The Green Room

Twenty Twelve

noreply@blogger.com (E. Peevie) — Mon, 02 Jan 2012 17:41:00 +0000

Don't you love the new year? I do. The bowl is empty and you get to start cooking up whatever delightful repast you choose.

In 2012, I choose Jesus and writing.

My Jesus project is called Living with Luke. I decided to choose one book of the Bible to live with this year: to read through multiple times, and to study bit by bit, and to memorize from. I chose a gospel because I have neglected my faith somewhat in recent years. You know, what with kids and work and broken bones and homework and Life. It's no excuse--this is exactly where faith is relevant and meaningful. But I've been spending more time with Heath Barkley and Detective Goren than with Jesus, and I feel the need to return to the basics, to the Teacher.

I'll keep you posted on this project, assuming that I am able to stick with it.

My writing project has two goals: first, to blog more regularly, because blogging is story-telling, and story-telling makes me happy. "More regularly" is loose enough to encompass a couple of times a week or a few times a month, so that's my goal. Tell your friends to check in at least once a week.

But I feel compelled to work on a bigger writing project, so I'm putting the Book back on the table. I have at least two book projects in seminal stages--and by "seminal stages" I mean somewhere between an idea in my head and a draft of a book proposal including three chapters. My progress on these projects in 2011 was limited to non-existent, and that needs to change.

Writing is hard work--most writers will tell you that. After dealing with an eight-hour work day as well as the daily responsibilities of a household with five people, what I want to do is relax with a glass of wine and Simon Baker or one of my other pretend boyfriends. But I'm thinking that my soul or my psyche or some force inside me demands that I use my love for writing for more than just writing grant proposals and case statements. My goal is to make a little progress on a book project every week.

I've had three weeks off in December for surgery, and I am rested and happy and ready to have a great 2012. How about you? What are you cooking up in 2012?

Eleven

noreply@blogger.com (E. Peevie) — Mon, 07 Nov 2011 02:21:00 +0000

M. Peevie here. I'll be eleven in two days, and it's time for an update.

So. Last week we were driving to school, and there was a Mercedes in front of us. The only reason I know it was a Mercedes was that my mom said, Hey, I like that Mercedes in front of us. Then A. Peevie said, well, it's not that cool because it's boxy like a mini-van. But I pointed out that the Mercedes was not totally boxy: "It has hips!" I said, noticing that it sort of curved out below the windows.

My mom, the writer, liked this observation. "M. Peevie," she said, "Nice use of anthropomorphism."

"Well, I don't know what 'anthropo-whatever' is," I said, "but I thought it was personification." Then we totally got into a conversation about the difference between personification and anthropomorphism, and IRONICALLY my mom could not even tell us the difference. Sigh. What good are parents if they can't even define their terms?

In school I asked my teacher, Mrs.Kind if she knew the difference between personification and anthropomorphism. She did not. She told me to go down the hall to Mr. Language Man's room and ask him. Mr. Language Man said something that I do not remember. Later when I told my mom about it, she said she thinks they are basically the same. I'm going with that for now.

In other news, for my birthday I want World Peace. I want world peace because I do not like to think about our soldiers and people in other countries getting hurt and killed, and I do not even understand why they can't just sit down and work it out. This is what my mom tells me and my brother A. Peevie all the time. "Sit down and work it out," she says, "I am tired of being a referee."

And usually we do work it out, but sometimes A. Peevie is completely unreasonable, or my other brother C. Peevie is mean, and I have to tell my mom that he is hurting my feelings. Even though he is the big brother, sometimes he is immature, and sometimes he is a bully. Sometimes he is fun, though, and he wrestles with me. This usually happens late at night, like 9 or 10 o'clock, in my parents' bedroom, and they get extremely annoyed at us for being loud and obnoxious and for being in their bedroom when they are ready to Be Done With Kids.

I have a couple of goals now that I am getting older. One goal I have is to understand what I hear at church. Some days this is easier than other days. Some days the pastor talks about stuff I don't really want to hear about, like S-E-X. (Today my pastor said that we should not be more prudish about s-e-x than God is!--but I'm not sure what he meant. All I know is, I do not want to talk about it or think about it.)

Another goal I have is to go to DePaul University on a softball scholarship. Because my dad works there I can go there and have free tuition, but I would still have to pay for roomanbord. I'm not really sure what roomandbord is, but if I go there on a softball scholarship, I would get that for free, too. I am working on my softball skills, and I think I am getting better. Sometimes we play traveling teams, though, and their pitchers scare me.

There is one thing I really really want for my birthday. It is a little cooler from Pottery Barn Teen that sits on your desk and hold like four cans of Coke. I think if I get this for my birthday, my happiness will be complete.

Talk to you next year, Internet. Peace out.

M. Peevie

Birthdays are not all about presents. But...

noreply@blogger.com (E. Peevie) — Wed, 05 Oct 2011 04:04:00 +0000

I recently celebrated a Major Birthday Milestone. I'm not one to cry over spilt birthdays, and in fact, I attempt to derive as much enjoyment as possible from the things that traditionally go along with birthdays: presents, attention, presents, cards, people saying nice things to me, and presents.

Well, as it turns out, I had the best 50th birthday in the history of 50th birthdays. Many people celebrated with me, made noise with me, toasted and appreciated me--and some even gave me presents. Birthdays should not be all about presents when a person is 50 years old--but when said 50-year-old's love language is presents, chances are there will be some unwrapping going on. And there was.

But first: You know what else I love about my birthday? I love it when people write or say nice things to me or about me. My crazy group of Vagina Dialogue peeps wrote me a "screenplay" called "Ten Things About Eve" in which they said things that I am too embarrassed to repeat here because they just totally hyperbolized my good qualities. They also gave me some nipple bling, but since this is a family-friendly blog, we'll just leave that alone.

Even though I actually posted my birthday wish list on this blog, I told Mr. Peevie that the one thing that I really really wanted for my birthday was a hand-crafted card produced by my friend Queen, who's blog nickname I am officially changing to The Producer. I got it--and it was everything I had hoped it would be. Any card that references the music of Hildegaard von Bingen is destined for the Handcrafted Card Hall of Fame.

The actual highlight of the celebration of the anniversary of my auspicious birth came from Mr. Peevie, who always distinguishes himself in the Department of Presents. Mr. P came up with a gift that makes me feel sorry for every man, woman and child who is not married to him. Here it is:

O.M.G. Have you ever seen anything so beauteous? Such an artisanal masterpiece? Such a mother-lode of awesome?

This gift knocked my socks off. Mr. Peevie bought me my accessory of choice, a purse. But What a Purse! Mr. P. heard an interview on NPR about two years ago with Caitlin Phillips of Rebound Designs. He bookmarked it.

As my significant birthday approached, Mr. P. contacted the creative and talented Ms. Phillips and custom ordered this recherché handbag. He specified not only the title of the book to use--my favorite writing resource book, The Chicago Manual of Style--but the particular edition (14th). He also selected the fabric for the lining as well as the handle.

Now that is love, no matter what your love language is. Everywhere my bag and I go, we attract the admiration of others--and I tell the story of the best gift a girl could get for her birthday: love in the form of research, thoughtfulness, and effort; love that feels like being known by the lover.

[Adjectival props go to my frabjous friend, J-Ro, who gave me an autographed copy of Better Than Great: A Plentitudinous Compendium of Wallopingly Fresh Superlatives by Arthur Plotnik. Thanks for giving me a gift that fits my heart and soul--although I may have overdon it a bit in this post.]

