Yesterday The Child was talking, very calmly and rationally, about college options and I, very calmly and quietly, mentioned that better grades would be an assist in that department. She replied, very thoughtfully and respectfully, that she sometimes wished she could go back in time, find her younger self and tell her that homework matters more than she thinks so that knowledge could be imparted to her current self.

I very softly and gently suggested that it wasn't too late to pass on that message to herself and then we proceeded to have a very calm and rational conversation about grades, responsibility and the necessity of doing not only what is required but beyond that in order to maximize opportunities.

Am I walking on eggshells a lot these days? On the homefront, for sure. Some things are a little fragile and call for a delicate balance. This is not always easy for me. My success depends entirely on the type of shoe I happen to be wearing.



U2 "Get Your Boots On"

Oops! My Bad.

Doralong asked about my ensemble last night. Silly me. Hat and I were going to photograph what we wear while watching "Project Runway". Why? We don't know. Except that it is something of an occasion for us and we dress for occasions. But as I mentioned, I'd fallen asleep earlier in the evening and so I went to The Neighbor's wearing what I'd worn all day.


Black tulip skirt with a sheer black shirt, red cardi that I stole from The Neighbor a long time ago (which she keeps forgetting to ask me to return even though I wear it blatantly in front of her) and a sweet little scarf that Neighb brought me from Europe.

I also wore these sweet little flats, because they are comfy and sweet.

Art Project

Yesterday's post about clutter obviously struck a nerve. I like when that happens. True to my word, I did some flinging yesterday, employing the "do I use it, do I love it" mantra. Emptied one drawer in the dining room, one in my bedroom and one shelf in the kitchen. (And if you knew how limited my kitchen storage space is you would be sooooo impressed by that).

I'll do some more today but The Child wants me to read Harry Potter to her for a while (helps her little dyslexic self advance a little more swiftly, don'tcha know) and I want to go out and get a clothesline so I can reduce my carbon footprint.

But when I was thinking about yesterday and giggling about the invitations, spanning 2 continents, to help people get rid of their clutter, I thought about what makes us hold on to stuff. There might be a post in there somewhere. But for now, suffice to say that I used to hold on to a lot more than I do now. Case in point: the 6 boxes of baby clothes in the attic, along with the box of shoes that included every pair of patent leather Mary Janes that had ever been on The Child's little footsies. It was about 3 years ago when I decided that it was time to sort through all that stuff. I thought it wouldn't take that long, what with having made such judicious judgements about what to save in the first place.

Not so much.

Turns out, for example, there was no reason to hang on to half a dozen nondescript onesies. It wasn't like I was saving this stuff because there was going to be a succession of other babies and having such things on hand would be thrifty and prudent. The Child was 10. And by the time grandbabies make their appearance I'll be more than happy to buy them brand-new onesies. So I culled out everything, until there was only one box full of the most precious items, the pieces that had been hand-made by loved ones, the little dresses that were tied to a special memory. The rest of it went off to bless other babies.

And the shoes? That was harder. Which is nuts. Probably just owes to my having a bit of a thing for shoes, coupled with the indisputable fact that ain't nothin' cuter than a little tiny baby shoe. (Aside from, you know, the nibbly little tiny squishy baby foot that might wear it).

I saved the little tiny black Converse high tops that her papa bought her. I saved the little yellow walking boots that she wore with overalls and dresses alike and just looked soooooo cute in. The patent leather? I always told myself I'd do something artistic with them. Guess I had visions of a large Plexiglas box full of baby shoes. Uh, yeah. Like, a) there was any room in the house for something like that and 2) aw, there is no 2. It was crazy talk, I tell you.

So I lined up the shoes and I took a photo of them. I think I kept the wee-est pair and then I gave all the rest of them away. And then, lo and behold, I did do something artistic with those little shoes.

The Gallery of Little Tiny Baby Shoes

About this exhibit

Working in a variety of medium, using the simplest of objects, the artist seeks to explore the fleeting nature of childhood and the internal conflict of a parent between cherishing a child and yearning for simpler days even as she must set that child on a path of independence. The shoe represents first steps, both literal and figurative, and through the simplicity and universality of the form, the artist takes us on an exploration of nurturing, relinquishment and the addictive capacities of Photosuite.

"Where are You Going, My Little One?"

"Shoes, Ships, Sealing Wax"

"You Could Stand Inside My Shoes"

"Made for Walkin'"

"Embossed on the Heart"

"All God's Children Need Travellin' Shoes"

"Kickin' Down"

Now I'm going to clean out some more drawers. Who knows what inspiration may be lurking in their dark and sticky recesses!

Best Costume Design

I simply must share this with you. It is uncannily reminiscent of my own daily life.

Illness, Not a Lot

The Child is going to live.

She slept most of the afternoon yesterday and so did I. General headachiness and feelings of bleh abounded. It seemed perfectly reasonable to take it easy now and possibly ward off worse contagion and that's what we did.

Took her to the doctor today to have a tetnus shot as she managed to scamper over a rusty nail on Sunday. That'll learn her not to listen when Mummy says, "Those really aren't the best shoes for playing outside". (Open toed sandals with heels...what was she thinking?)

We just finished watching Al Gore's "An Inconvenient Truth". She's planning on doing a project on global warming for the school science fair and when I told her about the movie she asked to see it. Just happened to have it at the top of my Netflix queue. If you haven't seen it, you really must. The science is presented in understandable terms, it's amusing and as angry as some of it can make you, it also ends with a very positive "we can turn this around" message full of practical points on how to do so. Highly recommend the film, highly recommend acting on the information presented.

"Why wasn't he our President, Mom?" she asked when it was over. I'm too tired to explain that again.

Time for another preventative nap and then The Child asked if we could pretend that we are Hermione Granger and Ginnie Weasley cleaning up Grimauld Place as a surprise for Harry Potter. Grimauld Place being her room. Whatever works.

