a secret universe

Happy New Year

2009-01-04T14:30:00.001-08:00

Ghost Blog

2009-01-04T14:09:00.000-08:00

Hey. Anyone out there?

Sorry I went AWOL for a few weeks. I've been taking a memoir writing course with Jami Bernard via Mediabistro. It's been great. I've been working on a memoir. A memwah. My m'mwah. Go ahead, say it out loud.

The First Annual Secret Lake Pumpkin Carving Extravaganza

2008-11-09T17:07:00.000-08:00

The carving was held at the firehouse. Everyone took it pretty seriously.

First, slice off the top.

Then, dig in.

There's an ick factor.

Eyes on the prize.

It takes focus. Volunteer fire fighter focus.

Make the face you want your pumpkin to have.

Intense . . .

. . . or easy-going.

It's also a spectator sport.

A few of the final products on display.

Beat

2008-10-28T16:49:00.000-07:00

Covering the election is hard work.

Feelings, schmeelings

2008-10-24T18:47:00.000-07:00

Robert was just about to get on the school bus this morning when he burst into tears and refused to board. He was inconsolable. I told the bus driver I would take him up the mountain myself. I cuddled him and helped him back into his booster seat.
Me: Honey, what's the matter?
Rob: Waa!
Me: Why are you crying?
Rob: Snuffle.
Me: Please tell me!
Rob: I don't want to.
Me: You have to talk to me about your feelings! It's very important. How do you feel now?
Rob: It's hard to explain.
Me: How about if I say some feelings and you tell me if I got it right?
Rob: 'K.
Me: Are you sad?
Rob (After a moment's consideration): No.
Me: Are you angry?
Rob: No.
Me: Are you . . . uncomfortable?
Rob: Yes.
Me: Did somebody do something that you didn't like?
Rob: Yes.
Me: Was it one of the big boys?
Rob: Yes. It was X.
Me: Did he use words, or his body?
Rob: His body.
Me (If Robert had lapels I'd be tugging on them): Tell me what he did to you!
Rob: He accidentally bumped my lip with his backpack while he was getting on the bus.
Me: Huh. Pause. Is it OK now?
Rob: Yup.
Me: Hmm. Well, I wonder why that was so hard to explain. Perhaps we should practice talking about your feelings more. Remember that lovely haiku you wrote for Ms. D about the heart-shaped flowers?
Rob (With feeling): I see six red hearts. They are very lovable. They are very good.
Me (Sigh): What a beautiful poem.
Rob: Yeah. You have to have five syllables in the first line, then seven, then five. Know what M wrote?
Me: What?
Rob (Cracking up): I see six red hearts. I think I will eat candy today. I like to eat food.
Me: That was very sincere.
Guess M didn't realize the assignment was to charm the teacher.

The Science of Parties

2008-10-14T20:39:00.000-07:00

As has been pointed out to me, we are birthday party over-achievers. We’ve had the Music Party with hired performer and guitar cake, the Farm Party; big red barn cake, animal print-outs to color and mini pumpkins to decorate (do you know how much pumpkins cost in NYC?), the Space Party; nine cakes made approximately to scale to represent the solar system, black play dough with glitter, a moon room with glow stars on the ceiling, the Winnie the Pooh Party; pin the tail on Eeyore, a Pooh "hunny" pot bean bag toss and a Tigger room with mattress to bounce on—oh, and Pooh character Pez dispensers for party favors. Greg has made and served mac 'n' cheese to half the kids and bloody Marys to half the parents in Brooklyn.

Why do we do this? Because as soon as people find out your kid is gifted they assume he has no friends.

I can’t say there haven’t been issues. When Robert was three his preschool teacher told me he wasn’t interacting with his classmates.
Teacher: We’ve taught him to go up to other children and say, “Can I play with you?”
Me (Heart in throat): What do they say?
Teacher: Well. Most of them can’t talk yet.
Me: What does Robert do?
Teacher: He often will sit in our reading corner and read a book.
Me (Thinking): Dear God, he’s a freak . . . like his parents. Our secret is out. Everyone in the neighborhood will soon know that his father spent high school playing chess. That his mother has been wearing glasses since the age of ten . . . the same year she read Pride and Prejudice . . . for the first time.
The teacher recommended a shrink. For Robert. I already had one.

I desperately scheduled play dates after every school day. But the more I foisted friends on him, the more he quietly retreated into his favorite activities. Finally, after much reading and reflection I realized—he’s not a child with autism—he’s an introvert.

Last year (our first spent in exile) we had a Pirate Party with a scavenger hunt, pirate chest piñata, and pirate ship cake. This one was a turning point because Rob actually participated. Oh, joy in the morning! Or afternoon, rather.

