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Archive for the Vitals Category

Pardon Me…

28. February 2010 by PB Rippey.

O pardon me while I procrastinate Sunday’s blog post by listing books I’ve read so far this year, this 2010 stuff-of-life year, here. Right here:

Parenting Without Stress, Marshall
The Lightning Thief, Riordan
The Informers , Vasquez (yep. for book club. yep…almost didn’t survive that one…)
The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, Diaz (I survived, I definitely survivied—barely…)
Finding Wisdom , Bleyl (first 4 pages and then I just———————-)
The Help, Kathryn Stockett (just started for book club)
Parenting Without Power Struggles, (powerless to start)
Dearest Creature, Amy Gerstler (the cover of this book is creepy and wild, the first poems especially thrilling in a thrillingly dark manner that gets under your skin and simmers, even if you’re not sure you want to be so affected…too late!)
New Yorker each week (thanks, Pater)
Toddler Bistro , Schmidt (almost every day, despite regularity of cooking many of the recipes—I should know them all by heart by now! But I don’t sleep much—synapses/firing mechanisms on the fritz—how I love this book, it’s baked tofu and baked chicken strips and baked squash and all those other things I can’t remember, but that are so easy to bake…)

Moving on to:

The Pioneer Woman
Finslippy
The Women’s Colony (I like their rooms)

Facebook (doesn’t count, really—like calling The National Enquirer literary canon fodder)

Tea leaves (actually coffee grounds—not that I discern much from them except horrible-tasting-coffee-crunch bulls*** with my morning Joe)

Multiple lists scribbled on torn-from-crap bits: grocery, daily, weekly, life lists, most mildewing in my infernally bottomless purse with the month old goldfish crackers that spilled there and joined the 1/2 eaten and the wadded and the stuff Suze Orman would chastize me for and the simply too, too scary to ever bring to daylight again—better to throw purse away, into a dumpster with ghastly non-plumb-able depths).

The Sunday LA Times, sometimes–and then mostly the Arts and Whatever section and crossword and——inserts…

And then of course I’m always reading, trying to read, hoping to interpret, obsessively returning to this endlessly fascinating subject that I couldn’t, in my wildest dreams, make up on my own. He’s so, so aliiiieeeeeeve! Dancing around the house with thumps and vocals! Concocting hysterical sentences! Experimenting with spitting! Waking up at 5am! HUGGING me spontaneously! I’m part reader, part fan, part interpreter, part author (!!), part plagiarist (this blog), part editor-in-CHIEF, part cheerleader, part extremely important authoritarian figure trying to get it right, a part of his burgeoning novel. Little guy! S*** he’s heavy.

photo by Rachelle Mama, who is about to have her second baby. Taken in Joann Mama’s back yard, where she has trouble with eagles attacking her kiddie pools.

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Posted in Breaks, Vitals | Print | 2 Comments »

The Problem With Going Home…

25. January 2010 by PB Rippey.

That officially unrecorded song by anon (performed only a few times in dark, semi-smoky locations reeking of spilt beer and wrinkled pimientos before anon’s band became snarling strangers to one another and broke up) plays constantly in my head as we’re hitting the beaches, the harbor, the courtyards, the parks in the early a.m.—parks, beaches, playgrounds 5 minutes from each other—running him, showing him, running after him, strolling him:

Heading into Santa Barbara on a 1/4 tank of gas. Dollar in my pocket, you don’t have to ask me if I’m happy. It’s written in my smile. So the highway captured me, well I turned around. Moon is at my back tonight.

Harbor lights are glowing, there’s a sunset in your eyes. With not a mile between us, you don’t have to ask me do I love you. Loved you all this time. Had a fight with the last horizon. I turned around. Moon is at my back tonight.

Sky to Ocean.

Feel my future open.

I have run from this. Leaving you behind. Had a fight with the last horizon. Turned around. Moon is at my back tonight.

And I want you to know: I’ve loved you all this time.

I want you to know: I’ve loved you all this time.

Cheesy little song. Though apt.

(lyrics reprinted with anon’s permission, because even though she forgets to water plants or remove bagels from the broiler in a timely manner, she actually remembered to copyright her songs)

www.pbrippey.com

Posted in Usual Drama?, Vitals, BABY BABY | Print | 5 Comments »

Oceans To Write…

15. January 2010 by PB Rippey.

I’ve been getting my fish-facts straight as they pertain to my children’s (middle-grade) novel. Editing for the 50th time (x 50 to the power of WTF) the fish-infused chapters and finding, to my horror, even now, facts I failed to check previously—tucked into my favorite editing place, my bed, while T naps or helps his Dadda wash dishes or is down for the night—editing, editing, gasping when finding an error (fishy, grammatical, or plot-wise)—editing, fingers tapped blue, neck stiffening despite enough pillows to furnish a Harem—still, I realize that apart from being mother and wife, this is what I love to do: Get my brain-screams on paper, then edit them into readable screamage. I could do it for hours. Weeks. Longer.

Fear lurks, though, like a moray eel slowly hunting in color-matched corals: Each time I edit, I make the story better—so even though the novel is ‘finished’, is it ever really finished? I wake up in the middle of the night muttering, GILLS, OF COURSE, GILLS, WHY DIDN’T I THINK OF THIS BEFORE, GILLS, GILLS, GILLS! If you were familiar with the heroine of my novel, GILLS would make perfect sense—and had you actually read my novel before I woke up muttering GILLS and inserted GILLS into the story appropriately, you would have thought to yourself: Huh—for the love of sea turtles, why the heck didn’t the author use GILLS in this novel? Yep. Fear.

I suppose there’s more fear, like: My novel never getting published…But that’s such a boring fear. Booooooring. As my friend L, a-real-live-NYC-actress reminds me: It’s a numbers game! You have to hang tough and keep marketing (yourself) if you believe in your material.

In between marketing and responding to LET ME SEE IT PB requests after certain agents read my (freqently more and more) mass-marketed query letter, I edit—I improve my novel and its fish-factiness. And I take my son to the beach and show him what inspires me and what I hope thrills him. I fill his bookshelves with ocean: Have I told you (I ask him, pulling out a well-illustrated, marine science-y little number) about the roughhead blenny? Come! Sit in Mama’s lap and take a look at THIS, my boy, my sweet, my precious love-cup! Ha ha!

