When Benny was born, my labor and delivery went very well, but I did a few goofy things.
I was induced on Jan. 29. The next morning, after a few hours of strong contractions, they put me on morphine, which made me feel itchy all over.
"How do addicts do this?" I asked the nurse. "I could never be a morphine addict, the itching would drive me nuts. Maybe I could get addicted to something else. Does cocaine make you itchy? What about heroin?"
I just went on and on, naming everything from angel dust to cocoa beans. The nurse just stared, she didn't know what to say.
Then a hospital staff member entered and asked me to be part of an epidural study. I was given a paper slide rule with a smiley face on one end and a frowny face on the other. I was told to position the gauge to reflect how much pain I felt.
The first thing I did was push the gauge next to the frowny face. Then I said I didn't want to be part of the study.
After the staffer left, I told my husband, "Gee, that guy must have been really disappointed." Ron rolled his eyes. "That was a woman, honey," he said.
Then I started calling the nurse by my husband's name. ("You're a really big help, Ron.") When I saw it irritated my husband, I did it some more.
After Ben was born, I tried to distract myself during recovery by babbling about my journalism career and the job I used to have in California. I talked about the newspaper's circulation, editorial stance, the subjects covered, major stories I edited. I even tried to name all 45 newspapers owned by its parent chain. Ron just patted my hand, gave me updates on our son, and corrected me whenever I made a mistake. ("Honey, they don't own the Chicago paper. That's Crain's.)
The doctors must have thought I was nuts.
##
Sunday, February 22, 2004
Wednesday, February 04, 2004
Benjamin L. Signs with the Tigers
GUESS WHERE, Mich. -- Benjamin Andrew L. signed a lifetime contract with the Detroit Tigers baseball team today after nine months of negotiations with his agents, his mother, Christine K., and father, Ron L.
Although Ben has no batting, pitching or fielding statistics, he bulked up over the past nine months to reach 8 pounds, 3 ounces, and he grew to 20.5 inches at birth, at 11:53 p.m. Friday, Jan. 30.
Hordes of reporters assembled at University of Guess Where Hospital, and the departure of Benjamin and his mother from the hospital was delayed until the early afternoon of the following Wednesday.
Christine had some minor complications but now is continuing her recovery at home, according to sources who requested anonymity ... and received it.
"I'm thrilled," Christine said about Benjamin's birth and his subsequent signing with Detroit. "But I thought the Tigers were a minor-league team."
The future All-Star will play multiple positions at the same time for the Tigers. "We could use the help," Manager Alan Trammell said. "We've been waiting for someone like 'Big Ben' for a long time."
Terms of the contract were not disclosed. But ESPN reported that Benjamin received a signing bonus that included several bottles of ready-to-feed Similac formula and stuffed toys.
The youngest-ever pro sports prospect (the previous record holder was a 7-year-old girl signed last year by the Cleveland Cavaliers NBA team) has asked for his own lounge chair and a locker away from his other teammates.
"Waaa-hhhh. Waaa-hhhh. Oogh. Oogh. Waaa-hhhh," Benjamin said at a news conference, sounding much like his father during tense newsroom times.
Benologists -- out of work Kremlinologists -- took that quote to mean that Benjamin was happy to sign with the Tigers but did not want to be nicknamed "Pudge."
Callisto, the wonder kitty, who observers feared would be threatened by the introduction of a teammate to the household, was seen nudging Benjamin with her nose and brushing her tail across Benjamin's face.
###
Although Ben has no batting, pitching or fielding statistics, he bulked up over the past nine months to reach 8 pounds, 3 ounces, and he grew to 20.5 inches at birth, at 11:53 p.m. Friday, Jan. 30.
Hordes of reporters assembled at University of Guess Where Hospital, and the departure of Benjamin and his mother from the hospital was delayed until the early afternoon of the following Wednesday.
Christine had some minor complications but now is continuing her recovery at home, according to sources who requested anonymity ... and received it.
"I'm thrilled," Christine said about Benjamin's birth and his subsequent signing with Detroit. "But I thought the Tigers were a minor-league team."
The future All-Star will play multiple positions at the same time for the Tigers. "We could use the help," Manager Alan Trammell said. "We've been waiting for someone like 'Big Ben' for a long time."
Terms of the contract were not disclosed. But ESPN reported that Benjamin received a signing bonus that included several bottles of ready-to-feed Similac formula and stuffed toys.
The youngest-ever pro sports prospect (the previous record holder was a 7-year-old girl signed last year by the Cleveland Cavaliers NBA team) has asked for his own lounge chair and a locker away from his other teammates.
"Waaa-hhhh. Waaa-hhhh. Oogh. Oogh. Waaa-hhhh," Benjamin said at a news conference, sounding much like his father during tense newsroom times.
Benologists -- out of work Kremlinologists -- took that quote to mean that Benjamin was happy to sign with the Tigers but did not want to be nicknamed "Pudge."
Callisto, the wonder kitty, who observers feared would be threatened by the introduction of a teammate to the household, was seen nudging Benjamin with her nose and brushing her tail across Benjamin's face.
###
Wednesday, September 03, 2003
A Jar of Pickle Relish
Think of your baby as a jar of pickle relish.
Actually, I'm the one thinking of my baby as a jar of pickle relish, ever since my ultrasound last week. You'll see the connection, really.
Anyway, this was the Big Ultrasound, a major milestone, viable proof that I'm packing more than a large lunch. In California, pregnant moms often get a string of ultrasounds ("See, that little circle is the fertilized egg ..."), but here in Michigan, if the pregnancy is uneventful, we get only one at 18-22 weeks.
So there we are, in a dark little room on a sunny Wednesday morning, and there's the kid. He's twisting and rolling and kicking and throwing up his arms as if he'd just made a touchdown. I say "he," although we chose not to learn the gender. The baby hardly sat still long enough to allow the technician to take measurements. Must be those hyperactive Ron genes.
Ron was quite moved. This was his first glimpse of the baby, and he was much less prepared. I was chatting and joking with the technician, but he hardly said anything. I couldn't see his face and the only response he'd give was the occasional quiet "Wow." The technician gave us a string of printouts, which Ron immediately clutched to his chest, announcing that he was taking them to his newspaper board meeting that afternoon. "You can have them tonight," he told me sternly.
The technician told us the baby weighed 10 ounces, which meant nothing to me; I've always been bad at weights and measures. I admire people who can say, "Go about 50 feet past the stop sign and turn right in the driveway." I couldn't estimate 50 feet if you paid me.
So that evening I rummaged through the refrigerator. The baby wasn't a can of pie filling or a jar of peanut butter yet, but I did fish out the pickle relish and thrust it into Ron's hand.
"Hold that," I say.
"I hate pickle relish," Ron says.
"That's how much the baby weighs," I say. "It's 10 ounces."
Ron turns misty. "Wow."
PART TWO: STRANGERS IN A STRANGE LAND
I'm still logging on to babycenter.com occasionally, just to stay up-to-date on the latest freaky scare. The moms on the January 2004 message boards are still gibbering madly. The two most common topics: insensitive husbands and safety concerns.
I expected these women to be hiding under the kitchen sink long before now. The questions are still relentless: "Is it safe to eat a sandwich?" "Is it safe to clean my house?" "Are hot dogs safe?" "Are dryer sheets safe?" "What about ball-point pens? What if I shoved one up my nose?"
Some poor women are posting the rude comments they get, now that we're all beginning to show. Shocking comments from family, friends, coworkers and total strangers. The poor gals get remarks about their weight, criticisms of their conduct and horror stories about someone's best friend's hairstylist's cousin's dry cleaner's daughter ("So, after 47 hours of labor, they finally ..."). Ouch.
I feel lucky. My family and friends have been nothing short of marvelous, and since I work from home, my only coworker is a little stuffed bunny named Bronson. And Bronson has lovely manners. But you can't control strangers, and I've given some thought to developing appropriate, dignified responses. But honestly, who ever remembers those cool rejoinders under stress? So I've decided on a short, all-purpose response to all annoying comments. I'll just squint ominously and say:
"You know, I ain't above whippin' yo' ass right here."
I know I'm too Midwestern to say it properly, but it would be fun to try, and with my hormones pumping, who's to say I wouldn't follow through?
Ha!
##
Actually, I'm the one thinking of my baby as a jar of pickle relish, ever since my ultrasound last week. You'll see the connection, really.
Anyway, this was the Big Ultrasound, a major milestone, viable proof that I'm packing more than a large lunch. In California, pregnant moms often get a string of ultrasounds ("See, that little circle is the fertilized egg ..."), but here in Michigan, if the pregnancy is uneventful, we get only one at 18-22 weeks.
So there we are, in a dark little room on a sunny Wednesday morning, and there's the kid. He's twisting and rolling and kicking and throwing up his arms as if he'd just made a touchdown. I say "he," although we chose not to learn the gender. The baby hardly sat still long enough to allow the technician to take measurements. Must be those hyperactive Ron genes.
Ron was quite moved. This was his first glimpse of the baby, and he was much less prepared. I was chatting and joking with the technician, but he hardly said anything. I couldn't see his face and the only response he'd give was the occasional quiet "Wow." The technician gave us a string of printouts, which Ron immediately clutched to his chest, announcing that he was taking them to his newspaper board meeting that afternoon. "You can have them tonight," he told me sternly.
The technician told us the baby weighed 10 ounces, which meant nothing to me; I've always been bad at weights and measures. I admire people who can say, "Go about 50 feet past the stop sign and turn right in the driveway." I couldn't estimate 50 feet if you paid me.
So that evening I rummaged through the refrigerator. The baby wasn't a can of pie filling or a jar of peanut butter yet, but I did fish out the pickle relish and thrust it into Ron's hand.
