Ramblings on Motherhood Written by a Brain of Little Sleep

I am spent. Utterly exhausted. While talking with Surrey after teaching our last class yesterday, I realized that in this one weekend I have spoken and interacted with more people than I have the entire year. It is a little overwhelming, but my brain is starved for the intellectual stimulation.

I love being my daughter's mother, but there are so many identity issues around becoming one. The transition into motherhood causes one to explore and question identity. Especially if, like me, you come to it unexpectedly and rather late in life.

I have done so many things with my life, worn so many monikers, swirled them about me like Salome's veils and shed them when they were no longer apt or when I could no longer support their weight. Artist, writer, actor, dancer, fight choreographer, educator, athlete, director...and now mother. In some ways, each built on the other, skill enhancing skill, art strengthening art. And because I've had such a full life already, in a simpler world it would seem the transition to motherhood would build on all the others.

If you buy that, I've also got a bridge in Brooklyn that you might be interested in.

These last three years have been a struggle and internal chaos in the presence of the most immense love and perfection I have ever known. The conflict is intense. Arabis is my joy. I had almost given up on ever having a child. It certainly was no longer in my mind after my divorce. And the moment I felt her growing inside me, I felt the fiercest and strongest emotions I will ever know. But she grew in the midst of so much turmoil, my own brain having long been known as my own worst enemy.

When I held my daughter for the first time, whispered her secret name in her ear and spoke to her softly in Armenian, being a mother was enough. There was nothing else.

It is who I am: Arabis' mother, but it is not ALL that I am. All that came before, all that I have done, all the people I have loved that make me who I am contribute to it. I am mother and so much more.

But when all your time is spent with a small child, the rest can fade to the background and seem like another world. There is a mourning for the past as well as a joy in the present and I wonder that more women don't speak of this for fear of seeming unloving or ungrateful of just purely unnatural.

I remind myself daily that she is only small once and that this time is so precious and so fleeting. Watching her and learning the world anew through her is a joy like nothing I have ever experienced. But I feel my life on hold, while I give her as much of me as I can, *while* I can, to help her walk strong and confident in the world.

I am finding myself anew while she is discovering who she is. Perhaps it is a parallel process. The thing I am learning not to do, trying not do, and it is the hardest for me, is mourn the past, mourn who I was. Pregnancy wrecked havoc on my body and I have still not recovered. I still carry much of the baby weight, exacerbating my old dance injuries. I will never be the athlete I was before.

A chrysalis phase? Metamorphosis. As long as I don't end up a cockroach at the end of the journey, I think I'm doing okay.

Content

A long, exhausting and fulfilling weekend is past. I have taught, I have played, I have rehearsed. I have reconnected with people from almost 30 years past, met knew ones and relaxed into the embrace of those that have been there all along.

What a crazy life I've led. If I stop to think of all the things I've done, it almost makes my head spin.

I'm talked out. I've got nothing left even for introspection right now. Mostly I just sit here in the glow of the screen, one cat draped across my shoulders and another perched, gargoyle-like, on the monitor before me. There is the soft, indecipherable hum of the television from the other room and I suspect that if I venture in, Mojo will have fallen fast asleep in front of it.

And really, sleep is where I should be. The allure is undeniable. Time to get flat.

I've Been Remiss

So here it is, the eighth day of November and I've not "officially" announced my participation in this year's NaBloPoMo. Although I'm sure that you, my two astute readers, will have figured out by now that I am participating.

This will be my third year in a row and I promised myself more actual writing would get done; something humorous, a little witty, maybe some thought provoking prose and possibly even an attempt to wring a tear or two from your jaded eyes.

So what have the last eight days found me doing? Running through my crazy days after my three year old and finally collapsing around 11 at night only to realize mere minutes from the clock tolling away the last hour of the day that "OhmygodIhaven'tpostedyet!!!!!!" Thus begins the mad dash to the computer, my eyes bleary and tired, staring at the blank screen, trying to pull something remotely interesting from a brain whose synapses no longer even spark let alone fire.

Today I am starting a little earlier, but I indulged in a bout of insomnia last night that left me with only three and a half hours of sleep. And then a full seven hours of workshops and rehearsals in preparation for the 30th Dickens Christmas Fair have left me giddy and almost falling asleep on my keyboard.

This is the best I can do for now. So let me ask a boon of you, anonymous reader. I know I have a few regulars. Leave a comment. Say hello. Tell me how you found my and why the heck you come back to read my sporadic and often sparse ramblings. Indulge my curiosity.

Just for the hell of it.

Crazy

Much running around today with little accomplished. So this is my sorry excuse for a post.

Thought for the Day

"All revelations are personal. That's why all revelations are suspect."

~ Neil Gaiman, from American Gods

Bonfire Night

Remember, remember the Fifth of November,

The Gunpowder Treason and Plot,

I can think of no reason

Why the Gunpowder Treason

Should ever be forgot.

Guy Fawkes, Guy Fawkes, t'was his intent

To blow up the King and Parli'ment.

Three-score barrels of powder below

To prove old England's overthrow;

By God's providence he was catch'd

With a dark lantern and burning match.

Holloa boys, holloa boys, let the bells ring.

Holloa boys, holloa boys, God save the King!

"Feel the Power of Your Vote!"

There is a poll worker in my precinct who has been a volunteer for at least as long as I have lived here (eight and a half years). He is an older black man, with a shock of white hair and a ready smile. Mojo likens him to an economics professor for some reason.

When Mojo got to the polls at our local fire station at 7:00 AM, the man was there, greeting everyone and keeping the mood upbeat and jocular during the hour that Mojo had to wait. Twelve and a half hours later, when I went to cast my vote, he was still there, standing outside and greeting people, finishing the last of his cigarette.

"Are you here to feel the power of your vote?" he asked as we approached the door. Mojo and Arabis talked to him while I registered and went in with my ballot to make history.

As I filled out my form, I could hear Mojo talking to a female fire fighter and her asking Arabis if she'd like to see the engines. From there they disappeared down a hallway while I finished up.

"This is the part that you've got to love, girl," the man told me as I took my ballot to him. "You hold on to that and get ready to cast your ballot. Are you ready to feel the power of your vote?"

I felt like I was at a revival or old time rally like you see in black and white movies.

"I am," I told him.

"Hold on to that with both hands and feed it right in here and FEEL THE POWER OF YOUR VOTE!"

Afterward I wandered into the garage portion of the fire station where an EMT/firefighter named Linda was helping Arabis climb behind the wheel of a fire truck. We talked for a while, I mentioned that I had a friend who was a firefighter in Piedmont (Hey, Dave: Linda in West Oakland says "hi" and that you're awesome!). Arabis wanted to climb up the big ladder on the other truck, and Linda said if we wanted to come back one day that she could climb across it as it lay flat (so it looks like we have a day trip planned sometime soon).

Everyone was happy and laughing and filled with hope. I live in a low-income, predominantly African-American neighborhood with a historically disappointing voter turn out. I over heard the poll workers talking, saying there were only about 350 registered in my precinct and they had already seen over 300 people today. This is unprecedented. The fact that Mojo had to wait an hour this morning is unheard of. That even I, less than an hour before the polls closed, entered to a full house and more people still coming in, gave me hope.

That is what I am struck by. A sense of hope that we have not felt for so many years. I am optimistic and tried to instill some of my excitement in Arabis as we sat watching the returns later that evening.

"We're electing a new president. We're making history."

The Mother, the Maiden and the "Other One"

We're not even dressed up for Halloween, just carrying on the family business: my daughter, my mother and me.

Dia de los Muertos

This is always a bittersweet post for me and I've sat reminiscing before the blank screen now for longer than I care to admit. Last year many in my circles bemoaned the loss of more friends and relatives than we were prepared for (not that one really can prepare for death, despite its inevitability). We cursed 2007 and boasted that 2008 could never be as bad.

