Fussy

20: Friday

2009-11-20T20:32:00.000-08:00

Another attempt at making a toy photo:

Coney Island 2007

19: Death, Apparently

2009-11-19T17:25:00.000-08:00

NPR's compiled an argument for "The Decade's 50 Most Important Recordings" and they've set it up so you can listen to one song from each of their album choices, and then embed your choice of their choices in your website. So here's one:

This song always sort of chokes me up.

So that's fun! For you.

Other thoughts: The dying hydrangea I posted on the first of the month has gotten so much more brownly-yet-pinkishly elderly, it's like the Lillian Gish of the neighborhood, fading so graciously that every time you look at it your heart still sees the bee-stung lips of its youth. I'm regretting not having set up a tripod and putting little chalk circles around its tripod feet so that I could set it up in the same place at the same time every day to capture the hydrangea's elegant demise. Instead, all I have is before and somewhat less before:

Lastly, if anyone is waiting along with Peevish for my thoughts on the Mamie Minch album, I haven't listened to the full thing just yet but my impression thus far is that she is going to get somewhere! She just hasn't quite figured out how to get everything in gear and floor it. There are some wonderful duets with her and a woman named Dayna Kurtz over on a certain MySpace page that have been a lot of fun to listen to, and so then I downloaded Dayna's "Postcards from Downtown" album (so far so good!!), but I can't find any joint releases from them so far, despite some talk about a 10-inch, which does me no good whatsoever, my turntable's been packed away for a decade. And no, I can't think of a better word than "album" for any songs released as one whole stack of pancakes by an artist, I think it's still a good word -- I like the way "album" lets you think of a book with page after page of photographs somebody else took of the inside of your head* -- so I'm keeping it.

*Too labored?

18: Elsewhere!

2009-11-18T09:32:00.000-08:00

Here's a song I just love. Listen to it! Learn it! Love it! Mamie has one album on iTunes, I'll let you know how it is after I drive to Oxnard and back. That should take about 45 minutes, right?

THEN your mission is to go over to Jennsylvania and see how she one-upped anything I've ever yogabeansed by reimagining an entire teen vampire film using dolls. OH, YOU ARE WELCOME.

17: Better Ideas

2009-11-17T09:11:00.000-08:00

What sort of monster would I be if I didn't pause to make fun of my own tragedies?

NaBloPoMo = National Blog Posting Month

NoBloPoMo = No, I won't be participating

NaBlowPoMo = In fact, I'll be devoting the month to oral sex

AmmoPoMo = And stockpiling weapons

BlammoPoMo = While watching Warner Bros. cartoons

BimboPoMo = And pornography

LimboPoMo = After which: margaritas!

NamblaPoMo = I didn't say child pornography

SamboPoMo = In fact, let's deconstruct some racist imagery instead

ShamBloPoMo = 30 shampoos in 30 days!

ShaNaNaBloPoMo = Blogging about allegedly simpler times

16: More Bad Ideas

2009-11-16T15:22:00.000-08:00

You know the Momversation videos, where bloggers talk about different parenting issues? How much trouble do you think I'd get in if I started a parody site?

Fawnversation = interviews with woodland creatures

Johnversation = let's meet some people named John

Juanversation = Spanish edition

Nomversation = just an endless loop of video clips from Cute Overload

Pomversation = cheerleaders, naturally

Domversation = drunk rich people

Lawnversation = sprinkler talk!

Wanversation = people who need some sun and/or a sandwich

15: Sunday

2009-11-15T21:12:00.000-08:00

Oh, shit, I almost forgot to post today. I've had to relax my intentions somewhat, I'll admit, this month: I broke my yoga streak from sheer exhaustion and stiffness (you're supposed to become more flexible with practice, not less?). And I intended to bust out the Flip today, but instead I caught up on Mondo Beyondo and watched season 3 of The Office (DON'T TELL ME WHAT HAPPENS) and wrote a couple of e-mails. That's it. Sunday, yay.

