Every few days I get an invitation to be someone's friend on Facebook -- if you are one of the people I've snubbed because I didn't want to spend the 8 seconds required to set up an account, please forgive me.I would have continued to pretend like Facebook doesn't exist, but then I had a "that is so 21st century" moment. An acquaintance was due to have a baby and I was waiting and waiting to hear the baby had arrived. Finally, the baby is 8 weeks old and I meet her at a party. I said, "Why the hell did no one tell me you had the baby?!"And everyone at the table shook their head in agreement when the new mother shrugged and said, "You need to be on Facebook."And then my dearest friend, who used to send me long, fabulous, hilarious e-mails daily, apologized that I haven't heard from her for so long saying, "Well, if you were on Facebook..."Alas, here I am! And I'm the only one without 439 friends, so please come and be my Facebook friend.

When I saw this article on PETA's recent controversial campaign, I immediately thought of three things. First, I’ve met more than several chunky vegans. Second, my mother and I recently had a conversation wherein she explained to me that the reason she can’t lose weight is because she’s not willing to give up carbohydrates for the rest of her life. And when I asked why she has to give up carbohydrates, why she can’t just eat less in general, she looked at me as if I’d lost my mind and said she’s not sure.Third I thought about how little I seem to be able to influence my children’s dietary preferences. The older my kids get the more I think parents are not to blame/thank for how kids turn out. I mean I know if you lock them in the shed for twenty years they probably won’t turn out too normal – of course. But beyond the basics, I’m certain that both of my children arrived here who they are and nothing (but nothing!) that I have done since can change that.Recently Little One had to choose a meal he wanted to eat from some pictures in a workbook. The first meal was PB&J, a string cheese and some juice. “That’s just gross,” he said. “Jelly is gross, cheese is gross… I choose a salad, a chicken leg and a glass of milk.”What self-respecting 6-year-old talks like this? And if you’re wondering if his propensity to follow the South Beach Diet is what has made him my Little One – well, we think so, but the doctor insists it’s genetics (we don’t know whose genetics, since his father is very tall and his mother is built like a linebacker, but anyway, who are we to argue with the doctor).And the chicken leg thing? His dad and I can’t even watch him eat chicken. We use a fork and pull the meat off, remove the fat, gristle, skin, etcetera. He picks up the whole leg, like a medieval king, and eats it with his teeth until there’s just a clean, smooth bone left. Then again, he does his Midwestern-of-German-descent relatives proud – maybe these things skip a generation.Lest you think I’ve had anything to do with it, his brother wouldn’t eat that meal unless bribed with seconds of mashed potatoes & gravy and ice cream for dessert.They have heard a lot about nutrition during their short lives. “They’re not bodybuilders – they’re toddlers,” I had to argue with their athletic father on more than several occasions. “They need carbohydrates for proper brain and muscle development.”And while it's true that J likes to eat more similar to me and Little One, their dad – neither of them really choose to eat like we’ve taught them. I was alone with them and suggested we go out for pizza. J was all over it. Little One screeched, “I haaaate pizza! Just take me home so Daddy can cook me some meat.”But even better than meat, for Little One, is fruit. When J was a year old, I was reading Dr. Sears’ advice for feeding toddlers and my husband scoffed, “Why does he have to eat so much fruit? I can’t even eat that much fruit – and I outweigh him by 200 pounds!” Today J eats plenty of fruit… you know, when he has to in order to get seconds of mac & cheese or dessert.Their dad and I do agree on many nutrition principles and are both disgusted with what passes for “lunch” at our kids’ school. When J started first grade, he would tell me things like he had a corn dog and apple juice for lunch. Then I learned that there’s an optional salad/fruit bar (whose idiotic idea was it to make that optional?). So I told him that from now on I expect him to choose something from there, anything he likes, an apple, some carrots, whatever. Just something.The next day I asked what he chose from the salad bar and he said, “Pudding.”Dessert is at the salad bar too – of course! How could I not have known? So that backfired, as good-parenting attempts often do.Little One starts first grade tomorrow and I’m going to have to forbid him from going to the salad bar or he won’t eat anything for lunch that has calories. The other day he was riding in the cart at the grocery store and he begged for clementines, then grapes, then blueberries… Finally he screamed, “Oh watermelon! Can we pleeeeeease get some watermelon!”I listed all the fruits we had in the cart and already at home and said, “We don’t need any watermelon.”And as I was squeezing the avocadoes he looked at the pasta, rice, beer, butter, cheese and crackers in the cart and said to no one in particular, “Well – we don’t need ANY of this shit.”So maybe parents have a teensy bit of influence – I am sure I have no control over his dietary preferences, but I admit that I might know where he gets that mouth.

My review of the book, Natural Great Perfection: Dzogchen Teachings and Vajra Songs by Nyoshul Khenpo & Lama Surya Das is now posted on Feminist Review. You can read it here.There are some things this book reminds me of that don't fit in the review, like a bumper sticker I saw the other day that said, "Honk if you don't exist." (Which further reminds me of the brilliant Monty Python skit where Nietzsche was thrown out of a soccer game for telling the umpire that he didn't exist...)But the most fun aspect of reading this book has been the juxtaposition of it with an experience I've been having at work. I've always believed that sanity is somewhat cultural and subjective, or that, at the very least, it exists on a continuum -- that everybody is a little bit nutty in some way or another. Or as a friend of mine always says, "everyone's normal until you get to know them." But lately I've really been contemplating the fine line between a little out there and like really far gone.So I have this customer and the first time I talked to him he told me that he knew he needed to get himself "right" because the trees wouldn't talk to him.Now, most likely, you exist somewhere on the normal/crazy continuum that makes you think, "Wow, that dude is totally nuts."But not me -- I totally get that, from where I sit on the spectrum. So we had a nice little conversation about talking to trees, the universe and such - he thanked me for understanding and then paid me the highest compliment I've received to date -- he said I'm the Buddha-Master. (Which I'm not, but still... it's a very kind thing for someone to say about you and I appreciate it.)Time passed... our connection grew... but then it happened. He said that he'd let his robot guard down for thirty seconds and the robots got him. And I suddenly realized that I'm not talking to a crazy person like me, I'm talking to a person who struggles to grasp reality. I mean talking trees - a literary theme as old as story-telling -- everybody knows that trees laugh, whisper, etcetera! As American as burning witches at the stake. But robots? That's just looney talk.So I asked myself, what would the Buddha-Master do when talking to this person (who is me, of course, if I am in fact the Buddha-Master)?Alas, my book, Natural Great Perfection, doesn't contain the answer -- or maybe it does: "When one realizes the natural state, the true nature of all beings, there is naturally a welling up of inconceivable spontaneous compassion, loving-kindness, consideration, and empathy, because one realizes there is no self separate from others. One then treats others just like oneself. There is no cause for aversion, attachment or exploitation." A very fine answer, indeed - wish me luck applying it.z

