WTFness of 2021

Many of my friends, perhaps including you, expected 2021 to be a fresh new start.

Goodbye 2020 Dumpsterfire! Hello, 2021!

WTF, 2021? 

It's like Dante's Beatrice ushered us in, and we all popped pomegranate seeds.

I won't recap the terrifying goings-on in DC. But I will say that Nick's office is near the White House, and I was super twitchy about him biking to work because roads were closed and we'd all been asked to stay out of downtown. 

And he was all, "Lisa. I look like one of them."

Which...is true. 

In angry moments I sometimes remind him that he's part of the patriarchy.

---

Sometime in December, I read this article, and I decided that it was time for me to get my nutritional house in order.

My sleep is never restful, and much of this, I am afraid, is age and hormone related. But I was also eating like a kid in a candy store.

When I tell you that all through December I had peppermint bark with breakfast, and cookies and pastries all day long, and more treats well into the evening, I'm not exaggerating. Sugar and sugar and sugar.

So I decided that in January I would limit myself to sugar in my morning tea. 

Nick decided to do dry January, and I've since learned there's a term: Dryuary. Apparently scads of people do this after the excesses of the holidays. So I figured I'd join for support.

Alcohol, fortunately, is not one of my problems. It easily could be, as we have alcoholism on both sides of the family.

I think if they'd been medicated--or properly medicated, or willing to stay on meds--it could have been different. There was a lot of self-medication going on.

But I don't need to get all heavy here.

I had a tiny glass of prosecco on the first, really a few sips, to usher in what I believed would be a good year. I had a hard kombucha on the sixth, to celebrate the wins in Georgia and to recognize the terrifying nature of the attempted coup. 

I haven't yet turned to sugar, my preferred comfort, my snuggle friend, my favorite nighttime dance partner.

Honestly, I'm not looking for perfection; I'm looking to break habits and head toward healthier eating.

This is happening. We are having more vegetables--although let me be honest, anything is more, because many days in December we had zero, much to my shame. But we're again having vegetables at dinner, sometimes with lunch, sometimes as snack.

Friends suggested monk fruit and allulose as sugar substitutes. So far I've only tried the monk fruit, and it is the best not-sugar I've tasted. If allulose is even better, I'll be delighted. It's very very close to sugar and almost not at all weird.

I've kept to sugar in my tea, because milky sugary tea is a pleasure. I'm just lessening the amount of sugar in a teaspoon. Friends had warned that this would be a gateway to sugar cravings, and maybe it has, but I've satisfied them with fruit or dried fruit.

And maybe it's the dried fruit, or the upped vegetables, but something has been seriously giving me crazy gas. I told Nick that fortunately all these farts aren't all that stinky, and he was like, uh, yes, they are. 

Oh.

I guess this means I could live up to my imagined porn star name.

Anyway.

My sleep is still fairly fractured. So far I haven't started sleeping solidly and waking refreshed and ready to charge into the day. 

But it's like Nick says: "You never wake up and regret not drinking." 

This is how I feel about sugar. 

---

And I had an appointment with my psychiatrist last week. A check-in, since he'd upped my medication dose in the fall, after a long struggle with insurance to allow it.

(Can we get rid of for-profit healthcare already?)

Shortly beforehand, I asked Nick if he had anything he wanted me to tell my shrink. He and my mom keep an eye on me, as I recognize I'm not always a good judge of the state of my mental health. I know this, even though I forget sometimes.

And I still have to really think about how I'm doing instead of just automatically saying, "fine" when talking to a mental health professional. I believe I no longer have the urge to lie, but that could be because I haven't ditched my meds lately. 

Which I hopefully will not do again. 

So Nick, my beloved, said, "I think you're doing better."

I'm well acquainted with The Better. The Better annoys me. He'll say better as a compliment, which, I mean, it's preferable to worse. But it's something I don't know what to do with.

Now, the man was not raised with compliments or praise. It was more like criticism to motivate improvement.

As such, he's pretty reserved with praise. And I love to dollop compliments on people. Sincere ones. It just feels good to me.

So knowing our differences, and wanting to report accurately about the state of my mental health, I said, "Do you think I'm doing WELL? Or just BETTER? Because better than terrible might be better, but still is not so good."

He said, "You're definitely doing better. You can still be pretty sardonic sometimes."

I said I didn't really know what sardonic meant, and he said extremely sarcastic. And I was like, well, yeah.

So I said, "OK. I'm going to tell him I think I'm doing pretty well and you said I'm doing better but still a little too sarcastic for your taste."

At which point India piped in with, "Mama. You're getting so much better at driving! I'm very proud of you! You're less anxious about parking!"

I laughed and thanked her. Sincerely. I have tremendous anxiety parking our new car in the garage and I do think I've gotten better.

She added, "And you're very good at sarcasm, Mama! I'm working on it, too!"

May 2021 get so much better for all of us!

It is an ancient Saab, And it stoppeth one time of three...

In 2013, I inherited a 2003 Saab from Nick's dad after he passed away. 

Until this February, when Nick's car basically died, it was our "new" car.

As it turns out, Nick and I are both people who keep things we like forever. I still have boots I bought at J Crew in 1998. Which makes them about the same age as Nick's old car, now that I think about it.

But back to the Albatross.

For a few years, it was great. To start with, it had so much power--so much more than my Civic. There's this terrible coming from the left side merge onto the GW Parkway, and in my Civic I'd have to really gear up for it--vrrooom vrooom--and make sure there were absolutely no cars in sight.

With the Saab I could just hit the gas and it would fly.

It also had lots of automatic things and buttons for functions I didn't even understand. (But honestly, I was coming from a manual window roll up car.)

