Girl Detective

The swank new appearance is a benefit of the upgrade to WordPress 1.5, also used by the much-more-famous-than-I Warren Ellis, whose site I won’t link to because the last time I did I saw something I wish I could erase from my memory. My tech-spouse G. Grod has been muttering for some time (weeks? months? they all run together) about making the change to 1.5. He was spurred into action this weekend after the site got blasted by blackgammon spam. I again have a blurb, as I did at the old Girl Detective. I’m not sure I like the electric blue, but the new typeface is much better and easier to read. I’m sure I wasn’t the only one annoyed that “cl” looked like “d”.

I’m wavering about keeping the comments. There have been some fun discussions, as on messiahs and favorite fictional characters, but reader use is sporadic, and they do make me a target for the evil spammers.

As for the tagline, “needs more penguins,” it was something that G. Grod threw onto the template to see if it worked, which it didn’t until the upgrade. Now it does, but it’s pretty random, and perhaps only funny to G. Grod, me and friends who may have been with us (?) at its inception.

Feel free to email or comment any thoughts, on comments or on penguin taglines. Heck, feel free to make up an origin story for the tagline, as long as it’s not (too) naughty. This is a family weblog, after all.

I sit, frozen in front of the screen, careering around the internet, struggling to write a word. It has been some time since I blogged. I don’t know where I picked up the construction in the title, but it’s one of my favorites. I will state the obvious. Travelling can be difficult. But it is good to see family.

It is also good to be home.

I won’t be writing for the next several days. Thanks for visiting and reading, and I hope to see you back at the end of next week.

I am just busting out of a prolonged (nearly four weeks) writing block on my novel, which I have to present to my group next week, so blogging may get short shrift for a while. It is HARD not to spend time blogging, because it goes so much faster than work on the novel.

My 19-month-old son Drake is up to fascinating stuff. Earlier in the week he climbed to the slide in the jungle gym by walking up the steps holding onto the rail, rather than by crawling. At home, he stood up while going down our front steps holding the rail, rather than waiting for my help.

Drake has a little dance of excitement, in which he stays in one place and hops his feet up and down and laughs. It is very like a Snoopy dance.

And during our readings of Edward Gorey’s The Epiplectic Bicycle, my husband G. Grod and I read the story, and Drake is able to say the word bubbles, like “Ho!” and “Whee!” Last week my husband G. Grod and I did a tag team reading of Bread and Jam for Frances, in which G. read the story and I sang the songs (for all of which I’ve made up tunes.) The three of us enjoyed that reading very much.

An Alex Ross illustration of Super Grover.

Courtesy of The Beat’s coverage of Toy Fair.

Before I got married to my husband G. Grod, my grandmother asked me, “Is he handy?”

“Not really,” I replied sadly, thinking of my late grandfather, who built furniture and created electonic gadgets in addition to holding a day job and being a musician. “Not like Poppa was.”

Years later, I have have reconsidered her question, and have a different answer. What she meant by handy was if he was good at those same things that her husband had excelled at–stuff around the house. I have never been good at those things. G. Grod claimed not to be either, but over the years, and especially since we moved into our new old house last fall, he continues to surprise me, such as when he fixed a leaking radiator last December.

Where he excels, however, is in tech support, which I think is the new frontier for handiness. I’m a writer. I adopt technology on an as-needed basis. But when something funky happens, like when I get an error message, I am not able to fix things. G. Grod, on the other hand, is almost always able to fix things. The only time I’ve ever lost data was on my PDA, when I went too long between backups. On our computer, though, I don’t think I’ve ever lost data. Whatever happens, G. Grod is always able to rescue whatever I was working on, oftentimes even though I hadn’t yet saved it. (I am terrible about frequent saving, so he has now set our computer to do it automatically, electronically compensating for my shortcoming.) Additionally, our system hardly ever crashes, error messages are rare, and we have never had a virus.

G. Grod has set up a smoothly functioning system that is technologically progressive, ethically correct and defiantly anti-Microsoft. We use Debian GNU/Linux (cute penguin!) operating system, and Free programs for things like word processing and email. I type entries in Gedit, a text editor. The draft of the novel I just finished is a PDF in OpenOffice.org Writer. I use two mail programs, Ximian (now Novell) Evolution (cute monkey!) and Mozilla Thunderbird. As is perhaps obvious, I am more entranced by the cute icons than I am by how these things work. They do work, thanks to G. Grod. Because they work, I can focus on writing; I don’t have to wrestle my words from mercurial electronic programs.

That, for me, is pretty handy.

Over the past few years, I’ve found other writer friends whose partners are technologically inclined, as is mine. It makes me wonder whether we creative types are now seeking out partners with specialized knowledge, in a technology-age form of natural selection.