July is like the month of new beginnings to end all months of new beginnings for me. Both of my kids were born in July. We got our dog in July. And this blog was born in July -- four (!!!!) years ago. Many times I've thought I'd just scrap it, but then --- well, there are four years of musings, stories, rants and assorted nonsense collected here, and like any narcissist worth her (organic) salt, I'm kind of attached to them (even as they're simultaneously embarrassing to read). Even though I've lost more than half the readers I used to have, I continue to update this space every now and then (mostly when BlogHer tells me I have to, but I'm trying to do better than that).So I'll be honest, since honesty is what we love best about mommy blogs --- I started this blog because I needed something to do, I wanted to improve my writing skills, and after being home alone with babies/toddlers/preschoolers for four years, I desperately needed some adult "voices." Plus, I thought there was a chance I might be a kind-of funny writer and maybe Woody Allen would discover me or something... (which hasn't happened, if you were wondering). But over time my situation changed (a few times) and the fact is, I don't find my life to be all that humorous anymore -- so I'm often short on things to write about. Though I did, for the first time this birthday, really struggle and feel sadness around my kids getting older and I do have more essays in me somewhere (I'm pretty sure).I mean I still have comical moments, like the night J (now 8) and Little One (now 6 and as little as ever) explained to me why they don't believe in God or the devil (that devil thing is pure crazy talk evidently) but they do believe in Jesus. Or how J said his friend told him not to ask questions about the Buddha because it's bad luck (there's a kid after my own heart!). Or the day J announced out loud in the grocery store that I drink a lot of wine (to many people, though no one in particular), forcing me to decide, on the fly, if it's more pathetic to be seen by the general public as someone who drinks too much or someone who argues with her kid in the produce section about how much she doesn't drink. And then there's the day that Little One learned (while discussing chickens, of all things) that the difference between him and girls is a specific appendage (and lack thereof). Several hours later, he approached me at the dryer, narrowed his eyes at me suspiciously and in a semi-aggressive manner said, "Mama, show me that part of you where there would be a penis if you had one."Bring them up right -- that's my motto.But seriously, for the most part, my life today does not in any way resemble my life when I started this blog -- and I do think it's kind of cool that the evolution is documented and also that I have some great stories that I won't be able to forget. But what that means for the future, I'm just not sure. Rather than complain that my life is busy, I'm trying to be grateful that my life is abundant -- and when I have a little bit of time to enjoy my children, I haven't wanted to squander it creating stories about them, leaving myself doomed to only being able to appreciate life in retrospect.Still, this is not a Dear John letter and I do appreciate so many of you who have stuck around through my blogging marathon stages as well as my private and public blog ambivalence syndrome. I'm still trying to figure out what I might do with this space going forward, but I suspect I'll be here in some capacity or another.

Yes We Can (laugh) courtesy of The Onion:"Obama Revises Campaign Promise Of 'Change' To'Relatively Minor Readjustments In Certain Favorable PolicyAreas' "Read the whole (short) piece here.z

My latest go-to stress-relieving fantasy is that I’m a Buddhist nun. Living quietly with everything I need. But then I remember that for a variety of reasons I wouldn’t make a very good Buddhist - or any flavor of nun for that matter. Like being a Buddhist and being a pacifist sort of goes hand-in-hand and I’m not a pacifist. You’re probably surprised to hear that the way I criticize war, but I’m only opposed to the aggressor in imperialistic wars (the most common aggressor in my lifetime having been my government). Still, as much as I feel peaceful just looking at the Dalai Lama, I can’t help wondering that if he hadn’t been such a pussy, maybe the Tibetans wouldn’t have entirely lost their homes to the Chinese army. On the other hand, there’s a chance they’d all be dead instead of just exiled, but peace without justice is no peace at all and from where I sit, there’s not a whole lot of justice happening on this planet. So I’m a warrior, therefore not a very good Buddhist nun.However, the real reason I’ve been obsessed with becoming a nun is a more personal and complicated story and not the kind of thing I generally share on this blog, but I’ve run out of topics so here goes:A couple of years ago, I remembered that I had forgotten to go to graduate school, right about the time I had the temporarily devastating realization that my life is half over and so if I have things I mean to do “someday,” someday has arrived. So I applied to a Master’s Program and was rejected. I felt entirely destroyed, like there was nothing else I ever possibly wanted to do but that. Then after a while I got over it (I’m good at that, if nothing else) and applied to two more programs last fall. (I also opened a coffee shop, which is really fun but isn’t making any money yet.) When I applied I thought that I probably wouldn’t get accepted to either one, since I’m obviously such a loser I couldn’t get into the first one I applied to, right? But my thinking was, I will have tried -- and then being a good religious girl (or bad religious girl, whichever) I would accept that God has spoken and it’s just not meant to be in this lifetime.So now, after living frugally and simply for all of my adulthood, just like the vast majority of regular people who are now being blamed for the financial crisis we’re in as a nation, I’m routinely calculating how long we might get to keep living here if I stopped paying the mortgage, weighing if I’d benefit more from not paying my credit cards (used to open the coffee shop) or from maintaining perfect credit at any cost -- basically living an eighth of a nickel away from debtors prison and working as hard as I can to make money fast enough. Then what happens? I’ve been accepted to both graduate programs. And I really want to do them both. Because if not now, then when?What I need is a miracle – and as luck would have it, I believe in miracles. So I’m waiting – breathing in the fear, breathing out relaxation – comforted by my relentless faith in the abundance of the universe and that all things, good and bad, come to an end. Maybe I could have pulled off being a nun after all.

