Movie Club.

I’ve been in approximately 387 book clubs. Give or take. And I’ve always quite liked most all of them. But I'm thinking a movie club sounds fun right now.

So.

Anyone game? If so, here's the first pick: The May Movie Club selection is... The Lives of Others.

I saw it last night. And holy cow! That's all I'll say at this point. But see it sometime in May, and we'll discuss on Monday, May 28.

Or.

On a completely different note, level and everything else, this weekend I also saw In the Land of Women. So, if you want, we could discuss how it's a cross between Sixteen Candles and Garden State. Or we could discuss how darling Adam Brody is. Whatever.

Showering

There's a virtual baby shower going on for a variety of smart bloggers including Liz at Mom-101, Christina of A Mommy Story, and Tammie of Soul Gardening.

Check it out.

They have games too (I know, games = gag) but with great prizes (I know! Prizes = Excellent!)

But first, the part where we give them advice. I have no advice. So I'll pass along the best and worst advice I got when I was prego. We'll start with the worst.

The Worst Pregnant Advice: "Just be yourself." Um. What the hell does that mean? Is this an After School Special? No. Be yourself? First of all, that makes no sense...it's like saying, "keep breathing" or "keep your skin on." Secondly, how the crap are you supposed to be yourself when for the last 10 months you've been two people, and now you're a person who is in charge and who has no skills to take care of someone you've never met? Because myself doesn't really know how to be when the new person cries hysterically in the middle of the night. I'm just saying. This doesn't help.

The Best Pregnant Advice: "Just roll with it." I think this pretty much speaks for itself.

So what is the best and/or worst advice you've gotten, you've given, you'd like to give?

Do share. And do shower. It's better for everyone.

I Couldn't Agree More.

Thanks Jon!

Just a Few Reasons I Dig the Blogging.

1. I can do it while somewhat intoxicated*. Legally. If not irresponsibly.
*Full disclosure: I can be classified as intoxicated after approximately three sips of wine. So sadly, I'll never qualify for celebrity rehab. Drat.

2. I can spell nunchuck like “numb chuck” and no one tells me I’m a dumbass. People may think it, but they rarely tell me.

3. At any time, I can choose to confess my darkest secrets. Secrets like the fact that I’m domestically challenged. And then my punk sister can, in turn, write an informative response chock full of valuable tips, all of which would have been great to have had YESTERDAY!

4. I now have a global platform to write about fascinating topics that change the world, things like how I really like grapefruit. And stuff like that.

5. And then I can walk in my office today and find something like this on my desk.Because a brilliant co-worker reads my blog, and now thinks of me when she sees grapefruit products. Whoohoo! Score!

Blogging rules.

Brunch, the leftovers

So remember when I was all, “I’m going to make the most swell brunch in all the land.”

Well.

There’s a saying about people who assume their brunch will be great and then it's not at all. Well, I’m just saying, that’s basically what happened. The egg casserole I’ve made a few times just didn’t work out…as in, it essentially was a gross version of egg and spinach soup, as if there were a good version. I’m not sure what happened, but I think it had something to do with the fact that I pre-prepared part of it last night. Darn chemistry. Gets me every time. So, in the end, brunch turned into something more like lunch. And our very kind brunch guests consumed a collection of enchiladas (which actually weren’t all that good this time), along with fab salad and ceviche (which actually was awesome). Oh and thank got for this cake (the leftovers are pictured to the right). Because it completely rocked, and I think by 3 p.m. everyone was loaded with so much sugar that they couldn’t remember the enchiladas or their names. Well, maybe because of the sugar, and mainly because of the rocking mimosas. Thanks for those, by the way, C and Super Zoe.

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But here’s the thing. As much as I want to be the “it’s so easy to whip something up” no-big-deal, domestic goddess…I’m just not. Because it’s rarely easy. I make big messes in the midst of my big deals. And I’m definitely not a goddess of anything, most especially all things domestic.

But Bek made a good point on her comment the other day…we’re entering a phase with the Hurricane where it’s just so much easier to have people over than to dine out. Or is it? I honestly can’t decide. Partially because I make things difficult. And partially because I haven’t yet acquired the cooking skills, nunchuck skills, or computer hacking skills that I need to whip up a fun meal for seven without seriously maiming passerbys in the process. In other words, I think I’m physically incapable of pulling off an easy dinner, lunch, brunch, elevensie, or breakfast.

