Studio Blues

This is a pun, because I am blue over the fact that another week has gone by, and I'm still not in my studio. Yes, the management company is prorating my rent for June, but I had hoped I could be in by now. . .maybe even have some furniture in place by now. But no. Because the walls still have to be repaired, my track lights have to go in, and none of it will be done before Monday. At the earliest.

Plus, the floors. Have we already talked about the floors? Why yes, it appears that we have! So we are all aware of how heinous the floors currently are? Yup--carpet removed, mastic left behind, and some chipped and possibly asbestos tile underneath! Whoo hoo!

I got the bid for installing the vinyl tile for my studio. And. . .well. . .since I don't have a money tree in my back yard, I'm not having the commercial guys do it. Instead, I'm going to do it myself. Because, really, how difficult can it be? And if the landlord isn't going to pay to have it installed, then the landlord is going to have to live with the quality of work I can do, and the quality I find acceptable. And what's the point of being an artist of any caliber if I'm not willing to try something I've never done before? Where I only have to please myself?

So I've picked out a marine blue floor, (get it? "Studio blues?") which goes beautifully with the purple wall color I've chosen as well. If things work out better than they have so far, I should have keys to the studio on Monday afternoon. Work will then commence and we'll see how it goes.

Sleeping for Medicine

So, after a consultation with a lung specialist, it appears that I am a likely victim of sleep apnea--the condition where one's muscles become so relaxed during sleep that the tongue blocks the breathing passages, and one actually stops breathing, often several times a night. Based on my reported sleep habits, many complaints that I snore, and the apparently small size of my airways, I was recommended for a sleep study.

This is because sleep apnea can really only be diagnosed by watching the patient sleep. And since doctors aren't going to stay up all night just to watch someone else sleep, I got to go to a "Sleep Disorders Center" and get hooked up to all kinds of wires, machinery and cameras, all of which generate data about how I sleep so that the doctors can look at my situation.

So, my appointment was last night at 9 p.m. I was to bring pajamas, toiletries, and my insurance card. Once I was checked in (paperwork! Whoo hoo!) and a name bracelet was stuck on my wrist, I was shown to a sleeping room. At first glance, it looked like a hotel room: highly figured and rather corporately unattractive bedspread, forgettable art overhead, armoire, television, full bath and nightstand. Okay, so the bed was a dinky little single bed--not the size most adults are used to sleeping in, as far as I'm concerned. And there were no curtains, plus some other things were just not quite right. I was instructed to change into my sleepwear, and then I was hooked up.

Sure, I'm an optimistic person. I try to mentally convert medical procedures into spa services. . .as much as is possible. This wasn't really possible. The lack of any light but glaring overhead fluorescents was one characteristic that I couldn't overcome, and the total lack of soothing music and aroma therapy was another. I did ask the technician about it. Don't think I didn't! He laughed, but he thought it was a good idea. He also thought the bed was a bit small. Don't you think some mattress company would donate some decent beds, just to have their name associated with a sleep clinic? If you saw an ad for some mattress that promised better sleep, and said "Used in sleep clinics across the nation" wouldn't you make a point of checking it out?

Anyway, the hooking up process took a good 40 minutes, or maybe longer. At least as long as a good spa service should be. First the technician (Dave--and I refrained from using my HAL voice when using his name) measured my head in three different dimensions, in order to place six nodes in specific places on my skull. I got one by each eye, one behind each ear, several on my chin (I'm not sure why--I'm sure he explained it, but I don't remember. "I'm sorry, DAVE."). I also had two just below my collarbones to check my heartbeat, one on each calf to check for leg motion, and two breathing bands--one across my chest and one across my abdomen. Then the whole mass of wires was attached to a 4"x6" console. The whole process involved several swipes of alcohol cleansers to wipe off any body oil to make sure the adhesives stayed attached all night, and gobs of some sort of gummy goo (I think this is a medical term) were placed in my hair to keep the skull nodes in place.

By the end, I was feeling like I had a major dreadlock 'do going on at the back of my head. Once I was hooked up to all these wires, I had to climb into bed and get an oxygen monitor taped to my right index finger, and then a breathing tube attached below my nose to measure the air coming out of my nostrils. This was possibly the worst part of the whole mess, because it had that unmistakeable scent of newly opened, certified sterile, medical plastic, which stunk up into my nose all night.

"Okay, so when you are ready to go to sleep, you just let me know. I've got a microphone in here and I can hear you when you call." So, I tried to read myself into sleepiness, which isn't easy in a strange room, with a too small bed, where the only light is a screaming overhead fluorescent. . .but I tried. By about 10:15 I was ready to lie down. . .and then we had to do more testing.

"Lie on your back with your hands on your sides. Now with just your eyes, look left and right. Now with just your eyes, look up and down. Take a deep breath and hold it for 10 seconds. Now move your right foot up and down. . .and now your left foot. Take a few deep breaths. . .good. Good night."

GOOD NIGHT, DAVE.

Let me tell you, it isn't easy to fall asleep. And it felt like I was awake for at least 40 minutes until I got any kind of sleep at all, and even at that I was jolting awake quite a bit. Still, I was asleep when Dave came in to ask me to sleep on my back, because he startled me awake. Okay, sleep on back to test the most classic form of apnea. Yeah. Sleep. On my back. Yeah. Right. . .

"Okay, you're doing great. Now we are going to hook you up to the machine." This machine is the CPAP machine: Continuous Positive Air Pressure. You wear a small triangular nose cone attached to an enormous headgear to keep it in place as you sleep. The machine pumps out a continuous stream of gentle air to force your airways to stay open. It isn't too hard to breathe with it, but I gotta tell you it's impossible to talk. The stinky nose thing was untaped, but not removed because it was already tangled up in all the other wires. The CPAP went on, and I was allowed to try to go back to sleep.

Listen--I was already wide awake from the startle reflex, and adding the odd feeling and the weight of the CPAP thing didn't make me any more comfortable. So what did I need? MORE wires, I guess. I plugged in my iPod and listened to a book on tape. Actually, even though I had listened to this particular book before. . .recently. . .I found I wasn't nodding off. I finally gave up and tried to get to sleep without it. I tried to do it while on my back, so Dave wouldn't come back and wake me up. . .AGAIN. . .but it didn't work. Actually, the cone weighed rather heavily on my teeth, squishing my lip against my teeth. But I STILL had to sleep on my back, after Dave came in and woke me up AGAIN.

It wasn't very restful, and the CPAP had a weird effect on my breathing. I felt like it was forcing my sinuses open, and also that because the air was going in, I hardly had to breathe at all. In fact, if you asked me my opinion, I'd say I did less breathing with the machine than without it. I also thought I did less sleeping too, but I guess the data will show if that's true. I was asleep when Dave came in to say it was 6 a.m., and time to go home. I woke up so quickly, though, every time, which is quite unlike my usual sleep, and so until proven otherwise, I believe I didn't sleep as deeply as I usually do.

I was going to just get up, throw on some clothes and come home to shower, but once Dave ripped off all the adhesive and tape (boy, am I glad I shaved my legs!), there were still gobs of that crap in my hair, and residual stickiness around my neck and I just couldn't stand it! I filled out the final paperwork, took a shower, and came home to go back to bed.

I go in to see the doctor on Tuesday, who will read the results of my tests, as well as Dave's report and that of the other sleep disorder specialists on staff. Apparently, although there are several options for sleep apnea, only the CPAP is actually consistently effective. Which I have some trouble with. I mean, I spent years in high school, faithfully wearing the god awful headgear for my orthodonture, and trust me, the CPAP skull cap is worse. It just isn't how I see myself, wearing this big ugly appliance-type headgear and attached by the nose to a bedside machine. I mean, really, did Sleeping Beauty wear a CPAP? How about Meredith Grey, even when she was in a coma after nearly drowning in Puget Sound? NO! They didn't! As for me, it's hard to get over the non-aesthetics of it to confront the medical reality. Apnea is dangerous--it leads to all kinds of serious medical conditions, like increased risk of stroke, high blood pressure, etc. etc.

But it's hard to get over the feeling that it's like being on life support, and I really didn't plan to be on life support until I was a whole lot older, and had a couple of hips replaced, and perhaps had senile dementia, so I wouldn't notice.

We will see what the doctor says, but the odds are generally lined up for the CPAP, and then it's up to me to get over my issues about it. After all, I'm not the one bothered by my snoring, right?

The Kids Are NOT All Right

Not that I care to contradict those sages of cultural wisdom--The Who--but they never knew my kids! My kids are insane. I offer the following--a "To Do" list from my youngest, who is 10.

How To Take Over The World.

1. Start with Brazil or Russia.
2. Next, get Greenland and Iceland.
3. Then get Chile and Argentina.
4. After, get Middle East.
5. Don't forget Australia!
6. China is VERY important.
7. Madagascar is after.
8. The Sahara. . .important!
9. Go to Mexico.
10. Canada is maple syrupy!
11. Sneak attack on U.S.A!
12. U.K. needs attention.
13. Central America and Cuba. (You might have gotten rid of its leaders, but it's not yours!)
14. France, Italy, Span and Portugal's okay.
15. Norway, Finland please!
16. Rest of South America
17. Oceana
18. India
19. Take Africa by storm!
    

