small hands

Do you have any good tofu recipes? If so, please e-mail them to me. Thank you.

It's the end of January. And, as it happened last year and probably several years before, the Valentines Day hype is starting to mess with my mind.

I understand that Valentines Day is a made up Hallmark holiday. And I get that it is completely commercialized and ridiculous. The pressure is on to give and/or receive the perfect expression of love on one day of the year. The perfect expression comes in the form of jewelry, candy, flowers, stuffed animals, lingerie, a romantic dinner, or some combination of these things.

So I was experiencing some angst. It had the flavor of–oh I'm not going to get any candy or flowers for V-Day, woe is me, I'll never have a partner who makes a grand romantic gesture on V-Day, woe, woe.

Then I looked at the calendar. V-Day is on a Friday. I have my children on that day. Things are looking up.

Then I decided to do what I do for myself on Christmas. Get my own damn flowers (about which I have impeccable taste), candy (I know what I like), a V-Day massage from a professional, AND a get together with the people that I love, starting with my children. A get together where we eat what we love, drink what we love, and hang out.

And when I got this idea, I felt like the Mena Suvari character in American Beauty, who opened her shirt and thousands and thousands of rose petals spilled out.

Here's a paradox: while I adore house porn*, I do not like to look at model homes or go to open houses. Yesterday at lunch, D. and I went to look at some model homes in an area which is promoted as surrounding a golf course, wine-country-gateway-to-Napa, blah blah blah. The houses range from $400,000 to $650,000.

They're ugly. No character. It's like walking into an environment where there is an oxygen deficit. There’s even a Thomas Kincaid Village, modeled after the cheesy ass Kincaid "paintings." It's a gated community and the houses are on little tiny lots with no yards at all. And the model homes have Kincaid "paintings" inside. The only thing which impressed me after looking at seven model homes were the Viking appliances in the kitchen of one of the homes.

Admittedly, new houses have lovely bathrooms. But the kitchens in these houses were not laid out very intelligently--too big of a gulf between the stove and the work area. Imagine if you will a colander of shrimp that you have just rinsed and deveined and are trying to get into a saute pan. You're gonna have drops of shrimp water on the floor in the area between the sink and the stove. Not good.

I didn't see anything that would tempt me to sell my funky old house in Oakland for suburban life.

Not only that, but the neighborhood was completely deserted during the day, with only one woman walking on the street. And she didn't look happy. It must be stressful to have such an enormous mortgage, and have to furnish the place, and make those SUV payments. No thanks.

And as much as I like all things about home decorating, I would kill myself long before I could endure 100 conversations about the color of the kitchen cabinets, or the color of the paint in the great room, et cetera ad nauseam. D. said that when she bought her house she had to make four 800 mile round trips from her old house to her new house to discuss the tile in the bathroom.

*I subscribe to (1) House and Garden, (2) Better Homes and Gardens, (3) Home, (4) House Beautiful, (5) Canadian House and Home, (6) Metropolitan Home, (7) Garden Design, (8) Country Home and (9) Elle Decor.

Yesterday I worked late, listened to some of the State of the Union (moronic), and then went to a board meeting. We have four meetings a year and they're always really nice, to just be able to sit and listen to the work of this organization and how much they're contributing to the community. And we always get dinner–last night it was tamales, black beans, rice, salad and grapes for dessert. And the meeting place is only 3 minutes from my house.

When I got home from the meeting I cleaned up the house, did some laundry and took a shower.

I've been thinking about the term booty call. While it has negative connotations, I don't know why it should. Imagine if you will an evening where you get to do your thing--take care of business, work late if you need to, vacuum and pick up toys, deal with the garbage and recycling. Then you take a shower, watch some television, turn out the lights and go to sleep. Then, because you don't sleep very soundly, you wake up when you hear your front door open and you are expecting someone. That someone walks into your bedroom and...whatever you wish. And then the person goes home and you get to sleep diagonally in your bed and not worry about hogging the blankets or morning breath or anything. Seems pretty good to me. It's not a relationship (which is groovy if you’re not in the mood for one), but everyone is satisfied.

Frankie is gonna take a break from blogging. Sniff. Sniff. His blog makes me laugh every day.

I have been thinking about blogging and pondering the question: Why blog? And how to blog?

I really admire blogs which go there. You know what I mean? The ones which tell about the important stuff in a blogger’s life.

The ones which tell about the intimate stuff in a blogger's life.

The ones which give me a slice of life from a place like Texas or Colorado or New York.

And yet it is also true that bloggers front. There is no doubt about that. Except Tee. She doesn't front. They create an online persona, based on the selective information that they provide. Which is fine, it a way. No one really wants Too Much Information. The challenge is to find a balance.

So here's my plan. For better of for worse, I intend to be more detailed. Because that's what I like and how can I expect it of others if I won't do it myself?

In addition, I was listening to Anne Lamott speak on the radio, participating in City Arts and Lectures. And while I find her new book, Blue Shoe, repetitive and ploddingly written (I suspect she's a more effervescent talker than writer), she said something good. Like Toni Morrison, who said that she wrote what she wanted to read, Lamott said that if you write what you are needing to read, then it will be out in the world and you will not be needing it anymore and someone else will also probably be getting from your writing what she needs too.

This morning, at around 5:30AM, I woke up in a puddle of urine. My boy has been doing really well, sleeping in his underpants and not wetting the bed. But he's not even 3 yet, so it's a bit of a hit or miss proposition. We got up and took off his underwear and shirt, then woke my daughter and changed the sheets and climbed back into bed. But he was awake by that time and not sleepy anymore. So he and my girl started watching Spy Kids (the first one). It's funny and edgy and interesting. I dozed a bit while they watched it, then got up to shower around 7:10.

It was a pretty good morning and the mysterious ungodly stench in the front yard that we smelled when we got home last night was gone. I had worried all night that the horrible smell would remain, that maybe our neighbor was dead in her house. It was gone in the morning and my neighbor's pickup truck was gone–which means she went to her teaching job, alive and well (I assume).

The daffodils are blooming in my front yard.