It wasn't. It was worse. Too many gone.

I know I've inadvertently omitted names, but I'm lost in the flood of memories.


Rose Rushdoony Deovlet (Grandma Rosie)
Phil Deovlet (Grandpa)
Robert H. Deovlet (Uncle Bob)
Rose (Vartoohi) Mahdesian Deovlet (Grandma Darling)
Benjamin Deovlet (Grandpa Darling)
Richard Deovlet -(Uncle Ricky)
Rose (Vartanoush) Rushdoony (Grandma Rushdoony)
Y.K. Rushdoony (Grandpa Rushdoony)
Mary Movsesian (Auntie Mim)
Spurgeon Avakian (Uncle Sparky)
Ruth Avakian (Auntie Ruthie)
Evelyn Cooper Smith (Grandma Evelyn)
Haywood Smith (Grandpa Haywood)
Joy Deane Wagner
Auntie Margie
Bob Thomas
Dave Ricker
Robin Wadsworth
Michael Hefflin
Maxina Danner (Snookie)
Jennifer Lee
Patrick Lee
Mace Hanley
Shelly Munge
Dan O'Brien
Ricky Paul
Barbara Rose
Ronnie Geoffrion
Dave Coker
Don Mills
Wally Lockwood
Sally Schneider
Linda Underhill
Manny Suarez
Mary Jo Goss
Andrew Small
Phil Robledo
Amethyst Mariani
Theryl O'Ryan
Timur Otus
Brian Dall'Armi
Auntie Posie
Sully (Gordon Sullivan)
Ruth Leggett
Jorge Luis Farias-Martinez
Bill Harris

Not not known personally by me, but deaths that affected me nonetheless:

Tasha Tudor
U. Utah Phillips
Maila Nurmi (aka "Vampira")
Benazir Bhutto


"To absent friends, lost loves, old gods, and the season of mists; and may each and every one of us always give the devil his due."

~ Neil Gaiman

Perspective

Arabis sings to herself, her voice clear and strong, in rhythm with the creak of the swing chain:

"I'm smiling,
And swinging,
And laughing at the clouds!"

A Quote for the Quiet Time of the Morning

I shot an arrow blindly and hit forgiveness.

~ Sherman Alexie, from "Last Will and Testament" in Summer of Black Widows

Four Years

Maxina Danner

Born: 25 March 1987
Murdered: 27 September 2004

You are loved and missed, Snookie. You are forever in our hearts.
You are remembered.

Arabis and I are meeting Lee at the cemetery to visit Maxie and spend the afternoon. The day is lovely and warm, bittersweet and beautiful.

In Lieu of a Real Post - MEME!

Take a picture of yourself right now.
Don't change your clothes, don't fix your hair... just take a picture.
Post that picture with NO editing.
Post these instructions with your picture.

Conversations With My Daughter

ME: "What do you want to be for Halloween this year?"

HER: "Six."


Surrealism, thy name is Toddler.

Quote of the Day

when they ask you
why is your mama so funny
say
she is a poet
she don't have no sense

Lucille Clifton, from Admonitions

The Last Few Days

I have passed a few really lovely days.



On Saturday, Arabis and I went to Children's Fairyland with my friend Lisa and her son, Blue. Arabis and Blue have known each other for over two years and it is adorable to watch the two of them together. He is enamored of her and she being the strong-willed creature she is, gladly tugged him along after her. If anyone is interested, the full set of photos is here. For contrast, check out Blue and Arabis on their first trip to Fairyland together, almost two years earlier.

On Sunday, Mojo and I went to Forbidden Island to hear Meshugga Beach Party, a mock-Hassidic surf band while my mother agreed to spend the afternoon and evening with Arabis. Mojo and I got three and a half hours of alone time together, something we haven't had for far too long. After two sips of my first fruity rum drink my head began to spin and I remembered that the last meal I'd had was breakfast, having forgotten to eat lunch. Oops. We ordered food, had drinks and I got delightfully tipsy. We flirted and joked and managed to not talk about either kid for almost an hour and a half.

After Meshugga had packed up this woman came up to Mojo and I and handed me a flier for her book, Cool Jew: The Ultimate Guide for Every Member of the Tribe. We started talking and after a while she said, "You are Jewish, aren't you?"

I laughed, "No. I'm Armenian, but I get that all the time."

"Wow. I totally thought you were a member of the Tribe. That's okay. Do you still want the flier?"

I told her I did and would pass it on to a friend in Brooklyn.

Meanwhile, Arabis was at home with Grandma having a tea party. As Mojo and I were walking out the door I realized I had forgotten my phone and ran back in to get it. Arabis was sitting very primly at her little table while grandma sat on the sofa at the other side. She was holding out a demitasse cup and saucer to my mother and saying very properly in a mock British accent, "Would you like a cup of tea?" I melted just a little bit.

Yesterday was relatively mellow at home, culminated by two hours in the community garden. Some other tenants were there as well, and as the sun set my neighbor Brad blew bubbles for Arabis which she danced in and then gleefully popped. The two of them were laughing hysterically and I found myself sitting back in the twilight, watching and smiling and daring to think that life was actually pretty good.

I took a few 30 second videos but unfortunately cannot download them since Arabis spilled yogurt on the USB connector cable for my camera and it is dead. If anyone has a spare Sony VMC-MD1 Multi-Use Terminal Cable for Cyber-Shot cameras, I'd be eternally in your debt! I'll have to wait until the first of the month to order a new one.

Today, we got up early and made pancakes, Arabis helping me in the kitchen. I had her stir the batter and she started singing the Mexican Chocolate Song at the same time, while shaking her little hips back and forth:

"Bate, bate, chocolate
Tu nariz de cacahuate
Uno, dos, tres, CHO!
Uno, dos, tres, CO!
Uno, dos, tres, LA!
Uno, dos, tres, TE!
Chocolate, chocolate!
Bate, bate, chocolate!
Bate, bate, bate, bate,
Bate, bate, CHOCOLATE!"

I had to call her padrino (godfather), Tio Riqui, and held the phone near her so he could hear her singing in Spanish. Hopefully she's going to have a good grasp of both Spanish and Armenian as well as English.

I think today we may head up to Lake Anza and go swimming. She has been asking for it since we woke up and I'm feeling pretty good right now.

Oh, before I forget, I had the oddest dream this morning. What I remember of it is this:

Robin and I are going to Cat and Peter's house for some unknown reason and we are standing at the front door ringing the bell. Only it is not their house, but a house across the street with the last two numbers reversed (this actually happened. To my mortification, I transposed the numbers of their address one night and spent 20 minutes outside the wrong house waiting for them. In my exhaustion and distraction, I was convinced that they had given me the wrong address and admonished Peter for it. But it was my fault all along). So Robin and I are standing on the porch of this yellow house, ringing and ringing the bell and finally the door answers and there they are, still in their pajamas. Cat is wearing a loose fitting, light-colored, pajama top and bottom set with white bunny slippers and Peter is clad in a pink bunny suit with attached feet that zips up the front (like the sort kids wear, only much bigger). Robin and I ask why they aren't ready and they tell us that daylight savings time has ended and it is an hour earlier than we think it is. Embarassed we apologize and offer to go have coffee on Castro Street while they get dressed. Peter is laughing at us and then I woke up.

Very strange place to live, my brain. Hope you all have a magical day. We're going swimming!

The State of the Brain

Yesterday I was making lunch for Monkey Boi (my not-a-step-son who is here for the summer) and Arabis. Grilled cheese sandwiches with fruit was the order of the day. I made Arabis' first so it had time to cool a bit, carefully trimmed the crusts and cut it into four pieces. No problem.

Next comes the sandwich for Monkey Boi, which I grilled to a lovely tan color and set proudly on the table, retreating back into the kitchen area to make my own.

