Okay=mc2

I got my eyes checked last week. It's been two years since my last eye exam and I've been wearing my last pair of contact lenses for over a month (they last 30 days), so it was time. The optometrist was nice enough. She said two things that stood out. The first thing was that she said I needed a haircut because my bangs kept getting in her way- well, I just go my haircut last week (am I out of touch with the function of bangs?). The other thing she said is something I've heard from various moms over the last year or so. She asked if I had kids and I said, yes, a son, who was nearly two. She also has a son, 16 years-old. She said it goes so fast. Does it? Does it? Everyone says their kids grow up in the blink of an eye. I guess my eye is still in mid-blink because the last two years have been two of the longest of my life.

Although, I am starting to get a glimpse of what those moms already know. Last week I pulled out Jack's baby DVDs and we watched them- and, honestly, I can barely remember Jack as a baby, let alone that entire first year. We watched the video because our neighbor just had her first son. I saw her the other day and she told me that some days she feels likes she's getting it and some days she feels completely lost. I had also forgotten how completely consuming parenting is those first few months with the first child. It's an experience like no other, and an experience that you only understand when, well, experiencing it. I swear it took me three months just to learn what to expect from any given day. And, that still changes.

Anyway, I've been particularly conscious of Jack's developmental leaps not so much because he seems so smart (which he is, of course), but because it means he's becoming more and more of an individual who adjusts to life without me or Ed. As Ed mentioned in our last post, we drove up to Mt. Washington (famous for its "My Car Climbed Mt. Washington" bumber sticker- the one Ed ranted about earlier and the one that makes me laugh because the darn mountain is barely 6,000 ft). We stayed at a particularly nice (yet deserted) resort condo with two bedrooms. Jack slept on the double bed in the main room. I worried about him being scared in a new place, but despite a lingering cough, he did rather fine. At the end of our trip I asked Ed if he thought Jack was scared but just didn't say anything- something that Ed & I both did as children. We can both remembering falling asleep thinking we heard footsteps coming down the hall, but just dealt with it on our own. Granted, Jack is quite a bit younger than we were when the fake footstep sounds kept us up, but Jack is beginning to learn how to deal with the everyday stuff on his own. And as proud as I am of his ability to adjust and adapt, the gutteral maternal drive to protect him from any growing pains simmers just beneath the logical, evolutionary push to let Jack survive and thrive as much on his own as possible.

This is why I have that oh-so familiar bitter sweet pang of emotions all parents must experience when they see evidence that their children are growing up. On the three hour drive home from Bartlett, New Hampshire, Jack sat in his car seat and did remarkably well. At one point, his cough was acting up, but he was determined to finish his chocolaty digestive cookie in order to suck on blankie. One thing I don't like about blankie is that the edges, despite frequent washings, display stains of nearly every food Jack eats. He will store food like a chipmunk in his cheeks so that when, after eating, he gets his blanket, and sucks on the edges while simultaneously finishing whatever meal he had stored in his cheeks. Thus, gross blanket corners. I turned around after he coughed and noticed all the cookie bits in his mouth just as his hand was about to bring blankie to suckville. I said, "Jack, why don't you just finish chewing your cookie before putting blankie in your mouth so you don't get cookie and chocolate all over blankie" - a sentence I've said many times in the past that didn't make any difference to blankie's fate. Jack looked at me and plainly responded, "Okay." He pulled his blankie down back to his lap, finished chewing up his cookie - with an open mouth to show me exactly how well he was chewing - and then put blankie in his mouth. I was stunned. I might as well have said, "Jack, what's Einstein's theory of relativity?" to which Jack might as well have calmly answered, "E=MC2."

I have no idea when Jack learned what "okay" meant, or how to say the word. It's the first I've heard of it. It got me thinking about all the other words he just uses without instruction or coaching. And, the words he's beginning to mimic easily. (Ed thought he was going to get pulled over by a cop on our trip home. Jack yelled a barely coherent "Fuuu..." from the backseat after Ed growled the clear version). I'm trying hard to remember the amazement of it all because I'm sure that in a few months sentences will be as common place as any conversation (well, almost). I do want to appreciate his growing up as much as I can; I just am not sure that the appreciation truly happens until well after the fact that the growing up part is pretty much over (is it ever?).

No blogging for the past couple of days since we were up in the White Mountains of New Hampshire since Wednesday. Our goal this summer is to see some other parts of New England besides the greater Boston area, so when our daycare person offered us her vacation at this mountain resort, we jumped at the chance to get out of the city.

Google Maps told us to take I-95 north to the New Hampshire border. What did people do before Google Maps or MapQuest? Ask someone for directions?! Sheez - how did we live? So north on Route 1, onto I-95, and in 30 minutes we were in New Hampshire. Interesting state - New Hampshire, funky little shape of a state with a thinly vailed death threat for a state motto (Live Free or Die - it's on the lisence plates).

The White Mountains is the place to ski around here in the winter, but really they're just some hills in upstate New Hampshire (its highest point is Mount Washington, at 6000 feet, the highest point east of the Mississippi River). C'mon, I'm not being snotty, we're from Washington. We grew up in the shadow of Mount Rainier - not a exactly a big hill with snow on top of it, is it? Nice country though, and a nice drive - reminded us of the North Cascades - this area would be gorgeous in the fall with all the color from the changing leaves.

We'll post more tomorrow. Our place was nice. Quiet too, maybe too quiet - the area reminded both of us The Shining. If we had found a hedge-maze, we would've been out of there!

We're all going to die...

Someday.

Ok, I'm not normally an alarmist, (I mean, I saw the trailor for the new Al Gore movie and thought, "hey, if the outdoors is so groovy, how come the homeless aren't more fond of it?") but this doesn't seem like a good development...

I give your local news station about 2 days before they lead off the 6pm newscast with visuals like, "Bird-Flu Blast '06" and "What you need to know before you and everyone you know kicks the can..." If anyone knows how to try and scare the be-jeezus out of you, it's the tv media.

Still, when the federal government implies you shouldn't wait for the free-vaccine van to drive down your street when the bird-flu hits the fan, you should sit up and take notice.

See you in the canned-foods aisle. Dibs on the canned peaches.

Bitter about batter

I've had a craving for brownies. Big time. And not the wig-triggity pilsbury box kind; the kind you make from scratch where you melt the best quality chocolate in a double broiler with real butter. The kind that the mother and maid from "Meet Me in St. Louis" or the old hens from "Pollyanna" made. The kind that takes about six months to walk off, walking 10 miles a day.

I did some research online and found a recipe for 'low carb brownies' and thought- yes really thought that I could create the ultimate brownie without all the extra calories. Trust me, it sounded good - the recipe called for butter and baking chocolate (to melt down) - and for splenda, which is the sugar substitute we use and like. The ingredient I wasn't familiar with is soy flour. No problem, right. Flour is flour. Wrong.

The thing is, once I mixed the batter, I, like any good good, tasted it.

YUCK.

I poured the batter into the pan. I baked the brownies. I made the low-carb frosting. (decent). I cooled the brownies after taking them out of the oven. I tasted them again.

YUCK.

I felt like that crazy old woman down the street who feeds he children tofu with soy milk for breakfast and whose house smells like cat litter and cinnamon. Even Jack wouldn't finish a brownie. Ed said he thought they were okay. Okay like sardines out of a can.

I'm pissed. Oh, well. Good thing we had a back up wig-triggity Pilsbury box in the pantry. That should only take about three months to walk off. That is, if I only eat half the pan.

The great thing in all of this is that Jack is fine. Two nights ago he threw up and has been fighting some weird virus. (could be fifths or sixths desease - don't ask, he's fine). For the first time in his life, Ed & I realized just how much we take Jack's health for granted. And, to be healthy means fostering a healthy attitude about good baking. Not fake, bitter batter baking.

The tree in the back yard just got hit by lightning - which would've been cool to see, but I missed it, just saw the flash and looked out the window to see a big chunk of the top of the tree bounce after hitting the ground. Jack and I had been on a walk and had just beat the storm inside a few minutes before all the drama started.

We saw the storm clouds on our walk. I even paused to watch the clouds coming, which with all my training from watching disaster movies, I should know is textbook for getting yourself killed, or in this case, wet. It's always the schlub who stops to look at the lava/aliens/ash cloud/collapsing building, who gets it - haven't you watched the movies? Always keep running!

Jack is feeling better today - he was sick last night. Woke up from his nap yesterday with a fever, and didn't start to feel better until he puked on our bed around 11pm. Poor kid - throwing up is never fun, but even worse when you don't understand why your body seems to be turning itself inside out - he wasn't pleased. I don't blame him - throwing up is one of those times when you hand over control of yourself to your body. Don't want to throw up? Too bad, your body's already decided, here it comes!

I've never liked that feeling. Jack's fever disappeared and he's currently sitting in the living room with his new favorite food group - the popsicle.

Laura and I went out to dinner and a movie last Friday. Friends with Money [shrug] get it on Netflix, don't go see it in the theaters. Wasn't bad, just wasn't really good. Will someone please explain to Jennfier Aniston that playing dramatic doesn't always mean playing pitiful? You need to show us range! We had dinner at a brewpub in East Cambridge next door to MIT before the movie. Laura and I decided that the 4 college guys at the next table downing this huge pitcher of beer had probably spent their day working on some top secret government/military project involving a space-based laser weapon sys - oh wait, that was Real Genius. Anyway, we guessed they were real smart.

The Fire Department just showed up to remove the powerline from the street. It's stopped raining, so Jack and I are going to go out and watch them work.

p.s. Does anyone know where I can buy a *great* pair of jeans?

I recently read an article in “O” magazine by Eve Ensler (think Vagina Monologues) about how insane it is that women spend so much money on their appearance when that money could/should go to much better causes like AIDS research or the ghettos of South Africa. I read the article mostly because the author’s picture stood out – she’s wearing black pants and a black, short halter top that revealed a very *real* plump stomach. Not gross, not even as polished as the new Dove commercials. Just real. I could relate. And I admired her honest portrayal of herself (we all should take a picture of ourselves and look at it daily; I bet we’d see more of our true beauty rather than flaws if we had such a photo to examine).

