kdiddy.org

(Wee warning: this isn’t entirely safe for work or for environments where people are sensitive to nipples, the F word, Rosie Perez, Spike Lee, and/or awesome scenes from awesome movies.)

Aside: I started writing this post and began thinking about how Spike Lee focuses on heat waves and how they make people crazy in some of his movies. Do the Right Thing and Summer of Sam are two obvious examples, but there are some very memorable monologues from When the Levees Broke in which Katrina survivors describe the oppressive heat in the days following the storm, including Phyllis Montana LeBlanc who uses the phrase, “Africa hot.” Interesting.

I don’t know if you heard, but it’s hot here.

Hotter’n hot wings, in fact. We are in the midst of a heat wave that includes such awesome features as temperatures in the mid-90s and freakish humidity and haziness. Those who have not entirely lost their will to live have morphed into bitchy, sweaty beasts or total psychos, doing stuff like shooting up wave pools.

I was telling the husband this morning that I remembered a drought period during my childhood. I feel like I must have been 5 or 6. It seems pretty universal that being uncomfortably hot or cold doesn’t really affect kids. I don’t remember ever cursing the summer heat as a child, but rather itching to go outside and play all day. However, despite my young age, I distinctly remember not liking that drought period and thinking, “I am really hot and uncomfortable.”

We don’t have air conditioning in our house and for the most part, this isn’t a problem. Neither the husband or I like air conditioning and we definitely weren’t trying to deal with the electricity bill that would come with cooling a house our size. Because our house has high ceilings, lots of windows, ceiling fans, and is on a hill, it’s pretty comfortable most of the summer months. But there are some times when it just sucks and now is one of them.

One of my quirks is that I have to have at least a sheet covering me when I sleep. I feel vulnerable without it. (And you know how impenetrable a high-thread count is!) But last night, I collapsed into bed and slept the whole night with nothing on top of me. Nuts.

Our cat is, I think, sarcastically thanking us for adopting him from the air-conditioned animal shelter so that he could endure the summer in a fur coat.

He spends a lot of time in this position. Occasionally, I put a mirror up to his nose just to check.

Before we started living life on the surface of the sun, the Fourth of July happened. I’m not what you would call patriotic, but I enjoy any holiday that primarily consists of grilling, drinking, blowing shit up, and the 1812 Overture. We spent the day at my mother-in-law’s house, where there were babies…

…and swimming with cousins…

…and eschewing the rush to find a good spot to watch the city’s fireworks for some sprinklers and the like in the back yard. Not a bad time whatsoever.

On Monday, I had off of work so I got to go see the baby in action at one of his swimming lessons. We had to sit in the sun to be able to observe and this was when the 95-degree highs kicked in. I endured it for as long as I could, but at one point I was pretty sure I could feel my brain actually melting, so I moved to a patch of shade.

The baby’s actually a good little swimmer and has grand ambitions to join the swim team in a few weeks if he can work on his breathing during the freestyle stroke.

I am about two hours away from a three-day weekend so today I’m doing pre-mini-vacation stuff like working for no more than three minutes (or as long as my attention span allows) and then doing stuff like taking pictures of myself in the ladies’ room mirror.

Something that I’m hoping my running and other exercises will help me with is my posture. When I was a ballet dancer, I of course had pristine posture. But over the years my shoulders have steadily slumped down and forward. Quitting ballet made me less aware of my body, I gained weight (both the normal amount that comes when you begin consuming food after a 10-year hiatus and the extra stuff that I packed on because, well, “It comes deep-fried? Can you put some wine on it, too?!?! EXCELLENT!”), got a desk job where I spend a lot of time furiously typing, and also the regular beatings that the universe rains down on me.

I was sorting through clothes the other day to get some stuff together to give to the Vets and found a dress that I bought two years ago. I remember wearing it to see Eddie Izzard and the husband took a picture of me in it and I couldn’t believe how decrepit I looked, just because of my posture.

I’m wearing it again today and it reminded me of my efforts to stand up straight. Allow me to illustrate.

Standing up straight.

Slumping, though you can’t tell the difference too much. So let’s go for the dreaded side view.

Standing up straight.

Slumping. Also, hey when’s the baby due?

