Trains, Planes and Automobiles

Or in this case, aerial trams, buses and MAX trains.

When I started this post it somehow eluded me that none of these pictures were actually taken ON a tram, bus or max train, but only while we were waiting for them. We took a tram ride in the evening, so though I actually took pictures from the tram, they came out a bit dark and fuzzy.

I recommend taking a child on the tram, but maybe not right at dinner-time. Ada liked the ride the first time, but wailed and screamed was then less than thrilled when we boarded for a second ride. Oops. Nothing that some soothing from Ellen and a couple of mini-cupcakes couldn't fix, apparently.

I didn't take pictures on the bus or max rides. I'd like to say it was just because Ada was sitting on my lap, but really it was mainly because I didn't want to look like a tourist. Yep, I'm that vain. I am a born and bred city-dweller who was embarrassed to appear new to public transit. Dumb, but somewhere in me is my 14 year old bus-riding self, wanting credit for navigating the city alone, both proud and sheepish to be without a more elegant form of transport.

Ada does not have any such concerns with looking cool on public transit. And while we are on the subject of cool, would anyone disagree that trains are way cooler than buses? When I have lived in places with both, I've always preferred the train, even when it means I have to walk a couple of extra blocks. But back to Ada. When Ada and I are in the car, she bus-spots. Having spied one, she calls out "bus! on! on!," leaving me to explain that since we are already in the car, maybe we'll save the bus for another time.

Given how exciting it is to see a bus, you can imagine what a treat it is for Ada to actually on board one? What could be better? First there is the waiting at the bus stop, though thankfully not for too long. Portland has lots of bus lines that run every 15 minutes, so even though I always manage to walk up to our stop just after a bus has pulled away, the wait has not yet outlasted Ada's patience. Much.

Once on the bus, Ada settles into my lap to check out the scene. She is drawn to the homeless men and the folks boarding the bus outside the methadone clinic down the road. So far that has been fine, as the other riders tend to be engaged in their conversations about where to get a decent coat or why they got fired from their last job, or at least friendly and kind to my inquisitive girl. On the trip downtown, Ada is pretty quiet, until we near the bridge. Then the whole bus gets an earful of Bridge! Bridge!, which in Ada-speak sounds more like her accusing me of being a puppy's mother.

After a few loops around downtown (or even over a bridge or two) on the max train, I sense it is time to head home. This is usually the point at which it starts raining, hard.

On the ride home, Ada's comfort level has increased greatly. She's usually a bit tired, but that just elevates her mood, as she jumps and yells in a gleeful pre-crash frenzy. She wants to pull the cord that signals someone wants to get off. She wants to wander the aisle. She wants to break free of her mama and cozy up to other passengers. Maybe she suspects they've got snacks.

Hoo Ha?

Because I know you just can't get enough crotch talk, I saw this recently about referring to the Vagina Monologues by another name.

I actually turned down an invite to see the Vagina Monologues (or should we be saying Vulva Monologues, as was suggested by a commentor on my last female genetalia post?). I've heard mixed things about the show, but would have gone if it had not conflicted with plans to take Chris to hear Neko Case and Merle Haggard play this weekend. Yes, for my husband's birthday we went to a Hag concert. We are old and dorky. Actually, we went for Neko, who if you don't know about, you should. Chris and I have both had a little crush on her for a few years. Plus, she's on the list of people he's allowed to sleep with if given the chance. Heck, she might be on my list too.

Good Hair Day

Random quote and unrelated photo of the week

Yes, we talked about cutting down on our red-meat consumption; yes, we recoiled in horror at tales of slaughterhouse abuses; yes, we admired stir-fries and noodle dishes flavored with no more than a few shreds of beef or pork. Then we went out and ordered a 16-ounce prime rib eye, charred rare, with a side of hash browns.

Colman Andrews
Steak, Well Done

Four Cups

Random quote and unrelated photo of the week

Ms. Tashjian hated being called "the Nut Lady" and died without fulfilling her dream of opening a nut theme park certain to surpass Disneyland. (Her reasoning: Squirrels are cuter than a certain mouse.)

