Girl Detective

Often I make a “soft” list of hopes at the new year–things that I want to do, but that I’m not going to pull my hair out if I don’t. This year, though, the date came and went, and I couldn’t even be moved to do the soft list. Instead, only one thing has occurred to me that warrants resolve.

I resolve to leave shorter voice mail messages for people. I tend to ramble, and often repeat myself. It’s not much of a resolution, I know, but it will make my life and those of the people I call just a little better.

My husband G. Grod and I have pretty much given up on making or receiving phone calls while we’re in our toddler Drake’s presence or earshot. Drake doesn’t appreciate that our attention goes elsewhere, but what really pisses him off is that we’re using the phone, which is obviously HIS toy that we cruel parents never let him use. Screaming, tantrums and general misery ensues, for all involved.

On one hand, this makes sense. If I had a friend over, I wouldn’t take/make a call without excusing myself. Drake understands many things, but it’s not like we can say, “Oh, please excuse me for a minute.” When we’re there, we’re supposed to be on call for him and him alone.

Oh the other hand, this is one of the many tiny but exhausting things about parenthood that can be so wearing. Before having a child, I steeled myself for lifestyle changes like not going to movies or out to dinner. Those changes haven’t been a big deal. It’s things like not being able to use the phone or the toilet that get to me, things that I naively used to think were inalienable rights.

I was in Barnes and Noble yesterday and noticed that the Boynton books were buy two, get one free. They had a similar promotion last year, during which I exercised restraint, then later regretted it. Yesterday, I did no such thing. I bought six books so we have a complete collection: Doggies; Fuzzy, Fuzzy, Fuzzy; Blue Hat, Green Hat; Hey, Wake Up; Barnyard Dance; and Birthday Monsters.

So far, my toddler Drake’s favorites are Fuzzy, Fuzzy, Fuzzy and Hey, Wake Up. For reasons neither my husband G. Grod nor I can comprehend, he very much enjoys the lines about broccoli stew in the latter book, and laughs with hilarity each time.

If your Boynton collection is not complete, get thee to a bookstore and take advantage of this deal. Unlike some other children’s books, they weather repeated readings without inspiring bitterness, fatigue or nausea.

Lost is one of my favorite new shows this season. It’s not perfect, but it’s been quite good. This week’s episode, though, definitely showed signs of weakness. Much of what makes Lost a compelling watch is that the information is doled out bit by bit so we are not left completely stymied week after week.

Good secret management is what makes for a compelling thriller. Make the secret too obvious, and it’s no fun when it is officially revealed. But make it too obscure, and it doesn’t pay off either. Good secret management keeps the viewers engaged, drawing them along to a conclusion that will, they hope, have good closure.

This week’s episode was a long backstory on Kate, which served to show that she’s a good liar. I could sustain my disbelief to believe that she’d lie to another thief in order to break into a bank to access a safe-deposit box containing only a personal memento. I could not, though, believe that she’d lie to both Sawyer and Jack to retrieve it out of a salvaged case. Neither of them, when the case was opened, would have prevented her from taking a personal memento, or questioned her on it. The conflict among them was artificially heightened in order to call Kate’s honesty into question. I’m left with a bad taste in my mouth. Perhaps the writers will give more context to make her behavior more credible. Right now, though, it feels like they clumsily wrote an episode simply to highlight that she can’t be trusted, which probably means that she can be.

Here’s my take on a few other of the show’s secrets. I think that Rousseau’s child Alex is a girl. She never used a gender pronoun, and it was only Sayeed who referred to Alex as him. Also, my guess is that the man Kate referred to when she said “I killed the man I loved” is her father, not a former lover. We’ve been given hints about these, over a few episodes. These secrets are being well-managed, then.

A great example of secret-management gone bad is the X-Files. It was also built around secrets, but over time the explanations grew so unwieldy and complex that it broke down. Some viewers stayed till the end; I wasn’t one of them.

Sometimes a good secret can elevate a merely OK work. I thought Donna Tartt’s first novel, The Secret History, was pretty good. The secret, though, was so cool that I still remember it fondly.

