Post-Darwinian Hubris

I'm back. Again.

2011-08-15T11:01:00.000-07:00

Hello? Is anyone out there? Anyone at all?

Life has taken some unpredictable turns lately. I've been creatively constipated and reluctant to write as I feared not putting out my best work. However, recent events have convinced me that my best isn't required; I just need to write something. I am hopeful that today's blog will kick off a renewal of my commitment to this little-known and even lesser-read writing experiment.

I'll keep this short today as I am working on a new project and I have much to learn. For those of you who are interested, please visit www.oregonalimonyreform.blogspot.com. Which brings me to my theme today: people evading responsibility. I have two photos for your consideration:

This is a bag of shit. And my dog.

This is the bumper of my car.

You may be wondering: what could these two photos have in common? Well, I'm going to tell you! The first photo was taken this morning on my run through Forest Park. Like me, many walkers and runners bring their dogs to accompany them on the exploration of this unique urban paradise. I include the Blonde Goddess so she can exercise and also because despite her short stature and slight build, I am confident she would tear out the throat of anyone who threatened me, or even gave me a dirty look without a good reason.

On these runs, I am consistently annoyed and surprised to discover these discarded plastic bags along the trail. In case you are wondering what is in the bags, it is canine fecal material. I know. I checked. So there are people out there using the trail with their dogs and subsequently littering the park with plastic shit-filled bags. What is especially infuriating about these folks is that they are in the middle of the forest, for thegodIdon'tbelievein's sakes! Why not just kick it off the trail? Flick it with a long stick if you are especially squeamish about these things!

These people want to be seen by others picking up the crap, but don't want to carry it with them until they can properly dispose of it. They leave the dirty work to someone else.

The bumper photo illustrates what happened to my car in the gym parking lot last month. Someone backed into me with such force that this repair cost over $1,000. There is no chance they were not aware of the accident, given the damage to my car. That must have been quite a thump. Did they leave a note? Insurance information? Hell, even just an apology?

No.

So I had to clean up someone else's mess, and it cost me a pretty penny. And it made me grumpy for a good long time.

People, please listen: if you want to own a dog, clean up its mess. If you do damage to someone else's property, own up to it. On a larger scale, own up to your life choices. I have made some bad ones, both recently and in the distant past. I accept those mistakes, learn from them, and move on to hopefully what amounts to a clearer perspective and focus on my goals. I don't expect anyone to take care of me or assume responsibility for my choices.

Lecture over. Cute picture of two generations of DesCamp males to cheer me up. And a flower.

I'm Back, and I'm annoyed

2010-10-14T15:37:00.000-07:00

Once again I am faced with apologizing to my legions of adoring fans for my lengthy blogular absence. However, I have several very good excuses!
1. Summer finally arrived and when I wasn’t at work, I was chasing a tiny stupid white ball around a golf course with my husband, trying to finally establish a handicap. For those of you who are interested, I am trending towards a 538.
2. Speaking of work, I have been doing a lot of that.
3. I had writer’s block.

As I believe I have observed here previously, my writer’s block is usually the result of too much happiness and too little controversy in my life. Like many other great scribes with whom I rank myself (Ernest Hemingway, Edgar Allan Poe, and Danielle Steel), sadness, struggles and personal drama tend to bring out the best in my writing. Fortunately and unfortunately, things have been relatively groovy lately, and my greatest driving creative force (the length to which I can be annoyed) has been tempered for the past several weeks.

Luckily, today I am annoyed. Here, let me share:

Tuesday evening, many lawyers in Portland received an email regarding a CLE or some other such nonsense. Unfortunately, one technologically obtuse recipient decided they no longer wanted to be a part of this list (which I don’t think any of us signed up for), so they hit “reply all” and asked to unsubscribe.

In a tsunami of stupidity, suddenly lawyer after lawyer began to do the same. After receiving roughly ten of these emails, I hit “reply all” and said the following:

“I'd like to continue to subscribe but hear from all of you who want to unsubscribe. Please reply all.”

Now, if you are reading my blog, that means you are a person who enjoys humor, more specifically, the irreverent and sarcastic sort. Frankly, I have little time for people who do not appreciate that sort of comedy. Usually, those folks are tedious, haven’t changed their hairstyle in 30 years, and tend to wear sensible shoes and elastic waist pants.

One nice result from my message was how many responses I got back thanking me for making an otherwise ridiculous and annoying email event funny. I heard from people I haven’t seen or talked to in years, and made a few new friends as well. It was a great example of making lemon drops out of lemons (who wants lemonade?).

However, one person let it be known she did not appreciate my jocularity. In fact, she took time out of what I assume is a busy day of administering justice (she’s a judge) to write me the following:

“You may think it amusing to encourage everyone who has been spammed with this email, to continue to spam everyone else with "unsubscribe" messages, but I assure you it is not amusing. You are certainly free to encourage others to fill up your email account with useless and irrelevant emails, so if you wish to be copied on "unsubcribe" (sic) messages, feel free to invite copies to you specifically. Suggesting, even in fun, that others 'reply all' when you already are well aware of the consequences is irresponsible and obnoxious.”

Now, I am not going to name names here. I really do try to protect people’s identity when they act in a manner that betrays their high degree of boringness, which is the most unforgivable of character traits. However, I will note that being called “obnoxious” without irony by someone who screwed over a friend and neighbor to get elected is slightly ridiculous. It’s like the Divorce Lawyer Who Shall Not Be Named calling the new wife who has worked since she was 14 and earns a great living “expensive to maintain” while simultaneously representing the former wife who has never supported herself or anyone else. It’s funny, but in a sad way, because it shows such a lack of self-awareness.

"I think you are ugly!"

The truth is I don’t really mind being called irresponsible or obnoxious. I have been called worse in my life. Come to think of it, I’ve been called worse today. There have been times in the past when I acted irresponsibly; though I think those days are long behind me (last night being the exception). On one or two occasions, I may have acted in a way that could be deemed “obnoxious.” Maybe three times, four tops.

That being said, I take great umbrage at her accusation that my message was not amusing. She went so far as to “assure” me that my message was not amusing. You can call me obnoxious and you can call me irresponsible. Hell, you can even call me a bitch or a variety of other unpleasant things (except “expensive to maintain,” of course) - it really doesn’t bother me. But how dare this woman accuse me of not being funny?

See, funny is my thing. I’m not especially attractive, I can’t play chess, and as far as golf goes, I can drive the ball 240 yards but my short game lacks finesse, to put it politely. Actually, my short game sucks, and it isn’t unusual for me to go from trap to trap in an effort to land on the green. I’m working on it with the love of my husband and some help from a sports psychiatrist.

Everyone with any sort of a personality is known for something, and I am generally regarded as having a splendid sense of humor. Frankly, I am fucking hilarious. I’m the life of the party and have a knack for coming up with clever and insightful insults at a moment’s notice. I have mastered the art of the pun (for which crime I belong in the punitentiary for punishment – ha!). I once saw a group of children outside a daycare center running amok while their caretaker tried to corral them, and I spontaneously noted to my friend that we were witnessing a coup de toddler. My husband says my sense of humor is what drew him to me when we first met (that, and my supermodel looks and weight of 115).

OK??? Get it? Don’t ever, EVER accuse me of un-amusingness. Now that is obnoxious. Her Honor probably also found my reply to her obnoxious, in which I suggested she take a walk and try to locate her sense of humor. I think she's still walking...

On a lighter note, Tom and I just returned from Tucson, where we visited JT for Parents’ Weekend. Here are some photos from that trip:

I am smiling because we haven't teed off yet.

I bought this head cover at the golf resort pro shop and JT seemed oddly embarrassed. Can't imagine why...

This bobcat was on my 9th tee box. There is an incredibly inappropriate joke there, but even I can't bring myself to put it in writing.

JT on the right, Tom in the middle, and JT's friend Patrick on the left. Patrick could really hit the ball. Unfortunately, not very well.

And here is what Margot was up to while we were out of town. You just can’t trust kids these days.

The Nest

2010-07-28T15:42:00.000-07:00

About two weeks ago, Tom and I sat out on our deck after work enjoying a drink, the sun, and waiting for Taylor and Alex to arrive so the four of us could go to dinner. Suddenly, several birds began squawking and circling overhead.

The majority appeared to be bluebirds, but also joining in were hawks, crows, and robins. First there were about three birds, then over 10, and suddenly the sky was filled with them. It was just like a scene out of “The Birds,” but without Tippy Hedren and the arty camera angle.

Margot began barking and suddenly darted down into the backyard, furiously trying to get behind a bush under our dining room window. Tom went down to investigate, and found a wounded baby bluebird. What appeared to be the parents darted in and out of the bush, trying to attend to the injured baby while avoiding Tom, who was now wielding a shovel, and Margot, who couldn’t decide if she wanted to eat the bird or if she was afraid of it.

Taylor and Alex arrived in the midst of the excitement, and the four of us tried to come up with a game plan. I won’t identify the proponent of each plan by name, but half of the group wanted to take the bird to Dove Lewis Emergency Animal Care Center, and the other half wanted to expedite the little guy’s delivery to the Great Nest in the Sky so we could make our Hiroshi reservation on time.

I say little “guy,” because by now Alex had named the bird Riley, and she and I were convinced it was a boy. Once the bird had both a gender and a name, especially one as endearing as Riley, it was clear that we would be doing our best to ensure his survival (the Life of Riley, as it were).

Dove Lewis ended up taking Riley to the Audubon Society. When I called them the next day to inquire about his condition, I was promised that once Riley was rehabilitated, he would be brought back to our house and released in the back yard to increase his chances of reuniting with his family. With any luck, he will make a note of our dining room window, and steer clear of it in the future. I plan to not wash it for a while, which should improve the life span of birds in my neighborhood and will also get me out of at least one chore for the time being.

I feel bad not only for Riley, but for his parents too (Nick and Nora). My vivid imagination has conjured up a picture of what happened in the moments prior to the accident. Riley was peering over the edge of the nest nervously, and asked his parents, “You want me to do WHAT?”

“Just jump out, sweetie,” cooed Nora, in her best Mommy Believes In You voice. “Really, you’ll be fine! You just flap your wings, and you’ll soon find yourself aloft with the other birds in the neighborhood. Go have fun with the other chicks, sweetheart. Just stay away from the crows on Shenandoah, they’re a murderous bunch.”

“Hey mom,” Riley likely protested, “Maybe I’m just not ready for this yet. My wings aren’t fully developed, and I think I feel a leg cramp coming on. Can’t I just hang here with you guys, maybe help feather the nest or something?”

At this point, Nick takes over. “Look son,” he urges Riley, “You are the last chick in the neighborhood who hasn’t flown the coop yet. You are starting to make me look bad. Do you want to be known as a coward? Do you want to live with us and eat regurgitated food from your mother’s mouth for the rest of your life? Good God, boy, just do it!”

And with that, Nick probably nudged Riley out of the nest with a loving but firm peck on his head. Maybe Riley soared for a while and started to get the hang of it before he hit our window and his day took a very bad turn. Maybe his accident was immediate, and his parents should have known that a child can often accurately sense their own limitations. Either way, Riley still ended up taking the right of passage known as his first flight, as all birds must eventually do (unless they are ostriches, of course).

In a similar vein, last weekend I put Jake on a bus for his second trip to camp Four Winds Westward Ho on Orcas Island. Last year, camp lasted just one week, and although he had trepidations at first, Jake loved the Four Winds experience and couldn’t wait to go back. The difference this year, however, is now that Jake is nine years old, the camp session is four weeks.

FOUR WEEKS. That’s 28 days. 672 hours. 40,320 minutes without my kid around.

For the past few months, I asked him repeatedly if he was really sure he wanted to go to camp. I peppered him with questions and hypothetical situations to ensure he was ready for a month without his family, friends and pets. He assured me he was prepared to go on this adventure, and while my heart ached as we dropped him off at the camp bus last Saturday in Seattle, it also swelled with pride at the little man he had become. He and his cousin Michael were anxious to get on the bus and get going, while I silently clung to the tail of his shirt, chewing the inside of my mouth to stop the tears and hoping for a few extra minutes before the campers were called away.

When it was time for us to go, Jake gave me a big hug and kiss, and whispered in my ear, “I know you’re worried, Mommy. Don’t be. You loved Four Winds and so do I. Be happy for me, don’t be sad. I’ll be home soon.” No really, he talks like that.

And so I let go of my little boy, and surprised myself by not crying. I could have kept him home with us all summer, but I know this experience will reward him with maturity, new skills (sailing, horseback riding, guitar, and hopefully, making his bed), as well as introducing him to a host of friends from all over the country. I had to let him fly, despite the uneasy feeling I had turning his care over to someone else for such a long time.

As we pulled away, we noticed one child sobbing into his mother’s arms, shaking his head “no” and clearly not wanting to get on the bus. This was a poignant scene, and my slight disappointment that Jake hadn’t lingered longer by my side was instantly replaced by relief that he trusted himself enough to take this step. Patrick, Crista, Tom and I all began to talk about how sad it was to see this child crying, not only for the kid, but for his mother too, who must have been tremendously conflicted over whether to wrap him in her arms and take him home, or give him a peck on the head and send him on his way.

(Then we all had a good laugh as we imagined really mean things to say out the window to this kid, including, but not limited to: "suck it up, loser!" "get on the damn bus already!" and last, but not least, "man up, you little brat, mommy needs a vodka!")

As I connected the experience of Riley learning how to fly with Jake leaving for camp, it dawned on me that a nice ending to this blog would be to give an update on Riley’s condition. The last time I spoke with the Audubon Society they informed me that Riley was doing well, eating a lot, and extremely friendly. Sounds like Jake, right? They thought Riley would be ready to be released into my yard within a week or two.

So, I called a few minutes ago and gave the woman on the phone the reference number that should have allowed her to look up Riley’s status and give me a report.

She put me on hold twice. After the first hold, she came back, asking me if this was an adult spotted towhee. “No, no, this is a baby!” I said, getting frustrated. “His name is Riley, and he is a bluebird. He ran into my window. You guys promised you would release him back into my yard when he is better so he can find his family.”

“OK, hold on,” the woman said, and disappeared for about five minutes. When she came back on the line, she was apologetic. “Hey, I’m really sorry, but we can’t seem to find Riley. I can’t find a record of him or you anywhere. It’s like he just disappeared. Are you sure Dove Lewis brought him here?”

I’d like to write more, but I am driving to Orcas Island to install video surveillance cameras on the camp property. I’ll blog from the road.

“You are worried about seeing him spend his early years in doing nothing. What! Is it nothing to be happy? Nothing to skip, play, and run around all day long? Never in his life will he be so busy again.” ~Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Emile, 1762

Eponymous; RIP Phil Mosley

2010-07-18T20:45:00.000-07:00

My heart is heavy and sad tonight.

It has been 20+ years since a good friend of mine died so I am not accustomed to this type of shock and dismay. Today, Portland lost Phil Mosley, the much loved and revered proprieter of Phil's Meat Market in NW Portland at Uptown Shopping Center.

Everyone, and I mean everyone, loved Phil. Phil was the embodiment of what it means to be a small business owner in our little hamlet of Portland Oregon. He was a true entrepreneur in the best sense of the word, and ran his business in a most informal and friendly way. Forget your wallet? No problem...Phil would put it on your "tab" and then try to convince you the debt was paid upon your next visit to the store. My perception of Phil is that he always strived to be a kind and generous boss, in addition to being a truly great man. He succeeded. Phil was a young man when he died today, far too young to leave his wife, his son, and all his customers and friends who can't imagine Portland without him in it.

I met Phil many years ago when my father would bring me along with him for the sacred selection of meat for Sunday dinners. Phil was always friendly, funny and warm. He also had a masterful sense of how to pair wine with food (don't worry, I didn't figure that out until later in life), and I always relished joining my dad for those trips into his store.

Years later after I started a family of my own, I became one of Phil's most loyal customers; not only because he had the best selection of meat and seafood and wine in town, but because each trip into his store was a cheaper version of a visit to a therapist. Phil always knew what to say, whether you were happy, stressed, down, whatever. It was ineveitable that if you came into Phil's Meat Market, you left feeling better than you did when you walked in. Can you say that about many other places? Do you go to Zupan's and feel like you have interacted with family? I mean "family" in a good way, of course...

Over the years, business after business disappeared from the shopping center. First to go was the Uptown Broiler, then Baskin and Robbins, and the flower shop called Stems Uptown. Still, Phil and his incredible wife and partner Becky Mosley hung in there, knowing that the association people had with the Meat Market in that particular location was a strong component of their success. The film store, the real estate agency, the blues bar Dandelion Pub all faded away, but Phil's Uptown Meat Market stayed, and prospered. Thank goodness, so did the liquor store. I have often noted how convenient it is to be able to make one stop for vodka, Marlboros, and tenderloin. If you have those three things, what else could you possibly need? Besides a very good doctor, obviously.

I spent the day today feeling sorry for myself, having suffered some sort of bizarre back injury that kept me in bed and sleeping all day. What a waste of 8 hours, because who among us knows when our time will be coming to a close? When the call came from Becky Mosley today, I simply could not believe it. "He's gone," she said, and all I could say was "no."

No.

Mark Knopfler wrote in a song once that death would be a sweet release. Well, it isn't. Perhaps it is for those who pass, but for those who remain in the wake, death is an enigma. I miss Phil. I grieve for his wife and his son and everyone else in this city who knew and loved him. My visits to his market were at least 3-4 times a week, more when Tom and I handled a legal matter for him (we were paid in steak and wine, and as a result became very fat, but that's another blog). Tonight my son and I stopped by his store to deliver lillies and a card and I simply broke down in tears.

How is there a Phil's without Phil? For those of you who knew Phil and frequent his store, this question is likely on your mind. However, I urge you to be a continued loyal patron to this family-owned Portland landmark. Phil's will go on into the future, under the guidance of Becky and her family, who include not just those people related by blood, but the family that is the Phil's staff. It is inevitable when people hear about a death, especially a sudden one, they ask, "what can I do to help?" This is what you can do.

Recent musings of mine have focused on a disbelief in a higher power and an afterlife. But if there is a heaven, please tell me Phil is playing a fabulous round of golf, cooking a Kobe rib eye, and enjoying a bottle of Owen Roe. His health in recent years had limited his enjoyment of simple pleasures such as these, and I hope that in the hereafter, God always sets a full table, cooks the meat medium-rare, and decanters the Burgundy

We all love you Phil. May you rest in peace, my friend.

My heart is heavy and sad tonight.

Sisters are doing it for themselves

2010-07-14T08:22:00.000-07:00

You are wondering why I haven't written in so long. I know, I know...you have missed me. And I have missed you. I worry about my throngs of adoring readers checking into my blog every thirty minutes to see what new clever missive I have fired across Al Gore's Internet.

Would you like to know where I have been and what I have been doing? I think the picture below says it all.

Why does this picture explain my absence? Because this is a plant that was given to me by my company to adorn my office, also known as "where I have been." Art will follow, though I plan to supply my own. My job which initially was part-time has become quite busy, and when I am not toiling away in the office, I am working from home. This is of course in addition to my other three jobs: mom, wife, and aspiring golf professional (I drove the ball 240 yards testing a driver the other day! Needless to say, I purchased it).

In my efforts to become an all-around SuperWoman, I also recently attempted (and succeeded) at something I never thought would have been possible: I assembled a piece of furniture. Tom and I finally purchased some teak loungers for our deck about two months ago, but we never put them together because as some of you may recall, it rained all May, June, and well into July. However, one evening recently I found myself home alone with nothing to do. I looked at the boxes holding the chairs and they challenged me to challenge myself.

This is what the chair looked like out of the box.

These are the materials I used to assemble the chair: screws, phone, directions, a screwdriver, and a Screwdriver.

Making progress! The sliding tray and the legs are firmly attached. OK, the legs were backward at the time, but I figured it out eventually.

Voila! Those of you who are wondering why the assembly of this chaise is blogable don't know that I attach symbolic importance to many mundane activities in my life. It makes me edgy and deep, much as my blog name does. The fact is, there was a time in my life when I never would have even attempted to put this thing together. Furniture assembly definitely fell in the "ask a man to do it" category of tasks, along with anything having to do with the car, the electrical panel, and killing bugs.

My first husband (a.k.a. The Canary in a Coal Mine) loved doing projects like this, and all other jobs which could be deemed manly. Luckily for me, he also did all of the cleaning and laundry. Oh Patrick, sometimes I really miss you...

Tom also loves to do manly tasks, but since he has been working so much lately, I wanted to surprise him with a nice chair to relax on when he got home. Unfortunately for him, I was on it.

I am thankful every day for my husband, whose charm and sex appeal know no bounds. However, it is nice to know that I can do the boy jobs myself. I earn my own living, I assemble my own furniture, and I recently found the electrical panel. While I draw the line at Bug Duty, I did manage to shoo a spider out the door the other day, which I call progress. I can't imagine being taken care of, like a child, not willing (and therefore eventually, not able) to do for myself. Where is the pride in that? Why be a barnacle, when you can be a boat?

