Back in the saddle

We're up at the beach house on the North Shore. It's huge and across the street from a wave called Chun's Reef. The beach is wide and has big areas shaded by trees, so it's great for sitting with the kids.

And it's got killer waves.

I haven't surfed since February of 2005, when Jason and I were in Hawaii so I could take the bar exam. By the time we got here last year, I was already pregnant, and since Zeke was born I've been either trying to get back into shape or too intimidated by the prospect of trying to shlep the baby down onto the beach. Plus, since it's been so long since I've surfed, I really wanted my first few times back out to be with Jason, and it was obviously impossible for us both to get out into the water and leave the baby to fend for himself.

So today Mindy and Chris and Jason and I took the monkeys to the beach, and Zeke fell asleep, so Jason decided it was time to get me out in the water. We got on our boards and started paddling out. At first my arms were tired, but then I got into the swing of it and we made our way into the lineup. The first two waves I tried to catch were busts. The first one I had, but I froze up and lost my muscle memory of how to pop-up. The second was big, and I had it, but I psyched myself out and jumped off because I was scared.

Jason could tell my head was getting in the way of catching a wave, so he told me to follow him to a particular point, made me turn around, said, "start paddling" and pushed me into the wave. And all of a sudden I remembered what to do. I pushed with both hands, pulled up my knees and suddenly I was standing on the board, riding the wave. It was a nice, smooth wave, and I even managed to make a couple turns and walk the board a little bit. When the wave petered out, I raised my arms in the air, yelled "woohoo!" and jumped off.

Holy crap, it was so much fun. I can't believe it's been three years, and I can't wait to get out there again. I know I've been kind of bitching and moaning about Hawaii lately, but all of a sudden the prospect of being able to strap my board to the roof of my car and head down to the beach to catch a couple of waves during lunchtime is incredibly appealing. What an awesome way to break up the work day.

Baby love

Today is my birthday. Every year on my birthday, my mother calls and tells me the story of the day I was born (or more accurately, the days leading up to my birth plus the day I was born). It's the best tradition ever. I could recite the story for her at this point, but it's so much fun to pick up the phone and have her say, "do you want to hear about the day you were born?"

"Yes!"

"Ok, well, the night before Valentine's Day we went to a big dance, and your father and I danced so much because I was hoping it would encourage you to be born the next day. I was so excited! Anyway..." and she recites the whole story, and tells me that from the day I was born, she loved me like crazy and always had so much fun with me.

This year, obviously, is the first time that I've listened to the story as a mother myself, and it gave me such different perspective. When she called, it was about 6:30 in the morning Hawaii time, and Jason was getting Zeke dressed and ready for school. When he came in and brought me the phone, he had Zeke in his arms, and when Zeke saw me and heard my voice, he gave me this enormous smile. And he has the best, best smile. He's got this gorgeous dimple and when he smiles he opens his mouth really wide and just looks like he wants to shout for sheer joy. It's wonderful.

So for the first time, I felt like I truly understood the joy my mother had with me as a baby, and it gave me a burst of love both for her and for Zeke that practically made my chest explode. Like I was finally experiencing motherhood the way it was supposed to be experienced.

Because nobody ever tells you this before you have a baby, but the initial couple of weeks (even months) after giving birth can be grueling and difficult, and sometimes it's hard to feel that rush of baby love that you feel like you're supposed to have. I heard all of these stories about moms who give birth and the first time they hold their child, they feel this instant rush of intense love for their baby.

But I didn't feel that when Zeke was first born, and I felt horrible about it. I was too exhausted and in pain and just worn out, mentally and physically, by the whole experience.

Don't get me wrong -- I loved him because he was my child and I felt protective of him and enjoyed holding him and snuggling with him. But for the first two months -- and in particular, the first four weeks -- I felt completely shell-shocked. My hormones were going crazy, so I cried at the drop of a hat, my body felt weird and mushy after being pregnant for so long, I was depressed because I really wanted to breastfeed but wasn't able to produce enough milk, I was completely exhausted all the time, and I was mentally on edge because there was this tiny helpless person that needed me for everything and I felt like I didn't know what the fuck I was supposed to do with him half the time. Plus he wasn't really reacting yet to our faces or our voices, so it was hard to feel like he really knew us or felt any connection to us.

But then, slowly, Jason and I both became more competent with the baby care, and Zeke started to settle into more regular patterns of eating and sleeping, and it became easier.

And then he smiled at us for the first time when he was about 2 1/2 months old, and we fell in love with him all over again. A different kind of love than we had felt before -- this love felt truer and unique to Zeke himself, because we were getting to know him not just as this blob that we were taking care of, but as an individual with a budding personality. Soon he was seeking out our faces when he heard our voices, and enjoying bathtime (and pre-bath time), and giving us huge toothless grins when we sing to him or make funny faces or even peek into the crib in the morning when it's time to get up. We spend time with him and marvel at what a wonder he is and how much we adore him.

The other day, Jason and I picked Zeke up from daycare together, and Jason sat in the back seat with him while I drove home. Jason made a funny face or noise or something, and Zeke laughed. A full, "hahaha" real laugh. Jason burst into tears, it made him so happy.

So now I understand that crazy, wonderful baby love that parents experience. And it's just the best birthday present ever.

A romantic Valentine's Day exchange

I'm sitting with Zeke in the rocker, trying to get him to go to sleep. He's been up past his bedtime and is overtired and a little fussy, so I'm trying to soothe him and get him to settle down. He finally starts to relax -- he's working on a bottle and his left hand is massaging the top of my left breast, just under my shirt collar.

Suddenly, I hear steps like someone (presumably Jason) is running, a loud crash, an "ooof," and then groaning.

I don't want to jolt Zeke out of his reverie, so I whisper loudly, "Honey? Are you OK?"

More groaning.

I continue rocking in the chair. Jason is apparently nursing some kind of wound on the stairs, but he hasn't said, "call 911," so I stay with Zeke. Finally, I hear Jason stumble up. It's dark in the hallway and in Zeke's room, so I can only see his silhouette as he limps in to sit with me while the baby goes to sleep.

"Did you bump something?"

"Grrhnn." He grunts in assent, and then starts lowering himself onto the floor. He also starts to chuckle, because for reasons I will never comprehend, his reaction to extreme pain is to laugh.

"Honey, before you sit down, could you hand me Zeke's blanket from the crib?"

Jason leans over until he is on all fours, resting on his forearms, head down, continuing to laugh in pain. This goes on for a couple of minutes. I still don't have Zeke's blanket.

In the gentle sing-songy voice I use for bedtime, I say, "Zekey, could you tell Daddy to stop being such a pussy and hand me your blanket?" I'm starting to laugh a little bit at this point, but I'm keeping it under control. Jason starts doing that silent shaking thing when he's laughing so hard that he can't even produce sound.

Zeke starts to fuss because what was once a soft, still, comfortable place to rest is starting to move as I am beginning to have difficulty controlling my shaking. I shush him and pull myself together, and he calms down again.

Still no blanket.

A minute later, I say, "Boy, Zekey, Daddy's really being a soft-cock, isn't he?"

Jason starts to wheeze with laughter, but manages to reach into the crib and hand me the blanket. He then collapses on the floor.

"What did you do?" I ask.

"I think I broke my toe. I was running to come up here and slammed my foot on the edge of the stairs."

"I'm sorry, babe."

We stay like that for a minute or two. I snuggle Zeke, who is close to being asleep. Jason lies on the floor, waiting for the pain to subside.

Finally he decides to go put some ice on it.

"Good night, Zekers. Daddy's going to go fan the sand out of his vagina now."

