Life in the Big City

Whole Foods - still too expensive for me, but hardly boycott-worthy

2009-08-18T09:43:00.005-05:00

I find this call for a boycott to be utter bullshit. I don't like Mackey's piece one bit, but I hardly think it warrants this kind of outcry from the Left.

I don't disagree 100% with the Whole Foods CEO, for that matter. He actually makes some interesting points, the Thatcher quote (gag me) and calls for tort reform notwithstanding. Whole Foods has always had a reputation of taking good care of its "team members," and it does that, in part, by following some of Mackey's principles.

I still can't afford to shop at Whole Foods, but this opinion piece won't stop me from picking up something from their deli now and then. HEB and its Central Market brand will still get the bulk of my shopping dollars, based on price and convenience more than anything else.

I boycott Nestle (yes, still) because that company does REALLY BAD THINGS to people, not because the CEO has REALLY BAD OPINIONS. If we started scrutinizing all the corporations around us in terms of where their donations are going, and what their opinion pieces support, we'd all have to hide in our houses.

Flickr photo by Robert Banh.

4

2009-07-22T21:16:00.010-05:00

songs that make me weepy:

Bermuda Highway - My Morning Jacket
Casimir Pulaski Day - Sufjan Stevens
Landed - Ben Folds
Two - Ryan Adams

poems that sustain me:

Free Flight - June Jordan
Pied Beauty - Gerald Manley Hopkins
Logos - Mary Oliver
This be the Verse - Philip Larkin

works of art that teach me to see better:

Henri Matisse - Music Lesson
Henri Cartier Bresson - Seville, Spain
Gustav Klimt - Judith
Georgia O'Keefe - Summer Days

books that help me live:

Operating Instructions - Anne Lamott
The Gift - Lewis Hyde
Elements of Style - Strunk and White
The Corrections - Jonathan Franzen

Summer

2009-07-21T20:47:00.003-05:00

I think it's safe to say that this is my happy little family's last summer without at least some sort of camp. This is the thing, you see, with working from home. In theory you can do it with kids around. In practice, not so much.

Oh, I can do some things, but any task which requires concentration, research, slinging words together, or otherwise using a hefty portion of my brain: no.

And while my kids, I think, would be quite content to spend the entire summer watching episodes of SpongeBob SquarePants, or commanding armies on Halo, something tells me this is not the healthiest set-up for any of us.

So, yes, next summer, camp.

Meanwhile, I'll be looking around for a babysitter to take them at least part time for a couple of weeks in August so I can get something done. The cost of the sitter may or may not be covered by the billable hours, which is the catch of course. But at least I'll feel productive, and they'll go to the pool, and we all won't be quite so sick of each other.

Thank God I never ended up having to homeschool them.

family reunion vid.

2009-07-20T00:47:00.001-05:00

vacationizing

2009-07-09T22:35:00.002-05:00

What I'm learning this trip, so far (or how to vacation with little ones and not completely lose your shit):

1. Plan only one thing every day.
2. Be willing to throw that plan out the window at a moment's notice.
3. Pay attention to what your kids are having fun doing. Do more of that.
4. It's okay to eat gelato before dinner, stay up late, and go swimming in the hotel pool at 9 o' clock at night.
5. Actually, it's practically mandatory.
6. Little kids don't want to hear about the history of Harvard Yard. They want to play hide-and-go-seek in Harvard Yard. Let them.
7. It's more fun if you play too.
8. The azalea bush by the Widener Library steps is a great hiding place.
9. Let them carry their own load. Give them backpacks with toys, disposable cameras, coloring books, and magic markers in them.
10. Slow down.

My kids have more fun riding the T than riding the sightseeing trolley. They prefer a $3 carousel ride in the park to a $25 Harbor Cruise. They're perfectly content to just sit by the edge of a fountain in Copley Square and splash with their feet for an hour.

The point is, of course, they're getting some time away from the ordinary, and they're getting precious long stretches of time with me.

This vacation is killing me, but it's worth it.

