Sugar high

I haven't been a big fan of Halloween in a long, long time. I can never think of a good costume, and never get around to carving the pumpkin in time, and I hate having candy around the house to tempt me, and it's just never as much fun as when I was a kid.

This year, though, Halloween rocked. First of all, it seems to be a big deal here, if the house decorations are any indication. Here's what our neighbor's place looks like:

Their display is by no means the most elaborate, though they were the only ones with W.W.J.D. carved into a pumpkin.

Also, there are tons of pumpkin farms within 10 miles of us, so it was no problem getting a gourd. In fact, it was a lot of fun taking The Boy on a hay ride out to the fields to pick our own. I'd forgotten how much work carving the dern things take, but it was worth it once I stuck the candle inside and got to see the faces all glowy:

I was going for scary, but it's been a while since I carved a pumpkin, so they just came out kind of grumpy.

I didn't have to worry about a costume this year, because we had borrowed a Tigger costume for The Boy, (who refused to take it off when he tried it on for the first time last week,) and he was so freakin' cute in it I knew no one would pay attention to what I was wearing anyway. Here he is marching off to the next house for more candy. You can just make out a Twix bar over his shoulder:

He refused to let us put any of the candy he collected in the pillowcase as he trotted along, preferring instead to clutch it all in his hot little paws.

But it wasn't even trick-or-treating with The Boy that made me enjoy Halloween like a kid again. It was the whole bustling atmosphere of our neighborhood. We didn't even wait for the doorbell to ring; we just sat on our porch, taking it all in: the three princesses comparing their candy count as they descended the steps of our neighbors house, the kid in the bloody hockey mask who thanked me politely for allowing him to take two mini snickers bars from the bowl, the parents smiling from the sidewalk as their children raced to and from the houses. That and the eight to ten candy bars I managed to stuff in my mouth while AR and The Boy weren't looking. What? They were minis! I decided I was allowed to have as many as I wanted, as long as I didn't have the same kind twice.

Mmmm, chocolate.

My first tile job

We're putting in a bathroom upstairs, and to save some money, I'm doing a lot of the finish work myself. We had professionals run the pipes, do the electrical work and frame the room, but thanks to our fantastic builder, Ivan, who is patiently teaching me how to do this stuff, I helped with the drywall and installed the shower tiles, which are a lovely glass mosaic.

Here's what it looks like so far:



Ok, I say it's to save money, but really I'm doing finish work myself because I wanted to learn how to do this stuff. I've always thought the one thing keeping us from being the perfect lesbian couple is our lack of power tools.

Wall of sound

I got my hearing aids this week, and as my audiologist promised, I'm living in a whole new world. An incredibly, frighteningly, painfully noisy world.

They're tiny little things, small enough to fit on a quarter with room to spare. Unless you're looking, you wouldn't notice them. Looking in the mirror, all I can see are the wee little translucent knobs that stick ever-so-slightly out of my ear so I can take them out. They're color-coded: Red for my right ear, blue for my left.

And they work -- perhaps too well. Everything, you see, is amplified. If I'm having a conversation at work, I can hear the other person perfectly. I can also hear every phone around us ringing, every paper being shuffled, every nail being bitten, every sigh being sighed, etc. Walking down the street, I hear snippets of every conversation. I hear people's pants going swish-swish as they walk. I hear cars and trucks and buses going by and, quite honestly, I wish they would shut the hell up. My computer sounds like a garbage disposal as it works. I'm being very gentle with the keyboard as I type this, but to my new-and-improved ears, it sounds like I'm pounding hard enough to break the keys.

The audiologist warned me that the first weeks would be overwhelming, not to mention uncomfortable. The things whistle when I take them in and out, or when my head gets too close to another object. My own voice sounds hollow and reedy -- try sticking your fingers in your ears and talking, and you'll get what I mean -- and not at all like me. I feel like I'm taking in the world from inside a fishbowl -- like there's an odd and obvious disconnect with anybody I encounter.

Still, I can hear, and that's what I wanted. And all for just $4,600!

This is what disappointment looks like:

Your body, our life

First of all, my beloved AnnaRay, I don't think I know how to repress anxiety. There's plenty in the world to rail against without the need to cover up personal angst. I'm an equal opportunity ranter.

Second of all, why is where and how we live for the next 5, 10, 25 years so dependent on your professional success? As much as I whine about the lack of opportunity in my field here in Portland, I believe I am still capable of getting a job back East. Why does your career have to move in a straight line? I will concede that, given your ambition, our happiness is dependent on your professional success, but you never know what you're going to feel after you've popped out that second pooper. Let me remind you that since The Boy was born, you're much more likely to come home early from work.

