Katie Rabbit.

Oh, people, I don’t know what to tell you. I appear to be a Michelle Duggar in training:

Ian turned 10 months old yesterday.

I am pregnant AGAIN.

Apparently I am some sort of fertility machine. I wouldn’t be surprised if the Bush/Cheney axis of evil kidnaps me and uses me as a breeding vessel to repopulate Iran with baby Americans after they attack it later this year.


Not-so-fun facts:

1. I will be spending my summer alcohol-free.

2. Baby X is due 2 days before my 40th birthday.

3. I had planned to be in Hawaii for my 40th birthday.

4. Our house has 2 bedrooms and 1 bath.

5. 2 kids in day care = $2500 per month.

Fun facts:

1. Did I mention I’m almost 40 and I’m having another baby?

Making lemonade.

Did I tell you that I was doing the “No-S Diet”? I don’t remember how I found it, but it’s a very simple premise: no sweets, no snacks and no seconds, except on Saturday, Sunday and special occasions. The theory is that because you can have whatever you want for breakfast, lunch or dinner, as long as it’s not cake and it fits on a human-sized plate, and because you can have what you want on weekends, you can stick it out during the week. Weight loss will be fairly slow, but presumably sustainable. I’ve been doing it for about 3 weeks now, and seem to have moved my weight down a couple of pounds. That’s not much, but that could be because I have added Swednesdays to the sweets column; apparently I can’t make it 3 days without ice cream. I figure that’s still an improvement, and I do have on another of those old skirts today, after all. Anyway, if you’re looking for some way to wallow in the deprivation pool, this plan is a lot more humane than some – and believe me, I have a shitload of diet books to compare it with.

On another topic, I am NOT looking forward to the Democratic National Convention being held here in Denver. It’s bound to be a total cluster around here. We won’t be able to get reservations anywhere because the bars and restaurants will be swarming with self-important, asshole inside-the-Beltway types, dressed in their shitty DC uniforms that make me still look like a fashion goddess in comparison, various technological paraphernalia welded to their ears and fingers.

Traffic will suck, and I’m a little concerned about protest activity downtown where I work and my baby is in school. We were planning to try to keep Eeyore home that week, but then yesterday I read the most ridiculous article ever: there’s going to be a “tent city” in the park near our house. According to this article, the 20,000 – 50,000 expected protesters will not be permitted to sleep there overnight, but who believes that? Are the police going to check in every tent? I don’t care about that so much, but apparently there will be no facilities for all these delightful campers – so officials expect that they will be knocking on doors in the surrounding neighborhoods looking for places to take showers and … stuff. Are you kidding me? I’m as anti-war as the next member of the intellectual elite, but it’s not 1969 and that doesn’t translate for me into some sort of brotherhood of man shit where I have to let dirty strangers into my home.

Anyway, I would much rather be at the beach in Hilton Head with my mom at that time, but because our union’s contract is up for renewal at that time we’re not permitted to schedule vacation in case they strike. Which, now that I think about it, could mean that I won’t be here anyway – I’ll be in BFE Idaho somewhere answering phone calls from disgruntled customers and saying “Uh-huh,” while I examine my fingernails. Or, I could be, like, patching cables over at the convention. How hilarious would that be:

Kate: “I’m here to test your circuit?”

Brian Williams: “Yeah, we’re having trouble with the feed.”

Kate, leaning over so her butt crack is fully visible: “OK, just a second here…. I think I’ve got it.”

Tom Brokaw: “I thought your union employees were on strike?”

Kate: “Yes, it’s true, I’m a lawyer, but I thought you’d feel more comfortable that you were getting knowledgeable service if I dressed the part. Hey – I’ve always wanted to be an anchor, can I give it a go?”

Maybe this could work out for me yet!

Fashion say what?

Jesus, Mary and Joseph, am I uncomfortable. This morning, I decided I was sick to death of my work clothes, which are a little limited because I haven’t wanted to buy a bunch of new things when I have two large storage bins full of very cute clothes in my basement. Those cute clothes have remained out of reach for me since I seem to be incapable of dropping the last 5 pounds of pregnancy weight, not to mention the last 20 pounds of weight gained since I was a svelte, alcohol-swilling smoker (weird how alcohol + smoking = skinny, but alcohol on its own = goddamnit). Today, though, I thought it was time to torture myself again by trying on a few things I wore 2 summers ago, in the hopes that maybe my body had somehow magically morphed into a different shape since my last masochistic fashion show. And somehow, I managed to fit into a couple of skirts without looking like someone who doesn’t own a mirror, and so I am wearing one today.

But now I think it was premature: I feel like I’m wearing Spanx a size too small and made out of PVC. I don’t want anyone to walk into my office and see my stomach trying to escape from my skirt like the Incredible Hulk. Not to mention, when I was walking across the lobby this morning, sucking in my birth-destroyed stomach, I couldn’t help but think: “this outfit is so 2006; or really, even 2003 if I’m honest. Do I look like mutton dressed as lamb?” I used to pride myself on being relatively tuned into fashion, and felt pretty confident I was the best-dressed attorney in my office. That’s no longer the case – my clothes are mostly generic and bought at the mall. WTF happened? Being a 39-year old mother of a baby isn’t a license to turn into Queen of the Dowds.