Then back to the pillows, until what I read and edit and create loopy marginalia around puts even me to sleep and dreaming about unicorn fish and mantas that sing. To marketing, to marketing, jiggety-jig.

NOTE:

These amazing photos were taken by our dear friend, Mark Snyder, owner of starknakedfish.com. Mark spends much of his life under water, surfacing for the lecture circuit, or to travel to another exotic dive spot, or to hang out on research boats shooting, shooting away into spectacular sunsets. His website is a beautiful place to visit—like stepping into a tranquil aquarium. His innovative way of lighting the world beneath the waves never fails to ignite the imagination of ocean-nerds like myself.

starknakedfish.com

www.pbrippey.com

Posted in Vitals | Print | 2 Comments »

On Things Growing Around Here…

18. December 2009 by PB Rippey.

If you look closely (since the zoom on our camera has frozen and I am unable to procure zoomy shots these days), beyond the cactus and hibiscus leaves there seems to be green at long last in the front yard. I am hopeful, anyway. During the last rainstorm I was outside hurling grass seed hither and thither frantically, thinking: This is it! This is our chance for a lawn! I did not wake up to a verdant Home & Garden type scape the next morning, nor many mornings since all that wonderful rain, however this morning—well, the yard was full of surprises.

The backyard, too, shows promise—the green sprouting there is quite luscious. I am hoping it will infect all 6,000 sq ft or so of land comprising the toddler’s playground, replacing the spiky, hurting grass currently in residence.

Bottom line, after having been a boat girl, then city dweller for so, so long I am simply amazed—now that I have my own dirt parcels—that things—you know—GROW. You plant them, and they grow! You give them water regularly and voila: they grow. You don’t even need a spectacularly green thumb for the things to grow. They just do! You feed a toddler healthy food and guess what? Sprouting action all over the place. A miracle! Lovely. Life, life burgeoning across the Ponderosa. I continue to be amazed. The only things that grew on my various boats were book-eating mildew and algae—never exciting.

And where there is life there is also optimism—once I uproot the weeds.

Above is what I believe to be a peach tree (sorry about the blur) though we never saw any peaches this past summer. I was told by someone who knows about such things not to panic when the leaves started falling off, that the tree was going to sleep and would hopefully wake up in a fruit-producing mood at some indeterminate time in the next California Spring. I was also advised to “cut back” the branches. After Googling this process, I’ll take it on myself to do the cutting since my husband—advised to “cut back” what we believed to be an apple tree—did this to it:

You said to cut it way down! he protested when I protested. To be fair, what my husband and I know about trees consists of burning them in the fireplaces of vacation cabins…

And so we persevere with cultivating the Ponderosa. In Winter. Spring/Summer will be so interesting, especially if we can build the deck and add the above-ground-swimming-pool. Adventures ahoy, baby! (I tell my baby). Adventures ahoy! (seriously, though, I’m so glad to be a landlubber now vs. the cold, cramped lifestyle chronically swaying sailboats offer one…)

Speaking of growing, S and I will have our 3rd wedding anniversary next week. 3 years, 1 baby and 1 house purchase later, I had no idea I could love him more than I did that day he bent to one knee on guano-spattered La Jolla rock and, as dolphins frolicked in my peripheral vision, proposed. This married-togetherness and parenting stuff—THIS is what my sisters have talked about animatedly in that strange, baffling language, the one formerly-dedicated-Singletons can’t interpret until—until everything.

www.pbrippey.com

Posted in Ponderosa, Vitals | Print | 2 Comments »

Zoo Parenting 101…

3. December 2009 by PB Rippey.

When you make an excursion to the zoo on a saturday and the weather is gorgeous and it’s the San Diego Zoo so in addition to locals you are in the company of a gazzilion off-season tourists taking advantage of cheap off-season vacation packages—when you are all (tourists, locals, families, random human herds) packed together in a zoo that won’t allow you to walk your kids or strollers on the wide streetways because of the double-decker tour buses constantly motoring by—when you’re forced to walk on narrow sidewalks past the animal exhibits, each exhibit creating instant gridlock, the sun increasingly hotter than the weatherpeople predicted and then there are those gnarly hills, there, at the SD Zoo, red-cheek-creating hills—let’s face it: there are going to be scenes.

My husband and I witnessed many variations on the parenting of uber-hyped-out, tantrum-throwing children of all ages. We paid most attention to toddlers acting out, many by toddling deliberately away from their parents, goofy, gleeful smiles on their faces. Some parents controlled toddler-wanderlust by attaching them to leashes resembling tails of monkeys or elephants. Others had cleverly brought along extended family assigned to race after escapees. The biggest fear at the zoo for parents with small children was not the pacing lion and whether its cage bars were sturdy enough, not the elephant lolling its massive, child-attracting weight against fencing, not whether the foamy-mouthed camels lurched within spitting distance of babies, but whether a toddler was going to dart under the wheels of one of those on-coming tour buses, or vanish forever into the hot-tempered crowds. Many times we heard the following:

GET BACK HERE!

GET BACK HERE NOW!

WE’RE NOT GOING THERE! WE’RE GOING HERE! HERE! HERE!

or the more frustrated version,

NO! NO! NO! NO!

And, eventually, as the heat bore down, as the hills grew steeper, we heard:

GET BACK HERE OR (plus a threat)

GET THE HELL BACK HERE OR (plus a threat)

ONE, TWO, THREE—(with the threat of counting to 5—and then what?)

IF YOU DON’T LISTEN TO ME, I’LL (plus a threat or stuttered gibberish as the parent melted down inconsolably, irrevocably, before God and Man)

The most disturbing meltdown occurred in the Lost Forest, a shady pathway winding past the slumbering hippos in their fantastic 3D pool, up to the tigers (though we couldn’t see them because of the gridlock) in their shady-rocky abode, past the turtles in their glassed-in-pond—hundreds of thousands of swimming turtles—past amazing, colorful birds you’d never see in my backyard (despite the two popular feeders). A woman approached us as we threaded through the crowds. A child was vice-gripped in her arms, a boy (3 years old?) curled to fetal, who knew he was in the vice, had ceased struggling because he recognized struggle was pointless. His mother’s face was bent over his. She was going downhill, we up and somehow this created an eerie time-slow effect so that I heard, clearly, every single word she imparted to her son. As the mother passed me with her large, slow-motion steps, my head turned in slow-motion, my mouth dropped in slow-motion and I watched her land on a bench and keeeeep ooooooon taaaaaalking to that boy as my brain screamed nooooooooooooo in deep, scary, slowed-down-speak. Nooooooooooooooooo.