14: Saturday

2009-11-14T20:06:00.001-08:00

13: BUNNIES!

2009-11-13T17:05:00.000-08:00

Jackson's class had a field trip today, everyone went to a place where a woman does clicker training with rabbits and miniature horses. Why someone would want to teach bunnies to hop through hoops and play basketball, I do not know. Although I suppose the question isn't really "why" but "why not?" Sometimes you just have a calling.

All of which reminds me, I never showed you my pictures from the BUNNY FESTIVAL!

B.U.N.S. is a local bunny rescue organization that put on the show and scored an adorable acronym.

This handsome fellow has a black nose, in case you hadn't noticed (I'm here to point out things that get overlooked) AND a matching set of black ears! If I were to name him, I would start with something like Morty and go from there. Mullgrew, possibly, though I would take a step back from Mergatroid. Monty? Hmm.

Bunnies need to roam, apparently, and in an area with heightened bunny awareness, no one worries about them getting underfoot, I guess; hence the fifteen-foot-long leash. I'd call this one National Velvet. Or possibly Liz. Actually, I'd call it Liz Lemon because then I could say, "Walk with me, Lemon," and get a little chuckle*.

*This joke for 30 Rock fans only.

I can personally vouch for the fact that this was not a stuffed animal, it was totally alive and ambulatory and nibbly and all that. Brph! I'm calling this one Pettigrew, despite the fact that Jackson vehemently disagrees and thinks it should be called Puff. He's normally quite a good namer, so maybe I'll let him have this round.

Liz here is a Rex. Rexes have thick, short hair and are hellishly soft. Hellishly. At the bunny festival we learned that bunnies are demons who entrance you with their softness and cuddleability until you are in their thrall, petting, petting, petting until your hands are shiny and crippled with neuropathy. Next thing you know, you've given your bedroom over to a breeding pair and your yard is overrun with BEASTS. And Fresh Direct has you on their watchlist.

I'm sorry, son, we can't let evil like this into our lives.

12: Up Close and Personal with Peanut

2009-11-12T12:56:00.000-08:00

Me: So, Peanut! What's the word?

Peanut: Meh.

Me: No, seriously. What are you doing walking around the kitchen? You're supposed to be hibernating.

Peanut: Are you trying to get rid of me?

Me: No, I'm just trying to figure out what's going on. Normally, you hibernate every winter; you crawl under the couch and we don't see you until spring.

Peanut: I just don't want to be a slave to my instinctual drives anymore.

Me: But it's good for you to hibernate. You're a reptile. It's cold out.

Peanut: What?! It's like 65 degrees!

Me: Didn't you like it when I put you next to the water heater?

Peanut: OBVIOUSLY not.

Me: Well, I think this is a mistake. You're disrupting your whole system, and for what? Why's it so important to deny a basic instinct?

Peanut: Have you ever read any Schopenhauer?

Me: Oh, God.

Peanut: He's a total determinist and it just makes me so mad.

Me: Is that what you've been doing under the couch? Reading?

Peanut: I believe that it's only through the exercise of free will that I'll be able to build my own character and act as a moral agent, allowing me to rise above any given set of circumstances. Do you have any Red Bull?

Me: A tortoise on Red Bull. What a fantastic idea.

Peanut: Man, I really need something to clear my head.

11: The Silence After the Word Is Part of the Word

2009-11-11T15:42:00.000-08:00

The hard thing about NaBlo is knowing that there are days when you really should just shut up.

Peewee says, LAY OFF THE PIPE.

Day 10: Commitment, part 2

2009-11-10T15:05:00.000-08:00

Another commitment I've made this month is that I'm practicing yoga every day. EVERY DAY. I'm 10 for 10 so far. The Yankees should draft me.