So now I can relax. Except for the fact that I have set the bar a little high. Rob started talking about this year’s extravaganza two months prior to his birthday. Originally he wanted a math party. I delicately steered him in the direction of a science party, without ever once saying, “What do you mean math party? Nobody has math parties—you know why? Because math is boring and no one likes it except you!” Instead I offered to let him stuff a tube of Mentos into a bottle of diet coke. That sold him.

Greg drove 45 minutes to a godforsaken post-industrial wasteland to buy dry ice.

We made atomic cupcakes and a brain birthday cake.

The kids made rubber balls from borax and Elmer’s glue and lava lamps from oil and water.

Robert ate so much food coloring that the next morning he did a green pooh. He thought that was pretty cool. You could say it was the icing on the cake. It probably was.

That’s it. No more themed house parties.

Me: What do you want to be for Halloween, Honey?
Rob: A squirrel. With a tail that I can really wiggle.

What's the Mutter?

2008-10-09T10:53:00.000-07:00

I seem to have developed a bad habit of muttering under my breath. No doubt it’s because I am under a lot of stress right now. I am throwing Rob a science birthday party this weekend, which means I have only days to find a supplier of dry ice, and learn science. Plus, I have to admit I am kind of ashamed of our house. As I said to Greg, I don’t mind people knowing we don’t have much money but I don’t want them thinking we have crap taste. Unfortunately, our landlord does (I mean, he has crap taste not he thinks we do. Or maybe he does? Hard to know.)

Ivan (our landlord) favors a look I think of as “cheap motel.” Not that I haven’t some had fun times in cheap motels . . . but, seriously, coffee is a good color for a beverage, not a carpet. I’ve been taking revenge on ours by not vacuuming. Hah! I wash my hands of you, brown rug! You are no carpet of mine! I’m hoping in this way to persuade it to leave the house of it’s own accord. Perhaps I can explain this strategy to my guests.

The week after the party, the Oompa Loompas will be putting on Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. In theory. Right now they are just driving me crazy and making lewd gestures with the props. To eleven year olds this is hysterical. Too bad they will be performing for their grandparents and a local kindergarten.

Also, I was provoked. Last Monday I was accosted by an acquaintance in a parking lot.
SW: We bought a house!
Me: Congratulations. You picked a good time to buy.
SW (Wide-eyed): Oh, no. It was a very expensive house because it’s a nice house and very big and conveniently located. (Shaking head, and inhaling dramatically) It was very expensive.
Me: Well, it’s a good investment.
SW: Yes. Because it’s real estate. REAL estate. Not stocks!
All our money is in stocks right now.
Me: You know, some people got caught out by real estate in the sub-prime mortgage crisis. (Like us, to an extent.)
SW (More head shaking): That was due to greed. Sheer greed, and extremely poor judgment. How could people be so foolish? That wasn’t real money—only indebtedness.
Me: Hey, (I am tempted to say) it was accepted at many fine stores and restaurants.
Instead I say:
Me: OK, have a nice day!
But I am muttering, Smug Wanker.

At times like these, as Greg and I brainstorm ways to restore the fallen fortunes of the house of Us, or retrace our steps over the last two years to figure out where-we-went-wrong, we just can’t think of another route we could’ve taken. We moved away from a lucrative job market so Robert could go to a school that he loves. And he’s happy.

According to almost everything I’ve ever read about profoundly gifted children, he’s supposed to be a miserable, hollow-eyed, bow-tie-wearing little Edward Gory illustration. But he’s not. He sings in the shower. And he likes the brown carpet.

Pimping the Kid

2008-10-04T14:35:00.000-07:00

When we lived in Brooklyn, every couple of weeks (OK, maybe it was once a month) we’d take Robert in a car service to Queens to visit Greg’s Grandma. We’d spend a few hours at her house and she’d give us 100 bucks. We called this “pimping the kid.”

On September 19, we raised the pimping to a whole new level. Robert took an IQ test as part of an application to Davidson’s Young Scholars. Hopefully, he will get a high enough score on the test to qualify for the program, and they will give us money.

We told Rob that he was going to take an IQ test “for fun.” He actually believed us because a) he thinks tests are fun, and b) he is too innocent and naïve to realize that people might judge him, or that there are rewards other than gold stars, given for things other than good behavior. The technical term for this is asynchrony.

The tester is based in MA, and as the test was scheduled for 8:30am on a Saturday morning, we had to set off the previous Friday.

