Girl Detective

Our nightly ritual with Drake goes dinner, bath, naked time, books, then bed. Sometimes, though not often, he pees or poops during naked time. We’ve not yet had a horrifying disaster, like this, or this, to clean up. When an accident happens, my husband or I pick up one of the pieces of clothing that Drake wore during the day, wipe up the mess (usually just pee) and let naked time run its course.

Two nights ago, Drake peed during naked time, and G. Grod used a shirt to wipe it up. Then last night, Drake toddled into the study, peed, then went to get his pants to wipe it up. G. Grod found him, industriously swabbing the floor, though several feet from the spot of the actual event.

Often, I worry about my level of fear–that it’s too much, that I’m paranoid.

Last night, I went to get my hair cut. I parked across the busy, well-lit street from the busy, well-lit building that houses the salon, along with two crowded, mid- to up-scale restaurants. As I entered the building, I noticed that someone was behind me, very close. Uneasy, I moved my purse to the front of my body, and stuck out my other arm in a don’t-fuck-with-me posture. I walked quickly to the escalator, telling myself that I was probably imagining myself in danger.

The person, a tall man in a puffy jacket, got on the escalator behind me, and deliberately brushed my hand as he did so.

OK, so I wasn’t imagining it. I moved to the left up the escalator, walking quickly until I passed another person and stood in front of her. But as soon as I got off the escalator, I heard the swish of the guy’s jacket behind me. Fortunately, it was just a few yards to the salon. I veered in quickly, shaking my head in amazement. I turned to see the back of the man’s puffy coat go by, and a small boy with him, asking “Why are we in such a hurry?”

I have no idea why the man was following me. I was in my winter coat and hat, dressed plainly, not looking particularly attractive or prosperous. It gave me pause to think about what might have happened had it occurred in a place less bright and crowded, and if I had been farther from a destination.

I was glad that I reacted so quickly to my unease, even before getting confirmation that something was off. I have a lurid imagination, so it is sometimes hard to distinguish between valid instinct and overactive imagination.

Last night, Drake was playing, then let out a loud fart, threw up his arms and yelled “Duh-dahhhhh!”, by which he means touchdown.

We burst out laughing, wondering if it would be clever or trauma-inducing to encourage him in this habit. I’m guessing the latter.

But, oh, it was funny.

Ever since I had the baby, I’ve struggled with my posture. Soon after Drake was born, I reached for something and had a shooting pain in my hand. I went to get it checked out and saw a family doctor, a chiropractor, and finally a physical therapist before someone ventured their best guess that the problem was a weakness in the midback, translating to a weakness in the shoulder, and travelling down to the hand from there. When I did the recommended exercises, the shooting pain went away. When I slacked off, my hand became numb at night and I would experience periodic numbness all along the arm. I’m back, then, to doing the exercises and feeling better. I’m very conscious of not rounding my shoulders, though it’s hard to pick up and carry the 25-pound Drake without doing so.

I get tremendously aggravated, therefore, when I see catalogs and magazines in which the model is posed in that round-shouldered posture, like this. This is not only bad physically, but in the yogic tradition it shuts in the heart, so it’s bad emotionally, as well.

My friend NYC Bette has worked with actual models, and says that the stereotypes are often true: vapid people who smoke a lot, eat very little, do a lot of drugs, and don’t even exercise because the development of muscle might alter their body and make the clothes not fit.

Ignore the models. It’s an unhealthy stance, one that only gets exacerbated by the physicality of motherhood, with breadfeeding and baby carrying. Madonna had it right, way back before she was even a mom or into yoga: open your heart.

The tendency is to overcorrect and arch the lower back and stick out the boobs. This doesn’t help; it’s just bad in a different way. Instead, the correction is to breathe into your middle back and open your heart, projecting it as if you had a lovely pendant at the top of your collar bone that you wanted to show to good effect. Also helpful is to lie on the floor with a rolled towel under the spine between the shoulderblades.

Many writers and readers have a dictionary of choice. My friend Chrestomanci once told me of a professor of hers who noted that the good thing about softcover dictionaries is that one needs only dig a very small hole in which to bury them.

When I went dictionary shopping a few years ago, I narrowed my choice to two editions: the American Heritage 4th edition and the New Oxford American Dictionary. Both were very good. I used advice from my friend Queenie, a book maven, to compare the two. She recommends looking up three things: a common word, an uncommon word and a proper name. For the purposes of this story, I am wishing very hard that I recalled what three words I chose. Alas, I do not.