I used to be a horrible yoga commitmentphobe. Ashtanga yoga being what it is, practitioners at the white-hot pearl of the oyster will practice six days a week; me, I was never good for more than two or three days a week, and this was before I had a baby and didn't know I'd soon be kissing the freedom of an unscheduled, unaccompanied, un-spit-upon minute goodbye for several years. No, daily practice was for vegetarians, college students, and people who didn't drink. Being none of those, I had a hard time relating to yoga culture in general. All that chanting was kind of hard on a lapsed Catholic, frankly, and the whole patchouli requirement was just embarrassing. But two hours of yoga, daily? No. I didn't want to exhaust myself. I also had this intimacy thing where I was afraid my teacher would get sick of seeing me every day. I stopped going to yoga altogether after two of my teachers came to my baby shower. I mean, now they'd seen me wearing shoes! They'd met my husband's business partner! THEY WERE GETTING TOO CLOSE.

Well, this summer, after ten years of bobbing and weaving around the yoga maypole, I realized that maybe a little trust wouldn't be out of place. So I went on a weekend retreat, and then, because I'm so wonderfully logical, I stopped practicing altogether. Yes, being utterly broke helped justify a three-month hiatus from my mat, and I was (and am, until an advance check comes through) still somewhat broke when I made the crazy commitment to plunk down $150 for the privilege of getting up at 5 a.m., driving through the dark in my pilliest, stretchiest clothes, and arranging myself into positions God himself wouldn't dream of until the second bottle of wine, for the entire month of November.

The thing about a commitment like this is it's really freeing. It takes away all choice. There's no sleeping-in option; you don't get to bargain and tell yourself, Oh, I'll just work extra hard tomorrow. No, you'll work hard today and tomorrow, so don't bother hitting the snooze button: you made this bed and too bad if you only got to spend six-and-a-half hours in it. Plan better tomorrow.

So, yeah. Some days, the crushing need for a nap hits at 11 a.m.; other days it doesn't creep in until I'm picking up Jackson from school and suddenly lose the ability to comprehend why any of us are wearing pants. But seriously, the normalizing effect a sustained amount of bending and breathing is having on my frayed personality and cement-filled joints is so wonderful it's kind of alarming. You know, alarming in a quiet, snail-drawn carriage sort of way. Like, Weird! Snails!

Day 9: Commitment

2009-11-09T11:40:00.000-08:00

I've reached that point in the evolution of my face where I see how, for some women, it's a real fork in the road. Your crow's feet have become permanent and the skin under your cheekbones is kind of crepe-y and oh, lord, what happened to your neck, is that a wattle? There's no going back, only forward. You can either accept it or you can hire a surgeon.

Jackson: "Mom, you should get cosmetic surgery."
Me: "Why?"
Jackson: "So you can stay young!"

And that's the belief, right there: if you look young, you are young; you're reeling away from death one collagen injection at a time. Which, of course, you're not. Old age is still waiting for you with open arms, but now it's a little creeped out by your clown lips.

The thing about Jackson is he's terrified of death and don't even try to talk him gently through it, every conversation will end in hyperventilation. He doesn't want to hear about the cycles of nature or angels or -- just don't. We took him to see "This Is It" yesterday, the Michael Jackson movie, and at first he was sort of into it because he loves the music, but then about a quarter of the way through it he turned to me and whispered, "I don't like this movie because it's about someone who's dead."

"Do you want to go take a walk?" I asked him, but he shook his head no and burrowed in close to me, and I thought he was -- I don't know what, just hanging in there. We had some popcorn. I kept my eye on him. I was prepared to go, but also half thinking of all the candy-coated kids' movies I've gone to for his sake and thinking maybe it wouldn't kill him to suck it up and sit through some totally PG thing Jack and I wanted to see. Well, wrong again, Mom, WRONG. Apparently I ruined his life by taking him to that movie and forcing him to contemplate his mortality, and also, just to ratchet it up a few more notches, by telling him there was no Santa Claus*, "MY LIFE WILL NEVER BE FUN AGAIN, MOM, NEVER, WHY DID YOU TELL ME THERE WAS NO SANTA, WHY CAN'T I HAVE A TIME MACHINE AND GO BACK IN TIME BEFORE I EVEN KNEW SANTA EXISTED!"

