Greek Tragedyhi

red, white, and booze

Peach, orange, and pomegranate flavors make up this layered shooter. The trick is pouring (floating) each one in order, slowly over a spoon.

• 1/3 oz grenadine
• 1/3 oz peach schnapps
• 1/3 oz blue curaçao

Drinking game of the night: drink every time you hear the following, "Too close to call," "Record Turnout," or "Historic Election."

Please drink, or at least vote, responsibly.

I pouted when McCain came up to the podium to give his concession speech, not because he lost, but because as he and Palin waved and gave their thumbs up to the crowd, I thought, "It sucks to lose. That has to be so hard." It takes character to lose with grace, even when it's expected and part of the job. It's hard to feel rejection, or loss, or even failure, even if it was out of your hands, even if it had to do with factors beyond your own control. And then to let it go, to wake up the next day, and to simply go on... that's what really makes any of us a success. And for the record, I voted for Obama.

*And to save you some time, here's a photo of Rahm Emanuel.

pilots and airplanes

I'm at the airport on my way to Denver. Scheduling delays. I couldn't sleep last night, worried about the pilot story for Straight Up and Dirty, struggling with whether or not it's the right story to tell, wondering if it sets up the series and tone of the show the way I want it to.

I wonder if it's like a wedding dress. You know, something that when you try it on, you just know it's the one. I'm waiting for that to happen, but with the twenty or so stories I've come up with, I don't feel that about any of them yet. It's why I'm hoping it's less about the story I'm telling and much more in the telling of it.

It's no small task: establishing the characters, and how they fit into Stephanie's life, carving out where the show will live (apartment, hangout spot, office, etc.), all while showing her frame of mind, externalizing her internal struggle, setting up conflicts between characters, defining desires and needs. Her desires can't be vague, either. "She wants to find herself," just ain't gonna cut it. They have to be specific enough that the audience knows the moment she gets what she wants. Or doesn't.

Her opponents (regular opponents, not random men who ask her to go dutch on a date) need to attack her greatest weakness so she's forced to grow. And these opponents have to be necessary, with their own weaknesses and opposing values, yet share similarities with her, too. Each of her opponents has to attack her weakness from a different angle, and in as different a way as possible from one another. All this, and it has to be funny. It is, after all, a half-hour comedy. I might think too much, but I need the answers to these questions before I can think about the funny. I need the bone structure so I know it has longevity. I've actually already worked that bit out and am now left with the task of creating the story I'm going to tell, of all the possible stories in the book. In less than thirty minutes, we need to know where Stephanie is now that she's divorced, what it is she wants, and get a sense of what's in store for her now...and all while referring to myself in the third person.

Then tonight, I'll need to shift gears and speak about chubb rub and chunky-dunking. I'm not really planning on reading from Moose, but I might just slip in a quick page or two, to give the audience a better sense of the book. You know, show, not tell what the book's about. I NEVER know what to select. It's the same issue I have with choosing just one pilot story. There's so much there. So many topics covered, and I only get one chance to convince people to stick around and watch it, or read it. From those of you who've read the books, I'm listening.

rethinking the cooch-wear

Sushi TechnologyDeciding if my cooch says coochie coo in this dress, before dinner at Koi. I will get better at these.

vod boxers

I'm heading to the Vod Box inside Nic's tonight for a straight up drink with my BFF Leigha. Then, I'm hoping to find a restaurant to satisfy my inner foodie fatty, but it needs to be within walking distance because after warming up in a freezer, I won't be in any condition to drive. I love research. 42 Below makes a ridiculously good HONEY vodka. Also liked their PASSIONFRUIT vodka. Will definitely be adding one of those to my home freezer. Lunch at Porta Via was far better than the last minute lazy dinner at Nic's. Tonight I'm heading back to Koi with my friend Colleen (and Abigail), which leaves today to work, shop, and grab a lunch somewhere (Doh, no food for me. Bad Jew, what was I thinking? I will instead go to the park and feed the ducks too many carbs--to symbolize the ridding of my sins--not that carbs are always a sin, right?) Oh, how I love it here. I do miss the fam though. Abigail now recites the whole alphabet. Too bad my little monkeys can't taste the honey vodka; no honey for babies.

wasbands and other things that bite

I took Nyquil last night, sick as a dog. Threw up in the middle of the night. Then went back to bed. I wonder if it's just some kind of bug I can't shake. Asleep today, until 11am, I was in a half-dream state, where I wasn't sure what was dream and what was actually happening. I heard barking. It sounded like an audition for a three dog a cappella group. When I finally awoke, dressed, and found my way downstairs in need of a muffin, Phil asked me if I'd heard Rex, our neighbor's dog. "Yuh, what was that about?"

"There was a coyote in OUR backyard."
"..."
"And it's rare that they come out during the day, too. It was 10am."
"How do you even know what a coyote looks like? I mean, how'd you know it just wasn't someone else's dog?"
"'Cause I KNOW."
I shrugged my shoulders and assumed it was the same as when a woman just knows if she's about to get her period (which I just did, FYI).

"They can eat toddlers ya know."
"Yeah, I called the number you're supposed to call if you--"
"In New York, there's a number to call if you see an unattended bag or suspect package. In Texas, we get a number for baby-eating mammals. I don't know that I feel safer here. What with rattlesnakes, scorpion, and rabid coyotes that target young children IN OUR BACKYARD." WTF?

It is, however, better than running into your Wasband and his redheaded escort on the streets of NY. I'd choose poison, personally. And what was my friend (albeit not a close one) thinking sending me a link to his photo anyway? Like I even give a shit what that assmunch is doing screwing with his life? Actually, on second thought, might add a few nice new details to the TV show. If I had a mustache, I'd twist it right now.

It's amazing how fast the anger can come back. How you can genuinely wish someone treats him the way he treated you. That you can still care, even though you shouldn't. You care less, but I don't know that it ever really goes away.

like squeezing a diamond from a colon

There are certain things, objects, people even, in our world that we could easily point to and claim, "That's the work of the devil." You know, if we were even the type to classify things as good and bad, delineating a heaven from a hell, and all that. I kind of hope that "heaven" becomes whatever we think it will be while we're alive. So if we think it's the kind of place that lets us see exactly what happened to all those people and things we lost, and a place where we can overindulge without any consequences, where all our needs are met, where we feel constantly like we're falling in love, while also knowing it won't ever end, that you can have all the people in your life you want at all times. That there's miss, but only enough to make you love even more. Every hour there's a new chick flick better than the next. If we think it's all decadence, it will be. And if we think it's the place from where we originally came before we were born, a place we don't remember, a place where we return, and go back to not existing at all, then that's what we get.

Bacon ice cream, some might argue, is the work of the devil (Oh, but it's so damn good over waffles!). The girl at camp who replaces your hair conditioner with Nair (can you even imagine?), the mother who puts her cigarette out on her daughter's plate, letting her know she's eaten quite enough, and damn it to hell, online banking. I have yet to find anything as frustrating.

I've been sick with the flu for the past few days, which feels pretty close to death, in the same pajamas for days, a rat's nest head, busted pits, swamp ass and encroaching on the crotch rot. My boobs hurt, my back kills, and I'm exhausted. Worse yet, there's nothing on TV. I'm watching "Set it and forget it" on shopping networks. This, I'm quite certain, is a trapping from hell. They wooed me in with their Gourmet Magazine footage, convincing me that I'd get practical information mixed up with destination advice, learning about how other cultures live, work, and eat. Then they jump in with colored enamelware in the shape of peppers, apples, or pumpkins. "Perfect for the holidays." Oooh, evil. Evil because now all I can think about is menus and setting a table. Color schemes. Celery root purees.

It occurs to me that it takes a certain kind of person to work on such a station. To kill time and speak about a turtleneck for twenty minutes is a skill. Oh dear, buy more and save. Stock up. "The hand feel is amazing" is code for "it feels nice." The great things about these sweaters is that they come in scoop neck, mock turtle, full turtle, and tunic. Add a belt, and it's a whole new look. I cannot help but think of Bubba Gump Shrimp. "I should have been buying up more scoop necks, you know why? They enlongate my neck." "Ooh, and they show off your jewelry from our next segment all the better." Look at the stitch detailing closely enough, and you'll see that it spells Lucifer. "Total showstopper, I'm telling you." Your biggest challenge when considering this timeless classic? Mauve, Bone, Raspberry, or my favorite, Teal.

jews and shellfish

I'm not going to lie to you; I still think about it. All the time, actually. I can only get around it when I'm in another state. At home, no matter the season, I'm always on high alert, certain a scorpion will try to have his way with me. The times where I've actually been traveling, I always return home only to ask the house-sitter to fess up. "Come on, how many scorpions did you find while I was gone?" I actually don't expect them to answer and instead think I'll be greeted with a peculiar look.