Last night I was at book club and my friend was telling us that almost everything she was wearing was from a consignment shop. She had on a fabulous skirt and shoes, both very stylish and of the moment. Another girl there had brought some clothes for the hostess to borrow for a cocktail party: a teal, Missoni-style knit dress and some great, caramel colored Coach sandals. Everything was cuter than what I had on: a black, ¾ sleeve Banana Republic fitted sweater, black J. Crew capri pants, and black, kitten-heeled ballet flats from Nine West. It was a pretty classic style, even kind of Audrey Hepburn, but look at those brands! Could you get any more boring? No, my friends, you could not.

I think I need a stylist.

I'm a writer, see?

Good lord. Normally I don’t feel compelled to qualify my posts, but when I got home last night I heard that what I wrote yesterday depicted a life of total drudgery.

“Are you that unhappy?” asked R.

And the answer is, Jesus, no, of course not! First of all, there’s usually a little literary license in my posts – I may actually have up to TWO hours to do what I want in an evening. The truth is that my life right now is extremely repetitive in a lot of ways, and I have very little time to myself. But no way would I ever trade it for my old life, where there was more money, more time, more travel, more “freedom.”

At 5:30 or 6 most nights, you’ll find me seated across from Eeyore’s high chair, watching him figure out how to pick up a butterbean and get it to his mouth, or make little stabbing motions at the bowl with his spoon to imitate how I scoop out his food. Last night after he finished his eclectic dinner of turkey, avocado and sweet potatoes (I’m still working on how to balance a meal), he and I sat out on the front steps and watched our cat roll around on the walkway while he ate his very first homemade cookie. We practiced standing up. We checked out our neighbor’s flowers. I gave him a bath and he tried to climb out of his little tub, the head of his hippo tub toy wedged into his mouth with the help of his two teeth.

So, repetitive and yet not. It’s fascinating to be along for someone else’s ride, and I figure the books and magazines I don’t have time to read for myself right now will still be there when this phase is over.

Yes, maybe I did.

Oh, hello. Perhaps you were wondering where I’ve been – maybe you even thought something terrible had befallen me. And if by “something terrible” you meant living to work and make bottles, you’d be right. Except, of course, that’s not terrible (at least not the parenting part), it’s just the current state of affairs. My boss is out for several weeks and that has translated into days full of... work! God, the horror. I signed up for that writing class fully believing I’d have time during my work day to write the most fabulous and inspired fiction EVER, which would easily segue into a career writing best-selling blockbusters, but somehow it hasn’t happened. In fact, I have the start of a short story due tomorrow and I haven’t even started it. That thing isn’t going to write itself, so I’m not sure why I’m getting all this pressure to actually do my job.

And then there’s the small matter of when you’re working all day, bookended by chores and feeding, educating and cooing at baby, nothing of interest to the outside world really happens. I’m getting the distinct impression that I can expect to spend ages 39 – 44 in something of a fugue state. Maybe after that I can get back to being a contributor to society, but for now I feel like a shade of my former self. Or more appropriately, I feel like the subject of one of those articles I used to see in women’s magazines but could never identify with – you know, the ones about how important it is to make time for yourself to take a bath, or some other 30 minute, weekly “indulgence.” As my life before baby was not much else besides a series of indulgences interspersed with and funded by work, I just didn’t get how a person wouldn’t have time for herself. But now…

Every evening after Eeyore goes to bed and we’ve eaten the dinner I’ve made (and R. has cleaned up), I have about an hour to allocate toward some activity of my choosing. On some days, if we haven’t chosen sex as that hour’s activity, then part of this hour might be spent discussing why we’re not having sex during that hour, or whether it might be something to consider extending the waking calendar for. Obviously, it would be preferable to either just be having it, or not talking about it, because when the clock is ticking down on the day’s only respite from duty, talking about it risks turning it into one of those same duties. But if that’s not the hour’s choice, then I generally have to choose one thing to focus on/enjoy out of the several things that might need attention . That means choosing between: watching the news, reading a book, catching up on my stack of magazines, working on my writing assignment, cutting my toenails, plucking my eyebrows, touching up my roots, looking at cookbooks so we don’t eat the same thing every day forever, doing laundry… when you can only do one of these things, maybe two, there starts to be a lot of backlog. Hence, the fugue state.

You may be thinking: “what the hell is she griping about? If I had an hour every day to do what I wanted, besides ordering Chinese food and eating it watching Jon Stewart again, because my high-powered finance/law/whatever job has me working all hours,” I will suggest to you that somehow it just isn’t the same. As someone who was in private practice in DC and London for the first six years of her career, I’ve experienced that, and it’s different. At least with those sorts of jobs, sometimes you get a break on weekends.

A smorgasbord of c-r-a-p for you.

I bought a little cookbook in London of “200 easy suppers” that I liked because the recipes are as advertised and because there are pictures of all the dishes. Some people like their cookbooks to be these gigantic tomes, packed to the gills with prose on every page and nary a picture in sight, but I’m the opposite. I like simple recipes with lots of brightly colored pictures of the easily achievable results. Last week I made a recipe that I thought sounded pretty good, and indeed it was:

Pork filet with mushrooms

4 tablespoons olive oil
1 lb pork tenderloin, sliced into ¼ inch discs
10 oz mushrooms, trimmed and cut into chunks
1 lemon
½ pint crème fraîche
2 sprigs of tarragon, leaves stripped (I used a lot more)
Salt and pepper

Heat 2 tblsp of the oil over medium high heat and fry the pork slices for 3-4 minutes, turning once so they are browned on both sides. Remove with a slotted spoon. Add the remaining oil and cook the mushrooms for 3-4 minutes, stirring occasionally, until soft and golden.