Bumper Stickers To Love And Share

I saw this on the back of a car the other day--I can't remember the particular business advertised, although it was some funky little restaurant/bar thing. Somebody's "Burned Down Shack" I think.

"We cheat the other guy, and pass the savings on to you!"

Huh. I think it's more likely you're cheating me as well. But if the beer is good, I probably don't care.

Law & Order: Special Varieties Unit

So, Bermondsey and I went to the puppy park yesterday, and we met a border terrier. As you may recall, we had some idea that Bermondsey might be part border terrier--based on seeing the movie "Good Dog," which starred such a breed, and because as we were in puppy kindergarten we met someone who owned border terriers and who greeted Bermondsey saying "there's a puppy with some border terrier in him!"

However, as time has passed, I am coming to think this is wrong. The one we saw yesterday at the puppy park was a stocky little dude--barrel bodied with short and sturdy little legs and wiry hair. By contrast, Bermondsey has a scrawny little chest, long legs out of proportion to his body, and soft and almost downy fur. As I have run across Lhasa Apsos as well, their legs are much shorter than Bermondsey's are. So, the forensic reconstruction (see! It's the "Law and Order" theme!) is suspect.

"Look, Sargent, that theory won't hold up in court--any competent defense attorney will open those holes and drive truckloads of 'reasonable doubt' through it. Border terriers are a relatively rare breed: especially here in Minnesota. Lhasa Apsos aren't that common either. So, given that the defendant in question was a stray, found in a rural area--are you prepared to prove the existence of both those unusual breeds in that area, living closely enough to each other to achieve unauthorized reproduction?

"Anyway, it would just take a halfway decent dog breed judge to assess the defendant and pronounce him as incompatible with the modus operandi of the alleged breeds. We need a new theory, Sargent, and fast! The judge is not going to give us a continuance for lack of a good case."

Then, yesterday, while researching something quite different, I came upon these pictures:

This is a new "breed:" what used to be called just "mutts" but are now known as "designer dogs." This is the "Shih Chon," a cross between a shih tzu and a bichon, pronounced "shee shawn." I'm no official dog judge, but these are two breeds that are much more common here. Bichon frises also have longer legs and softer hair than the Lhasas and terriers.

I think these little male puppies look just like Bermondsey must have as a six week old: according to the breeder, they roll over for tummy rubs whenever someone passes by--very much like my own little guy.


This older dog has some of the contradictory gravitas and fluffy cuteness that is the hallmark of our little guy.


So--when people ask (and they do ask! This is really one winsome little dog!) what kind of dog he is, I think I'll go with the Shih Chon--but I'll explain it.

CASE CLOSED.

The End of an Era

Tomorrow is the last day of school, and the last day of Lower School for my family. Bunny graduates from fifth grade and goes to Middle School next year. It's bittersweet, watching the girlies grow up: I loved the children they were, and I love the people they are becoming. Leaving the Lower School ends an era that started back in 1999, and all year I've been experiencing events for "the last time." The last book festival, the last quiz bowl, the last Art Adventure, etc. etc.

On the plus side, tomorrow is "the last uniform" day. Once in Middle School, the kids get to choose their clothing, and--no surprise here--they invariably DON'T choose to wear navy chinos and red or white polo shirts. Six years is enough, I guess.

So, tonight I packed up all but one last uniform. (Okay, plus whatever ones are in the laundry. Let's not get so literal here, shall we?) You know what? We now have about 30 hangers free for other clothing!

Bad News, Good News and Studio Delays

Well, it's June now, and I don't have keys to my studio. Because my studio isn't ready. Because--like so damn much of my life--complications have arisen.

This time, it's the floor and the lights. I bought lights and delivered them last week. On Friday, I found out that the track lights won't work, because it's a recessed system that lies flat against the ceiling, and since the ceiling is actually concrete--the lights can't be recessed. Sure, we can jury-rig something, but that's just not a good idea. Especially since I spoke to the electrician, and he seems to be without any ideas as to how to jury-rig it. Relying on me for electrical installation advice? Not good.

So, I bought a different set of lights, and will have to return the originals. Fortunately they are all unopened. Unfortunately, I don't know where the receipt is. Let's all cross our fingers and hope that Home Depot can look it up electronically.

More bad news--when I delivered the lights, I got a chance to look at the carpeting that was on the floor. OMG was it foul! Stains, wear patterns, large blotches of what looked like oil tars, droppings of plaster and white paint all over. It clearly had to go. And, fortunately, there are plenty of cool things one can do to a concrete floor. Acid etching, paint, overlay--lots of options.

Except the floor is not concrete under the carpet. It's tile. Vinyl tile, or even maybe asbestos. Linoleum-type tile is what we're talking here. Ugly and cracked linoleum-type tile all covered with sepia mastic from the carpeting, and no way to remove it.

But! There is an option! The flooring contractors that the building uses use Armstrong EXCELON (TM) vinyl tiles, and they come in a profusion of colors! Including purple! Which is probably what I was going to paint the concrete floor that didn't exist anyway!

So, back to the drawing board--I need to decide colors for floor and walls and then order it and either install it myself or have it installed. But at least there is color!

Parenting Issues, New and Old

Every time a child does something annoying, you can count on an adult to say "It's just a phase. They'll grow out of it." Which is horribly annoying when you are the child--you aren't being treated like a human being, but like a lump of random whims, none of which are important until you reach some magical (and undefined) age when you are no longer in a "phase." At which point, perhaps, you are dead, since we are all growing and changing all the time.

This is now a new phase for me--and it might even be peri-menopause. I'm certainly old enough--bifocals anyone? And I have just had three months of glorious, period free existence. Until about yesterday, that is, and suddenly, it's back. I just hope its not like after being pregnant, I don't want several months worth all at once, thank you very much.

But it leads me to thinking about this new birth control pill, just approved by the FDA. You just take it all the time, and never have a period. Wow! I mean, sign me up! Except that I seem to be getting there all by myself now.

But really, think of it--never having to deal with the whole PMS thing, never having to worry about accidents, or getting caught somewhere without supplies, never to have to do all the damn laundry, never having to think twice about planning events, or going swimming, or anything! Sure, tampons help, but they aren't fail safe, and there is the little fear of toxic shock. To never ever have to worry? Priceless!

I look at my daughters, and think that all the hassle and discomfort and frank pain in the ass-ness that a period is--they could avoid it! One pill every morning, and hey voila!--no more period! I myself used to get such terrible cramps that I'd vomit from the pain--I lost about 10 days a year to cramps--and there was no controlling when they happened. I was taking a major final exam in college when I got slammed by cramps, and the pain was so bad I had no idea what I was doing. I read an entire essay question, and somehow didn't think it was a question and I almost didn't answer it. I wouldn't have, except the professor made a comment about what he meant the question to be--because someone else asked about it. I finished the exam, and then had to walk the 2 miles back to my apartment--which was heroic, if I say so myself.

It was particularly hard when I was in junior high--I was painfully shy and absolutely clueless about what to do. For about the first 3 years of my period, I used an actual belt--technology that was as out of date as a Model T, really. And I had an impossible time talking about it, and so I went for years hiding my pain, using ineffective supplies--and suffering debilitating shame about the whole thing. Look how much happier my life would have been with something like this.

But there are still risks, aren't there? And there is the whole question of what is normal--medically, culturally, socially, historically. And how do I/we/women/girls feel about their gender? In high school, I could only see the limitations put on women, and I desperately did not want to be one. All those period related limitations and hassles were part of it, for sure, but so was the sense that you had to act dumber than you were, in order not to scare off the boys. I was a debater, and it just angered me beyond reason that I was sometimes criticized for gestures that would have raised absolutely no comment if a boy had done them. Being female even into college was about limitations: liberal arts professors would routinely say things like "men think logically and sequentially, women think organically" and I would fume. Women are perfectly capable of thinking and writing both logically and sequentially, and stop being so patronizing.

It was only in law school that I started to recognize that it was okay to be fully a woman. I had enrolled in a class with a newly hired professor, who was supposed to be a legal genius. He may have been--I could not understand what the hell he was talking about. Ever. We had two weeks to try classes and drop them without penalty, and as the two weeks passed, the class fell from about 50% female to 20%, to 5%, to two women left in the class. I was one of them. And on the second to last day before the drop option closed, I realized I was only still in this class to prove that women could succeed at this class.

Was I enjoying it? No. Was I really learning anything? Not yet. Did I need to make the point at my own expense? Maybe not. Maybe it was just as important to show that women can make an independent judgment that this so-called genius was a terrible teacher and that women were willing to drop a useless class. Women were not imprisoned by their egos to test themselves against a reputed genius. I dropped the class.

Maybe by then I was finally becoming comfortable in being a female--I saw a different way of being, not just as "almost as good as a man, but not quite" but as "perfectly wonderful and not a man at all but something different that is--to be frank--more fulfilling."