Which is why, after reading the article and thoroughly understanding her position, that I can’t stop thinking about what it means to be a woman who pays attention to how she looks – there’s this fine balance between the goal of attraction and tumbling over into body-hating addiction. I got a Masters Degree in English a few years ago in which I intensely studied the reality of women’s place in the world – in the past and now. Even though women are doing tremendously better than we were twenty, thirty, even ten years ago, we are still fighting for true equality (more on that later, but trust me). And, we’re still expected to look better than our male counterparts, for better or worse. My initial thought about sacrificing the money that I spend on my appearance and sending it to some good cause is a twang guilt of “yeah, probably should.” Besides, I’ve been too busy being the working mom to give off the impression that I have the time to care about my appearance. Besides, behind that is a huge sigh of relief… you mean I don’t have to worry about what I look like? I don’t have to research the best, most affordable skin care and makeup or watch a thousand shows of both the British and American ‘What Not To Wear” in order to determine not only what is considered attractive, but also attractive for me? Determining all this—let alone shopping for the stuff—is a part time job in of itself; so yes, I’d be glad to give it up.

And yet, give it up is what I’ve done these last few years. Since giving birth to Jack, I’ve fallen into that notorious “scattered, often frumpy, 15 pounds too heavy, hair-up, too busy to put on more than mascara” recent mom look. I don’t have the time between full time mommy, part-time teacher and freelance editor to research products, let alone shop.

Ensler did acknowledge that we should care for our bodies “deeply” and honor them. I do eat better than I ever have in my life, and as much as possible, I grab a two mile walk, so my health is relatively in tact. I wonder, though, if she would think that make-over shows are something she’d approve of (particularly when she made a point to remind us of America’s poverty line or the polluted rivers). Perhaps she was predominately talking to the readers of O! who buy the most expensive items on Oprah’s “must have” list- you know, those ladies who believe that if they spend $250 on night cream that the wrinkles will indeed be erased come morning. Or, those who really think that you can’t find a great pair of shoes at the discount stores. I’m not sure. I am pretty sure that she’s just trying to get us to reflect on what we buy and why we buy it. I think there’s an important distinction to make between money that is spend on yourself in order to feel good about yourself and the money spend on yourself in a delusionary haze that yes, you will indeed meet those impossible standards established by “them” (media, television, celebrity, etc.). But, I’m not the person who needs to be reminded about what money not to spend – I need to be reminded that taking care of myself and feeling, well, good and attractive, is just as crucial as teaching a successful class (yeah, really).

On Friday, I got my haircut for the second time this year. I spent $55.00 to get it cut ($45 + tip). Yesterday, I bought $6.00 hair removal creme to get rid of a wonderful new development on my upper lip. And, lately, I’ve been thinking about not plucking my eyebrows for awhile and paying the $15 to get them waxed because, darn it, waxed eyebrows just look so much more polished when waxed. And polished, I like. It’s why I spent about an hour the other day researching exfoliants to find out how to get rid of the blackheads on my nose (which will no doubt multiply like fleas come humid July).

So, would it better if I took that $76 and donated it to a women’s shelter? Maybe. But, I like to think that confidence is built both from within and without (as many other articles in O would no doubt agree with). How can I get dressed up for a date with Ed to really enjoy one another’s company if I’ve got all this extra facial hair? Besides, it’s not like I’m delusional about cellulite or stretch marks; they are there and always will be; I won’t spend a gazillion dollars on plastic surgery or miracle creams. I don’t think the woman at the shelters would want do to that, either. They would rather start by feeling safe and eating a good meal. But, then, I bet they wouldn’t mind a decent haircut, like anyone.

Perhaps its time (for me anyway) to focus on the feminism for this time in my life: the unique woman who strives for personal, parental, and professional fulfillment. I take in Ensler, Stacy & Clinton, some gender theory, friends, and the occasional style magazine, mix them up and use them to find my style (maybe that’s just what the 30s are about).

The budding artist 

Even though Jack has recently discovered stickers -- particularly where not to stick them -- he still enjoys some good old fashioned coloring. A few weeks ago I drew some flowers (the three flowers in the upper left hand corner). I had no idea that he, too, was drawing a flower, at the same time. I looked down and saw his yellow flower. He hasn't re-produced anything that is as clear as this, so I wonder if it wasn't pure coincidence (still debating whether there even is such a thing). But then, he did say "garage door" quite clearly last Christmas, so who knows what kids are capable of. Anyway, thought I'd post the picture that I plan to keep forever - and I throw away pretty much everything.

Perfect Spring day today. Warm, but not too warm - Sunny, but just the right amount of clouds, so that you're not squinting from the sun all day. I wouldn't mind a string of three or four of these days in a row.

I worked out this morning - oh yes, don't look so stunned. I drag myself to the gym every now and then. Drove up to campus since the gym there is huge and free since, you know, I do pay (or will pay) out the nose and other orifices for school when it's all said and done. You know what I enjoy the most about eavesdropping on the conversations of undergraduates while on the treadmill- the subtle nuances of interpersonal relationships of 20-year olds...

"oh mygosh guys, last night, Susie pulled a Tracy on Melanie..."

"shut up, no way...."

Laura and I went to Newbury Street this afternoon - Newbury Street is this trendy street near downtown with a bunch of shops and restaurants. I've slowly decided my wardrobe needs to evolve from the college t-shirt nirvana it is now. I recently had one of those moments where I caught myself in the mirror and thought, "good God man, you're 33, do you own one shirt without a faded college name on the front?" Don't get me wrong, I like me. I just want some clothes that don't say, "hey, I like sports and various greasy foods..."

So that was the focus today - find some new clothes for Ed. I was lucky to have Laura there - otherwise I would've just ended up at the Mother Ship, otherwise known as Nike Town. I generally don't think of myself as an old-fuddy-duddy, but what is about those clothing stores with the thump, thump, thump dance music? There are few places that make me feel strangely inadequate about myself - hip clothing stores and Home Depot's (all those people buying large pieces of wood and metal).

I came home just in time to watch Arsenal blow their lead and lose the Champion's League Final to Barcelona. Typical. I was disappointed, but wasn't really all that emotionally invested. I saving myself up for the World Cup this summer.

Jack no longer signs "more". He just says, "I want more." I realized tonight that's one more stage resigned to the past - for the life of me I can't remember Jack as a baby and that was just a year and a half ago! Thankfully, we have the pictures to remind us!

the red pajamas 

First Favorite Color

I just put Jack to bed- a little late (8:30). Whenever Jack has to change into his day clothes or pajamas, his eyes clothes tight, his mouth wails a long 'nooooooo' and the tears spill out. It's a production similiar to the one he re-enacts (and re-enacts and re-enacts) when he leaves for daycare or when he can't have a cookie ('cook') for breakfast. It's an act that, if I had the emotional stones to engage would leave me exhausted. And it's an act that I'm hoping he can parlay into a stellar broadway career (film's fine, too).

Tonight, I was quite happy to get his pajamas on without the usual tear fan-fare. Of course, the fact that he was down right (over) tired, watching his new favorite show 'the Wonder Pets' and digesting a strawberry popsicle helped a bit.

But Jack put tonight's bedtime dress routine to shame about a few weeks agao. This was back when the weather was warm (near 80 degrees). I had pulled out his "Incredible" pajamas Nana W bought for Christmas because they are lighter than his wool one-pieces. They are also predominately RED. And red is something Jack can't get enough of. He wears this RED sweater Nana K bought before we moved (nearly a year ago), and even though the sleeves are half-way between the elbow and wrists and the bottom of the sweater barely touches the top of his pants, it's the coat he chooses to wear in the morning (and that's a choice we're not about to give up because who knows what other drama festival we'd have to endure). The first color Jack could say and recognize was RED. And because of that, and maybe just because he likes the color, that's the color he seems to like best - for now at least.

Anyway, I casually pulled out Jack's RED p.j.s, showed them to him, and asked if he wanted to get dressed in his new RED pajamas (to really understand the full affect of this word, you have to say it out loud slowly, slightly rolling the 'r' like a cabaret dancer would; this is how Jack says it, as if it's the most important word in the world). He looked at me, started to contort his face into the great third act of the evening, but then looked at the pajamas and exclaimed an exuberant "RRRED!" Before Ed & I could fall on our knees and praise the night-night gods, Jack actually lay down on his back (not before hurredily shoving aside all toys in the way), stuck his legs up in the air and looked at us as if, "let's get this show on the road, folks; I got red pajamas to wear."

The only thing that might make me happier is if, one day, I was able to get the picture above printed in the back of his senior yearbook just like all those preppy popluar kids to in order to embarrass the hell out him.

Don't blink

You know the year's going by quickly, when you blink and April's turned to May - blink again, and May's already halfway over. By the time I finish this post, it'll probably be June.

Not that it feels like summer - we had about 7 inches of rain in the past 3 days...I kid you not. Where does it all go? Well, about an inch of it is in our basement. Nothing's wet, everything we stored down is on shelves. It is kind of a pain to negotiate from the bottom of the stairs to the washing machine without getting your feet wet. It's not that bad though, I make into a game of Hot Lava. And who doesn't like a good game of Hot Lava? Who's with me?

Jack is now putting words together without hearing them first. Today he pointed to the stroller by the door, looked at me and said, "Go. Walk. Dadda." So we went for a walk. Still waiting for Jack to point to the TV and say, "Go. Irish. Make. Chicken. Wings. Dadda." All in good time, all in good time...

Drove up to school to meet a sport psych buddy about writing some sport psych articles for different magazines/journals. First though, I stopped off at the local cafe for a mocha. The Most Miserable Barista, we'll call her Miserable B, was working the cash register. It's not that she's just glum, it's the fact Miserable B looks pissed to just take your order that grates on me the most. "canI helpyou..." she manages to mumble when you approach the register. I delight in asking for my coffee card to be stamped and not tipping her. The CD playing on the cafe speakers was Madonna's Like A Virgin - when did I turn old enough for a musician's music to turn from cool and hip, to played out, to not cool, to so unhip it's cool again?

