Oh how I’ve missed you so. Though the airwaves may have been quiet, I’ve been rather busy wading through the muck and mire of my little life here in cute and cuddly Eugene, Oregon. What’s that you ask? Oh yes, the tattoo. What is up with the tattoo, that gorgeous tattoo I had promised to show you and then never delivered? Why did I tease you so? I had no intention of jest, dear reader, the delay was an unfortunate result of my husband needing to spend not one but three two-hour stints with the tattoo artist formerly named Ryan. The very act of having tiny needles inject red, yellow and magenta dye into Corey’s arm took nearly a month of Saturdays and resulted in much scaling, scabbing and a nasty little magenta dye allergy. But as you can see, ‘twas entirely worth it as the final rendering is beauteous.

Where else have I been? Well, there was Thanksgiving (I’m the annual Turkey cooker since about 2001) and thanks to a well thawed-out free range Diestel bird and several bowlfuls of lemon zest, rosemary and olive oil, the meal was scrumdidlyumptious. There was much merriment with family in attendance (mom, sis and the newish boyfriend, the two freshly moved into their place in Vancouver, Washington). Stallwarts HGM and Jim, our good friends who show up at our door every year and who would not celebrate Thanksgiving if it weren’t for us, they being anti-Tgiving as well as con Xmas, brought delicious appetizers of stuffed mushrooms and a tasty Shiraz. Jason, our Taiwanese foreign exchange student who lives in our small in-law formerly known as the basement, and whose real name is spelled Jui-Shen, was late in replying to our invite, methinks it was a cultural snafu. Jason is wary of my tomato-laden cooking (there are no tomatoes in Taiwan) and since October has insisted on cooking his own meals (always the same dish, a motley concoction of burnt onion, garlic and soy that seeps up through the grates in our floors making us wish we had imposed a $50 smell tax on the apartment). Jason brought his friend, Antonio, an affable mate who is from Mexico, quick to laugh and patient with my halting Spanish. B, who is now 21 months, perfectly timed his toddlerishness. Just as the whipped cloud potatoes were being scooped onto plates he demanded to watch his Twenty Trucks DVD. We ate the entire meal, plus dessert, with the “Can you name twenty trucks? I sure do bet you can” song playing in the background. We chatted and laughed through dinner, and told our international friends how we all had been taught to believe the lies in the history textbooks of our youth. It wasn’t the Pilgrims that shared their meat and vegetables with the Indians on that hallowed celebratory feast, that first Thanksgiving. It was actually the other way around. If not for those nice Indians, the Pilgrims would have starved.

It’s really hard to make depression kicky and fun, and so I’ve written very little about my husband’s experience with depression over the last several years. Most of you had no idea. So surprise, Happy Holidays! Now that we’re loosening its tight grip on our small world, I can begin to make sense of the depression and maybe even laugh. Case in point: Corey, after months of my pleading, finally got his butt to a psychologist. This psychologist was supposed to act as a therapist and serve as someone to whom, other than myself, Corey could vent his frustrations. As fate would have it, this therapist was also a specialist in ADHD, and within fifteen minutes of Corey walking through his door, was well on his way to diagnosing him with ADHD. After further meetings and numerous diagnostic surveys, it was discovered that not only did Corey have ADHD but he had a particular brand of ADHD and that this particular brand of ADHD quite probably caused the depression which has so upset our happy little family. It’s a wonderful thing to have a label, an answer. So now C’s time off is spent digesting ADHD books with Chapter subheadings like “Memory Difficulties” and “How Not to be a Piss Poor Spouse” (Well, I made that last one up but you get the idea). I can’t say the ADHD diagnosis is a shock. Corey has always been a fast talker, anyone who has spent two minutes with Corey knows his words spill out at lightning speed. Oh, and for years I’ve called him “ADD boy” (mainly because he gets distracted easily and prefers to hold three different conversations at once with three different people, and usually succeeds). To be honest, Corey and I have always assumed that his mother had it too—those of you who have set foot in her museum of a house can attest to the amazing quantity of tschotchke and art and statues and pictures upon pictures upon pictures. It truly is a living shrine to ADD—which begs the question—is Corey’s ADHD biological or environmental or a lot of both?) And funnier still, only a month before Corey got his butt to the psychologist, one of his fourth grade students, in a private conversation regarding her work as an ADHD student, looked my husband, her teacher, straight in the eye and said, “Well, you’re ADD too, right?”

The ADHD diagnosis has been one gigantic DUH! I still have to remind Corey to do most household chores, which exhausts me and leaves me resenting my role as nagging bitch. Corey also, and more noticibly, retains his weird fetish that causes him to hoard everything (including fortune cookie wrappers)—a function of ADHD. If you’ve ever stood in our living room you’ve noticed the gazillion little toys, the bird’s nest, the Masai warrior beaded baskets, the porcelain bunnies and the three thousand books that line our shelves. Ninety percent of these objects are not mine and if Corey had his druthers, there would be twice as many sugar skulls from Oaxaca. But no, dear reader, at some point during 2004 in my third trimester and uncomfortable as hell, I demanded that my husband take half the shit down. It was the first time that I had won the “We have too much goddamn stuff” argument but it would not be the last. Now, as I write this, he’s boxing up books and sifting through greeting cards that have sat on our mantle since 2001. He’s making lists for himself that include the words, “Take out trash.” And he’s SMILING, he’s actually humming! Never before has a wife been so thrilled to learn that her husband has a mental disorder.

On a chilly day in early November, B was a cranky, sleep-deprived toddler wailing in his crib. He needed sleep, so much so that I felt even HE knew he needed sleep and yet try as he may, no dice. Noisy garbage trucks ambled by just outside his bedroom and our OCD -plagued neighbor was grinding away as he mowed his lawn for the fourth time that week. I lay on the couch trying to relax while B screamed his bloody head off and then quieted . . . and then stirred again. I wanted so much to clean the dishes, but because the kitchen is directly across from B’s bedroom and the acoustics in our old house rival the Metropolitan Opera, venturing anywhere near the kitchen is a recipe for disaster unless the child is in deep REM sleep. Thoroughly defeated, I settled into the living room couch ready to skim the newest issue of “Life and Style”, confident that the dishes would remain crusty. Just then, the phone rang and it was my mom, asking me what I’d like for Christmas. My sarcastic answer: A new house. As if the fairy princess herself had waved her wand and whispered in my ear, “And so you shall!” by the first week in December we were writing a check for $5,000, earnest money in negotiations to buy a house in Portland. Next time I’m asking for world peace.

Cheers and Happy Holidays,
Emily

It’s a shiny, happy world in which the Democrats control the House for the first time in twelve years and Nancy Pelosi is two bullets away from being President. It’s 11:10 PM on the west coast and I’m doing my own version of little B’s happy dance on my living room floor. Democrat Claire McCaskill just unseated Republican Jim Talent for the Missouri Senate seat. Montana may go blue too before the night is over. Rick Santorum, the gentleman who likened being gay to having sex with animals won’t be reprising his role as US Senator representing the great state of PA. Bob Casey Jr. trounced his ass in one of the first Democratic victories of the evening. And in a very delicious upset, Virginia’s incumbent Republican Senator George “Macaca” Allen appears to be losing to Democrat John Webb by a very slim margin. But going into a recount it’s oh so much better to have the numbers on your side. In a month or so we’ll know whether the D’s have taken the Senate and meanwhile we get to watch that horrible racist squirm. B’s asleep right now but I’m tempted to wake him up to tell him we’re no longer going to hell in a hand basket.

Even if we don’t wind up with the Senate, isn’t it lovely to know we’re done with the ridiculous flag burning bills and the anti-gay legislation and the “let’s rape the earth and tax the poorest” fare that we’ve grown accustomed to from the House? I’m interested to see what the Dems propose in the first few days of the new cycle. I’ve got my money on something health care related . . .maybe prescription drug coverage. It’s a populist dream and a Republican nightmare.

I once shook hands with Nancy Pelosi. It was the summer of ’95 and I had gone to see the eminently forgettable pop singer, Poe, sing her seminal “Hello” at an early morning radio spot in San Francisco. (Ten points to anyone who can quote me a Poe lyric, or even another song title—you can’t do it.) Pelosi was there, no doubt championing an important cause. With so few people in the studio, I ran up to her and blabbered something about it being an honor. She was already late for her radio spot, and as I jumped out of her way to let her pass, she grabbed my hand for the second time and said, “Wait, it was very nice to meet you but you didn’t tell me your name. What’s your name?” I told her. She repeated it back, slowly and with feeling in her voice. She looked me in the eye and the weight of her hand on mine, her close body language, her general vibe all told me that she was not only a fierce liberal woman politician from San Francisco, but blessed with a natural diplomacy and grace (oh how I’ve missed diplomacy and grace these last six years!). Two minutes with Nancy left a lasting impression. Imagine two years. Imagine a decade.


Thank you Dan Savage, for doing your part to defeat Rick Santorum. Thanks Mark Foley. Thanks to the Republican in whatever state it was that had to kick off his campaign running TV ads that said something to the effect, “I did not choke my mistress.”

Thank you to the Democrats who finally, at this late hour, too many years too late but finally, inexorably, for Christ’s sake thank God you finally did it, you got some balls. Thank you for speaking up. Thank you to all the volunteers who picked up the phone—be they Democrat, Republican, Independent or Martian. Thank you to groups like MoveOn.org . . . you sent me enough emails that I finally caved and used B’s naptime to call people in New York, Pennsylvania and Arizona. It was such a treat to call random folks in PA, the state where I experienced my first kiss, learned to drive and marched my first protest march. I talked with a sweet elderly man in PA’s tenth Congressional District who, when I called to urge him to vote for Bob Casey, Jr, for US Senate, replied, “Honey, it’s the only reason I’m going to the polls tomorrow. You bet I will!” How much fun was it when he and I launched into a communal lovefest over the candidate’s father and much beloved ex-Governor of PA, Bob Casey Senior? People, it was so much fun. I got to relive the eighties in an inspired trip down memory lane AND I convinced the guy to call his entire family to do the same thing. I HIGHLY RECOMMEND you try calling in ’08—it’s wickedly easy (you can sit at home in your Lazy Boy recliner and dial at your own pace) and it’s kind of fun. And with huge wins like this, you can feel really good about yourself having been a teensy weensy part of it. Tonight makes me inspired to run for office. What a foreign feeling it is--I actually feel good, hopeful even, about my party, about my government, about the world my son might grow up in.

Politics is sexy again.

B is not enjoying the Rec dance and music class. The class is deceptively perfect: It’s close to our house, he can run free and bang on stuff and show off for the ladies—all of his favorite pastimes, and it’s really, really cheap. He loves the magnet board on the wall just outside the class and if left to his own devices, could spend hours repositioning “boy” “like” and “cat” or hanging monkey-style from the water fountain in the hallway, but when we enter the mirrored room with buckets of costumes and musical instruments, he shrieks and bolts for the door.

Rec class is Mondays, Bounce gymnastics is Tuedays and Wednesdays, soccer is Thursdays and Playgroup is Fridays. As I’ve said before, my mantra is Wear the Fucker Out. Luckily, he’s reached an age where he’s eligible for the youngest groups in each field. At Bounce he’s a “Rollie Pollie,” at soccer a “Bunny” and at the Rec he’s . . . a cranky, ill -mannered twenty month old.

