pomegranatesandpaper

What I Never Thought When I Was 30 I Would Write When I Was 50**

**(Adorable baby courtesy of cousin Michele)

I know I'm too old for Mommy Blogging, but I would like to address the legions of Mommy Bloggers and tell them, like Mother of the Future visiting Jacob Marley, that even though you are in the thick of it, folks, you don't know the half of it. And once you know the other half of it, you won't be able to blog about it.

Right now it's all she won't sleep, he's only eaten chicken nuggets for 12 months, the older kid is back to wetting the bed, the mother in law keeps throwing away the Binkies, the husband doesn't do poopy diapers, I haven't had a shower in two weeks, the moms in the playgroup sneer at me because I let my kids eat white bread, we have no money, and I haven't had sex in six months. (The latter two,  those never change.)

The potty training, the nursery schools, the breast pumping in the office bathroom, the food allergies, the Einstein for Babies, the Bugaboo Stroller, the gym in the last trimester (you girls are crazy!), and  the toddlers who haven't slept in their own beds once in their lives  will soon be a distant dream. Hug those babies, smell their heads so much that their little skulls are covered in lipstick (oops, forgot - no time for makeup!), and remember the little "pop" the baby food jar makes when you open the jars of smelly squash because you will be reminded of it someday when you pop the lid of the Tupperware while you are freezing yet another entire meal you made for your grown child who forget to tell you she was going out.

When you put those little snugglies on them and they squirm and arch their back,  recall that deliciousness and you will stop yourself from putting your teen in a headlock because it's snowing outside she/he is going to the city in shirtsleeves because the expensive winter jacket you gave  for Christmas? She hasn't seen it s/he moved out of the dorm/left it in her locker but it could be under all the trash in the backseat of his car.

Those of you struggling to reason with primary grade teachers who are too harsh for your child's sensitive learning skills and refuse to give an extension on the plaster of paris volcano science project even though the kid had the the flu and threw up for ten days, will hopefully see the irony when you are struggling to reason calmly without bursting a blood vessel during a phone call with your child when you strongly suggest they go see the advanced chemistry psychobabble major core intensive tutorial professor and ask foran extension on the ten labs the child owes, and no  you cannot drop the class because we already paid for the credits!

And the trauma of separation! The daycare tears!  The cold as fish kindergarten teachers who won't give your child a special hug when she missed you! The endless birthday parties that you had to stay for or your kid would start screaming and running after the car! The terror of the bus pulling away for sleepaway camp and your kid the only one with his face plastered to the window fogging up with tears! Scrapbook it all so you have something to wave in their faces when the same child  tells you he is moving for good to Rome/Paris/California/New Zealand, and oh, can you still keep him on the car insurance.

When you are  mediating the playdate from hell, the one where your kid's friend is torturing your kid by refusing to do anything with her, pulling every toy out of the closet, and then announcing he was bored, you will be well equipped years later to negotiate the Who Ate All the Cupcakes Roommate Controversy in the off campus apartment so one of the roommates doesn't move out and your kid (meaning you)  is stuck paying for another share of the rent.

It's a slippery slope, this parenting. It goes from getting them into a car seat into getting them into their first car to getting them to take their yucky liquid vitamins to getting yourself to take enough Xanax to let them get behind the wheel. 

It goes from getting into the right nursery school,
to  getting into the magnet program,
getting into the gifted program,
getting into the summer camp,
getting the right teacher/tutor/music instructor/soccer team/
karate class/softball coach/high school/honors classes/
AP credit/SAT enrichment/COLLEGE/internship/
year abroad/off campus apartment/move in with boy/girl/friends/
summer jobs/real jobs/Europe/car/apartment/cross country moves/weddings/grandbabies/
getting you into assisted living/nursing homes/an urn.

Whew, I'm exhausted.

I remember Saturday mornings about fifteen years ago. The TV is blaring with cartoons, the kitchen floor is covered with Cheerios, the dog is barking, the husband is playing golf, the laundry is mouldering in piles, one kid has  fever, the other has to go to ballet, there is no food in the house, the newspaper is unread on the doorstep, the milk is sour for coffee, and the baby is crying in the crib. 