Douglas Martin
New York Times Obituaries

Naming Names

Like most children her age, Ada is really into body parts. We spend a chunk of each day identifying a knee, toe, mouth... and vagina. The past couple of months, Ada has been very interested in hers. When she asked what it was, I told her. No point in pretending I didn't hear her or calling it something cutesy. The euphemisms people use for vagina just seem gross to me. Plus, I want her to be comfortable, to know it is another body part like her nose or belly button. Sure, it is more private, but I don't want to start her thinking it is dirty or bad to know herself.

Since she identified her "'gina" (as she calls it), we've talked about who else might have one. She's asked if I have one (yes) and if Papa has one (no). She's seen us naked, so it doesn't seem like such a leap to want to know what's we've got down there. One night after her bath she squeaked "'gina!"

"Yup, that's your vagina."

"Mama?"

"Yes, Mama has a vagina."

"Nooo!" she laughed.

Then she asked: "Monkey Boy?"

"No, Monkey Boy doesn't have a vagina."

"Monkey Boy!"

So ok, maybe we've got a ways to go on this one.

** ** **
And in a wildly inappropriate segue, Ellen and I have been singing along to this ever since a friend sent our way.

Mild warning: not really work safe, especially if you've got your speakers on.


In fact, we have been so enamored of it that we spent an entire playing cards and coming up with rhyming My Puss/Your Puss lyrics. Fantastic, they were earth shattering.

After you watch the video, I am sure that you'll have a hard time resisting the urge to make up your own lyrics (Mike, I am looking at you), please post your favorite new lyrics in the comments.

Nonlinear Advice (How to Say No)

I performed my friends Ellen and Jiro's wedding this summer. Although I worried about it, I got a lot of positive feedback afterwards. The only one to criticize it was Jiro's uncle Morty. He walked up to me and said that the ceremony was nice, but it had one problem.

"Oh, what's that?" I asked.

"Not enough Morty."


In a similar vein, Jiro recently mentioned that he thought my blog was suffering from a lack of Jiro. Although I do mention him occasionally, I agreed that I could do more. To address the lack-of-Jiro problem on the blog, I am instituting a new occasional segment, in which Jiro offers readers advice.

There is precedence for this, as Jiro and I once had the idea to turn a philosophy PhD, yoga-practicing, mountain man turned sheriff's deputy friend of ours into a guru for the rich and gullible. I had read an article about wealthy people paying crazy sums to attend retreats at which they were served starvation diets, made to sleep on boards, and exercised to the brink of exhaustion. These "spiritual vacationers" apparently attend and enjoy such retreats because their real lives are so luxe that privation seems novel and exciting. Jiro and I planned a retreat center built around our friend and his mountain home. We'd feed them a macrobiotic diet, make them sleep in the dirt, and have our friend lead 20 mile hikes and marathon yoga sessions. Jiro's slogan for our program was "Have life whys? Visit Lifewise."

We never got around to setting this up, but I know Jiro still wants to mess with people's lives offer people useful advice.

** ** ** **
Our first question comes from a dear put-upon friend, DS. I'd tell you her real name, but since her question is about how to say no, I am afraid you'd just take advantage of her. DS asks Jiro how to respond to her friends, relatives and neighbors, who are constantly asking for things. They ask for help, for her skills, for her time, with no expectation that they will pay her back or respond in kind to her assistance.

Jiro, please help DS, how can she say no?

The wise and powerful Jiro replies:

Do you have someone asking you to do something for them and you want to say no, but don’t know how?

Let me run you through a visualization. Imagine:


Your child is about to put the phone in the toilet.

Your spouse puts their cold feet in your crotch as you try to go to sleep.

Your father asks you to check if he has hair growing out of his ears.

Your neighbor is practicing the tuba at 6 in the morning.

Dick Cheney naked.

Basic instinct 2.


Feel the word “no” flowing from deep in your soul. Or just check the caller-id and don’t answer your phone until they ask someone else.

** ** ** **
Our second question came from another friend, and is in a similar vein. A friend from Iowa asks how she can gracefully host a dinner party for 3 that has turned into dinner for 10.

Jiro suggests:

Provide two squares of toilet paper to each of the first four people to arrive. The others get nothing.

** ** ** **
So now it is your turn. Have any burning life questions, need help from a (self-appointed) authority? Want someone to tell you what to do? Jiro can help. Email me at nonlinear.advice@gmail.com, or leave your question in the comments.