Finally, this whole debate is over whether or not your maternity leave will interfere with your work. You think your bosses wouldn't forgive you for leaving at a crucial time and that would jeopardize any recommendations they might be called upon to make to potential future employers on your behalf. I find it interesting how you can underestimate yourself and at the same time inflate your self-worth. The paper will muddle along without you for three months, and if your taking an maternity leave at an inopportune time jeopardizes your future, I've got a lot more ranting to do about world events.

My body, her life

We've settled into a charming little routine here: Judybat opines about world events. I whine about the various ways in which my body is failing me.

Just like the Scooby Gang, I've got a theory: Maybe Judybat has some much anger and frustration to express right now because she's repressing her anxiety about Segundo. (The idea of Judybat repressing anything is a little mind-blowing, but still . . . )

Take, for example, the ongoing argument in my house. If I don't get pregnant this time, our second attempt for those of you keeping track, I feel the need to hold off for a few months before hopping up in the stirrups again. It's a work thing: We have these silly little elections in Portland next November, and covering them is part of my silly little job. Getting knocked up anytime after, say, NOW would mean giving birth in late July or early August, which would mean taking my three months of maternity leave smack in the middle of the election. Which would mean, I tend to think, shirking my duties and, more importantly, pissing off my bosses. At some point, it's possible I'm going to want those bosses to help me get a job back east. So why not wait until early '06, when we can try again without worrying about timing?

Judybat thinks this is, not to put too fine a point on it, "idiotic." She says I'm letting work control more important things, dictate when and how we make decisions about the rest of our lives. To a certain extent, I agree. And yet my professional success, or lack of success depending on the day, is a pretty big chunk of the rest of our lives, or at least the part that involves figuring out where and how we live for the next 5, 10, 25 years.

What's troubling about this fight -- and it has turned into a fight on more than one occasion -- is that we disagree at all. Except for a few minor things -- whether to eat meat or not, whether to sit in a quiet room alone reading or invite a dozen people over to play games -- we never disagree. Or when we do, there's always a readily apparent compromise.

Not this time. So chalk up something else for me to whine about.

No cameras, please

Am I the only one who has less than no interest in the trial of Saddam Hussein? And by less than no interest, I mean I am offended by the mere mention of it.

I don't know exactly what you do with oppressive tyrannical leaders like Hussein, whose abuse of power is an affront to all that is good in this world. We must hold him accountable somehow, and yet the judicial system seems so feeble in the face of his crimes. What could we possibly do to him that could possibly bring him close to atonement?

Here's what bothers me most about his trial: Hussein will bluster about, denying and defying, without a trace of remorse. In the end, he will be found guilty of whatever, and we will dole out his punishment - whatever - but before we can do that he gets to be the star of the show one last time.

A lot of Jews won't speak Hitler's name, because to speak it, even to curse it, is to acknowledge his power and influence. Centuries from now his name will still known, and it won't matter whether it went down in fame or infamy; Hitler will still be remembered while the names of his victims fell into obscurity long before he even put a bullet in his brain.

Here's the fate I'd chose for Hussein and his ilk: let them waste away in a jail cell bereft of all comfort while waiting for a trial that is continually postponed. Never let them have their say. Never let them play to the cameras. Let them be forgotten.

Just a thought.

Is the waiting really the hardest part?

I've become that woman. No, not Harriet Miers. The woman who desperately, passionately, painfully needs to be pregnant. I covet other people's babies. I wonder if any little pain in my torso could be a sign. I have discovered that two weeks is, on the whole, a really, really, reaaaaallly long time. Today, I ate four doughnuts.

That said, I don't think I'm pregnant. Because I'd be puking at weird smells by now, right? I mean, that's always how you know on television.

For the longest time -- like, say, childhood -- I assumed I would never want children. Then one day round about 30, I began watching other people's kids with a consumer's eye. It happened to Judybat too, which worked out well when we went out. Instead of checking out other women and comparing likes and dislikes (Judybat's likes: Mia Hamm. Annaray's likes: Women.), we began doing essentially the same thing babies.

"How about that one?"
"Too pale. How about that one?"
"Too squirmy. Hey, what about that round, soft, pink squishy one that appears to have been bathed just moments ago?"
"Purrrrrr-fect."

That said, I managed to hold the freak outs to a minimum when Judybat was trying to get pregnant two years ago. I was, I see now, less-than-sympathetic to the way the calendar suddenly stretches out before you when you could be, might be, maybe, please let me be pregnant.

