Girl Detective

Yes, I know that life isn’t all happy bunnies and sunshine, or Oprah and bonbons. I think a great deal of my struggle with post-partum depression was that my pregnancy and the adjustment to a second child were so much harder and longer than I’d expected. Further, they upset the rhythm and routine that G. Grod, Drake and I had established. While I knew to accept disruption for a while, the continued chaos and difference of every day wore on me. It felt like body surfing–the variety of waves can be exciting. But once I was tired, I couldn’t withdraw to the beach; I was stuck in the ocean, constantly facing new and different varieties of challenge.

Even now that Guppy is a year and a half, I still struggle to settle our life into routine. It continues to elude me, though. The best I can do for now is to rest, take short breaks, try to look ahead, and not get frustrated when things go awry, as they are so wont to do. We will eventually have a routine, and the peace and comfort that it brings.

I yearn for a simple life, without literal or metaphorical clutter. Two kids, a house, and modern life, though, seem to conspire against me. Near constant vigilance is required to stem the tide of too much stuff. I give baby items my boys have outgrown to friends. I donate regularly. I take myself off mailing lists, but still, the crap creeps in. One of the most superfluous bits of modern junk is the podcast. I steer clear because life is too short, and my limited time too valuable.

M. from Mental Multivitamin periodically expresses the need for “no”. I recently agreed with Lazy Cow that I often hear M’s advice in my head, and count myself fortunate for it. She is a passionate advocate for the value of one’s time, especially as it relates to learning and writing.

I recently attended a writing workshop. I enjoyed it, and thought the writing within the group was very good. When the address list for the class was passed around, though, I didn’t add my email address. I feared looking snobbish and exclusionary. But I couldn’t subject myself to a mailing list, no matter how well intentioned. Some might argue that it’s quick and easy to delete. But it still takes time, and consideration that I want to spend on my current emails from friends and family, and the considerable backlog of correspondence I’ve got dating from when Guppy was born. The address list went around a second time. I think the woman sitting next to me thought I’d been skipped on the first time around. I steeled my resolve, though, and passed it on. I wish the others well in their writing, but I want to spend what little time I have on my writing, not on email about writing.

If you other parents have read truck books as many times as I have, you may have wondered at the difference, if any, between concrete and cement. Sometimes trucks are referred to as cement mixers, other times they’re called concrete mixers. Concrete is a mixture of cement plus gravel and sand, so they’re not the same thing. Concrete contains cement; cement is an ingredient of concrete. Concrete has more letters than cement; I try to remember the difference this way.

Last night G. Grod and I pushed our luck and succeeded at dinner and a movie while our babysitter played with the boys. As per their usual, they were better behaved and went to bed earlier than they do with us. Either our sitter is being nice, or our kids trust G. Grod and me to love their good and bad behavior. I know it’s the latter, and even while I’m a bit resentful that we get the defiance, I’m also glad that the sitter gets the mostly good behavior because we all like her a lot. Plus G. Grod and I really like these occasional nights out.

We started with a very good meal at the new Harry’s Food and Cocktails. For a while I fretted that G. and I had little to talk about, then I just enjoyed the peace and quiet. We then managed the 7:40 show of Stardust, a funny, sweet and dark fantasy based on the excellent graphic novel by Neil Gaiman and Charles Vess, begun in the wake of their winning the World Fantasy Award:

It mostly started with, in 1991, Charles and I won the World Fantasy Award for “Sandman” #19, “A Midsummer’s Night Dream.” We were out in Tuscon, Arizona, and astonished ourselves and everybody else by winning the award. We astonished everyone else to the point where the secret committee behind the judging got together the following morning to change the rules so that it could never happen again!

It’s more than a little reminiscent of Princess Bride, and one sequence is a very close homage to one of the PB plot threads. Stardust is a lot of fun (aside from a truly execrable closing ballad), and I hope it finds a wide audience. Gaiman has said he’s now too famous for his comfort level; I suspect he’s not going to get more comfortable anytime soon, with upcoming productions of Beowulf and Coraline.

Last night we checked out Harry’s Food and Cocktails, in Minneapolis on Washington Ave. It’s in the old Nochee space next to the depot, with the Botero sculpture in front. It’s chef Steven Brown’s new place, and has an old-fashioned American steakhouse vibe, with simple, dark decor to match.