That second side view is from a slightly different location because someone walked into the bathroom right before I was going to take it, so I had to scramble and act like I was just pacing around the bathroom looking at my phone…because that’s far more normal. It also resulted in this picture:

Anyway, I assure that I’m not exaggerating my posture in any of those pictures. If I relax to the point where my typical posture is, that’s what it looks like.

Maybe I’ll start walking around with a book on my head, old school style.

At my graduation party about a month back, one of my professors stopped by with her husband. He and I were talking about Pittsburgh, and he asked me where I lived, specifically if I lived in a neighborhood.

I was happy to tell him that I do and even happier to tell him that my neighborhood has become more, well, neighborly since we moved in over four years ago.

We moved to Brookline for two main reasons: it was still near a grandparent (free babysitting is key) and we could buy a big house there at a ridiculously cheap price. The offset, especially for that latter reason, is that we were nowhere near the central “cool” areas of the city. Despite being only a block away from the main drag, there was virtually nothing within that short walking distance that was worth the effort of putting your shoes on…unless you needed to get drunk, get pizza, get a spray tan, or get your nails done. In which case, you could conceivably do all of those things at the same time. So, it sucks when you want to support your local businesses, but instead find yourself headed to another area of town or worse, the mall. (I’m not diametrically opposed to malls, but I like them to be a last resort. Like that time I needed both a VHS copy of American History X AND some Monistat at 1 a.m. on a Sunday night and good ol’ Wal-Mart was there for me.) (Don’t ask.)

But in the past year or so, my neighborhood has been slowly working its way out of whatever rut it had been in and we’ve really been taking advantage of it, which has been wonderful.

Last weekend, my sister-in-law was in town. After the baby’s afternoon baseball game, we went down to the main drag and stopped at Las Palmas, where we bought fresh, homemade tamales, tacos cooked on the grill right in front of us, and Mexican Coca-Cola, which is the kind made with cane sugar and is so much tastier than regular Coke, it’s ridiculous. Maybe it’s the glass bottle and the inherent dose of nostalgia that I somehow manage to conjure up, even though cans were the norm by the time I was a pop-drinking American, but Mexican Coke is refreshing and filling without being too sweet or heavy. And when I’m done drinking it, I don’t fiendishly crave another, like I do with regular Coke. I’m satisfied by the treat and get on with my life.

A picture of Las Palmas that I quickly snapped because I'm still scared of getting yelled at by people for taking pictures of them.

After polishing off our lunch at home, the sister-in-law and I went back down to the Boulevard to get pedicures (nail shops in excess may be tacky and a sign of a suffering business district, but having one good one is essential). When our toes were dry, we went down to Geekadrome, a little comic book/nerd emporium, because the baby had stopped in a few weeks ago to ask about getting a beginner’s Dungeons & Dragons set. (No luck yet, much to my growing dork’s dismay.)

We made another stop at Cannon Coffee to caffeinate before deciding to go to the tiny, BYOB Italian restaurant, Mateo’s, for dinner.

All of this on one street, walking distance from my house. (And basically the perfect counter-argument to my farm longing.)

The husband joked that I am becoming the most Brookline person he knows, especially when I suggested that we go to Moonlite Cafe, also on Brookline Boulevard, to celebrate our fourth wedding anniversary last week. Moonlite, if you’re at all familiar with Italian cuisine in Pittsburgh, is one of those restaurants that serves big, hearty “immigrant Italian” food. No Tuscan this or fancy cheese that. Spaghetti. Meatballs. Marinara sauce. Mancini’s bread. And lots of it, dammit. This is America! And that was exactly the kind of meal that I was in the mood for.

That? That is the platter of rigatoni that they placed in front of me. It had to have been close to a pound of pasta and I took that picture after I had been shoveling noodles into my mouth for twenty minutes. As you can see, I was only able to clear away one tiny corner of the plate. Obviously, we took the leftovers home which fed all three of us for dinner the next night. Seriously.

But all of these things are part of what make living in a city neighborhood so rad. People can mutter about how Pittsburgh is just a big small town, but there’s plenty to be said for having all of these things at your fingers.

As if I wasn’t already so chamber of commerce about it, the baby wrapped up his little league season last weekend. They came in second place overall, which bummed them out, but the coaches treated them to a big picnic afterward that was really cool.

