September 2004 Archives

There's a lot of stuff I wanted to write and reflect on related to Yom Kippur, and thinking about atonement/at-one-ment. But given what's up for me now, I think I will postpone that and instead, I want to say some things about my Poppa.

***

Dr. Robert Gans. My Poppa. I can't possibly sum up what kind of a man he was, because my perspective on him was limited by being a granddaughter who only knew him in his elder years, for the last 35 years of his 93 on this planet. I feel like anything I can say about him is just a collection of snapshots, a few puzzle pieces that only sort of fit together in one corner of a much larger picture. But I can start to take a stab at what I remember most, and what he meant to me, what he will always mean to me. It will inevitably be incomplete. But something is better than nothing--and I feel a strong urge to memorialize, to testify.

These are the traits that come to mind when I think about my Poppa: dignified, humorous, warm, intelligent, cultured, artistic, gentle, wise, understanding, sympathetic, open-minded, playful, involved, curious, compassionate, active. He was well-read, well-traveled, and cared deeply enough about certain things to put his money where his mouth was--but he also put his own time and energy into causes he believed in. He gardened, he took a creative writing class, he volunteered as a docent for Filoli gardens, he and my Grandma Natalie volunteered to do clinic defense against Operation Rescue, and they helped lead senior tours to interesting places. And that's just from the latter part of his life, the part I remember the clearest.

Here's what else I remember: he was always open to and pleased with his grandchildren. I always felt like he was attentive and understanding to me and my brother, both when we were little and when we were older. I remember him playing ball and running around with us during our annual Father's Day picnics at Golden Gate Park, and I remember him having long talks with me about what I was learning in my college classes. We talked about writing (he took a creative writing class and let me read his stories--I took them to transcribe and I still have them), and then later he was delighted when I decided to switch over to Psychology and could talk to him about different theorists and famous studies. I remember that he actually read my Women's Studies senior thesis (and gave me pages of written comments, and discussed it with me afterwards). I vividly remember spending weekends at their house when I was in high school--just me, not my brother or parents--sitting around their small round kitchen table, having dinner and watching the news and talking about all kinds of things with him and my Grandma Natalie. I remember the ritual of always going to Max's Diner for early bird dinner with them when I visited, and how I felt both absurdly young and responsibly old walking with them into the restaurant.

I remember their castle-like house, with its always fascinating collection of artwork, books, music, and souvenirs from the exotic places they'd been. I remember swimming in their pool as a kid, and being fascinated by their player piano. And I remember all those special family ritual times we spent together--so many holidays, they all blur together in my mind: Christmas (that exotic holiday first introduced to me by Grandma Natalie) dinner at their house in Redwood City, Thanksgiving and Break Fast and Passover (who can forget his hilarious falsetto rendition of "Let My People Go"?) at my parents' house, Father's Day picnics in Golden Gate Park, and all kinds of special events (graduations, confirmations, birthdays, concerts, plays, Marin Open Studios...). What I really remember is that he and my Grandma were there for all the important family times.

I remember the smell of Poppa's pipe (even after he stopped smoking, that mysterious and old-fashioned pipe tobacco smell still lingered in certain places in their house). I remember his playful not-quite-bickering banter with my grandma Natalie, and his fondness for chocolate, which I shared. I remember how he would always write me (and each of us) a poem for birthdays and other special events--what witty, evocative little gems they were. I remember dancing with him at my wedding--he was beginning to be unsteady on his feet at this point and had to use a cane, but when we danced I held him up, and the moment was sweet.

What I really remember overall is that my Poppa was a regular and familiar (in the sense of familial) presence in my life. And he loved me--I always felt that. And I really loved him back. I know he's been effectively "gone" now for a good number of years, as his mind and body slowly deteriorated, but nonetheless it feels so final now that he's really gone. He was important to me. I loved him. I'll really miss him, and I'll always remember him. I don't know as there's much more to say than that.

It was a sad and tired day today. I'm still sick (though I stuck it out at work all day), and of course I'm still feeling down about Poppa. So nothing deep and meaningful to say here yet (though my slinky red sportscar is zipping rapidly towards hell on this nice well-paved road). Soon. Soon.

But tonight I did finally finish something that I've been working really hard on for hours and hours and hours (had to do something with all that insomnia on Sunday night and while I was sick): I finally posted all, and yes I mean all, my family photos up to the family photos website. That was slightly over 1000 photos, representing just under a year's worth of picture-taking. Whew. I know it's not all slick and purty, but I just don't give a damn (yet). They're there. And I'm caught up. It's a great feeling and I could use a great feeling right about now.