Doctor, not Mister

2009-07-08T23:23:00.002-05:00

Back in the day, the Boston Children's Museum was located in the Boston neighborhood of Jamaica Plain, in a big old house if I recall. There was a giant replica of a rotary telephone outside that you could climb on. Somewhere there must exist a Kodak of me doing just that. My parents were friends with Michael Spock, then the director of the place. Mike's dad was the famous Dr. Spock, your go-to guy for parenting in the 1960s. His daughter and I grew up in the same town, went to the same school, and were good friends for many years. She had very long dark hair and a fondness for all varieties of monkeys. She also had a kick-ass dress-up collection, a house decorated in orange and purple, and a pair of exceptionally obnoxious songbirds who lived in the kitchen.

(Just pause to imagine for a moment being the granddaughter of the most famous pediatrician in the world, and the daughter of the director of the best known children's museum. That's pretty heavy duty.

But I digress.)

Since then the museum has moved to (and played a part in revitalizing) the Fort Point Channel neighborhood of South Boston. It's in a lovely three-story brick building overlooking the harbor. The famous, larger-than-life Hood milk bottle stands outside the entrance.It's also about 10 blocks from our hotel, so we headed over there this afternoon for some fun.

Funny how time slips away, right? Today it was my turn to be the parent, and my kids' to be the kids. I loved watching them climb, explore, play, and negotiate all over the place. It's still a great museum, although man is the politically correct force ever strong with those people. I don't think there's an exhibit that doesn't in some way or other reflect gender equality, ecological soundness, or respect for other cultures, if not all three at once. That and especially the commercialism (Arthur and D.W. are major players over at BCM) left something of a bad taste in my mouth. But still, good times had by all.

Incidentally, I love the museum's tips for parenting in public.

walk of life

2009-07-07T22:00:00.003-05:00

It's 10:32 pm, Boston time. I'm on the 15th floor of a waterfront hotel, listening to my three youngest kids squirm and giggle and generally avoid sleeping. I'm a little bit irritated, and pretending to be stern and grumpy, but I'll cut them some slack. It's been a long day. As we got off the plane at Logan the flight attendant said to me, "they win the award for best-behaved kids." And it was true: they were quiet, stayed in their seats, ate their snacks, drank their Sprites, didn't fuss. Of course it was JetBlue so all they had to do was plug into their headphone jacks and watch CartoonNetwork for three hours (holy crap do I ever love that airline). Easy. But my kids get this comment a lot.

Once we checked in, I dragged them on a hike to the Union Oyster House. We took the long way, almost two miles, meandering through Downtown Crossing and down Tremont Street. They bitched a tiny bit on the way there, but mostly they were good spirited about it. After dinner we walked directly back, about a mile, and they were cheerful. Playful, even.

Here's the thing: these kids are five, and five, and six. They're little. That's a lot of travel and a lot of walking. But I knew they could handle it. And furthermore, maybe I'm some kind of weird, old fashioned mother, but I think walking a little bit farther than you want to, being asked to do a little bit more than you were expecting to do, I think these things are character building.

I don't push my kids so hard that they break, but I push them hard enough so they feel the bend, and stretch a little. I let them be uncomfortable. It's what my parents did for me when they sent me away to summer camp when I was eight. I learned to walk a long, long trail with a heavy weight on my back. I learned that blisters hurt, but they healed. I learned how to carry myself, and my own weight.

Plus, it was a nice evening. Why take a cab?

Friday Books: Slaughter-House Five by Kurt Vonnegut

2009-07-03T15:16:00.005-05:00

I think I was about 12 or 13 years old when I discovered Kurt Vonnegut. I read every book of his in rapid succession, like so many chocolate truffles. Last month my book group, which I hardly ever attend, chose Slaughterhouse Five to read. They've been working through some classic twentieth century American novels, I believe this month it's Updike. Anyway, I wasn't able to make it to the meeting (which is typical), but I did pick up the book from the local library.

Hang on, let me just interject here that I've fallen back in love with public libraries. One of the many great things about my fabulous new house is that I'm just a few blocks away from a branch of the Austin Public Library. The whole internet-meets-public library combination is so spectacular, you know? I love ordering up a book, telling it to come and meet me at my local branch, and then snatching it off the shelf a day or two late. And then I can take it home and read it for free. LOVE THAT. I'm a card-carrying member now. I even have a little mini keychain card.

