State of Grace

Our AlphaMom Video, or The TV Camera Really Does Add 15 Pounds to Your Frame

Dollin Readers, you know that I'm upfront and open with all of you.  Other than broadcasting my waist size, you know more about me than you probably care to know, including the shameful fact that now and again I fart  during yoga practice.

Well, I've been hiding something from you - an interview of Molly and me at  BlogHer 2006 with Leah Peterson, the much beloved blogger of Leahpeah. I'd like to go on record by saying that as an interviewer, Amanda Congdon has nothing on my girlfriend and hero, Leah.  So, back off, blondie.

Allow me to brag just a wee bit and tell you that this video is posted on the estimable online parenting media resource, AlphaMom.   Our encounter with Leah is listed alongside interviews of  way-more-popular-bloggers-than-me:  Amalah, A Girl and a Boy, Chookoolonks, Her Bad Mother, Jenandtonic, Joy Unexpected, Finslippy, Fluid Pudding, Fussy, Miss Zoot, Suburban Bliss and Sweetney.  The roster is topped off with the elegant, erstwhile Republican, Arianna Huffington of the Huffington Post.

The brilliant and cheekbone-intensive Isabel Kallman, founder and creator of AlphaMom, sent me the video link two months ago with these gentle, loving words:

I have stayed away from communicating with your very recently, but have not stopped thinking about you and your recent struggles.  I have been sending my warm vibes and will continue to do so.  Unconditionally your friend, I am.

While you were away, we posted almost all of the videos from BlogHer 06.  I purposefully did not post yours as it was time for reflection and I wanted to respect that.

I have posted yours and Molly's interview...if you prefer I can take it down and delay its viewing. But something non-verbal tells me it would be nice for you to see it and for others as well.

Two months later, the coast is a bit more clear and I'm ready to share.  But, before you click the Play Video icon, I'm going to grab your hand through the monitor and insist on telling you these all important preface remarks:

I wield that microphone as if it was a karaoke mike.  That's because as a Filipina I possess the gene for karaoke singing.  We all do, ask any of your Filipina friends.

I contradict myself multiple times.  The world is SAFE for kids! The world is NOT SAFE for kids! Then, back to - The world is SAFE for kids!  Allow me to summarize here  that the world is safe AND not safe for kids.

I said that Molly thought of me as a sort of mom version of Bill Murray.  I swear to God she said that.  I swear.

Yes, we had a professional do our make-up.  By the end of the taping, I hot-flashed it all off.

Molly is lovely and poised, isn't she?  I'm so proud of her that I could spit.  Fortunately, I managed not to do that on the set.

Molly also wants the World Wide Web to know that she has privacy issues with her mother.  Duly noted, kid.  Now go to your room while I hack your MySpace password.

All right, Mr. DeMille, I'm ready for my close-up:

 

A horse is a horse, of course, of course.

I wisely took a break from life's strum und drang and wrote a cheerful little post at BlogHer.org on Baby Boomer nostalgia.  I guess all that reminiscing about clogs got me thinking about patchouli oil and Jack Kerouac.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, settle down. I'm a mother, I have eyes on the back of my head and I can also hear you hollering on my side of the monitor. I know you GenX, GenY and Millennial punks are sick of Boomer tyranny.  You hurl when you're subjected to yet another Cialis commercial.  You don't want to hear about that freaky Chucky-like puppet, Howdy Doody.  And, you can do without another lecture from a droning 52 year old former hippie (now a real estate agent) on the perfectly pitched harmonies in the Crosby, Stills and Nash rock classic,  'Suite Judy Blue Eyes'. 

Yes, I hear you.  And, for what it's worth, I was too young for Howdy Doody and I prefer Radiohead to most of the music from the 70s. 

(The miracle of Cialis, however, is another story.   One that I should not discuss in detail here.   Let's just say - it works.)

Say what you want about Boomer cultural dominance.  But don't you mess with our sitcoms, most especially Mr. Ed, one of the focal points for my BlogHer post.

Behold - Mr. Ed, the talking horse, probably beating the crap out of Wilbur, the human in the skinny tie, in a game of chess.

Now, what the hell was Mr. Ed about?  Was it a Cold War allegory? If so, which one was the Commie, Mr. Ed or Wilbur?  Or, was it a treatise on the American encroachment upon nature?  Thus, was Mr. Ed a precursor for the animal-rights movement, inspiring the formation of PETA? 