Jiro is here, Jiro is listening, Jiro can help.

One Year Old

No, not Ada. She's nineteen months, for those who care about such things. No, I'm talking about the blog. The blog - my time sink, my indulgence, my vanity project...

To celebrate, well, this thing, this piece of me, I dug into my archives to see what I've been doing here the past year. After looking back through a year's worth of posts, the thing that knocks me out is not how much I have learned, or how much better my writing has gotten (oh, I wish), but how much more hair Ada has! Wow was she a baldy!


At first I thought this thing would be about Ada, a record of her development. But eh, that gets boring. How often can I write (and how often can you read) about her poop or what she's just learned to say? (Well, maybe you can take it once in a while. How could I not tell you that this week's word is Zamboni?) But rolling ice smoothing machines aside, it didn't take me too long to realize what I wanted to say was really more about being with Ada, being her parent.

I started out not really knowing which of us is the nonlinear girl - Ada or me. I am still not sure. We are both wandering, not following a plan. Maybe one side benefit is that when she's older she can see what I was thinking about, know it is okay not to have a plan. It took me so long to figure that one out for myself; maybe I can make it a little easier for her. Even if it does not mean anything to her later, it is still fun for me now. That should be enough for a little vanity project.

What the hell does that mean, nonlinear girl?

Open letter to Baby Gap

Dear Corporate Headquarters Brand Development Gurus:

My 19 month old and I took a trip to the mall this afternoon. While this is not usually my favorite location for a post-nap excursion, my daughter got a mess of pink Gap brand items this holiday, and I finally got off my butt about exchanging them for something (anything) else.

While we were at Baby Gap, I saw that you are selling skinny jeans... for babies. At first I thought I'd seen things wrong, perhaps something got misplaced, and these were just jeans for older girls mixed in with the toddler clothes. But I double checked, and found skinny jeans in toddler sizes 2T and 3T (and I'm sure you make them in 4T too, but the store must be sold out of those). I can not express exactly how horrified this makes me. I'll admit to thinking that skinny jeans are a bad idea for anyone, much less for children. How can a style that looks good on no one be so popular? But that aside, because a consenting adult can embarrass herself in public if that's her thing. But children? Toddlers, especially? Such a "body conscious" style is just not meant for children, especially ones at an age where round bellies and roly-poly shapes are the norm.

While I'm never buying my toddler skinny jeans, I guess you've done your research and have found that parents across the continent are clamoring for this look for their short ones. So maybe I can't fairly complain to you, but I do wish you'd held back from this one, allowing kids to run and play, rather than encouraging them to slouch and pose.

Yours,
Nonlinear Girl

Mama, what's a skin knee jean?

Random quote and unrelated photo of the week

He came home. Said nothing.
It was clear, though, that something had gone wrong.
He lay down fully dressed.
Pulled the blanket over his head.
Tucked up his knees.
He's nearly forty, but not at the moment.
He exists just as he did inside his mother's womb,
clad in seven walls of skin, in sheltered darkness.
Tomorrow he'll give a lecture
on homeostasis in metagalactic cosmonautics.
For now, though, he has curled up and gone to sleep.

Wislawa Szymborska
Going Home

Dog Friend

Among the many toys, books and clothes Ada got from her family and admirers during the recent gift-accumulation season is one that no parent on vacation wants to see: a three foot long plush dog. This dog was a gift from my father's office staff, who believe that Ada is theirs. This group of five women in their forties to sixties routinely scold my father for not bringing in pictures of Ada, forcing them to look at her pictures online. They waited patiently for 18 months for us to visit, and when we finally got to town there was no way not to make the trek to the office to see them and parade Ada in all her toddler splendor. It worked out well, as I got my father to give me some free medical treatment while the ladies cooed over Ada, who obliged by laughing, talking and running up and down the hallway eating saltines.

Ada loves her big dog. She's always been a fan of dogs, and approaches real ones with cautious fascination. I am amazed to see her crouch low when she sees a new dog, instinctively moving into a non-threatening position. (Of course, at just under 3 feet, she's pretty non-threatening to most dogs anyway.)

