Thursday, June 26, 2008

Book Club

Last night was bookclub. I love bookclub. It is without a doubt the highlight of my month. It is the best thing that I do. In the slightly paraphrased words of Lola (of Charlie and Lola fame) Bookclub is my favorite and my best.

What I've been trying to figure out all morning is why.

Is it actual, intelligent, grown-up conversation, that object of cravability to every mother on Earth. I don't really think so. See I work, outside the home even (no pansy acronyms required). So, I have grown-up conversation all day. I also have a decently intelligent husband and a pretty great extended family. So, my conversations with the little one are actually the ones that I bask in and consider sweet bliss. Sometimes. Sometimes I think I'll tear my hair out if I hear "Tell me, tell me," one more time.

Is it the people. Specifically these people. There is no doubt I love these people. All of them. Every person brings something different to the table and it makes the conversation so much fun. We like to read books with religious undertones, which is especially fun because we have two Baptists, a Catholic, another Protestanty type, a Bahai, an agnostic and an atheist. Imagine the fun! Seriously, it could be miserable, but it's not. These people make it fun. But I don't think I would enjoy it as much if we were getting together once a month for dinner or movie night or whatever.

So, it must be the books, right? The joy of discussing literature, of disecting and examining, of proving your opinion and of defending your point of view. I think that certainly comes into play. It is all the things I love. The reason I have a (mostly useless) degree in English Lit. Because it's what I love to do. It's what I love to talk about, to write about and to study.

Last night, in the mother of all tangents, I described how the book Helter Skelter changed my life. It's a weird thing to talk about, and nothing that you are going to get to discuss in any college lit class that I've ever taken, but it's real all the same. It's part of me. I found myself getting all teary talking about it. Not because it was that emotional, but because it was so good to talk about.

People need to do the things that they love. That's all there is to it. Maybe you can't do it professionally, maybe not everyone can be the next American Idol or write the great American Novel or find a market for a professional lego builder, but that doesn't mean that you shouldn't sing in the shower, write a blog with 3 readers or play in your attic with your lego sets. Don't let your sense of "responsibility" take you away from those things. Don't let yourself tell yourself that you don't have time for that, you need to be doing laundry or cooking a gormet supper for a three year old or anything else. Do what you love.

Right now. I mean it. Go!

Tuesday, June 17, 2008

Bills and Hormones

So, here's what I think. I think that they shouldn't even give me the money. My place of employment should take the money that they owe me and distribute it to the people that I owe. I don't get to keep ANY of it, so why should it spend a day or two languishing in my account, making me look like I actually have any cash. I don't.

Also, I can't seem to not cry. I cry constantly. I blame the pregnancy. I've always been a crier, but this is ridiculous. Seriously, no one should cry over commercials, banner ads or hugs from their child.

I just started crying tonight, for no reason. Unless the final jepardy question upset me. I suppose that's possible. Anything is possible at this point. I love my unborn child, but I wish he/she would calm down and quit freaking out about every little thing. I wonder if this bodes ill and he/she'll be a little drama queen/king. 'Cause that's what we need in this house, another set of drama.

Saturday, June 14, 2008

My New Addiction

Is Food Network. I mean, I've been watching a show here and there for a few years, but suddenly, it's my go to programming. I love Unwrapped, Feasting on Asphalt, Throw Down, Iron Chef America, anything with Rachel Ray, anything with Paula Deen, anything with Alton Brown.

It's sad really. I don't watch any of it for cooking tips or techniques. Although, occasionally I'll use one anyway. I have a new way of making mushrooms thanks to my bestest friend Alton. But mostly, I'm watching for sheer entertainment value. And mostly I watch stuff that I couldn't make anyway.

My very favorite in this category is Challenge. I love, love, love the cake challenges. How did anyone ever come up with this concept? I would have loved to be in on the meeting about that.

"Well, you know those cake contests that they have, we want to do them only on TV and we want to have themes so it's not just wedding cakes, but goth wedding cakes or not just birthday cakes, but princess cakes. And oh, instead of being able to feed x number of people, we want them to be three feet tall. And finally, it's not going to work unless they are forced to move the cake after they finish meeting all of these requirements."

"You're crazy, Jim, no one would watch that!"

"Why not, they watch Survivor don't they."

And here I am. I don't watch survivor or any of those other reality shows, but for some reason, I could watch Food Network Challenge for like 12 hours straight. There is not a marathon long enough.

You'd think I'd be a better cook as a result of all of this Food Networkyness. But you'd be wrong. If anything I am a worse cook because I don't have a TV in the kitchen, so I want to cook really, really quick to make sure I don't miss the new episode of Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives.

Oh well, the good news is that I at least know all the good places to eat in Portugal, so next time I'm there, we're covered.