It also had a tape deck, which was kind of awesome when I unearthed to mixtapes made by long-ago paramours.

It was all fabulous. Until that day it just plain stopped in the middle lane of Rock Creek Parkway at rush hour. You may remember my complete and utter hysteria.

We had it towed. We took it to a Saab repair place. They couldn't make it stall. They ran it for days and took it out in the hot heat and still it would not stall.

They ran through several tanks of gas. No stalling. 

They found things to fix, however. There were always spendy things to fix.

But it was still cheaper than buying another car.

Eventually the Saab people decided that it was bad gas. Like, there must've been some water in the gas and it turned into steam and stalled the car or something like this. 

I didn't have a better explanation. And because I had called the engine light the yellow submarine light. and don't have car vocabulary, I also didn't have a lot of credibility among Nick and the Saab fixers.

Anyway, they "fixed" it. Except.

Some months later, on I-95, that Stygian place, happened again. I determined that it happened when it was very hot and we stopped the car and then started it again without having given it a chance to cool down.

And it happened another time.

Basically, I stopped driving it when it was hot.

I took to calling it the Albatross. Which initially insulted Nick, as it was his dad's car and all. I decided there was some emotional attachment.

Since I rarely drive, it was not such a big deal. I'd take Nick's car to Costco.

In the summer of 2019, we embarked on a big Midwestern road trip. In the planning phase, Nick suggested we take the Saab, driving from DC to Minnesota and back. Since, he contended, it was fixed.

I said not one chance in hell was I going to risk being stranded in Ohio, Michigan, Indiana or anywhere else, thankyouverymuch...

So 

We flew to Minneapolis and rented a terrific car, and had a great time. And somewhere in the Midwest, where precisely I cannot recall, I received a call from my husband.

See, after we left, he took his own old car in for a big service. And that weekend he had a rowing race in Philadelphia. So he drove the Saab to Philadelphia. Or rather, he attempted to drive the Saab to Philadelphia.

Because in fact, he got stranded somewhere near Bel Aire, MD.

That quitting thing the Saab would do? Where the yellow submarine light would go on and you would push the gas pedal and it would go "Rrrrrrrrr" but just not go?

It did that. And he was stuck.

And then boy howdy did he agree that there was something very wrong with the car that new gas wouldn't fix.

But as luck would have it, he was stranded near a service station owned by a man who loved Saabs. And who fixed it.

Yah.

So that was a year and some months ago. Then this summer, juuuuust as the hot hot DC fires of Mordor  heat kicked in, the air conditioning stopped working. As did the anti-lock brakes.

They were going to be expensive to fix. So we didn't.

This unfortunateness happened just before Betty, the kids and I loaded ourselves into our brand-new family SUV and toodled off to Michigan.

Ordinarily, Nick would take the bus to work. But with Covid, he was driving. So he drove back and forth in a sweaty little hotbox.

We continued to use the car as needed, but really as rarely as possible.

Until one afternoon I had to take my mom to an eye appointment with a specialist in Friendship Heights. I told Nick I'd take my car.

We were driving back with all the windows down for breeze, less than a mile from home, when the car made these CRRRRSHHHSHSGGHRRR RGRRSSHSH SHSSSKRUNK kinds of sounds and became practically impossible to steer.

I pulled over to the side and called Nick, and he asked what I wanted him to do. And I said, "COME GET US I AM NOT DRIVING THIS AGAIN!"

He drove over and we swapped cars, and he managed to get the car parked within a couple blocks of our house.

I opened the trunk to empty it, and found, among other things, my lovely Spanish sunbathing mat. I'd forgotten about that old friend!

I said it was time. I called the NPR vehicle donation line.  

When they asked how they could help me I said, "Please come tow my car away!" 

It was going to be a few days until the tow truck could come.

As this is the way street parking invariably works, the day after Nick parked the car, no-parking signs went up because of street repair or something. So I had to move it.

It took all my strength to parallel park it, fortunately at the end of a row of cars. No way I could've maneuvered it between two cars.

I was overjoyed when the tow truck came. I had to meet him at the car.

Actually, they told me I could just leave car unlocked and put the title and keys in the glove box...and I said, "Uh, it's parked on the street in DC."

I mean, I didn't have an entire wheel stolen and not learn anything.

The tow truck driver had two large super intimidating incredibly barky dogs in the cab of the truck and also it is Covid times but honestly I wanted to give him the biggest hug.

I did not. I handed him the keys and the title. He pulled off the license plates, which Nick had loosened, and gave me a receipt.

He asked if the car functioned to drive onto the truck and I said yes but it was hell to steer. He was unconcerned.

I practically skipped all the way home. I called Nick to say it was gone, gone, gone!

Nick was all, "Wouldn't it be great to see Kojo Nnamdi and Kai Ryssdal drag racing in our old Saab?"

I'd pay cash money to see that. 

I'd even give them the sunbathing mat for extra joy.

Please can we talk Peaky Blinders?

Have you watched Peaky Blinders? No? Then I would like you to do something, and it is this.

I want you to get past the fact that Peaky Blinders is an odd and off-putting name and go watch it.

Because it is fantastic. So incredibly compelling. Much better than House of Cards, truly. And there are only two seasons (so far). And they are short, like eight episodes each.

Damn the BBC and their high-quality short-seasoned programming!

Netflix bought it from the BBC rather than re-making it. So it is English with some hard-to-understand accents. Nick's mom is from Yorkshire so I sometimes ask him to interpret. Sometimes we have to go back. Sometimes he makes his best guess. Sometimes he just shrugs.

Through it all, he refuses to use subtitles. One day I will actually learn how to use the new and many-buttoned remote and then I will do subtitles myself.

