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Saturday, February 21, 2004

Job well done 

There were blisters at the base of each of my fingers after the job was done. My hands were so swollen I couldn't get my rings off. In fact, they were cramped into little claws, so I had to drive home using only my palms and thumbs. My hips, shoulders and legs hurt -- and still do. My vision was blurry; my neck and back ached from hunching over. I might've even broken the equipment I'd brought. I was starving and exhausted. I'd stood shoulder to shoulder with stinky, pushy, but mostly nice people. And I'd done what I needed to do.

I bought 63 books, 39 hardback and 24 paperback. For $51.

Oklahoma City's Friends of the Library sale is this weekend, and, as always, it rocked. I shopped the presale Friday night, and though I'm still feeling the pain a day later, it was so worth it. Emma has 30 new books, I got a couple for friends and the rest for Adam and I. Friday night in the big town doesn't begin to sum it up -- there pretty much couldn't be a better night out for me. BOOKS. CHEAP.

I dragged a rolling duffel with me, and by the end of my scouring through tables and boxes, one of the wheels was a little bent. I couldn't use the long handle after that; I had to stoop and pull it by a strap. I think I might've actually worn holes in the bottom of the damn thing. (There's a slight chance they were already there. I suspect we'll be buying a new bag.) But it was so worth it.

Emma and I (and now and then, Adam) read 22 of her books today. She enjoys new (to her, at least) books nearly as much as I do. I bought some old favorites (like Be Nice to Spiders and Bunny Money), some we'd never read by favorite authors (Leo Lionni, Tracey Campbell Pearson, Gene Zion, Tedd Arnold, Pamela Duncan Edward) and many, many we'd never heard of but now love (Randy's Dandy Lions, The Salamander Room, Tessa's Tip-Tapping Toes, The Vegetables Go to Bed).

That's not nearly all -- and we haven't finished reading her pile -- and that's just for her.

I got a slew of Margaret Atwood. One Jennifer Crusie (so disappointed the sale I could only find one I haven't read). Ahab's Wife. Fear of Flying (for book club, no joke). A ton I've always wanted to read: In Cold Blood. Death in Venice. A Confederacy of Dunces. And also a bunch that I've read and want to own, like Emma, all of the John Irving I saw that I didn't already have on a shelf, the painfully depressing but also wonderful A Map of the World. Oh, and can't forget Middlesex and The Secret History. And even more I haven't read -- the memoir Cherry and true-story Casino. (For Adam, too.) Lots of lighter stuff, like Jemima J, Nothing is Terrible and
Lucy Sullivan is Getting Married. And there are more. Many, many more. Really.

Since we got TiVo, I was able to move a lot of Em's videos out of the den. The only VCR left in the house is in our room, so the Wiggles and Sesame Street and Baby Einstein now live in my closet, freeing up some valued bookshelf space. I had to do some rearranging, including filling a entire shelf on Em's bookcase that was formerly tchotchkes -- I knew we needed at least five shelves in there. New books are scattered through the entire house, thrilling me to no end. It's a sign of my exhaustion that I left them in various piles all night instead of finding homes for them immediately.

I could barely lift the duffel into the car. After I'd had to drag it three-quarters of a mile (stopping to switch numb hands and catch my breath) and up the biggest hill Oklahoma Fair Park has, I had to prop and shove and maneuver to get it in. This was after waiting in line with hundreds of people to pay for my booty -- all 63 pieces. (After the chest-to-body contact up and down the rows of the kids' section, I sat and sorted through my picks for Emma. I actually weeded out 20. Thank god, because I'm not sure I could've hauled one more.)

I sound like a newbie, but we're regulars at the sale. This was just the first year I'd gone without Adam or Emma -- without supervision. I handled myself prudently, if I do say so myself. And now I've got to go. I need to finish my last library read for a while -- books of my very, very own are calling me.


Em update 

Pics and news from the Phoenix trip up on Em's site. I was mostly behind the camera, so not a single shot of me. I'm heartbroken. Really.

Friday, February 20, 2004

Bubble baseball 

Let me just say that last night's game of bubble baseball -- with the gusting wind -- was a little different than our usual bouts. Folks who live across town probably wondered where in the world those floating spheres came from.

Bubble baseball is simple: Two huge bubble wands and a giant dish of bubble liquid. One person makes the bubbles -- which last night was as easy as holding the wand aloft -- and one bats the bubbles down. If you've never tried, bust out the bubbles. It's a great stress reliever.

Particularly with a preschooler at your feet, amazed at how far a gust can carry a bubble. We did a lot less popping than usual, because we could hardly catch up with a bubble before it was off.