And speaking of catching up, hopefully I'll have a wee bit of brainspace and heartspace to do some more of that tomorrow. But for now, hobbit needs sleep, badly.

Waugh, another non-posting streak. Saturday I was just too involved in Yom Kippur services and family get togethers to post. Sunday I was lazy. Monday I woke up sick. Did anyone hear the sucking sound but me? Probably not.

Let me backtrack.

Saturday: I went to services with Janis and Eli (Josh decided to go have a serious talk with his dad instead so we didn't meet up until later in the day). Eli wound up loving the daycare program they had set up there at the services (they had Legos! and art projects! and Spider-man Go-gurts!) and protesting crankily when they brought all the kids into the main service for the Torah blessing and reading. He sat with Janis and I for a few minutes, was vaguely interested in the singing, and asked in a loud kid voice "Where's God? What is God? Can I see God?" and other such gems.

But the best Eli moment of all went like this: they took the Torahs out of the ark, and paraded them around the congregation so everyone could touch them. The kids (all ages) got to get up then and follow the Torahs like a parade, which Eli was ok with. The parade wound up with a few adults (including the choir) and all the kids squished back up on the bima (the stage, basically, from which the service was being performed), so that the kids could participate in the first aliyah (blessing over the torah, and first bit of the reading). Eli was squirmy, and kept wanting to go back to the "kid room". And at one point, into one of those perfect silent moments, his little voice could be clearly heard, asking "Why is everybody talking about God? I want to go to the kid room!" I was both embarrassed and highly amused at the same time. (There's got to be a long and complicated compound German word that perfectly expresses this combination of emotions.)

***

Ok, update...I wrote the beginning of this entry earlier today, but tonight just around Eli's bedtime, right before I got a chance to sit down and finish, I got a Phone Call. From my mother. My grandpa died tonight.

It wasn't a huge surprise--he was 93, and had been in a nursing home, deteriorating until practically nothing was left of the man I knew and loved, for years. But it's still a shock and a sadness. At least it was apparently relatively quick and peaceful.

I'm kind of numb. I want to spend some more time writing a proper eulogy for him, but now is not the time. For now, I just want to let the sheer fact of an irrevocable absence hang silently in front of me.

Just got home from Kol Nidre services. It was a good service, but subtly off since the usual rabbi wasn't there (not sure where she went either). I had trouble standing for a long time at some points, so I played the "pregnant ladies get special dispensation" card and sat when I needed to. I am looking forward to bringing Eli to services tomorrow, but I'm also thinking that I might not get too much out of it myself if he's around. But I'm willing to forgive myself for one year of not being as fully grounded in my spiritual ritual as I'd like to be. I think it'll all work out.

Really tired, not enough clarity for good observations. Maybe tomorrow there will be. This holiday certainly is the time for reflection, not to mention atonement. Consider this a placeholder, a mere scratching of the habitual blogging itch. Forgive me.

Yep. That was tiring all right. But after starting my day well before dawn, I'm back home safe after a whirlwind day of flying (and every time I take off or land now I find myself repeating the prayer "Please God bring me back safe to my home and family") and biz meeting. One good thing about planes: the reading time. I got to finish my book group book (Bel Canto, great read, wonderfully written), and I had the pleasure of my coworker's company, so it actually was a pretty good day considering that it started at 4:30am.

There's also this thing about traveling...no matter how often I do it, I find myself deeply re-appreciating Home when I return. Every single time, I find myself full of love for the familiar, that Place Which I Belong (both the physical place(s) and the social web within which I am happily embedded). I like traveling and seeing new things and meeting new people and observing other (sub)cultures, but I like coming Home best of all. As much as I find it romantic and sometimes thrilling to fantasize about being a wanderer, an adventurer, a rootless rogue with no attachments and no responsibilities except to myself, Home calls to me even more. To know and be known; to love and be loved, in peace and abundance. This is the thing I appreciate and am grateful for.

Tomorrow morning I have to wake up at 4:30am so I can leave my house by 5am and pick up my co-worker at 5:30am and get to the airport by 6am for my 7am flight to Phoenix.

And I've quit coffee.

Do you see where this dilemma is heading?

Must...be...strong...

(Actually what I really must do is give up on this compulsive blog habit thing and go the f*** to bed so I have even a shot at coherence in tomorrow's all-day business meeting.)