How much of this is tied up in understanding my body, my brain, my self as a woman? Is a period a symbol of that difference? Is it a symptom of it? Is managing one a way of learning to manage the other? Certainly by the time I had children, I had learned a lot about accepting my body and its functions as both normal and amazing.

So, the question arises--how do I parent my daughters? Should I help them through the monthly hassle? Can I even do that at all well, given my own difficulties? Do I offer them the option to opt out entirely? Do I strongly recommend it? Is this one of the tough things about growing up that we are better for enduring, or would it be kinder to put it off until the girls become independent enough to handle it on their own. (Face it, it's a lot easier to manage a period when you can drive to get what you need, and can pay for it too. Relying on putting it on a grocery list is just asking for chaos.)

And so I'm back at the parenting question I have asked before--when do I make things easier for my kids, and when does it do them more good to struggle through?

Pirates Of The Caribbean 3--A Review

What a big, glorious, beautiful mess this movie is! It's like everything that was done in the first two movies had to be done again, only this time BIGGER, with MORE EXPLOSIONS, and 30% MORE JOHNNY DEPP!

Don't even try to understand what is happening--the story careens from one set up to the next with little exposition or narrative logic. Captain Jack Sparrow has been swallowed by the Kraken, and everybody else wants to get him. Or to defeat the East India Company. Or something. It's not easy to tell. We see all our favorite characters, plus more of the Undead Monkey Jack, providing most of the comic relief.

This last chapter is darker than the first two, and I mean that literally. The first 30 minutes are so gloomy that it's hard to see all the stuff that has been stuffed into each frame. Everyone appears in half shadow all the time--all the better for the explosions I guess. And things do blow up. Lots of bodies go flying, structures fall down, but it's hard to know or care what is happening, but that's okay, because later we see all the characters have made it to the next bit, where they try to go rescue Captain Jack.

And here's where those of us who wanted more Johnny Depp get more Johnny Depp. Captain Jack has (don't ask how) been transported to a white sand desert with the Black Pearl. Both have survived being eaten by the Kraken (I told you not to ask) and Jack is hallucinating multiple versions of himself as his own crew. Mild hilarity ensues, and everyone ends up rescuing everyone else. And holding pistols on each other. And double-crossing each other. And then blowing up more stuff.

Really, it's amazing that any of these ships stay afloat, with all the shooting and crashing and running aground they do. Tia Dalma turns out to be 40 feet tall and made all of crabs, Davy Jones turns out to be a non-performing employee who must be replaced, and for some reason, the job description requires radical surgery. Sure, in Pirates 2, the reason Davy Jones put his heart in a chest was because he was disappointed in love and couldn't bear the pain--but now that appears to be a required qualification for commanding the Flying Dutchman. Go figure.

Frankly, there was just too much going on to get invested in any of it. [Spoilers ho! So, keep a weather eye on the horizon!] Elizabeth's father, the criminally underused Jonathan Pryce, turns up dead, without any reason why he was even in this episode. Elizabeth's would-be fiance, Commodore Norrington--who got to demonstrate his comic chops in the second movie--is back to wearing white wigs and making anti-pirate decisions, so he ends up dead too. Elizabeth and Will finally get married, but then Will gets stabbed with the sword he made back in the first movie, and has to cut his heart out and take over the Flying Dutchman.

Only after all the noisy and pointless fighting do we get the kind of moments that make us care about these characters: Will and his father have a quiet moment together; Will and Elizabeth have to separate for 10 years; and after 10 years, we see Will sailing back to meet his wife and their 9 year old child.

Pirates 4? Of course there will be one--this one has made a pile of loot, and the franchise isn't dead yet. Captain Jack Sparrow has lost his ship to Barbossa again, but he's stolen Barbossa's map and is off to find the Fountain of Youth. The whole Will/Elizabeth story has been wrapped up and now only Johnny Depp and Geoffry Rush have to be signed on for another installment. I hope only that any fourth movie goes back to having a smaller and less cluttered plot, with fewer explosions and more character interaction.

One can always dream.

Short Hair

So, I got a new haircut, and it's really short. When it's all combed and styled and everything, it kind of looks like Suze Orman.

I woke up this morning, with bed head, which is seriously more dangerous with short hair. And, based on my tossing and turning last night, I looked less like Your Friendly Financial Consultant, and more like. . .


ummmm. . . .


this is kind of embarassing. . . .


more like. . .



FLOCK OF SEAGULLS!

Memorial Day Traffic.

So, while I was at Home Depot, I was nearly run over several times by people with carts full of hardware store buys, or people rushing into or out of the parking lot (in their cars). Really, every parking spot was filled, and cars were pulling in and out like a time lapse film.

What the heck is the deal here? This is Minnesota! This is Memorial Day weekend! Don't these people have cabins they should be at?

Studio 781--The Illuminatus

So, now that the trashed acoustical tile ceiling is down in my studio, the ceilings are just shy of 11 feet high. Which is an amazing difference, especially psychically. I remember in the waning days of my legal career, I was working on a weekend (no one else around) when I realized I was walking all hunched over as if the ceiling were coming down on my head. I was unhappy being there, and I finally said to myself "I could leave." Suddenly, my head came up, my posture improved and I no longer felt crushed under a large rock.

So walking into the studio with its newly tall ceilings--felt like freedom, like room to breathe and be creative. It also felt kind of dark. Because the dropped ceilings had five fluorescent lights, all of which were now gone. But I had my lighting guy with me to assess the best way to light the space.

Yes, my "Lighting Guy" is my dad, and he is great. We talked about how I was going to use the space, and where I needed task lighting vs. general illumination, fluorescent vs. incandescent. We measured the space and went to a coffee shop to discuss our options.

Today, I met the Lighting Guy at the track lighting department and we looked over our options. With eleven foot ceilings, it seemed to me that I wasn't really going to be seeing much of the track lighting, so we went with the inexpensive style, which is really just the plain vanilla of light options. But!!! The system is not only expandable, but substitutable. So, if I decide that I need something prettier, then I can put that on later. Plus!!! The system comes with optional pendant lights with beautiful glass shades and faux Murano glass. As the Lighting Guy said, "I can see some of those [fancy schmancy pretty] lights coming as Mother's Day gifts."

The track lighting is slated for the center of the studio, where I plan to have my art table. Different lighting is needed for the writing desk, and with the advise and consent of the Lighting Guy, I bought two classic pendant lights of translucent glass and bronze metal work for over the desk, and the matching one of a smaller size for the supply area. They are currently all in the back of my van, waiting to be delivered on Tuesday.

I take possession on June 1st--less than a week from now!!!

Studio 781

The previous post notwithstanding, there is something exciting going on in my life: I am getting a studio! I am renting space in a historic building in the arts quarter of town, to do my writing and my art. And I am terribly excited.

Now, I do truly love my little house--it really is incredibly charming, in a lovely and vibrant neighborhood, and it has been remarkably comfortable for our growing family, given its size. We bought it for just the two of us--back when we were never going to have kids. Then the kids showed up, and the house has accommodated us all.

But it is truly a little house. It is small enough that we have to live in all its spaces everyday. There is no formal dining room--we eat all our meals in the dining room. We have a parlor that maybe doesn't get used every day, but does get used frequently. We have a lovely kitchen with a convenient peninsula and a computer desk--which get used by just about each one of us every single day.

There is no place that we can start a project and then leave it out to finish later. There is no place where I can spread out and organize my thoughts--because we need that space for other things--cooking, homework, eating, etc. There is no place that can just be my own space--not in this cozy little bijoux of a house.

We had a new garage built last summer, and had a storage loft put in above the parking area. I considered whether that could be a decent studio, so I asked the builder. Sticker shock!! $50-60 thousand dollars to make that space habitable. Totally ridiculous. So, what about the garden shed? Well--no electricity, no way to close the door on the inside, plus the kidlets want it for a kid retreat. The basement? Um. . .no. I'm already clinically depressed--that would just be a fatal mistake.

So, having screwed my courage to the sticking point, I asked for what I needed, and Mr. Sweetie (who is very appropriately named) sent me off to go do it. I found a space in a building that was probably the office building for a railroad--the building itself was erected in 1917, and from my window you can see the neo-Classical white marble of the old Depot. The building is across the street from the Farmers' Market, and sits amid a number of renovated warehouse building of the same vintage. Many of them are now being turned into artist lofts, condos, and office space, as well as a Zen Center, coffee shop/wine bar, non-profit space. . .very cool and off-beat stuff going on in the area.

I took my dad down to see the space to give me some advice on lighting. The studio is on the 7th floor (of 8) and had a terrible acoustic tile dropped ceiling in it. The ceiling was obviously just stuck in at some point, as it cut off the tops of the windows. So, the building maintenance workers took down the (stained and crumbling) ceiling and the (boring and eye-sucking) fluorescent lights, and we went to see what was underneath it.

Oh man--you really have to wonder at people--there was an additional 3 feet of ceiling height, with a vintage picture rail hidden under there. The windows are huge--4 feet wide and about 8 feet high--yes, with about 3 feet hidden by that damn ceiling.

I am terribly terribly excited about getting into this space now! My lighting expert is recommending two electrical circuits--one for the writing area and the supply space, and the second for the art and craft table. We measured the space, and now I get to lay it all out on a grid and play around with what size desk and where to put it.

