Kiddo is awesome, and super smart for a fifteen-month old. We were talking during lunch, and he told me that, “Hmmm. Dah!” I know! I was shocked, too. Love that kid.

I took a bunch of pictures, but most of them were blurry due to his constant movement. He is one busy guy – who can blame him when there are straws and napkins and pieces of french fry everywhere? But there is this one of my cousin, kiddo, and me, and it makes me happy even though I look goofy.

Also, today someone asked if we’re sisters, which is funny because we never, ever looked anything alike. But, after thirty-five years I think the Flax DNA has finally taken over.

Oh, and of course with it being Misbehaving Tuesday and all, I had to wear Misbehaving shoes. Sometimes misbehaving just comes down to the shoes – a cute pair of shoes always make me feel a little, oh, let’s just say sassier, and every time I look down they serve as a reminder that even when I am doing things like having brunch and doing laundry, misbehaving is just a step way and mischief is always afoot (ha). The ones I wore today are the ultimate misbehaving shoes; in fact, it says “misbehave” right on the box.

The best thing about this, though, was that my uncle left my mom as the contact person for the telegram people but didn’t tell her about it, nor did he explain to the telegram people that “Fred” is his sister. So, an hour before the party she got a phone call that went like this:

“Hi, can I speak to Fred?”
“This is Fred.”
“No, I need to speak to Fred.”
“This IS Fred.”
“I’m calling for Fred. Can I speak to Fred?”
“THIS IS FRED.”
“Oh. This is the chicken.”
“Wait, WHO is this?”
“The chicken.”

Other good things happened, too. For the first time in quite a few years, I had the opportunity to be in a room with both of my parents at the same time.

I might look a bit like my dad.

But better than that, it was also the first time ever that my parents and their partners were in the same room. Not only did it go well, but my mom’s gentleman and my dad are talking about a trip to Palm Beach for race car school, during which, back at home, my mom and Sandy can go shopping. (Scott later pointed out the contrast between our families. In his family, divorces involve restraining orders, mysterious pee stains, and hacked facebook accounts. In my family, we plan trips.)

I also got to hang out at a table with my dad’s mother and my mom’s father, who at 88 and just a few weeks shy of 94 respectively, make me grateful for my DNA.

Oh, but wait. I haven’t even gotten to the food.

Usually, if you tell a chef that you want to have a dinner for fifteen that includes a vegan birthday girl, a few vegetarians, and a bunch of omnivores, you get a big eye roll, and the non-meat dishes are all plates of roasted vegetables. Not that there is anything wrong with a plate of roasted vegetables, but the veggie dishes are often an afterthought. Fortunately for me, Chef Chad at City Cafe took this as a challenge, and told Scott he would make all of the appetizers vegan, then have a bunch of different options for the entree. During the cocktail hour, there were chips and lots of fresh salsas which were wonderful, and pita bread and caponata. It was all lovely and I thought he did a great job. Then we went upstairs for the meal and the first REAL appetizer came out: a watermelon salad with greens and radishes with a balsamic reduction. I have never had anything like it, and it was one of the most delicious things I’ve ever eaten.

Watermelon Salad. Or, to get all Bawlamer about it, "Wuddermelon Sald."

Then the steamed edamame came out. Then the stuffed radicchio with beets, raspberries, and mandarin oranges. Then the vegetable tempura. THEN the entrees. It was, in a word, spectacular. I expected good food, but was surprised and delighted by an inventive and inspired menu that made everyone happy.

Dessert was a huge freaking carrot cake (plus bonus cupcakes!) brought in from One World Cafe. Thankfully, we were able to send our guests off with lots of cake, so only six or seven pieces made it back to my refrigerator, and yes, as a matter of fact, we have eaten four pieces of cake since getting home last night. Is that a problem?

A happy birthday, indeed, and still two more days to go until the actual, big day!

Everyone had a lovely time. I believe this is largely due to my seating chart. I went all Emily Post and seated couples separately, alternating men and women. And look! Look at the happy people! Happy birthday to me!

The cat who recently passed on was my first cat friend, and a great guy. I picked his name -G.R. Van Loon- out of the phone book. G.R. was the only cat I have ever known who actually said “meow.” He was a fighter and a lover; he beat the crap out of our dog, who outweighed him by 35 pounds, but was also a very good friend during some tough times. After almost nineteen years, I will miss knowing he is around.

