Bike update

AnnaRay biked to work on Friday without incident. She never changed gears and had to walk the bike part of the way home because it's uphill, but I couldn't have been prouder. This weekend, however, we were biking to the park - a nice leisurely ride through the 'hood - and she had her first spill. She suffered a minor flesh wound (see picture) but got right back on and is still looking forward to braving the traffic once more on Tuesday. Bless her heart.

(Random note to be filed under The Geekiness of AnnaRay: we were discussing the timing of when to have the next kid, and AR said: "If I get pregnant in September it will be perfect, because I can cover the primaries in May, have the kid and be back in time to cover the elections in the fall.)

I (HEART) NY

Portland is the perfect city. It's progressive, affordable, near the coast, near the mountains, not so near family, but it's full of cool people who are laid back and just so happy to be here.

Here's what life is like for us here: On Saturday, AnnaRay took The Boy to our friendly neighborhood lesbian-owned coffee shop for breakfast and to our friendly neighborhood family-owned barbershop for a haircut (#4 - The Airforce Officer.) Meanwhile, one of our new best friends, let's call her Twinkletoes, introduced me to The Rebuilding Center, where we browsed aisles and aisles of used bathroom fixtures, ceramic tile, lumber, light fixtures, cabinets and shingles looking for treasures. Twinkletoes bought a solid little wooden table for five bucks and helped a nice old man haggle a cabinet down from forty to ten dollars; I talked to a stunning woman in a blue wig wearing a gladiator costume (found at the Goodwill Bins) while she shoveled dirt and straw into a wheelbarrow to make a cob house.

AnnaRay and I met up around 11 a.m. and walked The Boy to our friendly neighborhood playground, admiring the spectacular display of varied flowering gardens that seem to grace every single yard in the city. On the way back, we stopped at our friendly neighborhood Irish pub for lunch, then headed home for a nap. This evening, Twinkletoes came over to babysit so AR and I could go out on a date - our first in months - and we rode our bikes to a great little sushi restaurant we'd been meaning to try. Then we biked to the movie theater to see Revenge of the Sith, (totally craptastic - a must see!) and rode home. I think we racked up a whole 3 miles on the round (triangular?) trip.

Life here is good. Life here is easy. And yet ...

And yet I can't stop thinking that before the boy enters junior high, we're going to head back to New York where we belong.

Life is not easy in New York. You have to wait on line for everything; you can't ride your bike everywhere; everybody is wound up tight, and nobody can afford to live there. I haven't even lived there since I was 18, but when I get off the plane and hear those abrasive accents, when I see the snow in the winter or the fiery maples in the fall or the green green green of the Hudson Valley in the spring, when I creep by Yankee Stadium while stuck in traffic on the Major Deegan, when I walk around the streets of manhattan passing people of ten different races speaking ten different languages in a single block, when I watch the sun set over the river from my seat on the Harlem/Hudson line as we roll by the platform billboards advertising Broadway shows and museum exhibitions I'll never have time to see, when I bite into a real bagel that's dense and chewy, I know that I'm home.

You can take this girl out of New York, but she'll always want to come back.

Home, or not

More thoughts from our East Coast trip, although I promise no more talk of salmon skin: Several times during our travels, Judybat sighed longingly and talked about how at home she felt back in Westchester and thereabouts. The accents, the winding, tree-lined roads, the New England-style stone fences, the general sense of history dating back before, oh, 1950, the traffic jam on the Garden State Parkway. This is where she comes from, and where she wants to return to before we get old and gray.

Myself, I didn't exactly feel it. Which is odd, because I grew up not far from where she did, even the even more bucolic wilds of Connecticut. I know the accents, and the stone fences, and the bumper-to-bumper traffic with WCBS giving me the world for my 60 minutes. The New York skyline still gives me pangs, and I miss my people in the big city. But at the same time, I realized something this time around: The Tri State area stresses me out. Partly, being back there reminds me of junior high and high school, never a good thing. Partly, I don't know if I want life to be that difficult. Everything is easier here, except maybe going to see a Broadway show or an exceptional art exhibit. And with a 2-year-old in tow, how often are we going to do that? Simply going to see the new Star Wars is proving logistically difficult.

