Hot Diggity!

Honoring Nick Markowitz

2009-07-05T01:49:00.003-04:00

Several months ago, Susan Markowitz contacted me to ask if I'd help her write her memoir. Her only son, Nick, was kidnapped and murdered when he was 15 years old. This was the basis of the movie Alpha Dog, which starred Justin Timberlake, Sharon Stone, and Bruce Willis. After seeing the movie and reading about her story, I knew this could be the most important book I'd ever write.

Susan spent several years in and out of mental hospitals and attempting suicide. As she explained it, each time she told her story in a group, suddenly everyone else realized they didn't have any real problems. Susan's first letter came to me one day after I was in court fighting for custody of my daughter, and I was very down. It was as if God was flicking me in the head and saying, "Here's some perspective for you."

I hate that Susan has to be that perspective. But nine years after losing her son, she is remarkably strong and put together, and ready to do great things.

This week marked the end of the murder trial of Jesse James Hollywood. Jesse was a drug dealer who had a falling out with Nick's half-brother, Ben. He and his cronies snatched Nick for revenge, and held onto him for three days before executing him and buring him in a shallow grave on a hiking trail in California.

After Nick's body was found, Jesse ran off to Brazil. The other kidnappers and murderers were caught and convicted, but Jesse stayed on the run for 5 years before someone turned him in for the reward money. While in Brazil, he fathered a child, believing he could not be extradited if he had a Brazilian-born child.

The trial lasted a month and a half, and it's in the jury's hands right now.

I created a Facebook group to honor Nick and to provide a place for people to show support for his family. I'd love it if you'd join: http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=99705960901

We just accepted a book deal from Berkley and will have details soon about when the book should be released. I hope to do it justice, because I think this is a story that might just change a lot of lives.

I gardened.

2009-05-07T03:24:00.005-04:00

Why does no one use the past tense of the verb "garden?" Seriously. No one says, "I gardened today." Everyone says, "I did some gardening today." Well, because I am a linguistic rebel, I shall tell you that I gardened.

And what I did when I gardened should truly astound and impress you, enough that I expect at least a few "ooohs" and "ahhhs" at the end of this post.

I removed a shrub using nothing but a pair of old kitchen scissors and my bare hands.

This is the shrub.

These are the scissors.

These are my bare hands.

While I was performing this undeniably astounding feat (don't deny it, you denier), some form of beetle crashed into my ear, so hard that it drew blood, which I did not notice until I tried to pull my hair into a ponytail later and wondered how I got blood all over my ear. Furthermore proving, of course, just how much of an action-adventure heroine I am becoming.

I am considering retitling this blog "Adventures of One Bad-Ass Momma." But I so rarely curse, and "Bad-Butt" lacks the proper punch.

She learned her "l" and that makes me sad

2009-04-27T20:22:00.003-04:00

You remember how, just a few posts ago, I said my favorite part of the song "Raindrops Keep Falling On My Head" was when Sarina sang "I'm never gonna stop the rain by compwaining?" Well, without even warning me, she decided to start pronouncing her "l"s correctly now, so it's "complaining." It took all I had not to tell her she was saying it wrong and should go back to saying "compwaining." Darn you, progress! Darn you to heck!

Her new favorite is when I sing "Anything You Want (You Got It)" to her. The other day, my dad said "You can have anything you want" when asking her what she wanted for a snack, and she said, "Roy Orbison sings that."

But one of my new favorite Sarina moments came when we went to what was supposed to be a consignment sale at a community center, but when we got there, all the doors were locked. I had her in a carrier, facing me. I spotted a dad and young boy playing ball in the field nearby, and told Sarina that we'd go ask them if they knew what was going on. When we were about 20 feet away, she turned herself around and called out-- I swear--

"Excuse me! There seems to be a problem. We are lost in the parking lot, and every single door is locked."

She just turned 2.

And I've heard it said before, but I'm only just experiencing for myself the way you will say things as a parent that you cannot imagine ever saying in any other context, such as yesterday's topper: "I cannot paint your toenails if you keep sticking cheese between your toes."

How I entertained myself before her birth remains a mystery to me.

If I were to lose my ability to write

2009-04-15T14:06:00.003-04:00

...here are the jobs I could do instead:

-Personal sticker applicator. I am tremendous at applying decals to things that need decals. I got this train table set yesterday, and it came with about 8 thousand stickers to put all over the board. Depending on your point of view, it's either impressive or scary how anal I am about getting those stickers exactly right.

-Children's audio book narrator. I inherited this gene from my mom. We read children's books with great enthusiasm, voicing all of the dialogue with appropriately timbers.

-Expiration date checker at the grocery store.

-Chocolate chip cookie taster.

-The person who happens to be standing around at tourist spots so people can say, "Excuse me, can you take a picture of us?" and hand me their cameras. I really like doing this. I take great shots, and I imagine them later saying, "We totally asked the right woman to take this picture. Best picture ever."

-Baby hugger.

-American Idol judge. What? I can get qualifications. I can't possibly do worse than Randy. ("It was just aiight for me, dog.")

