Questions people asked me today:

does the pie taste funny to you?
He's going to preach about THAT?
A Llama? Really?
Did you knit those yourself?
It's not too spicy, is it?
Why does that upset you so much?
Wait - he was serious?
Well, you know what this means, don't you?

MONKEEEE????? BOOOOKKK????

Jesus? Loves? ME?

posting from work (makes Baby Jesus cry, I know) but I had to share this. Several of my friends were involved in this project, and I finally sat down to listen to it today (yeah, I'm a great friend, ask anyone) even though I've had the download info for about a week. You can buy it now, here.

But watch the video. I really like the whole thing, but if you watch all the way to the end, you'll see an especially precious few moments of April, playing the harp with one hand and holding the sleeping baby with the other. And smiling.

what a break

Don't look back. Just go ahead. Give ideas away. Under every idea, there's a new idea waiting to be born.
Diana Vreeland, quoted in Andre Leon Talley's biography ALT, 2002

Hope is costly, but not as costly as giving up.
Anne Lamott, paraphrasing Augustine in a Salon essay, 2003


I am exhasuted from trying to believe unbeliveable things.
Stephen Wright, said on The Late Show with David Letterman, Feb 21, 2003


The worst thing you can do is make your mistakes slowly.
David Sedaris, Speaking at Lisner Auditorium, GWU, April 9, 2003

If you saw my hometown, you would understand everything about me.
Rickey Smith, American Idol contestant, in his biographical film on Fox TV, March 2003

If you dance, you might understand the words better.
David Bryne, in the self-interview portion of the Stop Making Sense DVD


Walking on water wasn't built in a day
Jack Kerouac, in the film The Life and Times OF Allen Ginsburg

If I had a mind, it got covered in love.
Allen Ginsburg, in the film The Life and Times OF Allen Ginsburg


Crede qua absurdum est. (Believe in that which is absurd.)
On the bathroom wall, One World Cafe, S. Charles St, Baltimore MD, Feb 12, 2002


I have come to believe that falling obsessively in love is one of life's necessary assignments. It cracks you open.
Rosemary Sullivan, in Labyrinth of Desire: Women, Passion and Romantic Obsession, 2002

The softest thing in the world will overcome the hardest.
lao-tzu, Tao-te Ching

I'm alive! Holy shit, what a break.
Frank Cross in Scrooged, screenplay by Micheal O'Donahue and Mitch Glazer

It's going to get even weirder
and
You will do something stupid again today.
two fortune cookies, quoted in Salon's online forum Table Talk





Let him who seeks continue seeking until he finds. When he finds, he will become troubled. When he becomes troubled, he will be astonished, and he will rule overall.
Apocrapha, the Gospel of Thomas, fragments attribited to Didymos Judas Thomas, about 200 ce

mysterious

so I was poking around on my hard drive, in search of this essay/rumination that I wrote several years ago, so I could post it.

And I must roll my eyes up to heaven and ask:

If it isn't here, WHERE THE HELL IS IT?

I do have: a single page of a sermon, and some text from my LiveJournal blog (perhaps I'll have to bust that out, but it's only the 4th; I'm not quite that desperate yet.

My husband has jet lag from the time change. He was just telling me. I'm totally not kidding.

We did indeed go to the New Trader Joe's in Columbia, and my child was a raging terror. We got out with a loaf of bread. (Okay, 2 packages of cookies for the worship music team, and a loaf of bread.)It's good.

Also mysterious - I played miniature golf today. My legs are as sore as if I had run a cross-country match. (I IMAGINE.) Why? I mean, the course was on a hill, but honestly.

getting things done

1. order 5 pizzas for tomorrow for the miniature golf tourney.
2. see if the new Trader Joes is open.
3. buy some trophies/ribbons/whatever (see above)
4. Call miniature golf people and make reservation.

5. GO TO THE ^%$#@?@!!@#$ BANK MACHINE because #$@#%$&??!! mini golf place is cash-only. (Glad I called!)

The grandparents visited today, and they are indeed grand. After lunch (at which my child was somewhat angelic) we walked over to the lake to say hi to the ducks.

Well, the ducks have migrated. What we found was a flotilla of seagulls and this rather lonely guck. (Or perhaps dooce.)

There was one lone waterfowl, unafraid to come up onto the playground and check out the breadcrumb possibilities. It had a duckish face and shape, but was huge for a duck, at least for the ones we see here; at the same time, it was small for a goose. Its neck was not long, but it did have a noteable bend in it.

It walked right up to us, and stayed - most of the ducks at the lake, though they get fed by people every day, maintain a constant distance of a few feet. I could have touched this one, easily. It didn't approach in an aggressive way, though.

It was a fascinating color combination - white and a light creamy brown, alternating, like a mosaic. Perfect camoflage for being on the playground, which is covered in wood chips.

I took a few pictures of it, but I'm afraid to download them until I get some of the photos off my hard drive; I'm right at capacity now. I will say that I've been looking at pictures of duck and goose breeds for quite a while tonight, and nothing is even close to Playground Duck.

And of course, I'm worried about Playground Duck - its nutrition, its safety, and of course I'm worried that it's lonely. Eric (or perhaps one of his parents) suggested that neither the ducks nor the geese would have him, which made me sad; it also occurs to me that, if he is some sort of cross-breed, he's sterile, and what place could he have in a duck family then? I don't think they have Maiden Aunts. Or Confirmed Bachelors. Or Boston Marriages.

Anyway, as well as photos of duck breeds, I was looking for a poem I somewhat remembered from Brit Lit.

Alison Bechdel remembers it.

under the wire

well, that's a way to start strong, eh, a one-paragraph post at 11:25?

Here are some things that happened to me in the last few days:

Thing the first:
I watched someone hit a deer (more like, get hit by a deer) in their SUV. It was extremely dramatic, involving, as it did, a smashed windshield, and a deer flying - absolutely not kidding - like 15 feet through the air.

And then getting up and walking away.

It would have been me (and the deer would have done significantly more damage to my Prius than it did to their Expedition) had I not been paying attention to the deer leaping dementedly through the field beside the road.

Thing the second:
I worked a funeral for the niece of a friend today. She was in her mid-20s, mom to 3-year-old twins. She was murdered. I spent the whole day yearning to go home and hug my kid.

When I (FINALLY) got home, and hugged my kid, he yelled "NO!" and writhed as if my hug was torture. It was NOT a scene from the Waltons.

Thing the third:
We've been singing to Ian - camp songs mostly, Raffi's Baby Beluga - and he has been requesting "Jesus Loves Me". Which, of course, chokes me up.

Well, Ian enjoys listening to music - recorded music, as opposed to his parents' well-intentioned caterwauling - and so Eric downloaded "Jesus Loves Me." He ended up, through the magic of the 30-second sample, with some weird Music for Airports ambient version: kids singing far away, drum track, various electronic bleeps and bloops. Plus a British kid chanting scriptures extolling Jesus' DEATH: "this is how we know what love is, that a man would DIE for his friends, DIE for his friends." I am totally not kidding.

Ian immediately became obsessed and wanted to hear this over and over and over.

Happy Halloween.

and I said, "I am."

I've never liked Demetri before (he's no Rob Cordry, if you know what I mean) but this, from some random knitter's blog, cracked me up.

And again - I'm wasting this on October. I should save it up, but, like Scrooge, "I'm a martyr to m'own generosity."

in which I am a genius.

I set my recipe book on fire this evening.

I was not cooking at the time...well, kind of. Charon, on her way home from a gig, stopped by for a cup of tea. I switched on the burner, and withdrew to the eating part of the kitchen (by which I mean 'the storing promotional dvds, magic props and stuff to take to the Goodwill part of the kitchen' - it just looks like we should be eating there because it has a highchair in it, and, somewhere under the pile, alledgedly a table). We're chatting away about her gig (a wedding reception) and My Adorable Child and this and that and eventually we begin to wonder why the room seems to be COMPLETELY FILLED WITH THICK GREY SMOKE.

She heroically picks up the journal, and tosses it into the sink, dousing the flaming cover but, unbelievably, not messing up any of the hand-written recipes.

I, meanwhile, shout for the World's Best Husband to come out and help us open windows while I unhook the smoke detector.

