Eight Isn't Enough

Eight years ago Chris and I stood before our friends and family, smiling and holding hands. We didn't make vows, but told one another about why we were there and how much love we felt. I still feel it, and from how he talks to me, looks at me, and touches me, I know Chris still feels it too.

I love you so much, Chris. I am so glad we are doing this together.

Ok, you were right. Are you happy now?

Last year, I was intrigued by Blogher, but I felt myself too new, too little in the blogging world to merit the trip. When I read posts by attendees, I felt kind of left out, along with that teen kind of "I'm a big loser" angst I felt when I was a teen, watching my (significantly hipper and more popular) neighbor go out on Friday night. I felt kind of low for a few days, which seemed ridiculous given that this was a blogging conference we were talking about.

This year I didn't think I was unworthy of attending. I am (mostly) over the feeling that a small personal blog is not a "real" blog. I didn't go because when push came to shove I couldn't bring myself to give myself such an extravagant gift. The conference, the flight, the time away from work and family, all for a blogging conference?

Not that I didn't want to go. I did. And that was before Debbie started harassing er encouraging me to go with her. And fine, I should have gone. I could have even stayed for free with a friend in Chicago. But I didn't and I've been gently kicking myself about it all weekend. Because what if Blogher is so over next year? What if I missed a chance to do something fun for myself? I am not so good at "fun for myself." Hence the difficulty spending money on something so frivolous as a convention for a hobby. OK fine, I should have. And if I can next year, I will. Maybe my new mid year's resolution should be "allow more fun for myself."*




*It is both my hope and fear that people I know in real life will read this, and 10 months from now will hold me to my declaration, as wishy washy as it is.

Nonlinear PSA

Amidst all the talk about blogging for pay, advertising on personal blogs at whathaveyou (for the snark and crab-filled back-story on this molehill-turned-mountain, see the chatter over at Mom 101 and Metrodad, plus the very nice piece of a few weeks ago over at Bite My Cookie), I want to offer the following completely uncompensated advertisement for the newly published book by a friend of mine:

Several people have mentioned to me that they appreciated the dark humor of Terminal Alienation (as seen on my sidebar!). Well, you are in luck, as today is only the second day ever that you can purchase the novel The Pinball Theory of Apocalypse. Portlanders should take note that the author, Jonathan Selwood, will be reading at Powells (on Burnside) tonight at 7:30. I'll be there.


I know Jonathan would like you to read the book. But the man does have a mortgage to pay. Would it kill you to buy a copy? If you can, come down to Powells tonight and get a signed copy. Despite what you'd think from the pictures on Jonathan's web-site, he doesn't really drool quite so much, and is pretty funny and articulate in person.

Random quote and unrelated photo of the week (Karen's choice)

If we had a keen vision and feeling of all ordinary human life, it would be like hearing the grass grow and the squirrel's heart beat, and we should die of that roar which lies on the other side of silence. As it is, the quickest of us walk about well wadded with stupidity.

George Eliot
Middlemarch

Does whatever a spider can

The summer is a time for visitors. We have family and friends coming in and out all summer, plus a house guest who just left Wednesday after a five week stay. And then there is the spider. Ok, we have a lot of spiders, but I am thinking of one in particular.

An intrepid, if foolhardy spider has taken up residence in my car's side-view mirror. Whenever the car sits idle for a day, she crawls out of the space behind the mirror and spins a web between the mirror's casing and the side of the car. When I disturb her web, she scuttles back into the mirror casing, abandoning her web for the safety of glass and plastic. I'm sure she's out there right now, repairing the wind damage inflicted by this afternoon's trip to the store. I am sure she doesn't think ahead to the moment when I will re-enter the car, destroying her handiwork once again.

I sometimes feel like that spider, a tiny webbed don quixote struggling against forces I can not predict or control. When I allow myself, I can easily feel adrift in a world not of my making. But really, I am not the spider. I can see danger or opportunity coming, and I can make choices beyond the immediate hide! or rebuild.

Work is heating up, and keep reminding myself that I have chosen this work, and now I have the opportunity to be part of something big, something important, if I just stop worrying that I will be worthy of the task long enough to tackle it.

Same goes for parenting. I never considered having a child in my twenties, thinking it was too much, too hard. Even when I was desperately trying to become a parent, I worried that I would not be able to meet the big challenge of a child. Ada is two now, and for the most part I meet the challenges she presents. Sometimes I fail, but I have a lot of support and room to fail. Chris is with me every step, and behind him are our families, close friends and numerous others. In considering the idea of a second child I find myself wondering whether I will be able to handle it. My fears aside, I know I will be up to the challenge if we are lucky enough to have the chance to try. And I know I will also continue to fail on occasion, but that is part of the deal.

It frustrates me that I, a well educated, competent and cared for 35 year old, often struggle to find easy confidence in my own abilities. These feelings are not pervasive, but they are nagging. Seeing the spider spin and re-spin her web, I hope that I can take a different approach. I am planning and making choices. Hopefully I won't be eating too many bugs.

Random quote and unrelated photo of the week

There will come a time when you believe everything is finished. That will be the beginning.

Louis L'Amour

I (word that means take pictures) Myself

(After months of suffering people visiting looking for home-made p*rn that isn't here, I changed the title, hoping I will fall off google's ranking for a popular search phrase.)

While in San Francisco the week before my sister's wedding, I had a lot more time to myself than usual. I'd gone down to help Karen and Anthony deal with last minute details, but as organized as they were, there wasn't really that much to do. Plus, without Ada Shortpants hanging around, I suddenly had the freedom to read an excellent novel, an over-rated graphic novel (the movie was better), and everything short of the music listings in the most recent New Yorker.

