Girl Detective

from Behind the Scenes at the Museum, by Kate Atkinson.

Poor Bunty. (12)

….suddenly, an unwelcome note of reality interrupts [her] reverie, somebody’s pulling at Bunty’s dressing-gown and whining in a not very pleasant fashion. (15)

Bunty unclenches the little fists that have fastened on to her hair, and deposits Gillian back on the floor.

Get down,’ Bunty says grimly. ‘Mummy’s thinking.’ (Although what Mummy’s actually doing is wondering what it would be like if her entire family was wiped out and she could start again.) Poor Gillian!

Gillian refuses to be ignored for long–she’s not that kind of child–and hardly have we had our first sip of tea before we have to attend to Gillian’s needs. For breakfast, Bunty makes porridge….

‘I don’t like porridge,’ Patricia ventures to Bunty. This is the first time she’s tried this direct approach….

‘Pardon me?’ Bunty says, the words dropping like icicles on the linoleum of the kitchen floor (our mother’s not really a morning person.)

‘I don’t like porridge,’ Patricia says, looking more doubtful now.

As fast as a snake, Bunty hisses back, ‘Well I don’t like children, so that’s too bad for you, isnt’ it?’ She’s joking of course. Isn’t she? (16)

I’m sure the first time I read Behind the Scenes at the Museum that I pitied the children. But on my most recent reading, it became clear that those children also grew up to be parents, who repeated the sins and omissions they’d been bequeathed through generations. The mothers were less obvious, but nonetheless sympathetic, characters. Every mother had been mothered inexpertly herself. Each generation of mothers was unprepared for the physical demands of motherhood, and ill-equipped for the emotional ones.

It’s tough being a child, but it’s also tough being a mother. Does anyone feel prepared for it, or good at it? Or do we all just muddle through as best we can, with the light we have at the time (as my own mother likes to say)?

Because I haven’t been able to get it, this week. Or if I have, then it was quickly undone the next day: eeny, meeny, miny, moe, bad day, good day, bad day, whoa.

Mrs. Large took a tray from the cupboard. She set it with a teapot, a milk jug, her favorite cup and saucer, a plate of marmalade toast and a leftover cake from yesterday. She stuffed the morning paper into her pocket and sneaked off toward the door.

“Where are you going with that tray, Mom?” asked Laura.

“To the bathroom,” said Mrs. Large.

“Why?” asked the other two children.

“Because I want five minutes’ peace from all of you,” said Mrs. Large. “That’s why.”

This morning I had Drake set the kitchen timer for five minutes. Twice. Neither time did we make it to zero without the boys both screaming. Drake and I both love this book because it is funny and true about the push/pull between kids and moms. Consider this as a Mother’s Day gift for the tired moms you know.

I got this book at Barnes and Noble in the paperback section. I originally saw it recommended at a book blog, though I can’t find the link. (Book Moot, was it you?) I love the paperback children’s book section. I can splurge and not feel guilty for spending $15+ on a book that Drake is just as likely to throw as he is to “read”.

I completed an outpatient hospital program last Friday for post-partum depression and anxiety. It was a brief, intense program designed to help those in a recovery rut who don’t need full-time hospitalization. There are two partial programs in the Twin Cities. The more well known is at Abbott, but they didn’t have space, and the one at Fairview did. I had an excellent experience at Fairview. The combination of group therapy, individual checks, and patient education led me to a variety of insights. I had time and space to learn and think, far more than I’d been able to fit into the brief interstices of full-time care for two small children. My last day I felt full of optimism, and brimming with possibility.

The happy mood passed over the weekend as 14M Guppy became sick and clingy, spiked a fever, and then kept us all up between 1:30 and 4:30 am today. Lots of screaming and little sleep wreak havoc with my anxiety-prone nerves. Additionally, one of my coping strategies, ear plugs, backfired and I got an ear infection. So not only can I not use the ear plugs, but I have to take ear drops. Instead of making a peaceful and leisurely entry into the new week, I had to spend time at the doctor’s office and the pharmacy.

On one hand, it feels like I’m being unfairly punished for the time I took to attend the program at Fairview, and curtailed from following up on the aftercare plans I’d begun. On the other, I have enough perspective to know that all things, good and bad, pass. A friend once joked that they may pass like a kidney stone, but they’re gonna pass. I also know, all too well, that I plan and the universe laughs, and that life sometimes is unfair and difficult. So I’m trying hard not to take the recent setbacks personally and to muster what humor and energy I can to have another go tomorrow.

