The Annoying Holiday Card.

It is next to impossible to get a halfway decent picture of the two girls together. Harder than getting them to share, even.

Our digital camera is loaded with candid solo shots, Hazel-hamming-it-up shots, Violet gazing adoringly at the Christmas tree shots (right before she lunges maniacally for an ornament, any ornament within reach, please Mama, just this once I wanna touch it, PLEASE!) -- but every time I try to get the two of them in the same frame for one second, they turn into a couple of gorrillas.

I'm not asking them to sit on Santa's lap and pose -- Hazel's horrified expression at the mere suggestion of such an offense told me not to press the issue. I'm not tricking them out in velvet and tulle, and asking them to sit on a rocking chair before a fake fire backdrop, because I hate those posed, "precious" shots. Hell, I'm not even asking them to comb their hair or wash their faces - why start now? All I'm asking for is one photo in which they do not look like drunken frat boys; mouths wide open, at least one of them with their eyes half shut, little bodies swaying, blurry, shirtless.

But the minute they see me angling for a shot of them in the bathtub, or trying to preserve on film the blessed quiet moments that they spend on the couch together watching "Go, Diego, Go!", it's all over. Violet jumps up and insists on looking through the viewfinder, yelling "Me! Mine! My pic-tuh! ME!" Hazel immediately channels JonBenet Ramsay, spreading her arms out wide and cocking her head, a fake "aw shucks, aren't I the cutest?!" smile plastered on her face.

I love the natural shots, the casual moments captured by sheer chance, but damn, those don't come easy. If they're not blurry, they're too dark, and if they're not too dark, someone gets nudged out of the frame, or they've got something suspicious coming out of their nose. Nothing says "happy holidays" like a snapshot of Violet licking the snot off her cheek, right?

Worst case scenario: I'll get 'em while they're sleeping. Best case? I'll get my shit together in November next year, and hire someone who knows what they're doing.

Happy Thanksgiving!

From a couple of turkeys...

Skinny Jeans: Who wears this shit?

Yesterday while Hazel was at preschool, I loaded Violet into the stroller, bribed her with a lollipop, and frittered the precious preschool hours away at Old Navy.

I was searching for a pair of "good" jeans. Meaning that I'm the kind of girl for whom "dressing up" means wearing dark rinse jeans and ballet flats... maybe a scarf if I'm feeling super fancy. And you know what? I found them. Size 10 regulars, dark rinse, bootcut, with a little of the stretchy stuff. And they were on sale for $20!

Why I didn't just stop there, I don't know.

Feeling thin (size 10!) and happy ($20!), I decided to check out the rest of the sale denim, and this is how I came to try on this season's "must have" item: the skinny jean.

First of all, don't be fooled by the name. The skinny jean does not, in fact, make you look skinny. Oh no. The skinny jean makes a mockery of the thighs -- thighs that you admired, just minutes before, in the dark rinse bootcut jean -- rendering them squat and sausage-like. Gone is the mood-enhancing hip-to-foot balancing effect of the ankle skimming bootcut, having been replaced by scrunched up denim legwarmers cowering below my knees. The long, lean and pleasing silouhette of the bootcut becomes a distant memory, as I stand cursing my dressing room reflection, and all it's stumpy, bulgy imperfections.

Oh, and "ultra" low rise? Please. Don't even get me started on that. Why do we need that? Who does "ultra" low rise look good on? Fourteen year old mall skanks and Gwyneth Paltrow, that's who. F that.

I'm sticking with the bootcut, thank you very much. And I'm not shopping for jeans again until the skinny jean trend goes back to the 80's, where it belongs.

"Little Children": See This Film Now.

My wonderful, kind and caring husband came home from work Tuesday night with a big surprise for me: He was taking the whole day off from work on Wednesday, so I could have a little "me" time.

I've said it before, and I'll say it again: I have a good man. The best man.

So Wednesday morning, I sprang joyfully out of bed (a far cry from what I usually do, which is drag my grumpy ass from the bed to the couch, where the aforementioned practically perfect man serves me coffee), showered and drove Hazel to preschool. From 9:15 a.m. on, I was a single gal in the city. I ate, I thrifted in the Mission, I shopped for books downtown and little girls slippers in Chinatown, and - are you ready for the best part? - I saw a movie. At 12:20 on a Wednesday afternoon. It was just me and a retired, sixtysomething hippy couple, and it was awwwwwesome.

Little Children is one of those rare films that is so good -- so seamless, and well-paced, and superbly acted -- that it actually transcends the material from which it came (in this case, Tom Perotta's novel of the same name, which was quite good as well). The main characters, Sarah and Brad, are so easy to relate to, so human and flawed. They are both living on cruise control, surprised and a little disappointed by where their lives have taken them. Their extramarital affair keeps the pace of the movie flowing, but it is their inner transformations, their gradual shifts in perspective as human beings, that is it's heart.