The table had a dish of mostly sweet and slightly sour homemade pickles, and the Sunday night special was a green goddess salad with a pork chop. G. and I got an appetizer of calamari and tried two of the many burger variations. The calamari were good, but not great. The pieces were sweet and tender, but the coating was slightly greasy, and thus a bit doughy. The accompanying pepper aioli had a nice kick, though.

I got the Harry’s burger, which the menu said had cheddar cheese and special sauce. It arrived cooked to my order (medium), but with an unexpected giant pile of sweet, sauteed onions. They were good, but overwhelmed the taste of everything else, so I had no idea what the special sauce tasted of. G. had made the better choice with the Dara burger, named for the City Pages food critic. It was a revision of the burger Brown did at Rock Star, with crispy prosciutto, a melty blue cheese, and a burger whose flavor at medium-rare blasted out of the bun. The fries were very good, and at the end we were beyond full, so while the dessert list looked good, we had to pass.

The service was good but not exceptional, and my water glass dipped low several times. I was disappointed that they didn’t have a local root beer on tap. They’re still within weeks of opening, though, so these are all fixable issues. The vibe was reminiscent of Ike’s, another old-time-y steakhouse that started strong, but couldn’t maintain momentum. I hope that Harry’s can do better.

I’ll certainly go back to Harry’s, not least because I didn’t see the french fries with cheese curds and gravy. The quality and flavor of the food was quite good, and our check arrived with four mini homemade chocolate chip cookies. I think next time I’ll try a salad, split a medium-rare burger with the gravy fries, and have a go at one of the decadent-sounding desserts.

From “Wasps,” a short story by A.L. Kennedy in the New Yorker.

Let’s have a good morning. Before your mother starts to scream and
doesn’t stop and has to be taken away to the hospital for screaming
people. Who would make your breakfasts then?

Her sons showed no sign of having heard her, and she wondered again
which of her threats they would remember, which would be useful and
which would scar. It never was easy to tell, she supposed, if your
parenting was mostly beneficial or bound to harm.

I really enjoyed her novel, Paradise. I was surprised to learn she now does stand-up comedy. The humor in her writing is quite dark, even bleak.

I had questions and quibbles even after reading the previous set of links I posted, but thanks to these exhaustive (and exhausting) HP and the Deathly Hallows links (chock full o’ spoilers), I think I’ve had enough:

transcript of JKR web chat

A List of Things Thrown Five Minutes Ago:

1st thread (120 comments)
2nd thread (49 comments and counting)

Cheryl Klein’s comments on HP7 (copyeditor for the American edition)

Last night, G. Grod and I were huddled in the basement, desperately trying to stay cool in this horrible ongoing heat and humidity. G. heard a noise, well after we’d put the boys to bed, and went upstairs, where he found Drake sitting quietly on the steps.

“What’s up, buddy?” G. asked.

“It’s the friends,” Drake sighed, referring to the group of stuffed animals that he sleeps with, of which Mouton (a sheep blankie from France, pronounced to rhyme with “crouton”) and Daisy are the leaders. “They said they wanted me to sleep in the big bed tonight, not with them.”

G. wasn’t sure if Drake meant our bed, or the guest bed, but he managed to persuade Drake that his friends DID want him in his own bed. Drake returned quietly and happily there.

I felt very sad when G. related this to me. Poor Drake, kicked out of bed by his own coterie of imaginary friends.

Spartan, a David Mamet film starring Val Kilmer, was #52 in my 2007 movie challenge. It was a pick of G. Grod’s, who went on a VK kick while the boys and I were out of town visiting family. Spartan is an exhilarating, if sometimes bizarre and uneven mix of Mamet’s rapid-fire, erudite dialogue and a conventional thriller. A college girl goes missing, and a capable, ethical military man is hired to find her. It bucks several expected plot turns. Kilmer gives a great performance, and Kristen Bell (Veronica Mars) is the missing girl. This was a solid, engaging film, well worth the rental. Recommended.

or how Entertainment Weekly lured me to the dark side. It’s summer and my normal TV shows are in reruns (House, Bones, The Office, My Name is Earl, Battlestar Galactica) or worse, cancelled (RIP Veronica Mars). Because I have so much free time for myself (ha!) I let myself be swayed by good reviews in Entertainment Weekly to check out some new shows, which I did in one big TV free-for-all last weekend. Without exception, I was disappointed.