-Professional hula hooper. As a child, I beat the Guiness Book of World Records and no one even knew it. I told my mom, but I don't think she believed me.

I fixed the dryer.

2009-03-28T01:36:00.005-04:00

I fixed the dryer today. Well, not so much the dryer as the dryer door. And not so much "fix" as just realign it and screw it in properly, which the repairman failed to do when he made it stop sounding like someone was lighting off fire crackers in it.

Sometimes, it's the simplest things that cause the most consternation about getting divorced. You sit there on that first day after the big decision, thinking, "How am I ever going to do this? I have never put air in my own tires. I don't know when recycling day is. How do I make sure my pipes don't burst over the winter?"

And it all looks huge and overwhelming, and then you just close your eyes and trust that you're going to find a way. And day after day, you do. If you let yourself feel it, each thing-- each stupid little thing-- feels like a victory. It shows you that you're more capable than you knew.

Maybe especially if you have kids, there's the extra impetus to become more capable. I want Sarina to know her momma as someone who gets her hands dirty-- someone who can change a tire, fix a boo-boo, plant a garden, assemble do-it-yourself furniture, and play "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" on the guitar.

Yesterday, I put air in my tires. Today, I fixed the dryer. Tomorrow, I'm considering re-shingling the roof. (Er, just kidding.)

I'm Sarina's momma. I rule.

A little about Sarina

2009-01-20T04:40:00.003-05:00

She thanked me today...
for changing the sheets on the bed
for removing her socks
for changing her diaper
for taking her out to play

"Thank you, Mommy," she says. "Thank you for changing the sheets."

She wants to know what rhymes with "Joe" and "Blue," and where Meatball the Lion went, and if Aunt Peeka will come to our house soon. She wakes up from her nap and recaps her day for me down to the last detail-- such as that she was sitting on the Skee-Ball machine when she did poopies in her diaper.

"I need to be held in the carrier," she says, and "I need my hair"-- which is actually my hair, which has been her security blanket since she was born. She tugs on my hair and wraps it around her fingers while she sucks her thumb when she needs comfort. So I haven't used hair products in almost two years.

She made her public singing debut at my brother's 30th birthday party, using the Elvis impersonator's microphone. She sang "Raindrops Keep Falling On My Head" and didn't want to stop, so she just kept repeating all the verses. "I'm never gonna stop the rain by compwaining" is my favorite part.

She recites her own versions of poems and stories. "This little piggy went to market, this little piggy stayed home, this little piggy had chicken nuggets..."

When she bounces in the inflatable bouncer with her 8-year-old friend "Miss Gina," she likes to sing "Row, Row, Row Your Boat" at the top of her lungs. I've never seen her be physical with another child anywhere except in this bouncer, where she actually grabbed a little girl by her waist and tackled her backwards because Sarina was having too much fun with her and didn't want the girl to leave. "You get back in here, Miss Ashley!" she said, giggling. She believes that everyone who enters the "Mommy and Me" building is "Miss" Somebody, even when that person is 4 years old.

Her favorite colors are pink and purple, and she's also growing a fondness for red.

She likes songs about rain and night. When she watches the tap dancing number for "Singing in the Rain," she exclaims, "That's Gene Kelly!"

She likes to strum my guitar when she sings, and she's delicate enough that I can let her do so.

Lately, she begins every other sentence with "Actually." "Actually, let's go to the bakery." Nearly every story she makes up involves a bakery. Every now and then she switches it up and makes the setting a deli or a diner instead. You'd think this means she's a big eater, but she's not. I go through every trick I know every meal just to get her to eat a decent amount. But she has a serious sweet tooth that I have to keep in check.

She likes to climb hills, play with Play-Doh, paint, wear lip gloss, jump on the bed, comb my hair, pretend various large and small household objects are Mommy and Sarina and make them "hug," and make snowballs.

After using the big girl potty for the first time, she announced, "I need a crown."

Several times a day, she tells me, "This is gonna be great!"

She is the coolest girl I've ever met.

Hello, World!

2009-01-05T02:04:00.007-05:00

On New Year's Eve, I found a link to the video on Kelly Corrigan's homepage. It was a tough day for me; in addition to the holiday, it was my brother's 30th birthday and my daughter wasn't with us. So you could blame it on that, but I think it was something more. I watched that little video and the tears just came to the surface. Like I needed them to. Sometimes, it's a gift to help someone cry.

I loved Kelly. Watching that video made me want to know more about her, so I read pretty much everything on her site. She talks about her father, a relentlessly positive person who welcomes each day by opening the windows and shouting "Hello, world!" And she talks about its effects on her as a child, feeling like the universe was actively rooting for her.

I thought this sounded like a good thing, so the next morning I had Sarina, I asked her, "What do you think? Should we open the windows and say 'Hello, world'?"

She grinned. "No, Mommy," she said. But I did it anyway. (The back window, if you're wondering. I'm not that brave yet-- I am still the new girl on the block, and I'd rather not have them suspect I'm nuts just yet.)

