A Little Slice of Motherhood

Here are excerpts from conversations that took place this morning while I prepared the children and myself for the day (for clarity's sake, these started around 5:30 a.m.). I'll let you guess which of us said what:

"Hi [Boy]. It's still night time. Come on up and lay down on Daddy's spot."


"[Boy], [the Girl] is still asleep. Please don't take her pacifier."


"Mommy? Look! It's Anthony*!"
"Yes, I see. Lay down and please be quiet. It's still night time."
"Mommy? Anthony loves me!"
"He sure does. Now please be quiet. It's still night time."


"[Boy], [the Girl] is still asleep. Please stop touching her."


***At this point, I have arisen, and am in the bathroom brushing my teeth. The Girl is in her co-sleeper, and the Boy is playing with his Wiggles rag dolls whilst snuggled up in my still-warm comforter.***


"Mommy? [The Girl] is awake! Her eyes are open!"
"Gurgle, gurgle, squeal!"
"Really? That's great! She doesn't need her pacifier. Please don't try to put it in her mouth."


***Now, I am squeezing the Girl into a new outfit that her Gram sent her. The Girl is two days shy of being five months old, and she comfortably fits into Carter's six-to-nine months sized clothes. Guess mother's milk is really enough for her right now, eh?***


"Mommy? I am GONE." (The Boy is standing in Hubby's closet. The ring of his pacifer is visible between the sleeves of some of Hubby's office shirts, as is his tummy, and his footie-pajama-clad legs.) "You can't find me!"
"Oh dear. What shall I do?"
"Gurgle, gurgle, squeal, coo!"
"Hmmm....maybe if I count to ten, [the Boy] will appear. [Girl], don't eat your sleeve. Here, gnaw on your pacifier."
"Mommy! I am GONE!"
"Oh, right! One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten!"
"Here I am!"
"Great! Now, it's your turn to get dressed. Come on over!"


***After hiding in three different spots -- behind the chair, in the shower stall, and under the blankets, I have managed to wrestle the Boy into his dinosaur shirt, army green pants, and his FAST sneakers that, as he says, are just like "Fa and Daddy's!"***


"Okay, buddy, it's time to go brush your teeth and wash your face."
"I need my wiggly friends!"
"They're on the bed, honey. Go ahead and get them." (This gives me a chance to load up his Sesame Street toothbrush with kiddie toothpaste. He returns clutching his dolls, which resemble a pompom of arms and legs.)
"Here, pal. Time to brush your teeth. No, [Boy], don't just eat the toothpaste. Okay, my turn!" Brush, brush, brush. "Open up! Say 'MONSTER.' Okay, great, time to wash your face."
"I need a drink of water!"
"Gurgle, gurgle, grunt, SQUEAL."
"Okay, here's a drink of water." (I glance worriedly at the Girl. History tells me I've got about ten minutes before she completely fills her diaper.)
"Done? Okay, let's wash your face." (Scrub, scrub, scrub.)
"Achoo!"
"Thanks, [Girl]." (I check myself to make sure I don't have any baby ectoplasm decorating my sweater. Phew, I'm clean. To keep it that way, I swipe at her gooey nose with the rag, then stand up to pitch it in the laundry.)
"Okay, [Boy] time to go downstairs!"
"Where are my friends?"
"You left them on the floor, pal. Pick them up and bring them downstairs with you."
"Oh, right."


***My trio hustles down the steps. I buckle the Girl into her carseat, pack up 16 ounces of Mommy's freshest for her meals, help the boy into his jacket, zip him up, and encourage him to put his Wiggles into a vinyl backpack so that they don't get wet in the drizzly mess awaiting us outside.***


"Here we go! We're using Mommy's brown car today. Grab your backpack."
"Allright!"
"Coo, gurgle, gurgle."
"No, [Boy]. Please don't jump in the puddle."
SPLASH!
"Mommy? The puddle is WET!"
"That's right, pal. Come this way." (I open the door for him.) "Climb on up and into your seat." (I pop the Girl into position and attach the seat belts in all the right spots, shut the door, and come around to the other side). "Okay, [Boy], sit down. Please stop playing with the safety harness. Thank you. Now we buckle, buckle, buckle. Okay, hands on knees!" (I shut the door, climb into my seat, and start the car.) "You can take your hands off your knees now. Here we go, we're on the way!"
"Mommy?"
"Yes, [Boy]?"
"I see trees!"
"So do I!"


***Five minutes later, we're at daycare, I've dropped off my friends, one of whom is dancing and one of whom is grumpily indicating she would like some breakfast.***


And that, my friends, is a typical weekday morning.

*Anthony = Anthony Wiggle rag doll.

Oof

The Boy woke up approximately 87 times last night for no particular reason. That's not true, I guess. He's getting over a cold, but yesterday he didn't exhibit any symptoms, so I don't know what gives.

The Girl woke up approximately 87 times. She, too, is getting over a cold. Stuffy baby nose = difficulty nursing, which = smaller meals, which = more frequent meals. Joy.

Did these wakeful episodes coincide? Nope. They alternated. So I'm operating on approximately 87 seconds of sleep. Couple this with my having contracted a variant of the ebola virus two weeks ago, and you'll understand why my posting has taken a nosedive lately.

A propos of nothing, you could own KITT if you have the means.

Another Undeniable Sign I'm Growing Up

I now identify more with the Chez Quis maitre'd from Ferris Bueller's Day Off than I do with the title character of that same film. Why? What brought on this paradigm shift? Well, to be honest, I was never much of a rule-breaker. Want an example? There was one time in high school when I didn't go back to class after a little theater thingy that took place in the middle of the day. My cohorts begged me to stay in the theatre with them, because if I went back for those last precious 15 minutes of U.S. History, then we'd all have to go back to class. I caved to the peer pressure, but I had sweaty palms for the rest of the day.

So Ferris wasn't exactly telling my story up there on the silver screen. The other day, though, I was looking for a friend's MySpace page (for reasons I can't go into here), and I pulled up a whole bunch of teenagers with the same name. Oh, the atrocious spelling errors, punctuation errors, and other crimes against language. And these travesties were just in the names, quotes, and stats that flash up with a MySpacer's picture. I can't imagine the visceral pain that would have been mine had I clicked open any of their pages. And I thought, "I weep for the future," which is easily one of the top 10 quotes for Ferris Bueller's Day Off, spoken by the gentleman at the top of this post.

If this is what I'm like at 32, the neighborhood kids better watch out. All of those basketballs that bounce in my front yard? They are MINE, baby.

Maybe They've Got Cauterwauling in Common?

I thought I saw this on E! News this past weekend! I write that I thought I saw it because I caught some variant of the the ebola virus on Wednesday of last week, and spent Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday morning in a fog.

Sidebar: Let it be said that I believe in the benefits of breastfeeding for children, but man, when I can't take cold medication for fear of drying out my milk supply and/or doping my kid, it makes me think twice. Okay, not really, but that was not what I'd call a fun way to spend the weekend.

Anyway, back to this bidness about Ashlee Simpson collaborating with Robert Smith on her new album. How disorienting is that? It's like when I saw my OB/GYN at the mall...I knew the person, I knew the place, but this person and this place just didn't go together in my mind. So, I was mightily confused when I saw Ashlee's California-kissed mug juxtaposed with Smith's pale painted visage in an entertainment story. I thought maybe it was a febrile amalgamation of different stories, but my crafty interweb research proved that a falsity. According to the stories online, Simpson the Younger has been pitching woo at the Grandaddy of Goth for awhile. I dunno...maybe she really digs the Cure, or maybe she thinks it'll earn her some street cred. Or maybe he'll teach her how to work a voice that was not really designed to sing. Who knows?

I will reserve judgment 'til I hear the music. It's tempting to let my former black-tights-jean-cutoffs-Doc-Martens self rip on this pairing post-haste. But I look at my Gap-clad self of today and recognize that you can't decide what a person's music sensibilities really are based on how they style themselves. And Ashlee's only 23, and has been managed by her father for her whole career. Maybe she's gently carving out a path for herself?

St. Patrick's Day Extravaganza

Bestie and I continued our St. Patty's Day tradition of going to Shenanigans in Ocean City, MD. Hubby did not go along as someone had to stay and take care of the Boy and the Girl. To be sure, you might think I'm a wee selfish for skedaddling and leaving Hubby with a toddler and an infant, but he bore the task heroically. AND I GOT TO SLEEP FOR EIGHT CONSECUTIVE HOURS FOR THE FIRST TIME IN SIX MONTHS. Glory and hallelujah. Of course, I was about to burst when I woke up at 8:30 a.m., but a quick pas de deux with my hand pump relieved me.

