Other Flowers

Thanksgiving 11/26/09

noreply@blogger.com (Maia) — Sat, 28 Nov 2009 02:33:00 +0000

Yesterday, for the first time in many years, I did not make Thanksgiving dinner.

It was a combination of elements: but the main thing was, this year, we had no guests. Usually we have a full house – some of my sisters come, occasionally a younger brother, friends from out of town, friends from in town… all stumbling into the kitchen Thanksgiving morning, in various states of disheveled morning dress – eating muffins and drinking coffee, examining all the pies that I’d stayed up late baking the night before, newly cooled on the counter, eyeing the huge mixing bowl of rising bread dough – later to be transformed into Ryan’s famous potato rolls, smelling the sizzling butter and soaking porcinis that mark the beginning of the stuffing. They drift in and out of the kitchen all day – chopping, and peeling, and clearing away dishes on my command, picking at the spiced nuts, the olives, the cheese and crackers, deciding sometime not too long after noon that it’s okay to open that first bottle of wine. One sister sits on the couch, catching the good light to do her makeup while my daughter sits next to her, patiently waiting for her turn with the blush brush, closing her eyes as her aunty pretends to apply eyeshadow, rouge, little dabs of lipstick to her perfect tiny face. My other sister camps out on the floor in front of the woodstove, a fluffy blanket wrapped around her shoulders, playing Uno with my son, who is, as always, still in his pajamas. My daughter’s godfather watches football with the fierce determination of the committed – since no one else watches it with him (oh, except that one banner NFL year, when one sister’s now-ex was here to cheer alongside him). The scents change and mingle in the air – sautéed shallots and mushrooms, chunks of bread drying in the oven, the tingly red smell of cranberries and minced apples, wood smoke, cedar incense, boiling potatoes, sweet baking yams, yeasty rolls, and of course the good, brown smell of roasting turkey, 12 to 20 pounds, a pound per guest at least.

I missed this yesterday. I missed the dogs camped out under my feet, hoping I would drop something better than a carrot stem or an apple peel. I missed the sound of Aretha, Ryan Adams, Coltrane, and the Dixie Chicks. I missed the quick darts to the cold outside for chunks of firewood, twigs and seed heads to decorate the table with, a journey to the swings to push the kids until their little hands got icy and their noses red. I missed planning the menu, deciding what dishes absolutely had to be repeated, what things I knew no one would ask for again, what new thing I would take a leap of faith on and try for the first time.

I missed my full house, our funny ad hoc family gathered around the table carefully laid with my big sister’s grandmother’s good china (long story) the intricately folded napkins, the candlelight, the way there is always much too much of everything, my son tentatively trying one more thing every year, and taking at least three years to decide whether he really liked it, my daughter tucking into anything you put in front of her, my sister’s tipsy laughter, the contentious games of Trivial Pursuit, the friendlier ones of Apples to Apples, the semi-drunken round robin declaration of all things we are thankful for, the eventual, slow cleaning of the kitchen, the whipping of the cream, the brewing of tea, the never, never ending pies (the point is to be sure there would be pie for breakfast the next day, and maybe the day after that), sitting around the TV, sated, watching a movie, half heartedly picking at the leftovers as the sky goes dark outside and we are all here, in the warm, softly lit house, together under blankets, dogs and children sprawled across our laps, the lingering smell of clove and thyme in the air, thankful to be well fed, thankful to be well loved, thankful to be together.

You motherfuckers better get your asses back here next year. That’s all I have to say.

A Dinner Party

noreply@blogger.com (Maia) — Sat, 28 Nov 2009 02:24:00 +0000

Enter Harley Girl

noreply@blogger.com (Maia) — Mon, 23 Mar 2009 19:26:00 +0000

Twelve Pictures That Prove Gina Had a Childhood

noreply@blogger.com (Maia) — Sat, 21 Feb 2009 15:31:00 +0000

My sister Gina has been complaining lately that she doesn't have any pictures of her as a child.

A rare photo of baby Gina.

Gina skiing.

Gina with our step-mom Lynn (Yes. This could be Ren. If there was a time warp).

Gina on stairs.

She still looks this way if you give her a cookie.

First day of kindergarten, I'm guessing.

Lynn and G in the garden.

I believe my father entitled this, "The Face Of Enlightenment"

And grown up sisters on the water.

A Girl's Best Friend

noreply@blogger.com (Maia) — Thu, 22 Jan 2009 04:33:00 +0000

When we first met her, Sammy was a six year old rescued Rottweiler in need of a permanent home. The kind of dog that, on paper, maybe not that many people would feel safe about bringing in to meet their kids and other pets.

And in that case? Their loss. Because Samantha was easily the sweetest, best natured, most kind and patient dog I have ever known.

She never gave me one moment's worry. I knew that she would tolerate every kind of toddler hugging and grabbing and riding and climbing. That FF could stretch out and lay on her like a pillow (and often did). That no matter how wildly the children around her were acting- she would always keep her cool. She was a nearly perfect dog.

I am so grateful that Sammy was the dog that introduced my daughter to dogs. I know that even if FF doesn't remember Sammy over time, my daughter will always be comfortable around dogs, know them as loveable beings, because of the first year home she spent with this trustworthy good friend with such a soft, great heart.

Spike will always remember Sammy. Down the line she'll be in his dreams as the dog who curled up on his bed, affectionately leaned against him, ate his scraps under the table, sprawled out in the hammock with him, showed him that the best kind of dog is all about love.

And I will remember her as my constant companion and shadow. The dog I could let off leash to run alongside me in the forest, knowing that one word from me would bring her back to my side. The dog that followed me from room to room, leaned against my legs, placed her beautiful head under the palm of my hand. The dog that I never worried about. The dog who I always introduced by saying, as she rushed up to greet some new person, "Don't worry, she's totally friendly!"

Sweet, sweet girl with your immeasurably great and loyal heart.

We were so lucky to have you.

And we will miss you so much.

Thank you for being the best dog.

I'm So Grateful for Poetry's Return

noreply@blogger.com (Maia) — Tue, 20 Jan 2009 22:38:00 +0000

Praise Song for the Day

Each day
we go about our business,
walking past each other,
catching each other's eyes,
or not.
About to speak, or speaking.
All about us is noise.
All about us is noise and bramble,
thorn and din, each one of our ancestors
on our tongues.

