My Wheels are Grinding.

Apparently people aren’t so interested in my other blog. I have only the merest trickle of traffic there, which perhaps ought to tell me that not everyone is as up in arms over the state of the nation as I am. I think I’m so focused on politics right now because it gives me something to think and write about that is outside my everyday routine. Because let’s face it; my everyday routine is not only dull, but I’ve pretty much run it into the ground as a topic for discussion. What, am I going to tell you yet again about how I watched CNN from my couch last night? How we wanted to take Eeyore on a walk before dinner but got home too late? How R. and I have barreled into adulthood and sometimes want to cry from the perceived limitedness of it all?

Going to work and raising a child and worrying about one’s parents and finances and future are perfectly normal components of a life, but I’m having a hard time right now thinking of ways to spin them into daily reading material. I can tell you once that my child’s laugh has some strange connection straight to an actual, physical place in my heart I had no idea existed, or that after I give him his bottle before bed he likes to turn over on my chest, hug me and lie there until he falls asleep, so that I never, ever want to get up, but then I’ve told you those things and they don’t really need to be repeated.

All this is why writing about politics is working for me right now, even if it does lead to a very Washingtonian, unhealthy obsession with politics, the media, the whole kit and caboodle. I’ve needed something to write about to try to pull myself out of the torpor I’ve let myself sink into – a catalyst to feeling more involved with the rest of the world outside the protective four walls of our little family home.

A Weekend in Hell.

Have you ever had a weekend where you could have just died and that really would have been OK? This was one of those weekends. I woke up Saturday morning to find Eeyore had had an awful blowout; the kind where you pretty much have to scrub everything within the vicinity of the crib. Thankfully, he seemed none the worse for wear, but I, on the other hand, had some sort of flu. I laid in bed all day long, unable to really move, while R. took care of Eeyore. I couldn’t even watch TV, which is when you know things are really bad. Then, during the night, R. came down with whatever I had, times 2. He spent today in bed while I took care of the baby in a decidedly half-assed manner. When I had a second to think, all I could think about was how I’m behind at work and how I really need to hunker down this week and just work and not piss around thinking about politics or anything else.

But hey – on the upside, my mom is having surgery on her shoulder next week and my father is having open heart surgery – should be a banner week for all. I haven’t been focusing on my dad’s surgery the way I should; I think I am in some sort of denial. It’s a valve replacement and single bypass, which are very common and have a great recovery rate. Still, that’s all well and good when it’s somebody else’s dad. I’m in a very large vortex of Catholic guilt around both of these operations. I know I should be there for both of them, lending moral support – especially for my dad’s. And I’m not, and my guilt tells me my excuses are feeble. I don’t have any more vacation days, we are careening towards the end of our savings, how can I be both places at once so why not neither. I’m just sort of paralyzed – I don’t even check fares because I know they’re high and I think if I don’t look the whole issue will disappear.

I know; it’s screwed up. Believe me. Even if you’ve turned your back on Catholicism, there’s no turning your back on the accompanying guilt.

I feel like I am in the most bizarre state of limbo I cold ever have imagined, and it just keeps going on, and on, and on. It takes me forever to take any action, and I keep waiting for the day when I wake up and know how to behave like a functioning member of adult society again. One who writes thank you notes, returns phone calls, buys plane tickets and deals with family responsibilities outside these four walls. Instead, I have turned completely inward, unable to take care of the simplest things. How is going to get better with another tiny baby on the way?

Well, enough pissing and moaning for one evening. I did start another blog, although I haven’t added anything new to it yet – it’s in my links list.

We All Need a Break Sometimes.

I’ll just tell you: I didn’t even watch McCain speak last night. For once, R. and I were actually in the land of the living, and had people over for dinner. Plus, what did I need to watch it for? I knew how it would go. There would be some smirking, some shoulder shrugs reminiscent of George W., and then some statements about bipartisanship that would stand in glaring contrast to the slash-and-burn, liberals-are-lazy-and-hate-America tone delivered by his “pit bull in lipstick” the night before. And who cares what he has to say? That nightmare with a beehive and tacky glasses will be president within two years, and she already rendered him completely obsolete with her “New Star of the GOP” speech the night before that the pundits are slavering over, so why not just spare myself the boredom?

Not that I’m over it. Au contraire – instead, I’ve decided that I need another blog; one devoted to politics (or what politicians wear, of course). I doubt everyone who comes to this blog wants to read about my liberal-leaning musings, and I’d like a place where I can write solely about politics and another where I can keep writing about anything else I feel like. That still might include describing my desire to beat Sarah Palin around the head with her own peep-toe pump, or it might involve a pie that I bake, but I don’t want to be limited on either front.

So now I just have to find a good name for this other blog, which is never really a fun task. Maybe I’ll call it “Maureen Dowd” just to see if I can bring traffic my way.

Sarah Palin Cows the Media, but Not Me.

I don’t even know where to begin. Sarah Palin’s speech was divisive, belligerent, smug, and at the same time totally lightweight. So why is the goddamned media fawning all over it like it was the best thing since sliced bread? I can see how it was effective for all the people who are already inclined to vote Republican, but I found her completely repellent. After everything I had read about how engaging she is, how personable, how charming, I was expecting to be greeted by someone that I might have a tough time resisting on a personal level, disagreeable though I might find her views. Instead, she seemed dead set on whipping up a nasty partisan frenzy; punctuated repeatedly by her pursed schoolmarm smirk. By the end of her tirade, I loathed her and her “I represent the little people” B.S. with every last boiling blood cell in my veins.

Let’s review:

1. She came out and spent a good 10 minutes introducing her hillbilly family, as if we haven’t read enough about their sluttish and/or unethical escapades (oh, sorry, that’s the escapades of “real families, just like yours”) in the news the last few days. I thought it was particularly charming that the pregnant teenaged daughter’s boyfriend was trotted out on the stage in his Sunday best after the speech, chewing gum like the child that he is. What a nice touch to validate the pre-marital sex that she deplores in order to show what a loving mother she is.

2. Her first “political” statement was to tell America she would be there as a voice for special needs parents in government. While that is certainly a laudable sentiment, positioning it at the top of her speech seemed designed to show what an understanding, sensitive mother she is. Again – fabulous – but perhaps not the most important issue on the country’s agenda this year. And arguably not on hers, either, as the entire Republican Party seemed to take a pass at babysitting poor little Trig during her speech. He was trotted out on the stage at the end, too – couldn’t one of her precious family members have stayed in the hotel room and made sure he was safely tucked into bed, where he should have been at that hour, instead of surrounded by the bright lights and screaming crowd in the arena?

3. Finally, Sarah started the mud-slinging. She compared her own experience to Obama’s, belittling his work as a community organizer and championing her own extensive qualifications as the mayor of a small town as the sine qua non of executive experience. She followed that up with a contemptuous dose of “I don’t trust the liberal elite,” and there you have the substance of her speech.