After dinner we took a family trip to BJ's (think Costco). I never tire of a store like BJ's. I mean, my God, it's a 20-pound bag of Cashews....a 20-frickin' pound bag! If I worked at Costco or BJ's that would be my pet-peeve, people who walked around exclaiming, "that's the largest bag of Pizza Rolls I've ever seen! Look at that!" It would get old fast. We didn't get the cashews - but we now have enough garbage bags and olive oil to last us until 2008.

The West Wing ended last night - probably the most anti-climatic series finale in the history of television - The Andy Griffith Show probably ended with more drama. Scrubs season finale tomorrow (really the only show besides The Office I make a point to watch). I've decided it's too late to get into Lost.

Low gas prices should be a Constitutional Right

No, just kidding.

With all the complaining recently about high gas prices, you'd think the Constitution includes a guarantee of $1.50 per gallon gas - isn't that somewhere in the Bill of Rights?

If you think you got it bad, check out this map of gas prices from around the country. I guess we should all move to Natrona County....in Wyoming. Of course we'd have to put up with some minor inconviences, like the nearest grocery store being 100 miles down the road - but, hey, it's mostly empty logging roads!

But hey, someone's getting rich, right? Well, yes, yes they are. But we act like the oil companies owe us one - like, all we do, after all - is use their product everyday in just about everything they do, the least they could is take one for the team, right?

Ok, I don't pretend to have the answer to this problem, but here's my 2 cents (which is now about a $2.91 thanks to artificially inflated opinions, damn oil companies). Here's what I remember from my microeconomics class (or was it macro?) - The price of a product is determined by how much there is of the product (supply) and how much people want to buy that product (demand). Demand goes up and supply stays the same = price goes up.

So - you want lower gas prices? It seems to me we're not going to lower demand for oil products in this country (all aboard the last bus to Natrona County!!) - or around the rest of the world (hey, we're talking to you, China and India, quit trying to modernize!)

But what about the supply of oil or other sources of energy? There's hasn't been an oil refinery built in the country since the 1970s. We refuse to build new nuclear power plants. And when we refuse to build wind farms off pretty places, like Martha's Vinyard, or drill for oil in not-so pretty places, like northern Alaska - we're making the choice to stay the course of rising gas prices.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, 3-Mile Island, those poor moose, the Mother Earth and all that... in the meantime, how's that boycott of Exxon working?

Simplifying: Sort of

I realize now, after nearly a year of blogging, that it was somewhat ambitious of us to start up two blogs with the expectation of regular posting. Lately I've been thinking that we should blend 'jackjoy' and '1place' into one blog, because, really, the journey of parenting is as much, if not more, interesting than the our individual/married life journies. Of course, it's even more ambitious to figure out how to do that exactly without losing all of our posts from both blogs over the last year. And, we don't want to lose any posts- I also realized recently that jackjoy.blogspot.com is essentially Jack's baby book. So, one of my goals this summer is to figure out how to blend and/or upgrade our blog without losing any posts. In the meantime, we'll be posting life updates- including Jack updates- on this blog.

I've included two pictures of Jack below to let the 'blending begin.' Jack & I met Ed at BU yesterday to watch their men's soccer play Boston College. I had just purchased sunglasses after suffering an oncoming glare headache (the kind of headache I embrace because it means warm sun). Jack loves sunglasses and wanted to keep them on as long as possible.

Ed will tell you that as sports psychologist, his job is not "on stage" (e.g. on the field with coaches), but "off stage," so he does his best to be invisible at games. Jack didn't help much. The kid flirted with the girls behind us and then walked around the track near the field, pretending to throw and kick some imaginary ball, yelling, "oh! NO! each time. He also felt it necessary to blend the bear crawl with some form of toddler push-up, some exercise routine no doubt establised at day care to prepare the kids for their inevitable future in the army. When the game was over, Jack stood up straight, and properly clapped as if an opera had ended. We then went out to dinner where Jack, holding his hands together in a kind of prayer/more signal, exclaimed a loud and clear "MMMMMmmmmm" when we let him have a drink of our diet coke. We've banned "soda" from the house.

Now there's no glare on the soccer ball... 

Summer is on its way! 

Hindsight with Time Travel is sometimes 20/20

There were times I took soccer coaching way too seriously - like there was a little piece of me on the line each time the game kicked off. Oh, I think at some level I always knew this about me (hell, my friends nicknamed my "Coco" once for the way I'd jump off the bench at a near-goal or rub my head when things on the field looked bleak). Of course, you always realize things like this after-the-fact. Oh, I shouldn't have worried so much about that, or dang, I wasted a lot of time thinking about that...now what was it I was freaking out about? For me, it was coaching soccer.

I had one of these moments yesterday evening while watching BU play Northeastern in soccer. I work with the team, "doing sport psych", and see almost a dozen of the boys individually - they won, which is a good thing for the sport psychologist, because 1) you genuinely want the people your working with to be successful and 2) and this is self-serving, there's always the outside chance your work had a tiny, tiny part in their success.

Anyway, my point - well, I don't really have one. We watched an interesting, and if you can get past the all the geeky-tech talk in the first 10 minutes, a pretty good film about time travel. Ok, ok, I know, I know, sounds fishy, but this is a little different - Primer is a movie about 2 friends who accidently find a way to go back in time. The movie's got a more realistic feel to it and it feels like you're watching Start-up.com, than let's say, Being John Malkovich. Credit the filmmaker here, you get the sense this could actually happen. So it's more philosophical than sci-fi - What would you do if you could go back - play the Lotto? Convince Katie Holmes to not go on that first date with Tom? Give yourself advice for the future? Who's to say you'd listen?

In the end, we're always the ones that get in our way the most. That's all I got to say 'bout that - see the film.

I blog on Wednesdays

Today you can call me "Even-Steven" - the soda machine ate my dollar this morning while I was trying to get change for the bus, but I got it back when I didn't have to pay to take the bus back to campus today. Apparently the slot where you put your folded up dollar bill was too full, so the bus driver just waved me onto the bus. Nice.

It snowed today. Nothing big, but the flakes were big and wet. I liked the 70 degree weather last week, but if it wants to be cooler for a little while, I'll take that too. I know it's going to get hot and sticky out by July, so I'll save my complaining about that for later.

It was nice to see Jake out here this last weekend. Seeing a friend in a completely different context is like when characters on a TV show go to a completely different location. It's the same, but different, you know? Kind of like the Brady Bunch filmed on location in Hawaii. Don't worry, no one found an ancient Voodoo necklace or anything like that. Still, it was fun to play the oh-we're-East-Coast-folk-now-watch-us-easily-navigate-this-rotary game with someone from out of town.

I interviewed at a clinic that specializes in treating eating disorders. I felt ok about every answer I gave (in psych-interviews always work in the following words: informs, empathy, contextual, systemic) and I felt surprisingly calm throughout the interview. They want an intern at least 4 days a week this fall - which I could squeeze in with my class schedule, but it wouldn't work with my teaching fellowship (which pays and gives me and Jack medical insurance). So I couldn't give the lady a commitment to being there - kind of deflated the interview, now that I think about it. At the end, I felt like we were just going-through-the-motions. Reminded me of a Seinfeld episode where Elaine, realizing her interview hasn't gone well, asks, "...there's no way I'm getting this job, is there?" Without skipping a beat, the interviewer responds, "No, there isn't."

There are greater tragedies in life I suppose.

Jake, Jack, (blankie,) and Ed hang out.  

Can it be?

One of Ed's colleagues from Kentwood HS came to visit this last weekend. He was our first visitor, and even though he was here to visit Harvard Law School, we were thrilled to have a friend in our home. Jake's first impression of Boston was that "at least 50 people die a day in car-related accidents." I wasn't there, but Ed told me about how on their drive around the town, some old woman had double-parked her car with the trunk open. There was some kind of commercial truck behind her, unable to get around the *barely* two lane space of Massachusetts Ave. At reaching his limit, he got out of his truck, slammed the old lady's trunk, got back into his truck, lay on the horn and yelled something to the effect of "get the F**K out of my way. To her credit, and most likely a Boston native, the old lady just sat in the driver's seat, eyes locked forward and hands gripping the wheel, waiting tensely for who ever she was supposed to be picking up.

I'm sad I missed it. I've yet to see such a display of driving rage. Jake also couldn't get over the rotaries; like we believed when we first got here, he is certain the rotaries cause multiple deaths. And, you'd think so, but, and I went on to explain, the rotaries are a wonderful kind of controlled chaos. In fact, I said, the driving philosophy in Boston is somewhat libertarian: we don't really follow the "rules" set by the government, but instead get to know what works best at every intersection, rotary, neighborhood, and then develop a kind of pride in "knowing" the area. And, it really doesn't take that long to learn. Terror is an wonderful kickstart to the learning curve.

But, do you realize what was happening? I was defending Boston. In particular, I was defending the thing that makes me the craziest about Boston: the driving. And, here I was, defending it. Maybe it's because spring really is nice; like autumn, the weather isn't extreme, but plain lovely. Maybe it's because it's nearly been a year and we might actually be getting used to it here. Whatever, it was surprising to be sticking up for Boston.

It was also great having Jake here. Jack loved him and Ed made some fantastic dinners. Such a nice mix-up to the regular chaotic routine.

What's up with Scrubs?

Our Netflix queue has season 2 of Scrubs - three discs! "Scrubs" is our "show" this year. Every year we get into one television show and can't ever get enough. Last year it was "Sex and the City" (better late than never); the year before that was BBC America's "Changing Rooms." Ed brought up how we used to get genuinely giddy when there was a two or three hour marathon. Anyway, this year it's "Scrubs." Because of the Winter Olympics, this year's season didn't begin until after January, so NBC would run TWO episodes in a row - two NEW episodes. It was awesome. Now that they have some new show about 'teachers' (like I need to watch that), we have been cashing in our Netflix for as much Scrubs as possible.

Last night we watched the regular episode on NBC and realized, after watching the complete first season a few months ago that there are some strange changes. If you are a Scrubs fan, can you explain J.D.'s insistance on channeling the late John Ritter? Or, Jordan's odd look (is it plastic surgery or some kind of disease?). We are concerned and want to know. Besides, these are puzzles that are worth thinking about- better than planning our lives or something. .