Sometimes I feel sorry for celebrities who grow up famous, because I think about how awful it must be to be judged at 40 by the dumb things you did when you were 20. Blogging can be that way too – there is what you wrote, three years ago, on display for everyone to see, even though it may not in any way reflect the larger part of who you are – it is only a reflection of something you were processing at a specific moment in time. Like writing a letter on Sunday stating that you have the stomach flu, sending it thousands of miles away, only to be perfectly fine by the time the recipient reads it. I don’t have that experience very often, but last fall when I was thinking to myself, in light of this absurd debate about who can marry, why can’t we just get rid of marriage as a legal institution altogether, I started receiving a lot of blog traffic from people googling, “abolish marriage.”So here is my blogging tip for the day – do not ever (EVER!) make an offhand remark about the mating habits of lions in a blog post, because you will get comment after comment from people telling you that not only do you hate gay people but you don’t think black people should be allowed to marry either.Seriously.Semi-related, my review of the book, Making Marriage Work, is up at Feminist Review. I really enjoyed reading it and it is inadvertently funny in some places – in ways I couldn’t put in the actual review, because I was pretending to be a smart, analytical reviewer, as opposed to my actual juvenile self. For instance, when outlining the historically perceived social importance for women to marry (not so important for men, of course) the author describes a case study of a woman who took a “Marriage Readiness Course” to address all of the issues that made her (sadly) unfit to marry and ends with this: “By the time that Marcia met and was courted by good, solid Dick, it was clear that she had invested sufficient time and energy in her program to become a successfully married woman.”Or maybe I’m the only one who giggles at such a sentence. Ahem.So about abolishing marriage for real – judging from my stats, comments and e-mails, if you’re reading this blog, odds are you’re probably married and a feminist (or you’re obsessed with Jim Bob Duggar and droopy tits, but I’m just going to ignore you people). So obviously pairing up with the opposite sex and making babies hasn’t gone out of style, but I like to think that marriage as a political institution has evolved. Still, it remains the safest way for a woman to keep herself and her children out of poverty, it’s discriminatory and just otherwise socially problematic on several levels. And when I ponder possible solutions to those problems, I just keep coming back to wondering why we need the state to define our families, alliances, romances, etcetera for us anyway.

I don't know what kind of sad-excuse-for-a-mommy-blogger forgets to post on Mother's Day, so I hope fun was had by all. As for me, I received the best gifts ever -- all homemade, including my new favorite poem:Mama,Sunny, funnyReading, Fixing, WorkingShe is a cat person.I love you,JI'm not sure if it's supposed to be a haiku or what ever gave him the idea that I like cats, but it is my favorite poem forever, nonetheless - as a fellow writer, I particularly appreciate the experimental point-of-view. Not to mention, it's not every day (or any day for that matter) that someone calls me "sunny."Just because he and his brother are my favorite kids doesn't mean I'm not going to subject them to this video -- and I highly recommend that all adults watch, even if you're not a fellow lunatic-who-relentlessly-harasses-her-spoiled-children-about-the-evils-of-consumerism. Don't feel sorry for them though, I'll make popcorn to eat while we watch.Finally, a great piece about Madmen and what's wrong with Barack Obama. (Hint: It's not personal, it's just that he's a well-connected, establishment politician -- who knew!!!!)And finally once more, a link to one of my favorite organizations for whom every day is Mother's Day around the world.Pax

On my birthday when I was gloomily contemplating my frumpy, old haggedness, a delivery came for my husband while he was at work. I said to the delivery guy, “Can you just put it on the porch out of the rain and then he can put it where he wants when he comes home?"The guy said, “Umm, it weighs like two-hundred pounds, I don’t think I can get it up on the porch by myself." Then he eye-balled me for a second and said, “Well, you could probably help me, you look pretty strong.”Later I told my husband so he could beat the guy up or something, but he doubled over with laughter, “Why didn’t you beat him up yourself, you’re pretty strong…”

Then I then went upstairs and overheard J and Little One saying, “I love you better than poop.” “Well I love you better than chickens.” “I love you better than underwear on your head.” And just as I began to fantasize about flying to Madagascar. All by myself. Forever. Little One said wistfully, “Well – I love Mama the best of everything.”

So with Madagascar out of the running I thought maybe I’d just get a new hairdo. I said to my hair stylist, “Maybe I’ll go with strawberry highlights once instead of golden. Do you think I’d be a cute redhead?”

He kind of nodded and grunted.

Or how about one of those short in back, longer in front bobs ala Victoria Beckham - did he think I could pull that off.

Sort of a nod and shrug.

Then I said I really love pixies and every time I see a girl with a pixie I think oh my god is she the cutest thing ever, I wish I had hair like that. “But,” I said, “I think only girls who are skinny can wear that look well.”

He chuckled, “You’re skinny.”

“So you think I would look cute with a pixie?” I perked up.

Long uncomfortable silence.

