...maybe a smidge more moderation would have been a good idea. I pulled a muscle on my back. Yes. That is how hardcore a move-buster I am.
Wednesday, May 9, 2007
Tuesday, May 8, 2007
Get Used to It
Who is that woman at the concert screaming the lyrics the entire time? Why, it's me!
Brandon and I are going to see They Might Be Giants tonight. Concerts seem to me to be close to the platonic ideal of a good time in that they combine many things I love: singing, beer, dancing of the vaguely dirty kind. As a bonus, They Might Be Giants tends to perform songs under five minutes long. I'm not a fan of the "jam."
(Brandon used to be in a band, Baaba Seth that, while very good and enjoyable, could spend, like, twenty minutes on one song. All right, guys. My beer's getting warm and I apparently didn't warm up properly. Can we get back to the chorus?)
Anyway, I'm excited about this upcoming pleasure. Research--that is, psychologists--has found that we tend to habituate to any given pleasure so, in order to increase the pleasure, we should try to spread out pleasurable experiences. In other words, if I went to a concert every night, I probably wouldn't enjoy it as much. It's the old everything-in-moderation argument.
It's likely a good idea and dovetails nicely with the parenthood lifestyle. But what I find more pleasurable than one beer at a concert? Downing one beer, then ordering another quickly before it's time to start my audience singing again.
Brandon and I are going to see They Might Be Giants tonight. Concerts seem to me to be close to the platonic ideal of a good time in that they combine many things I love: singing, beer, dancing of the vaguely dirty kind. As a bonus, They Might Be Giants tends to perform songs under five minutes long. I'm not a fan of the "jam."
(Brandon used to be in a band, Baaba Seth that, while very good and enjoyable, could spend, like, twenty minutes on one song. All right, guys. My beer's getting warm and I apparently didn't warm up properly. Can we get back to the chorus?)
Anyway, I'm excited about this upcoming pleasure. Research--that is, psychologists--has found that we tend to habituate to any given pleasure so, in order to increase the pleasure, we should try to spread out pleasurable experiences. In other words, if I went to a concert every night, I probably wouldn't enjoy it as much. It's the old everything-in-moderation argument.
It's likely a good idea and dovetails nicely with the parenthood lifestyle. But what I find more pleasurable than one beer at a concert? Downing one beer, then ordering another quickly before it's time to start my audience singing again.
Monday, May 7, 2007
Tag, You're "It"
I've about given up on trying to figure out what the various things on Practically Perfect's Amazon page mean. Because at this stage of the game--ten days before the book even comes out, not that I'm completely OCD about counting down the days--I'm pretty sure that a lot of what's on there means nothing. The "tags," for example, mean that someone might have pre-ordered my book and also ordered other books--those books' tags are what show up. Maybe. I don't know for sure.
Last Friday, I checked out PPIEW's page and found the many tags that were assigned to "books like" mine. What sort subtitle could make these tags appropriate?
The tag, "Wife of gay man," for instance. Practically Perfect in Every Way: Except the Way in Which I Get to Have Sex With My Husband
"Boring." Practically Perfect in Every Way: A 962-Page Catalogue of The Findings from the Author's Latest Dermatological Examination
"Useless apology." Practically Perfect in Every Way: I'm Sorry If You Feel That Way
And my favorite: "homegrown." Practically Perfect in Every Way: Recipes That Will Taste SO SO Good, If You See What I'm Getting At
Last Friday, I checked out PPIEW's page and found the many tags that were assigned to "books like" mine. What sort subtitle could make these tags appropriate?
The tag, "Wife of gay man," for instance. Practically Perfect in Every Way: Except the Way in Which I Get to Have Sex With My Husband
"Boring." Practically Perfect in Every Way: A 962-Page Catalogue of The Findings from the Author's Latest Dermatological Examination
"Useless apology." Practically Perfect in Every Way: I'm Sorry If You Feel That Way
And my favorite: "homegrown." Practically Perfect in Every Way: Recipes That Will Taste SO SO Good, If You See What I'm Getting At
Friday, May 4, 2007
A Quiz That Will Help No One
Eight-year-old boy or a stereotypical cranky old man? TAKE THE CHALLENGE!
- When presented with dinner, says, "Peas? Who told you I wanted peas?"
- Has a special name for occurrence when one only has to wipe once after moving bowels: "Lucky poop."
- Has little use for babies.
- Before entering bathroom, announces, "I might be a while."
- Has a particular word used in the same situations and with the same inflection as other people might use with the F-word.
- Has no compunction about telling people to turn the music down.
- Very interested in own savings.
- Tooth loss.
- Occasionally accuses loved ones of stealing belongings.