I pretty much gave up on loving Star Wars after Ep II. I mean, it was ok and all, but after the general feeling of disappointment (due to unreasonably high expectations I'm sure) after getting all hyped up about Ep I, Ep II didn't deliver, in my opinion. And although there will always be a special place in my heart and soul for the original trilogy, which truly changed my life and helped make me the geek I am today, I just didn't get the same lovin' feeling from the new movies.

But we just got our copies of the original trilogy DVDs in the mail today from Amazon (and I don't *even* want to go into all the bickering about whether or not these new DVDs are a Good Thing or a Bad Thing) and I saw the teaser for Ep III and dammit, now I'm feeling all excited and fluttery with anticipation to see it. I feel like this movie could actually be payoff. (Although I fear disappointment again.) I mean, who DOESN'T want to know how Anakin became Darth Vader? And who DOESN'T want to see ultra cool lightsaber duel between Obi-Wan and Anakin? There's just something about watching awesome swordfights (Obi-Wan vs Vader! Vader vs Luke! Qui-Gon/Obi-Wan vs Darth Maul! Yoda vs. Dooku!) that well, gets to me. It speaks directly to my geekgirl heart. Gimme a good swordfight in a movie and you make me happy (not happy enough to ignore how much the rest of the movie sucks, but happy).

I will try to keep a firm hold on my excitement and expectations this time, you know, go into the theater with an open mind but not expecting the world's best movie (let alone payoff). Maybe that way I can still be pleasantly surprised and pleased at what I *do* get, instead of being disappointed at what I didn't get. But I'm not doing the crazy fangirl thing, nosiree. I'm sure Josh will still go wait in line overnight with his line buddies, but by now it's less about the movie and being a fan than tradition and nostagia. Me, I'm way more excited about the special edition of Return of the King coming out.

Just a couple small things to report tonight, as somehow it already got to be 10pm (and thus nearly my bedtime) and I'm just not prepared for any lengthy diatribes or pithy observations.

First off I'm happy to report that the headaches seem to have pretty much gone away. Not only that, but--go figure--I seem to have a more consistent energy level and feel better overall even when I'm tired. So I think this quitting coffee thing might actually have worked out ok for me, finally. I'll keep crossing my fingers.

On a completely separate note, I just finished chapter 10 of my novel and just for the heck of it, did a word count, only to discover that I'd passed the magical 50,000 words mark (magical in the sense that nice, round numbers give me). All of a sudden it seems like a bigger, more impressive chunk of writing than when it was 40,000 words. Of course, that still only equals approximately 133 pages, and I don't think I'm even halfway through the book, but what the hell. You gotta celebrate each little victory as you find it. And tonight I'm all about patting myself on the back.

Found a great couple quotes on a stranger's LJ about the vital essence that makes High Fantasy (a la Tolkien) so thrilling. The full entry is here but I'll excerpt the part I found myself nodding along to:

Why I read it is really very simple, and I only recently figured it out explicitly. I'd been reading lots of W.E.B. Griffin, and then Trollope and then the three David Lodge books, and I was wondering what to read next. I thought I want something... something... something full of passionate declarations.

I want that range, that possibility of things absolutely mattering, of the whole world in the balance, and the declaration -- at the beginning of Kay's The Wandering Fire, Kevin Laine says "To this I will make reply, though he be a god and this mean my death!" When I want fantasy, I want situations where people can say that, and mean it, and where it can feel real and supported. There's a bit of my soul that thrills to it.

I have to admit that those moments of almost-cheesy, good-vs-evil, passionate declarative heroes are something I love and yet, I can't quite swallow them without a little bit of cynicism (recovering pomo grad school dropout that I am). This ambivalence is also something I'm struggling with in my writing. (You can tell I'm of two minds about this issue because one of my main characters--one of my alter-egos in some ways--is able to passionately declare that he has to do something "important" and help "heal the whole world!" while the other one--another one of my alter-egos I'm sure--snickers at him and can't quite take him seriously.)

I also found that one of the comments in the thread gave me that "right on!" tingle:

You touched on this, but I think other points to state outright: in fantasy, you *know* who is on the side of good and who is on the side of evil, and - here's the important part - one single person can make a difference. People in our day and age feel helpless and unable to positively impact the world as a whole - sometimes even just their community. Fantasy allows them the glow of *helping*, of doing something for the betterment of the world, when they feel powerless to effect change in the real world.