Someone is stitching up a hem,
darning a hole in a uniform.
patching a tire.
Repairing the things in need of repair.
Someone is trying to make music somewhere
with a pair of wooden spoons on an oil drum,
with cello, boom-box, harmonica, voice.
A woman and her son wait for the bus.
A farmer considers the changing sky.
A teacher says, "Take out your pencils.
Begin."

We encounter each other in words,
words spiny or smooth, whispered or declaimed.
Words to consider, reconsider.
We cross dirt roads and highways
that mark the will of someone
and then others who said,
"I need to see what's on the other side.
I know there's something better down the road.
We need to find a place where we are safe."
We walk into that which we cannot yet see.

Say it plain: That many have died for this day.
Sing the names of the dead who brought us here,
who laid the train tracks,
raised the bridges,
picked the cotton and the lettuce,
built, brick by brick, the glittering edifices
they would then keep clean and work inside of.
Praise song for struggle.
Praise song for the day.
Praise song for every hand-lettered sign,
the figuring it out at kitchen tables.

Some live by "Love thy neighbor as thyself."
Others by "First, do no harm,"
or "Take no more than you need."
What if the mightiest word
is love?
Love beyond marital, filial, national.
Love that casts a widening pool of light.
Love with no need to pre-empt grievance.

In today's sharp sparkle, this
winter air, any thing can be made,
any sentence begun.
On the brink,
on the brim,
on the cusp,
praise song for walking forward in that light.

— Elizabeth Alexander

American

noreply@blogger.com (Maia) — Wed, 05 Nov 2008 14:43:00 +0000

My whole life, I have often felt lucky and grateful to be an American, but never very proud. I often feel like America is my bully older brother - someone who I love, who maybe keeps me relatively safe, but whom I'm slightly distrustful of because I see how mean he can be to other people. I am apt to describe myself as an Oregonian or a New Yorker - but rarely as an American. Chants of "U.S.A! U.S.A!" give me the cold shivers in an unpleasantly nationalistic way. And the American flag has always been suspect to me - -something that I often felt like belonged to them - not me or mine.

But this morning I woke up fairly certain that an African American man named Barack Hussein Obama was going to be elected as our next president. That the America I have always longed for but never really believed in would finally make its presence known. That we would finally live up to our potential. And I finally had that moment - that "This could only happen here, in America," moment.

And so, my husband and I, we took our children to the polling station.

And I held my daughter, herself a new American, as I entered the voting booth, and I put her hand on the lever, and I wept as we pulled it for this great man.

And later, in the dark of our living room, with our children sleeping on either side of us, I sat with my husband and I wept again as I listened to President Elect Obama make his incredible speech, as I saw the unadulterated joy and hope on all those people's faces in the crowd. And I thought about what this will mean for my children, I thought about how this honestly changes everything. And I was proud. Proud to be American. Truly proud of America, without hesitation. Maybe for the first time in my life.

VOTE

noreply@blogger.com (Maia) — Sun, 02 Nov 2008 18:18:00 +0000

Vote. Vote for him. Do it for your kids. Do it for my kids. Do it for yourself. But please, do it.

Somehow, I Find This So Soothing...

noreply@blogger.com (Maia) — Sat, 06 Sep 2008 22:29:00 +0000

I stole this from Muffy who stole it from Susan. And it makes me feel...calm.

Community Organizers

noreply@blogger.com (Maia) — Sat, 06 Sep 2008 01:45:00 +0000

This is a great response to the RNC's sneering attack on community organizers: http://www.losangelista.com/2008/09/shiny-and-bright-sarah-palin.html

Hire This Woman. Please.

noreply@blogger.com (Maia) — Sat, 16 Aug 2008 08:17:00 +0000

So, things have been happening in my work world. Y and I have been booked to meet with a whole bunch of different producers and studio folk - just casual, get to know you sort of meetings - people who read and liked our first script, and want to get to know us a little better, maybe think about us for future projects. It's exciting, and we know we're incredibly lucky to have this opportunity. But unfortunately, my surgery (and the subsequent vertigo) has made flying out to California to do these meetings in person quite impossible. I'm disappointed, but not worried. Y is more than capable of representing both of us quite nicely - she's a pro - and I'll be well enough soon to travel if anyone wants a follow up meeting to discuss other projects. But we thought it would be nice, since Y is meeting most of these people for the first time, if she brought a photo of me along to the meetings - just so people could have an image to fix on when she told them about me. We thought it would be a cute little schtick.

But of course, it's Hollywood. And so it's never so simple as just sending along that fairly flattering snapshot that you took on your last vacation, right? I mean, this picture had to do so much. It had to be natural, unforced, but it should tell a story, too. Since I couldn't be there to represent myself, and, as that old saw goes, you never get a second chance to make a first impression, we had to think long and hard about what aspect of me we would want to highlight - should I be tough? Smart? Soft and pretty? I needed to be markedly different than Y - since contrast is good in partnerships. But I had to look good, of course, no matter what. So I didn't want to be the beast to Y's beauty or anything (and she is a beauty). We are talking Hollywood, after all. But we wanted it to be kind of funny and memorable as well. Kind of dorky, but cute. I needed to look like, not only someone who you might want to work with, but like someone you might want to just hang out with, too.

Have I mentioned before that Gina is a wiz when it comes to hair and makeup? That if she hadn't answered a higher calling and gone into social work she could easily be making a bundle being a stylist? (And lest you think I exaggerate, I will tell you that my very dear friend who is a very successful model and knows about these things, always swore that G could hang up her shingle as a makeup artist in Manhattan based on her famous "smokey eye" alone). So, you know, I'm no fool. We set aside a day, and I exploited my little sister's talents (and my husband's ability behind a camera) as much as she would let me. And I will not tell you just how long it took to get the hair and make up right. But I will tell you that we had seven outfits to choose from, picked out right down to the accessories, several different hairstyles, many different makeup looks (including, but not limited to the famous "smokey eye") and that it was light out when we began the process, but way past dark when we finally shot that last frame (is it still a frame if we're using a digital camera?).

