Comic relief from an unlikely source

Our house is, technically, a condo. The entire neighborhood is managed by an association to which we pay fees. In exchange for these fees, men with tools appear every so often to mow our front lawns, trim the bushes, and generally keep things tidy and neat.

In fact, our front lawns aren't even ours. The only land that any of us actually owns is the fenced yard behind each house -- everything else is considered common area, and we aren't allowed to mess with it. Even on what would logically appear to my front lawn, i.e., the grassy area directly in front of my house, I'm not allowed to mow or fertilize or plant or anything.

When we moved in, we brought a bunch of plants that Jason had been accumulating and nurturing. They were all in pots. Knowing that we weren't allowed to plant anything out front, we just set potted plants along the edges of the driveway and the front walkway.

One day, the property manager knocked on my door and asked me if I wanted his guys to plant our plants in the ground. I said, "sure." So he planted a couple of hibiscus bushes on the right of the driveway (in front of the entry gate) and some little ti leaf bushes on the left.

Because it's all common property, the plants are no longer really ours in a legal sense, but Jason continued to water them and tend to them. It was understood by all they were his.

Two days ago, Next Door Neighbor decided that Jason's ti plant was dead (even though it's leaves were green and it wasn't drooping or otherwise indicating it wasn't long for this world) and pulled it out. I walked outside to talk to some of the other neighbors that were hanging out in the street (it's a dead-end, so we tend to pull out our camp chairs and hang out in the road drinking beer and shooting the shit). NDN had some clippers and was trimming the groundcover in front of my garage. Jason was standing out there looking stricken.

He's terrible at confrontation, so I whispered to him, "do you want me to say something?"

He nodded.

I turned to NDN. "Why did you take out Jason's plant? And why are you gardening the area in front of my house?" I didn't yell, but I don't doubt that my voice was stern.

"The plant was dead. And it's my yard."

"The plant was not dead, and it is not your yard. My fence ends right there, and everything you're doing is on land in front of my house."

"It's my yard. It's my yard."

"It is not your yard. Look where you're standing. You're directly in front of my fence and my house. How do you figure it's your yard?"

"It's my yard," she insisted.

"Fine. I'm not going to argue about this with you. I'll consult the paperwork and talk to people that know something about the property boundaries."

"You do that," she said.

"Don't worry, I will," I replied.

The condo documents containing all of the rules regarding common areas are hundreds of pages long, and I wasn't in the mood to hunt them down. I went inside to feed and bathe Zeke. When I came outside afterwards, I was standing talking to our neighbor across the street when I saw Jason come out of the house, grab his electric hand-saw, and cut down the plant next to where his ti plant had been. The plant he cut had been there when we moved in. It was about a foot and a half high and probably costs about $5 at Home Depot.


I fully recognize that this was a stupid and immature thing for him to do. But he was furious and acted without thinking, and in any event, it would have been the condo association's issue to raise. If they wanted us to replace the plant, no problem.

We went about our business and didn't think about plants any more.

Then yesterday, at about 5 in the afternoon, I walked outside to see two police cars in front of NDN's house.

"No, it couldn't be," I thought.

But yes, NDN had summoned the police about the plant. And as I stood in my driveway trying to keep from busting out laughing, the police were pointing out the imaginary line from the edge of my fence to the street and explaining to NDN that under Honolulu's city and county rules, anything on the "my house" side of that line was mine, and if I wanted to remove a plant, I could do it. After consulting with me and one of the other neighbors about the condo rules, the nice policeman also explained to her that in any event, the lawn and everything on it belonged to the condo association, so if anyone had standing to complaint about the loss of a plant, it was the association and not her.

NDN is now moping around complaining to the other neighbors that I don't like her and I act like I don't like her and that my treatment of her is "less than human." Guilty as charged on the first two. The last is too ridiculous to even address. My interaction with her is generally limited to saying "good morning" when we pass each other in the mornings walking our dogs.

In any case, Jason and I have not been able to stop giggling. Who knew a trip from the cops could do so much to lighten the mood around here?

The news is brighter, and I'm presented with an opportunity for hilarity: baby passport pictures!

Yesterday Jason's dad woke up. He's not completely alert and responsive -- I don't think he's talking much, and he still needs to stay in the hospital because the doctors still don't know exactly what's wrong with him -- but he's awake and responding to some stimuli and is stable. So that's good.