When I enrolled B in the Rec class a month ago, he was underage and so didn’t meet the requirements. The red blinking light on my computer screen told me so when I typed in his birthdate—and then it froze me out of the online database. It’s a weird sensation, being bitch-slapped by a database. I retaliated by getting crafty: I called a real live human being at the Rec department and hoped she wouldn’t do the math. “He’s twenty months. His birthday was Feb _ 2005.” “Perfect Dear,” the nice lady chimed. “You’re all set.”

A typical day at the Rec class consists of me dragging B around to the various stations in the room wherein I act out the tricks we’ve been asked to do (leap frog, high kicks, lunges) while my son sits on the floor and cries or runs to the door, rattling the metal lever as he works to bust out. In the moments when he isn’t planning his escape, his eyes look into mine as if to implore, “Mama, this ain’t Bounce. Why the fuck are we here?” To which, I would answer this: We’re here, Honey, because this costs about a third of what Bounce costs and because Monday mornings are always difficult, especially now with fall rain and your unending pleas to go "ou-sy” (go outside). We’re here because otherwise Mama will have to start drinking her expensive pear brandy, the stuff she reserves for Friday’s Battlestar episode, on early Monday morning just to take the edge off. We’re here because there’s a hole in Monday’s schedule and by God, Mama is going to fill it—before you came on the scene she scheduled events for a US Senator so she can sure as hell schedule you. We’re here because Mama can’t take another morning of you wailing and slapping the TV chanting “TT, TT!” (code for Teletubbies).

When I talk about Bounce gymnastics class, my normally pale face takes on the healthy glow of a newly kissed co-ed. Bounce makes me swoon. Bounce indulges my son’s need to wear himself out silly and my need for a midday nap. Plus, B loves Nadja, the brilliant teacher/owner. And Nadja adores B. They’re always giggling and hugging each other. And at the end of each class, Nadja stamps the kids on the back of their hands and the tops of the feet—sometimes it’s a cow, sometimes a kitty, the charm is that you never really know what it will be and therein lies the Bounce allure. The piece de resistance, however, is the glitter stick. Noisy children are suddenly quiet as they follow Nadja’s call to congregate in the center of the soft, padded floor, their eyes dewy, and arms outstretched in supplication so that she may give them that which they most covet—a swipe of the amazing glitter stick otherwise known as “SPARKLES.”

There is no glitter stick, no sparkles at the Rec class. The Rec teacher has the early morning faux chirpiness of someone who has never had children. Luckily, her first name is my mother’s middle name and it is for this reason only that I am able to recall it. The woman has mousy, dirty blonde hair, wears nondescript black jogging pants, and seems to embody every tired, disaffected college senior I’ve ever met. I feel bad for her. She has to lug out the clunky tumbling mats and the rickety little beam and the tiny tramp, which might as well be an inner tube with a cover on the top for all it’s pathetic glory. She takes out her trusty masking tape and draws a two foot by two foot square on the linoleum floor. She tells the kids that inside this sacred square they are to practice their kicks. I look at B as she calls out her orders. His facial expressions are always the same. He vacillates between bored, vacant stare and a squinty-eyed scowl that verges on outright contempt.

This woman with my mother’s middle name is not really the problem. The problem is another mother, a strange, awkward woman of no age, she could be 25 or 55, she is cursed with one of those seriously worn faces. She smells like Meth, bacon and cigarettes.

When it’s nice out, most of the parents take their kids to the park next to the Rec building. One morning after class, B was swinging on a big rubber tube with two children from our class. The scene was straight out of a Hallmark card--three cherubic blondes swinging in the morning sun. Their mother and I snapped pictures and pledged to share the photos. The mom told me my son’s eyes were beautiful. I told her how much I loved her little boy’s outfit. We were gelling and I was thinking possible play date. Meanwhile, Meth lady was standing on the sidelines, making awkward small talk. I, erroneously I see now, decided to answer her feeble asides. I told her B’s birthdate when she asked. I smiled half-heartedly when her voice cracked with excitement as she told me her son was just about the same age. Meanwhile, my new play date friend with the fellow towheads shrank back whenever Meth lady came closer. Meth lady is just one of those unfortunate souls that can’t seem to get it right. Her stained jeans and stale odor, her penchant for interrupting, I wanted to be far away from all of it, and luckily, B made a break for the rope ladder. I ambled after him and waved goodbye at my possible play date, repeating that I’d email her photos. She shepherded her kids close-in under her arms and headed in the opposite direction of the smell interloper.

On the rope ladder, B grabbed for the second tier and his little feet, pointed toes and kicking, left the ground. He reached higher with his right hand, slipped a bit and then recovered. Meth lady, assessing all of this from the swings, approached B from behind, hugged his little back and made a furtive attempt to place his foot on the next rung. Cradling him by his lower back, she took weird, mama sniffs of his hair. It was at that moment that I experienced a searing, visceral urge to tackle her in the sand and beat her with the chain link swing.

Instead I took hold of B’s hand, moving my body into her space and said, “Didn’t I hear you tell the teacher you have a fever of 103?”
“Oh, yeah. I do.”
“Then get away from my son.” I jerked B off the ladder and into my arms.

Meth lady followed us around the playground apologizing. I met her awkwardness with socially sanctioned “it’s Ok, It’s Ok”s. I was trying to placate the crazy bitch as the other moms scattered like a herd of frightened deer.

The next Monday, with my possible play date conspicuously absent and the other moms and grandmas dodging Meth lady at the beam, the summersault area and even at the frog jump, she latched onto me and wouldn’t let go.
Her brilliant opener was this: “Are you Grandma?”
To which I replied, “Um what?”
“I thought I heard you call him . . . I don’t know, are you his Grandma?”
“What? No. I’m his Mom.”
I tried to get away but B was still working on his summersault and Meth lady’s admittedly cute son was right there playing along with him, two boys communing through poorly executed gym moves. She kept on with it. “You know, my grandmother was the youngest grandmother in California history. She was a thirty year old grandmother.” The teacher called out that it was music time. As I held B’s hand walking toward the tambourines, maracas and triangles, I did the math. The best case scenario is both her mother and grandmother gave birth at 15. The worst case scenario is . . . much worse.

B’s refusal to do pretty much anything in class has made him the problem child. From day one, the teacher would look at me with pity in her eyes. I found myself saying things like, “Really, I don’t know what’s wrong with him this morning. Normally he loves to clap. He’s very social, really he is. And he’s been doing the butterfly for months now.” I’d be saying this to her while grabbing B as he leapt toward the windows, or as he rabidly scratched his ear. “Honey, we need to stay with the group,” I’d say. “C’mon, now let’s do nose to knees.” The teacher would sigh that condescending sigh and I’d swear she was thinking, “Poor, delusional woman, this kid’s clearly mentally retarded.”

At some point, the teacher and I realized we had a dysfunctional relationship, one that could not be fixed. Last week was the low point. I had a poor attitude driving in the car on our way to class. B had shown no enthusiasm whatsoever when I sang, “Dance and music, dance and music today” while Velcro-ing his shoes to get ready. His eyes were glazed over and disinterested in the drive there and when I pushed through the Rec room door, he started to kick and scream. And yet, I naively soldiered on.

We were a few minutes early so the teacher sat on the floor with us for a morning chat. We exchanged the obligatory how are you’s and as B twisted and turned in my arms, she gave me one of her sighs and a toothy, fake smile. B was agitated only a minute into the room and I was already exhausted. “You know,” I say, “I think it’s the fluorescent lights. I think he’s allergic to the lights.” I point to the ceiling where six rows of thick, canoe shaped lights rained down on us. The teacher’s skin looked sallow, ashen. “I’m allergic to some fluorescent lights, it depends on the frequency, and I’ve noticed B has some of my symptoms in certain stores—irritability, he’ll itch his skin, his eyes are red, he seems really uncomfortable and cranky. He’s been that way here ever since the first day. It must be the lights.” I could tell she didn’t believe me. But even still, she touched my knee and said, “Maybe next week we can do something about that.” I imagined six kids attempting summersaults in the dark.


Meth lady showed up late again, right as the teacher was bringing out the bin of scarves. B reached for the pink neon square, readying himself for serious twirling and waving. Meth lady knelt down beside B, cradled his head in her hands and planted a mouthy kiss on his forehead. B did not reciprocate. He simply waved his pink scarf up and down and trotted away. Meanwhile, I found myself lunging forward unsure of what I was about to do and while in motion, looked up to see the teacher staring not at Meth lady, but at me. It’s clear that she’d seen the kiss, the entire thing—including the furious look on my face that said, “Alright bitch, it’s time for a throwdown.” With wide, frightened eyes the teacher silently begged me not to cause a scene. I cleared my throat and forced a smile. “I hate you too,” I thought.

I really don’t like the teacher. She has an unhealthy fascination with the Woodpecker song, a song with only two lines. The song is vapid, stupid and annoying—all the nose pecking bullshit that she wants the kids to do is like nails on a chalkboard, like watered-down Barney and I just can’t deal. B won’t even attempt the inane head nod—which I admit makes me a little proud. He gives her that squinty -eyed stare whenever he hears the first few bars. He’s not down with her stupid reindeer games.

At Bounce, each child gets their own, huge tramp and Nadja plays “Animal Action,” a song in which the kids act out different animals—meow like a kitty, slither like a snake, fly like a bird—while dancing around their sizable, individual tramp. It’s so gosh darn adorable. Every toddler in the room has a permanent grin plastered on their face and happy moms and dads sit on the padded areas of the their little darlings’ tramps and smile while daydreaming about the two hour respite they’ll get during the post-Bounce nap. Nadja is charming and fun and B’s elephant is fucking fabulous. There's even a bubble machine.


At the Rec class, after the scarves and highly inappropriate kiss, the kids were given a little free time. B ran for the tiny balance beam. The mats that sat on either side were so askew that I made sure to hold his hand and his waist so that should he fall, he wouldn’t crack his head open on the linoleum floor. B was distracted. He was looking for the beanbags, the brightly colored, perfectly-sized -for –sitting-atop-little-heads beanbags that he normally works with at Bounce. On cue, the teacher walked over just as B was starting to fuss. She hadn't said anything, but the vibe was crystal clear: What's wrong with your mentally retarded child this time? I glanced at her with raised eyebrows and announced caustically, “He knows how to do the balance beam. He’s got great balance.”
To which she said,
“He learned that at Bounce right?”

B and I move on to the next station—the pathetic 2 foot by 2 foot square drawn on the floor with masking tape. I play Cheerleader and commence the right kick, left kick drill as B sits on the ground and sulks.
The teacher comes by and chirpily says, “You don’t want to do your kicks?” and B says “nonono” in his sweet sing-song voice and then runs in the opposite direction. Behind us on the speakers, some generic girly voice is singing about having fun and falling in love. The room is filled with such bargain basement syncopated rhythms and badly done techno that I actually find myself wishing she’d just be done with it and put on some Britney Spears. When the song is over, so is the class. B and I are the first ones out. My skin stops itching. I no longer have a headache. B smiles as he heads to the magnet board, skips even, and I realize we won’t be coming back.