4. Oh, wait, she did talk a lot about drilling in Alaska as her way to address our energy crisis, so that was pretty useful.

5. Oh, yeah, and then told some lies: namely, that she didn’t support taking federal money to build the “Bridge to Nowhere,” and that Barack Obama never authored a law in Congress.

Ugh, that’s enough. She was nasty, and her speech (along with everything else I’ve heard coming out of the Republican Convention) sought to perpetuate the partisan divide in this country. Contrast that with Obama’s convention speech, in which he enumerated several issues on which the parties traditionally disagree, but on which he believes we can surely find common ground. He spoke about rebuilding a nation that is sorely divided; Sarah Palin sought to drive that stake even further into the ground. The Republican Party seeks to wrap that up even tighter in a soft blanket of sexism – simultaneously sporting their buttons that say “Hottest VP from the Coolest State” while accusing the Demorcats of sexism at every turn for daring to challenge Palin’s qualifications.

And speaking once again of qualifications, if I ever thought there wasn’t a danger she would actually find herself in the highest office in the land, seeing the tiny, waxen figure of John McCain come shuffling out at the end of the speech disabused me of that notion. I think he might already be dead. So watch out, lucky world.

Fun 'n Games in Minneapolis.

For the most part I can leave the charming Sarah Palin alone for the day, since there will surely be plenty to say tomorrow after she makes what amounts to her debut to the American public tonight. It’s only a debut because even though her candidacy was announced several days ago, the McCain campaign thinks it is appropriate to keep her from having to actually sit for an interview where she would have to answer a few questions about herself. Why? Because the “hostile media” clearly has it in for her, so they will bring her out “when the time is right.” I’m sorry, WTF? John McCain thinks this woman is capable of running our country, yet she can’t handle a few pointed questions from journalists? Of all the paternalistic crap I can imagine from the Barefoot-and-Pregnant Party, this takes the cake. Not to mention, for all the disagreements I have with Sarah Palin on the issues, she strikes me as a woman who could more than handle herself in an interview. So cut the nonsense and require her to give one. Jesus.

While I’m throwing a bone to the ladies here, rather than at their heads, I’ll toss another one to Cindy McCain. I feel kind of bad for her. She is clearly a perfectly lovely woman, as long as I don’t get into any kind of political discussion with her, and she never looks like she wants to be anywhere near this mess of national politics. She hangs in the background, looking reasonably chic in her throwback sort of way, and smiles when she needs to. I don’t know if it’s shyness or sadness, though, but there is something about her that seems pretty self-protective and closed in on herself. So, I might say some not-so-nice things here that I extrapolate from her Republicanism, but the truth is I don’t have much of a bone to pick with her other than I don’t want her anywhere near the White House.

Speaking of which, guess who will never be anywhere near the White House, or even Capitol Hill ever again, unless McCain picks him for a Cabinet post? That’s right; Joe “Stick a Fork in Me” Lieberman. Wow – that man is going to be the biggest pariah in town when he gets back to D.C. I can’t believe he had the nerve to stand up there and exhort Democrats to “think” about the choice they have to make here. Sorry, buddy, some of us have already thought about this in pretty great depth, and we decided that this wasn’t much of a decision at all. We aspire for a little bit more than the world your candidate promises to leave us with. And Lieberman’s poor wife, Hadassah, sitting out there in the audience next to Cindy McCain: you can’t tell me she wasn’t sitting there wondering what planet she was on. Did she really sign up for this, too? Maybe she could have taken a page from the Todd Palin book of political spouse behavior and kept her membership in her previous party. Of course, in his case that would be the Alaskan Independence Party, of which he was apparently a member until 2002.

This should be quite an administration.

Sarah Palin: Not the Pick of a Maverick.

I read over and over that John McCain’s choice of Sarah Palin as his running mate highlights once again his “maverick” status, but I can’t see how that is so. How is it “maverick” to choose a running mate straight out of the conservative base of his party? How is it “maverick” to choose a woman as your running mate then sit back and watch as the world is distracted by the soap-opera of her family drama and the continuously evolving list of her potential drawbacks?

Maybe it’s maverick to choose someone who would be singularly unprepared to take the reins when you die in office, but other than that this is all just classic, old-school Republican tactics to me. John McCain didn’t have the strength of his own convictions to pick one of the two pro-choice people he supposedly wanted most as his running mate until it became glaringly clear that the fire-and-brimstone crowd would hang him out to dry if he did so. Instead, without properly vetting his last-minute decision, he offered the iron-fisted evangelicals Sarah Palin on a silver platter, hoping he’d be killing two birds with one stone by choosing a woman for whom lots of independent-minded women surely would leap on board the Straight to Oblivion Express.

Nothing about all this is maverick other than to show just how badly a hastily made decision, one that shows a distinct lack of good judgment, can turn out. Shouldn’t we already know that from 8 years of watching George Bush shoot from the hip, using his own “maverick” style to take us into a needless conflict in Iraq? Don’t we need someone to make decisions for our country that result from genuine, thoughtful reflection, maybe a little consultation with someone other than the Dark Lord of Observatory Circle, rather than someone who keeps us on our inexorable march down this dangerous path?

Oh, the Delicious and Fortifying Juice!

I am deeply offended by the McCain campaign’s assertion that “liberal” blogs were mud-slinging by perpetuating the rumor that Sarah Palin is actually her son Trig’s grandmother and that her daughter, Bristol, is actually his mother. You will note I refrained from mentioning it here, even though you know I was salivating over it here in my living room. I could hardly wait for the national media to get on board. But of course, it was too delightfully salacious and they weren’t going to go there. Apparently fearing, however, that their baser instincts would get to them, much like Bristol’s got to her, the Palins announced today that there’s NO WAY Bristol could be Trig’s mother, because she is 5 months on her way to becoming the mom of some other lucky little devil! See? There’s no way she could have given birth to Trig because he’s only 4 months old, and Bristol’s been knocked up longer, get it? So we’ll take that story for now, but I can’t say that I am fully convinced there isn’t something even fishier going on here.

Either way, it’s hilarious, even if it is “private pain” and all that for the family. A McCain aide says McCain knew about this before he chose Palin as his running mate, and didn’t think it had any bearing on whether she was right for the job. While I agree that the fact that her daughter is a randy idiot teenager has little to do with her qualifications to step into the job of the most powerful person in the world if called upon to do so, which, of course, are nil, I’m still going to go out on a limb and say that there’s no way McCain knew about this in advance. There is no way in your God’s sweet heaven that had McCain known about this total embarrassment that he would have shoved this whole mess into the limelight. The Republicans can sling all the bullshit they want about how wonderful it is that Bristol “chose” to have the baby, and she’s so lucky to have a supportive family, but the bottom line is that this is nothing but an embarrassment and having to pretend it’s lemonade doesn’t change the reality.

