Hello Bubbie

This weekend, our big, happy interfaith family (OK, our three-person, two-Jew, one-pretty-much-nothing family) celebrated Passover at two (2) seders. We hosted neither. And yet, somehow, Judybat ended up spending alllll day Saturday and alllll day Sunday cooking.

Not to sound like I'm not in the Pesach spirit but, um, what the heck? This was the year we were supposed to be relaxing and settling in and mooching off the good will and charity of our Semitic neighbors. But Judybat, my sweet, good-natured, never-stubborn Judybat, is both Jewish AND Italian. Which means she loves to cook. And she needs to cook. It's how she shows her love. And eating her food is, of course, how you show you love her. If you're smart.

You'd think making one thing would be enough to prove that she's both a loving, caring, incredibly warm person and a well-mannered guests. Here's the list of items Judybat offered up for the weekend: Almond macaroons, matzoh ball soup, fried eggplant with yummy green sauce, chocolate macaroons. (Those were The Boy's favorite: "Too cuh-kee, too cuh-kee!") I'm not really complaining, just noting that this is one many eccentricities I've learned to live with. And I do benefit: Last night, even though we were cranky with each other for some reason I've forgotten already, she made me a tuna melt on matzoh.

Elijah himself never had it so good.

And speaking of square one . . .

Can't talk right now. I'm too busy weeping. And NOT in a good way.

I don't blame the big, stupid, soon-to-be-filthy-rich boys. They certainly deserve to go earn whatever they can while they can. But . . . awwwww. This sucks!

I guess it could be worse. Oh, wait. It is.

I feel like going all Steinbrenner on somebody. This is another aspect of fandom that JudyBat does not get. Lucky girl.

Square one

So today I started looking for a job. I didn't pound the pavement or anything; I just called up some people at some colleges about some adjunct teaching positions. After a decade of working as a journalist and a lifetime of getting in people's faces, I don't really have a problem cold calling people, but I found myself getting all nervous. I had to do the following dance to work myself up to the task:

Pick up the phone; hang up the phone; take a deep breath and start again.
Misdial the phone; hang up the phone; take a deep breath and start again.

What's the problem here? I have skills! Marketable skills, even. But I still feel like I did my senior year of college when I wrote the following on a post-it note and stuck it to my Mac Plus computer screen:
- Call mom
- Buy tape
- Think about future

At the time I was overwhelmed by the thought of what to do with my life, because I knew that college had prepared me to do any job, but there wasn't any job I was qualified to do. Now I'm overwhelmed by the thought of what to do with my life, because I know there are lots of jobs I'm qualified to do, but I'm feeling less than able. How did that happen?! Is this what five months of unemployment does to a person?

Maybe it's not that I feel unable to do the work so much as I just don't want to work. Not that hard, anyway. Not that kind of I'm-starting-out-in-a-new-position-and-I've-got-to-show-them-what-I've-got kind of work, or the I've-just-started-out-in-a-new-position-and-I've-got-to-get-up-to-speed-on-all-the-new-technology-that's-come-out-since-I've-been-sitting-at-home-on-my-tuchus kind. I have this history of talking my way into positions that are way over my head and working said tuchus off to get to the point of competency of someone whom they might have hired had they been interested in paying for someone who was actually qualified for the job. It's a great way to be - underpaid, but never bored.

But I'm tired now. I'm ready to rest that tuchus on my laurels and get paid really well to do it. Forget about teaching - I hear Tyco needs a new CEO. What is it they do again?

Habemus Papam

I'm not Catholic, and the closest I've ever gotten to being Catholic was my high school boyfriend (shudder). But I must confess I'm fascinated by papal succession. Maybe it's the pomp. Maybe it's the fey, gin bottle Swiss Guard uniforms. Regardless, I couldn't take my eyes off the TV this morning during that whole wacky build up to the new guy's emergence onto that balcony. Crazy Catholics.

And then . . . I had a little conversation with myself.

Irrational AnnaRay: Hey, what a shock, an old white guy who looks vaguely like Emperor Palpatine!
Rational AnnaRay: All old white guys look like Emperor Palpatine. Besides, what were you expecting? They're losing faithful in Europe. And besides, he's 78 and clearly a status quo seat filler.

