A Daily Dose of Zen Sarcasm!

Giddy-Uh

Many an idle hour is spent dreaming up possible blog posts in my mind.  I had a good Michael Jackson post up there, but then this one guy from the Wall Street Journal wrote this excellent, amazing piece about how Michael Jackson was a victim of  his own demons and his own ... uh... well, I recommend you read the piece.

So, you know, once you read a way-more-eloquent version of something you were thinking about doing, it's like moot becomes the word of the day.

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I also thought about doing this one angry entry about something angry.  The problem with dreaming up angry entries is that I am a total pussy and I can only be really angry and confrontational within the confines of my own mind or with people who will just look at me with a chilling, "Down, chihuahua" look and won't mind my pitiable bursts of anger (hi mom!).  So I end up getting all this pent up anger inside about trivialities, and then I end up feeling even worse about thinking such negative thoughts about, say, acrylic nails, or Nissan cars, or people who update their Facebook status too often, or people who put Redskins pyjamas on the neck bolsters of their cars.

And then I feel bad for feeling bad (because acrylic nails are horribly tacky! and they foster fungal infections! and they make your existing nails weaker and thinner, creating a cycle of dependence! and they are unnaturally thick! and they make an awful sound when they rattle against one another!), and so the cycle continues.

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In the end, however, I seem to be favoring writing about "uh" versus "er".

This will be a whirlwind of a discussion because I am not an expert linguist, but it seems to me that Americans should not use "er" in written language when they mean that they took a significantly long pause that indicated doubt or hesitation.  Or rather, only Americans who speak in non-rhotic accents should ever write in "er"-- I'm thinking a nasal Bostonian wondering, deep in his memoirs, whether he should reveal his penchant for not tossing the peanut shells on the floor at a Red Sox game, for instance.  He can go ahead and spell his hesitation as "er" and it will not make a whit of a difference.

Everyone else gets to write "uh".

I understand that there may be bias against "um" because it makes people sound kind of simple.  And so of course "er" being all Britishy-sophisticated --and doesn't everything sound (and apparently spell) better with a British accent?-- makes people feel dignified when they pause.  It wasn't an I'm-dumb pause; it was, rather, an All-the-choices-I-have! pause.  Everyone wants their pauses to be classy and not Valley-girl-ish, I understand.

But hey, you're doubtful and you're not sure or you're pausing long enough for a reason, and let's face it: you're not going to be pronouncing that letter R in there so you shouldn't put it in there when you're writing. Do you really have time to think about your image at that crucial uncertain time?  Are you trying to rewrite history to make yourself a more genteel, less brutish and less "uh..." kind of person?

Uh... I don't think so.

Maternal Evolution

Face-off, originally uploaded by Madame Meow.

This little cute chunky monkey face, a.k.a. Don Meow, likes to keep me up nights.

Oh sleep, how I miss thee.

He also likes to pinch and chomp on limbs; he likes to make cute random talky noises and the most darling high-pitched squeals for no reason; he enjoys being talked to, especially in Spanish; he does not particularly enjoy smiling for pictures; and he positively adores covering the world with his drool so much that his brother, Herr Meow, has decided to start calling him "The Slug."

(Proud Mama notes: Srsly? He came up with a nickname all on his own! A correctly applied nickname!)

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When people tell you that every baby is different and that you simply cannot and must not compare, they are usually trying to soothe ruffled tempers because someone's kid is going through a milestone faster than another's, or because someone's kid is filling out (and in) their diaper much better than another's child.

It's only when you become the parent of more than one child that you get to realize that, indeed, comparisons are pointless. Or at least comparisons amongst your offspring are pointless and potentially hurtful.

Don't get me wrong: the comparison monster likes to rear its ugly head all the time. Did Herr Meow get to be as chunky? Is Don Meow more drooly? Was the first-born more camera-friendly? Is the second-born blessed with more expressive eyebrows?

Who communicated better? Who will be taller? Who is the better eater? Who slept less or more or better or longer or more often?

And yet, for all the inner monologue that sometimes keeps me up and plagues me and makes me wonder if the Good Mothers of the World ever do this, when I actually focus on the children and stop questioning for a few seconds, I find that I can just let go and enjoy.

I can enjoy the soft, chubby, ripply deliciousness that the little baby basks in with his whole self. And I can do so while I also enjoy the lean, low-body-fat, creamy, austere landscape that barely holds babylike features within my little preschooler hellion.

I can nuzzle into the buttery chin and sniff Don Meow's milky babyness, while also snuggling against Herr Meow's lanky, mini-dynamo frame.

