ADD + A List

I've often suspected that I have Attention Deficit Disorder, but I think now it must be true. All week long my head has been whipping from side to side, from politics to writing to reading to soccer to the school auction to shopping to working out to laundry avalanche prevention and back again. It's crazy.

So I'm looking forward to this long weekend and the time it (conceivably) offers to find my bearings. Meanwhile, I am thankful for the following things:

1. Barack Obama's acceptance speech (not even the atrocious Brooks & Dunn song they chose to play when he was finished could poke a pin in the balloon of my American pride).

2. My friend's hilarious soliloquy about the overall ineffectiveness of Spanx.

3. Risa's ability to apologize when she knows she's wrong. Very, very, very wrong.

4. Vida's jaunty leadership style.

5. Lea's good manners. "Best manners in the house," says the spousal unit.

6. The Full Bloom ladies.

7. The love my parents bear my children.

8. Date night conversation with the SU.

9. The abundance of flattering shirts at Anthropologie.

And..I would have to say...

10. Trader's Joe's Crunchy Green Beans.

Mother As Object

The other day at Lea's soccer practice, Risa and Vida made their own fun by razor-ing around the park and socializing on the playground, which was about 50 yards away. At one point, they began yelling for me. "Mom! Mom! Wave at us!"

I dutifully complied.

"See? THAT'S our mom," they said. A few kids looked at me and waved back. (It says something about their constant state of LOUDNESS, does it not, that I could hear them have a private conversation from so far away?)

Later, I asked them what that was all about. "Oh," they said. "They didn't believe we were Filipino."

Happy to help. I guess.

The Big September

I'm approaching September on tip-toe, peering around corners with caution, checking over my shoulder in case someone is in pursuit, and making and re-making plans. Anything could happen this September, you see. Because this is the September that Lea breaks into the ranks of full-time students, and this is the September that I will not (I will not, I will not, I will not) be the first to raise my hand when a volunteer is needed, and this is the September that I deal with the mental and physical strangeness wrought by what I now realize was a rather unnerving entry into my fourth decade of life.

This is The Big September.

Plans thus far include:

1) Plenty of Obama stuff, including participation in Camp Obama, which requires a commitment to travel to Nevada at least once before November. I'm hoping to recruit my friend J. to participate in the shenanigans. The next few days will be spent making calls to potential campaign volunteers in my hometown of Daly City. These folks have signed on to help, but haven't actually done anything yet. Perhaps I can win them over with my frog voice, nervous laugh, and failed attempts at humor. Go me!

2) Online writing workshop via Stanford Continuing Studies. I have heard Marianne and Cecilia talk about how, um, CHALLENGING these are from the instructor's point-of-view, so I almost feel bad signing up, but I think ten weeks of sustained focus on the reading and writing of short stories will re-orient me to writing life. (Oh, God, WHAT THE HELL AM I TALKING ABOUT?!)

3) Finding the right combination of physical activity and food intake that will help me locate the original (well, maybe not the ORIGINAL) smaller body that exists in this current—and increasingly foreign—body. I am SO confused, people. I feel like I'm navigating an entirely new landscape. Adding to my panic is the fact that I am NOT sedentary, and I do NOT eat a ton of food, so I don't understand what I'm supposed to be doing here. Bleh.

Reading back over the previous paragraphs, none of this seems particularly earth-shattering, but trust me: The Big September has been a long time coming. And so, to completely wed myself to the transitions (both obvious and implied) noted in this post, I have made a symbolic gesture of commitment and...chopped off my hair. I did it yesterday, and when I woke up this morning was shocked to be free of the nest of tangles and random curls and semi-dreads.

I think I'll get used to it.

Rest, LeRoi.

Useless Advice + Peter Pan Is A Wee God

The one thing you should make sure to bring along to Disneyland/California Adventure is...a personal massage therapist. Barring that, wear the right shoes. Also wear your Obama '08 pin, as the visibility factor is excellent (expect to be hissed at by one guy who...how shall I put it?...has eaten a few too many foot-long hot dogs in his day).

Now, for your possible viewing pleasure, I offer the girls' exchange with everyone's favorite sprite: Mr. Peter Pan.

First comes the detailed conversation about various hat-wearing techniques:


Next, the girls strike P.P.'s signature pose:


When they request a hands-on-hips one, he takes grievous offense, screams a bratty, "No!," and turns his back:


But then gamely relents:



And now the countdown to back-to-school begins in earnest. Nine days to go...

Which Way to Neverland?

