Lawyerish

A Very Fine Fall

I always think it's a brilliant idea to run a half marathon until I'm actually running it.  We trekked out to Brooklyn yesterday to run twice around Prospect Park -- which, it turns out, is basically one giant hill -- then out Ocean Parkway to Coney Island. 

It was warm and humid and very sunny, a perfect day for lazing in the park or on the beach, but less so for running, especially since they were short on volunteers and many of the fluid stations ended up being self-serve.  I guess I'm spoiled, but I'm not a fan of being elbowed by hundreds of sweaty runners and having to leap over the table to dunk my own cup into a trash can of water just to prevent death by dehydration.  Of course, I was grateful that it was about ten degrees cooler than the More Half Marathon last month, during which I nearly burst into flames before we even crossed the starting line.  In any event, it appears I perform better when it's 14 degrees out than when it's a balmy 75.  Good to know.

The crowning moment of the race was just after I turned onto the Coney Island boardwalk, a few hundred meters from the finish.  As I headed toward the blessed, blessed end of the hot, hilly ordeal, I thought to myself, "I should be careful; these boards don't seem entirely ev--  OOOOOHHHHHH, SHHIIIIIIIIIIIIT!" 

I must have stumbled for about 20 paces, trying mightily to prevent the inevitable and screaming the entire time, and then I skidded for a while on my knees until I came to a halt, stunned and sweating and unable to look at my legs in case there might be splinters and blood and skin hanging off in unusual configurations.  As I'd fallen -- it happened in slow motion, as it always does -- I had heard the spectators gasp collectively, unable to intervene, and saw in my peripheral vision a few runners trying to get out of my path of self-destruction.  When I came to a stop, a few women runners asked if I was ok and helped me up, and then I sort of staggered/jogged to the end, trying not to cry or hyperventilate. 

It turned out my scrapes weren't terribly bloody or splintery, so it wasn't as bad as it could have been, but OH, the humiliation.  At least I have a better excuse for having a slower time other than my lack of training. 

Meanwhile, it was the dog's birthday this week; he's six.  As it turns out, we are Those People who buy their dog a "Pup-Pie" and sing Happy Birthday to him.  To the dog.  And then we give him a special chew toy and take him to the park and reminisce about our years together. 

They really have been great years, and I'll spare you the mush-fest about how much contentment this small canine brings to our days, except to sum up thusly:  he loves his long walks in the park; he says goodbye to me every morning by coming over and putting his paw on my knee while I crouch down and scratch his back; he cuddles up with us on the couch for movie night; he sits on my lap when I'm working at the desk; he lays his head next to mine on my pillow at night.   

Here he is today in the park (his nose and face are going white, but that's typical for his breed even at an early age -- they're supposed to live to fifteen, which means I expect him to live to at least forty): 

His first day home, back in August 2003:

First outing to Central Park:

Happy times with our pup:

What a good boy.

Listy

I just crossed two items off my list of 100 Things, thanks to our trip to Hawaii, which as you know included riding in a helicopter (Number 80) and hiking lava fields (Number 6), and I got to knock off a third due to the impending publication of Meant to Be (Number 97).  I managed somehow not to swim in a waterfall during our time in Hawaii, so we'll have to go back in order for me to cross off Number 87.  (Such hardship!)  We would have swam (swum?) in a waterfall if the concierge at the Hyatt had actually booked our zipline/hiking/waterfall-swimming tour as I'd requested weeks in advance, but...oh well.

I don't have any trips on the horizon that will accomplish other List Items, so I'll have to use the summer as an opportunity to cross off others that I can do locally.  In fact, next weekend we're running the Brooklyn Half-Marathon, which ends at Coney Island, so unless I collapse somewhere short of the finish line, that'll be another one down.  For me, the act of striking through something on a list is one of the most satisfying things in life, and anyway at the moment it's good to have goals that are reasonably attainable so I don't sit around thinking about certain EPIC FAILS in recent history. 

We're going to Chicago for the long July 4 weekend and I'm excited for that -- we've got loads of people to see and LOTS of local food to eat:  Chicago-style pizza, obvs, plus Harold's Chicken, Chicago-style hot dogs, anything and everything that's available at Taste of Chicago, ballpark food at the Cubs game, and one fancy dinner at NoMI at the Park Hyatt, where we're staying.  Note to self:  pack running shoes and a gallon jug of Pepto.  

