Livingston, I Presume

Deer as shark

Spoiler alerts: If you are still waiting to watch your recordings of last night's Grey's and Ugly Betty, better skip this one.

Because I am the mother of a four year old, a devoted homebody, AND less than three years back in the United States after several years of enduring Czech basic cable, I find myself excited in an almost embarrassing way every time the new fall television season starts. The digital video recorder has been on fire this week, double-taping in nearly every prime-time slot. Thursday nights have always been the DVR overload night, what with Ugly Betty and Grey's Anatomy on ABC and The Office and My Name Is Earl on NBC.

So much excitement! So much drama! So much anticipation!

So little good television, at least on ABC.

Ugly Betty wrapped up the cliffhangers in a mostly satisfying way and set us up for some interesting new plots twists. It still had great, sharp writing and good actors, and I admit to being very affected when it was revealed that Santos had actually died. BUT, and it's a big butt, I could not stand the "Amanda-in-a-fatsuit" storyline, especially when it was paired with the more-than-average number of cheap shots relating to her outsized behind. The show is meant to be cartoonish and so I don't ever go in expecting realism, but to imply in any way that a woman of Amanda's size could gain that much weight in three weeks was purely ridiculous, and not even in a funny way.

One of the things I've always thought was interesting and unusual about Amanda's character was their portrayal of her as a compulsive eater who nevertheless remained thin. For once, it seemed, a show might not cave to the stereotypes and just might acknowledge that not every thin person eats nothing but Diet Coke and cigarettes and calls that willpower. That she until this season appeared to have the metabolism of a hummingbird on speed struck me as one of the few realistic portrayals out there of the oh-so-whimsical nature of the human body. How irritating and disappointing to have Ugly Betty not defy expectations.

As for Grey's, well, what can one say? I had a strong concern about shark-jumping last season when Meredith was brought back from her watery grave after what seemed like several hours of death. I can accept people being mostly dead in The Princess Bride, but Meredith never struck me as having the intestinal fortitude. If Miracle Max were to ask her what she had to live for, she would squeeze out, "TO WHINE". And now we get Meredith Jr.? Great. And nobody happened to make the connection before everybody's first day?

Bailey and Karev were the only ones I didn't want to smack upside the head, and I usually want to slap Karev. And don't even get me started on Izzy and the deer and the Bambi misunderstanding with George. That was some rockingly awkward and unrealistic staircase dialog. Still, we were getting somewhere in the last three minutes or so, right up until Izzy opened the door to find George and....my recording got cut off.

How sad that: 1) I cared that it cut off, 2) I will be combing the Internets to find out how it ended, and 3) you know I will be tuning in next week.

But I'm telling you, producers and writers of Grey's and Ugly Betty. You're on notice.

Birthday shots

It used to be much easier to get Connery to smile in a fetching way. Still, I think the photos of the weekend are nice...

Warning! Sentimental, birth-related story ahead!

On the evening of September 22nd four years ago, I had just gotten into a taxi with Chip so that we could go to Bulovka Hospital in Prague.

We had been watching the second season of 24 and eating chicken chili when my water broke. After some panicked running about, we managed to collect the things we needed--wits perhaps excepted--and gather enough towels to  convince the driver to let us into his  cab. Luckily we got a nice guy who took his job seriously: I don't think I'd ever made it to Bulovka quite that fast before.

It had been a crappy day up to that point. I had gone in for my weekly checkup at the hospital and met a new doctor, one who immediately looked at me and decided that a planned C-section was the way to go. When I called my own doctor, incensed at his cheek, she agreed with him. I remember walking away from the hospital to the tram stop sobbing at the thought of checking in to the hospital in three days for an operation instead of labor. I went home and fell asleep on the couch, crying--though not until I had managed to cause a series of pissed-off phone calls from Chip to my doctor. The poor woman was probably at that very moment vowing never to take on another crazy American patient.

By the time Chip got home from work, I had calmed down enough to see that how the baby arrived was less important than he or she arriving overall. We cooked dinner and settled in for the night, content to see what Jack Bauer would get himself up to this time. Imagine our surprise to discover that the baby had his own plans, none of which included our seeing the thrilling conclusion of the episode.

We called my doctor, and she told us to give her an update when we arrived. We were told at that point that things were not progressing rapidly, so we called Dr. B. back and told her to go to bed. We'd call her in the morning. But again the baby-to-be had his own ideas, and by midnight, I was in pretty serious labor. Oh, and Mr. Stubborn had no intention of coming out headfirst. Breech all the way!

