Resuscitation

As I've pulled this blog up occasionally over the last five years, I've realized that it's the only baby book my daughter is going to have. I fear google will remove it if I don't post something, so here's an update:

I'm happily divorced.

Easy E, three years old, has joined the famous Sabra. Two kids, check.

I now have three days a week to myself which, after some emotional adjustment, has been a personal revolution.

I bought a cute little cottage in Oakland. The rest of my life remains in San Francisco, but I'm happy to be over here where I can buy Trappey's Pepper Sauce with no grief.

I'm now a Montessori teacher, yo! I'm starting a Masters in Education this summer.

Gus the rabbit died of a stomach virus at the age of nine; that's like Methusela in lop rabbit years.

My old apartment on Natoma Street has been re-rented twice post-blog, and I've gone to tour it both times. I'd probably do it again. I love that house. I always tool through there when I take my mom by Rainbow Grocery for peppered Daphinois and Sevre et Belle after picking her up from the SF airport.

Should any of the old regulars look me up, know that I check in on you occasionally as well.

Hope you're happy: if not, find a job you don't hate, drop the people you don't love, and live in a place that makes you feel like you. I'm not making this up-- it's evidently Richard Florida. He said it, but I've lived it.

Peace.

I'll call it an update, if you will...

Several possibilities for this entry, all falling into why-do-you-bother-to-post category.

Prima: My folks are in town, again. Much working of crossword puzzles, watching of court TV and eating of comfort food going on around here.

Segunda: Last year's tax refund Saab cracked a gasket head, totalling its basically worthless self. Looks like we may be renting a $14.95 a day airport compact whenever we need a car until we get our next tax refund. We hate cars, and they hate us.

Terza: Cedra has some high-fever mystery condition that requires a dose of Children's Motrin every six hours. She fakes a seizure while we administer it, then spends a few minutes licking clothing, the couch, whatever's handy in an attempt to get the taste off of her tongue. Poor girl.

Finally, hoping to redeem "lame" with "cute," I offer a little representation from the fourth member of the family. He gets suprisingly little play on the blog given the big place he has in the household. The pic is kind of blurry, but I like it because the first time my huz pulled it up on Shutterfly I glanced at the computer screen and offered a sincere "What the f... is that?"

It's Gus, our rabbit. We'd tranced him, which we typically do to cut his toenails. He's out like the proverbial light. Any manner of molestation, including the occasionally attempted but always unsuccessful search for the Gus-Weenie in all that fur, doesn't faze him. I love your life, Gus.

Knitting progress.

Well, I knitted up the Juniper bonnet this weekend. It was too small for Cedra's big ol' nog. I'd gone up a needle size and added a few stitches to each end of the border in anticipation of this probability, but no luck. I have to re-juggle the fanning pattern to bring it up a size. I'm determined to succeed.

But I did finish and seam up a sweater I've been working on for six weeks, my first Irish cable-knit project ever. We put it on her for a twenty minute trip to Rainbow Grocery saturday night...




...and of course it's been pushing 70 degrees out every day since. Not that I'm complaining about that; after two winters in Portland I'm always grateful for the sonnenschein.

In other news, Michael and I are leaving for Carmel thursday morning for our first trip of two consecutive Cedra-free nights ever. I mean the first in 20 months, but it seems like forever. It's our anniversary. Honestly, we'll probably sleep for three days; I can't wait.

Breaker-One-Nine...

We learned this week that one of my husband's high school friends has named his new daughter Mozelle. I like it, stop snorting. The child's mother, Laura, had stipulated that any successful name would contain a "Z" or an "X." Cool rules rule; I like the Z names, too.

But I'm fond of the name for another reason: Mozelle is my step-grandmother's name. No, I didn't turn Jason and Laura on to it; they thought they'd come up with an original. But the original is indeed my jitterbugging, red-shirting grandma. She turned seventy, now wears only red shirts. Good for her. She's half Cherokee, an Oklahoma half-breed. In fact, that was her CB handle in the late seventies: Half Breed.

Damned straight my grandma had a CB handle! The first time I met my husband's mother and brother, I spontaneously dropped that piece of info in conversation over a formal Thanksgiving dinner. Admitting that your grandma had a CB handle is one of those things that encourages a certain impression of you, and regrettably in my case it is not a very accurate impression. She had a CB handle not because she was a truck stop lounge lizard, but because her husband was the local fire chief (handle: Gas Pump) and she often answered the scanner calls, the scanner being in the living room and blaring 24 hours a day. Still, I think the Thanksgiving incident did initiate the concern and mefiance in my MIL that still characterizes her attitude toward my relationship with her son.

My brothers and I also had handles: Buck Skin, Red Bone and Junebug (edited: mine was BeetleBug, not Junebug. Little Sweet Juniper must be channeling me.) respectively, although performance anxiety dictated that I never touched the CB. These were the days of BJ and the Bear, Smokey and The Bandit, and Jerry Reed's Convoy. Having access to a CB radio made us the coolest . I was classe among the 4th grade set, I'm telling you. By the way, Jerry Reed, Tulsa's highway demographic does NOT include a "cloverleaf." But thanks for the mention, anyway. You and I are the reasons god made Oklahoma.

