Diary of a Mad Housewife

A study in what we argue about in this house:

So Gwen and I decided to work on some shrinky dinks today. She loves shrinky dinks -- and I had the idea that we could make characters from a story and then act it out. She loved this idea and got excited when I mentioned the Three Little Pigs, so I outlined the characters/props, and she did the coloring-in. We ended up with: 3 houses, one (purple) big bad wolf dressed in a suit, one overdressed male pig, one very girly female pig, and one pig dressed like a hippie.

When I showed them to Christopher, I noted that the overdressed pig was getting the house made out of straw because he clearly had messed up priorities and had spent his money on clothes, and Girly Pig got the cut wood Victorian because she happened to care more about the cute appearance than substance, and Hippie Pig was getting the brick house because he was really an environmentalist and had therefore engaged in some real long-term thinking.

Christopher was emphatic that Hippie Pig should be living in the straw house, because hippie pig was zen enough to realize everything passes away, even his house of straw, and that it was okay that the Big Bad Wolf was coming to blow the house in.

I said this was ridiculous, that Hippie Pig wasn't about to go creating a house he knew was just going to turn back into a pile of rubble and go into some landfill after the levees broke.

I think we were about to turn into an argument about natural materials when the kids started acting up again and the whole conversation devolved into us giggling about Animal Farm.

Meanwhile, I leave you all with Hippie Pig. That is a headband around his forehead. What do you all think? And yes, feel free to yell at me about Girly Pig and her cute wooden house, but seriously -- someone had to be assigned to the wooden house, and I did try to keep Hippie Pig fairly gender-neutral.

In an unusual turn, we had Thanksgiving at my parents' house, just family, which is to say, zantony was there, as was my father's oldest friend (which I mean in more ways than one), Hugh.

I like food. I really like Thanksgiving food. I intend to perfect my gluten-free stuffing recipe.

There is too much tension in my relationship with my parents, and I bring most of it to the table. That is a me problem. Also, they are crazy.

gatopreto and meristem are in town and the gang came to see them at our place yesterday. Having them here makes it feel all the more like home. What's a piddly continent to divide us?

From now on, during all parties, 7pm is going to be kids' clean-up time.

I feel very bad that we gave scottso no coffee injection before 8pm.

I still have no idea what I am doing for Glory's birthday party Dec. 3. Do you want to be there? If so drop me a note. I'm thinking of having all the older siblings dress up as fairies and give Glory wishes in lieu of gifts.

More party tomorrow. Mucho cleaning and shopping today. Wheeee!

iTunes is not letting me purchase Holly Near and Ronnie Gilbert's Lifeline. I still have it on vinyl somewhere, yes, but I have no turntable. I haven't heard this album in years. And there it is! Right there in iTunes! After years of waiting for it to come out on CD and it has bonus tracks. But when I try to purchase it it says that it is "being modified." MODIFIED???!!! I don't want it modified! I want it just as it is RIGHT NOW THIS MINUTE. Do you hear me, Steve Jobs? THIS MINUTE.

More or less this whole album makes me sob buckets, some of joy, most of terror. It's not FAIR.

Edit: I downloaded it song by song instead, at an extra cost of about four dollars. "Being modified" my left foot. Maybe some day they'll start remembering to credit songwriters.

I was cooking up pasta . Gwen, as is her wont, ran with me into the kitchen and saw the steam rising as I poured the pasta into the colander. "Hot," she said. ("Hah")

"That's right," Christopher said, bouncing the baby about in his arms. "It's hot steam rising." We've talked to her about steam a few times. One can never be too sure how much she's absorbing.

Then she ran off to her room, and returned a moment later with the empty water container for her humidifier.

She was clearly very proud of herself for putting the steam/humidifier thing together (we'd talked about it before, but again, one can't always be sure what she gets).

She was proud, and so were we.

He's gone, and it's like a huge weight has been lifted, not by his leaving, but by his whole visit. I think this weight has been with me since he left, but only in recent weeks and days did it get worse.

When he came in the first time, he had this wide smile on his face and was asking, "Where's that baby?!" even before he was through the door. He was so wonderful with Baby, wonderful with everything.

He was taller than I remembered, and his hair has grown a shade darker, but he was still the same. I couldn't have mistaken him anywhere. Still so handsome and charming, so buoyant. It was impossible to remember a single worry, or bad thing.

It was an easy visit, a too-short weekend. Turns out he is practicing wicca, too, and also wanted to visit Enchantments, which we did, and wandered the same streets of the Village that we'd wandered with his sister. After that, it was afternoon lunch at the Vegetarian Dim Sum House I've wanted to visit forever, then home. He and my husband watched football, then he and I sat up together while he played around on Everquest. Brunch at my parents' this morning, and off with him.

So I'm left with feelings of hope. He appeared articulate and bright and sweet. Now, I also know this was the impression strangers often had of him even in the worst of times (when he wasn't snarky), but it's hard not to feel like his life has turned a corner, that he might actually 'make it' out of this life. I know his mother is clean these days, and he seems to be not only claiming to do his homework, but actually able to talk about what his homework is. Like all phases, I doubt this one will last indefinitely, but as long as his life keeps cycling back to this point, thinks should be okay.

Shouldn't they?

Some years ago, while sharing a cab ride home with epilady and chestertodd the subject of teeth came up. I explained my phobias about dentistry and they said not to worry! Then they told me about Dr. B, the Best Dentist in New York. A few months later, I gave him a call and have never regretted it. Turns out these friends, who have often spoken of being in search of 'gay experiences', also pointed me to the Gayest Dentist in New York City, but more importantly, the Nicest.

Some random observations and recollections...