Though the Oxford book had a brand-name cache, and the American Heritage was full of sometimes cheesy and not always thoughtfully chosen or cropped photos, I gave the edge to the American Heritage. I did not buy it for home, though, because another feature of the American Heritage is that it is available online for free at Dictionary.com. Rarely do I support paying for online content. (Notable exceptions are Cook’s Illustrated and Consumer Reports. I must also admit that my husband broke down and subscribed to Salon earlier this year. I’m not sure if I support that decision, but I do enjoy its result.)

I know I run the risk of incurring judgment from other bibliophiles that the only physical dictionary I own is a mass-market paperback, of the ilk that Chrestomanci’s professor decried. And yet, I manage. I can rejoice in good, free, online content while also saving space on the shelf for other books whose contents I prefer in physical form.

From the American Heritage Dictionary, 4th edition:

Usage Note: Till and until are generally interchangeable in both writing and speech, though as the first word in a sentence until is usually preferred: Until you get that paper written, don’t even think about going to the movies. Till is actually the older word, with until having been formed by the addition to it of the prefix un-, meaning �up to.� In the 18th century the spelling ’till became fashionable, as if till were a shortened form of until. Although ’till is now nonstandard, ’til is sometimes used in this way and is considered acceptable, though it is etymologically incorrect.

I made friends with the American Heritage 4th edition when I read its usage note for he:

Usage Note: Traditionally the pronouns he, him, and his have been used as generic or gender-neutral singular pronouns, as in A novelist should write about what he knows best and No one seems to take any pride in his work anymore. Since the early 20th century, however, this usage has come under increasing criticism for reflecting and perpetuating gender stereotyping. �Defenders of the traditional usage have argued that the masculine pronouns he, his, and him can be used generically to refer to men and women. This analysis of the generic use of he is linguistically doubtful. If he were truly a gender-neutral form, we would expect that it could be used to refer to the members of any group containing both men and women. But in fact the English masculine form is an odd choice when it refers to a female member of such a group. There is something plainly disconcerting about sentences such as Each of the stars of As Good As It Gets [i.e., Jack Nicholson and Helen Hunt] won an Academy Award for his performance. In this case, the use of his forces the reader to envision a single male who stands as the representative member of the group, a picture that is at odds with the image that comes to mind when we picture the stars of As Good As It Gets. Thus he is not really a gender-neutral pronoun; rather, it refers to a male who is to be taken as the representative member of the group referred to by its antecedent. The traditional usage, then, is not simply a grammatical convention; it also suggests a particular pattern of thought. �It is clear that many people now routinely construct their remarks to avoid generic he, usually using one of two strategies: changing to the plural, so they is used (which is often the easiest solution) or using compound and coordinate forms such as he/she or he or she (which can be cumbersome in sustained use). In some cases, the generic pronoun can simply be dropped or changed to an article with no change in meaning. The sentence A writer who draws on personal experience for material should not be surprised if reviewers seize on that fact is complete as it stands and requires no pronoun before the word material. The sentence Every student handed in his assignment is just as clear when written Every student handed in the assignment. �Not surprisingly, the opinion of the Usage Panel in such matters is mixed. While 37 percent actually prefer the generic his in the sentence A taxpayer who fails to disclose the source of ___ income can be prosecuted under the new law, 46 percent prefer a coordinate form like his or her; 7 percent felt that no pronoun was needed in the sentence; 2 percent preferred an article, usually the; and another 2 percent overturned tradition by advocating the use of generic her, a strategy that brings the politics of language to the reader’s notice. Thus a clear majority of the Panel prefers something other than his. The writer who chooses to use generic he and its inflected forms in the face of the strong trend away from that usage may be viewed as deliberately calling attention to traditional gender roles or may simply appear to be insensitive.

Track #3 of Fatboy Slim’s latest CD, Palookaville.

Evening in Missoula tea (actually, not a tea but a tisane, as you can read about at Tea Source, sweetened with Ames Farm honey.

The books of Jane Austen, of which I just finished Emma. Charlotte Bronte had a point when she wrote

What sees keenly, speaks aptly, moves flexibly, it suits her to study; but what throbs fast and full, though hidden, what the blood rushes through, what is the unseen seat of life and the sentient target of death–this Miss Austen ignores.

