Enough of this Fooling Around

I've been in Huddle Mode the last couple of days, what with all the heat and the power and internets, all the good things that have been restored to moi. But enough is enough. I have about 412 things to accomplish today, mostly to get ready for Christmas. (And no, 412 isn't a code...it's just my favorite number).

My BIL is due to arrive any minute to return the frozen meat that he took from us during The Crisis. I didn't expect him to give it back but now I'm relieved because there was some good meat that now won't have to be replaced. Little blessings.

I'm glad The Child is around to help with everything. She's a good helper. Of course, later in the afternoon I'm going to have to get rid of her because I need to wrap Christmas presents and in so doing take an inventory in case there's anything I forgot. I don't think all the 12 days are covered yet. But that's what tomorrow is for.

So off I go. What's on your agenda today?

It Blew. It also Bites and Sucks.

I am currently in a secret undisclosed location, violating about 412 rules and using taxpayer money.

The Neighbor and I are at her office charging things and checking on how JP is doing with my Superfantastic All-80s Blah Blah Blah Duran Duran Blah Blah Blah Whatever.

Can't blog long lest the feds come so here's the thing:

We still don't have power or internets or any of the comforts we will now never again take for granted. We have coffee. It is true that the lines for Starbucks are longer than the gas lines. They are bringing in emergency power crews from other states to help with the crisis. We think they need to bring in out of state baristas. Just saying.

Here are all the things for which we are thankful:

A gas cook top
Starbucks
Knowing our neighbors (everyone is taking care of everyone else...it is so cool)
Cars with gas in them
Places to charge cell phones, even if we are breaking 412 rules
Blog buddies in Idaho who are willing to tape BSG and yes, Gina, you'll need to do that because they have no idea when we'll be back up. The cable and phones guys are saying they'll be out Monday but we still have a big ass tree over the lines so who knows.

Most of all, I am thankful to God Almighty that when that big ass tree went down it went down over The Spouse's car. Because the other option was The Child's bedroom and I seriously can't contemplate what we could be dealing with right now. And if you ever have a prayer request, may I ask that you pass it on to Jlow? Because that girl has a line to God that is very impressive.
I am also so thankful to my darling Poodle for his care and concern and to all of you for your sweet comments and care. Really, I'm varklempt. This is a tight little community in our corner of Blogtopia and when I have power again I am so making you all eggnog cakes. I love you all to the 412th power.

Power. What a concept.

Ok, a guy with dark glasses and a head set just walked by. I'd better go. Hopefully we'll have power by the end of the year and I will be back to blogging again. I adore you all and miss you. Oh, how I miss you.

Also, we're having steak for dinner tonight because someone sent The Neighbor Omaha (yes, that Omaha) filets for Christmas and we have to eat them now because, well, we don't have any power.

Take care and remember, always charge your cellphones!

So Stupid

Here's the truth. Things were less than ideal around the casa this weekend. No details required, just the stuff that happens sometimes when people forget to treat others as they would like to be treated. Everyone was guilty, no one was a hero. There you go.

I wasn't happy about the lack of bliss but I also know stuff happens. We get over ourselves eventually and everything starts spinning properly again. The Child, however, has yet to develop a long view. For her, everything is just about this moment. If things are good, they are great. If things are bad, they're awful. Which is why I had to spend the morning assuring her that her idiot parents aren't getting a divorce. They're just idiots.

She's fine now. She just called, very chipper, to ask if she could stay after school to work on a project for the holidays. I'm going to use the extra time to order a bulldozer and jettison 412 pounds of crap from her room, none of which she will miss.

It's My Superfantastic All-Request All-80s Dance Party Coun....Whatever. I'll Play a Video from the '70s if I Want To.

And Evangeline is probably the only person who'll dig it but it is impossible for me to listen to Kate Bush from the '80s without thinking about this song which is just absolutely one of my all-time favorites ever. Also, strictly speaking, my friend Lisa was the one who introduced me properly to "The Kick Inside", the album from which this song comes and that was one night while we were having spaghetti at her apartment and it was in the 80s. And since it's my blog, I make the rules and rule 412 says that sometimes I can play a song from another decade provided I can make an 80s connection. Which I just did. So there.

What a Weekend

And it hasn't even officially started yet. Today was marked by a lot of running around, which was mostly rewarding. At the moment, The Child is fixin' to make a deep fried Twinkie. Horrors! She's got a speech tournament tomorrow and she's performing (?) two pieces, one a dramatic reading from (what else?) The Hobbit and the other is a demonstration on how to make aforementioned WMD snack treat. Since she's not actually going to take a deep fryer to the meet, she has to make one now to use for demonstration purposes. Color me grossed out*.

Of course, as she's doing this she's wearing my bathrobe and her hair is wet. And we have to leave in 30 minutes to pick up The Spouse at work so we can get some sushi and then see a community theatre production of "Bye Bye Birdie". Because The Spouse is one of the few straight men I know who adores musical theatre. (Which he's been pronouncing as "theatah" all week).

While I too am looking forward to a few tuna rolls and "The Telephone Song", I am also hoping that we'll be home in time for the second airing of "BSG". Because it's Friday. And because it wasn't on last week. And I'm jonesing here for my Laura Roslin, Bill Adama and Starbuck. I'm geeky like that.