I told myself that I was going to learn to be more like Kelly's father, to help my daughter see all the good things in life. But then she turned the tables on me.

Suddenly, she wants to tell me how great everything is. We watch a homemade video of "Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head," and she tells me, "What a great song!" She eats ice cream and proclaims it to be "awesome." I help her with a craft, and she says, "Good job, Mommy! That was perfect!" A grumpy-looking worker in a convenience store surprises me by giving Sarina a banana, and she says, "That was nice of him. What a nice man."

And she looks for ways to brighten my day. Every day, she gives me whatever flowers she finds around the house (an artificial silk arrangement, or ones made of paper or felt) and tells me, "I brought you a present, Mommy. These are for you, from Sarina!" She also tackle-hugs me and says, "It's Mommy Time!"

But tonight was the killer. After a day filled with family and fun, where she made everyone feel a little more special, we drove back to our new home. It's a townhouse in a nice little development. There's still so much to be done. Nothing left that needs to be done, but lots of aesthetic stuff that would make it nicer. The structure is perfect for us, though, and the place has a lot of potential. I can't afford to fix up everything at once, but I've been tackling what I can in order of importance. Some days it feels like I'll never get to it all, and others, I think, "This place is pretty nice even as it is."

As I pulled up, Sarina said, "Wow. What a great house."

"Yeah?" I asked. "You think it's great?"

"What a cool house. I have fun here."

"I'm so happy to hear you say that."

"It's going to be beautiful."

I hoisted her up and out of the car, and she looked for the moon-- Luna. Luna must have been behind clouds, though, because she was nowhere to be found.

"Maybe she's hiding in the snow," Sarina tells me.

"Maybe," I agree.

And we walk into our house, hugging tight against the wind. I think about the new year, and new beginnings, and how much life we both have still to live.

It's going to be beautiful.

On Word Counts: Shorter is Harder

2008-12-23T03:04:00.002-05:00

After 10 years, I'm finally realizing that I have a comfort zone when it comes to word counts. At least when it comes to magazine articles. I'd much rather write 1200-1500 words than anything much longer or shorter.

When an editor wants me to write front-of-the-book type stuff-- 400 to 800 words or so-- I cringe a little. I know it's going to be just about as much work as the longer stuff, for less pay. I'm still going to have to do interviews, I'm still going to transcribe them, I'm still going to write the same meat of the article... and then I'm going to struggle like crazy to trim it down to what almost always seems like too small a space for the topic.

Worse, though, is that there seem to be many editors who cannot grasp that 400 words is not enough to pack in everything they ask for in their brief. "Please write the entire history of the the automotive industry, and a sidebar about bicycles" is just not do-able.

So then I do the mental equivalent of stuffing 2 weeks' worth of clothing into a small suitcase, sitting on it and jumping on it and breaking into a sweat trying to get the darn thing zippered. Then I get the editors' follow-up questions: "This is interesting, but you haven't mentioned why tires are round, or the name of Henry Ford's great-grandson, or why puffy dice became a rear-view-mirror fad." And I have to reopen the darn suitcase and figure out how I'm supposed to stick MORE stuff in it without making the toothpaste explode.

By the end, I'm just closing it up with duct tape and a staple gun. The resulting word count is almost always longer than it was supposed to be, because there's just no way to do it otherwise. But I still get paid for the original assigned count, unless I manage to negotiate otherwise during the request for revisions. (If the editor is asking for something outside the scope of the original assignment, I can try negotiating for more money at this point. Otherwise, I'm pretty much out of luck.)

One of my fantasies involves my asking an editor what word count she wants, and having her reply, "Oh, you choose. I trust you. Heck, we'll just wait until your article arrives and format the rest of the issue around it."

That comes right after the "we'll-pay-you-$5-a-word" fantasy.

"Thank you for the songs."

2008-12-17T04:01:00.002-05:00

We go to a "Mommy and Me" group, where Sarina and I hang out and do a craft, play, have a snack, sing and dance, listen to a story, and learn about numbers and letters.

Sarina is very proud of her crafts-- almost as proud as I am. She likes to show people and say, "I made this!" Truth is I wouldn't have realized she was ready for that kind of stuff. I saw the glue and foam and glitter on the craft table and thought, "Yeah, right." But then Sarina began sticking on sequins and calling for green glitter like a little craft diva.

As we left this week, I prompted Sarina to say thank you to the owners. She did, then paused and added, "Thank you for the songs."

It snowed here today, all puffy and slushy. She wasn't here. I miss the heck out of her.

I think if my life circumstances were different, I would have been an Angelina Jolie type, with 7 kids. These days, I visit "waiting children" sites, where they show pictures and short profiles of kids who are in foster care awaiting adoption, and I dream about adopting them all. I think I'm only beginning to understand the person I'm meant to be.

Small steps. Small steps.

Other Sorts of Firsts

2008-12-13T03:23:00.004-05:00

I remember reading an article in a parenting magazine about less-popular "firsts": sure, we all notice the first step, the first word, and the first tooth, but this writer mentioned the first time her toddler picked up the phone and said, "Hewo?"