After that, we're going to visit Allison and David and Maggie, and at some point we'll make some other family visits (did you know I'm going to have a niece soon?  Like in a few weeks?  WELL I AM!  So clearly there will have to be a visit to sniff her baby head and also sneak her back to New York with me, because Seattle?  TOO FAR).  I need to get a Big Trip on the calendar for sometime in the late fall.  Something that will require guidebook reading and detailed planning and the like.  Am considering. 

Randomly, have you tried Wheat Thins Artisan Crackers?  Holy Moses, those are delicious and also quasi-wholesome.  I tried the Colby ones today and nearly ran off with the box to find a quiet, dark place to be alone and methodically shove the contents into my face without fear of interruption.  YUM. 

Also delicious:  Raisin Bran Extra! cereal.   I could really do without the exclamation point -- it feels like a lot of pressure first thing in the morning -- but the cereal itself is fantastic.  The "Extra!" is dried cranberries, almonds and (ohhhh, mama) yogurt clusters.  I don't know what has caused the profusion in yogurt clusters in breakfast cereals in recent years, but I applaud it. 

Not so enjoyable, on the other hand?  "Tropic Thunder."  I'm not sure if there are enough words in the English language for me to express how much I disliked that movie.  For now, I'll go with:  offensive, tedious, juvenile and unfunny.  You all know that I'm not a cinematic snob (Exhibit A: "Harold and Kumar" -- WHICH I LOVE), but we both found this thing to be unwatchable. 

I may be stoned for saying that I didn't think "The Curious Case of Benjamin Button" was all that great, either.  It COULD have been good, and it wasn't AWFUL or anything; I just felt like there was so much MORE they could have done.  Brad Pitt seemed like he was acting under the influence of a horse tranquilizer; there was so much depth of emotion he could have plumbed in that character, but you got NOTHING from him.  He was basically BLANK for 90% of it.  Most actors would have killed for that kind of role with so many layers and nuances to explore, but he was barely even there.  So frustrating. 

Oh, and the frame story was completely unnecessary.  Oh -- OH!! -- PLUS, Cate Blanchett's character was supposed to be a ballet dancer, and she kept saying things that were WRONG about ballet, like how she auditioned for the School of American Ballet and "ended up stuck in the corps."  No.  NO.  You do not audition for the SCHOOL and end up in the CORPS, which is part of the COMPANY.  Do people not research these things?  If "Center Stage" could get it (mostly) right, then an Oscar contender/faux-intellectual film ought to be able to.

On the other hand, it was beautifully shot and the makeup people did very well.  Really, I didn't hate it.  And since when do I seem to fancy myself a movie critic, anyway?  Something tells me I need to get out more. 

All Over the Place

Do you ever have one of those days where you feel all wrong, just completely wrong, like you have stupid, assy hair and your clothes are pulling and wrinkling in all the wrong places and you have piano legs and you feel so bloated you might actually explode out of your suit and your makeup is lame and you suspect that you walk like a truck driver and you have an unidentifiable stain on your shirt and there are errant threads hanging from your sleeve and the shoulder strap on your bag keeps coming off and a giant zit is threatening to eclipse your nose and your forehead is irreversibly creased in the middle from the constant furrowing and your eyes are gooey and red from allergies and you feel so heavy on your feet that you wonder if your legs might actually get shorter as you walk (like a truck driver) and you're late for something important and your computer crashes when you need to send an email and the phone won't stop ringing and you generally fail at life?

No?  Just me, then?

Separately, I would like to ban the phrase "_______ is the new black" from the English language.  Also "in these economic times" (and any variation thereof -- "in these tough economic times", "in today's economic times", etc.). 

I would also like to express my general disapproval of strange men who say, "Good morning" as a woman passes and then, when she doesn't respond, they yell, "GOOD MORNING."  It happened twice today (it's the warm weather, happens every year; unwanted attention increases a millionfold the moment spring hits).  And both times, by the way, the offenders were cops.  Cops!  (They were totally talking to the woman I was walking with, by the way, not to me).  So it's not like you can turn around and give them a one-fingered salute.  This might be even worse than men telling you to smile, which I know we've discussed before.  Not cool.