My husband wants a tattoo for his 33rd Birthday. Today was the day and though I got to hold his hand in the first few minutes of the process, it was B’s naptime. Maybe it was when Ryan, the tattoo artist, put on the loud, death guild music or maybe it was after B’s second attempt to find the lizard in the terrarium came up with nothing—the look on B’s frustrated little face told me it was time for us to leave. I kissed my husband, who was by now grimacing in pain, and hauled B outside. As I opened the car door, B asked through tears, “Dada? Dada go?” To which I replied, “Dada’s getting a picture on his arm.” My son picked a classic moment for his first clearly discernible “WHY?” If I were to give him the truthful version I’d say something like this: “Monkey, Dada’s having a strange man shoot ink into his arm with tiny needles. It’s called a tattoo, Honey, and it hurts a lot. This is Dada’s warped, adorable way of saying that he still really loves Mama.”
But that would be highly inappropriate, so instead I say,
“Please stop crying. We’re going home right now, baby. We’ll see Dada later. Promise.” He doesn’t like this answer, perhaps he senses that Mama is hedging. I know this because he’s bucking and screeching, his body rigid as I try to pin his arms into the car seat. It’s not pretty. We’re an event, me and my son, like one of those staged happenings by the absurdists, I think “happenings” is actually what they called them. Regardless, I can feel we’ve generated quite an audience. The guy standing at the edge of the parking lot, extensively tattooed and with massive round tribal ear wear thinks I’m a horrible mother because I can’t get my son to stop screaming. The car next to ours has a woman sitting in the driver’s seat pretending not to notice that a toddler just kicked me hard in the chin. We’re impromptu entertainment and B’s wailing could shatter glass.

There’s a statistic out there that claims over half of the American population has tattoos. I would guess very few people with the name “Edna” have tattoos. Little boys and girls don’t have or absolutely should not have tattoos. The very old and very young are pretty much out. That leaves teenagers with all manner of body artwork and sorority girls with Drew Barrymore daisies on their ankles and Goth chicks with black scrawlings on their lower backs and hippies with the Japanese symbol for peace at the nape of their neck and biker dudes with naked women on their biceps and middle aged men with random shoulder tattoos chronicling something or other that seemed momentous at the time and Vietnam Vets and Korean War guys and very old World War Two military men with solidarity tattoos. Even our friend, a wonderful, kind woman with twin babies, a woman who’s so American she loves NASCAR and fantasizes about taking her kids to Disneyland, even she has a tattoo—it’s of Mickey Mouse.

I don’t have any tattoos. I’m of the mind that the only valid reason to get a tattoo is if something truly amazing or life shatteringly horrible has happened. This vital moment merits a permanent spot on one’s body, but only if one chooses the proper location (pick your best feature and please make sure it's not an area that will see significant sagging) and the perfect artistic rendition—a difficult formula to fulfill. And this is key: Any tattoo that a woman models damn well better go with a couture Chanel gown should she ever be invited to the Oscars. Anything else is just superfluous, silly, and the makings of a huge fashion faux pas. My husband has a much more laissez faire attitude about tattoos. He has one tattoo on his left hip—a 1913 comic strip image of KrazyKat and Ignatz Mouse-- and right now, as I type this, he’s having a large rose branded into his right forearm.

My husband wanted a rose because it’s my middle name. I find this deliriously sweet.

Roses are ubiquitous in tattoo culture. They’re everywhere. Rose buds, tiny tea roses, roses with fairies popping out, roses with hearts, thorny roses, roses formed in the shape of chalices, rose vines that twist around naked women, dancing roses, roses with knives, roses with name banners, Jesus and the cross roses, overtly sexual roses with gigantic, pointed clitorises, roses with butterflies, roses with frogs, roses with Jerry Bears, roses with smirking trolls, roses with fairy princesses, Japanese anime comic book roses, skull and cross bone roses, evil looking roses done in the deepest black, and happy roses done in baby-doll pastels. I dreamt about ugly, lame, height of cliché roses for a week.

In the end, we had to get very creative and ironically, very mundane. We went with a representation not found in the forty tattoo books we scoured or the 3,000 wall drawings we scanned—a true, naturalistic rose in full bloom, drawn to scale and with such painstaking attention to detail that it looked real. I wanted it pretty, as though it were freshly picked, with the right color gradations and shadows. I wanted it feminine—because although it was going on my husband’s arm, it was supposed to symbolize me. I wanted it, in one word, perfect.

Did we reach that nearly unattainable perfection? Today was just the beginning—the rose is half-way there. Next Saturday is Corey's final sitting. I’ll have photos of both versions posted here.

I'm late on this "Lost" review but I get a pass because the in-laws were in town and the kid's been entirely too cranky. So without further delay . . .

"Lost" may have redeemed itself in Wednesday’s third season premier, this, after a so-so second season with too many unanswered questions, too much lag time in the middle and a fondness for killing off some of the most interesting characters (Anna Lucia). Again they’re toying with us: The first shot is of a woman we’ve never met before (a la season two’s Desmond) in a house we don’t know. She is burning muffins and looking very post-modern-put-upon housewife. Cut to the bookclub: She’s in her living room surrounded by people dressed in khakis and Izod shirts. They sit on normal looking couches and argue over the choice of novel (we later see it’s something by Stephen King and one crazy blogger sleuthed about to discover it’s a hardcover reprint of “Carrie”--seriously). Muffin Lady is pissed because a male guest is trashing her book pick and in the heated back and forth it’s hinted that she’s somehow separated from her husband Ben, the Henry Gale imposter and possible leader of The Others. Moments later, an earthquake hits and the guests sprint for the doorways. Except it’s not an earthquake—it’s the Lost plane, Oceanic flight 815, screaming and popping through the air as it hurtles toward the earth. Outside, there is measured chaos as we see Ben call out orders to the men we know as Ethan and Goodwin—they must pretend to be survivors and report back. The last shots of the opener are of nicely dressed neighbors milling about finely manicured lawns that abut perfect “Pleasantville” homes . It’s a suburban utopia—well—a suburban utopia prone to magnetic pulses and plane crashes. But still, I am breathless with anticipation because I have to know: How is it that the Others came to own lawnmowers?

The opener was brilliant and compelling and the rest of the show, while chock full of entertaining moments, seemed to be just a hair shy of meeting that bar. A few scenes offered seriously memorable lines, most notably when Ben and Kate (in a pretty sundress) are eating a decadent breakfast beachside. Kate demands that her captor answer these questions: How are her friends, why is she there, what does he want from her, and Ben, ever the control freak, tells her in that weird, messianic voice, “The next two weeks are going to be very, very unpleasant.” Creepy. We don’t know how or why Kate’s world is going to suck, but the fact remains, Ben the weird Messiah guy says so and we can pretty much bank on it.

Meanwhile, Sawyer wakes to find himself in a giant hamster cage and then with the help of some other guy (formerly trapped in his own giant hamster cage and methinks an Others plant, though the motivation is unclear) gets loose and then promptly tasered by aforementioned Muffin Lady. My favorite Sawyer moment though, is when, after he’s spent what seems to be the better part of a day figuring out how to work the feed contraption and brags about it to his captor, Zeke (now beardless and considerably less scary), Zeke scoffs back, “It only took the bears two hours to figure that out.” Yes, we humans are a sad, pathetic lot deserving of being locked in hamster cages and Sawyer is dumber than a bear.

Meanwhile, Jack is trapped in a dark, cavernous room and Muffin Lady wants to feed him. Jack does not want to eat. Jack must eat, Muffin Lady says, because they’ve injected him with some mysterious Others drug that leads to massive dehydration and hallucinations if the injectee goes without food. Jack agrees to be a good boy and eat his meal, but then behaves badly. He attacks Muffin Lady, grabs her taser in the scuffle and while trying to escape encounters Messiah Ben. Jack wants to open the big, heavy door to get away from Messiah Ben but Muffin Lady tells him that if he does, they’ll all die. Curious. So what does Jack do? He opens it and out pours an avalanche of water. Muffin Lady and Jack must swim to safety, and coughing and sputtering for air, Muffin Lady punches bad boy Jack so handily, she knocks him out, allowing for a cool camera angle of floaty Jack captured from below. Score one for Muffin Lady—damn is that broad tough! She’s set to be a major player in this season, perhaps the desperate outcast and lone defector among the Others. And with a little luck, she’ll go Carrie on everyone (as the Stephen King book shot might imply)—blood spatter for all, a severed head for Ben. Or maybe the writers will simply slum it opting instead for the boring and obvious—could she be Jack’s next love interest?

I for one wasn’t so interested in the Jack backstory. Woe is him, sad, pathetic Jack—he of the slutty ex-wife and distraught alcoholic father. As for Muffin Lady’s Jedi mind tricks regarding Jack’s sordid past, I’m certain the writers will be doling out tasty little morsels ever so slowly over the course of this season. Meanwhile, you and I must remain the metaphorical equivalent of poor Sawyer trying to position the rock just right so he can get the fish biscuit. We’re all begging to know: What exactly do the Others want? Why is Jack stuck in the dolphin tank? Will there be a reenactment of that old Sea World skit where the little ferret comes out pushing a shopping cart? No? Well regardless, I’m just thrilled all of us are on this island together and holy fuck, now there’s a freakin’ theme park! Hydra and dolphins and bears, Oh My!

I received a humorous yet distressing email from the editor of the Weekly last Friday. In my never ending quest to write an advice column, he and I had embarked upon what I thought was a friendly dialogue. I assumed he knew and understood me, and then, bam, he insinuated that I just wasn’t naughty enough for the good readers of the Weekly. Ouch! Apparently Savage Love (one of my favorite reads) is a “bit too naughty” while I’m “probably a bit too nice.” I spent the weekend muttering to my husband, “Can you believe this?” and giggling and wishing my mother still had email so I could forward her the news—she would be so proud. But alas, I fear I may have misrepresented myself to the good man. Was it the hair? Maybe I should have kept it red. Was it the shirt? Perhaps it should have been lower cut. Was it my tales of working for the US Senator? Was it the fact that I’m a mommy? I guess all of these attributes, taken together, might say “Suburban Soccer Mom,” but that just ain’t me. As my good friend Emily G. pointed out in her blog, I’m the girl who wears the camo mini skirt and gold shit-kicker Frye boots to a garden wedding. I’m the girl whose favorite film is To Die For and the one who longs for the next installment of Nip/Tuck. I’m the girl with Sexing the Cherry, The Story of O and other erotically-charged book titles lining the shelves of her living room. I’m the girl with enough sordid sexual experience to raise eyebrows. I've catalogued scenes, snippets and observations that I won’t share here, mainly because my mother-in-law is reading this, but they're itching to go in a column ;-). I’m that girl. Short of walking into his office and reenacting the masturbation scene from Madonna’s Blonde Ambition tour, I’m not quite sure how to convince the gentleman that I’m no Pollyanna.

And in other news . . . I wrote the following soon after Pluto was demoted to non-planet status but forgot to post it. It’s even a wee bit naughty:

Millions of school children have been summarily mind-fucked by a band of rogue cowboy scientists. According to these astronomers, Pluto becomes the planetary equivalent of the lacey thong underwear you wore in college and now that you’re married and a little heavier in the hips and the lace has stretched out, well, it just doesn’t fit anymore so you toss it in the bathroom wastebasket and try to forget all about it—the underwear and your lurid past. First of all, everyone knows that you don’t fuck with Pluto. You can tease Jupiter mercilessly, you can punch Venus in the nose, but you don’t ever want to get in Pluto’s business because she’s a vengeful bitch and she will give harder than she’s gotten. Pluto is the Roman god of the underworld. Pluto’s all about birth, death, destruction, annihilation, deep dark secrets and sex, the naughty stuff, which is precisely why I adore her. Pluto was discovered in 1930 amidst the great stock market crash that ignited the Depression. Pluto was just a babe when Adolf Hitler came on the scene and yet in infancy, the girl helped cook up World War II and the Holocaust. When Pluto shows up at your house, you don’t slam the door in her face. You bow humbly, offer her some tea and with quaking voice, tell her you’re at her service. I think it’s cute that those venerable scientists, with their big, engorged PhDs, think they can defame Pluto, sully her reputation and that she’ll just quietly slink away. Pluto’s like the saucy sorority girl who shows up at a drunken frat party wearing too much makeup and super short skirt and then wakes up the next morning to a room she doesn’t recognize, a man she doesn’t know and a sticky wetness between her legs she never asked for. Yes, she’ll leave quietly and do her walk of shame and chances are you won’t hear from her for awhile, But when Pluto finally makes her presence known, it will be to paper the entire campus with pictures of the asshole who defiled her, the word RAPIST in bold on his mugshot. The point would be this: Pluto always has her revenge and usually when you least expect it. She is one wrathful bitch so those smarty-pant scientists might want to take care.