The first few episodes of The O.C. that featured Alex, Seth’s new girlfriend, had her straight blond hair with its purple streak up in an elaborate ‘do. The artifically stiff, round curl on the side of her head reminded me fondly of one of my favorite childhood dolls, Quick-Curl Barbie. QCB had strands of wire intermixed with the normal platinum strands so that you could use the plastic curling wand to style her hair into a curled coif with staying power. Alas, the wires became brittle after much manipulation and broke off, leaving QCB with rough bits of wire sticking out of her head, looking much more like a science project gone horribly awry than a beauty maven.

I didn’t have much luck with doll hair during childhood. Another favorite doll, Velvet, had blond hair with a ponytail fountain that sprung from a hole in her head and could be pulled out or retracted back. One day the obnoxious neighbor boy yanked on the ponytail for the last time, and Velvet’s crowning glory got pulled clean out, leaving her forever with a short bob and a gaping hole in her head. Her big sister doll, Crissy, had no such problem, but I was unconsoled; Velvet had been my favorite. Like Barbara Eden on I Dream of Jeanie, Velvet’s ponytail was a source of power and wonder. Its loss was a hard one.

Often I make a “soft” list of hopes at the new year–things that I want to do, but that I’m not going to pull my hair out if I don’t. This year, though, the date came and went, and I couldn’t even be moved to do the soft list. Instead, only one thing has occurred to me that warrants resolve.

I resolve to leave shorter voice mail messages for people. I tend to ramble, and often repeat myself. It’s not much of a resolution, I know, but it will make my life and those of the people I call just a little better.

The problem with falling out of habit is that it’s so easy to stay there. It has been some time since I’ve posted. My monkey mind is crying that there are many, many things on which to spend time and attention, most notably a very engaging novel. I will resist its siren call, however, and instead throw myself back into writing.

Guilt nibbles at the back of my consciousness; perhaps I should be attending to another habit that’s been lying fallow for longer–my yoga practice. Alas, it must continue to wait. There are also the matters of thank-you notes and holiday un-decoration. I forget exactly who is was that once said that Twelfth Night is a good deadline for these tasks–my high-school algebra teacher, I think. I agree that it’s a good goal, but I’m not sure I’m going to hit it this year.

Our wee family took a quick jaunt to mid-Ohio to visit my parents for New Year’s day. Power had been restored the day before we arrived; they had been without since the storm the week before. Mid-Ohio was a mess–trees split and down everywhere. Minnesota gets a bad rap, weather-wise, but in my nearly seven years here, I have not seen the kind of winter devastation that Ohio is digging, chopping and sawing its way out of right now.

G. Grod and I spent New Year’s Eve with my parents, sister and brother-in-law eating good pizza, playing poker and watching some of the Law and Order: SVU marathon. I continue not to love L & O, and am sad for Jerry Orbach’s passing, but I enjoyed bits of the marathon in any case. On New Year’s Day, we ate pork and sauerkraut for good fortune, the latter of which is one of the few vegetables that our sixteen-month old son, Drake, will condescend to eat.

In spite of its short duration, our trip allowed us to see many friends, family and even to meet a new baby. It was a good beginning to 2005.

Lots happened in 2004. I resigned to stay home with Drake, we sold our condo, bought a house and moved, during which time Drake and I had two extended visits to family during our real-estate transactions. I was a winner at Nanowrimo with 50 thousand words of novel #2. My husband was laid off from his job in November. His brother came to visit during December, managing the impressive feat of staying four weeks and still having us be sad to see him go.

Two things stand out for me. One, Drake was not yet crawling when we began to look at houses; he was walking confidently when we moved into one. The transition out of our condo and into this house was a long one, during which all three of us developed and grew.

The second is my most distinct experience from 2004. In May, I flew to England for a friend’s wedding, leaving Drake, whom I was still nursing, home in Minnesota with my husband G. Grod. I pumped my breasts while I was away so that Drake could still nurse when I returned. Midway through the nine-hour flight home, I had just begun to pump in the lavatory when we hit turbulence; the light came on saying I must return to my seat. What a way to go, I thought, hooked up to a milking machine over the Atlantic. As calmly as I could, I disengaged myself, powered down, cleaned up, gathered myself and my things and returned to my seat. The turbulence passed, I returned to the lavatory, though more trepidatious than before, and I completed my task, lactating in the face of adversity.

That experience feels emblematic for a year that was full of difficult, bizarre, funny, scary, yet mundane experiences that I couldn’t possibly have imagined in advance. I’m hoping for a smoother ride this year.