If you don’t f***ing shut the f*** up you’re gonna f***ing make me f***ing crazy and do you know what the f*** that means?
Like at Granny’s? (responded the offending son)
Oh, you remember Granny’s, huh? YEAH like at F***ING Granny’s, that’s EXACTLY what the f*** I’m F***ING TALKING ABOUT—

And there was more, but I couldn’t listen. I fell back into real-time and sped after my husband and son.

What’s up? asked my husband when, after I made sure T was rapt before the gazzillion turtles, I turned and hugged him—hard. Did you hear that? I stage-whispered into his neck. Did you hear that woman? Hear what? my husband asked and I let it go, told him later, at the hotel, when T was into his pasta and DVD. Oh wow, my husband said and we were quiet, munching our dinner in a shared moment of sadness—and self-reflection.

Because no matter what you witness in other parents, or what horrifying stories you read concerning other parents, stories centered around some type of baby-neglect (like the guy who left his 3 month old in its carrier beside the treadmill in his gym when he was done with his workout and drove on home like he was a single guy and had never been a parent, la dee da, until a phone call from the gym had him screeching the car into a U-turn)—being a parent and therefore experiencing challenges you couldn’t possibly have dreamt of prior to having children precisely because you didn’t have children and couldn’t know, but now that you do know, you totally “get” how a breaking point such as the one I witnessed in Cursing Mama can been reached. You know what it’s like to approach the precipice of a mental-break, to teeter on the complicated cliff’s edge of your sanity, and then scrabble for an alternative—because that’s what you do—you scrabble for the alternative, find it, use it even if it is VERY, VERY HARD to do so, even if it means you CUSS AT A SLOTH instead of your child. I admit that at that awful zoo-moment I wanted Cursing Mama fenced, fenced in, securely, with electrified bars, away from her child—I wanted the zoo’s on-call Parent Meltdown Psychotherapist to whoosh in with her bag of sanity-restoring tips and a zoo margarita sold throughout the grounds. At that moment, I hoped Cursing Mama’s child would make it to 18 yrs. unscarred, because the power struggle occurring between mother and child was too intense and apparently a close second to Granny’s house and whatever the heck went on there. O Cursing Mama! How you scared me, angered me, left me feeling wasted and shaky and grateful for my parenting books—and desperate for a zoo margarita…

We headed for the exit and miniature train ride instead.

And now——this bit more:

Connection Parenting, by Pam Leo
Playful Parenting, by Lawrence Cohen
Parenting Without Power Struggles: Raising Joyful, Resilient Kids While Staying Cool, Calm And Connected, by Susan Stiffelman

Books. They don’t hurt. They can’t help but help, MOST LIKELY.

Tattling Mama over-and-out.

www.pbrippey.com

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Blog Break: Beach Cure For Colds…

22. October 2009 by PB Rippey.

So over sneezing, I decided my son and I needed a Santa Barbara beach cure. I took most of the morning packing: food, clothes, sweaters for the cold, cold North, enough supplies for a week though we were gone only overnight and still I forgot the goldfish crackers, but luckily not the arrowroot cookies and backup sippy cups and extra socks.

In October, my beach is pretty deserted, especially on a weekday. It’s an interesting place to be with no one there—like stumbling into paradise, even though of course I knew exactly where we were going. But the beach is always full of surprises and surprise thoughts and all that beauty—who has time to remember sinus blockage, poor writing habits, pressing goals, housework. All fades when faced with the urgency of beach business.

T busied himself with the rocks we camped next to, later utilizing buckets and a watering can, and then he sat on my lap, snug in a beach towel and munched cream cheese sandwiches as we both gazed at the ocean.

Pelicans dive-bombed the swell. Dolphin fins came and went. Occasionally a beach-walker passed us and smiled our way. The sun inspired a razzle-dazzle from the water. Utterly exciting: all of it.

Next thing I knew over 2 hours had passed. I loaded T into the stroller and we took off up the beach for an hour’s walk. We passed maybe 3 people. The tide was receding into a minus. Starfish were exposed on low, moody-black rock. A small, faintly pink sea urchin was alone in a shallow, sun-warmed tide pool. Crabs shifted in their dark crevices, hidden from the gulls.

Infused with air and sun, I never sneezed. T, already mostly over his cold, sang in his seat. By this time of day both of us are usually passed out in our beds. It was obvious neither of us was going to nap and that neither of us cared.

We stayed until almost 5:30p.m. It’s the best playground in the world, full of constant exploration and the only playground I’ve discovered so far in which my son will come to me for a break, cuddle, content to sit, eat, watch. Beach Magic. I wish it was my backyard.

www.pbrippey.com

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Zuma Procrastinator…

21. September 2009 by PB Rippey.

Zuma again. No man with the seagull on his head—too early in the day for him. But the dolphins are here, poking their heads out of the Fresca ocean (remember Fresca?), taking a quick peek at the loungers on the beach, then moving on. T and S kicked the beachball, filled the toy truck with sand, pulled the wagon around and tested the surf’s temperature all in the first five minutes of making camp.

Since it’s post Labor Day, my husband was convinced tourist and schoolkid traffic would be minimal at Zuma. Wrong. It’s Sunday! Everyone is here. Tourists, schoolkids and Valley Escapees like us as the weather again reaches for the 90’s, stubborn as some old-ish family member who refuses to turn the oven down to a reasonable temperature when cooking the Sunday London Broil, burning it every time.

Yes. A definite desperate attempt at metaphor as I sit in a creaky beach chair in Malibu overcast, trying to jump-start my creativity.

And what is the nagging wariness I feel here on the beach? Why do my eyes shy from those friendly rollers, that mildly churned surf?

