Yesterday at work was true bonkers. A million things happened, but a genuine novel first was getting not one but two calls from the office of a British royal trying to get us to bend our rules to help out one of the princesses' pet projects. I'm sorry we were unable to help the case, it's a sad one, but it falls outside of all our policies. I constantly deal with entitlement on the job, and it was satisfying to say a firm "no" to someone I can't imagine experiences something so plebian as rejection. Especially since I know for a fact that the problem they were looking to solve could be taken care of with a finite--and not utterly outrageous--sum of money. In the end perhaps Fergie's daughter was able to use her family's wealth to deal with the situation, not just rely on her name. It would be a shame if it cut into the cuckoo hat budget, but we all make sacrifices for the greater good.
OK, the five best things I've seen this week:
-Tuesday's episode of New Girl. The return of True American, which looks like the most fun game in the world! Winston getting the girl! THE KISS OMG THE KISS. Like I needed to love Jake Johnson some more, wowee. I don't care if the show is all over now because of it, that was so hot.
-Mike and HR rocking out to Rev. Horton Heat's "Now, Right Now," which is the theme song of all impatient toddlers. Also, HR singing all of "Upsy Down Town" when he didn't know he was being observed. Also, my dad teaching him the official Perry Family Party Song and him really getting into it. My kid is fun to watch, OK?
-A good friend's good news post about getting a job after a long, anxiety-causing period of time.
-French fries, smothered in buffalo chicken-blue cheese dip, on my plate.
-The calendar, which tells me January's over tomorrow, and I've got another barnburner of a weekend before me to boot.
A bonus best thing, of any week:
Thursday, January 31, 2013
Wednesday, January 30, 2013
No Jinx
Lately I've been finishing off my lunch with two squares of dark chocolate and a cup of plain hot water. It's just the right touch when you want to feel like a proper old lady. I'm not even saying whether lunch is usually at 11:30 a.m. And what the hell, I'll just come right out and say I think that Thrift Shop song is catchy. I probably would not endorse this rapper wholesale, but I am not immune to a horn laden hook. Today I'm all about owning my lameness like a set of matched luggage. Which I don't technically own, but you get the idea.
You know what's not lame? For his toddler-y challenges, at nearly three years old, my kid is still a wicked cuddlebug. He not only tolerates my inability to not squeeze him all the time, but initiates. And when he requests "snugglebuggleruggles" at any time of day or night, I will drop everything. It's possible he'll be this much of a love for his whole life, it sorta runs in my family, but there are no guarantees, so I'm on it. It's one of the only self-imposed mama rules that I follow with any amount of strictness: there's almost nothing that takes precedence over affection. If we had a family crest it would probably be a heart, a book, a musical note and the universal symbol for weirdness (which I'm pretty sure is the cover of the Butthole Surfers' Locust Abortion Technician).
I realize that sooner rather than later the not-fun parental lines to draw will probably outnumber the softer, feel-good ones. It's not that I'm against discipline, I always assumed I'd have to be the hardass of the home because my mother was (though Mike's not as much of a pushover as we thought before we had HR), but so far I've been able to get away with being pretty chill. It's not like I don't expect or demand a certain kind of behavior from HR, it's just that he's naturally embodied it. And that is mostly the luck of the draw. But I also pick my battles, I don't stand on principle (for example, it doesn't matter to me if he sits at the table to eat all his meals. If it's easier to feed him at the coffee table while he plays, that's fine with me). And we do correct as we go along. So far I don't think we've set on the path to feral ruination, we'll see. My philosophy is that as long as he remains a (mostly) mellow, easygoing kid, I will enjoy the domestic simplicity. And when the time comes to be Enforcer Mama, I'll deal with it then. I am just asking for it, aren't I?
You know what's not lame? For his toddler-y challenges, at nearly three years old, my kid is still a wicked cuddlebug. He not only tolerates my inability to not squeeze him all the time, but initiates. And when he requests "snugglebuggleruggles" at any time of day or night, I will drop everything. It's possible he'll be this much of a love for his whole life, it sorta runs in my family, but there are no guarantees, so I'm on it. It's one of the only self-imposed mama rules that I follow with any amount of strictness: there's almost nothing that takes precedence over affection. If we had a family crest it would probably be a heart, a book, a musical note and the universal symbol for weirdness (which I'm pretty sure is the cover of the Butthole Surfers' Locust Abortion Technician).
I realize that sooner rather than later the not-fun parental lines to draw will probably outnumber the softer, feel-good ones. It's not that I'm against discipline, I always assumed I'd have to be the hardass of the home because my mother was (though Mike's not as much of a pushover as we thought before we had HR), but so far I've been able to get away with being pretty chill. It's not like I don't expect or demand a certain kind of behavior from HR, it's just that he's naturally embodied it. And that is mostly the luck of the draw. But I also pick my battles, I don't stand on principle (for example, it doesn't matter to me if he sits at the table to eat all his meals. If it's easier to feed him at the coffee table while he plays, that's fine with me). And we do correct as we go along. So far I don't think we've set on the path to feral ruination, we'll see. My philosophy is that as long as he remains a (mostly) mellow, easygoing kid, I will enjoy the domestic simplicity. And when the time comes to be Enforcer Mama, I'll deal with it then. I am just asking for it, aren't I?