Recently Norma offered up the obligatory look of strange, then called me nearer. She then whispered to me, "Three, Miss Stephanie. Look, come look." She had saved them, two dead, one still alive, contained in a single Ziplock baggie. How she managed to get the scorpions to parade into her trap wasn't my first concern. I began to flail, struggling uselessly, hoping my dramatics accurately conveyed my profound revulsion. My tongue, apparently, was involved. "No, look," she said pointing, "One got hungry and has begun to eat the other." I pretended I was a gay little boy who screamed, and then fainted, upon hearing Barbara Streisand was canceling her latest tour.

Norma was saving the scorpions for her thirteen-year-old son, and today, when I made a wrong turn driving, and twisted my face while simultaneously giving the finger to my GPS, I happened to make, what she called, "The Scorpion Face." What? "Yes, Miss Stephanie, you are very funny. I remember the face you a make when I show you the scorpion. You use your tongue. I like it. I told my husband."

The other night, alone in my bedroom with Phil downstairs, struggling to get the nanny-cams to work, I made my way to my bathroom, only to stop dead. There one was. Kinda orange. I had to squint, even though it was about the size of an appropriate portion of beef. The deck of cards sized scorpion didn't move. Yet. I backed up and reached for the phone, keeping my eyes on the perp. "Phil" I intercomed, "You need to come upstairs immediately." As I waited, I wondered what I'd grab to kill it. Because scorpions aren't exactly cute little salamanders that need escorting out the door. A leather-soled flip-flop, I determined. Once Phil was in the bedroom, uncertain as to why I'd beseeched him upstairs, I pointed. And the scorpion arched its tail, as if to sting. I have no doubt I made the scorpion face, but I was careful not to scream and wake the taters."Either that thing's ready to sting, or he's kinda sweet on you."

Phil slammed it with my shoe, and I walked with him to the bathroom, asking that he please forgo the trashcan and flush it away. "The whole reason I saw it was because I had to pee. I still have to pee."

"So go pee."

"No way! I can't pee until you flush it!" Like I'm really going to sit while looking at the body of a scorpion between my legs?

Now, each and every time I enter the bathroom, I have to turn on the lights, even if it's in the middle of the night. I check the sheets, every last shoe, and shake the towel from it's hook before drying myself off. I am terrified I'll find another one in my bed one day. I once found one, ALIVE, darting around in a make-up drawer! I can't take it.

Ironically enough, today I'm wearing a lobster print skirt (it's quite cute actually), very Fourth of July, and I now totally get why Jews won't eat shellfish. Lobsters are the cockroaches of the sea, and they're most certainly a cousin twice removed from the scorpion.

royalton

The royalton hotel makes you want to have an affair. Though, I've heard it's been "refined," and I wonder if they still have their vodka, champagne room. LA has Nick's Martini Room with a "Vod Box," where they give you a fur coat and oversized Russian fur hat as you enter the freezer of a room to enjoy some vodka. I thought the whole point of vodka was that it was smooth, and you couldn't really taste the alcohol, so I'm not sure I get the whole "let's go sit in a fancy bar to try to see if we can taste...nothing." Still, I love the allure, love the idea that a freezer bar exists. I suppose there's always infused vodka, which if you're asking, is kissing cousins of the Jell-O shots you do in college. I'm off today, walking the streets of Manhattan alone, enjoying my last day in the city, and will do my best to drink a filthy martini.

english in the loo

"Hey, ever read Junk English?"
"What's that?"
"It's this book I was reading today about language--"
"Where, in the bathroom?"
"When else would I ever read a book?"
"Good talk."
"Hey, no one ever said evolution meant progress."
"Would you like a banana with that?"

go ahead, we'll make more

Truth: I'm in my New York room under the covers, and I'm exhausted but cannot sleep. It's 4:30 PM, and I should be thinking about a healthy dinner. Something chopped with radishes and tiny cubes of summer squash, a sprig or two of mint or a chiffonade of basil. A lovely tang of dressing. Instead, we'll be ordering in a pizza, which will, undoubtedly leave me feeling like dough. It won't be a brickoven thin crust with fresh mozzarella and heirloom tomatoes. It will be hideous. It will be PizzaSlut. I want no part of it, but I'm too fucking tired to go back to the goddamn grocery store with an iPhone shopping list. Again. If I never see a shopping cart again, it will be too soon. Even if miracle of miracles market-fresh goods arrived miraculously at my hot-as-balls-Texan-doorstep, I'd be too damn tired to have my way with any of it. There will be no summer salad, no dicing, and not a jullianed root vegetable in sight. There will instead be complaints.

You know, just because everything that matters becomes illuminated, doesn't mean you stop giving a shit that it's hot out. Just because you worry--and you actually have reason this time--doesn't mean you're wrong to complain about all the irrelevant crap. I say, go ahead and bitchfest all you want. The thing about life is, there's always room for more: more celebrations, more casualties, more bad hair days, more booze, and more bitching. I want to bitchslap the knuckleheads who think you're only entitled to complain when you have "real" problems. Everyone has problems, or makes problems, and some of us bitch about it. Seriously, if you have nothing nice to say, come sit by me. Because right now, I'm a Meredith Brooks song, and all I feel like doing is screaming until I pass out.

the baggage we carry

I’d checked in my bag, curbside, at 11am for a 12:30pm flight from Miami International Airport (MIA) to LaGuardia Airport in New York (LGA). I had time to kill before my flight, but instead of buying five magazines and a bottled water, I headed straight to the gate hoping to get some work done. Besides, my carry on felt as if it were too tired and heavy to carry on with our journey.

At noon, a bald man with a curiously castrato voice switched on a microphone behind a desk and pressed his lips into it. “I have some very bad news for you all,” he said as if he were asking the crowd who’d be the first to try on one of his twisted balloon crowns. “Your flight has been canceled due to thunderstorms in New York. What’s more, the flight after yours has been canceled, as well as the flight after that.” At least it was Saturday and I wasn’t missing any scheduled events… you know, aside from TIME WITH MY CHILDREN!

I would, as it turns out, be missing just one additional thing: my luggage. I should’ve known it was called M.I.A. for a reason. My bag, complete with all my shoes, hemmed jeans, perfectly-suited bras for each dress, my toiletries (namely, my antiperspirant), and jewelry—yes, I know, you should always keep your jewelry on you, but I’m on the road for two weeks, and I have different jewels for each outfit, so adding it to my carry on bag is like adding a saucepan. There’s just no room for it all.

I finally arrived in New York, but my luggage did not. “It’ll be on the next flight in.” But it’s 10PM, and I gave you guys my bags at 11AM. “These things happen,” the woman in the missing luggage room said.

*Here* This is what it comes down to. Want to know what someone is really like? Want to cut your relationship to the quick? Stick someone in the baggage claim area, and drive them to inspect each and every bag on that conveyor belt, and just see what their actions convey. I've often said that you cannot really know a person until the shit comes down. Well, when your shit doesn't come down on that loopy belt--if you're paying attention to the body language, the perspiration, the huffing--you'll get a crash course in how a person handles stress.

I don’t know how the “bag lady” with the tag weighing between her breasts performs her job. She stands behind a podium and computer screen, searching for lost luggage. She’s the messenger everyone wants to pound into the ground. And I cannot imagine how many days she tolerates people screaming at her due to their frustrations. I have never been one of those people. As pissed, frizzed, frazzled, or hungry as I might be, I also realize it’s not her fault. How though, does a person manage with the daily abuse of strangers? How does she go home smiling at the end of the day, thinking happy thoughts about humanity? I’d lose it completely, which I suppose might be appropriate in the lost luggage department.