That’s my kid, just prior to the pie-eating contest. After I successfully pushed all traumatic images of the blueberry pie eating contest from Stand By Me out of my head, I was able to enjoy their scaled down and less barfy contest. Also, this picture immediately makes me go all Holly Hunter-in-Raising Arizona: “I luhuhve him so muhuhuhuch!”

I sat down at my desk last Wednesday morning, tired, sore, and frazzled from sleeping through my alarm and having to rush out the door. The familiar sounds of my daily life made their way back into my brain and I became kind of sad. I was glad to be home, as I always am, particularly because my back could not sustain another night in our discount motel room bed. But having spent so many days in a row with some of my favorite people on the planet made settling back into the normal groove of things difficult.

As I mentioned in my previous post, we were in Detroit over Memorial Day weekend for the music festival and its related events that we attend every year.

Probably only the folks who have at least a passing interest in the music featured will care about my evaluation, but those of you who don’t might appreciate a glimpse into the subculture where I spend part of my time.

To sum it up: Nothing gold can stay. I don’t think anyone really believes that the accidental beauty of the first few years of the festival could ever last and I don’t think anyone is opposed to change, but there’s a difference between changing and blatantly going down the quickest path to the most possible money, all while spewing empty platitudes about “internationalism.” If the only way to have a festival every year is to churn out such nonsense, then it’s best to let it die gracefully before it’s too late.

People like me and my husband and many of our friends got into dance music in various ways. At the time that we all met, the best way to hear dance music in all of its genres was at raves, which at the time (the late 90s) were already past their prime. Occasionally, there was an all-ages night at a club, but those were never that great. Whatever half-hearted interest that I had in the culture of raving was pretty much gone after about a year and a half of going to them. I liked staying out all night, I liked dancing, I liked hanging out with my friends. I didn’t care for the pseudo-infantile behavior that began to dominate the culture. But, and I still maintain this viewpoint today, just because I think something is dumb, it’s not hurting anyone, so you go ahead and cuddle your teddy bear and suck on lollipops, even though I’m pretty sure I just saw a grey hair on your head.

Music and culture changes and out of the quintessentially 90s and neon versions of house and techno and the like, a new version emerged. One that was more grown-up, deeper. Baby-making music, if you will. Or perhaps just a mature and refined iteration of what came before it. There was no particular culture attached to it. Adults who still preferred to dress like Rainbow Brite were welcome to attend clubs where this kind of music was played, though the spectacle of, “Look at me! I’m shiny and glittery and dancing with glow sticks! LOOK AT ME!” had definitely been replaced by a feeling of letting only the music be the focal point, allowing listeners to truly lose themselves in it and dance and be free. Letting go of the ego and letting the id rule for a bit, if I may draw on my Psychology 101 class from 1999 (gulp).

Going to the festival for the first time was a revelation. Here we were, outside, in the daylight, surrounded not only by people from all over the country and the world who had emerged from rave culture into the same general moment in dance music, but by families and “regular joes” from Detroit, by raver kids whose devotion to moments of a technicolor existence was almost endearing, by musicians of various levels of fame and infamy. Through the awkward adolescence of raves, we had grown up and were comfortable listening to the weird, the deep, the soulful, the rambunctious, the political, the luscious beats of a generation of people, no matter what their age, who were finally comfortable in declaring, “This is the music that I like. This is the music that helps me to define who I am. This is the music that I hear at my most joyful and my most desperate. This is the music that will be played at my wedding, at the births of my children, at my funeral. This is the music that will be played in my next life.”

I had a transformative moment in 2005 when some of the Underground Resistance guys closed the festival on the main stage. They played “Transition,” while images of people like Malcolm X, Martin Luther King, Mother Teresa, and Albert Einstein flashed behind them. The crowd of thousands around me melted away and I was alone when I heard the lyrics, “Point yourself in the direction of your dreams…and make your transition.” From that day on, I did, freed from the notion that I needed to worry about the uninformed and frightened opinions of people who would dismiss this music as silly and scoff at my inspiration.