"Hold that," I say.
"I hate pickle relish," Ron says.
"That's how much the baby weighs," I say. "It's 10 ounces."
Ron turns misty. "Wow."
PART TWO: STRANGERS IN A STRANGE LAND
I'm still logging on to babycenter.com occasionally, just to stay up-to-date on the latest freaky scare. The moms on the January 2004 message boards are still gibbering madly. The two most common topics: insensitive husbands and safety concerns.
I expected these women to be hiding under the kitchen sink long before now. The questions are still relentless: "Is it safe to eat a sandwich?" "Is it safe to clean my house?" "Are hot dogs safe?" "Are dryer sheets safe?" "What about ball-point pens? What if I shoved one up my nose?"
Some poor women are posting the rude comments they get, now that we're all beginning to show. Shocking comments from family, friends, coworkers and total strangers. The poor gals get remarks about their weight, criticisms of their conduct and horror stories about someone's best friend's hairstylist's cousin's dry cleaner's daughter ("So, after 47 hours of labor, they finally ..."). Ouch.
I feel lucky. My family and friends have been nothing short of marvelous, and since I work from home, my only coworker is a little stuffed bunny named Bronson. And Bronson has lovely manners. But you can't control strangers, and I've given some thought to developing appropriate, dignified responses. But honestly, who ever remembers those cool rejoinders under stress? So I've decided on a short, all-purpose response to all annoying comments. I'll just squint ominously and say:
"You know, I ain't above whippin' yo' ass right here."
I know I'm too Midwestern to say it properly, but it would be fun to try, and with my hormones pumping, who's to say I wouldn't follow through?
Ha!
##
Wednesday, July 16, 2003
Wise Guy
A response to our press release from friend Alex in California:
MONTEREY, Calif. -- In a major retraction unseen since the Time's mega-apology for Jaysongate, Ron L. and Christine K. have admitted changing the due date and year for their child for tax purposes.
Federal prosecutors say they're considering "big-ass charges" against the couple, but would not elaborate. And in a recent development, Michigan media reporters are rabidly checking the couple's claims that their Ann Arbor house has a rosebush and roof and everything.
"Their claim ...'and everything' seems a little too grandiose, a little too Jaysonesque," said Fibs Magee, columnist of the Detroit Free Press. "In today's journalism, we need precision to maintain our credibility. When the couple last worked in San Francisco, Ron L. was chastised for saying a law firm had 'reamed its customers for sh--loads of bucks.' Such wording is unacceptable, and I think that's what's going on here."
Media critics at the Poynter Institute question the sincerity of Christine K.'s apology. Since her e-mail, the soon-to-be mother has received a two-year endorsement contract by the makers of Pop-Tarts and Fig Newtons.
"We want her to be our poster child for the Fig Newton lifestyle," said a company spokesman. "And when she pops, we want her kid to become our poster child."
Meanwhile, the Niebelungenleid Paper Clip Company of Stockton, Calif., has sued the couple for copyright infringement.
##
MONTEREY, Calif. -- In a major retraction unseen since the Time's mega-apology for Jaysongate, Ron L. and Christine K. have admitted changing the due date and year for their child for tax purposes.
Federal prosecutors say they're considering "big-ass charges" against the couple, but would not elaborate. And in a recent development, Michigan media reporters are rabidly checking the couple's claims that their Ann Arbor house has a rosebush and roof and everything.
"Their claim ...'and everything' seems a little too grandiose, a little too Jaysonesque," said Fibs Magee, columnist of the Detroit Free Press. "In today's journalism, we need precision to maintain our credibility. When the couple last worked in San Francisco, Ron L. was chastised for saying a law firm had 'reamed its customers for sh--loads of bucks.' Such wording is unacceptable, and I think that's what's going on here."
Media critics at the Poynter Institute question the sincerity of Christine K.'s apology. Since her e-mail, the soon-to-be mother has received a two-year endorsement contract by the makers of Pop-Tarts and Fig Newtons.
"We want her to be our poster child for the Fig Newton lifestyle," said a company spokesman. "And when she pops, we want her kid to become our poster child."
Meanwhile, the Niebelungenleid Paper Clip Company of Stockton, Calif., has sued the couple for copyright infringement.
##
Tuesday, July 15, 2003
Baby Niebelungenleid
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE: CORRECTED VERSION
ANN ARBOR, Mich. -- Ron L. and Christine K. are expecting their first child in January 2004.
Christine, who has existed almost solely on Pop-Tarts and Fig Newtons for two months, is due Jan. 22. In a further fit of domestic euphoria, the couple is also buying a house in Ann Arbor that’s got a rosebush and a roof and everything.
The couple remains “in extended negotiations” regarding possible names, although Christine favors the name Niebelungenleid. “I think Niebelungenleid L. has a nice ring,” the mom-to-be said.
Ron could not be reached for comment, though he was recently overheard at Washtenaw Dairy, a local ice cream parlor, bemoaning the upcoming due date. “That means we can’t claim the child tax credit for 2003!” he wailed. “Couldn’t we at least get a dog?”
##
ANN ARBOR, Mich. -- Ron L. and Christine K. are expecting their first child in January 2004.
Christine, who has existed almost solely on Pop-Tarts and Fig Newtons for two months, is due Jan. 22. In a further fit of domestic euphoria, the couple is also buying a house in Ann Arbor that’s got a rosebush and a roof and everything.
The couple remains “in extended negotiations” regarding possible names, although Christine favors the name Niebelungenleid. “I think Niebelungenleid L. has a nice ring,” the mom-to-be said.
Ron could not be reached for comment, though he was recently overheard at Washtenaw Dairy, a local ice cream parlor, bemoaning the upcoming due date. “That means we can’t claim the child tax credit for 2003!” he wailed. “Couldn’t we at least get a dog?”
##
Thursday, July 03, 2003
Oh Yeah, I'm Pregnant
Yup, I'm pregnant.
Now that I've shaken that permanent gin hangover they call morning sickness, I actually have to remind myself of my current condition.
Instead of that crazed For-God's-sake-give-me-a-Pop-Tart look in my eye, I now trot around Ann Arbor with my customary Oh-God-must-I-smile-at-this-person-too expression. People are very friendly around here. It must be all the retirees. The churlish scowl I cultivated in Prague and San Francisco is totally inappropriate here. Nobody smiled in Prague except for the tourists. If I looked too cheerful, I'd get a string of Americans and Germans asking the way to Wenceslas Square. And if I let my guard down in San Francisco, the homeless guys followed me for blocks.
But basically, my morale is good, now that I've switched from Pop Tarts and Fig Newtons to Big Macs and Klondike Bars. But it's kind of a letdown being pregnant in Michigan, because most women over 25 look pregnant here anyway. They all wear these baggy shirts wtih hearts or animals on them. I now look like just another Michigan matron losing the battle of the bulge.
And I keep forgetting I'm pregnant. I spend my day amidst a litany of silent questions: “Why am I so tired? Why am I hungry AGAIN? Why am I wearing this boring shirt?” Then it hits me -- oh yeah, I'm pregnant -- and I have to do a mental check. “Is this my third can of Coke today? Are these books too heavy? Christ, did I just eat three hot dogs? This kid is doomed ...”
That's because today's pregnancy books want you to sit in a purified bubble, gnawing wheat stalks and boiling your drinking water. Last week I read that pregnant women shouldn't lie on their backs, eat luncheon meat or buckle their seatbelts over their tummy. I'd done all three the day before. It's hopeless.
Ron, meanwhile, is ignoring the pregnancy books and brochures I strategically leave lying around. Instead, he's enamored with some wacky magazine he picked up at a doctor's office: “Paranoid Pregnancy” or “The Psycho Mama” or something like that.
RON: You know, I read that sucking on lemons helps with morning sickness.
ME: Hmmmm, pass me the chocolate sauce.
RON: They've got some interesting exercises in that magazine. There's one where you ...
ME: Hmmmm, pass me the Doritos.
Still, Ron's an involved dad-to-be and I feel lucky to have him. On my tough days, I log onto BabyCenter.com. The women on those message boards have real issues. One lady asks frantic questions that would never occur to me in a million years: "Can I eat white bread? Can I wear suntan lotion? Can I use my wireless phone? Can I pet my dog? Has anybody read about epidurals? Has anybody seen my sanity? I seem to have lost it permanently ...”
Even worse are the women who write long, heartbreaking stories about neglectful husbands, insensitive friends and psychotic mother-in-laws. One working pregnant lady skips lunch so she can give her boyfriend money to pay alimony to his ex-wife. Another woman's mother-in-law is screaming because the baby won't be named after her. The mother-in-law's name is Gertrude or something like that.
I can't read the message boards for long anyway, because I always want to correct people's spelling and grammar. Don't they teach any English in school these days? And what sick mind invented all those smiley and frowny faces?
OK, I'm ranting now. Time for another Klondike Bar.
##
Now that I've shaken that permanent gin hangover they call morning sickness, I actually have to remind myself of my current condition.
Instead of that crazed For-God's-sake-give-me-a-Pop-Tart look in my eye, I now trot around Ann Arbor with my customary Oh-God-must-I-smile-at-this-person-too expression. People are very friendly around here. It must be all the retirees. The churlish scowl I cultivated in Prague and San Francisco is totally inappropriate here. Nobody smiled in Prague except for the tourists. If I looked too cheerful, I'd get a string of Americans and Germans asking the way to Wenceslas Square. And if I let my guard down in San Francisco, the homeless guys followed me for blocks.