So, back to Vonnegut. I read it (again) in about three sittings, which reminded me of why I loved Vonnegut so much as a kid - readable! I love how the story is his story, but not his story. How you know (because he tells you) that much of the fiction is shot through with threads of fact from his own experiences. I love how you still can't be quite sure which is which; where fiction ends and fact begins. I love that it's an anti-war novel, but also a time-travel novel, and also an American novel. I love how it's written in plain English, because I hate it when writers feel the need to clutter up complex ideas with complex prose. I love how, ultimately, it's a song about impermanence. Yours, mine, ours, Dresden's. The earth's.

My favorite part is when the hero, Billy Pilgrim, is watching a documentary about the war, only in reverse. The American planes fly backwards over Dresden, scooping up bombs into their holds, returning them eventually to American soil, where they are disassembled by women and their parts are carefully separated out and the minerals are buried in the earth where they cannot harm anyone. That passage made me cry.

What are you reading?

cave girl

2009-07-02T12:16:00.003-05:00

Some people show stress by eating less and staying up all night worrying about stuff. I'm one of the lucky ones who eats a lot and takes plenty of naps. But a couple of months ago when my children started playing with my arm fat, "Cool! look at it wiggle!" and my daughter told me it looked like I had a new baby growing in my tummy (we call it "Six"), I freaked out. This led to signing up on impulse for CrossFit bootcamp, which meets three mornings a week at the crack of dawn and totally kicks my butt.

The CrossFit folks, as it turns out, have a lot to say about what you eat. I've started something called the zone/paleo diet, which makes me want to wear loin cloths and carry a big club everywhere. I am soooo paleolithic. Seriously, paleo is based on some idea of what the hunter/gatherers ate, which just sort of cracks me up. Because, you know, those people were so healthy and had such great life spans and everything. And the Zone is all about portions (turns out, no big surprise here, that I was eating a. too little food and b. all the wrong stuff). It reminds me a little of that fad diet based on your blood type, which I just know is total bunk. People swear by it, but let's be honest, people will swear by anything. People are idiots. I'm an idiot.

Which brings me to this: Joining scares me. And also this: Being left out scares me. The mental gymnastics I put myself through over this conundrum are truly entertaining:

"Wow, my coach is incredibly fit and happy and healthy, and she swears by zone/paleo as being pretty much essential to the whole deal, there must be something to it, I mean just look at her. I want to be like that."

"This whole thing feels like a cult. She's so enthusiastic about it! Enthusiasm freaks me out. I'll never give up pasta, anyway."

Okay, the truth is I think zone/paleo is probably just what I need to break the hold that spaghetti has on my life, not to mention to get back into the clothes I was wearing a year ago (I miss you, jeans!). And sure, CrossFit is a little cult-y. For what it's worth, though, salmon and spinach are okay by me, and I haven't met a single CrossFit participant or coach who wasn't perfectly delightful.

Can I make a lifetime commitment to eating my food in blocks and banishing sugar? Maybe not so much. But for now, anyway, pass the (diet) Kool-Aid.

hearing voices

2009-07-01T00:30:00.000-05:00

As a kid I had a few quirky habits. There was the OCD-ish counting of steps, especially going up and down stairs. There was my tendency to read. All the time. Even through recess. And there was the voiceover narration that permeated my consciousness. At seven years old, I knew it was pretty weird for me to be narrating my own life in the third person, but I did it anyway, compulsively, and during some long, ordinary stretches of life. Not much of note happens when you're walking home from school in a sleepy Boston suburb. But I can assure you I wrote it all down in my mind like I was freaking Tolstoy.

When I was eight someone gave me a diary, and the voice found the page, oh happy marriage! This continued into high school, college, and beyond, although my writing began to dwindle before I discovered blogging in the late 90s.

After my first child was born the voice got quieter and smaller, as if making room for this new creature. Then, around five years ago, the voice went suddenly, shockingly mute. Perhaps the birth of my daughters, which upped the number of small children in my care to five, finally drowned out the increasingly rare quiet spaces my head usually filled with this contemplative overview. Or maybe the writer in me just gave up trying, since I was less and less frequently committing any of these words to paper or website. In any case, it was over. My head was quiet. Writing for the blog, usually a natural flow, became an arduous task. Writing anything else, especially work-related writing, was damn near impossible. The creek bed was all dried up. The voice was gone.

