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Due Date

Not July 3, which is my due date. But the movie with Robert Downey Jr. and Zach Galifianakis, which we watched last night.
I think the problem with my blog is that I have more thoughts than I have patience to write out. I have mentally written out a long review of this movie that examined how it made the father/son dynamic an unnatural relationship, or a naturally contentious one which requires the overcoming of one's instincts -- a lesson allegorized in RDJ's journey of disasters with ZG. In the end, though, those lessons become irrelevant since it turns out he has a girl, which the movie seems to imply is easier for a dad to relate to (not only does he get a daughter, but the pregnant mom goes into natural labor before her (unaccounted for) scheduled C-section appt. So the natural order is restored?).

The reason I was thinking about this movie for so long is because it put Dave in a bad mood -- it's a comedy of errors but without the absurd guffaws that made him love Dumb and Dumber. But I like the two of them, RDJ and ZG. One of my favorite jokes is ZG doing an impersonation of a 5-year old with a beard.

So -- this movie was keeping me occupied this morning (also, I just finished a draft of a chapter which I've vowed not to think about again for another couple of months, at least (please!) but now my brain is in academic mode and is apparently looking for any old thing to "examine"). Before that I'd been trying to put into words exactly how Dave and I have become crazy people. Or how having a kid has brought out the latent crazy in us. Not so much that we fuss over him or protect him from the dangers of non-existent mountain lions or the polio virus. But the way we go totally off the rails when our daily routine alters in the slightest -- like when we take a weekend trip to LA, for example, or when Desmond comes down with a cold, or when these things happen at once. It's not like we become raving lunatics. Exactly. I mean, we might become kind of raving lunatics, if there's such a thing.

This is what makes me the most worried about the entrance of baby number two. Desmond and Dave and I have a really nice routine going on -- we know what to do, how to live our days and even, mostly, handle tiny little glitches. But throwing that routine out the window is liable to . . . to cause something big to happen (too many big things have been going on recently for me to find an appropriate metaphor).

But this is only my irrational fear talking. Rationally, I realize that somehow Dave and I figured out Desmond -- and we had NO idea what we were getting ourselves into with that one. We got slapped in the face hard and look, everything's pretty much awesome (I brought Desmond into bed with me at 5:50AM this morning and when the digital clock read 6:00 Desmond said "Look! Two Oh's." He's a genius, that's the long and short of it). And, at least with this new one, I know it's going to be crazy -- but also it'll stop being crazy at some point. Even all the recent mothers-of-two I've been chatting with lately who've been warning how "really hard it is" to have two kids (two boys, especially) and whose warnings have sent me to my bedroom, biting fingernails, shooting my eyes back and forth, mumbling "it's not true it can't be true is it true?" -- even they can't really convince me that I'm in for a life of hair-pulling misery. Especially since most of them seem really happy.

Update: I just got back from a playgroup with one of the Cassandra-moms predicting my hellish future with two kids. It's so strange -- she's such a calm person with two really well behaved kids. Well, one of them is five months old, but he's not a cry-er. Just a feeder. But, man, she won't let up. Everything I bring up, she replies -- in her calm, thoughtful voice -- with a story about how really difficult it is to manage her two children. Even when I try offering her an escape route from all the difficulty by asking if she feels less anxious about her second child and more apt to let him cry things out than she was with her first -- her reply is still a bummer: "Well, kind of, but only because my first son doesn't really give me the time or energy to allow me to pay attention to my second son. It's just so hard." Great.

Much has been thought

These last two months have seen me up in the middle of several nights thinking things over. I thought out a very long blog entry about Betty Draper and the questions she raises about Mad Men's views on motherhood (she's the only fully present mother on the show, and she's barely that) and middle-class suburban femininity. But it was such a long, and probably tedious, entry that I couldn't bring myself to actually write it out.

I've also been -- okay worrying about everything. Libya, Japan, baby number two. Mostly baby number two. What will he be called? How will Desmond take to him? How am I going to manage without sleep again? What if he's colicky? Thanks to a recommended amnio (cause I'm so old), I am fully reassured that baby number two is genetically sound.