My bag was ultimately spotted, and I was able to pick it up THE NEXT DAY. The entire night without my things, I assumed the worst: that it was stolen. How could I ever replace all those clothes, those special items collected on my travels, the shoes that matched just so? It’s only stuff, but it’s stuff I’d miss. There’s no one preventing you from walking into the baggage claim area and rolling off with someone else’s belongings. In fact, if caught, you could always feign surprise, certain the Tumi luggage set in your hand really was yours. “My mistake,” you could cough up. And no one would think you were a thief. They’d speak with you in a softer tone, the one they should have used with the “bag lady.”

laundry lessons

Phil just did my laundry. "Did" is the wrong word. "Ruined" is far more accurate. I know that beggars cannot be choosers, that if I wanted it done right, I'd have at least loaded the washing machine myself. I just didn't think. All my whites have turned blue! Actually, a minty green blue, as if a turquoise article of clothing decided to make out with my panties. Not just that. All my pastels, the beige slacks and khaki shorts, the seashell pink piqué polo, my deep-plunge off-white sweater is now way off-white. All the pale colors are now tie-died blue.

"Pink is a color!" he says in defense of his decision to mix all of my pastel shades with the navy blues of our life. Oh, joy.

packing lessons

Sadly I do not, yet, have a royal packer. I happen to be the absolute worst when it comes to packing, and all those summers spent weekending in Sag Harbor have had no impact on my efficiency. First there's the issue of dresses, which need to be long enough to cover my cooch in a seated position. You'd be amazed how many women are oblivious to the sit-down try-on in stores. They end up sitting on some lounge seating one night in a bar giving everyone a tour of their triangle. This won't do on morning shows.

How many pairs of shoes does a woman bring for 2 weeks on the road? How many times do I repeat the same outfit? I'm completely inept when it comes to these things. Each time I travel, I swear the next time, I'll bring hardly a thing. I'll let my hair air-dry and bring nothing more than running shoes, gold strappy heels, and a single pair of espadrilles. Inevitably blisters form, and I'm always left in search of a pair of shoes that won't touch wherever the blister has formed. I know there are low maintenance women out there, women who bring one wrinkle-free black dress and a pair of flip-flops: I appeal to you. What should I bring? I'm actually asking for lessons. There will be television and radio interviews and of course each afternoon and each evening there will be book readings. I'm giving a talk at DePaul University (open to the public) about the blurred boundaries between being an at home mother and a full-time writer, the boundary between public and private lives lived in blogs, the boundaries people cross on blogs, especially when it comes to judging the life and choices bloggers make. There will be dinners, drinks, and lots of airport time. Ok, packing suggestions would be exceptional...

this just in...

People who throw weddings on holiday weekends are assholes. That's all.

laugh, cry, and think everyday--not necessarily in that order

Check out the excerpt and article featuring Moose in USA TODAY

This email just made me cry:

Hi Stephanie,
How exciting!!!  I'm so happy for all of you - I know how hard you worked all these months and finally it's paying off.  I hope everyone goes out and buys your book!
You, Abigail & Lucas look so happy and beautiful.  I'm so proud of you Stephanie!
I Love You,
Mom

This just made me laugh:
Lucas just opened my bedroom door, stuck his head in, and said, "Hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii."

I'm still waiting to find something that makes me really think. That's what showering is for.

redesign, i think not

This is not a redesign. Not even for a moment. It's called insomnia, my friends. Good old-fashioned insomnia. Please excuse this mess.

It's quite hideous, actually. Oh, but how I love to nerd out into the wee hours.

putting yourself out there

A few weeks ago I cared about my hair, obsessed about my hair. The rockstar who'd tamed my curls with the flick of a wrist had gone missing.  You all know the story and the happy ending. Blog readers scoured the internet and databases to find me her email address and phone number. She's no longer doing hair, I learned. Today, gasp, I did my own, despite a photoshoot with USA TODAY. I have two words for you: fr-izz. I will live, but if said rockstar changes her mind, I'm first in line. It actually turns out that her sister is a reader of my blog as well. Small world we say. Yesterday, I felt the world get much smaller. 

On Myspace I received an incredible note. Whatever stress I'm going through or drama I perceive or create, this blog is a gift for me, and I am thankful for the friends I have made through it.

"I am in Baghdad and working as an intelligence analyst. Your articles have had perfect timing for me, despite the long hours I check in once in a while to see what you are up to. As you have been busy stressing about your book readings I have been preparing a brief for General Petraeus. I have been so incredibly nervous. Yesterday I briefed him and it went well. Of course there are things I wish I could have done differently, but all in all I am content. It is really one of the pinnacle points for an analyst to get a chance to share what we think about a situation for about 10-15 minutes with him, and he is quite the gentlemen and extremely intelligent. I had to give myself a pep talk the night before and literally rehearsed the brief in my head while falling asleep, practicing a conversational tone and pretending it was like rehearsing lines for a play.

Something I told myself is I need to realize there are just as many people who have supported me to get me to this point and believe in me as there are negative detractors who look to tear me down, this helps me balance my perspective and keeps me on game without being defensive. And, at the end of the day it is my opinion that matters. So, best of luck to you in all you are currently involved in and thank you for putting yourself out there.

Haha - I know this is much more than you asked for, and maybe you stopped reading after the first line, but it feels great to write it out."

When journalists ask me why I blog, I wish I could point them to emails like this. I receive so many touching notes, so encouraging, heartfelt, human. It's a reminder, both in the writing and the reading, that we're not alone in the things we face and feel. Thank you for sharing all you do with me.

 

sunday sundaes

While in bed the other night, just as we were turning off the lights and going through our move the pillows, untuck the sheets, and move so I can give you the hockey leg routine, I turned to Philip and sighed. It was a sigh of relief after a long day, the kind that eases out. "You know," I said to him in the dark, "Norma is the best thing to ever happen to us." Then we both kinda laughed.

We fight much less now. "Nanny" isn't the right word, as it sounds so... twentyager demanding her own shelf in the fridge with paid vacation and weekly appointments with an aesthetician and masseuse. It's one of those words that sounds like "personal-trainer" or "agent". All might be necessities in one's career, but the words never convey need and seem to scream WANT WANT WANT GET GET GET. She might be our childcare provider, technically, but genuinely, she is our lifesaver.

Upon leaving each day, she comes running up to me for a hug and kiss goodbye. Even my mother-in-law, when she came here, said, "You two love her so much, it's as if you love her more than me!" While I do, indeed love my mother-in-law, we love Norma like family, and we feel very lucky.

The other day, for her birthday, we got a Boston Cream cake, her name in icing, sparkler candles. We snapped party hats on ourselves and on the beans. We came out singing, and she began to cry. I love that she's part of my life.

1. btothel.jpg, 2. horseplay.jpg, 3. girls.jpg, 4. timeforhaircut.jpg, 5. ball.jpg, 6. cheer.jpg, 7. familia.jpg, 8. wish.jpg

We wanted to invite her and her family over for dinner, but I was hesitant... mostly because when you work all week the very LAST thing you want to do is spend time with your boss during your free time. Even when bosses think they're being thoughtful, inviting you to that weekend bbq at their house, etc. It's always kinda torture, and you wonder how long you have to stay. As much as I love her and want to get to know her family, I didn't want to put her through the hell of obligations.

But when Phil mentioned it, she lit up, and said she couldn't wait, that she talks about the ninos all the time, and that her husband and son just look at her and laugh. "I want so much for them to know you all as I do." We are blessed.

Tonight we're having the perfect summer dinner. Filet Mignon, lobster tails, grilled asparagus, corn on the cob, garlic bread. Strawberry shortcake, fresh watermelon, chocolate chip cookies with vanilla swiss almond ice cream. I'm also making celery root puree because the taters love it. A vanilla bean drawn butter for the lobster. I love days like today, family days, with the smell of charcoal, the sunset, wiffle ball, and cold white wine. Toasts to life, raised glasses, smiles and ¡Salud!

to-do-do in a bottle

"Stephanie, I think we have mice." My feet were up on the chair before I could compose a response. "Yeah, I really think we must have mice. There's no other explanation for this." Phil then shows me a half-full pint of rocky road ice cream.

"THAT'S NOT FUNNY! Don't do that! Did you see how fast my feet just went up?"
"Well, there's no way I ate all that."
"Don't do that! Why would you do that? If I opened the freezer and found that you'd had some ice cream do you really think I'd come to you and ask you why you'd been eating it?!"
"Yeah, but this was my ice cream, Stephanie. Yours is that one with the fruit in it." I might as well be living in office space. I want to stab him. I tell him so. "Leave me alone! I'm a total stress case and I don't need you giving me shit about how much ice cream I've eaten. Do you know how surprisingly easy it is to work my way through a pint in one sitting? Now seriously, go away because you stress me out, and there's not enough ice cream in our freezer to deal with you right now."