Her interest in dogs reminds Chris and me of a story that our musician friend Ron tells. Ron was visiting the web site of a Swedish musician. The site includes some writing about a song by the Swede, inspired by the man's dogs. For many years the Swede had two dogs. Eventually the older dog died, and the younger dog was left distraught, wining and howling his loss. The Swede decided to incorporate the dog's sad cries into an avant-jazz piece he was writing. Ron read this story and contacted the Swede, saying he'd like to work with him and commiserating about the loss of the dog. The Swede wrote back to Ron, telling him how glad he was to know about Ron, that like him "you too are dog friend".

Random quote and unrelated photo of the week

One of the delights of Gabler's book is the roster of proper names, many as rubberized as cartoons: Earl Scrogin, Friz Freleng, Grim Natwick, Pinto Colvig, Hardie Gramatky, Dr. Rufus von KleinSmid, and the Dr. Seuss-worthy Gus Van Schmus. Ubbe Iwwerks changed his name to Ub Iwerks, which didn't exactly help.

Anthony Lane
Wonderful World: What Walt Disney Made

The talent, oh how it burns my eyes!

And now for the scoop on two real life friends I'd like you to meet, because they are creative and awesome and I'm trying to get over being jealous of their talent:

The first you probably already know, since she is a big bloggy star and all. But months ago (MONTHS!) Debbie gave my daughter a cool pirate balloon shirt. I struggled mightily to photograph Ada in this shirt, and despite her best efforts to evade me, I got a couple. So behold, the coolness that is fadiddle, on a real child to boot!




Check her out. The genius behind fadiddle makes some mean designs. I saw a melee break out over some adult-sized shirts she mocked up for practice. Really, I didn't know my friends could bite and scratch with such abandon.

And on to new blogger Stephanie who has also given Ada a wonderful gift - a hat of her own design. (Stephanie's design, not Ada's.) Dr. Stephanie has also given me a number of cool things, like delicious heaven-and-hell cake and those little stickers you use to reinforce hole-punched holes. Not only did she give Ada the hat, but she just had the pattern accepted for publication in some crafty-knitty magazine. In addition to being the proud owner of a willie warmer, she almost knit a thong made of licorice but then (foolishly) thought better of it when she realized that it would be displayed in front of a room full of strangers. Pity.

Come to think of it, I'm kind of bummed she has a blog. Now she's going to keep things like the willie warmer for her own blog, instead of passing on gems like photos of Briny the Clown's car, she'll be holding them back for use on her own blog. Crap and double crap.

Nonetheless, if you are a knitty type you should check her out and give her some love. Her sleeves are too short, but her heart is in the right place.

And all this time I thought she was saying "more"

Two Piece Reclining Figure no. 3
Henry Moore, 1961


Halfway
Anthony Caro, 1971


L'homme qui marche (Walking Man)
Auguste Rodin, 1905



Oval Form (Trezion)
Barbara Hepworth, 1962-6


T.E.U.C.L.A.
Richard Serra, 2006

My sister and I learned to roller skate in this sculpture garden. We rode our bikes here. Some of my favorite family pictures were taken here. Seeing Ada take such delight in the space and the art was fantastic. Even better, she made me look at the place in a new way, as she investigated things I had overlooked and played on and around modern masterpieces that I'd thought of as just background to my childhood memories.

Always the last to know

I've been working this week, for a change. So I was a little slow to notice that it is National De-lurking Week (which feels both like a thinly veiled cover for me to root you out, and like a fabulous way for me to root you out, dear reader!).

Even if this is your first time here (but how likely is that?), even if you got here by googling "how to make my husband do all the cooking" or "fearful, crouching masturbators," even if you never ever comment or are still pissed off that my daughter called you Tito, now is the time! Comment. Let me know something about yourself. Where are you? Who are you? How did you get here?

Don't make me beg.

Random quote and unrelated photo of the week, classical edition

The birds die of jealousy and the owl does not care.

Inscription above a scene tiled into the floor of a bath complex in Thysdrus, A.D. 300

The best gift I didn't get this season

Dr. Stephanie and her husband were over recently, and as a special treat Stephanie did a little show-and-tell about what happens when you attend a white elephant gift exchange with a bunch of knitters:




For those not familiar with this particular chroched novelty item, it is known as a Willie Warmer.