Summer is winding down, but those of us who reside here at Nesting Ground HQ are rousing ourselves for one last hurrah. In other words, my friends, we're heading to Disneyland. It's been about four years since we were last in the belly of the beast, and I trust that this time we will not spend every minute searching for the next princess photo op. This time, I daresay we'll be saying hello to Mr. Toad instead. And Mr. Space Mountain. And Mr. Matterhorn. And Mr. Peter Pan's Flight. And Mr. Mad Teacup.

You know what I enjoy about Disneyland? You either have to own the (admittedly ridiculous) experience or get the hell out. There's no room for attitude at Disneyland, people. You don't roll your eyes at Mickey; you smile. You don't pretend you think Pirates of the Caribbean is stupid; you happily wait in line for 30 minutes. You don't turn your nose up at Nemo; you board the submarine. You don't...well, you get it.

Now I'm all a-twitter. Be back soon.

Monday Night Linkage

Look what Mr. Bino did! Ah, something so satisfying about seeing all those covers in one place. Makes for some easy shopping come holiday time, that's for sure.

Speaking of Bino, here's a link to his new blog, The Freirian Goes to Harvard.

And here is Grace Talusan's essay, "The Myth of Filipino Magnetism" at Kartika Review.

And here is the men's Olympic basketball team from Spain making asses out of themselves by "slanting" their eyes for an ad.

And here's a blog called Racialicious that's all about the "intersection of race and pop culture."

And, finally, I don't think I've ever mentioned it before, but I like what they do over at PinoyCentric: All Things Brown & Beautiful.

Unlike A Certain Gentleman From the South...

...Barack Obama is never gonna give you up, never gonna let you down, never gonna run around and desert you. He's never gonna make you cry, never gonna say good-bye, never gonna tell a lie (well, except for that damned FISA thing), and hurt you:

Filed Under: Things I Wish I Could Say

On a recent trip to Kepler's, I picked up the "Fantastic Women" (September '07) issue of Tin House.


It's billed as an "extraordinary collection of tales from today's most sensational, genre-twisting writers," and I'm not one to quibble. I've liked everything I've read so far, but especially a small section from an essay Rick Moody wrote about taking a workshop from postmodern goddess Angela Carter. In it, Moody describes the first day of class and Carter's struggle to whittle the group down to a manageable number:

After the break, there were still too many students who wanted to enroll. Perhaps she was a little exasperated. A guy in the back—and in this reconstruction he is very bored, stoned, privileged, or exactly the sort one often encountered in the Ivy League—asked, "So what's your work like anyway."

Later, I would have understood how much Angela relished this moment, the moment in which she made ribbons of an interlocutor. She paused for a minute, and then in her mild way, she remarked: "My work cuts like a blade at the base of a man's penis."

It was as if the class emptied on the spot...

Could I love her more? No, I could not. And as a small token of my appreciation for Angela Carter's sense of deliciously morbid humor, I will read one of her perfect stories tonight.

Today on Animal Planet...

Did anyone else burst into tears when they watched this frickin' Christian the Lion thing (please say yes, please say yes, please say yes)?



All I know is I'm gonna be sooooo embarrassed if it's some kind of elaborate YouTube hoax. In fact, I'm already embarrassed because I'm pretty sure that the Whitney Houston song ADDED rather than detracted from my emotional outpouring. Jesus take my wheel.

In other animal news, we have just returned from the lake where a sign proclaimed it was "Fawn Season." I tried to play it all casual, but then I realized it wasn't my imagination: the spousal unit wasn't letting me anywhere near the driver's seat. Which means that I'm not the only one still haunted by this scenario from three years ago.

Other odd facts about this weekend's lake trip:

1) I didn't step foot in the lake.

2) I didn't have an ice cream at the lake.

3) There were no grown men in Speedos at the lake. Just one boy who looked to be about ten years old; I promptly named him "EuroBoy."

4) I didn't finish my book at the lake. If fact, it seems like the more time I spend reading Little, Big, the longer it gets. However, if I do ever make it to the end, it won't really matter because I'll probably just start it all over again. All of which is to say, you should read this book:



Okay, I have to watch the Christian the Lion thing again.

Barrier

The following note is from my friend Marilee, whose husband Todd ended his life—about 16 months ago now—by jumping off the Golden Gate Bridge. They have three young children.

I would appreciate it if you would do what Marilee requests: please click on the link and register your support for a suicide deterrent barrier by August 25th. Thanks in advance.

Hello,

Todd's suicide off the Golden Gate Bridge in Feb 2007 has opened my eyes about depression and the need for a suicide barrier on the Golden Gate Bridge. Although Todd's death was very complicated, the Golden Gate Bridge provided a perfect method of death for him, highly fatal and off a structure that was always in his life and had meaning to him.

