Recently in Housewife Superhero Category

No one ever thinks of themselves as being unclean, do you think? I mean, I think it's like craziness. Those who are don't think that they are. And therefore you can never really know if you're dirty or crazy, or God forbid, both.

Unfortunately, as Mistress of the Mansion here, I've recently gotten some distressing clues about the state of our cleanliness. But instead of sweeping this information under the proverbial carpet, I thought I'd just come out and confess. Maybe sharing this will aid in getting me the help I apparently need.

So, last week for us was rife with celebration. We hosted a big fun holiday shindig Saturday night, dined in SF with visiting friends Sunday, and had an over-the-top 20-or-so course dinner at The French Laundry on Tuesday.

Wednesday, when I should've been holed up filling out my Betty Ford Center application, I was out schlepping the kids around somewhere. And when I unfolded what we refer to as the Silver Stroller--since anything even remotely gray is silver in Kate's charmed world--I pulled down the rickety worthless visor to found an uneaten yet terribly unappealing crepe--strawberry and Nutella, if you must know. One that'd we'd greedily ordered as an extra and which had been wedged in the visor since our jaunt to the local Farmer's Market uh, three days earlier. I ran it inside the house--disgustedly holding the edges of the paper plate by my fingertips like it was a live mouse--while Kate screamed after me for all the 'hood to hear, "What is that, Mama?"

Um... Ick!

One more reason to expedite our now Silver 'n Brown Stroller to live out the next few million years teetering atop a bunch of other abandoned crap at a dump. (Sorry, Al Gore!)

Later that very day, while preparing a sumptuous meal for my family, I reached into the cupboard for the lettuce spinner. When I opened it I nearly Edvard Munch screamed to see it already contained some lettuce. From the party on Saturday night! And what's more, it had also developed a noisome pale green liquid sloshing around in the bottom of the bowl.

How utterly charming.

As if these two incidents--in the same day, no less--weren't enough reason for me to call a producer from Oprah and give myself over as the subject on their next filthy housewives segment (a nice counterpoint to their always-riveting OCD hand washing shows), there's more.

So, in the winter sometimes ants come into the house. This is not unusual for these parts, and I'm not trying to defend myself here but I will say that the ants in Northern California are SUCH WIMPS. I mean, the first small smattering of rain sends them running inside frantic-like. They're all, "Oh, it's wet out there! Oh, it's chilly! We'd really be much happier trooping along in a creepy single file line around the grout in your bathtub, or swarming around that raisin your kid dropped in the front hall."

Don't get me wrong. We loathe, detest, and abhor the suckers. Mark wields his stink-trail killing can of lemon scented Pledge like he's Rambo with a 'roid rage, and undertakes what he maniacally calls a "bloody genocide" while I tend to the crying cowering children in the other room.

And, now that I've laid my secret ant shame bare, I'll go so far as to reveal that at its worst I'm plagued with nightmares that I'll come home some day and an ant will be sitting in his boxer shorts on our couch, drinking one of Mark's Firestone Double Barrel Ales and watching Bravo reality TV.

Such attitude they have! Such entitlement! And worst of all, such large families.

But, as I said, you can litter any home around here with the highest grade free-range organic Agent Orange and a few of those little suckers will still ferret their way indoors. So, at least I know that my filth is also that of my neighbors.

Until yesterday. I was changing Miss Paige. Had her up on the changing table and cooing some lovesick Mama blather into her sweet punum, and seconds after tearing open the diaper Velcro, what do I see marching dizzily across her bare butt cheek?

Well, I think you know.

After Mark and I lamented that this was about the most tragic thing that could befall our sweet cherub's innocent pudge, we resorted to epic overuse of the expression "ants in your pants," and have been delightedly accusing Paige of having them since. Using cute baby voices of course.

I've long contended that the elevator buttons at Target were some of the dirtiest places on earth. (Think of the cumulative effect of all those germ-infested nose-pickers who insist on pushing the buttons...) But after the events of this past week, I'm fearful that there's a considerable amount of filth much closer to home than I'd care to admit.

I collect brother-in-laws named John. I currently only have two, but my sister Ellen is single so there is a chance that I could add a third to my set some day.

My one brother-in-law John--the Coastie who's married to Mark's sis, Lori--he and I have a long-standing joke about the Miller's $30-spending-max holiday gift exchange. It goes back to when I wasn't yet married into the family, as he was. He delighted in taunting me year after year about whether or not I'd be on the gift exchange list. Then he'd dangle his inclusion in my face by saying "Neener neener neener!"

It was clearly a very mature joke, and likely not funny to anyone other than John and me, but isn't finding those perversely-amusing common grounds to laugh about when you're flying on tryptophan and bourbon what brings families closer together?

So anyway, now that I've made the grade and am officially and securely part of the gift exchange, I got an email from Mark's cousin Maggie's fiance Josh. (You following that?) Due to his engaged status he's in the mix this year (though frankly I think he was last year too and the Millers are growing a bit lax about the exclusivity of membership). He got Kate to buy for this year and wanted some ideas about what she might like.

