In Which Uncle Damon, SLB, and I Throw Fists Like John Bender

Livy had a rough day today and an especially difficult evening.  She's sick and running a low-grade fever that just serves to damper any fun she can work up the energy to seek.  Her nap was ruined by a sweaty, febrile nightmare.  She accidentally misjudged her depth when eating a carrot at dinner and bit her finger, which was so painful and upsetting that it caused her to throw up her last bite.  Dinner ended with her curled up under a blanket on the couch, weeping and clutching an ice pack to her finger and a lovey to her chest.

It was tragic.  My heart ached for her sick, sad, tired sorrow, and I figured we were headed to an early bedtime.  It's hard to come back after a few hours that challenging when you're 3 1/2 and sick, and I wouldn't have begrudged her an evening of limp snuggles on the couch.

Then, weakly and sadly, she asked if she could sit on my lap and watch a video on the computer.  I said yes, cuddled her close, brought up YouTube, and asked her what she wanted to watch.  I thought it might be The Sweptaways' "Oh My Darlin' Clementine," or maybe Mike Doughty's "Madeline and Nine," but she shocked  and delighted me with her completely badass request.

Can you even begin to guess what she asked for, friends, after months of not watching it?  Do you know which video called out to her from the wide breadth of her media consumption?  Do you know what she said that made me laugh out loud with surprised delight and pride?  DO YOU KNOW WHAT SHE SAID?

"Rocky."  She said "Rocky," and I fell in love anew with my resilient little warrior beast child.  So we snuggled, and I stroked her hair while we were reborn with Rocky's every triumphant step.

Good on ya, Rock.  Good on ya, Liv.  Gonna fly, indeed.

There's Something I Haven't Told You

Look at how big Livy's gotten!  And, uh, someone else, too!

No, I didn't eat too many doughnuts.  Or, rather, the too many doughnuts I ate didn't cause that bloat.  THIS little lady did!

Don't bug me; I'm busy sleeping and growing hair.

That there is Miss Madeline (rhymes with "nine") Mae, and she is 4 weeks old today.  In that picture she was 1 day old.  She is even bigger and hairier and cuter now.  She does things like smile at us in her sleep and fart like a dyspeptic longshoreman all day long.  We love her a lot and are going to keep her forever and snuggle her and pet her and OH MY GOD, SHE'S SO CUTE SHE MAKES ME TALK LIKE LENNIE FROM OF MICE AND MEN!

Wonder Women!

Luckily, we have an in-house (housemade?) superhero to protect "Baby Sister" from Mama's overzealous snuggles.  Livy loves "[her] baby," and we've yet to see any kind of rivalry or jealousy from her.  I may have just jinxed it, but the love has held for 4 weeks so far.  The jinxy statute of limitations must be up after 4 weeks, yes?

So, to reintroduce myself to blogging and to blog readers, I offer both a postpartum mix tape and a personal cri de coeur.

1.  For you nursing ladies in the crowd, let this inspire you to great lactational heights:

Latch on:  Kool & The Gang's "Get Down On It."

In flagrante delicto:  Nirvana's "Drain You."

Digestif:  PJ Harvey's "Dry."

2.  Mr. Weaver, please forgive me for exploiting another tiny person for my own entertainment and pleasure.  I am a limited woman who needs a hobby, and this is better than making God's eyes out of popsicle sticks and nasty acrylic yarn and then mailing them to you in bulk.  What my children lose in privacy, you gain in not having to haul my handiwork to the dump, and now you have to be on my side.  Sucka.

The Goose Is Getting Fat!

Now that Livy is a fully sentient being with the capability of understanding and remembering holiday traditions, I'm trying to be purposeful in determining how we celebrate.  Halloween was a huge deal this year, with 2 parties here, 1 at a friend's house, and trick-or-treating with school, friends, and Daddy & Mommy.  Livy loved all the excitement, and, because Halloween is my favorite holiday, so did I.  It was a great month of spooky fun, and I'm sad to see it go.

