Im on the plane to a conference in Austin, TX. Im using my Bambina-Away time to create a mix CD for a dear friend/honorary family member who is undergoing chemotherapy. As a periodic sit-with-needle-in-you-and-get-stuff-infused person myself, I figured she might enjoy a CD of music to help pass the time. It seemed like such a simple idea, but now that I am creating it, I am realizing that music is such a personal element of ones life that it is hard to figure out what will be relaxing, meaningful, comforting or heartening to another person, no matter how well you might think you know them. Will she curse me as she has to keep hitting “skip” past all of the Frank Sinatra/Dean Martin live drunken Vegas shows that make me smile when I hear them but that might well annoy the hell out of her? Will she wish I had less Me and more Her in the mix? Will she think,“Who the hell is Dido?”
My anxiety about creating The Crappiest CD Of All Time for Perhaps The Most Amazing Lady of All Time made me wonder about the ineffable quality of music that--depending on the day and the life circumstance or memory it evokes--uplifts, comforts or inspires someone. I dont know. All I know is that it is different for everyone, and so I am going to restrain my urge to load the CD with 10-minute bagpipe riffs, (my retro balding-man crush) Francis Sinatra/Rat Pack and (my current hot balding-man crush) Dave Matthews. You will thank me later. Trust me.
So to our dear friend I say simply: feel free to hit “skip,"“delete,” or just avoid the whole damn thing altogether. Do whatever you need to do, feel whatever you need to feel, be whomever you need to be--and let it be OUR job to do what we can to support you in that. So the CD is created and sent with love and faith and support, but without any pressure to remotely enjoy it musically. In fact, I know from experience that some CDs make excellent beverage coasters... :)
Saturday, August 20, 2005
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
Something About Matty
This is my blog post about Matt.
See Matt.
Matt is E's friend.
Matt is a lovely man.
Matt is a lovely man who wants a post about himself because E posted about our mutual friend Bob some months back on the occasion of his wedding.
Matt has no "blogworthy" occasion, except for marking today as the day he officially filed his grievance of having no blog post dedicated to him.
Here you go, Matt. Don't say I never gave you nuthin'.
I met Matt in 1997 in Georgia. Matt had many a tall tale to tell about his ongoing hijinks, jolly japes and wacky-things-afoot. So many tall tales that I started to think that Matt was a compulsive liar.
No kidding.
I would say to friends, "It's such a shame that Matt doesn't believe that we like him, no matter whether he was offered the chance to do cocaine in a hotel suite in Paris with Michael Douglas or not..."
I seriously wanted to do an intervention on Matt to reassure him of our love for him, regardless of whether he took two bullets while riding his bike on the back roads.
Or whether he was run over by a drunk lady while riding his bike on the back roads.
Or whether...oh, you get my point. So many dramatic stories, so little chance that they could ALL be true, right?
A year or so later, meet the Matty Family.
All lovely, normal people.
All witnesses, in some form or fashion, to EVERY SINGLE ONE of Matt's improbable narratives.
Turns out he was telling the truth all along, about finding himself in otherwise bizarre situations and landing on his feet. Which makes him one hell of a storyteller---or the modern, cute version of Forrest Gump.
See Matt.
Matt is E's friend.
Matt is a lovely man.
Matt is a lovely man who wants a post about himself because E posted about our mutual friend Bob some months back on the occasion of his wedding.
Matt has no "blogworthy" occasion, except for marking today as the day he officially filed his grievance of having no blog post dedicated to him.
Here you go, Matt. Don't say I never gave you nuthin'.
I met Matt in 1997 in Georgia. Matt had many a tall tale to tell about his ongoing hijinks, jolly japes and wacky-things-afoot. So many tall tales that I started to think that Matt was a compulsive liar.
No kidding.
I would say to friends, "It's such a shame that Matt doesn't believe that we like him, no matter whether he was offered the chance to do cocaine in a hotel suite in Paris with Michael Douglas or not..."
I seriously wanted to do an intervention on Matt to reassure him of our love for him, regardless of whether he took two bullets while riding his bike on the back roads.
Or whether he was run over by a drunk lady while riding his bike on the back roads.
Or whether...oh, you get my point. So many dramatic stories, so little chance that they could ALL be true, right?
A year or so later, meet the Matty Family.
All lovely, normal people.
All witnesses, in some form or fashion, to EVERY SINGLE ONE of Matt's improbable narratives.
