The Final Straw

Several months ago I bought a wooden toy chest as one of my volunteer duties for Kate’s preschool auction. A guy from the furniture store took it out to the car for me while I was signing the credit card receipt.

A few minutes later he came back in and said, “I’m sorry. I can’t put that in your car.” Odd, since he’d measured it and my car minutes ago and assured me there was plenty of room.

After waiting a couple seconds and (I assume) delightfully registering my confusion, the guy leans into my face and leers, “I can’t put it in a car with a Carleton College sticker! I went to St. Olaf!”

Sadly for him, I had no awareness of the apparent collegiate rivalry to which he was referring, since it’s Mark who’s the Carleton alum.

Sadly for me, I didn’t think fast enough to make the “We always said you St. Olaf people would be moving furniture for us one day” comment.

Oh well. It’s just another little weird-since-it-ain’t-my-college scenario that’s cropped up ever since we had Kate and I started driving Mark’s car, which along with its superior kid-transporting space, comes emblazoned with his alma mater’s sticker across the back window.

Actually, I barely notice it myself now, but every once and a while I’ll get something like a realtor’s business card left on the windshield that says, “Hey, fellow Carl! Please call me if you’re ever looking for a house in the Bay Area!” (Cute or annoying? You decide!)

And just a few weeks ago a friend’s husband offered to ran out to my car for something and not knowing whether he knew which one was mine I started to say, “It’s the silver Subaru–” and he jumped in “–with the Carleton College sticker. Yeah, yeah, I know it.”

It’s not like I have anything against Carleton. I mean, aside from the fact they swiped my small liberal arts college’s former president. News of which came through to Mark and I via our respective alumni newsletters. Kenyon’s two-bit pamphlet-like paper arrived one day with a pathetic entreaty that “the search was on” for a new president. The cover story seemed nearly as desperate as, “Hey, know anyone who’s kinda smart and willing to live in a fancy house in hell-and-gone rural Ohio for not much money but a noble job? We’re looking for a new president. (See reverse side for application.)”

Or at least in my mind it seemed that way.

The Carleton alumni rag is all schmancy, printed on stock only a former magazine hack could love, with stunning close-up cover photos of former students who are off excelling in some dazzling job you never even knew existed but is utterly world-bettering, death-defying, and/or hip. Let’s just say that the issue of The Voice that came to us a couple weeks after Kenyon’s sorry ass we-don’t-got-no-president newsletter was a gloating tribute to their new glorious leader.

It was all so tragic I don’t think Mark even had much fun chiding me for it.

And to think that on a daily basis I drive around the Carleton-mobile that has a sticker on it that everyone I know has seemed to notice and comment on at one time or other as if the whole car is wrapped in that plastic sheeting advertisement stuff they did a lot of before all those kooky dot coms with animal names folded a few years back.

So this morning I’d just parked outside my new chiropractor’s office when a guy pulled up alongside me in a way that set off my paranoid mind to wondering if I’d taken his spot, leveled a parking meter, or had the end of my scarf dragging out the door on the street for the past seven miles. Instead the guy is kinda smirking, motions for me to roll down my window, and calls out as if I’m on the other end of a wind tunnel and he needs me to grab a safety harness, “CARLETON! I see the Carleton sticker on your car!”

“Yes,” I say wearily, preparing for his let-down when I have to eventually tell him I don’t know the double-secret Carl handshake. And feigning interest: “Did you go there?”

“YES! I DID!” he shouts enthusiastically and unnecessarily. “Do you have a child that goes there?!”

[Sudden sound of needle scratching across record] A child? A child?

Okay, so I think Mark and I need to talk about that sticker finally coming off. Or maybe me just getting a new car altogether. The Sube is clearly not doing anything to uphold my youthful image.

Give the Gift of Mitzvahs this Holiday Season

Last week Shelley was telling me about a woman who’d been inside her house for the first time. She was doing a carpool drop-off I think, or maybe she was a new friend. Anyway, this woman was admiring Shelley’s grandma’s china that’s in a cabinet in their living room. And as she stepped away from the huge case of cherished breakables, she pointed out that Shell really should rein the cabinet into the wall, or one small quake could send it and all Grannie’s priceless pink flowered table settings to garbage can heaven.

(This is a concern when you live in NoCal. You can’t even hang pictures over your bed–or especially a baby crib–since one wee tremor could have them dive off the wall and turn sleeping Junior into Flat Stanley. Or worse yet, rain down glass shards over yourself or your offspring like New Year’s Eve confetti on Times Square.)

So anyway, Shelley must have said something like, “Yeah you are totally right, but as the First Lady of a time-sucking winemaking business, with three kids, a big house to manage, and the onset of a new job twinkling in my eye, who’s got the time?”