Happy Father's Day

2010-06-20T20:20:00.000-07:00

Was yours the best? The worst? Somewhere in-between? Maybe. However, let us take a moment to remember what our fathers are and are not:

They are:
1. The model upon which many daughters base their ideal for future mates, Podiatron help us.
2. Probably the one who taught us to ride a bike,
3. Most likely the person who bailed us out of our first legal problem. And our second. Perhaps the third, but in my house at that point you were on your own.
4. A major contributor to your education, formal or otherwise.
5. Someone you look up to and hope to emulate, while simultaneously thinking they are very old-fashioned and somewhat embarrassing.

They are not (nor should they be):
1. Put on a pedestal.
2. Treated like an ATM.
3. Forgotten until they are sick or dead.

My son is so lucky to have his dad: a loving, generous soul whose world revolves around him. He is doubly lucky to have Tom, his step dad, a man who would do anything for him.

Thanks to Ray, my stepfather for many many years, who has always been an all-around great guy and a fabulous grandfather to my son. Finally, I too am grateful for my father, who would never claim to be perfect but who I think tried pretty damn hard a good portion of the time.
Dads of the world, thanks. Kids, did you say thank you today?

Hello again, will you marry me?

2010-06-03T16:55:00.000-07:00

Wow. It has been an entire month since I last updated this blog. My absence would seem to indicate that I have finally lost interest in what is amounting to a fruitless and time sucking endeavor. That's not necessarily true. Much has happened in the past few weeks and I'd like to share the excitement with all you lucky and wise people who check in with my blog from time to time.

1. My May 11 Bod Pod result was 21%, which means I lost 2% of my body fat stores since approximately 5 weeks prior to that date when I clocked in at 23%. 19% remains my goal by mid-summer, but I am very proud and excited about the results I have achieved thus far. The only downside is I have had to purchase several new skirts and pairs of pants. Buying new clothes is always something I hate to do, you see. Ask anyone.

2. We went to Las Vegas for The Canary in a Coal Mine's wedding, and it was an enormously good time. (PHOTO) Besides celebrating the joining of my son's dad with his lovely bride, we also had the opportunity to vacation with 2/3 of Tom's offspring. The boys were very well-behaved. **cough** I may or may not have visited the Jimmy Choo store. Whether or not I did and whether or not I purchased anything is between me and my God (Podiatron).

3. We bought a lot. A lot of what? A lot of dirt! Finally. Tom and I are actually realizing our dream of building a home together in which we can continue the merging of our lives and our families. Also, it's going to have a wicked shoe closet, which is almost as emotionally significant to me. Closing is today and we are celebrating that fact, along with an early recognition of Tom's birthday, tonight at Blue Hour for happy hour. Come one, come all (except for you, my mean little lurker)!

Which brings me to my main topic point today: I need a wife.

How did I come to this conclusion, you ask? Here's how: the other day, I found myself confronted with yet another massive pile of dirty laundry in the basement. Since I was down to my last pair of hanky pankies, I knew it was time to get after that stuff. Tom and I created a small gym in the basement, and I find it more economical, time-wise, to work out at home during the week. That also allows me to avoid running into MACtresses, women I despise in spite of the copious amount of chuckles they give me (MACtresses are female members of the MAC who create entire existences around pretending to be someone that they are not).

So...I'm in the basement, doing the laundry, and my new workout program which consists of blasting really bad music at high volume and accompanying said music with some of the worst dancing you have ever seen. Solo. With a resistance band that I have named "Mr. Stretchy." In fact, I look so ridiculous that nobody, and I mean nobody, is allowed to witness my exercise routine. It was to my great horror a few weeks ago that I sensed I wasn't alone during the Shakira portion of my abdominal routine. I looked up through the daylight windows and there was the PGE meter-reader dude, laughing his ass off. He waved. I ran upstairs stopping only long enough to grab a pint of Ben and Jerry's from the freezer for consolation.

Oops, there I go digressing again. Once MeterReaderGuy was off the premises, I returned to my workout. You will be glad to know I consumed only three thirds of the ice cream. I've been practicing restraint lately. Try it, you'll like it! Anyway, I realized that even while doing some pretty strenuous dancing, I could still fold clothes from the dryer. This was the ultimate "aha" moment! It isn't often a person gets to kill two birds with one stone, unless you are Sarah Palin and throwing rocks at doves from a helicopter. The workout lasted for 90 minutes, which allowed me to wash and fold two loads of laundry and sweat a few buckets at the same time. Here are the socks which are apparently divorced and unpleasant to be around, because they are never with a mate.

As I lugged the laundry up the stairs and through the kitchen, I noticed that Tom had spilled a large amount of coffee on the counter top. Since he's not a jerk, he cleaned it up with paper towels. Since he is slightly obtuse, he left the brown, coffee-stained towels on the counter top, along with many crumbs from his breakfast attempt (toast - don't ask - didn't turn out well). Add to that several glasses and other sundry dishes that were strewn just about every place in the kitchen except the dishwasher.

I cleaned it up, poured my coffee, and went upstairs to get ready. See, I have a job, remember? So that means I have to shower and get dressed and go to the office to right the wrongs that the plaintiffs of the world would try to commit against my employer. As I looked around upstairs, I noticed several things:

1. Jake's room was messy and his clothes were on the floor,
2. Our new master bath was not exactly tidy, and
3. Our bed was unmade and there was what looked suspiciously like dog vomit on the rug. I suspect Margot may be bulimic, but that's another blog entirely...

After getting everything squared away, I was now ready to go to the other job; the one that pays me money. I realized, after much slightly bitter musing, that I would have to have a "come to Pediatron" meeting with both the husband and the kid. It went well: I announced a family meeting that evening and held it immediately upon announcement. Be warned that it is ill-advised to announce a family meeting and provide an itinerary along with a meeting time more than fifteen minutes into the future. You don't want the other members of the family to have the opportunity to create rebuttals to whatever your pronouncement is going to be.

My boys promised better help around the house, and I was shocked and pleased to note an immediate improvement, once I let go of their collars and stopped shouting "I am not your slave! I am not your maid! I am not your cook! I need help!" Things really got better, and fast. Jake took a shower on his own accord that night, and made his bed the next morning without me asking. Tom cleaned up the kitchen and emptied the dishwasher, plus folded a load of laundry for the first time in months. I was pleased, very pleased.

That behavior lasted exactly three days. So here I am, trying to figure out how to juggle being a mother, a wife, a corporate lawyer, and the general concept/aesthetic designer for a new house which we are going to start building as soon as possible. The unfortunate fact is, I can't. I cannot do it all. Something has to give. I need a wife.

Job description:
You must be willing to do all the cooking and cleaning (including but not limited to ordinary housework plus sundry tasks such as laundry and window washing), take care of all things child-related except emotional tending which I can handle, pay the bills, walk the dog, plan the family and social commitments, etc. You must also meet me at the door at the end of the day each day with a drink in your hand, a sympathetic look on your face, and an offer for a foot rub.

Please do not gain weight or become otherwise unattractive, as it is important to my business relationships that my wife reflect well upon me. Also, I will need you to work for free.

Anyone? Anyone? Bueller???

The disintegration of humanity

2010-05-02T08:27:00.000-07:00

(I sent this to the Oregonian for consideration as an op-ed piece but so far no word - oh well)

On several occasions I have found myself annoyed with the panhandlers that gather at traffic intersections. They slow traffic down when people stop to give them money, but it's more than that. I can't look them in the eye. I almost never contribute to their meager earnings, and I always avoid eye contact. When I find myself the first car in line, I have been known to go as far as to fake a cell phone conversation to avoid looking at them.

I don't like this aspect of my personality, but there it is. Friday, however, my perspective of these people has been forever altered because of a horrendous scene I witnessed at the 405 Everett/Glisan off-ramp that feeds onto West Burnside.

The homeless man in question was quite dirty. His clothes were torn and soiled and his hair was long and matted. A silver jeep was slowing down and rolling down the driver side window, ostensibly to give the man some money. What I saw next sickened me. It is something I never could have imagined seeing someone do to another human being, especially in Portland.

The driver dangled a bill outside the window and the homeless man jogged up to his car to retrieve it. Just when the bill was within the man's grasp, the driver drove away, bit by bit. He went far enough each time to encourage the man to keep running, but every time he was almost even with the car, the driver kept going. It was a cruel and sickening exercise that was overwhelmingly reminiscent of a bully in the schoolyard: the big dumb jock picking on the strange, small kid.

This is a photo my brother Dan Eccles took several years ago of an alcoholic homeless man. Dan is a gifted photographer, as well as musician...

Finally the jeep was stuck at the light, and waved the homeless man over with the bill. I was relieved that I must have been mistaken - this man was going to give him the money but was waiting until he had the red light. My relief turned to sadness when I saw the game continue: the driver pretending to search for another bill, coming back with the one in his hand, and dangling it out the window as he raced off when the light turned green.

It is difficult to tell which was more painful to watch: the ugliness of mankind as illustrated by the taunting humiliation of the homeless man by the driver, or the desperation of the less fortunate shown through the fervor with which the man on the street ran after the dollar.

I pulled over and gave him two dollars, wanting to give more but still carrying around my wariness about giving cash to panhandlers. He was probably surprised by how upset I was, as I vocalized my disbelief at what had just happened to him. Frankly, he took it better than I did. "I don't want to cause any trouble," he said.

Unwisely, I followed the jeep driver to the next light. He was a young white man probably around the age of 30 - 35, and he and his female companion were having quite a good laugh over what he had just accomplished: the complete and utter degradation of another human being. He also looked like he had never missed a meal, unlike his easy target on the street corner. I pulled up next to his car and rolled down my passenger window, asking them "what is wrong with you people?"

They just laughed, which prompted me to next inquire whether any part of them had any human compassion. The driver smirked and said, "actually, no."

At that point I may have used a descriptive expletive referencing a certain body orifice.

The timing of this incident was especially interesting, because just last week I wrote a blog about the nasty and negative turn our political conversation is taking. My impression of this schoolyard bully and his companion is that they don't like homeless people, and they don't like being asked for money. These are the same types that probably say "get a job," when they walk by panhandlers on the street. How clever.

And that's fine if you don't want to give your money to someone who hasn't earned it - I don't think anyone would have any qualms with that. But to purposefully demean them, making them chase after a lousy dollar that you were never planning on giving them? That's unspeakably cruel. While I doubt the driver is reading this, as he didn't seem like the type to pick up a newspaper, I hope he does and that he recognizes himself. You weren't always like this, right? Did it start in the second grade, when you first felt the thrill of pushing the unpopular kid into the dirt while the other kids laughed? Tell me, please, what pleasure you derived from this behavior, and what does that say about you?

I'm making a donation to Sisters of the Road Cafe today. Will you join me?

**update**
I went running yesterday morning from my home, through the Pearl District, and headed to downtown Portland on my way to PSU and the dreaded stairs from my Easter posting. It was remarkable how many homeless people I saw - I tried to keep count but after a while I couldn't (my math skills being what they are, I can only count to around 25 or so). Right next door to Jake's Grill and the happy Sunday Brunch diners was this woman:

and her collection of belongings:

Sam Adams, are you working on this?

Stormy days and politics

2010-04-29T17:55:00.000-07:00

The weather around here recently has been very unpredictable and tumultuous. One minute it will be bright shining sun outside my window, and the next the skies are black and it is hailing like a mo-fo. In sum, the weather in Portland in April reminds me a lot of life in general. If you don't like it, just wait 15 minutes, it will change.

Speaking of wild atmospheric changes, I have been sad to observe over the past couple of years how our political conversation has disintegrated. I am not naive, I do not believe that politics used to be an innocent and honorable profession in which everyone worked together cooperatively and uttered nary a negative word towards the other side. But there has been a radical shift in America's ability to discuss politics and government without becoming apoplectic.

Like countless numbers of others in this country, I am a George W. Bush Democrat. Prior to George's failed administration, I was a member of the Republican Party. My voting was never in lock-step with the GOP, but rather based on individual candidates, ballot measures, and how they compared to the traditional republican ideals, which I understood to be smaller and less intrusive government, fiscal responsibility, transparency, and a deep and abiding respect for civil rights.

After a few years of the Bush regime's trampling of these Republican fundamentals, I could no longer stomach being a member of the GOP and I joined ranks with the Dems. Again, even after switching parties, I still voted my ideals, not whether there was a "D" or an "R" next to a candidate's name. I did have one hard and fast rule, however, and that was to vote against any candidacy of or measure supported by Bill Sizemore. That goes without saying.

Fast forward to 2010: we have Obama in the White House and the emergence of a political discourse that has become ugly and threatening. It isn't enough to argue your position anymore, now the debate is all about fear-mongering, finger pointing and name-calling. The debate over health care reform was overshadowed by screaming fanatics convinced that the President is a Socialist Nazi because he wants our citizens to have access to health care. By the way, these people need to make up their minds as to whether Obama is a Socialist or a Nazi, because these two political groups are completely opposite from one another. Unfortunately, that level of intellectual analysis is not likely forthcoming from the right today.

We seem to have become a country filled with people who cannot talk to each other in order to solve problems - all we do is scream. It's like the Jerry Springer show has gone to Washington. The obvious and enormous problem that results is that less will be accomplished by our government if the opposing sides cannot talk to each other and find middle ground. I keep hearing people opposed to Obama saying it is time to "take our country back." Take it back? From whom? From the elected officials who the majority of our population put into office? It just is so nonsensical. And what is with the "protesters" bringing guns to demonstrations? Is this type of aggressive behavior supposed to facilitate a positive exchange of ideas?

I love this guy's poster. Your rights come from God? Oh really? Tell that to the people unfortunate enough to have been born in Burma...or does God not like them?

Those of you that know me are aware I briefly lost my mind a few years ago and decided to practice family law. My desire to go into this area was based on my own myriad experiences with divorce, beginning with those that occurred in my family and finally with my own dissolution. My goal was to contrast family law experiences earlier in my life with how my husband and I handled our divorce. I had a child-like belief that as a lawyer, I would be able to guide my clients in what is a very painful process with as little negativity as possible. In turn, I thought families could be spared the agony of a bad breakup.

Oh boy was I wrong. My idea of becoming a highly collaborative divorce attorney was shattered by a few issues. First, many clients did not want to make the divorce as amicable as possible. Second, the unfortunate fact is that many attorneys in this town (most exemplified, of course, by the Fanged Consensus Killer from Hell pictured above) will not engage in a collaborative process. Instead, they increase their billing and their reputations as a tough lawyer by being immovable.

Why the trip down memory lane, you ask? Because I do not want our government to become the federal version of divorce court, with screaming, tears, retribution and high costs. The Sarah Palins and Glenn Becks of the right have whipped their side into such a frothy fervor that it seems unlikely the right and the left will be able to work together to accomplish anything.

The motivation behind this unusual political posting on my blog (shoes and body fat percentage are so much more interesting) is that I know someone running for the U.S Senate - Professor Jim Huffman. My esteem for this gentleman could not be higher - he was a professor and dean at my law school and he is wicked smart. He is also thoughtful, calm, and a revered expert on Constitutional Law. Finally, he is a genuinely nice guy (though I read in a recent blog post he is a "mensch" I don't agree with that assessment) and as if all that weren't enough, he's good looking and tall. Being handsome and tall almost automatically makes you a senator - did you know that?

OK, so what's my problem? Obviously, given my high regard for Professor Huffman, I must be voting for him, right? Did I mention he is a Republican? Unfortunately, I have become so entirely disenchanted with the Republican Party that I am not sure I will be able to pull the lever and add to their ranks. Well, we don't really pull the lever here in Oregon, what with mandatory vote by mail and all, but you get my drift. By the way, is vote-by-mail a socialist agenda too? Food for thought...

Tom tells me not to abandon my history of voting along my principles, rather than party lines. I told Tom that I need to see a real commitment from any Republican asking for my vote to distance themselves from the fringe. Not only do we need the moderate Republicans to not engage in the race/class/geopolitical baiting, but we need them to call attention to the radicals and distinguish themselves from those groups.

I'd really like to send Mr. Huffman to Washington, but can he be a force for collaboration, and not become a part of the screaming match? Watching him in a television news interview the other night, I was impressed by his ability to actually answer those questions that he was asked, which is something almost every politician is unequivocally unable to do. But I need to know more than what Jim Huffman is about, as important as that is. I want to know what he isn't about as well.

**update**

Oh Dear Lord. I am speechless. Absolutely speechless. But fear not, I can still type. Rush Limbaugh has weighed in on the oil spill disaster in Louisiana:

"I want to get back to the timing of the blowing up, the explosion out there in the Gulf of Mexico of this oil rig. Since they're sending SWAT teams down there now this changes the whole perspective of this. Now, lest we forget, ladies and gentlemen, the carbon tax bill, cap and trade that was scheduled to be announced on Earth Day. I remember that. And then it was postponed for a couple of days later after Earth Day, and then of course immigration has now moved in front of it.

But this bill, the cap-and-trade bill, was strongly criticized by hardcore environmentalist wackos because it supposedly allowed more offshore drilling and nuclear plants, nuclear plant investment. So, since they're sending SWAT teams down there, folks, since they're sending SWAT teams to inspect the other rigs, what better way to head off more oil drilling, nuclear plants, than by blowing up a rig? I'm just noting the timing here."

He didn't stop there. Instead, he offered his expert opinion on how to clean up the mess and what the eventual environmental impact is likely to be:

"You do survive these things. I'm not advocating don't care about it hitting the shore or coast and whatever you can do to keep it out of there is fine and dandy, but the ocean will take care of this on its own if it was left alone and was left out there. It's natural. It's as natural as the ocean water is."

Oil and water just go together so naturally, don't they? That's the point of that expression, right? Mr. Huffman, do you see what I am talking about? Rush is the titular head and mouthpiece of the Republican party. Why can't the non-insane Republicans speak out against him?

Final comment on politics: did anyone see the KATU debate last night featuring the Republican candidates? All 9 of them? If not, I beg you to take the time to view the debate on http://www.katu.com/. Tom and I haven't laughed this hard EVER. This is the state of the Republican Party in Oregon.

Do they have a 12 step program for this?

2010-04-19T16:51:00.000-07:00

I have heard it said that the first step to eliminating an addiction is admitting that you have a problem. In addition, I believe it is true that a person has to want to change in order to conquer an addiction, which probably explains why interventions and resulting rehabs don’t seem to work that well (Lindsay Lohan, anyone?). You may be able to browbeat an addict into submitting to treatment by getting 10 of her friends and family members in a conference room to tell her what a drunk asshole she is, but unless she wants to stop being a drunk asshole (and instead become a sober assshole), the treatment probably won’t be effective.

That being said, I have come to the realization that I have a problem. I have a serious, big, bad addiction and it is starting to affect my life in negative ways. My suspicion is that friends and family members are concerned, and may be planning some sort of Group Talk to ease me into therapy so I can cure myself of this disease. And have no doubt, it is a disease, not just a character flaw or lack of self-control.

Hello. My name is Robin, and I am a Shoe Addict.

What, you thought I was going to say something else?

It all started innocently enough back in college. A lot of my friends were deep into shoes by then already, and I often caught them sheepishly looking left and right at the Meier and Frank shoe department register as they spent their rent money on Reebok high tops or jelly sandals in a dazzling array of colors. I didn’t really get what the big deal was, and I knew my money was better spent on beer, Qubenzas and Grateful Dead tickets (apologies to my parents, all 27 of them).

Still, I would be lying if I didn’t admit that I experimented from time to time. My dabbling in what would later become a serious addiction started innocently enough: I borrowed shoes from my more stylish friends. This wasn’t easy to do, because most women who have the same size foot as me are 7 feet tall, and I didn’t know a lot of female basketball players at the University of Oregon. Regardless, once in a while I scored a hit of a pump, an espadrille, even a peep-toe slingback. I justified my actions by reminding myself that I wasn't actually buying the shoes, which would indicate a problem. I was just bumming them from time to time, which is totally different.

But I never really got into the hardcore scene, and managed to spend most of my college years and a few thereafter hoofing around in the footwear most favored by my Eugene brethren: the God-forsaken Birkenstock.

I don’t know exactly when I started to have a problem, but I suspect it dates back to law school. After going to several interviews, I began to notice that both the male and female lawyers seemed to be glancing uncomfortably towards my ankles and just beyond. As I said before, I have unusually large feet, and this can cause people dismay. But still. I began to suspect that wearing leather Jesus sandals to job interviews at big time firms was not going to cut it. Oh sure, I would look just right if I was looking to land a job at OSPIRG, but those jobs didn’t pay for shit. I love the environment and all, but I didn’t spend $65,000 and three years in law school so I could have my income dictated to my by a spotted owl.

Slowly, tentatively, I waded into the shoe community. I got a smoking deal on my first pair of “designer” shoes on eBay roughly 8 years ago, and that’s when the real problems started. Once you go designer, you can’t just go back to Payless Shoe Source. Well, you could, but why would you? The fact is, an extremely well-priced designer shoe (for example, marked down 50% from its original price) is the gateway drug to the hard stuff. The corporate suits at the various auction sites know this, but they have shredded all the data that prove my point.