But basically, my morale is good, now that I've switched from Pop Tarts and Fig Newtons to Big Macs and Klondike Bars. But it's kind of a letdown being pregnant in Michigan, because most women over 25 look pregnant here anyway. They all wear these baggy shirts wtih hearts or animals on them. I now look like just another Michigan matron losing the battle of the bulge.
And I keep forgetting I'm pregnant. I spend my day amidst a litany of silent questions: “Why am I so tired? Why am I hungry AGAIN? Why am I wearing this boring shirt?” Then it hits me -- oh yeah, I'm pregnant -- and I have to do a mental check. “Is this my third can of Coke today? Are these books too heavy? Christ, did I just eat three hot dogs? This kid is doomed ...”
That's because today's pregnancy books want you to sit in a purified bubble, gnawing wheat stalks and boiling your drinking water. Last week I read that pregnant women shouldn't lie on their backs, eat luncheon meat or buckle their seatbelts over their tummy. I'd done all three the day before. It's hopeless.
Ron, meanwhile, is ignoring the pregnancy books and brochures I strategically leave lying around. Instead, he's enamored with some wacky magazine he picked up at a doctor's office: “Paranoid Pregnancy” or “The Psycho Mama” or something like that.
RON: You know, I read that sucking on lemons helps with morning sickness.
ME: Hmmmm, pass me the chocolate sauce.
RON: They've got some interesting exercises in that magazine. There's one where you ...
ME: Hmmmm, pass me the Doritos.
Still, Ron's an involved dad-to-be and I feel lucky to have him. On my tough days, I log onto BabyCenter.com. The women on those message boards have real issues. One lady asks frantic questions that would never occur to me in a million years: "Can I eat white bread? Can I wear suntan lotion? Can I use my wireless phone? Can I pet my dog? Has anybody read about epidurals? Has anybody seen my sanity? I seem to have lost it permanently ...”
Even worse are the women who write long, heartbreaking stories about neglectful husbands, insensitive friends and psychotic mother-in-laws. One working pregnant lady skips lunch so she can give her boyfriend money to pay alimony to his ex-wife. Another woman's mother-in-law is screaming because the baby won't be named after her. The mother-in-law's name is Gertrude or something like that.
I can't read the message boards for long anyway, because I always want to correct people's spelling and grammar. Don't they teach any English in school these days? And what sick mind invented all those smiley and frowny faces?
OK, I'm ranting now. Time for another Klondike Bar.
##
Friday, May 30, 2003
A Distant Rumble
A Distant Rumble
So we’re driving back from my neice’s First Communion, our VW Bug charging down Interstate 96, swerving to avoid the giant potholes, and I’m brooding about a price tag.
I’d accidentally left it attached to little Charlotte’s present. Which, of course, my sister noticed, tugging it out from behind the tiny crucifix. Which was bad enough, but what was worse was that wasn’t even the real price. So now what, I asked Ron. What should I do?
Ron was too busy dodging semi-trucks and giant Imperial Cruiser SUVs to answer, so I gave up and closed my eyes, hoping for a light doze. I rarely slept in moving cars, but we had a three-hour drive ahead and it was better than gnawing further on Christine’s Religious Gift Bone.
“Wake up, Chris, we’re home,” Ron said.
I blinked and sat up in amazement. How could I have slept, for three hours, in a rattling VW on Michigan’s tragically neglected highways? But it was true, I had slept, not a light doze but a deep, profound slumber that left slashing creases in my sundress and puddles of drool on the passenger window.
“That was some nap,” Ron said, tugging my stiff limbs out of the car. “You slept through three near-accidents, two construction zones -- even a stop at McDonald’s. You even snored.”
“I’m still tired,” I said thickly, staggering into our rented condo. Ron deposited me on the couch and stalked off disgustedly to take off his tie.
I lay quietly, listening to Fridge chirp a cheery hello. Our refrigerator used to be a typical appliance, actually one of our better ones, not prone to desperate gurglings like the dishwasher or frenzied escape attempts like our clothes dryer.
But recently Fridge had begun to assert its personality. Maybe it was upset that we’d been eating more canned than frozen food recently. It began by humming irritably, then started clearing its throat suggestively. Now it screeched like a hysterical bird, demanding attention at intervals throughout the day. I tried to quiet it through brutish treatment, shaking it and slamming its doors. It retreated into frightened silence for a time, eventually recovering to chirp again, often at 3 a.m.
“Call Dennis,” said Ron, when I complained. Ron worked insane hours launching a brand-new weekly newspaper and rarely heard Fridge. Dennis was our landlord and, I suspect, a participant in the Federal Witness Protection program. Ron had seen him once, myself not at all. He rarely answered phone calls, and his McMansion outside Ann Arbor was always dark and quiet. If it weren’t for the cashed rent checks, I’d doubt his very existence.
Sighing, I hauled myself off the couch and glared resentfully at Fridge, making sure to slam the refrigerator doors after I pulled out a Hostess Ding Dong, a bowl of vanilla pudding and half a chicken.
“What’s this?” Ron asked, staring as I added a jar of cashews and a bag of Doritos.
“Just a snack,” I mumbled, tearing off a chicken wing. “Do we have any ice cream?”
Ron just shook his head, grabbed a handful of cashews and headed to the couch to wade through the Sunday papers. I polished off my feast and lurched over to join him.
“Ron, I think I might be pregnant,” I said.
He put down the sports section and looked at me wearily. “Christine, it’s been a long day.”
“No, seriously,” I said. “Fatigue, increased appetite, mood swings. This could be it.”
Ron was unimpressed. “So you freak out over nothing, take long naps and eat like a horse. What else is new?" He peered at me suspiciously. “Have you been on that weird baby site again?”
Uh-oh, busted. The newest addition to my list of Internet favorites was a scary site called babycenter.com. Its perky pink-and-blue home page featured articles on everything from fertility aids to kindergarten placement tests. Its ominous fertility stats for my age group (I was nearly 35) nearly drove me into a frenzy. Ron quickly vetoed any weird drugstore kits, so I’d secretly determined my “Magic Week” using the site’s dandy calculator.
“I’m telling you, I have this feeling,” I said.
A week later, I triumphantly waved a little white stick at Ron when he walked through the door Friday night. “See?” I crowed. “See that pink line?”
Ron’s forehead crinkled. “It’s not very dark.”
“What do you want, neon lights? This is it!”
“Go see the doctor,” Ron said, shaking the stick and peering again.
I knew then that Ron was taking this seriously, because he hated our doctor.. The man was just plain weird. We'd found him during a desperate 20-minute search through our insurance directory when I caught a scary flu virus last fall.
“I wouldn’t trust that man to take my pulse,” I said. “What other proof do you need? The line is pink!”
“It’s fading.”
“Well, quit messing with it.”
In the end I did go to Doc Weirdo, who was actually having one of his normal days. The results of his test sent me to Ron’s office on deadline day, three hours before his newspaper went to press. I charged into his office, shut the door and handed him a crinkled yellow sheet.
“See?” I said, folding my arms.
He scanned the sheet. “You had a retinal scan?”
“No, look further down, where the box is checked. See? Positive.”
Ron looked up from the flimsy paper and smiled. I bit my lip, trying not to cry.
“Yes, Chris, I see.” His eyes were wet and shiny. “I see.”
##
So we’re driving back from my neice’s First Communion, our VW Bug charging down Interstate 96, swerving to avoid the giant potholes, and I’m brooding about a price tag.
I’d accidentally left it attached to little Charlotte’s present. Which, of course, my sister noticed, tugging it out from behind the tiny crucifix. Which was bad enough, but what was worse was that wasn’t even the real price. So now what, I asked Ron. What should I do?
Ron was too busy dodging semi-trucks and giant Imperial Cruiser SUVs to answer, so I gave up and closed my eyes, hoping for a light doze. I rarely slept in moving cars, but we had a three-hour drive ahead and it was better than gnawing further on Christine’s Religious Gift Bone.
“Wake up, Chris, we’re home,” Ron said.
I blinked and sat up in amazement. How could I have slept, for three hours, in a rattling VW on Michigan’s tragically neglected highways? But it was true, I had slept, not a light doze but a deep, profound slumber that left slashing creases in my sundress and puddles of drool on the passenger window.
“That was some nap,” Ron said, tugging my stiff limbs out of the car. “You slept through three near-accidents, two construction zones -- even a stop at McDonald’s. You even snored.”
“I’m still tired,” I said thickly, staggering into our rented condo. Ron deposited me on the couch and stalked off disgustedly to take off his tie.
I lay quietly, listening to Fridge chirp a cheery hello. Our refrigerator used to be a typical appliance, actually one of our better ones, not prone to desperate gurglings like the dishwasher or frenzied escape attempts like our clothes dryer.
But recently Fridge had begun to assert its personality. Maybe it was upset that we’d been eating more canned than frozen food recently. It began by humming irritably, then started clearing its throat suggestively. Now it screeched like a hysterical bird, demanding attention at intervals throughout the day. I tried to quiet it through brutish treatment, shaking it and slamming its doors. It retreated into frightened silence for a time, eventually recovering to chirp again, often at 3 a.m.
“Call Dennis,” said Ron, when I complained. Ron worked insane hours launching a brand-new weekly newspaper and rarely heard Fridge. Dennis was our landlord and, I suspect, a participant in the Federal Witness Protection program. Ron had seen him once, myself not at all. He rarely answered phone calls, and his McMansion outside Ann Arbor was always dark and quiet. If it weren’t for the cashed rent checks, I’d doubt his very existence.
Sighing, I hauled myself off the couch and glared resentfully at Fridge, making sure to slam the refrigerator doors after I pulled out a Hostess Ding Dong, a bowl of vanilla pudding and half a chicken.
“What’s this?” Ron asked, staring as I added a jar of cashews and a bag of Doritos.