But I really want to.

Maybe it’s because I’ve spent the better part of the last two decades dining out. Or maybe it seems like a fun 1970s throwback thing. Or maybe it’s because my parents were always so good at it…and they really are now…that I want to create those kinds of gatherings and memories around here. Because there’s something really lovely about a house that smells like dinner and coffee and sounds like conversation and laughter.

Now I just have to figure out how to do it without ruining anything, setting anything on fire, or having any major meltdowns.

Any tips, ideas, suggestions?

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On another note, the centerpieces did turn out pretty fun. I didn’t actually take any photos of the lovely set up because I was too busy trying to get the Hurricane off my leg while simultaneously attempting to not burn down the neighborhood. But here are the leftovers in the windowsill…planted mint sprigs wrapped in Elvis fabric. Lovely.

And any adventurous souls (who were willing to attempt to keep the sprigs living) could take them home as parting gifts. You see, no matter how it tasted, it was the brunch that kept on giving.

Plus, Elvis.

Brunch is Like Lunch Only Better.

Houston is a brunch town. Saturday. Sunday. Thursday. Whenever. Around here, brunch is an event. And there are approximatly a kabillion great brunches around town, but this Sunday, we're having friends over to our house. If only because the Hurricane can run around a bit when he's not so into eating and we're just starting the second round of mimosas.

So, since I'm still in a grapefruit mood, I'm going to pull this recipe out. It's been a while since I made this, so I'll let you know how it goes. If I remember correctly, it's beyond yum.

Citrus Ceviche with Pumpkin Seeds

½ cup freshly squeezed lemon juice
¼ cup extra virgin olive oil
½ tsp minced garlic
1 tsp kosher salt
½ tsp fresh ground pepper
1 lb sushi grade tuna
2 tbsp toasted pumpkin seeds
1 med orange segmented and seeded
½ lg grapefruit segmented and seeded
2 tbsp chopped cilantro
2 tbsp chopped chives

In blender puree together lemon juice, oil, garlic, salt and pepper. Spoon this onto tuna in a bowl. Toss together and add the pumpkin seeds, orange, grapefruit, cilantro and chives. Cover and refrigerate for at least one hour (I refrigerate overnight). Serve in a small bowl or martini glass and garnish with tortilla chips. Eat.

Happy weekend.

*The above photo is the cover of the book: Brunch, a Weekend Treat. I first read about the book at Oh Joy! The above recipe is not from this book, nor do I own this book. But if I ever find this book, I will purchase it. Mark my words.

Artsy Fartsy.

Jasper Johns photo taken at the MOMA in March.

I’m always curious to know what artists a musician is listening to. Or to hear about a trainer's work out routine. Or to know the name of a doctor’s kid’s pediatrician. So when I was at the Blogher conference last month, I asked bloggers what blogs they read. And more than once a blog called Superhero Journal was mentioned. I scribbled down the name but then forgot it until I found my crumpled notes the other day.

And on another note, I have been reading two books (which I’ll write about some other time when I actually finish them) that speak on the subjects of artistry, creativity, and culture.

So because of reading these books and because of a writing project I’m doing, I’ve had these topics on the brain lately. As such, I dipped into the introduction of The Artist's Way, a book I read years ago, but remembered the other day in a conversation.

This part stuck out to me:

“No matter what your age or your life path,
whether making art is your career or your
hobby or your dream, it is not too late or too egotistical
or too selfish or too silly to work on your creativity.”

--The Artist’s Way

The concept behind this book is that everyone is an artist. In different ways. With different mediums. We are all practicing the art of creative living.

This makes sense to me.

However, it's often quite difficult to find that creative living in the midst of compulsory living. Or, in other words, it's hard to find the art smack in the middle of all the crap we have to do.

So I was thinking about this when I stumbled across the infamous Superhero Journal tonight.

And of course the first entry was about this very thing.