Actual transcript of conversation:

me: Honey! We've had a little fire! Come out to the kitchen and help us open windows! I'll unhook the smoke detector!

World Best: (no response at all.)

Me: Honey! Fire! Fans! Windows!

World Best: (no response at all.) (He's watching Masterpiece Theatre. The Amazing Mrs. Pritchard. I might not have responded either.)

Me: Fine, we'll just do it.

(Another minute or so passes.)

World's Best: (running into the kitchen.) Smoke! The house is filled with smoke! Open a window, for heaven's sake!




And my deepest regret is that this happened during October. Because you can bet I'll be dyin' for this kind of material during NaBloPoMo.

What are you doing in 5 weeks?

Because we will TOTALLY be here!!

woo fuckin' hoo.

the paradox

An interesting thing happened to me the other day.

I think I grew up.

I'm not sure I understand it yet. This I can say: several times in one day last week, I experienced the thing that I have pretty much devoted my life to avoiding. Much as I talk a big game about being all postmodern and comfortable with ambiguity and holding a web of interconnected beliefs and all that crap, the fact is that certain kinds of strong conflicting emotions have always been pretty much physically unbearable for me. They make me anxious in a way that I cannot bear.

This comes out mostly when people who I care about tell me they are unhappy with something - anything from the quality of my work to a decision I made to the amount of mayonnaise on their deli sandwiches - and I cannot fix it for them. Right then and there.

This, in the past, has set up a wail in my head that blocks out everything else, until I can shut it up, usually with some kind of rationalization - some way I can convince myself that that mayonnaise is really, truly, on a deeper level when you look at it this way, BETTER.

Of course I have other specialities - mostly ways of shutting down the unhappy conversations before they get to the part that needs fixing. I don't even TRY to do this. It's deep in some sub-cortex. Afterwards, I always feel ashamed, and usually find some way to rationalize THAT.

So first, I had a meal with someone from our church, and part of the conversation - a fairly short part, mixed in with travel and family and bands and gadgetry talk - was him telling me that he was badly disappointed in some things about church. My things.

And for some reason - for maybe the first time in my 45 years of being me - it was okay. I listened. With a few deeeeep breaths, I was able to keep the wail quiet for a while. I didn't try to stop the conversation or defend myself or minimize it or laugh it off or give off those subtle signals that suggest that my mental health was way too fragile for this topic today.

We really talked.

I didn't fix it.

And I didn't die.

And then another friend emailed me and asked what was going on with me.

I am disgusted with church – not Church, not God, not even this particular church, despite our current challenges – I just have no idea what we are supposed to be doing around here, with Sundays, don’t know why people go to church or what God expects from it. I want to program nothing for a Sunday, and have people gather and see what happens. I want to close for a month and just have dinner parties. I want to turn off the electricity and see what happens.

And yet I’m excited about Christmas.

The good part of that struggle (which moves in and out of the foreground, and is foregroundy right now because I was just having lunch with _____) is that I’m not struggling alone, and no one is saying to me “Oh! It’s THIS! Obviously. Duh, You’re stupid to wonder. What’s wrong with you anyway?”

Some parishoners might think that, and of course they’re welcome to think whatever they like. But among the people I talk to daily, this is not considered a stupid question. (Take just a moment with me and recognize how beautiful and unusual that is, and breathe a quick ‘thank you’.)

So, though it’s hard, and it’s noisy in my head, I would say this disgust is kind of…energizing. It’s kind of an exciting disgust.

... I’m not saying it’s a day at the beach for me. But I feel like it’s the question, and also the paradox – like, it’s the question I was designed at ask, and keep asking, and other questions feel tangential and ditzy.

And yet I know that, even if I invest my life wondering…I won’t get to the whole, real answer. Ever. Probably not more than a glimpse of a corner of the shed in which the answer is kept.

And at the moment, that seems all right. Kind of.

So perhaps I have grown a new part of my brain, which is capable of holding more things in tension.

Perhaps having a child has shown me - on a literal, physical level, a bloodstream level - that I cannot fix much, and certainly not completely, and certainly not at a moment's notice.

It's interesting.
It feels like the beginning of a long long hike, on a nice day.

Never

Blair asked about the u2 video that I posted the other day. She, too, was trying to figure out why it was so moving, and she asked what I thought Bono was trying to say.

Hell, I don't know. I saw it linked on the blog of Jonathan Carroll, a novelist. He quotes an email from a friend, who says

Bono is singing With or Without You on a catwalk stage, in
front of thousands upon thousands of people. And it feels like such a
naked song, about this woman he loves, or has loved. And he reaches
into the crowd, and pulls a woman up with him, and he lies down with
her on the stage. He is on his back, singing into the microphone
quietly, and holds her against him, her head against his chest, so she
is hearing his voice first, through his rib cage, around his heart,
before it reaches the thousands of people watching. And it is
perfect. The whole room becomes a bedroom, and this man becomes naked
and simple-- in his art for this other woman, he has somehow made this
intimacy universal, exposed himself, and translated a deep part of
himself to all these other people.

Well, that made me want to watch it. And it is a kind of shockingly naked moment, even on tape.

The thing that got me, though, was the woman's expression. They lie side by side on the catwalk, looking up and singing, as if they are singing under their breath with the car radio. And it just looks like 2 people who haven't kissed yet, looking up at the stars, trembling the tiniest bit against the pull of the future. The bigness of the next thing.

It occurs to me that the feeling of being starstruck and the feeling of infatuation are barely distinguishable from one another. And that's why she, without acting at all, creates this monsterously evocative moment.

And she is undoubtedly saying to herself just what one would say, lying in the grass, feeling the pull, holding one's breath:

I will never forget this.

Wednesday!

It's De-Lurking Day!

Some blogger I admire/enjoy (here's one) (wow, look, here's another!) have been bemoaning the recent drop in blog comments, and so they have organized The Great MoFo Delurk, based on the idea that there are too many mo-fo's lurkin' around the blogosphere, not commenting, no linking, just kinda creepily...lurking.

So cut it out!

While I enjoy the privacy here - there's a meditative quality to writing a blog that you know practically no one reads - I'm curious to see who's reading.

Maybe I'll even, you know, WRITE SOMETHING for you to READ when you come here.

made me cry

and I don't know why.

via this blog
which I saw here.

TV will tear us apart

That's Jeff Corwin.
Cable TV is just nuts. You're aware of that, right? Cable TV is completely full, day and night, of people - men - grabbing snakes with their completely bare hands and flinging them about with a relaxed, casual attitude that makes me shudder, shudder, shudder.

Mike Rowe (who I watched tonight, peeking through the cracks between my fingers, in an episode of Dirty Jobs titled Snake Researcher) AT LEAST HAS THE DECENCY to:

1. be anxious and grossed out at the prospect of catching water snakes, injecting something into them - I'm not too clear on this part, it appeared that they were inserting something into little snaky rectums - and the massaging their stomach contents out into a collection bag.
and also
2. to get bit! Badly! And to scream in pain when he did! And to panic and drop the snake!

It's really the least he could do.

Inconcievable!

And, unbeliveably,again! This one's just audio - I was moving around a lot, the video might have gotten messed up. The file's actually a Mitchell-Henning portmanteau - the first half is Zach Sandberg interviewing Moses via sattellite (played by Eric, on video), and then the second half is my 'sermon', which involved tying people together with pink yarn (Manos de Uruguay, for any of you who are yarn fanciers. Second service I used rainbow-colored Sugar and Cream crafters cotton. It went faster, and I collected the ridiculous tangle at the end and draped it over the base of the cross.)

Updated to add: Video! same link.

Link to my sermon

they let me preach again. Click to listen or watch.

At least this will lead you to a fuller appreciation of the high-quality preaching in your church.

All kidding aside, I just watched the video for the first time, and through the haze of crippling self-conciousness (Maybe I'll look less fat if I squint. Um, okay, NO. Hmmm.) I can say I feel decent about this outing. I meant all that stuff.