In the end I just took a tip from my young baristas and bought a pair of Reeboks – I was skeptical… until I got carded buying a bottle of wine. Now I believe! So to my fellow mid-lifers, who are dedicated, in principle, to growing old gracefully, but simply aren’t “feeling it” – there is hope. Step away from the bovine toxin. Resist the urge to run away from home. Try some hip, comfortable shoes.

z

Lately I feel like a pinball -- I work on whatever it is I'm working on until I get a letter, an e-mail or a heart palpitation telling me I'd better hurry up and work on something else. In other words, I've got way more to worry about lately than I can deal with (but this nice bottle of Italian Red, block of Gruyere and box of Rosemary crackers are helping quite a bit - at least for now). First Cynthia Samuels clued me in that CNN is asking for input about the state of our kids' schools -- I understand the hope is that the Obama administration is going to fix education (like all the administrations before him). Oh stop, I sound crabby - it's been a long day. Seriously, if I had time and knew how to make videos, I would love to be part of this important conversation, so check it out and participate if you can!Then I was not-so-gently reminded that I'd forgotten to blog and as I wondered what exactly I was going to write about (I don't suppose you're interested in city sign permit fees or how many sinks a coffee shop needs in order to be allowed to slice a lemon) -- like manna from heaven, I got this anonymous comment in my inbox:I think it is appalling you give your child coffee.Now, as many of you know, often blogging is about sharing the parts of ourselves that are most vulnerable -- putting our parenting insecurities out there for all to scrutinize and so on. And when you do that and you get a bitchy anonymous comment it can really hurt, because the comment is close to home and digs at something you do (or don't) that you already feel uneasy about. I suppose Anonymous was trying to do that to me (for God knows what reason random people enjoy making strangers feel badly about themselves, but anyway) -- but I just had to laugh because I thought -- APPALLING? Half a teaspoon of espresso in a glass of milk is an APPALLING drink for a kid - really?And then I just wanted to ask Anonymous -- what adjective would you use if I'd given him bleach to drink? Toilet water? Dog piss? I mean, get a grip.I was reminded of a girl I once knew who told me her biggest nightmare was the thought of having a spider land on her head. I'm not judging her -- lucky her, she was young and she'd had a very very nice life thus far. But really, some of us have (and have already lived) much bigger nightmares than that. So I guess I could be a compassionate Buddhist and be glad to know that Anonymous has had such a perfect life that it can't imagine anything worse than a pampered middle class American boy having a sip of espresso in his mother's coffee shop. The horror!And then I wondered if Anonymous thinks it's appalling when children routinely drink soda pop-- which my kids hardly even know exists (while we're on the subject, most of my family members are kind of appalled that I don't ever let my kids drink soda pop). How about caffeine-laden Easter chocolate -- should I confess that my kids had Easter candy too or will that necessitate a call to CPS?Some day my childen will be adults and they will tell me all the appalling things I did to them as their loving, devoted and imperfect mother -- and I promise to listen and to take it like a womyn. In the meantime, a word to those who try to be hurtful, but don't have the balls to even say who they are -- it will work better if you find a parenting issue about which I lack confidence, my kids' ultra healthy abundant diet just isn't one of them. But on behalf of mothers who do waste time fretting about that, find a less appalling passtime.Last but not least, did you know that I almost share a birthday with Gloria Steinem? I do! One day off - do you think that makes me special? Probably not -- maybe I'll criticize my mother for giving birth to me a day too late. Here's to Gloria and to all who commit outrageous acts!

Just for fun, I want to make sure no one misses Katha Pollitt’s recent piece on Michelle Obama. I have to admit I’ve developed quite a crush on the first lady, partly due to David Brooks’ fear that she could bench press him (likely one-handed even), but frankly she had me at telling a young girl, who aspired to be a first lady one day, “it doesn’t pay very well.” Pollitt highlights even so much more to love.Then I’m sure everyone has read the Atlantic breast-isn’t-really-best-fest, which was well done even though I had mixed feelings about it, followed up by Debra Dickerson’s inane right-on (right on the heels of dismissing the youngest generation of feminists as poll dancing drunkards – what has gotten into her lately?). I didn’t write about it because I didn't have much to add except my own story and a snoring rendition of humans are mammals and their milk is designed perfectly to nourish their young – it’s a good thing – still, the vast majority of reasonably intelligent, healthy Americans alive today managed to grow on evaporated milk and corn syrup – wah wah wah wah.So I decided I’d rather just let it be until I read this great take by Judith Warner - sensible, thoughtful, perchance inspiring, definitely worth reading. With that I’ll return to my regularly scheduled programming of worrying about my own boobs and leaving the sisterhood alone to worry about their own, free from my judgment, (no doubt) wisdom and helpful hints.Last but not least I would like to vent… no! Talk. I would like to talk about this most vile internet phenomenon which I will call the children-haters. Before I get myself into trouble, let me say that I know many people in real life who are child free by choice or by circumstance and none of them are repugnant children-haters. I don’t know where the internet finds these people. But you might have read in the comments from my last post that someone is horrified to see that I basically told a Mother Jones columnist to “off herself.” Which I kinda did, along with about a hundred other people – but don’t feel sorry for her! She’s smart enough to know that the surest way to inspire people to suggest you go fuck yourself is to refer to their children as nothing more important than carbon-emitting “monsters.” Certainly she was inflammatory on purpose. I gave her just what she was hoping for – an angry reaction and a link.The post drew a lot of crazy parents who claim their children will cure cancer and end global warming, and a lot of crazy non-parents who feel the goal of civilization should be to end civilization, but there was one sane comment that’s worth repeating (trust me you won’t want to read through all of the nonsense to find it). The suggestion is that the U.S. might adopt a policy whereby tax breaks are only given for up to two children. The theory being an acknowledgement that people need public support to do a good job of raising their kids; yet everyone having more than two children, particularly in a wealthy (or really I should say, grossly wasteful) country like the U.S., is not sustainable and should be discouraged (or at least not publicly subsidized). It’s an interesting idea, but when I envision it in practice it seems it could be elitist – inadvertently punishing poor people for having the audacity to reproduce, which we already do enough in this country.On the other hand, it's mind boggling the degree to which people feel disgruntled about the child "tax write off" factor. I mean all year long I educate, feed, house, clothe my kids, not to mention I purchase a boatload of useless junk for them to play with and destroy. At tax time, apparently I'm supposed to feel like I'm really cashing in on these guys -- you'd think it would make me want to have another, all the money I'm making. Well I don't know about you, but my reaction is more along the lines of whoop-de-doo. If we actually had policies in the U.S. that helped mothers, financially speaking, well then I suppose someone could complain, but trust me, for the most part, we're on our own out here. Some even complain about having to pay taxes for public schools. If you can't comprehend why educating children benefits the entire population, then you're a good example of how our under-funded schools fail.So wait, I promised we were just going to talk and I accidentally vented there at the end. Sorry about that, but really I wanted to explain to anyone who might read that previous comment that I'm not in the habit of telling people to just die already and get it over with - I was only trying to help her embrace the mantra "let change begin with me." I meant well -- mostly.