Back to our St. Patty's Day experiences... Since we were without male accompaniment in an Irish dive bar, we were on the receiving end of some flirtatious behavior. I think. It's been awhile, so I can't be sure. When a fella stops to inquire about your necklace, though, then continues to chat with you about your Irish heritage, it could be that he's looking to suss out your dating status. And when he flaunts his claddagh ring, worn in a consipicous way, well, that more or less seals the deal. So there was Claddagh guy. There was also We're-Stuck-Trying-To-Walk-Past-the-Bar Guy, Kilt Guy, and Older-Huggy Guy. All of this while the live music pounded our chests like a bodhrán.

Oh, how I pine for the days of dating. Yeah, right. All in all, we really did have loads of fun. And pancakes and bacon the next morning. And an afternoon of shopping. C'mon, you know you're jealous.

Meanwhile, in another memory...

When I was ten years old, I stopped by the camera store that my Dad's managed since 1970-something. It wasn't Take Your Daughters to Work Day or anything progressive like that. It's just that the store was situated halfway between my elementary school and my house, so it was no big effort to drop in and say "hello." Ooh, and it was a Thursday. That meant that there were tasty snacks in the back office. Mmm...sticky buns, poundcake, muffins. How I loved Thursday.

So there I was, munching on a sticky bun, and one of Dad's regular customers bellied up to the counter. Dad, always the social butterfly, introduced the little ragamuffin next to him (ahem, me) as his daughter. Tragically shy as I was, I think I just smiled at him through the pecans and sugar. That's when he said something that struck me as pretty odd:

"She's beautiful. She has the map of Ireland all over her face."

My ten-year-old self smiled and nodded, and my Dad thanked the customer. But I was thinking, "What does that mean? Do I have lines running around my face? Does my face call to mind green pastures? Or famine walls?"

Okay, okay, I wasn't that thick-headed. I knew that it meant that I looked like some kind of Platonic ideal of Irish, with my (then) wavy reddish-blonde hair, freckles, and dimples. The Catholic schoolgirl jumper probably didn't hurt either.

The weird thing is that I happen to look a lot like my mother, who's all kinds of German. Go figure.

And thus we conclude my memory dump of the day.

The Case of the Flaming Minivan

(Image courtesy of www.magneticflames.com)

For those with a deep and abiding morbid curiosity: this is not a post about carbecues on any of the highways and byways that I traverse on a daily basis. Having said that...

Normally I avoid blogging about the office, 'cause I like where I work and I don't need to vent about it to prevent personal spontaneous combustion. However, the parking lot is not the office, it's just near it, so I can blog about that all I want. Anyway, there is a fascinating vehicle in said parking lot that I need to discuss. It's an early aughties* minivan with flame decals all over it. I don't think they are magnetic as pictured above. I think someone went to the trouble to paint those flames onto the van permanently, baby. And there are many flaming flames by my count: four on either side, one on the hood, and two on the back.

This combo of soccer-mom-ity and West Coast Customs pimpin' is making me go all Sherlock Holmes. Okay, more like Veronica Mars. Okay, more like a person who drives to work and observes something interesting in her parking lot, but isn't actually going to put any real effort toward solving the answer (to your face!).

The wondering is fun, though. Did someone give her teenaged son the family minivan, and then have to take it back after he'd invested in a new paint job? Is a father trying to deny the minivan-ness of his life? Is this minivan the best that a twentysomething could afford, but wants to make it clear that she is way cooler than your average parent? Does a co-worker have a band on the side? Or is this indeed a soccer-mom's mode of transportation, but she is so incredibly thrilled about soccer that she put flames all over the minivan?

If I ever crack The Case of the Flaming Minivan, I will let you know.

*what else do you call something from the 2000-2009 decade?

No, Please, Chew In My Ear

When I was in 7th Grade, I enrolled in my first foreign language class. And thus, this post shall be written entirely en français to justify the subsequent seven years I spent learning it. Just kidding! Since Hubby refuses to pratiquer the language with me, I am reduced to a few phrases and lots of Franglais. That's like Spanglish, but with French. Anyway, when you are studying a language, one of the best ways to adopt correct pronunciation is to listen to a native speaker, mimic that speaker, and then listen to yourself mimicking the native speaker. How does one accomplish this when one is surrounded by English-speaking 12-year-olds, many of whom are cursed with a Baltimorean accent? Enter the language lab!

At Pine Grove Middle School (go Panthers!), the language lab comprised about 30 carrels with little tape-recording doo-hickeys embedded into each one. Les étudiants would pop on headsets to listen to both the teacher's instructions and the tape of native French speakers. Le prof would hang out at the front of the room and speak into the microphone to tell us to turn to this page or that page, to press play, and voilà! A Parisien would direct us to la bibliothèque.

In many respects, it was a cool way for a kid in the midst of Baltimore County to pick up on all the guttural emphases that make up the French language. In one respect, it was torturous: our teacher had the unfortunate habit of moistly smacking her lips together many, many, many times. Having that sound RIGHT IN MY EAR made me want to rip off my headphones and stick my fingers as far into my external auditory meatus as they could go. But that was 20 years ago, and the aural agony has faded. Until now.

Oh, Elliot. You're on the air from 5:30 a.m. to 10:00 a.m. That's 4.5 hours. Can you really not go through a whole shift without eating some gargantuan meal? I can see that you mightn't feel a hunger pang during your pre-dawn commute. So you probably hit a point during your broadcast when all you can think about is food, and have convinced yourself that the show will suffer because you aren't concentrating on your chatter. That point occurs at approximately 8:15 a.m., because that's when all of the lip smacking begins.

Honestly, it sounds like you've stuffed half a 7-Eleven breakfast sandwich in your maw. Even the eating noises wouldn't be so awful if you didn't insist on conducting an interview whilst you masticate. You'll periodically say, "Oh, s'cuse me, I'm eating." Dude! You're a professional radio broadcaster. Professional means you don't do things like stuff your gullet when you're chatting with a Cap. It means that you figure out a way to eat during commercials, or before or after the show, or quietly during Diane's news segment.

Here's the thing: I tune into you for entertainment. I want a little bit of the show to happen behind the curtain, okay? I don't need Saran Wrap-style transparency. Especially when it reminds me of my awkward tween years.

Just Call Me a "Hoya," Please

Each week, my alma mater's (mater, Latin for "mother") alternative weekly sends me an e-version of their paper. Nerd that I am, I try to keep up with Hilltop happenings. Anyway, this headline caught my eye. Maybe I'm looking for inequality where it doesn't exist, but I really, really dislike applying gender distinctions to team monikers.

It all started in high school. Know what my field hockey team was called in homeroom announcements, fundraisers, flyers, programs, newspapers, and soaped-up school bus windows? The Lady Knights. How dumb is that? Lady Knights. Sheesh. Field hockey is a women's sport. There are no men on the field. So if we were just the "Parkville Knights Field Hockey team," I'm pretty sure everyone would've understood that we were girls*.

But there were other sports to consider, ones that had both male and female teams, like basketball, soccer, lacrosse, etc. So, couldn't the school come up with something that was simply gender-neutral, like maybe the Warriors? For the girls' teams, we couldn't just use the female equivalent to Knight, which is Lady, as that would call to mind high-falutin' things like courtesy and grooming. Not appropriate for athletes. Besides, I didn't want a completely different name for the girls, even if it was a powerful one like, say, Amazons, because then we'd have a whole separate-but-equal situation on our hands. Nope -- one school, one team name.

Which is why when I entered those balloon-bedecked front gates during Orientation weekend, I thought, "Aha! Hoyas! Hoyas** are neither male nor female. Sweet." But here we are, calling them Lady Hoyas.

Don't get me wrong. I understand that this distinction is made because success in men's sports brings in more national publicity, more alumni donations, and more student applications. All of this equals more moolah for a staid institution. So, anytime a school crows about its women's athletic prowess, they try to avoid inadvertently stirring up excitement about men's sports. Doing so would pull a mental bait-and-switch in their minds. Because, clearly, it would be dreadful if a dude saw the headline "Hoyas Hold Off Hopkins," got all grinny about his beloved men's lacrosse team, and then realized the article was about women. What disappointment!

Ultimately, my complaint is a stylistic one: don't employ superfluous words. Alright, alright, you've got me: there's a soupçon of feminism tossed in there too. It makes for a tasty dish.