Here is how I have come to preach, twice, at Cedar Ridge:

every summer we have The All Ages Show, aka family services, or Sunday School Teachers Get August Off. As staff liturgist and tech director (I bet I'm the only one of those in the country!) I'm heavily involved in the collaborative planning of these services. (I'm heavily involved in the planning of practically every service, but most of those discussions are small - me and the speaker - and efficient, not free-wheeling brainstorming that August entails.)

At some point during the brain storming, I am unable to control myself and go off on some long, ill-considered rant about 'what we should really say' about this topic. (Because I'm, you know, the tech director. So I am perfectly positioned to shoot my mouth off about matters of spiritual formation.)

I go until I run out of steam, and the other people (you know, the pastors) look at each other in silence for a moment. Someone starts some sentence fragment, like:
"well, that's, uh..."
and someone else says "yeah, that's really, um, it."
and I say "I guess I could, you know, just..."
and someone else says "Yeah, why don't you?
and I say "Really? Would that really be okay?"
and someone says "I think so." and someone else says "Yeah, totally."

And then I'm preaching.

I'm preaching again this fall, and it did not come about in that way. For my next sermon, I was actually asked, and put on the schedule back in spring. I will be preaching to the grownups in November.

Good Lord.

really exceptional

glumbert.com - A Wonderful World

Alway hoped we'd get to be apostles

For about 30 minutes a week, VH1 shows something besides "I Love the 80s".

(This seems like the best time to interject that I take a back seat to absolutely no one in my love of the 80s. NO ONE. And even I hate "I Love the 80s.")

So occasionally (literally) you can see a music video on cable. Which is how I saw Big Girls Don't Cry by Fergie. Which I actually like. I am not here to dis Fergie, who I like especially in the Black Eyed Peas.

But I must point out something I noticed in the costume area. I guess it would fall under the costume department, though it isn't actually an article of clothing.

The romantic lead in the video, the guy that she's leaving so she can 'be with herself and center', is Milo Ventimiglia. You know, Peter from Heroes. (Or Jess from Gilmore Girls, if you prefer.) I LOVE Heroes - we're all rather excited about the new season. Anyway, he's in this video, and he's playing some sort of drug-dealing thug - you can tell by all the leaning on cars and the passing of rolled banknotes.

He's also covered with tattoos, which look quite real and natural. You can see them in the photo below.

He looks nice, right? If you like skinny guys, he looks pretty good. And reasonably tough.

Except take a good look at the tattoo on the inside of his forearm.




What does that tattoo look like?

To me, it's pretty obvious:


What every discerning drug dealer has inked on his arm - a permanent tribute to 1971's awesomest rock opera, Superstar.

It occurs to me that this may be Milo's real tattoo - the others painted on for the role, but this one could be real. Can't you imagine him playing Peter (aha! Foreshadowing!) in a college production? Say, as a sophomore? And then the leads getting drunk together, going out to get tattoos, commemorating their lifelong bond?

This makes me like him. Even if it's not true.

My favorite dead blog

has long been Chez Miscarriage, which left us about 2 years ago, on account of getupgirl having a kid and undoubtedly becoming far too busy/exhausted/happy to blog. And if she did/is, I guess it would have to have a new name, now, wouldn't it?

I really admired getupgirl's writing, and her honesty and selfawareness and her sense of humor.

But I might have a new favorite dead blog. Except it may not be dead.

I've spent much of tonight reading What Would Jesus Blog?, which is, in fact, Jesus' blog. Jesus likes a lot of bands, most of which I have never heard of, but that would make sense, I guess, seeing as he's omnipresent etc.

But he also writes nice things, which I've always imagined (or hoped) Jesus would say.

Like here are some highlights from a february post:

What I’ve Learned
By Jesus Christ

1. God made your world and religious people will destroy it.
2. Nobody will believe you if you tell them you’re going to get killed but then come back to life.
3. Gatorade A.M. is basically just normal Gatorade with an annoying marketing strategy.
...
6. If you don’t consider yourself a leader, My Dad thinks you’d be great at it.

...
14. People hate to hear the truth. Weezer is underrated and Sonic Youth is overrated.
...

17. I don’t need you to do anything. The story isn’t about you.
18. Belief that I am who I say I am rarely comes through debate.


But here's something really beautiful: it's nearly all of the latest post, from May. (I really want to author to come back to blogger and blog some more, for my amusement, but maybe if I had written this, I'd be satisfied too...)

Hallelujah, whatever

Once you become friends with Me, part of Me literally moves into your body. I can do that. I’m very powerful. So, that part of Me helps you out all the time. If you listen close, you can her Me talking to you through that little version of Me that lives in your heart. When you talk to Me, this hobbit-like mini-Christ is what translates your conversation into the language of angels. It’s the perfect language, very pure. I’ll teach you it when you get up here. Anyway, this translator is able to take the awkward prayers you attempt to send up to Me, and deciphers it into what you really mean. For example, you wouldn’t believe how many people pray nightly for Me to “bless their day”. That’s pretty vague. You want sunshine? You want to win the lottery? What does that mean? Well, that’s one of the reasons I move inside you, so I can figure out what you are saying. That’s also why you can worship Me by singing words you might not understand like “hallelujah” or “hosanna in the highest”. I can figure out what you think you’re saying, and through your odd prayers or worship songs, you and I can have a relationship that is stronger than you realize.

That being said, I gave you all “great” voices. Just because you don’t think you’d make it to the judge table on American Idol doesn’t mean you have an amazing voice. Ever hear of Bob Dylan? His albums sell more than Chris Daughtry, and he sings like a duck… seriously, when ducks talk, it sounds like “Hard Rain’s Gonna Fall”. The voice I gave you, I hand picked for you, and if you use it to sing to Me, it’s more moving than any other earthly sound.

apropos of nothing:

What keeps you from strapping on some explosives and running into a hotel lobby, shouting "John 3:16, bitches!"

my favorite new quote, which I happened upon on the brilliantly named They Promised Us Jetpacks.

what's this?

Or Why My Car Smells Great Today But Will Smell Totally Gross By Sunday.

If you were to look closely, you might be able to discern a maraschino cherry wedged into my passenger side seatbelt socket.

See, I was buying some stuff at Target. And the Target in my little town in near the Chik-Fil-A. Wanting to squeeze every second of freedom and alone time out of this childless errand, but at the same time wanting to be kind to The World's Best Husband, I decided to stop and get us milkshakes.

The drive-through was crazy; being childless, I could blithely PARK MY CAR! and LEAVE IT! And WALK INTO A PLACE. By myself. So I did. I got two - chocolate for him, Cookies and Cream for me, complete with tons of whipped cream and a cherry. (I think I may like the whipped cream better than the milkshake. When I was pregnant, and being accomodated by everyone on the earth, I regularly ate the whipped cream - all of it - off other people's desserts and Starbucks'. I didn't eat dessert myself - just everyone's whipped cream. What an ass.) Anyway, the nice people at Chik-Fil-A tucked my shakes into the 2-shake carrier, which I nestled into the seat (they're too big for my cup holders) and drove home.

I made it almost all the way. But when I tool the left at Pilgrim's Landing a little too quickly, the holder tumbled, and the chocolate shake lost its dome top, leaving a little dune of whipped cream across my seat.

My thoughts at this point, all within a split-second:
1. Fuck.
2. Well, most of his shake is still in there. It's just the whipped cream.
3. Mine tipped over but seems mostly intact.
4. mmmmmm, whipped cream...

and without thinking, I reached down and scooped up a portion of the spill with my cupped hand. Yes, and smeared it into my mouth. Look, I'm not PROUD of this, I'm just telling you what happened.

And while it happened, my attention was momentarily diverted (mmmmm) and I drifted into the other lane.

Nothing happened - I didn't hit anything.

But, figuring that I really should be in my own lane, I jerked the wheel quite suddenly.

And that's when my shake fell over a second time and dumped out between the seats. And across my shirt and shorts. I already has some on my NECK from the whipped cream-scooping a moment before.

And then I was home.

I wiped up the seats and floormats with the paper towels that I keep in my car (it will surprise no one to hear that this is not the first spill in the front seat, though it may be the most extensive.) I walked into the house, sheepishly handed Eric his two-thirds of a milkshake, and continued up to the shower without a word.

Anyway, the Prius smells frickin' awesome, but a couple more hundred-degree days will sour the upholstery.