As for Bristol’s “choice,” who knows if she actually had one? With Mommy being a pro-life zealot and in the public eye, I can’t imagine she did actually have a choice. Let’s hope she’s happy with having the child and marrying its father, because she’s going to have to live with it for at least 2 years until she can get divorced and take her baby with her to college in New York City, where she can become a liberal feminist author or something to seriously embarrass her parents. Ah, I jest: you can kind of tell from her vacant teenaged expression that she drinks the evangelical kool-aid. You know, except for not having sex before marriage. But at least she made sure that if she was going to do it, she wouldn’t do it without that forbidden contraception!!

One last comment: am I wrong, or does the Republican Convention so far seem like a complete and total mess? It’s like the waiting room of a funeral parlor. At least they got Laura Bush and Cindy McCain out for their joint speech on charity hurricane relief: awful. Sure, it’s a good message and all, but with the shy Cindy belted tightly into her welcome-home-honey frock coat and the frighteningly Joker-like Laura up there delivering the type of speech acceptable for a good 1960’s political wife, all I could see was “this is how the Republican Party truly likes its women.” Of course, the maverick McCain wants to prove us wrong by showing us strong women can run the White House with a rifle in one hand and an unborn child or two in the other, but … I’m not buying it. Maybe he wants her to totally screw up so she will have to pull out, he can take credit for having chosen a woman an an evangelical, then move forward with some other, more mainstream pick?

A Disappointing State of Affairs.

Yesterday we celebrated my child’s first birthday. R. made him a cake, and we blew out his candles for him before he plowed his little hands into the frosting just like millions of kids before him. He didn’t smile much, but he certainly didn’t seem unhappy as he smeared his face, arms and clothes with frosting, and bit into one of his candles. It was our baby’s first major milestone, and I felt very protective of him as we celebrated it.

In fact, I feel very protective generally of my child right now, maybe ferociously so. That’s because frankly, I feel very, very nervous about what could be about to happen in this country in the next few months, and I can thank John McCain for that gift. With his jaw-droppingly reckless choice of a running mate, he has ensured that if he wins this election the freedoms we citizens possess and the stature our country enjoyed in this world before the current administration will be permanently destroyed.

While I’m not McCain’s biggest fan on his own merits, at least he holds some positions that didn’t scare me into next week whenever I thought about the possibility of his being elected. He’s pro-life and doesn’t support gay rights, but it was generally understood that those were topics for which he didn’t care to wade too far into the mire. With Sarah Palin, however, he has brought into the equation a gun-toting “hockey mom” who as a devout, evangelical Christian supports teaching creationism in the schools and is strongly anti-choice. This selection was obviously geared, among other things, to bring the Christian right on board, as they had been making noises about not supporting him. Ms. Palin has brightened their day, however, as evidenced by James Dobson’s statement that he will now pull the lever for McCain. Fabulous! God forbid McCain could have instead held his finger up to notice that the winds of change were trying to blow people together instead of rip them even further apart. With this pick, it seems like as Americans we are now having some sort of monumental, epic battle for our fate. On one side, people desperate to move past the last 8 years to a model of a strong America that values all of its citizens and communicates with its neighbors. On the other, a vocal group that has co-opted the Republican Party so that it’s forced to push this message that all manner of intolerance and interference is appropriate in the name of God.

If this ticket is elected and Old Man McCain croaks on the job, which at his ripe old age is certainly possible, then we’ll find ourselves living in a shitty TV movie. How can anyone in their right mind think that this former frigging beauty queen who has ZERO world experience is an appropriate choice to run this country? It’s bad enough that she stands for all the intolerance and stubborn, backwards lack of thought that I can’t abide, and that if she’s in power she’s going to work to inflict her way of life on me and my children, but worse is the thought of how she would deal with world leaders. What’s she going to do, get pissed off and take her hunting rifle to them? She may be all spunky and whatnot, but that’s not really going to cut it when she has to deal with Putin.

I am just sick about this on so many levels. It takes the level of discourse back from the potential Obama framed in his convention speech of trying to find some common ground even on our divisive issues, to having to account for someone who has inserted a card labeled “Jesus provides an excuse for everything” where her brain should have been. An evangelical NRA member isn’t going to be the type to look for compromise. And she REALLY needs to stop making her speech where she talks about Hillary Clinton’s 18 million cracks in the glass ceiling and how we as women aren’t done yet – don’t insult women who lived the struggle of sexism firsthand by smarmily acting like you earned what you just got. Is she so clueless as not to recognize she is only in her current spot because an old white man saw the opportunity to use her to secure his own power? His choice of a completely unqualified woman as some kind of pablum for women voters anxious to see a woman in high office is beyond insulting. Women supported Hillary Clinton because she was actually qualified to hold the job.

Argh.

Just In: McCain panders to Americans with Vaginas.

Well. As I’m sure you can imagine, I’m not particularly impressed by McCain’s choice of running mate. My first impression upon hearing the news, since I had no idea who she even was, was that McCain is clearly pandering right now. Maybe that sounds sexist of me, but I don’t think he chose her purely on whatever credentials she brings to the table. And then I heard something about her credentials, and my opinion remained the same. Her credentials appear to include being (1) a good old boy conservative, just the kind of asshole you want to smoke a cigar with after a day of hunting innocent animals so you can hang their heads on your library wall, (2) governor of a state not exactly known for its environmental record, or more recently, for its lack of corruption, and (3) looking a good deal like a 1960’s throwback version of Mariska Hargitay. And let’s not forget her stint as mayor of Wasilla, Alaska; I’m sure that really prepared her for any future discussions she might be expected to conduct with world leaders. So it smacks to me of hoping to pick up some disaffected Hillary Clinton supporters who will respect that Ms. Palin has a vajayjay.

I would be really interested to hear the opinion of some conservatives on this choice. Am I totally off base? Does she bring something to the table that conservatives are seeking? I suppose if she is quite conservative that will help placate the farther right wing of the Republican Party, but there are plenty of people who could have filled that role. She is supposedly a “reformer,” so maybe that’s her draw. I don’t know… this just seems like something to surprise with, but not necessarily something that is going to help McCain in the long run. I suppose we shall see.

I noticed this morning that Cindy McCain and Sarah Palin have something in common, and that is the look that each is projecting. As Cindy stepped off the plane with her husband in Ohio, she looked like she had just finished baking some cupcakes for the PTA meeting at little Timmy’s school in the all-white part of town. Sunny yellow dress paired with a white cardigan; her white-blonde hair scraped back in a girlish ponytail. Sarah Palin manages to look more serious than First Robot McCain in her rimless glasses, but in almost every shot I have seen of her so far she has her hair pinned up on her head like she’s off to her mother’s prom. What’s up with that? Not a good sign.

