Mama gets a moment of peace

The moment has finally arrived.  The big twin payoff we've been waiting for. My kids now play together.  They've always played next to one another but now it's like they are really little friends. This morning I heard them making plans to go to the airport.

"You've got to hold hands 'cause car coming," Maggie said, officiously grabbing Ollie's paw. And then off they went with the giraffe suitcase packed full of essentials like letter magnets, a wooden toaster and a few board books.  According to Maggie they are headed for grandma Charlotte's house, Mexico, and a bunny hole.  Sounds like a fun trip.

I hope they come home soon.

I gotta get to the inauguration

I can't let this kid down

So there I sat on election night, eyes all brimming with joy, heart all aflutter with yes-we-can optimism, guts all knotted with regret.  I wanted to be in Grant Park in Chicago, crying and cheering at hope's ground zero.  

So, now I'm scheming to get to the inauguration.  Getting a ticket from a California rep. is out of the question.  I went to Jackie Speiers' website and it says she's gotten over 3,000 requests for her 198 tickets.  BUT, and here's where my hope lies, my in-laws live in Oklahoma, where they pump up Republicans from the ground with their oil.  I figure there can't be more than a few hundred folks from down that way who want to go to freezing DC on January 20 to celebrate with the liberal elite. So, my mother-in-law has put in a request to her rep.  It's a long shot, but I've got to at least try to be a part of history.

I can't let this happen.

MAGGIE (twenty years hence): Mom did you get to witness the inauguration of the first black president of the U.S.?

ME (all stressed-out, with a bad dye-job): No dear, I was taking advantage of Old Navy's post-holiday sales.

I think I'll make us go even if we don't have tickets.  We can just stand far away, chattering with cold and good old American pride.

A roundup of cool links to design stuff and ideas and people in the blogosphere

A few things I think you should know about:

This woman beat me out of a job at Cafe Mom. Yes, I was going to take this blogging thing to the big time.  I tracked her down and found her all over the place. It turns out I like her.  So, Happinest meet Up Mama's Wall.  Up Mama's Wall meet Happinest, and Mamazine.  Yes, you are welcome to my 25 regular readers (That's right, I've grown!).

Here's Undrgrnd. Sign up for their daily newsletter and buy lots of cool, design-y things for your home that you don't need.  The good news is that they are marked down, a lot.  Like sometimes by 80%.  Enjoy.  

Also, in case you're feeling stuck.  Here are some ideas from Free Idea Factory.  Why didn't I think of that?

Finally, that agent who liked me and then changed her mind about my new anthology, sort of changed her mind again and now she has submitted my essay about hating my dog to the NY Times Modern Love section.  I tell you this because I need your good vibes.  You know, from your lips to God's ears and all.   

Our family supports your family--Down with Prop. 8

Maggie & The Mister stand up for what's right

Me: Guess what guys?  We're going to a protest this morning.

Oliver: There will be lots of toys there!

Me: Um, no.  But there will be lots of people and music and dancing.

Oliver (losing interest): Mommy, I want banana bread.

LATER, IN THE MINIVAN

Oliver: I'm so 'cited about the toy chest, Mommy.

Me:  Oh, Oliver.  It's a protest, not a toy chest. 

Poor kid thought we were going to some giant new toy chest big enough to hold dancing people and drums.  Instead he gets a whole lot of cheerfully pissed off gay people and a little distorted disco music.  Still, in the end, I believe it's better for them. 

Encaustic painting, Doris Day and Carmel-by-the-Sea

Doris Day owns my hotel.  I'm in  Carmel-by-the-Sea, a town so Thomas Kincaid-esque, it make me feel as if I might come-face-to-face with Bilbo Baggins all snug in his Christmas elf suit.  Everything is so dimiutive and quaint and incredibly chi-chi.

See for yourself

They have a shop here that just sells handcrafted lampshades.  Another devoted entirely to an aviation theme—you know, flight jackets for babies and massive framed photos of fighter jets against the blue, blue sky.  

Clint Eastwood used to be the mayor and I have trouble understanding how he could have taken it all seriously.  His first act in office?  Legalizing ice cream cones.  Apparently the city had an ordinance against take-out.  Not anymore.  I just now polished off a bag of Chinese.  Alone.  In my hotel owned by Doris Day.

I am here on a women's art retreat, an assignment.  I'm learning encaustic painting (painting with hot wax) in the company of six other would-be artists.  I've learned three things so far:

1.) I LOVE encaustic painting.  It's luminous and lovely and just so fun to play with.

2.) Being a visual artist is much more fun than being a writer, especially with a staff waiting on you hand and foot (Chris, more wine.  Clap!  Clap!) 

3.) A lot of women own and wear fur coats without a trace of guilt or self-consciousness. (What would Doris Day think?)

Oh, and if you took all the diamonds off all the fingers in Carmel, you might just be able to bail out the economy once and for all.

Here's my first encaustic painting (they have a tendency to look a little tie-dye Dead Heady)

Dream Analysis

Last night Oliver woke up yelling his head off at about 1:30.  I stumbled down the stairs to his room, sending Woody skittering across the floor with those terribly noisy claws of his.  What I found was a mostly-still-asleep two-year-old babbling like a lunatic, hair all sticky-upy.

Me:  Shhh (rubbing his cheek) Shh.

Oliver: Guy!  Man!

Me: Shhh.  Go back to sleep.

Oliver: Choo-choo train man come!  

Me: It's just a dream.  Shh.

Oliver: zzzzzzz.

My son's first bad dream.  This may be mean, but being able to soothe my kid during a nightmare gives me immense pleasure. I donned my capable-mom suit and kicked that Choo-choo Train Man back to the hell from which he rose.  

None of my new found skills seemed to help in my own personal dreamland.  As I drifted off I joined the Mister on the beach just as he was fishing my liver out of the surf at Ocean Beach.  We knew it was mine because of the serial number, you see.  

Me: Can we put it back in?

Mister: No.  Look at it (he holds up a large, gray jellyfish-looking thing).  It's been out too long.

Me: (realizing I'm going to die).  Darn.

I've never really gotten the hang of dream analysis, but this much is clear: Oliver is cute and I am whacked thirty ways from Sunday.

Obama makes me feel like being a good person

Today I visited my friend Rachel and her tiny new baby, Hazel.  And of course we talked about breast feeding and sleep deprivation and the horror that is using a breast pump.  But we also talked about our dear Prez Elect (if you are a fetishist like me, look here for great photos of the MAN).  She watched the election returns from her lofty perch above the city with her hubby and her new babe.  And as she looked down upon San Francisco and Golden Gate Park (her view is incredible) after Obama won, she said she imagined troops of Americans, dressed in overalls and getting to work like something out of a Social Realism mural.  Maybe there would be oxen.

And the funny thing is, I have been having the same exact vision.  During Obama's acceptance speech I was so desperate to do my part I would have grabbed a shovel and started to dig if only someone would have given me a project.  Then, just today, I got an email from my aunt expressing her need to be of service.  "I feel like volunteering for something!  Teaching school in Appalachia?"  she wrote.  

The point is, this president has got us pumped!  Never in my lifetime has a public figure asked the citizens to be of service. Now, we just need to harness all this energy and goodwill and fix some shit.  Maybe we can start here.  Or here.  Or even here.  We can all be community organizers.