cienega overnight, because every time I drove down the hill today, thousands of little white feathers skittered around in the wind, like so much snow.<br />
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lmshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07087177603275725666noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20591273.post-88084205836542792092018-12-04T15:50:00.003-08:002018-12-05T13:48:44.609-08:00Cartography.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLB2HjeF1djklPlOORTaway64IYvb_srHvsc_LetX2rs70gba7ZmcIuJgcQIUooucvSPv3v2dFVTGWbBL9xpfDXRmwBDdFX9jTzRucYR8IDr_AIAWnejZlX6jl2NkKDYMOe63s/s1600/IMG_2940.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="695" data-original-width="1600" height="170" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLB2HjeF1djklPlOORTaway64IYvb_srHvsc_LetX2rs70gba7ZmcIuJgcQIUooucvSPv3v2dFVTGWbBL9xpfDXRmwBDdFX9jTzRucYR8IDr_AIAWnejZlX6jl2NkKDYMOe63s/s400/IMG_2940.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div>
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There's some kind of crazy transition there, and it's all in that orange cloth. <br />
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I'm up for seeing the forest for the trees. I'm up for overflowing with the good stuff. I'm ready to take on the sun, and grow to reach its rays. And I'm ready to take what held me and hang on the wall, a map of the places I've been. I'm also ready for that little black cat, and I'm going to name Peter.lmshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07087177603275725666noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20591273.post-84530868406845945192018-08-29T17:52:00.001-07:002018-08-29T17:52:49.214-07:00the city; the 90s<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6alRpR-KM1-ukHE7Nfn2a1J_2aoIAA3c8LDQnbMMIPWKbMZRaIBvFHR7TC5G8FNyYDAcuLXe-d_Aq6gDJiJbzqMsZsnELN8gedn3nvbteDJyi53UtJZWgcaLkFSvhYgV51ozz/s1600/IMG_2258.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1342" data-original-width="1600" height="536" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6alRpR-KM1-ukHE7Nfn2a1J_2aoIAA3c8LDQnbMMIPWKbMZRaIBvFHR7TC5G8FNyYDAcuLXe-d_Aq6gDJiJbzqMsZsnELN8gedn3nvbteDJyi53UtJZWgcaLkFSvhYgV51ozz/s640/IMG_2258.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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I was 18, 19, 20, 21, and then 22. When I remember San Francisco during the day, it was always sunny -- memories are often wrong like that. When I remember San Francisco at night, it was always wet and smelled like piss -- because just as often, memories are right like that.<br />
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We were all so smart -- books in our back pockets, in our shoulder bags, heavy and ruining our posture on sunny afternoons spent meandering through garage sales in The Castro or ThriftTown and record stores in The Mission. It was different than smart, though...really, it was wordy? Wordy before the internet, which was a time so different it seems impossible to explain. (I remember the first email I ever sent, from SFSU's Volunteer Center to my then-almost-boyfriend 500 feet away in the dorms. Addressed "dear you" signed "love, me" no capitals, e.e. cummings-style.) No matter where we were - in cars, on the late-night 91 Owl bus, in our cinder block dorm rooms or industrial-carpeted damp apartments, we talked. We filled the space with words. Words we spoke, words we read, words we listened to out of our friends' mouths. Even the songs we listened to had too many words, and we bounced around in our cars to them, speeding across the Golden Gate Bridge or stopped in traffic and fidgety with earthquake fear on the Bay Bridge. We talked and talked and talked and drank good coffee and ate cheap burritos and walked past random detritus that other people left on street corners. Not just refrigerators or shoes, but bowling balls, three-legged chairs, water-stained coffee tables, boxes (of more) books, stacks of nudie magazines.<br />
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For all the things we could find on street corners for free, I still used to steal things from parties. Little things that might not be missed, that could probably be easily replaced. A pair of scissors, a postcard, a grocery list, some soap, a barrette, a pretty spoon.<br />
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All the parties were the same.<br />
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There was always a too low and too long and too rough sofa forced into a too small room. There was always a boy on the sofa holding court: perched on the edge, his knees almost to his shoulders, his feet in Converse One-Stars or Pumas, his red cup beer on the street-corner coffee table. He talked. So did the other boys. Sometimes they nodded. Sometimes they argued. Sometimes girls sat nearby, waiting to see what would happen next, in thrift store dresses with buttons and heavy black shoes and red lipstick. If all the boys had the same shoes, all the girls had the same lipstick.<br />
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I used to find a space between the sofa and the bookshelf (there was also always a bookshelf), and I would sit on the floor, half-hidden, where my eyes could peek over the arm of the sofa and I could tuck my black-shoed feet in, so no one would trip over me.<br />
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I was there on the floor the night a boy with a kind face and a vintage Polaroid and muscular legs and forearms (Was he an athlete? Probably just a drummer.) glared at me from across the room. "He's awful," he said, pointing to the Tom Robbins book in my hands.<br />
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I looked at him over the top of the pages for maybe too long and then reached over to the bookshelf and stuck my finger in a gap between books. "It's not mine," I said.<br />
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He looked amused.<br />
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"These people have really bad books and really good hair products," I said. "Do you know them?"<br />
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He raised an eyebrow and laughed out loud and came over and squeezed his calves and forearms and the rest of him into the small space with me. He had a tattoo on his leg; this was back when we all only had one tattoo. We spent the night pulling books off the shelf and making fun of our party hosts (he did know them) and accidentally spilling our beers on the carpet.<br />
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Much later, he kissed me on the wet porch, and I walked home with my hand stuffed in my jean jacket pocket, clutching a half-empty plastic container of Kiehl's Silk Groom Serum.lmshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07087177603275725666noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20591273.post-25596630586973922632018-05-11T14:51:00.002-07:002018-05-11T14:53:08.039-07:00All the questions<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0H5h5fWdaltQzGYHUOSo7QaJWdnRpsLHG0b8wNBAiwSQXWEwtVxyq0xgM3Rhq3urMCu_5Ag3SkcBkYeNAYh_uRZfA01T6BxMkm5Cyd09IEvzCuAuEZ6XfVTpiGxkv4XfsbBcg/s1600/znh.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1038" data-original-width="1080" height="307" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0H5h5fWdaltQzGYHUOSo7QaJWdnRpsLHG0b8wNBAiwSQXWEwtVxyq0xgM3Rhq3urMCu_5Ag3SkcBkYeNAYh_uRZfA01T6BxMkm5Cyd09IEvzCuAuEZ6XfVTpiGxkv4XfsbBcg/s320/znh.png" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13px;"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="UFICommentBody _1n4g" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">What am I doing?<br />Why am I doing it?<br />Do I recognize myself anymore?<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">How can I free space and build strength in my life to be who I think is me?</span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">Are the benefits of this doing this, this way, worth it?</span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">Is the rest of my life really that long?