The fact of the matter is, I am ridiculously depressed. I am stressed out. The muscles in my neck feel like shells. I am miserable. I am stressed, so stressed, worried about so many things. Things I haven't had the strength to write about. Things I've shared with only three of my friends and my father. The rest of my family, my friends, everyone... no one knows because I haven't had the ability, the composure, the strength to speak, or write about it even. I feel like I'm failing at everything. And the last thing I need is another goddamn to-do list. Phil goes over things with me, things I cannot let slip. Have you paid this bill? Have you written this email? Have you contacted this one? Have you written that yet? I have way too much on my plate right now, and I need help. It's not the kids, it's all the work. It's magazine articles, interviews, marketing, pitches, updates, and it's all very taxing. I KNOW these are good problems to have. I definitely know. But I'm overwhelmed, and I don't know how to get away, to take a break, to start over. I'm so frightened that my book sales won't be what they should be, that no one will come to my readings, that I could have done more. That I won't know what to do next. I realize this is the fear of almost all authors, even the best of them. Still, it all weighs on you. It's self-imposed pressure, and in the meanwhile, there are more speeches to give, more interviews, more articles, more appearances, and less balance (whatever the hell that is). Ice cream isn't the answer, but neither is hearing "ice cream isn't the answer." I swear when someone says that, I want to pull out one of my childhood moves.

When my parents were away on vacation, and our housekeeper was staying with us, I took this clear baby bottle that belonged to one of my sister's dolls, and I took a shit into the bottle. I crammed it in there. And to make matters all the more appalling, I then twisted the cap back on. I don't know why I did this, other than wanting so badly to see Lea's face when she realized her baby's bottle was filled with human feces. It's absolutely grotesque... and that's how I feel right now... like I need my sister, like I need someone to help me laugh through all this and get to the other side.

mama bears never mess around

I've become the chick that screams at the TV. I now hate the name Rose. I hate flowers and boxes of chocolate. I hate his eyes. I hate the phrase "I love him." I hate how attached I've become, how I want so much to stop watching but I can't pull myself away. It's like Miles of Chocolate. All because of anticipation and hope. Hoping so so much that Derek and our girl Grey will find their way back to each other. I cannot deal. I don't want to think of the possibilities of them not being together because, in the end, all any of us want is a happy ending.

And yet. If Derek and Meredith were together now, I'd never watch the show. It's all I'm rooting for. And I suppose anticipation really is better than the getting. Because once Rose goes away--which she will--we're meant to see how much Meredith can change, how much they can each improve without each other, so they're finally ready to be together. Which, I suspect, will leave us all a little annoyed. Like, that's it? We suffered through all of that for this?

So as much as I throw a fit, there wouldn't be much to look forward to if they were happily ever after. You know, aside from baby pictures and seeing how Meredith would juggle being a mother and a surgeon. At least the Sex & The City movie is coming. Another thing that'll turn me into a psycho screaming at the screen.

performance anxiety

Nothing says relaxing more than the hotel channel. It doesn't matter which city I'm in, the thing I want to watch most as soon as I flip on the television in my hotel room is the confirmation of sale video. That loop of an information channel showcasing local restaurants and hotel amenities. How my nerves unfold with the musak, as uniformed staffers smile while answering phones. I get a peek at the exciting business center, where the woman behind the counter is overjoyed to offer you paper. Without leaving my room, I've already toured the neighborhood districts and restaurants (along with their hearty displays of surf and turf). I've weaved through the gift shop, and taken a turn about the conference center. All this, plus beauty shots of all the room service possibilities. Ah, and lest I forget the mandatory shot of a fountain.

Comfort at my fingertips, and yet, all I could do was bite my nails. In less than an hour, I'd be whisked away to give a speech to 300 librarians. I'm sorry to report that the closer I came to blast off, the less prepared I was.I suddenly understood why men could lose their erections.

My sexy date to the event texted that she was on her way to pick me up. NO! You don't understand, I'm still figuring out what to say! I was writing, then rewriting, deciding that I'd need to write the buzzwords bigger in case I forgot what I was saying. Oh, the nerves. I needed to relax. If only the hotel offered complimentary speeches.

and now, a real update

The Skin I'm In: My eyes puckered back up. I had an allergic reaction to the meds and creams the good doctor's assistant prescribed. Dammit to hell, that pisses me off. I mean, I'm sure it would all be fine if I just left it alone and did nothing but sunscreen, but come now, there has to be an answer. So here's what she prescribed, and what I suspect is the culprit of my wrinkled bag ladies (my eyes, not my boobs, thank you very much): Benzaclin. I suspect that's the real demon in my life, causing severe redness, stinging and burning, and the ever popular peeling. The skin around my eyes clammed up (even though I took special care to apply nowhere near my eyes). It was horrible. I don't know exactly if it was the Benzaclin, as she suggested five new items, and I tried them all at once, so I now need to go at it one at a time. I'm ruling out the Benzaclin first. Here's what she suggested: after cleansing my face with a "facial shampoo," apply Retin-A-Micro every night (but to begin, every other or third night). In the morning apply the Benzaclin (not a chance in hell), and then apply these amazing creams by Neocutis (the Bio-Gel and the  Bio-Restorative Eye cream). Now I'm scared to use any of it, aside from the Retin-A-Micro and sunscreen. As it has been over a week now, using it every third night, I'm doing okay, but not great. What a mess.

The In-Laws: are in! It is so nice being around family, so nice, in fact, that I want to move. Maybe back to NY, or maybe to Florida. I've brought this up to Phil, and he's not exactly wincing at the idea, so we'll see. This wouldn't be happening for a good year or so, if at all. I just want to be around more family (you know, other than Phil). I want to give these kids the luxury of being surrounded by all the people who love them. Phil's mom and I stayed up until 3am last night, playing... Super Mario Galaxy on Phil's new birthday Wii (from moi). I kinda love that she can totally nerd out with me. It's 2am, and we're doing high-fives and screaming at animated giant bugs. The closest Rome came to such play was keeping a bug up her ass.

The Tater Tots: Video to come. My favorite thing that Abigail has been doing this month, is walking over to me, kissing me on the cheek, then turning around, showing me her rump and plopping down for a seat on my lap. I never knew how something so simple could make me so happy that didn't involve shopping or food. And Kind Sir is OBSESSED with balls (the rubber kind). He says it over and over, and when he hears the word, he looks up frantically, searching for the nearest one. Both of them love to be chased. I wonder when they tire of the whole, "I'm gonna get you" thing. Or the "who wants to be tickled?" thing. I suspect it's sometime close to when they're learning cursive (the language and penmanship).

Take This Job and Record It: I've found a stash of my childhood videos, all the way back to third grade, singing at North Side Elementary with Mrs. Trude. I plan on posting such content, though I do wonder, is this something I can do? Showing a video of all my classmates as we sing? It's amazing how these videos make you really remember what life was like at that age. Watching them, I began to cry. I hadn't expected to see my grandmother on the videos. It reminded me of how loved I was growing up, and it's why I want, so much, for these taters to be closer to their cousins, aunts, and grandparents. Life is too short to be so far away.

table talk

She leaned across the picnic table, and gazed into his eyes. "I'm wearing Tinkerbell underwear."
"Um," he responded,"Really?"
"I don't always wear underwear."
He looked at her as if he were taking a double take, but he didn't want to make her feel uncomfortable, so he did his best to act normal. Whatever "normal" is when such intimate information is shared. He began to fidget. "How 'bout that!" He said in that falsely encouraging high voice, the one that says, anything you do or say is special and great, and I'm so proud of you.
"I had a red vagina, but I took a bath."

--6:45pm, the backyard of our friends' house. Four-year-old girl to Phil.
Today, April 8, is his birthday. Happy Birthday... wait until you see my panties.

grimalkin and cilantro stew

"I know this girl, and she'd be perfect for you," I said to a single man-friend, "except, she has a cat." Normally, I'd never include such information, but I've wised up and realize today's man, as eager as he might seem to settle down, is still full of excuses not to.
"What do you mean she'd be perfect for me? If she owns a cat, that's impossible. Even if she were willing to send the cat back where it came from, like Hades, the fact that she took it in to begin with, says enough." That she has a big heart and loves to cuddle? "It says she's not for me, or any other normal guy. A guy who admits to liking cats is just not right in the head."
"Robert De Niro, in that Ben Stiller movie, you know Focker."
"'Meet the Parents,' and let me stop you there. That was a line in a movie. He was paid to say that crap about cats making you work for their affections, that dogs are easy. The truth is, cats are stuck up and have a sense of entitlement, and the people who like them are worse. And I don't believe those people who say they love both. If they have a cat and dog in their house, it's always because the spouse forced them into the cat. It's like those people who like cilantro. It's just one of those things. Either you love it, or you hate it. There's no middle ground."
"Forget it then. I don't know what I was thinking. I bet she takes baths, too." I knew this would really set him off.
"I bet she has incense in her house, and one of those holders for it, like mini skis."
"And she listens to Sade on repeat and puts too many pillows on the bed. And she's into needlepoint. I get it."
"She better have incense. Cat litter and all."
"Seriously, you really don't want to meet her just because she has a cat?!"
"You just don't get it, do you? It's because you're a chick. Women with cats are their own kind of crazy. It's like you half-Jews. Yeah, yeah, I know, you were raised Jewish, can read Hebrew. But you know what? Every single halvesy I know is nuts, but they're all good in bed, so you can put the knife down."

