Those boots were made for ...

She talks a good game, that AnnaRay. She would like us all to think Condi Rice's footwear is an evil reflection of the darkness in her (Condi's) soul, but she (AnnaRay) is not fooling anyone. At least, she's not fooling me. AnnaRay thinks those boots are hot. She's always had a thing for straight women, and who else would wear those boots, man? Those shoes are NOT comfortable. I'm in pain just looking at them, though I guess that's the point.

It doesn't bother me that AR likes the ladies who don't necessarily like the ladies. I know I'm not her type, and she's not exactly mine either. I tend to go for smaller, swarthier types - soccer players, not golfers. Who ever thought I'd end up with a pale and lanky 6-foot wasp? Certainly not my high school friends, who insisted I would end up with someone just like dear old Dad, (a fierce little Jewish guy.) I of course insisted that I would do no such thing, and perhaps falling for Anna was my subconscious way of making sure of it. I mean, the only way she could be more different from my dad would be if she were black.

But the joke's on me. AnnaRay is JUST like my dad. She's a workaholic (just like my dad); she often communicates by imitating animal noises when unable to communicate like a normal person, which is often (just like my dad); she's really good at stickball (just like my dad); she has lots of imaginary friends (just like my dad). AnnaRay will point out that she is much nicer than my dad, which is true, but she's not as good with money. So I guess the one who was really off the mark in this whole scenario is my grandmother, who liked to advise: "it's just as easy to fall in love with a rich man as it is with a poor man."

Sorry, Grandma. I blew it.

The crud that ate Portland

Or at least our little corner of it. We've all been out of commission this week with varying versions of a really nasty stomach flu. The bad news: The Boy has been sick all week, starting with a very messy 3 a.m. wakeup call to his Moms last Sunday. The good news: Everyone I cover got this first, so clearly our familial illness is a sign I'm doing my job well. Whoo-hoo!

When I returned to the world of the living, I was surprised to find out that Lord Vader had taken over the planet. I guess I'm glad the administration is now dressing in line with much of its foreign policy. It's better that we not confuse the rest of the world, lest they get the wrong idea.

An excellent use of your time

The Boy has finally reached that much-anticipated stage in which his verbal skills have exploded. It seems he has words for everything now. The only problem is I can't understand most of them. I spend a good part of my day trying to decipher his odd little language, which has all the familiar vowel sounds we know and love without the pesky interference of consonants. To be fair, he spends the better part of his day repeating the same word over and over and over and over and over and over until I get it, which has got to be frustrating. He is very patient with me.

If you'd like to take a stab at communicating with The Boy, GO RIGHT AHEAD. (I promise you a fabulous interactive multimedia experience if you click on this link. Satisfaction guaranteed or your money back.)

And when you're done, maybe you can answer this question for me: do you think it's about time I got a job?

You'll need the Flash 5 (or later) player to see this. If you don't have it, you can download it HERE.

Among the things . . .

I never thought I'd do in my life: Buy tickets to this.

What we'll do for love.

What a week!

My week of solitude is almost over. And it turns out, I'm way more productive with the family in town. For example, this week . . .

I did not learn to play barre chords on my guitar.
I did not get a haircut, even though I really need one.
I did not eat a vegetable, unless you count tomato sauce.
I did not get my driver's license or my register the Subarus with the fine state of Oregon.
I did not get anywhere near enough work done, despite staying in the office until 8 every night.
I did not finish any of the DVDs I rented, because I have the attention span of a gnat.
I did not eat all of the Girl Scout cookies, despite my best efforts.
I did not clean the dog poop out of the backyard, or wash the floors, or do any laundry. (The basement scares me.)

The list of things I did is much shorter:

I did crash Judybat's Mac five times trying to play SimCity 4.
I did finish the brownies she left me.
I did finish the Heineken.
I did finish the pizza.
I did break down and take a Tylenol Sinus at work even though I'm probably not supposed to do my job stoned.
I did drink my weight in coffee.
I did turn on a Madonna CD and dance around the house half-dressed.

The dogs HATE that, by the way.

Adventures in babysitting: day 3

It seemd like a good idea. The Boy and I would fly down to L.A. to hang with the daughter of good friends for a few days while said friends had a little kid-free ski vacation. I was looking forward to getting to know The Girl, (just six weeks younger than The Boy,) a little better and for the opportunity to watch the kids romp together.These are two of the most easy going kids I've ever had the pleasure to know, so it couldn't be too great a challenge.

Sure enough, all went well. I was gratified by the sound of tiny stomping feet and bubble burst giggles as the two chased each other around the house. They were definately getting a kick out of each other, and I was pleased with myself for getting them fed and bathed and to bed on time, for synching their nap times and keeping them generally unscathed.