Do I think about it much? Oh, pretty much constantly. In the middle of the night. First thing in the morning. All day at work. On the ride home. At dinner. In the bath. In bed. Which means that, once again, I could be headed for a very unpleasant emotional fall should this whole thing not work out. Everybody got their fingers crossed? Anybody got any fetus-friendly Xanax for me?

Can you run that by me again?

In spite of the fact that I have a tendency to get lost in my own neighborhood, I am not a stupid person. And yet, I could not find my bearings in today's NYTimes piece on Judith Miller. You'd think when her own paper finally got around to explaining the whole affair, it would answer some niggling questions, like why did she go to jail to protect a source when she didn't even write a story about the supposed source's info? Instead I'm left with more question after reading the story than what I came to to table with. But I guess clarity is to much to ask for from the Times theses days. They did, after all, get scooped repeatedly on their own story.

So, why did Miller go to jail to protect a source who wanted her to testify? And if Libby was her only source on this matter, then why did she say she didn't know where she got the name Valerie Plame? (Or "Valerie Flame" as it was written in her notebook.) Why does a reporter have secret security clearance and why was "Miss Run Amok" (as she once referred to herself, according to her editor) allowed so much autonomy while working on a story about WMDs after she was told she could no longer cover Iraq and weapons issues?

This last question is what really kills me. Has the Times learned nothing from Jayson Blair? It's bad enough that the Bush administration's default mode of communication is obfuscation, misdirection and deception, but now the integrity of the watchdog covering the government has come into question. I'd like to be reveling in the fact that the current administration seems to be imploding. Instead, I'm all worked up about journalists giving journalism a bad name.

Farewell, Grandpa

I'm not sure I should even dare to follow up on Judybat's lovely tribute to her Grandpa, except to say that the girl comes from a damn fine gene pool.

I do, however, want to expand a bit on what she said about his reaction to the two of us. When it became obvious that we were together for the long haul, Judybat felt the need to tell her grandfather, if only because he kept asking when she was going to get started on her "goal." (She explained to him that her goals involved personal and professional fulfillment. He explained that he thought she wanted to be "creative," which he took to mean having babies.)

I wasn't at the actual talk that she had with him, when, if I'm getting this right, she asked him if there was anything he wanted to ask her about me. (And it's my family that's conflict averse??)

He said no. But later, as he was giving us a tour of his temple, he stopped and sat for a moment in the glow of the memorial lights. He told us about his first wife and how much he loved her. And he told us that he's come, as he's grown older, to recognize that there are many different types and ways to love. Husbands and wives love each other, yes. But men can love each other, and women can love each other. And it's all good.

We took that as a blessing, or at least as close to a blessing as we were going to get from a man fast approaching 95. Later, he made a point of asking about me every time he called Judybat.

He wasn't just being polite, either. First he would ask her how her goals were going. Was she, say, ready to be pregnant? And then he would ask how things were going for me at work.

He had adjusted, in the best way he knew how. For that, and for the daughter and granddaughters and great-grandchildren he produced, I loved him. He got exactly the death he wanted and deserved -- pretty much all any of us can ask for, right?

In memorium

My grandfather died yesterday morning. He died at home in his sleep at the age of 99, and I don't think there's a better way to go if you fear death as my gandfather did. Here he is back in May, looking pretty good for 98:
My mom, who spent her summer vacation negotiating the elder health care system, deserves all the credit for giving him a peaceful way out. She is the definition of filial piety. I hope I can do the same for her when her time comes - many, many, many years from now.

I owe a great deal to my grandfather. It was thanks in part to him that I never had to worry about the cost of my education. He also gave me a car when I graduated from college, and that, combined with the fact that I was debt-free, meant I could leave everything I knew and loved behind and drive out to Boulder, CO to work in a bar. Boulder was where I learned to have confidence in myself, where I felt contentment for the first time, where I learned to live healthy and aware of my environment, and where I found focus as I figured out what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. My grandfather was not pleased that I put my Ivy League education to use waiting tables, (he told me later he thought I'd wasted two years of my life,) but he never gave me a hard time while I was doing it - and I know he started tipping better whenever he went out to eat.

It's kind of sad that when I think of good things to say about Grandpa it's usually about material stuff he's given me. I know how much he loved me, (his acceptance of Anna as my partner is testament to that,) and he wanted only the best for his grandchildren, but he had a limited idea of what that might be. The big irony is he was so concerned about passing on some legacy that it got in the way of our having a better relationship, which could have been his real legacy.

