Those Trees Aren't Going to Kill Themselves, You Know

Gah! Sick! Pregnant! Toddler! Deadlines! Did I already say "Gah!"?

It's going to be a list-y week. (It would seem that, for me, the week starts on Wednesday.) So here's the first instalment.

Like many people who live, work, and love on the internet, Rusty and I have found our attention spans shrivelling to the point where an article that requires scrolling is considered way too wordy to deserve our precious clicking time. So, in an effort to keep our aging brains from further atrophy, we've recommitting to print magazines, which were once the great love of our pre-internet life. Here are the ones we've subscribed to so far:

Dwell
Maisonneuve
Harper's
The Walrus
The Economist

I'd explain why we chose each publication, but that would defeat the entire purpose of the brief list post. I will say that we've been getting them for a couple of months now, and so far we've actually been reading them, pretty much cover to cover. This could be because we keep them in the bathroom, which is one of the favourite retreats of savvy parents of small children. Because while you can't say to your partner, "Hey, watch the kid while I go fuck off with a magazine for half an hour," you can say, "Hey, keep an eye on the boy while I use the facilities, okay?" And then what's he going to do? Dispute it? Time you?

And in conclusion, I win!

Thoughts Thunk While Riding the Bus

"I wonder why the weirdos on the bus are so much more considerate than the straights on the Skytrain."
"Wow. Sleeping on a packed bus. That's an enviable gift."
"It's probably best not to think too hard about that smell."
"On the 'cryptic and disturbing' scale, between 1 and 10, I give the people on the bus an 8. I give the ads a 10."
"I really believe in public transit, but it's a lot easier to believe in it when I'm not on it."
"Remember that time The Don was riding this route and a junkie threw up on him?"
"It's getting harder not to think about that smell."
"What terrible series of decisions has led us all to this place?"

Things My Cat Thinks but Doesn't Say*

I have so many unfinished chores it's not funny. But reading this post reminded me that -- despite the fact that I haven't yet reorganized my bookshelves, booked my flu shot, or sent in this year's cheque for Sam's RESP -- I managed to find the time a couple of weeks ago to do a mind-meld with Puck and glean these important thoughts:

"Great. Cat food. Again. You know bag ladies eat this stuff, right?"
"Night vision is awesome. Check out how I'm going to totally fuck with the dog."
"Don't blame me. If you'd just leave the front door open, we wouldn't keep having this problem."
"Am I the only person who's awake? I'd better go into the short one's room and meow loudly. That always gets everyone up."
"Can someone change the goddamn cat litter? When I want to go around smelling like shit, I'll come back in my next life as the dog."
"Whoa! Did you see that mouse? Don't tell anybody, but I'm totally friggin' scared of mouses."

*It probably important for you to know that Puck's inner voice sounds a lot like Strongbad.

But in a Way, Aren't We All Winners?

In case you've been expiring of curiosity, here are the author-quote matches from the quiz I posted yesterday:

A. Azar Nafisi
"On the first page of The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Huck informs us that the Widow Douglas decided to take him up and 'sivilize' him, but 'it was rough living in the house all the time, considering how dismal regular and decent the widow was in all her ways; and so when I couldn't stand it no longer, I lit out.'"

B. John Updike
"The American idea, as I understand it, is to trust people to know their own minds and to act in their own enlightened self-interest, with a necessary respect for others."

C. Joyce Carol Oates
"How heartily sick the world has grown, in the first seven years of the 21st century, of the American idea!"

D. David Foster Wallace
"Are some things still worth fighting for? Is the American idea* one such thing? Are you up for a thought experiment?" [I feel bad about this quote, in that I may have made it harder than it should have been because I used an asterisk instead of a footnote. I don't know the HTML for footnote numbering. Sorry!]

E. Tom Wolfe
"Since you asked... the American idea was born at approximately 5 p.m. on Friday, December 2, 1803, the moment Thomas Jefferson sprang the so-called pell-mell on the new British ambassador, Anthony Merry, at dinner in the White House."

F. Judith Martin (aka Miss Manners)
"The original American idea was that everyone should be treated with equal respect and dignity."

