Max and Zeke: from brotherhood to strife in 2 short minutes -- a photo essay

"I'm sitting here, minding my own business, enjoying the late afternoon on the front lawn. And did I mention I'm sitting? On my own. I'm not great at it, but I'm working on it."

"The little guy always smells interesting. I'll go lie by him and see what happens."

"Ha ha! Funny doggy!"

"Oh, you're going to pay attention to me? Great, I'll get closer"

"You should have no trouble petting me from here."

Zeke: "I love doggy! Whee!"
Max: "Hmm. You're new at this, aren't you?"

"You're not doing it right. Here, let me help. I'll just nudge your arm a little..."

"No really, let me help.  If I just put my face here, you'll understand what I'm looking for, petting-wise..."

Zeke: "Ooof."
Max: "Wha...? Shit. Um, I didn't do anything. Nope, he fell over all on his own. Nothing to see here, folks."

"Fucking dog."

Reason 473 that I love my husband...

I'm sitting in my office, moping. Jason walks in.

"Come on, let's go for a surf."

"Meeaaaah. I'm tired."

"Come oooooon. You said you'd come with me this morning. And you finished those briefs that were due, so I know you can spare an hour."

"Eeeehhhh. I don't feel like it."

"Come on, baby. You know it'll make you feel better to get out into the water."

"Hmmph. Oooooh, aaalll riiiiiight." *heavy sigh*

I put on my rash guard and board shorts. Jason has already loaded up the van and made me a cup of coffee in my travel mug.

"I'm tiiiiiired."

"Come on, sweetie, get in the van. I've already got towels and everything."

We get to the beach 10 minutes later. The waves are perfect. No wind, no rip current, just clean sets of 2-3 foot waves that are breaking beautifully. We start paddling out. The water is a little chilly but incredibly refreshing.

We spend the next hour catching perfect waves. We would even paddle onto the same wave and ride it holding hands, facing each other (he rides "regular," with his left foot forward, and I ride "goofy," with my right foot forward, so we face in opposite directions when we surf). I'm sure the people on the beach were vomiting with the sicky sweetness of it. I even saw a huge sea turtle poke it's head up about 10 feet from my board while I was sitting waiting for a set to come in. It was a glorious morning of surfing.

And I feel a million times better than I did 2 hours ago. Thanks, honey.

(February 2004 - Costa Rica - early in our "courtship")

Anxiety

I haven't been blogging much this week, beyond posting photos and videos in what is looking to be an "all Zeke, all the time" theme. Anxiety, writer's block, knots in my stomach.

I'm nervous about my upcoming trip, and its sort of consuming my brain and my emotional well-being:

• I'm worried about my grandmother. Not only worried about her, but also not looking forward to seeing her in the state she's in, or seeing my grandfather be all depressed about it. Plus I hate hospitals, and I'm not thrilled with the prospect of having Zeke hang out in one, particularly given that his track record of one ear/sinus infection after another doesn't say much for the strength of his developing immune system.

• I'm dreading the exceedingly long plane trip with Zeke. I have no reason to believe he'll be difficult, except that I'd sure as hell fuss if I had to spend 11+ hours on a plane in someone's lap, even if that lap belonged to my mother.

• I love my family, but whenever we all get together I get anxiety attacks -- oldest child fears of disappointing people psychobabble bullshit blah blah.
  

• Work is slow and my billable hours are for shit, so taking a week off isn't going to help. But they're still paying me and not complaining about it, so whatever.

• I feel fat and gross. I've never had a gut in my life, but I can't seem to lose the baby mush around my middle and it's making me feel repulsive. After the next baby (*knocks wood, throws salt over shoulder*) I'm totally getting a tummy tuck.

So there it is. And reading over the list, I'm boring the crap out of myself, so I can't begin to imagine how tedious all of you must find me these days.

On an up note, today is Zeke's 6 month birthday, so here's another Animoto video:

Politics, baby!

Zeke, 6 months old, lifelong Obama supporter.

Two years ago today...

The Atlanta wedding:



And happy Earth Day, everyone.

If you have to be unemployed, you may as well be unemployed here

Even though he is temporarily laid off, Jason still has school twice a week at the union hall. Today he showed up in his board shorts, sunburned and with sand on his feet, because we spent the day surfing with some friends that are visiting the island.

"Unemployed" is such a scary word. I feel like it's obscene to be enjoying it so much. But given that he's getting paid while he's out of work, and that I woke up extra early to finish the brief I was writing, it's hard not to get out of bed, look at the surf report, and think "score!"

Getting to the end

Said the little boy, “Sometimes I drop my spoon.”
Said the old man, “I do that too.”
The little boy whispered, “I wet my pants.”
“I do that too,” laughed the old man.
Said the little boy, “I often cry.”
The old man nodded, “So do I.”
“But worst of all,” said the boy, “it seems
Grown-ups don’t pay attention to me.”
And he felt the warmth of a wrinkled old hand.
“I know what you mean,” said the old man.

- - - - Shel Silverstein


I'm not really one to perseverate on death and dying. I know that it will happen eventually, but the feeling of life and health is so overwhelming that it's difficult to conceive of a time when my body will deteriorate beyond a point that I can counteract with exercise or diet or acupuncture or whatever. And people in my family live to be really old, and there isn't much of a history of cancer or Alzheimer's or other debilitating diseases. So I haven't been much exposed to people who were really sick or out of it for prolonged periods.

Which makes it hard to see my grandmother go through what she's going through right now. As I wrote about a year and a half ago, her health has been pretty crappy for a long time -- one thing after another has sapped her immune system and her physical strength, and then a few years ago her mind started to deteriorate quickly as well. She'll have conversations with my mother indicating that she doesn't understand who my grandfather is (she'll refer to him as "that man") or why she can't just go home. Meaning, presumably, her childhood home. It's heartbreaking for my mother to have to explain to her that she is home. I mean, think about it. How utterly depressing would it be to never feel like you're home, to never understand why you are where you are? It makes me want to cry just thinking about it. She has periods of lucidity, but they've been getting fewer and farther between her periods of confusion.

Then last week, she had to go to the hospital for surgery to clear up a problem with her intestines. It turned out to not be as serious physically as the doctors initially thought, but she's disoriented and not cooperating much with the doctors, pulling out her tubes and such, and is really, really out of it. Like, sitting up in bed but with her head hanging down to her chest and not really responding to the world around her -- that kind of "out of it."

My mother told me she doesn't think my grandmother will be able to go home. Rather, she'll probably end up in a home. One of those old people in a depressing nursing facility, restrained to avoid hurting themselves, that gets a little bit of attention from time to time. When I heard that, I felt like I'd been punched in the gut.

Since my grandmother doesn't really know what's going on, it's probably not so bad for her. But it must be a nightmare for my grandfather. Because even though he is 92, his mind is perfectly fine and he's tired but in great shape. So he's been taking care of my grandmother, which I know must wear him out, and now he's helpless, watching her deteriorate further. It has to be scary and lonely and overwhelming.

