Archive for April, 2007

that’s my girl…

The kiddo, without prompting, has come to recognize the crawling slowdown and park I do in front of houses now as the telltale sign of a tag sale and chirps “this will be fun!”. On her third tag sale. Not bad.

on twinkies and carrots

and the intricacies and failings of certain piece of legislation called the farm bill. Read it and you’ll know why high calorie, processed junk food (loaded with subsidized cheap corn products like high fructose corn syrup and other sugars) is cheaper than fresh carrots and other veggies, and why school lunch menus are so loaded with starches like tater tots and not fresh fruits. It’s an interesting read and explains a lot about the bill’s role in the obesity epidemic in America, particularly among the poor. It also affects a host of other issues like world economies and markets, immigration, and environmental issues like land preservation.

cleaning up

I’m still here. And no, I haven’t taken to my bed after the Yank’s latest debacle at the hands of the Red Sox. Not me. I don’t take this sweep too seriously right now. There’s not much to read into the tea leaves of the sweep when half the starting pitching staff is on the DL and known Red Sox killer Hidecki Matsui is keeping them company. I feel for the poor overworked bullpen with a pitching staff that can barely go past five innings. But Chen Ming Wang, the closest thing we have to a savior, rises again tonight, and I expect good things to start rolling around. Nothing lasts forever. Arod’s superhuman homerun hitting won’t either, but underneath even that is an relentless offense full of contact hitters that keeps coming back. So I expect to be cheering well into October. I always do.

There are some things that do make me want to take to my bed, Victorian style, on my pretend fainting couch (I’ve always coveted one of those). As mentioned, the sight of the kiddo in her little pigtails, which she insists on now because “they make me look like a puppy.” If she could, she’d have us serve all meals and drinks from a feeding bowl too. But we don’t do that. Goddamn, though…what is it that I’m feeding her that makes her so tall and her feet so long; that slims her face out? She looks like…a tweener, zipping around, getting her clothes dirty while playing with “the sisters” next door. She climbs trees now. My baby. It’s not fair.

The thing that most calls me to the bed is my detox. No, it’s not what you’re thinking. After a half a lifetime under the buzzed influence of caffeine which did nothing for my insomnia or anxiety issues, I’ve decided to pull the plug on my Diet Coke drip line, or, “Jane”, as Pentyne slyly calls it. If I do this, I’m reasoning, then I won’t crave the sweets so much and reel throughout the day from the dramatic sugar spikes and lows. But that’s another story. Down the road. Baby steps.

I’ve danced this gig before, later feeling clearer, lighter, better. But I can’t promise I won’t need to do it again. Somewhere I’ll be at some function, probably a family one, where all there is is “Jane”, and one little sip of carmelized, carbonated goodness, and I’ll be in the arms of the red and white bottle again. Because certain pleasures in life are even better mixed with a slurry of guilt and subjugated desire let loose from its tether.

Like many addicts, I blame not myself for my ways. I blame my mother. Of course I do! It was she, she who planted the seeds with her little six packs of Pepsi (another of what would become just one more thing that we don’t agree on…I’m a Coke girl all the way.). A bottle here, a bottle there, discovered strung along the house on a counter, or by her bed, or sometimes by the bathtub. Like all things that belonged to my mother, things over which hung the invisible sign “patties off“, I coveted it. Things like the half a Hershey bar she’d shared with me and then set upon the top of a bookcase before putting me down for my nap when I was four. My first act of larceny. The chocolate covered cherries she kept locked in her closet; the ones that I didn’t even particularly care for, that my brother and I delighted in plundering, once we figured out how to immaculately fix the lock so it cooperated. And the Fashion-Two-Twenty cosmetics in their lilac colored makeup case that looked like Barbie’s, all in stacked, tiered trays in tapered bottles. Leg makeup! Nude Foundation! Cotton candy colored lipstick! Which, my mother, with her perfect skin and unlined face, never wore. I took the Sarah Coventry jewelry, and the Avon too. My mother never really wore those either. The nurse’s uniforms, with their deep, functional pockets, were the best…powdered latex gloves, little scissors, alcohol swabs, bandaids, maybe a coughdrop. Her smells.

I never really did anything with this stuff, beyond hiding it. Well, except the leg makeup. I did try out the leg makeup. My legs looked like orange cheetos with tiny reddish dots the size of pin pricks where my pores were. Freaky.

She always found her stuff, under a bed or a dresser, stuffed in a closet. I knew she would. It didn’t stop me. I certainly didn’t need any of that stuff, or even want it for itself. It was just….hers. Some piece of her that I sort of needed around like a talisman, since she was always seemed busy working or sleeping off her shift. And yet, when confronted, I could never just tell her that. I know it drove her positively crazy, but I couldn’t do anything beyond either lying repeatedly through my teeth even in the face of damning evidence, or giving her a confused shrug.