Tuesday, January 29, 2013
Treats
We had a good old fashioned family hoedown at my house last weekend, and you know what that means: something in my house broke. Well, that's what usually happens, and it did sorta, but my upstairs bathroom sink busting a gasket wasn't actually anyone's fault, just a coincidence. And a lucky one, because it meant we had several handy helpers in da house. What a family to-do actually really means is that I've got food for days, party food, food I have no business eating on a daily basis but will be eating until it runs out because as much as I tried to pack it off with visitors, the host gets the spoils. Do not get me wrong, apple tart a la mode for breakfast every day is the best, and this concoction I brought for my lunch made of leftover stuffed mushrooms and chicken casserole is a happy belly guarantee. But... you know I guess there's no but after all. The downside will be when the yumminess runs out. Calories bedamned! Why else do people exercise? For their health?
I wonder if my child will take after his parents, food-wise. As he grows, HR has gone through several phases, from bottomless pit wunderkind to at the very least reliable eater of go-to nutrients such as scrambled eggs and avocado toast and broccoli to... now. Lately he's eschewing most things that aren't cereal bars or the occasional half of a peeled apple. He's even broken off his longtime two-a-day affair with string cheese. We keep trying things, he keeps refusing them, so the next step is camouflage. Pancakes are a usual winner because even when they're full up of pureed peas, they still taste like pancakes, and kids like weird colored things, generally. If that fails, I guess ask the pediatrician, and probably get him on supplements to ward off rickets and such. I have a feeling he'll come around on his own soon though. And since he has an abundance of food at all and never goes hungry, this qualifies as a bonafide first world problem. Which doesn't mean it isn't still a problem, merely one that falls pretty close to the bottom of the spectrum. See also: the toys and books that are threatening to take over the house. I think we'll all be just fine.
And now a treat for you, courtesy of a show I love for lots of nerdy reason. Sutton and Hunter Foster together! The song from The Jerk! There's not a single thing about this scene that isn't the best thing ever.
I wonder if my child will take after his parents, food-wise. As he grows, HR has gone through several phases, from bottomless pit wunderkind to at the very least reliable eater of go-to nutrients such as scrambled eggs and avocado toast and broccoli to... now. Lately he's eschewing most things that aren't cereal bars or the occasional half of a peeled apple. He's even broken off his longtime two-a-day affair with string cheese. We keep trying things, he keeps refusing them, so the next step is camouflage. Pancakes are a usual winner because even when they're full up of pureed peas, they still taste like pancakes, and kids like weird colored things, generally. If that fails, I guess ask the pediatrician, and probably get him on supplements to ward off rickets and such. I have a feeling he'll come around on his own soon though. And since he has an abundance of food at all and never goes hungry, this qualifies as a bonafide first world problem. Which doesn't mean it isn't still a problem, merely one that falls pretty close to the bottom of the spectrum. See also: the toys and books that are threatening to take over the house. I think we'll all be just fine.
And now a treat for you, courtesy of a show I love for lots of nerdy reason. Sutton and Hunter Foster together! The song from The Jerk! There's not a single thing about this scene that isn't the best thing ever.
Monday, January 28, 2013
Can't Read My, Can't Read My
I feel like today is the first day I've fully shown up for my life since, oh, sometime in December, probably September, actually. I've been off in some way for a combination of reasons, mainly Nik of course, but there was some unrelated general discombobulation. And I was partially aware that I was phoning it in at home and at work, but even in those normal or even great moments that shined through, I couldn't surmount the funk. Every night I'd promise myself I'd wake up and be a better mother, a better partner, a better worker. And I'd find myself feeling that I fell short by the time nighttime rolled around again. I know this is normal, I know this is how it is with most humans. But it's not the norm for me. I'm usually able to be more zen, or at the least more forgiving. Anyway, this morning I woke up on the other side of the mountain. I can't explain how or why, I just know it's over. Time was the healer, as is usually the case. And it seemed like a sign that Mike, HR and I were in great moods from the get-go, making for a peaceful, happy morning spent together before I kissed them goodbye. And I have to tell you, I credit the hour I spent crying last night over something that happened on Downton Abbey with tipping the balance. It was stupendously cathartic, the best cry I've had in years, and it knocked something back into place.
I admit I've been pretty stealth about the true duration and depth of this latest inner monkey business--I'm quite certain that nobody at home or work noticed any difference on the surface, that's just how I deal with things. Nobody can be blamed for not picking up on it. I hold my cards close until I've won the hand and nobody knows if I was bluffing all along. For now, the fog has lifted and it's time to be me again. I missed me a lot.
It's not like I'm under some delusion that every day will be perfect from here on out, that I won't make mistakes or have those nights where I set intentions. But I'm overcome with the sense that I'm fundamentally reset, changed back to the old me. Or I'm a new version of myself that is similar enough to the one I was before I went through this rough patch, if that makes any sense. So, ok, year. Ok, best me I can be. All in. Let's go.