I'm not sure exactly when I noticed the voice was back, but a couple of weeks ago in New York it was practically shouting in my head, concocting essays and memoir pieces that I couldn't even begin to keep up with. It narrated my subway rides, taxi adventures, walks down the street. It talked, and talked, and talked, like that annoying guy at the party you just want to squeeze by to grab another beer from the fridge. It grabbed hold of my arm and got right in my face with its stinky olive breath and talked and TALKED. But I wasn't annoyed at all. An old friend was back. I was whole. I was a writer again. Things were happening all around me, and I had something to say about it.

It's been a phenomenally difficult decade for me, most especially these last two years. I've played a starring role in wrecking two marriages (my own), I found myself suddenly and unexpectedly at the deathbeds of both my stepmother and my mother. I've moved a million times, stood at the bleeding edge of financial devastation, had a really nasty free-fall into chronic depression. I've lost very dear friends to suicide and cancer. I've been separated from my children for long stretches. There was weeping, and wailing, and gnashing of teeth.

In response, I have worked hard at being a better person, being true to myself, forgiving myself and others, finding a real, solid place to stand. I worked harder at all of those things than I honestly knew I had the strength for. I've learned to (I know it sounds horribly corny, but really) love myself. Really.

I think the voice came back because it finally had a safe place to land, and because I really do have a story to tell. I think the voice came back because it knows (I know) that it's worthy, that it's allowed to speak, that I'm done shushing myself.

I'm ready to write.

Three Weeks in May (2001)

2008-05-11T10:42:00.001-05:00

I meet them in the city for dinner – my father and stepmother. Big night, fancy restaurant. Running late I park the car, hurry to the hotel restaurant. They’re in the lobby, looking grim. I tug at my wraparound sweater – it gaps, exposes me. I ask is something wrong? No, she says, I’m fine. I’ve been rebuffed. Disapproves of the sweater? Mad that I’m late? She picks at her salmon, doesn’t speak. My dad makes awkward conversation with only me. She’ll be dead in a matter of weeks. None of us knows this.

A week later at my sister’s graduation from acupuncture school. Scan the auditorium for my dad, my stepmother, nowhere to be seen. After the ceremony we find them in the back. The day is sweltering and she is cocooned in head-to-toe wool. Grim smile, pinched face, cold kiss. I say, you must be hot in this. No answer. Dinner to celebrate, Airin, the doctor. She can’t order, can’t find the words for the food on the menu. The waiter holds his breath. We stare. Airin tries to coax her, tries to cover up. She lashes out, angry, frustrated. Orders the duck. Then holds her head, turns pale, doesn’t speak all through the meal. Tomorrow she’ll fall to the floor, vomit, pass out, go to the emergency room. None of us knows this.

The next day is Mother’s Day and for the first time in 21 years I do not call. Afraid she will not speak on the phone, or worse she’ll make no sense. I let the day go by, a paralyzed dream. Monday morning my father rings to tell me she’s in the hospital, there are two growths on her brain. Sitting on the back deck, holding the phone, I can feel first my chest and then my whole body sinking, the weight of the words pushing me down, so heavy a feeling I think I might crash straight through the wooden planks and into the cold, earthwormy dirt below.

Instead I pack a bag, gather the kids, point my car north to Boston. This hospital has been good to me – my baby was born here, my mother’s heart was saved here, good things here. We go up to the room and she brightens up at the very sight of the kids. Says “hello.” It’s all she can say. My brother entertains the boys while I sit with her. She grows tired and we leave.

Tuesday is surgery – we gather with the other families and wait. Smooth and handsome Dr. Park, brain surgeon, meets us in a tiny room. We squeeze together to hear the news – it’s malignant. I watch as he describes the tumor as being like a starfish, a spider, extending its tendrils deep into her brain tissue, impossible to cleanly remove without removing precious brain. He splays his hand to demonstrate. It feels unkind, this gesture. I see in a flash how every new tumor is for him a chance to improve his skills, a chance to be a better doctor, a good thing. He talks about radiation, chemo, oncologists. Three to five years tops. This is what he tells us. We cry and eat our sandwiches and wander around the hospital, lost stars. Then she is in recovery and we come to see her, watch her fingers wander up to her scalp, touching the bare patches, feeling the bandages. It’s really only two more weeks to go. None of us knows this.