I like Zuma—at least, I like Zuma down by lifeguard stand #13. I don’t like Zuma enough to name my next child Zuma—just like I don’t like fruit enough to name a child Apple. Or Kiwi. Or Papaya Banana Jr. But it’s beautiful here. I like it here. Very much. Still…

Truthfully, I’d like a house with a Widow’s Walk for daily private meandering—a quaintly gated widow’s walk—an open-aired, partial-turret of peace. The fins and spouts I’d monitor! The storms I’d predict and await. I’d haul a desk up there, visit it when the moment struck, then back to pacing before an ocean moodier than sky, than anything.

Which is all to say that even though Part I of my children’s novel has yet to be published, I need to start writing Part II. Even though Part I has come maddeningly, gray-hair-inducing close to acceptance, I can’t use its not being accepted (yet) as an excuse for avoiding Part II, which is packed with even more ocean than Part I, with all manner of beasts on land and sea, includes the return of Architeuthis Dux and the emergence of the Tasmanian Blobster (in pre-blob form, of course). I have begun the research, but not the writing. When I look at the ocean, I am reminded of this. And I feel nervous.

More dolphins. The Fresca has transferred from ocean to sky. The ocean, blueing deeply, flips a surfer as a pelican executes a perfect dive. When my son laughs, so do I. And the Mama-in-me kisses the procrastinator goodbye.

www.pbrippey.com

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Smile, smile, smile…

18. May 2009 by PB Rippey.

My dear friend Moot Mommy’s husband, Moot Daddy, was recently laid off. This after a duly diligent (and possibly psychic) Moot Daddy approached his CEO and asked, point-blank, “Am I okay here?”, only to be emphatically assured, “OF COURSE!!!”—but a mere two weeks later? Down came the axe. For Moot Mommy and Daddy it’s a familiar story—many people they know experience similar situations. Suddenly grocery lists grow money-fangs and roar and gnash impolitely, the land line is ditched, COBRA comes into play and the spouses do their best not to turn on each other in moments of extreme WTF. Moot Mommy takes it into the bathroom when she must depressurize the tear ducts. Moot Daddy brings on a few hard laps around the block when he must vent his WTF. They both try very hard to think of the sacking as a blessing—for instance, Moot Mommy is convinced Moot Daddy was never appreciated properly by his Management and since the sacking he’s already had several promising job interviews and been thrown some nicely paying freelance gigs. Well, all righty! Moot Daddy himself admits he wouldn’t mind a change of working venue and a pay raise. Super-duper! They are very positive, Moot Mommy and Daddy, considering they’ve lost half their income and have a toddler entering the need-my-own-swingset phase. I learn from watching them, the way they listen to each other without scorn or exasperation, even when the other is saying something completely ridiculous and irrational, like, “Maybe we should move to Vietnam,” or, “I don’t need health insurance–you and the baby can have the health insurance,” or, “I guess we’ll be eating peanut butter for the rest of our lives.” Following is a little list of Whistle While You Work-ish items Moot Mommy finds extremely helpful in this time of crisis. She passed the list on to me and I’m now going to share it with you:

1. When you wake up, no matter how you feel, smile. Seriously—you have to try it to comprehend the impact smiling when you wake up can have on your entire, entirely unpredictable day.

2. Brush your teeth (hair, not so much—but a clean mouth coaxes the psyche up from that horrid dark lake called The Blues).

3. Shout the word JOY at traffic instead of F***** or F***head or F****** A****** M***** F*****.

4. Remind yourself that you forgive everyone who ever did anything nasty to you. You don’t ever have to condone their behavior, or tell them in person that you forgive them, but do tell yourself, “I forgive everyone. I forgive everyone. I forgive everyone.” (Another trick on old-man psyche, makes him want to put on a dress and flirt shamelessly with his reflection.)

5. Play music. Often. Some personal favs are:

Madonna’s “Ray Of Light”
U2’s “Beautiful Day”
Anything by Jess’ca Hoop—music so weird your psyche doesn’t care what’s happened in the real world, it just wants to listen and pretend to be on LSD.
Jill Scott “Livin’ My Life Like It’s Golden, Golden, Golden…”
Indigo Girls “Closer To Fine”
Fred Neal’s dolphin song (good luck finding it, but if you can…)
Dixie Chicks (so many)
Beethoven’s 9th
Dvorak’s 9th

6. Look at your child(ren). No, I mean: LOOK! Those developing limbs, deft fingers, coconut-white teeth, beautiful, elastic skin. Your gift(s).

7. Flip through your wedding album.

8. Talk to family or friends, or phone, or email, or blather briefly on Facebook—just keep in touch so you don’t feel alooooooooone.

9. Pamper yourself inexpensively (cookies and milk, glass of wine, bath and a book, a new T shirt from Target, a few “minutes” at People Magazine.com)

10. Decrease the caffeine in your morning half-caf coffee (for now).

11. Don’t stop working out.

12. Say this: We have enough money.

13. And this: All is well.

14. Remember: This, too, shall pass.

15. Remember: This, too, is wicked exciting!!! Ha ha!!! (more maniacal laughter as is also good emotional outlet…)

16. Remember: Breathe.

17. Remember: Your therapist has good ideas and has seen plenty of people-in-crisis. Make an appointment to check in.

18. Remember: Tell your husband you love him.

19. Remember: Say, “Thank you.”

And finally, number 20: Remember to remember (somehow).

Thanks, Moot Mommy! Good luck to you, Moot Daddy and Hamlet Jr, my favorite little family. I know everything is going to be just fine (don’t throw that frying pan at my head, Moot Mommy—metaphorically or otherwise: all is well, all is well, all is well).

www.pbrippey.com

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Fire…Again…

7. May 2009 by PB Rippey.

Gallerina Sister took this on her iphone. The power was out everywhere this afternoon, including her gallery, so they shut down and she fled to the Mesa, to Blood Sister’s house: aka Fire Central. What should have been a 10 minute drive turned into an avoidance of city gridlock and deposited Gallerina Sister over 20 minutes later (outrageous for our small town) on a street right above Blood Sister’s. She got out of the car and walked up the precious rise of a view-ridden park—a tranquil, greeny place resembling a little piece of the top of the world. Her legs were still shaky: From her downtown gallery she’d seen flames on the nearby Riviera, enough of the fire to give her a sense of its ferocity—enough to put the shake in her legs. She’d been evacuated from her home the day before, to her surprise. She’d tried to drive up her street and was told “no,” even though official mandatory evacuations hadn’t been made public, yet. Luckily a neighbor was able to grab some clothes and things for her and for her daughter. Luckily she doesn’t have any pets to worry about. Hopefully her house isn’t burning. Blood Sister joined her at the park and they watched the drama for a bit, then retired to Fire Central and watched the Jesusita rage on TV with Blood Sister’s family, Blood Sister’s ex-husband and his dog (also displaced), comfort food and the kind of libations you choose when shock is testing your norms. They’re still watching. This fire, both of my sisters assured me, makes the Tea Fire tiny.