Cut half of the lemon into slices and add to the pan to brown a little on each side, then remove and set aside.

Return the pork to the pan, add the crème fraîche and tarragon and pour in the juice of the remaining lemon. Season well, bring to a boil, then reduce the heat and leave to bubble gently for 5 minutes. Add the prepared lemon slices at the last minute and gently stir through.

Serve with white rice or crispy potato wedges.

I just added that last line because it sounds so English – “crispy potato wedges”? Like I’ve got those lurking about to serve with this dish. Anyway, here it is on the stove:















It was awfully good.

In other news, this was a very big weekend for Eeyore: R. put up a swing for him in the backyard, which he loved, and he went swimming for the first time. Unfortunately, we forgot our camera when we went to our friends’ house to swim, so we are relying on her sending us the photos she snapped for us. I did get Eeyore in his new swing, however:




















And finally, I posted my next assignment. For this one, we were given 3 or 4 sentences describing a scene: a couple driving down a highway, they think they hit something, they bicker because she thinks he’s been drinking, then they get out and can’t see anything. We were supposed to flesh that out with the same start and end points, using some dialogue and other secret literary techniques I can’t remember. So here’s my exercise (and I did not make up these awesome names):

#2

Loretta bit nervously at the inside of her cheeks as Mick drove in stony silence, the icy, moonlit trees clicking by like a slideshow of still photographs from a horror movie. Loretta leaned forward and switched on the radio again.

"How many times are you going to do that?" asked Mick. "There's no reception out here."

"It's just so quiet out here, I can't stand it," said Loretta, snapping off the radio and inching away from him on the seat. The smell of alcohol had wafted across the car on his words. "I feel like we're miles from anywhere." Willing herself to relax, she leaned back and closed her eyes to avoid looking out the windows at the canopy of leafless branches arching around them - gnarled, bony fingers intertwining as far as the eye could see. She hated tonight.

“You stink of booze,” Loretta said.

“Jesus Christ, Loretta, I am not drunk! I only had a couple of glasses of wine with dinner,” Mick answered angrily.

“Glasses? Those were practically tumblers. And don’t forget the two martinis you knocked back before we even sat down.”

“Forget them – how can I forget anything when I have you around to remind me?” Mick spat, shaking his head.

The couple lapsed back into silence. After several minutes, and despite the sour electricity of the tension hanging between them, Loretta felt her eyes starting to close. The droning of the engine and the repetition of the scenery panning past were too much to resist; she fought to hold her eyes open, but they fluttered shut. Suddenly, though, they were wide, and she felt the tight catch of fear in her throat.

“Did you see that?” she asked.

“See what?” said Mick.

“I thought I saw something run across the road up ahead; it was white.” Loretta replied, her voice rising.

“I didn’t see anything,” said Mick, “you were asleep. You imagined it.”

“I don’t know,” said Loretta, “it looked real to me. I think it was a person.”

“There wasn’t anything, Loretta,” Mick said, rolling his eyes.

“Look!” cried Loretta, “there it is again!”

Mick drew in his breath sharply; this time he had seen something, too. It had only been a momentary flicker at the end of the range of their headlights, but it had sure looked like somebody standing in the road and then darting into the thicket of trees to the left. Or maybe it wasn’t anybody; it had just been something kind of thin and white. Could it have been someone’s laundry blowing across the road? But it was winter, and who hung their sheets out to dry anymore, anyway? And sheets didn’t dart like they had a purpose.

“Shit,” said Mick, “what was that?”

“Keep driving,” said Loretta, “don’t stop!”

“I’m not stopping!” Mick said. “Are you kidding?”

Suddenly, the car jolted sharply as its front wheels rose off the ground and quickly hit the pavement again with a slam. There was a loud thudding from under the car, then the back wheels rose and fell.

“What was that!?” Loretta screamed, turning frantically to peer out the back window. There was only blackness behind them.

“I don’t know!” said Mick, easing off the gas and pulling over to the side of the road.

“What are you doing? Please don’t stop; let’s just go,” Loretta pleaded, her voice rasping with dread.

“Just wait here,” said Mick with more confidence than he felt. “I think we hit something.”

He opened the car door and stepped out into the winter night, the road ahead still lit by their headlights. Loretta’s heart was pounding, but she grabbed the flashlight they kept in the glove compartment, slid across the car seat and climbed out after him. She clutched his arm, and they tiptoed hesitantly towards the back of the car.

Mick shone the light into the darkness behind them, but they could see nothing in the road. He leaned down to look underneath the car, not knowing what to expect but sure it would be bad. Again, there was nothing.

Good morning!

This morning at the continuing legal education seminar:

Kate: "Oh, hi, partner-at-the-last-firm-I-worked-at-and-left-with-hatred-in-my-heart, how are you!? It's been so long!"

Partner: "It really has! I see you're pregnant - congratulations."

Kate: "Uh... no."

Exercise No. 1

When I first started taking Eeyore to day care, I could never get the school’s little machine to validate my parking ticket. I would rub it on my pants leg and try again, but after 5 or 6 tries the director would have to come over and do it for me. Somehow, it always worked for her on the first try. But somewhere along the way the machine started working for me every time, and I’m pretty sure they didn’t have it repaired or anything. This morning as I validated the ticket again with no problem, it occurred to me that as I’ve gotten more comfortable as a mother, things like that have gone more smoothly.