I also took some pictures. But with my favorite subject a state away for most of the trip, in four days I shot more pictures of myself than I normal get around to taking in three months. Here are a few of them.

Self-portrait with mustache and camera.
I'd just like to say - it is a lot harder than it looks to take a picture of yourself that aligns properly with the fake mustache stuck to the mirror.



And people say San Franciscans are stand-offish.



Ok, this isn't me, but don't you feel like this sometimes too?




The question isn't: Why is this on your head?
The question is: Why was this in Karen's house?


Now if I can just track down some of the green wig pictures Ellen took, I can really embarrass myself.

Random quote and unrelated photo of the week

"He's always hungry," she said, and began to say all over again the same things she'd just told him, because she was unable not to say them.

Denis Johnson
1966

Eight It Up

P-man tagged me for a meme. He was supposed to tag 8 people (to keep on an "8 things about me" theme), but chose only four. Perhaps he did this because he hoped each of the four tagees will post 16 things, and he'll have hit his quota. Or maybe it is because he knows that 4 (like 8) is a product of powers of prime? (I'll let that one sink in while Chris and Stephanie laugh at me.)

Whatever the reason P-man decided to pick (on) me, I will step up to the plate. As I understand them from his blog, the rules are:

• list 8 facts/habits about yourself;
  
• post the rules at the beginning before those facts/habits; and
  
• tag 8 people and post their names, go to their blogs and leave them a comment, letting them know that they have been tagged and ask them to read your blog.

For no better reason than that I feel the need to have a theme to these facts, I offer 8 things about me, the mind and body edition:

1. (Mind and Body) I take a Darwinist approach to gardening. It pains me to have to water, because I feel that the strong plants deserve to live. But. I want lots of tomatoes, and would an ear of corn or two be a lot to ask?
   
   
2. (Body) I can't seem to find sandals. I have worn the same two pairs for years and years, despite the fact that one gives me blisters across the tops of my big toes, and the other pair hurts my feet if I walk more than a block in them. Either consequence is better than the fruitless shopping for replacements.
   
   
3. (Mind on Body) I am feeling disappointed that it is July and Chris hasn't made me a mojito yet. Last year we were awash in them. Sloshing, really.
   
   
4. (Mind) I am in love with this website.
   
   
5. (Mind over Body) I have just come to terms with the fact that I would rather go to a museum than get a massage. I like a massage, but given the chance to do something fun while child-free in San Francisco last week, I ditched the suggestion to be pampered. Instead I wandered around SF MOMA enjoying a fantastic exhibit of the photographs of Martin Munkacsi. The only downside is that I left with museum-back.
   
   
6. (Body) For years I had a used Polaroid camera I bought for $5 in Brooklyn. It took great, if strangely colored, pictures before dying suddenly. I keep thinking I should get a new one, but now I don't have to. My sister and her husband bought four of them for people to use during the wedding reception. They kept one and the other three went to the officiants (me, since I performed a pre-ceremony on a bluff in Crissy Field, and the two guys who performed their main wedding.) Karen told me that one of the cameras for me just as I was going to ask her if I could buy it from her. Imagine my joy!
   
   
7. (Body over Mind) Despite the fact that I am in general easily embarrassed, last week I wore a bright green wig studded with seaweed and plastic fish to a party and then to a dance club.
   
   Photo credit: Karen's friend Karla
   Ellen is the one flexing her muscles.
   
8. (Yes, I mind) I am not surprised. Horrified, but not surprised.

Rather than tag 8 people, I am tagging 1. Debbie honey, it is all on you. (Edited to add: And STEPHANIE!) Anyone else want to do this one? Let me know (email or smoke-signals preferred). Instead of tagging, I am asking you to tell me what blog you are obsessed with these days. Even in the dog days of summer, I am sure you've got something that's dug into your brain, like a weevil on crack. Or meth, 'cause crack is so last century.

Oh yeah, and would it kill you to click here a few more times?

Random quote and unrelated photo of the week

The fact that my sexual awakening peripherally involved Steve Guttenberg I have gradually accepted.

Gary Shteyngart
Summer Movies: Immortality

I am sorry for your loss

My grandmother just died. My sister is getting married and my grandmother died. This is not so bad as the previous sentence might suggest. My grandmother lived most of her life in New York, while my sister and I grew up on the west coast. We did not see her or my grandfather often, and (given her "nothing is right, and you can't fix it" tendencies) visits were not very gratifying. When I lived on the east coast, I was an hour drive from her apartment, but saw her less than I saw my other grandmother, who lived a short plane flight away. This is less a testament of my lack of grand-daughterly feelings than an expression of how much more I felt for my maternal grandmother than for my father's mom.

I have a lot of stories about my grandparents, mostly ones that paint my grandmother in a less than flattering light. I pull them out in discussions about difficult relations, often trumping others with my grandmother's prickliness and self-imposed martyrdom. It doesn't feel right to share those in the wake of her death. I should be remembering that she was the youngest of nine, devoted to her parents and to New York. She was strong-willed and tougher than you'd have thought, looking at her shrunken frame. She ran a business. Even after she sunk into dementia, she smiled at pictures of Ada. Living for so long she lost so many people. I didn't know her well enough to gauge whether she had been different as a young woman, whether the disappointments of life had turned her into the woman I knew as a child.

My sister and I were never close to our grandmother. Rather than feeling the loss of this woman, we feel for our father. Losing a parent feels unbearable, at any age. My sister thinks it may be better for him to have it over. A relief. My grandmother's slow slide from ornery to senile has been hard on my dad. Still, I feel a little bad that I am not feeling more. What if no one mourns me when I go? It is ridiculous to think that by crying for my grandmother I protect my future dead self, but selfishly I do.