The former resident of Scott's mom's new house is a painter, and she painted floral borders on nearly every wall of the house. And the trash cans.

Moving on seems to be on the wind lately. Maybe it’s just the Spring, but it feels like the world has suddenly shifted on its axis and sped up. It is also disconcerting not to be the one making the big changes. Usually that is my domain, moving, changing jobs, changing focus; big sweeping life changes all at once are my specialty. Yet, here I am, in the same house for just about three years, with no plans to move, change jobs, or do anything more dramatic than have a photoshoot at Atomic Cheesecake. My changes lately have been more subtle.

I unpacked Scott’s mom’s kitchen today. In five hours I had the whole kitchen unpacked and organized, and that included a trip back to the old house to pack up the last few cabinets, and stopping for lunch (Subway, the official lunch of unpacking). I ROCK at unpacking kitchens. It has been suggested that with my twenty-four moves as background I should do this professionally, and it is not a bad idea. I’ll see how things go when I unpack my mom’s new place in a couple of months, and maybe tuck the idea away for another source of income.

(By far the most trying kitchen unpacking experience was the move from Illinois to Silver Spring. When we moved, we knew we would be downsizing considerably. We didn’t know how much since we wouldn’t be looking for permanent housing until we arrived in DC, so we got rid of about half of our kitchen stuff. We downsized from a 16′ x 22′ kitchen complete with center island and pantry, to a 7′ x 10′ kitchen with six cabinets and three drawers. It took me three days to unpack it, and re-pack everything that had to go because it wouldn’t fit. I cried a lot. Not because of getting rid of stuff, but because… well, if you’ve moved enough, you know what I mean.)

I am thoroughly wiped out in that special way that only family events can wipe me out, but after flipping through the pictures from the weekend I have a renewed appreciation for the really freaking amazing genetics bestowed upon me.

My mom was celebrating a big birthday, which for her privacy I will not disclose. But, let’s say it rhymes with “licks knee,” and leave it at that.

So, here is my licks-knee year old mom -seriously, licks-knee years old- delighted by one of her many gifts, a birding scope.

She liked the clothing presents, too, so much that she put on the scarf and skirt over her clothes and did a little dance.

I spent Sunday night with the other bestower of amazing genetics, my dad’s mother. It turns out to be a mixed blessing. She may be the only person I have ever known who is even less photogenic than I am, a trait I no doubt inherited from her.

My grandmom also celebrated a birthday last week, her 88th. I can disclose the heck out of her age – she does not read my blog.

So here we are. Me, and my grandmother who is 88. 88! And this is a bad picture of her. At 88!

My dad came down to Baltimore for Passover and brought with him my mom’s pen and ink drawings, which have been living in his basement since he and my mom separated. My mom drew these before I was born -only one is dated, 1972- and I can remember where they were hanging in most of the six dwellings I shared with my parents growing up.

I spent a pretty big chunk of my early childhood staring at these. I was a weird, spacey kid. I could occupy myself for hours staring at a picture or a wall and having a long conversation with myself about it. Of course, I am still this way, however I have learned not to have the conversations out loud because this freaks out other people.

It is a thrill to see these again, after not seeing them for probably twenty years. They literally shaped the way I see the world.

Here they are up close and personal.

I do not know where this room is, but I remember some of the objects in it turning up around the house(s).

Rosalie, our basset hound of old.

A guy with a kid. I always thought the guy looked like my uncle Joel, but I know it isn’t him.

Farm.

Skeleton kids in Appalachia.

Lookout! Penguins!

The only downside to having these is that I knew once I asked for something from my father’s basement, I would get extra bonus things to throw out. The extra bonus things were framed, yellowing copies of some of my columns for the Daily Collegian (which included the single worst picture ever taken of me); the sign-in board for my Bat Mitzvah (kindling); and what my father described as “some really horrible self-portrait that you did. It definitely was NOT your mother’s.” I could not imagine what the self-portrait might be, because I have always known that I have no artistic ability and have never tried to prove otherwise. Turns out it was my mom’s artwork. I just happened to be really ugly at the time she drew it.

