10.30.2006
The world needs more goody bags

Maybe it’s the time change (or perhaps unchecked consumption of carbohydrates, let’s be honest) but I’m lazy today. How lazy? Tried to eat yogurt with a fork lazy. That went about as well as you can imagine—another sweater for the dry cleaning pile. It should come as no surprise that, in my slackened state, I’m resorting to the weekend recap.

Friday
What I should have done: get up, feed Olivia, take her for a walk in the park, come home, shower, have lunch, and do errands (grocery store, CVS, find a black lace shirt for Red and Steve’s Halloween soiree, reward with Starbucks).

What I did: got up early and showered before Olivia even woke up. After her bottle it was too early to go anywhere, so I trolled through our DVR recordings and watched Intervention and Discovery Atlas: Australia. I gave Olivia a bath, got her dressed and fed her again. We left the house at noon. Instead of doing errands as planned, I just… drove around… aimlessly. I started out on Route 38 in Woburn and went north through Wilmington, Tewksbury, Dracut, and Lowell. That took about an hour. I kept thinking I’d stop at a grocery store along the way, but all I passed were Market Baskets. I hate Market Basket. By the time I hit Lowell I was incredibly annoyed at myself and wanting to find a highway, but instead I managed to loop through Methuen, back through Dracut and Lowell, and into Chelmsford, where I ended up on Route 3 and had to go all the way to Burlington to pick up 95. It was the biggest waste of time and gas and I have no idea why I did it. I ended up going home, feeding Olivia, feeding myself, and then getting back in the car. While I trolled the stores for a black lace shirt, my poor daughter urped Similac all over herself. Then, in both CVS and Shaw’s, middle-aged women called her an adorable little boy (apparently baby girls have to be wearing rosebud pink at all times, or else they are automatically assigned a penis). I never did make it to Starbucks. Wouldn’t have enjoyed it anyway.

Saturday
We woke up early again. It was a monsoon out all day. I did a little kitchen experimentation because I saw something on 30 Minute Meals that I wanted to bring to Red's: candy sushi rolls made with fruit roll-ups, Rice Krispies treats and Twizzlers. Good thing I didn't tell her, because it was a dismal failure. I did everything the directions said, right down to heating the knife blade in boiling water, but it didn’t work. Even with a Ginsu knife, I am convinced you could not slice through all that high fructose corn syrup and partially hydrogenated oil and expect it to keep shape. All the knife did was pinch a fruit roll-up seal and squish the marshmallowy Rice Krispies out the ends. There are things I would definitely do differently next time, if there is a next time, and there probably will be, because I hate the idea that I could be foiled by a Rachael Ray recipe.

Later on we got ourselves ready for the party. I went as a dark angel: aforementioned black lace shirt, black pants, black boots, black devil horns, black pitchfork wand, burgundy feather boa and black and burgundy wings. Joe was Father Time: black robe, white beard, top hat, pimp cane, and clock around his neck. We both had a great time. There were some new faces mixed with the familiar, everyone was fun and friendly to talk to, and there was Wachusett blueberry in the fridge. The haunted house was hilarious, and probably scary, although I was tipsy when I went through so I can't trust my recollection.

Sunday
Olivia did well with the time change. So much for our extra hour of sleep, though. We got home from the party at 1:00 a.m. and she was up by 6:30 a.m. But we were able to stretch her feedings throughout the day so that the schedule we’ve all been enjoying was minimally disrupted. Joe and I needed naps yesterday to catch up ourselves. I napped during football and he napped in the evening. It was a relaxing non-day. Pajamas, football, Harrow’s chicken pie (Never had one? They’re delicious—the very essence of comfort food. Go out right now and get one. Route 28 in Reading. I’ll wait here.) Joe massacred opponents on PSP while I watched:

• True Life: I’m a Staten Island Girl
• Nova (scientists believe that the Earth’s magnetic field is preparing to reverse itself. The unstable field may weaken up to 90% and double our exposure to solar radiation. Compasses will go crazy for a while before eventually pointing south, and humans will be more vulnerable to cancer, but there will be amazing displays of aurora borealis.)
• Celebrity Paranormal Project, which I need to stop watching. What is wrong with me? It’s the last thing I need to see right before I go to bed. I had to watch an episode of Sex and the City afterwards as an antidote.

Today
This morning the sun was already bright as hell when I left for work. I’m not ready for a chorus of “Good Day Sunshine” at 6:45 a.m. Predawn darkness better matches my mood as I wade into the Red Sea of taillights crawling south on 128. Did you know that you can see the Boston skyline in Burlington if you look left at just the right time? I look every day. Usually it’s a lovely offering of soft pinkish dawn silhouetting the city. This morning it was like witnessing a supernova while surrounded by a thousand mirrors.



10.26.2006
Right-wing talk radio... like Kegels for your gag reflex
This will be brief, because there are already way too many people giving their long-winded opinions on this topic, but the debate about gay marriage annoys the crap out of me. I'm sick of people arguing this down to the letter of the law, hinging it on a technicality, and ignoring the compassionate human element.

Equal rights for all human beings. Is that so hard to understand?

“But the purpose of marriage is for a man and a woman to produce children!”
No, it isn’t. That’s just what happens in the majority of cases. Marriage is the act of one adult human being binding him/herself to another adult human being. Not all marriages result in children, either by choice or by circumstance, and certainly not all children are born into wedlock. What about hermaphodites? Transgendered individuals? Who's considered a man or a woman in those cases?

“But if we change the law to include same sex couples, what’s to stop people from marrying their dogs, or multiple people, or the Berlin Wall?”
People do that now. There are always going to be a small number of couplings that fall outside the bell curve. This isn’t about deviants. This is about the pairing of a human and another human. Gay men and women who just want to go down to City Hall and obtain a marriage license the way straight men and women do all the time. Not inanimate objects, not members of another species. This really needs to be clarified?

