****the great panty debate****

Ladies (ONLY):

Ladies:

I am planning to send out letters to various women's magazines asking
them to assign me an article of great national significance: the best
panties for all different butts.

It has come to my attention that so often I spend ten or so bucks of
my hard-earned cash on a cute pair of panties, only to find that they
bag in the butt, dip too low in the front, or fail to reach around my
admittedly sizable ba-toot.

do you have a pair of underwear that fits perfectly, with no butt-sagging, panty lines, or love-handle amputation? Post a comment and tell me your age, size, and the brand/make of underwear.

And if you don't, say that too.

Come on. Just do it.

Cheers!

One the first day of spring

Let's face it:

given last week's eighty degree temperatures and tomorrow's wintry mix, spring is a'coming.

Given the fact I spent my Saturday watching my younger sister deflect very fast, very yellow, and very small balls during her lacrosse playday, spring is a'coming.

Given that my sweet peas are once again RUINING MY LIFE by being WHINY LITTLE #$#^^@!s, spring is here :)

just for kicks:

One Third Of The Calendar

In January everything freezes.
We have two children. Both are she'ses.
This is our January rule:
One girl in bed, and one in school.

In February the blizzard whirls.
We own a pair of little girls.
Blessings upon of each the head ----
The one in school and the one in bed.

March is the month of cringe and bluster.
Each of our children has a sister.
They cling together like Hansel and Gretel,
With their noses glued to the benzoin kettle.

April is made of impetuous waters
And doctors looking down throats of daughters.
If we had a son too, and a thoroughbred,
We'd have a horse,
And a boy,
And two girls
In bed.

Ogden Nash

on being young and married

To be young and to get married, and to not be a Baptist, an innocent, or pregnant, is seldom seen. And we are not doing the young hip thing. We live in a rented Cape Cod with a big yard for our dogs and hardwood floors and a fireplace for us. Last Saturday, we lounged on our bed playing Trivial Pursuit from the early 1980s until the grand old hour of ten o’clock.
We like our soft sheets. I am planting a flower garden. Yesterday, my husband polished my grandmother’s silver salt and pepper set, and I thought my heart would crack open with love.
I have done the young angst thing, complete with cigarettes and greasy food and spiky dyed hair.
And you know, this is better. The clean counter of our kitchen luminous in the morning sun, the long couch bought with a Christmas bonus, the morning argument over who takes the first shower. I sleep well. I eat well. I take baths on Sunday afternoons and look at my knees, naked and loved, and I do not wish I were alone.
I do not think we love each other more than anybody else in the world. The only difference I can see is that we did not creep towards marriage, we did not decide to give up our cherished independence, but instead we worked for it, yearned for it, and now that we are here, we are so very glad.
But we are newlyweds, clocking in at six months this Saturday. The real achievement will not be staying in love—for who can do that, anyway?— or even just staying together—because we all know those couples who sleep in separate beds and don’t talk to each other—but instead, staying really married, past those periods of intense dislike and general apathy and towards an overall harmonious partnership.
Wish us luck ;)

A story:

M. told me her life story while we were driving to Huntsville, Alabama for the Dixie Rugby Tournament in her gold beater of a car.

"Daddy left," she began. I nod. This I know. "Mama married this fool, and our house burned down."

My house is made of stone, but I still nod. Her accent is long and nasal, as east Tennessee as you get.

"The fool decided to convert the barn into a house with the insurance money, but ain't no money in the world could've turned that barn into a nice house," she continues. "Anyway, he was beating on my Mama, and so we locked him outside and called 911. You know, it takes 45 minutes for the police to get to our house."

I bat my eyes to express sympathy.

"And let me tell you 'bout my brothers," M. says. She twists and yanks up her shirt over her back. There's a heart with two names on her left shoulder blade.

"One ran around all the time in high school. He got girls pregnant, did e all the time, and then he ups and becomes a Jehova's Witness. Can't even talk to him anymore, he's all the time Jesus this and Jesus that."

I have no brothers.

