You know how you'll be driving in your car and see a neighbor and wave, but you'll only mouth "hi" because they can't hear you from behind the windows anyway? Well, I did that today to my neighbor and looked at me a little funny. Possibly because I was riding a bike at the time.
To be fair, I'm pretty sure I was suffering from head trauma at the time. I put Tankbaby in the trailer and rode to the optometrist for a quick glasses adjustment. Someone around here, and I won't say who, thought that maybe Mama's glasses were silly putty and twisted them so that they would sit on my face like a cartoon "after"picture when a safe is dropped on someone. While keeping Tankbaby from eating the jar of decorative potpourri resting on a window ledge, I stood up with great intent, right into the glass-topped podium nearby. Luckily, none of the $300 frames were damaged. The skin smack in the middle of my forehead was not so lucky. Good thing I had Tankbaby with me all day to poke me right in the third eye there and crow sadly, "ow," like a miniature E.T.
So! Elly, in her infinite wisdom, has given me "curry paste" to work with today. Not that I'm complaining, oh no, because when she gets bored of this game, I'm gonna have to come up with something to write all by my lonesome. What you should know, however, is that I am very cautious about anything involving the word "curry." My palate is quite infantile when it comes to anything even remotely spicy. I have to modify almost all of Kitchen Witch's recipes in order to not sweat just reading them.
In case you think I'm exaggerating, I offer this illustrative story: MOTH and I were out with some friends, having Thai food. The other four adults at the table ordered dishes to share, with varying levels of spiciness. When the server turned to me, I ordered my usual: Pad Se Eew with chicken, no spiciness whatsoever. The waitress raised a questioning eyebrow and repeated my order. My friend E leaned over and said, "She can't handle it. She needs, like, baby food." When the food arrived, the waitress passed out the dishes: "Chicken cashew, medium hot," "Mussaman curry, hot," and, when she placed my plate in front of me: "And...for the baby..."
So, I basically avoid any curry paste that I didn't assemble myself. I actually enjoy curry powder, tumeric, etc. It's just the chili aspect that sets me back (and here is where I lose 95% of the world, when you all shout, "But that's what MAKES it curry!"). I like Thai food and Indian food, but only familiar dishes at trusted restaurants. That being said, MOTH and I have been experimenting with Indian cuisine at home, removing all the heat for the basic prep, and then MOTH grabs his Sriracha later.
Now, I know that some of us have very...particular feelings about Rachel Ray, but if you can overlook the chirpiness, the strange second-face syndrome (seriously...has anyone but me noticed that she had surgery or something? She has a totally different face than she had five or six years ago), and--most egregious to me--the marketing of her own particular "EVOO," this is a quick, yummy recipe with a lot of flavor. And no heat. Unless you add it later, you sadist.
Curry Crunch Salad
1 cup plain Greek-style yogurt
juice of one lemon
2 tbsp curry powder (for this and the following three spices, I used what you might call "heaping" or "rounded" spoonfuls--see, I like spices!! Just not spicy.)
1 tbsp honey
1 tsp tumeric
1 tsp ground cardamom
ground cinnamon, for sprinkling
3 tbsp extra-virgin olive oil (I refuse to abbreviate this, just on principle)
salt & pepper
3 cups poached chicken or skinned rotisserie chicken
1 cup red or black seedless grapes, halved (or quartered, if you're sharing with a toddler)
4 scallions, thinly sliced on an angle
1/4 cup slivered almonds, toasted
Dig this: two steps!
1) Combine the first six ingredients in a bowl; sprinkle with cinnamon, whisk in olive oil, and season with salt and pepper.
2) Add the rest of the ingredients and toss to coat.
Easy peasy, right? Serve it with warm naan and you will, I promise, exclaim out loud.
(I feel a little bit like I'm cheating by responding to "curry paste" with a recipe, not to mention being a poor imitation of our Kitchy, but it's almost midnight, so I'm going to learn to live with disappointment.)
Saturday, November 6, 2010
Friday, November 5, 2010
Ornithorhynchus Anatinus
(First, remember my opening paragraph from last night? My sweet story about the kissy baby goodness? Yeah. Guess who has a runny nose and a bad case of the Pissies? So, I give myself about 48 hours before I also succumb to both.)
I so heart Elly. I mean, just generally on principle, as should you all. But especially because, rather than berate me for my absentia here and my even less frequent appearance on her blog, she continues to graciously provide me with writing prompts for NaBloPoMo. Platypus, she says! Tell us about the platypus! And I live to oblige...
OK, this is the first thing I thought of (make sure you watch to the song!). Does anyone else remember this movie? We watched it over and over again at our babysitter's house. Looking back, I'm flabbergasted at the weirdness of this movie. Also, I still find the Bunyip song creeeepy.
I actually have two contact entries in my phone labeled "Ben Platypus" and "Steve Platypus." And, as disappointing as this may be to hear, I'm not actually friends with a couple of Platypi Brothers. A couple of years ago, at Burning Man, we had the luck to camp across the street from these two wonderful guys from the Southwest. By the end of the week, we were all like old friends. They sat out dust storms in our dome, we enjoyed the rarer gentler breezes in their shade structure.