Every day, Emma helps me find joy in the world. Drivers passed us and giggled at our antics, neighbors waved and laughed. And I happily skipped across our yard, as enthralled with the wind and weather and wonder of bubbles as she was.

Spa treatment 

The first time Adam and I visited my then-future mother-in-law, minutes off the plane, she offered to take me for a manicure. I refused, a little offended. I'd been engaged to her son less than two weeks and already Abby wanted to change me. (I didn't wear makeup then and needed to buy a dress for the trip -- I didn't own even one.)

A few days before our trip last week, she called and asked if I wanted to hit a salon with her. I eagerly accepted. A spa manicure with a paraffin dip and massage while Adam watched Emma? How could I resist the morning of pampering?

How much she and I have changed in the last eight years.

Want to know more? The rest of this post is over at DotMoms.

Thursday, February 19, 2004

Sweeping down the plain 

I'm dirty.

Not metaphorically, smart ass. Literally. I have grit in my teeth, dust in my eyes and little flecks of black grime on my face and in my hair. And said hair? A stringy, tangled bird's nest.

I know some folks still think Oklahoma is all farms and oil wells. And though we have those, too, I work in a gorgeous, collegiate-gothic building on a perfectly manicured campus in a beautiful town (which the Norman Convention and Visitors' Bureau has started calling "the biggest little city in Oklahoma." Boy, they need a new marketing person). I don't slop hogs or hoe fields. Though today, I look a little like I do. And campus looks a little like the country, too. Huge clouds of red dirt rush across the streets, down the sidewalks and over the flowerbeds. A girl next to me at a stoplight earlier naively had her window down -- must not be from here, though I can't blame her for enjoying the spring temps -- and got a faceful of earth as she gazed too long at a bulldozer.

Winds are gusting to 45 miles per hour today, pretty when you're watching the wheat wave or smelling the rain. Just plain dirty when fences block off construction on every corner, sand hurls through the air at your eyes and dust tornadoes threaten to overtake cautious pedestrians (who muddle on, clothes billowing like Superman, gazing straight at the ground).

If I didn't know the cold would be back tomorrow, I wouldn't bitch. It's 73 out there today, and in February, I'll take that just about however I can get it. But since the temperate weather is on its way out regardless, I won't worry about jinxing it. And it's not like I can take Emma to the park with the wind anyway. I bet bark mulch is flying like mad around the swings and over the slide.

I love this state.

Wednesday, February 18, 2004

I am not ashamed 

Try as I might tonight, I couldn't make my mouth form the words.

"I was sexually abused."

Once I'd decided I was going to say it, when discussion merited it, the chance was gone. And though I'd think, "The next time there's an opportunity," the topic would change again as I gathered my courage.

My book club discussed Rape: A Love Story (a novel by Joyce Carol Oates) and Lucky: A Memoir (by Alice Sebold, author of The Lovely Bones). Rape: A Love Story is from the point of view of a preteen girl whose mom is gang-raped while she hides and listens. Lucky is the account of Sebold's own rape and the aftermath. It's not like I was quiet tonight; I just couldn't figure out how to offer my perspective as a victim of sexual abuse without the evening focusing solely on me. (I faced a similar debate when we talked about White Oleander, the only novel that's ever captured my childhood. It wasn't the specifics of Astrid's story, but the essence that made it hit so close to home. And I had a hard time judging how much was too much to share.)

The need to say something filled my chest as I tried to decide how best to work it into the discussion. But there's no way to casually say, "My stepfather abused me when I was a kid, so I understand why Lila didn't want to come forward. Why some people can't fight back. What it's like to have someone else determine your sexual future. Has anyone tried the brownies?" There's no way that's a side conversation or that I can offer my two cents and then let the talk roll on. So I said what I felt without explaining why I felt it and decided that was enough.

Until the car ride home. I felt like I'd lied, to myself and to the group. Some of them are women I know very well; some I barely know at all. But I didn't trust them, or me, enough to just say it and deal with what followed.

I'm not ashamed. I'm not embarrassed. I'm not afraid to talk about it. It's just not something that comes up in everyday conversation -- even when the conversation is rape. So if you're a friend and I haven't told you, that's why. If you want to know more, regardless of whether I know you, ask. It's really OK.

It's a story like thousands and thousands of others, so there's no need to go into it here. I was young. He was my mother's husband. I didn't really deal with it until much later, in therapy, though it shaped my relationships with men for years and years. My mom knew it was happening, though when I confronted her at 22, she swore she didn't. In a cocaine haze? frenzy? rage?, though, when I was 8 or 9, she held me up against a wall and asked why I was trying to steal her husband. She knew.