From the table I hear his tentative voice, "Um...do you know there is no cheese in this sandwich?"

That's right, folks. I forgot to put the cheese in his grilled cheese sandwich.

He was very good-natured about it and ate the toasted bread while I made him a new sandwich, and I wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry.

I think I need a vacation. Calgon couldn't even begin to take me far enough away!

Brian Dall'Armi

I wanted to get out a public post for any of our lost and scattered Tribe who may google Brian's name in search of information.

Photo by Peter Overstreet of Brian and Cat Taylor, February 2007

Brian Dall'Armi
5 August 1946 - 9 August 2008

Brian died last night a few minutes before midnight. Nell was at his side.

I spoke to Nell for almost an hour today and here is what she wanted me to tell all of you:

"Brian got away in time to make the 12 o'clock show. There won't be any arguing over who will drive (the band) because Ricker will take over as he always did, and Bob Thomas and Brian will be goofing off in the background. Most likely, they'll both be kicked off the stage at some point.

I can hear Ricker yelling at them now: 'No Middle Eastern hootchie-coo on my stage!'

Bob and Brian will sneak off to the coffee house in the sky and sit around the table telling stories and laughing. No one else will be able to get a word in edgewise!"


The Brian Dall'Armi Memorial Tour will include stops in Vallejo, the Northern California Renaissance Faire at Casa de Fruta and the Great Dickens Christmas Fair. Exact dates have not been set at this time, but expect the Vallejo memorial to be anywhere from two to four weeks away, perhaps the beginning of September. Once plans have been solidified, I will update everyone.

Nell thanks you all for the visits and the emails she has received. She read the emails aloud to Brian in batches and is awed and blessed by the love that is coming from our community, our family. Many stories made her cry, more made her laugh and a few she hadn't even heard before.

She also wants to thank everyone for their offers of help. She has more than enough food in the refrigerator and even more in the freezer, and asks that everyone save their food and beer offerings for the memorial. She did mention most emphatically: NO CASSEROLES!

Please feel free to contact Nell by email but to refrain from calling as she still has many details to iron out and needs to keep the phone relatively open. If anyone would like her email, please comment here with an address I can reach you at privately and I will send you that information.

I was able to spend the afternoon with Brian and Nell yesterday. Many of the Brunos and other friends have been coming by in the last five days to sit by Brian's side and play music for him.

Brian was loved and respected for his many talents and he will be sorely missed. Another fiddler has joined that amazing band in the afterworld.

"This Is Now"

Tonight I finished reading "Little House in the Big Woods" to Arabis as she fell asleep. When I was a child, Laura Ingalls Wilder's tales of her girlhood were favorite books. So much so that my mother still laughs at the memory of me being offended when the televised series came out. Oh, I watched every episode and afterward would indignantly rip them to shreds, to my mother's glee (keep in mind that the series premiered just a month prior to my ninth birthday. I was {and still am} very protective of my literary loves).

My friends and I used to play a game based on the little house books which we called "Pioneers." We would take our little red wagons and stand an empty cardboard box in the back. Then we would put our dolls, our mess kits, apples, bread, cheese, a washboard, anything we had that was "old-timey" and go out into the fields to play (this was when we lived in Marin, before it was the overgrown yuppie-ville it is today).

My childhood friend Jenny's dad (who is an artist) made her a covered wagon frame that slid onto the rails of her Radio Flyer. We marched in the Fourth of July parade with it one year, all dressed up in our costumes. I'll have to post some photos (now that we finally got the scanner hooked up).

I haven't read these books since I was young, but found a complete series in a used bookstore about a year ago and promptly snatched them up. In reading to Arabis, I take myself back in time and so many things become clear to me.

My father always said that he was born a hundred years too late. I think that trait was passed on to me. I learned to spin and dye when I was nine years old from a woman named Ida Grae (who wrote the definitive book on natural dying, "Nature's Colors"). I used to do my homework on my old-fashioned desk by the light of a New England oil lamp. The first major purchase I ever made with my own money came at age 14 when I bought my Ashford spinning wheel (which I still have - along with the original receipt!). I collected the Foxfire books and learned crafts from my father (carving, shooting) when we were together. I devoured history, my own and anything else I could get my hands on. I sat at the feet of my great-grandparents and aunts and uncles, listening raptly while they told of their lives in the old country and here. Tales of what was. Of how things were.

Arabis had fallen asleep a few pages from the end, but I continued reading aloud:

"What are the days of auld lang syne, Pa?"

"They are the days of a long time ago, Laura," Pa said. "Go to sleep, now."

But Laura lay awake a little while, listening to Pa's fiddle softly playing and to the lonely sound of the wind in the Big Woods. She looked at Pa sitting on the bench by the hearth, the fire-light gleaming on his brown hair and beard and glistening on the honey-brown fiddle. She looked at Ma, gently rocking and knitting.

She thought to herself, "This is now."

She was glad that the cozy house, and Pa and Ma and the firelight and the music, were now. They could not be forgotten, she thought, because now is now. It can never be a long time ago.

That final passage just struck me hard. It was so poignant and real to me, living in the moment, in the now, with my daughter's head cradled in my arm and her breathe moist on my skin. One of those beautiful, transcendent moments that I wanted to cherish forever.

Let's Go Fly a Kite

Arabis' first kite. Excuse the crappy camera phone photo.

Happy Birthday

Three years ago, at 10:35 PM, my beautiful daughter was removed from my body and held above the surgical drape on my abdomen. I remember crying and speaking to her, whispering into her ear in Armenian, because that was the first language I wanted her to hear. I whispered her gypsy name to her: the name that will never be used, that only I spoke, she heard, and the earth knows.

It's so hard to believe that three years are past. I can't imagine what my life would've been like without her upbeat energy and goofy smile.

I love you, my heart. Many, many happy returns of the day.

This Is Not A Knitting Blog (But It Plays One on the Internet)

My mother had a big health scare recently, which resulted in the serious neglect of this blog. Not to go into too much detail, she was three weeks in hospital and three weeks staying with me, so that I could give her daily antibiotic infusion therapy (trained by the in-home nursing staff) and aid in her recovery. She is back at her home and doing better now, so I am making tentative forays into the vast territory that is the internet.

While my mother was in residence, I didn't knit at all. There was no time. From sunup until far past sundown I was on my feet and working non-stop, tending to her and Arabis. And for the three weeks prior to that, while she was in hospital, the needles lay quiet as well. Now that my life has wound back to its normal levels of insanity, I cast on an adorable pattern for Arabis late last month: Emma's Unmentionables from the newest Knitty.

I have found it to be a refreshingly easy and straightforward knit. One error in the pattern, when you attach the legs to the body, but that was easily spotted and remedied. I began casting on the first lace ruffle one night at midnight which I know is never a good idea. On a whim, I reread the pattern the following morning. While the pattern calls for the body of the work to be done on a US 5 needle, the lace is to be worked on a US 6. Very subtle difference that I didn’t even notice on first reading. So I knit the lace as loosely as possible and it looks fine.

Before grafting the crotch stitches, the final step of the pattern, I tried the garment on Arabis and when I took it off her she had a fit.

“Mine, Mommy! Mine, mine, mine!! Want to wear!!”

In record time the stitches were grafted and she wore these for three days before I hid them to wash.

I have, of course, started a second pair, of which is about 75% done. This pair is in a lovely wisteria color, using the suggested yarn and the larger sized needles for the lace. I'm in love with this pattern and the compliments I've gotten on the finished garment have been wonderful.

Here's a link to my project page for all you Ravelry nuts out there. I really need to make a pair of these in black. They'd be a hit with the goth toddler crowd.