Pondering what gift booty would delight Little Miss Kate made me realize the extent to which three-year-olds live in an altered LSD-trippy parallel universe. One where the most mundane everyday objects take on a fascinating sheen.

Like, we were at a toy store yesterday and amidst all the cool fun stuff and actual toys, Kate spotted a plastic placemat with pictures of something like goldfish on it. She woozily, adoringly clutched it to her chest like a diamond tennis bracelet from Tiffany.

"This placemat, Mama," she whispered with reverence. "I love this placemat. Can I please get it?" Then, realizing there were others with different designs she started yanking them off the rack with delirious glee. "Oh look they have more! There's this one? I love this too! I want all of them, Mama! Can I have all of them? Please?"

Invoking my well-honed powers of Resisting a Child's Desire to Buy Crap, I heard myself say, "If you really want one you can ask for it for Christmas." Then I thought what an absurd Christmas list item that is. Other kids want dolls, Legos, Thomas the Tank Engine. Kate wants a placemat. And she'd truly be BLISSED OUT to get it.

Before having kids I cracked up hearing that my friend Shelley's son slept with his beloved Wiggles video. As in, clutching the actual video in the box, not having it playing while he slept. Well, joke's on me when Kate spends a rainy winter night cuddled up with her stuffed dog Dottie and a placemat.

Kate's other Christmas list items are barely better. Somewhere along the line she suddenly decided that scarves were the coolest things EVER and spent the better part of a 75-degree day pleading with me as if her existence depended on it--and how could I be so cruel as to deny her?--"I want a scarf, Mama. A SCARF! I need one right now!" The small plastic bowl with a snap-top lid that a friend recently left at our house became another object of lustful desire. They'll be happy to know she had to hug it during several potty sessions. (I ran it through the dishwasher.) And truly I can't think of any gift she'd love more than a package of seeds--poppy seeds, flower seeds, any type really as long as they are little and plentiful. I'd even wager you could wrap up a dust bunny in a little box and Kate would ceremoniously carry it to her altar--I mean her play kitchen--with the intensity and loving care you'd reserve for a baby bird.

Anyway, I hope all these things are providing Josh not only some good gift ideas but also the realization that, as a man on the brink of marriage, the next big plunge into parenthood could result in becoming the owner and operator of a small person who you love madly madly madly but whose passions and interests you can rarely make a whit of sense of.

But hey, it keeps things lively around here.

As for Paige, she's also happily entrenched in her own trippy reality. Sadly we're past the stage where she'd wave her arms around, catch sight of one hand, then slowly turn it over and back in front of her eyes, examining it as if this brilliant device was something she'd never seen before and wasn't right there, attached to the end of her arm. God, Mark and I loved that.

If Paige was writing an online dating bio she'd add the fringe on the bottom of the couch to her list of interests. Despite whatever real toy she's given to wrangle with on the floor, she'll eventually roll herself over to the couch and flap one hand slowly through the tassley fringe with deep contentment.

And whenever I carry her in my front-pack and we walk under a tree, Paigey arches her whole body backwards to stare up at the leaves and the light and laugh and laugh and laugh. I mean, sure, leaves certainly are funny, but they're not quite the laugh riot Miss P makes them out to be.

All this fascination with the mundane has made me realize how much being a mother is like working a crowd of drug-addled concert-goers. Most of the time I'm in a Stadium Security role, just trying to coral the happy trippers, and make sure it all stays mellow and fun and no one loses an eye. But inevitably somewhere in the course of the day I'm more like a Rock Doctor triaging bad trippers in a tent, helping them get through fits over inanimate objects they're convinced have come to life to torture them. You know, managing a situation like: " This sock is hurting me!!! It hurrrrrts meeee! Bad sock!! BAAAAAD!!"

Oh sure. A bad trip like that? I'd say I take on one of those--sometimes as many as three--nearly every day.

And to think I don't even have a walkie talkie or a medical degree.

At 6:40 on Sunday morning when Paige babbled her wake-up call, Mark and I cracked our eyes open, smacked opened and closed our bone-dry mouths, and softly groaned as we remembered the day that stretched ahead of us. We were having a huge yard sale.

For all we knew, early birds were already prowling around our front porch with the hopes of finding some ignorantly-priced Noritake china. Having to lug everything out of the garage and around to the front yard seemed torture enough, then then Kate's tiny voice joined the chorus with Paige. "Mama! I woke up!"

My God, we also had children to tend to. And in the wake of a supremely fun party the night before--where Mike and Myra renewed their vows on their 15th anniversary and treated their friends to an exceptionally fabulous throw down--here we were, heads throbbing, lying tangled in our sheets like some suburban American version of Sid and Nancy.

Not pretty.

It's just more validation that my on-the-fly early morning nanny service would catch on like wildfire. If I could have picked up the phone for urgent back-up, I would've paid $100 an hour for childcare. Easily.

Anyway, at least I'd consumed a vat of Don's superb pinot the night before and had good reason for my state of disarray. Whereas this past Friday, I had no alcohol-related excuse for my behavior.