Then tomorrow it's up early to drive north for the tournament. Which I have to stick around for, at least for a little while. That makes me sound like an uninvolved parent. I hope you know I'm not. Part of this parenting gig is being there for your kid...chaperoning field trips and watching volleyball games and being in the audience when she performs. And I remember how much it meant to me to know that Dame Judi and Sean were there for me when I was doing stuff. It's just that, really, I can think of 412 things I'd rather do than sit and watch a bunch of middle school kids give speeches. Even if one of them is my own progeny. Sigh. There it is.

I guess I can leave after the first round of speeches, which will be noonish. And I intend to do so for lo, it is the weekend and even though it looks like JP is jumping on the bandwagon, I've got me some videos to spin up. (It's not that I mind if he plays videos, mind you. He was doing it way before I was. It's just that sometimes we share a brain and that could lead to a smidge of redundancy. Oh well, life is full of challenges like that).

My nails need a manicure before the theatah but since it'll be a while before I can get into All 80s Weekend, we'll start off with this little number. Got the tip from Red7Eric, who knew of this group when he lived in the UK. I have never, ever heard of them or this song but apparently they were big across the pond, big enough to open for bands like INXS. Plus you have to love a band named "Voice of the Beehive". Mercy.







*We've made deep fried Twinkies before, for Forth o' Juleye, and there is an appeal. But really, not the healthiest snack choice.

It's Bad to Procrastinate. Seriously.

I procrastinate about the things which I consider to be drudgery. "Drudgery" is a relative term. I find most household related tasks to be very satisfying. The accomplishment is verifiable, the rewards immediate. Many of the daily tasks, the ones that have to be done over and over and never end don't bug me.

And then there's the other stuff. The stuff about which I procrastinate because it just doesn't satisfy me in the same way. I wish I could be one of those people who does all the stuff they don't like first thing to get it out of the way. Rather, I fancy that if I just ignore it long enough someone else will do it. Oddly, they never do.

I do wish I could figure out how to do things when I have the time to do them instead of thinking that there will be more time later. I really should know better by now. And I'm not talking about big dramatic things like being hospitalized or hit by a truck. It's just that when I think that the whole day is spreading in front of me the reality is, maybe not so much.

After too much noodling around yesterday I told myself to set the timer and get to my drudgeries. Which I did, because sometimes I listen to myself. Then the phone rang: The Child calling from school, in pain.

So yesterday ended up being all buggered up. But today was begun with renewed spirit and determination to banish the drudgeries so that they aren't niggling at me while I'm trying to do the things that bring pleasure and satisfaction. So far so good. I'd like to dismiss these things as unimportant in the grand scheme of things, and maybe on some level they are. But the boring little details of day-to-day life are like putting oil in the car. It's smelly, messy and not very glamorous but it makes everything that matters run more smoothly. And I just this second realized that this is also part of the reason that I "dress up" every day. Because those tasks I deem drudgery don't feel so drudgy when I'm wearing cute little pumps and a flirty skirt.

---

And The Child, thank you for asking, is fine. For the last couple of weeks, she's been complaining off and on of stomach pains. She's been, pun intended, gutting up just fine in spite of it but yesterday it was troublesome enough that she wanted to come home. I was, of course, reluctant. My mind always runs on two simultaneous and opposing tracks in these situations.

Track 1: She's faking, she's trying to get out of something, I should tell her to get back to work and stop being such a slacker or she'll never amount to anything.

Track 2: Oh. My. God. Something is so wrong. Something is seriously, seriously wrong. God, please don't let it be a tumor.

'Cause I'm balanced like that.

I picked her up and initiated the Dr. Mom inquisition. She describes the pain, the conditions under which she experiences it, etc. etc. I rule out all the obvious things via a series of unbloggable questions. Then I ask about emotional stuff, a test she wasn't prepared for, someone trying to take her lunch money, that sort of thing. She assures me that school is great, nothing's going on, it isn't anything like that. I have her do the "jumping test" to see if it's her appendix. Kids with appendicitis will either refuse to jump or jump once and stop because the pain is so bad. I had to tell The Child to stop jumping.

I get her into bed with a water bottle and before calling the pediatrician's office, google "abdominal pain". Now, we all know that if you google an ailment you will be taken to a site that describes your exact symptoms and diagnosis you as terminal and incurable. But I got lucky and the first hit was a renowned pediatrician's site, wherein he described 7 common abdominal complaints, 5 of which are not serious and 2 of which are. And it seemed really clear that what The Child was suffering from was strained abs.

She had an appointment in the afternoon and the doctor pretty much confirmed my theory. She did all the requisite poking and prodding and found nothing abnormal. The Child's descriptions were consistent with strained muscles. The only thing the doc was concerned about was that she was in enough pain to want to come home from school so if she isn't better by next Monday I have to take her in again. But I don't think that will be the case.

She got a doctor's note excusing her from PE (oh, what I wouldn't have given for something like that in my youth) and is laying off volleyball this week. And how did she do this, you ask? No way of knowing. Could have been a volleyball dive, could have been a prolonged bout of sneezing, could have been lugging 412 pounds of school supplies up 2 flights of stairs on the first day of school. She just has to take it easy so the muscles can heal.

Of couse, she decided to milk all this today and requested to stay home. And you know what? I let her. Less running around on her behalf means that much more time to accomplish my lofty drudgery goals. Cue the cashmere and pearls and action!

---

Both Lauren Graham and Sting were on "Studio 60" last night. Nowhere near enough of either of them but still. It was fun.