A Tender, Private Moment. Not.

noreply@blogger.com (E. Peevie) — Wed, 27 Jul 2011 16:10:00 +0000

I'll get right to the point. It's hard to find the time and privacy for sex when there are what seems like dozens of kids running around at all hours of the day and night. The other night we thought we had dispatched them securely, and Mr. Peevie and I retired to our boudoir and locked the door. It was after 10 p.m.--what should be a safe hour for conjugal activities. But no.

Minutes after I climbed between the sheets (and started watching a M*A*S*H rerun), a knock came on the door. I got up, unlocked the door, and opened it to find C. Peevie. He looked at me, and an expression of horror began to gather on his face.

"You...," he started, "you...you...had the...door locked?!"

"Yes," I said. "What do you want?"

"Well, I just came up to get money," he said, taking a step back as though I was contagious, "but YOU HAD THE DOOR LOCKED and now I want to THROW UP" He collapsed in a heap on the hallway floor, moaning loudly. "You had the door locked," he groaned, "AAARRRGGHH!"

C. Peevie's moans got the attention of A. Peevie, who wandered out of his bedroom to find out what the hoopla was about. C. Peevie obliged.

"Mom and Dad had. The. Door. Locked!" he said, tossing in a groan for good measure. "AAARRRGGHH!"

A. Peevie let out his own horrified noise, and also collapsed on the hallway floor. "ACK!" he said. "Ack, ack!"

"I just came up for some money," C. Peevie moaned. "Why didn't you tell me you were going to have your DOOR LOCKED?!"

"That's just stupid," I said. "I'll get you some money. Next time, could you ask for money before 10 p.m.?"

"Ack, ack!" A. Peevie groaned lugubriously. "I want some money, too!"

By this time, the cacophony of lament had attracted M. Peevie's attention, and she wandered into the hallway.

"What's going on?" she said, watching A. Peevie and C. Peevie writhing on the floor, weeping and gnashing their teeth.

"Aarrgghh!" said C. Peevie. "I have to have my brain scrubbed!"

"Ack! Ack!" said A. Peevie. "Mom and Dad had their DOOR LOCKED!"

M. Peevie is only ten, but is no slacker when it comes to interpreting innuendo. She dropped like a bag of rocks, and clutched her stomach.

"AAIIIEEE!" she keened. "Aaaiiieeee! Door...locked! Gross!"

I stood at the door and looked down at my three spawn, none of whom had been immaculately conceived. I decided to take a hard-line approach.

"Yes," I said firmly. "We had the door locked because we were going to HAVE SEX."

"AAARRRGGHH! Ack, ack! AAIIIEEE!" they groaned/moaned/keened.

"And now," I said, "I am going to LOCK MY DOOR again. I think you know what that means--so please disperse."

They dispersed--but not without another five minutes of anguished caterwauling and requests for money.

A Noble Persuasion

noreply@blogger.com (E. Peevie) — Sun, 03 Jul 2011 23:41:00 +0000

The traveling handbag strikes again!

Awhile ago I posted a little post about a cute purse I was carrying that my friend admired, which I gave to her. She subsequently gave it away as well--and then that person also gave it away. Here is the purse, along with one of its temporary friends:

I recently learned that the traveling purse had been donated to the Denver Dress for Success affiliate, whose mission is to "promote the economic independence of disadvantaged women by providing professional attire, a network of support and the career development tools to help women thrive in work and in life."

How brilliant and beautiful!

Here's what DenverJ had to say about the purse and its journey:

I just got a call from Donna, the Denver Director of Dress for Success, who spoke at the meeting I attended. She was really touched by our story and wanted me to know that she has shared it with about 50 people so far, including her director. She reads it to new volunteers when they come in. So, the blessings of the purse continue!

I hope to get another email soon about the purse going on a job interview, and a DfS client getting a job and starting a whole new chapter of her life.

Meanwhile, I have started another purse on its own journey. I bought it for $1.50 at the same resale shop where I bought the original Traveling Purse, thinking that it would be perfect as a summery tote to carry my lunch and stuff to work.

One day, my tote and I were minding our own business in my cubicle when my colleague Rosaduñas stopped by to show off her beautifully pedicured toenails. They were a smooth, summery, bubblegum pink. They looked smart and tantalizing against her sun-tanned toesies--and then we noticed that they were the EXACT SAME COLOR as the pink tote purse stashed on my messy desktop.

I had just told Rosaduñas the story of the Traveling Purse that very morning, and when we held the purse up next to her polished toenails (well, down, really), we both knew that the purse would be going home with her that night.

I don't have any expectations about this new traveling purse. It might be a staying-home purse this time, sticking with Rosaduñas until it falls apart or she leaves it at the beach by accident.

But I like to dwell on the freedom that traveling purses represent: freedom from a shallow attachment to a material possession.

Of course this noble persuasion only applies to purses bought at a second-hand store, not for example, purses special ordered by one's husband for one's 50th birthday and hand-made from a copy of one's favorite writing reference book.

Ahem. Can you sense another purse-related blog post coming?

10 Shopping Days Left

noreply@blogger.com (E. Peevie) — Sun, 22 May 2011 23:59:00 +0000

I'm so glad I started blogging again just in time to post my birthday wish list.

And this is a big birthday, my friends--the Big 5-0--so please be sure to give your shopping the thought and attention it deserves.

Diet Coke, of course.
Dakota, by Kathleen Norris. I know it's old, but I haven't read it yet, and she's one of my favorite authors.
My left eyebrow, a portion of which is missing in action due to one of my many mental illnesses, trichotillomania.
Our soldiers to come home from Afghanistan and Iraq.
Some good tequila.
Soft pj's, no buttons.
A job for my friend Vicki
Music for my I-Pod:Plain White T's Rhythm of Love;
Martini glasses. Maybe something along the lines of this, or this. Or--surprise me!
Innocent, by Scott Turow--also one of my favorite authors.
A Pandora bracelet. I made a wish list but I couldn't get it to open.
[I cannot figure out how to put in a new paragraph without numbering it]. So now you have all you need to show me some love.
But the simplest way to show me some birthday love, as always, is to leave me comments on my blog.
Go!

Me and the Department of Public Health

noreply@blogger.com (E. Peevie) — Wed, 18 May 2011 20:26:00 +0000

I just got off the phone with the Department of Public Health. The conversation went like this:

Woman with a Heavy Asian Accent: Hi, this is mumble mumble from mumble mumble. I need to ask you some questions about C. Peevie. He was seen in the ER recently and was diagnosed with varicella?

Me: Yes, he had chicken pox. Wait a minute, who is this?

WHAA: This is mumble mumble from the Department of Public Health. We have to make a report when we get notified that someone has had chicken pox. Can I ask you some questions?

Me: Um, OK.

WHAA: Mumble mumble varicella mumble mumble General Hospital mumble.

Me: Yes, that's correct. He was seen in the ER at Lutheran General Hospital.

WHAA: Does he still have fever? Does he still have spots? Did he go back to school?

Me: No, he hasn't had any fever for about a week. Yes, he has spots, but they are scabbed over. And yes, he went back to school yesterday.

WHAA: Does anyone else at the school have chicken pox?

Me: How would I know?

WHAA: What school does he go to?

Me: Jones.

WHAA: Do you have the phone number?

Me: No, but I'm sure you could look it up.

WHAA: So you don't know if anyone else at the school has chicken pox?

Me: No.

WHAA: Do you know where he was exposed to chicken pox? Do any of his friends have it?

Me: No, I don't know where he got it from, and as far as I know, his friends do not have it.

WHAA: Did your son hang out with his friends after he got chicken pox? Where did he go? What did he do?

Me: Yes, we took him to several restaurants and had him cough on the salad bar; and then we went to a day care center and had him hug all the children and rub his arms all over the stuffed animals.

WHAA: What?

Me: No, he did not go out after he was diagnosed. But the day before he was diagnosed, he went to church.

WHAA: Does anyone at church show symptoms?

