This Is Me, Waving Good-Bye to 2007

All's quiet here at Nesting Ground. My brother and M. left Saturday for Madison-Freaking-Wisconsin; the girls are ensconced in their playhouse; the SU is upstairs viewing some sort of sporting event and—thanks to the gift of a major grill apparatus from my parents—enjoying an adobo panini (adonini?). I'm stationed at my desk, trying in vain to de-clutter, but somehow only managing to bury myself deeper in the dross. What IS all this stuff?

***

Saturday was also the twins' (I recently discovered that the kids at school often refer to them as "twisters," a combo of "twins" and "sisters") birthday, and the SU took them to have their ears pierced. So, basically, they left the house as eight-year-olds and returned as teenagers. Disconcerting. Then, that night we had dinner at some friends', and I spent most of the evening holding their four-month-old baby boy and silently freaking out that we had raised three people who were once his very same size. Disconcerting.

***

I just proofed my work for the Winter 2008 issue of Achiote Seeds where I share beautiful space with Javier Huerta, Francisco Aragón (translating Geraldo Rivera), and Mónica de la Torre. I don't really remember where I was in my head when I wrote the pieces, or how I came to choose certain words or images. I remember early on sending a few to Oscar, who was so helpful. As usual, I'm not at all sure my writing deserves to sit alongside that of the others represented in this issue, but as a new year's gift to myself, I will try to believe that it does. Oh! And I forgot to tell Jean that I used a line from one of her poems. Jean? I used a line from one of your poems, and I thank you for it.

***

That's it, for this, the final day of 2007. Happy new year to my blogroll, other assorted readers and/or lurkers (who are you, oh loyal reader from Moulineaux, Haute-Normandie?), Delfinos, and you, and you, and you.

Think-A-Bettuh-Danz-Now

I've been feeling bad about leaving such a negative post up on the 'ol blog, especially since my malaise actually lifted a few days ago. By then, though, I'd left so many seasonal to-do's undone, that I was in quite the bind (imagine your Nesting Ground Mistress bound with ribbon, gagged with a wad of wrapping paper, pine needles scattered in her hair). But in a burst of energy fueled by Diet Pepsi (what? it was on SALE), fear, and warped determination, I have successfully caught up on everything from sending out those last few cards, to making my twice yearly pilgrimage to Pape Meat Co. to secure a prime rib roast (originally, I had wanted a crown roast of pork, but when I was in on Friday, they told me it was impossible. Then late last night, Mr. Pape himself called and triumphantly announced he would have it for me on Monday. "Oh Mr. Pape," said I. "I was in today and picked up prime rib." Ever jovial, he said, "Next time, then! Next time I promise!")

Happiness and/or approximations of happiness:

1) Tom Jones/Art of Noise cover of Prince's "Kiss." (Oh, shush now. You love it)



2) When reading collides. While reading a review of two physically gigantic books of essays/book reviews by Edmund Wilson, I discover that his essay, "The Wound and the Bow," refers to Sophocles's play about the nasty, festering wound on Philoctetes foot, and—can you believe it?—I just finished reading the play. I'm lying! I have NOT just read the play, but there is a section in Arnold Weinstein's A Scream Goes Through the House that discusses it, and I DID just read that. So, well, that counts a little.

3) The sound you heard in the move theatre during the pomegranate scene in "The Kite Runner" was my heart being ripped in two, strewn on the floor, and left for dead. Okay, this doesn't actually count as "happiness," but it does count as "being able to feel." And that's as good a definition of happiness as any other, I suppose.

4) Karito Kids for my girls! None of the nagging guilt produced by purchasing the increasingly creepy American Girls, and possibly—just possibly—some redeeming value. Now I'll just keeping my fingers crossed that 1) the dolls are not somehow laced with the date-rape drug or 2) manufactured using child labor or 3) chock full of lead. *Scream*

5) The Collected Stories by Grace Paley.

6) Old Port Lobster Shack in Redwood City. How many times must I tell you this before you go? So what if they refer to their appetizers as "shacketizers?" So what if they couldn't stop there and decided to call their shrimp cocktail a "shacktail?" Do not let these piddly details deter you.