So Friday. When I arrive at Megan's house for mother's group, she's in her garage bent over two ride-on cars she's assembling for the twins and she mutters between clenched teeth that she's been in a fantastically crappy mood. It's such a gift that Megan A) admits to her foul mood but still throws a yard party worthy of the Smith & Hawken catalog, B) is the kind of friend who doesn't sugarcoat life when she's bedraggled, and C) manages to do her hair in cute braids despite it all. Megan is rarely off her game, and with three kids under three, no nanny, and a hubbie with a time-sucking job, I'd be enjoying the creature comforts of a sanatorium if I were her.

Anyway, aside from her admission of it, you'd never know the woman was crabby. But then in some weird transference that we tried to make sense of later, the bad mood somehow leeched over to me. There was either some fierce 'power of suggestion' energy out there, or maybe some as-yet-undead part of my childhood Catholicism urged me to take it on like some priest in an exorcism. More likely it was the exhaustion that'd caught up to me from waking-in-the-night children and not sleeping well with Mark out of town.

After lunch, with some help from Mary, who impressively coaxed naked Kate (long story) back into her clothes and even her car seat while I wrangled Paige, I drove home, nearly slumping over the steering wheel, hoping the day's excitement would warrant Little Miss Never Nap into even the smallest kip. I never sleep when the kids do, but since I caught Megan's mood like a bad cold and was generally haggard from the night before, I'd have gladly done a swan dive into bed.

No luck. Kate invoked reserve stores of energy and refused to even play quietly in her room. So when I staggered in to feign some active parenting, I was all over her suggestion that "you be the baby and I be the mommy."  This involved her even tucking me into her bed (bliss!). And the next thing I remember, Officer, I was fluttering my eyes open after having totally conked out. D'oh!

Thankfully the curtains were not on fire, Kate wasn't out on the sidewalk chatting with strangers, and Paige was still safely snoozing in her crib.

The rush of maternal negligence that surged through me went unnoticed by Kate who was tootling around in her room and came over to me saying, "You woke up now, Baby! You want some milk and a snack, Baby?"

And just as I was settling in to thinking "Okay, I dozed off for a bit here but everything's okay..." I remembered that I'd taken a sleeping Paige out the car earlier with the thought that I'd come back, grab my bag, and lock up. Which of course, I never did.

"Mommy?" I said to Kate, because God knows when she is Mommy and I am Baby I can never mistakenly call her Kate. (The house could be burning down and if I called her Kate she'd sit on the floor and scream, "My name is not Kate! I'm Snooooow Whiiiiiite!" And refuse to budge.) So I'm all, "Baby forgot something in the car. I'll be right back, Mommy."

I'd parked on the street, since our garage might as well be in the next town over. And from the second I set foot on the porch I notice I somehow managed to park with the two right wheels on the sidewalk. My God. Had I been sleep-driving? Then I walk around to the street-side door where Paigey's car seat is, and of course, it's open. Not wide open, mind you, but still. And on the front passenger seat? My bag with my wallet, iPhone, yadda yadda yadda. This may be okay in say, Bristol, Rhode Island. But this is Oakland, people. Thankfully--mercifully--it was all still there.

I mean, imagine if I had been drunk how ugly that scene would have been.

Not one to stew silently in my own shame, but to share it (see: this blog) I immediately call my friend Jennifer who lives next door. And she says brightly, "Hey I saw your great parking job!" Oy! Nothing like being beaten to the punch on my own self-flagellation.

But it really was an odd day. Thankfully, no hangover was associated with this not-drunk-but-acting-like it afternoon. I also didn't don a lampshade, call any old boyfriends, or snarf down a whole sleeve of Chips Ahoy cookies. (Not that I call old boyfriends these days, Mark...) Worst of all, Mary reported late yesterday that the Bad Mood Virus had somehow been passed on to her. I can only hope that its course of destruction ended there.

And thankfully, yesterday when I truly was hungover, my two sisters arrived to valiantly pitch in with the yard sale--merchandising items, setting prices on the fly, convincing people they needed our old crap, and collecting cash with the efficiency and security of a Swiss bank.

At the end of a long and exhausting day I looked at Kate and Paige across the dinner table and smiled thinking that they'll be there for each other for all the good times, and for all the hung-over yard sales.

I realized recently that my blog lacks an About Me section.

The problem is, my personal IT support technician/spouse is away on a business trip, so I'm unable to alter the site's, uh, complex architecture singlehandedly. (Besides, it makes Mark feel so needed when I let him do these things for me.)