June 1 is my official occupancy date, and it can hardly come fast enough for me.

My So Called Glamorous Life

I just came off a long weekend that was crammed with kid events. Starting Thursday night, we attended the Middle School production of Midsummer Night's Dream (which was fabulous, by the way); Friday was set break down and cast party; a flute lesson; driving 3 girls to Girl Scout camp; Saturday was sending Mr. Sweetie off on a business trip; post Girl Scout camp Bat Mitzvah party where Pony got home at 11 p.m.; Sunday was Bunny's aerial arts performance; which covered a good 5 hours of the day.

When I looked at this fabulous collection of activities, I noticed a distinct lack of my own interests being pursued. This wasn't a big deal, because in a busy weekend like that, it's a full time job making sure everybody gets to where they are supposed to be--with all the stuff they need to have.

But, as the weekend wore off, and we all needed some rest, I realized that I wasn't getting very good sleep either, due to some hard work I was having to do in my dreams.

I tend to have very elaborate and detailed dreams--this is nothing new. But, what was new this weekend was the subject of my dreams. Sure, there was a ton of pop culture detritus; some Homer Simpson, some science fiction zoology; super spy foiling a Nazi nuclear plot. But stripped of all the trappings, here's what my dreams were:

Saturday Night: doing laundry.
Sunday Night: making dinner--I even dreamed the recipe.
Monday Night: calling home before it gets late so parents don't worry.

I don't know, but shouldn't dreams be something other than practical?

Overheard In The Car

I was driving Pony and 2 friends somewhere, and they had the following conversation:

Friend 1: [Someone not in the car] was babysitting, and the girl kept talking about her hamster had a vulva. And [Absent Friend] kept saying "Why does your hamster have a car?"

Pony: Yeah. [Class Village Idiot] was in science the other day, and he said his mother has a new "Vulva." And [Other Student] said "As the son of a car dealer--it's a VOLVO!"

A MIdsummer Night's Middle Schooler.

The Pony is in 7th grade in middle school, and has just finished performing in the spring play--A Midsummer Night's Dream. It was an abbreviated version, with some modern "Storytellers" placing the Shakespearean scenes in a modern context. It was funny, it was extremely well acted--not at all what you might expect from a middle school play. It was amazing hearing the stylized Shakespeare language coming out of their mouths, as naturally as if it was their regular speech. I cannot say enough about how amazing these kids are, and what incredible performances the director got from them.

What I found interesting was the dramatic differences in social maturity between 6th and 8th grade students. Of the four lovers who run away to the forest, one was played by a 6th grade boy, and the other three were played by 8th graders. Out of respect for the 6th grader (I am guessing), he was not required to kiss his true love. But the other couple was supposed to kiss. However, the two actors don't like each other, and this kiss became a bigger and bigger thing. Which was funny, because by the time I was in 8th grade, stage kissing was no big deal. I was in a play where I had to kiss a boy who was cast as my "boyfriend," and I did it because the script called for it.

Would I have done it as a 6th grader? Hell no. But by 8th grade? Not an issue.

So, Pony is right in the middle--in 7th grade. Things are changing this year, and I can see it. This is the year that kids turn 13, and there are a bunch of Bar/Bat Mitzvah parties. Many of them have dancing. Only one or two of the kids are willing to slow dance--but some of them are. The party Pony came back from tonight had a little twist: Musical Boys. The DJ had all the boys form a circle in the center of the floor, turn around so they were facing outwards, get down on one knee, and they became the "chairs."

I swear, middle school just cracks me up. And every day I thank god that I'm not a middle schooler.

How Things Have Changed

At the risk of sounding like a complete Old Geezer, things are sure different than they used to be. Particularly for kids.

The Bunny's school does a Bike Rodeo in the spring. Perhaps they did one for you when you were in elementary school. It's a day everyone brings their bikes, and during P.E. time you learn bike safety, hand signals, and do some traffic type riding. At the Bunny's school, the P.E. teachers make chalk outlines on the soccer field and kids practice riding around the "blocks" and obeying traffic signs, looking both ways, etc.

I remember being in elementary school, and we walked the 6 or 8 blocks to school every day. But once you were in either second or third grade, you were allowed to ride your bike to school. Of course, you'd had your safety training by then.

I remember we were all required to get off our bikes and walk across the street--at the intersection. There was one busy street where this made sense, but most of the streets were purely residential streets, and by the time we went to school, all the dads had already taken the one family car and gone to work. So while we did walk across the busy street, we bent the rules a little bit. We had a system where we would cross one foot over--so the right foot was on the left pedal--and slide off the seat and balance, holding on to the handlebars. Technically, we weren't ON the bike, we were beside it--even if we were actually using the wheels to propel us.

Well, like I said, things are different these days. Specifically, because we live in the city, and because as a culture we are aware Bad Things can happen to kids, our kids just don't ride bikes. In fact, Bunny had to go out and be taught how to ride a bike just so she could participate in the Bike Rodeo. Which seems totally backward to me. It's not that she needs to know the rules so she can be safe while riding her bike--it's that she needs to learn how to ride the bike in order to learn the rules.

This was particularly apparent as Mr. Sweetie and I were trying to get Bunny to trust her balance and ride. Now, realize that Bunny has a scooter, which she rides very well. Her balance is excellent and when she is on a bike, she looks totally balanced and fine. But she is scared of riding a bike, and doesn't want to ride a bike, and is only on the bike because of this damn Bike Rodeo.

Now, I have some firm ideas about parenting, and one of them is that parents should stay the hell out of their kids' schooling as much as possible. A parent who treats a child as a special case does more harm to the kid's ability to fit in. I'm thinking particularly about the kind of parent who says "I don't care what the assignment is, I am telling my child she doesn't have to do it." But I have to tell you, my resolve was a bit tested by watching my sweet tempered Bunny in serious tears over having to ride a bike.

I could have called the P.E. teacher at home and asked for her to be excused--which is exactly the kind of parental interference I hate. But she was SO upset! Okay, but that's only going to make her stand out and maybe force her to tell her friends that she isn't participating because she can't ride a bike, which by 5th grade has got to be social suicide.

Then, maybe I could call the P.E. teacher and ask if she could come with her scooter instead of a bike? Is that really any better? Maybe I just keep at her to learn how to ride, in spite of her tears? I mean, it's not like it's a critical life skill--like multiplication, for example. She could easily go her whole life without riding a bike. Is it really worth this amount of emotional upset? Watching her be upset is physically painful to me. It's a Mom thing, I guess.

This is the kind of thing they don't tell you about in What to Expect When You're Expecting, and this is the stuff you need the most help with. I mean, the baby's going to grow and get itself born after 40 weeks--you don't really need books to tell you how to make that happen. What you do need is someone to tell you how the hell you decide how much to push your child to do something new, and how much is too much.

In the end, we all stuck it out. I finally settled on believing that she was fully capable of riding a bike, and she would even enjoy it if she would just let herself go. She ended up using what she called a "moonwalk" where she sat on the bike, but didn't pedal. Instead, she just pushed herself along with her feet.

We both survived the ordeal, but this is exactly the kind of thing that drives me crazy about being a parent. She CAN do this--she doesn't WANT to. And who says she has to?

Grey's Anatomy Finale--Emotional Crack

Okay, if you care about Grey's Anatomy, you already know what happened in the finale. If you don't care--then move along, folks, there's nothing to see here.

What can one say about this show? Some great acting. Some powerful moments between characters. Some truly gruesome surgery. Plot? Story arc? Character growth? Not so much.

So, if it took three seasons to make it through one year of internship, that averages to 4 months per season. So, let's average it further (since time in Seattle Grace is more relative than Einstein would ever have imagined) and say that it's been two months since February sweeps. Meredith died two months ago. Her mother rejected her and then died two months ago. She's had two months to get used to the idea of a family with her father and stepmother, and then stepmother died--two weeks ago. Dad went off his head, slapped Meredith, rejected her. So, it's all about Derek now--that he wants more from the relationship than she does? What, hasn't he noticed that she's a candidate for inpatient mental health care due to emotional trauma?

Plus, he's having second thoughts because he might not get his promotion because of her? So, where does this "you are the love of my life" come from? Well, it was touching if you didn't try to fit it in with what has happened over the course of the series. Remember, Derek? You were the one who tried to get back together with your wife, and Mer hung around for that. Sure, he was trying to be a good person, but damn, where does he get off making "lack of commitment" Meredith's problem.

Oh yeah--I forgot. Live in the moment when you watch Grey's. Don't try to make sense of it. Just go with the emotional roller coaster and keep your arms and legs inside the vehicle.

Will I keep watching it? Maybe, online. Maybe I'll just go back to Television Without Pity and read the recaps. It saves a lot of time if I do.

Separated At Birth--Dallas Edition

Remember Dallas? Remember those poor, sad, repressed Ewing wives, who had to live at their in-laws fabulous enormous ranch, and had nothing to do all day but wait for their hubbies to get home from deal making, power brokering, moving and shaking? Remember poor Sue Ellen?