After a few millions dollars spent and a closet that look like this:

you tell yourself, “It’s OK, I’ll stop after this pair, just one more, just one little stiletto sandal for that benefit, I can stop anytime I want, really I don’t have a problem but you can’t NOT buy those boots can you?”

My goal is not to excuse my addiction, but I will say I have had my enablers - my "co-dependents," if you will. My first husband (we call him "The Original," and for some reason Tom also calls him "The Canary in a Coal Mine") bought me a pair of jeweled starfish-shaped thong sandals that I have worn so many times that they aren’t actually visible anymore – basically they are dust. But I’ll tell you; those shoes are so cute, so god-damned sassy that I cannot wear them for more than five minutes without someone stopping me to inquire about them while simultaneously shrieking over their extreme level of fabulousness.

Tom has also nurtured and I daresay taken advantage of my addiction. There have been times he has arrived home at the end of the day with the gleaming silver Nordstrom Bag that he knows so moves my heart. He sees the look in my eyes, he notes the quickening of my pulse and the increase in saliva dripping from my lower, quivering lip. It’s more saliva than usual, let’s just put it that way. I am seriously a Pavlovian Puppy when it comes to good looking shoes. A few months ago he came home with these, for no reason at all.

Actually, he claimed he bought them as a thank you for my nursing him back to health during his terrible bout with the Swine Flu, but don’t think I don’t know what he’s up to.

Recently I have come to the conclusion that I need to get help. My shoe problem is starting to affect my relationships (I’m sorry I can’t go to your baby shower as I promised but there is a Manolo auction on Rue La La today) as well as my work (5 inch heels make it hard to run around and put out legal fires). It’s time to make a change, and last Friday I decided that there was no time like the present. I’m ready to quit.

Then I realized, well, you can’t really “quit” shoes, because you still need to wear them everyday. It’s not like quitting cigarettes or vodka, which items humans do not actually need as they need shoes. I am not speaking from personal experience about the ability to survive without cigarettes and/or vodka, obviously.

So I need to “cut back.” I can get this thing under control – I can buy shoes like a regular person and not let them take over my life. One pair per quarter should be enough, right? Well, excluding running shoes, of course, because those are essential in my weight loss and not really a part of the bigger problem. Speaking of that, update: bought a size 6 skirt today because all of mine are too big and I had to get new jeans this weekend in a smaller size. Yay me.

My resolution then is no more fancy shoes for a while, and then, after a few months, I can buy one pair every three months. No problem. I had this whole system worked out, and then a funny thing happened. You remember a few blogs ago when I questioned the existence of God? I found these yesterday, and all doubt has been erased. Only a superior creator could make something as beautiful as these shoes. Apparently God's full name is "Kate Spade." Did you know that? I told you God would turn out to be female.

I shall call these my Euphorbia Kick Up Your Heels, because look how similar the color is to one of my favorite plants (also presumably created by The God I Now Believe In).

Clearly the real solution to my “problem,” which really isn’t a problem at all, is that instead of quitting shoes, I need to start a religion celebrating and worshipping them. The best part is, if the IRS can give the Scientologists tax-free status as a religion, you know I can get it. Worshipping a well-designed stack heel is much more reasonable than worshipping L. Ron Hubbard.

**UPDATE**

Problem solved!

The Problem with Happiness

2010-04-15T15:43:00.000-07:00

Fortunately or unfortunately, depending upon your perspective, I have been very content lately. Fortunately because of course content is a preferable state to discontent. Unfortunately because some of my best writing comes from a deep spot of annoyance inside me, which I think is located approximately where my appendix used to be.

Today’s blog will be a simplistic exercise in nothingness, unless I become irritated in the next few minutes. First, I’d like to describe my recent trip to Scottsdale with Tom to celebrate my birthday. In a word: it was perfect.

That’s three words. Oh well.

Not only did we get some very valuable time alone together, we also had the pleasure of golfing with his youngest son and having dinner with him that evening. The next day he brought his lovely young girlfriend to the pool and we all had a great time, even if they had to sit with us which I am sure was embarrassing.

Speaking of the pool, I took a fun photograph during an invasion of locals onto the resort grounds. It seems that the two women in the photograph below felt that they should be allowed to use the resort facilities, along with their 6 children, simply because they knew someone having a facial at the spa.

Ordinarily, I have to assume that if you are going to crash a resort and steal services in the form of using their pool, you would have the presence of mind to hunker down, mind your own business, and be quiet, as well as obeying the usual social norms of non-obnoxiousness that we all try to follow from time to time (with the exception of the Divorce Lawyer Who shall not be Named, of course).

Instead, this crew came in with their garbage bags filled with clothes, yelling at each other and the staff, and in a remarkable show of class changed the baby’s diaper and threw the dirty one on the ground. Lest you think I am making this up, please look at the photo closely. See?

After they screamed at the waiter because the hotel did not serve banana milkshakes (and neither of these “ladies” needed a milkshake of any variety, let me tell you), I couldn’t take it anymore. I carefully ambled over to the staff member who had been verbally assaulted, and asked if they were guests at the hotel. Apparently they were not, and she had already radioed her manager for help. That’s the guy you see in the picture, squatting down in front of the squatters and giving them the bad news that knowing someone in the spa did not a hotel guest make, and therefore, they needed to skedaddle.

As a lawyer, one of my favorite things is to listen to people of questionable intelligence announce that they are going to sue someone for making them mad. The blonde (er, sort of) woman in the chaise on the left was furious, and screaming that she was going to call her lawyer that day and “sue the fuck out of this dump!” It took quite a while for these charming ladies to locate their numerous offspring and depart, but in doing so I learned a lot about some people. For example, you are wrong if you think you have a legal right to trespass upon someone else’s property and sun yourself. In addition, telling a hotel employee that they are “worthless” and a “shitheel” is not likely to inure you to good service in the future, should you actually ever pony up the money to enjoy the place.

Below is a photo of the onsite gym, which was one of the best I had ever encountered at any resort.

We made it there every single day and pushed ourselves hard, which made me feel OK about ordering the Breakfast of Champions on my birthday.

There were some really interesting features at the hotel, one of my favorite of which was the Koi pond. At feeding time, these creatures would practically jump out of the water to take the food out of your hand. It was very cool. Also, they look delicious.

In addition, for some reason this sign gave me a good laugh.

It’s just rather graphic, don’t you think? Couldn’t you just say “no diving?” What’s with the illustration of what could happen if you don’t follow the initial instructions? When we see a stop sign on the street, that seems to suffice – there is no illustration of the gruesome scene that could ensue if you fail to stop and are t-boned by a blonde gas-guzzling SUV driver, who was probably putting on makeup at the time she was running late to do absolutely nothing.

Last but not least, I was horrified at the airport coming home to see these two gentlemen carrying around a box with what I’m sure we can all agree is a very divisive and emotion-invoking symbol: the swastika.

The larger man on the right is apparently is a Buddhist Monk (did you know they fly first class? This one did, anyway). I’m not sure what the other guy’s job description is but he was flying in what would be considered more traditional non-monk-like garb. As they wheeled the box through the airport, people turned and stared and I was pretty upset.

“Hey Tom,” I whispered, “What do you think about me going up to that guy and telling him my grandmother died at Auschwitz, and that I find his brandishing of the Nazi symbol horribly offensive?”

He just blinked at me and looked confused. “Why would you do that?”

“Don’t you ever want to stand up for something, and at the same time, pretend that you are totally someone else?” I asked, upset that he couldn’t understand my desire to misrepresent my heritage and begin an altercation with a religious figurehead at an airport.

“I stand up for things, but only when I’m being paid by my clients,” he laughed, and then added, “and why would I want to pretend I am anyone else? I am your husband – duh.”

Altogether now, awwwwww!

I kept my mouth shut and later found out that the original version of the swastika (the counter-clockwise version shown here) still has very deep positive meanings in many societies, including in the Buddhist religion. You’d think the fact the Nazis co-opted the swastika and (after turning it clockwise) made it into such a powerful symbol of hatred, death and injustice, it would be abandoned by others. Apparently not.

Thank you to everyone who wished me a happy birthday. The rest of you can all go to hell.

Pagan/Piggin

2010-04-07T10:55:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was an interesting day. Someone, upon reading my Easter blog, was upset and labeled it “sacrilegious.” I think sacrilegious is akin to blasphemous, which means having a gross irreverence towards those things or people that are held sacred.

I wasn’t really raised in a religious house, although we did go to church on Easter (sometimes) and Christmas Eve (again, sometimes), so my attitude towards and belief of God was not drilled into me from a young age (insert obvious tasteless joke about Catholic priests and child molestation here). This has left me as an adult struggling to find where I stand on the whole “big guy in the sky with a flowing beard” issue.

"I'm telling you for the last time, Sarah Palin is not MY FAULT!"

I sincerely apologize to anyone who may have been offended by my Easter/Schmeaster posting, but I have had a bit of an issue with organized religion and its many fables for years. Frankly, whether or not there is a supreme being is beyond my pay grade: I simply have no idea. But I do know this – if there is a God, I don’t think he (or more likely, she) is reading my blog and putting me on his or her shit list, planning on keeping me out of heaven or even worse, making me clean the toilets once I get there.

Even if there is a God, how am I supposed to know which religion I am supposed to embrace? There are countless varieties of organized worship around the world, many of which hold diametrically opposing views. So, by nature, my religion’s views might think that your religion’s views suck. That’s sacrilege, right? If I have irreverence towards what is important to you (and you towards what is important to me), I have crossed the line into a dangerous area called “blasphemy” which is a harsh sounding word that connotes very bad punishment if you are found to be doing it. Blasphemizing, I mean. Again, no, that is not a word, but this is my blog and if I want to invent new words I can do so.

Assuming we have a Creator above and beyond random physics and luck, I have got to assume that the Creator knew what they were doing when they gave humans the ability to question, reason, cook, and be funny. I think the Creator, if reading my blog, would be glad to see that I am having trouble making sense of the whole “Christ came back from the dead after three days” story.

It is interesting to me that so many of us become so upset when our chosen religion is questioned, challenged, or mocked. Mocking seems to get religious people up in arms the most. The Pope made some sort of off-hand statement last year that Islam was a religion of violence, and after some initial furor the controversy died down.

However, the Danish cartoonists who dared mock Mohammad in 2005 with their clever/evil pens are still subject to a Fatwa and continuing death threats. That’s right: some people are so fanatical about their religion that they think you should die if you try to make a funny about it. Hmmm. That just doesn’t seem very nice to me. I thought deity worship was supposed to make us nicer to each other. It certainly hasn’t worked that way for Fred Phelps. Mr. Phelps is the lovely “God hates fags” guy who protests homosexuality by picketing the funerals of soldiers with signs that say “God loves dead soldiers.”

I’d love to be even more profound, but I have to pack for my birthday trip, which brings me to my last point as I sit and ponder where my bathing suit is: a friend of mine emailed me yesterday very happy that she and her husband had lost a significant amount of weight on a new diet. The diet consists of eating 500 calories a day, so I don’t find the fact that they have lost a lot of weight surprising. I do, however, find it amazing they haven’t killed each other or eaten their children, because that’s what I would do if someone only gave me 500 calories a day. 500 calories just gets me through happy hour, frankly.

Anyway, my friend suggested this diet to me and my first reaction was to have very hurt feelings. After all, you wouldn’t suggest a diet to a thin person, right? That would be akin to offering Rogaine to Rod Blagojevich. Madeleine says I am being too sensitive, which is weird, because I never take things personally!

Easter, Schmeaster

2010-04-04T15:44:00.000-07:00

Happy Easter to my tens of thousands of loyal readers. This morning I celebrated the holiday by strapping on my new running shoes and heading out with the pup. After about five miles, we ended up here:

This is a very very steep set of stairs that leads up to Portland Heights.

"Are you fucking kidding me?"

So she got a ride...

View from the top. Phew. Now I just need to get back home.

Easter is a very important holiday to me, both because I am fascinated with the whole Jesus/crucifixion/resurrection story and also because I have an unusual fondness for hard boiled eggs.

On Good Friday (and when is a Friday not good, I ask you) I sat with my girls E and M and we all tried to hash out the Easter timeline. Before you assume I have formed some sort of bible study group, please note that this conversation took place in a nail salon before happy hour. Everyone should get a mani-pedi to celebrate Christ, don't you think?

M is the only Catholic in our group, and E follows a religion that worships Chardonnay on the cross and a pack of Marlboro Lights on the altar. I know this because I recruited her to my church, you see. I'm a deacon.

Anyway, with M being the only one amongst us who knows anything about this holiday, we peppered her with questions:

E: "Why don't you have the ash thing on your forehead?"

M: "Um, because we do that on Ash Wednesday and today is Good Friday."

E: "Oh! So today was the Last Supper, and it was really yummy, so that's why they call it Good Friday?"

M: "Noooo, the last Supper was the night before the Crucifixion, which was on Friday. That's why it's called Good Friday."

Me: "Ok, I am confused. First of all, that doesn't sound like a very Good Friday to me. I've had some bad dates and bad mushrooms on Fridays past, but nobody ever nailed me to a cross and made me stay up there until I died. What's up with calling it Good Friday? Should be Really Shitty Friday if you asked me."

M: "Oh, well, you see..."

Me: "And another thing, how long did it take for him to die up there? I assume they came for him sometime in the morning, right? I doubt the Romans got up especially early to pick up JC for his appointment with the more nasty side of government. Those Romans were a wild and crazy bunch - they probably had an orgy the night before that went late.

So say they arrive around 9 a.m., do the whole 'banging on the door, get yer ass out here Jesus schtick,' take him to Golgotha (which is NOT located in a central part of town plus during rush hour this probably took at least 45 minutes to an hour), and hoist his petard up there. I'm sure the nails in the hands and feet sped things along, but wouldn't it take him a while to die up there?"

Chow: "It took ten hours."

We all looked down. Chow was one of our nail "technicians" and I had no idea she had been listening to our conversation. I wasn't even sure she spoke English, but she rubs a mean foot and paints a pretty toe, and as long as she doesn't try to do a French manicure on me (these are forbidden by Tom), we get along famously.

Me: "Ok, Chow, thanks. So as far as I can tell, the earliest he may have finally expired is what, between 10-11 p.m? Assuming there was very little traffic on the road that night, his buddies MIGHT have been able to slot him in the cave by midnight. Maybe."

At this point M looks disturbed, E is laughing, and Chow is fingering her cuticle cutter a bit too deliberately. I think I may have offended her, which concerns me, because I truly make it a habit to never offend anyone, especially with something I have said. It's my best quality!

Me: "My point is, ladies, if he died late Friday night and he came out some time Sunday, how is that three days? It's really more like a day and a half."

Chow and M chimed in simultaneously: "He rose on the 3rd day, not after 3 days."

I was perplexed. "The third day of what? The third day of this incredibly bad weekend that started with the woefully misnomered "good Friday?"

[By the way, those of you who are wondering if "misnomered" is a word: me too. I wondered too. But then I realized that this is my damn blog and I can create my own vocabularity (rare words) if I want to. Remember "Schadenfreconomics?" Enough said.]

Later we treked up to my house and continued the discussion with the aid of communion wine. It was a very enlightening afternoon and one which I would never forget had I not done so already.

Last thoughts for the day as I wait for my potato dauphinoise to finish and we head out to see Tom's family for easter dinner:
I have enjoyed all the press coverage lately regarding Belloti's 2.3 million dollar handshake deal to get money rained upon him when he decided to move along to the next best thing, also known as a cushy gig at ESPN. Or maybe it wasn't working out for the University, and they wanted him gone. Maybe, as is usually the case, it was a mutual decision and neither party was to blame, or at the least they could shoulder the burden of blame equally.

Regardless, Belotti made a lot of money while employed by University of Oregon. He was handsomely compensated for his work and this deal stinks. It stinks to high heaven, up there where Jesus hangs with his dad and the Ghost Dude. Why would you consider paying someone for years AFTER you were no longer connected to them? It's crazy, right? Shouldn't Belloti have to sink or swim on his own, now that the relationship has been severed? He doesn't even have to work anymore, what with this cash bath the college is giving him. He could just sit on his rear the rest of his life collecting his monthly checks. Or at least for the next six years, anyway.

Come to think of it, this sort of thing happens every day...

Are we there yet, and how do we know?

2010-03-31T15:37:00.000-07:00

As W.C. Fields once wisely noted, “If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again. Then quit. There’s no use being a damn fool about it.” (W.C. Fields also once said “Ah, the patter of little feet around the house. There's nothing like having a midget for a butler.” But I am digressing.)

This day I find myself struggling with the definition of “success” in a recent endeavor of mine. What do you do when you are receiving directly contradictory indicators of progress – which data do you believe?

As the thousand of my readers know, one reason I began “this blog thing” at the end of last year was because I wanted to hold my very large feet to the fire in terms of accountability for my new “health plan,” also known as the “losing a bunch of weight before we embark on Vegas for my baby-daddy’s wedding so I can wear a really sexy dress and also not be embarrassed by the pool in my bathing suit” plan. Of course, the diet blog quickly devolved into a cooking blog, and after that, a general sort of ranting space. Sorry about that.

However, despite the fact that I don’t write about it very often, I have continued my efforts to slim down, and in fact I have begun to notice that my clothes are really getting big. I also see that I was not actually born with two chins, as one of them has recently disappeared. Finally, several people have remarked on my new appearance, and I am not just talking about Tom who has to compliment me three times daily or he doesn’t get a cookie.

And yet, I haven’t lost that much weight, pound-wise. That has been driving me crazy. My conscious decision was to only step on the scale once per week, so that I didn’t get more wacky about it than I should. Two pounds per week, I estimated, would be a good weight loss rate. Given that goal, by now I should have lost around 25 pounds. I haven’t. Therefore, success/progress indicator #1 tells me what I am doing isn’t working.

But wait! How to explain the loose clothes, the reduction by half of chin inventory, the warm words of encouragement from my secretary, the butcher, and my ex-husband (“you look better than you used to, good for you!”)? I know something is happening to my body, but the pounds lost on the scale don’t seem to capture the degree of change I have seen.

Therefore, I made an appointment to be measured by a charming little device called “The Bod Pod.”

"I am so very happy to be here!"

The Bod Pod looks like a giant navy bean that happens to have a window. Most navy beans don’t have windows, so that is somewhat unsettling. It works in a very complicated way which you wouldn’t understand unless you are at the right end of the intelligence spectrum (see earlier blog re: worst date ever http://postdarwinianhubris.blogspot.com/2010/01/great-first-date-profoundly-bad-third.html, but needless to say, it is supposed to be the most accurate measurement of body composition out there.

So this morning I kissed my husband and son farewell and headed to the gym for the Moment of Truth. The man administering the test was very nice but annoyingly fit. His muscles had muscles, and he looked like the kind of guy that bikes everywhere, even on vacation. By that I don't mean he goes on vacation and gets on a bike when he gets there, I mean he picks a location and sets out on his Schwinn to get there.

After I sat in the giant bean for the test, he quizzed me as I put my shoes back on (no shoes in the Bod Pod! Ever!).

“So, what do you think your number is?” he asked.

“I don’t know, 50%,” I laughed, wanting him to know that I know that I am not as hot as he is and also showcasing my hilarious rapier wit in a self-deprecating fashion.

“Come on, really,” he said, “you look very fit.” I think he said "fit." He may have said "fat."

Well, as it turns out I am 23% body fat as of today. For women and giraffes, that’s a pretty decent number. My ultimate goal is 19% by the middle of summer, but I am feeling pretty happy about where I am. The only reason I am even publishing this here is because I have scheduled another Bod Pod appointment for May 7, right before the Vegas debacle. I hope that by posting today's results on my blog, and by promising additional data on a specified date in the future, I will be motivated to continue making progress. Fear of looking like an idiot who can’t follow through is a wonderful motivator, after all!

This is what 23% looks like on me. On my Vespa. With my kid.

Coming back to my original question: how do we measure progress? My weight in and of itself would not impress anyone as being low by any means, but my body fat percentage and the fact that all my clothes are too big indicate that I am moving towards achieving my goal, albeit somewhat slowly.

This seemingly incongruent set of data has taught me a valuable lesson today. There are many traditional indicators of success: when gauging someone’s career achievements, for example, we may look at their salary, level within a company, and whether or not they have a wide degree of visibility in their industry. But the truth is, unless they are happy with the person they have to gaze at every morning in the mirror, all of that other stuff doesn’t really matter.

The same goes for weight, obviously, as many of us are hung up on a certain number that we envision as our ideal weight. The fact is I am never going to weigh 125 pounds – not without a good deal of cancer running amok in my body or the loss of at least one major limb. I am throwing away the scale and focusing on what I see in the mirror and that, my friends, will get me where I want to be.

Where do you want to be, and how are you tallying your progress in life?

Deep questions from a super-duper deep woman,

Robin

PS: Margot's first look at horses from our trip to Gearhart with the Pinkertons. She measures success by how many times she gets love and affection in a day. Sounds like a pretty decent achievement barometer, if you think about it...

Schadenfreude Love Song

2010-03-23T14:40:00.000-07:00

As Homer Simpson once said, “Those Germans have a word for everything.” Today I find myself pondering the word “Schadenfreude,” which does not really have an English counterpart. Schadenfreude (it is always capitalized when used in German) can be defined as the “malicious satisfaction in the misfortunes of others.”