Tell me, I want to know

And now for a nonlinear public service announcement:

I just spent a lovely morning with some kids and mamas. After carrying Ada from the car to bed, I dealt with her diaper and then glanced up into the mirror over the sink. There I saw a big black circle, a mascara smudge, below my right eye. How long it was there I do not know, but since my eyes have been bothering me and I have been poking at them more than usual, I figure that at least one of the four moms I just saw noticed.

So for future reference, please tell me if you see something amiss on my face. Or really, tell me no matter where the mess is. Toilet paper on the shoe? I want to know. Sauce on my shirt? Yes, tell me!. I do have a small scar on my cheek that people often think is food, but other than that, if you see something on my face, in my teeth or hair, or on my clothes, please let me know. I'd rather know and fix it than walk around with spinach poking from between my incisors, feeling happy as a clam until I get home and see how I looked.

Overheard in LA

At the park:

"Let's pretend I'm getting a pedicure."

On Santa Monica Boulevard, the 40-something balding man with the iPod waiting for the bus, while doing a little dance step: "get down with your bad self!"

At the fish store: "Is it some particular fish that smells, or does the whole place just stink?"

At the Santa Monica Whole Foods:

Random quote and unrelated photo of the week

Parsley
Is gharsly.

Ogden Nash
Further Reflections on Parsley

It's my birthday and I'll reminisce if I want to

My birthday starts in a couple of hours. My dad is already giving me a hard time about how I tend to get a bit crabby on my birthday. Well, wouldn't you - a birthday is supposed to be a person's "special" day, and when that day falls on a day that most people feel some pressure to make special, how can it not be a let down?

Maybe I need to let go of the childish idea that a birthday is "my" day. And really, I have had a number of great birthdays to outweigh the ones that were disappointing or downright bad. Tomorrow I am going to one of the places I liked the best when I was twelve, the Getty. Before the Getty Center, there was just the museum now called the Getty Villa, a Roman-inspired building and grounds filled with ancient Greek, Roman and Etruscan artifacts. The Villa was recently reopened after an extensive renovation.

While I really like the new Getty Center (especially the architecture of the buildings and the grounds, plus the photography collection, which - unlike a lot of their other non-classical art - is really great), I am excited to see the Getty Villa again. One summer my friend Katie and I took a creative writing class together. The class was in the mornings and we had our afternoons open, which was both a joy and a curse. Some days we went to my house and watched the 7 videos then available on a public access music video program. (I saw Institutionalized almost every day that summer. That song got so deep into the crevices of my brain that I can still sing the whole thing in head-thrashing glory.) Other days we went on excursions: to the mall; to Westwood; and once every week or two to the Getty. We went so many times that my mother got suspicious. Even though she and my dad love museums and took my sister and me to ones all over the country, she thought there must be something else going on to get us to this museum on such a regular basis. At one point she made me write a report on an artwork, to prove that we'd actually been to the museum. How sad is it that I was such a geek that I was in fact going to the museum, instead of lying to my parents and getting stoned behind the junior high?

The truth is that I loved going there. To get there we took a bus out the Pacific Coast Highway and got off at the base of the property. We hiked up the driveway, feeling particularly mature and cultured. We wandered around the gardens and through the galleries. I wasn't one to linger on too many things, but I did have a favorite painting on the second floor that I tried to visit regularly. It was a painting of a girl - royalty I think - and her little dog. She just looked so satisfied, as an insecure pre-teen that was compelling and astounding. Plus, I loved the detail of the painting, the brushstrokes making up her fur collar, the way her skin stretched across her cheeks. Somewhere I still have a
postcard of that painting.

And yes, Katie and I loved the cafe. We loved how adult we felt ordering snacks and taking them out to the patio to gossip and laugh, munch and sip. The Getty was so different from the architecture ofLos Angeles , where everything feels new and impermanent. This felt old and real. I think Katie felt this too. She more than me was a person enamored with the past. She moved back east for college and was thrilled to get decked out in L.L. Bean and attend a capella concerts on campus.

