The one on NBC Wednesday nights, that is.
After a showstopper first season followed by Aaron Sorkin's drug and tantrum issues, followed by his departure which featured many a dry eye at NBC, The West Wing was becoming such a bummer for me. It was beyond "jumping the shark;" it had just started stinking mightily. It had lost the crackle that had made it appointment television when it first burst onto the scene. Some people may claim that it's Rob Lowe's absence that brought the show down, but I would respectfully reply, "Not so, Mrs. Lowe." It was way bad writing and boring character development.
So--am I showing my dorky colors by being actually, literally delighted that a TV program will feature both Alan Alda AND Jimmy Smits next season?! Maybe it's because I've been away from TV for so long, but West Wing last night gave me hope that it might--just might--return to its Aaron Sorkian glory next season. Alan Alda, I'm not ashamed to say, is a genius piece of casting, and Jimmy Smits---well, you don't need me to tell you how guapo he is.
Giddy Up!
Thursday, March 31, 2005
Wednesday, March 30, 2005
It's My Birthday
Tomorrow is my birthday.
I will be 33.
I remember being little and doing the math that showed that in the year 2000 I would be 28. I remember thinking that 2000 was as tangible or comprehendible as the other side of the moon. I mean, 28 would be ANCIENT. I never got around to doing the math for 33, mostly because my concept of aging could not support the notion of me actually being something ridiculous like 33. I mean, what would 33-year olds be doing anyway? It’s not like they had toys and recess and girl scouts and soccer games on Saturdays. Anything greater than 28 felt sufficiently ludicrous as to be of no consequence.
And yet, here I am. Down a girl scout membership but up a few toys, perhaps a more defined appreciation for recess, and still some soccer games on Saturdays. It’s not so bad. I’ve also learned quite a bit on my trek since that 7-year old math equation:
Taking the risk to love someone is always worth it.
Living well is always the best revenge.
Sunscreen and vitamins really are non-negotiable.
Beware the things with which you fill your life in order to escape from your life.
If you are intimately familiar with the story arcs on more than 3 television programs, sell your TV and get familiar with your OWN story arc.
Never forget how it felt to fall in love and have your heart broken; it makes you kinder to both your friends and kids when it happens to them.
If a guy disrespects his mother, he will disrespect you. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but the disrespect will come.
The responsibility for cutting the apron strings has to rest with the child. No parent can easily let go as long as the child hangs on; it’s not in our nature.
Corollary: Yes, financial support equals apron strings. Really.
Telling one painful, difficult truth will save you the heartache of the distrust created by many little lies.
Your integrity is all that you truly have; guard it with your life. Lose someone’s trust and you have lost everything.
You always have the power to choose how to act, be it dishonestly, kindly, rudely, positively.
A man cannot give you what he himself does not have to give. If he doesn't love himself he can never really love you; if he doesn't value honesty, he will never be honest with you.
If you get a dog, you WILL start buying each other gifts from him, even if you swear you won’t.
And to the boys in homeroom: shy fat girls do indeed blossom into gregarious women who can’t believe how fat YOU are at the reunion. ;)
I will be 33.
I remember being little and doing the math that showed that in the year 2000 I would be 28. I remember thinking that 2000 was as tangible or comprehendible as the other side of the moon. I mean, 28 would be ANCIENT. I never got around to doing the math for 33, mostly because my concept of aging could not support the notion of me actually being something ridiculous like 33. I mean, what would 33-year olds be doing anyway? It’s not like they had toys and recess and girl scouts and soccer games on Saturdays. Anything greater than 28 felt sufficiently ludicrous as to be of no consequence.
And yet, here I am. Down a girl scout membership but up a few toys, perhaps a more defined appreciation for recess, and still some soccer games on Saturdays. It’s not so bad. I’ve also learned quite a bit on my trek since that 7-year old math equation:
Taking the risk to love someone is always worth it.
Living well is always the best revenge.
Sunscreen and vitamins really are non-negotiable.
Beware the things with which you fill your life in order to escape from your life.
If you are intimately familiar with the story arcs on more than 3 television programs, sell your TV and get familiar with your OWN story arc.
Never forget how it felt to fall in love and have your heart broken; it makes you kinder to both your friends and kids when it happens to them.