*a year ago

The moral of this story is twofold. One: If you're going to lie to your kids, keep it going forever. You keep on putting out reindeer food on Xmas Eve, Elfy, until the world is out of oatmeal and glitter; keep slipping money under their pillows until they're in dentures, Mrs. Tooth Fairy McLiarpants. And Two: Don't expect a child who's had nothing more to eat than a Pop Tart, half a salami sandwich, and a fistful of buttered popcorn to act like an exceptionally rational human being at the end of the day. Yeah, oops. What? I thought you gave him lunch.

Day 8: Post!

2009-11-08T19:38:00.000-08:00

Post! Post post post. POST.

(Yeaaah, I had something else up but I had to delete it.)

NaBloPoMo Day 7

2009-11-07T16:35:00.000-08:00

Somehow I ran across a wonderful tutorial on how to make landscape photos look like model train sets, so I tried it on a couple of old photos I had. The one above is the Riviera Market on Micheltorena Street in Santa Barbara; the one below is a building on Haley Street.

Originals:

Day 6: Your Moment of Zen

2009-11-06T14:14:00.001-08:00

Day the Fifth

2009-11-05T12:55:00.000-08:00

Last week I mentioned that I was not buying any clothes for a year. (On October 1, 2010, I plan to walk out of my house shedding the tattered remains of my dignity, drive straight to Nordstrom Rack, and buy whatever clump of garments I find closest to the door. If you see me standing at the register with an armload of ill-fitting sleeveless turtleneck sweaters in sherbet tones and crystal-studded capris, have pity. I'll probably knoweth not what I am doing.)

Ironically, one of the books I received at the Broad Summit weekend last month was an InStyle magazine book on how to dress. I sat down and looked at it the other day and realized a couple of things.

1. I have never bought into the whole flesh-toned pumps thing.

2. There's no real advice out there for women who want to dress their age. It's like life stops at 35, and after that it's either Chanel suits or a barrel held up by suspenders.

3. I had a whole bunch of not-terribly-flattering clothes in my closet, bought for the simple reason that I had no idea how to minimize this and play up that, bought because they were half-off, or bought because they looked good on someone who didn't look anything like me.

Oh, what a fool I'd been. Forgive me, Halle Berry!

Since I'd been filling up donation bags with Jackson's outgrown stuff anyway, I filled up three bags with puckering shirts, unfortunate trouser choices, and dresses that showed parts of my legs I need to pretend don't exist anymore. The bags are still in my trunk, waiting for me to figure out where to leave them since the Salvation Army closed and I don't seem to know how to work a Yellow Pages, or Google.

So now not only have I vowed before God and everybody not to buy clothes for a year, but I have even less of them to cover my sagging frame than ever before (which is to say, 4x as many as your average elegant Eritrean). My two remaining sweaters are looking at me very nervously, as are three bras, a Jorge Posada Yankees jersey, and some crumbling Birkenstocks.

#4, A Post About Bagels

2009-11-04T10:35:00.000-08:00

Three times a year Jack's mom sends us a big Zabar's box containing a dozen bagels, two things of lox, a bag of cinnamon rugelach, a pound of coffee, and two containers of the best, most fattiest, heart-attackenest cream cheese in all the world (one regular, one chive).

But we always sort of forget they're going to arrive. She normally sends one on Jack's birthday and one on Father's Day, but last Friday when a Zabar's box arrived at the door, Jack was all, Look! My mom sent us bagels for, uh, Halloween!

I think they're for our anniversary, I said.

Our what? said Jack.

Monday was our thirteenth anniversary. Traditionally, the gift for that one is lace, the Internet now tells me; modern alternatives are textiles and faux fur, which I just mistakenly read as tentacles and faux fur. The mind reels.