Irrational AnnaRay: Not only is he an old white guy, he's also a Nazi!
Rational AnnaRay: He was born in 1927 in Germany. Every young German wound up in the Hitler Youth. Those were the times.

Irrational AnnaRay: He said Turkey shouldn't in the EU because they're mostly Muslims. He blamed the press for the pedophilic priest scandal. He don't like the gays.
Rational AnnaRay: Um . . . he's Catholic? And you're not? So why do you care? Besides the fact that Opus Dei controls the Supreme Court? Isn't this just a manifestation of your anger at not getting into Georgetown?
Irrational AnnaRay: I'm so over the Georgetown thing. And shut up. Nobody likes you, AnnaRay.

OK, disturbing internal monologues aside, I'm still into this pope thing. What could be cooler than getting to pick your pope name? We should all get to do that. At the least, it's a much better waste of time than figuring out your porn star name (Blondie Cascade, if you were wondering) or trying to decipher The Boy's developing language skills (Today's gem "tooofaaaalump." But of course, dear.).

I've narrowed mine down to these possibilities: Pope Lillith. Pope Hillary. Pope Teddy Roosevelt.

Anybody else got any ideas? And, uh, am I going to hell for this?

It's all happening at the zoo

This morning The Boy looked up from the debris of his new (to him) train track assemblage and said, "Zoo?" Then he spent the next hour and a half saying "Mon-key! Mon-key! Mon-key! Mon-key! Mon-key! Mon-key!" as I fed, washed and dressed him, wrangled him into the car and drove him to the Oregon Zoo, or animal prison, as I like to think of it.

My mom bought us a membership to the zoo, (thanks, Mom!) and it's only 20 minutes away, so it's no big deal to pick up and go when the mood strikes. The Boy certainly enjoys it. They have some cool exhibits, like the sea lion habi- tat where you can watch the animals above and below the water. And they do a good job of making the whole experience informative without being pedantic.

Still I have qualms.

Let's take a look at the polar bears:
So this one bear pad- dles through the water with his big bear paws till he reaches the faux rock wall at the far side, where he pushes off and glides on his back to where he started, over and over and over again. Some may say it's a relaxing way to spend the afternoon, but to me it looked like pacing. Meanwhile, the bear in back is doing this little dance, swinging his big bear head back and forth as he walks toward the wall, then walking backwards to where he started, over and over and over again. I swear I saw homeless dude doing the exact same thing in a New York City subway once, except the homeless dude was muttering to himself and occasionally spitting.

It's great that we can see these animals, still awesome in their somewhat shabby shape. And I've heard that many zoo bears are rescued from circuses or private collectors (?!) and would not survive in the wild anyway. But I can't get comfortable with the fact that these solitary creatures, who should have miles and miles of open arctic ice for roaming and hunting, are on display for us, three to a box. Sure zoos are educational. Sure they teach our kids about the environment and endangered species and to care about protecting animals and their habitats. But I also think we're teaching them that animals are here for our amusement, and I think that's wrong, wrong, wrong.

Here's one more picture: The Boy is peering in at the orangutangs, who have clustered together in a corner that is almost out of view. The sign above the exhibit tells us the names of the three apes and says how they like play games and come up to the glass to check out visitors, but both times I've come here they seemed to be hiding in the same corner. Call it anthropomorphising, but I got the distinct impression that they were looking for a little solace from our prying eyes.

It's a different world here

Here's everything you ever needed to know about Portland: This week, someone apologized to me for assuming I had a husband. A source and I were trading gripes about the difficulty of parking downtown, and I explained that my spouse was fighting my suggestion that we sell one of the cars.

"Oh," this random yet completely representative person said, "So your husband thinks you need two?"

Actually, I explained, my partner says SHE can see situations in which we would both need a vehicle. (Judybat, do I get sexy points for being so forthcoming?)

Back in the place we used to live, that kind of honesty would have been cause for a different kind of embarrasment than what my source was clearly feelilng. She apologized several times for assuming that I was straight -- the horror! the horror! -- and proceeded to tell me all about her ex-husband and her alcohol problem and a co-worker's alcohol problem and the current tension between her and her partner.