“But kids raised by gay couples are being robbed of their right to have both a mom and a dad!”
That isn't a right. That’s like saying kids have a right to grow up with a sibling. Or both a brother and a sister. What kids do have, however, is the right to grow up in a loving and supportive home, regardless of the family makeup.

“But God hates gay people! The Bible forbids homosexuality!”
The Bible was written and intrepreted by humans. As was the Constitution and all of our laws. This isn't about God. We don't know that God even exists, and if God does exist, we can't presume to know God's intentions.


10.25.2006
Hmm, that did kind of look like your car
We had a classic moment last night. Carly, Red and I had plans to meet up for dinner. Red and I get out of work before Carly, so we decided to meet at 4:45 for a drink and wait for Carly to arrive at 5:30. I got to the restaurant a few minutes early and sat in my car listening to Jay Severin until he went to commercial.

Side note: I love Severin. He is shrewd, well-informed, provocative, honest, sometimes misogynistic, often obnoxious, but always informative. I love listening and learn a ton on my homeward commute. My criticism for Jay: free speech is a wonderful thing, but your disparaging comments about women only serve to diminish your credibility. Insinuating that we are poor drivers, talking about Asian women as fetishistic objects, making rude comments about Hillary Clinton’s ass... why would you demean yourself and the Best and Brightest by resorting to such weary cliché? It’s not funny. It’s disrespectful. Please stop doing it.

Another side note: Poor Hillary. Why do people think it’s OK to publicly comment on the looks of female political figures? John Spencer, Hillary’s opponent in the New York Senate race, has referred to her as ugly, remarked that he didn’t know why Bill married her, and said that she must have had “millions of dollars” worth of plastic surgery. He also suggested that she’s a lesbian. How inventive; she's outspoken, a Wellesley graduate, and a liberal - she must be a dyke. If that's the kind of stuff he says in earshot of the press, I'd love to hear him at home. There was also all that crap about Condoleezza Rice's dating life and the flak about her helmet hair. And I think it was Severin himself who suggested that Kerry Healey “show some leg” to help her win the Massachusetts gubernatorial race. Ugh.

Anyway, that's all tangential. Severin went to break and I went inside. I sat down in the foyer to wait. I had a bag of books with me because we were all going to lend each other new material. Fifteen minutes passed, then twenty. The maitre’d kept checking on me.

Him: “Are you waiting for takeout?”
Me: “No, for a friend.”

Him: “Still waiting?”
Me: “Yup.”
Him: “How late?”
Me: “Going on twenty-five minutes.”
Him: “That’s late.”

Him: “At least you have something to read.”
Me: “I might get through them all.”

I called Red: voice mail. Called Carly: voice mail. Called Joe: not much he could do from his office. Wondered if I had the wrong night. Flipped through one of my books. Sat. At 5:30, Carly came through the door. “I can’t believe you’re here first!” I said. I got up to hug her. The maitre’d watched our reunion with a smile.

“Nope. This isn’t even the late friend,” I told him.

“I’m the on time friend,” Carly clarified.

We decided to go to the tavern, have a beer and wait for Red, wondering what the hell happened to her and hoping she was okay. We sat at one of the tall tables and ordered.

Then, from the direction of the bar: “HEY! LOOK WHO IT IS! SUP GUYS!”

Loud guy in a sweatshirt. Bellowing. Drinking a pint glass of vodka. Holding our friend hostage.

Our friend, who was nursing a glass of white wine for an hour, wondering what the hell happened to ME. Yes. Twenty feet apart the whole time, and neither of us thought to get up and take a look-see.

We. Are. Awesome!

Dinner, though, was fantastic as usual. You want scintillating conversation? Witty banter? Riotous laughter? Sit with us. I could spend countless hours with my BFCs. Everybody should be lucky enough to have friends like these.


10.24.2006
Cute beyond all cuteness

Aww, look at that little face. Olivia is getting so good at holding her head up, although she treats tummy time as if it were torture. She whines, kicks her legs, sticks her bum in the air, and always flings one arm behind her. Eventually she puts her cheek down in defeat and cries.

Her eyes are beginning to change color, little strands of gold filigree appearing in the gray. We can’t tell yet which direction they’re heading. I found an eye color predictor that gave 50% odds of brown or hazel. Helpful, thanks.

She’s got a well-established routine these days. She takes six 4.5 oz bottles a day, at 7:30, 10:30, 1:30, 4:30, 7:30, and 11:00ish. Her napping habits vary; some days she takes several, other days none. She’s usually in good spirits in the morning and early afternoon, gets fussier between 6:00-8:00 p.m., falls asleep, and usually needs to be roused for her last bottle. After the last feeding she goes into the swaddle and sleeps all night long. Most mornings she stays asleep until we are ready to leave for work.

At Olivia’s last well-baby checkup she was 12 lbs, 13 oz and 23 inches long: 95th percentile for both height and weight. She’s on a size cusp, starting to outgrow 0-3 but not really in 3-6 yet. Soon she will be in size 2 diapers. I remember when the N size was big on her tiny butt.

And she talks. Low-pitched coos from deep in her throat, high-pitched happy coos from the roof of her mouth, full-on laughs, experimental sounds that make her cough. It’s awesome. There’s nothing better than driving along and hearing “Oooo, ooooahhh, gooooo, ooooguh!” from the backseat. She’s growing beautifully. We are so lucky.

Our next child is sure to be a monster.


10.23.2006
Baaa.
Monday. My entire department is wearing pink. One of those inexplicable things that seems mildly funny in context but loses all humor when explained to an outsider, like right now when I explain it to you: a few weeks ago, our VP remarked that she loved cuddly pink sweaters. One of our senior team members thought it would be clever if we showed up to our all-hands meeting wearing pink. I wore my pink sweater, pink camisole, pink earrings and pink ring, because if you’re going to participate, you might as well do it right. We sat around the table, a bunch of grown men and women looking like we’d been spun through a cotton candy machine, and waited to see whether she would a) notice and b) get it. She didn’t.