Jason's going to try to go to Australia to see him at some point over the next few weeks, assuming we can get a decent fare. I think he's going to take Zeke with him. I'll miss Zeke, but I think it's good for him to go meet his grandfather and his other relatives Down Under.

Of course, this means that Zeke needs to get a passport. My mom's colleagues in the Honolulu passport office have graciously agreed to let me come in at my convenience and they'll expedite the process for me, so I should be able to get everything taken care of by early next week. I've got all the paperwork lined up, now I just need to get passport pictures taken.

When Jason last got his passport renewed, the pictures he initially brought in were rejected because he was smiling. Apparently, the rule is, "no teeth." I'm hoping this isn't a problem for Zeke, given that he's only got two of them. Now I just need to figure out how to keep him from smiling; a tough task, because when he's not eating or sleeping, pretty much all he does is smile, giggle and clap his hands. Maybe the powers that be are more lenient when the subject is only 7 months old.

Shrinking the distance

I put alot of effort into maintaining close contact with my friends and family on the mainland and all over the world. Occasionally it flashes into my head exactly where I am and how far away I am from just about everyone I love, and it can be overwhelming. Blogging helps. I usually have at least 4 or 5 Scrabulous games going on Facebook, and that helps. I talk to my mother every day and to other relatives and friends weekly.

Today that feeling of home came from an unlikely place.

I had Cream of Wheat for breakfast.

When I was little, Cream of Wheat for breakfast was a treat that my mom would make us when it was cold out or when we had all made it down to the table with time to spare. We would have it with brown sugar and milk on top. It was my favorite breakfast, and the one that would send me off to school feeling content and cozy and loved.

Yet, for some reason, I never eat it as an adult. I still love it, but when I'm at the grocery store I gravitate to oatmeal.

Today after I dropped Zeke off at school, I headed to the market to stock up on more oatmeal (having poured dog food over the last I had in the house) and some fruit. When I got to the cereal aisle, I saw the box of Cream of Wheat sitting there, and I felt an instant flood of nostalgia. I bought it and took it home and made myself a bowl with strawberries and bananas on top. It tasted like home. I felt like my mommy was there, ready to send me off to school with a kiss and a full warm belly.

It's made it much easier to sit at my desk and face the day, way out here in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.

Clearly, I need to get more rest

I am preparing my breakfast and the dog's breakfast. On the counter, I've got a bowl of oatmeal for me to which I will add blueberries, and a bowl of dry dog food for Max to which I will add some wet dog food.

I proceed to spoon half a cup of wet dog food onto my oatmeal.

Where's Dr. House when you need him?

I had a nice quiet weekend, and then everything went to hell very quickly. Saturday night I got a call from Jason's brother in Australia informing me that Jason's dad, who has been in the hospital for weeks with some undiagnosed illness, is unconscious and on a respirator, and the doctors still don't know what's going on. He was initially admitted because he had collapsed and was disoriented (he thought it was 2006) and couldn't function. The docs said it was severe depression. Given that he was practically catatonic and couldn't dress or feed himself, this struck me as a bit of a stretch, but hey, I've got a law degree, not a medical degree, so what do I know? In the meantime, they've been running test after test all while speculating that it could be cancer or TB or Legionnaire's disease, but the truth is, they don't know what the fuck is wrong with him.

The Aussie relatives, in typical form, suspect Asian bird flu because Jason's dad has a lady friend who is from the Phillipines -- they think that any time a person goes to China or the Phillipines or anywhere else "foreign" that they come back with cooties. Maybe this explains why they insist on boiling the tap water before they drink it, even though I don't doubt that the drinking water in Hawaii is a million times cleaner than it is in Australia. Because I'm evil, I've been secretly pouring out their pitchers of boiled water and replacing it with plain water from the tap. I know it's totally immature, but it makes me feel better. Miraculously, they're still alive.

Jason is a nervous mess and trying to figure out if he needs to go home to see his dad before it's too late, all while worrying that if he takes the time off work, he could lose his job. MIL is making things worse by being the voice of doom, going on and on about how people go into the hospital and come out sicker or dead. Thanks, asshole. You're really helping my husband keep it together.

Four more days, four more days...