In the car:
Greg: What?
Me: What, what?
Greg: Are you going to be mad the whole way?
Me: I’m not mad.
Greg: Fuck.
Me: Shh.
Greg: Don’t take it out on me because you’re nervous about the test.
Me: Argh! Don’t plant that seed in his head!
Greg: Sorry. Listen, I couldn’t stop. Something really important came up.
Me: More important than your child’s future?
Greg: Rach, try not to be so dramatic.
Me: You said you would finish working at 4:30pm.
Greg: But you weren’t ready at 4:30.
Me: That’s because I didn’t have anyone to help me! I had to load the dishwasher, and pack, and—
Greg: You were sitting having a cup of tea.
Me: I had a long day. A fight broke out among my Oompa Loompas (see previous post).
Greg: Look, it’s going to be fine. We won’t be late.
Me: I wanted to be driving in daylight, and to get there in time to find a nice hotel, and have some dinner. And give him a bath. Now we’re going to get there after 9, and he won’t have had any dinner.
Greg: Here’s a gas station, I'll get him a bag of peanuts.
Me: He’ll choke!
Greg: I give him peanuts in the car all the time.
Me: What!
Greg: I’ll get chips.
Me: Jeez! Try to find something healthy.
Greg (Leaving car): I’ll try to find something healthy.
Rob: Mom, quit fighting with dad.
Me: We’re having a discussion.
Greg (Returning): Here: A banana, a yogurt, and chips.
Rob: I only want the chips.
Me (Clutching head): Argh.
Greg: What’s the matter?
Me: We suck. We don’t deserve to be his parents. In a movie of our lives we’d be played by Danny Devito and Rhea Pearlman.
Greg: Look at him. He’s fine. He never goes to sleep before 10, anyway.
Rob: Yeah, Mom. I’m not nervous about the test. I mean, you can’t really measure intelligence. Can I have my book?
Me: Here you go, Honey. Remember when you were little, and I read that book (Charlie and the Chocolate Factory) to you at bedtime?
Rob: Yeah.
Me: And we read about the Oompa Loompas, how they are little, and have golden brown hair, and they love having fun and singing? And you whispered to me, very seriously, “Mom, I think I’m an Oompa Loompa.”
Rob (Eye roll): No-oh.
Me: (To Greg) OK. Tell me about the thing that came up.

Cosmic arrival

2008-10-04T06:30:00.000-07:00

Sorry to my many readers* for the lack of posts recently. We spent a weekend in Boston (great city, and setting of one of our favorite movies ever, Good Will Hunting), and the following weekend, after four days of labor, my sister Rosie gave birth to her lovely baby boy, Charlie. He looks like the babies in Giles' cartoons.

Also, I now have a very demanding new job. As I told my much, much, older brother Andrew on the phone:

Me: Hey, I got a teaching job.
Andrew: Cool. Teaching what?
Me: I'm going to be doing part-time drama.
Andrew: I thought you did full-time drama.

Humph. Anyway, my students and I have decided to produce Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. We are taking inspiration from both movies. Which version do you prefer? The one with Gene Wilder, or the one with Johnny Depp?

*I recently installed Statcounter. Apparently, people who don’t even know me personally are reading this blog!!! Even accounting for those who stumble upon it accidentally and instantly move on, (I apologize to those who were looking for Luke's Donut Shop, not Luke's Donut Shop) it seems I have some actual but mysterious readers. It’s a little unnerving. Please identify yourselves! (I have one reader in Singapore. I wonder if it’s my old friend Josephine Chew. Hi, Josephine!) Also, to all the dear friends who have called or emailed me with comments, please write them in the section called “comments.” Thanks.

Popularity

2008-09-14T13:38:00.000-07:00

Greg says the most important goals of a blog are accuracy, timeliness, and frequent updates.
I say the most important goals of my blog are to be funny, and popular. So, here's what I did in JUNE.

We went down to NYC to sell our apartment. It was a sad event which fortunately coincided with the fabulous Renegade Craft Fair, held in the bottom of McCarren Park's disused swimming pool. This cheered me up no end. My friend Stacey and I wore flat shoes and carried plenty of water. We approached from the north-west corner and took a zig-zag route perusing to the right as we walked south, to the left as we went north. Thus we were able to examine and exclaim over every single precious creation in a mere 4 hours. Back at Stacey's apartment, the dads and kids failed even to make it to the playground and as a result were forced to watch spring training on the flat screen TV.

Me: Well, here's one good thing about not having a loft anymore—we shook off a lot of fake friends. (Sigh) That happens when your apartment is cooler than you are. What a lot of people like best about you is your condo.
Stacey (Sweet Stacey): Oh no! That’s just your insecurity talking.
Me: Well, where are they now? Now that they can't lean on our (granite) kitchen island and suck down our booze?
Stacey: I’m sure they really liked y’all (Stacey is from New Orleans).
Me (The bubble-burster): Haven’t you ever suspected people’s motives for being friends with you? I mean, it must be like being really beautiful. Like you, when you were, say, 24 (Argh, tactless!) I mean, you’re really beautiful now, of course, but didn’t you ever wonder, um, in college, if people were friends with you for you?
Stacey: I was never Miss Popular. Pause. I wasn’t unpopular. I always had a boyfriend.
Me: Well, there you go.
Stacey (Laughing): No-oh. I never had loads of guys after me.
Me: OK, so you didn’t have a stalker or anything.
Stacey (Wide-eyed): Oh, I did! I had two stalkers.
Me: Huh.