</span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">Am I even employable?</span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">How come I never committed to being an adult?</span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">Is it too late to try and be one now?</span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">How come no one has discovered me and my obvious genius right out of the blue and given me easy and fun writing jobs with lots of research and no deadlines involved?</span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">How do I make everything happen the way I want it to happen? </span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">How do I make everyone do the things I want them to do?</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">How do I make everyone be ok with the things I want them to be ok with?</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">How do I get out of my head?</span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">How do I convince myself to do all the small healthy things that would make me feel better, at least in a small way, like taking a walk or drinking some water?</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">How do I get my kid to talk about what is going on at school that he obviously doesn’t want to talk about?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 13px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">How do I pay more attention to the details?</span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">How did I once manage to keep up with all I have going on, and more, and now I forget the simplest things?</span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">Why have I waited until just 24 hours out to figure out what to wear to the stupid school fundraiser?</span></span><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 13px;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-size: 13px;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Especially since it’s the kind of thing (along with my child’s birthday party, etc) that I used to have locked in a month in advance?</span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">Why does my head hurt all the time?</span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">What are the ramifications of having a herniated disc in my neck at only 43?</span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">How committed am I, really, to growing my hair long?</span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">Has the head of school decided she doesn’t like me because I’m being a pain in the ass as of late?</span><br />Why are my friends so spread out? </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-size: 13px;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And why am I not a better friend? </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-size: 13px;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Are these tarot cards I'm pulling just a thinking woman's Magic 8 Ball?</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-size: 13px;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">How is it that I forgot about laundry in the dryer for a whole six days?</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-size: 13px;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Is it me that's hard to agree with, or is it everybody else (it feels like everybody else)?</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-size: 13px;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">How is it May already?</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-size: 13px;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Do I really want to take A to karate class right now, or do I just want to go home and sit with him and watch a movie and hope that he'll talk to me about what's bothering him?</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-size: 13px;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">That said, am I willing to talk to anybody about what's bothering me?<br />Is this going to be like this all year?</span></span></div>
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<span id="goog_121359625"></span><span id="goog_121359626"></span>lmshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07087177603275725666noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20591273.post-48331036402109127122017-04-07T17:54:00.002-07:002017-04-07T17:54:35.189-07:00Getting out when you want to stay in.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I needed to get OUT today. I knew it last night, I probably knew it days ago. OUT. We had been outside, of course, but on the manicured grounds of amusement parks and resort pools. I needed OUT. I needed salt air and sea and sediment and, as it turned out bunnies. I needed Hawaii, I thought. Instead, I got Terranea, and as long as I kept my face seaward and ignored the trumpdom to the east, I was fine. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We walked for an hour, we climbed rocks I was afraid to climb. We saw four lizards, twelve dragon flies, about twenty pelicans and SO MANY BUNNIES (as far as saving the day goes, the bunnies get a lot of the credit).</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">At the end, by the cave, there are chairs and umbrellas. Just waiting for you. I know sharing secrets with the internet isn't the smartest thing to do, but...I think it's going to be my new secret hideaway</span><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Stand-in Hawaii did a super good job. </span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQHM87j1hovo-LOWDZGMyPRjYyOSgv5GTe_4JZkY2BTqeAkd-IUErAp7LZz5YBXt7dmxGU3Snx0JFuveDau4NNyQKkVuJa5t45jeSCJYh1o7Rkl3qxi-XioX58FEo9X_5CKg2q/s1600/IMG_5504.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQHM87j1hovo-LOWDZGMyPRjYyOSgv5GTe_4JZkY2BTqeAkd-IUErAp7LZz5YBXt7dmxGU3Snx0JFuveDau4NNyQKkVuJa5t45jeSCJYh1o7Rkl3qxi-XioX58FEo9X_5CKg2q/s640/IMG_5504.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Thirty minutes in, forty minutes out, my head ringing with Caddyshack jokes the whole way. </span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He got up there in the time it took me to chase my hat. Like, seconds. I looked where he had been, and it was empty space, and behind it was churning ocean, and I thought to myself, "Well, you've gone and done it this time," and then I heard "Hey mom!" And it took me more than a moment to find him all that way up. Who would have thought? Not ever me. Some days are surprising.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj2ICSQN9dMRWMRKjYXNVzDdHrumjkMDc7a8R12UGK8vwk6s6VXdMNZCTskeRwD2GztV1IbDR28nSJL4OyvhHvWtBRDIEcvZZW_ASIMXeLivTk-RJUixXfu-XYJ6A99hE3wbJu/s1600/IMG_5506.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj2ICSQN9dMRWMRKjYXNVzDdHrumjkMDc7a8R12UGK8vwk6s6VXdMNZCTskeRwD2GztV1IbDR28nSJL4OyvhHvWtBRDIEcvZZW_ASIMXeLivTk-RJUixXfu-XYJ6A99hE3wbJu/s640/IMG_5506.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Then he kind of just posed for a bit. I realized later he was contemplating how the hell he was going to get down, but he made sure he looked good doing it.</span></td></tr>