Mad Men: Nice to look at, but there’s a reason we moved beyond the era of smoking and sexism. There are better ways to depict this age that feel modern. This just felt like an out and out mimic, though I was surprised by the ending of the pilot.

Burn Notice: Average, at best. Cheesy repeated camera shots. The lead actor didn’t engage me, Gabrielle Anwar’s collagen duck lip irritated me, and Bruce Campbell looked so overweight, tired and indifferent that I just felt bad for him.

Psych: Enjoyable enough, but leaving nothing afterward. Like cotton candy.

Simon Schama’s Power of Art: I’d prefer it if this show were a half hour long and reporter style, rather than having staged enactments of Schama interacting with the art, and recreations of the artist. I like the works of Rothko, and was interested to find out more, but couldn’t bring myself to stay with this show for more than half an hour.

There is good news, though. Reruns of both 30 Rock and How I Met Your Mother are funny, clever, and easy on the schedule at 30 minutes minus commercials. If you haven’t already, check them out.

Maps of War shows 5000 years of religion in 90 seconds. (Thanks to Blogenheimer for the link.)

My first reaction is that missions (religious marketing, if you will) really work. I deplore proselytizing, and I prefer attraction to promotion. Yet the spread of Christianity is a testament (sorry for the pun) to the powerful results of preaching for conversion.

Becca notes that while the bridge collapse is tragic, some of the media coverage of it is just pathetic.

Mom #1 is sitting far away with her partner and two kids. Mom #2 is walking by me, Mom #3.

Child of Mom #1, shouting: Mom, mom, mom, mom!

Mom #1 is talking to her partner and not answering the child.

Mom #2 (not in earshot of one, but very close to me): Sheesh! Pay attention to your kid!

Me: I think the needs of kids outstrip anyone’s ability to pay attention all the time.

[Mom #1 has acknowledged her daughter and they're talking.]

Mom #2, to me directly: Well, then, they should stop having them.

Me: It’s hard to know that until after the kids are already there though.

Mom #2: Well, I have four kids, and I give them all equal attention.

Me: You’re a braver mom than me! I only have two, and I can barely keep up with them.

I’m not sure why I felt I needed to defend Mom #1. Probably because I know that feeling of irritated fatigue that the multiple cries of “Mom!” can induce. But I also well know the judgment of Mom #2, and work hard to move beyond it, which is why I tried to nudge her toward empathy.

I’ve written this more than once, and I don’t mean to be a broken record, or up on a soap box. I write this mostly as a reminder to myself, since I can be incredibly snobby and judgmental (just ask my family):

Moms don’t need judgment. They need help. Polite smiles aren’t enough. If I see a mom having a tough time with a kid, I try to quell the judgment in my head, and offer help instead. I at least tell her that I know what she’s going through.

#56 in my 2007 movie challenge was The Bourne Ultimatum. Like its predecessors, it’s a smart thriller, well acted by a deep bench of good character actors. Yours is a three-part mission, should you choose to accept it:

1. Watch/rewatch The Bourne Identity
2. Watch/rewatch The Bourne Supremacy
3. Go see The Bourne Ultimatum in a theater

For this series, good things come in threes. The direction is fantastic, the pace frenetic, and the endings satisfying. Damon’s Bourne is like a crazy mishmash of the Midnighter and MacGyver, on meth. The three films are linked in story and images, so watching them in sequence yields more than watching them individually, or at long intervals.

Finding the original two movies on DVD may be difficult. There was a long wait list at our library, because over half the copies are missing. Two copies are missing from our video store. Three of our local Targets didn’t have the dvds in stock. We did manage to find one last copy of the three-disc set, The Bourne Files, at a Barnes and Noble. Less expensive than purchasing the previous movies on dvd individually, it was well worth it, though Entertainment Weekly says the new extras are a snooze. If you rent or borrow them, I don’t recommend the “Explosive Extended Edition” of Bourne Identity. The alternate beginning and ending weren’t used for good reason.