"The other, he's my sweetie, my bitty baby brother J., and I just love him. He about died when I left for college. You know how I decided to go to Vanderbilt?"

I shake my head. How did I decide?

"We watched this movie in 8th grade that I thought was awesome, can't even remember what it was about, but it was produced by Vanderbilt. So I worked my ass off-- no one thought I was smart cos I hung out with all the black kids-- but I ended up valedictorian and got a full-ride here."

Wow, I say. That's amazing.

"I thought so, but no one in my county had ever gone anywhere 'cept the U of Tennessee. Why do you want to go to Vanderbilt? they'd ask. They don't got very good football. I'd say, do I look like I play football, you jackass?"

She kinda does.




Epilogue: she's doing graduate research in psychology about aggression and schizophrenia, and she has married a black man even taller than she is named Brown.

listen up, y'all.

On Saturday evening, I found myself sitting in front of a fire with my best friend leaning against my feet as we regaled a World Bank renaissance man with our tales of woe-- namely that all of our fancy education barely qualified us for entry-level jobs.

And we have a point. But my amused husband and friend looked on with indulgence at the two over-priviledged white girls, recalling student loans and the juggling of 30-hr-a-week jobs with classes, and you know, they had no sympathy.

(Ironically, they make way, way more than either me or my friend do. But they work at the same place so the statistics are biased.)

Cheers to having options, my friends. I could: join the Peace Corp, work on an organic farm, move to NYC and get a financial services internship, move to a small town and become a reporter...etc, etc, etc. I get to choose what color I want to paint my bathroom, and in the last two weeks I have spent countless hours hunting down the right pair of ballet flats.

I tire of people telling me they have no options. Go on. Make an actual list of all things you could conceivably do. If you have more than one, you've got choices, baby.

Danny and Annie

When I lived in Vermont, I had no clock, so in one of his magnificent care packages, K. sent me one, complete with a radio alarm, for I hate to wake to a buzzer.

Now it's by our bed. This morning, it went off at 6.50, and NPR flooded the room loud and clear. Usually one of us hits it, but this morning, we listened to this project called Story Corp. Apparently there is a New Jersey man named Danny who loves to talk to Story Corp about his wife, Annie.

He was described as a bald toothless gnome of a man, and his voice was pure grit, but he spoke tenderly about how much he loves his wife. Apparently he's done this so often that Danny and Annie are now the "faces"-- or voices rather-- of Story Corp. My favorite was when he said being married is like having a color television-- you don't ever want to go back.

Of course, they are re-visiting the story of Danny and Annie because Danny has cancer, and is expected to die soon. He says he doesn't expect to live, but he and Annie talk often of hope-- hope for her future after he's gone.

There are not enough men or women who wear their heart on the sleeves, and it is so exhilerating to see someone do so. Embarrassing, of course, especially for us Wasps. But exhilerating nonetheless.

Check their pics out at http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=5230164

HAPPY THOUGHTS

you can always just go to bed.

bathtubs.

somewhere, the sun is shining.

spring is coming.

there are many beautiful shades of bubblegum pink tonenail polish.

george bush can not be president longer than his term (thank you, mr. roosevelt.)

tulip bulbs.

the earth will run out of oil. (YEAH! WOOHOO! WHAT WILL WE DO NEXT?)

saturday could involve: french toast, coffee, a grapefruit, a walk.

celebrities and their oh-so-traumatic lives.

all-girl bookclubs.

dogs and people who like dogs.

thunderstorms.

screen porches.

three-day weekends.

swimming in a sun-warmed lake.


kisses chickies!

heads' up!

Why is it that lists of things to do before you die include items such as:

write the great american novel
learn to speak french
travel to the great wall of china

and so on.

right now, i have several ambitions, and they look like this:

learn to make slipcovers
get our taxes done
plan interesting lunches for next week, so my husband doens't have to eat dinty moore out of a can (which is really very good, but also very much like canned dog food).
keep writing my not-the-great-america-novel
get something done to my eyebrows

and so on :)

nonetheless, i firmly beleive that it is important to keep in mind those things you'd really LIKE to accomplish, as opposed to the ones you kinda have to accomplish (read taxes).

so think, people, think, and then do what i do best: list. because if you're like me, you might forget.