On top of these worries, Desmond has entered a phase that is full of energy and aggression -- most of it expressed by random screaming and then a burst of short angry tears, usually caused by nothing at all but sometimes triggered by my attempts to get him to pick things up he'd rather leave be. Mostly, I'm not really worried about it, I just try to think of ways for him to playfully expel his energy/aggression (like by not spending too much of my time on the computer, ahem). But sometimes, like on Tuesday, when our biorhythms aren't aligned, there is screaming on both ends. I try not to feel bad about that either -- I mean, I can't be smiling mother all the time, reasoning with a two year old with a calm voice. Right? I ask seriously . . . I can't, can I?

But I'm hoping this super-aggressivity will pass before July 3 or thereabouts when baby number two arrives.

Some more stuff I think about in the middle of the night

I just read Amy Poehler's list of sad movies on the Daily Beast and it got me picking my own. In the middle of the night. But I realized that I can't think of any sad movies I've seen recently, or at least of any movies that made me cry. Which is weird, because I feel like that's all I do is tear up. But recently, it's the snippets Oprah that I catch, or radiolab stories, or articles on Gifford's recovery that have been getting to me. So my list of sad movies seem to hover around titles that were released when I was in my late teens to mid-twenties. It must be admitted that I've become a big wuss and refuse to see things I know will make me cry. I still haven't seen "Boys don't Cry." Cause I'm not a boy, I guess.
Anyway, here's what I came up with. In the middle of the night.
> A Heart in Winter -- This is a super stereotypical French film with little dialogue and a lot of non sequitur shots of beautiful things that symbolize sad things. But for some reason it's one of the first movies that launched me into the realm of the sadness of adult sexuality. I think I watched it three times in a row when I was seventeen and I doubt I really understood what was really going on. It's about two classical musicians -- a cellist and a violinist, maybe -- who have a sexy affair. But it doesn't work out for some reason I don't remember. Because of Daniel Auteil's cold heart? Whatever happens in this movie, it made me really sad to realize at the time. (And thinking about this movie made me remember "Damage" with Jeremy Irons and Juliette Binoche -- which is not a sad movie, but came out about the same time and revealed how fucked up adults are.)
> Persuasion -- The saddest Austen book. A middle-aged spinster (she must be closing in on 28 years old) runs into an old love who she rejected a million years ago because she thought she was such hot shit. But really he was the One (played by a dashing Ciaran Hinds. Don't ask me to pronounce it). He's learned to get over her and is now into some bubbly young thing, which breaks her heart. The end.
> The Piano Teacher -- My mom's a piano teacher and when I was watching this movie I was thinking, "Oh no! She's probably seen this. Oh no!" I called her up and asked and she said "Yes! But what is wrong with that woman? The music was so beautiful." This movie is more disturbing than sad. In fact it's not sad at all, unless you take many steps back and think, "Wow, I would not want to be this woman [Isabelle Hupert]. She's a sad, fucked up lady." But I just really like it and think about it from time to time. Does she get what she wants at the end -- provoking her love-interest until he "gives her what she asks for"? Or is his violence a cowardly admission of his inability to enter into a true, if messed up, relationship? And what was the very end all about? I dunno.
> Billy Elliot -- Cause I cried a lot and didn't mind so much about it. This seemed to come at the end of a string of UK movies that revolved around the working class plight during the Thatcher era. But the only other one I can remember is "The Full Monty." And some other weird one with Ewan MacGregor in a marching band.
> And then finally two movies from Down Under that made me cry more than I've ever cried before. "Heavenly Creatures" and "Shine." I missed the first couple of minutes of "Heavenly Creatures" during which, apparently, we are informed that the daughter brutally murders the mother. So when, after an hour and a half of watching how much the mother loves her daughter, how worried she is about her well-being and behavior, she is brutally murdered in the end, I was shattered. I remember sitting in the theater crying my eyes out while my friends were waiting near the exit for me to finish. Embarrassing.
And "Shine." Come on. Probably the least sympathetic portrayal of a holocaust survivor ever. I saw this movie by myself -- which gives my tears more freedom to flow -- and had to tell my friend about it the next day, which made me cry again. I think, with both these movies, it's the being misunderstood and persecuted theme that gets me. So, don't persecute the innocent people, it's the moral of my movie watching.
(I have to reluctantly include "Dancer in the Dark" here because it destroyed me but also made me hate Lars van Trier and decide he was a sadist who hated women. He takes the theme of persecuting the innocent to a whole new -- and perverse and stupid -- level.)
(Oh! And "13 Going on 30" made me cry. But I was in an airplane at the time.)