I admit I've been pretty stealth about the true duration and depth of this latest inner monkey business--I'm quite certain that nobody at home or work noticed any difference on the surface, that's just how I deal with things. Nobody can be blamed for not picking up on it. I hold my cards close until I've won the hand and nobody knows if I was bluffing all along. For now, the fog has lifted and it's time to be me again. I missed me a lot.
It's not like I'm under some delusion that every day will be perfect from here on out, that I won't make mistakes or have those nights where I set intentions. But I'm overcome with the sense that I'm fundamentally reset, changed back to the old me. Or I'm a new version of myself that is similar enough to the one I was before I went through this rough patch, if that makes any sense. So, ok, year. Ok, best me I can be. All in. Let's go.
Thursday, January 24, 2013
They Live!
Anyone with a brain already predicted that I would go home sick about two hours after my last post. I was all "la la la I'm fine!" until it hit. And it hit. For the past 48 hours or so my little family's been working on our hip hop concept album titled "Straight Outta Vom-ton." Or, "The Both-Ends Theory." Or any title of any Beastie Boys record as-is. We were cold illin', and it wasn't fun, but it seems to be over and thank heavs for that.
I never want me or anyone close to me to get sick at any time, but it does make me especially grateful for the health I take for granted. Even when I feel the most awful, I know it's just a virus and it'll be over soon. And modern medicine, I can't be mad at you. Mike and I both let thing run its course on us but HR was having a really bad time of it so we called his pediatrician and they recommended we get him to the ER before he dehydrated. They were able to give him some anti-nausea meds so he could keep down some liquids and by the time the drugs wore off the virus was already gone. I guess it didn't occur to me that such a thing was possible. I'm all for letting the body do its thing and sometimes medicine isn't the answer, but when the alternative is a limp toddler, I'm going to choose meds every time. And lots of the old school remedies - ginger ale, popsicles, lipton noodle soup (which makes me miss my Pup so much) and couch snuggling. I think we're on the mend, or better. And that's mighty convenient because it leaves us a bit of time to exorcise the house before welcoming guests this weekend.
I never want me or anyone close to me to get sick at any time, but it does make me especially grateful for the health I take for granted. Even when I feel the most awful, I know it's just a virus and it'll be over soon. And modern medicine, I can't be mad at you. Mike and I both let thing run its course on us but HR was having a really bad time of it so we called his pediatrician and they recommended we get him to the ER before he dehydrated. They were able to give him some anti-nausea meds so he could keep down some liquids and by the time the drugs wore off the virus was already gone. I guess it didn't occur to me that such a thing was possible. I'm all for letting the body do its thing and sometimes medicine isn't the answer, but when the alternative is a limp toddler, I'm going to choose meds every time. And lots of the old school remedies - ginger ale, popsicles, lipton noodle soup (which makes me miss my Pup so much) and couch snuggling. I think we're on the mend, or better. And that's mighty convenient because it leaves us a bit of time to exorcise the house before welcoming guests this weekend.
Tuesday, January 22, 2013
Either Way, Words to Live By
And lo, after the cold and the pinkeye cometh the dreaded puking virus. Poor HR, and poor Mike, having to deal with the patient on his own all day long. At least the boy seems in good spirits between bouts of sick. I believe we're getting a glimpse of what life will be like when he goes to school and is around other kids on a regular basis. Go go gadget immune system! May the latest test pass quickly for all of us involved, is all I hope. Plus I don't want to have to reschedule Saturday's already once postponed shindig.
Not to be overshadowed by the icky business, we had plenty of healthy good times over the long weekend including, but not limited to, a spirited night out in the 'hood for a friend's birthday (thanks go out to my aunt and uncle who babysat), family naps and a tour of all the parks in Cambridge. Ok, it was only two, but I felt pretty damned accomplished making the multiple-playground trek alone with a toddler.
Was it Abraham Lincoln, or Homer Simpson, who said, "You're boring everybody. Quit boring everyone"? On that note, I'll leave you with an unrelated music moment. Remember these guys? I had no idea at the time how incredible it was that they were doing what they were doing, I just liked the pretty (to my preteen self in the eighties) costumes.
Not to be overshadowed by the icky business, we had plenty of healthy good times over the long weekend including, but not limited to, a spirited night out in the 'hood for a friend's birthday (thanks go out to my aunt and uncle who babysat), family naps and a tour of all the parks in Cambridge. Ok, it was only two, but I felt pretty damned accomplished making the multiple-playground trek alone with a toddler.
Was it Abraham Lincoln, or Homer Simpson, who said, "You're boring everybody. Quit boring everyone"? On that note, I'll leave you with an unrelated music moment. Remember these guys? I had no idea at the time how incredible it was that they were doing what they were doing, I just liked the pretty (to my preteen self in the eighties) costumes.
Thursday, January 17, 2013
I Have a Veritable Wardrobe of Capes
It's hard to write a blog entry when you can't settle your brain. Good thing you spent your time reading that, right, because how would you ever know about that phenomenon if I didn't tell you? Captain Obvious will now resume her secret identity.
