Cake Boss

In having one of those wonderful conversations you can only have with a four year old, the idea of making a pretend cake was on the table...but even though my niece proposed making the cake, she had no intention of being the one to do it-

Niece-let: You do it. I can't make a pretend cake; I'm not the boss.

Me: You're not the boss, but you just tell everyone what to do?

Niece-let: Yes.

A Tale of Two Pillows

A long while back, I bought two cloth placemats that I never used as such for some reason. Less than a long while back, I bought a pillow from IKEA, that I did use as such...until it got all weird and lumpy and the insides separated into individual tufts of cottage cheese. And then a while back I got the idea that I could combine these two purchases into a pillow. But of course, I proceeded to just let these items sit in unused.

Until one day when I was especially mopey and decided I needed some creative project to give me some instant gratification. I finally made the pillow I'd thought about, sewing it by hand. Being all proud of my handiwork, I informed my mother, who really was not all that impressed.

Later I learned that she was less than thrilled because unbeknownst to me, she'd also been thinking that I should make a pillow and give an item a new life. Somehow she managed to keep this to herself while I talked about the pillow I'd made since her pillow-making materials were in a box that hadn't arrived at my house yet.

She had saved a rice sack, even though she didn't know what to do with it. Then she came across an article about how vintage grain sacks were very chic at the moment. And it hit her-she'd send me her rice sack and some pillow stuffing. But then she couldn't find any pillow stuffing materials. So after she hunted some down, she gets a phone call from me where I tell her that I just made a pillow from an old one that I had laying around and that I had another old pillow that could be used to make even more pillows.

Great minds think alike and although my mother was kind of dismayed, I told her at least she did not sell her hair to buy me a chain for my watch (If you don't get that because haven't read The Gift of the Magi, you need to read it. It is one of the greatest short stories of all time.)

All's well that ends well, I say. Now I have two pillows.

Disappearing Acts

With all the businesses closing, it might be a good idea to check to see if the place you want to visit is still in business. This may a a good idea no matter what is going on with the economy, but sadly it seems especially necessary now...

On Sunday, I thought I'd stop by a grocery store down the street from church to pick up a few things...but it was boarded up.

Today, I made a stop because it today was Free Cone Day at Ben & Jerry's...but as I neared the spot, I was surprised to see that there was no line spilling out of the door. That was because Ben and Jerry's was not there anymore. And since I hadn't been in a while, I had no idea.

Now this probably doesn't relate, but since I am on the theme of what was not there...I was amused to read in a newspaper (another institution that is disappearing) that it is the anniversary of the date that Geraldo Rivera promised me and about 30 million other people that we would see the treasures of Al Capone's vault.

I was super excited about it and I think I asked to stay up late. My parents were bemused by my excitement and I think they somehow knew what would happen. And when the gin bottles and vacant space were revealed, they didn't gloat.

She's Got Legs...And She Knows How to Use 'Em

Last night when my niece,who was sitting in the chair next to me, hopped up from the table, I took that opportunity to put my legs up in said chair.

She returned to asked me in her curious, but also accusing way why women always do this. "You are just like my Mom," she said. " She does the same thing--whenever somebody gets up she puts her legs in the chair!"

A woman's work is never done, so if she she's the opportunity for a bit of rest, she should grab it.

Instead of really breaking it down to her, I answered in the cryptic way that tired adults do: "When you're a woman, you will understand," I said.

The Cup Had a Face
TV Time with My Own Media Analysts

I was with my nieces watching TV the other day and there was some show on for kids that was attempting to explain "dark" as in "dark humor." I remarked on this and my 9-year-old niece calmly explained that it would have made more sense to me if I had seen the show from the beginning.

When it switched to a scene where they were making chocolate milk in cartoon cup to explain "dark" as it relates to color (which is different from dark humor--to me they were trying to cover a lot of ground), my 2-year-old niece had a strong reaction.

"That's nasty," she said with disdain. "That cup had a face."

This was surprising because these days everything imaginable, be it animal, vegetable or mineral, talks, walks and has a song to sing.

In the very next scene a mop was telling us something. My older niece was excited to see the talking mop, saying that she thought it was cute how the mop strings made up this creature's hair. I looked at my younger niece and said, "The mop has a face."

But she was not at all interested or even offended. Apparently, only dishware should be seen and not heard.

Death Be Not Proud

As a word person, I have to say that some words irk me or perhaps I should say I find the way people use some words is irksome.

Case in point: my brother and his wife like to use the word "kill" when they finish off anything.

"Can I kill this orange juice?"

"I killed the rest of the pizza."