Tomorrow will be interesting. The winds are supposed to abate for the day and the smoke clear until the next sundowner. No one seems to know exactly how many acres and houses have burned. Talk about a reveal…

UPDATE: 5/7/09 Still no word on whether Gallerina Sister and her daughter have a house to live in. The winds will most likely kick up again later today. I can’t watch the news anymore after the reporting on horror stories about animals.
UPDATE: 5/7/09 (still!) Gallerina Sister’s house is standing. She viewed it through a friend’s birding binocs. Her daughter’s boyfriend’s family home, however, gone. Winds aren’t kicking up like yesterday, yet fire rages at the top of the mountain. There is scant local reporting and much confusion. Heartening stories of some animals being beautifully saved.
UPDATE: 5/8/09 The fire has launched in two different directions. People are being evacuated who never, ever thought they would be. If the winds come up again today as expected—-
UDPATE: Click here

Posted in World, Usual Drama?, Vitals, ANIMAL DRAMA! | Print | 1 Comment »

Memory Challenge…

19. April 2009 by PB Rippey.

Oh the questions spewing from my mouth when I was pregnant! I interrogated a couple of seasoned mamas, friends of mine, only to be told by them repeatedly (dazed confusion clouding their eyes), “I’m sorry—I just don’t remember.” What!!! How could they not remember vitals like how many times their babies woke up during the night in the first three months, battles with diaper rash and—so much more. Actually, I can’t remember what the heck I asked them—I had to dredge the banks for what I’ve just written here.

Because I, too, have memory blocks since giving birth, since those first three long, intense, post-C-section months. Though S took digi-cam footage and 3,000 pictures, still I can’t remember actually changing diapers that small, or dressing T in those mini-mitts we couldn’t live without. If I think too much about what I can’t remember, I turn into Tim Robbins in “Jacob’s Ladder,” when his face goes cuckoo every time he passes a mirror.

I have the screensaver on my computer that plays photographs from My Photos. Do you have that? Often, as I’m feeding T, my laptop perched next to me on my perch on the king size bed forever dominating our living rooom, beside which I’ve positioned T’s high chair—as I encourage T to try steamed baby carrots, often my eye is caught by photos wafting across my laptop’s screen, ones taken on or around 11/12/07-ish and I gasp. Who is that woman cradling that urchin? My son was never that small! My ass was never that big, surely! Where did that onesie come from? Oh yeah, his hair was black when he was born—I forgot!!! And there goes my face into “Jacob’s Ladder” mode, sproinging every which way with a sped up “yuk yuk” sound as accompaniment.

After 9 months and 1 week of pregnancy, I became fathoms-lady, swimming slowly through incomprehensible depth: birth, taking T home, calling the doctor 12 times in 3 days, showing up at the doctor’s several times a week, driving, driving (once I was mobile after the C section) to calm the strange and exotic little creature consuming my personal hours—despite all the activity, for 90 days life elongated and slowed Einstein-ish-theorem style. I delve through My Photos and the 5 photo albums I’ve filled in 17 months and I can’t believe the changes. These days, life with T in hyper-drive, we don’t even use Dreft and think nothing of putting him to bed without socks on his feet. “The baby might freeze!” “The baby could receive spinal cord damage if we don’t put extra padding in the jogging stroller!” “Our baby will never eat a french fry!” Those days are all over. Done. Gone. We are experienced parents, now, with memory loss. And I know why. There are studies and facts and findings regarding this memory loss issue that I’m way too tired to research and read (also, I forget to), but I know the bottom-line answer. It is:

f e a r

When you don’t know why he’s scream-crying even after you’ve fed and changed him, don’t know what those tiny red bumps are on his chest, his cold prevents him from breastfeeding easily and you’re terrified he’s going to suffocate AND starve, SIDS, first fever, projectile vomits…It’s hard to be a baby. Much harder than being parents. Still, the memory loss thing must be protection for mommies, a salved-up band-aid on true pain, because if we did recall absolutely clearly every single detail from birth through those first scary few months, when every sneeze means certain death, why the HELL would we ever have more than one child.

Memory loss is Mother Nature’s way of insuring the babies keep coming—bless their obviously precious cloud-pink, diaper rash prone bottoms.

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RE: The “Case” Against Breastfeeding

1. April 2009 by PB Rippey.

Did you catch the piece by Hanna Rosin? It’s in the Atlantic right now, April 2009 issue. I, like many others who read the “Atlantic”, find it an unfortunate bit; contrived; one-sided, with questionable research. And just plain sad. Apparently Hanna Rosin felt like a parasite for intimating aloud that she was so, so over breastfeeding. Who made her feel this way (besides herself)? Other mommies, she claims, breastfeeding-nazi mommies she met in a park.

As the baby books tell you, including La Leche League’s The Womanly Art of Breastfeeding and Dr. Sears (whom Ms. Rosin pretty much villifies), breastfeeding is not for all moms. Coming on the mommy-scene 16 months ago, it was my impression and still is that in the PC world of mommies and breastfeeding formula has not been a dirty word for some time. Procuring the best system for mother and child is the primary concern championed in today’s reading material, whether a book is about breastfeeding or post-partum depression or bottles or pacifiers or thumbsucking or soy milk. Get what you need! the books say, Oprah’s experts, even Tyra’s silly little show agrees, and the canny mommy-blogs, too. But the “get what you need” message didn’t fit in with Hanna Rosin’s (in part) “I-am-a-victim-of-breastfeeding-nazis” agenda. Instead of “get what you need” she makes La Leche League and Dr. Sears responsible for creating damaging breastfeeding hype and for making not breastfeeding your babe a societal taboo.