While I await his return, here's my first take on how I might describe myself:

I'm a mother of two from Oakland, CA who hates mushrooms. My ears aren't pierced. Well, they were once, but those holes closed up decades ago. My mother died of pancreatic cancer. Women who've had natural childbirth are my heroes. I've never seen Star Wars. I've been a VP, toy reviewer, CNN producer, and state park employee. My favorite holiday is July 4th. I love surprises, resist change, and can't tolerate wimpyness. I adore old women. I've had migraines that have put my right eye out of commission for weeks at a time. I once ate a 24-course meal. I've never competed in the Olympics. I went to cooking school to become a pastry chef, then decided against it. I've chatted with Mick Jagger. I loved high school and was unimpressed with college. My father's name is Ferdinand. Altogether I've taken 13 years of French. I've never had a perm. I've lived in Rhode Island, Ohio, Massachusetts, D.C., New York, Georgia, California, France, and England. In a life riddled with happiness, motherhood has brought me supreme contentment. Some people think I have nice hands. I once spent a raucous night out with the White House Secret Service. Sometimes I want to eat my children. I don't know how to follow a football game. My husband spent the better part of his career at Sports Illustrated. If I were President, liking coconut-flavored rum wouldn't be uncool. I pronounce 'aunt' AHHHnt and 'apricot' with a short 'a.' Cats scare me. I have a terrible memory. The greatest compliment I've ever gotten is that my daughter Kate looks like me. I can dish it out but I can't take it. Math Game Day in fourth grade always gave me a stomachache. My father is afraid of heights and peach fuzz. A psychic once told me I was a famous ballerina in a past life. I skipped having a first marriage and got a brilliant trophy husband at age 37. I've never had braces. For a made-for-TV movie I once played a woman who choked while eating in a restaurant. Parades often make me cry with joy. If I had a hammer, I'd hammer in the morning. The love I have for my husband and daughters can best be described as rabid. I'm an obsessive yard saler and recovering packrat. My super powers are the ability to sleep anywhere and parallel parking. I'm the youngest of four girls. I disagree with the way the word 'segue' is spelled. I didn't make a million dollars before turning 30. I look dead in both yellow and light gray. I once stuck a pussy willow up my nose. Seeing a person carrying a box of hot pizza always delights me. I think people who put lines through their sevens are pretentious. If it's not too much to ask, I'd like a high school marching band to play at my funeral. I know how to say the following things in Polish: 'underwear,' 'Grandma,' 'ass,' and 'I'm going to throw up.' I'm a wannabe Jew. If it weren't for house cleaners, I'd get around to changing my sheets about as often as frat boys do. My best piece of financial advice is to pay for babysitting now instead of marriage counseling later. I'm an avid recycler. My greatest life's work has been ridding myself of any trace of a Rhode Island accent. It wasn't until my mother was gone and I had children of my own that I realized I'd inherited her brilliance for tackling tough laundry challenges. I can't be inside on sunny days. I felt betrayed my senior year of college when the hippies cut their hair short to get jobs at investment banks. I'm not even a little bit country. My last meal would include a Del's Lemonade.
 
How much room do they give you in those blog templates for the About Me section anyway?

Well, this will have to do for starters.

My sister Ellen rented a house in San Francisco for about six years before she went downstairs one day to find her house guest cutting into a huge avocado from the tree in her yard. Ellen was about to tell her they weren't edible, when her friend gushed, "You are so lucky to have these right here for the taking! I've been eating them all week. I think they're the best avocados I've ever had!"

Upon learning this Ellen was confused, delighted, and understandably annoyed with herself. Back when she'd first moved in, a neighbor, or the landlord--it was hard to remember exactly who--mentioned something about the avocados not being good. At least she thought they had.

And of course, in all her years living there, she never thought to try one.  

As mean as it is to admit, I've always found that story hilarious. Just so funny that she was overlooking something so good that was right there under her nose.

Well, karma's a bitch. It seems like lately I've had my own slew of small missed opportunities. So I guess Ellen can have the last laugh.

The other day in a fit of must-feed-the-family-but-cannot-summon-energy-to-cook, I decided to try out a somewhat dumpy looking Thai restaurant that's just two blocks away for take-out. Mark picked it up and said the place was packed. And when we started eating we saw why. Great chicken satay. Delicious pad thai. And cheap!

How maddening. The place could not be closer to our house. So we've missed out on three years of cheap-easy-yummy Thai food. Argh.

Then when my frienda Brenda arrived dirty and tired from a long road trip on Thursday, I ushered her into the Pink Bathroom, explaining that for our first couple years in the house we disparaged its shower. The stall seemed small. Mark found the shower head low. But then for some reason I used it one day, and realized that the water pressure and even the heat was far better than the shower we exclusively used.

I guess the only other time I'd used the now-favorite shower was when I was in labor with Kate. Probably not the best time to make a judgment call on something. Now, of course, I won't set foot in the White Bathroom. I guess I'm somewhat of an extremist. For me things are either pink or white.

Back when I first moved to San Francisco I wrote a story for the free weekly paper about dream analysis, and interviewed a bunch of herbal-tea quaffing, poncho-wearing Marin hippie dream experts. One woman asked me about any recurring dreams I've had. There was the UFO abduction in the driveway of my childhood home dream. (Hey, don't laugh.) But I haven't had that one since I was a kid. The one I was having at the time of the interview was that after a long time living in a particular house I'd realize that there was another room, or a whole wing even, that I'd never been to.