Things I think about in the middle of the night after Desmond wakes me up

Maybe, after I finally finish my dissertation, I should go back to school to get an MA in something useful so that I can get a real job.
Sarah Palin is the perfect woman -- she is both an inspiration for conservatives around the country and offers the rest of us a woman to hate without guilt. And that we couldn't really hate Hillary without guilt since she has all that talent, experience, and intelligence. Not a perfect woman.
In the dream I had before Desmond woke me up, I was thinking the name "Ellas" was a great girl's name -- but my waking mind changed it to "Ellis." Ellis Lushbaugh, though, is kind of a disaster. My dream also came up with "Maxine." Which was weird.
The rest of the night I spent trying to position my head in a way to keep my nose from running.

Yoga in the Evening, Yoga in the Morning

I joined Groupon to see what it was all about around the same time I was wanting to start doing yoga somewhere but decided it was too expensive. Then Groupon offered a $30 for 10 classes deal at a Bikram yoga joint in Elk Grove -- about a twenty minute drive from me. Twenty minutes became 45 minutes during rush hour and I came in late and already sweaty.

Dude, Bikram yoga is crazy. It's stinky, super duper sweaty, and not at all relaxing. Actually, when I finally left, I really did feel clean. Stinky, sticky but oddly clean.

The yoga instructor stands up front, near a yoga mat which I'm guessing she brings as a prop that's supposed to remind us that she is in fact a yoga instructor and not the tankini-clad drill instructor we could mistake her for -- she didn't step on her mat once since she was too busy spitting instructions at us, while sweating, to manage a pose. Bikram yoga is all about holding poses in 100 degree temperature. No downward dog or warrior one or child's pose. Either you're lying on your back in "corpse pose" or you're twisted around yourself like a mangled, and sweating, corpse trying to concentrate on not falling or passing out but finding it difficult because the instructor won't stop spitting out instructions -- "hold the pose don't look down look in the mirror look at your eyes never close your eyes breathe it's okay if you feel dizzy this is normal hold the pose hold the pose" she claps loudly "now bend your knees lie down with your palms up in corpse pose keep your eyes open never close your eyes breathe" -- as if what we're doing is not actually standing awkwardly still but giddily square dancing, in a smelly, sweaty barn. It was the longest 90 minutes of my life. It was seriously ten minutes until the end of class for about a half an hour.

The next morning I decided to finally check out the free yoga class that's offered at McKinley Park, two blocks away from our house. I've seen them all summer, but never really cared one way or the other to join them. But I went and, relief, this is the kind of yoga I remember. A calm voice telling me to unite with my heart, to feel myself rooted to the earth, to sense my breath flowing through my movement as we go from downward dog to warrior one and two and triangle. Then the yoga earth mother stopped our flow to ask if we wanted to learn to stand on our heads, asked for a volunteer, praised our volunteer, and then reprimanded a head-standing non-volunteer for not showing our volunteer ample respect and attention and reminded us all to direct our love toward those who put themselves out there. Weird. But then we got back to yoga and doing way too many planks for my liking.

In the end, it's been a good yoga weekend for me. My arms are sore from planking and my body may be (or may not be, who knows) detoxified thanks to sweat lodge pose-holding. And, because of the crazy Groupon deal, I have to see this Bikram thing through until the end. Nine more classes.

Desmond must be socialized.

Not really. I just thought that he might enjoy hanging out with littler people and that spending all day with me -- at home, at the playground, at the grocery store, at Ikea -- has got to be dull dull dull. So he had his first half-day of daycare on Tuesday. It went well with only a few minor tears. Today, day two, was a little more dramatic. We walk over to daycare (it's down the block from our house) and I sit and chat with Miss Teacher while Desmond is glued to the screen door. I say "bye" to Desmond. And Desmond says "bye" to all the kids in daycare, cause that's what polite kids do when they leave. Poor kid.

I texted Miss Teacher and learned he was bribed into tearlessness by a cookie.


And then I got a text around 10 AM that Desmond fell asleep. Turns out, he decided he wanted to play trucks by himself so he shut the play room door in Miss Teacher's face, who thought she'd let him decompress for a little bit. When she checked up on him two minutes later, he was playing trucks. Two minutes after that he was asleep on the trucks. He's kind of like an opossum, you see. He uses sleep to throw predators off his scent.

