Midnight Cowgirls

Watch Your Step

2009-10-30T12:51:00.004-04:00

In a big city like New York, you've really got to watch where you’re going. Sure, you might get carried away having an animated conversation with your husband on your way to the train for a hotly-anticipated date, but if you don’t pay attention, you might just slip in a lake of vomit on the train platform, and it might splash up onto your legs as your husband grabs your elbow and valiantly keeps you from falling down into the puke. Then you’re going to have to look for a patch of grass or some rainwater so you can clean off your shoe before you go into the restaurant. And forget about eating. You’d better just have a cocktail, because every time you think about those fleshy-looking chunks swimming around beneath your feet, you’re going to feel like barfing too.

Oh, and when you’re looking for that patch of rainwater to clean off your shoe, don’t forget that time you took your daughter to the playground after school and the other kids were splashing around in a big puddle, and another parent told you it was pee. Some kid had dropped his drawers and whipped it out right there in the middle of the jungle gym. If you wash vomit off your shoe with urine, is that an improvement? Maybe – you do always hear that urine is sterile. So okay, go ahead. Look for a puddle of rainwater, or possibly pee, to rinse your foot in.

Do you ever wonder what you’d do if you stumbled on a crime scene? A dead body, a blood-spattered room, a murder in progress? Would you faint? Become hysterical? Maybe you’d be very rational and composed and call the police and keep it all together until you got home. Me, I’m a screamer - here's how I know.

One rainy Sunday we stopped at the Diana Ross playground in Central Park – a playground we’d never visited before – and the girls played happily while I went through my bag and cleaned out the detritus of an afternoon with children. My hands were full of used tissues and granola bar wrappers as I walked around the unfamiliar playground, casting around for a trash can. I was looking, but I was looking for a trash can, not looking right in front of me. I was striding around purposefully when I stepped on something that rolled beneath my foot and felt disgustingly squishy; soft but sinewy and inexpressibly icky. I whipped around to see what it was, and it took me a second to comprehend what I saw: something hideous and partially flattened, with nasty little scrabbly claws, trying desperately to crawl away – I didn't know if it was a rat or a squirrel or a mutant creature from the sewer. It looked like the Eraserhead baby, with claws. True to the cliché, time stood still, but probably less than a second passed. I looked at the gruesome creature, drew a deep breath, and screamed for all I was worth. I screamed as if someone was being murdered. Heads turned toward me as I pointed and shrieked.

Of course, it was a squirrel. A sick squirrel, surely. A regular squirrel doesn't just hang out and wait to be stepped on, does it? I suppose I broke its back. I’m sure it suffered, and I ought to feel sorry, but really I just feel affronted – indignant that that horrid little rodent had the nerve to get in my way. Thank God it had been raining that day – what if I’d been wearing something besides rain boots? What if I’d been wearing flip-flops?

That night I dreamed that there were rats in my shoe. I couldn't get them out. They kept multiplying; fur and claws and fleshy, swishy tails against my skin, crawling, trapped between my shoe and my foot. When I woke up, I could still feel them.

Happy Halloween!

Forgotten Freedy

2009-10-21T13:29:00.005-04:00

Here's an embarrassing thing: I'm kind of stupid about music. I listen to the same stuff over and over and rarely make an effort to seek out new music. I never do those music memes that go around on Facebook - favorite songs, what comes up on your shuffle, 50 shows you've seen. It just doesn't interest me.

I'm imaging people shaking their heads and rolling their eyes, writing me off the way I write off people who tell me they don't read much. I actually bailed on a fledgling friendship once after my new friend told me she didn't read novels because she didn't have time and frankly wasn't that interested in fiction. "Hmmm, interesting," I replied, closely followed by "Um, gotta go - have a nice life!" Ha ha. Except, not really kidding. I just can't relate to someone who doesn't read - to me it's right up with with water, sleep, food and sex as one of life's necessities. In fact, I can think of tons of times when I've chosen reading over any of those things. Now that I think about it, I'm surprised Tom didn't dump me after realizing what a music illiterate I am. He's less judgmental than I am, though - probably the key to our relationship.

Sometimes I do stumble on a new (to me) artist and get obsessed, listening to them to the exclusion of everything else, until the children start to moan. I did that with The Innocence Mission, The Weepies, and Sufjan Stevens last winter during the bleak, cold weeks after my dad died. I listened to more music than usual because it drowned out my thoughts. I can't really think and listen to music at the same time - I know other people can, but I can't. Maybe that's part of my problem. I like to think, usually, and I need quiet to think.

Today I was clicking around in my blogroll and found a post (on OTBKB - thanks, Louise!) about Freedy Johnston, who's playing a show in the East Village this week. Back in college, I wore out my cassette of This Perfect World, I loved it so much. When Freedy played the Ogden Theatre, I forced my friend Jim to come with me even though he'd never heard of Freedy. But then - what happened? Somehow, I forgot all about Freedy Johnston. Complete memory dump. What's the matter with me?

I've been happily listening to him again all afternoon and rediscovering songs that have been seared in my memory, underneath layers of dust, all these years. This Perfect World, indeed. Listen here.

Banner Happiness

2008-12-16T01:47:00.004-05:00

Lookit, lookit, lookit! Tom finished my banner, um, a long time ago I guess, only he forgot to tell me, and when I asked him about it tonight, he was all, "yeah, it's done, I put it on your desktop forever ago" and I was all, "you never told me that!" and he was all, "yes I did" and I was all, "nuh-uh!" but anyway - LOOK! I am so happy with it!

He totally worked with me to figure out what I wanted, and we went through a few versions, and we didn't even fight once, I swear. He's amazing. And guess what? He will do one for you too - but you will have to pay him in real money, instead of the currency *I* use. HA. But seriously, if you want to talk to him about doing a project for you, look to your right and find his linkage.

Perhaps now that I have this rockin' new banner, I should actually post to this blog a little more often. Would you like that, Internets? Have you all been good little boys and girls? I guess we'll have to wait and see!