Ha ha… ha?

Now I’m enjoying a mocha latte, gingerly. There’s something about the drink hole in a Starbucks lid that always causes one rogue drip. I have to protect my pink sweater. It’s brand new; I bought it specifically for the meeting because I want to be a team player. Haha, Jesus, that’s not true, but it is new.

I love me a midday coffee run… there’s nothing like busting out and clearing your head of work concerns for a while. Plus I like being out in the world in my work wardrobe. I’m borderline fetishistic about work clothes—tweed pants that break just so, crisp button-downs, knits in rich colors, clicky shoes—but they go to waste in the office, where you see the same people every day, none of whom care what you look like, and at the end of the day all you have to show for a nice outfit is lap creases from sitting at your desk all day. And outside of work I dress way down; with a three-month-old, a big night out is driving around for an hour and a half looking for a chain restaurant without a ridiculous wait and eventually opting for takeout from Kelly’s.

On Saturday Joe and I did a kickass job painting the front of our house where they did the garage door work. We had to get a new gallon of paint but it blended perfectly with the old, the trimwork was neat and complimented the door color, and we took care of business without procrastinating or complaining (much). Basically, you can make quick work of any annoying project when you blast the new Killers. We also had the paving guy out to do a second estimate on widening our driveway. The (semi-) bad news: because it’s so late in the season, the possiblity exists that they won’t be able to put down the top layer of asphalt this year. The good news: they’ll at least be able to do the widening and put down a layer of binder. Then they’d come back next spring and put the top layer. Works for us. All we want is to be able to put both cars in the garage this winter.

And big congratulations to Carly, auntie-to-be! There’s nothing more exciting than hearing about a new baby. And congratulations to her brother and sister-in-law, of course, who executed the miracle.

That’s about it… no great insight or lesson today. Or ever.


10.19.2006
Late on the trend

I forgot about these! I made one back in June when seemingly everyone was doing it but never got around to posting it. She was still saved, though, frozen in time – eight months’ pregnant, with longer, darker hair, wearing a tank top, gauchos and flip-flops and carrying a Burberry bag. I had to smile, because that was my weekend uniform in my last weeks of pregnancy. I did resemble that girl.

But I don’t anymore. Pregnancy already feels like a distant memory. I miss my belly. I liked the way it felt, round and solid and always close, and the way it looked. I liked when people commented on it, even if some of the comments were invasive or stupid. I liked watching it when the baby would start to kick. I always think “the baby” when I remember the belly. It’s hard to make an association between the Olivia I know now and the little being who used to perform acrobatics in my midsection then. Right after I gave birth I was secretly convinced I’d never do it again, but now I know I will. The excruciating hip pain I felt when rolling over in bed, the swelling in my feet and ankles, the wet spots that would spontaneously appear on my shirt, the intimate relationship I had with a squeeze bottle—also a distant memory. Well, maybe not so distant.

Anyway, this is the current me. There’s casual on-the-go me, trying to maneuver the infant carrier without spilling my mocha latte on my jacket. There’s work me, leveraging high-impact integrative solutions to achieve strategic business results. And there’s bumming around the house me, washing bottles and thinking about making some Dreamfields spaghetti with aioli and grated parmesan-romano-asiago cheese (YUM).


Foot!


For the love of God, call a hotline!
This is the play my friends and I wrote and performed in sixth grade. I’m pretty confident ABC After-School Special is going to want to option this the nanosecond I hit Publish Post.

THE SECRETS SAMANTHA KEPT

NARRATOR: The story begins on the first day back to school. Jennifer walks over to talk to her friend, Samantha.
JENNIFER: Sam, what happened to you?
SAMANTHA: Um, I had a, um, fight with, um, my… my… brother in the living room and, um, he punched me and, um, you know…
JENNIFER: Are you okay?
SAMANTHA: Why? Do I look guilty or something?
JENNIFER: No, why would you look guilty?
SAMANTHA: No reason at all.
NARRATOR: Even though she didn’t let on, Jennifer guessed what was going on. (Editor’s note: great, so this play should be over in about two seconds, right?) After school, Jennifer and Samantha waited for Corey and Kerianne, their friends.
COREY: Sam, what happened to you?
NARRATOR: Without thinking, Samantha replies…
SAMANTHA: I, um, sort of fell on the ground and, um, rolled down a hill and, um, hit my eye on a rock.
KERIANNE: Ooo, that must have hurt.
SAMANTHA: Yeah… I guess.
NARRATOR: At they walked Sam home, Jennifer said…
JENNIFER: Hey, you didn’t tell me you fell! You told me you got in a fight with your brother!
SAMANTHA: Well, that’s how I tripped. After he hit me I ran.
JENNIFER: I thought you were in the living room?
SAMANTHA: Well, um, I, um, ran out of the house and into the neighbors’ yard. Ya, that’s it. That’s what happened.
JENNIFER: (under her breath) Yeah, right.
NARRATOR: Samantha opened her front door, letting Jennifer in.
SAMANTHA: (to Corey and Kerianne) Bye, you guys! I’ll get some snacks, okay?
JENNIFER: Sure, okay… I’ll be in your room.
NARRATOR: Jennifer bounced up to Samantha’s room. While Sam got snacks, Jennifer heard a door slam, some angry voices and a few scuffles. Then she heard a scream. Samantha came into her room crying. She had a hand over her nose and it was streaked with blood.
JENNIFER: Well, maybe, I… I mean… well… Sam, are you okay?
SAMANTHA: Oh yeah. Never been better!
JENNIFER: You know, Sam, I think that there is something wrong… you can tell me, you know, I’ll understand… really!
SAMANTHA: Nothing is wrong! Maybe you shouldn’t butt into other people’s lives. And maybe you should just go home!
JENNIFER: Okay, if that’s the way you want it, fine! Consider me gone!
NARRATOR: She slammed Sam’s door. Sam burst into a fresh set of tears. --- It is now the next day at school. (Editor’s note: Ha! What a transition.)
MRS. JENKINS: Oh, my, my, Samantha. Are you okay?
SAMANTHA: Oh, I’m getting sick of this question!
MRS. JENKINS: Samantha, I’ve seen a lot of moods out of you these days. Why don’t you visit the counselor, okay?”
SAMANTHA: Now?
MRS. JENKINS: Yes, dear.
NARRATOR: Samantha wouldn’t talk to the counselor but she would answer questions.
MRS. RUSSELL: Samantha, I have a hunch that you have a problem with child abuse. Is that right?
SAMANTHA: (softly) Yes.
(Editor’s note: That was easy!)
NARRATOR: As you probably figured out, Samantha’s problem with child abuse has come to an end. Samantha, Jennifer, Corey, and Kerianne are joking around.
COREY: It must have taken a lot of courage to get through what you did.
SAMANTHA: Yeah, it was… it was… horrible!
EVERYBODY: Bye!
NARRATOR: Everyone goes their separate ways. The only scars Samantha has left are the ones in her heart.
THE END.
For more information on child abuse, call 617-523-6400, 9-5 weekdays.