Just before my sister walked out the door to track down some last minute wedding details, she hugged me and said "I am sorry for your loss." I repeated the phrase, hoping it might mean something.

On Fertility

(First: I'm not pregnant, and not trying to get pregnant right now. I have just had some conversations that got me thinking about this.)

There are two schools of thought regarding how open you should be when trying to conceive.

School #1 – tell no one.
You never know how long it is going to take, and if you tell people you are trying, they’ll just want to know if it has happened yet. Even if it has, you might not want to tell people until the mysterious and powerful first trimester has passed. For those who are more private about their personal lives, this is a great way to go. It works less well for someone like me who lives through discussion.

You might not be able to tell if you only know me from the blog, where I am not quite as self-revelatory as I am in person, but I am a sharer. Plus, like many women, I like to talk with friends and strangers about important things. I like input. I might not always take the advice, but I want to hear it. On the up side, this gets me a lot of feedback that can make me feel better about my situation. As a consequence, I know a lot about friends’ and strangers’ fertility. Once I started to say, “well, we had Ada through IVF” I got a lot of interesting stories in return. The couple that had only one egg implanted but ended up with twins anyway. The people who never tried but got pregnant. The people who tried and never got pregnant. People want to share those stories, and it is nice to hear them. But I was talking about NOT telling people.

As I mentioned, I am a sharer. That said, since conceiving Ada the hard way, I have several times gotten annoyed at people who announced they were trying to get pregnant, as if just announcing it would cause the blessed event to occur. Should I congratulate you for having sex? I mean, isn’t sex it’s own reward?

As petty as it is, I have been annoyed at what felt like crowing, even before the fact, about a success in an area that was such a challenge for Chris and me. I haven't felt this way with friends, but I do think that with people you don't know so well, maybe holding back on the "we're trying" could be a good idea. (Blog posts are exempted, since by definition a personal blog is the place for that kind of thing.)

At this point let me reiterate:
(1) I am not pregnant.
(2) I am not trying to get pregnant.
(I know you are thinking about it, so I just wanted to remind you.)

School #2 – tell everyone.
Once Chris and I started trying to have a baby, it was hard to not think constantly and compulsively about fertility. Because we were trying and I was thinking about it, I told people. And then it went on for months, which turned into years. So I stopped telling people we were trying. And then we found out that we needed IVF to conceive. I wanted to talk about it, but the stakes felt too high. What if we spent all the money, injected me with hormones, had eggs extracted, fertilized and implanted, and it didn't take? Did I really want to tell people about what was going on? So I only told a limited group of people. ("Limited" is a relative term. In my case it meant more than four people, less than everyone I knew.)

It was hard not to tell people, particularly when I was hopped up on hormones and in a very stressful meeting at work. More than once I wanted to interrupt a meeting with "I'm crying because of the injections, and the stress, not because you are an asshole. For two years you've been an asshole, but it didn't make me cry before now." But I didn't want to tell coworkers what was going on, lest I have to tell them it failed.

Once we found out the IVF worked, we kept mostly quiet out of a superstitious fear that telling people would cause the embryo to flush itself out of my body. Well, I kept quiet. Chris said he would, but then he kept telling people. This actually made me love Chris even more. When a quiet guy like Chris can't keep his mouth shut, he must be very excited.

The thing I got out of the whole process is that I should have no fear of telling people about our fertility struggles. In fact, the whole process made me want to tell people about it. It was hard to be struggling with fertility and thinking you are the only ones. But we weren't the only ones. Once we knew what was keeping us from conceiving, I started talking to people about fertility again. Although I didn't tell too many people that we were actively doing IVF, I told people we were going there.

Once we'd finished with the IVF itself and we were really, truly on the way to having a baby, I happily told all kinds of people about our struggles, IVF and whatever else was on my mind. Until then I kept a private blog. I wrote to myself about what I was thinking and feeling, and once I was ready to share it, I added it publicly to this blog. I get found by people searching for IVF information, and what I really want these searchers to know is - You are not alone. Whether you tell people or keep it to yourself, you are not alone.

For me, talking is good. Not talking has its place, but since I am not good at it, I won't beat myself up for sharing what others might keep to themselves. It feels too good to share, and I can hope that it helps someone else once in a while.

Random quote and unrelated photo of the week

She told me of her engagement as we waited for the first dim sum carts to stop by our table, and I congratulated her.

"That's really great," I said. "I'm so happy for you." And I was.

I myself had little to report, aside from the recent implosion of my relationship.

"What happened?" she asked.

I told her that she hated my dog, which was more or less the truth of the matter.

Jerome E. Copulsky
Modern Love: In the Dressing Room, Relationships Laid Bare

Happy Two

Ada has just gotten the concept of birthdays in a real way. When we told her we were going to have a party for her, she replied hopefully: "with cake?"

Yes, with cake. Today is her birthday, and while I got ready to go to work, Chris sat with Ada watching old sesame street videos on youtube. She could barely be bothered to say good-bye when I left. Although a part of me is sad that she'd more interested in Bert than in her mother's comings and goings, getting to this point has been a long road, so it is also nice to see her her with interests outside of whether or not I am holding her.

Ada, I love you and am already prouder of you than you'll ever know.

Minutes After Her Birth

At Six Months

A Year Old

18 Months

Last Week, Almost Two

Things To Love About Portland (Airport Bathroom Edition)

On my way through Portland International Airport on a recent trip to Texas, I saw this in my pre-flight trip to the bathroom:



Where else would an official informational notice include reference to "#1" and "#2"? (Yes, I am that immature.)