Yet sometimes I need soothing rather than stirring, and in those cases I prefer to spend time with Miss Austen.

On television, that is. On Tuesdays, I curse the network programmers. They have scheduled three of the shows I deign to watch during the same time slot. House is on ABC, Veronica Mars is on UPN and Scrubs is on NBC, all between 8 and 9 p.m. Central time.

Luckily, our DVR can record two shows at once. Then we watch the third in real time. If you haven’t, here’s why you should check out these shows.

Scrubs is a good half-hour sitcom. It has amusing fantasy sequences, and the actors do a great job with the good writing, and actually seem as if they’re having a good time. Especially good is John McGinley as Dr. Perry Cox.

House is medical procedure drama. I have not yet committed to this program but it shows promise. Hugh Laurie, an English actor best known for comedy (see Blackadder, if you haven’t), is a grouchy, pill-popping doctor with a crippled leg and a crappy bedside manner. Interestingly, his character is not that different from Dr. Cox on Scrubs, when you make the adjustments for an hour-long drama. There is an underused supporting cast who do a great job with the slight stuff they’re given. House still hasn’t found its balance. Dramas with dark, unlikeable protagonists usually get cancelled quickly. If it can stay afloat till it finds its stride, it may be a good show with a truly complex lead.

Veronica Mars has been compared, rightly, to Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Like Buffy the character, Veronica is a sassy blond. Like Buffy the show, Veronica has great dialogue and explores some dark stuff, like rape and murder. Unlike Buffy, the monsters here are all human, not fantastic. Veronica’s dad is a detective, and in true girl-detective fashion, she helps him solve cases plus takes on some of her own, including the quest for her long-gone mom. Veronica Mars may well be not only my favorite new show of the season (yes, I like it better than Lost) but perhaps my favorite show right now.

I nurse a small hope that House will take a turn for the worse and that I can stop watching. So far, though, I’m not able to give up on it yet.

What I notice most about the slew of beauty products I’ve tried over the years is that I usually don’t notice them. In some cases, e.g., my husband’s hair products, this is a good thing. In a moisturizer, however, I want to see results.

Imagine my surprise when I pulled out a product sample I got a while ago, began using it and–get this!–saw improvement. My skin appeared firmer, more hydrated and lines were visibly diminished. (Yes, I can sling puffery with the best of them.)

The product is Natura Bisse Essential Shock Concentrate.

The bad news? It costs $170 for one ounce. I will enjoy this product while the sample lasts, and miss it when it is gone.

I used to pass judgment all the time on moms when I wasn’t one. I’ve learned the hard way that I have no place judging someone till I’ve walked in their shoes. If I haven’t done all the things I’ve ever judged other parents for, I’ve at least thought about doing them.

Yet I am currently passing judgment myself, on people who snark at moms. An essay at Chicklit notes that some book reviewers have snarked about the current slew of mom books on the market. Why, the essay writer wonders, do they not instead decry the overabundance of rosy Ronald Reagan biographies or something else more worthy of ‌indictment?

I have yet to meet the mom (oh, wait, maybe I have) who is not overextended, underappreciated–at least by her child(ren)–and plagued with self-doubt and recrimination about how she’s doing as a mom. Since I’ve worked hard not to remain someone who bitched about moms, I have some impatience with people who do so, especially those who are moms themselves.

A few months ago, I attended a meeting of a local mom’s group. I went looking for help and support, because I’ve felt so tapped out and alone. What I found was a poorly organized group and moms that I didn’t seem to have a lot in common with. Previously, I would’ve dismissed the group and the moms in it, and not gone back. Instead, I’ve continued to attend meetings and activities, and even taken on an ongoing event, when the woman who was supposed to lead it fell ill. I joke with my husband that I went to get help, and stayed because I felt sorry for them, but it’s not far from the truth. Other moms aren’t necessarily better off than me, and if I can’t get help, then I might as well try to help somebody else. This approach, rather than judgment, is what I try for, now.

I’ve cut back considerably on my beauty-product purchases, both in quantity and in price, but I will not (yet, at least) forgo moisturizer. There was a time in my life when I did, but my twenties were a while ago.

In efforts to economize, I’m trying to limit my shopping to discount stores. I’ve tried two brands of night cream recently, Dove Sensitive Essentials Night Cream and Olay Age Defying Intensive Nourishing Night Cream.