I'm Going to Make Another Pot of Coffee

The "Family Communication Envelope" comes home on Wednesday. This is either a blessing or a curse. It is a blessing because it is always important to know what is going on at school. It is a curse because there is inevitably a form to fill out. I've complained before about paperwork and yep, I'm about to do it again.

Sometimes I have the paper thing under control. When it is, I'm operating on the "do it now" principle wherein debit slips are entered right away into Quicken (rather than riding around in my wallet for a week), permission slips or what-have-you are signed and returned the day they arrive, RSVPs are respondez s'il vous plait'd to immediately and there is never, ever a pile of papers in my desk drawer. This would not be one of those times.

I spent about 3 hours yesterday mucking about with papers and probably have another 2 hours worth today. I like to think that the bliss of having everything is duly registered, signed, entered and/or written on the calendar will inspire me to stay on top of it. I know better. But a girl can dream.

In other news:

Sports

The first volleyball game of the season is tonight. The genius who schedules these things has us at a north-end community center at 5pm. 5 fracking p.m. Query: how the frack do people who work 9-5 ever get their children to anything? The map says it's a 17 minute drive. That assumes that I-5 is unoccupied on a weekday. I-5 is never unoccupied. Therefore, we will be leaving at 4pm and pray to the car gods we make it in time.

Also, no one gives a flying fig about the Mariners. I'm not even reading the "postgame alerts" when they arrive in my email box. What a disappointing season. As for football (which I really don't care about that much but I'm going to have to because the Ms suck) Shaun Alexander has a bad foot and is out for a few weeks. Not to worry. He's a fine player but the Seahawks are perfectly capable of winning without him. It's not great news but the 12th man is not worried. Know who the 'Hawks are playing on Sunday? Da Bears. (Lorraine waves to Lefty Tude & Iwanski. Hi Chicago!)

Entertainment

"Gilmore girls" was good. Not great, not awesome, but perfectly acceptable. JP did a live blog of the premiere and I can add nothing to his assessment. It is still one of the best shows on television and seriously, even with new writers, to maintain that sort of continuity in this medium is pretty remarkable. So snaps to them.

Also, we have a new episode of "Project Runway" tonight. I'm excited. I'm shallow. But I look fabulous in Edy's shoes.

Enough of this frivolity. I have 412 pounds of paper to dispatch so as to be ready for the 12 pounds that will billow back in when The Child gets home from school.

Worth Noting

1. This article appeared in yesterday's NY Times. No. Really? Democrats, can you say "talking point"?

2. After The Wedding we were chatting with Father R about our wedding day and about him performing the nuptials for The Child (when he is 85) and appropos of nothing he stroked The Spouse's lapel and said, "Nice threads".













3. Ever notice how when you aren't home for 3 days except to sleep and you don't do any cooking your house still gets really messy? The Spouse said it was the result of a "drop and go" lifestyle. I'm glad we don't live like that much. It's under control now. Although I have 412 pounds of laundry to do.

4. The "Gilmore girls" season premier is in 24 hours, 45 minutes. Yes, I'm keeping track. Priorities.

5. We finished watching season 2 of Battlestar Galactica last night. Or as I like to call it, the best show on television. Ever. I can't wait for the premier of season 3. October 6. Whoohoo.

6. I just went to wake The Child. She actually started crying because she is so tired. We all are. I'm letting her sleep a couple more hours. But she's still going to school today.

Katie's Premiere

I watched Katie's debut last night. In a word, meh.

The evening news, network-style, is not useful. An encounter by a reporter with the Taliban in Afghanistan. Chevron found a gusher. After that, it was all dibs and drabs of non-news. A shot of the hearse carrying Steve Irwin's body and the line I always hate, "for more on this story go to our website at..." Hello? I thought it was your job to tell me the story.

The Republicans have decided that immigration isn't important enough to deal with before the election but Katie didn't mention that. We did get to see W likening terrorists to "Lenin and Hitler". Again. The first male prince in 412 years was born in Japan, settling, for now, their kerfuffle over succession. But that wasn't noted. What we got were the first ever photos of Suri Cruise (who appears to be, in fact, human). These were offered during the introduction of one of two new bits which had a lead along the lines of "something we like to call 'There's No Time for Indepth Reporting so Here are some Pictures of a Famous Baby'.

And just in case you weren't sure that network news divisions are now under the auspices of the Entertainment department, Katie ended by telling us that she still didn't have a sign-off and so we were treated to a montage of "goodnights" by the more stellar lights of journalism who came before her. Which in the end only succeeded in verifying that the times have changed and network news has no gravitas anymore. So like I said, meh.

NPR's annual contribution is in the mail.

Quotations of a Tweenage Drama Queen

"Everyone was picking on me!"

(Translation: "You wouldn't let me unpack the precious china that Uncle Payson sent but I kept trying and when you finally raised your voice Papa came in and told me to find something else to do").

"It's allllll my fault!!!"

(Translation: "My friend's snake died and even though I haven't seen the snake for 3 weeks and have absolutely nothing to do with it's care and feeding and even though stuff dies eventually I feel bad for my friend plus it reminds me of the time my frog died because it was too hot").

"You don't understand! You NEVER understand!"

(Translation: "I am really pissed off that you won't late me stay up until midnight watching a bloody show on the Disney channel, even though we both know it will be rerun 412 times between now and noon tomorrow").

"Now I'm going to fail!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

(Translation: "I can't find my 3rd book report book even though it's got to be in here somewhere. I'm just so tired and angry and frustrated and sad for my friend that I can't see straight).

(In a baby voice): "Tell me a story, mama".