And I can laugh at Herr Meow's budding sense of humor and comedic timing, such as when he, embarrassingly correctly, admonished one of his little friends to "stop being such a douchebag" (reason #8375 why I would be going to Hell, if such a place existed); while I also laugh at Don Meow, who blew the tiniest of raspberries today and then cracked up at his own sound (fart sounds NEVER get old).

And I can marvel that these two children were once an actual part of my body, while now they are a part of my very existence and a very real pain in my behind (or "butt-hoooooole" as Herr Meow might gleefully declare-- this being reason #8376, by the way).

And really, when you're talking about something being a part of yourself, how can you compare? I mean, objectively i suppose you can compare your spleen to your eye, but it's all a part of the same whole. And so it is with children.

If only I could get them to sleep when I sleep, we'd really be in business.

Two Hundred and Thirty-Three

AC, originally uploaded by Madame Meow.

Happy birthday, dear adoptive country. You are loved.

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Right now, as Monsieur Meow reads Herr Meow a little book about America's birthday ("Daddy, what is "tax"?), and the sirens wail throughout the city, rescuing the hapless and the possibly burned, and our local PBS affiliate gets cheesy with the background music while the sky lights up my screen periodically from all the fireworks displays around, I am happy.

Happy, because birthdays are happy (even mine, exactly two months away).

Happy, because if some fireworks are good, then MORE fireworks are just awesome.

Happy, because it was a lovely, cool, wonderful day today.

Happy, because I no longer have a raging headache.

Happy, because some gentlemen some time ago decided that stupid over-taxation from far away reeeeeeally sucked.

Happy, because this truly is the best country in the world, and there is no other place I would be as honored or happy to call my home.

I love you, United States of America, from California to the New York island.

And There Was Much Merriment, and Bread Pudding

Glorious Ceiling, originally uploaded by Madame Meow.

In case you're not familiar with DC's Eastern Market, it is a lovely little building tucked in the heart of the Capitol Hill neighborhood, an anchor of bricks holding down 7th street SE, C street SE and North Carolina Avenue SE.

It was built in 1873 and designed by Adolph Cluss --no doubt, a man who was so named because he was born in a time where the name was just another Scandinavian name, and no more.

The building, though much loved, had become dilapidated and dirty.  And in the early hours of April 30th, 2007, it burned down, leaving little left but a smoldering hull of bricks, glass and debris.

Our collective community hearts broke.  Here is something I wrote that morning.

The picture above was taken on June 26th, the day that Eastern Market rose like a salmon-colored phoenix from the ashes of that fire two years ago. Shortly after taking it, I paused to wipe my face and a fellow patron, equally moved but not nearly as embarrassingly so asked me, "Are you crying?"

"Tears of joy," I grinned.

I am so glad you're back, dear friend.

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Some friends go away and come back --sometimes even better than when they left us, as is the case with Eastern Market, which is now air-conditioned, basemented, sky-lighted, properly-toileted, and originally-salmon-pinked on the inside.

And sometimes friends go away forever.

Last week we lost several famous people -- Ed McMahon, Farrah Fawcett, Michael Jackson, and even OxiClean guru Billy Mays (I love OxiClean.  I will forever remember Billy Mays's rough, loud voice whenever I make my laundry cleaner and brighter). In a local accident last week, we also lost nine lives in a senseless and preventable collision on the Red line.

Although death is an intrinsic part of life, it always catches us by surprise. Frankly, the responses to Michael Jackson's death to me have been a little over the top as it is my honest opinion that the genius who dazzled and entertained back in the eighties and early nineties was dead and gone almost ten years ago, and had been replaced by a ghostlike, eccentric and truly pathetic man-child who didn't see anything wrong with wearing pajamas to court after arriving three hours late.   But it is still sad to see someone go at only 50 years of age, with so much wasted potential. 

In my heart and mind, however, the deaths that made me saddest were those of the ordinary citizens of this adopted city with which I fell in love --a couple of whom happened to be neighbors; not the kind of close neighbors who may pick up your mail for a day or two, but the kind of neighbors you see parking their car and coming and going-- the kind that you probably take for granted and may view as background, until the day you realize that a freak accident means you'll never see them driving down the street ever again or waving a warm hello at you as you unload your grocery shopping.

I don't like to think that those mourning could have been us, as Rev. Mom happened to also be using the Red Line that day.  When death is truly close --not just fanatic-close-- your emotions become selfish and self-preserving and complicated.  It's no longer wistful or just plain emotional; suddenly, there is the mind-racing and the feeling that life will never be the same.