So, without further ado - the outtakes, and the finalists, of our day trying to catch that special essence that says, "This is the woman you want to hire for your next rewrite! This is a woman you want to take out to lunch and hand your favorite book to adapt! This is the woman who you want to pay to write for you! Look into the eyes of your next great rom/com people! Her name is Maia and she can wield that laptop like nobody's business!"

The Sculptor, Little Sister G. (You will see that bottle of prosecco work hard today).

Her chunk of clay- just waiting to be molded

Indoor light test.

Getting down to business. FF thought this was all totally fascinating.

And wanted a little smokey eye of her own. (If I had FF's lashes, I wouldn't have needed any makeup whatsoever).

First look? A sort of boho chic thing. Oh yeah, I just happen to be sitting around the house wearing this tiara thingy on my head- reading this book. You'd buy that, right? ANd just so you know, you'll see lots of versions of this shrug "sorry I couldn't be there, darn my darn ear! Isn't vertigo sexy!" look.

Took the tiara off.

Okay, now, remember when I told you that one my friends is a model? Well, don't think I haven't learned a thing or two from just hanging around with her all these years. And from watching every single season of America's Next Top Model! I definitely know how to smile with my eyes, bitches! So prepare yourself to be impressed - here come some some MAD modeling skillz. Do not hate just because I'm beautiful.

The look down look.

The way I used to smile for pictures in high school look ("STOP DOING THAT!" insisted both Ryan and G)

The 'What? I always sit around like this!" thing. (Gina is in the background going, "I know it FEELS weird and unnatural! But it looks great! I swear!" Um...)

I call this one, "When I close my eyes, I think of fresh and quirky plot points!"

But for some crazy reason, FF just wasn't respecting my art!

So we moved outside to do a "tough , edgy girl with Rottweiler" series.

Don't I look tough and edgy? Doesn't Sammy look like she might attack at any moment? Or maybe that she needs a hug? (This picture actually was one of the finalists - but my manager and agent were asked if they would rather represent "Tough Girl" or "Smart Girl" and "Smart Girl" won by a country mile).

Then we moved on to what I think of as the red, red, red lipstick series.

What? You don't think this is hot?

Ryan sent me scurrying back inside when he told me that he was starting to get kind of a "Blow Up Doll Vibe" from this look.

I call this one "Crazy Eyes!"

So then we moved on to this look - which was meant to be kind of Italian (fair game, since I am kind of Italian)...

....kind of gypsy-ish - standing around in front of the grape vines. (Yeah, I'm pointing at my ear again. Vertigo! It's sexy, I tell you!")

Earthy. Approachable. Curvy (thank you wonder bra). But really? I think of these photos as the, "Oh my God, I never noticed that I look JUST like my little sister!" series.

Okay, back inside - totally changed up the look. Kind of a sexy librarian, artist at work, I totally sit at my computer in leopard skin all day long thing!

My stylist came in to re-pin the dress, since we wanted to have a little cleave, but not an out and out nip slip or anything. I mean, I'm desperate for work - but not quite that desperate yet.

As soon as Spike saw this outfit he was like, "Mom! You look like just like Liz Lemon!" Which, a) means that I am admitting that I let my eight year old son watch 30 Rock. and b) I resent! I have been blind as a bat since I was in the fourth grade, and I earned those glasses fair and square, people! Maybe Tina Fey looks like ME! Ever thought of that, huh, Spike? Huh?

Ah, what do you know anyway, kid? You're eight! Keep your opinions to yourself!

There's that Prosecco again. And the cat. And some pop rocks. Spike contributed those. This is how I work every day, people. I swear!

Yeah. Every day.

Last outfit. A little bit edgy, a little bit sexy. A little bit smart. Take note that FF has squished Gina's lipstick all over her hand.

We'd been going for some time now. It was getting late. Everyone was getting tired. But we knew we were so close!

Maybe this one? No? You don't think so? Why not? Aren't I hot?

These two only seemed to prove that FF actually does all my writing while I sit around reading D Listed. She looks super smart and she didn't need any make up at all. Except on her hand, of course.

But then! The magic happened, people! The light shown down! We found our groove! And all those moments of shrugging and pointing at my ear and insisting that vertigo was hot and ear surgery was trendy came together in one miraculous moment! Yes! We had the photo! Smart and sexy! Cute and dorky! Looks kind of like Liz Lemon but you can hire her for a lot cheaper! This is what every producer in Hollywood is going to bed thinking about these days! This is the picture that will make me and Y rich and famous and able to pay off our student loans! This is the money shot folks! You might want to squint when you look at it - because it is just that dazzling! Don't let it haunt your dreams too much!....

No. I'm not kidding. Stop laughing. Seriously. This is the one!

And hey, it's better than this, at least, right?

Maia Needs...

noreply@blogger.com (Maia) — Wed, 06 Aug 2008 02:54:00 +0000

(Obviously, I didn't need to bulk up when I was a baby).

The Need Meme.

I yanked this one from here: www.omegamom.com The idea is that you type your first name, plus the word needs, into Google and then write down the first ten sentences that begin with (in my case) “Maia needs…”

Here we go:

1) Maia needs a slice of humble pie.
Oh. Probably true. Been basically true my entire life. But you get along a lot better in the world when you have confidence. And if not humble pie, some kind of pie. I really like pie.

2)Maia needs to bulk up.
Absolutely. Two weeks in bed with the room spinning has left me all weak and skinny (well, relatively so). Just toting around the baby today (the doctor cleared me for all normal activity yesterday except for deep sea diving. I can never deep sea dive again) left me trembling like a kitten and in need of a nap. It was pathetic.

3)Maia needs to know about it.
Yes. I do. I do need to know about it. About it. And everything else. I like to know about it!

4)Maia needs to get over it.
Well, first I have to know about it. Then maybe I can get over it.

5)Maia needs to improve on his standup.

Well, first of all, Maia needs to improve her HER standup, not his. But this might be true as well. I have always hated improv. It was my fatal flaw back when I actually considered being an actress. And the thought of standing up in front an audience and actually trying to make them laugh without a script? Oh no. Yes. Yes. I definitely could improve upon my standup.