You're either a bath person or a shower person. That, I get. You might do both--a shower out of necessity, even though you'd favor a bath. I'm not much of a bath girl, but I love the idea of soaps, of soaking the dead skin off, rolling it from beneath my nails as I scrape it off. Push back cuticles and grate all your callouses off. The big ideas come in the bath.

The night after the conversation with my friend, I took a bath. I didn't light a candle or play music, but liquid soap was invited. I watched the runnels of cloudy water, streams, really. They looked like a village, the kind you see from up above, or in a video game, where you'll soon need to pick your best players and armor to fight a cyclopes.  Then the water looked like ocean cream, and the peak of my breast poking out was an iceberg, the great mass of me underneath the water, unforeseeable. It's nice to sometimes see yourself that way, as a ringer. When I dried off, I dialed my friend. "I didn't mention that she's a 34H, and all natural." I expected that he'd say, "why didn't you say so in the first place?" Instead he replied, "It's like I told you, it doesn't matter how much she's got going for her. It's too much to handle a woman with two pussies."

Then I took a shower.

strangers among us

I'm a photographer. I'm crafty when there's time. I wouldn't really call myself handy, and if I did, it'd be a lie. Phil hires people to do what he cannot. We cannot. He picked up eight matted picture frames of different sizes, one of those kits, where they show you the many possibilities for grouping them. The handymen--yes, it took two--hung the photos in a neat arrangement. So, for the past few weeks, there have been strangers in our living room, hugging and smiling, black and white prints of catalog people waiting to be replaced. They're kinda growing on me.

Phil has a house in Newport, so I suppose by extension, I do too. It's a six bedroom house near the Tennis Hall of Fame and the Cliff Walk. He rents it out during the winter, usually to students. Come the summer, families stay for regattas and chowder festivals, I suppose. Some weekends we used to go. The first time I arrived, I was greeted with lace doilies. Pictures of grandparents, yellowed and caked. Old furniture, a velvet sofa in a night shade. Each room painted in historic, yet loud, colors. Mustard, I think. A forest and a blue. Odd colors really. But even more odd, Phil and his friends had decorated the house, given it a "charming" personality--a personality of complete strangers. I suppose it was befitting given that he would rent to strangers. It gave him a chance to tell the story of the house he didn't know. Abernathy Rhodes. He lived in the house for how long, Phil? Oh, a long while, he says. I think he might've even died there. Some say they can even hear his ghost.

If I start naming the catalog people on my walls, I'm in trouble. Though it would be a cool idea for fiction. The reader believes these people the narrator introduces in her life are all real but is unsure how they're all connected. Ultimately we learn the characters are all catalog couples, their stories manufactured by a young lady, lonesome, troubled, hopeful, creating a rich inner life within her own walls, and the strangers among her. The Portrait of A Lady.

LOST in new york

I know I'm in New York and all... and I've just come from about the best dinner I could imagine, with friends discussing everything from breastfeeding to "I hate to admit this, but I totally used to do the elliptical machine while watching porn," and aside from the fact that it's actually incredible to be back, and it feels as if I've never left because all the sounds are the same... the truck backing up, the width of the sidewalk and your tired feet from walking in heels across it, the sound of a garbage bag hitting the gutter, someone yelling for a cab, too many people Jabber talking as if they're insane... despite all this, what I have to say now, right now, is... I DVR'd LOST, and that opener made a little bit of pee pee come out.

Holy Shit, seriously. Desmond is in the helicopter, Sayid behind him, practicing that introspective look actors must practice. Sayid looks so disturbed, before anything has even happened, before the pilot heads for the exact route in which he came (A Bermuda=like Triangle?) that I have to think the initials on Naomi's bracelet meant something, something meaningful, to him. That, or she did, in some way. And then we see Desmond, flash (forward? or back?) into the army, awaking from a dream about a helicopter. Now, you know how you sometimes have a dream, and in the dream you think, and sometimes articulate, this can't be happening. I must be dreaming, and you kind of wake yourself up? But when he does "wake up" he wants to rip off his seat belt, and he doesn't know who Sayid is. Or maybe, since he can sometimes now tell the future, the army scene is a flashback, and we see Desmond remembering in his dream, his past. Or maybe in the future, he gets clues about the past, instead of the future. I'm sure I'll learn more as I go. Still, for an opener, in a word; awesome. Totally and completely. To the point where I had to pause everything to make sure it really happened. Even now, only having just seen it, I think, Wait, who was that army friend? Had we seen any of those army people before. I'd better rewind.

For those of you who've never seen LOST, I promise if you give it a try, you will be hooked. Rent the first season, start from the beginning. You will be a complete junky. And that's the crazy thing... when I lived in New York, as a single woman, I never watched TV. I had co-workers talk about 24, and I'd kind of look at them funny, like, "how do you even have time for TV?" I never watched TV back then. But once you have kids, it really does change. You're exhausted at night. You certainly can't imagine showering, or making a remotely appropriate version of yourself, suitable for public observation. You collapse onto a sofa, and you gear up for LOST.

Now that I'm in New York, having the most satisfying, delicious time, with my girls, and my stores, and really, everything I've missed, and will continue to miss, I'm still on the sofa watching LOST. After a night of Lychee Martinis and talks about pole dancing workouts, how you can wait a lifetime with one person for what you can find in someone else in only a moment, and how satisfying Jasmine rice can be, the night still ends with me, watching lost in my PJs on the sofa. I just have to say, though, this is always going to be home. It always, always will.

Nothing has changed. I couldn't imagine living here with children, trying to hail a cab during rush hour, while carrying two babies? It would never, ever happen. I can imagine myself here as I've been always, me. I couldn't imagine the family I've chosen and made, all of us, together in this city. I wish it could be the case, but I want my kids to ride their bikes around the neighborhood, to play tag until supper time, to have their own grass and bushes, and yard. Theirs. Not a public park. It's worth it to me; the space. And when it comes down to it, that's what it's really about. Money being even, if you could own a smallish, beautifully decorated, full-service doorman building in Manhattan, or live in a large beautiful home, with acres of land, not completely isolated at all from nightlife and art, which would you choose? Honestly, it depends which day you ask me. But universally, the kitchen needs to be kick ass. Okay, now back to LOST.

pork popcorn and all things new york

I leave for New York tomorrow, to-do list in hand. At the top of it, like the good Jew that I am: pork fried popcorn. Apparently that's the draw to Spitzer's Corner. That, and the homemade donuts. How fast can you say angioplasty? I don't care. It's rare that I'm able to indulge in such toothsome confections here in Austin. I'm actually not the biggest meat eater, aside from lamb, so all the brisket, ribs, and andouille sausage are kind of wasted on me. I was adding to my list today and reasoned a wine shop would not be completely outrageous. Italian Wine Merchants, in particular. Yes, just what I need: another thing to carry home. As it is there will be the laptop and bulky Nikon D300 SLR (I only say this because so many ask). I'm not entirely sure how I'll fit everything in. Not just into my bod, or my schedule, but into my suitcase.

It wouldn't be the worst idea to pack an empty bag inside my luggage tonight. My life used to be so much different. I actually bought a new top each time there was a birthday party to attend. Absurd. But it's what I did, what my friends did, too. And now the birthday parties are in backyards with water wings and cakes in the shape of Dora. The other odd thing about anticipating going back is, I associate New York with being single. And it will be strange to be back and not have plans with a boy. No intimate meet-ups for wine, no butterflies in my stomach. As I said to a friend recently, "at least I won't have to worry too much about what I wear now." And it makes me sad in a way, to say goodbye to all I knew. The oddest bit is, I've never felt this before. Not when I first moved away, not when I returned with the babies, just now, returning alone for the first time. There's a disappointment, a sadness, the way goodbye often is. Even though I'm saying hello again.