And we both totally lose our shit. I burst out with a laugh about 6 inches from Zeke's ear, who starts awake and begins to cry again, plus I'm shaking uncontrollably, so he's understandably pissed. Jason is standing up but bent over at the waist with his hands on his knees, because that's the only way he can avoid falling over.

By the time we all calm down, I think we've all three peed in our pants a little bit.

Jason finally limps out to get some ice.

"Feel better, honey! Love you!"

"Love you too, baby. Happy Valentine's Day."

Sign of the times?

Lately I've noticed the topic of a person's star sign coming up frequently in conversations I've had or overheard. "I have a tendency to do X," "Oh, well, that makes sense because you're a Scorpio" -- that sort of thing. It all goes right over my head. I don't know anything about astrology and though I have no problem with other people putting stock in it, I'm not sure I buy the notion that I have much in common with the other 1/12 of the world's population that was also born whenever Aquarius is (late January to late February?), other than we have birthdays close together. I'm not saying it's impossible, I'm just saying that with my extremely left-dominant brain, I don't really get it.

The benefit of all of this astrology talk is that I get a good chuckle because it reminds me of one of my favorite bits from Monty Python's Life of Brian. At the very beginning of the movie, the three wise men are in a manger in Bethlehem, thinking they are blessing Jesus, but they've actually stumbled into the wrong manger and are blessing Brian, a random baby.

Brian's mother learns they are astrologers and asks, "well then, what star sign is he?"

"Capricorn."

"Capricorn, eh? What are they like?"

"He is the son of God, our Messiah! The King of the Jews!"

"And that's Capricorn, is it?"

"No, no, that's just him."

"Oh, I was going to say, otherwise there'd be a lot of them."

Hee!

So, what are Aquarians like? Is it possible that 1/12 of the world population is as moody, demanding, self-doubting and bossy as I am? All I have to say to that is, "oy."

In development: the ball cozy

About 3 years ago for New Year's Eve (it was before Jason and I were married, so it must have been New Year's of 2005), we rented a big house on a lake in the mountains of western North Carolina with 3 other couples and all their kids and dogs. We went for walks, took the canoe out on the lake, rough-housed with the kids, watched movies, and played cards and drank bourbon after the kids were asleep. Lots and lots of bourbon, and lots and lots of cards (I think we were playing Hearts).

At some point, Jason, who has a colorful way with words, mentioned to someone that they might want to think about sticking their cards up their mud-button. And yes, it means exactly what you think it means. Kathleen practically did a spit-take, she was laughing so hard, and "mud-button" became the word of the weekend. Someone who was being a dick while playing cards got extra "mud-button" points. We vowed to come up with a way to add "mud-button" to the Oxford English Dictionary. Could it be a verb as well as a noun? We were determined to make it work.

This week and next, a bunch of my friends and their children are coming to Hawaii (or are already here) for my birthday. My mom's coming, too, which will be great, because she hasn't seen Zeke since he was born. Jason rented a huge house on the North Shore, and we'll take the kids surfing and build sand castles and just relax and have fun.

And last night, I think we came up with the new word of the week -- this year's "mud-button" if you will.

When my mom was stationed in Papua New Guinea, I went to visit her and I brought back presents for some of my friends. As a joke, a couple of the guys got penis gourds. Last night, Jason and Chris and I were sitting around after dinner gabbing, and we were talking about my PNG trip. Chris mentioned the penis gourd, but he couldn't remember what it was called, so he kept calling it a "ball cozy." Which just about killed me. I kept thinking of a smaller, testicle-sized version of a tea cozy and I couldn't stop giggling.

And of course, "ball cozy" kept working it's way into the conversation. How useful they would be while hiking or doing athletic activities, particularly in the cold, what the TV infomercial selling them would be like, and the variety of colors they could come in.

I may actually knit some this week as party favors, if I can figure out a pattern. (Or I could cheat and cut up a hacky-sack and put a drawstring on it). And if the guys don't like it, I'll tell them they can stick it right up their mud-buttons.

For the first time in my life, I feel old. And boring.

Yesterday I walked by a mirror in the house, got a look at myself, and was horrified. Not because I had spinach in my teeth or because my ass looked fat or anything like that. But because I appeared to myself to be the epitome of a suburban housewife type. Striped t-shirt, khaki shorts, boring bobbed hairstyle, flip-flops.

Ugh.

When did this happen? I used to have some style. I had gorgeous suits that I wore to work and a pretty slammin' shoe collection and cool clothes that I wore out with my friends, and I looked somewhat hip some of the time.

But when we moved to Hawaii, I knew I would have no need for suits so I sold them or gave them away, and did the same with most of my shoes and my winter clothes. Then I got pregnant, so all I wore was maternity clothes, usually tank tops and baggy pants. After the baby I never really went shopping except to buy t-shirts in bulk at WalMart or KMart.

And so here I am. I feel like I look so boring and conventional. And old. But it's hard to justify going out and buying cool clothes, because I don't have anywhere to wear them anyway -- all I ever do is go from home to daycare to the grocery store to back home again. Plus Zeke has an ear infection and isn't sleeping again and I'm so tired and I feel like I have no time to clean the house or get my work done or just read a book or do anything but stumble from one chore to the next, completely delirious with exhaustion. I feel like the "before" picture -- the "what not to do" picture -- from a Ladies Home Journal article on The Modern Mom Trying To Do It All.

Ugh.

I know a secret. Finally.

Perhaps the one area in which my husband and I aren't entirely compatible is our attitude towards surprises. I hate them, he loves them. I seek out spoilers about my favorite TV shows, because it doesn't ruin the watching experience for me if I already know what happens. (Though I was unspoiled when Janice shot Richie Aprile in the second to last episode of Season 2 of The Sopranos, and the shock of it was fucking awesome.) I will sometimes peek at the end of a novel to see what happens, because I just want to see where it's going and if it's worth my effort to continue reading. It doesn't dampen my enjoyment of the book at all.

I have many friends and relatives who chose not to find out the sex of their baby during pregnancy, because they wanted to be surprised. I don't understand this at all. What's so great about being surprised? To me, knowing something in advance not only allows you to enjoy the thing when it happening, but also to enjoy the anticipation of it, so you're basically doubling your pleasure. Like the Doublemint Gum TM version of life.

These issues have all come up in the context of Jason's birthday present for me, namely arranging for a number of my close friends from Atlanta to come to Hawaii, and renting a big beach house up on the North Shore for everyone to stay in. I guess the idea was that he would come up with some excuse to get in the car, like we were going out for dinner or something, and we would pull up at the house and everyone would be out on the deck and I would plotz from excitement. Jason ended up having to spill the beans because one of our friends is getting married the day after my birthday and I was seriously contemplating flying back to Atlanta for the weekend to be with her, as distasteful as an 11 hour flight with about 36 hours' turnaround sounded.

But, it turns out, he was still holding out on me.

Because of the craziness of peoples' schedules -- one couple was trying to sell their house and couldn't do anything until they did, another just had a baby about 4 weeks ago, another was about to get married, etc. -- I was told that only one family could make it. But Jason kept hinting that I would be getting another surprise, and I just had a feeling that it would be that my best friend Kathleen would be able to come, even if she couldn't come with her husband and kids.

And then I found out that my suspicions were right. And now Michele (she of the Gulfstream V rating) may come out as well with her new baby. And not only does Jason not know that I know, but I don't think he knows about Michele because she just decided to try to come out, like, yesterday.