The "work in progress" part of relationships

Reading over my last post, I'm thinking to myself, "Jesus, I'm a grumpy bitch." Frankly, the comments I received were far more charitable than I deserved, at least based on the information that I've revealed. The truth is, it's not just me being tired and annoyed at a month's worth of in-laws. There is more going on under the surface that I haven't talked about, some involving MIL, some just involving stuff between Jason and me that's been festering for a little while. But last night, Jason and I had a good talk about some of the underlying issues that have been eating away at me, and I'm feeling much, much better. I'm still not going to Maui, and I'm still thrilled to have the weekend to myself. But I feel like a huge fog has lifted.

Respite

When it was announced to me that MIL and Pa were coming to visit for a month, I was assured that they would be taking side trips to other islands, meaning that I would have intermittent days in my house to myself and my family.

Then Jason announced to me that he wanted all of us to take the Superferry to Maui this weekend.

I said no. He said why. I said because I don't want to travel with the whole group. I've had enough. I'm tired, I don't feel like traveling, and I particularly don't feel like traveling with them. The whole point of them going to other islands was that I wouldn't have to see them for a few days. He said don't you want to see Maui. I said not particularly. He said why not. I said because I don't give a shit about seeing other Hawaiian islands -- if I could get off of this godforsaken hell-hole and never come back, it would be the happiest day of my life. He said do you mind if I go with them and take Zeke. I said not at all.

So I'm getting all of Saturday and Sunday to myself. Which I really need. I'm getting a massage, reading, going surfing, and sleeping. I can't wait til they leave.

I'm also allergic to being called a haole

I lived Atlanta for 13 years, and without question my favorite time of year there is spring. Within the course of a week or two, the dreary dullness of winter disappears with an explosion of life and color. The trees turn pink and red and white, the azaleas bloom, the daffodils start poking through the dirt. All of a sudden people are outside playing with the kids or tossing a frisbee at Piedmont Park or having a beer on the patio at the local pub. It's gorgeous and happy and wonderful.

The only downside is the pollen.

With the onset of spring comes an extraordinary release of yellow dust by the various trees, bushes and grasses. Cars are covered with it. When it rains there are rivers of yellow pouring into the sewers.


On any given day during pollen season, the local news broadcast includes the pollen count. The count measures pollen particles within a cubic meter of air. Anything over 120 is considered extremely high, so that anyone with any sensitivity to pollen will likely have allergy symptoms. During the height of the pollen explosion, it wasn't unusual for the pollen count to be over 4000.

Amazingly, I was totally impervious to it. Everyone I knew, including my dogs, would run around hacking and sneezing, with eyes full of goop and handbags full of allergy medication, and I would be completely fine.

How ironic that it took moving to paradise -- the perfect climate -- for me to be knocked on my ass by an allergy.

It's the vog.

Kilauea, on the Big Island of Hawaii, is an active volcano that has been erupting for years. Right now, it's erupting at two points: a southern lava flow that goes into the ocean (and adds multiple acres to the island's area every year), and a vent that recently opened and started spewing ash and sulfuric acid. When the lava from the southern flow reaches the ocean, it also emits sulfuric acid.


(the new ash plume at Halemaumau crater on Kilauea's summit)

Usually, all of that ash and acid isn't a big deal, because the trade winds blow them away. But the trades have been kind of dormant lately, so all of that crud in the air has been slowly drifting west over the other island (the Big Island is eastern-most in the island chain). On O'ahu, there are two mountain ranges that run along the east and west coasts, so this volcanic smog, or "vog," gets trapped between the mountain ranges creating this disgusting haze of brownish grey. Most days, I can clearly see the Waianae mountain range (the western spine of the island) behind my house. Last week I could barely see my neighbor's trees the next yard over.

MIL and Pa went into Waikiki and couldn't see Diamond Head Volcano.

Just to give you an idea of how extraordinary that is, here is a picture of Waikiki Beach. See that big 800 foot tall extinct volcano visible at the end of the beach? That's Diamond Head. Not being able to see it from Waikiki is like sitting on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial and not being able to see the Washington Monument.


When I got back from my trip to New Hampshire, I had a sinus infection and bronchitis. I was congested, feverish, and coughing my brains out. My doctor prescribed some medication and I was getting better. I felt pretty good, and the cough was diminishing drastically every day.

Then the vog hit, and I started coughing again, mildly at first, and then so badly that my back and shoulders are hurting and I can't take deep breaths without my bronchial tubes going into spasm. The doctor diagnosed me with "severe allergic bronchitis brought about by weather conditions, specifically VOG." And yes, he capitalized "VOG" in his discharge papers. Elsewhere in his summary he referred to it as "acute bronchospasm."