And as I type this, I'm crying thinking about getting to a point in life when all of a sudden, you realize that the end is near, and you're never going to feel strong again, or truly happy again, or hopeful for the future. Or, even worse, that you have to watch your wife of over 60 years fall apart, to the point that she barely resembles the person you know and love. It must be so devastating, and so exhausting. Particularly for my grandpa, who has been unfailingly devoted in caring for her, virtually single-handedly. To say that he's good people doesn't begin to describe the benevolence of this man. If there is a heaven, he's got a space reserved, that's for sure.

For a few months now, I've had a trip planned to take Zeke to the mainland to meet his great-grandparents as well as his aunts, uncles and cousins. We're leaving at the end of the week, and obviously, my timing couldn't have been better. While I'm relieved that my two grandmothers and my grandfather will be able to see him and meet him, and undoubtedly be thrilled with him, I don't have much faith that they will live long enough for Zeke to truly know them or remember them (at least, the grandmothers probably won't -- I bet my grandpa lives another 10 years).

And now I know how my mother feels when she tells me she wishes I knew her Grandma Fanny, who died either shortly before or shortly after I was born, so I never knew her. According to my mother, she was a wonderful, sweet woman who put up with a bastard for a husband and always managed to be loving and warm. But as much as I can get a sense of her from hearing stories and seeing pictures, it's not the same.

I'm not really afraid of dying. But the more I think about it, the more I'm terrified of growing old.

To sleep, perchance to dream...

O sleep, O gentle sleep,
Nature's soft nurse, how have I frightened thee,
That thou no more will weigh my eyelids down,
And steep my senses in forgetfulness?

-- William Shakespeare, Henry IV, Part 2


Zeke has now slept through the night 4 nights in a row. So I think it's safe to say he's trained. Yay, success!!

But having uninterrupted nights has made it apparent to me that my sleep is more fucked up than ever. Remember when I said that the cure to insomnia was to have a baby, because you don't really have time during the night to lie awake for hours on end? Well, I was sort of kidding when I wrote it, but apparently I wasn't. Because I'm now so conditioned to wake up every few hours that I am incapable of sleeping for more than short spans at a time.

Ever since Zeke stopped waking up during the night, I have woken up at 2 or 2:30 every night and only been able to doze off and on until morning. So I read, or I get up and read the news online, or I go downstairs and fold our bottomless pile of laundry.

So I'm learning all about John Adams (and if you're looking for something to read, the book is outstanding), and I'm definitely up on current events, and I've got lots of folded clothes in my closet. But I'm fucking exhausted.

Good news and bad news

The bad news is that Jason is getting laid off at the end of the week. The good news is that his company is making it a temporary layoff, meaning they will still be employing him and will call him back to work as soon as another part of the job he's working on gets going, probably in about two weeks. And in the meantime, he'll continue to be paid, so it's not so bad.

I guess this is the down-side of falling in love with a blue collar guy. I'll never be a kept woman, that's for sure.

But on the other hand... ladies, remember that Diet Coke commercial in which the women in the office took their daily break to watch the hunky construction worker take his shirt off while he drank a Diet Coke? I'm married to that guy.* And he's awesome.



*I'm not literally married to Lucky Vanous, the actor from that commercial, but you get my point.

Oy vey

My husband isn't Jewish, but he likes to think that he is, on account of being married to one. I keep explaining to him that we're not a proselytising people, and that we don't make it easy for people to join up.

But he certainly earned some stripes today, by pulling a move right out of the classic joke about the Jewish telegram ("start worrying, details to follow").

He called me, said, "I heard a rumor they're laying off travelers [guys affiliated with unions in other states] at the end of the day, so I might be out of a job. It's just a rumor, though. I guess I'll find out later. Anyway, I gotta go. Love ya!" Click.

Thanks, honey. The rest of my day is sure to be delightful, now.

Elizabeth Bennet would know how to handle this...

My mother-in-law is coming for a visit. For a month. Yes, you read that right. A month. She'll be here from May 2-31. Which is about a month. Oh, and her father (Jason's grandfather, we call him "Pa") is coming too. Also for a month.

Not being a part of the English nobility during the time of Jane Austen novels, I have no experience with people coming to visit for a month. I also don't have a big manor house for people to stay in, just a teeny little guest bedroom and bathroom. No servants to wait on them (God, I miss living in India...) No extra carriages to take them to their various social engagements. Just my little 3 bedroom house, Jason's shitty van (that only has one front passenger seat), and my 10-year-old Mercedes that is currently filled with a baby carseat, about 40 teething toys, multiple daycare daily progress reports, a musical octopus that Zeke likes to play with, and probably a couple or three dirty, used bottles that have made their way under the seats.

I don't have a problem with Jason's mom or grandpa. His mom is a very nice woman who has always been lovely to me, and Pa is a sweet guy who has always been a dear. But I have about as much in common with my mother-in-law as I do with a man from Mars. We have completely different life experiences and world views, and I just don't think we understand each other at all. As a result, our conversations tend to revolve around the weather and the dog.

Plus, my house is not big, and I'm getting anxiety attacks thinking about all of us living on top of each other for a month. And I have a job, and I have to do that job if I hope to keep it so that I can continue to pay my mortgage. But I work out of the house. So I'm home, but not really available to take people out to see the sights during the day. Which can be awkward. For a month.

And there's nothing I can say. I gently tried to impress upon Jason my family's maxim that, like fish, relatives start to stink after 3 days. But he didn't want to hurt his mom's feelings, and I sure as hell am not going to create a fuss, so I guess we'll suck it up. For a month.

Indulge me, once again

This time I'm the proud older sister. My brother, Sam, who writes and performs under the name Lipstik, has a new EP coming out called There Is Only One Thing. It includes a cover of Tom Petty's "Yer So Bad" with the lyrics changed in tribute to me ("my sister got lucky, married an Aussie..."). It's been very well-reviewed by respected music bloggers (click here for a review in Allan's World Music and here for a review in Cover Lay Down, downloads available on both sites). As I've said before, my baby brother is kewl.

Sleep training, redux

I've been putting it off for months. Any excuse would do. Oh, I miss holding him. Oh, he's got an ear infection -- I don't want to force him to cry when he's sick. Oh, he's got a cold and he's teething and I don't want to increase his discomfort. Oh, I'm traveling soon, and I don't want to disrupt him further when Mommy's away. Anything to avoid resuming the sleep training process.

But the truth is, I'm a pussy. I hate hearing my baby cry. All I want to do is pick him up and console him.

It's time, though. He'll be 6 months old in a week or so, and he weighs almost 17 pounds, so he doesn't need to eat every 3 hours during the night -- he just uses the bottle as a sleep aid because he doesn't know any different. Because I haven't taught him anything different. And he's been generally fussier at bedtime, particularly when he's overtired. My feeling is, if he's going to fuss anyway, he may as well do it in his bed rather than in my arms.

Last night when we put him down, he cried for almost an hour. I started crying about a half hour in, as well. It totally sucked. We would go in to check on him and pat him on the back ever 10 minutes or so, and he would be rolling from side to side, completely pissed off. It was so hard to listen to and watch, especially knowing that all it would take to calm him down would be to pick him up. But we stayed strong, and he fell asleep eventually.

I gave him a bottle at about 11:45 because he hadn't eaten much for dinner, and then he slept until about 2:45 in the morning. Once again, it took him about 45 minutes to fall asleep, with me checking on him every 10 minutes. He cried and cried, and it was brutal to listen to, but I didn't cave, and then he slept until 7 in the morning and was his normal smiling self.

