Letter B

You're My Obsession

I am totally developing a thing for Nigella Lawson. I know you're probably thinking, wait, is it 1999? But I have never actually seen any of her other shows due to my past lack of cable tv and while I like her cookbooks I am liking her much more in the flesh. (But then who doesn't? Christ. She puts the rack in rack of lamb, am I right?) I have been watching her new show on the Food Network, Nigella Feasts, since it started a few weeks ago. Her coquette act is a little much, and I find the recipes can be a little too british-y, but how can you not like someone who picks up a fried pork chop with her hands and bites into it because she can't wait to get it to the table? (Take that Giada De Laurentiis! How I despise you and your gigantic, glossy teeth). The only problem is that now I am pronouncing oregano "oraGAHNo" and I keep dumping worcestershire sauce in everything. Matthew would be annoyed but he too has been hypnotized by Nigella's boobs so he is supporting this little obsession.

Speaking of obsessions Matthew has turned into a total compost geek. It started this summer but it's getting a little out of control now that it's Fall. He is raking like a man possessed, muttering about carbon levels and green material. He is making off with other people's leaf bags from the curb. You should see the baleful look he'll shoot me if I accidently throw the coffee grounds in the garbage instead of in our little kitchen bin. I know when he is outside turning it because I can hear him cackling "Black gold! Black gold I tell ya!"  The other day I asked for a little to spread around some of our hydrangeas that didn't bloom this year (like I know what i am doing - it was a tip in Martha Stewart). It was like asking a crackhead for some of his rock. His eyes got all shifty and he said, "No way, I don't have enough." He has built a huge bin from pallets, has a garbage can tumbler and a big old-fashioned pile to boot but he doesn't have "enough." I might have to do some kind of intervention thing. I saw some vermiculture pamphlets and that's where I am drawing the line.

You may have noticed the the gun button over there in my right column. I am participating in NaPoBloMo, which stands for National Blog Posting Month. An idea from the great brain that is Fussy, the only thing you have to do to participate is post every day for the month of November. Why am I doing this? Because I like to set myself up for failure. No, no, because I really want to write more here and post more regularly and get back into the blogging groove. The last six months have taken their toll on this blog and I have thought about just shooting it and putting it out of it's misery but instead I will jump it with the battery of love and obsessive-compulsion. It may surprise you to know that I was a total school nerd (what? not surprised you say?) so having an assignment is just the kind of thing to make me actually post. No grade will be handed out but there is a chance for a free mug so, by gum, I'll be up late a lot, obsessing over some seriously mundane reportage. Wish me luck!

In The Pink

Matthew and I had a new experience the other day. We were cold, so we turned on the heat. Crazy. Understand that in most apartments in New York City you have no control over when the heat comes on. Or when it is turned off. Each building has it's own sadistic style of keeping you uncomfortable. In our last building they wouldn't turn on the heat without a court order and then to spite us, they turned it up to 11 all winter long. We were on the top floor so most of the winter our apartment was fairly tropical. Most nights I turned the air conditioner fan on in Lowell's room to keep him from being parboiled even though he was dressed only in a Winnie the Pooh loincloth. Imagine, then, our excitement as we stepped up to the thermostat when temperatures dipped the other day. We giggled like two schoolgirls as we turned it up. As the house warmed we did a little jig. And then, still not trusting these newfangled thermostat thingies, we turned it off. It was magical.

The only problem of course is now we have to pay for heat. Being cheap bastards, er, frugal types this means that we are trying to use it sparingly. At night we set the thermostat pretty low and since it's been below normal lately, it has gotten a little nippy. Lowell, like any normal toddler, scoffs at blankets. He looks at me when I try to put them on as if to say "you can't be serious. I will not be so encumbered woman!"  I have been a little stymied on how to keep him warm. Blanket sleepers (with footies, dammit) used to be easy to find but now that he's bigger it's not so simple. The other day at Target I finally found the right kind but of course there were none in his size. Then, wedged at the back of one row, I found a lone 2T pack.  Alas, it was the girl flavor. I thought, do I really care if he's dressed in pastel stripes and pink cupcakes as long as he's warm? No, I said. So I bought them.

Funnily enough I found myself avoiding them. I would stuff him into his older ones that were clearly too small or layer him in summer weight pjs and onesies. This kind of surprised me. Am I so conditioned by the gender fascism in this country that I can't put my boy in girly clothes that no one but me will see? I decided to stop being so silly. I zipped them on him and he looked at his arms and kind of furrowed his brows and cocked his head at me. Lowell has been learning his colors of late and loves to point them out. His car is blue! The ball is red! His shirt is green! It's such fun. For him. (No, no, I love it, but you know, repetitive).  So he started to point out the colors on his new pajamas. Boo? Yes blue. Gee? Yes, green. Then he stopped and looked at me quizzically, pointing to the next stripe. Pink, honey, that's called pink. Somehow we had missed that color. It is a little disturbing to me as I look at his toys and clothes and even many of his books that there is no trace of pink. Purple, check. Primary colors, you betcha. But pink? Not a trace. Isn't that weird? The majority of his clothing and toys are gifts but still, I fancy myself a free-thinker and I am really surprised how unconsciously I have toed the gender-specific line. It definitely gets noticed quickly by kids. Even at his young age I would swear that Lowell knew there was something different about those pajamas. Perhaps if it had been pink monster trucks it would not have phased him but I got the distinct feeling he felt there was something amiss. And not just because I was pointing and laughing at him.

(Edited to add this photo evidence).

Schmardcore

Gah. I know you don't want to hear me complain about having blogger's block because, honestly, what could be more boring. Instead here is a short list of what i might write about if I could muster up the snuff:

1. The current state of world and domestic affairs aka why I may actually go blind with rage any minute now.
2. Toddler call-and-response games.
3. My return to therapy so that I will not become a shut-in.
4. Tales from Matthew's new batch of students. (Didja ever swear on an essay n'sh*t?)
5. Dinner-making woes aka how much i miss, thee, delivery. O delivery!

I think this qualifies as my lamest post ever. Hoping that my mojo returns soon.