By the way, the transposed variant "Freudenschade" was apparently created to mean sadness one feels at another's success, although there is no such word in German. In America we would just call Freudenschade what Fox news felt collectively when Barack “Hussein” Obama was elected.

The dictionary explains Schadenfreude with a quote from historian Peter Gay, who felt Schadenfreude as a Jewish child in Nazi-era Berlin as he watched the Germans lose coveted gold medals in the 1936 Olympics. When reflecting on those feelings he experienced as the Germans suffered humiliating losses, Mr. Gay quite correctly and honestly observed that Schadenfreude “can be one of the great joys of life.”

Who can blame Mr. Gay for celebrating in losses suffered by such a vile and ferocious oppressor? The Nazis were really, really mean. As a Jewish child in Nazi Germany, Mr. Gay probably had good reason to wish a painful and drawn-out death on anyone associated with the German regime, so taking pleasure in the government’s embarrassment over simple athletic competition is not only to be expected, but shows a certain amount of restraint.

That being said, if you ask a group of people if they have ever experienced Schadenfreude, I would bet that many of them would deny it. What a petty and ugly emotion to admit to, right? It makes one look small and mean and a little bit unbalanced. And so I come to you now with a confession – a horrible admission about myself that I am writing down only because I know almost nobody reads my blog:

I have Schadenfreude. I have it BIGTIME. If it were a medical condition I would be hospitalized right now and probably being read my last rites.

Oh, they don’t read last rites to atheists? Damn.

Anyway, there is someone in this country who is a very, very VERY bad person. This person (hereinafter referred to as BDL) has spent many years making a fortune off the misfortune of others (new term: Schadenfreconomics). BDL goes to great lengths to be as malicious, nasty and disagreeable as possible to anyone considered to be on the other side of an issue. BDL is the type of person who sees a fly buzzing around in your house and goes after it with a chainsaw. By the time BDL is done, the fly may be gone and it may not be, but everything in your home is destroyed and needs to be replaced. Unfortunately, you can’t afford to replace these things because BDL charged you $200,000 to trash your Asian-inspired furniture and family photos in the process of going after the fly. You never asked BDL to kill the fly, perhaps you just mentioned it was annoying and you’d like to figure out a way to get it out of the house. Now the place is a mess and you’ve got a big bill to pay.

Note that I wrote “your” home and not BDL’s, because our friend would never do anything contrary to his or her own benefit. BDL’s house is quite large, beautiful, and not at all trashed.

Back to Schadenfreude: it has recently come to light that BDL is going through some very tough times right now. Very serious times, in fact, and if I imagine myself in the same situation, I am overcome with fear and dread and all sorts of bad feelings that could possibly lead to a panic attack. But I am not facing that scenario – BDL is. And as my shrink would surely ask me if I had the presence of mind to get the counseling I so clearly need: “how does that make you feel?”

The ugly, small, petty rotten truth is: happy.

There.

I admit it.

It makes me happy that someone who has for decades delighted in creating misery for others is now miserable. This is something different from the merely observational sin of Schadenfreude which goes even further to include creating the misery itself and then delighting in it. For this offense we will hereby coin the term “SadoSchadenfreude,” all rights reserved thank you very much.

BDL is not only a SadoSchadenfreudian (SadoSchadenfreudist?), but also one who along with Glenn Beck practices Morose Delectation on a regular basis, which is the habit of dwelling with enjoyment on evil thoughts. It troubles me that I share any characteristic with BDL besides the fact that we are both (allegedly) carbon-based life forms, but apparently I do. I’d like to be more like a Buddhist experiencing “Mudita,” which is the opposite of Schadenfreude and means celebrating in the happiness of another. On second thought, I do that – a lot. So I guess I’ve got my darkness and light, my yin and my yang, my devil on the shoulder/angel on the shoulder just like a lot of other people.

The Book of Proverbs mentions an emotion similar to that now described by the word Schadenfreude: "Rejoice not when thine enemy falleth, and let not thine heart be glad when he stumbleth: Lest the LORD see it, and it displease him, and he turn away his wrath from him." (Proverbs 24:17–18, King James Version).

So I guess if I asked myself WWJOAOCFTMF (What Would Jesus Or Any Other Christian For That Matter Feel?) at worst perhaps I could just feel some sort of benign ambivalence when I hear that someone really awful is suffering. And so I add yet another goal for myself for 2010: do not delight in the misfortune of another just because they may be a monumental and unmitigated asshole.

Readers (both of you!), I would be so grateful for your comments if you would like to share any of your experiences with Schadenfreude, which really should be included in the list of emotions along with sadness, joy, anger, need for compliments on new jeans, etc.

Confessionally yours,

RD

Appearances can be deceiving

2010-03-17T16:14:00.000-07:00

I have to admit that from time to time, meaning every day, I stop by various gossip websites and check in on the lives of the rich and famous celebrities who enjoy either an elevated status in America or a degree of infamy. The past few days have provided me with an extraordinary amount of insight into just how screwed up this world is. For example:

Kirstie Alley, a rabid Scientologist who has achieved the ultimate status of “clear” (she can control things with her mind and she is generally superior to everyone else except my dog) has launched a weight-loss program, despite the fact that it appears from recent photographs and interviews that she lacks the, er, credentials to give weight loss advice.

She is getting an enormous (wink, wink) amount of press this week as she promotes her weight loss “elixir,” which is basically some vitamins, a website, and a weight tracker. Genius. The word on the street (10th and Salmon, to be specific) is that the company is a front for Scientology and that profits will be split between Ms. Alley and the cult, I mean, church.

Here’s the thing: according to Scientology, a person who reaches the high levels within the church that Kirstie Alley has reached (“Clear” and above) “has achieved the extremely high state of being able to be at cause knowingly and at will over mental matter, energy, space and time as regards the first Dynamic (survival as self)." To put it less ambiguously, because like everything else ever written by L. Ron Hubbard that was written really badly, a Clear is supposed to be free of the "reactive mind" (similar to Freud's "unconscious mind"), and is theoretically responding to stimuli only by conscious control.

Don’t get me wrong, that all sounds great, really wonderful! But if that is true, why can’t Kirstie put down the burrito and jog around the block a few times? A Clear is supposedly capable of moving inanimate objects with the power of their brain alone…so why can’t they move their body away from the table?

In the interests of full disclosure, I should note that I find it profoundly unfair that simply because she was on a hit television show last century, this woman who has gained and lost the same 90 pounds about twelve times should be in a position to make money off that fact. I have recently dropped 13 pounds by working my tail off in the gym and monitoring my food intake carefully. Where’s my book deal? Where’s my reality show? Why can’t I go on Oprah? I think Oprah would like me, and then we’d go out to lunch and become friends and she’d introduce me to her best friend Gayle who is TOTALLY NOT her lesbian lover and then she’d give me some of her money and I wouldn’t have to blog for cash anymore.

Oh wait, I don’t make money here. Nevermind.

OK, the other story that REALLY irked me was the GQ interview of Rielle Hunter, Johnny Edward’s mistress and baby-momma who took her pants off for a photo shoot and was subsequently infuriated when the magazine printed the photos. Because she thought they were head shots. No, really. Behold:

I especially like the really sexy pose with Kermit and Dora (watch our Kermit, Miss Piggy is going to be pissed!). I wonder what was going on in the photographer’s mind at the time. Who was the intended audience for these photos? I don’t want to sound reactionary and un-arty-like, but it seems to me that these photos might appeal to a pedophile who doesn’t want to get caught looking at actual child pornography. In a way, posing this fame-hungry DPPNF (democrat potential presidential nominee fucker) seductively with children’s toys is prurient. At the very least, it’s just bad photography, which anyone can tell you is abhorrent. Since I forced you to look at those hideous shots, I will attempt to reverse the damage to your eyeballs by presenting you with this:

This is of course Tom and Margot, the day we brought her home to complete our family of four kids, one ex-husband, one future fiancé of one ex-husband, and a tangential relationship with a very large cat named Audrey. Pictures of handsome men and adorable puppies never fail to bring a smile to my face. Tom, if you are reading this, by “handsome men,” I obviously mean “handsome men to whom I am (currently) married.”

I digress. The interview itself reads like a transcript of an overheard conversation in a girl’s high school locker room. Ordinarily I would provide a link to the article, but in this case the content is so toxic and gag-inducing that I cannot be held responsible for any of you clicking through to it from here. However, one thing that really shone through in this piece is the fact that John Edwards and Rielle Hunter are truly meant for each other, so if communicating that was the writer’s intent, I suppose she achieved her goal. Still, that GQ commissioned this trashy interview and these awkward attempted soft-kiddy-porn photos is really disappointing. I’d cancel my subscription if I had one, but I don’t because I am not a gay 25 year old male. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

Finally, I was saddened to hear today that Sandra Bullock’s husband has been caught with his hand in the naughty cookie jar, and the actress has pulled out of public appearances and gone underground, which in Hollywood-speak means she is not currently standing in front of a camera talking about herself or her latest project, rehab stint, or the Dalai Lama. The scoundrel, aptly named Jesse James (because he’s a relationship outlaw, get it?), has apparently been “making the beast with two backs” (good one, Shakespeare) while his wife has been out of town filming. Here is a photo of Sandra and her I assume soon-to-be ex-husband at the Oscars:

Don’t they look happy? She is glowing and beaming, looking at him as if he had just given birth to a solid gold baby. And SHE’S the one who won the damned Oscar! They have only been married four years and if the allegations are true, he’s been cheating for at least a year. On her. With this:

What hit me about this story today was the profound disparity that can exist between the projected life and the real one. The average American who has heard about Sandra Bullock, especially in the past few weeks, probably thinks she has a damned near-perfect life. She’s talented, her latest movie is a hit, she won the Oscar, she’s rich, she’s beautiful, blah blah blah. The list of things for which we can all envy Sandy Bullock seems to be infinite. And yet, when you peel back the layers of the onion a bit, she’s got problems just like the rest of us. Big ones.

How many other people are out there, seeming to have it all and at the same time really struggling? How many out there are an active participant in the marketing of their life as one series of wonderful and life-affirming incidents after another? What percentage of us draft our own false narrative and transmit it via our facial expressions, choice of car, club membership, and boasting of our long and happy marriages that resemble nothing more than a false storefront on a movie set?

There are many famous examples illustrating the hypocrisy of perfection: L. Ron Hubbard railed against anti-depressants but died with them in his body; Tiger Woods portrays the loving husband and father for commercial gain but really he’s a manwhore; Ted Haggard preaches against homosexuality even after being found with a penis in his mouth. Then again, these false portrayals are all around us. Phoniness is overwhelmingly annoying to me, as well as to Holden Caulfield, but I guess it is too much to ask that we all tell the truth. One of my new goals in life is to project an accurate portrayal of who I am and what I am about.

But of course that’s easy for me, because my life is perfect. Can’t you tell?

I'm sorry

2010-03-04T17:08:00.000-08:00

Dear Blog (and of course, Dear Readers):

I know I have neglected you. There are countless numbers of reasons: work, family, "life issues" (also known as discovering more gray hairs and as a result having to schedule additional therapy). The truth is, while my lack of writing has been a result of all those things and more, that is no excuse. It is an explanation, but not an excuse. Therefore, I am here to apologize to you and to promise to make amends.

In the past month, much has happened that has been exciting and challenging. My job has taken on additional dimensions and I am having the time of my life, while earning money at the same time. That just doesn't seem possible, but it's happening, and I for one (well, not really for one, because Tom is also thrilled, probably because he gets more presents now) am really happy about it. It is hard to describe what a sense of peace that can bring someone - I actually enjoy going to work every day. Who'da thunk it?

I have also been kicking some major patooty on my health plan (see first blog entry noting blog theme, which I quickly abandoned) and have lost 12 pounds. Therefore, instead of writing pithy blog entries over the past four weeks, I have been focusing on my appearance and obsessing over the amount of exercise I get (a lot) and the amount of food I eat (not much) which is of course totally shallow and meaningless and ridiculous.

Still, my skinny jeans are loose. Ha!

This is me. Really!

What motivated me to write today was an experience I had with a total stranger that reminded me that we live in a world with really wonderful people in it, despite the existence of That Certain Divorce Lawyer Who Shall Not be Named. Today we discuss Ruth, who I may also refer to as "Angel Ruth," "Nice Lady," or "She Who Rocks."

Yesterday I was negotiating online (or so I thought!) with two companies to secure a rental home in Las Vegas. Both companies were willing to come down in their price, this being a really yucky recession and all, but one in particular really let me hammer them down. Pretty quickly, in fact, I had them accepting about 50% of their regular rental fee. While Angel Ruth (the woman I negotiated with on the other property) was exceptionally nice and very responsive, she just couldn't match the deal that I got from "David." I have written "David" in quotes as a subtle form of foreshadowing which you should have picked up on if you have any experience with my writing "style." No, that wasn't foreshadowing. Get with the program.

To make a long story even longer, as I was bidding adieu to She Who Rocks and thanking her for her time, she cautioned me to check into the rental I had selected. She provided me with links to the Secretary of State office in Nevada as well as some helpful hints for verifying that a property is a legitimate rental.

"Pee shaw!" I laughed. "Smart girl lawyers like me don't have to worry about being scammed!" But something was nagging at me, my spidey sense was tingling, and I decided to check it out. I won't go into the details since they are numerous and lengthy, but "David" was a dreaded Internet Scammer! He may not have been pushing a Nigerian objective or promising me easy money, but he was almost sucessful in tricking me into sending him a large amount of ducats to rent a house that is not only NOT the house he advertised and not owned by him, but which also basically does not exist.

After I figured out the scam with a little help from my nosey sister Melinda (thanks, sis!) I called Ruth to let her know how much she had helped me. Unfortunately, I got her voice mail so I just hung up and wrote her an email. She then passed along my story to her supervisor and we had a great talk on the phone. I plan to rent their property instead, and to write about my experience so they can warn other would-be travelers.

Anyway, not to sound too negative, but there are some really awful people in this world, and sometimes if you are anything like me, you may feel like you bump into more than your fair share of them. However, I have got to believe that there are more people like Ruth out there: people who don't need to help others but they do anyway. So today I salute nice people everywhere, and hope to become more like them every day. Sometimes it can be a struggle to avoid snark and be gracious, or to go out of your way to do a favor for someone, but the resulting good feelings pay the bill for restraint and inconvenience.

Peace, out.

PS: I promise to write more in the coming weeks and to be exceptionally engaging. Keep my feet to the fire and show me you are out there reading by contributing comments - please!

Building a new perspective

2010-02-02T14:50:00.000-08:00

I am happy to report that I have made it through one of the toughest months of the year (January, second only to December in its hideousness) relatively unscathed. I am optimistically excited about 2010. Things are going pretty well on many fronts: the kid, the job, and the husband are all great. Happily, I have finally discovered both figuratively and literally a piece of dirt upon which to build, and the prospect of each project is fascinating, terrifying, and challenging all at once.

While I have found a great architect for the literal aspect of constructing my future (Daniel Kaven, who is unlimited in creativity, good looks, and a very cool guy to boot), I have decided that I am the ideal architect for designing and building on the figurative side. After all, who else is going to sign up for that job? My foundation is a little cracked and my property could probably qualify for an EPA (Emotional Protection Agency) cleanup program. But hey – I’ve got a great view and lots of potential!

I know that given these two daunting tasks at hand, I may need to reevaluate my vision of the world around me. Because my dear friend Jeff is an underwater photographer, he has the ability to see things from an unusual perspective. In honor of Jeff’s beautiful work, in honor of his birthday today and in honor of his courage to dive deep to capture the beauty of things that lie beneath our immediate line of vision, I am examining my life today from the perspective of an ocean creature, because what would the purpose of living be if we weren’t constantly delving into the meaning of our existence while simultaneously pretending to be fish?

For a long time, I thought I had to be this guy:

This is what I call the Divorce Lawyer Who Shall Not Be Named Eel, also known as the fanged consensus-killer from hell. When I first started practicing law about 58 years ago, I thought my approach with the other side was best handled by being overly-aggressive, combative, rude and unwavering in my position. On many occasions this business philosophy worked, and on many it didn’t and I ended up looking like a jerk. But even when it did work, I didn’t feel good about myself.

That’s when I thought maybe I had to be this guy:

This is the Oh Shit Fish. He stays in his little home and peers about cautiously, hoping to not piss anybody off and generally just staying out of the way. He apologizes to his peers for merely existing, and always offers to work on the holidays. Basically, he’s a pussyfish. That approach to negotiation is certainly good for the other side, but not for your client, so I quickly abandoned the idea of taking that tactic.

As I wrestled with writing this blog entry, my efforts to identify with a sea-dweller were not working, and I realized why: I can’t really swim. That’s not entirely accurate. I can swim, per se, meaning I can make it from one end of the PGC pool to the other without drowning. I can do this in less than ten minutes and without getting my hair wet (!), but it’s a fairly small pool and I am always cognizant of the lifeguard’s presence. And she of mine, I should note.

But still, I am uniquely uncomfortable in water. My issue with swimming is based on three terrifying memories from earlier in life:

1. Falling off and under a dock when I was a little girl;
2. My father teaching me how to swim by pushing me off the edge of the pool at the Aero Club (actually, the most terrifying part of that memory is that we were actually members of the Aero Club); and
3. A rafting accident in college during which I think I came pretty close to drowning.

As a result, I have always been highly nervous around deep water or unusually large hot tubs. My goal for the past few years has been to take swimming lessons and expand upon my dog-paddle repertoire, but somehow I never seem to find the time. I’m really busy, after all. The irony is that if I had a dollar for every time someone at the gym asked me because of my build if I was a swimmer, I would be a rich woman. Perhaps that is not truly irony, but it is interesting, because I don’t swim, you see?

My recent analysis of my discomfort around water led me to remember this gorgeous shot taken by Jeff of an animal that clearly isn’t a natural water baby, but that perseveres nonetheless:

I identify with this elephant (insert obvious insult here) because she is the parallel of a fish out of water. She’s an elephant in water, but look how graceful she is. That’s me, I’ve decided. I’m not going to try to be a fish anymore, but I am going to figure out how to maximize my life while dwelling in some worlds that are not always comfortable for me, such as the social scene at my gym, living in a neighborhood where I am one of three women who work for a living, and the bathing suit fitting room at Nordstrom.

People say the funniest things

2010-01-29T17:28:00.000-08:00

Last Saturday, I was on a walk with my dog on my way to meet Tom at the gym. This is our little Saturday routine: I feel guilty from not walking her as much as I used to (see earlier discussion re: damanding work schedule) and he feels guilty for not working out much during the week, so instead of leaving her home on Satrudays when we go to the gym, I walk her and put her in Tom's car once I get there.

On that walk, I came across the following scene:

Has this ever happened to you, either figuratively or literally? This has happened to me. I had two bikes in college, one of which was stripped similar to this poor bastard, and the other of which simply vanished, leaving nothing but a shattered Kryptonite (R) lock on the ground in its place.

While my home has never been robbed, my car was stolen in law school. I'll never forget stumbling towards the driveway in an effort after a late night to make it to class, and seeing nothng but pavement where my beloved car used to be. I remember wailing into the gray morning sky: "Who the hell steals a Peugeot? Did they get tired of boosting le Cars and Yugos today? Now how am I going to get around?"

Luckily for me, my mother gave me her car, which I fondly referred to as the Oldsmobuick (attribution to Chevy Chase in "Fletch," which is, by the way, one of the finest films ever made). This gave my friends at the school something even better to laugh about, because whereas before they gave me grief for driving a car built in France (apparently, this made me somewhat of an elitist), now they could flip me shit for driving a car that their grandmother would drive. By this I mean no offense to my mother, and I point out quite accurately that she obtained the car from her grandmother, so technically they could have come at me for driving a car their GREAT grandmother would drive. I'm glad I never divulged that little detail about the car's provenance.

This has also happened to me figuratively. I met a woman some time back who I made an effort to get to know because of a common interest we shared. The problem was, after each time I socialized with this woman, I felt like the bike in the picture above. I felt as if my conversations with her were so draining that at the end, I was missing valuable parts of me.

She was a classic Complainer. Do you have one in your life? She was always moaning about her financial situation, despite how good it was and how lucky she was that money was provided to her via a successful and generous husband. She was always feuding with the contractors working on her home (and there were always contractors working on her home) and threatening to sue them. She was obsessed with a gentleman in the neighborhood with whom she served on a board, and ranted for hours about how much she hated him. The funny part was, all the characteristics she claimed he had (but didn't) were her most prominent ones: arrogance, pettiness, and a unique ability to take the majority of credit when credit was either not due or due to a large effort on the part of many people.

She rarely smiled. She rarely laughed, unless it was one of those scary laughs, that tells you a person is on the verge of shrieking. And then there were her favorite comments that she whipped out on a very regular basis with much the same talent as a criminal would brandish a weapon:

Her:" bitch bitch bitch bitch I can't believe I have to take Timmy to practice and Sally to piano and you'd think my husband would help but does he ever no and I have to sue the floor guy and my sister is a whore and Portland sucks it's not at all sophisticated like the east coast and of course I'm from New York and I don't mean a bridge and tunnel girl and do you think my ass looks fat because I am pretty sure my ass is fat..."