Part of me thinks I should just let Jason have his fun and think I'm in the dark. But part of me wants to emphasize to him how much more fun it's been for me over the past week or so knowing that other people would be able to make it and looking forward to seeing them. To me, that millisecond of shock and joy that the surprise would have caused is nothing compared to the joy of knowing my friends will be here and anticipating how much fun we're going to have.

What should I do?



_____________
*Jason doesn't read this blog, so there's no risk that he'll find out about this by virtue of this post.

The Survivorman Face

I have no poker face. If I'm happy, it shows, if I'm upset, it shows, and if I'm disdainful, it really shows.

Jason refers to it as my Survivorman face. Survivorman is a show on the Discovery Channel made by this guy who's an expert in outdoor survival, so on the show he plops himself out in the middle of the Arctic tundra or the Amazon rainforest or the Sahara desert or whereever and has to survive on scorpions and toe lint for a week. The conceit of the show is that he films the show himself without a camera crew, so he lugs all the cameras around and sets up shots himself, and spends lots of time babbling to the camera while he's out there alone in the wilderness.

Jason introduced me to this show a few years ago, and while I certainly respect the guy's skills, I always found his incessant chatter annoying (somehow, Bear Grylls of Man vs. Wild manages to do it without annoying me, but maybe because he's smoking hot). Without being conscious of it, I would spend the majority of the show with a look on my face that came to be known as the Survivorman face.

The Survivorman face is basically an exaggerated "who farted?" face. Brow furrowed, eyes slightly narrowed, nose and upper lip pulled up, mouth slightly open. It's a look that I spend much time and effort hiding. In court, for example, it is the height of bad form to react to something your opponent says with eye rolls, heavy sighs, or open looks of disdain. It's rude and unprofessional, the sign of a rookie. So when I'm in court, I keep my face absolutely neutral. The most I will allow myself is a slight eyebrow raise from time to time, kind of like a pressure valve to keep my head from exploding right off my shoulders.

But it takes enormous effort to maintain that facial calm, and in my everyday life, I have more trouble disguising it when someone does something that betrays them as a complete chowderhead.

Which makes dealing with my next-door neighbor difficult.

Did you ever meet someone and discover that every single thing about them irritated you? That's my next-door neighbor. She's a busybody who's always complaining and seeing conspiracies against her everywhere. Plus, if the sun is down, she walks around the neighborhood all bundled up in a ski parka and hat, even though the lowest it gets here is about 75 degrees. She even asked if she could have one of Zeke's newborn-size onesies so her stupid little yippy dog could wear it. Everything she does bugs the living shit out of me.

I knew we were in trouble the first time we met and she introduced herself. She has this crazy name that her parents made up and that means nothing, but her parents apparently told her is a biblical name. It isn't. So of course when she told me her name and said it was from the Bible, I thought about it and immediately the Survivorman face appeared. Jason elbowed me and I made it go away.

Within days after we moved into our house, NDN started bugging us about the trees in our yard. According to her, our trees are too tall and violate the condo rules. She has been writing letters to the condo association for over a year, and they have been ignoring her. Our sellers did not disclose any possible violations of the condo rules, so my position is and has been that it's not my problem -- if someone wants to remove the trees, fine, but I ain't paying for it.

One night NDN showed up on our doorstep with a big stack of copies of the letters she had been sending to the condo board for the past year, and copies of the condo rules she claims we have violated. I opened the door, saw who it was, and immediately forced my face into my neutral "court" expression.

"Hi. I just wanted to give you copies of these letters so you would know what's going on."

"Oh, OK. Thanks."

"You can see that this newsletter highlights the fact that trees in your yard can't be over 15 feet tall, or over the roofline. I tried dealing with the previous owners but they ignored me, and the condo board hasn't done anything about it either, but your trees clearly violate the rules."

"Hmmmm." Deep breath.

"I know it wasn't disclosed to you and you didn't know anything about it, so it really shouldn't be your problem."

"That's right, it isn't." Stay neutral, stay neutral.

"Oh, and also, there's a board meeting tomorrow that I think you should go to. There's a proposal to put in a gate at the entrance to the neighborhood, but I know for a fact that the company that has bid on the job to build the gate has one of the board members in his pocket and is giving him kickbacks. You should vote against it."

Slight eyebrow raise. "Is that right? How do you know this?"

"I have a source on the board."

"Really? Who?"

"I can't tell you."

"Hmm," I keep my voice silken. "Well, that makes it hard to assess their reliability, doesn't it?"

"Oh, they're reliable, I can promise you that. Anyway, I just wanted to give you these letters."

"Well, I sure appreciate that." Sometimes having spent half my life in the South comes in handy. "You take care now."

A few weeks later I ran into the property manager. When he realized where I lived, he said, "oh, you live next door to the crazy lady. Don't worry about your trees, they're fine. I'm sending her a letter tonight telling her that her complaints aren't valid." We haven't heard from her about the trees since.

Then last night, the doorbell rang. I opened it, and NDN was standing there, all rugged up in her parka and scarf. It was almost 80 degrees outside. Survivorman face started to creep up, but I caught it in time.

"Hi, can I help you?"

"Hi, Wendy. Do you smell something? I think something died in your backyard."

I sniffed the air.

"No, I don't smell anything. Jason, do you smell anything?"

Jason went out into the back yard and took a whiff. "Nope, I don't smell anything."

"Well, when I was walking on my walkway, which is next to your yard, I smelled something that smelled like a dead animal."

"Hmm. I don't smell anything and neither does Jason."

"Yeah, also, I was washing my car and one of the kids across the street came over to me and said he smelled something funny."

Neutral face, Wendy.

"I don't smell anything and neither does Jason."

"It smells like something died."

"I don't smell anything and neither does Jason."

"It smells like it's coming from your back yard."

The facade is beginning to crack. I'm trying really hard to keep it together.

"I don't smell anything and neither does Jason. I don't know what else to tell you."

When I went back in the house, Jason took one look at me and burst out laughing.

"Hello, Survivorman!"

Cue the Twilight Zone music...

The day I wrote the post about Imposter Syndrome, this article appeared in the New York Times. Weird.

Imposter Syndrome

Do you ever feel like you do all of this grownup stuff that some people find very important and impressive, but really you're just winging it and full of shit, and eventually the world will figure it out? I feel that way most of the time. I could be arguing a case before a panel of judges at the United States Court of Appeals, slamming one of their questions out of the park, and I still feel like I look and sound like a teenager and that any minute, someone's going to ask me for my credentials and send me back to study hall.

It's called Imposter Syndrome, and I think alot of people experience it. My mother, who is a career Foreign Service diplomat and has served as a U.S. ambassador to foreign countries, confessed to me once that she feels that way, too. When she was an ambassador, people were constantly coming to her asking for advice and instructions and policy recommendations, and she knew the answers but said she frequently felt like she was flying by the seat of her pants and that she was convinced others would soon be on to her.

So far, I've managed to fool everyone.

I'm developing this education law course to teach at the law school at the University of Hawaii. I was looking for a way to get out into the legal community and make some local contacts, because working from home can be very lonely and isolating. So I went onto the law school's website and checked out their course offerings, and discovered they don't have an education law course. I have practiced special education law exclusively for 9 years, and know a bit about education law generally in addition to special education law specifically, so I wrote to the academic dean of the law school and offered to develop and teach a course for them. She took me up on it. It would be a new course that has to be approved by the curriculum committee, so the dean told me to write up the course proposal, pick out a textbook and develop a syllabus, and she would present it to the committee next week.

Today I sat down and wrote out the proposal. It took me a few hours. I researched textbooks and found one that was highly rated and that includes discussion of newer topics in the field. I developed a description for the course catalogue and a justification for the law school to expend resources on a course like this. I planned out a week-by-week syllabus for a semester.