“Just a snack,” I mumbled, tearing off a chicken wing. “Do we have any ice cream?”
Ron just shook his head, grabbed a handful of cashews and headed to the couch to wade through the Sunday papers. I polished off my feast and lurched over to join him.
“Ron, I think I might be pregnant,” I said.
He put down the sports section and looked at me wearily. “Christine, it’s been a long day.”
“No, seriously,” I said. “Fatigue, increased appetite, mood swings. This could be it.”
Ron was unimpressed. “So you freak out over nothing, take long naps and eat like a horse. What else is new?" He peered at me suspiciously. “Have you been on that weird baby site again?”
Uh-oh, busted. The newest addition to my list of Internet favorites was a scary site called babycenter.com. Its perky pink-and-blue home page featured articles on everything from fertility aids to kindergarten placement tests. Its ominous fertility stats for my age group (I was nearly 35) nearly drove me into a frenzy. Ron quickly vetoed any weird drugstore kits, so I’d secretly determined my “Magic Week” using the site’s dandy calculator.
“I’m telling you, I have this feeling,” I said.
A week later, I triumphantly waved a little white stick at Ron when he walked through the door Friday night. “See?” I crowed. “See that pink line?”
Ron’s forehead crinkled. “It’s not very dark.”
“What do you want, neon lights? This is it!”
“Go see the doctor,” Ron said, shaking the stick and peering again.
I knew then that Ron was taking this seriously, because he hated our doctor.. The man was just plain weird. We'd found him during a desperate 20-minute search through our insurance directory when I caught a scary flu virus last fall.
“I wouldn’t trust that man to take my pulse,” I said. “What other proof do you need? The line is pink!”
“It’s fading.”
“Well, quit messing with it.”
In the end I did go to Doc Weirdo, who was actually having one of his normal days. The results of his test sent me to Ron’s office on deadline day, three hours before his newspaper went to press. I charged into his office, shut the door and handed him a crinkled yellow sheet.
“See?” I said, folding my arms.
He scanned the sheet. “You had a retinal scan?”
“No, look further down, where the box is checked. See? Positive.”
Ron looked up from the flimsy paper and smiled. I bit my lip, trying not to cry.
“Yes, Chris, I see.” His eyes were wet and shiny. “I see.”
##
Sunday, March 30, 2003
How Sticky Do You Wanna Be?
It's Wednesday, which is an excellent day to restart my Michigan diaries. Even after six months away from the Biz Times, I still wake up on Wednesdays with a sense of urgency. Around lunchtime, I often feel a strange, keening urge to sit in a small room with four other hungry people and moan about art.
Instead, I've got some great stories to work on today. Such is the life of the humble freelancer. One of my current assignments is for a business newspaper's inside section. The assignment (I swear I'm not making this up) goes like this: "Businesses that sell glue to tool-and-die companies. What's in the glue?"
So I'm calling up companies like Seal-Tec in Grand Rapids, Mich., and asking: "How sticky do you wanna be?"
Oh, oh, oh, and did you know that experts have tips on reducing workers' comp claims? Businesses might save money! Didn't I write that story, like, eight years ago when "Quark" meant a duck with a New Jersey accent?
No, I'm not bitter. What I'm doing is updating my resume. Being a clever girl, I saved the help wanted ad that Jim wrote to replace my position. It made my job sound very impressive -- I didn't realize I did all that!
When I'm not talking to local business folks about innovative workplace safety measures, I'm working on my crazy book. This week I created a hot Venusian nightclub called "The Space Orgy." Odd how it resembles a Las Vegas nightclub. I didn't realize I was doing research at Jessica's bachelorette party.
Not only that, but inside the club, my heroine meets a beeping killer assassin robot on the dance floor. It's one of 10,000 crawling all over the system, each programmed to only recognize one person's DNA. They blindly search everywhere, pinging everything from potted ferns to 6-year-old boys. When they locate the person with the target code, they kill them instantly with a laser beam. The bots look really benign (like silver fence posts with wheels) so people think they're some new census-taking device.
Nothing like 10,000 killer robots to liven things up. Ha!
Anyway, back to reality -- or semi-reality. Namely, my new playwriting group. It's kind of bizarre. There are some very talented people, but most of the members are crazy as loons. The demographics range from a young University of Michigan student to Eric, who's 60-something and has a new medical problem every time we meet.
The main problem with the group is that the good writers submit material only occasionally, while the less-talented people churn out reams of dialogue. So we sit through play openers like this:
WIFE: Am I disturbing you, honey?
HUSBAND: No, I'm having trouble writing anyway.
WIFE: Don't be discouraged.
HUSBAND: You'd think after 10 years I would have this book written.
WIFE: Would you like some lunch? Then we can take a walk.
HUSBAND: Tell you what, let's skip lunch and take a walk right away. Do things differently.
(they laugh merrily)
Just shoot me now. I'm trying to stay in the background because, well, I've only attended two meetings. There's nothing worse than someone who joins a group and tries to take over.
Honestly, these folks deserve a play of their own. Here's an example:
The old guy, Eric is by far the nuttiest. He's very into workshops and seminars and books that begin with chapters titled "The Draft of Discovery." He and a few other members have attended workshops led by some guy named Vincent, the Detroit area's God of Drama. So Eric's comments run along the lines of: "Obviously the letter opener in this scene is a physical corollary to the protagonist's dramatic choice." Which is actually kind of neat; I'm as much of a sucker for literary analysis as any former English teacher. But it gets kind of tiring.
Worse, Eric peppers his comments (monologues?) with "Vincent believes" and "As Vincent teaches" and "Vincent's philosophy supports ..." He's like the Disciple of Vincent. At the first meeting I attended, Eric ran out to his car to get the book "A Writer's Journey" by the Great Vincent and threatened to read passages. Thankfully, Steve, the group leader, convinced him to just Xerox some relevant parts for next time. Even more thankfully, Eric forgot to do so. I'm thinking of ordering some bumper stickers: WWVD?
So I looked forward to Eric's submission last Monday because a) He's been to all these seminars so he probably knows what he's doing and b) the group's rules state that the author can't talk during the discussion. Before we read it, Eric posed a series of deeply complicated questions and everyone dutifully wrote them all down except for me. I had no intention of talking about how the diversification of thematic elements contributed to the scene's philisophical integrity.
Then Eric talks about the role of music in his play. It's all very baffling; even Steve the Leader looks confused. But we get the point when Eric scurries over to a small boombox and prepares to play specially arranged music during the reading.
So we begin reading parts aloud. We read three lines and then Eric starts playing a piano concerto. It lasts for nearly two minutes, and Eric won't let us read lines aloud as it plays. So we just sit there for two minutes trying to look respectful. I'm trying to imagine a playgoing audience that will tolerate watching a girl play the piano for the first two minutes of a play. Then the dialogue begins, and yes, it's the dialogue that I quoted earlier. The husband and wife quickly switch from dull and domestic to addled and full of angst. "I know something is bothering you," the husband pleads. "I always get this feeling when something is bothering you and I'm getting that feeling now."
WIFE: No, let's just have lunch.
HUSBAND: I thought we were taking a walk.
WIFE: You never value my needs!
HUSBAND: I don't understand. What are you trying to say to me? I don't understand.
The husband kept saying that and I completely sympathized. I didn't understand any of it. So we discuss it, and since Eric can't keep his mouth shut, we finally learn that the scene isn't about lunch at all, but that the wife had an affair 10 years ago while the husband was attending an amazingly powerful London production of Wagner's Ring Cycle.
Then I got Eric mad because I said that the music appeared to function as a device to enhance development of the play's various characters, rather than a fully formed character in its own right. Oh well.
Steve the Leader plans to submit my one-act "The Europa Society" at a future meeting, but I'm in no hurry. From what I can tell, I've already broken every Vincent Commandment possible. I just know my thematic devices aren't diverse enough.
Oh well, back to my sticky glue story.
##
Instead, I've got some great stories to work on today. Such is the life of the humble freelancer. One of my current assignments is for a business newspaper's inside section. The assignment (I swear I'm not making this up) goes like this: "Businesses that sell glue to tool-and-die companies. What's in the glue?"
So I'm calling up companies like Seal-Tec in Grand Rapids, Mich., and asking: "How sticky do you wanna be?"
Oh, oh, oh, and did you know that experts have tips on reducing workers' comp claims? Businesses might save money! Didn't I write that story, like, eight years ago when "Quark" meant a duck with a New Jersey accent?
No, I'm not bitter. What I'm doing is updating my resume. Being a clever girl, I saved the help wanted ad that Jim wrote to replace my position. It made my job sound very impressive -- I didn't realize I did all that!
When I'm not talking to local business folks about innovative workplace safety measures, I'm working on my crazy book. This week I created a hot Venusian nightclub called "The Space Orgy." Odd how it resembles a Las Vegas nightclub. I didn't realize I was doing research at Jessica's bachelorette party.
Not only that, but inside the club, my heroine meets a beeping killer assassin robot on the dance floor. It's one of 10,000 crawling all over the system, each programmed to only recognize one person's DNA. They blindly search everywhere, pinging everything from potted ferns to 6-year-old boys. When they locate the person with the target code, they kill them instantly with a laser beam. The bots look really benign (like silver fence posts with wheels) so people think they're some new census-taking device.
Nothing like 10,000 killer robots to liven things up. Ha!
Anyway, back to reality -- or semi-reality. Namely, my new playwriting group. It's kind of bizarre. There are some very talented people, but most of the members are crazy as loons. The demographics range from a young University of Michigan student to Eric, who's 60-something and has a new medical problem every time we meet.