Fifteen years later, the house is quiet, the remaining child is asleep and only needs two rides and an unspecified amount of money for your contribution to her life this weekend. There is no food in the house, but no one eats at home anyway. The laundry is still waiting for you (who uses all these towels with just the three of you??) No one will be home for dinner and you have the whole weekend stretched in front of you. . . and nothing to do.

You can shop; go to the city; have brunch; visit a museum; get a manny/peddy; sleep; golf; paint; journal;   play your station on the car radio; dance around naked;  watch black and white movies, but something nags at you and you feel incomplete and unfinished....

Maybe you should call the kids. Think they're up yet? One's left for work and its too early for the others......I'll just text them...no, he never answered....if one can come home, I'll make a roast....no,no, midterms, of course, Daddy just wanted to watch the Memphis game with you....drop the taxes in the mail....you didn't declare any withholding....why New Zealand ....we'll put some money in your account....your new job is where...how old is she... He won't take you back....you have so much to offer anyone....you want to go back to school.....live in the city....get a a new car...how long have you had that cough....I'll get you a referral...take you shopping...get you a haircut....deposit money....take you to lunch....be with you, enjoy you, eat a meal with you, talk to your friends, discuss the books you're reading, give you love advice, finance your spring breaks, cook alongside you, pack your lunch at least every morning, watch you grow up and away and into an adult with a lot of common sense and too big a heart.

But then you'll just leave again....maybe next time for  good.

Maybe we'll get a new dog, a puppy, yes, that's it, a puppy......because you bought me a puppy when we got serious with each other and she was our first baby and now all these babies are gone just far enough away and the one that's here won't let me smell her head anymore without saying I'm gross and  one is at school and onto another life and the other is probably a few months from flying away for good and we're so ready for another sweet-smelling little baby head to feed and clothe and take on walks.....grandchildren! there isn't a one that is even financially independent, they are SO not ready for grandchildren....

But we are. 

I

Inspiration Deck at Tinsel Trading

I had a great time at Tinsel Trading on Saturday in the Inspiration Deck class. It would be an exaggeration to say I was "teaching" the class as all I did was bring the supplies and explain the concept to these lovely, talented ladies.  In a few short minutes, they were off and running and spent the next three hours happily tearing and gluing their way to creating a deck of colorful, symbolic cards.

The ladies were very intent on their work, only looking up at times to hunt for a particular paper or to find the glue sticks that kept disappearing under our mounds of artwork.

The first hour of the class has a very simple theme:

"Cover The White".

The point is to create as many backgrounds as possible within a half hour. No thinking is allowed during this part; the idea is to tear (no scissors!), glue, and cover the back of each card.  By building up a stack of cards with backgrounds, each person walks away with a deck that will be further developed at home into a creative, "museful" set of cards used for inspiration and creative sparking.

In the second half of the class, the ladies concentrated on refining their cards, adding symbolic imagery, stamps, and some even got as far as embellishments. 

The lovely Terri made certain that we were well-fortified and refreshed by bringing her homemade poundcake and sparkling water. What a facilitator! She even climbs ladders for the perfect shot!

What a great group of students (who nicely overlooked the fact that I was sick and coughed my way through the class)!  Look at how proud they are of their gorgeous cards:

I hope that all these talented artists are sitting at home right now, watching TV and reaching for their stack of blank flashcards to continue building their Inspiration Deck!

Retreating

No, not from life, from...my life!  The Teen is going to Italy with her school in April and I decided that the week she is away is the perfect week for me to take off and go away to work on my book.

So I am looking for a place to go, within about 2 hours of NYC with accomodations that include being able to walk outside and have rooms large enough to be comfortable for writing over a week's time.

Any suggestions are appreciated!

La Dolce

There is no accounting for family tastes.

It's not that we don't appreciate a fine steak, or a grilled burger gently rare in the middle with melted gorgonzola and carmelized onions. We are a family that raves over crumbly pieces of nutty cheese and mouthbursts of tiny olives perfectly brined.

Fruit, too.  Juicy watermelons, slices of tart sweet pineapple, a perfectly ripened canteloupe, a variety of local apples in the fall. Plums warmed in the sun and figs roasted with goat cheese.

There isn't a seafood we haven't tried (except octopus, I confess) and loved - oysters as sweet as mouthfuls of ocean air!  Platters of eel rolls, warm and melting on our tongues.

Crepes of manicotti gently stuffed with creamy ricotta & ladled over with rich tomato sauce, or little dumplings stuffed with butternut squash in a bath of buttered sage sauce.