But you know what? Mostly I’m just terribly, terribly disappointed that the Republican Party put a woman on the ticket in what I think is poor faith, and that she represents so much that I don’t believe in. She “supports oil drilling in ANWR, is pro-life and is a devout Christian.” And she pronounces “nuclear” just like George W. Bush does. What more could I ask for in a candidate? A lot. If this ticket wins, this country is done.

Denver Day Four (or, Please Let the Clinton Show be Over).

What are we going to do when the convention is over? R. and I have been fairly well glued to the television every evening, watching our party in turn inspire us and cheese us out. Somehow, I don’t see myself as rapt for the Republican convention, although I’ll surely tune in for some of the bigger names and for the CNN commentary. For me, there’s the contrast of feeling my heart swell with pride to hear our Democratic leaders invoke the party’s ideals, which I see as equality, fairness and compassion for other human beings, and an understanding of the human condition, with the indignant contempt I feel when watching some of the cold-hearted swill I hear pouring from the mouths of the Republicans. Yes, folks, I take a partisan point of view, as you know.

But it’s not as if I don’t see the Democratic Party as having any flaws. For one, our delegates are just as hokey as Republican delegates. Why do so many people feel like they have to dress up like a frigging hog pen at a Fourth of July state fair? Red, white and blue cowboy hats, beanies, and hideous pantsuits; whirring miniature fans attached to their hats, moon faces everywhere. It’s repellent. But the bigger flaw I see is our party’s need to genuflect to the Clintons. Who died and made them kings of the fucking world?

I used to LOVE Bill and Hillary Clinton, and while I can still look back with that feeling on the years when he was president, now they way they run their machine like Mafia bosses is astounding. I was relieved they finally came through for the actual nominee last night, but it wasn’t without first commandeering the whole convention as their own little dog and pony show – will they? Won’t they? They seemed to be doing anything they could to keep the spotlight on themselves, diminishing the glow that should have been focused on the real star of the show. And don’t get me started on these “PUMAs,” the “Party Unity My Ass” group. You know what I have to say about that? Sure you do, because it’s FUCK YOU. How dare you play fast and loose with our country’s future because you’re all pissed off that someone who LOST THE RACE wasn’t anointed despite that fact?

It’s amazing how people can see the same thing so differently. Apparently many Hillary Clinton supporters see the Obama camp as having somehow treated her unfairly, acted in a sexist manner, and generally resorted to the low road to cheat her out of the nomination. I, on the other hand, see the opposite. I’m amazed by how low the Clintons sunk in their bid to crown her Queen, and saw the Obamas as consistently trying to take the high road in spite of it. I’m having a hard time bouncing back from that point of view, so that now whenever I see Hillary speak it’s hard for me to focus on her message. All I can see is her naked desire for power, and her determination not to let anyone, or anything, stand in her way. Believe me, I’m not happy with this state of affairs, because I am a feminist, I used to love her and wanted to continue to do so, and I wanted her to be president. Other than her, I’m not sure I see any female politicians coming up who have what it takes to win a national election, and that is not a good thing. I assume she will get another bite at the apple, particularly if she continues to succeed at helping elect McCain, so I sincerely hope that by then I can get over my very conflicted feelings about her.

In other news, Eeyore turns one year old tomorrow. R. is making him a cake, I’ve got the presents, and we’ll be having a party of three. We just couldn’t bring ourselves to throw a real party when he doesn’t even know it’s his birthday.

Denver for the regular folk.

Really, I should have known. I might have thought we’d glimpse a little piece of the action on our Tuesday night out on the town, but of course anyone interesting was at the convention waiting to hear Hillary Clinton lie about wanting Obama to win the election. R. and I drove downtown for a drink before our dinner at Fruition, a restaurant that receives more accolades than it deserves (if you go, do not order the black cod even though it looks so good... see below). After finding a parking spot well away from where I wanted to be, we looked for a place for a drink. Jax – where I used to love to quaff an apple martini at their concrete bar - private party. The lame bar of the McCormick and Schmick’s across the street – where I would never choose to go on a normal evening - private party for the National Press Club. Since we didn’t have time to walk over to Larimer Square for a drink at the bar at Rioja, which is what I really wanted to do, we made do with the bar at Sullivan’s. Eh. Crowded, but with a lot of suited and booted yahoos like ourselves hoping to see something.

I will say, however, that Denver has a very different vibe than normal right now. For starters, it’s very odd not to be able to park downtown, or have a drink or dinner wherever you’d like on a Tuesday night. It’s also different (and refreshing) to see the streets teeming with people on a summer evening; strolling along the sidewalks or spilling out of the bars and restaurants. Denver actually looks alive. The downside to that is it looks alive with the citizens of Washington, D.C., which means, of course, dressed in the manner particular to that city. Men in navy blazers and khaki trousers (yuck!) and women in sleeveless shifts with a couple of strands of thick pearls knotted up around their necks. These folks were keeping me from my champagne cocktail, along with a bunch of dirtball kids carrying signs with slogans like “Drop pants, not bombs,” which would make any parent proud.

At Fruition, the only sign that anything was going on in town was the table next to us of 3 couples; two of which were in from DC and one of which lived here. The Denver couple were the only ones keeping the normalcy of a conversation going, as all the others could talk about between fiddling with their blackberries and answering their cell phones was what it’s all about in D.C. They were dropping names left and right, discussing stories they were writing, and so on. My thought is that if they were at the restaurant during the main events of the convention, they can’t have been writing any highly sought after stories, but I’m just guessing.

To cap off the evening, I woke up at 2 this morning dreaming of throwing up. And then I did, the foul brine of littleneck clam chowder in my throat, so I can’t say I’m looking at the night as a total success.

Overall, I’d have to say that for me the whole show might as well not even be here. R. and I are home trying to work around chasing our little wombat around the room, and everything is playing itself out on CNN just as it would be if we lived anywhere else. Funny that the whole thing will breeze out of here on Friday morning and it will be like it never happened. Maybe even in the polls, unfortunately.

And so it begins.

I could feel the bilious bubbles of envy burping up in me. I walked over to the 16th Street Mall at lunch, and out and about were all sorts of people with various credentials swinging around their necks. As I passed two guys with such plastic cards flapping around their necks, one said, "He works for the Senator..."

Sigh.

News of the Day and an Unwitting Meltdown.