This is such a nice, succinct explanation of why fantasy in general appeals to me (I'm not even going to get into the debate of what consitutes "high" fantasy vs. "low" or other kinds). I really enjoy that whole set of hero tropes, where one person (willing or unwilling, reluctant or trained to it) fights the good fight for the sake of the world's (or their community's) salvation. But I also wish I could be more heroic in my own life. There was a brief period of my life I was all caught up in reading Holocaust stories, and I think one of the things that appealed to me was the incredible heroism of ordinary people thrust into these extraordinary circumstances, the way that life became so clearly black and white, good guy and bad guy. And the way that even in the face of overwhelming evil, some people chose to be good just because it was *right*. I still fantasize about what I would do if I were ever to be caught in that kind of situation (either from the side of the persecuted or the side of the non-persecuted). I like to think that with all my indoctrination into the cult of the hero through reading so much fantasy fiction (let alone the Holocaust stories), I'd have to do what was right, regardless of my own personal safety. (But I don't know. It's never that easy. What if the danger was not to me but to my family?)

I wish I could express this more coherently. I think what I'm trying to say is that (well-written, compelling) fantasy fiction is good for you, it gives one a moral compass and a sense that our actions and choices can be meaningful in a larger context than one's own small life. It's not that only fantasy fiction does this, of course--I mean really, this is a universal human need and theme. It shows up anywhere from religion to ecology to politics to history to art. Anyway I think I'm really rambling now....I think I'll quit while I'm still awake.

Doh. Fell off the blogging wagon again. Maybe that's because while the wagon was being dragged along through the mud and the rain behind a couple of Clydesdales, I was out having a lovely foofy country French dinner with my Joshie (finally returned from Canada, yay!) at one of our favorite Marin restaurants: Left Bank. And by the time we got back, happy and stuffed to the gills, all we wanted to do was get naked and go to bed. So no blogging.

But anyway...today we took Eli out to the City to the Metreon to go see the Where the Wild Things Are interactive exhibit. There's a picture of me from my 31st birthday party, which was held at the Metreon back when the Wild Things exhibit was still pretty new, and I'm wearing Max's crown and holding a stuffed version of his scepter, sitting on the "tongue" of one of the huge monster faces that appears in the playground part of the exhibit. It's been stuck up on my dresser mirror for years, and Eli finally noticed it a few weeks ago. He was intrigued--one might almost say obsessed--with the picture, and made me explain it a bunch of times. We read the book together, I dragged out the crown and scepter, and he started asking to go there. Well today was finally the day.

We'd actually tried to take him last year, but the beginning part with the dark hallways and spooky monster noises freaked him out good. This time, he was still pretty freaked out the first time through and wanted Daddy to carry him and said he didn't like it--but then after that he just couldn't get enough and wanted to do it over and over and over (kind of like the haunted house experience at the Marin County Fair--I think when he finds something scary, and survives it, he wants to test himself against it again and again until he feels he has conquered it). We had brought the Max crown and scepter, and he wore/carried them all day. (We also bought him a Max-in-his-wolfsuit puppet, overly indulgent parents that we are.) He loved it so much that we literally had to drag him away kicking and screaming after a few hours to go have lunch (we were all feeling a bit low-blood sugar crazy by then, I suspect), and then go back again for an encore visit after lunch. The rest of the day he kept saying "I wish I could go to Where the Wild Things Are..." and we'd say "I know, it was fun, huh." And he'd say, wistfully: "yeah...I wanna go there."

I must say I found the exhibit still pretty fun, but starting to get run down--it was much grubbier than I remember it and a lot of the pieces had stopped working. I'd say it's time for a maintenance refresh. Still, overall it's really creative and fun, and a good place for kids (although I'd personally recommend it for kids between 4 and maybe 10 for best results). I took cute pix and may (or may not) post one here at some point. (Too lazy to go upload and process the pix from the camera right now...I'm really rather comfortably ensconced on the couch and am even debating trying to bash around a bit of the Augured after I stop fooling around with this entry. In fact maybe I should just quit doing this and go do that before I hit the too-tired-can't-be-creative point.)

Nothing particularly solid to write about tonight. Just bits and pieces flitting around my head.

The writing is slowing down to the speed of cold goopy sludge lately. For sure, I've been valuing sleep over writing time, but also I'm sort of bogged down at a point in the story where I'm just not that interested in what I'm writing. I just need to finish the damn scene I've been slogging through so I can get on to something fresh and fun, but I can't quite seem to dredge the last few neccesary details out of my swampy brain. I think I need a good oral brainstorming session, to get my slow-moving brain sparked up again. Talk is always a good way to get me going. I recharge verbally, in the presence of others (ideally actively engaged others)--guess that makes me an extrovert.