I'm not saying we're staying here long-term. Being close the in-laws and nearly everyone else we love is important to me. At the same time, heading east reminded me, for the first time, how very, very happy I am to be living where I am at the moment.

It doesn't hurt that it was 85 degrees and gorgeous today. With no humidity. Boy, was leaving North Carolina ever the right decision.

Straight from the Pig's Mouth

Judybat's father is both the smartest and the oddest person I've ever met. We call him the Pig. By "we," I mean everyone in the family. By "Pig," I mean exactly what you think I mean: A large, filthy beast with no regard for anyone or anything except maybe the next round of slop. Our Pig isn't large, and he isn't exactly filthy, except when he goes fishing. He fly fishes for trout, and he has too much respect for the poor little guys to actually eat them. Respect apparently only goes so far when it comes to gouging them in the mouth with a hook and yanking them out of the water. But the Pig makes it up to the fish: He kisses them before setting them free. Between that and the amount of garlic he's been known to consume in one sitting, filthy might not be so bad a description.

Other things you should know about the man: He is impossibly generous to his children and their friends. He enjoys the Yankees almost as much as I do. He likes to wander around the house naked. He's convinced he can settle things between the Israelis and the Palestinians by showing them a certain episode of the original "Star Trek." Say something he disagrees with, and you're likely to get a variation on this theme: "I could not disagree with you more. You are absolutely wrong, You could not be more wrong."

We flew east last week planning to surprise Judybat's mother on her 40th birthday. Instead, The Pig ruined the surprise by discussing our plane tickets with us on the phone -- while Judybat's mother was in the room. Still, the trip was worth the pain of watching endless Wiggles DVDs on the flight, and not just because Judybat's mom was so happy to see us.

For instance, there was this exchange on our first night in town:

The Boy, brandishing his blanket at his grandfather: "Pig see blanket! Pig see blanket!"

The Pig: "Oh, you want to show me your blanket? I'll show you my fishing pants!"

And there was this conversation between The Pig and our waiter at a fancy restaurant rated "extraordinary" by the New York Times, which took place after the waiter informed the table that the chef had saved The Pig some . . . yuck . . . salmon skins.

Waiter: "And so, sir, you'll be having skin for your first course?"

The Pig: "And the second. Tell him to give me all he's got. Have him dig it out of the garbage. Heh, heh. I should be charging you for garbage disposal. Heh, heh, heh, heh, heh!"

For the record, salmon skin tastes like fishy bacon. Apparently they're good for you. At least, so says The Pig.

Be back soon

We are headed out of town for a few days. In fact, we are traveling back in time to the last century, where my parents live with no connection to the internet. Not even dial-up for pete's sake. We will return to post again, but in the meantime, here's a little visual muzak:

The Boy's place at the table before a meal


The Boy's place at the table after a meal

We went Bill Frist on his butt

Tonight, we went nuclear on The Boy.

No, we didn't do our part to dismantle the democratic process in a childish fit -- "Vote on my nominees. C'mon, guys. Pleeeeeeeeeeeease??" -- but rather sent Junior to bed well before his appointed bedtime. His crime: Spitting milk on the couch, after repeatedly being told that once something goes in his mouth, it stays in his mouth. (Insert requisite N.C. State/Duke oral sex joke here.) The punishment fit: In the past week, he has become increasingly obstinate. He challenges. You say, "One story, The Boy," and he grins at you and says, "Two story!" He needs to know who's boss.

For the record, Judybat is boss. I expected to be a tough, firm, disciplinarian. Instead, I'm weak. Kansas City Royals weak. Democratic Party weak. Seriously weak. When The Boy does something after I've explicitly told him not to, I respond. But when he's merely on the verge of misbehavior, I'm inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt. I'm discovering, to my chagrin, that you don't do that with children. Or at least, good parents don't. So I'm thankful, as we all should be, that I've got a much firmer voice in the house. Tonight, when the kid crossed the line, she scooped him up and had him in his PJs before he could announce his protest, or begin a kicking, screaming tantrum.

If only our friends in Congress knew how to play the alpha dog.