The thing is, last week I'd just bought a pound of lox and a dozen bagels down at Jerry's in Woodland Hills when I had lunch with Suzy, so all of a sudden our freezer looks like -- well, I don't know what it looks like, but it doesn't look like it belongs to a bunch of Irish Catholics (apart from the rosary frozen into the ice cube tray).

A person can only eat so much lox. That's just science. So eventually, as the days wear on, I start eating bagels with butter, just for a change. Or I'll spread some jam on there. This makes Jack insane. Like, the only respectful way to treat a bagel that's flown all the way from New York and given up its life in our toaster is to reverently smooth an inch of cream cheese over it's top with a silver knife and beg for its permission to take a bite. (And then feel really guilty about it.)

But what am I supposed to do? It's only Wednesday and I'm officially sick to death of lox. I don't want to see another cold slice of tomato or paper-thin ring of Bermuda onion until January. And for the love of God, don't open those capers in front of me!

This morning I ate half a sesame bagel covered in almond butter and Nutella. I expect Jack and I will be going into counseling next week.

Day 3

2009-11-03T18:26:00.000-08:00

I was on Flickr awhile back, wondering whether I ought to renew my "pro" account so that the world could have continuous access to pictures of the second time I tried and failed to grow out my hair (there you go! you're welcome!), when I stumbled over a photo in Sarah Brown's photostream that reminded me of a story I'd never told you. (The link to this photo is at the very bottom of this post because it might possibly be better to see it after you read the story that explains it, should you choose to take the leap and continue reading.)

In April of aught-seven I was flying to New York to work with Alice on this book idea we had that was so good we were sure someone would buy it right away, instead of two-and-a-half years later (about which time lag, no, I am NOT COMPLAINING). My flight was on Jet Blue out of Burbank, and I had an aisle seat. In my little three-seat section, a woman had the window seat and a man was in the middle and they were chatting pretty amiably when I got there so I figured I was off the hook, seat-chat-wise, for the next whatever, five hours.

But as soon as he realized the flight wasn't full, middle-seat guy said his farewells and bailed. Fuck, I thought. I'm not much on being anyone's airplane buddy, even though window-seat lady seemed OK, actually, as a person -- head-to-toe in black; fifty-ish; sorting out some audiobooks on her iPod; also not overtly interested in being best friends. At some point during the general shuffle of books and laptops the ice broke between us and I learned she was traveling to New York to be with her daughter and her daughter's new baby.

She also turned out to be somewhat of a nervous flyer. While we were still on the tarmac something in the baggage hold made a clunk and she pressed the call button. "What was that noise?" she pleaded to the flight attendant. "They just shut the door to the baggage hold, there's nothing wrong, it's completely normal," he said soothingly. Oh, he was good: so reassuring, so patient, a real "there are no stupid questions" kind of guy who could shake a bag of nacho cheese Doritos out of his sleeve for you and then land the plane single-handed while leading the passengers in a rousing chorus of Ain't No Stopping Us Now.

My seat-mate nodded and buckled in, but I could tell she was growing less happy by the minute. She completely white-knuckled the take-off. The flight attendant was strapped in a jump seat somewhere up front, so I tried to tell her sincerely that everything would be fine. "I'm so sorry," she kept saying helplessly. "I just hate flying and taking off and landing are the worst part." I knew it would be incredibly rude to find another seat at this point, but I had to admire middle-seat guy's boundaries. And his prescience.

Once we were up in the air the flight attendant took the initiative to check on her every ten minutes or so, for which we were both terribly grateful. ("What was that sound?!" "Landing gear, darling.") Eventually I reluctantly admitted to myself that it was my duty as a decent human being to chip open the stone facade that embraces my cold, cold heart and chat with her as a distraction from her suffering, so I put down my New Yorker and learned that she was a screenwriter, that she'd just been to a taping of This American Life, and that she had a piece of grilled salmon on a bed of baby greens that she wanted to split with me. Because she was a mom and a nice person, and I'm the type who believes she can make it from coast to coast on a Clif bar and half a Vitamin Water.