*I think it's OK to say "girls" instead of women because I am referencing a team comprising 14-18-year-olds.
**A Hoya is not some exotic word for a bulldog. Georgetown legend states that a canny student combined some Greek and Latin to nickname the school's formidable baseball team, the Stonewalls, "Hoia Saxa," or "What Rocks." So, G.U.'s teams' names are steeped in linguistic nerdliness. And we call ourselves the "Whats." Great. That's...specific. I'd love to start a movement where we call ourselves Saxas instead, because at least rocks are things, but I don't think it would get very far. Hmm...other Hoyas are going to think I'm not a loyal alum. So to that I say...I bleed Hoya blue! That's right! I just quoted a gift shop bumper sticker!

Only in Maryland

Last night I stopped at the grocery store on the way home to pick up some Playtex Drop-in Liners. Since I am Super Mommy, I make sure the Girl has all of the advantages in life. Like, you know, being able to eat.

Anyway, there was a delightful aroma wafting throughout the store. Silly MCV, you might say, of course there was a delightful aroma. It's a grocery store. They sell food there. But this was a cooked-food smell, and I wasn't anywhere near the prepared food section of the store. It was making my stummy churn in anticipation. And when I turned the corner from the baby supply aisle to the seafood counter, I found the source of the deliciousness:


Yep, steamed shrimp. But these delicacies weren't hanging out behind the counter, waiting to be weighed up and sold to a salivating customer. Oh no, that'd be boring. The powers that be at my grocery store generously set out a platter for customers to sample.

Let's think on that. Seafood. Just hanging out on a table in the middle of a grocery store.

There are two very, very wrong things going on here. First, should seafood ever hang out without the benefit of refrigeration or constant heat? Probably not. Second, this is not a terribly convenient item to enjoy on-the-go. Lemme 'splain: Maryland steamed shrimp are coated in a thick seasoning, and are still in their shells. So if you want a sample, you would have to:

1) Hover over the sample tray;
2) Set down your basket of goods;
3) Peel the shrimp;
4) Toss the shell in the ratty paper grocery bag that the management thoughtfully placed near the platter ("Please place shrimp shells here" was scrawled on the side);
5) Pop the shrimpy goodness into your mouth;
6) Wipe your hands down with a dry paper towel.

Ewwwww, man, I'm shy about dipping my paw into a communal candy bowl, so I'm definitely not going to pluck up a shrimp from a platter that's been handled by the masses. Since the platter looked like it'd been decimated by angry Viking hordes, though, I'm guessing that I'm in the minority on this.

What Was 'On Golden Pond' S'posed to Teach Me?

MalnurturedSnay pointed out this article from last weekend's Baltimore Sun. As a movie buff (or movie fanatic, if we're being truthful), I celebrate the article's implicit justification for all of the time I've spent watching movies in my 31 years. That's not the point of the piece, but that's one of the things I'm taking away from it.

Susan Reimer, who penned the article, explains that we can use movies to explain concepts and historical events to younger folk. She cites a book by Ty Burr called "The Best Old Movie's for Families: a Guide to Watching Together." Frankly, I think this is about as reliable as using Wikipedia for source material in academia. But then Susan and Ty go on to explain that these old movies can spark an interest in literature, or actual historical texts. Well, duh. Kids are like that. They get mad focused on one topic at a time. I have a nephew who decided that the solar system was pretty neat, so he checked out every space-centric book that he could from his school library. This lasted for about six months. Then he moved on to Yu-Gi-Oh! I'm sure his parents were thrilled.

Know what I think? Parents just want to share whatever has deeply moved them, be it "My Fair Lady," or Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass. You can couch it in educational opportunities if you want. But the truth is you want your kid to thrill to that kiss at the end of "Sixteen Candles" like you did, or feel the visceral longing of Lloyd Dobler when he's holding the radio over his head, because maybe, just maybe, if they understand those moments, they'll understand you.

For what it's worth, I'm prepared for the disappointment that'll come when I say, "I want my two dollars!" and the Boy stares at me blankly.

Oh, and as for the title of this post. When I was nine years old and furtively reading "Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret" for the fifth time, my Dad begged me to put it down so I could watch a movie that was coming on during prime time. I was intrigued. My parents never encouraged me to stop reading in favor of TV. What was that movie? "On Golden Pond."

Now, I'm not really sure what my parents thought I'd get out out of this flick at the tender age of nine. My Dad and I have never had a turbulent relationship, per the film's plot, but maybe he thought we were headed in that direction? Not likely, since I'd cry at the thought of parental disappointment. Maybe he figured either he or my Mom would fall prey to Alzheimer's and wanted me to peruse a primer on how to handle it? Eh, knowing my Dad, he was just a big ol' fan for Henry Fonda and Katharine Hepburn. All I really remember was Henry Fonda's frowny face, Katharine Hepburn's slight palsy, and Jane Fonda's angry dive into a lake, so I'm sure I didn't appreciate it like they did.

Hmmm...the lesson in all of this, I think, is that I should reconsider my plan to foist Judy Blume upon the Girl.

Getting There Is Half the Fun

It's always interesting to see how my tens of readers get to Ye Olde Blog. There are some mysterios out there who get to LtW just by typing in the blog's url, which means (gasp!) some of you INTEND to come to this page. I humbly thank you. And I especially humbly thank you for not commenting on the numerous grammatical and spelling errors. Blogger's spell check is not all that it's cracked up to be. Then again, if I didn't insist on crafting my own snarky slang, it might catch more of the errors. Ah well.

Anyway, a few of the search terms made me laugh, so I thought you'd enjoy seeing them too. Does this mean that my own life is not producing blog-worthy events? Bite your tongue! Or, your brain if you didn't actually give voice to the thought. There's stuff aplenty happening in my life. Like, um, work. And new recipes. And laundry. The tales I could tell about laundry ALONE would inspire you.

Ahem.

1.) College student narcissism
My Gen X heart and former university-working-schlub self cackles with glee that someone else is researching (i.e., googling) college student narcissism. Whoo-hoo, I'm not the only person who's all kinds of cranky-pants about Gen Y!

2.) Multi-stall bathrooms
Man, you do one post on toilet paper dispensers, and you're branded.

3.) Why do we need to clean
Good luck arguing the other side, Monsier-I-Need-Evidence-that-I-Don't-Need-to-Scrub-the-Toilet.

4.) Ridges in fingernails toddler
Nothing to make fun of here, though I would think that if you are researching info on your kid, you'd consult a pediatrician or WebMD or something.

5.) Female loving authority
This person really, really came to the wrong spot. Hopefully s/he enjoyed the Wonder Woman post.

6.) Words that start with m.
Holy Generalizations Batman! How did this person select LtW from the avalanche of weblinks that Google returned?

7.) Met-art site:blogspot.com
Sheesh, I thought I was pretty G-rated, but the R-rated material occasionally sneaks over the transom. And by "sneaks," I mean, "I wrote it and put it out there." Once upon a time I submitted LtW to a blog search engine, and then I realized that this blog search engine specialized in adult websites. I thought this was kinda funny, so I blogged about it. And now people get to my site because of links from that post. At first I thought this search term was about THE Met, as in the Metropolitan Museum of Art. But it's not. (Do you like my shady attempt to class up LtW by mentioning the Met? Art! Culture! Opera! Theater! Now let's see who wends his way toward my ramblings...)

8.) Why doesn't anyone remember
What? Someone expected this phrase to bear web fruit?

9.) Henna hair
Again, disappointment must've abounded when someone hit my page and I have exactly ONE sentence that references henna.

And that's pretty much all I've got to say about that. Next up: my enjoyment of the ads that Google AdSense deems a good fit for my blog. Today's ads: Blair.com and the new Justice League Unlimited DVD. Hubby would be so proud...

Dancing with Tears in My Eyes

HA HA HA HA HA! Okay, you'll think I'm a Luddite because I just now, this very evening, downloaded iTunes onto my laptop. What? I don't own an iPod, so it's not like having iTunes was as necessary as breathing or anything. But I've been hearing samples of some really excellent music lately on a local "we're so very, very hip" college station, and it's totally whetted my appetite for new grooves. I'm talkin' Amy Winehouse, the Gossip, Regina Spektor, etc. And how much does it rock that these are all chicks (or are bands fronted by chicks)?

Anyway I can't justify dropping $15 on a CD that will likely contain two tunes that I want, so iTunes in all of its selective glory seems like it would fit my consumer needs. After I downloaded and installed the hub of all things iTunes, the program offered to seek out and organize existing muzak on my machine. I forgot that I'd loaded some tracks from some random mix discs that I have. Ah, the days of yore when ripping one's own CDs was an art form...

I set the iTunes to Party Shuffle, 'cause I like to party, and THIS treasure bleated from my 'puter speakers:



I LOVE this song. Not because I actually dig the tune all that much, but it epitomizes the silly angst of the '80's. It's sick how much this amuses me. I don't know that I've ever been so overwrought that the only solution was to dance, to dance my little heart out, and allow my pain egress through tears.