It's better on a bike

AR is thinking about riding her bike to work. I can't tell you how happy this makes me. I won't even get into how mad she was when I got her the bike for her birthday five years ago when what she really wanted was a Dreamcast, (not that she ever once said she wanted a Dreamcast, and when I asked her if she wanted a bike she said, yeah, she'd like that, but i'm not getting into it.)

I love riding my bike. Love it, love it, love it. I like biking around the neighborhood with The Boy on the back; I like biking on long, empty roads that wind around hay fields; I like biking to the grocery store and to a friend's house and to our favorite pub. Anna likes playing golf. She also likes playing softball and basketball, and while I am pretty athletic (three varsity sports in high school, thank you very much) I cannot do a layup. Or throw a ball straight. Or bring myself to care about a hitting a little white ball with a stick 18 times, (or in my case 72 times, which sounds pretty good until I tell you it was for 6 holes.)

So much for sharing hobbies.

But if AR starts biking to work, that could lead to weekend rides, and if we start biking together on weekends, maybe we could work up to doing one of those bike tours, like the ones in Italy where you bike and then eat and the sleep and then bike and then eat again.

But I'm getting ahead of myself, because while it pleases me that she's taking an interest in biking, the sight of AR on a bike actually terrifies me. Imagine a stork learning to drive a manual transmission on the Autobahn and you'll get a sense of what I'm talking about. Bless her heart.

It doesn't help that the bike has old-school down-bar shifters that require a little coordination and finesse - qualities she does not possess in great quantities, bless her heart. It's fairly flat here in Portland, so I think she can get away with leaving the thing in one gear until she gets the hang of it, and there's a nice big parking lot at the Catholic school three blocks from our house where she can practice on the weekends. Is it wrong that I'm thinking about training wheels?

Seriously, bless her heart. The bike is in the shop now, getting a much-needed tune up, but it's only a matter of time before she hits the streets. Please include her in your prayers. I will keep you posted as this story develops.

Geek love

We were tooling around town in the Big Blue Car this weekend, making a point of driving over as many bridges as possible for a certain someone in the backseat, when I realized that I had been talking to Judybat nonstop for a good 10 minutes. I was telling her things, interesting things, things about my life and my work and some strongly held opinions I had about the world at large. That's what she wants, right? A higher degree of, shall we say, specificity in my responses?

I was feeling very pleased with myself. Until I realized I was delivering a dissertation about . . . notebooks.

Yes, notebooks. Or rather, my snazzy new Moleskine pocket-sized notebook, the new keeper of all things important and relevant to my world.

I am, I acknowledge, a bit of an office supply fetishist. There are few things I enjoy more than a slow walk through Office Depot. I get pen catalogues at home. I even have a neat little box Judybat gave me for Hannukah a few years ago in which I store my pens when they go out of circulation. (It's important for all your pens to feel loved, after all.)

And thus, I spent my life in search of the perfect notebook, the one that will harbor my muses and hold back my inner demons and help me keep my incredibly messy brain reasonably organized. (When in doubt, trust in the To Do list.)

This new notebook is nearly perfect. It's not quite as long as a traditional reporter's pad, but still not as small as the crappy little "memobooks" that Staples sells. It's got a nice hard cover, and a fancy-schmancy rubber band to keep it closed, and a little pocket to hold cards and photos of The Boy , and very absorbant paper that sucks up the ink, and it fits in my pocket and . . .

See? This is what happens. I start explaining why I have this geeky notebook in my pocket, and it morphs into something much uglier. Poor, poor Judybat.

Bugs

I am smarter than I look, thank you, but I look like a muppet having a bad hair day, so that's not saying much. I am also smarter than the average bear, and they're pretty smart, but they don't test well.

The funny thing about all this, dear AnnaRay, is that some of the stuff in your head actually is interesting; you just don't let it out, unless you're writing about it for the newspaper. How many times have we had this conversation:

JB: What are you reading?
AR: A book.

Sometimes it varies:

JB: What are you reading?
AR: A magazine.

Ok, it's true that I never hear a thing you say after the words, "Dean Smith," and I think you did bring up that Gettysburg figure at dinner once, only to have me look at you like there was a tree growing out of your head and change the subject, but that thing about Ireland? Come on! You know I'd want to hear about that. Also, bugs are fascinating. Just ask The Boy, who spent the better part of the morning pointing out two ants he was following around the deck - TWO ants! TWO ants! TWO ants! And then a third one showed up, and it was orange, and that was truly mind blowing.