I sort of take issue with the "allergy" part. When I think of allergies I think of people who can't eat in a restaurant because one of the waiters might have handled a peanut at some point in the last 5 years. Sulfuric acid isn't really an allergen -- it's a pretty severe toxin. It can burn your skin and cause cancer. By that logic, I'm also "allergic" to arsenic, ricin gas, and bullets aimed at my head.

More

Yesterday Pa came into my office.

"Wendy, it's raining."

"Yes, I know. It's kind of pleasant. We don't get rain on this side of the island that much."

"I was thinking of going down to the pool."

"Why do you want to sit by the pool in the rain?"

"It's a nice rain. Very soft."

He had me there.

The downside of coming from a family of smart-asses

My husband is, to put it mildly, a Good Eater.

Being a Good Eater was always considered to be an admirable trait in my family. When I was little, I was a picky eater and a skinny string bean of a kid. My brother Josh, on the other hand, was a chubby-bubbie who ate everything. At dinner I'd be picking at my food and Josh would be scarfing down whatever was in front of him, and my parents would look at me and say, "look, Wendy. Josh ate his dinner. He's such a Good Eater." It's now become something of a joke in our family, to remark on someone's eating habits in a sing-songy voice that they're a Good Eater.

When Jason first moved in with me, I went into a mild panic after the first week because I was wondering whether one of us would have to get a second job to keep him fed. The guy goes through at least 2 gallons of milk a week and can easily blow through a loaf of bread in a day and a half. My mom even gave me a bread machine that was on non-stop in an effort to save some money. At any given meal, Jason usually eats about 2 to 3 times as much as I do. When my parents met him and observed his eating habits, it was roundly agreed that Jason definitely met the criteria for being considered a Good Eater.

So it was no surprise when Zeke demonstrated a healthy appetite for solid food, when it was introduced to him. Once he got used to the mechanics of eating, he would routinely polish off nice big quantities of applesauce or pears or squash or green beans or whatever else he was offered, smiling and smacking his lips the whole time. He was a Good Eater.

But then last week he got sick. He threw up at school, and had stomach issues for about 5 days. And he totally stopped eating solid food. He'll still take his formula in bottles, but every time I or one of his teachers at school tries to feed him, he pushes away the spoon and sometimes even cries. In the past 3 weeks, what with the ear infection and sinus infection and stomach bug, he's actually lost weight, which is bad for a growing baby. He's now dropped to the 15th percentile for weight, though he's in the 65th for height. I guess being long and thin isn't a bad way to go through life. But still, I'm a little worried.

I called my parents for some moral support and advice.

"I'm worried," I said. "I don't know what to do," I said. "What advice can you give me?" I pleaded.

When my dad heard what the problem was, his contribution to the conversation was, "are you sure it's Jason's kid?"

Exactly who am I trying to impress?

Not that I am in the habit of feeding my husband Chef Boyardee Franks n' Beans, but while MIL and Pa are here, I have gone out of my way to prepare gourmet meals. The goodies that I pull out of the bag every week and a half or so have been showing up on the table in rapid-fire succession. Jason is loving it.

If I were to examine my psyche, I guess the motivations are obvious. I'm trying to show her that her son married a domestic goddess and that I take good care of him (better care of him than she did, perhaps?). I don't know why I care what she thinks, but I do.

Last night, I realized that I don't need to work so hard.

Tonight MIL and Pa are going to babysit (wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles) while Jason and I go out on a dinner date. MIL announced last night that for their dinner tonight, she's making Pa -- wait for it -- franks and beans.

In which I take a break from "mommy-blogging"...

I'm tired of complaining about the in-laws or Zeke being sick or the vog that is giving me a blinding headache.

So today I'm going to talk about Thomas Jefferson.

Students at the University of Virginia are indoctrinated in the cult of Thomas Jefferson. He is revered, rightly, as the founder of a great institution of learning, the author of the Declaration of Independence and the Virginia statute on religious freedom, etc. People refer to him as "Mr. Jefferson," as if he just stepped out and went down to the Corner for a box of snuff.

I've always admired him for his "Renaissance man" tendencies -- he was a scholar, an inventor, a patriot, a scientist, an architect, and someone who devoted himself to promoting republican (small "r") ideals.