Me: I don't know.

The WHAA asked me a bunch more questions about our household and vaccination status, and then said

WHAA: OK, thank you. We'll call you back if we have more questions for our report.

Me: OK! Because clearly, this conversation will go a long way to stopping the spread of disease and keeping the Public safe and healthy.

Here's what the Department of Public Health should have asked:

When did he start showing symptoms?
When did he get diagnosed?
Where did he go and who did he have contact with in the three days prior to showing symptoms and before getting diagnosed? And then she should have tried to obtain contact information for those people and places.

That would give them information that they could actually use to protect public health.

But, hey, what do I know?

Twelve THOUSAND dollars

noreply@blogger.com (E. Peevie) — Sun, 15 May 2011 16:57:00 +0000

Mr. Peevie and I are trying to impress on C. Peevie the importance of getting good grades in high school. He's a good student, but not as good as he has the potential to be.

My colleague Shawty was telling me that her son ShawtySpawn had qualified for a significant scholarship at the private liberal arts college he would be attending in the fall. They received a letter from the financial aid office charting the relationship between grade point average and scholarship amount, and she showed it to me.

"If his grade point average had been .2 higher," she said, "he would have qualified for $4,000 more per year."

"Can I have a copy of that letter?" I asked. "I want to show it to C. Peevie."

So I brought the letter home to use as an object lesson to motivate my gifted but distractable #1 son to kick his academics into high gear.

"Look at this, C. Peevie," I said, thrusting the letter in his face. "This is from my friend Shawty at work. Her son is getting a scholarship, which is great. But if his GPA had been .2 higher, he would have qualified for $4,000 more per year."

I paused for dramatic effect.

"Four thousand dollars per year," I said. "That's twelve THOUSAND dollars."

I waited for the significance to sink in. C. Peevie waited for the part of my brain that does math to catch up.

It didn't catch up.

"Is he only going to school for three years, then?" C. "Smarty-Pants" Peevie asked innocently. It took me a full minute to get it.

"Sixteen THOUSAND dollars!" I corrected myself, but it was too late. "Crap."

"You just ruined your entire point," C. Peevie laughed.

Mr. Peevie was sitting nearby, shaking his head, as he often does when I attempt to do math.

"Did you even go to college?" he asked.

Well, I did, but you don't learn simple multiplication in college. Apparently I was absent that day in third grade.

Drama in Real Life: The Blizzard of Aught-Ten

noreply@blogger.com (E. Peevie) — Mon, 27 Dec 2010 05:53:00 +0000

It was a blustery, blizzardy day--as the weather prognosticators had warned us it would be.

The night before, when the country club unilaterally cancelled its brunch seating, we were all, "Oh, yeah, right! A blizzard! Bet we don't get more than an inch or two of accumulation. Babies!" We had the flat-screen tuned to the weather channel all evening, and the reports were ominous--but we still refused to believe that we'd be home-bound.

"Where do they think we are, Mississippi?" we cracked. "This is Illinois! We can handle a little old blizzard."

We stayed up late on Saturday night, playing ping-pong, drinking cheap wine, and de-bloating from our earlier 12-course feast. We decided to replace our country club brunch with a homemade brunch of French toast, scrambled eggs with ham, and home fries. Alternatively, if it did look like a major storm would hinder our travel, we'd skip breakfast, and get out of town early. Either way, we weren't worried. We drive a Toyota mini-van, and that seven-seater-chick-magnet has four-wheel drive!

Sunday morning dawned clear and bright. Not.

No, it really was blowing out there. Snow whipped sideways across the second green, and a red squirrel who dared to leave his nest pulled his tail around himself and hurried to his next appointment.

When we told the kids that safety trumped breakfast, and we'd be leaving right after saying goodbye to our sweet blond cousins, tears welled up in M. Peevie's eyes and dripped into her Lucky Charms. "Please, Mommy," she said, "Can't we just have French toast with RK and T-Bone, and then leave?"

I wrapped my arms around my sad baby girl and told her no. "I know you're sad, honey, but we need to leave now before the weather gets even worse." The tears continued to fall, and she tried one more time to change our minds.

"Oh, there's nothing to cry about," MIL said briskly. "I'm sure you'll get over it." As lovely and generous as she is, true empathy is not one of her strong points. I resisted the urge to deliver a sharp correction, and instead I upped my own empathy. M. Peevie pushed my hand away, though, preferring a moment of wallowing in her grief.

We packed up the Christmas gifts and the dirty laundry and the gameboys, hugged the cousins, and headed out into the capital-E-Elements. Very little new snow was falling, but the fierce wind swept up the layer of snow from the ground and slammed it across the fields like a manic modernist hurling white paint against a giant canvas. I drove slowly, so as not to outrun my 15 feet of visibility.

"Are you scared?" I asked Mr. Peevie, who has been known to back-seat drive when I'm behind the wheel and not keeping strictly to the two-second rule.

"Nope," he said. I was surprised, but I believed him. Apparently I could pull out the defensive driving when the situation particularly called for it. Who knew.

Suddenly 15 feet of visibility completely disappeared, and I was driving into a white wall. I slowed to a stop on the two-lane road, wondering if we'd get rear-ended before I was able to drive again. When a few feet of road re-appeared, I started to drive again, slowly, hoping everyone else on the road was navigating as carefully as I was.

"Mom," came a voice from somewhere behind me. "Mom? I can't see anything. How do you know where you're driving?"

"Stop talking, guys," Mr. Peevie said over his shoulder. "Mommy's trying to concentrate." The white wall went up again, and I slid to a stop. We held our breath for 30 seconds, maybe a minute, and when the opague wall lifted, I saw that I had somehow started to cross the yellow line.

"This is an accident waiting to happen," I said to Mr. Peevie. "I think we should go back to your parents' house and wait it out." We drove, stopped, and drove while the white sheets alternately blasted across our windshield and lifted to give us five or ten feet of visibility. We turned around in a farmyard driveway--briefly considering inviting ourselves in--and headed back to Grandmom and Granddad's house.

Drive. Stop. Drive. Stop. Drive. Breathe. Finally we pulled into the driveway and piled out of the car and into the house. The grandparents were so happy to have their house filled with the joyful noise of grandchildren for one extra day! Or that's what we told ourselves, anyway.

I looked out the floor-to-ceiling great room windows across the golf course, rendered white with sideways snow; and settled down for a long winter's nap. Literally.

That's what I call a silver lining!

The next morning dawned clear and bright--for realz. The blizzard adventure of aught-ten closed its doors behind us as we headed north, back to home, school, work and--oh, joy!--four inches of snow waiting to be shoveled from the walk and steps.

Double-Digits

noreply@blogger.com (E. Peevie) — Tue, 09 Nov 2010 03:06:00 +0000

M. Peevie here.

It's really weird, but being a double-digit age does not feel any different from being a single-digit age. I mean from yesterday to today: no difference. I have been feeling more grown-up lately, though.

Do you like how my blog post title is just like my mom's last post about me--only she wrote Double Wides and I wrote Double Digits? Hee. I did that on purpose. It's called a literary something--something that means both sides the same.

[Mom's note: Parallelism, M. Peevie. Parallelism.]

My mom teaches me words like that--like "literary something"--only she uses the right word, and then I don't know what she means, and I say, "What does that mean?" and she explains it; and then I get bored and change the subject, and then I forget the word anyway. I don't know why she uses big words with me when I am just a kid.

So I was saying that I feel more grown up lately. I think it's because I am now in fourth grade, and clearly fourth grade is WAY HARDER than third grade or any other grade that came before. (Last year when I was only nine, I said some jokes about third grade being hard.) Our teacher, Mrs. WarmAndFuzzy, is very tough on us, like she expects us to be as smart and organized as grown-ups or something. I feel nervous a lot of the time in her class, and I feel my forehead coming down over my eyes.