In other news, today the headaches were better. Still there, especially in the morning, but nowhere near as bad. I still think I have some muscular issues that will need to be taken care of at some point (massage likely being the most efficacious option), but I'm too lazy and/or overwhelmed to actually make the bold move of scheduling an appointment with someone. Soon it will get bad enough to make me need to, though.

In yet other news, I told Eli about the baby in my tummy today. He asked me directly "are you growing a baby in your tummy?" (the subject's been up for him lately because of our friend Jen and the baby that was in her tummy until recently), and I didn't see any reason to lie to him at this point. So I said "actually, yes". And he was mildly interested and even patted my tummy and said "awww, little baby" (like he does with his baby doll). He was even briefly excited and jumped up and down and said "yes!" when I informed him that he would have a baby sister or baby brother of his own in a few months. So that's a good sign so far. Although the poor little guy has absolutely no way of knowing what's about to hit him come March--how could he? It's going to rock his world, I'm sure. But hopefully it'll be worth it in the long run to have a sibling. It worked out for me. :)

That's it for bits and pieces, I'm outta juice. Time for bed prep.

(I'm particularly proud of this entry title--often those titles are the hardest thing for me to think of with this whole blogging thing.)

So I just got back from having my blood drawn at the off-site hospital lab, routine preggo testing stuff and also some leftover bloodwork from my yearly cancer checkup last month which I was told I could put off until the next time I had bloodwork done (which I knew would be shortly). This lab, which I've been to before (as recently as last month), has the most interesting group of people working there. Every one of them seems to be some sort of character, but none more so than the guy at the front desk. I have no idea what his name is, but he seems like maybe an Alan or a Jeremy to me. So let's call him Alemy.

Alemy is always perky and friendly, in an over-the-top, trying-to-be-witty-banter-boy kind of way. He's what your grandmother might call "overly familiar", considering that he treats you like a buddy (asking, for instance, "so how's work?"). He's right on the edge of my tolerance (and I'm a pretty tolerant person, especially when it comes to characters. I mean, *cough* Sandy *cough*. 'Nuff said.) Today Alemy was dressed in a hawaiian shirt with palm trees and woodies (the cars) on it, and he was chattering non-stop with me. Usually I can dish it back out to him pretty well, but today I was still headachy and not in the greatest of moods, so he kind of grated on me. But I have to hand it to Alemy, despite the constant flow of banter and the general violations of privacy entailed in the personal questions he innocently (in my opinion) asks, he's a fast, efficient, excellent worker. He gets all those triplicate paperwork, computer entry, label printing things out of the way like an administrative olympian.

After finishing up with Alemy, I went into the official phlebotomy room. (I like being able to toss around medical terms like "phlebotomy" and "phlebotomist". I feel like I'm in a secret little medical club that I even know those terms.) Last time I was there, I had this wonderfully bizarre, overly energetic phlebotomist who asked me all kinds of weird questions (I think possibly in an attempt to distract me, although I don't think I looked all that nervous really). I remember he asked "are you a writer?" (Don't know why he asked that question, but I decided to be bold and claim the identity for once.) This led to all kinds of other questions, until I found myself lecturing him on the difference between science fiction and fantasy and the nature of magic and how magic worked in my world. All this while he was poking my inner elbow with a sharp needle. Go figure.

But I digress. This time, I had a different tech, a big huggable bear type of guy (I didn't get his name either) who moved surprisingly fast and efficiently around the chair, and though he was bantery, seemed particularly conscientious, which of course I always appreciate in a person who's about to stick me with a very sharp object. I warned him that my veins were hard to find, and sure enough he tried two times ("sorry, sweetie"), once in each arm. I'll spare you the details of the digging around with the needle trying to make it work, but suffice to say after the second time didn't work out, he called in the big guns: Amber. (Not sure why she was the big guns, but she was.)

Amber turned out to be another remarkably gentle person (maybe there's something about dealing with freaked out needle-phobic patients all day that makes you that way), with a much calmer vibe than the rest of the office. After a bit more banter (calmer and gentler banter), she managed to do the trick on her first try. Whew. So 3 needle sticks, 4 tubes of blood and 2 bandaids later, my phlebotomy experiences are over. For now. This time.