OK, so here's the deal.

The Peaky Blinders, silly as their name may be, are a criminal gang. Tommy Shelby is the main character. He and his cohort fought in France in WWI. They've been through terrible things. Tommy is regularly faced with death, he calmly stares it down. And then has a whiskey.

He's like a 1919 British criminal version of Don Draper.

It's set in Birmingham, England, starting in 1919. Same time period as Downton! But a lifetime away in terms of social strata.

And if Sybil had met Tommy Shelby, she'd have loved him. (But who wouldn't? That boldness! Those eyes!) And THAT would've been a big, big problem for Lord Grantham. Much bigger than Branson the chauffeur. But I digress.

There is a lot of violence. I do have to cover my eyes quite a bit.

But it is so deliciously good. Please watch it and then come back so we can talk it.

The toll road not taken

Yesterday I was out in Virginia, and my GPS told me to take a turn that took me to the toll road.

The toll wasn't a big deal, and I even have one of those toll-payer things on my windshield. But the toll road? Instead of just trusting my GPS, I was all,"The toll road? That can't be right!"

So there I was with no other options, and then just before the booths I noticed a ramp heading into some sort of parking lot, like a Metro lot in the suburbs. I took a sharp right and heard this THUNKGRONK kind of sound, which coincided with a jarring feeling that made me sure I'd hit something very hard like maybe a chunk of cement or piece of curb or some such.

Whatever it was, it was very not good.

So I drove along this driveway entry with the certainty that my front tire was flat. I got into a lot, which did look like Metro but was not. It was under construction, and there were all these men there in reflective vests and work clothes.

I got out to inspect my tire because perhaps fingers crossed maybe I was overreacting? And not only was my tire indeed flat, there was a gaping hole in the side of it. And the metal inside didn't look perfect either.

Very. Not. Good.

Whyyyyyy hadn't I learned to change a tire? I mean besides the fact that I don't drive all that often and it doesn't remotely interest me?

Naturally, the first thing I did was begin to hyperventilate. The next was to call my husband. Who didn't answer. At which point I started to cry just a little.

I told myself to hold it together. Breathe. I could call my insurance. They would fix it. Except what if they couldn't come out in time for me to get back and get my son from school?

Panic. Hysteria rising in throat. Tears creeping to corners of eyes. Because here I was with a car I couldn't drive in a random parking lot in Virginia with a whole lot of men...

Wait a minute!

Surely one of these men in work clothing would know how to change my tire. I know for a fact, from having seen other people change tires (not mine! except that one other time...), that it doesn't take very long. And I could thank them with cash and be on my way.

So I strolled over to the nearest cluster and said, "I know this is totally stereotypical and I should know how...but do any of you know how to change a tire? I have a flat and I was wondering if you could help me."

They smiled and nodded. One of them said, "I'd be happy to. But we're convicts. So you'll have to get permission from the sheriff's deputy. He's in the van." He pointed.

Convicts! This threw me, even though I do quite Piper Chapman, self-absorbed as she may be. I'd driven into a lot filled with convicts! Convicts meaning men in prison! For something! Possibly very bad!

"See what happens," I said to myself, "when you go to Virginia?"

I thanked them and headed for the van, and as I got close, the door opened, and the sheriff's deputy got out and raised his eyebrows and said, "Can I help you?"


So I explained that I'd gotten this flat tire and I'd asked these men but then they said they were convicts and I'd have to ask him and I didn't suppose they might be able to help me?

No, no unfortunately they couldn't. Did I have AAA or something of the sort?

And I said yes, yes I do, and I will call them, and thank you and I'm so sorry to bother you (and your prisoners).

So I walked back to the car while calling my insurance and it took forever to get through the electronic prompts and as I was doing this, repeating things like "IMMEDIATE ASSISTANCE" or whatever that option was, the sheriff's deputy was walking along with me, listening and then asking how long they thought it would take.

And I was all, "It's still all the electronic prompts!"

So he began poking around in my trunk and pulling things out. I took this as a good sign.

Finally I got a person and they asked if I was with the vehicle. Yes. And if I was safe. I wanted to say, "I'm in a parking lot filled with convicts! and sheriff's deputies! I am freaking the fuck out! And also I really really have to pee!" I said none of this. I said yes.

Since everything car trouble-y flusters me, when they asked for the make and model and year I was all, "Uh. I can't find the card. Isn't my car in your system?"

And the woman, who was very nice, asked if I could possibly give her two out of three. Just so she might know which of our two cars I was driving. Which, duh. Yes, I do actually know what kind of car I drive, and anyway, I'm looking right at it so I could just read the name on the trunk if I had to.

At this point the sheriff's deputy had admired the impressive job I'd done on both the tire and the rim. And had deemed my spare totally decent.

Finally the insurance woman asked where I was. So then I had to ask this very nice man, who by this time had my spare and the jack on the ground next to the tire, where my car and I might be located.

And he said, "Don't worry. I'll just change it for you."

He proceeded to do just that, while another guy got the work crew loaded onto the bus.

He put on the spare, told me it needed air before I could drive it into DC, suggested I drive slowly, pointed me to the nearest gas station, and, at my request, gave me his card so I can send him a thank you.

I have to admit, I've always relied on the kindness of strangers. And my judgment has not always been stellar. In my old neighborhood, I accepted several offers from strangers to parallel park my car for me. (Not since way before I met you, Nick!) Nobody ever stole my car, and it actually got squozen into some tight spaces, so, you know, it all worked out. I'm a way better parallel parker now, in case you're wondering.

Anyway, back to the convicts. One of my friends said, if they were out on a work crew they were probably in prison for stuff like drugs. So the lot was probably not filled with rapey murdery types.