In other words, make sure your abuser doesn’t come after you on weekends or after dinner. Because then you’re shit outta luck, my friend.


10.18.2006
Old school
When I liberated my writhingly awful pre-teen novel from the depths of the closet, a bonus goldmine of old crap was in the same crate. I’m talking geometry homework, saucy short stories hidden in the back of school notebooks, unsent fan letters, college papers, even my sixth grade yearbook. I spent all last evening going through the crate, putting aside things to read later and tearing up anything that could identify me as the author of such embarrassing, self-absorbed drivel (which was practically everything, and I deeply fear that when the garbage men come next week, the bag is going to split and the pages are going to scatter throughout the neighborhood and one of my neighbors will gather them up and he or she will just happen to be a world-famous blogger and… Christ, you can imagine).

Anyway, as I began reading through those hundreds of pages, it reminded me of just how lonely adolescence could be. On the surface I look back and my school years were a blur of crushes, inside jokes, and trips to the mall. But there were also countless nights up in my room, struggling to deal with urgent thoughts and feelings. Do you remember that: longing for a boyfriend, feeling angry and scared after a fight with a friend, being squeezed in the vice of a crush, feeling like you had no control over anything? Ugh. That’s why I wrote so prolifically: I could be whomever I wanted, surround myself with whomever I wanted, be adored by whomever I wanted. Everything I wanted to have happen, happened.

Fortunately, sixth grade was a relatively simple time, so my yearbook provided some comic relief. I howled at this Year in Review:

Sargent Camp: In September, we went up to Sargent Camp. We stayed there for the week of the 26th-30th. It was in New Hampshire. We went on a night walk, hike to Mount Skatutakee, the high ropes course, the low ropes course, an adventure hike, made bracelets, painted, wetland ecology, played soccer, and played volleyball. On Friday, we left and got back at 3:30 and our parents gave us a ride home.

The Christmas Party: We had a Christmas party right before Christmas vacation. Mrs. Oliver’s class had a singing contest, five girls danced to the “Locomotion,” two girls danced to “Rhythm is Gonna Get Ya,” and five girls did a play (Editor’s note: I was in this play! It was called The Secrets Samantha Kept and it was about a girl who was being physically abused. It really deserves an entry of its own.) Mr. Russell’s class exchanged presents.

Middle Eastern Fair: This year we had a Middle Eastern Fair. There were countries such as Egypt, Syria, Saudi Arabia, Bahrain, Turkey, Lebanon, United Arab Emirates, Jordan, Israel, and Kuwait. It was from 9:00-12:00 in the morning. Some people prepared foods, such as dates. Most of the foods were very strange and gross looking. Most people hated it or were very bored. Only a few people liked it.

Science Fair: On May 25th, we had a Science Fair. It started at 9:00-12:30. We had projects like The Solar System, Colors, UFOs and Aliens (Editor’s note: MINE!), Clouds, The Eye, Brain, Rabbits, The Earth, Volcanoes, Stars, Water Pollution, Prism, Heart, Fat Content in Foods, Trees, Tornadoes, The Sun, Chameleons and Anoles, Electricity, The Spectrum, Crystals, Circuits, Telephones, Mountains and Biomes. We sat there for 3.5 hours. Everybody was bored but other people liked it a lot.

Long Recess: Every Wednesday we have a long recess for an hour. It’s really good but not if you get into trouble. When you get into trouble you have a long detention, which is staying in for the whole hour and write 4 pages of words. Sometimes there are shows and programs so then we don’t get our long recess. We usually get it the day after.

I also found some old Anatomy and Physiology homework from junior year. I don’t know how they let that guy teach. He was sweet, old and easygoing, so easygoing, in fact, that there were many days when he didn’t even teach. He’d just hand out a worksheet and then snooze at his desk, counting down the days until he could collect his pension. And he didn’t even read our homework. I actually got an A on a worksheet entitled “Locate and List Action of the Following Muscles” with answers like:

Obisularis oculi: The bones and/or muscles which are located near the eyes and do something cool.
Massater: Sounds like the word for mouth – which I just forgot. Let you know when I remember, okay?
Pterygoideus: I know you’re starting to make these up! What the heck is that? I don’t have one.
Medalis: I remember this one – does it have to do with the head? Sounds right – okay.
Lateralis: Sounds like a leg thing. It’s that long bone on the top of your leg. The big one.
Platysma: That’s the stuff in blood, right? Or is it that animal that has feet like a duck but is furry?
Pectorals major: Pectorals are the chest muscles. Guys with pecs look FINE.
Deltoid: The deltoid is like Delta, the airline. That’s the airline I took when I went to Florida in 1985. That was a long time ago. I was seven when I went.
Biceps bracchi: Biceps are another set of muscles that are very nice-looking on a male.
Flexoi carpi: Flexoi? What’s a flexoi?

