tag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:/blogs/blog?p=2Blog2024-03-14T14:09:30-04:00Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songsfalsetag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/73670152024-03-14T14:09:30-04:002024-03-18T19:57:29-04:00Style Icon Prepares for Next Year's Oscars<p>It's been a week and a half since my last post as a newly-minted Style Icon: not a particularly auspicious start to my 15-year sprint to the cover of <u>Vogue!</u> I know that all 15 members of my faithful following have been waiting patiently for me to answer two critical questions:<o:p></o:p></p><ul style="list-style-type:disc;">
<li>Did that expensive Vitamin C stuff I bought at Sephora (<a class="no-pjax" href="https://midlifemomsongs.com/blog/blog/7361100/s-is-for" data-link-type="url">prompted by my phone’s insistence that I do so</a>) really deliver Visible Results in Seven Days?<o:p></o:p>
</li>
<li>What did I wear to the Oscars?</li>
</ul><p>First things first. It has indeed been more than seven days since CEO entered my life.<span> </span></p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/393339/e88b85b8ae23cf8db346afdff588538b5b81b3f2/original/img-2593.jpeg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_m justify_center border_" height="4032" /><p>In the last 10 days, I have remembered to use it three times (which is somewhat shy of the twice daily application recommended on the package).<span> </span>But I kind of like it!<span> </span>It makes my face tingle and smell like an orange.<span> </span>As to visible results:<span> </span>I still apparently have two eyes, a nose and a mouth; none have relocated, or changed size.<span> </span>So far, so good.<span> </span></p><p><span>Now for the shocker: </span><i><span>I was not actually invited to this year's Oscars</span></i><span>, an obvious oversight on the part of the Academy. Instead, I went out for a delightful dinner date with my husband, the lovely and talented Steve. I even dressed up, in my way. And yet I neglected to take pictures, either of my outfit, or of my food. Which goes to show that I still have a ways to go towards developing good Influencer habits.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p>But I have chosen my outfit for next year's Oscars. I'm going for Carey Mulligan's dress, because it was my favorite from the <u>New York Times</u>' Monday a.m. recap, and I'm quite sure Carey won't want to be seen in the same frock two years in a row.</p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/393339/a51e90583e49b2216307c2940e5536a3f98fb945/original/screenshot-2024-03-13-at-9-12-18-am.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_m justify_center border_" height="1246" /><p>It should work well for a woman of my vintage, <span>seeing as how it’s black and white, which, </span><a class="no-pjax" href="https://midlifemomsongs.com/blog/blog/7357592/my-style-icon-launch" data-link-type="url"><span>as established in an earlier post</span></a><span>, are definitive Older Style Icon colors. </span></p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/393339/39851bc649122a24ce1b9544d77e18981334420a/original/laurie-head-only.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_l justify_center border_" height="600" width="1000" /><p>I love the silhouette of this dress: it has a neo-mermaid thing going for it that's quite fabulous. Of course, it may not be possible to actually <i>walk</i> while wearing it, which could be a problem for a performer who expects an award. Since nobody has asked me to write the theme song for their major motion picture, I think I can safely assume I won’t be collecting an actual Oscar until 2026 at the earliest.<span> </span>Nonetheless, a Style Icon knows how to accessorize! </p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/393339/bbca60c134b9c05bbb8b233a1e2fa7ca23306d8a/original/laurie-head-and-segway.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_l justify_center border_" height="600" width="1000" /><p>Also a little concerned about the scanty coverage on the top of the dress, since I am always cold. But I have just the thing already in my wardrobe:</p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/393339/4a47d34fec99d7581fa19973c20e2a788ea13fb4/original/cardigan-and-segway.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_l justify_center border_" height="600" width="1000" /><p>Every Style Icon knows you can't go wrong with a good red cardigan. Just ask Miucci Prada.</p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/393339/9c67572b81ad57abff123222f51540b1cd938e11/original/screenshot-2024-02-26-at-2-53-56-pm.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_m justify_center border_" height="1090" /><p><o:p></o:p></p><p><o:p></o:p><o:p></o:p></p>Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/73611002024-03-03T15:26:56-05:002024-03-14T11:52:17-04:00"S" is for....<p>My first full week as a style icon finds me on a four-day work trip to San Francisco, staying and working in a hotel near Union Square.<span> </span><o:p></o:p></p><p>Here is what I see every time I turn on my phone, at all hours of the day and night:<o:p></o:p></p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/393339/ddd1b5528ad4be38a8d099b74b547d2b6c4300a5/original/img-2565.jpeg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_m justify_center border_" height="2436" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/393339/55d4632a55863229e914cee8e79687eecbc20215/original/img-2562.jpeg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_m justify_center border_" height="2436" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/393339/8569020106ef03a6a9097957248e5c515c7ab479/original/img-2569.jpeg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_m justify_center border_" height="2436" /><p> </p><p>In my life, I try to be guided always by that still, small voice.<span> </span>I just never thought it would come from Sephora.<span> </span><o:p></o:p></p><p>It is Friday afternoon, at the end of the work week, before I finally have a little free time to walk around the city (still gorgeous, by the way, despite its obvious decline).<span> </span>As I round the corner back to my hotel, I see the sign.<span> </span><o:p></o:p></p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/393339/3d049289f449f2151da6804666f9122f67c27777/original/sephora-logo.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_m justify_center border_" height="225" /><p>Destiny beckons.<span> </span>I enter.<o:p></o:p></p><p>A saleswoman approaches as I am wandering the aisles and asks what she can help me to find.<span> </span>I briefly consider discussing with her my plan to land on the cover of <u>Vogue</u> within the next decade and a half.<span> </span>But since I have already written two blog posts on the topic, she is likely already aware.<o:p></o:p></p><p>Instead I respond, “My phone thinks I need something.<span> </span>What do <i>you</i> think I need?”<o:p></o:p></p><p>It is not the question she was expecting; but she does not miss a beat.<span> </span>“Well,” she says, “We all need Vitamin C.<span> </span>It’s the secret to protecting our skin from the ravages of this awful weather.<span> </span>And we could all use some firming and plumping.”<span> </span><o:p></o:p></p><p>I suggest that the firming ship has perhaps at this point already sailed.<span> </span>“Nonsense!” she laughs, and pulls this item off the shelf, pointing to the sign that promises Visible Results in seven days.<span> </span><o:p></o:p></p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/393339/e88b85b8ae23cf8db346afdff588538b5b81b3f2/original/img-2593.jpeg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_m justify_center border_" height="4032" /><p>It is not clear what these Visible Results might be; but destiny, and my phone, have driven me here; and if a very expensive vial of Vitamin C potion will shorten the path to that <u>Vogue</u> cover, so be it.<span> </span>But it is not a trivial investment:<span> </span>this half-oz. bottle, which the saleswoman says will last only a month, costs a whopping $43.<span> </span><o:p></o:p></p><p>The ever-helpful saleswoman explains that I’m to add this precious balm to my skin care regime every morning.<span> </span>At night, she explains, I should continue to use my retinols and other correctors.<span> </span><o:p></o:p></p><p>I do not use retinol; but I am struck by this term, <i>correctors</i>, and the expectation that I will be using more than one.<span> </span>This is a whole category at Sephora:<span> </span><i>correctors</i>, <i>concealers</i>.<span> </span>Here is a fact about humans:<span> </span>our skin loses elasticity as we age.<span> </span>My jowls are nothing if not honest.<span> </span>Strictly speaking, it is the wrinkles themselves that are correct.<o:p></o:p></p><p>I’ll give the Vitamin C cream a try, though I doubt I’ll be back for another $43 bottle next month, the urgings of my phone notwithstanding.<span> </span>I’ll be waiting for those Visible Results – but without great expectations.<span> </span>Vitamin C has a long history of false promises.<span> </span>In 1970, Linus Pauling came on strong with a raft of claims about the benefits of Vitamin C for preventing and fighting viruses, claims that were largely debunked in short order.<span> </span>Today people may remember him as much for that little diversion as much as they do for his two – TWO!<span> </span>-- Nobel prizes.<span> </span><o:p></o:p></p><p>Anyway, if the CEO Serum DOES deliver the promised firming and brightening, I’m thinking that next month I’ll buy a bottle of these for $6.59:<o:p></o:p></p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/393339/144837c21a2894a4a5dd6bb955557fee8fe4e0d2/original/cvs-tables.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_s justify_center border_" height="160" /><p>….mash them up, and rub them on my face.<o:p></o:p></p><p>Brightening and firming may or may not be within reach.<span> </span>The plumping, however, is entirely within my control.<o:p></o:p></p><p>When the flight attendant on the return trip offers me chocolate cookies as a snack, I take two.<o:p></o:p></p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/393339/b077b8e0cc250a83a2bde52d885a6ee04b2054b5/original/img-2592.jpeg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_m justify_center border_" height="3024" /><p> </p>Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/73583632024-02-27T20:21:18-05:002024-02-27T20:21:51-05:00Day Two as a Style Icon, in which I explain how to look great while traveling<p>My second day as a style icon sees me hitting the road, on a work trip for the day job (the one I plan to keep only until I land that <u>Vogue</u> cover).<o:p></o:p></p><p>I arrive at the airport ready to share my travel look with the world.<span> </span>Yet I am immediately confronted with a problem:<span> </span>my arms are apparently too short to take a selfie that captures anything more than my head.<span> </span></p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/393339/7b54e1dea466700631aa637b85dc506e1fe77295/original/img-2543.jpeg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_m justify_center border_" height="3088" /><p>I am, however, in an airport: where better to shop for accessories for my small electronics?<span> </span>I set off in search of an item I have long avowed never to purchase:<span> </span>a selfie stick.<o:p></o:p></p><p>I try all the Hudson Newsstands in Terminal B.<span> </span></p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/393339/600785f923ed873cdab92143a4e208fe199bccb0/original/img-2517.jpeg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_m justify_center border_" height="3024" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/393339/d901879c5ec9a601eaee3428b0f85eb16a6859dd/original/img-2516.jpeg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_m justify_center border_" height="4032" /><p>Then there is a brief moment of excitement when the sales guy at InMotion thinks we’ll find one in the 20% Off bin:<o:p></o:p></p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/393339/cc3e6caa5225a432a2d7d21c9e7727021ac8e918/original/img-2541.jpeg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_m justify_center border_" height="4032" /><p>But there are no selfie sticks to be had in Terminal B.<span> </span>Don’t people want to take snaps of themselves on their vacations?<span> </span>Apparently selfie sticks are no longer a thing; and likely only a 59-year-old with minimal experience as a Style Icon would even think to ask for one.<o:p></o:p></p><p><span>Yet I am confused. Instagram is full of people--Style Icons!--who are taking full-body shots of themselves and their outfits, every single day. How in the world are they doing this?</span></p><p>Two hypotheses:<o:p></o:p></p><ul>
<li>Style icons have very long arms.<o:p></o:p>
</li>
<li>To be a style icon, you need to travel with an entourage, so someone else can take your picture.<span> </span><o:p></o:p>
</li>
</ul><p>I, sadly, have left my entourage at home.<span> </span>And my arms aren’t likely to grow anytime soon.<o:p></o:p></p><p>I do manage to prop my phone up on a seat in the waiting area at Gate 27, and with the help of the timer, I land this shot:<o:p></o:p></p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/393339/304d0a06f999b1fceb6de387dc724ac7cb2d2d43/original/img-2527.jpeg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_l justify_center border_" height="1950" width="1837" /><p>So now you know<span> </span>how Style Icon Midlifemomsongs dresses for a day in transit!<span> </span>Mac jeans; long-sleeve tee shirt from Garnet Hill, red cardigan to show that I am claiming my power and agency.<span> </span>We covered this <a class="no-pjax" href="https://midlifemomsongs.com/blog/blog/7357592/my-style-icon-launch" data-link-type="url">yesterday</a>.<o:p></o:p></p><p>Absent selfie stick and entourage, I can’t show you the full look, with accessories (suitcase and backpack) and footwear (sneakers).<span> </span>Nonetheless, I am prepared to share the secret of how to look great while traveling.<span> </span>And here it is:<o:p></o:p></p><p>YOU CAN’T.<span> </span>Air travel in 2024 is irritating, at best; you will likely be in a moderately pissy mood most of the way, especially after you realize that you have left your fabulous bright red Style Icon lipstick at home. <span> </span>Who looks good in a scowl?<o:p></o:p></p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/393339/9456bfab839574b6be9c325af388d7500601c780/original/img-2559.jpeg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_m justify_center border_" height="3088" /><p>Besides, everyone around you is thinking about other things.<span> </span>They are wondering if there will be room in the overhead bin for their carry-ons.<span> </span>If there are any water filling stations in Terminal B that aren’t hampered by prostate problems.<span> How long they will need to hold that soggy apple core before a flight attendant comes by to collect their Service Items. </span>If JetBlue will ever bring back those tasty Terra chips.<o:p></o:p></p><p>In short, don’t waste your energy:<span> </span>nobody gives a rat’s ass how you look.<span> </span>Although they may be curious about why you are trying so very hard to take a selfie in the airport.<span> </span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span> </span><o:p></o:p></p>Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/73575922024-02-26T15:08:51-05:002024-02-27T20:21:51-05:00My style icon launch!<p>The time has come for me to launch my new identity as a style icon.</p><p>This decision seems inevitable after a wave of articles in the past few weeks about how women of a certain age are finding a place in the fashion world.<span> </span>First, <a class="no-pjax" href="https://www.wsj.com/style/fashion/older-women-new-york-fashion-week-d63e198c">this headline in the Wall Street Journal<span> </span></a>declared that “Older Women Ruled New York Fashion Week,” with "modeling’s silver wave” (that is, women between 40 and 70) prominently featured in several shows.<span> </span></p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/393339/89a109828aa444bc90e2e5bdab2f298b3df265b8/original/screenshot-2024-02-26-at-2-51-51-pm.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_l justify_center border_" height="1802" /><p>The article featured photos of very elegant, astonishingly thin older women rocking looks in bold colors of red, white and black.<span> </span></p><p>The next day the Journal ran <a class="no-pjax" href="https://www.wsj.com/style/fashion/are-fashion-brands-finally-catering-to-women-over-50-952fdb2d?mod=WTRN_pos1&cx_testId=3&cx_testVariant=cx_178&cx_artPos=0">this article</a> about how the world of fashion is waking up to the existence of women over 50 (the fashion industry having realized, presumably, that once our kids’ orthodontia and summer camp are behind us, some older women have disposable income).<span> </span>The article featured a series of fabulous photos of gorgeous 65-year-old model Jocelyne Beaudoin, with killer red lipstick, sporting in a series of magnificent outfits in… red, white and black.<span> </span></p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/393339/fa06e02acff0fe545fe084aacdb129193e9c2af1/original/screenshot-2024-02-26-at-2-52-38-pm.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_l justify_center border_" height="2058" /><p>And then, a few days ago, the New York Times ran <a class="no-pjax" href="https://www.nytimes.com/2024/02/21/style/lyn-slater-accidental-icon-instagram-influencer.html">this piece about 70-year-old fashion icon Lyn Slater</a>,<span> </span>formidable and fabulous in a series of outfits in – you guessed it – red, white and black.</p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/393339/f7237b6be644526f13e00133960363d6da04f40a/original/screenshot-2024-02-26-at-2-53-27-pm.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_m justify_center border_" height="2058" /><p>Could my path to style icon-hood be more obvious?<span> </span>Consider:</p><ul style="list-style-type:disc;">
<li>I am over 50<o:p></o:p>
</li>
<li>I have a long and well-documented affinity for red, white and black clothing.<span> </span>(If you missed them – and almost everyone did – check out these music videos from my <a class="no-pjax" href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CzzyNuyUSfw&list=PL_NHHk1ZM2p5hI0cnMTRuVkWEIig3liRa" data-link-type="url">Closet Songs</a> series:<span> </span><a class="no-pjax" href="https://youtu.be/wj2TBmQkrO0?si=cjjYu2eiXR3_2LTA" data-link-type="url">Red Dress</a>, <a class="no-pjax" href="https://youtu.be/F1kwAIzBx8o?si=neszNE7bHw70avh0" data-link-type="url">White Shirt</a>, <a class="no-pjax" href="https://youtu.be/-jQDg9xl2vY?si=5Jj2HIiRHAijdxy8" data-link-type="url">Black Pants</a>.)</li>
</ul><p>To be fair:<span> </span>I am ambivalent about white.<span> </span>It’s definitely a big color for the older fashionista.<span> </span>Writes Fashion Icon Lyn Slater:<span> </span>“White shirts are like the white, blank pages in a diary, full of potential and ready to re-conceive themselves and become something they never were before.”<span> </span>Blank pages in a diary:<span> </span>exactly!<span> </span>In my case, ready to record what I have for lunch.<span> </span></p><p>About red, however, I have no doubts.<span> </span>As a Winter (remember that?) I have always loved wearing red.<span> </span>Culturally, it’s an important color for older women.<span> </span>Look at 74-year-old Miucci Prada on the cover of this month’s <u>Vogue</u>:<span> </span></p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/393339/9c67572b81ad57abff123222f51540b1cd938e11/original/screenshot-2024-02-26-at-2-53-56-pm.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_m justify_center border_" height="1090" /><p><span> </span>You may have encountered the <a class="no-pjax" href="https://redhatsociety.com/">Red Hat Society</a>, a network of women of a certain age embracing a common quest to “get the most out of life.”<span> </span>Who can imagine the fabulous Isabella Rosselini at any age without her bold red lipstick?<span> </span>Red is the color embraced by women of a certain age when we want to celebrate our power and agency.<o:p></o:p></p><p>Of course, there have been others who have embraced the color red as a symbol of power and agency.<span> </span>Chairman Mao, the Kremlin, and the Third Reich all come to mind.<o:p></o:p></p><p>But I digress.<o:p></o:p></p><p>There may be reasons why I should not, at this point, make the style icon leap.<span> </span>For one thing, I am not really buying new clothes at the moment, since I have decided to spend all my money replacing my kitchen cabinets.<span> </span>For another – and some might say this is more to the point – I don’t really have a sense of style.<o:p></o:p></p><p>Let me qualify that.<span> </span>I definitely lack “style” where <i>style</i> is an abstract noun meaning “fashionable elegance” (definition 3.b. in the <i>Meriam Webster Dictionary</i>).<span> </span>However, I do have a sense of “style” in the sense of <i>Meriam</i>'s definition 1.a,<span> </span>“a particular manner or technique by which something is done.”<span> </span>Because I do, in fact, have a very specific technique that I use for dressing myself, and it is this:<o:p></o:p></p><p><strong>Find something comfortable, and then get it in a lot of colors.</strong><span><strong> </strong></span><o:p></o:p></p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/393339/34cff2291777b0ad868157fe5558dbaee7d71be4/original/img-2363.jpeg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_m justify_center border_" alt="Mac jeans, available from that store on Newbury Street I really like" height="4032" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/393339/23e845374290ccfa4bf5b0348f23b15c6821d944/original/img-2362-1.jpeg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_l justify_center border_" alt="Garnet Hill long-sleeve Essential Tees" height="3024" /><p>The corollary is that you then need to pretty much wear the same thing every day.<span> </span>My winter style consists of jeans, a long-sleeve t-shirt, and a cardigan.<span> </span></p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/393339/470f98d7c809546e70c5963b0eb3ead550236e2b/original/img-2351.jpeg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_l justify_center border_" height="3717" /><p style="text-align:center;"><span class="text-small"><i>Jeans by Mac. T-shirt by Garnet Hill. Cardigan from one of those sustainable cashmere places.</i></span></p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/393339/e5a3bf952db2d3cce46152cec80af15e282c8937/original/img-2274.jpeg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_l justify_center border_" height="3024" width="4032" /><p style="text-align:center;"><span class="text-small"><i>Jeans by Mac. Tee shirt by Garnet Hill. Sweater from Nordstrom's Rack, circa 2016.</i></span></p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/393339/115e1b6443d4873acbe5ac37e10106014b8dda6b/original/img-2334.jpeg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_l justify_center border_" height="3436" width="2203" /><p style="text-align:center;"><span class="text-small"><i>Jeans by Mac. Tee shirt by Garnet Hill. Can't begin to remember where I got the sweater.</i></span></p><p>Look at that super-red lipstick, purchased specially for my new fashion icon identity! I'm on my way, no?</p><p><span>So please stay tuned for more fashion advice that you will do well to ignore; I have at least three posts in me before I get bored and move onto something else. </span></p><p><span>Miucci Prada made it onto the cover of Vogue at 74. That means I only have 15 years to jockey for that cover photo, so I’d better get cracking on establishing my fashion icon credentials. I am also working on inheriting a luxury brand that I can reposition into a global fashion powerhouse. I'll let you know how that goes. </span></p>Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/73538222024-02-19T15:34:27-05:002024-02-26T14:50:17-05:00A little song for academe<p>I just don't get all the fuss about plagiarism. Here's a little ditty that explains why:</p><p><a class="no-pjax" href="https://midlifemomsongs.com/track/3712459/an-offer" data-link-type="url">An Offer</a></p><p> </p>Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/73440602024-02-01T09:31:37-05:002024-02-19T15:30:29-05:00Lessons from the Subway<p>Last week, I turned 59.<span> </span><o:p></o:p></p><p>This week, I got on a moderately crowded Orange Line car, and a young man near the door promptly offered me his seat.<span> </span>A few hours later, when I boarded a slightly-less-crowded Orange Line car for the return trip, another young man did exactly the same thing.<span> </span><o:p></o:p></p><p>Astonishing.<span> </span>In a lifetime of riding public transit, I can recall only one other instance of being offered a seat, when I was struggling with several heavy grocery bags.<span> </span>More memorable are the times when I really needed a seat, but none was offered.<span> </span><o:p></o:p></p><p>The worst of these instances was in the spring of 2018, as I was recovering from rotator cuff surgery.<span> </span>My arm was in an enormous sling and I was not yet cleared to drive; yet I had places to go and things to do.<span> </span>So I tried the Green Line.<span> </span>Alas, the trolley was crowded, so I was stuck in an aisle, hanging onto the back of a seat to steady myself as we lurched through the streets of Brookline.<span> </span>My shoulder was killing me; I was terrified of being jostled and re-injured.<span> </span>I was wearing the biggest sling in the world AND grimacing; surely one of the college-age humans in the adjoining seats would offer me a perch?<span> </span>But no:<span> </span>their heads were buried in their phones.<span> </span>No eye contact.<span> </span>No mercy.<span> </span><o:p></o:p></p><p>I recall furiously texting my children, asking for reassurance that if <i>they</i> were to encounter a grimacing middle-aged woman on the T with her arm in the world’s largest sling, I raised them well enough that they would offer her a seat.<span> </span>I believe they texted back the word “UBER.”<o:p></o:p></p><p>A woman I know, a far more prolific and successful blogger than I, told me that she saw her blog as an opportunity to find meaning in the small daily events of her life.<span> </span>From this little succession of events, then, I draw the following lesson:<span> </span>how hard it is for us to really see the suffering of others.<span> </span>It is relatively easy to play the gallant with a slightly wrinkly woman who is graying a bit at the temples but otherwise in apparent good health.<span> </span>But it is much harder to acknowledge and respond to someone who is in obvious pain.<o:p></o:p></p><p>Also this:<span> </span>I look much older now than I did two weeks ago, when I was only 58.<o:p></o:p></p><p>And how about this?<span> </span>Technology has been killing common courtesy for the past decade and a half, as we’ve buried ourselves in our phones, oblivious to the people standing right next to us.<span> </span>But that trend reversed abruptly in January, 2024.<o:p></o:p></p><p>And finally, this:<span> </span>Orange Line riders are simply more polite.<span> </span>The Green Line, on the other hand, is an absolute jungle.<o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/72989982023-11-05T12:54:25-05:002023-11-05T12:57:26-05:00With my extra hour today, I made a music video!<div class="video-container size_xl justify_center" style=""><iframe data-video-type="youtube" data-video-id="jnL-hGHEeVQ" data-video-thumb-url="" type="text/html" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/jnL-hGHEeVQ?rel=0&wmode=transparent&enablejsapi=1" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen="true"></iframe></div>Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/72460212023-07-23T09:46:23-04:002023-11-05T12:54:45-05:00The Bear Facts<p>I am pleased to report that during my 10 days in Montana, I was not mauled by a bear.<o:p></o:p></p><p>This happy outcome is not what I was led to expect.<span> </span>Bear warnings are everywhere in western Montana.<span> </span>This sign greeted us as we drove to Missoula:<o:p></o:p></p><p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/393339/0d10bdd4d31c945e447709b26be207f550d5dff4/original/screenshot-2023-07-23-at-9-32-20-am.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_l justify_center border_" />There is a bear warning at every trail head:<o:p></o:p></p><p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/393339/c49ac4700c22d5bb0445ffa6be5d21f2199c6bba/original/img-1743.jpeg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/393339/2c08cc08e39843513df22d23b13785a9e3f1d9bb/original/img-1643.jpeg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p><p>This second one, to be fair, focuses not on bear avoidance, but on which kinds of bears one is allowed to shoot.<o:p></o:p></p><p>And then there is this throwaway line, in the instructions pinned to the fridge at our VRBO.<span> </span>The hosts explain that it is possible to hike right from the house up a nearby mountain.<span> </span>But “<i>bring your bear spray.<span> </span>We have seen bear and mountain lion on the property</i>.”<o:p></o:p></p><p>This grammatical construction gives me pause.<span> </span>Are they talking about “bear” and “mountain lion” in the singular sense, as if they have seen exactly one of each?