“I've always had an aversion to saying that I am an artist... It somehow sounds pretentious to me. I suppose I don't believe it is an exclusive thing. I believe that everyone is an artist in their own way. I prefer to say that I am a creative person or that I am somethihng specific like a painter or a photographer. If I had to define it, I would say that it is about finding our unique voice. We all have a voice that is meant to say something special. It is a practice, a discipline, and a lifelong pursuit to get out of our own way and let that voice come through.”

This seems to be the theme of the day.

So what do you think? Do you think we’re all artists? And, on a related note, what inspires you? What books, music, blogs, exercise, art, science, space? What helps your voice come through?

Babel.

The other day, I was running late to a benefit that I left work early to attend. Because right before that, I had to hurry home and change clothes, then drive across town, drop off some cleaning, go to a press check, fill up my car, find the right parking area, catch a minivan transport and walk 200 yards in the rain. In heels. So by the time I walked in late again as always and forever to the luncheon, I was tired and soggy and grumpy and a bit disoriented. As if I were a sweaty mountain climber, who hoisted herself up to the top peak only to find she was in the middle of a fancy dress ball. And I totally hadn’t adjusted to the altitude change. Or the scenery change. Or the costume change.

So after I caught my breath, I leaned over to my tan, glowy friend in the next chair—a wonderful friend whose life choices and circumstances benefit her with a lot of free time and sleep—and said, “Whew, I can’t seem to catch up to myself. I haven’t even processed where I was last and then all of a sudden I’m here, and I didn’t really even think about being here until I actually was here. In fact I haven’t even realized it yet, and I’m sure I won’t even realize that I wore completely the wrong attire for this until later on when I’m two places from where I am now. You know?”

She looked at me. Giggled. Cocked her head and giggled some more as she purely and honestly said, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

She was serious. And I realized that a.) as sleep deprived as I was, I completely got what I was talking about and B.) as much as I love this friend, we totally don’t speak the same language. At least for right now.

This is also what I’m experiencing at home.

Babel.

Because as much as the HcQ and I are freaking crazy, loony, insane in love with the Hurricane, we just don’t speak the same language. Yet.

He understands us, mostly. And we can usually figure out what he wants as well. If only because he’s mastered the move of taking our hands, leading us in the right direction, pointing, grunting, and if need be, screaming. And that’s what I was trying to say yesterday, amidst all the screaming and the grunting and the pounding of the fists, our sweet toddler sounds and perhaps acts a little bit like a caveman. (So you hear that future Hurricane and future Hurricane’s therapist, we don’t actually think you are a caveman or that you in any way look like a caveman; you just currently posses some pre-language caveman communications skills and also somewhat kind of act like one. But in a good way. No worries. Love ya. Don't hate.)

Because all screaming and grunting aside, the HcQ and I do primarily speak English. And the Hurricane primarily speaks Hurricane. Which is a mixture of English, Spanish, Martian and Dolphin. We’re working with him on the English. Our beloved Maria is working with him on the Spanish. And we’re all learning. Together. Kind of.

However, according to experts, because the Hurricane is learning English and Spanish simultaneously, this means it will take him longer to speak anything.

And I can't wait for the speaking.

Because I'm so looking forward to speaking his language. Whatever it is.

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This whole language thing is one reason that when Parent Bloggers Network asked me to review the Boca Beth language program, I said heck yeah, no problem, let me at it, sure. Because I’m looking for some ways, any ways, any hows, to learn language along with my son.

And the program is good. All four of us checked it out, and we’re sharing our thoughts about it today on Cool Stuff con Queso.

Oh, and plus, there are giveaways. Check it.

After All, Before They Were Cavemen, They Were Cavetoddlers.

Sometimes I think there might be something to this caveman thing.

You know, the premise that they’re alive, well, and dating in Atlanta.

Because either there’s some kind of 18-month-old Cavemanish child development stage that I can’t find through Google…

…or we’ve seriously got one on our hands.

I’m just saying.

The Forbidden Fruit of Barbados

Get your head out of the adult video section, por favor. Because the forbidden fruit of Barbados is actually grapefruit. Something I've really been craving lately. And in the process, I found this super simple recipe at the Domino site (a place you might consider visiting regularly). I tried it, and it is really, really good. I love when food isn't fussy. The recipe is really so simple and the flavors are so good, it hasn't exactly cured my grapefruit craving. Because now I'm constantly craving this salad.