Me: "Look on the bright side, _______________, everyone in your family is healthy and you have a beautiful home in a lovely neighborhood plus your husband is great! He's pretty busy with all those surgeries he's been doing lately!" This is said in my best polly-anna voice, which I hate to use but on occassion it is simply required.

Her: "Look, no offense Robin, but you really have no idea how hard my life is. I have two kids, you have one, and you only have to have him half time."

Some of you are reading this right now and saying to yourselves, "Robin's kidding. She's employing exaggeration as a literary device to increase the impact of the story. Nobody can be that much of an insensitive asshole, right?"

Wrong. After I picked my jaw back up off the floor, I asked her what she meant.

"Well, you are basically just a part-time mother, and for only one kid. I just don't think you can really relate to my problems." So said the woman who belonged on the cover of Pampered Bitch magazine.

"Look," I said, still trying to recover from my shock, "you must know that both Jake's dad and I wish we could have him all the time. Our lives just didn't work out that way, and it still hurts to this day. I don't think either one of us consider ourselves part-time parents. And you know I work, so it isn't as if I don't have things going on in my life too. I can relate."

She sniffed and began plucking imaginary lint off her $350 cashmere hoodie. I had not convinced her that my life as a divorced mom was not foot-loose and fancy free, filled with chocolate and sex and long nights lingering over champagne at Fenouil. What was even more interesting was that this became one of her favorite things to say. I let it go for a long, long, LONG time. Finally, during an outing at the zoo and after listening to another diatribe about the trials and tribulations of her life being a West Hills Kept Woman versus my carefree existance as a "part time mom," I decided it was time for a gently worded confrontation.

"You know, ________, when you say that, it really hurts my feelings. As I have told you, I wish things had worked out differently for my family. But I am glad that Patrick and I figured things out and divorced, instead of living a sham of a marriage and bringing up our son to think his parents were a fraud. So if you don't mind, I'd appreciate it if you stop referring to me as a part-time mother."

She didn't say anything. I wondered at the time if she had heard me. "Hello? Hello? Is this thing on?" I wanted to say. Regardless, I told both Tom and Patrick that if she ever said another word in that vein again, I was pulling the disconnect on her.

About two weeks later, Patrick and his fiance Crista and Tom, Jake and I met up at a book fair at Jake's school. The woman in question found us all standing together, and said hello. She then immediately said, "Have you seen my children? Good God, you guys all have it so easy, since you only have one child and you only have him part-time."

Patrick, Tom and Crista eyed me nervously. I think they thought I was going to go nucular, in the words of our esteemed former president George W. Bush. I just walked away, and kept walking. Sometimes, that's the only answer.

Behold, the view yesterday from my office. Now that is something to be thankful for.

The politics of blogging

2010-01-27T17:09:00.000-08:00

The other day, I was having a convertextion with my sister Melinda. We don’t usually talk on the phone, as it is too much of a hassle. We find that punching out our innermost thoughts on our cell phones is a much more efficient and psychologically rewarding way to exchange information and personal feelings. She had read a recent blog and was trying to guess the identity of who I was referring to in my post about the Match.com date from hell.

We then got into a discustextion about the cruel irony of creating a blog to express yourself, but simultaneously being restrained from writing about certain experiences because of the audience you have invited to your blog as well as your unknown readers (a.k.a. "lurkers"). This subject arose because she had a topic suggestion for my next blog regarding an issue with which we have both struggled.
“I have an idea!” she announced, “You should write a blog about (blanking) a (blank) (blank).

“Are you kidding me?” I laughed (as much as one can laugh on a text message, that is). "I can’t write about (blanking) a (blank) (blank)! Tom would kill me!”

This got me thinking about all the topics I really can’t go near, given who I know is reading this and that I am not exactly sure who the rest of my audience is. While I may only have 24 “public” followers, something tells me (a wildly optimistic ego and a little word on the street) that at least 2,450 other people are reading my almost daily musings. Some of you, I know about. Others, I don't. But I wonder, and I worry. Still, like a bulimic sorority sister anxious to purge the latest trip to Pizzacato before the big barn dance on Friday, I have thoughts and opinions that simply must be expressed, or I'll explode.

Therefore, to be on the safe side today, I am going to blog a Mad Lib. If you don’t know what a Mad Lib is, google it. I don’t have time to answer your stupid questions.

MAD LIB BLOG

Today was a (adjective) day. I started out the day by (verb) ing my (noun). It had been a few days since I had (past tense verb)ed my (noun) and it really made my morning.

My (noun) was shortlived, however, when I received a(n) (noun) from (noun).

"(pronoun) is at it again," (pronoun) said. "I just don't know how much longer I can (verb) this without (verb)ing (pronoun)."

"Screw (pronoun)," I said in response. (Pronoun) is just (adjective) because you are a (adjective) (noun) and (pronoun) is the most hated (noun) in Portland. You know (pronoun) is just doing this to increase revenue and cause dissention. Ignore (pronoun) and concentrate on how (adverb) it will be to (verb) (pronoun) tonight!"

See, this doesn't work. The Mad Lib approach to what my ex-husband refers to as "that blog thing of yours, and no I don't want to follow it publically," just doesn't work for me. So the question is, do I write about painful and embarassing subjects and enjoy the cathartic release despite causing myself (and potentially others) discomfort? Do I avoid all touchy subjects? Or, in the alternative, do I just bury what I am saying so deep in metaphors, similies, analogies, personification, metonymy, etc that nobody knows what I am talking about? And if so, why bother writing at all?

The other option my sister suggested was a contest blog to see whose dog is cuter: hers or mine. And to that end, I present Suki

and Margot

Poor Suki doesn't stand a chance.

Great first date. Profoundly bad third date.

2010-01-25T11:13:00.000-08:00

I have a pretty awful cold right now, which resulted in me spending most of yesterday in bed. I did get up for breakfast and lunch (both prepared by Tom - wow!) but other than that, I hibernated and spent the day caught in that weird place where you are too tired to keep your eyes open, but you can't quite fall asleep. I hate that place.

Since I couldn't sleep and I couldn't read, I occassionally would entertain myself by shouting out something to Tom, who was working in the office next door. My favorite exchange of the day went something like this:

Me: "Tom?"
Tom: "Yes, sweetie."
Me: "Do you remember our first date?"
Tom: "I sure do! Best first date ever!"

And then Tom went on to describe exactly what I was wearing on our first date, right down to the shoes. Although the Chinese say (well, maybe not all of them, but surely some) that the faintest ink is better than the best memory, I'd say Tom's memory of our first date is pretty good. I mean, come on - the shoes? That's pretty cool.

Tom and I had a series of email exchanges leading up to our first date, and it was clear to me that I was going to meet someone pretty special. He was smart, funny, and had a naughty streak similar to mine. He also was a little bit older, but I figured that's OK, because with the way I am living my life I am probably not going to make it past 70 anyway. And who would want to?

We met at the Veriatable Quandry for drinks and then headed over to the Blues Festival. One of my all-time favorite bands was playing that night - Little Feat. Suddenly, during a rocking rendition of "Dixie Chicken," there was a dry electrical storm and lightning about every 30 seconds. The crowd went crazy, the band played even better, and Tom and I looked at each other and knew. That's when we had our first kiss, and it will go down in my book as the best first kiss ever.

Later that night, as we were walking from the park to a nearby restaurant for dinner, I truly fell for him. And by that I mean, I fell. Those snazzy sandals I had chosen for my first date with Tom came with a four inch heel and no discernable form of ankle support. I tripped, and launched myself about 20 feet in the air before landing on my hands and knees.

The most embarassing aspect of the fall was that the contents of my purse spilled out and were strewn about the walkway. If you are anything like me, the contents of your purse may not be something you want anyone to see, especially if it's a first date. I tend to carry a pretty big bag, which means all sorts of things are in there. Specifically: feminine products, lotion,snack food, my shitlist, and small barnyard animals. It wasn't that bad that Tom saw a tampon roll out of my purse and down the hill, but I think the fervor with which I chased it may have given him pause. In my defense, those little buggers are expensive and it's a really bad day when you need one and it isn't there.

He picked me up, dusted me off, and we continued on about our evening. Like I said, an amazing first date, which led to an even better second date the very next evening. And a third, and a fourth, and the rest is, as they say history.

I tell this story to contrast it with one of my favorite Bad Match.com Date Stories (and I have a lot of them - look for this as a regular feature on my blog). I don't want to identify this gentleman (**ahem**) by name, but here are some clues:

1. He considers himself to be a real big shot in our town;
2. He is so pompous that he wouldn't tell me his name until we met in person, and only identified himself until then as a "local celebrity" (who, by the way, I had never heard of, and I've lived here my entire life); and
3. He was once nominated for a Grammy. It's an honor just being nominated, you know.

When I first met this fellow, I was intrigued. He wasn't all that handsome but he carried himself like he was looking at George Clooney's reflection in the mirror. Within ten minutes on our first date (and after he finally told me his name, looking crestfallen when I didn't recognize it and instantly throw my panties at him), he explained to me how different he and I are from the general population.

"You see Robin, it's like a bell curve," he said, and traced a bell curve on the wall of the little Italian restaurant. "You and me, we're over here," and he gestured to the far right of the curve. "The rest of the world, they're over there," and he waved his hand dismissively to the left.

While I certainly appreciated his quick recognition of my brilliance and overall superiority to, well, everyone, it did feel a little strange. He didn't know me well enough to know how fabulous I am, as that takes at least four dinner dates, three happy hours and a trip to a karaoke bar. Was he trying to flatter me? What was his angle? I was puzzled.

Despite the fact I found this man a little strange and I didn't like his shirt (if you know me at all you know that can be a real deal-breaker), I accepted a second date with him, during which he told me he loved me.

Uh oh.

I then accepted a third date, planning it at a restaurant owned by a friend so I could break up with him there and watch him leave, then sit at the bar and commiserate with the owner about the lack of decent single men in Portland. I had the whole "it's not you, it's me" speech written on 3 by 5 notecards in my purse (see, you don't want people looking inside your purse) and I was pretty optimistic that I could get 'er done by the salad course. The conversation did not go as I planned, however, because of what happened when he picked me up for our date.

Mr. X showed up at my door that evening with four things, each disturbing in their own way, one especially so.

1. A dozen red roses with baby's breath. Can you say "trite?" I don't mean to sound ungrateful, but for Christ's sake, it's all about the tropical flowers these days;

2. A teddy bear for my son Jake, who was 5 at the time. He had never met Jake, and Jake eyed him suspiciously when handed the stuffed ~~bribe~~ bear. "You do know I'm five, right?" he said, tossing the offending item on the couch and returning to his game of Grand Theft Auto;

3. His scrapbooks (plural!) put together by his mother, detailing every major event in his life including significant bowel movements, and last but not least;

4. A wrinkled brown paper bag that looked like it had seen better days.

"What's in here?" I asked him, and started to open the bag. He remained silent as I pulled out not one, not two, but three different brands of personal lubricant.

"Um, what's with the lube?" I asked, trying to shield my son from seeing the bag's contents and simultaneously conjuring up a really good excuse to get this guy out of my house immediately.

"That's for you, sweetheart, 'cause I'm really big, and you're gonna need it."

To say that I was flummoxed is the understatement of the century. I was so shocked that I actually got in his car and went to dinner with him. I think I knew that ending this "relationship" should take place in a very public arena and away from my innocent child. I also sensed that my prepared remarks would no longer be adequate, and that I needed something more concrete to ensure he would lose my number, and fast. We sat down, ordered drinks, and I told him the following:

"You are such a great guy, I really think you are wonderful, but I can't date you anymore. The truth is, and I'm so sorry for not bringing this up sooner, I'm actually dating someone else, and we are in love, and we just decided to get married. So technically, you see, I'm actually engaged, and really shouldn't be here at all."

"I don't see a ring on your finger," he astutely pointed out.

"Oh, well, we don't really buy into those social conformities," I laughed, and illustrated this point by wriggling my fingers and raising my eyebrows. "He actually proposed to me with a salmon. A really fresh salmon. We are getting married next month. At a salmon cannery. It's going to be very special."

"Aren't you still married to your first husband?" he querried, clearly not buying into my story.

"Oh, um, yes, but it turns out we weren't really legally married after all, because I was very drunk at the time and he was still married to his first wife, so I've got my lawyer working on an annulment."

He was starting to turn purple and his breathing became rapid. His silk shirt (ugh) started to show sweat stains in the armpits.

"Why on earth would you need an annulment if you were never legally married in the first place?" This was a good question - a very good question indeed.

"You know," I said, in my very best lawyer voice, "Since you aren't a lawyer you really can't understand. It's very technical and has to do with res judicata and habeas corpus. I'd explain it to you but I'm really not sure, despite your position on the bell curve, that you would get it."

For weeks afterward, this man called and emailed me incessantly, telling me I would never meet someone like him again (well damn, I hope not). I did not answer any of his emails until the last one, which was so threatening in tone and content that I felt I had to address it.

"Dear _____, while I appreciate your enthusiasm for pursuing a relationship with me, I am busy planning my wedding to the salmon guy, so please do not contact me anymore. I know you will find someone soon who can appreciate all your interesting qualities. Fondly, Robin." I pressed send.

Immediately, yahoo mail shot me back the following message:
"You have been blocked by this yahoo customer. You are not authorized to send mail to this account."

He got me. Damn it, he got the last word. I hate that.

Finding deep meaning in everyday household items

2010-01-23T16:12:00.000-08:00

If you are like me, you may find yourself from time to time having a suddenly epiphanous (no, I'm not sure that's really a word) moment, brought on by seeing something that seems more than just what it is. A beautiful sunset can bring about wistful thoughts of youth gone by and lost opportunities.

A wounded animal can summon up feelings of how helpless we all are in this cruel world.

"What the hell are you looking at? Like this has never happened to you?"

A smiling baby often leaves me ruminating upon how quickly my son is growing up, which in turn makes me yearn for the days when I could just hold him and be the center of his world.

And then there are times when enlightenment comes through less obvious avenues. Like today, for example. Today I was feeling a bit lazy, as Tom and I had worked out pretty hard and I had just finished cooking my favorite ziti for some friends who will be joining us tonight for dinner. I knew I should vacuum, but I was tired. Thank goodness for Zumba, our new robot friend and vacuum cleaner.

As I watched him roam around the first floor of our house, I was impressed. This little guy just goes and goes, and then at some point, he decides he's done enough and returns to his battery charger, ready to juice up for another day. It's impressive. He's got gumption. But then I saw something a little disturbing: Zumba can get himself into bad situations, and spend an enormous amount of energy expending efforts to get himself out, only to get right back into them. To wit:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZvvgWLBCRyw

It's both endearing and somewhat disheartening, isn't it? He gets himself stuck under the table, and through a long series of trial and error approaches at getting out, he finally makes it past the chairs and back into the freedom that is the rest of the open kitchen. And what does he do? He goes right back in there. In sum, he's a tenacious little fucker, but he's stupid, and continues to make bad choices even after spending considerable effort to get out of the last bad decision he made. Does that remind you of anyone? Because it reminds me of myself in years gone by, and a few other people as well.

As I found myself tempted to move the chairs to help Zumba out of the mess he had created for himself, I realized that this was not the thing to do. Like a child, Zumba was learning an important lesson about life, and hopefully it was being programmed into his microchip, or whatever serves as a robot vacuum's intelligence center, so that in the future he could navigate the table and chairs more successfully.

"Isn't that interesting, Tom?" I said, happy to share my epiphany with my husband. "He's working so hard to get out from under the table, just to go right back in. It's inspirational and frustrating all at the same time. It's like raising children or becoming a more self-realized person, isn't it?"

"Robin, it's a vacuum cleaner." Clearly he wasn't getting it.

"I know, but it's one of those, what do you call it, analogies! The vacuum is an analogy for all of us who struggle to make good choices, redeem ourselves when we make bad ones, and avoid screwing up in the future." I was convinced I was onto something. Something worth blogging about, which is a pretty big damn deal, frankly.

"I think you mean metaphor," he snorted, and gave me a pat on the back. "Maybe you should lie down for a while."

They say that one definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result each time. If we can teach ourselves, and our children, how to avoid returning again and again to places that don't work for us, I think life would be much more serene.

I, for one, am not going to Ben and Jerry's anymore. Well, maybe tomorrow, but not after that.

Things are not always what they seem

2010-01-22T08:53:00.000-08:00

One thing that I have had to come to terms with over the years, especially since becoming a mom, is that there is always someone who does things better than you (me, I mean, maybe not you, but definitely me). It starts when you announce to your friends and family that you are pregnant, and continues until you expel the baby from your nether-regions. For example:

Scene: Me working out at the gym on my lunch break, circa 16 weeks. I'm looking in the mirror, feeling pretty good because I think I might be getting That Glow I had heard so much about. That Glow would beat the severe case of acne I have developed on my upper back and shoulders since becoming pregnant, which I was now calling "backne" in an effort to be funny about something disturbing and unattractive.

I'm standing in front of the mirror, chatting with a woman I had become friendly with at the gym. I hadn't seen her for a few weeks, so I dropped my happy bomb on her.

"Guess what?" I announce gleefully. "I'm having a baby!"

She smiled, and offered her congratulations. "I knew it!" she said, and gave me that knowing smile that all women with children give to first-time-mom pregnant ladies. "You look great, and you are still working out which will really help. How far along are you, about 30 weeks?"

The woman in question was one of those extremely athletic types - you know the kind. Judging from her BMI (which I estimated to be around 4) and her complete lack of breast tissue, it appeared that she ran marathons on a bi-weekly basis and did Iron Man Triathalons just for shits and giggles on the weekends. Frankly, I found it hard to believe she could summon forth a menstrual cycle, much less carry a baby to term, given her lack of body fat.

"Well, you see, I'm only 16 weeks, but the women in my family always show really soon, plus I had a very salty lunch, and my posture isn't great which makes my stomach look bigger..."

She looked worried, not only that she had offended me (she had) but also out of genuine concern for my health and the health of my child. She launched into a long dissertation about gestational diabetes, and warned me not to "let myself go" simply because I had the convenient excuse of being pregnant. Seeing as how I spent most of my days at work either vomiting or sleeping under my desk, I didn't see how being pregnant was all that convenient.

"Be careful," she warned, "you don't want your husband to lose interest in you after the baby is born (oops! too late!). I myself only gained 16 pounds when I was pregnant, and I had a 10 pound baby!"

I excused myself and hopped on the treadmill. "Bitch," I grumbled. "I'll show her. I can keep my weight gain under 20 pounds; 30 tops."

After 50 pounds, I started turning around on the scale at the doctor's office. Sometimes we don't want to see just how bad things are. He too made noises about weight gain and my ability to retain my husband's affections. Normally something like that would launch me into a tirade about what a sexist pig he was, but since I had Pregnant Brain, instead of getting upset, I developed a massive crush on him. After much Internet research and chatting with friends who had been pregnant before me, I found out it is very common for Women in That Condition to fall in love with their obstetrician. After all, he's the only one paying attention in that area after a certain amout of months go by, and you know the relationship has an expiration date, unlike marriage, which is supposed to last forever or at least a little while longer than a crush...

Back to people doing things better than you (me). There are always moms who are more involved in their children's school than you (I mean me, sorry). My son goes to a great school that has a very strong element of parental involvement, as long as you aren't talking about my involvement, which has been limited for two reasons:

1. I find it inconvenient to volunteer at the school given my work schedule, which you should know from my earlier posting is an inconceivably stressful 20 hours per week, and
2. Some of the other moms annoy me.

They bring snacks. They volunteer to tutor kids in the class. They go on those god-awful field trips and actually pretend to have a good time. For shit's sake, some of them actually work on fundraising for the school, a thankless task that requires tenancity and the ability to make people feel guilty and hand over money. I'm tenacious when it comes to something like getting a bartender's attention when it's three deep at the well, but getting people to donate money to my favorite cause has never been something at which I excelled. I believe that in my six months of fundraising for my law school, for example, I brought in around $500. This was especially unfortunate, since I was paid by the school for my alumni development efforts. By the time I was done with them, I think they were in the hole about 3 grand.

Anyway, I digress. I am a good mom. I am just not one of "those" moms. That's OK, because like I said, some of those women are annoying. But I do my best, and that usually means getting Jake to school every day on time and without incident, helping him with his homework, teaching him the fundamentals of a happy life (minus the grown-up fun stuff, which will come all too soon), and basically just making sure he is alive at the end of each day. And usually, I feel pretty good about my efforts. But sometimes, I am reminded that there are a lot of other women out there doing it better than me, especially when I see things like this on an internet website:

Mom Plans Dinner Menus For Entire Year

Texas mother always knows what's for dinner -- that's because she has planned it out a year in advance. Leslie Chisolm and her husband started mapping out meals for their children after trips to the grocery store became too expensive.