As my grandmother does not hesitate to remind me, I am overeducated. I minored in religion in college, then later went back to school to get my master’s degree in religious studies. I learned many things, among them that I did not want to convert to Judaism after all. I am abashed to admit that after all the classes and studying and pondering and soul searching, the biggest take-away I had was this: organized religion bugs me.

To all of you who realized this without grad school, I say, “Well done.”

As this realization crystallized, I stopped attending religious services, except when there was a good reason to do so, like visiting family for the holidays. While there are many people who like to attend church only on Christmas and Easter, I find the holiday services even harder to sit through than that of an average Sunday. The sermons have a more sunny, populist bent as the celebrant plays to the crowd. While the liturgy and the hymns are familiar and soothe my need for repetitious ritual, the telling of the Christmas story grated more on me each time I heard it. Here is a good sample of words from the Christmas story: He, he, he, father, son, virgin, he, he, he. Nowhere in the Christmas story was there a place for me; hearing it alienated me even further. I remained annoyed until this year, when I recalled a few other words from the Christmas story: mother and child.

I am now able to very physically relate to the story. Mary, great with child, had to ride a donkey to Bethlehem for the census, then gave birth in a stable. I wouldn’t wish those things on anyone, much less a woman near her due date. The thought of giving birth in a stable, with only her husband for company, who certainly had not attended any birthing classes, is a sobering one. Was her labor long? How did she handle the pain? Was she afraid that she might die? Was Joseph helpful, or did he go outside and smoke till it was over?

This year, I chose to attend a church service because I wanted to. I did not, though, attend a conventional one. Instead, I chose one with a labyrinth walk, during which the celebrant read passages from The Message, a paraphrased version of the Bible, and a small group of musician’s played a selection of Christmas music. It had been over a year since I last walked a labyrinth, and I had missed it a lot. I found the paraphrase of the Christmas story mostly unoffensive, but aggravating in a few parts. I am aware that listening to a familiar story in unfamiliar words can allow listeners to really engage with it once again, but this technique in this instance did not work for me. My fingers twitched as I longed to shout out, “No, it’s ‘Be not afraid!’ you idiot!” Instead, I held my tongue. I did laugh aloud, though, during “Away in a Manger,” at this line: “The cattle are lowing, the poor baby wakes; But little lord Jesus, no crying he makes.” That, I thought, is how you know the story is mythologized.

It is mythologized. Jesus wasn’t born in December near the winter solstice. His birth, which can be established through historical records based on both when that census actually took place and the position of the star, probably happened in April, closer to Easter. But setting up religions and myths is hard work. Jesus’ birthday was grafted onto that of Mithras, another sun god. Likewise, his death probably did not take place in the spring–its memorial was merged into the spring equinox of birth, fertility and renewal; those bunnies and eggs are not just cute icons from Hallmark.

The Christmas story, then, is not completely “true”. But lots of stories aren’t technically true, yet they still have value. A novel isn’t true. Neither is the book of Esther, and everyone knew it and included it in the bible anyway–the “proper” bible, too, not even the apocrypha! I found something new in the Christmas story this year. I still got aggravated at points during the service I attended. But I also found things of worth–the meditation of the walk, the rhythms of the music, even the story, though I didn’t like the words with which it was told. I continue to wrestle with what I believe, but the struggle and its details have shifted over time.

This holiday season is a little different for us this year. My husband was laid off last month, and I resigned last May to stay home with our baby, now toddler, Drake. We are now a family of three with a new house, and no jobs. I gave some serious thought to setting aside a small budget for gifts. In the end, it became clear that even if we did small things, they would add up, so we opted out of buying presents entirely this year. Both our families were very understanding about this.

Since I haven’t been running about buying gifts, though, I have had a little time to ponder what I might have given. I came up with a fairly comprehensive list of virtual gifts for my family. And while I was wishing, I did jot down a few things for myself, as well: bras, and more importantly–time to shop for them; turtlenecks for this very cold winter; a new bulb for my sun lamp; and a babysitter. Exciting stuff, no?

Here’s the list of virtual gifts I thought about giving others, though it’s so late in the season that it will help nobody with their holiday shopping. The list is strangely missing books, music and movies. Apparently my giving spirit is disdaining the media this year. Instead, go visit your local library and appreciate a librarian and all the free books, music, movies and more that s/he can help you to find.

Sorry that this list is so late, folks, but it’s the holiday season–even without gift buying I’m working on a time delay. But since they’re all imaginary anyway, what if we imagine that they are on time, and real. Go ahead, take your pick. From me to you. Enjoy. Happy holidays.