My daughter asked me as we settled down for story time last night if I liked it when the children were with me. I told her that I loved it and missed them when they were gone. And that's true. And it's also true that when they are not with me, I don't have the job of taking care of them, and I get to chill. And I get to have grown up male company, occasionally. Which can be a different kind of effort. Coupled moms question me regularly about whether having free time is wonderful. It is....but I'd rather have my children. I would infinitely prefer to have my children.

Last night I had to figure out what to make for dinner. It's easy to get an inexpensive 3-pack of whole chickens from Costco, to put a frozen one on the kitchen counter in the morning, and in the evening to cook the defrosted breast and leg and thigh meat in a quick stir fry, with broccoli or red bell pepper or green beans, and serve with steamed rice. But I ran out of chickens. I was not in the mood for pasta with cream sauce and there was no other meat in the house. The main thing about cooking dinner is to get it done fast. I didn't want to pick anything up, because I wasn't in the mood for the usual fare, and I had Japanese food for lunch, so I wasn't in the mood for more rice. I compromised and made chicken nuggets, garlic bread, and corn. Not a meal I would slap myself on the back about, but the children ate it, and it took so little time to prepare that I had time for a bath while my daughter painted and my son watched Spongebob and played with a pretend snake.

Last night was very intense for me, mothering-wise. Both kids took a nap in the afternoon, which is nothing short of miraculous, and was due in most part to being sleep deprived and my daughter battling a ferocious bug (which appears to be strep throat). I lulled my son to sleep by rocking slightly and holding him while he watched a cartoon on very low volume. They napped, my son on my lap, and I wrote in my journal and watched Bravo's rebroadcast of the Golden Globes. I had missed its original broadcast. I didn't watch the game. Just as well.

When they woke up and had some dinner, it was time to complete my daughter's homework. This week it was reading the books sent home by the teachers and writing them down on a log, as well as books from home. Then on the back of the log, my daughter had to do a mini book report. While she was reading the books and sounding out the words to me, my son insisted on my pitching a balloon to him while he stood on a chair and batted it with a bat made out of sponge material. He would hit the balloon and jump off the chair at the same time, then climb back on while I retrieved the balloon. It was so hectic, but every time I felt my stress level rising, I would think "Calm down. This is what mothering is about."

For the record, I didn't riot and my street was very calm. I didn't hear any rioting or see any rioting. And no one died in Oakland, whereas there were two deaths in Tampa. I looked at the San Francisco Chronicle headline this morning "Raider Rage" with an enormous photo of twenty people standing around a car and threw the entire newspaper away.

I don't know about you, but I wanna see Chris’ rack. Don't you?

Oy.

jhames got me thinking, AGAIN. He reminded me to thank everyone who reads my blog.

Thank you.

And to everyone who comments, an extra special thank you.

I listened to this interview with Mara Hilliard on Thursday and it was so striking. Terry Gross was attacking her and her beliefs and her organization. The way Ms. Hilliard kept her composure, I almost cried. She was calm and poised and communicated her ideas so clearly. It was awe inspiring.

I wish I could do my job like that all the time. On Thursday I was attending depositions, defending my clients. At one point, the opposing counsel was discussing information on an arrest warrant, and he said "And doesn’t the B on the warrant stand for Negro." Negro. In 2003, in the San Francisco Bay Area, some supposedly liberal attorney uses the word Negro. It felt to me, coupled with his constant chat containing pathologizing statements about Oakland (I don't know if he knows I live in Oakland), as though he was attempting to engage in not so subtle race baiting. And while I am sorely tempted to report him to the State Bar for his conduct, now is not the time.

But this kind of thing takes its toll on my psyche, even after 11 years of practicing law.

On Friday, I was the only attorney of five in the office, the others all being out on either vacations or five hour lunches (I'm not exaggerating). I was deposing two more people, concentrating and questioning all day. In the afternoon, my secretary discovered from the court that one of the attorneys had accidentally dismissed a lawsuit, instead of just a party to the lawsuit. So in the middle of the deposition, the secretary and I had to prepare briefs to vacate the dismissal and get it filed by 4:00. That's when I felt like Mara Hilliard. In the zone, concentrating.


Runa asks: this is my first visit...why do you call this living nappy?

Let's see. The origin of the phrase, for me, is an E-40 song, where he says "We're all just living nappy y'all." I interpret "living nappy" as living in a way which embraces and affirms life as an African American. I use the phrase nappy referring the naturally curly state of the hair of people of African descent, and not the British term for diaper.

I named the blog Living Nappy in part because that is the "handle" I use on some progressive mothering bulletin boards in which I participate. And, at the time that I started the blog, I felt that I was moving into a living nappy phase, emerging from the end of a marriage, living in Oakland as a working single mother of two biracial children. If someone asked me what are the essential elements to living nappy, I would say...Al Green records, family and friends and laughter, good food and good barbecue.

I'm not feeling the Friday Five this week.

I got this from nicole

three things that scare me:
Anything happening to my children, rodents, rollercoasters

three people who make me laugh:
Eddie Izzard, my son, my brothers

three things i love:
My children, good company, good sex

three things i hate:
Guns, Republicans, war mongering

three things i don't understand:
Car mechanics, war mongering, Black Republicans

three things on my desk:
Pens in a tin can covered with glitter created by my sweet baby girl, litigation files, an empty can of Diet Coke

three things i'm doing right now:
Digesting my lunch, getting ready for another deposition (the 5th in 2 days), obsessing

three things i want to do before i die:
Visit the Forbidden City in Beijing, see my children graduate from college, have true intimacy with another person

three things i can do:
Type, reason, drive

three ways to describe my personality:
Verbal, moody, driven

three ways to describe my looks:
Dark chocolate, brown eyes, 5'7"

three things i can't do:
Hold my tongue, relax completely, algebra

three things i think you should listen to:
Your inner voice, your therapist, all of Louis Armstrong

three things i don't think you should listen to:
Retrograde misogynist rap music, Republicans, anti-choice-pro-chastity rhetoric

three things i say the most:
Fuck, I disagree, honey

three of your absolute favourite foods:
Carne asada, macaroni and cheese, chocolate cake with chocolate frosting

three things you'd like to learn:
Spanish, carpentry, patience

three beverages you drink regularly:
Coffee, cranberry juice, Diet Coke

three shows you watched when you were a kid:
The Cosby Show, Donny and Marie, The Six Million Dollar Man

Well The Mothership is back among the living. She's driving like buttah. And it only cost me....$758.

