Because Carla's become my new model for the Ideal Woman

Me: I'm so excited! I've been invited to be speak at a conference for women!
(In my head: In CALIFORNIA!!!!)

Him (friend, single, no kids): Is it all about family, children and work, and having a Work - Life balance?

Me: YES! (pause) How did you know that?

Him: It's all women ever talk about.


It's true! I went there! To CALIFORNIA! And it was so fun! And comraderie-ic, and old-friend-ful and helpful! and interesting!

And I didn't really "speak", I more like "moderated a panel" - but still! People laughed at my jokes! And the examples from "Scrubs" that I used to exemplify the life-paths women choose!

And now I'm monstrously behind at home AND work! WHEEEE! (But not my immediate clients! NosirreeBob. THAT I'm up to date on. Laundry? Not so much. Theoretical future customers - marketing? Brahahahahaha (wipes tears from eyes). Not so much.) Ah well. It was well worth it.

Read more!

But where are you , , , uh , , , er , , , FROM?

So, the beautiful and lovely (look at her jaw line!) Grace has referred to me.

Gawd, she's a sweetie.

She's got a great post up on racial inquiries. Namely, can you ever ask someone their ethnicity? Or does it just piss people off? Especially if the ask-er is white?

The truth is, I asked Grace this racial-etiquette question in an email! It's true, I did. (Like she hadn't thought about this topic on her own . . .)

The truth is, she had this interesting post up about race a few weeks back. I really, really wanted to ask her my etiquette question in the comments - and then thought - gawd, I do not want to incite an internet smackdown on my poor self. So I will just ask her in an email! (Because I'm pretty sure the answer is: No! No, you May Not!)(As I often say to my children.)(For, usually, other reasons.)

This was the real experience(s) behind my question for Grace . . .

Although I now live in a mostly-white town in an otherwise predominantly-hispanic state, I went to college in California. Which, as we all know, has some of everybody. (The first city to have a community from every participating country in the Olympics living within it! Los Angeles 1984! Or . . . so I've heard.) ANYWAY, it just so happens, as it were, my closest friend in college was Korean-American. Raised in Iowa. And, as it happens, we happened to go to Europe together after college. With two of our other buddies. One Chinese-American, the other a handsome, genius Jew. Both dudes. NOTHING WAS GOING ON with any of us. For the record.

And two things happened on that trip.

One was - wherever we went, but for some reason especially in Germany, everyone asked my girlfriend K. "where she was from." EVERYONE. And, although my girlfriend knew exactly what they meant, she would not give it to them. "Iowa" she would say. Then followed more fumbling and embarrasement by the ask-er. No, no, I mean - where are you FROM? Oh, now, you mean? California. And the ask-er would look pleadingly at me, and I would just . . . b a c k away, and eventually we would extricate ourselves from this heinous conversation. Until we ran into someone else who asked.

It got so bad, in one little German town, which I don't even remember the name of now, but it was quaint and on a river and touristy and full of old, drunken German tourists, and was really cute and kind of fun - she wanted to go back to the hotel room and would not come out. One of the most personable, adventurous people I know. WOULD NOT COME OUT.

I kept asking, Why? Come on! Let's go! It's so cute! And German-y! And full of old people! And with her adament refusal, I had to think back on our day. And everywhere we went - I guess it was all that German drunkeness - they not only asked where she was from, she of her cute Korean-American self, they also wanted to, like, pet her. Touch her hair, look in her eyes, pat her head.

Okay. I could see that would be annoying. A whole town of older, drunken, petting people . . . I hung in with her, and we left early the next morning while the revelers were still nursing their heads.

The other thing that happened - and this I did not even realize until much later - is that, because we were basically two white people and two Asian people traveling together - the two each consisting of one male and one female - everyone assumed we were two couples. Which really pissed off our handsome Jewish friend, who was trying to flirt everywhere, and having me address him almost sent him through the roof. You could see the crestfallen look on the girl's face in the train window that he'd been making eyes with from the platform whenever I (cluelessly) approached . . . but someone else had to actually explain to me why that kept happening. (In my mind? Clearly we were not a couple. One of my best friends from college, yes. But romance? No. Ditto K. and well, actually, K. Clearly, in our minds, THEY were not a couple. WHY DID EVERYONE KEEP THINKING THAT? Gawd!)(That's your twenties for you. In a nutshell.)