So, to replace it, I'm starting to plan our Christmas holidays.  I'm usually a grinchy Christmas grump, but if I'm ever going to be Mother of the Year, that's got to change.  In spite of my grumpiness I've always wanted to do an Advent calendar, not because I believe in Advent, but just for the opportunity to amp up Christmas anticipation.  Because candy makes Livy a crazy beast, though, a traditional Advent calendar is out of the question.  Instead, I'm stealing this fine blog's idea instead and doing a Christmas/Winter/Holiday book Advent calendar.  Because Livy's school (Owned and run by her Oma - see how awesome that is?) participates in Scholastic book orders, I just put in a mammoth order for 24 holiday books to wrap and clothespin to some red yarn strung garland-style in our living room.  Each day after breakfast we'll open a new book, read it together, and add it to our growing stockpile of Christmas goodness.  The final book will be "'Twas the Night Before Christmas," of course, because it's that kind of attention to detail that makes you a wonderful parent in the eyes of blog readers everywhere.

I'm also going to steal Mrs. Miller's fine family tradition of watching Christmas movies together and watch at least one ever weekend in December with SLB and, depending on her attention span, Olivia.  I already love Elf, National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation, It's a Wonderful Life, White Christmas, A Christmas Story, and Love, Actually, so that's a great start.  And it just wouldn't be Christmas without rereading Mrs. Miller's treatise on whether or not Die Hard is a Christmas classic, which might actually rival "'Twas the Night Before Christmas" for holiday reverence in this household.  Alan Rickman, apparently, is the reason for the Christmas cinematic season.  Who knew?

That's our preemptive strike against grinchiness, people.  What are your holiday plans?  Do you have any fine suggestions I can add to those above?  I think we can all agree that I need all the help I can get.

RELEASE THE KRAKEN!

Did you know that the Giant Pacific Octopus has 8 arms to hold you and 3 hearts to love you?  That explains why this specimen that's been running around our house since our Halloween party last weekend is so snuggly.

Hipster Halloween Ideas

Step 1:  Dress up as Jacqueline Kennedy.  Be iconic, otherwise no one will get it, and you need them to get it for the rest of the costume to work.

Yes, this costume is widely available.  Because you know what's festive?  Having your husband murdered in your lap and then having that image of the worst moment of your life become an international icon.  I know I have no room to talk, but I will anyway.  My talk is like Jell-o; there's always room for it.

Step 2:  Sew or glue a bunch of these to your pink suit and pillbox hat.

Honey badger don't give a shit: The "That's what she said" of 2011.

Step 3:  Glory in your costume interpretation of New Pornographers' "Jackie, Dressed in Cobras."

EXTRA HIPSTER BONUS POINT 1!:

Dress up as Jackee Harry instead.

"Oooooooh Mary!"

EXTRA HIPSTER BONUS POINT 2!:  Cover yourself instead with G.I. Joe Cobra logos.

Knowing all of these references is half the battle.

House Rules

It's been safely established that, in addition to being a gorgeous genius with a rapier wit, I am also an idiot when it comes to common sense.  But I'm excellent at respecting established rules and guidelines and have been since I was a kid when I worried constantly about breaking the law (Instead of repeating "Why?" like a normal child would, I would repeatedly ask "Is that illegal?  Is that illegal?").  Thus to protect me from myself, we have house rules that I obey religiously.  Such rules include:

1.  NO MORE THAN TWO SERVINGS OF STONE FRUIT A DAY DURING STONE FRUIT SEASON.

DANGER!  DANGER!  OH, GOD, DANGER!

This rule used to simply read "No more than 10 cherries a day" until the great Nectarine Incident of 2010, when it was broadened to the above.  Now one medium peach, nectarine, or plum, or 10 cherries count as a serving.  We are all happier about my adherence to this guideline.  And by "we all," I mean the whole world.