At least, that's what happened after the Latte Incident.

liability into an asset

In the Washington Post print edition, Style reporter Jennifer Frey drew the short straw and was sent to cover a press junket featuring the teenaged cast of the movie Bratz.

The stars apparently bonded.

They could go on and on -- and do, full of details about the others' little quirks. They have even assigned one another Disney princess names: Skyler is Cinderella, Nathalia is Sleeping Beauty, Janel is Mulan.
"Disney doesn't have any African American princesses," Logan says, "so I get to be Superman."

Everything else aside - I think that's awesome.

On The Other Hand Recommends...

In the tradition on Peacebang, and even the Sartorialist's Sartolia List, I thought I might tell you about some things that I would recommend, and NOT recommend, based on my week at the beach.

First of all, OTOH Totally Recommends Hawaiian Tropic Baby Faces and Tender Places 50 SPF sunblock spray, which works brilliantly and stays on for a long long time. It doesn't really spray - it's lotion, and it squirts like a squirt gun, which is kind of amusing, and then you rub it in, so it doesn't keep your fingers pristine, but it's still a superior product.

Unfortunately, it only works if you APPLY IT. Carrying it down to the beach and back without squirting - not that effective. So OTOH Recommends the only thing that has ever kept her pale blue Celtic skin from peeling:
pure shea butter.

A few years ago, attending my first-ever pastor's conference, I had the rare (for me) opportunity to be driven from Long Beach to San Diego in a convertible. Yes, it was lovely, and yes I got sunburned, and yes, as soon as I had registered, I took off for a nearby open-air mall to find some cheap unguents of some sort.

Well, the mall was too nice to have a Rite Aid or a CVS, and so I ended up spending $30 (!! I practically fainted) on shea butter products. I walked back to the conference hotel, muttering all the way 'this better work...'

It did. It does. It does everything, from soothe sunburn to soften scraped knuckles to control cuticles to, in a pinch, style hair. It lasts a long time. It's indispensable.

On the other hand, if by some chance you're going to be spending the week chasing a child around, plus missing your dead parents and reflecting on 16 years of marriage and all the physical and emotional exertion that entails;
and if for the last year you've been taking not one but two multivitamins per day;
OTOH Cannot Recommend leaving your damn vitamins on the windowsill at home. Go back and get them. Go to Happy Harry's and buy another bottle for God's sake, of course it seems like a waste of money but once you have experienced the alternative, you'll know.

Also, OTOH Does NOT Recommend getting your period twice in one month. Under any circumstances. I'm just sayin'.

However, I can without reservations (ha ha) Recommend getting a room close to the beach, so you can run down for a swim carrying nothing more than your room key. As I have mentioned, we used to stay on the outskirts of town, in a lovely house. There were many things about that which were lovely; however, leaving for a day at the beach was like packing the conestoga wagon for the journey west. We took food, clothes, books, a tent, multiple towels, knowing that we wouldn't be back until after dinner.

Try the boardwalk hotel. So those aren't Egyptian cotton sheets. So there's a bus stop outside your window. Doesn't matter. At all. Completely immaterial, compared to the joys of walking around barefoot with a key and a five tucked into the waistband of your bathing suit.

And speaking of bathing suits, OTOH Recommends getting a new one after being pregnant. (Happily, the Lane Bryant outlet had a good one.)

However, I DO NOT Recommend taking a toddler to an outlet mall. And here's why.

by the way. before and after

got my hair cut about a week ago. First, my embarrassing lacrosse hair, shot in the ladies room at Clyde's (which is pretty appropriate, when you think about it.) And second, my kinda cute Kewpie doll cut, received from George at Cavallaro and Co in the Columbia Mall. (That's my kinda cute Kewpie doll facial expression, to go with it.)

tagged

we watch a lot of animal planet these days - even the commercials have animals in them, which thrills The Dude, who is in his I Can Name That Animal phase.

When you're tagged on Animal Planet, it means you have a radio collar, or maybe a tiny camera mounted (harmlessly, I guess) on your forehead or under your chin.

So Renee tagged me. (Rather recently, as opposed to when Flip tagged me and it took like 3 months for me to think of anything to say.)

rules to play

1. players start with 8 random facts about themselves.
2. those who are tagged should post these rules and their 8 random facts.
3. players should tag 8 other people and notify them they have been tagged.

my 8 random factoids:
1. I share my birthday with Penn Jillette, and my exact birth date with Craig and Charlie Reid, The Proclaimers.
(oh, come on, there must be a better picture than that!)
(Ah, here's one.

2. I am a huge fan of The Proclaimers, and I've seen them 4 times. (They don't tour in the US very often.) We saw them in Annapolis on September 10, 2001.

3.I'm a huge fan of Richard Thompson, and I've seen him at least 6 times. (He comes to the US all the time.)

4. When I'm bored, I make my way through Finslippy's blogroll. It's how I discovered Whoppee.

5. I'm sitting here crying, no lie, because I took a moment to read Finslippy's Minty Bear post.

6. My child uses 'Momma' and 'Dadda' interchangably. This secretly pleases me.

7. My favorite thing in the Bible is the Book of Tobit. This book may not actually be in your bible. I read it at a Catholic retreat center, because I had forgotten my NIV. You should definately find a copy and read it.
Here's the cool thing about the Book of Tobit - my experience of reading it really reminded me how many identities I put on the Bible (you know: research tome, mash note from God, Magic 8-Ball) and how often I (by all accounts a literary sort) forget one of the primary identities: Book of Stories. I sat down and leafed through the bible, and this section caught mt eye, and honestly, it was just like God took me aside and said "You will not believe this! Listen to this story!"

8. I have not missed an issue of Vogue since 1979. (No, I don't still have them all.)

8 people:
beth
Stacie
jen
Sandy, who can post them in the comments.
Lori, who can do the same.
Jeff
would April do this? (WWAD, anyway?)
Oh, what the hell - DJ and/or Rachelle, since they aren't busy at all.

Bonus factiod: My hair is no longer Special Effects USA Virgin Rose (as it was the last time I meme-ed.) It's now Feria Auburn Brown. This is very close to my pre-grey-patches natural color.

One more thought snotty thought about Live Earth

Kanye West is not a good addition to the Police lineup.

Nous ne sommes pas de Londres

La femme sur cet autobus a une coiffeure comme celle-là de Brian May

It's possible that this is the funniest thing I've ever read.

all y'all, it's sabotage

Watching Live Earth - because I've been puttering between the living room (with cable) and the bedroom (with a radio shack antenna), and because Bravo and NBD are showing different shows assembled from the same footage, I've seen the Beastie Boys twice and a bit of Kanye West a second time. This morning, when the had less big-name footage to throw around, Bravo showed what appeared to be the whole set by the reunited Crowded House.

They had played in Australia, where apparently they are still a big draw, and the crowd seemed to all be as over-the-moon to be singing along with Tim as I would be.

Me, I sat on the living room floor and cried. I have no idea why - it wasn't like they were performing the dead mom song or anything. (Selected parts of Woodface have been known to make me teary, but only rarely.) But for some reason, this morning I started during 'Fall at Your Feet' and just kept going. Who in the hell would cry over 'Don't Dream it's Over'?

One might cry over the raging terribleness of the new Madonna song. It's enough to make one reconsider saving the planet, if this is the sort of thing produced on it.

And Joss Stone should select her backup singers carefully, as one might question who ought to be singing lead and who ought to be backing up whom.

Who's this? Metallica? I was about to chide their grey hair, but I must say the Beasties grey hair made me love them more.

Mingle² -

this is what I get for writing headlines with the phrase "suck it" two days in a row.

c-c-c-c-c-coffeeeeee

Two summer ago, shared my a tale of woe (more like WHOA! about breaking my espresso machine. The post was called Why Baristas Wear Aprons, and it tells how I threw in the disgusting, stained towel on home creation of espresso drinks.

Well, I've switched to iced coffee, and on the very convincing advice of the New York Times Magazine plus a raft of questionable strangers on the internet, I am experimenting with cold-brewing coffee concentrate. This will be my second batch, and the first batch was quite decent - less acidic, just as all the propaganda promised, with the sort of strong flavor needed to stand up to milk.