One of the things I enjoyed most about being at Fairview was its proximity to the North Country grocery cooperative. They had a great selection of deli and takeout food and drink. I tried something new nearly every day. Walking to the coop allowed me both fresh air and exercise. I had spinch/feta, lemon/leek, and mushroom/keff boughatsa and baklava from Gardens of Salonica. I tried the Flex, Radiant, Calm, and Focus flavors of the Airforce Nutrisodas. I made a huge mess when I shook my Kombucha too hard. Both the Gingerade and the Trilogy flavors were very good. From Sushi Express, I had a veggie maki combo. I enjoyed the avocado spring roll so much I got it twice. I also got a slice of tater tot pizza from the Seward Cafe, as well as their Goddess Bar and Ranger cookie. I don’t know where the Key Lime and Sweet Potato Pie tartlets came from, but those were also excellent. The good food and friendly staff at the North Country made my time at Fairview go all the more quickly and pleasantly.

In case you’ve ever wondered how my mind works, here’s an example. One day, a friend had a water bottle with cut-up strawberries and bananas in it. Interesting idea, I thought, but it looks kinda gross. Someone else asked her about it. She said she read that it’s something Katie Holmes does. You know, one of those “diet tips” in magazines to humanize celebrities who probably don’t actually eat fruit, they just use it to flavor their water.

Later in the day at the grocery cooperative, I saw a display of Vitamin Water. “Wow, I wish they still had that lemon-cucumber one,” I thought.

Picture a lightbulb over my head. I bought a lemon, and a cucumber, which together cost less than a bottle of Vitamin Water. Each of the next few days, I put slices of both in my water bottle, refilling throughout the day, and washing thoroughly at night.

This is NOT an example of how I think I’m clever. In fact, I think it shows my mind is working at less than fantastic speed these days, no surprise given my depression. It is, though, an example of how my mind ties together this ‘n’ that, often around food-related things, (gossip magazine + sadness over defunct product + “this experiment doesn’t even require cooking” = “hey, look at me go”) and coughs up something interesting.

Yet another episode of Bones that made me go “meh”. And I don’t even think it was because anyone cried. We fast-forwarded through several scenes. The music was overpowering, the sentiment full of schmaltz, and the mystery both complicated and uninteresting. Not enough banter, and I suspect that episodes about Bones’s parents = bad. Plus there was no Stephen Fry, who is batting a thousand for the eps he appears in. Coincidence? I think not.

Ack, ack, and triple ack. I hated House last week. Two markers of a sub-standard House episode for me are 1. The case is more important than the banter 2. Somebody cries. Add to this that it was an episode about saving a fetus, that the fetus was shown not only in 3-D ultrasound, but also grabbing House’s hand, (Augh! Creepy animatronic fetus! So scary!) I was surprised to find any redeeming factors. On TV, I dislike shows that play the child-in-danger card, and the baby-in-danger card is worse. But for the show to strongly imply a pro-life stance really bothered this mother of two. There was some good banter, and we are now well and truly set up to see poor Chase get his heart broken. I just hope upcoming episodes are both more nuanced as to character, and less political in narrative. And that NO ONE FRAKKIN’ CRIES, ALREADY.

Except maybe Chase when he gets his heart broken by Cameron.

#10 in my 2007 book challenge was Behind the Scenes at the Museum by Kate Atkinson. When I first read it, about ten years ago, I thought a reveal near the end undermined Atkinson’s conceit of Ruby as an unlimited-omniscient narrator. I was sure I’d never want to read it again, and gave away my copy. Happily, a new copy wasn’t hard to come by when I changed my mind. (I ask myself two questions when giving a book away: Am I likely to read it again? Will it be easy to get from a library or used book store if I change my mind?)

Three things made me reconsider Behind the Scenes. One was how much I enjoyed Atkinson’s Case Histories last year. Two was the high praise by the author of Mental Multivitamin, whose good opinion is not too freely given. And three was that a good friend of mine was reading it, so I’d have someone with whom to discuss it.