Love Makes the World Go Round

2008-11-18T13:39:00.006-05:00

Hey there; so it's been a while. It feels like the world has shifted a little bit since my last post, doesn't it? Tom and I were out on election night and got to be in a crowd of people at the magical moment when the race was called. We were both overwhelmed with emotion; I truly have never experienced anything like it. Hope was in the air. People were crazy with joy all along Fifth Avenue in Park Slope. Us too!

Today my dear friend Buffy passed along a blog post by her good friend Tamie.

"Times are hard for so many people right now. It's the economy. It's loneliness. It's the way that we don't get received in the ways we ache to be received. It's the way we're separated from the people we love. It's death. It's fire. It's so many things.

It's time to clean the spare room and dust off the tea set. It's time to overcome our fear of the phone. It's time to write the letters we've been waiting for months to write. It's time to get serious about encouraging each other.

Here is my challenge, to each of us: let us work hard on loving each other right now, on encouraging each other in extra and special ways. Bake cookies for someone. Give someone a hug. Do something small but extraordinary, even if it feels like it might put you out there just a little bit more than usual. Trust me, my friends, the people you know need this encouragement more than you think they do."

- From the owls and the angels - full post here - you should read it. Beautiful writing.

At our house lately, things have been rough in lots of ways (loved ones ill and hurting, financial worries, too much to do and too little time - the usual suspects), and yet somehow, life has never felt sweeter.

For the past few months, I've made an effort to focus on all the wonderful parts of my life and to be at peace with just exactly how things are - to know, and really believe, that everything I have is everything I need. I think I've loved my husband more than ever before - I'm savoring every small thing he does that makes me happy. I'm noticing when he looks good. I'm giving him an extra-long kiss just because. I'm taking time to cozy up to him in bed at night, to feel his heart beat and listen to him breathe, instead of just collapsing on my side of the bed and passing out. It feels amazing. My heart feels bigger, our home feels more peaceful, and Tom and I are loving each other more every day. We'll have been together for ten years this winter, and it's amazing to realize that our life together can just keep getting better. And the kids - I don't even have time right now to go into it. Their chubby curves, their rosy softness, their ineffably sweet little-kid smell, the funny and wise things they say, the fierce love that grabs me hard and knocks me down on a daily basis. I am so lucky. So lucky.

May you find the joy in your life and ride the current of change and hope that is in the air. Life is sweet, my friends.

Election Year Dinner Conversation

2008-10-13T13:42:00.008-04:00

A fly on our wall a few nights ago would have witnessed the following scene:

Tom, Elizabeth, Molly, and Violet are sitting at the table together, enjoying a leisurely dinner.

MOLLY. Mom, what's Obama, again?

ELIZABETH. He's a presidential candidate.

MOLLY. No, what is he?

TOM. He's one of the people running for president in the election this November.

MOLLY. No, no - Obama, what's Obama?

ELIZABETH. (Puzzled.) Well, Obama is his last name. Barack Obama is his full name. He's going to be our first African-American president, after George Bush's term is up in January. (Tom raises his eyebrows at Elizabeth; she smiles.)

MOLLY. (Increasingly frustrated.) NO. I mean, what IS he? What do you call him? Remember Mom, you were telling me about it, about the people who believe in sharing? The people who care about other people? What do you call them again?

ELIZABETH. (Chagrined.) Um, do you mean . . . Democrats?

MOLLY. Yes! Democrats! He's a Democrat! Right, Mom? (Tom chokes on his water and snorts with laughter.)

ELIZABETH. Yeah, he's a Democrat. (Turns to Tom.) We, uh, had a little talk about politics the other day.

MOLLY. I can't wait until George Bush isn't president anymore! He made us be in a war! He's bad! I HATE him! We hate him, right Violet? (Laughs hysterically.)

VIOLET. Yeah, we hate George Bush! Ha ha ha ha ha!

What can I say? Emotions are running high these days. Everyone's in their corners and the gloves are off. Less than a month to go! Bring. It. On.

Finally!

2008-10-03T14:38:00.006-04:00

Look what arrived on our doorstep yesterday!

Isn't it MARVELOUS? I am beside myself with excitement! The book is beautifully printed, and Tom's illustrations look amazing. After seeing them on his drawing table for so long (years!) it's awesome to see the finished book.

"Thrill follows thrill as we follow Rikki Ducornet's genius branching out across our world, exploring what we are, what we might have been, and what we might be and be doing: for instance inspecting fifty concrete ears exactly thirty feet high, being spanked in Vienna by the Mistress of Napkin Folding, indulging in the dream life of bivalves, or rejecting the redemptress Ziti Motlog and her pesky seeds as well as 'fables of saviors born in stables and served up to heaven like shashlik on a stick.' The cortege of surprises is glossed throughout by T. Motley's insidious, witty drawings, which terminally evolve into three comic-book collaborations that provide this succulent repast with its perfect dessert." -- Harry Mathews

Congratulations, Rikki and Tom! Now, everyone - go and get yourself a copy! Or leave me a comment if you want a signed-by-the-illustrator copy, and I'll see what I can do for you.

I am SO PROUD!

(Edited to add: In my enthusiasm, I forgot that the copies we got yesterday are advance copies, and the book isn't quite yet available to everyone else. You can pre-order though!)

The Details of My Inadequacy

2008-09-29T11:18:00.012-04:00

Today is the day my daughter starts classes at the School of American Ballet, which means we'll commute to the Upper West Side twice a week after school. It's at least a forty-minute subway ride each way, so we'll log roughly an hour and a half of train time on class days. I'm planning to bring a clipboard so she can do her homework on the train, and I guess I’d better bring crayons too, because her homework often involves coloring. I’ve already decided that if she gets any more of those mindless cut-and-paste worksheets on ballet days, I’ll let her skip them. I hate them because they take Molly a long time to do – she’s very painstaking with her scissoring - and they’re really not teaching her anything, anyway. Inadequacy number one: I let my daughter skip homework which I deem annoying and worthless.