2.  JUST BECAUSE THE SHINING IS ON DOESN'T MEAN YOU HAVE TO WATCH IT.

Although I love a menaced Shelly Duvall second only to a menaced Gwyneth Paltrow.  It's not misogyny; it's just good sense.

I used to be a film student which, unexpectedly, sometimes makes me feel brave.  It convinces me that I can watch scary movies because of my advanced intellect and appreciation for the cinematic form.  It's not a horror movie, see?  It's Kubrick.  And even if it is a horror movie - excuse me, horror film - I've studied the structure, conventions, and cultural history of the genre and am impervious to the fear it expects to inspire because of these academic endeavors - excuse me, endeavours.  The only problem with this rationale is that it's all a huge stinking lie and I'm a huge stinking weenie - excuse me, weenie.  And the problem with The Shining in particular, aside from how much I love the movie in spite of its spookiness, is that cable programmers delight in torturing me and always seem to run it when SLB is either 1) out of town, or 2) working late every night because he is so Mighty and Important.  So, time and time again I find myself watching those damned ghost girls who want to play with me forever and ever and ever, and time and time again I do not sleep all night because of them.  So, technically I am allowed to watch The Shining, but not after dark or when I'll have to go to bed alone.  Even then it's not such a good idea.  Just writing about it now I had to pause and 1) turn on the lights on the whole first floor of the house, and 2) move so that my chair was against a wall instead of backed toward the whole, open, ghost-ridden living room.  No joke.

3.  NO WATCHING THE "REDEMPTION SONG" TRIBUTE TO JOE STRUMMER* WHILE INTOXICATED.

Because the only thing more embarrassing than watching this and weeping about not being able to see Joe Strummer in this life in front of our closest friends at our going-away-from-NYC party is having subsequently wept about not being able to see Joe Strummer in this life in front of my husband.  Or by myself.  Again and again and again.  Tipsy Christina is drawn to this video like most tipsy people are drawn to contacting their exes.  I know I shouldn't, and I know it'll just make me cry, but WHY DIDN'T HE STAY?  WHY CAN'T I SEE HIM ONE LAST [or first] TIME?  Tragic.  Just tragic.

And, finally, thanks to last weekend's sleepless debacle, we have a new house rule:

4.  NO WATCHING "CELEBRITY GHOST STORIES" ON TV "JUST TO MAKE FUN OF IT."

Because, even though Sharon Angela's rambling and nasally tale of a ghost that held her pinned to a metaphysical shop floor for 5-10 minutes in order to save her from being murdered in central park is hilariously told, it took an additional hour of reading first person accounts of the Great Depression in bed in order to cleanse my palate enough to turn out the light.  And you know it's bad when the destitution and starvation of a nation is considered the "light" bedtime story alternative.

The house rules:  Learn them.  Live them.  Pity my weakness that requires them.

*Seriously?  "Embed removed due to request" AND the video is preceded by a commercial?  That's almost as bad as the "London Calling" Jaguar commercial that used to make me yell, sweat, and lose minor bladder control.  Very minor.

We Took The Long Way

Last Tuesday was SLB's and my 8th wedding anniversary.  He surprised me with tickets to tonight's Rhett Miller show at the Triple Door, where we were certain to hear our wedding song, "Question."  You know, just like you're certain to hear it now.



Happy belated anniversary, SLB.  I'd say O.K. all over again every day, all the time, forever.

Convergence of Greatness

I love Jason Reid (who does not love me back, but that's probably because of what I did to the roof of his car).

I love Blue Scholars (who do not love me back, but that's just because they haven't met me yet).

I used to love the Sonics (who do not love me back, but that's because they're in Oklahoma).  It's a little-known fact about me that I once was unwholesomely obsessed with the 1996-1997 Seattle SuperSonics, to the extent that I 1) saw my grades drop that year during basketball season and, 2) insanely attended the midnight homecoming of the team after they won the Pacific Division title with a long-time boyfriend I had broken up with over the phone only hours earlier.  That's right.  That level of discomfort was worth it to get a ride to Boeing Field to see my Sonics come home.  I had to quit watching basketball cold-turkey at the end of that season so that I could have my life back.  I've never returned to basketball fanaticism, and I'm grateful for that.