MOTH had built a solar oven for the trip that year. We'd used to to great effect on a recent camping trip; it actually worked so well that we over-cooked our pasta. MOTH had made a yummy cornbread for our 4th of July BBQ, and we had visions of yummy, fresh-baked food in the middle of the desert. Most of our experiments panned out. However, on an impulse, we'd also bought a tube of cookie dough (wow, just writing it like that makes me realize just how wrong that clearly is...dough in a tube. And yet, mmmmm....). We thought, how cool would it be if we could make fresh-baked cookies out on the playa. Imagine, if you will, a long week of dust and heat and freezing nights and constant techno and all your meals come from either the cooler or the camp stove...and then? Warm, fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies. (To be fair, to me, you could put anything in that first sentence and follow it with "warm, fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies" and I'd be sold.) We set out the cookie dough blobs, set up the oven, and waited. And while we waited, we giddily hyped up our sweet snack to our new friends across the way.
We waited. And waited.
The dough got flatter, spread out, but failed to...solidify. After about 45 minutes, we gave up and gathered around the tinfoil contraption. A collective silent regarding, each of us looking at the dough, then at each other, wondering just how judgmental the other people might be. Finally, someone who might or might not have been me, said, "Screw it. I'm eating it." And we all dove in with dusty fingers, scraping the dough up and licking it off. Someone complimented us on our cookies, and someone else pointed out that these were not so much cookies as they were hot dough. Because I am my father's daughter, I said, "I used to play bass for Hot Dough." The group chuckled, and without missing a beat, Steve thoughtfully added, "I think I saw them play at that new hot club...Convection?" And it began: "I remember their comeback album, We Will Rise Again!" "Oh, yeah? I prefer their live album, Raw." "Is that the one with their hit single, 'Slow Rise'?" "You know what their fans are called, right? Doughboys." "I remember dancing to that great slow song, 'I Wish You Kneaded Me (Like I Knead You)'."
You know when you're laughing and laughing and you look around and you just have a moment of, these are my people? It's one of the best feelings in the world. Possibly my favorite.
So, when it came to the night of the burn, the night when the whole thing goes from a level seven party to a level twelve, the night where you stay up all night under the stars and you dance and you hold hands with everyone and you head back to camp at three, four, or five o'clock in the morning, knowing that you'll be up with the sun to pack up your entire camp...that night is always bittersweet, but I was more sad than not that night. The idea that these people lived so far away and that I wouldn't see them for at least a year...it depressed me. And, not unlike camp, every year at Burning Man you forge these crazy bonds with strangers, but other than the occasional e-mail in September, you don't actually keep that bond going throughout the year. And the next year, you get lost again in the swirling chaos of new people. And that thought made me sad. It's not everyone who appreciates the power of the pun.
Steve and Ben were going to the burn with other friends of theirs, and our camp was headed out together. I asked, rather forlornly, "But how will we find you out there?" to which Steve replied, "We'll have a code word! You shout it, we'll shout it back, and you can find us." Because I always like a good echo-location plan, I agreed. "But what will our code word be?"
That's right. "Platypus."
So, we all dressed up. We watched a whole lotta stuff burn. And we wandered around, calling plaintively, "Platypus?" But really? Fifty-thousand people, most of them stoned out of their gourds, and seven voices calling out the name of a semi-aquatic mammal? It was bound to fail. I don't know why we kept calling.
And then...
"Platypus!"
Seriously? "Platypus?"
"Platypus!"
I think it came from over there! "Platypus?!"
"Platypus!!!"
(See, and you didn't think I was going to get there, did you?)
I so heart Elly. I mean, just generally on principle, as should you all. But especially because, rather than berate me for my absentia here and my even less frequent appearance on her blog, she continues to graciously provide me with writing prompts for NaBloPoMo. Platypus, she says! Tell us about the platypus! And I live to oblige...
OK, this is the first thing I thought of (make sure you watch to the song!). Does anyone else remember this movie? We watched it over and over again at our babysitter's house. Looking back, I'm flabbergasted at the weirdness of this movie. Also, I still find the Bunyip song creeeepy.
I actually have two contact entries in my phone labeled "Ben Platypus" and "Steve Platypus." And, as disappointing as this may be to hear, I'm not actually friends with a couple of Platypi Brothers. A couple of years ago, at Burning Man, we had the luck to camp across the street from these two wonderful guys from the Southwest. By the end of the week, we were all like old friends. They sat out dust storms in our dome, we enjoyed the rarer gentler breezes in their shade structure.
MOTH had built a solar oven for the trip that year. We'd used to to great effect on a recent camping trip; it actually worked so well that we over-cooked our pasta. MOTH had made a yummy cornbread for our 4th of July BBQ, and we had visions of yummy, fresh-baked food in the middle of the desert. Most of our experiments panned out. However, on an impulse, we'd also bought a tube of cookie dough (wow, just writing it like that makes me realize just how wrong that clearly is...dough in a tube. And yet, mmmmm....). We thought, how cool would it be if we could make fresh-baked cookies out on the playa. Imagine, if you will, a long week of dust and heat and freezing nights and constant techno and all your meals come from either the cooler or the camp stove...and then? Warm, fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies. (To be fair, to me, you could put anything in that first sentence and follow it with "warm, fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies" and I'd be sold.) We set out the cookie dough blobs, set up the oven, and waited. And while we waited, we giddily hyped up our sweet snack to our new friends across the way.
We waited. And waited.