G. Eric Schlosser
"My idea of America was formed by stories about the Founding Fathers that my grandfather told me when I was a boy, by road trips through the Rockies with my parents, by reading almost everything by Mark Twain, by Emerson, Whitman, and Thoreau, especially Whitman, by Kerouac and John Dos Passos, by Frank Capra films, Coppola films, Jimmy Stewart, and Billy Jack, by childhood memories of Bobby Kennedy and Martin Luther King Jr. and their murders, by the war in Vietnam and the protests against it, by Richard Nixon, Spiro Agnew, underground comics, the 1977 New York Yankees, loud music of all kinds, fireworks, hamburgers, and French fries."

I tried to tabulate scores, but since my laptop only has a 12" monitor, I went insane three times trying to flip back and forth between everyone's answers. So let's say everyone who commented wins! Including you, b*babbler, for honourably bowing out of the competition. If each of you would like to get a little sumpthin-sumpthin in the mail, fire me your mailing coordinates at 50books [AT] gmail [DOT] com.

Test Your Nerd Power

I like The Atlantic, but I rarely remember to pick it up. It recently called out to me, however, from an airport newsstand... partly because I do enjoy it and partly because, what with it being the magazine's 150th anniversary and all, this particular issue is extra thick, which appealed to my inner cheap bitch.

The theme of the issue is "The Future of the American Idea". To explore this theme, the editors invited an impressive roster of writers and other luminaries to contribute anything they wanted to write on this theme.

So here's a fun (or stupid or boring, depending on how well you do) quiz:

See if you can correctly match each writer with the first bit of his or her piece. (I've thrown in one easy little gift question, because I'm nice that way.)

Joyce Carol Oates
Eric Schlosser
Judith Martin (aka Miss Manners)
John Updike
Tom Wolfe
Azar Nafisi
David Foster Wallace

A. "On the first page of The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Huck informs us that the Widow Douglas decided to take him up and 'sivilize' him, but 'it was rough living in the house all the time, considering how dismal regular and decent the widow was in all her ways; and so when I couldn't stand it no longer, I lit out.'"

B. "The American idea, as I understand it, is to trust people to know their own minds and to act in their own enlightened self-interest, with a necessary respect for others."

C. "How heartily sick the world has grown, in the first seven years of the 21st century, of the American idea!"

D. "Are some things still worth fighting for? Is the American idea* one such thing? Are you up for a thought experiment?"

E. "Since you asked... the American idea was born at approximately 5 p.m. on Friday, December 2, 1803, the moment Thomas Jefferson sprang the so-called pell-mell on the new British ambassador, Anthony Merry, at dinner in the White House."

F. "The original American idea was that everyone should be treated with equal respect and dignity."

G. "My idea of America was formed by stories about the Founding Fathers that my grandfather told me when I was a boy, by road trips through the Rockies with my parents, by reading almost everything by Mark Twain, by Emerson, Whitman, and Thoreau, especially Whitman, by Kerouac and John Dos Passos, by Frank Capra films, Coppola films, Jimmy Stewart, and Billy Jack, by childhood memories of Bobby Kennedy and Martin Luther King Jr. and their murders, by the war in Vietnam and the protests against it, by Richard Nixon, Spiro Agnew, underground comics, the 1977 New York Yankees, loud music of all kinds, fireworks, hamburgers, and French fries."

Edited to add: Oh. The answers. You'll probably be wanting those. I'll post them sometime tomorrow. So hurry and get your guesses in. There may be prizes involved!

Well, I Guess I'm the Bitch After All

Fine, NaBloPoMo. You win. I lose. Are you happy?

I could defend myself by saying that I DID travel to a different time zone WITH a toddler WHILE pregnant AFTER a daylight savings time change AND I stayed at a place without reliable wifi. I could say all of that, but I won't. Gracious losing: that's what I'm all about.

Perhaps my equanimity in the face of defeat is based on the fact that, last week, I hit the 50-book mark for the year, with seven whole weeks to spare. Such is the power of chronic incomnia, my friends. Maybe, if you're lucky, in your next life you'll be endowed with this blessed gift.

I wish I could tell you about the last whack of books I read, a couple of which were really excellent, but I'm beat. More to come.

