1. Leave for trip to Chicago (hub of United Airlines)the day that United grounds 11% of its fleet
2. Attend conference in between dousing work fires based in Oakland and relationship building activities with non-Oakland based colleagues. Discover the "vodka mojito," custom-made, it seems, for people who drank too much rum one night in 1989 and still, to this day, cannot smell diet coke without thinking about it.
3. Leave for home the right after ATA goes out of business, resulting in all kinds of crazy people at O'Hare trying to bust in on my United flight out of Chicago.
4. Finally arrive at SFO where I have mercifully parked very close to the terminal, only to discover my keys are most likely still in Chicago.
5. Take BART home, as cab to Oakland AND airport parking cannot be expensed.
6. Remove cell phone from bag at MacArthur BART, only to be sideswiped by bicycler. Cell phone flies from hand and crashes to sidewalk, now in 3 separate parts.
7. Home to loving husband, son, dog and hateful cat.
8. Count blessings
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
Bad Mommy, Cute Kid
My sins are many:
I told Drew we had to go back to my office last week after picking him up from daycare and when he began to fuss, I told him he could have cookies there.
I encouraged him play Vestibule the other night for 15 minutes past when it was fun for him so I could keep him out of the kitchen while I addressed the ant problem.
I became irritated at how long he had sat on his potty with no results and put him in the bathtub (where he promptly peed), even though consistency is of the utmost importance in this matter; now he'll never go to preschool.
But mostly, I am guilty of not taking enough pictures of my own child and sending them to people who find him as attractive as I do - that is to say, people who are related to me. Here's for you (courtesy of my friend Sandy accompanied us, with her daughter Emma, to the zoo last weekend).
I told Drew we had to go back to my office last week after picking him up from daycare and when he began to fuss, I told him he could have cookies there.
I encouraged him play Vestibule the other night for 15 minutes past when it was fun for him so I could keep him out of the kitchen while I addressed the ant problem.
I became irritated at how long he had sat on his potty with no results and put him in the bathtub (where he promptly peed), even though consistency is of the utmost importance in this matter; now he'll never go to preschool.
But mostly, I am guilty of not taking enough pictures of my own child and sending them to people who find him as attractive as I do - that is to say, people who are related to me. Here's for you (courtesy of my friend Sandy accompanied us, with her daughter Emma, to the zoo last weekend).
Thursday, March 20, 2008
The Weathergirl Rides Again
So, it's been like a MONTH and of course a lot has gone on, so I want to talk about something totally important: my hair. I finally took that final leap into parenthood and got a Mom haircut last week.
As you probably know, I am exceedingly vain, but in many cases lack the follow-through necessary to do anything about it, and this sudden but premeditated action may come as a surprise.
Since my mother first marched me to the salon at age 5 to have my ponytails cut off ("If you get gum in your hair one more time..."*), I have had a deep fear of haircuts. This resulted in an avoidance of them, the lack of a stylist who knew me that I saw regularly, and a series of ill-thought-out trips to places that will take anyone off the street for $14, and culminating in the Great Clips Mullet Incident of 1998. A vicious cycle, really. When I had cancer and wanted to have all of the hair I had purchased online styled, I had no where to go. I actually went to my mother's guy, who is VERY nice, but I don't think I am out of place sharing has been known to take a painkiller before an appointment and, while I'm sure very talented in his trade, has collaborated with my mother on several styles that are usually seen on very butch lesbians and the "Monchichi" doll from the 1980s.
Of course, as my new hair grew back, I refused to have it cut at all, and with the birth of my child simply stopped doing anything beyond washing it occasionally. But I got myself on Yelp.com a few months ago and found someone local, Eric, who I can trust. And I finally had the all the insane, flimsy strands that are most often used to display my vast collection of black fabric scrunchies (yes, they still sell them) cut off so that just enough to pull off my face is left. I think the 2 hours Eric spent chopping off 1/4 inch at a time, allowing me to attempt a ponytail and then re-combing and resuming the cut proves that we will be able to work together.