Eventually, I told her that I had a five-year-old son, and that my writing partner and I were working on a fake pregnancy book. "That would make a good screenplay," she said, musing. It was then that I began to question the virtue of sharing a creative idea with a creative and possibly well-connected person.

Oh, God, she was musing. She was making mental notes. She was constructing a virtual map with which to plunder our uncopyrighted creative treasure.

(It wasn't for another week that I'd learn a vital rule: Never tell anyone your book idea until you've sold it.)

I didn't know whether to back-pedal and tack some wild, invented tangent onto our book proposal idea to throw her off-course, or to just steer the conversation back to babies in general and hope she forgot what I'd told her. I guess I managed to do the latter because the next thing I knew she was showing me pictures of her grandchild on her iPod.

"Aw," I said. The baby was cute, so I didn't have to lie or anything. "Aw!" I said again, as she flipped through three, four, five photos. "What's her name?" "Ramona," she said. Ramona! Old fashioned yet urban. Ramona Quimby. The Ramones. The Real Ramona. "And here she is with her parents," she said slyly. And all of a sudden Ramona was sitting between a movie star and a guy who looked vaguely familiar.

The baby's mom was Maggie Gyllenhaal and the dad was Peter Sarsgaard.

She looked at me to see if I recognized her daughter. I marshaled every fiber of my being to emit another appreciative "Aw!" and then go hide in my New Yorker. She knew, though. She knew that I'd recognized her daughter and was impressed -- and I wanted to give her that. Because she should be proud of the reach her daughter has and the work she's done to earn it. But my unfortunate streak of Just Because You're Famous Doesn't Mean The Sun Shines Out Of Your Asshole, Dickwad was running directly against my well-worn grain of congenital But It's Fun To See Someone Famous!

So I was torn, and when I'm torn, I freeze. I play it cool. I admit to no feelings whatsoever about the subject at hand, no matter how urgent or how normal it would be to just let go and make some sort of honest, inappropriate, thoroughly reprehensible reaction. "Bleaaahhhwwhhaa?" I might have queried her. "You pushed the star of Secretary out of your vagina? And your son is fucking Reese Witherspoon? Tell me more!"

As luck would have it, of course, we ran into turbulence over the Rockies. And head winds. Rip tides, volcano plumes, a veritable smorgasbord of weather conditions. I was desperately trying to concentrate on my magazine, while MAGGIE AND JAKE GYLLENHAAL'S MOM was busy listening to her iPod and clutching her armrests. Until the captain announced that due to the extra effort the engines were making to fight the head winds, we were running low on fuel. Which meant we were being diverted to Buffalo to get more gas.

My screenwriting, famous-child-having seat-mate was stricken. There is nothing worse for a person who is terrified of take-offs and landings to suddenly have an extra one of each horrifying transition between air and earth inserted into what was supposed to be a direct flight. I felt terrible for her; she looked like she wanted to cry. The flight attendant gave her all the attention he had time to give her, but he had a plane full of angry passengers -- angry New Yorkers and Angelenos -- so I sucked it up and gave her what I had, which even on my best days isn't much. I held her hand.

When we finally landed at JFK (in the fog and in the dark, which I'm sure gave her whole Airplane Experience Cake an extra layer of Horror Frosting), she was limp. But she picked herself up and dusted herself off. She called her daughter, made a mental note (that I hope she forgot) to Google the word "Fussy," and as a parting gift she offered me a pack of cookies the flight attendant had handed her somewhere between Buffalo and New York City. "I think the baby's too young for these," she said. "Do you want them?"

Yes, I did.