I really, really do love the '80's. VH1 better give me a call soon, yo.

Woman Woman!

That's what my nephew thought they were singing in the theme song for the 1970's "Wonder Woman" TV series. He'd run around in a circle in my sister's living room yelling "Woman woman!" whenever an episode came on the local UHF station. What does this have to do with anything, you ask? Well, I needed a lighthearted introduction to my imminent treatise on the stalled film adaptation of Wonder Woman. Didja enjoy it? No? Really?

As a former owner of Wonder Woman Underoos and as a current fan of Joss Whedon's, I was disappointed to learn that he'd cut ties from the forthcoming picture. The relationship was apparently sacrificed to the god of Creative Differences, which could mean anything from...well, anything. Wonder Woman's pretty much the only female superhero who can go toe-to-toe with any of the DC pantheon of male superheroes (this includes Superman and Batman, yo). So I care about what happens to her and how she's portrayed on the silver screen. Color me geeky, but I do.

So, where does a girl go to get info on movies if she doesn't have a subscription to Variety? Well, the Internet Movie Database, of course. Fine, there are like a billion movie biz websites out there, but this is where I go because I like the comments feature. And, man alive, I had me a laugh at the Wonder Woman comments section. It's fascinating that the vast, vast majority of ordinary folks out there are pleading with the producers to cast this or that Hollywood twiglet as the mythic Amazon. The pin thin (and vertically challenged) candidates don't exactly fit the comic book character's 6', 165 lb. build, so I'm guessing they aren't making the short list. Har har.

Here's the thing, though...

While I respect the desire to see someone appropriate play the part, I'm more curious about the plot, the setting, the villain, and all of that blah-dee-blah-blah. So what gives with the dearth of narrative curiosity from other Wonder Woman fans?

Mainly, I think Wonder Woman's biggest appeal to the masses is that she looks pretty hot whilst kicking villainous azz. Face it, the iconic image of Wonder Woman revolves around a pretty fetishized get-up. What do I mean by fetishized? Well, let's see... Bustier + Bloomers* + Knee high boots = Dominatrix. Honestly, if Wonder Woman's articles of, ahem, clothing were black instead of their customary red, white and blue glory, she'd look more like a denizen of an S&M club than a Princess. To wit:

That's a shot of Angelina Jolie playing a hitwoman who's gone undercover as a dominatrix in 2005's "Mr. and Mrs. Smith." Tell me her wardrobe for that scene doesn't bear a striking (again, har har) resemblance to Diana Prince's workout gear. Go on, I dare ya! If you read up on creator William Moulton Marston, you'll find that he was a feminist who believed that women's notion of freedom "leads to an ideal state of submission to loving authority." No great surprise, then, that he looked to bondage gear as inspiration for his Feminine Ideal's every-day-wear.

Wow, huge digression. Sorry. All of this blather is a chunk of ineloquent scaffolding for this point: the Wonder Woman screenplay could be the most elegantly designed tale since Homer waxed poetic, and the public, including women, would mostly be interested in the physical appeal of the actress.

But is that the only reason that people aren't caring about the story? Nah. Wonder Woman is s'posed to be perfect, and boy howdy, nothing kills a dramatic arc like a lack of dynamism in a character. If your character's already perfect, where do you go from there? Very, very few places. There was an interesting spin in Greg Rucka's run in which Wonder Woman breaks the thou-shalt-not-kill coda of the DC hero universe, but it was for a Good Reason. She did it to prevent a master of mind control from using Superman as a devastating and unstoppable puppet. (Wow, did I ever just overdraft on my cool kid cred.)

But is Machiavellian moral relativism a good hook for a popcorn flick? Methinks not. You could go the route of the 1978 Superman and show the origin story, plus one of the first encounters with a big bad guy. Even that wouldn't really work, though. Superman's origin is rife with tragedy (hello, orphaned scion of a destroyed planet!), and humble beginnings (hello, America's breadbasket!). And there's the whole parallel drawn between Superman and Christ. Nope, you just can't go wrong with a good savior angle. Ooh, and everyone knows that Superman's arch enemy is Lex Luthor, and seeing those two battle wits and weapons satisfies the gooey pop culture part of our souls.

Wonder Woman, on the other hand, can go home to her island utopia any old time she wants to and hang out with her Mom. Oh, and she's a princess. With a polytheistic bent. And she doesn't have an iconic enemy that really gets under her skin. Hmph.

She's actually a lot like a girl I knew in college who was incredibly attractive, bright, gifted, and kind, who would vacay with her wealthy parents when she was a little stressed. Which wasn't often, because you know...she's was also incredibly competent, patient, and capable. Which superhero do you think your average American relates to best? A loner farmer? Or a princess with a wide network of support?

My guess is that the film will ultimately have to be one of those "Heavy is the head that wears the crown" deals. With lots of smashing. And Victoria's Secret product placements.

*You could call them panties, but I think she's pretty athletic so I'm going to go with what I had to wear under my field hockey uniform in high school.

It's Really Tricky to Say Any of These in Casual Conversation Without Sounding Completely Obnoxious

Following is the Top 10 list of things I have heard in random chatter that (a) made me feel like my passions are the proverbial other man's trash, and (b) made me realize that there are some people who actually operate per the prescription of "live your best life" books and articles. Who knew? There's nothing particularly wrong with these statements in and of themselves. It's jus that those who share them tend to do so in a rather sartorial manner. For what it's worth, I hesitated to put this list together because it says more about my insecurities than it does about others' egos. I am a bit of an exhibitionist when it comes to my foibles, though, so on with the list!

1.) "I don't own a television."

2.) "I pay my balance off in full at the end of every month."

3.) "I get all of my news from newspapers."

4.) "I don't eat fast food."

5.) "I never take out less than $200."

6.) "I don't read fiction."

7.) "Having a vacation home can be frustrating because I never remember which clothes I've left where."

8.) "I was contemplating an amber-colored beverage."

9.) "I can't imagine not working out every day."

10.) "I really only go to the movies for foreign films and documentaries."

Darn It! (Get it?)

Wanna know what doesn't boost my self-esteem? When two buttons in as many days drop off of my winter coat, my new winter coat, like overripe fruit. Now, there's every chance that shoddy stitching is the only culprit here, but the loose threads where my buttons used to be give me pause. The kind of pause where I wonder if maybe I shouldn't run around the park with the Boy now that Spring has sprung.

In the meantime, I'll be exercising the mad sewing skillz I learned in 7th grade home ec. Holla Pine Grove!

Cleaning Closets

This post's title might lead you to believe that it's about catharsis. Sorry. This post is actually about cleaning closets. Who says I'm not the mayor of Thrillsville?

This morning I had to evict a bunch of the Girl's too-small clothes from her closet. Because I have many generous people in my life, she's got a wardrobe that would rival Liberace's. In volume, people, not in style. I don't dress my baby like a Vegas performer. Sequins, ostrich feathers, and rhinestones, in my humble opinion, don't belong on an infant. Lord help you if you think they do.

Anyway, the whole experience is wildly bittersweet. I smile at all of the cute, but I know that she'll never wear it again, that she'll never be this small again, and that time is flowing by too rapidly for me to savor her cherubic glory. So I blink back the bitter, and I think of the sweet: as she grows she'll learn to walk, talk, giggle, sing, clap, hug, kiss, and dance.

The Boy has mastered all of those skills and then some. Now if we could just get him interested in the potty...

The Kiddo Report

First, the Girl. Last night I had a giggle fit because she's trying to sit bolt upright, and her failed attempts tickle my funnybone. Accomplishing a sit up from a prone position without using your arms is possible if you are blessed with Abs of Steel. But my squishy babe is not Hercules, and her determined strain is a double helix of heartbreaking and hysterical. She resembles one of those Fortune Teller fish when it's just starting to curl in your palm, but doesn't make much progress beyond that. I know I shouldn't laugh at my children, but sometimes it's impossible.

For instance...

The Boy is officially the youngest narcissist that I know. I mean this in the honest-to-goodness Greek myth way. He's transfixed by any reflective surface -- mirrors, the TV when it's off, the glass in the oven door, the spigot in the bathtub, a shiny piece of plastic -- and will watch himself moving, making faces, talking. Second to getting jiggy with the Wiggles, this is his favorite thing to do.

A couple of nights ago I hooked the video camera up to the television so he could see himself on TV, and I think I blew his mind. He would get really close to the camera so the only thing you could see on screen was his eye, and the run all the way across the room so that he appeared to be a tiny blip on the screen. Then he'd ask, "Where'd me go?" Eventually, he tuckered himself out enough that we could plunk him into bed.