<span> </span>Or are they using these words as mass nouns – indicating that they have seen the ENTIRE SPECIES on their property?<o:p></o:p></p><p>We buy bear spray.<span> </span>It is not cheap – close to $60.<span> </span>It looks like a fire extinguisher that someone put in the dryer by mistake.</p><p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/393339/94d184c16051e215ad1d63a438343ed2eb5893ec/original/img-1784.jpeg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><o:p></o:p></p><p><a class="no-pjax" href="https://bebearaware.org/deploying-bear-spray" data-link-type="url">The Bear Aware website</a> offers these helpful tips on bear preparedness:<o:p></o:p></p><p><i>When hiking with a friend and a charging bear suddenly takes one of you down, there is no time to hesitate. You need to immediately start spraying both the person and the bear. Continue spraying until the bear stops its attack. Be prepared for the bear to change its attack to the person spraying. Continue spraying downward at the front of the bear until it diverts its charge.</i><o:p></o:p></p><p>I’m thinking Clint Eastwood in the <i>The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly</i>, and I’m thinking:<span> </span><i>my reflexes are not quick enough for hiking in this part of the world</i>.<span> </span>Fortunately, there is less alarming information on other websites.<span> </span>The <a class="no-pjax" href="https://worldanimalfoundation.org/advocate/bear-attacks-statistics/" data-link-type="url">World Animal Foundation</a><a data-link-type="url"> </a>declares that “<i>The majority of bear attacks occur because bears feel threatened or are protecting their young</i>.”<span> </span>No worries, then.<span> </span>I have long been aware that as a middle-aged woman, I am the least threatening creature on the planet.<span> </span>Strangers on the street sometimes ask me to hold their phones while they stop to tie their shoes.<span> </span>And what creature would think of me as a threat to their young?<span> </span>Rather than haul out the bear spray, I could just offer to babysit.<o:p></o:p></p><p>We do make it out on hikes, many of them, which is a good thing, because the hiking is spectacular.</p><p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/393339/618d8d073c2ac7b31a77ef51569f7a1ee0b1b880/original/img-1763.jpeg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p><p>It’s also a great chance for me and Steve to reconnect with each other, after a busy year.<span> </span>You can really <i>talk</i> out there on the trail.<span> </span><o:p></o:p></p><p>Mostly, we talk about whether the bear spray would work on mountain lions.<o:p></o:p></p><p>We talk about why, on a particular hike, we do or do not need to have the bear spray readily available in a belt holster.<span> </span>Steve, who was a Boy Scout and thus Knows about the Great Outdoors, maintains that we do not need to carry bear spray on frequently-traveled paths through open fields.<span> </span>I maintain that we need to carry bear spray in the five feet of driveway between our front door and the car.<o:p></o:p></p><p>On one hike, people on the trail ahead of us see a moose.<span> </span>I am truly sorry not to see this moose.<span> </span>We discuss the moose with a couple we meet, who relocated to Montana a couple of decades ago from the coasts (he from MA, she from CA).<span> </span>They are a bit older than us – and judging by the speed with which they zoom along the path, also in a bit better shape.<span> </span>(I am pleased to see that they are carrying our brand of bear spray <span> </span>– obviously what all the cool kids use.)<span> </span>They hike this particular trail all the time; in the winter, they do it in snowshoes.<span> </span>One winter, they tell us with relish, they saw mountain lion footprints in the snow!<o:p></o:p></p><p>I, personally, would not like to see mountain lion footprints in the snow.<o:p></o:p></p><p>We discuss the moose.<span> </span>Moose are no joke, they say.<span> </span>An agitated moose makes a grizzly bear look like a pussycat. <span> </span>I am fairly sure the moose would just laugh at the bear spray.<o:p></o:p></p><p>But the warning signs are not about moose: it's all bears, all the time. Bear attacks are, of course, extremely rare.<span> </span>Only 40 people are attacked by bears annually around the globe.<span> </span>The National Park Service maintains that an NPS visitor has a mere one in 2.1 million chance of being attacked by a bear.<o:p></o:p></p><p>Obviously, I have been worrying about all the wrong things. <span> </span>I should have been worried about moose, based on the fact that I was only three hikers twice removed from an actual moose encounter.<span> </span>Or bison—they have been getting quite frisky lately!<span> </span>This very month, there have been two bison gorings at US national parks.<span> </span>The bison are obviously pissed.<span> </span>And why shouldn’t they be? <span> </span>The bears are hogging all the attention. <o:p></o:p></p><p>Within a week of my return to Boston, I have two somewhat terrifying encounters with electric bicycles that people are riding, at alarmingly high speeds, in conventional bike lanes.<span> </span>There should be a spray to slow them down!<span> </span>The blended aromas of cappuccinos and croissants, perhaps?<span> </span>Pot smoke and patchouli?<span> </span>No matter:<span> </span>the bikes are crazy fast and my reflexes are lamentably slow; I could never deploy it quickly enough anyway.<span> </span><o:p></o:p></p><p>But I could offer to babysit.</p><p> </p>Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/72428182023-07-16T16:03:42-04:002023-11-05T12:55:00-05:00Why can't a Jewish girl from Queens write a C&W song?<p>Midway through our Montana vacation, after a lovely day of hiking, Steve and I thought it would be fun to go out and hear some music.<span> </span>We searched online and found a brewery about 10 miles outside of Missoula which featured a singer-songwriter from 5:30 – 8:00.<span> </span>So off we went.<o:p></o:p></p><p>The beer was excellent.<span> </span>The music was awful.<span> </span>The food was revelatory.<span> </span>We ordered a “pickle flight:”<o:p></o:p></p><p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/393339/235db72b22ee4adaa492752f5b16b958e0e268ec/original/img-1692.jpeg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p><p>All I can say is: if you haven’t tried Pop Rocks on a pickle, you haven’t really lived.<o:p></o:p></p><p>Steve, whose repartee is usually as sparkling as – well, Pop Rocks – was distracted, and having trouble keeping up his end of the conversation. <span>I was sitting opposite him, my back to the bar. Behind me, seated at the bar, was a gentleman who appeared to be entirely bare-assed, his pants (one assumes) having slipped down when he sat. </span></p><p><span>A few days after our return it occurred to me that “Butt Cheeks on a Bar Stool” would be an excellent name for a C&W song. So I wrote it. Steve and his guitar teacher, Sam Davis, were kind enough to record an accompaniment (Steve is on the bass, Sam on the guitar). </span></p><p><span>If you’re looking for subtlety or nuance, you will not find it here. But if you’re nine years old (in fact or in spirit), this song’s for you – just click on this title to play it:</span></p><p><a class="no-pjax" href="/track/3485103/butt-cheeks-on-a-bar-stool" data-link-type="track" data-link-label="Butt Cheeks on a Bar Stool">Butt Cheeks on a Bar Stool</a></p><p>Enjoy! Or skip it.<o:p></o:p></p>Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/72311852023-06-23T10:12:04-04:002023-07-16T16:07:21-04:00Mother of the Bride, Part 3<p>The central signifiers of a traditional Jewish wedding are the canopy and the glass broken under the heel of the groom.<span> </span>You probably know this even if you’ve never been to a Jewish wedding because of the wedding scene in the musical <i>Fiddler on the Roof</i>, a revival of which is currently taking Japan by storm (many thanks to my brother, Howie, for bringing this to my attention).<span> </span><o:p></o:p></p><p>Here is the wedding scene from the very first Japanese production, featuring the great Hisaya Morishige, who apparently played the role of Tevye 900 times.<o:p></o:p></p><div class="video-container size_xl justify_center" style=""><iframe data-video-type="youtube" data-video-id="1lO4Wi6Hdtg" data-video-thumb-url="" type="text/html" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/1lO4Wi6Hdtg?rel=0&wmode=transparent&enablejsapi=1" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen="true"></iframe></div><p>I start thinking about this song (the English version) as my daughter’s wedding approaches.<o:p></o:p></p><p><i>Is this the little girl I carried?</i><o:p></o:p></p><p><i>Is this the little boy at play?</i><o:p></o:p></p><p><i>I don’t remember growing older--</i><o:p></o:p></p><p><i>When did they?</i><o:p></o:p></p><p>It pops into my head as I’m walking down Boylston Street, and I burst into tears.<span> </span>An iconic soundtrack for a pivotal life moment.<span> </span><o:p></o:p></p><p>My daughter’s will not actually be a traditional Jewish wedding ceremony.<span> </span>Becca is following the family tradition of Jewish women marrying Catholic men, and asking my college roommate, the amazing Rebecca Pugh, to officiate.<span> </span>As she did with me and Steve, the Rev. Rebecca is working with the happy couple to create a meaningful ceremony incorporating a blend of traditions.<span> </span>Including, apparently, the breaking of the glass:<span> </span>you can’t have a Jewish-ish wedding without a broken glass!<span> </span><o:p></o:p></p><p>Since this glass-breaking thing falls outside of the Rev. Rebecca’s Congregationalist tradition, she suggests that Becca and Brian enlist the mother of the bride to handle glass-related logistics.<span> </span><o:p></o:p></p><p>What is an appropriate glass for breaking?<span> </span>Stemmed wine glasses seem a bit hazardous.<span> </span>The groom’s parents report that they once attended a wedding in which the groom tried to break a stemmed wineglass, and not only failed to smash it, but instead sent it flying across the room.<span> </span>Husband Steve suggests that we use one of the Reidel stemless wine glasses we’ve been slowly collecting over the years (in many situations, Steve favors the priciest available solution).<o:p></o:p></p><p>The Rev. Rebecca suggests a lightbulb.<span> </span>I can imagine an incandescent lightbulb shattering easily – but can you even buy incandescent lightbulbs anymore?<span> </span>The LEDs we have for our house would not do:<o:p></o:p></p><p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/393339/d7eb4771e2608a7319f5a6e5947011b4cdbed59c/original/led-floodlight.jpeg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></p><p>Besides, it’s SUPPOSED to be a glass.<span> </span>Good marriages are grounded in honesty, and I am troubled by sleight of hand in a wedding ceremony.<span> </span>Anyway, aren’t you supposed to drink from the glass before smashing it?<o:p></o:p></p><p>I ask (daughter) Becca if they will be drinking from the glass before smashing it.<span> </span>“Drink from it first?<span> </span>Why would you think we’d do <i>that</i>?”<o:p></o:p></p><p>Why would I think that?<span> </span>First, there’s the principal of Chekhov’s gun:<span> </span>if you introduce a gun in the first act, you’d better fire it by the third.<span> </span>Shouldn’t the reverse hold true?<span> </span>If you know you’re going to smash a glass as the wedding’s final act, you’d better drink from it in the first.<o:p></o:p></p><p>Then, of course, there are the lyrics from <i>Fiddler on the Roof</i>’s “Sunrise, Sunset:”<o:p></o:p></p><p><i>Place the gold ring around her finger</i><o:p></o:p></p><p><i>Share the sweet wine and break the glass</i><o:p></o:p></p><p><i>Soon the full circle will have come to pass</i><o:p></o:p></p><p>This song has been on replay in my head for the past several weeks.<span> </span>It’s long past making me ferklempt, for sure; I would very much like, at this point, to turn off the soundtrack.<span> </span>These are not Sheldon Harnick’s finest lyrics – I say this with some authority, since I have myself written plenty of bad lyrics.<span> </span>(Future perfect tense?<span> </span><i>Pull-EEZE.</i>)<span> </span>But lyrical awkwardness aside, the point is that no less an authority than Sheldon Harnick thought you were supposed to drink from the glass before smashing it!<span> </span>And that the wine should be Manischewitz.<span> </span><o:p></o:p></p><p>There is a parable, probably from the Ba’al Shem Tov, about successive generations practicing a particular Jewish ritual. The original version of the ritual involves an elaborate sequence of prayers chanted in a particular location in a forest.<span> </span>Subsequent generations continue to enact the ritual, remembering less and less of the specifics, until the final generation only remembers that they are supposed to show up in the forest in a contemplative mood.<span> </span>The point of this story is that the actions of this last generation, who simply show up in a holy place in the right frame of mind, are equally precious to God.<span> </span><o:p></o:p></p><p>Or maybe the point is that it’s a darned shame that nobody remembers the details anymore, and we’ve all gone to hell in a handbasket.<span> </span>I really couldn’t say.<span> </span>Because I am of a generation that only remembers that there are parables, that they’re usually attributed to the Ba’al Shem Tov, and that we’re supposed to learn from them, and also that at weddings one breaks a glass from which the marital couple may, or may not, have previously shared an adult beverage.<span> </span><o:p></o:p></p><p><i>Sunrise, sunset</i><o:p></o:p></p><p><i>Sunrise, sunset</i><o:p></o:p></p><p><i>Swiftly fly the years</i><o:p></o:p></p><p><i>One season following another</i><o:p></o:p></p><p><i>Laden with happiness and tears</i><o:p></o:p></p><p>PLEASE GOD, MAKE IT STOP.<span> </span>Though I’m sure the lyrics are much better in Japanese. <o:p></o:p></p><p>I am of a generation that knows that much as we all hate Jeff Bezos, solutions to many problems can be found on Amazon (for about half the price of a Reidel glass).<o:p></o:p></p><p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/393339/7caa85404cfc3fea96d5a71b459f3445f4962590/original/wedding-glass.jpeg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></p><p>My daughter Rebecca and her wonderful life partner, Brian, will be married tomorrow.<span> </span>There will be a canopy.<span> </span>There will be a glass, which will likely shatter obligingly into a purpose-built satin-lined sack that will catch every last shard.<span> </span><o:p></o:p></p><p>Her mother will be there, soaking up every moment.<span> </span>And trying very, very hard not to think about <i>Fiddler on the Roof</i>.<o:p></o:p></p>Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/72293822023-06-20T08:37:13-04:002023-11-05T12:55:18-05:00Mother of the Bride, Part 2<p>When Steve and I got engaged, 34 years ago, we had all sorts of ideas about the kind of wedding we’d like to have.<span> </span>These ideas included a tent in my parents’ backyard, a Klezmer band, and a potluck meal brought by friends.<span> </span>My parents vetoed these plans one by one.<span> </span>There were not enough bathrooms in the house to comfortably service the guests (and there’s no way we could ask Aunt Rose to use a port-a-potty).<span> </span>It would be hard to find a union Klezmer band (and since my dad’s CPA firm served the Musician’s Union, that point was non-negotiable).<span> </span>The potluck idea was not even up for discussion.<span> </span>In the end, we took the advice of Steve’s dissertation advisor (“<i>It’s their wedding; it’s your marriage</i>”) and limited our roles to planning the ceremony, buying rings and showing up.</p><p>Fast forward a few decades, and expectations have changed.<span> </span>My 30-year-old daughter and soon-to-be son-in-law have always expected to plan their own wedding (which we will celebrate next Saturday), just the way they want it.<span> </span>It’s their wedding <i>and </i>their marriage.<span> </span>Once again, our role is largely limited to buying stuff and showing up.<span> </span><o:p></o:p></p><p>I am, however, given Assignments.<span> </span>In particular, after a conversation in which I mention the words “food safety” (OK, maybe my actual words were “<i>food poisoning</i>”), I am given the Assignment of Food Logistics.<span> </span><o:p></o:p></p><p>Specifically, this task involves orchestrating the delivery, serving and disposal of appetizer platters, a taco bar, and dessert trays from the three separate vendors who have been chosen by the happy couple, ensuring that all foods are both stored and served at food-safe (not to mention appetizing) temperatures.<span> </span></p><p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/393339/8ac01c12cc54fe5839cc063ecd5c89643b1eea90/original/taylor-rental.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p><p>The facility in which the event will take place has no kitchen and no sink for food-related activities, and only modest room for storage of rented equipment or dishes before or after the event.<span> </span>Per instructions of the bride and groom, leftovers and any disposable dishes must be composted; all serving utensils and dishes are to be BPA-free.<span> </span>Deliveries to the venue can occur up to 6 hours in advance, and pickups of rented items and compost must take place within 18 hours after the event’s completion.<span> </span>The van carrying the appetizer platters will leave the catering kitchen at approximately 4:00 pm, traveling at an average speed of 30 mph; the courier with the cookies will leave the bakery at 4:45, traveling at 45 mph.<span> </span>At what time must the on-site wedding coordinator arrive to ensure that they do not collide in the parking lot?<o:p></o:p></p><p>All of this is right in my wheelhouse. <span> </span>I enjoy logistics, and I’d like to think I’m pretty good at them. <span> </span>Plus I treasure the odd encounter with an exuberant personality. <span> </span>The best part of the whole exercise was the half-hour I spent on the phone discussing chafing dishes with Gary, the catering manager at the nuptial taqueria.<span> </span>His main point, delivered with true passion, was that the tortilla chips must have a chafing dish of their own. <span> </span>Because while all tortilla chips are tasty, warm tortilla chips are positively transcendent.<o:p></o:p></p><p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/393339/da1c9909a708ba253aed4154b65f1cda462ae6ca/original/chips.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p><p>I realize that the non-bleached napkins can be ordered printed with a custom design, so I ask my future son-in-law to provide one.<span> </span>Here’s what Brian came up with:<o:p></o:p></p><p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/393339/14c17f7a312cdb40a5a4b410de37add8d829edf8/original/napkins.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p><p>You can see why we adore him.</p><p>At this point, I believe I have things organized (with eight vendors in all) such that the food will be delivered on time, served at the right temperature, eaten with real utensils off of attractive and BPA-free plates, which, when the diners are done, will be whisked away and composted by Denzel and Gildinete (undoubtedly the Party Host Helpers’ A-Team) who will, we hope, help to keep the buffet stocked, the tables cleared, and everything running smoothly between the hours of 6 and 11 pm next Saturday.<span> </span>It will come off like clockwork.<o:p></o:p></p><p>Unless, of course, it doesn’t.<span> </span>I am a little worried about Pat the Appetizer Platter Guy, whose communication about timing is a little less precise than I’d like; and I am busy making backup plans for delivery of the aforementioned appetizer platters that, with any luck, will not end in olive oil stains on the mother of the bride’s <a class="no-pjax" href="https://midlifemomsongs.com/blog/blog/7228168/mother-of-the-bride-part-1" data-link-type="url">carefully-accessorized ensemble</a>.<span> </span></p><p>Tacos are actually a brilliant option for a 2023 event:<span> </span>so easy to accommodate vegetarians, vegans, the gluten-averse, the lactose-intolerant, and the nut-allergic.<span> </span>Anyway, weddings are about love: everybody loves tacos!<span> </span>And who would say no to the appetizer trays of Southern European cheeses, olives and tapas that precedes them?<span> </span>(Please remember that a foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds.)<span> </span><o:p></o:p></p><p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/393339/0c7325fd67fa03b6c58bf33ef67f959b84bced90/original/tapas-platter.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p><p>Really, I think it will be a blast.<span> </span>Becca and Brian have planned an event that reflects their personalities:<span> </span>fun, creative, unpretentious.<span> </span>And I am totally here for it.</p><p>34 years ago, we greeted my parents’ veto of our wedding preferences with the extravagant eye-rolling of those who have only recently left adolescence behind.<span> </span>I have far more sympathy now.<span> </span>It would<i> </i>have been truly absurd to expect Aunt Rose to use a port-a-potty.<span> </span>Given the prevalence of jello molds at the time, a potluck would indeed have been a bad idea (although my Aunt Clara’s potato kugelettes would surely have bested anything that we actually ate).<span> </span>But beyond these details, a wedding in a backyard tent was not, in 1990, the Expected Thing.<span> </span>While my parents were not generally slaves to convention, I can imagine they were anxious about potentially disappointing friends and family, about being judged.<span> </span><o:p></o:p></p><p>I’m not really sure what the Expected Thing is these days – my sense is that there is way more room for creativity than the Expected Thing of 30 years ago.<span> </span>I do not generally consider myself a slave to convention.<span> </span>But I have been a little surprised, and not pleasantly so, to find that I, too, have some anxiety about not providing that Expected Thing at this wedding, and about being judged for it.<span> </span><o:p></o:p></p><p>I still haven’t planned a wedding, not really, nor does it seem particularly likely that I ever will.<span> </span>What would I plan, if it were up to me?<span> </span>I’m not quite sure, honestly.<span> </span><o:p></o:p></p><p>But I can tell you one thing:<span> </span>in my ideal wedding, the tortilla chips would definitely have their own chafing dish.<span> </span>Because while all tortilla chips are tasty, warm ones are positively <span> </span>transcendent.<o:p></o:p></p>Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/72281682023-06-17T11:23:13-04:002023-11-05T12:55:38-05:00Mother of the Bride, Part 1<p>For the first time in my life, I have a handbag that matches my shoes.<span> </span><o:p></o:p></p><p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/393339/6645dd9bffcd54a6088feeef5c0222ed7ba24fb6/original/shoes-and-purse.jpeg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_m justify_center border_" />This is because my daughter is about to get married, and I am trying to be a Class Act.<o:p></o:p></p><p>Shopping for a Mother of the Bride dress was an unusual treat:<span> </span>my life doesn’t offer many occasions for wearing fancy duds.<span> </span>I started at consignment and vintage shops, which offered some interesting options.<span> </span>This one was a little dowdy:<o:p></o:p></p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/393339/fff1b1d349733e5018ef5bb34bf3fca720bfaf01/original/frumpy-blue-dress.jpeg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_m justify_center border_" /><p>This one was not:<o:p></o:p></p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/393339/384293b2208beccb1d3ec4962b2ab46873b826de/original/fringe-dress.jpeg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_m justify_center border_" /><p>I almost picked up this little number on a trip to LA:<o:p></o:p></p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/393339/cbe88c5bacf8656bbf222aaf9f23e3c28ac0a88b/original/la-option.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_m justify_center border_" /><p>In the end, I went to the shop where I buy almost all of my clothes, tried on five dresses, and picked the one liked the best.<span> </span>It’s a very nice plum-colored shift that captures my personal sense of style, best articulated by the late, great Gilda Radner:<span> </span>“I base most of my fashion sense on what doesn’t itch.”</p><p>Of course, a non-itchy dress does not a full ensemble make; and knowing my strengths and weaknesses, I reached out for help.<span> </span>My singing pal Tina is not only talented and insightful, but she is, hands down, the most elegant person I know.<span> </span>And she was awesome!<span> </span>She helped me choose the right earrings, necklace, and shawl; and told me how to make my too-wide shoes fit a little better.<span> </span>(In exchange, I made Tina a tracking spreadsheet for her parent coaching business:<span> </span>I definitely got the better end of this bargain.)</p><p>After my accessory consult, I had homework:<span> </span>find a more blue-tinted shade of lipstick to complement the plum color of the dress, and look for a suitable handbag.<span> </span>Modest in size; just big enough for MOTB essentials (bandaids, safety pins, the aforementioned plum-colored lipstick), and in a complementary color:<span> </span>black (to match my shawl), or perhaps, if I could find it, the same color as my shoes (always, as Tina explained, a classy option).</p><p>And find that magic shoe-colored purse I did, in a consignment shop down the street.<span> </span>At the same time, I found these delightful alternatives, pictures of which I sent to Tina, asking which of the two she would recommend:</p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/393339/d9f8ab05d0e27e8b606ea12387e632a2c286f7fa/original/purple-furry-purse.jpeg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_m justify_center border_" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/393339/40e725c97aaab8f80fe2c11e95aaba91f68f30f7/original/green-fuzzy-purse.jpeg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_m justify_center border_" /><p>She answered, quite diplomatically, that she was intrigued to see I was looking for a pop of color and perhaps a little whimsy rather than going a classical route.<span> </span>This response says everything, I think, about my general fashion vibe.</p><p>33 years ago, I was shopping for my own wedding dress.<span> </span>I went to a favorite store (The Elephant’s Trunk in Mt. Kisco, NY), tried on five dresses, and bought the one I liked the best.<span> </span>It was a tea length shift (it did not itch), kind of a 20’s vibe, but since it was the 80’s, it had great, big shoulder pads.<span> </span>Think <i>Great Gatsby</i> meets <i>Working Girl</i>.<span> </span>Here I am, with my own mother, and her mother, and all of our hair.</p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/393339/6c167f3777bc03d67c72bcc907a32d71f4d9e6b1/original/img-1429.jpeg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_m justify_center border_" /><p>I still have this dress, and Rebecca tried it on shortly after her engagement.<span> </span>She looked adorable. In the end, though, she opted for something other than the 20’s-meets-80’s look.<span> </span>She went to a store she favored, tried on five wedding gowns, and bought the one she liked the best.<span> </span></p><p>I only hope it doesn’t itch.<o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/72204222023-06-04T13:51:01-04:002023-06-06T09:32:54-04:00Recipe Notes<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/393339/cf8bf39ac15238ca156b5e34380f39d19a0db2e2/original/chicken-and-rice.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_l justify_center border_" />My whole family loved this dish – even the kids, who are terribly picky, and have avowed never to let a vegetable cross their lips.<span> </span>They didn’t even notice the onions and the garlic!<span> </span>Will definitely add this to the rotation.<span> </span>– <i>Aimee from Wisconsin</i></p><p>My Cuban grandmother made this recipe all the time.<span> </span>Use long-grain rice instead of basmati if you want real authentic flavor!<span> </span>Also, use green bell peppers instead of ginger, yellow onions instead of scallions, and salt instead of soy sauce.<span> </span>Perfect.<span> </span>– <i>JorgeT</i></p><p>I substituted tofu for the chicken, and hominy for the rice; and I didn’t have any ginger or garlic so I left them out.<span> </span>Bland and gummy.<span> </span>Would not make again. –<i>Vegan Bob</i></p><p>Sauteed the rice in a little extra olive oil before adding the broth, and then topped the whole dish off with a poached egg – absolutely delicious.<span> </span>– <i>PaulineDR</i></p><p>Doubled the recipe, just for the leftovers, and it came out great!<span> </span>Will have enough for dinner for the whole family three nights this week!<span> </span>-- <i>Aimee from Wisconsin</i></p><p><i>PaulineDR</i>, why would you put an egg on a chicken dish?<span> </span>This recipe was written by a cookbook author with years of experience cooking in restaurants and developing recipes.