Other times, a bad secret can drag a good book down. I loved the book Smilla’s Sense of Snow right up till the end and the revelation of its lame secret (which was the same secret as an arctic episode of the X-Files). Wondering if revealing the lame secret in advance would lessen the disappointment, I revealed it to my husband–with his permission–before he read Smilla. He still thought it was a lame ending. Smilla’s lame secret is also why I no longer recommend a book until I have finished reading it. Endings are hard, no matter what medium or genre one works in. One of my favorite authors, Neal Stephenson, does annoyingly short-shrifted endings.

I too, both in my fiction writing and in these weblog entries, often struggle with endings. While I can empathize with the writers on Lost, they’re paid way more than I am to do what they’re doing, so I hold them more accountable. I’m expecting those secrets to be well-managed, and I’m going to be mighty peeved if they are not.

Some might say this is a common-sense caution. I, however, often need to have common-sense things spelled out to me, so I share this dry-skin advice.

The dryness of winter is not a good time to try a retinol product for the first time, especially if you have even moderately sensitive skin. A few years ago I finally bit the bullet on my persistent cystic acne, took my dermatologist’s advice, followed his cautions, and underwent a treatment of Accutane. Accutane, like retinols, is a highly concentrated form of vitamin A that forcefully encourages growth of new skin by sloughing off the outer layers. After several months, the end result was great–I am no longer troubled by cystic acne. My one regret, though, was that I’d undergone the treatment during late fall and winter. The cold, dry air exacerbated the already extreme moisture-draining effects of the drug. Taking retinol in winter made an already difficult process for my skin even more uncomfortable.

If you, like me, are often trying new products, especially ones to combat aging, give yourself and your skin a break. Retinol creams do work for some, but they are irritating. For now, use gentle, hydrating creams and lotions. Products with retinol will still be around in a few months, when the weather and the humidity are more favorable to their use.

I don’t think we’re going to break 20 degrees Fahrenheit today, and it’s probably not as warm as 50 degrees in our basement. I change multiple diapers a day and am trying to make hand washing before meals a habit for our toddler Drake. All these mean that unless I’m careful, I’m going to have skin, especially on my hands, that is as dry and cracked as the writing on Arrested Development. While eternal vigilance isn’t possible, there are a few things that I do to keep dessication at bay.

One, I’m not drinking much more water. When I was breastfeeding, a nurse told me that while it’s important to keep hydrated, drinking too much water results in frequent urination, which in turn can result in losing more water than is retained. So contrary to common sense and practice, I’m sticking to the usual recommendation of about 8 glasses a day.

Two, I use Cetaphil cleanser for my face. Not only is it gentle, but it can also be tissued off without water.

Three, I apply hand lotion after every hand washing. I keep lotion next to every sink.

Four, I don’t shower every day.

Five, I avoid moisturizers with petrolatum, lanolin and mineral oil in them. These ingredients create barriers so that moisture doesn’t escape from skin, but they can irritate skin and simply sit on top of it rather than moisturizing or healing cracked skin. Using lotions with gentler ingredients immediately after rinsing the skin with water works best for me.

Finally, I find products by Dr. Hauschka good on several levels, though affordability is not one of them. The ingredients are natural, organic and sustainably harvested. They smell and feel great to use. I find the rose moisturizers for face and body and the rose body oil very comforting both in scent, which is light, and texture, which is rich.

That way they’d determine which parents are so distractable when out to dinner that their child can not only grab and eat a fistful of butter, but repeat the stunt with mayo, then barbecue sauce.

I just hope the doctor won’t be testing Drake’s cholesterol at his next checkup.

I got back from the grocery co-op yesterday, and my husband G. Grod started to help me put away the groceries. Unfortunately, this meant we both turned our attention away from Drake. When we did notice him, he had opened the carton of eggs and managed to crack every single one of them. He was upset when we dragged him away, since he can’t understand exactly why raw egg is not the best plaything ever. Only one egg was lost and I may still salvage the rest. I made two pies and have a cheesecake on deck. I hadn’t planned a bake-fest, but if the cheesecake turns out well I’ll hardly be in a position to regret the egg debacle.

The problem with falling out of habit is that it’s so easy to stay there. It has been some time since I’ve posted. My monkey mind is crying that there are many, many things on which to spend time and attention, most notably a very engaging novel. I will resist its siren call, however, and instead throw myself back into writing.

