accidental feminist

my confidence is shaken May 30, 2008

I like the song “Cecilia”. This post is not an attempt to defend it as a fantastically catchy little pop tune that is great for working out to, or driving in your high school friend’s convertible to, or slapping whatever hard object happens to be around to simulate drums to. No. Because I know all of the rational arguments against “Cecilia”, and right now, it’s not about that.

This post is about a moment of clarity I had today as I was changing out of my gym shoes by the door of the Evanston Athletic Club. “Cecilia, you’re breakin’ my heart. You’re shakin’ my confidence daily…” Yes, that was certainly the word I heard. Daily. But that’s impossible, says Luke Skywalker, it’s “baby”…isn’t it? But, like the optical illusion, I had suddenly seen the old hag, and I could not go back to the young society woman with the feather in her hat. How many years had I sung this song in error? Well, for as long as I’ve been singing it. It’s “daily”, as sure as the nose on my face. Not “baby”, you idiot. Daily. Daily. Daily.

Suddenly the world feels so full of possibilities…

from the mouths of babes May 25, 2008

Dina on an ear infection: I feel like my ear needs to throw up…(very serious expression on her face) but I don’t know how!

Awesome features of that statement include:
* Not quite having the filter that would keep her from suggesting that an ear could, in fact, throw up.
* Having enough of that filter to follow up her statement with an acknowledgment that she understands that there does not seem to be a mechanism by which her ear could, in fact, throw up.

It is the careful navigation of this line that makes for great artists (i.e. I know that clocks do not, in fact, melt, but what if they did?)

would you rather? May 24, 2008

I have been AWOL from cyberspace while planning the final phases of my cross-country move in 4Dspace. But now that our Boston plans are shaping up, I’m a little more calm. Calm enough to tell you about the girls’ recent acquisition of “Would You Rather” into their game repertoire. Here’s some of my favorites:

Bassie: Would you rather get 8000 paper cuts or have one giant sore on your body that didn’t heal for a year?

Dina: Would you rather be in a room full of yummy candy or a room full of scary snakes?

Okay, so only one of them has really acquired it…

an ode to robert downey jr. May 13, 2008

I loved you in “Weird Science”*, even though I was supposed to hate you. I pined for you in “Less Than Zero“, even though I was supposed to pity you. I wanted you in “Two Girls and a Guy“, even though I knew I’d be the feisty but less hot brunette who ends up losing the battle for your affections. Like Jason Bateman, you have risen from the ashes of my first pre-teen, proto-sexual crush like a phoenix of pure charisma and spot on comedic timing. So hats off to you, Ironman. You’ll always be a superhero to me.

*What, no link to a picture? Isn’t this whole post just an excuse to link to pictures of your childhood crush? Alas, I can find none of RDJ as a blazer-sleeve-rolling, jelly-bracelet-wearing, pre-metro-sexual. But maybe you can make a computerized version of him on your IBM with your phone modem and he’ll come to life and teach you to be cool.

five year olds and the spirit of capitalism May 11, 2008

At the mall food court:

Dina: Why do people work here?

Me: You mean, at the food court? Well, maybe they like it; or maybe they need the money.

Dina: (Briefly considering) I think they just need the money.

Me: Well, what kind of job do you think people do because they like it?

Dina: Like, a gymnastics instructor, or a karate instructor…

Me: Yeah, you’re probably right. People probably don’t work at the mall food court because they like it.

Dina; (knowing head shake) Nope.

beware the 49er flapjack May 9, 2008

Its beguiling thinness, obscuring its astounding density, beckons you to continue to eat; but once released into the digestive system, it opens up like a sea monkey. And you, you my friend, no longer have the bowels of a 16 year old.

the yosefblog abides May 8, 2008

The 45 second walk from your hall duty in the A building to your Department Coordinator’s office in the C Building is the longest 45 seconds of your life iff (that is spelled correctly, for those who don’t know elementary logic) you are greeted by said Coordinator with the words: “Your father is on the phone; it’s about Yosef”. The thoughts went like this:

1. He is dead.
2. You are melodramatic and have a hyperactive and highly literary imagination.
3. Therefore, it is unlikely that he is dead.
4. But he probably got in a car crash and is in a coma.

Or, option 5, he inexplicably fainted on the el platform. He is fine, and decidedly not dead. But he cannot drive for at least two weeks, which makes him “dead weight” (no? too soon?).

In all sincerity, though, the thoughts go through your head so quickly, and one of the ones that was nearly half formulated and only barely coherent, like a dull headache coming on, was this: This person is my perfect match (although I have always wanted us to create profiles on eharmony and see if it matches us up, just to verify this suspicion with 29 scientifically proven points of compatibility), and he could be gone, and I am but a wee lass of 30; how could I possibly “start over”? How could I replicate that? Could the universe be so indifferent to my desires (Werner Herzog would say “yes, neccessarily”)? Only now, as I have more than 45 seconds to consider this thought, do I realize that there are so many people in the world, as sure of the “perfection” of their relationships, that have had that person taken from them in an instant. It is terrifying and comforting to know that the human brain is adaptable enough that such an event will most likely not kill you, the survivor, and that you will, in fact, find a way to move on. But for those few seconds when I actually thought my life might actually turn out like that, I was weighed down by that possibility, and the realness it had in those moments before I picked up that phone.

Now, anyone want to drive my gimp husband around for the next two weeks?

welcome, michael paul! May 4, 2008

Congrats, Jazzy and Matt! I can’t wait to have conversations with you about raising children that aren’t theoretical.

buzz kill

It’s a balmy 68 degrees. I get home from working out and check my email. The girls and on their way home from visiting friends with yosefblog. I check the fridge and make a mental note of what I’ll cook for dinner, then crack the window to let the cool breeze waft through the house. I take a nice, long, hot shower, get out and put on my pajamas…at 6:45 PM. Ahhh…Yosefblog enters with the children at 7:04. “I’m making tuna steaks” I sing from the kitchen. At 7:45 dinner is done, and yosefblog and I curl up on the couch to watch the Celtics game while the girls play computer. Ahhh…8:15: “Time for bed, girls,” I smile.

Two hours later, they are still awake, I have gotten them Ritz, cups of water, yelled at them to get into bed, turned on their ipod, and had to “tuck them in with hugs and kisses” four times. That doesn’t sound like that much in two hours, but when it occurs at regular 8 minute intervals, it completely destroys what was supposed to be what you thought was going to be your first night of spring freedom. At one point, I tried to appeal to Bassie’s rational side:

Me: Bassie, it is not my job to spend two hours transitioning you to sleep.

Bassie: Yes it is.

Me: No, it’s not. Check the description.

Bassie: Okay, let me see it.

Me: (calling as I leave the room) It’s online!

I would say “Calgon, take me away!” but I assume that studies have found that Calgon, like Mr. Bubble, is carcinogenic.