To combat this shameless catering to his whims, I am pleased to say that I've made cleanup into a game that he enjoys. The past couple of nights, the Boy has "helped" me with the dishes. I know he's only two-and-a-half, but if he enjoys it, who am I to argue? We pull a stepstool/chair that I inherited from my parents over to the sink so that he can climb up and down at will. As I rinse plates and load the dishwasher, he smacks the sponge around the counter like a hockey puck. Given this, I don't plan to turn the chore over to him any time soon. I'll wait until he's at least five. But I was thrilled yesterday when I kissed him goodnight and he said, "Ma? I love doing dishes with you."

Victory! Chores are fun! Now, hopefully this attitude will remain intact for the next sixteen years that he lives in my house.

Just Call Me Britney

(this is what I looked like before the Girl was born)

You probably think I'm making up this whole post partum balding thing, right? Well, today I had the delightful experience of watching one of my co-workers quietly pluck a hair from his notepad and drop it on the floor. Oh MCV, you might say, that's silly. It was probably one of his own strands. Since he's an African-American with close-cropped hair, I can safely claim ownership. Fantastic. It's like the hair is actually springing off of my head and making a break for it. Thank goodness I went through this once before. And thank goodness that my sister had it worse than me. How's that for a selfish thought?

You've Got (Really Boring) Mail

A coupla months ago my e-mail service introduced a crazy efficient spam-blocker. So, while I miss the frequent communiqués from those generous Nigerians and the good-hearted medical folks who want to help me enlarge body parts I don't have, I am excited that my Inbox now contains honest-to-goodness notes to yours truly. What a thrill when I log in, and I see that I have 25 unread messages! I am silly popular!

Oh...wait...22 of them are e-newsletters about my children, order confirmations, or product/software update bulletins. Friends and family send the occasional e-mail, but most of us are chatty phone people, so the written word kinda falls by the wayside, and here I am with nothing to entertain me except strangers' blogs and online newspapers. Hmmm...I guess this is inspiration to tap out a couple of missives, eh?

Cripes, I just realized I sound like an octogenarian who woke up on the wrong side of the adjustable mattress. Never mind! Never mind! I take it all back!

All Things Being Equal, Ya Gotta Go with Bono

Well, this helps me decide for whom to vote in 2008. Clearly, if Bono is chatting up Barack Obama on behalf of his ONE Campaign, he's got some inside info. Okay, maybe not, but Bono has a nose for individuals with the power to effect change. Maybe his visits to political candidates will turn into some kind of urban myth. Like if an NFC team wins the Superbowl, it'll be a bull market.

Dancing with the Stars...and at Weddings

(image courtesy of BBC America)

In her entertainment report this morning, Diane shared that Heather Mills soon-to-be-ex-McCartney will be one of the contestants on the next season of Dancing with the Stars. You may have some pretty pejorative opinions of her based on tabloid reports of her nascent divorce from Sir Paul. But I commend her decision to compete on a dance show since she'll demonstrate that an amputee can lead an active lifestyle. Of course, she'll get voted off right quick by Team Paul (i.e., the United States), so she won't really have the opportunity to break down any barriers. Ah well.

Anyway...in response to the morning show chatter about Mrs. McCartney, "Rebecca" called in to share some anecdotes from her own experience as an amputee (when she was nineteen, her legs were crushed in a car accident and she lost both of them below the knee). One of the most sobering things Rebecca shared is that attaching her prosthetics is freshly painful every day. Yikes. Rebecca added that, because of the pain, she didn't wear the prosthetics for the first year and a half after the accident. Instead, she chose to get around via wheelchair. But when her sister got engaged, Rebecca knew that she didn't want to be Bridesmaid in a Wheelchair. So she got off her duff (literally) and learned to walk on the prosthetics.

Touching story, eh? All I can think about, though, is Rebecca's sister on her Big Day. Who do you think got more attention? The bride? Or her 21-year-old sister/bridesmaid whose legs were crushed and subsequently amputated, necessitating a painful recovery in order to trot down the aisle? I'm going to put cash money on the latter.

All warm-blooded animals will (and should) go all gooey for this triumph of the human spirit. But, (if you are a woman) admit it: a teeny part of you doesn't want to be upstaged on the day of your nuptials. I mean, why else would we wear shiny white (or in my case, ivory, since white enhances my Irish translucency) and typically dress our bridesmaids in bland uniforms?

Hmmm...I will burn a little bit for that thought, won't I?

How I Discovered the Meaning of 'Poseur' (or, You Have the Strangest Flashbacks when Filling the Dishwasher)

When I was 12 years old, I was in the seventh grade and was enrolled in Mr. Royster's chorus class. MCV, you might exclaim, I didn't know you could sing! You don't know it because it's not true. Not at all. I can't carry a tune with a forklift. It's painful. If I'm inspired to sing along with a ditty in the car, I turn it up so I can't hear myself and ruin the song. Even in church, surrounding by wavery keening old lady voices, I just mouth the words because I don't want to embarrass myself.

My vocal handicap doesn't mean that I don't love music. I try to keep up with the latest sensations while expanding my historical knowledge of pop tunes (i.e., making it a point to know who originated a song later covered by the likes of Michael Buble). It can be a little exhausting sometimes. Emo means what?

Anyway, there's a new radio station in DC that's doing it's best to appeal to people like me by playing a mix of unassailably respected rock (U2, the Pretenders, the Police) and the new kids on the block (not actually NKOTB) like the Shins, the Vines, the Killers. By the way, why do all new pop rock bands start with "the"?

So, U2's With or Without You came on the radio whilst I was doing some chores this morning, and I was immediately time-warped back to the first seventh grade chorus class after Christmas break. It would've been January, 1988. Mr. Royster liked doing a big reveal of his selections for the spring concert, and he surprised a lot of us by picking a modern pop tune: U2's With or Without You. My best friend, Colleen, was insane for the group. I'm talking a 4' x 6' black and white poster of them on her tiny bedroom wall kind of insane. I'm talking using the lyrics to "Sunday Bloody Sunday" in religious education class to illustrate modern name checks to Catholicsim kind of insane. I'm talking listening to October while playing with Barbies kind of insane.

Even if she hadn't been, I would've been familiar with their discography. The Joshua Tree was everywhere at the time, so there was naught I could do to avoid the boys from Dublin. But her mania made me hold the group in very high esteem. Which means that I was all kinds of annoyed when that Kristi/Cindy/Chrissy person with the mouthful of braces bordered by hot pink lips couldn't contain herself when the song came on. She sang along loudly with each and every word, and raised her hands over her head to groove in a slinky Axl Rose-ish kind of way (even though she remained seated in her bright orange plastic school chair). I was across the room, looking at her, and my twelve-year-old self thought, "Contain yourself, woman!" A real fan, in my opinion, could passively enjoy the tune without demonstrating to each and every member of the chorus that she was in love with the band. I mean, why didn't she just wear a U2 patch on all of her clothes if she loved them so much?

And THAT's when I fully understood what poseur meant.

Campaign to Bring Back Pictograms

As I merged onto the beltway this morning, a sea of brake lights greeted me. 'Greeted' in this case is a euphemism for 'busted my dreams of arriving at the office early like a pinata at an 8-year-old's birthday party.' Eh, I thought, I'll just enjoy my Starbucks Breakfast Blend while I take in the view. Sadly, there's not much of a view on the West side of the inner loop, especially now that it's rimed with ashy gray snow. Yick. Look for yourselves, courtesy of Big Brother.

Phlegmatic traffic isn't rare. Every once in awhile (i.e., three times a week), there's an accident on the stretch of the beltway that I drive. Usually, it's on the other side of the dividng wall. You'd think that wouldn't impact the zippiness on my side, but the morbid commuters with whom I share the road tend to rubberneck. This adds about 10 minutes to my drive. Annoying? Yes. Understandable? Definitely. The desire to drink in carnage isn't new. Didn't festivals accompany drawings, quarterings, and hangings in days of yore?

But I digress.

Guess what caused the clot of traffic on the beltway today? This:

You might be thinking, "Of course it did, MCV. Accidents cause back-ups. Duh." Ah, but I am referring to the sign. Yep, the sign, all by its lonesome, caused the backup on the beltway. My fellow commuters were slamming on their brakes so that they could read about an accident that isn't even on the beltway.

This, I think, runs counter to what the State Highway Administration intended.

Once I passed the sign, everyone accelerated to their normal 55 mph (okay, 65 mph). This proves that they are either (a) too blind to read the sign from a distance, or (b) really, really slow readers. There are approximately 10 words on that sign, and I cannot fathom why anyone would need to cut his velocity in half to read them. It's not Tolstoy, folks. Brevity is the soul of a traffic alert. Didn't Shakespeare say that?