Kate Winslet plays Sarah, a stay-at-home-mom who has a hard time relating to her daughter, and no close friends, and no idea how to live the life she's in. If you've ever had one of those "I love my life, but how did I end up here?" moments, as I have, you will love this character, and wish her well. She is not idealized, as mothers often are in films, nor is she criminalized for not being an ideal mom. I appreciated the frank and forthright way in which this character is depicted. I felt a kinship with her immediately, and the fact that she is played by the glorious Kate Winslet, makes her even more appealing. Patrick Wilson plays Brad, a gorgeous stay-at-home-dad isolated by a world of moms, who find him threatening and unnerving -- as does his own wife. Jackie Earl Haley plays Ronnie, a convicted sex felon who's just moved back into this suburban neighborhood, and, ironically, the only "child" in the story who is loved, unconditionally.

Each of the central characters reaches a breaking point at the climax of the film, which is both hopeful and sad, and underlines the real message of this story: you can't change the past, but you can change the future -- and the future has to start somewhere. Words to take to heart.

If you have any free time this holiday weekend, and a willing babysitter, or a partner who is as good to you as mine is to me, go see it! It's absolutely worth it.

Thoughts on a cold November day.

So much has been going here on lately. Birthday madness, Halloween madness, Mike went to Japan and came back, we had several family members visiting.... and we've all been sick, sick, sick. I've had little time, or inclination, to sit down and blog about it all, until this afternoon...
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Halloween 2006: After changing her mind about a kajillion times, Hazel decided to be "Belle" for Halloween, after my visiting grandpa bought her a much-coveted "Belle dress" at Target. This, according to Hazel, necessitated that Violet be Tinkerbelle (or Stinkerbelle, as we called her). After wearing her costume for 5 days prior to Halloween, Hazel was totally over it, and insisted on wearing her turtle leggings and fleece pullover on Halloween night instead. When told she wouldn't be able to trick or treat without a costume, she sighed heavily "Fine", and grudgingly shucked her dress on. Stinkerbelle was decked out in fairy wings, a faux fur jacket, punk rock shoes and stripey tights. Here's a late (and bad) pic:


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Midterm Elections: Because I knew Schwarzenegger would win, I voted green this year, as I do most every year. It felt right. I always get nervous on my way to vote, like something is going to happen where everyone at the precinct finds out that I shouldn't be there, that I didn't register, or committed some heinous crime unwittingly, and kick me out. But it was fine. And what amazing results: The house, the senate, and Nancy Pelosi -- and now Rumsfeld's fascist ass gets kicked to the curb! I haven't felt this optimistic in years.
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Allergies: We finally got Hazel in to see the allergy specialist, and it turns out that she has severe allergies to both grass and dust. The doctor put her on a nasal inhaler, prescribed Claratin for when she needs it (Spring, mostly), and gave me a list of mind-numbing chores to bang out, which boils down to me having to vacuum, dust, wash, cleanse and wipe every square inch of the girls' bedroom, at least once each week. Now, anyone who knows me knows that I'm anal about certain aspects of housekeeping, but only because we live in such a tiny space. I hate clutter and dirty carpet, but everything else can, and pretty much does, slide. But not anymore. Time to introduce Hazel to the concept of chores! Anyone else have a 4 year old with a chore list? How does it work in your house?
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Moving: Mike and I are caught between our love of Northern California, and our lack of millions of dollars. We love the Bay Area, we love Northern California, and we would be sad to have to leave -- but it's crazy expensive here ($700K for a 2 bedroom house. No, seriously). For what we pay to rent our dinky little bread box, we could be be paying a mortgage on something much nicer, practically anywhere we want to go. The catch is, of course, that Silicon Valley is where all the job opportunities are for Mike, and as long as we're going to be a single income family, we need to be where he can get good, interesting work. While trying to figure out if it's financially smart for us to stay here, we're also looking around, planning some trips, and trying to figure out where else we may want to go. Any suggestions?
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Extended Breast feeding: Yesterday, Violet hit the 18-month mark, and she's still nursing. Happily. While she was sick, she was nursing pretty much all day long, and I was so happy to be able to give that to her. I know it contributed to her quick recovery. Hazel was weaned by the time she was 15 months old, and although it was a gradual process, it was very hard on her. I think that was due to her personality, as much as it was to her age, but still; I felt a lot of guilt. Not wanting to repeat that experience with Violet, I've made no attempt to wean her so far, at all. I've been watching her cues and dropping feedings here and there, picking some of them back up again as needed, and not thinking about it too much. This approach is working for us very well. But I still can't quite believe I'm nursing an 18-month-old! Where'd my baby go?
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Nursing Mother's Council: Speaking of breast feeding, guess who's going to be a trained, certified lactation consultant? Me! My course, through the San Mateo Nursing Mothers Council, starts in January. I'm so excited. Breast feeding has been such a powerful and wonderful experience for me -- I'm really looking forward to helping new mamas have the best nursing experience possible. It's something I can see myself doing for a long time.
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And that's what I've been thinking about on this cold November day.