Pattern: Emma's Unmentionables from Knitty
Needle: US 5 (3.75mm) circulars 16 inch and 20 inch, two US 5(3.75mm) double pointed needles
Yarn: TLC Cotton Plus Solid in Kiwi (3643), 3 skeins
Size: 4T

Totland: Where the Fun Never Ends

So on our foray out to walk amongst the people, the Minion and I go to Totland. You folks remember Totland, right? Home of the Berkeley (S)Mothers. We go to Totland because the Minion has requested it: "Wan' go PLAAAAAAY! Wan' go SWIIIIING! Wan' go TA-LAAAAND!"

The Minion is a swinging fool. She swings for 25 minutes. I know, because I had this feeling and checked the time a few minutes into our foray. From that time to the end, when she finally consented to be removed, was 25 minutes. I can feel it in my shoulders, the repetitive motion of pushing a 32 pound toddler as high as she can, non-stop. At the top of the back-swing just before the descent, she likes to throw her head back and yell "Upside-down, Mommy! Upside-down!"

Because it is her favorite thing.

We are making more inroads with the "big" swings, but they are slow. Our conversations tend to be something like this:

ME: Do you want to use the big swings today?
ARABIS: Um...okay, mommy.
ME: Be sure to hold on.
ARABIS: Um...okay, mommy.
ME: And sweetheart,
ARABIS: Yes, mommy?
ME: Be sure to tell me when you want to get off, okay? Don't just jump off.
ARABIS: Okay, mommy.

I know we're in for it. So she swings and I stand half behind and half next to her, reminding her every few swings to tell me when she's all done. She smiles that beatific smile she has and replies in the affirmative. The next minute she has flung herself from the swing and flies through the air, landing on her hands and knees.

"All done, Mommy!

St. Valentine's Day

Tomorrow is Saint Valentine's day,
All in the morning betime,
And I a maid at your window,
To be your Valentine.

Then up he rose, and donn'd his clothes,
And dupp'd the chamber door,
Let in the maid, that out a maid
Never departed more.

William Shakespeare
Hamlet
Act IV, Scene V

The Tiger

Tiger, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder and what art
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand and what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? What dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,
And water'd heaven with their tears,
Did He smile His work to see?
Did He who made the lamb make thee?

Tiger, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

William Blake

Delirium Kisses, Fever Dreams

For those of you that don't know, not only do I talk in my sleep but I sing.

Really.

From my mother's amazement at my childhood nocturnal ramblings to my first roommate in college incredulously informing me that I sang the entirety of "The Perfect Nanny" from Mary Poppins the first night in my dorm.

It's nothing new.

Today has been spent mostly dozing on the couch, while Mojo and Arabis went about their day around me. At one point, I began to sing:

"Birds gotta swim!
And fish gotta fly!
I gotta love one man 'til he dies.
Can't help lovin' that man o' mine!"

Mojo has to pop in," Artemis? Are you awake?"

"Birds gotta swim!
And fish gotta fly!
I gotta love one man 'til I KILL HIM!
Can't help lovin' that man o' mine!"

"Art!" says Mojo laughing. "You're singing about killing me!"

"No, no! I don't want to kill you! You're taking good care of me. I like you. I don't want to kill you." I pause and then continue, "In fact, I need to embroider you a little tiny vest and hat. To show you how much I love you."

"Are you trying to say that I'm your minion?"

"No. You're the father of the minion. But when you really love someone, you embroider them little tiny vests and hats."

And with that I retreated into deep sleep. All this was related to me with great glee upon waking.

The vests and hats are reference to another dream of about a year ago wherein I was sobbing aloud and quite distressed, muttering how "Someone must have loved them very much to embroider all those hats and vests but now she's dead and they're ALL ALONE!!!!!!"

We figured out that one was about the flying monkeys from The Wizard of Oz.

Then there was the time I gleefully informed him that I was "On a mission from Frog" and that we had to find "Mr Fabulous," obviously channeling Kermit and the Blues Brothers together.

My brain is a frightening place to live when I'm healthy. When I'm sick, it becomes an E ticket ride!

Braaaaaiiiiiins

"Hmmmm, juice, Mommy. Good juice. Yummy, yummy juice!"

"What are you drinking, Arabis?"

"Juice!"

Er...no...that's not juice. That's the remains of your father's Turkish Coffee milkshake from last night that was almost full and is now...empty. Yeah. A two year old wired on Turkish Coffee, because anything with a straw in it is "juice."

I've already declared today a "pajama day" because I don't want to bother getting dressed. When is the feeling of being exhausted every going to go away? Perhaps it just never does. It's one of those things they don't tell you about being a parent, because if you knew it's possible the species would never propagate.

I do love my daughter. Even though she thinks eggs are "balls, mommy, balls!" that don't bounce. "Ball broke, mommy!"

I'm not getting sick. No way, no how. Not. Getting. Sick.

"I love you, Mommy."

Yeah, sweetie. I love you too. That's what this is all about.

"Tattoo? Have tattoo, please?"



Gods, help me! This is going to be a looong day.

Day Thirty

I don't know what it is, but it ain't art (said with a heavy Brooklyn accent).

All is well, and all is well, and all shall be well.

Neil Gaiman, American Gods

Post 29

Crazy day with no chance to write and now having to relinquish the computer to Mojo to work on his book.

Here it is. My scintillating life.

Goodbye

There are things it's hard to let go:
The turn of a head
a look
the sound of a laugh

So the shock of seeing is tempered by a misleading familiarity
Despite the years, I smiled
Despite the years, I wanted to embrace you

That is my own foolish nature
I soften as I age
as the gray in my hair curls
as my daughter grows tall
This is what comes of laughing every day
a hope for the future and a sense of forgiveness
of myself and of you

Because what I remember is your laughter

So I smiled and opened my heart

It missed, you know
That dagger flung so casually
Shattered at my feet
The bitterness that you have become
Dissipated like fog before a breeze

Some women deny their power
Some women revel in being what men desire
Some women live to punish those that hurt them
never acknowledging the hurt they themselves inflicted

It feels like an undeclared war
that should be over
Not nurtured and cherished
I feel a chill from unexpected corners and realize that other doors have closed
blown shut by the winds of your influence

You've grown hard and brittle

I watched you across the room like a stranger who captures your attention
because they remind you of another
But it was clear you were unknown to me
The unfamiliar you in a form so like yet unlike
I felt like I could reach out and settle you gently in the palm of my hand
a fragile figurine
a walking voodoo doll cursing only herself

I say goodbye and go through the doors already open
The ones opening daily

There is a hole in my heart shaped like you
That no other can fill
It gets smaller with time
I'll always miss you and mourn a lost reconciliation
But I'll never lower myself to you

I love you
I mourn you
I walk forward

Day 27

My girl is refusing to sleep. She is restless and ornery. I am tired and preoccupied.

This is my post.

No Time

Four hours spent in the kitchen cleaning up after three days of Mojo and Arabis playing bachelor father.

Five loads of laundry...and I'm still not done.

"'Time, time,' said old King Tut,
'Is something I ain't got anything but.'"

Don Marquis, from Archy and Mehitabel

Survived

Three day weekend at opening of Dickens Fair is safely past. My daughter and my mate have hardly seen me and both clamour for my attention, so off I go to them.

And to bed. Ah, sweet bed. Bed is the friend I never get to spend enough time with.

Blah

Beyond tired. Beyond brains. Beyond logic.

Got filmed today for a local news station, doing my Peggotty bit with David Copperfield. I'm damned if I can remember what show it's for, but they were out doing a bit on the Dickens Fair and it's always fun to be color.

It's good work, but it is exhausting. I walk more miles within that one building and talk to more people during this five week period than I do all year. But it's home.

So very, very tired. One more day until this weekend is over...

Must climb the stairs to bed. Bed is good. We like bed.