That is the thing about death: it's not personal, and yet it is extremely personal.  And as a friend said, death is only sad to those left behind. 

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But the upside of death is that, along with the sadness, new life comes along. This is not always obvious when a person, a beloved, or a friend is the one who passes away. But in the case of a building, it can be easy to see what happens when we are able to turn the corner and find there is much to celebrate and much to be grateful for.

I am grateful that Eastern Market is back.  And I am glad that I knew our neighbors, even if faintly.  And I am glad that there were kind and brave people who were willing to help or, in the case of the very brave Metro operator who applied the emergency brake that failed, willing to stare death down doing what was right.

And so I mourn and celebrate this June of 2009, which will never again come, and I remember all the good that came of it.

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Celebrate with me: what were some notable things that happened to you this June?

You Mean, She's Like a Whole Lot of Cookies?

When I was a junior in high school, I was forced to attend participated in a spelling bee.  It was actually oddly fun to prepare for it and I didn't mind it very much, as I've always had a knack for spelling things correctly.  That and remembering birthdates seem to be my most salient Forrest-Gumpian characteristics.

I didn't make it very far in the spelling bee, however.  My first word was "pyjamas", or as Americans like to spell it, "P-A-J-A-M-A-S"

When I was through spelling it all British-like, I was told I was wrong and therefore disqualified.  I protested and was handed an enormous dictionary where, for the life of me, I could not find the alternate spelling.

After the bee was over, I finally found it, buried deep in the late Ps (obviously).  I tried to point it out but was summarily told that since I hadn't been able to find it within the first three minutes, that it was moot and I was still DQ'ed.

I was very, very angry.  I wish I'd been argumentative, nay, BITCHY enough to complain to a higher authority  regarding the invalidity of that bee, since the rules stated clearly that the bee could not use any words with alternate spellings.

How do you spell bitter, after all these years?  M-E.

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Spelling is lately much in my mind, since becoming a parent gives you plenty of spelling bee practice on a very regular basis.  It's also been on my mind because we  might be seeing the end of that child-proof spelling period, in which things that would make sailors blush get telegraphed out of my mouth with astonishing intensity, on account of Herr Meow getting really reeally good at spelling.

To wit, I have a favorite twelve-letter darling that rhymes with brothertrucker, for instance, that gets muttered with worrisome frequency.  Mmm... so satisfyingly vulgar.

Of course, spelling is fraught with mistakes.

Rev. Mom just child-proof spelled "bitch"-- too bad it came out B-I-C-T-H.  Wonder if that's some sort of early Indo-European tribe?

Which is funny because, well, it's funny, but also because some time ago Monsieur Meow also tried to spell "bitch" in a child-friendly manner and what came out was B-A-T-C-H.  We still use that regularly around here as a euphemism.

And just today, Herr Meow has started spelling the word "Dad" proudly and loudly.  Except that in one cruel twist of fate mixed in with Sesame Street-induced error, he's going around saying B-A-D DAD!

Monsieur Meow took offense.

Finally, I remember one of my earliest babysitting gigs and being urged, with a wink of delight and a complicit smile, to go ahead and get a treat out of the freezer if the kids were behaving well.

My beautiful, stylish, lovely boss smiled wide and whispered, "We've got S-H-E-R-B-E-R-T in the freezer!"

(I'm still hoping Robert and Hubert got away.)

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Spelling.  It's a batch.

Swimmingly, And Not So Much

The lifeguard warns us parents, "Some of your children may scream at first when coming into the water."

The orange-haired, tramp-stamped, flabby-bellied-whilst-in-a-bikini woman off to my left waves a fishbelly-white arm and points theatrically toward the sullen-looking baby she's holding with her other arm.

"THIS ONE HERE!  OH YEAH!  THIS ONE!  SHE'S GONNA SCREAM!"

You don't say.

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Swimming lessons are among those things that either you had --formally or informally, does not matter-- or you didn't as a child; but if you did, they marked you for life.  How can they not?  Even if they left a favorable impression, it was the first time for most of us that our parents willingly lead us to a place where we could die.

The chlorine smell and that particular pool smell, they all remind me of good times and vacations and summer, and of heartbreak and ear infections, but they also bring back vividly those first times I had to blindly trust and let go and attempt to float or hold my breath.  That salty sting in the eyes reminds me of trying to learn to do handstands and pretending to be a synchronized swimmer.

And getting an accidental gulp of pool water always brings that little bit of tinny dread to the forefront of my mind, like a lash of lightning to my conscious mind.