So, I've decided that we need to petition the government to broadcast information like a Highlights Magazine sticker story. Not sure what I mean? Here's my vision:

Sure, sure, ancient cultures did this first. But maybe those wacky Egyptians, Phoenicians, Anatolians, Mayans, etc., were onto something here. Methinks the average person would absorb pictures faster than the pesky numbers and letters we favor in modern times. Whaddya think?

Really? Since 1998?

Over the weekend, I was leisurely thumbing through Real Simple when I had a chronological reality check. Gladware's been on the market for NINE years. No it hasn't. Oh, wait, really? It has? Since I saw it in print, it must be true. I don't think anyone stands to gain anything from fudging the year Gladware appeared on store shelves.

Anyway, this is further proof that I am aging, because I still think of Gladware as a relatively new food storage trend. Like I'm being all trendy when I buy a stack of it or something.

I'm Really Not a Luddite

When I logged into my e-mail today, I saw this: "Patrick W. [deleted to protect the innocent] has added you as a friend on Facebook." Who? I thought. I don't even know this kid, and he's calling me a friend?

Turns out he went to Georgetown too. Given that, I figured that he's a typical SFS-er* who, at the tender age of 22, is attempting to create some kind of robust virtual friend presence that he will convert into a powerful political springboard. Kind of like Dane Cook, but with an eye on the Capitol Building. I shouldn't be so confused...he probably just invited any and all Hoyas to be his Facebook pal.

Upon closer inspection (i.e., I went to his page), it turns out that I casually knew Patrick during my brief career at G.U. I don't know that I'd call him a friend. I might not even call him an acquaintance. And at that moment, Gentle Reader, I realized that there's a messy, complicated world of netiquette that I haven't had to deal with all that often. Sure, there are the universally known rules of playing nice, like DON'T TYPE IN ALL CAPS BECAUSE IT LOOKS LIKE YOU ARE YELLING, keeping curse words to a minimum, and not forwarding a bazillion bad joke/inspirational tale/get-rich-quick scheme/do-this-and-you'll-have-good-luck chain e-mails.

However, there are a ton of sticky situations that today's under-30 crowd has to navigate on a daily basis. To wit:

1) Adding friends. Clearly, you'll want to add your real, true blue friends to your page. But what if acquaintances want to be your "friend" too? What if someone you don't even know want to be your friend? Do you check out his site before accepting him? Or do you blindly accept the request because you want to inflate your number of friends? Ooh, and what if the request is coming from someone that one of your real friends dislikes intently? Do you accept the newbie and run the risk of a flame war with your good friend?

2) Organizing your friends. Social sites will allow you to move your friends around in any order you'd like. You can leave them in chronological order, or you can put them in order of importance. How awful is that? You're someone's #1 friend, then you have a tiff, and your friend bumps you to the #42 spot. What if you accidentally bump someone out of pole position -- do you call them to apologize? What if you break up with someone, but you want to stay friends -- do you leave them in a top spot, or do you knock them down a few virtual pegs?

3) Deleting friends. Oof. Separating the wheat from the chaff. Is there a statute of limitations for how long you need to "keep" a friend? You could delete ex-boyfriends/girlfriends, and everyone would understand that. But what if you've just grown apart from someone? Do you hold onto them, or cut them loose?

4) Lurking. How many times can you check out someone's page or blog before introducing yourself? One? Seven? Seventy? Seventy times seven? My own personal opinion is "infinity," but that might be rude.

5) Commenting. How do you handle anonymous comments on your blog? Most folks I know don't allow anonymous comments through the moderation phase, because they are viewed as cowardly. Some people, though, just don't have accounts and so they can't comment under their own names. And if you're the commentator...is it OK to argue with the commentee? Or delete the post on which they've commented, effectively deleting their posts?

Those are just a few of the situations I've thought of while surfing the blogosphere. I'm sure there are more of them. And Lord knows there's a host of etiquette quandaries with other messaging media, like texting, and blackberries, and podcasting. Thinking about them makes me feel about a hundred years old, though, so I'll go ahead and leave it for now.

*this will only make sense to other Georgetown alums.

Maybe I Should Hit My Local GNC

It's been a little over three months since I popped my last prenatal vitamin, and man alive, I can tell my system is no longer getting an extra boost. There are little ridges in my fingernails that serve as the prenatal (thicker nail) and post partum (thinner nail) dividing line. Plus, I've had one or two breakouts, which I still think is incredibly unfair for a thirty-two year-old woman who has just invested in her first tub of anti-wrinkle lotion. And the hair loss...oh, the hair loss. I have much empathy for dudes suffering from male pattern baldness. The past couple of showers I've taken have been kinda scary. When run my hands through my luscious locks to rinse out my Redken, THE HAIR COMES OUT WITH THE SHAMPOO. This happened after the Boy's birth too, but I still am disappointed by forty strands of hair wrapped around my palm. AND WHY AREN'T THEY EVER THE GRAY ONES? It's like there's a civil war on my head, and the grays are slowly but surely defeating the reds and browns.

One final thought about this: Prodigious hair loss + black cashmere/wool blend winter coat = icky hair covered mess. Yes, I've got one of these:

But it's a little bit like trying to put out an inferno with an garden hose.

Doesn't Anyone Remember Sinead O'Connor?

Woe to me that Blogger doesn't allow all the fun Gaelic accents on Ms. O'Connor's given name. But anyway...

Cheese and crackers, from all the press you'd think that Britney Spears had gotten prosthetically altered and tatted up like the Enigma instead of shaving her head and getting two of the girliest sounding tattoos of all time. I'm not a ninny; I get why this makes the news. She's been loudly self-destructing for about three years now...quickie marriage in Vegas followed by a quickie anullment (Jan 2004)...hooking up with a dancer with a pregnant girlfriend (Spring/Summer 2004)...marrying said dancer rather quickly (Sept 2004)...birthing first issue from the marriage, Sean Preston (Oct 2005)...all kinds of flack for insufficent childcare skills (Spring/Summer 2006)...birthing second issue from the marriage a year later, Jayden James (October 2006)...breaking up with dancer and beginning divorce proceedings (Nov 2006)...running around to party after party after party, vomiting, passing out, and flashing her hoo-ha on many occasions (Winter 2006/2007).

That's the detailed way of saying, "The press has lots of fodder for declaring that Little Spears Lost has hit rock bottom." But what is that actually prompts those headlines?

A shaved head. A freakin' shaved head. Not running through relationships like toilet paper, not crying in public on several occasions, not becoming BFFs with celebutards, not the rumors about drugs and alcohol.

Nope. A shaved head is our black-and-white proof. And we think our society places too much emphasis on physical beauty.

You're Uninvited, An Unfortunate Slight

Aw, man, twice in the past month the authors of blogs that I have regularly visited have shut me out. Not me, personally, but they limited access to the blog to "friends" only. Fair enough. If I were writing about some of the stuff they were writing about, or had some of the same issues, I might not want to put it on public display. Maybe I should crack through my layer of shyness and extend my virtual hand in friendship. I could let 'em know that I think they are talented writers and have enjoyed reading their hilarious, introspective words, and humbly request that they continue to let me do so. They'd probably think I'm some wacky Peeping Tom and hurl a few choice words at me.

Honestly, I'd guessing that a rash of these "privitizations" will occur. Blogging first blew up, what, two years ago? For many, blogging was an easier way to update friends and fam on their day-to-day affairs. Ya know, without all the labor of adding people into an e-mail address list. For others, blogging was viewed as a way to offer the world a peep at your inner sanctum. But that's all that it would be: a peep. For some others, ahem, it provides a medium wherein thoughts and ramblings could be published for the world at large to read. (In the case of LtW, "at large" means about twelve very discerning strangers.)

For those that fit into categories one and two, strange URLs and random comments invade the blog. And the author might realize exactly how much of his soul's been tossed onto the interweb. Me, I don't put anything up there that will haunt me later, so you may rest assured, Gentle Reader, that LtW will stay active. But some people do dissect rather personal parts of their lives that might, I don't know, cause friends, spouses, and employers some concern. Hence the lockdown.

Ah well, there's like a bajillion blogs out there, so I'll just find some new ones to enjoy.

Things I Learned During the Ice Storm

1) I can carry a toddler, an infant in a car seat, and a medium-sized diaper bag all at once.

2) Allowing a man to scrape off and dig out my car does not infringe on my feminism.

3) In Laurel, MD, citizens are required to shovel their sidewalks within 12 hours of the end of a storm or face a fine.

4) The Boy might think that snow is pretty, but he can sure do without the ice.

5) Chinet comes in handy if you are caught without an ice scraper.