The other day my kids were at work with me and J asked if I would make him an espresso. An Americano (espresso and water) had just been made by accident, and I was drinking it even though it's not my favorite drink. (WHY does it feel less wasteful to eat something you dont want than to just throw it away?) So I took a tiny bit of the Americano, poured a bunch of milk into it and gave it to J.It will be another thing he'll be using to impress the other adults in his life. One of his teachers told me that J is very sophisticated because he eats sushi and Thai food and frog legs and escargot... and anything really. Actually he's never had escargot, but that's his mother's fault. He really wants to, but French food is expensive and eating snails grosses me out, so I haven't exactly been all over helping him out with that.As for the adults who tell me how cultured he is --I always have to just nod and smile, because what I'm really thinking is, at home he doesn't talk about any of that even half as much as he talks about butts and farting and assorted bodily fluids/functions -- he doesn't generally seem all that mature or fancypants around here. I'm hoping maybe with time...Also, unfortunately his "sophisticated" palate doesn't extend to health food. He's currently being screened for a suspected food allergy, so he said, "You know I just thought of something I eat a lot of that's probably making me sick -- salad and vegetables."Nice try, we told him. A for effort, C for creativity, F minus for subtlety.(The current suspect is pineapple by the way, and I really hope that's the ticket, given the ease with which one can avoid it.)After J discovered the Americano my husband was home with him for the day and when I got home he said, "I offered J a hot chocolate this morning, but he told me that all he drinks now is an Americano - where the hell did that come from?"Hey, I told him, when you're hip you're hip, who can help it.On a more serious note, if I had the energy to go on and on or analyze or even just think for a minute - I would write about this, but I don't - so I'll just leave you with a link to this thought-provoking piece from NYT. Additionally, the author of said piece has done a lot of fascinating work collected here.

I'm a little behind on blogging thanks to the opening of my new coffee shop! Oh and not only that, but both of my kids got the stomach flu opening week (hello guilt), I was accepted to a graduate school program and I received two books in the mail that I'd kinda sorta forgotten I'd agreed to review. Hence the bags under my eyes and the abundance of leftover takeout in the fridge. But my little one and the dog are cute, right? And soon you will be able to read my review of two fascinating books - Making Marriage Work: A History of Marriage and Divorce in the Twentieth-Century United States and Natural Great Perfection (a book on Buddhism, the wisdom of which is the only thing that is helping me stay reasonably sane). [So wish me luck and if you're in the Portland area please come have a cup of coffee with me.

I had to giggle the other day when I read this article about JFK/Obama. Not because I think Obama is a liar, but it just reminded me of something for which I've always enjoyed making fun of my parents and their generation -- and what's not to love about making fun of one's parents?(If you're a baby boomer, please know I wish you no offense.)What is amusing to me is that if you ask a baby boomer who was the best president ever, they will invariably say JFK. If you ask why, they generally answer with one of three reasons:a) He was young. b) He had a wife who dressed cute. Or c) I know where I was the day he was shot.Now I'm not suggesting JFK was an awful president - he did sign the Civil Rights Act and he invented the Peace Corps (which was of dubious benefit to the developing world according to most historians, but can be filed under "heart was in the right place" so I won't hold it against him). But he also vastly escalated the Vietnam War and created the first U.S. budget deficit. To say nothing of waving his you-know-what at Cuba - if you're going to be a bully, you should at least win the battle for heaven sake.But enough about JFK, it's Obama that I really wanted to talk about. Now that everyone's love affair with Obama has come to an end (all the radical lefty people I read are just stunned because he didn't CHANGE anything in Washington, golly gee who knew) I feel sorry for him. I feel sorry for him because basically his whole presidency is a crap shoot. Economies are cyclical, if ours happens to come around in the next few years, he'll go down as the greatest president ever, whether he deserves that distinction or not. On the other hand, if it takes 5 or 8 years, he'll have been the lamest most ineffective president ever -- whether he deserves that distinction or not.I wish I could say I have high hopes. Don't get me wrong, I am rooting for him -- I'm starting a new business in this tanking economy and I own a house that isn't worth what I paid for it just like everyone else does. But here's why I worry. There has been a lot of comparison to FDR booming about. And FDR was a pretty good dude, but the fact is, his New Deal did not rescue America from the Great Depression. It did provide hurting people with some relief and I'm not saying it was a bad thing. But it was U.S. involvement in World War 2 that turned our economy around. Governments spending more money than they have to help people out might save the day, but I'm not very optimistic. What's worse is we've already been bombing everybody and their sister for the past eight years, so we don't even have "go to war" in our economy rescue toolkit.So I didn't mean for this post to be such a big downer... I just wanted to raz the JFK zombies. I am hopeful. A little bit. But I will tell you that more than 600 people applied for a minimum wage job at my new coffee shop -- some of them unemployed engineers, executive assistants and even an attorney. On the other hand there was the person who wrote in her cover letter: "I have great work history and many different work ethics also. In my past employment I have won some top employee awards with most of my employment history. I'm a quick learner also catch on quick."Times are hard - here's hoping I'm just a crabby old cynic who doesn't know what she's talking about.Learn more about your presidents, current and past. With online universities, you can brush up on your political knowledge by taking a few courses in political science.