I honestly don't remember much more than flashes and waves of the night. There was some walking, some crying, lots and lots of screaming, a fuck of a lot of pushing--to the point that I seriously considered strangling the doctor, who kept saying things in Czech like "Just one more push!" and then continuing to say that for several hours on end--the dreaded episiotomy, and finally a baby boy. The time was 6:50 a.m., and I was the last women to give birth on the night shift. Lucky for me, it was shift change time, and so there were approximately 2,309 people watching me give birth by the end. I'm pretty sure they put out a call over the intercom: "Attention, medical personnel. If you would like to see the loudest American woman ever give birth to a breech baby with no pain medication, please come to the OB Department immediately." They came in droves, and I didn't care at all.

That day, September 23, 2003, our lives changed forever. Happy fourth, Connery man.

 

Today, I admire a Republican (honest!)

As a diehard liberal and promoter of social justice, I have days when it seems like every single cause that I support is under attack. Clinics that provide basic health care to women are under attack. Supposedly thoughtful members of the judiciary are still using the "Won't somebody please think of the children?!?" line of jurisprudence in making decisions that affect millions of people. Lawmakers are wasting time condemning Move On instead of a looking seriously at four-year-long war that has killed tens of thousands and which was entered into under false pretenses.

But I'm not saying anything that hasn't been repeated over and over since January 20, 2001. It's a pretty frustrating time to be a liberal.

That's why, when good things happen, when unexpected decisions are made, I have to celebrate. I still remember how I felt the day after the 2006 elections, when Jon Tester was on national TV and found out that the only county where votes were still outstanding was Butte-Silver Bow. Everybody watching in Montana knew that Tester would be going to the Senate. For once, something was going our way. Today, my mini-celebration comes courtesy of Joan Walsh on Salon. She posted a video and short commentary about the decision of San Diego Mayor Jerry Sanders to publicly support gay marriage and not veto a resolution on the topic. It's worth watching, but here's the main thrust of what he had to say:

"The arrival of the resolution to sign or veto in my office late last night -- [pauses] please excuse me -- forced me to reflect and search my soul for the right thing to do. I've decided to lead with my heart, which is probably obvious at the moment, to do what I think is right and to take a stand on behalf of equality and social justice."

He tells reporters that his daughter Lisa and members of his staff are gay, and explains: "In the end, I could not look any of them in the face and tell them that their relationships -- their very lives -- were any less meaningful than the marriage that I share with my wife, Rana," Sanders said.

This seems like such a simple concept, but it is one that has eluded plenty of officials out there--including plenty of Democrats. Sanders, for the record, is a Republican.

But for today, Sanders is enough. Sanders gives me hope.

Texting, texting

When I first signed up to Twitter, I was getting all of the messages delivered to my phone. It made me feel popular, like when we were in Prague and communicated with our friends primarily through text messages since every other phone-type communication was payable by the minute. But pretty soon I realized the economic folly of that, since I get only a fixed number of texts per month, and I started just keeping up with them online.

All except for Dan and Audrey's Uncornered Market feed.

There are just a very limited number of people in the world who can send you text messages like this:

Barely recovering from self-inflicted death march from Kazakh mountains. Copter airlift looked likely. Rappelling down waterfall = escape. 11:59 AM September 03, 2007 from web

How awesome is that? Not the near death, mind, but the sheer adventure of it all. While I'm Twittering about finding my checkbook and late newspapers, they're eating Armenian lavash and wrangling visas from reluctant Tajiks. It's totally worth the price of the text message. I highly advise you to follow them, at least virtually.  

The universe laughs

Was it just yesterday or the day before that I was wishing so fervently that I could have a little break? Well, the universe--in its inimitable, irritating way--just made that possible. After Chip and I spent most of last week coughing, hacking and sneezing, Connery has now come down with the crud. "You wanted slow?" the universe chuckled. "I'll give you slow. Try 10 hours of nebulizer treatments and Wonder Pets. And be hella glad that he hasn't discovered WebKinz yet."

For the first couple of years of Connery's bouts with illness (he was never sick as an infant, lucky for me), I would feel guilty about letting him watch TV all day when he was sick. When I would stay home with him, I would grimly plan low-impact activities, including bundling him up and pushing him around the neighborhood in a stroller. Fresh air! Sunshine! Finally, I came to my senses. When I'm sick, the last thing I'd want would be to have Mommy Earnestest forcing me outside for my own good. No, sickness calls for television and lots of it. And blankets. And possibly popsicles.