Turns out he was telling the truth all along, about finding himself in otherwise bizarre situations and landing on his feet. Which makes him one hell of a storyteller---or the modern, cute version of Forrest Gump.
I'm Suing McDonalds
Not really. I *like* when my coffee is hot enough to singe genitalia.
What I don't like is--well, several things:
First, that I had a moment of weakness and went there to buy The Bambina a chicken nugget happy meal. She LOVES the nuggets and the fries (thank you very little, Grandma and Grumpa for her introduction to The Evil Burger Empire).
Second, that the happy meals come with stupid toys I have to find a place for in my house.
Third, that it didn't occur to me to say "no toy, please."
Fourth, that the woman at the drive through asked, "Boy or Girl?" to determine whether she would put Barbie with Horse or a Hot Wheels car in the box. Without thinking, I said "Girl." Then I quickly had to add, "But I want the car. Not the Barbie."
Isn't it weird that instead of saying "do you want a Barbie or a Hot Wheels" that they ask if its for a girl or a boy? I guess most little boys wouldn't necessarily want Barbies--or maybe their parents just wouldn't go for it if they did. But why is my daughter--who is all about "the vroom vrooms" right now presumed to want a freakin' Barbie?
If I have my way, she will NEVER have a Barbie. Yeah yeah, the 47 inch boobs with 18 inch waist and all that. Definitely that. But more so the marketing juggernaut that liking Barbie entails. My niece caught the Barbie/Princess bug and it has been nonstop drama to keep her off the Barbie crack pipe when all of her friends have the car, the house, the outfits, the life sized doll, the panoply of "guy" friends and pseudo-ethnic friends who all play second banana to Ms. Whatsherlastnameanyway.
I don't know what it is. I just have a visceral reaction to the whole Barbie thing. Put simply, I'd rather spill boiling hot coffee down my skirt than be a parental slave to All Things Barbie.
What I don't like is--well, several things:
First, that I had a moment of weakness and went there to buy The Bambina a chicken nugget happy meal. She LOVES the nuggets and the fries (thank you very little, Grandma and Grumpa for her introduction to The Evil Burger Empire).
Second, that the happy meals come with stupid toys I have to find a place for in my house.
Third, that it didn't occur to me to say "no toy, please."
Fourth, that the woman at the drive through asked, "Boy or Girl?" to determine whether she would put Barbie with Horse or a Hot Wheels car in the box. Without thinking, I said "Girl." Then I quickly had to add, "But I want the car. Not the Barbie."
Isn't it weird that instead of saying "do you want a Barbie or a Hot Wheels" that they ask if its for a girl or a boy? I guess most little boys wouldn't necessarily want Barbies--or maybe their parents just wouldn't go for it if they did. But why is my daughter--who is all about "the vroom vrooms" right now presumed to want a freakin' Barbie?
If I have my way, she will NEVER have a Barbie. Yeah yeah, the 47 inch boobs with 18 inch waist and all that. Definitely that. But more so the marketing juggernaut that liking Barbie entails. My niece caught the Barbie/Princess bug and it has been nonstop drama to keep her off the Barbie crack pipe when all of her friends have the car, the house, the outfits, the life sized doll, the panoply of "guy" friends and pseudo-ethnic friends who all play second banana to Ms. Whatsherlastnameanyway.
I don't know what it is. I just have a visceral reaction to the whole Barbie thing. Put simply, I'd rather spill boiling hot coffee down my skirt than be a parental slave to All Things Barbie.
SSH ISO PERSON FOR HOT BOOK-ON-BOOK ACTION
Are you game?
I started reading What I Saw At The Revolution by Peggy Noonan. It's an old book, part personal memoir, part hagiography of Ronald Reagan, part college sophomore creative writing class project.
What I'm trying to say is that I can't take it anymore. I tried. I really, really tried. I wanted to read something by someone with whom I generally always disagree and with whom I do not identify in any way.
Check and Check.
But now I can't finish the book. I just cannot take what little free time I have to read any more of this drivel. The only thing is: I don't know how it ends. Does Reagan go on to become a beloved figure in American politics?! Does the Reagan Revolution stand the test of time, like The New Deal? Does Peggy Noonan work again? OMG! I have to know!
So here's my deal. If you will read the rest of The Noonan Papers I will read whatever other publication you are having trouble finishing. Any ideology. Any person. But not p*rn. And, on the other side of the cultural garbage continuum, not anything that gives money to the Dobson Focus on the Family organization.