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lmshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07087177603275725666noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20591273.post-84586828239387431392013-11-02T14:03:00.001-07:002013-11-02T14:04:12.199-07:00Travel (ing to) Travel Town<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjANEDoQFyeNJUErXIhtOKH7lyRZxnkSDII-qUG140FodAbaQIOzyoqefV5zDenRRwbsrRxtKRuTo1UsLsC4YlpYihE4zb6DYpY4i0s6hKBPsURt5KZz4-8JGNqXPuUHA-faD5R/s640/blogger-image-1088784051.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjANEDoQFyeNJUErXIhtOKH7lyRZxnkSDII-qUG140FodAbaQIOzyoqefV5zDenRRwbsrRxtKRuTo1UsLsC4YlpYihE4zb6DYpY4i0s6hKBPsURt5KZz4-8JGNqXPuUHA-faD5R/s640/blogger-image-1088784051.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">It was one of those mornings that started out early, until we were late. We were supposed to be there by 10, but after snacks were packed and shoes were on and keys were found, it was already ten til. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">And then, on the way there, I thought I got lost, only to realize I wasn't. It was that kind of day, too. Finally, we pulled into Griffith Park, which is where I made a succession of bad choices that ended us off actually lost, as well as actually late.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">"Why are you lost, Mama?" Arlo asked me from the backseat. If I could convince him of one thing, it would probably be to never ever ask me WHY I'm lost (I'm lost often), because there's no good answer to that question, really, other than, "because I'm stupid," and I really wasn't at that point yet.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">So: "Because they made the park confusing," I told him (Dear Architects of Griffith Park, Sorry. Your park <i>is</i> really confusing, though). "Now be very quiet so I can figure this out, otherwise we'll have to live in the park our whole lives and hide from coyotes, and eat only acorns and berries until we find our way to the yummy scone place."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Eventually we made it, and we found M. and I., and we ate picnic lunches on the tracks like a group of depression-era moms and babes with organic fruit and pre-school made challah. We walked on some old train cars, we waited in some trying lines (when Daniel Tiger's waiting ditty failed, we sang Tom Petty), we rode on the steamer, and that pretty much was that. Back to home.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">And really, within 100 feet of the entrance, there I was: lost again. <i>Seriously. </i>The 134 seemed wrong, so I got on the 101, but figured I chose wrong (given that the choices were Ventura or Los Angeles, and I chose Ventura). I couldn't manage the maps on my phone on the freeway, and then my dad called, adding chaos, so I took the next exit and parked on Riverside at Coldwater (sounds idyllic if you've never been there, doesn't it?), and called my dad back. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">"I'm list in The Valley!" I said when he picked up. "Help me!"</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">"What size jacket does Arlo wear?" He asked.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">"3T. Dad! Seriously, I'm lost. Where are you?"</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">"Solvang," he laughed. "I'm going to buy Arlo a jacket." And then, I swear, he hung up. Like the things he said made any sense together, like he hadn't heard me at all.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">A minute later, he called back.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">"6T?" He asked. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">"No dad, 3T, and seriously I'm lost. Help me." I told him where I was.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">"That's easy," he said. "Get back on Coldwater, take the 101 to the 405." And then he hung up again, safe in his asumption that I knew which direction of the 101 would take me to the 405.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">I called back. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">"NORTH!" He said.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">When I got back to the Freeway entrance, I looked up. 101 freeway, the sign said. East/West. I shit you not.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">I put my head on the steering wheel. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">"Why are you lost, Mama?" Arlo asked. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">I don't even know which direction I chose , but I know that we quickly came to the 405 exchange and even I know the right answer between Santa Monica and Sacramento.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">"Thank God!" I said, out loud. "I got us out of The Valley!" I told Arlo.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">"Is being lost in The Valley worse than being lost in the Park and eating Acorns?" Arlo asked.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">"So. Much. Worse." I told him.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">He looked out the window, and promptly fell asleep. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Freeway roll call: 10, 110, 134, 101, 405, 90.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div>lmshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07087177603275725666noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20591273.post-53512374507128977542013-09-16T17:08:00.001-07:002013-09-16T23:05:31.626-07:00Real Talk<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFloYmpXA_1GpxHb8GwFWA07w5yJLpfbG7ii0s17GJ_oxBfqKq6ZfeBZV5ehE5hLml07Ccq63bZmu2rd-ZBLvatxgUwAncHeYxp4H9niQUisbCxwvyJ17B4gUj7e5NPO0O5bC1/s640/blogger-image-215561384.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFloYmpXA_1GpxHb8GwFWA07w5yJLpfbG7ii0s17GJ_oxBfqKq6ZfeBZV5ehE5hLml07Ccq63bZmu2rd-ZBLvatxgUwAncHeYxp4H9niQUisbCxwvyJ17B4gUj7e5NPO0O5bC1/s640/blogger-image-215561384.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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A little embarrassed about my recent reading material, but I'm finding myself slipping further and further out to sea regarding motherhood, work, partnership, parenting through partnership, daughter-hood, friendship, housekeeping, citizenship and student loan debtorship (which my very costly degree told me was not a word before spellcheck did. But said degree also gave me the chutzpah to flip spellcheck the bird), let alone figuring out how to carve out a solid (happy) hour to breathe, laugh or cry. Never mind the fact that its been really hot, my health has been on strike for three weeks, and my son's Jewish pre-school has every Friday off this month.</div>
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And so. I find myself, as I have so many times before, figuring out how to be early to any and all appointments so I can eek out some time to lose myself seeking commiseration in a book. I'll keep you posted.</div>
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lmshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07087177603275725666noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20591273.post-1224071827542461822013-06-30T15:01:00.002-07:002013-06-30T15:01:31.111-07:00what life's been like.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
it has been an extra hard year, that much is for sure. there was school for the first time for the little, a new job for me, major ebbs and flows for andy's schedule, too much hard labor in the backyard (we're still not done. sigh.), and the trying to help my mom with the detritus of detritus in the wake of my grandma dying. among all the other stuff. which there also was a lot of. </div>
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and so. my go-to in those kinds of months, my spirit animal, if you will, is that of a zamboni. and the motto? just keep on going, girl. slow and steady wins the race. sometimes going around in circles is your job. leave it smooth and shiny as you go. but sometimes even that gets doesn't work, even the zen of the zamboni leaves me wanting. and then...well, i've got no answer for then, other than haul your complaining ass out of bed and, as my grandpa used to say, "shit, shower, shave and show up." </div>
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(sorry if that's too much. that was too much, right?)</div>
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and now i've lost my train of thought. anyway. </div>
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point being, i needed a bit of a respite, and it was hard to find. luckily, i managed to carve out a solid hour (maybe hour and fifteen minutes) for this: </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxH7p3jyQQZnlra_O2FL01Z82ZeGTveOim9wCty1eQwzykIUP-plg0UXKWlAz1ksjawuurHli10V38jMM7i-5tVXG13cGRcMe6Oz5Nm1qDZIl7VXJ6i89UvDC8JWpPjy5oyENq/s1600/photo-3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxH7p3jyQQZnlra_O2FL01Z82ZeGTveOim9wCty1eQwzykIUP-plg0UXKWlAz1ksjawuurHli10V38jMM7i-5tVXG13cGRcMe6Oz5Nm1qDZIl7VXJ6i89UvDC8JWpPjy5oyENq/s640/photo-3.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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hammock, pillow, mimosa, book. (something bit the hell out of me while i was there, but i'm choosing to ignore it because RESPITE, dammit).<br />