Miss Teacher warned me that things would get worse before they got better, especially since he's only going twice a week. She recommended I be firm with him when dropping him off -- no anxiety or sad faces. And also, to stop by with him on odd days just to hang out and play for a little.

Yes, I can do these things. I have to get over a little of my guilt. I mean, there's no practical reason why he has to go to daycare. It gives me a little time to work on my dissertation, but I did without it last year and managed to finish a chapter. The idea is, though, that he'll be out in the world -- listening to other adults and other kids without mommy hovering behind him. And I'm a bit of a hovercraft. When we came home today -- aside from not getting a full nap -- he wouldn't let me out of his sight. I went to grab some of his books from the other room and he was afraid I was gone for good. A world without mom has to be a survivable place for him, right?

Study shop

The study, in middle-class Victorian homes, was meant to serve as a masculine retreat from the femininity of the domestic domain. Lined with books and piled with documents, the study was dampened from the din of a bustling home and marked a calm center amid a perceived chaos. Virginia Woolf remembers her father's study as a sacred place at the top of their home on Hyde Park Gate that served as the seat of paternal intellect: "Downstairs there was pure convention: upstairs pure intellect." The study defined itself on the absence of physical labor. It was a space of scholarly pursuits, where the mind rather than the body worked. In contrast to the space outside -- at the height of the Industrial Revolution -- where the laboring body kept the Empire running, the study offered a fantasy image of man as pure mind.

Now that we're all through with manufacturing and physical labor in the work place, tied to a desk pushing papers -- or that's what they tell me at least -- it is the shop rather than the study that fulfills a masculine fantasy. To work with one's hands and create an object from scratch seems to shut out domestic noise as efficiently as books and paper and offers a different kind of retreat from a different kind of laboring world. In an economy in which what is exchanged is no longer money for labor but money for debt -- or debt for debt, something like that -- the specter-ized body finds a home in the home, or in the factory inside the home.

All of which is said not to dissuade *anybody* from entering his/her shop. But just to put some noted malaise into a context -- my context of choice.

Tennis, Playgroups, French.

It's US Open season, and I'm tennis'ed out. The internet is providing me with free coverage, all day long. Bonkers.
In between matches, I grade papers, play trains, knit, feel allergic to stuff, think.
I've been going to a new playgroup with Desmond. A woman who used to live across the street from me moved a couple of blocks away and has a son about Desmond's age. She kept inviting us over, but I was hesitant. Her son signs -- "all the kids sign." And, since Desmond is more of a pointer than a signer, I wasn't sure if he'd be accepted. Of course I mean if I'd be accepted -- but since I'm not the one playing or signing who the fuck cares, frankly? So we went, and Desmond loves it. Calder (the boy's house) has tons of things with wheels. And since they're not his own toys, Desmond spends hours wheeling around the backyard, not minding me a bit.
And I met a fellow dissertation mommy. From Missouri, no less! She is/was working on her PhD from the Sorbonne in French Lit, with Cixous's daughter as her diss advisor. And she's writing on space. Me too! But she's writing her's in French. No thanks. I'll just have a baguette, please, sans diss-written-in-French.
Desmond here is playing with wooden clogs at a friend's family's cabin in the Ozarks. Like most summer days in Missouri, it was very humid that day -- in fact, we just got caught in a thunderstorm.

Some Summer Thoughts in Sacramento

I want to open a bookstore. I have no idea how to run a business or start a business. But I do love, on my walks with Desmond, letting my mind wander thinking about what the store will look like, the kinds of books we'd sell, how I'd offer ESL classes in the back, and host monthly lectures for a "Free University" series. It'd be called "Watershed Books" and we'd sell books on "art, culture and politics" A hipster kind of bookstore, with fancy art books, and pompous cultural studies books, and some poetry and fiction. But, more than a store that sells books -- cause who needs to buy books at a store? -- it'd be a kind of community space to meet like-minded people and see what they're reading. Dave said some sort of web format is imperative, which is a frightening but practical idea.

I'm also not thinking about the last chapter of my dissertation. Worrisome.