It's over. It doesn't affect my day-to-day life anymore, though I occasionally have nightmares about being in a situation where I have no power to hurt my attacker. I used to dream about it a lot, obsess about the things I did as a teen and how they were tied to what had happened. Reading Random Family, with its generations of abuse, was painful. And it wasn't until recently I realized some things my stepsisters did to me (which should likely be termed abuse as well, but it's hard to label because they were barely older than me) were probably because he'd done the same to them. I was shocked that it had taken me more than 20 years to figure out.

And it's taken me that long to make this public announcement: I was sexually abused.

I might've been a victim then, and in the years and many of the relationships that followed, but I'm not anymore. And I'm not afraid to say so.

Simple longings 

I adore Target. I love Old Navy. Gap and Gymboree are more-expensive favorites.

But god forbid I want to buy Emma a plain white T-shirt. No embroidery, no ruffled collar, no peasant neck or screened logo or teeny sunshine or frills. It's not out there.

My preschooler doesn't need outfits. She needs mix-and-match clothes. I want simple shirts that coordinate with practical pants. She doesn't need plaids and stripes and patterns that only work if you buy the matching piece at exactly the same time -- and don't ever try to wear them with anything else.

Old Navy used to sell solid-color shirts, with short or long sleeves. Granted, they had a teeny bow at the neck, but I could deal with that. But one hasn't been found in at least two seasons. Her white shirt for fall and winter -- the one needed to layer with a million things -- has a split neck that makes it weird underneath anything else. And it was the closest thing I could find. I just bought two at Target for spring: One has little see-through ribs and one is ruffled around the neck, sleeves and bottom.

We hit the boys' section now and then, and we've had a little better luck. But those clothes are cut differently. So we deal with the frills and the leggings that are so oddly colored the only thing that matches is said white T-shirt. I try not to buy patterns without knowing immediately what she'll wear with them; otherwise they sit in the drawer, unused.

I buy in outfits when I have to. But I hate the red flower on the cuff on the jeans, ensuring it's worn only with matching red top. I need to get as much use out of these clothes as possible -- it's still winter here, and she's already going up a size. They need to be cheap, they need to last and they need to match. We don't go for the lacy dresses and sets that come complete with shell (whose 3-year-old knows what a shell is?), cardigan, capris, sandals and sunglasses. Jeans and t-shirts suit us just fine. So someone should make some that work for us. Is that too much to ask?

Death for the undead 

After watching last week's Angel episode last night (we TiVo'd it while gone), I don't even mind that the show is ending. And I doubt tonight's puppet show will convince me to join the Save Angel minions.

We tried Angel in Season 1 and quickly gave up after a couple of episodes. It just didn't compare to the quality of Buffy then. We revisited the show last season, when there were so many crossovers we didn't have much choice. I didn't love the whole Jasmine arc, but we watched anyway. And then Buffy was over and Angel was my only link to that world.

A friend loaned me seasons 1 and 2 on DVD, and they amazed me. The shows were so much better than the last seasons of Buffy, snarky and dark and fun. I fell in love with the characters and stayed interested enough to watch when this season began, but it just didn't compare. I'm still looking forward to watching seasons 3 and 4, and we'll finish out this year, too.

Even so, I'm not disappointed to say goodbye to the series, though Cordy's recent appearance made me cry. Rumors say producers are discussing a move to UPN, and I'd follow the show if it went. But it's because my love for the characters started years ago, not because they deserve it now.

Monday, February 16, 2004

Bright lights, big city 

There's a lot to be said for a city the size of Phoenix.

We had 30 movies to choose from -- at one theater -- this week. There aren't 30 movies in all of Norman. If we want something "artsy" (and everything from The Hours to Whale Rider to Lost in Translation to Boys Don't Cry qualifies), we have to drive 45 minutes.

You can't swing a cat without hitting a good restaurant. We've eaten out a lot since we've been here and had great food almost entirely across the board. Adam had what he called "the best friggin' hamburger ever" at Cooper'sTown today, though I learned Oklahoma BBQ is much, much better than Alice Cooper's. Our waitress was covered in leopard-spot tattoos and had large rings inserted under the skin of her inner arms, though, providing us with a great conversation starter. We had some of the best pizza ever at Anzio's.We're going someplace called Elephant Bar for dinner. And who can say no to In-n-Out, where I graciously picked up the $12 check (and fed four)? Even the mall Mexican we had for lunch yesterday was amazing. We didn't even hit favorites like P.F. Chang's. I could eat breakfast, lunch and dinner every day for months without having to frequent the same establishment.