The dean loves it. And I feel like a little kid playing "school."

Whither willpower?

Lately I have been having a wicked craving for cake. Or pastry. Mostly cake. I've been able to resist, for the most part. Until yesterday, when I was driving to Zeke's school to pick him up, stopped for gas because the light came on, and threw a pack of Twinkies in with the bottle of water and pack of gum when I was paying.

A fucking pack of Twinkies. And it was a 3-pack -- there was a bonus Twinkie in there for my snarfing pleasure. Whee!

I haven't had Twinkies, like, ever. My mother didn't allow us to eat crap like that when I was a kid (we were a "no sugar cereal" household), and I seriously cannot remember ever making the decision to pull a package of them off the shelf and hand over cash so I could consume them. I know I have tasted them before -- probably one of my elementary school friends with lenient parents let me have a bite -- but actually going out and buying them? I have no recollection of that.

Within a half-mile of the gas station, all 3 Twinkies were history.

"But wait," you say. "Haven't you been making a huge effort to eat well and doing a hard-core exercise program in an effort to lose that last 15 pounds of baby weight?"

"Yes. Yes, I have. Thank you for reminding me."

"So what happened?" you ask.

Well, that's a good question. I don't really have food issues -- I don't eat when I'm depressed or anything like that. The opposite, in fact. The more stressed I am, the more my appetite abandons me. And I generally have enormous willpower when it comes to diet and exercise. Give me a structured program, a calendar and a food scale and I will stick to it within an inch of its life. I'm almost addicted to the discipline of it. But I guess trying to stick to a difficult program when I haven't really slept in 3 months and everyone in my household is sick was just too much. I got a cold, I got tired, I got lazy, and I got my period. A grand slam of motivation killers.

But I'm back today with a vengeance. The good thing about eating crap like Twinkies is that within 24 hours I feel like a disgusting pudge, and any desire to eat junk food flies out the window. All I want to do is have a protein shake and lift weights. Zeke is sleeping longer at a stretch (shit, I feel like I'm jinxing myself by admitting it), my cold is gone, and I'm feeling motivated again. Which is good, because I've got a ton of stuff to do and I can't afford to be a bum. I need to write that education law syllabus for the law school today. I need to mail off my Hawaii tax return. I need to mail our Australian relatives a bunch of presents that were supposed to be Christmas presents but I guess will have to be Valentine's or Lincoln's Birthday gifts. And somewhere in all of that, I will find time to work out.

Wish me luck.

Chabon on Obama

This is not a political blog. Though I am extremely interested in politics and obviously have opinions about what's going on in the election, there are so many others that write about it far, far more adroitly than I could possibly hope to, that I just leave it to them.

But on this Super Tuesday Eve, I feel compelled to provide this link to an essay about Barack Obama, written by Michael Chabon, my favorite author and a man whose brilliance with the written word is humbling and awe-inspiring.

Let's fix this mess we're in. Get out and vote tomorrow.

Baby smack talk

In the last week, Zeke has all of a sudden started talking. I don't mean actual intelligible speech, but he has discovered that he has a voice and can make noise if he chooses to. And he chooses to. Yesterday we were hanging out watching the game (*sniff*) and Zeke was chilling out in Jason's lap, adding his own commentary. "Heeaahooo." "Hmmnnneee." It's outrageously cute.

Jason wondered aloud, "What do you think he's saying? Maybe he's trying to tell us something."

"Maybe. Maybe he's trying to talk some smack to us."

"Hnnoooo," said Zeke.

Jason translated: "You call that a bottle? It smells like you mixed that bottle in your ass!"

"Mhoooaaa," Zeke added.

"Who taught you how to put outfits together? Do you really think this onesie goes with these pants?!? I look like a moron!"

Zeke smiled broadly. "Hmheeo."

I think we're on to him.

Who are you?

Dear Internets,

I've been writing this blog for over a year and a half. At first it was just a way to stay in touch with friends, so I got, like, 5 hits a day, but over time my readership has (slightly) expanded and when I check my stats lately (and I do, I'll admit) I'm noticing some regulars whose IP addresses I don't recognize. And I find it fascinating that there are people out there who know all of this stuff about me and check up on my daily comings and goings, but I have no idea who they are.

So I was wondering if y'all could do me a favor. If you're reading this, could you leave a comment and say hello and let me know something about you. I don't need names and serial numbers, if you don't want to leave them. Just a note so I can have a little glimpse of who's out there.

Can't wait to hear from you,
Love, Wendy

The Facebook Phenomenon

I joined Facebook a few months back. If memory serves, I was invited to join by a friend who used to live in Atlanta, but I don't remember clearly -- it could have been that I was in a frenzy of googling old friends and trying to find people I'd gone to school with.

Having lived around the world and gone to so many different schools (I counted once -- not including preschool, I went to 7 different schools for elementary, middle and high school, in 5 different countries, and then of course there's college and law school), there are so, so many people that I've known and been close friends with that I not only never see, I don't even know what country they're in or if they're still alive. It makes for great reunions, but the last big India reunion I wasn't able to go to, and I don't think my school in Israel even has reunions outside of Israel. Which provides a great excuse to go to Israel, but there are so many other claimants on my pocketbook at the moment that I don't see that happening any time soon.

Anyway, so Facebook is a great way to search for people and reconnect with old friends. I've reestablished contact with some friends from college and high school and middle school, and it's been great to catch up with them and see how their lives are going.

But Facebook is also fascinating for the sheer multitude of opportunities it provides to "interact" in cyberspace with people on a regular basis. There are all of these applications that allow you to do things like send each other greeting cards and write on each others' "walls" and rate your friends' hotness and "poke" them and start cyber-snowball fights and send them imaginary gifts and drinks and rate your compatibility on everything from taste in movies to who you were in a past life. You can join groups and networks revolving around TV shows, politics, knitting, where you go or went to school, and about every other thing you can think of. Essentially, you can have an entire, active social life without ever leaving your computer.

And of course, as with all social interactions, patterns emerge, only because they are all chronicled and cataloged in each person's profile, they are much easier to see and assess.

There are the people who are obviously concerned with having as many Facebook friends as they can possibly collect. I got a "friend" request from a guy one time and I saw on his profile that he went to the University of Virginia, but his name didn't sound familiar. So before confirming the request, I sent him a message asking who he was and if we had known each other in school. He replied that he didn't know me, but that he saw that I went to Virginia and liked collecting as many friends as he could. And sure enough, I checked his profile, and he's got over 1000 "friends." Where does he find the time?

Then there are people who are really into the cyber-interaction, and they make great use of the various games and "compare your scores on this quiz with Justin" and "start a pie-fight with LaShonda" and "give Dexter a Vampire Hug" and on and on. I think those might be the people who have jobs that they either don't like or that allow them alot of time to fuck around online, because while that stuff can be fun, it's also incredibly time-consuming. And also, addictive. To the point where if you couldn't be online every day, or almost every day, it would be really depressing, like you couldn't get your fix.

And I also wonder how fulfilling it is, ultimately. From a psychological perspective, it's kind of like collecting. I've never been a collector of dolls or stamps or spoons from the fifty states or refrigerator magnets or anything, because it always struck me as an enterprise that could never be satisfying. In addition to the fact that you've got all of this stuff sitting around your house or filling up you're drawers, you're never done. No matter what you've got, there's always more to get. If you can look at your profile and you can see exactly what how many friends you have compared to other people, and who's got a higher "hotness" ranking, and who's got lots of people sending them cards and gifts and wanting to get in pie-fights, it's like having your coolness graded, and your grade posted on the board for all to see. You've given your social standing a number that can always be improved.