Well, obviously it’s this whole VP bullshit. I can’t help but think that whoever Obama picks, it’s going to be a colossal non-issue. The media has built up the “unveiling” to such a fever pitch, I think he’d have to pick Jesus Christ to live up to the hype. And among all the flesh and blood potential contenders, there’s only one who could even provoke any interesting discussion, and that’s Hillary. Since the media has written her off, and unless Obama pulls a rabbit out of his hat, who could possibly generate anything interesting to say? So with all that, I’m not sure why this has been built into such a big frigging deal. That said, if it isn’t the dame, I sure hope it’s Joe Biden…

And now I’ll segue to the topic of climbing the corporate ladder. As you may know, I am a commercial lawyer for a company in Denver. There are five or six lawyers in my immediate little group, and until recently I was the most senior as “corporate counsel,” while everyone else had the queer title of “Senior Attorney.” A few months ago, another woman in the group was promoted to corporate counsel, which is fine and dandy (if there’s one thing this legal department is good at, it’s promoting women). However, her promotion and a bunch of over-the-top awards she has received this year seem to have gone straight to her head, and she has managed to secretly alienate others in the group with her now-apparent naked ambition. In group meetings, she often sounds as if she is attempting to run the meetings in conjunction with the head of our group. She now questions the other lawyers’ opinions and judgments in a way she never did before, and her tone is decidedly hierarchical. At first I wondered if it was just me who thought this, and if it was a case of sour grapes because I had been the golden girl in the group until she came along, but I talked about it with another person in our group and learned I wasn’t alone in noticing the transformation.

So what is it that causes some people to act like total shitbags as they claw their way toward the glass ceiling? I’m of the opinion that if my basic work personality, which has gotten me this far, doesn’t work for moving me higher, then so be it. When that’s the case, it’s time to evaluate where you are and either decide you’re OK with it or select something new. What’s to be gained by changing your personality for the worse as you gain some perceived power or position of authority? I just don’t get it. People are already set to envy you when you’re promoted above them, why give them more fodder for their backbiting?

And finally - my husband is going to Breckenridge tonight for a bachelor party. It may just be trailing from bar to bar getting hammered, or there may be naked women involved. Of course he assures me he isn’t the type to “like” that kind of thing, and that really, it just makes him uncomfortable. I believe him, as it’s not as if he ever goes to strip clubs in the regular course of life, and if some stripper gyrates her pelvis in his face and he feels awkward about it, I’ll sure feel so sorry for him for having been put in that situation. But the person I really feel sorry for is me, and all the other wives and girlfriends who have to think about the fact that their husbands are in the same room with naked women other than themselves. I can’t even let myself think about the idea that they could be doing something more than just looking at these women, like getting a lap dance. From what I’ve heard, there are always some jackass guys in a group like this who are revoltingly gung ho and who make it their mission to ensure that the guys who aren’t as into it get their chance at participation whether they like it or not. What if that happens with my husband? Especially at a time when I’m no longer confident about my own naked body, the thought that somebody else would be rubbing up on him with her bare, never-borne-a-child boobs in his face makes me want to curl up in a little ball and bury my head under a pillow.

I know R. has been getting exasperated at me when we talk about this, because there’s nothing he can do about it other than tell me it’s not his thing. But I don’t think there’s any way to truly convey to him what it feels like to have to accept something like this just because it’s often what guys do at bachelor parties. There’s no comparison to women hiring a stripper for a hen party, because for the most part I think that to women that kind of thing is just a joke. There is no real element of sexuality to it. For men, though, and feel free to correct me if I am making an incorrect assumption, there is. I don’t mean for an individual, particular man, but the concept as a whole – it’s a sexual environment. Oh…. I don’t know. I’m sure some people, possibly even my husband, think I’m overreacting, but I can't help the way I feel: ashamed of my own body when I compare myself to the idea I have in my head of some younger, sexy girl naked and near my husband, jealous, and angry for being put in this position of having to be "cool" with it or end up in a fight.

Oh my God, listen to me - I am SO pregnant.

Ruminations of the day.

Have you ever had a bad dream that infected the rest of your day, even though it was only a dream? I had a dream right before I woke up that my husband told me he wanted to “break up” and that he was “fucking” this tacky blonde watching television in the next room who I think might have been Heidi Montag, of all “huh?” kind of people. The message was delivered completely without inflection, and even while I could feel my own heart start to race and my voice rise in the panic of floundering around for him to take it back and throw me some kind of life preserver, he remained impassive; a little disgusted. When I woke up, I was relieved it wasn’t true, but somehow the feeling that actually, it was, has stayed with me. I feel sort of off kilter, like suddenly I need to make sure it’s not out there, waiting to happen. As a consequence, I picked a meaningless fight with my beleaguered husband before leaving for work, so now I sit here, continuing to stew. The fight I picked was particularly lame – involving his using my camera to take to a meeting to take pictures of the client’s house. He called me selfish and asked me if I was ten years old, both of which were fair comments.

I left home sulking and feeling a lot shittier about the day than necessary. Why does that kind of thing happen? I’m sure I’m not the only one who works herself into a state after a rotten dream. Dreams like that, about rejection, or death, reflect our deepest fears, so even when we know it was only a dream, there’s still that unpleasant residue of knowing it’s always a possibility. And with death, of course, a certainty – but hopefully not in all the terrible ways I’ve dreamed of my own and other peoples’ demise.

But anyway.

Back to politics.

I’ve been complaining about the convention, but the truth is one can’t live inside the Beltway for 10 years and not be REALLY excited that the whole political machine is coming to town. Living in D.C. is like living in Hollywood for wonks – it’s just as exciting to see the presidential helicopter fly overhead as it is to spot a B-list celebrity. Seeing the president himself ranks even higher – at least seeing Clinton did. I can’t imagine that seeing Bush would be any more rewarding than seeing Kevin Federline, except that I might be able to ignore K Fed and I couldn’t promise not to rip Shrub a new one.

Working from home with Eeyore next week is the best thing I can do to make sure he’s safe, I think, but I am a little sad not to be able to wander around town for a little rubbernecking. I could sidle over to the cheesy brewpub next to the Pepsi Center that as the “CNN Grill” is the site for the dorkiest political team in show business’ nightly circle jerk, hoping to get a glimpse of American’s favorite personification of Max Headroom, the androgynous Anderson Cooper. I don’t know where NBC will be, but boy, what I wouldn’t do to see my teen idol, Tom Brokaw. I knew R. was the one for me when he spoke and I could hear TB’s dulcet tones coming from his mouth (R. has a great voice).

The Denver Post has published a list of all the parties and events taking place in Denver over the course of the convention, and I can’t believe I am so totally out of the loop that I won’t have anything to do with any of them. There’s an Emily’s List party with Hillary Clinton, Michelle Obama and Nancy Pelosi, various cocktail parties hosted by area law firms – Brownstein Hyatt seems to have rented out the Capital Grille every night for a pre-convention martini-fest, presumably to make the DC folks feel like they never even left home – and all kinds of Young Democrats happy hours and post-convention drinking binges. God, do I feel old and irrelevant. R. reminds me that we have plenty of years to make up for the weirdness that is our lives right now, but it’s still bizarre to be thinking of child safety over participation in society. Well, hopefully all the focused attention will at least turn out a little guy who will also be interested in politics.

And not like his mama – whose interest in politics often degenerates into topics such as how D.C. Republican males = fat asses and no chins.

Countdown to the Convention.