The ending didn’t bother me this time. I was also surprised to find how much I empathised with the character of Bunty, Ruby’s mother. I’m sure I didn’t do so the first time I read it, which was pre-marriage and very pre-children. Perhaps it’s my post-partum depression, but I found all the mothers and all the children very sympathetic on this read.

Bunty makes herself a cup of tea in the kitchen at the back of the Shop, relishing her few moments of morning solitude….My poor mother’s very disappointed by marriage, it’s failed to change her life in any way, except by making it worse. If I listen in on her airwaves I can hear an endless monologue on the drudgery of domestic life–Why didn’t anyone TELL me what it would be like? The cooking! The cleaning! The work!….And as for babies, well…the broken nights, the power struggles…the labour pains!

#9 in my reading challenge for the year was Siblings Without Rivalry by Adele Faber and Elaine Mazlish. For a long time, I thought Drake didn’t have sibling issues. Then Guppy started to crawl, and everything changed. This book was recommended to me by several parents, and I found it worthwhile. Like many of the people in the book, I wanted ideas to help the relationship between my kids, and the topics brought up a far wider range of relationships. I got insight into the dynamics between me and my kids, between my two kids, and between my kids and other kids. Interestingly, I also got a lot of insight into my relationships with my siblings and parents. I found it affirming to be reminded that parenting in general, and potentially loaded topics like sibling relationships especially, aren’t intuitive. The challenge, as with any self-help book, is to pick some of the advice and practice it. This book has a good number of suggestions, large and small, that are easy to understand and implement.

My husband G. Grod and I went out Saturday night, and a babysitter stayed with the boys. Since we often find dinner AND a movie rushed and stressful, we opted for just dinner, since life lately has been so busy and loud that we would welcome the chance to talk. We went to Midori’s Floating World, which is a lovely oasis of a Japanese restaurant in South Minneapolis. I go there when I’m feeling depleted; its menu is full of restorative gems. I drank the genmaicha green tea from their extensive tea menu, then I had the tempura rice balls, the green forest salad with kombu onigiri (sea vegetable rice ball), and green-tea over rice garnished with emerald flakes of nori. G. had a few nigiri rolls, the tempura California roll, and udon noodles with fried tofu.

After dinner we were well and truly full. Since we needed a little time before dessert, we browsed for watches at Uptown’s Lava Lounge, which is a way-more-hip store than either of us pretends to. But they do carry some fun watches. G. Grod liked this Vestal, the Nixon Graduate with blue face and black band, and the Nixon Banks with orange face. I liked the orange Chalet, and the girlishly impractical crystal Elle, which worked better worn a little large on my wrist.

We stopped next at Crema Cafe, home to Sonny’s ice cream. G. Grod had their signature flavor, Crema, which is espresso infused cream. After sampling the citrus/chili/kaffir lime sorbet, I went with the chocolate fudge ice cream; its slightly dry texture highlighted a good punch of chocolate.

Home again, we stayed up late to watch three episodes from the previous Thursday’s Toby-hosted, HR-nightmares Office marathon. I love the Office. It makes me laugh, though sometimes simulataneously while cringing.

It was a lovely night, but it felt a bit like payback when both boys woke at 4:30 a.m. demanding alternating attention, so each got a short nap later that morning, but neither G. Grod nor I did. We were very grouchy on Sunday.

My husband G. Grod forwarded me Carrie Rickey’s piece on Philly’s Ritz theaters, which may be acquired by Landmark. As with most buyouts of local indies, there’s the usual sturm und drang of “Boo, our independent [insert business type here] is gone and bought out by corporate goons.” While I don’t love Landmark theaters (in fact, I had one of my worst movie experiences ever at the Lagoon), I think they do a reasonable job of keeping up local historic theaters, programming good films, and offering good, albeit over-the-top expensive, concessions. Since I recall feeling similarly about the Ritz theaters, I hope there won’t be much change for folks in Philly.

I moved to Philadelphia sight unseen for my first “real” (i.e., salaried and with benefits) post-college job. I didn’t know anyone, and the Ritz theaters were like my first friends. Though I soon met good folks like JV and Rock Hack, it took a while to get sorted with friends; my job was demanding and required me to work many nights and weekends. Movies, which I’d recently learned to love (see #2), very ably filled the few cracks in my schedule. I was young and insecure enough to feel self-conscious when I went alone to restaurants and to dinner, but I quickly learned to like my own company.