The main problem with the group is that the good writers submit material only occasionally, while the less-talented people churn out reams of dialogue. So we sit through play openers like this:
WIFE: Am I disturbing you, honey?
HUSBAND: No, I'm having trouble writing anyway.
WIFE: Don't be discouraged.
HUSBAND: You'd think after 10 years I would have this book written.
WIFE: Would you like some lunch? Then we can take a walk.
HUSBAND: Tell you what, let's skip lunch and take a walk right away. Do things differently.
(they laugh merrily)
Just shoot me now. I'm trying to stay in the background because, well, I've only attended two meetings. There's nothing worse than someone who joins a group and tries to take over.
Honestly, these folks deserve a play of their own. Here's an example:
The old guy, Eric is by far the nuttiest. He's very into workshops and seminars and books that begin with chapters titled "The Draft of Discovery." He and a few other members have attended workshops led by some guy named Vincent, the Detroit area's God of Drama. So Eric's comments run along the lines of: "Obviously the letter opener in this scene is a physical corollary to the protagonist's dramatic choice." Which is actually kind of neat; I'm as much of a sucker for literary analysis as any former English teacher. But it gets kind of tiring.
Worse, Eric peppers his comments (monologues?) with "Vincent believes" and "As Vincent teaches" and "Vincent's philosophy supports ..." He's like the Disciple of Vincent. At the first meeting I attended, Eric ran out to his car to get the book "A Writer's Journey" by the Great Vincent and threatened to read passages. Thankfully, Steve, the group leader, convinced him to just Xerox some relevant parts for next time. Even more thankfully, Eric forgot to do so. I'm thinking of ordering some bumper stickers: WWVD?
So I looked forward to Eric's submission last Monday because a) He's been to all these seminars so he probably knows what he's doing and b) the group's rules state that the author can't talk during the discussion. Before we read it, Eric posed a series of deeply complicated questions and everyone dutifully wrote them all down except for me. I had no intention of talking about how the diversification of thematic elements contributed to the scene's philisophical integrity.
Then Eric talks about the role of music in his play. It's all very baffling; even Steve the Leader looks confused. But we get the point when Eric scurries over to a small boombox and prepares to play specially arranged music during the reading.
So we begin reading parts aloud. We read three lines and then Eric starts playing a piano concerto. It lasts for nearly two minutes, and Eric won't let us read lines aloud as it plays. So we just sit there for two minutes trying to look respectful. I'm trying to imagine a playgoing audience that will tolerate watching a girl play the piano for the first two minutes of a play. Then the dialogue begins, and yes, it's the dialogue that I quoted earlier. The husband and wife quickly switch from dull and domestic to addled and full of angst. "I know something is bothering you," the husband pleads. "I always get this feeling when something is bothering you and I'm getting that feeling now."
WIFE: No, let's just have lunch.
HUSBAND: I thought we were taking a walk.
WIFE: You never value my needs!
HUSBAND: I don't understand. What are you trying to say to me? I don't understand.
The husband kept saying that and I completely sympathized. I didn't understand any of it. So we discuss it, and since Eric can't keep his mouth shut, we finally learn that the scene isn't about lunch at all, but that the wife had an affair 10 years ago while the husband was attending an amazingly powerful London production of Wagner's Ring Cycle.
Then I got Eric mad because I said that the music appeared to function as a device to enhance development of the play's various characters, rather than a fully formed character in its own right. Oh well.
Steve the Leader plans to submit my one-act "The Europa Society" at a future meeting, but I'm in no hurry. From what I can tell, I've already broken every Vincent Commandment possible. I just know my thematic devices aren't diverse enough.
Oh well, back to my sticky glue story.
##
Wednesday, February 26, 2003
Kmart Weirdness
This is my letter to a Free Press reporter about Kmart:
Subject:
Kmart employee program
To:
kdybis@detnews.com
Dear Ms. Dybis:
Thank you for your coverage of Kmart. The News is doing a good job at covering this particular retail disaster.
I'm writing because I have a friend who was a cashier at the Roseville Kmart (the one that didn't close) in December, and she told me about an odd employee campaign.
For a week or so, there was a sign in the employee break room that said "15 rings per minute or else!" Everyone knew what the "15 rings" meant -- Kmart
wanted each cashier to ring so many orders per minute, even if there was no bagger to help or the customer was confused and slowed the process down. My friend thinks it was 15 rings a minute, but I would definitely confirm that number.
Anyway, the employees soon found out what the "or else!" meant. If an employee failed to meet the quota, he or she had to wear name tags that said "I can only do 12 rings a minute" or some such. The idea, of course, is to humiliate the employee into ringing faster. Or maybe the customers were supposed to taunt the lazy employee while throwing coupons and wadded-up shopping lists at her.
I find it shocking that Kmart would institute such an abusive system in a time when it needs all the good public relations it can get. Heaven only knows how
much the little tags cost. Is this part of Kmart's "innovative efforts" to improve customer service? And I thought the weird concept stores were bad.
Thanks for your time,
CK
Ann Arbor
THIS WAS MS. DYBIS' KIND RESPONSE:
Subject: RE: Kmart employee program
Date: Thu, 27 Feb 2003 16:48:20 -0500
From: "Dybis, Karen" kdybis@detnews.com
To: CK, ckthegreat@email.com
Dear Ms. CK:
Thank you for your email. Out of curiosity, I stopped this afternoon by the Kmart you wrote about. Sure enough, the "ring" number on the name tag was noticable to me -- thanks to your email! I will be calling Kmart to find out more, and I will update you on the situation. I appreciate you writing to bring it to my attention. What a lousy program!!
Karen Dybis
Subject:
Kmart employee program
To:
kdybis@detnews.com
Dear Ms. Dybis:
Thank you for your coverage of Kmart. The News is doing a good job at covering this particular retail disaster.
I'm writing because I have a friend who was a cashier at the Roseville Kmart (the one that didn't close) in December, and she told me about an odd employee campaign.
For a week or so, there was a sign in the employee break room that said "15 rings per minute or else!" Everyone knew what the "15 rings" meant -- Kmart
wanted each cashier to ring so many orders per minute, even if there was no bagger to help or the customer was confused and slowed the process down. My friend thinks it was 15 rings a minute, but I would definitely confirm that number.
Anyway, the employees soon found out what the "or else!" meant. If an employee failed to meet the quota, he or she had to wear name tags that said "I can only do 12 rings a minute" or some such. The idea, of course, is to humiliate the employee into ringing faster. Or maybe the customers were supposed to taunt the lazy employee while throwing coupons and wadded-up shopping lists at her.
I find it shocking that Kmart would institute such an abusive system in a time when it needs all the good public relations it can get. Heaven only knows how
much the little tags cost. Is this part of Kmart's "innovative efforts" to improve customer service? And I thought the weird concept stores were bad.
Thanks for your time,
CK
Ann Arbor
THIS WAS MS. DYBIS' KIND RESPONSE:
Subject: RE: Kmart employee program
Date: Thu, 27 Feb 2003 16:48:20 -0500
From: "Dybis, Karen" kdybis@detnews.com
To: CK, ckthegreat@email.com
Dear Ms. CK:
Thank you for your email. Out of curiosity, I stopped this afternoon by the Kmart you wrote about. Sure enough, the "ring" number on the name tag was noticable to me -- thanks to your email! I will be calling Kmart to find out more, and I will update you on the situation. I appreciate you writing to bring it to my attention. What a lousy program!!
Karen Dybis
Tuesday, December 03, 2002
Victory Dance!
I have emerged victorious from Thanksgiving week with a refrigerator stuffed with turkey leftovers and ... a finished novel!
Yup, I wrote a 50,039-word novel in exactly 26 days, which adds up to 1,924.587 words a day. Actually, it didn't work like that. Sometimes I wrote 3,000-4,000 words a day in a mindless frenzy. On other days, I wrote nothing at all and spent my designated two hours staring horror-stricken out the window.
But all that is behind me now. Last week I gathered myself for the final push, with Ron poking food at me under the door. I emerged briefly to host Thanksgiving and stuff a turkey.
The moment of truth came at 2 a.m. on Saturday morning when I wrote THE END. I pulled out Ron's going-away gift from the SFBT (that wacky musical 49ers football player) and we danced insanely.
Then I did a word count -- 49,759! Aaagh! I needed another 241 words!
So what does a sleep-deprived, clearly unhinged, hack author do then? Well, it's a science fiction story, so I thought that Kepler's Laws of Planetary Motion would add some scientific credibility (and 61 words). After all, what novel coudn't benefit from such a sentence as: "The ratio of the squares of the revolutionary periods for two planets is equal to the ratio of the cubes of their semimajor axes."
But that left 81 words, even after counting a dedication, the title page and all the chapter titles. (I started each chapter with a pull quote as well, so
I got credit for the same quote twice. Ha!)
So I wrote ... a glossary. Yup. I defined some of the cheap scientific tricks I used to aid the plot. I described the planet Venus' annual Aorta Festival (featuring a beating-heart float and an Artery of Ceremonies). Shameless, I know, but it worked!
I've printed up all 172 pages of this thing, put it in a binder and now I have an interesting doorstop for our home office.
Yay!
##
Yup, I wrote a 50,039-word novel in exactly 26 days, which adds up to 1,924.587 words a day. Actually, it didn't work like that. Sometimes I wrote 3,000-4,000 words a day in a mindless frenzy. On other days, I wrote nothing at all and spent my designated two hours staring horror-stricken out the window.
But all that is behind me now. Last week I gathered myself for the final push, with Ron poking food at me under the door. I emerged briefly to host Thanksgiving and stuff a turkey.
The moment of truth came at 2 a.m. on Saturday morning when I wrote THE END. I pulled out Ron's going-away gift from the SFBT (that wacky musical 49ers football player) and we danced insanely.