But I do think about all the babies my friends are having or are about to have. About how sadly far away they are. Once friends have babies it should be mandatory -- a federal law -- that they all move within a 50 mile radius of one another. Why isn't that a law yet?

Six Months Later . . .

The washer is running.
NPR is informing.
Curious George is oo-oo-ah-ahing.
I am typing.
Mad Men is downloading.
The electricity is working.

Year One

We had a birthday party for Desmond, because he turned one!
If I were to guess how old he was based on how many years I've aged since he was born or how many pounds I've lost I'd guess he's anywhere between ten years to two weeks old. But, in fact, he's one year old. So my parents and brother flew out from St. Louis and we threw a party at my sister-in-law's.
I think I may never host a one-year-old birthday party again, to preface. If Desmond were to ever have a sibling, s/he's already doomed. Or saved -- because it didn't seem like Desmond was having the best time of his life (that would be the day Dave flailed around the living room pretending to be a gorilla).
But I'd been planning this for months: a simple-to-make but hearty lunch menu of bbq brisket and baked beans (actually, the brisket wasn't that easy and was SUPER expensive. but also very delicious); a guest list that was generous but realistic; a cute photo-postcard invitation, specifying NO PRESENTS (Dave has a fear of plastic overload), but secretly knowing they would come; and, most importantly, the completion of a dissertation chapter to allow for a greater ease of socializing.
And it all turned out fine -- not everyone showed, which was a relief, but enough to make it seem like a party. Desmond, apparently, isn't fond of the limelight. But he was offered several supervised "be-alone" trips outside to calm his fragile nerves. And my mother likes to put things under my nose to look at when I already have quite enough under there to keep my attention. And my dad likes to do things slowly when things, for some reason I've concocted, must be done faster. Honestly, I was a perspiring, nervously-smiling, frosting-smeared mess by the end of the three hours.
But . . . I'm glad I did it . . . ? No, I am. It was fun and I got to see folks I haven't in a while, and come out as the mess I really am.

She's Alive!

I went to two -- TWO -- social events last week. After months of solitary confinement, I left my apartment after sunset and chatted with people over food and drinks.
Event #1
The Stroller Strides Christmas Party.
I've been attending this work out group for several months now -- not that you'd be able to tell, because I think I've lost exactly no pounds since giving birth. Nor have I really gotten to know any of the ladies. I get shy (*awww*). And also, it takes me a while to remember what people outside of university campuses talk about for fun. These work-out-mommies are all really nice. And I could care less if they've never heard of Lacan or chuckled over Tristram Shandy. But they don't watch Mad Men!?! And they don't think Liz Lemon is hilarious. I don't get it. So -- I've been keeping the chit-chat limited to the subject of how cute Desmond is. And he gives us so much to talk about, cause he's so darned cute. See? But the Christmas Party was real swell. I was a little anxious about it, and I'm never brave enough not to feel shy. But there was some good chatting going on -- mostly about babies. But also about other things. Check plus!

Event #2
Christmas Party hosted by a geologist at David's work
Dave was waffling on this one, he being 100X shyer than myself. But the host of the party had been really supportive of David and pushed for him to get a promotion. And I have a suspicion that Dave was getting a little sick of being the hermit-father, though I'm sure he'd deny it. So, at the last moment, Dave asked his dad if he wouldn't mind watching Desmond. And we used that free night to hang out with 50-year old, frizzy-haired state geologists. But it was nice. I talked with a young mother of three, the wife of an engineer. And Dave met people in his department. It wasn't a barn-burner -- and I slept like poop that night -- but it was nice.

How to Decorate a Dining Room

We moved baby Desmond to his own room a couple of weeks ago. Rather than putting him down to sleep in the dining room area -- which lies between the front living room and the hallway leading to the kitchen and back bedroom -- we housed his crib and new dresser in the back. This gave us the nighttime freedom to make noisy kitchen sounds and move from watching TV to grabbing an unneeded snack with ease.

The problem is -- Desmond is not a sound sleeper, and he's an early and exuberant riser. The back bedroom shares a wall with our very friendly neighbors who appreciate our concern but, I'm sure, would much prefer a full night's sleep (wouldn't we all). We've tried our best to sound-proof the room. I spent $60 at Joann's fabrics to make padded fabric wall panels, and Dave draped the room in blankets. But sounds still echo.