It’s my party and I’ll celebrate with tapas and cocktails if I want to.

For my 33rd Birthday, I booked a table for ten at a newish place in town, El Vaquero, and hoped to lure people to come help me ring in the new year with silly yet somehow appropriate Hiron’s cocktail invites. They boasted martini and lime colored cards nestled in glass-shaped vellum paper (You must see to believe, the kitsch value was worth the money alone). . . And then virtually no one RSVP’d, save a few very well-mannered friends. Why oh why do Eugenians think they can get away with not RSVPing when the invite clearly states in big bold letters, “Please RSVP?” Emily Post would have a field day with my friends. The RSVP debacle led to a brief freak-out in which I pictured myself, my husband and the lovely couple who RSVP’d sitting in a dark corner of the restaurant, empty chairs strewn about, Birthday hats askew and all of us pretending not to notice that no one else had shown up.

On the day before my 33rd, I did what every self-respecting girl would do: I headed to Macy’s to buy purple eye shadow. Immediately following my trip to the Clarins counter (at some point I’m going to have to write a girly post about how Clarins changed my life) I experienced a drive by shoeing. B was cranky, and it was ten minutes and counting before meltdown so I did stroller wheelies in the shoe section, circumnavigated the floor with lightening speed and tossed two possible Birthday pumps at an unsuspecting Macy’s employee. Meanwhile, B moaned and tossed his head and whinnied like a horse (“Horse,” by the way, is one of B’s newest and most favored words). I chose the pair that said, unequivocally, with their cheap price tag ($22) and their strappiness and their silvery glitteriness,
“We’re your mother-fucking birthday shoes, so fun, and if anyone dares to scoff at our ridiculousness they can kindly piss off.” There was no need for a second opinion but I consulted my son anyway because it’s what we always do-- I find it contributes to mother/son bonding.
“Honey, Honey? Look at me." (Horse head toss from inside the stroller). "Yes, we’ll go very soon. But first, what do you think about these shoes for Mama?" (Shooting my leg skyward so he can get a better look) "Do you like them?” And because the boy has been trained since month five, he looked me up and down, then at the shoes and then giggling, proclaimed, “Yes.” I know there will come a time when my son will size me up, place hands on hips and announce, “Come on Mama, you know you can’t pull that off.” But that day has not yet arrived and until it does, I’m workin’ it.

On the morning of my birthday, B and I headed to Amazon park. The air had that crisp, cool early fall smell and B was content to listen to Liz Phair on the stroller speakers as he watched the bikers and joggers blow by. At the big yellow tunnel slide, the one B is much too small to ride but nevertheless tries to climb up from bottom to top, I tried to teach him the Happy Birthday song. He didn’t seem interested. I was the crazy woman singing “Happy Birthday Dear Mama” to myself while my kid hung upside down in an impressive attempt to dismantle the slide. But by three o’clock, when I was on the phone and standing on our back deck watching B sift sand into the back of his tonka dump-truck, he looked up at me when he heard me describing the evening’s festivities and said, quite clearly, “bird day.”

By 4:15, I was comfortably ensconced in a salon chair with the wonderful Jarrell running her fingers through my hair. When she asked me what look I was going for I told her to make me blonder and to style my hair “like Bridget Bardot—you know, sex hair.”

By 6:40 I was back home, sprinting down the hallway while throwing kisses to my husband and B, who were so cute and yummy smelling, splashing about in the bathtub. I had five minutes to retouch my makeup, throw on my slinky birthday dress and scooch into my new heels. I was supposed to be at the restaurant at 7:00 and a quick scan of the clock told me I’d only be ten minutes late (fashionably so I thought). Leaving my husband back at the ranch to field questions/avert crises with the new babysitter, I said my “ bye”s and “love you”s while applying Chanel glossimer and in kissing goodbye got the lipstick all over B’s left temple.

Lo and behold, people showed up. In fact, nearly twenty friends trickled in as the night progressed, the latecomers scavenging for new tables and chairs. The food and ambience were perfect and the conversation, divine. And the good people at El Vaquero had the sense to put us in the quieter back room, so we had the space to ourselves and avoided the rowdy drinkers that littered the front. Having had only a Superfood shake and antioxidant orange juice for lunch, I took it upon myself to start the ordering.
“We’ll have Camarones al Coco and then Tacos de Pescados and the seared ahi. Oh and the grilled skirt steak tacos and my hairdresser said if I ever ate here I should order the pork flautas because they’re insane,” (I don’t eat pork but I knew others would). “And I’ll start with a Richmond Gimlet, please.” My friend Pete (who is a loyal RSVPer and a trivia master much like my husband) informed me that the Richmond Gimlet, a yummy concoction of gin, lime and lots and lots of mint, originated right here in Eugene. I must say, Richmond Gimlets are not to be missed at Vaquero. The cool of the mint pairs nicely with the spicy chipotle and tomato salsas. There were so many exotic tapas to choose from, but my favorite was the decidedly lowbrow Mac ‘n Cheese with Champignones (mushrooms). Oh My God—it’s a heart attack and an orgasm simultaneously, the ultimate full body experience. The two women on either side of me were drooling and I do believe the only reason they restrained themselves with a spoonful each was because I was the Birthday Girl. Next time, Mac ‘n Cheese for all!

As for the sparkling conversation, Emily G and I talked Spain. I tried to recall, on gimlet #2, the correct order in which I visited various cities in Europe when I was studying in Salamanca. She wanted to hear my favorites (Barcelona, Munich and Florence) and we compared notes. She remembered marvelous street fairs in Spain, which I suggested might have been Carnivale, and she loved the whole Swiss “The Hills are Alive” Sound of Music tour, which is just so perfectly her. Back on the far end of the table, Wendi and her husband Robin and I talked Spain too, Sevilla specifically, and how we longed to get back. I think our predilection for talking travel has something to do with being Moms to small children and knowing the closest we’ll be getting to Italy anytime soon is the pasta aisle at Safeway. How joyous it was to be having adult conversations about adult things! And Susan, my new friend recently arrived from Sacramento, dressed up beautifully. And so did Arian, with her pretty black frock and new sophisticated short ‘do that I initially failed to notice, tsk tsk. Anne Marie, an always generous friend whom I call first in a babysitting pinch, not only watched B so I could get my hair colored earlier that day, but also attended my dinner bearing a gorgeous bouquet that now sits on my dining room table, the gerber daisies almost as big as sunflowers. There were many more friends who I’d like to toast, too many to name here, but you know who you are and thanks for showing up and enjoying fabulous urbane dining with me.

As we stepped out into the night air following our six shared desserts and my delicious spot of port, Pete pointed to my feet and said, “You’re like Dorothy in those glittery shoes. Ok, now click your heels three times.” I did it and then took a long celebratory stride that landed my kitten heel right in a sidewalk grate. I wish I could claim I looked like Marilyn Monroe in that iconic air-blowing-up-the-skirt scene from The Seven Year Itch. But I didn’t, I just looked stuck. Arian helped me yank myself out of the grate and we all moved on. What Dorothy says may be true, there really is no place like home. But I really must get out more often.

September 13

It’s still my birthday right now, hour-wise. I was born on Thursday September 13, 1973 in the early afternoon, somewhere amidst a fun-filled year of Watergate, The Exorcist, The Godfather. Gravity’s Rainbow and the great OPEC oil embargo. My mom could have aborted me. I was among the first babies to be born in the Roe era—literally 9 months after that momentous Supreme Court ruling.
I share my September 13 birthday with some amazing luminaries. Jean Smart, the Designing Woman who played the sharp-witted First Lady to the buffoon-like President in last year’s installation of “24,” Claudette Colbert, Jacqueline Bisset, Lauren Bacall, a slew of writers (Roald Dahl included) and Milton Hershey, the genius who brought you Special Dark. But my favorite fellow birthday girl has to be the singer and miraculous poet, Fiona Apple. Fiona is crazy talented and just plain crazy. I remember the 1997 MTV music awards when she, this tiny wisp of a thing, took to the stage and delivered a heartfelt speech wherein she called out the music industry moments after it gave her a great big Grammy—“This is bullshit, and you shouldn’t model your life on what you think we think is cool . . .” It was so stupid and beautiful and brave. Ms. Apple is my heroine, with her potty-mouth, bad attitude and scathing lyrics: “You fondle my trigger then you blame my gun.” “It won’t be long ‘til you’ll be lying limp in your own hands.” I truly do love her and therefore will be channeling my inner Fiona for my 33rd year. I failed to locate a mascot, totem or idol for year 32 and it will go down as the year I tiptoed around my snarling husband and worked my ass off to appease a screaming one-year-old. Otherwise, it was me dodging the cat’s claws and teeth as I opened up the back door to let her in. Oh, and I finished my thesis. I can’t believe I nearly forgot that I finished my thesis and graduated from Sarah Lawrence with an MFA in nonfiction. Ok, so something good happened in year 32. Still, it seemed the hierarchy in our home went much like this: Husband. Baby. Cat. Rabbit. Laundry. Litter Box. Mama. I was the fake smiling robot who made everyone dinner. I was one of those dead-in-the-eyes housewives from the 50’s, like Julianne Moore in The Hours or, I don’t know, a Stepford Wife with no soul.
But that was 32. This is 33. It’s a palindrome. It has to be fabulous . . .just like my fabulous party last night. I’ll write more on that later. Right now I’m off to drink a gallon of airborne to stave off this weird post-party ick I’ve got going. Happy Birthday to me, Happy Birthday to me. This year will be oh so much bet-ter. Happy Birthday to me.

Since when is having a baby comparable to being a hooker?




