The Small Stuff

It's kind of mind-boggling that people's lives become so inextricably interwoven with yours that, after they are no longer here, you spend months and months stumbling across the little dribs and drabs -- stuff that never occurred to you after the initial loss, that keeps coming up over and over. The responsiblities that fall immedately post-mortem -- the sorting, the cleaning, the disposal of property, the dispersion of assets, taxes, death certificates -- that's all the stuff you're expecting. The Big Stuff.

But there's the other stuff... the stuff that you never think of, until like little emotional Claymore, you trip the wire and everything kind of goes... boom. It's the small stuff that's killer.



Today, my electronic calendar sent me a message to let me know that my father's birthday is a week from tomorrow -- so, presumably, I shouldn't forget it (as I had done in years past) and make other plans, instead of making the yearly pilgramage to the House on Carpenter to either take him to dinner, or when he stopped leaving the house, take him dinner, a card, some chocolate peanut butter ice cream, and then high-tail it out of there as quickly as possible.

This year, there'll be a small gathering to celebrate the event, undoubtedly for the last time ever. I will not be attending the party in Maui, which will culminate in the scattering of his ashes in the lovely, balmy waters of Maalea Bay, just south of Lahaina. I have plans to go in July, when the Hawaiians will take to me to one of the holiest places on the island -- the crater at Haleakala -- where I can say good-bye myself, in my own way.



Meanwhile, I have celebrated the occasion in my own way -- by deleting his birthday from my calendar. (Open the birthday note, click "All future dates," click "Delete"... gone.) I guess after this year, March 18th is just the day after St. Patrick's Day.



~C~

The Death of Common Sense

I'm just wondering when Common Sense passed away. No. Seriously. Because I hadn't even heard It had a cough.

Today in Orlando, Florida, a mother was arrested after a do-it-yourself car wash surveillance video showed her spraying her two-and-a-half year old daughter with a power sprayer. I contemplated whether to put a link to the video in this post, but decided against it. I'm linking to the story instead, which contains a link to the video. I just don't want to have such stupidity so close to my intellect. It might be contagious.

In case you're wondering, most car wash power sprayers push water at about 1200 psi. That's enough to flay a full-grown human at full-blast. The mother claims it wasn't full-blast, but I gotta tell ya... I regularly wash my car at a DIY car wash, and there is no "half-blast/full-blast." You pull the trigger. Period. The water comes out at the pressure it comes out at. It's designed to blast grease and hardened dirt off a car's exterior as quickly as possible, so the next person can move into the space and put more quarters in. Finesse is not a part of the equation. There is little consideration for an automobile's paint job, let alone a little girl's skin.

People, what in the name of God and all that's holy is going on here? People shooting total strangers in fast food restaurants and malls. A Marine throwing (or appearing to throw) a little puppy off a cliff for the sheer entertainment of it. This adle-pated idiot mother power-spraying her toddler for throwing a tantrum.

I'd be willing to bet that this woman is not evil. I'd even be willing to go as far as to say she is a fairly well-intentioned parent most of the time. Any truly honest person who has ever spent all day caring for a cranky two-and-a-half-year old will tell you that sometimes using riot-control measures, like high-pressure water cannons and tear gas, are often considered as possible methods of thwarting chaos and reestablishing order and peace. But once we take a drink of water and have a quick shot of espresso, the more sensible and intelligent among us abandon these strategies as being impractical and uncalled for.

Except Our Lady of Perpetual High-Pressure Water Discipline, of course.

I think this woman just needs to attend some intensive parenting and anger-management courses to teach her better ways of coping with the ups and downs of raising a toddler. And while we're at it, perhaps we can get her into a remedial course in Common Sense.

~C~

02/27/08 My New Boyfriend

Here's a picture of my new boyfriend.

I came home last night after a day of particularly intense upheaval, personally and professionally, only to find that Tivo had, of its own accord, recorded an episode of Mega Disasters entitled Super Swarms, about locusts and their impact on humanity.

"This is stupid," I thought, as I highlighted the entry. "Who in their right mind would want to watch a documentary on loc...." But then I had to shut up, because the narrator was saying something utterly compelling about mandibles. And I was hooked.

This afternoon, Kimberly and I were talking about this. "Been watching Discovery Channel, have we?" she commented on my MySpace. And I remembered that I had no idea what channel it was on, because Tivo had recorded it for me. Just 'cuz. And I joked with her that if Tivo were a man, I'd have to marry him. Oh, sure... it's funny when you say it like this, but... let's think about it.

Tivo thinks of me once or twice during the day. A couple of times a day, something crosses Tivo's path and Tivo thinks, "Gee, I think Amanda might like this." Tivo lets me watch and rewind, watch and rewind, and never loses its patience. Tivo sometimes overdoes the lovin' by taking my Season Pass totally to heart and recording every blessed showing throughout the day of The Daily Show with Jon Stewart, when I'd really be perfectly happy with just the 11 pm showing. I get a little peevish about this sometimes, until I remember that Tivo only wants to make sure my needs are being met. And then, I have to smile.

I've decided that these are the qualities I need to find in a man. Someone who puts up with my capricious, oddball ways without complaining. Someone who stops in every so often in the course of his day and says, "I must remember to show this to Amanda -- I think she'd get a charge out of it." Someone to whom my happiness is important. Someone who wants to edify and enlighten me, but in a sweet, entertaining way.

Tivo is my new boyfriend. Until such time as the human version walks through the door.

~C~

(cross-posted at MySpace)

It's All Mary-Mia's Fault!

Back in December of last year, when Mary-Mia from Do They Have Salsa In China was feeling a little punk and decided to try and keep her identical twin 3-year-olds occupied with a video so she could rest, she inadvertently started a bit of row as to whether the girls would watch "Mee-Moss" (Mickey Mouse, Rose's first choice) or "Six Babies" (the DVD of Jon & Kate Plus 8, Marie's preference). As per usual, Mary-Mia videotaped the ensuing smackdown (okay, it was more like an inadvertent elbow to the eye, but still... ) for our amusement.

I'd heard of the former, but I'd never heard of Jon & Kate until Mary-Mia blogged about it. When TLC ran a Jon & Kate marathon a couple of weeks ago, including all three documentaries, starting when the sextuplets were 18 months old, in anticipation of the new series TLC is launching, I thought I'd give it a look-see. I Tivo-ed it. I've watched it. Four times. Then I created a Season Pass on Tivo for the show.

For the uninitiated, Jonathan and Kate Gosselin had problems conceiving and turned to fertility treatments to conceive their twins, Mady and Cara, now 7, born in the fall of 2000. A couple of years later, Kate thought it might be nice to know what it felt like to have "just one baby," so she cajoled Jon into trying for another baby. They conceived SIX -- three girls, three boys -- born in May of 2004. By the time Kate was 28 and Jon was 26, they were the parents of eight children under the age of four. GAK!

And yet.... There's something compelling about them as a family. Kate is an admitted organizational-freak-a-germ-a-phobe with slight OCD tendencies. The episode where Kate is interviewing for a part-time housekeeper has some hilarious moments when she is describing to them exactly what she expects them to do. She'd be obnoxious if you didn't understand that what she's asking them to do a couple of days a week, is what she actually DOES -- every day -- while parenting eight children!!! She isn't asking any of the potential house cleaners to do anything she doesn't do every day -- sometimes, TWICE a day. The looks on the faces of the applicants as she describes what she does is PRICELESS!!

Jon, who is the more laid back of the two parents, gets a little flack from Kate from time to time for his easygoing, time-not-imperative pokiness, especially when they're in the trenches, so to speak -- going to cut a Christmas tree, going to pick out Halloween pumpkins and take a hay ride, taking the kids to their first dentist appointments. Someone somewhere, you can bet, is going to have a first-degree, five-star meltdown along the way, and they both know it. Watching how each parent approaches it, with their vastly different temperaments and personalities is really fascinating and endearing.