I wish Hanna Rosin had mentioned how lucky she is to be able to breastfeed at all, unemcumbered by physical setbacks, or cultural mores. She describes the lengths a friend of hers goes to in order to breastfeed, snarling sarcastically that her friend looks nothing like a romantic portrait of Eve-With-Babe because of the “tubes and suctions and a giant deconstructed bra” her friend must wear. Hanna Rosin is lucky if that trying-hard, giving-breastfeeding-a-go-despite-the-hurdles mom is still her friend. Breastfeeding can be an enormous challenge for mother and child, especially in the beginning and even if there are no physical complications involved. But if the bond created through feeding has to come via tubes and suctions or a bottle’s nipple and formula, right on. Either way, the baby Will Be Fed—and even if Hanna Rosin switches from breasts to bottles, unless she has a nanny, or unless daddy plays a part, or unless she throws the job to her other children, Hanna Rosin will be the one feeding her baby, something she obviously resents having to do all by herself.

Hanna Rosin’s biggest enemy in her Atlantic piece is herself, her inability to take a stance on what is best for her personal situation. Instead, she blames breastfeeding-nazis for her discontent and anyone, really, who thinks breastfeeding a baby is a good thing, those hype-gobbling idiots. Hanna Rosin was interested in creating an article that would cause a ruckus. Blaming Dr. Sears for “too many years of conditioning”, presenting the reader with “research” gathered for the piece via a “friend” with a password to an undisclosed medical library, likening breastfeeding to prison—if breastfeeding is making her so unhappy and resentful, Hanna Rosin would be doing her family and readers a favor by practicing an alternative, especially if such a move would change her sour mood.

Thanks, Atlantic for publishing a (whiny) gripe masquerading as hard-core reading material. In closing, I give you the photo below of the World’s Biggest Breastfed Baby.

www.pbrippey.com
UPDATE: see this response
http://www.momsrising.org/content/case-against-breastfeeding-overlooks-big-dirty-secret
Both links have excellent responses and comments and are far more eloquent than little old pissed off pro-breastfeeding-although-formula-is-not-a-dirty-word me.

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Pre-Spring Beach Break…

2. March 2009 by PB Rippey.

The good old rollicky Pacific is the antidote to house hunting mania or any stresses in life. By 8a.m. we were on the road, the minivan loaded in T’s wagon loaded in towels, diaper bag, sippy cup, baby food and a breakfast consisting of freshly popped popcorn, a tuna melt from last night’s dinner, smoked salmon and cream cheese finger sandwiches, flattish donuts that come in plastic bags and never need refrigerating, power bars and vegan chocolate chip cookies.

T hasn’t seen the ocean for a couple of months. We were interested in his reaction now that he walks so sturdily and owns the world. He adores water—pavement puddles, bathwater, dishwater—but the last time I took him to the beach all he wanted to do was eat sand. We were hoping that now, at 15 months, he’d be more interested in using his bucket and shovel than putting the beach in his mouth.

I’ll be quiet now.

The bucket was a hit! Sand went into its blue interior vs. T’s mouth. As for the water? I had to curb the euphoria in the interest of keeping him alive and hypothermia-free, especially when he wanted to lie on his tummy and reverse bodysurf the waves.

I so appreciate a successful day at the beach.

www.pbrippey.com

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House Hunting Hell…

27. February 2009 by PB Rippey.

The buyer’s market is buzzing in Los Angeles, don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. At least–it is in our modest home buying bracket. Competition is ferocious for houses with shredded interiors, houses with mild hills in their kitchens, droopy ceilings, scarred wood floors, most houses with ominous holes in all closet walls (why???). Frankly, it’s discouraging after a day of house hunting to be informed that the hovel-interiors we could fall in love with and joyfully restore are bombarded with offers far above the sellers’ asking prices, bumping us out of the game. However, the good news is that after visiting these hovel-interiors we return to our one bedroom condo with its HD walls and enormous old-fashioned TV and king sized bed in the living room and Ikea inspired baby’s room and S washes the dishes and I dust and vacuum and just check to be sure there are no holes in our closet walls and there aren’t, ever. And we realize with relief that we have hope, despite cramped quarters, and that we have respect for our living space, despite cramped quarters and that we have a lakeside view, despite the evaporating water line in the silly sad vacant lot next door. And we carry on in our hope that the right hovel will choose us as much as we choose it and place our offers anyway and then we put the baby to bed and share a tub of popcorn, watching whatever latest release Blockbuster has to offer that doesn’t involve excessive dire gun-drama or Armageddon. We carry on, not bothering to wonder how long we will be carrying on until we get a house. And in this carrying on, the movie playing, the popcorn not burned for once, we look at each other and realize we don’t do this quiet, togetherness stuff nearly enough. And we squeeze hands. And then dump the popcorn in the trash and switch off the movie and the lights because how the f*** did it get so late and he’ll be up for the midnight hump in like half an hour, so be quiet, quiet, quiet, just go to sleep, quick, sleep. Shh. S***! Brush teeth. Sleep. But the brain, the brain—zzzzzzzzzz.

And today, we’ll do it again—and again—and we’ll just see what happens—all vitals (popcorn, movies, Chunky Monkey ice cream, a bag of organic apples that taste like candy and my no-holes closet stocked in cheerful T shirts from Target) standing by. Why?

Because, essentially, we have everything.

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Two Valentines…

14. February 2009 by PB Rippey.

Two V Day bags.

Which bag did I present to my husband? Which bag did he present to me?

Keep in mind that I am the SAHM of an energetic toddler with sleep issues, a mommy who sticks her cell phone in the fridge thinking (not thinking) she is sticking it in her purse, who can’t find her reading glasses when they’re on top of her head, who is baffled as to why store clerks chuckle at her, realizing when she reaches the car and has packed groceries and baby inside and happens to glance in the rearview mirror that she has Gerber Hawaiian Delight mixed with rice cereal on her face and uneven ponytails.