The nice thing about grandpa finally letting go is that now when I think of him, I can pick a point in time and remember him as he was then, back when I was a kid and he was still fun. I can forget about all the years he frustrated the crap out of me by not recognizing I was an adult with a brain and just remember the Grandpa who would take me to play miniature golf, even though it offended his golfing sensibilites. I can remember my Grandpa who wore blue hats and hugged me so hard and made horrible puns and said "sweet sleep" when he tucked me in at night and asked me about my life instead of always telling me what to do with it.

Here he is even before that, long before I knew him, with my grandmother, whom I never met, because she died when my mother was young. In his most recent years, my grandfather remembered his first wife as a blond-haired, blue-eyed angel. It's nice how death can can make us clean up good.

Let's try that again, shall we?

Another month, another pregnancy attempt.

Once again, it was just a teensy bit uncomfortable. (Sort of like I remember sex with a guy, actually. Rimshot!) Or, as the doctor who performed the insemination noted, "Your cervix doesn't seem to like me today."

Well, no, not when you're jabbing at it like that. Thanks, doc.

This was, in fact, an entire day of poking poor AnnaRay. I went to the acupuncturist this morning, in the hopes of ending this unpleasant habit I've picked up of falling asleep frighteningly early, then waking up every 45 minutes or so throughout the night.

The experience was, um, fascinating. Nice Zen Acupuncturist Guy stuck tiny needles all over my ears, hands, legs and feet. And then he left the room and told me to have a good nap. Whassit?? A nap? There are needles all over my body, something that is very evident every time I move even the barest inch, and I'm supposed to nap? Crazy talk, if you ask me. He also gave me (sold is such a dirty word) some herbs for sleeping. They come in pill form -- large, stinky grey pills. I'll be sure to let you know how they work, assuming I can bring myself to actually take them.

Post-pricking, I went to the ear doctor to buy hearing aids. Those suckers are expensive. And the fitting process, which involves having cotton shoved down into your ear canal with a large, pointy stick, wasn't exactly fun. Once the cotton is wedged down deep enough, the audiologist shot a cold pink gel into my head, completely filling each side. When she was finished, I could hear nothing. She left me there for five minutes while the stuff hardened, and that was, honestly, the first time I've found myself on the verge of terror at the prospect of losing my hearing entirely. Because based on my brief experience today, that would be scary and lonely and confusing.

Judybat joined me for the last Columbus Day errand: Impregnation. The details weren't any different, except for my unhappy cervix. (Judybat says it was pouting when she took a look. How sad.)

Last month, I was surprisingly disappointed when sperm failed to hit the egg. We're a loooong way away from feeling the need to try fertility drugs or anything like that. But we did take one extra precaution this time: We actually had sex. On the examining table. Immediately after the doctor left the room.

I'll spare you more details, given that you're probably already going "eewwwwww" or some variation therein. However, could you please think send some positive thoughts radiating toward my uterus? Because I'd really, really like to have Judybat's baby.

And she has already done her part.

The World According to The Boy

- When the dogs bark, they are talking to Mommy, and she understands what they say.

- There is nothing in this world the mommies can't do, including turn night into day; you just have to keep asking for it and over and over and over and over and over and over and over. (Want daytime, Mommy. Want daytime now.)

- After someone sings "Happy Birthday to You" it's time to eat cake. (Want cake, Mommy. Want cake. Want cake. Want cake. Want cake. Want cake. Want cake. )

- That's mine.

- That's mine too.

With friends like these . . .

I'm starting to feel bad for Harriet Miers. Consider, for example, this comment one of her backers made in today's Times. Keep in mind he's defending her right to serve on the Supreme Court.

"If great intellectual powerhouse is a qualification to be a member of the court and represent the American people and the wishes of the American people and to interpret the Constitution, then I think we have a court so skewed on the intellectual side that we may not be getting representation of America as a whole," Mr. Coats said in a CNN interview.

Is he saying the stupid people of America deserve representation too? Because my spouse would argue they took care of that last fall.

Mommy has what?

My son is apparently a breast man.

That didn't come out right. Well, actually, it did. Is anyone really all that surprised?

Recently, we've been teaching TheBoy to recognize the parts of his body. It's all innocent stuff: Where are your elbows? Where is your head? Where are your toes? Where is your prehensile tail?

Last week, in the midst of a little pre-pajama Biology 101, he pointed at his chest and popped up with a question of his own.

"Mommy, what deese?"

Deese were his tiny baby boy nipples, I explained, leaving out the part about how his were completely useless and just there for decoration. (He's a little young for that kind of disappointment.) He was fascinated. He pointed to them. He grabbed at them. He whined about the fact that they remain, at this young age, thankfully inverted.