Adding It Up

A friend was bemoaning her lack of achievement in the last week or so; projects that had stalled, things left undone, decisions to be made that had become burdensome.

+

A recent conversation with The Neighbor went something like this:

Her: "I picked out a light fixture for my bathroom. And I finally cleaned out my fridge".

Me: "I blogged".

+

On Saturday The Spouse cleaned out the garage and made enchilada sauce. That night he went to bed and burned through a fever.

=

It's January.

I always expect to be in a "fresh start/clean slate" mood the first week of January but it doesn't really kick in until around, oh, now. That first week is a loss leader. Too much effort is expended just in the mere effort of getting back into a routine. Plus, I really think that those of us in the Northwest aren't just dealing with the pleasant disruption of the holiday season. Everyone seems to be walking around in the same miasma composed of equal parts holiday whatevers, astonishing amounts of rain (even for Seattle) and post-storm recovery. It's taking all of us longer than expected to get on solid ground. Yesterday I'd just gotten home from church and went out in the north garden to check on something. My heels sank into the ground to the soles of the shoes. It was an apt metaphor.

This morning's NY Times had an article about how NW residents are looking differently at trees since the storm. That's certainly true for us. Seattle is one of the most wooded metropolitan areas in the country. We know they are there but they are part of the background. We used to take them for granted. Now The Child and I will be driving to school or such and see big trees and wonder "why didn't that one come down"? I notice a big tree in front of a house and think if that were mine I'd seriously consider it's removal. What used to be a noble, spreading expanse of carbon dioxide consumption now looks like a threat.

And even though there hasn't been anything on the magnitude of the Big Blow, we are still having windstorms and it's weird because we notice them. And we watch the trees. And we really, really notice when the wind stops blowing. I'm sure the skittishness we're all feeling will pass, eventually. But maybe not. Turns out, that whole experience was a big deal.

This morning it is calm and clear. The house is back to normal. Everyone is where they are supposed to be. Perhaps today will be the beginning of getting something done. I hope so. It would feel nice.

Restoring Order

Here's something I know about kids and their rooms: when they have too much stuff they get overwhelmed. You can't say, "Go clean your room" because they look at everything, despair and just kick some of it under the bed or into the closet. Sometimes stronger measures are required.

I am pretty good about the new in/old out rule. But kid stuff has the ability to mutate, clone, multiply and divide in ways that baffle the most brilliant scientists and mathematicians. Talk about your chaos theory.

The first phase of bulldozing The Child's room has been completed. (And me with my camera battery charging...I so wish I could show you before, during and after pictures!) The results are as follows:

1 grocery bag full of recycling
1/2 load of dishes
1 overstuffed laundry basket
1 grocery bag of garbage
1 grocery bag of give away stuff

Her bed is still heaped with stuff to go through...books and CDs and art supplies.
Her chair is similarly heaped.

As soon as JP gets here with the wine we're going to start flinging things at the neighbors.

Oh. And her shoes and coat that she couldn't find this morning. In her room. Where I told her they had to be. Just thought I'd mention that to someone who isn't going to roll her eyes and say, "Mommmmmmm!" with exsasperation.

I'm Not Going to Write Anything Profound but I Am Going to Complain

Back when I was birthing The Child there were some contortions involved that I was oblivious to at the time but which, a few days later, when I was off pain meds, became all too apparent. A muscle in my back had been snarfled out of position or something and I couldn't stand upright. Some more good meds and a physical therapy session or two later everything was back to normal.

The trouble is, now that part of my back is easily prone to tweaking out over the merest of things. On Saturday I slipped on some ice and in my attempt not to land on my arse I messed it up again. To further complicate matters, on Sunday I slipped in an oil spill in a garage.

I am in some serious pain, right now people. There's nothing to be done for it but doing pain-inducing stretches, taking Tylenol and slathering muscle rub all over my back. And while the minty freshness of the oinment is delightful, it hurts to move and it's pissing me off! I grow weary of being wicky in the wacky woo and it's just a darned good thing that it's not Saturday and time for the Superfantastic All-Request All-80s Dance Party Countdown Hit Music Weekend Video Spectacular because I couldn't walk like an Egyptian if I wanted to.

Also, last night the knob for the dryer broke. It can still be operated with pliers but the replacement part was $30. $30 for a frakking 2.5 inch piece of plastic. The new one better be studded with diamond chips.

And while I'm on it, a few Christmases ago The Spouse surprised me with a lovely pair of ruby and diamond earrings. I wore them to the theatah on Friday night. Before bed, I put them on a shelf in the bathroom and now only one of them is there. The good news is that the other one has to be in the house somewhere but it hasn't turned up yet. Bummer.

Today is the feast of St. Nicholas. The Child puts her shoes by the fireplace so St. Nicholas can fill them with candy and a little gift. We also make a batch of speculatis...a yummy ginger cookie...and make St. Nicholas cookies. I didn't remember any of this until 9:15 last night. There was some candy in the house so that was covered but what to do about a gift? I ran over to The Neighbor's and we rifled through her (adult) daughter's room and The Neighb found 2 little red silk purses. Then she remembered she had some ginger cookie dough from Ikea in her freezer. The holiday was saved.

Sheesh.

Ouch

It's really windy today and the front door just blew open. That's a bad thing because The Dog, who usually acts like he loves us to pieces, really hates us and wants to escape from his brutal life of eating, sleeping and eating some more before he sleeps. So when the door blows open, he seizes the opportunity and runs for it. This always requires grabbing a treat and the leash, saying a quick prayer to St. Francis and going out after him. Which is tough because if I run he thinks we're having one last game of chase before he's free forever. But if I just saunter along calling, "Here boy! Treat!" he ignores me and keeps running. You can almost hear his little paws tapping out "Freedom! Freedom!" So anyway, I'd just gotten out of the shower and while I was dressed and had shoes on, my hair is still wet and really, the last thing I wanted to do was get some exercise because, sheesh, we've already been for a walk this morning.