I don't think Desmond is sleeping any worse back there. But we are. Every little peep gets me out of bed to readjust and pacify for fear that louder noises are afoot, liable to wake the neighbors. And rather than letting him babble and moan when he wakes up at 5AM so that he'll learn to get up at the proper and just plain reasonable 6AM, I rush in to grab him and bring him to bed with us. This, apparently, is a delight to him -- but doesn't give us that much-needed extra hour.

The whole move has been the cause of early morning arguments. I want us all to just get used to the new arrangements for the sake of dinner as well as domestic aesthetics -- it just looks weird having a crib to creep by in the middle of the apartment. Dave wants it back the way it was for the sake of everyone's sanity. We can't (or I can't -- he's a pretty sound sleeper) keep popping up at every noise. And Desmond needs the vocal freedom to cry and moan and babble without all the parental fussing. He's right, damn him.

So tonight it goes back to the old, ugly arrangement.
My only consolation is that we only have three and a half more months on our lease. Two-bedroom house, here we come! Eventually.

Ikea Trip Threatens Marriage; or, Opposites May Not Attract

I love going to Ikea. Our trips are rare, saved for the transition moments when we've planned dramatic overhauls of our living arrangements. This weekend is one of those moments. We found a dresser on craigslist that will work as a changing table and will allow us to move Desmond into the bedroom and us into the "dining room." Desmond having his own room is a perfect excuse for an Ikea visit, an opportunity to pick up a kid's rug and some other things we need around the house.
Everyone, I think, must have a similar attraction to Ikea, especially on a quiet, unbusy afternoon. In fact, I just listened to a radio story about the store's opening in China which was promptly occupied by bored teenagers who used the little living rooms and kitchens and bedrooms as hang-out spaces in which to pass a lazy summer evening. With some meatballs on the side, this sounds like a perfect idea!
Yes, walking through the alternative universes of practically decorated spaces is inspirational and exciting and gets my synapses firing. Things on the top floor usually go okay for me. It's when we hit the "marketplace" that I begin to lose my mind-grapes. I know what it looks like from inside my shoes -- like a blur. I scan this cutely designed, reasonably priced object and before I can tell what the hell I'm looking at, I spy something across the aisle equally priced and just as cute. Should I get this colander, or this one? $4.99 or 9.99? Or this one for $11.99? But I have a colander. But this one is 4.99. or 11.99. These are colanders here, in front me. The one at home I can't see right now, so how do I know if it's as good as this one, that's only $9.99? I'm a mess, and it lasts the entire hour or so that I'm careening through the basement maze.
David is the exact opposite of me. But despite what you'd think, this does not help matters. His opposite to me is not calm, rational consumerism -- the kind that would gently chuckle at my mania and calmly remind me of all the colanders and hand towels and glass vases we already own. He is the kind of opposite that walks into the marketplace with a look of extreme skepticism and a resolute NO already formed on his lips. As I told him yesterday, he's like Desmond has become with the new foods we try to feed him: he pokes at it suspiciously and then closes his eyes and turns his head in disgust. This attitude does not counteract my frenzy. I think it may feed it, because now not only do I have to choose the items among all the items on my own, but I also have to yell at David and tell him to look at this thing in my hand, we need it right? Look at it! If only he'd look at it.

The Moe Syzlak Effect

Yesterday as Dave and I were approaching a garage sale, I had an imaginary conversation in which I was asked what I was looking for. "Oh, nothing in particular." This reminded me of a Simpsons episode that ends with Moe Syzlak swooping down with hand-made wings to save the day. As he's about to take off, an adoring fan asks where he's flying to. Moe shrugs and says, "Eh, nowheres in partickeller." As those words crossed my brain, they were uttered outloud by my husband. I turned to him and yelled, "Why did you say that? I was JUST thinking that! I mean, when you were saying it, I was thinking it. The words were in my head, but they were coming out of your mouth!"
And he said, "Oh well, when we were walking up to this garage sale, I was thinking they'd ask me . . ." And then he went on to tell me he was thinking the exact same thoughts. At the exact same time.
People, this is sad. In a couple of years, we probably won't even need to have verbal conversations. We'll be able to communicate with a series of winks and nods. Like baseball players. Which might be kind of annoying for Desmond. He'll learn the code eventually.