I'm not sure if Sarina had even been born at the time, or if I was still pregnant, but I remember thinking how toddlerhood was a far way off.

Tonight I had one of those sorts of firsts.

I had cleverly hidden her Christmas gifts in my closet-- which I do a good job of keeping closed-- but my parents came over today to help me install a ceiling fan, and apparently they left the closet door open. Later, when I was cleaning up dinner, Sarina walked off for a moment... and returned with three items: Mr. Potato Head, a Doodlebops book, and her "big" gift: the Mickey Mouse Clubhouse play set. I ain't exactly rich this year (I know, who is?), so it's not like I can just go out and buy more toys to replace the ones she discovered. So I briefly tried to just take them away and hide them again. Maybe she'd forget that she saw them?

Yeah. No.

"Open it, Mommy! Open it," she begged. I finally gave up and opened the Clubhouse. She was thrilled. Thrilled. The annoyance I had about her opening it before Christmas wilted away. It was too much fun watching how happy she was.

And that's when the "first" happened. She recently began playing with figurines and arranging them on shelves, pretending to feed them, telling me what they wanted, etc., but this was the first time she actually made up a story and had them interacting with one another.

"Minnie, let's go to the bakery and get some happy birthday cake," she said, posing as Minnie's pet elephant. Then she picked up Minnie and said, "Okay, but first, let's do the Mousekedance. Hot dog, hot dog, hot diggity dooooog!" Back to the elephant. "Let's go to the bakery in the big red car." And she put them in the car.

I flashed back to the days when I used to play The Littles with my mom. I always wanted her to be Daphne. She made up good stories. And here was my little girl, 21 months old now, so smart and so sweet, giving me a glimpse into what's ahead for us.

The other first came yesterday: "I need to be held, Mommy." I'm glad she knows what she needs. And I'm glad she's such a snuggly girl. Otherwise, she'd be so sick of me by now.

Do you remember any sentimental sorts of firsts that aren't pre-printed in any baby books?

Mickey Mouse is invading my child's brain

2008-12-02T03:06:00.004-05:00

Have to say, I'm not a big fan of the Mickey Mouse Clubhouse series, but my daughter is, so... yeah. We have a bunch of the books. In them, Mickey Mouse and friends call on Toodles to come bring them their Mouseketools when they have a problem that needs fixing. Our latest book describes a machine. When it works, it makes the noise "chugga-chugga-chug-chug," and when it's broken, it makes the noise "chugga-chugga-squeak!"

Okay, that was background information. Now I can tell you what happened.

Sarina was trying on Mommy's shoes again, as she does several times a day. She toddled around in my shoes until she stumbled and fell on her bottom behind my exercise bike (which makes a great clothes hanger).

"Do you need help?" I asked.

"Yes," came the reply. "I need a Mouseketool."

The next day, we visited my parents, and Sarina tried to get water from their water machine. She doesn't know how to use it, though. The hot water button is safety-locked. Sarina pressed it a couple of times, then looked at me soberly and said, "Chugga-chugga-squeak!"

The best excuse I've ever received...

2008-11-25T01:07:00.002-05:00

...for why an interviewee will have to postpone our talk for a little while:

"He can't come to the phone right now because he's in a tree with a rifle."

(That would be hotelier Tim Dixon. Quite a character.)

Freelancers Union: Worst of the Worst

2008-11-24T14:45:00.006-05:00

Freelancers Union, also known as Working Today, offers freelancers health insurance in 31 states. I signed up with them two or three years ago, when the National Writers Union lost its health insurance provider. It seemed like a good idea-- an organization for freelancers, by freelancers, to negotiate good health insurance rates for the group.

Ha!

I began experiencing trouble with their customer service right away. It was clear that the organization's president, Sara Horowitz, used lots of nice words that had no actual meaning. She wrote to us about their commitment to better customer service and how glad she was that people kept them accountable... then did nothing to improve anything, and ignored our letters.

To be more specific, I'll use my current example.

They made a math error on my August bill. I had overpaid for two months, and they owed me a refund. Instead, they charged me again. I began politely e-mailing; they refused to acknowledge the problem. They told me to call-- I did, and was put on hold for MORE THAN ONE HOUR, then hung up on.

You'd think that would be enough torment, but no, I called back-- and got hung up on again.

I e-mailed several times. Here's the main point I made:

I overpaid for two months at $1067.49 (total: $2134.98) when my plan cost $683.65 (total: $1367.30), so I should have been credited a total of $767.68. That would have meant one month (my 8/15 invoice) where I didn't have to make any payment, plus a credit of $84.03 toward the following month. Instead, I was charged $299.81, which means that only half of my overpayment was credited. Or I was charged for an extra month. Either way, I do not have a credit for the full $767.68 that I overpaid.

They have ignored me for weeks. I wrote again to let them know I had been on hold more than an hour, and asked them to call me instead. They did not.