I've also made my fair share of dopey racial faux pas. (I'm probably making one right now! It's like that Seinfeld episode: are we allowed to talk about this? I don't think we can talk this. We better stop talking about this.) Okay, here's one. I went to BlogHer last year. And I was introduced to a famous Asian-American blogger, in the sort of: have you guys met? sort of way. Okay, I'll admit right here, I'd only read her site at the time maybe once or twice. Also, I knew there was another famous Asian-American blogger there. Okay, okay, you can see where this is going. Basically I blurt out the name of the OTHER famous blogger.

And I can just see a mask fall down over her face, and I am frozen out. I don't know exactly what she was thinking, but something along the lines of: so you white person think all us Asian American bloggers look alike....Or anyway, that's what it felt like. I just b a c k e d slowly away. There was no way to save my Dumb White Ass at that point. ("No! Really! I'm not a racist! I've just never read your blog!" Something like that would have helped?)

You can see why I'd ask Grace this question via email rather than in the comments. I did not want to bring any of that You Dumb White Girl internet business down on me. Better to do it in email! Plus, she was so warm and real when I met her, I did not think the question would piss HER off. Or, if it did, she would tell me, and that would be fair.

And now, probably mostly inspired by a million other events in her life, there is a lovely answer up on her blog!! Lucky me. Thank you, Grace.

Read more!

Maybe I forgot to do something . . . ?

Gawd. It's 3! And I'm up!

Because, you know. I was tired of this whole "I'm so tired all the time" thing, so I went to bed early. Okay, earlier.

Instead, one kid crawls in our bed (but that's normal) right about the time the other kid yells out in her dream. (Should I go see how she is? Did it wake her up? Would it be some kind of insight into her psyche if only I could have understood what she said?)

And for some reason I laid there and laid there and laid there until that got boring, and here I am.

Gawd.

Read more!

The Dog Ate My Homework

This is my new theory, which I could, in fact, be completely wrong about.

Now that I've gone back to work...blahblahblah working mom...I don't know where to put the blog. You know, in my head.

Like, I take bills to work from home. But I don't pay them. Because I'm not even at work full-time, and I don't have time during the day to get all the work things done I want to do (all that "extra" stuff I should be doing), so the home bills? Ha ha. That's a good one.

I don't take work home, much. Because I know. I mean, come on. I know. Plus, since I'm not there full-time either**, I feel like when I am with my girls, I should *be* with my girls. I still need to make some phone calls, or forward some emails, and take calls, and keep track of a lot of things in my head. But let's get real. When I'm hanging out with a two year old and a four year old, there's not a lot of work going on RIGHT THEN.

The blog - that's just something I do for me. WORK is something I do for me. So I can't do blogging at home because I'm already not at home so much. And I can't do blogging at work because - work. I have work to do.

There. That's my excuse and I'm sticking to it.

(Here's the real excuse . Because the kids go to bed eventually. And couldn't I, indeed, blog then?)

**Aha! I just realized something. Because I have not been detailing my very existence moment by moment, as I am otherwise wont to do here . . . there is some vital information you don't have! My nanny / babysitter went part time. Good for me and the kids, theoretically, not so good for the work thing. She needed to do it, I understand; I'm glad we still have her some. But still. I think the date of my getting-less-help directly corresponds to my getting-less-done. And the blog? First to go. Damn.

(Not "go" go. Just my excuse for the drastic slowdown. Which, when I start pouring all my thoughts out and rubbing them all over the screen here, seems like I should get back to doing this again. I mean, it's cathartic to ME. And it's not like the quality can go down much more! (Or can it?! Shall we see??!) I'll just open my head, pour out some contents, and Post.)

Read more!

I'm a puddle

Little Big Girl recently learned a new song, apparently at her preschool, or possibly from a child at her preschool. And although I have yet to hear the actual song, it appears to end with the phase: Whoops, I'm a puddle.

I guess it's about a snowman.

Anyway, Tiny Person thinks this ending is hysterical. And, conveniently, applicable in almost any situation. She now tags it on as the end to all her songs. Some of which end, I might add, quite abrubtly.

Witness:

Jingle bells, batman smells, WHOOPS! I'm a puddle.

(Yes, we are STILL singing the jingle bells song around here, because when you sing the Batman Smells version, it's ALWAYS in season.)

Also, we have:

And when yuur only haf way up you're WHOOPS! I'm a puddle.

And last but not least, and not even last:

The itsy bitsy spiiiida went up the wata spout . . . down came the rain and WHOOPS! I'm a puddle.

. . . It's beginning to grow on me.


(WHAT? Can I really do this? Can I be gone from blogworld for, like, ten months and then just put up some random post about kids songs? Er, yes. For now. Spousal needs the puter. More later. Out.)

Read more!