I have to get the technical savvy of an 8-year-old and will post pictures, but will tell you that it looks, ironically, almost exactly like the wig I wore occasionally when I was bald that my friends and I used to call "The Weathergirl." The wig that at the time I said was a "style in which I would of course never wear my hair."
Never say never
*My mother, I'm sure, has a different view of that incident, including how I wouldn't ever let her brush my hair and what a terrible child I was in general, but I'm getting it all back now in spades with my psychotic toddler aren't I and it's not her blog anyhow
As you probably know, I am exceedingly vain, but in many cases lack the follow-through necessary to do anything about it, and this sudden but premeditated action may come as a surprise.
Since my mother first marched me to the salon at age 5 to have my ponytails cut off ("If you get gum in your hair one more time..."*), I have had a deep fear of haircuts. This resulted in an avoidance of them, the lack of a stylist who knew me that I saw regularly, and a series of ill-thought-out trips to places that will take anyone off the street for $14, and culminating in the Great Clips Mullet Incident of 1998. A vicious cycle, really. When I had cancer and wanted to have all of the hair I had purchased online styled, I had no where to go. I actually went to my mother's guy, who is VERY nice, but I don't think I am out of place sharing has been known to take a painkiller before an appointment and, while I'm sure very talented in his trade, has collaborated with my mother on several styles that are usually seen on very butch lesbians and the "Monchichi" doll from the 1980s.
Of course, as my new hair grew back, I refused to have it cut at all, and with the birth of my child simply stopped doing anything beyond washing it occasionally. But I got myself on Yelp.com a few months ago and found someone local, Eric, who I can trust. And I finally had the all the insane, flimsy strands that are most often used to display my vast collection of black fabric scrunchies (yes, they still sell them) cut off so that just enough to pull off my face is left. I think the 2 hours Eric spent chopping off 1/4 inch at a time, allowing me to attempt a ponytail and then re-combing and resuming the cut proves that we will be able to work together.
I have to get the technical savvy of an 8-year-old and will post pictures, but will tell you that it looks, ironically, almost exactly like the wig I wore occasionally when I was bald that my friends and I used to call "The Weathergirl." The wig that at the time I said was a "style in which I would of course never wear my hair."
Never say never
*My mother, I'm sure, has a different view of that incident, including how I wouldn't ever let her brush my hair and what a terrible child I was in general, but I'm getting it all back now in spades with my psychotic toddler aren't I and it's not her blog anyhow
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Sick of Being Sick
http://www.cnn.com/2008/HEALTH/conditions/02/15/flu.season.ap/index.html
We are under attack from one of the flu viruses that the vaccine does not protect against, and it is ugly. Doug has been home for a week, and I have been drifting in and out of consciousness/ codeine-cough-syrup fog for the past three days. We let Drew watch 4 hours of television yesterday, mostly repeating the same 10-minue choo-choo show over and over ("Thomas' Trusty Friends").
Ugh.
We are under attack from one of the flu viruses that the vaccine does not protect against, and it is ugly. Doug has been home for a week, and I have been drifting in and out of consciousness/ codeine-cough-syrup fog for the past three days. We let Drew watch 4 hours of television yesterday, mostly repeating the same 10-minue choo-choo show over and over ("Thomas' Trusty Friends").
Ugh.
Sunday, February 17, 2008
Talker
Here are a few of the latest additions to Drew's vocabulary:
crooked
wind chimes
water tower
vestibule*
fart
Just a year ago, when Drew had yet to utter a single "mama" (not that he couldn't say "Debbie," who took care of him every day when I was at work), I couldn't imagine him talking.
But once he started, he literally exploded with language. The books say that at one point toddlers add something like 10-50 words a day to their vocabulary, which seems impossible, but if you don't know any words I guess there's a lot to learn.