Rather, alternate identity: Book Martyr Mama.
It's like this, my kid loves books and loves to be read to. I don't know that it will always be this way, but as a gluttonous reader myself, I'm fostering it zealously. Which means reading to him any time he asks, no matter what (within reason, I mean, I'd probably put the book down in case of fire. And I do have to cut it off at bedtime, every night). And though I do have small moments where I feel the exhilaration of sharing a favorite story, it's more often slogging through picture book novelizations of "Teletubbies" episodes (I have no idea where these came from) and the coloring book he got as a freebie when he visited the apple orchard. Oh, and the endless Curious George books. Those Reys and their War and Peace for the sippy cup set. I am astounded that HR has the attention span to get all the way through any of the CG tales, but night after night he asks for "Curious George Goes to the Hosta-bull", and I can't say no. Somehow he's also unearthed Love You Forever, which I received as a shower gift and I know was meant with the purest motherly intentions, but I can't stand this book. Are you familiar with this title? It is so creepy! So, so creepy. And I also resent its blatant manipulation of adult emotions. Even as I hate it, I can't read the last three pages without bawling. We read it three times last night at his request, and I can't tell if he actually likes it or just knows he's torturing me. Still, I would read "Touch and Feel Interactive Raccoon Jamboree" if such a thing existed if he wanted me to, because reading is a major priority in my life. And I'll probably continue to marvel at and bitch about his taste in literature as we go along, but as long as it's something, it's not really a complaint.
Anyway, I feel more settled now, so I suppose I could do some work or something.
Rather, alternate identity: Book Martyr Mama.
It's like this, my kid loves books and loves to be read to. I don't know that it will always be this way, but as a gluttonous reader myself, I'm fostering it zealously. Which means reading to him any time he asks, no matter what (within reason, I mean, I'd probably put the book down in case of fire. And I do have to cut it off at bedtime, every night). And though I do have small moments where I feel the exhilaration of sharing a favorite story, it's more often slogging through picture book novelizations of "Teletubbies" episodes (I have no idea where these came from) and the coloring book he got as a freebie when he visited the apple orchard. Oh, and the endless Curious George books. Those Reys and their War and Peace for the sippy cup set. I am astounded that HR has the attention span to get all the way through any of the CG tales, but night after night he asks for "Curious George Goes to the Hosta-bull", and I can't say no. Somehow he's also unearthed Love You Forever, which I received as a shower gift and I know was meant with the purest motherly intentions, but I can't stand this book. Are you familiar with this title? It is so creepy! So, so creepy. And I also resent its blatant manipulation of adult emotions. Even as I hate it, I can't read the last three pages without bawling. We read it three times last night at his request, and I can't tell if he actually likes it or just knows he's torturing me. Still, I would read "Touch and Feel Interactive Raccoon Jamboree" if such a thing existed if he wanted me to, because reading is a major priority in my life. And I'll probably continue to marvel at and bitch about his taste in literature as we go along, but as long as it's something, it's not really a complaint.
Anyway, I feel more settled now, so I suppose I could do some work or something.
Tuesday, January 15, 2013
Thumbs In All Directions
Hey kids, you know what time it is? It's time for... half assed movie reviews from two years ago that I only just watched! (Nick, this will be a recurring feature so please get on writing me a theme song.)
First up: Crazy, Stupid, Love. The good: great cast. Supporting cast was terrific - Josh Groban is fun in cameos, and I really like Liza Lapira, Beth Littlefield and John Carroll Lynch (NARM!). Steve Carrell plays a lovable schlub like nobody else. Julianne Moore and Marisa Tomei should have tenure at the Helen Mirren Academy of Aging Amazingly. Emma Stone, come on, I mean, how can one person be so unimpeachable? There's nothing she can't do, and her chemistry with Gosling is just crackling. As if I need to add any words about Gosling. There were some genuinely funny moments, and I went all in and let myself be surprised by several plot twists that should have been obvious.
Oh but the bad: the babysitter plotline was skeevy from every turn. And the entire line about soul mates made my head explode. Not that I don't believe in true love or soul mates. It's just the way they went about it. There's a fine line between never giving up on someone you love and getting slapped with a restraining order. The message was really problematic. Not to mention I'm sure that 8th grade class and their parents didn't appreciate Carrell and son hijacking their graduation ceremony. In the end, the movie had its moments, but it didn't deliver fully. Just watch the Stone-Gosling scenes, is my recommendation.
Now, Midnight in Paris, which I did mostly love in its fantastical way, and because of Paris (oh, Paris) and because I half-love Woody Allen. This was classic love-Woody because there was city porn for people who love that city, and some good clever dialogue and since I have never romanticized a time period, I liked his commentary there. Plus the 1920s era scenes and the clever casting choices were so much fun. I've never thought of Hemingway as sexy, but the guy who played Papa in this movie made me rethink my previous stance.