<span> </span>I don’t think her work needs suggestions from an amateur home cook.<span> </span>– <i>BTB</i><o:p></o:p></p><p><i>BTB,</i> good cooking is a creative act, and I can do whatever I want.<span> </span>If you want to be a slave to instructions, that’s on you:<span> </span>the rest of us don’t need to hear about it. --<i>PaulineDR</i><o:p></o:p></p><p>This is exactly like a favorite dish that my Korean grandmother used to make!<span> </span>Only she cooked it in a clay pot, and served it with gochujang on the side instead of the scallion/ginger mix in the recipe.<span> </span>Also, obviously:<span> </span>jasmine rice.<span> </span>A taste of my childhood… <i>MLee from Maplewood</i><o:p></o:p></p><p>Recommend adding a scoop of Breyer’s all-natural Vanilla Bean ice cream to top it off – everything’s better with ice cream!<span> </span>-- <i>RT</i><o:p></o:p></p><p><i>PaulineDR</i>, REALLY:<span> </span>“Put an egg on it” is so hackneyed.<span> </span>It’s almost as bad as your comment on Marian Burrough’s Classic Plum Cake.<span> </span>It’s right there in the name:<span> </span>CLASSIC.<span> </span>And PLUM!<span> </span>Subbing blueberries:<span> </span>ridiculous.<span> </span>-- <i>BTB</i><o:p></o:p></p><p>How about a keto-friendly version of this dish?<span> </span>Any suggestions?<span> </span>-- <i>Jenna J.</i><o:p></o:p></p><p><i>BTB</i>, why bother to write a recipe note if you have nothing original to add?<span> </span>I subbed blueberries in the cake because that’s what I had on hand.<span> </span>You probably run to the store every time a recipe calls for a sprig of cilantro, rather than making due with the parsley in your fridge.<span> </span>So inflexible.<span> </span>-- <i>PaulineDR</i><o:p></o:p></p><p>For Keto-friendly, trying swapping cauliflower for the white rice, and add a big scoop of (pasture-raised) lard just before serving.<span> </span>– <i>Keto Karl</i><o:p></o:p></p><p>Made double batches three weeks running.<span> </span>So easy, and I can cook by heart at this point, without looking at the recipe! <span> </span>– <i>Aimee from Wisconsin</i><o:p></o:p></p><p>I don’t know why you need to sauté the onions, garlic and chicken before adding them to the rice.<span> </span>I just put everything in one big pot and baked it for an hour.<span> </span>It was fine!<span> </span>Nobody got sick, and they finished at least half of it.<span> </span>Why dirty the extra pots if you don’t need to?<span> </span>--<span> </span><i>SelmaS</i><o:p></o:p></p><p>The kids have been complaining about this lately—what a disappointment.<span> </span>Maybe it’s the vegetables?<span> </span>Will try it without the onion and garlic next time …<i> Aimee from Wisconsin</i><o:p></o:p></p><p><i>PaulineDR</i>, The point here is that you cannot make a <strong>plum</strong> cake with blueberries:<span> </span>it’s a different thing.<span> </span>Just like eggs don’t belong in chicken dishes, regardless of which came first.<span> </span>It’s impossibly arrogant to think otherwise!<span> </span>Not surprising, though, coming from you:<span> </span>Mom always acted like you walked on water. -- <i>BTB</i><o:p></o:p></p><p>Such a lovely dish, and so reminiscent of my Bubbe’s kitchen in the Bronx!<span> </span>Only she never cooked rice:<span> </span>she would have used potatoes.<span> </span>And maybe also brisket instead of chicken.<span> </span><i>Talia L.</i><o:p></o:p></p><p>My children are begging to eat something – <i>anything</i> – else, even a meal of steamed broccoli.<span> </span>Would not recommend.<span> </span><i>Aimee from Wisconsin</i><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p><span> </span><o:p></o:p></p>Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/71997752023-04-29T09:10:33-04:002023-11-05T12:56:23-05:00The Rules of Engagement<p>This blog post is a plea for guidance.</p><p>Like so many people my age, I am swimming in uncharted waters.<span> </span>Norms have changed.<span> </span>There are rules of engagement, but I no longer know them.<span> </span>There is a whole new set of symbols and signifiers, brand new to me at midlife.<span> </span>I have no choice but to deploy this new language, but I know I do so at my peril, constantly at risk of miscommunication at best, of giving offense at worst.<o:p></o:p></p><p>I am talking, of course, about emojis.<o:p></o:p></p><p>Some time ago, my children patiently explained to their dotty mother that the emoji eggplant is a phallic symbol.<span> </span>Eggplants, botanically speaking, are fruits:<span> </span>that is, mature ovaries.<span> </span>How was I to know this?<span> </span>When I was a girl, if you were looking for produce to represent the male member, you were pretty much limited to bananas or cucumbers.<span> </span>True, bananas and cucumbers are also fruits (and to further confound the metaphor, culinary bananas are technically sterile).<span> </span>So much for botany as a guidestar.<span> </span><o:p></o:p></p><p>From an emoji perspective, though, I can see why the eggplant fits the bill:<o:p></o:p></p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/393339/d27a8d609cdca88031756f637d45079503a7279b/original/eggplant.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_s justify_center border_" /><p>While the banana does not:<o:p></o:p></p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/393339/607693378723dd3bfa73661e707e00c260c15f1f/original/banana.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_s justify_center border_" /><p>The cucumber emoji is even less evocative as a phallic symbol:<o:p></o:p></p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/393339/65c3b620886a86c4a31b9ffd8c401fd3abbd4b52/original/cucumber.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_s justify_center border_" /><p>Unless you’re trying to evoke Lorena Bobbitt.<span> </span><o:p></o:p></p><p>I have also heard that one of the smiley face variations conveys sexual desire.<span> </span>But which one?<span> </span>I believe it involves an exposed tongue.<span> </span>Is it this?<span> </span></p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/393339/e1f299c5b19fef0533c6018c19721df9a6deb826/original/tongue-emoji-three.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_s justify_center border_" /><p>Or this?<span> </span><o:p></o:p></p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/393339/196306ec4d7fa9ddb3940956e5bc76ba39a35409/original/tongue-emoji-one.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_s justify_center border_" /><p>I think it’s probably this:<o:p></o:p></p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/393339/6afe0045d96b814f539b588f1b17cd338d564bd2/original/tongue-emoji-tow.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_s justify_center border_" /><p>Maybe it’s just me, but I don’t find this image to be all that arousing.<span> </span>Forgive me if that’s too much information.<o:p></o:p></p><p>Then there’s the kiss-blowing emoji:<span> </span></p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/393339/eabc1daa5cc111bd3e259027e7c6ecd4b31c6bc7/original/kiss-blowing.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_s justify_center border_" /><p>People in my world use this one all the time.<span> </span>Certainly, the range of people with whom one is allowed to exchange kiss-blowing emojis is a much broader than the range of people to whom one is allowed to blow kisses using one’s actual lips.<span> </span>On the other hand, in real life, I’m willing to discuss eggplants with just about anybody.<o:p></o:p></p><p>My brother is fond of using the Shrugging Guy emoji:<o:p></o:p></p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/393339/dcd1b9ea873af52a2c5b4c9f302cdc5518c3a8b9/original/shrugging-guy.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_s justify_center border_" /><p>A while back I pointed out that Shrugging Guy has significantly more hair than does my brother.<span> </span>To which my brother responded:<o:p></o:p></p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/393339/dcd1b9ea873af52a2c5b4c9f302cdc5518c3a8b9/original/shrugging-guy.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_s justify_center border_" /><p>It is not clear to me the extent to which I am expected to capture my own physical traits in the emojis I choose.<span> </span>For most of the fact and body part emojis, we are offered a range of skin tones from which to choose:<o:p></o:p></p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/393339/0216c93163acc0de08a8f618cefe0db5c98113d5/original/sign-off.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_m justify_center border_" /><p>The default is a color best described as “Goldenrod.”<span> </span>I have never met a human who is actually Goldenrod.<span> But f</span>iguring out which alternative “Thumbs up” shade to use is kind of like choosing foundation at a makeup counter:<span> </span>you have a choice between <i>not quite</i>, <i>not quite</i>, <i>not quite</i>, or <i>not quite</i>.<span> </span>And how important is this choice?<span> </span>How would people react if I chose my thumbs-up from the right side of the spectrum?<span> </span>Would this be considered offensive, an act of identity appropriation? <span> </span><o:p></o:p></p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/393339/e586806f201a0404b2c615c1e4b06f707977270a/original/black-thumbs-up.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_s justify_center border_" /><p>Maybe the Goldenrod default is the safest option.<span> </span>Though I’ve occasionally wondered if Goldenrod isn’t the most provocative choice of all, over-the-top racist in the manner of the Mickey Rooney character in “Breakfast at Tiffany’s.”<o:p></o:p></p><p>As for Shrugging Guy, the emoji universe in fact offers us 18 different shrugging person options.<span> </span>They come not only in a range of skin tones, but also in male, female and gender-neutral.<span> </span>The man has a more angular face, short hair, and a blue shirt; the woman has a rounded face and long hair, and her top is a feminine purple; and the non-gendered version has a somewhat rounded face, a neutral gray shirt, and a bob.<o:p></o:p></p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/393339/92f23b25ba797a826fb47de059acb7d280197d77/original/image-4-24-23-at-9-04-am.jpeg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><p>My modest proposal:<span> </span>instead of adding a string of pronouns to the bottoms of email signatures and Zoom screen names, we should all just choose a Shrugger.<span> </span>If you’re someone who believes in communicating your identity up front, the options are all there!<span> </span>And if you’re someone who doesn’t, the Shrugger is a sign of humility.<span> </span>Because who among us isn’t really clueless, when you get right down to it?<o:p></o:p></p><p><span>Until next time, my friends --</span></p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/393339/a5dd0c0205c9b352a578f8827ba623dd17c54faa/original/sign-off-shot.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_m justify_left border_" /><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/393339/4e8b66f6a0b0532337fa29cdace787ba6326ae63/original/shrugging-woman.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_s justify_left border_" />Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/71924222023-04-18T10:41:34-04:002023-11-05T12:56:43-05:00The story behind the song<p>It is April, and the world is springing into bud and bloom in a way that fills every morning with hope and delight.<span> </span>Just today, I found that the pea, arugula and broccoli raab seeds that I planted in my garden plot have started to germinate.<span> </span><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/393339/1f77c9f5a0aa55b5f50218e3cf5d280d7eaa9341/original/img-1280.jpeg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_m justify_center border_" />The bulbs in the park next door are popping. <span> </span></p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/393339/82988cefa8dc82053d17b3f09b8c3732acdc1ee8/original/img-1274.jpeg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_m justify_center border_" /><p>The trees outside my window are the most wonderful shade of brand-new green.<span> </span>It’s birth. It’s joy. It’s everything good.<o:p></o:p></p><p>But not long ago, it was bleak mid-winter, and I was in a total funk.<span> </span>I found myself listlessly leafing through seed catalogues, finding it hard to imagine what growth even feels like, and letting my mind wander over all the losses and ravages of the last few years. <span> </span>I was blue.<span> </span>I was wallowing.<span> </span><o:p></o:p></p><p>I started to think about writing a song:<span> </span><i>This year’s garden…will be different from last year’s garden</i>… A slow and pensive sort of thing, because I was in that kind of mood.<span> </span>A serious song – a ballad!<span> </span>I wrote a serious song, once.<span> </span>It was in 2014.<span> </span>Surely I could write another!<span> </span>Gardens as metaphors for loss and change.<o:p></o:p></p><p>Then I recalled a conversation I’d had, perhaps a month prior, about the songs that make us cry.<span> </span>The one that sprang to mind for me was a song by Raffi, of all people.<span> </span>You will know Raffi if you’ve had, or been, a child in the last 40 years.<span> </span>“Baby Beluga,” his top hit, has been played on Spotify more than 52 million times.<span> </span>The tune that most reliably turns on my waterworks is a Raffi song called “The Changing Garden of Mr. Bell,” which is about….gardens as metaphors for loss and change.<o:p></o:p></p><p>I was, I realized, about to write a Raffi song.<o:p></o:p></p><p>Don’t get me wrong:<span> </span>I have nothing against Raffi!<span> </span>“Bananaphone” is a work of towering genius; and if I ever write a song half that good, I will consider mine to be a life well-lived.<span> </span>But I don’t need to write a pensive ballad about gardens, because Raffi already did.<o:p></o:p></p><p>So I wrote a different kind of song about gardens as metaphors.<span> </span>If you haven’t already watched the video, you can catch it here. <span> </span><o:p></o:p></p><div class="video-container size_xl justify_center" style=""><iframe data-video-type="youtube" data-video-id="YOe8eRD__yI" data-video-thumb-url="" type="text/html" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/YOe8eRD__yI?rel=0&wmode=transparent&enablejsapi=1" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen="true"></iframe></div><p>Then maybe you can share it with a friend.<span> </span>Because as it turns out, this tune has NOT been viewed 52 million times!<span> </span>I’m currently at less than 100 hits.<span> </span>I’d love to reach a few more gardening fans – so if you like it, please pass it along.<o:p></o:p></p><p>And please keep an eye out for my next song!<span> </span>It’s a pensive ballad about a young Beluga whale.<span> </span><o:p></o:p></p>Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/71815282023-03-30T21:11:13-04:002023-03-30T21:11:13-04:00Yoga, Then and Now<p><strong>Spring, 2019</strong><p></p></p><p>All it takes for me to feel good is to walk in and put down my mat. <p></p></p><p>I really like my new yoga studio.<span> </span>It’s small, a single storefront room, with brick walls and limited HVAC (more precisely:<span> </span>decent H, questionable V, and no AC whatsoever).<span> </span>A mural fills the studio’s eastern wall.<p></p></p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/393339/dd38a5cb8163c8d4212f8955031277f383fbeb71/original/nipple-free.jpeg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><p>This mural offers ample opportunities for contemplation, primarily on the topic of why this boddhisatva has no nipples.<span> </span>Also whether the cobra-as-neck-wrap is really the right accessory choice, especially when paired with multiple necklaces and bracelets, to boot.<p></p></p><p>I’m in a new studio because I recently moved into the city. <span> </span>I loved my studio in the ‘burbs, which had reliably wonderful teachers, and a clientele that invariably included others of my own vintage.<span> </span>There is nothing I’d rather see, walking into a yoga class, than wrinkles and gray hair.<span> </span>This new studio mirrors the demographic of my new neighborhood, which skews a bit younger than my old one.<span> </span>The median resident of Boston’s South End is around 34; and to judge from this group, she has excellent balance.<span> </span><p></p></p><p>My own balance? <span> </span>Not so great, especially when I’m standing on the leg with the Bad Knee.<span> </span>I watch in admiration as most of the group pops into full wheel pose – quite out of my reach, two years after rotator cuff surgery.<span> </span><p></p></p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/393339/f5ff8cbfdc65c3ab92e7f896337fb329190f6559/original/full-wheel.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><p>But child’s pose is always an option, for all of us.<span> </span><p></p></p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/393339/564fa6704c7d8c1f7c8fa498c76e48539511a350/original/childs-pose.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><p>While it’s not quite my demographic, I respond to the warmth of this place, and I find myself coming here as often as I can.<span> </span>I’m not alone: it's a small studio, and classes tend to be crowded.<span> </span>As an introvert, I generally prefer a more spacious experience.<span> </span>Still, I recognize the crowds as a good sign:<span> </span>it means the business is doing well.<span> </span>Which means the nipple-free boddhisatva should be here for me to contemplate for years to come.<p></p></p><p><strong>Spring, 2021</strong><p></p></p><p>I am the top decapitated Warrior in the column that runs down the side of my screen.<span> </span>In the middle, much larger, is the yoga teacher, masked.<span> </span>There are a handful of students, also masked, in the studio, spaced more than six feet apart.<span> </span>I cannot imagine doing yoga while wearing a mask.<span> </span>My pod is awaiting its final round of vaccines; so I’m not ready to chance an indoor class just yet, in any event.<p></p></p><p>But there are online classes, many of them; and I have been taking them pretty much daily since the onset of the pandemic.<span> </span>Suburban and Nipple-Free both moved promptly online when the world shut down in March, 2020.<span> </span>Suburban charges its full price for its online sessions, and has preserved its full schedule.<span> </span>Nipple-free offers online classes at about half the in-studio price, and has gradually pared back its offerings.<span> </span>I pay for the broadest available subscriptions to both:<span> </span>it’s been a brutal year for these businesses, and I want them both to survive.<p></p></p><p>I miss that sense of calm and release I used to feel just from walking into the yoga studio.<span> </span>But there are advantages to practicing at home.<span> </span>Convenience, certainly: I can be in a class within minutes of finishing my last Zoom meeting of the day.<span> Even better: m</span>y balance turns out to be much better with nobody else in the room.<span> </span></p><p>I am wondering why my Good Knee is now nearly as sore as my Bad Knee:<span> </span>Child’s Pose is becoming a tricky proposition.<span> </span>But when the instructor suggests Full Wheel, I lift right up.<p></p></p><p><strong>Spring, 2023</strong><p></p></p><p>Every few weeks I walk past the storefront where Nipple-Free used to be, to see if the For Rent sign is still up.<span> </span>After more than a year, it still is.<span> </span>The blinds are drawn, so I can’t check the status of the oddly-accessorized boddhisatva.<p></p></p><p>Suburban, on the other hand, is thriving:<span> </span>they have opened two new studios, including one in my neighborhood, in collaboration with a local fast-casual natural food chain.<span> </span>I go to this new studio sometimes, since it’s now my most convenient option, and there are a few teachers whom I quite like.<span> </span>I don’t love Suburban's new city location, though.<span> </span>It's too shiny and too cramped.<span> </span>What I feel when I walk in isn't peace so much as a business plan:<span> </span><i>if we can fit 24 mats, at $20 per student, and we can teach six classes a day….</i><p></p></p><p>I still do plenty of classes at home, via Zoom; but it’s always a treat to go to a live class. This new Suburban branch is usually crowded, however; and post-pandemic, it’s hard to feel the same way about a jam-packed class.<span> </span>If COVID positivity rates are 2% and there are 15 students plus a teacher in the class, then if I’m doing the math right, there is roughly a one in three chance that I am spending 75 minutes in this very small room with someone who is infectious.<p></p></p><p>There is roughly a one in four chance I am doing the math right.<p></p></p><p>I've found yet another new studio, a little farther away, which does a better job with that feel-good-when-you-walk-in-the-door experience.<span> </span>It’s a fourth-floor walk-up in an older commercial building. The main classroom is ample, with huge, high ceilings and exposed beams.<span> </span>There are more cubic feet of air; that matters, these days.<span> </span>The studio is right around the corner from the Berkeley School of Music, and not far from the New England Conservatory.<span> </span>When the class chants the occasional Om, the pitch is flawless.<p></p></p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/393339/26e53d2912d2618bb1a163925b933d2349501965/original/img-9798.jpeg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_m justify_center border_" /><p>I am getting better at balancing on one foot with other people in the room, at least on some days.<span> In the past year, a</span>n MRI has revealed exactly what tissues have torn in the knee formerly known as my Good Knee (now just known as My Knee).<span> </span>I can’t fully bend either leg, so Child’s Pose is pretty much gone, almost certainly for good.<span> </span>I know I can lift up to Full Wheel, but these days I mostly don’t want to.<span> On the other hand a</span>fter eight years of regular yoga practice, my head now reaches the floor in a straddle fold; and perhaps in the next year or so I’ll gain the core strength to lift from there into a headstand.<span> </span><p></p></p><p>Or not.<p></p></p><p>I have surely been spared from much of the hardship of the last few years; but it’s been a maelstrom of change for us all.<span> </span>My home, my body; the world and my sense of safety in it.<span> </span>Businesses closed, and opened; routines busted and re-formed.<span> </span>Tissues rendered; muscles strengthened.<span> </span>Vertigo, literal and figurative, ebbs and flows.<span> </span><p></p></p><p>Yoga has helped through all of it.<span> </span>I am grateful for the chance to do something in my body that gets me out of my head.<span> </span>I am grateful for the time to myself; grateful for my sticky mat; grateful for the fact that while Child’s Pose is gone, Downward Dog still feels pretty good.<span> </span>Most of the time.<p></p></p><p>I am grateful for the teachers who remind me, again and again, to stay focused, to come back to my breath; for the teachers who begin each class with those words that center us so firmly in the here and now:<p></p></p><div style="border-bottom:3.0pt dotted windowtext;border-left-style:none;border-right-style:none;border-top-style:none;mso-element:para-border-div;padding:0in 0in 1.0pt;"><p>“Can the people on Zoom hear me?"<p></p></p></div>Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/71741992023-03-18T14:14:12-04:002023-11-05T12:57:26-05:00High Security<p>Here’s the heist:<span> </span>the perpetrator watches you (with eyes or camera) as you enter a code to unlock your iPhone.<span> </span>He/she/they then steals your phone, uses your code to unlock it, and further deploys your code to lock <i>you </i>out of your Apple account (so you can’t wipe the phone remotely), capping off the caper by using the passwords you’ve stored on your phone to empty your bank accounts.<span> </span><p></p></p><p>I read about this emerging crime pattern in the <i>Wall Street Journal</i>, and was duly disconcerted: it’s the <i>New York Times</i> to which I generally turn when I’m in the mood for a good panic.<span> </span>Because I use my phone for everything, and because I have plans for my bank deposits that do not include bequeathing them to persons with criminal intent, I carefully read the second half of the article, in which readers were advised of steps to take in order to avoid this particular hazard.<span> </span><p></p></p><p>And then I did those things.<span> </span>Or at least – I tried.<p></p></p><p>The first recommendation involved changing your numeric passcode to an alphanumeric code – something like <i>2H$?O,;8@hRE!7&q</i>, which nobody could ever possibly guess (or perhaps remember), and which would, according to this article, be harder for a participant in the extra-legal economy to observe and record correctly.<span> </span><p></p></p><p>Which is almost certainly true!<span> </span>When you are entering a numeric code, you have only ten potential characters, and you get this screen:<p></p></p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/393339/4890b651d899958b99215623ad8b7ed9510d2189/original/img-1118.jpeg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_s justify_center border_" /><p>While when you entering an alphanumeric code, you get this one:<p></p></p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/393339/68522c449d235236399d403f97908f8650d6b999/original/phone-keyboard.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_s justify_center border_" /><p>With smaller targets it is easier to make a mistake, especially in a long complex string, as I learn one day soon after my anti-fraud password upgrade. <span> </span>I am on the T, hoping to check walking directions that will guide me once I disembark.<span> </span>There is an infelicitous match between the size of my finger pads and the itty-bitty keyboard, especially with the shaking of a moving subway car.<span> </span>Additionally, typing a complex alphanumeric code with a few punctuation marks involves shifting between several keyboards, which slows me down considerably.<span> </span>In the end, over the course of three or four minutes, I re-enter my code five times.<span> </span>By the final time I am going very, very slowly, and mouthing each letter as I type; thinking, as I do, that this is perhaps not the most effective fraud-prevention strategy.<span> </span>After failed attempt #5, my phone takes the obvious anti-fraud step of locking me out for ten minutes, which should be enough time for the Real Laurie to alert the authorities.<span> </span>(What Real Laurie actually does with that ten minutes is to get good and lost, since she can’t open GoogleMaps.)<span> </span><p></p></p><p>But fear not!<span> </span>There are other self-protective measures, such as two-factor authentication.<span> </span>If someone tries to use your identity to log into one of your accounts, that account will send a verification code through another channel, either a text message or an authentication app.<span> </span>So if an individual who has opted out of prevailing beliefs about property rights should happen to swipe your phone and use it to try to log into your bank account, the bank will take the precautionary measure of sending a unique, one-time code: <i>to your phone</i>.<p></p></p><p>Finally, the <i><u>WSJ</u></i> advises using face recognition instead of code to open your phone in public spaces, whenever possible.<span> </span>Makes total sense.<span> </span>It doesn’t work if you’re wearing a mask, though.<span> </span>You surely have your own preferences about such things; but these days, for the most part, I only wear masks on crowded buses and subway cars. <span> </span>These are places I’m also likely to turn to my phone for directions, or to check messages or the news.<span> </span>Of course, crowded public transit also seems a particularly promising location for someone looking to advance a career in the growing field of code-copying/phone snatching.<span> </span>So what do you consider the bigger threat:<span> </span>identity theft?<span> </span>Viral infection?<span> </span>Or boredom?<span> </span>(For me, fear of boredom trumps all, every time.)<p></p></p><p>Look:<span> </span>identity theft, like COVID, is just part of the background these days. <span> </span>In 2020 and 2021, people in two different states, distant from my own, applied for pandemic-related unemployment relief in my name.<span> </span>In addition to <i>phishing</i>, there is now <i>vishing</i> and <i>smishing</i>.<span> </span>Malefaction entrepreneurs can attach readers to credit card machines and even to USB ports in airports or hotels to steal your data while you’re charging up.<span> </span>And don’t think you can escape the threat just by shutting off electronics and returning to paper – oh, no!<span> </span>Apparently someone can rig up a good round of identity theft just by rifling through your mail.<span> </span>(Although anyone rifling through <i>my</i> mail will mostly learn that, despite the fact that my mother has been dead for three years, the Sarasota Opera Company still expects her to renew her annual subscription.)<p></p></p><p>Here is my proposal:<span> </span>if you want to steal my identity, I think you should take on the WHOLE THING.<span> </span>I’m talking myopia, bad knees, poor proprioception, occasional social anxiety.<span> </span>Remembering that the car needs a new inspection sticker:<span> </span>that’ll be on YOU.<span> </span>While you’re at it, you can also pick up the dry cleaning, file quarterly tax payments, write those overdue thank you notes, water the plants, and re-order a six-month supply of contact lenses.<span> </span>The whole to-do list!<span> </span>It is not short.<p></p></p><p>You’ll find it on my phone.<p></p></p>Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/71525262023-02-12T07:33:41-05:002023-02-12T07:37:19-05:00Go Fish<p>It’s dense where I live, in the middle of Boston. We can get pretty much anything we need within a 10-minute walk. The exception is fish: good seafood is hard to come by in our neighborhood. So we get a weekly fish delivery from a service called Evergreen, whose employees tool around the city on bicycle-drawn carts. The urban density is key: Evergreen has enough customers in a bike-friendly radius to make this a sensible business model. </p><p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/393339/fc9edb3638da5b09e1a1c7bc98d0221cfb65fb24/original/screenshot-2023-02-12-at-7-25-04-am.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></p><p>We are endlessly grateful for this service, because it is both adorable and convenient, and also because we really like fish. As you surely know, fish consumption is correlated with lower blood pressure, greater mental acuity, improved fashion sense, and higher incomes. Our subscription is for what used to be known as “scrod” (which, I recently learned, stands for “sea captain’s recommendation of the day.”). Each week, they send us a pound of whatever is relatively plentiful. It’s always super-fresh and very local, and the potluck aspect is pretty fun. Our very favorite is Any Fish That is Not Pollock.</p><p>Usually the fish delivery guy sends a text when he leaves the package at the door, replete with multiple fish emojis. He can do this because our phones have a very high density of fish emojis. </p><p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/393339/2f35ce4b7358b1f024d64fc3fbd44e77456306e9/original/img-1067.jpeg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></p><p>Occasionally, as he did last Tuesday, he will send a picture of the bag of fish he’s left on our doorstep.</p><p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/393339/2295574a55fb5ec39e289b8984f8bbd3ad1acaff/original/photo0.jpeg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></p><p>This particular week, the text reached me when I happened to be out of the house for a few hours. When I got back, here is what I found:</p><p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/393339/e8930159d275ea0e48e528eb473e6630dd19b21e/original/img-1055.jpeg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></p><p>There are a couple of possible explanations for the absence of the fish:</p><ul style="list-style-type:disc;">