You think I’m just plain Mommy. I’m just a woman with a sleeping toddler in the stroller, a nuisance to walk around. You can see the little cup of cheez-its sitting perilously close to the edge of my sleeping son’s lap. You’re calculating in your head the probability those crackers will hit your pristinely kept carpet, and you’re envisioning yourself bent over, dust buster in hand praying to God the orange comes out. You’re suspicious of me and my son, of what you think we represent. You’re a nicely dressed saleswoman with a saccharine smile working in an upscale boutique with a silly pretentious four-letter name ending in X that only the most loyal francophiles could ever pronounce. (I have an impeccably dressed friend, and she’s really from France, and even she thinks you’re snotty, overpriced and your store has a stupid name). I am the only person in the shop—well B and I are the only people in the shop—and while you feign icy politeness, there’s an overdressed guy manning the cashier pointedy ignoring the fact that I exist. I stroll on by to look at the $250 woven belts and I’m invisible. I peer into the jewelry case two feet from his nose, and nope, he still doesn’t see me. You two and your store are an aberration in Eugene, this land of hippies and hemp and yet you think I don’t belong. Honestly, the only thing that keeps me coming back is the fact that I am in lust with the gorgeous silk jacket that lives in the back corner of your store. I met her there only once before but even then I knew she was the one. I stroked her gently, my fingers caressed the delicate pink and purple butterfly wings that were etched into her elegant lime green skin. She was long, soft and one size smaller than me--and my muse and the inspiration for losing the rest of my baby fat. There was a time when I could own that jacket—I would have laid down my hard earned $350 with only a slight pang of guilt, the guilt gone in the time it took me to carry fabulous new coat from store to car. There was a time when I lived in San Francisco and I could march into that gold gilded Chanel boutique with those mannequin-like, retouched ice Queens and point to the expensive serum in the perfect glass case. Back then, I looked the part--I had the right lipstick, the appropriate Fendi purse-- or, at the very least, I could steel myself long enough to exchange credit card for insanely priced moisturizer. I let those bitches and their intimidation blow right by. But now, it is years later and I’ve become a Eugenian. I dress like a Eugenian, which is to say I dress as though I’m not trying. I gave up the red lipstick. The days of cool glasses with tiny rhinestones are long gone. I couldn’t tell you the brand name of the sneakers I wore this morning. B was so cranky, itching to get outside, that I went without moisturizer. I’m a 32 year old stay-at-home mom with an elementary school teacher for a husband. You do the math. So when I ask you nicely if there’s a chance that my beloved jacket’s price will go on sale, spare me the attitude. I’m sure that as you say the designer is highly sought after for her wedding gowns and elegant dresses. Judging by the cut and tailoring of the piece, the woman is clearly an artiste, (pronounced with French accent). But don’t brush me off with that dismissive “We both know you can’t afford it so why ask?” tone because the jacket’s been in that corner for nearly the entire summer. It’s ever so lonely now and fall is fast approaching and with fall comes more merchandise in need of good homes on your shelves. And frankly, as I walked through your front door, I perused your quaint little sidewalk sale of shabby chic . . .truly hideous t-shirts that at one point you had the gall to price at $140. Now with three and four red slashes on the tag they’re a respectable $30. But you and I both know the price can’t change the fact that the style, color, the j’ne sais quoi of it all says, “dog.” Let’s be honest, you might benefit from a new buyer, someone who recognizes that not even the most moneyed of Eugene would buy this trash. This hypothetical new buyer might also recognize what I see as the obvious: My lime green jacket isn’t likely to be sold anytime soon. Remember Nicole Kidman at the Academy Awards circa 1997, back when she wasn’t yet a megastar, just Tom Cruise’s gorgeous redhead? No? People still talk of the frock she wore that night—it was a sleeveless sheath of Chinese silk brocade in a color so alien—it was lime but not lime, olive but not olive—it was radioactive and weird and frankly no one else on the planet but Nicole could have rocked it. It was her alabaster translucent skin that made it work. She was an angel. Trust me, people who care about such things took notice and to this day, we remember. Well, my jacket is much like Nicole’s magnificent dress--silk brocade, nearly the exact same shade. The acid hue is incredibly difficult to pull off—if it’s not worn by just the right person you risk looking wan and green, like you died three days ago and no one was there to notice. The dress demands to be worn by either the super fair complexioned or the super dark, there is no in between. This narrows your clientele considerably, so you won’t mind if I disregard your condescending assurances that it will be sold at full price.


My ill-fated shopping excursion reminds me of those two wonderful scenes in Pretty Woman where Julia Roberts is a prostitute shopping at an elite boutique in Beverly Hills. In the first, Julia's in standard hooker gear with her blonde bob wig and too short skirt. Richard Gere has handed her a wad of cash with which to prettify herself, so she’s ready and willing to pay, but the nasty salesgirl is looking her up and down with the utmost disdain. Mortified, Julia flees the store. In scene two, Julia returns to the boutique and the sales women hardly recognize her. Now she’s a polished, high society woman, her slutty wig traded in for perfectly sculpted ringlets and her mini-skirt now a $3000 suit. The evil salesgirl greets her as though she were royalty but Julia’s having none of it.
“Hello, can I help you?”
“I was in here yesterday, you wouldn’t wait on me.”
“Oh.”
“You people work on commission, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Big mistake. Big. Huge. I have to go shopping now.”

I may be just Mommy now, but I’ll be waiting for my Pretty Woman moment.

Favorite things (several embarrassing) that don’t involve mothering ANYONE (except maybe myself :)



1. Browsing the magazine rack at a chilly, air-conditioned bookstore when it’s 93 degrees outside and eating lemon poundcake as I skim a popular fashion mag with Drew Barrymore on the cover, back to front.
2. MAC Mystic lipstick and any glossimer lip shade by Chanel
3. My new Frye boots that I have yet to wear—they are so not Eugene.
4. Blackberries and raspberries and strawberries on my cereal.
5. The New York Times (My favorite discovery: A few days ago the “most emailed article” was about how to properly cultivate the thick eye brow look that is all the rage this fall—proof of a slow news day and that there are freaks out there just like me).
6. Rock Star Supernova (Oh yes, it’s total crap but mocking the ridiculous Brooke Burke is oh so much fun. Plus, you get to watch newly single Dave Navarro hit on anything that moves. Delish).
7. Cookie dough eaten right out of the tub.
8. The theme song to “Clifford’s Puppy Days”: I might be li-ttle, I might be stuck in the mi—ddle. But there’s one thing we know-oh, love makes little things grow-u-ow. Yes, love makes little things grow!” Fade out happy steel drums . . .
9. My new perfume. It’s rare and a bit naughty and I’d never heard of until the owner's lovely daughter-in-law unearthed its clovey yumminess in a beautiful perfume shop in Portland.
10. Sleeping in and remembering my dreams for a split second before they fade into ether.

This list was inspired by the women of playgroup. See, I’m not an intellectual. I’m a girly shopaholic with deplorable taste in TV.

Lieberman is a tool


This is what I woke up thinking this morning. Normally it's "Damn that was a weird dream" or "Why are B's smelly feet tapping on my nose and chin," but for some reason, today I flashed on that sore loser, that egomaniacal pompous ass, the no longer esteemed Senator from Connecticut. For those of you who might not have caught it, a gazillionaire businessman named Ned Lamont challenged Lieberman in Connecticut's Democratic primary and guess what, Lieberman lost. Now Lieberman's claiming he'll switch parties and run as an independent in the general election . . . "For the sake of our state, our country and my party, I cannot and will not let that result stand." Um, dude, you lost. Frankly, Leiberman's lunacy confirms what many of us feared way back in 2000--that he wasn't a real Democrat at all. And Gore, he's got to be smiling right about now. Those two never seemed the best of friends. When I look back, they were like Jennifer Aniston and Brad Pitt in photos taken a month or two before the divorce: There's some hand holding for the cameras, but Jennifer's body language is all "You evil bastard, I can't believe you're screwing someone else." Gore would be Jennifer of course, and Leiberman is the now superfluous Brad Pitt. I guess that would make the Independent party Angelina Jolie. I'm not exactly sure where I'm going with this metaphor but the point is this: If Lieberman does what he says he's going to do and actually switches parties, I hope Lamont spanks him so hard Lieberman's head dislodges from the deep confines of Bush's ass and, with mental faculties suddenly reclaimed, Lieberman decides to skeedadle right into retirement. I could go on with much invective, but I'll leave that to Dean and the other Dems. Shame on you, Lieberman. Tool.

And now for another tool: The perky blonde who swiped my gym card at 24 Hour Fitness in Springfield. We'll call her "Carly." I was having such a great day too, when Carly messed it all up leaving me seething on the treadmill and growling during my sit-ups. What did Carly do, you ask? Well, it wasn't so much as what she did, but what she didn't do. See, as I approached the double doors, I was greeted by a very cute African American guy, another gym goer, who smiled as he opened the door for me. I love those chivalry-is-not-dead moments so I was kinda giddy when I reached the front desk and nearly walked right into the nice man's back. You see, normally it all works so seamlessly. 24 Hour Fitness is like a great conveyer belt: You glide through the double doors, the person at the front desk greets you as though you were an old friend, some smiling employee takes your membership card and swipes it and before you can say "free weights" your card is back in your hot little hands and you haven't had to break your stride. It's that quick. But Carly had to go and ruin the whole rhythm. Carly swiped cute Black guy's card and then asked for his driver's license. While the guy fished his ID out of his wallet, I noticed the handwritten sign that said something like "Members must have the following: Membership card, ID, and towel." I didn't have my ID on me, nor have I ever had to flash it. Luckily, the nice African American guy brought his. Carly wished him a great day, he walked on by to the floor and all seemed fine with the world. And now dear reader, you may be suspicious of me--why am I caught up in the fact that he's Black? What's up with that anyway? Am I a racist tool? No, I'm not, but Carly is. You know why? Because Carly, a woman I've never seen before and so has no cause to know who I am, never asked me for my ID. Black guy gets carded, freckled white girl of northern European descent, nope. I'm thinking Carly is a racist tool. And frankly, I'm wondering what other racist tools abound in Springfield's 24 Hour Fitness. Is it policy to card the Black guys and leave the white girls alone? Never before have I thought that Springfield is deserving of the crass nickname "Springtucky." Carly has made me a believer.

The Mormons are coming, the Mormons are coming!



Two nicely dressed, fresh-faced young men showed up on my stoop the other morning. I saw them coming, jumped out of my chair, adjusted my bra-less self and swung the door open. “You’re here about God right?” I asked. The dark haired one smiled and the freckled blonde shuffled his feet uncomfortably, unable to look at me. “We’re here on Mission, but you probably already know that.” I nodded. I could tell the dark haired one was in charge . . . and observant enough to know he probably wasn’t converting anyone in our house. “Well I’m not really into God” I offered, “But I’m spiritual.” I squinted as I said this and placed my hands firmly on my hips. My tone of voice was solid, matter of fact. Why is it whenever I run into obviously religious folks I feel the need to justify my religiosity or lack thereof? Dark haired boy paused to assess the situation—would he make his pitch, hand over some literature or just bolt? Freckle boy had already given up and was backing his way down the stairs. Then I felt a presence at my knee. B was making “shoosh, shoosh” noises while pushing a large broom out towards the door. We all stopped to watch—it was a nice moment. “Broom” he said, peering up at the dark haired guy. I thought I should explain: “See, B here is a witch. At night he likes to ride on his broom and practice his pagan rituals. Later we’re going to do some ritual animal sacrifice.” Dark haired guy smiled a real, toothy smile. I grinned back. Without words, we had mutually agreed that our conversation had come to an end. I could hear the floorboards creaking loudly as my husband approached from behind me, “Honey, what are you doing?” His tone was a bit accusatory. Without having heard any of this, Corey had decided I was messing with the poor boys. But he was too late. The dark haired one was waving goodbye and B’s “shoosh, shoosh” and “broom brooooom”s reverberating out to the sidewalk and down the street as my two young visitors soldiered on.

Seventeen months is a very long time. Seventeen months is how long it had been since Corey and I had enjoyed an entire night away from B. Seventeen months is also our son’s age. Ergo, this was our first full night away from the monster, compliments of Nana.