I'm not looking forward to tonight, but plenty of people have assured me that it will get better. Soon, I hope.

Creation

Maybe it's because I've been watching alot of Top Chef. Maybe it's the cooking blogs I've been reading -- particularly Annie's A Good American Wife, which has inspired me to branch out and expand my repertoire. Maybe I'm trying to improve Jason's palate so he develops a taste for good food that isn't covered in chili sauce. Most likely, it's because work is slow, and I've got all of this energy I'd normally use being productive at work and I need to direct it somewhere.

But whatever the reason, I've been completely obsessed with cooking lately.

In the past week or so, I've made:

- chicken & rice cooked with wine wine, tomatoes, saffron and peas (insanely delicious -- Jason and I couldn't even hold a conversation while we were eating because the taste of the food was zapping all of our brainpower);

- Indian chicken biryani

- red Thai curry chicken

- Greek potatoes, Greek green beans (sauteed with tomatoes and onions -- I'm not a big green bean fan, and I couldn't get enough) and spanakopita (spinach pie)

- about 3 or 4 different variations of homemade pasta sauce

Every day I wake up and think, "what new thing can I make today?" And the more complicated it is, the better.

Did you ever see the movie Big Night? It's about these two Italian brothers who are trying to maintain a successful Italian restaurant, and as a last ditch effort to keep the place open, they host a huge dinner party, making all of their best dishes, in the hopes that the singer Louis Prima will show up and make them famous and popular and successful. One of the dishes they make is called a timpano -- a giant pastry filled with layers of pasta and sausage and eggs and about a million other things, all baked together. When I saw it in the movie, I was so mesmerized that I was determined to make it. So I did. I found a recipe, and my friend Karen and I hosted a dinner party in which we made the timpano (it took us about 10 hours altogether) and served it with three different kinds of risotto in the colors of the Italian flag (also featured in the movie).

I get this way from time to time. I learn how to do something, or in the case of cooking, revisit it after a long hiatus, and I get crazy. I go on a knitting frenzy and I make fishermen's sweaters with 5 different kinds of cables and popcorn stitches and whatever else I can think of. I watch a couple of episodes of Trading Spaces and I go out and buy a sewing machine and start making curtains and pillow covers.

It could be that I have an overwhelming need to be productive and creative.

Or just further confirmation that I'm more than a little nuts.

Anyway, here's the wonderful scene from Big Night that inspired me. May it inspire you as well.

Stream of semi-consciousness

I'm in a big council hall. I think I'm supposed to be getting ready to speak right now. The room looks like the inside of the U.S. Senate chambers, very grand and formal and parlaimentary. I'm giving a speech soon, but I'm not sure what I'm supposed to say. I'm trying to listen to what the other people in the room are talking about, but all I can hear is a cat crying. The cat sounds like it's in pain. I try to focus on what's going on around me, but all I can hear is the cat ....

Zeke's awake. And crying, hard. I look at the clock, and it's 1:40 in the morning. Not bad, he's been asleep for almost 5 hours, which is good after waking up at 8, an hour after going to sleep, and being practically inconsolable. Probably the teething. He's drooling all over everything these days, constantly rubbing his gums, and then all of a sudden last night he has a runny nose. Which means his ears probably aren't far behind. Fuck.

Oooof. Jesus, dog, do you have to sleep stretched out across the doorway? Are you trying to break my neck? God, I'm tired. My eyes feel like they've been glued shut. I bump into the wall as I walk into Zeke's room. Ow.

Oh, muffin. Mommy's here, mommy's here. Don't cry. Shhhhh. Here, have a bottle. Did I remember to dose it with some Advil? I think so. OK, there you go. Close your eyes. Shhhh. It's OK. You're OK. Let's just sit in the chair and rock for a bit.

Rock, rock, rock. I need to finish that memo for the boss's meeting tomorrow. I wonder if the client is going to appeal. I bet they do. I should start researching and writing portions of the brief so it will be done when we need it.

There, there, baby, go to sleep. Good boy. Close your eyes. Shhhhhhh.

Whoa, what's wrong? Why are you crying again? Are you in pain? Poor pooper. Here, I'll put some orajel on your gums. Do you want me to rub your gums for you? No? Oh, my poor baby. Let's walk around a little bit. Do you want me to sing you a song?

OK, he's breathing deeply now. His arm just kind of collapsed down by his side. That's a good sign. I think he's asleep. OK, sweetie, let me switch arms so I can put you back in your bed. There you go, roll over and go to sleep.

Watch out for the dog. Where are the covers? I need to turn the fan down. It's blowing little strands of hair in my face and it's itchy. I think Jason took my other pillow. I hope I can fall back to sleep. Is it raining? Weird. I miss the thunderstorms in Atlanta. It never storms like that here.

Deep breath.

The Haole Way

I fear that when we eventually leave Hawaii, it will be because of racism. Which is unfortunate. I find it ironic and not just a little sad that a place as truly multicultural as this, a place where there truly is such a mix of peoples and cultures, where interracial couples are pretty much the norm, is seriously the most racist place I've ever encountered. And I lived in the South half my life.

I guess if I were being honest with myself, I would have to acknowledge that there's tons of racism in the South, but I just never really had to deal with it because it wasn't directed at me. Whereas in Hawaii, I'm a haole, a soulless, no-breath-having, culture-stealing invader who plunders the land, steals the natural resources, and then gets the fuck out, leaving the place totally trashed. So I feel the racism because I'm the one they hate.

And if it were just me dealing with it, I wouldn't really care. But I refuse to have Zeke grow up in a place where he can't go to public school because the public schools suck so bad that they make the public schools in most inner cities looks like Exeter or Eton, where even in private schools he'll have to deal with people wanting to beat him up because he's white or because he's smart (God willing) or because he's not a punk (and he won't be). And if you think I'm exaggerating, I'm not. Our neighbors across the street are white, but they were born and raised in Hawaii, and they still dealt with it their whole lives. Their kids and neices and nephews are constantly getting threatened or attacked because of the color of their skin.

It's not OK with me. I will not subject my son, or any future children, to it. So I figure we'll be here for 5 years or so, build some equity in our house, get alot of surfing in, and then get the fuck out. Like true haoles.

Keep the dream alive

Every year on this day, I listen to Martin Luther King, Jr.'s "I Have A Dream" speech. It never fails to bring me to tears. It has been 40 years -- a biblical time period -- since his assassination. Much progress has been made. But there is still work to do.

Indulge me

We got Zeke's first school picture yesterday. Forgive me for playing the proud parent, but I can't even deal with how cute this kid is...

I just crack up at the notion of a 5-month-old baby lounging in a wicker chair like he's getting ready to drink a mint julep (virgin, of course) on some porch in Nantucket, with boats going by in the background. Such a little man of leisure.

Evolution

I'm sexy. I'm cute, I'm popular to boot. I'm bitchin', great hair, the guys all love to stare. I'm wanted, I'm hot, I'm everything your not, I'm pretty, I'm cool, I dominate this school. Who am I, just guess, guys wanna touch my chest, I'm rockin', I smile and many think I'm vile. I'm flyin', I jump, you can look but don't you hump. Woa! I'm major, I roar, I swear I'm not a whore. We cheer and we lead and we act like we're on speed. Hate us 'coz we're beautiful, but we don't like you either. We're cheerleaders, we are cheerleaders!