Of the two products, the Dove is less expensive–about $7 compared to about $10 for the Olay. The Dove night cream is fragrance free, which I appreciated. The cream itself, though, feels watery. The jar is heavy glass–hard to travel with, and had me worried that I’d drop and break it. Overall, the Dove felt like an inexpensive cream in a needlessly expensive-seeming jar.

I like the texture of the Olay cream better; it is thicker and feels more concentrated. But Olay has a strong fragrance that I do not like. It is in a simple, light, plastic container.

Both the Olay and the Dove do an equally adequate job of moisturizing. I do not notice a striking improvement in my skin with either product.

What I’d prefer is the Olay cream in the Olay container, with the Dove lack of fragrance. Instead, I’ll keep looking, and pining after the lovely sample of Darphin Arovita C cream that I once got in a Neiman Marcus beauty gift.

My mother and sister Sydney are big fans of Law & Order. I don’t mind the show, but I don’t go out of my way to watch it. I wondered about this for a while, since it is a good show, well-acted, -plotted and -written. I think my preferences in television are analogous to those in reading. I prefer novels above everything else. Even in comic books, my preference is for graphic novel collections, rather than one shots, or ongoing, meandering series. I like my entertainment fictive; I like it to have good character development and for those characters to have distinct voices.

I find Law & Order more akin to a collection of short stories. There is little continuity, and little character development for the series regulars. Also, it relies so heavily on real-life events that it loses some of the feel of fiction.

My theory about those who love Law & Order is that, as readers, they aren’t novel-centric, as I am. They are more accepting of other forms, like non-fiction, essays, magazines, short stories and one-shots. I read all these things, too. If I had to choose, though, it would be no contest.

A friend of mine, The Big Brain, contends that there are no such thing as bad teen movies–they’re either good, or so bad that they’re good anyway.

In my current TV rotation, I watch several teen shows: Veronica Mars, Life as We Know It, The O.C. and Joan of Arcadia.

Previous beloved teen shows include Freaks and Geeks, Undeclared, Buffy the Vampire Slayer (which I contend should have ended at the end of Season 5), Daria, and the much-lamented, short-lived My So-Called Life. There were other teen shows that I tched for a while, but then gave up when I couldn’t stand them anymore: Roswell, Smallville, and way, long ago, Beverly Hills 90210.

As you can see, I’ve long been a fan of the genre. I’m also a fan of young adult literature, and the novels I’m writing are YA. It’s easy to figure out why I’m drawn to teen shows, at least the well-written ones. Being a teen felt complicated, but it wasn’t, compared to parenthood and mortgages and jobs, etc. So it’s a lovely escape to watch people who think their lives are complicated, when they’re not. Also, being a teen was confusing and largely sucky. Good teen shows capture some of that confusion and suckiness, but edit out all the truly awful parts as well as the mind-numbing boredom as well. So viewers can empathize and laugh at the moderately tough stuff, sub-consciously be glad that they’re not seeing the really brutal stuff, and not have to endure the dull stuff, all the while living vicariously in a skillfully written and edited much simpler time.

I gave this show a miss when it premiered because several reviewers who wanted to like it just didn’t: Entertainment Weekly, TV Guide, and TeeVee.org. I wanted to like it too, since the creators spoke homage to My So-Called Life and had worked on the excellent Freaks and Geeks.

Weeks passed, and I wondered if I’d made a mistake in skipping it. Then my friend The Big Brain said that it had only been OK, but then got really good. I tuned in to a few reruns on MTV, where teen shows go to garner support, and was unimpressed. Unimpressed, that is, till I saw one of the more recent episodes, and was dragged right in. It took a few weeks, but they’ve got the character development simmering nicely along with plot complexity. So if you, like me, gave it a miss because of early bad reviews, check it out this week

and I lived deliberately for less than 48 hours. And used an outhouse. And made good progress in editing novel #1. And nearly finished reading Emma. And walked in the woods. But did not test the ice. And did physical therapy exercises for my problem wrist, back and hip.

I stayed at a retreat recommended by a friend, in a single cabin that had heat and electricity but no running water. I picked up meals at the lodge. The cook told me what was in the basket each time. My first meal, lunch yesterday, was a veggie curry over brown rice, a salad with hard-boiled eggs and cheddar cheese with a honey mustard dressing, and sugared almond slivers. I took it back to the cabin, and burt into tears, overwhelmed by the peace and quiet, with a nice meal given to me that I could enjoy at my leisure.