Then he asked to see mine.

What do you do in a situation like that? I figure at two-and-a-half, you show. And then you explain that everyone has nipples. Mommies have them, and little boys have them, and little girls have them, and some are more attractive than others, and some are more purposeful than others, and some come in different shapes and sizes and colors.

So I did. And then, as soon as I could, into the bathroom, closed the door and fell on the floor, caught somewhere between a laughing fit and utter mortification.

The parenting adventure continues.

Shana Tova

I did go to temple last night, but it wasn't religious fervor that made me rush home to my family and tell AnnaRay how much I love her.

I've been struggling with the fact that, though I say I want to join a temple, I really only want to go on the High Holy Days. We call this week The Days of Awe, and I just love that. I love that every year we Jews come together and, no matter where I am, I can find my people in a roomful of strangers. I love that before we can ask God's forgiveness on the Day of Atonement, we first must ask forgiveness of our fellow humans, and I love that when we do ask God forgiveness, we say, "Look man, we screwed up this year and we're really sorry about that. We strive to do better next year, but you know and we know we're going to screw it up again, so please forgive us now and we'll be back again next year for more of the same."

But here's my problem: I don't actually believe in this god we're praying to, so while I love the spirit and the ritual of the holiday, it's hard for me sit through services every week, and if I just go to synagogue during the high holy days, I feel like I'm taking from a congregation that supports me when I need them on Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur, but not giving back anything in return during the rest of the year. And God or no God, I am still Jewish, so I have guilt about this. I could just pay my dues and show up only when I feel like it, but I have a problem with paying dues for a membership I'm only interested in using once a year. I used to think paying for it would make me more likely to go, but if it didn't get me to the gym, it sure won't get me to Friday night services.

The funny thing is, the rabbi's sermon last night was all about people like me - Jews who only show up in shule those two days out of the year. He said we come not for the praying, but for the community and for the tradition, and he was certainly right in my case. So even though the congregation was warm and welcoming, and even though the rabbi cracked Borscht Belt jokes that reminded me of my mother, and even though I left the service humming Avinu Malkaynu, which I crave to hear every year as the leaves begin to fall, I couldn't wait to get out of there and get home to my family, because for me, community and tradition are empty if I can't share them with my Goyisha bride and our WASPy-looking little boy.

I'm lucky though, because AnnaRay will come to synagogue with me, and she does celebrate my holidays, and her goals for this coming year are exactly the same as mine, (except, love Joss Whedon as I do, I'd rather watch the first season of 24. But whatever. We'll work it out.) So maybe I'll just suck it up and pay the dues and only go when I feel like it. And who knows, maybe I will go more than once a year - at the very least it may be a good way to get involved in some charitable project, since that's on both of our to do lists. And so what if I do just go on Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur. I'm an adult, right? I can do what I want, as long as I'm not hurting other people. It's not like God is going to strike me d

Happy new year

Judybat went to temple last night to celebrate Rosh Hashanah. I think she should go to temple more often, if only because she usually comes back anxious to tell me how wonderful I am and how much she adores me. That could be because she's filled with some sort of religious fervor, but I think it's more likely that she's just grateful I took care of TheBoy and gave her some time alone. (Taking care of TheBoy is my idea of worship, by the way. It certainly makes me feel closer to the divine. Except when he pees in his pants.)

I'm just a goy, but I do think the Jewish new year is a good opportunity to think a little bit about all the things I would have done differently over the past 12 months and all the things I want to do right in the coming months. I'm not going to get into atonement yet -- that's next week's homework, right? -- but I do need to share some of my goals for the coming year:

- I want to get pregnant and take care of my body and TheFetus. Or I want to not get pregnant and find a way to be OK with that.
- I want to give more money to charity and find some sort of public service for the family to do, even if it's only one day.
- I want to be more patient with TheBoy, and less prone to raising my voice.
- I want to be a nicer person, and stop beating up blind men and crazy ladies at bus stops.
- I want to be a more honest person, especially when it comes to dealing with my emotions. (Repression? Me? I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about.)
- I want, now that we've seen "Serenity," to rent the lone season of "Firefly" on DVD, and gorge myself on Joss Whedon's brilliance.
- I want to get closer to my goal of not seeing the world as a zero-sum game. In other words, to be happy for my friends when good things happen, rather than jealous and evil.

Judybat is going to suggest that I missed a few important things, such as picking up my dirty socks and remembering to take the recycling to the curb. But the Days of Awe aren't about such trivialities.