Transition or not, my annual trek back has changed a bit each year. The cost of admission goes up, a necessary evil that we’re told is the only thing keeping the festival going year after year. A cost we’ve been happy to pay to support the work of the people from that city who have helped so many people figure out their lives through music. Something else changed, too, though. Artists from Detroit are bumped from better time slots and given lesser areas to play in favor of their more European counterparts, those who make and play the same music that got old 15 years ago, the music that is almost rhetorically composed for the Rainbow Brite crew who fork over $60 for the opportunity to feel like they’re getting away with something. They parade in front of each other, eager for reactions, armed with an arsenal of camera-ready poses, dying for that first moment when someone points and finally, finally notices them. In the background, the music could be Carl Craig or it could be Linda Ronstadt. They would scarcely notice the difference. They pay good money and lots of it for admission and shirts and blinky, shiny things that vendors sell because they know an opportunity when they see it.

This year, nearly all of the Detroit artists were shuffled unceremoniously to an underground stage that, despite the organizer’s best efforts, still sounded like listening to an off-balanced washing machine while nursing an earache. The glittering kids danced outside, in the sunlight, to tracks that they couldn’t name to save their lives, that could very well all be the same record or mp3 for all they know. They formed dance circles, breaking up whatever collective energy had been present on the dancefloor, so that they could stand and watch one person dance. If that isn’t the saddest goddamned thing ever, I don’t know what is.

Again, they are welcome to. I am happy to share that experience with anyone. But I didn’t feel like I was in a position of sharing this year. I felt like I was stuffed in a basement while the higher bidders enjoyed what used to be our moment in the sun.

I don’t want to focus entirely on the negative. We did hear some good music at the festival and even more at the after parties that we attended. The husband has a good round-up of the music that we saw/heard/got down to while we were there. Not surprisingly, his criticism of the unprofessional and/or just plain shitty aspects of the festival management are drawing ire. The organizers had previously agreed to sit down with him for an interview, but later recanted. I, however, as a professional writer, offer up my tape recorder for any statements that they want to make. If people like us, a numerical minority, who are genuinely passionate about the music and the experience of it, are no longer important, dropped in favor of the wealthy and serotonically tweaked, then just say so and we’ll stop bugging you with all of our demands for care and quality and respect.

Sigh.

Aside from the fact that, last Wednesday morning, I pried my eyes open and stared, confused, at the numbers on my alarm clock which read “7:55” aka The Time at Which We Should Be at the School Bus Stop Holy Crap You’re Late as Hell O’Clock, getting back into all of the aspects of life seems to be increasingly difficult every year. Only this past Monday did I cook a meal and pack my lunch. Over the weekend, I got most of the laundry done (but not all of it). There are still several bags of random travel things gathering dust in our entryway. And I still poke around my office, unsure of what I normally do during the hours of 9 to 5, Monday through Friday. I’ll figure it out eventually.

The quirky title of this post is a reference to the time when me and a bunch of friends went to see the laser Metallica show at the planetarium and thought it would be hilarious if “Master of Puppets” was sung with a lisp. Really, how can it be legal to have that much fun?

Anyway, I have a funny picture to show you.

That’s me, attempting to take a Photobooth picture of myself in my graduation cap, and my cat, photobombing me.

Yes, I participated in my department’s diploma ceremony on Saturday because I’m a sucker for some pomp and circumstance. It was pretty cool. The student speakers gave particularly good speeches and I got to officially receive my master’s degree from the department head.

We had a nice party at my mom’s house later that evening and my buddy Tracey flew up from Baltimore for a whirlwind visit, which meant a lot to me. Even though she was here for less than 24 hours, we got to hang out, dish, and giggle. Much needed.

That night, after everything was over and settled down, I came down with a cold. And then on Monday our water heater died. SIGH. But at least now I can mentally handle these things. A few weeks ago it would have just compounded my stress and pushed me over the edge.

I don’t yet have any pictures of me in my full regalia because the only people taking pictures at the ceremony were my mom and grandmother. And not only do they not have digital cameras, they use those grocery store disposal cameras. During the ceremony, I kept hearing that distinctive, “CLACK! VZZT VZZT VZZT VZZT VZZZZT VZZZZT VZZ V–” sound whenever they took pictures. So, as soon as those are used up and the next time they go to the Iggle to play their numbers, hopefully I’ll get some pictures back and will be able to scan them. Living in 1992 is awesome.