<li>
<strong>Urban fauna</strong>: I would put nothing past a squirrel or a bunny, or perhaps the two working in concert. Of course, there are also rats, who have taken the place of the raccoons who regularly raided our trash when we lived in the suburbs. Actually, the rats are an upgrade. Raccoons are gratuitously malicious: they used to rip up my garden for the sheer joy of it. Rats make a mess and spread disease and all that; but you know that all they’re after is just after a good meal. I respect that.</li>
<li>
<strong>Thoughtful neighbors</strong>: We are fortunate to have a high density of very kind, community-minded neighbors. Maybe one of them spotted the fish and grew concerned about its sitting out of refrigeration for an extended period (despite the ice pack and the forty-degree weather), so they took it inside and put it in their freezer for us. And then forgot! But will surely remember next time we run into each other, or perhaps they will deliver it cooked, piping hot, to our front door, right at dinnertime, some night very soon.</li>
</ul><p>Thank you, thoughtful neighbor! Or not-so-thoughtful neighbor. </p><p>It is my belief that the percentage of humans likely to behave badly in any given situation is both relatively small and relatively well-distributed throughout the population. So living with a high density of other humans, as we now do, means both that we are likely to be surrounded by a lot of pretty wonderful people (definitely true) and also that we have a good chance of running into some who are, from time to time, less than stellar. </p><p>I have this message to whoever nicked my fish: I hope you enjoyed the pollock! If you’ve stumbled upon a way to cook it that makes it actually taste good, then please do send the recipe my way. Shouldn’t be a problem: after all, you know where I live.</p><p>But if you do drop off any recipes, maybe slide them through the mail slot. Just to be on the safe side.</p>Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/71285552022-12-26T11:17:04-05:002022-12-26T11:17:05-05:00My Phone Says<p>A new song for the new year! Special thanks to Steve Ansolabehere for camera work; words, music, instrumentals, video and whatnot by yours truly.</p>
<p><iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/KFCiMH1noUM" title="YouTube video player" width="560"></iframe></p>Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/71112292022-11-27T10:18:02-05:002022-12-05T10:36:24-05:00We are not alone<p>It is late afternoon on a weekend in mid-November and I am savoring the solitude. It’s been a busy month, with back-to-back trips for work, family events, and fun, followed immediately by houseguests. Delightful, all of it; but I am yearning for quiet, ready to be completely alone with myself and my thoughts. </p>
<p>But I am not alone: out of the corner of my eye, I see a shadow dash across the floor. On second appearance it turns out to be a little brown mouse, zipping around my kitchen in search of warmth and a meal. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/ac66243adeb3a518ba0dadc6be70e1f11beeaf4f/original/mouse.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>Mice first made an appearance in our kitchen in late August, when a small gray one dashed out from under the sink and sprinted under the fridge. We set a mousetrap, baited with cheese, and after a week we finally caught it. But more mice soon appeared (there is never only one), so we set out more traps: baited with cheese, with peanut butter, and finally with an impossibly delectable blend of cheese AND peanut butter. The mice persisted in their evening runs, consistently avoiding the bait, delicious though it was. </p>
<p>We finally broke down in September and called the pros. I asked the exterminator about our lack of success with the traps, after that first mouse. “Once they’ve seen another mouse get caught by a trap, then they know to avoid them,” he answered. </p>
<p>Oh. They are capable of learning. Steve and I had heard the first trap snap shut on Mouse #1 as we were lying in bed, and we’d felt bad about it, taking the life of a living thing. But this new information raised the bar on those regrets. </p>
<p>Another puzzling thing about these mice: while we have seen the mice themselves, numerous times, we have yet to find their scat. Even the exterminator, as he was peering under the fridge and behind the garbage can, said he found very little. In our old house in the suburbs, which had regular indoor visits from mice (as well as squirrels, bats, and the occasional chipmunk), we invariably found scat long before we saw actual critters. </p>
<p>There is only one possible explanation: <strong>these urban mice are potty-trained</strong>. And exceptionally considerate, to boot. Really, we should think of them as pets. </p>
<p>Pets whom we are trying to assassinate. </p>
<p>Our conversation inevitably turns to <em>Stuart Little</em>, the ostensibly classic children’s book by E.B. White. He was the author, as well, of <em>Charlotte’s Web</em>, the novel with perhaps the best last line in all of literature (look it up). <em>Charlotte’s Web</em>, if you recall, centered around a barnyard full of lovable anthropomorphic animals. Charlotte, the wise and motherly spider, saves orphaned pig, Wilbur, from the slaughterhouse by strategically positioning a web over his stall, and weaving into it the words “SOME PIG.” </p>
<p><em>Stuart Little </em>takes the anthropomorphic view of the animal kingdom to new and disturbing levels. In this book, a woman in a conventional mid-century American family gives birth to a mouse. An exceptionally articulate and intelligent mouse, to be sure, but nonetheless….a mouse. Even as a child I had a hard time making peace with this seminal event. As a grown woman, whose womb has born two children who are unmistakably human, I find this image – giving birth to another species – more than a little unsettling. As a young girl, with a womb that could someday carry human children, I felt the same sense of revulsion. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/6fffff04d293d19df0222613ee94ac5f7a01976b/original/stars-stuart-little-book.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.png" class="size_m justify_center border_none" alt="" /></p>
<p>Steve remembers it differently. “Stuart drove around in a little red car,” he says. “I loved that little red car.”</p>
<p>Maybe it’s true that gender is an entirely social construct. Then again, maybe it isn’t. </p>
<p>In any case, after nearly two mouse-free months, Stuart Little is once again scampering (not driving, thankfully) across my kitchen floor. Undoubtedly, he is seeking warmth now that the weather has finally turned; I can appreciate that. Like me, he has the good sense to gravitate towards the kitchen when he’s feeling peckish. I know he is intelligent enough to learn from experience; and so far, at least, he has the good grace to poop elsewhere. I know that, unlike rats, mice do not spread disease. Perhaps I should make peace with our co-existence. </p>
<p>No way. I want that fucker GONE. </p>
<p>My response to this mouse in my kitchen is entirely atavistic. I really don’t care if the mouse has the panache of Stuart Little, intelligence and needs to which I, as a human, can relate. In fact, I myself am a lioness; and everyone needs to<strong> get the hell out of my den</strong><em>. </em></p>
<p>And how, you ask, would I react if I were to wake up one morning to find the words “SOME MOUSE” written in breadcrumbs on the counter? </p>
<p>That, my friends, is when I would put the exterminator on speed dial. </p>Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/70823782022-10-16T08:10:28-04:002023-11-05T12:57:09-05:00DI Why?<p>This will be short: I have only a few minutes to write, while the lemons I’ve just blanched are still piping hot. When they’ve cooled enough to handle, I’ll slice them, pack them in salt, and set them aside to ferment. Preserved lemons are umami magic, adding depth and brightness to just about any savory dish. But they’re hard to find, and pricey. So I make my own. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/747126fbde5d76b5b352db8d180747e0c0f80d04/original/img-0523.jpeg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" />I’ve been baking my own bread for decades. It’s a short hop from bread to pizza dough; and once you’re making your own dough, storebought sauce really won’t do. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/54f83f66771575cf78dcdd05cbdcbd51a1ab5a99/original/img-7116.jpeg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>For a while, I even played around with making my own mozzarella cheese. You need the right milk to make cheese: if it’s been heated beyond a certain point in the pasteurization process, the curds won’t set. On one occasion I went through three gallons of milk, driving back to the store three times, buying increasingly expensive and virtuous varieties (organic, then local and organic, then local, organic and un-homogenized) before I managed to produce a pound of cheese. I gave it up after that: the DIY cheese tasted good enough, but I just couldn’t stomach the carbon footprint. </p>
<p>I have not, however, given up entirely on homemade dairy products. Several of my friends are great fans of the yoghurt sold at one particular Greek market in Belmont. I also love this yoghurt, but I’m not about to take a 20-minute drive just to buy it! Instead, I’ve figured out how to make a pretty good approximation at home. All I have to do is walk to the one market that sells the special milk; heat it until it reaches exactly 180 degrees; test the temperature periodically over the next hour or so until it has cooled to 115; mix it with the yoghurt culture; ferment it in the Instant Pot overnight; cool it for four hours in the fridge, strain it for 12-24 hours, and then wash and dry the Instant Pot, the strainer, the thermometer, and all the utensils. Voila! </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/c668b95d5ece4c2700e7180e1cbbbca2523a4e38/original/img-9684.jpeg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>I don’t understand why everyone doesn’t make their own yoghurt. </p>
<p>*************************************</p>
<p>Early in my marriage, when we were living in body-obsessed Los Angeles, Steve and I bought a bottle of salad dressing that boasted delicious flavor with no salt, sugar or fat. We discovered that it was in fact quite tasty…..after we’d added salt, sugar and fat. I haven’t bought a bottle of salad dressing since. It’s so easy to make, and so much less messy than funneling sugar, salt and oil into the narrow necks of those store-bought bottles. </p>
<p>************************************</p>
<p>Some of my DIY projects are the results of simple over-abundance of ingredients, most often veggies from my CSA that I can’t bear to just toss in the compost. When I get too many Napa cabbages, I make kimchi. Pickled turnips turn a lovely shade of purple if you throw in a beet. An overabundance of jalapenos, when pickled, take up much less space than the fresh ones. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/5da8011b48cf6863604dc051e065d8e8f1d8517d/original/img-6619.jpeg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" />And three or four months later, when I finally end up composting the uneaten kimchi, pickled turnips and jalapenos, I know that at least I gave it the old college try. </p>
<p>*******************************</p>
<p>A couple of years ago I started making kombucha. To brew it you need a “SCOBY,” short for “symbiotic culture of bacteria and yeast.” The SCOBY is a slimy, gray thing that you put into a gallon-sized jar of very sweet tea, and over time it digests the sugars and becomes intriguingly sour. After a week or so you seal the kombucha up in airtight bottles and it self-carbonates. Making kombucha keeps you on your toes because every so often a bottle becomes over-carbonated and explodes. Not many DIY projects offer that sense of adventure! </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/495f9e70851fa09909854a8ae7197411bfaa997d/original/img-6602.jpeg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" />I kept the SCOBY for about three years, making kombucha a gallon at a time, religiously starting new batches to keep the SCOBY fed and vibrant. I eventually gave it up when it occurred to me that kombucha is not something I actually like. </p>
<p>**********************************</p>
<p>I was flipping through the NYTimes’ Cooking app recently when I was captivated by a Melissa Clark recipe for homemade mustard. DIY mustard! Maybe I should try it. </p>
<p>You know Melissa Clark: apostle of the no-fuss meal, best known for her cookbooks “Dinner in One” and “Dinner in an Instant.” </p>
<p>*************************************</p>
<p>For the past few months, I have been making my own peanut butter. Peanut butter is a staple food in our household – we eat a LOT of it – and a couple of years ago, we discovered a local brand called Gramps’. It had a particularly pleasing texture, just a tiny bit grainy; and it never turned into a separated, oily mess the way that other natural peanut butters do. I was a bit put off by paying $10 for a jar of peanut butter; but Steve insisted that it was worth every penny. </p>
<p>And then Gramps disappeared from store shelves: according to our erstwhile supplier, Gramp had exited the PBusiness. So I figured…you know what I figured. You just toss a bunch of peanuts in the food processor! And it turns out that if you stop the processor at just the right moment, before the PB becomes an oily mess, and it will have a pleasing, slightly grainy texture, just like Gramps’! Of course, Gramps’ was a little darker than the peanut butter you get from tossing peanuts in the processor; so you’ll want to roast them a little more, shaking the pan every few minutes and staying right on top of it, because those babies will burn in a heartbeat. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/6faa41c042a1b6095639a42ab0ba543d13231c55/original/img-0496.jpeg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" />Trader Joe’s sells roasted peanuts for only $2.95 a pound. (Trader Joe’s also sells peanut butter, for $3.95 a pound.) I have been to business school, so I know that you have to account for opportunity cost as well as raw materials. If I factor in my time, at, let’s say, my nonprofit billing rate, then each pound of peanut butter only costs me….let’s see….$75.87. </p>
<p>That’s not quite accurate, though, since I’m not actually spending less time on work to tend to my obsessive DIY projects. I’m spending less time on sleep. Self-care. Precious moments with family and friends. Writing blog posts. </p>
<p>And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go slice my lemons.</p>Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/70637022022-09-19T15:32:03-04:002022-09-21T05:51:11-04:00Bread Yips<p>I have been baking sourdough bread since the last millennium, long before it became the hip COVID lockdown hobby. Over the past three decades I’ve gotten pretty good at it, if I may say so myself, my weekly loaves both tasty and attractive. </p>
<p>Until recently, that is. In the past year my breads have been somewhat uneven – edible, sure; but often flatter and denser than I’d like, not good-looking at all. This skill I’ve honed for thirty years has become suddenly elusive. Athletes have a word for this – when the pitcher’s arm falters, the golfer’s swings become erratic. They call it the “yips.” </p>
<p>I have the yips. The bread yips. </p>
<p>I bought my sourdough starter in 1992, from King Arthur Flour. That was in the dark ages before online commerce was really a thing, when you had to order stuff from an actual catalogue printed on real paper. You filled out a form (with a pen!), put it in a little silk purse with a few gold ducats, tied the purse to the leg of a carrier pigeon, and hoped for the best. </p>
<p>In my case, it worked out: thirty years later I’m still baking with that same starter, shared and refreshed countless times. I bake loaves that are predominantly whole grain, because they are very tasty and very healthy, and because white flour is cheating. </p>
<p>It’s a little tricky to combine sourdough with whole grains. Those beautiful, glossy, open-crumb sourdough loaves that flooded Instagram in 2020 are made with white flour and a very wet dough (the wetter, the better) plus a long, slow rise (the slower, the better, too). But these strategies can backfire with whole grains. Very wet whole grains get acidic quickly, which makes them delightfully sour (if you like that sort of thing) but results in a slack dough. And then there are some grains which can only tolerate a relatively short rise before the gluten degrades (I’m looking at you, spelt). It’s a balancing act: you want high enough moisture and a long enough rise to develop flavor and an open crumb, but without so much of either that the whole thing collapses. </p>
<p>Tricky; but after lots of experimentation I developed a knack for it. Here’s a glam shot from 2020: </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/556306f731f5b949b6bc21eef502e3821496f00e/original/2020-bread.jpeg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>From 2016: </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/ae8465610b2f114e88ba6ef004333bd4951787d3/original/s016b.jpeg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" />Look at these lovelies from 2013: </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/b05847f0906f1ca823ea0dfd57f4d22519c9fe96/original/2013.jpeg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>The 2013 snaps are in fact the oldest bread photos I could find, probably because that’s the first year in which I had a phone with a decent camera. Before that, if you wanted to capture a moment, you had to whip out your quill pen and do a quick sketch on a little scroll of papyrus. </p>
<p>Look at this sad bread I baked just last month: </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/96460a16df00b8c18ce979e48995e9690690dddf/original/full-on-yip-break.jpeg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" />What exactly is going wrong?? </p>
<p>Albert Einstein famously said, “insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.” You can buy many different posters with this quote: </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/11bc1137081403e1ff8fbe35c366ec210f6ae3ca/original/einstein-poster-1.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsInNtYWxsIl1d.png" class="size_s justify_left border_none" alt="" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/588a4ec68dd9759775b76c78649f6a27655f4909/original/einstein-poster-2.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.png" class="size_m justify_right border_none" alt="" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/47d7abfbebdc4c5fd8b3555da35beb953d75f262/original/einstein-poster-3.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsInNtYWxsIl1d.png" class="size_s justify_center border_none" alt="" /></p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Actually, there’s no evidence that Einstein said any such thing. As far as the fact-checkers can tell, the first published instance of this quote appeared in a 1983 novel by spunky feminist, mystery writer and cat enthusiast Rita Mae Brown. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/2e01f2e5451dfec1a71bc4e38a206f03896443f6/original/rita-mae-brown.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.png" class="size_m justify_center border_none" alt="" /></p>
<p>Obviously, these inaccurate Albert Einstein posters were manufactured back in the day, before Al Gore invented the Internet so that we could consult Wikipedia. Before that, if you wanted to check facts, you had to go to a library, which involved actually leaving your house, which was often extremely inconvenient, especially if the horse-drawn phaeton was unavailable for the day because your sister Jane was using it to visit Mr. Bingley. </p>
<p>I digress. If my bread results have gone from hero to zero in just a year or two, what am I doing differently? </p>
<p>Not much, as it turns out. I have a baking diary that I started in 1998 to keep track of my baking efforts and to learn from them along the way. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/05fad3a0321e3273b969ef38e9d9067c7c10a032/original/img-0495.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" />I’m still using the same notebook, so obviously I don’t write in it all that often….but often enough to verify that what I’m doing now is not materially different from what I did three or four years ago: the same ingredient ratios, the same rising times and baking temperatures. And yet, such different results. </p>
<p>My point here is that the thing Albert Einstein didn’t really say about consistent actions producing consistent results just isn’t true (perhaps that’s why he decided not to say it, scientist that he was). At least, it’s not true for sourdough, which is a living thing, a constellation of microbes that varies from time to time and place to place. I’m baking in a different kitchen now than I was three years ago. The kitchen in my new condo is on the fourth floor, at a higher elevation than my ground-floor kitchen in my old house: maybe that makes a difference. Maybe the twenty years of baking that my old kitchen had in its microbial history makes a difference, as well. Maybe there is more moisture retention in the fridge where I now store my flour, so the same amount of flour by weight contains relatively more moisture. It could even have something to do with the microbial life on the baker’s hands – my hands. </p>
<p>Can I really say, then, that I’ve been doing the same thing? Is it possible to do the exact same thing in a different kitchen, in a different season, with a different bag of flour? For that matter, with the cells in my body constantly regenerating, am I even the same person that I was in 2016 or 2020? </p>
<p>I am not going down that rabbit hole. <a contents="Regular readers of this blog know how I feel about rabbits" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://midlifemomsongs.com/blog/blog/7022639/gratitude-and-non-attachment-in-the-veggie-patch">Regular readers of this blog know how I feel about rabbits</a>. </p>
<p>As I’ve been working my way out of the bread yips, I’ve come to realize that the problem is not that I’m doing anything differently – but that I’m not doing things differently enough. I need to work not by recipe, but by muscle memory: to draw on my thirty years of experience with how a properly-hydrated dough should feel when you knead it, when you shape it; how it’s supposed to look when you finally pop it in the oven. In the last few weeks, as I’ve started looking more at the dough, rather than at the scale or the clock, the results have markedly improved. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/9853121ea7009fb3b3484b2ffa932b6dd9df55f4/original/post-ish-yip-bread.jpeg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpeg" class="size_m justify_center border_none" alt="" /></p>
<p>I can’t reproduce the lovely loaves of the past. I can only do the best I can with the starter and flour I have today, in the kitchen where I’m baking now; and I do better the more attention I pay to what I see and feel in the moment. It is time to stop and smell the starter. </p>
<p>There’s a life lesson in these bread yips – maybe more than one. To wit: </p>
<p>Next time you have a failed baking project, don’t blame Albert Einstein! Blame Rita Mae Brown. </p>
<p>And when you tie the silk purse with your order form to the leg of the carrier pigeon, make sure to use a double knot.</p>Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/70535142022-09-05T12:25:45-04:002022-09-15T01:51:06-04:00A new video, for Labor Day!<p>Nothing at all to do with Labor Day, actually. But my green screen does get a good workout:</p>
<p><iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/irQMw3G3X4w" title="YouTube video player" width="560"></iframe></p>Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/70226392022-07-24T16:00:25-04:002023-12-10T12:01:18-05:00Gratitude and Non-Attachment in the Veggie Patch<p>In these last two years of dislocation and loss, I have practiced a lot of yoga. Woven throughout have been two central themes of any meditative practice: non-attachment and gratitude. We are happier and better people when we can be appropriately thankful for what we have, and when we can let go of what we can’t. Gardening provides ample opportunity to apply these lessons: there are inevitably delightful surprises and pitiful failures. You learn to celebrate the successes and shrug at the disappointments. </p>
<p>I am now in my second season with my plot in a nearby community garden, an opportunity for which I am endlessly grateful. I have recently returned from a three-week trip out of the country (grateful for that, too). My reunion with my little 100-sq-ft plot of heaven was a delight. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/749b1c28756ea0e87d90d7ec849ff97b26061d65/original/gar.jpeg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>Gratitude, gratitude, for the bounty I found, for the kind gardening neighbors who had watered my plot in my absence (thank you Sarah, Negar, Randy, Randy’s Husband Whose Name I Will Someday Learn!). I was thrilled with the harvest, although I’d thought that the pole beans would have done better – last year at this time I was pulling them by the bucketload. But here's an opportunity for non-attachment. Mediocre bean harvest? Let it go. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/8f5ca622f54184c18d2a43a578b52bf76b8385b0/original/bounty.jpeg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>I cleared away some weeds and some self-sown dill and cilantro from the base of the bean pole that I thought could be crowding out the vines. I harvested all the garlic, which had time to cure in-ground while I was away. In its place I planted out six lovely brussels sprouts seedlings – a big source of excitement, since I’ve never grown sprouts before. These sprouts were the products of careful planning and research – you plant them out 12 weeks before first frost, mid-July in these parts, just the item to fill the hole left by the garlic. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/174731ee0f1f21d67d7024e0fa6eb7445f52288c/original/sprouts.jpeg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpeg" class="size_m justify_center border_none" alt="" /></p>