Ah, Sue Ellen--married to J.R. and probably the prototype desperate housewife. Everyone was mean to her, no one ever listened or spoke to her, and J.R. was hardly ever home. No wonder the poor girl took to drink. I'd drink if I had to be married to Larry Hagman, even for pretend.

Sue Ellen was the "bad" daughter in law. Pam, played by Victoria Principal, was the "good" one, and "bad" seemed to mean "drunk and willing to talk about her unhappiness." The make-up department did a good job of making her look harder and more mask-like as time went on. She was the one you could see would someday get suicidal, anything to get out of the hell house she was trapped in.

According to the internet, there is some discussion about reviving Dallas as a movie. There is much speculation that J.Lo would get this part. But if they do cast J.Lo, the producers will be overlooking a candidate who is already dressed and ready for the part.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Jessica Simpson. (Photo from the Met Costume Gala as fugged on Go Fug Yourself. Thanks, Fug Girls!)

I mean, she looks spectacularly trashy. The dark red lips already in a downturned grimace of jaded disappointment. The shiny shiny dress with too much cleavage, because she is trying to make J.R. jealous, plus she was drunk when she got dressed, and so she isn't sure if this is really the front of the dress. It sure is making Miss Ellie give her the skunk eye. She looks perfectly poised for a drunken row with her scumbag husband, which is the only thing that actually got her up and away from the liquor cabinet--she was sure she would see her no goodnik husband and could confront him with all the ways he's disappointed her. Like drinking and dialing, only in public.

J. Simpson's star has faded recently, and it looks like she's starting to feel as desperate as Sue Ellen always did. Let's give this girl something to do, shall we?

Grey's Anatomy--The Venting

Okay, yesterday was a 2 hour special, and I only saw most of the last hour. Yes, I know it's online, I just haven't gotten to it. But I've been thinking about it, and I have a few things I have to get off my chest.

1. Can we just say how awesome Addison Montgomery is? She has the most amazing beauty, the kind that if you look at her wrong, you would miss. But it's mostly in her eyes--her amazing large eyes, with those outrageous lashes and those incredibly expressive eyebrows. Don't we all want to be Addison, just a little bit?
2. Meredith's worst nightmare--has to be Addison. I mean, here she is, dealing with the fact that the guy she picked up in the bar and had inappropriate sex with--is her boss. And she is more than a little in love with him. When Addison shows up and is everything Meredith has to feel she isn't. Addison is pulled together, she isn't an intern and so she's not going through all the questioning and boneheadedness that is a necessary part of growing up. No, she's already done that, she's an expert in her field, she's gorgeous--if she walked into a room I was in I'm sure my deodorant would fail, and I'm not even sleeping with her husband.
3. WTF, you cable info writers?!?!? "Meredith continues to bond with her stepmother" it says. You think--oh, interesting character development to make Meredith deal with her issues around her parents, this time with a real adult. AND THEN SHE DIES? And Meredith has to be in on the medical consult that kills her? Where does that equal "bonding?" I'm thinking "bonding" and I get traumatic death? In surgery where there is no time to say goodbye or anything? WTF?
4. Meredith's dad--I know nothing about the actor who plays Tucker Grey, but when he realized his beloved wife was dead--that was the most powerful representation of a man who was uncomfortable with his emotions, forced to feel, that I have ever seen. I really really felt his pain. The way he lashed out at Meredith? Totally understandable, and the fact that he slapped her was just part of his pain. The fact that she ran away? Way to make it all about you, Mer--way to be totally unsupportive of the family of a patient.
5. Although to be fair, there is no way the hospital should have let her be in on the treatment, and NO way she was the one who should have delivered the news. As Bailey has told us repeatedly, there is a REASON doctors don't attend their own relatives.
6. Bailey? She rocks. It's painfully clear that the Chief has to stay on until she can run the hospital, because she is the only one who has clear boundaries about life and work, and she's the only one who keeps her shit together.
7. Burketina? Can we talk about this stupid kluging together of names, and issue a moratorium? Because it was cute for "Bennifer" because Affleck and Lopez had kind of morphed into a single media unit, which was deployed for maximum PR effect. They had lost their identities for a while, and became this two headed media monster for an unconscionably long time. There is no "Burktina." And not just because the name is so awkward and horrible. Burke and Yang have definitely NOT merged into a single unit. They are the two most independent members of a couple we have seen on this show in three years. There is no "Burktina" and this trend must be stopped. Now.
8. Gizzie? George and Izzie? See above.
9. The horrible effect of extra-series knowledge--we know that T. R. Knight (George) and Isaiah Washington (Burke) have serious interpersonal problems. It's hard to watch the two of them try to talk about their fears about marriage together. Plus, how come the gay actor is the one who sleeps with ALL the ladies? George has slept with Olivia, Meredith, Callie and Izzie. I think that really must be considered a waste.
10. Izzie? I love Katherine Heigl, and I love the way she acts every moment of every script as if it makes some kind of sense. Because it clearly doesn't. Izzie is kicked out of the hospital over the whole Denny Duquette thing, and less than a full season later we're supposed to believe that the true love of her life is George? The one she treated so badly in Season One? The one who only say they are best friends, but we've never seen them act that way? Heigl sells it as best she can, and if you can just wipe your memory clean from episode to episode, you might even believe that Izzie Stevens is a functioning human being and not just a plot device. Go KH!
11. McDreamy? Stop moping around with bedroom eyes. Either you love Meredith, or you want to dump her so you can be Chief. There is no point in making eyes at her and then walking away. Show a little spine. And wash your hair before surgery. Sure, that tousled curls look is sexy in bed with Mer, but it can't be hygenic. I know if a doctor looking like that came in and proposed to operate on me, I'd make him shower and shave and then come back and convince me I wouldn't contract some horrible infection from the excess of hair product.

I think that will end this episode of venting. Sure, it annoys me sometimes, but I'm going to hang on for a while. Because, while I'm totally fed up with the "throw artificial barriers up so Mer and Der can't possibly be happy" thing they are doing, Alex's story arc could be very interesting.

Products!

I learned a bunch of cool things the last week I spent with my sister the Fabulous Babe. One of them is that when girlfriends get together, it is both fun and educational to swap information about products that each one has discovered and recommends.

The Fabulous Babe mentioned "chocolate covered Altoids" which doesn't immediately appeal. Apparently the Altoid itself was minimized so the whole thing could be a higher percentage chocolate. Dark chocolate. Word is that it's like a dark chocolate Junior Mint. I haven't seen them around here, and despite the recommendation, I don't think I'll seek them out either.

I myself have a couple of new products that I can recommend highly. Both of them come from my recent foray into Origins. I looked at the expiration date on my cosmetics, and was horrified how far past "use by" they were. Once I threw those away, I had nothing left--so I took myself to Origins to see what they had.

First new trick: a foundation brush. Put some liquid foundation in your palm, and use the broad, flat brush to apply to the face. The beauty of this is that you don't add the friction of your hands across your face--and for those of us with inherent redness this is an issue--plus, it feels so nice.

Second: "Underwear for Lashes." I love the look of mascara, but whenever I wear it I get raccoon eyes. Not so sultry. But with Origin's "underwear" it stays on. I just don't have the little trails of mascara dots running down my face. Of course, it could be that the Origins mascara just stays on better, but I just doubt that. They come in a set: the mascara and the underwear. Online they may sell it separately--worth looking into.

Other product: JetBlue. Jeez, living here in NorthWest land, we don't get many of the fine independent airlines, since NorthWest has a lockhold on all the gates at the airport. Allegedly. But I flew across country with my sister and it was totally painless flight. The seats were larger than I am used to and very comfortable. There was ample legroom: when the person in front of me tilted back the seat, it made no difference to my comfort. Plus, each seat has a small television screen--which is adjustable! There are probably 20+ channels to choose from, plus pay-per-view. When the person in front of me tilted back the seat, I just adjusted the angle of the tv screen and hey presto! Viewing optimized!

Plus, the crew were the nicest and most friendly I have ever experienced. Before the doors even closed, they made an announcement that they had headsets available. (For the audio on your tv of course!) "The headsets are free, but if you wait until we are in the air, they will be $10." The microphone clicked off and we were left to ponder that statement. Click. "Just kidding." Click.

The plane was small, and with the larger seats, the aisle was narrower, which led to being brushed by people going up and down (I had an aisle seat), but that was a sacrifice I was happy to make for the added comfort on a 5 hour flight.

A product that we do need? A "Do Not Disturb" sign for airplane passengers. It didn't happen to me on this trip, but there have been plenty of flights where the attendants have been insistent on asking if you wanted your bag of peanuts, and being asleep was not considered evidence that you would prefer to pass.

More products as I fall in love with them.

Boobies!

Yes, it's immature, but I hear it increases hits through Google.

But really, let's talk about boobies. You may not know this, but it appears that May is National Breast Cancer Awareness** month, a/k/a Oh My God Everything Is Pink! month. In a clever and fabulous bit of Deeply Committed and Relevant marketing, Macy's offered Fit For The Cure. It was a free bra fitting, with some amount donated to Susan Komen Foundation for each bra purchased.