Don't even try to answer any of those inquiries.  All I remember is that Wilbur was the only one who could hear Mr. Ed talk.  Such crazy-making for Wilbur, the poor SOB.  And that probably fed into the neuroses of us Boomer children, setting the stage for any number of future mental illnesses in our adulthood.

I need not torture you further with my theories and questions.  It's crazy-making enough that the minds of you Boomer readers have been triggered into playing the Mr. Ed theme song in an endless loop. 

And, you know how to get rid of "A horse is a horse, of course, of course", right?  Start up the Green Acres theme song.   Works every time, until you get sick of "Oh, New York is where I'd rather stay!"  Then, you have to move on to The Addams Family...

Yes, I'll stop now.  Now get your Brady Bunch behind over to BlogHer.

The Lasting Power of the Clog

September 11, 2007, originally uploaded by GraceD.

Lest you think that I've been walking around the planet in Eeyore mode, I have been, at the very least, getting dressed in the morning.  And, I've been documenting my wardrobe choices on a cheerful flickr group called 'The Working Closet', where a bunch of us hot mamas take pics of our fine selves, modeling the ensemble of the day.

My online rival for the hand of Stephen Colbert, Ms. Susan Wagner of the beloved, 'Friday Playdate', is the fashionista suprema behind Working Closet.   Susan's idea is a stroke of brilliance, as the endeavor of telling the world what you're wearing may seem humdrum, it actually serves as a prompt for insight, storytelling and soulful revelations.  For example, I find myself musing on the interesting or perhaps pathetic fact that I've been wearing the same old shit since 1971.  To wit, the caption from my self-portrait above:

I went for this knock-kneed pose not because I needed to pee, but rather to capture the head-to-toe-ness of this Classic Grace Davis ensemble.  "Classic Grace Davis" because it's comprised of three critical pieces I've had in my wardrobe for many a decade.

Top - Authentic French sailor sweater.  Thick cotton knit. Navy stripes on a creamy white.  Long sleeves, but roomy enough to fold up and the fabric is woven stiff enough to stay folded. Layer this baby or don't layer. I've had this top for 9 years.  I lost my previous French sailor top somewhere between husbands.  Alas, I had that beauty for 15 years (the sweater, not the husband.  Husband I had for 10 years.)

Jeans - Of course.  We all have jeans.  Well, maybe not the Dalai Lama or the Queen, but most of us own at least one pair.

Clogs - Have worn clogs since 1971.  I realize most of you were not even alive in 1971, but there you go, the lasting power of the clog.  These are the Dansko 'Professional' model in a whimsical red.

Then, in the spirit of The Working Closet, I describe my accessories.  This is de rigeur.  And, continuing on en français, I close with yet another demonstration of my fluency in that noble language:

My retro reading glasses from Longs Drugs.  Cheap chic!

I finally switched earrings.  These are from Mervyn's, on sale.

But, no Timex Ironman Watch. Quelle horreur!

Be assured, Dollin Reader, there's far more enlightened stuff in The Working Closet than my assault on the French tongue and my clog fetish.  I wrote about this group, my history as a snapshot-taker and my deep and abiding passion for flickr on BlogHer - Flickr Stories - True Tales and Snapshots.

And now to change into this morning's ensemble, which will be, for once, dressy.  Unfortunately, I have to go to a memorial service this morning for the sister of my dear friend Bonnie.  Pancreatic cancer.  Horrible, horrible, horrible.  A very, very sad loss. 

Hello Eeyore.

 

Cruel Summer

Closing in on Autumn.  View from the kitchen window., originally uploaded by GraceD.

I know -  it's nearly Autumn and it's about time I showed up on this blog.  It's taken a while to emerge from a heightened existential dread that accompanied a very Cruel Summer. 

Because of that,  I've been at a loss for words.  Well, at a loss for blogging-words as the kid will attest that my words flow freely in her direction. 

"Mom! Please! You're stressing me out!" sez the kid.

Wow, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree.  She sounds just like me.

When September rolled around, I thought about posting a wrap-up of the summer.  You know, a kind of checking in with everyone,  "what I did on my summer vacation", not unlike the essays we wrote in fourth grade. 

But, the thought was fleeting.  A chit-chatty report would have been tough, if not impossible.  Thus, I am reduced to terse paragraphs, as follows:

We went to London! We had big fun!