If a guy disrespects his mother, he will disrespect you. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but the disrespect will come.
The responsibility for cutting the apron strings has to rest with the child. No parent can easily let go as long as the child hangs on; it’s not in our nature.
Corollary: Yes, financial support equals apron strings. Really.
Telling one painful, difficult truth will save you the heartache of the distrust created by many little lies.
Your integrity is all that you truly have; guard it with your life. Lose someone’s trust and you have lost everything.
You always have the power to choose how to act, be it dishonestly, kindly, rudely, positively.
A man cannot give you what he himself does not have to give. If he doesn't love himself he can never really love you; if he doesn't value honesty, he will never be honest with you.
If you get a dog, you WILL start buying each other gifts from him, even if you swear you won’t.
And to the boys in homeroom: shy fat girls do indeed blossom into gregarious women who can’t believe how fat YOU are at the reunion. ;)
Tuesday, March 29, 2005
You Might Be a Redneck If...
…you are not Scottish. By which I mean to say that I think, friends, that were I not from an off-the-boat Scottish family, I would be a redneck. Or, maybe more than a redneck. I might be a full-on hillbilly.
My family’s status as Scottish immigrants is, I believe, the only element saving us from USA Certified Grade A Prime redneckitude. How do I make this determination? Well, a few factors, one of which occurred this past week, that really make the case:
1) Growing up, we had a broken down washing machine in our back yard. It broke; my parents got a new one…and so didn’t have the extra money to pay to take it to the town dump. And so there it sat, for years, I think. In sheer high school embarrassment at one point, I even went so far as to wonder whether I could plant something nice in it and maybe hide that it was a non-functioning appliance in my back yard. I recall specifically seeding right around it, hoping that we would grow mammoth rhubarb to cover it. Broken Appliances in Yard---CHECK!
2) We also had an old indoor chair on our porch, where my dad liked to sit and smoke his pipe and watch the sun set. I used to sit out there with him, loving the smell of his pipe mixing with that fresh, zippy "tomato plant" smell from our yard, along with the remnants of whatever we had had for dinner. See? It already sounds like a Huck Finn evening, doesn't it? We just need a riverboat and some mischievous hijinks to make it complete. In any case, Indoor Furniture Kept Out of Doors--CHECK!
3) Our car, I’m a bit embarrassed to admit now but wasn’t at the time, had a “Sh&t Happens” bumper sticker. Yep. We were those people. We didn’t see any problem with that; after all, it’s not like we had a “Baby on Board” thingy. So, “Sh*t Happens Bumpersticker”—CHECK!
4) And the final reason that proves we are putative rednecks: this past week, my “blog-shy baby daddy” who likes to remain nameless, faceless and attributionless (and so most likely will never be mentioned again to preserve his secure, undisclosed status—and no, he’s not Dick Cheney) dropped the bambina off at my parents house while I was at the doctor being probed for green phlegm. He said the following: “Little H (my niece) met me at the door, midday, in only her onesie.” No sooner had my daughter been transferred to my parents than they had her pants off because their old people apartment is kept so d**n hot all day. So his view upon leaving our daughter was thus: two old people (mercifully fully clothed) and two half-naked chilluns—still wearing their shoes! Dear Lord preserve us.
And so! I give you: “Half-nekkid children in shoes with granmaw and granpaw”—CHECK! CHECK! and CHECK!
Next up: my daughter and I get matching mullets.
My family’s status as Scottish immigrants is, I believe, the only element saving us from USA Certified Grade A Prime redneckitude. How do I make this determination? Well, a few factors, one of which occurred this past week, that really make the case:
1) Growing up, we had a broken down washing machine in our back yard. It broke; my parents got a new one…and so didn’t have the extra money to pay to take it to the town dump. And so there it sat, for years, I think. In sheer high school embarrassment at one point, I even went so far as to wonder whether I could plant something nice in it and maybe hide that it was a non-functioning appliance in my back yard. I recall specifically seeding right around it, hoping that we would grow mammoth rhubarb to cover it. Broken Appliances in Yard---CHECK!