How’s that for a silly indulgence of a thought?

Speaking of the whole drop-off experience, when I got back into the elevator today to return to my car, I rode with two men who had also dropped off their kids. One of them, whose face was oddly sweaty and who was dressed in shorts and sandals as though he didn’t have anywhere to be, kept looking over at the other as if hoping to catch his eye. He had a little smirk on his face that I interpreted to mean “hey, man, we’re both dads dropping off our kids – it’s kind of a pain in the ass and surely you think so, too, so look at me so we can exchange glances and confirm it. We’re men and we’ve got to stick together.” The other man didn’t look at him once, and when the sweaty guy got off the elevator, the other one gave me a little smile. Since I am all about the interpretations today, I chose to read his glance as a confirmation that he LIKED taking his kids to school and that the sweaty guy was a buffoon.

So I posted my first little writing assignment last night, only to wake up to a new one. I wonder if this class is going to get me writing anything beyond the assignments themselves? If nothing else, maybe the class will clue me in to a style that most fits my natural abilities. I can’t say I think my magical talent shines through the following:


The Window

The escalator propelled Helen upward and deposited her onto the pavement outside the Metro station. On sunny days, she would often detour into the Baskin Robbins just to her right, eager to remind herself she was American and living in Paris was just a circumstance like any other. On gray evenings like this one, however, when the sky was so heavy and damp it nestled clammily all the way down into the narrow streets, the ice cream store was no more than a warmly lit reminder that she would rather be inside.

Helen pulled her coat tighter around her, hunched her shoulders and tucked her chin against the chill, and hurried toward her bus stop. Ice cream cone in hand and book bag slung over her shoulder, the walk to her apartment would only have taken fifteen or twenty minutes, but at this time of year even the hothouse climate of the crowded bus was preferable to the cold.

As she approached the bus stop, Helen eyed the scene in front of her dubiously and weighed her options. She could wedge herself onto the bench between the lanky, stringy-haired teenager and the middle-aged woman in glasses too severe for the softening lines of her face, but today was Thursday. In her limited experience it seemed that French people only opted for a clean set of clothes on Mondays, so she chose instead to slope to the side of the shelter. Pressing her shoulder against the glass to support the full weight of her fourteen years, Helen looked up and across the square.

The window was a beacon in the gloomy evening, aglow and sparkling against the darkening stone walls around it. It was a picture window, a display for the jewelry store behind it, and it had been swathed entirely in silk taffeta as deep a pink as Helen’s favorite bubble gum ice cream. Diamonds glittered from every fold and curve of the silk, and Helen sighed under the window’s spell. She pictured herself framed behind the glass like a tableau vivant, an exotic creature oblivious to the cold, wet city streets outside as she basked glamorously in the warmth of the lights. Her only movement would be to run a languid finger across the jewels as if she were used to them, picking up just a few before letting them fall through her elegant fingers and tumble back onto their vibrant display. Passersby would stop short upon discovering the scene to exclaim with delight that the beauty luxuriating among the waves of silk was “a raven-haired Veronica Lake!” and she would return the compliment with the favor of a knowing smile.

Helen snapped out of her reverie as her view was abruptly replaced with the side of the bus, and she pushed off from the glass with her shoulder. As the bus pulled away from the stop, she lurched down the aisle to an empty seat near the back. She swung herself into the seat by the window, rubbed away a circle of fog with her fingertips and wiped it on her jeans. It was darker out now; so much so that the light inside the bus made it an effort to focus on the shops speeding by behind her reflection. Rather than make herself dizzy, she only pretended to watch Paris pass by and instead gazed at herself in the window all the way home.

Mmm, pictures.

Reviewing my pictures from our trip, I see that there aren’t a lot of good ones. Most of the time I forgot I had a camera with me; we were having such a good time it just didn’t occur to me to photograph it.

So what do we have here.

Our first day in Paris, we were exhausted from a long day, night and next morning of travel (remind me next time to book a direct flight), so after depositing our bags at our hotel we ambled down to the river and hopped on board a tour boat for an hour’s ride up and down the Seine. R. was so tired that he actually fell asleep standing up; that was fun. Here’s a view of Notre Dame as we passed it by:















This was kind of cool: there’s a famous private residence in Paris called the Glass House, built by Pierre Chareau in 1931. We thought we would wander by to see it, not focusing on the fact that most apartments in Paris are entered into from a courtyard closed off from the street by an imposing, locked door. When we found the address, which was not much to see since it was just the aforementioned closed door, we were a little disappointed. All of a sudden, though, the door opened and a woman lugging a trash can appeared. We craned our necks to see behind her, and could just glimpse the house’s glass façade. She asked what we wanted, and we said we had just come to see the house. She told us nobody was home right now, but then for some reason swung the door open for us and let us into the courtyard. I think it would be much more impressive at night, all lit up from behind (see the link I posted), but nonetheless it was pretty cool to be able to see it:















Other than that, as I said before we pretty much just strolled and drank in Paris. Here’s a view from our perch at one café in the artsy sixth arrondissement:















And here’s some other random photos, such as the street I lived on when I was a kid and me pretending to be getting ready to have my head chopped off at the Conciergerie, the city prison where prisoners, including Marie Antoinette, were held temporarily before being taken for execution. Cheery!































I took even less pictures of London, if that’s possible. Here we have R. in a cab, a sunny day in Green Park, and our hotel room and view from its back window into the garden and the Sainsbury’s car park. Glamorous stuff.