7) Ichiban-kan for stocking stuffers!

8) Leftover beef chow fun from a deli on Clement St.

9) My brother is here at Nesting Ground (you may remember that he now resides in Madison-Freaking-Wisconsin)! He is wearing a pair of boots that are making me cross-eyed with jealousy. I'll take a picture later.

L'enfer, c'est les autres

I am not one of those people who can write, or even blog, when being tormented by what feels like a neverending onslaught of extended family drama. In situations like this, I turn inward. I take comfort in my children and my husband, my parents, my brothers, my friends.

If you don't find me here it's because people—people who know better—are behaving badly. And, well, shame on them.

P.S. approximately 240 lumpia consumed at Thursday's party. New favorite thing? Deep fryer.

Nesting @ Nesting Ground

Am smack in the middle of a flurry of culinary activity and holiday-ing-ness of the domicile as we prep for a Thursday evening of cheer with 30 or so neighborhood and school folks. I didn't think we could have that many people, but last year my good friend K. did so with much success in a house of similar size. "You just need to be willing to give up some furniture," she said. And she was right: clear out the center of your living room, fill the space with stand-up cocktail tables, candlelight and voila! Instant cozy supper club. Ample room (fingers crossed) for spillover in the dining room, den, and the kitchen.

Look! The spousal unit has already made the mantle all festive-like. Just add fire:


Tree? Check! For the last two years we've gone to cut down our own at a tree farm in Half Moon Bay. Hard to imagine your Nesting Ground Mistress wielding a handsaw, I know. Go ahead, let the idea sink in. Anyways, we found this beauty after a short hike up the mountain:


Gratuitous shot of sexy new Room & Board sofa. Pushed to the side, like I said, to make way for supperclub cocktail tables, like I said:


Now I must return to my kitchen duties. Tonight is empanada night...

The Golden Line

Not since Achilles defeated Hektor in the divine cheesiness that was Troy...

Not since Maximus felled Commodus in the spectacle of Gladiator...

Not since Lucius Vorenus and Titus Pullo struck down...well, everybody...in the glory that was Rome...

Not since then has a clash between warriors achieved the greatness of the armored bears Iorek Byrnison and Iofur Raknison (called "Ragnar" in the film) in The Golden Compass:


Post-vanquishing, Ian McKellen (who voices Iorek) delivers his line with bellowing magnificence:

"Bears! WHO...IS...YOUR...KING?"

So, obviously I've stopped saying, "I am Beowulf. I will slay your mon-stah."

New Rule: Grammar Doesn't Matter on Friday

I elfed my children:

Filed under things that mothers can't keep themselves from doing.

Should you find yourself with any downtime this weekend, and you end up elfing yourself or your loved ones, you must —in the long-standing tradition of "I'll-show-you-mine-if-you-show-me-yours" (but, um, REVERSED)—leave the link in my comments.

Wow. That sentence wasn't even close to grammatical correctitude, but I've no time to waste because...

...tonight I am determined to see The Golden Compass. I only recently devoured the 3-book series, which I had no idea was a huge international phenomenon (head? In sand) with a dedicated cult following (much ballyhoo, for example, about the cinematic Mrs. Coulter being a blonde rather than dark-haired Nicole Kidman). I truly couldn't put the books down. I even read while standing in line at the grocery store. I think I kinda understand Harry Potter madness a little better now.

But first, some holiday shopping. Bundling up now to brave the weather and the frenzy...

How To Make The Spousal Unit Laugh at Random Moments

When you wake up, say "I am Beowulf. I will slay your mon-stah."
Right before dinner, say "I am Beowulf. I will slay your mon-stah."
While your mouth is full of suds and toothpaste, say, "I am Beowulf. I will slay your mon-stah."