We visited the Arizona Science Center, which was better than the OKC's Omniplex and Dallas's SciencePlace combined. Most of the exhibits were a little old for Emma, but we still find plenty for her to do. We thought of a ton of other places we could go, including the zoo, the Desert Botanical Gardens and more.

I won't even mention the shopping, except to say there are malls bigger than OU's campus.

But, truth is, we never go to the movies. We don't need to choose from 30 at a time.

We love Norman's restaurants. So I don't have the variety. I can have great Thai, Chinese, Italian, Indian and the world's best burgers -- not to mention BBQ -- without driving more than five minutes.

Oh, and driving. In Phoenix, you don't think twice about living 45 minutes from work. Or your doctor's office. Or, heck, driving that far to pick up takeout or a movie or a prescription or paper towels. I go weeks without being in the car that long.

And there are so many things for Em to do at home, not the least of which is hang out with our dear, dear friends.

So while I'm a little dazed from tooling around in my in-law's new Bravada, a luxury SUV if there ever was one, and sitting by the pool in February and exhausting myself shopping, the truth is, we love where we live. If we can't get a tattoo or buy liquor on Sundays (or anything other than 3.2 beer at the grocery store ever), that's OK. We're all done with tattoos -- or at least I am, we'll see about Adam -- and Em won't be able to get one on the spur of the moment; she'll have to drive to Dallas. And the liquor above our fridge has been there for years, so we'd have something to offer if the need arose on a church day. Adam touts professional sports as an advantage, but he loves Sooner football more than he'd ever care about the Cardinals, Suns or D'Backs. And he does miss the mountains. I'll give him that. But even as I enjoy the view and Emma celebrating every cactus, I love Oklahoma's wildflowers and trees and seasons.

We'll just enjoy the big city while we're here. Norman's much more my size.

Besides, I hear it's going to be in the 60s the rest of the week at home, hitting 70 by the weekend. Oklahoma, here I come.

Sunday, February 15, 2004

Whopper 

For our big date last night, Adam and I went to a movie. Nope, not a fancy meal (all the restaurants in Phoenix were booked weeks ago or would've had us waiting for hours) or club hopping at the hot spots (we couldn't tell you the in places in Oklahoma City, much less here). But as we only get to about three movies a year, a theater -- with 30 screens no less -- was plenty.

Even with 30 flicks to choose from, picking was very easy for us. When you go to the movies no more often than we do, you get pretty choosy. We were interested in Cold Mountain and Monster, but neither seemed appropriate Valentine fare. We really want to see Lost in Translation, but NetFlix probably has the DVD waiting for us at home. We'd both wanted to see Big Fish when it came out, so it won. Yes, it's months old. Like I said, we only do this a couple times a year.

I was a little nervous because it had gotten mediocre reviews. And while it didn't tug my heartstrings or jerk my tears quite the way it did for some -- women walking out of the theater had very red and puffy eyes and a few conversations at a BBQ here tonight revolved around sobbing at the movie -- it was a sweet way to spend an evening.

It's very different from some other Tim Burton films we like -- Edward Scissorhands, Ed Wood, Mars Attacks. I adore Ewan McGregor, but he was so into Ed Bloom that he was hardly the same actor. Anyone could've played Billy Crudup's role, though; he was hardly noticeable. You can't help but notice Albert Finney, however. His dying-old-man portrayal actually made me physically uncomfortable a time or two. Just the way he licked his lips reminded me of every sick elderly person I've ever known. Alison Lohman looks so much like a young Jessica Lange it's a little creepy (as was the fact that she looked 12 and McGregor looked 35, and they were a couple). I have to point out that I recognized Helena Bonham Carter, without knowing she was in the movie beforehand, from one creepy eye with the rest of her features buried under prosthetics. (What can I say? It's a talent.) In fact, there were a few surprises. No movie can go wrong with Robert Guillaume. Even if SportsNight weren't the greatest show to last 2.5 seasons, we'd watch it over and over just to see him as Isaac. And Danny DeVito was much better here than in the recent episode of Friends.

Maybe I didn't go home wanting to embellish my life to share the stories with Em, but that could be because if I exaggerate, they tend to get scarier rather than funny. (I often get a sympathy "Oh, Lori!" when I recount a childhood anecdote that makes me laugh. Other folks tend to be frightened or pity me.) But I did want to share my life with her, to make sure she understands who I am. And as Adam claims I exaggerate constantly already -- mostly about him, it seems -- I guess I've got a bit of Ed Bloom in me, after all.


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