These are the foods we build our holidays around. And yet,  after we polish off the appetizers, and even before we clear our plates of the perfect roast and mashed potaties,   our minds already begin to crave the one thing that is the  the true satiation of my family's holiday appetite:

The Bunny Cake.

And this year, well, you know how rabbits multiply:

We had two.

Because after all is said and done, we are Italians by descent and by emotion and by the overwhelming desire to end the meal properly. The whole holiday - whichever one it is - is just a low, slow, crescendo to  la dolce, the soft, sweet mouthfuls of cream and sugar and chocolate and frosting and sponge cake and ricotta and chocolate chip cookies and dense, fudgy brownies, and fried crullers stuffed with pastry cream and sfogliatelle and torrone and tiramisu dusted with coffee and cannoli and almond biscotti and layer cakes and marscapone and fragrant mouthfuls of berries dolloped with sweetened whipped cream.

We are a family encircled with the spun sugar of our childhood dreams. Is it a wonder our thighs jiggle and jeans have muffin tops?  But all is sweet as we sit at table and eat our cake and shell nuts and pick at strawberries and loosen our tongues with the liquor of sugar.  Finally, the hostess comes out of the kitchen and the aprons come off and the dishtowels put down. We pour  second cups of coffee and pass the cream and get our mother to tell us about Uncle Baker and Rocky Point and when she met our father in an elevator at Bloomingdales.

We think no one sees us sneak one more  cannoli as we  kick off our high heels  under the table, take off our rings, and drift off into a haze  over our coffee cups.  The narcotic is the excess of it all: food, drink, eating,  cooking, cleaning, preparing, and now, finally, the sweet denouement that allows us an  brief hour or so to do nothing more than pass the plate of black and white cookies and remember how our grandmother's bracelets jingled as she drank her tea. Marzipan melts in our mouths as we watch our nieces grow before our eyes into beautiful young women and our nephews drop their blankets in favor of peach fuzz on their upper lips.

It is greater than nostalgia, this sweet line of verse we read from the past and write into our future, like tea leaves read in the bottom of our cups, it is both prophesy and legacy. 

Soon enough, we hear kids fighting in the other room, exhausted husbands come in to grumpily reminding us of work tomorrow, and  it is time to pry the kids away from the Nintendo,   sling sleeping babies over our shoulders, and drive home into the dark night, carrying a piece of the holiday with us on a paper plate covered with a napkin, balanced on our knee.   

Hunt for Egg October...Er, Easter at the Pomegranates

It is a game of great skill.

Where neither age nor sex matters.

It is discussed throughout the year.

Plans are made.

Clues analyzed.

Props considered.

Strategy is stealthy.

Observation is key.

Competition is fierce.

But to the quick goes the prize.

Winner takes all!

 

Buona Pasquetta from the Pomegranates!

Spring Is Not Busting Out All Over

Any minute now, the clock will tick its way into the vernal season. As if to usher spring in, the winds are howling outside, causing the blinds in my bedroom window to whir frantically like baseball cards stuck in bicycle spokes. I know I saw one lone perky purple crocus in the garden last week, but I'm afraid it's still the new kid on the block for now.

This is the only Easter decoration I have out.

I lie.

This is a photo from last year. I haven't taken out anything yet. And tomorrow's Good Friday. But do you like the decoupage plate? I made it a few years ago when I lived in Memphis and had a little craft line. I love decoupage and it is so damn expensive. And frankly, it is so easy to make. In fact, I just decided on the next class I am going to teach at Tinsel Trading!

I can't beat myself up about not  even hanging my egg wreath on the door yet. Easter is too early for me this year and the weather has not softened a bit. I could be much worse considering what work is like right now.

In fact,  my two managers thought Easter was the  weekend after next when I wished them a Happy Easter upon leaving. They both insisted that this weekend was Palm Sunday. Er, no, I told them, I'm pretty sure I went to church last weekend and left with a palm in my hand. So it's a safe bet that they aren't ready for Easter, either.

Which is exactly why I'd never want to be lead counsel. I have enough keeping my department under control; if I had to worry about the entire office, I, too, would be sitting at my laptop, not aware that Easter was barely two days away.