A few days later the woman called Shelley. “So I’ve got my drill charged up and I’m free next Tuesday, Wednesday or Friday afternoon. When can I come by and bolt that china cabinet to the wall?”

Now, just how much do you want this carpool woman to be your best friend? The offer of such a kind favor aside, I just love that she’s got her own drill and she ain’t shy about using it.

Fast forward to today. I’m leaving a little day spa where I’ve just lost 2 pounds in eyebrow hair and I’m wrangling to set up my stroller while holding Little Miss Earache in one arm. I happen to glance down the street and this ancient fragile looking woman is approaching, and she’s managing to somehow drag behind her an oxygen tank that she’s hooked up to. I didn’t know whether to be sad for her weakened state, or happy that she’s at least not letting it stop her from getting out in the world.

And as I look back at my stroller and revert my thoughts to sending a pox-curse on the village of the owners of MacLaren (why do those visors always eventually irreparably schlump?), Wee Decrepit Woman on Oxygen comes up to me and says, “What can I do for you, dear? Let me give you a hand.” And even though at that point I’d finally gotten my sidewalk catastrophe act together, it was all I could do to not give her a teary-eyed osteoporotically-bone-crushing hug, then send her to my house to iron Mark’s shirts.

Though I don’t really know that that’s what she had in mind.

Even with His Holiness Obama blessedly elected into office, here we all are at the intersection of Economic Infrastructure Meltdown and Holiday Shopping Stress. And despite how much I want a really fabulous pair of brown high-heeled boots (and black ones too) this Christmas, it seems that along with everyone else I’ve spoken to, this season of giving is going to be coming more from the heart than from Bloomingdale’s. I think an act of kindness will be this year’s jewel-toned cashmere scarf, and really it’s a shame that it took Wall Street shitting the bed to wake us all up to the fact that that’s how it really should be anyway.

So take out that Excel spreadsheet with all your gift-buying ideas on it (wait, not everyone keeps that in Excel?), and whether or not you have the cash to buy every last person matching his and hers hot air balloons, consider what you can do instead of get. Rake your sister’s leaves, deliver a tray of gin and tonics to your neighbor right when they get home from work, or set aside some time to organize your cousin’s linen closet. I assure you, they will delight in those gifts far more than the Hammacher Schlemmer heated gloves that they’re just going to keep in in a box in their basement for four years until they give them away to Salvation Army.

And when I’m at your house next and seem to be spending an excessive amount of time in your bathroom, no need to slide the sports section (and some air freshener) under the door. I’m likely just scrubbing the grout around your bathtub with some bleach and a toothbrush.

Merry Christmas!

Consider My Hat Eaten

Remember in the die-if-I-missed-it show of my teendom, Happy Days, when Fonzie attempted to admit he’d made a mistake?

Well, if you weren’t as devoted a viewer as I was, I’ll tell you about it. He’d do this super goofy but kinda-funny-because-it-was-predictable thing where’d he’d say, “I was wrr-wrrrr-wrrr…” and inevitably someone like God’s own Ritchie Cunningham would say, “Wrong, Fonzie? Are you trying to say you were wrong?”

Well, despite the myriad similarities between Fonzie and me–including the fact that I like conducting meetings in the bathroom–this week I had reason to actually feel happy about admitting that I was wrong.

But first, the back story.

Before having Kate, my concept of work had one modality: working 50-65 hour weeks,compulsively checking email when not at work, never knowing when a pitch would require unexpected late nights/travel/migraines/beatings from executives, never knowing when the work that we spend long hours and late nights producing would result in beatings from clients, and intermittent Sunday evenings rife with stomach-clutching because it’d all start over again in a matter of hours.

After having Kate and taking a hiatus from work my psyche was able to unfurl from it’s abused-child fetal position. And unbelievably, for the first time, the simple realization that there were other kinds of jobs out there came to me.

Unfortunately, agency life, for all it’s unpredictability and manic peaks and valleys, did get me accustomed to creature comforts far beyond Bagel Fridays. It was creative. It was lucrative. It was never boring. My co-workers were always funny and mostly brilliant. And the flip side of the burning ulcers was the ‘the client loved it’ adrenaline rushes.

Teeninsy Kate injected her existence into my life with the dramatic flourish of a table being hurled on it’s side during a round of Go Fish at a nursing home. She was a mindblowingly happy-making, wanted and welcomed addition to my life, but oooooh-ee! Did she ever change things.

Unsurprisingly, there was no turning back to my old job life. But nearly a year into careerlessness, I started to get small twinges of wanting to do something. I talked to friends, joined LinkedIn, winced with introspection, lunched with former co-workers, and massaged my temples in an attempt to conceptualize the kind of job that’d be both gratifying and allow me moderate to lavish time with Kate.

My criteria were: part-time, lucrative, flexible, creative.

Ever the realist, Mark said, “Pick two.”