In other news:

Since we’ve gotten back, I have found myself in the throes of yet another career crisis. You would think that since I have the same one every six months I would get off my ass and do something about it, but somehow I allow myself to remain paralyzed. The truth is, even though I don’t despise what I do for a living, and even have an aptitude for it, I know I would be happier doing something else. I’ve been working in the corporate world for 12 years and I have never, ever EVER cared about corporate stuff. Who’s merging with whom, bottom lines, money, money money. Well, I care about that last one, but only to the extent it’s mine.

When am I going to take the hint from myself that this isn’t satisfying work and not how I should be spending the most active years of my life? I am so tied up in the need for my sizeable paycheck that I can’t allow myself to dream about other careers because nothing pays as much. And honestly, I feel like I’m letting myself die inside every day that I allow myself to perpetuate this waste of myself. Surely there is something else I could be doing that wouldn’t feel like an endless ticking off of the hours until the times I can be doing things I like again. This all feels especially sharp since having the baby; it pains me to sit behind my desk all day doing something unsatisfying just to have the money to pay for the day care that keeps him for too many hours while I am at work.

The lament of many working women, I am sure; only a few are lucky enough to have found something that pays the bills and satisfies their souls. My mother is one of them; she genuinely loves being a lawyer, I think. Everything about being a litigator suited her perfectly, especially being able to completely immerse herself intellectually in the minutiae of a lawsuit. She’s who the whole career was made for. I, on the other hand, have tried a few areas of the law now (litigation, corporate and now commercial) and while each has had its interesting points, none has really satisfied me long term.

Why do I always feel like I am having a mid-life crisis? And here’s something sucky to think about – I’m 39 now, which means I actually AM having a mid-life crisis! It’s not even a joke anymore.

A little recap.

Today finds me back at work after a long and bank account-depleting week abroad. It’s always such a joy to pick up the thread of one’s life after a week away from it, don’t you think? Well; it is nice to be back in my own house and my own bed, and unbelievably nice to see my small baby again, but dropping back into work and the routine right where I left of is kind of a drag. That’s why it’s a good thing that today is the first day of my writing class. If I can stay up past 8:30 tonight, maybe I’ll even begin my first assignment which is titled “The Window.” Or then again, maybe I will sit around and second guess myself instead.

So, yes, we are back from Paris and London, both of which were wonderful if you can forget about money being an object. I hate to sound obsessive, but honestly, you wouldn’t believe how bad the exchange rate is. Of course I knew it in advance, but somehow prices seem to have gone up exponentially since I was there a year ago and the lousy dollar makes it that much worse. We didn’t have a dinner for much less than $200, and breakfasts and lunches routinely cost $50 - $75. And that’s for nothing special other than the atmosphere. I didn’t even buy myself anything too crazy – some books, a couple of forks in my green toile pattern, a shirt. Eeyore, on the other hand, racked up; it’s a lot easier to justify a bunch of small expenses, especially for someone you’ve abandoned so soon into their time on earth.

But anyway. I think R. really loved Paris; it would have been hard not to. We had perfect weather for walking around, which is what we did all day, every day. We saw a lot of sights, and strolled endlessly around the neighborhoods where they were located. We covered a large chunk of the center of the city on foot, which in my opinion is the way to do it. That way, whenever the mood strikes, you can sit down at a café and fortify yourself with a coffee (if you must) or a delightful glass of champagne with framboise (my preferred restorative, thanks). We had lovely dinners almost every night (one or two were duds complete with condescending waiters), always with a bottle of wine to wash them down. Yes, we drank like fish on this trip, but for the first time in 9 months we were also able to sleep in, so we did.

Just as a travel tip for you, if you are looking for a restaurant to try next time you are in Paris, make it Le Timbre. It turned out to be such a lovely, lovely little place that we thought about going back a second time while we were there. It’s just one small room with the chef in his little work space at the back, with one waiter, but they are turning out such delightful food and service that it was one of the nicer dining experiences I’ve had in Paris for awhile.

We were in London for such a short time we didn’t do too much other than walk around, but we did manage to make it to the Paul Weller concert I mentioned previously. It didn’t quite live up to the 20 years of hype I’d built up in my head, but it was still pretty great. Also, and unexpectedly, in the first encore Roger Daltrey wandered onstage and sang “Magic Bus,” while after that Noel Gallagher moseyed out for a rendition of the Beatles’ “All you Need is Love.” That wasn’t a bad re-entry into the world of concert-going.

There you have it. Not the travelogue you were expecting, I’m sure, but work has beckoned all frigging day long. I’ll upload some pictures tonight so there will be something to look at…

Bon voyage to me.

I poached this off of Libby’s blog.

1. There is absolutely NO way you can get me to skydive!
2. Green trees everywhere reminds me that summer is almost here!
3. I cannot live without my La Perruche brown sugar cubes. Talk about yuppie cheese.
4. Being married to R. until I die and writing a book are two things I'd like to try.
5. When life hands you lemons please don’t juggle them. Juggling is queer.
6. Baking Christmas cookies with my mom when I was very small is one of my favorite childhood memories.
7. And as for the weekend, tonight I'm looking forward to packing and eating takeout, tomorrow my plans include flying to Paris and Sunday, I want to ride a bateau mouche so R. can get a beautiful introduction to the city! And then have dinner at my favorite brasserie. Not a bad Sunday, really.