Probably All Three

Here's a question for you. Is it:

(a) overtiredness
(b) hormonalness
(c) bad-person-ness

that makes me watch Sam gliding his crayon (which, if you're wondering, we pronounce "CRAY-on" around these parts) over the paper so lightly as not to even leave a phantom wisp of colour behind, and has me fighting the urge to mash my meaty grown-up hand over his little fist and force said crayon down on the paper hard enough to make big, clumsy scribbles on the page and yell, "Press, dammit! YOU HAVE TO PRESS."

Who's the Bitch, NaBloPoMo?

I have been in transit from Vancouver to Ontario literally all day, first with the driving to the airport and the obligatory sitting around one's ass in the airport for way too long. (Checking in TWO HOURS before your departure for domestic flights: come now, is this really necessary? Really?) And then there's the flying with a squirmy toddler part. And then there's the job of driving an hour and half to our final destination, plus the added hour and a bit required for getting lost because Toronto's highway system is a fucking nightmare and hey, here's a thought, why not have the different highways start with numbers other than 4, huh?

So, four things:

1. My toe still hurts like a mofo, though, miraculously, no one dropped a large suitcase on it. (I like to see the glass all half full like that.)
2. Never having flown five hours whilst heavily pregnant before, I do not recommend it. Ow, my uterus!
3. My usual travel-related time confusion, in diabolical partnership with the recent daylight savings time switcheroo, has left me with a serious sense of temporal dislocation. Unless it actually IS next week already. Is it?
4. Just because this post is technically about nothing doesn't mean it doesn't count. (Or something like that. When I've got a bad case of the temporal dislocation, I tend to abuse the double negatives.)

And in conclusion, who's the bitch, NaBloPoMo? That's right. You are.

Three Reasons Why the Baby Toe Is Utterly Useless

1. It serves no purpose other than sticking out and waiting to be injured.
2. It causes a disproportionate -- and some might say ostentatious -- amount of pain for its size.
3. Even at the best of times, it looks weird.

And bonus reason #4: It goes wee-wee-wee all the way home, like a total pussy.

He's No Book Expert, but He Knows What He Hates

So a couple of days ago, in the comments section of a post, landismom asked:

And where are the Sam Halloween pics, btw?

Good question. Funny story about that, which I think will serve as a set-up for this post. So as to conserve my precious storytelling energy, I may as well copy and paste from the email I sent Doppelsis on this very subject:

In the days leading up to Halloween, Sam seemed really psyched about the whole thing. He was excited about his costume [a train engineer, complete with pocketwatch, walkie-talkie, and awesome hat], and he'd perfectly memorized the whole trick-or-treat drill. He woke up on Halloween morning raring to go. Or so he had us believe.

He didn't get further than half a block from the house before Rusty had to bring him back, wailing his guts out. I think part of the problem was that, in all our discussions, we'd talked about having him carry one particular flashlight. At the last minute, Rusty thought (correctly, but since when does a toddler care about what's right?) that a smaller flashlight would be a better idea. He attempted to make the switch, and the change in game plan made Sam blow a minor gasket, which signalled the beginning of the end.

We somehow coerced him into his costume, but by the time he and Rusty left the house, we were starting to get trick-or-treaters. I suspect Sam thought I was throwing some kind of big candy-related hootenanny without him, and he was confused and angry that I was kicking him out of the house. Which is totally understandable when you think about it.

I am, of course, guessing at 50% 75% 100% of Sam's motivations. Who can claim to know the mind of a two-and-a-half year old?

And so goes the complex inner life of today's modern toddler. So you can imagine what it's like trying to pick out books for one. ("Aha!" you say to yourself. "There's the segue!" It's true. You've picked up on my subtle writerly devices.)

Here is a partial list of books I've picked up recently, on my own, for Sam, all of which were dismal failures:

Madeline in London
We love Madeline. We love Madeline's Rescue. I don't know what Sam has against London, especially since he recently informed me that he wants to be a Beefeater when he grows up, but there you go.

There's a Wocket in My Pocket
This is the first Dr. Seuss book to freak Sam out. I think it might have been the Vug under the rug that did it.