Just writing about the Getty and what it felt like to be there has done what my father's little lecture could not. I am excited for tomorrow. Ada will love running
around the museum, and though she probably won't stop to really admire many of the ancient works, I think she'll appreciate them in her own way. And then we'll come home for champagne, gumbo and my grandmother's recipe marble cake. Happy birthday to me! (And happy new year to you!)

Interfaithful

Listening to a piece on NPR last week about how interfaith families celebrate the winter holidays, I started thinking about the way my family celebrates.

To call my relationship with Chris "interfaith" is kind of a stretch. I am Jewish by birth and by culture, but I am not religious. I almost never go to synagogue, I rarely fast on Yom Kippur, and I eat pork and shrimp. Chris, despite the meaning of his name, does not consider himself Christian. His family celebrates Christmas as a chance for family to be together, to get merry and bright and stuffed with cookies, but not so much as an occasion to meditate on the birth of a savior. Chris is just as likely to cheerfully call out "Happy feast of the unvanquished sun!" as he is "Merry Christmas!"

But we do enjoy traditions. I love the Jewish holidays - Passover especially, but also Chanukah, with its candle lighting and oil-fried potatoes. This year we celebrated on the first night by inviting friends over. I mumble-mumbled through the prayers before we all dug into dinner. Another night we shared the lighting of the menorah with Ada and a three year old pal. Our visitor wanted to know why we didn't blow the candles out after we sang the song. Then again, now that this girl is in preschool and has learned about Santa, she's apparently a bit miffed that her parents don't celebrate Christmas. I'm thinking a three year old may not be overly impressed by solstice unless it comes with gifts.

How could you not enjoy something that encourages adults to put a restored sled in their dining room?
We celebrate Christmas with Chris's parents every year. After a decade of such celebrations, I am fairly committed to the traditions of my new family. I love icing sugar cookies. I appreciate being able to sit around in my pjs drinking coffee christmas morning, waiting until 11 or so to eat German pancakes, Texas grapefruit and Canadian bacon for breakfast. I like that the grapefruit always come from this one place, in the same yellow-brown box with the tissue paper swaddling.

The first couple of years that I joined Chris at his parents' house, I was a little weirded out by Christmas. The Christ part wasn't a problem, because as I mentioned, he doesn't make much of an appearance at the in-laws' house. It was the presents, the boxes and bags and more boxes of gifts. THIS was what I had managed to escape, the love expressed as intense consumerism that is so much a part of many Americans' lives this time of year. It was nice to get gifts, but it was kind of exhausting, too.

After that first Christmas with this family, I mentioned to my mom how different it was from how we'd celebrated Chanukah when I was a kid. She responded saying how glad she was that she and my dad had not had to wait for a once a year holiday to get us things, that we'd been financially comfortable enough for them to get us things all year. While her answer made sense at the time, in retrospect what she said was less about whether my parents could afford to buy us gifts, and more that they would not understand giving a big pile of gifts (that are never about "need" and all about "want"). As a child I could not even really have envisioned a pile of gifts of the sort some of my friends must have been getting. It just didn't fit my family, and I didn't grow up less happy because of it.

And ok, Chanukah is really a minor holiday in the Jewish calendar, just one more celebration that boils down to "they tried to kill us, we didn't die, let's eat!". It became a big thing in the west because of Christmas. How can you look at a kid, who's had "he knows if you've been bad or good" drilled into her head and give her nothing? My parents apparently couldn't, and we celebrated Chanukah with candles and latkes and gifts all around. We got fun gifts the first few nights, but half way through the holiday we'd start getting cheerfully wrapped 3-packs of underwear or socks instead of toys or games. For several years we also got stockings filled with oranges and candy and toothbrushes.

Now that Chris and I are a bit older, we celebrate Christmas with my in-laws with fewer gifts and more game-playing, cooking and story-telling. This year Chris's dad asked me what I thought about Christmas, whether it bothered me to celebrate something that was not my tradition. I told him what I loved about it. If I had hated it, or wanted to get out of it, I could have made excuses for why I had someplace else I needed to be. But I never did, because with Chris and his (now my) family is where I wanted to be. Now that we have Ada backing out is much less of an option, so it is wonderful that Christmas with the family brings up feelings of joy rather than dread.