I used to be all wigged out by needles (and blood), but that was way back before I had to have a weekly blood draw during my radiation treatments. And also, let me just point out again, that once you've given birth (let alone had major surgery or survived cancer), these little pinprick experiences become a lot less freaky. Perspective. I guess that's the one thing you get in abundance on the road to adulthood. At least if you're bothering to stop and look around you on the journey.

So literally on the spur of the moment, I decided to quit coffee over the weekend. I guess I forgot to mention this earlier. I was distracted by puttering around the house on Saturday and by the time I realized I'd forgotten to drink my morning cuppa, I thought I could probably get by without it, if I maybe took a little Tylenol. And Saturday was ok, although I definitely did have a headache. But then Sunday I still had a headache, and not even Tylenol (which is all I'm allowed to have, more's the pity) seemed to help. And then yesterday I had particularly piercing headaches all day as well, which sneered at the presence of mere Tylenol. And today, though it was better--still headaches. I'm starting to wonder if these headaches are all the result of caffeine withdrawal--I mean, yes, I had a cup every morning for months, but should withdrawal from the daily cup really be this hard? I blame the preggo hormonal cocktail (because why not, it's my best excuse for everything right now and I'm milking it for all it's worth).

It's not like I had the hugest addiction--at its height I'd fill up my giant metal insulated Thermos travel mug (the equivalent of 2 big mugs) and drink half of it during my morrning commute and the rest over the course of the day at work. Ever since I found out I was pregnant, I've dropped down to the single mug on the way to work (since my OB has theoretically blessed "1 caffeinated beverage a day" as being ok). I wanted to quit it as soon as I found out as I was pregnant, but I was SO TIRED (that bone-sucking tired I'm sure I've previously mentioned) during that first trimester, and it was hard enough to keep my head clear with the hormone cocktail raging through my body without also nodding off at my computer every 10 minutes, without taking away my crutch. So I kept having that morning cuppa, even when it didn't smell or taste all that great to my ultra sensitive preggo self. That's how I knew I was addicted--just had to take my medicine. Bleah.

I never used to have a coffee addiction--it's something I sort of slid into over this past 6 months to a year. Just like any addiction, at first it was a great rush every time I had a cup of coffee--it was especially good for the writing, and for those times I was stuck in the story. It gave me that burst of energy and the brain spark I needed to get over certain creative blocks. But of course as I began to have coffee regularly, it stopped working, and I just needed it so I wouldn't feel crappy. Yuck. This is the longest I've ever gone being addicted to coffee--in the past every time I felt like I was starting to get too dependent on that morning cuppa, I'd quit for a couple weeks until I could start up again. It was never that hard to kick the habit before, but then I guess I never got this far into the addiction before.

Anyway. I'm trying to look on the bright side: I've actually quit (and once I swear something off I'm pretty good about being stubborn and not falling off the wagon for a good long while) and I know that's good for me. Plus if these headaches ARE actually caffeine-related, I've got to be almost done with them. (Right? RIGHT?) And the added bonus silver lining here is that hopefully, I can someday go back to the super fun creative buzz time when I have a cuppa, and be able to get some good writing done. As long as I don't do it regularly, I should be ok. And by that I mean there should be at least a week between cups. At least, that's what I'm thinking right now, from the high horse of a quitter.

Just got back from the quarterly girly birthday dinner that I do with a group of girlfriends (Daphne, Krista and Janet, fellow Cedco expatriates) every few months. We went to Restaurant LuLu in San Francisco, in honor of Krista's birthday. And we had a fabulous dinner! Every part of it was great--nice atmosphere, relaxed and quiet, good service, incredible country French food that was shared family style. And of course hanging out and catching up with girlfriends is always a favorite activity of mine, so what's not to like?

But now it's late and I'm single parenting all this week (Josh is away for a week in Calgary, eek!) so if I know what's good for me (and I do, I just don't always follow my own good advice) I'll quit fooling around on the computer and go to sleep.

(But I blogged! I'm back in the daily game! Go me!)

In an unpremeditated moment of serendipity, Eli and I got to go visit Alexandra Rose for the first time tonight. We brought them homecooked lasagna and the kids (Eli and Iris that is) ran around like little screechy monkeys until we threatened them with separation (and still they were at it again moments later). I meant to bring over some help and serenity yet I fear I might have introduced a bit more chaos than was hoped for. Ah well. Anyway, here's a picture of the surprisingly not-completely-exhausted looking proud parents and the adorable (yet somewhat drowsy) bebe:

Ok I'm back. I can't believe I waited so long. Sure, I had excuses (server down, vacation trips, computer crashes, general exhaustion), but really it's just amazing how quickly that daily blogging habit got so easily broken. Once you've fallen off the wagon for a few days, the slacking just compounds itself. One ray of hope though is that even though I wasn't blogging every day, I was *thinking* about blogging every day. That counts for something, I hope.