I heard the door slam open, jumped up from my desk and sorta slipped a little (because a rolling chair isn't really the best launch pad in the world) and I caught my hand on the bookcase to steady myself, while still moving toward the living room and I whacked a glass carafe with my pinky, sending the carafe bouncing to the floor along with the glass fisherman's float that sits on top of it to keep bugs out of the wine. As all this is clattering to the floor and bouncing around I ran to the front door and slammed it shut and locked it against future breezes.

And The Dog was just sitting on the couch looking at me with an expression that said, "Geez, lady. I'm sleeping here. Keep it down".

My finger really hurts.

Things to be thankful for, besides not having to chase The Dog down the street: there was no wine in the carafe so I don't have to mop and also, apparently French glass doesn't break.

---

In other news, my child hates me. Again.

Teenagers are not known for their searing logic skills. Everything is about them. I know that. But sometimes I still step right out onto that minefield and start picking daisies. La di dah.

This morning she was angling for some extra jobs because she wants to make money to buy papa and I Christmas presents. Which is adorable of her. So we start brainstorming. Except that I don't have any intention of paying her to do things she's supposed to do, like keep her room clean or unload the dishwasher. There's stuff people have to do because they live in a family. It's not glamorous, it just is. Fine. So I start suggesting things like mopping (which I hate to do) and such and she's pretty jiggy with it but then she says, "And I've been thinking. You know how you credit me with $10 every time I detail the car? Well, I'm thinking you should pay me half and keep half". Right. The reason she is credited $10 is that detailing the car is the way she's "paying back" the $500 frakking dollars she owes us for the car window she broke this summer. So I calmly remind her of this fact and suddenly she's got her fangs out and she's screaming at me, "Why do you always throw that in my face!?! Can't you just let it drop!?!"

I take a deep breath and point out, very logically, that I never bring it up except when, like at this moment, she forgets why she's in this whole car detailing situation in the first place. Which results in her going into her room and slamming the door.

Except it's time to go to school so I tell her she needs to get her stuff and in the process I ask if she has all her homework and she snarfs out, "Yes" and stalks out the door. In the car I ask if she has her homework folder. "NO! It's at school! I have my homework, ok?"

Not ok. At this point I'm about to slap her from here to tomorrow but I just grip the steering wheel a little tighter and say softly, "I do not appreciate that tone of voice. It is very disrespectful."

"Well, maybe if you would just trust me..." she begins.

"Do you have any missing assignments?"

"What? No! Well. Yes. One in math and one in lit."

"No TV".

"MOM!!!! That's so not fair! I did the work, I just couldn't find it at the time and turned it in after class".

"Where was the homework?"

"Around. In my desk or whatever".

So I remind her that this is precisely why she has a homework folder because I know she does the work but she has to be able to find it when it's called for so that she gets the credit.

"I'm just trying to help you help yourself", I say. And I'm still keep a calm tone.

"Well, it doesn't help me when you yell at me about it!" she yells. "Stop yelling at me!"

This is me. Not yelling at her. It's too early in the game to give up but seriously, I am having a devil of a time cracking the code. Kids.

---

And finally, yesterday The Child and her team-mates were presented with championship trophies. In a moment of pure poetry, she also received a volleyball t-shirt from Jlow which has a big dragony creature spiking a volleyball at a bunch of frightened rabbits. This is perfect because when they play community ball their team name is "Spikers" and their school mascot is the dragon. How did she know?

Building Community

Of all the things I hoped to accomplish by writing a blog, expanding my circle wasn't among them. It never even occured to me. I have plenty of "real" friends, after all.

But now my blog is more than a vehicle for getting myself to write. It is a place, a neighborhood, full of friends who, despite being far flung in reality feel, in this little neck of Blogtopia, as if they live right next door. Just as in every neighborhood, people come and go. There are some with who you have merely a passing encounter or two, you nod in recognition and move on. And then there are the others, the ones from whom you, virtually speaking, borrow sugar, chat with over the fence and look out for.

I got think about it again last night after talking to Amy and Charlie. There we were, Charlie talking about his travels in America, Amy sharing life-changing news, both of them hearing me tell my family to bugger off as they kept pestering me to know who was on the phone ("Amy? Blog Amy?" asked The Child. "Charlie? Put him on speaker," said The Spouse. "Yes, yes, leave me alone! I'm trying to talk here!") And it wasn't "I've never talked with you before" weird, just like the time this summer when Edy called and we started in chatting as if we do it everyday.

There was an email this morning from Jon, telling me he was off to Texas and me responding that I hoped he'd have Interent access because I couldn't imagine going for two weeks without our near daily emails about everything and nothing. (We've talked on the phone, too. And he was with Ms. Healthypants, so it was a two-fer).

Tonight we're having dinner with Alan, the first blog buddy I've ever actually met. And I'm so excited to feed him cocoa-rubbed pork tenderloin and my infamous applesauce cake, to catch up and to talk about his brilliant new blog, knowing that hanging out with him will be delightful and comfy and we-do-this-all-the-time normal.

I think of our plans to go to the middle of the country this summer to cook for Edy and impose ourselves on Jon and the Iwanskis and to finally meet my darling poodle, JP, in Omaha. Geez, Omaha. Like that was ever a place high on the list of cities to visit before I die. But now it is. Maybe we'll even get to actually watch "Battlestar Galactica" together, forgoing our ritual Saturday morning "how much did you love last night's show" email.