Lately I've been feeling anxious, missing, questioning my choices. Is Austin for me anymore? I don't want to move back to New York City, but I'm missing something. Friends, family, the newness factor, where there are openings of new restaurants, where there's an energy when you open your door, people walking places, not in circles around a lake (and the type that were always circling Central Park I avoided anyway). It's also a feeling I'm sure to solve with some crusty bread and a glass of red. But if it snows while I'm in New York, I will surely weep. Until then, though, I will charge forward with my lists of eyebrow threading appointments, of drinking and laughing and sharing stories with the girls I love so. The pork popcorn is just confetti.

Though I must also confess, when I think of such celebrations, of drinking and parties and cab rides, scarves and braving the cold just one more block, I remember, so clearly, what it was to want, so desperately, to have someone with which to share it all. At celebrations, I'd get a little quiet, like something was hanging inside me. I'd pine for a man to roll my eyes with as someone inevitably did or said something inappropriate, especially when that someone was me. Proximity mattered. I didn't want to share it over the phone, via text, or IM. I wanted someone to accompany me to a life I wanted to live. Not just someone to notice I was no longer in the room as the guests continued to file into a crowded apartment, but I wanted someone close, to watch the lights in apartment windows across the way, escaping to a terrace wondering about the lives of strangers feeding their cat or adjusting their TV (not that anyone does this, actually). To live and witness the quieter moments with me, in leans, and toasts, and lost footing because of how much wine I found. I wanted an escape from that party, where our moment mattered more than the one we'd come to celebrate. Where we'd create our own interesting story. The one we'd remember for the rest of our lives.

We'd awake hungover, and I'd say, "Now don't kill me. I know I hate Chinese food, but how do you feel about dim sum? I know a place with good pork."

a year of montage

My Oscar reactions as they happen. Unedited, literally, what I'm thinking as I watch (pardon all my crapass spelling, I have no time nor inclination to fix and search for correct spellings):

Holy shit, seriously, are you crying? I don't know who can't be crying right now. The montage scenes always get to me. My favorite part of the Oscars was always the end, not because I was usually stuffed and tired, but because I got to see the death montage. Oh, but this year, on Oscar's 80th, I got to experience it a few times. First in the cartoonish version, loving to hear Eddie Murphy's laugh, and then the clips of the acceptance speeches over the years. I'm totally crying watching Cary Grant cry, and then a cut to Audry Hepburn, in her do-good humanitarian years. I wonder how we're all remembered. If people remember us for who we were when we were young, or if they remember us as we last were. I stop to think about the people in my life who've died. While I remember my grandfather at the end, it's not really who I remember. I remember the advice he gave, the person he was, the way he carried me throughout the house and later told me how I needed to touch each picture on the wall.

I love Jon Stewart. Love, like, man would I have his babies. I actually cannot think of anyone I love more in Hollywood, aside from Applebee in Stealing Home. Stewart is lovable, and I'm pretty sure I wouldn't get along with anyone who felt otherwise. You know who else I love? Barbara. There, I said it. I do. I really love Barbara Streisand. Okay, so the montage, man, I miss Chevy Chase. Though I do kind of hate how women can't be funny in the same way. It's not funny when a woman pretends to be caught picking her nose. My favorite part, aside from seeing my girl Diane up there, is when the energy changed from tap-dancing glory and Michael Jackson old-school to the overly syrupy Celine Dion titanic music, and I get to relive Stevie Wonder jumping up, seeing Annette cry, proud of her husband. Kevin Spacey quivering with gratitude for Jack Lemmon. I'm a total sap. I fall for it every time.

Ratatouille better win. Best movie ever. No question. Yay! Wait, what was that? Since when do we begin the night with best costume? This decision was made by a marketing exec responsible for ratings. People watch the beginning and tune in at the end, skipping the middle.

"Happy Working Song" is very, very sad. She might be talented, but the song is annoying.

Catherine Zeta too many names. Her hair looks really good in those clips with Michael Douglas.

Duane Johnson? Who's that? Oh, The Rock. What a powerfully striking man, even if his first name is "The."

Interesting to see that Calista and Ford are still together. Comforting really, despite her hideous involvement in that Sally Field atrocity of a show.

Oooh, Dianne Wiest. Oh, how I live for daily episodes of In Treatment. Oh, I just cried again. Cuba Gooding Jr. I love the energy, the surprise, the pure passion. It's so heartening when people allow themselves to get a little messy, to break a few rules, to really go against convention and embrace their lives. I need more of that in my own life.

I think Philip Seymor Hoffman is sexy. I do. It's not just his talent. He's just, well, everything.

Oh look, the woman from Designing Women. (Had to IMDB her) Dixie Carter.

Wait, I thought Owen Wilson was dead, or that he tried to kill himself. Something. Maybe that was the other Wilson, Luke. I don't think so. Wait, where's Owen Wilson? Kerri Russel, I've met her, at the Hotel Gansevoort, actually. I took her photo and talked to her for at least a half an hour. She was very normal, like she acted as though she never acted.

Ugh, I hate all that music and interpretive dance crap. Speed it up. Ah, Owen and his nose: they've arrived. Clearly he can read, even if his delivery is kinda deadened.

The Tonto Woman, that should be my new nickname. It sounds so badass, despite the fact that I'm well aware that it means no such thing. My Spanish teacher when we were in 5th grade split the class in half, naming one half Tontos (idiots) and the other Burros (jackasses),  basically his version of dumb and dumber. Way to inspire good self-esteem, Senor. Jerry Seinfeld's voice is on, and all I can think about is his wife and her cookbook and the whole business with Lepine and the lawsuits. I own both "sneaky food" books. Man, I still love that Diane Weist. Oh, and Olympia Ducacis, I love her too. Mostly, I think I like women who get fed up, who take control of their lives and smack people around once they, themselves, wise up. I loved Dianne Wiest in that cagebird movie with Robin Williams. Damn, what was the name of that movie? The one with Sparticus unable to walk in shoes. The Birdcage.

That lady from Michael Clayton, Tilda Swinton, while a redhead, she still looks dead, as if she's wearing someone's black futon, and her eyes look like small vaginas. Would it kill her to wear some makeup? Jack Nicholson. Yes, we get it. You're God, and it's not the Oscars without you. I've met you though, have sat with you over dinner, and you weren't all that personable. Still, you are Jack, and you have performed with my girl Diane, so I like you. Especially when you show your vulnerable chick flick of a side.

Best Adapted Screenplay, okay Cohen Brothers. You'll win, but still, Alice Monroe stories are always brilliantly penned.

Accounting Humor: Keep it in your pants. Price Waterhouse Cooper. Yawn. Love that Jon Stewart, henceforth known as My Man, just called them out on how dull that was. Oh please, please Academy, cut all these musical numbers. That blond singing about sending yellow flowers when the sky is red, I think she was the blonde who sang Popular in Wicked.

It also wouldn't be a modern Oscars with Halle Berry. Instead the dudes from SuperBad and Knocked Up stand in.. and they deliver the worst news... that Ratatouille didn't win. Bourne Identity part 30. Sound engineering. The recipient of the award thanks everyone, except he forgets to thank his mullet. I cross my fingers for Ratatouille  again. Ugh, foiled again. Sound mixing. Kills me Bourne Ultimatum. All the sound people have ponytails.

There I go again with the tears. She's gotta pull out the sign language . Oh, and when they thank their dads. When people cry up there, when they summon the dead and pray they're watching over them, I cry. I can't help it. I'm proud of them too. And she's signing again, this time to her mother. It moves us to see how moved she is in her life.

Away from her, Alice Munroe's film, was quite moving actually. Laura Linney is associated with too many independent films and she delivers everything the same. It becomes a little grating. She plays the same uptight part in every film. Good. I'm glad La Vie En Rose woman won. It was a moving film, though way too long. And they uglied her up good in that film. I mean you really believed she got chased by dogs or something, but now, she looks like a Frenchwoman who's trying to look American. I love that she's shaking and thanking love and life and saying there are angels in this city. Even when she's ushered offstage, she's still shaking. She'll fall asleep tonight, eventually anyway, and she'll relive that moment, angry actually that she didn't say more, that she didn't thank the right people, or even the muse she transformed herself into.