V Day Approaches

I have never really been single. Not something that's couth to say, but it's true-- I counted up the months in high school, and there were 8-- combined-- of singleness, and then in college, well, the minute I broke up w/my highschool boyfriend I was madly in love with K.

But depite all my years of coupledom, I've never had a truly superb Valentine's Dy. Or even a romantic one. My old boyyfriend paid for Chinese take-out once. And back BEFORE I was with K., he sent me some really beautiful tea that made me very angry at Chinese-take-out boyfriend.

Why am I telling you this? Because I am boldly shattering the myth that all couples have February 14ths filled with teddy bears, massage oils, and romantic dinners. Actually, I've always thought the single versions of V-day sounded great-- chick flick, pajamas, and chocolate. Mmmm. Chick flicks. A moive without 1: really awesome special effects 2: loud noises and spilling intestines and 3: car chases that supposedly make up for the complete lack of plot and ridiculous dialogue.

In essence, Valentine's Dy is a day of loathing for Singles and Smug Marrieds alike-- because all it does is higlight what's not there*. So buy your chocolate, and call your mom. She'll be glad to hear from you.

Peace out chickens

* I am blessed with a very romantic husband-- who nonetheless has a deep, deep aversion to being told what to do and when to do it.

Getting to the Golden Years

Kagan and I have been talking a lot these days about retirement. By the by, I am a champion worrier, and really, I can freak out about the most far-off event, even if I don't know that it will happen. We had the kids conversation BEFORE we started dating, and the remarraige post-death conversation less than a month after our wedding.

But anyway, retirement. The idea of having enough money to do nothing for twenty odd years of my life strikes me as some strange pot-of-gold urban legend, but I am assured that it is possible (especially with compound interest) if I get off my butt and open a Roth IRA.

Here's what retirement looks like for me: I have a place to live that I like, and I can quit my day job. (With any luck, I can retire in five years :) ) To accomplish this, I need to make a lot of money and stash it away, manipulating the tax system like silly putty.

So how did anyone ever retire? Come on, I know there were old people before social security came and went. How did they live? Did they starve? Did they just drop dead in the fields? Were adult children nicer? Did you die rather than go to the doctor/hospital?

I have to say I'm not really sure.

What's In A Name?

I like my name. I like my husband's name. I think a fair bit about names.


top 10 names in 2005 (in order of popularity):

Emma Emily Madison Kaitlyn Sophia Isabella Olivia Hannah Makayla Ava

Aidan Jacob Ethan Nicholas Matthew Ryan Tyler Jack Joshua Andrew


I confess I'm a big fan, especially when you compare them to the '80s:


Jennifer Jessica Amanda Melissa Sarah Nicole Heather Amy Michelle Elizabeth

Michael Jason Christopher David James Matthew John Joshua Robert Daniel


And just for kicks, let's look at the 60's:


Mary Susan Karen Maria Lisa Linda Donna Patricia Debra Deborah

David Michael John James Robert Mark William Richard Thomas Steven


The weirdest thing of all? Savannah, which is the name my sister and I duel over, is n. 47 on the 2005 list.

All the good names are taken (pout, flounce-off).

Just for kicks: Things I Don't Believe In ctd.

nuclear power

living together pre-marriage

mean men

pantyhose

sweaters with faces on them (read santa clause, reindeer, etc.)

deficit spending

this crazy, crazy idea that opening up that one last tiny piece of Alaska will somehow save us from foreign oil dependence (really-- look at a map.)

being bad at your job

vegetarianism

lunching with co-workers you don't really like

annual letters about how great your family is (oh, mom and i had so much fun with this one. we'd compose them in the car. this year, dad moved four times, the septic tank erupted into the library, alexe got two speeding tickets and went to three driving schools, eliza began bathing regularily, and oh, our dog died.)

negativity :)

cheerio children.