And there were 7 more on the back that I didn’t even do! I fear for future generations.


10.17.2006
The blog equivalent of splitting one's pants
I missed my calling, or perhaps it hasn’t come yet, but there is no way I was put on this earth to do what I currently do for a living. My “career,” if you can call it that, is a result of the snowball effect—BA, Useless + Skills, Marketable + Experience, Relevant gaining momentum and barreling down a 40-year-long slope towards Retirement, Preferably Early and Accomplishments, Hopefully Meaningful. I started out with idealistic intentions. My first job out of college was with the trade association of the book publishing industry in New York. I was going to break into publishing. Instead I broke into spewing creative bullshit, which was a natural lead-in to professional services marketing. My knowledge of the particular services I marketed led me to where I am today, on the side of the practitioner rather than the provider. Is that vague enough? Basically, I am on a strange diagonal path.

Some kids know from a young age that they want to be a veterinarian or a teacher or a human capital consultant (ha) when they grow up. Not me. When I was young, the only things I wanted to do were draw and write.* I was born with major artistic talent and I haven’t done a damn thing in my adult years to cultivate it. In childhood that’s all I did. I won drawing contests, became the cartoonist for my high school paper, illustrated a good portion of my yearbook, and wrote and illustrated a children’s book in college. I loved being in art class and experimenting with a new medium like sculpture, watercolors or airbrushing. But mostly I loved to sketch. I have a portfolio of my old sketches, a time capsule of 1991-1995. When I went to college I stopped keeping a sketchbook, which is a shame because I had abundant free time and incredible beauty just outside my door. I guess I had better things to do, like drinking Mad Dog 20/20 and fingering people on Unix.**

I also wrote a novel when I was twelve. I found it in the closet of my old room the other day. It takes up 6 single-subject notebooks and it’s about a teenage female pop quintet and their zany and romantic adventures on tour with the New Kids on the Block. The title is Starstruck. The main character’s name is Tiffany Mancuso, which I thought was the most glamorous name in the universe, next to Samantha Micelli. The group’s name is—wait for it—the Inner City Kids.*** The story itself is horrible; you don’t even need to wonder. It’s so, so bad. SO bad, in fact, that I need to immortalize it here. That way we can all cringe together.

* So why did I not become an editor, illustrator or graphic designer? Fuck if I know.
** Heh.
*** Even though the girls came from a white-bread suburb and practiced in a state-of-the-art recording studio in Tiffany’s house. She didn’t even have to ask her parents whether it was okay to quit school and go on tour.


10.16.2006
Disjointed thoughts on music
I used to think of myself as a music fan. I liked finding it, buying it, listening to it. But being with Joe has shown me that I’m not a fan at all, and that I actually find most music abhorrent. Joe buys albums all the time. Every Tuesday he knows what’s going to be released and he gets it and loads it onto his iPod the same night. He likes owning the actual CD, adding it to his physical collection. He gives every album a chance, listening to it several times all the way through, learning the lyrics, and waiting for songs to grow on him.

Me, I hate albums. I’ve always hated buying a CD only to discover it has eight bad songs and only two good ones. I don’t have patience for mediocre shit! But I love songs. Individual songs, liberated from their track order, are as perfect as origami swans. There are songs I want to wrap around myself like a blanket. The right song at the right time can knock you on your ass. What I want is a homing device that will scan every new album, find only the individual songs I’ll love, and put them onto my iPod shuffle so I can listen to a stream of totally unrelated, yet equally kickass, songs.

So I don’t listen to a lot of new music. It filters into my life via the radio, and Joe is very good at identifying songs that I’ll like—almost like the homing device, but his expertise pretty much only covers the alt-rock genre—but generally I dig backwards to find stuff to listen to. I’m listening to the Yardbirds or Letters to Cleo or Simon & Garfunkel when everyone else is listening to My Chemical Romance. Actually, is anyone listening to them? They suck.

I love covers. More bands should do them. The fact that covers exist give people a chance to actually enjoy Bob Dylan songs. Poor Bob: brilliantly talented songwriter, sings like he’s having an asthma attack. But when other artists care and nurture his creations, they come to life. Hendrix was meant to own “All Along the Watchtower.” I think there are a lot of songs that are meant to be adopted by other performers. I’ll often hear a song and go, “This is pretty good, but it would really kick ass if __________ did it.” Of course I can’t think of any right now. But a good cover definitely does it for me.

And I love greatest hits collections. Of course I do. Cut through all the bullshit and give me your ten or twenty best songs. I especially like them when it comes to an older band that already has a giant body of work and I have no idea where to begin. Like when I wanted to discover Led Zeppelin. I bought two albums (Led Zeppelin IV and Houses of the Holy), was completely disappointed, and could never appreciate them until Early Days and Latter Days came out. Yes, it does bug me that there are songs out there that I’d absolutely love that I’ll probably never hear because I won’t bother to go any deeper than an artist’s radio singles, but since that’s a case of not knowing what I’m missing, I can live with it.

A couple of things keep me from giving up on music altogether. The first is that individuals are still writing good songs. I wish they could find me instead of me finding them, but they’re out there. The second is that the past will continue to influence the future, and derivation doesn’t necessarily mean rip-off. Consider that in 1966, sixteen-year-old Michael Brown of the band The Left Banke wrote “Walk Away Renee.” The song inspired Tom Scholz of the band Boston to spend five years in the 1970s writing “More Than a Feeling.” Years later, Kurt Cobain used the guitar riff from "More Than a Feeling" as a basis for “Smells like Teen Spirit.” Isn’t that fucking awesome? It helps that I love all three of those songs, but it’s just so cool that such a sad, lovely ballad could provide the inspiration for a classic rock song, and that the classic rock song could inspire a punk-pop satire.