At the time, there were only two Ritz theaters–the Bourse, and the Five on Walnut. (The East opened just before I moved away.) Though the screens were smallish, so were the theaters, which felt intimate. Each weekend, I’d look for the late showing of movies that sounded interesting to me. I was young enough that I could still stay awake for the 10 p.m. show; they weren’t the expensive naps they’ve become in later life. I learned that Chinese films are often depressing, and that Gong Li is beautiful, by watching Ju Dou. My first Alan Rickman movie was one in which he didn’t play a bad guy–Truly, Madly, Deeply. I remember beautiful images and intrusive scores from Marcel Pagnol’s autobiographical films, My Father’s Glory and My Mother’s Castle. I didn’t love every movie I saw at the Ritz theaters, but all were subsumed in my burgeoning love of film, which I continue to honor both by making movies a priority, and by going to see them at local movie houses like the Ritz.

A nurse in my outpatient therapy program recommends a prenatal vitamin without iron for almost everyone–male, or female, expecting, nursing, or not.

She also noted that it’s best for a patient to pick up her own meds from the pharmacy, since this is a good opportunity to ask questions of the pharmacist. Since our family often does tag team trips to Target, this was a good reminder.

Shortly after I started this weblog, I decided to focus more on learning, and less on mommy-ing. I am a mom, but I’m also a writer, a reader, a cinephile and an auto-didact, with thanks to Mental Multivitamin both for the term and for the role of that weblog played in clarifying the central role of learning.

With the arrival of Guppy last year, though, life changed. Learning remains a priority, but mommy duties have necessarily increased, and thus I write about them more. I try, however, to keep the stuff on kids and parenting focused on the learning–both mine and the kids.

I’ve written a handful of times about the continuing struggle I’ve had with depression since Guppy was born. I tell almost everyone in my life about it. Perhaps I do this because I’m an over-sharer and a queen of TMI, but I’d like to think I’m doing it for good reasons. I want to be accountable for continuing to get help and get better; I want to let people know that even if my shoes do match my bag that my insides are messy and angry. And I want to add my voice to the many who say, “I have the illness of depression; I need help.”

My post-partum depression isn’t the stuff of romantic books covers. It hasn’t been me sobbing quietly, or hiding out in bed. My depression is ugly–it’s impatient, angry, shouting, and cursing. I often have to mark the distinction between thinking about doing something harmful, and making a plan to do it. It’s a discouraging disinction to have to make; I’m constantly reminded that my mind is not a nice place to be. But it’s also heartening, because I find myself nearly always on the healthier side of the distinction.

I’m lucky I have a doctor who listened when I said “I feel angry all the time at my kid.” She urged me to get help, and followed up with me. I’m in an outpatient hospital program for my depression. It’s discouraging. Part of me feels like I’ve failed because I’m crazy and in the loony bin, even if it’s an outpatient one. I try to quiet that disparaging voice, though, because I’m doing a hard, good thing. I’m sick and it’s affecting all my family. We all need me to be doing better than I have been.

If you come here looking for humor, or edification, or stuff about girl detectives, and instead find posts about depression and mommy stuff, you might be disappointed. But I don’t want to be yet another person who denies the depression, or hides it, or downplays it. The bad news is that it sucks. The good news is that it’s likely to get better, and also that I’m still learning. As always, that’s what I’ll try to keep the focus on. My learning is an ongoing process, though I don’t always get to choose the topics.

For your edification, a few shoe definitions (these are mine, but there are lots more at Kristopher Dukes):

Clog: shoe with heavy, possibly wooden, sole.
Mule: closed-toe, open-heel shoe.
Slide: Open toe and heel.
Loafer: casual leather shoe.

The definitions are confusing, and this is more specificity than most people need. But yesterday I saw not one, but two, people commit the same foot faux pas, a loafer mule. One was on a woman, another on a man. Loafers and mules don’t mix. Mules in the animal world are the sterile offspring of a male donkey and a female horse. Use the animal world as your guide. Mules are meant to be cute and kicky. Don’t try to force unnatural alliances like the open-backed loafer.