(Translation: "Tell me a story, mama. When I get like this sometimes it scares me. I need to know that you still love me no matter what, even when I act like I'm insane").

---

So I told her a story about a dandelion eating unicorn who, after being rebuffed by a cat, fell in love with a beautiful young woman and who, upon kissing her, turned into Dylan Sprouse, star of that fabulous Disney sit-com, "The Suite Life of Zach and Cody". I know my audience.

Uh Oh

I'm in one of those moods. Who knows what exactly brings it on?

The Spouse will say that "the gland is secreting" but that really only applies to those times when I suddenly rearrange all the furniture in a room.

Today's mood is different. This is the mood that sends me into cupboards and drawers, tossing and organizing. It's the mood that results in 412 pounds of recycling and a pile of stuff on the parking strip with a sign that reads "Free", because I'm in such a mood that I don't even want to keep the culled stuff in a box in the garage for the next time that Community Services has a truck in my neighborhood.

I am in a mood to divest myself of stuff.

I'm not a clutter kind of girl. Never really have been. If I replace a pillow or can opener I toss the old one. I don't have shelves full of Hummels. My wardrobe is pared to basics that all go with each other. I don't have "fat clothes" or "5 more pounds off and I'll fit into these again" clothes. But even so, stuff accumulates. And when it gets to a certain point I have to deal with it. I like knowing that there isn't anything in the house that isn't useful or beautiful. Beautiful to me, anyway.

I have already cleaned out my Big Notebook of Organization, the one in which I keep things like volleyball schedules and grocery lists. I have tidied out the drawer where all the plastic storage containers live. Next stop is the coat closet and then I'm taking on the linen closet. After that will probably be the Detritus Drawer, the one in the kitchen where we keep hammers and rubber bands and half-used tubes of SuperGlue. That'll be reduced to essentials by noon. There may even be a session with The Child, wherein we try to reduce by half her 2 baskets of toys and general kid crap.

Sometimes I think my organizational fits are a response to world events...trying to make order when chaos swirls all around. Maybe it's just the 10 degree shift in the weather that has brought a cool, cloudy morning. Or maybe it's the passage I read this morning in a book called A Well-Kept Home:Household Traditions and Simple Secrets from a French Grandmother by Laura Fronty and Yves Duronsoy. (Edy and Renee, I think you would both love this book. You would, too, Jonathan). Anyhoo, here's the quote:

"I will describe her life and her home to you as I remember it: the rooms where life was lived; the bedrooms drenched with sunlight in the morning; the floors festooned with apricot, red and ochre Oriental rugs inherited from her mother-in-law, which seemed to absorb the light and retain the heat despite their age. There were books, dried flowers and cushions inspired by the colors of Matisse; and objects sparkling with an authenticity that, had they been owned by an ancient community, would have been placed in graves for the next life: crystal dice, bits of stag antlers, amber pearls, boxes, sculptures, wooden balls..."

James Salter, Un Bonheur Parfait (Perfect Happiness)

Of course, I think bits of stag antler would be nasty and I would never have dried flowers because they are dust-catching, moldering things. I prefer my flowers fresh. But you get the idea.

Last Day of July

There are 100 days until the mid-term elections and I predict that every single day between now and then I will receive 412 emails from high-level Democrats, asking me for money. I feel special.

Today, speaking of feeling special, I will be in the same vast room as Bill Clinton. That will be very exciting. (And no, I won't photoshop myself into a picture with him. I'll take a little, tiny digital snap from clear across the room, just like I did with Hillary). I heard President Clinton speak once before, when he was running for election. It was down at the Pike Place Market, it was raining and it was one of the most electric events I've ever attended. I remember walking away thinking, "I just heard the next President of the United States". He is a forceful, charasmatic speaker. He's the sort of guy who either had to get into politics or become a tv evangelist. And I miss him. Sigh.

---

As you know, I tend to worry a lot about The Child academically and for good reason. But much as I'm justified, the fact remains that this is her responsibility and there is, increasingly, only so much I can do.

She has a summer assignment to read and report on 3 books. We worked out a schedule of reading and writing that has her getting everything done by the 2nd to last week of August, giving her 3 full weeks before school without any academic responsibilites. So far, she's on pace. I told her yesterday, however, that she would need to devote her morning to academic pursuits, knowing that in my absence this afternoon she would likely be playing on the computer or watching television.

I just went in to check on her and she's not up yet. But she was sitting in her bed, going through the Box of Academic Achievement. Early last year she decorated a shoe box and anytime she brought home a 'no missing assignments reward' or a good grade the paper was ceremoniously installed in the Box. When I found her this morning she said she was "reviewing" and then said, "And when I'm done, I'd like to get rid of all of this to make room in the Box for next year". I said that would be fine and then she asked, "Do you think we could burn all these?"

"Ah," I said, "sort of like saying 'that's behind me, now I'm going forward?'"

"Exactly," she said.

Yet another sign, perhaps, that she's ready to take responsibility for her grades next year? Maybe. But who doesn't like ritual bonfires? I must go find some matches and dust off the Ceremonial Headdress.

Crazy

Overheard while working out this morning:

Woman 1: So, are you getting excited.

Woman 2: Oh, very.

Woman 1: And you're all ready to go? You rented your house?

Woman 2: Yes.

Woman 1: Are you at all nervous?

Woman 2: Oh, no. We're just hoping everything settles down before we get there.