He gave me a beautiful huge bag filled with chocolates, a necklace with a shell vaguely shaped like a heart, a coffee mug in the squat Hobbit-crockery shape that I enjoy, a super-mini-teddy bear and all those wonderful V Day things I pooh-poohed when I was single (because dates and Valentine’s Day never coincided), like heart shaped chocolates, which T enjoyed examining and dropping into our shoes.

I gave him that other bag with Target swimming trunks stuffed inside, snatched from the rack as T verged on a melt-down.

It’s good to be loved.

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Valentine’s Cookie Swap

13. February 2009 by PB Rippey.

This cookie swap I was relaxed about what I brought to the table, knowing I wasn’t going to be ostracized for—cheating. Although it wasn’t blatant-cheating—I didn’t bring a clear plastic container of Ralph’s frosted cookies and slap ‘em on the table as I fished dirt out of my ear and chili-belched. Pre-made cookie dough, Reese’s chocolate/pnut chips, multi-colored sprinkles and a box of those hard candy hearts with illegible sayings on them? Cookie fixings! As T napped, I utilized my limited cooking baking talents (that go with my limited pancake cooking talents) and because of diligently checking the stove and responding when the timer went off instead of finishing typing a sentence or completing another laundry fold or simply staring into space, only a few cookies bore charred undersides (I saved those for my husband) and the rest? Voila:

As opposed to my Pre-Thanksgiving Cookie Swap scabby, dented, roughed up buggers stolen from somebody’s compost heap:

Oh I needed an outing with my baby, to interact with other mommies and listen to their adventures in the cold/flu season, to hear worries other than my brain’s under-educated worry-blather, to release with releasing others. Thank you cookie. You were my ticket to an amazing mommy’s-treat, today–including lots and lots of cookies far better than anything I could make myself, cheating or not.

www.pbrippey.com

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Boy Eats Dog…

11. February 2009 by PB Rippey.

For the third night in a row T threw up in his crib. Midnight. On the phone to first the 24/7 nurse, then T’s doctor, my husband explained and explained our son’s situation in his deep, uber-clear, frightened-parent voice. Finally our doctor told him to zip it. Her rapid-fire diagnosis:

Slight rash on body, flushed cheeks and knees = possible MMR reaction (Gahhhhhh!!!)

Vomiting = virus that’s going around

RX = BRATY diet, but amputate the “Y” for yogurt because definitely no way no-how nuh-uh give T any cow’s milk.

We crept to T’s crib, watched him snooze as we ran the doctor’s diagnoses through our minds. Little guy, we thought, his hair still damp from us sponging out the barf, his pj’s clean and cozy, his crib sheets changed, a barf-free blankie in his little arms. Little guy. Then we crawled, shakily, mouths slack, 1,000 years old, into bed.

Next morning: Poop more solid! Healthy BRAT-for- breakfast appetite! No MMR rash! Crisis over! Everything back to normal! (whatever normal is…)

Then: Nappptimmmme

After 20 minutes of annoyed sounds, frisky coos, more annoyed sounds, then total silence, I peeked on T in his crib, assuming he had finally succumbed to the afternoon nap, confident my frolicking-naked-in-the-Oasis time could begin.

Peeeeeeeek.

T’s eyes met mine. Whoops! Wait a minute–why is he holding his stuffed dog like—OMG! Eating doggy’s paw! Eating doggy’s paw!

I dashed to the crib and snatched doggy from baby, by doing so raining a hail of pellets on T’s head, to his delight.

Doggy was not filled with pillowy cotton-candy-type stuffing. Doggy’s paw, wet from my son’s “Alien”-like saliva was wide open and leaking millions of tiny plastic pellets. I looked at my son. A pellet was on his way to his mouth.

On the phone to poison control AGAIN , I explained and explained the situation in my deep, uber-clear, frightened-parent voice.

Poison control laughed: Ho, ho, he said, those pellets will poop right through him. However, he added, suddenly serious, Is the child currently choking?

I called Blood Sister. She told me not to worry, that the pellets would pass through T. Apparently Blood Sister’s son once swallowed the gel pellets found in those squarish packets that come in shoes and vitamin bottles. He pooped them out, she said.

I emailed Dubya-Mommy in Thousand Oaks. She wrote back about her 5 year old: I have never had to call poison control. I want her life!!! (plus, she has a swimming pool…)

I called my husband. Call the doctor!!! he said. I called the doctor and was transferred to the nurse’s voicemail. She never called back.

Evening: Three pellets in the diaper! Okay, okay, I told my husband. He only ate a few. I got there in time. Ha, ha. We’re okay.

That night: No vomit. We’re back to normal! my husband and I whooped joyfully. (whatever normal is…)

Morning diaper: Holy smokes!!! (my husband said) OMG!!! (me) Pellets! Lots and lots of little plastic pellets.

Afternoon diaper: Bingo!!! (I said, chokingly). More pellets. Little bugger worked fast on that doggy’s paw. How can a toy store sell doggies stuffed in pellets and get away with it? Why weren’t “pellets” listed in the doggy’s ingredients? Bastards! Why?

Why ask why?

Next poop will be interesting to examine. Reminds me of guessing the number of jellybeans in a jar…

And on to the next!

UPDATE: 1 more diaper bearing pooped pellets. 3 nighttime vomiting episodes, then 1 night off, then 1 night of 2 vomiting episodes, then 1 night off of vomiting, but diarrhea kicks in, the all-the-Great-Lakes-bled-into-one of exploding diapers. 1 Dr. visit where I was told, sternly, STOP IT after confessing to Googling nighttime vomiting and coming up with horrific scenarios. 1 tsp Benadryl before bed 2 nights running = no nighttime vomiting. Diarrhea persisting, but hopefully BRAT will help. Where’s my tropical island interlude! No, no, it’s okay, it’s okay. What a trooper (pooper!), this little guy. Little guy! zzzzzzzzz.

www.pbrippey.com

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Early One Morning…

8. February 2009 by PB Rippey.

(the i heart pasta face)

Wake up. He barfed in his crib.

What???

Barfed. In crib.

How???

Diaper’s leaking diarrhea.

What???

On my arm.

I’ll change him. Oof. I’m okay! Fell from bed.

What color is it?

Is what?

The diarrhea. What color is it? I can’t tell from my arm.

Orange.

Hm. So is the barf.