What a dork I am, taking pictures in an airport bathroom. At least I remembered not to use the flash. (There is a pun lurking in there, but I'm taking the high road.)

I Blame Debbie

This is all Debbie's fault. And by "this" I mean the fact that I created a scrapblog in yet another shameless attempt to win my way to Blogher.

Why, you ask, why would I spend time and energy on this little project? (Why, other than the vain hope of winning airfare, a hotel stay, and admission to Blogher?) Well, I really had no plans to go to Blogher. Ok, I'd had the stray fantasy, but really it was not more than that. And then a couple of months ago Debbie asked if I was going to go. Or wanted to go. Or had thought about going. Since the answer to at least one or two of those questions was yes, she saw the one little chink in my otherwise flawless "I am not going to Blogher" armor. Since then, about every two weeks she's asked me whether I want to go. Her methods, though varying, are nefarious. She and her roommate have room for me. She thinks I'd have a good time, that she'd have a good time with me there. She'd buy me drinks. Plus the assorted ego-stroking comments that didn't hurt my sense of self, if you must know.

Most recently, I talked by phone with Debbie while I tooled around the Dallas airport's skylink. (and really, for anyone who has been to or lived in Dallas, is there anything in the rest of that city that matches the coolness of this nifty airport tram?) But I digress. The point is that Debbie brought this whole Blogher thing up again. It is working on me a little, her nudging. I still haven't bought a ticket, but it is because of her intervention that I have been forced (forced, I say) to do things like build a scrapblog in order to enter a contest. Apparently every view of this silly thing gets me an entry into the their contest. So I did it. I spent a portion of the evening fiddling with the site.

So take a look. Please. I need all the help I can get.

It won't be a complete waste. You'll see some pictures from my trip to the beach. You'll note that, in true Oregon fashion, a mid-June coast trip required sweaters and pants all around. The cloud-cover did break a bit, but when the sun managed to poke through we were all so blinded that we were physically unable to take pictures. Just as well, lest more people see our pasty white skin.





(P-man, does it count as shilling if I am doing it for my own selfish interests? In case it is, I apologize in advance. Now click anyway.)

Random quote and unrelated photo of the week

I don't think that I can take it
'cause it took so long to bake it
and I'll never have that recipe again

Jimmy Webb
MacArthur Park

One of my favorites

My sister and I have been spending a lot of time on the phone lately. Karen is getting married next month, so we are chatting about that, but recently we have also talked about why our parents are the way they are, whether she should go to China, and what happens to friendships over time.

The other night we were talking late into the night, and while thinking of some moment from our shared childhood I decided to look through some old photos. I found one of my all time favorite pictures, one that makes me laugh whenever I see it:

I love this picture for so many reasons. I love the layout, the fact that despite all the available room my family is crowded into a corner of the frame. I love the early 80s outfits, hair and glasses. (Having recently seen old pictures of Phil Specter, I wonder at my mom's 'do.)

Even more than all these other things about this photograph, I love my sister. I love that she's not looking at the camera, but instead sticks her bottom lip out at something unseen and unnoticed by the rest of us.

I dragged this photo through the scanner this week to share it with Karen. She is one of my favorite people and I hope she knows how much I love her and how excited I am to be part of her wedding. It is all I can do not to cry just thinking about it. But then I look at this picture. And laugh.

Fine, and you?

Have you seen this? It is a project (called We Feel Fine) that searches blogs all over the world for sentences that contain the words "I feel" or "I am feeling". You can look at random phrases, make montages with favorite phrases, or search for the saddest, guiltiest or sexiest cities. Oh, and you can click on a sentence and find the blog from which it originated.

I found this:






Strangely addictive and fascinating. And someone found me through this. How do I feel about that? I feel fine.

Random quote and unrelated photo of the week

Saying that men talk about baseball in order to avoid talking
about their feelings is the same as saying that women talk
about their feelings in order to avoid talking about baseball.

Deborah Tannen
You Just Don't Understand: Women and Men in Conversation

A Berry Good Day

Ada and I often spend Friday mornings with a group of kids (and their moms). Three of the six moms have had babies in the past couple of months, which has put a little damper on our socializing of late. I hear rumblings that the (once again) new moms are ready to start visiting again, while we were on sabbatical Ada and I took in the sights. And then Debbie called. Berry picking? We'd love to pick berries! I called Ellen and she and I packed the kids in the car, meeting Debbie and her redhead at the farm.

Did I say we'd love to pick berries? Let me restate that: I loved picking berries. Ada, Monkey Boy and the Redhead didn't really get the "you pick" thing. They were all over the "you eat" part, however, and their faces were quickly juice-stained.


Ada and Monkey Boy also really liked the flags set out to mark progress along the rows. Ellen and I tag-teamed the kids, trading kid chasing and picking duties. Somehow she managed to pick two flats, one of which we dropped off at Clyde Common, where they became dessert.



The redhead helped his mom a bit. Mostly by pointing out ripe berries she might have missed.


Ada and Monkey Boy were so sugar-sotted that they even kissed. I was too slow, but managed to get this post-smooch shot.



And then we rolled our strawberry soaked bellies home for baths and naps. We'll be back for raspberries. And cherries. And peaches...

“Where Does My Time Go?” (summer edition)

A day in the life. Now with more parenthetical questions!

6:00 AM
Hear Ada wake up. Listen to Chris get up with her.* Roll over and go back to bed.