The dough got flatter, spread out, but failed to...solidify. After about 45 minutes, we gave up and gathered around the tinfoil contraption. A collective silent regarding, each of us looking at the dough, then at each other, wondering just how judgmental the other people might be. Finally, someone who might or might not have been me, said, "Screw it. I'm eating it." And we all dove in with dusty fingers, scraping the dough up and licking it off. Someone complimented us on our cookies, and someone else pointed out that these were not so much cookies as they were hot dough. Because I am my father's daughter, I said, "I used to play bass for Hot Dough." The group chuckled, and without missing a beat, Steve thoughtfully added, "I think I saw them play at that new hot club...Convection?" And it began: "I remember their comeback album, We Will Rise Again!" "Oh, yeah? I prefer their live album, Raw." "Is that the one with their hit single, 'Slow Rise'?" "You know what their fans are called, right? Doughboys." "I remember dancing to that great slow song, 'I Wish You Kneaded Me (Like I Knead You)'."
You know when you're laughing and laughing and you look around and you just have a moment of, these are my people? It's one of the best feelings in the world. Possibly my favorite.
So, when it came to the night of the burn, the night when the whole thing goes from a level seven party to a level twelve, the night where you stay up all night under the stars and you dance and you hold hands with everyone and you head back to camp at three, four, or five o'clock in the morning, knowing that you'll be up with the sun to pack up your entire camp...that night is always bittersweet, but I was more sad than not that night. The idea that these people lived so far away and that I wouldn't see them for at least a year...it depressed me. And, not unlike camp, every year at Burning Man you forge these crazy bonds with strangers, but other than the occasional e-mail in September, you don't actually keep that bond going throughout the year. And the next year, you get lost again in the swirling chaos of new people. And that thought made me sad. It's not everyone who appreciates the power of the pun.
Steve and Ben were going to the burn with other friends of theirs, and our camp was headed out together. I asked, rather forlornly, "But how will we find you out there?" to which Steve replied, "We'll have a code word! You shout it, we'll shout it back, and you can find us." Because I always like a good echo-location plan, I agreed. "But what will our code word be?"
That's right. "Platypus."
So, we all dressed up. We watched a whole lotta stuff burn. And we wandered around, calling plaintively, "Platypus?" But really? Fifty-thousand people, most of them stoned out of their gourds, and seven voices calling out the name of a semi-aquatic mammal? It was bound to fail. I don't know why we kept calling.
And then...
"Platypus!"
Seriously? "Platypus?"
"Platypus!"
I think it came from over there! "Platypus?!"
"Platypus!!!"
(See, and you didn't think I was going to get there, did you?)
Thursday, November 4, 2010
In Which I Mention Nipples and Packing Tape, But Not In The Way You'd Think
I just finished putting the baby down and have to note that I'm just nuts about that kid. We're still nursing, but I have some Mysterious Boob Malady on my left side (former breastfeeding moms out there: the hell? I've had a couple milk blisters that have healed, but I still have sharp, throbbing pain during nursing and afterward. I was thinking plugged duct, but no swelling, no tenderness, just shooting pains. The doctor ruled out thrush and infection. Help!), so I switched him back to the right after a while. We've talked about the "owie" on Mama's milkmaker, so Tankbaby will sign and say "ow" and then pat me gently, and then kiss me somewhere between nipple and clavicle. But tonight, he just kept kissing: my neck, then my chin, then he would put one hand on my cheek and lay one on me. Smiles, starting peaceful and becoming coy, and more kisses, damp smacks that bear at least a passing resemblance to human kisses, instead of those open-mouthed, drooly stamps of a few months ago. In the dark, his intent face looming before me, a hand pulling me closer, smooch, smile. Repeat approximately 14 times. I know I could have put a stop to it and insisted he lie back down for bed, but I couldn't refuse. He's changing so fast now (almost like he's getting older every day), and I know that in a very short time, I'll look back and remember wistfully the days when I was allowed to smother him with kisses and vice versa.
I don't care if he does eventually kill MOTH, drive me to suicide, and blind himself: it's really freaking cute right now.
(An aside: I just did a brief Wikipedia search in preparation for making that Oedipus reference and remembered just how twisted that whole story is. If it's been a while since you've read your Sophocles, go check it out. And remember, we read that shit in high school.)
***
Elly has set forth a challenge for me: write about packing tape. You ask, I give.
This one time? I had a boyfriend who preferred video games with the boys to spending time with his girlfriend. One night, after he'd forgotten he'd promised to come over, I went over to his dorm room. I could hear the Mortal Kombat music through the door. With the help of a good and immature friend, I carefully stretched clear packing tape across the door jamb, until the entire frame was covered entirely with a thin film of sticky tape. When he opened the door, full of Mountain Dew and in dire need of a bathroom, he stumbled straight into it.
And I left him there for days until he died, and then I ate him.
OK. So I don't have a really good packing tape story (although the crummy boyfriend part of the story is, sadly, true). But I did find this. And this. And this (do check out the uber-creepy tutorial on that one). Partial credit?
I don't care if he does eventually kill MOTH, drive me to suicide, and blind himself: it's really freaking cute right now.
(An aside: I just did a brief Wikipedia search in preparation for making that Oedipus reference and remembered just how twisted that whole story is. If it's been a while since you've read your Sophocles, go check it out. And remember, we read that shit in high school.)
***
Elly has set forth a challenge for me: write about packing tape. You ask, I give.
This one time? I had a boyfriend who preferred video games with the boys to spending time with his girlfriend. One night, after he'd forgotten he'd promised to come over, I went over to his dorm room. I could hear the Mortal Kombat music through the door. With the help of a good and immature friend, I carefully stretched clear packing tape across the door jamb, until the entire frame was covered entirely with a thin film of sticky tape. When he opened the door, full of Mountain Dew and in dire need of a bathroom, he stumbled straight into it.