Then-- surprise!-- they sprang a fast one on their members. They decided not to provide health insurance through other providers anymore. Instead, Freelancers Union would be its own health insurance company... with higher premiums and fewer benefits than members had in the past with other companies. No choice: all of us would be dropped from our current plans at the end of December. Hey, thanks for the notice!

Even people who had just registered for Freelancers Union last month specifically for the health plans offered were not informed that they would get only one month on the plan they selected, then be forced to switch to the (for-profit) plans offered by the brand new "FIC" (Freelancers Insurance Company).

So here I am on hold again. I'm typing this as I wait. So far, it's been 28 minutes. I think I'll go make lunch.

Here's a link to read more in the meantime: http://upsetfu.blogspot.com

UPDATE: After I stayed on hold for 31 MINUTES, they hung up on me again. Nice system!

No autographs, please!

2008-11-14T02:13:00.004-05:00

And now I'll blow your mind (unless you're a published author, in which case you may already know this scenario).

There I was in Barnes & Noble the other day. My book The Marilyn Monroe Treasures has just come out, and I happened to be across the street with my mom, so I suggested we stop in and take a look at it in all its glory.

I already knew it was selling pretty well at that store, because a friend of mine had seen 16 copies on an endcap, then my mom went in two days later and there were 12, and when we walked in this time, there were 5. So at least 11 copies had sold that week. I felt good about that.

Since it was an impromptu stop, I didn't have a Sharpie on me. I went to the customer service desk to borrow one.

"Hi," I said. "I'm the author of The Marilyn Monroe Treasures, which you have in stock up front. I'd love to sign the copies you have if you can lend me a Sharpie."

The clerk actually looked upset. She referred me to a woman I assume was her supervisor, who looked the way you might look if someone offers you a plate of pickled mice.

"Well, we don't usually do that," she said. "But I guess... tell me about your book."

I pointed down the aisle. "It's right there. Why don't I just show it to you?"

She walked with me, with a face that told me she was trying to look polite, but was truly not happy that I had come to the store.

"Oh, it's one of these books with the memorabilia. How nice. People really love these books."

"Yes," I told her. "I love working on them. They're such beautiful coffee table books."

"This will do well for the holidays. Okay, I'll need to see your ID," she said. I laughed. My mom had just asked me in the car if bookstore employees ever ask for ID before I sign books. I told her no one ever had.

My mom laughed, too, and flipped to the back of the Marilyn Monroe book to show the woman my author photo. "There's her ID," she said.

The bookstore worker smiled, but still wanted to see my ID. I pulled out a credit card or something, and she was satisfied. I also mentioned to her that I was happy to see that they had sold so many of my books already this week.

"Well..." she said hesitantly, picking up two out of the five books. "Why don't you sign a couple?"

At this point you may be wondering why in the world a bookstore worker would ever want to discourage an author from signing her books. Doesn't that make them more valuable, more likely to sell?

Yes. But I already knew what this woman was thinking: "If she signs them, we might not be able to return them."

So I tell her, "Oh! Barnes and Noble actually published this book, so you don't have to worry about returns. You're not going to return it to yourself."

She kind of believes me. But she explains, "Yeah, that's the problem. When we try to return signed books, publishers won't take them back because they say they're 'damaged.'"

I've heard this before. I don't know whether this is wholly true or not. I suspect that maybe a few publishers do use this excuse, but I'm skeptical about this being a widespread problem.

See, bookstores still work on consignment. They can order in, say, 25 copies of your new book, then wait and see how they sell. If only 5 sell, they can just return the other 20 to the publisher and get full credit (sometimes including shipping). And generally, they can return those books at any time. They might pull them after just a few weeks, or they might literally let books sit on the shelf for years-- long after the publisher believes the books have been sold and spent the money from them. Publishers know that the money they've received can be taken back at any point. It's a crazy business model, and everyone knows it.

I once had a bookstore refuse to let me sign books at all-- because the books were shrink-wrapped. (This was Celine Dion: For Keeps, which was shrink-wrapped so the memorabilia wouldn't fall out or get damaged. I hated that, though, because it meant no one could thumb through the books and see how beautiful they were-- and how likely are you to spend $39.95 on a book you can't look through first?) For me to sign the books, they would have had to take off the shrink-wrapping, and... you guessed it. They worried they wouldn't be able to return them.

This bookstore worker "let" me sign the five books, and my mother asked if those were the only ones left, or if they might have more in stock in the back.

"I don't know," she said, "But I wouldn't have her sign more than five anyway."

So much for my explanation about how, y'know, they PUBLISHED this book, so they weren't going to return it to themselves. Sigh.

As I was signing the books, though, a woman looked over and asked, "Is that a biography of Marilyn Monroe?" I said yes and handed her a copy to look at. She told me she was going to buy it.

"Great," I said. "Do you want me to personalize it to someone?"

"Um, if you do, I have to ask you to buy it first," the bookstore worker interjected.

I don't mean to blame the worker. I get that she's doing her job as assigned. It was just such a sad state of affairs, as I apologetically followed the woman to the cash register.