I’m a little peeved with my kid’s school. The administration has done everything in its power to scare parents about the potential dangers of keeping their children in school next week during the Democratic convention. There will be little to no access to the parking garage, and no parking available in the street around the building. All doors will be locked so there will be no access to the school other than by elevator from the parking garage. But hey – they have extra food and water in case of a full lockdown because of rioting, tear gas or whatever kind of terrorist attack might be happening in the street outside Eeyore’s classroom. I get the message – they want us to keep our kids home, and so we will. But have they offered to refund the enormous fees we pay for one week of school? Of course not.

So I will be trying to work from home as much as possible next week while R. and I balance working and watching Eeyore. It promises to be a close runner up in the hell stakes to our 2 week trip to the east coast. I wonder how much of a cluster the convention will really cause in Denver? I think about 50,000 people are expected downtown, but that’s no more than go to a Broncos game on a given Sunday afternoon. Will it really be that bad? I guess the issue is more about what kinds of wack jobs comprise that number:

1. Politicians
2. Media
3. Delegates
4. Nutball Protesters
5. Terrorists

That’s actually a pretty unappealing crowd.

Politicians and Media: these first two groups are some of the most self-important people around, and there could be some concern that they might suck all of the already thin air out of the city of Denver. Having lived in DC for 10 years, I’m well acquainted with the intense pomposity that these people exude, and it should be quite a contrast to the guarded good nature of most Westerners. None of the politicians, their attendant lackeys or the media will even notice, however, because it’s hard to see anything in with your head up your own ass. What’s to notice when you have your own little world transplanted with you from Washington? All that’s changing is the venue for their pontificating. Although now that I think about it, I expect they will at least make time to malign the Denver scene, since it’s not nearly as chic as their own Dullsville of the East.

Delegates: eh. Democratic delegates, at least based on what I saw at the caucuses, are an earnest, smarmy bunch. The kind of people I steered clear of in college and law school; neck cords taut with fervor as they educate you vociferously about their opinions, high on their belief that they are part of a giant civics lesson. If you’re planning to frequent Denver’s downtown bars and restaurants during the convention, make sure you’re seated several tables away from these folks or you will sorely regret it.

Nutball Protesters: You know, I’m cool with people walking down the street with their banners promoting immigration rights, peace in the world, etc. But I’m not so into giant throngs of dirty college students preaching anarchy, flipping over cars or camping in their frigging tents in the park next to my house. I’m just over that kind of shit. And don’t get me started on pro-life protesters, pious heads bent in self-righteous prayer as they hold hands and make me throw up.

Terrorists: Not really anyone’s favorite group of people, and hopefully not coming to this particular party. Apparently last week a Somali man was found dead in a Denver hotel room with a pound of cyanide. That doesn’t sound promising.

Anyway, lots to look forward to from the confines of our tiny little house. We’ll be putting up the blackout curtains so none of those stinky students come begging for a shower or orange juice.

Never again.

Oh, I’m still here. Or rather, I am back after a grueling 2-week odyssey around the southeastern United States in a rented PT Cruiser (mmm, lovely) with my husband and child. This trip, ridiculously classified for purposes of time off from my employment as “vacation,” was the farthest thing from a holiday that I could possibly imagine. It was work, and harder work than any regular old day job at that. We flew into Atlanta, and over the course of the next two weeks racked up 1800 miles on that piece of crap toy car as we drove to Charlotte, over to Raleigh, down to Savannah and south into Florida, then back up to south Georgia and, gasping for air, over the finish line back into the Budget parking lot at the Atlanta airport.

All of this delightful travel was to present the royal baby to his extended family for viewing. Initially I had hoped to rent a place at the beach for a week then do a little extra family visitation, but one party’s mother was miffed that we had not visited her home while we had made time for visits to Mexico, France and England over the last couple of years, and so our plans for any selfish use of the “vacation” were scrapped in order to placate and mollify. That said, that part of the trip was probably the nicest, as the mom in question went out of her way to make our visit as easy as possible by setting up an adorably decorated separate room for Eeyore complete with loads of toys and books, cooking us lots of Southern treats, and generally being a doting mother and grandmother. In fact, I have no complaints at all about the actual visits to family; it was great to see everyone and all our hosts were very generous and tried to make what was obviously a supremely unrelaxing adventure as easy and pleasant as possible.

Anyway, there’s no point in bitching about it too much, because it’s over and I don’t want to think of it as shitty when it wasn’t, really. It’s just a fact that travel with an-almost-one-year old is tough and we were stupid to have tried to pack in so many people and destinations. But now we’re home and tasked with trying to undo some of the bad habits we got into on the road, such as bringing Eeyore into bed with us when he’d wake up at 5:00 in the morning crying at the top of his well-developed little lungs.















There is one highlight from our trip, however, and that was meeting the most delightful and talented Broady. We Lilac-Architects drove the hour from my dad’s house in Florida to the very cute home she shares with her husband and 3-month old baby. She and her husband made a fabulous dinner, which I’m not sure how they managed with a tiny baby but they did, and we all had a great time getting to know each other (she confirmed this, so I feel comfortable speaking for her, too). Actually, it was kind of a bummer, since both R. and I really liked both her and her husband a lot, and it’s not that often you meet people you’d like to actually hang out with. In fact, the older I get it hardly seems to happen at all, so this was especially nice. Eeyore was also very interested in Broady’s baby, but mostly in just climbing over him or trying to poke him in the eye. I was a bit embarrassed by Eeyore’s Russian-tank behavior, but what could I do?















Meanwhile, I haven’t even seen or read the news in 2 weeks, so I can’t even comment on what’s going on in the world today (except, of course, (1) to wonder WTF Obama was doing chit chatting with an evangelical pastor and (2) exhorting him NOT to choose Kaine or Bayh as his running mate). I’m sure after I have a chance to regroup and rest up from my vacation I’ll find something to say…

Partisan politics.

Hey, McCain – grow up. Oh, wait, if you grew up any more you’d be dead. But really, this new round of attack ads is pathetic. I’m not the only one who has noticed that they don’t have anything good to say about McCain himself, just the same tired old horseshit of trying to paint one’s opponent in a ridiculously over-the-top, negative light. Well, it worked for Bush against Kerry, so I suppose it could work here, and wouldn’t that be great! We were so very, very lucky to get another 4 years of George Bush’s intelligent, thoughtful approach to leading our nation straight into the dumpster of history; I’d just love for us to do it again.

Because here are the risks of falling for McCain’s schtick, as I see them:

1. The Increasingly Supreme Court. I know all we over-educated folks realize the impact the president has on the makeup of the Supreme Court, and so we all get excited to think about the changes the president we support could make there. For conservatives, I guess that means an opportunity to drive a final nail in the coffin of affirmative action, “protect unborn children,” bolster the powers of law enforcement against that tiresome 4th Amendment, and make sure we all have our fair share of guns. Liberals see it as a necessity to protect the last vestiges of civil rights in this country. And then there are us left-leaning lawyers, who long to feel lifted up by the beauty of a well-written opinion that respects the human condition, instead of smothered by the contemptuous, arrogant trash that spews from the mouth of that vile troll, Scalia.