It’s funny how driving the 110 miles to our city to the north, that familiar friend that is Portland, felt more like a vacation than the two-week odyssey that was our June trip to exotic Mexico. Perhaps it’s not very Good Mommy of me, but I relished the entire 36 hours. I only looked in the back seat once for B. I didn’t worry about nap times or feeding schedules or whether or not the sun was in B’s eyes. I didn’t have to care, so I didn’t. Instead I held hands with Corey as we meandered through the sculpture garden outside the Portland Art Museum. Our walk took us through a local farmer’s market teeming with action as crates of Gerber daisies were loaded onto trucks and booths disassembled. But no matter, we were on a mission: The Church of Emily, otherwise known as Nordstroms, beckoned us to her hallowed halls of worship. As usual, she didn’t disappoint: I walked out with a brand new pair of Frye boots, nearly half off, and absolutely gorgeous. Next stop was the Hotel deLuxe Portland’s newest hotel (and what replaced our old fav, the dearly departed Mallory Hotel). If we couldn’t afford the pricey rooms, we could at least enjoy the beautiful lobby, where marble meets 50’s modern retro style and glamorous film icons from the same era light up photographs and floor to ceiling movie screens. Portland is suddenly posh . . . We relaxed our tired feet in The Driftwood Room and sipped $11 pear brandy sidecars. I obsessed on the furniture—the well cushioned seats were the most comfortable bar stools I’ve ever had the pleasure to know. Meanwhile, as I stared up at the original wood panel ceiling and the strange river rock arrangement going on in the main room, Corey wondered aloud why it was that all the bartenders were both women and black haired. And then too soon our drinks were empty and even the sugar rims licked clean. The friendly doorman asked us if we would be needing a cab and declining, we headed south toward Powell’s Bookstore. If you don’t know about Powell’s, you obviously don’t live in Oregon. Here’s the link. I wouldn’t do it justice anyway. Powell’s is fabulous, wonderful and overwhelming. Unfortunately, Powell’s has heavy fluorescent lighting and I am allergic to fluorescent lights. I scoured the magazines, checked out the staff recommended picks and tried to find books on advice columns and/or biographies about the classic advice columnist sisters, Ann Landers and Abbey from Dear Abbey. Unfortunately the woman at the information desk was stumped. In the end, she directed me to the Orange Room, which housed etiquette books by Miss Manners and Emily Post, not at all the direction I had hoped for. Happily, along the way I spotted Comfort Me with Apples, Ruth Reichl’s foody memoir (thoughts on this bestseller soon to come).

Oh food, glorious food.

Which leads me to the main event, the climax, if you will, of our little trip to Portland: A dinner at Genoa Restaurant. I had never heard of Genoa restaurant, but given it’s pedigree (“legendary” the website boasts, and “35 years in the making” according to our waiter) Genoa is a Portland institution. But you wouldn’t know it from the curb—Genoa is found on a forgettable block of Belmont and hidden discreetly by dark fabric and a nondescript door. With it’s billowy red curtains, I felt as though I were entering a very old magic store or prohibition-era speakeasy. Genoa is a small restaurant (I’m sure they would prefer I say “intimate” and it is that as well, but small was my first instinct when we stepped across the threshold). There is no place to stand unobtrusively as you wait to be seated, so within seconds of entering I started to feel as though Corey and I were the surprise guests that had crashed the party. Luckily, we didn’t have to stand there looking silly for too long. Quickly we were ushered across the restaurant, through a hallway and into the lounge, where we had the well appointed room all to ourselves. After depositing us in our chairs the waiter posed a surprising question: Were either of us allergic to shellfish? As fate would have it, shellfish is the one food I am allergic to. Bravo Genoa, crisis averted. Our waiter recited a list of “complimentary aperitifs” and I chose the bellini with peach puree. Corey opted for a concoction with a strange name now forgotten. Mine was sweet and light and his tasted of port and sherry with a lingering bitter finish. We draped ourselves on the armchairs and perused the upscale magazines. I sipped twice from my drink before our waiter returned with a flourish. Standing at the front of the room he surveyed us and then announced,”Come. Come, Let’s go kids” and clapped his hands five times in rapid succession like he was calling his tiny toy poodle. I wanted to take the heel of my pretty black pump and ever so slowly grind it into his instep. Instead, I lingered in my chair a little longer than necessary and surveyed our waiter right back. He was sporting an ill-conceived Don Johnson haircut and I suspect he was faking his gayness. As he led us to our table, a momentary bout of dread passed through me. The meal was set to last far too long and with a price far too high to tolerate an asshole. The waitstaff at Genoa are highly trained professionals who can intuit their clients' every need or whim. Suddenly, Don Johnson disappeared from view and was replaced by a very cute younger man who introduced himself as our waiter. As Waiter2.0 popped back into the kitchen, I turned to Corey and whispered, “Oooh, I was hoping we would get the younger guy. He’s not bitter yet.” Andi (I have no idea how he spells his name but I’m guessing with an “i”) was adorable and nice and gentlemanlike. So much so that when I , on my 5th glass of wine and having observed the loud party table in the corner said, “I bet it’s really fun to watch the wealthy get bombed and make fools of themselves,” Andi said, sans arched eyebrow, “Our diners get drunk? I’ve never noticed.” Oh Andi, you are so very classy. I very much enjoyed you and judging by the extra dessert you presented us and the wine that consistently found its way into my wineglass, I believe you may have liked us too.

But I digress . . . As I mentioned earlier, Genoa’s atmosphere was small and intimate, befitting an eatery listed on more than one website as one of Portland’s top ten most romantic restaurants. The color pallette was maroon and candlight. The rug was patterned and looked expensive, like something you’d see in an old Italian hotel and the light fixtures were art deco and probably purchased from the wonderful Rejuvenation Hardware. We were nearly the youngest in the room, with the exception of another couple across the way, who looked slightly uncomfortable, as though they were on a first date and overwhelmed by the opulence. Corey and I held hands and breathed in the scene. To my immediate right sat two couples obviously on a double date. One of the women talked loudly about her work on movie sets and publicity and appeared to be annoying everyone at her table. I found her outfit more appalling than her personality. She wore a slinky red dress with . . . clogs, a distinctly Oregon fashion statement that must be best done away with. Now.

Our meal was old world Italian, prix fixe and consisted of SEVEN courses. My water glass was always full (I drink three times the water most people drink so I often use my water glass as a barometer of service). There were no menus. Menus, apparently, are tacky. Some of the course descriptions might have required Cliff notes, but Andi recited them flawlessly. In addition, my darling husband insisted we go all in with the course-by-course wine pairings. Much of what I’ve written below is taken directly from Genoa’s parchment papered souvenir menu.

Antipasto: Corey had the frutti di mare medley with fresh calamari, Puget Sound mussels and East Coast scallops marinated in extra-virgin olive oil, garlic, red onion and summer herbs. The medley was served on a bed of “skordalia”—a Greek potato-garlic bread sauce—along with housemade ciabatta bruschetta topped with Flamingo Ridge Red Star tomatoes drizzled with light lemon anchovy bagna cauda. I have no idea what bagna cauda is and my guess is you don’t either, so we’ll leave it at that. As for my dish, it was much simpler but no less fabulous. I believe I too was introduced to the wonders of the “skordalia” atop the housemade ciabatta. But where Corey tasted that scary little shellfish, my palette was treated to something I normally don’t dare eat: Duck. I like ducks, I like to feed them bread at the pond, I think they’re cute and the sounds they make are perfect for my little seventeen-month-old imitator. But the smell of cooked duck has never turned me on so I’ve simply avoided the taste. Genoa changed my mind—duck is delicious. Duck proscuitto, with it’s non-gamey flavor and delicate crunch, is amazing.

Next up

Soup course, Zuppa di Zucca Gialli: Yellow summer crooked neck squash makes for a yummy soup when you throw in shallots, garlic, dry Marsala and cream. Bonus: We got to eat yellow-petaled blossoms—so soft and delicious.

Pasta course, Lasagna verde con pomodoro e basilico: This lasagna was so light and flavorful. I could taste the spinach, the parsley, the fresh basil garlic, those ripe bullet tomatoes and the proscuitto di parma. What a treat! This was the course in which I noticed my alcohol intake—I was feeling giddy and fast approaching “drunk.”

Salad course, Carpaccio di melone: It wasn’t the three types of melon or the tender local greens or the cucumber or the tiny Marcona almonds that sold me on this incredible salad. It was the dressing. I am a slave to vinaigrette and this vinaigrette may be the best I’ve ever sampled. Imagine citrus, mint and shallots blended together in a potpourri of delicate vinegar tang. Truly splendid! Who knew salad could be this good?

It was during the salad course that Corey and I agreed that a short break was in order and that someone ought to check on the bambino. While he retired to the lounge to call Nana, I tried not to look bored and busied myself by eavesdropping on the four men sitting at the table next to us. Unfortunately they were discussing the internet and not very well. Andi swung by to keep me company and said, “Is everything alright? Is everything to your liking?” to which I replied “Oh yes, thank you.”
But then Andi frowned (I made Andi frown. I didn’t want to make Andi frown). “But your wine. No good? You’ve slowed down.”
“No, it’s delicious. I slowed down because I’m afraid I’m drunk.” Without missing a beat, Andi said,
“No, no, you’re not drunk. You’ve just caught a buzz. And do you know what you do when you catch a buzz?” He said this as though he were a benevolent school teacher and I the eager pupil.
I looked up at Andi with mouth open and eyes glazed and shook my head no. Andi would provide the answer.
“You throw it back, you throw it back.”

I followed Andi’s advice, Corey arrived back in his chair safely with news of B going to bed an hour and a half late (tsk, tsk Nana) and soon we were presented with the big one.

Main course, bistecca for Corey, salmone for me.

Bistecca fiorentina: The beef hanger steak is “Montana Piemontese beef” produced to emulate the famous beef of Italy’s Piemonte region. The beef was marinated in Tuscan olive oil, garlic, thyme, bay and cracked black peppercorns, grilled and spread with a gremolota of shallots, parsley and cracked black pepper. Yukon gold potatoes were roasted and a perfect pairing to the meat. Corey loved the beef—he found the meat grilled to a rich rosy hue and the simple seasonings superb.

Salmone in agrodolce con panzanella: We Oregonians are surrounded by a lot of salmon and so we’re pretty particular. I had high hopes for this dish and Genoa did not disappoint. This salmon was Oregon troll-caught Chinook salmon coated with a marinade of lemon juice, Dijon mustard, ground fennel seed and sugar, then grilled until just carmelized. The salmon was served with a dallop of caper aoli (it didn’t need it, I brushed it to the side) and a panzanella of sweet Sungold cherry tomatoes, Walla Walla sweet onions and the snappiest most flavorful green beens I’ve ever tasted. The cherry tomato, Walla Walla onion, divine green bean mix was infused with yet another vinegary blend, this time gewurztraminer and basil. The fish was impeccably cooked and the light carmelization sealed in the juices for maximum flavor. And the cherry tomatoes—so many colors and the ripeness bursting between my teeth--reminded me of happy little suns. I’ve had only two truly remarkable salmon experiences in my life and this was one of them. The other was a tomato-laden salmon dish at the Mercer Hotel in Manhattan (home to Russell Crowe’s little phone throwing tantrum). I think Genoa wins—their salmon was larger, the tomatoes more plentiful and the wine pairing set off the fish brilliantly.

Dessert Course, dolci della casa: Andi brought out a tray covered in sweet delicacies. Corey was torn between the cheese plate and the fresh fruit tart. There was much hedging and indecision, as is Corey’s way. I sat back as long as I could and then interjected, “In the end, he’ll get the cheese plate. He always gets the cheese plate.” Andi, motivated by either generosity or exhaustion, moved things along by proclaiming that Corey deserved both and all was resolved. Corey loved his cheese plate (he had never heard of these uber gourmet cheeses) and I helped him finish the tart. Pears, apricots, bing cherries? Who knew what was in there, it was all so scrumptious. And the crust? Irresistible. My primary dessert choice was the ice cream/sorbet trio with the yellow and red currants. This dessert featured two types of sorbet—one a berry and liquor concoction and the other straight, sinful berries of a different type (I was quite tipsy at this point in the evening and failed to pay attention as Andi revealed the berry specifics). Nestled in between the two sorbets was a wonderful buttercream—simple, sweet and pure—it tasted just like my little boy smells when he’s fresh out of the bath. Sitting atop the rim of the glass were a handful of the daintiest currants I’ve ever seen. Nibbling this plump and juicy fruit was a complete delight, like savoring tiny little grapes, with just the right amount of sour. A perfect finish.