Birth and rebirth.

2008-09-07T15:03:00.000-07:00

Here's a recent phone conversation with my sister Rosie.
Rosie: Did you see the photos I sent you? That’s the castle we want to get married in.
Me: It looks lovely, but . . .

I think someone did some graffiti on it.
Rosie: Ha, ha, Rach. Yeah, they got these Brazilian graffiti artists to do a mural on one side. Isn’t it great?
Me: What? Seriously, I thought that was photo shopped. The Queen let them do that?
Rosie: I suppose so. Or the Earl of Glasgow did, anyway. It’s his castle.
Me: Blimey.
Rosie: Yup. Britain’s changed. Even the climate’s changed. Scotland’s now Hotland.
Me: Wow. Cool. Well, it totally makes sense as a venue for you. (It’s posh and arty.) I love it.

P.S. Yes, my sister is really putting a crimp in my political career. She's due 9/27/08.

How Now Brown Cow?*

2008-09-07T13:49:00.000-07:00

Me: What do you call a witch who lives at the beach?
Robert: A bitch?
Me: Um, no. A sandwich.
Rob: I don’t get it.
Me: Sand. Witch.
Rob: But you said "samwidge."
Me: Oh.

*Greg says the title of this post is too cryptic so here's a link.

The Deep-fried Turkey Gene.

2008-08-26T05:34:00.000-07:00

A year ago, I asked my younger brother Jules (check out his band, The Harlan Twins) about music lessons for Rob. Which instrument should we choose? Jules said, ask him what he wants to play. So I did. And Robert said, “the harp.”

I totally blame our good friend, jazz harpist Park Stickney, who has often let Rob play with his collection of priceless instruments. Instruments for which he pays full fare on planes, rather than have them travel in the hold—where other people stow their beloved pets.

Park recently visited with his equally amazing Swiss Missis, Christine, who used to work for Unicef and now runs a website for troubled adolescents. (Since most of the posts are from French "ados," you don’t see the usual questions about personal hygiene. Zut alors! I’m just kidding!)

Now, since last November, Rob has mysteriously developed a keen interest in deep frying turkeys. Hence my surprise when Christine took out her lap-top to show me her latest photos. Among the images of her adorable, well-behaved black lab, Leo, and her converted barn near Geneva, what should pop up on the screen but pictures of Park and some pals deep frying a turkey. They were using an ingenius rope and pulley contraption which enabled them to dip the bird into the vat of boiling oil without frying any fingers (not good for a harpist—or anybody, really).

WTF?

While Christine and I caught up with each other’s personal histories and emotional states, Park and Robert played Colorku, and read Captain Underpants books. Park thinks the Underpants series is very witty. He quoted and explained some of the nuances of author Dav Pilkey’s humor. He cited the part in "The Wicked Wedgie Woman" where Harold and George tell their teacher that they are using their imaginations and she replies, "You're not allowed to do that at this school. Didn't you read chapter one!" Clearly this is an example of Brechtian frame-breaking. Christine noted that it’s really too bad that many American children will miss out on the C.U. experience because their parents are puritans who will not be able to get past titles such as, “Captain Underpants and the Perilous Plot of Professor Poopypants.”

Huh? And I say again, WTF?

I would like to conduct a survey. What percentage of the total population enjoys deep frying their turkeys, as compared to that part of the population who can solve the Rubik’s cube and/or plays a musical instrument and/or enjoys avant-guarde, post-modern potty jokes?

Gotta go. Jules is calling Robert with his recipe for turducken.

I had a Farm in Africa.

2008-08-17T10:05:00.000-07:00

Not really. I had a loft in Williamsburg. In a neighborhood often described as the epicenter of cool, I was right where the heart of that epicenter would be, if cool had a heart. White hot. Big, light, bright, shiny. And gone.

I first saw Manhattan in Edinburgh, Scotland, in 1986. The friends who accompanied me to the “pictures” declared the characters “a bunch of fuckin’ idiots,” but I knew I had finally found people like me. Not only that, but in the place where they lived, it wasn’t raining and everyone had a job. Five short years later I moved there (well, to Brooklyn). I arrived with a couple of canvas laundry bags full of possessions. All my days in NYC, I felt like I was in a movie.

Now I’m living in a place where when I refer to “the city” the inhabitants ask, “which city?” which is like asking, “which planet?”

As I reflect upon the loss of my foothold on the East coast’s greasiest real estate pole, I'm sitting on my porch with a cup of coffee, watching the wind move the trees. Somewhere amongst the rippling leaves, a bird begins singing its little heart out. It’s just as if it didn’t know that it doesn’t matter what you do if you’re not in New York City. Stupid bird.