Survivors of those who have committed suicide off the Golden Gate have actively worked towards a barrier for years with little success, but they have never quit. More people join our group every few weeks, and although the barrier will not bring Todd back it will end the addition of new people to our group! Right now the Golden Gate Bridge District is accepting comments on several barrier designs—this is the farthest this has ever gotten! The Opposition is still very strong to not touch the bridge, so I am requesting that you click on this link by August 25th to register a comment supporting the barrier.

In the " What's New" box on the right-hand side of the page, you will see "Comment" highlighted. Click on that. You can also read the EIR if you want.

Here are a few thoughts for your comment:

• My choice is Alternative 1B if you just want a quick answer

• A District Official that I spoke to stated that they do not have the money. I encouraged her to take the first step which is approve a barrier and not say no to everything due to lack of fun ds.

•The survivor group will always grow as long as there is no barrier. This effort will not go away.

•It is the right thing to do, please put politics aside- Those who have committed suicide were worth saving.

•The barrier is technically feasible and I feel will be found environmentally acceptable (EIR).

For more information, please read this New York Times article, "The Urge to End It All."

And the documentary The Bridge was produced and directed by Eric Steel:




And here is the trailer for the film:



Please spread the word to as many people as you can... in state and out!

We appreciate your help in this effort.

Thank you,

Marilee, Grant, Lindsay and Dana

The Cliche Post

I know it's a cliche to write a post about having nothing to write a post about, but if I remain silent until there's something riveting to discuss (like felt crafts and glitter abuse, grocery cart rage, pornographic Chris Isaak videos, saving the life of a wee bird, etc.), it might be silent for weeks here at Nesting Ground Headquarters. And that would never do because then my relatives start flinging one-liners at me: you never update. aren't you blogging anymore? you USED to post all the time.

And then I feel bad.

It's not that there are not little bits and pieces of things happening in my life, mind you. Let's do a rundown:

Writing. Oh, yes, I am. And I have the rejections slapped on my forehead to prove it. Also working diligently on a group project and others bits and pieces. Feeling satisfied (and yet, not) in regards to writing.

Obama-ing. Have you noticed how Barack has let himself go a little gray? I think this is quite presidential and no doubt has the McCain camp readying another really bad television ad (voiceover: "Barack Obama isn't old and out-of-touch.There's only one candidate who's old and so utterly out of touch that he has never used e-mail, and that candidate is John McCain"). Anyways, in my quest to wake up gloriously happy on the morning of November 5th, I continue to volunteer with the campaign. Last weekend I made calls to Independent voters in New Mexico who, I have to say, are some cranky-ass people. I was fairly shaken up by a man who started screaming and calling Barack the n-word.

*jumps around to shake it off*

With some trepidation, I'm participating in the Neighborhood Leader program. I know almost everyone on my 36-person list, though, and I plan to shower them with Obama love in the form of bumper stickers and yard signs. Also, I'll be doing voter registration at the Burlingame farmer's market. Come see me!

Kiddo-ing. It's summer, after all. Despite the fact that my children attempted a coup yesterday (don't worry; I'm fine), I am taking them to the children's discovery museum in San Jose today so that they can crawl down a rabbit hole and play croquet with the Queen of Hearts and have a mad tea party and whatnot in Alice's Wonderland.

Raising Money-ing. It's that time of year when my co-horts and I get ready to throw the big fundraiser for our school. Last year, our 4th year, we finally broke the $100,000 ceiling. It'll be interesting to see what we manage to do in this economy. I'm taking 1,500 invitations to the printer today for trimming, scoring, and folding.

Geez, I better get moving...

It Has Come To This.

Maybe I inhaled too much glitter glue. Maybe I'm just not hydrated. Whatever the case, I'm feeling a wee bit hung over from an overabundance of craft-like activity this afternoon. Here are some fairy bookmarks, a project which I have to admit the kiddleys tackled with admirable gusto:


But the gusto was not to last. Below is my homage to felt (I believe I reached the pinnacle of Craft Mountain when I successfully executed the monkey):


Notice how I say this is MY homage to felt. I say this because the children disappeared after realizing it would take 4,379 hours to cut out all the tiny pieces of felt required to make a Cute Stuff applique. By the time I had stitched the monkey's first eye, they had changed into their bathing suits and were running through the backyard sprinkler with some neighbor kids. Every 20 minutes or so they yelled, "Mom! Can you please make smoothies?"

And I did. Between bouts of felt cutting and miniscule embroidering, I made batch after batch of smoothies and delivered them to the increasingly large number of kids in the backyard.

"Thank you!" they said.

"You're welcome," said I.

After pouring the last of Smoothie Batch #3 into Risa's cup she said, "Um, are you done with my monkey bag?"