One Down, Ten More to Go

This weekend is a whirlwind of activity leaving me little time to write and less energy and motivation to do so. I have walked miles today within the confines of the building housing our recreated 19th century London. I have talked to hundreds of people, dusted off my Yarmouth accent (I play Peggoty from David Copperfield), squired my young David Copperfield and reunited with the grown-up version later in the day.

And now I hear the voice of Mojo calling me from the other room, so come and sit. My friend Kathi has been driving down from Mono Lake to work as a barmaid at the Fair, so she is sitting with Mojo and Arabis. There's something about the easy camaraderie of friends you've known for so long they are family. I first met Kathi when I was 15. She threw my 21st birthday party. And here we are now.

My second call. Arabis is up far too late and I must put that child to bed. I find when father and daughter are left to their own devises, they tend to go a bit feral. It's good for them both, once in a while.

The third summons, my name echoing through the rooms. Until tomorrow.

It's That Time of Year Again

THE GREAT DICKENS CHRISTMAS FAIR!
FIVE WEEKENDS
including the FRIDAY after Thanksgiving!
Fri. Nov. 23 through
Sun. Dec. 23, 2007
In San Francisco's Cow Palace Exhibition Halls

Celebrate the Holiday Season in Victorian London!

The bustling streets of London, immortalized for all time by the mighty pen of Charles Dickens, form the living backdrop of your excursion into Christmas Past. You are a living part of a Victorian Christmas card come to life!

A Bay Area tradition for 28 holiday seasons, the Great Dickens Christmas Fair returns to the San Francisco Cow Palace Exhibition Halls for five weekends , including the Friday after Thanksgiving, from Friday, November 23 through Sunday, December 23, from 11am 'til 7pm.

Created in 1970 by Ron & Phyllis Patterson, the fair is now produced by Kevin & Leslie Patterson and Red Barn Productions, who continue the family tradition of theatrical excellence through authenticity, participation, and playfulness.

Come wander the lanes of Victorian London, as the glow of twilight settles upon the city. With the scent of pine boughs and freshly baked scones floating in the air and the sound of carolers and holiday merrymakers accompanying your stroll...

• Visit shops bedecked with Christmastime finery and filled with unique treasures.
• Stop in for a hot toddy or a pint of Boddington's at Mad Sal's Dockside Ale House, where the low-life hang out and the high-born drop in.
• Raise a champagne toast to the holidays at Fezziwig's Warehouse, the most cheerful spot in London.
• Enjoy rollicking entertainments on four stages and in the streets.
• Feast on fine foods from the British Empire and beyond.
• Rest a spell in Cuthbert's Tea House, for a sip of hot tea and cucumber sandwiches or scones.

A holiday adventure into Victorian London, celebrating with hundreds of costumed players in 90,000+ square feet of theatrically-lit music halls, pubs, dance parties and Christmas shops on winding lanes. It'’s a twilight evening in Charles Dickens'’ London Town: a city filled with lively and colorful characters from both literature and history. Enticing aromas of roasted chestnuts and hearty foods fill the air. Cries of street vendors hawking their wares ring out above the bustling crowd. Dozens of lamp-lit shops are filled to overflowing with Christmas presents.

Experience the joys of Christmas past at the Great Dickens Christmas Fair and Victorian Holiday Party!

The Night Before...

Happy Thanksgiving, everybody!

It must really be happening, because we watched Charlie Brown last night. I'm off to bed. There are pies that need baking bright and early.

Be thankful!

Well, This Could Explain A Lot

From an article by Virginia Heffernan in the New York Times Magazine:

"Sunny days! The earliest episodes of “Sesame Street” are available on digital video! Break out some Keebler products, fire up the DVD player and prepare for the exquisite pleasure-pain of top-shelf nostalgia.

Just don’t bring the children. According to an earnest warning on Volumes 1 and 2, “Sesame Street: Old School” is adults-only: “These early ‘Sesame Street’ episodes are intended for grown-ups, and may not suit the needs of today’s preschool child.”..."

Brief points:

• Dingy brownstones
• Inner city slums
• Friendship and trust across gender and age lines
• Misanthropic characters (not just Oscar, but Bert as well)
• Pipe smoking (Cookie Monster parodying Alastair Cooke)
• Poor snack habits( Cookie Monster, of course)
• Invisible friends indicating possible paranoid schizophrenia
• Suspected whole milk

How on earth did we ever turn out to be okay?

Read the whole article here.

My Girls

I go upstairs to bed last night and what do I find? My daughter and my girl cat completely entangled in a kitty pile. Arabis is half atop Izzy and Izzy has flung a paw over Arabis.

I just had to stop and watch them for a while, remembering how Izzy and her brother Wolf would wrap themselves around my huge belly during my third trimester and purr. I would pet the cats and tell that what they felt were the kicks of their newest sibling-to-be: the hairless kitty with thumbs growing within.

I gently moved Arabis (since Izzy is a tiny cat, not even seven pounds) and Izzy sleepily mewed her protest, readjusting herself and nuzzling up to her human sister.

Day 18

It's like this:

• I have been awake since 3:00 AM and up since 4:00 AM. The second night of insomnia.
• I spent over three hours researching arcane Victorian customs and old London streets.
• I have made strange conjectures and connections between the archetypes of Robert Graves and the characters of Charles Dickens.
  
• I had a rehearsal today that lasted from 9:00 to 5:00 with what amounted to one 20 minute break for lunch.
• I have been on my feet for most of it.
• We open on Friday (more info later for you curious lot).
• I have driven home in traffic.
• I have bought food for dinner.
• I have cuddled my daughter
  
• I have cooked said dinner.
• I have knitted a tiny bit.
• I cuddled my daughter some more.
  
• There was a weak fruity rum drink in there somewhere that went straight to my head.
• Everyone else in the house (including my friend, Kathi, who is spending weekends with us during the run) is fast asleep.
  
• Even the cats.
  
• I need to go to bed.
• I need to post.
• My brain meats are toast.

I am grateful for:

• Chocolate.
• And people that appreciate me, because let me tell you, I got so many compliments and encouragement on my work and characterizations today that I am walking about a foot off the ground.

I am for bed.

Friendship

I am amazingly grateful and blessed to have this woman in my life.

We survived our parents.
We survived being poor.
We survived depression.
And, damn it, we're going to survive motherhood, too!

I love you, Shemena.

The Gods Are Laughing

Because guess who fell asleep in my lap not ten minutes after I published yesterday's post. Uh huh. Yep. You got it.

So the one good piece of today is that when Alexandria came over yesterday for tea and costume talk we took some measurements for Mrs. Gamp's costume. I've lost 15 pounds and at least three inches. That's kind of exciting to me. I still have 50 more to go to hit my pre-pregnancy weight, but after two and half years this is a tremendous start.

Arabis ending up sleeping until just before 8:00 PM, despite my fervent hopes that she sleep all night. But we had a pretty mellow evening after that and got to bed by 11:00, so I'm not fretting too much. We all seem to be in better moods today.

I never did get my rum last night. Ah, well.

We've Gone Feral

There were no pants today.

There was no nap today.

There was nothing accomplished today.

Sometimes I feel like I totally flunked Mom101 (it's a given that I radically failed Girl 101). It was a day that was akin to repeatedly beating one's head against a brick wall.

So for the rest of the evening I've decided to quit trying for anything grander than base survival. I'm off to make dinner. Then we'll have a bath. And if there is a deity overseeing our puny actions, they will smile down at us benevolently and give us an easy and early bed time. Because Mama's got a date with a fruity rum drink.

That's all I'm sayin'.

Alert the Media (Now WIth Unplanned Musings on Motherhood)

I'm showered. I'm dressed. I'm actually feeling like I can impersonate a human being today. Which is a damned good thing because if I don't get Arabis out of the house and into a park to run around chaos is going come raining down about my ears (not that it hasn't already, but I've learned the hard way not to say "it can't get any worse").