2. Endless War. Not only because of our presence in Iraq, but because of our bull-headed reliance on massive amounts of oil. As long as we continue to focus on that above all else and fail to switch the majority of our focus into the development of clean, renewable energy, we’ll remain beholden to the Middle East. And no, drilling off our coasts, a yearning first step toward the ultimate goal of plunging our pipeline-sized fingers into the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge, isn’t a long-term solution. Maybe if we embraced finding innovative solutions in this area, we could actually be at the forefront of something as a nation again besides distributing our brand of democracy to a world of unwilling recipients – since we’ve long since been lapped at manufacturing and generating technology and the kids smart enough to invent it.

3. All Women forced to Dress and Behave like Cindy McCain. Do you think once Roe vs. Wade is overturned that will be the end of it? Get out your tea dresses and vacuums, ladies, and yes, your pills, too, if you'd like.

4. Listening to Me Bitch for another 4 Years. Or less, if he kicks it early, but then we’d have President Romney so, no, I’ll still be here.

I know how ridiculously partisan I am, and I’m sure I piss off half of you, but I don’t know how to feel differently. I just can’t get my mind around a conservative perspective. We see things from such completely different angles; I know that sometimes we’re like exotic animals to each other, and not the cool, furry ones.

So I’ll leave you with some words of wisdom from your fearless leader, and tomorrow I’ll write about kittens or babies.

First pass.

Have you noticed how testy some in the media are getting about Barack Obama? The group that was once ready to anoint him now has its claws out. Two columnists provide bitter and petty examples: Maureen Dowd in the New York Times and Dana Milbank in the Washington Post.

Maureen Dowd’s contempt for the presumptive Democratic nominee seeps through her sentences like syrupy poison: when Obama told her that he didn’t know the protocol for giving gifts to world leaders outside of state visits, she said “he could be forgiven for not knowing the customs of a trip that had never taken place before — a mere presumptive nominee of one party being feted like a president.” When he told her that on his stops someone makes sure to buy a snow globe for one of his daughters and a keychain for the other, she writes, “‘You have a snow globe aide?’ I marveled.” You can almost see Ms. Dowd curled up on her cushion like a self-satisfied cat, lapping up her sour milk with her acid tongue.

Mr. Milbank writes equally as if Obama had asked someone other than him to the prom. In his column he gripes that Obama has already elected himself president, and one can easily envision the petulant moue of his lips as he observes that Obama is outdoing the current president in “ruffles and flourishes” when his motorcade is larger than Bush’s and he meets with the Pakistani prime minister while “Bush held quiet signing ceremonies in the White House.” What a picture of our self-effacing current leader; riding alone with Laura in a Buick, or benevolently signing God-knows-what sort of destructive legislation into law while the Democratic nominee tries to build the kind of relationships that he would need to be able to draw on if he were elected president. Why is it presumptuous for Obama to act as if he will be elected (when he is, after all, one of only two candidates) and that some good can be had from setting the stage for when he is? That just sounds like good planning to me.

I don’t understand the press’ need to build up people seemingly for the sole aim of having someone to tear down. What drives this constant back-and-forth? Are journalists trying to prove their relevance by telling politicians that they helped enable the climb, and they can just as quickly yank them back down the ladder? Or do they simply imagine that they are so much more clever than the rest of us that they can say anything and America will buy it? In trying to seem so big, they sound very small.

Mommy, Esq.

Last night R. and I were sitting on the couch; he was working on our house plans and I was staring mindlessly at the TV screen where Tori and Dean were acting out some not-so-important scene.

R.: “What’s wrong with you tonight, honey?”

Kate: “I don’t know. I’m so bored.”

R.: “Bored?”

Kate: “Yeah, I just feel like my life is in total limbo right now. I’m bored at work but can’t look for anything else because I’m pregnant. I have pregnancy mush brain so I can’t get myself to focus on what I could do to make life more interesting. I come home, play with Eeyore for awhile and put him to bed, then I sit on the couch and watch TV, and there isn’t even anything on, then I go to sleep and repeat.”

I know I’ve said this more than once now, but I can hardly describe the mind-bending nature of my life compared to what it used to be. Having a child is one of the most wonderful things I can imagine, but at the same time the toll it takes on individuality is severe. I know intellectually that this will change in the next few years, when our children are talking and walking and reading and exploring, but right now and for the next 2 or 3 years at least, I think this limited horizon is how it’s got to be.

But that’s too bleak for words, and I know that some of this whining is coming from a lack of energy and ambition on my part – when you only have 2 hours a day to relax, and you’re tired because you’re pregnant with yet another gift to the planet, motivating to do something constructive takes an inner strength that I’ve yet to tap into.

So I decided (as I have decided before and not followed through on) that I will write a column. I don’t have a place for this column to be published, but of course there’s always right here if nobody else wants it. For now, though, I need a goal, and my goal is to write a few pieces, and then submit them to some papers and magazines and see what happens.

Next issue: what the hell should this column be about? Last night I had a ridiculous dream in which Broady and her husband had a column in their city’s newspaper called “Mr. and Mrs. Hollywood,” or something like that that wasn’t ever really clear. They wrote about being parents in their town, and it was a huge success. I was so jealous in my dream, and when I woke up I thought maybe that was a good avenue for me. The more I think about it, though, I can’t see writing a column only about parenthood, because I’m so personally conflicted about it. I’m hardly going to write a blurb in the local rag about the best ice cream shops and playgrounds unless I’m saying something nasty about the other mommies who frequent them.

So what do you think about “Mommy, Esq.”? Does a title like that allow for pretty much any kind of topic, political, cultural or parental, or is it just dorky? Maybe I don’t need a title at all, just an angle. Maureen Dowd certainly isn’t titling her New York Times column “I Think I’m the Greatest,” even if each entry has that particular bent.

Political Tuesday.

MSNBC says this morning that Obama is in “serious talks” with the governor of Virginia, some guy named Tim Kaine, for the position of VP. Really? No, seriously, are you kidding me? All this talk of the various no-named men that Obama is purportedly considering is making me ill. Evan Bayh, Sam Nunn, and now this guy. Who are these people? OK, obviously I know who they are, but only barely and mainly because I lived in D.C. for so long. I can’t imagine that someone as savvy as Obama is going to pick some random milquetoast to balance out his ticket – please, no? We have to actually win this election. Maybe he thinks having someone non-descript will put us on even footing with the Republican Party, which is comprised of white lumps with interchangeable, doughy faces, but I don’t think that’s going to work.