And yet, the meal was not over.

Fruit course, frutta di stagione: By the close of the meal, the chardonnay, the pinot gris, the Christom pinot noir, and the sweet Muscat dessert wine had taken their toll. I was very full, very tired and very tipsy. I don’t actually remember eating the fruit, but I do remember how it was presented. Fruit by fruit, Andi placed the pieces on each of our fine china plates with love and fanfare, “A nectarine for you, and a mini-plum for you. Oh, and some locally grown cherries too. And for you . . .” Honestly, I could have done without the fruit, but it was beautiful and erotic, this I could sense even in my Italian dessert wine haze.

We closed the place down. We said our thanks and goodbyes to Andi and stepped back out into the cool Portland air. My head was bubbly and my stomach, engorged. We walked the very quiet city block while I endeavored to compose myself. As we passed the closed up shops and empty coffeehouses, we recounted our luminous meal. My husband laughed when I tripped and held me steady and told me I was kind of sexy, “Like the drunk cheerleader at a frat party.” Later, back in our hotel room, I correctly used the word “defile.” Corey was impressed with my crazy vocab stylings, but mainly he just thought it was “hot.” (But really, how many people can use “defile” in a sentence when they’re smashed?) We’ve spent the last few days replaying that decadent meal and each and every dish, save the fruit, remains vibrantly clear in my mind. Was the perfectly cooked salmon, with its generous gathering of tomatoes, my favorite? Or the exquisite desserts? In the end, I can’t decide. We spent 3 and 1/2 unforgettable hours inside Genoa. Dinner, drinks and tip clocked in at $280 (thanks Nana!). Yes, it was the priciest meal I’ve ever had the great fortune to eat, but it may also have been the best. As Corey remarked in between the “Oo”s and “Ah”s of eating his steak: “If religion tasted this good, I’d gladly pay for it.”

I’m feeling a wee bit guilty about calling out Date Girl in my last post (actually I goofed, it’s DateGirl, one word). I was haughty yesterday and I’ll blame it on the heat. DG, as a fellow writer and as a woman, I shouldn’t have been so harsh. I’m sure your columns at the Seattle Weekly are enriching the lives of your readers. While I may not have enjoyed your musings in “What to Wear During Butt Sex” that doesn’t mean there aren’t others out there who clamor for your candid sex talk and raunchy humor. Confidential to DG: I’m very sorry. We writers shouldn’t be cannibalizing each other. PS—So gracious of you to enrage those Eugene Weekly readers with your talk of child molestation thereby getting yourself summarily ousted. If you’ve still got the editor’s number, do put in a good word for me, will you? Amen sister.

Oops, there I go again, still haughty. But seriously, I do think it’s important to support the writers, and especially the women writers, that I know and love. There are too many to list but here goes my first few shout-outs:

The Women of Salon (Salon.com): I love Salon. I love the women writers, Rebecca Traister, Page Rockwell, Heather Havrilesky and more. They bring you Broadsheet (news of the world, feminist-style) and seriously good TV criticism. For example, this week Heather dishes on the delicious third season of Project Runway. Yum!

Marilynne Robinson, winner of a Pulitzer: I’m reading Gilead, a quietly perfect little novel about an old pastor writing to his young son in the final days of his long and winding life. Robinson’s tale is full of magical everyday moments. I am in awe. So much so that as I read some of her passages, I find myself wishing I were a religious woman.

Isabel Allende: My bookclub is reading The House of the Spirits, which incidentally, I once saw in Spanish (no English subtitles) in a very crowded movie house in Salamanca, Spain. I’m on page 29 and the book truly is amazing. It’s magical realism and intricate family saga demands comparison to Gabriel Garcia Marquez and One Hundred Years of Solitude. This is Isabel’s finest work.

Jennifer Weiner: The famous author of Good in Bed and Little Earthquakes. Jennifer’s brilliance and wit turned me around from chick-lit naysayer to reformed chick lit aficionado. She elevates the genre. Great summer reading, the plots are never rote and the writing is always sharp and surprising. Plus, the movie In Her Shoes, based on a Jennifer Weiner best-seller, is not the fluff piece the commercials might have us believe. It’s solid and sassy, just like Jennifer.

And last but not least, emilyruthwonders.blogspot.com: She’s a good friend and she writes at 4AM after breastfeeding her lovely little Merra. A recent posting tackled the future—what cell phones might look like, what K-Fed might be up to, and the fleeting nature of clothing tags. It was random and weird and utterly inspired. I’d write about Emily regardless, but I have to share an aside. Recently Emily posted a long list of her favorite blogs and mine wasn’t on it. I, of course, seized the opportunity to playfully chide her omission right out in the open in the comments section of her sweet little blog. I knew full well that she’d have to make good by in turn writing nice stuff about my blog in her next posting. And lo, she didn’t disappoint. Thanks Em! I love the shameless self-promotion!

I used to work in politics—I know a lot about marketing, message out, and sucking up to get ahead, I can craft and spin with the best of them. So please do tell people about my blog. Seriously, write/phone/carrier pigeon a few friends about me (if you like me) and then (if they like me) maybe they’ll tell a few friends. Ooh, this little pyramid scheme’s got endless potential. Coming soon: A letter writing campaign to the Editor of the Eugene Weekly ;-)

Cheers and many thanks,
Emily Rose

B is teething and I’m getting some traction with my writing. I would have written earlier about both of these developments, except it’s been bloody hot, swammy to be precise. (Swammy--when the state of a person’s body, the weather, the peel of an orange etc., is both sweaty and clammy). It’s currently 94 degrees in my living room. My computer is emanating so much heat as it rests upon my lap and thighs that I feel as though I might swoon at any moment. I suffer for my art . . .

B, miserable with new molars, has been prone to screaming fits and looks so pathetic trudging through the living room with his favorite fishy teether jutting out from his mouth and his ring teethers held high, one in each hand. He moans and cries through SpongeBob and is constantly looking for Doggie, his favorite stuffed animal, as though clutching Doggie might diminish the pain. And the other day there was a gob of blood on his lower lip. Meanwhile, the women of playgroup are now reading me, I’ve got a few loyalists in northern California, a handful sprinkled in the northeast and now the editor of the Eugene Weekly has taken notice.

I’m kind of pleased with my recent transformation. Where I was once strictly Mama, now I’m orchestrating a pretty smooth transition from “ouch, ouch”, sippy-cup, playgroup, mini-pool, gymnastics class, and brush teeth back into the grown-up world of demographics, opposition research and business plan. With one foot firmly planted in the cat poop B found in his play house and a big toe skimming the surface of the publishing world, I’m starting to feel like a perfectly capable, post-modern Mommy. So there.

Picture me, a few nights ago, on the eve of the day the Editor of the Eugene Weekly emailed me to say that he had read my blog and some sample ideas for an advice column and he “loved” my writing. Picture me, wineglass in hand, planted on the couch watching my Tivo’d episode of So You Think You Can Dance while my husband clickety-clacked on his computer keyboard, looking up ever so often to catch Natalie’s sexy outifit or those crazy leaps by Travis. As the evening progressed and as I lazily worked my way through three quarters of a bottle of expensive red wine, I found myself overcome with childlike giddiness. I would point to my husband and say, “Hey, you over there,” and he would reply “Yes Honey?” and I would cock my head and smile coquettishly and say breathily, “Who loves my writing?” and he would dutifully respond, “I believe that would be the Editor of the Eugene Weekly.” And then he’d lean over and pat my knee as though I were a sugared-up three-year-old whose bedtime was drawing near.

Granted this little story of celebratory inebriation is silly when my friend Phoebe has a six-figure book deal. (Phoebe lives in Manhattan, has a literary agent, quit her job to write full time and Phoebe has no kids) But in the interest of toasting even the smallest of successes, I’m going to try to ride this thing out as far as the wind will take me.

And so when the Editor of the Eugene Weekly tells me they once tried an advice columnist but that she wasn’t well received, I investigate further and find Date Girl, the fallen Eugene Weekly columnist, online. I read a few random Date Girl columns and find myself blushing and my inner voice whispering “Oh my, Oh my” and “no, no, no” as though I were channeling my grandmother, anyone’s grandmother. My eyes dart away from the screen every few minutes to check to make sure B isn’t lurking about because in my paranoid state I forget that B is one and cannot read. Date Girl is entirely too crude for the good folks of the Eugene Weekly, this I am certain of only three paragraphs down. (I won’t be sharing the topic of that random column because by the very act of writing the word, I would be breaking the sacred covenant of not pandering to the vulgar) I’ve lived in this town long enough to know that Eugene liberals like to be tantalized . . . so long as it’s intelligent, witty and finely crafted tantalization—we take issue with the crass gross-out. I'm proud to say Eugene has standards. As for myself, I’m quite difficult to offend. I’ve been known to read a Dan Savage column every now and then and I mostly find him amusing, and if you’ve read enough of my writing you know that I have no problem dishing out the sex. But the bitter, foul-mouthed hetero city woman who is Date Girl’s literary persona does not please. Confidential to Date Girl: Honey, the writing doesn’t work if the reader is squirming in her seat, truly embarrassed for the writer. I will leave you to ponder why it’s socially acceptable, joyful even, when a gay man (Dan Savage) writes explicitly about sex but a straight, single woman can’t pull it off. Or maybe it’s just this individual woman, the vulgar and angry Date Girl, who lacks the finesse. Please discuss at your leisure.

All I know is that someday soon, Mr. Editor Sir, I may have to march right down to your office with teether in hand and toddler in tow and show you why I’m better than Date Girl. I’m post-modern Mommy, dammit.

More shameless self-promotion to follow. Right now it’s just too bloody hot. We’re off to the coast, to the beach, where it’s a nice respectable 68 degrees.

We watched Grizzly Man late last night and it really was one of the most compelling films (not just documentaries, but the entire gamut of films) I’ve ever seen. I’ve been known to groan loudly whenever Corey suggests another docu film (picture it’s 9:30 at night, B’s finally asleep, I’m exhausted and the highlight of my evening is eating Breyer’s mint chip ice cream—do I really want to risk sullying my first moment of relaxation by watching a documentary on growing up paraplegic?) But Grizzly Man was just so damn good. Timothy Treadwell is a very scary genius and absolutely riveting on camera. Too bad the bear ate him. And the bears themselves, their personalities, the way they moved, how different each of them behaved or looked when the camera peered into their eyes—it was mesmerizing. As for Timothy’s fox friends, to my mind they were the obvious choice in the best supporting actors category but the freakin’ Academy overlooked them. Go foxes! You rock.

So any discussion of an animal documentary naturally leads to comparisons with other animal documentaries. To wit, March of the Penguins. We watched it about a month ago and though I enjoyed it, I have to say that Grizzly Man totally trounces those tiny tuxedo boys. I missed both documentaries in their first runs and I remember the big hoopla about Penguins being this great family values movie. What? The scene I recall most vividly was the one in which a mama penguin loses her baby (it dies—it freezes) and reeling from the horror of her loss, and clearly out of her god damn mind, she physically pushes another mama out of the way and tries to steal that mama’s baby. It was brutal to watch because a part of me/you has to think, “Yeah, I might have that impulse if my baby died.” But no, I’m not going around stealing anyone else’s baby. And then, on the heels of this devastated dead-baby having mama’s sorry attempt to get another baby, a gang of vicious mama penguins swarms her and they beat her to a pulp (or until her gut-wrenching burbles and squawks stop and she slinks off camera). Is this what those wackos on the right champion as family values? I think not.