I haven't left the house since Saturday.

Kelly and Galen were supposed to come over and hang out yesterday and I could've actually used the company. But such is the life with kids. If anyone is sick, all bets are off. So I struggled to stay awake and keep Arabis mildly entertained. Her new favorite thing is jumping. She'll pull all the cushions off the tapestry sofa (we have two) and jump like a mad thing, all the while proclaiming her activity. "Jump, jump jump!"

She's very into tools right now. Screwdrivers, hammers. my five foot level: nothing is safe. She's running around right now with a two foot piece of white PVC pipe. It has been alternately a spyglass, a straw, a trumpet and a cane. I'm noticing her indulging in more pretend play now, too. She was playing with her Duplo blocks with Daddy on Sunday and they built a little ladder with them. She took one of her little Duplo men and made him climb the blocks, calling him Pingu. She's also taken to calling one of her little bears Ojo, a character from Bear in the Big Blue House.

Bubbles are also high on the list of can't-live-without. As are balls of any shape and size.

The language is there, but slow. She understands perfectly, but just seems to choose her own words carefully. Sometimes she'll chatter on for ages and we have no idea what she is saying. I think she's speaking Tibetan. My mother points out that I never did that and I once again point out to my mother that Arabis is not me.

I've noticed some interactions between my mother and daughter recently that have gotten me thinking about my own reactions to things and how I approach the world. Arabis has been very vocal about her desire to not wear pants. This will extend to diapers as well (we're actually using pull-ups now, since Mojo brought them home once and she refuses to go back).

One Monday night I was attempting to get Arabis in her pajamas post bath and my mother was standing nearby "helping." Arabis was upset for some reason and didn't want to put on her pull-up. My mother began challenging her and antagonizing her in an effort to get her to cooperate, "I bet you can't do it yourself, can you?" I got really upset and asked my mother to just go sit down and let me deal with it. So Arabis and I sang the Pajama Song and all progressed smoothly.

But it got me thinking. My ex-husband used to say that the only way he could get me to do anything was to piss me off. If I would get angry enough I would do it just to show him. It's true, actually and I always wondered where it came from, only to have it illustrated blatantly to me. It was my mother, challenging me to do things as a toddler and a baby, the same way she was challenging my daughter.

I got very angry with her. This revelation came in a split second, watching that interaction and her own with me throughout my life, it all came flooding over me. My mother is not a mean woman. On the contrary, she is a very supportive and loving person.

It got me thinking about how our actions when our children are small have repercussions that echo through time. How we can never know what little thing we do can shape someone later in life. It's overwhelming to think about, really. Because it's inevitable. We can only try to be the best people we can be, to model our behaviour and make our interactions as true and compassionate as possible.

Worth It

You know how it is, when you're sick and you want nothing more than to go to bed but you can't because you have a two year old with unlimited amounts of energy? When said two year old comes up to you out of the blue and gives you a sloppy wet kiss, just because she felt you needed it.

That's what makes it all worth while.

I am thankful beyond belief for my amazingly sensitive goofball of a daughter.

Veterans of War

Yesterday would've been my grandmother's 90th birthday.

Yesterday my great-uncle Bob died at age 91. I just found out.

Can't write like I want to right now. Memories flood and drown me. The are a blessing though they overwhelm.

Sniffly Thanks

Today I am grateful to Mojo and cold medicine. Mojo for taking care of me and Arabis with narry a grumble and cold medicine for the obvious reasons.

Blood From a Turnip

I'm having a terrible time making blogging a priority these days. I had hoped that NaBloPoMo would give me the impetus to come back with a bang and it hasn't. It has been more of a chore for which I have no time.

Between chasing around a two year old and rehearsals, I've no time for much else. But I'll persevere doggedly because I hate abandoning things half way through. This is a particularly challenging time in my life and I am finding myself reticent to delve too deeply into my inner psyche and air my mental trash for all the internet to see.

I'm having trouble sleeping again, so my synapses fire slowly or too rapidly to make much sense. Hell I'm so exhausted these days that I've even considered actually posting some of my poetry here. Guaranteed to drive away my three readers for sure!

I have fallen behind on giving daily thanks. I'm not sure by how much. So here's a quick off the cuff list that perhaps I can elaborate on in greater detail when I've more time (insert laugh here) or inclination (a wry chuckle would be appropriate at this juncture):

• my mother
• my daughter
• Shemena, my best friend
• all my friends, truthfully
• Mojo
• the ocean
• the women who came before

Midnight

As the mother of a toddler, insomnia is something I cannot afford to indulge in. However it is sometimes unavoidable.

I'm going to pay dearly for this in the morning.

Trouble in Toddler Town

Rough night last night. Arabis was up and down for most of the night. Sometimes mellow, sometimes manic, sometimes sobbing. There was no relief and much discomfort. I suspect more of the second year molars (she's gotten one so far).

Little sleep for me, a bit more for her and it is a somewhat sensitive and brittle morning.

There is just too much going on right now, and I am scattered and pulled in so many different directions I barely know where to turn.

Physics Lessons for my Daughter

Arabis and I went shopping for bras last night and I had a good long look in the mirror. And you know what, after having lost 15 pounds, they look like they're sagging even more.

I gave Arabis a science lesson; "Repeat after me, gravity is not mommy's friend."

"Gra'i'ee," she replied with a serious look on her face.

Yeah. It sucks.

Sword of Damocles

I have no bloody time for this.

Bonfire Night

Remember, remember the Fifth of November,

The Gunpowder Treason and Plot,

I know of no reason

Why Gunpowder Treason

Should ever be forgot.

Guy Fawkes, Guy Fawkes, t'was his intent

To blow up King and Parli'ment.

Three-score barrels of powder below

To prove old England's overthrow;

By God's providence he was catch'd

With a dark lantern and burning match.

Holloa boys, holloa boys, let the bells ring.

Holloa boys, holloa boys, God save the King!

I really need to burn something tonight.

Exhausting Weekend

I'm not feeling well at all. I am thankful for medicine and a good mattress that calls to me.

Gratitude, Day Three: Surrey's Story

I am blessed with storytellers. I am blessed by those that will take the time to sit and share a bit of their life.

I was moved to tears today by the story a friend told of her childhood in England during WWII, of her evacuation from Bristol at about my daughter's age to a farmhouse in the countryside, where she lived with a man and his wife who detested one another and never spoke and the time she spent there, seeing bombs fall on the city where her parents were, not knowing whether they were alive or dead and no one to go to for comfort or solace.

After the war, her extended family pooled their ration cards for petrol so her parents could drive out to the farm to collect her.

She spoke of that first Christmas after the war, in London, reverting to her six year old self, the American tones of her voice fading as her child-self came out to talk of the wonders she saw. The lights bright after so many years of blackout curtains. The crowds of people in the streets. People still living in tube stations who had lost everything they had. Children her own age, bedraggled and dirty, scavenging along the Thames during low tide and among the bombed out buildings for anything they could sell. Shopkeepers taking to the streets with their wares in barrows or with tables set in front of their unusable shops.

Children were back in London for the first time in years, she said, and they were greeted with joy. Class lines were erased as strangers called out to one another, wishing the best of the season to rich and poor. A fruit seller gave her a banana as a gift, her first, and she bit into it like an apple, skin and all, not knowing it first had to be peeled.

A fishmonger, selling cockles and winkles and eels, reaching into his basket and pulling out a live eel, slitting it head to tail before her very eyes and cutting off a piece of the raw flesh to give to the wide-eyed, awe struck Surrey.

"My first sushi," she said. "It was salty and sweet all at once and tasted of the sea and freedom."

