It's snowing outside, my boss is going home early, and the baby is doing a series of acrobatics that feel like a cross between jumping jacks and salsa dance. It feels lovely - like a massage from the inside. It's all good.
I don't have much to say today except that I wanted to post a cheerful entry because so often I only write when I'm feeling slightly out of sorts. Which gives this blog a negative cast when really, most of the time I am in good spirits. Right now I'm feeling like, even if there are big and serious and scary issues coming up in my near future, like what I should do with my career and how I'm going to adapt to parenthood, that everything will be fine. Things will fall into place as I get closer to them - and it's impossible to sort them out ahead of time anyway.
Now, I'm off to see if anyone has left any more pre-Valentine's Day chocolate in the kitchen.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
Midnight Adventure
be-boop.
My dream of robot armies marching in serene formation
through deserted streets
takes an unusual turn.
A lost cell phone whimpers in the gutter
crying for juice.
One maternal robot picks it up.
be-boop.
This is no dream.
I stumble out of bed to find the phone,
through shoe and keychain detritus on the floor.
In the living room I find my bag by feel,
unzip the pocket,
rescue the thirsty phone.
Another stumbling foray locates the charger on a shelf.
Only one convenient outlet not in use.
I plug it in, go back to bed.
be-boop.
Crap. Wrong phone.
Stumble to the corner where hubby's clothes are hung.
His coat is on the knob.
Nice coat, thick lining, many pockets.
Many many.
Zips are well-concealed.
I find the phone, slim square thing,
and different charger from the shelf.
This one has no prongs.
??? Oh. They fold out.
Plug this one into outlet in the hallway.
be-boop.
This is not a phone! An iPod? trailing cables, earbuds -
Since when has he had this?
Oh well.
More searching for subtle zips.
Another slim square thing - ah, this is it.
be-boop.
Don't worry, little one.
Here is your juice.
Now please shut up.
I stumble back to bed.
My dream of robot armies marching in serene formation
through deserted streets
takes an unusual turn.
A lost cell phone whimpers in the gutter
crying for juice.
One maternal robot picks it up.
be-boop.
This is no dream.
I stumble out of bed to find the phone,
through shoe and keychain detritus on the floor.
In the living room I find my bag by feel,
unzip the pocket,
rescue the thirsty phone.
Another stumbling foray locates the charger on a shelf.
Only one convenient outlet not in use.
I plug it in, go back to bed.
be-boop.
Crap. Wrong phone.
Stumble to the corner where hubby's clothes are hung.
His coat is on the knob.
Nice coat, thick lining, many pockets.
Many many.
Zips are well-concealed.
I find the phone, slim square thing,
and different charger from the shelf.
This one has no prongs.
??? Oh. They fold out.
Plug this one into outlet in the hallway.
be-boop.
This is not a phone! An iPod? trailing cables, earbuds -
Since when has he had this?
Oh well.
More searching for subtle zips.
Another slim square thing - ah, this is it.
be-boop.
Don't worry, little one.
Here is your juice.
Now please shut up.
I stumble back to bed.
Thursday, February 01, 2007
Some Thoughts of the Day
It's so cold outside. Little gritty bits of snow are starting to swirl around - it's like the sky itself is cracking and freezing and bits are flaking off. How does anyone survive outside? Especially the little birds with their bare legs and feet. How is there enough for them to eat to stay alive? How do they last through the long nights when the air feels almost too cold to breathe?
Guilt. I walk past homeless people every day who are standard fixtures - the woman outside the McDonald's, the man who holds out a frisbee like a serving platter for people to drop change onto, Boombox Man who's often rocking out to his battery-powered radio. I nearly always say "Sorry" when they ask for change, but then I feel bad about it, because of that damn diminishing returns thing - a dollar would go further, and mean more, for them, than for me. So I should give them something. Here I am trying to decide whether or not to shell out $300 for Bradley classes, and thinking it might be worth it, and to them $300 is an incredible fortune, even $3 is not bad - it could mean having a hot sandwich instead of going to sleep hungry. But there is so much misery in the world. How can I possibly try to appease it when really, I could give away all I have and still not make a dent in the suffering?
Raw meat is disgusting. I'm eating meat these days because I couldn't seem to get the recommended amount of protein for pregnancy when I was vegetarian. The other night, peeling chicken skin off a drumstick, the cold slimy layer of fat flopping around and sliding through my fingers, making my chapped hands sting, I thought about antibiotic resistance and factory-farm cruelty, and wondered if I was really doing the right thing. The knife I was using sawed ineffectively against the chicken skin, then slipped out of my hand and skittered across the floor. A piece of chicken fat dropped onto a fork that was waiting to be washed in the sink. Hair fell in my eyes, but I couldn't brush it away because both hands were slimy. I felt like every surface in the kitchen was becoming contaminated. After the chicken was in the broiler, I disinfected everything like a madwoman. Small consolation that after cooking, the chicken legs were tasty.
I am not nearly as down as I probably sound. Perhaps I should call this a clog (complaint log) or wog (worry log) rather than a blog. I think I'm mainly just worn out, working too much, and tired of being sick. Perhaps I will be more chipper in the spring.
Guilt. I walk past homeless people every day who are standard fixtures - the woman outside the McDonald's, the man who holds out a frisbee like a serving platter for people to drop change onto, Boombox Man who's often rocking out to his battery-powered radio. I nearly always say "Sorry" when they ask for change, but then I feel bad about it, because of that damn diminishing returns thing - a dollar would go further, and mean more, for them, than for me. So I should give them something. Here I am trying to decide whether or not to shell out $300 for Bradley classes, and thinking it might be worth it, and to them $300 is an incredible fortune, even $3 is not bad - it could mean having a hot sandwich instead of going to sleep hungry. But there is so much misery in the world. How can I possibly try to appease it when really, I could give away all I have and still not make a dent in the suffering?
Raw meat is disgusting. I'm eating meat these days because I couldn't seem to get the recommended amount of protein for pregnancy when I was vegetarian. The other night, peeling chicken skin off a drumstick, the cold slimy layer of fat flopping around and sliding through my fingers, making my chapped hands sting, I thought about antibiotic resistance and factory-farm cruelty, and wondered if I was really doing the right thing. The knife I was using sawed ineffectively against the chicken skin, then slipped out of my hand and skittered across the floor. A piece of chicken fat dropped onto a fork that was waiting to be washed in the sink. Hair fell in my eyes, but I couldn't brush it away because both hands were slimy. I felt like every surface in the kitchen was becoming contaminated. After the chicken was in the broiler, I disinfected everything like a madwoman. Small consolation that after cooking, the chicken legs were tasty.
I am not nearly as down as I probably sound. Perhaps I should call this a clog (complaint log) or wog (worry log) rather than a blog. I think I'm mainly just worn out, working too much, and tired of being sick. Perhaps I will be more chipper in the spring.
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