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hope you find some soon, too.lmshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07087177603275725666noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20591273.post-55615144459737755562013-06-12T22:08:00.000-07:002013-06-12T22:26:59.958-07:00what motherhood is.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUdk-cl1XvYnid1UPjAhMGioFxIhCpeJoLHArUdD0tg1qsTNGLKduLZMq9Kpjkk1jIho9fDixVHQcfTH3CbV-11LDHo13ytx1gr-rJ_RwMZ21PAUU_f2Mx9N07KtyartMVK0yA/s1600/photo-3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUdk-cl1XvYnid1UPjAhMGioFxIhCpeJoLHArUdD0tg1qsTNGLKduLZMq9Kpjkk1jIho9fDixVHQcfTH3CbV-11LDHo13ytx1gr-rJ_RwMZ21PAUU_f2Mx9N07KtyartMVK0yA/s640/photo-3.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
all the things, all the things. there are the days when you are pregnant, and feel them swish around in there like impatient koi. and there is the day they are born. and the moment they laugh. and smile. and say mama. and walk. and run. and fall. the first time they tell you "a joke." their first day of school. the times when they ask you over and over and over again why there aren't sidewalks on freeways. the times, all the times, when they hug your dogs, your dogs who were your babies before you had a baby. the times when they hug their friends, the people that they'll like better than you one day. there are just all those things.<br />
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and the years, they are short. and the days, they are long. but sweet jesus on a cracker, the nights top it all. the nights go on forever. for. ever. and a day. or ten.<br />
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ten minutes ago, next to that nightlight up above - after sitting in a dark room listening to the <a href="http://www.kohls.com/product/prd-827690/leapfrog-twinkle-twinkle-little-scout.jsp" target="_blank">lullaby doggie </a> (which i just found out is discontinued, so god help us if that damn thing breaks after three years) go through three twenty minute cycles of lullaby medleys, while my child tossed and turned and begged me to stay in my chair and not leave him - i typed the following to a friend. i stared at it once i pressed send, and realized that though the moments above, all those things, are all so life affirming, parenthood is more often like this:<br />
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<span id=".reactRoot[8219722].[1][1][1]{comment520962784638183_520981287969666}.[0].[0:1].[0].[0:1].[0].[0:0].[0][1]" style="background-color: #edeff4; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px; text-align: left;"> </span><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[8219722].[1][1][1]{comment520962784638183_520981287969666}.[0].[0:1].[0].[0:1].[0].[0:0].[0][2]" style="background-color: #edeff4; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px; text-align: left;"><span id=".reactRoot[8219722].[1][1][1]{comment520962784638183_520981287969666}.[0].[0:1].[0].[0:1].[0].[0:0].[0][2].[0]"><span id=".reactRoot[8219722].[1][1][1]{comment520962784638183_520981287969666}.[0].[0:1].[0].[0:1].[0].[0:0].[0][2].[0].[0:0]">Meanwhile mine is not asleep, and he won't let me leave the room and I haven't seen Andy for more than 20 minutes since Sunday night, and probably won't (but for assorted 20 minute a.m. increments) until Monday, and I have deadlines and a headache, and I'm sitting here in the dark with a dying phone battery, having played all the games and read all the words and bought all the things, and all I know is, if he doesn't fall asleep in the next 30 minutes, one if us is getting a dose of Benadryl and the other can play with duplo in the dark.</span></span></span><br />
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<br />lmshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07087177603275725666noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20591273.post-48447608391982156632013-01-15T14:48:00.001-08:002013-01-15T14:48:02.885-08:00er-hem<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHEPfFZMW3SE-VxhuuoSBQRYXDvarqEo990IC8jGOIo4oXzKo_YURN16Bf2-bkzks2AD4Uu3_8q0OxvFlcV_APsv7txIsV6ukQwMC0CAc7m3dV6vXItZDAgvzdR5YFtbVL6OI6/s1600/Photo1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHEPfFZMW3SE-VxhuuoSBQRYXDvarqEo990IC8jGOIo4oXzKo_YURN16Bf2-bkzks2AD4Uu3_8q0OxvFlcV_APsv7txIsV6ukQwMC0CAc7m3dV6vXItZDAgvzdR5YFtbVL6OI6/s640/Photo1.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'm a messy desk keeper.</td></tr>
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Who me? I am here. I know, barely. But I've been here all along. Lurking around. Checking in every few months. Pretending this blog didn't exist for weeks at a time. I was doing a really good job at it.<br />
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But I set goals, too, you know. And this here blog, this here blog that's seven years old (a second grader!), its a goal of mine this year. Call it a resolution, if you must, but I'm working hard at getting back to the things that make me happy, and if I need to be strategic about it, so be it.<br />
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So. This year (2013. And my birthday? 2/13. I'm calling it kismet. I'm calling it a sign. I'm calling it the Age of Aquarius. And I'm calling it, right now, do you hear me? MINE.) is going to be all about these things:<br />
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1. Good jobs that make me feel fulfilled and happy and invested in my neighborhood.<br />
2. Lady Mentors.<br />
3. My backyard.<br />
4. Best friends, near and far.<br />
5. The best boys (they are mine, sorry).<br />
6. Photographs (iphone and camera+ count).<br />
7. Words.<br />
8. Only good tv.<br />
9. Working hard, and making it look (and feel) like the other way around.<br />
<br />
xo<br />
<br />lmshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07087177603275725666noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20591273.post-68075355884757344202012-07-26T19:09:00.002-07:002012-07-26T19:09:43.260-07:00What works...So. We've been experimenting, adapting, rolling with punches. Some things work. Some don't. What seems to be working well enough that we stick with it:<br />
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<ul>
<li>Five minute warnings. Two minute warnings. Count to ten (twenty when we're feeling generous) countdowns.</li>
<li>Asking (sometimes repeatedly against resistance) "Would you like to walk, or do I need to carry you?" </li>
<li>When the above doesn't work, suggesting, "Well, you're showing me that you need to be carried."</li>
<li>Presenting two choices at pajama time. </li>
<li>Explaining that we all have "chores." Daddy works outside. Mama is a laundry maid. Arlo puts away train tracks. </li>
<li>We have some non-negotiable "rules." Most of them involve not inflicting bodily harm, or moving one's body or things in a manner that could possibly inflict bodily harm, on other people. We do a lot of reminding (and "a lot" can often mean five times in thirty minutes).</li>
<li>But what's working most of all: predictability. Not just a routine, but a rhythm. And not just implied, but collectively decided upon, and stated implicitly. <br /><br />Enter The Day Chart. </li>
</ul>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFjEgHewNWQ86g8okloW_wRgzFwpxBnyK_VcW7QGiuWm22MNeMP4VD6fBzw_X_5-y94_fX2ABvGBKUoKE-_-sKKzT57Y7knbDtBpXdgPIy7VuZLHW6lsiwSFeW-hDhebjZH4Kx/s1600/board.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFjEgHewNWQ86g8okloW_wRgzFwpxBnyK_VcW7QGiuWm22MNeMP4VD6fBzw_X_5-y94_fX2ABvGBKUoKE-_-sKKzT57Y7knbDtBpXdgPIy7VuZLHW6lsiwSFeW-hDhebjZH4Kx/s400/board.jpg" width="400" /></a> <br />