Sites that talk about this process use words like 'mulch' to describe the coffee-grounds-and-cold-water goop, and that's not inapproprate. Actually, peat moss. Smells better, though.

Tonight, I have added some sugar to the peat moss, to see if it suspends evenly - actually, to see if it dissolves at all in cold water which is then kept in the fridge. If I can make sweetened iced coffee concentrate.......wooo.

The tough part is not making your iced coffee at home. See, when I spend the $3 a day for iced coffee at Starbucks, I'm drinking it either in the store (rarely), in the Prius (usually) or at my desk. Unmolested by one-year-olds.

The tough part is getting a chance to drink your iced coffee at home.

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Mingle² - Online Dating

I'm worth less than Flip, can you imagine?

You know I was just writing about Betsy Recipes? THIS could be the Betsy Apartment.

via Dooce.

I am searching, searching, searching the internet to see if I can find some version of the recipe I cooked tonight (without having to a)violate the copyright of a writer I admire and also b)type it myself.)

Because it is The Very Best Thing I Have Ever Eaten. Plus, I've made it several times, and it is easier to make well than it is to make badly. (I know, because I've done both. But it really is easy to make well.)

It's Chicken with Vinegar, from The Minimalist Cooks at Home, which was a Christmas gift several years ago and which I am finally working my way through. I don't have very many cookbooks. Since several of my favorite recipes were from Mark Bittman's Minimalist column in the NYTimes (print edition; the food section's on Wednesday) I thought this one might be a good bet. Well, yay me, and my excellent taste.

I love to cook, but I go through long phases where I can barely bring myself to toast a poptart. Lately, I've been cooking up a storm. Even more than cooking, I love grocery shopping, though when prices are high as they have been this spring, I get all mad, as if I was being insulted personally by mango growers and organic chicken farmers.

Rather than go on and on about the difficulty and frustration of trying to cook with a one-year-old standing between your feet, waiting patiently for you to put that knife down on the counter, instead I give you:

The cookbooks I use a lot:
My dad's 1955 Joy Of Cooking
The Best of Mennonite Fellowship Meals, which I'm thrilled to see is still in print. This is a weird compendium - but for every green jello salad with canned fruit, there's a great simple recipe that's got a place in my repetoir.
Brother Juniper's Bread Book my favorite baking book (and I've read them ALL.) Also thrilled to see this is still in print.

Easy Basics for Good Cooking, from Sunset, out of print but apparently there are plenty around. I need to take mine out and get it rebound, or drilled and kept in a looseleaf notebook.

I got out of my house basically able to scramble an egg. My dad was a terrific cook (in the 'big roasts surrounded by root vegetables' vein), and it was his main creative outlet. SO HE WOULD PHYSICALLY REMOVE ME AND MY BROTHER FROM THE KITCHEN so he could create in peace.

My brother was able to learn a little more from him than I was, and then worked in a bakery and at a lunch counter, so he had no such handicap as he faced adulthood. Me, I ate a lot of sandwiches, and a lot of eggs.

I don't really remember what made me want to learn to cook - I think it's connected to having this house and wanting to be hospitable. I do know that, before we were even really moved in, I made a big batch of chocolate chip cookies with walnuts for my brother and his friend, Wesley Paxton, who was visiting from England.

Our friend Chuck lived with us for years, and I think I learned mostly from him. He's a very ambitious and creative cook, who learned from both his parents; we've spent many happy hours talking food, now that he has his own kitchen.

Anyway, Easy Basics is exactly that, with lots of helpful photos (because the choux paste is SUPPOSED to separate like that when you add the eggs, but if you've never done it before, it totally looks like it has something has gone horribly wrong and you should throw it all out and order something instead.)

And because of Easy Basics - and because of choux paste, which is what creampuffs and eclairs are made of - I developed my peculiar area of speciality when it comes to cooking.

Which is: the recipes (and there are hundreds) which are simple and dependable, but which create a product all out of proportion to the effort involved. Which seem, to the person eating them, to be hard and time-consuming and to show immense skill.

Those are Betsy Recipes.

Ecumenism critqued

over here. I'm a fan of Kyle Potter; he's a divinity student, a terrific clear writer about some complex subjects, and incidentally, a devout Anglican. (All those guys who starts out as Southern Baptists make the best Anglicans.)

It's more than incidental for me, actually. I'm a cradle Episcopalian, who, after a very devout childhood and short periods as a Buddhist and a Quaker, grew up to be sort of a general-purpose evangelical who worshiped, and now serves, in independent churches. Trans-denominational...no, wait, Post-denominational churches. That's it.

My identity - my denominational identity - surges from foreground to background, from not-even-worth-mentioning to the primary fact of my identity, the first bullet point in my introduction. The last few years, it's come to the front again.

For one thing, it's a distinctive - it connects me to some people (Bob comes to mind) and sets me apart from others.

It sensitizes me to, and aligns me with, the victims of evangelicalism's tenacious anti-Catholic bullying.

I also suspect it's my primary qualification for my job.

Seriously, the Old Boss aside, hardly anyone in the congregation I serve has a sacramental background. The things I grew up believing and celebrating and doing are a part of what our church wants to give people - deep ritual, meaningful actions, a place to meet God beyond logic and sermonizing. The rhythm of the year; connections between this Lenten season and the one 5 years ago. Disciplines. Ancient poetry.

I haven't been to seminary; I never studied any of these things. I got them through immersion, through them being the only way I knew to be church.

And my background has plenty of holes. Growing up in my church, there was no moment of decision, of 'giving your life to Christ' - you were His already, obviously, baptised and raised under God's hand. Any decision - if one decided not to be confirmed, for example - would have been a refusal of the assumed order rather than a positive step. It was a little like the Columbia Record and Tape Club; it ran on negative consent.

The church I grew up in left lots of room for interpretation, so much so that famous Episcopal priests have published books debunking the virgin birth and the literal resurrection. Moral decisions were largely between you and God, but the directions for seeking God's guidance were pretty hazy. Also, if I had grown up 'born again' ("I've been born again my whole life!" as the character in "Saved!" says,)
I'd have a much better handle on the Bible, both as narrative and as compass.

Not to mention the class and gender baggage woven into the gigantic structure...the whole massive hierarchy (and its basis, apostolic succession) just seemed more of an impediment to God's work than a help. I couldn't sign on for that. And God was kind, and appears to have led me to a way to honor my 'calling' (I feel pretentious calling it that, but honestly, there's no other word) outside that structure.

And so I have made a commitment to an ecumenical, born-again community.

Nothing in my life has ever made me feel more Anglican. And more high church Anglican, at that.

I don't want to post a comment on Kyle's blog, cuz dude, they're all a bunch doctoral candidates and parish priests hanging out over there, and they'd eat me alive! Not in a mean way. They just know a lot of words that I didn't learn while getting my BA in theatre. I would be exposed.

But I will say this here (where I am constantly exposed) -

Kyle says that the differences between denominations are real, and to suggest that one is as good as another is disrespectful. Because we pick our denominational affiliations, at least in part, because we believe it to be

...the most faithful way, in this time and place, to respond to and embody the fact of God's reign in Christ?

And if you really think your church- say, the Baptist church - is the one that's 'the most faithful way', then to say

"I'm a Baptist, because that's what I think is right for me. I'm glad that you're a Methodist, because that's what God has called you to be. It doesn't really matter because we all love Jesus."

may be well-meaning and even kind, but it isn't truthful.

Here's where Kyle and I differ:

I think that I believe denominations were made for people, not for God.

People are limited. They're limited in their intellect and spiritual connectedness; they're limited by habit and taste and history.

God is enormous, majestic, passing understanding.

This may be the postmodernist in me -

I believe (and scripture and history support) that God reveals God's nature in many ways - scripture, creation, sacraments, supernatural happenings. Jesus was/is the most perfect revelation of God's character and nature.

Even people who knew Jesus in person, who walked with him 365 days a year for 3 years, did not get the fullness of God's revelation. They didn't even get the fullness of Christ. And he was right there. He ate with them, joked with them. They saw him rise from the dead.