Guilt nibbles at the back of my consciousness; perhaps I should be attending to another habit that’s been lying fallow for longer–my yoga practice. Alas, it must continue to wait. There are also the matters of thank-you notes and holiday un-decoration. I forget exactly who is was that once said that Twelfth Night is a good deadline for these tasks–my high-school algebra teacher, I think. I agree that it’s a good goal, but I’m not sure I’m going to hit it this year.

Our wee family took a quick jaunt to mid-Ohio to visit my parents for New Year’s day. Power had been restored the day before we arrived; they had been without since the storm the week before. Mid-Ohio was a mess–trees split and down everywhere. Minnesota gets a bad rap, weather-wise, but in my nearly seven years here, I have not seen the kind of winter devastation that Ohio is digging, chopping and sawing its way out of right now.

G. Grod and I spent New Year’s Eve with my parents, sister and brother-in-law eating good pizza, playing poker and watching some of the Law and Order: SVU marathon. I continue not to love L & O, and am sad for Jerry Orbach’s passing, but I enjoyed bits of the marathon in any case. On New Year’s Day, we ate pork and sauerkraut for good fortune, the latter of which is one of the few vegetables that our sixteen-month old son, Drake, will condescend to eat.

In spite of its short duration, our trip allowed us to see many friends, family and even to meet a new baby. It was a good beginning to 2005.

Lots happened in 2004. I resigned to stay home with Drake, we sold our condo, bought a house and moved, during which time Drake and I had two extended visits to family during our real-estate transactions. I was a winner at Nanowrimo with 50 thousand words of novel #2. My husband was laid off from his job in November. His brother came to visit during December, managing the impressive feat of staying four weeks and still having us be sad to see him go.

Two things stand out for me. One, Drake was not yet crawling when we began to look at houses; he was walking confidently when we moved into one. The transition out of our condo and into this house was a long one, during which all three of us developed and grew.

The second is my most distinct experience from 2004. In May, I flew to England for a friend’s wedding, leaving Drake, whom I was still nursing, home in Minnesota with my husband G. Grod. I pumped my breasts while I was away so that Drake could still nurse when I returned. Midway through the nine-hour flight home, I had just begun to pump in the lavatory when we hit turbulence; the light came on saying I must return to my seat. What a way to go, I thought, hooked up to a milking machine over the Atlantic. As calmly as I could, I disengaged myself, powered down, cleaned up, gathered myself and my things and returned to my seat. The turbulence passed, I returned to the lavatory, though more trepidatious than before, and I completed my task, lactating in the face of adversity.

That experience feels emblematic for a year that was full of difficult, bizarre, funny, scary, yet mundane experiences that I couldn’t possibly have imagined in advance. I’m hoping for a smoother ride this year.

I live in the Twin Cities, home of many things, including the largest enclosed mall in the United States. Notice all the qualifiers and you’ll see that there are larger un-enclosed malls (King of Prussia, PA) and larger enclosed ones not only in the world, but on the same continent (Canada).

Nonetheless, the Mall of America, known to locals as the mega mall, gets a bad rap for its hugeness. All anyone ever has to say is “It’s got a roller coaster in the middle!” and listeners will nod, assured that it is huge beyond all other malls. I worked at the mall for about a year, though, and during that time I learned its secret. It’s not that different from other malls.

Yeah, there’s the roller coaster. But it’s really small. MOA has the usual four department stores, and all the shops you’ve come to expect. There are also some surprises, like the cheese shop that hands out free squeaky cheese curds. Yum. Like most malls, it does not include clear lines of sight from one end to the other, and there are no public clocks to tell unwary shoppers that it’s time to go home. Malls and department stores are constructed like this on purpose; they lure you in and then make it difficult to leave. If you know the traps, though, they’re easy to avoid. The Mall of America is manageable, but many natives avoid it because of size, crowds, and a sense of general distaste. I can’t help with the latter, but I can offer a few tips on how to get the most out of a trip to the mall.

One, set a time limit before you go, and don’t exceed it. One of the worst feelings is being in Nordstrom Rack, trying on shoes, and shoes, and shoes, then finally finding a pair that fits only to get in the “get the other shoe” line, which takes FOREVER. It’s agony. A corollary to setting a time limit is that if you’re going to Nordstrom Rack, just do that–you’re probably not going to have much left in you for anything else.