But I just finished a book about John Adams that taught me some disturbing things about Jefferson. That he actively schemed against Adams while serving as his vice president. That he was a big fat liar when it came to politics, saying one thing to one person and then saying the exact opposite to another, all while professing innocence and disinterest in any political schemes. That he wrote about the evils of slavery yet hypocritically refused to free his hundreds of slaves because they kept him in the lifestyle to which he was accustomed and which he refused to relinquish (he was a dandy and a spendthrift) even though he was in serious debt.

I'm not sure why this upsets me so much. I guess I'm so conditioned to revere Jefferson that it's coming as a great shock to my system that in spite of his unquestionable accomplishments and contributions to our country, in his personal life he was a bit of an asshole. I feel ridiculous saying this, given that the guy has been dead for almost 300 years, but I'm really disappointed in him.

The Un-Grandma

When I was first bitching and moaning about the in-laws coming for a month, many tried to console me by pointing out that I would have extra adult hands around the house to help out, extra help with Zeke, and that it could really end up with my life being much easier. Grandma would be here to cuddle her grandson and I would have more time to take care of everything else.

But perhaps the most shocking thing about this visit -- other than revealing how fucking weird MIL and Pa can be -- is how utterly uninterested MIL appears to be in Zeke. Oh, she'll greet him when I get up in the morning with "hello, little man" or make inane comments about whatever he happens to be doing ("having your breakfast, are you? are you?"), but she never picks him up or seems interested in holding him or kissing him or playing with him or taking him for a walk in the stroller or anything else.

On the other hand, when we were with my parents, I could barely get 5 minutes with the kid. As with all of their grandchildren, my parents are totally enamored of Zeke and cuddle him and talk to him and play with him as much as they can.

I know that people are all different, and that I'm blessed with an inordinately loving and affectionate family, but still. It bugs me. Particularly when I could use the help.

Yesterday I had to pick Zeke up early from school because he got sick and threw up a bunch of times. I took him straight to the doctor's office, and when I got home, MIL and Pa were sitting out in front of the house in beach chairs, even though it was raining a little bit. (Weird.) When I opened the car door, they could hear Zeke crying and could see that I was laden down with my purse and the diaper bag and bags of medicine and formula that the doctor gave me, but rather than help out or say "what can we do?", they just stood there and exclaimed, "oooh, the little boy's crying!"

No shit.

Today I had to keep Zeke home because his school has a puking-plus-24-hours banishment policy. Which means I'm getting nothing done. I asked MIL to watch Zeke for 10 minutes while I showered, and from the look on her face you would have thought a) she had never dealt with a baby before, or b) I had asked her to watch over an anthrax-laced envelope. Her relief when I returned from the shower could not have been more palpable.

Then she and Pa announced they were going to the pool. Pa trudged off down the street with one of my throw pillows from the sofa under his arm. (Fucking weird!!)

The other day when I dropped Zeke off at school, his teacher remarked that he must be getting spoiled with all the attention he must be getting from Grandma.

"One would think," I answered.

But one would be dead wrong.

Act like you've been there

I'm not sure where I got this trait, but I have an almost pathological aversion to letting people know when anything has gotten to me. Well, not anything. I'll cry at a sad movie without giving it a second thought, or marvel at beautiful works of art without feeling like a chump, or express shock and horror at news stories depicting war or torture.

But in other situations, I play my cards close to the vest and make a point of reacting to virtually everything like, "oh, ho-hum. La dee da." It's probably a by-product of being a lawyer. When I first started working, I sat through a deposition in which my client was revealed to be a total lying scumbag, and even though I wanted the floor to open up and swallow me, I'm convinced that my reaction of, "oh, what? yeah, I knew all about that no big deal" helped us secure a far more favorable settlement than we were ever entitled to under any measure of morality or decency.

Which makes all the more baffling the reactions MIL and Pa have to just about everything. I swear, if I didn't know better, I'd be convinced that Australia is some backwater lacking all manifestations of modern civilization, instead of the plugged-in, tech-savvy country I know it to be. Seriously, it's like playing host to people that have just stepped off a time machine from the old country.

Because the highlight of their trip has been visiting Ala Moana Shopping Center, a big mall in downtown Honolulu. Which is a nice place with plenty of chi-chi stores and all, but still. It's a mall, fercrissakes.

"Oh, jeepers, you should have seen the food court. It was enooooormous. Soooo beauuuuutiful. You go in, and you're hungry, see? But it's so big and there are so many choices, it's just overwheeeelming. You don't know where to turn!"