Meanwhile, I watched the premiere of "The Bachelorette" the other night (lord help me), and Big Mama pretty much summed it up:  horrifying shirt/tie combos, a white dress with a train that got progressively wetter and dirtier as the B-ette greeted all the men, and a toolish, not-cute pool of guys with fussy hair that made me pity poor Jillian. 

One of the guys -- a "fitness model" -- actually said, "Let's hug it out" when he came out of the limo to meet her, and then said it AGAIN about five seconds later when they were done with their awkward hellos.  Then there was the guy who mumbled something about it being a dream come true to be there with her, and then (oh, God), then he trailed off and STARED AT HIS FEET for an agonizing thirty seconds or so, or maybe ten minutes, as if he were about to burst into TEARS.  It was interminable and awkward and you just wanted it to STOP.  I'm surprised he didn't just hightail it back into the limo and ask to be driven off the nearest cliff.  Then there was the breakdancing instructor, which: ....  Yeah.  Oh, Jillian.  Good luck to you.  

Finally, I just learned a few moments ago that there is a new Frosty at Wendy's involving a swirl of coffee and -- hold me -- Heath bar pieces.  I feel that I must try this in order for my life to be complete.       

Have a great Memorial Day weekend, everyone! 

Highbrow/Lowbrow

We watched The Wrestler this weekend, and man!  That was not a light-hearted romp, was it?  But I loved it.  Mickey Rourke was stunning; he gave an incredibly nuanced performance, one hundred percent committed -- to the point that the film seemed like a documentary.  (Seriously, what has he been doing to his face for the past couple of decades?  Ramming it repeatedly into a cinder block wall?  It sure worked for this role, but shew -- that must have been some hard living).

And, oh, it was SAD.  I'm not giving away any crucial plot point by telling you that there's a moment where he goes to pick out a present for someone, and he rather merrily picks out this thing that's so obviously wrong but he doesn't realize it and he means so well but he's so misguided and he looks so happy looking at it and you could just DIE.

Stuff like that makes me all hurty -- in fact, even under the best of circumstances, there's something a little bit sad about someone picking out a present: they want to get just the right thing, they hold things up and inspect them and picture the person opening it, they contemplate various options and finally settle on something, and they carefully wrap it, then hand it over a bit hesitantly, hoping at the last second that they didn't get the wrong thing. 

OH.  It's sort of heartbreaking on some level. 

Which, now that I think about it, is weird for me to say because honestly, someone could give me a stick they picked up off the ground on the walk over to my house and I'd be touched and flattered and downright thrilled.  It's not like the sadness has to derive from the giver getting it wrong; it's more that gift-giving is one of life's little vulnerabilities -- it's the sort of thing you can't give too much thought, or it becomes too poignant to bear.  

Also in this category:  old men eating alone in restaurants (I can't even look); someone standing with a tray in a cafeteria, gazing around for somewhere to sit (an obvious one, but undeniably horrid); a mom watching the ice cream fall off her cone onto the ground (this happened to my mom once when we went to get ice cream from a truck down the street when I was about five, and to this day it makes me want to cry -- that nice fresh vanilla cone and her anticipation of enjoying it and the bright sunny day that merited a special treat and then, THUD, the whole thing toppling right into the gutter and I wanted her to take my ice cream but of course she wouldn't...it's TOO MUCH). 

In the book "Prep", the main character watches her father dunk a cookie into his coffee, and she thinks of how sad it is, how he's giving himself a little treat, and it's one of the (many) moments in the book where I just think, YES.  She captures so perfectly so many of those thoughts and passing moments in life that are so difficult to put into words and that we probably believe we're alone in experiencing, as we watch other people's frailties unfold. 

I re-read "Prep" a few weeks ago, and I can't tell you how much I wish I'd written it.  It says so many things I've wanted to say but haven't been able to, about awkwardness, about excruciating social situations, about boxing yourself into being a certain way by overthinking other people's expectations.  It also makes me want to get back into working on my own writing, which I always SAY I want to do, but this time it feels more urgent, like I've just been reminded of what I came into the room to do even though the thought left me as soon as I stood up from the couch.