6)Maia needs prayer and needs to be prayed over.
Um. Gosh. Well, I can’t say that I feel I need prayer. Though I’m sure there are many, many people out there who would definitely disagree with that. I do my spiritual work in the garden, mainly. Prayer for me is digging into the earth. But if people want to pray over me? Sure! Can’t hurt, right?

7)Maia needs urgent support!
Ah, I guess this is why I need to be prayed over, then? No. I’ve honestly had lots of support lately. But thanks for the concern.

8)Maia needs to think of her sister.
Okay. This one I’ll buy. I’m sure I do need to think of her sister. But which sister? I have four! Probably Gina since she’s been working her ass off taking care of the kids and me for the past two weeks. So I’ll think of her, then. But it really could be any of them. They all need some thinking about.

9)Maia needs to seek professional help.
Jeez! Really! Prayer, professional help, urgent support! What is wrong with me that I need such things? Well, as soon as I know about it, I’m sure it will all be clear.

10)Maia needs YOU!
Okay. I give in. Yes. Definitely. Obviously. I am like the neediest person alive. Come save me now.

And here I was just thinking that I needed a cookie.

Suggestions Needed

noreply@blogger.com (Maia) — Mon, 28 Jul 2008 00:36:00 +0000

Okay- off the topic of my dizzy ears.

I need some book suggestions from all your readers out there. What books would you love to see adapted into a movie? As you all know, Y and I usually work in Rom/Coms (er, romantic comedies) but we're flexible. And we're looking for ideas. Please don't limit yourself to just one - we're fast readers! And if you suggest a great book, and we make it into a movie - we'll thank you in the credits!

This would be a great time for any lurkers with good ideas to come out of the closet, too!

And to thank you in advance - I offer you this photo of me in 1973 being held by Aunt Sheryl (with my grandma looking on). Because my Aunt Sheryl has the world's most amazing hair.

Love,
The Stumbly Woman with Cotton In Her Ear and Extremely Gross Hair.

Sound After Silence

noreply@blogger.com (Maia) — Fri, 25 Jul 2008 18:53:00 +0000

I haven’t always had problems with my hearing. Though my hearing hasn’t always necessarily been great, the worst of my hearing loss came in the last two years or so. I don’t know, exactly, what brought it on so fast. Before the surgery, I was well on my way to deaf in my left ear (last time I had it tested, I had lost at least 50% of hearing in my left ear – but I suspect that lately it had become far worse) and I am actually, gradually losing my hearing in my right ear as well (so, oh yes, I can look forward to doing this again some day!). My condition is hereditary (my mother started losing her own hearing in her early forties) but generally the loss happens much slower than mine did. There is a theory that being pregnant makes it worse – high amounts of estrogen make the calcification of the bone in the ear happen faster. But of course, I was pregnant eight years ago, not two. So that doesn’t quite fly with me. But whatever. In any case, I was slowly going deaf – and it was frustrating (as anyone who tried to carry on a casual conversation with me will attest to), and sometimes embarrassing (you should hear me try to guess what is being said instead of repeatedly having to ask, “What?” and fail miserably and seem to speak completely randomly and effectively kill any conversation with my weird non-sequiturs) and sometimes even dangerous (yeah, I don’t hear cars coming from behind when I walk on the road. I don’t hear my kids calling out when they are in trouble. I don’t hear much). Obviously, I am happy to have my hearing back. Even if I have to re-learn how to hear. Everything – every little gesture and tick and tack – is resoundingly loud to me right now (even with my packing still in). Putting a glass down on the table, the way my dog pants, the tap of the keyboard, basic conversation, never mind baby cries and squeals – it’s all magnified to an amazing degree. But still, better than not hearing things at all, for certain.

But there was actually a weird sort of comfort in my silence – an easy way to turn away and stop thinking, or rather, stop listening, that I think I might miss a little. It’s a selfish thing – and I have friends who have hard of hearing spouses who complain about this tendency – this way that we who cannot hear clearly can just turn our heads if we don’t like the conversation, turn inward, fall into our own little wave of silence. I could turn over on my right side each night, cover the ear that (relatively) works, and black everything out. I didn’t always like it – it especially bothered my mother self, not being able to hear the breath of the child who was sleeping just next to me, but there was some sort of voluptuous pleasure in it, too. An erasure. A falling inward, down my own well, that I have grown used to. And the more hearing I lost, the more I could feed my natural drift toward solitude and hermit like behavior. I didn’t have to go to parties if I didn’t feel like it, because I knew it would just be an exercise in frustration for me by the time the night was over. I didn’t have to work very hard at keeping up the conversation in social settings (something that I have always been good at doing) because I was bound to slip up at some point, anyway. It allowed me to completely zero in to the words on the page (or screen) – which is a natural inclination of mine, anyway. I have always used reading or writing as a means of escape, but how easy it is to block everything but the page out when your head is basically full of white noise – the swish of your own heart and the sound of your own breath. And, I am somewhat ashamed to say, when my son would be persistently whining about something – or trying to argue his way toward something I refused to give him, I could easily end the conversation without actually having to end the conversation, merely by turning my head. It was a weird little trick. One that I was starting to use too often, I suspect. One that would have undoubtedly damaged my relationships with lots of people because it made it so very easy to throw up a wall whenever I wanted to. But one that sometimes lifted the pressure of being responsible to so many people, too.

I don’t know how I was compensating for my lack of hearing. I haven’t learned to read lips. I don’t think my vision (which has always been incredibly bad as well) or my sense of smell suddenly sharpened. Mainly, I leaned in, leaned down, explained my situation and asked people to speak up. And I missed a lot. I have liked learning sign language (something that I do for my daughter, but used in other ways as well) – it felt somewhat preparatory for me – but that wasn’t going to help me outside of my own little family (who all know that they have to practically yell for me to hear them, anyway) and it wasn’t an answer to what I was missing.

It’s good to have sound back. Even the more annoying sounds like cars passing by, or the high hum of electronics. I have willingly allowed myself to be pulled back into the world – to start monitoring more than one thing at a time, to not miss anything anymore. But I think I might feel a small loss in my inability to disconnect now. I think I might be a little wary of being made whole again.