So, here's what's making me happy this sunny autumn morning:  A convergence of Jason Reid, the Blue Scholars, and the Sonics.  Enjoy!

Don't Tell CPS

Livy likes to play Peek-a-boo a lot.  She's 2, so that's about the extent of her tolerance of anticipation and excitement.  It's thrilling - THRILLING! - every time I act surprised and say "peek-a-boo!," which at this point is about 8,487,999 times a day.  Naturally, my thoughts turn to Siouxsie and the Banshees after about the 8,487,899th repetition, and so she hears me sing the chorus of "Peek-a-Boo" 100 times a day.  It was only a matter of time before she started belting it back to me, which was cute until about 10 minutes ago when, on a lark, I decided to remind myself of what the other lyrics of the song are.

Not good, people.  Not good.



We are now in the market for a new Peek-a-boo song.  Please let me know what else is out there before I get an ominous knock on the door.

Operation Awesomepants: Inception

It's September!  Hurrah!  AYOOOOGAH!

Prior to Livy's birth, for me this time of year meant optimistic planning and detailed forethought of how I was going to improve the minds and lives of occasionally deserving young people.  Since I left my job for an extended maternity leave and subsequently was laid off, back-to-school time has been difficult around these parts.  I miss teaching less bitterly now that I've made my peace with staying home and the climate for teachers has become increasingly desperate and hostile, and I know that I'm lucky to be able to stay home with our daughter and still live a comfortable and fulfilling life.  I do intend to jump back into the classroom when Olivia's older (shoot, I still write curriculum for fun), but for now September has to mean something else.  And so I've taken my teacherly planning skills and pointed them in the direction of improving the mind and life of one occasionally deserving decreasingly-young person.

Oh, yeah.  It's ME, bitches.

Either you saw it coming, or you should have.

This summer, in addition to gobbling up dystopian young adult literature and horny vampire novels like they were Raisinets, I read Gretchen Rubin's The Happiness Project twice.  I'd followed her blog of the same name for a while when I was pregnant and teaching and then forgot all about it when I was a harried parent of a newborn.  I rediscovered the blog last year as the book shot to the top of the New York Times bestseller list.  The blog was born of the book's subject - a year of Rubin's life during which she exhaustively researched theories and practices of happiness and applied them to her own life.  The book is right up my alley: an intelligent and well-researched self-help book minus the New Age business that I'm simultaneously attracted to and repelled by (It's complicated, and it drives SLB nuts.  Go on!  Ask him about the secret caches of tarot cards and woo-woo books he pretends not to find among our intellectually prestigious artifacts!).  The Happiness Project is a smart book about personal development that's filled with hard analytical, rather than dreamily spiritual, wisdom.  It was a great read both times.

In emulation of this book and blog, and in recognition of my autumnal urge to embark on a new project, I give you my own project.  Gretchen Rubin, an accomplished woman with dignity to spare (she clerked for Sandra Day O'Connor, for goodness sake), calls hers The Happiness Project.  I, an accomplished woman with no dignity left to lose nor much inclination to develop much, call mine

OPERATION AWESOMEPANTS

That's right.  Go on, bask in it.  It's glorious, no?  The name alone is miraculous.  People talk about putting their big girl or big boy pants to do hard work.  But why would you limit yourself to size and gender when you could just put on your awesomepants?  Am I right?  Of course.  Of course I am.

Rubin broke her happiness project down into monthly themes with corresponding resolutions, and she measured her daily successes of such resolutions (Ben Franklin style!) on a chart.  If it's good enough for her, it's probably way too good for me.  Because old habits die hard and I love buying new school supplies, I created teacher-infused version of her computerized chart.