7:30 AM
Wake up to hear Chris and Ada coming up the stairs. Open my eyes to Ada joining me on the bed. Listen to Ada tell me: "Wake up, Mama! Get up Mama!" (Why does Chris think that the toddler wake up call is a good idea? Doesn't he know that this just fuels my desire for turnabout?)

7:50 AM
Give in to Ada's demands. Eat breakfast, shower, gather kid stuff. (Why does it bother Ada to see me in bed? Why doesn't she seem as annoyed when it is she finds Chris in bed?)

9:10 AM Drive to Ellen's house, pick up Ellen and Monkey Boy and head for the zoo! (How does Ellen manage to look to put together, while I look like I didn't bother to glance in the mirror after donning jeans and my beloved "sexy senior citizen" tee?)

9:40 AM
ZOO! Marvel how much Ada likes the train ride, and kick myself for never having taken her on it before. (Why am I so resistant to this kind of thing? Is it because my parents always resisted this kind of thing when I was a kid?)

11:50 AM
Drive home. (Why while Ada takes off her shoes, complains that Monkey Boy stole her sock, and generally directs from the backseat.

12:20 PM
Struggle through a pre-nap diaper change. (Why the character on the diaper matters, I still can't figure out. Also, why are there so many Elmo diapers in the pack? I know other kids love the red monster, but Ada is just not a big fan.)

1:00 PM
Chat with Chris's dad, who has stopped by for a visit. Eat the sandwich he brings over. Think but then forget to verbalize my thanks for the food. (How will I ever train Ada to be polite if I can't manage basic niceties myself?)

1:20 PM
Talk on the phone with Aarin about the pleasures and annoyances of blogging, why our children act the way they do, whether it is possible to stay away from freshly made rice krispie treats, and what to drink when we get together on Sunday. (Is it possible for me to be as helpful to Aarin as I would like to be, in these early months of her time as mother of two? I worry about my capacity to do this, but I want to be that kind of friend.)

2:20 PM
Fantasize about winning a pass to Blogher. Remember to send a link about this post to Parent Bloggers Network and Light Iris. Cross fingers. (Why is Blogher such a draw? Why do I already know that if I don't go I will feel depressed the week it is going on?)

3:00 PM
Baby-sit for Monkey Boy so that Ellen can run some errands. (Is it wrong that I am happy to sit on the couch with the computer in Ellen's quiet house while MB sleeps?)

3:30 PM
Deal with Monkey Boy's annoyance that upon waking he finds me instead of his mother. Call Chris, who brings Ada over for backyard playtime.

5:30 PM
Head to Susie and Mike's house for dinner. Coo over their now one year old child, insist that time is not possibly moving so fast. Sing Sunrise, Sunset to myself when no one is listening. (Why, just a year past Ada's first birthday, does it seem impossible that Susie's son is a year old? Is it even possible that this baby has been with us for a year?)

7:15 PM
Put Ada to sleep in Susie's bedroom, return to the kitchen to help with dinner prep. Thrill at the fact that Susie and I both have husbands who take charge of dinner. Enjoy grilled meats and veggies. (I wonder if there is a better way to enjoy summer than with food cooked on the grill. Maybe food cooked on the grill and a drink with lime in it?)

10:45 PM
Finally pick up Ada and drive home, after declaring my intention to do so for 45 minutes. Even while Ada is in my arms, I feel sad for the day I no longer pick her up and cuddle her sleeping form to me, inhaling the scent of clean, sleepy girl. (Do others feel this pre-nostalgia, a sweet, fond sadness for time that is not yet lost?)

11:30 PM
Resist urge to bring up weighty topics with Chris at this time of night. Fall asleep thinking about what I will do tomorrow. (Why can't I remember the things I think about late at night?)



*Oh how I love summer. Among other enticements, it means Chris and I switch off morning duties and I get to sleep in several days a week.

Pardon Our Dust

The use of a new photo should not suggest that I've changed the blog too much. I just got fed up with my previous attempt at sprucing up the template and made some quick changes so that I can stand to look at the page. (Edited to add: all the work to make the header at least semi-presentable is by Chris. Thanks, Chris.)

You know how you can go along with something looking terrible (like say, the kitchen floor) for weeks on end, and then suddenly if you have to live with the mess for one more second you are going to run out of the house and join the circus? No? Well, you probably never let your floor get as bad as mine looks right now. In any case, I had one of those moments with the blog tonight. I needed a change - I'd updated the template, which was fine except I hated the huge margin font and things never worked the way I wanted them to. Maybe one day I will splurge and get some professional help to clean the place up. Until then, I will slowly work on it myself, the equivalent of finally mopping the floors and cleaning off a corner of the dining room table for you.

Until then, I remain, lost in a poopy fog, Nonlinear Girl.

Random quote and unrelated photo of the week

I have taken a more accepting, passive approach to achieving my desires in life. If somebody refuses a request, or if things don't work out the way I had desired, I don't argue. I sit back, and I wait for something to explode.

Peter Sagal
Burning Love

Sharing is Fun

Some of the blogs I read are a glimpse into other worlds. They show me other ways of living, of thinking, of being. Then there are blogs I read because they are comfortable. I have "me too" moments or share something with the writer, whether that's a sense of humor, interests and experiences, or neuroses.

I feel both these things when I read what Laurie of Upside Up writes. I am intrigued by her glimpses into life with twins, and enjoy looking ahead a bit into the life of children just a little older than Ada. I also read Laurie's blog because, even though I have only met the part of her that she shares at Upside Up, I regularly enjoy her sense of humor and find myself laughing out loud at the flotsam she grabs from the ether for her readers. I enjoy "knowing" Laurie, and am interested in the things she has to share.