Did you know that in Arizona they use dung beetles to clear the fields of cow poop?

Just fascinating.

Smarter than she looks

Judybat can talk all she want about the books I own and the stuff I know, but here's the truth of the matter: She's smarter than I am, and she's much better in a crisis. Maybe she doesn't know as much as I do, but the relative weight of the information stored in her head is much, much heftier than what's in mine. It's a question of practical versus impractical. For instance . . .

PRACTICAL: How to wash the diapers so they stop smelling like poop. (The trick, apparently, is hot water. Who knew? Not me.)
IMPRACTICAL: There were more than 50,000 casualties at the Battle of Gettysburg. (Wonderful dinnertime conversation. How did I ever get a woman?)

PRACTICAL: How to cook food that is actually edible. (Useful, impressive, sexy.)
IMPRACTICAL: Dean Smith was born in Emporia, Kansas. (Useful only in limited settings. Not impressive. Certainly, love him though I do, NOT sexy.)

PRACTICAL: How to drive a manual transmission. (Go anywhere. Borrow anyone's car.)
IMPRACTICAL: Centuries ago, in Ireland, women were only allowed to propose marriage to men in leap years. (Sexist bastards.)

It would be one thing if all those books in our happy little nook made me a more interesting, well-rounded person. Instead, they make me even more awkward and off-putting. Sometimes I feel like I have a form of conversational Tourette's:

Random person: "Hi Annaray, how are you?"
Annaray: "I find bugs fascinating. And let me tell you about the Battle of Vicksburg!"

I'll be back in my nook now, hiding.

The book nook

In our old house in Raleigh we had four Ikea Billy bookcases double stuffed with books. We got rid of half the hard covers and most of the paperbacks, which still left us with wall-to-wall books, but at least the volume of volumes was no longer breaking Billy's particle-board backs.
Now we have a book nook, which looks pretty spacious here, but is actually quite cozy. The book nook was the reason I wanted to buy this house. AnnaRay wanted the house for the wrought iron pot rack in the kitchen, which is funny, because all the pots in the kitchen are mine and all the books in the nook are Anna's. Well, not all of them. I have a few novels in there among the biographies, the baseball books, the books about war and the books about politics, the books written by journalists and the books about writing journalism and every book ever written about the Kennedys. When I finally got around to shelving these books the other day, it occurred to me that AR is a huge freakin' geek, and why, I wondered, is that always such a surprise to me?

I have my own geeky tendencies, to be sure. My absolute favorite book of all time is about the brain. But who doesn't think neurology is fascinating? Also, I do have more than my fair share of cookbooks, but is it geeky or just disturbing that I like to read them in bed?

Really I'm just jealous, because AR has read every single book in the nook, not to mention the stacks she's been getting from the library since The Boy was born, (the weekly Amazon.com deliveries were busting the budget,) and the Library of Congress worth of periodicals she goes through every week, (Sports Illustrated, The Atlantic, The New Yorker and our daily paper arrive at home; the rest she gets online and prints out to read in the tub. Or while blow drying her hair. Or while talking to me.)

Meanwhile, I feel pretty accomplished because I finished that haiku poem I started reading last week.

I sit in the nook
hoping to finish my book,
but instead I sleep.

Back in your box

This is sort of interesting, sort of freaky. Maybe it's what I need to help me hit my deadlines, a tiny blank box designed by somebody I don't know - with nothing but my notes, my brain, blank space and the knowledge that the clock is ticking.

At the same time, I wonder how these people will manage not to go insane. Performance art is one thing, performance is another. I'd guess everybody who writes or creates has some personalized form of sensory deprivation. (My checklist for when I absolutely positively must get something done includes my iPod, on supershuffle, to cut down on outside noise; my baseball cap, to minimize the field of vision; and my shoes off, to let the muses that live in my feet out. Or something.) But the best part, what I consider the actual writing, is the part after that, when I leave my little cubby hole of an office for the nearest coffee shop or the park or the neighborhood public house (Love Portland. Love it!) to read my crappy first draft and rip it to shreds. Maybe it's because I'm not a novelist, but I sort of think the outside world plays an important role in the creative process.