I would love to be able to get a second opinion on car repair, but the logistics are these: I work in a one horse town, at least as it relates to Volvo repairs. I have to be able to drop my children off, get my car fixed and get to work, and pick it up at the end of the day so I can get my children. So I can't shop around. Not without taking 8 hours of annual leave to hang out in Oakland/Berkeley where I have more choices of reliable Volvo mechanics.

My friend D. gave a cry of alarm at the cost of one of the parts ($345), opining that her brother is a manager of an auto parts store (40 miles from my job) and all mechanics mark up the parts they buy wholesale, etc., etc. This is all very interesting, but I am caught in the aforementioned equation. There is no wiggle room, no time in the very late afternoon to call her brother and find out if he can get whatever the fuck part it is, since there's no way he can get it to my car in time for me to pick up my kids on time.

I am today breathing a sigh of relief because TM is working. I didn't want to pay so much money. It means no happy go lucky trips to IKEA for a while, more careful spending for a while, carrying credit card debt for a month or so (of which I previously had none). But it's the price of doing business, so to speak.

I had jury duty this morning. It's the first time I’ve ever had it. It was pleasant. I went down to the Wiley Manuel Courthouse in downtown Oakland and hung out in the very comfortable jury room. I read Vanity Fair, and read the following questionnaire of Cynthia Rowley (because she's a celebrity, it is presumed that her answers are more interesting than mine):

Lipstick: Vaseline or Kiehl's Lip balm
Mascara: None presently. Generally, Maybelline black
Moisturizer: Vaseline Intensive Care Lotion on my body, nothing on my face
Perfume/Cologne: Poeme by Lancome
Toothpaste: Colgate Mint
Soap: Caress
Razor: Gilette disposable for sensitive skin
Cell Phone: Nokia
Detergent: Arm and Hammer with bleach
Beverage: Coffee
Beer: None
Jeans: Whatever are cheapest
Sneakers: Ditto
T-Shirt: Hanes Men's Cotton X-Large
Car: 1990 Volvo 240 DL wagon--Gold
Sheets: Flannel. I know jack shit about thread count
Coke or Pepsi? Diet Coke
Burger King or McDonalds? My mom's cooking, please.

I didn't get chosen to serve on the jury, but I had a blast witnessing the gorgeous mosaic that is the diversity of Alameda County. It made me wish to work in Oakland. I was able to leave at 12:30, get some Peets (a cute guy lounging on Lakeshore Avenue said hello to me--woo hoo), stop off at home and then head to work.

The Mothership is broken. I am not sure how broken. I am waiting for THE CALL.

I drive at least 60 miles per work day. Home to work is 26 miles, and I have to drop my two children off and pick them up. And I frequently have to drive an additional 40 miles round trip to get to court and back to the office.

Sunday morning I had a lovely phone call with my missing (working too hard in far flung locations) girlfriend, T. and another phone call arranging to hook up with my friend. I then went to The Mothership to drop by A's house to see her new baby twin daughters and wish her 2 year old a happy birthday. TM wouldn't start. I was confused, sitting behind the wheel. Not What's Wrong. More like What the Fuck Am I Going To Do Now?

Sunday is a bad day for your car to be broken. Since A. lives near, I got out of TM and walked to the party, giving silent thanks that my children were with their dad. I was still pretty flustered when I got there. I looked at the babies--dreamy, tiny perfection--and then told some folks that my car wouldn't start.

Just like that, Robin offered the knowledge of her partner T., Aimee offered her jumper cables and we were off to solve the problem. T. was so generous and nice about looking at my lame car, cleaning off the corrosion from the battery cables (I thought Diehard batteries were supposed to last for the life of the car. Wrong.), and giving the car a jump. It is a time like that when I realize how little I know about cars. Which means that a mechanic can tell me the car needs an exorcism and it's going to cost $550 to rid it of evil spirits and I wouldn't know whether this is accurate or not.

The car started, but it was idling weird. T. went back to the party, I called my friend to explain my lateness. I owe Robin and T. dinner. And Aimee.

I spent the rest of the day at home, my friend cooking for us and us catching up--we haven't seen each other in a while. The next day I called my younger brother to help me get a new battery. After being sold the wrong one and returning it and going to Sears (my children in tow and behaving generally well), we got a new battery and she started up just fine. But she's idling funny.

So this morning I had to take her to the Volvo dealership near my job. I hate the guys who work there. They're mean and cold and I distrust them. But we're off to a good start since she got all the way there and didn't break down with my little kids strapped into their car seats on this rainy Tuesday morning. Two goals: the repairs don't cost more than $700 and this is not the beginning of the end for TM.

My car not working is very stressful. TM is an essential part of the process by which my life works. I wish I didn't work so far away from home, that my children's school and daycare weren't so far away from home and work, relatively speaking, but that's the way our lives are laid out right now.



And lately I haven't been rolling with stress very well. The work situation takes a huge toll. I had to remind myself on Friday that I didn't deserve the way I am being treated at work. I also had to buy myself some flowers to help me feel better. And N's death makes me think "Life is too short..." Life is too short to put up with so much bullshit. On the other hand, I have to work and keep this job, because I have pay for my life, my children's lives. Period.

I told my girl last night that N. passed away. She cried a lot, although I could tell that the pain was not as devastating as her grandmother's death. I had not told her all weekend because she spent it with her father and I didn't want to add to the stress of her leaving to go to his house. The topic came up because I was on the phone with a friend and she mentioned that a mutual acquaintance of ours had finished up her chemotherapy, needed because of a recurrence of breast cancer. I said "Oh she's feeling better now." And my daughter thought I was talking about N. and felt hopeful. So after I hung up, I had to tell her the truth about N.

The flip side, for me, of the phrase "Life is too short..." is the question "What is the point of [engaging in some endeavor/banging one’s head against a wall] if we’re all going to die anyway?"

It's like a being in a fog, this sadness and preoccupation, which will clear in time.


This or That

1. Super Bowl or World Series?

I like both of them in their own way. I don't watch all of either one. The World Series usually makes me more interested in baseball, but then the season is over and by the time it starts up again, I’m doing other things.