We really have been trying to get the girls in bed earlier though, for all our sakes. Mom and Dad need quiet work time in the evenings, and little girls need plenty of sleep. A copy of The 7 O’Clock Bedtime, by Inda Schaenen, mocks us from the coffee table, where it's taken up permanent residence. We haven’t mastered it yet, but we’re trying. On ballet days, M and I won’t even get home until seven, but if we eat dinner on the subway, I can (probably) have her tucked into bed by 7:30. In search of packable, portable, healthy dinner ideas, I turned to Google (of course) and found something equal parts fascinating and horrifying (again, of course, right?).

Several Flickr photostreams showcase beautifully packed lunches, dinners, and snacks, handcrafted by supermoms for their precious and well-nourished offspring. See some here, if you can handle it. If you can’t, I’ll tell you: they’re made in Bento-box style containers and feature things like hard-boiled eggs molded and dyed to look like barnyard animals, rice balls decorated to look like cartoon characters, and exotic items such as quail eggs, kimchi fried rice, and – this is the best one – “sauté of enoki mushrooms, red bell peppers, bacon and green onions.”

Holy shit! Here I thought I was doing pretty well to slap together a PB&J and some apple slices, with bonus points for remembering to throw in a cloth napkin and a Hershey’s miniature. Apparently, I’ve reached a new, previously undreamed-of level of inadequacy! Is this really what all the other mothers are doing now? I hate to stoke the mommy-wars bonfire, but I can’t help wondering why you would go to the trouble of documenting your masterpiece lunches on the Internet if you weren’t trying to gloat, just a tiny bit. If I weren’t so neurotic, I suppose I’d be inspired by these women and their lovable lunches, and I am sort of inspired, but who are we kidding? I am neurotic and insecure, and I do feel like my best efforts aren’t enough when compared to such marvelousness.

I console myself by supposing that these women probably don’t give their husbands very many blow-jobs, an area in which I believe I excel. (If there’s a Flickr photostream proving me wrong about that, too, I don’t want to know about it.) I wonder if my parents read my blog. See, another inadequacy: I publicly reveal intimate things about myself (and my poor husband), which my readers probably don’t need to know. But hey, it’ll be fun to see if my blog stats spike this week. To date, the entry with the most hits is still the one with MILF-eat-MILF in the title. Give the people what they want, right? I’m doing my best – it’s just never going to involve cartoon onigiri and Bento boxes.

My Patience is Not Sustainable

2008-09-25T13:52:00.011-04:00

A small request: can we retire the word sustainability?

This morning I listened to a woman give a speech which, I swear, was constructed solely around the idea that she would use the words "sustainability" and "intergenerational" as many times as possible. At one point she actually said that New York City schoolchildren are "not sustainable." Huh? In what sense? And once she said "intergenerational" as a sentence all by itself. She just threw it out to the crowd and let it hover for a moment, sink or swim. It sank.

But really, sustainability. I know, I know – this is its big moment in the sun, with environmentalism being so damn trendy, but people are going nuts now and just using it as filler when they want to sound fancy-pants and don't quite have a handle on what they mean. So do me a favor -- next time you're on the verge of using the word sustainability, stop and figure out what you're really trying to say, and then say that instead. You can live without the s-word, I promise.

Much appreciated!

Tempus Fugit

2008-08-22T01:33:00.005-04:00

I'm lame, lame, lame. Can't be bothered to update my own blog, or even leave comments for my friends on their blogs. I'll put something up for our big one-year New York-iversary next week though, I promise. One year!

Meanwhile, look at my fabulous husband! He's tearing up the blogosphere! And he's going to have another book out soon - The One Marvelous Thing. All right, all right, it's Rikki's book, I know. But see here:

"This landmark collection of new stories is generously illustrated by T. Motley, whose gritty, fantastical cartooning explores the same post-magical realism that has been the subject of Ducornet’s distinguished career."

Gritty and fantastical. You know you can't wait to see it, right? It's pretty great, if I do say so myself. And he worked his booty off doing it, too. The very same booty I'm about to go snuggle up to right now, 'cause it's way past my bedtime. Can you believe I get to share a bed with such greatness? Yeah, me neither.

I really shouldn't blog past midnight. I'm imagining the look on his face when he reads this tomorrow. He just loves it when I gush inappropriately about him.

Later, y'all.

Park Slope Restaurant Review

2008-07-07T16:00:00.008-04:00

Last weekend we had dinner at Barrio on Seventh Avenue and Third Street. The food was yummy, the decor was pretty, it was kid-friendly, Tom had a watermelon drink that smelled like a Jolly Rancher, Molly ate two orders of green peas. Whatever. I'm not a food critic.

I just wanted to tell you that our waiter looked exactly like Lloyd Dobler. Ladies, you know who I'm talking about. Lloyd Dobler. He was very sweet, too. Attentive and adorable - what more could you want?

So there you go. Barrio. Five stars. Don't say I never did anything for you.

New York Book Festival

2008-06-28T10:13:00.003-04:00

Nothing like last-minute publicity, but in case you're in the city today, come on by and see us. The whole family will be hanging out with Tom while he signs Twilight of the Bums. The details:

Starcherone Books would like to invite all of its New York friends to come visit our book table in the New York Book Festival this Saturday in Central Park.

The Festival will be held in front of the Naumburg Bandshell in Central Park from 10 a.m. to 6 p.m. on Saturday, June 28. The bandshell is located just east of the Bethesda Fountain.

As well as Starcherone editors Ed Taylor and myself, we'll have author visits and signings during the day:

12-1 pm - Joshua Cohen, author of A Heaven of Others, Senior Book Critic for The Forward, recently featured as well in the current Harper's Magazine.

2-3 pm - cartoonist Tom Motley, illustrator of the Raymond Federman/George Chambers collaborative fiction, The Twilight of the Bums, and cartoonist for The Brooklyn Rail.

The 2008 New York Book Festival is an annual program celebrating books that deserve greater recognition from the world’s publishing capital.
Last year, over 20,000 attendees enjoyed the beauty and serenity of Manhattan’s Central Park as they browsed books, listened to music and author readings and enjoyed our food vendors. This year, the June 28, 2008 edition of the day festival will offer expanded stages and new opportunities for authors, publishers, musicians and vendors.

See you there!