***

Adding:

Sasha's Bamboo Cupping Rainwater

and

Libay's Leaflens

and

Marianne's Kanlaon

12/1

We have been to San Francisco Ballet's The Nutcracker for, oh, three years in a row now, and while I find it enjoyable, I felt the need—okay, the DESPERATE need—to lobby for a little change-up this year. That's how we ended up at Yerba Buena Center for the Arts to watch the ODC/Dance production of The Velveteen Rabbit.

So while there is a lot to be said about the big deal, big-event, get-all-dressed-up, eat-at-a-fancy-place feeling engendered by The Nutcracker, I found the more casual, eat-at-the-MOMA-museum-cafe, and skip-across-the-street-to-enjoy- some-contemporary-dance feeling much more in line with the way I'm feeling this year. Bonus: two Filipino-American dancers in the cast, one of whom was nearly perfect as "the boy." He seemed, at times, to...float.

Afterwards I coerced my little family into taking in (however briefly) the Joseph Cornell: Navigating the Imagination exhibit I've been wanting to see at MOMA.


Of course I had to purchase the fat exhibition book, and now I'm reading all about Cornell so that I can go back on my own and walk through the exhibit again before it leaves. I'm fascinated by the way assemblage and collage are like a container for an artist's personal fascinations/obsessions.

In the exhibition book's text, the writer talks about Cornell's 30-year love affair with riding the elevated trains that serviced Manhattan, Brooklyn, and the Bronx, and how the fleeting, dissolving landscape shaped his visual vocabulary. I loved all the "bird boxes" like the one above, of course. My favorite was untitled, but described as "Nesting Bird." In it, the bird holds a length of spooled thread in its beak, and it reminded me of...me. For some reason.

December, then, is off to a good start.

The Post For Which No Title Comes To Mind

Vida is coming up with some doozies (is that how you spell that? is that even an official word?) lately. When I reminded her that she has a dentist appointment coming up on Friday, she said, "Oh, good. I'm looking forward to conquering my fears."

***

I spent the morning paginating and proofing two manuscripts, which I will (I will, I will, I will) send out before the end of the week. I thank ms. bj for this because she is constantly and thoughtfully posting calls for submissions on the Flips list, and they serve as a daily reminder that I really should open the doors and let my stories wander around more often. Who cares if they come home with black eyes and bloodied lips? At least they will have had a little adventure.

***

Now, about Lapham's Quarterly, the new endeavor of Harper's famed Lewis Lapham. This first themed issue—"States of War"—is formidable. Crazy. Capable of inducing vertigo. Almost all the 80 or so contributors are dead, and they're all popping out of the grave saying, "Remember when I told you this was how it would play out?" It's the past informing the present in all kinds of interesting ways. Amazing art and photography—not to mention the index-type sidebars reminiscent of Harper's—are also included in the hefty purchase price. My favorite so far is "Eight Wounds Sustained by Alexander the Great." The first two are the best: "Cleaver slash to the head" (aray!) and "Catapult missile to the chest" (putangina!)...

***

On Thursday I am scheduled to talk to the second graders about writing in general. Vida's teacher asked me to discuss where ideas come from, how to organize, how to transition, how to end. That last one struck me as odd, but Mrs. T. said, "I don't know. They just seem to peter out..." Hahahahaha! I've been there. In fact, I'm there right now...

Calm Before Holiday Storm

Just getting into the rhythm of being back home again, which means that everything is buzzing: washing machine, dryer, dishwasher, Sonicare toothbrush, iPod, laptops. The SU has just built a fire, I've just ordered our holiday cards and baked some cornbread to snack on, and the girls are working on a puzzle. It's all very exaggeratedly cozy.

And that's fine by me.

I Prefer Silence, Plus The Very Loud Bookstore Warlock

I have escaped to my bedroom for some peace.

Do not tell my children where I am.

They are in the dining room playing round after round of "Connect 4," and the noise level is alarming.

I repeat: do not tell my children where I am.

I don't know how to explain this recent oversensitivity to noise; it's not like my home SUDDENLY became noisy, after all. Last night I couldn't bear the surround sound in the den and chose to express my dismay by saying, "Oh. My. GOD," every few minutes. Lately, I am constantly turning down music, constantly glaring at people who project their voices unnecessarily in hushed places like the library or even certain cafes.

