Video: Beyonce and the Year of 4
My second novel is done.
I wonder if I’ll always feel this at sea when a massive project is over.
I saw this 20 minute documentary mentioned twice today. I think it’s a sign. I’m sorry, you don’t believe in signs? Then where do you get all your guidance? Logic? REASON?
-0.4
The problem with writing a food blog is that I’m on Weight Watchers.
Ok, maybe that’s a very person-specific problem. But you feel me, right?
Take this week’s Sweet Potato Bread. Yummy, delicious, moist vegetable bread. Not so delicious? 1/2 cup of vegetable oil. Sigh. Oh, oil. I used to love you so. Cue montage of me + oil, frolicking awkwardly (because it’s oil).
I ended up making some substitutions for my version of Sweet Potato Bread… Sweet Potato Muffins. I won’t tell you what I did because they were just okay. Mostly, it involved using applesauce instead of oil which I have decided you should never do. It always ends up tasting like “diet food.” They tasted fine. Just fine. Not worth the 4 points in each (5 with some creamed cheese topping) though.
BUT. Look how pretty the pics came out! Oh, iPhone 4S. Never leave me.
Celebrate: I lost 0.4 pounds this week!!!! 12 pounds to go! Think that’s not worth celebrating? That’s 2 giant chicken breasts that are now OFF my body. That’s a Big Mac OFF my body. So, yes. We’re celebrating. Weight loss should be low and slow, the brisket of achievements.
Where is Nia Long?
Where did she go? I caught two minutes of The Best Man the other day. Girl, where did you go? Are you all right? Should we start looking for her? I guess I could just check IMDB or something.
Runs with Poop
The Book
Chapters 1 through 18 of the new book are done. Donzo.
I’ve been writing every day until ten at night, when my brain cannot possibly fit in any more details about whose eyes are what color and who is married to what and why is that there, that should be over here, OH MY GOD NO ONE WILL READ THIS because I am dead. I will never write about this many characters ever again. I love the idea of writing about a big family and I still have flashes, like yesterday when I finished a big dinner table scene, where it brings me joy but for the most part, I’m tired of complicated, inter-threading plot lines and overlapping intentions and subtext and motivations.
The Dog
Because my schedule is largely my own these days, a friend encouraged me to keep exercising. I explained that running outside was difficult because I have a lethargic dog in my hands and unless I toss some resistance bands around him, his pulling and dragging will ensure I never break a 15 minute mile. Her suggestion: walk him and then go running- look, I know I have a little more leeway with time here but who can do that? Who? I can’t even bear the thought of buying an apple corer because it only does one thing- am I really going to cover the same distance twice when I can do it in one?
So no. I run with the dog. I drag the dog for half of it. And then he poops and I have to carry it and run, in my fist, for at least half the way. That’s a metaphor for something I’m sure.
For My Girls
I wrote this a few weeks ago and never published it. So I thought I’d share it today.
Two weeks ago, I left my job in Chicago and moved back to the East Coast. I also left my junior associates and my interns, who were in my charge (I like saying it that way- it makes me feel like Michael Caine in The Cider House Rules. God, that was a depressing movie). This is the letter I wrote to them in my head.
Dear Girls,
I am leaving you soon. You know this. We’ve discussed it at length. But there are some things I feel necessary to share with you before I go. Please put your phone down and listen to me- I promise this won’t take more than a few minutes.
I’ve grown very fond of you over the last few days, months, years. With some of you, it feels like I stumbled upon a delicate baby doe in a forest clearing and guided you out into the light, feeding you mini-marshmallows and unicorn tears. With others, it’s more like I stepped out of that clearing and into a pile of dog poo- I scraped you off my shoe and molded you into a poo-shaped statue of middling substance (I’ll let you discuss amongst yourselves who is who).
During our time together, the generation gap between us has been made clear. When I stand up at my desk, having forgotten what I was leaving to get, you laugh at me. While you discuss which Flintstones vitamins taste the best, I am trying to choke down a fish oil capsul the size of my head. When you tell me you are not acquainted with Bridget Fonda’s body of film work (who?), you leave me yelling out words that mean nothing to you (Point of No Return! Singles! SINGLES!). I hope, despite these minor missteps in communication, you will allow me to bestow a few parting words of wisdom.
Here are, dear girls, a few things I wish someone had told me when I was your age:
It’s time to start looking and dressing like someone old enough to buy me a drink.
I’m not suggesting you join me on a jaunt to Ann Taylor Loft or something- but it’s time to put the T-shirts and cartoon hoodies away. This is a “creative” company, yes, but seeing you in a side ponytail does not inspire my trust in your abilities, sad but true. And it does not make our bosses think, “I think it’s time I gave that Child-Girl a promotion!” Forever 21 has some lovely pieces that are fun and work appropriate and they cost approximately $4. When they fall apart after two weeks, you can go out and buy something else- look at that! A constantly evolving wardrobe and you’re not even 24.
