A leash just seems cruel

Oh sure, she looks all innocent here

When Magnolia was one day old and weighed less than five-and-a-half pounds, one of the NICU nurses handed her to me and said, "This one is ferocious."  At the time I loved the description.  I thought it meant she was a fighter, that despite her small size and her less than ideal birth, she was going to be fine.  And, of course, it did mean that.  She is now a bright, funny 35 pound girl who can do imitations and likes to eat brie. But I am starting to suspect that the description also portended a certain character trait, a willfulness that would eventually just kick my ass.

It's bad enough that she looks right at me like some snotty teenager from The Hills and then runs down the sidewalk, or worse, into the parking lot, just to assert her dominance and test my limits.  But she has also taken to reminding me of me.  I know this happens, that all your worst traits will get mimicked back at you, that as parents the most powerful thing we do is teach by example, with our actions.  But do I really need a not-quite-three-year-old rolling her eyes and dramatically sighing "fine" with the trumped up exhaustion of a put upon bureaucrat?  I do not.  This is just the type of mirror I do not need right now.

What I do need is some advice on what to do to get her to listen to me.  Yelling?  Doesn't work; she laughs.  Time outs? Sort of, but I hate the dynamic they set up. Reasoning?  Sometimes, but only if we talk before the event and plan out the desired behavior.  What I need is something that will stop her from running away from me in dangerous places and from acting as if she has no respect for me at all.  Suggestions?  Techniques?  New cocktails? I'll take 'em all.

A thing I like

This blog which my friend Miranda, who is the source of many good blogs, just sent to me. I especially like this post about the slow loris, which I've never even heard of, who likes to get tickled.  You have to watch the video.  It's strangely mesmerizing.

Help us name our chickens and win a prize

Oh yes we did.  Four little five-day-old black fuzzballs. And now our whole household is just plum chicken crazy.

 As you can see, we're having a little trouble naming them (I feel that the Mister, smart as he is, is particularly handicapped). So far we have one Barred Rock named Tilly, who is proving to be something of a bully, and a Cuckoo Maran named Lucille, after Ms. Ball. 

But otherwise, we're at a loss.  I'm liking Kung Pow and Cashew, for the two remaining chicks, but I'm not sure. 

Send me some suggestions.  If we chose your names, I'll send you an advanced copy of Novella Carpenter's not-yet-released book, Farm City.  Ms. Carpenter is sort of the inspiration behind our new urban farmyard, though, so consider yourself warned. 

A thing I like

My coworker Elizabeth Jardina's blog about the chickens at Sunset. She's a fact checker extraordinaire and my go-to gal for all sorts of chicken-related information.  Also, she warned me against this and I didn't listen. 

Leonard Cohen would never Twitter

I have told my writing students many times that beginning a piece of writing with the words, "I don't know what to say," is, to say the least, lame and lazy.  But, um, I don't know what to say about Leonard Cohen.  I don't like to read about music and I've already documented my own history with music bullies, so let me just borrow some wise words from the Mister and say, Leonard Cohen means that shit. I got to see him in concert last night and he was just so commanding and funny and human and spry and vulnerable and dapper and humble.  And the lyrics.  Oh, the lyrics. 

What I kept thinking as he would fall to his knees in his natty gray suit and sing to the floor (nay, plead to the floor) was, this is exactly why I hate Twitter.  On the spectrum of human expression, Leonard Cohen and Twitter fall on opposite ends.  And I chose Leonard.

Click here and watch and you might choose him too.

And by all means, feel free to try to convince me that Twitter is great.  It's not going to work, but I am interested in the argument. 

A thing I like

This cartoon found on, yes, Twitter, (click to se a bigger image) 

and sent to me by my dear friend H. 

The pull of the open road

Yesterday I'm cruising along Sunset Blvd. (the cold one in San Francisco, not the hot one in LA) in the minivan, blasting some Matt-the-Electrician when I have the most visceral and magnetic road trip urge.  I actually hallucinate the wind in my hair and some red lipstick. The Sienna morphs into some classic convertible. It's all I can do not to swing that baby on t0 280 and keep heading south.