2009: Year of the Foot
First chakra issues abounded. There were money issues of increasing obnoxiousness all year, and expensive problems in the house. Tribe was out of whack, too: Scott’s father moved into a nursing home, and his brother divorced, and our relationship had lots of uncomfortable lows and terrific highs, instead of its usual even keel. My father didn’t speak to me for five months, and working with my mother became increasingly stressful.

On the positive first chakra side, this was the year that Baltimore really felt like home. It has always felt like home to me, but this year I felt the roots; now it is a place where I often run into people I know, and I don’t mind it a bit. The studios feel like more of a community to me now that I am teaching there. I see familiar faces almost every day. Physically, I rediscovered the joy of yin, femininity, and toenail polish, and the enduring thrall and empowerment of a fabulous pair of heels.

That said, the year in review:

Accomplishments

• became a yoga teacher
• wrote consistently for the first time since college
• wrote poetry for the first time since college
• finished at least four short stories
• applied, and got into graduate school
• blogged consistently about things no one cares about
• did not move or change jobs!
• took classes 2-4 for a web design certificate
• became the PR director for the Maryland Writers’ Association
• got stronger and more fit

Highlights

• iPhone
• read the entire Harry Potter series
• watched every episode of Buffy (thanks, Tanya!)
• CSA
• got a tattoo
• attended TEDxMidatlantic
• stopped drinking alcohol
• met my new baby cousin
• acquired some really fabulous shoes, like these and these and these and these and these, and these (which aren’t really shoes, but so what, they’re awesome).
• had lots and lots of moments absolutely mindblowing, heartbreaking euphoria

Lowlights

• that weird stress / mystery stomach thing that lasted for five months
• my hair looks weird in all of the pictures from the teacher training
• Scott’s father’s illness
• really lousy birthday

And for 2010…

Here is what is going to happen, in the abstract:

• love and be loved passionately
• give generously and receive abundance
• carry with me the mindblowing, heartbreaking euphoria and excitement about life from the past year, only more, more, more
• become smarter and sharper as I hone my craft
• see more of the good will in the world
• have a body that is increasingly healthy and strong
• joy love joy

And here is what is on deck for 2010, in the concrete:

• finish the 200 and 500 hour trainings (still need to write the paper for the 200)
• finish the web design certificate
• complete at least two graduate classes
• financial self-sufficience, by fulfilling means
• learn a crazy new physical skill – trapeze, acro-yoga, something like that
• travel solo at least once
• get to a beach
• wear sandals whenever possible

Yes! So, hi 2010. I’m ready for what’s next. More, more, more.

Anyway:

1. Christmas Eve, we went to the “contemporary” service at Scott’s parents’ church. This was all fine, until the dancers came out. It was near the end of the service, I was hot, cranky, and uncomfortable, and I nearly had an ice palace moment. (There is no way for me to explain why, but to this day, the  ice palace at the St. Paul winter carnival is still one of the funniest things I have seen in my life. There is nothing intrinsically humorous about it, but the night that Scott and I went to see it, I laughed so hard that Scott had to hold me up, and tears froze to my face. And no, I was not stoned.) I absolutely, positively, most definitely did not look up from the program at the intrinsically un-funny dancers for a full five minutes. It was the only way to keep from embarrassing myself and appalling those around me.

2. Scott’s brother was experiencing his first Christmas as a divorcee, and spent two days thoroughly obsessed with firewood. Jokes about him playing with his wood abounded.

3. The day after Christmas, at my grandmother’s apartment, my father got sick, collapsed, and spent several hours in the emergency room. It was one of the most terrifying moments of my life, although I think he may not have been terrified, as he was unconscious. Thankfully he was fine, just dehydrated and recovering from a virus. Also, my grandmother told Scott that he is fat. He has been to the gym every day since.

4. I ate a lot, didn’t have a drop of alcohol, but suddenly I really want a cigarette every couple of days. Where did that come from?

2. I keep getting these reminders to ask for what I want, so I have been doing some asking lately, lots actually, about money, career, and all sorts of other stuff. Even Rumi says so:

The breeze at dawn has secrets to tell you.
Don’t go back to sleep.