Clearly I'm not artsy or hip enough to appreciate this exhibition. As our buddy John Reinan always says of daily journalism: Some days, we go to work and make art. And some days, we go to work in a sentence factory.

Playing favorites

Every night, The Boy picks out two or three or eight of his favorite books to read before bedtime. His favorites this week, now that it's spring, are "Driedel, Driedel, Driedel" and "Christmas in the Manger."

The driedel book is filled with curly-headed Jews making dreidels, gambling for gelt, lighting candles and feasting together on latkes. The words are those of the token Chanuka song we all learned as kids along with all those Christmas carols, and just in case you forgot the tune, there is a button on the front that, when pressed, will ring out a tinny, electronic version. The button on our book has been mashed so many times by tiny fingeres that it no longer sings on command. It will, however, toss out a few warped and mangled notes at random moments throughout the day, as if it were playing its own death knell.

The manger book is filled with all your favorites from the Christmas story - the star that shines in the East, the farm animals, the wise men, and of course the baby Jesus and his parents. Last night we were reading the book, and when we got to the page showing the happy family, The Boy pointed to Mary and to AnnaRay and said "TWO, TWO, TWO, mommies," because two is his favorite number and he likes to point it out wherever he sees it. He then pointed to me and to the bald and bearded Joseph and said "TWO imas, TWO imas, TWO imas." Ima - Hebrew for mother - is what The Boy calls me.

While I can't think of a single thing that my dear AnnaRay has in common with the Virgin Mother, I think The Boy's equating me with Papa Joseph is far from ridiculous. First of all, we're both Jews. Also, I'm no carpenter, but I do enjoy using my electric drill, and I did install a toilet all by myself on New Year's Eve. Most significantly, I too will need a little help getting my wife knocked up, and ours will also be an immaculate conception, (if by immaculate you mean sterile.)

I wonder if we would chose God as our anonymous sperm donor. From all the pictures I've seen, he appears to be caucasian. But His hair is white, and I think He's got blue eyes, so the coloring is all wrong. He probably kicked ass on the S.A.T.s and is no doubt artistic, having created the world and all. He's supposed to be all powerful, but there's not a lot written about God playing sports, so there's a big question mark in the athletic category. He doesn't wear glasses, and I doubt He has allergies, but it's a good bet that God is a lot taller than what we're looking for. Also, as far as personality goes, He seems to have a lot of anger.

All things considered, I think God would wind up in the maybe pile.

Reading is fundamental

A bunch of randomness, because I'm overly caffeinated and, at the same time, in need of a nap and thus incapable of putting together a coherent, single-topic post:

* Sarah Vowell's new book is wonderful and funny and dark and basically a history lesson of America from 1860 through about 1913. Which means she's making a huge amount of money being a huge honking geek, although admittedly a geek who can turn thoughts to words better than most of us -- and make Chester Arthur seem interesting.

The book, on CD, was actually a birthday gift to Judybat from our friend Andrew, otherwise known as Kid Beyond, although we're refusing to call him that on general principle. It has become the object of some debate here in the not-really-small green house on 21st Avenue. I put the book on my iPod figuring it would be a while before the family set out on any long, book-on-tape-worthy road trips, given that we're pretty much walking everywhere we go. But Judybat seems to think I should have waited and shared it with her.

And, as I'm writing this, I'm realizing she's probably right. Ack. Sorry. How selfish.

* Today I made the mistake of going to Costco hungry. As a result, we now have more flour tortillas, mini bagels and English muffins than anyone, outside of perhaps the entire population of a carb-deprived Third World country, needs. I always look forward to Costco-ing, and then have a hellish experience that leaves me determined never to go back. Because, really, how many free samples can one person eat in an afternoon?

* Some words I enjoy: Blimp, yank, poop (a current favorite throughout the household), feline, ox (but not ax), beast, buff, Beowulf, gourd. And let's not forget the most wonderful world in the entire language: Leeeeeeemur.

See: A true bunch of randomness.