There are the shoes from Edy and the cheese from Pat and I think, well, first I think that I really must bust a move and send those shoes back, but then I think "How lucky am I?" Finding all these people - and all the rest of you- was so random and yet, there you are, living your lives and connected to mine somehow by the stories you share, the observations you make and the jokes you tell. I want to be independently wealthy so I can visit you all, from O-town to Texas, plus all points in between and on both edges. And then I'd have to go to Canada and Europe and the UAE. And I bet most of you wouldn't mind a lick.

Strictly speaking, one should preserve a respectful distance, not assume too much, not impose. But at least with my little batch o' buddies, there is surprisingly little pretense. Even as we make our careful choices about what to share and what to hide, we tell a lot. We reveal enough truth about ourselves that actually meeting wouldn't be a shock. No one would redecorate or go on a crash diet. We'd have our beers and tuna sandwiches and chat away, with all our little in-jokes, as if we've known each other forever. It's a very nice thing, one of the things for which I will be thankful in this week of focusing on thankfulness.

All that said, I do now have to go dust and sweep, not because I think Alan will judge me harshly if he spies a dust bunny but just because that's what one does when one is having a friend to dinner.

Big Guy Diplomacy

Last night I had another one of those dreams.

The Spouse and I were in North Korea to adopt a baby. (I think this came from having heard something about Madonna buying adopting a child in Malawi). Anyway, we were led into a room where we had to correctly answer 4 obscure questions in order to receive the child. But as I was answering questions about bluenose dolphins, The Spouse smiled at me, backed into another room and I never saw him again. So, as I'm wont to do in these sorts of dreams, I cried and cried and cried while I looked for him, all the while leading around this little Korean child.

It was a creepy dream but upon waking it led to the most astonishing revelation, a solution to the nuclear standoff with North Korea so simple I can't believe no one has thought of it.

Yesterday on NPR (of course) some expert on the situation was saying that the one thing North Korea seems to really, really want is a bi-lateral talk with the US. Which our government refuses to do. Now, I've never understood why our various presidents are unwilling to talk face to face with various other leaders. Seems to me, if you're the most powerful man in the world (after Superman et al, of course) you could, and probably should, sit down with just about anyone. What does it hurt?

But Mr. Bush won't talk to that hideous little man in North Korea and so here he is, classic "mouse that roared", testing bombs (or pretending to test them) and making everyone completely nervous, all because, just like a 2 year old throwing a tantrum, he wants some attention. Ok. Ignoring a tantrum by a 2 year old - good thing. Ignoring a maniac with a bomb - not so much.

But here's the thing: George Bush is 5'11. Kim Jong Il is 5'2", maybe 5'3". Rumor has it, he wears lifts in his shoes. He is a very, very small man. Short men have a need to overcompensate for their lack of stature. It's called a "Napolean complex". And we all know Napolean was a trouble-maker.

Also, Kim Jong Il is funny looking. George Bush, well, sure, some of us make fun of him but he's not an unattractive man. In fact, as a youth he was quite the hottie. He's no Colin Firth, but then, sadly, so few men are.

I say, hey, Mr. Bush, invite Kim Jong Il to Washington D.C. Meet him at the airport, surrounded by the press, so everyone sees how far down you have to bend to shake the little man's hand. Take him to the White House and stand in the Oval Office for a photo op so the world can see you towering over the little, tiny man. Have a state dinner, with lots and lots of photographers near the receiving line so that every news agency from the BBC to Aljezeera gets lots of lovely photos of you, George Bush, the very tall leader of the free world standing next to the smallest dictator ever.

Then serve Mr. Il the best quality kim chee money can buy, give him tea and talk to him. Tell him that you and the rest of the world aren't going to take anymore crap from him. Tell him that he's going to be accompanied back to North Korea by UN troops, who are going to enter and inspect his nuclear facilities and that if they find anything that threatens the world, they will take it out by force and destroy it and they will shoot anyone who stands in their way. Tell him that if he co-operates, the world community will feed his starving people and, oh, by the way, one false move and we'll sit by while China takes over your ass. And then we'll send China flowers.

And once you've put the fear of whatever into him, take him out into the Rose Garden for a press conference and while he stands in your very impressive shadow, politely and deferentially announce the accord that has been struck between your two "great nations".

This could so work.

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.

The Suit

The Spouse is a casual guy, a jeans-and-t-shirt guy. He has one suit, which is not even a proper suit, that he has owned since before we were married. This “suit” is trotted out perhaps 3 times a year. Being a typical straight guy, he is not a fan of the shopping. Aside from replacing his tennis shoes every six months and a slight fetish about coats, he confines his
wardrobe spending to the once-every-two-years spree at JC Penny’s for a new pair of Dockers and a few polo shirts.

The upcoming Wedding seemed a very good reason, in my opinion, to spring for a new suit. The Child and I are both going to be looking super fantastic and he is, after all, an usher. He did not necessarily give a flying hooha and in fact, when we were trying to find a time to go shopping offered many variations on the “What I have is fine” theme. I persisted. On Monday he called into work “exhausted” from his movie-making weekend. The opportunity was seized.

There are any number of places we could have gone but I maintained that Nordstrom was the best spot. The Spouse has lost a nice bit of weight over the last few years. He doesn’t even really know his actual size anymore. We needed a store where the salespeople are knowledgeable and helpful, as opposed to the salespeople at Macy’s, for example, who are paid to ignore you.

Sure enough, a very nice man named Brett approached us immediately to offer his assistance. He listened. He understood that we were looking for one good suit of timeless design that would serve Mr. Jeans & a T-shirt for the next 15 years. He pulled a jacket from the rack and it fit like it was tailored to The Spouse’s specifications. It was a light grey wool and looked terrific. Brett showed him a few other jackets but none of us liked them more than the first one. So off we went to the back room. Brett got The Spouse into a dressing room and settled me in a big chair with a bottle of Perrier. (I felt a little like Julia Roberts in “Pretty Woman” at that point).