Dear Professor Black

2008-08-06T12:20:00.000-07:00

I recently found out that Jack Black’s parents are rocket scientists. Since I am a goof ball who has somehow given birth to a future physicist, and I find it comforting that this particular cosmic joke plays both ways—but I also sympathize. I can just picture Jack’s proud parents giving him his first chemistry set, and Jack using it to make fake farts.

I can also imagine the questions Jack’s poor mother had to answer.

From the neighbors:
When did you first notice he was . . . different?
Where on earth does he get his wonderful sense of humor?
Be honest, do you hot house him, forcing him to watch endless re-runs of Saturday Night Live?
Have you always secretly wanted to be funny?

From random strangers in stores:
Does he understand that what he's saying is hilarious?
Did you eat something funny during your pregnancy?
Can you say something funny?

From his preschool teachers:
Do you put pressure on him to be the class clown?
Perhaps if Jack spent less time making people laugh, he would be better at rocket science.
(I know. That's not really a question.)

These are the questions I would ask Prof. Black about raising Jack:
Did you ever feel at a loss, wondering how you could nurture such a prodigious talent?
Did Jack have trouble fitting in with the other rocket scientists’ kids?
Did you ever worry Jack would one day be bored by you?
Are you intimidated by the circles Jack moves in today?

One question I wouldn't have to ask:
Professor Black, are you proud of your son?

In the car

2008-08-05T10:00:00.000-07:00

Greg (popping in a contemporary jazz cd): Try to really listen. This guy is a genius.
Me: Bill Evans? Urgh.
Bill Evans: Noodle, noodle.
Me: It’s like he can’t decide what tune to play.
Greg: It's complex.
Bill: Dum de dum, ho hum. Pling, plong!
Me: Going up! Third floor, ladies underwear!
Bill: Needle, needle.
Me: What instrument is he playing, coz I think he might be plucking on my LAST NERVE.
Greg: OK. You pick something.
Me: Eighties Brit Pop it is.

How to Compost

2008-08-04T11:04:00.000-07:00

1. Buy a cute receptacle for kitchen scraps.
2. Throw in all the fruit/veggies your kid refuses to eat. And the gone-brown fruit/veggies you couldn’t bring yourself to cook knowing they would only be rejected.
3. Explain the process to your kid.

Rob: I know Mom, I saw it on videojug.

4. After a few days, lift and shut the lid very quickly. Nothing is moving in there. It’s just a trick of the light. Those are coffee grounds and grains of rice, not bugs and maggots.
5. Buy a big plastic bin and try to find a spot for it in your garden that is both sunny and out of sight.
6. Ask kid for help with assembly instructions.
7. Pause to pontificate about the cycle of life.
8. Coax kid out of bin before throwing in dead leaves and kitchen scraps.
9. Pour in scraps, which now have the color, consistency, and stench of fresh vomit. It’s a smell totally unlike baby puke. More like hangover flavor. Must be the fermenting apples. It’ll take you right back to your drinking days.
10. Take a moment to lean on the bin and reflect on the good old days, the inevitable passing of time, and Hamlet’s line about a king passing through the belly of a beggar.
11. Scream as compost vomit leaks out of the bin’s handy “harvesting” side trap door onto your toes. Jump and flail around in slippery flip-flops.

Me: Ew, ew! Yuk! The horror! The horror!
Rob: Hold still, Mom, I’m going to spray you with the hose.

Back to the Future

2008-08-04T09:33:00.000-07:00

We are watching a scurrilous anti-Obama ad put out by McCain, and having the old “Can he really pull if off?” conversation. Can a Black man, however talented, convince America to pick him over a befuddled, old, White coot?
Greg smiles and ruffles Robert’s dirty (in both senses) blond hair. He has that glint in his eye—that kingmaker, puppet-master, slightly megalomaniacal grin.
Greg: He could really do it, you know. I could help him make it happen.
Me: Hold you horses, Eleanor Shaw. Being President is not a good job. Very high pressure. You only get to sleep about 4 hours a night. (Well, I expect Bush gets a good nine, plus naps.)
Greg: It’s up to him.
Me (struggling): Yes. Of course.
Greg: Hey, Boy. Would you like to be president someday? Wouldn’t that be cool?
Rob: No. I want to be an astronaut. I’m going to invent a time machine and travel through a wormhole in the fourth dimension.
Greg: That sounds dangerous.
Me: But it’s up to him.
Greg (struggling): Of course.
Rob: (Jumping on the sofa). Look, I’m going into hyperspace!
Me: Hey! Stop jumping on the sofa.
Rob: Why?
Me: Remember the rule. First, do what Mummy says, then ask why.
Rob: Why?
Me: Because it’s bad for the sofa.
Rob: But why do I have to stop then ask why?
Me: Because your life could be in danger.
Rob: Jumping on the sofa isn’t dangerous.
Me: It might be. That sofa is from Ikea.
More back and forth until finally I say:
Me: You can climb on the furniture when you go to college and have your own apartment.
Greg: But he’s going to live at home during college, aren’t you Bud?
Me: What if he wants to go to college in California?
Greg: We’ll move.
Rob: When I invent my time machine, I’m going to bring a cell phone so you can call me. And when I go back in time I’m going to call you very often.
Greg: That’s what you say now.
Me: Who are you, Grandma? (Pictured here in full floral glory.)