Things I Don't Believe In:

educational software for children

peeled carrots

ADD

ADHD

eggs, potatoes, and dairy being bad for you

eloping

NOT having engagement bling

George Bush

people who want to ban abortion-- especially men

atheism, agnosticsm, and Unitarianism* (*if my understanding of this denomination is correct)

Will Farrell and all of Will Farrell's movies

Napoleon Dynamite, while we're at it

war-- with an exception of defensive wars

poorly written chick lit books

Montessori school for kids under the age of 4-- unless you're clear that you just want them out of the house

divorcing because you're just not in love anymore

owning a hot tub

"finding" yourself

frosting in a can

prudes (read: people who don't like dogs, who can't handle a little dirt, who have never roughhoused)

the public school system

having to go to graduate school

our gross miserliness towards teachers

pale bloated men who work 12 hours a day WHILE having a family

having to have curtains

piano lessons, soccer teams, etc. for children under the age of 5 (unless they beg you because they actually really want to)

buying furniture, blinds, cars, and clothes on credit

SUVs with the exception of TRUCKS for FARMERS, not: college students, teenagers, soccer moms, or corporate honchos

the stock market

this strange notion that America is superior to Europe, especially with regards to our economy (oh, i'll take you down on this one. Just ask.)

oh-so-literary fiction

EFFICIENCY

roads without sidewalks

strip malls

going to a new place and shopping at the same 100 retail stores found across America

Yogilates


but as always, I close with the fact that I really do love my dishwasher.

san diego

Chickens, I am off to San Diego, and I am trying not to lose or forget everything I own (coversation in my head: did i pack a sweater? No. damn. I'm going to freeze again, just like I did in Capri. Well, who cares-- all I really have to do is remember my passport. Don't LOSE my passport, not before I get to the airport, or while AT the airport like last time.)

So once again, peace out chickens.

peace out, chickens

I heard a story the other day about a hippie-ish do-gooder who started a community garden in the slums of D.C. He was harvesting one summer afternoon when a group of children approached him and began asking questions, like what's that? and what are you doing? and are you crazy?

After some friendly banter, he pulled out carrots. It had the same effect as a magician producing a white rabbit out of a hat, because they'd never really thought about things growing in the ground.

Seeing this, the hippie-ish do-gooder asked, "What other things grow in the ground?"

One small boy ventured, "spaghetti?"

I don't understand how fax machines work. I don't understand how computers or telephones or nail polish remover works. Until two years ago, I had no idea where garlic or cloves or mustard came from. I'm confused by our facts of life, such as concrete and grocery stores and cublicles.

But you know, I really do love my dishwasher.

Eleanor Rigbys

“This planet has -- or rather had -- a problem, which was this: most of the people living on it were unhappy for pretty much of the time. Many solutions were suggested for this problem, but most of these were largely concerned with the movements of small green pieces of paper, which is odd because on the whole it wasn't the small green pieces of paper that were unhappy.”
--Douglass Adams

back to food

Fact: Kagan and I spend roughly ten percent of our take-home pay on food. (And our take-home pay doesn't count the 401k or mortgage or insurance or metrocheks.)

Fact: in 1900, the average family spent nearly half their income on food.

Half.

Also, we really do it up in the grocery stores. Luckily, my more frugal half gets most things on sale, but we still have grapefruits and Gruyere and organic milk and antibiotic-free chicken. What did that half include in 1900?

My point is: food is cheap.

This isn't a popular point these days, what with all the talk of low-income people being forced to consume the 25-cent donut sticks and honeybuns. It's true that while all food is cheap, bad food is even cheaper. Perhaps that's because it doesn't come from anything real, who knows, or that so many people buy it that they can produce with economies of scale. I don't know. But I digress.

Food is cheap.

And really, with more people in America and way, way, way fewer farmers, where does it all come from?