In this process I was like a spider, dragging anyone within reach into my web to wrangle over the whole morass with me. Which is to say that aside from Kate Kate Kate, I had a new conversation topic to drone on about to anyone who’d listen.

And throughout all this thought and blather I made what I thought were two brilliant assertions:

1. The vast majority of part-time jobs require hair nets.

2. Job sharing is a myth.

I mean, here I was living in San Francisco for God’s sake, and I didn’t know a single person who job shared. And if I didn’t know anyone here who did, you can bet your Blackberry that folks in Omaha weren’t.

But then, last week, I was proven wrong by a dear friend who I’ll mysteriously dub “Sherry” so as to conceal her not-yet-started-the-gig identity. Yes, after a series of phone calls and interviews that spanned several weeks, my dear Miss Sherry got herself a two-day-a-week job. Job-sharing with another woman.

But wait! I also must mention that this job is in her field, at a super-cool company, senior management level–and she’ll even get mondo employee discounts that’ll rock her whole family.

No burger flipping required! (In fact, I’ll go out on a limb and guess there’s not a deep fryer in the whole building.) No calling the men Mr. So-and-So and getting flowers for Secretary’s Day! No whispering, “And what are you wearing, Arthur?” into the phone while the kids play in the other room!

And best of all, NO HAIR NETS.

In the words of my people from the great small state of Rhode Island, I am SO WICKED HAPPY for her. And for the slim ray of hope this casts for all the other talented professionals who–mothers or not–have great contributions to make, years of senior-level experience, want or need to make money, and require flexibility.

Now that that myth has been busted, does anyone know if that toothbrush photo from the Jamaican vacation story is true?

Birth Announcement Breeds Confusion, Resentment

My friend Geri, who I see and talk too far less often than I should, called yesterday.

Geri: “Okay, so first off I have to say that when I got this red envelope in the mail from you I thought, ‘Oh God, she’s already sent out her Christmas cards. And it’s just days after Halloween.’ “

Me: “And you were disgusted by what a super organized stay-at-home mom I’d become? You were ready to totally write me off as a friend?”

Geri: “Well, not quite write you off… That’s a bit extreme.”

Me: “But then you opened it? And realized it was just a really really late birth announcement?”

Geri: “Exactly. And my faith in you was restored.”

Yes, last week, just days after our beloved newborn Paige turned, well, nine months old, we popped her birth announcement into the mail.

We figured that years from now, when she and Kate are in their thirties and looking through old shoeboxes of family photos and memorabilia, Paige will care more about ever having had a birth announcement than she will about the fact that we got around to sending it out so bloody late. In fact, if she doesn’t look too hard at how very large she was in the pictures, perhaps she’ll never even make the connection.

Speaking of lost connections, on an online video chat with my Dad and Joan last week, I mentioned that they’d be getting a birth announcement in the mail from us soon, “just in case you were wondering if I was still pregnant.” Which caused my dad to lean distortingly close to his computer video lens and say, “What’s that? You’re pregnant?!“

Ah dear. Perhaps sending this card out now did more harm than good.

Well, despite what anyone else says, we still want to shout it from the rooftops:
“Paige Victoria McClusky is here! She is a supreme addition to our family, and we love love love her more than you’d ever know!”

Take that! We’ve announced it. Even if she did make her entrance nearly a year ago.

Your Coffee Table Needs to Meet this Cookbook

I’d just like to say that I’m prouder than the mother of an honor roll student. Proud of my husband Mark, that is.

Back when Kate was a few months old, she and I tagged along with him on a work trip to Chicago. Maybe I have some Nordic blood I’m not aware of. Something that drove me to bring my wee tender infant to Chicago on a winter weekend that served up record cold. As if thrusting this defenseless small thing out into blasting bitter winds and inhuman sub-zero temps was some cultural rite of passage that if she managed to survive would result in her being given a secret name from a tribe elder.

But really I think it was just me wanting to get out of the house.

Yeah, so anyway, we went there and it was chilly. And we stayed in a schmancy hotel. And the first night Kate arcanely (and cruelly) managed to wake up every hour at the same exact time (3:14AM, 4:14AM, 5:14AM) forcing me to stick a boob in her mouth to quiet her down because Mark had to wake up the next day with some hopes of having slept enough to be an intelligent functional journalist. Those few nights comprised perhaps the most miserable ones of my infant mothering.

But all that aside, Mark and I did go out one night to an amazing restaurant called Alinea to eat the most decadent, fascinating, and theatrical meal of our lives. All 25 or so courses. Not to mention the 15 wine pairings. (But really, after the eleventh glass of wine, who can keep count?)