Everyone was very nice.

Then at the auto-body place one of the guys asked what kind of an accident I'd been in and I said, "I did all that by myself. I thought I was going the wrong way and so I turned and ran into something very solid and then I drove into a parking lot full of convicts and a sheriff's deputy changed my tire for me and now I'm here buying a whole new wheel."

Oh.

So there you have it.

An everyone update

India: India already has very strong preferences in clothing. The bad part is that it makes getting her dressed more complicated.

The good? She does seem to have her mother's taste. I'd have worn this entire outfit that in a heartbeat. Different shoes, though. Boots, even.

(Which reminds me: is she too young for boots? I do love them so...)

In fact, she has strong preferences in everything. She knows how to say, "no" - oh boy, does she know no. But she doesn't know yes - she just nods her head up and down emphatically.

I used to be able to sing almost whatever I chose while putting her to bed, but now, with her head on my shoulder, when I start something she doesn't want, she'll say "No. No. No."

I know that it's not my terrible voice or inability to carry a tune, as there are songs she does want me to sing. They do not, sadly, include Copacabana or Rhinestone Cowboy.

I'm basically down to ABC in English and Spanish. Or, "Ahbede" and "Yega," respectively.

---

Jordan: Contrary to the Heaven Knows I'm Miserable Now look on his face, he was deeeeelighted about the scarf, and he loves stripes. He just struggles to find an appropriate face for a staged photo. Our options, unless I catch him off guard, seem to be eyes squinched and looking pained, or constipated, or melancholy.

Lately when I pick Jordan up from school we stay and he and a variety of kids his age run around like lunatics and climb on the jungle gym and generally have a great time and burn off a lot of energy.

It's been terrific for me, as I've gotten to know some interesting parents, and I get to see my son interacting with other kids while completely forgetting that I'm around. He's just himself, and he's exuberant.

There are two girls that he often plays with  - they chase and crash into each other on the slide and such. I asked their names and he said, "Kemaly." (Could be Kimberly? It took me the longest time to figure out that "Anthy" was Nancy.)

"What's her sister's name?"

"Kemaly."

"They're both named Kemaly?" I raise an eyebrow.

"Yes." He says this without hesitation.

I'm dubious.

---

Nana: Betty has her little rounds she makes in the neighborhood, and as such stops in at a couple stores and the dry cleaner at least several times a week. We have a nice little community here, and I didn't even realize how much of one until yesterday.

The woman who works at our dry cleaner called Nick in a panic, as Betty had fainted while she was standing at the counter. Jordan and I sprinted there from the playground, and found the woman who works there almost in tears, and Betty sitting shakily on a chair.

So we spent yesterday evening at the ER. It turns out she wasn't getting enough blood to her brain, which they think is due to her severe anemia, which they have been treating with iron, but her blood levels are still very low.

She has a special scan already scheduled for next week, as she has a weird clump of blood vessels growing somewhere in her lower intestine. They're hoping to locate and remove them, as they think that they're the cause of the anemia.

On a side bar: that ER doctor that I went on a few Match dates all those years ago with was totally right; Sibley's ER is where you want to go. (Except, he said, for a gunshot wound. Then you're better off at GW).

But for the more prosaic emergencies, head to Sibley for sure. No 6-hour wait. So fast. So nice.

---

Nick: Nick has been working a ton, which is really not out of the ordinary.

But when he's home, he's begun spending more time with India, and she's realized that Daddy is Magic. Oh, and Mama is Chopped Liver When Daddy's Around. As her previously-favorite person, this makes me feel not so great.

There's no subtlety with kids, is there?

This has, however, coincided with her toilet fascination, and in that regard, I'm OK with Chopped Liver status. Because Nick's previously-private morning bathroom activities have all gone to hell, what with India insisting on sitting on Daddy's lap as he reads her a book while also attempting to have a bowel movement.

This is one instance in which Jordan, who is also up with them, definitely does not compete for lap time.

---

Me: I have to say that my trainer was right (thanks, Vic!) and that the no alcohol business will flatten your stomach like nobody's business.

Also, Nick and I are both sleeping better and generally feeling healthier all around.

It's weird: I really struggled in the beginning, but now it just feels like a habit I've broken. This is not to say that I won't enjoy drinks over the holidays, but I'm glad to have broken the nightly cycle we were in.

In fact, Nick had a celebratory glass of wine the other night as he settled a hard case, and while I totally supported him doing so, I was cool not participating. Whereas before, we'd have each had one, then another.

I've fallen off the working-out wagon, and so I'm trying to shove that habit back to the forefront. I've also gotten very little done on the writing, what with the inability to concentrate and such.

It's all an endless juggle, really.

---

And speaking of holidays, which are almost upon us: One, this year I am organized in terms of our holiday card and already have it in hand. It is one of those way too many pictures of your children kind that people might make fun of you for, but I do not care. I absolutely love it.

(Now to not waste my uncharacteristic organizedness and address and send them on time...)

And two, I love hosting a big Christmas party in December (you know how I have the excellent taste in people and all, which makes for a good party), but this year I do not have the wherewithal for a variety of reasons. While I've started feeling better, we've also begun fixing the flooded walls and ceilings. I cannot handle construction and entertaining together.

And! December starts Thanksgiving weekend. The hell?

So! I've decided we'll have a party in January or February when very few people are entertaining and we need something to sparkle us during the grimmy grim grim slog through winter.

Pieces of Internet awesome. Chacha-chacha-chacha-chow!

The Holstee Manifesto isn't new, but it's new to me. Don't we all need a manifesto?