I think maybe I also feel more grown-up because I have to do SO MANY MORE CHORES in my house. My mom started going to work every day, and so she says that us kids have to help out more around the house. I call bogus. I am just a kid. I should not have to spend every Saturday morning doing chores, PLUS have to do chores during the week also.

I had my birthday party on Friday night, three days before my real birthday. It was a "late-over"--which is like a sleep-over, only the guests go home late instead of sleeping over. Get it? Ten girls--eleven including me--came to my party. Those girls can really shout some decibels, if you know what I mean. Decibels means how loud something is.

We had pizza and cake and tiny cans of Pepsi and rootbeer and Dr. Pepper. For a craft project, we got to decorate white pillow-cases with bright-colored Sharpies. That was my idea, and my mom said it was a really good one. We also played Twister, had a scavenger hunt, and watched part of a movie. It sort of seemed like no one was sticking to my List of Things To Do At My Party, but my mom said that the girls had fun anyway, and that that was the most important thing.

I think the most important thing was that we follow the List of Things to Do At My Party, because it was, you know, my party, but whatever.

Oh! I almost forgot to say that I got to open cards and presents, which I REALLY enjoyed. My mom took a picture of me and each girl, with me holding up the present they gave me. My mom said maybe I could ask the girls to bring a present or a book for a kid in a homeless shelter, instead of a present for me; and I did not say this, but I was thinking, "ARE YOU INSANE?! I LOVE PRESENTS!"

(And plus, she should know better, because I know for a FACT that she loves presents, too.)

Anyway, enough about my party. A lot of stuff has happened in my life since I turned nine. I broke my leg, for one thing, right before our Christmas trip to Pennsylvania to see my grandparents. My dad took my brothers to see the Liberty Bell, and I did not get to go. I was not pleased.

But there is one more new thing I have to tell you about: I am playing saxophone in the band! My daddy bought me my own saxophone, and I can already play "Ode to Joy" and "Jingle Bells" by heart. Sometimes C. Peevie and I play duets in the living room, until my mom says her head hurts and can we please go down the basement.

I am thinking that I will now ask my mom and dad to please please please let me open my presents because it is now nine o'clock at night, and I am tired of waiting. So I will talk to you next year.

Double-Wides

noreply@blogger.com (E. Peevie) — Sun, 31 Oct 2010 19:18:00 +0000

My daughter is a very special girl. And by "special" I mean "stubborn" and "expensive" and "opinionated."

M. Peevie has always known exactly what she wanted, from the time she was a tiny baby. She refused to take a bottle, no matter what was in it. No brand of formula, not even breast milk. Not even breast milk spiked with coconut rum. She would sob and cry until her eyes looked like she was having an anaphylactic reaction. I was chained to her nursing schedule until she was four months old and learned to drink from a cup.

So now she's nine, almost ten. She is the whole package--beautiful, smart, talented. But she has one debilitating flaw (besides the stubbornness): she has the widest feet known to mankind. Girl-kind. Whatever. This presents problems with regard to her sense of high fashion. She loves grown-up shoes--no Mary Janes for this fashionista.

But forget about Payless, forget about Famous Footwear, forget about the department stores. Only a real shoe store will work for the Divine Miss M. Waxberg's Walk Shoppe, to be precise. Their motto is "If we can't fit you, nobody can." I started to feel hopeful the minute we walked through the door.

The saleslady, Trudy, measured M. Peevie's right foot at 7.5E and her left foot at 7EE. She brought us a few pairs of mom-approved styles, and when M. tried on the first pair, a beautiful pewter-colored Mary Jane, we asked her how they felt.

"Better than any other shoes I have ever worn!" she said appreciatively. I was ready to buy the MJ's and leave, but M.P. had her eye on some other, more fabulous styles. Like Finn Comforts ($264) and Kumfs ($179) and Helle Comfort ($203). Mr. Peevie and I had our eye on brands that delivered slightly less hurt to the wallet, and after about six hours of shoe-trying-on, M. Peevie narrowed her choices down to an adorable red sweater-top slip-on, and a hideously plain pair of brown Birkenstocks.

Guess which pair she picked?

So we ended up paying $130 for a swath of suede stitched to a bumpy slab of cork. Crazy. (I don't pay half that much for my own shoes. I typically wear a pair of five-year-old Land's End all-weather mocs that cost about $25.)

And then it turns out that the girl is not even allowed to wear the Birks to school because they have no back. They're not safe enough. I ask the principal for an exception for our hard-to-fit daughter, and she respectfully declines, after watching M. Peevie walk around in the room-to-grow shoes. I don't really blame her, but now I have to face M. Peevie with the news.

She cries and cries. "What about those cute red ones you liked?" I remind her.

"I hate them!" she declares, determined to be miserable; so I tell her we will go back to Waxberg's and try on every pair of shoes in the store until we find a pair that's a) under $150 and b) acceptable to her school and c) acceptable to M. Peevie's finicky sense of fashion. We put the Birks back in the box to be returned to the store.

A few days later, M. Peevie is dressed for church, and as she's tying the laces on her sneakers, she says, "I sure wish I had those Birkenstocks to wear with this outfit." I looked at Mr. Peevie, and he looked at me and shook his head.

"Please!" I mouthed, and he reluctantly agreed.

"M.," I said, "Daddy and I have a birthday present for you, and we're thinking of giving it to you a couple of weeks early." Her face lighted up. "Do you know what it is? Do you want your present early?"

"Yes!" she said happily, "and I think it might be those special shoes!" It was. I handed the box to her, and she put the shoes on, and ran over and bear-hugged me until I was concave. "Thank you, Mommy and Daddy, thank you!" she said, over and over.

So now M. Peevie has an expensive pair of shoes that she cannot wear to school. And we're still facing another trip to the shoe store to fit those double-wides.

Why Can't We All Just Get Along?

noreply@blogger.com (E. Peevie) — Sat, 09 Oct 2010 03:19:00 +0000

Sometimes I tweet (follow me @EPeevie) political links or comments, and then my conservative friends and family reply, and then we get into these long debates in which we talk past each other without making any progress toward mutual understanding or consensus. Take this dialogue, for example:

EPeevie: Why are so many middle-income folks so intent upon preserving the inordinately low tax rates of the super-rich?

(This was in reference to a prior tweet posting a link of a Fortune Magazine interview with Warren Buffett in which he proposes tax cuts for all but the super-rich.)

TeaPartyPolly: Because I think we should all pay less taxes as it is. Again, I'll cite the IRS statistic: The top 1% of tax earners already pay 39% of the taxes; the top 25% of earners pay 86% of all taxes; the top 50% pay 97% of the taxes. When will enough be enough?

EPeevie: So what if 1% pay 39% of the taxes? That figure is meaningless out of context. Maybe they pay 39% of the taxes, but they make 90% of the income. I'm not saying this is true--just that context makes a difference.

I still don't get why middle incomers oppose Buffett's proposal that taxes should be reduced for most people but increased for the super-rich. Buffett himself says it would have no impact on entrepreneurism--and I guess he should know.

TPPolly: My reference is the Constitution and the writings of the founders of our country who envisioned a place where people are free to work as hard as they are motivated and the government gets out of the way as much as possible. The things that people want to increase taxes on the wealthy for are not things that the Constitution/founders envisioned government taking a role in.

ReverendP: Hitting those with inomes over $250K is hitting small business, as I noted in my previous post. Small business persons invest in widgets, widget machines, and hire widget makers and widget sellers. It is called employment. Why do you suppose K. Marx was committed to a graduated income tax?