But then ...

It started this morning with the children waking up an hour and a half early (6 a.m.) followed by an inordinate amount of whining, what with their intense need to be playing with exactly the same thing at every single moment. No worries. I whipped up some french toast spread with nutella and enjoyed a few moments of silence as they were distracted by this breakfast treat. Ah, a few moments to read the paper, I thought, and stepped outside to get the Times from the end of the driveway, not knowing that the front door locks behind you if you let it close. It's not quite 8 a.m., I'm locked outside in my pajamas, and I have two tiny creatures staring at me from inside with their nutella-smeared faces pressed up against the window.

Fortunately, my friends have friendly neighbors, and these neighbors also have a small child, so they were up and about and ready to help, and fortunatley, these lovely people also know how to pick a lock with a library card.

So, all is well. No lasting damage save for a little embarrasment. Nothing new for me. I clean up the kids, clean up the kitchen, clean up the nutella-smudged window. The kids are once again playing together harmoniously, so I figure I'll get a little snack together for a late-morning outing. I open a cabinet in search of raisins - using no undo force, I swear! -and the entire door, including the frame where the hinge is attached, comes off in my hand.

Ok, so no we have some minor property damage. Nothing I can't fix while the kids are napping. It's all good. Oh, did I mention that the washing machine has been stuck on final rinse all morning?

Only 36 more hours to go.

This isn't fun anymore

OK. That's it. I've had my pizza and my beer and my Tylenol PM and my wine and my insane, stomach-churning amount of Girl Scout cookies. Now it's time for them to come home. Something has happened to my brain: I am no longer hard-wired to work constantly. Come home. It's time. Stop playing.

Romance isn't dead

Don't believe a word my dear, sweet Judybat says when it comes to my geeky tendencies and when she discovered them. She knew good and well from almost the beginning that I am an incredibly huge honkin' nerd. And she loves it.

These are the most romantic movies ever, at least in my oddly colored view of the world:

1) The Empire Strikes Back
2) Casablanca
3) The 1993 UNC Tar Heels season video
4) Bull Durham
5) Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind

I am, by the way, still by myself and still unhappy about it. At least I finally got my pizza.

Second thoughts?

If I had known that The Empire Strikes Back' was AnnaRay's idea of THE most romantic movie, would I have dated her long enough to leave her that hideous box of chocolate on our first Valentines Day as a couple, leading her to believe that something had died on the front seat of her car? Perhaps, but if I had known that she would not recognize the gift for what it was - my ironic comment on the capitofacist societal pressure to be romantic on command (hey, it was college) - and still be scarred enough to be harping on it YEARS later, would I have continued to date her long enough for us to marry and raise a kid? Ok, probably yes. But she was such a tender shoot when we first met - so young, so naive - I'm sure I thought on some level I could mold her into a close approximation of an adult. Ah, such delusions. I guess I was young and naive too. When I suggested this trip she said, 'oooh, I get to work till 9 and eat pizza every night.'

There has been some progress, though; at least she's eating salad with her girl scout cookies.

All by myself, day one

Judybat and The Boy are in Los Angeles for the week, babysitting for friends and generally enjoying the high life. Meanwhile, I'm slipping back into single life with wild abandon. This evening's menu: Salad. Brownies. And all the Tag-Alongs I can eat.

They're gone one day, and I'm already pathetic.

Fake holidays

I was going to use this time and space on a diatribe about Valentine's Day and holidays that aren't actually holidays and are only creations of Hallmark and Russell Stover and the military industrial complex. Every year at about this time, Judybat and I have to remind each other, as we pass yet another store that looks like Cupid has vomited on it, that we don't give each other gifts on or about Feb. 14. (There have been two exceptions. Once I sent her roses. And once, way back during our courting days, she left me the biggest, ugliest box of chocolates you've ever seen on the front seat of my car. It was terrifying.)

But a funny thing happened this year. Judybat and The Boy are leaving me for the day. And I suddenly find myself desperately sad about the prospect of spending the faux festivities without them. So here are my plans for the night: Work late, order pizza and console my poor little self by watching the most romantic movie
I know for what might well by the 100th time.

Hello, my name is JudyBat, and I'm a neurotic parent

I thought I had a pretty good idea of the kind of parent I'd be long before the boy came along. Anna Ray and I used to enjoy judging the parenting styles of friends and familiy, because why should we wait to to gain any practical knowledge of a subject before casting aspersions on how others approach it? I was never going to be one of those parents, for example, playing mozart for my unborn child, weening him on a steady diet of Baby Einstein tapes and enrolling him in pre-school SAT prep classes. There would be no academic pressure coming from me, no siree bob. But I found myself just the other day thinking I haven't been growing his brain properly because after a week of pointing out the color of things to him, he still hands me the red ring when I ask him for the yellow one. I consoled myself with the thought that maybe he's just color blind.