Colin Farrel is gross. I don't see what the draw is to him. I'd take  Philip Seymour Hoffman over him any day.  I'd also just like to say, this acoustic version of "Falling Slowly" from the movie Once is really good. I love it actually. And wouldn't you know it, along with La Vie En Rose and Away From Her, I also rented Once. Not bad for a mama who never leaves the house. At least I'm caught up on the nominees. Though that No Country for Old Men and titles with Blood just sound dull to me. Man, I love the acoustic guitar. It's so enchanting and makes me feel drunk. I love that song. It's official. And afterward, camera pans up, and dammit, three women sitting in the front row are just sitting there thinking about the after parties, deciding if they'll change into their backup outfits now that they've seen the color of the night is red. Not one claps.

Best Picture Montage:How Green Was My Valley sounds like porn. Kramer vs. Kramer, God was that good. The Departed... doesn't belong on that list. Not even close to Annie Hall. Some years the movies just suck. I don't like Renee Zellweger's dress. She looks like Christmas tinsel. Nicole Kidman sounds like a robot, like that freaky redhead from Cashmere Mafia, just awkward and too enunciated. She seems cold. Others read, stuck to the script, but Jennifer Garner, for example, came off adorable (but damn thin). And Kidman delivers an aloof appearance, a Stepford role. She stands there like a woman without a heart. Renee's dress looked like tinsel and Kidman stands like the tree, hacked down for holiday presentation. That necklace might be fashion-forward but it's annoying on screen.

They always put the family of the big-time achievement award winners in boxed seats so they needn't listen to people badmouthing the speaker. Oh how I love all the closeups of actors pretending to listen, pretending to care, squinting, fingers on chins, deep in thought, even the lovely Diane Lane, acting mesmerized about... nothing. He said nothing. Robert Boyle. Gotta cut him some slack, though, he is 98-years-old. I hope I can still speak at that age, you know, something other than "Mama."

Penelope Cruz's dress. It's quite clear the woman had a one night stand with Foghorn Leghorn. All those ass feathers. Tim Gunn would not approve of that fowl silhouette.

I LOVE that ONCE won for best song. The movie was kinda suckass, but the music moves me. And it really sucks that she didn't get to give her--oh, but she did. That's the way. See, Jon Stewart is dreamy. Cameran Diaz, I know guys think she's hot, but really, she's typecast for a reason. Someone needs to pull her dress up, or down... I can almost see the shadow of a nipple, well, the areola, anyway. "No," Phil says. "You're making things up." He pauses. I walk up to the screen and point. "No, they'd be down here," he says pointing lower. "No, those boobies are squished up in there with tape and stuff. That might just be the shadow of an areola." That, or I've had too much to drink.

Hillary Swank. She's kinda mannish. Not kinda. She's mannish. I can't quite get past her role in Boys Don't Cry, and I keep imagining her with a rolled up pair of sweat socks stuffed into her crotch.

Wait, the death montage. Since when do they list agents and stunt men? No one good died, just Deborah Kerr. Ingrid Bergman. Fine. Oh, and of course best for last Heath, which kinda changes the mood. That sucks.

And the quote of the night: "Without you, honey, this would just be hardware."

does a chicken have hair?

Not exactly "does a bear shit in the woods?" or "does a whore sweat in church?", but I do still wonder. I'm in the final stages of cleaning up this manuscript, instructed to stet copy-edit corrections if I disagree. There's a bit where I'm describing why I turned my back on poultry.

"They hadn't removed the skin. Fine hairs were visible, pores, and follicles. I peeled it back and examined the underside, poking at the gelatinous lining."

In the margin I'm faced with the following query: "feathers?"
I could swear they were fine hairs, not rolled up small feathers. So this leaves me to the Internet in search of the answer, Googling "anatomy of a chicken." "They're pin-feathers and have a hair-like appearance," it is said. Well, that's of no use to me. So I press on, looking for a reliable source that sides with me. But I'm unable to pass up one unrelated but intriguing search result: Chick Sexer.

Coolest job title ever. It's the perfect reply to the pesky question "What do you want to be when you grow up?" Kid raises hand. "A chick sexer." Teacher forces said child to sit in corner wearing dunce cap.

Youngster returns the next day with a wiki definition: Chick sexing is the method of distinguishing the sex of chicken hatchlings, usually by a trained person called a chick sexer or chicken sexer.

And teacher scolds the tot for being lazy and relying on wiki. But the kid doesn't mind so much. Reading up on Vent Sexing* made it all worthwhile.

This is what my life has become. It's actually kind of fun. It's almost like being back in the fourth grade where I'm studying the solar and nervous system simultaneously. Almost. I think part of the reason some of us have a strong propensity to procreate is due to our subconscious need to relearn everything we should still know but don't. To learn the things we never should have forgotten. Like why the moon is sometimes orange and why hermit crabs are always redecorating.

* Vent sexing involves literally squeezing the feces out of the chick, which opens up the rectum (more properly, the cloaca) slightly, allowing the chicken sexer to see if the chick has a small "bump", which would indicate that the chick is a male. Some females have very small bumps, but rarely do they have the large bumps male chicks possess. So basically, the male chicks have hemorrhoids. Hemorrhoids, yes. Hair, no.

i'll gladly trade you mighty boobs on tuesday, for a leg up today

I've been compiling video footage, transferring things to DVD, all very mundane. Press clippings, TV Food Network appearance, 20/20, etc. Work-related. So while I was digging through video, I figured, "Those grandparents deserve a nice treat." I'm thoughtful on God's day of rest. I attempted to make a compilation of greatest bean moments (kids sucking on blocks) and create a DVD for the families. This was all working beautifully, until the Mac program iDVD crapped out, freezing my MacBook Pro. This leads me into forums searching for things like "freeze" and "not loading." Not fun.

Which brings me to today, a gloriously craptastic day filled with crapjacks for everyone. Since I'd promised to get the work-related footage out the door by Monday, I was pressed to burn something, and had to get the program to work. Hence, I camped out at the Mac store (before it even opened) without an appointment. I'd tried to make one online, but all the stores in Austin were booked.

The Genius Bar wasn't very genius at all. I was brutally rebuffed. "Not without an appointment, and Sunday is our busiest day..." the hipster boyman said. "If you maybe come back in two hours, we might be able to squeeze you in, but probably not." Die.

I left the mall deflated, craving Thai pizza. I drove to another Apple store to beg. I phoned Phil to let him know I was still on the move. It was 11AM. I'd left the house at 10AM. The babies would be up at noon for lunch. I really wanted to be back, to relieve Phil and give him a break, since I'd spent ALL DAY SATURDAY TRYING TO BURN AND CREATE DVDS. I let Phil know I was on my way to The Domain (a fancy shopping center), and that there would soon be begging, to which he responded, "Do me a favor?"  I didn't say anything. "Undo your top button."

The very first thing I thought when he said it: Oh, snap. He's remembering that I wore this PINK (as in Thomas) pink button-down, and he noticed the one "mighty button" struggling to keep my boobs contained. The fabric was pulling. But I had left the house in such a hurry, Phil didn't have a chance to say, "You're not seriously going to wear that, are you?" So now he was telling me to just undo it. Ooooh, then it clicked. It wasn't about my one mighty button at all. It was about showing off my mighty boobs, to get a leg up at the Genius bar. It was a genius plan, indeed.

While I didn't have an appointment, and while they were completely booked, I still managed to get serviced (without unbuttoning). Though a smile always helps. Then after 4 HOURS at the bar, I filled out paperwork, and they took away my computer. "It's a hardware problem, but we don't know what it is." Sadly, even the mightiest of power, shift, and esc buttons couldn't fix things.

*As an aside, there's nothing worse than a woman wearing a top that's too small. Where the fabric around the bust pulls. It makes you look twenty pounds heavier. Mine only really buckled when I stood with my shoulders pulled back.  It's a shirt I shouldn't wear until I lose another ten pounds.

an eye for an eye

LOST. Season 4. Premiere. What did I think?

I wanted more because I'm greedy. I wanted answers and hate waiting for them. Go ahead and skip this post if you're a)not interested b) still catching up on the series via DVD c) a purist and don't believe in using technology to slow down the show and analyze some screengrabs.

I still think it's Michael in the coffin (despite the obvious neighborhood), that he'll be part of Season 4, that we'll see what else he's up to, and obviously what lead to his death. Because that newspaper article Jack had in his hand said he was survived by a teenage son.

Who is Jacob? Last night we got to see a bit more of him, and with the suit and all, it looks as if it's Christian Shepard, Jack's father, whose body was never found in the coffin on the island. However, it could be the same actor who plays Christian Shepard, supposedly appearing as an older Jack.