OfficerFriendly: Those are the people who create the jobs. The government takes money, and while government helps a small percentage of people, it wastes far more money than it puts to use.

BTW, I'm middle income, and my taxes went up this year, and if the Bush tax cuts don't get renewed, my taxes will go up this year by $4,000. Also, they've delayed our property tax bills until after the election because they raised the multiplier. That means that even though my house gets water every time it rains, and is worth half as much as it was five years ago, my taxes continue to rise every year.

And we'll have to pay the taxes at Christmas. The only reasons politicians talk about "the rich" is to get you to look up so you don't see the uppercut to the chin coming. We should stop worrying about how to hurt other, rich evil people and start worrying about what they are doing to us.

TPPolly: The class envy card that liberals play is so subtle that it's powerful.

EPeevie: Somehow I don't think Warren Buffett is motivated by class envy.

Warren Buffett was talking about increasing the tax rate for the super-rich, not small business owners. 100K, as you mentioned earlier, and even 250K, do not qualify. Think hedge fund managers, with multi-million dollar bonuses. The lowest earning hedge fund manager in 2004 made $65 MILLION DOLLARS.

And finally, I believe that the Constitution did not envision many things that we are dealing with today. It is a great document, but "Constitutional idolatry" takes us down the wrong road.

I totally agree that the federal government is bloated and often wasteful and ineffective. But I don't agree that the first place we should look to de-bloat is social programs that help the poor because the Constitution, written by aristocrats, didn't address the problem.

OfficerFriendly: You are falling into the trap laid for you, namely that the only choices are to raise taxes or hurt poor people.

TPPolly: Warren Buffett is not motivated by class envy because he's not a politician seeking re-election on the basis of "vote for me and I'll soak those rich people and give you their money."

I would also say where the Constitution is wrong then let's change that...otherwise we must play by the game rules we've been given and not cheat against our agreed-upon rules by running around the end and undermining the Constitution.

RevP: I think Warren Buffett, Obama, O'Biden, Kerry and George Soros should volunteer to make larger contributions (taxes). But why should the government put a gun to our heads (the tax system) in order for them to determine who gets their handouts of my money?

OfficerFriendly: How come everybody quotes Warren Buffett when he says that the government should raise taxes on the super-rich, but then conveniently forgets to quote him on the second half of his comment. Context works both ways.

EPeevie: Which part, OF, the part where he says raising taxes on the super-rich won't inhibit entrepreneurs, or the part where he says that taxes should be reduced for people at lower incomes?

OfficerFriendly: Taxes should be reduced on middle and upper middle income. That part is never talked about by politicians. The debate now is whether to raise our taxes or leave them the same--not reduce them.

TPPolly: It is simply not the government's place to decide an arbitrary number at which anyone has "made enough." We don't know what they do with that money--they may want to give large amounts to charity. Frankly, it isn't anybody's business what people do with what they make.

How frequently must we say it...ours is not a nation founded upon socialistic redistribution of wealth. If that's what we want, then let's change the Constitution to look like North Korea's.

OfficerFriendly: Plus, if there is a ceiling above which you cannot rise, no matter how hard you work or how lucky you get, then people would stop trying hard or taking chances.

EPeevie: Yes, I'm going to stop trying hard or taking chances if the government taxes me at above 17 percent once my income reaches ONE MILLION BAJILLION DOLLARS per year.

...

At this point, I interrupted the debate to ask permission to use the conversation in a blog post because "I think it is a brilliant example of how "liberals" (I know that's how you think of me, even though I don't think of myself that way) and conservatives talk past each other." Everybody agreed, and TPPolly added a bit of what I saw as irony:

TPPolly: I don't think I'm talking past anyone...I'm making points, but they are not being responded to. Specifically, you seem unable to get past the issue of our Constitution.

RevP had the last somewhat off-point, unsourced last word in the FB discussion: Well, you have to love ObamaCare, presided over by a President who smokes, supervised by an obese surgeon general and financed by a treasury secretary who cheated on his taxes. Billionaires will not risk their big money if they only get to take home 15% of it or less. Right now most billionaires are keeping 75% of their wealth out of taxable areas...like hiring and investing business.

What do you think? Were we talking past each other? That's how I see it: I raised a question about taxing the super-rich, and the conversation turned to the straw-man arguments of income ceilings and local property taxes and whether or not the Constitution allows for graduated income tax.

Clearly, my friend TPPolly did not see it that way. For him, the Constitution question was integral to the discussion of tax rates; and whereas I felt like I had addressed the issue, he believed I avoided it.

Is this little FB debate a microcosm of the national political debate? Is there any hope for political consensus, or even compromise?

Vagina Dialogues, Revisited

noreply@blogger.com (E. Peevie) — Wed, 29 Sep 2010 04:43:00 +0000

I stopped at Trader Joe's to pick up some wine and noshes on Friday, before heading out of town with my girl peeps. "Have fun, and behave yourself!" said the cheerful clerk. (They're always cheerful at Trader Joe's. It's part of the job description.)

"Make up your mind," I said hilariously. "Have fun, or behave myself?" Aaahhh-hahahahaha. I do love my own sense of humor.

This group of peeps has vacayed together before; the stories are recounted in Vagina Dialogues I, II, III and IV. This trip we were down three members (four if you include L-Tiny): Vespinator moved to Germany (how rude), Rock Star is promoting her new CD on a 10-day Midwest tour, and the Professor is re-prioritizing.

We navigated Friday night traffic, met up with peeps along the way, and came up with the first catch-phrase of the weekend: "This trip is a well-oiled machine," J. Cool kept saying, "Well-oiled machine. Everything is under control and running smoothly." This, after she spent an hour-and-a-half driving less than ten miles from her house to my house.

We finally arrived at the cabin in the woods around 10 p.m., and we were more than ready to tip a glass of wine or two. Somehow we stayed up well past midnight--two of us until 3 a.m.--eating cheese and drinking wine with labels like Pirate Booty and Evil Twin. Our conversational topics included boyfriends, movies, kids, jobs, house renovating, and the pronunciation of "gor-GON-zola" and "PAP-ricka."

We also discussed our plans to go kayaking the next morning, which ONE OF US had spent HOURS researching and planning. After the long drive and several glasses of wine, the thought of spending a couple of damp hours testing our upper body strength against a swift current did not sound appealing to one or two group members. Actually, all of them, except me.

The next morning we again debated the merits of going kayaking on the scenic Pigeon River. The day was overcast and chilly, and the stakeholders were sort of inclined to noodle around antique shops and go to wine tastings rather than getting in touch with their inner outdoorswoman.

"It's so gloomy," one whined.

"My broken rib still hurts," complained the accident-prone one.

"I hate nature," said a third.

"Two-and-a-half hours?" they chorused. "My muscles are sore just thinking about it."

We put Skip, the cheerful and obliging shop-keeper at Kayak-Kayak in Holland, MI, on speaker-phone. "Tell you what," he said tinnily. "Come on over to the shop, and I'll drive you down to the river. If it's raining too much, I'll refund all your money." This was a more-than-reasonable offer, and we headed up to Holland. (Or is that down to Holland? I'm bad at geography.) It started drizzling, then really raining on the drive up, and Bob the Builder could not let it go.

"Here, E. Peevie," she said helpfully, "you can borrow my sunglasses." Beat. "They'll keep the rain out of your eyes." Squeak, squeak, swish, swish went the wipers as we followed Skip and his trailer of brightly colored kayaks down the highway.

"I'm just going to close my eyes and imagine I'm sitting by a fireplace holding a glass of wine," Bob said. I threw a Look at her, but even I was starting to wonder if maybe this was not a great idea after all.

"How far away is this place?" we wondered, as the miles blurred by; and the rain kept coming. We had thought it was a mile or two up the road, but--maybe because of the rain, and because of Bob the Builder's unrelenting teasing--it seemed like we were traveling to another state.