So now that Herr Meow is starting to take swimming lessons, I am keenly aware of my own misgivings and likes; and I realize that as much as we may project our own fears onto our children, some things are truly and universally scary for all, even if there is much enjoyment to be derived and an innate ability in some.

And so, when the young boy dressed in red and white reminds us all parents that being in a pool will be scary enough for some to scream out loud, I remember and I hold on to my kid as tightly as he wants me to, and then some.

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Herr Meow is a little scared of the water, but he is also excited.  He refuses to try to ride the floating board that the boy lifeguard offers him; however, when the pretty girl lifeguard offers, he gets over his fears and goes on ahead, telling me and whoever will listen afterward how fun it was and how he rode the board and how BRAVE he was.

Because he's a brave boy, right mommy?

Mommy nods.

As I hug my brave boy, I look at the shallow end of the kids' pool.  Orange-hair is there with her mother, both of them laughing uproariously as, right on cue, her child is wailing.

The swimming lesson started twenty minutes ago, and the child is still sobbing and screaming.  And her mother is dunking her periodically in the two-foot-deep water, happily dragging her child in and out of the pool.

The little girl flails her arms all around and keeps on shouting, reaching out to her grandmother who seems delighted to continue this torture and swirling her granddaughter's tense body in and out of the pool.

Both women have separated from the main swimming lesson and are taking turns dredging the unfortunate kid in the water.  As the forty-minute lesson wraps up and we leave the pool, I can still hear the screams.

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I'm not sure what else to say here, except that if in about forty years' time Orange-hair is wondering why her daughter won't trust in her and won't confide in her, or perhaps why she won't talk to her, I am willing to bet she won't remember that June day where she let her daughter scream for forty minutes straight and laughed in her face at her fear of drowning.

Randomata: The "Delight In Little Things" Edition

Recently in the Meowhold, we have had a very interesting experience related to how some people out there in InternetLand think that things are more private than they really are.

I don't want to give away too many details at this stage (though details will certainly follow, as schadenfreude is one of my favorite feelings, like, EVAR), but let's just say that I find it charming and amusing how human stupidity is one of those things that just keeps giving and giving.  And giving.

It's a sight to behold.

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I would like to point you to yet another Zen Sarcasm Reviews entry, and to ask for your participation (pretty please?).  Go here and see which things out of the ones listed you have done or would like to try out.  And if you're feeling extra generous, tell me something you like to do in summer.  I would love to try your suggestions out (within reason, of course).

Go forth and continue being devoured by mosquitoes!  Or alternately, devoured by frostbite-- unless you're in a place which is safe from the blight of either; in which case watch out for choking on popcorn, or something like that.

All Hail, The MissTache

There have been some very turmoil-y days in the Meowhold.

For one, we are finally the owners of some sweet solar panels upon our roof. We will be living a little more off the grid and this is immensely exciting, especially to Monsieur Meow.  For me, to be perfectly honest, the most exciting part is not to have the incredibly nice guys who installed the solar panels going up and down the stairs a million times a day. 

Priorities, I suppose.

Herr Meow has finished his first year of slightly more serious school, and this was exciting too.  He celebrated by deciding he needed to walk home to a local restaurant... on his own.  We found him almost three blocks away from home, with his pail and shovel, determined to make it to the Argonaut.  I don't think I've ever been more scared of the unknown in my life.

Don Meow is now working on sprouting teeth --he is a consummate drooler-- and he's mastered rolling from back to tummy over the past two weeks.  He is a chuckler, too-- just tickle him a little bit and watch as he does that little stuck-clutch laugh that is so endearing in babies.  He's also managed to almost roll off the bed a couple of times: I give him a month.

Mademoiselle Gracie is a fit feline.  She is exceptionally tartar-free and she could stand to lose a few ounces-- but I think most females always feel that way.  I wish I could lose some more of that post-baby chunk myself.

I find it hard to write these days.

I sometimes fire up Ye Olde Typepad and stare at the blank screen for ages, not even feeling the faintest stirring to commit anything to paper.  I have been reading more, and my life feels like it's lived so intensely that I can hardly remember it; and yet, the blog remains sadly mute.

And it's not for a lack of things to write, either. 

For instance, the other day I saw a woman with an it-would-make-Burt-Reynolds-envious mustache.  It took me a few seconds to realize what the fuzzy worm that decorated her upper lip like a festive Christmas garland would a mantelpiece really was, since she was otherwise well-dressed and made-up, you see.  She even had panty hose on in the sticky southern heat of a few days ago.