Whose eye is in the window? Could be Jacob's eye, the way that guy moves around. Or it could be Locke.

What I want to know is, how did Locke know what happened to Charlie? Sayid, Hurley, Bernard, and Sawyer were together when Desmond let them know that Charlie died, and that he alerted them that it's "Not Penny's Boat." Then Locke shows up with his, we have to warn Jack and the people with him, or Charlie's death was in vain.

Yes, we get that it's the beginning of the end, both of the show and the downward spiral. We see all the mirrors, the way Hurley in the flash forward tells Jack they need to go back, the same as Jack eventually says to Kate, but who now says no way. I hope they don't kill us with stuff like that because it annoys me. We also know that the Oceanic 6 need to lie about their time on the island, with Jack screaming to Kate by the airport, "I'm tired of lying" and with Hurley denying he knew Anna Lucia.

If Hurley is imagining he sees Charlie, why can someone else see him? Why does that other dude alert Hugo that someone's watching him, pointing to Charlie? Unless the other patient saw someone else, and Hurley saw him as Charlie. Who knows. One thing I do believe, however, is whether they're hallucinations or not, they're happening for a reason other than Hurley's mental state. Because when he's in that questioning room, he sees Charlie under water, and Charlie presses his hand against the glass, and his hand reads "THEY NEED YOU." Hurley obviously never witnessed Charlie's death, hadn't seen it himself. So for him to see something in that great a detail (something he'd never seen before, only heard about), something else is at play.

It's also painfully obvious that Ben is not the bad guy or the man behind the curtain. And what's up with Jack pulling the unloaded gun's trigger like that? I know he told Kate earlier that he'd kill Locke if he saw him because he was pissed about the submarine sabotage, but this is Jack. Maybe Locke was sure Jack wouldn't kill him (not only because he knew the gun wasn't loaded) but because, if Jacob is really Jack in the future or even Jack's dad in the future, Locke must have been tipped off to what would happen... it's why earlier he says, "you're not supposed to do this," and why he was also so confident that Jack wouldn't kill him.

And as I said at the finale of season 3, I believe Jack (and Claire's) father is alive in the flash-forward, that it's not just Jack tripping out.I think when the Oceanic 6 were returned, it somehow reset things, as if some of the events that happened before their initial departure haven't happened yet.

Who do you think are the Oceanic 6?
Whose eye do you think that was?
Who do you think is in the coffin?
Who do you think the "he" is that Kate refers to when meeting Jack at the airport... "He'll notice I'm gone"? (perhaps it's someone we haven't met yet?) That or she had Sawyer's baby. Or it's her "real dad" the one she blew up in the past (but now that they're back, it's like the past reset itself?)
Who is "Jacob?"

putting your foot (and finger) down

"Baby, where's my external hard drive?"
"Oh, I spoke with them today. They said they tried to recover your stuff, sent it out to a specialist, and they couldn't. So they're--are you picking your nose?"
"I've got a crusty."
"If it's not already on the UPS truck, it'll take two to three days. Are you still picking your nose?"
"I think I pushed it up there, and now I can't reach it." After some silence I add, "Does it disgust you that I pick my nose in front of you?"
"It's not a question of disgusting. You just don't have to do it."
"You don't have a boogie in your brain, so you wouldn't know, now would you?"
"I'm not having this discussion."

crapass

I lied. I didn't realize it when it happened, so technically, it's not a lie. A lie is saying something you know isn't true. I'm just now realizing what I said in the past has turned out to be a lie. I do, in fact, sometimes turn into a bitch on wheels when I have my spot. I woke up wanting to slug someone. Everything is getting on my nerves, especially all the new year's posts on all the blogs. It's annoying. It's everywhere. And it makes me want to stop. I'm frustrated and pissed off and don't feel like a girly girl today. I feel like a grump, a grump in my husband's sweatshirt, watching my kids throw Cheerios on the floor. I'm irritated that I've gained three pounds, despite knowing I can lose it in a few days. I'm pissed that I can't get my damn "print and cut" to work properly. I've been trying for the past two days to cut and print right in Adobe Illustrator to my silhouette (craft robo), and the shit just won't work. And I've tried yahoo groups, and now I just want to toss my computer onto the floor with the Cheerios. It happens from time to time, where I have nothing to contribute, where I'm frustrated and just don't feel like writing anything compelling. It happens to everyone.

I wonder why all the New Years posts out there have me so annoyed. It's just the same everywhere. And it makes me feel trapped. I'm so sick of reading about how they resolve to not make any resolutions, or are resolving not to diet, or are resolving to live life according to a word or motto. It all makes me feel ill, the resolve. Any of it. To do, or not to do, is a stupid question, so stop it.

feeling small

No one's kids are ever as cute as they think. Cute, or smart, or fascinating. No one wants to really hear about their sleep habits or favorite foods. Except grandparents, and even then, it's just some grandparents. And aunts. Their aunts want to hear. My friends without children? I'd never dream of boring them with the details of my life, not because I believe my life is boring, but my "everyday" simply isn't relevant to them.

Work is relevant, following passions. Fights, they're universal. Anyone can relate and give advice and feel useful and a connection. Food. Projects. Vacation plans. Making new friends, even. But no one wants to be around someone who talks about their kid non-stop. I will never hand the phone to my children so they can incoherently blather on to someone on the other line. It's annoying. I don't care who you are. I hate having to talk to kids over the phone. At any age. It's never ever going to be cute. It's like pulling teeth getting them to talk. I don't even know what to ask these kids. "How was your day? What did you do? Oh, really? And what did you eat?" I ask simple questions I don't even want to know the answer to, just so the parent thinks I give a shit. I don't. I'd rather talk to the adult. "Oh, but it makes the kid feel important." Great. It makes me feel like an imbecile. And it bores me.

Even at playgroup, where we gather with our kids, observing them, chatting about sales and fun new stores and sites, we don't spend all our time talking about kids. We speak of restaurants, events, and recipes. About birth control and husband stitches. The best skinny jeans.

And then we're back to our kids, what it's like. What the hell do I feed them now that their doc says no more bottles? I bought three cookbooks on cooking for kids, through the ages. First foods to sneaking zucchini into cookies. But I haven't had time. I hand in this book today, then receive more edits at the start of the new year. I hope in the coming days I can relax, cook for my family, and enjoy the smaller moments again. At least the house looks nice. Photos to come... from playgroup, to meals, to the garland wrapped throughout the house. I love this time of year and am looking forward to a breakfast of eggs, caramelized onions, and crisp bacon, at home with family on Christmas day.  But now I must turn in the book, and then begin to plan a seafood dinner (the seven fishes) for Christmas Eve. So to all a good night.

a thousand pardons

I'm freezing and tired and just want to crawl into bed with you. I'm cranky from a day of sitting on the floor at Barnes and Noble doing research, without coffee, or even cozy clothes. I read about gardens and hemlocks, clouds, and jellyfish, and the sea-cow. Then I looked at books dedicated to color.

How many ways can I write the word "red" without saying brick, or fire, scarlet, or damn crimson? Without it sounding so damn written. Sometimes red is just red. It doesn't have to be cranberry, cherry, strawberry, or Chinese apple red. Harlot or waitress red. But when I use it a thousand times, I've got to vary it up some. So it becomes academy red, radio flyer red, radicchio red (it's not even red, by the way). Socialist, communist, admiral, brigade red. Oscar red. St. Nick red. Dog bowl red.

And that's what's it like living in my siren head going through the editorial process for Moose, clipping out the "suddenly"s and the adverbs. Circling the sentences that seem too much about the writing instead of the story. There's still so much I want to cram in, but it will have to wait for tomorrow.

Then I think of my day and review it. It began at the pediatrician's, for their one year wellness exam. The chicken pox vaccination. Chicken pox red doesn't work either. Kill me now, okay?

And then it dawns on me that the slimnastics instructor wore a dusty rose leotard with matching sweatbands. Decidedly not red at all, but pink, in a Betty Boob, legwarmers, Jane Fonda videos, kinda way. Am I dead yet?

catfish toes and steak fingers

I’m at a parlor.  A type of catfish parlor, the kind with wooden fish and oars mounted on pine walls, with life preservers, water skis and neon Dos Equis and Shiner signs.  It's not, as one might suspect, a waterfront shack.  It's a pit off a high-traffic road, North FM 620.  The FM stands for "farm to market" because back in the day, roads like this were designed to get you from the farm to the market.&nb