Tikki Tikki Tembo
I can't even speculate as to why Sam doesn't like this book. We've read it only once, and ever since then, if I suggest it, he yells "NO!" and makes sure to file it away on a bottom shelf.

Keats's Neighborhood
Sam likes a bunch of Ezra Jack Keats's stories, as I've mentioned in the past, but this treasury of ten classics by Keats did not go over well when I brought it home from the library. I know this because Sam tried to open the front door to put the book outside.

Lost and Found
Rusty and I both love this charming story about a boy and his pet penguin, which makes it really hard to fight the urge to tie Sam down and force him to listen to it when we want to read it. It's not unlike that feeling you get when you're trying to convince an otherwise quite intelligent friend to try a book you love, and you can tell they're not buying what you're selling. And then you punch them.

But sometimes I have my small victories, and these I cherish. To wit:

Pezzettino
In Italian, "pezzettino" means "little piece." This story is about a little square (literally, the character is a red square) who goes around trying to find out if he's a piece of something bigger. Holy friggin' cow, does Sam ever love this book. The first time we read it, it was like he'd found religion.

The Mr. Men and Little Miss series
I think what Sam likes about these books is that they're so small he can carry a bunch of them at once. And he really likes the back of each book, where every character in the series is pictured and named, and he insists on having each one identified. Every bloody one. Every single time we read one of the books. And even when we don't.

Katy and the Big Snow and Maybelle the Cable Car
Duh... books about anthropomorphized heavy equipment. Even I know these are a no-brainer for your average mechanically obsessed toddler.

So now, given what I've told you about Sam's literary preferences these days, any suggestions? The holidays are coming up, and I have shopping to do.

Bookus Memeus Randomus

It's only day 5 of this thing, and look at me: I'm already playing the meme card. (Don't you judge me, you!) Landismom tagged me, and I'm not one to ignore a tag. What can I say? I'm a team player.

Total number of books I own
Sweet merciful Jesus, too many. They're double-stacked in places on the main set of shelves in the kitchen, and they're creeping up the walls all over the house. I did a major purge two years ago and, sadly, my shelves have pretty much reverted to their "before" photo state.

Last book I read
I can't tell you, because I'll be writing about it soon, along with some exciting news. That's right. MORE EXCITING NEWS. Get a load of my life, with the dizzying highs and the terrifying lows and the creamy middles.

Last book I bought
Hmm... well, the last book I bought was a gift for someone who knows someone who sometimes reads this site, so I can't say. But the second-last book I bought was Goodnight, Sam by Marie-Louise Gay. It's to be a Christmas present for Sam, who never reads this site. It hurts, but I live with it.

Five meaningful books
Holy crow. You knew those other questions were too easy, right? Okay, so for my own purposes, I'm going to eliminate all religious texts from consideration, mostly because I'm a heathen ignoramus. And I'm not going to go the "I love these books in a totally deep and personal and meaningful way that you couldn't possibly understand but I will tell you anyway" route, mostly because, well, meh.

Instead, I'm going to go the preachy, prescriptive route and list five books that I think would be meaningful if the entire population were to read them. You know, in case 6.5 billion people start looking to this site for book recommendations. (What? It could happen.)

1. Last Chance to See by Douglas Adams
2. Animal, Vegetable, Miracle by Barbara Kingsolver
3. The Age of Missing Information by Bill Mckibben
4. The Year of Magical Thinking by Joan Didion
5. Night of the Mary Kay Commandos by Berke Breathed

You know my M.O. I don't tag. But I must warn you: a man in Spokane, Washington, ignored this meme and was stricken with a devastating case of ennui. Plus itching.

The Announcement I Didn't Use

Art for a Snowy Day

Given that I'm committed to this posting-every-day thing, I'm thinking that weekend posts may be a little light on verbiage. I'm not sure I've got seven good thoughts to share every week. (Do I have FIVE good thoughts? Let's not explore that question.)

So I thought I'd show you one of the pieces of book-related art I've acquired for Sam's brand-new big-boy room:


It's an illustration from The Snowy Day by Ezra Jack Keats. I may have gotten this slightly more for Rusty than for Sam, because this book almost makes him cry. Don't tell him I told you that.