I couldn’t give her the soda back though. Not really. I’d try to be merciful and refill what I’d siphoned with water; maybe toss in a pinch of sugar when the brew was looking flat. She never did say anything about the soda. I don’t remember a single time. If I could, I’d buy her a Coke now, in a sort of conciliatory gesture rooted in solidarity, but she doesn’t really drink it anymore.

I certainly don’t tolerate people swiping stuff from me in my life now; in fact, one of my mantras to my own kiddo is “stop touching my stuff” at least eleventeen times a day. In vain. But a part of me is convinced that some larceny is more about the need for psychological compensation and less about material gain.

I look around at my stuff and wonder what will become the kiddo’s heart’s desire. What about me and my stuff will leave tea leaves for her to read and then ponder someday, if I’m lucky, in some Proustian way?

I have words for her though: lay off the stupid Diet Coke. It’s baaaaaaaaad.

back

Oh my. It’s been awhile, hasn’t it? I’m o.k., just busy here. Doing the playground thing with the kiddo, watching her develop her social skills. She’s in pigtails now. It’s getting more difficult to squint and see the baby I once knew. Though she reminds me every chance she gets that she’s still a baby…”noooooo, I’m not growing up. I’m a baby.” She’s still as clingy as a baby, which is a mixed blessing.

I’ve been watching a lot of baseball. With the Yanks in Boston, I will be parked in front of the tv all weekend. I don’t really have a lot to say about the Yanks at the moment, except, how about that Arod? Gotta give him props. He looks different. Confident. Comfortable. So good for him. Other than that, slow start, aching pitching staff and all…well, we’ll see. Anything can happen, that’s my philosophy. Whether I’m watching a game or looking down the road during the season. Because anything can with the Yankees.

The Red Sox look like a different team. Suddenly, they’re pitching rich and not quite the mashers they used to be, beyond Big Papi and Manny. Gotta like that pitching staff, though I’m not caught up in all the Dice-K hype. It’s not uncommon for a rookie pitcher to do well during their first go-round in the league. The real test will be later in the season when players and scouts have another look at him. Still, Schilling, Becket, Dice-K, and Wakefield as your Big 4…I’d take it.

With baseball season comes tag sale season. Anything can happen there, too. This year I’m all about vintage linens, wooden toys, and ephemera. Though if I can find some Le Crueset enamelware, I will be thrilled beyond measure as well. I can’t believe I don’t have any Le Crueset. That, and my lack of a Kitchenaid mixing stand make me feel just a little deprived. I manage.

I’m still decorating the house here. Ideally, in a place as small as this one, a modern look would fit the bill. When I see it, I like it for its simplicity and polish. And its easy upkeep. And yet, my sensibilities, from everywhere I’ve lived…and every theatre production, holiday, garden plot, etc…go along with a “more is more” attitude, no matter how earnestly I try to reign it in. I’m not a greedy person, yet, I can always find space for one more treasure, even with the threat of clutter shadowing every so closely behind. When I live in a space, I like to have something to look at wherever I turn.

Anyhoo, I hope you all are enjoying some fabulous weather, wherever you are, as we are here. I am going to leave you with this link to Bush’s latest musings, just in case you missed it…it’s kind of…..dada-esque, in a way.

have some more art

I haven’t had anything in the past few days. Kind of in a funk watching the Yankee’s pitching staff implode into a pit known as the DL. Sigh. You just know they have Roger Clemens on speed dial now.

And I had a dream about Arod the other night. He was…giving me the eye (!). Ew, ew, ew! Pass the mind bleach, please.

But I’m really here to pass along the work of more artists that I have discovered. Sally Smart’s work is rich, somewhat subversive, and yet poignant. I like her work with anatomy in particular. Find the collections under work.

And then there’s ex de medici, also a little subversive, rich, textural, and more than a little haunting. I liked Red and then Blue. Click on the bullets for each.

bless him

for his wonderful works and thinking, which will live forever. RIP Kurt Vonnegut. So it goes.

It’s been quiet here but full of walks and creating. Easter was wonderful. I have to say that I’m enjoying the kiddo’s fourth year the most. It’s such an inquisitive age, full of wonder and charm. She’s obsessed now with super heroes and saving the world.  Robbing the linens for capes. Milk is apparently the secret formula that invests her with all of her amazing powers.  She’s been ingesting it copiously. I’m not complaining.

sigh

Sometimes you read something that is so absolutely on, that is so “there”, and you know it couldn’t be written any better than it is. Perfection. Isn’t she wonderful? I totally get what’s being said. Lo, you rule.