There was another woman in there with me. A well-dressed, coiffed and perfectly made-up woman. (I too was well dressed, coiffed and made up but she had an airbrushed quality that is not easily duplicated by the average housewife). Her husband/boyfriend/pet kept coming out in various ensembles, which she would then loudly critique with comments about how the color washed him out or how the jeans looked like they were up his butt. The husband/boyfriend/pet did not seem to mind these comments but I took it as a cautionary tale. Getting The Spouse into a serviceable suit was one thing. Emasculating him in the process, not so much.

Not that there was any danger of withering comments anyway because The Spouse looked, in the words of that bard Paris Hilton, hot. A very proper German tailor was introduced, who asked The Spouse some questions and then marked the suit with a few deft strokes of his tailor’s chalk. He shook our hands, told The Spouse it was a pleasure to work with him and left.

Meanwhile, Brett had brought in some shirts and ties. The Spouse does have some definite opinions in this regard (pale colors, stripes not checks). He decided on a basic white shirt (for now) and picked out a really gorgeous tie. And then a little metrosexual chip clicked on in his brain. After saying something about coming back “after the wedding” for some other shirts, he mentioned that he would need a belt and “as long as we’re at it” a new pair of dress shoes. (Terrific Cole Hahn loafers. With tassels. I’m kvelling). Oh, and don’t forget the 2 new pairs of dress socks, one black, one grey.

The final tally was, shall we say, impressive. Although, the cost amortized out over the life of the suit was a mere pittance. I can do more damage at Ann Taylor in 20 minutes. The Spouse is now ready for The Wedding, as well as any other special occasion/dinner/meeting with executives that could come his way in the foreseeable future.

He is now being very Norwegian and “no big deal, it’s just a suit” about it all. He will likely look oddly at anyone who makes too emphatic a compliment when he is in it. But I’m glad he got some new duds. He deserves them. And did I mention that he looks hot?

10 Days and Counting

The Wedding is almost here. Our dear friend BBB, otherwise known as The Bride, will be marrying her prince Charming, heretofore referred to as The Prince, on the 23rd. The excitement is mounting. The Child, I believe I have mentioned, is a junior bridesmaid, The Spouse is an usher and I'm helping take up the gifts for Eucharist. Big doin's, big fun and I've already seen the seating chart and am happy to report that we will be hanging with the best people at the party, including The Neighbor.

To recap: I had the perfect Little Black Dress and then found the shoes to go with it. Then I got the super fantastic jewelry from The Neighbor and had to rethink the shoes. Which was fine. Then Darling Edy, the twin from whom I was separated at birth, emailed me and said, in a word, "no" accompanied by a picture of very darling shoes. This had the effect of making me wish that Edy and I lived in the same place so we could go shopping together.

Smart aleck that I am, I emailed her back with the message that if she wore a size 8 she should put them in a box and send them to me post haste.

Which she fracking did!
















Can you believe her? What a kind and generous gal. Seriously. I'm just gobsmacked that she would take the time to do something like that.

So now my ensemble for The Wedding is complete and while I will not be more gorgeous than The Bride, I will not be an embarrassment to my family, either. And just for the record, while I am very excited to get all dolled up, I'm even more excited to be there for The Bride and The Prince, two people who are beautifully suited to each other and who are going to have a wonderful life together. I don't think I've looked so forward to a wedding since my own shindig, nearly 15 years ago.

Thanks, Edy. You rock. And here's to you Bride and Prince. Your wedding day is going to be super fantastic.

We Interrupt our Jellymaking to Bring You This Important Announcement

I found my shoes for The Wedding:

Super fantastic, no?

Homekeeping

Today will be a write-y write-y day. I have a new assignment from the Real Moms Speak editor, with a deadline for tomorrow. Meanwhile, The Child and I have some editorial work to do on her otherwise very well done book reports so that she can print them up, tuck them into her fresh new homework folder and spend the next two weeks just hanging until school starts.

Today will also be a clean-y clean-y day. In the summer months I’m not hyper conscientious about things like sweeping and dusting. People drag grass and sand and what-have-you into the house all the time and it just doesn’t seem important to stay on top of it. More will be coming tomorrow and besides, we spend most of our time outdoors anyway so who’ll notice? But despite my efforts to ignore it, fall is in the air. The mornings are cool and there is that thing, that snap at the back of the breeze, even on hot afternoons, that signals we’re tilting away from the sun after all. There’s still a wisp of summer left but the move back indoors is upon us. And that makes me more diligent about attending to smudges and dusty molding and even, Heaven forefend, mopping.

The sick and twisted thing about this is that I really love cleaning my house. I don’t necessarily love every little bit of it (scrubbing the bathtub springs to mind) but I love the results. I love the peace and order of clean counters, wine glasses twinkling on a shelf, being able to see the ebony black shine of the piano when it is free of dust. I love to walk into the house and see the dining room table with a fresh cloth, a bowl of flowers, the candle sticks and nothing else; no stacks of mail, no pairs of shoes left up high out of The Dog’s reach. I enjoy looking out a window free of dog nose smudges and handprints.

I’m not obsessive. You will likely always find sticky spots and dust bunnies and you won’t have to look hard to find them. You cannot, I repeat, you cannot eat off of my floor. There is a definite line between the pristine look of a house that suggests no one is actually allowed to live here and the acknowledgement that life is, in fact, lived and sometimes messy. Very messy. I think I negotiate that line pretty well. My house doesn’t have to look as if it is about to be photographed for House and Garden. I simply take a lot of pleasure in having it look inviting and peaceful. I keep the jangle of clutter off the coffee table so that you have room to put up your feet. Coffee?