That's Lee Canter's Record Book Plus.  Plus what, you ask?  Plus MeShow!

Now plus detail shot!

Stop squinting or you'll get crows' feet.  I'll tell you what this says in a minute.  This month's theme is energy, again a copy of Rubin's first month's theme, but a smart one.  Undertaking a project of this size requires stamina, and stamina is born of energy.  So it makes sense to harness and amplify the fuel of the project as the project's first step. 

This month's resolutions, intended to boost, save, and make the best use of energy are:

1.  Go to sleep earlier.

2.  Use energy honestly.

3.  Exercise better.

4.  Plug leaks.

5.  Make the effort.

Cryptic, no?  I'll have more to write about this tomorrow, and I promise to explain the details and context of each resolution.  Until then I hope you'll make the effort to come up with enough jokes about my plugging leaks to choke a horse.  Because, you know, I freaking HATE horses.

Oh, calm yourself.  It was a joke, you stupidly literal horse.

Bizarre Love Triangle

A snippet of today's conversation.

Mama:  (softly, adoringly at her cherubic only child)  Livy, I love you so much.

Livy:  (shrieking, with a glint of cruel ardor in her eyes)  I LOVE BROBEE!!!!!



And, with friends and skillz like these can you blame her?  Sigh.  First runner-up is first loser, Mama.

(p.s. - Remember the time I lived with 2 girls in college who listened to this every damn day? 

I didn't until today, and now I'm confident that this song will be as stuck in my head as Angie Hart's haircut is stuck on it.)

My Daughter Is A Genius

(And I wear a sweatshirt that says "Brooklyn" on it a lot).



Unfornately, her mother is an idiot.



The St. Patrick's Day shirt and her learning how to say "drinking!" is a lucky coincidence, I swear.

Ironic, in an Alanis Morisette Kind of Way

So, I was just introduced to this video after mailing all of my maternity clothes to Carolina in Alabama.



Um, Carolina?  I'm going to need those clothes back, and if anyone knows where I can find some black market Clomid I'd really apprecite that information.

Buddies!

As we've been slowly shifting the chaos of our new home into order and comfort we've been escaping the pressure of the mess by spending time with our buddies.  Last week we had a big adventure at the Pacific Science Center with some friends from our newborn PEPS group.  We met up with Sandy and Gavyn (Hayndy and Gammin) and Katie and Liam (Tatie and Umum), our old buddies (BUDDIES!) from when the kids were about 2 months old. 

Halloween 2009: Gavyn is the cranky cow, Liam the wise bear, and Livy the chunky one-footed headless monkey (along with Willa the grouchy ladybug and Clara the gleeful pumpkin).

Liam and Livy yuk it up.

Livy and Gavyn holding baby hands.

It's been wonderful watching our kids grow up together and watching each other grow up with our kids.  It's almost impossible to believe that they were once little lumps of babyness now that they're all full-fledged toddlers.  When I first had Livy I'd inwardly roll my eyes when more experienced mothers talked wistfully about their children's infancy being gone in a flash.  Now I'm on the other side of that equation and, sigh, where did our babies go?

Apparently they've gone to the big water table at the Science Center,

Livy was soaked.  Gavyn was EXTRA soaked.  Liam miraculously ended the day dry.

off to control the water-squirty thingie with the serious intensity it deserves and requires,

With great power comes great responsibility.

and into a big, fake helicopter to push buttons with even more focus and intensity.

Pilot Liam and copilot Livy readying their craft for takeoff.  Phantom Mama playing paparazzo.

3 heads are clearly better than 1: Gavyn joins the flight crew and Phantom Sandy joins the photo corps.

Serious business.

They're such good lifelong friends that even this crime of passion was eventually forgiven.  Remember, you always hurt [most] the ones you love [most].

Only one child was harmed in the making of this film.