The plan tomorrow is to go early with sister #5 to Arthur Av to buy the Easter bread, pizza rusticas, baby artichokes, and fresh ricotta and mozzarella. (Yo, any other sister that wants to come, just call, y'know.) You can be sure there will be photos, unless we actually don't go because I have  a very scratchy throat and sinus congestion, which is from allergies.

If we don't go, some photos from years past are in the banner above, and here are a few others:

Don't you like the pasta nest for the eggs? I personally love the combination of the Easter bunny, the Virgin Mary, and Uncle Junior from The Sopranos.

Hippity Hoppity Easter's on it's way.

Saturday Class at Tinsel Trading

This Saturday, I will be teaching a class in Inspiration Deck journaling. Here is a sample of the type of cards we will make:

Instead of trying to start an intimidating, big, overwhelming and very serious "ART JOURNAL", why not prime your creative pump by making up dozens of these flashcard-sized inspirational journal cards. Working quickly, intuitively, and spontaneously, we will play word games, rip and tear imagery, and get you started on building up a creative deck that can be added to forever!

There are still a few spots available if you'd like to join us from 11 to 2 at Tinsel Trading in NYC. Call 212-730-1030 for more information.

Things I Think I Do, But I Really Don't

10 things I pretend to myself that I do, but I really don't:

1. Floss daily. I'll do it for a few weeks after every dentist appointment. Then I begin to slack off and only start again when the next appointment is coming up....like this Thursday.
2. Take a multivitamin.  I do take a multivitamin....out of the container each morning. But then I put it in my pocket or my wallet and never remember to take it and then I find little red pills everywhere when I check pockets before I send clothes to the cleaner.
3. Keep a daily journal. I have about a gazillion lying around here and half of those gazillion I started....but blogging is so much easier.
4. Send birthday cards. I buy them. They're really cute, funny, pretty...but never get in an envelope. Need one? Let me know. I have quite a collection.
5. Drink one cup of coffee a day. Which is what  I will tell the surgeon at my 6-month check up. And what I believe despite  my morning Starbucks, afternoon hazelnut at the office cafe, and after dinner decaf with Mr. Pom.
6. Read books as soon as I buy them. I always did. But somewhere in the last year things got out of control. I blame book blogs. And Amazon one-click ordering.
7. Handwash underwire bras.
8. Read The New York Times.  Skim the front page; flip through Metro. Actually read Dining In/Out and Home. Sometimes Science Tuesday.
9. Cook dinner every night. Monday and Tuesday, maybe. By Wednesday, it's strictly Chinese/Boston Market/Rotisserie Chicken from Food Emporium/Sushi Friday. See prior post.
10. Save money. Won't even pretend.

I Am A Cheeky Monkey

I stand before you with my head held down and lemon chicken grease smeared all over my face. I am here to apologize, to strike my breast thrice in  mea culpa for past sins.

A year or two ago, I made light of a famous TV chef on this very blog. I scoffed at his convoluted Halloween treats. Little did I know the ways of the famous and insecure.

They google themselves and then leave "Aha!" comments with regard to disparaging remarks in the hopes it will leave the blogger with the flop sweats.

Anyway, I refuse to name his name (rhymes with Fiorella) cause this post is not about him. Rather it is about the other part in the post where I called Nigella a sexy twit.

I don't know why I did it at the time. It was a cheap shot. I'm not even sure I'd seen any of her shows. I was only familiar with her through her weekly New York Times column and wasn't overly impressed. Her hype was that she was so sexy and I pictured a different sort of siren. Plus, I was mad she'd bumped Giada till later in the morning.

And now, well, what can I say?  Not only am I sure that Mr. Pom would dump me in a hot souffle minute if she showed up at our door in apron and heels, I'm pretty sure I'd let him so long as I could stay in the guest room and come out for meals.

Is it the plummy vowels, the dark, lustrous hair, the wide grin, or the charming slovenliness of eating leftovers with her fingers with the refrigerator door open.

I thought only I did that.

On Sunday mornings, we used to read The Times and watch CBS Sunday Morning in bed with coffee and then jump up at 10:30 and get on with our day.  Now, the day cannot begin properly until 11:00, after Nigella has seduced us with some chocolate cake and caramelized onions for a party with her friends or Sunday lunch with the kids.  No matter where we are in the house, no matter what we're doing - laundry, groceries, yelling at children to get up for Mass - we drop it and run to a TV To Put On Nigella.