Cameron Crowe, Deliver Us

Today was one of those days that you imagine you’ll have after reading an obscure horoscope. Something like, “Casual communications cause you to rethink short and long- term goals.”

Lately, I’ve been rather homesick. I go to bed wondering when Boston will feel like home while at the same time nervous that it will indeed become “home,” rendering the Northwest the very “home” Thomas Wolfe claims we can never return to. In the morning I usually wake up surprisingly content, but by default. There’s nothing like feeling lost, down and uncertain when hitting the pillow to make the morning seem welcomingly bearable. And today, the sun was extremely bearable; the week has started off warm (mid-50s) with full sun and blue sky. It’s no Alki Beach with the Olympics framing the horizon, but it’s practically perfect.

Apparently, the weather was the first indication of a somewhat unusual day. First of all, I’ve talked to more family and friends today than I have in the last few months. And, it’s Monday- the day where I don my “single mother cap” while Ed’s gone from 7:00 AM until 8:00 PM and the day the only human contact usually consists of Jack crying after I drop him off at daycare and my students fight sleep in class. But, for whatever reason, the universe listened particularly close to my near-acceptance of lonerville and BAM! I actually have a long conversation with a friend from West Seattle (we’ve been playing phone tag for about a month). I also got a hold of my sister to talk about my mom’s visit to Kansas and the military ball and then, my mom called too. When one of Ed’s teaching buddies from Seattle called to say he’d be in town this weekend to check out Harvard, I couldn’t offer our futon fast enough. I tell you, all of the calls were the equivalent of having a great date and WILLING the guy to call- the kind of thing that *never* happens.

But, there were other calls and emails today: two in particular that we gave up on. A while ago, Ed applied for an internship at an eating disorder clinic. Because he’s becoming a licensed psychologist, he can’t just hang out in the sports psych world – but wants to expand his experience. Of course, expanding experience means learning something new and often putting yourself in uncertain circumstances – something you’d think we would have become accustomed to by now, but no- naturally, Ed procrastinated a bit getting the application in, and because of it, was certain he had no chance after not hearing back for over two weeks and after calling to basically hearing the “we’ll call you” tone. Well, tonight, they called and want to interview him.

I also got an email I didn’t expect. A while ago, I emailed the woman who hired me at North Seattle community college in a desperate attempt to find out what the hell it takes to get an interview for a full time job – we got along swimmingly while I was there; she mentored me through my first year of community college teaching as well as my first pregnancy- as she had been pregnant the year before (she also set me up with my online classes so I could be home with Jack last year). So, I was a bid dismayed when I didn’t hear back and went on to write two cover letters for two full time positions here in Boston. Tonight, after having turned in my resume and cover letters, I did get her email. Of course, her advice would have been more effective had I received it before I got my application materials in, only adding to the confusion about what the *hell* I should do with my own career – yet, the fact that Ed & I both heard back from people we pretty much had given up on highlights the fact that the universe is fucking with us. That, or, it’s trying to keep us (me, in particular, from turning into complete cynics).

Regardless, I will say that I have been a bit mad a Cameron Crowe for perpetuating the idea that greatness comes at extreme risk (and by “greatness” I mean *merely* living the life you’ve imagined). We watched the end of “Say Anything” last night. You know that line John Cusak says after Ione Skye says “no one ever thought we’d actually do this” – the one about how “you’ve just described every great success story” – well that line pissed me off. I’ve just about had it with reaching beyond what we can see. I can’t tell if it’s better to reach, reach, reach and never quite get there or be content with what is now (of course, I have a feeling that it’s some hideous complicated mix of the two). It’s probably why I was silently balling my eyes out Saturday night watching Orlando Bloom drive across the country in Crowe’s most recent, rather meandering “Elizabethtown.” We’re so far from that safe place in the car driving to Seaside that it’s hard to remember that what we’re doing now is so we can completely enjoy that drive to the coast- even if that drive may not happen for a LONG time.

To sum up (by the way, I tell my students to *never* use this phrase in their writing), I woke up this morning fairly convinced I would have to look for High School jobs, accepting, somewhat willingly, the idea of compromising my career in exchange for some consistent income and insurance. But, now, after applying for two community college jobs and hearing back from my old colleague, I’m already starting to think about how maybe I could adjunct for a year or so and develop the professional reputation I started in Seattle. And, now, Ed can dive into the kind of clinical work he knows will make him a better psychologist, and ultimately lead him to better opportunities, but will also be somewhat intimidating at first. Of course, all of this is (as usual) complicated by the fact that we have little to no income this summer (the eating disorder thing doesn’t pay) and no guarantees for income after that.

Perhaps the best thing about today was that, as I was driving home from Bunker Hill, I had my first clear understanding of the overall road structure between BU and our neighborhood. Those elusive 6 miles of wandering, snake like roads made finally made sense in my mind’s “map” eye. Maybe it’s not about finding your way; maybe it’s about not feeling lost.

My car climbed Mt. Washington

Ok, not really. This is a bumper sticker I've seen around town lately. I'm not really a bumper-sticker kind-of-person. Frankly, given that that sticker will stay on your car for almost eternity, I'm not sure I'd know what bumper-sticker to choose.

I mean, a sticker on the bumper of your car says a lot about you - the person driving the car. It defines you. For that brief moment that people drive behind and then, past you, that sticker is the sum of all information about they know about you. If you think about it, that's just too much pressure. I'd rather remain somewhat mysterious.

Maybe I'm just not passionate enough about a topic/issue/cause/vacation to feel the need to remind those driving behind me that yes, I think globally, but act locally. What happens when your cause loses? Do the 1 in 2 drivers in the Northwest cuss out loud everytime they walk up behind their car and see that "Kerry/Edwards" sticker on their bumper?

Which brings me back to - "My car climbed Mt. Washington". I'm sure that was a great trip and all, but was it that sweet, that you'd want yourself - and others - to be reminded of the time you drove, not climbed, not walked, mind you, but drove up Mount Washington?

Working Girl

There's a scene in Mike Nichol's 1988 Working Girl that sums up one of my bigger questions of life: can we really make that leap into the life we want?

While I assume that you all are as familiar with the movie, (I won't embarrass myself with the number of times I've seen it over the years) I'll remind you that it's basically about this secretary (Melanie Griffith) who has been working her ass off to get into the business world by going to night school and temping near/around Wall Street. She temps for a bitchy, old-money matron (Sigourney Weaver) who she ends up impersonating in order to land a big business deal. She breaks up with current boyfriend (a young Alec Baldwin) and begins a business/love relationship with new guy (Harrison Ford) who just happens to be her new business partner and who is dating the boss that Griffith's character is pretending to be. Are you following? Just rent the movie- it's worth it, even if it's a re-rent.

In the middle of her charade, Griffith's character (Tess) is sitting in Weaver's character's (Katharine) office with good friend, Joan Cusack's character (Cyn). Tess has left bad cheating boyfriend and is staying at Katharine's home while she (Katharine) is laid up in the hospital with a broken leg. Tess is attempting to set up a major deal while balancing all of her ongoing identity lies. Cyn reminds her that she's out of her home and will soon be out of her job.

Tess says something like, "I can't get to where I want without breaking the rules, but I'm not allowed to break the rules until you get there." There being the proverbial place we all hope to get to in our professional and personal lives.

Considering that Tess is "breaking the rules" all over the place, she's a bit stressed out. Good friend Cyn, leaves her with this line while Tess has to take a phone call with Katharine (who, as you remember, does not know that Tess is pretending to be her): "Sometimes I dress up and dance around my room like Madonna. It doesn't mean I'll ever be Madonna" (or something like that).

Lately, I've been trying to figure out how to be "Madonna" - not literally, of course, but wondering if it is indeed possible to break through into the kind of world I want. It's why we're here in Boston- Ed's seems to be making the transition well enough- the folks at BU love him and he's constantly getting feedback from important people like "you're a natural" or "you have tremendous potential in this field." Until he actually makes it there (sports physch guy with real income), I'm doing my damnest to figure out a way to make some consistent money doing something I enjoy. And while I'm grateful for the freelance work I have and the two classes I teach -- both that are 20 times more enjoyable than work I did before getting my Master's degree -- I still can't ignore the fact that we have $12.80 in checking and I work a gazillion hours a week to barely make ends meet.

It may seem like I'm not staying on point. The thing is, I am about to apply for some full time teaching jobs at some community colleges around here and I am faced with this sense of doom- I've applied and applied and applied for full time gigs, but haven't even got an interview. I don't have time to publish or present at conferences (they don't add to the $12.80), so I have to think of some other WAY to get that interview (Like Tess, I am unable to play by 'the rules'). The thing is: I'm a good teacher. That's not being conceited; it's a fact; I enjoy teaching, I always see success from at least 1/2 my class (that's saying a lot) and I’m not burned out like so many adjuncts I see who just put in the bare minimum effort (not yet anyway). With a full time teaching job, we’d have regular income and (brace yourself): health insurance for Jack AND me (Jack has insurance now, but we have to come up with $1200 all at once by September).

But, I apparently don’t have what ever it is I need in my resume and cover letter to get to that interview. Smoozing only gets me so far – and I’ve been unable to do that as much as I did in Seattle when *all* I did was teach. So, lately, I’ve been thinking about putting on some black lace, a bra outside my top, and coloring the ends of my hair dirty blond and dancing around the dean’s office at Bunker Hill in the hopes of getting that interview.

I’ve read somewhere that evolution occurs two ways: long, gradual change; and then, boom! A huge leap. It makes sense to me- learning seems to happen the same way: we try and try to understand what it takes to be healthy, spend our 20s (and maybe 30s) reading all about nutrition and exercise, and then one day, it hits: we just need to eat less and exercise more. We’ve known it all along, but then, suddenly we KNOW it and our daily actions change accordingly (we’ve evolved from the sugar crazed addict into a person with a healthy appetite).

I’m waiting for my leap, folks. I’m waiting for the inspiration to hit – the one thing that I can do to get to that next step, that step being a full time teaching job. How do I let THE MAN know I can do it, and do it well? I can’t pretend to teach- I’m already adjuncting. So, tell me, what kind of dance should I do and where can I do it?