Dia de los Muertos

Today is Dia de los Muertos. I have always remembered and honored those who have passed before, whose presence in my life helped shape who I am. In the past I have built ofrendas for my ancestors and fallen contemporaries. I place photos, small keepsakes, flowers, water, salt, candles, bread and anything else that strikes me as being appropriate. The house is cleaned and incense is lit. It is a welcoming, refreshing feeling, the building and cleaning, the tears and joy that come with memory.

For the second year I have made no ofrenda. For the second year this post is my ofrenda.

There are people missing from my list. There is too much in my head...or too little, I can't remember which. I write their names and bring them to me for a moment in time. And send them on their way:

Rose Rushdoony Deovlet (Grandma Rosie)
Phil Deovlet (Grandpa)
Rose (Vartoohi) Mahdesian Deovlet (Grandma Darling)
Benjamin Deovlet (Grandpa Darling)
Rose (Vartanoush) Rushdoony (Grandma Rushdoony)
Y.K. Rushdoony (Grandpa Rushdoony)
Mary Movsesian (Auntie Mim)
Spurgeon Avakian (Uncle Sparky)
Ruth Avakian (Auntie Ruthie)
Evelyn Cooper Smith (Grandma Evelyn)
Haywood Smith (Grandpa Haywood)
Auntie Margie
Bob Thomas
Dave Ricker
Robin Wadsworth
Michael Hefflin
Maxina Danner (Snookie)
Jennifer Lee
Patrick Lee
Mace Hanley
Shelly Munge
Dan O'Brien
Ricky Paul
Barbara Rose
Ronnie Geoffrion
Dave Coker
Don Mills
Wally Lockwood
Sally Schneider
Linda Underhill
Manny Suarez
Mary Jo Goss
Andrew Small
Phil Robledo
Amethyst Mariani
Theryl O'Ryan


Gratitude: Today I am grateful for my family and friends who have gone on and for those who are with me still. I am blessed by your presence in my life, your belief in me and your love.



"To absent friends, lost loves, old gods, and the season of mists; and may each and every one of us always give the devil his due."

Neil Gaiman

Gratitude

Late nap, late dinner, late bath, late laundry...exhausted me. So lest I forget:

I want to start out by giving thanks to the always encouraging Boogiemum herself. I don't even remember how we found each other in the vast unchartable wasteland that is the internet, but we did and have been enjoying each other's writing and chatting in the ether for over a year. She has been unflaggingly supportive of my ups and downs, always there with a kind word when I reappear after an absence and generally being just being an amazingly wonderful and giving woman.

So, thanks to you, Boogiemum. I wish we lived closer so we could actually go sit in a cafe and chat up a storm.

Oh, No! It's National Blog Posting Month!

That's right, folks. The return of the infamous NaBloPoMo, guaranteed to kick my butt for the second year in a row.

This is not my official first post, hence no links, graphics or photos. This is merely a post to say that I have a toddler who is refusing to nap, ergo no computer time for me just yet. I'm going to scrape by tonight if I can ever get to sleep!

The dilemma now is, of course, do I keep her up in the hopes of getting her to sleep early this evening, or try to get her to sleep for a few hours of blissful solitude and writing? Hmmmmmm....both are intriguing prospects.

Artistic Expression

To the Person Who Invented Washable Crayons:

I think I love you. Really.

You have a very special place reserved for you in Paradise.

In Memorium

Maxina Danner

Born: 25 March 1987
Murdered: 27 September 2004

You are loved and missed, Snookie. You are forever in our hearts.
You are remembered.

Foreshadowing

Mojo: "Will you be a good girl for Mommy today?"

Arabis: "Noooooooooooooo."

Well. She's my kid, that's for sure!

Strike Two and a Home Run

While boiling pasta for Arabis' dinner last night I got distracted and let all the water boil out, leaving a charred mass of black sludge in the bottom of a vintage Revereware pot.

Thankfully my mother was here. She told me to put a little water in the bottom and some cleanser and let it set. Needless to say I then made new pasta while my daughter cried in the other room, telling her grandmother how much I mistreat her, scorch her food and force her to wear clothes.

Well, I may not be able to boil noodles tonight, but damn if I didn't make just about the best souboreg this side of Van! Yummy!!

(DISCLAIMER: The link is purely for identification purposes and is NOT my family's recipe.)

Two Dilemas

This afternoon we have two major problems. They work in tandem. The first is that I am having a terrible time staying awake. I feel like vultures are circling. I must keep moving. If I stop for only a minute, to sit on the sofa say, I will fall asleep. Then the vultures will descend in the form of the second problem.

Arabis will not keep her clothes on. Whenever I fall asleep, I awaken to her naked. Naked and jumping on my head. Naked and playing with her blocks. Naked and riding her wooden rocking horse like a pint-sized Lady Godiva. Then we reenact a distaff version of the infamous Undertaker vs. Mankind "Hell in a Cell" match wherein I attempt to clothe and diaper her and she resists. To anyone outside in the hallway it must sound like the Slaughter of the Innocents.

So I've finally managed to get her into a pair of Osh Kosh overall shorts, sans shirt, which she can't remove (knock on wood). I am in the kitchen drinking a coke and making her dinner.

But I can tell. This is not over. Not by a long shot.

Camping

Home from camping on Mt. Diablo this weekend, aptly named as it was hot as Hades! We saw a family of raccoons, quail, a tarantula and so many flies I wished for an Australian outback hat, despite its ridiculous nature.

Arabis had fun, although the constant vigilance was tiring for both Mojo and I. Our girl is tenacious and willful, albeit with a sweet nature, and it is coming out in droves right now. She will listen calmly to what is asked of her and then do her own thing if it doesn't suit her needs. (Expect an entry on discipline and cries for help very soon!)

I took a goodly amount of photos but am too tired to download the camera. A photo essay will be forthcoming in the next day or two. Unfortunately I didn't get a shot of the tarantula since I forgot my camera back at camp. But I did get a few spectacular shots of the sunset, tinged a brilliant orange-red by the smoke from all the wildfires.

Feh

Today my fu has the funk.

Phooey.

Why I Hate Berkeley (S)Mothers

Arabis and I headed off to Totland early this morning, leaving Monkey Boi home in bed (he was up too late playing Starcraft on the computer). We get there and Arabis heads off running to check out all her favorite stuff. There are two older girls on the slide (about seven and five: far older than the normal Totland demographic) and they are monopolizing the slide, climbing up it the wrong way and not letting other kids get on. Arabis manages to wriggle past them and as she is on the ladder almost to the top, the older one runs around to climb up the stairs and pushes past her, almost sending her tumbling backwards down the stairs. Then both girls stand at the top of the slide and prevent Arabis from going down. Arabis looks askance for a moment before deciding that she's just going back down the stairs. There is no adult in sight supervising them.

I come over and tell her that those girls didn't want to share and we'd just go play on something else. She was fine with that and we go off and play on some other equipment. We talked to another mother and grandmother who complimented Arabis on her t-shirt ("Hello, my name is Trouble") and her rock star sunglasses. I pushed her on the baby swings and we played on the big wooden structure and drove cars around.

Then she wanted to go on the adult swing (there are two in the corner). The older of the two girls from the slide was on one so I took Arabis to the other swing and pushed her very gently for a little bit (she's just getting the hang of the how the big swing works). She got down after a little while and walked in front of the other swing. I cried out and dove to grab her but the girl sped up and kicked Arabis in the head, sending her sprawling in the sand.

She had sand in her mouth, on her teeth, streaked down her face on the tracks of tears, in her hair. I scooped her up and carried her hysterical to the bench, checking her for any obvious injury and trying to comfort her as much as possible. Got her to drink some water and eventually calm down. Scooped the sand out of her mouth and checked all her teeth for anything loose (no, thank goodness) and cleaned her up as best I could. One woman came over to see if we were okay, which was very nice.