I hear this treatment of authors isn't the same everywhere. I suppose a lot of this is because I live in New York, state of authors on every corner. I've even heard tales of authors being treated to muffins and scones and whatnot. Though I suspect the scone author was exaggerating. I mean, seriously. Scones! For free!

You think they'd do this to Stephen King?

"Um, okay, Mr. King. You can sign five of these books. Could you do it in pencil so we can erase it if they don't sell?"

I'm glad I picked a field where they keep my ego in check. I mean, my self-esteem was approaching lukewarm when I entered the store. That could be dangerous!

Halloween 2008

2008-11-03T18:05:00.006-05:00

Our First Grammatical Debate

2008-11-03T16:56:00.007-05:00

Sarina's new favorite song is "When the Lights Go Out" by the Doodlebops, which is lucky for me, because I really like the song, too. But she believes that the correct wording should be "When the Lights Go Down."

We argued about it for a bit. I told her that she was indeed right that it could be "When the Lights Go Down," but that in this case, the song lyric was "When the Lights Go Out," which was also acceptable. She would have none of it.

"Of course, 'When the Lights Go Down,'" she told me.

She made me put on the music video again, and I thought this would settle the debate, but instead, I believe she was making me watch it so I could see just how very, very wrong DeeDee Doodlebug was. Perhaps she wanted me to write a letter of protest to make them change the title.

Or perhaps she was just stalling bedtime again.

Here she is singing the Sesame Street theme song. 19 months old.

Here she is singing the ABCs.

And here she is cracking up in a video I like to call "Down, Cat," to prove that even budding geniuses can still laugh at stupid stuff.

Halloween pics coming up in the next post. Stay tuned.

A message from Sarina

2008-10-20T01:24:00.003-04:00

Our friend Lisa and her sister-in-law sent over a ton of fall and winter clothes for Sarina. Sarina has been modeling in front of the mirror for two days now, and exclaiming, "Cute!" about everything (her favorite is the Wiggles hat, which she's wearing at totally inappropriate times). She has a message for Lisa:

She wrote a song

2008-09-28T01:02:00.007-04:00

This just can't be normal. Are 18-month-olds supposed to make up their own songs? Her first one went something like this:

We go shopping
And we buy white socks
And purple socks, too

She serenaded me with it while she ate dinner tonight. Then I realized she stuck purple socks into the cart, in the wrong size. You know how it feels silly to go back to a store to exchange one pair of socks? So you wind up keeping them for five years until finally realizing that, no, you're never going to meet someone who needs this particular pair of size 3-4 1/2 purple socks, so you stick them in a donation bag? Is that just me?

Anyway, this week has been all about questions. Sarina is asking whatever's on her mind now-- "What's that noise?" "Is something wrong?" "Aunt Pat, what are you doing with the saw?" "How 'bout pancakes?"

She also has shown her first fear: the door. When someone walks in the door without knocking or ringing the bell, she screams, "Mommy! Mommy!" and runs to me for protection. It's so sad to see her get this nervous, and the only thing any of us can figure that might have triggered this is Elmo's World-- an episode where Elmo hears things behind a door and opens the door to find out what's making the noises. That's the first time we saw her get really freaked out by a door opening. She ran behind a chair and shook while Elmo opened the door.

We're in the process of moving now. Actually, we moved into our new place already, but it's still a work-in-progress. It's been a challenge, but we're definitely getting there. I'm slowly getting furniture on Craigslist and at garage sales, mostly, and I got all new carpets put in last week. I wasn't able to finish painting before the carpets went in, though, so I still have a good deal of painting left to do.

The first decorative item I bought is something I really love, though. It's this:

Our new neighbors are great. One already had me over for lunch, and the couple next door have grandkids who played so wonderfully with Sarina. When she went in for a nap, they actually hung around waiting, eagerly asking me if she could come back out and play when she got up. These are elementary school-age kids-- it's so touching to see them pay attention to a toddler, and she really loved them. All I heard that night was, "Thomas! Thomas! Thomas!" Hmm. Perhaps I have failed wih my "Boys are icky and you should not even look at them until you are 25" lesson.

I got to introduce Sarina to Celine Dion before a concert last week, too. We hung out in her dressing room, where Sarina promptly stole whatever she could grab of Celine's makeup. Celine is always a good sport, though, and said, "She's a girl! She's supposed to like makeup," and put lipgloss on Sarina, who kept checking herself out in the dressing room mirror and grinning.

A photographer took professional pictures of us ("us" being my parents, brother, brother's friend Jacqueline, Sarina, and me), but I don't have them yet. I do have a few pics from Jacqueline, though-- this one's my favorite.

OH. And The Marilyn Monroe Treasures arrived! It's scheduled to be in stores by November 6, but I got my author copies this week, and they look pretty amazing. I love working on this series of books-- you can't help but feel proud to be a part of something that looks so darn pretty. The designer picked a perfect last shot, too-- Marilyn puckering up for a kiss, looking like she's kissing the reader goodbye. I hope the serious fans will like this book. I think they will.