Why, then, is it hard to imagine that Methodism might exist not because it's the best vehicle for revelation (and so everyone should get on board) but that it's the best vehicle for revelation to a certain type of people. Other people will be left cold by Methodism but love Roman Catholicism. Neither is 'the most faithful way' in God's eyes. Both are God-inspired but human-made, and so have truth and errors and beauty and hatefulness somewhere in there.

Does this make sense? It seems to me that God has done many things (Christ's incarnation, parables, Pentacost, to name three) to speak to people in a language they'll understand. Are denominations part of that?

Small Town Life cannot suck it quite as much today.

1. a triumph - 18-month pediatric checkup with NO SHOTS. This is especially good for me - he cries for 5 minutes, but having to hold him down is an emotional minefield for me and I'm messed up for the rest of the day.

plus lunch at the Japanese buffet - that's always good.

2. a serious miscalculation - I packed The World's Cutest in the car, and on our way to the hardware store, I stopped for a moment at the municipal pool. I wanted to check the hours and the prices and get a general idea of how things might go if, on some 100 degree day (they're coming, mark my words) I decided to take my toddler swimming.

The lifeguard behind the counter was polite and informative, and Ian and I peeked through the fence at the pool. "See?" I said to Ian. "That's a SWIMMING POOL. One day we'll come and play in the water. Okay, let's go to the hardware store."

And that, apparently, was the signal to unleash hell.

Ian, who has never in his life seen a pool (or a garden hose or even a particularly full bathtub) made up his tiny mind that he must not be separated from the pool. The pool is his destiny, his one true home. His Brigadoon. His Shangri-la. He completely, utterly flipped, and cried in a way that I have never heard him cry in his life. I was afraid he would injure himself - I wasn't sure how, but it just seemed immanent.

Okay, so change in plans - no hardware store. ("But you LOVE the hardware store!" I pleaded over my shoulder. Fresh wails. Okay, fine.) Drivethrough, followed by the lake, where we could eat and play on the playground and watch the DOG and DUCK SHOW.

2. The playground was an enormous success; his dinner less so, consisting as it did of 3 waffle fries, one nugget, a juice box and about half of my milkshake. (Yeah, call child protective services, I know.) He played decently with the other kids; he didn't hurt himself at all; he went down the big slide.

We witnessed a great deal of playground drama, mostly centered on a 10-year-old boy who smarted off to someone else's mom, who then detailed over the cell phone how she was going to call the police. "And WHERE is his MAMA???" she shouted from the top of the climber, where she sat with the 3 exhilerated, giggling daughters. There was also the requisite "I can't play with you/Ew she touched me" action, which made me tense even though none was directed at Ian. Yet.

3. DOGS were plentiful, varied and friendly (and Ian remembered How to Approach a Dog, I was thrilled.) DUCKS were scarce, though we were chased by several enormous farm geese, apparently setting a good example for the enormous fluffy gosling with them.

Not 'chased' exactly. (I am, as I have mentioned, from the country, and so I've been chased by a goose before. Plus I'm nuts, as I many have mentioned.) We walked toward the water, they saw us and approached us in a casual way. I picked up Ian and tried to act calm. Then I started to back away, you know, casually. Like, 'No, don't be silly, I'm not running away, I just see something kind of interesting OVER HERE BYE." I did drop our bag of leftover fries, which I thought would distract them but did not spark the smallest bit of interest. The fries were cold, I guess, while the backs of our thighs were warm and tender.

The geese evidently nest, or at least hang out, near the boathouse, which is pretty inconvenient.

4. Far from the boathouse (therefore safe from the geese...Good Lord, it's not enough that I have to do the Snake Check every time I step out of the house, now I have to monitor waterfowl as well? Sheesh) is the bandshell, where a band called Oracle was playing to a small crowd. They were pretty good and very weird; a couple of old rock guys in hawaiian shirts, two beautiful women in batik tank tops, flinging their long black hair in gypsy-ish ways, a young Latin guitarist, an excellent fiddler. They were skilled musicians; and clearly they prided themselves on their range. During the time that Ian and I were listening, they played:

A hooked-on-classics sort of instrumental
Black Horse and the Cherry Tree
Runaround Sue
a celtic ballad
and a country number with the lyric "She thinks my tractor's sexy."

And they were all pretty good! I mean, nothing was embarrassing or half-assed. Everyone on the front line sang lead, credibly; the fiddler and the acoustic guitarist were terrific. I think their identity problem is really working for them.
Gape in amazement at theirsong list.

Ian was totally digging it, dancing all around. And, in fact, I was curious to see what on earth was next on that set list, but it was already past his bedtime.

When we arrived home, 3 of the 5 little boys from 2 doors down - Isaiah, Kaleel and some other OT Prophet - came barrelling out the door because they had caught a glimpse of Ian, and thought he might like to play again - they had played for nearly an hour this afternoon already. So they all ran in circles screaming for several minutes before collapsing. I slung Ian over my shoulder and took him up to bed.

So I think we've proven that Laurel has plenty of entertainment for an 18-month-old. Who in turn, is rather entertaining himself.

Small Town Life can suck it.

As I mentioned a couple of posts ago, I have (almost inadvertently) begun a sort of campaign to begin to appreciate my town a little more, rather than frittering away my days wishing I was somewhere more glamourous/funky/whatever.

In the last 24 hours, The Laurel Project has suffered two setbacks - neither really major, but both annoying.

1. Yesterday, in a yard about a block from our house, I spotted a great photo. A family had washed several of their childrens' stuffed animals, and hung them on the laundry line to dry - mostly held up by old fashioned clothes pins, pinned to their ears. Especially striking was a neon pink bunny with a (understandably) surprised expression.

It made a great photo - a fence behind, framed in a tall hedge, back corner of the house visible in the frame. Nice summer-y greenery.

I pulled over and took a few shots with my little snapshot camera. I was anxious to get them onto the computer and tinker with them, maybe make one the first post on a new photoblog.

But I AM NOT A PATIENT PERSON.

And I did not wait long enough for the download, from camera to hard drive, to finish.

And then, before checking the target drive (did I mention that I am not a patient person?) I cleared the camera's memory.

So now this funny, nicely composed photo, which held a certain amount of meaning for me, exists as a thumbnail and a file name but not as an actual, accessible photo. This is perhaps the most frustrating thing ever. Why preserve the thumbnails, then, Kodak? Why not just skip the whole thing?

2. After settling the kid down, and watching way too many minutes of E! True Hollywood Story (Mickey Mouse Club! Ryan Gosling as a 12-year-old womanizer! Keri Russell looking exactly the same as she does now! It was kind of like a car wreck - you don't want to look, exactly, but you can't look away.)...I ran out to the library, thinking I'd have about 20 minutes to grab some magazines and books. That's plenty of time, right? I know where everything is. It's not like I'm picky. So 20 minutes should be a ton of time.

Except it's Laurel.

So everyone knows you.

And so they talk to you. Catch up on the baby's sleeping habits. Tell a story about their kid's (now 18 years old, but they remember it like it was yesterday) sleeping habits. And their own. And then the guy whose neighbors' dog keeps him up has a quandry (will calling animal control lead to dog poop on the porch? Magic 8-ball says YOU MAY RELY ON IT.)

And yes, of course I could have blurted out "Hi, great to see you, gotta run and get books." And I did not. Or, I did, but it was right after the library lady breathed all over the PA and said that it was 8:55 and the library would be closing in 5 minutes. I had made it to periodicals when they started turning out lights.

And I silently cursed small town life, and longed for the precious, precious anonymity of the city, where no one knows your name or give a shit about you and your little problems and you can die alone in your apartment and your cats will eat you and no one will know for weeks but at least you can get some freaking library books in peace.

Wendall Berry never mentions that part.




On the other hand, our Fox station just did a teaser for a news story where they'll be talking about, no lie, "the fight against violent crime." Well, I guess some things are worth fighting for....

A decade in the vocation by Peacebang.

Of course I'm not (and at this late date, and considering my level of misgivings about, well, practically everything, am unlikely to ever be) a parish priest. So my experience isn't really like hers. But my feelings surged right along with her as I read this.