Ted Pelton

M.Y.O.B.

2008-06-21T22:34:00.008-04:00

I have a love-hate relationship with blogs.

On the one hand, I spend a lot of time reading blogs. Way too much time. I've tried to cut back, but it's hard to break the habit. Reading blogs is kind of like peeking into people's medicine cabinets, isn't it? And I always want to peek in medicine cabinets. I used to always do it, too, but at some point I forced myself to stop - I felt too guilty. Luckily, after I stopped snooping in medicine cabinets, the blog was invented, and I had a new outlet for my voyeuristic tendencies.

Of course, some blogs are like those medicine cabinets that only contain a bottle of Advil, a razor, and a toothbrush. "Come on! Where are the goods?" I would always think. Even a box of Q-Tips could pique my interest a little bit - what exactly do people use them for, anyway? Everyone knows it's dangerous to clean your ears with them, right? So what are they in the bathroom for? Are they being used in some other orifice? Could there possibly be something untoward going on with those Q-Tips? Something, you know - icky? Or are they just there for fixing nail-polish smudges and cleaning out keyboards (my personal uses for them)? Maybe this is just my issue, though. Maybe I'm the only one who finds Q-Tips just a tiny bit suspect.

Anyhow, sometimes you open the cabinet and it's all right there - the condoms, the Prozac, the hemorrhoid cream, the messy lipstick tubes jammed every which way, the entire shelf of expired prescription painkillers. Some blogs are like that, too. Not too many, but some. Most blogs are like the medicine cabinet that appears perfectly ordinary - neat and orderly, with toothpaste and toothbrush and tampons and floss and just a few lipsticks neatly lined up - but then you spy a tiny prescription bottle in the corner, and it's anti-psychotic medication. Score! So maybe that's why I read blogs - I like to poke around and see what sort of intrigue is on display.

The problem, lately, is this: I'm having a blog-induced identity crisis. I read a blog by a crafty mama who lives on the coast of Maine with her three gorgeous children and her strapping, furniture-building, guitar-playing husband, and I think, "Wow. Look at her. She sews and knits and bakes and homeschools her kids and she just had her first book published, with another one on the way. She's got another baby on the way too, and she still looks beautiful, and her house looks like a Real Simple layout, and she updates her blog almost every day and gets hundreds of comments on every post, and meanwhile she's packing her (handmade) beach bag with cloth napkins (that she embroidered herself) because she and her adorable family are going to have a picnic on the beach with freshly baked bread and pie made with rhubarb she grew herself, and WOW I AM SUCH A LOSER! I want to write a book and live on the beach and have babies and be perfect like her!

This is actually followed by me cooking up the idea that Tom could land a plum faculty position at the Savannah College of Art and Design (they have a comics program, so this is, in my warped mind, actually within the realm of possibility), and we could live on one of those islands just outside Savannah, where I would write novels and have babies and grow things and make things and never lose my temper with my children again, because I am just so fucking happy and fulfilled. Never mind that we've just gotten settled in Brooklyn, and the other day I said I loved it here so much that I wanted to live in this very same apartment for the rest of my life and be buried at Greenwood Cemetery, which we can see from our window. Never mind that I don't actually like nature and gardening. Never mind that my husband is about to turn fifty and we really don't need to have any more babies. And never mind that I won't let my girls go more than knee-deep in the waves at Coney Island because I'm petrified that the ocean will sweep them away.

So I talk myself down from that fantasy and then stumble on another "newcomer to NYC" blog - hey, just like me! Except this person is fresh out of college and doesn't have children who depend on her to provide food, shelter, and vast amounts of love and attention. That's probably the way to go, huh? Move to New York when you're young and don't have so much to lose - don't move here when you're 32 and you have little kids and you don't even really know what job you want to do! But wait, I do know - I want to be a writer! Yeah sure - just like everyone else in New York. Great plan. Is anyone out there not writing a novel? Shit.

And then I find another transplant-to-NYC blog; this one written by someone who moved here because she was offered an amazing, high-profile job, which really must pay quite a lot, but still she can't find a decent apartment and still she's struggling with money. Oh my God - how did we end up in this great apartment, when we moved here without jobs at all? It must have been a mistake! The jig is surely going to be up soon! What in God's name were we thinking? Who do we think we are? Panic is setting in. Surf away!

You get the idea. Blogs, as much as I love to read them, are bad for my mental health.

Let's take stock:

I have a kind, talented husband who loves me very much, and puts up with all my crap. Sometimes the sound of him chewing his food makes me want to scream, but that isn't his fault. I love him. We're best friends. Our marriage is good. We have two funny, smart, healthy children who make me so happy that at least once a day, I feel like my heart is going to burst right out of my chest. Sometimes they behave so horribly that I have to fight the urge to run away from home, but I think that's to be expected. They give me more love than I've ever had in my life. I'm showered with kisses and hugs every single day. I know how lucky I am.

And we're here. We made it to New York, just like we dreamed. We have a great apartment. We've made wonderful friends. Everything is falling into place - not overnight, but bit-by-bit. We've jumped a bunch of hurdles already - we're damn well going to jump them all. I'm living my life, not someone else's. And that is enough. It's more than enough - it's fabulous.

Missing Link

2008-05-30T15:02:00.004-04:00

I just took a link down, over there on my little link list, and at the risk of being preachy and not at all amusing, I'm gonna tell you why. I used to read Celebrity Baby Blog all the time. It was my time-sucker of choice, my crack, my porn, and I spent an unhealthy amount of time reading about crazy names being bestowed on celebrity offspring, whether Gwyneth and other A-listers were breastfeeding or not, whether they'd gained 60 pounds during pregnancy, like I did, if they had a nanny, or several, whether they were driving with their kids on their laps or having nervous breakdowns - you know, all the good gossip. I knew it was stupid and wrong, but I couldn't help myself.