The One-Hour Evening TV Drama

I am currently deep into the third season of Mad Men, in which the ineffable Don Draper diagnoses the modern condition through his heartfelt ruminations for ad campaigns while juggling a harem of dark-haired mistresses.
Where would I be without my weekly one-hour evening dramas? I recently realized how long I've depended on them. I was watching "thirtysomething" when I was twelve years old. (Would this show hold up now that I'm in my thirties? I don't remember anything about the show except for Nancy getting cancer and Gary getting in a bike accident -- I think the rest was whining about kids and jobs -- which doesn't seem too far off.) Then "China Beach" -- some surfer dude, the camp prostitute with a heart of gold and Dana Delaney. Onto "Twin Peaks" -- of course my favorite of the bunch, cause it was scary and full of beautiful people (the choice between Bobby and James would eat at me for years.) Then a lull during my college years.
But then came the golden era of the one-hour cable drama: "Six Feet Under," "The Wire," and "Deadwood." With swear words and boobs!

Marriage and a Happy Baby

To backtrack a bit, we went to New York and attended a beautiful wedding surrounded by friends that I love to see but so rarely do. The wedding was way up in the Adirondacks in a lodge equipped with old-timey, cozy things -- like huge fireplaces, and a "There Will Be Blood" style bowling alley. The ceremony was simple and sweet, and by God, parted the rain clouds, so you know it must've been special. Someone did the sweetest, off-key version of Hendrix's "Waterfall" that has been stuck in my head ever since. I talked and ate and drank and pretty much had a gay old time. Was I walking around worried over the well-being of my baby (which again reminds me of "TWBB" -- "I've abandoned my child.")? Not really -- Dave was feeling a bit guilty, worried that he wouldn't remember us. But, after a few phone calls back home, I realized he was fine. He had a dog to distract him with occasional licks to the face. The nicest part, I must say, was to be with people I know the best and who say things I understand and who understand me when I say things. And who like to laugh a lot. I miss that.

Two memories

D's been listening to a lot of "This American Life" and comes home from work full of stories about stories. One is about a British guy who has a distinct childhood memory of being thrown in a lake by his friends because he's fat. Turns out, after a series of reunion-related interviews, he jumped willingly into the lake because that was what they were doing, jumping in the lake. His plumpness, in the minds of his friends, had nothing to do with his ending up wet.
Which got me wondering if I have mis-remembered facts from the past, which I hardly seem to remember anyway. But the shocking moments, did they happen for the reasons I think they did?
-- In seventh grade, I surprisingly slapped my best friend out of total confusion when a bunch of people gathered around to tell me, teasingly but playfully, that Danny liked me. I guess I was super excited? (I remember, we "went together" for a total of 7 days.)
-- I distinctly remember my kindergarten teacher mocking me to the entire class because of a silly mistake I made on an assignment (I remember the assignment too). Can that be right? Kindergarten teachers don't ridicule 6-year olds, do they? Even elderly midwestern kindgarten teachers named Schultz -- it just can't be.

The Lost Weekend

We're heading for New York tomorrow night, jetblue red-eye then a six hour car trip upstate to attend a little wedding in the woods. I'm beyond excited, to witness the nuptials of dear friends in celebration with a whole bunch of other dear friends who I haven't seen in a while. I'll be surrounded by friends! A comforting thought to one lost in a strange city with a baby and a hubbie, neither of whom help fill my social calendar.
But our poor baby -- the thought has been eating at me for months -- will be spending the weekend at grandpa's. With his baby-loving ladyfriend and D's sister next door, there will be a community of loving arms for Desmond to cry into during our absence. But, cry I'm sure he will. He's a sensitive little one who jumps with delight everytime he sees his father enter a room, who pulls himself up to stand with a devious and proud grin on wobbly bookcases, who gets so tired he doesn't know what to do but cry and giggle at once, who shivers in anticipation whenever I pull out the box of Joe's O's. He's a (heavy! over 21 lbs!) handful. And I feel both guilty for putting my in-laws through three and a half days of back-breaking babysitting and worried worried worried that Desmond will be psychically scarred so thoroughly that all the analysis in Austria wouldn't be enough to cure him of the trauma of a weekend without mommy and daddy.
On the other (saner) hand, I have my dress at the cleaners and the long-lost friends in the wings gearing up the car to pick us up. I can't wait!