They took pictures at the Williams-Sonoma.

"We went in one kitchens store, it was so lovely. They had this display of a stove set up with all of this goooooorgeous cookware. Wait, I have a photo here! Have you ever seen anything quite like it?"

Another high point was the trip to Costco (we're not allowed to shop at Sam's Club anymore since Jason watched a documentary about what a scummy company Wal-Mart is). They took pictures there, too. "That was quite an adventure!"

No outing, however seemingly insignificant, is immune. We pull up to a shopping center, grab a cart, and walk inside.

"Oh, Wendy, what's this store? This is a gorgeous place!"

"Uh, it's a Safeway."

*sigh*

I'll cherish it forever

This is my first mother's day present from Zeke. I never thought I could love a silly crafts project as much as I love this one.

Emily Post vs. The Aussies

I like to think that I am a gracious hostess. The example was set for me by my mother, and I also lived half my life in the South, so I take my obligations to my guests seriously. I do my best to make people feel comfortable and welcome in my home. But I'm having a hard time with my current guests because they're not acting like guests, but rather like people who have moved in, and they're not letting me make them comfortable the way I feel I should.

Our house only has 3 bedrooms -- the master, Zeke's room, and a guest room. But with MIL and Pa staying with us, we're short a room. So Pa has been sleeping on an air mattress on the floor in our upstairs hallway/vestibule. Jason and MIL and Pa see no problem with this arrangement. I, on the other hand, am horrified by it. I just can't imagine that the etiquette gods are at all pleased with the notion of an 88 year old man sleeping on the floor of his grandson's house.

I'm going to buy a twin bed and put it in Zeke's room (he'll probably be using it in a year anyway) so that Pa can have a decent place to sleep. Which puts me in the ironic position of fulfilling my obligations as a hostess by ignoring my guests' assurances that all is well.

It's very off-putting.

Generation gap

Pa, Jason's grandfather, is 88 years old. Among the items he brought over for his visit is an old broken thermos stopper. He's held on to it for years -- over a decade, at least -- because he's determined to track down the company in Nashville, Tennessee, in order to procure a replacement.

When Jason handed me the broken stopper, I said, "what am I supposed to do with this?"

"Could you go online and maybe track down the company and see if you can get a new stopper?"

"Why doesn't he just get a new thermos? A decent one is, like, $20 or something."

Jason shrugged. "I don't know. Just see what you can find, OK?"

It turns out that Pa's thermos is so old that the company that made it hasn't existed for years. It was bought out by another company and the thermos models have all changed. The thermos stopper model he needs isn't manufactured anymore. I couldn't even find one on Ebay.

As I was searching, I was wondering to myself whether my attitude of "just replace the damned thing" was a by-product of the wasteful consumer culture we live in. When I lived in India (well before its economy opened up and modernized), it was always cheaper to get something fixed than to buy a new one. You'd go down to the corner market and there was always a guy with MacGuyver-esque talents who could fix your broken TV with a fork, some toothpaste and an old rusted spark plug.

Similarly, when we were in Detroit last week, my mom was helping my grandpa clean out his basement, and discovered that he had kept every telephone that he had ever owned, even though they were all old and broken. I guess he just figured that it was wasteful to toss them because they could have been fixed.

I have exactly the opposite inclination. Unless a really expensive big-ticket item like a fridge or something is involved, it's almost always cheaper and easier just to replace things that have broken. I'm the opposite of a pack rat -- I love throwing things away. If I had been Pa, it wouldn't have occurred to me to keep something as inexpensive to replace as a thermos.

I don't know if that's good or bad.

Questions, questions

Jason has this habit of asking really random questions about things that wouldn't even occur to me to think about.

"If we take a roadtrip out west in a couple of years with our friends, what kind of RV do you think should we rent?"

"If we were to get a new car someday, would you get surf racks installed or would you use the soft removable kind?"

"What do you think we should make for dinner when so-and-so comes to visit next year?"

My brain is cluttered enough as it is, so these questions are generally met with the Survivorman face and a "what? I don't know. I'll worry about it when it happens."

But I've discovered that he comes by it honestly.

Last night at dinner, I was talking about how my niece was accepted into an advanced academic program this summer at Johns Hopkins University, and how my parents are really excited because she is going to stay with them for those three weeks, since the program is in Baltimore.

A few minutes after that conversation, Jason's mom asked, "you said that Baltimore is about an hour away from your parents' house. How is she going to get there every day?"