She said the family was wasting money on things like eating out and compulsive shopping. Chisolm said her new plan works because she always has a menu she can take to the store and she knows exactly what to stockpile when things are on sale.

View the family's menu calendar here: menu calendar here.

See, before I clicked on the menu, this story made me feel really bad about myself. Not only do I rarely plan out a meal before mealtime, I often wing it and throw in the (kitchen) towel, too exhausted from my stressful career to do anything. On those nights, we either order food to be delivered (http://www.delivereddish.com/), go to Papa Haydn, or, as we did last night, trek up to Skyline Burgers.

That's not to say I don't cook. In fact, this is sort of a cooking blog, except I never post recipes or write about cooking anymore. I do cook, often, and Jake loves most of my recipes, especially my salmon and of course what he calls The Kobe. But plan out menus a year in advance? No way. So upon first glance, a story like this can make you (me) feel sort of like a bad mom, right? Or if not a bad mom, at least flirting on the border of inadequacy, which is not pleasant.

Upon further investigation, however, I am satisfied that this woman is not my superior in the maternal skills department. If you look at the menu calendar, the first thing that springs to mind is: what is with all this possessive food? Taco's? B. (I assume this means baked, but could also mean braised, boiled or broiled I suppose) Potato's? Frito's? Many of the food items on the menu were appropriately pluralized, but these three items often got the possessive treatment. It was confounding and made me feel superior. Smug, even.

So there. Not only is the food on this menu really unhealthy and uninteresting, it is also often improperly punctuated. I win!

Quit yer crying, give me a call

2010-01-20T16:00:00.000-08:00

Below I have copied an interesting email that my husband recently received at work. Tom is constantly inundated with junk email at his workplace, whereas I never have any. Back when we were first dating and he was complaining about the amount of spam he received, I teased him that his firm firewall was really a firecolander.

He didn’t think that was very funny.

I think he secretly likes being able to complain about the massive amount of email he receives on a daily basis because it makes him sound even more important and impressive than he is already, at least in my eyes. Here is an example of a typical exchange at our home over dinner:

Me: "Well, I had an interesting day today. We’ve got this crazy plaintiff who is suing us because he is a Pagan and we wouldn’t let him have Halloween off with pay, not to mention the issue of his costume, which involved spikes, cutout panels and visqueen…"

Tom (interrupting): "That’s nothing! I had 200 emails in my inbox this morning and I’ve only dealt with half of them!"

Me: "Well, honey, isn’t it true most of that is spam, and you just have to delete it?"

Tom: "You just really don’t understand how hard it is to be me."

The subject line of the following email was, quite presumptuously, “stop weeping.” Of course, if it had come to me directly, instead of through Tom, the subject line may not have been all that assumptive (see earlier post re: dark moods, brain chemistry, and amputees). Please be advised I have not done any editing on this material, so assume “sic” all over the damned thing.

DEAR SIR/MADAM.

My Name IS LINDSAY FORD s Am 75yrs old of age, i stay in New York U.S.A. i am a good merchant, i have several industrial companys and good share in various banks in the world. I spend allmy life on investment and coporate business. all the way i lost my husband and two beautiful kids in fatal accident
that occur in november 5th 2003.i am a very greedy woman with all cost i dont know much and care about people, since when i have an experience of my lovleyones i felt weak.i found it difficult to sleep and give rest. later in the year 2004 february i was sent a letter of medical check up, as my personal doctor testify that i have a lung cancer, which can easily take off my life soon.i found it uneasy to survive myself, beacuse a lot of investment cannot be run and manage by me again.

i quickly call up a pastor/prophet to give me positive thinking on this solution, as my adviser.He minister to me to sharemyproperty, wealth,to motherless baby/orphanage homes/people that need money for survivor both student that need money/ business woman and man for their investment for future rising.

Sotherfore i am writing this letter to people who are really need help from me both student incollege, to conatct me urgently. so that i can make available preparation on that. espectcially women of the day, who are divorced by their husband, why they cannot survive the mist of feeding theirself. please contact me to stop weeping.

probably let me know what youreally need the money for, and if you can still help me to distribute money to nearest orhanages homes near your town.now am so much with GOD, am now born again.may the lord bless you, as you reachme, please to remind you,dont belongs to scammers or any act of fraudulent on internet.

THANKS.

LINDSAY FORD

Ok, where do we start? There is just so much good material here that a person such as myself, prone to over-indulgence in just about every area of her life, could go on for pages and pages, thus leaving the blog reader bored and impatient and wondering when I am going to get back on the subjects of weight loss, exercise, and posting fattening recipes. Let’s say we limit our commentary to 8 items, OK?

1. This woman’s name (Lindsay Ford) is decidedly Anglican, yet her command of the English language would suggest that she was either raised in a third-world rural village with no school, or on the planet Pluto. Oh wait, Pluto isn’t a planet anymore. Oh well, you get the drift.

2. She’s supposedly 75 years old, which piques my suspicion on two counts:

a) She lost her husband and “two beautiful kids” in a car accident only 7 years ago, in 2003. When I think of the term “kid,” I think of 18 at the very oldest. That would make her a comparatively very old mama indeed, to almost all of us except for Elizabeth Edwards. Of course, it is possible that her two adult children were tooling around in the car with dad when this terrible fate befell them, but let’s face it: if you are lonely enough to be hanging out with your parents in your 20s or 30s, you are taking your own vehicle, as a rapid escape is often necessitated.

b) A 75 year old woman using the internet? I think not.

3. If she has several industrial companies and “a good share” in many banks throughout the world, how the hell does she have any money to give away? Shouldn’t she be standing in a soup line somewhere, given recent developments in our economy?

4. Her doctor told her in a letter she has terminal lung cancer? Come on. I don’t find doctors to always be the most tactful people in the world (unlike lawyers, who are filled with grace and charm always) but I doubt any patient in this country, despite our pathetic health care system, would get this information in the mail. I can just see some doc dashing off a note on his way to the golf club through dictation to his secretary: “Um, yeah, Margie, could you please put me down for a twosome on the 12th with Harry Goy and call my wife and tell her I’ll be late for dinner? And oh, could you get a letter to my patient Lindsay Ford and let her know she has terminal lung cancer? Great, see you tomorrow, I’ll be in early, around 10:30.” This is not even to mention that in 2004 email was a very widely-used communication device, and since we all know email is a very personal way to communicate without the possibility of misunderstandings and miscommunications, that would have been the better way to go.

5. This woman lost her husband and two kids in a horrific accident, she has lung cancer, and now she finds it “uneasy” to survive because she can no longer run and manage (and what is the difference between “run” and “manage” anyway) her investments? If I lose everything that means anything to me and I am facing the prospect of a painful and drawn out death, I’m thinking I might be focusing on bigger issues than my investments. To put it rather bluntly, something I almost never do, she doesn’t have to worry about leaving anything to her family. If it were me, I’d be worried about my chances of getting into heaven (which I never believed in until my diagnosis) or who was going to take care of my dog when I died, or how many Kobe steaks I could eat between now and the Big Day, since the calories and fat content no longer matter anyway…

6. She asks her pastor/prophet (these are two totally different concepts! Doesn’t she watch Big Love??) where she should direct her money, and he tells her basically: orphans, people that “need money for survivor” (because these days it can be expensive to get together a really good audition tape for that show), students, and businessmen and women who need money for future rising. Financial Viagra, as it were. This of course would never happen, as any decent pastor, or prophet for that matter, would instantly convert the estate into a secret slush fund for the benefit of the church wine cellar and the settlement of child-abuse cases.

7. She addresses “women of the day” who are divorced by their husbands, which somehow leads to intolerable misty weather conditions and famine. She also assumes these women are weeping, and that contacting her will alleviate their depression to some extent. That begs the question, has Ms. Ford never heard of the term “gay divorcee?” Have you seen some of these women, let loose after years of marriage and on the prowl? I’ve seen them – hell, I’ve been that woman. They ain’t weeping, they creepin’. Fo sho.

8. Towards the end, she seeks assurances that if you choose to respond to take her money, please do not be an internet scammer. Alrighty then. That’s what we in the legal business call “due diligence,” and it is a critical aspect of any large-scale business deal or charity drive.

It's too bad this email is bullshit, because there are a lot of people in Haiti right now who could use some help. I have sent some money but it doesn't seem like enough, so now I am attempting to adopt a Haitian orphan. Shhh, don't tell my husband...

Cleaning house

2010-01-17T12:04:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, out of what I am sure is my father's gratitude for providing him with the profound wisdom and insight of my blog, my dad gave me a few gifts. Of course, not one to simply accept a gift without pondering the potential hidden meaning within, I was up late last night trying to discern the unspoken intent of the following additions to my home:

1. A vacuum cleaner that is also a robot. We have named her Zumba, and Margot hates her.

2. Several cookbooks; and

3. A clay pot. Clay-pot? Claypot?

Being the ultra-sensitive and often irrational and paranoid person that I am, I of course assumed the following:
1. He thinks my house is messy;
2. His opinion of my culinary repertoire is that I need some new inspiration; and
3. He is tired of the le crueset calling the kettle red (ha! if you read my blog regularly you would get that joke) and that he yearns for me to experiment with new cooking mechanisms as well as new euphamisms for hypocritical assholes. Perhaps the clay pot calling the kettle kiln-fired? Wow, that's pithy and really rolls off the tongue, doesn't it?

Don't get me wrong, I appreciate these gifts, and I am kidding about the hidden meaning behind them. In truth, he just needed to get rid of some extraneous cookbooks and since one of them was a clay pot cookbook, and I do not have a clay pot, throwing in the pot seemed logical. Plus, I asked him to give it to me, which sort of put him in an awkward position.

He also sent me a book in the mail recently, which was very thoughtful and for which I failed to thank him because 1) I have been so busy blogging, 2) I have been so busy reading said book, which is very engrossing, and 3) frankly, I just forgot. Bad Robin.

I know you are wondering what book he sent me, and the suspense must be killing you.

Chelsea Handler is funny. She says what she thinks and doesn't pull any punches. She also has an interesting friendship with alcohol and has had a somewhat rocky history of personal relationships.

I just can't figure out why he sent me her book. Go figure.

Speaking of difficult relationships, yesterday (as I mentioned in my blog posting) I had an unfortunate encounter with someone I used to know. More accurately, I thought I knew her, but I didn't. Actually, that's not true. I knew this person better than anyone, which is why we could no longer be friends. Once again yesterday, the le crueset called the kettle red, and I am still pondering how she can go through life with such a major case of projection going on. I like to think that I am pretty familiar with my own faults, and I have them listed alphabetically on my iphone so I can check in from time to time to see if I have made any progress on improving myself in these areas. Here are the major ones:

Insecure? Check

Overly-sensitive? Check

Prone to dark moods? Check

Too concerned about my appearance? Oh yeah, big check there.

Yesterday, I was accused of being hateful, unhappy, and fat by a woman who was angry that I called her out on some shady behavior. Caught in a major lie, this was her only way of expressing what I can only assume was major embarassment. Since I have no interaction with this woman any longer and only run the risk of a chance encounter with her at my gym (and someday I suspect that won't happen anymore, once the Sugar Daddy stops paying her bills), I don't know why this bothered me so much. I am not a hateful person, I just dislike her. I am not an unhappy person per se, though it is true I suffer from feeling blue from time to time. I chalk that one up to unfortunate brain chemistry and I don't really think it's very nice to fault someone for a brain wiring issue. It seems almost as inappropriate as making fun of an amputee. And finally, although I'd like to drop a few pounds and get a little more definition in my abs, I don't think I qualify for gastric bypass.

Yet.

So, why does this person get under my skin? I guess it's because I feel like a fool for ever trusting someone who I knew was lying to and about others who were close to her. I was shocked and deeply hurt when I was told by mutual friends that she was spreading false stories about me to people we knew. What I finally realized yesterday is that my shock in her behavior was ridiculous. If you spend time with someone who is constantly deceiving other people, don't fool yourself into thinking they aren't doing it to you at the same time.

"Same old Robin," she said in an email yesterday. And that's the thing - I am not the same person I was when I was spending time with her. Tired of living an unfulfilling life and wasting time on people that were unreliable and toxic, I turned things around about three years ago. I met a great guy who did me the honor of becoming my husband, and I am thankful every morning when I wake up and see that it wasn't all a dream. I am not the same person I used to be, and I am proud of that. Some people keep growing, even later in life, and some people stay the same. I'd rather evolve, but that's just me.

Why I tuned in, turned on, and dropped out of Facebook. Again.

2010-01-16T15:26:00.000-08:00

I joined Facebook in the summer of 2008 because some friends asked me to post pictures of my recent wedding on the website. After a few days of reconnecting with old friends the voyeuristic atmosphere had me hooked. I found myself checking in to Facebook several times a day, curious what others were up to and curious who would contact me next or comment on my status, photos and notes.

Several things lead to my decision to unplug from the Facebook experience the first time, around last April. On one occasion, I found myself posting a status update from beautiful Forest Park while I was hiking with my new puppy. "Robin is loving hiking in Forest Park with Margot!" I declared, certain that everyone else would be interested in this fascinating development in my life instead of just enjoying it for myself. My step-daughter Kendall would call this FOT, or Facebook Oriented Thinking. FOT is similar to BOT, Blog Oriented Thinking, but even more insidious.

I also found myself too often thinking about my day in terms of status updates. This resulted in a bizarre tendency to talk to myself in the third person. "Robin is exhausted from her workout!" I would declare to myself, and often post as well. "Robin is annoyed with her vet," "Robin is so proud of her husband's win in court," "Robin detests opposing counsel in my favorite case," etc. Who was I talking to anyway, and why?

While I enjoyed following the exploits of one stepson, another ignored my friend request. Why? What had I done? I thought he liked me!! While I assume he didn't want me (and by extension, his father) privy to the Facebook-published details of his raucous college experience, the rejection did smart a bit.

There are some on Facebook who update and post excessively. These people are known by the slang term Facebook Whore. If you are on Facebook you know the type I am talking about. With the excessive poster, it seemed that no detail of their life was private or mundane enough not to publicize. And, let's face it, many people use Facebook to brag about their lives and their general level of fabulousness. It isn't enough to be happy anymore, now many of us feel the need to assure the rest of the world how happy we are.

Although Henry David Thoreau noted that "the mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation," what I was witnessing on Facebook was the mass of men (and women) leading lives of loud desperation. Desperation came in many forms: some loudly proclaiming their love for a significant other when it was common knowledge the Facebooker was cheating. The "look at me" aspects of photo posting, noting vacations and parties that the poster wanted and needed everyone to know they had experienced. The proclamation of love for children: "he's the best!" "I just love my kid!!!!" that seemed bizarre: since when do we as parents need to publish our affection for our kids? Are we afraid people think we don't love them?

The final straw came when I received several friend requests from people who I have known in the past but who do not interact with me at this point in my life. For reasons good or bad, those friendships burnt out long ago and do not exist in the three dimensional world. Why then would they send me a Facebook friend request? And why did I confirm them as a friend? Auuugh!

What I finally decided to do was to take a break from Facebook and put my energy into a very few things in the physical world: my family, my work, and relationships with those friends most important to me. The result was liberating in ways that are difficult to describe, except to say that I found my life much more satisfying when I did not look for any form of friendship or validation via the computer.

And then, I'm not sure why, I went back. I wasn't the first Facebook junkie to fall off the wagon, and I won't be the last. But today I pulled the plug for good, after a Facebook-related ugly exchange with a former friend. This person had hurt me very badly in the past (see Kitchen Item meet Kitchen Item blog) and I have never been able to forgive them because of the magnitude of the transgression. I won't go into the details but I was unneccesarilly snarky to the person as a result and now I feel crappy about it because it was a ridiculous injection of blech into an otherwise really great morning. So, I bid adieu to Facebook and I won't be going back. Really. I swear.

From now on I will call my friends and invite them over instead of just posting something on their wall. I will share the good things in my life with others if I think they would be interested, and I won't approach releasing information about myself via the shotgun approach of an Internet posting. Except blogging of course, but that's different. Blogging, you see, is a writing exercise. And you know how important exercise is.

I have no objections to Facebook for anyone else, but my suggestion is to try going a few days without it and reach out to people in your lives in a more meaningful way. DesCamp, out.

Double Standards

2010-01-15T13:35:00.000-08:00

Since I do not have to go to the office at all on Mondays and Fridays, I generally tend to put in extra time working out on those days. I am able to get through 90 + minutes of cardio for one reason and one reason only: On Demand television. Tom's youngest JT gave us an enormous big screen TV last year, and we installed cable in the basement for our home gym. Don't be impressed, our home gym consists of one recumbant stationary bicycle and our washer and dryer.

Today, I indulged in some good old-fashioned ethnic stereotyping-through-television by watching not only an episode of The Sopranos, but also The Jersey Shore, MTV's latest attempt to prove that civilization as we know it is indeed coming to an end. Behold, the heroine of The Jersey Shore, Snookie:

Snookie may be little (4 foot 9 inches) but she has got a real mouth on her. In episode 4, Snookie persisted in berating a drunk fellow bar patron (male, and quite large) when he appeared to be stealing her drinks from the counter. He rewarded this scolding by punching her right in her cute little chipmunk face. Of course, she completely fell apart, and all the boys in the house were ready to kick some major ass, except the perp got hauled off to jail before they could assault him with their grotesquely large muscles. By the way, if you think steroids are no longer in fashion, I suggest you watch this show and take another look at the issue.

MTV has decided that the incident is too offensive to show on television, so they blacked out the screen during the moments when she actually got smacked and landed on the ground. Luckilly for you, I have provided a link!

Visit msnbc.com for breaking news, world news, and news about the economy

I agree that the scene is hard to watch, and I agree that men should not hit women. But then again, I don't think anyone should hit anyone. What is interesting to me is that on the very next episode, another housemate (Jenny, also known for some inexplicable reason as "J-Wow") throws quite a few punches at a woman in a bar who calls Snookie fat. Remarking on the BMI of her housemate is apparently the ultimate offense to J-Wow, and she went after this girl like a divorce lawyer after your 401k. MTV did NOT choose to excise this footage from the show.

What's also interesting is that after the episode in which poor Snookie takes one on the chin, MTV posted information at the end of the show denouncing violence against women BY MEN, and posting information about public resources for battered women. This was a bar fight, not a domestic violence situation. No such announcement ran at the end of the show when J-Wow apparently went psycho during a major episode of PMS.

My brain has been occupied lately with society's strange expectations of men and women. Even though women have made enormous strides in the past few decades, we still are often held to a different standard then men. We are not more fragile than men. We should not be physically assaulted by men, and at the same we should not be abused by other women either. Or transgendered folks, for that matter. By the same token, we should not raise our fists to anyone of any gender.

I just want to live in a world where we are all responsible for our own choices, regardless of sex or color or race or sexual preference or whatthehellever. We should all be responsible for our own choices. We should all be nice to each other. We should all be allowed to make a living and be recognized for our achievments whether we have a hoo hoo or a ding dong. I believe one thing holding us back from living in true gender equality is the coddling of our womenfolk, as illustrated by the story above. As a society, we should abhor all violence, and not be more offended when perpetrators and victims have a particular set of genitals.

And finally, for your veiwing pleasure, I hereby present my first entry in my new feature I am calling "Dirty Food." From time to time, I will be posting photos of pornographic food. It's weird, I know.

That's mozarella, in case you were wondering.

Working women and the dogs who thwart them

2010-01-14T13:29:00.000-08:00

As some of you know, I am lucky enough to have a great part-time job. While I would prefer a full-time position at my company, I am grateful in this economy to work the 20 hours a week I do. The cases I handle are interesting and often, quite frankly, fun.

While I am only in the office 2 ½ days per week, I am always connected to the office by my laptop at home. In order to work from home, I have to connect via a VPN, which requires me to input an access code that I get from what I call “the egg.” The egg is supposed to look like this:

Instead, today, the egg looks like this:

See, my dog is really mad at me. Back in September, I started this new work schedule. Prior to that point, I had been available to my puppy pretty much all the time since she came to live with us. Believe it or not, she loves me. A lot. And when I began working my grueling schedule of 2 ½ days per week in the office, she rebelled.

It started with toilet paper. Out of nowhere, about three days after I started disappearing from the home in order to earn money for her damn kibble, she started eating toilet paper. She would remove it from the holder and shred it all over the house. This was annoying, but given the fact she wasn’t gunning for my precious shoes, I overlooked it.

Next she started coming after anything I left on the bedside table. She got after a few books, and yesterday I came home to the chewed up access egg. So, literally, my dog ate my homework. She ate my ability to work from home, and even though I am only required to put in 20 hours per week, the fact is that I do quite a bit more from my home office, also known as my bed.

As if that were not bad enough, she also attempted to destroy my favorite pair of earrings, which Tom bought me on an ill-fated trip a couple of years ago. The trip was ill-fated for several reasons, most especially because all three of us (Tom, Jake and me) got sick. Tom was sick for at least two or three days before we left, and Jake was fine when we got to the airport (see photo)

but then vomited on the plane (more specifically, he vomited on me on the plane). And, the day after we arrived, I got sick.