Fake Burlington Coat Factory Twitter account. For example: It's getting hot outside, so cool down with a new coat or jacket.

How To Recognise Famous Painters According To The Internet. For example: If everyone – including the women – looks like Putin, then it’s van Eyck.

And finally, in case you've been in an Internet-free zone recently, the song that's been on a continuous loop at our house since I introduced Jordan and India to it a week ago. I desperately want the backup dancers to join us at our underwear dance party.

Wine rules: I don't know much, but this I know:

1. Kirkland Pinot Grigio goes down pretty smoothly with Velveeta macaroni and cheese.


2. On the other hand, Cabernet and fish sticks are terrible together.


3. Chewing Big Red gum before drinking red wine is a horrendous mistake.


4. Merlot pairs nicely with popcorn and a mid-90s vintage Grey's Anatomy and sitting on the couch all alone.


5. Drinking either white or red out of a sippy cup cannot be recommended, but there are worse things in life.

I wonder if he's using the same wind we are using?

I can't quite put my finger on what it is about Target that makes it so compelling.

There's something particular, however. Whoever figures out these Targets knows what they are doing.

Because it taps into the same place that was triggered when as a kid, I would visit the grocery store when we were in the US in the summer. I'd be dazzled - literally dazzled - by the vast array of choices. In the cereal aisle alone!

So many options! So many colors! So much snap crackle pop pretty shiny sparkly!

And! There were SO MANY MORE AISLES just like it!

(Related: Have you ever read the Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver? Oh, I loved that book.)

Anyway, if you ever went to giant theme park like Disneyland when you were young, that feeling of stepping into a semi-unreal kingdom of overabundance and magic is kind of like what going to the grocery store in America was like for me for quite some time.

I mean, it wore off well before adulthood. It's not like I get goosebumps every time I walk into Safeway.

And actually, I find most grocery stores kind of overwhelming. There is just too much, well, too much everything. It's all in my way while I'm trying to find my some things. They make me not hungry. They make me annoyed.

(And! Also! Have any of you looked for full-fat sugarless yogurt to feed your kids? Nearly impossible to find! It is all zero-fat fake sugar crap! We are a nation of overweight people eating scads and scads of fat-free sugar-free yogurt! OK. /rant)

But Target.

Somehow, Target is different. Target seems all fraught with delightful possibilities. I really need baby formula, but ooh! pretty scarf! And such cute thank-you cards! Hey! Lip gloss! And do I need neon turquoise capris? (Um, no. But the possibility exists! And maybe they could change my life!)

Now, Target does do those fun collaborations every so often (their Liberty of London one still being far and away my favorite), and they have some cute, affordable clothes, but for the most part, it's not like you can't get your deodorant, toothpaste, baby stuff, etc. elsewhere.

Plus the Columbia Heights store has a worse bathroom than Amtrak. Hand to God.

And it's not like these stores have roller coasters or cotton candy.

So what is it that pulls me back, makes me happy about a Target outing, and then prevents me from leaving the store until I've spent $100, at minimum?

I do not know.

What would you do?

If you regularly saw someone behaving unfairly and unkindly, what would you do?

For a long time, I was terrified of confrontation. I would do just about anything to avoid it.

My dad was manipulative and my mom was and is passive, and these were my role models. I mean, they were many more things than that - plenty of positives. But our family was not direct, and there were lots of things we weren't allowed to talk about.

I mean, my dad could talk about anything he wanted. But for the rest of us, there were parameters. Voicing dissent or negative feelings? Not OK. My brother and I were taught early that we were fine. I'm fine, he's fine, she's fine. We're all fine. Fine, fine, always fine. Everything is fine.

One of my dad's phrases was, "End of discussion." He could say this at any time to shut down a conversation.

Makes you want to respond with a big, "Fuck you," doesn't it? Which of course none of us ever did.

And thus I may have this unrealistic need for fairness. I realize the world is not fair. But I do my best to make it so when I can.

So.

It took me an inordinately long time and a lot of work to learn how to be direct.

Actually, let me back up. I didn't even know I wasn't. It took me a very long time to learn how to recognize my feelings. And then to learn how to voice them to myself. And then to get the confidence to realize that they were valid and that I could express them to others.

I mean, I've always blurted out inappropriate, awkward things. But that's different.

So at this point, I think of myself as a fairly self-aware individual. I have the ability to put together a reasonable argument, and to hold my own in a discussion. When I know I'm right, I don't back down just because someone pushes.

I don't go looking for fights, but I don't shy away from them.

All of this leads me to needing some advice.

India goes to this day care that we love. Jordan was there before her. We adore the woman who runs it, and the staff is terrific. Very kind and caring and attentive. I totally trust them.

There is, however, a kid there with a dad who is a giant asshole. And this is where I need some help.

He is so rude to the staff. They are all women, and all Latina. They all speak English, but to varying degrees. There is a power differential. He's essentially their client.

And he's just a dick. I've never seen him not be rude. He walks in and bosses them around. He snaps at these very nice, competent women.

One night he was there when I was picking up India. We were there minutes before it closed, and so most of the staff had left. The ones still there with the very last of the kids couldn't find the little paper you get at the end of the day that tells you what your kid ate and how long they slept and that they enjoyed swinging and sliding at the playground.

He stomped around and complained and glared and huffed and puffed.

I wanted to say, "Seriously? Here - take mine. They had cheerios and bananas for breakfast. Quinoa and carrots and peas for lunch. Crackers and pears for snack. They slept from 1-3. They enjoyed singing songs at circle time. It doesn't vary that fucking much from day to day."

It doesn't. They'll call you if your kid is sick. They tell you if he got a scratch on the playground. They tell you anything of note.