Social Skills

2008-07-08T05:02:00.000-07:00

I'm driving up the mountain in a car I bought for its extreme cuteness and low price tag, wondering why does Robert's school have to be on top of an effing mountain? While I make a tricky left turn (well, let’s face it, all left turns are tricky, aren’t they?) Robert is telling me how to beat level 19 in Super Mario star catcher.
I decide that I'd be doing him a favor if I explain, tactfully, how important it is not to bore people. If no one tells him to curb this aspie behavior, he will likely grow up to monologue about physics at parties and thus alienate the cooler type of person.

Me: Honey, I’m not really interested in hearing more about this.
Silence.
Me: I’m really interested in you. I just, you know, think it’s really fun to play computer games, but not so much fun to hear about them.
Rob: My friend N likes to hear about them.
Me: Different people like different things. You know, like if I said to you, what kind of cushions should we get for the porch sofa? Should we get brown flowery ones? Or green leafy ones? What would you say?
Rob (Thoughtfully and sweetly): I would say we should get green leafy ones.
Me (Picturing the cushions):Hmm. OK.
Rob: Mom, why do you like furniture so much?
Me: Well. I want to make our house pretty, and comfortable, and I like thinking about it. It’s like doing a painting—I think about the colors, and the shapes, and it also has to be useful (and cheap). So there are lots of things to consider. But I won’t go on and on.
Rob: I won’t go on and on either.
Me: Don’t worry about it. Finish what you were saying.
Rob: I’ll just tell up to level 20. That’s the last level.

My Cup Holder Runneth Over

2008-06-06T10:01:00.000-07:00

Last night we strolled down to the beach and watched Frank taking his “Aquaskipper” out for a…hump? (Click on the photo for a link.)

He’s been practicing for a few weeks now. When he first brought it down to the beach he got a lot of remarks like, “Where d'you find that, Frank? On Ebay?” from the small crowd that materialized. On about the 50th try he managed to keep going for more than 10 feet. Then he got a round of applause.

On this occasion Frank’s aqua skipping coincided with Cathy’s daily canoe into the sunset with a glass of wine. When I see her silver-haired silhouette heading out with and into the golden liquid I am reassured that perhaps middle age isn’t as horrific as it looked when I was fifteen.

The hecklers on the beach call out:
Watch out for Cathy, Frank.
Don’t spill her drink!
Does that kayak have a cup-holder, Cath?

Yes it does.

The Boosh is Mighty

2008-06-03T20:06:00.000-07:00

julian: hey rach
me: hi!
julian: what's up?
me: Not much. what's up with you?
julian: not too much
just hanging out
me: I'm watching mighty boosh on you tube
julian: right
good stuff
me: it's little spooky
julian: have you ever seen "an engineer's guide to cats"?
me: no, i'll check it out. the crack fox is really giving me the creeps
julian: have you seen the gorilla having his portrait done
?
me: not yet. How's the band?
julian: not bad

julian is offline. Messages you send will be delivered when julian comes online.

2008-05-30T11:15:00.000-07:00

Temporality

I really wanted my blog to document the changes of the seasons. I took photos of an ice storm in January, and crocuses in late February. Now the lilacs are done flowering, and so are the violets and the lily-of-the-valley that bloomed just in time for a visit from our friend Lily. I wrote (on paper) about how anxious I felt in April, and now the notes I made are hard to piece together, like a really intense dream the essence of which you just can’t convey to the most patient listener, even though you can remember long chunks of dialog (just ask my husband). I wish I could pin something down for just a second.

If I knew how to do it I would embed right here a movie of Lucille Ball working the conveyor belt in the candy factory. If you’re so young you don’t know what I’m talking about then you probably know how to embed stuff so please find the clip and watch it then tell me how to include it.

It’s so frustrating! My blog will just have to be all messed up and out of date for a while until I catch up on all the scraps of paper in my bag, glove compartment, back pocket of jeans, etc. Maybe it will always be like this. Sorry. Part of the reason is that I don’t like sharing stories until I know how they will end. So once I’m dead, I’ll post everything.

Married Life

2008-04-21T11:26:00.000-07:00

My younger brother Jules got married last August. We "chatted" after the wedding.

6:14 PM julian: hi

how was your trip back?

me: Hi. sucked. How's ML?

6:15 PM julian: it's ok

I'm less cool now, but it's ok

kidding

6:16 PM me: well, let's face it, you were too cool before...it was intimidating

julian: we have more cookware than we can use for practical eating

fondue pot, etc...