I'm Just a Little Dog

Here I am, thinking seriously about barking at some people who had the nerve to walk by my house.




I think and care deeply about many subjects. Food, in particular.

Sometimes I sleep with a bear that looks a lot like me. Don't read too much into that.

I am very fond of chewing on things. Please note that in this picture I am not chewing on someone's shoes. And for that, I think I deserve a treat. I'm feeling a little peckish.

Please do not look that way at my football when I'm chewing on it. It's mine. I'm just a little dog.

It can be very exhausting being such a cute little dog.

Perfect Fit

Part of the tax refund was earmarked for Mommy. Mommy went shoe shopping.

I wish I could explain what it is about (most) women and shoes but I can't. I just know that given a perfect world, where everyone is fed, healthy, educated and living in peace that whole Imelda Marcos thing makes complete sense to me. For most women shoe shopping is a guilty pleasure, right up there with chocolate and soaps. But the beauty of it is that while you can, theoretically, live without chocolate, in most circumstances you have to have shoes.

Being that I am totally conscientious and all that crap I got rid of 4 pairs of shoes that I do not wear/love/or find comfortable. And, not having Carrie Bradshaw's budget, I also took advantage of the BOGO sale at Payless. Therefore, having made all the necessary justifications to anyone who doesn't get the shoe thing (because obviously I don't have to explain myself to those of you who do) let's take a peek at what Mommy got:

First:

A classic little black pump. Because my only black heels have an ankle strap and a 3 inch heel and even though they are totally comfortable, sometimes a girl just needs something a little less skyscrapery. The little smidge of detailing keeps things interesting.

Next we have:

I know what you're thinking: a bit too Boho for my style. But 1) every girl needs a gold slipper and b) we are going to an auction next month with the theme "Passage to India" and I have the right dress but needed something that said "Developing World with Attitude". Plus I can totally see wearing these with jeans.

3rd:

I have owned exactly one pair of white shoes in my life and I wore them on my wedding day. These are not white but cream. (Did you feel that? All the men just rolled their eyes at exactly the same time). Classic little sling for those times when I need a neutral (and I do have things that I don't wear as often because a dark shoe won't work). Very basic wardrobe need solved with this baby.

And finally:

Heavens to Manolo, this is my favorite of them all. Beautiful brown mule with super detailing and oh golly is it comfy. Not only do I now have the perfect shoe to wear with the few brown things in my wardrobe, I anticipate buying more brown just so I have an excuse to wear this completely adorable shoe.

Thank you for indulging me. I will try to write something substantive and meaningful next time.

Bad Dreams

All night long I was negotiating difficult and perilous routes, like tall and narrow metal ladders, in very high heels and whenever I got where I was going Brad and Angelina were there. Every time I encountered them I'd let fly with a load of invective that would burn the souls and eyeballs of a normal couple but all they did was blandly smile at me.

The shoes were Manolo Blahnik and they were amazing.

Bono at The National Prayer Breakfast

Number 1 of the top 5 non-Springsteen concerts I've ever seen was U2 at the Paramount. It was 1982, the "War" tour. U2 had only just started getting air time on MTV (back when the M stood for 'music'). Tickets were something like $8 and we sat in the 14th row. It was beyond awesome. I was in love with Bono.

In the subsequent years my admiration for him has grown. He is mocked as much as honored for his vocal stands, for being a rock star who acts like a prophet and a prophet who lives like a rock star (except for the whole faithfulness to his 1st and only wife thing). But I'm glad he's out there and my only real criticism is that he's too short.

You can stop reading now if you want. But below I have a transcript of Bono's remarks at the National Prayer Breakfast and I think it's really good. I just like picturing him saying this stuff to people like, well, the President. His is truly a prophetic voice. (Note: "prophecy" as in speaking the truth even if it isn't what the powerful want to hear not "prophecy" like Pat Robertson on another of his paranoid-schizophrenic tirades). I lifted this straight from an e-zine I get from "Sojourners" because if I linked you to the site you'd have to register first and I don't think you should have to do that even if it is free.

RUSH TRANSCRIPT: CHECK AGAINST DELIVERED REMARKS]


If you're wondering what I'm doing here, at a prayer breakfast, well, so am I. I'm certainly not here as a man of the cloth, unless that cloth is leather. It's certainly not because I'm a rock star. Which leaves one possible explanation: I'm here because I've got a messianic complex.

Yes, it's true. And for anyone who knows me, it's hardly a revelation.

Well, I'm the first to admit that there's something unnatural...something unseemly...about rock stars mounting the pulpit and preaching at presidents, and then disappearing to their villas in the south of France. Talk about a fish out of water. It was weird enough when Jesse Helms showed up at a U2 concert...but this is really weird, isn't it?

You know, one of the things I love about this country is its separation of church and state. Although I have to say: in inviting me here, both church and state have been separated from something else completely: their mind.

Mr. President, are you sure about this?

It's very humbling and I will try to keep my homily brief. But be warned - I'm Irish.

I'd like to talk about the laws of man, here in this city where those laws are written. And I'd like to talk about higher laws. It would be great to assume that the one serves the other; that the laws of man serve these higher laws...but of course, they don't always. And I presume that, in a sense, is why you're here.

I presume the reason for this gathering is that all of us here - Muslims, Jews, Christians - all are searching our souls for how to better serve our family, our community, our nation, our God.
I know I am. Searching, I mean. And that, I suppose, is what led me here, too.

Yes, it's odd, having a rock star here - but maybe it's odder for me than for you. You see, I avoided religious people most of my life. Maybe it had something to do with having a father who was Protestant and a mother who was Catholic in a country where the line between the two was, quite literally, a battle line. Where the line between church and state was...well, a little blurry, and hard to see.

I remember how my mother would bring us to chapel on Sundays... and my father used to wait outside. One of the things that I picked up from my father and my mother was the sense that religion often gets in the way of God.