-----Rancho Carne Toros cheerleaders, Bring It On

Yesterday while I was working I had the NCAA womens' basketball tournament playing on the TV. It was a tight game between Tennessee and Texas A&M, with the winner taking a spot in the Final Four. Candace Parker, Tennessee's superstar player, had to leave the game twice when her shoulder popped out of its socket, but she gritted her teeth and played with her shoulder in a brace and led her team to victory. All of the women on the court were tough and strong. Some were pretty, some weren't, some were skinny, some were stocky, some were tall, some were short, but all were bad-ass ath-a-leets.

At one point, the camera panned away from the women on the basketball to a group of cheerleaders on the sidelines. They were garishly made up and wearing big poufy bows in their hair and waving frilly pom-poms around. And to me, they looked ridiculous, particularly juxtaposed with the women athletes they were cheering on. They just didn't seem to fit in, particularly in an age in which a woman is running for president and a woman is secretary of state and women are increasingly receiving more and more acclaim and recognition for their accomplishments in the field of battle, be it an athletic field, a military field, a diplomatic field, a business field, whatever.

I don't really have anything against cheerleading. I've never actually given it much thought one way or the other. Plenty of my friends were cheerleaders in high school, and I know high school kids now that are cheerleaders, and this is in no way a knock on them. Hell, I know cheerleaders these days tend to be really good gymnasts, and they do crazy scary tricks in which they fly in the air doing loop-de-loops. In fact, there was just an article in Sports Illustrated about how dangerous cheerleading is and how cheerleading accidents account for a disproportionate number of overall athletic accidents in emergency rooms these days. So obviously, what they do is really difficult.

But also, it seems to me, increasingly irrelevant.

Rationalizations

I don't know anyone who could get through the day without two or three juicy rationalizations. They're more important than sex.

--- Michael (Jeff Goldblum's character), The Big Chill

Yesterday we had a big block party on our street. It was a fun, casual affair, with barbecuing and cole slaw and pie and kids playing on their skateboards and guys playing catch with the football. Some of the adults were drinking beer or wine, but it wasn't the type of party where people were throwing down and getting crazy drunk. Just harmless family fun.

Except for one neighbor I'll call Arnold.

At around 1:30 in the afternoon, Arnold goes back to his house and returns to the party with a bottle of brandy. He's polite, so he offers it around, but not surprisingly, no one takes him up on it, seeing as how it was the middle of the afternoon and all. And it was brandy.

I was curious about the choice of beverage, so I said, "that's an interesting selection for the middle of the day. Why brandy?"

"Oh, I just really like brandy. And it's a different kind of drinking. You don't pound huge quantities of it and get really shit-faced like with beer or something. You just sip it."

"Ah," I said. "Makes sense."

"And anyway, this is a small bottle. I usually buy the big bottle."

"Hmmm," I replied. I couldn't help noticing that this "small" bottle was easily a quart or so of liquor.

As the afternoon progressed, the brandy in this "small" bottle was getting lower and lower in the bottle until it was almost entirely gone. I wanted to explain to Arnold that while sipping may be all well and good, if you keep sipping and sipping until you've drunk a fifth of brandy, you're still going to be shit-faced. But by the time I got around to it, he was passed out on the street, surrounded by a bunch of small children who couldn't figure out why one of the grownups was taking a nap outside.

Christina

I just found a stack of baby pictures, mostly of me and my brother Josh. Pictures from Cyprus and Venezuela and other places we lived growing up.

It got me to thinking about the people out in the world whom I knew and cared about at one time, and who knew and cared about me, and whose whereabouts and situation are utterly unknown to me now. For example, when we were overseas, we had nannies. Christina took care of me when I was a baby in Cyprus. Olive took care of Josh and me when we lived in Venezuela. She and I used to watch telenovelas together.

Olive with Josh and me outside the front door of our house in Caracas, Venezuela. I'm thinking about getting that plaid suit in an adult size so I can replicate this look. Or maybe track down these outfits so I can embarrass Zeke...

Frances was Sam's nanny in Israel, and she took care of Josh and me as well. It turned out that she stole things from my mother and was let go, but I didn't know that until much later, and I always liked her -- she was nice to me and very artistic and she taught me to knit and sew. Maria Lidia took care of Sam in El Salvador. I was in college and thus a little old for a nanny, but she was always sweet to me and she taught me how to fold my underwear into tiny little balls, a technique I use to this day.

I wonder where they all are, and how they all are. Especially Christina.

My mother was 22 years old when she married my father and joined him in Greece, where he was stationed as a junior Foreign Service officer. From there they moved to Cyprus, where I was born. Soon after moving into their house in Cyprus, a kindly woman in her 40s appeared at the door, introduced herself as Christina, and informed my mother that she (Christina) had worked for the people who lived in the house before my parents, and that now she would be working for my parents.

In my high chair in Cyprus, with Christina

sitting in Christina's lap with my cat, McGee

I don't remember Christina, but I've seen so many pictures and heard so many stories that I almost feel as if I do. I know that she was a wonderful caring woman who was utterly devoted to me from the day I was born. She took responsibility for making sure I wouldn't burn in hell for all eternity by taking me to her village to be baptized (something my Jewish parents obviously weren't going to do -- people ask me if my parents were mad, but their attitude was, "hell, it can't hurt"). She fed me and changed my diapers and took care of me. I learned Greek -- my first language -- from her, including Greek nursery rhymes (I have vague memories of a song in Greek about a little rabbit). She loved me like I was her own child, and was devastated when we left Cyprus.

I haven't seen her since leaving Cyprus 36 year ago. If she's still alive, she would be in her 80s, I think. Wherever she is, I hope she knows that I love her too, and that even after all these years, I still think about her and appreciate her role in my life.

The Scrabulous gods are on to me...

I'm currently playing a game of online Scrabble (TM) in which I've played the words "poi," "luaus," and "tit." So the game is covering the two main themes in my life: Hawaii and boobs.

The Gift

As anyone who knows me knows, my family growing up was a model of stability and happiness. My parents have an incredible relationship and were always happy together (and they still are). And they were amazing with my brothers and me. They treated us with kindness and respect, were reasonable and fair in administering discipline, were always involved in our lives, and generally made us feel secure and loved. Mine was the house that other friends tended to gravitate towards, because my parents were so cool. I had plenty of friends that didn't get along with their parents very well, and frequently I would come home late from after-school activities and find a friend of mine in the kitchen helping my mom with dinner. Even as an adult, I have friends that joke about trying to get adopted by my parents so they can bask in the warmth of the family sun. My mother's standard line is that any and all are welcome, as long as she doesn't have to pay for any more weddings or college educations.

On the other hand, Jason's upbringing wasn't the greatest, to say the least. His parents split up when he was about 4 months old, and he had a horribly abusive stepfather that he lived with for a long time and then a less abusive but not very nice stepmother, and finally he said, "fuck this" and left home when he was about 15. He was convinced that he would never get married or have children, and didn't really see any benefit to either situation.