And I always thought my most important job as a parent - right after not killing the baby - was to raise an independent child, to send him into the world with no apron strings attached. (A relatively simple task, you'd think, since I don't even wear an apron.) I would not be a hoverer; I would not have a clingy kid. If he fell and scraped his knee I would say to him, as my mother said to me: "don't bleed on the carpet." Apparently,I'm doing the job right, but I can't say I'm pleased with the results.

Today we went out for a walk, which for The Boy means a bobbing stomp of a run down the sidewalk. I let him run ahead, confident that he will stop when he gets to the street, turn around and hold up his hand for me to hold as we cross. (This gesture kills me. It crumbles my heart into tiny pieces. How did I merit such a sweet, sweet boy?) He's independent, yes, but so far the kid knows his boundaries. On this day, however, the kid did not know his limits. He bobbled just a little to fast and out of control and into a face plant on the concrete. I held my breath for a second to see what he would do - it always takes a second for them to decide whether to laugh or cry - and when he let out a wail I was right there beside him to dust him off and hold him in my arms. But he didn't want my comfort. He wanted his blankie.

So there I am, proud that the kid wants to stand on his own tiny feet, and horrified that he's crying for an inanimate object when his own mother is kneeling right there next to him. The worst part of it is: he calls his blankie "daddy."

Reunited, and it smells so foul

The family diaspora finally came to an end late last week when a very large, windowless truck pulled up. . . and out came the dogs. They had been bouncing from home to home in North Carolina since we left Red State America in November. And they seem no worse for wear, although they are wilder than I remember. No surprise there, since they spent the last two weeks in a truck.
(Their Aunt Elizabeth didn't want them flying, which I can understand.)

Now we know what Oregon smells like in the winter: Wet dog. These beasts smelled nasty enough in a dry place. Here where it's moist and fertile (heh-heh, that sounds dirty!), they're absolutely disgusting.

But the family is back together, which is apparently what counts. The Boy walks around these days saying, "Dahg, dahg, dahg," over and over again. And the house does feel safer. After all, we have two canine superheroes in our midst. You might have seen their show back in the days when we all sat around watching Saturday morning cartoons and eating Cap'in Crunch: "The Adventures of StinkyPee and BiteyMouth."

StinkyPee, otherwise known as BigDog, has the ability to produce supernaturally smelly urine when in stressful situations. That's useful for scaring off bad guys, or cats, or his owners. BiteyMouth, otherwise known as SmallDog, uses her extra-sharp teeth and ear-shattering yippy bark to herd wayward sheep back to the flock. (I seem to be the only living thing she confuses for a sheep, but I'm sure that's a sign of love.) Together, these two lovable caped canines had lots of adventures back in the heyday of TV crime-fighting cartoon characters. I'm sure you remember them: "The Case of the Chewed Up Shoe." "The Mystery of the Massive Pile of Dog Poop on the Rug." And, of course, my personal favorite, "That Time StinkyPee Dug a Hole in the Fence, Crawled Out, and Got Hit by the Car, Costing Us Much Heartache . . . and $2,000."

Stupid dogs. It's a good thing they have a swinging theme song.

Slow news day

In lieu of a post, here is a fish:

Just something I'm wondering

Do cool, good-looking people know they're cool and good-looking? Or is it all relative? Do we all think we're pathetic losers with no sense of style or self-confidence? Or do the people the rest of us look at and go, 'Cool,' realize we think that about them?

What prompts such questions -- besides my raging insecurity and tendency to think too much -- is a morning spent hanging out with TheBoy at our neighborhood independent coffee shop. (As opposed to the Starbucks across the street. Portland is funky and progressive and anti-corporate, yet there's a Starbucks, quite literally, on every freaking corner!) The place was filled with good-looking people, lots of hip young couples in their fleece and leather and a table of women who clearly just walked in off an HBO or Showtime set. (Note to Judybat: There was LOTS of girl-girl public affection going on. It's one of THOSE coffee shops.) Meanwhile, there I am reading John McPhee -- 25 year old nonfiction! In public! I'm such a geek! -- wearing dirty blue jeans, a Brown sweatshirt that has needed to be washed for several weeks and a baseball cap to hide the fact that I haven't washed my hair and am in desperate need of a haircut.

I've never pretended to be cool. I know where I stand in the world, and it's over with the smart, well-meaning misfits. Nothing wrong with that. In fact, the older I get, the more I take pride in it. But I do wonder: Do the cool kids realize they're cool? Is that why they seem so relaxed in the world? Do the attractive people, I mean the ones who aren't paid for being attractive, know that they're more pleasant to the eye than the average Joe on the street? Do other people ask themselves these questions? Am I just overcaffeinated?