I’m not exaggerating when I say my 7-year-old son is obsessed with China. I’ve never done anything to encourage or discourage, it just seemed to happen as a result of a handful of his best friends being Chinese. I’ve taught him Spanish since birth, but once he discovered that people speak Chinese he began disrupting my Spanish lessons – asking me how to say everything in Chinese instead. So I bought a Chinese Dictionary, but when we looked things up, I would always end up saying, “well you either say this, or you say that, or you say this something else, or maybe this other thing – depending on how you pronounce all these letters in Chinese I guess.”So that hasn’t been a big help. Last week he asked, “Mama, did we miss Chinese New Year?”“No,” I told him, “I'll take you to the festival this weekend.”“OK!” he boomed as he fetched red construction paper and scissors, “Now! Who in our family is Asian?”I had no response except to look away and laugh. I do appreciate his post-modern definition of family, and not wanting to ruin it, started thinking, what is wrong with all my relatives – for Confucius’ sake, is there no one who could have married an Asian?He suggested his godparents might be Asian, and I had to explain that, no, they just live in Taiwan. But thankfully I remembered that I do have a very close Asian friend, I just don’t think about her Asian-ness all that often - unless she’s telling me a hilarious story, imitating her English-challenged mother. “Aunt C is Japanese,” I said.“Oh good!” he said, proceeding to make a Chinese lantern.Because I know he’s at a sensitive age for learning languages I have half-heartedly tried to help him learn Chinese. Last weekend we took a trial class, and when I asked him how he liked it, he answered, “Why did you sign me up for Mandarin lessons, I wanted to learn Cantonese!”I didn’t even know he knew the difference, but evidently the few phrases his godmother taught him in Mandarin are not understood by his Cantonese-speaking friends. There's no end to my bad parental decision making.After school we passed a store that had a bunch of international flags, and J begged for one.I half ignored him, “What for… you don’t need one of those… of all the dumb things… wah wah wah wah…”“I want this one!” he shouted, showing me the Korean flag, “it’s the only Asian one I can find.”Then he looked some more and waving the Chinese flag said, “Ah! Here it is, can I get it?”“WHY do you need a Chinese flag?” I huffed.He gushed back, “Because I love China and I want to live there!”He’s cute and all, but if he gets any more demanding I might just put him on the next flight out.

When I say I’m opening a coffee shop a lot of people respond with that’s their dream endeavor - or maybe not quite that, but just how cool or great they think that would be. It was never my dream to own a coffee shop. When I was in college (in Tucson) I had this quirky History professor who wore jeans and Birkenstocks and who knew more than anyone would ever want to know about the Mexican Revolution. It has always been my dream to be him – living in a warm climate, wearing comfortable shoes, discussing at length all manner of obscure, irrelevant (in any urgent, practical sense) facts and conjecture – and drinking lots of coffee, I do love my coffee. But achieving that dream requires several more years of schooling and several thousands of dollars and I’ve got mouths to feed, so this is the story of how I decided to open a coffee shop. (I still may one day pursue my original dream, but as they say, to everything there is a season blah blah blah.)So last March I was reading an article in the NYT about Starbucks and how they affect independent coffee shops (positively) and how they’ve helped the specialty coffee market in general. This prompted me to look into the coffeehouse business model, as well as the political and trade issues specific to the industry. I e-mailed some info to my husband and wrote: “When we retire, this is what I want to do for fun.”He read about it and wrote back to me, “It’s a great idea, just do it now – you would be awesome at running a coffee shop.”(You’re probably thinking, isn’t he nice and doesn’t he think highly of her, but what he was really saying is: “Wouldn’t it be fun for me and the kids if you had somewhere ELSE besides home to be an anal retentive task master.”)I was working though, and going to school and raising my kids and playing solitaire, so I collected some information, did a little research here and there, but nothing too taxing. Then last August I was laid off from my Marketing job, and after the shock and the feeling that my life was over faded, I told my husband, “I pretty sure God just told me to open a coffee shop.”My husband understands construction and he’s already self-employed, so he was a huge help to me getting organized and such. Plus, he said, “building a coffee shop is so simple…”And he has been a tremendous help in building it, don’t get me wrong, but I have to be the General Contractor and the architect (which means I’m in charge of coordinating everything and telling everybody what they’re supposed to do, because my husband has to also keep a roof over our heads while I’m unemployed). The only problem is, I don’t know what everybody is supposed to do… so there’s that. I’m pretty sure when we decided to do this I said that I can make coffee and discuss French poetry and keep fingerprints off the pastry glass. I’m pretty sure I did NOT say I can build a cabinet, stain concrete or even instruct anyone else on how these things should be done.In other words, the building phase has not been fun. Luckily for me when I saw that the countertops had been built too high and I started having heart palpitations and my head started spinning around and around like the Exorcist girl, my husband was there to calmly shrug and say, “Yeah, they screwed up, they’ll have to fix it – not a big deal.” He’s good that way.But it hasn’t all been bad! I have sampled the most glorious coffees and teas and chocolates, some with incredible stories about co-ops and communities and farmers and saving birds. I intend to blog about all of that and more on the coffeehouse website once I get it up and running (which was also supposed to have been fun and has really NOT been because I used Wordpress only to learn that I can’t edit anything with HTML… so I haven’t had time to write anything as I’ve been too busy trying to figure out just how to make it look correct).Basically I was hoping we’d be open a month ago, but I’m still working on it. I should add that for only a 10% markup, someone else could have been the General Contractor. Had I just gone that route, instead of desperately trying all manner of meditation techniques every night, praying my stomach will un-knot enough to let me fall asleep before the alarm goes off, I would be brushing up on my Rimbaud and writing stories about coffee production and decor shopping. But why pay someone else to do something that surely I’ll be a better person some day for having learned the hard way, right?