And then the madness begins. I make it as far as the first commercial and I'm in the kitchen surveying the cabinets to see if we have the ingredients for couscous with ginger, raisins, and molasses. Do we have egg whites for Floating Clouds? Why didn't I buy leeks??  Can I defrost an entire chicken by lunch by submerging it in hot water (yuck!)? Do I have the ingredients for a peach tart with zabaglione? Why don't we have friends for Sunday lunch? Why don't we ever cook Sunday lunch and cold cuts and bagels don't count! And where are the Christmas lights because I must hang some white ones in my kitchen before I can cook anything!

One of the Border stores near us was going out of business and having a 40% sale. I took advantage to stock up on some new cookbooks. I had never looked through any Nigella cookbooks and I couldn't decide between Nigella Bites, Nigella Express, or How to Eat. I really wanted How to Become a Domestic Goddess, but then I saw it was practically all desserts and thought, yeah, probably not a wise choice for someone who had her insides surgically rearranged to have a new cookbook full of recipes like Raspberry Fool and Decadent Chocolate Cake.   

Mr. Pom just kept picking whatever cookbook had her looking the youngest and prettiest. I had to smack him away and send him back to the Civil War section where the only thing that could turn him on was mouldering gossip about General Grant.   

Now the thing is, I have many cookbooks. Yet, I rarely cook a recipe from them. My technique is to read through the cookbook, assimilate the general idea of a recipe, go into the kitchen and modify it with whatever we have on hand, and then end up making the same dishes week in and week out. Sick. To. Death. Of. My. Cooking. And. No. One. Else. Wants. To. Take. Up. The. Spatula.

But on Friday, I picked up How To Eat and decided to make Lemon Chicken - in the chapter entitled something like, Sunday Lunch with a Little More Fuss. Yes! That's what I wanted: a proper Sunday lunch with a little pizzazz.  Of course, we didn't have it for lunch because we had lunch at the diner with The Empress, but I did make it. It's supposed to be accompanied by a custardy lemon sauce, but we can do without a sauce that is made with three eggs and cream.  It was delightful!  Even Mr. Pom liked it and he doesn't like any chicken that isn't dark meat smothered in barbecue sauce! And the girls ate capers!

I had the bright idea to throw in some fingerling potatoes on top of the chicken and they cooked divinely in my Le Cruseut pot in the oven. And we had grilled asparagus to accompany it. 

Whilst I was deep in browning chicken with the skin on, I was under strict orders to save the fat because The Teen had one of those bizarro assignments that some English teacher thinks will make a novel come alive - she had to make a recipe from from the book, "Fried Green Tomatoes".

The only thing was that she had to make "Milk Gravy", which sounds just disgusting enough to make us all glad we left the south. Milk Gravy is that gelatinous white glop that is served on biscuits, as in Biscuits N' Gravy at Crackerbarrel. Really hate the stuff though the kids have inherited Mr. Pom's southern tastebuds and think it is great. 

Now don't go writing to tell me how your granmammy used to save up the lard from all the pigs she'd rendered and make crackling and milk gravy and how y'all almost died as babies until she rubbed some on the nipple...of a bottle...and then you could suck.

Both The Teen and I were equally revulsed and pissed that she was the last one picked and that she got stuck with the Milk Gravy when we could have made my killer cheddar garlic grits or Mr. Pom's biscuits.

I don't know what I was thinking by not running for the camera,  let's just say that the recipe's ratio of one tablespoon of flour per tablespoon of chicken renderings ended up making a paste that we could have used to glue down the loose linoleum under the dishwasher. Then we ran out of milk when the 1.5 cups in the recipe was swallowed up by the roux like a dog with a bone. It ended up taking 4 cups of milk and a cup of chicken broth to get it anywhere near the consistency of gravy.  Tasteless, white gravy.

Good luck to The Teen in trying to microwave it in class. Best thing that could happen is that the person who is bringing the fried chicken forgets!

In any event, a day made richer in many ways by the rendering of chicken fat. As Martha would say, It's a Good Thing.

My Internets are so kind and sweet and fun and make me feel humbled whenever I read your comments.  You don't even mind when shameless appeals for love are broadcast.  Having a blog is sometimes like having the magic mirror that Sleeping Beauty's wicked stepmother had and allowing yourself to gaze into and ask with a straight face. 