I don't mean this as a criticism of Facebook or its fans at all -- I'm guilty of all of this stuff as well. I'll spend hours on the "how many cities have you visited" application, as if not being able to remember the name of one more little Indian town that I've visited will make or break me. I've wasted time playing the Never-ending Movie Quiz, trying to get my world-wide ranking up. And I search for people I know and look for new friends, because I feel like my paltry 12 makes me look like a loser.

Geez, didn't high school end 20 years ago?

I'm a Western Medicine girl

You know that cold of Zeke's that I've mentioned from time to time? Well, it turns out it's a sinus infection. Yesterday was the third time I've taken him to the doctor because of a stuffy nose, but now he's developed a hacking cough as well, and instead of clear mucus, last week he sneezed and blew a big river of green goo down his face. So the doc put him on antibiotics and albuterol (for his coughing), and last night he slept much better than he has for the last few nights because he wasn't waking himself up coughing every few minutes. It's so hard seeing him suffer -- last night he was so in need of mommy-love that he cried if I tried to put him down at all, and even when I held him he would sort of moan softly -- he was obviously really uncomfortable. Poor little pooper.

So finally getting some drugs for him was a huge relief. Last year the FDA came out with this decision/ruling/recommendation/whatever that over-the-counter cold medications, even those ostensibly developed for children, were verboten for babies under the age of 2. So up to now, the doctors have been telling me to put saline drops in his nose and put a humidifier in his room (both of which I did) and that he would just have to suffer through it until his body worked it out. I found these namby-pamby recommendations to be hugely unsatisfying, because one of my family's mottos is "better living through chemistry." If you've got a problem, Big Pharma has a solution. My mother has even taken this theory global -- she knows exactly what drugs can be purchased over-the-counter in which countries, so if you're going on a trip, she's likely to put in an order for Australian allergy medicine or Mexican ambien or Romanian headache pills. Her medicine cabinet is a wonder to behold, and I love and respect her for it.

Mommas, now don't let your babies grow up to be unbelievable assholes

The following is based on a true story. I've changed the details not out of concern for the perpetrator, who is a wretched hag and is entitled to no discretion from me, but out of concern for others whose feelings I don't want to hurt.

Imagine, if you will, that you've been going to charm school, and that you're sitting for your final exam in Etiquette 201: How To Act Like A Human Being When Someone Does Something Nice For You. When the teacher says, "you may open your test booklets," this is one of the questions you must answer:

You have a relative who is a bit frenetic and crazy, but she's a warm, caring, lovely human being. She contacts a clothing designer and commissions a scarf for you. She does this for purely altruistic motives, i.e., she wants to do something nice for you. The designer makes the piece and sends it to you. When you receive the package, you open it and you hate it. You hate everything about it, it's something you would never wear, and you think it's awful. Which of the following actions would you take?

A. Thank the relative graciously and then put the scarf away and never wear it except for when the relative is in town

B. Thank the relative for her generosity, but let her know that the scarf isn't really your style, so that next time she wants to buy you something, she'll know what you like

C. Call the designer and rant and rave on the phone about how you much you HATE the scarf, you would not and could not EVER wear something like this because it's the UGLIEST thing you've ever seen, and bitch and complain to the designer about how your relative is an idiot who obviously pays no attention to what you wear or like because if she did, she would never have bought you such an ugly piece of shit. Then send the scarf back.

Now, if I were the teacher, the only acceptable response would be "A." I can't tell you how many ugly pairs of earrings, matching shirt and pants sets in bizarre prints with sharks on them, etc. I have received and have had to wear, gritting my teeth while smiling the whole time, because some beloved family member bought them for me as a gift. Someone with an incredibly deft and gentle touch might be able to get away with "B," but quite frankly, I'm not sure that person exists, and I still think it represents crass behavior. But a student answering "B" wouldn't fail the class -- they just wouldn't have made the dean's list. At least they said "thank you" and tried to be somewhat nice about it.

But "Bridget", if she were a student in our imaginary charm school class, would have failed -- in fact, I would have made her sit in the corner with a giant dunce cap on her head -- because apparently, she is of the mindset that "C" represents acceptable behavior.

Now, let's delve into this a little bit, because as outright shocking as her behavior is when you first hear or read about it (I think my brain got a bit of whiplash when my mother told me the story), it's like an onion -- there are layers and layers of pathology represented in this one incident. It's not just Emily Post rolling over in her grave, it's Sigmund Freud leaning forward with interest, saying, "tell me about your mother...."

First, there's the utter lack of grace in Bridget's entire reaction. Would it have been so hard, so awful, to simply say "thank you, you're so thoughtful," and then put the scarf in a drawer and not worry about it? I mean, really, how taxing would that have been? What is she going to tell her relative when she sees her? How will she explain that she no longer has the scarf because she was so offended by its existence that she not only won't wear it, she had to banish it from her presence by returning it. Bridget clearly is one of those people who pumps herself up by letting others know that they don't measure up to her levels of taste or sophistication. Unfortunately for her, she doesn't seem to recognize that she possesses neither.

Then there's the utter lack of discretion demonstrated. She was indiscreet in ranting and raving about her relative to the designer, who might very well have let the relative know that the scarf had been returned. I know for a fact that this won't happen, but why would she take that risk? Because she secretly wants it to get back to the relative, but she doesn't want to be the one to actually deliver the news? So she's cruel and a pussy?

Incidentally, this is not the first time Bridget has exhibited a remarkable lack of discretion. At a wedding a few months ago, Bridget complained to my mother -- MY MOTHER -- about me and Jason because when we were in her home town last year, we went to dinner with Bridget and her husband, and she bitched that we split the bill even though Jason ate more than anyone else. Which is true, except that we split the bill because Jason and I had water with dinner, whereas she had 2 mixed drinks, so it evened everything out, price-wise. And why would she say something like that to my mother, in any event? Fucking bitch.

Anyway, in addition to being graceless and classless and indiscreet, she's also just flat out mean. She called the designer who made the scarf to tell her how much she hated it. Setting aside the fact that this was a custom design based upon the relative's specifications, and not something the designer came up with, what possible reason would you have to berate someone over something they created? It's not like she ever has to order or wear the designer's clothes if she doesn't like them.

I've only met Bridget that one time we went to dinner, and I have to say that at the time, I thought she was OK. A bit flinty, but not the fiend she's revealed herself to be. And if I see her again, I'm not going to get in her face or yell or anything like that. But I will ask her about her behavior, both to see her squirm and also because I'm genuinely curious to hear what she has to say in her defense.

Trading success for fleeting mommy time

I bagged on the sleep training. Well, more accurately, I bagged on the results of the sleep training, because by the third night, Zeke rolled over and went to sleep without any fussing as soon as I put him down.

But I was miserable. I discovered that I don't give a shit about my kid being sleep-trained at three months old. What I want is to still have that time every night when we sit in the rocker and he snuggles into my arms and relaxes against my body and goes to sleep.

Not all aspects of caring for such a young baby are loads of fun. He's smiling and cooing and responding to me now, so we'll play on the floor and he'll giggle and grin and it's awesome. But other times he'll fuss and I won't know why, and it's stressful. And it's exhausting to be so utterly needed by another human being. When my husband is needy and it gets on my nerves, I can tell him to sack up and quit bugging me. But my son needs me for every aspect of his life, and no matter what mood I'm in, no matter how tired I am, I have to tend to him and I have to be sweet and loving and protective, because to take out my tiredness or grumpiness on him would be monstrously unfair. And most of the time, I'm in a good mood and it's fine, but sometimes I'm not in a good mood, and I just have to get over it.