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Now, you should know that this stems from me, a person who manages two day planners and a phone calendar. I have a sickness. Like President Bartlet, I need to know "What's next?" But I was noticing daily breakdowns around what we were doing. What day it was. Do we visit with friends today, or go to the park? Does Mama have to work today, or do we go to Toddle Tunes? And why oh why do we have to eat lunch now? We do manage to keep our days simple, at least we try to, but still we ran up against walls.<br />
<br />
I had noticed that having a simple conversation was helping, but still naptime would wipe all memory away. I had an idea to get a board like they have in preschools, but that royal blue pocketed thing I found at Lakeshore was ugly and not something I wanted in my house.<br />
<br />
Enter Target and their dorm collection. This green board is really a magnetized white dry erase board. Only, I wasn't so excited about the smelly dry erase markers. But the board was on sale at Target, so even though I wasn't quite sure what to do next, it was less than $8, so in the cart it went.<br />
<br />
Andy helped me with the next bit. I was obsessing over where to find
magnet paper (do they even make such a thing?), when he pointed out all
of the magnet advertisements we had stuck to the side of our fridge. Old
veterinarians, calendars from a nearby plumber, etc. Then we found some
index cards. Andy helped me peel the laminate off of the magnets, like so. <br />
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And then we trimmed the index cards to fit the trimmed magnets. <br />
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Lastly, after having drawn the activity on the card, we glued them to the magnet. <br />
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All told, we made a handful. Months, Weather, and about twelve activities. I bought the days of the week (also at Target), before Andy had his great idea. So they don't match the rest of it, but it was still a good idea: it took me way too long to finish all of these, and by the time I was done, I was way over it. I didn't have seven days left in me. <br />
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Every night, after dinner, we take them all out and make up the next day's chart. Its the third thing he asks for every morning (Lincoln and Milk being the first two).<br />
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All told, turns out Arlo is as OCD as me and President Bartlet. It works! What's next?lmshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07087177603275725666noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20591273.post-53465157308345528192012-07-19T15:47:00.003-07:002012-07-19T15:47:50.838-07:00well.well, oh my. so. time, as you see, has flown.<br />
<br />
arlo turned two. then two and one month. then two and two months. and now, we are nearly at the end of july. two and three months, here we come.<br />
<br />
here's a weird thing about toddler-dom and the state of my life: though this is very likely the most chaotic time of life yet with arlo, i somehow feel like, for the first time in over two years, that i have the hang of this. yes, its a huge ton of juggling. work for this three hours, get him to nap for those two hours, clean and tidy for those three hours. the laundry. lunches not eaten. dinners dumped. and oh! the things that are thrown (oh my god, the things that are thrown).<br />
<br />
make no mistake: its hard, its grueling. by 10pm most nights (if i'm still awake) i about want to die. there always seem to be two bags packed: one for me to head to the office, one for arlo to head about anywhere. my showers are brief. my sleep is heavy and hard. i have learned how to walk very quietly during naptime. i have learned to appreciate geriatric speed dinner (starts at 6pm, ends by 6:30). i pray before trips to the grocery store, and have been for sure seen running out of target, arlo in tow, to give him a talking-to on the bench outside. but also: he's so funny. and can be excruciatingly sweet. and his love of pie is admirable and steadfast. so, you know, we make do. i breathe deeply, in the rare moments when i can (i have found, and this is surprising to me, that i am not often able to do that. this is probably a really big problem, i'm sure). i do a lot of eye rolling. i kvetch with my clutch of fellow moms.<br />
<br />
but here's the weird thing: the house has really rarely been cleaner. laundry is done twice a week. i have not yet missed a deadline for work (though the last time we got closer than i ever want to be again). between nap and nighttime, arlo is sleeping an average of 12 hours a day, he's grown three inches since february, and he can count til twenty (though sometimes not necessarily in order).<br />
<br />
and its summer. i'll be around here more often, i hope. keep checking. <br />
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<br />lmshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07087177603275725666noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20591273.post-30919041038346006962012-02-27T19:03:00.003-08:002012-02-27T19:03:48.792-08:0022 Months<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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You are getting bigger and bigger and the thought of it - the observance and recognition of it - freezes me sometimes. It renders me still, mouth closed, listening. It seems impossible, you this big. And then the thought, just the thought makes me roll my eyes with its predictability, with its sentiment. But still. You were once, so tiny, so tiny and lavender and rubbery and screaming. </div>
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And now: you sit in my chair to eat lunch, and you ask me for a fork.</div>
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Last week, you began to push away from me at night time, and point down the hall. "Bed," you told me.</div>
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Yesterday, you were hard at work at your play kitchen, putting toy carrots into a toy pot and then in your toy oven. Then you pretend-washed your hands in the sink, saying "soap" repeatedly as you pretend-lathered. When you turned on the faucet, you said, "psssshhhhhh." Andy asked you if your carrots were ready. You opened the oven, checked, looked back up at him and said, "Almost."</div>
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I have had a stomach ache for a week. Not like I ate something bad. Not indigestion. Its high up there, right under my ribs, where it ached persistently the last few weeks of my pregnancy. "You've got a small torso," my Dr. told me then, shaking his head sympathetically. But its not that, either. Its the pain of the temporary. The pain that comes with the sudden realization that, no matter what it seems, this will not last. This too, will soon be over. </div>
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You sit across from me, stabbing bits of mango with your fork. You look at me out of the corner of your eye and you laugh and laugh and laugh. Sometimes, in the middle of playing, you look up at me, and start making noises, shaking your head, gesturing into the air. Then you fall apart laughing, slapping your leg, bending at the waist. You look at me, waiting out my reaction, seeing how I fancied your story. Arlo, I love them already.</div>
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<br /></div>lmshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07087177603275725666noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20591273.post-37681048224358898962012-02-20T19:17:00.000-08:002012-02-20T19:17:07.174-08:00another girl, another planet*A couple of recent conversations have been haunting me. actually, one conversation constructed, one off-the-cuff facebook post, and one weeks-long obsession.<br />
<br />
here: a few weeks ago, i saw that an old friend of mine, Sam, who was once my roommate, and now has a 3 year old son, commented on a facebook photo book of my son. "So awesome to see pictures of you and your little one," he said. "It's the best thing, isn't it?"<br />