Before we got engaged, we split up for a time because Jason freaked out about marriage and children. He was convinced that he would be a horrible father and revert to the tactics that were employed on him, and that he didn't know how to be part of a family. He felt that if we stayed together, he would ruin my life.

I was mindful of the statistics showing that people who are abused tend to be abusers, but having seen how Jason escaped his predicament, having observed him with my nieces and with the children of our friends, and knowing that his upbringing left him with a massive fear of confrontation (rather than an inclination to seek it out), I just knew in my gut that he would be fine. I told him that being aware of his fears was huge, and that if at any time he felt like he was having trouble, we would deal with it. Whatever he needed from me -- going to therapy, seeking any kind of help -- I was willing to do.

Having Zeke has been a revelation for him. He didn't think he would feel the intense feelings of love and happiness that come with having a child, but he has. And it has made him feel a security, a sense of comfort and love and emotional well-being, from being part of a family -- a feeling that I don't think he's ever experienced or that he ever thought he would be able to enjoy. And of course, he is an amazing father. Zeke adores him and lights up whenever he sees his daddy. Jason is gentle and patient and playful and sweet. I think his skills as a parent have surprised him as well.

Yesterday we were driving home from picking Zeke up at school, and I was talking to Zeke and telling him how much his daddy and I love him. Jason said, "you've made us a family, little man. It's great to be part of a family."

I just about plotzed.

I know how to do happy families. I've done it my whole life, and it comes easily. This family that we've created is miraculous in its own right. But to be able to contribute to someone else experiencing this feeling of love and security for the first time -- it's the greatest thing I could bestow on my husband, or that he could bestow on me.

Is it a blanket, or is it a dance floor?

We are a couple of goofy-ass mofos, that's for sure. And every time I watch Zeke "do" the worm, I lose it all over again.

What a 5-month-old's art projects look like

I absolutely adore Zeke's school. The teachers are all warm and wonderful and he spends his day engaged in play that is all geared toward achieving developmental goals. So he has fun, and in the process, has learned to hold his own bottle, is rolling over and pushing himself around on his stomach in a way that indicates crawling is not far off (God help me), can grasp toys, can grasp his spoon and almost feed himself, is learning rudimentary signs for "milk" and "drink" and "food" and "more." It's so cool.

And they send home art projects, which never fail to completely crack me up. Sometimes the kids actually do the "art," i.e., they fingerpaint. But other times, the teachers make stuff that can only be for the sole purpose of giving the parents something to put on the fridge.

Here are Zeke's Easter projects. When I saw the one with the yellow feathers, I laughed so hard that people were coming in from other parts of the school to see if I needed medical assistance.

The Ten

My 10 "Excellent" nominees, in no particular order:

1.    Lemon Gloria 

2.    PoliTits

3.    Good American Wife

4.    Striped Socks and Skinny Jeans

5.    I'm Not a Girl, Not Yet A Wino

6.    Stuff White People Like

7.    *moosie*

8.    Lawyerish

9.    The Wonder Keeping the Stars Apart

10.    The Slightly Disorganized Mind

Vail was awesome, and I'm not leaving Zeke again for a long, long time

Hi, everyone! I'm back. I missed you. Here's how my weekend went...

By the end of Thursday night, I was marveling at the lengths people will go to in order to go skiing. I took the red-eye from Honolulu to San Francisco on Wednesday night, got into San Fran at 5:45 in the morning Thursday, and then took a flight to Denver that arrived at about noon. Kathleen picked me up at the airport and we headed straight to my cousin's house because I hadn't seen them in two years and couldn't very well blow through Denver, where they live, without stopping to say hello. We had lunch and visited for a couple of hours and then went back to Kathleen's, where we loaded up the car and waited for Michele and David, who had flown in from Atlanta that morning with their three kids. They had to stop in and see David's sister and get the keys to the mountain house, so they rolled up in their big-ass Suburban at around 5 or so. We finished loading up both cars and hit the road, just as a snowstorm started to hit the mountains -- right in our path. The weather was so bad that the authorities were closing the mountain passes. We were lucky in that we managed to make it through before the routes were cut off behind us, but not so lucky that the drive wasn't a nice, hairy, white-knuckled experience (particularly for Rich and David, our trusty chauffeurs), complete with hungry children, crying children, inquisitive children, and tired adults.

But, we finally made it to Vail and the house was gorgeous (though lacking cell service, meaning I couldn't get online the entire time -- very frightening for an internet addict like me). It was a log cabin on a river right in front of the mountains, with a massive fire place and insanely comfy beds. We were well stocked with food and, most importantly, alcohol.

Our cozy fireplace

The view out the back door

The skiing on Friday was decent, but it took us awhile to get out the door and get organized, especially getting the 5 children situated in either ski school or day care, so it was late by the time we hit the slopes. Plus the light was bad -- very flat, making it difficult to see the snow. It was the Friday of spring break, meaning it was crowded. Add that to the fact that it took us awhile to get our ski legs under us, and it made for a relatively fun (it's hard not to have fun skiing) but exhausting day.

Saturday, however, was sublime. It was seriously as great a day of skiing as I've ever had. The morning scramble to get the kids delivered to their respective destinations was a million times easier and more efficient, so we were on the mountain by 10 in the morning, and amazingly, we practically had the entire place to ourselves. I guess Saturday was a travel day for most people, so the lift lines were short. The sun was shining, the sky was blue, the winds were mild, the light was good, and we took run after run of wide open, smooth slopes. So, so, so much fun.

the view from the top of the slopes

I did miss my boys. But I talked to Jason every day and they were fine. Jason managed to hear Zeke when he needed to get up at night (I think he slept on the floor of Zeke's room), and they visited friends and went to the beach and watched rugby and had a grand time together. Which is wonderful for both of them.

A little too wonderful.

Because when they picked me up at the airport, I made a beeline for Zeke, and was holding him and giving him kisses when he completely lost his shit. Not just normal "waaah" crying, but hysterical, panicked, "get me away from this terrifying lady" crying, accompanied by squirming and reaching for Jason. The kind of crying that was making people look over and wonder what kind of abuse I was inflicting on this poor child.

He recovered, and when I gave him a bath and put him to bed, he was his normal, smiley self. But it took him a little while to remember who I was, which was very disconcerting. So he's stuck with me for a while...

Letting go

Tonight I'm leaving for Colorado without my husband or my baby. I haven't been away from either of them since Zeke was born, and I'm having a difficult time accepting the fact that Jason is perfectly competent to take care of both of them and that they will be fine without me.

I am spending today doing everything I can think of to make Jason's life easier over the next four days. As I type this, I've got a pot roast and a lasagna cooking, and later I'll make a batch of puttanesca sauce so that he'll have plenty of food at his fingertips and won't have to worry about cooking. I've folded all of the laundry, shampoo'd the rugs, taken the cars to have their oil changed, and made a comprehensive list of phone numbers, insurance IDs, doctors, and bank PINs.

And now I need to get over it. Jason will be fine. Zeke will be fine. The only one I'm not sure about is me.

Condiments

Australia is a wonderful country. Its people are friendly, funny, and unpretentious. It's a place with wonderful cuisine -- incredible wines, wonderful local produce, dairy and meats. Eating there is a treat.