They get a bit short with each other and there's a fair amount of bickering at times. But there are episodes here and there where Jon and Kate manage to steal off together, "sans enfants," as it were (the "tummy tuck" episode, the "shopping spree" episode). In these moments (brief though they are) it is obvious that Jon and Kate Gosselin adore each other and make a really good couple. If Kate is the propellant and the rudder for the family -- getting them up and going in the right direction -- it is Jon, with his equanimity and calm under fire, who acts as the retro-fire braking system that keeps them from spinning out of control full-bore into hyperspace. In their confessional-style interview moments, with the two of them in a over-sized armchair, they are like any married couple who have found a way to make it work -- charming, funny, smart, they finish each other's sentences, laugh at each other's jokes, poke, prod and tease each other, but they love. Clearly, they love.

You would have to love to stay. Because, as lovely and adorable and interesting as the Gosselin house is to peak into every week, living there would truly drive the average person round the bend. When Oprah asked Jon and Kate how they coped with the monumental responsibility, Kate replied, "We take it one day at a time. All there is is today."

The truth is, I love the Gosselins. Not because they have eight children. But because they're honest about what having eight children does to a person, to a marriage, to a life (to Kate's belly, hence the tummy tuck episode). One child puts stress on a relationship; eight would break most. In the first episode, during a confessional interview, Kate related that Jon told her, during the most difficult first few months with the sextuplets, "You know, Kate, six babies isn't that many babies. Fourteen would be a lot of babies." In the interview, Jon waited a beat after Kate finished the anecdote, then added, "Now, I think one more would push us right over the edge." One of my favorite Kate Gosselin lines is, "I'm sure there are perfect parents out there, but we're not any of them." Honest. Real. Humble. Occasionally hovernig on the brink of madness. You know.... like me, but for a much better reason.

It's hard what they do. It's work. And in Jon & Kate plus 8, all the seams show. But it's worth it for the Gosselins. And for me. Because now, I'm hooked.

And it's all Mary-Mia's fault.

~C~

Jon and Kate plus 8 can be seen on Mondays on TLC. Check your local listings for exact times and channels.

THANK YOU!

FINALLY!

Scientific evidence to PROVE what we already knew.

Pregnancy leads to brain damage.

I'd tell you all exactly what that means, but... I forgot.

~C~

HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY!

~C~

Thing To Do in 2008

I tend to shy away from resolutions, because things we "resolve" to resolve are so rarely ever fully resolved (bad habits broken must forever be avoided, weight lost must constantly be kept off, etc.). That's where my "List of Things to Do" comes in. Yes, I have one. And I'm not talking about the one that tells me which errands to procrastinate over on any given Saturday. I'm talking about the Big List.... the one that deals with my -- you should pardon the expression -- "issues." Yes, it's true... I have "issues." But then, so do you... and you... and you over there (don't be hidin' behind your neighbor, actin' like I can't see you). You all have issues, and so do I, and so does Dick Cheney (in spades!), and so does Angelina Jolie, even with all her money and her big, poofy lips.

So rather than "resolve" to do something I may or may not be able to "resolve," I'm just making a list... a list of things to do in 2008. Things that need to be fixed that only I can fix. Things that need to be handled and arranged better to my liking.

1. New job: No joke. Really need to get me a new one of these. I need to start teaching for a living, or working for a publishing company, or actually supporting myself as a writer (or any combination thereof) sometime this year, because working in the legal department of a major motion picture studio is the opposite of being creative, and it's sucking my creative energy.


2. Finish losing the weight I put on during Daddy-Palooza 2006-2007. That's about -- gulp! -- forty-five pounds. On someone who's not even 5'4", that's a whole lotta weight.


3. Turn fifty. Okay, this one doesn't really need to go on the list, because, hey, it's happening in November. But I want to do it in style -- a party, or an exciting trip somewhere, and I want to have No. 2 accomplished by then, so I look completely hot for whatever I'm doing to celebrate. I plan on buying a very expensive, chic little dress and some very tall, impractical shoes.


4. Get a literary agent. I'm tired of being told how impossible this is, how hard, how it's nearly futile, how it happens to only the luckiest few budding writers.... Yeah. I get it. Now shut up about it. I don't want to hear that kind of naysaying bullshit from another breathing soul (if they want to go on breathing). It's happening, it's happening this year, and you can either help or get the hell out of my way. (If there's anything ambivalent or confusing about No. 4, please feel free to write me and ask for clarification. I dare you.)


5. Finish the triathlon. In one piece. Undrowned, unscraped, un-shin-splinty. So there.


6. Get a home. Not just another crappy apartment. A home. As in house. As in, with a yard. With a space to plant bare-root roses (yellow in memory of my godmother, Linny). And room for a boxer (the dog, not the prizefighter). I am through asking permission about what colors I can paint my walls and how many pets I get to have and what kind of showerhead I can have. I'm a grown-ass woman, and it's time I exercised all rights and privileges therein.


7. Be more patient. Stop the foot-tapping, steering-wheel-pounding, standing-in-line sighing. Enough ahready. This isn't a conspiracy against me. I need to just grow up and get over myself. Likewise, to be more tolerant of people's oddities and peculiarities. You know what, if you want to eat sardine-and-peanut butter sandwiches, as long as you're downwind of me, that's fine. I'll go on loving you all the same.


8. Stop apologizing for being me. It occured to me during the whole ordeal of the past eighteen months that I have spent the better part of my life apologizing to somebody for being me. To my mother, for being born at a time when she wasn't prepared financially or emotionally to have a child. To my father for not being... well... Christie Brinkley. To my ex-husband for not being his mother. To various men* that I've dated for not being, alternately, too virginal, not virginal enough, too opinionated, not decisive enough, too headstrong, too sensitive, too young, too old, too fat, too short, too blonde, too redheaded, too... Well.... shit.... just too "too," really. My new motto when it comes to people in my life, particularly male-type people, is this: "I'm not sorry. I don't apologize. Please don't forgive me. Please don't 'fix' me. Please don't deconstruct, reconstruct, rescue or repair me. This is the package, and if it's not what you want, this town is chock full of 'Acting for Commercials' classes that are chock full of plastic-titted bikini models just waiting for you. The door's thataway. And it locks from the inside."


9. Travel. I want to go to Maui (with Kim) for fun this summer, and I want to go to Prague sometime before the end of the year. I want to see Prague before they start using the Euro, and my weak-assed American dollar isn't worth the paper it's printed on.


10. Finish "Vision," the collection of linked short stories about a half-dozen people who see (or think they see) an image of Virgin Mary on a freeway support at the corner of Pico and Sawtelle.


11. Finish a first draft of "Death of the American Western," the novel I started in the MFA program. It can (and mostly likely will) be, in the words of Ann Lamott, a "shitty first draft**," but it has to be finished and ready for revision by December 31, 2008.


12. Get the publication arts certificate. This will hopefully provide me with certain skills that will allow me to accomplish No. 1 and (spoiler alert!) No. 13.


13. Be financially secure. Need I elaborate? I thought not.


14. Get more sleep.


15. Eat less crap.


16. Take less crap.


17. Have more fun.

So, there we have it. My List of Things to Do in 2008. It's ambitious, for sure. I dare say there'll be things that flop over on the the 2009 list. But that's okay. I think it's important to set the bar high, so lots gets, if not accomplished, then at least attempted. We'll meet back here, next January, to discuss what did and didn't get done, and how it all came together in the end.

February is almost upon us. The month of "that holiday." No, not Presidents' Day, you knuckleheads! Valentine's Day. I've always dreaded that day. I think I'll add a codicil to my list right now.

18. Have fun on Valentine's Day. By hook or by crook. Whatever it takes.

There now. That's better.

On an unrelated note, but still newsworthy: My very good friends, Valerie and Matthew will be bringing their new daughter home from Ethiopia in late February. Come to think of it, maybe it's not entirely unrelated at that. Little Josephina will have her own tiny list of things to do when she arrives -- learning to hold her head up, cutting some teeth, getting some decent hair on her head, figuring out how the hell that damn opposable thumb thing is supposed to work, and learning how to modify her parents' and siblings' behavior, simply by smiling and/or spitting up. Her list will be just as important to her as mine is to me. Maybe remembering that is the way to keep from taking all this "list" business too seriously. It is, after all, just a list of stuff that needs doing, one thing at a time, and we're here to get as much of it done as we can in our allotted time.

That's my List. And I'm sticking to it. Until Josephina gets here, and then I'll be putting some of it off to play with the baby.