"Mirror, mirror on the wall, whose the fairest blogger of them all?"

Too often I lean over into my little magic reflecting blog and wonder how long I can last before I fall over to my  narcissean death.  Thinking about this little blog the last few days, I came to realize that the last few posts have not been about the blog at all.   I have been reacting to the frustrations in my life as mirrored on my blog: too little time, too many interests, too little progress at my goals. I have been feeling like I am frittering away my life and trying to hold onto each hour of "free time" with as much success as trying to hold back the tide by emptying the bay a pailful at a time.  The blog just reflects back for me my scattered, anxious life.

This week, however, the signs of spring are all around me and I feel renewed and bouyant. As I pulled into the driveway this afternoon,  poking it's little head above the layer of dead leaves and winter detritus was a perfect, pert, compact purple crocus, our first of the season. A trip to the side of the house to throw out the garbage revealed daffodils 6 inches above ground with swelled buds. The ride home from work is accompanied by sunlight and I find excuses not to go straight home, stopping at the grocery store or even the quilt store if it is early enough. And today while I drove from the art supply store to Starbucks to Trader Joes to Staples to home, I had the window wide open and the radio blaring.

And last night I began a new series of paintings that are an extension of all the drawing I've done this long winter. They are exciting and frustrating and I love it and feel completely out of my depth.

But isn't that how life is supposed to come at us?

Good night,  Internets.

Dream of the angels.

How Many Lawyers Does It Take to Publish a Blog Post

"Creativity in any form is the enemy of creativity since it cuts off the life blood of creativity: ideas. "  (Alan Jenkins).

Uh. Oh. Am I in trouble. My life blood is so staunched that I am on life support.

See, I used to think this blog suffers from lack of focus. My posts have no collective theme and generally just lie about like stones on the beach. 

Now I realize it's not the lack of focus - it's the lack of posts! About anything I can actually write about! Without getting sued! Or fired! Or have my family pissed off at me! Or relatives refusing to talk to me!  Or my publisher sending me the morals clause from my contract!

(Shut up! I could have a morals clause issue!)

I often wonder to myself, why do people come here? Would I read my ramblings if not authored by myself? Or am I just in love with my own words? And why do I ask so many questions of myself? Isn't that pretentious? Why can't I stop, like now? Imagine if you had to hear this in person, would you kill yourself?

All right, I just slapped myself.  Figured it was time for a little levity after my post earlier in the week, which I think scared a lot of people.

When I write those "neurotic self-obsession" posts that my editor loves, I wonder if people will  think I'm a Deep Thinking Blog, all scarred and pithy and erudite.  But then I worry that half the readers eyes glaze over and their heads hit the keyboard, resulting in blood and gore. 

I am the Queen of Self Censorship.

"Pontius Pilate was the first great censor and Jesus Christ the first great victim of censorship." (Ben Lindsey)

I manage as only I can, to be both the censor and the censee, thereby linking my fame to infamous historical figures and God Himself.

But if I should decide to become a Deep Thinking Blog, what about  when I post about  Pomegranate family hijinks, like mopping up the dog pee,  the sad state of our kitchen, and my obsession with shoes? Will my devoted magazine readers say, wtf? 

"The fact is that censorshp always defeats its own purpose, for it creates, in the end, the kind of society that is incapable of exercising real discretion."

(Henry Steele Commager).

Or just a room full of lawyers.

Speaking of which, occasionally I let fly a few law stories, but these days I am in the office more than in court and though I couldn't make up the hijinks that our office offers every day, if I write about it, I will be known at the Attorney Who Got Dooced (trademarked - don't know where that it is on this keyboard)  and then I'll have to defend myself in the employer lawsuit and we all know what kind of client an attorney has who represents herself....

So until I return to court, I no longer will have stories about

• Spending hours sitting on the bench outside the courtroom by the wedding chapel, watching the Goth Bride dressed all in black with dead roses, nor do I have to scramble to pick up my bag and fly across the corridor to avoid the World's Biggest Cockroach on the wall behind my head. 
• Appearing in front of the judge who wears Hawaiian shirts and sneakers on the bench, making me always feel overdressed in my suit.
• Trying cases in front of the judge who falls asleep during trials, except when awakened by his cell phone and then he will discuss whether the Christmas decorations are in the garage or the attic whilst I perform my cross examination.
• My walk from my car into the office building, which  has far less interesting characters to come across than the two-block walk to the courthouse, where there are colorful characters like the panhandler/spitter who will notice you hustling to cross the street before he can spit in your hair because you only gave him two dollars for breakfast and what the fuck is he supposed to do with that?

