Current Statistics

Weight: 124.4 (ok, 124.6 pounds). I.e., holding relatively steady (up .4 pounds since last recorded weigh-in several weeks ago), despite yesterday's mid-afternoon pastry festival. Which, by the way, was worth every calorie. Coconut icing. Coconut. Must be the stress, 'cause it sure isn't the exercise.

Physical status: Showered and dressed, a 50% improvement over yesterday.

Foreign objects on clothes: Mashed-up bits of Trader Joe's "This blueberry walks into a bar..." A marked improvement over yesterday's milk and toddler urine.

Foreign objects on couch: Milk.

Wounds: Scab from toddler scratch on forehead almost gone. Fresh toddler scratch on nose still smarting. Horrible thigh bruise from banging leg into a desk about 40% gone.

Failing at: Home life today--Thyme cried and refused to kiss me out of anger when I told him I had to go do my work. A major fallback from yesterday's failing at work, succeeding at home. In relatively good shape at work today, due to completing a major project way ahead of schedule. Relatively. Other projects still lag, and I won't be able to focus on them due to feeling sad about letting Thyme down.

This is the hardest, hardest balancing act I've ever done. No wonder I'm spent, physically, emotionally, and creatively. I don't care if Jon and Kate cheated on each other with horses; they should both be canonized.

Things to do this year

1. Get DNA test for my twins.

Fresh out of the oven, they looked like two completely different children. Within hours, we started to have trouble telling them apart. It got to the point that we tagged one with a red (non-Kaballah) string when it came time to take off the hospital bracelet. Now, at 2+ years, I'm asked approximately five times a week whether they are identical. It would be nice to know the answer, although it is fun to come up with various different responses, depending on how I feel.

2. Buy new sweatpants.

The babysitter is really, really nice about pretending to ignore the hole in the bum each morning, but one of these days I'll have to take delivery of a UPS package or something. Besides, with two power poopers in her charge, she sees enough rear ends.

3. Go to the dermatologist.

It's time to get an updated quote on how much it would cost to remove all those little red dot things all over my body. And they have free hand cream samples in the waiting room. Plus, skin cancer screening, yada yada yada.

Arabellas everywhere!

Last night I saw Atonement. So as not to spoil too much for anyone who hasn't seen it, all I'll say is, the wicked little girl's play features a character named Arabella!

Then, today...my necklace!

http://www.etsy.com/view_listing.php?listing_id=24247488

And C.S. is BUYING IT FOR ME! Thank you so much, C.S.!

Is this an omen? Do I need to resume writing more seriously?

Melting Shot

Okay, since I finally got a comment on my Marilyn Chambers post (much appreciation directed to my friend at Apathy Lounge), I will now get back to the business of filling in my remaining three readers (one of them is my mom) on what the kids are up to.

Since we at the Trattoria Breve are quite pretentious, we're teaching Sage and Thyme as much as we can about food. We're also teaching them a bit of Italian, but, so far, only the fun words. They know how to both say and pronounce parmigiano, and we recently got them started on extra virgin olive oil. Since they're only half Italian, we have to get the golden green liquid infused into their blood as soon as possible. I just hope it doesn't have the unintended consequence of correcting their adorable version of "Che fa" (loosely translated as, "What are you doing?" or "What do you want?" "Che" is pronounced "kay."). Currently, they say, "Key fa?" And they do it complete with hand gesture--index finger and thumb together, facing up, extended outwards and shaken a few times in rapid succession.

We provided them with some small pieces of ciabatta and their own individual dipping dishes. As I was placing the dipping dishes in front of them, my mind flashed to that Gary Larson "Far Side" (quotes for cartoon names, yes?) cartoon where there's a body on the floor of the kitchen and a puff of smoke or something, alongside an open copy of a book called Recipes for Disaster. Ty was sure the high chairs were going to get a hefty helping of lubrication. We were both pleasantly--and humorously--surprised.

Without batting an eyelash, both boys picked up their little-but-deep Pyrex dipping dishes and proceeded to down the oil in a single gulp. Ty pointed out that they were probably culturally confused; the Italian half embraced the olive oil, but their Anglo half called upon them to do it in shots.

In other news, I'm back on Weight Watchers after 2007's failed attempt. I've lost six pounds and feel significantly better.

I miss my blog.

Behind the Facade

My MSN homepage lists entertainment headlines. This morning, the prime headline real estate, complete with photo and bold print, was devoted to rumors of Scarlett Johansson's crash dieting.

Below that, in small, regular print, a headline announced that an "adult film star" was dead at age 56. No photo. No name.

Marilyn Chambers, circa 1973

Born Marilyn Ann Briggs in the early 1950's, and raised in Westport, Connecticut, where she graduated from the well-regarded Staples High School, Marilyn Chambers initially rose to fame in the early 1970's, when she appeared in the X-rated film Behind the Green Door. Shortly after the release of the film, the media learned she was the young mother featured on the box of Ivory Snow. The same box that bore the slogan, "99 and 44/100% pure."

I have long been fascinated by her. Me, the practicing Catholic, mother of two toddlers, and lawyer. Something about her life. Something about her face. She's the "good girl gone bad."

Now, of course, viewed with a 2009 lens, one can't help but notice how un-pornstarlike she was. Small breasts. Almost boyish figure. Cute smile. Quirky features. At times pretty, at times beautiful, at times almost awkward-looking. The girl next door. Everywoman. Of course, this was one of the primary reasons for her success.