~A~

* Not that it's exactly been the Cavalcade of Stars, mind you.
** If you haven't read "Bird by Bird" by Ann Lamott, please don't post a comment chastising me for referring to my work as "shitty." "Shitty first draft" has a very specific meaning in this context, and I mean what I say. Buy the book and read it. It's artistically edifying, and it's a hoot and half.

And, Thus, I Hand Over the Crown

It is with a mixture of gratitude, nostalgia and pride that I pin the "Meanest Mom on the Planet" tiara onto the glorious head of one Jane Hambleton, 48, of Fort Dodge, Iowa. It's been a long and fabulous run as "Meanest Mom", my darling subjects, but all good things must come to an end, and Mrs. Hambleton has proven herself to be more than amply capable of assuming the throne.

According to this CNN article, Mrs. Hambleton only made two rules when she purchased her 19-year-old son a 1999 Oldsmobile Intrigue: "No booze, and keep it locked."

When she found a bottle of alcohol under the seat, she decided that the best punishment would be to sell the car. She placed the following ad in the Des Moines Register:

"OLDS 1999 Intrigue. Totally uncool parents who obviously don't love teenage son, selling his car. Only driven for three weeks before snoopy mom who needs to get a life found booze under front seat. $3,700/offer. Call meanest mom on the planet."

So far, Jane has received 70 phone calls, the majority of which came, not from interested buyers, but from people wishing to converse with the planet's meanest mom. All of the calls have been supportive, including several from teachers, emergency room medical personnel, grateful fellow parents and school counselors.

In fairness, young Master Hambleton maintains that the booze wasn't his, but was left there by a friend, which Jane readily admits she believes completely, and which she apparently has ascertained (as would her "Meanest Mom" predecessor) that the argument is utterly moot -- "no booze" means "no booze," period. The lesson (in the words of my Texas granny, may she rest in peace): "Lie down with dogs, you'll more than likely get up with fleas."

So, here's to you, Jane Hambleton. My tiara is off to you. Hold your crown high, accept this bejeweled sceptor and take your walk down the runway before your subjects. May your reign as "Meanest Mom on the Planet" be every bit as rewarding as mine has been.

~C~

The Happiest of New Years to You All in 2008!!

Went to the most fun New Years party I've ever been to -- very small, but with a bunch of New York actors. We ate Chinese food, we drank almond champagne (a new fave), we watched some Luciano Pavarotti in his last concert from Central Park, we watched the ball drop in Times Square... hug, hug... kiss, kiss... nosh, nosh... nosh some more. So much fun....

Left the party totally wired at 3 am, got home and couldn't even think about getting to bed until 5. I was Eliza freakin' Doolittle. Got up this morning totally energized after only about four hours sleep, then went to Macaroni Grill with my daughter and her boyfriend. Lovely lunch, went to Target, spent money on DVDs on sale, and a new purse and wallet (desperately needed Christmas presents to myself), then came home.

Now, I'm going to toss one of my many new DVDs into the machine and wile away some time on this chilly, windy New Years Day, and spend the remaining alone time I have tidying the apartment and doing some purging of stuff.

If the year thus far has been any indication, 2008 is going to be a very good year. I go back into training for the triathlon this week, and am starting a new food plan tomorrow that I hope will whittle the ass down to some less cumbersome from running around the desert.

Here's to 2008. May you all find yourself on the path to your heart's desire.

XOXO

~C~

Graduation Day

Photographic evidence for you all that I did, in fact, actually graduate on Sunday. And I managed to walk across the stage in heels without tripping, which was good.

Also, note to self. The next time I graduate, I'm going to cut a nice little bang into my hair. I look like such a doofus in the morterboard, but Jillian, to my immediate left looks kind of darling with that little bang. So stylish....

Oh, well... spilt milk. It doesn't matter -- I got me a big new fancy MFA. Don't you love that new post-graduate degree smell? Mmmmm...

~C~

A Day of Victories

Yesterday, I had my final reading for my MFA. I read an excerpt from the first chapter of a novel I'm working on. It went well.

Savannah was there, along with a couple of good friends. I taught my class on Wednesday, and that also went well -- though I fell about ten minutes short of material. Thank God I had a talkative, question-askin' bunch of folks. I'm hoping my evaluations are merciful. Today, I go back for a few final things, the closing conversation, and then....

I'm done.

My list of things to do from here on out are as follows:

1. Buy shoes for graduation ceremony

2. Go to Santa Barbara tonight and watch a good friend's band.

3. Get up tomorrow and get to hotel where ceremony is being held.

4. Walk across stage to receive diploma without tripping or falling off new shoes.

Then, I will be a bearer of a post-graduate degree.

And tonight, my daughter told me that, when people asked her how I was doing, she told them I was great, that I was getting my MFA, that I was training for a triathlon, and that... wait for it... she was very, very proud of me.

(sniff, sniff) I'm fine. Anybody got a tissue?

Fairly happy here.... Just sayin'....

~C~

Tomorrow, It Begins... and Ends.

As you can see by the counter at the top of the blog, my MFA graduation is a mere ten days away. My final residency begins tomorrow. My manuscript is done (see photo at left), my paperwork is (mostly) done. I have my outline for my final lecture nearly done, though I need to sort out the wording for the writing assignment (which will, mercifully, eat up about 20 of the 50 minutes I'm supposed to lecture). I haven't decided on a final reading yet, but I have a lot of options, and I'll decide later.

Words cannot express my feelings right now. I am nearly done. I'm almost out of school. I've been working and going to school since 2003. I'm this close to getting a bit of my life and free time back.

Here is a little list of things I will be able to do, starting on December 17th:

• Read for pleasure (chick lit, anyone?)


• Write for pleasure (blog posts, anyone?)


• Play the Sims 2 and not feel guilty


• Resume my 3D digital art endeavors

And that's just a start. Of course, there is the part where I have to put together my CV and start looking for teaching jobs, so I can teach and write and not have to type contracts for spoiled, pampered, prima donna actresses anymore. There's that. But I can work it all in.

Oh, and for anybody out there considering going back to school and working fulltime, here are two things you need to stock up on before you attempt it. (See photo at right)
~C~

Finally... I'm published.

The newly minted MySpace lit journal, Nouveau Blank, has published one of my short stories, entitled Til We Come Round Right, for it's November issue. This could be the beginning of a trend -- where I actually make the effort to submit my work, and, occasionally, people actually take the time and trouble to publish it.

Hmmmm...

Enjoy.

~C~

IF THE BLOG FITS

As promised in yesterday's post, I tried to personalize my donation website provided by Team-in-Training, but it is pretty limited. It is still the place to go to donate, and it's set up well for that. But it doesn't allow me to whine to the desire I choose.

So I've created a new blog -- TriCathLete -- in which I will sob and cry my way through share the process of competing in the Toyota Desert Triathlon Sprint in April of 2008. It's still inventing itself. But I'll try and make this process as entertaining as possible, for both of us.

Check it out. Then wait a couple of weeks, and check it out again, when it's likely to be MUCH more interesting.

~C~

Taking One for the Team (In Training, That Is).

(Cross-posted at The Catharine Chronicles and MySpace)


No turning back now. I've started training for the Desert Triathlon Sprint event on April 20, 2008 in La Quinta, California. I am officially a member of the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society's Westside Team-in-Training, or, as my sister and her endurance sports friends call them, "The Purple People." TIT is the athletic event fundraising arm of the association (there are a couple of different fundraising methods LLS uses regularly).

LLS, in case you don't know, provides funding for research, treatment and support services for people suffering from blood cancers, including Hodgkin lymphoma, non-Hodgkin lymphoma, myeloma and leukemias. It is is a very worthy cause, and it is my goal to raise $3400 for LLS between now and the end of March. I have already donated $100 to my own cause (lest you think I'm not willing to put my money where my hamstrings are). $3,300 to go.

I will be training for the Sprint distance of the Triathlon -- that's a 450-meter swim, a 14-mile bike ride and a 5K run. It ends up being about half the distance of a full Olympic or International distance tri. I figured as a newbie, this would probably be the best way to break into it. I have discovered, though, that I actually enjoy training this hard in a lot of ways, that it's pretty good for me, especially emotionally, and that I may actually (do I dare allow myself to believe?) be kind of good at it. I won't be finishing first, by any stretch, but I will be finishing. I like cross-training a lot, and it seems to fit my ADD with a precision heretofore unknown in past athletic events.