In fact, the business behind Mark’s trip to Chi-town was that he was interviewing that restaruant’s chef, a guy in his early thirties named Grant Achatz who’s a disciple of His Holiness Thomas Keller, and a frontiersman in the realm of molecular gastronomy. That scientifically-alchemized and post-modernistically presented haute gourmet food utterly unlike anything your mom used to make. And food that many moms–from my mother’s generation at least–might never appreciate the staggering artistic and experiential merits of. (I can hear my mother now: “You’ve got to be kidding me! For the price of that coo coo meal you could’ve put a down payment on a perfectly good house!”)

So, after that trip Mark wrote a story for Wired about Grant. They stayed in touch. Gourmet named Alinea the best Restaurant in America. Grant was named the Best Chef in the U.S. by The James Beard Foundation. Grant got cancer. He started work on a cookbook. He asked Mark to write an essay for the book. Grant also asked Geoffrey Steingarten and Michael Ruhlman to contribute. (This, by the way, is like being invited to play golf with Tiger Woods and, well, some other really amazingly super good and well-known golfer.) Grant’s cancer, blessedly, went into remission. The book, Alinea, went on sale over a week ago and I believe is now in its fourth printing. I’ll resist the cookbook/selling/hotcakes metaphor-pun.

I can’t imagine people are snatching it up because they’re in a rut about what they’ve been serving for dinner and want to mix things up a bit and wow the kids with some Surf Clam with Nasturtium Leaf and Flower with Shallot Marmelade. Or maybe have the neighbors over for Sunday football and some Foie Gras with Spice Cinnamon Puff and Apple Candy.

The book has a “How To Use this Book” intro, and it actually says that they do want you to venture to produce some of its recipes. But it’s unlikely that any non-professionals (aside from one blogger with a lot of time, patience, and ambition) would do so. Hence the brilliant term “coffee table cookbook.” Aside from the complexity of the number of components and steps and even the staggering grocery gathering that’d be required, you’d also need a kitchen stocked with a madman’s array of chemicals plus state of the art hi-tech equipment that can do things like turn fresh parsley into powder or make Gob Stopper shaped spheres filled with unexpected innards, like say, curry sauce. Or Concord grape. Or, heck, both.

Not that that’s a recipe mind you, but this book is packed with similarly mind blowing match-ups that you could never in your most drug-induced Suessian dreams conjure. And if you ever have the very very good fortune to eat at Alinea–something you really should try to do before you take all your foods up through a straw–you won’t believe you’re actually eating these sublime things all together or that you love how they taste.

And for God’s sake if you do eat there, be sure not to go with your mother or your brother-in-law or whoever it is who’ll be too freaked out by the food’s novelty or who’s an unadventurous eater or is even just an old school party pooper. Or maybe on the other hand, bring them along! Require them to just shut up and eat, and watch as the kitchen and the front-of-the-house staff knock their damn socks off! I promise you the next day they’ll quit their 17-year run at the accounting firm, hop a flight to Fiji and take up kite surfing.

But oh, where was I? The book. The book. I’m telling you, it’s like that. It’s not just like flipping through the utterly comprehensive and practical yet curveball-less Joy of Cooking. It takes you places. This is not a cookbook that you buy for your friend who likes to cook, although he certainly will love it. Buy it for someone whose culinary specialty is a toasted bagel and know there will be something that will floor and amaze even her–not to mention the people who come across it on her coffee table.

There’s science! There’s art! There’s technology! There’s food! There’s stunning photography! And there’s my husband’s name. Right there on the cover page.

So recently I suggested you make a contribution to help fund breast cancer research. Today I’m advising you to go out or go online and buy this book. Not because I want to help sales for Grant or for Mark, though they are nice guys and God knows Grant is a fascinating and crazy hard-working genius. But because this book could boost your cool quotient exponentially. Not to mention the effect it could have on many of the folks on your holiday shopping list.

Help cure cancer, save your soul, then impress your friends. You can thank me later.

Kate Walks the Catwalk

Tomorrow is the local kiddie Halloween parade, and Kate’s school’s Fall Festival and some pumpkin ho-down at a nearby cemetery of all places. Kate, Paige and I will be debuting our 2008 Halloween line of haute costumery. Tonight as I was double-checking every last detail of our ensembles like some OCD Project Runway contestant I told Mark I felt like it was the night before my thesis presentation.

Which is, needless to say, utterly pathetic. And perhaps an indicator that it’s time for me to rejoin the workforce. Either that or resign myself to housewife life and sign up for a Betty Crocker cook-off.

Though our costumes do rock so incredibly hard that we’re sure to stun and amaze all who see us. And if we don’t all I can say is poor Mark will have himself one brutally long ugly night of talking me down off the ledge of irrational female emotions. 

It’s weird that as hopped up as I am to trot the girls (and sure, myself) out on Halloween, in the very same week it became brutally clear how remotely not cut out to be a Pageant Mom I am. Which isn’t to say that I entered Paige into the Little Miss Fatty Legs Northern California Regional Semi-Finals. Though if there was such a pageant and I was the type to enter my nine-month-old daughter, I can assure you SHE WOULD KILL.