Anyone? Bueller? I'll even pay for the postage.
I started reading What I Saw At The Revolution by Peggy Noonan. It's an old book, part personal memoir, part hagiography of Ronald Reagan, part college sophomore creative writing class project.
What I'm trying to say is that I can't take it anymore. I tried. I really, really tried. I wanted to read something by someone with whom I generally always disagree and with whom I do not identify in any way.
Check and Check.
But now I can't finish the book. I just cannot take what little free time I have to read any more of this drivel. The only thing is: I don't know how it ends. Does Reagan go on to become a beloved figure in American politics?! Does the Reagan Revolution stand the test of time, like The New Deal? Does Peggy Noonan work again? OMG! I have to know!
So here's my deal. If you will read the rest of The Noonan Papers I will read whatever other publication you are having trouble finishing. Any ideology. Any person. But not p*rn. And, on the other side of the cultural garbage continuum, not anything that gives money to the Dobson Focus on the Family organization.
Anyone? Bueller? I'll even pay for the postage.
Monday, August 15, 2005
My New Favorite Time Waster
http://www.playrps.com/
It's an online Rock/Paper/Scissors game.
Enjoy, dahlings.
It's an online Rock/Paper/Scissors game.
Enjoy, dahlings.
Gaza'll Be Seeing You...
So this is it. The withdrawal from Gaza. It had to happen, IMHO. There was no way around it, and maybe it was time. But the big challenge is no longer for Israel to meet. The Israelis have taken this monumental step; now we wait to see if the Palestinian Authority can live up to its name, provide for its citizens, and keep a lid on the rocket and suicide attacks upon its neighbor.
By all accounts, the PA lacks discipline, training and weapons. I wonder how they'll control and contain Hamas, et. al? My guess is that they won't, and we'll be back into the same downward spiral of death and carnage and fear--but without the PA's ability to heap the standard blame upon Israel for all that ails it.
I hope it all works out, but Middle East politics, hatreds and prejudices being what they are, I confess to feeling a lot of hope while simultaneously having very little faith.
By all accounts, the PA lacks discipline, training and weapons. I wonder how they'll control and contain Hamas, et. al? My guess is that they won't, and we'll be back into the same downward spiral of death and carnage and fear--but without the PA's ability to heap the standard blame upon Israel for all that ails it.
I hope it all works out, but Middle East politics, hatreds and prejudices being what they are, I confess to feeling a lot of hope while simultaneously having very little faith.
Sunday, August 14, 2005
The Lure of Exurbia
Just came back from our first reunion cookout for the families who went to China in our group last March. It was hosted by one of the families who live in a Dulles-area suburb of DC, about 40 minutes from Capitol Hill.
I have always deplored living in any location that required me to use a car to get a cup of coffee, mail a letter or see a movie. I still, in my heart, feel that way. But I have to tell you: seeing this family's shwank digs out in Reston/Herndon made me want to sell my DC rowhouse TOMORROW for nothing more than the space their kids have to live and play. My house has plenty of space, but it is very definitely vertical in nature. Their house is a mini-McMansion, with a finished basement, fabulous new hardwood floors, an orgasm-inducing kitchen with center island, Subzero fridge, etc. I was in heaven...except for the fact that it was 40 minutes from a Smithsonian, 15 minutes by car from a grocery store, and pretty much the only house within 10 square miles with a Chinese kid domiciled therein.
And yet....
I--even I--felt the lure of exurbia. The newness of everything, unlike my rowhouse built in 1912. The space, unlike my seemingly cramped living quarters. The unbelievable back yard, unlike my 10x10 postage stamp of a garden that requires all of my vegetables to be grown in containers due to the truly shockingly high level of heavy metals in the DC soil, not to mention the truly scary numbers of Asian Tiger Mosquitos (the kind that bite all day, rather than just at dusk) that make playing in said tiny back yard during the summer a complete fantasy. The huge kitchen that encourages people to hang out and chat while you cook (my Perfect Evening With Friends) rather than my tiny one that allows no more than two (2) human adults in its confines at one time.
All of this and more was beckoning me to Wisteria Lane. I decided then and there, before leaving their house, that my child would live in such an abode before the end of 2005.