Two, have a mission. Don’t go to the MOA if you’re just going to hit the Gap, Ann Taylor or other mall standards. Head to the mall only when necessary, for things that can only be done there. Today, I went to Nordstrom (that’s Nordstrom without an ’s’, thank you.) with my husband G. Grod to get our son Drake fitted for shoes for the first time. He’s only ever had Robeez, which did very well for him but are not able to stand up to our Minnesota winter. Drake got a pair of Chuck Taylors for his birthday four months ago, which he finally deigned to wear last month. And his feet promptly grew too wide for them. A shoe-fitting was in order, and Nordstrom was the place, so the mall was our destination.

Three, park as close to your mission as possible. For Nordstrom, you take the Lindau Lane exit, and go up the West parking ramp. For Bloomingdale’s, take Killebrew and park in the East lot.

Four, go when the mall opens. Mid-day is hell.

Sadly, I must confess that I went to the Mall of America twice today. Once to get Drake’s shoes, after which I did a whirlwind scour of the clearance rack in the toddler department. I was too hurried, though, and picked out pants that didn’t fit him. Baby sizes and their ridiculous ranges are maddening. He has outgrown several outfits that were size 18M, so I picked out pants that were 24M, only to find when I tried them on that they were four to six inches too long. When you’re not even three feet tall, that’s a pretty long pant. What’s most maddening is that I SHOULD HAVE KNOWN THIS WOULD HAPPEN. Drake had gotten several pairs of pants for Christmas that were all too long, and then I went to the mall and bought him several more, without checking to make sure that they weren’t too long. And, of course, they were. Argh. So tonight I went back to the mall and returned the over-long pants. Armed with a pair of pants that I KNOW fit him, I found a few other pair that were just a skoche bigger at Hanna Andersson. I’m going to try them on him tomorrow to be certain. Drake is an active, screamy toddler and I don’t bother trying clothes on him in the store. The shoes were challenge enough. A further difficulty of baby sizes is that, like the baby, they’re a moving target. Yes, I’m pretty sure Drake just had a growth spurt, since his belly is now hanging out of most of his tops, but no, I’m not sure how long he’ll stay this size, so I want to buy clothes and shoes that have room to grow, but that are not so big that they fall off, or impede his movement.

I take some comfort that the original mission of shoes was achieved quickly and successfully. That the pants took two trips was discouraging, but may yet be worth it if they fit.

Bah, pants. They’re more trouble than they’re worth, except for that pesky social convention that insists that we wear them.

We don’t think we’re imagining that Drake is finally saying a few words. What is unclear, though, is whether he’s saying them meaningfully, or if he has just become a mimic, and not such a skilled one at that.

The first word, as I mentioned before, was touchdown. What followed was hot dog, then yucky. These were actual words. But what about ha-ha and ta-da? And moo, baa, and abwoooo, the latter like a high-pitched little wolf? Are they words?

And touchdown, hot dog, and yucky, but never mom?

Ah, but he has learned how to kiss. It’s an open mouthed face-plant, more endearing in concept than in execution. I hope that he’ll get better before he starts kissing other girls than me.

As my grandmother does not hesitate to remind me, I am overeducated. I minored in religion in college, then later went back to school to get my master’s degree in religious studies. I learned many things, among them that I did not want to convert to Judaism after all. I am abashed to admit that after all the classes and studying and pondering and soul searching, the biggest take-away I had was this: organized religion bugs me.

To all of you who realized this without grad school, I say, “Well done.”

As this realization crystallized, I stopped attending religious services, except when there was a good reason to do so, like visiting family for the holidays. While there are many people who like to attend church only on Christmas and Easter, I find the holiday services even harder to sit through than that of an average Sunday. The sermons have a more sunny, populist bent as the celebrant plays to the crowd. While the liturgy and the hymns are familiar and soothe my need for repetitious ritual, the telling of the Christmas story grated more on me each time I heard it. Here is a good sample of words from the Christmas story: He, he, he, father, son, virgin, he, he, he. Nowhere in the Christmas story was there a place for me; hearing it alienated me even further. I remained annoyed until this year, when I recalled a few other words from the Christmas story: mother and child.