If he feels like he needs a boring white dude, John Edwards would have been an excellent choice, but I expect he’s down for the count what with the affair/love child and all. As an aside, what’s with politicians and their need to cheat on their wives when they’re going through serious illness (see, e.g., Newt Gingrich and John Mccain)? I would have thought Edwards was above that, but apparently not. Anyway, another white dude I like very much, but who is apparently not beloved by many other than Democrats inside the Beltway, is Joe Biden. But I don’t think Obama will choose him, because Biden is edgy and sharp, and that probably won’t go down well with today’s voters.

And then there is Hillary Clinton. The blood between them has got to be pretty bad. I’d never want to see her again if I were he. But… in my opinion, the only way he’s going to win this election is if he chooses her. She is the only person out there who has the ability to instill a renewed excitement into his presidential bid, which I perceive as flagging in the run up to the general election. The polls show McCain and Obama as running very close, with some polls showing McCain ahead. That’s not a good place to be at this turning point in history – are we going to regain some respect in the world, maybe even find a way to play a role in future society, or are we going to continue the path into oblivion that the Cheney administration has started us down? Hillary Clinton is the only person I see that can fill in Obama’s gaps and get us over the hurdle; she can bring the votes we need. The media seems to disagree with me, however, but as we’ve learned they are a pretty clueless group, so who gives a good goddamn what they say.

So anyway, that’s how I see it; it’s that black and white. Some of us see the path forward through being citizens of the world, and others want to live in 1950’s suburban America. That retro dream can’t cut it long term, though – the rest of the world is moving past us, and we’re not in a position to turn so inward-facing that we can exist on our own. It sure would be nice if we could make the leap forward now instead of inflicting God knows how much more damage on this country before simply annihilating its relevance in the world.

Vacation as a career?

This morning on NPR there was a story that referenced the Commodities Futures Trading Commission, with respect to its determination of whether speculators had had any effect on the increasing price of oil. It seems odd to me now, but I worked at the CFTC the summer after my second year of law school; in the Division of Enforcement. I researched the law, wrote memos, and tried to befriend the real lawyers who worked there. But what sticks with me most about the experience is… how I barely remember it. I can conjure up a couple of blurry ovals with blonde or brown hair for the people I worked with, maybe a vague idea of the room, but I sure as hell can’t remember anything about the work I did. And the truth is, that applies to a lot of work I did before about my 3rd or 4th year of practicing law. In addition to the CFTC, during law school I worked in the U.S. Trade Representative’s Office, the U.S. Copyright Office, and interned for a D.C. judge. After law school I worked for a large D.C. firm doing M&A and securities work. I know I did a lot of work in those places, and that my employers were quite satisfied with my performance. So why is the substance of the work I did in those places so murky to me? It’s embarrassing when I think about it – does my brain have a higher proportion of Swiss cheese than most? I wonder if this has anything to do with why I’m not farther ahead in my career, even though realistically I know there are other, more important reasons why I’m kind of languishing right now.

This morning I was glancing through one of those silly rags that end up on lawyer’s desks: Super Lawyers. There were several profiles of successful women attorneys, each general counsel of a large company: TBS, Barnes and Noble, and Match.com. I read the articles, and these women are clearly hard chargers. The articles made my stomach knot up and sink; I’m not like those women. I can’t even imagine sacrificing my life outside of work for the pursuit of interesting work and power, particularly now that I have a child. I wonder what it feels like inside to feel differently; to experience your job as so personally rewarding as to outrank being home for dinner with your husband and kids on a regular basis? I don’t feel guilty about my personal bent, even if I do have a $100,000 education that was presumably earned so I could rise to the top of something, but I do covet… well, the international travel. If I think about it, that’s actually the crux of it: it bothers me sometimes that I have such a “middle America” kind of job, with no opportunity to experience the world. As much as I disliked working for firms, I sure did like waiting in the SAS business class lounge at Heathrow for my flight to Stockholm (except that time I forgot my passport and had to go all the way back to my house to get it, thus missing my plane and my meeting), having dinner on a snowy night in the vaulted basement of a restaurant owned by the Swedish Academy, strolling through the Christmas markets…

God, if I’m honest, it appears it’s indulging in the hotels, restaurants and city life of Europe on OPM that I like more than working. Maybe I should be in the legal department of some groovy hotel chain, except I don’t relish legal questions of what to do with the dead body in room 514.

Hi.

I’m still here, continuing to exist outside of Blog World. Let’s see, what’s been happening around here since we last chatted? Well, as you know, my exceedingly virile young husband has knocked me up yet again and I’ve been getting acclimated to all that. So far, the upside has been that I haven’t been nearly as nauseated as last time, and that my boobs are finally perky again after that whole post-baby bummer where I learned about the havoc that having a baby wreaks on your body. Total frigging destruction; at least when you’re my age.

The other thing is that with little Esmerelda on the way, there is simply no way we can stay in our house. That is, of course, an exaggeration brought on by the greedy, entitled American way of thinking that says we need to occupy as much space on the planet as we possibly can – god forbid the kids should just share a room and guests can sleep on the couch (or just not stay with us). But no, I feel the need to thump my chest and go on about how 2 professionals in their thirties should be able to give more to their kids (and by kids, I mean themselves) than a 2 bedroom, 1 bath little bungalow.

So… we’ve been looking at houses in our neighborhood, which is where we want to stay, and there is pretty much sweet FA available. There is nothing in our price range that really suits our needs, which includes 3 bedrooms on one floor (!), so we’ve decided to redo our own house. This should suck pretty badly when we’re living in some corporate apartment when I give birth to little Hermione, but we would hopefully at least be back in the house during my maternity leave. We’ve been kind of opposed to the “pop-top” thing in principle, because so many people do it in Denver and it usually looks like complete shit. Nobody seems to be capable of integrating a new story into the whole, so it always looks like some kind of cheap, crummy afterthought, like shoes from DSW.

What with R. being an awesome modern architect and all, he’s already started thinking of potential ideas. We both really like stone, so one idea is to integrate the first and second floors by covering the part of the front of the house that recedes (on the left side) with pale stone all the way up.

We would paint the brick a similar, putty-esque color, and then the rest of the top floor would probably be wood of some sort (also light-colored) to contrast with the hard surfaces of stone and brick. Loads of cool windows, something interesting with the roof, and something different about the shapes of the second story so it’s not just this massive block sitting on the site. I’ll leave that part to the architect, but neither of us will be glad to wave bye-bye to that queer, merry roof we have now and that awning thingy over the front door. When you look at the base of the house, it’s actually quite a pleasant shape to start with.

Inside, we just want to add 3 bedrooms and 2 baths upstairs, and hopefully redo the kitchen. I’m not sure how much our budget will allow us to do, but even adding the top floor will be pretty nice, I think. I’m fantasizing about a fabulous bathroom with a huge tub I can soak in and drink wine and read novels.

Meanwhile, here are a couple of pictures from Eeyore's first trip to California a couple of weeks ago:

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.