You must ask for what you really want.
Don’t go back to sleep.

People are going back and forth across the doorsill
where the two worlds touch.

The door is round and open.
Don’t go back to sleep.

When I was looking for work after we moved back to Maryland in 2005, I remember my criteria: doesn’t compromise my ethics, and doesn’t require pantyhose. Behold, two years at Pangea, a vegan store where the dress code was, “Don’t wear a t-shirt that says ‘fuck you’ or anything if you’re out dealing with customers.” That was what Phil and Shari told me during my interview. They also asked me why I wanted to work there, but not in the normal job interview way. It was more, “What the hell is wrong with you that you want to work here?” Sigh. The universe really outdid itself on that one. If it weren’t so damn far away, I would still be working there, listening to Christmastime in Hell.

This time: lucrative, fulfilling, allows me to keep up with my other interests, and permits me to dress like a freak if I so choose.

3. Oh my god, Christmas. I am over it. As a kid I thought it would be neat to celebrate Christmas because it was such a big deal, and the presents were so much better. My friends would take home these big hauls of clothes and goodies and electronics, all the while envying my eight nights of presents, as if it were eight nights the scale of Christmas. The reality was that for me and most of my ilk, there was a big gift on the first night (like a sweater) and then seven nights of key chains and gelt. Then, on Christmas, when all my friends were getting new wardrobes and boom boxes, I was sitting around in sweatpants eating chinese food and watching rented movies with my parents.

I’ve been through at least a solid ten or eleven years of Christmas now, and with each year I miss Jewish Christmas more and more. Christmas feels weird to me. It is not my holiday, it doesn’t have any significance for me, and lately it seems like a big, expensive, consumerist pain in the butt. Depressing, too, this year, with everything going on in Scott’s family. We will be spending part of Christmas day visiting Scott’s father in the nursing home, which is depressing for us, but geometrically, exponentially, infinitely more depressing for Scott’s father, who is sixty-seven and can’t ever go home again. Actually, it is not depressing. It is horrifying.

So, I keep doing this, because it is important to Scott’s family, and I am a good person, and it is the right thing to do, and I am a supportive partner, and it is just one day out of the year for crying out loud, and I couldn’t live with myself otherwise, and it is my choice, and once everyone gets together we DO have a good time. And, I get sweaters. Still, part of me really wants to be at home celebrating my way, eating lo mein and watching one Woody Allen movie after another. (I would pick: Love and Death, Sleeper, Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Sex But Were Afraid to Ask, Deconstructing Harry, and Annie Hall.)

Also, I may have just spent an hour and a half watching clips of Woody Allen movies.

*One of those cybex things. Five years of consistent gym going and I had no idea what those were called until I looked it up just a moment ago.

Still, the day was productive. I taught a class, picked up some Matthew’s Pizza for my dad and Sandy, ran a couple of other errands, did some work, made dinner, made a cake and a pie for tomorrow night’s Flaxfest, and then suddenly it was eight o’clock. This is what alarms me about going back to work away from my house full time. How the hell is all of this shit going to get done, not to mention writing, writers’ association stuff, teaching, a yoga practice for myself, and maybe, possibly, the 500 hour training, and/or grad school one day? I had the same worry when I went back to work full time after we moved back from the midwest, but there was a lot less that I wanted to do then.

I was feeling a little overwhelmed by it all, and took a break for a very long, very hot shower. In the shower, I realized two things: 1) with my hair this short I could become a night shower person for the first time in my adult life, and 2) as I was lamenting all of the things that might need to be put on hold, I heard the voice, clear as water, that said “DON’T WAIT. NOW NOW NOW.”

In other news, vanity. I bought the reading glasses, in anticipation of much, much reading during the weeks of Christmas and New Years. Here they are, and I should note that this picture was taken with my hair all whacked out from teaching, no makeup, and at a point at which I was not entirely certain when I had last showered, and also I may have been wearing the same clothes for three days in a row. (My house is cold. Sometimes this happens in winter – find something super warm and stick with it.) So, it turns out that my vanity is such that I expect people to care what I think about day to day, and also about my shoes and reading glasses, but not so great that I would, for example, wait until after I wasn’t disgusting to take a picture of myself for all the internet to see. I should add, this was the picture I snapped just before I completely cracked myself up at how ridiculous I looked taking pictures of myself staring down my nose through reading glasses, like I was about to administer some form of discipline. Now, now, now, boys and girls, Miss Lauren will NOT be disobeyed.