So, yep, tomorrow’s the big day and I am feeling completely unorganized. The house is a mess, there’s not much food in the house, I’m not packed, and I’m leaving my 8 month old baby for the first time and it’s for EIGHT DAYS. I’m trying not to think about that last one, but every time I look at his open little face it pops into my mind. However, we’ve gotten web cameras for our computers so that while we are gone we can hopefully chat with Eeyore and his grandmother. I hope that doesn’t freak him out.

Despite the lack of recommendations from you lot, I managed to cobble together what looks like a delightful gastronomical experience in Paris. I’ve got reservations at Brasserie Balzar, which is totally overrated but which is nonetheless one of my old favorites, a couple of “bistrots gastronomiques,” which are the newfangled bistros typically owned by upstart young chefs, and one classic French restaurant, Allard. One night I want to try Café Constant, which is a café/bistro owned by Christian Constant, a well-known chef who has an haute cuisine restaurant, Le Violon D’Ingres.

Besides all the eating, the plan is to have a good, old-fashioned sightseeing trip. Because I lived there for some time and have gone back reasonably frequently, I often spend too much time shopping and not enough time visiting the sights. R. has never been there, though, so I think that seeing some of these places with him will be a lot of fun. And of course, despite the crappy-ass dollar, I still intend to do plenty of shopping. And quaffing of wine.

We’re also going to London next weekend, where we are there for such a short time that I plan pretty much just to stroll and… shop. One very cool thing we will do, however, is to see Paul Weller in concert Friday night. Now, some of you whippersnappers might not be familiar with the “Modfather,” as he is known, but he is one of my all-time favorite musicians. He started out in The Jam, and was later in the Style Council before becoming mostly a solo artist. Wild Wood and Stanley Road are worth your time if you want to hear why he is a living legend (at least in the UK). I never thought I was going to get to see him play live, so this is really quite a treat for me. Not to mention – and this is pretty sad for someone who used to go to shows regularly – this is the first show I will have been to in a year and a half. I hope I remember how to look suitably blasé…

So that’s the plan. I’ll take pictures!

I hate this fixation.

Lately my head has been too full of morbidity to write. Because R. and I are leaving for Paris on Saturday, we’ve had a mad scramble to complete our wills and make sure our affairs are in order before we leave. Obviously, the odds are small that anything will happen to us on our trip, but there’s always the possibility and it would be irresponsible for us to go without making arrangements for the care and feeding of young Eeyore. Well, guess what – focusing on a bunch of documents concerning my death and/or incapacity is really fucking depressing. Not only that, there’s something sort of weird about it which feels like a jinx – like thinking about it so much and planning for it means it’s going to happen.

I’ve never really given any thought before to what happens after I die, other than thinking in the abstract that it would be awful for my mom since as we all know, we’re supposed to die before our children. Frankly, I don’t enjoy having to give it more thought than that, and all of a sudden it’s the topic of the day, every day. I’ll be glad when we get the papers signed this afternoon, stick them in our files, and move away from the topic and back to things like retirement and college funds and wishing we were going to the beach this summer.

Other morbid thoughts are about the earthquake in China and the hurricane in Burma. I fear that it’s a sad cliché, but ever since I had a kid I get so much more emotional over any event where there’s been harm of any kind to children. Like, really emotional. Yesterday I was looking at some photos on the New York Times site and I had to turn away when I saw one of a mother grieving over her dead child. I got that awful, tight feeling in my throat which presages tears, and then there they were. I don’t really understand it; kids died and were abused and all sorts of awful stuff before I had a kid, and I could think in the abstract “that’s really awful” but now it hits me viscerally in a way I could never have imagined before. I guess that’s some type of growth on my part, but I can’t say I like it.

Tomorrow or Friday I’ll write about how excited I am for my trip so as to assure you all is not a giant bummer around our house.

Paperback writer.

After that morose entry yesterday, I realized I have to take this matter a little more seriously, and so today I am signing up for a writing class. I have no idea how this will pan out, but I opted for an online course instead of anything local. I would have preferred to take something live, but one of the downsides of living in a city where I’m not likely to die from a terrorist attack or a natural disaster is a strange dearth of writing classes. Perhaps the smug complacency that comes with knowing we’re the ones who will be left standing to carry on the human race isn’t an appropriate breeding ground for creativity, but I couldn’t find one introductory class to save my soul.

So the “Gotham Writer’s Workshop” it is. I had a tough time deciding between a fiction class and non-fiction, because even though when I think “writer” I think fiction, I’m not sure that’s where my interest really lies. After all, “Kate” is, or at least was, probably what you’d call creative non-fiction, and that’s what has seemed to flow most easily for me. But maybe that’s just a novel written in the first person; who knows. They even have a humor-writing class, which sounds very cool but which might be a bit ambitious (not to mention presumptuous) of me. Finally, I chose “Creative Writing 101,” since I really am starting at the very beginning and so I might as well go straight for the basics. I’m pretty excited about it; anything to get me off my ass!

And to add some color to the page, some recent pictures of the fam:

Impending mid-life crisis.

I suppose you’ve noticed I don’t blog anymore. What’s the point? I am in a cycle of endless repetition that doesn’t make for interesting reading. My head feels almost thick with the 5 or 6 things that fill it; they’ve expanded to take up more than their fair share of space until there’s no room for anything new or creative. I have a vague memory of a time when everything about me was thinner and lighter; neither my head nor my body felt like these immutable objects, rooted in permanence.