Then I did a word count -- 49,759! Aaagh! I needed another 241 words!
So what does a sleep-deprived, clearly unhinged, hack author do then? Well, it's a science fiction story, so I thought that Kepler's Laws of Planetary Motion would add some scientific credibility (and 61 words). After all, what novel coudn't benefit from such a sentence as: "The ratio of the squares of the revolutionary periods for two planets is equal to the ratio of the cubes of their semimajor axes."
But that left 81 words, even after counting a dedication, the title page and all the chapter titles. (I started each chapter with a pull quote as well, so
I got credit for the same quote twice. Ha!)
So I wrote ... a glossary. Yup. I defined some of the cheap scientific tricks I used to aid the plot. I described the planet Venus' annual Aorta Festival (featuring a beating-heart float and an Artery of Ceremonies). Shameless, I know, but it worked!
I've printed up all 172 pages of this thing, put it in a binder and now I have an interesting doorstop for our home office.
Yay!
##
Friday, November 15, 2002
Snowflakes and Science Fiction
It's snowing! A light dusting covers the ground and it's still falling. I ran outside this morning and made a tiny snowman ; he looked kind of lonely, so I made him two friends.
For three years snow was merely a brief, annoying incovenience that held up my flight to Detroit and ruined my San Francisco leather walking shoes. Now it's ... scenery. I've got goosebumps -- oh, that's because I left the deck door open.
Holidays and seasons have taken on special meaning since returning to Michigan. Maybe it's because most of our friends here are parents, and kids beat the drums on every holiday. I got a homemade Indigenous People's Day card, for chrissake. Can't wait to see what I get for Dia de la Revolucion Mexicana next month. Tierra y libertad!
On Halloween, I squired a cowgirl and a geisha around the suburbs of Holland, Mich., in sub-zero temperatures. My neice had to put her lovely kimono on over her coat, so she looked like a darling little Japanese deep-sea diver. Her sister was a horse. Her legs fit into the horse's front legs, the other legs dragged their hooves in the back and she held the head up by the bridle. Amazing to behold, but the poor kid couldn't walk. By house No. 4, I was carrying Mr. Horse on my back with his legs tied around my neck.
It went well with the bouncy alien faces I wore on my head in celebration of the day. Big hit with my niece's kindergarten class. I learned to make little bones out of Tootsie Pops and toilet paper, too. Ought to be a big hit on the cocktail circuit. I'm getting a real preview of my life if Ron and I ever decide to ... ahem! ... well, you know. I can't even say it. Hey, look at the snow! It's still falling!
Anyway, back to holidays. Still with me? In a fit of madness, I volunteered to hostThanksgiving. So I picked up one of those cheery magazines at the grocery checkout: Annoyingly Perfect Housekeeping or Home & Hovel or something like that. I don't feel any better. I think I'll spend Thanksgiving under the bed wearing my alien headband.
I gamely nodded at Laura Bush's recipe for corn bread dressing and patiently read "Should You Buy a Deep-Fat Fryer?" I even endured an article-cum-advertisement for L'eggs Care Anti-Cellulite Panty Hose, made out of Paraguay tea and grape seed extract (seriously!). But then came a horrific EIGHT PAGES of children kidnapped during the holidays. My god, no wonder parents these days are buying their 7-year-olds cell phones and strapping global positioning systems to their arms.
Dejected, I flipped through the remainder of the magazine, wondering if anybody ever ate roasted beet salad. In the end, what made me methodically tear every page out of this publication and consider ritual burning was the very last page.
(WARNING: YOU REALLY MIGHT NOT WANT TO READ THIS PART.) It was a full page ad for Cottonelle, with a big picture of a woman's butt. On the bottom stretched a magnified shot of the patterned paper. The caption read: "Feel the clean with NEW WIDER RIPPLES!"
Well, that did it for me. Ron found me under the bed when he got home that night, babbling "Cellulite, ripples, roasted beets."
God, I can't end the diary with something like this.
So I'll tell you about my novel. I've hit the halfway mark in my insane quest to write a novel in a month: I'm at 25,000 words. One hour in the morning and one in the afternoon. It's science fiction, which means I can spend much time lovingly descirbing Mercury's landscape. (Its sun goes backwards sometimes, did you know that?)
I'm drawing on my business journalism background, like when my protagonist meets an alien oxygen salesman who deplores the state of the economy and grumbles about those cheatin' Martians. It's all deeply weird. I'm having fun with it, but I think it needs more sex and violence. How about an intergalactic war and some cross-species seduction in Chapter 12?
##
For three years snow was merely a brief, annoying incovenience that held up my flight to Detroit and ruined my San Francisco leather walking shoes. Now it's ... scenery. I've got goosebumps -- oh, that's because I left the deck door open.
Holidays and seasons have taken on special meaning since returning to Michigan. Maybe it's because most of our friends here are parents, and kids beat the drums on every holiday. I got a homemade Indigenous People's Day card, for chrissake. Can't wait to see what I get for Dia de la Revolucion Mexicana next month. Tierra y libertad!
On Halloween, I squired a cowgirl and a geisha around the suburbs of Holland, Mich., in sub-zero temperatures. My neice had to put her lovely kimono on over her coat, so she looked like a darling little Japanese deep-sea diver. Her sister was a horse. Her legs fit into the horse's front legs, the other legs dragged their hooves in the back and she held the head up by the bridle. Amazing to behold, but the poor kid couldn't walk. By house No. 4, I was carrying Mr. Horse on my back with his legs tied around my neck.
It went well with the bouncy alien faces I wore on my head in celebration of the day. Big hit with my niece's kindergarten class. I learned to make little bones out of Tootsie Pops and toilet paper, too. Ought to be a big hit on the cocktail circuit. I'm getting a real preview of my life if Ron and I ever decide to ... ahem! ... well, you know. I can't even say it. Hey, look at the snow! It's still falling!
Anyway, back to holidays. Still with me? In a fit of madness, I volunteered to hostThanksgiving. So I picked up one of those cheery magazines at the grocery checkout: Annoyingly Perfect Housekeeping or Home & Hovel or something like that. I don't feel any better. I think I'll spend Thanksgiving under the bed wearing my alien headband.
I gamely nodded at Laura Bush's recipe for corn bread dressing and patiently read "Should You Buy a Deep-Fat Fryer?" I even endured an article-cum-advertisement for L'eggs Care Anti-Cellulite Panty Hose, made out of Paraguay tea and grape seed extract (seriously!). But then came a horrific EIGHT PAGES of children kidnapped during the holidays. My god, no wonder parents these days are buying their 7-year-olds cell phones and strapping global positioning systems to their arms.
Dejected, I flipped through the remainder of the magazine, wondering if anybody ever ate roasted beet salad. In the end, what made me methodically tear every page out of this publication and consider ritual burning was the very last page.
(WARNING: YOU REALLY MIGHT NOT WANT TO READ THIS PART.) It was a full page ad for Cottonelle, with a big picture of a woman's butt. On the bottom stretched a magnified shot of the patterned paper. The caption read: "Feel the clean with NEW WIDER RIPPLES!"
Well, that did it for me. Ron found me under the bed when he got home that night, babbling "Cellulite, ripples, roasted beets."
God, I can't end the diary with something like this.
So I'll tell you about my novel. I've hit the halfway mark in my insane quest to write a novel in a month: I'm at 25,000 words. One hour in the morning and one in the afternoon. It's science fiction, which means I can spend much time lovingly descirbing Mercury's landscape. (Its sun goes backwards sometimes, did you know that?)
I'm drawing on my business journalism background, like when my protagonist meets an alien oxygen salesman who deplores the state of the economy and grumbles about those cheatin' Martians. It's all deeply weird. I'm having fun with it, but I think it needs more sex and violence. How about an intergalactic war and some cross-species seduction in Chapter 12?
##
Monday, October 28, 2002
Top Ten Things to Do in Michigan
Here are Christine's top 10 favorite Michigan pasttimes:
10.
Battling crazed, elbow-throwing soccer moms for the perfect pumpkin at the Zeeb Road pumpkin patch.
9.
Shuffling along leafy sidewalks on crisp fall days, wearing everything I own, while joggers dash by in tank tops and shorts.
8.
Answering my doorbell at 10 p.m. to see two women with a cat. They had found the animal that afternoon and were ringing doorbells to find the owner.
7.
Driving over orange traffic cones along Interstate 94 with other cheating Detroit drivers near the 8 Mile Road exit.
6.
Walking into an insanely large discount store for a pack of hot dogs, and walking out with three cases of Snapple, a pumpkin carving kit and a stuff-it-yourself beanie sofa.
5.
Staying up to midnight, watching the Giants throw the World Series.
4.
Restaurant baked potatoes smothered in cheese, bacon and onion -- no vegetables available.
3.
Reading the "restaurant inspections" column in the Ann Arbor News:
"Bottle of disinfectant mixed with salad dressings"
"Rat poison, grated cheese look suspiciously alike"
"Frozen meat patties used as hockey pucks"
2.
Marching in Saturday's anti-war protest in Ann Arbor with demonstrators and dogs wearing signs ("Bark for Peace"). Then we grabbed some lunch and spent the afternoon at the House of Sofas.
AND THE NUMBER ONE FAVORITE PASTTIME IN MICHIGAN ...
Attending a 4-year-old girl's birthday party that lasted until 4 a.m. and involved jello shots and bounces in a rented, blowup moonwalk in the back yard.
##
10.
Battling crazed, elbow-throwing soccer moms for the perfect pumpkin at the Zeeb Road pumpkin patch.
9.