Talkin' 'Bout My Generation

Not sure how I feel about the apparent fact that Generation X has claimed "Office Space" as its "Rocky Horror Picture Show." WhaddoImean? Check it out: Arlington Draft House & Cinema twice annually screens "Office Space" and encourages people to come dressed up as characters. The only other film that has inspired that kind of devotion in my experience is, in fact, "Rocky Horror." I worked at a movie theater for a summer, so I know of what I speak. I just hope they don't start marking first-timers' foreheads with a lipstick "O."

Open Letter to Valentine's Day Procastinators

Stop accessing the Hallmark website already! Some of us are belatedly sending birthday e-cards and need the bandwidth, okay? Flip some of your business over to Carlton Cards or something.

That is all.

My Only Experience with Hair Coloring Has Been Henna and Sun-In. Should Be Interesting.

Okay, gray hair, it was cute when you started appearing a couple of years ago. Lonely corkscrews would manifest along my part, only a inch or so long. I'd pluck you, and shrug my shoulders at my body's tiny acknowledgement that I am getting older.

But lately I've been finding more of you amidst my lovely locks of brown and red. And you, Oh Strands of Silver, you aren't little anymore. Nope, you run the full length of my eight inches of bobbed glory. I'm not sure which disturbs me more: that my hair color hormones are fading, or that I didn't notice you in your infancy.

Either way, I am fast approaching that fork in the road, the one where I decide to color over the gray or let it flow. Not sure which path I'll take, but I'm thinking that Robert Frost's advice is going to lose out on this one. Time to do some research...the only thing I know not to use is Grecian Formula.

Rule of Office Comedy

It is always funny when a co-worker misspells "clever," or "smart," or "intelligent." ALWAYS.

Further Proof that I Cannot Take a Compliment (and that My Ego is Safely in Check)

Since birthing the Girl, folks have told me how wonderful I look. Granted, the only acceptable thing to say to a freshly post-partum woman is, "Wow, you look fantastic." My brain knows this. But upon hearing it for the 42nd time yesterday, I started to wonder, "Did I look so tired/huge/uncoordinated before that my current appearance should be lauded so exuberantly? Did Ms. Compliment expect that I wouldn't have lost the baby weight by now? Is she just saying that because that's what the sisterhood requires that she says? Or do I actually look great?" That last thought isn't even seriously on the table, because then I'd have a metaphorically big head to go along with the physical one.

Happy Quarter Birthday, Baby Girl!

My little sweetness is 3 months old today! Just 3 months old, and she's already her own person. What's my proof? She smiles at me like I'm a rock star when I peer over the edge of her bassinet in the morning, and laughs (or comes close to it) when I make funny faces at her. She quiets down when she hears her big brother's voice, and she falls asleep contentedly when her father sings '80's TV show themes to her. All that, and she seems to dig toys that dangle over wherever she's playing, batting at them like she's Babe Ruth.

You might think that these things do not constitute personhood. But some of her baby ways are different from the Boy's, so I know that she's her own person. I can't wait to see how she develops in the next 3 months. Maybe she'll be happy to sit like a lump, unlike the Boy, who seemed determined to walk out of the maternity ward. Or maybe she'll like to boogie to the Beatles. Or maybe she'll decide that rice cereal is awesome. No one really knows. All I do know is that I'm privileged to be a part of it.

Baby, It's Cold Outside

That is not a clever post title. Sorry to disappoint, but my brain turned into ice this morning during the 2-block walk from my parking lot to my office, so I can't deliver the funny wordsmithing. The news reports said it would be cold today, and my sarcastic self thought, "Thanks for the bulletin. It's cold in February. Shocking."

Then I get punched in the face by a below-zero gust of wind, the kind that freezes your nasal passages and causes tears to stream from your eyes.

Now, I am humbled.

(For my favorite version of the ode to romance in a snowstorm, click here and scroll, pussycat.)

Comments after Death

About a year ago, a friend told me that an acquaintence of hers had committed suicide. Then, a few days later, she found out that the acquaintence's death was ruled a homicide, and that the deceased's boyfriend was the prime suspect. Just recently, the boyfriend has been acquitted. From what my friend had told me, it was a really odd trial and acquittal, so I searched for an article about this in the Baltimore Sun. In that article, I found out that the deceased had a MySpace page.

Morbid curiosity spurred me to find her page. And I saw that her friends have been leaving comments for her, lots of them, ever since she died. Things like "I just wanted to say hi and tell you I miss you." And, "Thanks for watching over the boys." And, "Could you please talk to God for me and tell him to turn the thermostat in Maryland up?"

This struck me as really, really odd and a little unhealthy. Don't get me wrong -- I've had conversations with my dearly departed, both in my head and at graveside, so the idea of communicating with those who have passed over isn't all that strange. What is strange to me is that MySpace is a pretty public forum, so whatever comments a user posts are there for all to see, snoops like me included. Those other things I've mentioned -- thoughts, tombstone chats, possibly even letters -- those are intensely private things. We don't speak them aloud in front of an audience, or leave them lying about for people to read. We'd be branded as nutters if we did.

There are a couple of people who have posted on her page really frequently, and I wonder how they can possibly be getting over her death. I guess you don't ever really get over someone being violently ripped away from you, but surely leaving comments on a MySpace page doesn't really help.

I don't have a neat summation, a "Final Thought" if you will, but it's been eating at me for a couple of days, so I thought I'd post it here. Anyone have any thoughts on it?

Blue Eyed Dressed for Every Situation

Anyone heard of this new pharmaceutical named Yaz? Its website states that it's "the first and only birth control pill with proven efficacy for the emotional and physical symptoms of PMDD." Yeah, and it's also the name of the 1980's Vince Clarke synth-pop band fronted by Alison Moyet.

This former wearer of jean cutoffs, black tights and Doc Martens finds it a wee disturbing that the band isn't known well enough for Bayer to have thought, "Gee, maybe our birth control shouldn't be associated that new wave group, fantastic though they may be."

I mean, what's next? New Order tampons?

Daytime TV Is Depressing

As I've mentioned before, I've used the TV like a lamp during my maternity leave. I KNOW this is not wise, okay? So keep your itchy fingers from commenting about it.

When I stop to pay attention to it for more than a minute, though, it's the most depressing programming ever. Not because most of it is recycled junk from the night (or weekend, or decade before). It's depressing because most of it is about improving myself in some way. When I'm bombarded with messages about how I could be better, I start to feel like my status quo is lame.

To wit:

• Rachael Ray has 30 minute recipes and constantly reminds you that you don't NEED to order out, and that the stuff you order can't possibly taste as good as this homecooked goulash.
• 10 Years Younger actually puts women (and sometimes men) in a clear box on a crowded promenade and invites perfect strangers to guess the victim's, I mean participant's age and explain WHY they think this twenty-four year-old woman looks fifty-three.
• Dr. 90210 reveals the myriad ways that you can sculpt yourself into the ideal you without plebeian efforts like, say, diet and exercise.

Yikes, then there are the commericals: Get seventeen degrees! Lose six hundred pounds while eating a bushel of chocolate a day! Quit smoking! Earn a million dollars a week while working from home! Take vitamins to make your brain, heart, and fingernails stronger! Get your doctor to prescribe birth control/bone loss prevention pills that you only have to take once every decade (now in vanilla and strawberry flavors)!

There's also a cacaphony of advertising that tells me my baby will love me if I use specific kinds of diapers, and that my house will sparkle after 30 seconds of effort with a newfangled broom. Be that as it may, I'm not going to run out to purchase these products, because these will not really make me more house-proud.

Guess I just wanted to put it out there that I'm not falling for it...much.

Let's Think about that Acronym a Little More...

Two of my favorite abbreviations for the names of local institutions:

1) UTI (Universal Technical Institute): Really, guys? You know that UTI is the common abbreviation for urinary tract infection, right? And it's not like Universal Technical Insitute is such a brain-bustingly cool name that you couldn't have changed it up a little bit. You could've gone with Global Technical Institute, for example. It means the same thing and is not synonymous with an itchy, painful, unfortunate affliction of a very sensitive spot. (FYI, research shows that there's no local campus in the DC Metro area...yet...but they advertised locally, so maybe you can do a correspondance course.)

2) HUH (Howard University Hospital): Aw, man, I understand that you need to keep the Howard University part in the name since you are a hospital that is indeed affiliated with that storied institution of higher learning. But couldn't you call yourselves a medical center or something to avoid this phrase favored by head-scratchers being printed on all of your stationery, advertising, t-shirts, etc.? I applaud whatever marketing genius attempted to make it look less like "Huh?" by putting a big red square around the second H, but I don't think you're really fooling anyone.