- Likes to wear pants up high. Real high.
Thursday, May 3, 2007
The Bod
Tuesday, I had two appointments for the bod, the annual GYN exam and the dentist. I have a question: Why does everyone else talk about placque-gone-hard as "tartar," but the dental folk call it "calculus"? (I'm not complaining: I like the idea that every six months my teeth have been been working out complex equations all over my enamel while I've been watching Charm School with Mo'Nique and mastering online Tetris.)
Goodness. Already, I digress. I also got a tetanus shot, and believe you me, I've been milking the sore arm for all it's worth, which turns out to be: beer delivery from Brandon, an excuse not to tickle Caleb, and a general license to moan.
"Why does your arm hurt?" Caleb asked.
"Because I got a tetanus shot," I said.
"What's that for?"
"Well, if I step on a rusty nail, then the shot makes it so I won't get a blood infection," I told him.
Caleb raised his eyebrows. Clearly, he was trying to imagine a situation in which his mother would encounter a rusty nail.
"It could happen!" I said. It could happen if a band of dip-tet enthusiasts broke into my house and left a bed of rusty nails right next to where I was sleeping.
I go to the doctor because I'm convinced that something terrible--something statistically unlikely--will happen to me. Did you know that there is such a thing as cancer of the sinuses? Do you know all the warning signs for meningitus? Have you gotten the email about the breast cancer that shows itself simply by making your nipple look crusty and wilted?
Have you noticed that your mate has moved the Merck Medical Manual to the back of the pantry?
Weirdly, though, I have a blind spot with the normal aging process. This is such an excellent article in the New Yorker, but I have to say, the beginning freaked the shit out of me. I talk an enthusiastic game with the neuroscience, but really? I want my mind and my body to be just passing acquaintances. I left my heart with Des Cartes.
Goodness. Already, I digress. I also got a tetanus shot, and believe you me, I've been milking the sore arm for all it's worth, which turns out to be: beer delivery from Brandon, an excuse not to tickle Caleb, and a general license to moan.
"Why does your arm hurt?" Caleb asked.
"Because I got a tetanus shot," I said.
"What's that for?"
"Well, if I step on a rusty nail, then the shot makes it so I won't get a blood infection," I told him.
Caleb raised his eyebrows. Clearly, he was trying to imagine a situation in which his mother would encounter a rusty nail.
"It could happen!" I said. It could happen if a band of dip-tet enthusiasts broke into my house and left a bed of rusty nails right next to where I was sleeping.
I go to the doctor because I'm convinced that something terrible--something statistically unlikely--will happen to me. Did you know that there is such a thing as cancer of the sinuses? Do you know all the warning signs for meningitus? Have you gotten the email about the breast cancer that shows itself simply by making your nipple look crusty and wilted?
Have you noticed that your mate has moved the Merck Medical Manual to the back of the pantry?
Weirdly, though, I have a blind spot with the normal aging process. This is such an excellent article in the New Yorker, but I have to say, the beginning freaked the shit out of me. I talk an enthusiastic game with the neuroscience, but really? I want my mind and my body to be just passing acquaintances. I left my heart with Des Cartes.
Wednesday, May 2, 2007
E. All of the Above
For one of the quizzes I took to gauge my happiness, I had to assess how much of each emotion I was feeling: Happy? Sad? Anxious? Frustrated? Joyous? Angry? Smug? Irritated? Wry? Brave? Sexy? Fragile? Exhuberant? Afraid? Silly? Nostalgic? Nauseated? Pretty? Pity? Charming? Oh-so-charming?
And so forth. One of the things I wrote about (although the section didn't make the final cut into the book) is how it's normal to experience a variety of emotions at once, that there's rarely pure, medical-grade happiness or any other emotion.
Take this weekend. I had such a good time that I can hardly describe it without swearing for emphasis.
We'll get to the goodness soon. But there was a chunk of time on Saturday afternoon when I was talking to my mother and Krissy (about something I can't write about without spoiling the end of Practically Perfect), and I was just ... sad. Here I was, on this increasingly rare occasion when we're all together, and I couldn't help but feeling sorry and sad with a soupçon of afraid, all at the same time that I was feeling relaxed and happy.
At one time, I might have beat myself up over this. Did you ever do this, this thing where you're at some event that you've been looking forward to forever and you thought that when the time came, you'd be ecstatic? And then you look around and you're happy enough but it still occurs to you, Oh. I'm still me.
Luckily, and if I can get neuroscience-y on you--and I think I can--our brains seem to take the imprint of the most intense experiences, and this weekend, the fun totally overrode the sadness.