None of that is to say I am unhappy; quite the opposite, overall. I’m happy in my marriage and watching Eeyore learn and grow is indescribably wonderful. But beyond those two things, which granted are extremely important and make up the core of my existence (as I want them to), I’ve got NOTHING going on. Evenings are spent making dinner, watching an hour of TV, then reading for half an hour or so while R. studies for his architecture exams. This is certainly time I could be writing the Great American Novel or even a blog entry, but after a mind-numbing day at the office and scrambling to bathe and feed Eeyore and get him to bed, I can’t think of one thing to say that anyone would want to read. And so I elect to listen to or read somebody else’s words.

I’m hoping that this trip to Europe will somehow remind me of who I am; stimulate a need to find a creative outlet for myself once more. Something has to give sometime.

Everybody likes to eat.

Did you hear the story on NPR this morning about the Louisiana State Penitentiary, also known as “Angola?” Angola used to be a cotton and tobacco plantation, and even now continues to grow cotton along with most of the food that the inmates eat. Twice a year the prison hosts a rodeo, and many of the prisoners have concessions selling some crazy-sounding southern food made with the vegetables they grown on the penitentiary’s land, as well as crawfish from their ponds. They don’t get to handle or keep the money, but it sounds like the experience of having others compliment their food and getting to be out interacting with people not from the prison is what makes it worthwhile to them.

Many of the prisoners are there for life, and it had me thinking about what the hell that would be like. Angola is set on 18,000 acres of what sounds like beautiful land, but that can hardly make up for forty or fifty years living behind bars with other people with histories as unfortunate as your own. Can you even imagine that? Continuing to try to live your life knowing there is no chance you will ever be free again? How thoroughly bizarre to realize that THIS is your life; that there is no reason ever to have dreams of where your life might lead you, because it’s not leading you anywhere, ever.

So that’s pretty uplifting.

Since I am still a free woman, I can travel, and as you know (since it’s pretty much all I talk about), R. and I are going to Paris and London in a month. With the crummy dollar, we’re not staying anywhere too exciting, but I am unable to stay anywhere too budget without crying and generally being a royal pain in the ass so we’re not in total dumps, either. We are staying at The Parkcity in London, which gets good reviews on Tripadvisor. I’m a little concerned that it’s going to be one of those weird, battered-around-the-edges places you see when you’re coming in from Heathrow onto Cromwell Road, but hopefully not. As for Paris, I’m still looking because even though our hotel looks pretty cute, it’s in Montparnasse. That’s not an area I’ve ever been particularly drawn to, although it is easy walking to the shops of the rue de Grenelle, Le Bon Marché, and then over to St. Germain, and there are plenty of good restaurants nearby. And it’s 135 euros a night, including VAT, so that’s pretty reasonable. I think my problem is, as usual, I’m a five-star kind of girl with a three-star salary.

I really need to start making some reservations for dinners in Paris; does anyone have any favorites they’d like to suggest? I’ve already booked a place called Le Timbre, which is newish and popular, and I figure we’ll go to a brasserie one night to ensure I get an adequate dose of foie gras, but I wouldn’t mind branching out a bit otherwise from my same old standards. So… any suggestions welcome.

What bothers me today.

In the long list of things that I find disgusting, there is one that ranks pretty high: toenails sporting a French pedicure. I think the issue is that I already find toenails to be pretty gross sui generis, and especially so when they’re long enough to scoop dip out of the container. A French pedicure requires that the nails be a bit longer than normal, in order to fit that delightful white stripe across the tips, so with a glance I know two things about the woman who grooms herself in this way:

1. She doesn’t find long toenails to be disgusting, which is just bizarre, and
2. The rest of her is probably pretty tacky, too.

Because I can almost guarantee those toenails will be peeking out of a pair of high-heeled sandals or wedges purchased from DSW or some other low-end, warehouse-type retailer, and dollars to doughnuts there will be a toe ring involved as well. And where the shoes don’t merit enough attention to even come from Nordstrom, the rest of the outfit will follow suit.





















Lest you think I am a complete bitch, which, of course, I am, I will say that certainly a girl can pick up a perfectly charming little spring outfit at an inexpensive chain store. Yesterday I wore what I thought was a perfectly cute, reasonably tailored pair of “railroad stripe” trousers to work that I had picked up at Old Navy. However, I paired them with a pair of A.P.C. wedges that kept me from looking like I’d just given up. And the toes that were visible in MY wedges were a perky shade of spring pink. Maybe not everyone’s taste, but also not designed to rip someone else’s ankle to shreds if I stand too close.

And of course, maybe I am wrong; perhaps the beaches and restaurants of St. Tropez are alive with the tanned, white-tipped feet of the lithe and fashion-forward jet set. It is a “French” pedicure, after all. But I’m guessing that if you see a girl with such a pedicure in France, it’s more likely she shops at the Parisian equivalent of TJ Maxx than on the Faubourg St. Honoré.

Food.

Since I’m so busy at work I don’t have time to ruminate on any of the darker corners of my life or the world’s issues today, here’s another installment in my evolution into Martha Stewart’s grubby and less able little sister; the one who never left the shitty house in New Jersey, who drags one leg behind her and who can’t function if there are more than 5 ingredients involved in a recipe, one of which had better be cheese … but who still has the same dishes they both inherited from their mom.