.

"I suppose that writers should, in a way, feel flattered by the censorship laws. They show a primitive fear and dread at the fearful magic of print."

(John Mortimer)

What they should dread is the fearful comment left by your mother on your blog. Seriously. Will shut you up faster than a judicial gag order.

So you're basically stuck with me: neurotic artist/writer who charades by day as attorney, mops up pee before and after work,  but can only reveal half of her life at any given time.  I am crusty and strong, solid and a little boring. I'll never be a big name blog but I have a devoted following. You can always be sure of a laugh (I hope).  For extra fun, at least one of my family members chimes in on comments (last week we had the debut appearance of The Empress/Grandma Pom followed by surprise comment by Sister #1 all the way from North Carolina.) 

Regardless, please tell all your friends about me. (I'm kidding - joke!) With more readers, I am hoping to retire on the advertising revenue from the blog soon as I figure out how to set up ads, embed images in my sidebar, edit CSS, learn what CSS stands for, have professionally designer banners, and not be afraid to let loose with a real juicy string of swear words without picturing my mother's face wincing when she reads it. Or my publisher. Or my employer, god forbid.

Or I'll just keep posting my weird, completely self-obsessed posts that occasionally feature a little art, a little thinking, a lot of photos, and exhortations to get off your bum and do something creative besides read my blog.

Truths #1

I seek for my writing to remain as bare and clean  as this tree, without artifice, frippery, or disguise. Simple, plain truths written directly. But writing bubbles forth from a mysterious source and needs to be filtered and strained and directed or it floods and spills over all of its secrets.

When I examine these bare branches, I see how sturdy and muscular they are. They did not just spring up like catkins in the spring's warm showers, but grew slowly and deliberately - from good stock, some would say.  Each branch is hefty and strong, yet no one branch dominates at the sacrifice of another. The branches have individual strength but all remain dependent on the trunk and on each other. Only until they were of a good height and width did they branch out.  The tree is as graceful and balanced as any zen master and has prospered with the knowledge that  too much growth in any one direction could cause the branch to break and fall or cause the trunk to split, or the entire tree to uproot and topple.

Our lives are not as simple nor as steadfast as a tree's. We often feel that life's purpose it to cause  distractions that entice us to multiply and divide like weeds and grow hurried branches that are flexible enough to twist and turn and fool us into thinking we can do it all.  What we often take for strength and resiliency is really our out of control selves as parasitic as kudzu, covering every surface we come across, but in reality smothering everything in our paths. We speak about the sacred ordinary, but we rejoice as we tear away at the calendar of weeks, watching our lives pass in 5-day increments, rejoicing only  when we reach the end of each one.

I can blame the floors that need to be mopped, the dinners waiting to be cooked,  the food to be bought and the garbage to be taken to the curb. I can find fault in the stacks of paper on my desk needing envelopes and stamps and checks. I can focus on the overdue library books, the neglected relatives, the  forgotten friends, or the mittens to be returned to the box. I can lay blame to being able to click on our bank balance on my laptop at midnight and be awakened by the beep of a voice mail at 3:00 a.m.

In reality, it is all those things and none of them. It is my inability to not scatter seeds but to deliberately poke a row of orderly holes, feed and water daily, then forcibly weed out the weaker stock. I have never suffered from the inability to bloom; it is a pair of sharp secauturs that I need, not another dose of fertilizer. My head is as easily turned as the sunflower, following the warm rays of whomever asks me for my participation or offers praise. My writing folders are filled with half-chapters and unfinished poems and drafts upon drafts that seem to all relate the way a cottage garden does from passers-by on the street,  but when I get down on my hands and knees to weed and stake and prune, I am sit back on my haunches and decide to just mow it all down and begin again.

I've got to get these words out. These dreams are hardening into fossilized shells, buried under layer upon layer of love-rich sediment. Like thousand-year eggs, the dreams are very rich but they are beginning to moulder and smell of decay. There are choices to be made with a good, hard pruning of all the deadened winter growth. Burn it all in a pile, and throw some sweet-smelling sage onto the flames to purify it all.