My encounter was actually a gazillion times more chill. My gargantuanly talented photographer friend asked if Kate would–well I don’t even want to use the term because it makes it seem like more than it was but–model for a shoot she was doing. No big thing–just some pics for a website (or catalog?) for a Brangelina’s kids level-of-schmancy children’s clothing line.

Of course, while knowing it was so not remotely a big deal there still was one wee part of my being that immediately interpreted the invitation to do this as my friend’s way saying that she’d truly never looked upon a more beautiful and luminous child than Kate. Ever.

And so, knowing Kate has the star power to be the next Brooke Shields but because we’re not the types to do anything about it other than leave a trail of love-struck 3-year-old boys in her wake, I happily agreed to help my friend out and do this it’ll-be-fun shoot. And immediately put Kate on a strict grapefruit and Tab diet… Okay, well not really.

So, two days before the shoot I noticed Kate had a dark quarter-sized bruise on her cheek that appeared in that way that little owies crop up all over 3-year-olds who engage in some sort of Ultimate Playground Fighting all in the name of good recess fun. One day before the shoot Kate and her friend Owen decided to give each other magic marker “tattoos” akin to a prison gang ritual. Kate’s cheek, neck, and the length of her arm were inked in what I was sure was wash-awayable marker, though Mark’s bath-time washcloth dermabrasion had no power over them. And the actual day of the shoot she get a big red ballerina stamp on her hand from dance class like some little raver club girl.

It’s not until you want your child to be free and clear of bodily markings that you realize what a typical week in the world of a preschooler serves up to their dermis. Sheesh.

And the fact that the thought did cross my mind that all these things could affect THE PICTURES scared me into wondering if there’s some latent Pageant Mother embedded deep deep inside me just waiting to bust out like an alien from Sigourney Weaver’s stomach.

Well, suffice it to say that Kate doesn’t seem to have the, uh, temperament to withstand a mellow photo shoot at our good friend’s house where she’s usually comfortable enough to frolic naked in the backyard kiddie pool and raid their selection of sippy cups.

A simple request to try on a pair of tights–this doesn’t even include the dress, boots, sweater and hat which were ultimately required–caused Kate to scream “NO!” in painfully close range of my face, then run off to pry the play cash register away from the hands of one of the other more serenely-natured girls.

Finally, miraculously, the entire outfit did get onto her body, despite the tricky Euro buttons up the back of the dress, and the hysterical crying fit that ended in a series of those hyperventilating quick intakes of breath, a snot-smeared face, and my promise to pack her to the gills with ice cream the moment we got home.

Thankfully the woman who was running the shoot was a mother too, and told me one girl/model recently wouldn’t even getting dressed. That left me feeling like my Ivy League-level aspirations that got knocked down to a good liberal arts school at least didn’t devolve into the community college outcome that that other poor mother walked away with. Misery no doubt loves company, but loves someone who is worse off even more.

I don’t know yet whether the pics of Kate were even use-able. My friend managed to tell little sweet stories to Kate while photographing her, brilliantly distracting her from her satanic crying spell. And since most of the other clothing ended up being too big for Kate, it turned out I only had to wrangle one outfit on her and then we were free to go. Of course, in writing this I realize that was likely the polite way to excise Little Miss Tantrum from the scene.

Whatever the case, as we headed out the woman actually asked if we’d ever want to do it again, remarking that Kate is “really beautiful” and kindly leaving out the “when her head is not rotating full circle and she’s not puking pea soup” part of the sentence. Perhaps she’ll bring some sort of kiddie sedative along next time. Or better yet, something mind-altering for the adults.

Driving down the mountain from my friend’s house I saw Kate in the rear view mirror looking worn out and gazing out the window. I asked her what she thought of having her picture taken and she said weakly, “Good.” Did she think it was something she’d want to do again I asked, mostly out of curiosity about what she’d say. She perked right up, leaning forward with a million-dollar smile (best one of the day) and chirped, “Yes, Mama! Yes, I’ll do it again!”

I’ve no idea what would make her want to re-enter the Zone of Wailing Misery which she was so entrenched in just moments before. Either modeling shoots are forgotten like the pain of childbirth, or the extent to which Mark and I restrict Kate from having sweets is so great it was a small price for her to pay to get an ice cream sandwich.

If we ever do decide to do it again, I just have to figure out what treat I’m going to allow myself to have at the end.

Little Mitzy, R.I.P.

My dear friend Shelley, with whom I rented a Victorian in San Francisco for some seven or so years of single-gal debauchery, had a childhood dog named Mitzy. In that way Shell and I have of happily talking non-stop whenever we see each other, we’ve covered a lot of conversational ground about everything from current life issues to childhood tales.