Partner. That's what people say here, regardless of whether they're talking about a man or a woman or whether they're gay or straight.(Actually, I take that back. I think straight people use the term more often than we inhabitants of Alternative Lifestyle Nation. It's a weird form of respectful overcompensation for all the ways society keeps us homersexuals down. Which is nice. But also really, really confusing. So if there are any nice straight people out there in Portland listening, feel free to call your husband your husband or your boyfriend your boyfriend. I won't mind. And I'll know what the heck you're talking about. )


On a totally different, entirely more disgusting and yet oh-so exciting topic: The Boy has begun peeing AND pooping in the potty. He'll be leaving for college next week.

The conversation

It's good to know that when AR neglected to pay for the paper she found living without it to be liberating and life-affirming. I, however, missed my morning date with the Oregonian. I'm no news hound, (not since I gave up journalism anyway, the same day Kerry conceded the election - coincidence?) But it's nice to have another adult viewpoint in the room while I breakfast with the boy.

The Boy is good company, and I do love spending time with him, but I find our conversations somewhat lacking. The other day, I had lunch with a brilliant and interesting friend of mine from college. He brought along two other brilliant and interesting friends. I brought The Boy. The BIFs started talking about human-computer interaction theory, semiotics and something else I lost track of while I had the following conversation with The Boy:

HIM: Boo tuck, BOO tuck, BOO TUCK!
ME: Yes, that is a blue truck.
HIM: Yellow!
ME: Yes, that's a yellow truck.
HIM: TOO tucks, TOO tucks, TOO tucks, TOO tucks TOO -
ME: Yes, you have two trucks.
HIM: aaugharuuguhlagor.
ME: Please sit up and stop gargling your fruit cup.

See, this is what I'm talking about: I had an opportunity for the first time in months to converse on a highly intellectual level, but at least fifty percent of my brain was occupied with the color of small, wheeled, metal objects while trying to stop my small, squirmy, demanding creature from escaping the confines of his high chair so he could run around the restaurant and stare at other diners. It made me think of my new friends here: all mommies for the most part, all intelligent with a good sense of humor, and what do we end up talking about? Potty training and nap times. Maybe some other stuff too about snacks or something, but who can remember when you're not really paying attention to what people are saying because your toddler is trying to crawl under the dog.

So it's not just The Boy who limits the caliber of our conversations; his mom isn't doing such a great job holding up her end either. And this is where I have a problem. I love that I can stay home with The Boy, spend time with him, nurture him - it's great for the kid! I'm just not so sure it's great for me. Of course, it could just be that I'm in my mid-thirties now so the mind is shot. I can't help thinking, however, that I have at least a few good years of thinking left in me, and what if they're all gone by the time the kid enters kindergarten?! All I can say is aaugharuuguhlagor.

Is this scary, or not?

This is going to be a totally random post, but it's a rainy, sleepy, random kind of Tuesday, so . . .

Our paper stopped coming this weekend. We forgot to pay. Actually, I probably forgot to pay, or forgot to put the bill on JudyBat's desk, or some combination of the two. Bottom line: The paper was not on the doorstep Saturday. Or Sunday. Or Monday. Or today. And here's what frightens me: I didn't care.

Keep in mind that this is the paper that employs me, that prints my stuff, including my name, which always gives me a perverse little thrill every time I see it. But it was kind of nice not having to creep outside and cringe inwardly at the latest bit of bad news from Iraq or random detail about the Pope's funeral or odd change in my sterling, perfect prose that the copydesk had made. It felt . . . liberating. Yes, I missed the comics. And the sports section. And my name. But I didn't really mind feeling out of touch (that's what the Internet is for, right?) and I didn't mind not having to read a magazine with my coffee (the Saturday and Monday papers are a waste of your 50 cents anyway) and The Boy enjoyed playing with the newspaper vending machine on our way to breakfast. The whole experience struck me as sort of life-affirming. Like proof that should I someday decide not to work for a newspaper, the world would still be an interesting place and my ego wouldn't be crushed.

Today, of course, I called the circulation department and paid our bill. Delivery resumes tomorrow.