Then there was the one at Georgetown that I thought the powers-that-be should revise, but it was typically uttered aloud only by the saltier-tongued students, so I don't think the powers that be ever noticed the nickname. It was the Georgetown University Alumni and Student Federal Credit Union, or GAUSFCU for short. I leave it to you to determine how my peers, especially those who got dinged with unexpected fees/penalties, pronounced those last three letters.

I Did NOT Learn Everything I Really Needed to Know in Kindergarten

There's a bunch of stuff that I fully expected I would know as a grown woman. My girlish plans for attaining this knowledge were enlightenment or osmosis. In other words, effort didn't factor in anywhere. Here are the things I expected to know in my 32nd year (which, incidentally, is the age my mother was when I, her sixth child, was born, so you can see that the bar is a little high):

1. Which hairstyles/products work best for my frizz-prone follicles;
2. How to do my makeup so that I don't look like a squinty clown and/or prevent foundation from sliding off of my face;
3. Which clothes flatter a 5'2", size 12, slightly large-headed, 36J frame (Did you know they even make a J-cup? Neither did I. At this point I think there's scaffolding in my bra.);
4. How to cook a week's worth of edible meals without poring over a cookbook;
5. Which undergarments are necessary for which outfits/fabrics (slips? camisoles? shapers?);
6. How to accept a compliment graciously (Example: Friend: "Wow, I really like that shirt!" Me: "I got it on sale for three bucks at Marshall's!")
7. How to make small talk;
8. How to give myself a manicure without using nail clippers, ending up with a monstrously thick coat of glaze on my nails, or strips of unpainted fingernail at the edges;
9. Which clothing colors really flatter me, because I can't believe it's just the black, burgundy, dark blue, chocolate brown, and dark pink hanging out in my closet;
10. Where to find an attractive office shoe that I can wear for more than 2 hours without swearing, restructuring my day so that I don't have to walk, or contemplate renting a Lark for the day.
11. How to diagnose what kind of skin I really have such that I am able to buy effective face products.
12. A way to remember to ask for sauce when I drive through Taco Bell (My flavor of choice has been "Hot" since they came out with "Fire." I always go for the "medium" option.);
13. How to feed a family of nine on $100 per week (I don't need to do this, but I am impressed that my mother managed it without growing her own food/raising her own livestock.);
14. How to iron shirts so that they look like they just came from the dry cleaner, and not from a Kleenex box.

There are more, but I'll stop there, because I'm slightly appalled that I haven't been putting my maternity leave to better use. Truth be told, I've dedicated some of the leave of absence to answering the more superficial of these sweet mysteries of life. Okay, by "dedicating," I mean religiously watching TLC's "What Not to Wear."

Aside: WNTW has provided some helpful tips, like applying a dark shadow applied with a stiff, angled makeup brush instead of stabbing myself in the eye with an eye pencil or, worse yet, using liquid liner. Merciful gods, that saves me from looking like a drunkard attacked my eyelids with a Sharpie. My inability to use eyeliner has always really bothered me because I took about seventeen art courses between high school and college, so you'd think I could develop the skill that most tweens seem to master.

The older I get, though, the more I think these things will elude me.

My TiVo Doesn't Like Me

I'm currently enjoying my eleventh week of maternity leave. In that time, I've used our television like a lamp. Yep, it's on ALL THE TIME. I grew up with many other children and much noise in the house, so too much quiet discomfits me. Since Hubby's at work and the Boy is in daycare while I tend to the Girl, I have complete and total control of the boob tube for about eight hours a day.

It is a godlike power.

Throughout my time at home, I have been giving the TiVo thumbs up to my programs of choice, which is a pretty eclectic mix: true crime, makeover, cooking, home improvement, news, britcoms, and chat shows. I'm not proud of my taste. There's nothing hip about it. But, I would like TiVo to acknowledge it and occasionally recommend something to me, or even record something for which I've clearly shown a preference. This hasn't happened yet, and I think I know why:

My TiVo is sexist.

Yep, TiVo has sided with Hubby and the Boy. Just this morning, I was watching "American Justice" on A&E, and TiVo made two suggestions in as many minutes. The first suggestion was for "Hoosiers," which TiVo has recorded spontaneously on at least three other occasions. The second was for "Dan Zanes House Party" on the Disney Channel. I canceled both of 'em out, but let's take a quick look at the suggestions you managed to stuff into the Now Playing List:

• Go Baby
• The Wiggles
• My Super Sweet Sixteen
• Blade Runner
• Buffy the Vampire Slayer
• News 4 Today
• Late Night with Conan O'Brien
• Dan Zanes House Party

Where's the love, TiVo? I guess you think that I'd be psyched about "My Super Sweet Sixteen," but next to "Mama's Family" and "Mind of Mencia," it's probably my least favorite show in existence. What is it about the programs that I watch that make you think I'm a fan of documentaries about bratzillas? By the way, you might think that 'Buffy ' is for me because the title character is a chick. Sure, I like the show but let's be honest: that one's for Hubby too. After all, he's the one that drooled over the Vampyr Book prop replica, not me.

Seriously TiVo, what gives? Don't you know that I am the one who finagled you as a gift? I'm the one who told Hubby's former officemates that the PERFECT parting/impending fatherhood gift was TiVo. You wouldn't even be here if it weren't for me, so let's start finding fun stuff for me in the middle of the night.

Dear Baltimore Ecosystem Study Van,

Photo courtesy of the BBC

Please don't judge the ecosystem of the Baltimore area, specifically the outer loop of 695, by the unfortunate hatchback that was spewing a fog of exhaust for the six miles of the beltway that we three shared on Monday. Cars with this particular problem seem to happen upon the beltway every once in a while, but are certainly not a regular presence. Don't give our ecosystem a failing grade because this car owner hasn't gotten that smoke problem checked out. In all likelihood his car will die soon, so it should be a zero sum gain don't you think?

By the way...why does your van have New York license plates? Why is New York always so judgmental of the rest of the country? Can't you leave us alone?

Sincerely,

Me

Sentimental Journeys

Laundry is the currency of a young household, I think. Okay, currency is probably the wrong word, but man oh man, there's a lot of dirty clothes floating around. So I spend a good chunk of my time washing them.

Over the weekend, I pulled a freshly cleaned load of the Boy's laundry from the dryer. I took it upstairs and folded it while it was still soft and warm. I grabbed a pair of the Boy's jeans, and found that they were worn and fraying around the pockets. There was even a little hole near the waistband.

No sense in keeping jeans with holes in them, right? Besides, he's on the verge of having grown out of them. So, I headed to the garbage can and lifted the lid to pitch the jeans on top of the coffee grounds and banana peels. But I stopped. I couldn't do it. Why?

Because these are jeans that I bought for him about a year ago. They've never been worn by another little boy, unlike so many of the other of my son's clothes. He was the only one who ran in these jeans, jumped in them, climbed in them, fell in them, and danced in them. And I imagined him doing all of these things, and smiling, and giggling, and yelling, and I couldn't part with them. Not yet. Maybe in a little while, my practical side will overrule my sentimental side, and I'll pitch them. But for now, I'll just put them in a little memory box.

Now, watch, I'll forget and in twenty years when he opens his memory box to sift through the items I thought were crucial, he'll think I'm some kind of hobo nutcase. Ah well...

She's Here!

The Girl arrived early -- November 6, 2006, and weighed 8 pounds, 3 ounces. She measured in at 22 inches as well. Considering I'm all of 62 inches tall myself, it's no great shock to me that she undershot her due date by more than a week. I mean, she just had no room to move! She came in a hurry, too. My water broke at midnight, and she was squalling at 3:06 a.m.

Did I mention that the labor was au naturel? Oh, I wanted an epidural. I'm a big fan of the conveniences of modern medicine, especially those that considerably reduce pain. But, a rapidly progressing labor + lack of information about my body chemistry on file + middle of the night = not administering the epidural in time and having to skip it.

Oh, the sadness I felt when I heard that it was too late for an epidural. Maybe I'm a wuss, but I'd been telling myself that I could hang on through the pain until the anesthesiologist pumped me full of numbing goodness. And then they said it was a no-go, and that I'd get to go through labor like all of womankind before me. Joy. Once again, I question how the human race has made it this far considering THAT is what women have had to endure to bring forth new life. Yikes.

One of my sisters-in-law said that she doesn't really remember the pain.  I remember the pain. Oh, how I remember the pain. How can you not remember the pain of passing a 13 inch head through an almost 4 inch (10 centimeter) opening? How are you not reminded of the pain during those first few weeks of recovery, when a simple trip to the powder room involves multiple implements, salves, and absorbant materials?

But, looking at my little daughter bundled up and snoozing just a few feet away from me, and I know it was worth it, and that I'd do it all over again.