Since Tom is just about the nicest guy ever (apologies to any ex-boyfriends or husbands who may be reading), he went into town and bought me a beautiful pair of earrings as a get-well gift. I wear them all the time and get many compliments on them, at which point I always tell the complimenting person the story of my wonderful husband and the fact that these are get-well earrings (I do this because Tom has gotten a bit miffed in the past if someone compliments me on something he has bought for me and I don’t instantly give him “credit”).

So, my dog is clearly retaliating against me for working “outside the home,” as it were. Margot is not your average dog. She is wicked smart, and as Tom says, “totally devoted” to me. I do the best I can to be with her as much as possible, but things just aren’t the same as they used to be. I can’t walk her every day, I can’t take her everywhere in my car anymore, but I am doing my best. Her hostility about this change in circumstances is clearly being manifested via her sudden need to chew things up that are very important to me. Yes, toilet paper is important to me, and don’t pretend it isn’t to you as well.

Yesterday, upon coming home to the chewed up access egg and earrings, I was upset. I was secretly a little pleased, since I was suffering a bit from bloggers’ block and needing a subject to write about, but mostly I was mad. I sat down with her and tried to explain that I need to work for my own sanity, and I did not put myself through the hell that is law school so I could sit around the house all day, baking cookies for her and Jake and Tom. I also reminded her that I needed to make a living, and that it wasn’t cheap keeping her in chew toys and Paul Newman treats.

She just looked at me, nonplussed. She thinks she is a princess and that the world revolves around her needs, and other people fulfilling them. My dog has no respect for the liberated woman, but then again, a lot of people don’t, as illustrated by this bus in London that was driving around a couple of days ago.

I have not forgotten that this is supposed to be a blog that shares fitness tips and healthy recipes, so let me try to remedy my lack of writing in those areas today with two fitness tips.

Fitness tip #1: get off your ass and get some exercise, every single day.
Fitness tip #2: see Fitness tip #1.

Greatest (?) Love Songs

2010-01-11T17:12:00.000-08:00

Tom and I have a song - do you? I don't mean do you have a song with Tom, because hopefully you don't (unless you are one of my friends who also has a husband named Tom, and there are actually quite a few), but I mean do you have a song that is especially special for you and your spouse/lover/sidekick?

At some point not too long after we met, but after we knew we were falling ass over teakettle in love, Tom and I were driving in his car to dinner. We had just experienced the perfect day together, including some humbling golf, and it was just one of those days when you know, you know? I looked over at him and I knew that no matter what, I was going to be nuts about this guy until the end. Nuts in a good way, not the stalking version, FYI...

He turned on the CD player in the car and a song I wasn't familiar with began to play. Tom suddenly told me, "this is our song."

"Huh? What? We have a song? Why didn't you tell me? Who is it? What's it about? Cool!"

"It's just that every time I hear this song, I think about you, and so I sort of consider it our song," he said. He looked a little sheepish. My heart did a major pitter-patter and I took his hand, started the song over again, and listened to the words.

Any of you know this one? It's called "I Will Follow You Into the Dark" by Deathcab for Cutie. Here is a sampling of some of the lyrics:

Love of mine some day you will die
But I'll be close behind
I'll follow you into the dark
No blinding light or tunnels to gates of white
Just our hands clasped so tight
Waiting for the hint of a spark
If Heaven and Hell decide
That they both are satisfied
Illuminate the NOs on their vacancy signs
If there's no one beside you
When your soul embarks
Then I'll follow you into the dark

Hmm, I thought to myself. So basically, Tom is telling me I am going to die someday (and it sounds like it's going to happen pretty soon), I'll probably be alone when it happens (when I shit the bed, as it were), that neither heaven nor hell will be willing or able to provide me with accomodations, that as a result I will spend the hereafter in some sort of purgatory called "the dark," and that if this happens, he will commit suicide to join me in this place called the dark, where things are probably pretty boring and I am guessing chilly.

He gets cold easilly, so that's a pretty big deal. I was moved, really, but it seemed a little morbid for a couple who just fell in love. It's sort of what you would expect Wednesday Addams to have played for the first dance at her wedding to Dracula.

Come to think of it, we did have that song played at our wedding.

Better that song than "Love and Marriage," sung by Frank Sinatra. On the surface, it seems like sort of a nice song, right? The very basic meaning upon first blush is that love and marriage go together, and that's just a wonderful thing! Then again, have you ever wondered why it was used in the opening credits for the show "Married with Children?"

Love and marriage
love and marriage
go together like a horse and carriage
this I tell you brother
you can't have one without the other.

OK, first of all, I agree completely that love and marriage "go together." They are supposed to, anyway, and hopefully for most of you that is your experience. I don't buy for a second that you can't have one without the other, because we all know married people who don't really love each other and most of us have been in love prior to marriage. Or after it. Or in high school, which doesn't really count.

The part that gets me in the song is that love and marriage go together "like a horse and carriage." That's a really good deal for the carriage, which can't do anything on its own but just sit there, but what about the horse? Here you have a perfectly good horse, roaming around his or her field and sniffing out the local action, and the next thing you know, he or she is getting "hitched" - chained up and expected to haul around this carriage that can't do shit without the horse and which keeps insisting on filling up with passengers and assorted stuff that is heavy. The horse has no say over what is put in the carriage, all he can do is whinny for a carrot once in a while and hope he gets lucky.

"I didn't sign up for this."

Love and marriage
love and marriage
it's an institute you can't disparage
ask the local gentry
and they will say it's elementary!
Marriage isn't for everyone, so if I feel like disparaging it I will go right ahead and do just that. I think a lot of smart people have made a pretty good case against the institution of marriage (including Mae West, who noted that marriage was a great institituion, but she wasn't ready for an institution just yet). Personally, I think that when you have a really great match between two people, it can work (wow - isn't that both insightful and inspirational?).

But what does the local gentry know about it, anyway? Aren't they busy counting their money and zipping to and fro in their expensive, gilded carriages? And serving tea?

And that reminds me, I will leave you with a picture I took outside Phil's Meat Market in Uptown last week. Dude in a skirt. I love this town.

Kitchen item, meet kitchen item

2010-01-10T16:36:00.000-08:00

Once again, I find myself pondering the etymology of another popular saying. Today, we discuss the pot/kettle issue, which is often phrased along the lines of "well, if that isn't the pot calling the kettle black!" or in today's more hip parlance, "pot, meet kettle."

We all know that when someone uses this expression, they are indicating that someone is accusing someone else of behavior that they themselves engage in. For example, if you are holding up a liquor store and another thief comes in for the same nefarious purpose, it wouldn't make much sense to say something along the lines of "how horrible - you shouldn't be robbing this store! Go make an honest living, you!" Assuming both your pot and your kettle are indeed black, that would really (but not literally!) be the pot calling the kettle black.

What I am searching for, however, is a new expression that will describe what happens when someone accuses you of being or doing something that you are not, but that they are. And don't say "well, what's wrong with the word hypocrite," because it isn't as precise as I need here and frankly, it's overused and boring. Let's go back to our earlier example, but you are no longer robbing the liquor store. Instead, you are just standing in line with everyone else, waiting to purchase your life-enhancers (vodka, cigarettes, and lottery tickets).

Said robber comes into the store armed to the teeth and exhibiting poor hygiene to boot. He points his gun at the cashier and acts in a generally menacing way to everyone during the commission of the robbery. He even utters a few words of profanity, just for dramatic effect ("open the fucking register! get down on the fucking ground!").

On his way out the door, he turns to you and says, "what do you do for a living?"

You look around behind you, and to your left and right. He is clearly addressing you and it seems prudent, since he is the one holding the big gun, to answer. In addition, you weren't brought up to be rude, and when people express an interest in learning more about you it seems unfriendly to not engage in the process.

"Me? Um, I'm a lawyer." You obviously don't need to ask the question in return, which is the polite thing to do in most circmstances, but clearly not expected in this one since it is rather obvious how he puts food on the table, or crack in the pipe, or whatever.

"Ugh," he groans, and grabs a few lottery tickets from behind the counter along with several miniature bottles of liquor. "Lawyers are the worst. I just don't know how you live with yourself."

You want to say something clever and cut this guy down a peg or two, not to mention defend your profession, but you also don't want to get shot. So, instead of saying "well you may have an income but I earn a living!" or something along those lines, you keep your smarty pants mouth shut and say nothing.

However, there should be a saying for that sort of situation, because doesn't it happen all the time? I know a woman who was constantly cheating on her boyfriend, and yet her favorite topic of conversation was to gossip incessantly about a friend of hers who she told people was cheating on her husband, even though she knew for a fact she wasn't. We can't say she was a pot calling the kettle black, what can we say? I've got it!

She was the le creuset calling the kettle red! As you can clearly see from the photo above, the le creuset is red, and the kettle is silver and shiny. I'm hoping this expression takes off quickly and somehow I can earn money from it. Perhaps I'll trademark it. Let's use it in a sentence, shall we?

"Sarah Palin claims she performed poorly in her interview with Katie Couric because Katie Couric is unintelligent, woefully unprepared, and profoundly annoying. Boy, that is the le creuset calling the kettle red!"

I like it. I really do. Now on to the food portion of our blog. Last night was a great evening. Taylor and JT came over for dinner, along with the Haddons (very nice couple but they are both far too good-looking and I find that annoying). Patrick and Crista joined us for the happy hour(s) portion of the night, but elected to have dinner elsewhere. And boy oh boy did they miss something special! I forgot to take a picture before we cut into it, so please forgive the leftovers shot.

If you are a lasagna lover, this is the recipe for you. If you are not a lasagna lover, seek therapy immediately.

Three-Cheese Lasagna with Italian Sausage

SAUCE

2 tablespoons olive oil
2 cup chopped onion
1 1/2 cup finely chopped peeled carrots
4 tablespoons minced garlic
1 pound ground veal
1 pound spicy Italian sausage, casings removed

2 28-ounce can crushed tomatoes with puree
1/2 cup tomato paste
1/2 cup chopped fresh basil
2 tablespoon golden brown sugar
1 tablespoon dried oregano
2 bay leaves
1 teaspoon dried crushed red pepper

LASAGNA

1 package no-bake lasagna noodles
2 15-ounce containers part-skim ricotta cheese
1 cup grated Parmesan cheese (about 3 ounces)
1 10-ounce package frozen chopped spinach, thawed, drained, squeezed dry
2 large eggs
4 3/4 cups grated mozzarella cheese (about 1 1/4 pounds)

FOR SAUCE:

Heat oil in heavy large saucepan over medium heat. Add onion, carrots and garlic; sauté until softened, about 12 minutes. Add veal and sausages to pan; sauté until cooked through, breaking up meat with back of spoon, about 5 minutes. Drain as much fat as possible from the pan. Add remaining ingredients. Cover and simmer until flavors blend and sauce thickens a bit, 20 minutes should do. Discard bay leaves. Cool.

FOR LASAGNA:

Combine ricotta and 3/4 cup Parmesan cheese in medium bowl. Mix in spinach. Season to taste with salt and pepper. Mix in eggs.

Spread 1/2 cup ora little more sauce over bottom of 13x9-inch glass baking dish. Place noodles over sauce. Spread one third of ricotta-spinach mixture evenly over noodles (I actually pick up the noodles and spread the mixture on them, then put them in the pan). Sprinkle mozzarella cheese evenly over ricotta-spinach mixture. Spoon sauce over cheese. Repeat layering twice. Arrange remaining noodles over sauce. Spread remaining sauce over noodles. Sprinkle remaining mozzarella cheese and Parmesan cheese evenly over lasagna. (Can be prepared up to 1 day ahead. Cover tightly with plastic wrap and refrigerate.) Cover baking dish with aluminum foil. Bake lasagna 40 minutes; uncover and bake until hot and bubbly, about 40 minutes. Let lasagna stand 15 minutes before serving.

This recipe is sooooo not on the diet.

Etymology and steak

2010-01-08T11:09:00.000-08:00

For various reasons this morning, I have two expressions on my mind:

1. "Turn the other cheek," and
2. "shit the bed"

As many people are already aware, "turn the other cheek" was a fabulous concept Jesus delivered in his sermon on the mount, in rejection of the "eye for an eye" approach to life. Now, I am not certain if Jesus meant that when smacked in the face a person should just sort of turn away and ignore their attacker, or if the victim is supposed to offer the other cheek for a smack as well. What happens next? Do you offer up each of your arms for abuse? Legs? When you run out of body areas to be attacked, do you start again with the original cheek, or do you hand them your puppy for a go?

That being said, a smarter person than I once observed that an eye for an eye leaves everyone blind, and nobody wants that (duh). But maybe there is a middle ground somewhere. With all that is going on in the world today (see earlier post re: Freedom Chicken), I hope someone figures out where that middle ground is. I'd like to but I am too busy blogging.

Now, "shit the bed" is an interesting phrase. My extensive research on google seems to indicate that the expression comes from the unfortunate and final humiliation suffered by many upon death, when the bowels are evacuated spontaneously. Since a lot of people probably die in bed, that explains why the saying is "shit the bed," instead of "shit the eames," or even "shit the toilet" (although many people, including Elvis, do pass away in this manner, and that seems even more humiliating than shitting the bed).

The urban dictionary tells us that "shit the bed" basically means the same thing as FUBAR (fucked up beyond all repair), or to really screw something up. Here, let's use the phrase in a couple of sentences:

"I really shit the bed when I missed that deadline." OR
"My car shit the bed on the way to work today - I think it's the fan belt." OR

"My dog shit the bed." No wait, this actually happened. Last night. Last night Tom was entertaining clients which gave me the opportunity to invite a good friend over to dine with me and Jake. Christy is a wonderful gal and an all-around nice person. Christy also has two dogs, Babs (blonde) and Ernie (black). Babs and Ernie are sisters and I love them. I really do.

But the problem is, sometimes these doggies are not well-behaved when they come to visit. Case in point: last night they came bounding through the door, filled with enthusiasm and general puppyosity. Babs immediately released her bladder onto the dining room rug (which reminds me, I really should get that cleaned up). Christy was mortified and I laughed it off. "Oh ho ho ho, don't worry about it, she's a good girl! We don't care! Have a glass of wine! La la la..."

Approximately 30 minutes passed. The dogs played outside quite a bit so it's not as if they didn't have the opportunity to use the proper potty. Suddenly Christy noticed Babs was missing. She went upstairs to look for her and came back down with a deeply disturbed look on her face. I could tell something had gone wrong, horribly wrong. I was just about to say "well at least she didn't shit the bed!" when Christy said "she shit the bed."

Seriously, this beautiful precocious labrador climbed on top of my bed and shit the bed. All I could do was laugh, because one thing that drives me crazy is when people use an expression and improperly insert the word "literally," as in "I was literally so broke I couldn't pay attention!" Really? You literally couldn't pay attention? Maybe you need some adderall (but you probably can't afford it, since you're so broke). And now I could say that Babs LITERALLY shit the bed! Fun times.

You will note from the photo above that the rug is missing and there is just an ugly grey pad on the floor. Well, let me tell you why! That rug, along with the other area rug in our kitchen, is "in the shop" being cleaned. I had Chem Dry come to the house last week to clean these rugs, because we had recently cared for two doggies while our friends Brooks and Brenna were galavanting around Florida for the holidays (lucky bitches). Bo, the little guy, was almost perfectly well-behaved. Buddy,the enormous dog, not so much.

On Christmas morning, Tom and I went to my ex-husband's house for breakfast with him, his fiance, and Jake. Yes, we are a very unusual family. I wouldn't have it any other way. Anyhoo, when we got home Buddy had gotten into our very very full garbage under the sink, and pulled it out. What he didn't eat, he deposited throughout the house. I am still finding chewed-up ribs in various nooks and crannies. The rug right in front of the sink got the worst of it, and at least three days' worth of coffee grounds were smooshed into it. As Tom and I were just about done cleaning up the mess, I looked at the other rug in the good room (I call it a good room, as opposed to a great room, because it's not all that big and the idea of calling a room in your house a great room just seems sort of braggy). Right in the middle of my favorite persian rug was the biggest dog poop I have ever seen. Buddy really shit the rug.

So, Chem Dry comes out and after taking a five seond look at these rugs, they call Tom downstairs. I heard them speaking in hushed, concerned voices. The tone sounded ominous. I was frightened. Trudging back upstairs, Tom came in the bedroom and sat on the bed. I do believe I was blogging at the time, so I looked up from my computer to see his worried face.

"I'm afraid it's worse than we thought," he said quietly. "They are going to have to take them into the shop and see what they can do there. They just don't have all the tools they need to do it here. I'm sorry."

"Will they be ok? Will they survive?" I asked, a tear forming in my right eye.

"I don't know. Maybe. Let's just hope for the best." The rugs are coming home today. Needless to say, Buddy will not be left alone in the house anymore. I'm starting to wonder what it is about this place that makes dogs act so naughty. Maybe it's a bad dog ghost or something. Maybe that Marley dog took up residence here after being such a terror to its owners. Of course, they're rich now because of that bad behavior, so I'm sure all is forgiven.

Finally, because this is somewhat of a cooking blog, I am including my steak method. It isn't much of a recipe really - it's very easy and I guarantee once you try this method you won't go back to grilling or broiling or whatever the hell it is you do. PLEASE NOTE: the most important ingredient in this steak is the steak, meaning that you must purchase Kobe beef from Phil's meat market in uptown. Because I am in cost-cutting mode and because I am trying to slim down, I almost never eat this steak anymore. But last night was an exception, because things have been a little weird lately and I needed me some Kobe. Bad.

THE BEST STEAK EVER

Take your meat (ribeye, NY, whatever) and apply kosher salt and fresh cracked pepper. Get a good frying pan out of your cabinet. Put it on the stove. Turn the heat on high. When the pan is very hot, put the steak in the pan. Cook for four minutes. Flip. Cook for four minutes. Take out of the pan and let rest for five minutes. Eat.

Oops, forgot to mention that if you want to really make it unhealthy (and I know you do), be sure to buy the Oba Steak Butter at Phil's (please tell them I sent you - these are truly lovely people). Apply some of the steak butter right after you take the meat off the heat.

And there you have it. Best. Steak. Ever.

Gotta go now, as it's time to put in 90 minutes of cardio and do a little weight lifting. See, I just remembered this blog was supposed to be all about getting healthy and lean. Somewhere along the way I went off on a tangent. Come to think of it, I prefer the current direction. Tomorrow we will talk butterscotch/chocolate chip cookies, which are Tommy's favorite.

Onward and upward. Try not to shit the bed today, and if someone is mean to you, turn the other cheek.

Spinach Salad and other random musings

2010-01-06T16:47:00.000-08:00

Last night I was fortunate enough to spend the evening with about 14 remarkable women. The one thing we all have in common is how different we are, and it makes for a fastastic time. We covered all the basics last night: love, sex, marriage (those three things should go together, we decided) and the importance of reducing greenhouse emissions in the coming decade.

OK, we may not have talked about emissions. Not greenhouse emissions, anyway.

So, here is a photo of three of us. The other women were busy uncorking wine so couldn't make it into the picture. Also, we took this photo for our old friend Omid Khonsari and emailed it to him in hopes he would email one back. He has not done so. Omid, are you reading this???

I made the cauliflower tart included on an earlier blog and this is how it came out. I tried to put a heart on top but it looked more like the letter "L." Oh well.

I'm thinking next time to eliminate the truffle oil altogether and use pie crust instead of puff pastry. I had an unfortunate truffle oil incident recently and have developed a serious aversion to the stuff. I know all 10 (10!!!!!) of my followers are waiting with bated breath to hear how the next one goes so I promise to let you all know.

There were lots of other fun food items as well and my best girl Emily made my WORLD FAMOUS spinach salad. Now, some of you may be thinking to yourselves, "selves, we have never heard of Robin's world famous salad, so how can it be famous?" It is famous, but not yet! It has yet to be discovered and that is why it is on my blog!

In the interests of full disclosure, this recipe was not invented by me. Once I have cooked something for over 30 guests (this does not have to happen in one sitting), I call it mine. Even though it isn't. I hope nobody sues me for copyright infringement but if they do I plan to pull out the Fair Use Doctrine and hit them over the head with it. The recipe appears at the end of this blog entry. If you try it once you will NEVER go back to your old spinach salad recipe. Assuming you have one, of course, which every civilized person should.

Finally, those of you that know me probably also know my dog Margot. Margot is the sweetest dog in the world and loves everybody. Everybody, that is, except Mike. Mike is my contractor's sheetrock sub, and Mike looks like your everyday average sheetrock guy, whatever that means. But Mike affects Margot in a very strange and bad, bad way. Every time he comes in our home, she goes after him. She barks, she growls, she bares her teeth like Gloria Alred if you try to get between her and a camera. We are talking mean.

This has led me to believe that Margot can sense something evil about this man...he is off, somehow. Tom and I (OK, it was really mostly me) came to the conclusion that Mike Sheetrock Guy is a serial killer. Or something else sinister-like (a Republican perchance?). He's got the perfect job to effectuate his serial-killer-career, as he can just bring his victims to his jobsites to get rid of their bodies! I think there may be something besides a new shower going into my bathroom, and I don't like it, but I can't call the police and report him because I don't want to end up in someone else's kitchen wall.