Happy Anniversary, Honey! Here's a Hank of My Blook Soaked Hair!

noreply@blogger.com (Maia) — Fri, 25 Jul 2008 01:37:00 +0000

Alternative titles for this blog post: The Truth about Stapendectomies, How To Survive Not Washing Your Hair For Two Weeks, Vertigo! If the Room Is A’Rockin!... Also? Inner Ear Surgery Sucks Giant Donkey Balls.

So yeah. Not loving the surgery after effects. I mean, the surgery itself? Can’t remember a thing. They gave me something in my I.V. as I was getting wheeled into the O.R. and the next thing I remember is someone tapping my ear and asking me if I could hear them. Which I could. Even through the cotton ball and blood soaked gauze packing in my ear canal that needs to be there for two weeks. Then I tried to move my head and all of the sudden the room was spinning like a merry go round gone wild and I thought I was going to puke up my guts. So that was fun. Mmmm, Vertigo. Not something I’ve ever felt before. Not a fun sensation.

“Is someone here to take you home, Honey?” asked the nice nurse. “Because you’re going to fall flat on your face if you try to walk.”

Huh. You think?

So – yeah. Two days of spinning, shuffling, crawling, embracing the cool, cool toilet like it was my long lost mother (ah – the comforting curves of the porcelain bowl. I think I shall just sleep with my face right here. Except that I’m not supposed to get my ear wet. Damn.). Two days of puking. Two days of my poor kids looking at Invalid Mom like she came in and beat their old Healthy Mom down with a hammer and then slipped between the sheets with her partially shaved head (yeah, they didn’t TELL ME they were going to do that!) and gruesome stitches and Hospital stink and said, “Come here my little Dearies! Come kiss your poor Mama!”

FF was totally horrified when I walked in from the hospital. Took one look at the various bandages on my arm –(they couldn’t get a good stick for my I.V. at first) and basically wouldn’t stop crying until I peeled them all off. She is okay when Mama is on her feet- (which is not very often) but unhappy about Mama stuck in bed. The kid knows way too much about surgery and bandages and hospital type things. Spike looked at my stitches and said, “Um. That looks like it hurt.” And has generally walled himself up in his room with his comic books and Green Day since then. Though today he seemed relieved to find me on the couch downstairs and gave me a nice little kiss and hug.

Yesterday was Ryan’s and my fourteenth anniversary. As I have already alluded to, my gift to him was a big chunk of blood soaked dread locked hair that slipped off my head and onto the pillow for him to find first thing in the morning. Yum. And then getting to watch me creep my way back and forth to the bathroom all day as I puked up my guts. Mmmm. Hot! Jealous? Wish you had Vertigo, too, right? No, no, my gift to him, is, of course, the ability to hear again, which I can already tell, even through the gauze packing, is returning. I was watching TV at half the usual volume. I can hear cars driving by the house again, I keep hearing all these strange noises like airplanes and thunder and the sound of my children’s voices without having to say, “What? What? What?” every two minutes. So, yes, it will be worth it in the end, but try telling that to the woman lying on the bathroom floor yesterday. Because that woman? She was just pissed, pissed, pissed at her surgeon.

Focus On The Tree

noreply@blogger.com (Maia) — Fri, 11 Jul 2008 14:55:00 +0000

This is a black walnut in my backyard. It's the last to leaf out in the spring, and the first to drop its leaves in the fall. But I love it. We eat under it, lie in our hammock, play, and lounge. I am so grateful to whoever built our little house 100 years ago, because they put in all the right trees, in all the right places.

Further Pictures of the Garden

noreply@blogger.com (Maia) — Fri, 20 Jun 2008 03:07:00 +0000

Pre-Biblical Hail Storm.

Wide Views of the Garden

noreply@blogger.com (Maia) — Fri, 20 Jun 2008 02:07:00 +0000

Click on the image to get the full effect.

Epic Weather of Biblical Proportions

noreply@blogger.com (Maia) — Wed, 18 Jun 2008 00:16:00 +0000

Holy shit, you guys! Those gigantic chunks of ice in my husband's hand? Came down from the sky for twenty minutes yesterday. No joke.

I'm hoping it means...good news?

I Love My Garden

noreply@blogger.com (Maia) — Sun, 15 Jun 2008 16:33:00 +0000

My poor garden. Like many things in my life right now (friends, family, my marriage, my house... the list could go on and on) it is suffering from some serious neglect. And yet, like many things (friends, family, my marriage, my house...) it continues to reward me even as I turn a blind eye to all the attention it needs. Yes, it is full of weeds. And yes, I didn't even feed it this year. I barely have to time to sit and look at it. And yet - the roses are blooming wildly right now - hundreds and hundreds of amazing, fat, seductive flowers , the honeysuckle is perfuming the entire yard, the lilies are getting ready to open, all the clematis is winding its way through canes and branches and completely showing off, the nepeta has made a blue haze that the bees can't get enough of, the peonies are healthier than ever, the foxgloves are tall and elegant, the hollyhocks are shooting up everywhere.... I could go on and on. I built my garden from scratch six years ago. It used to be a big empty swath of flat lawn. And I learned everything I know about gardening in this garden. And I have to say - it is one of the things in my life I am most proud of. I stand in that garden every day- and breathe deeply, and look around, and my heart just swells. It is not unusual for tears of gratitude to spring to my eyes. It feeds me. Even when I don't seem to have the time to do more than admire it from afar.

A Terrible Loss

noreply@blogger.com (Maia) — Tue, 03 Jun 2008 03:05:00 +0000

I will miss this voice: Julia

Her words helped me to become a better mother.

I'm Not Dead. I'm Not Ignoring You. I'm Just a Lucky, Lucky Girl

noreply@blogger.com (Maia) — Mon, 05 May 2008 03:45:00 +0000

Do I owe you an email? Are you patiently (or not so patiently) waiting for me to return your call? Did you send some wonderful present for my kids and are starting to wonder if it ever even made it to my house? Did I forget your birthday? Are you thinking that I might have fallen off the face of the earth? Do not worry! You are not alone!