This is my Team-in-Training website, (yes, I go by my middle name, Amanda) which I haven't really personalized much (except with a photo). I will be rewriting my little intro (as I'm sure many of you have already guessed) and will be posting better, more relevant photos ("see Catharine running," "see Catharine on bike," etc.) I will be also updating it in terms of my how my training is progressing ("see Catharine keel over," "see Catharine gasp for air, while simultaneously begging for her mommy," etc.) It is the means by which donations can be made, if you should feel so inclined. (I'll be nagging more about this later, because it's a noble cause and because, well, I happen to be a fairly annoying and tenacious person.)

So... tomorrow is our first team swim practice. I haven't done any serious swimming in a very long time. I hope I don't come off a total doofus. In fact, let's say a collective prayer together, shall we?

"Dear (insert relevant personal Higher Power here):

Please don't let Catharine look like a total doofus tomorrow when she swims on Thursday.

Kind regards.

Yours, sincerely,

(your name here)"

Thanks for your support.

~C~

Childish Things

"But when I was no longer a child, I put away childish things..." (1 Corinthians 13:11)

One of the good parts of being a grown-up is getting to be your own parent. Feel not taken care of? Feeling not cherished? Feeling unprotected and undefended? Feeling unappreciated and abandoned? You get to do that for yourself. You get to be the parent. To you.

My sister has spent nearly every waking hour cleaning, sorting, discarding, repacking for storage, in my father's house. I have gone in at the end to help her tie up loose ends, to sweep and Swiffer, to try and make the place at least somewhat presentable for showing to sell at the end of the year, when the probate court finally says it is our. Finishing the emptying of this house -- seeing it actually empty -- I find that there's a strange freedom in it. But a fear and unfamiliarity with the house has taken over that prompts a little bit of fear. It's not our house anymore. It has ceased to belong to us, or to anyone else. It will again, shortly before it's demolished to make room for a 4,000 square foot ranch style home, no doubt. But it's empty now, of all of its contents, as if it had been turned on its side and shaken clean.

No more negative energy coming from that dark, dark house, where I first moved when I was my daughter's age. The negative energy left in early July. I used to believe the house was haunted. Now I know it was. It was haunted by a sadness and terror so profound, so desperate that it permeated every corner of that house. It was my father's terror and sadness. I've come to see that his meanness and cruelty were really just outward manifestations of his fear of the world.

I believe that we all have demons. We all are haunted. We spend a good part of our youth hiding from our demons, whether it's through drugs, alcohol, workaholism, religious zealotry, daredevil stunts or nonstop partying. But our demons are not so easily fooled. They're looking for us. And, invariably, they find us. And how well or badly we handle being found, I think, is the crux of how we end up.

My father did not fair well when the demons finally caught up to him, I don't think. He became scared -- to work, to drive, to leave his house, to be in a group of people, to talk to strangers. When we were growing up, my father had that Texas talent of being able to get any group of strangers talking, to him and to each other -- even in elevators, where no one speaks, lest the mechanism snap and we all go plummeting to the ground. He made friends with everyone, everywhere. Gregarious, charming, funny, smart -- he could be the life of the party. He was still friends some forty years later with the couple that had the season ticket seats next to his at the Colliseum for Los Angeles Rams games (yes, you young sprites -- they started in L.A.)

But as he grew older, he let his age and his grey hair, his receding hairline and his fading youth take hold. He had some run-ins on the job with hotter, younger writers, directors and producers who made him feel as if he were washed up. This is all part of the strategy of this business, of course -- it's commonplace. He wasn't the only one, and plenty of other men his age and older had weathered that onslaught and given back as good as they'd gotten. But he let them break him down, make him mean and old and useless and used up before his time. And I think it was mostly his fear. My Dad was always a blusterer, but even as a child, I think I saw that he was also a fraidy-cat. The reason he talked to people in elevators is because he didn't feel safe being quiet amongst them. If he got them talking, he could get a gauge on where they stood, both logistically and emotionally.

He had a hard time reading people -- their energy, their affect. He was one of the most inappropriate people I've ever known. When he was young, with a facile, spry sense of humor, that lack of social editor could make him wickedly funny and irreverent. As he got older and slowed up, instead of simply changing his tack, learning what to say and what not to say and when, and altering the trajectory of his barbs to places less sensitive to the touch, he simply got vicious and harsh. He knew he was saying things that offended people, that hurt them, and though he tried not to show it, that bothered him. He was like a man in a foreign land who speaks little of the native language, and becomes angry at the indigenous peoples for their refusal to understand him.

Because I believe now, as I've never believed before, that my father really, really wanted people to like him. That was important to him in a way he could never admit. He wanted to be liked. More than that, he wanted to be adored. Maybe even wanted to be everybody's favorite. That's why acting was so important to him, I suppose, and such a disappointment when it didn't work out, and he had to turn to writing. Though he was good at it, maybe it wasn't the best profession for him. It's a solitary endeavor, and requires the doer to be willing to do a stint in isolation to get the job done. Alone with this thoughts was maybe the worst place he could be. It was probably hard for him, thinking of how social he used to be when we were small. But it got easier and easier for him, until one day, he went inside, and just never came out again. On many levels, both real and figurative.

Now, it's official. Jack Sowards has left the building. And, after thirty years of collecting every material thing he could get his hands on -- guns, photographs, books, magazines (some from the early 60s), memorabilia, broken furniture, various house vermin, roof leaks, televisions, computers, various parts of computers, software (mostly on 5 1/4" disks), LPs, CDs, VHSs, DVDs, a gaggle of functioning and non-functioning watches and lighters -- his house is now nearly emptied of its contents. Thirty years of nicotine stains have left the walls a deep caramel brown, with only occasional squares where a painting, picture or piece of furniture once stood to reveal the original color.

This is what's left of my father's life once it's been picked over and disassembled and transported. The house is empty. Not a ghost in sight. Just a badly dilapidated, uncared for house that was once quite a nice place to live. It is our inheritance. It is our legacy. It and the memory of the man who lived here is what we have left of that time. But that's okay. Most of those memories are painful ones for me. They're from my late adolescence -- the remnants of my childhood, I suppose. But I am no longer a child. And so, all that's left now -- now that my mother and father have both died -- is for me to be the parent.

It's time to put away childish things.

~C~


(cross-posted at MySpace)

MORPHINE AND CHOCOLATE

My father has been ill for quite some time. As many of you know, I moved in to his house to care for him for several months, until my sister took over those duties in February. He was suffering from chronic obstructive pulminary disease and amyotrophic lateral sclerosis (Lou Gehrig's Disease).

He finally let go early this morning. He went peacefully, with no pain. Penny was periodically spooning chocolate sorbet onto his tongue so he'd pass away with the taste of chocolate in his mouth.

Hence the title of this post.

Thanks to all of you who gave us your words of support and encouragement these very difficult past few weeks.

JACK BURKE SOWARDS
March 18, 1929 - July 8, 2007

~C~

Here's Something You Never Want to Hear Your Child Say To You Over the Phone.

"Okay, Mom... We went fishing today and... and... long story short... we now have... a goose."

First off, what d'ya mean "we," white man? Second... oh, hell, there is no second... What d'ya mean "we," white man?

They've named it Aflac. They're taking it to the Wildlife Center tomorrow, after it opens. (And that's an order, soldier!)

A goose, indeed... Goodnight, Mabel....

~C~

Stop the Presses!

An arts program in Los Angeles needs our support! Self Help Graphics and Arts, a program that supports Latinos artists in printmaking. The East L.A. arts center has felt the bite of reduced federal and private-sector grant money (since we have this great big war we have to pay for), and is on the verge of having to close its doors. Self Help is seeking alternate sources of grant money, but, as anyone who has applied for artistic or academic grants knows, this is a lengthy process that will require time -- time Self Help doesn't have at the moment.