Shuffling along leafy sidewalks on crisp fall days, wearing everything I own, while joggers dash by in tank tops and shorts.
8.
Answering my doorbell at 10 p.m. to see two women with a cat. They had found the animal that afternoon and were ringing doorbells to find the owner.
7.
Driving over orange traffic cones along Interstate 94 with other cheating Detroit drivers near the 8 Mile Road exit.
6.
Walking into an insanely large discount store for a pack of hot dogs, and walking out with three cases of Snapple, a pumpkin carving kit and a stuff-it-yourself beanie sofa.
5.
Staying up to midnight, watching the Giants throw the World Series.
4.
Restaurant baked potatoes smothered in cheese, bacon and onion -- no vegetables available.
3.
Reading the "restaurant inspections" column in the Ann Arbor News:
"Bottle of disinfectant mixed with salad dressings"
"Rat poison, grated cheese look suspiciously alike"
"Frozen meat patties used as hockey pucks"
2.
Marching in Saturday's anti-war protest in Ann Arbor with demonstrators and dogs wearing signs ("Bark for Peace"). Then we grabbed some lunch and spent the afternoon at the House of Sofas.
AND THE NUMBER ONE FAVORITE PASTTIME IN MICHIGAN ...
Attending a 4-year-old girl's birthday party that lasted until 4 a.m. and involved jello shots and bounces in a rented, blowup moonwalk in the back yard.
##
Sunday, October 13, 2002
Christine and Ron settle into Ann Arbor
Well, we're now down to the last few boxes, thank God. We've stacked our pictures in the office, shoved our 17 boxes of books in the spare closet, and propped our rolled-up rugs against the basement wall.
My life is like a Memory card game, punctuated with Ron's wails of "Where's my backpack? Where's my EMU mug? Where's my birth certificate? Where's my blue sweater?" If he keeps this up, his next question will be "Where's my sleeping bag?" because he'll be sleeping in the car.
Ah, the car. Yes, we did buy a car -- a VW beetle. The color is a newfangled "platinum gray," which is a fancy name for um, dark gray. I fret sometimes that it blends in with the highway pavenment. We pulled the daises out of the bud vase on the dashboard and keep pens in it instead. I like to name my cars, so we call it George after the singing Beatle.
When I'm not tooling George around town, I'm nursing my wrists in preparation for National Novel Writing Month. Thousands of people all over the world have signed up to write a 50,000-word novel between Nov. 1 and Nov. 30. I've signed up (I actually arranged it with a friend in Detroit last spring) and plan to write a science fiction novel. I plan to write 2,000 words a day. Wish me luck. Better yet, sign up! It's www.nanowrimo.org. I even ordered a T-shirt.
Why am I doing such a crazy thing? John Longenbaugh of Seattle Weekly said it best:
"For one month I wanted to be a novelist. I wanted to drink too much and wander the streets contemplating plot points. I wanted to ruthlessly strip-mine my friends' lives for events and gossip to work into my fiction. I wanted to sulk and have tantrums and be gloriously self-obsessed."
Sounds right up my alley. One NaNoWrimo write plans to bring in talking animals to pad his word count -- first a talking walrus will walk in and comment on his characters and the action, then later on a zebra will add commentary on a plot twist, and so on. I plan to start every chapter with a chapter heading, a subtitle and a pertinent quote.
And if I get really stuck, I'll just throw in some ninjas.
People ask me if I'm more relaxed these days, away from the frenzy of Bay Area life. Actually, I feel like I'm permanently stoned. Everything moves so much more slowly. I laugh more, I listen more, I draw more and I feel like a little kid skipping school. When I wake up in the morning, I can't wait to get started on something, anything. I talk to my houseplants and my potholders and to the little green Buddha guys on my mantle.
I also do my yoga and I'm trying meditation. Meditation doesn't really work for me, though. There I'll be, sitting crosslegged on the carpet going "ohmmm," and suddenly I'll think, "Which Gabor sister was on the TV show 'Green Acres?' Was it Zsa Zsa or Ava? Wasn't there another Gabor sister? Wasn't there a pig on that show? What was its name? Wilbur? No, that was 'Charlotte's Web...'" and on and on.
Then the bell chimes and I'm screwed. I haven't been gathering my energy inward, my controlled breathing's shot to hell and now I'm wondering if Arnold was the husband or the pig. Damn.
In my more lucid moments, I'm taking more of an interest in the world around me: I ponder the day's temperature, the threat of war on Iraq, why the neighbor's cat likes our deck so much, etc. I read three newspapers a day and yell at the articles I don't like. I call up my friend L. if I'm really steamed:
Me: Did you read the Detroit News? They ran a full-length article on recliners on the features cover!
L.: I like recliners.
Me: But is that really appropriate? Look, there's this
fawning illustration of a dozen $600 recliners, a
graphic showing the 14 things to look for with
recliners and interviews with idiots describing their
favorite recliners!
L.: I like the new ones with the built-in coolers.
Me: It's a flagrant surrender to corporate advertisers!
L.: Who gives a shit? (hangs up)
Well, at that point, there's nothing to do but shop. I'm buying most of my fall clothes at Target since I don't need professional clothes. Picked up some bell bottom jeans at Express just to make my sister crazy. Then I ran over to Target and grabbed a dozen $14-dollar sweaters and shirts from the Juniors/Misses section. I feel like I'm on the Style cable channel.
##
My life is like a Memory card game, punctuated with Ron's wails of "Where's my backpack? Where's my EMU mug? Where's my birth certificate? Where's my blue sweater?" If he keeps this up, his next question will be "Where's my sleeping bag?" because he'll be sleeping in the car.
Ah, the car. Yes, we did buy a car -- a VW beetle. The color is a newfangled "platinum gray," which is a fancy name for um, dark gray. I fret sometimes that it blends in with the highway pavenment. We pulled the daises out of the bud vase on the dashboard and keep pens in it instead. I like to name my cars, so we call it George after the singing Beatle.
When I'm not tooling George around town, I'm nursing my wrists in preparation for National Novel Writing Month. Thousands of people all over the world have signed up to write a 50,000-word novel between Nov. 1 and Nov. 30. I've signed up (I actually arranged it with a friend in Detroit last spring) and plan to write a science fiction novel. I plan to write 2,000 words a day. Wish me luck. Better yet, sign up! It's www.nanowrimo.org. I even ordered a T-shirt.
Why am I doing such a crazy thing? John Longenbaugh of Seattle Weekly said it best:
"For one month I wanted to be a novelist. I wanted to drink too much and wander the streets contemplating plot points. I wanted to ruthlessly strip-mine my friends' lives for events and gossip to work into my fiction. I wanted to sulk and have tantrums and be gloriously self-obsessed."
Sounds right up my alley. One NaNoWrimo write plans to bring in talking animals to pad his word count -- first a talking walrus will walk in and comment on his characters and the action, then later on a zebra will add commentary on a plot twist, and so on. I plan to start every chapter with a chapter heading, a subtitle and a pertinent quote.
And if I get really stuck, I'll just throw in some ninjas.
People ask me if I'm more relaxed these days, away from the frenzy of Bay Area life. Actually, I feel like I'm permanently stoned. Everything moves so much more slowly. I laugh more, I listen more, I draw more and I feel like a little kid skipping school. When I wake up in the morning, I can't wait to get started on something, anything. I talk to my houseplants and my potholders and to the little green Buddha guys on my mantle.
I also do my yoga and I'm trying meditation. Meditation doesn't really work for me, though. There I'll be, sitting crosslegged on the carpet going "ohmmm," and suddenly I'll think, "Which Gabor sister was on the TV show 'Green Acres?' Was it Zsa Zsa or Ava? Wasn't there another Gabor sister? Wasn't there a pig on that show? What was its name? Wilbur? No, that was 'Charlotte's Web...'" and on and on.
Then the bell chimes and I'm screwed. I haven't been gathering my energy inward, my controlled breathing's shot to hell and now I'm wondering if Arnold was the husband or the pig. Damn.
In my more lucid moments, I'm taking more of an interest in the world around me: I ponder the day's temperature, the threat of war on Iraq, why the neighbor's cat likes our deck so much, etc. I read three newspapers a day and yell at the articles I don't like. I call up my friend L. if I'm really steamed:
Me: Did you read the Detroit News? They ran a full-length article on recliners on the features cover!
L.: I like recliners.
Me: But is that really appropriate? Look, there's this
fawning illustration of a dozen $600 recliners, a
graphic showing the 14 things to look for with
recliners and interviews with idiots describing their
favorite recliners!
L.: I like the new ones with the built-in coolers.
Me: It's a flagrant surrender to corporate advertisers!
L.: Who gives a shit? (hangs up)
Well, at that point, there's nothing to do but shop. I'm buying most of my fall clothes at Target since I don't need professional clothes. Picked up some bell bottom jeans at Express just to make my sister crazy. Then I ran over to Target and grabbed a dozen $14-dollar sweaters and shirts from the Juniors/Misses section. I feel like I'm on the Style cable channel.
##
Tuesday, October 08, 2002
Elizabeth's 30th Birthday FAQ
ELIZABETH'S 30TH BIRTHDAY FAQ
Q: Is it really ELIZABETH'S 30TH BIRTHDAY?
A: That is correct. If she was a Galapagos land tortoise, she'd just be a baby. If she was a box turtle, she'd still be a teenager. If she was a Egyptian camel, she'd be middle-aged, and if she was a blue-spotted grouper fish, she'd be dead.
Q: What is the best way to celebrate ELIZABETH'S 30TH BIRTHDAY?