Arugula and Grapefruit Salad

* 3 pink grapefruit
* 4 tbsp. extra-virgin olive oil
* 1 tbsp. champagne vinegar
* salt and pepper
* 3 large handfuls arugula, rinsed
* 2 ripe avocados, cut into chunks
* 1⁄2 red onion, thinly sliced

Slice off the tops and bottoms of the grapefruit, then cut off the skin. Section fruit and remove membranes, working over a bowl to catch the juice. To bowl add oil, vinegar, salt and pepper to taste; whisk to combine. Toss the arugula with half of the dressing. Arrange arugula on plates, then top with grapefruit sections, avocado and red onion. Spoon on the remaining dressing and serve.

I'll Take Two Swag Bags, Please

It's fairly well documented that I love awards shows. The beautiful JulaBerry loves them too. So bless her heart, she nominated the Queso for Best Blog About Stuff in the now famous BCAs. The best part about voting for these things is that you don't have to pick just one in any category. You can vote for all your faves, and there are a lot of them on there. It's a fun way to kill some time and discover some blogs you didn't know about. And I love that there's a category that has the word 'stuff' in it. Because that pretty much sums it up.

You can vote for the Queso here: Best Blog about Stuff

And you can vote for as many cool blogs as your heart desires here: Bloggers Choice Awards

If Singing Outloud In Public is Wrong, I Want to Be Right

So, I have these songs that are stuck in my head. About 10 of them. And they've been there for a while now. Not even mentions of annoying Neil Diamond songs or repetitive plays of Justin Timberlake tunes will cure me. Not even. It's gotten so bad with some songs, that the other day I was at work, reading the paper (part of my job is to read the paper, I swear, it's in the description) while apparently singing out loud...something I probably shouldn't be doing at work or really anywhere...when the owner of my company and two clients walked in. That's right. And I didn't even realize I was doing it. Falsettoing. Loudly. The crack is that good. So I'm sharing some with you. Plus, Lala and the happy Smiling Mom mememememememed me about this a while back, and I'm finally pushing play. So, here you go. Better late than ever.

The 7+3 songs I've been listening to lately. A lot. And singing outloud in public.

(Oh, and I went ahead and made an iTunes playlist for you so you can get them in your head too. Because dealers are giving, at first.)

Born to Please - Sound Team (My current fave, great Austin band)

Lost in the Plot - The Dears (Reminds me of the Smiths, makes me happy)

You Stole the Sun from My Heart - Manic Street Preachers (Old song but it somehow made a comeback in my cranium)

Grace Kelly - Mika (Freddy Mercury meets Robbie Williams)

Mornings Eleven - The Magic Numbers (Hooray for them)

Remind Me - Royksopp (Yes, it's the song from the Geico commercial)

Satellite - Guster (Brand new, oh so good)

Sparrow - Scattered Trees (From the good people at Starbucks)

Just for Now Live - Imogen Heap (Addictive crack that gets in your head and makes you crazy)

Simple- k.d. lang (Beautiful)


What's in your head these days?

This Photo Needs a Caption.

I Won't Do This Story Justice.

It's true that I’ve never doubted myself more than I have over the last eighteen months. Mainly because I have no idea what I’m doing. I think I’ve always been pretty clear on this point. But when it comes to mothering, I’m an idiot. Partially because I never actually paid attention to the details of this gig prior to being smack in the middle of it, up to my sleep-deprived eyeballs in poo. So I learn as I go. And being American upper middle class, I learned early on that I needed two kinds of car seats, bilingual learning toys, certified organic flannel sleep sacks, a 46-piece essential child safety kit and lots of Purell. For starters.

Because kids need lots of stuff. And they come with lots of rules.

Most of these thousands of specific must-dos are completely unspoken and you have to find them...like hidden clues...as you go, from friends, from books, from the people who work at the specialty stores, and from other mothers who sneer at you as they indirectly point out how they are doing it so so so much better than you. Usually these moms also lost all their baby weight in the first three months. And they shower. Everyday. And other good things too.