And I left him there for days until he died, and then I ate him.
OK. So I don't have a really good packing tape story (although the crummy boyfriend part of the story is, sadly, true). But I did find this. And this. And this (do check out the uber-creepy tutorial on that one). Partial credit?
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
SNAPPO!!
First of all, Elly, if you think I don't have a good plaster cast story, you don't know me very well. Shall I tell you the story about how, the summer before 7th grade, I fell off my pink Huffy dirt bike and broke not one, but two arms? For those of you keeping track, that means I broke all of my arms at once.
Actually, I couldn't even do that right. I ended up needing to have surgery in order to "complete the occlusion" on my right arm. Even as a precocious pre-teen, I didn't know what that meant, so imagine my disbelief to learn that I was going under anesthesia so that they could FINISH BREAKING MY ARM. (Recently, I asked a doctor friend what kind of fancy procedure that would entail, and was a little horrified--but not that surprised--to hear that they basically just take your arm over someone's knee and...just...snap it.) Apparently, had it been allowed to heal the way it was, it would have been all twisty and gnarly. So scared was I of this surgery, I remember trying to convince my dad that I didn't care if my right arm was all S-shaped. I would just wear a lot of long sleeves. Luckily, my pitiful reasoning went unheeded and...snappo!
So, there I went, into the fall of 7th grade, with two plaster casts, one over the elbow. I had to buy shirts in the maternity section so that they would stretch enough to get my unbending arm through the sleeves. Good thing junior high is so forgiving of differences, huh? They cut a long slit in one of the casts to allow for swelling, and my dad labeled it "San Andreas Fault," which I totally didn't get. Remember when casts were plaster and you could draw on them? Or, you know, you could if your OTHER ARM wasn't also in a cast.
So, there you are, friends. Go ahead, gimme another one.
***
Not that I didn't appreciate this tumble down Embarrassing Memory Lane, but originally I'd planned on writing about (what else) the elections. Nothing remarkable, and nothing that probably hasn't been said better (and sooner) elsewhere, but...Jee-zus. A friend posted on Facebook, "Listened to future house speaker talk about how he can't wait to repeal the healthcare reform law and felt physically ill." I listened to NPR's coverage on the way in to work and can certainly attest to a visceral sense of unwellness that I don't know I've ever felt about politics before (I shamefacedly point out that, until the last six years or so, I basically avoided knowing anything about politics, which, while immature and tragic, was also waaaay easier). As someone who works for a publicly-funded agency, I'm so scared and outraged by all this "smaller government" crap. They keep cutting our services, when for many families, we are the only help for their kids with special needs. Where was all this brouhaha about cutting spending when were funding unjust war? Argh.
Another friend wrote, "Goodbye, middle class. It was nice knowing you." Indeed.
Huh. This is ending on kind of a downer. Go read the lovely story about gross bodily injury again.
Actually, I couldn't even do that right. I ended up needing to have surgery in order to "complete the occlusion" on my right arm. Even as a precocious pre-teen, I didn't know what that meant, so imagine my disbelief to learn that I was going under anesthesia so that they could FINISH BREAKING MY ARM. (Recently, I asked a doctor friend what kind of fancy procedure that would entail, and was a little horrified--but not that surprised--to hear that they basically just take your arm over someone's knee and...just...snap it.) Apparently, had it been allowed to heal the way it was, it would have been all twisty and gnarly. So scared was I of this surgery, I remember trying to convince my dad that I didn't care if my right arm was all S-shaped. I would just wear a lot of long sleeves. Luckily, my pitiful reasoning went unheeded and...snappo!
So, there I went, into the fall of 7th grade, with two plaster casts, one over the elbow. I had to buy shirts in the maternity section so that they would stretch enough to get my unbending arm through the sleeves. Good thing junior high is so forgiving of differences, huh? They cut a long slit in one of the casts to allow for swelling, and my dad labeled it "San Andreas Fault," which I totally didn't get. Remember when casts were plaster and you could draw on them? Or, you know, you could if your OTHER ARM wasn't also in a cast.
So, there you are, friends. Go ahead, gimme another one.
***
Not that I didn't appreciate this tumble down Embarrassing Memory Lane, but originally I'd planned on writing about (what else) the elections. Nothing remarkable, and nothing that probably hasn't been said better (and sooner) elsewhere, but...Jee-zus. A friend posted on Facebook, "Listened to future house speaker talk about how he can't wait to repeal the healthcare reform law and felt physically ill." I listened to NPR's coverage on the way in to work and can certainly attest to a visceral sense of unwellness that I don't know I've ever felt about politics before (I shamefacedly point out that, until the last six years or so, I basically avoided knowing anything about politics, which, while immature and tragic, was also waaaay easier). As someone who works for a publicly-funded agency, I'm so scared and outraged by all this "smaller government" crap. They keep cutting our services, when for many families, we are the only help for their kids with special needs. Where was all this brouhaha about cutting spending when were funding unjust war? Argh.
Another friend wrote, "Goodbye, middle class. It was nice knowing you." Indeed.
Huh. This is ending on kind of a downer. Go read the lovely story about gross bodily injury again.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Not Even A Little Bit About Vaseline
So, I'm not sure what it was last night, but I'd set this goal of starting a daily writing thing in November, and yet the very act of doing so just froze me right up. I kept thinking, what the hell could I write that anyone would want to read? Bless his heart, MOTH tried to help. He would suggest, "How about writing about hanging out with your pregnant friend?" and I would type, I saw my friend. She is pregnant.