Finally, we pulled over and bounced down a rutted road. Skip backed his trailer up against the shore and started unloading kayaks. A tiny sliver of blue sky appeared, but the clouds kept drizzling, and we pulled our hoods and hats down over our faces. Skip pointed us to the life jackets, but reassured the hydrophobes among us that the river would rarely be more than a few feet deep. He pulled a blue tandem kayak off the trailer and dragged it to the water's edge.

"This one's ours, J.Cool," I said. The others were all taking singles, but J.Cool has back issues, and I had volunteered to be her chief paddler. We climbed in, and Skip pushed us off the shore. We paddled out into the middle of the gentle current and waited for the singles kayaks to join us. Spike found a rhythm easily, and quickly turned out into the current; BrokeGirl wasn't very far behind.

But Queen and Bob the Builder, OMG. They spent some time talking over paddling strategy with Skip, and then he pushed them away from the beach. Bob headed straight into the weeds on the opposite bank; and Queen paddled in circles. Bob freed herself from the river flora, turned herself around, and paddled back across to the other bank; and Queen paddled in circles.

J. Cool and I drifted and watched the unfolding drama of Urban Girls v. Pigeon River, periodically calling out to them supportively. And by "calling out to them supportively," I mean "laughing hysterically."

"Shut the eff up!" Queen yelled, somehow switching from clockwise circles to counter-clockwise circles.

Eventually, the comedy portion of the kayaking expedition ended, and our group meandered down the Pigeon River. The sky drizzled, stopped, and drizzled some more; the sun made occasional promises, but failed to deliver. We disturbed a great blue heron, who lifted up from the shallows and spread his blue-gray wings against the gray-blue sky. A hundred yards further down, we startled his mate, who also flapped languidly away. A pair of wood ducks floated in the weeds, barely glancing over as we paddled by.

"This is my new favorite sport!" Bob the Builder allowed, and I maturely resisted saying, "I told you so!"

Until now.

After an hour or so of paddling, drifting, and floating downstream, we headed back upstream to our beachhead, where Skip was waiting to pull us ashore. I think he was a little surprised that we had stayed out as long as we did in the not-so-accommodating weather; or maybe he expected one or more of us to die a watery death and not return at all.

"Way to go, ladies!" he called out cheerfully as we approached the beach where he waited in the shallows in his shorts and Keens. "I'm so proud of you! Next trip you get half off!" He clearly enjoyed putting people on the river.

"I'll bet he's a retired bond trader who left the big city and opened up the little kayak shop that he had always dreamed of," profiled BrokeGirl. Sure enough, when we asked him, he said he had retired from Goldman Sachs and moved from New York a few years earlier.

I love my peeps, and I could not be more grateful for their friendship and the opportunity to hang with them, away from the chaos and responsibility of real life. But as it often happens, I was also grateful to come home to my little family, to eat grill-marked hotdogs with them, and to listen to my delicate flower of a little daughter belting out Bon Jovi's Shot Through the Heart in the shower.

NOTE: I borrowed the heron photo from NJ Bird Photos which has hundreds of really fabulous photographs.

Transitions

noreply@blogger.com (E. Peevie) — Sun, 19 Sep 2010 19:48:00 +0000

I gave up my bon-bon-eating, People's-Court-watching, freelance-writing life of leisure, freedom, and flexibility; and I have acquired gainful employment. Full-time gainful employment.

I will not miss the broke-ness of the last two years, when new clients and new projects were few and far between. I will not miss the narcissism and personality disorders of certain clients. I will not miss having to fight for every dollar on every quote. I will not miss clients who pay me late, even after agreeing to a contract which stipulates the terms of payment QUITE CLEARLY thankyouverymuch. I will especially not miss clients who ignore my invoices and don't pay at all. (How do they sleep at night?) And I will not miss being asked to work for free, on spec, on commission, on percentage, and other euphemisms for slavery.

I will miss the bon-bons, Judge Marilyn, the flexibility, and the afternoon naps. I will especially miss the thrill of landing a new client, and the intellectual and creative stimulation that comes from having a variety of projects from a variety of clients.

But I'm happy to be making this transition at this stage in my life and my career. I like having an office to go to--especially one that is only 3.2 miles from my home! I like having colleagues nearby, and camaraderie of the workplace. I like not having short people follow me into the bathroom, and I like getting a regular paycheck.

I got my first paycheck on Wednesday, and spent a third of it on Friday getting two new tires after getting a flat on the way to work in the morning. (Because they say, you know, that you can't just replace one old tire.) Apparently, I ran over a jagged piece of metal (I heard the pop!), which did not play nice with the Bridgestone. This was my third punctured tire in eight months. Is the Universe trying to tell me something?

The young Peevies are adjusting well so far, ten days into the new schedule. They are excited that their allowance will soon be reinstated, and that they get picked up by friends most days after school. They are getting quite good at making their own breakfast and lunch--although I recently learned that A. Peevie has a tiny forgetting-his-lunch problem. Fortunately, Mrs. LunchLady takes care of him.

Now I just need to complete my own transition adjustment, so that I can continue to regale my loyal Green Room subscribers with frequent tales of hilarity, woe, and the occasional bit of political propaganda. I'm working on it, people.

Sisterhood of the Traveling Purse

noreply@blogger.com (E. Peevie) — Sat, 11 Sep 2010 05:30:00 +0000

A few years ago I bought a cute purse at a resale shop. It was sort of blue-jean blue, with gold threads interwoven throughout the fabric. I paid about $10 for it, or maybe $12.

I brought the purse to a gathering of a few friends; and one friend in particular, BrokeGirl, admired it a great deal.

"Here, have it," I said spontaneously, dumping out the contents and handing it to her. "I'll just put my stuff in a plastic bag until I get home." It didn't feel like a big deal to me, but she was touched, which in turn gave me warm fuzzies. As Friend Phoebe figured out, there is no such thing as a selfless good deed:

Phoebe: [on phone] I have found a selfless good deed. I went to the park and let a bee sting me.
Joey Tribbiani: How is that a selfless good deed?
Phoebe: It makes the bee look tough in front of his bee friends. The bee's happy and I am definitely not.
Joey Tribbiani: Uh, Pheebs, you know the bee probably died after it stung you?
Phoebe: [stares blankly] ...Dammit.
[hangs up]

The story doesn't end with BrokeGirl. Many months later, BrokeGirl was visiting with our mutual friend Catosa, and Catosa admired the purse. BrokeGirl decided that the well-loved purse should continue her soon-to-be-epic journey, so she dumped out the contents and gave it to Catosa.

Subsequently, Catosa, who lives in Estes Park, Colorado, gave it to C-Rey, who held onto it for several months before giving it to a "darling, sweet woman" from her church, JaMo. At the moment, the Traveling Purse is living happily with JaMo in Denver, Colorado--as far as I know.

I feel sort of proud to be the first donor of the traveling purse. If I had any inclination that the purse would become such a symbol of friendship and generosity, I would have taken a photo of it hanging over BrokeGirl's shoulder--but alas. I had no prescience, no foreknowledge, no psychic abilities.

But if you admire a cute blue fabric purse, and its owner says, here, have it!--please send me a photo, and let me know how long you hang on to it before you feel compelled to give it to another admirer.

Happiness Is...

noreply@blogger.com (E. Peevie) — Wed, 08 Sep 2010 04:30:00 +0000

..sleeping until you wake up naturally, with no alarm clock.

...eating something sweet for breakfast.

...hiking on the Kal-Haven trail

...taking photos of bright blooms and butterflies on the Kal-Haven trail.

...a covered bridge.

...waving to a kayaker on the Black River.