These are the truths that I need to write on sticky notes and pin  onto my arms like branches sprouting leaves.   Time to turn my attention inward and allow the truths I spout to find a place to take root  just inside the soft spot of my heart.

Our New Pets

I know my mother couldn't wait for me to get that "pee" title off my blog, so here I am trying to give you a quick post.

When not mopping up dog....urine....., this week we were:

• writing, writing, and rewriting the next essay for Cloth, Paper, Scissors (thought I just whipped those out, did you?)

• painting and repainting the artwork (which is my favorite I ever did if I do say so myself)

• trying to find the time to leave work for a half hour to mail the artwork (much emergencies, both legal and personnel-wise)

• listening to my office mates find new and colorful swear words (in diverse languages!) to say as we continue to work in our temporary quarters and use airport cards instead of LAN lines and get kicked off regularly and find that we can go to the bathroom and down to the lobby for coffee and come back and be still waiting for a document to open.

• falling asleep 5 minutes before the finale for Project Runway and then reading about it in The Post - that sucked.

• not being online because our Netgear router died after no more than a year, so I can only post this if the weak signal from my neighbor's internet keeps up.

• providing The Teen with cups of coffee and snacks to keep up her energy as she wrote The Dreaded Term Paper On Hitler. What feels better than the day you turn in a term paper that's been hanging over your head for a month? (She even dragged those Hitler books to California, and finally read about 2 pages of one on the last day in the rain in Malibu when we pathetically read in the car whilst parked in a park parking lot, waiting to go to the airport.)

• buying new coffee mugs at Starbucks that are bright blue and bright red and so retro...and yes, Mr. Pom we do have a plethora of coffee mugs.  Just makes me smile to drink my tea out of a big blue cup lined with flowers.

• finding out that Fluffernutter is peeing everywhere because she most likely has diabetes and we will now be giving her insulin shots twice a day. But the anti-inflammatories for her arthritis are really helping and she's back to doing stairs. Go Fluff!

• Crazy that we have a whole weekend with nothing to do and no term papers or art deadlines!  Woo-hoo!

I'll be back soon as I find a new router that is compatible with Mystery Man's Halo game.  Or until I buy the first one I see at Best Buy because  I'm never going to find the model he wants me to buy.

To Pee or Not to Pee

That is never Fluffernutter's question.

When you adopt a pet from a pound and the former owners list "partially house-trained", you should consider that if the dog is 11 years old and is only partially house-trained, there's a reason.

But fluffy white hair and a very waggy tail causes you to forget how to read.

Even so, it  appears that the pup picked up an infection at the kennel. Seemed clear when Mr. Pom had her on the leash and she was 12 inches from the front door. And peed in the foyer.

So she's on kitchen arrest. Using the floor space under our kitchen side table for storage is being rethought.  I had the bright idea to sort of pen her in  by using chairs so she can only let it go in one area. Then Mr. Pom pointed out that it was right next to the dining room. And the new rug.

So until we get her back to the doc and then try the famous get-a- urine-sample-from-an-animal trick, we considered her leaving her in the basement. That was until we tried to get her up from the basement and discovered that her arthritis has now caused her legs to splay out when she tries to climb stairs. The basement stairs. The ones with no back to them. Back to kitchen arrest.

The Teen is now an expert at mopping floors. All clouds have a silver lining.

Why do all our pets end up as peeing machines?

Sparky The Husky:    liked to pee on the back porch in the area with the little hole to let out rainwater. Really considerate of her when you think of it.

Tiger the Cat:    Only would pee outside. Wanted to go out several times a night.

Whiskers:    Would pee anywhere. Like on bedroom drapes. And next to the clean litter box. But never in it.

But - my girlfriend, Jodi, is the only person I know whose cat would not pee anywhere - but on her bed. Everyday.  I don't remember why she kept the cat in her bedroom, but she resorted to covering up her bed with a plastic dropcloth. I would resort to taking the cat to the pound.

Pomegranates: we swear this is our last pet.

But you should have seen the Golden Lab and Golden Retriever puppies asleep on top of each other in a pet store in Malibu.

Gotta go, Mr. Pom was about to take the dog out and now is yelling something about wet shoes.....