Anyway. They apologized and he stomped.

But he's always a jerk. And I don't say anything. But I want to the next time. But here's the problem.

If he were doing it to me, I could say, "Please don't speak to me like that. There's no reason to be so rude."

He's not talking to me, though. And I know they won't say anything. They'll just keep being polite and he'll keep being a douche. It's not fair, and it makes me so angry.

I don't, however, know what to say.

What would you do?

Pavlov's boobs, a three-year old teenager, and sketchy smoothies

1. Pavlov's Boobs

Every time I've taken India to Costco, I've had to find a place to nurse. And so the last couple times I've gone, I've left her at home.

I know it, but my boobs, they do not. They now fill up as soon as I walk into Costco. They start looking around for a comfortable chair.

Seriously.

2. The Three-year Old Teenager

If enough years go by, it turns out that the adorable little three-year old daughter of a dear friend will turn into an amazing teenager.

And you'll meet her again, and while in your mind you've had this cute, bossy little blonde toddler image of her, the reality is that she has become this tall, lithe, incredibly beautiful teen. Who is the kind of girl who would totally have intimidated you when you were in high school, but for the fact that she's also genuinely sweet.

She doesn't know what she wants to be when she grows up, but she knows she likes to write. In English and French. And she likes to take photos. And now she has a blog!

She's lovely. You will like her.

3. Sketchy Smoothies

Turns out a pumpkin + chocolate protein powder + wheat grass all blended up with ice water tastes as unfortunate as it sounds.

And no, I can’t quite explain to you why I thought it might be a successful combination. 

It’s kind of like when I popped a veggie burger in the toaster at work and then kind of flopped against the side and mooshed itself against the heating wires and caught on fire and then I had a hell of a time cleaning it out. Because they are meant for the toaster oven.

It’s not the same but it’s not that different. Basically, I do these things so you don't have to.

I guess you're welcome is what I mean.

Dear laawwd ... what happened here?

Yesterday, we took Jordan to a marina to feed ducks and look at boats. While strolling in the lovely fall weather, we came across this disquieting scene. There was nobody around to ask.

Twinkle, twinkle, little, uh...

At Target the other day, I passed a shelf of Always Radiant Maxi Pads.

Which gave me pause. Radiant. Maxi pads. Radiant.

Radiant is a word I would use for makeup. Radiant eye shadow! Radiant nail polish! Shampoo! Toothpaste! Radiance is sparkle, glow; it is light projected.

Radiant! works nicely for cosmetics in general, I think.

"You look radiant!" This is something people say to beaming brides. To their faces. Not their vaginas.

Because radiance in your pants?

I imagine radiant maxi pads being covered with glitter. Which sounds itchy. And sketchy.

I mean, you know how when you wear glitter, it gets everywhere, into weird little nooks and crannies, and never goes away? For years and years you find little glitter bits in upholstery, carpets, clothing you've washed repeatedly. Seriously, for years.

So Radiant Maxi Pads. Here's what I picture:

When wearing them, you'd walk down the hall at work, leaving a discreet trail of glitter.

Every time you sat down, you'd leave your sparkly mark.

Your butt would be very subtly shiny. Dare I say radiant?

The gynecologist, at your annual exam, would notice something odd, and then be all, "I've never actually seen glitter on someone's cervix before. I don't want to pry, but..."

Five things I've learned recently

1. Headphones are heartier than they seem.

To my delight, I turns out that you actually can machine wash your iPhone headphones - with a double rinse, no less - and they will still work.

Also, having nothing to do with headphones, I've been considering making my own laundry soap. I know I don't have lots of time, but it looks pretty easy. Is this ridiculous?

2. Butter is delicious.

You know how you remember that things tasted better in childhood? It's because they did. I cook Jordan's eggs in butter. I slather butter on his toast. Until recently he was drinking whole milk. Put on weight! Grow, grow!

And then you get older and more moderate/insanely restrictive about your fat intake. All that fat just tastes good.

3. Nick will never, ever relent on the office koi pond.

Which is too bad, because it's ever more inviting. It's not even the heat of summer. It just looks so smooth and cool and delightful.

4. Jordan's favorite color is pink. Really.

I got to his daycare yesterday and they were all running around with sheer scarves, waving them to "Let's Go Fly a Kite." Jordan didn't know I was there, and so I watched silently. He had a green scarf, and he said to the teacher, "I need yours. It's my favorite color."

"What's your favorite color?"

"Pink!"

I relayed this to Nick, who got a look on his face and asked, "What color was the scarf?"

"Pink." I was all ready to accuse him of being sexist...when he said, "Oh, good. I was worried it was blue and he didn't know the difference."

5. Any smidgen of ability I ever had to maintain a poker face has gone out the window.

Apparently it's abundantly clear to everyone that I have no tolerance for much of anything anymore.

Oops.

It never rains in southern Downtonfornia, for example

Last night we caught up on last Sunday's episode of Downton Abbey.

In case you've not seen it, I'm going to warn you now not to read further. I thoroughly enjoyed the episode, as over-the-top as it was. They could perhaps have added an earthquake, Banquo's ghost, and a plague of locusts, but aside from that, I can't think of anything.

Nick said, "You know, this is pretty unrealistic."

"I know. They live in fucking England, and they wear sleeveless dresses and it's always sunny."

Seriously. The two times I've been in England that it was warm and sunny for days in a row, they were experiencing major drought. But anyway.

Also, I covet their dresses. I truly do. Not, you know, how repressed women were back then. Just the pretty pretty outfits of the very rich.