...when the Black River kayaker interrupts his paddling rhythm in order to wave back.

...sharing a giant bag of pink and blue cotton candy.

...having dessert first. At this place.

...reading a book on the beach.

...a perfect frisbee throw.

...grilling the perfect burger. And then eating it.

...a whole day of no kid-bickering. Not that I would know. I'm just sayin'.

Young Sociopaths Next Door, Part 2

noreply@blogger.com (E. Peevie) — Thu, 26 Aug 2010 19:59:00 +0000

So, I was telling you about the pre-pubescent sociopaths next door, BUT. There is more.

"Mom," A. Peevie said, "Curly (formely known as A.Boy) took C.Peevie's game and M.Peevie's game, and he won't give them back."

I am starting to get tired of conversations that begin with, "Curly took..." or "Curly did..." or "Curly said..."

"How do you know Curly took them, A. Peevie?" I asked.

I just know, he insisted, so I suggested that he tell C. Peevie and M. Peevie to go to Curly and ask for the games back. Less than an hour later, he was back.

"Mom," A. Peevie said, his eyebrows crawling toward each other other below a line of worry on his forehead, "Curly gave the games back."

"Well, that's good, right?" I said.

"Not exactly," he said. "He said he found them in the grass. He lied, Mom. He stole them, and then he lied about finding them in the grass." The heartbreak of betrayal and disillusionment spread across A. Peevie's face. Again.

"Wait just a cotton-pickin' minute," I said. "He said he found BOTH games outside in the grass?" That was enough to trigger my inner closer, and I headed over to confront the little miscreant. He was standing on his porch next to his mother.

"Curly," I said, trying not to sound like a Guantanamo interrogator, "A. Peevie told me that we were missing two DS games, and that you found them in the grass. Is that right?"

"Uh huh," he agreed, looking away.

"Curly, look at my eyes," I said, "C. Peevie's game was missing, and you found it in the grass. M. Peevie's game was missing and you found it in the grass. You're telling me you found two game boy games in the grass?"

He looked into my eyes briefly, but couldn't hold his gaze there. "Yeah," he said, unconvincingly.

"Where did you find them?" I asked him, figuring that the more lies he had to tell, the easier it would be to trip him up.

It didn't work. "I found one over there by the street, but in the grass," he said, still not making eye contact, and pointing to the curb, "and the other one here, by the garden."

"Hmmm," I said. I looked at him. He glanced at me, and looked away. "Curly, are you sure you didn't borrow the games without asking, and then you said you found them in the grass because you wanted to give them back?"

"No," he said. "I didn't borrow them."

"OK," I said. I was out of gas, and my career as an interrogator was going down the toilet. But then his mom saved me.

"What do you say, Curly?" she asked him. I was a little taken aback. Why did she ask that question? But Curly fell into her inadvertent trap.

"Sorry," he said softly, looking at his shoes.

"What are you sorry for, Curly?" I said, my new career back on track. "Are you sorry that you borrowed the games without asking? If you tell me the truth, I won't be angry with you." Well, ironically, that last bit was sort of a lie.

"Yes," he admitted. Then we had a little conversation about not "borrowing" things without asking, and about if you do something wrong, you just make it worse if you lie about it. The fact that Curly could barely make eye contact during the whole conversation is a good sign, I think. Perhaps he is not (yet) a sociopath. But his mom better start taking this stuff seriously, or he is going to end up in jail whether he is a sociopath or not.

The most disturbing thing about this whole situation is that Mom was sitting there the whole time, and even at the end, she never said anything to me about her son stealing our stuff and then lying about it; and as far as I know, she never gave him any consequences for his antisocial behaviors.

And now I wonder if C. Peevie's mysteriously missing $80 baseball glove is upstairs in Curly's room.

First Fruits

noreply@blogger.com (E. Peevie) — Thu, 26 Aug 2010 17:03:00 +0000

My first harvest, from my little city garden. It makes me so happy.

I posted about my favorite salsa recipe before, but when I went back and clicked on the link I provided, it was sort of lame. You had to search the Cuisinart website to find the recipe--and this blog believes in keeping things simple. Hence, here's the recipe for the best salsa this side of Mexico, slightly modified from the Cuisinart cookbook:

Fresh Tomato and Corn Salsa

Makes 2 cups (it's so good you'll want to double this recipe)

1 small onion peeled, cut into 1" pieces
1/3 c. fresh basil (or cilantro, if you like that soapy-tasting stuff)
1 medium salsa pepper, seeded, cut into 1" pieces
(or jalapeno, or whatever kind of hot pepper you like)
3 medium vine-ripened tomatoes, cut into 1" pieces
1.5 teaspoons fresh lime juice
2/3 cup fresh or frozen corn kernels
3/4 teaspoon Kosher salt

Place onion, basil and pepper in work bowl. Process until finely chopped, about 5 second. Scrape work bowl. Add tomatoes and lime juice. Pulse until tomatoes are coarsely chopped, about 5 to 7 times. Add corn and salt; pulse once or twice to combine. Let sit for 1 hour before serving to allow flavors to develop.

That is, if you can stand it.

If you use fresh ingredients from your own garden, you will feel like Martha Stewart on steroids, and everyone who tastes the salsa will bow down and worship you. And then they will ask you to make more, because it got all gone.

Anti-Logic

noreply@blogger.com (E. Peevie) — Thu, 26 Aug 2010 05:11:00 +0000

I just had a conversation with a government employee that made my brain bleed, and might possibly cause me to become a Libertarian.

I'm working on a government grant application, which all by itself is enough to cause spontaneous combustion. (Is that an oxymoron--"cause" and "spontaneous"? Educate me.) But today I had to call the Housing and Urban Development programmatic information help line--and I use the word "help" so loosely that it might fall right off the page.

My client had been told that a certain percentage should be allocated for salaries, and I wanted to confirm the percentage and clarify whether the salaries should be a certain percentage of the total grant request, or of the total budget? Simple enough, right?

Except not when you're dealing with a civil servant. Pardon my cynicism.

First, she referred me to a completely irrelevant section of the RFP, and was reading to me about conflicts of interest and partnerships. "This has nothing to do with my question," I pointed out, but she insisted that it did. She patiently "explained" it to me, over and over again, as though repetition would make it more relevant.

I think that's "magical thinking," government employee-style.

Finally, something I said got through to her, and she realized that she had been looking at the wrong section of the guidelines. Phew. I thought my troubles were over, and that I'd soon have the information I sought. "Hahaha," laughed God.

The actual relevant section of the guidelines stipulated that we must "indicate what percentage" of our award would be spent on salaries and benefits, and I said, "So what is the percentage you're looking for?"

"We can't give out that information," she bureaucratted. "It's based on a scale that we don't give out."

"Wait, what?" I protested. "But we will lose points if we don't have the correct percentage!"

"That's right," she agreed. "If we told people what our scales were, they would always pass the rating factor. They'd adjust their budget to fit the scale."

I am not even lying.

"But isn't that the point," I argued fecklessly, "for us to complete the application in the most acceptable way possible? How can we aim for the right percentage if you won't tell us what the percentage is?"

"You just put down what your plan is, and we'll tell you if you got it right," she said.

"You are fucking kidding me!" I almost said, "that is the most ass-backward thing I have ever heard!"

Pardon my French. But seriously, isn't it just about enough to make you want to vote for Ron Paul?

Young Sociopaths Next Door, Part I

noreply@blogger.com (E. Peevie) — Fri, 20 Aug 2010 05:01:00 +0000

My tender-hearted middle son is learning a very difficult life lesson: people suck. They lie and they steal and they hurt you--and some can do it without even blinking. It is breaking his heart, and consequently, it is breaking my heart as well.