Yes. Woman 2 is taking her family to Israel for an extended stay. I understand the affection American Jews have for "the Promised Land" and all the "next year in Jerusalem" stuff but holy Mother, how many kinds of crazy do you have to be to go willingly into a war zone with a Doris Day, "hope everything settles down" game plan? There are people being air-lifted out of that region, for crying out loud. I'm all for holding out hope for a swift and peaceful resolution because I'm a fracking Pollyanna but come on! Going to Israel right now seems about as sensible as driving in the wrong lane and hoping not to get hit.

In other news, I don't like things that are sticky. It's actually my least favorite part of parenting children. Yesterday I shooed The Child outside to play because I felt that 412 hours of computer time was plenty for one day. She was a little annoyed with me. There was a ball. It was flung with some, shall we say, enthusiasm, in the direction of the window before which sits my desk. Message received. Problem is, she nailed the humming bird feeder, thus flinging sticky sugar water everywhere (and depriving little flicker birds of a happy treat). The Spouse, nature loving good guy that he is, whipped up a fresh batch of sugar water for the birdies, which he put out this morning. (It's a lovely shade of blue, which he's hoping they find as attractive as they do red because we're out of red food coloring). Anyway, some of the sugar water got on the kitchen floor so now that's sticky. And this is the biggest problem in my life right now.

Also, Blogger was eating my posts this morning so I gave up and took The Child swimming at Meg's. Now we are both exhausted. Which is sorta messing with our very impressive afternoon to do list. Que sera sera. I'm too tired to feel like being a better mom and insisting we rise above our baser instincts. As long as the sugar mess is cleaned up before the ants attack.

And back to Israel, apparently the US plan is to hold off and let Israel bomb the crap out of southern Lebanon to "weaken" Hezbollah before Condi marches in on her Prada boots and helps set up a buffer zone that will be, theoretically, held/occupied/whatever by a multi-national force. Why am I not feeling confident of this plan? Oh, and while all this is going on, our president just vetoed his first bill ever. Because stem cell research is bad. It's bad! Much more bad, apparently, than fanatics of all stripes bombing women and children into fragments. That he can live with. Crap, I think my brain is bleeding again.

Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest

Let's get one thing clear straight off. I love Johnny Depp and suspect I always will.

We took The Child and Best Friend to see the movie on Saturday afternoon. There is a little cinema in an old Masonic temple down the street. It is a very groovy, cozy little theatre. There are lots of similar little places around town, "art houses" you'd have to call them, that specialize in indy and foreign films. The Columbia City theatre is struggling to make it's way by showing first run films. I don't know how they manage but they've been hanging in there for a couple years now. It's just so very cool to be able to see a "big" picture without going to a 412 screen cineplex and pay $41.12 for a small bag of popcorn.

I never read movie reviews if there is the remotest possible chance that I'll be seeing the film in a theatre. (Which is rare because most of the movies I like are going to be just fine viewed on the big screen at home once it comes out on DVD. And I'm so behind on recent movies that I can wait. Urgency is just not a part of the equation for me). I like to make up my own mind and not be influenced by the reviews. It had filtered down through the ether that the reviews of "Pirates" were "mixed" but I didn't really know why. And with Orlando, Keira and Johnny how bad could it be?

So I sat with my open mind and my Hot Tamales for 2 and a half hours that I am NEVER getting back, willing myself not to hate this movie that, had they cut it by about 45 or so minutes, would have been fabulous. But it wasn't. It just kept going and going and going, for no discernible reason than to set everything up for the 3rd movie. Which seems like a real cynical waste of talent, celluloid and time.

The special effects are fabulous. The costume/makeup situation is amazing...especially the pirates on The Flying Dutchman. Holy mother of Pearl! Davy Jones is totally creepy and I never was innured to the creepiness thereof. The acting was fine. Johnny Depp plays Captain Jack with a little less swish than in the first film but I think that owes not to any anti-swish agenda on the part of the studio and everything to do with the spark between him and Elizabeth and the need to move that forward.

I loved the opening scene of the movie and the film, on balance, is cinematically near-perfect. The nugget of story was well done and even compelling. Had they focused on that instead of all the other fol-di-rol, which seemed like a "coming attractions" promotion for new rides at Disneyland, it would have been a terrific film for a Saturday afternoon. But in the end there was too much chasing around and and not enough pure storytelling. And that's what I hated about it.

So if you haven't gone yet, I'm telling you, save your ducats. Rent it on Netflix if you want because at least then you'll be able to go to the bathroom without feeling like you're missing anything. (And if you do go to the movie feel free to use the restroom anywhere in the middle of the longest 2.5 hours of your life because you will not miss a damn thing. You'll want to see the last 30 minutes or so. Plan accordingly).

The Film Czarina gives "Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest" 2 out of 5 Koihead.

Wow. Heavy.

This is going to be a little long and possibly depressing but I have to talk to someone.

I was minding my own business this afternoon, toodling down Rainier Ave. toward Trader Joe’s, listening to NPR discussions of the situation in the Middle East and feeling at once very sad about it all but also removed from the tragedy. Suddenly, about 10 yards ahead of me, in the other lane, a car came to a sudden stop, I heard a thump and saw something go flying. There was a big SUV in front of me so I was spared the details but the car had hit a pedestrian or a cyclist or maybe someone on a scooter. Everything came to a stop, about a dozen cell phones came out and we all sat there for a few minutes. Those of us not directly involved were able to exit Rainier and go on about our business, but we had to drive past the victim. I couldn’t see much (to be honest, I wasn’t looking that closely) but the person seemed to be very, very still. And while there were a lot of people standing nearby, no one was actually with the body…which tells me that there wasn’t anything anyone could do.