The truth is, I'm not looking for realism in my entertainment. I don't care that Mary, Edith, and Sibyl never age, even though it's been, like, seven years since the show began. Or that Matthew felt some tingling (when he first mentioned it I was all, tingling? down there?) and then all of a sudden stood up and lo, without really any rehab, was walking!

I don't even care that the evil characters are so nearly purely evil. Although once in a while you do see the glimpses of humanity in them. And as one of my gay friends pointed out, Thomas is gay in the early 1900s. Think about the lack of social acceptance and the amount of self-loathing he must have.

Which helped me loathe him marginally less.

Nonetheless, we need him, and we need O'Brien. Which is why he can steal from them and dabble in the black market have pretty much everyone including his employers hate him, and still keep living there because suddenly he's helpful in a pinch.

The evils keep the level of intrigue high and move the plot forward.

And we need Sir Richard just as self-serving, hateful, and smarmy as he is. Personally, I think he killed Mrs. Bates. There's no way she committed suicide. She's a Voldemort. Plus, wouldn't it be a tidy way to get rid of him down the road?

As for Lavinia - was she seriously that selfless? And did the Spanish flu make people gasp like that? I know that tons of people died from it, but did they sound all consumptive as they were giving up the ghost and choking out their final wish for their fiance to find happiness with another?

My ass, is all I can say about that.

Also, why wasn't she buried in London?

Oh! And Nick wants to know - doesn't Sir Richard ever need to work? Personally, I think that his empire to the point where he doesn't actually have to. Plus they have the modern telephone. He can telecommute if necessary.

Anyway.

All this said, I do not care. I eat the Downton drama up, and I wish it would go on and on and on.

Life has plenty of realistic grimness; I don't seek it in entertainment. I like my dramas dramatic, my romances romantic, and above all, I want a happy ending. I don't care how contrived it is. When all is said and done, I want it all wrapped up in a shiny red bow.

Which I thoroughly expect from Downton in the very very end.

Randoms

Apartment: The lovely-seeming potential tenants decided they didn't want to settle for Edith, and so they wrote to tell us that while they liked many things about the place and liked the idea of Nick as a landlord, they will soon be moving into a Mary apartment.

Bottle of pee: As you know, I've been varying my route so as not to get kidnapped, and so I hadn't walked by the scene of the pee-bottle for a while. But I did, and it is gone.

Tupperware: You don't know about our ongoing Tupperware struggles, but basically Nick and I each came into the marriage with assorted food storage containers in varying states of terribleness. And then Betty moved in with a ton more, also from about the year of the flood.

Tupperware seems to be like socks, but somehow even easier to misplace half of. And so we had a maddeningly increasing number of bottoms but no tops, or tops with no bottoms and storing leftovers had become infuriating.

Nick's hair practically caught fire every time he had a mismatched set to contend with.

And so, one day he ordered a new set and went on a Tupperware-tossing rampage and now we have all shiny matchy BPA-free containers. It's somehow quite satisfying.

Not sure what this says about how prosaic my existence is, but there you have it.

Pregnancy: I somehow got mixed up and thought I was already 28 weeks and heading into 29 but it turns out that it's 28 this Thursday. Somehow, this realization was tantamount to being sure it was Friday and learning it was only Tuesday. Crushed!

Downton: I am itching to write about it but Nick hasn't seen the most recent episode and I don't want to ruin it for him.

The dread skin itch: Is in fact much better since taking several of your ideas and ordering like a fiend off the internet.

Also, I am hoping the thyroid medicine will help with my dry dry skin, but let me tell you one of the things I've been doing. At the suggestion of a reader, I ordered a giant jar of organic coconut oil. I take my makeup off with it. I put it on after I shower, head to toe. And I love it.

It's totally economical, and you can eat it, so I feel fine slathering it all over my lips. AND I walk around smelling faintly of macaroon.

I choose to believe it lends me an air of tropical mystery.

The reason I almost removed my pants walking home last night plus photos that go with prior posts and no, there isn't a no pants photo

I always aim to post more photos or drawings because they spruce things up but most of the time it just doesn't happen. Even though I love it when other people add pictures to their posts.

But I'm trying.

And sometimes I feel like one needs evidence. Last night I walked home past the pee bottle and decided that I'd walk by again this morning, and if it was still sitting outside the wrought-iron fence of the nice building, I'd call 311 and see if pee removal was under the purview of DC government.However. When I walked by this morning, the pee bottle was in the yard. Meaning, well, two things. One, that someone picked it up and chucked it over the fence. Ew. And two, it's now clearly the lawn-owner's problem, and not DC's. Right?

Also. I'm still bummed about my glove. See how cute?And finally, these are some of the animals Jordan has a creche on. If you come over, you are likely to wind up with at least one or two in your pocket or your shoe.Also, I damn near pulled off my pants on my walk home last night, and only modesty/fear of being arrested/bigger fear of people pointing and laughing kept me from doing so. Because my maternity coat only comes down past my bum.

I don't know if all the laundry detergent didn't wash out, or what the deal was, but they were so burny! It was kind of like the insides were covered with shards of glass that were making itty bitty cuts with every step.

Which made me think back to my tobacco dipping days and how apparently they put fiberglass into dip to cut your gums so the nicotine gets in there nice and fast. Which is why it's such a quick little buzz.

Those days are long past, though. And there weren't that many of them. Fun, though.

But last night with my fiberglass pants I was seriously fantasizing about the chilly air on my thighs and it took every ounce of my willpower not to just pull them right off and pretend I had on the whitest tights one could imagine and that I thought they were pants.

As soon as I got in the door I stepped out of them and dabbed my legs with water. I couldn't bear to put on more pants, and all evening Jordan kept saying, "Mama, you have no pants!"