"What about the play?" he offered. I typed, I saw a play. Eh.
"What about taking your son trick-or-treating for the first time?" I took Tankbaby trick-or-treating for the first time. It was really cute, but you don't care because you're not his mom, and I can't get the damn video oriented correctly to prove how cute and funny it was and why am I even writing this blah blah blah.
Good times, eh? I expressed my frustration to MOTH about being unable to write something funny and interesting. He tried to reassure me that I shouldn't put pressure on myself. He said, "Even if one out of five is any good--and with you it's more likely to be, oh, say, one out of three--that's something." (Pop Marriage Quiz: Where does that statement go horribly, if well-intentionedally, awry? Wives, you're not allowed to help your husbands.)
I'm very much afraid I growled unattractively.
But! It's a newday final two hours of the evening, and as a peace offering, I'm going to take up MOTH's helpful writing prompts and tell you about My Halloween.
I did, in fact, go see a play. And it did, in fact, leave me rather...eh. I went in with unfairly high expectations, because MOTH (who did the props and is a member of the company that produced the play) kept raving about it and how it moved him to tears each time. I will admit to a mild prickling about the ocular region at one point, but I wasn't swept up into it. In the first act, we meet a young couple who are just meeting each other for the first time and are instantly drawn to each other, although they're both dating other people. We are also introduced to an older couple who have a very active sex life and no compunction about passing on wisdom about life and love to young strangers. In the second act, we learn that this older couple is planning a suicide pact. The man has cancer and the wife has agreed to give him an overdose. She later reveals to him that she's planning on going with him, as she doesn't want to live without him.
There are some lovely moments throughout the play, as well as some wonderful lines (one of my favorites is when the young girl asks the old woman about the idea of knowing whether or not love will last, and the woman replies, "No one stands on the side of the dance floor and thinks, "He'll look good in dentures!"). But I didn't find myself lost in the stories of these couples, for a couple of reasons. First, I found the young woman rather...unlikable. I don't know if it was the actress or the way the part was written, but I had a hard time seeing what, outside of the physical attributes, the young man saw in her. Secondly, I had figured out the suicide pact angle early on (they drop increasingly obvious hints before revealing what's going on), so the long buildup to the (quite lovely) end dragged a bit. And finally, and probably mostly? I am ruined for cancer/parental loss storylines. I can sniff 'em out a mile away and I am unable to see them as isolated fiction. I detach from the story and become immersed in my own thoughts.
So, there you go: eh.
Considerably less "eh"? My pregnant friend! This is the same friend with whom I spent a night in the ER and received a call that she thought she was miscarrying. She's due in late March. And I just want to thank all of you for your good vibes/prayers/animal sacrifices back in the summer when I mentioned this, because clearly y'all are Very Powerful.
And trick-or-treating with Tankbaby (who, at nearly 20 months, will soon be in the market for a new moniker, one without the word "baby"--taking suggestions below) was pretty damn idyllic. He was dressed as...a mammal of some sort. What? I don't know. We had something figured out for a costume (the little suit that he wore to Aunt Benevola's wedding, plus a violin case and a fedora, possibly with a small mustache penciled in), but MOTH's mom had found this brown furry suit with ears and a head and paws and...we think it was a bear, but we also heard monkey, mole (side note: really? You think we dressed our kid up as a mole?), or beaver. Although the orientation is all wrong, I'm putting up this video I took of Tanky playing downtown. Just tilt either your head or your computer monitor. He falls down and begins to crawl, which actually works for the costume.
However, you can see where, when the kid's just wearing it, it has a little less...definition, shall we say. And a lot more...goiter.
But once you add a collapsible pumpkin bucket and a shuffling waddle through the fall leaves, it's a little ridiculous how cute he was.
Tank was quite uncertain about the whole thing for the first few houses, but once he got the hang of it, he became very enthusiastic. He'd start up a driveway, calling, "Teee? Teee?" and I'd explain that the "Trick or Treat" was really for once the door was opened, or at least when you were standing at the door. He knocked with ferocity, but then learned to take a few steps back to allow for door opening. On occasion, he would grab the hand of the treat-hander-outter, like, "You gotta get out here and try this. Do you know about this "treat" business? Also, look! A leaf!" I felt a little bad about the fact that he was never going to get to eat any of the candy he was collecting, but figured he didn't know what he was missing, and was mostly interested in the shiny wrappers and the whole meet and greet aspect of the evening. My favorite was the woman who exclaimed over his cuteness, and then looked at me and asked, "What kind of candy does Mama like?" before choosing something to drop in his bucket. I asked for a Reese's cup and appreciated her forthrightness. Because, really. Taking a toddler trick-or-treating? Is just a way to pimp out your kid for sugar.
Anyway, strange mammalian costume and baby-whoring aside, it was a lovely evening. The weather was perfect, crisp but not chilly. My kid was having a great time (although I did keep thinking about how disappointing our next neighborhood walk would be, what with significantly less candy and far fewer doorbell-ringing), and I had one of those moments where I was just struck that, wow, I'm a mom. What an iconic image, the adult crouched behind the costumed child, prompting the line, cuing the thank-you, and then, tiny paw in grown-up hand, trundling off down the street.
"What about the play?" he offered. I typed, I saw a play. Eh.
"What about taking your son trick-or-treating for the first time?" I took Tankbaby trick-or-treating for the first time. It was really cute, but you don't care because you're not his mom, and I can't get the damn video oriented correctly to prove how cute and funny it was and why am I even writing this blah blah blah.