The other evening, The Spouse and one of his movie comrades were driving the grip truck when they suddenly heard a “pop, pop, pop” and turned to see someone fall down dead.

The convergence of these incidents has had me thinking all afternoon. Life is precious. And it can be taken very quickly. I am personally holding out for the quiet-passing-on-in my-sleep-when-I’m-412 mode of exiting the planet but it is a good, if unsettling thing, to be forced to contemplate the tenuous nature of human life. Which I was doing as I wandered the aisles of Trader Joe’s looking for aioli and figs and tomato paste. And I felt pretty darned lucky to be able to do so. Because I am, for now, here and it would be a shame not to be just a bit more mindful of that gift.

So there I am, embracing the lesson that the universe is offering and get to my car. I load my groceries and then realize that the putz next to me has parked over the parking line and in such a fashion that I a) can’t get in the driver’s side of the car and 2) I can’t back out without whacking their fracking side mirror with my own. On the other side of me is a mini van and the woman who owned it showed up just as I finished loading groceries. She had 2 small kids and was pregnant. I offered to help her.

“Oh, that’s fine,” she said, a little testily if the truth be told. (Maybe she thought I was treating her like an invalid because she’s preggers).

“It’s no trouble,” I said. “I can’t go anywhere anyway” and explain the situation.

So we start chatting and of course, comment on the inconsiderate nature of the boob parked next to me.

“With everything that is going on in the world right now,” I said, “would it really hurt people to extend just a smidge of courtesy?”

She replied, “Oh, there’s no courtesy anymore”. I felt inclined to agree with her but it made me sad because I’d just seen death and had been thinking about embracing life more fully and somehow courtesy seemed to factor into that. You know, I’m still here and you’re still here so while we are let’s park our cars properly so as not to inconvenience others.

Her groceries loaded, I climb into my car from the passenger side (glad once again that I don’t weigh 412 pounds) and wait for her to pull out so that I can maneuver myself out via her empty space. Another car came up and was waiting to take her spot. She waved to them to drive on. They sat, because they wanted the space. She got out of her car and went to explain to them that I needed room to get out of the garage. So they drove around again. She left, I left and then I thought, “Hey, that was courteous!” She had courteously told the other driver to give me room. The other driver had courteously obliged.

I still had some shopping to do so I started looking for random acts of courtesy and I was rewarded. I remembered the woman who, right after the accident, got out of her car with a blanket for the victim. There was the guy who not only let someone turn across 2 lanes of traffic in front of him but actually waved the person through when it was clear. There was the customer at the drugstore who, having finished her shopping, helped a woman in a wheelchair get her shopping cart out of the store. There was me on my way home, letting a Lexus merge in front of me because the traffic was still hinky at the site of the accident. [Note: I try to be a courteous driver but do have a bias against Lexus drivers. But since this guy was actually using his expensive turn signals and waiting patiently for a break, I gave him one]. And there was the person who finally let me merge. (I will not dwell on the discourtesy of the 9 cars before him because I’m trying to be upbeat here).

Please forgive me for rambling a bit. I’m still a little shaky. But I’m thankful. I’m thankful to be alive on a beautiful July afternoon. I’m thankful that The Child’s best friend in the whole world is spending the night. I’m thankful that we have a lovely evening planned with neighbors and friends. I’m thankful that The Child, who was about to get really pissy with me because I was insisting she clean her room decided to cooperate. And I’m thankful that when I told her what had happened her initial response was to give me a hug and her second was to stick a fake jewel on her forehead and make up a song and dance for me that was really more Chinese than Indian (because it was about chow mien) but it was funny and it’s the thought that counts.

So listen, please take care of yourself this weekend. And for the rest of your life. Which I hope is long and blessed. And be kind to others. Because you can.

Virginia Wolfe Was Right

Most days I'm perfectly happy with my little desk in the kitchen corner. But sometimes it feels cramped. The laptop occupies most of the desk top so if I ever fancy taking out a notebook and sitting in my window with a fountain pen doing the long-hand-Jane-Austen thing, I can't.

So today I took some of my tax money down to Ikea, looking to get a small computer table or something that, with a little rearrangement of my corner, would give me that extra bit of space.

Ikea is a shopping minefield. I've never gotten out of there for less than $100. There's an ice pop mold here, a bag of 412 votive tea lights there, each little bit only a couple of dollars; such a deal! But today I was on a mission. Aside from marveling at the room displays that pack virtually all the functions of a home into a 700sf space, I wended my way through the labyrinth of Swedish design until I got to the office area. (Ok, I did grab an ice pop mold because it really was only a couple of dollars). I looked at a computer table. I looked at table tops. I talked to a very nice guy named Dean who patiently listened to my design issues and then, brilliantly, suggested a wee dining room table with a drop leaf. You can leave it down or slide it up into place to seat 2. It was the right measurements and the right price so I got the "cash & carry" slip and thanked Dean for his help. I had a wee niggly bit of buyer's remorse but ignored it because I'd been thinking about this for quite a while. It was a plan, not impulse.