When we got to Mom's house, she had a gift bag waiting on the counter. It was fancy and black with names of la-dee-da cities on it. I pulled out the wrapped box and unwrapped it. Inside was a large leather box that opened from the middle to reveal the most gorgeous pen I ever saw, lying on white suede. It was for me to sign copies of Practically Perfect.
I closed the box, and it made a satisfying thwack. It was the best gift I've ever received.
"This was the fanciest thing I've ever done," Mom said, laughing. She got it at a place that was about the size of her kitchen, the sort of place where prices ARE NOT DISCUSSED. Good god, I love my mother.
(Unfortunately, I did not seem to inherit her knack for gift-giving. Later, Krissy opened her birthday presents; from us, a small schmorgasboard of gifts. One was a compilation of of eighties' love songs, that, for the low, low price of $5.99, seemed chock full of bang for the buck. Bang like "Keep on Loving You" and "Need You Tonight" and "Sexual Healing." Jill brought out the CD player and we popped it in. The music started up and something seemed, well, off. The phrasing. The music.
I grabbed the CD case. In small letters at the bottom: "As performed by The Countdown Singers." Waiter? This isn't the cheese I ordered!)
Years from now, when I think about this weekend, I know I won't remember that little chunk of sadness. I know that I'll think of Krissy's 30th and remember my niece singing a song that she wrote and performed at her school talent show; the shaking of the booty with Brandon at the bar; the four of us in a group hug; Erin calmly ordering another round of shooters; the singing at the top of our lungs, the sleepwalking story; Mom making pancakes with the kids; Trixie; the best gift I ever received.
I'm counting on my brain playing this little trick. When it's some year like 2047, I will look around at the kids on their hoverboards with their robot dogs and say, Listen up, whippersnappers: Back in 2007? Those were some good times. Pure and simple.
And so forth. One of the things I wrote about (although the section didn't make the final cut into the book) is how it's normal to experience a variety of emotions at once, that there's rarely pure, medical-grade happiness or any other emotion.
Take this weekend. I had such a good time that I can hardly describe it without swearing for emphasis.
We'll get to the goodness soon. But there was a chunk of time on Saturday afternoon when I was talking to my mother and Krissy (about something I can't write about without spoiling the end of Practically Perfect), and I was just ... sad. Here I was, on this increasingly rare occasion when we're all together, and I couldn't help but feeling sorry and sad with a soupçon of afraid, all at the same time that I was feeling relaxed and happy.
At one time, I might have beat myself up over this. Did you ever do this, this thing where you're at some event that you've been looking forward to forever and you thought that when the time came, you'd be ecstatic? And then you look around and you're happy enough but it still occurs to you, Oh. I'm still me.
Luckily, and if I can get neuroscience-y on you--and I think I can--our brains seem to take the imprint of the most intense experiences, and this weekend, the fun totally overrode the sadness.
When we got to Mom's house, she had a gift bag waiting on the counter. It was fancy and black with names of la-dee-da cities on it. I pulled out the wrapped box and unwrapped it. Inside was a large leather box that opened from the middle to reveal the most gorgeous pen I ever saw, lying on white suede. It was for me to sign copies of Practically Perfect.
I closed the box, and it made a satisfying thwack. It was the best gift I've ever received.
"This was the fanciest thing I've ever done," Mom said, laughing. She got it at a place that was about the size of her kitchen, the sort of place where prices ARE NOT DISCUSSED. Good god, I love my mother.
(Unfortunately, I did not seem to inherit her knack for gift-giving. Later, Krissy opened her birthday presents; from us, a small schmorgasboard of gifts. One was a compilation of of eighties' love songs, that, for the low, low price of $5.99, seemed chock full of bang for the buck. Bang like "Keep on Loving You" and "Need You Tonight" and "Sexual Healing." Jill brought out the CD player and we popped it in. The music started up and something seemed, well, off. The phrasing. The music.
I grabbed the CD case. In small letters at the bottom: "As performed by The Countdown Singers." Waiter? This isn't the cheese I ordered!)
Years from now, when I think about this weekend, I know I won't remember that little chunk of sadness. I know that I'll think of Krissy's 30th and remember my niece singing a song that she wrote and performed at her school talent show; the shaking of the booty with Brandon at the bar; the four of us in a group hug; Erin calmly ordering another round of shooters; the singing at the top of our lungs, the sleepwalking story; Mom making pancakes with the kids; Trixie; the best gift I ever received.
I'm counting on my brain playing this little trick. When it's some year like 2047, I will look around at the kids on their hoverboards with their robot dogs and say, Listen up, whippersnappers: Back in 2007? Those were some good times. Pure and simple.
Tuesday, May 1, 2007
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