This was also classic hate-Woody because, newsflash, dude has problems with women. The choice is, shrewish woman the protagonist is stuck with, or ethereal perfect woman who for some reason actually likes whoever's playing Woody's neurotic stand-in. And in this film there are not one but two fantasy women, because when the first fantasy falls apart (Marion Cotillard, so gorgeous here), there's the girl from the record stall to pick up the real-life pieces, right down to being psyched about walking in the rain with Owen Wilson after his ex-fiancee showed early on that she was a villain because she didn't want to get her hair wet. Woody you are capable of so much good but you can't get over this hang-up! To be fair at this point I can't tell if he's sincere or making some kind of statement with recycling this trope to the point that it's a trademark.
Verdict: I suggest it for lots of reasons, one being the awesome portrayals such as Adrien Brody as Dali, the guy who played Loki as Fitzgerald and Kathy Bates as Gertrude Stein. And Par-ee, the city I love above all cities I've had the luck to visit in my life, which is the true star the way Manhattan is a star and Barcelona was a star in his other films. But really think about what kind of love story is being told and get back to me.
Is it just that after all these years the only love stories I've ever found believable were Hedwig and the Angry Inch and Knocked Up (solely the love between Paul Rudd and Seth Rogen)? It might could be.
Anyway, while I'm channeling 2011, I like this.
First up: Crazy, Stupid, Love. The good: great cast. Supporting cast was terrific - Josh Groban is fun in cameos, and I really like Liza Lapira, Beth Littlefield and John Carroll Lynch (NARM!). Steve Carrell plays a lovable schlub like nobody else. Julianne Moore and Marisa Tomei should have tenure at the Helen Mirren Academy of Aging Amazingly. Emma Stone, come on, I mean, how can one person be so unimpeachable? There's nothing she can't do, and her chemistry with Gosling is just crackling. As if I need to add any words about Gosling. There were some genuinely funny moments, and I went all in and let myself be surprised by several plot twists that should have been obvious.
Oh but the bad: the babysitter plotline was skeevy from every turn. And the entire line about soul mates made my head explode. Not that I don't believe in true love or soul mates. It's just the way they went about it. There's a fine line between never giving up on someone you love and getting slapped with a restraining order. The message was really problematic. Not to mention I'm sure that 8th grade class and their parents didn't appreciate Carrell and son hijacking their graduation ceremony. In the end, the movie had its moments, but it didn't deliver fully. Just watch the Stone-Gosling scenes, is my recommendation.
Now, Midnight in Paris, which I did mostly love in its fantastical way, and because of Paris (oh, Paris) and because I half-love Woody Allen. This was classic love-Woody because there was city porn for people who love that city, and some good clever dialogue and since I have never romanticized a time period, I liked his commentary there. Plus the 1920s era scenes and the clever casting choices were so much fun. I've never thought of Hemingway as sexy, but the guy who played Papa in this movie made me rethink my previous stance.
This was also classic hate-Woody because, newsflash, dude has problems with women. The choice is, shrewish woman the protagonist is stuck with, or ethereal perfect woman who for some reason actually likes whoever's playing Woody's neurotic stand-in. And in this film there are not one but two fantasy women, because when the first fantasy falls apart (Marion Cotillard, so gorgeous here), there's the girl from the record stall to pick up the real-life pieces, right down to being psyched about walking in the rain with Owen Wilson after his ex-fiancee showed early on that she was a villain because she didn't want to get her hair wet. Woody you are capable of so much good but you can't get over this hang-up! To be fair at this point I can't tell if he's sincere or making some kind of statement with recycling this trope to the point that it's a trademark.
Verdict: I suggest it for lots of reasons, one being the awesome portrayals such as Adrien Brody as Dali, the guy who played Loki as Fitzgerald and Kathy Bates as Gertrude Stein. And Par-ee, the city I love above all cities I've had the luck to visit in my life, which is the true star the way Manhattan is a star and Barcelona was a star in his other films. But really think about what kind of love story is being told and get back to me.
Is it just that after all these years the only love stories I've ever found believable were Hedwig and the Angry Inch and Knocked Up (solely the love between Paul Rudd and Seth Rogen)? It might could be.
Anyway, while I'm channeling 2011, I like this.
Monday, January 14, 2013
Isn't That the Saying?
Among this weekend's activities was a good old fashioned boo-hoo breakdown. I mentioned last week that I was looking forward to a little party at my house, but we had to postpone it because my dad, and then my mom and grandmother, got that bad cold. Which is good, I mean, no sense in having miserable people at a party, and nobody wants to catch it, especially as HR just got over his little bout of illness. But even with the particulars of situation laid out all rational-like--and knowing that there would be a party again, someday soon--I was weepy mess for a couple of hours. And I'm not a psychology wank or anything, but I think that might just have been what they call projecting. It comes out in funny ways. Otherwise, the weekend was quite lovely.
Now for the important stuff: my new glasses. It was about time after two years of not going to the eye doctor, also one of the arms of my old glasses was mysteriously snapped off when left in the room with my two-year-old for 30 seconds. The held-together-with-tape look is so 2012. So, these guys. They big, yah? Sort of an impulse choice, but I have less buyer's remorse than usual. It's funny how things come around, like my first glasses were pretty owlish, and subsequent ones got smaller and smaller and now the big ol' frames are back. Big frames, big brains, am I right?