2) We also had an old indoor chair on our porch, where my dad liked to sit and smoke his pipe and watch the sun set. I used to sit out there with him, loving the smell of his pipe mixing with that fresh, zippy "tomato plant" smell from our yard, along with the remnants of whatever we had had for dinner. See? It already sounds like a Huck Finn evening, doesn't it? We just need a riverboat and some mischievous hijinks to make it complete. In any case, Indoor Furniture Kept Out of Doors--CHECK!
3) Our car, I’m a bit embarrassed to admit now but wasn’t at the time, had a “Sh&t Happens” bumper sticker. Yep. We were those people. We didn’t see any problem with that; after all, it’s not like we had a “Baby on Board” thingy. So, “Sh*t Happens Bumpersticker”—CHECK!
4) And the final reason that proves we are putative rednecks: this past week, my “blog-shy baby daddy” who likes to remain nameless, faceless and attributionless (and so most likely will never be mentioned again to preserve his secure, undisclosed status—and no, he’s not Dick Cheney) dropped the bambina off at my parents house while I was at the doctor being probed for green phlegm. He said the following: “Little H (my niece) met me at the door, midday, in only her onesie.” No sooner had my daughter been transferred to my parents than they had her pants off because their old people apartment is kept so d**n hot all day. So his view upon leaving our daughter was thus: two old people (mercifully fully clothed) and two half-naked chilluns—still wearing their shoes! Dear Lord preserve us.
And so! I give you: “Half-nekkid children in shoes with granmaw and granpaw”—CHECK! CHECK! and CHECK!
Next up: my daughter and I get matching mullets.
Saturday, March 26, 2005
A Little Something From China--
I learned yesterday around 2am that there apparently is no surer way to get the attention of the medical establishment than to call your doctor in the wee hours and say, "I have a 102.7 fever, I've got chills and aches and flu-ish symptoms, a lot of upper respiratory/coughing issues......and I just got back from China."
When I arrived at my doctor's (which is a major medical facility) it was like a less-dramatic scene from Outbreak. I walked in, and said, "Hi, I'm..." and the woman leapt out from behind the desk, finished my sentence for me, and handed me a surgical mask to wear. I was led to a private room and told to keep the mask on; everyone who entered the room was in mask, gloves, almost full medical riot-gear (not really). But it was definitely weird to be handled as if I was a "carrier" of something like SARS or avian flu.
I definitely felt like hell. No question about it. I usually avoid doctors as much as possible, but my temperature scared me sufficiently that I had to get some help. So, over the next several hours I had a battery of tests for lovely afflictions such as malaria, SARS, Influenza A and B, etc etc etc, all the while being kept isolated in case I was "live."
My favorite part of the day (if there can be such a thing) was meeting the Infectious Diseases doctor. He was extremely nice, very warm, and I could tell was trying to establish a timeline of exactly when coughing started versus when the sore throat started versus when the fever erupted in order to determine what I had brought home without declaring in customs. My favorite exchange went like this:
ID: "What color are you spitting up, if any?"
Me: "Dark Green. Very gross."
ID: "Do you have any of it in those soiled tissues there that I could take a look at?"
Me: "Um. Yeah. But that stuff is mostly yellow. The really nasty green one is already in that biohazard burn box across the room."
{Walks across the room and briefly considers reaching in, but defers upon seeing a pretty full box of godknowswhat}.
ID: "No matter. I'll take the yellow."
GENIUS!! I mean, you could not script a moment like that! If I had not had a raging fever and a hacking cough that was lifting my lungs out of my chest cavity through my throat, I would have chuckled at the fantastic piece of work from Central Casting as the Infectious Disease professional. Warm, likeable, and willing to go (almost) anywhere for some really nasty phlegm. I could tell he could NOT WAIT to get himself back to the lab and take apart my louie, atom by atom. Niiiice.
In the end, I have some kind of nascent pneumonia and potentially an influenza of unspecified nomenclature, which means Tamiflu, hardcore antibiotics (I think I need that Monistat coupon now!), and wearing surgical masks and latex gloves around others so as not to infect them for the next 2-5 days.
I know that some people are thinking that this is a pretty crappy ending to the whole China trip story, that it's such a rotten payoff, and that maybe it was a bad idea to go to China for my daughter due to health risks. Well, all I can say is a) She's worth it, and b) it beats an episiotomy!