NaBloPoMo Day 2

2009-11-02T14:10:00.000-08:00

National Blog Posting Month, Day 1

2009-11-01T09:54:00.000-08:00

things i do not like
(inspired by Amanda)

refrigerated fruit
gassy and/or bitey domestic animals
burnt meat
unheated swimming pools
martinis
NASCAR

things I do like

doing the dishes by hand
when Peewee snores with his eyes open
coconut popsicles
dying hydrangeas:

MORE Current Events

2009-10-30T10:28:00.000-07:00

Did everyone remember it's almost time for National Blog Posting Month? I've sort of been dreading it all year and then Ian set up the blogroll to work in such an elegant manner that I no longer have to chain myself to the couch, gain 10 pounds, and develop my annual case of carpal tunnel to do it by hand. It's our fourth year, and in case you hadn't heard, all you have to do is post something on your blog every day in November. If you sign up at nablopomo.com and enter your link onto the blogroll AND manage to post every day, you will be eligible for a PRIZE. Since I finally admitted to myself that I don't really like doing giveaways here on Fussy, I'm going to unload a whole bunch of stuff I've been holding back onto randomly selected NaBlo winners. Just so you know.

(Also, is it possible we've inspired a copycat site, or is it mere coincidence?)

Also, my socks shrunk.

I know you're sitting there all, Really? You put wool socks in the washing machine and expected them NOT to do that? Well, yes, I did, I did expect that. I bought superwash yarn, for fucking fuck's sake, doesn't that mean you're supposed to be able to wash it any old way you'd like without having your socks turn into felt mittens? Apparently I was mistaken. And now I have a pair of socks that fit my dog.

I Have Some News

2009-10-29T13:55:00.000-07:00

I've been holding back this news for so long now that I don't even know how to say it.

I'M REALLY A MAN.

No, ha ha! Actually, it's that Alice and I have a boo -- a bhhuuu -- oh, excuse me, I need a Kleenex.

Alice and I have a book deal.

I can still hardly believe it, and I've known for a month. I feel like I've been sitting on this news for so long I've hatched something. Unfortunately, it doesn't seem human, but I've taught it to answer the door and it's planning to cook Thanksgiving dinner all by itself!

But anyway! If all goes well, AND IT WILL, our expanded and illustrated book-version of the website Let's Panic About Babies! will be published next fall by St. Martin's Press, which is an actual publishing company with an office on Fifth Avenue, New York City, United States of America, Earth, the Solar System, the Milky Way, etc.

Oh my god, we have so much work to do.

Current Events

2009-10-28T10:30:00.000-07:00

1. In a sort of brilliant synthesis of a whole week of Monty Python and Sunday night's episode of Mad Men, during the scene at the kitchen table where Betty's grilling Don about his past, Jack said, "No one expects the Presbyterian Inquisition."

2. I have a post up on the PBS website about their show about Michael Pollan's wonderful and amazing book, "The Botany of Desire," which airs tonight! Michael Pollan is kind of hot stuff, in a wordy, organic, things-are-bad-but-don't-give-up-yet! kind of way. So two thumbs up for his brand of science-based, as opposed to guilt-based, environmental urgency.

3. I'm doing this thing where I'm not buying clothes for a year. I actually hadn't bought any clothes or shoes or anything since February, right before my job started, until I broke my streak by purchasing two new long-sleeved t-shirts at the Gap in September. Yes, I've read about the woman who's pledged to wear the same dress every day for a year, and while the idea certainly appeals, I don't actually own anything sturdy or versatile enough to wear 365 days in a row. I'm also kind of over trying to contribute my every pitiful outfit to the Wardrobe Remix pool. So I'm just going to wear my boring clothes and shoes and not shop for anything new until October 1, 2010. Exceptions to this rule include clothing gifts (I am currently accepting Prada boots and antique whalebone corsets, if you're interested in donating) and knitting projects that I began before January 1, 2009 but have only recently completed:

Why am I doing this? Because not only do I hate shopping, I have more than enough clothes for the purpose of sitting in bed and writing all day. Shopping is a terrible form of entertainment and I've nearly broken myself of the habit but I really want total control over that "but wouldn't it cheer me up to have something new to wear?" impulse.