A: In today's uncertain times, all celebrations for ELIZABETH'S 30TH BIRTHDAY must be approved by the Anti-Birthday Terrorism League of Omaha, Neb. Proposed celebrations must be submitted in writing no later than Oct. 8, 2000. The ABT League is currently accepting proposals for Elizabeth's 40th birthday, which ought to be a real hoot.
Q: What if I never submitted a proposal for ELIZABETH'S 30TH BIRTHDAY?
A: Unauthorized celebrations will be prosecuted by the ABT League and the illegal participants will be
punished after a closed hearing following 90 days of detention. Flagrant abuses will result in an exile to Berrien County, Mich.
Q: What is the spiritual significance of ELIZABETH'S
30TH BIRTHDAY?
A: This event was prophesied in 1200 B.C. An ancient prophet preached of a cataclysmic event on Oct. 8, 2002, shrouding the world in darkness and boiling away the seas. He pointed out that the name "Elizabeth" has nine letters, which corresponds to the nine planets. This indicates a dark future for Elizabeth on a cosmic scale.
Q: Doesn't the name "Christine" also have nine letters?
A: Shut up.
Q: Didn't they only know about seven planets in 1200 B.C.?
A: I said, shut up.
Q: So why haven't the seas started bubbling yet?
A: Yesterday, an astronomer announced a new object he discovered orbiting the sun. This throws the prophecies out of alignment and prompts scholars to concentrate on women with October birthdays named Antoinette.
Q: Is this lousy FAQ all that Elizabeth will receive for ELIZABETH'S 30TH BIRTHDAY?
A: Certainly not. She will likely be honored at the combined birthday celebration in the SFBT conference room. That is, if no one has stolen her birthday card.
##
Q: Is it really ELIZABETH'S 30TH BIRTHDAY?
A: That is correct. If she was a Galapagos land tortoise, she'd just be a baby. If she was a box turtle, she'd still be a teenager. If she was a Egyptian camel, she'd be middle-aged, and if she was a blue-spotted grouper fish, she'd be dead.
Q: What is the best way to celebrate ELIZABETH'S 30TH BIRTHDAY?
A: In today's uncertain times, all celebrations for ELIZABETH'S 30TH BIRTHDAY must be approved by the Anti-Birthday Terrorism League of Omaha, Neb. Proposed celebrations must be submitted in writing no later than Oct. 8, 2000. The ABT League is currently accepting proposals for Elizabeth's 40th birthday, which ought to be a real hoot.
Q: What if I never submitted a proposal for ELIZABETH'S 30TH BIRTHDAY?
A: Unauthorized celebrations will be prosecuted by the ABT League and the illegal participants will be
punished after a closed hearing following 90 days of detention. Flagrant abuses will result in an exile to Berrien County, Mich.
Q: What is the spiritual significance of ELIZABETH'S
30TH BIRTHDAY?
A: This event was prophesied in 1200 B.C. An ancient prophet preached of a cataclysmic event on Oct. 8, 2002, shrouding the world in darkness and boiling away the seas. He pointed out that the name "Elizabeth" has nine letters, which corresponds to the nine planets. This indicates a dark future for Elizabeth on a cosmic scale.
Q: Doesn't the name "Christine" also have nine letters?
A: Shut up.
Q: Didn't they only know about seven planets in 1200 B.C.?
A: I said, shut up.
Q: So why haven't the seas started bubbling yet?
A: Yesterday, an astronomer announced a new object he discovered orbiting the sun. This throws the prophecies out of alignment and prompts scholars to concentrate on women with October birthdays named Antoinette.
Q: Is this lousy FAQ all that Elizabeth will receive for ELIZABETH'S 30TH BIRTHDAY?
A: Certainly not. She will likely be honored at the combined birthday celebration in the SFBT conference room. That is, if no one has stolen her birthday card.
##
Monday, October 07, 2002
Christine and Ron Move to Michigan
9:42 a.m. - 2002-10-07
Well, pinch me, I must be dreaming because we now have cable and high-speed Internet. So now I don't have to trudge down to the Ann Arbor library every time I want to check email, which has changed my life.
I'm trying hard not to be mesmorized by my new cable TV. Fortunately we mostly get the loser channels: Oxygen, Court TV, etc. My new vice is the Style channel, where perfect young women run around and assemble outfits for less than $100. Then they presumably take the clothing home and stuff the pieces down the garbage disposal.
One style maven raided the little girl's section at Target, emerging with a weird pink-and-purple shirt. She turned it inside out, jaggedly cut the edges, cut a big hole in the chest and bravely declared that yes, she really would go to an L.A. club in it. Yeah, sure.
We're settling in here fairly well. The new ad director, M., at Ron's startup has arrived with his wife (he worked at WorldCom in SF, small world). M. is a big guy and he likes everything big: they brought over a big SUV from SF, they just bought a big, big house 50 miles from Ann Arbor, and last week they got themselves a big 20-pound, bull mastiff puppy. They certainly have a firmer grip on the Midwest American dream than we do; you wouldn't believe the flak we're getting for buying a VW beetle.
That's one big side effect of moving to your home state of course, close family and friends think nothing of questioning every choice you make. My latest bitchy comeback is "It's not up for discussion." My other -- more craven -- defense is not to tell anyone what we're doing until we've already done it. I swear, if we decide to have a kid, I'm not telling anyone until after it's born. Maybe not even then. We'll hide it in the closet when folks come over.
Second big side effect: Kids' birthday parties. We've arrived in prime birthday party season. This used to
happen in my family. My aunts and uncles threw a birthday party for every damn kid every year. Nice in theory, but I had about a dozen cousins and most were born between September and December.
This meant that every other Saturday night there was a party, and all the Usual Suspects (aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents) turned up with presents and eat cake. Then the men would watch TV and the women would sit around the table and listen to my Aunt O. talk about her sons' evil teachers. I was an early rebel regarding these affairs (we were across the state in Detroit, thank god). When I was in college and then in my 20s, I'd make a token appearance, generally bringing a date and leaving by 8:30. Oh, the guilt. When my youngest cousin turned 16 (the official end of the birthday party for each child), it was one of the happiest days of my life.
I thought those days were over, but now all my friends and family are throwing big birthday parties for all their kids. The modern mother brings some new twists to these celebrations. Before you tossed up some streamers, laid on the cake and ice cream and called it a day. No more. Now kids' birthday parties have THEMES -- usually some commercial kids' character. My sister's kid's theme is Sponge Bob Square Pants (don't ask) and my friend L.'s kid will celebrate her birthday this month with Scooby Doo.
And get this, now kids REGISTER for their birthday gifts. Really! L.'s daughter is registered at Toys R Us. What is she trying to do, complete her china pattern? If you think I'm schlepping over to Toys R Us and getting a printout of everything a sugar-crazed 4-year-old pointed at with her electronic registering gun, you're nuts. She's getting a couple of books.
##
Well, pinch me, I must be dreaming because we now have cable and high-speed Internet. So now I don't have to trudge down to the Ann Arbor library every time I want to check email, which has changed my life.
I'm trying hard not to be mesmorized by my new cable TV. Fortunately we mostly get the loser channels: Oxygen, Court TV, etc. My new vice is the Style channel, where perfect young women run around and assemble outfits for less than $100. Then they presumably take the clothing home and stuff the pieces down the garbage disposal.
One style maven raided the little girl's section at Target, emerging with a weird pink-and-purple shirt. She turned it inside out, jaggedly cut the edges, cut a big hole in the chest and bravely declared that yes, she really would go to an L.A. club in it. Yeah, sure.
We're settling in here fairly well. The new ad director, M., at Ron's startup has arrived with his wife (he worked at WorldCom in SF, small world). M. is a big guy and he likes everything big: they brought over a big SUV from SF, they just bought a big, big house 50 miles from Ann Arbor, and last week they got themselves a big 20-pound, bull mastiff puppy. They certainly have a firmer grip on the Midwest American dream than we do; you wouldn't believe the flak we're getting for buying a VW beetle.
That's one big side effect of moving to your home state of course, close family and friends think nothing of questioning every choice you make. My latest bitchy comeback is "It's not up for discussion." My other -- more craven -- defense is not to tell anyone what we're doing until we've already done it. I swear, if we decide to have a kid, I'm not telling anyone until after it's born. Maybe not even then. We'll hide it in the closet when folks come over.
Second big side effect: Kids' birthday parties. We've arrived in prime birthday party season. This used to
happen in my family. My aunts and uncles threw a birthday party for every damn kid every year. Nice in theory, but I had about a dozen cousins and most were born between September and December.
This meant that every other Saturday night there was a party, and all the Usual Suspects (aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents) turned up with presents and eat cake. Then the men would watch TV and the women would sit around the table and listen to my Aunt O. talk about her sons' evil teachers. I was an early rebel regarding these affairs (we were across the state in Detroit, thank god). When I was in college and then in my 20s, I'd make a token appearance, generally bringing a date and leaving by 8:30. Oh, the guilt. When my youngest cousin turned 16 (the official end of the birthday party for each child), it was one of the happiest days of my life.
I thought those days were over, but now all my friends and family are throwing big birthday parties for all their kids. The modern mother brings some new twists to these celebrations. Before you tossed up some streamers, laid on the cake and ice cream and called it a day. No more. Now kids' birthday parties have THEMES -- usually some commercial kids' character. My sister's kid's theme is Sponge Bob Square Pants (don't ask) and my friend L.'s kid will celebrate her birthday this month with Scooby Doo.
And get this, now kids REGISTER for their birthday gifts. Really! L.'s daughter is registered at Toys R Us. What is she trying to do, complete her china pattern? If you think I'm schlepping over to Toys R Us and getting a printout of everything a sugar-crazed 4-year-old pointed at with her electronic registering gun, you're nuts. She's getting a couple of books.
##
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