And of course, it was decked out and fabulous or packed with young hot studs and fifty-dollar bills. Well, not really the money and men part so much. But it was distressing nonetheless since these unknown-about parts of my dreamworld houses sent me into repetitive head-thumping V8 moments. Why oh why hadn't I ever just opened that door?

The hippie dream lady told me it meant that I was looking for new unrealized things in my life; paths not yet explored. And that I was lazy about not opening doors that were right there in front of me.

I've got to think that there's some of that being played out in my world right now. I mean, the shower, the Thai place, and then the other day I go downstairs to dig up some of Kate's old clothes for Paige and find a trove of forgotten but adorable outfits--many of them Oilily or French designer baby duds that my sister Judy manages to send our way as often as the Sunday paper. Of course, half of them were either already too small for chubby Paige, would fit her for about a week more, or would have been perfect for this past summer. Drat.

Of course I can't bear to have her not wear them, so the next time we go anywhere I'll have to do several costume changes for Paige, like she's a mini Cher in concert. (I'll likely skip the wigs and make-up.)  It'll be exhausting, but oh so worth it to get one more wearing out of these crazy cute little numbers.

And frankly, the Paige clothing is one thing. But we're getting ready for a yard sale. (Yes, Mr. and Mrs. Packrat are actually planning for a public purge. I mean, Bravo should be sending Dr. Phil and a camera crew over here because the pain, anguish, and eventual victory of the whole endeavor will no doubt make for brilliant reality TV.) So, here I am last week spelunking though toys, baby gear, clothing--you name it--and dumping it into the yard sale pile.

Maternity clothes are difficult to let go of only due to my lingering desire to have another baby. I made it doable by thinking I'll just buy all new stuff if I ever need to. Besides, how sad can you get about letting go of immense mumu-like shirts and elastic waistband pants? Even if you did pay a king's ransom for them.

And in the midst of digging with both arms like a dog through one of those huge plastic tubs, I unearth a pocket of non-maternity duds. And I see my jeans. My cute pre-preg Lucky jeans, some dark DKNY jeans I think I bought mere moments before the pregnancy pee stick turned positive, and even my faithful faded old Levi's. In a fit of sentimental fashion fervor I step out of the skirt I'm wearing and right there in the basement start trying on my pre-Paige clothes.

And the heartbreaking mind-blowing thing is, they all fit. No wrenching the zipper up or stretching them over my thighs. No thinking I can wear a long shirt cape-like over my ass to conceal it. These clothes all legitimately fit like, well, like they were mine.

Joy!

But then I also find some nice linen shorts, a bunch of little skirts, and a navy silk shirt with white polka dots (which sounds horrendous but believe me is darling) that I bought last summer in, of all places, a little boutique in Bristol. Who knows when all these cute clothes started to fit again! For all I know, I could've been wearing these things all summer instead of my restricted post-partum wardrobe which included, ashamed as I am to admit it, a couple pairs of Mark's Patagonia shorts that I'd borrow when I was desperate.

So all these missed opportunities can't help but make me wonder how I avoid things like these from happening again in the future. Frantically sample the food in each and every local restaurant to ensure we're not missing out on some easy-to-acquire gastronomic treat? Obsessively taste the fruits in my and my neighbor's yards? And conduct tests on the efficacy of household appliances--pitting one burner against another--so as to know I'm using the best ones and won't suffer any future regrets?

Perhaps I should just give into what I'll call the Parents' VCR Approach to Life (TM). I mean, back in the day, whose parents ever performed any other function on their VCRs other than Play and Rewind? Sure there was other stuff it could do, and they were even aware of that, but it didn't ever seem to bother them. They never seemed to lose any sleep over the thought that they were missing out.

Maybe as parents get older so many of these little things they could be doing but are somehow missing out on keep piling up until they get to the point that they just have to throw in the towel and become at ease with it all.

And so, tomorrow perhaps, I shall work on embracing this new philosophy. While strutting around in my brown wedge sandals and my cute little pre-pregnancy jeans.

I've marveled with many women over the phenomenon of forgetting the pain of childbirth. But less often we talk about the other part of Selective Memory Survival Syndrome, that once you're a parent you can't really remember what it is you did with your time before you had kids.

I mean, there are some broad-stroke things you can conjure from those days. How you mindlessly whiled away weekends at matinees, slept in late--and uninterrupted through the night!--and hoarded immense impractical collections of cocktail shakers, vintage table linens, antique china, and other charming breakable, stainable, space-hogging items.

Oh, and how you sat on airplanes chanting "not near me, not near me, not near me" to yourself as people with babies struggled on board, searching with a desperate look in their eyes for the row where they'd latch in the carseat they're balancing over their heads, clutching an infant with one arm and directing a toddler in front of them to walk straight down the aisle without wandering into random rows, or to please not for the first time all day just stop. Oh yeah and now that I'm thinking about it there were even times when we dozed off on airplanes between periods of--get this--READING A BOOK.

But, aside from those biggies, it's harder to remember the smaller more subtle pleasures of kidless-ness.

Last weekend though, when I wasn't expecting or seeking it, I got a welcomed dose of life before having created new life. Some friends were coming over for dinner which threw Mark and I into our usual food-prep modes. Which is to say he did absolutely everything for the main meal, and I whipped up a little dessert.