"I think there's a bus from DC that she can take, and one of my parents will take her to the bus every morning."

"How long is her day going to be?"

"Uh, I'm not sure. Probably 6 or 8 hours or something like that."

"Well, what's she going to do for morning tea and lunch?"

"Ummm. I have no idea. I'm sure she'll be taken care of."

The whole time I was thinking, "What?? I don't know." But I was careful to keep the Survivorman face at bay.

The marathon mindset

Nine years ago I ran a marathon. The previous year I had gone through an intensely painful break-up, and even though I had never been a runner, I accepted the invitation of a friend to do a half-marathon with her. It would be a good distraction, I figured, to try something new. Five months later we ran the Disney half-marathon, and I really enjoyed it, so I decided to try a marathon. So five months after running the half, I ran a marathon in Anchorage, Alaska. The morning of the race, I remember waking up and thinking, "I am about to undertake the hardest physical task I've ever done in my life." I wasn't wrong.

Even though it was a long time ago, I still vividly remember what it felt like to run the race. The first 10 miles were great. I felt fine, the weather was good, and I was comfortable and feeling light and breezy. Miles 10 through 17 were a slog, mostly because I got bored. I'd already run a long way, but I still a long, long way to go, and I was kind of over it. Plus we were on a section of the race that was very rocky and difficult, running through wooded trails, so I was constantly afraid of catching a bad step and turning my ankle or something. But then at around mile 18, we came out of the woods and started descending back into town, and I got a second wind. Miles 18 to 22 were awesome -- I felt like I could run forever.

And then the last 4 miles felt like 50. I have never had to summon as much willpower as I did those last 4 miles, just to continue putting one foot in front of the other. The thoughts in my head were of the "what the hell am I doing? why am I torturing myself like this" variety. But I kept going, and I finished. And in doing so, I realized that I can suffer through just about anything, as long as I will myself to keep going.

That realization has gotten me through everything from triathlons to recovering from back surgery (brought on, no doubt, by the marathon -- the disc had herniated by the time I ran the Alaska race) to childbirth. And yesterday, it got me through the most miserable plane ride of my life.

The past week has been, to say the least, difficult. It was great to see my family, but the airplane air and shitty New England weather and time changes were rough on both Zeke and me, and we ended up getting sick. Nice, rich, phlegmy hacking coughs, fever, stuffiness, you name it. I dosed him up with Tylenol and Advil and downed as much DayQuil as I could get my hands on, but it didn't really help much. Plus, he was sleeping in the bed with me, so every time he moved, I woke up. And there were a couple of nights when he would wake up feverish and screaming, and I would walk the floor with him for hours, putting cold washcloths on his forehead and trying to calm him down.

I would say that on average, I got about 3 hours of sleep each night we were gone, and only about an hour the night before we flew back to Honolulu. So I was exhausted, and still coughing up a lung every five minutes. The coughs were painful and made my windpipe sore. And did I mention that in all of this, I somehow managed to contract a yeast infection? Yeah, it was sure to be a banner day.

The 2 1/2 hour flight from Boston to Minneapolis was OK -- Zeke slept most of the way and wasn't fussy. The flight attendants adored him, and would take him and hold him for a couple of minutes at a time when I need to go to the bathroom. The layover in Minneapolis was fine. I put a blanket on the floor and he played with his feet and gurgled to himself.

The 8 hour flight to Minneapolis to Honolulu was a nightmare. First, they had the AC cranked way up on the plane, so it was freezing in addition to being very dry. I could feel the air drying out the back of my throat, so it not only hurt to cough, it hurt to breathe. Zeke's nose was running non-stop, and he's drooling like a madman, so his face was constantly soaked and freezing and becoming chapped. He managed to sleep for a few hours at the beginning of the flight, but the last 4 hours he was completely over it. He was uncomfortable, he was in pain, and he was bored, so whenever we were sitting in our seats, he cried. The only thing that worked was to pick him up and walk up and down the aisles with him. Which was OK, except that he's getting heavy, and I was tired and still coughing and feeling like dogshit.

With about 2 hours left to go, I was at the end of my rope. My throat was killing me, I had a blinding headache, and I was starting to feel nauseated from the lack of sleep. I was holding Zeke and walking with him and I started to cry. We were in a little alleyway behind one of the galleys that was kind of narrow and hidden, so I just leaned against the wall and cried. I couldn't do it anymore, I had nothing left, I was done.