I look over and notice an adult talking to the older girl who is still on the swing. The girl gets off the swing and follows the woman to a stroller where the woman proceeds to strap the younger girl in to. I pick up Arabis, who has stopped crying and gasping and walk over to them.

"Your daughters almost pushed my child down the steps of the slide about a half hour ago. They have been bullying other kids in this playground and now your daughter just kicked my child in the head," I tell this woman in a voice so calm I frightened myself.

"Thank you for informing me of their actions," says the woman, not looking up at me and fiddling with her bag and the stroller.

"I would like your daughter to apologize," I tell her through clenched teeth.

"Only if you apologize first for being so angry," the miserable woman replies.

I was aghast. What the fuck?!? I look down at her kids, who are also refusing to look at me. I look at her with my mouth open in shock. A thousand unutterable names course through my head but I am aware of all the toddlers around us and I manage to not call her a miserable sniveling c*nt of a camel's whore and just say, "Excuse me?"

She repeated her desire that I needed to apologize for my anger before her child would apologize to Arabis for kicking her in the head.

"You're insane," I said. And she walked away.

I took Arabis to the car and gave her some milk and held her while she got hysterical again. Then after I got her calmed down I called my friend Shemena to rant because I got hysterical.

We went home and she's fine. She's got some bruising around one temple so I gave her some Tylenol. Her pupils are fine. She and Monkey Boi played with the Duplo blocks for a while and chased each other around laughing, so I think she is fine. I'll still watch her and look for any additional bruising in the bath tonight.

On a happier note, here are a couple portraits taken this morning prior to going to the park. It's hard to take self-portraits with a wiggly todder: we never both look good in the same shot!

The Sky is Falling!

I bought a chicken today. Or more accurately, I purchased a carcass that once housed the soul of a chicken (if chickens can be said to possess souls {which is a philosophical discussion for another time}).

This is kind of a big deal for me. In no way am I the "Suzy Homemaker" type. No domestic diva, I. Martha Stewart and Rachel Ray (annoying woman who my mother adores) have nothing to fear from me. In short, I flunked Girl101.

I hate to cook. (Disclaimer: this does not apply to Armenian food. I am an awesome Armenian cook.) I love to bake and am quite good at that, but just the thought of cooking can still send shudders of horror and anxiety through me. I've gotten better over the years and especially in these last two and half years that have found me out of the workplace. Dare I say it, I've gotten almost adventuresome. I've cooked steaks. I've tried recipes from cookbooks. I've even deviated from them and branched out on my own. Now, I face the final frontier: the chicken.

I have a "thing" about chickens. It's not really a phobia. It's more of an extreme dislike and lack of respect. I even have trouble eating chicken. It stems from my childhood and spending time in Fresno during the summers. When I was younger, Fresno was the "New Old Country" for Armenians on the West Coast (I think that distinction has moved to Glendale now). And 35 to 40 years ago it was not the urban sprawl in the Central Valley that it is today. There were still orchards and farms quite close to town.

We would go visit my Auntie Zaroohi on her farm. Sometimes we kids would get sent into the fields to pick grape leaves and the old ladies would can them to use later for dolma and yalanchi. Afterwards, we would sit on her porch, drink lemonade and eat pomegranates. Auntie kept chickens. Chickens are disgusting animals. They are dirty and mean with cannibalistic tendencies. Occasionally we had to gather eggs or feed them. I never liked walking through the pen, being that close to them. They would peck at your feet and argue and harass you. The sensation of chicken shit squishing between my bare toes as I walked is one that instills a sense of stomach churning disgust in me to this day.

I have never baked a chicken. Or roasted. Or whatever you call it when you stuff it with dried bread and lay it nicely in a pan with potatoes and carrots and onions around it. But I am going to tonight. I am obviously possessed of a trickster djinn who is going to be greatly amused by the spectacle, but I'm going to give it my best shot. I've got a Joy of Cooking and Mojo has his Betty Crocker Cookbook around here somewhere, and damn it if I'm not going to feed this nasty bird to my loved ones! Just see if I don't!

I'll let you know tomorrow how it goes. Wish me luck!

Housekeeping

My goodness, it's dusty in here! With cobwebs hanging from all the corners. No one has been here for a long time. That's going to have to change.

Let's do a little housekeeping and see what we can come up with.

Is anyone still out there?

It Runs in the Family

It's Saturday night and I am frantically getting ready to head to the art center for the final performance of "Macbeth." My mother has agreed to babysit Arabis for the night and is sitting at the table with my daughter, eating dinner.

From in the bathroom, I hear the following conversation:

Grandma: "Arabis, do you know how to scare a bee?"

Arabis: "Bee!"

Grandma: "You sneak up behind it very quietly and a great big voice yell, BOO BEE!"

Arabis: (giggling) "Boo-bee! Boobie! BOOBIE!!!!!!!!"

(Thanks, Mom.)


In other news: I promise a full post with updates very soon. My life has been crazed these past few months what with moving into a bigger live/work space (in the same building), rehearsing for and performing in a 13-show run of "Macbeth" in Berkeley (just closed this weekend), another possibly big thing in the works that I can't talk about right now and Arabis's second birthday. A lot has been going on. But I miss this forum and I miss everyone (Hi, Boogiemum!) and look forward to being a regular presence on the Interschnitzel once again.

Conversations With My Daughter

Me: Are you my evil minion?

Arabis: Yeah!

Me: Are we going to take over the world?

Arabis: Yeah, yeah!!

Me: Is Mama a benevolent dictator?

Arabis: Eh (shrugs shoulders).

Living on the Freeway

Some of you local San Francisco Bay Area types may have heard of an accident recently involving a tanker loaded with gasoline and a particularly grueling stretch of freeway. What you may not know is that I live, oh, less than half a mile from the section of freeway in question. And now, thanks to the powers that be, all freeway traffic that would normally be bypassing my lonely stretch of industrial West Oakland is hurtling down the major thoroughfare in front of my house at freeway-like speeds.

I've watched the news the last few days (those of you can be as aghast as you want to find that this is not a normal occurrence for me) and listened to traffic reporters gratefully relating how traffic has been lighter than normal. There was even a mobile news van set up on the corner for about six hours on Monday with a reporter going on camera every hour or so. Had I known what kind of hogwash they'd be spilling, I'd have run out there with Arabis in tow and given them what for.

"How's this traffic affecting the neighborhood?" Ross McGowan of KTVU asks the anonymous reporter hanging out at the Arco station up the street.

"Oh, it's no big deal. It's great for small businesses," our clueless correspondent replied.

There is, wait let me count, *ONE* small business between the two points on the detour and that is (da-da-da-DAH, you guessed it!) the ARCO Station (known in the neighborhood as Crackhead Central).

The reality is that between the cars racing down the street, the exhaust that has easily trebled (if not more), the noise pollution of horns, engines and screeching brakes (not to mention the almost constant drone of the helicopters overhead) have made this a nightmare. The irony of the entire situation is there are other routes one could take that go through less populated areas and shorter distances. One news report does have the decency to urge drivers to "Please use extreme caution while driving this detour route as it makes it way through neighborhoods with children playing and going to school." But judging from the behavior of the drivers outside my window, that is not happening.

I inadvertently drove above the site early Sunday morning (probably less than six hours after it occurred) while going to breakfast, having heard nothing about it previously (other than the incessant helicopters {which in my 'hood could just signify a big drug bust}). It was the most frightening thing I have ever seen. Instant flashbacks to the Loma Prieta earthquake. Especially since I live right in front of the site of the old Cypress Freeway structure that collapsed in that disaster.

Who knows how long this will take to fix, especially with a purported shortage of steel (most of which is going into the new Bay Bridge currently being built). Estimates range from six weeks to months.

Free public transit on Monday was a good start, but it seems it's going to take more than a little freeway collapse to get folks out of their cars. Until then, can anyone recommend a good air filter?