10.12.2006
Because cars aren't Slinkys
I’m happy today because contractors are at our house helping to solve an architectural mystery. Take a look at this picture. Look at our driveway. Could you get into that garage?


It’s insane. You’d have to make practically a right angle to get into the bay on the right. If you managed to get into the left bay, which is possible if you have side mirrors that fold, you would either back into the basketball hoop or fall into the drainage culvert trying to get out.

We have all asked the question of why the driveway was built this way when it would have been just as easy for the builders to put the doors on the side of the house. It’s not worth trying to come up with any kind of rationale. It’s also not worth dwelling on the thousands of dollars we are spending to remedy the situation; we could have passed on the house, after all. We’re just going to fix it and then we won’t have to deal with it again. We’re both glad that the work is going to get done before the winter. Just like central air, once you have a garage, you can’t go back. Plus, our neighbor has offered to plow us out for free, which is sweet. The placement of the new driveway will lend itself to easy plowing: all the snow will be pushed off the end and down the slope.

So, the solution is fairly easy: step one is to remove the center post between the two doors and install one large door. Step two is to widen the driveway all the way down and curve it into the yard so we can make a straighter approach.

We almost had an aesthetic catastrophe on our hands before work even began. I spoke to the contractor the first time he came out. He gave me a product sheet with the garage door color options on it. When he came the second time, Joe talked to him while I was in the shower. The day before he was due to rip out our doors, my dad happened to ask, “So what color did you decide to go with?” and neither of us had any idea. We each assumed the other had taken care of it. Then we checked the contract and it said standard white. With our house and trim colors, that would have looked like hot buttered ass. We had to call the contractor, confess our doltishness, wait while he checked with the distributor and push back the work by a week.

Tomorrow, however, the door will be installed. It will be 16 feet wide and a lovely shade called Almond. It will have a monster electric opener. I’ve never been so excited about a home improvement project before. I almost hope it snows the day after the driveway is finished. Almost. Jesus. Give us a few weeks before that fresh hell descends.


10.11.2006
I believe the appropriate response here would be, "Quit yer bitchin'!"
If you spend too much time thinking about it, the monotony of everyday things will kill you. How are we not all insane? Goddamn housework, think about it: you mow the lawn but the grass keeps growing. You empty the dishwasher but then you use a plate. You do the laundry but then you change clothes. You make the bed but then you sleep in it. You scrub the toilet but then you have to shit. You pay the bills but then the mail comes. You straighten the couch cushions but then you sit down. You take out the trash but then you use a Kleenex. You fill up your car but then you drive it. You dust the table but invisible flakes are still in the air. You wash the floor but then you walk on it. You put on new sheets but the very next night they’ve lost that crisp feeling.

And getting ready for work in the morning: performing the same ablutions over and over, day after day, in the same order. This morning I got ready with the overwhelming sense of, “Jesus, I just did this” and marveled at just how many tiny, ridiculous, exacting steps make up my routine, which goes like this:

The alarm sounds at 5:30 a.m. I kick Joe to turn it off because he is such a deep sleeper he doesn’t hear it. I get up and find my slippers in the dark while brushing my tangled hair. I shuffle to the bathroom, squinting in the sudden bright light, to take care of business, brush my teeth and floss. I run the shower, take off my pajamas and hang them on the door hook. In the shower, I let the water run soften yesterday’s mascara, which I have to pick out of my eyelashes to avoid smearing all over my face. I shampoo, wash face, condition, wash body, shave underarms and legs, rinse, and comb through my hair. I dry off, wrap the towel around my head and rub body butter on my arms and legs. I put my pj’s back on, moisturize my face and put my makeup on in the living room while watching the morning news. Then I go back into the bathroom to towel-rub and comb out my wet hair, then apply frizz serum, shine serum and curl gel. I scrunch the bottom of my hair and clip back both sides to keep it out of my face while it air dries. Then I straighten my bangs with a round brush and the blow dryer. I go back to the bedroom, stare at my closet and get half-dressed: trousers, stockings, slippers, bra and camisole. Then I check on Olivia, go to the kitchen to pack my snacks for the day, go back to the bathroom to finish drying my hair, finish dressing, put on jewelry, slather on hand cream, gather my bags and keys, kiss Olivia, kiss Joe, and finally walk out the door at 6:45 a.m.

Exhausting!

I’ve looked for ways to simplify certain steps. Sometimes I choose my clothes and pack my snacks the night before, but being late is not the problem. I don’t shave my legs every day, which I used to do. I don’t always bother with the body butter or hand cream. But the rest of it is just basic maintenance. My hair routine sounds a lot more involved than it actually is. After Olivia was born, I asked my stylist to make my life easier by giving me a cut that took advantage of the natural wave. I didn’t intend to use three products but they all do a different job and it only takes two seconds to mix one squirt of each in my hands and work it through. As for makeup, I only wear shadow liner, mascara and lip gloss. I don’t really want to pare down any more because I’ve been down that slippery slope before.

A while back I got really lazy. I was bored or not getting enough sleep or something, and my daily effort eroded to almost nothing. I hit snooze three or four times before I finally got up. I bypassed my nicer clothes in favor of more slouchy, comfortable ones. I skipped makeup altogether. At my nadir, I didn’t even bother showering every day. On the second day I’d just wash my face, put my hair up and avoid people. I looked and felt awful. The extra sleep wasn’t worth it.

I’m losing my own point. What is it again? That taking care of oneself is a pain in the ass, a necessary evil. It’s even harder with a baby. It takes forever for me to get us both ready, in fits and starts between cuddles and bottles, unless I neglect her and do it all in one shot. And the gym! I used to go! Regularly! I quit my membership back in June. I don’t know how or when to fit it back into my day.

Hmm… even the gym was a pain in the ass: produced more laundry, stole an hour from my evening, was one more bag to pack each night, etc.