My Wednesday

Wednesdays can be busy days for me. I get a ride into school from my neighbor usually around 7am. He's nice enough, but one of those people that spend the entire ride in talking about them, what's happening to them, what happened to them yesterday, what'll probably happen to them today.... I'm not much of a morning person, so I don't talk much. We get along swimmingly.

He drops me off at the BU Bridge (the middle of campus) and I walk to the School of Education building. Drop off extra stuff at the TF office (if I have to) and then take the bus to Gardner Elementary. Drivers of any public transportation in Boston don't want to look at you much less answer annoying questions from riders. I think this comes from the fact that people (not you and me individually, I mean the whole lot of us) are generally pretty dumb.

Bus drops me off in a part of town called Brighton and I walk the remaining 3/4 mile to Gardner. The elementary school is one of those old-school box buildings with big ol' steps and long hallways that must seem to stretch for a mile to the average 7-year old. I go downstairs to the basement where it is either 30 degrees or a comfortable 90. Officially, I'm the BU supervisor for the college kids doing their practicum with Gardner's teachers. Unofficially, my goal every Wednesday is to have as little contact with humans as possible. I read over my college student's journals - the usual stuff, "my teacher sucks," "these kids are poor," blah, blah, blah. Ok, it's not that bad - and some of these students will probably make great teachers.

I'm out of Gardner by noon. Walk back to bus stop. Catching the 57 bus back to BU is always hit and miss - there's either one coming every 2 minutes, or every 2 hours (that's how it feels like).

Get back to school. I've got a meeting with a soccer player at 12:30. He doesn't show. Kind of normal actually - we made the appointment before Spring Break and I know he lost the reminder card I gave him. Run into Dr. D. in the hallway. Dr. D. is a counseling faculty member and a great teacher. We talk for awhile. He's just come back from a really long faculty meeting. "These things are bullshit - I swear if you can't tget it done in 2 hours something's wrong..." Wow, that happens in college faculty meetings too? I thought that was just high school faculty meetings.

Take the T up to West Campus where the Athletic Department is located. The doors on the T are merciless. Oh, you're standing at there when the doors shut? So sorry, there's another train coming...sucker. I can type this cuz it's happened to me. Get to the Sport Psych clinic in time for a 2pm meeting with a player. The fact that BU has 2 offices for sport psych in the athletics builidng is pretty sweet. Meeting goes well. I used to be uber-conscious of every thought I had in a meeting, but more and more it's coming more naturally. Teaching was like that.

Walk over the locker room for a meeting with the whole soccer team. Today's topic: commitment. Players are going to sign this big poster with their team goals for the Spring. I want to talk about the difference between "being involved" with something and "being committed" to something - these are males, so I use an example they would all understand - food. "Commitment is like a ham and eggs breakfast," I tell them, "the hen is involved, but the pig is committed." They get it.

Walk back down Comm Ave and then cut over to the Fenway T stop. Ride the Green Line into Brookline Village where Laura and Jack are waiting to pick me up. Another Wednesday in the bag.

So, we've been here six months...

It actually feels a lot longer than six months- and, well, it is. As of March 19th, we'll have been in Boston seven months. Honestly, if feels more like seven years. Last night I realized that it was only last April that we came to visit- I still can't believe we actually MOVED ACROSS THE COUNTRY.

I did realize something I like about Boston -- and this involves recanting many early posts about the driving here. The fact is, I rarely deal with traffic. It may take me 20 mintues to drive 8 miles, but I'm moving the entire time. In Seattle, my options were I-5 or I-99 where it often take 20 minutes to move 8 feet in rush hour. Because of all the back roads, our location, and my job situation, I don't have to worry about any "tough spots." This, I like. I would much rather be moving for 30 minutes than not moving, regardless of how far I've gone in those 30 minutes.

I still don't like that I can't "see" how all the neighborhoods connect in my head. Someone told me this week that it took 13 years before she could see an entire map of Boston in her head. This I don't like. I like to have an overall picture, larger view- or perspective. I don't have that here. I can only rely on what's right, or relatively right, in front of me. But, and I think I've said this before, the roads are an appropriate faith metaphor. In the least, I am reminded that I can really only deal with what's happening right now. This is probably a good thing considering I don't know where the money is coming from after two or three months and that Jack might get sick at the drop of a hat and I have to constantly re-adjust my work around him.

I still miss 'home' - I may like the fall here, but I'm beginning to dread the humid summer. I miss my family. Jack's favorite PBS show is Calliou (an annoying Canadian kid who is just a little too good and whose parents never yell, "goddammit, that hurt!" - most likely because Calliou never thrases his body and knocks his head on his mom's bottom lip when he doesn't get his way). Anyway... Calliou often spends the day or night at his grandparents, nearby. I wish Jack could hang out with his nanas and pop-pop/papa. I honestly can't wait until we move back to the Northwest (and we are) where Jack can continue to cultivate a close relationship with his grandparents. Us, too.

So you might have noticed we haven't been good trying to keep up with our daily blogging. Laura told me all 3 of our loyal readers have probably given up on us by now. But we're back and we pinky-swear to keep up this time, even if our readership is down to 1 person.

I think winter is starting to give way to spring here in Boston. Gorgeous sunny day today and the temperture must be in the 40's. As much as I love the snow and wintertime, the thought of warmer weather and sunshine makes me smile.

Spring Break for me this week - my spring break trip was a quick 2-day trip back to Seattle to watch the 3A State Basketball tournament in Tacoma. Now before you ask what in God's-Heavenly-Name did I want to fly 5 hours to spend 13 hours watching 16 high school basketball games, I will tell you it was some quality-time. Why the state tournament? Drama, man! The human drama! [cue Wide World of Sports music] ...the triumph of victory, and the agony of defeat...

Yes, Laura is amazing for green-lighting this trip.

How an education ruins the Oscars, but why we're pushing for Jack to get one (an education, not necessarily an oscar)

In grad school one of my professors said that if you made in The Smithsonian, you've compromised your values, sold out, conformed. Basically, he was making the claim that once you were acknowledged by “the mainstream,” you were no longer doing anything interesting to change the world. By “mainstream” he meant any award show that was broadcast on NBC, ABC, OR CBS (like the Grammy’s). I think he meant PBS, too because he made some shots at Ken Burns.

While I haven't decided yet if I agree with the idea that PBS is selling out, it wasn’t until tonight watching the Academy Awards that I realized how right he was about "making it and being recognized" the mainstream world. Think about it, it wasn’t until those bands like The Beatles, The Clash, or The Rolling Stones had established themselves in a redundant musical formula or stopped recording music all together that they were inducted into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame. As everyone knows, even though Elvis started out changing the world of rock-n-roll, he was only mainstreaming the type of music established by the many, many less successful black men before him.

So, now it’s groundbreaking that Hollywood produced and got behind a gay cowboy movie? I guess it’s a good thing- it’s finally OKAY to talk about homosexuality. Wow. Good to know. Just last night we were watching snippets from 1995’s “The Celluloid Closet.” Over ten years ago independent (note: successful independent) filmmakers called out the fact that Britain had openly dealt with homosexuality in 1961’s “Victim.”

The National Review took George Clooney to task for his ‘acting at activism’ in their magazine last week, and though I’m pretty sure Professor Lyne would slash his wrists before reading from a conservative periodical, I’m fairly certain that he would agree with what Mark Steyn is saying about Hollywood: “…Hollywood prefers to make ‘controversial’ films about controversies that are settled, rousing itself to flight battles long won…”

Well, now, I’m pretty sure that we haven’t won the racism or homosexuality battle. I guess what drives me crazy is that Hollywood is supposed to be this liberal, open town, and they produce movies that will only succeed because of the mainstream folk willing to pay for watered down topics and issues that have been in discussion—and often decided on—for years or decades.

Oh, well. I do like that the subversive Jon Stewart - (wait, does this mean he's not subversive anymore) hosted.

When did the Winter Olympics turn into the X-Games? I just can't get into judged sports. It seems so.....subjective. Snowboards are fine, as long as there's a race.

Snowboard Cross.

Now there's an event I can get into. Contact: allowed. Oh, you can't push or pull someone down, but if in the event you're trying to get around an opponent and your board happens to clip the board of the person in front of you, and said person happens to fall flat on their face - well, that's just part of the game.

I always get into at least one event for the Winter Olympics. In 2002, it was curling. (Don't laugh, what event were you sucked into this past week and a half - the biathalon? I'm not judging.) This year - it's snowboard cross. The Goal: be the first one to the bottom of the hill. That's it. We watched all the qualifying through to the finals. No tricks necessary - just don't showboat if you have a commanding lead and you're 5 seconds from winning the gold medal.

Now that's drama!

I really don't think men and women are all that different.... despite the evidence.

So, I figured out another amazing aspect of the male brain. Like other women, no doubt, I’ve spent some time wondering why it is that men cannot multi-task like us gals. I did read something about genetic hardwiring once, but I refuse to believe that men are unable to evolve beyond the point where they can check the washing machine for clothes before adding another load – and then lay the laundry detergent on its side to drip out all over the place. Not to say that my guy isn’t multi-tasking life to death- classes, clients, Laura, and Jack (oh, my). He also tends to make the more-than-occasional amazing meal. Yet, there’s still something getting in the way of him remembering his cell phone in the morning without a reminder. I think I figured it out, at least partially.

Now, where my extra (I use this term loosely) brain space is usually filled with navigating Boston roads in my mind in order to find that elusive quick route to BU via our distant neighborhood, Ed let me in on the content of his extra brain space. Saturday afternoon, he was playing “tackle” with Jack. Jack will grab the ball, yell babble that mimics “15, 17, 45 hut!” and then allow Ed and/or me to knock him (gently) to the ground. When Jack moved onto his cars, Ed grabbed the football and started throwing it to me, taking over the imaginary game. Fun enough. When he had the ball, he’d fake that he was throwing it in the distance, extending his other arm as if to ward off oncoming imaginary defensive linemen. His mouth in full pursed focused mode, his eyes no doubt imagining an entire field of players. It took less than a second for him to immediately transfer to football fantasy world. I need to find a similar escape route.