The business cards (green and cream stripes) match the 'architectural' wall in the waiting room. (The other wall is purple.)

I was scared to death for my first visit, and they gave me a stuffed animal to squeeze while they did their thing. The next time, I asked for it, and the assistant told me she'd have to go get out of the closet because, "The decorator was here and we had to hide it -- he gets upset if he sees them out!"

My husband started seeing Dr. B. Dr. B constantly exclaim over how sweet my husband was. One day, he was giving my husband dental hygiene directions and Hubby said, "Is there anything else I should do?" Dr. B said, "Yes," then spread his arms and said, "Give me a big hug!"

When Baby was born, he sent us gorgeous sterling silver presents for her: a switch plate and a night light with Noah's Ark theme.

The first time I was ever in his office, he was busy passing around a photograph of an art deco pin he'd bought for his mother at an antique store on his way back from Fire Island. He'd just finished having the clasp fixed and wanted to surprise her with it.

Today, Dad was at the office with me, minding the baby. Dr. B wandered out to the lobby to see her saying, "Where's the most beautiful person in the world?" and Dad answered, "Here I am!" to which Dr B replied, "Don't make me spank you!" God they were funny together...

Dr B is also incredibly patient with my phobias and need to have everything explained twice (once by the techs and then once in English). He's gentle, and careful, and never cross-contaminates, and very knowledgable.

So, epilady and chestertodd, allow me to kiss your four feet and thank you for the Nicest, Gayest, Most Trustworthy Dentist in New York.

Now, a longer note about Tuesday, which was utterly delightful.

The Better Half took Baby and I over to a friend's house on his way to the city, where we hung out all day. Eventually, her husband and mine showed up after work and we made dinner. A fun time was had by all. The babies, born within four days of each other, are developing at roughly the same pace (they both have two lower teeth, even, and are just learning to creep and threatening to crawl). There was one point where they were even linking arms and cooing at us and each other. At other points, they each had their hand on the same toy and seemed to be vaguely psyched about relating that way.

Not to mention how refreshing it is to spend the day with a friend and fellow-mother.

At the same time (you didn't think there'd be a whole post where I didn't mention my parents, right?) I get sick of my mother's constant, and I mean CONSTANT nagging about finding myself a mothering group. I know there is one at the Westchester Jewish Center but... that's not what I want. What I want are a group of AP style mothers with parenting philosophies similar to mine, and that's proving harder to find, though I'm making efforts...

I created this journal in the hopes that it would get me actually putting my internal monologues into words instead of just running them through in my head over and over again. So far, it's not really working. Let me back up then, and talk about my visit to the Met on Friday.

First of all, I hadn't thought I was going to go. The Costume Institute was running an exhibit on Adrian, a 1930s Hollywood film costumer and 40s-50s haute couture designer, but I'd given up on seeing it as it was closing today (Sunday). I mentioned it in passing to my mother on Thursday, and she suggested that perhaps my father could take me. He expressed reluctance. I said it was no big deal and not to worry about it.

Then comes Friday morning. The phone rings, and it is my father, telling me he is going to pick me up at 10 am and we are going to the museum. Telling, not offering. I try to demur. He gets belligerent. So here I am, off to the city with my father in one of his moods.

All of this is fine, except I should mention my father sort of has hypoglycemia, and when he hasn't eaten or drunk enough, gets cranky as all hell. By the time we hit the city, he was cranky beyond belief, but knew he was hungry, so we stopped to eat (treat on me... ugh that museum restaurant is expensive, but it was yummy). Baby was a total angel through all of this, and Dad was charming at the multitude of waiters who stopped by to ooh and ah over her.

(Let me note as an aside that everyone who coos at your baby wants to tell you about their own baby. Even if their baby is 33 years old right now and a professional teamster, the parents still want to tell you about their first gurgle and how cute their toes were. They never stop being babies.)

Then we saw Adrian. It was fascinating, or at least his stuff for the movies was. His private collections were OK. A friendly queen was ogling the gown made for Greta Garbo in "Queen Christina" with me and we had one of those little New York moments when we're both sharing details and tidbits we both know perfectly well but can't help clucking over in wonder and excitement. ("It was too heavy for her to 'float' in, she could barely move with all those sequins." "Did you know that was $2,000 of sequins in depression-era dollars?" "That's a lot of sparkle!") Then the friendly queen and I made eye contact, and it was all over. Whoops! We both thought, I'm talking to stranger in New York. Better look like I have somewhere important to be and move on.

So I did, I turned around and there's my father, hovering near the exit. I was wearing Gwen in her pouch on my chest, and he's looking irate and unhappy until I tell him I'm done and we can leave.

A brief stopover in Gauguin, then he was sugar-crashing again, so I took him to the cafe and asked for a blondie, realized I didn't need the calories, and asked for a banana instead. So of course he bought me the banana and the blondie, and looked hurt when I didn't want to eat the blondie. He then proceeded to binge on sweets. *Sigh*. That just means the next crash is harder and sooner.

Then we drove home, through a rain storm so thick that at 2pm we couldn't see a thing around us except a few headlights and the misty outlines of the Hudson River beyond the edge of the highway. I suggested perhaps waiting out the storm somewhere where there wasn't three inches of water on the highway, but he was having none of it.

On the whole, it was a pleasant day, despite the moods and nerve-wracking drive.

A note about Adrian's movie creations -- they were brilliant works not just of design but of iconography. Tracy Lord, Kate Hepburn's character from Philadelphia Story, was supposed to have a "brass heart," so her white gown is detailed with brass accents in an amazonian pattern. Subtle. Fashionable. But totally appropriate. Now I want to design movie costumes...