They send her home. She plays with the dogs, watches the trees, doesn’t speak. Days later and the news is worse – biopsy results show a level IV glioblastoma, or GBM, the worst kind of tumor. Oligodendroglioma, glioblastoma, astrocytoma, become part of my vocabulary, familiar as cat and dog. Six to 18 months, average. I spend my days and nights researching, grasping at straws, at trials. There’s Duke University and Staten Island Hospital and some sort of miracle powder from a guy in California. There are some who live, survive for years. I think maybe, maybe. Go up on Sunday for my caregiver shift, but she’s had another spell of vomiting, complains of a headache, and is on her way to the hospital. I arrive as she walks to the car, measuring every step. I make a bad joke and she smiles for me, a gift. Car crunching away on the gravel driveway and she turns to wave, craning her neck (so painful for her!), holding that hand up like the Pope delivering a blessing, fixing her gaze on me for the last time. I don’t know this.

But she does. My dad asks in the car are you hopeful? She shakes her head no. Seizes in the hospital, slips into a coma. She loses oxygen to her brain so they intubate her. The CAT scan shows that the tumor has grown dramatically in just two weeks. Dr. Park, such beautiful skin, comes again to say let’s try to get her breathing on her own, stabilize her, take it from there. Maybe then we can start radiation. It takes 24 hours for the rest of us to catch up to what my sister (the doctor!) understands immediately: the tube must come out. It’s what she would want us to do. I’m living in a made-for-cable movie, I think, dashing for the hospital, talking to her all the while, please Polly, don’t die yet, please wait for me, don’t die without me there. It’s Lifetime, television for women. I’m there before they even extract the tube. Neuro ICU is deathly quiet; so many comas. The nurses shoo us out, whisking the green curtain shut. They pull it, clean her up, arrange for a room. Dr. Park is there and warns us: it could be hours, it could be days. It will be three days, three nights, before she dies. No one knows this.

I move into the hospital. We are all living in the room, eating, sleeping. Joking. Crying. Waiting. She lies there, hearing it all, hearing none of it. Is this a movie? My stepmother, 57 years old, landscape architect, painter, gardener, singer, dancer, mother, bird spirit, is in the hospital with a brain tumor and has slipped into a coma? Could this be real life? Hours pass, nurses come and go. Turn her. We up the morphine. Wait. My cousin brings us food…every day, a different cuisine. We eat pot stickers, tabouleh, manicotti, and hold her hot hands. Waiting. We argue over how much morphine, how elevated the bed. After two days we start to wonder if she’ll ever die. Our hospital life becomes a comfortable routine and I think I could do this forever, sit here in this room, watch the day go by. Not so much like TV anymore. We take turns curling up at the bottom of her bed, at her feet. Her children, her lapdogs, her faithful friends.

The third day drags itself into the afternoon and we start to forget why we’re there, but then it begins. The breathing slows and thickens. We gather closer, each claiming a section. My hand holding her left foot, her left shin. My father leans in, tells her it’s OK, you can go. We wait. Silently I tell her you can go, please. Please go. I can’t bear another night. Please die now. All of us holding on for dear life and saying go away, go away now, you can go now. Please go. Hours pass. Westward facing window, the sun begins to sink and the sky is full of screaming pink and orange. We watch her, watch the sky, watch the sun. She times it perfectly. Sun disappears and the breathing stops. I grab her wrist, pushing skin for a pulse that isn’t there.

My sisters keen, falling upon the bed. When they sit up there are four perfect mascara crescents on the white hospital blanket. We sit in the darkening room with her for maybe an hour, unable to do the next thing.

2008-03-23T20:46:00.001-06:00

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Mussels from PEI

2008-03-23T20:08:00.001-06:00

At Vespaio with JPostman.

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Persian new year

2008-03-21T17:30:00.001-06:00

1001 Nights Orchestra at Central Market in Austin

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My 10 year old's homework

2008-03-19T15:14:00.002-06:00

I'm out of material. So I'm going with my kid's homework, complete with typos and misspellings:

Book report/presentation on Lance Armstrong.