So, I went. Because after spending a week with my sister last week, we discussed the importance of having a properly fitted bra, and I realized that I probably should get fitted. Plus, a member of my family is now 2 years post surgery for breast cancer, so it's a cause I can support.

Then, after buying myself three! new bras, I also made an appointment for a mammogram. Boy, there's an activity that takes all the mystique out of breasts. So I won't spoil anybody's fantasy by describing it in detail, but I gotta tell you, the girls are glad they only have to do that once a year. Spa treatment it is not.

Which might be a good idea, right? I mean, I got my teeth cleaned this week (Yes! May is apparently also See All Your Health Care Providers month as well.) And while it wasn't bad, wouldn't it have been more appealing if it came with a foot massage and polish change? Or a paraffin dip and warm towel for the hands? Maybe some mood lighting, aromatherapy? Wouldn't you be more willing to go twice a year if when they tilted you back, they put warm rocks on the chakras?

Hey, it's a new concept in health care--pamper yourself with good health. But I don't think there is much they could do with mammograms.

**Actually, according to this site, October is actually National Breast Cancer Awareness month, but here we have all kinds of breast cancer awareness stuff centered around Mother's Day, which makes more sense. But nobody ever asks me.

Great Cities

So, right now I am in Washington DC visiting with my sister. It was a sudden decision, but it is working out beautifully. Sadly, the Fabulous Babe is working most of the week, so I'm here sharing a hotel room and doing my own thing.

Today I went to the Phillips Collection, and lovely little museum of modern art, "modern" meaning about 1870-1940. Duncan and Marjorie Phillips collected art together, and in about 1930 turned their lovely Dupont Circle mansion in to a museum. Today the house, along with a more recently added annex, house the collection, which is amazing. It has a little bit of everybody you've ever heard of: Ingres, Delacroix, Degas, Manet, Daumier, Van Gogh, Kandinsky, Calder, Cassatt, Bonnard, O'Keefe, Steiglitz Rothko--seriously, just about everybody.

The most famous work in the collection is Renoir's Luncheon of the Boating Party, which is still charming and delightful. It is currently in a gallery with two Van Goghs and two Bonnards, which is more riches than you can imagine. Although the Renoir is the largest and most famous, today I was hungry for color, so I found the Van Gogh more compelling. (Entrance to the Public Park at Arles, for those of you interested.)

So today, my favorite picture was one that I didn't even know was there: The Artist's Studio by Raoul Dufy. It is just about as huge as the Boating Party, and is hanging in a stairway between the two floors of the original Phillips mansion. So I came upon it bit by bit as I was walking up the stairs. Really, it is ridiculous that it is there--a tall person would probably hit it with a shoulder or something. Best of all, though, is that there is a balcony at the top of the stairs, so you can step back a bit to see the whole thing at eye height.

What a delightful picture! I only discovered Dufy a few years ago when I ran across a calendar of his art. There is such lovely and bright color, and whimsical lines to convey a loose and light approach to the subject matter. No wind toss'd seas, no sinking ships, no violent allegory or political protest. Just the studio where he worked for 42 years, with some of his recognizable painting, a peek at a Paris street, and a sense of airy and spacious light.

Sometimes, I wonder what it would be like to be rich. I think I wouldn't be an inspiration to anybody--but maybe I could do this. I could collect art and turn my house into a museum. Cool, right?

In Which I Take Notice Of The Larger World Around Me

I am learning some things about myself these days, and one of the things I am learning is that I have a large Inner Bitch. Now, I don't let that IB out very often, because in addition to having the Inner Bitch, I am also a Professional Good Girl. I am a Compromiser who always Tries To See The Other Person's Viewpoint. Pathetically, I am so good at seeing that other viewpoint that I fail to see my own.

Today, though, I am seeing some point to my Inner Bitch--and it's a good one. Because when I listen to my Inner Bitch, I can process those feeling and then move on to something that is better and more noble and I can feel proud of myself, rather than simply being worried that the muzzle on the Inner Bitch might snap.

So, I happened to see some of the Today show today, and they were airing footage from Virginia Tech. Today was the first day of classes after the terrible shootings of last week. Because television is primarily a visual medium, we were treated to several lingering moments of college girls sobbing. And the Inner Bitch let out a howl.

IB: Because, you know, 32 people dead at a school in America is a national tragedy that we spend a week obsessing over and wringing our hands over and we need to know all the names of all the victims and when all their viewings and funerals are because IT'S NOT LIKE WE ARE IN A WAR AND KILLING 3 TO 4 TIMES THAT MANY PEOPLE EVERY DAY IN IRAQ!

Good Girl wades in to calm the situation: Now, be fair. Just because they are showing this doesn't mean that they aren't also covering the war. This is important too.

IB: You mean that American lives are more important to the viewers than Iraqi lives, don't you?

GG: No, I don't. I just think that. . .

IB: Because Americans are dying in Iraq too. And we DON'T see a week's worth of responses to their deaths, with the information about their viewings and funerals. Because if we reacted to their deaths the same way, we'd be responsible for doing something to end this war. . .

IB and GG: . . .which is really the reason I am so crabby about this. Not that the VT situation is being overly dramatized, but because the war is NOT. And those deaths are just as sudden and just as tragic and just as important. . .and there are MORE of them with no end in sight. The Virginia Tech shooter took his own life and ended the killing. What about Iraq?

And that's the real question, for me. If I don't listen to the Inner Bitch, I am left with a cynical, jaded and basically snotting feeling of contempt and superiority that I try to squelch. Somewhere in my head a voice is saying "Why are those kids crying--they should just suck it up because their loss is nothing compared to war losses in Iraq." And there I sit, judging those poor sad and scared kids harshly, and feeling like a shit about it.

But, when I let my guard down and listen to the whole of what my Inner Bitch is trying to say, I hear that my anger sparks against those kids, but is really directed toward the larger injustice, and that raises my compassion for humanity all the way around.

Except toward the architects of the war in Iraq.

Maybe the theory needs more work.

Just A Little Off The Top And Sides

This, courtesy of MamaPop, is amazing. Celebrities' photographs, air brushed and altered into the images that we actually see. [Click on "Portfolio" at the top of the page.] Some of them are highly "adjusted"--People are skinnied up, re-proportioned, and given such a light and creamy skin tone that they actually look more like wax figures than actual wax figures do.

Sure, seeing that even professional photographs are heavily "edited" makes the world seem a little more fair. Except that Halle Berry looks just as good "before" as "after." Cate Blanchett is still incredibly compelling; she needs no retouching. Julia Stiles works that green gown, and her body isn't altered at all.

Here's an interesting one--Eva Longoria in black lingerie. The retouching narrowed her waist, lifted her boobs, and rounded her thighs to look more curvy! No wonder we don't look like the women in the magazines--we don't get to distort reality nearly enough!

Tapas

Yes! You are about to be treated to a meal, as it were, of random thoughts which by themselves would not make up a blog post, but by being attractively served on a collection of tiny little plates and bowls, creates a festive and nutritious and wholly worthy entry. Or entree. (See! How I did that! Made a joke while maintaining the metaphor.)

I was going to title this entry "Leftovers," but my little metaphor got me carried away and thinking that I should upgrade my self-image.

So, here goes:

You Know You Have The Right Dog When. . .

You are driving down your block, and see a really cute dog out for a walk, and then realize it's your kids taking your dog for his walk. (Freudians and psychology majors can make a meal here, by analyzing why I recognized my pet before I recognized my very own offspring.)

And It Rains After You Wash Your Car
So, spring has been sidling up to Minnesota over the last couple of weeks. The very bravest of little buds have started to show up on the sunny side of the trees. It was reportedly 81 degrees (that's Farenheit!) here two weeks ago, although I don't know that myself, as I was in San Francisco that week.

So, yesterday, I happened to look at some shoes. I do enjoy shoes, as Mr. Sweetie would probably confirm with a heavy sigh and exaggerated eye roll. I could write more about the nature of my shoe habit, the size and composition of my collection. . .but I will spare you that.

I will just say, I found some really cool two-inch Mary Jane mules, and bought them on a whim. I wore them yesterday, and they were awesome. Really comfortable, secure on my feet, and I felt like da bomb in them.

So of course it snowed today.

More Snow Whining

Mr. Sweetie is travelling today, to Orlando. The day it snows here--in April!--and he is off on a business trip to Florida. Do we call that dodging a bullet? Can we create (and then play on to our advantage) some guilt about leaving me to handle the weather while he jets away?

Nah. Not this time. I save that for when I want something expensive!

Manicure Mistiming

I got a manicure--about three weeks ago now, before I went on all those family trips. The color came off after a few days, but my nails! They had been pretty short and they just kept growing! In this healthy and nicely shaped way! And yesterday, I noticed that they were getting pretty long and I should probably get another manicure to keep them looking nice.

You guessed it. I chipped one pretty short. But that was nothing to the one that ripped off as I was putting wet laundry into the dryer. The manicure will have to wait until that nail grows long enough to even have the white part.

And The Worst Of It Is That It Was Me Being The Idiot

The really poignant part of the story--if you are sentimental like that, that is--is that I noticed I needed a manicure, and I had time to get one, and. . .I had lost my credit card.