So, here’s my theory. When us women are driving somewhere or cooking dinner, we are no doubt planning out how to get four hours of work done in the two we have that night before we fall asleep. When Ed is cooking dinner, he’s probably engrossed in cooking dinner (which is why it’s so good). When Ed is traveling between class and clients and home, he’s in fantasy football (or soccer) land, picturing the perfect play. Maybe that’s what I need, some perfect play- even if imagined.

Somehow, I’m not so pissed off about the fantasy online sports leagues. Somehow I’m gaining new respect. Somehow I need to find my own. Not sports, no. How about fantasy napping?

Snow Blast 2006

We're experiencing our first major Nor'easter today. Without getting into too much meteorological detail, a Nor'easter involves cold winds from the northeast and a lot of snow. We're expecting 20 inches of snow by the time it's all done this evening. This being Boston, of course, it's still up in the air whether or not BU or BHCC will cancel classes tomorrow. If this was Seattle, Jim Foreman (King 5) would be out reporting from Queen Anne Avenue, showing us how much snow he can hold in one hand. Not that the news stations here don't hype snow storms. They do. I'm waiting for the graphic at the top of the newscast, that flashes, "SNOW BLAST '06" or something like that.

The new semester is now almost a month old, so it's not really "new" anymore. I'm always a little ambivalent at the start of a new semester. There's a mountain of work to get done, but no worries, there's weeks to go before I have to start thinking about it.

Now it's time to start thinking about it. Oh, it'll get done. It's that middle part of the semester that I wonder, "how in the hell am I goin' to get all this done..."

I also have regular clients this semester. Many of my friends (and family) might be thinking, "oh boy, people actually go to this guy for help..." I must admit, it's scary. Learning to be a counselor is kind of like it was when I started out as a teacher. I have these mini-moments when I think, "oh yeah, I'm the counselor..." So I resist the temptation to say, "you know, you just can't worry about that...do you own a Playstation, my suggestion is to play NCAA 2006 and next meeting we can talk about the In-Season Recruiting option.." Pretty sure that's a clinical technique not found in many textbooks.

Later this week I'm giving a sport psych talk at a nearby college to a sport I don't have much experience with: Synchronized Swimming. Should be interesting. Don't ask me how I got that gig... long story.

Laura got a couple more projects from the publishing company she's been freelancing for lately. One's a pretty big editing project. I think she'll be glad to do something for them that doesn't involve correlating math skills to the state standards of New Mexico or California. I don't know much about that, but I can't imagine it's very exciting.

Jack got visably excited about the snow when he looked out the window this morning so I'm pretty sure he's my son. Our car is slowly being buried as the plows drive down the road pushing the snow on the road to the side of the road. It's half-way up the driver side door. Looks like I'm going to have to out there to dig it out. Shoot.

A rare moment of empathy for the fantasy fellas

A while ago I vented about the appeal (for men) of fantasy sports. Ever since I explained, in probably too much detail, why I hate the whole fantasy sports "thing," Ed has made a point to check on his fantasy league (or leagues, I don't ask) away from home. For all I know, he's in first place or last place- he doesn't talk about it anymore. I should feel bad, but I don't. I LOVE that the whole fantasy sports lexicon is absent from my world. I love that I don't know what shit talking is going on between Mark and Matt or what crazy trades are occuring. And I especially don't want to accidentally read over Ed's shoulder AGAIN all those horrific team names - the ones that all too often make that hideous connection between the scrotum and some confidence/talent combination.

This morning in the car, though, I felt momentarily bad for all of those boys out there who find their pleasure in fantasy baseball. It seems that MLB is trying to keep its statistics to itself and not share them (which, if you are lucky and don't know, statistics are crucial for gaining points the fantasy sports world). I have to say that I must side with all you fellows out there whose few moments of adrenaline rush come when checking your fantasy team. I hope that you can continue to indulge in this particular pleasure (just keep it hidden).

Company Sues for Right to Use MLB Statistics

Weekend Blogger

Okay, so I've given up the notion that this blog will be a weekday gig. There's really no way, at this point, that, even between the two of us, Ed & I can post everyday Monday thru Friday. I find the only time the blogging spirit moves at the same time I have time to be moved to the keyboard is on the weekends. It's now 11:4o and I'm having trouble seeing after correlating a second grade math book to Texas standards. But, I know Ed's getting up with Jack in the morning, so I have 20 minutes that would usually be devoted to sleep.

I've been reminded of the real struggle of the working mother: cramming 40 hours of work into 15. No matter how hard I try to tell myself that I do decent, if not good, work, in such a short amount of time (I mean, I wouldn't get hired again for contract work if I didn't, right?) - my body and mind still cling to the notion that I can spend the extra time reviewing the work and revising assignments to make sure they are PERFECT. Uh-uh. Not gonna happen. Maybe when Jack is in college. But by then, I'll be waking up at 6:30 and be so damn organized and efficient that I'll wonder why I didn't write the great american novel when we had "all that free time" in Boston. It's like thinking about Bellingham: What in the hell did we do in grad school? Did I really spend ALL of my time either sleeping or studying? Yup. Well, that, and worrying about the work. IF anything, having too much to do keeps the worrying to a minimum. For example, we have $400 in the bank and about $1800 of bills due in a few days (not to mention our $1000 irs bill due in a few months). I should be getting one of my invoices from a freelance gig last month - but who knows. I'm sure the accounts payable gal already thinks I have gambling debts because of all the times I've called to see when the next check is coming. Come to think of it, I guess we DO have gambling debts - we've racked up the credit card and student loan bills, betting that we will indeed have some payoff for the hard work of following our guts/dreams.

While waiting to see how our dice will fall, I did move a little bit more into the 21st century today. I signed up for instant messanger. I've never been a fan; I've always thought of instant messaging like popping in unannounced at someone's door - and unless I absolutely love you and have nothing to do that day, I'm going to be annoyed. And, because I do 95% of my work on the computer, to have some message popup only takes away every precious 5 mintues I grab to type up part of an assignment or answer "regular" email before Jack comes over and tugs at my hand. Anyway, I signed up for the personal radio station. I gotta tell you, it's awesome. I chose the artists I like and within the first hour I heard Depeche Mode circa 1983, Massive Attack and Muddy Waters. Oh, and some Everything But the Girl from 1991. The tunes helped to get me through two hours of correlating. I have this fantasy of developing the ultimate "Laura" CD - you know, the top 50 songs of my life - of which 40 I'm pretty sure I haven't discovered yet. But like searching fashion, who has time to develop their music tastes? SO, thank you, Yahoo instant music for taking me one step closer to realizing my music dreams. I know we need to get an IPOD to make it all even easier, but we spent that money on a new t.v. last month.

Okay, bedtime. Besides, for some reason, Meatloaf is playing. Definitely time to sign off.

Do you have one minute...

...for off-shore drilling?

This is what I'm asked by a member of some political-action member out on Comm Ave when I'm going somewhere. Sometimes it's off-shore drilling, sometimes it's the environment.

Wait a minute - are you asking me do I want to do some drilling? Oh. I see, you're asking do have a minute to talk about off-shore drilling. I get it. Only a minute? I mean a minute's pretty short to cover all the complexities, costs, benefits, of off-shore drilling. I mean we could skip all that if I consent now, that yes, off-shore drilling is evil and if you're for off-shore drilling, well, then obviously, you don't care about what happens to you or your children. Pig. Can we just agree, now, right here, off-shore drilling's got to go. Of course, there could be dozens of oil rigs right out there in Boston Harbor but I wouldn't know, I haven't actually had time to admire the Harbor, but that's besides the point.

Where are you going? Time's up? What are you talking about?

Routine, Smoutine.

In the shower yesterday, while soaking my hair in my weekly moisturizing treatment (it actually works; well for $18.oo it should), I experienced that wondeful sense of feeling at "home." After succumbing to the general chaos of unfamiliar surroundings and (lack of) routine, I finally realized that this place and this life is now familiar. Even though I don't have the kind of routine I tend to crave (same schedule, everyday; same work, everyday), I am actually blending in rather than resisting.

Of course, there are still some things to work on. I'm still easily annoyed at transportation. Yesterday, after picking up Jack at daycare at 3:30, we headed to Brookline Village to pick up Ed. We agreed to meet at 3:50. Because of a wretched wind and rain storm (half a tree is resting on the roof as we speak, no doubt the chain saw crew will be here just in time today for Jack's nap), I hurried to get to the T-station early. But, by 4:00, no Ed. Irritated, Jack & I drove around the block about five times before parking. I knew if Jack didn't get out and walk, he'd go psycho in the car on the way home (it takes roughly 25 minutes to drive the six miles home at rush hour - that's roughly 45 minutes total of no moving around; tough for an 18 month old). As soon as we parked and walked to the platform, Ed had already gotten off and was waiting on the other side of the street where we usually pick him up. Of course.

I worked hard to overcome my irritation. I wanted to avoid a repeat of fall semester, when I dropped off Ed for his first day of classes, not offering any support for the fact that he was starting a new program at a new school in a new town, working hard to balance all the pressures that these changes brought. Rather, I was a raving lunatic (okay, bitch) about having to navigate the Boston roads, sure that Jack would fall asleep in the car (thus, no nap) before I had a chance to get back home in time. I'm sure that Ed headed off to his first class with the image of snakes writhing out of my skull and flames shooting out of my eyes.

Yesteday, I wanted to be Laura, not Medusa. I assumed that Ed had a good reason for being late - and he did; the T wasn't working, so there was a bus instead, therefore, pushing the schedule back. Fair enough. We had a pleasant enough ride home; though I'm sure Ed could sense that I was wrestling crazy woman into submission.

I realized that our lives are like driving in this town. Most of the time, I couldn't tell you how to get somewhere. When I get into the car to drive anywhere other than the local grocery store, I have to squelch the impending panic and tell myself that I will remember how to get there once I start driving. Once I hit a certain intersection, I'll remember to take that right over the bridge and then the second rotary will have that Starbucks, reminding me to veer left.

Our days and weeks are the same; ask me on Sunday what's going on this week and I'll be able to give you a skeleton of a schedule. By Wednesday, though, meetings have been added, I've got to head into the office to pick up some last minute freelance project, and oh! yeah, probably should get the oil changed and take Jack in for a haircut. My personality longs for more order, but I'm thinking there might be room for more possibility when our the scope of our daily lives isn't set in stone.