But bedtime is always my favorite. I never mind bedtime. Because before bedtime, he has a bath, so when we settle into the rocker, he's all sweet-smelling and gorgeous. And he's wearing cute little footie pajamas and looking so little and adorable and perfect. And he fits against me just so -- we always arrange ourselves the same way. He lies with his head in the crook of my left arm, resting his face against my chest with his legs draped over my lap. I'll brace his back with my left hand, and cradle his butt with my right. He lets his right arm drop under my arm and sometimes he'll rub my back with his hand. His left hand, always, always, is either resting on my boob or he reaches up into my shirt and nestles his hand right into my cleavage (the men in this family are all breast men, and I guess Zeke is no different). And I rock in the chair and pat his butt and rub his back and kiss his forehead, and he melts into me in a way that makes me miss it even as it's happening, if that makes any sense. Because I know that it is such a short time in his life (i.e., now) that he will be this small and this vulnerable and this willing to surrender himself to me so completely, and I don't want to waste any of it. All too soon it'll be pouting and wiggling out of my arms when I try to snuggle him and "nooo, mommy, I can do it myself."

So the sleep-training theorists and proponents can all go piss up a rope for the time being. I know I'll need them eventually, but for now, I'm going to baby my baby while he lets me, and take as much time in the rocker as I can get away with.

New look

As you can see, the blog looks different. I was looking through posts and decided that I was tired of the dark template. It felt very heavy to me. The switch has messed up the font size on some old posts, so if you're going through archives and find some posts that look like the fine print in a used car contract, that's why.

Please don't call social services -- we're actually very good parents.

I know the "dance" Jason is having Zeke do is a bit on the crass side, but it cracks my ass up every time. And Zeke seems to be having fun...

adventures in getting out and about

Yesterday I had my meeting with one of the University of Hawaii law school deans to talk about teaching an education law course. The meeting went very well, and there's a decent chance it could happen. It would be a new course, so it has to go through the proposal and approval process by the curriculum committee. Over the next couple of weeks I'll develop the proposal and the syllabus, the dean and I will tweak it, and then she will present it to the committee. Everybody keep your fingers crossed for me.

Of course, given that I was going out into Hawaiian society, the outing wasn't completely without incident or dilemma. First I had to figure out what to wear. This may sound frivolous, but as I have written in the past, Hawaiians are casual to an extent that I really have a hard time getting used to. Like the wedding we went to where Jason and I were the most dressed up people there -- and Jason wasn't even wearing a tie -- and the bride's parents wore jean shorts. Or Jason's company holiday party, which was held at a country club but people showed up in jeans and ratty t-shirts and baseball caps. So I was at a bit of a loss yesterday. On the mainland, I would have worn a suit or some similarly appropriate business outfit, because that's what people do when they're conducting business. But no one wears suits here. I didn't want to show up in jeans and flip-flops, though I suspected that's what the dean would be wearing, but what if she wasn't? What if she was dressed business casual? I couldn't show up looking like a schlub.

Finally I went to Old Navy, bought a nice skirt and blouse, and wore them with some gorgeous high heeled sandals I have.

When I got to the meeting, the dean was wearing a long-sleeved t-shirt, velour track pants, and canvas ked-type slippers.

*Sigh*

I also had another typical Wendy experience with island bureaucracy. There's a big parking lot behind the law school where I went to park. I pulled up at the little attendant's booth to make sure I was in the right place.

"Is this where I go to park for the law school?"

"Yes, ma'am. It's $3."

I rummaged around in my purse and discovered I only had a dollar and some change. "Do I pay in advance?" I figured I could find an ATM and get cash before coming back to the car.

"Yes, ma'am."

"I don't have cash. Do you take debit cards?"

"No, ma'am. Cash only."

I shrugged, "OK. Is there an ATM nearby where I can go to get some cash?"

"Yes, ma'am, there's a bank machine in the Century Building. I'll show you where it is on the map."

He pulled out a map and showed me a building that looked like it's in the middle of the crowded campus with very little parking around.

"Great. Where do I park to go there?"

"There's a visitor's lot. " He paused. "But it costs $3 to park there."

I plastered a smile onto my face and tried to keep my head from exploding.

"Well, since I don't have $3, that puts me in a bit of a bind, doesn't it?"

"I guess so, ma'am." He seemed confused, but soldiered on. "But that's where you have to park to go to the Century Building, and you have to pay to park. It's $3."

My fingers hurt from gripping the steering wheel so hard in an effort to avoid tearing out my hair. "Right, I understand. But like I said, I don't have any cash, so if I have to pay to park, that's not really an option, is it?

"No, ma'am, I guess not."

"No. Ok, is there a gas station nearby? They usually have cash machines."

"There's a Jiffy Lube about a block away on Beretania Street."

"Hmmm. I'm not sure the Jiffy Lube will have a cash machine because they usually aren't attached to convenience stores where people spend money on random things."

"Yeah, I guess not."

"Yeah."

He was quiet for a couple of seconds, and then the light bulb came on.

"There's also a bank right there where the Jiffy Lube is. You could get cash there."

"Yes, I could. What a great idea. That would be perfect. I'll go to the bank and be back in a few minutes."

"OK, ma'am, see you then."

"OK, thank you so much. Bye."

*Sigh*

Sleep training

Last night we started "teaching" Zeke how to fall asleep on his own, in his crib, without being rocked to sleep with a bottle or pacifier in his mouth and then transferred to the crib after he had fallen asleep. The training involves putting him in his crib when he's drowsy but still awake, so that he learns to associate being in the crib with falling asleep by himself. Otherwise, he falls asleep all cozy in my arms, but then wakes up in the crib, having no memory of being moved. So suddenly, instead of rocking in his mommy's arms, he's alone, in a different place, with no rocking and no mommy, and he doesn't know what to do. This way, he learns to fall asleep in the crib, and when he wakes up during the night, he looks around, sees that nothing has changed, and goes back to sleep without incident.

The first night was, to say the least, a bit rough. We went in to check on him at increasing intervals -- first after 3 minutes, then after 5 minutes, then after 7 minutes, and then after 10 minutes. He cried as if he were being tortured. At one point, Jason went in to pat his belly and see that he was OK (i.e., extremely pissed off, but otherwise fine), and Zeke grabbed Jason's finger in a death grip and held it to his chest as if it were a lifeline. So pitiful. We felt evil and were sure that our child would regard us coldly and with disdain from that point on. After 25 minutes, right before the end of the first 10 minute interval, he stopped crying and went to sleep, and slept well after that, only waking up once during the night to eat. When I went in this morning to get him up for the day, he was awake and gurgling to himself, and when he saw me, he gave me a big grin. Obviously, this kid doesn't hold grudges.

Tonight was remarkable. I gave him his pre-bed bottle and rocked him a little bit, and as soon as his eyes started to droop I kissed him goodnight and put him in his crib. He looked a little confused, and a few minutes later started whimpering, but it was a lackluster whimper, as if he felt like he needed to put up a little bit of a fight even though he didn't really want to. Jason and I went in and checked on him after 5 minutes, and he was crying, but without much enthusiasm. Three minutes later he was asleep. Is this kid awesome or what?

The iPod gods smile on me

Two good things happened this weekend. First, Michele and David had another baby -- a beautiful little boy named Gavin. Welcome, little monkey! Second, I experienced a nice bit of luck that was almost poetic.