For me, at least, it got in the way. Seeing what religious people, in the name of God, did to my native land...and in this country, seeing God's second-hand car salesmen on the cable TV channels, offering indulgences for cash...in fact, all over the world, seeing the self-righteousness roll down like a mighty stream from certain corners of the religious establishment...
I must confess, I changed the channel. I wanted my MTV.

Even though I was a believer.

Perhaps because I was a believer.

I was cynical...not about God, but about God's politics. (There you are, Jim.)

Then, in 1997, a couple of eccentric, septuagenarian British Christians went and ruined my shtick - my reproachfulness. They did it by describing the millennium, the year 2000, as a Jubilee year, as an opportunity to cancel the chronic debts of the world's poorest people. They had the audacity to renew the Lord's call - and were joined by Pope John Paul II, who, from an Irish half-Catholic's point of view, may have had a more direct line to the Almighty.
'Jubilee' - why 'Jubilee'?

What was this year of Jubilee, this year of our Lord's favor?

I'd always read the scriptures, even the obscure stuff. There it was in Leviticus (25:35)...
'If your brother becomes poor,' the scriptures say, 'and cannot maintain himself...you shall maintain him.... You shall not lend him your money at interest, not give him your food for profit.'
It is such an important idea, Jubilee, that Jesus begins his ministry with this. Jesus is a young man, he's met with the rabbis, impressed everyone, people are talking. The elders say, he's a clever guy, this Jesus, but he hasn't done much...yet. He hasn't spoken in public before...
When he does, is first words are from Isaiah: 'The Spirit of the Lord is upon me,' he says, 'because He has anointed me to preach good news to the poor.' And Jesus proclaims the year of the Lord's favour, the year of Jubilee (Luke 4:18).

What he was really talking about was an era of grace - and we're still in it.

So fast-forward 2,000 years. That same thought, grace, was made incarnate - in a movement of all kinds of people. It wasn't a bless-me club... it wasn't a holy huddle. These religious guys were willing to get out in the streets, get their boots dirty, wave the placards, follow their convictions with actions...making it really hard for people like me to keep their distance. It was amazing. I almost started to like these church people.

But then my cynicism got another helping hand.

It was what Colin Powell, a five-star general, called the greatest W.M.D. of them all: a tiny little virus called AIDS. And the religious community, in large part, missed it. The ones that didn't miss it could only see it as divine retribution for bad behaviour. Even on children...even [though the] fastest growing group of HIV infections were married, faithful women.

Aha, there they go again! I thought to myself judgmentalism is back!

But in truth, I was wrong again. The church was slow but the church got busy on this the leprosy of our age.

Love was on the move.
Mercy was on the move.
God was on the move.

Moving people of all kinds to work with others they had never met, never would have cared to meet...conservative church groups hanging out with spokesmen for the gay community, all singing off the same hymn sheet on AIDS...soccer moms and quarterbacks...hip-hop stars and country stars. This is what happens when God gets on the move: crazy stuff happens!

Popes were seen wearing sunglasses!

Jesse Helms was seen with a ghetto blaster!

Crazy stuff. Evidence of the spirit.

It was breathtaking. Literally. It stopped the world in its tracks.

When churches started demonstrating on debt, governments listened - and acted. When churches starting organising, petitioning, and even - that most unholy of acts today, God forbid, lobbying...on AIDS and global health, governments listened - and acted.

I'm here today in all humility to say: you changed minds; you changed policy; you changed the world.

Look, whatever thoughts you have about God, who He is or if He exists, most will agree that if there is a God, He has a special place for the poor. In fact, the poor are where God lives.

Check Judaism. Check Islam. Check pretty much anyone.

I mean, God may well be with us in our mansions on the hill. I hope so. He may well be with us as in all manner of controversial stuff. Maybe, maybe not. But the one thing we can all agree, all faiths and ideologies, is that God is with the vulnerable and poor.

God is in the slums, in the cardboard boxes where the poor play house. God is in the silence of a mother who has infected her child with a virus that will end both their lives. God is in the cries heard under the rubble of war. God is in the debris of wasted opportunity and lives, and God is with us if we are with them. "If you remove the yoke from your midst, the pointing of the finger and speaking wickedness, and if you give yourself to the hungry and satisfy the desire of the afflicted, then your light will rise in darkness and your gloom with become like midday and the Lord will continually guide you and satisfy your desire in scorched places."

It's not a coincidence that in the scriptures, poverty is mentioned more than 2,100 times. It's not an accident. That's a lot of air time, 2,100 mentions. (You know, the only time Christ is judgmental is on the subject of the poor.) 'As you have done it unto the least of these my brethren, you have done it unto me' (Matthew 25:40). As I say, good news to the poor.
Here's some good news for the president. After 9/11 we were told America would have no time for the world's poor. America would be taken up with its own problems of safety. And it's true these are dangerous times, but America has not drawn the blinds and double-locked the doors.

In fact, you have doubled aid to Africa. You have tripled funding for global health. Mr. President, your emergency plan for AIDS relief and support for the Global Fund - you and Congress - have put 700,000 people onto life-saving anti-retroviral drugs and provided 8 million bed nets to protect children from malaria.

Outstanding human achievements. Counterintuitive. Historic. Be very, very proud.

But here's the bad news. From charity to justice, the good news is yet to come. There is much more to do. There's a gigantic chasm between the scale of the emergency and the scale of the response.

And finally, it's not about charity after all, is it? It's about justice.

Let me repeat that: It's not about charity, it's about justice.

And that's too bad.

Because you're good at charity. Americans, like the Irish, are good at it. We like to give, and we give a lot, even those who can't afford it.

But justice is a higher standard. Africa makes a fool of our idea of justice; it makes a farce of our idea of equality. It mocks our pieties, it doubts our concern, it questions our commitment.