When I arrived at my doctor's (which is a major medical facility) it was like a less-dramatic scene from Outbreak. I walked in, and said, "Hi, I'm..." and the woman leapt out from behind the desk, finished my sentence for me, and handed me a surgical mask to wear. I was led to a private room and told to keep the mask on; everyone who entered the room was in mask, gloves, almost full medical riot-gear (not really). But it was definitely weird to be handled as if I was a "carrier" of something like SARS or avian flu.
I definitely felt like hell. No question about it. I usually avoid doctors as much as possible, but my temperature scared me sufficiently that I had to get some help. So, over the next several hours I had a battery of tests for lovely afflictions such as malaria, SARS, Influenza A and B, etc etc etc, all the while being kept isolated in case I was "live."
My favorite part of the day (if there can be such a thing) was meeting the Infectious Diseases doctor. He was extremely nice, very warm, and I could tell was trying to establish a timeline of exactly when coughing started versus when the sore throat started versus when the fever erupted in order to determine what I had brought home without declaring in customs. My favorite exchange went like this:
ID: "What color are you spitting up, if any?"
Me: "Dark Green. Very gross."
ID: "Do you have any of it in those soiled tissues there that I could take a look at?"
Me: "Um. Yeah. But that stuff is mostly yellow. The really nasty green one is already in that biohazard burn box across the room."
{Walks across the room and briefly considers reaching in, but defers upon seeing a pretty full box of godknowswhat}.
ID: "No matter. I'll take the yellow."
GENIUS!! I mean, you could not script a moment like that! If I had not had a raging fever and a hacking cough that was lifting my lungs out of my chest cavity through my throat, I would have chuckled at the fantastic piece of work from Central Casting as the Infectious Disease professional. Warm, likeable, and willing to go (almost) anywhere for some really nasty phlegm. I could tell he could NOT WAIT to get himself back to the lab and take apart my louie, atom by atom. Niiiice.
In the end, I have some kind of nascent pneumonia and potentially an influenza of unspecified nomenclature, which means Tamiflu, hardcore antibiotics (I think I need that Monistat coupon now!), and wearing surgical masks and latex gloves around others so as not to infect them for the next 2-5 days.
I know that some people are thinking that this is a pretty crappy ending to the whole China trip story, that it's such a rotten payoff, and that maybe it was a bad idea to go to China for my daughter due to health risks. Well, all I can say is a) She's worth it, and b) it beats an episiotomy!
Thursday, March 24, 2005
Stop Me If I've Told You This Before
I'm tired.
"How tired are you?!!" you ask?
Not just sleepy, not just fatigued: bone tired, but in all the right ways. As you know, I just got back from China with a very dolce bambina. She's a happy chappy all the way around, smiling, laughing, yabbling, loving meeting everyone. But when it comes to bedtime, she is firmly still on China Time. That means that 7pm Eastern Time is 8am China Time. That means that she has zero interest in going to sleep. That means that not even well-timed naps during the day have made a difference. That means that she wakes up pretty much every hour on the hour throughout the whole night to see if I want to play and/or feed her yet. That means that the following has occurred in this house:
1) Falling asleep standing up--and subsequently falling over--luckily onto a soft surface
2) Looking at all of the horrifying political stuff going on here in the US (can you say "Wolfowitz?!") that I can't even begin to get a chance to read, much less comprehend and blog about
3) Wondering whether I should preface everything I say with "stop me if I've told you this before" because I can't remember what I've said to whom, when or why--even within the same 5-hour period
4) Actually having this conversation (a la Jerry Maguire) with a nine-month old child at 4:45am, after 11pm, midnight, 1am, 2am and 3am wakeups: "Help ME help YOU! Help ME help YOU! Just tell me what you need and I'll do/get/make it! Can you tell mama what you need?" To which she replied, "mamamblablablama" with a big smile. Mystery solved.
5) Looking at all the photos of us being taken and thinking, "She is gorgeous! What beautiful eyes! And looking at myself and thinking, "What beautiful eyebags!"
I swear I will get back to the serious bloggage as soon as the jet lag passes and I can get more than 40 minutes of sleep at a stretch, not to mention the strength to discuss social security, guns and Wolfowitz.
"How tired are you?!!" you ask?