This seems as good a time as any to introduce you to one of the banes of my existence: the very loud warlock who works at one of my local bookstores.

I have nothing against warlocks in general (at least I don't THINK I do), but I do have something against warlocks who are forever shouting about how they are warlocks and explaining their warlock jewelry and special warlock powers and the significance of their tiny little warlock finger tattoos so that the entire store can hear. And also, this warlock is forever directing unsuspecting customers to his personal areas of interest rather than catering to them. Here is a 99.7% true example:

UNSUSPECTING CUSTOMER: Can you tell me where to find the THE KAMA SUTRA?

VERY LOUD WARLOCK: THE KAMA SUTRA? Well, that's okay, I guess, but have you ever heard of THE SECRETS OF TOTALLY AWESOME WARLOCK SEX? I only ask because I have it on my own shelf at home, and it's a terrific reference.

UNSUSPECTING CUSTOMER: Oh? Well, no. I was really looking for...

VERY LOUD WARLOCK: Are you familiar with the double trilogy boxed set of WARLOCK WISDOM/WARLOCK WONDER? NO? You've never heard of it? I find that hard to believe. I'm a little disappointed, to tell the truth. It was a phenomenon in the book publishing industry. Absolutely a phenomenon. I see you're looking at my ring!

UNSUSPECTING CUSTOMER: No, I'm not. I...

VERY LOUD WARLOCK (conspiratorially): Everybody looks at my ring! They're attracted to its power. I'm a warlock...

I can be standing 200 feet away from the guy, and I can hear him. Sometimes I just crouch near the magazines, cover my ears, and scream silently. And then the spousal unit laughs at me. "You better watch it," he says, while spinning his arms around. "He might gather the dark forces." And then I say, "Foolish! Hasn't he said a million times that he uses his power only for good, never for evil?"

The same cannot be said of me.

The Clumsy Post That Happens When You Haven't Blogged For Days

NEW EXPERIENCE: Teaching the 30 girls in R & V's Brownie Troop to play the ancient game of Cat's Cradle.
COMMENTS: Um, my head almost imploded. No, seriously. I felt my brain splintering into several pieces. Also, I felt a deep and abiding gratitude towards my friend, M., who gamely leads this large and fantastically loud group of seven-year-olds. Another thing: I'm sure I had already mastered Cat's Cradle by their age. How can it be that NONE of them really knew how to play?


VIDA UTTERANCE #1: "I can't tell what's corny and what's not corny."
COMMENTS: This is yet another failing of mine. Filipinos have a special relationship with the word and concept of "corny," which I have apparently failed to nurture.

VIDA UTTERANCE #2 (while looking into the frying pan and espying corned beef hash): "Oh. I was wondering what the unfamiliar smell was."
COMMENTS: See previous comment, replace "corny" with "corned beef hash."

MOVIE OF THE WEEK: Love in the Time of Cholera.
RAMBLING COMMENTS: Well, it was okay. I was worried about two things. One, John Leguizamo. In this case, I was right to fret. He was horrible in that he went for caricature rather than attempting to lend some humanity to his character. Also, he couldn't settle on an accent. At one point he was speaking through clenched teeth and channeling a manic Tony Soprano. Annoying. I was also worried about Shakira's music, but it was actually quite beautiful and inobtrusive. Benjamin Bratt is, as the spousal unit pointed out, "aIways Benjamin Bratt." Which is not to say he wasn't successful; it's just to say he was...Benjamin Bratt. As for the the performances by Javier Bardem and Giovanna Mezzogiorno in the lead roles, I will proclaim customer satisfaction. I was so moved by the shuffling walk of Florentino Ariza, which Javier (that's what I call him. I call him "Javier," or sometimes "Javi" if he's being silly with me) affected when the character was still relatively young. At one point, Fermina Daza says about Florentino: "He is not a person. He's a shadow." And this is true. A shadow who gets laid every time he turns around, but a shadow nonetheless.