3 thoughts while watching television

1. On America's Got Talent Which It's Keeping in a Top Secret Location And Then Showing Us This Crap Instead, a magician did a pretty inventive turn and advanced to the next round! Last year's auditions included some rather awful magic; Nathan Burton hung in until late rounds, and his act (IMO) is strikingly unoriginal.

Tonight's guy (I missed his name) ate fire, and then combined two classic effects (one of which is occasionally flashy but never deceptive) into one well-choreographed, fooling, totally surprising trick!

Magic - really, a lot of allied arts - has such exceptional potential for originality, surprise, the ability to bring beautiful metaphor and poetry to literal life. To embody really meaningful ideas. (Not that the guy on tv tonight had any beautiful ideas; he had 2 minutes to make people curious to see more, which worked.)
And so much is 100% soulless. So I was pleased to at least see something I hadn't seen before, and well-done.

2. Dude, I would totally RULE The Singing Bee.

3. Prince Harry's pretty darn hot.

wordless and hilarious.

Creative Nonfiction

I am about two-thirds of the way through RebeccaWalker Gives Privileged, Navel-Gazing Feminist Hypocrits a Bad Name. Honestly, with a subtitle like this book has - "Choosing Motherhood After a Lifetime of Ambivelence" - well! How could any book be more interesting? Ring more bells for me? Be more 'up my alley'?

I'm sorry, but this is crap. This woman delivers keynote speeches? Writes books that are required reading in gender studies? (So says the flap.) It's possible that her less-creative nonfiction is defensible, but this pile is just painful.

Plus there's the whole mother thing. The author's mom is Alice Walker, an intermittantly fine novelist and, apparently, a rather crap mother. A conflicted mother. A mother who saw her children as keeping her from her real life's work. And who, by all accounts, did not try too hard to keep that feeling a secret.

(Hmmm. Perhaps there's an unintentional insight for me in this book after all.)

Anyway, Rebecca and Alice have a strained relationship, and have decided to conduct it almost exclusively on paper, in published essays and interviews. Granted, pregnancy does bring all one's mother business to the top of the agenda. One could hardly write an honest memoir of pregnancy and not talk about mom stuff, especially if the old girl's still around.

But R. Walker, after pages of, alternately
"My mother was so disappointing. I am still reeling from the damage of a disappointing mother. As I detailed at length in my last 2 books."
and
"I cannot imagine why my mother is so petty and vindictive. (Here, let me give you some examples.) All I'm doing is claiming my truth. How can that make her so angry? All I want is a little love and approval."

writes something I find just jaw-dropping.

She had gone to visit her mother, and says that she was uncomfortable being alone with her. And then she says:
"but I kept thinking about Marvin Gaye and how he was killed by his own father."

Christ Almighty.

This woman is either a complete idjit, or disingenuous to the point of being shockingly evil. And I cannot tell which.

Many people seem to have a high opinion of her writing, which makes me lean towards the latter.

And it's not that I'm offended because it's Alice Walker, oooh, big feminist icon. I don't care who it is. You don't just casually drop 'I kept wondering if my mother was going to kill me over dinner' into a general interest hardback. As a little digression.

And then wonder why she's so upset.

On page 76, R Walker says:
"... For the twenty-five-thousandth time, I apologized for telling my truth in a way that hurt her, and told her that I tried to protect her the best way I knew ..."

The Marvin Gaye aside is 11 pages later.



But somehow, I can't stop reading it. The power of the pregnancy narrative, I suspect. But I kind of want to see what stunner she comes up with next.

Could this make me love my hometown?

I don't love my hometown.

I didn't love my original hometown, the one I grew up in, but now in my late adulthood I have begun to see that it had, and continues to have, many loveable qualities. It's the sort of town one could love.

The town I have lived in for 16 years, I do not love. It's considered a small town (though it dwarfs the one I grew up in) and though it's perched in the suburbs between Baltimore and Washington, it's a real town, with history and character and problems.

There are some things about it I love. I'm quite fond of our library. I like our main street, which never fails to make me think of Richard Scarry's Busy Town. I like the fact that you can know merchants; I like the fact that my kid always hugs the owner of the Indian restaurant, that the people at the Korean buffet make him little treats. I like that I know people who work at other churches, and we can occasionally 'talk shop' in the bagel line. People here are very kind to us.

But - maybe because of geography, or perhaps bad (dated) planning, it lacks a central focus, a walkable 'third place' for meeting and living in public. And, maybe as a result, I don't feel the same sort of 'sense of place' that I feel in places I really love, like Fells Point in Baltimore or Philadelphia's Queen City.

We have cheap ethnic restaurants, a farmer's market, a little theatre or two, writers groups, even a yarn shop for heaven's sake. I sure would like it if we had a Trader Joes, but that's not it....For some reason I can't put my finger on, this town just doesn't 'come to life' for me.

Maybe it's me, or us. I suspect that I'm wishing it were something it's not - either urban/funky or upscale/yuppie - instead of appreciating it for what it is and really digging in. Really - how would I know if the houses around me were full of hilarious bloggers, jazz musicians, world travelers, beat poets? I haven't really tried to find out.

Anyway, tonight I saw this gorgeous site, linked by Jen. (And, just as an aside, if Jen lived in your neighborhood, you'd be set for life, a full schedule of little adventures and porch parties and philosophical conversations during coaster bike rides to the art supply store. I know this because I actually know Jen in person. You should too.)

Anyway, the photographer of this beautiful site, Kathleen Connelly, describes it this way:

On January 3, 2003, I began this photoblog to visually document the residents, visitors, plants, animals, architecture, landscapes and farm life of Durham Township, Bucks County, Pennsylvania (where I live), and nearby areas in Pennsylvania and New Jersey. Unless noted, all photos are taken within a ten-mile radius of my home.

Now, I love a photo safari - so much that I still occasionally take one, with toddler in tow. I'm forever nipping out to Baltimore, to SOMEPLACE INTERESTING, to take pictures. (and I've been to Bucks County, and it is noted for it's natural beauty and historic archetechure. And I bet they have a Trader Joe's.)

Still, I wonder - would looking through my camera make my town look better? More interesting?

Astonishing

Occasionally I complain about the books that Ian enjoys. We have a copy of Walt Disney's Jungle Book (because Rudyard Kipling's remains would spontaneously combust if anyone thought this was the real Jungle Book) which I have hidden under the bed, because Ian would see it on the pile and request it, and I could not stand to read it even once, let alone 3 or 4 times in a row. It lacks the literary qualities of a Go Dog Go.

But THIS! exceptional item makes my head spin.

Via the brilliant Whoppee.

Smarter than a 12th Grader

This list of 100 words that high school graduates should be able to define...scared me to death when I first saw it linked on the excellent Addison Road.

But a deeper look, at a more relaxed time, and I was able to scrounge up a vague idea of the meaning of everything except 'moeity'.

Speaking of dictionaries, what's a good slang dictionary? The other day, I used the phrase 'that'll cut no soap with me, young man' (meaning that Ian's whining would win him no sympathy) and I wondered where on earth that had come from.

A great many of the turns of phrase that come out of me were common in the 1920s and '30s, because I am a time traveler. That's also why I know all those old songs. Oh, you may THINK it's because my dad was born in 1914, and my mom in 1924, but I'm sticking with the time travel story.

The deed is done

The tale is posted at my baby blog. Some photos - not of the event itself, which was FAR too upsetting to be photographed - the only thing more shocking would have been an audio recording - anyway, some photos of the ambiance at the barber shop are at my Flickr account.

I cannot imagine finding a more satisfyingly old-fashioned barbershop anywhere.



Still sadly lacking in issues of Argosy or Soldier of Fortune, though.

exceptional

JUSTICE - D.A.N.C.E.
Uploaded by edbangerrecords

via bob, who else?

Linked on Parent Dish (the former Blogging Baby) under the headline "Toddlers as Contraceptive Tool."




It's working for us.

Friday nights at our place

Whoopee: Bedtime, again

Whoopee is brilliant.

Random

1. Hello Kitty Bento. from here via sweetney, of course.

2. I certainly would like to go to this. Even more so, since I went to the site to copy that URL and saw that Cheap Trick and the Beastie Boys were on the same day as the Police, Ben Harper and Fountains of Wayne.