Shelley grew up in the frozen tundra of Minnesota. One day she and her mother discovered that little Mitzy, who was but a wee Chihuahua, had somehow been left outside. Being out in a Minnesota winter can be physically devastating for an adult human. Temps drop to absurd sub-zero levels, and in no time eyelids can seize up, snot can freeze in your nose… Well, you get the point.

When the little Mitz-sicle was discovered by the back door, a forlorn young Shelley snatched her up, carried her carefully inside and planted her on a heating pad, while likely weeping and assuredly whispering heartfelt apologies.

Miraculously, little Miss Mitz warmed up and bounced back. And yet Shelley never did dedicate her life to the church. Go figure.

Anyway, I’m a huge dog person. I adore the beasts. Yet I always found that story hilarious. Maybe it was more about them having a lap dog–one named Mitzy no less–that just slayed me.  That coupled with the fact that as an adult Shelley and her husband Don are so not Dog People. Somehow all those things, along with my sick sick sense of humor, have led me to razz Shelley mercilessly about Mitzy whenever anything about the cold, or small dogs, or forgetfulness, or heck even heating pads, comes up in conversation. (Yes, it’s a tough job being one of my friends.)

Well last night at dinner Mark mentioned that when he’d gone in to get Paige that morning a window in her room had been left open all night and she was–yes, you got it–a little Paige-sicle.

Thankfully Paige didn’t require the “To the heating pad, STAT!” treatment that Mitzy did, nor did Mark have to cradle her carefully to prevent possible cracking. He just closed the window, put a little hat on her, hugged her up, and moved her to a warmer part of the house.

We’re in this Indian Summer season here in the Bay Area. During the day in the sun it can get well into the 70s, but at night the temps drop 20 or more degrees. At any rate, the window staying open was decidedly my fault. I’m the one who puts Paige to sleep at night and closes her curtains. I should have checked the window then, and somehow didn’t.

And of course yesterday the little dumpling woke up with a runny nose and sneezing the cutest saddest little sneezes you ever did see. Today she’s no better. At nearly nine months old, she’s got her first cold, poor dear.

Guess who is fretfully whispering “I’m sorry” into little ears now?
  

Have You Hugged Your Boobies Today?

A couple weeks ago I was reading an old high school friend’s blog and found out it’s National Breast Cancer Awareness Month. Thankfully, breast cancer hadn’t been on my mind at all.

But last year–Breast Cancer Awareness Month of 2007–that wasn’t at all the case. I mean, I didn’t even know it was a special month then, but I was all too aware of the Big C because one of Mark’s aunts, and one of our favorite humans ever–the woman who performed our wedding ceremony, in fact–had just been diagnosed.

If it’s a sickening stressful scary feeling being the friend of someone who’s going through what she did, I can’t even imagine what it’s like to be the protagonist. I mean, as fans of Mark’s aunt, we are just a small part of a large large group. So when she was sorting out and sifting though all the early information and emotions, she luckily had a big community to tap into for support, resources, good doctors’ names. And of course the insights of other women who had gone through it too.

Again, I have no idea what it’s like, but I can only imagine that it’s like walking into a room of all these women–maybe some close friends, some social friends, former co-workers or clients, and even a big klatch of your mother’s friends from Florida. All these woman who  you’ve probably known have had breast cancer, but of course now that it’s struck you, you can’t help but see them in a different light. Maybe you’re greedy to get information from them, or desperate for their empathy or compassion, and you definitely want to hear all the really positive success stories. (Woot to all those Floridians still waking up every morning, greeting the day, and hitting the golf course!)

Or maybe you don’t even want to go there and reach out to them at all, even though they’re smiling up at you and offering their support in that amazing way that women seem to be able to even if you don’t know them at all but really just need someone to help you because you’re grocery bag is slipping and you’re holding onto your crying baby and your toddler has decided to run into the busy parking lot.

You know. That amazing way that women who don’t even know each other can be.

But anyway, back to this room. This room that I imagine is filled with all these women who have some life connection, and now another link through breast cancer. As much as their smiling faces and encouragement may bring you comfort, at least in those early days I can imagine that there’s that moment as you walk to the center of the room that you see a chair and it’s got your name on it. That must be the big sucker punch.

Everyone knows someone who’s had breast cancer, but then what do you do when it’s suddenly you? I don’t care how friendly or welcoming the members are. Who wants to be part of that club?

Well, once you get through all the surgeries and treatments and whatever other interventions might take place, God willing you graduate to the elite gold club. The survivors’ club. And blessedly so far everyone I know who has wrangled with breast cancer has managed to do that.