The Super Bowl is fun-–the commercials and eating nachos and chicken wings and stuff--but I am not glued to the tv every year and some years I skip the whole thing.

2. Winter or summer?

Summer for the flowers and vegetables, winter for the much needed rain.

3. Look up numbers in the phone book, or call directory assistance?

Look up numbers, generally. It used to drive me crazy when my ex would grab the phone and dial directory assistance and never look in the book, because it costs 50 ¢ per call, but he didn’t care because it was my money.

4. Mashed potatoes or French fries?

I like them both.

5. Hand-code your website, or use an editor (such as Front Page)?

What's Front Page? Obviously, my website is hand-coded and very rudimentarily at that.

6. Freeway or winding country road?

Freeway. Winding country road = vomiting on the side of winding country road

7. Star Wars or Star Trek?

I like Star Wars, Empire Strikes Back, and Star Wars Episode II. I like the original Star Trek and none of the movies.

8. Disney or Warner Brothers cartoons?

Neither. I think they have a subliminal message to kids to make their parents buy stuff.

9. When it feels chilly in the house: crank up the heat or put on a sweater?

Both. Upstairs the heating system is very inexpensive. Downstairs the heating system is very expensive. Upstairs heater, downstairs sweater. However, last night, as I was going to cook dinner, it was just too cold to even walk around downstairs, so I splurged and turned on the heater. It increased the comfort level immensely.

10. CBS or PBS?

PBS. The only thing I watch on CBS is CSI. That's one hour per week.

1. Where do you currently work?

In the legal department representing a city of approximately 110,000 people.

2. How many other jobs have you had and where?

First job--Berkeley Public Library--8 years
Second--small law firm in Oakland as a secretary--one year
Third job--worked at a bank in Berkeley to save money to go to Europe--6 months
Fourth--worked at a big law firm in San Francisco as an attorney--two hellish years
Fifth--worked for the City of Berkeley in the legal department--6 months
Sixth--job I have now--8 years

3. What do you like best about your job?

My answer to this question is so amazingly and sadly different than it would have been a year ago. What I like best about my job now is my salary. I like my office--big, windows that open, a door, a view of trees. I like the women in the office. I like being a lawyer, most of the time.

4. What do you like least about your job?

Everything else.

I understand, truly I do, how lucky I am to have this job. How, I, an African American female, could never previously have had the opportunity to have a job like this. I understand that this job enables me to live the kind of life I want, with my children in our house, and I don't have to make a lot of compromises in order to have a roof over my head. And I have been unemployed, which I found completely demoralizing. But these are not happy times in my workplace, and for no good reason, other than a person who is controlling and distrustful, whose humanity has evaporated, and who, yesterday, yelled at a group of professionals, the average age of which is 40.

5. What is your dream job?

This job, closer to my house, with only the women working here.



LATER:

N. passed away last night. She was 57 years old.

Okay, gwen says she made $7,000 last year, and it puts things (how much I hate my job right now) in perspective. Kinda.

Yesterday afternoon, in the middle of a meeting, I got a call from my mother's best friend's husband. He wanted to tell me that my mother's best friend is very near death from metastatic breast cancer and he thought of me as family and that I should know. I said I would get the children and go to the hospital after work.

My daughter took an interminably long time to get herself together–put her shoes on, put her toys away—at afterschool and I had to tell her why she had to hurry up. She started to cry on the way to the car, but calmed down after drinking some milk and tapping her leg rhythmically.

She wanted to know why N. is dying. The inference was, why is she dying so soon after my daughter's Oma died. It's hard to explain to someone who is 6 that everyone dies. While I regret the proximity, I still believe that we need to come to terms with and coexist more mindfully with death.

We got to Kaiser Oakland and parked. On the way through the parking structure someone who I worked with at private law firm 10 years ago recognized me. She admired my children, directed us to the ladies room so my son could relieve himself and gave me a hug. It was wonderful to see her.

At the ward, we were told that children could not go to where the patients were. But N.'s husband came from the room and showed us the secret way to go around the nursing staff and visit the patient.

She was asleep when we got there, breathing laboriously, as the cancer is in her lungs now. My brother was there, N's brother, and their two daughters and son-in-law. My daughter wanted to sit alone and look down at the lights of Oakland. When she started to cry, my son told her not to. But I told him that it was okay to cry, that it was okay for her to feel sad. So he told her "It's okay."

I went and sat next to N. and held her hand. She looked good to me, despite the oxygen mask, which, when she’s awake, she find objectionable. It makes her feel panicky. She's comfortable and heavily sedated.

My children took off their shoes and ran in the dark halls, until they got too rambunctious and I took them back into the sanctioned area. A little later, my mother and step-father returned from home. My daughter was craving my mother, wanting to hug her and sit on her lap. My son ran up and kissed her and buried his face in her neck. We talked for a little while, then I took my children to get some dinner and go home.



When we went to sleep, I put my hand on my girl’s head and snuggled my boy. She asked me to promise not to die soon. I promised.

The Oakland City Manager came into office with a big splash of press. I didn't pay attention to it. Then last night I was watching the Oakland City Council meeting and he was making an extended presentation. And he proposed, in response to the State of California budget crisis and its resulting impact on the City of Oakland budget, closing seven branches of the Oakland Public Library.

Seven.

Including closing the Temescal Branch. My neighborhood library. And moving its tool lending library.

Worse, he proposed cutting two branch libraries in East Oakland and sending the patrons to a branch in the Eastmont Mall. The nasty ass Eastmont Mall, a dilapidated island in a sea of concrete.

It's wrong.

One of the council members made a wonderful point. She said that when her father died when she was 9, there was no English language reading material in her house. She said her mother was illerate in Chinese as well. She said that if she wasn't able to go to the library and get 5 or 6 books a week, she would not have had access to them at all.

This proposal is not a done deal and I am going to write to all of the council members and the City Manager and encourage them to cut elsewhere.

This or That Tuesday Wednesday

1. Window shades or blinds?

Blinds.

2. Wall or desk calendar?

Wall calendar.

3. Paint or wallpaper?

Paint.

4. Electric or gas stove?

Gas stove.