6:17 PM 18" vase the size of small dog

me: I hear that's fun. You can use chocolate too

julian: yeah

me: did you get all the basics you registered for?

julian: pretty much

6:18 PM not everything

me: get any cash?

julian: some

6:19 PM enough to open a savings

which is nice

me: don't go wasting it on a gravy boat...

julian: seriously

it's funny how when you have a little money, you want to blow it

nd when you have little more you can't bear to touch it

6:20 PM me: Hmm, never experienced that, but good for you

I mean, I always want to blow whatever I have

julian: I'm just terrified of not being able to blow it anymore

6:21 PM me: that'll pass

julian: I mean, right now, Lauren and I could buy a used toyota

but should we...?

we have a used honda...

that power scares me

6:22 PM me: it is pretty awesome, to change your life style so dramatically. Try to remain calm

julian: I am

I think we both just want to buy house sometime in the next few years

something little

6:23 PM me: like in Bloomfield?

julian: sure

something like that

we did a song about bloomfield

6:24 PM me: I'd like to hear it. That reminds me, can you email me your woo-tan(g?) piece?

julian: wu

tang

sure

me: cool

julian: it's not on this computer, tho

shit, I should have just given you a copy of the mgazine

6:25 PM me: Yeah. Well you were busy

julian: I didn't see as much of everyone as I wanted to

me: I think that's par for the course

6:26 PM julian: I'm not really in contact with

the older kids I mean

6:27 PM I've never been one for correspondence

me: Jeez, I know. The others write me these long, newsy letters

6:28 PM julian: I think for the most important times in anyones life I was just to young to really know/say anything

6:29 PM I was pretty oblivious when everyone was in school or starting real jobs etc...

me: Hey, we felt your presence, Luke

julian: right

6:30 PM me: BTW, what is this called?

julian: messaging?

gay banter?

6:31 PM me: Hey, I don't know about you, but I'm married.

julian: hya

you know about me

me: Yes. I believe I will shortly have the pictures to prove it

6:32 PM julian: oh good

me: OK, I should go check on the kid. Please come and visit anytime!!!!

6:33 PM Last winter was like the shining

julian: sweet

greg went nuts?

me: hmm, in retrospect it might have been me

6:35 PM computer says you are offline...talk to you l8er :)

6:39 PM julian: sorry, thought you;d left

Aunty chat

2008-04-21T11:08:00.000-07:00

My sister Rosie is pregnant. My sister Tamar is going to buy a T-shirt for the baby that says, "If you think I'm cute, you should see my aunt."
Here's the rest of our chat:

me: so nice of you to compliment me! He he. I want to get the one that says "nobody puts baby in a corner" (from Dirty Dancing)

Tamar: hahaha

i think its a boy

3:10 PM me: wanna bet?

Tamar: sure

how much

i want to get one that says "party at my crib"

3:11 PM me: Hmm, let's make it interesting $100.

Have you seen the one that says i-pood?

Tamar: damn. that is interesting. it's like my entire paycheck interesting!

me: Ok, $50?

Tamar: done

how about the "im cuter than baby jesus" one

3:12 PM me: ooh, edgy!

Tamar: or pacifiers are for suckers

me: could see a mummy fight break out over that one.

3:13 PM TTYL, mwah

Tamar: bye

xoxo

Eggs

2008-04-19T12:51:00.001-07:00

Here is a really late picture of Easter eggs. It's at the bottom of the page. How do you make the pictures and words match up? Grr.

Jabberwocky sequels

2008-04-07T06:08:00.000-07:00

Apart from the Jabberwock itself, two other creatures are mentioned in Lewis Carroll’s famous poem. The brave protagonist is warned to “Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun/The frumious Bandersnatch!”

Using the original as a model, I’ve written additional verses that describe the defeat of these two remaining threats to childhood tranquility.

JABBERWOCKY

Lewis Carroll
(from Through the Looking-Glass and What Alice Found There, 1872)

`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought --
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.

"And, has thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!'
He chortled in his joy.

`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

Jabberwocky part 2: The Jubjub Bird

`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

“Beware the Jubjub bird my girl!
The beak that snaps, the eyes that snare
Beware the one that sits and snacks
On mome rath in its Tumtum lair.”

Her heart beat strong and on her back:
Her bow and shilty arrows three.
With downward glance, and half a chance
She climbed the Tumtum tree.

She asked the borogoves “What gives?”
“How can this bird be caught?”
The slithy toves appeared in droves,
Spectators to the sport.

One arrow spoke of her intent,
Her second sang it true:
“Oh Jubjub bird, now hear the word,
My third has come for you!”

All creatures of the Tulgey wood
Did keel and cry and rill:
“The bird is dead!” while on its nest
A plumptious egg sat still.