Which makes it all the more baffling that Australians feel compelled to slather condiments over every fucking thing they eat.

Jason's sauces of choice are Sriracha chili sauce, Worcestershire sauce and ketchup (or, as he calls it, "toh-mah-to sauuuce," pronounced like "source," only without the "r"). He puts them on sandwiches, chicken dishes, pizza, eggs, steak, stews, rice and beans, you name it. Sometimes he uses just one or two, sometimes all three in combination.

It drives me crazy.

"Why?" you ask. "It seems like an insignificant thing to get fussed about."

True, it does seem insignificant. And I am a relatively laid-back person. To each his own and all that.

Except for the fact that I really like to cook, and I put a huge amount of effort into my dishes, making seasonings and sauces that are a delicate combination of ingredients. And if you give it a taste and decide that it needs a little more salt or pepper, that's fine. But if you slather it with chili sauce, it's only going to taste like chili sauce no matter what, so all of my work has been for naught.

Last night I made chicken piccata, one of my favorite dishes. The chicken part is relatively simple, but the sauce is a combination of chicken broth, lemon juice, capers, butter and parsley that's just scrumptious.

When Jason got home from work, we started to sit down to dinner, but not before he went to the fridge and got out his bottle of chili sauce.

I lost it. "Goddammit, I swear if you put a drop of that shit on this food, I will take it away and serve you nothing but Spam from now on. What's the point of going to all of this trouble cooking if it's all going to taste like fucking chili sauce?"

His eyes got really big. "I was going to taste it first without the chili."

"I don't care. It's such an overpowering flavor that I could have served you a plate of dog food and it would taste the same."

He got up and put the chili sauce away. He sat down and ate the piccata.

"This is delicious."

"Thank you. I'm glad you like it."

When he finished what was on his plate, he asked in a small voice, "is it OK if I have a couple of chicken cutlets without the piccata sauce so I can put chili on it?"

"Yes."

Marriage is all about compromise. And condiments, if you're married to an Aussie.

Another romantic exchange

The room is very dark.

"Good night, sweetie."

"WHAT?!?" he exclaims, as if I'd just told him to stick his pillow up his mud-button.

"Um, good night? What did you think I said? Jesus. You just said, 'what' as if to say, 'how dare you, you saucy wench??'"

We both start to giggle.

I move over to try to find his mouth to kiss him goodnight, but as I said, it's very dark. I accidentally stick my nose in his eye and then I move in to kiss him, but he's laughing, and as my lips touch his, he kind of guffaws and blows a raspberry right into my mouth. The shock of it makes me snap my head back and smash it on the wall.

"Ow! Holy crap, you just spit into my mouth!"

"Well, it had some toothpaste remnants, so it'll do you good."

Now we're both wheezing with laughter. I try again to kiss him goodnight, but every time I get close we both bust out laughing all over again.

Finally, I give up.

"Ah, fuck it. Good night, babe. Love you."

"Love you too."

I really thought I'd have at least a few more months before it started...

Tonight Zeke spent his entire bath with his hand on his balls, grinning from ear to ear the whole time. *sigh*

The Muse

Most other lawyers find this hard to believe, but I love legal writing, particularly big briefs that analyze the whole case, pick apart all of the evidence, and present the big picture for the court. It's like a puzzle. It's incredibly satisfying to be struggling to respond to an argument the other side makes, and then suddenly you find that smoking gun, that document or that piece of testimony they've overlooked, that blows their theory out the water. Or a way to explain the law to the court in a way that makes it obvious that the other side is full of shit. It's a huge rush for me.

I'm very competitive by nature, and that level of competitiveness is fueled by the type of law practice I'm in. Special education litigation is, for obvious reasons, emotionally charged. I can't imagine how difficult it would be to have a disabled child. Parents and their lawyers tend to vilify the school side and their lawyers (I have been personally sued by a parent/attorney who felt that in representing my school district client, I was deliberately discriminating against her child), so their pleadings tend to be full of accusations about how evil and heartless the school districts and their counsel are. As if we sit around thinking of new and creative ways to screw poor little crippled children out of the educational services they're entitled to, as we cackle wildly and rub our hands with glee. Throw in the stress inherent in litigation, and you've got yourself a nice stew of contentiousness.

Earlier this week I was suffering from writer's block. I've been working on a big brief in a big case for work, and even though I knew exactly what the brief needed to say, I got mentally locked up. I couldn't decide how to organize the thing, whether to focus on one argument or another, and how to incorporate another part of the case that isn't the point of the brief but needs to be mentioned all the same.

It happens from time to time. My role in my firm is The Writer -- I do all of the appellate briefing and most of the trial briefing as well. And on bigger briefs that take a long time, sometimes I'll get so into it that I'm too close. I just need to step away for half a day or so and whatever it was that was confounding me resolves itself. And then The Muse is with me again.

The Muse is what makes lawyering fun. The Muse takes me effortlessly from argument to argument, helps me find just the right way to phrase things, to emphasize law and evidence, and to make it all accessible to a judge who will never understand special education law (which is complicated and difficult) as well as I do.

In typical fashion, the other side's pleadings in the case I'm working on have been full of vitriol and hyperbole, if not much substance. I knew exactly how to respond on the merits, but I was having trouble with the organization.

But then yesterday the smoke cleared, the Muse appeared, and all of a sudden I was rolling. The organizational issues resolved themselves with ease. New ways of demonstrating the inanity of the other side's arguments were popping into my brain almost faster than I could process them. I finished the brief, feeling fired up and ready to do battle.

Which is the one problem with The Muse. She appears when you need her, but then she doesn't leave. I'm still feeling fired up and ready to battle, wanting to write write write... but I'm done.

I guess I'll clean my office.

A dilemma

In a move that can only be described as "dickish" (and that's a generous characterization), Jason's foreman informed him that if he takes next Thursday off to go to Colorado (which he would have to do, obviously, since it would be impossible for him to go to work and be in Colorado), then there's a decent chance he'd get fired. Apparently, his company is laying guys off these days and looking for anything to separate the wheat from the chaff, so to speak, in terms of making the decision. So he can't take the trip, which sucks.

The question becomes, should I go, and if so, should I take Zeke?

In favor of going with Zeke are:

1. I really want to take the trip, and I'd miss him terribly if I were away from him for 4 days.
2. It would be easier for me to take care of him because I'll be with a houseful of other adults, so I'd have help, whereas Jason would have him by himself for 4 days, which is alot of work.
3. He'll get to meet his cousins. But of course, he doesn't know what a "cousin" is, so I'm not sure if that's such a bonus for him, especially since he won't remember it. Maybe the benefit is to me, in that I get to show off my gorgeous baby to my cousins.

In favor of leaving Zeke with Jason are:

1. He's still battling his ear infection, and while it's likely to clear up by then, flying with him and then taking him to altitude could easily exacerbate whatever is going on in his little head. Having a sick baby sucks. Having to travel with a sick baby is exponentially worse.
2. I could actually sleep for more than 2 hours at a time.
3. Jason would get some quality time with his boy.
4. I would save the cost of daycare at Vail (required if I'm going to ski - and I am), which is insanely expensive.
5. I wouldn't have to deal with the hassle of flying with an infant (as much as I happen to love said infant), healthy or not.
6. Did I mention the sleep?

