Adrift at The End of December

• Geez, I had a curl in the middle of my forehead when I wrote that last post, eh? Now, with a glass of red wine and Mendelssohn's octet for strings on the stereo, I'm not so horrid.


• I saw Across the Universe at the movie palace the other night and here's my review: Better than Hairspray.


• I took 1 and 2 to see Enchanted this morning. (Who the heck knew there was such a thing as a 10 a.m. Sunday matinee??? -must've been the oddest movie-going experience ever.) Here's my review: Better than I thought it would be.


• Actually, I thought Enchanted was a superb example of narrative a la mode: slip directly from parody into the the form being parodied. It was like The Daily Show for 8- to 12-year-old girls.


• Don't get me wrong: I like The Daily Show. But at its heart, it is Establishment.


• The rain, the rain.


• We went to the art museum today and managed to look at some things between asking the girls not to play combat hide-and-seek around the statuary pedestals. I liked "The Watering Pond at Marly with Hoarfrost" by Alfred Sisley, for its precise capturing of winter afternoon light and shade. I couldn't find that image, but here's his "Hoarfrost, Saint Martin's Summer," with what I think is morning light.

I Like You, Really I Do

M- wants to have a poker night this Friday. "Invite all your friends," he says.

Some days I just don't have any friends. At least not any with whom I would enjoy a convivial evening of drunken gambling, if we're talking about my sanctioned friends, as in: wives of his friends. (Note: these are women I like very much between the hours of 8 am and 8 pm.) Most of my friends are friends only in my imagination, which is to say, if I knew them better, we probably wouldn't be friends, by mutual decision.

Really-- I am a friendly person, not at all overtly misanthropic. People seem to like me. I don't know why I'm feeling so grouchy about this concept of "friends" right now.


I can barely touch my own self
How can I touch someone else?
I am just an advertisement
for a version of myself.

-"Angels," David Byrne, David Byrne

Now I'll have to read the darn book.

I still can't believe I actually bought these earrings. Wore them, too. Aren't they great?

The Blues

This Saturday is my birthday. I'm so tired of thinking about my life, I have nothing left to write.

Here's a rhetorical question: What the hell is up with my child?

Scene: Mid-afternoon. Child 2 walks up the stairs, making up a cheery little 4-note tune as she goes, unaware that I can hear her. The words:

I'm going upstairs and when I get to the top
that's when I say
My dad is always right and I'm always wrong
My dad is always right and I'm always wrong
My mom is always right
My big sister is always right
And I'm always wrong
Everybody is always right and I'm always wrong


I shouldn't have, but I ran into her room and asked, almost laughing, "What are you saying?" She looked at me guiltily, I think--it was as if an adult were staring out of a 4-year-old's eyes--and tried to pretend she thought I was talking about something else. I pressed her once and she became clearly annoyed, so I left.