So, yeah, we're finding a routine, and as with most folks, that routine is providing the kind of security we long for. It's just the kind of routine that keeps us on the lookout; there's no way to get too comfortable when everything (and by everything, I mean schedules, jobs, income, etc.) changes every few months. There's no way we could wear blinders, looking down the same path; peripheral vision is crucial to thrive. And I guess that's what we bargained for when we moved here- to do more than live, but to thrive.

Boston is looking suspiciously like Seattle today. Weather is windy and rainy, with tempatures in the 50's. So much for the much feared Northeast winters...

School started up again yesterday. I had two classes yesterday and the Fellowship class this morning. First classes are as enjoyable as, oh, I don't know, dental work. The professor always asks for everyone to stand up and introduce themselves.

Hello, my name is _________, my program is ____________, one interesting thing about me is __________________.

Shoot me now. Please.

I like spring semester because you feel like a seasoned veteran. You know which elevator is faster in the SED building. You know which 1st floor vending machine is a good place to get change for the parking meters. And you don't feel like such a loner. It's always good to see people you got to know last semester in a class this semester.

Even the people that annoyed you by being such pretentious snobs in class last semester don't seem all that bad. Like the guy in Qualitative Research last semester. Oh, he's still a pretentious boob, but now I know his name is Marcus and he's in Administrative Policy and Training.

Back to the Grind

Today is the last day of a LONG vacation; other than a few days of freelance cold solve (checking 6th grade math problems), Ed & I have had no work and no school for nearly a month. Some people seize the free time of to get the “work” done that can’t be done during the regular “work” life- you know, organize all of those photos or baby clothes (still on my “to do” list) or visit those places that are not-so-local and require a day devoted to driving. We did none of that. Instead, the three of us lounged around the house – our parents during the holidays and our own after. We’ve taken walks around Jamaica Pond, worked out on a regular basis, played for hours at a time with Jack, tried half a dozen new recipes, watched a handful of movies, and slept in. Actually, Ed & I took turns getting up with Jack so one of us could sleep in until 8:30 or 9:00 (amazing). Also, and in case you are one of our very few regular readers, we’ve been blogging on a regular basis (for better or worse). Yesterday, we turned the heat down to 65 degrees to avoid an astronomical gas bill and even though we are freezing (well, I am), I am sad to be leaving the laid-back schedule which has allowed us to be a family for 24 hours a day.

When we were figuring out how to get Jack on a sleeping schedule, one of the things we discovered (and one of the few things that I found to be true in all the parenting readings) was that sleep begets sleep. The better Jack slept, the better he slept. Same goes with me and Ed, except the more we sleep, the more we sleep. Relationships seem to be like sleep – the more you are around another person, the better you get along. Love begets love. Maybe it’s the ability to pause and actually enjoy time with the other person- Ed & I ran errands last week while Jack was at daycare, but because that’s pretty much all we had to do that day, we took our time, getting coffee and browsing. It allowed us time to talk about all of those kinds of things we’d talk about before our entire life focused around Jack, and making enough money to (barely) pay our bills. You know, finding out where Ed eats lunch during the week and discuss elaborate ideas (that we can’t afford) for celebrating our 10-year wedding anniversary this October.

I used to feel guilty about not getting big projects done when I had the time. When I was teaching full time, I always intended to revise my entire syllabus over the week break between quarters. Instead, I barely changed the one I had and students would get the course schedule only a few weeks at a time. If one student mentioned that they liked to plan further ahead, I was a confirmed bad instructor. During the summer, when we are inevitably less busy, I usually plan on going through and organizing all of our stuff in storage (clothes, books, Christmas decorations), but it never seems to happen. The only reason that I am remotely organized is that we move, on average, every two years.

Why is it that the more we have to do, the more we get done? Or, why is it that when I suddenly have the time to get those things done that are always on our to-do list, I find the greatest excuses in the world to put off doing them even longer? I usually use the, “I’ll do what I want since I have the time; my enjoyment is just as important as sorting Jack’s baby gear” -- even though I know I’ll feel better about myself if I spent the three hours sorting. The ironic thing is that when I am at my busiest, when I am fantasizing about having chunks of time to tackle the huge jobs, I actually get a lot more done in the process of having no time. In other words, I’m more likely to efficiently pump out a decent course schedule if I’m facing freelance work and SAT essay scoring than I am if I have an entire week of nothing to do. For me, procrastination rears its head when I have too much time.

I’ve decided not to feel badly about all that didn’t get done these last weeks. I realize that I’m too much of an outcome gal: I like to see the boxes clearly labeled and stacked; the pictures placed in chronological order in the photo albums. That way, I can always see the results of my efforts. Long term results are harder for me, like most, I assume. The labels for relationship outcomes are fleeting, though, of course more satisfying (Jack’s smile, Ed’s lingering kiss). The trick isn’t in knowing that Jack will feel more attached and secure because I’ve colored and danced with him more than usual. It isn’t knowing that Ed & I are able to laugh (rather than bicker) about those annoying habits (could you stack the pots and pans any worse?) because we’ve been spending more time laughing about other things. The trick is remembering all of this during the off-vacation days, the time when I’m trying to pack in all of those projects.

Saturday, 7:02pm: Who can resist playoff-time? What playoffs, you ask? Does it matter? Football, basketball, soccer... shoot, even curling would be exciting if it meant the loser was going home. My neighbor and I head out to the best sports bar I know to catch the home town Patriots play the Broncos in Denver. 80 television screens and the best buffalo-wings I've come across in a long time. Xanadu!

7:28pm: We park on Harvard Street and walk down the street to the bar. It's one of the mildest January days on record, 62 degrees. I refuse to believe the weather forcast that says it's supposed to snow tomorrow.

7:34pm: Ok, Boston loves, loves, its sports teams. There's a long line out the door. Crap.

7:35pm: We get in line. Neighbor gets the scouting report on the wait: 30+ minutes just to get in the door. Hmmm, we could go somewhere else, but there's 80 TV screens in there.

7:55pm: Still waiting. Apparently, the place is so full, they're letting 1 person in for every 1 person that leaves.

7:59pm: Still waiting, but we're moving. I can see the door!

8:05pm: Ok, still in line, but we're close. Psychologists really do need to study the psychology of waiting in line. My hypothesis is your disdain for other people in line is proportional to the distance from your spot in line. You loathe the people in the front of the line, because they're so close to getting in and you pity the people really behind you because, hah! They're never getting in.

8:10pm: Kickoff. Luckily, this bar pipes the games through speakers outside and we can look through the windows.

8:12pm: We reach the Point-of-No-Return. We can't bail from the line now. It's now a point of personal pride that I get inside to watch the game.

8:20pm: Here's the deal - if the place is packed to capacity, you lose your spot inside if you go outside for a smoke break. And besides, two smoke breaks in 15 minutes means you're not really here for the football.

8:36pm: We're all getting a little punchy from waiting. People arriving by car or cab are met with sarcastic cheering - and don't even THINK about trying to sweet talk your way in sweetheart - get to the back of the line! What, but your friends are in there saving you a spot? Back of the line! Oh, sweet justice.

8:44pm: First quarter ends. Close game. And we're 3 people from getting in! Of course, when you wait in line for a long time you bond with the people directly in front and in back of you. Why is that?

8:50pm: Finally. We get inside.

9:25pm: Buffalo wings. Good. Napkin please.

9:45pm: What I love about games that I'm not really all that invested in, is I can spend time people watching. Bostonians take their football seriously. Lots of shouting, cheering, and lots of cussing in New England accents. Broncos take the lead. There's actually a guy in here wearing a Denver jersey. He starts cheering loudly. The locals are pissed.

10:38pm: Well into the second half now and it's not looking good for the Patriots. I'll spare you details.

11:47pm: Patriots lose. No Super Bowl this year. Broncos Guy is pumped. We leave.

Oh, and it did snow today.

So, I've been in a pretty good mood- actually expecting GOOD to happen. It's been nice. But, of course, it doesn't take much to revert back to negative, existential angst me. I actually think that it's only when I have too much time on my hands that I get moody- idle hands, I guess. Work will start up soon enough, but before I get caught up in the more productive life, I thought I'd indulge my moodiness, take it to a bookstore and exhaust it for what it's worth.

Last night we watched The Constant Gardener starring Ralph Fiennes (he loves him some movies with planes in Africa). The movies was good enough, and even though I could tell that the book is better (the whole "garden" metaphor got lost in the film), I was reminded that my faith in "things working out" is indeed brought on because of the economic and geological circumstances that I was born into (middle class America). I won't get into the sordid details, but basically I was reminded that there are millions of people whose lives are hideous. As I watched African children playing near garbage in this fictional film, I couldn't help but wonder about their laughter; how all kids smile easy, how Jack smiles easy and it isn't until later that we realize (do we) how bad or good we do have it. I woke up down, wallowing in my middle class angst, wondering what was the point of wallowing, yet still feeling bad. My politics, as usual, veering right, but tempered by an emotional left. I refuse to become some cliched version of white middle class guilt - I'm much more interested in figuring out the meaning of life (that way I don't have to deal with the individual sufferings, you know - and I can keep it all academic and selfish).

So, I took my angst and drove to Borders at the Atrium Mall (yes, I did) where I purchased Bertrand Russel's The History of Western Philosophy just so I can intellectualize my frustration at trying to answer all the big questions. Big questions that will no doubt fall by the wayside when I have to deal with the know-it-all 18-year old male in the back row of my classroom snorting at my diatribe about the importance of critical thinking. I sat down after browsing and buying, sipped on the best chai latte I've ever had and started reading. Immediately I missed Jack & Ed (it took the usual 30 minutes just to drive the 7 miles to the Boston destination and another 10 to park). I wonder if I will really read this book - or if buying it will curb any personal philosophical searchings. I don't want to be that person - the one who wonders, examines for a day or so, and then moves on, developing some lame, surface ideas based purely on emotion and goes about her life narrowly focused on only what's in front of me. YOU KNOW?