Good times, eh? I expressed my frustration to MOTH about being unable to write something funny and interesting. He tried to reassure me that I shouldn't put pressure on myself. He said, "Even if one out of five is any good--and with you it's more likely to be, oh, say, one out of three--that's something." (Pop Marriage Quiz: Where does that statement go horribly, if well-intentionedally, awry? Wives, you're not allowed to help your husbands.)
I'm very much afraid I growled unattractively.
But! It's a new
I did, in fact, go see a play. And it did, in fact, leave me rather...eh. I went in with unfairly high expectations, because MOTH (who did the props and is a member of the company that produced the play) kept raving about it and how it moved him to tears each time. I will admit to a mild prickling about the ocular region at one point, but I wasn't swept up into it. In the first act, we meet a young couple who are just meeting each other for the first time and are instantly drawn to each other, although they're both dating other people. We are also introduced to an older couple who have a very active sex life and no compunction about passing on wisdom about life and love to young strangers. In the second act, we learn that this older couple is planning a suicide pact. The man has cancer and the wife has agreed to give him an overdose. She later reveals to him that she's planning on going with him, as she doesn't want to live without him.
There are some lovely moments throughout the play, as well as some wonderful lines (one of my favorites is when the young girl asks the old woman about the idea of knowing whether or not love will last, and the woman replies, "No one stands on the side of the dance floor and thinks, "He'll look good in dentures!"). But I didn't find myself lost in the stories of these couples, for a couple of reasons. First, I found the young woman rather...unlikable. I don't know if it was the actress or the way the part was written, but I had a hard time seeing what, outside of the physical attributes, the young man saw in her. Secondly, I had figured out the suicide pact angle early on (they drop increasingly obvious hints before revealing what's going on), so the long buildup to the (quite lovely) end dragged a bit. And finally, and probably mostly? I am ruined for cancer/parental loss storylines. I can sniff 'em out a mile away and I am unable to see them as isolated fiction. I detach from the story and become immersed in my own thoughts.
So, there you go: eh.
Considerably less "eh"? My pregnant friend! This is the same friend with whom I spent a night in the ER and received a call that she thought she was miscarrying. She's due in late March. And I just want to thank all of you for your good vibes/prayers/animal sacrifices back in the summer when I mentioned this, because clearly y'all are Very Powerful.
And trick-or-treating with Tankbaby (who, at nearly 20 months, will soon be in the market for a new moniker, one without the word "baby"--taking suggestions below) was pretty damn idyllic. He was dressed as...a mammal of some sort. What? I don't know. We had something figured out for a costume (the little suit that he wore to Aunt Benevola's wedding, plus a violin case and a fedora, possibly with a small mustache penciled in), but MOTH's mom had found this brown furry suit with ears and a head and paws and...we think it was a bear, but we also heard monkey, mole (side note: really? You think we dressed our kid up as a mole?), or beaver. Although the orientation is all wrong, I'm putting up this video I took of Tanky playing downtown. Just tilt either your head or your computer monitor. He falls down and begins to crawl, which actually works for the costume.
However, you can see where, when the kid's just wearing it, it has a little less...definition, shall we say. And a lot more...goiter.
But once you add a collapsible pumpkin bucket and a shuffling waddle through the fall leaves, it's a little ridiculous how cute he was.
Tank was quite uncertain about the whole thing for the first few houses, but once he got the hang of it, he became very enthusiastic. He'd start up a driveway, calling, "Teee? Teee?" and I'd explain that the "Trick or Treat" was really for once the door was opened, or at least when you were standing at the door. He knocked with ferocity, but then learned to take a few steps back to allow for door opening. On occasion, he would grab the hand of the treat-hander-outter, like, "You gotta get out here and try this. Do you know about this "treat" business? Also, look! A leaf!" I felt a little bad about the fact that he was never going to get to eat any of the candy he was collecting, but figured he didn't know what he was missing, and was mostly interested in the shiny wrappers and the whole meet and greet aspect of the evening. My favorite was the woman who exclaimed over his cuteness, and then looked at me and asked, "What kind of candy does Mama like?" before choosing something to drop in his bucket. I asked for a Reese's cup and appreciated her forthrightness. Because, really. Taking a toddler trick-or-treating? Is just a way to pimp out your kid for sugar.
Anyway, strange mammalian costume and baby-whoring aside, it was a lovely evening. The weather was perfect, crisp but not chilly. My kid was having a great time (although I did keep thinking about how disappointing our next neighborhood walk would be, what with significantly less candy and far fewer doorbell-ringing), and I had one of those moments where I was just struck that, wow, I'm a mom. What an iconic image, the adult crouched behind the costumed child, prompting the line, cuing the thank-you, and then, tiny paw in grown-up hand, trundling off down the street.
Monday, November 1, 2010
NaBlowMe
What, in this blog's recent sad history, makes me think I can post something every day this month?
But...the quilt is done. The kid goes to bed at a reasonable(ish) hour now (unlike last year at this time, when I wrote 90% of my blog entries while the baby was sleeping on the boob). I have no travel plans to make nor keep. And I miss this. I miss y'all. I'm missing out on brilliant words from smart, funny women. I'm tired of feeling like I need to start every blog post with an apology/excuse/explanation for why I haven't written more.
Now if I only had one Goddamned thing to say.