Another gratuitous Sarina picture:

I think this is the last picture taken of us in our old house (on an autotimer). That feels significant somehow.

Pampers Swaddlers Sensitive

2008-09-08T01:00:00.004-04:00

Diapers and I are not friends, in general. I've never found a brand and type that really works for Sarina, who apparently has an unusual body type for a toddler. (She's tall and thin, so the leg holes are always... insufficient.) But as the months go on, I've switched brands and types a few times, because different types have worked better for her at different ages.

What started it all were the Pampers Swaddlers, which I kept her in as long as possible. And now they've introduced Pampers Swaddlers Sensitive, which is a nice step up. Pampers sent me a pack to review-- hey, thanks, Pampers-- but since Sarina is beyond the "Swaddlers" sizes (which go up to only size 2), I can't give a tried-and-tested review, only a review of my observations.

What got me excited about this diaper (yes, moms DO get excited about these sorts of things) was the "wetness indicator." The PR person emphasized this, but I was surprised to see that it wasn't at all highlighted on the package. In fact, it wasn't mentioned on the front of the package at all-- just this tiny little blurb on the top part of the package.

Turns out maybe it was best not to mention it too much. There's a stripe down the middle of the diaper that turns from pale yellow to blue when the baby is wet... at least in theory. In practice, I had to put an awful lot of water into that diaper before it decided to "indicate." By then, I think I'd be able to tell the diaper was wet without needing to see an indicator. I'd just notice the giant puffy diaper.

But what really did deliver was the softness. Ohh, the softness. I picked up this diaper and wanted to cuddle with it. (Hush your mouth.) I swear. It's that soft. I had to rub it again 10 minutes later just because it gave me softness glee. (Stop looking at me like that.)

There's a touch of aloe in it and it's made to allow air to reach baby's skin to stay drier. The idea is that this is a very breathable, gentle, hypoallergenic diaper. Which sounds like a good idea to me.

Excuse my bumbling background erasing skills

2008-08-22T00:10:00.002-04:00

but this is one of my favorite pics ever.

Also, the other day, I bought Sarina a toy guitar at a garage sale, and there were no batteries in it. Sarina spotted the guitar and tried pressing its buttons.

"It broke," she told me.

"It just needs batteries," I said.

She walked into the living room, pulled out the television remotes, and removed the batteries from them.

"Got the batteries!" she announced.

17 months old.

I love this kid.

P.S. I'm getting divorced. It's not something I want to talk/post about, but it's something that's awkward having people not know about for so long. So there it is.

Before I Was a Mother

2008-08-10T23:59:00.002-04:00

Before I was a mother, I thought women who said things like "My kids are my whole world" must have pretty sad lives.

I thought it must be a drag to have to think of someone else's needs before your own all the time.

I thought my career defined me.

I didn't understand all the fuss about breastfeeding and why women would ever want to continue it for more than a year.

I cared about suffering children, but I didn't physically ache every time I heard about a child who was abused, starving, suffering from a disease, or abandoned.

I didn't know that spending a Friday night making stacks of paper cups and watching a toddler knock them down could be a really great night.

I didn't know baby kisses could be the most memorable kisses of my life.

I hated pink.

Shopping really wasn't my thing. I had no idea it could be so much fun to shop for things for my child.

I didn't understand that all the gross things kids do aren't gross when they're your kids.

I didn't know that I could go days without sleep and not even be mad at the person who made me go days without sleep.

I didn't know how what an honor it would be to have someone give you complete trust, to feel that little body "let go" and fall asleep in your arms.

I didn't realize how deeply I could love.

There Goes My Baby

2008-08-04T00:23:00.004-04:00

On August 3, 2008, at approximately 9:30 p.m., my baby ceased being a baby.

It all started last week, really, when she began talking in complete sentences. I asked, "Sarina, do you want me to open the door?" and she responded, "Mommy, open the door."

Several 4-word phrases and sentences followed. She dropped a quarter in her grandparents' pool and said, "Money in the pool!"

What got me the most, aside from the fact that she was 16 months old, was that she was speaking in gramatically correct terms. I was unstoppably happy, glowing with the pride of a parent who's just found out her daughter will be the valedictorian of her class at Harvard AND has paid off her schooling with the money she's made as a cover model for tasteful magazines. Then the unstoppable happiness stopped.

It happened when I was preparing for Sarina's bath. She was playing in her room, and I went to her closet to check for diapers. She came up behind me and tapped me.

"Yes, Sarina?"

"Mommy," she said, looking up at me, "What are you doing?"

I stammered, "I'm looking to see if we have any overnight diapers left," and my heart momentarily stopped mid-beat. I was explaining myself to Sarina. My baby was gone. In her place was this brilliant child, capable of expressing original thoughts and questions. She wasn't parroting me. She was just coming over and asking me what was on her mind.

It's all fun and games until someone expresses original thoughts.

Suddenly, it was serious. No more squealing to my dear relatives about the latest bit of Sarina brilliance. No, this was a moment of mourning. I felt like she skipped so many stages at once-- leaping straight from one word at a time to complete sentences within a week, bypassing the cute mixed-up sentence structures toddlers are supposed to have. She's even using pronouns and contractions properly. Where's the fun in that?