Not just sleepy, not just fatigued: bone tired, but in all the right ways. As you know, I just got back from China with a very dolce bambina. She's a happy chappy all the way around, smiling, laughing, yabbling, loving meeting everyone. But when it comes to bedtime, she is firmly still on China Time. That means that 7pm Eastern Time is 8am China Time. That means that she has zero interest in going to sleep. That means that not even well-timed naps during the day have made a difference. That means that she wakes up pretty much every hour on the hour throughout the whole night to see if I want to play and/or feed her yet. That means that the following has occurred in this house:
1) Falling asleep standing up--and subsequently falling over--luckily onto a soft surface
2) Looking at all of the horrifying political stuff going on here in the US (can you say "Wolfowitz?!") that I can't even begin to get a chance to read, much less comprehend and blog about
3) Wondering whether I should preface everything I say with "stop me if I've told you this before" because I can't remember what I've said to whom, when or why--even within the same 5-hour period
4) Actually having this conversation (a la Jerry Maguire) with a nine-month old child at 4:45am, after 11pm, midnight, 1am, 2am and 3am wakeups: "Help ME help YOU! Help ME help YOU! Just tell me what you need and I'll do/get/make it! Can you tell mama what you need?" To which she replied, "mamamblablablama" with a big smile. Mystery solved.
5) Looking at all the photos of us being taken and thinking, "She is gorgeous! What beautiful eyes! And looking at myself and thinking, "What beautiful eyebags!"
I swear I will get back to the serious bloggage as soon as the jet lag passes and I can get more than 40 minutes of sleep at a stretch, not to mention the strength to discuss social security, guns and Wolfowitz.
Tuesday, March 22, 2005
My Ode to Air France
Yes, you read that right, folks. In this space and on this day, The Haggis will give a major Zut Alors! or some sort of Gallic "Big Ups" to Air France. I had to be convinced/shamed into writing this, but upon reflection, it's only right that I continue my ongoing mea culpas for trashing French people without due cause in earlier posts.
As mentioned before, my flight from Beijing to Paris was delayed by Parisian fog for over an hour. When the flight landed in Paris, my flight home to the USA was 20 minutes from takeoff a couple of terminals away. I had already resigned myself to spending the night in the Charles de Gaulle airport, because I did not have a visa to take my (still) Chinese citizen daughter into France. I was just sick about it, thinking about how I could find a flight that would land anywhere in the USA, even on the west coast.
Well, much to my unmitigated joy and admitted surprise, I stepped off the plane to find a lovely woman waiting for me and the bambina, who put us in a car and drove us directly to the right terminal and walked us right through to the jetway for the flight home. We were in our seats as the plane took off just 10 minutes behind schedule, with me just feeling such incredible gratitude and relief that Air France took the time and effort to make sure a lady and her baby made their flight. I was truly worried, not knowing what I would do to pass 24 hours in an airport with a new baby, where she would sleep, all the nightmare scenarios you can imagine. Luckily, Air France really came through for us, and I am so incredibly grateful.
So there. I said it. Air France Good. Haggis Grateful. French People Lovely and Helpful to Lady with New Baby.
Next post: pigs fly over DC.
As mentioned before, my flight from Beijing to Paris was delayed by Parisian fog for over an hour. When the flight landed in Paris, my flight home to the USA was 20 minutes from takeoff a couple of terminals away. I had already resigned myself to spending the night in the Charles de Gaulle airport, because I did not have a visa to take my (still) Chinese citizen daughter into France. I was just sick about it, thinking about how I could find a flight that would land anywhere in the USA, even on the west coast.
Well, much to my unmitigated joy and admitted surprise, I stepped off the plane to find a lovely woman waiting for me and the bambina, who put us in a car and drove us directly to the right terminal and walked us right through to the jetway for the flight home. We were in our seats as the plane took off just 10 minutes behind schedule, with me just feeling such incredible gratitude and relief that Air France took the time and effort to make sure a lady and her baby made their flight. I was truly worried, not knowing what I would do to pass 24 hours in an airport with a new baby, where she would sleep, all the nightmare scenarios you can imagine. Luckily, Air France really came through for us, and I am so incredibly grateful.
So there. I said it. Air France Good. Haggis Grateful. French People Lovely and Helpful to Lady with New Baby.
Next post: pigs fly over DC.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)