I am now able to very physically relate to the story. Mary, great with child, had to ride a donkey to Bethlehem for the census, then gave birth in a stable. I wouldn’t wish those things on anyone, much less a woman near her due date. The thought of giving birth in a stable, with only her husband for company, who certainly had not attended any birthing classes, is a sobering one. Was her labor long? How did she handle the pain? Was she afraid that she might die? Was Joseph helpful, or did he go outside and smoke till it was over?

This year, I chose to attend a church service because I wanted to. I did not, though, attend a conventional one. Instead, I chose one with a labyrinth walk, during which the celebrant read passages from The Message, a paraphrased version of the Bible, and a small group of musician’s played a selection of Christmas music. It had been over a year since I last walked a labyrinth, and I had missed it a lot. I found the paraphrase of the Christmas story mostly unoffensive, but aggravating in a few parts. I am aware that listening to a familiar story in unfamiliar words can allow listeners to really engage with it once again, but this technique in this instance did not work for me. My fingers twitched as I longed to shout out, “No, it’s ‘Be not afraid!’ you idiot!” Instead, I held my tongue. I did laugh aloud, though, during “Away in a Manger,” at this line: “The cattle are lowing, the poor baby wakes; But little lord Jesus, no crying he makes.” That, I thought, is how you know the story is mythologized.

It is mythologized. Jesus wasn’t born in December near the winter solstice. His birth, which can be established through historical records based on both when that census actually took place and the position of the star, probably happened in April, closer to Easter. But setting up religions and myths is hard work. Jesus’ birthday was grafted onto that of Mithras, another sun god. Likewise, his death probably did not take place in the spring–its memorial was merged into the spring equinox of birth, fertility and renewal; those bunnies and eggs are not just cute icons from Hallmark.

The Christmas story, then, is not completely “true”. But lots of stories aren’t technically true, yet they still have value. A novel isn’t true. Neither is the book of Esther, and everyone knew it and included it in the bible anyway–the “proper” bible, too, not even the apocrypha! I found something new in the Christmas story this year. I still got aggravated at points during the service I attended. But I also found things of worth–the meditation of the walk, the rhythms of the music, even the story, though I didn’t like the words with which it was told. I continue to wrestle with what I believe, but the struggle and its details have shifted over time.

This holiday season is a little different for us this year. My husband was laid off last month, and I resigned last May to stay home with our baby, now toddler, Drake. We are now a family of three with a new house, and no jobs. I gave some serious thought to setting aside a small budget for gifts. In the end, it became clear that even if we did small things, they would add up, so we opted out of buying presents entirely this year. Both our families were very understanding about this.

Since I haven’t been running about buying gifts, though, I have had a little time to ponder what I might have given. I came up with a fairly comprehensive list of virtual gifts for my family. And while I was wishing, I did jot down a few things for myself, as well: bras, and more importantly–time to shop for them; turtlenecks for this very cold winter; a new bulb for my sun lamp; and a babysitter. Exciting stuff, no?

Here’s the list of virtual gifts I thought about giving others, though it’s so late in the season that it will help nobody with their holiday shopping. The list is strangely missing books, music and movies. Apparently my giving spirit is disdaining the media this year. Instead, go visit your local library and appreciate a librarian and all the free books, music, movies and more that s/he can help you to find.

Sorry that this list is so late, folks, but it’s the holiday season–even without gift buying I’m working on a time delay. But since they’re all imaginary anyway, what if we imagine that they are on time, and real. Go ahead, take your pick. From me to you. Enjoy. Happy holidays.

Graeter’s ice cream–any flavor that has chocolate chips
A writer’s retreat–a weekend at a cabin in the woods, with meals taken care of
A new cream by Clinique to soothe redness-prone skin
A week’s stay at a mind/body wellness spa like The Golden Door
Framed Conde-Nast art
Zyliss garlic press
Microplane fine grater for lemon zest and parmesan cheese
Kitchenaid box grater
Subscription to Cook’s Illustrated
Subscription to Lucky magazine

1. When I put Drake down in the play area so I can go to the bathroom, he screams the entire time.

2. He screams when he’s done being outside, but then keeps screaming when I bring him inside.

3. He fights me when I care for him in basic ways: dressing him, putting a coat on him before going outside into the cold, getting him out of the house so he can visit his girlfriends at the coffee shop, changing his diaper, putting cream on diaper rash, etc.

The lack of sleep and constant self doubt are killers too, but the above three really seem like new circles of hell.