Ask questions- the right questions.
I know how hard it is to be in a position where you’re supposed to be learning and yet the people around you, for some strange reason, expect you to already know how to do things. When I see you sitting at your screen, frowning at it like you’re expecting that Word paperclip guy (who?) to appear and provide you with Jiminy Cricket-like assistance (wha?), I know you have questions you are afraid to voice. Let me tell you something- the ability to ask the right questions is a supremely valuable tool in your arsenal. It makes you look proactive and tells the other person that you care and want to do a good job. And what do I mean by “right questions”? I’m so glad you asked.
Try to Google it for yourself first.
If I thought about how many times you’ve IMed with a question that led me to turn on Google search, I would be a very rich person by now. I would own a media conglomerate and Hugh Grant (that old guy?) would be tapping my phone and we would not be having this conversation.
When in doubt, try to answer your question yourself. If you can’t, it’s time to speak up.
The biggest one: discover that being strong and confident does not make you a bitch.
I don’t want to be rude. I don’t want them to think I’m nagging them. I don’t want to be mean. I don’t want to sound like a bitch. I’m sorry but can you? I don’t want them to get annoyed. I want them to like me.
Nobody tells you this but respect is first and foremost an inside job. When you respect your own mind, opinions, abilities, instincts and voice, you send a message to everyone else that you deserve to be respected. And then a funny thing will happen- you will stop caring whether or not they like you. But that’s ok! Because respecting yourself means you will want to do a good job, for the best possible reasons, and that desire will make you good at your job and, if you have a good heart and are respectful of their minds, opinions, abilities, instincts and voice, your coworkers will like you. It’s like magic! It’s Harry Potter without the wands (hey, I got that reference!).
You will be fine. And if there’s anything you need, now you know you can just ask. (Unless it’s about an address or something- because, seriously, Google that shit yourself).
With love and affection,
Judi
Marilyn
I was going to write a little something for Marilyn’s birthday today (she would’ve been 85), maybe embed a clip from one of her movies. But you can’t really get better than Kim Morgan’s yearly tribute to her on Sunset Gun. So if you’re feeling a little lost today and you’re not sure why, it’s most likely because of Marilyn. And if you’d like to read about her, because it feels fitting, then read this.
In Which I Cringingly Ask You For Money
I enjoy giving money for charity. When I’m having a crappy day, donating money to a worthy cause makes me feel like my insides are all nice and shiny- at least for a fleeting moment, all is right with the world. I feel like a good person deserving of love and maybe a banquet in my honor where the hosts play a montage in black and white, not that I’ve pictured this or anything, and the charity gets a few bucks- EVERYBODY WINS.
I have, however, a love-meh-ugh relationship with the Person Who Is Constantly Asking You to Donate Money. On the one hand, I’m glad there’s an advocate out there who is reminding people on Twitter and Facebook and via personal emails that they should donate to such and such cause. On the other hand, I don’t know. Donating always feels so personal to me. I like to give for my own reasons and it feels, I don’t know, awkward to try and wheedle money out of YOU for something that means so much to ME. Also, people give back in so many silent, unseen ways. ALSO, what if they don’t have $5 to spare right now? And now I’ve made this weird because they didn’t donate and I don’t know the reason and I can’t ask but I don’t really ignore it either and BLECH. And yet how else do things like breast cancer research get money without someone asking you to donate money to their 5k? Hence the mixed feelings.
This is clearly my issue to deal with. I am that person who will politely ignore your pregnant belly until you’re crowning unless you deliberately tell me you’re pregnant just to avoid the potential disaster of “this is actually a cookie baby” conversation where we both want to be swallowed into a hole and die. (And we’ll get to all that later.)
Anyway- I’m putting my personal squigginesh (it’s a word) aside to tell you a few facts and give you some INFORMATION about a cause that is currently taking donations. And then we will all turn around and ignore each other and forget this ever happened (unless you donate, in which case, I’m going to write you a very nice thank you note unless you don’t want one in which case, I’ll just be thanking you silently with a swelling, blooming heart).
Five years ago in March, my sister gave birth to a baby girl named Caterina Mary. She was born with a genetic disorder called Trisomy 13. 80% of babies born with Trisomy 13 die within the first month. Caterina lived to almost two months. Every day was her birthday. We loved her. These are all facts.