OK, PLEASE SHUT UP NOW.


10.10.2006
Always a sucker for a survey
What is your current favorite song/album?
Today it's three songs: "Steady As She Goes" by the Raconteurs, “Jenny Was a Friend of Mine” by the Killers and “This Is Such a Pity” by Weezer. Tomorrow it will probably change. My go-to album since June has been Guster’s Ganging Up on the Sun.

What song do you currently hate?
No current songs even come close to the two songs I hate most in the universe: “Bandages” by Hot Hot Heat and “I Believe in a Thing Called Love” by the Darkness. In case you’re wondering, yes, “You’re Beautiful” by James Blunt is third.

What's the next album you're going to buy?
Maybe a Paul Simon collection.

What's the best advice ever given to you?
Be a free agent. Don’t expect loyalty from your employer.

What are your nicknames?
Melis. Pimp Mommy Ho Dogg.

If you were born a member of the opposite sex, what would your name be?
I would have been Brian Michael.

In the situation above, what would you want your name to be?
Kevin Stoyanovich Rasputin Kubusheskie

If you had a choice, would you drop your last name?
No. I am clearly a fan of having multiple names.

What heritage does your last name imply?
Several depending on how you choose to mispronounce it. Though not the one it is.

What's your facial structure like?
Oh you know, oval-like, with eyes and a nose and shit. WHAT. THE. MOTHERFUCK. DO YOU THINK?

What do you think of redheads?
They’re all BFCs.

Can you touch your nose with your tongue?
No. I am not Gene Simmons.

Toy you always wanted but never got as a child?
Pow-Pow-Power Wheels. The Jeep.

Luke Skywalker or Han Solo?
Is this Death is Not an Option? Easy - Han Solo. What about:
Gary Shandling or Jeffrey Tambor?
Donald Rumsfeld or Tim McCarver?
Subway Jared or Dwight Schrute?

Top three celebrities you wanna do?
George Clooney. Dermot Mulroney. Then George again.

Who is popular that you hate?
Donna Martin. In real life Kelly Taylor never would have hung out with her.

What's the last movie you saw that scared you?
The Exorcism of Emily Rose. I could have handled learning that 3:00 a.m. is the demonic witching hour had Olivia not woken up at 3:00 a.m. every night for the next week.

You're sentenced to death and it's the morning of your lethal injection. What will your last meal be?
A pepperoni pie from Pizzeria Regina, Godiva chocolate cheesecake and a Diet Pepsi. It's funny, because in the last survey I listed my favorite foods as a really good burger, fries and flourless chocolate cake. You'd think I'd want that as my last meal. Maybe there's something about ground beef and potassium chloride that just doesn't mix.

What's something that most people do that you've never done?
Balance my checkbook.

Before you die, where do you want to go?
Everywhere, but definitely back to Italy.

What's something you'd really like to do but probably won't ever do?
Go skydiving.

If you had to marry someone at the age of 12, who would it be?
Joey McIntyre. He would’ve had to be a polygamist because there were a lot of us vying for his affection. Or, even better, I could have been a polygamist and married Fred Savage too.

What's something most people don't know about you?
I suck at small talk. I’d rather discuss the meaning of life than stumble through a light exchange.

What's a weapon to suit your personality, habits, and abilities?
That medieval spiked iron ball on a chain that you swing over your head.

What makes an awesome party?
All you need is dip.

What's your favorite TV show?
I never have one favorite. Six Feet Under. The Sopranos. The Office. What Not to Wear.

What's your favorite quote?
You might as well do something while you’re doing nothing.

What's your material obsession?
Clothes and handbags.

What's the next holiday that you'll celebrate?
Halloween.

What's something most people would consider an insult but you don't mind having said about/to you?
That I’m opinionated.

What's your favorite thing about where you live?
Having four distinct seasons and being able to spend each of them in an ideal setting: on the beach, in the woods, in the mountains, in the city.

What's your least favorite thing about where you live?
Winter. I try to like it but it always ends up being less hot cocoa in front of a fire and more chiseling ice off my windshield with a credit card.

You suddenly have to flee the country and adopt an alias. What is it?
Helena Vanderhoff.

Pick one state in the U.S. to get rid of permanently.
Ohio. Too many of its cities start with C. You’re not cute, Ohio.

Where are you right now?
Here.

What did you do last night?
I dropped a piece of fish on the floor. Gave Olivia a bath.

If you had to pick one of these three jobs, would you be a policeman, fireman, or serial killer?
A policewoman. But only if I could patrol the town I live in and fight REAL crimes, like shooing a gaggle of turkeys off someone’s deck. Shooing. No T.

Would you be a doctor, surgeon, or solider?
A doctor.

Would you be a banker, lawyer, or writer?
A writer.

Would you be a pilot, forensic scientist, or ninja?
A pilot.


10.01.2006
Stupid email survey. It's raining, I'm bored, and the Jets are on.
1. FIRST NAME
Melissa

2. SECOND NAME
Anne

3. WERE YOU NAMED AFTER ANYONE?
No one real. My parents got the name from a soap opera character.

4. WHEN DID YOU LAST CRY?
The other day. I was reading an incredibly emotional blog written by a woman who lost her baby daughter the same day she was born and is now pregnant with a little boy.

5. DO YOU LIKE YOUR HANDWRITING?
Usually not... I'm so used to typing that my hand misbehaves when I write and one thank-you note looks like three personalities wrote it.

6. WHAT IS YOU FAVORITE LUNCH MEAT?
Turkey.

7. KIDS?
Yes, one.

8. WOULD YOU BE FRIENDS WITH YOU?
Sure. But I'd be really annoyed that I never call myself back.

9. DO YOU HAVE AN ONLINE JOURNAL?
What the hell? The Jets are playing "Sweet Caroline"! With the "Bah-bah-bah!" and the "So good! So good! So good!" What is this crap? Who gave the Jets permission to steal this, and why would they want it? God, the Jets suck. Hahaha they're going to lose to Indy. Wait, I hate Peyton. This game is lose-lose for me.