Seriously. I just spent twenty minutes staring at, variously, the screen, the fishtank, my socks, my shoes, Tankbaby's shoes, the screen again, and typing a tentative five letters before swearing, deleting and staring at my shoes again. I am just absolutely, totally uninspired to write ANYTHING right now, despite the inauspicious timing for writer's block.
So far, this whole NaBloPoMo is going swimmingly, wouldn't you say?
But...the quilt is done. The kid goes to bed at a reasonable(ish) hour now (unlike last year at this time, when I wrote 90% of my blog entries while the baby was sleeping on the boob). I have no travel plans to make nor keep. And I miss this. I miss y'all. I'm missing out on brilliant words from smart, funny women. I'm tired of feeling like I need to start every blog post with an apology/excuse/explanation for why I haven't written more.
Now if I only had one Goddamned thing to say.
Seriously. I just spent twenty minutes staring at, variously, the screen, the fishtank, my socks, my shoes, Tankbaby's shoes, the screen again, and typing a tentative five letters before swearing, deleting and staring at my shoes again. I am just absolutely, totally uninspired to write ANYTHING right now, despite the inauspicious timing for writer's block.
So far, this whole NaBloPoMo is going swimmingly, wouldn't you say?
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
The Something for the Someone
I'm back! From the wedding! And the project that took me so many nights and naptimes that I'd disappeared entirely from the Interwebz. Have you been losing sleep over what it was? Have you been pacing the floor, wondering, what could be so important that she, previously so dedicated and consistent and prolific, could suddenly just disappear for months? And then you stop, angry, pounding your fist into your hand, crying, NOTHING COULD BE SO IMPORTANT!!
Well, I've got three words for you: Dead Mom's Quilt.*
See? See how I immediately play the Dead Mom card, thus neutralizing any impatience you might have felt? Hey, the gig is crummy, I gotta take the perks where I can get 'em.
Anyway, what I was spending literally every free moment on for the last several weeks (and many other moments on prior to August) was a quilt for my sister as a wedding/housewarming present. But not just any quilt, you see...several years ago my mom had decided she would make a quilt. My mom was an experienced seamstress, but hadn't quilted before. But, being who she was, this neither intimidated nor bothered her. My mom had a way of doing things, and that way was always, to quote Jamie Buchman, whole-assed. So, while you or I might say, "Gee, I've never made a quilt. I guess I should start with something simple," Mom would say, "Well, if you're going to make a quilt, MAKE a QUILT."
A Very Short Primer on Quilts That Will Provide a Frame of Reference: Quilts are basically blocks of fabric, sewn together. The simplest way to do this is to have x number of squares sewn in rows. More complicated is to sew together other shapes to make up larger blocks that then get sewn together. Then you get into the patterns and such. If you want to be very complicated, you take zillions of teeny tiny squares of fabric and arrange them by color, making an Impressionist, watercolor mosaic effect. Guess which way Mom went? Right. So I inherited two box lids of teeny tiny squares of floral fabric, sorted out into color families, arranged in tidy piles. Along with these were two books about watercolor quilts, and a pad of graph paper. So I thought to myself, I will finish my dead mother's quilt! I will continue her legacy!
Then I realized that Mom's true legacy was this: Mom liked to start projects. She always began them with gusto (and a full set of expensive supplies), but then she got busy. Or got distracted. Or, got cancer. So what I found was no pages marked in the books, nothing but a packing list on the graph paper, and no real clue as to what her quilty dream might have been. So, a lovely friend who knows quilts helped me pick out a pattern, and instead of Finishing My Dead Mother's Quilt, I settled for Making a Quilt Out of Fabric Chosen, Cut, and Arranged And Then Put In the Basement By My Dead Mother.
So (and yes, I realize it's daring, nay, outrageous to assume that, having not posted in weeks, I'm assuming that what you'd really like to read about is a sewing project that has already taken place), I sewed and sewed and sewed, and ironed and cut and ripped seams and counted and sewed some more. During naptimes on weekends, and each evening after Tankbaby went to bed, I would set up my ironing board, put the sewing machine on top of the dishwasher, pull out scissors, pins, and rulers, and work. I watched (well, listened to) countless episodes of The Daily Show, Louie, and Lie to Me, courtesy of Hulu.com. MOTH would go off to bed, pleading exhaustion, and I would whimper with envy. Sixty, ninety minutes at a time, before I'd pack everything up again (have I mentioned that my sewing studio is also my kitchen?) and trudge off to bed, hoping that tonight would not be one of the nights that Tankbaby decided to check in at 3 AM just to see if I was serious about that whole no-milk-between-10-and-6 thing.
Somewhere in here I also worked a whole bunch, started teaching another course of my parenting class, got eight inches of hair cut off (which all of five people noticed, as I started with approximately twelve feet of hair), bought a dress for the wedding, bought a bra for the dress that didn't actually work with the dress, and begged with Tankbaby to please, please, please learn to say "mama." (He's got a few words, like "dada" and "zebra," all the important ones.)
But I did it. Two days before we left, I finished the binding (the part that goes around the outside of the whole quilt and has to be hand-sewed), packed it into the top of my carry-on suitcase, and had a whole extra day free to really freak out about flying alone with a toddler.
I gave it to my sister the night before the wedding. She's going to put it in the front room of her new house, draped over the wooden rocking chair that we grew up with. I think she was appropriately moved, and I made her promise to use it and wear it out. I have fantasies of Tankbaby--as a Tankkiddo--coming to visit and curling up under the quilt and finding the three cat faces among all the flowers (WTF, Mom?) and running his fingers over the seams and knowing that Mama made this quilt for Aunt Benevola.