I pondered what to make with all the summer's glorious fruit while standing in front of our cookbook cupboards. And I happened to crouch down and see my cooking school recipe binder; over-stuffed, unwieldy, and sadly long-neglected.

Flipping through it brought back visions of people I hadn't thought about in years, recipes of old-school foods I'd never make now but love that I know how to (Yule log, anyone? Or perhaps a towering croquembouche?), and the regretful feeling that I should have taken more notes about things like which desserts I'd personally liked at the time. You know, so at a time like this--quite literally wiping dust off the book--I could venture to make something I could be fairly certain I'd be happy with.

Alas, I decided the best approach was to tab things that, despite my wretched memory, looked like they'd be good. And made a longer-term resolve to break away from my small familiar repertoire of crowd-pleasers, and start working my way through this forgotten treasure trove of calories.

Admittedly, the blueberry buttermilk tart I made that day wasn't a terribly outrageous selection. But I discovered that less than the final product, what this girl had been missing was the process. Alone in the sunny kitchen while Paige napped and Mark and Kate played outside. NPR on our old transistor radio. And me in a long apron working butter into dough, rinsing, stemming, and sorting through blueberries, and moving through the familiar pathways of sink to cookbook to refrigerator to mixer with easy confidence.

Only a few years ago I'd pass many weekend days in this contented cooking flow. I'd go through all of A Prairie Home Companion and much of the BBC news. If I was lucky I'd even catch some of This American Life. Mark might wander in and out of the kitchen, but mostly I was alone, lapping up solitude I didn't even realize I was storing up for winter, as it were. For a time when a little baby and an busy talkative child would make a long afternoon of baking for visiting friends seem like a sweet sweet vacation.

Yesterday I had an appointment to get my hair colored. I'd decided it was getting too blonde in the front. But then--in a mode typical of how I've been operating lately--by the time I was sitting in the seat at the salon, I decided the color looked fabulous.

So I asked her if she could just give me a trim.

As she's cutting she's asking me about whether I need any more shampoo or anything and I say something about Tigi products. But instead of saying Tee-Gee, as I guess the company is pronounced, I said Tig-Ee.

This causes her to laugh and say, "It's Tee-Gee.You're reading kid's books all the time so you're all Tig-EE, like Tigger and Pooh. That's so funny."

Uh, excuse me? She might as well have asked me if I have "Congrats Class of 2008! Go Badgers!" written in window paint all over my mini van.

And for your information, we don't have a mini van. (Yet.)

Mark keeps pictures of the girls on his phone so he can show them off to people at work. Since I'm always with Kate and Paige, I clearly need to put some pictures on my phone from when I was a business woman.

"Now in this shot I was signing a multi-million dollar contract with a client I brought in."

"Here's me at the Monday morning management meeting."

"Oh and in this one I'm running through a spreadsheet, telling my team about our finance goals for the quarter."

Used to be politics at the grocery store was about campaigning out front and kissing babies. These days it's in the aisles, and can take the joy out of shopping faster than a checker can say, "Debit or credit?"

I gratefully vacated the house early this morning to allow our brigade of house cleaners ample space to do their thing. Kate was at school so Paigey and I headed for Berkeley Bowl. We were desperately lacking anything leafy, fresh, or in need of refrigeration. (Children probably can live off of mini peanut butter sandwich crackers, but I'd rather not test that concept out on my kid.)

Despite some of the agro-hippie experiences I've had at Berkeley Bowl, it's an undeniable bastion of produce, ethnic foods, groovy herbs, tinctures, green cleaning products, organic cosmetics and gourmet cheeses, micro-brews, seaweed, bulk quinoa, grass-fed meats, artisan yogurts--you-name-it. Plus you can get a coffee and a decent-tasting vegan pastry to quell your morning hungries as you shop. Even with its hassle factor, Berkeley Bowl makes you thank your stars that you live in a small rental house where the public schools suck versus anywhere else in North America.

Was a time when you had a list and just toodled along and picked up what you needed, right? Any brand issues were likely settled by choosing whatever it was your mom used, or getting what's on sale. But these days, for me, it just ain't that easy. Well, at least today it wasn't.

My first quandary was in my apple purchase. I was able to cut through the 3,271 varieties of apples Berkeley Bowl carries in order to get Fuji apples, which Kate--child of foodies that she is--requests by name. But side-by-side are the bins of organic and non-organic Fuji apples.

Normally I'd just get organic, but I happened to randomly read the little sticker on them and saw they were from Chile. So, not local. The traditionally grown apples were from Washington state. Close by, and they actually looked much fresher and tastier than the organic ones. The organic ones were pale and starting to feel slightly spongey. I figured they were picked long  enough ago for them to make the long voyage from Chile all the way to Berkeley. You could actually see their jet lag.