So I was at the park with Molly and Lars and our girls the other day, and I was pissing and moaning and bitching about how exhausted I am – how much I have on my plate right now – how I am totally behind on everything because it’s Baby/Work/Baby/Work day in and out. And Molly (or was it Lars?) kind of cocked her eyebrow at me and said (and I’m paraphrasing here) “Oh, Boo fucking Hoo. Poor Maia has such a miserable life taking care of her beautiful, funny baby girl, and working at her exciting up and coming Hollywood career. I feel so sorry for you!”

And it was a good reality check. Because that’s where I’ve been – taking care of my totally delightful daughter (and she is ridiculously, unimaginably delightful) and my funny, moody, sweet pre-teenage eight year old son, and maybe saying hi to my beleaguered husband as I pass him the baby and bolt for my desk so I can do another rewrite, or get on the phone with Y and our manager (Yes! We found the perfect manager. We are in manager love. We might buy a little management house, with a management picket fence and have management babies with him) and agent and talk about the deal they are hammering out for our first script (which – because things take AGES (or overnight) to happen in Hollywood – I still can’t go into details about just yet). So, yes, I don’t have time to wipe my ass – but should I really be complaining that my life is too full of good things? That’s kind of stupid of me, right?

So – the last few weeks have been me and the baby pretty much all day, - and when I say me and the baby – I mean, me and the baby no more than an inch away from me for 99 percent of the time. I’m either carrying her, she’s in my lap, or I am being led around by her hand or I am sitting right next to her. Or sometimes she does a little independent play- and that’s how I can tell she’s going to need a diaper change in a few moments. Anyway, then Ryan gets off work (either here or in NYC) and I toss Fang Fang at him the minute he walks in the door, and run run run like a little bunny to sit on our big and (usually unmade) bed and tap tap tap away into Rom/Com land. And then Ryan, good man that he is, feeds and bathes the baby and gets her (by some mystical combination of magical daddy tricks, the baby backpack, and Stevie Wonder) to go to sleep, and then brings her up to the bed, where she is tucked in next to me while I continue to tap tap tap deep into the night until I am ready to pass out on my keyboard, then I take a shower. Then I go to sleep.

My garden? She is overrun with weeds. My sex life? She is…erm…in hibernation (it’s not that I’m not willing – it’s just that we have these rhinoceroses all over the house – baby, boy, even our dog – putting out the fire whenever the slightest spark seems to be glowing. It’s like, “MOM AND DAD ARE HUGGING! QUICK, QUICK, QUICK – COME BETWEEN THEM! INSIST ON BEING PART OF THE HUG! WAKE UP AND CRY!!! LOUDER!!! THREATEN TO BITE THEM IN THE BUTT (that’s the dog)! END THE CONTACT BY ANY MEANS NECESSARY!”). I haven’t cooked a meal for anyone (like, a grown up, real meal. I cook for the kids every single night. Two. Separate. Meals. Mainly because Spike is picky and I don’t want Fang Fang to be limited to the ten or so things he will eat) in months. I haven’t read a book (though I have been reading scripts- which is something, I suppose). I barely see my friends. I saw one movie – and that was a professional necessity – a VIP actress starred in it and I needed to be able to say that I saw it and loved it (and I did - both saw and loved) for the sake of our next project. And I saw the movie all alone – hustling in and out of that movie theater like my ass was on fire. Ryan stayed home with the kids (yes, yes, Ryan is a super saint – no food, no sex, lots of dirty diapers – and I get to see the movies. But I will make it up to him. I sweeeear.). I don’t shave my legs very often (I take a lot of minute long showers with the baby on the other side of the shower curtain, peering mistily through and beating on the plastic partition with her hands as her mama hastens to rinse the soap out of her eyes). I keep forgetting that restaurants and toddlers combined create the seventh circle of hell and optimistically taking the kids out to eat, only to find myself, thirty minutes later, begging for our barely eaten food to be wrapped so we can hightail it out of there before the baby knocks over another glass of water or spits another half chewed bite of whatever onto the floor. Everywhere I walk there is the flotsam and jetsam of little toddler toys crunching under my feet. The dog needs her toenails trimmed. The boy needs a haircut. My heels are cracking, I’m probably growing hair out of all sorts of places Gentlewomen should not sprout hair, and every shirt I wear is covered in something white, red and/or pink and wet within twenty minutes of being put on my body. Things are generally falling to pieces around me.

On the other hand? People keep telling me that I look great. That my skin is glowing, that I have lost weight (you try lugging around an cute little extra 22 pounds 24-7 and see how fast the baby holding diet works!) that I seem to be radiating some amazing aroma of happiness and satisfaction. The girl is growing in leaps and bounds, things are looking awfully good in Hollywood, the boy seems happier with his little sister every day, and Ryan is still doing the dishes – much to his dismay. So something must be going right. I guess being overwhelmed and busy is somehow healthier for me than having a lot of time on my hands to read novels and sleep late and drink chai lattes . Ha ha! Remember those days?

So, don’t take it personally if I haven’t returned your call. Know that I still love you. That I’m thinking of you. Wishing we had time to sit down for a nice, long, chat. And if you wait long enough, I will undoubtedly reemerge – probably with a baby attached to my hip and a script in one hand. But there are much worse fates than that.

A Follow Up On the Wicked Child in the Bakery

noreply@blogger.com (Maia) — Fri, 18 Apr 2008 05:10:00 +0000

Thanks to everyone for all the good advice and nice words. Hearing all the differing opinions from all the different parents here helps me sort out the way I can best approach situations like this – and also makes me realize that there is never really one single answer that fixes everything.

I have worked with kids for a good long portion of my life. I am totally comfortable talking with kids, correcting them when necessary, and actually, in other circumstances, I might even have sympathy for this kid – because it was obvious that he learned this behavior somewhere – someone had taught him that it was okay (even necessary) to point out (and laugh at) things that he deemed “different” – and that’s one of the reasons I didn’t approach his mother. I figured that I was probably opening up a whole different fight if I brought this to her attention – one I didn’t really want to start at that moment. On the other hand, I don’t think I have ever felt quite the rush of anger toward a child that I felt toward this particular one. I can’t think of a time when Spike was ever attacked in an equivalent way – and I genuinely felt that if I didn’t leave the room, I would say something incredibly scary and cruel and angry. And I didn’t want to do that. Not even to this kid.