I started feeling bad about it back when Johnny Depp talked about how he doesn't want his kids to be photographed, but the paparazzi still hounds them and scares his kids. I felt worse when Ryan Phillipe said that his daughter got teased at school because of a paparazzi photo of her holding a blanket. One afternoon in January, I was on my way to catch the F train home, and I came upon a horde of paparazzi camped in the street outside Heath Ledger and Michelle Williams' place. I knew he'd just died, I knew that was their house, but I hadn't thought anyone would be there - I thought Michelle Williams was still in Sweden or something. No - she was inside with her daughter, and this pack of wolves was outside. I felt sick to my stomach. Still, I didn't banish my CBB habit. But today they published a picture of Sarah Jessica Parker's son, and he's just trying to be a kid and have fun, and he's got a camera in his face, and he looks scared. It put me over the edge. Enough. I'm done. Yuck.

So CBB is no longer linked here, and I've added two lovely mamas whose blogs I enjoy - Carole and Jenn. Go read those instead.

Ah, I feel better now.

Coney Island Daze

2008-05-27T21:25:00.010-04:00

Our little family spent Memorial Day at Coney Island, along with roughly a million other people. The weather report forecast a high of 80 degrees, so I didn't think we needed to bring jackets, but the stiff sea breeze left us shivering and clutching our beach towels around our shoulders.

We huddled on the boardwalk and ate greasy pizza, corn on the cob, and French fries, while the wind whipped trash around us and blew our hair into our faces. The people-watching couldn't be beat though, with colorful characters everywhere, and the ocean was sparkling, and I was having a Happy New York Moment even though I was covered in goosebumps and sitting in a pile of trash by the end of lunch. We watched Shoot the Freak, the kids waded in the ocean and squealed with joy, and Tom and the girls rode the Wonder Wheel. Later in the day, Tom held Violet while she napped and I took Molly on the kiddie rides. She braved the Freefall, a ride where you are strapped in and dropped from high up. The first couple of drops, I could tell she was deciding whether or not to cry, but then her terror turned to laughter, and when she came off the ride she was giddy with pride and exhilaration.

The story of the illustration above: when I took Molly to the bathroom, Violet wanted to tag along even though she didn't have to go, but trust me, you don't want to tag along to the bathrooms at Coney Island unless you really have to go. Tom talked her into drawing pictures while we were gone, and when we returned, this is what they'd done. Tom asked Violet what he should draw, and she said, "A mommy, a Molly, a Violet, and a daddy." She pointed and showed him exactly where to draw them, too, so it was really her picture. When I saw it, I wondered where all the people were, as it was elbow-to-elbow crowded on the boardwalk, and why the wind wasn't whipping our hair and we didn't look cold. In response, Tom titled it "A Fantasy of Coney Island." Then I stuffed it into our beach bag next to the water bottle and smeared the ink a little bit. I think it's just the right finishing touch, though.

Lucky Number Seven

2008-05-19T16:09:00.016-04:00

Seven years ago . . .

the bride was touching up her makeup,

the groom was being escorted to the ceremony by his security detail,

the cakes were ready (thanks to the mother of the bride, impromptu pastry chef extraordinaire),

the getaway car was waiting,

and we embarked on this journey together for better or for worse.

Seven years have brought two beautiful daughters, a cross-country move, and more joy and sorrow than either of us bargained for.

I'm looking forward to finding out what's in store for the next seven. Happy anniversary, sweetie. You're the only one for me.

The Beauty of the Blogfest

2008-05-09T10:55:00.008-04:00

So I went to the Blogfest last night, along with over 200 other Brooklyn bloggers, some of whom (I hope) might be here to see me. If this is your first visit, hello! Thanks for stopping by. You might want to read this post, explaining the origin of Midnight Cowgirls, and for further reading, I give you 50 things about me.

At the Blogfest, I realized that I am starting to really make friends here, and that made me very happy. Rob greeted me at the door, putting me at ease immediately, and soon I was chatting away with Joyce, Cathryn, Anne and Katia. I felt all warm and fuzzy when Amy showed up, and of course Eleanor and Mike and Chris and Adrian and Louise were all there too. I was glad to see all of them, plus several other faces I'd seen before, and I met a bunch of new people, too. These are small, delicate buds of friendships, but everything starts somewhere, doesn't it?

I asked to have a job, so something would occupy me and force me not to be a wallflower, and I ended up working the sign-in table with Miss Heather, of New York Shitty. Her blog is totally hilarious, and you must read it if you haven't. Dead rats, lots of shit, profanity - right up my alley! Mr. Heather was with her, and he turned out to be a gentle midwestern soul like me. They make a sweet and interesting pair - a Kansas boy who grew up on a dairy farm and fell in love with a gorgeous, hardboiled city girl. She reminds me of a 1940s film noir actress - so very pretty, with a great voice. And did I mention she's hilarious? I was glad to meet them both - and everyone else, too. I feel incredibly grateful to be meeting such wonderful people.

One of the highlights of the evening was a short film put together by Morgan, The Brooklyn Optimist. Here it is:

For those of you back home in Colorado who wonder what our life is like here, this film shows it very well. These are the sights I see around me here all the time, but am not able to capture myself. Watching it, you'll get a sense of this Brooklyn life we've come to love. I don't think we'll ever want to leave.

At the end of the evening, as I was waiting to have my picture taken by the lovely Hugh Crawford, an extremely drunk young man stumbled over and attempted to dance with me, twirling me around and mumbling incoherently. Remember that scene in Say Anything, at the end of the graduation party, when they find the drunk guy in the bathroom? He was so exactly like that guy, I can't even tell you. I was cracking up. After I shook him off, he proceeded to perform a little dance for us, losing a shoe in the process. I was grateful for that guy, too. He was the cherry on my Blogfest sundae. Thanks for the memories, drunk dude!

Inappropriate Feelings

2008-05-07T15:08:00.006-04:00

Last weekend, Tom and I went to see Endgame at BAM. The show was just all right, I have to say, perhaps because Macbeth, which we saw there in March, was so breathtaking. It was a hard act to follow. Anyway, Alvin Epstein was wonderful, but the rest of the cast was, I think, not really feeling it. Or at least if they were, it didn't show. Beckett is tricky to do well - actually he's simple, but sometimes simple is hard.