(Incidentally, I'm reading "American Wife" now, and it's fine, but it doesn't have the same flashes of recognition (I had lots in "The Man of My Dreams", too) and it's a bit more detached, and also I'm not sure that all of the, ah, adult scenes are especially necessary -- I get what she's trying to do, but it strikes me as trying a little too hard). 

All this to say, with all of the unsubtle movies and books out there, I love it when something makes me really feel and think without bludgeoning me over the head with it (I'm looking at you, Spielberg and Hanks). 

Not that there's anything wrong with gaudy pop culture, at times.  And one of those times is Thursday night:  So You Think You Can Dance returns THIS WEEK.  This!  Week!  I am unabashedly giddy.  The deep thinking/feeling can resume afterward. 

Lessons

You'd think that compiling and editing a book about international adoption might not be the wisest thing for someone to do in the midst of their own adoption crisis.  It's true that I did have more than a moment's hesitation about continuing with the project after we lost Noelle; but ultimately I pressed on, even after everything with Amelia's adoption fell apart and we were stranded on this childless desert island. 

Probably the biggest reason I was able to go on without having (more of) a nervous breakdown is that these essays are a great reminder that we're not alone in our disappointment and heartbreak.  Even though (spoiler alert!) everyone else has a happy ending to their adoption story, in virtually every case it took them lots of twists and turns, sometimes trying and sometimes downright harrowing and always unplanned, to eventually meet the children who are now their own.  For some, those struggles lasted years, and for a few they lasted decades.  But in each case, in retrospect, everything turned out exactly as it was supposed to. 

It's impossible, from our current vantage point, to know what the ending will be or how all of this will someday make sense, but these stories help me have faith that it will.  That faith doesn't make every day a breeze to get through, but I have gained a lot of comfort and perspective from knowing that others have sat in this tiny, often suffocating circle of grief and despair, unable to imagine the reason for their plight, and have later been able to look back and say, "Now I understand." 

When you read these essays (nudge, nudge), I think you'll be amazed at how the world moves in these inscrutable, awe-inspiring ways, how so many things that seem like terrible setbacks turn out to be the things that make our life what it is at its very best.  In that context, there's something thrilling about living in this in-between space, hurtling (however slowly or blindly) into the unknown. 

(And that's true in every aspect of life -- these lessons are in no way specific to international adoption (ahem! nudge, nudge)).

In other, lighter, news, we've been watching the first season of "30 Rock" on DVD since we didn't really get into the show until later (and have since come to recognize its utter genius and realized the error of our ways -- I mean, "Workin' on my night cheese"? -- that is GOLD), and the other night we watched the episode where Liz's boyfriend wants her to move with him to Cleveland. 

There's a scene where Liz is walking in SoHo and talking with Jack about how she wants to live in New York forever, and he points out this bitter, haggard old crone who's flipping everyone off and he says, "You want to be her?"  And she says, "No, I want to be her," pointing to a fashionable matron fresh from the Upper East Side with perfectly coiffed hair wearing a smart pantsuit and quilted handbag.  The woman is striding along, loudly declaring in a stiff-jawed WASP voice, "There's just nothing like a spring day in New York!"  And then she SLAMS into some crazy person and is catapulted into a pile of trash bags.  Then a homeless dude spits in Liz's mouth. 

I haven't stopped laughing since. 

That little moment perfectly captures the way in which New York cackles right in your face, just when you're enjoying life at its finest.  Like when you're blithely bopping along to your iPod and reading a great book on the subway, and some dude smushes in next to you, reeking of pot and muttering obscenities while bobbing and weaving to avoid imagined blows from an invisible opponent (last week).  Or when you're running a Mother's Day road race and a runner gets violently mowed down by a passing cyclist (this morning).  Or when you're at your favorite small museum admiring the artwork and a woman points at two oil portraits and yells, "THIS one looked like she just got f(*&%d up the ass by THAT one!" (one of my early dates with Joe).

Ah, New York.  You never let us get too comfortable.  We all get hurled into that heap of trash when we least expect it, yet we keep coming back for more. 

Nine Months Later...

I've been hiding something from you all. 

Last August, I got this vague idea in my head that it would be cool to put together a book of essays about international adoption.  And then, as is usually the case when I have an idea, I thought about all the details that would have to come together for it to actually happen, and I got tired. 