Katie later told me that Liam woke up during the night after this accident crying "Neenee!  Vivy!  Owie!," but that didn't stop him from loving us again this week when we 6 met up at the zoo for more good times.  Because that's how it is with friends who've become family - you can hurt each other, then laugh together, and sometimes fly helicopters together and love each other through it all.

Approaching Settledness

Hi, friends!  Long time no write to!  We're settling in at the new house, but here's the last video I took at the old house.  I miss that bright little kitchen already.  Thank goodness we packed the bright little girl with us.  This isn't particularly riveting film, but stick around until the end when it gets unexpectedly hilarious.

Because One Can't Not Be Jean Seberg ALL the Time

I'm sidelined from packing with a dreadful headache, so while my Aleve-and-coffee cocktail kicks in, I'll say hello to you, darling readers.  You've been so brave to do without my ramblings - I know I couldn't go this long without reading my charming words - and you deserve a little notice even in the midst of our chaos.  So, hello there!  I notice you!  I notice you noticing me, which is the way I like it.  Notice on, lucky readers...

I got tired of not being Jean Seberg, so I just went balls to the wall and asked Jami to cut my hair dangerously short.  I may have used the term "lesbian chemotherapy short," but I don't rightly recall.

Hail Caesar!

I really like it, and it officially makes me the shortest-haired person in our family.  I don't know why I'm proud of that, but I am.  Also, it's strange even for someone who's had short hair for a while to look in the mirror, see something blatantly contrary to conventional beauty, and LOVE it.  It's not pretty by any standard definition, but it is rad, and I think I'll keep it super-short for the time being.

Dark circles be damned!  Look at how scrunchy-nosed happy this 'do makes me. 

But I know who you really come here to see, so here's a peek of the lady of the hour, Miss Olivia Lee.

Briefly resting between wiggles

The further she dives into restless toddlerhood, the harder it is to get a good picture of her.  She may not be walking yet, but, DAY-UMN, is that kid squirmy.  So don't be surprised if all you see are fuzzy pictures; they're the only kind I can take right now.

"The room, as part of the world, revolves around me."

She still isn't a walker, although nature and physical therapy will change that course soon, but she's a prolific talker.  Her latest surprising linguistic conquests: "attorney" and "tapenade," but "I love you" and her own name remain elusive.  She does slap her chest while yelling "ME!" and she announces all of her farts by seriously repeating "toot" afterward, so at least I've taught her the important things.

But her cutest new word is a mispronounced one, which is why it delights me so.  Let's kick it old-skool, shall we?

2/5, Holiday Edition

Remember that one time when I confessed that Jack Black and Jason Segel represent 2 of my 5 celebrity "gimmes"?  Did you also know that they made a cartoon of themselves singing one of my favorite Christmas carols, the David Bowie/Bing Crosby version of "Little Drummer Boy"?

Well, they did.



Merry Christmas to me!

In No Way Safe for Work, So Don't Be Stupid

I had forgotten how much pure, sweet pleasure this brings me.  Aaaaaahhhhh...



And this ends my recent spate of NWA references.  I promise to talk like the college-educated, privileged people that Ice Cube and I are.  And, Mr. Cube, to answer your question:  Yes, we are there yet.

Breathing Easier

I just hauled myself off of my sickbed (sickcouch, really), took a shower, put on deodorant, and dressed myself in nonpajama clothing.

Celebrate with me, won't you?

More Nicks Than Nicks

Oh, Regine Chassagne. 

Come hither?  Don't mind if I do!

Will you always wear sparkly, twirly dresses?  And will they always have matching fingerless gloves?  And will you always, always be mine?



Watch until the end when she outNickses the Nicks.  It takes my breath away.  If I'm not Tippi next year for Halloween I'm getting a curly wig and being Regine.  Shoot, I might just be Regine regardless of the day.  I think we'd all agree that it'd be an improvement, and maybe SLB will grow a foot and become Win Butler.  Win-win Win!