Further, mules are not meant to be worn with socks. Neither are sandals. Loafers can be worn with or without socks. And the term “casual clog” is redundant, because it implies that there is such a thing as a “dress clog.”

These rules are here to protect not only your feet, but your image. If you have questions, or disagree, spend some quality time in the archives of Manolo’s Shoe Blog. Manolo, he is a man who knows the thing or two about the feets. I’m fairly certain he’d back me up on all of the above.

My husband G. Grod sold me on Heather Havrilesky’s TV columns from Salon.com when he said “She’s the Dara Moskowitz of television reporting!” That’s a very high compliment in our house. I feel bad that HH has to watch so much bad tv in order to review it. But I really enjoy reading about even the shows I DON’T watch.

I wasn’t sure how I felt about the song reveal on the Battlestar Galactica finale till I read this. She wrote it better, and funnier, than I could have. So read, even if you don’t watch Battlestar; her writing is very good, and perhaps you will laugh, as I did.

(SPOILER ALERT: Details of “Battlestar Galactica” finale included in this column.)

Life is but a joke

And speaking of oddly placed songs, let’s get to the main event: Sunday night’s “Battlestar Galactica” finale. I was on board for this one from the start: I loved Lee Adama’s heartfelt speech at Baltar’s trial, particularly after he spent most of this season mooning and pouting and just generally acting like a petulant baby, loved the creepy music and the fact that Anders, Chief Tyrol, Tigh and Tory (Roslin’s press secretary) were the only ones who could hear it, loved the growing suspicion that they were all Cylons (Who better to be a Cylon, than Tigh?), loved the power outages and the mounting suspense… Yes, this was a finale that anyone could get behind.

Maybe it was a stretch to make so many longstanding characters Cylons, but maybe they just think that they’re Cylons. Who knows? Most importantly, it all felt momentous, big changes were clearly afoot, changes that didn’t involve any temples or empty stand-offs with the Cylons or adulterous affairs. Last night’s finale had me by the throat. And then…

Chief Tyrol: There must be some kinda way outta here.

Tigh: Said the joker to the thief.

Anders: There’s too much confusion here.

Tory: I can’t get no relief!

Oh my God! My stoner boyfriend from high school wrote the season finale of “Battlestar Galactica”!

How did that happen? Why did Ronald D. Moore take a break and hand over responsibility for the finale to a guy who spent most of his time doing shots of Bacardi 151 Rum and noodling Hendrix on his guitar? Was that wise, really? Didn’t Moore realize that my ex would make Bob Dylan the Cylon God?

Can you believe it? This is science fiction, it’s pure made-up, imaginary, insane fantasy, the sky’s the limit, you can do whatever you want, and you do whatever you want, and it’s working, for the most part, and you want to take a little break from that to indulge your jones for Dylan? It’s worth it to you, to alienate the vast majority of your audience at the end of your finale, just to reference a pretty cool song that, frankly, no longer seems all that cool since most of us have heard it, oh, fifty million times in the last 20 years?

When I heard those lyrics, all I could think was: Wow, I was way too hard on “The L Word.”

Oh yeah, and Starbuck’s still alive. I almost forgot.

Guppy was born over a year ago, but the depression and anxiety that came with him are not diminishing inversely to his growth. In spite of medication and the help of a good team of healthcare professionals, I have continued to struggle. To get me unstuck, my team recommended an outpatient therapy program instead of the sporadic therapy I have been doing, and I started this morning.

A small part of me hoped that someone would wave their hand and tell me I didn’t need to be there, and send me home. And, as has happened at every step of this depression, no one did. So I guess I belong.

What does one wear to a partial hospital program? As I’ve noted here before, I take care with my appearance, perhaps more so when I’m feeling worse, both as compensation and as a way to demonstrate some control when I don’t feel I have any elsewhere, e.g., Drake won’t listen, Guppy’s screaming again, but my accessories match my outfit AND I’m wearing mascara, so things can’t be too bad. I attempted to mesh style and comfort, and found myself wearing an outfit and accessories made up almost entirely of things I got from family and friends:

Black Max Mara sweater and black Tod’s bag, presents from friend N.
Blue, green, and black patterned top and jade drops on white gold hoops, from sister Ruthie
Green spring leather jacket espied years ago in Nordstrom Rack by sister Sydney, later tried on and purchased with sister Ruthie.
Navy Gloria Vanderbilt pants with a bit of Lycra, a bargain from Valu City courtesy of sister Sydney
Nixon Mini GTO watch, picked out with and also from G. Grod
Blue Venetian beaded bracelet made by friend S from my parents’ church, given while I was pregnant with Guppy
And the only thing I bought myself: $9.99 black Chuck Taylor knock-offs from Target

I had layers, and I was comfortable yet still stylish. The therapy program went pretty well, too.