<br />
Admittedly, I don't think I was having one of my "its the best thing" days. But truthfully, I probably wasn't having one of my "What on God's green earth was I thinking, having sex, ever?!" days, either. It was, likely, just a day. And the days, they are sometimes long. So I dashed off a response, not thinking much about it at all: "Sam, it's like moving to another planet."<br />
<br />
Within minutes - MINUTES - 3 friends had liked my comment. The first, a friend since Jr. High, and one of my first friends to be a mom. She's one of my effing heroes and, since a tempestuous relationship with authority, has returned to school and is killing it in math class. The second was a friend from High School. She lists her occupation as, "Executive Bogey Chaser at Chez [redacted]." The last was a more recent friend, the wife of a dear almost-family friend of Andy's. After some hairy struggles, she and her wife finally had a beautiful Isaac six months ago. Her Facebook occupation says, "Isaac's mom at the [blank] residence." So. Obviously, these are my people. <br />
<br />
The weight of my comment didn't really strike me until after it struck them. And then I sat there: stunned. Ohmyfuckinggod, I thought. While it would be nice to think that I've evolved, while it would be nice to think that I've matured, while it would be nice to think that some magic mommy dust fell on my head and turned me into some beatific mama goddess...none of that has happened. What happened instead belongs in some random attack of the body snatchers movie.<br />
<br />
A few days later, I was at our weekly toddler group; a collection of women and babies that Arlo and I have known since he was just months old. Now: I have not been through a war. I have watched Saving Private Ryan, and that World War II series on HBO and the assorted Ken Burns documentary. I've read more than my share of Tim O'Brien books. But truthfully, the closest thing I've come to a foxhole, was late spring 2010, when Arlo was an infant. I was functioning on small bursts of sleep, never more than 2 hours at a time. Andy was working, both my mom and grandmother were trading flus, and here I had this teeny tiny baby that the world somehow expected me to keep alive, all while keeping myself alive, as well. I was never clean. I was losing my hair. I was literally afraid to leave the house. I was living on catnaps, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and baby smell. I sat most of the day, hunkered on the couch in milk stained clothing, holding Arlo. Some days, I never put him down. I watched horrible television. I insulted Jehovah's Witnesses. I yelled at the dogs.<br />
<br />
These women, this small group of women and babies, somehow saw through all of that to be friends with me. Mostly because they were in their own foxholes. Maybe theirs were not made of peanut butter and jelly and Perry Masons, but they were fox holes none the less. We met each friday, under the leadership of someone who really was a beatific mama goddess. We somehow saw our way out of our holes, and we held hands, girl-scout-style, and walked out into the sun, single-file. We are still friends. We will probably, thanks be to facebook, be friends for a long while yet. Some of us still meet every week.<br />
<br />
That week, we talked about how we were different, us mamas of toddlers, than who we were once, pre-babies. Whoa.<br />
<br />
Lastly, and I won't go into this too much here, because this poor woman that I don't even know is taking up, along with Downton Abbey, far too much of my headspace already. I mean, she totally deserves it, as she seems to get more amazing to me with each passing day, but still.<br />
<br />
One of the aforementioned mamas asked me a couple of months ago, "Do you read Dear Sugar?"<br />
<br />
"What is that?" I said. "I need to know."<br />
<br />
I did. I did need to know. Since then, every second Thursday, during Arlo's nap, I check: http://therumpus.net/sections/dear-sugar/ And, without fail, every second Thursday, during Arlo's nap, I cry. Very rarely do the problems have anything to do with me, but this woman, this Dear Sugar, can do with words what.. I don't even know. Have you ever seen Jennifer Jason Leigh act? And each eye twitch, each minute turn of her head, how it makes you ache sometimes? That's what Dear Sugar does.<br />
<br />
Last week, on Valentine's Day, Dear Sugar shed her anonymity. It turns out she is a writer of beautiful things, and she currently lives in Portland, and she lives in my old neighborhood and her kids go to the elementary school that my old roommate used to work at, and her son was born in late April, the year that she was 35. And she wrote this: http://www.brainchildmag.com/essays/fall2008_strayed.asp , and I read it today, in bits and pieces, small moments tucked into Arlo's nap, during lunch, around grocery shopping.... I finished it in the late afternoon.<br />
<br />
It turns out, there are more people than I thought on this planet.<br />
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It also turns out, as is to be expected, that I have to go rescue a dear Dada, and help get a too soon to be two year old out of the bath, and pajamaed and to bed. There are some other thoughts to explore, but they will have to wait, likely to be tucked into some other surreptitious moments of my future day.<br />
<br />
I will get to it. I will.<br />
<br />
*a song, by the band, The Only Ones (thank you, j.a.) lyrics as follows: I always flirt with death/ I could kill, but I don't care about it / I can face your threats / Stand up tall and scream and shout about it<br />
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I think I'm on another world with you / I'm on another planet with you<br />
<br />
You always get under my skin / I don't find it irritating / You always play to win /I don't need rehabilitating<br />
<br />
Another girl, another planet / Another girl, another planet<br />
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Space travels in my blood / And there ain't nothing I can do about it / Long journeys wear me out / Oh God we won't live without it<br />
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Another girl is loving you now / Another planet, forever holding you down / Another planetlmshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07087177603275725666noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20591273.post-35872697488845982872012-02-05T18:53:00.000-08:002012-02-05T18:55:04.384-08:00#febphotoaday 1-4<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Days one through four....<br />
<br />
one) my view: teatime at my friend lisa's house, sipping on earl grey, nomming on birthday cupcakes, walking around the pool and watching arlo systematically destroy her house. it was the loveliest of afternoons.<br />
<br />
two) words: my shopping list; partial.<br />
<br />
three) hands: mine; working.<br />
<br />
four) a stranger: surreptitiously caught at the venice beach playground. chicken.<br />
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it was an interesting week. we're not sleeping so well over here (well, i am, when i can, thank you melatonin). arlo on the other hand... my thought process is that his mind is so busy trying to figure out how to master the 5 new words he's coming up with every day, that there's just no room in his brain to fit in any rest. at least i hope that's what it is.<br />
<br />
anyway, the aforementioned lisa j. saved me from a hideous wednesday (with less than four hours of sleep on tuesday night), by hosting our motley crew. thursday was some shopping. friday working. saturday we headed down to the beach to play with friends, in hopes of dishing on downton abbey. more like chasing toddlers around, peeling oranges, and trying to find strangers within phone photo shooting range.<br />
<br />
i love this project. <br />
<br />lmshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07087177603275725666noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20591273.post-6848218670494633172012-02-03T19:50:00.001-08:002012-02-03T19:51:18.126-08:00if amy and i lived in the same citywe would watch downton abbey every sunday, and it would look like this:<br />