In favor of not taking the trip at all is that we can just bank the tickets and use them together as a family at some later point.

I'm leaning against that last one.

Oh, the things I have to teach him...

Last night during his bath, Zeke was playing with one of his rubber duckies. And by "playing," I mean he was trying to chew on it, which is pretty much how he plays with anything these days, be it a toy, his clothes, his hands, my hands, whatever. Teething is definitely coming hurling down the pike. (Speaking of, I had the creepiest dream that he all of a sudden had these tiny little sharp pointy teeth, not only in his mouth, but coming out of other parts of his body as well. Ew.)

Anyway, he was having trouble because this particular rubber duckie is too big for him to chew on easily. So I switched it out for a smaller rubber duckie, one that is small enough to chew on comfortably but not so small that he could stuff the entire thing in his mouth and choke.

He immediately stuffed the duck's head in his mouth and bit down.

I said, "that's right, Zekey, bite the duck's head off! Pretend you're Ozzy Osbourne!" Then I made a growling noise.

Zeke just looked at me blankly. I guess he didn't get the reference.

Swan Lake Acrobatics

This was posted over at Andrew Sullivan's Daily Dish. One of the most astounding things I've ever seen -- I felt compelled to post it here.

It's a good thing I like puppies

Yesterday we downloaded Skype so that we can talk to our international friends and relatives cheaply and easily. After picking Zeke up at school, we stopped at Walmart to get a headset. We also decided to go whole hog and get a webcam so we could do video chats. It's so 21st century -- I fucking love technology.

Later that night, Jason came into my office while I was installing the various software programs. I could tell that his first thought on seeing the accoutrements was "oooh! toys!!"

First he put on the headset and started pretending he was Mission Control for the space shuttle, then a soldier in battle directing his troops, then a football coach calling plays. He even used a pair of Zeke's socks to throw a challenge flag for an imaginary bad call he didn't like. Once the webcam was up and running and there was a picture of us on the computer screen, he started doing the "descending an escalator" trick, then making funny faces at the camera, then moving back and forth behind me as if he were walking through a crowd of people.

Sometimes I feel like I'm married to a puppy.

Transplants

In the last year, two of my best friends and I, all independently of each other, up and moved to new, unfamiliar places.

My friend Elizabeth recently got engaged, got married and moved from Atlanta to Norway with her new husband, all in the span of 8 weeks. Kathleen and her family moved from Atlanta to Denver last year. And obviously, I'm in Hawaii.

Elizabeth just got to Norway, so let's give her a chance to see how she feels. In the meantime, she started a new blog to chronicle her adventures, so check out Striped Socks and Skinny Jeans and make her feel welcome.

Kathleen and I are having a hard time. Not that we go through our days moping and crying -- at least, most days I don't. As I've said, the activities and interactions of daily living foster a certain unavoidable level of engagement with the world, and that's a good thing.

But we miss having girlfriends around. Yes, we love our husbands and children, but there's something about having a posse of women to bitch with, drink wine or margaritas with, engage in bawdy talk with, that's just so comforting, gratifying and fulfilling. (And truthfully, I think when we say we miss having girlfriends around, what we're really saying is we miss having each other around -- we fantasize about eventually having each of our families occupy half of a really nice duplex, while she and I established a special education boutique law practice together. Seriously, it could happen. Anyway.)

I really thought I would be better at this. After all, I spent my entire childhood moving around from one country to the next -- elementary school in Venezuela, middle school and high school in Israel, finishing high school in India -- and I loved it. It was mostly easy and fun. But of course, I was entering established diplomatic communities that were relatively self-contained, and I was in school, so there was a whole ready-made peer group.

I knew that coming here, knowing no one, it would not be like that. But I didn't really understand how difficult it would be, and how isolated I would feel, especially just having had a baby. It's so much harder to make close friends as an adult, and outside of some structured setting like school or work. I spend lots of time alone. It doesn't bother me most of the time, but sometimes I realize where I am physically - out in the middle of the Pacific Ocean - and I feel very lonely. I hate that it takes some serious coin and long, pain-in-the-ass plane rides for my family to see my son. Or for me to see my nieces or cousins or grandparents. Or to see our friends. Or to travel anywhere (except another Hawaiian island). At least if I were on the mainland, I'd be able to get to people relatively easily and cheaply.

But, this is the deal Jason and I made, and truthfully, I see my family a hell of alot more than he sees his, so I shouldn't complain. And it's not like our lives are terrible by any means. We do live in a beautiful place that allows us to surf and hike and be outside all the time, and we are slowly meeting people and making new friends and feeling more at home.

In the meantime, next week we're going to Colorado to ski with Kathleen and her family and David and Michele and their brood. And the month after that, I'm taking Zeke back east to see his great-grandparents and then his uncles and aunts and cousins and grandparents. And after that Jason's mom and grandpa are coming for a visit. A healthy dose of family and friends.

Still, there are times when I look around and think, "how did I get here? what am I doing?" I don't always know the answer. But there's nowhere to go but forward. Watching Zeke grow. My teaching gig at the law school. Improving my long-boarding skills, and maybe learning how to ride a short board.

And keeping my eye on the prize -- that duplex next door to Kathleen.

Good Mommy

It's an ear infection. Last night Zeke couldn't lie down to sleep for more than 20 minutes at a time without crying in pain, so finally I gave in at around 1:30 in the morning and just sat in the chair holding him so that he could sleep upright. Then this morning he was nice and feverish, so I got him in to see the doctor, who confirmed that he's got infection in both ears. He's now on his third round of antibiotics in about a month and a half. The doc complimented me for seeing the signs and bringing him in right away, so he'll be fine by the time we go to Colorado (*knocks wood*).

There are few things more pitiful or more exhausting than dealing with a sick baby. They're too little to know what's wrong with them and why they feel so yucky, which is sad. And they're too little to stick in their beds with cartoons on and a pile of coloring books and instructions to drink their juice and get some sleep. Meaning I spent the day sitting on the couch holding him, with a damp washcloth cooling his forehead, while he alternately slept and whimpered in my arms. Mommy's tired.

He's now been asleep in his bed for about half an hour. Fingers crossed, but I have a feeling that it's going to be another long night...

Bad mommy?

This morning Zeke woke up with a nose full of green snot. This is distressing not only because I don't want my little monkey to be sick, but also because we're leaving for Colorado in just under 2 weeks, and I don't want to take him on a plane and have him at altitude for 5 days if he's got sinus issues. Because sinus issues in babies generally lead to ear issues, and flying with an ear infection sucks ass. In fact, if he developed an ear infection, I wouldn't take the trip.

I sprayed some saline up his nose and sucked the boogers out with one of those baby snot-sucking bulbs. I took his temperature -- 99.5. Not great, but not terrible -- still less than a degree over normal. So I gave him some infant tylenol and took him to school.

Then I went surfing.

Kathleen called this a "veteran parenting move," i.e., I'm no longer a hysterical newbie who panics at the first sign of illness. Or it might be a euphemism for "you're an unfeeling asshole, going surfing while your kid is at school feeling like dog-shit."