The Penguins lost last night, ending the season on a bit of a whimper and sending Montreal on further toward their 8 billionth Stanley Cup. We opted not to watch the game until the bitter end when the score flipped over to 5-2 in the middle of the third period. It was getting late and the baby needed to go to bed and I don’t deal well with the stress of games like that. While the practical side of my brain knows that it’s probably over, my black and gold heart still wants to believe in an unlikely miracle. Then I end up nauseated and palpitating, and who needs that on a school night?

As the baby was getting ready for bed, he said, “I can’t believe the Penguins aren’t going to win the Stanley Cup,” sounding genuinely offended. We reminded him that you can’t win them all. Then I realized that he’s a little spoiled. In nearly all of the years that he’s been aware enough to care, some Pittsburgh team was winning a championship or at least getting close enough to taste it. So, as far as he’s concerned, a year without a Super Bowl or Stanley Cup victory is just…wrong. I mean, it’s been almost a year since we last had to shield him from drunken hordes and angry police on Brookline Boulevard. This is no way to go into summer.

But now we have time to focus our sports energy into Little League. My son is not the most natural athlete, but we wanted him to play some sports for a few reasons.

1) Activity is a good thing.

2) It’s a concrete (and hopefully fun) way for him to learn about working hard and slowly improving at something, which we’ve been struggling with at school.

3) I didn’t play sports when I was a kid. I was doing ballet and I was way too shy. I kind of regret that now. So I want him to at least try a few out just for the experience. The husband gets together with friends every now and then for a casual game of basketball and it kind of bums me out that I can’t really do something like that. (Not that learning a sport now is just so impossible, but I would obviously have a lot of catching up to do and the muscle memory isn’t there and blah.)

Anyway, the baby hasn’t progressed in baseball like some of the other kids his age on his team. While they’re getting turns playing first base and whatnot, he’s still in the outfield. He gets bored out there and on the few occassions that a ball comes his way, he’s not reacting quickly enough to make a play. We explained to him that he needs to prove himself in the outfield before his coach will trust him enough to play infield.

Last Friday night, he finally got it. He played well enough in the outfield that the coach let him play second base. His team was also winning by a pretty wide margin, so I guess the coach figured that he couldn’t do too much harm.

He played pretty well, though most of the action was happening at first base.

But then, the last hitter came up to bat, swung, hit the ball, and sent it directly in the baby’s direction. His glove went up in the air, his eyes widened…and at that precise moment the dad who was acting as first base coach stepped right in the line of vision of the husband and me. Gah!

But I caught a glimpse of the baby catching the ball on the fly, pausing for a split second to marvel at the presence of the ball in his glove, then scurrying toward second base to tag out the boy heading for it.

And with that, his team won the game.

It was so exciting! Everyone jumped up and cheered and called out his name and afterward his coach declared him MVP.

I was so proud that he had tried hard enough to improve and could finally understand, at least a little, that wanting to do something isn’t enough. Adding hard work to desire will often lead to success. Not always, but often.

I hope that it’s one of the moments that he’s able to replay in his head, even when he’s an old man. I’ve already tucked it into my “Flash Before My Eyes on My Deathbed” file.

That’s me at my desk. I’ve been in this position most of the day because I have this really annoying stomachache.

So what’s been going on with me? Eh, a lot and not much, know what I mean? I’ve been really busy at work, aside from being doubled over and groaning. The baby had his first Little League game last Saturday, which followed their annual parade down our main street to the ball field.
(more…)

This morning, I admitted something to myself: I’m neurotic about lunch.

And, like any good mother, I blame my son for this.

He’s a picky eater, though much MUCH better than he used to be. But at any given time, the list of things that he will eat for lunch is pretty short. So, I’m always trying to find some balance of actual calorie input and health for him. Currently, he will eat half of a sandwich, consisting of bread (wheat or rye) and lunch meat (we’re on a chicken breast kick right now), a cup of applesauce (no sugar added or high fructose corn syrup), sometimes a cheese stick (I go totally mainstream here and give him Kraft), sometimes a few baby carrots and/or some other fruit or veggie.

His old lunch box was one of those canvassy, zipper joints that was kind of small and useless. A few times, I let him use my Laptop Lunch and recently that company came out with some new bento lunch systems.
When our tax return came, I took a few bucks and ordered him one, along with some extra containers. Today was his second day using it. He had a sandwich, some carrots, some graham crackers, and some strawberries. He seemed a little indifferent about it yesterday. I hope he gets more enthusiastic about it.