5. Carpeting or bare floors?

Mostly bare floors, but some carpeting upstairs.

6. One TV, or more than one?

More than one. More like...ah..four small ones–bedroom, tv room (thus the name), my study and the kitchen.

7. Leather or fabric sofa?

Fabric. But Jennifer has a hot leather one which is only $799.



8. Eat meals in kitchen or dining room?

Dining room.

9. Fabric or vinyl shower curtain?

Clear vinyl

10. Your kitchen: well-equipped or bare bones?

Let’s see...is there anything more I would like? Maybe a lot of these and these and a new one of these, although the old one is working fine.

But it is not bare bones.

This weekend I actually started and finished The Lovely Bones by Alice Sebold. I had my doubts about reading a book about the murder of a child. It started out well enough and moved along nicely. The last 1/6 of it lost me, though, and I felt that the book had a patchwork quality with regard to the end. It is not a book that impressed me, moved me in the way it did the authors who placed their blurbs on the book jacket. It’s on the New York Times best seller list now, as well as a best seller in the Bay Area. But it’s not the first time I have experienced this kind of disappointment with hyped books. Actually, it is rare that I am impressed with a book as the literary establishment promises I will be. The last time was...hmm...She’s Come Undone by Wally Lamb, I think. Which is why I didn’t waste my time on The Corrections by Jonathan Franzen. That and all that elitist business in dissing Oprah.

I remember loathing and feeling enraged by Independence Day by Richard Ford, which had been enormously hyped. Blech.

Sunday dinner this week was unusual. I usually like to have something heavy and a bit formal, like roast chicken and mashed potatoes for Sunday dinner. But I had an appetite for chicken and noodles, stir fried. So I opened one of my Christmas present books, Thai Food, and there was a recipe for which I had all the ingredients. I whipped it up in 20 minutes or so--I lost track of time while I spoke on the cordless phone with my older sister, who lectured me about taking advantage of the low mortgage rates, before my son pulled the phone out of the wall and disconnected us. It included Chinese broccoli, which is high in niacin and quite lovely and different. That’s the thing about trying food/recipes from different countries...it makes food new again. The surprise was that the children ate what I cooked. My son ate the chicken only, my daughter ate it all, taking her time and not complaining.

I think I need a Monday morning ritual. Other than drinking a huge cup of coffee and racing to work. Something to start the week off productively and positively, since there is usually some missive from on high which spoils everything, something electronically or telephonically foul. Maybe a meditation. Or a mantra.

What I'm Reading to the Kids This Week

What I Like
Five Little Ducks
One of Each
Doctor Maisy
I Spy Treasure Hunt
Milly's Wedding
Bernard's Nap
The Flea's Sneeze
Big Truck and Little Truck
Oliver's Milk Shake
Cleo the Cat
Yip! Snap! Yap!
My Duck
Polar Bolero
Max, the Stubborn Little Wolf
Sometimes I Like To Curl Up in a Ball
Sailor Boy Jig
The Dreamtime Fairies
Which Witch is Which
Giddy-Up! Let's Ride
A Present for Mom

How do you cure what ails three people, a mother and two kids?

Go out to the backyard.

The boy, who has been epitomizing Terrible Twos all weekend, gets dressed in his rainboots and raincoat, and takes his remote control car. The girl, who has indulged in A LOT of whining and behaving like a queen, comes out and rakes up a respectable pile of eucalyptus branches. The mother, who has been thinking profanity laced epithets aimed at ungrateful children, takes her rose pruning shears and a big green waste bin. What results after 90 minutes? Serenity, muddy floors, a hot bubble bath for the kids, some yard work accomplished.

My daughter actually thanked me for coming up with the idea of working in the yard. She said "I needed this." Oy, she's not kidding. We all did. My little dude got into digging the quite moist earth, and I pruned the hell out of the Sharifa Asma, Reine Victoria, Climbing Queen Elizabeth, Jude the Obscure, and Othello. I also dug up a hollyhock which was blocking the sun from my Glamis Castle. I would have dug up two, but my daughter got all sentimental about the other one, so I didn't, for now.

The Wayside Garden rose catalog arrived yesterday. It's pure porn. Before I knew it I had ordered six new rose bushes. I love this time of year, after the holidays, when the daffodils and tulips start pushing their way through, when there is more than enough rain, when it's time to prune rose bushes and envision them in the summer, hopefully producing respectable bouquets.

What’s Playing:

Whisper Not by Keith Jarrett
Vespertine by Bjork
Spirit of the Moment by Joshua Redman
Contemporary Jazz by Branford Marsalis
Ballads by Dexter Gordon
Living the Blues by Chicago Blues Giants
Bloomington by Branford Marsalis

Friday Five

1. Where are you right now?

In my office in the legal department for a city of 130,000 people, 35 miles northeast of San Francisco.

2. What time is it?

9:55AM, PST

3. What are you wearing?

Goldenrod velvet pants, a charcoal gray turtleneck shirt and dark brown men’s hiking boots. [Rain + casual Friday = no business suit]

4. Any people or animals around you? Describe them.

Lawyer are people and animals, right? My office sits between my boss and his second in command. They defy description and I am taking an OBJECT LESSON from dooce, who was fired for writing bad things about her job/co-workers on her blog.

5. What are your plans for the weekend?

I am going to hook up with some moms from the area and bid farewell to one of our beloveds, who is moving, with her awesome son and husband, to Washington. SOB. It was very rainy all day yesterday, but hopefully it will not be this weekend, so we can also hang out together at Fairyland on Sunday.

I have my children, so it’s all about togetherness and staying dry and getting homework done. Gotta get more library books for them, too.

I will not be working in my yard (too wet), although now is the time to prune roses, or watching football. I just scored The Lovely Bones by Alice Sebold from the library, and maybe, just maybe, I'll get to read some of it.



WHO or WHAT (was/is/are), from blueroses

[ x ] In my head - "Last night was amazing"

[ x ] Wishing - at this minute, for nothing

[ x ] After this - work, picking up my kids, rather unexpectedly, but their father has car trouble and that means–BONUS, I get my little ones.

[x ] Eating - nothing, anticipating lunch with my colleague, R.