One look at the samples of their past exhibits will tell you this is would be a huge loss for the arts in this city. Exhibits aside, take a gander at their building! With every passing year, art programs that aren't a part of the entertainment industry (live theatre, live dance, visual arts programs) are vanishing because conservative political forces conspire to syphon funds away from the NEA and local arts sponsors. Programs are being eliminated in our public schools and state-funded universities, and the people feeling this most acutely are people in economically challenged areas. Less grant money means less opportunity for struggling new artists who cannot afford to sponsor their own shows and display and promote their own work, especially in predominantly minority communities. Nothing marginalizes a community more than silencing its artistic voice.

Self Help's website speaks for itself, so I won't ramble on about it. They provide support for artists who might not otherwise find a venue for their work, and gives them the skills and opportunity to get that work shown publicly. That warrants saving. As someone who isn't a visual artist (but plays one on the computer), I ask you to do whatever you can to assist Self Help in reaching its $100K fundraising goal. I know that you guys are being pulled in a lot of directions, moneywise, but a lot of small gifts can go a long way.

Thanks.

~C~

The Television Fates Hate Me!

If I like it, it gets cancelled. That's one of Murphy's most indelible laws.

It's official. Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip is cancelled. I survived the West Wing's cancellation. After John Spencer died, and the show was going into its eighth season, Jed Bartlett was leaving the Oval Office, and Toby was on his way to the hoosegow for contempt of Congress, it seemed that the show had naturally run its course. The fact that I also lost Will and Grace (which I'd only just discovered a season and a half before) the same year was hard, but I don't blame myself for that one, since I was a 'Manda-Come-Lately. I've been spending the past five years in school, trying to finish my bachelor's and get my MFA, and I don't watch much television.

But I coped with losing the two smartest shows on television, secure in the knowledge that witty dialogue and smart characters (who do dumb things, which makes them interesting) would be back in the form of Studio 60. Now, that's gone. Where do I turn for my searing, sardonic dialogue, my witty banter, my deeply disturbed, multi-faceted characters who cover their pain with humor and crazy antics?

To make matters worse, since last year, I've lost my HBO, and wno't be able to watch the only other show I love beyond reason (and I mean, beyond reason, because, hey, it's a show about polygamy), Big Love. The season premieres June 11th. My only hope is to DVR it on my sister's set, and hope that I get a chance to stop by and watch it every week.

Don't tell anyone I watch Big Love. I shudder to think what will happen if the Fates perceive my obsession.

Below, a nowhere-near-complete list of my favorite shows cancelled unceremoniously (be aware that some of them were obsessions back when I was, like, fifteen or so):

Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip (Couldn't they at least show us the last episodes?
West Wing (Over? Sure, but I miss it all the same.)
Will & Grace (I have my reruns to keep me warm, tho')
Arrested Development
Kingdom Hospital (Odd? sure. Uneven? You betcha. But how can you not love a show where Christ --or is He? -- shows up strapped to a chainlink fence? That's some mighty fine television, dammit!)
Dead Like Me
Joan of Arcadia (I'll admit to bias here -- Joe Mantegna is a friend.)
My So-Called Life
Tour of Duty (they had it backwards -- the show should have lasted for 11 years -- they should have cancelled the war after three)
St. Elsewhere
Sunshine (God, I had it bad for Bill Mumy -- I was sixteen, gimme a break!)
Star Trek (the original series)

There are probably more, but this is all that came to memory right off the top of my head. I told someone the other day that I'm a television jonah. I'm cursed. I'm taking it personally (because when you stop and think about it, who's it all about?)

Damn.... damn, damn, damn....

~C~

Why an MFA? Sr. Catharine of Perpetual Cellphone Bills Explains It All For You.

As I get closer and closer to finishing my MFA, I have had a couple of people ask me why I bothered, since its not like you can't write without one. This is ever so true. People all over the world write beautifully without MFAs in Creative Writing. So why, indeed? Why should a writer spend over $30K to get a degree that won't necessarily make them a better writer*?

I wrote an essay over at Helium that explains my stance on this issue. Hope you enjoy it, and I hope it answers all your questions about this topic... so that I don't have to.

~C~

*For the record, I have absolutely no doubt that the MFA experience has made me a better, braver writer.

What YOU Write!

But enough about me and what I write. Let's talk about you, and what YOU write. Or what you might write, if you be courageous enough to pick up the soon-to-be-thrown-down gauntlet.

Every year on November 1st, tens of thousands of intrepid writers and writer-wannabes gather over at National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo.org) to undertake the Herculean task of writing a 50,000-word novel in a mere 30 days. Impossible, you say? Nay, say I, and so says NaNoWriMo's founder and yearly participant, Chris Baty. Baty founded the site in 1999 with only 21 writers, convinced that the biggest stumbling block novelists face when sitting down to write a first draft is the absence of a deadline. Baty refers to the deadline as the single most important tool in writing, next to the implement with which the writer applies the words to paper. In his FAQ section, Baty writes:

"NaNoWriMo is all about the magical power of deadlines. Give someone a goal and a goal-minded community and miracles are bound to happen. Pies will be eaten at amazing rates. Alfalfa will be harvested like never before. And novels will be written in a month."

And they are. In fact, Baty lists eleven novelists who've published novels that were birthed as NaNoWriMo projects. There are no awards given (except an icon, a certificate and the satisfaction of a deadline met). It's art strictly for art's sake, says Baty. At the end of it all, a writer is guaranteed nothing but a good headstart (or, more optimistically, a completed first draft) of a novel.

But wait, I hear you say! We can't wait until November to begin our writing adventures. And besides, we laugh in the face of expositional narrative prose! This is Hollywood, baby, and in this town it's all about the screenplay. Well, fret not, my starsmooching little friends. For now, there is a sister site to NaNoWriMo called ScriptFrenzy.org. And if you hussle on over there right this minute, you'll be in time to sign up to write a 20,000-word screenplay in 30 days in the month of June. The same rules apply to the screenplays as to the novels (with the exception that screenplays may be written by a partnership of two writers, whereas novels must be singularly authored).

Writing is a solitary business, and one of its downfalls is that a writer can fall victim to the oppressors that live inside her own head. The benefit of spending 30 days, twice a year, locked in mortal combat with a literary endeavor, and being in that boat with thousands of other fellow combatants similarly engaged, is that you have back-up, support and many voices of sanity that will bring you out of your head and back on the path to getting the words out. As my mentor, Rob Roberge, has said, "A first draft's job is to get written." That's all. Just get written. Because every writer knows that writing is rewriting, and you can't rewrite what has yet to be written.

So, my little spectators, it's time to get those feet wet in a safe, supportive atmosphere where you don't have to show anyone your work if you don't want, but will find a receptive audience if you do.

Let's see what you guys can write. C'mon, baby. You know you want it.

~C~

What I Wrote

I've been writing and posting some essays and a couple of fiction pieces on Helium.com. The above link takes you to my bio page, where all my pieces are listed. I'd love it if you guys would read them -- the greater the number of hits, the higher in the ratings I rise (and the greater the opportunity for me to get paid).

If you want to join Helium, I'd be beholden if you could e-mail and let me know, so I can send you an official invite. You don't need it to join, but, again, it helps if people I've invited to read end up joining.

Some of the non-fiction topics so far have been on the following:

When Dogs Raise Kittens
Don Imus
Virginia Tech shootings
How I rate Helium pieces
Why Did the Chicken Cross The Road

A couple of my fiction pieces have been posted as well:

Death of the American Western
The Gibson Girl

Anyway, as I post, I'll post a notice here, too. I'd be much obliged if you guys would pop over from time to time to take a look at my writings.

Thanks.

~C~

By Any Other Name

My friend, Shannon, sent me this "name game" e-mail, and, since she suggested I share it with a "few friends," I figured I'd just post it on the Naked Chicken and be done with it. Here are the names of all my personalities for your amusement (my comments in blue):

1.YOUR PORN STAR NAME: (first pet and current street name):

Duffy Lasaine (no... seriously)

2. YOUR MOVIE STAR NAME: (grandfather/grandmother on mother's side first name, favorite candy):

Helen Roca (I'm eating some right now!)

3. YOUR "FLY GIRL/GUY" NAME: (first initial of first name, first three letters of your last name)

C-Sow (oh, hell no!)

4. YOUR DETECTIVE NAME: (favorite animal, name of high school)

Cat Providence (I so want to do a series of novels now!)