10. DO YOU USE SARCASM A LOT?
Ha - never.

11. DO YOU STILL HAVE YOUR TONSILS?
Yes.

12. WOULD YOU BUNGEE JUMP?
No, not anymore. Same for skydiving. Pre-Olivia I probably would have, but the opportunity never arose.

13. FAVORITE CEREAL?
Golden Grahams. But usually I eat Kashi.

14. DO YOU UNTIE YOUR SHOES WHEN YOU TAKE THEM OFF?
Most of my shoes don't tie. Probably just my sneakers, and no, I don't untie them. Still, when I go to put them on again, I always glance to see if they've been magically untied. They never are.

15. DO YOU THINK YOU ARE STRONG?
Yes. Um, not that my life has been very difficult.

16. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE ICE CREAM FLAVOR?
Depends on the day. Right now Godiva chocolate with raspberry swirl sounds delish.

17. SHOE SIZE?
I was an 8.5 but now I'm a 9.

18. RED OR PINK?
Generally, pink.

19. WHAT IS THE LEAST FAVORITE THING ABOUT YOURSELF?
My laziness.

20. WHO DO YOU MISS THE MOST?
Amanda. i really need to get in touch with her.

21. WHAT'S YOUR BIGGEST PET PEEVE
People snorting their post-nasal drip 469387 times when they have a cold.

22. WHAT COLOR PANTS AND SHOES YOU ARE WEARING?
Ripped jeans and brown knitted Steve Madden slides.

23. LAST THING YOU ATE?
Grape tomatoes and baby carrots from the crudites tray I forgot to serve last night.

24. WHAT ARE YOU LISTENING TO RIGHT NOW?
TV commercials and Olivia whining to have her pacifier put back in.

25. IF YOU WERE A CRAYON, WHAT COLOR WOULD YOU BE?
I'd be the whole 64-color set with the sharpener on the back.

26. FAVORITE SMELL?
Freshly cut grass.

27. WHO WAS THE LAST PERSON YOU TALKED TO ON THE PHONE?
My mother.

28. THE FIRST THING YOU NOTICE ABOUT PEOPLE YOU ARE ATTRACTED TO?
Eyes, then smile. They have to have a kind face.

29. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE DAY OF THE WEEK?
Saturday.

30. FAVORITE DRINK?
Mocha lattes, Diet Pepsi.

31. FAVORITE SPORT?
Baseball.

32. HAIR COLOR?
Dark brown with highlights.

33. EYE COLOR?
On the green side of hazel.

34. DO YOU WEAR CONTACTS?
Yes.

35. FAVORITE FOOD?
A really good burger and fries.

36. SCARY MOVIES OR HAPPY ENDING?
I like neutral, ambiguous endings. I don't like being told how to feel.

37. WHAT COLOR SHIRT ARE YOU WEARING?
Pink and white striped.

38. FAVORITE DESSERT?
Flourless chocolate cake.

40. WHAT IS YOUR GREATEST FEAR?
That something awful will happen to someone I love.

41. IF YOU WERE AN ANIMAL, WHAT WOULD YOU BE?
I hate these stupid questions. Why do I actually spend time thinking about them and coming up with an answer?
I'd be an eagle.

42. WHAT BOOKS ARE YOU READING?
I'm not. I'd like to, but it's not happening.

43. WHAT'S ON YOUR MOUSE PAD?
I don't have one. I use an iBook.

43. WHAT DID YOU WATCH LAST NIGHT ON TV?
Goodfellas and SNL with Dane Cook hosting.

44. FAVORITE SOUNDS?
Olivia's coos.

45. ROLLING STONES OR BEATLES?
Beatles.

46. THE FURTHEST YOU BEEN FROM HOME?
Distance-wise, probably Sicily?

49. DO YOU HAVE A SPECIAL TALENT?
I'm good at burping whole sentences.

50. WHEN AND WHERE WERE YOU BORN?
Two days after Christmas in Salem, Mass., across the street from the hill where they used to hang witches.


Bringing the funk
Last night we got together with Red, Carly and Professor K to celebrate Red's birthday. She wanted a low-key evening with friends and it doesn't get much more low-key than the living room of boringly married friends and their 2-month-old. We drank wine, ordered a ton of Chinese appetizers and sang Happy Birthday over a chocolate cookies 'n' cream cake. As usual, Olivia stole the show by doing nothing more than lying in her Boppy and looking adorable. We clustered around her, staring and making remarks like, "Did she just fart? Aww."

Today Joe and I have to eat all the leftover cake because we're committing to Healthy Eating and Good Habits as of tomorrow. Are you laughing yet? We're serious, dammit. And we're going to pack our own lunches for work too, instead of buying all the time. Okay, now I'm laughing.

No, really, we're prepared to give it a serious go. Fruits and vegetables, nuts and lean meats, tons of water, cooking extra portions at dinner to have for lunch the next day, all of it. I was doing well until mid-pregnancy; now I have about 20 lbs to lose just to get back to where I started. Plus we watched You the Owners Manual which kept reiterating that a few basic adjustments yield fabulous results. Fortunately, I find it's much easier to maintain control at work, so now is a good time to recommit. I'm beyond trying to understand why eating well isn't self-reinforcing when the the benefits are so obvious and enjoyable. I'm just going to do it.

Now, the little one:


She's funny when we put her in this bouncy seat. She regards the blue and orange giraffes as if they were bookies coming after her to collect. She narrows her eyes as if to say, "Huh. These two goons again," takes a few swipes at them, turns her attention elsewhere, and then seems annoyed that they're still there.


I love the alarmed expression on her face and the way she's clinging to her daddy.


The blissful and gracious face of a baby with a full tummy. Also, check out those eyelashes.


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