Saturday night, Jason's company had its annual Christmas/New Year's party. Yes, I know, I know -- a little late, n'est ce pas? The party line is that they hold it late so as not to conflict with all of the myriad Christmas parties and family activities filling our schedules in December. Whatever. I think they just want a cheaper rate at the Honolulu Country Club, which, for a country club, is already a bit low rent, in my humble opinion.

Yes, I know, I know, I'm a snob.

Anyway. The big draw of the evening is a door prize competition. To win a prize, you had to guess its value, and whoever came closest without going over won. The nonsensical part was that each "price" included not only the cost of the item, but also an arbitrary additional value representing the cost of obtaining the item and transporting it to the country club, plus another arbitrary 5-10% increase or reduction of the total value. So it was kind of like the Hawaiian version of The Price is Right, i.e., similar to the game show, but without making any kind of logical sense.

I know, I know, I'm a haole bitch.

Anyway, there were 11 or 12 prizes altogether, and they were pretty sweet -- a bunch of LCD TVs (a 50 inch, a 40 inch, a 32 inch and a 20 inch), some vacation packages (including a trip for 2 to Las Vegas), and some other electronics, like a Wii, a PS3, and an 80-gig Classic iPod. Each couple received 10 bidding opportunities to be distributed among the various products however they wished. We put in guesses for the Vegas trip, an inter-island trip, the PS3, the 32-inch TV and the iPod.

When it came time to announce the winners, we had the correct guess on two of the items -- the Vegas trip and the iPod. Unfortunately, there was another person with the same winning bid for the Vegas trip, and the tie was settled by drawing one of the two names out of a bag, which we lost. But we got the iPod. Woohoo!

And here's why it's poetic. Back in July, for Jason's birthday I had his van outfitted with a new iPod compatible stereo and new speakers. The problem was, he was using an old iPod mini that wasn't compatible with the newer stereo, so I gave him my newer iPod and took his older one. Then a couple of months ago, his van was broken into and his wallet and (my) iPod were stolen. He was really bummed, so to make him feel better, I went out and bought him a new 80-gig Classic iPod and surprised him with it. He was chuffed. Meanwhile, I was still using the shitty old iPod mini, while secretly coveting his sleek black Classic with its video capability and general bitchin-ness. So on Saturday night, it was awesome to be rewarded by the iPod gods with a new Classic of my own. Sometimes what goes around really does come around.

It's my policy to not do things I don't have to do

Yesterday was the last day of our lease on our old place. We scrubbed the place out this past weekend, and yesterday I went to drop off the keys. The property manager seemed very confused to see me there.

Her: Do you have a final inspection scheduled?

Me: No, nobody contacted me about one.

Her: Did you fill out a notice to vacate?

Me: No, the lease says no notice is required.

This seemed to confuse her even more.

Her: It's our policy to have people fill them out.

Me: Well, I didn't know that, and the lease doesn't require it, so I didn't.

Her: Would you be willing to fill one out now with your forwarding address and contact information?

Me: Sure.

She gave me a form which was attached to a multi-page document full of tiny print with detailed instructions on exactly how to clean out the apartment before vacating it and providing a schedule of charges in the event you haven't done a sufficient job. Like, "failure to treat for fleas and ticks if you have a pet -- $125"; "dirt on the counters -- $25." The list was extensive and totally unenforceable, in my humble legal opinion. The notice to vacate form had a series of boxes to initial indicating you had received the instructions and fee schedule such that, presumably, you agreed to be bound by them.

I filled out the form with my new address and phone number, but didn't initial any of the boxes, and I handed the form back to her and started to leave.

Her: Wait a minute! You need to initial these boxes.

Me: No, I'm not going to. I didn't receive any of this information before today, and in any event, it's not in the lease, so I didn't agree to it and it's not enforceable against me.

Her: But I'm giving you the documents today, so you can initial that you received them.

Me: No. Today is too late. I didn't receive them in advance.

Her: But you're getting them now.

Me: Look. If I initial these boxes, then that could be interpreted as some kind of acknowledgment on my part that I received the documents in advance and that I agreed to comply with all this stuff. And I didn't get it in advance -- I got it today, after I had already moved out. It's too late. I'm not initialling.

All of this may seem very tough on my part (my mother called me a "pistol"), but it was made infinitely easier by the fact that when we moved in, they gave us a special promotional deal in which we paid no security deposit, so they have nothing of mine that they can use as leverage. If they ask me for money, I'll tell them that I'll rewrite their leases and forms for whatever amount they're seeking, and we can walk away even.

Zeke so far

The kid has his own music video.

(Special credit goes to Fred and his artdada blog for turning me on to Animoto and giving me the idea)

I continue to be amazed at my status as "luckiest beeyotch on the planet"

Remember last year's New Year's Eve? When Jason surprised me by awarding me the Spouse of the Year trophy that he had schemed with our friends to make and engrave for me? Well, he's outdone himself. Because apparently, pretty much since the bestowing of the Spouse of the Year award -- i.e., for the last year -- he has been planning a birthday surprise for me for my birthday next month involving the rental of a massive beach house and the visit of our closest friends. The planning has involved hoarding money so I wouldn't know about it and hiding it in socks and ski parkas and attics, faking bike rides and surf outings to meeting with realtors, and having everyone in on it, from my parents to my friends, for six freaking months, without me finding out.* He seriously showed up to pay the realtor with a sock full of money, because it was impossible to open a secret bank account without having statements sent to the house, such that I'd find out about it. Anyway, circumstances have prevented everyone from being able to make it, but Mindy and Chris and their brood are coming, which is so awesome. My mom might come out for a bit as well. And we've got a beach house on the North Shore for a week, and we might take a trip to another island (I'd love to see the sunrise on Haleakala Crater on Maui), and and and... I'm so touched and surprised and blessed with the sweetest husband on earth. Seriously. I have no idea how I worked it, since I'm kind of grumpy and depressive and demanding, but I guess, to quote that song from The Sound of Music, somewhere in my youth or childhood, I must have done something good.

*As I have pointed out to a couple of people (including Jason), the big reveal cleared up a few mysteries, including a period of a couple of months last year when Jason was constantly taking cash out of the ATM but never seemed to have any cash on him. We'd be out and we'd stop and get a soda or something and I'd ask him for money and would berate him for not having any cash when he had just taken $150 out of the account 3 days before. He'd claim he had to buy tools, or lunch, or whatever, but I suspected either a gambling problem or a plot by him to hoard money so he could leave me if he felt like it.

hair today, gone tomorrow

Jason and I have been insanely lazy about cutting our hair since we got married. He hasn't cut his for about 3 1/2 years and basically, neither had I, so we both had long scraggly manes that desperately needed to be chopped. I went in last week and got about 7 inches cut off, so now it's a manageable long bob, about 2 inches below my chin. Jason went in yesterday and got a whole new 'do. He looks awesome. Rrowr.

You get extra points if you run them down and they're haoles

Jason is getting a Hawaiian driver's license because he lost his Georgia license when his wallet was stolen. Today he went in to take the written test. He said the questions on the test were ridiculous. One of them asked what to do if you are approaching an intersection with a green light, but there are pedestrians in the intersection. Choices included -- and I swear I am not making this up -- "Speed up to try to cross the intersection before they do" and "Cross the intersection as close to them as possible to try to frighten them." Another asked about merging onto a busy highway. Choices included "drive as close to cars in other lanes as possible to intimidate them into yielding the right of way." Jason got 100% on his test, but apparently many people in the room were having major problems. Oy.