Because of course there are many other women who I know who I haven’t mentioned yet. Women who would be in my imaginary support room, as it were. Once Mark’s Aunt started to move into the “looks like it’ll be okay” realm towards the end of last year, my womb-to-tomb friend Amelia’s kid sister was diagnosed. I mean, in my mind she’s still 11 years old and poking around the outskirts of where Amelia and I are hanging out, wanting to get in on the older girl action. But really she’s in her mid-30s now. Older than my mind can grock, but still way too young to have an oncologist.

And one of the first people to spring to my mind whenever I see a pink ribbon is my beloved sister-cousin, Nancy. I’m not exactly sure when it was that she passed the special five year mark to being free and clear of cancer. And thinking of that now it makes me regret that I wasn’t more aware of it. That I didn’t send her a massive bouquet of flowers that day, or write a fat check to a research charity in her honor, or have a freakin’ parade for her. Truly. I can think of no better day to jump into a fountain in public and dance and dance and dance.

Of course, there are so many other women who I’ve known–and even not personally known–who I’d love to recognize. The mothers of friends that I made in adulthood, who died when my friends were young girls. Women I never knew but whose daughters dazzle me daily with their friendship and intelligence and creativity, not to mention their own amazing mothering. To all those long-gone mothers, I pay tribute to you and promise to take special care of your girls. (They’re all doing great! You’d be incredibly proud!)

So today I shout out to you from my front porch. Sitting here in the sunshine of a warm October California day. Happy to be alive. Happy to be the mother of a sweet dumpling baby who is sleeping inside and a spunky brilliant spitfire of a preschooler. Two daughters with whom I hope to share a long and illness-free lifetime.

And of course, I hope the same for you and your daughters, mothers, cousins, sisters, and favorite aunts.

So here’s how I envision we get there. Let’s go out and get mammograms despite how unpleasant we may have heard that they are. Let’s really do regular self exams. And get tested for the BRCA gene if you have a family history. Let’s laugh in the face of the crumbling economy by writing out generous checks today to Susan G. Komen For the Cure, or Breast Cancer Research Foundation, or National Breast Cancer Foundation or whatever charity or hospital or research center is meaningful to you.

If everyone does their part today, maybe a few years from now when someone brings it to your attention that it’s National Breast Cancer Awareness Month, you’ll think to yourself, “Oh, right. Breast cancer! I’d almost forgotten that disease even existed.”

Little Miss Malaprop

One of Mark’s friends from his New York days wrote a great book about misheard song lyrics called ‘Scuse Me While I Kiss This Guy. Who can’t love a book like that? It should be required reading in bathrooms across America. And I truly mean that as a compliment.

One of my personal misheard song faves was from my friend Cynthia. She confessed to me in college that she’d long been singing, “I jog in the city! Running wild and looking pretty!”

You’d have to know Cynth to really appreciate how perfectly hilarious that was. Even now it’s a total side-splitter to me.

Not that I’m much better, mind you. No doubt there are myriad song lyrics I belt out daily that are utterly incorrect. One Mark caught me in the act of was from that Billy Joel song “Piano Man.” I thought the guy in the song was “making love to his tiny can gin” instead of his “tonic and gin.”

Not sure what led me to believe gin ever came in cans. Or weirder: tiny cans. It’s one of those things that as you’re singing it doesn’t seem quite right but oh well you’re not the songwriter you’re just driving in your car singing along happily and maybe even thumping the steering wheel when the spirit moves you, so who are you to question what vessel gin traditionally comes in and how big it is. Know what I mean?

Of course when Mark discovered I’d been making this mistake he pounced on it delightedly as only a loving spouse can. In a futile attempt at self defense I think I tried to cover my tracks by explaining I thought he was “making love to his tiny Can Jin.” You know, some diminutive Asian woman. (Yeah, he didn’t buy it either.)

Anyway, yesterday I asked Kate what she wanted to bring into school today since she was the Star of the Day, the school’s one-at-a-time version of Show and Tell. She took the question to heart and started surveying her toy empire intently. At one point she ran up to me with some wooden play dishes and said, “Mama, I want to take these in for Start of the Day.” To which I corrected, “It’s not start, honey, it’s star. Like you’re a shining star!”

Here I am trying to help her out, teach her something, and what I get back is an insistent, “No, Mommy“–the name she reserves for me when she’s being stern–”It’s start.”

There’s just no telling that girl she’s wrong. I wonder where she gets that from.

Turns out Kate’s gotten some other school-related things wrong too. The circle time song she insists goes, “Make a circle. Make a circle. Make it ground! Make it ground!” She sings this song nearly incessantly causing me to mutter between clenched teeth “Round, Kate. Round.”

And they say some non-denominational hippie-type grace before eating at school. I’m not sure exactly what the words to it are, but I’m pretty sure they aren’t, “Thank you, thank you, my hard things! Thank you, thank you for everything.” My guess is it’s a “heart” that “sings.” Though, knowing that school it might also be a harp.