In support of sharing, I wanted to pass on that Laurie and three blog-friends have just launched a new site, called sk*rt. The sk*rt publicity materials say that:

sk*rt is an online media ranking site created for and by women, featuring topics women dig.

sk*rt was designed to promote sites, blogs, video, products, articles, ideas, art, etc. to women and to the men who want to get in our heads.

I checked it out and find it easy to use and interesting enough for me to return. Laurie asked if I (and everyone else in her rolodex) would help her promote sk*rt. Since I like Laurie and I liked the site, I agreed. I hope you like it too.

If that isn't enough for you, I also wanted to share a brilliant post Laurie wrote in April, about traveling with her girls, and fear and parenting in an unsafe world. This post has stuck with me since I read it months ago. If that isn't enough reason to share such a post, I don't know what is.

She's made her papa so proud

(Please excuse the poor film quality. I shot this with my phone, and it has lost resolution with the increase in image size.)

To a retiring professor

Bob probably didn't realize this when he hired me as a research assistant in 1993, but he gave me a lasting gift - the ability to entertain at cocktail parties.

In 1993, I was new to Chicago, having just relocated from the west coast and feeling a touch of culture shock. I went to Bob for advice on job-hunting. After welcoming me warmly to Chicago and attentively listening to my woefully short list of skills and accomplishments, Bob said he would look around and see if he could connect me to any job leads. I left the meeting appreciative of his efforts, but not assuming that the meeting would directly lead to paid work. The next day I got a call; Bob said he'd thought about it and realized that one of the projects he was running could use someone. I jumped at the chance to work on a University of Chicago research team, even if Bob was just doing a favor for the daughter of an old friend.

The project for which I was hired was a now famous study of adult sexual behavior and attitudes. The work was interesting, the colleagues hard working, and I learned a lot about social science research methods. Even better, the job was a fantastic source of party conversation. Meeting new people in Chicago, I got asked about my job a lot. Answering "I work for a sex study" was a sure-fire conversation starter. It has been over a dozen years since I last pre-tested interviews or analyzed data, but my claim to fame a an ex-sex research professional still saves me from the occasional awkward party silence. Sure, Bob has had other lasting impacts on my life, from introducing me to survey methods to helping me decide to go to policy school. I am sure that he has done these things for dozens, if not hundreds, of students over the years. But how many of them can thank Bob for making them the life of the party?

Thank you Bob, for all of your help. Cocktail party chat aside, I can honestly say that you were instrumental in starting me on the path I am still walking today.

(I wrote this for a collection of remembrances that friends, colleagues and former students are putting together for a long time University of Chicago professor.)

Random quote and unrelated photo of the week

Both how I'm livin' and my nose is large

Digital Underground
The Humpty Dance

Won't you be my neighbor?

I am disproportionately excited about our potential new neighbors. Not even them, per se, but about the prospect of having neighbors with a child (even better, a girl) Ada's age.

A house on our block went up for sale recently, and as a testament to the continued strength of the market (and not to the beauty of the house, which is in less than fantastic shape and bears the marks of its former resident's, um, taste), it garnered five bids. When I heard that my heart sank, because I knew that a couple with a toddler was interested in it, and I could not imagine that they'd get it. The people selling the house would surely take the highest bidder's offer, and around here that is bound to be from a contractor who intends to patch the place up before selling it for tens of thousands more. But on Thursday the family arrived for the inspection, and my heart leapt. Chris and I wandered down the street to say hi, to see if it could really be a family with kids.

It is not as if we are alone on this block, stranded amid childless types. We love the people on the corner, who have two, and Ada stalks with our six year old neighbor up the street. We are friendly with the people around the corner (who come with the multiple excitements of a child, a dog and two chickens) and know others in the neighborhood with kids. But somehow the idea of a friend, dare I say a potential best friend once they get old enough to care about such things, it made me thrill at the prospect.

(Before we go any further, this is where I need to say: Ellen, I have no intention of tossing Monkey Boy aside as best friend material. Ada will always love your Boy, but it couldn't hurt a girl to have a close girl pal on the block. You know, as back up, for when M.B. goes through his "girls are icky" phase. )

Growing up I had a best friend, one who lived a mere three blocks away. We were a Mutt & Jeff duo, minus the mustaches and hats. I was always the giant kid, while Rachel was tiny. I remember her parents, who worried about her size and low weight, practically force-feeding her the kind of treats I only dreamed about getting at home. Although we were both from Jewish families, our backgrounds were very different. Rachel's parents were European immigrants, her father the only person from his village to not die at the hands of the nazis. My parents were East Coast-bred Americans. Her dad owned a restaurant and her mom stayed home. My parents worked in offices. She was an only child, with a tv, stereo and Barbie dream house in her room! I had to share everything with my sister.

It wasn't until later that I realized that Rachel idealized my family as much as I did hers. While I loved the quiet and luxury of her house, she loved that my mom would play with us, make cookies or help us with projects. Her parents were more hands off. I thought they were great, sophisticated and interesting. (Plus, they had a sign by their pool: "We don't swim in your toilet, don't pee in our pool" and how funny was that?)

Even though Rachel and I only went to school together for a few years, we saw each other a lot. We played together after school and every weekend. I went with her family on weekend trips to Palm Springs, we slept over at one another's houses, made matching Halloween costumes, choreographed elaborate dance routines to the Grease! soundtrack, and dressed my sister up in wild outfits from my costume box. We walked to and from junior high together planning our futures. We could not imagine our lives without one another, laughed at the idea that we'd ever be apart.

