Random Observations on DC

I promised a little more about DC, so here it goes, random observations.

1. The Newseum makes most other museums feel pretty Podunk. It's pretty much six floors of awesomeness, especially if you are sort of a First Amendment junkie, uber-nerd (my favorite kind of people). The Pulitzer Prize photography room alone is worth the pricey admission. But bring your hankie because no one wins a Pulitzer for taking pictures of healthy, well-adjusted children feeling joyful.

Photo from here.

2. DC is a very black city (54.4%). San Francisco is not (6.5%). In DC, white people and black people are together a lot, doing business, hanging out, going to school, conversing. In San Francisco, they are not. In DC there are black people across the socioeconomic spectrum (hello, Mr. President). In San Francisco there are also middle class African Americans, but the majority of black San Franciscans live in poorer, marginalized neighborhoods. I guess what I am trying to say is that race relations felt much more relaxed in DC than in supposedly super-liberal, groovy SF. Here, it feels like a bunch of stiff white people trying to be PC about the black people they don't actually know. There, it just felt like a completely natural mix of people doing their thing. Which is what my dad always said about Southern cities: that despite a reputation for and history of racism, there was actually a lot more regular, day-to-day interaction between races. And that completes my portion of the national conversation on race. Now watch this mazing video.

3. In DC it seemed as if there was a larger percentage of young women who dressed as if they were on Gossip Girls. They were all so blond and shiny and barely clad and slutty looking. We saw lots of Daisy Dukes and stilettos. Where, I ask you, were the dowdy policy wonks in sweater sets? I know, I'm so totally old and prudish now.

I go where Obama goes: a weekend away

If you've missed me, I'm sorry. We went to DC. Washington DC. Cross number 31 off this list. and let me just say, this is one great city. I sort of expected a lot of suited up blowhards, but it turns out that's only inside the Capitol Building. Otherwise, nice place.

It's Sunday. We're still recovering from last night—the Mister's 20th High School reunion. And a word of advice on that (you can thank me later): let him go to his all-boys Catholic school reunion by himself. You can watch a movie and drink vodka sodas by yourself for one night. He can drink beer in the cafeteria and talk to guys named Stevie. You will both be happier for it.

This is the man I married

More later on such topics as drink 40-year-olds at weddings, the FDR Memorial, the Newseum, Georgetown's cuteness, Obama obsession, race relations, and 20-somethings dressed like hoochie mamas. In the meantime, love from Obamaland (sigh).

The weird thing is, other people think our kids are nice

Sometimes motherhood feels exactly like being the live-in maid to a schizophrenic narcissist with a Napoleon complex. Except that you don't get paid so you're more slave than servant.

One minute your masters are cooing about how much they love you, the next minute they are slamming the sub-par pasta you made to the floor and telling you in a cool serial killer voice that they hate you. The only real constants are the messes and the whining and the pee droplets in front of the toilet. The small dollops of sweetness are just enough to keep you from quitting and running away to Corsica where surely someone will really appreciate you.

Or am I doing it wrong? Are other people's homes just filled with all the cooing sweetness of a Sears Portrait commercial? Are we the only ones who have three-year-olds who tell us they hate us? If we aren't alone then why isn't anyone else speaking up? Why aren't we all shouting from rooftops about how hard this is, and how painful, and how, sometimes, it just plain sucks.

By the way, as I write this Maggie is yelling a story to me through her bedroom door. It goes like this: "I love you so much and I'm you friend and I want you and I love you as big as the world."

And that's how they get you. It's sick.

It's not mom jeans but it's not good either

photo from here

The worst thing about not working? My outfits, hands down. Now that I'm an urban farming co-op mom who doesn't work outside the home, things have really taken a nose dive in the fashion department.

It's a small price to pay for my freedom, and I hate to get too cliche about how much chicks love shoes but, well, I sort of love shoes a whole lot, and at this particular moment my life really only calls for shoes I don't mind getting spattered with poster paint or filled with sand.

Even looking at clothes has lost its luster. I'm like a depressed person trying to muster the will to get out of the house. What's the point? I think as I pass racks of really cute, black Japanese-y tunics and big ol' Beyonce earrings that would normally have me filled with a rekindled will to live.

I have recently been inspired by a bunch of the preschool moms who manage to pull off these cute yoga wrap/clogs/jeans ensembles, but then I remember the pendulous muffin top that I am working with these days and my fashion slump comes back.

What I need is a uniform. It must involve black Dansko clogs because in a fit of wanting to fit in, I bought a pair. All suggestions welcome. Photos especially appreciated.

Eggs! Eggs! Eggs!

Mm mm mm

It worked. Nature, I mean. On September 8 we finally got not one, but two little brown beauties from our chickens. The whole family went a little nutso with excitement. We even attracted the neighbor girl with our egg-citement (sorry about that).

So, Ms. Samantha B. is our contest winner with a guess of September 5. Congratulations! Email me and we can figure out if you get the dozen eggs or the Eggling herb planter.

Woo hoo! Omelets for all.

Maggie checks compulsively (like we all do)

Finally, our labor pays off

That's our first prize egg next to a jumbo supermarket egg. Ours is cuter, don't you think?

Watching eggs fry is not at all like watching paint dry

Shook me all night long

Most nights these days my kids invent a hundred different ways to stall before bed. "I'm hungry." "I have to go to the bathroom." "I want the light on a little more." "I need to ask you a question." Etc, etc. until we end up having to just close the door in their little faces and wishing them goodnight.

Lately they've added a few fears to their expanding repertoire. Last week I had to go into the backyard and get rid of an imaginary rat for Maggie. Yesterday Oliver asked me to make sure there were no owls outside. Later, he called me back in to ask where the volcanoes were.

Then, tonight, Maggie called me into the room where she was sitting up in bed whimpering with fear. "Mom," she said, lips quivering. "I see a rock star outside. And I don't like rock stars."

For just a millisecond I got excited, thinking maybe, just maybe, this rather trying and exhausting day was going to end on a bright note and I would pull away the curtain and Angus Young would be standing in the backyard admiring our chickens in his little shorts and suspenders ensemble.

But no, it was only Venus, or the North Star or whatever, and I had to explain that it was just a regular star and not a rock star and there was nothing to be afraid of.

Oliver & Maggie doing a serious and avant garde "robot"

Come on, eggs!

Ahem, it's September 6th and our chickens are still no-good lay abouts intent on eating our table scraps and giving us nothing in return. They're like your belching brother-in-law who drinks all your beer and leaves a funny smell on your couch.

That's right, no eggs yet.

All the dates for the Guess the Date of the First Egg contest have come and gone. Wanna have another go? Leave your guess here. It's week 21, if you're the type to do research into these things, and we are dealing with two cuckoo morans and one barred rock.

Prizes still stand.

Ladies and gentlemen, good luck.