I know I disappeared for two months with nary a goodbye (thank you to those who e-mailed me to ask if I'm ok). I didn't say goodbye because I wanted the freedom to indulge my indecisiveness for as long as possible. And then BlogHer wrote me to say they were going to break my kneecaps if I didn’t resume posting. Ok. I kid. They just said I can’t be part of their blog network unless I, you know, blog – but breaking kneecaps sounds better don’t you think?So for my return post, knowing that only about a third of the people who used to visit have continued showing up regularly, I tried to decide what would make the best subject matter:1. How I was laid off from my job last fall and have been preparing to open a coffee shop next month2. What I think of Sarah Palin, as a feminist, now that the truth has been told3. If and how much I’ve grown to love (or not) the Almighty Barack Obama, what it means that he appointed Hillary Clinton to be Secretary of State and if I thought the inaugural benediction was racist4. How I am struggling because I have a coffee blog (to complement my new business) that looks like hell despite my teaching myself CSS, and therefore bought a website that doesn’t exist because I don’t know what FTP means5. How I spontaneously became a tea fanatic and I’m sure I’m going to live forever now6. How I’ve struggled to determine what parts of my children’s psyches I should be writing about as they get older and whether I should continue to blog when I can’t find the time to read other blogs, even my all-time favorites7. What happened when J caught me off guard saying, “Mama do you use drugs?”And then I thought, no, you’d probably most like to hear a humorous story about my ineptness as a mother and see a picture of my puppy. Am I right? But do come back for all of the above and more. In light of my current infatuation with Vajrayana Buddhism, I thought I would tell you a story about why, in spite of my inherent religiosity, I can never be BFF with religious people. It’s not them, I must admit, it’s me.We have these nice neighbors who have kids the same age as our’s. They invited our kids to their birthday parties and first the mother told me about a missionary trip she took to Africa and how wonderful it was because all of these children came to greet her and were just “praising God.” Which is fine, I totally appreciate that, but generally I take statements like that as a cue that I’d better watch what comes out of my mouth. Not just the way I frequently punctuate statements with impolite words, but also my “anything goes so long as no one is being hurt or exploited” moral compass (or lack thereof).The first party was for 5 year olds and at one point everything went silent at just the moment my Little One said at the top of his voice, “Mama, did someone say the C word?”Now let me clarify, when I say my kids hear plenty of “bad words” I’m talking about your basic everyday, “what the hell happened here” sort of swearing. They have certainly never heard the C word from me, so immediately I started composing my lecture to my husband in my head, thinking I can’t believe he would talk like that in front of the kids!!! But then after the party I asked Little One (long after it was too late to salvage my embarrassment), “What is the C word anyway and where did you hear it?”And he said, “Crap.”For some reason they still invited J to the 7 year old birthday party, where the kids had an impromptu conversation about who believes in Jesus. They all did, and my J told them that he believes in Jesus too, adding a small clarifier, “But we don’t actually have any way of knowing if Jesus was in real life or not – it’s just a myth.”Thanks J. I don’t know why I teach them anything. I tried briefly at home to explain that some people are rather sensitive about that sort of thing and there are people with whom we can discuss those issues and others with whom it’s best we just keep that to ourselves. But it may not matter anyway – I mean what are the odds we’ll be invited a third time?And now the puppy – who was supposed to be a lap dog, but as it turns out is medium-sized. I’ll elaborate another time, but for now, I’ll just say, I don’t know how we ever lived without a dog.

There is no end to the wisdom and insight people seek on this blog. As always, I'm honored to be of help. Well, except for some of these people - you know who you are.How many people use toilet paper to whip their buts? My guess is not many – can’t be all that effective.Mommy Pelvic Floor Blog -- Taking niche blogging to the next level.Why do hermit crabs croak – Umm… so they can get to hermit crab heaven?Is it normal for an eight month old baby to be wearing three month old shoes – It’s not normal for any baby to be wearing any shoes - either that or I’m an even worse mother than I thought.Scrapbooking 7 Deadly Sins – If this is the most interesting thing you have to scrapbook, you might want to find a new hobby.You know god damn well who burned the house down – Excuse me, I don’t think I like your tone.Did you just have to google the seven deadly sins to see what they were? – Well… pretty much. You could also just watch that old Brad Pitt movie.I can’t help it I think ur adorable -- Aww, thanks, I think you’re pretty special too.Waiting for Extreme Makeover to call – I know I could use some help, but I was thinking something like an Oprah makeover would be sufficient, am I really THAT bad?I married a ninja - Oh my gosh, does he do parties? My sons would be so impressed!Obama the lord - I guess it kind of works in that Christmas hymn, “Oh come let us adore hi-i-im, O –baaaaaa---- maaaaaa the loooord!”Cloth diapers are gross fanatics – I know it! And how about those plastic covers? Repulsive lunatics!Immigrants and peanut butter – I hate to be controversial, but seriously folks, what if those people eat ALL the peanut butter, then what are we going to do?!Little people in porn – Lord help us.Can mom move in - Yes, please! Send her over, we’re in desperate need of a mom here.What would my Mexican husband like for Valentines Day? – I didn’t know Valentine’s Day was ethno-specific, but I’ll take a stab and say that if he’s like most husbands he’d most like to skip Valentine’s Day.Public breastfeed grope - All of this effort we’ve made to normalize breastfeeding as nature’s method of nourishing babies just doesn’t seem to be working does it.love is never being saying I love you -- Well… I think you’re remembering Jenny from Love Story who said, “Love is never having to say you’re sorry.” But FYI, she was full of shit - if you’re married surely you know love means always having to say you’re sorry.How can I be a feminist and a Catholic – Well, it’s slightly easier than being a Libertarian and a Catholic. You just need the intestinal fortitude to piss the feminists off half the time and the Catholics the other half. Oh- and the courage to go to hell too - naturally. No biggie – it can be done.Husband wants to be babied diapered plastic pants -- Uh… babied, sure, who doesn’t? Plastic pants? I suppose you could try to keep an open mind if he’s an otherwise good dude. But diapered? I’d be looking for an attorney.Women shouldn’t cook – This is an interesting variation on the “women shouldn’t work” that I have made fun of in the past, but now this got me thinking… If we can’t work and can’t cook, all we need to do is start a “women shouldn’t clean” movement and we’re set! Think of the time we’ll have to blog and watch TV and read The New Yorker!Hid the head – I can’t decide if this is amusing or terrifying.My dad is married to a nut - How embarrassing, but aren’t those kids of mine precocious.Tater tot nipples – You think that surely I make this shit up, but I’m telling you, I am not that funny, certainly not that bizarre.Duggar Family Kit – You too can make your own Duggars in the privacy of your own home! Big breast is best – Not when you’re the one who has to haul it around, thankyouverymuch.Ectomorph college -- I suppose that's one way of narrowing down your post-secondary education options.Agnostic parents + we stiking up for our kids if their being told about God when your not around -- I wholeheartedly support your right to tell your kids anything about God you wish, but please, for the love of Friedrich Nietzsche let someone else tell them about spelling and grammar.z