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<br />lmshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07087177603275725666noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20591273.post-12647345052091079772012-01-31T20:26:00.000-08:002012-01-31T20:26:22.793-08:00#FEBPHOTOADAYso, i have been counting down the days, at least for the last week, until tomorrow. so looking forward to dedicating myself to a new tiny piece of art each day. i'm looking for little pearls of happiness amongst the baby tea sets, richard scarry books, diapers, computers, grants and websites that are crowding my days lately.<br />
<br />
i miss you. i haven't had a chance to talk with you in forever. remember those days we used to sit down, over coffee, over wine, over bad tv? i miss those days. sadly, still no time. so...as they say, a picture is worth a thousand words. let me share my month with you.<br />
<br />
want to take part? head over <a href="http://www.fatmumslim.com.au/2012/01/february-photo-day-challenge.html" target="_blank">here</a> to get the deets. fatmumslim is fanfreakingtastic.<br />
<br />
and stay tuned here, as i'll be posting the photos (I WILL, I SWEAR) at least weekly.<br />
<br />
xoxo.lmshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07087177603275725666noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20591273.post-1534989133902854402012-01-30T18:30:00.000-08:002012-01-30T18:30:14.673-08:00happy 21 months, and other things.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGC7C1ehEhH0EzPKxxwfQjFYeqyBhsDkHz6smymPQ4ONGzJRoDvASr5dnuMfCFOq_0sTIU4oIoq84Si8jUciIQqWjvleMQO_WOTzz8l7wLvaBjdS7ZJjV-a22kxUlgOmThShNd/s1600/photo(66).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGC7C1ehEhH0EzPKxxwfQjFYeqyBhsDkHz6smymPQ4ONGzJRoDvASr5dnuMfCFOq_0sTIU4oIoq84Si8jUciIQqWjvleMQO_WOTzz8l7wLvaBjdS7ZJjV-a22kxUlgOmThShNd/s400/photo(66).JPG" width="300" /></a></div>
<br />
wait, do i have that right? 21 (counting in head: may, june, july, august, september, october, november, december, january, holy cow, what happened to the last six months? i feel like i'm still looking for a dress to wear to nicole's wedding -- maybe that's because i'm now looking for a dress to wear to amy's wedding? -- but really, my god, time, you're fooling with me!) yes! TWENTY ONE MONTHS.<br />
<br />
oh little arlo, in just a few short weeks, i will be able to toss aside this cumbersome month counting. by summer, i will be able to, all footloose and fancy free, dash off, "he's two." or, "he's two and a half" or, eventually (dun dun dun), "he'll be three soon!" but...i suppose i'm getting ahead of myself. for now, you are twenty one months old. much more than halfway to two, but not so close that i feel comfortable saying that you're almost two. and thus, with the month counting. sometimes, i toss caution to the wind and say, "he'll be two in april. at the end. of april. then, he'll be two." but really, i think saying, "he's 21 months," makes me sound less stupid. and of all the goals i've ever made, this year, last, any year: trying to sound less stupid is a really good one, and one that i should work a little harder to adhere to.<br />
<br />
so, you. 21 months. have i told you lately, how much you look like a big boy? <br />
because, god...<br />
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<br />
also, words! so many words! what i can think of right now:<br />
"hum" (home).<br />
"dir dawg" (dirty dog. don't ask, we have no idea.)<br />
"cri cheez" (cream cheese).<br />
"melmo" (elmo).<br />
"shuz" and "sock"<br />
"ahside" (outside).<br />
"apple" or "ah-RAH!" (arlo).<br />
"AAAHHHnnn" (on). <br />
"ufff" (off).<br />
"duhsees" (daisy, the chihuahua).<br />
"buut" (book).<br />
"BUTT" (butt).<br />
"AHmal" (oatmeal)<br />
<br />
you still say "more" with your hands. and instead of saying please, you do a little japanese bow. you also have taken to answer yes or no questions with "mmhm," except you rarely say the first syllable, preferring to just say "hmmmm?" which ends up sounding more like you're hard of hearing, rather than that you are in agreement. you also, and lord knows where you picked this up, seem to talk in a bit of a french accent. i am "maMA." andy is "daDA." Three singing pigs say "la LA <b>LA</b>"<br />
<br />
we had a few steps back in the sleeping department last week, but that seems to have remedied itself (very afraid, now that i just typed that out loud). i think your last molars are coming in. holy cow, will i go marching through the streets when this whole teething thing is over (at least until they start to fall out....).<br />
<br />
you are getting to be super super independent. and you like to be naked a lot. you also like to get into bed -- anyone's bed; yours, ours, ava's, nolan's...if there's a bed, with covers and a pillow, you're thrilled. you also like shoes.<br />
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<br />
after a very hectic end to 2011, 2012 has been a lot of fun. we're going to a new toddler play group with all of our sanctuary mama and baby friends, we went to the art show and looked at all kinds of brightly colored things and/or naked people, we've had a ton of playdates and found some new parks, and we almost made it through half of your great-great aunt phyllis' surprise 80th birthday. i'm having a ball keeping up with you.<br />
<br />
you, mon frere, are the coolest.<br />
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xo.<br />
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<br />lmshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07087177603275725666noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20591273.post-60880597719600665442012-01-10T18:51:00.000-08:002012-01-10T18:51:55.807-08:00cheers.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUNF41zAy-bhxFrtQS1T9EROw8AhWbY5R19rBw2ZQGhYqrk9N3drCgz2nHSOsPTG7PJSwfSwBeeAlMx9i6Gwq76vh-0TdKOoxdN3LhBvWmddNiGZpkVK3ISN1MVSESD1Lso8nz/s1600/photo%252865%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUNF41zAy-bhxFrtQS1T9EROw8AhWbY5R19rBw2ZQGhYqrk9N3drCgz2nHSOsPTG7PJSwfSwBeeAlMx9i6Gwq76vh-0TdKOoxdN3LhBvWmddNiGZpkVK3ISN1MVSESD1Lso8nz/s400/photo%252865%2529.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">dining room floor tea party.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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oh, poor neglected blog, i wish you happy new year.<br />
<br />
i have all kinds of resolutions, and you are one of them. among the others: carve out a little more time (a littttllllleee moorrrre tiiiimmmme) for me. i have been working a little bit more, here and there, a large-ish handful of hours each week, and its doing me good. the getting out of the house, the drinking of too much coffee, the clicky click click of the keyboard under my fingers.<br />
<br />
so there's that. i also want to read more. which i'm doing, and knit more which i'm also doing. i also told myself that i would go for a walk while andy took arlo for their morning sojourn. i have not been so good on that front. that hour in the morning is the only time in my sometimes 18 hour day where i get to loll. i like lolling. turns out, i like lolling more than i like walking. and that's ok.<br />
<br />
writing, reading, knitting. but not so much with the walking. still. we're only ten days into the year, i'm giving myself credit where credit is due.<br />
<br />
p.s. see that tea party? happens every morning. i love it.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />lmshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07087177603275725666noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20591273.post-16380048728920633952011-11-11T18:46:00.001-08:002011-11-15T07:13:13.836-08:00Get a Melissa & Doug 25% Off Coupon When You Take the North "Poll"!! hey, look, a deal!<br />
Melissa and Doug want you to tell them which of their <a href="http://www.melissaanddoug.com/" target="_blank">educational
toys</a> you think is the best! Just click on the image below to place your vote in the North "Poll!"