[ x ] If you could get away with it and murder anyone, who? No one.

[ x ] Person you wish you could see right now - My girlfriend T. She’s too freaking busy.

[ x ] Is next to you - my boss is in the office next door

[ x ] Some of your favorite movies - Some I haven’t mentioned before: Smoke, Year of Living Dangerously, Monsoon Wedding, Fargo, Five Little Girls, Love Jones, Red Sorghum...

[ x ] Something you're looking forward to in the upcoming month: This month, my daughter’s birthday, next month, my son’s birthday.

[ x ] The last thing you ate - a cranberry orange scone

[ x ] Something that you are deathly afraid of - anything happening to my children. When my ex called this morning to tell me of his car trouble, he was out of breath and slow getting to the point and I almost started shouting at him "Are the kids alright?"

[ x ] Do you like candles - yes, I love them. I indulged last night in fact.

[ x ] Do you like hot wax - nope. I don’t wax myself (eyebrows or legs or anything) and I can’t imagine integrating it into what I like sexually.

[ x ] Do you like incense - yes, especially the homemade stuff I get a jazz festivals and farmers markets.

[ x ] Do you like the taste of blood - my own? No. A rare steak, on occasion.

[ x ] Do you believe in love - Yes, how could I not?

[ x ] Do you believe in soul mates - No, I wish I did. I believe in compatibility and rapport and intimacy.

[ x ] Do you believe in love at first sight - yes

[ x ] Do you believe in Heaven - not in specifically formulated ideas, but after so many years of Catholic school, it's permanently affixed in my subconscious

[ x ] Do you believe in forgiveness - absolutely. I think it’s most important to forgive yourself.

[ x ] What do you want done with your body when you die - cremated immediately. I don’t want anyone peering at my dead body. Sprinkle my ashes in the Caribbean.

[ x ] Who is your worst enemy - someone who doesn’t deserve the honor. Not my ex or my boss or myself, but a profoundly evil person.

[ x ] If you could have any animal for a pet, what would it be - I wouldn’t own one. Sorry it’s not my thing.

[ x ] What is the latest you've ever stayed up - pulling all nighters in high school and college. It’s hell for me and not worth it.

[ x ] Ever been to Belgium - no and I have no interest in going. France, Italy, Spain, England, yes. Belgium?

[ x ] Can you eat with chopsticks - of course.

[ x ] What's your favorite coin - the quarter. They used to be A LOT of money (to me) and they’re still quite useful.

[ x ] What are 5 cities you wouldn't mind relocating to: Paris, Florence, New Orleans, Vancouver (B.C.) and Sonoma.

[ x ] What are some of your favorite pig out foods - Pig out foods. I suppose that means foods that are not “healthy”, right? Or foods that I could eat until I am engorged and slightly ill? French fries, corn dogs at the county fair, potato skins with cheese, sour cream and onions and bacon on top, nachos.

[ x ] What's something that you wish people would understand - that there are too many guns in this country.

[ x ]What's something you wish you could understand better - Spanish

[ x ] Anyone you miss that you haven't seen in a long time - my girlfriends, T. and S. and L.

I was listening to several jazz CDs yesterday, including bird and diz and Dear Louis by Nicholas Payton. And I formed opinions that I wanted to express. Then I thought of James’ AUTHORITATIVE jazz blog and I thought No, I should keep my mouth shut about jazz. Then I figured what the heck, James won’t harsh on me. He’s gotta be sweet since he likes dessert (almost as much as I do).

bird and diz is intense, concentrated, pure, seminal. By contrast, I found Dear Louis to be very derivative, like an imitation of the old masters, but a cheap imitation. And this is despite the contribution of Dianne Reeves. It’s possible that I discount as pure jazz any album which features Dr. John, because I think his singing is hammy.

I like the neo-traditionalists, like Marcus Roberts, Joshua Redman, Wynton Marsalis, Branford Marsalis, etc. But I felt that Nicholas Payton decided that since he comes from New Orleans and plays jazz, he has the authority to record a tribute to Louis Armstrong. But who told him to sing? And his Potato Head Blues sure isn’t Armstrong’s Potato Head Blues, which is one of the most important compositions in jazz. On the other hand, I like Nicholas Payton’s appearance. He’s obviously a brotha who likes some red beans and rice.

This morning my son came up to me as I brushed my teeth and he said “I’m ready to go to [the babysitter’s] house.” He explained that he was looking forward to playing with a “blue Power Ranger” once he got there. He reminded me a couple of times on the way there that he was not crying. It made me SO HAPPY. You all were right, it was the interruption of the routine that made him pitch a fit.

It's raining again.

j actually listens to/consumes music, so he has something interesting to say about the Grammy nominations. I think the nominations are completely idiotic and I am sick to death of most of the “artists”, but it reminds me of a little story.

I love award shows because I’m A Slave To Fashion. Not in the Carrie in Sex and the City sense of the phrase (I'm not a size 0 with $100,000 a year to spend on clothes and shoes--nor would I ever want to be); more like a voyeur–you know, the person who has subscribed to Vogue for 26 years straight. (Even during the Deep Poverty of College years.) So I watch the award shows: Golden Globes, Grammys, Oscars, Tonys. I draw the line at the Country Music Awards.

Anyway, three years ago the Grammys were broadcast on February 23, as they will be this year. Three years ago, my son was late in emerging into the world. He showed no interest in coming out, my body made no attempt to let him go. No contractions, no mucus plug, no water breaking, nada. So I had to get induced. And still the labor took two days. And during those lovely (not) two days, my main concern was–I better not be pushing and miss the Grammys. Well, he came out at around 3 in the afternoon. And once we all got cleaned up, sewed up, squared away, and placed in my post partum room, someone turned on the television, just as J. Lo came on stage in THE DRESS. And I was yelling with delight that I hadn’t missed the show and oh my God look at that dress.

The rest of the night, my little dude lay next to me in the bed, nursing well and being content, and my family and I watched the show and took it easy. And now, three years later, we might watch it again (for the fashion, since I am not familiar with the work product of the nominees), although if my son wants to play his new favorite board game, that’s cool too.