I can't tell you where he even picks half of his words up - not that I mind him saying "Oh Man!" when he drops something instead of "f**k," but he only has to hear something once and it's in the repertoire. Sometimes it's clear the word came from a teaching moment, where his father or I lovingly explained the difference between "spiders" and "ants" while he watched with wonder as the latter marched across the kitchen windowsill, through the cat's food and onto our counter tops where they were apparently having their annual convention. But more often than not, the random words used in the appropriate context will take me by surprise, and I will suddenly realize why every parent thinks, at least once, that their child is a mad genius.
*Drew likes to lock himself in the short back hallway and close all the doors to create a little echo chamber, and I call the game "vestibule."
crooked
wind chimes
water tower
vestibule*
fart
Just a year ago, when Drew had yet to utter a single "mama" (not that he couldn't say "Debbie," who took care of him every day when I was at work), I couldn't imagine him talking.
But once he started, he literally exploded with language. The books say that at one point toddlers add something like 10-50 words a day to their vocabulary, which seems impossible, but if you don't know any words I guess there's a lot to learn.
I can't tell you where he even picks half of his words up - not that I mind him saying "Oh Man!" when he drops something instead of "f**k," but he only has to hear something once and it's in the repertoire. Sometimes it's clear the word came from a teaching moment, where his father or I lovingly explained the difference between "spiders" and "ants" while he watched with wonder as the latter marched across the kitchen windowsill, through the cat's food and onto our counter tops where they were apparently having their annual convention. But more often than not, the random words used in the appropriate context will take me by surprise, and I will suddenly realize why every parent thinks, at least once, that their child is a mad genius.
*Drew likes to lock himself in the short back hallway and close all the doors to create a little echo chamber, and I call the game "vestibule."
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
so sorry for the incontinence
Despite a tremendous and expensive counseling effort to clarify the boundaries between my personal and professional life, today was the kind of day where I had a hard time separating what I do from who I am and I let it get to me.
PR is such a middleman profession, and on bad days you have to tell people you do not have the specific information they need, but here is a lot of other information you did not ask for that will maybe make you not notice I never answered your question. Now, it's easier for me to keep a straight face and sleep at night than, say, a While House Press Secretary in the Bush Administration, but I sent maybe 10 e-mails today that groveled about things that I actually have no control over, and it got to me.
Maybe 8 years ago, I sent a note to a reporter apologizing for the inconvenience a scheduling issue was causing, and copied my colleagues and client to show how willing I was to take one for the team. My phone rang immediately, and my friend Teddi let me know I should always quality control my spell check, because I had apologized for the incontinence. "Do you know what 'incontinence' means?" Teddi asked (Yes. Can I spell it? No.).
I usually tell this story (and of course I tell this story) in a different context, but tonight I am trying to remember: I am not my job. This is not a difficult concept for most people, but I assume they have different issues, like chemical addictions and emotional codependence. Or incontinence.
I am NOT my job... does anyone else even have this problem?
Maybe 8 years ago, I sent a note to a reporter apologizing for the inconvenience a scheduling issue was causing, and copied my colleagues and client to show how willing I was to take one for the team. My phone rang immediately, and my friend Teddi let me know I should always quality control my spell check, because I had apologized for the incontinence. "Do you know what 'incontinence' means?" Teddi asked (Yes. Can I spell it? No.).
I usually tell this story (and of course I tell this story) in a different context, but tonight I am trying to remember: I am not my job. This is not a difficult concept for most people, but I assume they have different issues, like chemical addictions and emotional codependence. Or incontinence.
I am NOT my job... does anyone else even have this problem?
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Sunday, January 20, 2008
Happy New Blog!
This is the holiday card I ordered 100 copies of last year to send to the many friends and family that I love dearly but do not correspond with as regularly as I should.
Don't feel bad if you didn't get one - we never sent them out. I actually considered sending it out this year and said to Doug, "It's not like there's a date on it. Drew looks pretty much the same... maybe a few more teeth..."
So you can understand that I am nervous about starting a blog (again)- how can I keep this updated regularly when I can't even get a Christmas card out or call you back? More importantly, how can I keep this clean enough to let my 85 year old grandmother read it (although, to her credit, Dina has a wicked sense of humor)? These are very real challenges, but I'm going to try.
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