Next up: haircut, obviously. Boyyyeee.
Now for the important stuff: my new glasses. It was about time after two years of not going to the eye doctor, also one of the arms of my old glasses was mysteriously snapped off when left in the room with my two-year-old for 30 seconds. The held-together-with-tape look is so 2012. So, these guys. They big, yah? Sort of an impulse choice, but I have less buyer's remorse than usual. It's funny how things come around, like my first glasses were pretty owlish, and subsequent ones got smaller and smaller and now the big ol' frames are back. Big frames, big brains, am I right?
Thursday, January 10, 2013
Cosmic Embrace
I'm spent after yesterday's entry, but I also feel lighter in my soul. That usually happens when I get out what I feel I've been needing to get out, but there's a profound sense of relief on top of that, knowing that it resonated with those who loved and knew Nik best. I was nervous, I guess I didn't want to make presumptions or stir up sadness, but I did what I needed to do the best way I knew how, and I feel honored that it was received so well. Shared love and memories, this is how we go on.
In other news, I've got an unusually fun weekend lined up with family, and it couldn't come at a better time. Also, I'm going through a real Talking Heads thing again- they never really go away for me, but I come back to their music with a frenzy at odd intervals. Apparently it's an odd interval. I've always adored this particular selection, and then it popped up in two movies I saw recently, one I can't remember of course, the other being "Crazy, Stupid, Love" (which I kinda liked, but with reservations which I will discuss in its own post at a later time. Maybe. Probably). Anyway, TH in the house. Enjoy.
In other news, I've got an unusually fun weekend lined up with family, and it couldn't come at a better time. Also, I'm going through a real Talking Heads thing again- they never really go away for me, but I come back to their music with a frenzy at odd intervals. Apparently it's an odd interval. I've always adored this particular selection, and then it popped up in two movies I saw recently, one I can't remember of course, the other being "Crazy, Stupid, Love" (which I kinda liked, but with reservations which I will discuss in its own post at a later time. Maybe. Probably). Anyway, TH in the house. Enjoy.
Wednesday, January 9, 2013
The Mountain is High, The Valley is Low
I was never that cool, but I won't be taken for a fool
If they wanna talk trash, they can talk talk talk
But they better come correct
And if you ever need me, call me, I'll come runnin' straight to you
Straight from the airport
Cut through the customs line
Bust down the courthouse doors
Sydney, I will testify.
"Sydney I'll Come Running" - Brett Dennen
I heard this song on my way into work a couple of weeks ago, and I credit it with ultimately bursting my bubble. The bubble of living in a world where Niki was still alive. She had been gone for awhile at that point, but I wasn't facing it, not truly. I'd been hunkered in my protective shell, feeling like if I didn't think too hard, her death didn't actually happen. And something about the lyrics to this song at that moment--cryptic lyrics that tell a specific story I don't want to know about--slapped me into reality. Because I feel like they apply to us, to our history and friendship. We weren't always together, but we'd always be together. We'd always have each other's backs when it counted, no matter what. Never mind that nobody would dream of talking trash to Niki - she would make you regret trying with one perfectly timed, cutting sentence. Never mind that in the end, I wasn't there. I didn't go to the airport when I knew she was dying. The point is, I heard that song and all the tears that wouldn't come and wouldn't come... came. As I waited at a stoplight on a cold December morning. Because of a college radio station choosing that moment to play something that I'd never heard before.
Its fitting that a song would be what brought me around, because music was shorthand, in our friendship. It was a shared language for us. A bond. Music was memories, but it was also integral to the time at hand, at the making of them. It was in the background when we were riding endless loops in Niki's mom's Cavalier. Essential and inspirational when choreographing cheerleading routines and just-for-fun dances. Just hanging out, always. The Christmas that Nik got the "Totally 80s" CD collection is burned in my mind like a tattoo, and thankfully there's video proof of how that turned out. And because music was everything to us, and because music is everywhere, I can't hear anything without it bringing Niki to mind. On one hand, it's a blessing because in that way she's still very much alive. But on the other hand, when I'm at the grocery store and "Don't Ask Me Why" by Billy Joel comes on, I can't text her about it. And that realization is devastating.
Here's a thing: I knew she was dying a long time before I made a peep about her in here. When I wrote about her being sick just a little bit before she died, I had gotten the call that it would probably be soon, but she'd been a constant heavy presence in my heart and mind for quite some time. I wasn't ready to talk about it in any way, certainly not here, and certainly not where Nik actually might read it when she was still OK enough to do so. When she was first diagnosed over 5 years ago, it never even crossed my mind that the cancer would get her. Like, the doctors got this. There's no way she won't be free and clear. And then another time when it came back, HR had just been born and I was in a panic of new motherhood, and facing the reality that what was going on with her was really bad didn't seem possible. She bounced back, then, before I absorbed the gravity of it, and I got to see her a couple of times and I was cautiously optimistic that it would last. But then I got the message from her in September that it was back, and how it was back, and let me tell you, I almost threw up as I read it. Not that I claim to be any kind of medical expert, but you don't work in the field I do for as long as I have without knowing when you need a miracle.