Thank you all for your words of encouragement regarding my boy. I talked it over with my friend D, who has a 5 year old son and was a prosecutor (of child abusers among others) for 13 years. She said that it is very unlikely that my little dude is being abused. I prefaced our conversation with “I know we’ve talked about this before, but we have to talk about it again.” I feel better.

I am listening to the Joshua Redman (Yale Law grad, perfect LSAT scores, son of a single mother from Berkeley) self-titled CD and it’s swinging, but jazz in my office makes me feel middle aged. Really, really middle aged.



Ya know what I’ve got? Bodega envy. I want a corner store in my neighborhood. Down the street and around the corner. No, I don’t need Kool cigarettes or beer or a half pint of Hennessey, but if I run out of Diet Vanilla Coke or dishwashing liquid, it would be cool to take a stroll in my neighborhood, clutching a few dollars, no purse, no car keys, to go get what I need. Its presence would probably increase my children’s candy intake, but my idealized bodega would have an extensive magazine and newspaper selection (domestic and international), really good (not bruised or mushy) apples, and a small deli that would sell things like hot chicken white bean chili with mini corn muffins.

So are you all drunk from popping champagne in jubilation at Bush’s tax plan? Because you all benefit so much from stock dividends, right? Say it with me: Fuck the Republicans.

My boy doesn’t want to go to the babysitter any more.

This started during my daughter’s Christmas vacation.

We had a long talk about it this morning, on the way there and parked in front of her house. I questioned him about whether she is mean to him (No), whether anyone is mean to him (No), whether anyone touches him in a way he doesn’t like (No), does anyone scare him (No), does anyone hit him (No), does anyone yell at him (No), does he play with toys (No, and not true, he does play with toys), do you take a nap (No, also not true). When I ran out of questions, he asked me to keep asking him questions.

I am at a loss. I have known this babysitter for seven years. She has taken care of my children or my sister’s children for ten years. I trust her. Her husband can be a jackass, but he’s more of a know-it-all-loudmouth.

My instincts tell me that he, at almost three, is ready for preschool, for a change. But there is a tiny piece of my brain that says this is the day of reckoning for me as a working mother. That, in fact, I haven’t been dealing with a loving, completely trustworthy babysitter for the last seven years, and something is happening to my son.

I sat with him in the car and I looked in his face and he said “Something is happening.” And I asked him what, the hair on the back of my neck rising and a deep sense of dread in my stomach. And he said “something.” So we went over the list again. Is someone touching you? Is someone mean to you? Does someone hit you? No.

Whenever I pick him up, at different times during the day, he’s playing, he’s in the mix with the kids, he’s content. He runs up to me and hugs me and we leave. I ask him how was his day and/or how is he doing and he says “Pretty good.” His personality hasn’t changed at all–he’s not withdrawn or acting out more than normal. I looked at the websites for signs of abuse and the only one that matches is he doesn’t want to go to the babysitter’s house.

I have witnessed unreasonable, resistive behavior in my son of late. Plenty of it. He’s three. And I am paying very close attention to him when he says he doesn’t want to go to the babysitter. I’m giving him my undivided attention, zeroing in on him like a laser beam. Does that feed into it?

I think it’s because we interrupted the routine with the Christmas vacation, which was drop my daughter off at school, drop him off at the babysitter, and go to work. And there were times when he said he didn’t want to go to the babysitter, we drive to her house, and it turns out she’s not taking kids that day. He got to go to work with me, or go to his cousin’s house; fun and different things. So he might think that if he complains enough, he won’t have to go to the babysitter and can go off and do something fun.

Nevertheless, I am concerned. I will have to talk to my daughter, who has spent time with him at the babysitter and three and a half years there herself, and my ex, to see how it is when he drops my son off in the morning. It was around age three that my daughter stopped wanting to go to the babysitter, and wanted to go to preschool.

Confession: I am raising a pitched battle with ants in my house. I know it would disappoint His Holiness the Dalai Lama, as they are sentient beings. But they (several hundred of them) discovered what I was too negligent to do: that my daughter’s bag lunch was still in her bookbag, almost two weeks into her Christmas vacation. I could opine that the Good Lord would never have inspired the fine folks at Johnson Wax to invent Raid if He didn’t want me to use it, but that would be sacrilegious.

I had a hearing this morning that prompted me to ask my friend, who was my secretary for 8 years, if I ever complained about an attorney lying in a hearing before. She did not recall that I had. I left the hearing this morning BESIDE myself because of all of the lying the plaintiff’s attorney engaged in. And although Judge H. has very good sense, I am not optimistic about the outcome of my motion. Fuck.

Lying. Lying prevails. It kills me.

I may have to seek help from a higher power to deal with my fabric addiction. Although it's been open a year, I just got around to visiting Discount Fabrics on Ashby and San Pablo in Berkeley. It has the most genius selection of velvet you ever want to see in your life. And right now it's an additional 20% off. It's the kind of store where you're looking around and mentally you're trying to decide how much you can buy without looking like you're completely out of control. I bought embossed red velvet, purple velvet, red broadcloth, burgundy broadcloth, and one yard of this hot red Chinese silk.

I need some red accents in my house.

I took down the Christmas trees. It was faster than I expected. The children really wanted to get into the act when I used tongs to take down the higher ornaments. Unfortunately, their father was there to pick them up, and I didn't want him hanging around while we stripped the tree, because it was too family-togetherness for me. I don't want them to get confused. Or him.

My daughter cried because she had to leave before she could take down the star from the top. It was too high up. But because I am a softy, I led her back inside and set up the ladder and held onto her as she climbed up and took it down. It was so easy to make her happy. She, of course, tried to parlay my capitulation on the star issue to staying home with me all day. But I hugged her and sent her on her way.

There's something melancholy about taking down the ornaments and packing them away. My predominant thought was that I hope I am alive next year to unpack them and put them on a new tree. I suppose I shouldn't have been listening to a reading of The Hours on the CD player while I worked if I wanted to avoid melancholy, but it's a very impressive book. The last chapter had me gasping aloud in my office yesterday afternoon.

I'm going to continue to work at cleaning up the house this afternoon. Then I think I may take an early evening trip to IKEA. Right now there doesn't appear to be a single open parking space (which includes a four level parking garage), but all those folks have got to run out of steam and return home sometime. I need a bookcase for my daughter's room, which I intend to clean thoroughly and pare down (and donate) her worldly goods.