Am I the sort of person who camps out to spend $100 on a concert ticket for an all-day-and-night show to which I would be going alone? I have a couple more hours to figure out the answer to that question...but I have a sneaking suspicion I know the answer, at least for this year.

3. I listen to the Beastie Boys on the stationary bike 3 times a week. Yes, your faithful coorespondant has been working out faithfully - cardio and lifting - 3 mornings a week since February. I feel strong, I feel accomplished, and, of course, I feel conflicted. Because I'M NOT DOING THIS TO LOSE WEIGHT. Because I LOVE MYSELF and OCCUPYING LESS SPACE IN THE WORLD IS NOT MY GOAL. And ALL WOMEN ARE BEAUTIFUL. And I REFUSE TO SUBMIT TO THE DIET-INDUSTRIAL COMPLEX which makes MILLIONS on women's SOCIETALLY SANCTIONED SELF-HATRED. And exercise has many benefits to health and longevity not reflected on the scale.

But come on. One lousy pound? In 3 months?
Christ.

4. Work is very good. Parenthood is pretty good. I am going through a rather good patch with both, having a respite from the 'coping requires 110% of my energy' period earlier this year. Thank God.


5. It appears I have somehow grown a large mop of purple hair.

Well, that's silly. I know how it grew there (by me not cutting it since Christmas or so). (I also know how it got to be purple.) Still, when you're used to having hair that can be measured in fractions, having hair that you have to push out of your eyes, hair that brushes your collar, hair that can be MESSY...it's pretty strange.

A couple of months ago, I had decided, under the influence of one-too-many episode of What Not To Wear, that I would take a bold step and pay a professional person to give me a haircut. A woman's haircut. (I've been clipper-cutting my own hair for about 10 years.) This led me to consider what this professional person would have to work with (not much) which led me to let it grow for a while. In June, I said. In June, I will have my hair cut.

We're almost there.

Here's the thing - I'm not sure quite how to go about this. There's a lot riding on this haircut (WHY? If I hate it, I can just go home a shear it off, and look as I look every summer, and also cut about 8 minutes of product application and blow-drying off my gym routine.) and I want a nice one, a great one, a fabulous one. I want to look modern and cool, a little avant garde, but also be low maintenance. (Hmmm.) Clearly, I need an artiste, but in a low-to-medium price range. How do I shop for a haircutter?

6. Young master Ian also needs a haircut. His has been growing since...his conception. It's about as long as mine, actually.

For his first cut, I envision a barber shop like the one my dad and brother went to - the big chair with the booster, the cotton cape, the fat guy brushing his the little hairs off his shoulders with a little soft broom, the stack of Field and Streams and Argosys.

I don't imagine anyone will have a small black-and-white TV with a wire coathanger sticking out the top, playing westerns or a Yankees game. And I don't think there's Argosy anymore.(Wikipedia confirms that Argosy was last published when I was in high school.)

Anyway, how do I find that barbershop?

i don't want these...

but I'm digging the picture. They're here via Manolo.

He's bored with what he likes but scared to try anything new.

Good Lord.

That's a quote from Alice (yes, like she's my close personal friend Alice from down the street. She's not; she's the author of Finslippy, a blog I admire very much, whom I assume I will never meet in person or even exchange email with.)

So it's Alice, writing about her kid Henry and his relationship to food. (This week, he will only eat orzo. Please, Lord, let THAT particular cup pass us by.)

But orzo is not my point, though I am sympathetic. My point is that she has, in one matter-of-fact sentence, summed up my life. Maybe 'Life'. Sorry if that sounds melodramatic, but there it is.

Seriously! Don't you feel that way? At least intermittantly?

I haven't even finished reading her post - that phrase struck me so hard that I had to hop over hear and note it.

It's a good question.

via the great Manolo.

Look at this!

http://bighugelabs.com/flickr/onblack.php?id=214424928&size=Large

This is just a little thumbnail - click on it to go to the full-sized image on Flickr. It's an edit of 6 photos by Stephane Boisson.

It has to be asked whether 2000 years of religious photoshopping have remodelled Jesus almost out of recognition. We've added some tints (sure, he didn't speak about homosexuality, but if he had, we know what he would have said), a blurred edge (he didn't really mean we have to sell all we have for the poor), and made him as transparent as possible (put him there in the background, but not so obvious that we actually have to look at him). The trouble is, someone forgot to hit "save" right at the beginning, and we've got little hope of undoing the layers to get back to the original.

Cheryl Lawrie in the Austrailian newspaper The Age.

I just discovered Hold::This Space, a blog of an alternative worship project; via jonny baker.

Linkage,,,

These no-effort-at-all-on-my-part links posts would be a waste
EXCEPT THIS ONE which is freakin' hilarious. (Bad language alert, in case that bugs you.)

The linked post makes fun of Peyton Manning, kind of incidentally, which works for me as I am still mad at the Colts.

I believe I am the last holdout, the very REMNANT of Mad At The Colts. Even Gary thinks I should let it go. Even Phil.

Traitors.

THIS is funny.

Like, I'm afraid to take a sip of tea if I'm even sitting near the computer, just in case my eye happens to fall on the screen and I accidentally read something that makes me snarf hot Ginger Peach out my nose.

Again.

Happy Easter, everybody!



from the Daily Bunny. (Whatever will they think of next?)

Wednesday at 9:27pm

American Idol can bite me.

Again.

Great moment in old-school comics from YesButNoButYes

Yeah, I'm sure it's ripped off from Superdickery.com, as many people point out in the comments.
Yes, I disapprove of plagerism.
But if you go to this Superdickery site, you will INSTANTLY GO BLIND from the bad design and the hundreds of vile pop-ups. Which takes forever to load, which is annoying but also kind of a favor. Believe me, it is a far, far better place I'm sending you.

to add to my geekitude, i will mention that the cgi on Dresden tonight is way lame. It's usually good.

it's the most completely revolting time of the year

If you’re a snake looking for someplace with sheltered stony crevices, a ready supply of insects and occasional running water, our cellar comes up as the first result on Snoogle.

Someone else's snake story.

My snake story from last spring.

There's not enough free iced coffee or wild black cherry italian ice in the world to make me feel okay about this aspect of the season.

Last week, in yet another show about dieting, I heard Oprah say that she had wasted a large part of her 30’s worrying about food and weight. I’m thirty-seven. Only three years to go before I am undoubtedly, irrevocably ‘grown up.’ Will I still be carrying the neuroses of a thirteen year old? Will I still automatically convert calories into sit ups? Will I still waste precious minutes feeling guilty? Will my body remain my enemy?

I am so tired of being stuck in Jr. High.

Read the rest. at Rachelle's Magpie Girl.

from nothing to everything in no time at all

“Imaginary evil is romantic and varied; real evil is gloomy, monotonous, barren, boring.
Imaginary good is boring; real good is always new, marvelous, intoxicating.”
- Simone Weil

from here
via here.

post title from thisshockingly terrible film, which we're watching right now - and really, how bad does a James Bond film have to be to shock me?

dogs in elk.

been on this train too long

I'm watching the rock and roll hall of fame inductions on VH1, and I am ashamed to admit this - I was the world's most fervent REM fan for about 20 years, since Rob Davenport made me that mix tape back when we both worked at the girl's camp in 1984.

I'm not ashamed to admit THAT.

I am a little ashamed to admit that I kind of forgot.

I'm sitting here watching the mini-retrospective that played as Eddie Vedder was talking, and I'm thinking "God! I love that album! ...God!! That song's great! Jeez! I haven't listened to that in...years!"

How could I go more than two years without listening to 'World Leader Pretend'? or 'The Wrong Child'? How is that possible?


by the way - wanna see some really great pictures? These are some fucking great pictures.

This is great -

Interview with Moby at Sojourners. I'm listening to this right now, and I'm really enjoying it.

Something pretty

http://www.jenstark.com/work.html

via moleskinerie

# That's it! You people have stood in my way long enough. I'm going to clown college

50 great Homer quotes:

http://www.2spare.com/item_61333.aspx

via Bob.

(Though they did miss one of my favorites:
While listening to Prairie Home Companion:
"Stupid radio! Be more funny!"

We are feeling somewhat better today, thank God.