5. YOUR OPPOSITE SEX NAME: (name of dad/mom, cell phone Company you use):

Jack Verizon (Can you hear me now?)

7. YOUR STAR WARS NAME: (daily prescription medicine, make of car)

Buproprion Hyundai (Clearly on the side of the Empire)

8. SOAP OPERA NAME: (middle name, street you grew up on):

Amanda Vanowen (note to self: Future nomme de plume)

9. YOUR FASHION DESIGNER NAME: (first word you see on your left, favorite restaurant)

Harper Marmalade (That's The House of Marmalade to you peons!)

10. YOUR KUNG FU NAME: (favorite mineral, favorite animal)

Obsidian Cat ("I must kill you now, Wong Lee, to avenge my family's death!")

So these are my names. I think this just about covers all the little people living inside me. Except for Edna, of course, but we rarely talk to or about her. That girl is NUTS!

~C~

Down With Daylight Saving Time

Admittedly, this early transition to DST has left me completely in a muddle. I usually have a hard time "springing forward" anyway, but this year, I've been late to work every day this week, and daylight saving time is to blame. I'm not sleepy when the clock says I should be, I'm not hungry when I'm supposed to be, my entire inner clock has been thrown out of whack.

In short, I have had it.

Why on earth do we insist on enduring such a ridiculous custom, first proposed in the late eighteenth century, prior to the invention of the artificial light source? What can we possibly hope to gain? Are you aware that the Clorox corporation petitioned to have DST extended because they are the parent company of Kingsford charcoal, the single biggest selling charcoal manufacturer in the country? Think they might have had an ulterior motive for extending daylight evening hours?

And before you go and blame the poor farmers (as my mother used to when we had to turn our clocks), you should know that this was NOT an appeasement of those hardworking, underappreciated folks who grow our food. Unlike the rest of us, farmers' lives are not dictated by a clock, but by a calendar, and by the natural sunlight. When the sun goes up, so does a farmer, who has a finite number of hours of daylight to get the work of the day done. Regardless of what the clock says, those hours are fewer in winter than in summer, and, barring a major shift in the Earth's orbital trajectory around the Sun, will likely remain so for a good long while. Farmers are equally as inconvenienced by DST as the rest of us, so don't lay the blame for this idiocy on their doorsteps.

No, no... we can thank the United States Department of Defense for this one. Not to delve too deeply into the history of it all, because I'm just so bored with it I could scream, the War Department instituted the time change during both World Wars to conserve energy by reducing the need for artificial light in summer. It was abandoned after WWI, but somehow managed to stick around in some places after WWII, until, in 1966, Congress passed the Uniform Time Act of 1966, making DST a matter of national policy. Nice to see that whole mess in Vietnam didn't keep them from deciding truly vital matters of national policy.

Last year, in an effort to do anythingbutANYTHING rather than deal with the genuine fustercluck going on in the White House and Iraq, Congress took time out of its busy day to increase DST by four weeks (three weeks earlier and one week later). Yet again, Congress turned its back on a killing, illegal, immoral war and allowed itself to be distracted by... what?... time? Morons!

Enough already. The website End Daylight Saving Time has a proposal which would make DST all year round, and illiminate all but two time zones, Eastern and Western. We'd all change our clocks once... just once... then leave them alone forever and ever. No more trying to figure out how many hours to add to the Central... or is it Mountain... time zone. East and West.

Get the government out of our bedrooms -- specifically, off of the nightstand. They need to pick a time -- any time -- and run with it. And they need to do it now, because the redhead is getting mighty cranky from loss of sleep!

~C~

It's Just Not Right!

It's too much. I can't stand idly by while such a travesty is allowed to continue. If I do, I'll be an accessory after the fact. It is only be speaking up, by voicing our dissent, by loudly railing against wickedness and wrong where we see it that we can truly combat the forces of evil. It is for this reason that I say, emphatically and with no reservation....

Raisins have absolutely no business being in bread stuffing.

I'm sorry to have to be so blunt and unaccommodating, but I feel strongly about this, and I have no intention of backing down.

There. I've taken a stand. I've said what I came here to say. I've spoken my piece. Do your worst.

~C~

My New Place

The Digs.

What it lacks in space, it makes up for in being reeeeally tiny.

But it is forcing me to be meticulous and judicious about culling and keeping.

And it's 100% cigarette smoke free!

Wah-hooooo....

~C~

Who Says There's Nothing Good On TV?

The Python Channel.

(broadcast in high definition and 3D)

Contact your local cable provider for details.

~C~

Back From My MFA Residency

I just spent ten glorious days as a writer. Not a legal secretary who manages to squeeze in writing when she has the time and energy, but a writer. Considered so by other writers. I did a reading of one of my short stories, workshopped some essays, and got some really amazing feedback.

I got the mentor I wanted (Rob Roberge), and my co-mentees are some of my very favorite people in the program. I have to spend some time on my long (25 pages) critical paper, but I have a topic about which I'm very enthusiastic, and I hope to use it as the basis for my final grad lecture that I'll be giving in December '07, as a condition of my graduation from the program.

I can't believe I only have a year left of this. I was once so anxious to get it over with, but now that people that I've gone through the program with are starting to graduate and leave, its becoming clear how much I'm going to miss this when its over. Ah, well... still two more project periods to go, so I'd best not be counting chickens before they hatch and then get eaten by coyotes (sorry... went to the dark side for a minute).

Good to be back. I've got a ticker up top that's counting the days until my next Residency, specifically so I don't have to.

~C~

Christopher S. Lister, Where Are You?

Listen, bucko. I've got three words for you.... CHANGE OF ADDRESS!!! Okay? Got it? I realize that being a lousy letter-writer comes with the mitochondrial DNA, but enough is enough, kiddo. We may not have been raised together, but I'm still your big sister, and I can kick your ass! (And I believe that there's a section in the Bill of Rights that gives me express permission to just that. I'll have to look it up.) Now, in my profile at the right, there's an e-mail address. I've checked. It's good.

Now, write me. Or I swear to God, I'll hunt you down and give you an Indian burn like you won't believe!!!!

Love,

Me

~C~

Goodbye, Old Friend

"I have studied many philosophers and many cats.

The wisdom of cats is infinitely superior."
- Hippolyte Taine -

Jerry
1997 - 2006

New Island Discovered in the South Pacific

I call "Dibs"!

~C~

We Interrupt This Blog to Bring You...

... a very important message.

Mary-Mia and Rod from Do They Have Salsa in China* are finally, definitely, really parents. They are pictured in the post by Mary-Mia's dad (happy grandpa) holding their 1-year-old twins, Rose and Marie (they're identical, so please don't ask who's who), and have already spent a near-sleepless night. I think they're already earning their chops.

Congratulations to M3 and Rod and their new (enormous) family. May their "trial-by-fire" be swift, fair and relatively painless.

~C~
__________
*Ending months of speculation, Mary-Mia was able to obtain these shocking photographs that prove, once and for all, that they actually do have salsa (and tacos, if you can believe) in China.

Beauty is Pain -- But It Doesn't Have to Be

Ever since Dove put photos of real, untouched, unairbrushed women's bodies on their posters a few years ago, I've watched with cautious optimism to see just exactly where their so-called "Campaign for Real Beauty" was going. I have watched other media try and tackle the monsters of our twisted American perception of beauty, and have sighed with disappointment as the attempts fizzled in the face of "Extreme Makeover" and "America's Next Top Model" (two of my favorite shows, I confess). The message usually ends up being diluted back into, "All you chicks really could stand to lose ten pounds, cuz you'd just be so much happier, and so would we."

But Dove has surprised me at every turn. The first was their decision to shift focus from grown women to the self-esteem of the American girl, aged 8 and upward. This moving ad actually appeared during this year's Super Bowl, and has run sporadically since, as the opening volley to help little girls learn to love themselves (as Bridget Jones would say) "just as they are." Later this year, the slightly more alarming, darker interview style ad where high school girls discuss the pressures and uncertainties they feel at the hands of their peers, was a more graphic, grittier display.

Now, YouTube is all abuzz with Dove's latest effort -- targeting females of all ages, called "Evolution" which graphically demonstrates a young woman's transmogrification from very pretty and freshly scrubbed to cover girl material, by virtue of hair, make-up and Photoshopping techniques.