This word is standard in journalism when it is decided that a story will not run.

I'm doing some contract work as fact checker and I sat in an editorial meeting where someone declared that a famous actress had been "killed." Though he knew perfectly well what this terminology means in a journalistic setting, one editor looked shocked for a second. For just a moment, he thought that the woman had died, when really the story about her had been stricken from the current issue of the publication.

Speaking of stricken stories...I just learned that a story I toiled over for The Washington Post was killed. It isn't a death and yet I mourn...

But some stories are resurrected and brought back to life. In their original form or in some alternative format. So hope springs eternal.

Where the Tall Grass Grows

There are a lot of things you don't notice...unless they go haywire.

My mother used to say something about how if a man gets a really good haircut you won't be able to tell. It took a minute (well more than a minute) for this to sink in: the implication is that if you are maintaining something it will look good continuously. However, this seemed more like an ideal than something people really put into practice. I was able to tell when most men (even my father) got a haircut.

I thought of this today as I was driving down a street I travel occasionally because the grass on the median was growing wild. It was taller than a small child and looked very unkempt in comparison to the neatly cut lawns on either side of the street.

Someone was not on their job because my drive down this street would have been unremarkable otherwise. And it made me think how unaware we all are of the behind the scenes work that is done to keep things going.

Domestic Violence

Bianca, I hardly knew you, but I'll never forget you.

Rest in peace.

Never Enough

Being ungrateful is part of the human condition, although at times, I get a jolt of recognition that takes me away from griping long enough for me to see just how much I really do have.

Reminders of this are often more potent when they come from other people because it is easier to point to someone else's ingratitude than to reflect on my own.

The other day I gave my niece some stickers--not anything that she needed, but something I knew that she enjoyed, and as I handed them to her she said,

"Is that all?"

Peas in a pod

My Valentines Day surprise came 25 minutes after Valentines Day when my NYC cop cousin called at 12:25 am (from the squad car) to say, "Hey, I forgot to call you on Valentines Day. Are you asleep?" Uh...yeah.

It really is the thought that counts.

And some thoughts make more sense than others.

When I read that some couples in China are getting matching plastic surgery, I wondered what they were thinking. A woman quoted in the article said that her boyfriend thought it was a great idea and now they have matching noses.

Tattoos are one thing, and those who have had to go in and get a name turned into a rose or a teddy bear can tell you that they paid dearly for thinking they wanted to preserve someone's name on their skin...but actual matching body parts?
I have no problem with the way I look, but this look is not for everyone, and most certainly not for my significant other. When they say that the people in your life are a reflection of you it means their personality, the person on the inside.
This does not mean you need to make that evident on the outside, too.

Then I read another article that said that people who are together a long time start to look alike. We needed a scientific study for that? I used to hear people say that all the time. So why get butchered, when you can just hold out until it happens naturally?

Sibling Revelry

I was informed that something I wrote was not quite accurate. So although there are no corporate sponsors for this blog, there are guest artists. Today's featured performer is my brother.

In response to the the entry Shared Memory (December 15, 2005) he wrote:

For the record I did see that food at the Econo Lodge and there was one stairwel that smelled like funky feet boiled in liquidified Haggis.

We really don't have the same mind, however. Despite the fact that in a recent game of Scattergories when pressed to think of a fruit that began with the letter "H", one of us wrote "hot apple" while the other wrote "hot pear".

And before you ask, it is supposed to be revelry (not rivalry).

Can You Hear Me Now?

I've been reading about corporate co-opting in the blog world-- blogs written in the voice of tv characters, blogs written with corporate sponsorship, etc., etc.
Well, let me tell you my fine feathered friend, there is no sponsorship or product placement here. It is I and only I.

The thing about not being sponsored by laundry powder is that one must do one's own publicity. So of course one starts with people one knows. This is fine, but if you happen to be a person with family and friends, or if you know any such creatures, then you realize that one's own life (and the people in it) are the best source for material. Even if they may not like it.
There are worse things than almost not being mentioned in someone's blog.

This entry is actually supposed to be about my Christmas holiday (yes, I said it, Christmas) I had a good time, thanks for asking. No spills, thrills or chills. Still, I have to say that I was a part of some interesting dialogues...

I was asked a number of times about what I'd studied.

"Didn't you study ---?"
"No, I studied ^^^^."
"But I thought it was ---?"
"No, it was ^^^^."
"Really, I thought it was ---."
"It was ^^^."
"Oh, well you need to help me out. I need to study ^^^."

This could have gone on forever. Thankfully, it did not.