By high school we had come apart. Not from some great teen schism, some slight or misunderstanding, but because I'd taken one track and Rachel another. Though Rachel was smart, she was not the geek that I was and had somehow not jumped on the honors track with me. It seems weird in retrospect that she'd stuck with me through my really awkward years, the buck teeth and coke-bottle glasses of my early teens, only to peel away when I came more into my own in high school. I don't blame her, becoming a teen is a difficult thing for the most self-possessed child. I am sure I didn't help matters, and I can't even remember how it happened that we drifted apart.

After Rachel I didn't have any really close female friends again until college. But regardless of the fact that she is not still my best friend, Rachel's friendship helped shape me. Whether or not any of the plans and dreams Ada makes with her friends come true, whether or not they actually move into apartments together and share wardrobes and always choose one another over their romantic prospects, the space to make those plans is what I want for her. I want her to have someone to snuggle with in sleeping bags, whispering late into the night and giggling in exhaustion. I want Ada and her friend to learn to roller skate together, to run down grassy hills and gather rose petals for some secret project. I want them to dream and make up stories and explore together. I want her to have the kind of friend-love that buoys a childhood. I want her to have what I had.

Random quote and unrelated photo of the week

The only answer to the question “Why me?” is this: Because bad stuff happens to everyone, and this is what happened to me. One of my closest friends struggled with infertility. That’s her short straw. Another friend’s marriage fell apart. Another friend gave birth to a stillborn child. Look closely enough and you’ll see that everyone has a short straw or two in their lives.

Alice Lesch Kelly
Cases: The Struggle to Move Beyond ‘Why Me?’

Words and Phrases

Selected Ada vocabulary

Pine Cone


Sand Castle


Punk Rock



And while we are on the subject of words, I'd like to file this under "things I never thought I'd say":

"I'm sorry Ada, you can't take Willem Dafoe home."

Tulip Thief Strikes Again!

Some readers may remember that last year someone stole a bunch of tulips from my yard. I wrote a letter to the perp, and posted it to the blog. This year I breathed a small sigh of relief when my tulips opened unmolested. My around-the-corner neighbor was not so lucky. This year, all of the tulips along her front garden were snipped and stolen. She was as angry as I had been, but apparently she does not have a blog. (Seems unlikely, I know, but I guess one or two people are still holding out.) Instead, my neighbor put up no fewer than four signs in her yard itself, plus a total of eight additional signs at the light poles on either end of the block. Here's one of them:


To add insult to injury, around the same time as the tulip theft three small trees planted on the side of her house were dug out and taken away. My neighbor thinks this theft (a vastly more aggressive plant abduction than the tulip taker could likely manage) was perpetrated by the people hired to install plants at the newly constructed condos a block away. Several gardener trucks were parked on the block, and it was during their few day stay on the block that the trees went missing. And really, who else is likely walking by with a big shovel with which to uproot the trees? Or a vehicle in which to cart them away? Definitely not a random crime.

My neighbor is so angry and upset about these thefts that she's already thinking about leaving this house they purchased less than a year ago. The loss of my tulips last year did not make me want to find a new home, but it did have me harrumphing and complaining for days to anyone who would listen. It sucks that people think it is ok to steal plants, as if they are not the resident's property the way that a porch swing is. It is worse in some ways, because the resident has put energy into the plant and is likely more invested in its well-being and beauty than she would be in the health of an Adirondack chair.

The one redeeming thing about this is that it reminds me how much I love Portlanders' willingness to vocally (or visibly) declare themselves to their neighbors and the world. It may not be much solace for my neighbor, but maybe the knowledge that our local serial tulip thief changes target each year could be.


(Thanks to Sarah and her call for cell phone photos. She reminded me that this was still in memory. Also, thanks to Chris for checking my links.)

Random quote and unrelated photo of the week

Yard sale at SE 20th & SE Sherman (2 blocks North of Division).
Clothes, some furniture, really nice guitar and some other musical equipment, household items,books (sorry, no romance novels).

Craigslist garage sale advertisement

Learning from a Friend's Father

A good friend of mine just lost his father. I only met Tom on a few occasions over the years, but have felt quite warm toward him and my friend's mother since they joined us several months ago for one of our weekly Thursday-night-dinner-with-friends dinners.

I was saddened to hear that this man died, and was very moved by something his daughter wrote for his obituary:

Tom lived a very full life. He was a man of his word, a believer in justice, and a lover of the Green World. He lived his values every day, guided by a strong sense of ethics and a belief in the importance of kindness.

I read the obituary this morning and have been thinking about this description since then. Occasionally I read an obituary, usually of someone I did not know (even in the celebrity sense of knowing of them), and am inspired by the way the person led their life. I hope that I can take some of Tom's example to live my values, and to teach that to my child the way that Tom did with his.

Mike, I am so sorry for your loss.

Your new favorite restaurant

I interrupt your regularly scheduled diet of crafts and quotes to provide a public service announcement to my Portland-area readers, and really for anyone who might want to visit our fair city.

My pal Ellen's brother Nate has just opened a fantastic restaurant downtown: Clyde Common. While it officially opens on Tuesday, last night Chris and I joined Ellen's family at a preview dinner. We were joined by various local luminaries (including a member of a seminal punk band). Our local free weekly was there too, and apparently had a good time too.

The menu is eclectic (spicy popcorn is available, along with more classic fare) and tasty. (Poached tuna, hangar steak, a vegetarian gnocchi looking thing were all delicious) The kitchen is open, so you can get a good look at the staff at work. Despite it being so early in their lives as Clyde staff, they were looked on top of their collective game. The main floor of the restaurant is set up with several large tables (hence the "common" in Clyde Common), allowing people to chat with their neighbors. We shared a table with the musician and his wife, as well as a pastry chef and his partner. For those who dislike talking to strangers, the mezzanine will soon open, providing more private dining spaces (as well as couches, for when that date is going really well. (Smooching will be tolerated. After all, this space was once a gay club of some local renown in the pre-safe sex days.)