Sixty-five hundred Africans are still dying every day of a preventable, treatable disease, for lack of drugs we can buy at any drug store. This is not about charity, this is about justice and equality.

Because there's no way we can look at what's happening in Africa and, if we're honest, conclude that deep down, we really accept that Africans are equal to us. Anywhere else in the world, we wouldn't accept it. Look at what happened in South East Asia with the tsunami. 150,000 lives lost to that misnomer of all misnomers, "mother nature." In Africa, 150,000 lives are lost every month. A tsunami every month. And it's a completely avoidable catastrophe.

It's annoying but justice and equality are mates. Aren't they? Justice always wants to hang out with equality. And equality is a real pain.

You know, think of those Jewish sheep-herders going to meet the Pharaoh, mud on their shoes, and the Pharaoh says, "Equal?" A preposterous idea: rich and poor are equal? And they say, "Yeah, 'equal,' that's what it says here in this book. We're all made in the image of God."
And eventually the Pharaoh says, "OK, I can accept that. I can accept the Jews - but not the blacks."

"Not the women. Not the gays. Not the Irish. No way, man."

So on we go with our journey of equality.

On we go in the pursuit of justice.

We hear that call in the ONE Campaign, a growing movement of more than 2 million Americans...Left and Right together... united in the belief that where you live should no longer determine whether you live.

We hear that call even more powerfully today, as we mourn the loss of Coretta Scott King - mother of a movement for equality, one that changed the world but is only just getting started. These issues are as alive as they ever were; they just change shape and cross the seas.
Preventing the poorest of the poor from selling their products while we sing the virtues of the free market...that's a justice issue. Holding children to ransom for the debts of their grandparents...that's a justice issue. Withholding life-saving medicines out of deference to the Office of Patents...that's a justice issue.

And while the law is what we say it is, God is not silent on the subject.

That's why I say there's the law of the land¿. And then there is a higher standard. There's the law of the land, and we can hire experts to write them so they benefit us, so the laws say it's OK to protect our agriculture but it's not OK for African farmers to do the same, to earn a living?

As the laws of man are written, that's what they say.

God will not accept that.

Mine won't, at least. Will yours?
[ pause]

I close this morning on...very...thin...ice.

This is a dangerous idea I've put on the table: my God vs. your God, their God vs. our God...vs. no God. It is very easy, in these times, to see religion as a force for division rather than unity.
And this is a town - Washington - that knows something of division.

But the reason I am here, and the reason I keep coming back to Washington, is because this is a town that is proving it can come together on behalf of what the scriptures call the least of these.
This is not a Republican idea. It is not a Democratic idea. It is not even, with all due respect, an American idea. Nor it is unique to any one faith.

'Do to others as you would have them do to you' (Luke 6:30). Jesus says that.

'Righteousness is this: that one should...give away wealth out of love for him to the near of kin and the orphans and the needy and the wayfarer and the beggars and for the emancipation of the captives.' The Koran says that (2.177).

Thus sayeth the Lord: 'Bring the homeless poor into the house, when you see the naked, cover him, then your light will break out like the dawn and your recovery will speedily spring fourth, then your Lord will be your rear guard.' The Jewish scripture says that. Isaiah 58 again.
That is a powerful incentive: 'The Lord will watch your back.' Sounds like a good deal to me, right now.

A number of years ago, I met a wise man who changed my life. In countless ways, large and small, I was always seeking the Lord's blessing. I was saying, you know, I have a new song, look after it¿. I have a family, please look after them¿. I have this crazy idea...
And this wise man said: stop.

He said, stop asking God to bless what you're doing.

Get involved in what God is doing - because it's already blessed.

Well, God, as I said, is with the poor. That, I believe, is what God is doing.

And that is what he's calling us to do.

I was amazed when I first got to this country and I learned how much some churchgoers tithe. Up to 10% of the family budget. Well, how does that compare with the federal budget, the budget for the entire American family? How much of that goes to the poorest people in the world? Less than 1%.

Mr. President, Congress, people of faith, people of America:
I want to suggest to you today that you see the flow of effective foreign assistance as tithing.... Which, to be truly meaningful, will mean an additional 1% of the federal budget tithed to the poor.

What is 1%?

1% is not merely a number on a balance sheet.

1% is the girl in Africa who gets to go to school, thanks to you. 1% is the AIDS patient who gets her medicine, thanks to you. 1% is the African entrepreneur who can start a small family business thanks to you. 1% is not redecorating presidential palaces or money flowing down a rat hole. This 1% is digging waterholes to provide clean water.

1% is a new partnership with Africa, not paternalism toward Africa, where increased assistance flows toward improved governance and initiatives with proven track records and away from boondoggles and white elephants of every description.

America gives less than 1% now. We're asking for an extra 1% to change the world. to transform millions of lives - but not just that and I say this to the military men now - to transform the way that they see us.

1% is national security, enlightened economic self-interest, and a better, safer world rolled into one. Sounds to me that in this town of deals and compromises, 1% is the best bargain around.
These goals - clean water for all; school for every child; medicine for the afflicted, an end to extreme and senseless poverty - these are not just any goals; they are the Millennium Development goals, which this country supports. And they are more than that. They are the Beatitudes for a globalised world.

Now, I'm very lucky. I don't have to sit on any budget committees. And I certainly don't have to sit where you do, Mr. President. I don't have to make the tough choices.

But I can tell you this:
To give 1% more is right. It's smart. And it's blessed.

There is a continent - Africa - being consumed by flames.

I truly believe that when the history books are written, our age will be remembered for three things: the war on terror, the digital revolution, and what we did - or did not to - to put the fire out in Africa.

History, like God, is watching what we do.

Thank you. Thank you, America, and God bless you all.