LATER

Question: Does the IKEA in your area make folks completely lose their minds?

Okay, here's the thing. The IKEA in Emeryville (also known as Emery-hell) is the nearest IKEA for 400 miles. I get that. I assume that folks would act the same way if there was only one Target in all of Northern California, or one Costco. And I figured out, when I encountered the same overcrowded situation at 6:30 this evening, that school--you know university school--is starting again, probably Monday for most students. So they need stuff, cheap furniture, stuff. This weekend. And there's a sale.

But bloody hell, these people are crazy!!!! And ya know why? Because in the Bay Area, folks get that acquisitive frenzy, coupled with arrogance and disposable income, and they will not be stopped. I've seen the same thing at Berkeley Bowl when they're buying produce. My hand to God.

So I found a good bookshelf (with some Swedish name) for my girl's room. But the box weighs 70 pounds. And I just didn't feel up to wrestling with it by myself. And it's really long, so I didn't think I could fit it into The Mothership (who also has a Swedish name); which means it would have to go on top. And while I'm as Amazon as the next person, I think I'll wait until my friend D. gets back from Green Bay this weekend and we can borrow her father's truck and grapple with it together.

Now, I'm gonna make some Alaskan Halibut with Basil-Coconut Sauce from the Big Bowl Cookbook, some spinach with garlic and lemon from this month's Cook's Illustrated, and some Japanese steamed rice, and then try to clean up the house some more before I go to bed.

Friday Five

1. Do you wear any jewelry? What kind?

Earrings. An occasional bracelet. But my daughter boosts them and I come across them months later, among her treasures.

2. How often do you wear it?

Earrings daily. I need some adornment.

3. Do you have any piercings? If so, where?

My ears. Not my navel or my nose or my labia.

4. Do you have any tattoos? If so, where?

Nope. Winnie has a tattoo. It’s so beautiful.

5. What are your plans for the weekend?

This is the first weekend of the new year. It’s safe to assume there will be lots of folks in the gym. If you’re going...and it’s been a while...pace yourself, okay? And take Advil for muscle aches...it helps.

I will not have my children this weekend. I intend to take the Christmas trees and the decorations down, put all this Christmas stuff back in the attic and sweep (I have hardwood floors) up all the needles.

I want to go see The Hours, but it is only playing in San Francisco this weekend. It seems like a lot of traffic to endure for a movie. I will wait until it crosses the Big Water. Maybe I’ll go see Antwone Fisher (since my boyfriend directed it).

There’s a book I must have. It’s called Freedom. My sister has a copy and I looked through it on New Years Day and it is very moving and beautiful and informative. I found the photographs from the Civil Rights era most electrifying. The participants in the Civil Rights actions seemed so young. Their courage is unimaginable.

My daughter resumes school on Monday and unfortunately it is a Monday-From-Hell for me: an 8:30 AM hearing and a late meeting–easily a 14 hour work day. School (grammar school for pity’s sake) is very demanding–the homework, the parties, the play dates, the projects, the sick days, the meetings.

I had a visitor* last night, so I didn’t get to see the last 15 minutes of ER. I don’t know whether the mother who had a crash C-section in the electrified ambulance survived, or just the yummy baby. Anyone know? Anyone?

I imagine that I am not the only person who finds the barrage of Weight Watchers commercials extremely grating.

*Male, dreadlocks, grown up

Starting out the new year with a stomach ache. It makes sense, though, because I went to two parties and ate gumbo and black eyed peas, and turkey and saffron risotto, and salad and more chocolate than a little.

Does it stop me from drinking a big cup of Peets? Not when they’re giving it away free with the purchase of two pounds of French Roast for the office. Yeah, I buy my colleagues Peets. I sometimes think that my no good boss should foot the bill, but then we’d be up to our eyeballs in fucking Folgers, and I’m not feeling dishwater coffee.

My son is in the office with me. Why? Because his father didn’t convey the babysitter’s message that she wasn’t taking kids today. I would say a pox on both their houses, but it’s all about peace and love in 2003, babe. His father is supposed to pick him up any minute, which is good because he’s running around with no shoes on, blowing a mitt shaped whistle I got from a box of Cracker Jack. A teeny bit disruptive for a legal department, n’est pas? But we’re human beings, ya know, and in our spare time, on occasion, we procreate. And it doesn’t stop there.

Happy New Year everyone!!

I know it’s cliche to quote him, ‘cause everybody does, but jhames said
“...all limitations are self-imposed” and now I’ve found a mantra for 2003.

Thank you jhames.

Last night was quiet and I feel a little schizophrenic about it. On the one hand, I was happy to be taking a candlelit bubble bath and reading magazines and eating chocolate and chilling. And I thought--this whole notion that we’ve got to get out and party hard and make a lot of noise on New Year‘s Eve--it’s not the only way. We (I) can do the new year thing however we (I) wish and the alternatives are not less cool, less happening. And it doesn’t have to be about that prolonged kiss as the clock strikes 12, which I guess symbolizes that one has the whole romantic thing wrapped up(?) for the rest of the year.

On the other hand, I woke up feeling a little bent out of shape that I spent New Years eve by myself. I’m working through it--cleaning up, the fact that it’s not raining, anticipating my children’s return, going for gumbo, black-eyed peas and greens at my sister’s house, and then going to hang out with a friend from law school and her husband and kids--it’s all helping.

I had an epiphany and I’m going to say it early and often in 2003: there are much worse things than being alone. My personal opinion: too many people, women especially, don’t get told that or form a real understanding of that fact. And they put up with a lot of crap instead.

During the day I worked like a dog to get a brief filed--seven hours straight, heart racing at the end. So I was tired. On the way home---SCORE--8 rolls of Christmas wrapping paper for 45 cents each and a bunch of bath (cute soap and scrubbies)/nail polish & body glitter sets for $3 and $4. Now all those birthday parties my daughter is invited to--we’re set.

I can’t decide if it’s just another day, or if I should take it as an opportunity to make resolutions, clean house (figuratively), etc.

I will take this opportunity to say Let’s work together and make this a beautiful year. Peace and love.