Behold, the Pi plate.

Most of my frolic was in the days leading up to Thanksgiving, dancing like a doofus around my kitchen while baking. The soundtrack included, but was not limited to: They Might Be Giants, The Beatles, Elvis Costello (which rapidly became too depressing), and The Dead Milkmen. George Carlin had a bit about how no one gets laid on Thanksgiving (among other impediments, the coats are on the bed), and after all of that pie… well, we do what we can.

Food

By 1:30 on Thanksgiving, all the food was prepped and ready to go in the oven, the house and the people were clean, and I had even gotten in a two hour morning yoga class (taught by Baltimore’s own burlesque superhero, Trixie Little). Oh yes, we’re very good at this. It was the usual menu: Tofurky, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, green bean casserole, stuffing (compliments of my mom), cranberry sauce, and gravy, plus a late addition, home made cole slaw. Last year, the omnivores brought turkey with them to have with all of the sides, but not this year. I consider that high praise.

The Lemontrees

So, look, here we are about to have as civilized a meal as is possible with my mom’s family. There is a rhythm to it, which is nice to recognize after all of those years of not having family dinners. We start passing the food, then Pete makes a production of giving everyone cash. Once we’re all eating, Pete complains about the price of something, then the conversation continues with my uncle trying to convince him to do something (move, buy a TV, sell a car, etc.) while I sit and riff on Pete’s initial complaint, at a volume only Scott and my mom can hear. This year it was the price of clams at Cross Street Market. Then Pete and Charles dismiss each other, and finish the meal making identical disgusting noises. Periodically, other conversations will start, which are always abruptly terminated by Pete cutting in with a story about the price of clams, importing zebras during the war, or Something That Has Been Ruined by Black People.

Then the ladies wash the dishes. The dogs bark. My cousin and my mom marvel at the organization of my kitchen. (“The lid to that container is on the top shelf in the second basket from the left. And that container? First basket on the right.”) And we have dessert: pumpkin pie and chocolate chip pumpkin cake, plus cookies, just in case.

Footwear

Pinky pinky.

Sadly, the shoes that I fussed over ordering for two weeks turned out to be both silly looking and leather. So, they have been returned, and in their place, I’m expecting the arrival of two pairs of fuzzy lined flats in the next few days. Happily, it was sixty-four degrees here today, but the weather is supposed to change this week, and it appears that my newly extended sandal wearing season may be cut short by a few days. But, I did enjoy the warmth today, and even changed over from my usual red polish to shiny pink, in honor of… something or other. Feet. November. Pie.

Fiction

My grad school application is DONE and submitted, and it is weird. As my writing sample was coming off the printer last week, I realized that it is one really odd set of work, and other than a few common themes (infidelity, shoes, cars) most of the pieces don’t even sound like they were written by the same person, which is great if they’re good, but lousy if they suck. The cool thing is that after spending four solid months getting my writerly shit together for a portfolio, now that it is done, I am absolutely fine with the idea that I may not be accepted. It turns out that in the process of getting everything together, I found most of what I was looking for in a grad program, anyway. It will be marvelous if I get in, and a neutral event if I do not. In a way, I am just as curious to see what happens to my writing if I don’t get in, as if I do.

Other Fixations: Scrabble

It is both fancy AND schmancy.

I have been jonesing for a good game of Scrabble for weeks. It is one of my things. I don’t think I have played since we moved here, and I miss it. Last night I received an early Hannukah present of the fancy new portable, deluxe edition, and Scott and I had a nice game. Games with him are pleasant, but Scrabble really isn’t his thing, and I need to find some one who is slightly more ridiculous about it than I am. I am good (highlight of the evening was dropping one letter for 38 points. Lowlight was having “Quinoa” with no place to put it.), but it’s time to find some one I will be hard pressed to beat until I have memorized the two-letter word list again. So: crazy Scrabble partner. Add it to the list of people I am inviting in to festoon my life with nerd garland and mirth.