On our return we found out that my father was admitted to the hospital for pneumonia.

We celebrated birthdays and Molly got her drivers license!

In the meantime, my father's health was deteriorating as was the behavior of a certain family member.  More proof that there is a direct correlation between the onset of a crisis and the upswing of family dysfunction.

We enjoyed summer's bounty from the farmer's market all through July and ate wonderful meals of fresh organic salads! Lots of artisan cheeses and breads, too!

My father spent three weeks dying, was revived at one point despite a "No Code" order, then hung on to what became a painful existence on a respirator for a week and a half.

In that time, my father and I had a heartfelt talk.  I can't say more about this because it's sacred stuff.  I'll try to write about it once I can stop crying when I try to write about it.

My father died.  I was there.  Sometime I'll try to write about that, too.

Then, that certain family member began to flip out. 

It wasn't a flip out where you felt badly for the family member, the sort of thing that involved sobbing and fainting spells.  Instead, this family member became a tyrannical fuckhead (or, a "crazy ass bitch", as observed by my astute younger sister).  This family member fought with all of us, attempted to take over the planning of my father's services, and successfully hijacked the visitation and Rosary at the funeral home.  Essentially, she turned the Rosary and the funeral home room into an art installation, with netting laced around the room and  my father's casket, replacing the lighting with spooky candles, burning sage and incense, placing weird little tokens and do-dads here and there, and - get this - lining tomatoes and onions around our father's body in honor of  his career in the produce business.

Because of these antics, everyone was distracted from the central issue - that our father died and the loss felt awful.   Instead of attending to our grief (which, given my situation, is a profoundly difficult matter that requires big time therapy and a complicated cocktail of anti-depressive and anti-anxiety medications), we had to deal with taking vegetables out of my father's coffin.

Everyone stops speaking to her/that certain family member.

There's more, much more, a stunning amount of more.  But as I write this, I feel compelled to pick up our 20 zillion ton cast iron wood burning stove  in the living room and throw it off the deck.  I guess I'm still a bit angry.

Eventually, this mess should be discussed in finer detail because it had all the elements of a great Six Feet Under episode.  And since we all miss Six Feet Under, we really must  fill that void.

I attempt to go on a retreat at my favorite Zen Center.  I left early as I was feeling too fragile and jittery and should not have been alone in the first place.

The hubs and I go on a nice little vacation to Wine Country.  We drink lots and lots of wine.

We go on another little vacation to San Francisco.  We continue to drink lots and lots of wine.  Also, I went to a traditional Korean spa and got the scrub down and massage of my life by a mighty little Korean woman wearing a black bra and panties.  When asked why they don't wear swimsuits, they reply "swimsuits are for swimming."  Despite this odd attire, I need to go back as soon as humanly possible.

Molly gets a job as a hostess at a local popular Japanese restaurant.   She wears a uniform consisting of black pants, black shoes and a cute little kimono.  I will take a picture of her in that cute little kimono if it kills me, or her. 

Molly is gifted with her Dad's 1995 Honda Accord.  She immediately slaps a Red Sox die hard fan bumper sticker on the car, making it officially hers.

I become ordained and solemnize (not "sodomize", as the bride and groom kept snickering to each other) my pals Richard and Jennifer's wedding.  Then, we said goodbye as they moved up to Walla Walla to take over a winery.  (I miss you guys! Let me know when your mother throws a reception for y'all.  Walla Walla society needs to meet your sodomizer!)

The doctor increases my anti-depressant dosage.

I  marvel at my numbers on the weight scale.  I lost 8 pounds.  However, I do not recommend this weight loss program as it involves death, grieving, and a crazy ass bitch family member.

Clearly, I could go on.  I will at some point, if not for the cathartic effect, but to also have my due.  The magnificent Mrs. Eden Marriott-Kennedy tells us that Writing Well is the Best Revenge.  Whether I write well or not is a topic of rigorous debate.  However, revenge and justice should be rightly served in the matter  of "she", the crazy ass bitch certain family member.

And now, I want to lighten things up a bit.  Let us board the Wayback Machine to an innocent time when hair gel was a major player in our lives and our only ambitions were to bounce around on Manhattan rooftops wearing trendy baggy clothes.  Behold, the inspiration behind the title of this post - Banarama's "Cruel Summer":