Thursday, June 12, 2008

My Naked Child

My daughter, the love of my life, my morning sun, hates getting dressed.

She loves clothes. She loves to shop for clothes, pick out clothes, talk about clothes, accessorize clothes and argue about clothes.

You'd think this kid would be all about getting dressed. You'd be wrong. The second hardest thing that I do in a day is get her into her pajamas. In fact, this task is so hard that if a. a bath is not required, b. her clothing has no strings or ties that might strangle her and c. she's not wearing jeans, I let her sleep in her clothes. I hate this, actually, it's more than hate. I am filled with such nauseating disgust when she comes stumbling out of her room in yesterday's clothes that I can barely contain myself.

But the pajama struggle is nothing compared to the morning dressing struggle. There are tears, threats, cries. Often we end up angry with each other, stalking to the car like carpool mates and not family members. Twice I have carried her to the car in nothing by underwear.

This morning was a particuarly bad day at want-to-wear-my-jammas-to-daycare-land. There was screaming and nashing of teeth and the smell of brimstone snuck through our house as I told Brynna that if she wasn't dressed before I left, then she could walk to daycare. Of course, this is a total bluff, but I was out of threats. I had already turned off the tv, taken away her toys and put her in time out.

The worst part is that this has gone on for approximately 3.7 years. I don't see this as a phase she will grow out of. I am seriously worried that she will be 16 and I will be standing in her doorway yelling that she absolutely CANNOT wear pajamas to school and she only has 10 minutes to get dressed before I snap and blow up the house.

Perhaps, though, this is her preparation to fulfill my lifelong dream of having a job where I can wear my pajamas to work. Maybe if I had stuck to my guns a little more about jammas jsut being better, I'd be there already.

Tuesday, June 10, 2008

A Decade of Sentences

It occured to me yesterday that I have been writing the great American novel for almost exactly a decade. Yes, that's right, ten years.

Good Greif, you are thinking, is it approximately the length of Gone with the Wind, War and Peace, and It combined?

No, unfortunately, it is around 50 pages. Alas, not the great American novel yet. (It's got a great concept, though, and I swear the main character is nearly as cool as Holden Caufield.)

I have recently become enamored of a blog called Dad Gone Mad (www.dadgonemad.com) and am inspired by DGM's similar struggle and recent success at the book-writing dream. It's amazing to me how many people share the desire to be the next J.D. Salinger, but here we are, a culture of wanna-be writers. Maybe, it's just a generation of wanna-be writers. It does seem that they are mostly my age.

Digressing, do you remember when you were a kid and everyone you knew wanted to be a singer when they grew up. I remember, in fact, desperately wanting to be a singer, and refusing to admit it to anyone because everyone else did. Well, it turns out we all grew up and decided that we want to be writers when we retire. How boring! A generation of literary Grandma Moses'.

Well, I for one refuse. If I haven't published a book by the time my kids graduate from high school (or possibly college) then I give. If only to save the world from the onslaught of geriatric literature my generation is bound to unleash.

In any case, I am resolving to write. I am going to finish the Great American Novel by Jessi and I am not going to take another decade to do it. I make no promises about how long I will take, but it will not be a whole decade.

And as part of that resolution, I resolve to blog. Not because my book is going to be all bloggy, but because sometimes writing is more about putting pen to paper (or in the modern vernacular fingers to keys) than anything else. And if I can do that here, surely to goodness I can do it in the Big Blank Word Document.

Monday, June 9, 2008

Minivan Momma

Alright, I bit the bullet, I did the unthinkable, I sold out to the man. I bought a minivan. And kids, I have to tell you, it's the coolest thing I've ever driven. Not only is my used minivan absolutely tricked out, but it is also just plain fun to drive. Seriously. I'm not making this up.

I do feel weirdly soccer momish in it, but I'm up off the ground, looking down at all the little cars, cruising along in my oh-so-powerful V-6. How can you not love that.

In the meantime, though, I have a challenge for anyone who has stumbled upon this madness. The minivan came with one of those license plate mounts on the front. One of the big black one and it must be filled. So, I have a few ideas...

Brynna and my husband are vying for "The Family Truckster" like from National Lampoon's Family Vacation. The problem is that no one seems to get this. And while I don't mind driving around with an inside joke published on the front of my vehicle, the most common reaction is a mean-spirited explination that a minivan is not a truck.

My second choice is something hippie driven, like "Still a hippie" or "Hippie in a Mini" something to get across the idea that this does not make me a yuppie. Or, is that kinda like "a Black Flag sticker on a Cadillac" (or for those who are old school "a deadhead sticker on a Cadillac")?

Anyway, weigh in on my license plate delima below. It's almost as important as the tomato crisis!