I've got this nifty wallet-sized card that tells me what produce it's okay to buy traditionally-grown--since they don't require lots of pesticides--and what you should buy organic. Bananas, for instance, you don't have to buy organic. Maybe 'cause-a the thick peel?! Strawberries on the other hand you should always buy organic. I think they're mostly water and slurp up all those chemicals like sponges. I mean, don't take my word for any of this. These are all the stories that I think I've maybe heard but likely just made up in my head.

Of course, the handy wallet-sized thing lives unhandily on our fridge, not in my wallet. It's been there since my days of wanting the nanny to use it on her rare outings to the store for us. (That is, when we had a nanny.) Some day when I'm good and ready I'll move it to my wallet where it can be of some use.

Anyway, Apple Crisis 2008 included the remembrance that apples require lots of pesticides. Though I countered that with the consideration that most farmers these days must be trying to keep chemical use down. And in Washington state of all places they're likely to use groovy apple-growin' practices, right? Maybe their farm is just barely under the limit for being qualified for organic status. (Yes, I truly had this thought.) Maybe I'm losing my mind by over-thinking this miniscule purchase. Wait, yes. I'm sure I am.

Before I was arrested for loitering in the apple aisle, I ended up getting the limp Chilean organic apples.

Then I was on to acquire the 24 other items on my list...

Pineapples sent me into another tailspin. They truly have five varieties and I couldn't tell what properties constitute a good pineapple. I know pulling the center leaves out easily means it's ripe, but many of them seemed over-ripe. I tried to remember if I needed these to be organic and decided I didn't. The Del Monte pineapples looked decent, but I recently saw some 60 Minutes episode about how some of the big fruit companies are supporting large rebel factions by paying them off to let them do business in third-world countries. Or something like that.

I don't even remember what kind of pineapple I got. I think I got one from Costa Rica, since I'd like to go there some day. May God forgive me if in buying it I've helped put a new machine gun in the hands of an eight-year old guerilla warrior. Hopefully it'll at least be a good sweet pineapple

So as not to be more terrifically boring than I already am--or to incite fear in the hearts of my loved one that I've finally truly lost it--I'll spare you a detailed run-down of all the other items I purchased. I'm sure there are some much better blogs that recount grocery lists. But I do have to mention my bread-buying efforts.

A gal wants a nice sliced sourdough, right? What can be so hard? I picked up a brand I think I've bought before. Then I notice that it wasn't called Santa Cruz Bakery, but San Luis Bakery--though in a similar bluff-the-buyer font. I hate when companies try to rook you into buying their wannabe brands. (Please note that "wannabe" is in my blog software's dictionary because it doesn't have a squiggly line under it to indicate it's misspelled. How weird is that?)

Anyway, I picked up another loaf from a place called something like El Faro Santa Cruz Bakery, which had a little amateurish sketch of a moustachioed baker in front of a wood hearth. Looked totally small-time hand-crafted, yadda yadda. But when I turned it over it turns out their attempts to pimp their bread as artisan are totally bogus. It's made by Sara Lee! Out of St. Louis!

So then I assumed the other one, the San Luis Sourdough, must be made in California in San Luis Obispo. Nope. Also from St. Louis. And another Sara Lee product!

Is Sara Lee using the San Luis brand to drive discerning shoppers to their other more artisany looking brand? Am I becoming a paranoid conspiracy theorist? Does Sara Lee own my soul? Probably, but it'd take a lot of fine print reading to figure it out. And as far as I can tell, I'm nowhere near the St. Louis arch. I don't think.

I mean, Avon owns Keihl's and Ford owns Volvo. Weirder things have happened.

At any rate, I guess where this now-kinda-embarrassed-to-have-to-have-shared-it experience got me is the realization it'd be so much easier to shop at Wal-Mart and buy Lunchables and Ding Dongs for my family instead of reading labels to scour out any trace of dairy or soy, or concerning myself with organizations that are decimating rain forests while their executives lunch on spotted owl. (Potential solution?: Move to St. Louis.)

I mean, I swear I'm not even that political. Have I just been living in California too long? (Case in point, yesterday when I asked Kate if she'd like to go to the zoo with her friend Bowen she said, "Yeah! That'd be awesome!" Perhaps I should read the proverbial writing on the wall...) What I want to know is how does someone who really is clued into all this--not just straining to remember what their absent wallet-sized card tells them to do--manage to shop? It's paralyzing!

With my grocery adventure behind me I went to the brilliantly named maternity and baby store Waddle and Swaddle, in search of some swaddling blankets that Paige would not spontaneously combust in when we're in the summer swampland of the East Coast. A cute pair of tights I was looking at for Kate proclaimed they were "made with love in China."

It made me think of a blurb I heard on NPR recently: There's a factory in China that produces "Free Tibet" bumper stickers. Fucked up, but hilarious, no?

Through my sister's films I know enough about the human rights injustices the Chinese have dealt the Tibetans. Enough to make me sometimes kinda think about maybe not buying things that are made in China. It's rate, but I sometimes do think of it. But something about the "made with love" thing was a bit much for me. It felt like an attempt at a work-around to reel you in. 'Made by Nazis with love.' Alas, no cute tights for Katie. (Though I guess if I really liked them I probably would've gotten them. See? My political intentions are flexible.)