But of course, I was on a plane, 5 miles above the Pacific Ocean, so what the fuck were my alternatives?

I calmed myself down, calmed Zeke down, and went back to my seat. The seat next to me was empty, so I set it up with a couple of pillows and put the baby down and gave him some toys to play with. I had the flight attendants bring me a steady stream of hot tea to drink. Zeke had a couple more episodes of fussiness before we landed, but we dealt with it and by the time we landed he was happy and chattering.

I still don't love Hawaii, but getting off the plane and feeling the warm air and knowing that I could sleep in my own bed -- without my baby next to me -- was a little slice of heaven.

Zeke and Josh bond

I'm in New Hampshire now. It's fucking freezing. Or rather, it's in the mid-50s, but to me it feels like the North Pole. Zeke and I are sitting around my brother's house bundled up in sweatshirts and blankets. Meanwhile, my niece, Emma, is running around in shorts and a t-shirt and flip-flops, telling me it's not cold. Apparently, living in Hawaii for a year has turned me into a temperature wuss.

Other than that, all is well. Zeke has a little viral cold, so he's got a nice phlegmy cough, but I'm just keeping him bundled up and making sure he gets plenty of naps, so he's managing OK. He's having a big time getting acquainted with his cousins and his uncle and auntie.

It's so cute to see my brother Josh with him. Josh is an adorable combination of big strong tough guy and total softie. He's a rock of muscle, a beer-drinking, sports-watching rugby player, but he's got 3 daughters who have him wrapped around their fingers and he's got this incredible touch with babies. The first night we were here, Zeke was having a hard time setting down -- and between the jet lag, the plane rides, the new and unfamiliar people and places, and the teeth that are popping through his gums as I type this, I can't say that I blame him. I was holding him trying to give him a bottle, and Josh said, "I've got this." He picked up Zeke, grabbed the bottle, and said, "come on, buddy, let's go." Later that night I went upstairs to find them both lying on a bed, chatting and listening to the sound of the ocean on the white noise machine.

According to Josh, they were telling penis jokes and getting to know each other.

Fleeting blessing

We went to the hospital the second day we were in Detroit. We were going to go the first day, but my grandmother was so out of it that my grandpa told us not to bother.

At this point, Zeke had pretty much solidified his lock for Baby of the Year. He had been absolutely amazing in the face of long plane rides, shleps back and forth to this relative and that relative, people getting in his face constantly. I had been apprehensive about traveling with him, not because I thought he would be difficult, but just because it was a long way and a long time stuck in a confined space with unfamiliar noises and people, and I wasn't sure how he would react to it. It turns out my fears were unfounded, because he was unbelievable. He played in my lap, he charmed the pants off of everyone around us, he slept, he ate, and he didn't cry once. Seriously, not once.

I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop.

But it didn't drop at the hospital.

My grandmother looked terrible. According to my grandfather, she had been awake but not really alert. She was lying on her side in her hospital bed with oxygen tubes flowing into her nose, and she was just staring into space, breathing raggedly because of all the congestion in her chest. She wasn't saying much, just drifting in and out of sleep.

When I walked in with Zeke, her entire demeanor changed. Her eyes opened wider and she smiled at him and recognized both of us right away.

"Hi, Grandma," I said. "It's good to see you. This is Zeke, your great-grandson. Isn't he beautiful?"

"Hi, sweetheart. He's adorable."

She put her hand up on the railing of her bed, right next to the chair I was sitting in with Zeke in my lap. When he saw her hand, he raised himself up and put both hands on the railing, one of them patting her hand. He looked at her and gave her his best smile with dimple fully engaged. She smiled back at him.

"Hello!" she said.

"Ba ba ba," he replied.

And we sat like that for about 10 minutes. I held my grandmother's hand and stroked her forehead and smiled at her, and Zeke patted both of our hands and smiled at her and chattered, and she smiled back at both of us. Of course, I was crying, but I was trying to keep it together and keep smiling.

Then we had to leave, because Zeke wasn't even supposed to be up on the floor she was on. But it was gratifying to know that she saw us when she was lucid and that it brought her a little bit of happiness. I didn't get to see her again because our flight left so early the next morning that we pretty much had to go to the airport straight from the hotel. But still, I was glad I made the trip to Michigan.

The next day, my mom talked to my grandpa to check on my grandmother's progress.

She had no recollection of seeing us.

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.