This year, Christmas for Ada was all about family. Being with her grandparents is such a gift for Ada and for them. After a month of talking about her "boompa" Ada finally decided to give her Grandmother a name too. Saturday afternoon she busted out with "gamma" and we practically heard nothing else as she yelled, cooed, bubbled and crowed the word over the next four days.


She could not get enough of her grandparents, hugging them, playing with them, helping bring wood inside for a fire, pointing out (and pulling off and replacing) the ornaments on the tree. And Ada continued to be in love with the cat, who has learned to tolerate if not appreciate Ada's friendly gestures and squeaky attention. Chrstmas would have been a success in her eyes with just the stocking to explore. What could be better than an orange, a toothbrush, and some toys? (Well, maybe the addition of some chocolate, but we are holding back on that for another couple of years...) Ada's first conscious Christmas was a bit like mine. She was so amazed and overwhelmed by the gifts and the wrapping and the more more more that she practically passed out in my arms by 10:30am. She learned fast that there is nothing better on Christmas day than to open presents in your pajamas and then take a nap.

Random quote and unrelated photo of the week

Why just crush people, when you can crush their souls?
Jiro

Open Letter to Zupan's Market

To the Manager of the Zupan's Market in Southeast Portland:

I know that you are trying to be multi-cultural and friendly to your Jewish customers, but a little research might improve your results.

I was recently in your store to purchase some eggs and heavy cream (for a delicious "practice" birthday cake my husband was making for me) and noticed the free-standing display of "Chanukah" items by the yogurt case. I saw packages of matzo, matzo meal, kosher wine and egg noodles. While these items overflowed the shelves, I did not see any candles, driedles or potatoes. Although all the proffered items are undoubtedly for Jewish holiday celebrations, none them are actually for Chanukah. Furthermore, I have noticed this same display offered on every Jewish holiday. This is akin to displaying egg coloring kits, marshmallow chicks and chocolate bunnies for every Christian holiday.

Would it be too much to have a holiday display that actually offers foods and sundries appropriate to the holiday in question?

Yours in Celebration -
Nonlinear Girl

I hear the secrets that you keep...

Ada talks in her sleep. I can relate, since I used to do it too. It is adorable to hear her murmuring to herself, even though it makes it a bit harder to know when she's up from a nap and when she's just working things out in REM.

Wednesday I was working at home in a room across from Ada's. While Ada was napping, Juniper went upstairs twice to get her. She heard some muffled babbling and jogged up the stairs, only to find the girl flat out in her crib. Now if only I could get the sleeping Ada to tell me where she hid her left shoe.

And speaking of shoes, Ada got some new boots for Chanukah. I was rooting for the blue ones with cherries, but she liked the pink cat-face pair. She really likes them, which is useful and fairly adorable. (I'd show you a photo, except blogger has been refusing to let me upload photos for days.) The boots aren't just fashion, they are a project. To wit:

Chris: Your daughter was really intent on putting her boots on herself today.

Me: How'd that go?

Chris: Not so well, especially since she wouldn't let me take her shoes off first.

Random quote and unrelated photo of the week

If you really want something in this life, you have to work for it. Now, quiet! The're about to announce the lottery numbers..

Homer Simpson

Happy Chanukah

Things got busy on Friday night, so my Chanukah notes come late on evening #2:

We had dinner with friends (brisket and latkes). As I may have mentioned before, Chris makes a fantastic brisket. Better than my mother's. One of the guests, a Chinese qigong master, was particularly interested in hearing the traditions and lore. Or maybe he was just really into the He'brew Chris bought to go with dinner.

Ellen brought gifts.

For me:

For Chris:
And a bag of bacon.

You can see that everyone was pretty thrilled:


And yes, that white bear ("bear," not to be confused with "bear," the one on the left) is holding a dreidle. He also wears a yarmukle, though that is hard to see in the photo. Weirder than the bear itself is the fact that the toy came to us from Chris's cousin in northern Idaho, who pumped a bunch of quarters into one of those claw machines to get it for Ada. Which begs the question, what is a Jewish themed bear doing in northern Idaho?

Ada was asleep by the time the latkes were cooked and on the table, but we offered her some today. Apparently I have the only child in the known universe who doesn't like fried potatos. She's spurned french fries, and now latkes. If she wasn't such a sweets and carbohydrates fiend I would really start to wonder whether she could be my child.