I realize that on these kinds of topics, I’m always linking to Liz, because living where she does, she is up to her brains in sanctimommies and competimommies and justplainassrudemommies. And sure, in Texas (and all over the South) we have our fair share too. Our versions are just thinking it. Not actually saying it out loud. Because of course that would be bad manners.

But whether anyone is expressing these rules directly or not, they’re there. And believe you me, there are some very specific best-for-the-child ways to breast not bottle feed, sleep train, play group, and so on and so on exponentially and snowballing. It's a lot to do. And it's a lot to do right.

So, a few weeks ago, as I have overdocumented, I was walking around New York, thinking about the Hurricane and imagining what it would be like to have him there. Especially when I ran across some kids about his age…in a class at the museum, ice skating in the park, listening intently during story hour (the story hour in French, of course). They were all properly dressed, properly stimulated, and I was once again feeling like I wasn’t doing it right. I mean the Hurricane doesn’t properly listen in any language. And he definitely doesn’t know how to ice skate. He’s obviously not getting what he needs from us. Because we’re obviously lame arse hillbilly slackers. Who spit.

And so as I was wandering around spitting, I was thinking about this and all the stuff at FAO and all the gear and cute things at all the boutiques and all the language development courses and flash cards and music classes and gym options and fleece and training potties and organic pillows, the next thing I knew, it was after midnight, and the HcQ was STARVING! and needed food immediately if not before. When we passed a McDonald’s.

So while he was ordering midnight fast food, I was hanging back, watching this child moving across the way. A child in McDonald’s. At midnight. Just kind of wandering around. He was about four or maybe five. He had his coat on, and he was making his way around the store, playing with the plants and being relatively content, considering there are no toys, games or developmentally appropriate puzzles anywhere to be found. At midnight. At McDonald’s.

Not too far away was a woman about my age, or maybe a bit younger. She was cleaning the mirrors along the walls. Wearing her McDonald's uniform. Seemingly okay to be there. She and the boy joked in Spanish. She talked to him; he smiled. She played with him; he giggled and giggled. She kissed him on the head; he gave her a hug. She was obviously his mom, and he was obviously and completely loved. At work with her. At McDonalds. At midnight. Sleep patterns be damned.

And I'll never forget the two of them. Because that night they gave me a lovely gift. A reminder that there is more than one way to parent. And that every family has its own way and its own story.

I just hope ours has that much love in it.

Have a Wonderful Weekend with All Your Peeps.

Here's wishing you and yours
an eggceptionally excellent Easter, Passover, weekend!

This fun photo is featured at this fantastic gallery.

Time to Smell the Azaleas

It's my busiest time of year at work. The HcQ is also working ridiculous hours. And the Hurricane would much prefer climbing on top of anything to looking at it. (Oh and he's also just mastered the word "bunny", a word he likes to say quite deliberately, slowly, and accurately, in two very long drawn-out syllables. And as you can imagine, this time of year, pointing out bunnies is essentially a full time job.)

So, we've all got a lot going on.

But this is what is looks like outside our windows.

So we're trying to remember to stop and enjoy it every chance we get.

Diaper is a weird word.

If you think about it, the word diaper is weird. It’s right up there with ink, and shampoo, and Boise.

I don’t know why, but this word just hit me as odd. Maybe because diapers are a constant in my current life. And yes, it’s hard to believe that only 18 months ago, I’d never changed one. Especially considering the fact that since that famous virgin changing, I’ve changed approximately 2,750. Give or take.

You too would talk about anything you changed 2,750 times. Sheets. Plans. Minds. Whatever.

And speaking of minds, I’ve changed mine on the topic of Huggies Overnights. (You can read more about that at CScQ. Plus, we're totally giving diapers away. Free diapers! Free diapers! Yaaaaoooowwweeeeee!)

And speaking of words, what’s a word that’s weird to you? (And weird can also be good weird. For instance: bacteria is actually a kind-of pretty word for such and ugly thing. Really. Think about it.)

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Also, and probably more importantly, if you haven't read Kim at After the Ball you really should. Because she's smart. And she's a socialist. So she hates awards. And so of course I nominated her for one...The Perfect Post Award for her Voice for All thoughts. I just loved them. Plus, in the post, she talks about the fact that she really doesn't like recognition...and the irony of all of it was just too tempting. Check it.