Maybe it’s the baked yam from lunch?

I don’t see any of his dinner in the barf or the diarrhea.

What did he have for dinner?

Whole wheat pasta wheels in organic tomato sauce!!! Remember???

Oh yeah. No, I don’t see any of that in his poop–only yammy shi—I mean, crap. That’s weird, isn’t it? How could the barf completely bypass dinner and only expose his lunch? How—phew. Must gag…

He doesn’t have a fever.

He’s singing.

Do you think it’s a reaction to the—(gulp) MMR?

No! Absolutely not! No way! Do you?

So I guess we don’t need to call the 24/7 nurse?

Oh, hee, hee—wet go of my nose, silly bunny!

Or take him to the ER.

Unless he does it again pretty quick?

Right. I’ll change his sheet.

I’ll see if he wants some apple juice.

NO! NO! NO!

Why???

Dr. Sears says BRATY: banana, breast milk, rice cereal, APPLESAUCE, not apple juice, toast and yogurt for when baby has barfing and the squirts!

Hmmm? Ho! Hee, hee. Look how cute he is. What does the doggy say? WOOF. WOOF. WOOF.

I’m gonna put him down now.

See you in bed. Oh, hey—what’s your name again?

(Sighhhh.) Mud.

You know, Mud, you’re pretty sexy all diarrhea-splotched. My wittle walking Jackson Pollock, my wittle exploded can of organic pumpkin, my wittle—

(Growl)

Night.

www.pbrippey.com
Other conversations with my husband (zoo perils, Queen Mary escape plan, more poop, etc.): CLICK HERE

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Smile…

1. February 2009 by PB Rippey.

THE NEW NEWS: We’re at long last house hunting.

WHAT WE SEE IN OUR PURCHASE BRACKET: Squatter’s digs. The creepy dark, the uber-dank. The “Oh my goodness, I can see through that wall and right into the kitchen!”

THE ONE FIXER-UPPER WE PUT A BID ON: We didn’t get. O my sweet cottage-type 3 bedroom house with an enormous back yard candle-stuck in a huge interesting tree! I miss you. Despite having to replace floors, fix holes in walls, gut and redo the kitchen before moving in, I misssssssssss you.

THE TRULY TORTUROUS BITS WHEN HOUSE HUNTING: Foreclosures. Evicted families. Seeing a kid’s room empty and utterly trashed. Some houses are their own brand of eerie post-war-zone. And the banks want money for them. Lots and lots of money. Contrary to popular hearsay and Internet-speak, many banks are not accepting offers below the purchase price, even though in the coming months that price will be lowered (again) anyway. Sometimes the bank may say whoops, made a mistake, and raise the purchase price even though a happy house-buyer’s offer was accepted, forcing the buyer to withdraw. Banks, in our experience thus far, are not prone to desperation and they have magic cameras that make hovels look like spritzy mansions on the Internet. These are the realities waiting for the naive house hunters as they pull up in their minivan with their bounding toddler and are greeted by exploded middle-America. To speak plainly: it’s a mess out there.

WHAT I DO: As of today—put on a happy face and say “Yes, lovely, oh yes, lovely” to everything, despite my husband calling me a Stepford-Whacko. It’s better than the alternative.

THE TRUTH: It’s stressful, house hunting. It’s appalling what happened to so many families. It can’t just be a matter of not reading the fine print when people purchased their little bit of American Dream. The scheister factor must have played an enormous part. Seriously. Sorry, Suze Orman. But I believe this. Oh, It, It, It. Witnessing “Its” results up close and personal is—lovely, ooo, oh lovely, lovely. Lovely.

Yes, lovely. Oh, yes. Lovely. Lovely. Lovely. Have a beautiful day!

www.pbrippey.com

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Thrown Caution (To Dec. Winds)

29. December 2008 by PB Rippey.

I finished my novel. I mean writing it. Let the editing begin, but I finished it. Four years, two moves, one break-up, one Big Love, one engagement on a rock, one beachy wedding and one baby later, I finished the f*****. I mean, my joy-project. If I wasn’t down with the cold/flu for the second time this holiday season, I’d split a split of more-than-marginal champagne with my husband. Instead, I’m going to limp to the bathroom and hold a towel wide as my husband hands me my son from their bath. I never thought I’d finish it, then bam, right when I’m sick, I do just that. In fact, since I’ve been sick and lying in agony in the king sized bed forever dominating our living room, surrounded by passed-out, blissed-out cats keeping my limbs pinned under the covers, I’ve been living, breathing, dreaming and writing my novel, COMPLETING COMPLETING COMPLETING. I think I’ve gone a little (more) mad. I think I’m happy. I think I need a roasted chicken sandwich from Pit Fire after my son is asleep. Want to know how It ends? It ends on a beach. Happy frikkin New Year! Now back to work.

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A Little Part Of History

4. November 2008 by PB Rippey.

www.pbrippey.com

I expected the worst, I did. And I mean: frustrating confusion, no results for 48 hours or more, crucial Country-Welfare decided by courts or—how my mind spiraled. Soul Sister called from Wiltshire, GB, mere hours before Election Day. He’ll be our president, too, she told me. I pondered this statement for a long while after our conversation, during which she asked me what I thought O’s chances were. I babbled that I expected the worst—-Soul Sister’s US-Rep-of-Current-Events, terrified of that responsibility (what if I’m wrong, what if I’m right, what if, what if, what if Tina Fey has to keep it up for 8 years…).

What did I feel the night of? I felt: where is your faith, even though you have every right to be frantic about fair election practices, ET AL, after the last 2 elections? And then—voila: ABC called it with stunning conviction. I emailed Soul Sister immediately with: O WON, O WON, O WON. Then I reclined with my husband on the king sized bed currently dominating our living room and we absorbed the joy emanating from the TV: NYC, Chicago, Los Angeles celebrating, and we appreciated the elated whoops echoing from far across the silly sad vacant lot that sticks around next door, whoops, laughter sailing in through our open windows. How, how interesting it’s going to be. As Blood Sister emailed the next day: Thank you Rosa Parks, thank you JFK, MLK, thank you Hillary Clinton (Hillary, darn!)…Thank you for standing up.

Here’s to faith in all of us.

And an end to Booing.

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