Dear President Obama,

Congratulations, I’m glad you won, and please accept my apologies for having beaten you up over the past several months. But somebody had to do it - truly.If I can digress from politics for just a second, I will tell you why – the reason, absurdly, lies in the art of memoir (writing about one’s own experience). The first rule of writing memoir is the writer must acknowledge his/her role and responsibility in any bad situations endured (or in writing class if you want to sound like you know what you’re doing, the magic word is “self-implication”), and also to remember not to excessively villainize the person who harmed the writer, without somehow also humanizing the rotten jerk. Because if the writer does either of these, human nature leads the reader to try to find the good in the villain (creating sympathy for the wrong character) and to look for the ways in which the writer was less a victim and more pathetic, ridiculous or just plain annoying.So all that to say, Mr. Obama, with the media singing your praises left and right and the people with whom I work on a local political issue here in Oregon, literally looking at me like stunned salmon and beginning to weep at the mere mention of your name – well, please just understand that I had no choice but to try to be the voice of reason. I had no choice but to point out that “hope” is just a useless poetry-store word, nee you get an F minus minus if you use it in an actual poem in writing school. I had no choice but to explain that you’re one human person. A human person who will be an infinitely better president than W (but then who wouldn’t be?), but a human person nonetheless, and you have a long road ahead of you.It won’t be long now before you’ve pissed a bunch of people off, and all those excited young people become disillusioned, and then finally (finally!) I promise I will be here to tell them, you’re not so bad, you’re just doing your job. And a very tough job it is, indeed.

All the best,

Staci Schoff

Don't forget to vote!No matter who steals, I mean wins the election this year, I will just be happy that the Obamarama Lovefest 08 will finally come to a close. Thanks be to Jehovah -- or whomever, I don't really care - just please, someone in the universe (anyone!) make it stop already!So that once again, I can read the newspaper without screaming out loud. At least from time to time - I suppose I get kind of cranky even when it isn't an election year.On behalf of all the journalists I've hated for the past several months, I just want to acknowledge that I understand no one thought it possible for GW to be elected to a second term, so by God, no one wanted to take a chance that a republican get into office again by, say, reporting the facts, simply the facts, this time around. But still, that we live in a country with a media that is willing to act as a mouthpiece for the government, as it did when it spouted all of the propaganda for beginning the Iraq war, and again as it has now to campaign for Obama - is far more frightening to me than the prospect of John McCain as president.Did I just say that?I did. And I mean it. (For laughs, Kristol tells us why we needn't fear McCain.)But tomorrow it will all be over and everyone can either weep for Obama or realize that he's just a politician like all the rest and not likely to deliver the salvation everyone seems to be seeking. And the media can finally utter a critical word and everybody can complain about what a bad job he's doing -- I just can't wait! Well, sort of. With any luck he might be able to keep us from financial collapse and a 100 year war, and just maybe he'll sign some equal pay legislation and perhaps a small bit of health care reform (assuming he knows how to squeeze blood from a proverbial turnip) - but whatever happens it probably won't look all that spectacular, and I will relish the eradication of the Collective Obama Infatuation Syndrome.Although, someone was obviously after my heart when they wrote this story about Obama -- had I known he is superstitious early on, I might have been in love with him all these months too!Am I doom and gloom or what? I should start a church! But seriously, vote. Not that our beloved Obama needs your help -- he's so perfect surely he'll win regardless, but really I mean it - vote. It's your right and your civic duty.

From my little Tiger Ranger and Dynasty Ninja with their lavender bags -- what is the matter with those kids' mother?!

God help you.NO! I'm kidding, just kidding. Boys are just as bad. I mean, no! I'm kidding again. Sort of.Anyway, ahem, I don't have any girls to share this fantastic website and periodical with, so I thought I'd share it with you. From their website:"New Moon Girl Media is the leader in products that help girls reach their full potential. Maker of girl-created, advertising-free communities where girls learn to recognize and resist gender stereotypes, New Moon Girl Media serves girls ages 8 to 15 and brings their voices to the world."To the fourth wave.

My review of this fascinating book, Emma Goldman, Vol. 1: A Documentary History of the American Years, Volume 1: Made for America, 1890-1901, is now posted on Feminist Review.Thank you to all of you who continue to check back here even during my ridiculously long absence!

Well -- we'll at least look back and laugh about it SOME day, right? I mean, I don't know which is more stressful - figuring out what to do with them all summer or sending them to school every day. And my kids go to public school -- I'm sure now I never would have survived if my husband had given in and let me send them to Catholic school! This week, NYT printed a fantastic piece of comic-relief - read it and try not to weep for the insanity that has ensued around the simple task of teaching children how to subtract.