Ordinarily, this wouldn't be a big problem--why not use cash? Or a check? But I had also lost my drivers license with the credit card, so I couldn't provide any identification, and the lost credit card was my ATM card. Sure, there were probably other solutions, but I needed to find that credit card. I had a specific recollection of pulling out my license and my card at the grocery. I remembered putting them into the back pocket of my jeans. They weren't there. So, I looked everywhere--my wallet, my purse, my jacket, my car, my dresser, my dresser drawer, the pockets of all my jeans, the pockets of the jeans that were in the laundry. I even did the laundry so I would be sure to find all my jeans pockets. I dug the grocery bags out of the recycling bin to see if I had dropped them in with the food. No where.

It was dinnertime when I finally found them, hiding under the grocery list. But by then, of course, it was too late, as the nails had [see above].

Personal Business News

I got notified by a couple of friends yesterday that my old law firm was closing down. They announced they would close the doors and dissolve by the end of the month. It's amazing how sad that makes me.

I had some really good times there, before my kids were born and before I was whacked by depression. I enjoyed the people, I enjoyed the work, and I was good at it too. After I left, the firm grew bigger and added more practice groups, and outgrew their space and moved into a different building, where they were going to be the anchor tenants. And now this.

I had two unworthy thoughts, which I will share with you, internets. You won't tell anybody, will you?

1. How odd--the bookclub that I started with some other lawyers while we were at that firm, has outlasted the firm.

2. All those dreams I have had over the years, where I went back to work there, because they really needed me? Especially the one where they couldn't afford to turn on the overhead lights, but they knew bringing me back would change everything? Could I have been right?

But I hope not, since if dreams are premonitions, I'm in for years and years of bosses walking in on me on the toilet. And losing all my teeth.

Easter Bunnies

So, Easter kind of snuck up on me--in that our vacation went until Palm Sunday, and what with getting home and unpacked and back into school routines and dog routines and regular life, I suddenly realized that I was going to be on call to pull off a holiday.

(Incidentally, the hardest part of coming back from vacation? The fact that the Nice Person doesn't take the plates away after you are finished with them and make them disappear. No, once you are at home, YOU have to do the dishes.)

I remembered by Saturday, however, and had time to pick up brunch ingredients, Easter candy and a couple of cool books for presents. Easter Chez Evil is traditionally an Easter egg hunt, with little candies in plastic eggs, and little gifts or coins, and sometimes a slip of paper with a gift for [your name here].

So, Mr. Sweetie and the kidlets had been packed off to church, the cinnamon rolls and turkey medallions were coming along nicely in the oven, and. . . .

I couldn't find the Easter eggs. I bought eggs about, oh, eleven years ago? And had some old baskets that we used each year? And I usually put the whole shebang (there's a word you don't here often any more) into a box that I store in the basement. This year? No box. Couldn't find it anywhere.

So, church is over, family is returning to brunch and egg hunt, they think, and I have no plastic eggs. Quick! It's Captain Internet! Boy, am I glad to see you! Can you tell me if there are any stores open on Easter morning where I can quick get some plastic eggs?

Cape flowing with the speed of typing, Captain Internet scans the websites of the likely candidates. Alas! The vestiges of Blue Laws mean that in the multi-cultural 21st Century, where on ordinary days a noticeable percentage of the staff in retail is Muslim. . .everything is closed for Easter.

So, in the end, I wrapped up the gifts and notes in Kleenex (TM) and hid them around. I took 10 pieces of each of 3 kinds of candy and hid that--so we would know when it was all found. I had a single basket, which the kidlets shared. And you know what? They thought it was cool. They liked the gifts, we had a tasty brunch, and all was well.

But you can bet your ass that I was at Target before 8:30 this morning buying plastic eggs for next year.

Deathly Hallows Cover Art

Okay, while we here at Chez Evil were filling our brains with early American history last week, Bloomsbury and Scholastic released the cover art for the last Harry Potter book. You would have thought that such information would have penetrated even our 18th Century bubble, but alas, no. It did not. So now I am terribly, hopelessly behind.

However, just because I am late doesn't mean I would deprive you of my thoughts on what this all means, right? Right.

I'd like to start with the UK children's cover, as it has the more interesting art to examine. Bloomsbury has a great site where you can see the image in close detail with high resolution here.

On the front, we see Harry, Ron and Hermione hurtling into a treasure trove. They appear to be coming from the round portal behind them at great speed. Harry's left sleeve is torn and his arm bloodied. Hermione has blood on her right arm. Someone is riding Harry's back and brandishing a sword with a ruby in the hilt. Ron seems to be frightened by something he sees to his right. Harry and Hermione are landing head first, Ron is arriving feet first.

So, let's take the easy parts. I'm pretty certain that is Dobby on Harry's back, carrying Godric Gryffindor's sword. Harry used that sword against the basilisk in Chamber of Secrets, which is also the book where we met Dobby. Notice the large ears and the bald head visible over Harry's shoulder. They are all falling into a pile of treasure, which is primarily red (rubies) and gold--the colors of Gryffindor house. There is also a suit of armor, with what looks like a Phoenix on the chest and a dragon (and a ruby) on the helmet. Harry and Hermione have been in some sort of fight, thus the injuries and probably the presence of Dobby. (Remember, house elves have powerful magic, and Dobby would do anything for Harry.)

It looks to me like the trio has either fallen down a slide and out of the round portal (like the entry into the Chamber of Secrets) or has been transported by portkey and are landing hard--they haven't yet learned how to land any better than they did while travelling to the World Quidditch Cup in Goblet of Fire. Given the presence of armor, a sword and the prevailing color scheme, I'm thinking this is Godric Gryffindor's personal treasure. Perhaps it is even in Gringotts?

Harry is wearing his black robes, but Hermione and Ron have colored, possibly dress, robes on. Perhaps they are members of the wedding party for Bill and Fleur's wedding? Hermione's robe is blue-ish--which makes me think of her Ravenclaw abilities, and Ron's green robes make me fear that he has become angry enough about what he sees as his second-rate status, and may have done something to betray Harry. Thus, the Slytherin green robes, and his lack of injury.

On the back, is a picture of Hogwarts, glowing silver in the moonlight, with a welcoming golden light shining from the front doors. Even though Harry has said he wouldn't return, I think at least part of the book is going to have to happen there--after all, some of the items Voldemort wanted to use as horcruxes are still there, right? Also, as of the end of book 6, Gryffindor's sword was still in the Headmaster's office. Hogwarts will likely re-open then, which wasn't clear at the end of the last book.

The back cover shows a full moon, and what I think is the Whomping Willow. The end of the series will rely somewhat on what happened in the previous generation--Remus Lupin, the werewolf, and the secret path to the Shrieking Shack that is still guarded by the Whomping Willow. Harry's patronus, the stag, is depicted on the front flap--again, a reference to his father, and the generation that started the story. It also implies we will see Dementors again--they have joined Voldemort's side, and the patronus is Harry's defense again them.

Finally, and curiously, there is a long snake depicted inside a crystal sphere. Slytherin's symbol was a snake; Tom Riddle controlled the snake-like basilisk; Voldemort has Nagini; the Death Eater's symbol is a skull with a snake for a tongue. The crystal looks like the prophesies in the Department of Mysteries. Dumbledore thought Nagini might be a horcrux--at any rate, in order to confront Voldemort, Harry will have to get past the snake.

The UK adult cover is a silver locket, with an elaborately engraved "S" picked out in emeralds. I think this is Salazar Slytherin's locket, which was not found in the cave in book 6, and will be one of the horcruxes that must be found and destroyed.

The US cover is less detailed and gives fewer clues. (Click on the link, then click on the image for an expanded hi-res picture.) Harry and Voldemort are in a sort of Coliseum, with a distant ring of dark figures around them. Are they Death Eaters--a reprise of the graveyard scene of Book 4? Both Harry and Voldemort have one hand in the air--neither is carrying a wand, and they both seem focussed on the same object, which is off the page. Their hands are held slightly differently, as though Harry might be calling the object or trying to catch it, and Voldemort is trying to stop its arrival. Harry has a pouch around his neck, and there is rock and wood rubble in front of them.

We know, from Rowling's interviews, that the two-way communicating mirror Sirius gave to Harry in book 4 is going to make a reappearance--for some reason, that's the first thing I thought of when I saw the pouch. With his hand up, and his eyes looking to the sky, Harry seems to be repeating his actions when he "Accio"-ed his broomstick, or the many times he captured the Golden Snitch. If Harry is looking to catch something from the sky, I for one would put my money on him getting it.

What do we know for certain from these covers? The trio will stay together, either at Hogwarts or not. Harry will confront Voldemort one-on-one--alone.

I can hardly wait.

Coincidence? You Be The Judge

So, after posting a fairly long entry about how modern society drives family life to the margins, I found an article by Barbara Ehrenreich (via Sweetney) titled "How We Learned To Stop Having Fun."