Mission accomplished I moved, with purpose and discipline, through Kitchenwares (very tempting) and besides the $12 French press pot, put nothing in my cart. (Come on. $12 for a French press? And we had agreed that we needed one during the great Coffee Maker Crisis of '06). But I got through "Home Organization" (ooh, shiny boxes), the bedding section AND the Marketplace which is full of gizmos and hoohas priced for pennies. I did not browse, peruse or otherwise dally in any way that would lead to impulse purchases. I even got to the register without picking up boxes of ginger cookies or tubs of Swedish fish.

And, ha! The total was less than $100. I felt very smug. And I came home and managed, with next to no trouble at all, to assemble the table. Very cute little table. Very servicable. Except that there wasn't a single configuration that looked or felt right. After much moving about and dealing with large bits of dusty fluff from behind the desk that is never moved I realized that it was never going to work.

So I disassembled the table and stuck it all back in the box and it is in the trunk of my car waiting to go back on Monday (because no one in their right mind goes to Ikea on the weekend).

Here's the thing: while messing around with all of this I realized that I don't want a bigger work area. What I want, at least on some days, is a room of my own. A small studio space that is open by invitation only. And since I'm not going to have that unless we build an addition or The Child leaves home, I am going to use my imagination and be happy with my little corner. Plus, this now means that I actually got out of Ikea for under $20 and that's hot.

Easter Break

Yesterday was a non-starter for both The Child and I. Sugar hangovers, too little sleep over the past few days, the adrenalin drop after all the fun and frivolity. We were basically slugs and if it weren't for the fact that we had a friend coming from out of town for dinner and a sleep-over, I'm not sure I would have gotten out of my jammies. It was a vegging sort of day, except for the 412 loads of dishes I had to do from the feast.

But starting today things need to be different. The Child has a big school project that pretty much has to be finished this week because of volleyball playoffs next week. Homework time is going to be at a premium if, as I assume, they go all the way to the championship. Unfortunately, the only person worrying about her ability to get this thing done in time is me.

We've always told The Child that grades don't matter as much as her giving her best effort. And I mean that. I don't want her to obsess over grades or stress about academic performance. But could she maybe care a little? And I've got to find a balance between providing necessary guidance and just letting her fail if that's what it takes. At some point she has to own this stuff for herself because I don't plan on following her to college with a cattle prod.

The irony is that I was a huge procrastinator all through school, college included. I could bang out a paper the night before it was due and get at least a B. The Child, with her little friend Dyslexia, is never going to have that luxury. My job is to give her tools, like using a timer and breaking things into baby steps and try to model for her what following through looks like. Then I have to let go and hope that someday it will take.

I have a mess of editorial comments on the liturgy book and a commitment to my Author Friend for a draft by the end of the month. So in the interest of being a good role model I am soon scooting off with The Child to her room and I'll write while she writes. By day's end we'll both, I hope, have something to show for our efforts. If it can be accomplished without yelling, acrimony or Lecture 642b which briefly stated goes something like, "School is a fact of life so stop fighting it and get back to work" so much the better.

I'm Married to a Star

The "a" key on my keyboard is sticking. Want to guess how frustrating that is?

Last night The Spouse made some comment about all the bloggy affirmation that I received yesterday. (There was a lot and I was feeling the love. Thanks to all of you. If I'd known what an ego boost this whole blogging thing was going to be I'd have started years ago. But then you'd all be sick of me by now. So I'll take it while I can get it). I was feeling a little pixilated anyway so I made some smart comment along the lines of, "Jealous? Is this going to become one of those Chad Lowe and What's-her-Name relationships? Huh? Huh?"

He looked at me blankly. "You know, like those Hollywood couples like What's-her-name and Ryan Phillipe where the wife gets all the work and no one pays attention to the husband?"

Now, what's funny about this is twofold. First of all, I really couldn't remember the names of the wives who were supposedly more famous. I eventually came up with Reese Witherspoon but all I could think of for Chad Lowe's wife was Hillary Duff and I knew that wasn't right.

The other thing that was funny about it is that The Spouse is pretty much a rock star at Costco. He was involved in a project recently that got him favorable notice from Top Brass. He got a promotion, a raise and is even in some promotional video that they keep showing. (I think he's doing a White Snake cover). More to the point, he's won the bread for this family for the last 12 years. I think I have earned, in total, $2,412 since The Child entered the world.

This is not to say that I don't make my contributions around here. Lord knows that clean underwear counts for something. But I am Chad Lowe to his Hillary Whatever. I don't tell him enough how much I appreciate the lifestyle he's given us, how grateful I am that he made it possible for me to stay home with The Child and how much I adore him for being my biggest fan when it comes to my writing. The only charge I can lay at his feet is that he doesn't fully appreciate my roasted beet salad. But that's a beet thing, not a wife thing.

So I would like to take this moment to formally send a shout out to the greatest guy I've ever been married to and affirm my undying love, support and pride. You are the best, Spouse.

Swank. That's it. Hillary Swank. And I came up with that without IMDbing Chad Lowe.

Thingy Things

I bite my nails. I suspect that I left the womb biting them. My paternal grandma hated it. She used to tell me that no boy would ever hold my hand if I bit my nails. She was dead wrong about that. Boys are happy to hold anything you'll let them hold and they don't give a rap about your manicure. But I give her snaps for trying.

Now that I'm in my dotage I have a decent manicure more often than not. What I've figured out is that if I keep my nails polished and trimmed then I don't bite them. The urge is completely subconcious but if I've got lovely polish on I notice it before my fingers hit my teeth and I stop. But I have to maintain the manicure. If I take off raggy polish without having time for a fresh coat, if I go about for any length of time with unvarnished nails then I will bite them to the quick in next to no time. I established the habit of giving myself a proper manicure on Tuesday nights, while I'm watching "Gilmore girls". "Gilmore girls" has been in reruns for the last 412 weeks. I have no fingernails.