That's right, honey. And when you grow up, you can have no pants whenever you want. And eat cake for breakfast every day if you so choose.

Then Nick came home and said, "You have no pants!" I briefly considered feigning surprise but was too tired.

I'm not sure what the deal was there. I started getting hurty little red bumps but they didn't get any worse. Today my skin is a little aggravated, but not terribly. And if it were laundry detergent, wouldn't you think my shirt would be bugging me as well? It's not like your legs are the tenderest parts of your body.

I dunno.

The opposite of air fresheners

I don't know if you've spent any time looking at air fresheners.

There's a spray can in the bathroom at work. It's called Morning Linen. Which, if you think about it, is kind of an odd name for a smell.

Because linen on its own doesn't really have a smell, does it? And you can only associate times of day with particular smells if you associate them with what's going on.

Like, morning might smell like breakfast cooking. Mmm, coffee and cinnamon and maple syrup!

But morning could also smell like last night's debauchery. Eww, too much alcohol and, uh, I can't believe I brought you home with me.

I get that they're trying to conjure up crispness and cleanliness. I looked up some others. Linen seems to be popular. Linen and breezes and spring and water. Linen and Sky, Crisp Breeze, New Zealand Springs, Refreshing Spring...

So then I started thinking about names for air fresheners that would be distinctly unpopular:

Gingko-lined Street
Damp Wool
Afternoon on the Ganges
Adams Morgan Alleys
New York Subway Breeze
Kiddy Pool
Evening Rush Hour on Metro

You'd think I'd put my mind to a higher purpose, wouldn't you? Or maybe you know me well enough by now.

Ell Oh Ell

Have you laughed hard, like really laughed out loud, lately?

One of the things I am supposed to be doing in pregnancy is seeking joy.

They didn't put it exactly that way, but that's what it comes down to. They want you laughing and having sex and doing things that make you happy and up your endorphin levels.

And it occurred to me that apart from a giggle or a chortle here and there, and the occasional laugh out loud - but short laugh, not like laughing so hard you cry and it hurts - I have spent very little time laughing lately. Appallingly little.

Granted, I have been low on the humor front lately. I need to start seeking it out.

So I am wondering - has anything made you laugh out loud lately? A movie, TV show, stupid cat video, hilariously-written blog post, book, joke? If so, what?

Weird science. Not what teacher said to do.

At this point in my life, I don't actually think there's anything available in a drug or grocery store that I'd be embarrassed to take to the register.

Seriously. I've bought plenty of things that might make people twitchy: Condoms. Dipping tobacco. Ovulation tests. Pregnancy tests. Sperm-friendly lube. Fiber powders. Laxatives. Stool softeners. Preparation H.

I just can't think of other products that might embarrass me. In fact, the last time I can remember being embarrassed checking out of a store was a couple years ago at a Trader Joe's.

And along these lines, it wouldn't have occurred to me that anything could shock me at the register either.

So last week, I found myself standing behind a man buying three cartons of Marlboros. And two giant bottles of Pepto Bismol.

The cashier said, "$210.37."

At which point I got really interested. Seriously? That much? And who knew they made Pepto Bismol in what practically look like liter bottles?

The man pulled out a large wad of cash. His hands were shaking severely, but he managed to give her two $100 bills. And then, pile of cash in hand, he kept checking his various pockets for the rest of the money.

It was a long process. I was starting to think I was going to be there all day. But I was also rather interested in the scene.

Does he always carry big wads of cash? Does he really smoke that much? What's the deal with the Pepto Bismol?

She eventually reached across the counter and took a $10 bill and a $1 bill out of his hand, telling him as she was doing so. I was so grateful. It was painful to watch him struggle. I couldn't imagine him counting out 37 cents.

She double-bagged his purchase, and then he kept asking for more and more bags. I think he had at least four or five by the time she turned her attention to me.

What does he need with all those bags?

He was still puttering around as I was getting ready to walk out.

I told Nick about this very heavy smoker. He said not to be naive; the man clearly does crack, and crack tears up your stomach and gives you instant diarrhea.

The cigarettes? Probably to calm him and his cronies. The bags? No speculation.

He said it so authoritatively that I totally believed him. Even though I know for a fact that his only real-life experience with crack is watching David do crack with the crazy hitchhiker on Six Feet Under.

But I don't have a better theory.

Five on Monday

1. We went to a delightful wedding at the Hay-Adams this weekend. It was beautiful and elegant, and after 10 years in DC, I realized I'd never had a view like this. Amazing, no?

Even the oh-so-important-they-take-away-your-chairs W doesn't have this.

I'd only been to the Hay-Adams twice. and both times to the downstairs bar, Off the Record. Once for a happy hour, once for a first date just over a month before I met Nick. And I really quite liked the guy, who never asked me out again.

Lucky all around, it turns out.

2. We watched The Social Network on Friday. It made me want to quit Facebook.

3. I have had this terrible plague cold that Jordan brought home from daycare for almost two weeks now. I hear it's going around. I'm really fucking sick of being sick.

4. I was thinking the other day that now that Sarah Palin isn't fake campaigning for president, she's really not getting any attention. So I realized that she should probably drop in on the Kardashians.

I don't know what their politics are, and it's kind of hard to picture them interested in moose chili. But it would be great for Sarah. I mean, they're better at getting attention than anyone, don't you think?

5. We saw a guy dressed in a giant green bodysuit about 9:30 on Sunday morning. He looked ridiculous. He was hurrying.

And Nick said, "When I was in college we called that the Walk of Shame. He's just now going home."

And I was all, "Those don't look like pajamas. Maybe he's out exercising?"

"Lisa. That was his Halloween costume."

You guys. I have completely turned into my mother.