I'd be tempted to use the Half-Breed nickname for little Mozelle if she weren't, you know, white and white. I'm still not sure that'll ultimately stop me. And by the way, I'd like to pass along that my biological grandmothers are named Roberta and Waythena. Those are still up for the taking, if anyone's up to using them. I'm not.

Switch to Tinkerbell Diapers...

'cause it's time for a change.

I put up a more recent profile photo, but I wanted to keep this one somewhere on the blog for posterity. I've always been fond of it.



Cedra was about twelve hours old, and I just look so darned proud of myself.

In the shadow of girls wearing kickass coats.

Ohf. I was just over on Sweet Juniper, admiring the vintage baby coat on little Junebug. It made me want to show off Cedra's winter coat, which we picked up at DPAM in Carcassonne for a mere 27 euros. Laughing at how silly she looks in it has been a major depression-fighter this winter. Like on the day we were screwed by the Christmas tree farmer.

This was the first year either huz or I has put up a tree, ever. Last year it didn't cross our minds; Cedra was tiny, and went on vacation for Christmas. But this year capitalism dictated that there were a full four weeks of "holiday" season before Hanukkah started on December 25th, and we just couldn't wait it out. We had to get on with the cheer.

So in early December we headed up to the the Bay Area's Christmas headquarters, the town of Occidental in Sonoma County. They've been making a good percentage of the US's door wreaths since the 40s or something, and there are tree farms everywhere. We picked the friendly and festive sounding Frosty Mountain Tree Farm. Well, screw them. We wanted a wee little apartment-sized tree, and picked one that stood less than 48 inches tall. I mean, we have no ornaments and were planning to make them ourselves. It had to be small. I want you to know that that Frosty Mountain assclown shook out our tree, half-glanced at it and proclaimed it to be seven feet tall. Seven feet, forty-five bucks! I waited for Michael to balk. He waited for me to do it. Neither of us did. Maybe we just figured this is the way Christmas goes, you know? We paid $45 for a 45 inch tree. Then the same guy sizes up the tree again, looks at our compact car and shamelessly declares that there's no need to truss the tree to the hood, "it should fit in the trunk pretty easy."

Here's the winter coat at the tree farm, and sourpuss Cedra posing with the decorated tree later (much later, this photo was taken January 1, five minutes before we took the tree down. The prop Red Envelope box is empty):



Anyway, we decorated our lame little tree and even a gingerbread house. My MIL bought us a Playmobil Christmas panorama of a photographer snapping a little Danish plastic kid on Santa's lap, then probably charging his mother $45 bucks. But next year, forget it. We suck at Christmas.

However, if YOU should head up to Occidental next year, note: Frosty Mountain Tree Farm and its neighbor and rival, Reindeer Ridge, are owned by feuding members of the same family. So give your money to the reindeer.

Now excuse me, I'm off to knit Junebug's hat thanks to the generous pattern posted by its maker. Call me a follower, but the Junipers set a high bar. And these SF girls've gotta represent.

Nachas simchas

You know when your baby-crazy self is cooing over the newborns on Only Simchas for the second consecutive hour and you start getting this Proustian synesthetic flashback to the sweet smell of that white-wine-dijon new baby poop and...

What, you don't hang out on Only Simchas? Well, then you're just missing out.

It's a window onto a parallel world, let me tell you. It never ceases to amaze me that people still have six kids, and still name them Faigie, Yankel, Shlomo, Yitzie, Tzvi and Rivki. Very sweet. Of course, I do know a reform Rabbi that named her kids Zilla and Bluma. But I think she was kind of being a smart ass.

I also like to check out the upsherin listings. For those not in the know, orthodox Jews, particularly the Hungarians, don't cut their sons' hair until the third birthday. The first haircut ceremonies are called upsherins. I know that some reform families are "reclaiming" this practice, but if any male child we have is blessed with the shag Cedra's always had, he'd look like Joey Ramone by six months. I think we'll pass.

My apologies.

It's been a long couple of months. I wouldn't say I've really been depressed; I know real depression, believe me. But I have been under some kind of funk cloud. Hope it's over.

I'd planned to dedicate a vicious rant post to do my part in the war against Christmas, but everyone else was doing such a good job that I didn't bother. Famous last words: This was the last year we're going anywhere for spendmaskkah. Meanwhile, here, for comparison, are the photos of Cedra that went out with the holiday cards in 2004 and 2005:



The girl's growing up.

So anyway, we lived through the holidays and we're currently trying to conceive. Not this very second, but in general. This is the first month and it's already become an obsession for me. Expect to hear a lot about it, with frequent entries to be categorized under "TMI, no thanks." Example:

Have you heard of this product, "PreSeed?" It's a sexual lubricant that, unlike others, is not toxic to sperm. Yes, the name is horrifying. But even worse is the name of the other product they sell on the website, to facilitate sperm collection for IUI: "HisSeed." MY GOD, that's appalling. Should you need the PreSeed, heed my advice: you only want to use half of the recommended application. Otherwise, it'th slip n' slide thity, thweetheart. Just a little public service announcement.