"Not yet."

"Okay. Hey, you guys. My mom's making me a monkey bag! She'll make one for you, too! Mom! Hey, Mom! Five more monkey bags!"

"Yes! Yes! Monkey bags for everyone!" I said. And I did a little monkey dance.

Time stopped. Many little faces stared at me.

I laughed but, alas, I was the only one.

"She's so embarrassing..." said Vida.

Confession Regarding Last Friday's Date Night

I can't help it: I enjoy Chris Isaak.

And this despite the fact that he's a well-known SWiMWAiF.

I have written about SWiMWAiF's before, but can't seem to find the post anywhere, so I shall re-define. A SWiMWAiF is a "scary white man with a fetish" for Asian and/or Asian-American women. I coined this clumsy descriptor when I was in college and you couldn't turn the corner without bumping smack into some guy who was serial dating Asian girls in an attempt to find the one who might finally intersect with the lame fantasies floating around in his pea brain.

Anyways, if you had asked me to pinpoint the one woman in the audience for whom Chris Isaak would leave the stage and sing directly to, I would have said it would be the Asian woman sitting two rows down and to the left of us. And guess what? Chris Isaak left the stage to sing directly to the Asian woman sitting two rows down and to the left of us. SO NOT a surprise.

But he also covered Cheap Trick's "I Want You To Want Me."

And he also asked his keyboard player to "Please play some musical notes to reflect the pain which I am feeling at this moment."

And when he growled that "Baby did a bad, bad thing," it kinda made me want to do a bad, bad thing.

And, finally, he sang "Wicked Game" just right, and it has one of my favorite lines from a song ever: "World was on fire no one could save me but you..."

I'm going to insert the video here because it's so beautifully shot, but OH MY GLORY I had forgotten how completely not-safe-for-work it is:

The Post In Which I Talk (mostly) About the Little Bird

"You're making lasagna!" she screamed. She pointed at my grocery cart and wagged her finger because, apparently, I was a very, very bad girl for making lasagna. In point of fact, I was NOT making lasagna, but I didn't bother to refute her because I was too busy trying to swallow my desire to point at HER cart and say, "Oh! Super Plus tampons! Your period must be about to start!"

Is it not basic etiquette to avert your eyes from another person's shopping cart? Honestly people.

Now I shall move on to my original post.

* * *

Yesterday a little ball of pulsing feathers was unceremoniously tossed out of its nest. It landed at my feet, where I stared at it for a moment. We were already running late for an orthodontist appointment, so I never should have said anything to my kids, but to have remained silent would have made me a rather poor excuse for a mother. "Look!" I said. "A baby bird! Okay, we gotta go!"

Of course, much madness and many overwrought exclamations followed. "A poor baby bird! Oh what shall we do! Oh where are its parents! Oh we cannot just leave it here! Oh a predator may happen upon it and then it will not survive! Oh! Oh! Oh!"

I managed to pack my brood into the car by saying that the bird's mother would undoubtedly find it in a few minutes. "Oh but what if she doesn't?" Then, I lied, we'll take care of it. I felt certain that by the time we returned nature would have taken its course and some neighborhood cat would have had a nice, crunchy little snack.

But wouldn't you know it? When we got back and the girls tumbled out of the car and through the gate and down the path, the thing was still sitting where it fell. At this juncture, please insert more overwrought exclamations.

I sighed. "Okay, wait here and make sure nothing eats it. I'll go see what we're supposed to do." One quick Google search later, I emerged from the house holding a little plastic container lined with tissue. "Put him in here," I said. "Wait!" I ran back inside and returned with some dishwashing gloves. "Put these on first."

Then, in accordance with my Googled instructions, we tucked the container inside a bush. "Okay. Leave him alone now, and his mama will come feed him." Well, I may as well have presented them with a plate of warm chocolate chip cookies and said I'm going to put this right here in the middle of the table, but don't eat any. Every time I left them unattended they were outside with "Galio," and even though I patiently explained in half a dozen ways that they needed to let him be, they could not. For reasons I SUPPOSE I understand, they were psychologically incapable of offering him any sort of fledgling/nestling privacy.

Finally the spousal unit came home and we were able to conjure up just enough combined power to keep them away from the poor thing. We set him back in his container in the bushes and went about our usual business. About an hour later, the mama and papa bird felt safe enough to swoop in and feed him, and, well, I have to admit something. I have to admit that I, your mean ol' Nesting Ground Mistress, got a little misty-eyed when I saw the family flapping their wings at each other and chirping and flitting about in obvious bird delight.

Of course, it might also have been my allergies. We'll never know for sure.