Naturally, the arrival of his illness coincides with a long-planned visit from Nana and Grandpa and the forthcoming birthday weekend. My hope is that keeping him home today will mean he can forestall some of the worst of it, but we all know how the universe feels about best-laid plans.

On the upside, maybe I'll finally get more than two blog posts in a week. That would be exciting.

Old students never die

When I was a student--some 19 years of my life, so still more than half--I used to reach a point in the semester when I would start to make calculations. Namely, what would end first--the semester or my grades and academic reputation? Luckily, the semester usually ended first. I'm feeling that way right now with work, except that there's no semester to end. No finals to cap things off. No exit except finishing the damn work.

At a certain point, it can feel as if nothing else will come out of my brain. I'm almost there.

Finally

I've been looking for a while for a cookbook for Connery or some kind of "lunch idea" cookbook for us. Unfortunately, the books out there tend toward the "celebrity chef" side--please, God, save me from more Rachel Ray!--or toward the very specialty, i.e. when you are a gluten-free vegan who wants to eat only foods local to the upper northeast side of Berkeley. That's why I was glad to find this at the local Barnes & Noble last weekend. While it does feature a celebrity chef of sorts in that it features characters from Ratatouille, it also has classic French recipes given an easier twist to make it possible for kids to help out in the kitchen. We've already made three recipes from this book already, which has to be a new cookbook record.

In looking at other cookbooks either for kids or for parents cooking for kids, I've found other problems besides the aforementioned celebrity-specialty conundrums. There's a huge subset of "cooking for kids" books that make liberal use of the four kiddie food groups--hot dogs, chicken nuggets, pizza, and cookies--as if those foods are the only ones that will ever appeal to a child. The opposite extreme is the OMG CHILDHOOD OBESITY EPIDEMIC OF TEH FAT!?!?! cookbook designed to appeal to moms who want their kids to eat "healthy," wherein healthy means without any sugar, fat, or taste.

Now, I'm all for kids eating good food. In fact, if you ask my mom--who was in her day the strictest mom on the block in terms of what was in our cupboards--she'll call me a food nazi when it comes to what Connery gets to eat. I'll cop to being very, very label-conscious and anti-processed-foods to the extreme. But that doesn't mean I'm going to raise him on low-fat margarine and sugar substitute (See above: anti-processed-food.). What I love about What's Cooking is that I see nary a fake food anywhere in the book. Eggs, veggies, fruit, cheese, bread--basic, good food prepared in a tasty and imaginative way--predominate. Beyond that, food is presented as a real joy to prepare and consume. There are pictures of each recipe and an unabashed invitation to make the recipes together and enjoy them together.

Our society is so fraught with food issues that it's nice to see a cookbook that is trying to keep those out of our kids' heads. It's unlikely a single book can counteract the toxic celebrity culture that berates Britney Spears for being too fat and photoshops America Ferrara beyond recognition, but it's noteworthy that somebody is trying.

Storyteller

We have this red leather photo album on the coffee table in our living room. Though I am not usually one for photo albums--requiring both organization and work as they do--I did put this one together because it was a gift and because I really like the look of the album. Besides, it was pathetic to have someone over who wanted to see pictures from our time abroad and have to bring them into my office to show them digital shots on my 14-inch laptop screen. Charming, even discounting the very real chance of injury when they walked into the place.

So anyway, it sits on our coffee table, but given that our social life is...how do the French say it?...pathetique, we mostly enjoy it as a family. Connery particularly likes the last third or so of the pictures, since most of them involve him looking unbelievably cute in some exotic locale. We've gone through it with him (and here's a picture of you sitting on the chair at a Starbucks in Vienna and here's a picture of you in your stroller in Edinburgh and here's a picture of you drooling in Nuremberg...) and he never gets tired of it.

Last week, however, he decided that our plotline was a little lacking. It was no longer enough to give the litany of places and people--there needed to be some characters and some action. Luckily, he was ready to provide it. Here's his take on our album:

This is the story of two sad people, Chip and Nicole, who lost their baby. They spent a long time wandering around Europe, looking for their baby. They went to Italy, to Crete, to Turkey, to London--all over Europe,as it happens--but were clearly miserable, despite the fact that in all available portraiture of the era, they are looking quite relaxed and extremely youthful and well rested. It wasn't until they finally found the perfect baby--right there in Prague!--that they were finally happy. The End.

Not a bad story, when you think of it.

Preschool fun

The Dad is hilarious, as usual.