`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

Jabberwocky part 3: The Frumious Bandersnatch

`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

“Beware the Bandersnatch children,
Yea - fear it as you sleep
Though the Jabberwock is gone my sons,
And the Jubjub and the Greep.

One such lives on, his tail is long,
His teeth are sharp and glimey.”
“So let us go and meet this foe!”
“Oh children, please be chimey!”

Each took a flashlight and a book,
A loyal friend or two,
And long they waited in the night,
One above and one below.

As their lids were almost shut,
The Bandersnatch with purple eyes,
Came plucking at their tangled sheets
And threatened them with lies.

Click, thump! Flash, bump! “Got you, got you!”
The flashing lights went flicker-flack!
The Bandersnatch had met its match—
The door flew open—crack!

“Don’t tell me you defeated him!
Come to my arms, my gleamish guys!”
Shine sun! Sing birds! The golden room
Was filled with happy cries.

`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

Luke's Donut Shop

2008-03-25T07:39:00.000-07:00

A homemade sign hangs off the porch roof of Luke’s Donut Shop, letting you know where you are. The cursive on the shingle has been custom burned, possibly by Luke. Step inside the shop and you’ll find a diner-style counter, u-shaped and ringed by mushroom stools. On one stool is my husband, Greg, blogging on his laptop. Across the “u,” three old New Englanders sit staring at him. As I enter, the staring switches to me. Other than that, no one has moved since I dropped Greg off an hour ago. My smiles fall on stony ground.

Two recently escaped New Yorkers, we’re still as self-conscious as Bonnie and Clyde in these small towns. We’re on the run from terrorists and the high cost of city living. On a Sunday afternoon drive, Clyde pulled over to catch up on his blog, so Bonnie obligingly went antiquing—for as long as one can in a store completely devoid of anything mid-century modern.

A sweet-faced young man wearing a paper hat stands at the ready behind the cash register. He has jet-black hair and light brown skin. In my mind I call him Luke Patel. “Yes, ma’am, what can I get for you?” he asks with shy determination. I can tell it’s his business because this feels like a make-or-break encounter. “Nothing thanks.” I reply. His face falls.

“OK, ma’am,” says Luke Patel regretfully. He turns from me and surveys his regular customers, as a dairy farmer might assess his herd of poor milkers. He reaches the familiar conclusion that, skinny as they are; they’re his best shot.

They couldn’t bring themselves to boycott the actual shop, but Luke’s regulars are boycotting Mr. Patel. Their backs are resolutely turned to him. As for the former convivial atmosphere depicted in fading group photos around the walls, “do not resuscitate,” is their motto.

Luke Patel misses his extended family. Misses all that happy arguing at get-togethers where you had to shout to be heard. “I’m doing my best!” cries his Mickey Rooney hat at the three boney backs. “My coffee is better than Luke #1’s!” protests his pressed overall.

But he’s up against some old hands at silent communication. “You’re not the real Luke,” growls the back of the red plaid shirt. “We were here first, and we’re staying, but we don’t have to like it,” snips the hand-crocheted sweater.

I walk behind my husband and put my arm across his shoulders. I’ve ceased to be surprised by my inability to surprise him. I didn’t see him look up when I walked in, but he knew I was there. “How’s it going?” I ask. “Bloggity, bloggity, blog,” he replies. “Sorry, Babe. Just gotta finish this post.” Since he’s writing anti-war propaganda, I suppress my inner feminist and/or princess, and sit down to patiently peruse a gardening catalogue. This is my contribution to world peace.

What could be more lovely than this vivid carmine-red and dawn-pink climber? Vigorous growing, easy to care for. Be sure to find a place for this delightful free-blooming rose.

What could be more lovely?

“How much juice you got left in that thing?” barks one of the regulars at my husband. Oddly, he’s wearing a burgundy toupee (the old guy, not Greg.)
“A few minutes.”
“Keeps going for couple hours, huh?”
“Yup,”
“My son has one keeps going four, five hours. It’s something.”
“Oh, really? That’s great.”
Good, I think. Keep the focus on the horsepower. No need to ask what he’s writing about. Luke’s doesn’t need a food-fight. Also, does your son with the big laptop ever visit? If so, why doesn’t he tell you to lose the purple wig?

Since I’ve been sitting for five minutes, I decide I should buy something. I cast a cold eye over the greasy heaps of donuts. “Oh, I’ll have a donut,” I say, as if my resistance has finally broken down. Luke P. beams. He pulls a square of wax paper out of a box, swiftly grabs the donut, pops it in a bag, and drops the wax paper in the garbage. He adds exactly three napkins then delicately negotiates the problem of receiving and returning cash without touching my fingers.

Greg is done. He stands up and closes the laptop.

Thank you, Luke Patel, and goodbye everyone. Enjoy the rest of your days.

Praise the Lord, says the back of the shingle on our way out.