Then I emailed my friend Dianna (as I do every day), and mentioned something in passing about this idea.  Dianna, you see, is a woman of action.  Despite the zillion other things she had going on in her busy life, the next thing I knew -- maybe ten, fifteen minutes later -- we had a list of possible contributors, a spreadsheet, a cover artist and a timeline for our book release.  Shortly thereafter, we also had a graphic and Web designer. 

And what do you know?  Almost nine months later, our book is now complete!  Yes, that's right!  We have a BOOK!

And it's preeeeetty:

Here's a website about it!

Buy it here!  It is ready for your pre-order!  Operators are standing by! 

(Books will start shipping in June.)

All profits (as in, 100% of the profits!) go to OrphanCare International, the same lovely people who distribute the educational scholarships in Noelle's province, for which many of you have generously donated, and who are building playgrounds at the orphanages in Vietnam, for which many of you have also donated!  (And those are just two of their many, many projects for orphans and families around the world).

I happen to think this book is pretty fantastic, and I can say that without really bragging since the vast majority of the writing is not my own.  We have lots of different types of families represented -- families who struggled with infertility, families who have children from multiple countries, families who have a mix of biological and adopted children -- and their stories are told in many different voices -- by moms, by dads, by single parents, by adult adoptees.  And as you've probably guessed, at least one of the stories does not have a happy ending (yet).  

I'm so proud of this project, and I hope you'll buy our book, whether for yourself or for someone you know or for 1,000 of your closest friends.  But don't do it for me.  Do it for the children! 

Crafty

I'm the world's least crafty person, so I'm always terribly impressed when other people are able to create things with, like, their own two hands.  My mom, of course, is a talented artist and seamstress and has always been able to work magic with a glue gun.  I got zero of those genes; I can't draw, cut, paste, sew, knit, crochet, paint, collage, decoupage, needlepoint, or anything else that might produce something cute or decorative.  On the few occasions in my life when I've attempted to make something cute or decorative, I've ended up wanting to scream and claw my own eyes out.  This is one of the reasons I find Etsy so fascinating and fun -- it's got so much stuff that's made by all these people and it kind of blows my mind.

On Sunday, on a whim, and in spite of the cold downpour that hasn't let up for several days, we went out to Brooklyn to a craft fair, and I was positively amazed at all the cool handmade stuff there in one room.  It was like Etsy in person!  AndI bought cute things!  Which I will now tell you about, because maybe you want to pick up a last-minute Mother's Day gift from an online craft-person, or maybe you just like to buy things for yourself (like I do!) (sorry, Mom) (hee!).

I got an ADORABLE print from this artist, who works in oil on wood but also sells prints on paper of her crazy-cute pieces, most of which are absolutely perfect for a child's room.  So we bought this one, entitled "Solitude" and will hang it in our (empty) nursery, in the hope that one day some child will drop from the sky and occupy that room and spend lots of time enjoying the little bunny flying high on a swing. 

I also picked up some hand soap from this lady, and it's got such a bright citrus scent that I almost want to pour it down my throat.  She also gave me two bars of soap as freebies, and I can tell you I'll be ordering more.  This is very good stuff.  Really, I could have cleared out her whole table, but it would have been tough to get all that body butter and lip balm and sugar scrub back to Manhattan in the rain. 

Next, we found this lovely woman, who makes earrings, bracelets and magnets out of vintage milk bottle caps.  They say things like "Drink More Clean Pull Milk" and "Enjoy Our Cottage Cheese" and "Green Spot Orange Drink" in cool vintage fonts.  I picked up some magnets, which are now adorning the side of our fridge.  They make me wish we could still have "orange drink" -- whatever that was, you know it was tasty -- delivered to our door every day in stout glass bottles. 

Finally, I treated myself to a new journal, a cute dog-adorned one made with recycled paper, and a paperweight (plus a free pencil!) from this cool shop. 

Here's a page with links to all of the vendors who were at the fair -- there were so many cool ones and all of them had stuff that would make great gifts (for yourself or someone else).  (OMG, this lady makes THE CUTEST dresses -- I about fell over when I saw one on a mannequin.  Oh, to have a little girl to dress up in them.  Le sigh.) 

Now go forth and shop!