After my two forays into local stores left me feeling like the last Californian who thinks about this stuff while shopping but still shaves her armpits, I made my way to Target, hoping the Rosie's organic free range chicken in the trunk wasn't breeding free range bacteria in the unusually hot weather.

Target provided a much-needed familiar consumer palate-cleanser. (When Paige and I miss a week of shopping at Target, the folks there nearly call to check on us that we're alright.) The huge red doors flew open to greet us, and we rolled happily into our air conditioned, well-lit home away from home. Where, no doubt, after 20 minutes I likely managed to undo any of the thoughtful consumer shopping I'd spent the previous two hours wrangling with.

Ah well. Baby steps, right?

Friday night, for my final night of the five-nights-o'-cooking challenge (TM) we ate the galumpki  I attempted to serve on Thursday after an unsuccessful attempt at blindly setting my broken crock pot. And at some point while I was reheating it (after it had also cooked for a couple extra hours in the crock pot on Thursday) Mark expressed some concern over "food safety." As in, if it hadn't fully cooked in the several-hour process, perhaps what was happening instead was bacteria was sprouting, explosively procreating in large cabbage-and-tomato-soup-based mushroom clouds of funk.

I shrugged it off. "Nah, I think it's fine."

And then I served it to two of the people I love most in this world.

It wasn't until 3AM that, despite not feeling sick at all from the food, I developed a stomach ache over the thought that I could have recklessly caused serious harm to my family. But before my instinct to drag Mark and Kate out of bed and bring them to the hospital for voluntary stomach-pumping (or would that be Stomach Pumping by Proxy?), I fell back asleep and it turned out that everyone woke up alive in the morning (phew!) and as far as I know devoid of even any poo-related maladies.

So as it turns out, this whole getting dinner on the table for the family every evening thing has greater ramifications than just Mark not having to do it, and having the family all eat together. Talk about pressure.

This explains why growing up our mother's overcooked the shit out of most everything they served us. Turns out they were trying to not kill us.

For my part, instead of letting fear of poisoning everyone interfere with ever making another meal, I should probably just not use the crock pot until I get it fixed.

The epilogue to my 5-Dinners-In-A-Row Challenge: I may have not managed to truly prepare five separate meals (due to failed Thursday and Friday's Galumpki Redux), but I did come to the realization that  all it took for June Cleaver to have a hot meal on the table every night was some planning, some late-afternoon "Mama's cookin' and can't braid the doll's hair now"-type child neglect, and rebuffing the concept of gourmet for basic, balanced nutritious food. Which is to say, it's doable.

Heck, at the end of it all I heard Kate utter the words, "I like galumpki!" That right there is incentive enough to not raise a child on chicken tenders alone.

But anyway, all this food stuff isn't really all that's been bouncing around in my psyche. What I'm really excited about is that His Holiness David Sedaris has a new book out. This generates in me the excitement that collectively all the fans of the Harry Potter books have ever felt about any of those books coming out. (And by "coming out" I don't mean San Francisco-style coming out... I always feel like I need to make that clear.)

Despite my rabid enthusiasm I have yet to own this new book. So I'm going to hie me to the bookstore right now, seeing as Mark is home to hold down the sleepin'-kid fort. Yee-ha!

Everyone whose ever cooked has a good failed meal story, right?

For my 94-year-old Godmother, Mimi--an amazing Italian cook who in her prime thought nothing of devoting days to preparing mouth-watering multi-course meals--it was the Thanksgiving turkey that never cooked. I think it happened back in the Seventies some time, but she's still working through the horror of it all--a houseful of people and no matter how long she stalled everyone, the damn bird was still frozen in the middle.

Well, I don't have 70-odd years of cooking to draw from, but tonight's dinner was kind of a turkey for me. Apparently I was not able to adequately discern the proper slow cooker setting for galumpki cooking. (You'd think they'd just have a dial you turn towards "Galumpki.") I lugged that damn huge hot and awkward (oh, and heavy) crock pot to Ellen's, only for her to cut into one to reveal soft red meat. But here's the thing. We love these little cabbage rolls so damn much, she and Maia each ate their way through one as we discussed the situation and came to grips with the fact that they were in fact raw.

Then there was some experimentation with the microwave to see if we could speedily finish the work that the slow cooker failed to do. But even after several blasts the meat was still freakishly red. I insisted they stop. It was just too painful for me.

I must have had it on the Warm setting all day instead of Cook. Or perhaps it was the Sicken Your Family with Raw Meat setting. At any rate, this only validates my hunch that having a functional legible digital screen which indicates what the hell is happening inside that pot all day is really quite necessary.

Ellen helpfully offered up that she had ravioli she could cook. Alas, not for me, Non Dairy Queen that I am. So everyone else ate that and I had some pot stickers. And finally some delicious strawberry rhubarb pie made by young urban derelicts at Mission Pie.

It's nearly 9PM and we're back home where for some reason I'm giving the crock pot a second chance and have it back on. This time at what I guess is a different setting.

I hang my head in shame.