<p>I’d raised mine from seed, planted mid-May, and watered lovingly in my absence by my wonderful neighbor (thank you, Sai)! And here, in mid-July, they were healthy and leafy and ready to go (gratitude, gratitude). </p>
<p>Two mornings later, when I came back to water again, one of the sprout seedlings had been nibbled down to the stalks, every single leaf gone. With the dill and cilantro cleared away, I could now see that this was in fact the problem with the beans, too: they’d been chewed down to the bare nubbins. By the time I returned later in the day, every single one of my sprout plants was a pathetic, leafless stalk. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/a3a758d58e300c8249a8b42cbc63d6f28c686796/original/nubbins.jpeg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpeg" class="size_m justify_center border_none" alt="" /></p>
<p>I recognize this enemy. Destruction this complete can only be the work of Bunnies. </p>
<p>This, of course, is the moment for non-attachment. I should focus on gratitude for the eggplants, the basil, the kale and the chard, for the generosity of the husk cherries and the unexpected exuberance of the cucumbers. So the sprouts didn’t work out? LET THEM GO. I will be a happier and better person for it. </p>
<p>Fuck that. I have a better idea. I have chosen to focus on <em>non-attachment to the bunnies. </em></p>
<p>When I started my plot, I put up a fence to keep the rabbits out – a rickety thing, but last year, it did the trick. So now, faced with this assault, I go around the perimeter with my trusty garden staples, trying to figure out points of entry and secure the fence more tightly to the ground. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/9ee32d9b4c74a48f4d18600da47addbc22cf6711/original/fence.jpeg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>I do not, however, have high hopes. Look at the logo on the box: </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/35eb2e09000a53a166507b5367d8c15968092ff9/original/img-0285.jpeg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>That’s right: <em>Team Bunny has taken control of the garden staples</em>. Any effort at fencing is subject to sabotage. I need a back-up plan. </p>
<p>In another time and place, I could set up elaborate traps, or sit out on my porch with a shotgun, waiting for the varmints to breach the perimeter. Neither is an option in this dense, shared urban space. (I do, in my neighborhood, hear distant gunshots every now and again. It doesn’t take much imagination to surmise that these shots are fired by disgruntled urban gardeners, their last nerves gnawed by pesky rabbits.) </p>
<p>I cannot kill the bunnies. But I can annoy them. After striking out at two different stores in my search for hot pepper spray, I rush home to make my own, with the spiciest pepper my cabinet can offer: gochugaru, the Korean pepper that is responsible for kimchi’s heat. I have a big bag of gochugaru because kimchi is something I occasionally make, and gochugaru is only sold in increments of <em>Extra Large</em> or <em>Absurdly Large</em>. Let me say right now that my kimchi is nowhere near as good as your grandmother’s kimchi. It is, however, way better than <em>my</em> grandmother’s kimchi, mostly because kimchi is something my grandmother would not have eaten in a million years, let alone made herself. Mostly, my grandmother ate tuna melts and chocolate cake – both foods for which she would be in no way dependent on the products of anyone’s garden. Wise woman.</p>
<p>Back in my garden plot, the sprayer full of homemade hot pepper wax clogs almost instantly. I end up kind of splashing/drizzling it over the plants, and then dumping the rest of the bag of gochugaru on the surrounding soil for good measure. And as I am splashing and drizzling and dumping, I SEE the bunny. And I hear a neighboring gardener talking to it, saying, “oh, there you are, little bunny! You are SO cute! Remember how I saved you?” </p>
<p>Saved it from WHAT? And more importantly – WHY??? </p>
<p>Let me be totally clear: there is nothing lovable about a bunny. Forget the image of Peter Rabbit carrying off a full-grown head of lettuce. My garden is full of mature plants that the bunny could have nibbled --- kale and chard and parsley, bunny favorites all, enough to feed both Thumper and his demon spawn. Any of these plants could have sacrificed a few leaves, or even a lot of leaves, without giving up the ghost. But that’s not how bunnies roll: they only want the tender young leaves of newly-sprouted plants. </p>
<p>That’s right: bunnies prey on the weak and vulnerable. They <em>eat babies</em>. I would no more call them “cute” than I would call Ginny and Clarence Thomas a “cute couple.” </p>
<p>There are some early signs of success. A few days after I season my garden with hot pepper, some of the decimated bean plants are showing signs of growth. Three of the six brussels sprout seedlings are likely goners, but the other three could potentially make it (though whether they’ll get sufficient vigor to send up stalks of sprouts this fall is anyone’s guess). I will need to be vigilant, though, if I am to non-attach the bunnies from my garden plot. I am grateful, very grateful, for the hot pepper spray I finally found at Store #3.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/5f3a5b718e0289c2f6ca6ec2d7e3ce790c8ee8dc/original/spray.jpeg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpeg" class="size_m justify_center border_none" alt="" /></p>
<p>I will stay on the case, spraying and sprinkling more hot pepper after every watering and rainfall, and I will hope for the best. </p>
<p>Come to think of it, while I'm at it, I’d also like to practice non-attachment from Ginny and Clarence Thomas. Think I can find enough gochugaru at H-Mart?</p>Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/69977332022-06-20T12:50:31-04:002022-07-22T04:36:53-04:00Change of Plans<p>Here is how this past week was supposed to go: </p>
<p>My husband was supposed to go on a long-planned deep-sea fishing trip, and I was supposed to go to a conference on the other side of the country. Then he was going to leave a week early for our trip to Europe, so he could spend some time with colleagues in Barcelona. I had big plans for the week on my own: work, of course, but also recording, filming and maybe even editing my current music video project. I would mulch my community garden plot, which was coming in so nicely. And yoga every day! My long-time studio recently opened a branch down the street, so there are plenty of in-person options close at hand, as well as near-infinite classes online. </p>
<p>Then this happened. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/3456d260ac6e6ab9fc4600fc82e68d1b4f3cdb1c/original/img-9921.jpeg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" />So much for travel, yoga, garden mulch, or singing into a microphone. But we pivot as we must, and learn what we can in the process. I am celebrating the fact that more than two years into this pandemic, I am finally living first-hand some of COVID’s most seminal experiences. </p>
<p>Quarantine! And Instacart. </p>
<p>Quarantine is not so bad, it turns out, when the whole household is in simultaneous lockdown (particularly welcome in our case, since the whole house in our new-ish urban digs is three rooms). Staying in isn’t all that hard when you’re sick: I haven’t felt like doing much this week, to be honest, except reading novel after novel, the more mindless the better, taking periodic breaks to sniff the coffee grounds to make sure my olfactory system still works (so far, so good). </p>
<p>And Instacart! Steve and I had both expected to be out of town, so the larder wasn’t exactly loaded. We don’t really keep a loaded larder these days anyway: there are multiple grocery stores a short walk from our apartment, and picking up a few items makes a nice work break or after-dinner stroll. Plus, we have a modest-sized kitchen with limited storage space – no pantry, no basement, no garage. Our Costco days are well in our past. </p>
<p>Instacart pretty much worked. An hour or so before the delivery we started getting texts about substitutions. Lowfat instead of full-fat oat milk? Sure. Bells & Evans instead of the store-brand organic whole chicken? No problem. Mandarins instead of navels? Whatever. </p>
<p>There were still a few surprises when the order got dropped on our front steps. The whole chicken was actually a couple of breasts: not what we had in mind, but we could work with it. The navels-turned-mandarins turned back into navels: great. Some stuff never got delivered at all (looking at you, four-pack of avocados! Or rather: NOT looking at you.) </p>
<p>Then there was the three-pack of paper towels made from recycled paper that we’d ordered. Here’s what we got: </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/24fbd0eb2ecf225ee327e2abb624598de02ac8f2/original/xl-towels.jpeg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" />I should note that this is not simply fifteen rolls of paper towels. It is 15 MEGA-ROLLS, WITH 50% MORE!!! Presumably, 50% more than the paper towel roll standard as defined by the US Bureau of Weights and Measures. </p>
<p>This one was a bit more of a head-scratcher. We ordered three rolls of paper towels because that is exactly the number of paper towels we have room to store. But plans change. So we have learned, like everyone else, to get a little creative. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/85bc297dd696c668c0ee3350ba1ea3b77338f327/original/img-9917.jpeg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/d5d84b4c135e0316b2c52daf336c5894fb6f6b44/original/img-9913.jpeg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/cc1e887777b44b0c1848d29089ab80db05c21c66/original/img-9915.jpeg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/2e251312c71d07d3c1a53a6df2561ecf9fc19c7d/original/img-9916.jpeg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/d817245a7b9696bb122a1f5f84abce7283d0b0b4/original/img-9923.jpeg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>We’re slowly getting to the other side of this infection. It’s not awful to have unexpected downtime. We’re using up some of the items that have been languishing in the back of our pantry (kombu makes a nice broth, even after a couple of years in the cabinet). The book I read yesterday was SO mindless that I began to hate myself, just a little bit: I consider that a very good sign of recovery. </p>
<p>And thus we learn that more than two years in, COVID still has lessons to offer. </p>
<p>Take time to stop and smell the coffee grounds. </p>
<p>And when infectious disease strikes, load up on excessive quantities of paper goods.</p>Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/69664462022-05-08T18:43:37-04:002022-05-30T00:37:48-04:00A mother's day gift<p>This Mother’s Day, Boston has given me a beautiful bouquet of flowering trees. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/1ed041c1f2925feee21688798ad5703586b4030b/original/flowering-trees-1.jpeg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /> It’s been a cool spring, and the trees have been in bloom for longer than usual, a real treat. <img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/411cacc5a57195a73543308f720b1f901b752945/original/cherry-closeup.jpeg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" />I can’t see these particular flowering cherries without remembering the intense joy they sparked in me as a little girl. They were pink – my favorite color – the most marvelous bubble-gum pink. The blooms were fully double, frilly and fabulous. And a full tree of them, growing higher than I could see! It was a miracle, this crazy glut of the most perfect blooms in the most perfect pink. </p>
<p>And then they fell, after a scant week or so; and I was heartbroken. The miracle trees were back to their boring, unexceptional green. </p>
<p>Some time around 1969 or 1970, when I was four or five, I saw a picture in a magazine of a woman with hair exactly this color, a bright pink, flower-power bob. I was smitten: I begged my mother to let me dye my hair this most luscious shade. She had, some time before and only after endless pleading, agreed to let me grow my hair long, a project on which I had been working for some excruciatingly protracted period of time (three months? six?). And now my mother offered me a choice: I could, indeed, dye my hair pink – if I would agree to cut it short once more. I agonized, but in the end I made the choice she undoubtedly knew I would, leaving my hair long but brown. She was a wise woman, my mother. </p>
<p>My hair is quite short these days, just the way Mom liked it. At this point, nothing and nobody can stop me from dying it any color I please. But I haven’t, just yet: my hair is shot through with silver, not pink. This feels fitting, given centuries of hackneyed floral metaphors for aging. I am, after all, no longer in the full flower of youth. The bloom is off the rose, and all that. </p>
<p>My grandmother, Else Vollweiler, must have been about my age, or even a few years younger, when I famously told her, “Oma, you are old; but not SO old.” She thought that was hilarious, and she quoted it back to me for the next 20 years. </p>
<p>Else was in fact quite a beautiful woman in the full bloom of her youth. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/4f87e5a53bcba49965977f5db54ba959ec0d5697/original/young-else-on-her-car.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" />My mother and I always thought she looked a little like Ingrid Bergman, only far prettier, of course, because she was ours. </p>
<p>As a gardener and a lover of gardens, I have matured over time, as most gardeners and lovers of gardens do. In Japanese gardens, perhaps the pinnacle of elegance and structure, blooms are never the stars, often entirely absent. Like anyone else who has been to New York City’s High Line park, I admire the work of superstar garden designer Piet Oudolf, who creates exquisite living collages of ornamental grasses and graceful, restrained shrubs and perennials. </p>
<p>But somehow, in my own gardens these days, I am still drawn to color, the brighter the better. For the last couple of years I justified my choices by declaring that in the middle of a pandemic we need all the cheer we can get. But truly, I just love a visual riot. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/a8e9dd6f80933f55eb1ad787072fd616f0ebe1f5/original/balcony-flowers.jpeg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" />In my community garden plot this year, along with the beans and the basil, I am planting dinner plate dahlias. If all goes well I will have an explosion of purple, yellow and orange flowers, great big ones, nothing subtle about them at all. </p>
<p>And oh, those flowering trees. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/fc30069bb6d58e128ce25d4fe1ab544a3e0a1e4e/original/cherry.jpeg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>I’m still fond of those double-blossomed cherries, but the truth is I adore them all: the single-petaled dogwood bracts, the tiny redbud blooms, the barely-blushed white of the apples. I no longer mourn the petal fall, the annual fade from glory. I watch the trees spring into bloom with full awareness of how short-lived it will be, this explosion of magnificence, and I think I love them the more because of it. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/9fca4b44c003a8fd4faf9ca4ffcc3ca0a6f3c74f/original/fallen-petals.jpeg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>Like my grandmother, my mother, Inge Gould, was quite the hot ticket in her salad years. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/cea15d295aa1bf3cb2eb674721d889784b713c16/original/inge-bob-wedding-album-005-august-23-1959.jpeg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>But I never found her quite as beautiful as I did during those last months of her life, when we both knew that cancer would soon take her from us. I would sit across the kitchen table from her and marvel at how extraordinarily beautiful she was, this mother of mine, how very, very lovely. </p>
<p>I guess this is what I have learned most to savor, now that I myself am old, but not so old: the impossible beauty of what we are about to lose.</p>Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/69597762022-04-29T08:51:16-04:002022-04-30T20:46:47-04:00Cold and Lonely<p>I am getting over a cold: a sneezy, sniffly, thoroughly unpleasant and thoroughly unserious cold. </p>
<p>I know that it is not COVID. But you don’t. </p>
<p>I got this cold from my husband, who is tested regularly at work, so he knew for a fact that he didn’t have COVID. He also knew for a fact that his symptoms were due to seasonal allergies. Look at that pollen count! (and give me a lick of your ice cream cone because I haven’t tried the Salted Oatmeal Cookie but it sure sounds interesting) and haven’t you noticed how every year I've been a little more congested during ragweed season? (oh, and is this YOUR toothbrush? Sorry.) Seasonal allergies, without a doubt! Until the day that the pollen count stayed high but his symptoms abated, at which point he declared that after all, what he’d had was a cold! Who knew? </p>
<p>I did, at that point; because by then I had the cold (not COVID; but you don’t know that). </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/287f88acd003d40cc1968e3eff40babcdc358170/original/41034a42-e296-4a1e-973d-be7e0668d4f2.jpeg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>In terms of the actual experience, it might as well have been COVID, as I’ve heard it described by vaccinated/boosted friends who’ve come down with it during the Omicron wave: body aches, congestion, exhaustion. As for possible long-term cognitive side effects, I will just say that in the course of the week I watched the second season of Bridgerton in its entirety, and I am definitely the stupider for it. </p>
<p>I know full well that there are real differences between my pedestrian virus and COVID. If either Steve or I have unwittingly infected any third parties with this cold, we can be fairly certain that we didn’t land them in the hospital. Anyway, colds are harder to spread than COVID. One of the most useful concepts I picked up during two years of obsessive pandemic news-hounding is R0 ( “R-naught”). R0 is the average number of other people to whom each infected individual transmits a particular disease. Bragging rights for the most infectious illness? Those belong to measles, with an R0 of 18. Current subvariants of Omicron may not be far behind, with R0 estimated between 7 and 14. Most cold viruses, on the other hand, have an R0 of less than 1. Which means that once Steve passed his seasonal allergies to me, he could declare his mission to be successfully complete. </p>
<p>But knowing I had an infectious something, even knowing for certain it was not a dangerous infectious something, made me pull way back. I cancelled social engagements and kept pretty much to myself; later in the week, when I did venture into public places, I was sure to wear a mask. In part, I felt pretty crappy, and didn’t want to be responsible for anyone else feeling that way. But at least in equal part, I didn’t want to make others nervous that my sneezes my sneezes might be COVID-bearing. I knew they weren’t. But others wouldn’t know. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/8c8d73293a5772d5de44f96c0d00958602bf5595/original/img-9752.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" />I get it. I, too, have been jumpy when in the vicinity of the sneezy. I’ve been on four flights in the past few months, and on two of them I was seated in close proximity to some fairly noticeable nose-blowing. The nose-blowers may have known they weren’t carrying COVID; but I certainly didn’t. I was somewhat comforted by the fact that at that time, on airplanes, we were all supposed to be wearing masks, except for when we took them off. I kept asking myself: does this poor congested soul REALLY need to eat those Biscoff cookies? For that matter: do <em>I</em> really need to eat <em>mine</em>? </p>
<p>Yeah, I did. Those were long flights. And nothing quite does the job on a long flight like a Biscoff and a Styrofoam cuppa. </p>
<p>Once upon a time, mere cold symptoms were not a reason to cancel anything: certainly not reason to stay home from work, and absent a fever, not a reason to stay home from school. If I’d kept my children home from school for every runny nose, my two twenty-something daughters would still be working their way through eighth grade. </p>
<p>Hard to recall after two pandemic years, but we used to make a virtue of sucking it up and getting on with our lives. I remember a commercial for a product that billed itself as the “keeps you going cold medicine:” the imperative was to suppress your symptoms and plow forward with your life. <a contents="Here’s an article from WebMD" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.webmd.com/cold-and-flu/features/covering-up-cold-and-flu-symptoms-beauty-tips">Here’s a 2008 article from WebMD</a> including beauty tips for how to look healthy when you are out and about with a cold or the flu. WebMD, at least posing as a credible medical authority, was giving us tips for how to get out and circulate with our infectious diseases in full throttle. </p>
<p>Certainly, the pandemic has heightened our awareness of the ways in which our casual interactions can feed disease transmission. I, for one, would be perfectly delighted if our social norms (not to mention our public policies) supported anyone in at least the worst throes of an infectious disease to stay home and keep it to themselves rather than suck it up and carry on (and give it to me). </p>
<p>How much of this new sensitivity will stick? Hard to say. Two years ago, there were pundits who swore up and down that the handshake was dead forever. I, for one, have shaken a lot of hands since then. I am still washing my own hands whenever I walk into my house: but then again, I was doing so for years before COVID came into our lives. As for masks: it’s a topic on which I have well-informed and deeply-held beliefs, mostly self-contradictory. Call me if you want to hear more. </p>
<p>But this I can say for certain: Steve, next time you are faced with a flare-up of your seasonal allergies, the Salted Oatmeal Cookie ice cream is ALL MINE.</p>Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/68856872022-02-01T14:29:53-05:002022-04-11T09:54:14-04:00My latest video -- Cocktails at Six!<p>Featuring the acting talents of Sheree Galpert and Chris Combest, with the inimitable Julia Ansolabehere on the clarinet. Cheers!</p>
<p><iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/NCsz2gIwoQg" title="YouTube video player" width="560"></iframe></p>Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/67878462021-10-26T21:37:51-04:002022-05-05T14:30:00-04:00Your Efficient Neighbors<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/d204ebc8b1bc8eb733f5d03b8d29271327b05157/original/screen-shot-2021-10-26-at-9-36-24-pm.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>Your Efficient Neighbors hang their laundry to dry rather than running the dryer. Your Efficient Neighbors do not even OWN a dryer! They only run the washing machine when it is very, very full; and they never, ever use hot water. </p>
<p>Your Efficient Neighbors keep their home at a breezy 55 degrees in the winter, and a balmy 82 degrees in the summer. To deal with the winter chill, Your Efficient Neighbors wrap themselves in scarves and shawls hand-knitted from responsibly-sourced cashmere. </p>
<p>Your Efficient Neighbors do not have EnergyStar appliances: they have Energy<em><strong>Gold</strong></em>Star appliances. </p>
<p>Your Efficient Neighbors do not daydream in the shower, nor do not let hot water run for long minutes over their aching muscles. Your Efficient Neighbors do not have aching muscles because they do more yoga than you do. Plus they do things like Reiki and Shiatsu, which are words that you do not understand. </p>
<p>Your Efficient Neighbors do not watch television. Oh, no, no, no! Instead, to amuse themselves, they write little plays and perform them by candlelight, like the March sisters in <em><span style="color:null;">Little Women</span></em>. </p>
<p>Your Efficient Neighbors have a smaller carbon footprint than yours. Also, they are cuter, richer, smarter, funnier, and have better hair. </p>
<p>Your Efficient Neighbors never leave the lights on when they leave a room. In fact, they rarely need to turn on the lights at all: their lives are illuminated by the sheer glow of their virtue. </p>
<p>Your Efficient Neighbors do not hide this light under a bushel, because that would be wasteful. </p>
<p>Your Efficient Neighbors scrape, rather than rinse, their dishes before loading them into the dishwasher, which they only run when it is completely full. In fact, Your Efficient Neighbors often eliminate the need to do dishes altogether by eating off of paper plates. </p>
<p>Your Efficient Neighbors unplugged almost all of their appliances 18 months ago before driving their Humvee to Sedona, Arizona, where they own a 5,000 sq ft vacation home, because you can work from anywhere these days, so why not? Your Efficient Neighbors plan to stay in Sedona full-time at least until the office re-opens in January; although given the new hybrid schedule, Your Efficient Neighbors may just fly back East once a week for Tuesday staff meetings. Your Efficient Neighbors feel comfortable with this plan both because the A/C in Sedona works so very well (even when it got up to 115 degrees last summer!), and because of their excellent burglar alarm back East, which is in fact the only appliance they’ve left plugged in. </p>
<p>But that’s OK! Because after all, Your Efficient Neighbors’ burglar alarm is EnergyGoldStar.</p>Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/66133092021-04-25T11:19:04-04:002022-06-21T05:43:54-04:00The young urban gardener<p>I used to live in the suburbs, where I had a biggish garden on a smallish lot. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/b3f02d2d5835e58e97fb5c8e045679893d364061/original/img-4141.jpeg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>Now I live on the third and fourth floors of a rowhouse in the city, and I have no lot at all. I’m still a gardener, though. I’m just learning how to garden a little differently. </p>
<p>These days, my main garden canvas is our 5’ x 15’ fourth-floor porch. We moved into this condo last May; I planted up the porch within a week. 2020 being the year it was, I went for color: big, bright, gaudy annuals, as many shades of pink and orange as I could cram into our relatively modest space. I found joy and solace in this new garden in the air, the way so many people did in their gardens in 2020. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/44418a11f4ba501c0598fdeb6dbc0ff994ed48c5/original/img-7623.jpeg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>In 2021, I have been able to start earlier. In late March I made my first garden center run, and loaded up with pansies and some potted bulbs. The pansies did great; the bulbs, not so much. The tulips survived – at least some of them. I planted six or seven in this box: </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/af0c7d1e5c395fc35677aed2656ccc384734c0e0/original/img-8589.jpeg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" />An enterprising squirrel dug up and ate at least half of them. </p>
<p>Indeed, there are plenty of varmints in the city. In the suburbs, raccoons invaded the trash; here, we have rats (and from what I’ve seen, these Boston rats can match their suburban raccoon friends for both wit and size). We have the good fortune to live in a neighborhood rich with parks, large and small; and bunnies, garden nemeses of my suburban days, abound. Sometimes I see them scampering down the very urban sidewalks. </p>
<p>And then, of course: squirrels. In my veggie patch they had the infuriating habit of taking a single greedy bite out of every nearly-ripe tomato on the vine, ruining all but finishing none. And here they are again, devouring my tulip bulbs in a high-wire act, four stories off the ground. </p>
<p>I am too impressed to be annoyed. I can only say: Squirrel, my hat’s off to you. I admire your derring-do. And if, when you get back to ground level, you happen to see your friends, the bunnies, please tell them I said: HAHAHAHAHAHAHA </p>
<hr><p>Urban gardening is a public act. In the suburbs my garden could be seen by my immediate neighbors and perhaps the occasional curious pedestrian. But while my garden in the sky is quiet and feels pretty private, last year it got noticed. Neighbors stopped me to offer compliments. My garden made me new friends. </p>
<p>There are plenty of others with planted porches in my neighborhood. But the real action is on the front steps. My neighbors (and sometimes their gardeners) have a flair for the magnificent potted planter. They are everywhere in Boston’s South End. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/e26ad2d5d93b08b457b225da23022f730f197fc6/original/img-8512.jpeg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/ccbe1eb5e87bad7be3a0c9a8078da94b931e1213/original/img-8513.jpeg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/f4e3a5d3568a2f55429e095ea777690524a08237/original/img-8585.jpeg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" />I have taken it as my mission to learn how to be a better container gardener. I take pictures; I take notes. Two weeks ago, as planting season was just taking off, I could contain my enthusiasm no longer, and rushed off to the garden center for the second time this season. The selection was a bit picked over, on a Sunday afternoon; but I managed to walk away with a nice assortment that mirrored the combinations I most admired: a mix of foliage perennials and annuals, a few trailing vines, and some pansies for general exuberance. </p>