The view from here

Reading that made me fell oddly uncomfortable, and not just because I learned that AR finds Martin Freeman sexy. Ew. It was like listening to my voice on an answering machine. Do I really sound like that? Oy.

A seismic shift, huh? Well, I have been trying to keep it to myself lately, lest AR thinks I'm depressed because I left a good job behind to follow her to the end of the country where she can pursue her ambition and I can pursue The Boy around the house. While it's true that I've been feeling a bit anxious about what to do next with my life, (and by a bit I mean a HUGE amount of anxious,) that is not why I fell into a hole. My life doesn't suck, just my brain chemistry.

Also, I did not follow AR here. We came here together. I wanted to jump off the ledge and see where I'd land just as much as she wanted to take this new job. And we both wanted to get away from the heat and homophobia of North Carolina. But AR has misplaced feelings of guilt and insecurity. It's funny how she feels guilty for things she is not responsible for, yet doesn't have a problem with the things she does that do drive me crazy (not clinically so, of course,) like leaving her balled-up stinky socks everywhere and not sweeping under things when I've asked her to do the floors and neglecting to get her paperwork together so we can get our car insurance until the day before mine expires.

But that's a topic for another day. Today I hung out with a friend and her kid, had tea with the neighbor, unloaded some shelves that were messing with the Feng Shui. Life is good, even if my seratonin levels are not.

Maybe I'm not paying attention

I probably shouldn't admit this, but I didn't notice Judybat had fallen in hole last week. (She's pretty short to begin with, so . . . ) Maybe it's because I was working so hard. Normally, when my dear's seasonal bumps in the road approach, everyone in the house feels it. There's sort of a subtle-yet-seismic shift to the world, like that prickly back-of-the-neck feeling you get before a major thunderstorm.

It's funny how different we are. Judybat sinks into (usually) noticeable funks when she's feeling unfulfilled or like her body chemistry is out of whack. Her emotions would make a wonderful roller coaster, likely one of those high tech modern models with the loop-de-loops and helixes and turns and drops that seem to defy the laws of physics. When she's happy, she's like no one I've ever met. And when she's unhappy, she's like no one I've ever met, only with this unpleasant grimy film over her mood, like the car windows of a chain smoker.

I, on the other hand, prefer to let all my rage and anger and unhappiness sit and stir and marinate in their own nasty juices. And then, I explode. To call it crankiness would be overly polite. I turn into an unhappy two-year-old. And we both know something about unhappy two-year-olds these days. Lots and lots of yelling and stamping of feet. Perhaps I need a time-out too.

Anyway, I'm thankful for you too, Judybat. And I'll always be here, whether you're in a hole or not. Sometimes, I'll even notice the difference.


God, that's so sweet it's disgusting, huh? Here's something to temper the goodness: What's weirder -- that I think Martin Freeman is really quite sexy, or that everytime I see an ad for this movie, my brain reads "Martin Freeman" as "Morgan Freeman," and I have the same discombobulated internal monologue in which I try to figure out which character Morgan is playing?

And isn't "discombobulated" one of the best words in the English language?

Thank you

I was unable to post last week because I fell into a hole and there were no words in it. It wasn't a big hole really, just an indentation, a depression if you will. But still, the sides were slippery, so I made a list of things I'm thankful for to help me climb out.

Here is the list. It is in no way complete and in no particular order:

• Electricity
• My parents
• AnnaRay
• The knowledge that when I climb out of this hole AnnaRay will be waiting for me
• The Boy
• Easy access to clean drinking water
• Hot showers
• Abba hair products
• The fact that I was born into relative wealth and comfort
• Copaxone
• Jon Stewart and Al Franken
• All the women who came before me and fought for a world in which my choices are not limited because I have tits
• All the gays who came before me and fought for a world in which my son will not be ashamed to have two moms
• The guy who found my wallet on New Year's Eve in 1998 and returned it with all the cash in it
• The fact that there are people in New York City who will find a wallet and return it with all the cash in it
• The moving picture shows
• The fact that I have awesome friends even though I'm tactless, judgemental and kind of a spaz
• Craig's list
• Public libraries, public parks and public art
• Cut and paste
• Undo
• The Boy takes three-hour naps