Of late, Drake will come up to me and throw his arms up, asking to be picked up. Aw, I think, he wants to give me a hug.

No, in fact, he wants me to take him to the nearest light switch so he can play with it endlessly, till I get bored and whisk him away, causing screams of outrage.

One of his favorite books is Can you sing by Lisa Lawston, illustrated by Ed Vere. His favorite page has changed over the months. Currently it’s the wolf, which he imitates with an astonishly cute, high-pitched Ah-bwooooo!

This morning, out of the blue, I asked, “Drake, where is your nose?”

He promptly stuck his finger up his nose. I was pleased. My husband G. Grod was both pleased and appalled.

Turns out he also knows where his ears and tummy are, and can pat his head. Who knew? I should’ve asked sooner.

Also, at lunch I asked what he was eating. He said “Ah-aw,” which I thought sounded pretty close to the correct answer, hot dog. That is, until I asked him later who the furry red monster was on his cell-phone. Turns out “ah-aw” sounds an awful lot like Elmo, too.

I flipped through a Lane Bryant catalog the other day and was appalled at what I saw. Lane Bryant is a plus-size retailer for women. The models in the catalog were not plus-size. Technically, they might have been plus-size for models, but they were hardly plus-size women–I’d say about size eight, a good deal smaller than average, which is about size fourteen. I found the same situation on their home page; those models are NOT 14W and up.

Then I found something quite curious. The Lane Bryant catalog is–bafflingly–not affiliated with the Lane Bryant stores. Both websites note this prominently.

According to the website for the catalog,

In business since 1901, Lane Bryant brand has become the acknowledged industry leader in women’s special size apparel. (Lane Bryant Catalog is not affiliated with Lane Bryant retail stores.) We offer a complete wardrobe, including shoes and intimate apparel in a wide range of styles, colors and sizes — all at value prices.

According to the website for the stores,

Lane Bryant is the most recognized name in plus-size clothing, and our emphasis on fashion�not merely size�makes us a style leader. Lane Bryant stores are not affiliated with the Lane Bryant Catalog.

Interestingly, the Lane Bryant Stores site uses both larger models and larger mannequins than does the Lane Bryant Catalog site. The Stores site focuses on fashion and style, with impressive and attractive selections. It features fitted and sexy clothing, encouraging a celebration of size.

In contrast, the Lane Bryant Catalog site has bland clothing at bargain prices. The Catalog site depicts a great number of shapeless items, which look even more baggy because of the less-than-plus-size women who are modelling them.

I do not currently wear a plus size, but I spent many years of my life hovering above and below a size 14. I have long been disgusted with a fashion industry that uses the term “women’s” as a synonym for plus size. All women are demeaned by this usage. I am discouraged that special sizes like petites and plus are often put in different parts of a store than are the “regular” women’s clothing sizes. This unnecessary segregation, which usually only makes sense to a store’s merchandisers, sends a further message of alienation. That Lane Bryant Catalog, “the acknowledged industry leader” in plus-size women’s apparel, uses non-plus-size models and features such unappealing choices adds insult to a past series of injuries. I would not support a retailer like this. Instead, I’d head to the Lane Bryant stores. They seem to be about celebrating one’s size, not hiding it. That’s a good shopping philosophy for all women, of any size.

I do not practice a particular religion, but the idea of resting on the seventh day has consumed me for some time. When I was working, I found Sundays especially tough. I spent Friday night and most of Saturday detoxing from the previous week with movies, books, tv, and comics, alternated with errands like grocery shopping. Then Sundays I had to work like crazy to cram in all the boring, home and chore-type things that remained undone. The result was that I returned to work on Monday about as exhausted, sometimes more so, than I’d been on Friday afternoon. The dynamic changed somewhat, but not entirely, when I had a baby and then again when I resigned to stay home with him full time. Sundays still have been the day for the tasks that can no longer be put off.

Defining boundaries for a day of rest was difficult. Each potential restriction needed a loophole. No television–except football for my husband, and shows that I enjoy. No car rides–unless I need to go to yoga, or it’s ass-biting cold outside. No cooking–except we have to eat. No cleaning–except we have to clean up after cooking, and I had friends coming over who hadn’t seen our house. No computer–except I need to do just this one thing, and while I’m here I might as well check email. Then, rather than trying to define what not to do, it occurred to me to try to emphasize what I wanted to do: take a break and enjoy, spending time with friends and family and not working so much.