Anyway. Narcissisitic bla bla bla, no one cares. Let me sort of do a stream of consciousness quick summary of/reflection on the last 10 days or so. I'm sure there are things I'll regret not having recorded, but ah well.

So over the Labor Day weekend, we drove up my brother's house in Nevada City for our niece Zinnia's 1st birthday (gawd how time flies...I can't believe she's already one). On the way up there on Saturday, we stopped off and visited Galila, one of my oldest bestest friends (not The Oldest Bestest Friend, the official title which belongs to Adrienne but still, someone I've known for almost 20 years, that's an old friend in my book) and her family--her husband Michael and daughter Jenna and brand new addition, baby Aaron, 8 weeks old. This was our first time meeting Aaron, and he was darn cute, especially for a newborn. Here, take a look for yourself:

We also got to go out to lunch with them to an amazing yuppie supermarket that had the most awesome takeout section I've ever seen. Jenna and Eli had a lot of fun making outrageous silly faces for my camera.

After lunch we drove up to Nevada City, just in time for the birthday party. Eli was SO EXCITED (the only way to express that is truly in all capitals) to see his cousin Jonah, and they had a great time playing together. We had a good time hanging out with all the assembled family members and watching the effervescent Miss Zinnie cruising around (she is soooo close to full-time walking). She is such a sweet, mellow, friendly, confident baby now--and almost a toddler. Look at this face, how can you not want to kiss it:

Josh and Eli and I, along with my parents, slept over at Dave and Keri's house that night and although we tried, we completely failed in getting the boys to sleep in the same room together (all Eli's fault, I'll admit it...he was the talker). Ah well. The next morning (after much logisticing of course) we all packed up and went out to the river, where we spent a delightful couple of hours swimming, making mud castles, and just hanging out. Then Josh and I ripped Eli away from Jonah and stuck him in the car and began the drive home, with a brief stopover for dinner with another oldest bestest friend (Anji) and her family (husband Dan and her two boys, Jonah and Ethan). The boys had a good time playing together, and I had a chance to catch up a little with Anji. Then we again ripped Eli away from a good time, stuck him in the car, and drove home. Whew. It was a long (but fun) weekend.

The other highlight that happened over the weekend that we didn't find out about until later, was that the newest Armenta was finally born: Alexandra Rose was born on Saturday at 8pm. We haven't met her yet (though we are eager to) but as long as I'm doing the super image heavy blog entry, here's a picture:

Monday (Labor Day) I went out early to the Applebox for a little writing time, which was great. I have just completely cheesed on my early morning writing time (preggo body needs sleep more than creative spirit needs writing time, it seems), so these cafe-writing BIC (butt-in-chair) times are vital. I am close to being able to post a new chunk, really! I have to at least give myself credit for that, even though the novel-writing is going much slower than I'd like. But I have to at least be grateful that I'm continuing the forward momentum, even though it feels like crawling rather than walking (let alone running, which will probably never happen until I get a couple of months off with no other responsibilities, and we all know that's a total pipe dream for now, given that I don't even buy lottery tickets, let alone play).

Anyway, the rest of Monday was spent doing chores and spending time with Eli, and then we went over to the Coxes for a mellow takeout dinner with them and the Malones. I love these dinners because at this point the kids can all just go play in the other room and the adults can just hang out and talk. Beautiful arrangement, and perfect for the end of the weekend.

Most of last week is pretty much a blur to me, although quite possibly the reason why that is so is that it was incredibly, I mean over 100 degrees, 3rd-circle-of-hell HOT for most of the week. And given that neither my house nor my office (on the second floor) has air conditioning, I really suffered, especially at work where it got stuffy and even hotter than it would have been at home, where we at least have fans and popsicles and icy drinks that don't require a trip through the baking blacktop Sahara to fetch. The heat wave finally broke (or at least got back down to bearable temperatures) on Friday, and I can't even express what a huge difference that made to my attitude (let alone my actual output at work).