After the show, we popped into BAMcafe for cocktails, me teetering along in my painfully high heels, Tom still feeling a happy glow from the performance, which he loved, and with which he found no fault. Toward the end of my first gin and tonic, I noticed an extremely good-looking bartender doing his side work behind the bar. It was nearly closing time, and he was washing glasses and bagging up trash, no doubt eager to go home to his girlfriend, or perhaps just to prowl the night. Maybe I downed my drink just a bit too quickly, because I found I couldn't stop staring at this boy - for he was just a boy - and I started to go weak with desire. His shoulders, his hips, his smooth black hair and sultry eyes - oh, my. I wanted to consume him. Truly, I think if he'd come within reach of me, I might have devoured him. You always hear that women hit their sexual peak in their thirties, but I didn't imagine it would feel like this. Kind of fun though, really. I always did enjoy being naughty.

Then yesterday on the subway, I felt again a sort of yearning - a longing for some sort of connection with someone, or with everyone. I didn't want to rip anyone's clothes off and do dirty things to them, but I kind of wanted to ask people if they'd give me a hug. What would they have done, I wonder? How many people would, if approached by an attractive, sweet-smelling woman in the subway, give her a hug if she said she really needed one because she was feeling sad that day? Would you?

Anyway, I didn't ask. I sat down on the train and took out my knitting, and as the train jerked forward, my eyes filled with tears. It was the anniversary of the loss of a beloved friend, the day before had been full of small irritations, I was very tired, and altogether I felt like an open wound. As the train jostled me, my eyes filled and dried, filled and dried. I took deep breaths and focused on my knitting. Knit two together six times, yarn over, knit two, now purl a row, now knit again.

At the next stop, a distinguished-looking man sat next to me, and as we waited for the train to start again, I felt him watching me. He asked, in a soft French accent, if the train would be going to 50th street. I said yes, eventually it would. Still the train didn't move, although the doors had closed. Knit two together, yarn over, purl. A plainclothes police officer with a badge around his neck walked past our car, peering inside. My French seatmate wondered why announcements were being broadcast in the station but no announcement was made to us, and I joked that they didn't want the passengers to panic; it would be mass hysteria if we knew what was going on. We sat in companionable silence after that, and finally the train started to move. He asked me what I was knitting, and I told him it was a blanket for my daughter's doll. I said I didn't have the patience to knit anything but doll things and dishcloths.

"No," he said, "you are patient. I can tell. You are a very patient woman."

I smiled. He told me that I reminded him of his mother, who used to knit when he was a child. She had to knit, he said - it was how she made a living. All this time, as he spoke gently to me and I smiled and responded, I didn't lift my eyes from my knitting. I was afraid that if I did, those endless, threatening tears would well up and spill over. When he got off at 50th street he wished me well, and once again said, "You are patient. Don't worry. You are very patient." I realized that what I'd really wanted to do was lay my head on his shoulder and let my tears flow. He would have told me more about his childhood, in that lilting French accent, and my grief would have washed away along with my tears. Instead, I finished my row, took a deep breath, and got off the train at Columbus Circle, ready to go on with my day. I was precariously balanced, but with every step, I grew steadier.

Excitement Brewing in Brooklyn

2008-05-02T11:02:00.016-04:00

I know you've all been waiting patiently for my return to the blogosphere while I was off celebrating National Don't Post Month (NaDoPoMo). Wait - you've never heard of NaDoPoMo? Well, in the spirit of NaNoWriMo and NaBloPoMo, which are in November because of the crappy weather, I figured April was the perfect time to take a break from the computer and spend more time in the fresh spring air. That, or I was just busy waiting hand and foot on my children, running in the park, and drinking gin whilst catching up on Battlestar Galactica, courtesy of Netflix. We'd never seen it and just started from the beginning, and hey, it's really good! I guess the rest of the world already knew that, huh?

I have such excitement to report, though. First, I tiptoed into Tom's office this morning and oh, oh, oh! Just look at the wonderful thing that is happening in there at this very moment:

Yes, that's right - after months of begging and badgering, this blog will soon have a fabulous, original T. Motley-drawn masthead. I planned to keep my mouth shut and just spring it on you in all its finished glory, but come on - when have I ever been able to keep a secret?

I know I'm prejudiced, because he's my husband and all, but he really is fabulous to work with. I had this extremely ambitious, scattered, and overreaching concept, which I drew with lots of stick figures and scribbles, and shoved at him. He teased out my main idea and jettisoned the rest, threw in a couple of his own ideas, and presented me with a sketch that was everything I wanted but could never have come up with on my own. He's good - really good. Also, when he draws me he always makes me look much cuter than I really am. I mean, I'm cute, but not that cute. He draws me the way I like to see myself in my head.

In other news, the Brooklyn Blogfest is coming right up. Blue Barn Pictures made a very short film about Brooklyn bloggers, which will premier at the Blogfest, but you can see the 30-second promo right now! It looks great, and I'll try not to cringe too hard if they used any more of my footage in the actual piece; Tom says I'm cute and funny, but all I can see is my usual spazzy self. I giggled and fidgeted my way through that interview and figured they wouldn't get any usable footage of me - I certainly didn't say anything very interesting. "I put on my makeup, I do my hair . . ." Good Lord. Could I be any cheesier?

Anyway, the Blogfest will surely be a good time, and after a couple of beers I'm sure I'll be able to mingle and meet new people and not fixate too much on my relentless dorkiness.

Tom just came and peeked over my shoulder and told me not to run myself down so much. He says people will be inclined to see whatever I tell them to see. Who is this person giving me optimistic, inspirational advice, and what has he done with my husband? Very curious, indeed. Perhaps he's right, though. All right, I take it back. I'm cute and fabulous and not at all sheepish about my giggly performance in the Blogfest video. Take that, Motley!