Random quote and unrelated photo of the week (late night edition)

My hovercraft is full of eels.

Michael Palin

Curb Your Enthusiasm

It just isn't cool to be so enthusiastic. For example, you read blogs. Maybe you read a bunch of them. Some you read religiously, others casually. Ok, enough distancing - I read a bunch of blogs. I've got a few daily reads, maybe six or so. Maybe more. The "must reads" vary with my level of infatuation and the business of my schedule. Others I read every few days, when I have the time or bloglines says there are several posts. I skim, looking for a post that speaks to me. (Stop shaking your head, you do it too.)

The first time I met one of my regular reads we talked about blogs because we didn't know each other enough to talk about much else. (Hold on, see, already I am shying away from full enthusiasm. I first typed "one of my favorite bloggers" but then decided that sounded to sycophantic. I mean, we are just becoming friends. What if she thinks my enthusiasm makes me creepy, like that guy you went out with once in high school but were frightened away from when he came on too strong. You'd see him coming down the hall and duck into the girl's bathroom to avoid his love notes and pathetic interest.)

But now I have met Debbie a few times and watched her son smile and wander and chatter. So we talked about other things, Portland, kids, clothes, kid clothes (including a cute idea she has for her shop), etc. But as I have found bloggers will do, we started to talk about blogs. She mentioned that she'd gotten some weird traffic from posting photos of her shoes (and subsequently took the photos off, which apparently failed to foil the shoe-fetishizing googlers). She started to say something about this post, and I butted in with "I think that is the first thing I read of yours!" - acting all gushy and pathetic. She probably didn't notice, concerned as she was that she'd made some kid-visit faux pas (which she didn't).

And if it wasn't enough to be dorky and effusive around new people, then there was that tuba thing.

The tuba that made Ellen and me wish we played
What grown woman gets so enamored of the idea of two hundred people tooting holiday songs and wearing coordinated stocking caps? Even though it was fun. Dorky, but fun. The only disappointment was not the tubas, and certainly not the octogenarian conductor (who was, as one would expect from a tuba-loving, family concert giving, thin and kindly man, funny in an incredibly corny way). No, the Christmas songs were the problem. For the most part they are really freaking slow. But rather than yell (as I wanted to) "PICK UP THE PACE, TUBAS!" I enjoyed the moment for what it was.

As further evidence of my utter dorkiness, I offer the following photo of myself at Tuba Christmas. Not only did I allow this photo to be taken of me (making this face and wearing this hat) but then I self-mockingly post it on my own site.

Ah well, some people really are gluttons for punishment.

So yeah, I just can't help myself. Despite being more easily embarrassed than I wish I were, I tend to be too enthusiastic in a way that the hipsters at the coffee shop down the street would scorn. Have scorned. But then Ada steps in to remind me that enthusiastic is okay. Because no one is enthusiatic like a toddler. Her joys are written all over her face, they radiate in the way she shivers with happiness when her PAPA! walks through the door at night, they leap from her when she declares "'ken!" (her take on "again"). As much as I might wonder about what makes her want to read that book 7 times in a row or play some little game over and over, it is fun to see her clear and unembarassed enthusiasms. Today it was the picture of the llama family in a book, her car, bear, and a little game with me and later with Chris in which we repeatedly hid under a blanket with a toy frog. Who we were hiding from, or why was not clear, nor were these details important. What was important was that we were in this game together, hiding under a blanket, laughing, getting kissed by a toy frog and one another, and emerging, just slightly over-warm, into the bright light before covering up again for another round.


When Ada's enthusiasm for this game outlasted mine, Chris took over and was deemed a good substitute. Lucky for us all, frog will play until Ada tells him to stop.

The best part about Christmas

Crossing my fingers that Ada wakes up from her nap in time for us to go downtown for Tuba Christmas. Because really, what could be more awesome?

The site lets you see where and when there is an event near you. And surprisingly, they appear to be everywhere. Who knew?

Random quote and unrelated photo of the week

The instability of human knowledge is one of our few certainties. Almost everything we know we know incompletely at best. And almost nothing we are told remains the same when retold.

Janet Malcolm
Strangers in Paradise: How Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas got to Heaven