Oh, here's a fun detail: Friday at lunchtime I had a routine prenatal appointment spiced up with a little unneccessary drama. The doctor couldn't find the baby's heartbeat with the little doppler listener thingy, so I had to go do an ultrasound. After about 5 minutes of increasing panic and freakout on my part, (because as calm and accepting as I try to be, this came close to breaking through my reserve) the baby was located, happily kicking and heartbeating right there where it was supposed to be. Whew. I sure was in a good mood after that.

Yesterday was one of those putter-around-the-house days, where I did a lot of piddly projects I've been putting off, like re-organizing the kid's closet and toys and art table and such, and kind of putting things generally back in order. Eli and I had a good time rediscovering a bunch of stuff that had fallen to the bottom of various toyboxes/piles, and I felt like things were slightly more under control (always a good feeling for me). Then in the evening I got all dolled up in my ratty vintage princess finery and went to my dear friend Daphne's 30th birthday party, which had a princess theme. We made beaded tiaras and nibbled on little tea sandwiches and other tasty morsels, and even played princess-themed charades. It was fun! The highlight (wish I had a picture of this but I forgot my camera, d'oh) was the awesome Barbie princess birthday cake that the queen-of-theme-cakes, my friend Lara, made for Daphne. It was spectacular. (Lara made me a Lord of the Rings themed cake for my birthday a few years ago, which I will never forget. She's AWESOME. And a certified published Party Girl too. Go check it out.)

And now here we are, finally caught up to this morning, where I am using my "sleeping in" time to catch up on the blogging. I would have tried to sleep some more, actually, but I was rudely awoken at approximately 7:30am by the *#&@(! soccer players that congregate in the field in back of our house for their 8am (!) weekend games. I can't even express how irritating this is to me (although I will say that it pisses me off enough that I've been sitting here typing this with earplugs in). This happened yesterday too. It happens every year, from September through October or November, but after 8 years of this (and finally being sleep deprived and hormonal enough to get off my lazy butt and do something besides complain at Josh about it), this morning I was finally incensed enough to look up the contact info for the Soccer League and then call and leave a message and write a polite, yet pissy, email to the president of the league. All I'm asking for is that they start their games at 9 instead of 8 on the weekends (thus making the time that people gather and start making noise 8 instead of 7am). This seems eminently reasonable to me...I mean holy Moses, we're talking about 7am! On Saturdays and Sundays! For WEEKS at a time! It felt good to do *something*, although I'm fairly certain I'll get nowhere with this.

Ok, now it's time to go eat breakfast and rejoin the domestic world and get my day started. But yay me for finally getting caught up on the blog. That's one project off always-overflowing plate. Now that I don't have this week and a half of not posting hanging over my head, it ought to be easier to slip back into the habit of posting *something* every day. Right?

Belly is full of hearty Josh-cooked dinner (meatloaf and veg), brain is drained of anything but the most rudimentary of creative impulses (such as, the impulse to post something, anything, in the blog every night. Looks like the habit has been integrated into the system.) Thus, only a few small thoughts before bed, mostly to do with some of the creative urges and projects that have been percolating in my brain lately.

I've spent a lot of time over this last week thinking about story dilemmas in my novel. I've taken pages of notes. I think I'm finally almost worked through the tangles enough to begin the actual writing again. I am going to try to get up early tomorrow and actually string sentences together. I'm feeling pretty good about the story, it's time to get it moving forward again.

I've also been thinking a lot about our family photos, and about organizing and scrapbooking them. Today I ordered approximately 100 prints of pictures from Eli's first 8 weeks of life from Ofoto, and really my intention is to begin putting together the Baby Book for Eli before the new baby comes along. Of course I also want to finish posting all the other digipix I have archived on my computer to my family photos website, and then get the missing year's worth of images from August 2002 through October 2003 from Josh's computer onto mine (or at least onto CD and from there up onto the web). And then of course there's my parents' 60th birthday scrapbook which I promised them would be done over a year ago and I'm still only like 5 pages into (guilt!!). Not to mention my own sadly abandoned scrapbook which is still languishing somewhere around Christmas 1999.

I've also been experiencing the urge to get back into painting. I love the writing and have definitely been prioritizing it (and intend to keep doing so until this damn book is finished, which at this rate could be another few years) but I am also feeling the need for pure color and form, for texture and the actual act of putting brush or brayer to canvas. I swear I am going to set up my paints (and my photo/scrapbooking stuff) in our garage one of these weekends soon. If it was out, I'd be much more apt to use it.

Ack. Too many creative projects, too little time. I need like a 3 month sabbatical (which sadly, a maternity leave is just NOT).