Snippet

I am a snoop; ergo, I love biographies. Not the boring oh-he-did-do-many-important-things ones, but more like the he hated his mother, loved his wife, and took baths every Monday evening ones.

So, shamelessly stealing from the Writer's Almanac: a man named Robinson Jeffers was born today in the early 1900s. Though from Pennsylvania, he went to boarding schools all through Europe, including Geneva, Zurich, and (!) Vevey. By the age of 19, he had completed his undergrad, studied philosophy in Europe, and enrolled in the USC medical school. But, after 3 years, he dropped out and enrolled in forestry school in Washington State. And dropped out of that too.

Meanwhile, he's been having an affair with a married lady named Uma. They met when he was 18 and she was 21. She divorced her husband and they married in 1913, at the ages of 24 and 27 respectively.

Ah, the drama. Don't you just love it? She throws away her marriage to a prominent Los Angeles lawyer to marry this boy. How does anyone see this working?

Also meanwhile, he publishes his first book of poetry, "Flagons and Apples" the year before they marry.

So, he keeps writing poetry, they have a baby girl who dies in infancy, they move to Carmel, and in 1916 (27 and 30 respectively) they have twin boys and Jeffers builds them a stone cottage. Later, he add on a 40 foot stone tower, and they spend the rest of their lives there. His critically-acclaimed career comes in 1924 with the publication of "Tamar and Other Poems."

Uma dies of cancer in late middle age and Jeffers doesn't hang on terribly long after that.

And this morning I didn't even know there was ever a Robinson Jeffers.

See his picture here:
http://www.poetry-chaikhana.com/J/JeffersRobin/images/JeffersRobin.jpg

And the tower here:
http://www.gesc.ttu.edu/Fac_pages/Yoshinobu/RJ/HT_westface_c1925.jpg

and by request, a poem:

To The Stone-Cutters

Stone-cutters fighting time with marble, you foredefeated
Challengers of oblivion
Eat cynical earnings, knowing rock splits, records fall down,
The square-limbed Roman letters
Scale in the thaws, wear in the rain. The poet as well
Builds his monument mockingly;
For man will be blotted out, the blithe earth die, the brave sun
Die blind and blacken to the heart:
Yet stones have stood for a thousand years, and pained thoughts found
The honey of peace in old poems.

from Tamar (1920-1923)

sex, medieval-style

In our culture, men are the lustful sex.

Think about that. Agree? If you don't, come on. On TV, women are the ones turning down men's advances...or if you're a Scrubs fan, Turk is contantly nagging Carla for sex, and she's constantly turning him down (remember that time when she says " if you do ___, i'll fufill that fantasy you've always wanted," and he says, "really?" and she says, "yeah, but not with th whip or the silly clothes," and he says, "so normal sex then?" and she says, "if I don't fall asleep first," and he says ok.)

well, in medieval times, women were widely regarded as the lustful sex. Really. Medieval man had the whole madonna-whore complex big-time, but the problem was, a married woman who was totally faithful could still be considered whorish for interest in sex. Bt I digress. The thing that really made me think about this was when I was doing research for a paper and found a primary document that was written by a priest. It had advice about family matters.

This priest told husbands to regularily bed their wives. But why? To procreate? To become closer as a couple? No. The priest stated that women were so base and lustful that they needed constant satisfaction from their men, or they would err and stray. He goes on to use words like "responsability," "duty", and "favour."

That's all mediveal women needed-- men "doing them a favour."

Of course, we've now flipped the other way, and our culture thinks that wives, live-ins, and girlfriends have a duty to keep their man sated and happy. That's why we have the "999 ways to blow his mind" every month in Cosmo. And how many cheating husbands tell their girlfirends that their wives won't have sex anymore?

I'm trying awfully hard not to get bogged down in who's right. I just think it's weird that six hundred years ago, women were perceived as the earthy base sex. I wonder if they had a football and beer equivalent too.

If you're my age
and if you're destined to be an old man/lady
who weds a boy/girl twenty-five years younger than you
then your future spouse won't even be born
until 2007!