Bravo to Dove for taking on our deeply ingrained, perverted ideas of what beauty means, and let's hope that their fund, which sends counsellors into schools to help coach young girls about more positive body images, keeps rolling along.

~C~

Who'd Have Ever Thought...

... that we'd see the day when it was actually better for us to eat a Big Mac, fries and a Coke than a salad?

Two words, man...

SUPERSIZE ME!!!

~C~

Friendly Landscapes

My friends, Valerie and Matthew, spent 18 months landscaping their backyard into a gorgeous little oasis in the midst of a San Fernando Valley suburb. You can watch it all for yourself (compressed into an amazingly deceptive 26 minutes) on this Wednesday's episode of Landscaper's Challenge on HGTV.com.

Watch it.

No, no.

You don't understand.

I'm not asking.

I'm telling.

Watch it.

Or else.

I know your secrets, and I will reveal them. All of them.

Don't make me prove it.

Have a nice day.

~C~

Mary-Mia's Twins Aren't the Only New Babies Around

Okay, so Rod and Mary-Mia have an adorable set of twin girls waiting for them in China. And, yes, we all agree they're pickin' adorable.

BUT! Not to be upstaged or outdone, their house is not the only one that has a new baby (or two) to brag about. We have a new baby in our house, too. And she's every bit as cute as the twins, PLUS... and this is a biggie... she has a tail! Can Mary-Mia's twins boast a tail? Surely not. Not one tail between the two of them. And what about whiskers, dammit. Any whiskers on those round, apple cheeks. I dare say not!

So, while the Chinese twins are, indeed, precious and bitable, in our house, we're preoccupied with our own little baby. She was found by Savannah and her friends, under a bush in a BMX park, screaming her lungs out and a little dusty, but otherwise no worse for wear. We suspect she's about five weeks old or so (her eyes are still very blue, and she's obviously new to solid food). As you can clearly see, at the moment, she could fit quite comfortably inside a No. 10 business-sized envelope.

She remains unnamed as yet, but we're still trying to get to know her. If you guys have any suggestions, please feel free suggest any names if you can think of them. We only just named another kitten a couple of months ago, and we're fresh out of fresh ideas.

~C~

A Big, Honking Congrats!

After a year and a half of waiting, stressing and doing unspeakable things with Mentos and Diet Coke, Mary-Mia and Rod over at Do They Have Salsa in China have finally received their adoption referral.

The Naked Voodoo Chicken is dancing up a storm to celebrate not one, but two gorgeous baby girls, Rose and Marie (middle names are kind of in a state of flux as yet). Here's to a speedy travel date and to having the little girls home before (or at least very close to) their first birthday, sometime in October.

The best of luck, Mary-Mia and Rod. I can't think of a better reason to lose sleep than these little cuties.

~C~

Motherhood: The Real Skinny

My friends know me. They love me for who I am. And my friends who know and love me know better than to expect me to sugar-coat my opinions, even for them. So my friends do not come to me if they want to be in denial. They come to me if they want the straight scoop. Because that's what I'm going to give them. I'm going to tell them things they might not want to hear, but that will do them a world of good in the long run.

I have a problem wiht how America markets stuff -- the Iraqi war, the current gas crunch, our political candidates, the Democratic party platform -- but, first and foremost, motherhood. You know what I mean. You've seen the commercials. You know which ones... those Johnsons Baby Lotion commercials with the mother all dressed in a flowing, white organza kaftan, whisking her impossibly adorable, clean, happy baby, clad only in a diaper, over her head, while the window sheers behind them billow with a heady Spring breeze and the cat looks on admiringly?

Forget it. In real life, a minute later, the baby spits up and her flowing white organza kaftan is splattered with pre-digested baby food and/or breast milk. I'm sorry. But that's the real story, and every mother reading this knows it.

Here are a few things that women who long to be mothers but aren't yet don't want to hear about motherhood from those of us who've been there:

1. It's really hard work.
2. The first two years are pretty much body effluent. From every possible orifice. After that, it's just them doing thing you really wish they wouldn't do.
3. You don't always like the kid.
4. The kid doesn't always like you.
5. The first two to three months are the hardest, least pleasant time.
6. Sex is never the same again.
7. Your partner will probably not be as much of a help as he has said he will -- mostly because he didn't know how hard it was going to be.
8. The kid doesn't alway look good and smell good.
9. There will come a moment at some point in the process -- perhaps even several moments -- when you will wish you'd rethought the decision to have unprotected sex -- even if the pregnancy was well-planned. Most of the time, this feeling passes quickly if left alone and ignored.
10. You are not June Cleaver. Your husband is not Bill Cosby. This isn't a sitcom. It isn't a diaper commercial. It's real life. Let it go, for God's sake.
11. Did I mention the "hard work" part?
12. You don't deserve to get anything out of the experience. It's not your childhood, it's the child's. You better take your pleasure in the giving and the growth and the progress of your child's childhood.
13. And while we're on the subject -- Giving birth to your child is not your birth experience. It's the baby's birth experience. Quit making it all about you. (I hate that American women prance around like they freakin' invented childbirth.)
14. The work is really hard.
15. No. I mean, really hard.

Motherhood is not an Olympic event. It isn't a pageant or a contest. Even more than the military, motherhood is the toughest job you'll ever love. Babies ruin your life. If you're ready for them, and you've wiped the freakin' stardust from your eyes so you can see real-life, they do it in the best possible way. But get this, and get it good. Remember that story that women-who-wanted-it-all always told us about the women in China giving birth in the beanfield, then going on picking beans as if it were nothing. Forget about it. You're not a Chinese beanfield picker. That life that you love, full of weekend getaways and blissful Sundays lolling in bed, pouring over the Calendar section of the LA Times? Gone. Dinner parties? Gone. Every journey out will be chaperoned by a tiny, bald person with appallingly bad manners. Goodbye, Ma Maison and House of Blues. Hello, Bob's Big Boy and House of Pancakes. And, bear in mind, won't you, that each journey with your new constant companion will approach a complexity something akin to a NASA launch.

"Diaper bag?"
"Check."
"Five changes of clothes?"
"Check."
"Baby wipes for the baby, and small, mini-bar sized bottles of hard liquor for us?"
"Check, and double check."

I believe that the current wave of post-partum depression is not just hormonal. It comes from this frilly, florid imagining of what we think our experience will be raising our children. Then this mysterious little larval creature arrives, and we have no idea who he or she is, or what he or she is thinking, or "for the love of God, what do you want from me?"

That's when the depression hits. We are the end of the boomer generation, after all. There's nothing we can't market for our own edification. We came in fully prepared to "reinvent" motherhood. No, sir. Motherhood is way too old and way too set in her ways to be reworked by the likes of you. You don't reinvent her, she reinvents you. Understand this, accept the changes that it makes in you -- your body, your mind, your relationship with your significant other, your priorities -- and your path will be filled with little adventures and casual surprises. You can't imagine the simple, commonplace miracle of arriving in the nursery in the morning to a beaming, slightly damp ten-month old who has pulled herself to a standing position and is so happy to see you that she's rocking from side to side in a celebratory little crib boogie. It will shock and amaze you how having someone spontaneously hug and kiss you because you helped them into a fresh diaper and a clean, dry t-shirt can utterly melt your heart. But mostly you can't imagine before you become a mother -- no matter how hard you try -- just how much you will love your child. As much as you think, in your present anticipation of motherhood, that you think you will love that child, it doesn't even come close to the real thing. "Love" is, in my belief, a pathetically inadequate word for the feeling a devoted mother has for her child. It's far too common to sum up the emotion.

And its that love that makes it all possible. The giving. The thanklessness (newborns rarely say thank-you after the 2 am feeding). The drudgery (diapers after strained squash -- 'nuff said there). The imposition on the relationship with Mr. Wonderful (and my wish for every woman is that he truly is Mr. Wonderful). Those little miracle moments when it suddenly occurs to you that you've contributed a strange, relentlessly independent human to the world, and no one could have done it the way you did -- those moments make you happy and at peace.