We were so happy when our new neighbors moved in, because they have two young boys for A. Peevie to play with. He was too shy to introduce himself when we first saw them, but within two days the three boys were practically inseparable. A. Peevie could barely bring himself to come in and eat dinner when M.Boy and A.Boy were around.

And then things started disappearing. We imagined at first that we had Borrowers--that Pod and Homily and little Arrietty had moved into our walls and had suddenly found an unexpected use for video game cartridges and Pokemon cards.

One day, when M. Peevie was frustrated about her missing cards, she picked up her gumption and marched right next door and rang the bell. "A.Boy," she said firmly, "Do you have my Pokemon cards here?" He did, and she got them back. I was sort of impressed at her resolve.

Another time, A. Peevie was fiercely upset that M.Boy had stolen a really good card from another neighbor boy, K-Pup. He was actually crying and sobbing about the injustice of it all. "Why would M.Boy do that?" he asked, not entirely rhetorically. "Why won't he give it back? It's not right."

Then he became the Avenging Angel. "I'm going to get K-Pup's card back," he said firmly, wiping his tears and putting on his red cape. "I'm going to tell M-Boy that he has to give K-Pup his card back, and I'm gonna keep on nagging him until he does it." He approached M-Boy several times about the card, but M-Boy had a different excuse every time. The last time, A. Peevie told me, M-Boy said he wouldn't give it back because, he said, "I'm evil." I am not even lying.

Not only did things disappear, but we also learned that the A/M-Boys were trying to obtain our wireless password so that they could have wireless access without paying for it. "Our mom needs it because she needs to pay bills," A-Boy told A. Peevie disingenuously, and repeatedly.

"Did you give it to them, A.?" I asked.

"No," he said, "And plus, I know they're lying." He had asked A/M-Mom whether she had asked them for the wireless password, and she knew nothing about it. Again, this broke A. Peevie's heart, and he wept because his heart felt betrayed.

Check in tomorrow for Young Sociopaths Next Door, Part II, in which a young sociopath gets totally busted

South Haven, Reprised

noreply@blogger.com (E. Peevie) — Mon, 16 Aug 2010 21:03:00 +0000

Three-fifths of the Peevies returned to South Haven last week, accompanied by our friends the Dr. and Mr. Paradigm Shift and their two kids, SamWise and E-Dude.

We staked out our beach claim, and headed out into the warm-for-Lake-Michigan water. While we were far out from the beach, on the sand bar past the over-our-head water, we noticed a blond-headed kid swimming toward us. As he got closer, I thought to myself, "Hey, that kid looks a lot like Type A, A. Peevie's good friend from school." But that would have been ridiculously unlikely, so I turned away.

He kept coming, invading our swim-space, but before I could get annoyed, I realized that it was, indeed, Type A, who lives a mile or two away from us in the city, but who somehow found us 130 miles away, in the middle of Lake Michigan, without pre-arrangement. I would like to know, if any of my readers have the statistical savvy and inclination to do the calculation: What are the odds?

The kids found a huge log, which they spent hours moving around the water. They used it as a flotation device, as a boat, as a king-of-the-hill prop. We could not have purchased a better beach toy. While they logged time lugging the log, the grownups sat on beach chairs, getting skin cancer, drinking carbonated beverages, reading Brave New World (Dr. PS) and The Second Civil War (me), and chatting about how perfect our lives were at that moment.

We played 500 off the deck with a soccer ball. We watched shows like People Getting Their Arms Bitten Off By Sharks and Jobs That Make Normal People Throw Up. Plus--bonus!--I got to watch my boyfriend Vincent in the season seven finale and season eight opener of Law and Order: CI. Sigh.

I miss you, South Haven. See you again in a couple of weeks, I hope.

Trade-Off

noreply@blogger.com (E. Peevie) — Wed, 04 Aug 2010 16:17:00 +0000

I might be leaving my life of bon-bon eating leisure to work full time. This will be a huge adjustment, not just for me, but for the entire family. It will be nice to have a steady paycheck--but we are all realistic about the trade-offs.

"Can we order pizza tonight?" A. Peevie asked.

"How about if I make pizza instead?" I suggested. "We're sort of cash poor at the moment."

"We're always cash poor," C. Peevie observed.

"Well, if I get a full-time job, we won't be cash poor any more," I said. "But we'll be time-poor."

"And Mommy-poor," said M. Peevie, neatly summarizing the primary drawback to the new plan.

My heart broke just a tiny bit.

No Stories, Just Pictures

noreply@blogger.com (E. Peevie) — Mon, 02 Aug 2010 16:45:00 +0000

My muse has departed. I have stories flitting around in the back of my head, but my words are failing me.

More on this later, but for now, I just feel like posting a few photos of Paradise.

Sand boy, AKA A. Peevie

Cousin T-Bone, airborne, watched by C. Peevie.

A. Peevie, C. Peevie, and Cousin Ri-Ri over there in the right corner

A fierce predator, sculpted by J-Sell.

Happy Girl, M. Peevie, expressing her joie de vivre

Cousin T-Bone and C. Peevie

Old-fashioned fun.

Sleepy Hollow, 11A. Highly recommended.

Sleepy Hollow

noreply@blogger.com (E. Peevie) — Wed, 28 Jul 2010 22:33:00 +0000

Arrived Sunday at 4:30. Unpacked car, ate subs and pizza, and headed for the beach by 6 p.m.

Waves so big, thought we were in Ocean City, NJ. Heard rumors of riptides; kept eagle eye on M. Peevie who apparently has no fear of waves or being carried out to sea. Kept calling her to come closer to shore. Agreed with SIL that both of us were strong enough swimmers to rescue her. Agreed with BIL that neither of us felt like going for a swim at the moment.

A. Peevie's anxiety kicked into gear, and he hollered at M. Peevie over the breaking waves and stiff breeze to come in closer. "You're going to drown!" he screamed helpfully, and looked over at me with a worried expression on his face. I walked down to the wet sand and waved her in.

"M. Peevie," I instructed, "You must stay near the boys. Don't go out any farther than they go out." The boys were fairly safety-conscious, having learned a new word (riptide) in the last hour.

"But mom," M. Peevie said, "It's not even deep! It's barely up to my waist!"

"M. Peevie," I said sternly, "Either come in out of the water, or stay near the boys. Your choice." Fine, she harrumphed, and waded back out into the crashing surf.

Now it's Wednesday, and I fully admit: I could get used to this: hanging out at the pool, hanging out at the beach, playing tennis, taking naps, drinking adult beverages, and reading. Oh, and I got to watch several epis from a L&O:CI marathon featuring my boyfriend. Now that he's on cable, I don't get to see him as often as I used to.

Suffrage

noreply@blogger.com (E. Peevie) — Sat, 17 Jul 2010 17:54:00 +0000

An unexpected Facebook friend request showed up in my inbox today--from my Dad.

"Peevie Daddy wants to be friends on Facebook," the subject line read. My jaw dropped, but I immediately hit "Confirm Friend." Then I logged into my FB account and posted as my status, "I wonder how many nonagenarians have Facebook accounts?" Just curious.

I wanted to know what prompted dad to join FB, so I called him. My dad answered, but quickly handed the phone over to mom before I could get to the crux of the matter. (He was busy watching the Phillies lose to the Cubs for the second time in a row.)

"Mom," I said. "Guess what? Dad just friended me on Facebook!"

"That was me," she said.

"But it said 'Peevie Daddy wants to be friends,' not 'Peevie Momma,'" I said.

"It wouldn't let me put two names down," she said.

"Riiiiight," I said, "But why did you put dad's name and not your name?"

"Oh," she said, "I thought I should put dad's name down."

"Hmm," I said, "and why did you think that?"

"Because he's the daddy," she said with a simple, anachronistic non-sequitur.