This has been a challenging week: Drake had a virus and was sick everywhere. He didn’t make it to the bathroom and peed all over me and the basement steps. I drank too much coffee and got so wound up I could barely function on my only day to myself this week. Drake and Guppy are constantly fighting and screeching. I tried to take them to story time at the library today, but Drake kept running around yelling. When I took him out of story time, he and Guppy ran in opposite directions in the library while I tried to check out, then a mentally ill woman began yelling and cursing at them.

Sometimes, I have the urge to crawl under a chair and curl up in a ball, like the baby wombat in one of our favorite picture books, Sometimes I Like to Curl up in a Ball. But my virtual penpal M, who writes at Mental Multivitamin, likes to quote this from Sydney J. Harris:

When I hear somebody sigh, “Life is hard,” I am always tempted to ask, “Compared to what?”

Yes, this week felt hard. But it wasn’t nearly as hard as it might have been if we’d been on the bridge at 6ish p.m. on Wednesday, as we usually are, heading into Minneapolis for new comics at Big Brain.

Life could always be harder, so it isn’t a good use of energy to gripe and dwell. As the teacher notes in yet another of our favorite picture books, Lilly’s Purple Plastic Purse:

Today was a difficult day. Tomorrow will be better.

Fisher-Price is the most recent child product producer to announce a recall. This list is for all their recalled products, and the newest is for many licensed Sesame Street and Dora products.

I’ve been a Dara Moskowitz Grumdahl fan for years, and even Bookslut has recognized her genius.

OK, maybe genius is a little strong. But she’s a great food critic. I’ve learned loads from reading her columns.

In the wake of my post-partum depression, many parents of older children, my father included, shared with me that they’d found parenting small children very difficult, and didn’t much enjoy parenthood until their children were older.

I find it interesting that so many parents are able to admit this is retrospect, but so few of us can while we’re in the midst of it. I frequently find caring for my small children stressful. Their needs are greater than my capacity to meet them, and I often feel resentful that my own physical, emotional, and intellectual needs are indefinitely put on hold.

Yes, there’s joy and wonder, but there’s also a lot of poop (literal and metaphorical) to be dealt with. The ratio of sacred to mundane is so imbalanced that it can only be reckoned as apples to oranges, quality to quantity.

I don’t think it’s coincidence that so many women experience post-partum depression, and yet there’s still this taboo about admitting how parenthood is often harder and less pleasant than we’d hoped.

“Freezer Burn” Ten chefs remain, Rocco DiSpirito (looking suspiciously unlined in the face) was the guest judge for a cooking bee. Howie was right that there was too big a variation in difficulty. Who can’t identify bow-tie pasta by sight? Casey won immunity, and the chefs were sorted into pairs and challenged to create a quick-cooking frozen pasta meal. Hung smugly figured out how to do it, but didn’t have enough backbone to browbeat Joey (I know I’m mixing bodily metaphors) as J. later said needed to be done. Dale and Casey were cute and bubbly together, but it was clean that Tre and C. J. were going to win the challenge, as they were the only ones who paid attention and followed through on individually freezing the components. I was annoyed by Tom Colicchio’s challenge that truffles weren’t Mediterranean; no, then what are tartufo, chef? If even _I_ know the Italian word for it, then I think it’s fairly well known. The Sara and Howie pairing was a disaster. Neither communicated, and both swallowed their anger, though Howie exploded, as per his usual, when pushed too far. I was glad to see Colicchio not letting Sara off the hook for not participating. In the end, Joey went home. He and Hung had the worst dish (they sold none, as opposed to Howie and Sara’s 3), and Joey’s admission of his hard-headedness and inability to listen was honest, and probably sealed his fate. I was sorry to see him go. I thought Sara’s behavior much worse, and I like how pugnacious Howie and Joey are.

This show was one of the few I’ve seen that has practical application in my kitchen. I’ve frozen many a pasta dish, then struggled to swallow the goopy, mushy dish when it thaws. Par cooking the pasta, then freezing the sauce separately in little cubes is a simple and effective way to create a frozen dinner that can be prepared in minutes using only the stovetop, a boon in hot weather.

A bridge collapsed in Minneapolis tonight, but we were safe at home. Our thoughts and wishes go out to all those touched by this.