<p>They look good enough from the front door looking down: </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/91c3e7905d4eace11c9e3aec429e86d4b2af0a49/original/img-8590.jpeg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" />But from the street, they look like nothing at all: </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/941d3ad4b4d9cc1b2e37e32e9bcb3def1462db96/original/img-8564.jpeg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" />As more planters and urns have filled with glorious displays over the intervening weeks, I’ve come to understand my error. I planted my front-stoop pots according to the container gardening instructions I’ve read in gardening books, leaving about an inch between the soil level and the top of the pot, to accommodate water and preserve the soil. The best stoop-level planters, however, are filled with soil right to the rim and mounded a couple of inches higher toward the center – little pot-bound berms, bare spots covered with moss to keep the soil from washing away. </p>
<p>“Tho’ an old man, I am but a young gardener,” Thomas Jefferson wrote to a friend when he was a spry 68. My low-lying porch plantings are a rookie error. I was a pretty good suburban gardener; by big city gardening standards I am but a rube. </p>
<hr><p>For the better part of two years I have been on a waiting list for a number of local community gardens. Last Saturday, I got an email from the coordinator of my absolute favorite one, checking in with those of us on the waiting list – because this year she expects to have a number of plots available, which she will distribute on May 1st. </p>
<p>I immediately composed a response to tell her just how interested I still am. Then I took a deep breath, erased a few dozen exclamation points and de-capitalized at least some of the letters, and hit “send.” </p>
<p>I may or may not have walked by the garden every single day in the week since (and twice last Sunday). </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/4936c9b7958bfa1305ed24c6675b01011eb3c649/original/worcester-st.jpeg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" />I may or may not have clocked the time it takes to walk from the garden gate to my front door.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/48dcb059179fa047aa536ead1902c5f7761e6e70/original/timer.jpeg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpeg" class="size_m justify_center border_none" alt="" style="margin-right: 25px; margin-left: 25px;" />I may or may not have ordered seeds, beans and cucumbers and zinnias, just in case it works out, because the garden centers might sell out of seeds before the beginning of May, and then where would I be? </p>
<p>Getting a community garden plot would let me return to the kind of gardening that got me hooked in the first place. I adore vegetables, on both plant and plate; kitchen gardens were my first horticultural love. Of course, a return to earthbound gardening will mean I will once again be at the mercy of those demonic rabbits. I should not have been so quick to mock them: bunnies are spiteful, and they will no doubt seek revenge. </p>
<p>Even back in the familiar territory of a veggie patch, I’m sure that I will have much to learn in a community garden. There will be new garden protocols, different ways of accessing water. I will need to design my plot to accommodate others around me, plant my bean poles so as not to shade my neighbors’ plants. I have heard that some community gardens can be the locus of intense interpersonal drama. Like all urban gardening, community gardening will involve exposure to human as well as meteorological elements. </p>
<p>Either way, I’ll find out whether my turn has arrived on May 1. This year, May 1 falls on a Saturday; as the first Saturday in May, it is World Naked Gardening Day. And this being 2021, I plan to celebrate the day as I never have before.</p>Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/66013042021-04-11T21:45:39-04:002022-04-24T08:23:33-04:00To Whom it May Concern<p>Dear Zoom, </p>
<p>Please change Gallery view so that my own image is really tiny in the corner of the screen, the way it appears in Microsoft Teams, while everyone else’s image is full-sized. I’d like my Hollywood Square to be just big enough so that I can make sure nothing really embarrassing is going on behind me; but small enough so that the fact that I’m having a bad hair day won’t be a distraction. Also, I’d appreciate it if you could program the video to turn off automatically each time I decide to have a snack. </p>
<hr><p>Dear people who used to make my favorite jeans, </p>
<p>Please get back into business. I have two pairs of your wonderful jeans, a perfect fit, that I bought five or six years ago. Since I have worn one of these two pairs of pants every single day for the past year, the cotton has started to disintegrate. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/e5c20d7dc4b59d51789713aebd56cb2020e34dab/original/disintegrating-jeans.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_none" alt="" style="margin-right: 25px; margin-left: 25px;" /></p>
<p>I still can’t quite wrap my mind around going into a store and staying inside with other humans long enough to actually try on a few replacement candidates. What I really want is to order yours online, since I know they will be just right. So if you could go back into business long enough to manufacture a few Size 4s, I’d be grateful. </p>
<hr><p>Dear Centers for Disease Control, </p>
<p>Thank you for finally admitting that we can’t get COVID from surfaces. I think we’ve known this for at least six months – starting right around the time that it was once again possible to find Purell and Clorox wipes on store shelves. In truth, it’s been quite a while since I wiped down the door handles. But at least now I can stop feeling guilty about it. </p>
<hr><p>Dear <em>New York Times</em>, </p>
<p>I have read your virus coverage obsessively for the past thirteen months. On your advice, I dutifully sewed masks out of tea towels and left my groceries and mail to cure for three days before opening them. I cleaned the frequently-touched surfaces in my house with bleach every single day, except when I forgot or didn’t feel like it. I must admit that I did draw the line when you told me that, in preparation for a frolicsome Fourth of July cookout in which small groups of masked guests shouted to each other from opposite sides of the backyard, I should wrap each household’s place settings in plastic and leave them untouched for three days prior to the event. This, I judged, was a bridge too far (mostly because I no longer have a backyard). </p>
<p>Dear <em>New York Times</em>, I am writing now to ask you please, each time there is some good news to report on the virus – say, how the US is now vaccinating three and sometimes four million people a day, or how the evidence indicates that once vaccinated, people are unlikely to spread the virus further – please do not end that hopeful story by reminding the reader that the world could still, quite easily, turn to shit at any moment. </p>
<hr><p>Dear Star Market, </p>
<p>Please re-order Celestial Seasonings Tension Tamer tea. The last few times I’ve visited the store, it’s been out of stock. I ran out of my home supply three weeks ago.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/e7861b45b7e7dc5b528fd43ed526f4563edf8371/original/tension-tamer.jpeg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpeg" class="size_m justify_center border_none" alt="" style="margin-right: 25px; margin-left: 25px;" />And guess what? </p>
<p>I’M STILL TENSE. </p>
<hr><p>Dear people who run the Prudential Center, </p>
<p>A very long time ago (specifically, December), you changed the lighting scheme on the top of the tower every single night. Sometimes you chose a single color – electric blue, or a jaunty fuschia. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/4dc70088627ea8c953f755b052c2b961e00f9d67/original/img-8501.jpeg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpeg" class="size_m justify_center border_none" alt="" style="margin-right: 25px; margin-left: 25px;" />Sometimes you went for a variegated or modulating effect. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/5443a9632d68857718762883173a6ca204374fd3/original/img-6429.jpeg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpeg" class="size_m justify_center border_none" alt="" style="margin-right: 25px; margin-left: 25px;" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/0b3357db460d3c0a8f1df1e60a090b2b82cc30c7/original/img-8085.jpeg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpeg" class="size_m justify_center border_none" alt="" style="margin-right: 25px; margin-left: 25px;" /></p>
<p> </p>
<p>It was a moment of joy, every night, to look out my window and see what color you’d chosen for the evening. Since January, though, it’s been a tedious white, every single unchanging night. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/e282d622b9be73e294b18a29658440cdc9c505c6/original/img-8519.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_none" alt="" style="margin-right: 25px; margin-left: 25px;" /></p>
<p>It is spring, finally; the leaves are popping, daffodils, forsythia and magnolias in full bloom. The days are full of light and hope. But the nights are still dark. My dreams are still anxious. </p>
<p>So please, dear people who run the Prudential Center, please bring back the colors. Because now, more than ever, we need a little bit of whimsy.</p>Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/65086562020-12-27T15:11:21-05:002023-12-10T11:57:30-05:00Ten Things I've Learned During the Pandemic<ol> <li><span class="font_regular">I’ve learned that on Zoom, reading glasses are a good substitute for eye makeup. Makes sense, right? They make your eyes look bigger. Plus reading glasses are much faster to remove. <em>Extra hint:</em> if it’s a business meeting, go for the unobtrusive reading glasses instead of the rhinestone-studded hot pink pointy ones, much though those are the ones you really love. </span></li> <li>I’ve learned how to make masks! Which involves remembering how to use a sewing machine. (I got a whole <a contents="blog post " data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://gouldtunes.com/blog/blog/who-is-that-masked-woman" style=""><span style="color:#2980b9;">blog post</span> </a>out of that one.)</li> <li>I’ve learned that if I squeeze my butt while doing Upward Dog, it is much easier on my back. I’ve been a regular yoga practitioner since 2014, and during the pandemic I’ve been taking online yoga classes pretty much every day. But in fact my first go-round as a yogi actually transpired in college, when my roommate Katie and I were regulars at a campus yoga class taught by the indomitable Gloria Pilot. Gloria was in her mid-60’s at the time, and her energy, flexibility, and humorless sincerity were astonishing. In one of my favorite Glo moments, she stopped the class mid-Vinyasa and demanded: “Do you know about squeezing your buttocks? Well, it will <em>change your life</em>.” I laughed about it at the time. But now, 35 years later, I have discovered that Glo was absolutely right. </li> <li>I’ve learned that myofascial release, where you put sustained pressure on tight muscles with a foam roller or a tennis ball, is a real thing, and it is AWESOME. I am still a creaky middle-aged woman, but noticeably less so. Less creaky, that is: I’m still as middle-aged as ever, but noticeably more so (reading glasses notwithstanding). </li> <li>I’ve learned much more than I ever thought I’d know – or wanted to know – about making music remotely, but in real time. My <a contents="a cappella " data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.broadbandsings.org/" style=""><em><span style="color:#2980b9;">a cappella</span> </em></a>group has been trying to crack this one all year. Options we’ve considered were JamKazam (which was a total tech fail) and this cool arrangement where everyone pulls into a parking lot, and then you sit in your car and sing with your chorus through a proprietary FM radio frequency. Our latest effort involves JackTrip operated through a tiny microcomputer called a Virtual Studio. I will keep you posted. </li> <li>I’ve learned how to add drum tracks on GarageBand. As hard as it is to make music in real time with human but remote musicians, it is super-easy to make music in real time with fake musicians who only exist in your computer’s imagination. The GarageBand make-believe drummers have groovy names like Darcy and Anton and Tyrell. <img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/ee7f6adc560da5f1c6d26f486b259bf028000eeb/original/screen-shot-2020-12-27-at-2-24-05-pm.png/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.png" class="size_m justify_center border_" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/5a3c450ded7047ba6c935f5cd19a69ed12113dd7/original/screen-shot-2020-12-27-at-2-24-43-pm.png/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.png" class="size_m justify_center border_" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/814250952c7623694fb4c9ba23b0a4d9b946e92d/original/screen-shot-2020-12-27-at-2-24-23-pm.png/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.png" class="size_m justify_center border_" />They don’t have faces, only shirts and hair; but they are accessorized just enough to make it very clear that they are way, way cooler than I am, and that I am super-lucky to have the chance to jam with them. And jam with them I do, on a few of my Songs of the Plague: <a contents="Are You the One" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://youtu.be/c9DsUSNhrVs" style=""><span style="color:#2980b9;">Are You the One</span></a><span style="color:#2980b9;">?, </span><a contents="Today" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://youtu.be/P1uL2-szylQ"><span style="color:#2980b9;">Today</span></a><span style="color:#2980b9;">,</span> and <a contents="COVID Time" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://youtu.be/9KeEV0E56tM" style=""><span style="color:#2980b9;">COVID Time</span></a>.</li> <li>I’ve learned soooooo much new vocabulary! <em>Cytokine storm. Spike protein. Fomite. mRNA. Human challenge study. Monoclonal antibodies. </em> I think my favorite is <em>fomite</em>, because it’s just so darned fun to say. Fomite! Fomite! Fomite! </li> <li>I’ve learned that I retain new vocabulary so much better if it’s introduced right before I go to sleep. </li> <li>I’ve learned that it is a very bad idea to scan the daily Coronavirus Updates right before bed, no matter how good it is for vocabulary retention. </li> <li>I’ve learned that we humans have an astonishing ability to adapt to change, and also an astonishing ability to deny change even when the evidence is right in front of us. That we are really just organisms, as susceptible to blight as elm trees and honeybees. And that we are not in charge.</li>
</ol>
<p> </p>Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/65045252020-12-21T10:31:15-05:002022-05-21T14:02:25-04:00COVID Time<p>A new song to round out the year: Plague Song #6!</p>
<p> </p>
<p><iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/9KeEV0E56tM" width="560"></iframe></p>Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/64649422020-10-28T11:33:19-04:002022-09-15T01:51:06-04:00Who is that masked woman?<p>I am back to making masks. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/ef333d68b35bf6c06d7ebcdd24b8a367eb46b41d/original/sewing.jpeg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpeg" class="size_m justify_center border_none" alt="" /></p>
<p>In April, when the CDC announced that masks were a good idea, after all, probably, my younger daughter and I went full-on <em>Little Women</em>, stitching supplies for the beleaguered Union troops. Our first masks were made of whatever fabric bits we could scrounge around the house: bandanas, Japanese gift cloths, a few disastrous efforts involving tea towels. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/312693f27d14dc10606df3326e3eb7dbc1485388/original/early-efforts.jpeg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpeg" class="size_m justify_center border_none" alt="" /></p>
<p>Some of our early attempts were less than expert. We call this one “Loving Hands, Made at Home,” after a favorite expression of my friend Jennifer’s mother. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/9f9b5424f72e42443860e1d1d05474141f5059af/original/loving-hands.jpeg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpeg" class="size_m justify_center border_none" alt="" /></p>
<p>Eventually we tweaked both pattern and process and began churning out masks that were pretty decent. I ordered a bundle of fabric scraps from Etsy, a fine assortment of summery white prints, and used it to make another dozen. In late summer, anticipating autumn, I ordered additional bundles of fabric scraps, in more saturated tones. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/6999720c7a97e597505aef5bf963fc004a1956cd/original/fabrics.jpeg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpeg" class="size_m justify_center border_none" alt="" /></p>
<p>Because everyone knows it’s a fashion faux pas to wear white masks after Labor Day. </p>
<p>Mask-making has become a ritual for me, a release. I keep a basket of masks next to the entrance to our home. <img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/dd92a39fae0dee09a85213394c98edeffc099f92/original/mask-bin.jpeg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpeg" class="size_m justify_center border_none" alt="" /></p>
<p>There is little danger I will ever be without a clean one, no matter how lax I get about laundry. And yet I keep making more. I fire up the sewing machine whenever I feel stressed or anxious – which, let’s face it, is most of the time, these days, for most of us. </p>
<p>Compulsive stress crafting. I’m sure you have your own way of coping. </p>
<p>I used to note people’s clothing and shoes when I passed them on the street. No more. But I do check out their masks. Homemade or store-bought? Basic black or something more colorful? The kind with the seam down the middle or the pleats on the sides? Looped behind the ears or around the head? And how neat is that top-stitching?</p>
<p>With masks as our most prominent feature, it is little wonder that so many people use them to broadcast messages: <em>Black Lives Matter. Say Their Names. VOTE. </em> When you don a mask with a message you are telling the world where you stand, in a manner most likely to make others take note. </p>
<p>My masks say: I stand with tiny dinosaurs. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/2b824136cc806014b206eea4a88c1674576efc42/original/tiny-dinos.jpeg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpeg" class="size_m justify_center border_none" alt="" /></p>
<p>My very favorites are these veggie-themed masks. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/df1568f5eccf2e3292b14d93aa179222e9d78221/original/veggie-masks.jpeg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpeg" class="size_m justify_center border_none" alt="" /></p>
<p>There’s a universality about them that appeals to me. Our opinions may differ about politics or policing. But everyone eats. </p>
<p>I took a few weeks off from mask-making to write voter mobilization letters for VoteForward, the introvert’s choice for political participation in this fraught year. Every day for three weeks I sat down for about an hour to pen notes to voters in swing states. We didn’t tell people for whom they should vote; we just encouraged them to cast their ballots. <em>Please vote</em>: a personal appeal, from one citizen to another. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/d3cb96b59a99760933ca0d88e9b6b5bb49a9c96b/original/letters.jpeg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpeg" class="size_m justify_center border_none" alt="" /></p>
<p>How best to make connections with a wildly diverse group of people whom I do not know, hundreds or thousands of miles away? Hand-addressed envelopes, for a more personal touch. Spelling people’s names correctly seemed important; neat handwriting, too. My own name above the (hand-written) return address. And to top it off: a stamp. </p>
<p>I needed 400 of them. But what stamps to choose? What image would most appeal to the potential voters I was addressing, in Florida, Minnesota, North Carolina, Ohio? What image would motivate them to open and read this hand-written letter from some Laurie Gould person whom they had never met? </p>
<p>Flag stamps – the basic black masks of philately—would have been the obvious choice for a vote-themed missive. But the flag is a loaded symbol for many these days. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/69d9952b2bfd0902365a367901b8ab67e8eed47e/original/flag-stamp.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsInNtYWxsIl1d.jpg" class="size_s justify_center border_none" alt="" /></p>
<p>Arnold Palmer? </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/d5e5261b32628c223d4056f1ca011a3635c502a5/original/arnold-palmer-stamp.png/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsInNtYWxsIl1d.png" class="size_s justify_center border_none" alt="" /></p>
<p>Perhaps not. Nor this guy: </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/b3450dc16f1f40378c3cadb50d584a24bd717d26/original/george-bush-stamp.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsInNtYWxsIl1d.jpg" class="size_s justify_center border_none" alt="" /></p>
<p>There are disease-themed stamps aplenty: </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/57ef5c4ee925d12a754f6d198a1078fe9ac81ed4/original/breast-cancer-stamp.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsInNtYWxsIl1d.jpg" class="size_s justify_center border_none" alt="" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/062334b2f07e2080608f5bc76cf87e4bed6c997b/original/alzheimers-stamp.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsInNtYWxsIl1d.jpg" class="size_s justify_center border_none" alt="" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/ebcfa4af2fc8aa0ac0bf7a706ec559eb4a5906ef/original/ptsd-stamp.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsInNtYWxsIl1d.jpg" class="size_s justify_center border_none" alt="" /></p>
<p>But I feel we have quite enough disease awareness at the moment. </p>
<p>In the end, once again, vegetables won the day: </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/c6a06209e4bc30e0374b3f39d20953fcc223af1c/original/tomato-stamp.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsInNtYWxsIl1d.jpg" class="size_s justify_center border_none" alt="" /></p>
<p>Because who would turn away from a tomato? </p>
<p>Of course, the notion of universality as applied to vegetables is as much a myth as anything else. I’m sure plenty of people would look at me wearing my very favorite veggie mask: </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/e0e5dd87a0c3eb054d70a8ec701e05b4937767b3/original/veggie-mask.jpeg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpeg" class="size_m justify_center border_none" alt="" /></p>
<p>….and think, “yeah: there’s a lady who can afford all the organic turnips she can eat.” We shouldn’t be cavalier about food: hunger is a harsh reality for far too many. My access to plentiful, healthy food is a privilege for which I am grateful every day. </p>
<p>What is more, while it is patently obvious to me that vegetables are by far the most interesting and delicious food group, I do recognize that this truth may not be equally obvious to others. Some people are allergic to garlic. Some don’t eat carrots for religious reasons (it’s a thing: look it up). Some people – and this will come as a shock – <em>do not particularly care for lettuce</em>. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/b3d9360b5d14f2d639c229e5ce41063924719f3f/original/lettuce-mask.jpeg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpeg" class="size_m justify_center border_none" alt="" /></p>
<p>And then there are people who look at the very fact that I am wearing a mask – even this totally fabulous lettuce mask – and think it a sign of weakness, evidence that I am cowed by some oppressive force looking to strip us all of our liberty. The importance of wearing masks, glaringly obvious to me, is far from obvious to them. Just as some people – many, many tens of millions – will proudly mark their ballots for Donald Trump. Perhaps for the second time. My truth is not theirs. </p>
<p>Sigh. </p>
<p>Time to fire up the sewing machine. I have masks to make. </p>Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/64278482020-09-08T09:45:12-04:002022-05-08T15:29:36-04:00Today's the day for a new song!<p>Here you go -- latest Song of the Plague:</p>
<p><iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/P1uL2-szylQ" width="560"></iframe></p>
<p>Words, music, instrumentals, video editing and what have you by yours truly. </p>
<p>If you've missed the other three Songs of the Plague, you can find them on the Videos page. </p>Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/64059622020-08-09T15:51:28-04:002022-08-11T02:09:53-04:00What to Wear to a Pandemic<p>Despite the devastation of the pandemic, we are all, always, looking for the silver linings. Yes, there is illness and death and mind-boggling economic dislocation – but look how many people have discovered the joys of baking with sourdough!! </p>
<p>Here is another silver lining: after 55 years of hopeless frumpiness, I am finally having my fashion moment. </p>
<p>I just read an article in the <strong>New York Times Magazine</strong> entitled <a contents="Sweatpants Forever," data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2020/08/06/magazine/fashion-sweatpants.html?searchResultPosition=2">Sweatpants Forever,</a> about how the fashion industry is collapsing and everyone, with nowhere to go and therefore no reason to dress up, is buying sweatpants and little else. It’s all about comfort and expanding waistlines. Even the high-end, high-concept designers are adding “softer fabrics and relaxed silhouettes” in their fall collections. </p>
<p>Let me just say: I have ALWAYS been all about “softer fabrics and relaxed silhouettes.” I do not need to buy sweatpants for the pandemic, because I have always bought all of my clothing 1-2 sizes too large, as a matter of course. I am no longer a frumpy middle-aged woman! I am, rather, a visionary who embraced the 2020 aesthetic decades ahead of my time. </p>
<p>I strut down the sidewalk, proudly displaying my cutting-edge, ill-fitting clothes. Of course, in my mask, I am also traveling incognito, as are we all. How sad not to be recognized for the fashion genius I have finally become.</p>
<hr><p>In the summer I am usually self-conscious about my toenails, because I like to wear polish when wearing sandals but I am not very good at applying it. Two years ago, when I had shoulder surgery and got stuck in a large sling that limited hand-to-toenail access, I discovered that I could <em>pay someone else</em> to polish my toenails, and that person would do a way better job than I ever could. A revelation! For the ensuing year I became an avid pedicure consumer. Still, the polish chipped, and my nails grew out. I was forever sneaking sidelong glances at other people’s feet in a sad effort to reassure myself that my toenails were up to some general standard. </p>
<p>I have not had a pedicure in a year, and I’m guessing it will be another year before I venture into a nail salon, if there are any left by then. Moreoever, I have worn the same pair of sandals every single day for the last two months: the treads are long since worn out, and the stitching has started to unravel in a few places. But this year, I can say with confidence, that my feet are not a fashion liability.<img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/f01f71aab99c81e810698469178f0a2a49b07da1/original/img-7661.jpeg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" />HOT FASHION TIP: Nobody gives a shit about your feet this year. They are too busy checking to make sure your mask is pulled up over your nose, and praying that you don’t sneeze on them.</p>
<hr><p>I have a weakness for sweaters, and I have a lovely stack in different colors that are just right for this time of year. At the moment I often wear this one: </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/a0e685d5d33f18bd52504bfc45aec5afbb9aed29/original/img-7663.jpeg/!!/b:W1sidCIsMjcwXV0=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" />But sometimes, when I’m in just the right mood, I wear this one: </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/a0e685d5d33f18bd52504bfc45aec5afbb9aed29/original/img-7663.jpeg/!!/b:W1sidCIsMjcwXV0=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" />It’s not so much that this gray cotton sack goes with everything; it’s more that it doesn’t quite clash with anything. </p>
<p>The $20 cotton sweater from Uniqlo’s 2017 collection: THE fashion must-have of 2020! I should know.</p>