And then I began the drive back to DC. 40 minutes. Two tolls. Countless Olive Garden restaurants. Numerous Macaroni Grills. Row upon row of prefab housing, "all made of ticky-tacky and all look just the same." And then I came to my senses.
No, my daughter will not have a huge yard. She will not have a huge, expansive, brand new bedroom with all the mod cons (modern conveniences, in Scottish speak). But her back yard will be the National Mall. Her playground will be the Smithsonian Museums. Her worldview will include children who have both more and less than she does. Children who are Christian and Jewish and Muslim and Hindu and Sikh and no religion at all. Her education will be at a quality public school, held to high standards not by the DC school board but by parents like me who will demand them. She will not have a "wired" bedroom. She will not have a built-in intercom system (unless you count me braying up the stairs at her as a "built-in" feature of our home). No, she will have to "make do" with all the house that 1912 could provide, with some basic updates like electricity and plumbing, but minus the wireless, technological and electronic bells and whistles so many kids have come to expect.
I know that some day she will feel like she has missed out by not being in a white bread suburb, far away from the realities that DC forces you to acknowledge. And some part of me will always wonder if I did the right thing in not giving up on this sometimes frustrating adventure we call Living in the District of Columbia Sans Congressional Representation. But in the final analysis, I have to believe that growing up with a realistic view of the world--coupled with the ability to be in it but not OF it--is the best gift any parent can give her child.
Although, if you live in a swank pad in the burbs, we'd gladly visit and use your stuff!
I have always deplored living in any location that required me to use a car to get a cup of coffee, mail a letter or see a movie. I still, in my heart, feel that way. But I have to tell you: seeing this family's shwank digs out in Reston/Herndon made me want to sell my DC rowhouse TOMORROW for nothing more than the space their kids have to live and play. My house has plenty of space, but it is very definitely vertical in nature. Their house is a mini-McMansion, with a finished basement, fabulous new hardwood floors, an orgasm-inducing kitchen with center island, Subzero fridge, etc. I was in heaven...except for the fact that it was 40 minutes from a Smithsonian, 15 minutes by car from a grocery store, and pretty much the only house within 10 square miles with a Chinese kid domiciled therein.
And yet....
I--even I--felt the lure of exurbia. The newness of everything, unlike my rowhouse built in 1912. The space, unlike my seemingly cramped living quarters. The unbelievable back yard, unlike my 10x10 postage stamp of a garden that requires all of my vegetables to be grown in containers due to the truly shockingly high level of heavy metals in the DC soil, not to mention the truly scary numbers of Asian Tiger Mosquitos (the kind that bite all day, rather than just at dusk) that make playing in said tiny back yard during the summer a complete fantasy. The huge kitchen that encourages people to hang out and chat while you cook (my Perfect Evening With Friends) rather than my tiny one that allows no more than two (2) human adults in its confines at one time.
All of this and more was beckoning me to Wisteria Lane. I decided then and there, before leaving their house, that my child would live in such an abode before the end of 2005.
And then I began the drive back to DC. 40 minutes. Two tolls. Countless Olive Garden restaurants. Numerous Macaroni Grills. Row upon row of prefab housing, "all made of ticky-tacky and all look just the same." And then I came to my senses.
No, my daughter will not have a huge yard. She will not have a huge, expansive, brand new bedroom with all the mod cons (modern conveniences, in Scottish speak). But her back yard will be the National Mall. Her playground will be the Smithsonian Museums. Her worldview will include children who have both more and less than she does. Children who are Christian and Jewish and Muslim and Hindu and Sikh and no religion at all. Her education will be at a quality public school, held to high standards not by the DC school board but by parents like me who will demand them. She will not have a "wired" bedroom. She will not have a built-in intercom system (unless you count me braying up the stairs at her as a "built-in" feature of our home). No, she will have to "make do" with all the house that 1912 could provide, with some basic updates like electricity and plumbing, but minus the wireless, technological and electronic bells and whistles so many kids have come to expect.
I know that some day she will feel like she has missed out by not being in a white bread suburb, far away from the realities that DC forces you to acknowledge. And some part of me will always wonder if I did the right thing in not giving up on this sometimes frustrating adventure we call Living in the District of Columbia Sans Congressional Representation. But in the final analysis, I have to believe that growing up with a realistic view of the world--coupled with the ability to be in it but not OF it--is the best gift any parent can give her child.
Although, if you live in a swank pad in the burbs, we'd gladly visit and use your stuff!
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