You'll Get a <b>Melissa & Doug 25% Off Coupon</b>** to use at MelissaAndDoug.com just for voting!<br />
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<a href="http://ww2.melissaanddoug.com/Holiday-2011/North-Poll-Toys-Promotion/vote-best-toys.php?blog=1141938ba2c2b13f5505d7c424ebae5f" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHIM28NN4Vlg2642X0hvnK08y9js0l4a1vATFZXFC5095s66SgVakhOs25yGlzv70BZTJGDUw_WSpijBL3tFa1RKJwyqbK4dtFOZNHjFex7Ufi-KRogdCG-2sR44uK3lOFRBs2/s1600/fanfaves_banner_final-tf-400w.jpg" /></a></div>
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<br />
we love Melissa and Doug at our house. i actually don't know a house with kids (or educators) that doesn't. they<a href="http://www.melissaanddoug.com/About+Melissa+%26+Doug/About+Melissa+and+Doug/61"></a> are amazing at crafting toys that are engaging, durable, beautiful, affordable, and most important,<a href="http://www.melissaanddoug.com/Safety/Safety+Statement/111"> safe</a>. and we know of what we speak: here is a partial list of M&D toys that have been (or will soon be, come christmas) road tested at Casa de Arlo:<br />
<ul>
<li><a href="http://www.melissaanddoug.com/wooden-chomp-and-clack-alligator-push-toy">chomp and clack alligator push toy</a>; which, truth be told, we got as a hand-me-down. it got a HUGE amount of use from arlo and is now on to its third home!</li>
<li><a href="http://www.melissaanddoug.com/stuffed-rainbow-stacker">soft rainbow stacker</a>; we actually have two of these.</li>
<li><a href="http://www.melissaanddoug.com/shape-sorting-cube-learning-game">shape sorting cube</a>; which we got this along with these:</li>
<li> <a href="http://www.melissaanddoug.com/alphabet-nesting-and-stacking-blocks">alphabet nesting and stacking blocks</a> last christmas, and both are still in beautiful condition. after daily use. really.</li>
<li><a href="http://www.melissaanddoug.com/wooden-abc-123-learning-blocks">wooden 123/ABC blocks</a>. i love that these look like the ones i had, and probably like the ones my mom had.</li>
<li><a href="http://www.melissaanddoug.com/cinco-starfish-collapsible-bucket">cinco starfish collapsible bucket</a>.</li>
<li><a href="http://www.melissaanddoug.com/happy-giddy-tunnel">happy giddy tunnel</a>. which played a HUGE roll in arlo's first birthday party, as well as being a pretty amazing crawl-inducer, back in those days...</li>
<li>and, the <a href="http://www.melissaanddoug.com/food-groups-set-play-food">food groups</a>; of which the chicken leg and the anchovy (?) seem to be his favorite. don't ask me, he's a nutty kid that way. </li>
</ul>
but here, don't just look at the toys we have, go check out their <a href="http://www.melissaanddoug.com/">website.</a><br />
<br />
click on the image up there to start. happy voting, happy shopping, happy holidays (already?!)!<br />
<br />
love, arlo and his bffs, Melissa and Doug. <br />
<br />lmshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07087177603275725666noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20591273.post-4273485631211349112011-11-03T17:16:00.000-07:002011-11-03T17:16:32.671-07:00a moment captured.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8qOfy4pvt21T6L1pkF5vIWR3c6MhFgLD_YMwvpXQk1sbka9fU-010RyDETHqaUBEEs0h-KGokdyt9lsSiXkRTtRUwuD8VopQqj3HfBxfzst9ovhLgLH9TtJsxpYMl7vB9oSgM/s1600/3ca07736f3fa886224110b6af4cb0a2f1b7616d1_wmeg_00001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8qOfy4pvt21T6L1pkF5vIWR3c6MhFgLD_YMwvpXQk1sbka9fU-010RyDETHqaUBEEs0h-KGokdyt9lsSiXkRTtRUwuD8VopQqj3HfBxfzst9ovhLgLH9TtJsxpYMl7vB9oSgM/s640/3ca07736f3fa886224110b6af4cb0a2f1b7616d1_wmeg_00001.jpg" width="476" /></a></div>
November 3, 3:45 p.m. about 68 degrees.<br />
i was on the sidewalk pictured above, walking home. the small breeze left over from yesterday's santa ana is cool. power 106 is blasting from the convertible waiting for the light. over a hip-hop beat, the dj says to "call right now to get tickets to the sold-out cali christmas party!"<br />
<br />
<br />lmshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07087177603275725666noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20591273.post-74293120994872359542011-10-16T14:23:00.000-07:002011-10-16T15:07:57.496-07:00it bears repeating.in october, 2008, i wrote this letter to barack obama (incidentally, its the only post on this blog, in almost 6 years of posts, that has generated hate mail).<br />
<br />
anyway, it bears repeating. here's the<a href="http://quietlyis.blogspot.com/2008/10/i-wrote-letter-to-barack-obama.html"> link</a>, text follows:<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">Dear Barack,</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">It's funny, just this morning as I was listening to NPR, I voiced a question to my boyfriend, who suggested that I write you. Serindipitous. But before my question, let me say:</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">I did watch the debates last night, and again was saddened by John McCain's failing to speak to me and people like me.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">I am 33. I live in Los Angeles, where I was born and raised by a single mother, who came to this country when she was 5 years old. My entire education has been in the public school system, a system my mother believed in, not only for its price tag, but also that it promoted diversity in a city that can be very isolated along race and economic lines.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">I put myself through college at Portland State University, having to wait until I was 24 to qualify for financial aid without reporting my parents' income. I worked while I went to school, so it took me a little longer than some, and I graduated in August of 2005. I was 30.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">Since moving back to Los Angeles, I've worked in the development offices of 2 non-profits, both working with foster youth, families at risk, and youth empowerment. This coming November, my benefits package will take effect, and I will have health insurance for the first time since I was dropped off my mother's coverage when I was 23.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">That was TEN years ago. You bet you have my vote. I wish I could contribute money. I can't. What I have been doing, what I did on the bus ride into work this morning, was talk to my fellow citizens, ask questions, build community and, because today was special, gave away some Obama For President buttons that I purchased in August from moveon.org.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">One of the major reasons I cannot contribute any more money than I already have is my student loan debt. It's over $350 a month. I make less than $35,000 a year, before taxes. I work for a non-profit. Every MINUTE of my work day is spent trying to solve problems the government can't, or won't, address. I take the bus to work. I use CFLs at home. I turn off lights when I leave the room and, Jimmy-Carter-style, put on a sweater before I turn on the heater.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">Like I said, you have my vote, and I am working the streets to gather up some more for you. I know, and a lot of people around here seem to know, that you HEAR us. And feel like its been a long time since anyone has. So thank you.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">Now my question: Last night, when Oliver stood up to ask his question about the "bail-out", John McCain corrected him and said "rescue plan". You went on to use the term "rescue plan" later, several times. Barack, I was an English major, and I have a problem here: "rescue plan" seems to imply that there was some sort of accident, an act of God, something unpredictable and of no one's fault, a banana peel under Wall Street's foot, and oops - broken. You and I, and millions of Americans know: not so. Please call it what it is: a bail out. And if some plan comes up to pull people out from under mortgages that they signed up for but knew they could not afford, please call it what it is: a bail out.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">Otherwise, if we are going to launch rescue plans, please lets include everybody. I know a great big handful of people who work hard every day, in the community, in our schools and libraries, for our cities, for our citizens, who cannot afford their own apartment, let alone the fact that they will likely never own their own house, struggling as they are under loans that they took out (some from Fannie, mind you) to go to college. And though life would be much easier if I took me and my english degree and went to go work in advertising (at likely double my paycheck), that's not how I was raised.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">I know you are doing, and have plans to do, everything you can for us. I can't wait to see you do it. But please, in the meantime, call things what they are, if for no other reason than for the people who are out here every day knowing full well no rescue plan is in OUR future.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">I will continue to talk you up every single time I get the chance. I'm going to a meeting of the Westchester Democratic Committee tonight, at an IHOP on the corner of Manchester and Sepulveda. Sometime around 7:30 pm PST, listen for us, we're cheering you on.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">Best,</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">Lisa Sorrentino</span>lmshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07087177603275725666noreply@blogger.com1