A list

Last night we watched Zodiac, a decidedly mediocre movie that I ordered from Netflix because I'd heard decent things about it and because it's got a really good cast, particularly Robert Downey, Jr. It got me to thinking about all of the less-than-stellar movies I'd watched and enjoyed, notwithstanding their mediocrity, because of actors or actresses I love and would watch in anything.

The actors I would pay to watch even if they were just reading the phone book:

• Russell Crowe -- he may be a grumpy asshole (and quite frankly, I kind of doubt it, I just think he's gotten a bad rap), but he's always compelling. Completely dedicated to his craft, makes great choices.
  
• Robert Downey, Jr. -- crazy-talented, picks interesting roles, and as good a dramatic actor as he is, he's got incredible comic timing
• Clive Owen -- has more screen presence that it should be legal for one person to possess
  
• Ewan MacGregor -- always interesting to watch. No matter what he's doing, you can't take your eyes off him. Especially if he's naked. :)
• Ryan Gosling -- intense, makes acting look effortless, huge range

The actors I wouldn't pay to watch even if the movie won the "Greatest Film in the History of the Universe" Award and resulted in a cure for both cancer and AIDS:

• Tom Cruise -- creepy creepy creepy. Whatever he's doing on screen, I just don't buy it.
  
• Mel Gibson -- creepy anti-semitic drunken asshole. And not a good actor. And not all that good looking, either. And did I mention he creeps me out?
  
• Robin Williams in a comedic role -- I think he's good in dramatic stuff (e.g., Good Will Hunting), but shit like Patch Adams and all of that other goofbally crap makes me vomit. He's not funny. His frenetic comedic style makes me want to lie down in a dark room with a damp washcloth over my eyes.
  
• Billy Crystal in a movie in which he takes his shirt off -- which is most of them. Dude, your bald chest is creepy. Just stop it.
  

Surfus Interruptus

"Hey, baby, how's your day looking? Want to meet me for a surf before we go pick up the boy?"

"Sure, that sounds great. I'll meet you at White Plains at 3:40."

"OK, see you then. Love you. Bye."

We meet at the beach. He walks over to my car and from my vantage point, it looks like he's getting something out of the trunk. I get out, toss my purse in the trunk of my car, and then walk over to the van to help him take the boards out. I lock my car, then I put my keys in the back of the van.

He says, "go ahead, I'm going to wax my board, I'll meet you out there."

I head for the beach. A few minutes later he joins me. We check out the water, figure out where the good waves are breaking and where the rip tide is (so we know to avoid it), and start paddling out. It's a bit windy and the water is choppy, but we each catch a couple of decent waves.

Half an hour later, we head in so we can go home, put on dry clothes, and head up to Zeke's school. We're happy as clams. La la la.

"Do you have your key?" he asks me.

I feel a flush of panic. "No, my keys are in your van. Where's your key?"

"In the trunk of your car."

"You're bullshitting me."

"I swear I'm not."

Fuuuuuck. And just like that, the surf buzz, she is dead.

Bonding over Kris Kristofferson

I've always had a pretty good singing voice, and have used it in everything from school choruses to talent shows to a bluegrass band that I was in for a couple of years. I always harbored a secret fantasy that I could make money singing, but it doesn't look like that's going to come to pass.

But as satisfying as I imagine it would be to be a professional singer, I'm finding I'm getting just as much satisfaction from the fact that my baby boy loves my voice.

Mondays and Wednesdays Jason has school after work, so he doesn't get home until after Zeke goes to bed. So those are our special mommy-baby nights.

Tonight we went for a walk in the stroller (and for the first time, Zekey rode in the front sitting up like a big boy, rather than in the car seat attachment), and we enjoyed the balmy weather and the pretty sunset. He discovered that he looooooves pears, and he practically sucked down the mashed pears and rice cereal I fed him, smiling and gurgling the whole time. We had a marvelous time during his bath, as he splashed and grinned and laughed when I squirted him with the ducky toy. He got a nice lotion massage before putting on his jammies, and then we settled into the rocker to go to sleep.

He was lying in my arms sucking on his bottle, eyes at half-mast, and I started to sing to him. A lullaby from U2's Unforgettable Fire album, then a couple of bluegrass gospel standards (Angel Band and Drifting Too Far From the Shore), and then Me and Bobby McGee. When I've sung it on stage, I've done the Janis Joplin cover version, but it's too frenetic for bedtime, so when I sing it to Zeke, I do the original Kris Kristofferson version, which is much slower and more melancholy.

When I got to the chorus, Zeke looked up at me and suddenly gave me this huge grin and made a happy little squeal. I couldn't help but smile back, but I kept singing, so we sat there gazing at each other as I finished the song, and he cooed and smiled and gave me the most adoring look. After a minute or so, he sighed deeply, buried his face in my chest, and closed his eyes to go to sleep. I felt so loving and content, I could have rocked him and gazed at his beautiful face all night.

Kathleen once said that as much as you're blown away by your love for your child, what really blows you away is how much they love you. I've seen it in the way Zeke looks at Jason sometimes -- Jason will talk to him and Zeke will reach up and touch Jason's face and smile and make these sweet noises.

And he smiles at me and responds to me all the time, but when we had that little moment tonight, I felt like I could really see all of the love he had for me in his eyes and his smile, and it made me just about melt.

Jason feels the baby love

Naches from kinder

Last night we went to a party at the home of our friends Janet and Sean, the couple we met at the Passover seder when we first moved here last year. Sean is in the Army and just got promoted to "full bird" colonel, and he and his wife threw a big bash at their house celebrating it. It was a blast, we met some really cool people, we had many drinks (Zeke had a babysitter so we got to throw down a little bit), we swam in the pool, we ate yummy food.

And we heard about Sean doing one of the coolest, nicest things for his dad.

Sean's dad, Robert, just turned 86. He served during World War II in the Naval Construction Brigade (the "SeaBees"), and received a medal commemorating his service in the Asia-Pacific theater. But the problem was, he never actually got the physical medal. It was just noted on his discharge papers.

Sean found out about this, and secretly arranged to have the actual medal prepared for his dad, along with a commendation from the President. Plus, when the guys from the SeaBees found out, they were so excited that they had a beautiful wooden plaque made for Robert out of Hawaiian koa wood.

At the promotion ceremony, Sean received his honors and got up to say a few words. After thanking his family, friends, etc., he ordered Petty Officer 3rd Class Robert ______ to present himself. His dad was understandably confused, but finally went up and stood before Sean. At which point, the belated medal was (finally) presented, the full commendation from the President read aloud, and the commemorative plaque presented by the SeaBees.

And of course, Sean's mom was plotzing with joy and his dad was chuffed beyond belief and everyone said it was one of the coolest, most memorable things they had ever witnessed.

At the party last night, Jason and I talked to Sean's parents, and they couldn't have been happier. They showed off the medal and the plaque (which was gorgeous), and seemed like they were about to burst with joy. It was just so wonderful, and it made me feel all goopy and warm knowing that their son had made them so proud and also that he had made them feel so loved.

In Yiddish, the term "naches from kinder" refers to the immense joy parents receive when their children do something to make them proud. Sean, my friend, you are a source of naches.*

Well done, Colonel.

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*The "ch" in naches is pronounced as a gutteral "h", like the noise you make when you're clearing your throat.