I will also say that there was something about this particular mother that just seemed exhausted and downtrodden. She was talking with a friend – probably trying to steal a few minutes away from her kid (and thus, inflicting him on everyone else in the place) and the set of her shoulders made me fantasize that she was going through a particularly bad divorce, or had just found out some terrible news, and was trying to process it over a cup of coffee while her kid threw blocks. And there is always the possibility that she simply didn’t hear her child. I myself have terrible hearing. Or was so caught up in her conversation that she was innocently tuning her kid out.

And the other child? The little girl. She approached me very sheepishly after I first corrected the little boy and said, “It’s okay. It’s okay. I think your baby is really cute. She’s really, really cute.” So – you know – there was teeny bit of light in that situation that I didn’t write about.

The thing that I liked reading in all the comments was the reminder that it’s important to teach our children that it’s okay to say, “No.” Especially our girls, I think. That society puts such a premium on compliance- expects these girls to bend to everyone’s will - to meekly take what anyone dishes out. And that the best thing we can teach them is a fierce, loud, true and strong NO.

And while I feel very strongly about protecting Bell, I already recognize that she has that strength – that No in her. She is no fragile flower. She is a stubborn, funny, strong little girl who has no problem letting me know what she wants and doesn’t want. She shouts loudly when she calls. She cries with anger when something doesn’t go her way. She loudly and clearly pushes off any unwanted attention she might be getting (poor Spike can attest to this). She grabs my hand and pulls me around to show me what she wants – and if I balk at moving – she just keeps tugging and chattering at me until I capitulate. She is resilient and willful and bossy. And I am so very grateful that she has all these traits. I think they will serve her well. I don’t think she needs to be shut away and hidden, protected like a delicate little butterfly. She doesn’t really need sheltering as much as she needs the tools to deal with these kind of situations. She needs to see me say the right things – see me stand up for her – hear me talk about what just happened with her later. That’s the best thing I can do for her. And I think it’s okay to let her see me walk away occasionally, too. To see that some battles aren’t worth her breath. I think that if I can give her all that – her natural strength will take it from there. There is something tenacious and bold in this child - if she is given the tools, she will stand strong.

Good, Bad, Good, Bad

noreply@blogger.com (Maia) — Thu, 17 Apr 2008 03:01:00 +0000

I'm cross posting this on West Wind as well.

Okay, first the good news – we finally had our initial meeting with Bell’s cleft surgeon on Monday, and it looks like Bell won’t need more surgery until she’s six or seven. The doctor wasn’t totally thrilled with the work done on her palate (apparently the holes left in her gum line were much bigger than it is common practice to leave in the U.S.) but she felt it was probably adequate, and we would be able to wait to address it and combine her bone graft surgery with closing up the purposeful holes. She also felt that her lip had been done very well and didn’t need a revision for now. We will be taking her to an ENT soon to decide whether she needs tubes in her ears – about 90% of cleft affected kids do – but I’m optimistic that she might not – she hasn’t had an ear infection since we met her, our pediatrician has checked her ears a couple of times and never seen fluid, and her hearing seems fine to me. But we’ll see. And of course, this may all have to be reconsidered once Fang Fang has had a chance to get some intensive speech therapy – if the holes are causing problems with speech, or her top lip doesn’t seem to have enough muscle, then we might have to do some work sooner – but for now we can breathe easy for a bit. Our doctor, Dr. Wu, was great. Very open, and warm and approachable. She took a lot of time with us and didn’t make me feel pressured or worried at all. She also can speak and read Chinese, and she translated Bell’s Life Book right then and there for us. This was thrilling – we finally learned when her palate had been repaired (just before her first birthday) and a bunch of other milestones. But the fun ended when Dr. Wu told us that Fang Fang had developed complications – an infection – during her first lip surgery – and had been left in the hospital for a month.

This news took a while to sink in. In fact, I’m still trying to process it- trying to imagine my baby girl, not even a year old yet, left alone in the hospital for a month. I mean, obviously, there had to be nurses and doctors who were caring for her. She pulled through and seems perfectly healthy now. But I doubt that the orphanage could have possibly spared a nanny or caretaker to be with her during that time. She was also returned to the hospital for her palate repair about a month after that – which must have been so terrifying for her. The person writing her life book noted that she wouldn’t eat once she was home from the hospital, and cried every time she saw the rice bowl for weeks after.

I’m trying not to harp on this too much. She’s healthy and thriving now. (Though this goes a long way in explaining her utter terror of doctors and being medically examined). But I went to bed thinking about it last night. And it was the first thing I thought of when I woke up this morning. And amidst a whole range of negative emotions about it, I also feel this incredible awe over my daughter’s tenacity and ability to survive and thrive. Still, it makes me so fucking sad to think about her facing pain and fear alone. I wish that someone (me – or anyone else who loves her!) could have been there hold her through all of it. Though who knows? Maybe there was. I suppose I shouldn’t jump to conclusions. But with this information in hand, it is a relief to think that there is a good chance we won’t have to do more surgeries until she old enough to have a lot more grasp of what’s happening.

The other good news, totally changing the subject for a moment, is that, after a pretty extensive process, Y and I have signed with a manager. And he’s awesome and smart and with a great management agency, and has us very excited about our work prospects. I still can’t really talk publically about the bigger good news that’s happening with our first script – but hopefully I’ll have something to say next week. Or not. But it’s all good and exciting and I feel like we’re about to really shoot forward in our work.

So, on the heels of our appointment with Dr. Wu, I was at The Bakery (I swear – I’m really not there all that often – but it just ends up being blog worthy when I am, for some reason) and Bell and I were having some lunch after our little Mommy and Me Music Class (which is very sweet and nice and taught by Spike’s music teacher from his school who used to be a famous pop star in South Africa) and as I walked upstairs to find a table, a little boy, about four or five, I’d guess (he looked older, but he was there during school hours, so I’m thinking he was pre-school age) immediately ran up to us, took one look at Bell and said, “Chinese, huh?” I was a little taken aback – but not entirely sure of what his attitude was- so I just said, “Yes, she was born in China,” and then sat down and let Bell toddle over to where the little boy and another little girl were playing (rather wildly, I might add). And at first it was totally fine – I mean, they were throwing wood blocks around, but didn’t seem to be aiming at my daughter, but then, all of the sudden, the little boy shouts, “Look at his” (he thought Bell was a boy) “nose! It’s so flat!”