Back to work

I'm officially done with maternity leave. I haven't worked in 2 1/2 months, though I feel as if I've done nothing but work, albeit a different kind. But Zeke starts full-time daycare tomorrow, and I'm back on the clock. It feels weird. I also may have a new second job. I wrote to the University of Hawaii Law School's academic dean and asked if they were interested in having me create and teach an education law seminar, and they are. I'm meeting with her later this month to talk about it. Kinda cool.

Apparently, because I'm white, it makes me an asshole when I don't like people waking up my sick 2-month-old with illegal fireworks

I just had my first experience of being called a haole bitch and being told to go back to the mainland. I tell you, I'm finding Hawaii more and more charming every day.

What happened was this. For some reason, some people in my neighborhood feel compelled to set off fireworks every night. They usually start right after we have put Zeke to bed (around 7 pm), but they are sporadic and not big bright ones so it's hard to tell where they are coming from. But tonight, at 7:15, I heard some really loud ones, and saw a big red flash outside my window. Immediately after that, I heard Zeke, who has been suffering from a cold and therefore sleeping particularly badly, start to cry. So I went to his room and rocked him back to sleep. At around 7:30, I heard the fireworks again, and looking out the window I could see exactly where they were coming from. I ran downstairs and told Jason, "keep an ear out for the baby, I'm going to tear some ass." The fireworks (and they were huge) were coming from a couple of blocks over, and I ran over and found a huge group of people milling around in the street, having a bit of a house party around the fireworks. I walked up to the group and said, "could you stop with the fireworks, please? they're illegal and they keep waking up my baby." At which point, two women started walking towards me, in full head-shaking mode (as if to say, "oh no she di'int"), yelling, "oh, yah, haole bitch? why don't you say it to my face?" This confused me a bit, because as far as I could tell, I was saying it to her face, so I said, "I am saying it to your face. Stop setting off the fireworks." And she said, "well, you could say it nicely." So I said, "OK, fine. Would you please stop setting off the fireworks? In addition to being illegal and not allowed in this complex, it's waking up my baby and it's rude and inconsiderate." Then this big Samoan guy said, "oh yah, lady? if you don't like the idea why don't you just go back to the mainland?" I rolled my eyes, and contemplated explaining to him that setting off fireworks isn't an idea, it's an act, but this probably would have gone right over his head, so I just said, "Give me a break, dude." And then everyone started yelling and getting in my face, "oh no, you give us a break, bitch. Fuck you, bitch." So I turned around and said, "never mind. I'll just call the police." And I did. I also sent the security dude over there, and I'm reporting them to management, and since I have the addresses, they're all going to be fined. On the other hand, they don't know who I am or where I live, but if anyone bothers me, I'll just sic Jason on them, because he got a Bowflex for Christmas so he'll kick some ass for me.

New York money, but with none of the New York advantages...

I'm sitting in my upstairs office in the new house. There are 4 neighbors whose houses are in close proximity -- I can hear activity in all 4. All day long I've had to listen to the shitty Hawaiian versions of Christmas carols coming from the radio of the people who live behind us, with occasional 20 minute bouts of their shitty little dog yipping. I can hear my neighbor next door blowing his nose in the shower. I can hear kids playing in the yard on the other side of us. Only in Hawaii can you spend almost half a million dollars on a house and still feel like you're living in a tenement.

a little star is born...

So Zeke wasn't an elf in the school christmas play. He was a star, along with the other babies in the infant class. The teachers marched the tiniest babies out and rolled out a crib containing the rest and sang "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star." The role of the children was to look cute in their onesies decorated with stars. They succeeded. Then they got presents from Santa. It was too adorable -- Jason and I both cried.

My personal act of rebellion

I love Zeke's school. The place is open and colorful and cheerful, the staff is lovely, and the caregivers in the infant room are wonderful with the babies. But they're going a little overboard with the Christmas business. Not that I have a problem with Christmas -- it's a lovely holiday -- but there doesn't seem to be any acknowledgement at all of any possibility that Zeke might not actually be Christian. Everyone I meet talks about how it's his first Christmas, he's got a Christmas stocking in his crib, they're having a Christmas program today (in which he will be featured as an elf -- Jason and I are seriously going to lose our shit when we see him), etc etc. I refuse to be one of those assholes who throws a Christmas greeting back in the giver's face by saying, "actually, we're Jewish and we don't celebrate Christmas" -- I think it's rude and mean and totally unnecessary. So I had to send a message more subtly. I sent Zeke to school today wearing his onesie that says "save the date - my bar mitzvah 2020". It'll probably go right over their heads, though, because I'm sure that not a single person working there has any freaking clue what a bar mitzvah is. But still. It made me feel better.

The 8 week old clothes horse

I was just organizing Zeke's clothes drawers, and came up with an enormous pile of onesies. This isn't counting the ones that he can't wear right now because they're too big, or the ones in the wash, or the one he's wearing, or the extra outfits he keeps at daycare. This is only the ones that fit him, in his drawer right now. He could wear a different outfit every day for over a month and not wear the same thing twice. I've never had that many clothes in my life.

Peanut School

Zeke had his first day of daycare today. It's a lovely place with a very warm and nurturing staff. The teachers in the infant room are all big bosomed, soft-armed older ladies that seem tailor-made for holding and comforting babies. I was a little nervous (and feeling a bit guilty) when I dropped Zeke off this morning, but when the teacher picked him up he smiled at her and I sighed and knew he would be fine. The school is very detail-oriented -- even a 7 week old gets a daily progress report. So when I picked Zeke up at noon, I was pleased to learn that he had had two short naps (and at what times), had two bottles (how much and at what times), and that he enjoyed rocking in the rocker and was "very observant of the room, his friends, and his caregivers." So hilarious. The kid's been in school one day and already he has friends -- I've been here 10 months and I barely know a soul.

Two years ago today...

 

Two signs that the apocalypse is upon us...

1. I got my hospital bill for delivering Zeke. Uncomplicated vaginal delivery: $12,000. Holy shit. Thank god for insurance (though it only covers part of it, so don't anybody expect expensive Christmas presents from us this year).

2. With a completely straight face, the local weather forecasters are describing our current conditions as a "cold front." High of 83, low of 73.

Zeke has a bath

not that having a bath is such a monumentous occasion, but I couldn't resist posting a photo of him in the froggy towel that my friend Ali got for him (it's even got his name embroidered on the back - so cool). Every time Jason and I look at him like this we crack up. I hope he never runs for office, because his constituents will never be able to take him seriously with pictures like these out there...

what's up

It's one of those rare days in Hawaii -- particularly on the side of Oahu we live on -- when it's rainy and crappy out. I've actually always loved rainy crappy days, so having the weather be perfect all the time isn't all it's cracked up to be. But right now it's thundering and lightening out, Zeke is dozing in his carseat on my desk, the dog is asleep at my feet, and I've got a mellow playlist going on iTunes. It's very peaceful.

It's been hard to find time to do anything not baby-related these days, thus the dearth of blog posts. Zeke is doing great -- at his 1month checkup he was 10 lbs 6 ozs and has grown an inch and a half. He's a solid little munchkin. He's starting to react to my facial expressions - I've gotten what looks like smiles, but I'm not sure. In any event, he's pretty damned cute.

In other news, we had a nice Thanksgiving with my brother Sam and his wife. I discovered that the key to a great turkey is to brine it. I also discovered, when we went for a hike, that not sleeping more than 2 hours at a stretch for a month is not conducive to cardiovascular strength. I practically coughed up a lung trying to walk up this hill. Also, we are getting the keys to our new house on Monday, and will move in the following weekend. It's going to be so great to be in our own place. We're going to get a Christmas tree - my first.