I checked out the staff while waiting for our food. I enjoy an open kitchen, so this is great for me. It gives me a false sense that I know what's going on in the heart of the restaurant. The only down-side is that the staff were tatooed enough that when we take my parents, once my father notices, it will be the only thing he will be able to talk about. Dad's still not over the idea that a tatoo means you are either in a rock band or (what he would refer to as) low class. Or both. (Over the years, some of his patients have been musicians. Not all of them paid their bills.)

If all this - good food, friendly and helpful staff, an inviting space, and a lovely zinc topped bar - aren't enough of a draw, after dinner you can amble over to the lobby of the Ace Hotel (in which Clyde Common is located) and jump into the conveniently located photo booth. What could be more fun than pictures of four tipsy and sated adults crammed into a small box?

Random quote and unrelated photo of the week

People like gambling more than they hate each other.

Willy Vlautin

Jack of all trades

...master of none

Lately I have been feeling self-conscious about the extent to which I am a dabbler. Even as people have said very nice things about some of the crafty projects I’ve posted about, discussing them publicly reminds me the extent to which I am able to SORT of do a lot of things. I am not great at any of them. I can put a felt elephant together, but it is always going to look a bit wonky. I take a lot of photos and once in a while they are presentable, but mostly I just slap up whatever crap I have snapped, despite the fact that I then cruise over to another A’s mom's and see what happens when one carefully documents one’s work. I mean, it does help that she’s got a photographer husband and some impressive equipment. And how beautiful; the work, the documentation, all of it is lovely. But oy, is it a reminder of my slap-dashiness.

And so it goes. I can write a little, but not like others. I can sew a tiny bit, but only when Stephanie holds my hand through the whole process. I do a lot of things, but none of them really well. (Ok, I am a really good editor, but given that this is neither my profession nor something I get asked to do socially a lot, it doesn't help much.)

****

This was originally going to be a post about how I am ok at a bunch of things, but not great at anything. But then I lay on the floor of Ellen's house, talking to her about blogging, why I didn't like how my stylist dried my hair, and my idea for a "jack of all trades" post. And Ellen, my biggest booster and cheerleader, talked about some of the ways she thinks I am amazing and together (and threw in that she'd like me to help her run a program, should it find grant funding) and left me feeling pumped up about myself. Because there are a lot of things I am pretty fucking amazing at. Things that I often see as flaws (Am I compulsive, or detail oriented? Messy, or just relaxed?) are also strengths.

****

And now weeks after that conversation, I am hard pressed to remember what I am so good at. (Except that editing thing. I did some kick-ass editing for a colleague yesterday.) I am trying not to worry about it too much. I mean, it is ok not to be fantastic at everything I try. If that was my requirement, I'd never try anything. (Such as the insane idea I had to make a braided rag rug from some old t-shirts. What exactly was I thinking?)

In the spirit of appreciating the effort, even if the result is not everything I want it to be, I offer a couple of things I have been working on lately:

Onesies for some babies-on-the-way


Here's my first attempt at a bag. It was a lot easier that I thought it would be, but at the rate that I sew (and rip out seams, and re-sew) it took over a week to finish. The pattern is from Amy Butler. I highly recommend her patterns, especially for the novice seamstress. The directions were very details and clear. I didn't want to tear my hair out at all over this.

Inside the bag - POCKETS!

I don't knit, I just link to cool patterns

If (unlike me) you are a knitter, you may be interested in this excellent pattern, created by my pal Stephanie and named for Ada.

Ada, a year younger and many hair follicles shorter

The pattern was also noted by Craft magazine's blog, a nice little nod to Stephanie's talent. Did I mention that she made this pattern up by herself? Stephanie is not a woman who thinks small. Unless you count the size of Ada's head at age 1.

Toeing the line

For those who have been paying attention, the great and powerful Jiro mentioned that my blog would benefit from an increased Jiro-focus. I took his comment as an opportunity to get him to offer my readers the value of his years (and years, and years) of life experience. I asked people to submit their burning questions, and one complied. Ok, two, but Jiro has declined to respond to Betsy Veal's comments ever since she scaled the wall of his compound to leave her famous ketchup souffle at his door. So that leaves one answerable question. (Seriously, what is wrong with you people? Have you no questions that need answering?)

But never mind, a question comes to us from the temperate north:

Why is my big toe more sensitive to heat than other parts of my body?

The Sage Jiro responds.

One of the more obscure beliefs of Scientology is that the galactic overlord Xenu having stubbed his toe one time too many on the galactic overlord baby’s toy train set declared that henceforth all of the evil spirits would enter through the toes, and that everyone’s first toe would “… swell larger than all of the others …” and become more sensitive to all things. This was around the same time there were several decrees about the galactic overlord poopy diapers and the galactic overlord's complaint that “I should have gotten a puppy”.

On the other hand, of course everyone knows about the belief in Swedish mysticism that the first lutefisk sprang from Odin’s big toe.

Should anyone need advice, Jiro doesn't have much to do these days. His job is a piece of cake, his child is pretty much willing to do whatever he says, and his wife, well, she's not a candidate for Stepford yet, but we're working on her. Email the advice line at nonlinear . advice @ gmail . com - what could it hurt?

Random quote and unrelated photo of the week

Ma'am, I'm here to check your house for parasites ... apparently, you have hippies.

Eric Cartman