The cool part is that, the day before the wedding, my aunt came up for breakfast. I showed her the quilt and she told me that she thought my mom had also pulled fabric from my grandmother's stash to incorporate into the quilt. So you got your dead mom, you got your sister's wedding, and now you got the whole three-generations thing. Not too shabby, eh?
So, assuming you're still reading this and even politely feigning interest, here's the finished product. I'm really really pleased with how it turned out, although during one particularly long evening of seam-ripping, I will admit to shouting, "Screw it! We're getting her a fondue pot!"
*If you just muttered to yourself, "I used to play bass for Dead Mom's Quilt," then we are BFF. Or possibly, you're my dad. Hi, Dad!
Well, I've got three words for you: Dead Mom's Quilt.*
See? See how I immediately play the Dead Mom card, thus neutralizing any impatience you might have felt? Hey, the gig is crummy, I gotta take the perks where I can get 'em.
Anyway, what I was spending literally every free moment on for the last several weeks (and many other moments on prior to August) was a quilt for my sister as a wedding/housewarming present. But not just any quilt, you see...several years ago my mom had decided she would make a quilt. My mom was an experienced seamstress, but hadn't quilted before. But, being who she was, this neither intimidated nor bothered her. My mom had a way of doing things, and that way was always, to quote Jamie Buchman, whole-assed. So, while you or I might say, "Gee, I've never made a quilt. I guess I should start with something simple," Mom would say, "Well, if you're going to make a quilt, MAKE a QUILT."
A Very Short Primer on Quilts That Will Provide a Frame of Reference: Quilts are basically blocks of fabric, sewn together. The simplest way to do this is to have x number of squares sewn in rows. More complicated is to sew together other shapes to make up larger blocks that then get sewn together. Then you get into the patterns and such. If you want to be very complicated, you take zillions of teeny tiny squares of fabric and arrange them by color, making an Impressionist, watercolor mosaic effect. Guess which way Mom went? Right. So I inherited two box lids of teeny tiny squares of floral fabric, sorted out into color families, arranged in tidy piles. Along with these were two books about watercolor quilts, and a pad of graph paper. So I thought to myself, I will finish my dead mother's quilt! I will continue her legacy!
Then I realized that Mom's true legacy was this: Mom liked to start projects. She always began them with gusto (and a full set of expensive supplies), but then she got busy. Or got distracted. Or, got cancer. So what I found was no pages marked in the books, nothing but a packing list on the graph paper, and no real clue as to what her quilty dream might have been. So, a lovely friend who knows quilts helped me pick out a pattern, and instead of Finishing My Dead Mother's Quilt, I settled for Making a Quilt Out of Fabric Chosen, Cut, and Arranged And Then Put In the Basement By My Dead Mother.
So (and yes, I realize it's daring, nay, outrageous to assume that, having not posted in weeks, I'm assuming that what you'd really like to read about is a sewing project that has already taken place), I sewed and sewed and sewed, and ironed and cut and ripped seams and counted and sewed some more. During naptimes on weekends, and each evening after Tankbaby went to bed, I would set up my ironing board, put the sewing machine on top of the dishwasher, pull out scissors, pins, and rulers, and work. I watched (well, listened to) countless episodes of The Daily Show, Louie, and Lie to Me, courtesy of Hulu.com. MOTH would go off to bed, pleading exhaustion, and I would whimper with envy. Sixty, ninety minutes at a time, before I'd pack everything up again (have I mentioned that my sewing studio is also my kitchen?) and trudge off to bed, hoping that tonight would not be one of the nights that Tankbaby decided to check in at 3 AM just to see if I was serious about that whole no-milk-between-10-and-6 thing.
Somewhere in here I also worked a whole bunch, started teaching another course of my parenting class, got eight inches of hair cut off (which all of five people noticed, as I started with approximately twelve feet of hair), bought a dress for the wedding, bought a bra for the dress that didn't actually work with the dress, and begged with Tankbaby to please, please, please learn to say "mama." (He's got a few words, like "dada" and "zebra," all the important ones.)
But I did it. Two days before we left, I finished the binding (the part that goes around the outside of the whole quilt and has to be hand-sewed), packed it into the top of my carry-on suitcase, and had a whole extra day free to really freak out about flying alone with a toddler.
I gave it to my sister the night before the wedding. She's going to put it in the front room of her new house, draped over the wooden rocking chair that we grew up with. I think she was appropriately moved, and I made her promise to use it and wear it out. I have fantasies of Tankbaby--as a Tankkiddo--coming to visit and curling up under the quilt and finding the three cat faces among all the flowers (WTF, Mom?) and running his fingers over the seams and knowing that Mama made this quilt for Aunt Benevola.
The cool part is that, the day before the wedding, my aunt came up for breakfast. I showed her the quilt and she told me that she thought my mom had also pulled fabric from my grandmother's stash to incorporate into the quilt. So you got your dead mom, you got your sister's wedding, and now you got the whole three-generations thing. Not too shabby, eh?
So, assuming you're still reading this and even politely feigning interest, here's the finished product. I'm really really pleased with how it turned out, although during one particularly long evening of seam-ripping, I will admit to shouting, "Screw it! We're getting her a fondue pot!"
*If you just muttered to yourself, "I used to play bass for Dead Mom's Quilt," then we are BFF. Or possibly, you're my dad. Hi, Dad!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