Don't give me a hard time about it. Not everyone is supposed to be a hero. But I did save a guy's life from drowning in Mexico once, so karma is on my side. True story. Maybe I'll blog about it some day, if you're lucky.

Salad Sevillana
1 cup olive oil
1/2 cup red wine vinegar
1/4 cup chopped onion
1/4 cup sugar
1 1/2 teaspoons paprika
1 teaspoon dry mustard
1 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon black pepper

1 10-ounce package ready-to-use spinach leaves or 1 pound fresh spinach, stemmed
1 8-ounce can Spanish artichoke hearts, drained, quartered
4 bacon slices, fried until crisp, broken into pieces
2 hard-boiled eggs, thinly sliced

Combine first 8 ingredients in blender or processor and blend until well combined and frothy. (Can be prepared 1 day ahead. Cover and refrigerate.)

Combine spinach, artichoke hearts, bacon and eggs in large bowl. Toss with enough dressing to coat generously. Divide among 4 plates and serve.

Bon Appétit

"Excuse me, I'm trying to panhandle here!!"

2010-01-05T11:20:00.000-08:00

I've had a couple of strange incidents lately involving panhandlers (or, as Jake calls them, hobos, despite the lack of a long stick with a little bag attached at the end and a nearby train station). A few weeks ago as I was walking along in the Pearl to meet a friend for lunch, I noticed two gentlemen in front of me. One had a sign and was standing on the street corner attempting to guilt passing motorists into stopping and handing him some cash. The sign said something like "If you live in the Pearl District you are a snotty rich bastard and you probably consume truffle oil on a regular basis and your dog cost more than my last car so give me some money, beeyotch." I was surprised, but his approach seemed to be working.

The other man was just standing there, looking a little bewildered and bending over to retrieve a half-smoked cigarette from the street. Yes, it is still legal to smoke outside in Portland, but I'm sure our capable mayor and city council will eliminate that luxury soon. Anyway, I digress...

This hapless hobo had now put the garbage/smoke between his lips and asked me if I had a light. "Sorry," I said, "I only keep matches at home since it illegal now to smoke anywhere but your own dwelling unit or in the middle of a corn field."

"Shit," he muttered, then his face brightened a little. "You wouldn't happen to have a spare dollar or two, would you? I'm really hungry."

I reached into my wallet and eyed him carefully. "You're not going to spend this money on drugs, are you?" I asked, squinting my eyes in an accusatory fashion while simultaneously trying to emote concern about his well-being. I was hoping worst-case scenario he might take my money and pop into Blue Hour for a spicy Blood Mary. That, I could handle, but knowing my hard-earned cash was going to a meth lab entrepreneur would be too much.

"Nah, man, I just want to get a burger," he said, and I handed the money over to him. Suddenly, the other guy was in his face, yelling at him.

"DO YOU MIND???" he screamed, "I'M TRYING TO PANHANDLE HERE!"

Put the emphasis on the word "panhandle" and it's even funnier. This really happened. Only in Portland, my friends.

The Last Supper (for a while)

2010-01-05T10:33:00.000-08:00

Light night it was our pleasure to host all three of Tom's kids (plus JT's girlfriend Rachel) for what will be our last dinner all together for a while. Kendall leaves today to go back to Moscow and JT will head back to Arizona in a week. I'll miss them. Taylor remains in Portland, and has agreed to take down our Christmas tree for $20. It seems like money well spent.

My father gave me this recipe and I am passing it along to you. However, I have changed the name (sorry, Dad). Originally, it was called "Chicken Ali Bab." I have renamed it "Freedom Chicken." I'm sorry, but I just can't say "Chicken Ali Bab" without laughing and picturing Lawrence of Arabia careening around on a camel. Also (or "and also, too," as my friend Sarah Palin would say), I have a little bit of a problem cooking food with a name that sounds even remotely middle-eastern. Ever since the muslim extremists started flying our planes into buildings and trying to light their underwear on fire while seated on a commercial aircraft, I am careful not to do anything that would appear to support terrorism. Finally, I think Dad meant to call the recipe "Chicken Ali Baba," even though there is no (open) sesame in this dish. Ha ha.

Actually, he claims Ali Bab was a famous french chef in the 19th Century, but since I have never heard of him, and google seems to not know who he is, I question this information.

A few notes on this recipe:
1. I found it took longer than 50 minutes to cook, but that may be because I had closer to 7 1/2 pounds of chicken crammed into my le creuset;
2. I added a little extra olive oil; and
3. I broiled the chicken at the very end to get it a little extra brown and crispy. It did not dry the chicken at all.

~~CHICKEN ALI BAB~~ (FREEDOM CHICKEN)

6 lbs chicken thighs or combined breasts and thighs
2 tablespoons coriander
2 ½ tablespoons ground cumin
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1 ½ teaspoons kosher salt
4 tablespoons minced garlic
1 lemon, sliced very thin
½ teaspoon freshly ground pepper
¼ cup olive oil
¾ cup shelled pistachio nuts
16 shallots, peeled and halved
3 tablespoons ginger marmalade
2 teaspoons granulated sugar
3 tablespoons fresh lemon juice
1/2 cup dried apricots
½ cup dried prunes

¾ cup white wine
2/3 cup packed brown sugar

Fresh cilantro for garnish

Combine all ingredients except chicken, wine and brown sugar in a large bowl and mix thoroughly.

Divide chicken pieces between 2 gallon plastic zip-lock bags and pour half of the mixed ingredients in each bag along with the chicken. Refrigerate for at least 12 hours.

Pre-heat oven to 350 degrees. Pour chicken and marinade into large flat baking dish. Arrange the chicken bone side down in one layer. Pour the wine over the chicken and sprinkle with brown sugar. Bake for 50 minutes, basting several times with pan juices.

Remove chicken pieces and the lemon slices and set on a platter. Cover with foil and place in a warm (200 degree) oven.

Thicken the sauce with 2-3 tablespoons corn starch whisked in. Boil gently until the sauce is thick. Spoon the sauce over the chicken, and garnish with chopped fresh cilantro. Serve the remaining sauce in a pitcher.

Dieting: the man's approach, the woman's

2010-01-04T09:40:00.000-08:00

Tom doesn't cook very often. He works later than I do and I like to handle this aspect of our domestic life. However, once in a while he will insist on preparing a meal. I was doubly surprised in the last few days in that he cooked breakfast (Saturday) and dinner (Sunday). The only problem with Tom cooking (besides the obvious - nobody ever taught him how) is that he is a bit clueless about food content.

Also, it annoys him when I linger over his shoulder, peppering him with helpful suggestions and moving the pan so it is actually on the flame. Really, I have to do this.

Saturday Tom wanted to make scrambled eggs before we went to the gym. Depending on how you make them, scrambled eggs are a fairly healthy way to start the day, especially when you are planning on working out that morning.

"Stay out of the kitchen, woman, I am in charge of the pan." Fine. Jake and I waited upstairs for the Man of the House to call us to breakfast. However, that didn't last long. My son insisted that I go downstairs to check on Tom and make sure he was "doing it right, because mom, he doesn't cook very often." True dat.

I snuck down the stairs and gazed at the assembled goodies my loving husband was getting ready to throw into the eggs. Summer sausage, gruyere, and onions. Uh oh. I think he forgot about the diet. I crept upstairs and warned Jake about our situation. "Mommy, can you please just cook me my own eggs?" he pleaded. It isn't that Jake's on a diet, he just doesn't like lots of food in his food, if you catch my meaning.

I had a real connundrum on my hands: hurt my husband's feelings by reminding him that sausage and cheese are not exactly On the Program, or just go ahead and eat the breakfast and make up for it later with an extra hour of cardio. That choice won the day, though Jake did get his eggs over-easy.

Indugence in carbohydrates was not a problem at this meal, however. Tom had placed some rolls leftover from the Rose Bowl (Rolls Bowl?) into the oven to warm. While I took my second bite into the aforementioned bread item, I noticed a lovely green fuzz sprouting out from its bottom half.

"Ew!" I shrieked, and dropped it back on the plate. "Don't eat that, boys, it's moldy!" Jake and Tom both looked at me and shrugged, and continued ingesting the offending bread product. I felt sick.

"I can't believe you are eating that. Disgusting. I'm making a piece of toast. Who wants one?"

"Not me!" said Tom, "nothing wrong here!" Jake looked at me and looked at Tom, not sure what to do.

"Um, I'll just stick with the roll," he said, not wanting to hurt Tom's cooking feelings any more than he may have already done via the egg incident. He spread more butter and jam on the roll, as did my husband, as if additional condiments could rememdy the fact that the bread was DECOMPOSING RIGHT BEFORE OUR VERY EYES. Ugh.

As I fetched my (very tiny) piece of toast out of the toaster, I saw Jake inspecting his roll very carefully. "Um, mom, is this mold?" Well, yes, yes it was. He handed me the roll and asked for a piece of toast. I obliged, and asked Tom again if he wouldn't prefer a piece of toast.

"Nothing wrong with this bread!" he annouced happily, and put some more butter and jam on it.

"Suit yourself, MoldMan," I muttered, and tossed Jake his toast. We sat down again. Suddenly, Tom started examining his second jam and butter-slathered roll. Closely. I got up and threw another piece of bread in the toaster.

Last night, Tom made burgers. Cheeseburgers are Tom's specialty, one of two dinners he can cook (the other being roast chicken, but the chicken must be cooked by someone else, such as Zupan's). As he made the shopping list, I peered over his shoulder. "Are you getting beef?" I asked, in my nicest, least-judgmental tone.

"Well duh, what else would I get?" he laughed. "I'm making my famous cheesburgers, not my famous roast chicken!" I sighed.

"Well, since we are on this new diet, I'll try the Boca burgers!" I announced cheerfully. "Remember how good that phony sausage was on Christmas at Patrick and Crista's? It's soy! It's low calorie! It's high protein! You'll love it!"

""Maybe next time," he said, and folded up the list. Behold, my dinner, and the dinner for Jake and Tom. I think it's time to start putting wagers on this weight loss thing.

Pure, unadulterated joy

2010-01-02T09:56:00.000-08:00

This is slowly turning out to be a cooking blog. Oh well. I made the tart below for a NYE party and it was amazing. If you choose puff pastry (as I did) be sure to poke a few holes in it before the pre-bake so the bottom doesn't puff up too much (thanks Autumn, and I'm sorry for molesting your gorgeous pregnant belly all night!).

I have decided that this year I am going to try to make a difference in Oregon law. I will be heading to Salem in an effort to create alimony reform in this state. Slavery was elimated a few years ago and yet this antiquated notion lives on. Nothing like having big goals for the year. Get in better shape, improve the golf game, change the law...no problem.

I don't have much to say today. I am still suffering somewhat from overindulgence the past couple of days and frankly my intellectual resources are fully tapped. Time to help Tom scramble some eggs and get all three of us down to the club for a good sweat. You can't eat food like the tart below and not put in some serious time making up for it.

Here's to 2010. I'll try to be more clever later.

Cauliflower and Caramelized Onion Tart
1 small head of cauliflower (about 1 pound), cored, cut into 1-inch florets

2 1/2 tablespoons olive oil, divided

1 tablespoon truffle oil

1 pie crust or puff pastry sheet

1 large onion, halved lengthwise, thinly sliced

1 tablespoon Dijon mustard

2 large eggs

1 7- to 8-ounce container mascarpone cheese
1/2 cup whipping cream

1/4 teaspoon ground white pepper

Pinch of ground nutmeg

1 cup grated Gruyère cheese

3/4 cup grated Parmesan cheese

Position rack in center of oven; preheat to 425°F. Toss cauliflower with 1 tablespoon olive oil in large bowl. Spread on large rimmed baking sheet, spacing apart. Sprinkle with salt and pepper. Roast 15 minutes; turn florets over. Continue roasting until tender, about 25 minutes longer. Cool cauliflower, then thinly slice. Drizzle with truffle oil; toss. Reduce oven temperature to 350°F.

Press pie crust onto bottom and up sides of 9-inch-diameter tart pan with removable bottom. Line pie crust with foil; fill with pie weights. Bake crust 20 minutes. Remove foil and pie weights; bake until crust is golden, about 5 minutes, pressing crust with back of fork if bubbles form. Cool crust. Maintain oven temperature.

Heat remaining 1 1/2 tablespoons olive oil in heavy large skillet over medium heat. Add onion; sprinkle with salt and pepper. Cook until onion is deep golden brown, stirring occasionally, about 40 minutes. Cool slightly. DO AHEAD Can be made 1 day ahead. Store crust at room temperature. Cover and chill cauliflower and onion separately.

Brush bottom and sides of crust with mustard. Spread onion in crust. Arrange cauliflower evenly over. Set tart on rimmed baking sheet. Whisk eggs and next 4 ingredients in medium bowl. Stir in Gruyère. Pour mixture over filling in tart pan; sprinkle with Parmesan. Bake until tart is golden and center is set, about 40 minutes. Transfer to rack; cool 15 minutes before serving.

Bon Appétit

March 2007

Three days of torture

2009-12-30T15:23:00.000-08:00

I've been a good girl - really. I have spent the past three days diligently tracking my caloric intake, exercise, and giving myself positive reinforcement through SC (silent cheerleading - it's a movement I have started but not yet publicized until now). SC involves dispensing with the negative self-talk (your jeans are tight! you're getting cellulite! nobody follows your blog!) to focusing on the positive (they shrunk in the wash! I'll buy that magic cream from TV! Dad follows my blog!).

So far, the SC has been minimally effective and I have found the most effective way to stay motivated is to picture myself at the finish line. In Vegas. In a flattering outfit. With a cheesecake. However, if you are going to engage in SC outside the privacy of your home, please remember to refrain from moving your lips as you construct your uplifting, positive self-talk. At the gym yesterday I had a few people look askance at me as I silently mouthed "you go guuurl!" and "she's waaaay bigger than you!" while pumping my fists in a boxing motion on the elliptical. People are so uncomfortable around anyone who's different. Geez.

Today I spent 80 minutes on cardio and 20 on weightlifting. The weightlifting portion of the workout consisted of lifting a small weight in the form of a wine glass up and down, up and down, you get the drift. My trainer tells me low weight, high repetition will give me the greatest result, so I am just following orders. By May I should be toned, trimmed, and residing at the Betty Ford Center.

I kid! I kid! I would never drink excessively while dieting or engage in BUI (blogging under the influence).

Because Friday is the Rose Bowl, and because the Ducks make it to the Rose Bowl about as often as we get a blue moon on New Year's Eve, I am forsaking the strict meal plan and making a pork ragu ziti, recipe below. It is not even remotely healthy. However, I feel strongly that people like me more when I cook this dish. Love me, even. Try it, you'll like it.

Finally, I'd like to note that beauty is on the inside, not the outside. You have no idea how gorgeous I am. I'm Claudia Schiffer if you turn me inside out. I've been working with my neighborhood plastic surgeon to figure out how to do that, but he suggests I explore Botox and liposuction in the meantime. Whatever.

Baked Ziti with Spicy Pork and Sausage Ragù

2 tablespoons olive oil

4 ounces thinly sliced pancetta,* chopped

2 pounds Boston butt (pork shoulder), cut into 1 1/4-inch cubes

1 pound Italian hot sausages, casings removed

2 cups chopped onions

3/4 cup chopped carrots

3/4 cup chopped celery

6 large fresh thyme sprigs

6 large garlic cloves, chopped

2 bay leaves

1/2 teaspoon dried crushed red pepper

2 cups dry red wine

1 28-ounce can plum tomatoes in juice, tomatoes chopped, juice reserved

1 1/4 pounds ziti pasta

2 cups (packed) coarsely grated whole-milk mozzarella cheese (about 8 ounces)

1/2 cup freshly grated Parmesan cheese

Heat olive oil in heavy large pot over medium-high heat. Add pancetta and sauté until brown and crisp. Using slotted spoon, transfer pancetta to bowl. Sprinkle pork with salt and pepper. Add half of pork to drippings in pot; sauté until brown, about 7 minutes. Transfer to bowl with pancetta. Repeat with remaining pork. Add sausage to same pot. Sauté until no longer pink, breaking up with back of fork, about 5 minutes. Add onions, carrots, celery, thyme, garlic, bay leaves, and crushed red pepper. Reduce heat to medium-low; sauté until vegetables are tender, about 10 minutes. Add wine and bring to boil, scraping up browned bits. Add pancetta and pork with any accumulated juices; boil 2 minutes. Add tomatoes with juice. Cover and cook until pork is very tender, adjusting heat as needed to maintain gentle simmer and stirring occasionally, about 2 hours.

Uncover pot; tilt to 1 side and spoon off fat from surface of ragù. Gently press pork pieces with back of fork to break up meat coarsely. Season ragù to taste with salt and pepper. (Can be made 2 days ahead. Cool slightly. Refrigerate uncovered until cold, then cover and keep refrigerated. Rewarm over low heat before continuing.)

Preheat oven to 400°F. Butter 15x10x2-inch glass baking dish or other 4-quart baking dish. Cook pasta in large pot of boiling salted water until tender but still firm to bite, stirring occasionally. Drain pasta; mix into ragù. Season mixture to taste with salt and pepper; transfer to prepared dish. Sprinkle both cheeses over. Bake until heated through and golden, about 20 minutes.

Shaken, not stirred

2009-12-27T21:37:00.000-08:00

Unlike Margaritas, I prefer my family blended rather than on the rocks. It's not always easy but it's better than the alternative (a sweet and sour slushy mess complete with legal fees and heartburn). Tonight was a nice evening at my father's house with his lovely SO (that's significant other, for you uninitiated folk) Barbara, Jake, Tom, the sistah Melinda and Patrick and Crista. Attached is a picture of Jake making out with Margot. We still suspect he may turn out fairly normal, depsite overwhelming evidence to the contrary, as illustrated by this photo.

My intent in writing this blog is not to embarass anyone in my family or group of friends. Please be assured, any resulting humiliation or uncomfortable feelings that may result from you being mentioned here is purely unintentional (and totally delicious).

Jake's Poem, written last year in 2nd grade

2009-12-27T16:50:00.000-08:00

Thuja Plicata/Arbor Vitae

2009-12-27T15:05:00.000-08:00

Thuja Plicata/Arbor Vitae

Making my way through forest park
Snow falling all around me as I take the silent trek with the blonde beauty
My tracks are first which seems satisfying somehow.

A month ago you fell and I’ve walked past you several times since then
But today, thoughts of botox and birthday filled my head
Silly woman clinging to the youth she never squandered.

Was it a terrific gust that brought you down in that December storm
Or was it the collective efforts of the rain and wind over so many decades
And does it matter what finally brought you weeping to the forest floor?

Days after you gave way to the forces you could not match
They came with screaming chainsaws and cut you in two,
Your magnificent corpse impeding the progress of hikers.

Cracked wide and yawning open
Your belly red and teeming with mushrooms and insects
In your death you continue to give life.

2009-12-27T14:44:00.000-08:00

First Blog. Bear with me.

2009-12-27T14:15:00.000-08:00

I've decided that as part of my New Year's resolutions and total life-changing goals, keeping a blog would be a good way to achieve my new inner adequateness. I'm not aiming for perfection; I'll leave that for saints and pageant contestants like the lovely Ms. Prejan.

No, I'm just hoping to accomplish a few minor things this year, like becoming a well-rounded person (but less round), insanely good golfer (but not too good because Tom hates it when I out drive him), even better mom (though if you ask Jake, this isn't possible, and I wonder if that's because he thinks I am fabulous or just because he knows my limitations as a human being may prevent significant development in this area), and the ultimate employment lawyer for my employer, succeeding in quashing hungry plaintiff's dreams of easy cash and reducing them to tears on a daily basis.

As you can see, I've got some work to do. Because my husband accused me recently of making him gain weight through my kitchen sorcery and all-around mischievous nature (if he's fat, no other woman will want him! mwa ha ha ha ha), I have punished him by making him embark on a get-in-better-shape plan for the new year with me, with a goal of supermodel-dom by May, when we embark to Vegas for my ex-husband's wedding and Tom's son's 21st birthday. My nephew Nick will also be celebrating his 21st birthday in Vegas at the same time, so it should be a scene of total debauchery and all-around bad behavior. Needless to say, we want to look our best when we make this trip. Photos will be taken. There WILL be a record. 'Nuff said.

So basically, I plan to use this blog to share healthy recipes, workout tips, results (only the good ones, of course), and as a place to go for distraction when the white wine and brie is calling and I really need to find something else to do. Also, I will likely complain from time to time about how hungry I am. I'LL PLAN TO DO THAT IN ALL CAPS.

I'll also be posting blogs loaded with my opinions about various events in my life and current events. I am not allowed to vent to my husband or child anymore about the insidious Sarah Palin, or the fact that people on reality shows are not "actors." My rantings about Richard Heene have also been curbed at home, and don't get me started on the smoking ban. Basically, this blog will serve as a shout into an empty, cold universe of despair. I hope I don't offend anyone. Then again, that's sort of my specialty.

One more thing. Once in a while I like to write a poem or a song. I'll torture you with that too.