Then there was the tantalizing offer to pack my bags and move to another city to work at the publication of someone else's choice. Mind you, this person knew of no openings. They just thought it would be nice for me to work at a place that they like.

"But if you had the opportunity, wouldn't you work for ###?"
"Well, no. I wouldn't move to work for ###?"
"Why not? I'm just saying, if you could, wouldn't you?
"No."
"I just love ###...what about %%%? Would you work for them?"

I'll let you fill in the next blank.

Finally, there was the 2005 Gift of the Magi-Who's on First Edition, in which an entire family (of which I am a member) went to the mall the day after Christmas because everyone thought someone else wanted to go, when really, no one wanted to go. Each one's sacrifice of enduring the mall for the other turned out to be in vain. So after a brief sojourn they all left. Some left sooner than others since about half of them got stuck in horrid Day-after-Christmas-mall-parking-lot traffic.
The End.

Shared Memory

For the past few days as I have walked down the hallway, coming and going, I have seen the same thing in front of a neighbor's door: a brown paper bag on top of a tv dinner. I don't know what mysteries the paper bag contains, but I can see that the tv dinner is a tv dinner. Especially since it is not in a box.

As I write this, I am thinking, "Why didn't you at least mention it to the manager?" Couldn't tell you why. Could have been left by a friend? Meals on Wheels? I have never seen that door open, and I don't know who lives there. I hope this person or those people are still alive, and just neglectful. Or on vacation.

This reminds me of the time I went on a class trip to Albany in the 6th grade. We stayed at an Econo Lodge. The building was painted with vertical turquoise and white stripes.

For the three days of our stay the same tray of food remained outside of the room next door. I had the gruesome thought that we would come down the hallway to find the tray covered with ants. But that didn't happen.

My brother, who was two years behind me at the same school, claims to have the same memory (school trip, Econo Lodge, tray of food unremoved). I tell him that he has just co-opted my memory, and he emphatically denies this. No matter. I am not particulary possessive about that memory anyway.

No Rest for the Weary

Recently the Washington Post Magazine did a "teen" issue that focused on issues affecting local teenagers. One factoid I gleaned from this came from a telephone survey of DC area teens: 56% said that school was the biggest stress in their daily lives.

I can believe it. If school is your job (and we all know how stressful jobs can be), then it stands to reason that it would be the cause of major headaches. They did not specify which aspects of school (academic, social,etc.) was stressing more than half of these kids out, but whatever the case, for some school outweighed family, societal pressures, and friends as a main source of worry for some.

Yesterday's Post Magazine had a group of articles that looked at the teacher-student relationship, including a series of vignettes in which teachers reminisced about students who changed their lives. There was also a piece from a father who felt that grades don't count before high school. (The article was about handling conflict with your child's teacher.)

If only someone had told me that. Grades always mattered in my house. And since grammar school grades affected the high school you'd enter and the high school you entered and the grades you got there would determine the college you got into, there was never a time when grades didn't matter.

So I was concerned the other night when I baby-sat my niece, a first grader, and she was herself stressing out about homework. As I was tucking her into bed she suddenly remembered that she had not done her homework. I tried to reassure her that it was Friday night and she had two whole days to get it done, but she would not be comforted. She really felt that the homework had to be done on the day it was assigned and that she had too much to do on Saturday and Sunday to finish it by the time Monday rolled around. Nothing I said seemed to help, but the need to sleep won out over the need to contemplate the impending doom of arriving to school on a Monday with unfinished homework...

at least until about 2 a.m. After already playing musical beds earlier in the night (my niece deciding that it was much better to sleep in the guest bed with me, than in her own), I awoke to find her standing over me.

"Auntie, will you help me with my spelling words?"

In my sleepy haze, I told her to go back to bed, but found I was unable to move. Yet, I was still awake after the grogginess passed. I tried to remember why I was awake in the first place. Oh yeah, something about spelling words. I went into my niece's room (she had returned there) to find her under the covers, with one eye half open and the spelling list in her hand. I took the list away and told her to go to sleep.

When I told her parents about this, they were not to alarmed. They seemed to be glad that she takes school so seriously. As a reforming overacheiver, I can see the value in that, but I also see the danger. I did not get so serious about school until much later. In the first grade I came home and did my homework, but it did not have a big place in my life. I slept soundly; I doubt thoughts of spelling would have roused me from sleep.

She woke me up again later and when I asked her what time it was, she said, "The big hand is on the five and the little hand is on the five." She cannot tell time, but she already knows that the weekends slip past you quickly and that Monday morning is lurking around the next corner waiting to club you over the head, reminding you of all the things you didn't get done.