In this article, Ehrenreich traces the rise in depression from the 1600s and couples it with the loss of social celebrations and festivals--a rise in the concept of "self" as separate from the community, coupled with the loss of "community celebrations" which allowed the individual to lose their terrible aloneness and enter into a larger communion.

Even the religions, she notes, had some form of ritual or approachable God where an individual might become part of a larger group. I found this statement worthwhile:

Not so with the Calvinist version of Protestantism. Instead of offering relief, Calvinism provided a metaphysical framework for depression: if you felt isolated, persecuted and possibly damned, this was because you actually were.

Back in law school, I remember have a couple of conversations with friends of other faiths about which type of guilt was the most damaging: Jewish guilt, Catholic guilt, or Protestant guilt. Jewish guilt was focused around disappointing your family, and having to leave with people disappointed in you--summed up nicely, I recall, by the following joke:

Q: How many Jewish mothers does it take to change a lightbulb?
A: Don't worry about me, I'll just sit here in the dark and not be a bother.

Catholic guilt was more widespread, but also absolvable. Yes, nearly everything is a sin, and will send you to hell, but you can go confess and it goes away. Sure, confession isn't easy, but there was an official way to get rid of your guilt and to not have to go to hell.

Protestant guilt was tricky. It was the devious product of circuitous thinking--a lose-lose proposition. Protestants were supposed to work hard, but the risk was being successful, because that was often the sign of inappropriate favor by the devil. This is why New England was such a great place for them: they could work very very hard at their farms, but the rocky soil made it certain that they weren't too successful however hard they worked.

Calvinism itself was logically flawed: if you were predestined to heaven or hell, then it didn't matter what you did in this life, right? So, as my Jewish friends pointed out, if you were predestined to heaven, you could enjoy yourself without worrying about what was going to happen to you. If you were predestined to hell, you had nothing to lose by enjoying yourself. So, logically, early New England should have been Party Central.

But trust the dour Northern Europeans to spoil this game--no, your status as predestined to heaven was supposedly apparent though your conduct, and failure to behave in a suitably saintly fashion convinced your neighbors that you were hell-bound, and thus you were likely to be shunned, exiled, or burned for a witch.

No wonder depression is about the 5th leading cause of death and disability in the world. We sure know how to make ourselves unhappy, don't we?

We Have Seen The 18th Century, And It Is Us

So, we are back from our time-warp family trip, in which we lived mostly in the 18th Century. We spent a week at Williamsburg, which was fabulous, and a day getting to and from and enjoying Monticello, which was also fabulous. For our week in Williamsburg, we didn't rent a car, and walked the mile from our hotel to the Historic Area, thus feeling even more in character. Bunny got herself a mob cap, which she wore most days, looking very fetching.

We dragged ourselves back into the 21st Century by staying in a High Art hotel in DC before flying back home. It did feel a bit like time travel, especially since we saw the "Treasures of American History" exhibit at the Smithsonian, where they displayed items from Ben Franklin's walking stick to Judy Garland's Ruby Slippers and Jackie Kennedy's Inaugural Ball Gown.

It's been a couple of decades since I'd been to the East Coast, and the most interesting change I noticed was the explicit acknowledgement of the non-English cultures: the indiginous Powhatan Indians, and the West African slaves. Jamestown does the most with the Powhatans, since by the time of Williamsburg, Independence, and Montecello, they had been driven out of the area. But Williamsburg and Montecello made serious efforts to show how the slaves lived, worked, and struggled with the promises and betrayals of the Revolutionary Era.

One of the recurrent messages that stuck with me was the recognition that the slaves not only worked hard for their masters, but after their work was done, they still needed to raise food and make clothing, cook, etc., for themselves, since the rations allotment was not adequate. Colonial Williamsburg is developing a "typical" 18th Century small Virginia farm to show how the large part of the population lived, which was not in the urban world of Williamsburg. There is a large field for tobacco, plus a kitchen garden for the whites, and another kitchen garden for the slaves. The slave garden is planted and tended only after the slaves have finished work for the day.

Yet, despite working unremittingly hard, the slave did have their own community, or family, or culture, which was necessarily limited because they only were able to engage in their own activities evenings, Sundays, and holidays. This is what struck me--the explicit recognition of how little time was allowed for slaves to do anything but work.

Now, I don't want to belittle the harshness and utter wrongness of slavery. It was not just that they worked long hours, but the types of work they did, the harsh conditions in which they lived, the essential indignity of being "owned" and thus powerless over their own lives, as well as the physical violence in their lives were appalling and not to be dismissed. But these aspects were not particularly emphasized in these places--there was a clear recognition that the lives of the Virginia Planters (the wealthiest ones, of course) was leisurely and full of time to consider abstract ideas like "independence" and "unalienable rights." These lives were made possible by the fact that the slaves did the work to maintain those lives.

There was palpable poignance, though, to the recognition that the slaves worked all day for their masters, and then were forced to work to feed and clothe themselves and only then were able to take time for their families and their own lives. Even the kindest and most generous of masters didn't change this basic rule of work during daylight hours, relegating family life to the few hours between work and sleep.

But wait. How much has that changed? Well, it probably hasn't for the poorest in our society. One change, though, is that some of the richest and most educated people also work from early morning to late evening, with family time squeezed into "evenings, Sundays and holidays." Mr. Sweetie told me this morning, that he has to work on Saturday morning--there is a meeting he needs to attend to prepare for a trip to California, and he leaves on Sunday evening. He got home from work after 8, and has worked later than that on a regular basis. He has to still feed himself, clothe himself, live his own life in those hours that aren't work.

When I was a practicing lawyer, I worked a lot of weekends, a lot of late nights. I remember a meeting where the younger lawyers realized that we needed a full-time wife, or mother, or housekeeper, or something, because there was no way to work as hard as we were working and still pick up our drycleaning. Somehow, we have managed to replicate a very difficult way of life, and worse than that, we do it voluntarily.

What leads us to do this? Is it some hardwired biological imperative to compete? Sure, only the strongest animals get to reproduce, but that's not true of humans. We even continue to compete even after having all the children we are going to have. Is it the remenants of religious belief, that we work hard now, but we'll have an eternity of heaven in which to lead our own lives? Is it just that we are trying to get the most stuff before we die, because that's how we keep score?

There is a modern parable about an American MBA on vacation in Mexico who meets a fisherman. The fisherman fishes long enough to meet his family's immediate needs, and spends the rest of his time playing cards with his friends, taking siestas with his wife, raising his children, and playing guitar on a hammock under the trees.

The MBA scoffs, and offers to help the fisherman redevelop his business model, hiring other men in other boats to do more fishing, developing supplier relationships with commercial food producers, issuing stock, placing an IPO and making millions. Why? So then he is rich, and can play cards with his friends, taking siestas with his wife, etc. etc.

The point being, of course, that you could work even harder and give yourself ulcers and anxiety, in order to get what you already have. Sure, there are lots of things overlooked in that parable (like what if the fisherman gets too old or sick to fish, and can't meet his needs anymore?), but there is something about that story that strikes me as perfectly perverse, and perfectly human--we seem to need to achieve just for the sake of working hard and achieving. Which might be commendable, but is that really all our lives are about?

Spring's Desolate Promise

It is April here in The North, and the Family Evil is just back from a week in Virginia. Spring has sprouted there: pansies fill flower beds, and the ubiquitous magnolias have bloomed. Magnolias are icons of the South, but they even grow up here. They are odd trees: they bloom large white and pink flowers before the leaves appear, and shed those blooms as well. Where we were, there were very few magnolia petals on the ground. When they do fall, they decompose quickly, emitting a dank perfume and making the ground slippery as ice.

Spring has started here as well. Through much of March, the temperatures here have matched those in San Francisco. The snow has all melted and the sharp bite of winter has disappeared from the air.

There is very little green here, yet. Some spikes of grass have pushed up, vividly verdant, mostly in sunny corners near brick walls, where the microclimate has run ahead by several weeks. Florists and grocery stores are selling baskets of spring bulb plants: crocus, daffodil, hyacinth--cheery pastels like Easter eggs for adults.

There is a rabbit who has huddled underneath the climbing tower in our backyard during the winter, he was there again today, looking tucked into himself for warmth. Because this is not San Francisco, or Virginia, and the temperatures have dropped back down below freezing again.

Out in the country, the fields are bare but neatly furrowed from last year's harvest. As the air warms up, the smell of warming fertilizer lifts off the black rows. A few bent stalks remain, broken and brown, looking all the more dead for lying against the rich soil.

In the city, flowerbeds are emerging as well. Edging markers--bricks, stones, black pipe--outline the space where the flowers will go. Nothing is in those beds yet, it is far too early. Groundhog's Day doesn't mean six more weeks of winter to us--it's nearly Easter and it's still six weeks before we can begin to feel safe from frost.

But some things are different and promising. After last summer's reconstruction of the roads and curbs, there are now new storm sewer drains, embossed with the silhouette of a loon, to remind us that these drain directly into the river. Where new concrete sidewalks were laid, you can find paw prints, names, shapes, and even the impression of bare feet that were set in before the cement hardened.

Nature is very brown, right now: dirt, dormant grass, leafless trees. But they are no longer covered in white, which means the promise of green spring.