Its been a long time since I've been on a road trip but it remains one of my go-to fantasies.  I don't even know where I'd go: The Grand Canyon ala Thelma & Louise?  Maybe just Santa Barbara or some little inland town I've always wanted to go to.  What about you?  Where would you go given a convertible and five free days?  And who would you take with you?  Me? I think I'd go alone.

A Thing I like

It was going to come to shoes sooner or later.  And here they are: what may be the perfect marriage of comfortable mom-shoe and groovy I-could-totally-be-European style.  Yes, please.

My 3'x5' bed of smugness

Become a totally groovy, self-sufficient person of substance and good values?  Check.

Once I get a bee in my bonnet (thanks, Novella Carpenter), I get things done.  Plus, I made a list I have to keep up with (number 30, done). So, this weekend the family and I built a raised bed and planted our own little urban veggie garden and became one step closer to the Obamas. 

Just to up our cool, urban, eco-warrior status (minivan be damned!) we started by dumpster diving for scrap wood.  Once we had our recycled redwood in hand, we followed these plans from Sunset and, voila, a mere 6 hours later we had our adorable little veggie garden complete with spinach, chard, lettuce, broccoli, zucchini, yellow squash, pickling cucumbers and tomatoes.  I'll keep you updated on their progress.

Our shameful patchy lawn soon to be veggie bed

A box, he can build

Oliver helps plant some zucchini (not that he'll eat it)

Here she is, in all her tiny glory

And please, consider this an invitation. If the economic sh*t really hits the fan, you can come over to our house for a nice bowl of veggie soup and a baby lettuce salad. 

Kids who collect weird things

We were driving by a random antique and junk shop with old pieces of china and odd pink vases piled high in the window.  Threadbare knitting bags. Brass candle sticks. Handwritten sign on the door. Looked like it might be open 11-4, three days a week. We were stopped at a red light right next to it. Oliver was rapt.

Oliver: Mommy, that's my favorite store.

Me: Oh.  Really?

Oliver: Yes. It's my favorite.  Will you take me there someday, mommy?

Me: You want to go there?

Oliver: Yes, mommy. Take me to that beautiful store.

Me: Um, Okay.

I think he might be trying to complete his discontinued silver set or something.

A thing I like

Mark Fiore's new political cartoon.  Yes, I am that stunning female announcer voice.  But let's forget about my talent for a minute. Don't you think this is funny?  The starving monkey part?  I had a hard time with that line.  It's funny stuff. Here's the last one I did.  And here's Mark, in a documentary about him.  Cool, huh?

Why weddings are a good thing and red wine is not

That's us, lo those eight years ago

Last weekend the Mister and I went to a wedding. Two hipster types getting hitched.  Lots of women in vintage, fur-trimmed dresses, men in porkpie hats.  Boiled peanuts as appetizers, conversations about Burning Man.  Not exactly my scene, but it was fun just the same. 

I especially liked the vows. One of the main benefits of going to weddings as an old married couple is the little bit of love water that rains down on your own union when you witness all that fresh, gushing talk of love and commitment. (And yes, I realize "love water" has about a hundred unseemly connotations. Heads out of the gutter, people; I'm being heartfelt here).  Plus they read this poem by Richard Brautigan, which was just great. A lovely time was had, right down to the masquerade ball masks we got as favors and the pulled pork we ate for dinner.

But then there is the issue of red wine.

I am a terrible drinker.  Maybe it's my Jewish genes, maybe it's my thick blood. Whatever the reason, drinking never works out for me.  First of all, I'm a total lightweight. Secondly, sipping is just not part of my makeup.  Low tolerance coupled with an innate tendency toward gulping is an unfortunate burden.  It's not that I'm particularly badly behaved. I can get pretty maudlin but there's no sloppy karaoke or sobbing declarations of love. It's just that the aftermath of any drinking is fraught with so much cringing self-recrimination (you idiot!), it completely cancels out any of the previous night's fun. It's this self-inflicted cycle of pain with a really good party and occasional disco dancing in between.