I am at two with nature

2009-10-19T13:34:00.000-07:00

For reasons that must remain unexpressed at the moment, I am no longer employed. I am incredibly, dare I say joyously busy, just not in an office-clothes, twice-a-month-paycheck sort of way, and that being the case, I am now somewhat free to blog about my (former) job. "Somewhat" in that I still respect that boundary and would never do anything to jeopardize the goodwill I built with the people I worked with. Especially since some of them now read my blog. (Hi, Robyn!!)

My former boss was always trying to get me to pay attention to what was going on in the office, and rightly so. Part of my job was to make sure things were looking good / coffee was made / there were no slicks of vomit in the copy room. Usual admin. asst. stuff. But part of his big-picture view was to stretch everyone employed there beyond their boundaries. Which I thought was kind of great, him taking an active interest in our achievements, but since I travel in a magic bubble with a radius the length of a bratwurst, my uncertain boundaries and distinct lack of achievement came under his scrutiny almost daily.

I could cope with normal office demands -- I mean, if something was beeping I'd answer it, open it up, turn it off, or aim a fire extinguisher at it -- but it was the above-and-beyond stuff that revealed how intensely horizontal my learning curve could be. And one duty that was definitely above-and-beyond for a serial plant-killer like me was to keep an eye on the office greenery. Once my boss learned that keeping things alive* was a weak area for me, he was on me like a hornet.

*Plants, children, relationships . . .

"Do you know what kind of plant that is?" he asked me one day, gesturing toward a new inmate in a clay pot.

"Uh, some kind of fern?" I asked hopefully.

"It's a coffee plant. See how the leaves are drooping?"

". . ."

"They're not supposed to do that."

I took the hint and found a watering can. "You might want to get a book," he suggested.

"On plants?" I asked in amazement. "To read?" Clearly he had no understanding of how deep my strain of underachieving runs.

Meanwhile, it was also my duty to train the temp who came in on days I needed off, and apparently the universe's idea of a joke was to give me a temp with a botany degree.

"Does anyone take care of these plants?" she asked, hands on hips. She took nearly an hour to walk around the office and take stock of every life form confined to a pot. "Where are you getting your compost from?" she asked me seriously.

I told her. (I knew that! I knew where the compost was from! Ten points!)

"Well, it's the wrong kind," she said, shaking her head. "And those listeria albicans in the back have half an inch of water in their saucers! They don't like getting their feet wet, you know."

Uh, no, as a matter of fact, I didn't know.

The game of "Which Plant Is Eden Not Paying Attention To Today?" reached its climax two weeks ago when I was sitting at reception and my boss walked up to the counter, flicked a mouldering frond of autumn bouquet not two feet in front of my nose, and asked me if I thought its condition radiated anything other than SCREAMING DEATH.

I guess in my defense I should say that I was pretty good at other office stuff. I opened the mail without stabbing myself. And I wore shoes almost every single day!

A Broad Summit

2009-10-14T10:37:00.000-07:00

This oldish guy named Don was pouring slugs of wine that tasted like smoke up at the Hop Kiln winery, and he was all, "What's a Broad Summit?"

"It's a wide, flat place at the top of a mountain where a lot of people can stand together," I said.

He looked at Rebecca's shoes in confusion. "So, you all are mountain climbers?"

Favorite moment of the weekend:

Talk turned to blogging platforms and whatnot, and someone asked Mimi Smartypants, "How do you back up your blog?"

Mimi held up her fists like a boxer and said, "WITH THESE."

Second favorite moment: Alice's shoes.

Third favorite moment: When I felt a burn in my abdomen from laughing really hard.

(Tie for third favorite moment: Finally getting to tell Evany to her wonderful face how much I loved her book.)

Fourth favorite moment: Bryan telling me how they blew all the stumps out of the ground at the Korbel winery in the 1960s by letting the producers of Combat! pretend it was WWII Germany.

FM4b: Bryan graciously assenting when I fake-remembered that Larry Storch was in Combat! (Nope, that was F Troop. Brain? I think we have some usage issues.)

Fifth favorite moment: Oh, I don't know. Everything.