And I did. Throughout the time I was there, I only did one thing at a time. What a luxury that was. When I ate, I ate. When I walked, I walked. When I read, I read.

Unfortunately, my high hopes of two nights of blissful, uninterrupted sleep did not materialize. Both nights I was anxious about being alone in a cabin in the woods. The first night I had the cabin too hot, and the second night I undercompensated and had it too cold. Also, I fear that I may have lost the ability to sleep deep, uninterrupted sleep, even if I didn’t have to contend with lurid imaginations of killers with hooks for hands, and widely variant room temperatures.

At the end of my time, I felt rather like I’d visited a MASH unit for my internal self. They patched me up, treated me nice, and sent me back to the front.

My husband G. Grod was watching Drake. He fixed himself a beverage, put it on a table out of Drake’s reach, then made a phone call.

While he had his back turned for a moment, Drake managed to drag the drink off the table, spilling it everywhere. G. Grod ended his call quickly to clean up the mess. While he was doing so, Drake found the phone, turned it on, started pressing buttons and began babbling into it.

Whenever I ask my mother how she managed, she always says, “You were a very good baby. Not like Drake.”

Drake has refused to eat vegetables for some time now. For a while, I continued to buy the jarred purees, but eventually he even refused those. Twice a day we put veggies in front of him, and twice a day he refuses to even put them in his mouth.

Yesterday at the coffee shop, though, he put a crayon in his mouth, made a yuck face, took it out, looked at it, and then put it in and started eating it again.

Drake has said his first word. It was neither mama or daddy. While he makes those sounds a lot, he doesn’t use them consistently. Tonight, when I came in the house, Drake shouted Da! at me over and over again.

His first word?

Touchdown.

And though it sounds barely more distinct than “duh-daaaahhh”, we are now certain for two reasons.

The first is that he does it right after we say it.

The second is that he throws both his arms up in the air when he does.

Heh, heh.

His father is so proud.

Up until this week, Drake has never liked to hold hands. He either has wanted two-handed support, or none at all. In the past couple days, though, he sticks out his hand and looks at me expectantly, so I can help guide him as we walk over bumpy sidewalk on the way to the park.

He still has no words, though he sometimes sounds like he’s imitating us when we say “Touchdown!” It sounds suspiciously like “uh-oh” though, so I’m not convinced.

Also, he is able to make the “ah-ah” sound in imitation of ha-ha–sounds like Nelson Muntz, from the Simpsons.

When he first did the “ah-ah,” I aspirated the H trying to get him to put the sounds together, “heh, heh”. So he huffed out “heh, heh” but did not combine for “ha, ha.”

Tonight at dinner, I was signing to him, asking if he wanted more banana. I felt proud of myself that I knew both signs.

He threw up both his arms.

Touchdown!

As I have noted before, the purpose of jeans is to make your ass look good.

For many women, including myself, the way to do this is to make the ass look smaller. One of the most effective ways to make an ass look smaller is to reduce its surface area, and the most effective means for this is the low-rise jean. Less jean on the ass looks like less ass, period.

The problem, however, is that not everyone should wear low-rise jeans. Like the stirrup pant, that fashion staple of bygone days, low-rise jeans are a privilege, not a right.

(If anyone reading this still has a pair of stirrup pants in your wardrobe, please stop reading, RIGHT NOW, go get them and put them in your Goodwill pile.)

While covering less ass is a good strategy for making one’s ass look less large, it also uncovers more ass. For many of us, this is a problem. How big a problem? It depends. It can range from annoyance at having to wear low-rise underwear to full-blown anxiety at how much ass-crack you’re flashing when you bend over.

Additionally, if you have a wiseass, active toddler like my son Drake, then you may also have to guard against small, cold hands being pressed into the small of your back when there’s a gap showing. Yowza, that’s a shock.

Today, I decided that full-coverage was more important than ass-minimizing. In one quick, half-hour trip to Old Navy, I not only found a pair of jeans that fit and that sat at the waist, but that didn’t cost a bundle. I sit, secure in the knowledge that my ass may look large, but it’s completely covered. Today, that is the lesser of the two evils.