So last night we had a friend over to dinner, and I made macaroni and cheese. I know; that doesn’t sound particularly thrilling, and in fact R. tells me that in one photo I took of the finished product, it looked like vomit. You be the judge:
















It may look weird, but I’ll tell you what: it tastes fabulous, it’s perfectly appropriate for a mid-week, casual dinner with friends, and there is nothing easier to make. This is important when you have one of these to deal with as well:




















Here’s the recipe.

Macaroni and Cheese

16 oz. rigatoni
16 oz. cottage cheese (I use 1%)
12 oz. sour cream (non- or low-fat)
16 oz. shredded cheese (cheddar or a mix)
1 egg, beaten

Cook rigatoni according to package directions. Cool. Combine all ingredients, reserving a little cheese to sprinkle on the top. Spread in a 9 x 13 casserole dish, sprinkle with cheese, and bake at 425 degrees for 25 minutes.

As you can see, Thomas also enjoys a little get-together, as evidenced by this picture of him reclining on the table after dinner.

I'm less a flower than a tincture.

I am an Echinacea What Flower Are You?

Huh? I found this quiz on Cindy's blog, and apparently this is me in a nutshell:

"You are a health conscious person, both your health and the health of others. You know all about the health benefits and dangers of the world around you."

Um, that is simply not true. I'm a lawyer, not a volunteer for Medecins Sans Frontiers. Now, apparently I was a shaman in a former life, according to the psychic who predicted my whirlwind romance and wedding (to a big, blond beefy football player-type), so maybe it's rooted somewhere deep within, but otherwise I'd say it's flat out wrong.

Couldn't I have been something a little more lovely; like, say, a lilac?

Who doesn't love dishes?

I know I have mentioned my collection of green kitchen ware before; it’s been an addiction for some time even if I have not added to it in awhile. When I was in college, my mother and her sister began to develop extensive collections of early/mid twentieth century dishes and glass. My cousin and I liked hanging out with our moms, but to do so meant endless visits to the antique malls of the South. One day, as my cousin and I hung listlessly around the doorway to yet another antique emporium somewhere off I-95, bitching about being bored, it occurred to me that these stores had a lot of dishes in my favorite color, green. As both my mother and my aunt were gobbling down every piece of cobalt depression glass in sight, I decided I would start a collection in green. Of course, I was in college so I had no money, but my acquisitive mom was happy to get me started and soon I was on my way with a green glass decanter and my first criss-cross refrigerator dish.

Over the years I have collected a pretty amazing amount of stuff; from Hazel Atlas bowls to Manhattan glass to a Fire King breakfast set to Bauer pottery to… you name it. Here are pictures of some containers out on my counter and of a cabinet of glasses.




















The containers are from the 30s and 40s, and the glasses are a mix. The hobnail glasses on the top shelf are from the 1910’s, and the tall glasses next to them are from the 50’s. The Ring wine glasses on the second shelf are from the 30’s (gorgeous, and a gift from my aunt for graduation from law school), although the ones next to them are 1990’s Target. The bottom shelf has green Manhattan glass tumblers and a bunch of Swanky Swig juice glasses from the 50’s (I think). Anyway, I get loads of pleasure from using all my dishes, and I can set a pretty fabulous table. I also have a large collection of mismatched plates from the 19th and 20th centuries, each having some element of green as their common feature. When I set a table with those, I often use my toile silverware, the site for which I linked to yesterday and more pieces of which I add when I go to France.















That company has all sorts of cute stuff, though, and I think I might add something new this time. I really like this Liberty pattern in “lime”, which I think will go nicely with some Cath Kidston coffee mugs I already have in green…

















Now I’m all keyed up for some serious shopping.

C'est lundi and je me sens pauvre.

You know what worries me if I let myself think about it for too long? Retirement. It’s a tough balance between trying not to live like an ascetic in order to fund one’s retirement (which has never been my forte) and not just blowing through all one’s cash only to wake up at 60 and see a thousand dog food casseroles on the horizon. I haven’t been the world’s best at saving for my future so far, and at 39, it feels like it’s already too late. So far, all I have managed is that I contribute the maximum to my 401k each year, and since marrying R. we also contribute monthly to a mutual fund and a gold fund. I’m sure that’s more than a lot of people manage, but it doesn’t change the fact that it’s still not enough. It’s particularly true at a time when I check my 401k balance and see that my “personal investment performance” is already down 5% for the year. Awesome. So I have essentially been throwing money in the toilet. R. reminds me that when shares are down, the money I put in simply buys more shares, so that when prices go back up, there are more shares to gain value. I understand this intellectually, but still I look at the balance that seems to have been sitting in the same place for some time now and visions of Sunday mornings with my spotted, arthritic hands struggling to guide the scissors through the coupon pages lodge in my mind.

Fortunately, in six weeks we will be spending our tax return on profiteroles, patterned flatware and Prêt-à-Manger duck wraps instead of sticking it in some sort of savings vehicle. That should go a long way toward easing my mind. I guess when I’m trying to think of another way to stretch boiled cabbage into another delicious dish, I can think back on the halcyon days when I thought nothing of starting every Parisian dinner with a slice of foie gras, or of gaily loading another frivolous treat from La Maison du Chocolat into my basket…. Paris itself will be a distant memory, too, but I’m sure if I look hard enough at the cracks in the cheap plaster of our one bedroom tenement apartment, I can imagine it’s a map of Paris’ arrondissements, the Seine flowing agelessly through.

Or, we can just retire there and I can look at the cracks of our Parisian tenement walls instead.