Ira Glass, My Ass

2008-03-24T11:22:00.006-04:00

I got the new issue of BUST the other day, having recently re-subscribed after a short boycott because I was fed up with them. Actually, I'm still kind of fed up with them, and I'm not sure why I subscribed again - maybe for Ayun Halliday's column. I have a love-hate thing going with BUST because their particular brand of feminism makes me really uncomfortable. The whole ironic feminism thing is wearing thin for me. You know, "Don't tell me I'm not a feminist, just because I wear red lipstick and bake cupcakes and knit sweaters and slide up and down a stripper pole! I am such a feminist that I can buy into any form of male-dominated societal bullshit and turn it on its head! My cupcakes and lipstick are ironic!" Yeah. Okay. Whatever. I'm a feminist in spite of the fact that I wear lipstick and knit and bake cupcakes - I'm not selling them as feminist acts. So mostly, I prefer Bitch for my feminist reading, though they piss me off sometimes too.

But anyway, my point. BUST has done another "Men We Love" issue, and predictably, Ira Glass is one of the chosen. Yeesh. I am so over hearing about Ira Glass crushes (and in fact, NPR crushes in general). It reeks of desperation to portray oneself as a quirky-cool, hipster intellectual. What's more, I'll bet you a million dollars that Ira Glass is a jerk. In the BUST interview, he admits that he enjoys being the object of a thousand indie-girl crushes. "It's incredibly dear," he says, qualifying with the fact that he's "devoted to [his] wife and would never consider acting on something like that." Mmmm-hmmm. Sure. Nerdy guys who never got any action in high school, but developed a patina of cool in middle-age, are usually total players. It's like they're exacting revenge for being snubbed in their younger years, although maybe it's not that malicious. Maybe they're just making up for lost time. In any case, let's stop pumping up Ira Glass's ego. If you insist on harboring a quirky crush to bolster your hipster-cred, I nominate Ben from Lost. You'd be helpless before his unblinking stare, as that calm, hypnotic voice instructed you to - well, he could probably talk a girl into doing anything at all. Creepy=hot.

A Wicked Thing I Like To Do

2008-03-17T19:04:00.006-04:00

I make vegan chocolate cupcakes, then frost them with fluffy, homemade buttercream frosting. Because vegan chocolate cupcakes are yummier than the non-vegan kind, but real buttercream frosting is yummier than anything else.

Mmmmmm. Happy Saint Patrick's Day!

Could Be a Long Twelve Years

2008-03-14T11:07:00.012-04:00

Yesterday was report-card day for the NYC Public School crowd - the kids had a half-day and there were parent-teacher conferences in the afternoon. We don't really care one way or the other about grades; we know our daughter is happy and smart and hard-working and that's all that matters to us. We'd just as soon have her in one of those hippie schools that don't give grades at all, if it weren't for the astronomical tuition that most of them charge. (I can't understand how there are so many filthy-rich hippies out there, but what other explanation is there?)

In spite of my professed nonchalance about grades, something about going in to talk to M's teachers brings out a crazed, competitive streak in me. I'm fine while we're there, listening to the teachers say she's bright, funny, well-behaved (whatever) and a delight to have in the classroom. I'm nodding my head as they tell me she is right on target for her grade level, that she always contributes to discussions, shows empathy for her classmates, and is verbally precocious. Great, fine, good to hear, but we already knew all of that. No big deal.

At M's school, they give "grades" of 1-4. A 3 means "meets expectations for grade level," a 4 means "exceeds expectations." A 2 means "almost there" and a 1 means - well, anyway, M didn't get a single 1 or 2. M's report card sports rows of 3's, 3+'s, and a few 4's. So, great, but as I said, I don't care anyway, right? Late afternoon yesterday though, a little voice in the back of my head started to nag me. I tried to ignore it, but it just kept getting more insistent. "She should have been given all 4's," whispers the voice. "Maybe her teachers are too busy to notice that she's clearly exceeding grade level in every subject," says the voice. "They should really have given her 5's in everything - surely she's the most brilliant student they've ever encountered!" screams the voice.

So during Lost last night (isn't this the highlight of everyone's week?) I finally blurted it out. "Tom, why do you think she didn't have all 4's? Do you think she's trying to tone down her brilliance at school so she can fit in? Do you think her teachers are purposely trying not to go overboard with praise, even though she's clearly the most gifted child they've ever encountered? She is, right? You can see how smart she is too, can't you? She should have had all 4's, right? Right?" Poor Tom. All he had to do was give me one of his signature long-suffering looks, equal parts pity and patience, and I dropped it. I took a deep breath, a swig of beer, and the little voice slunk off into a quiet corner of my brain, preparing to resurface at the next likely opportunity.

And to think, I worried that I'd find it hard to adjust to the ultra-competitive New York lifestyle. Apparently, I'm ready to go in that regard. But this is only kindergarten - if I can't shut that little voice up, we're all in for a long ride.

Poking My Head Out

2008-03-12T11:33:00.016-04:00

At the urging of my husband, I attended the Brooklyn Blogade last Sunday. It was a lovely event, which has already been documented by other, more on-top-of-things bloggers. Our hostess Joyce, of Bad Girl Blog, wrote about it, Flatbush Gardener took pictures, and there's even more at the Luna Park Gazette, A Year in Prospect Park, Brooklynometry, Shellytown, and Only the Blog Knows Brooklyn. The amount of talent in the room was inspiring, and everyone was so gosh-darn nice that it made me feel really good about the world and wonder why I don't make an attempt to connect with other people more often. I suppose I'm always afraid that poking my head up out of its hole will result in having it bitten off, but this was a nice reminder that it is not always so.

I thoroughly enjoyed everyone's contributions, but I have to especially mention Rob's piece, because it was so moving and beautiful. It made me tear up. Maybe because my father is so frail, and our relationship so fraught, stories about parents really strike a nerve with me. As I was blinking away tears, I fervently hoped that I wouldn't be called on next, because after something so heartfelt and touching, does one really want to read one's whacked-out story about a guy rolling around in shit? No, one does not. I breathed a sigh of relief when David was called, but then he had a little trouble setting up his laptop, and as luck would have it, I was summoned. Thankfully, the mood had lightened during the technical difficulties interlude, and my reading went over okay.