I will be vague, in case you haven’t watched it yet. I liked the finale, but didn’t love it. There was a big reveal, but I didn’t buy it. It was way too big, and while they’d been leading up to it for a few episodes, it still felt like a fake out. I’m terrible at guessing things ahead of time, but I still don’t buy this.

They’re going heavy on the Jesus symbolism for Baltar. His hair and beard, his recent (random) socialism, and three women showing up to him when they did, and why they did, was very interesting, especially as it’s just a few weeks from Easter.

I don’t like the character of Apollo. I liked the content of his speech, but it didn’t feel genuine.

And I’m still thinking on the finally revealed “music” that several characters had been hearing for a few weeks now. It’s an odd, deliberate choice with many possible meanings. And thus far, none of them make any possible sense.

Ronald Moore, please stop futzing around with other stuff, get back to the show. You did a good job in that you didn’t hit a sophomore slump till season three. Get back in the game. Explain that reveal, and that music. If you can sell me on those, you’ll have me back for season 4.

Speaking of defective products, don’t even get me started on baby monitors. I swear, they’re programmed to self destruct after ninety days. More links and vitriol when time allows.

Because life with ongoing post-partum depression that isn’t responding to treatment isn’t hard enough. Ha! My current bugaboo is things that break. Because not only were they a waste of time and effort, but they either need to be thrown away, or sent back to the manufacturer so that someone can be held accountable for the shoddy work. I should probably just throw these away, but they represent so much money, so much hope for a product that would work, that I can’t quite bear to just toss them.

Evenflo Top of Stair baby gate. Arrived broken from Target.com. Returned.

Summer Top of Stair baby gate. Purchased at Target. Broke within days of installation. Worse, the pieces that broke off were about exactly the size of baby windpipe–shoddy construction AND a choking hazard! Thanks, Target! Thanks, Summer! Returned, but I don’t think I’ve finished spilling bile on this one yet.

Kitchenart adjust a cup measuring set. Inner plunger broke apart. Why is it multiple pieces? Why not just one? Never found a use for the spoons.

Oxo cheese slicer #1. G. Grod threw away before I could rescue it from the trash.

Oxo cheese slicer #2, which I was excited to see came with a replacement wire. Guess what? It wasn’t the wire that broke. Grr.

Kitchenaid cheese slicer. Huge and unwieldy, and still couldn’t slice off the rind of my Dante 6-month sheep’s cheese.

Nike watch. Every time I pushed the upper right button, I also hit the lower left. Bad design, then the strap separated and couldn’t even be contained with duct tape.

Seiko watch. Can’t stay working. A battery works for a few weeks, then caput. I loved this watch.

I’m sure there are more broken items littering our home, waiting to be sent to their maker with a vitriolic letter from me. I’ve got to get these out of here. They’re wrecking the feng shui, and I’m going to get an ulcer from all this internal bile. More links to come when I finish complaining about these shoddy products online.

This week’s episode with the boneless woman was more cringe-inducing than usual, and there was no Stephen Fry, so I was a little disappointed overall. Sully said goodbye, but is that the last we’ve seen of him? My husband G. Grod thinks he’ll either be dead or evil by the end of the season. I think evil; perhaps he’s the suffocating serial killer who nearly got Bones earlier in the season? Poor Bones; she does not have a good track record, as Booth so unkindly pointed out to her.

For a funnier use of the term boneless, check out Mo Willems’s Knuffle Bunny. The “K” is pronounced in Knuffle (as it would be in German). And the term for one of Trixie’s tantrum contortions is “going boneless,” which Willems attributes to his wife.

What Do They Put in There?

Stonyfield yogurt
crack for the younger set, in
cup, bottle or quart.

Spring

Sunshine gives, and takes
You banish suicide skies
Yet highlight all the dust.