If you're looking for book-related art, children's or otherwise, there are hundreds of great pieces -- including gorgeous illustrations from classics like Alice in Wonderland and The Waterbabies -- at Art.com, and right now the site is having a sale on a lot of their stock.

[tip via Apartment Therapy: Nursery]

A Conversation That Should Have Waited Till 2025

"I'm not getting the relationship between this couple on TV."
"What do you mean?"
"They're not acting like a couple, and she looks a lot older than he does."
"I think they look about the same age."
"He's pretty well-preserved then."
"Well, you know that men get better looking as they get older, whereas women..."
"Excuse me?"
"Er, and you, of course, being man-like in many regards, are also getting better looking."
"Come again?"
"..."
"..."
"This is where a rocket-pack would come in handy."

I'm Back, Large (Very Large) and in Charge

Since this is the first day of NaBloPoMo, I thought I'd kick things off by, you know, posting on my blog. You may recall that I made a heroic attempt to do this last year, and failed ON THE THIRD-TO-LAST DAY for the twin reasons that Rusty and I were out of town and I'm a dumbass.

So let's get the party started with an announcement: Yes, I'm pregnant.

Thanks so much to those of you who posted or emailed me with your hopeful congratulations after my not-so-cryptic previous post. You guys are so sweet. In retrospect, I realize how obvious my mention of pending big news was. I mean, how many top-secret, big-big-SUPER-BIG announcements does your average middle-class person make in their lifetime? If you're already married, that pretty much leaves just the one. I guess it could've been a shocking surprise -- I just realized I'm gay! I'm joining the army! I'm secretly a conservative! -- but I'm not that interesting.

If you're wondering, the baby -- to whom I like to refer as Doppelganger Junior, aka DJ -- is due sometime around the middle of March, which puts me squarely at the halfway point of this pregnancy. How's that for keeping a secret, huh?

So now that we're not keeping secrets any more, here are three full-disclosure things I will tell you about me and pregnancy:

1. Hormones can turn even the most mild-mannered -- or, if not mild-mannered, so passive-aggressive as to SEEM mild-mannered -- person into a total psycho hosebag. To wit, the day Rusty came home from work early because he'd made the mistake of calling me midday to say hi, only to have a blubbering, incoherent freak answer the phone. Said freak (okay, it was me) was unable to make him understand that really, no, REALLY, nothing was wrong, so he rushed home. Why all the hoo-haw? Because the neighbour's lawnmower had woken me from a (clearly much-needed) nap.
   
   You know that "glow" people are always saying we pregnant folk have? That glow is the sweetly unadulterated incandescence of batshit craziness.
   
   
2. I secretly love maternity clothes, especially those jeans with the full panel that goes practically up to your sternum. I'm sorry, but you are just never going to find comfort like that with regular pants. And the skirts? Oh my god, they're the closest thing to feeling like you're walking around naked. Admittedly, I don't think the phrase "Man, those maternity jeans make your ass looks FABULOUS" has ever been uttered by human lips, but I can live with that.
   
   (Important addendum: Yes, I love maternity clothes. ON PREGNANT PEOPLE. I don't know what young ladies these days are thinking. Back when I had a waist, I wasn't hiding it underneath empire waistlines and trapeze jackets. But hey, whatever, that's your nevermind. You're making my clothes shopping easier.)
   
   
3. God or Mother Nature (or whatever deity you prefer to abuse when you swear) has cursed me with perhaps the cruellest trick that he/she/it has ever played: Though my early-pregnancy nausea has finally passed, I'm left with a complete aversion to chocolate. Which, if you know me, you know how devastating a blow this is. When I was pregnant with Sam, we were both giddy and drunk off the kilos of chocolate and chocolate-related products we consumed regularly... which could explain the sixty glorious pounds I gained. Can little DJ show some similar cooperation? Noooooo... he/she's all like, "Mm-mmm, I sure could go for a nice refreshing SALAD right about now." I'd better get something really friggin' good for Mother's Day.

So that's my big secret. And now, if you have any secrets and you've read this far, I think it's only fair that you share.