Maybe that is a nasty statement: why should a well-dressed woman --or any woman, for that matter-- forego the pleasures of having an accessory that for some reason (androgens, perhaps?) has been viewed as exclusively male?

So I started to think that perhaps discriminating on the basis of mustache should be the next crusade for women.  Why should we be denied, if The Powers that Be gave us the wherewithal, to grow and properly maintain thick, luxuriant mustaches?  It wouldn't have to be something that produces a visceral, knee-jerk disgust reaction, you know.  It could be something beautiful and elaborate; something to coat with glittery mascara and to weave beads into.

Something to behold: a woman's beautiful lip fur.

Certainly, it's something to be grateful for: it seems to have been a remedy of sorts for this dull, low-hanging writer's block.

At Least We Get To Skip The Superlatives This Time Around

Apparently, it's been fifteen years since I've graduated high school, or so the idle tongues tell me.

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Back sometime in the middle nineties, I remember cruising down a street while driving way too fast with someone who, at the time, I thought was possibly my best friend.  We were laughing and drunk on the fact that we were in our early twenties and carefree and probably filled with alcohol as well, and CAKE's "The Distance" was playing on the radio (oh, I know... the radio... how quaint, you say to yourself).

I remember wondering aloud to my friend if that song would be cool when we were older, and her reply of extreme certitude made me happy to be her friend, and happy to have that moment.

And so, when I found myself standing in the middle of the 9:30 club last Saturday and singing along with that song twelve years later or so, it was hard not to wonder if it is still cool, or if your early youth and all that is contained within it will always be cool to you, no matter how much time may have elapsed.

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I didn't think it necessary to attend my 10-year reunion. 

I wondered then, as I wonder now, if anyone with whom I have not kept in touch would really want to see me, or if it just would be a case of morbid (or even just passing) curiosity-- "Oh look, there is what's-her-name and she looks about ten pounds heavier  Yawn.  Next."

Of course, even if I'd wanted to attend, a nasty bout of food poisoning made sure I stayed put, dry-heaving in my own house and enjoying my newlywed bliss by sharing a bucket of sick with poor Monsieur Meow.

I must admit, however, that I am curious about that great, big, giant IT that is Life After High School.  And Facebook only makes things that much intriguing.

If you go spelunking for former acquaintances, what you get is a collection of microscopic snapshots and names.  Some profile pictures have children figuring prominently (as mine currently does, for instance); an intensely artistic shot graces the FB of some-- a beautiful sunset or a snowy mountaintop, or a somber profile telegraphing sharp cheekbones and perhaps some élan vital as heretofore unseen in any other profile photo; others are appropriate, straightforward shots of the person in question.   These last shots appeal to me the most, because they speak of a person who has nothing to hide and who can live with his or her own face.  If I were not so hung up on not looking at the camera, I would probably post a picture like that. 

And some, of  course, are ugly-- why sugarcoat it?   Some are grotesque poses, perhaps meant to be attractive in some other alien dimension; some show people chopped off gracelessly, causing what I have come to think of as bad chopped-up-person juju; others feature extra, odd things in the background, as a subliminal Rorschach; some are pure deception, featuring an older glammed-up version that no longer contains much of the person's truth;  and yet others show a washed out face, not only displaying a sore lack of photographic understanding (the flash washes you out and makes you look oddly featureless if it fires too close to your face, for instance) but also displaying possibly those things that the owner of the picture possibly sought most to conceal in said picture.

So as the preparations and the fanfare go on full-tilt for the reunion and I turn those virtual pages, straining to remember some names and faces and remembering others far too well, I wonder about how much we've all grown and grown apart-- after all, high school in some cases is a bit like Stockholm syndrome, where instead of falling in love with or pledging allegiance to your captor, you seem to develop these oftentimes sick bonds with people you knew for only a few years but with such a claustrophobic intensity that their relevance to your life seems heightened to the point of ridiculousness.
A friend recently went to a reunion and found it puzzling that formerly unpleasant people from her school were only too glad to see her and found themselves apologizing to her over incidents that were oh-so-dead and buried that an apology lost its relevance and found itself closer to the comedy section.

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I thumb through Facebook and some names make me cringe.  All these years later, and I still get a small uneasy pit in my stomach, and why? 

It's inexplicable.  As inexplicable as is the desire to revive friendships that had an expiration date in the nineties.

As inexplicable as realizing that, no matter how you rationalize it, those high school people --some of which you remember and some of which you rather would forget-- still somehow matter in your former-teenager zeitgeist. 

Inexplicably, somehow, that pimply and overdramatic part of yourself with the crazy bangs still matters.