A confederacy of numbers

In the interest of moving things in a more practical direction, let's look at some numbers:

Lawyer's fees for drawing up 2 wills, 2 powers of attorney and 2 healthcare powers of attorney that would not be necessary were we able to legally marry: $750

Fees for same-sex, second parent adoption that would not be necessary were we able to legally marry: $1,500

One big happy family: Priceless

Actually, I suggested to AnnaRay that we not adopt each other's children, (she is at bat for the next one,) because we could then each declare ourselves as a head of household with 1 dependent and save a bundle on taxes. But it's not just the money I'm after; it's the feeling of flipping the metaphorical bird to a government that insists on denying us equal rights based on the outlandish notion that allowing us to marry would threaten the venerable institution of marriage, thereby rending the very fabric of our society. Seriously, can someone explain that to me? Can someone explain how we, a paragon of monogamy providing a loving, stable and smoke-free environment for our child, are a threat to the matrimonial bonds of Mr. and Mrs. Heterosexual? (Actually, divorce rates have been declining since 1992 - the same year Ellen Degeneres came out.)

Instead of banning gay marriage, how about requiring couples to be at least 25 years of age before they can marry, since those marrying younger are twice as likely to get divorced. And while we're at it, maybe we should ban born-again Christians from marrying, since they have among the highest divorce rates in the country. Let's not stop there - let's have a constitutional amendment to ban Bible-belt marriages, since the divorce rate in southern states is 50 percent above the national average.

But I digress. AnnaRay has a profoud desire to adopt The Boy, which outweighs any satisfaction I might derive from thumbing my nose at the government and saving a few (hundred) bucks. I find it interesting she feels this way, because she couldn't possibly be any more of a mom to him than she already is. Also, she's always saying if and when gay marriage is legalized, we might not even bother to get a license, since a piece of paper wouldn't make us any more married than we are now. Funny, because I'm already planning the party we're going to have when we get married under the law.

Adoption will also mean a great deal to the grandparents - AnnaRay's parents, that is - but I suspect that's because, having married in the Baptist church in North Carolina when they were 19 or 20 or so, they've got more divorces than children between them, and therefore have a different sense of the mutability of marriage than my folks do - all New York Jews who married after the age of 25 with not a divorce among us. (Except for my grandfather, but I don't think that should count, since he was 92 when he divorced his wife of 30+ years, which says more about the sanity in our family than how we feel about marriage.) My point is that Anna's folks (stepfolks included) are nuts about The Boy and can't bear the thought of ever being parted from him. In fact, the one thing we kept harping on to ameliorate the pain of our moving Their Boy 3,000 miles across the country was that AnnaRay could adopt him in Oregon and make them legal grandparents. Not that a piece of paper will make these people any more loving and caring and willing to spoil the kid than they already are. The irony is that in many states the parents of our anonymous sperm donor, whoever they may be, have more legal rights over The Boy than 5 people (that includes AnnaRay) who actually love him.

And I haven't even given birth yet

Nobody warned me how painful parenting can be.

Seriously. I love my job. LOOOOOVE my job. Hell, you might say I live my job many days. But more and more, during the few moments in any given day that I actually have to think about something other than work, I find myself aching for The Boy. His new haircut doesn't help. Judybat took him to a big-boy barbershop in what we Portlanders call Hollywood (why does every reasonably sized West Coast city have a Hollywood? Anyone? Anyone?) and got him the Number 4, the U.S. Air Force Officer. As Judybat put it, he's the picture you would find in a 1950s Webster's dictionary under the listing for, 'Boy.'

Today, I was walking back from an appointment, feeling very Lois Lane with my trenchcoat flapping just so and my notebook tucked neatly in my pocket. Then a group of preschoolers rounded the corner, coming right toward me. They were holding hands, and walking in these neat little lines, and looked like a group of happy little ducklings following their mommy. Every little boy had the Number 4, the U.S. Air Force Officer. I nearly cried right there. And yet, when I got back to the office, I became engrossed in what I was doing and wound up staying until 7 p.m. because there was something I really needed to get done.

As I said, I love my job. In my free time, I read about it. In my sleep, I dream about it -- good dreams, mostly. But all the same, I pine for the child. How do people, women especially what with those maternal instincts that I really do believe are buried deep in our genetic code, do this? How do you balance work and family and all the good stuff you're supposed to do before you die? I wish I knew the answer. Instead, I'm going to go downstairs and stare at the kid in his sleep. It's creepy, but it's love.