Lance Armstrong has won 7 Tour de France cyclist races.
Athletic - Lance Armstrong was very athletic.
Nike - Lance Armstrong was sponcered by Nike
Close to his mom
Established LANCE ARMSTRONG FOUNDATION

Armsrong was not originaly his last name
Restirement - Lance retired in 2005
Moved to Austin
Survived cancer - Lance Armstrong survived cancer.
Triathlete - Lance Armstrong was a triathlete.
Rides bycicles
Outstanding athlete - Lane is a very famous cyclist and triathlete
Never quit
Gifted - Lance Armstrong was a gifted athlete

2008-03-18T10:10:00.001-06:00

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not in kansas

2008-03-18T08:25:00.002-06:00

Sometimes reality comes in the form of a fax:

Wish I could talk to her today. Even though she'd probably end up pissing me off.

stranded

2008-03-17T22:17:00.002-06:00

Please take a moment out of your busy day to witness my friend Christian Payne's beautiful and moving documentary about Iraqi Refugees in Jordan. Composed entirely of still photographs, and edited with exquisite grace by Bill Cammack, this short film brings you into the lives of Iraqi families trying desperately to eke out an existence in a foreign land, with little or no support. They need help, and attention. Watch it, tell your friends, blog about it, spread it around.

Life in the Shadows

Thank you.

learning to fly

2008-03-16T10:19:00.002-06:00

Things are popping right now, in a good way. I have a job interview tomorrow (on the phone, ack), three creative projects in the pipeline, and a much sunnier outlook on my future. It's good to be reminded that we're all in this thing together, and that's what happened for me last week. Accidental meetings turned into impromptu road trips. I made new friends, reconnected with old ones, had loads of conversations about stuff which really interests me, and just felt so plugged in. The energy of the conference and the people around me reminded me that there is a whole world out there of people, ideas, activities, and projects for me to be a part of, I just need to reach out for it.

Of course the problem is also this: single parenthood. The trick is to find a balance between private life, work life, parenting life, social life, home life, travel life...and it's never easy. Mind you I am NOT complaining. Part of learning to fly is also learning to land, learning to make a good nest, learning to feed the little chicks.

Watching people talk today on Twitter about the dearth of women (well maybe dearth is harsh, but the relatively low presence) in social media leadership roles, and I want to scream: that's because we're MOTHERS! Sure, not all of us. But don't you guys forget for a minute that while you're off at the conference, someone's home with the kids. And she's too busy doing laundry and cooking up macaroni and cheese to take on a leadership role. Maybe later, when they've gone off to college...

In other news, it's Sunday, the windows are open, the dog puke has been cleaned off the carpet, and I need lunch.

SXSWi List

2008-03-15T18:06:00.002-06:00

Things discussed (at parties mainly, since I was badgeless) at SXSWi that I'd like to talk about some more:

1. Racism, sexism, homophobia and social media. Encouraging more discourse on these topics and effecting real change. (i.e. the backlash at Sarah Lacy during her interview with Mark Zuckerberg, some of it certainly sexist. Also the recent flare-up on Twitter when Dave Winer asked if all Twitter users were white. Plenty of other small and big discussions flying around this week. It seems to be in the air.)

2. Transparency, back-channels, openness, cross-pollination, live streaming. More, please. (Had a great chat about this with Roo Reynolds this morning at breakfast, although both of us a little too tired to be completely coherent.)

3. New media/old media intersection. Bringing arts, music, journalism, performance art into the technology-driven world of social media. (Watching the art made by Honoria Starbuck and others during panel discussions; thinking about the overlap of interactive/film/music, encouraging more interplay between those three.)

4. What can we all do to reach out to the community at large, both locally and globally? How can social media better address issues of poverty, hunger, women's rights, infrastructure-building, education? Other than bringing revenue to town, what can people on the ground at SXSWi do to reach out to the very real and immediate population of homeless and hungry in downtown Austin? (A major topic during our ride in the tech cab with Irina Slutsky.)

5. How can I get a badge next year? (please?)

Hey Robert - You OK?

2008-03-14T22:17:00.001-06:00

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Munch

2008-03-13T10:24:00.001-06:00

Here's a detail from "Girls on the Pier" by Edvard Munch at the Kimbell.

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2008-03-13T09:47:00.001-06:00

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My crater of lemony goodness

2008-03-12T11:08:00.001-06:00

Aka the "Dutch baby" at the Original Pancake House. Next stop Fry's to

get our geek on.

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@documentally

2008-03-11T19:02:00.001-06:00

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