Of course, with all these musings, I've begun to feel the panic of work (or lack there of), so in part to avoid any deep (and probably boring) philisophical ramblings and in part to pay the bills, I'm heading off to bookbuilders.com to see what other Boston publisher might need some freelancer.

Winter?

I hear Seattle is approaching (or has established) a record for consecutive rainy days. I thought the record was 40 days - apparently that's the record for days without sun. I did miss the sun when we were in the Northwest, and admittedly, was ready to return to Boston for some actual WINTER weather. And, some sunshine. Today was one of the those days where you look outside and the sky is so blue and the sun is so bright that it is easy to imagine that it is summer. Except for the bare trees, it could have been. Today's high was near 60 degrees! It was amazing. Jack, Ed, and I walked to the local school's playground - Ed in shorts, Jack in a sweatshirt (no coat) and me in a light jacket. It felt like spring. I guess this means two feet of snow in April. Even though I was craving some snow, I am delighted to be able to open the windows for some fresh air and turn down the heat to avoid another ridiculous gas bill (our bill for December, two weeks of which we were gone and the heat was off, was $250).

2006 is coming along nicely, weather and all. I picked up two classes at a local community college. It will be nice to be teaching again. And, hopefully, with continued freelance work and SAT scoring, my dream schedule will continue. Yesterday we took Jack in for his 18 month appointment and the pediatrician told us that the next six months or so are the most dangerous of Jack's life. This is the age when kids start to climb and jump, unaware of the effects of height on their bodies should they fall. Jack proved his doc right by carelessly jumping from the big toy at the school - Ed caught him in time to avoid a trip to the emergeny room. Ah, the fun really begins now.

School starts for Ed next week, and me the week after- so we're trying to enjoy the down time now: renting movies, taking advantage of the weather, being a family during daylight hours, trying new recipes. Friday night is curry night. Gotta love it.

The new year wasn't two weeks old and our family faced our first crisis of 2006. The TV was broken. Ok, let me go on record now by saying I wish this wasn't a huge problem. Honestly, it isn't. But c'mon...our TV... was broken. No sports, no Sex & the City reruns, no Sesame Street, no Playstation...

We had to decide how long we could go without a television. One week? A month?

We headed out to Best Buy the next day.

Went and saw Harry Potter & the Goblet of Fire on Sunday. Wasn't disappointed, but wasn't thrilled either. I can imagine it's pretty hard to adapt a book into a movie, let alone one of the most popular books in recent memory into a 2 1/2 hour movie. Still, the movie lacked....oomphff. At the end, a character is killed and the main villain is reborn and on the loose. If you were like me - you were shocked, shocked, by the end of the book. Cedric died! Lord Voldemort is alive! Holy crap!

I still can't get used the actor who now plays Dumbledore (I miss Richard Harris). The new guy will always be the slimy executive he played in the movie, The Insider, [in southern drawl] "..now I know you know the contents of your confidentiality agreement Jeff-rey..."

The kids will be what, 25, by the time they start shooting the fifth movie? We voted the actor who plays Ron, Most-Likely-to-Appear-in-The-Next-Guy-Richie-Movie.

Of course, Snape is the best thing about every Harry Potter movie. How could they ever recast that role?

Book 4 (Goblet of Fire) ends on an ominous, serious note and I liked that. I didn't feel like the end of the movie had the same tone- kind of like, oh, everyone's bummed, but hey, the school year's over, aaaaand scene. Here's a question for all the HarryPotter-niacs out there: was Dumbledore's line, "hard times are ahead Harry, soon we'll all have to make a choice between what's right and what's easy," in book 4? I'd go look, but I know we have readers who already know the answer to that question.

And is there anyone out there who still loves going to the movies? For cryin' outloud, $9?? Commercials for TV shows?? 2 dozen pointless movie trailors??

I guess we can always watch the movies on our new TV.

Googlebox

I helped teach a Women's Literature class in graduate school. It was the culmination of one of my dreams: reading and discussing my the greats (Virgnia Woolf, Toni Morrison), hashing out feminist theories, analyzing interesting films (Real Women have Curves and Cheryl Dunye's The Watermelon Woman). We also read Zines--self published magazines usually filled with brutal honesty in word or visual form; and emotionally charged rants or raves on topics ranging from music to sex to food to clothes. The spirit of zines is one of rebellion bordering on revolution inspired by genuine insecurity, inbalance, outrage, and passion. Every student in the class contributed one page to our class zine, producing an amazing aray of the kind of honesty the good zines cultivate: provoking that exhiliarating mix of tears and laughter.

The reason I'm explaining all of this is because one of my favorite--perhaps low-key--aspects of the zine was something called the "googlebox." No, there's no connection to the dominate search engine or a woman's anatomy (well, that might be in there). A google box is a list of someone's top 100 favorite things in life - be it material possessions, a certain time of the day, a particular memory, or person, -- whatever. Only one person in the class tackled this seemingly easy task. It's hard- try coming up with 100 things that you cherish. When the course ended and I had some free time, I attempted to fill up my googlebox. I think I got to #30. The trick is finding the "ultimate" googlebox material - I wanted only the timeless and ultimate items. Also, the more specific the better. For instance, I wouldn't just write "Jack" - I'd probably put "Jack dancing his dance when a song overcomes him during dinner."

For the last five years, I'll think of one or two things that could be added and wonder, fad or established item? In many ways, the googlebox, though a whimsical notion, has become something to represent my ultimate joys - for all time. Hardly whimsical. Hardly an easy list to make. I think it might be what gets read at my funeral.

I've been thinking about my googlebox because yesterday it was my birthday. I have good birthdays- usually perfect. The thing is, I never really do anyting out of the ordinary - for some reason just the idea that it is my birthday taints the day with a subtle magic. Walking around Jamaica Pond with Ed becomes the perfect walk, playing with Jack while Ed makes an amazing birthday dinner instantly feels like one of those memories that flashes across the mind right before death. So, #26 in my googlebox is "birthday." I only need that one word to remind me of one of my best days of the year. It is these "things" that are to be detailed in a googlebox. How do you capture honest pleasure in a list of 100 "things" that fit on one page? It's the simplicity of it all that makes it brilliant. On the way home from the store yesterday (birthday) I had an item to add: Mexican Chocolate. It's my absolute favorite splurge: the mix of luxurious chocolate with the exotic spices of cinnamon and cayenne pepper. It makes me think about the extraordinary in the ordinary day-to-dayness of life. Another perfect googlebox item.

Anyway, I challenge you to create (or start) your own googlebox list. It's a spectular way of counting blessings. I usually don't do the whole new year resolutions thing- but I do have a goal to finish my googlebox list in the next few months, write "2006" at the top and tack it somewhere where I can jumpstart those uninspiring, lackluster, insecure days.

Another Reason We Need to Be Sure All is Good in Iraq

I'm a closeted pro-Iraq war gal. Hell, we stayed in Germany for YEARS after WWII to make sure everything was okay (no, we DON'T know it all, but we - the U.S.- have some beneficial influences). Why not hang out in Iraq to help those who, yeah, want some personal liberty (guess what, folks, it just might be universal that EVERYONE wants individual rights). And, yes, secure some P.R. to keep the black stuff flowing (we're all buying it).

Anyway, it hit me tonight. Well, after a second, rather full glass of rather fine Wilamette Valley Pinot Noir (hey, girl), I had Ed pop in the third disc of Sex and the City's third season (my political views withstand any lack of sobriety). My sister, whose husband is actually currently probably embracing his wife and two children after a year in Iraq himself, was generous enough to have her husband (while still in Iraq) pick up the last ENTIRE disc set of the famed HBO series from some street vendor for one of my favorite (okay, FAVORITE) Christmas presents. Other than some bad graphics on the cover and some copy mistakes on the back, it seemed to be fine. And has been through the first season. But tonight, when Ed pressed play on the 2nd season's third disc, we realized that it was just a copy of the first disc of the 2nd season. I was disappointed. If anything, we need to be sure we stay in Iraq to be sure that this kind of mistake -- along with the random killing of thousands of people by the insurgency and the complete erasure of women's rights -- does not happen again.

Sick by my fickle, materialistic comments? Can't believe I'd compare missing the ongoings of a too-likeable New York City columnist who inhabits a much, much too small body with the peril of an entire region? Well, I'll tell you this- I think it's a shame that it takes half a bottle of Pinot Noir to admit that I support that the American way of life is, well, something worth striving for - Carrie Bradshaw's upper class problems included. We all should be so lucky to have them.

It's strange how fast Christmas, and then New Year's, comes and goes. So much anticipation wrapped around a two-week period. That's the fun, isn't it? The waiting. Christmas comes and before the day's over, we've got the Christmas Blues. The song should be remade into "The 12 Days Before Christmas".

"On the 12th day before Christmas, my true love said to me, 'we need to think of getting a Christmas tree..."

It was a busy 2 weeks. My parents were nice enough (and brave) to allow us in their home through the Holidays. It was really nice. Going back home to your parents' house can be a tricky proposition, for everyone involved. I can imagine it's a mix of emotions for parents when their kids come back to visit. On one hand, you're glad to see them, but after awhile your routine gets thrown out the window. What's Christmas 2026 going to be like when Jack comes back home, somehow deletes my dynasty from my Playstation 5, eats all my chips, and leaves his dirty clothes all over his old room? Like I said, tricky.

We got to see a lot of friends. Two weeks is never enough time to catch up with everyone. It's hard to compress the past 4 months in one or two succinct sentences. The answer to, "so how's Boston? How have you been?" was usually, "uh, good. School's good." I had a tough time with that, the awkward catch-up talk...

"How's school going?"

"Good...school's good. So how's [fill in major or minor Life Change]?

"Good."

Ugh. I think I'd much rather skip the catch-up and get to the everyday-to-day stuff. And when I say "everyday-to-day stuff", I really mean, watch sports together. This is how most of us (males) communicate with each other. We're not going to sit down over a coffee or dinner and catch up. We're going to eat some food, turn the game on, and sit down. Not necessarily in that order. Oh, we'll talk about our lives, but it'll be in the course of dipping a chip or a carrot stick while commenting on the lack of team defense.

In the end, we were ready to go, but not ready to leave. Does that make sense? I got a feelin' 2006 is going to be a good year. The even-years always are.