I had a Laptop Lunch because I have been on a quest for the perfect lunch vessel for some years. I liked the Laptop Lunch, but I felt that it was just too small for me. I like to bring a pretty big salad, a “main” dish, dressing and croutons on the side, a snack, and my breakfast. And if I don’t have what I consider a good lunch, I get all anxious about it. I was explaining this to someone the other day as they eyed my tote bag of containers of various sizes. I needed a change.

Around the same time that I bought the baby his Laptop Lunch, I bought a tiffin from Happy Tiffin. I heard about tiffins last summer in my business class when we watched a movie about dabbawalas.

My tiffin arrived yesterday and I was so excited to pack it up today.

Here we have my salad and my bagel for breakfast…

This is my wrap sandwich that contains a layer of fresh spinach and a helping of my tweaked version this Curried Tofu Salad. (I need to take a little more time preparing that salad the next time that I make it. It’s too watery this time from the veggies and tofu. But very tasty.) The other container holds my croutons and dressing, plus a snack of sunflower seeds and dried cranberries in one of those silicone cupcake baking cups, which is a trick that I learned from watching blogs about bento-style lunches.

And here it is, all stacked up, latched, and ready to go. The only problem that I’ve had so far is finding a fork that will fit. Also, obviously, this isn’t microwave-safe, so I’m not sure what I’ll do if I ever want to bring leftovers to heat up. And if I were to bring something that was already warm, I would need to keep it away from things like my salad.

Like I said, I’m neurotic about lunch.

But so far, I’m pretty happy with it.

Speaking of food, I’m going to have some pretty big posts on the matter coming up in the next few days, so be sure to check back, especially if you’re in the Pittsburgh area.

Last week, I opened the door to hustle the baby to the bus stop, and gasped when I saw a big, flat package on the porch.

My diploma. My Master’s degree. Live and in the flesh paper-and-faux-leather-case.

Faced with a cartoonish amount of student debt (when I think of the total, which I’ve been advised not to do, I automatically picture Scrooge McDuck as the symbolic beneficiary as he cackles and holds two large sacks with dollar signs on them), and the *^%#(*^ dumb luck of graduating during the worst economic climate in generations, the husband and I have both been experiencing some sort of…buyer’s remorse about our degrees. I may have whined about this here before, but we’re both dealing with bummed out thoughts about aiming too high or something and that we’re as embarrassed of our student debt as we would be if we had burned through credit cards or invested in swampland or something.

Self-esteem: we has none.

Anyway, it’s over. No going back now. And in May, I’ll don my cap, gown, and Master’s hood and participate in a little good ol’ pomp and circumstance. And then figure out what to do with this monster.

I offer my hand for scale. The thing is huge. Also, please note my mad Photoshop skills. I’m not so paranoid, but for whatever reason, posting a picture of my diploma with my full name on it seemed like a bad idea.

Hello, from the paralyzed tundra formerly known as Pittsburgh. I won’t bore you with yet another series of pictures of people standing waist-deep in snow, because, really, there’s no new ground to break there. It’s snow. It’s white. There’s a lot of it. I will insert a little slideshow that you can view or not at your leisure. No pressure.

So, my big emotional post the other day about how our new life was starting today? Yeah, it’s been put on hold a bit. Not from the snow, but from some…I don’t know…HR matter that pushed back the husband’s start date a week. No biggie. And because I am paranoid, I verified with the husband that this was not some passive move. And it worked out well, because my work is closed today (unheard of) and the baby is off of school at least today and tomorrow. Aside from slight cabin fever, it’s been pretty nice to stay holed up the past few days, cuddling and watching TV and whatnot.

Really, I don’t know when things are going to be normal around here, especially since there is more snow coming down the pike. I’ve never seen anything like this.

On the upside, it was kind of fun exploring everything on Saturday. A lot of people went out for walks, taking advantage of the fact that you could just march down the middle of the mostly useless streets. We saw a few ATVs, a snowmobile, and one guy on a snowboard. We stopped into the new coffee shop on Brookline Boulevard, Cannon Coffee, and I nearly died from happiness. I’ve been moaning since we moved here that we needed a good coffee shop and now we have one. With pastries and sandwiches and excellent beans and cozy places to sit and wireless internet. I see myself spending some serious time there.