Last night The Spouse and I were watching an Eddie Izzard DVD. Eddie Izzard is the funniest man on the planet. He is also a transvestite, a straight one at that. Anyway, we were watching the show and laughing out loud frequently but I kept being distracted by his hands. He has lovely fingernails, polished up beautifully. And I thought, "Bloody hell. I'm not going to let some transvestite look better than I do". So I painted my short, stubby nails a nice red color. They'll look ridiculous for about a week but fortunately, they grow very quickly and hopefully by the time they are long again "Gilmore girls" will start running new episodes. I must come up with a manicure plan for the summer.

Back to Eddie Izzard. If you have never heard his comedy, and if you can handle "language", you must check him out. He's not horribly foul mouthed but he does use some of "those" words. Of course, they don't sound as offensive as the same words in the mouth of say, Chris Rock, because he's British and it's somehow easier to give a pass to naughty words intoned in a British accent. At least it is for me. Which I suppose means that I have no standards whatsoever but there you are. I also vote Democrat.

Eddie's humor is hard to describe. Oh,wait! Here's what it says on his website: "He takes ideas and situations and extrapolates them into bizarre, tangential, absurd and surreal comic narratives. He is the first to admit that he gets well paid for talking total bollocks. The good pay is because unlike the bollocks most of us talk, it's funny". That sums it up pretty well. He's random and intelligent and as likely to talk about the attitude of fruit as he is politics or anything "deep". But it ends up being deep. Last night he did a wonderful, very truthful, bit on the subject of pears. Not something you'd think would provide high comedy but it was great. Anyway, if you meet the language criteria you must check him out.

On another note, if you care about baseball you must go see Iwanski's predictions for the 2006 season.

In the good news department: The Child went to school today. She's still a bit itchy but I've decided that it must be hay fever and hopefully in a few days, once the season is firmly established and no longer wobbling between winter and spring, she'll be just fine.

Also, Charles Taylor was arrested in Nigeria and back in custody. Good thing too because he's a bloody, evil criminal and he deserves to be severly punished for the horrors he unleashed on Liberia. Poor Liberia. I'll never get over the irony 3 years ago: suffering under a brutal dictator, a nation of people begged the US to become involved and help them out but besides sending a few Marines to sit off shore while all hell kept breaking loose we couldn't be bothered. We had to go occupy Iraq. The lesson - and you Sudanese better take note - we can't really be compelled by doing the right thing. Unless you have some oil.

Here's another thing that keeps me from biting my nail. Typing.

On Reading Poetry to 12 Year Olds

I majored in English for the simple reason that the only subjects in which I was interested or for which I had any aptitude were reading and writing. I had no thoughts toward the usefulness of such a degree in the workplace. I didn't assume or pretend that a B.A. in English would get me much of anything except the pleaure of doing what I loved for credit. (I was once hired for an administrative job not because of my experience but because I was literate. Bonus).

The only thorn in my rosy collegiate experience was poetry. I loved reading it but the 2 poetry classes I took were all about the objective side: scansion, feet and meter, rhyme schemes. I undertand the merits of this. One should understand measurements and temperatures before attempting to make a roux. Technical understanding is behind the preparation of a good bechemal sauce but in the end, it's all about how things taste. Same with poetry. I was into the subjective side of it, how the words made me feel, what the images did in my head, connecting poetry to experience. My poetry profs were having none of that. Because after the a-b-a-b stuff they were also fairly tyrannical about the meaning of poems. There was only ever one accepted meaning and any attempt to argue for another was pointless. This was also troubling because it was not how I was learning to study other kinds of literature. If you found a meaning in The Old Man and The Sea that was outside the accepted interpretation of the book, so long as you could back that up from the text, you were fine. You might even be brilliant.

But the interpretation of poetry was presented so strictly, so apart from any subjective influence that it damn near killed my love of it. Not unlike too much theology getting in the way of faith. Fortunately, I was able to find my way back to a love of poetry and I no longer care if I'm "getting it all wrong".

I digress. Today was Literacy Day at The Child's school so I did my bit and read poetry to her class. Choosing the selections took weeks, given the 412 billion poems out there to chose from. It was wonderful to have their attention, to hear them laugh at the amusing poems, to have them applaud The Road Not Taken. Then, because I have a mean streak, I gave them a packet of the poems and an assignment for Monday, that will count toward their writing grade. (And I'm going to grade them, heh, heh, heh). But all they have to do is pick two of the poems that they like best, identify a "golden line" (one that stands out especially to them) and write a brief paragraph explaining their choice. Mrs. S. can teach them about the structure of poetry. I want to make sure they also learn to love it for it's very own sake.

As I told the class, first thing each morning I drink a cup of coffee, say a prayer and read a poem. All three conspire to nudge me to the place of affirmation and focus required to begin the day. I can't offer you a cup of coffee at the moment and whether you pray or not is between you and Whoever. But I can give you one of my current favorite poems. I haven't counted the number of feet and I suppose it's free verse or something similar. It's for sure not a sonnet. But I know it's true:

What We Need

The Emperor,
his bullies
and henchmen
terrorize the world
every day,

which is why
every day

we need

a little poem of kindness,

a small song
of peace

a brief moment
of joy.

- David Budbill