Fanaticism

Oh Good Grief, I never was any good at spellnig. And it's true that I never learned how to be a proper fan at college. We were all too busy studying foreign literature, discussing 19th century philosphy, exploring mathematical equations of the fourth dimension and uncovering revelations in cognitive science. Alas, what a wasted four years. It's good to know that at least you kids in state schools got a good education. Sure, I knew some seniors at Carolina who didn't know that you need a subject AND a verb to write a sentence, but they all knew the difference between an offensive foul and a defensive foul. I don't. Damn my Ivy League education!

This is not to say that AnnaRay was one of those seniors, (though she does know all the different fouls and likes to call them out in a voice loud enough for the refs on t.v. to hear, just in case they weren't paying attention.) AnnaRay is one of the smartest people I know, (though she does expend a vast amount of her vast intellect on knowing things like who won the Heisman trophy in 1976 and career stats for pro golfers. Did I mention she watches golf?) Maybe one day AnnaRay will help me understand what it is to be a true fan. She's already trained me to sing the Carolina fight song on cue:

So it's Rah! Rah! Carolina-lina, Rah! Rah! Carolina-lina, Rah! Rah! Carol-ina, GO TO HELL DUKE!

But as far as the next kid is concerned: No way, AnnaRay, will his name tag say SeanMay.

Let's get one thing clear

It's Tar Heels. Two words. In journalism school, you would have failed just for that.

For the record, I am not ashamed of the weeping or the jumping. You went to a hoity-toity Ivy League university with ugly UPS driver uniforms. Therefore, you cannot understand what it means to be a fan. A true fan. A diehard fan. A fan who spent the past few years wallowing in the misery of mediocrity while Evil Incarnate kept winning. And winning. And winning.

And now . . . We're naming the second child SeanMay. Isn't that sweet? It's like bad poetry: AnnaRay had SeanMay yesterday. Yay! My horse eats hay. I voted for Clay.

So maybe I am a little worn out. Go Heels. See, Heels? One word. Tar Heels. Two words.

She's a Tarheel born

I'm surprised AnnaRay wasn't out here crowing about her boyz on the blog this morning. Maybe she was a little worn out from last night's game. She said she was sore. I guess being a fan is a lot harder than I thought.

If she can't be at the game, AnnaRay prefers watch it from home, rather than in a sports bar or a friend's house where she would (A) have to interact with people, and (2) be distracted from the task at hand, (ie. cheering her team on.) She takes this job very seriously. I am not allowed in the t.v. room when the Tarheels are playing. It's just as well, since I find all the yelling a little frightening, (this from the child of a Jewish/Italian home in which yelling was the preferred form of communication.) But I didn't need to be in the room last night to know exactly what was happening. When the stomping shook the walls, Carolina was down; when the cheering rattled the chandelier, Carolina was up. I was a little worried that The Boy might be scarred from the volcaic verbal eruptions, but he seemed to find them HEE-sterical. Frankly, I think he was more dismayed by the fact that the t.v. was playing yet Elmo was not on.

The scariest thing of all, though, was that when the Tarheels won, AnnaRay wept. SHE WEPT. Tears of happiness, she told me. I am disturbed.

My worst freakin' nightmare:

When I was a kid, I never understood what my father had against dandelions. I thought they were pretty. And when they were done being pretty, they'd get all fuzzy headed, and that was when the fun began; that was when you could blow on them with every last bit of breath in your tiny body in a quixotic effort to free every single seedling and watch them float away. (Your wish only came true if you blew them all off, and even though I had quite the set of pipes when I was eight, I was never able to get every last one. Alas.) My father always had a fit when I did that. He liked to keep his yard a pristine green of unbroken lines mowed into the lawn, just like Yankee Stadium.

Now I own my own home, which includes a lovely landscaped garden, which is under attack. When we first moved in, I spent three days clearing those little yellow fuckers out of our lovely but somewhat negelcted garden. It took some serious work, because each nasty little cluster of leaves has a nefariously long tap root that's got to be dug out or they pop right back up. I swear those things are trying to reach right down to the depths of HELL from whence they came, and they hold on so tight to the earth so that even when you've scraped your hands raw trying to get at them in the tiny crack between the lovely landcaped rocks where the little bastards have dug in, they snap off at the top half of the root and shake their ugly little serrated leaves at you in laughter, because like the Hydra they will just grow their heads back, and like Sisyphus you will be out there THE VERY NEXT DAY digging at the same fershlugginer root.

I guess everyone's got to have a hobby, though.