<hr><p>A few weeks ago my older daughter and I were texting about our pandemic coping strategies. Knitting and dark chocolate peanut butter cups were high on both of our lists.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/e0e053cf72047bb7ef33ab50fda54d799ee30679/original/img-7667.jpeg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /> I recently found a clever way to combine these two passions by inadvertently grinding a small chunk of dark chocolate peanut butter cup into my latest knitting project, which happens to be white: </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/54ca1c223d5a85952b70af011d8d2dd645ba9bc5/original/img-7664.jpeg/!!/b:W1sidCIsMjcwXV0=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>Visionary that I am, I predict that the next, greatest fashion trend will combine soft fabrics, relaxed silhouettes, and stains from comfort foods. </p>
<p>You heard it here first.</p>Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/63939962020-07-26T18:26:41-04:002022-05-13T06:42:57-04:00The Obvious Explanation<p>Last week, I received a fat envelope, postmarked from Arizona, from the Department of Economic Security. Never having heard of the Department of Economic Security, I nearly tossed it; but opening it on a whim, I found the cutest little B of A debit card, festooned with cacti. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/c3c536d218867a22568ee3e3004cb7c951d8af24/original/card.jpeg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>The explanation was perfectly obvious. A couple of weeks earlier, I’d sent in the paperwork (there was a lot of it) to transfer to me and my brother control of my recently-deceased mother’s bank account. B of A had acknowledged receipt of the documents but I’d had no further word. Clearly this card was the response, the account access I’d requested. The Department of Economic Security is thus-named because you really can’t be too careful when disposing of the assets of the deceased – “economic security,” for B of A, must mean dotting the I’s and crossing the T’s to avoid blundering into any ugly estate disputes. The fact that a card for a Florida account came from Arizona? These two states must be part of the same B of A business unit. While not an obvious geographic match, the states have much in common: both AZ and FL attract a lot of retirees. Plus, they are both hot! True, Florida is way too humid to suit your typical cactus. But the good folks of B of A are bankers, not horticulturalists. Obviously. </p>
<p>You will be as surprised as I was to learn that the card was in fact connected to an Arizona unemployment claim made in my name, using my (Boston) address and my social security number. As I discussed with the B of A rep, it is true that I am not employed in Arizona. On the other hand, I am neither unemployed, nor am I a resident of Arizona; so perhaps setting up an account to receive my Arizona unemployment benefits is not the appropriate choice. The fine folks at B of A provided me with an 800 number for the AZ Dept of Economic Security (the unemployment office, as it turns out) where, they assured me, I could quickly and easily file a fraud claim. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/a77763efe0f75a22f4063106cc4195569f6c56cb/original/dept-of-econ.jpeg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>This number actually connected me to a rambling voicemail message explaining that the Arizona Dept of Economic Security is up to their eyeballs in obligations and I should not, under any circumstances, expect to talk to a human. However, I could easily meet all my Economic Security needs on their website. It took a while to find the fraud-related pages on the site; and those pages were geared towards people whose legitimate claims had been denied. It seems that Arizona’s unemployment system has been deluged by fraudulent unemployment claims tied to out-of-state addresses; and so, the website explained, they have determined to preemptively deny virtually all of them. </p>
<p>Virtually all of them: but not, as it happens, the one that was purportedly made by Laurie Gould of Boston, MA. </p>
<p>There is a perfectly obvious explanation, in fact, for why the Arizona Department of Economic Security thought that this particular claim was legitimate. According to Google, there<strong> is</strong> actually a Laurie Gould living in Arizona! She is an administrator at the National Laser Institute, which (according to Google) is the Leading Cosmetic Laser School in the nation. The National Laser Institute also has some outposts in Massachusetts; they are undoubtedly a peerless choice for all your Botox and tattoo removal needs. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/1136a7f5ae781e711e98cdff79a53328ba1e7c9f/original/laser-institute.png/!!/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>Further, while there is no city or town named Boston in Arizona, there is something called the Boston-Arizona Mine (it’s a zinc mine in Yavapai County, should you be planning your next vacation). Also, <em>MA</em> kind of looks like <em>AZ</em> if you look at it sideways, and are inebriated. Obviously. </p>
<p>Dealing with the whole identity fraud thing took up the better part of a work day, what with puttering around the Department of Economic Security website, filing a police report, and then freezing my credit, which has to be done separately for each of the three rating agencies. It’s gotten much easier to freeze your credit—I tried to do this a few years ago, after one of those giant security breaches, but gave up because the explosion of forms broke my printer. Nowadays you can do the whole process online. The credit rating agencies confirm your identity by asking you a series of questions that are alarming in their intimacy. They ask you to confirm your children’s middle names, your mortgage balance, the number of the street address where you lived 10 years ago, the number of the street address where you lived 30 years ago. The credit agencies know your life history better than you know it yourself. </p>
<p>And then there was this question, posed by Transunion: </p>
<p><strong>With which state is Raj Patel associated? </strong></p>
<ol> <li><strong>Arkansas </strong></li> <li><strong>Colorado </strong></li> <li><strong>Utah </strong></li> <li><strong>None of the above </strong></li>
</ol>
<p>I don’t know a Raj Patel. At least, I don’t <em>think</em> I know a Raj Patel. But there is a perfectly obvious reason why Transunion thinks that I do. </p>
<p>I haven’t the slightest idea what that reason is. </p>
<p>But let me just send this message to Raj, in case he happens to read this: </p>
<p>Raj, I hope our relationship meant every bit as much to you as it did to me. I will always treasure our time at the zinc mine in Yavapai County. And I’m sure you’ll agree, Raj, that Yavapai County is the perfect place to grow a cactus, no matter what the bankers say.</p>Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/63767452020-07-05T15:35:14-04:002023-12-10T11:54:53-05:00Are You the One?<p>Song of the Plague #3! Featuring the inimitable Julia Ansolabehere on the clarinet. Other stuff done by me. Special thanks to Steve Ansolabehere for filming the action sequence.</p>
<p><iframe class="justify_inline" data-video-type="youtube" data-video-id="c9DsUSNhrVs" data-video-thumb-url="https://img.youtube.com/vi/c9DsUSNhrVs/mqdefault.jpg" type="text/html" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/c9DsUSNhrVs?rel=0&wmode=transparent&enablejsapi=1" frameborder="0" height="180" width="320" allowfullscreen="true"></iframe></p>Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/63593532020-06-19T15:52:43-04:002023-12-10T11:52:34-05:00COVID Confessions<p>Sometimes when I’m washing my hands I only get halfway through the second “Happy Birthday.” </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/a76e63290799bbd28f364e88851e557275e9a8df/original/img-7476.jpeg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>Sometimes I only sanitize my hands before or after I touch a door handle – but not both. </p>
<p>Sometimes, when I get home from the grocery store, instead of washing my hands first thing when I walk in the door, and then washing them again after I take all the items out of the paper bags, and then washing them again after I recycle the paper bags, and then washing them again after I put everything away, I only wash my hands first thing when I walk in the door, and then again after I put everything away. That means that if there is virus on the bags that transfers to my hands it could transfer to the groceries, or to the handle on the refrigerator door. But nonetheless, sometimes that’s what I do. </p>
<p>Sometimes I put the grocery bags on the kitchen table, and then I sanitize the kitchen table. But sometimes I forget the part about sanitizing the table and a few hours later set the table for dinner. So if there is virus on the bags and it transfers to the table it could then transfer to our forks or knives or spoons, which we put in our mouths, and then we could get the virus. Or the virus from the bags could go from the table straight to our hands; and since we’re at home and we have washed our hands first thing after we walk in the door we might feel a bit cavalier about casually touching our faces, and then we might get the virus that way. But nonetheless: sometimes I forget to sanitize the kitchen table after I have put the bags on it. </p>
<p>Or sometimes I just pretend to forget. </p>
<p>Sometimes I eat cereal from a box that has been in my cabinets for less than three days. </p>
<p>Sometimes I open the mail the same day that it comes into my house, without segregating the mail and letting the virus die off for 24 hours before I open it; and then I recycle the envelopes and wash my hands. But sometimes I forget to wash my hands after opening the envelopes but before opening the drawer to the recycling bin. So if there was virus on the envelopes and it gets on my hands and then I transfer the virus to the drawer handle and someone else then comes and touches the drawer handle and doesn’t immediately wash their hands, they could get the virus. Or I could get the virus. But: sometimes that’s what I do. And sometimes I don’t even wash my hands immediately after recycling the envelopes. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/d5a21f504e591aca698511704b4894a1a0f77f05/original/img-7477.jpeg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" />That’s how bad it’s gotten.</p>
<p>Sometimes I wear the face mask that I sewed out of a bandana early on, before I read <a contents="the article in the New York Times" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.nytimes.com/article/coronavirus-homemade-mask-material-DIY-face-mask-ppe.html" style="">the article in the <em>New York Times</em></a> about how you should really make face masks out of fabric thicker than bandanas because thicker fabric is better at trapping the evil itty-bitty viral particles. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/ec3b76b9f96e65bf1b6a7d8e6d5968aced726255/original/img-7484.jpeg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p><em>The New York Times</em> goes on to suggest that the best approach is to make your masks out of tea towels. After we read that article we made some masks out of tea towels, and promptly learned that it is not actually possible to breathe through tea towels, and that not breathing has some distinct disadvantages, although it is also undoubtedly true that not breathing is also an effective strategy both for avoiding inhalation of the virus and for not transmitting the virus to others. So we threw out the tea towel masks, and ordered some regular cotton quilting fabric and made a bunch of masks out of the cotton quilting fabric, and mostly now I wear those masks. But sometimes, when it is really, really hot out, I wear the bandana fabric masks because they are just so much cooler, and I just walk around pretending that I didn’t even read that <em>New York Times</em> article. </p>
<p>That’s what I do, sometimes. </p>
<p>Sometimes there are days when I don’t clean my cellphone with alcohol, not even once, even if I took my phone out of the house with me, and maybe even if I used it when I was out of the house. </p>
<p>At the beginning of the lockdown, I happened to have some cleaning wipes in our apartment and I used them just about every day to clean frequently-touched surfaces like door handles and such. But then the wipes ran out, and buying more is impossible. So I did some research on alternatives and found <a contents="this article in the New York Times" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href=":%20https://www.nytimes.com/2020/05/06/well/live/coronavirus-cleaning-cleaners-disinfectants-home.html" style="">this article in the <em>New York Times</em></a> about the way to clean without wipes, which is basically to create a solution of diluted bleach and to spray it on things and to make sure they stay wet for five minutes and then wash off the bleach with water, all of which is way more of a pain in the ass than just using wipes; but it is not possible at the moment to buy wipes. So the spray-with-diluted-bleach approach is how I now clean my frequently-touched surfaces. Except that sometimes I do it every second or third day instead of every single day. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/8c0b133cf6c56d98f86da9e8ed651c4aaf4a7449/original/img-7479.jpeg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>This same article reminds us that bleach is actually volatile, especially once diluted; so it is important to mix up a new batch of diluted bleach every day when you are performing critical tasks such as cleaning frequently-touched surfaces. But sometimes I don’t mix up a new batch of diluted bleach every day. Sometimes I only mix up a new batch every second day, or third day. Or fourth. Or once a week. </p>
<p>OK. Not sometimes. ALWAYS. I have never mixed batches of diluted bleach on two consecutive days. Bleach is toxic and miserable to inhale and there’s only so much ventilation you can achieve at the kitchen sink, plus I worry about using kitchen measuring utensils to apportion my 3 tsps. of toxic bleach per quart of water. But of course that means that if I mix the bleach on Saturday and I use it on Thursday to clean the doorknobs and the bleach has degraded, and it’s on Thursday that I open the mail and then don’t wash my hands before recycling the envelopes and there is virus on the envelopes and the virus gets on my hands and then on the handle to the recycling drawer (because I didn’t wash my hands before recycling the envelopes), and then I open the drawer later to collect the recycling to take it outside and the virus transfers back to my hands, and then I open the front door to go outside to the recycling bin, thereby putting the virus from my hands onto the front door handle, and then I clean the front door handle but with five-day-old diluted bleach that has degraded sufficiently that it doesn’t completely kill the virus, then I or anyone in my household touches the door handle, then if we subsequently rub an eye or pick a nose, then we might get the virus, and give it to everyone else in the house. And that could be very, very bad. </p>
<p>Sometimes I get so sick of this endless, tedious germophobia that I could rip off my mask and scream at the top of my lungs. But loud vocalizing of any kind could spew massive plumes of the virus (that I may or may not have) into the air, potentially infecting everyone who passes through that particular patch of air in the subsequent 15 seconds or 3 minutes or 9 minutes. </p>
<p>So ripping off my mask and screaming is not something I do, not even sometimes. </p>
<p>At least not when I am outside. </p>
<p> </p>Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/63423772020-06-04T16:19:33-04:002020-06-07T10:57:48-04:00The Right Number<ul> <li>The right number of extension cords: four </li> <li>The right number of plastic buckets: one </li> <li>The right number of reusable shopping bags: eight </li>
</ul>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/807e3681551234386d5f6b48b6166483ce45cb1b/original/extension-cords.jpeg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>We have just moved, out of a rental apartment in Boston’s South End and into a condo just a couple of blocks away. Our last move was almost exactly a year ago, when we sold the rambling Victorian in suburban Newton in which we had lived for 21 years. We got rid of a ton of stuff at the time – about 2/3 of everything we owned. We put some things in storage, uncertain what our permanent move would look like, and moved just the right amount of furniture and housewares into our 900-square foot, almost-2BR rental. </p>
<p>The morning of March 13th, near the end of a modest renovation to our new condo, we had movers deliver everything we had stored into one of the bedrooms in our new home. The idea was that we would sort through all of it over the following three weeks or so, moving along whatever we could no longer fit or no longer needed. </p>
<p>The afternoon of March 13th, my mother died. And then the world shut down. </p>
<p>The move that was supposed to take place in mid-April finally happened in late May. Our new place is in the middle of the city but on a quiet street. It is lovely and bright and leafy and I am thrilled to be here. </p>
<p>Moving at this moment of the world is more of a challenge than it might be at other times, for obvious reasons. It is also a challenge in some less-than-obvious ways, particularly if your plan involves a major thinning of your belongings so that everything fits comfortably into a 2-bedroom condo with modest (albeit recently-expanded) storage capacity. Our process of thinning out the excess was supposed to unfold over the better part of a month. Things being what they were, the process was condensed into about a week. </p>
<ul> <li>The right number of rags: three small bags, one for the kitchen, one for the cleaning supplies in the downstairs bathroom, and an extra rag bag in the storage space under the stairs just in case there’s a really, really big mess. </li> <li>The right number of high-quality canvas tote bags: one </li> <li>The right number of high-quality canvas tote bags bearing the Harvard insignia: none </li>
</ul>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/bcec2baa34fec1f119f12df7721df5324db57840/original/harvard-totes.jpeg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>It is not all that easy to donate excess stuff at the moment. For most of May, the only place we could find that was open for donations of any kind was a wonderful organization called More than Words, which runs two used bookstores staffed entirely by at-risk teens; they were (and of course still are) accepting books. </p>
<p>The right number of books is what will fit on these two shelves: </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/e0e5f13c9592885491bb124986f6626296e8725e/original/bookcases.jpeg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>So we busily packed up all the Trollope and the Jane Austen. I adored Trollope’s <em>Palliser </em>novels, but will I ever read them again? Not likely. I probably will read the Jane Austen again (just re-read <em>Emma</em>, in fact); but since they are instantly available on my Kindle, and for free, I don’t really need the paper versions in order to have them at my fingertips. </p>
<p>The right number of cookbooks for the year we rented, we decided last May in a completely arbitrary manner, was seven; we picked out our seven absolute favorites and kept them with us for the year (Ottolenghi’s <em>Jerusalem</em>; a Basque cookbook by Teresa Barrenechea; the Chad Robertson <em>Tartine</em> book about whole-grain breads). We did a major thinning of cookbooks before we moved a year ago, but stored many more. Once we pulled boxes of remaining cookbooks out of storage, we found that another significant pruning was in order. So we sorted the cookbooks into a bar chart, because that’s just the kind of people we are. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/4c8ea59540ac37bc6fda1d151c3941b61a5e6203/original/cookbook-bar-chart.jpeg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>The tallest stack, in case you are wondering, included books about baking bread; vegetable cookbooks took second place. Next highest piles were cookbooks about Jewish and Basque cuisines. Steve insists that the Jewish bar was taller than the Basque bar. But I claim that some of the books were mis-categorized. Statistician that he is, Steve should be the first to admit that data analysis is not all that meaningful if the data is insufficiently scrubbed. </p>
<ul> <li>The right number of umbrellas: four, plus a folding one that lives in the car </li> <li>The right number of umbrellas with the Harvard insignia: none</li>
</ul>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/7c7501edf72f645a188da5c4d569e347683c3881/original/harvard-umbrella.jpeg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<ul> <li>The right number of keys for this cabinet: three </li>
</ul>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/db8e1414766fb96b5905186ecdc0e9323ee8037f/original/cabinet.jpeg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>I own two of these cabinets, which used to belong to my grandparents. I have always loved them, and they are extremely useful in a space where storage is in precious short supply. They are not antiques, but they are old school, and they open with keys that look like this: </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/39dd311efb99dcc4c1cca77beb86582279ab1f3e/original/key.jpeg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" />All through the years our children were growing up, we impressed upon them the extreme importance of NOT EVER LOSING THE KEYS, because without said keys, it would not be possible to access the interior of the cabinets. And our kids did a great job, always returning the keys to the little ceramic cup that was their home. When we put this particular cabinet into storage last May, we worked with the movers to find a very special, foolproof way to store the keys so that they would not, under any circumstances, be lost. </p>
<p>You see where this is going. </p>
<p>Also missing in action: both the cordless mouse for my Mac, plus the corded spare I always kept in case I let the battery run down. And nowhere to be found are the seven absolute favorite cookbooks without which we decided we could not live during the past year. Go figure. </p>
<ul> <li>The right number of folding chairs: the lesser of the number of large plates or the number of full knife-fork-spoon combinations, minus the number of table-friendly chairs normally in use </li> <li>The right number of reading glasses: 2r + 1, where r is the number of rooms in your house (the extra is for your purse) </li> <li>The right number of clothes hangers: way less than this </li>
</ul>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/d5f02d66c0bff8a7cb57b12927ee0f0dd0994f92/original/hangers.jpeg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>The best decluttering resource we’ve found has been the neighborhood listserve “NextDoor,” in the “free and for sale” section (we always choose “free”). We have, in short order, given away: three folding chairs, 11 wine glasses, a drying rack that was a little too large to fit in the closet with our washer/dryer, a towel rack (someone bought that to turn into a big free-form sculpture), a cork board, a shower chair, a back support pillow, two enormous folding outdoor loveseats that the previous owners left behind, and a package of light bulbs we bought in the wrong size and couldn’t return. You post something and it’s gone, sometimes within just an hour or so. It’s magic. I have not yet tried posting the hangers, I must confess, because I’m just a little bit embarrassed. </p>
<ul> <li>The right number of CDs from the two albums I’ve made: 10 of each </li>
</ul>
<p>When I recorded the albums, it was actually cheaper to print 1,000 CDs than to get the 300 I really thought I could use. And I harbored fantasies that my songs might go viral (a more charming, if less evocative, metaphor in earlier years) and that I would actually <em>sell</em> some of them. But sales remained in the low double digits; and the CD as a technology is now more or less obsolete. For the last few years the only person who actually used and distributed these CDs (for free, of course) was my mother. And, well. </p>
<p>So I bagged up hundreds and hundreds of these precious CDs and put them out with the trash. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/b23d1282ecb8a118bf9610be6a6eac12a170383e/original/cds.jpeg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" />“Kill your darlings,” William Faulkner famously said; although he had something a little different in mind. </p>
<p>For the record, you can listen to both albums for free on Spotify -- and I’d be delighted if you would:</p>
<p><a contents="Songs of Domestic Bliss" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://open.spotify.com/album/0GUbjBYJAgBmBAz4AXHbEu?si=cq3f3R-3Q52Tn3lnlsz5xQ">Songs of Domestic Bliss</a></p>
<p><a contents="Don't Check the Box" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://open.spotify.com/album/1uuIFM1rZnvm5pYyVwAmTs?si=rf-4XsEiS32sVLA-x01y_A">Don't Check the Box</a></p>
<ul> <li>The right number of glass ram skulls: A matter of debate </li>
</ul>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/efb1425a7a29d4dd870e3bc6fd3de11298e29c69/original/blue-glass-rams-head.jpeg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>These are my husband’s darlings. He made them when he was doing a great deal of glass blowing a few years back, because he could, and because it was cool. </p>
<p>How many of them does one really <em>need</em>, though? </p>
<p>The provisional answer, for now, is the greater of 2<em>r</em>, where <em>r </em>equals the number of rooms in your home, or however many will fit on top of these two bookcases.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/9919aeb1430c98a37f563caaba46acd31df65b7d/original/rams-head-storage.jpeg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /> </p>
<p>I have some alternative decision strategies in mind. We could stack them, one on top of another, as we did with the cookbooks, perhaps comparing them to a pile of reading glasses, or hangers. They’re glass; what could go wrong? </p>
<p>Or we could check the bottoms and see if one or two – or five? – bear a Harvard insignia. </p>
<p> </p>Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/62872222020-04-19T15:06:29-04:002020-04-29T14:30:21-04:00Mourning in the Time of the Plague<p>Mortality has become the stuff of daily discourse in the age of COVID. Yet the US Postal Service does not know what to do with death. </p>
<p>My mother, Inge Gould, died on Friday, March 13th.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/7d0465ad33e6458e41d28dca3c75a5546821077e/original/gould-1628.jpeg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>I have been trying to get her mail forwarded ever since. The USPS website is quite explicit: you cannot process such transactions online. You must bring a death certificate and proof that you are the executor to a post office branch, preferably the home post office branch of the departed. Unlikely at the moment: I live in Massachusetts, and Mom lived in Florida. </p>
<p>I call the USPS helpline, to ask if there is some way to do this remotely. I am put on hold for over an hour; but eventually I do get through, and the woman at the other end is as nice as can be. All I need, she says, is a simple form; and she will put in a message for my local mail carrier to deliver one within the next few days, in the course of his normal rounds. I give her my Boston address, with my Boston zipcode. </p>
<p>A week passes, and no form materializes. I do, however, get a call from a post office branch in Tennessee, of all places, telling me that I was mistaken to leave instructions for my mail carrier with them: I would need instead to call the number of my own home branch (which number, by the way, is published nowhere). </p>
<p>My mother would say, “These people are SO STUPID.” </p>
<p>I do eventually go to my home post office branch, to request the form one uses to permanently forward the mail of a deceased person. The postal clerk slips it to the other side of her plexiglass screen; I slide it into my bag and leave. When I get home I find that she has given me the standard change of address form: not to be used for deceased persons. </p>
<p>My mother would say, “Our schools don’t teach people how to THINK.” </p>
<p>The next day I try a different post office, where the clerk hands me the same exact form. I ask instead for the form for forwarding a dead relative’s mail. The two clerks on duty know nothing about how to forward mail after a death; but they suggest that I drop in at a third post office, where there just might be a supervisor who could possibly know the answer. </p>
<p>My mother would say, “That idiot, Donald Trump, has starved our entire infrastructure – we shouldn’t be surprised they screw everything up.” </p>
<p>She would be right. </p>
<hr><p>That the virus would hit the US was just starting to become clear when my mom began hospice care and slipped into a morphine haze. I, in Boston, was caught without hand sanitizer; my brother, in LA, couldn’t get toilet paper. There is a supply of both of these things in my mother’s apartment, in Florida. </p>