Anyway, one song I’m certain I know the words to–since this Star of the Day thing has had it stuck in my head all day–is the theme song from this low-budg New England talent show called Community Auditions that was on TV when I was a kid. It had a small studio audience comprised of mostly pushy pageant-type
parents, and was on something equivalent to local cable access. (UHF on the dial, yo.)

I was likely one of about seven people bored enough to watch it, but TV producers must be desperate these days because a Google search led me to discover it’s actually been brought back like some bad 70s TV show zombie stalking the airwaves. My God, modern science can resuscitate anything these days, but what are the ethics behind these frightening decisions?

Anyway, back in the old school Community Auditions day their most popular act by far was young girls wearing bad red wigs and warbling out “Tomorrow” from the musical Annie. They also had a preponderance of young dance and gymnastics troupes who’d perform in bright matching costumes covered in those old big round sequins. Lots of kids “Puttin’ on the Ritz” with canes and top hats too. Oy.

I can nearly assure you that none of the acts that appeared on Community Auditions made it big.

So, the show’s theme song (in hopes that typing it will drive it out of my head) went:

Star of the day, who will it be?
Your vote could hold the key!
Is it you? Tell us who
Will be star of the day!

When I picked up Kate from school this afternoon one of her teachers came up to me to report that Kate took her Star of the Day title very seriously. At one point during her my-crap-from-home presentation some kids were talking. The teacher said Kate stopped, glared at them and said, “Please be quiet. It’s my turn to talk.”

Again, where does she get this from?

Ah, little Miss Kate. You are my start to every day and my star of every day. And your Mama loves you so very very much.

Ode to Rainbow-Striped Umbrellas

Invariably when you’re traveling and you tell someone you live in Northern California, you get that tired old oh-sure-it’s-pretty-and-all-but-what-about-earthquakes?! reaction. Some folks will verbalize it, and with others you can just tell by looking at them that they’re thinking it and are silently pitying your poor sense of judgment.

As a longtime NoCal resident–16 years now!–I find the whole earthquake thing an absurd reason to avoid living here. (God please spare us tonight if The Big One should hit.) I mean, there are far better reasons to not live here. Exorbitant real estate prices, atrocious bagels, crappy public schools, the almost spooky lack of corn muffins, the unswimmably cold Pacific Ocean….

Don’t get me wrong. There are many many reasons why this is one of the most amazing places in the U.S. to live, but I’m also aware of the place’s pitfalls. I mean, the bagels. Are. Truly. Dreadful.

Though one thing I will say we’re blessedly exempt from is the maddening small talk about the weather that seems to comprise about 45% of all conversational airtime in New England. Frankly, I’d happily plunk my house astride a fault line to live free of that natter.

It’s not that we’re such brilliant conversationalists here on the West Coast. More likely that our weather tends to be so damn predictable it becomes a conversational neutral. Instead we drone on incessantly about sky-high real estate prices. (I guess we’re still boring, just on different topics.)

But every once and a while you get a day like yesterday, and all those repressed or misplaced weather
hounds come out of hiding. And sometimes they’re the least likely
suspects.

So when the Friday Mama Posse convened, the mothers and babes in
arms sat at Sacha’s kitchen table, and the three-year-olds occasionally tore past in a howling squealing stream. A couple times in the blur I noticed little Ella B. clutching a child-sized rainbow striped umbrella.

Running in from the backyard at one point she called out triumphantly, “I think the rain is coming, Mama!” Causing Megan to laugh and turn to us, “She’s been talking about this all morning. The girl is so excited that it’s going to rain today.” Mary chimed in that she totally was too. I think we actually all agreed. After the typical six-month or so rain-free stretch, an impending downpour was fraught with novelty. Sure, even excitement.

Throughout the day, I couldn’t help but notice other people looking up at the gray sky, marveling. No dramatic leaf colors. No city-stopping snowstorms. We don’t even have many of those sunny-but-chilly days everyone back East gleefully calls crisp. Sure, you can haul out some heavier sweaters and even boots if you like, though during the days you may still opt for flip flops. Our seasonal changes are more subtle than the showy Midwest and East Coast drama. But to some sensitive California souls they don’t go unnoticed.

As the day wound down I chatted with a neighbor out in front of the house. The sun was setting so early it seemed, and the air was cooling off. The much-anticipated rain hadn’t started yet, but likely would in a few hours. Even though in our mellow family mode we’d be staying in anyway, I remarked it was the perfect Friday night to be home, snugged in warm and cozy, watching a movie.

Back inside, Mark had dinner underway and called out from the kitchen if I wanted a drink. After a moment’s thought, I jumped into the new season with both feet and said I’d take a bourbon and Coke.

Ah, yes. Fall indeed.