Yesterday, I made a not entirely unsuccessful attempt at a day of rest. I had lunch with two friends I hadn’t seen in months, and spent time reading to my son, and even just laid on the couch for a bit while he ran around and before we began dinner preparations. I did use the computer, make food, wash dishes and clean a bit. But I didn’t do laundry. At the end of the day, I had spent more time relaxing and with family and friends, and less time working, than I do on an average day. I figure this was my first attempt; perhaps I’ll get better with practice.

I had lunch today with two friends, who swore that some image-obsessed New York women stay slim by taking black-market pills that contain tape worms. When they reach their desired weight, they take de-worming pills. I was all fired up to post about this craziness, but I took a quick detour to Snopes, the site that debunks urban legends. I wasn’t all that surprised to see the tape worm pill story.

I wonder if urban legends ever work backwards, and inspire copy-cat incidents in real life?

My husband and tech guy G. Grod adjusted the comment controls to filter out likely spam from the comments so we wouldn’t have to approve each comment. Check out the comments on the first post. One got through–skillful spammer.

That slippery comment is as clever as its namesake lunchmeat. For reasons I can’t comprehend, G. Grod not only likes but actively seeks out Spam, the product. I shouldn’t be surprised. We are both from the Philly area, but only one of us has a penchant for scrapple. It’s not me.

Don’t know what scrapple is? Robbie Fulks sings a good definition, which you can listen to here. It is what it sounds like–mysterious meat.

Why is Spam clever? If you have not had the occasion lately, and I can’t blame you if you didn’t, check out a can of Spam the next time you’re in a grocery store or even Target. The copywriting on the Spam can is hilarious. They know it’s a joke, so they celebrate it. I will not even quote it here; the experience of reading it on the rounded, rectangular tin of meat is part of its charm.

The can is so well-written that it almost makes me want to eat Spam to show my support. But not quite.

I was writing last night in the study when I heard Drake give a louder yell than he usually does when he stirs in the night. I went to investigate, and felt his sheep blankie on the floor by his crib with my foot. That’s odd, I thought, he hardly ever throws her out of the crib. Drake’s room is dark, with no night-light, so when I go in to comfort him, I usually just stick my hand in the crib and pat it around till I find him. Last night, though, his body parts seemed strangely arranged, so I moved quickly to hit the lights.

The poor little guy had his feet on the ground, and his torso trapped between the side rail of the crib, which had separated from the end board, and the mattress. No wonder he was yelling so loud; it was quite alarming for both of us. I quickly extricated him and could find no physical harm. He calmed quickly in my arms as I tried to figure out what to do, since my husband was out for the evening. I knew I had to get into Drake’s closet to get his pack n play, but where would I put him while I assembled it? I wanted to do as little else to have him awake and active at 11 p.m. I was excited when I heard my husband come inside, but less so when he didn’t come upstairs. I began speaking into the baby monitor: “I need help; come upstairs,” over and over, on a loop like on Lost, but not in French. Alas, my husband didn’t hear me on the receiver downstairs. I heard him go in and out taking out the garbage and recycling for the morning pickup. Finally, though, he did hear me and come up to assist. He held Drake quiet in our room while I set up the pack n play. Drake was hard to calm when we put him in the pack n play, but when he finally did sleep, he slept through till morning and woke happy. He also took a good, long nap there this afternoon.

I’ve got a call into the crib manufacturer, and spoke to someone at the store from which we purchased the crib. It’s annoyingly more complicated than it should be. I can’t determine the model of the crib, because it’s not on the directions, we threw away the box in our move, and it doesn’t match any of those on the maker’s website. The envelope that housed the directions and was attached to the crib says to contact a different crib company. Finally, the store of purchase is going out of business. I was so pleased when we bought that crib to avoid the crush and anonymity of Babiesrus for personal help from a local store.

I’m hoping that the manufacturer (if indeed the company I contacted IS the manufacturer) will do right by this and we can get the crib repaired or replaced quickly and at no charge. Drake will be 16 months on Monday, and he climbs like a monkey. I don’t think he’ll be sleeping in a crib for long, so having to purchase another at this point, particularly given our current financial freeze due to G. Grod’s layoff, would suck tremendously.