Graeter’s ice cream–any flavor that has chocolate chips
A writer’s retreat–a weekend at a cabin in the woods, with meals taken care of
A new cream by Clinique to soothe redness-prone skin
A week’s stay at a mind/body wellness spa like The Golden Door
Framed Conde-Nast art
Zyliss garlic press
Microplane fine grater for lemon zest and parmesan cheese
Kitchenaid box grater
Subscription to Cook’s Illustrated
Subscription to Lucky magazine

I had lunch today with two friends, who swore that some image-obsessed New York women stay slim by taking black-market pills that contain tape worms. When they reach their desired weight, they take de-worming pills. I was all fired up to post about this craziness, but I took a quick detour to Snopes, the site that debunks urban legends. I wasn’t all that surprised to see the tape worm pill story.

I wonder if urban legends ever work backwards, and inspire copy-cat incidents in real life?

Often, I worry about my level of fear–that it’s too much, that I’m paranoid.

Last night, I went to get my hair cut. I parked across the busy, well-lit street from the busy, well-lit building that houses the salon, along with two crowded, mid- to up-scale restaurants. As I entered the building, I noticed that someone was behind me, very close. Uneasy, I moved my purse to the front of my body, and stuck out my other arm in a don’t-fuck-with-me posture. I walked quickly to the escalator, telling myself that I was probably imagining myself in danger.

The person, a tall man in a puffy jacket, got on the escalator behind me, and deliberately brushed my hand as he did so.

OK, so I wasn’t imagining it. I moved to the left up the escalator, walking quickly until I passed another person and stood in front of her. But as soon as I got off the escalator, I heard the swish of the guy’s jacket behind me. Fortunately, it was just a few yards to the salon. I veered in quickly, shaking my head in amazement. I turned to see the back of the man’s puffy coat go by, and a small boy with him, asking “Why are we in such a hurry?”

I have no idea why the man was following me. I was in my winter coat and hat, dressed plainly, not looking particularly attractive or prosperous. It gave me pause to think about what might have happened had it occurred in a place less bright and crowded, and if I had been farther from a destination.

I was glad that I reacted so quickly to my unease, even before getting confirmation that something was off. I have a lurid imagination, so it is sometimes hard to distinguish between valid instinct and overactive imagination.

I’ve been tired for a long time–in fact, since well before I had a baby. I didn’t sleep well during the pregnancy, and every time someone said, “Sleep now, while you can!” I wanted to punch them. Now, of course, I say the same thing to pregnant women I know. I wasn’t sleeping well, but I didn’t yet know the soul-crushing nature of ongoing sleep deprivation.

During the past two years, I have often opted for easier choices for my free time, sometimes with books, and especially with movies. “I don’t want something challenging,” I’d say, then I’d watch something like Shanghai Knights or The Italian Job. These weren’t exactly bad movies, but they most definitely weren’t good ones. I came away minus my free time, and somewhat entertained but with a less than fulfilling interior life.

As Drake’s sleeping habits have improved over the past several months, I have felt the fog lifting. I’ve stopped reading books that I didn’t find well-written. I’ve avoided movies that have mixed reviews, especially ones whose reviews read something like, “The movie is just OK, but the performance of person X is outstanding.”

Don’t get me wrong. There is a time and place for good bad movies, books, etc. The other night when we finished watching television, we saw that Galaxy Quest was on, and watched several minutes of it with enjoyment and no guilt. Galaxy Quest is a good example of a movie whose execution was above average. It’s not high art, but it’s well-done and entertaining. But there are far too many truly mediocre movies out there in comparison to the few that manage to rise above the pack.

There was a period in my life during which I actively shunned self-development. I wanted to have fun and not work at anything very hard. It is humbling to note that this behavior is not just part of my past, but something that crops up in times of fatigue and stress. In my lucid moments, though, of which I am having more and more, I know that I want better for myself. I want to read good books, watch good movies and television, eat healthful food that is well-prepared, exercise and seek out things that are both good and in some way good for me. Doing these is more challenging, as the more conscientious choices nearly always are. But they’re worth it, because I’m worth it. I sometimes forget that.

This new address is a little disorienting. I figure most of you have followed me from one of the old Blogger addresses at Girl Detective, or Mama Duck, but in any case, I feel the need to do a recap.

I’m Girl Detective. Previous a middle manager in a marketing department, now a stay at home mom. Reader, writer, sometime yogini.

When I was pregnant, I started a blog called Mama Duck, because instead of the usual metaphor of “bun in the oven” the one that popped into my head was that I had “a duck in the soup”. Thus I began to refer to the eventual baby as the duck. Now that he is fifteen plus months of actual, rather than imminent, I will now call him Drake.

I’m married to G. Grod, the father of Drake. He recently got laid off from his job. He’s an IT geek, and all tech matters related to this site are managed by him.