Not to say that I gave up hope completely. But any time I talked to her after the last hit, I had an awareness that it could be the very last time. I wanted to go see her, I truly thought I'd get to, until the time I realized I wouldn't. It went too fast. And maybe I regret that I didn't just get on a plane right away, but it doesn't matter now. It doesn't matter how I'm affected whether or not I got to see her at the end. What matters is that she was one of my oldest, dearest, sister friends. And it's so fucking wrong that she had to go through what she had to go through and that in the end the only miracle was for us, those who loved her, that she graced us for as long as she did.
Niki died a month ago yesterday. I'm not done missing her. I'm not done being sad. I'm not done writing about her or loving her or calling her my friend, not by a long shot. In many ways I haven't even gotten started. I'm not going to go on with anecdotes or even about what she was like as a person, because if you knew her, you knew. And if you didn't, it doesn't matter. Just know that for those who loved her, she was ours and she's not the type of person you get over losing. She was the best and that's the saddest goddamn fact.
I'm not going to link the Brett Dennen song here, because I know for sure that Nik did not approve of creepy ginger hippies. Instead I will link this, because... she would know why.
See you at the Emporium, babe.
If they wanna talk trash, they can talk talk talk
But they better come correct
And if you ever need me, call me, I'll come runnin' straight to you
Straight from the airport
Cut through the customs line
Bust down the courthouse doors
Sydney, I will testify.
"Sydney I'll Come Running" - Brett Dennen
I heard this song on my way into work a couple of weeks ago, and I credit it with ultimately bursting my bubble. The bubble of living in a world where Niki was still alive. She had been gone for awhile at that point, but I wasn't facing it, not truly. I'd been hunkered in my protective shell, feeling like if I didn't think too hard, her death didn't actually happen. And something about the lyrics to this song at that moment--cryptic lyrics that tell a specific story I don't want to know about--slapped me into reality. Because I feel like they apply to us, to our history and friendship. We weren't always together, but we'd always be together. We'd always have each other's backs when it counted, no matter what. Never mind that nobody would dream of talking trash to Niki - she would make you regret trying with one perfectly timed, cutting sentence. Never mind that in the end, I wasn't there. I didn't go to the airport when I knew she was dying. The point is, I heard that song and all the tears that wouldn't come and wouldn't come... came. As I waited at a stoplight on a cold December morning. Because of a college radio station choosing that moment to play something that I'd never heard before.
Its fitting that a song would be what brought me around, because music was shorthand, in our friendship. It was a shared language for us. A bond. Music was memories, but it was also integral to the time at hand, at the making of them. It was in the background when we were riding endless loops in Niki's mom's Cavalier. Essential and inspirational when choreographing cheerleading routines and just-for-fun dances. Just hanging out, always. The Christmas that Nik got the "Totally 80s" CD collection is burned in my mind like a tattoo, and thankfully there's video proof of how that turned out. And because music was everything to us, and because music is everywhere, I can't hear anything without it bringing Niki to mind. On one hand, it's a blessing because in that way she's still very much alive. But on the other hand, when I'm at the grocery store and "Don't Ask Me Why" by Billy Joel comes on, I can't text her about it. And that realization is devastating.
Here's a thing: I knew she was dying a long time before I made a peep about her in here. When I wrote about her being sick just a little bit before she died, I had gotten the call that it would probably be soon, but she'd been a constant heavy presence in my heart and mind for quite some time. I wasn't ready to talk about it in any way, certainly not here, and certainly not where Nik actually might read it when she was still OK enough to do so. When she was first diagnosed over 5 years ago, it never even crossed my mind that the cancer would get her. Like, the doctors got this. There's no way she won't be free and clear. And then another time when it came back, HR had just been born and I was in a panic of new motherhood, and facing the reality that what was going on with her was really bad didn't seem possible. She bounced back, then, before I absorbed the gravity of it, and I got to see her a couple of times and I was cautiously optimistic that it would last. But then I got the message from her in September that it was back, and how it was back, and let me tell you, I almost threw up as I read it. Not that I claim to be any kind of medical expert, but you don't work in the field I do for as long as I have without knowing when you need a miracle.
Not to say that I gave up hope completely. But any time I talked to her after the last hit, I had an awareness that it could be the very last time. I wanted to go see her, I truly thought I'd get to, until the time I realized I wouldn't. It went too fast. And maybe I regret that I didn't just get on a plane right away, but it doesn't matter now. It doesn't matter how I'm affected whether or not I got to see her at the end. What matters is that she was one of my oldest, dearest, sister friends. And it's so fucking wrong that she had to go through what she had to go through and that in the end the only miracle was for us, those who loved her, that she graced us for as long as she did.
Niki died a month ago yesterday. I'm not done missing her. I'm not done being sad. I'm not done writing about her or loving her or calling her my friend, not by a long shot. In many ways I haven't even gotten started. I'm not going to go on with anecdotes or even about what she was like as a person, because if you knew her, you knew. And if you didn't, it doesn't matter. Just know that for those who loved her, she was ours and she's not the type of person you get over losing. She was the best and that's the saddest goddamn fact.