"Success." She had started out primed for a legitimate film career. She appeared in legitimate ads and in the film The Owl and the Pussycat. (Some people--OK, I--would argue that she's the best thing about that film.) Years later, she spoke of her choice to go into pornography. She explained that, in her naivete, she thought the sexual revolution would move in such a way that pornographic films would go so legitimate that the choice would help her career.

Of course, we know now that didn't happen. Like that other famous Marilyn, Chambers is an icon--but an icon of sorts. Not so legendary that her death takes priority over Scarlett Johansson's current diet. One might call Chambers one of the whipping girls of the sexual revolution. The embodiment of all that is good and bad about it.

This, I think, is the key to my fascination with her.

In the 1960's and 1970's, when society was telling us to free ourselves from the shackles of old-school morality, people like Chambers did exactly that. Publicly. On film. For posterity. She was celebrated for this...until. Until people grew uncomfortable watching other people have sex on film, in the company of other people. It was great, it was natural, it was a public manifestation of what everyone was having anyway, and...there was something not quite right about it. So taboo!

So taboo, in fact, that the mainstream media deemed most of these men and women untouchable for legitimate work. The industry that sold us--and sells us--everything BUT sex largely refused to work with people who had sold ACTUAL sex. Scarlett Johansson can talk about sex, show her breasts, even simulate sex all the wants, and still get the headline. The woman who embodies the fruition of those fantasies, though...her death is relegated to a point further down on the page. Her Richard Corliss-penned obituary in Time online represents a new low in journalism from a supposedly "legitimate" source, trumpeting that Chambers is "is 99 and 44/100% dead." Classy writing, that. As if finding her mother's lifeless body on Easter Sunday weren't bad enough for her surviving seventeen-year-old daughter.

Chambers's death reminds me a bit of the death of actress Carrie Snodgress. Longtime readers know that one of my favorite films is Diary of a Mad Housewife, arguably Snodgress's best role and claim to whatever fame she has. After partnering with Neil Young and bearing his child, for which she retreated from her once-promising career, he ditched her and ultimately drastically reduced his support payments. She died a few years ago in her 50's, with her now-grown child by her side. I couldn't help but think, at the time, that if only they had been married, she wouldn't have had the financial struggles she had. She would have had an easier time getting support for herself and her child, after her partner abandoned ship on the life they had planned together. She, too, had freed herself from a shackle of sorts--but one that would have helped her. She did, after all, choose to pursue the life that typically accompanies the "shackle" of marriage. Just not the institution itself.

Chambers's story is a bit less tragic. There was no lengthy illness. There were no apologies for her choices, or her success, or her type of success. For that, I really and truly respect her. She had specific talents and she made the most of them. But she also forces society to take a hard look at what it wants, and whether it can really live with its own goals.

Dear Diary

Today Barack Obama was sworn in as 44th President of the United States. I wasn't. Instead, I fielded certain young persons' questions about the incongruity of Grover Monster making pee-pee in the potty book when he has no visible penis ("He has one, but they don't show it, because he likes to keep it private").

By the way--where IS Grover these days??? He's getting entirely too little airtime.

Oh no! Oh no!

Because we are moderately extravagant, Ty and I subscribe to a variety of cable channels. Because we are moderately cheap, we almost always refuse to pay for additional On Demand-type services. Therefore, we must keep ourselves content with the free On Demand offerings for any given time period.

Because we have twin boys and also have jobs and also occasionally feel the need to maintain sanity, we allow our children to watch a small amount of television, even though they are shy of two years old.

Against our better judgment, we opened the Barney and Friends floodgates. My dear readers, please learn from my mistakes.

Barney delights my children. They happily watch and sing and clap while Ty and I sit on the couch, moaning, groaning, smacking our hands to our foreheads, and muttering occasional under-the-breath phrases to each other such as "stupid," or "saccharine," or "contrived," or "fake," or "please stab me in the eyeballs with a sharpened spoon." We vow to show no more Barney. Then, the inevitable end of the episode approaches, and Barney sings "I love you, you love me, we're a happy family..." and images of children cuddling with their family members are displayed, our children crawl into our laps and cuddle with us, and we, of course, soften and melt and decide, oh, okay, maybe just a little more Barney in the future.

Not long ago, our cable service offered six episodes of Barney On Demand. In a tired stupor, I turned on one of them, which featured B.J. (tee hee) playing with balls (tee hee HEE). At one point, a whole bunch of balls of different colors fell on her (him? it?).

She might as well have reached through the television and offered each of my children a simultaneous ice cream cone and back rub.

"Oh no!" I said to my sons, cheerfully. "All the balls fell!"

They looked at me, their eyes huge.

"More Oh No?! More Oh No?!"

"Sure," I said, rolling back the footage. They watched it again, enthralled.

"More Oh No? More Oh No?" They watched it another half a dozen times.

This was, maybe, six weeks ago?

They are still asking for "More Oh NO?!" a good four or five times a week.

Here's the problem: the episode has DISAPPEARED. The cable offerings went from six episodes to four. I watched each of the four episodes TWICE just to make sure I wasn't missing the clip.

I did at least an hour's worth of research and I'm pretty sure I FINALLY figured out the name of the episode ("Let's Play Games!"), as well as the season (9) and episode (12). But I can't find it on VHS or DVD anywhere.

Oh.
NO.