Motherhood may not always be easy, and it may not always be as pretty as commercials, movies, and television paint it, and you can rest assured you are going screw up more times than you get it right. But, big picture, its a blessing and a joy and if you cut yourself some slack, and don't buy into the bill of goods, you'll never be sorry you did it.

Now then. Isn't that better than the mass-marketed crap you get from pregnancy and women's magazines?

~C~

Join Us At the Buffet

Today's post is in Pink.... and nothing could be more appropriate. Best Available's Deirdre and I have conspired to bring the unbearable cuteness of toenails to the blogosphere.

Please, join us at the Buffet of Cuteness.

You won't be sorry. Well, you might be. But we won't... and that's the most important thing, isn't it.

~C~

The Worst of Times

The end of July and beginning of August are always difficult for me, but I always forget why until long after I've melted down. July 20th is the anniversary of my beloved godmother's death from lung cancer. July 23rd is her birthday. August 9th is the anniversary of my own mother's death, from a cerebral hemorrage in 1991.

Sometime around mid-July… like, say, the 17th or so, I begin to get a little edgy and unsoothable. No amount of anti-depressants helps. By the 19th or 20th, I'm fully on edge and ready for trouble. I spend the next two weeks in a state of mood fluxes and surges that last until sometime around mid-August, when it dawns on me why I'm getting this way, and I'm able to pull it all together.

This month, I figured it out by August 13th, after I'd experienced an emotional meltdown in the middle of Hollywood Cemetery after a screening of the movie "PSYCHO" (no, neither the locale nor the thriller were to blame). I won't delve into the immediate causes, except to say that they surrounded the current stress I'm experiencing in my home life involving family and physical and mental deterioration (only partially my own).

Usually, though I complain a lot about it, I manage to handle the emotional upset of the situation I'm in quite well. Saturday night, standing in the cemetery, I simply fell apart. I did NOT want to go home. I did NOT want to deal with anything any more. I did NOT want to keep doing this caregiver thing.

Sunday, a quiet day of cleaning, grocery shopping and reflection, I realized why. I want my mommies. I want at least one of my mommies, preferably my godmother, Linny, who was infinitely wise about human beings and their weird-assed behavior, and had the patience of a saint. I need her now. I need her ability to be loving and kind in the face of hostility and anger.

I hate that she died so young (three days short of her 65th birthday), when we all thought she'd live to a ripe old age. I hate that she never got a chance to fight her cancer, because secondary physical complications from the disease and chemo kicked her ass too soon.

But more than that, and this is the part that's really kind of sinister and makes me disappointed in myself, I think I'm resentful that now, when I need mothering the most, the one person -- Linny -- who proved up to the task, has taken a cosmic powder (not her choice, I realize, but still... grrrrr....). I suppose this is just something I'm meant to figure out on my own. I suppose that all the answers to my pointless questions would be just as pointless if I got them (which I won't).

Still, knowing that this time of year is difficult for me, knowing that I'm a little emotionally raw, I have to remember that next year, so that I'm not so knocked for a loop. I wonder where I'll be next year. Another pointless question. Today is what I have to work with, so I guess I'd better get cracking.

But here's a little toast with Newman's Own Lightly Sparkling Lemonade to Linny, whose love -- I'm going to have to assume -- has given me the strength to get through this with my spirit intact.

}( clink ){

~C~

We Didn't Start the Fire

Ever heard of Catherine Sanderson? No? Me, neither. That's her picture on the right. Recognize her now? Yeah, neither do I. I sincerely doubt that Ms. Sanderson's own mother could make a positive ID from this photo, but for now, we'll let that go. According to this CNN.com article, Ms. Sanderson was recently given the sack from her administrative clerical job at the Paris office of conservative British accounting firm Dixon Wilson when her bosses discovered she was the blogger behind "La Petite Anglaise."

Though Ms. Sanderson identified neither herself, nor the firm, about which she wrote occasionally unflattering things, she was terminated for what Dixon Wilson called "gross misconduct." They told her that, by keeping the online diary of her daily experiences at the firm, she was potentially exposing the company to defamatory and damaging publicity. Ms. Sanderson disagrees, and is suing Dixon Wilson for two years' wages (the equivalent of roughly $98000).

I wish her luck, as I'm afraid that the days when executives could keep their bad, unseemly behavior, which they seem to save especially for their underlings, a secret. As long as an employee refrains from revealing actually company secrets, I think he or she should be perfectly free to write whatever they want, in the same way that journalists can chronicle their adventures, as long as they follow basic journalistic rules of truth, nonmalicious discretion and respect for the privacy of the nonfamous. It doesn't appear, given the CNN article, that Ms. Sanderson did much more than ruffle some twead-clad male egos. Many of her posts are personally driven -- about her life as a single mother, recently separated from her French lover, and raising her young daughter, whom she calls "Tadpole" in the blog. Her blogging about work seems to be particularly self-referential -- in the selected posts I perused, she doesn't seem to to intentionally set out to "out" negative executive behavior, short of how it affected her personally. Just the way a good online diary should be, actually. Everybody has a pseudonym, nobody is described too fully, except by their actions. All pretty clandestine, actually. I daresay, given the publicity generated by her firing and subsequent litigation, the disgruntled executives seem to have drawn more attention to themselves by firing her than they might have by giving her a stern warning and letting her appeal to her 3,000 regular readers. I guarantee you more than 3,000 people read the CNN article, and that those personally familiar with the executive line-up at Dixon Wilson know precisely who had the "plumby Oxford accent" and who the boss was who committed the "unforgivable faux pas" of releasing a Christmas popper before a higher-up.

Ms. Sanderson's plight does, however, reveal an interesting side of what we do here on a regular basis. I have written about work and work-related problems, both here and on the Chron. Sometimes, the things I've said have not been flattering. Could I be let go for the things I've written? I have never named names, nor been too overly specific about issues that roil up at work. But I've bitched about them, certainly. There are others, like Deirdre of Best Available, who have blogs specifically devoted to certain professions (which I would too, if I actually had an interesting profession. See? There I go again!). Deirdre's revolves around being a VFX coordinator. For those of you who don't know what that is, you'll have to click the link (when you're done here that is) to find out. For now, though, trust me. It's a cool gig.

Deirdre is very circumspect about where she works and with whom she consorts, and sticks primarily to discussing the ins and outs of the visual fx biz. But occasionally, even Deirdre has a rant... okay, more than occasionally -- and usually justificably. But since she's anonymous and she has revealed nothing personal about herself, do her rants count as being "defamatory?" I'm a fairly open blogger, in fact. But could my occasional blog blabs be considered "gross misconduct?"

Granted there's a world of difference between the movie industry and the world of high finance. It's a little difficult to fire me for gross miconduct when they're busy courting Roman Polanski, the convicted child rapist, to direct their next film. (I mean, what's a little under-aged sex between top level male movie mavens?) Still, it seems ironic that Ms. Sanderson should be punished for NOT saying who she is, where she works, and with whom. I wonder how a French civil court will find on the issue. You can never tell how they're going to go.

So, the best of luck to one of our own, who is still up and blogging (last I looked). Stop by and push her hit counter through the roof and show those stuffed shirts who's boss. Stick to The Man (or, more appropriately, L'Homme).

~C~

Tradition? You betcha.

My former musical theatre director's husband sent me this today... (thanks, Matt).

Never let it be said that the Japanese can't dance a mean Horah.



(For the record, I think they're actually quite good, especially since it appears that this is only a rehearsal.)

And... by the way.... What DON'T we love about YouTube.com, I ask you?

~C~

Spatulas in Space

Is it just me, or is this of some concern? I mean, what if beings from another galaxy -- with higher intelligence than ours, but with heads shaped like a stack of flapjacks -- should happen across our lost spatula? What if they completely misunderstand that the spatula on this planet is a universally peaceful implement, signifying love, brotherhood and chicken quesadillas? What if they misinterpret the existence of our spatula in space as a challenge -- a gauntlet, if you will -- to be taken up and volleyed back at us, in the first salvo of a cataclysmic intergallactic war.

Oh, sure... mock me if you dare, but mark my words. The careless act of losing a spatula in space could be nothing more than a blip in a footnote in the annals of this space mission. Or, it could be the beginning of the end of humanity as we know it.

Or... maybe its just me.

~C~