I'm not going to link the Brett Dennen song here, because I know for sure that Nik did not approve of creepy ginger hippies. Instead I will link this, because... she would know why.
See you at the Emporium, babe.
Tuesday, January 8, 2013
Like I Have Younger Readers
Aaaaaand..... pinkeye. That is what ultimately ended our 8 + month streak of not having to take HR to the pediatrician. It was a hell of a run, for a little kid. But even without the crud I figure it can't hurt to get him looked at as he's been feverish and all anyway. I do feel bad because this of all days is when I have an after-work meeting so I'll only see my small gent for just a short spell before his bedtime tonight. It happens, and what can you do. It's not his first go-round with the affliction, I'm sure it won't be his last, and thankfully there's good medicine to clear it right up. I fully expect my own imminent turn on the conjunctivitis-a-whirl. In the meantime, to the laundry with you, towels and washcloths and pillowcases. Life in the world and all its beauty.
Tomorrow something else will be going on, and I hope that something is not a new ailment. If it is, I probably won't write about it due to its inherent boringness. And now for someone who knew a thing or two about being sick but was never boring, my spirit animal, RJD.
A bit of trivia for my older readers: I loved this video when I was a kid because I had a crush on the kid who stars in it. That's right, it's Meeno Peluce, staple of 80s programming, and brother to one Soleil Moon Frye.
Tomorrow something else will be going on, and I hope that something is not a new ailment. If it is, I probably won't write about it due to its inherent boringness. And now for someone who knew a thing or two about being sick but was never boring, my spirit animal, RJD.
A bit of trivia for my older readers: I loved this video when I was a kid because I had a crush on the kid who stars in it. That's right, it's Meeno Peluce, staple of 80s programming, and brother to one Soleil Moon Frye.
Monday, January 7, 2013
Time I Got Back
Like everyone else in the known world, my poor buddy boy was down with a cold, fever and all, for the entire weekend. Though he was energetic and in good spirits for the most part (um, aren't kids supposed to want to sleep MORE when they're sick?), I was ready to kiss him goodbye and leave him snuggling on the couch with his dad this morning. They could both use some downtime and togetherness, and my body could use a few hours minus a cling-on. I'll come right out and say it: the needs of the workplace are nothing in comparison to those of a snot-faucet toddler. Nothing against what anyone does at their important jobs, or to extend that bullshit dichotomy regarding whether stay-at-home parents have the harder job than ones who work outside the home. Everything's hard in its own way. I'm just saying that after a couple of days cooped up with a kid, going to work feels like a break. Also, as when any illness befalls our household, it makes me that much more grateful for the run of robust health we regularly enjoy, child and parents alike.
Today "normal time" resumes. The weekly schedule isn't broken up by holidays, and a reassuringly boring calm is restored to both home and workplace. I chafe, as always, at how quickly the good times pass, but the return to routine is necessary and right now feels pretty good. And a veritable b-load of winter-hermit-enabling TV shows are back on, so that's nice. Of course they're all on the same night, but the magic of DVR and OnDemand, I'll get them watched, just you wait and see.
Just another explosive entry in the most exciting blog of the most fascinating person who ever wrote a thing.
Today "normal time" resumes. The weekly schedule isn't broken up by holidays, and a reassuringly boring calm is restored to both home and workplace. I chafe, as always, at how quickly the good times pass, but the return to routine is necessary and right now feels pretty good. And a veritable b-load of winter-hermit-enabling TV shows are back on, so that's nice. Of course they're all on the same night, but the magic of DVR and OnDemand, I'll get them watched, just you wait and see.
Just another explosive entry in the most exciting blog of the most fascinating person who ever wrote a thing.
Wednesday, January 2, 2013
The Year of Soup and Sleep
2013, off and running! I had a great New Year's, especially what was probably the best New Year's Day in recent memory, which can happen when you let go and don't attach any expectations. There was some bubbly, there was some rocking out, but most importantly there were good people and the unfathomable joy of two toddlers playing companionably for hours. Best life.
What I'd really like to do right now is go home and eat a huge bowl of tom yum or hot and sour soup and go to bed for hours and hours, but I'm in the thick of it until evening time so I'll just buzz around the hive and get things done with visions of spicy hot broth and my pillow as the ultimate incentive. This is what being middle age is, yes? I'm all in for that sexy mess.
I hope the turn of the calendar page finds you in a similar heap of peace in your place.
Ah, this song. In the spirit of tranquility, I will continue to work toward being at peace with Scandinavians being so goddamn good at everything.
What I'd really like to do right now is go home and eat a huge bowl of tom yum or hot and sour soup and go to bed for hours and hours, but I'm in the thick of it until evening time so I'll just buzz around the hive and get things done with visions of spicy hot broth and my pillow as the ultimate incentive. This is what being middle age is, yes? I'm all in for that sexy mess.
I hope the turn of the calendar page finds you in a similar heap of peace in your place.
Ah, this song. In the spirit of tranquility, I will continue to work toward being at peace with Scandinavians being so goddamn good at everything.
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