Then last night, we were in Park Slope to take the girls to the doctor, and when we popped into the frozen yogurt shop around the corner for the obligatory post-doctor-visit treat, we ran into Louise, of OTBKB fame. When we first moved here, I kept joking that every time I left the apartment, I saw one of the six people we knew, and it still seems to be true. As soon as we meet someone, we start running into them everywhere. How does this happen in a city of eight million people? I suppose it's because we all mostly stick to our little enclaves. It's funny to think that if we'd moved to Inwood or Queens instead of Brooklyn, we'd be living a completely different life right now. I didn't realize until I got here how much the neighborhood in which you live defines your entire existence.

In any case, I was happy to see Louise again, and to introduce her to my family, and then this morning when I saw that she'd blogged about our encounter, it gave me a small thrill, because I'm kind of a nerd and I get excited whenever I get a little recognition. That MSNBC interview was over a year ago, after all. (I almost linked to it, but then I foresaw the heat I might take for doing such a thing, being that the non-profit organization I volunteer with would probably not want to be associated with this blog. Hmph. I can't even flaunt my 15 minutes of fame - oh, well.)

So thanks again to Joyce, and to all the wonderful Blogade bloggers. It was truly a delightful afternoon!

Alias Groucho

2008-03-03T12:57:00.006-05:00

A couple of months ago, I had just gotten out of the shower and wrapped a towel around my head when Violet came up and said, "You groucho! Ha ha ha ha ha - groucho! Mommy groucho!" I couldn't figure it out. I wasn't acting grouchy at all! The next time she saw me with a towel on my head (after a shower, of course - I don't normally walk around this way) she called me groucho again. Finally, I figured it out. She loves to watch this:

Apparently, the towel on my head reminds her of Groucho's nightcap. So now, whenever I've just washed my hair and have a towel wrapped around my head, I'm Groucho. The other day I was giving her a bath after I'd just taken a shower (so, towel on head) and she was saying things like "More soap peese, Groucho." "Ready to get out now, Groucho!" "No Groucho, not that towel - duck towel, Groucho!" All with a totally straight face. She's a funny one, my V.

Nearly Two Months Gone By

2008-02-10T13:55:00.003-05:00

Hey, there. It seems I've stopped posting, but I think I'm going to start again soon.

We're having a pretty rough time. Cold gray days, lots of sickness, anxiety, and short tempers. It really isn't about our move, though. Several friends, when I said I was struggling, assumed that I was having doubts about our move, and a hard time acclimating to New York. But no, this is stuff that would have been going on if we'd stayed in Denver, too (and it probably would have been worse there). Jobs, money, trying to be pleasant to each other in spite of very bad moods and very real worries - the same old tough stuff. Not fun to write about, and even less fun to read about, yeah? So I haven't. I'll say this though: both of us working from home, while also taking care of a 2-year-old, is not proving to be a very good idea at all. Absence really would make the heart grow fonder. We've ordered a laptop and drawn up a schedule so that we can take turns schlepping our work out to a coffee shop and getting out of each other's hair. If that doesn't work, one of us is going to have to give up their true career ambitions and take the first retail wage-slave job they can find, just to save our family's sanity. The laptop arrives next week: will it save the day? We shall see.

Also, I have the web equivalent of social anxiety, knowing that among the friends who check in on this space, there are a couple of troll-ish people hanging out around the edges too. But so it goes, if you have a blog, right? I just need to put it out of my head I suppose.

Here's something that made me happy about living here: I wasn't even aware that New York was in the Superbowl until a few days before the game. I do skim the newspapers, I get out of the house, I make small talk with people on the street, but still - I didn't know. If we were still in Denver, and the Broncos were in the Superbowl, you'd better believe we'd have been awash in unavoidable Bronco-mania for weeks. Just made me smile, that's all.

I'll try to bring something better to this space soon, I promise. Tales of celebrity-sightings? Pictures of my kids? More of my sparkling and witty prose, rather than depressed whining? I'll work on it.

Santa Claus is Coming to Town

2007-12-15T23:50:00.001-05:00

The tree is up - not yet decorated, but up. It smells lovely, and I'm feeling the beginnings of some warm holiday feelings stirring. I've also started to eschew the elevator and walk the five flights up to our apartment so I'll be able to eat as many Christmas cookies as I want - mmmm. I do love to bake. Now if the worst cold virus known to mankind will just loosen its grip on my nose, throat, ears, eyes and chest, I'll be all set. Fa la la la la.

This is the first year Violet is old enough to understand the concept of Christmas and presents, so we've been talking up the whole Santa angle and she's stoked. It's our policy not to deceive the kids about Santa being real; we just tell them the story and say how fun it is to pretend that there really is a Santa. We write him letters and leave cookies and the whole thing.

When Molly was three we said "Santa is a character, just like Cinderella. They don't really exist, they're just pretend." She furrowed her brow, gave us a dark look and said, "Cinderella is real." O-kay then! When she was four, she couldn't fall asleep on Christmas Eve; she was tossing and turning and looking anxious. She finally said, "Mom, you and Dad are really Santa, right? So who is going to be with me tonight while you're out shopping for my presents?" Ha! So I explained that we already had the presents, and we wouldn't ever leave her alone, which of course led to another question - where have you been hiding the presents all this time? Not too much gets by her.

So tonight when the girls were playing tug-of-war over the digital camera M got for her birthday (unbreakable Fisher-Price style) I said to V, "would you like Santa to bring you a camera like that for Christmas?"

She stopped screaming "mine!" and gave the camera back to her sister. "Yes. Ask Santa. Violet cra-mea. Shoes on now. Go ask Santa. Get shoes on, ho-kay Mom?" She headed toward the door. I said that Santa was probably sleeping because it was bedtime, but we'd try to track him down at Macy's tomorrow. That's when my husband, who was taking all of this in with a bemused expression and his usual silence, said "hey, is Macy's really on 34th Street?" Yes, Virginia, it really is. "Ah, I see. It's all coming together for me now," he said.

So it seems we'll be seeking out Santa tomorrow, if not on 34th Street, then at ABC Carpet and Home, or possibly the Brooklyn Macy's. And I suppose the real vs. pretend discussion can be put on hold for Violet until next year. Ho ho ho.