FORGOTTEN JEWEL FOUND ON MY BOOKSHELF: Critical Fictions: The Politics of Imaginative Writing, with essays or conference presentations by Jessica Hagedorn, Educardo Galeano, Nawal El Saadawi, Angela Carter, Leslie Marmon Silko, Jamaica Kincaid, Salman Rushdie, Ana Castillo and many others.
COMMENTS:This book was published in 1991, not long after the demonstrations condemning THE SATANIC VERSES, so you can kinda imagine the energy of the work included. Jessica Hagedorn's conference presentation begins (and maybe this is a much-anthologized piece?), "Now I will discuss Virgin Mary Power." I've had this book for fifteen years or so, and I read it before I could truly understand it, so I'm excited to re-visit.

And now I have to go make lemon bars. *tap dances away while raising and lowering black silk tophat*

Why DO Cupcakes Shrink?

I don't think search engine inventors realized how much amusement bloggers (well, THIS blogger, at least) would glean from referral stats. The following searches have led people to my blog in the last two days. I am like a...like a...like a beacon, shining in the world wide web of darkness, guiding the lost home:

"neurotic nesting behavior in bitches"

"why do my cupcakes shrink?"

"cow of renown"

"hot dog cutter"

"fine phillepenas ass"

That last one kills me. And there's something else that has kept me wondering for at least two years. Every once in awhile, loads and loads of people throughout Europe (or at least people whose SERVERS exist throughout Europe) will google the word "rafiki" at the same time. And they all end up here (only to be disappointed). This puzzles me greatly. In fact, it's a sudoku tucked into a word jumble and then wrapped in the Sunday NY Times crossword.

In other news:

It's November. How did this happen?

My Thursday Gift to You

Today will be forever remembered as the day I discovered Artemis Bell.



If I've failed to embed the video correctly (it's not showing up when I preview my post), then click here. Um, immediately.

Oh, sure it's easy to laugh at Artemis Bell. But have you ever expressed your unfettered joy to the world in this way? Neither have I! She has ONE HUNDRED SEVENTY-FOUR of these videos, people. She dances to Yaz, Animotion, KC and the Sunshine Band, Santa Esmeralda (omg, how much do I love Santa Esmeralda?), Parliament and, well, a hundred others.

I am in awe of Artemis Bell.

Pot Roast & The Good Filipino Girls

It's clearly time for cold-weather food: stews, roasts, soups, all that good stuff. The other night, for example, I made pot roast. Now, listen carefully because this is where the genius-ness comes in. I didn't have any beef stock, nor did I have any desire to throw the kids into the car and head to the market because, as you all know by now, any 15-minute errand instantly turns into (at least!) a 40-minute errand whenever children are added to the equation (the only exception I know of is filling up with gas, and that's because nobody gets out of the car except for me). And since the pot roast was going to take 3.5 hours to cook, I didn't have 40 minutes to squander.

Are you with me?

So instead of beef stock, I used 2 cups of water and a liberal sprinkling of Maggi (don't even LOOK at the sodium content; just don't do it). The result was astounding, truly. Stop laughing at me.

Okay, now despite the fact that my pot roast included big, soft, and velvety potato cubes, I still made rice. Why? Because I'm Filipino. Go ahead, turn to the closest Filipino and ask if I'm making this up. I am not.

I served the kids a nice scoop of rice with their pot roast, but soon noticed that they weren't eating it. "Why aren't you eating your rice?"

"We're eating potatoes."

"But I don't care if there are potatoes; Filipinos EAT RICE."

"But..."

"No 'but, but!' What kind of Filipino girls are you? I've made rice for you since you were babies with the express intention of making sure that you'd eat it for the rest of your lives."

"Who made that rule?"

"What rule?"

"About Filipino girls and rice?"

"It's not a rule, it just IS."

At this point, I went outside to great the SU, who was arriving home late from a meeting. I was wearing a flowing green caftan, silver heels, liquid eyeliner, and my hair piled up on top of my head just like Elizabeth Taylor in...just kidding! When we came inside, the girls were seated nicely and grinning.

"Look! We ate our rice!"

Good Filipino girls.