We celebrate her life every year because She Lived. We never really talked about the reasons why but I think we all have our different reasons for doing this – my sister’s reasons are her own, as are my brother-in-law’s, and my mother and father and his mother and father and my brother and sister and, well, I clearly can’t speak for them. I don’t want to speak for them. But my reasons don’t have much to do with grief or grieving, I don’t think. Because for me, it’s just nice to have a set amount of time every year to think about her and how she felt in my arms and the kind of little, tiny person she was. Because loving her for two months, such an awfully short span of time, makes me so deeply appreciative of my nieces and nephew who are alive and present and there for me to hold. Because she informs my work when I feel the need, the urge, to write about loss. Because she makes me respectfully quiet when I need to be. Because she makes me more.
A weekend is the least I can do to repay her for that.
This year, my sister decided to participate in a 5K where the proceeds benefit The Hole in the Wall Gang Camp. She said we could participate or not, there was no Great Mandate on high or anything. Our siblings are running, my niece, my parents too. I’m donating money but I’m not running. I’ve offered to hold my newborn niece while they all run. I know Caterina won’t mind. In fact, I think she’d find it quite fitting under the circumstances.
If you’d like to donate to my brother’s run, here is the information. Those kids in the camp would be grateful. So would I.
If you can’t spare a few bucks, then please take this with you instead:
– If someone you know has lost a baby, whether it’s first trimester, last or beyond, say you’re sorry. But don’t offer advice unless it’s asked for.
– When you see a parent with a child in the supermarket or the movie theater or an airplane and the kid is yelling and raising hell, don’t roll your eyes or make a remark. Be kind. Give them a break. You don’t know the whole story.
– When you see a pregnant woman you don’t know, and even someone you DO know, stay quiet. If she expresses excitement, express it with her, sure. Otherwise, be kind. You don’t know the whole story.
In short, be cool. Give people the benefit of the doubt. Assume there’s more, way more, to the story.
In Which I Am Viciously Attacked by a Rabbit
The backyard of my apartment building (apartment house?) is officially out of control.
Thanks to my downstairs neighbors who think it’s absolutely no big deal whatsover to leave their nasty trash out on the back porch for five endless days (every. time.), a duo of idiot squirrels have taken up residence on MY back porch for what I am sure they’ve dubbed “Operation: Delicious Trash.” And they are not afraid of me. Nor are they afraid of my giant dog. They’re so close when I open my back door that I actually shiver, imagining what it would be like if one of them, I don’t know, crawled up my pant leg or something. I don’t know why a squirrel would think that’s the ideal form of attack like “Chip, I think the smartest way to get to her delicious flesh is through her flared pantleg” but there is no LOGIC when you’re a foot away from a rodent, ok? These are the things you immediately think about.
Also, I’m not sure if you’re aware of this but Chicago’s neighborhoods are filled with rabbits. I’ve lived in other cities and I had never found roaming gangs of Peter Rabbit before I moved to Chicago. In DC, we had black squirrels but that’s as exotic as it got. Here, we’ll be walking along and suddenly Charlie Bagel will get tense beside me. He has no interest in squirrels but, for some reason, is determined to murder these rabbits. I think it might be a remnant of his Kentucky upbringing. And suddenly, a little bunny will hop out of a garden and onto a sidewalk. Charlie will try to kill it. I will reenact key scenes from Watership Down. And so on and so on.
Except. The other night, I was taking the dog out for our evening constitutional. He was on his leash. I had the hiccups and was annoyed that I had the hiccups. We were walking through the backyard, heading for the gate. Suddenly, the closed gate in view, Charlie froze. In between us and the gate was a rabbit. On our left, the wall of the garage. On the right, a fence.
The three of us stood there, at an impasse and then suddenly, everything happened really fast. Charlie lunged, the rabbit, THE RABBIT LEAPT UP INTO THE AIR AND INTO MY CHEST BOUNCED OFF MY CHEST MY CHEST YOU GUYS IT JUMPED UP AND HIT ME IN THE CHEST and took off running through the backyard.
To say that I screamed… no. There was no scream. It probably sounded like I was drowning in milk and suddenly just realized “Holy shit, I’m drowning in milk, someone HELP ME HOW DID I GET SUBMERGED IN MILK.” There was a kind of desperate, mangled gurgling that emerged from the depth of my body, that’s the best way to describe it. Charlie, meanwhile, looked completely unfazed but that was probably because, from his view, the giant rabbit beast suddenly took flight up and up and over his head and was never seen or heard from again so let’s go walk and then get treats, ok? Unlike some people in the backyard, he did not go to second base with Thumper and was thus unperturbed by the incident.
Meanwhile, can I just say? Immediately after the horror, I hiccupped. So much for that theory of getting scared and losing your hiccups. I’m standing there, checking my pants to see if I had wet myself and then I hiccup- like that small 1% of my body was completely unaffected by the trauma, thank you very much. It felt like my own body had betrayed me. What bullshit. At least cure me of the hiccups, Death Rabbit GOD.
Tasty is British For 