Now, I’ve had this happen a couple of times since she’s been home. And it’s been okay. It almost always comes from really young kids – like three year olds – and they never seem to be making a judgment –just observing – and though it puts my back up a bit, it’s never been a problem before. They say it once, then they go on with whatever they’re doing, and it’s over. But this little boy would not shut the fuck up. “Look! Look! Look at his nose! It’s flat! It’s so flat! Hahahahah!” (all the while pushing on his own nose). And he kept going and going – laughing at her, talking about her – pointing. And his mother – who was maybe three feet away with her back to us, talking to a friend, didn’t even bother to turn around. “Listen,” I growled at him, “It’s not nice to laugh at someone! You could hurt her feelings! And, actually, I think her nose is beautiful!”

And you know, he shut up for a second – looked maybe a little scared because I used my Mean Mom voice – but about five minutes later I caught him staring at her with his finger pressed up against his nose again and his mouth opening to say something else - and that’s when I just took my lunch, and my baby, and just fucking left. Because I was afraid that if I didn’t, I would be moved to say something very, very angry to this little kid and/or his mom.

Okay, the kid was terrible. No doubt (and his mother was worse for letting it go on). But I sometimes wonder how much of this we’re truly going to get. I bring Bell to Spike’s school all the time – and all the little girls – kids who don’t necessarily know me or Spike well, come gathering around, talking about how cute and beautiful she is. And not one of them has ever asked about her scars or her nose. Which I assume to mean that they are not really something that stands out so much for them to notice or wonder about. Ryan had one mother ask if she had fallen down and had a fat lip. I had a couple of very young kids say something about her nose. And that’s it. And you know, before she got here, I was prepared for this – I had all sorts of speeches in my mind – from the scientific truth speech to give to little kids who were just curious, to a big old How is This Your Fucking Business? speech aimed at cruel adults – but then she got here and it honestly felt like a non-issue. She was gorgeous. No one had anything to say but compliments. I relaxed, - my guard was down - and then something like this happens and I am taken by surprise. And obviously, I can’t be impartial – I’m her mother – and I think she is stunning. I think the surgeon who worked on her did an incredible job. I think she is naturally breathtakingly beautiful. I can spend hours staring at her face and it brings me nothing but joy and wonder. And when something like this happens – it’s like a punch to the gut. I wonder just how much of this we are in for. I wonder what other people see when they see my exquisite daughter. I wonder if they are focusing on her beauty or her scars (which, by the way, are beautiful in their own way as well). I wonder how much of this kind of utter bullshit she will have to put up with. And I wonder about the best way to get kids and people like that to back the fuck up and shut the hell up. And you know, I could fucking care less about what other people think – but I do care about what Bell hears. I do care about her getting hurt. And that’s when moments like these feel like a test.

Anyway, again, I don’t want to harp on this, either. 99 people see how beautiful she is, and one ill mannered little boy makes comments on her nose (and, in retrospect, her “otherness” i.e. his comment about her being Chinese – which should have tipped me off from the moment he opened his sassy little mouth). And luckily, she is still too young to understand what he was talking about. But it does put me back on the defensive. And when I told Spike about it, he said, “I would have said, ‘STOP TALKING ABOUT MY SISTER THAT WAY!’ And Mom, I think her nose is really cute.”

Any advice from all you btdt folks would be appreciated.

Pneumonia Signing Scripts

noreply@blogger.com (Maia) — Sun, 06 Apr 2008 03:38:00 +0000

So – it’s been a big week around here. On the not so great side of things – Ryan was diagnosed with viral pneumonia. He’s okay, now, though he had a few bad days. I knew he really had something bad because he is a person who never misses work or takes sick days – and he took two before he went to see the doctor. On the bright
side, because he was, as our doctor put it, “1,000 percent contagious” he got to work from home almost the entire week. I am not, however, going to get it. I just can’t. And I won’t. I suspect the kids both already had it to some degree.

On the great side of things – Fang Fang continues to do beautifully. Her signing has recently exploded – she is getting more and more expressive. She wakes up every morning signing something to me (usually, “Shoes” because she loves shoes and wants them put on her feet ASAP – but sometimes rather random things like, “Dirty” or “Full.” Maybe she’s trying to tell me about her dreams?). Today Spike was crying (literally over spilt milk. He ruined a picture he had been working on and was very upset) and she kept signing “Sad” and “Cry” and looking very worried about her brother. She also attempted to make up a sign today when Ryan made a bonfire – waving her hands in the air to signify “smoke” (I don’t know the sign for that yet, but I imagine it’s not too far from the one she made up). And her relationship with Spike continues to get more and more loving. He is still feeling his way around this new family structure – but I think it will all be okay in the end.

On the non-baby related front – I have had an incredibly busy, exciting work week. Y. and I received some amazingly good news from our agent on Wednesday night. I won’t divulge it publicly just yet because there is more that needs to be worked out – but we are pretty much holding our breath in excitement. We’ll know more in a couple of weeks, and maybe I’ll be able to be more specific then. We also continued to interview managers, and had some really really great meetings with some fantastic people and feel very lucky to have such great choices and options. We should be able to reach a decision about that by the end of next week. I think I will be going to L.A. fairly soon (baby, and possibly Spike, too, in tow) and I’m looking forward to that. So much to do. So much to do!

Anyway, this is basically a post saying that I won’t be posting much for a while – and if people have noticed that I have sort of dropped off the face of the earth – please don’t take it personally. I have basically no extra time and I need to spend the little time I do have on getting some work done. I am still reading all my favorite blogs - maybe not commenting as often as I used to because the baby doesn’t like it when I type. And I’m getting all the emails – but having a hard time finding the time to respond. And I still care people – I sincerely do. But right now I gotta tuck it up and get some serious work done. Strike while the iron is red hot. So – I’ll keep posting the weekly hit of Bell pictures over at West Wind (more tomorrow night, I think) and I’ll definitely be posting here on and off - but if things seem quiet for a while – don’t worry. I’m just really really fuckin’ busy. Or maybe have viral pneumonia. But I will be back and posting like mad, eventually, I’m sure.