March of Penguins is good, maybe even great (although it wasn’t so great that Corey could stay awake for it) and it helps that those penguins sure are smart and cute. But pound for animal pound, Grizzly Man was the better film because though it presented very compelling characters in Timothy and his bear posse, it didn’t try to tie up what is really a bizarre tale in some pretty little Tiffany box. I’m still wondering about the girlfriend and her strange dynamic with Timothy. She must have loved him, why else would she have hung around so long in the Grizzly maze and then refused to run as the big bad bear devoured Timothy? And why was it Timothy had to go back one last time and mess with a nasty grizzly he didn’t know? And what about the maker of the documentary, Werner Herzog? He had this super sensational soundtrack (and by sensational I mean a media sensation capable of attracting hordes of money, fame, and a great billing for his movie) and yet he refused to play it. He had the actual death of Timothy and his girlfriend—the screams, the bear sounds, all of it-- and though he is shown listening to it on camera, he doesn’t play it in the film and advises a very close friend of Timothy’s not to ever listen to it and to destroy it immediately because if she keeps it, her life will be ruined, the tape always the “white elephant in the room.” But mostly, I was floored by Timothy and his last moments on camera shot a few hours before his death. Everything about that take was prescient, it was as though Timothy knew he was about to die and this was his last shot to play the star he always wanted to be. Truly eerie, it gave me chills. Highly recommended.

I'm curious as to what other people might have thought about the two films so please chime in if you've got something interesting to share.

We played in the Baja desert for two amazing, sun-scorched weeks. Fourteen days total. How often do you get to claim fourteen days as your own? Yes, maybe if you’re 12 and it’s summer vacation, or you’re 65 and retired or, if you’re any age and Australian. Otherwise, there are perilously few chances to take the time to lose yourself.
Our immersion was so complete that three days later, I’m still turning off kitchen lights to conserve energy and swiping my toothbrush though the bathroom sink spicket with lightening speed. How much water do we have left in the pila? Does anyone have their eye on B and is the screen door open? Shall I have chips and salsa for dinner or are we going to wait till the heat dies down and barbeque some fish after the babies go to sleep? Where’s the Pepto Bismol? Where’s B’s purple sunscreen?
These are the questions I keep asking myself and they no longer apply.

Somehow, we persuaded my childhood friend, Rebecca, her husband Pete and their toddler, Henry, to make the giant trek from the northernmost part of Massachusetts to the deep south of Baja. The flights alone merited about 5 days of recuperation time when you factor in a very cute, but very disgruntled child who cried for the better part of the nine hour trip. On our end, we had myself, my husband and B, who also cried during the flight, but you would too if all United had to offer was those stupid $5 snack boxes and that supremely awful movie “Failure to Launch.”

Having all arrived safely, the families settled in nicely and much merriment was had, mostly by way of my father’s pool, which sits atop a high crest and looks out onto the Sea of Cortez. It was by the close of our first full day of 98 degree heat, the mildest one of the week, that we began to understand why my Dad had sent a 9 page “Cabo bible” (basically a list of things to avoid doing) and why it was we needed to take seriously the very obvious: we were living smack dab in the middle of a desert. A true desert. In hindsight, dragging two one-and-a-half year olds to the middle of a desert and assuming this would be your average relaxing, “pass the potato chips please and honey, could you rub a little more lotion on my back?” family-centric, TV sitcom, romp of a vacation seems ludicrous. As my Dad said on his first night with us (we had already survived 5 days without him in his desert palace and he would stay with us for the remainder of our trip) “Most people can’t handle the desert. You have to be vigilant. You have to hope for the best and plan for the worst because something always goes wrong. It’s not the scorpions or the snakes or bad roads that are the problem. It’s the heat. Don’t even think about going anywhere without at least a gallon of water in your car. Worst case scenario is you blowing a flat and having no water. Because without water and with nobody out there to help you, you’ll quickly become dehydrated and that’s when the goofy starts. You’ll make bad decisions and soon you’re thinking you should walk through the arollo to find help and by then, it’s too late. You might not be found for months.” Thanks Dad.

Miraculously, nothing bad happened. B did throw one of his famous head butting tantrums that, through poor planning, resulted in blood and grainy pool tile imbedded in his forehead. But frankly, that’s pretty normal in my world. Oh, and I spent a day thinking I had contracted the flu when really it was just heatstroke and then Pete, perhaps sensing the end of vacation and wanting to maximize his tan, dared to sunbathe in the middle of the day (a huge no, no) thereby contracting the same flu, but in a much more virulent form. Neither of the babies burned, thank god. Neither ran headlong into a cactus. Everyone got along, although I think Henry got a bit tired of B alternating between pinches and hugs.

The highlights:
1. The surreal views—There are places in Baja where taupe desert meets sapphire ocean with no houses, no lights, and no one but the six of us to see it.
2. A daytrip to Cabo San Lucas where we celebrated two for one happy hour at cheesy Billigan’s on the beach because it was literally the closest umbrella and all of us were melting. Imagine four parents and two toddlers surrounded by scantily clad co-eds, a game of “drink this tequila and slam this beer and then run around a post ten times and if you’re the fastest without puking, you win” playing out twenty feet in front of us. Sheer brilliance it was, and a perfect example of when worlds collide.
3. Shrimp, lobster and cabrilla, delivered right to our front door.
4. Tuna sashimi, freshly caught and absolutely delicious (We have pictures of Gramps steadying B on the bloody fish table next to the local fishermen at La Playita).
5. Just me and Rebecca lunching at the Cabo Surf hotel. We left the boys to fend for themselves.
6. Late night cribbage. I won the first night, Dad the second.
7. Henry and B climbing their way up the stairs and the look of mischief on each of their faces.
8. B climbing a utility ladder five feet off the cement floor when his gramps had his back turned, that same look of mischief on B’s face.
9. Our late afternoon ATV ride. We took our walkie-talkie and left B with Gramps. “Big Monkeys to Little Monkey. Come in Little Monkey” Gramps floundered for a bit in his first time as babysitter but soon got the hang of it. When we returned after the thirty minute ride, Gramps fished out the random implements and baby doll that B had chucked into the pool in retaliation for our absence and then he poured himself a well-earned tequila.
10. Fourth of July dolphins. Proving that fireworks are overrated, we lounged by the pool at dusk and watched as two pods of dolphins jumped, shimmied and twisted rivaling any Sea World action I’ve ever seen.


My only regret is that Rebecca, Pete and Henry (who could only stay one week, not two) never got to Todos Santos. They must be sure to do it next time. As for the rest of us, we decided to go to Todos Santos 1) To escape the heat and 2) to find a nice piece of art.

Todos Santos is easily 15 degrees cooler and though only two hours away, it feels like an entirely different planet. Perhaps it’s the ocean—you go from the warm water of the Sea of Cortez to the crisp, cold, crashing waves of the Pacific, where even the sand is different. And the greenery, God, twelve days in the desert and I had forgotten about the greenery. I loved the greenery. I loved the palms and the bougainvillea and the mangos hanging so low I could touch them. I loved the cool breeze and the surprising sensation that, for the first time since the plane touched down in Mexico, my skin wasn’t slick with sweat. I loved the dead end road my Dad drove us to, hoping we’d find a trail through the washed out palms onto the beach. I loved the sand we nearly bottomed out in. I loved the small, hand-painted signs offering room in B and Bs and casitas. I loved the town center, much smaller than I thought (population 6,000), and the Hotel California and the parrot named “Sparkle Bird” who I met on the corner, and his flamingly gay and super sweet best friend. And most especially, I loved my Dad’s favorite restaurant, Santa Fe, where I had an amazing filet mignon and where the owner had no problem when we changed B’s diaper behind a fruit bush. I loved the red wine and the tiny birds and the small courtyard where B and I walked when he fussed. I loved the dune buggy we found next to that courtyard, and how B instinctively climbed the rails and smiling, pulled himself into the front seat.

But let me backtrack. As I said before, we were in Todos Santos for the weather and the art. For the better part of a week we had teased my Dad for his questionable taste in artwork. His living room painting of a sultry island girl drawn in shades of black and blue was christened “the nipple painting” because, though the artist had long labored on the woman’s left breast—it was rendered with great precision and dead center—the amateurish brush strokes of the remainder of the piece—the garish moonlight, her cartoon legs and her freakishly large “man hands” were a complete afterthought. We all agreed she had to go. As to what might take her place, my Dad and my husband debated good-naturedly while my Dad and I just plain argued. Tired of only seeing myself from my chin and above, I felt strongly that my Dad ought to invest in one of those tasteful full length mirrors, Mexican style . . . perhaps one with Oaxacan tiles or maybe one in metal, or even shells if he were so inclined. Think of the women, I said. Women like to be able to see themselves so they can adjust their wardrobe accordingly, I said. Hah, he said and we left it at that. (It only occurs to me now that my father’s preferable state of a woman’s dress is undressed, as exemplified by said nipple girl.) Both Corey and I were concerned that in the end my father would reprise his role in the “nipple” scandal and again find himself completely sauced at a Mexican dive bar at 3 AM with too much money in his pocket and enough room in the car for two tacky Mexican paintings ripped right off the wall.

But hark, wonders never cease. It was actually the first place we looked in earnest. It was that easy. I walked in, liked the topaz jewelry, the chunky bracelet woven with tiny silver wire, and the general metal vibe, and when I headed for the back where the shopkeeper had stowed the larger pieces, it was the first thing my eyes fell upon. A full-length mirror sheathed in a frame of metal, the frame itself composed of Mexican themes—a turtle, a fish, a lizard, a rabbit and at the upper left corner, a large sun. Some of the metal had been painted tastefully, some left to itself. It wasn’t tacky, it was art. “You’re probably not going to like this Dad but I think it’s really amazing” I said. We roped it to the top of our dusty Nissan rental and headed to the beach.

If B could say more than “duck” “kitty” “doggie” “outside” and “all done” he’d tell you that Las Palmas was the highlight of his vacation. He didn’t have to tell us though, his giggles and bubble blowing and random shouts of glee were plenty obvious. Las Palmas is a bit south of Todos Santos, down the obligatory dirt road by car and then through a washed out palm orchard by foot. The beauty of Las Palmas isn’t exactly the beach itself, though it is beautiful. It’s the mini estuary formed by the Pacific as it hits the craggly rocks and well-worn beach and then flows inland that was the hit of the day. For the first and only time during his vacation, B had found shallow water, water tailor-made for a very small human. B could sit in it and run through it and fall in it and no one feared he might get hurt, least of all B. He could roll around in it and dig his toes into the soft, forgiving sand and chase the fishies and watch the waves ripple without getting knocked down or pulled out by the undertow. B was in nirvana. He could climb on the rocks and collect the random bottlecap that had been caught in the crevices and flirt with the sexy teenager that floated by on her pink plastic inner tube. And because the estuary allowed B to try out his water moves, he wasn’t clinging to me in fear as we walked along the beach, heading to the Pacific. He took his daddy’s hand and mine and he tiptoed toward the foamy Pacific water. He kicked and giggled and sprayed. And then when he’d decided he was ready, he let go of our hands. . . And a rogue wave promptly knocked his feet right out from under him and he belly-flopped headfirst into the froth. His Gramps laughed like hell and B valiantly shook it off. If B could talk he’d tell you it was a lovely vacation.