She also decided to use her potty today for the first time, just to rub it in. And she said, "My big girl potty!"

This girl astounds me, not just because she's so bright, but because she's the sweetest, most loving, non-complaining, tough little giggler I could have imagined. I could work the rest of my life at being the best parent I can be (and I sure plan to), and never feel like I'm worthy of her. Her awesomeness is just too awesome.

Thanks for coming along for the ride. I'm glad I have people who I can share this stuff with.

P.S. Hey, guess what? Did you know it's possible to really and truly get sick of reading a story you wrote to your own child? ("Yes, Sarina. Hattie, Hattie, Hattie. She gets a haircut. Blah blah blah!")

A new kind of joy

2008-07-04T23:23:00.004-04:00

I experienced a new joyful "first" today, and it caught me off-guard. I was reading Sarina a book, and she decided-- as she is wont to do-- that she wanted me to read her a different book. So she popped off my lap and went to her bookshelf, and brought me the book she wanted me to read.

And it was a book I wrote.

*Dies of happiness.*

Scott, Kimmi, and Sarina

2008-06-21T00:38:00.006-04:00

A few months ago, my former editor at Nomad (hi, Lauri!) recommended me for a job writing a book proposal for Scott Rigsby, the first double-amputee to complete an Ironman. He was featured on NBC's 2007 Ironman special-- a great show, which you should definitely watch if it reruns again. I'm no sports person, but this was a human interest piece to the extreme. Great stories.

So that's what I've been doing these past few months: working with Scott to get this book proposal ready. Slowly. (Yeah, this balancing-motherhood-with-writing stuff is still a huge challenge to me.) How lucky am I to have found a person who doesn't mind being interviewed at midnight?

The proposal is just about done, and I can't wait to see where this book lands. A few publishers are already interested, just based on the pitch, but I suspect a lot more will be excited about it once they read this proposal. It's the longest one I've ever written... closing in on 60 pages. I thought it was important to write three full sample chapters on this one, which I've never done before. I wanted to give a sense of the highs and lows of the story, which is hard to do in just short snippets.

Anyway. The reason I'm mentioning him now is that he's a top-10 finalist in the Energizer "Keep Going" Hall of Fame, which will be decided by online votes. It would be a great accomplishment for him to win it, so I'm asking you to click on over and vote for him if his story inspires you. You don't need to register, and you can vote once a day. Right here.

You can also learn more about Scott at www.scottrigsby.com. He's a very cool guy.

Also want to give a shout-out to my friend Kimmi, who just SOLD HER AWESOME MEMOIR, currently titled The Unbreakable Child. 'Bout time.

Oh.

And some more Sarina pics. ;)

She's more and more affectionate these days. She's very into the "leg hug," and squeezing really hard around the neck.

New-ish feats: she signs to me to let me know when her diaper is dirty, she's starting to dance, she's attempting to feed and offer drinks to her stuffed animals, she blows kisses to strangers, she removes her high chair tray and says, "Done!" as it falls to the ground (naughty, naughty), she knows how to use keys, she sticks things into the VCR (already?! Sheesh. This thing is going to be filled with crayons within days, I know it), and she writes with a pen.

Also, she's reading. I know, now I just sound like a show-off, but I kid you not. Without my coaxing, she started pointing to words and reading or signing them. I've heard her do "all gone," "milk," "done," and a few others. She also recognizes some letters-- the ones that show on her alphabet mat that I mentioned several posts ago. There are toys on top of the mat, so only certain letters are showing on the floor. When I ask her to find the letter R, or Y, or O, she goes right over and points to it.

And that's all the news that's fit to print today.

No, Seriously, You Look Like Poop

2008-05-31T02:09:00.004-04:00

Little in life is more disheartening than this conversation I had yesterday with an acquaintance I see every few weeks:

Her: You don't look good.

Me: That's because I'm not wearing makeup.

Her: No, really. Your eyes are very puffy.

Me: No, that's how I always look. You just normally see me with makeup.

Her: You look like you've been crying.

Me: I haven't. I promise.

Her: You really don't look good.

*Sigh.* Thanks, lady. Could you perhaps point me to the nearest bridge that I could hurl myself off?

My eyes aren't aging well. The rest of me is fine, but I've always, always had a problem with big bags under my eyes, and they're only getting worse with time. I've tried dozens of products, but no success so far. I'm actually contemplating plastic surgery eventually, because it's just hard to feel good about yourself when people actually insist on a regular basis that you must not be sleeping. (I am.)

Of course, I've tried the cucumber slices, tea bags, frozen spoons, and yes, Preparation-H, but no luck.

I hereby offer a challenge to any company that makes products for undereye circles or puffiness under the eyes: if you want to send me your product for review, and it works, I'll blog the heck out of it. I'll blog it till the cows come home. Till the river meets the sea, till lovers cease to dream.

Meanwhile, more sweet Sarina pics...