<p>It’s not that my mom had stocked up in anticipation of this particular crisis. She was not a hoarder; in fact, she was a great believer in fairness, in not taking more of anything than one’s reasonable share. My mother had hand sanitizer and toilet paper on hand because these are things she always kept on hand, in just the right amounts. The virus would not have caught my mother unprepared. Little did. </p>
<hr><p>My mom loved baking but didn’t care for cooking. I, on the other hand, love to cook. I often cooked when I visited her in Florida, making extra to stock her freezer. Post-meal clean-up at my own home includes doing the dishes and leaving them to dry in the drainer, wiping down the counters, and maybe sweeping the crumbs off the floor. In my mom’s kitchen, however, it also involved hand-drying and putting away everything in the drainer, wiping down the counter and then spraying it with cleanser, and using a different, special cleanser on the stovetop, whether it had been used for meal prep or not. I did my very best to clean to her standards every time I used her kitchen; but when I was done, she invariably went in after me, to clean up some microscopic schmutz that only her eyes could see. </p>
<p>Now there are little stains on my bathroom counters. My mother would say, “It’s disgusting.” I would not use that word: little flecks of toothpaste do not fill me with disgust. But it is dirtier than I’d like – no surprise, since we are now three people living full-time in a 900-sq. ft. apartment that is usually peopled by two, frequent travelers at that. Back before the plague, our wonderful housecleaner came every other week and cleaned it much more thoroughly than I ever could. I am still paying her, but she is staying home and safe until we can all do otherwise in good conscience. </p>
<p>The Wednesday after my mom dies, my husband and younger daughter go off for a (socially-distanced) hike on the beach. My mother worried any time someone she loved got into a vehicle of any kind; she would have fretted until she knew they’d arrived at their destination without incident, and then again until they returned home unharmed. </p>
<p>“Drive safely,” I call after them as they leave. While they are gone I scrub the house from top to bottom. </p>
<p>A week later I say to my husband and daughter, “this place needs a good cleaning.” </p>
<p>“It’s not dirty,” replies my husband. “Where’s the dirt? Show me some dirt. I don’t see it.” </p>
<p>But I see it. And so I scrub the apartment, top to bottom, every Wednesday night. </p>
<hr><p>In mid-March the bodies start to pile up in Italy. The Times runs stories about grief-stricken family members who cannot properly bury their loved ones, who cannot gather with families for funerals. I think, “how terribly sad.” </p>
<p>Oh. Right. </p>
<p>Two days after my mother’s death I organize a Zoom shivah, with the help of our rabbi, so that I can mourn with my brother from opposite sides of the country in the only way possible at the moment. Now, of course, Zoom shivahs are the expected thing; less so on March 15th, when we had ours. </p>
<p>It is surprisingly beautiful. We are able to pull together a whole community of people who loved my mom, from all across the country (and beyond), many of whom would not have been able to travel even in the best of circumstances. I see their faces and hear their stories about my mother and my heart is full beyond words. </p>
<p>My mom would have loved it. She would have delighted in triumphing over the logistical challenges of the quarantine: she was a master planner. She would have loved seeing the faces of everyone she treasured and hearing their warm and wonderful memories of her. And she would have been so pleased that none of them had driven to get there, so she didn’t have to worry about their safety on the trip home. </p>
<hr><p>In the last six months of her life, after she was diagnosed with lung cancer, my mother announced many lasts. She would announce, almost with relish, that she’d gone to her last opera, her last play, her last museum visit; that she’d baked for the last time, finished knitting her last project. </p>
<p>She kept her word about the opera, the plays and the museums: she was too self-conscious about her worsening cough to enjoy those experiences. But she announced her final baking project at least four times; a week after such a pronouncement she’d tell me that she’d baked both a batch brownies and her signature Mandelbrodt for my upcoming monthly visit (as if, in the course of three days, I was likely to put away two full batches of cookies). Knitting and crocheting, too, were things she did right up until the end. Her last major project was a baby blanket for my cousin Ellen’s first grandchild; my Aunt Laraine found her the pattern and the materials. She had lost much of her vision by then, so knitting anything complex was a challenge. That blanket, she announced, was her last project, for sure. But Mom never could sit entirely still. Within a week of shipping off the blanket she started crocheting scraps of leftover yarn into potholders, a project small and lightweight enough that it didn’t irritate her increasingly sore shoulders. She gave the potholders to her caregivers. She was working on one when I saw her last, two weeks before her death. The stitches were even and perfect. </p>
<p>My daughters and I have inherited my mother’s inability to sit still: we are knitting our way through the quarantine. Each of us has finished at least one sweater and started another. We knit while we talk, knit while we watch movies, knit while we listen to music or just knit in silence. We knit with my mother’s hands. </p>
<hr><p>They are a blessing for me, for my husband, and for each other, our daughters. It is not an easy moment for either of them. My older daughter started a new job, in a new field, a scant month before the lockdown began, and she is trying to figure out how to get trained and acculturated while working from home. My younger daughter is ending her senior year of college in a manner she could scarcely have imagined: she is missing her senior clarinet recital, her friends, and all the rituals of graduation. </p>
<p>My older daughter and her boyfriend built a miniature golf course in their living room out of cardboard, and they are busy designing a board game. She meets with her virtual book club every Monday night; she has started drawing again, exercising a gift long dormant. My younger daughter has dived into her remote classes with enthusiasm. She has figured out a way to keep writing and working with her sketch comedy troupe; she’s joined a virtual orchestra; she is studying botany and rhapsodizes about the katsura trees in the Boston Public Garden. </p>
<p>My mother would say – did say -- “they are SO GREAT.” </p>
<p>She was right. </p>
<hr><p>My mother would worry, as we do, about all the small businesses whose existence is threatened by the shutdown. Steve and I try to find ways to support them that are epidemiologically responsible. We buy gift certificates we will never use. We occasionally get take-out with curbside pickup. </p>
<p>There is a wonderful bakery on the corner that has remained open, allowing only one or two people to enter at a time. We go in one day, and I am dismayed to see that the salesperson is not wearing a mask, and that she is bagging the pastries with un-gloved hands. </p>
<p>I spend an hour composing an email to the owner, telling him how much I love his business and how I so much want both the bakery and its employees to survive and thrive, neighborhood treasure that it is. I express dismay at the lack of mask and gloves and attach the health department guidelines with which I would be ever so delighted if they would comply, thank you very much. </p>
<p>It is an Inge move if ever there was one. </p>
<hr><p>I wish I could tell my mom how we made her cherry nutcake for Passover, and how it was good, but not as good as hers. I wish I could tell her about how the girls are supporting each other; about Family Band Camp; about how Julia and I made raspberry/chocolate swirl marshmallows (way too much work for the outcome – still just marshmallows – but a good project, nonetheless). </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/d98559ece58c4077e7f9d58e7aa8ab7cea3c7ae3/original/img-7021.jpeg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /> </p>
<p>I wish I could tell her about how we have grown attached to looking out our apartment window at the Millenium Tower, a building which has definite moods: brooding when the sky is gray, exultant on a sunny day. I wish I could send her this picture, with the tower reflecting the sky. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/88bff8c49707f2ce6dd25984f5ee90cc7f1a3c0d/original/img-5869.jpeg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>She would want to paint it. </p>
<p>If I could call my mother now, she would tell me about all of the friends and relatives with whom she would surely be talking daily during their mutual quarantine: how they are managing, their health problems, their family challenges. I am calling some of those same friends myself these days. I love hearing their voices. I miss hearing hers. </p>
<p>If I could call my mom she would complain about the food from the dining room: it would be too spicy, or too salty, or too bland. She would tell me about the lives and problems of her caregivers, or of the people who work in her building; she would worry about their health and safety in the pandemic, and about how the economic crisis was affecting their families. </p>
<p>She would call the governor of Florida a moron. </p>
<p>She would say, “we’ve gotten through worse; and we will get through this, too.” </p>
<p>She would be right.</p>Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/62296872020-02-27T09:13:05-05:002021-12-06T11:35:07-05:00Imposter veg<p>It is unseasonably warm day in late February. It’s been a mild winter, but a long one: November brought bitter cold and snow typical of January, and while we haven’t had much in the way of snow or ice since the beginning of the year, it’s been a long, gray slog ever since. But today the sun is shining; there is the promise of the spring awakening to come. Naturally my mind turns, as it always does at this time of year, to the question: </p>
<p>What the f#&! am I going to do with all these turnips? </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/bd9fc055b74b7451a18c855c84973564fbafedae/original/img-6885.jpeg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>If you’ve known me, or my blog, long enough, you’ll know that I have a thing for vegetables. I have been a CSA subscriber for years and years. We subscribe year-round, which means I get to enjoy the weekly delight (and it is a delight!) of opening a new half-bushel box of produce every Wednesday, even in the dead of February. </p>
<p>The winter boxes come loaded with storage vegetables, those that were harvested in the fall and tucked away, Little House on the Prairie-style, to last through the cold winter months. Think about it: if you are a vegetable, and you want to make it through winter in a root cellar, you need to be TOUGH. Which, for a vegetable, means dense. In June, the box is loaded with lightweight leafy greens. But these winter boxes are weighty things, full of vegetables with which to hunker down. </p>
<p>And there are turnips, always turnips. </p>
<p>Now, you might look at the picture above and say, "that's not really so very many turnips." But you need to get a sense of the relative volume of these turnips, some of which are astoundingly large. Here is a representative turnip, pictured next to common household items. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/62640f3e1ca06af5dae5b952498f2db4e48ec794/original/img-6886.jpeg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/bae4a75b5022076a42a8e60126c7d0f0704298f9/original/img-6887.jpeg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>Of course, particularly at this time of year, food blogs, newspapers and cooking magazines are inevitably awash with tributes to the Humble Turnip. So many things you can do with these babies! You can grate them into latkes! Mash them up with butter and cream! Bake them into a gratin with cheese and breadcrumbs! Simmer chunks of them in your favorite winter stew! </p>
<p>In other words, your turnips can pretend that they are potatoes. </p>
<p>Only problem is, turnips in my CSA box have competition from actual potatoes.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/27a409edf7c6075b7dac626aa24f994f3b7f021c/original/img-6893-1.jpeg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>If turnips are pretty good at being potatoes, actual potatoes are even better at it. </p>
<p>Daikon radishes can pretend to be jicama. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/69d1debeca412b407cd9c6b266c9a051ed04fb30/original/img-6896.jpeg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>Watermelon radishes can pretend to be watermelon!</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/3d2afd5523ea59756fb0c92e79c3680705b65c27/original/img-6901.jpeg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>But if you let them try, you will be sorely disappointed. </p>
<p>Celeriac can pretend to be celery. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/c42ba69094e9ace661737d6c1707c0be8021e197/original/img-6894.jpeg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>Only uglier. And who likes celery, anyway? </p>
<p>Butternut squash is always welcome in my house, in any quantity. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/0bf1c4b05e93fb3c7e132c400af16e784312438b/original/img-6897.jpeg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>Because butternut squash is really, REALLY good at being sweet potatoes. </p>
<p>There is one non-potato use for turnips, and that is pickling. Pickled turnips, with a bit of beet thrown in, are a fabulous middle eastern tradition. In the Boston area, you can find them in the Armenian groceries of Watertown. But if you have enough turnips sitting around, there’s no reason not to make your own. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/a5ad4a0be75cc0e80cea7fcc6c4341e8d5712232/original/img-6898.jpeg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>After a few hours, they turn a gorgeous magenta. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/a86721728410069e1fc785c3c160b6ecfcda8a45/original/img-6900.jpeg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>After fermenting for a week, they become total flavor bombs – puckery and salty; like most pickles, a condiment, a garnish. You eat a few pieces at a sitting. They are at home on any middle eastern mezze platter. And I make mezze platters all the time! Maybe, every other month. </p>
<p>So if these pickles last for six weeks, what are the odds that most of them end up in the compost bin? </p>
<p>True, I could focus on middle eastern food for a month or so in order to use these babies up. But there are so many other cultures to appropriate! Besides, middle eastern cuisines don’t use many potatoes – the main overflow problem since I pickled all the turnips. </p>
<p>A pretty pink jar of pickled turnips does make a passable gift. I made two jars, and I gave one to my friends David and Diane, two of my very favorite humans. Besides, I happen to know that David and Diane compost; so their unused pickled turnips will meet an environmentally responsible end. </p>
<p>Pickling is in fact an excellent solution to most farmshare excess. Cabbage turns into sauerkraut. Pickled daikon radishes are a staple of Japanese and Vietnamese cuisines. I’m pretty sure you can even pickle butternut squash. </p>
<p>But I won’t. Because I really like sweet potatoes.</p>Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61150882020-01-08T19:00:00-05:002021-09-03T12:36:56-04:00Germs, germs, germs
<p>I’m usually not big on New Year’s resolutions. I do periodically resolve to change something about my life: I might vow to eat less refined flour on, say, May 19<sup>th</sup>; or to do daily Kegel exercises starting on November 12<sup>th</sup>. I might find it convenient to abandon those efforts on May 26<sup>th</sup> and November 19<sup>th</sup>, respectively.</p>
<p>But this year I decided to make an actual New Year’s Resolution, on actual New Year’s Day: I vowed to clean my cellphone once a week. This will be a departure from my previous practice, which involved cleaning my cellphone approximately once a decade or when I got peanut butter on the screen, whichever came first. </p>
<p>It is amazing, given these previously slovenly cellphone cleaning practices, that I am even still alive. It turns out that our cellphones are virtual petrie dishes for nasty microbes of all sorts. Come to find out that the median cellphone harbors more than 17,000 bacterial 165 RNA gene copies, including pathogenic microbes with scary Latin names like <em>Neisseria flavescens. </em>This is according to a study from the journal <em>Germs</em>, a publication produced by people who are probably not much fun as dinner companions.</p>
<p>The media, conventional and social, have ample coverage of just how revolting our cellphones are. Consider:</p>
<ul>
<li>This HGTV blogpost entitled, <a href="https://www.hgtv.com/design/design-blog/how-to/your-cell-phone-is-covered-in-germs-and-it-s-time-to-clean-it" data-imported="1">Your cellphone is covered in germs!</a>
</li>
<li>This <em>New York Times</em> piece entitled <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2014/01/02/technology/personaltech/cleaning-the-mobile-germ-warehouse.html" data-imported="1">Cleaning the Mobile Germ Warehouse</a> (and a companion piece, <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2018/06/26/smarter-living/how-to-clean-your-filthy-disgusting-laptop.html" data-imported="1">How to Clean Your Filthy, Disgusting Laptop)</a>
</li>
<li>This <em>USA Today</em> artile, which declares cellphones to be a “breeding ground for germs and a cesspool of bacteria.” The title of the article: <a href="%20https://www.usatoday.com/story/tech/2019/02/26/your-smartphone-screen-probably-disgusting-heres-how-clean/2950106002/" data-imported="1">Your smatlphone is 7 times dirtier than your toilet</a>.</li>
</ul>
<p> </p>
<p>Toilets are, in fact, the unit of measure in most such studies, many of which are conducted by a Prof. Charles Gerba, microbiologist at the University of Arizona (a university publication indicates that his nickname is "Dr. Germ"). Prof. Gerba is quoted thus: "Mobile phones are now mobile germ devices. You get a germ on your hand, and you use your phone. Then you go wash your hands later, but the germs are still on your phone." Dr. Gerba disinfects his phone twice daily. </p>
<p>I will definitely not be inviting Dr. Gerba to dinner at my house any time soon. </p>
<p>Of course, the generally revolting nature of our immediate environment does not stop with cellphones! Another one of Dr. Gerba’s studies declared that <a href="http://www.nbcnews.com/id/41838546/ns/health-childrens_health/t/e-coli-found-percent-shopping-carts/#.XhSP4Ot7nfa" data-imported="1">72% of shopping cart handles harbor fecal coliform bacteria, and 50% harbor e. coli</a>. Purses and handbags, too, <a href="https://www.independent.co.uk/life-style/handbag-germs-toilet-seat-toothbrush-remote-control-good-housekeeping-a7937611.html" data-imported="1">harbor more bacteria than toilet seats</a>. And don't even start on office desks! The average <a href="https://www.huffpost.com/entry/office-desk-germs_n_935192" data-imported="1">office worker's desk is home to 400 times as much bacteria as a toilet seat</a>!</p>
<p>All of which leads to one obvious conclusion:</p>
<p><strong>ALWAYS STORE YOUR CELLPHONE ON THE TOILET SEAT.</strong> It's the only hygienic approach.</p>
<p>Of course, the fault lies not in our phones, but in ourselves. The average cellphone is touched 3,000 times a day – by people like me, who are – get this – HUMAN, and therefore completely disgusting. We are factories of filth. A <a href="https://www.colorado.edu/today/2008/11/03/women-have-more-diverse-hand-bacteria-men-according-cu-boulder-study" data-imported="1">study by a team at the University of Colorado at Boulder</a> found that the average human hand houses 150 different species of bacteria. Aren’t we gross?</p>
<p>Unless we’re not. While home for the holidays, my college-senior-daughter, Julia, declared that the Mongols never bathed, and also never got sick. My research assistant (Google) was not able to fully verify this claim. I did find quite a few websites that declared that the Mongols never bathed, for religious reasons involving easily-provoked water dragons. Google had little to say about the personal hygiene of Mongol-in-Chief Attila the Hun, except that he may have died of typhus, which would tend to undercut the never-bathing-keeps-you-healthy hypothesis. Unless Attila died after being thrown from his horse, which would definitely be a more badass way to go. Either way, Attila’s stand-offish approach to personal hygiene is only one of many reasons why I would not choose him as a dinner date.</p>
<p>Attila’s demise notwithstanding, there are plenty of folks currently preaching the gospel of bathing less. This <a href="https://www.health.harvard.edu/blog/showering-daily-is-it-necessary-2019062617193" data-imported="1">post in the Harvard Medical School blog</a> declares that daily showering is likely more than is necessary. <a href="https://www.healthline.com/health/beauty-skin-care/how-often-should-you-shower" data-imported="1">Another one on Healthline</a> decries that daily showering can actually strip your skin of important oils; two or three times a week may be sufficient. And then there’s <a href="https://www.theatlantic.com/health/archive/2016/06/i-stopped-showering-and-life-continued/486314/" data-imported="1">this piece in the Atlantic</a>, written by actual medical doctor James Hamblin, describing how he has given up bathing entirely.</p>
<p>Actually, I think it would be kind of interesting to have Dr. Hamblin over to dinner. But only in the summer, when we could eat on the porch. If nothing else, it would give me the opportunity to ask Dr. Hamblin how often he sanitizes his cellphone.</p>
<p>In sum: we are either revolting germ factories who are infecting ourselves and everyone around us with our slovenly ways; or we are obsessives whose compulsion to constantly clean is destroying the planet’s water supply and giving ourselves flakey skin. Who’s to say? </p>
<p>There’s really only one thing I know for sure: if Attlia did expire of typhus, he didn’t get it from a cellphone.</p>
<p> </p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61150872019-11-15T19:00:00-05:002020-01-16T16:06:17-05:00There's more to count than just blessings
<p>We are deep into the process of Thanksgiving planning, which is always a pleasure. It’s my favorite holiday, by a wide margin – there’s simply no greater pleasure than cooking for and eating with people I love. It’s a day to which I always look forward with great anticipation.</p>
<p>But more than anticipation is required: the meal does require some forethought. The first order of business, naturally, is ordering the turkey. The standard rule of thumb calls for 1 lb., or 16 oz., of turkey per person, or <em>t</em> = 16<em>p</em>. Of course, the vegans will not be eating the turkey; so <em>t</em> = 16*(<em>p-v</em>). Then again, the pound-per-person rule is based on a classic, 1950’s-style dinner in which there are three items on the plate (meat, starch and vegetable); if there are a large number of side dishes, which there generally are, then people are likely to eat less of the meat. One pound of turkey offers about 5 oz. of meat, a ratio of 16:5. Let’s say we can safely reduce the estimated meat consumption by about half an ounce for each incremental side dish, .5 * (16/5). So, if <em>d</em> is the total quantity of dishes, then the amount of turkey needed is:</p>
<p><em>t</em> = (16 – ((<em>d</em>-3)*.5*(16/5)))*(<em>p-v</em>)</p>
<p>….or, for our crowd, 100.8 ounces.</p>
<p> I go to the store and pre-order a Medium.</p>
<p>(Supplementary question: what is the volume of vegan gravy (<em>g</em><sub>v</sub>) required, as a function of the number of vegans (<em>v)</em>?</p>
<p>Answer: <em>none</em>. I made vegan gravy once, and it was gross.)</p>
<p>Both of my daughters are terrific cooks, and nearly as preoccupied with food as is their mother; so I am not entirely surprised when my younger daughter calls from her senior year of college, where she is busy contemplating the entire course of her professional future. She calls to share the following epiphany: </p>
<p><em>This Thanksgiving, we need to serve polenta.</em></p>
<p>Which raises the interesting question: what configuration of carbs is optimized for Thanksgiving? We have, thus far, determined that the ideal set of pre-dessert Thanksgiving carbs includes three items:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/6c957b5144a63917b65230f018ed65976527fbfd/original/carb-set.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDM0OCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="348" width="450" /></p>
<p>We have, thus far, determined sweet potatoes to be included in the set of Thanksgiving vegetables, most frequently populated as follows:</p>
<p> <img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/a7ad5c22d8f0b05a1b1e7eae33acbb9a3e229064/original/veg-set.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDM0OCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="348" width="450" /></p>
<p>But plate optimization is a matter of texture as much as food groups. Mashed potatoes and polenta both belong in the set of creamy, gloppy things, as do mashed or pureed sweet potatoes. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/58b99ea7d865bece9a3e95657a5373d8d0546657/original/orig-food-set.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDM0OCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="348" width="450" /></p>
<p>My instinct tells me to set the upper limit on the number of creamy, gloppy things at two, otherwise everyone’s Thanksgiving plates will disintegrate into soupy mess. So we can roast the orange vegetables and take them off that list. If we add polenta, we could fire the mashed potatoes, which would reduce the set of creamy, gloppy items to two, and the set of pre-dessert carbs to three:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/19bc69f767e2458cf9f5f6d0bbc8b16f3c5eb8e1/original/revised-food-set.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzQ4eDM0NiJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="346" width="348" /></p>
<p>But much-loved guest Henry would eat nothing but mashed potatoes and gravy, left to his own devices; in essence, he has declared mashed potatoes and gravy to be a necessary and sufficient condition for Thanksgiving.</p>
<p>Julia, dear, I am so sorry to say this, but I'm afraid that the proper amount of polenta for Thanksgiving is:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/39712b1ef96cc0856ba33526f400b9989eca7fc9/original/sq-rt-neg-2.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6Mzg5eDI3MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="270" width="389" /></p>
<p>Seating will be an interesting issue this Thanksgiving. We’ve moved, and no longer have a big dining room table – nor, for that matter, do we have a dining room. But we do have a large-ish, round table, diameter of 47 inches...</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/792c212960980848c16737fc6d450142d6771691/original/table-measurement.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDM3MyJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="373" width="450" /></p>
<p>...for which we have one leaf, which extends the circle to an oval by adding 18 inches to each side. Received wisdom and Martha Stewart say that you need 18 linear inches per guest. So our maximum list this year is:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/8e1e38a8e4feb230899906ec98a96ad14f3e0729/original/table-capacity.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDM0OCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="348" width="450" /></p>
<p> Which works out to about ten, which is good news, since I think we only have nine! The only problem is that, what with the move and so on, we only have eight chairs. </p>
<p>So, guys: who's volunteering to eat in the bedroom?</p>
<p>Then there is seating. Let’s say that Brian and Linda are lefties, and can only sit at an end seat, or next to another lefty. Nobody is supposed to sit next to their spouse or romantic partner. Laurie is married to Steve; Mark is married to Linda; and Brian and Rebecca are a couple. Laurie favors her right ear and thus needs to sit at a left-hand table edge. If Julia and Claire want to sit together, Henry insists on an end seat, and Steve wants to sit at the end closest to the kitchen, then who has to eat in the bedroom?</p>
<p>Enough of this. I'm off to make a few pie crusts to stick in the freezer, and then to start on the linear programming model so I can figure out when everything goes into the oven on the big day.</p>
<p>And then I'm going to register to sit for the SATs. Because, 38 years after the fact, I think I'm finally ready.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61150862019-11-09T19:00:00-05:002021-09-04T14:05:32-04:00Picking up the pencil
<p>This past Wednesday night, my friend Mary Elise invited me to a Shawn Colvin and Mary Chapin Carpenter concert. I accepted, with great enthusiasm, and it was wonderful; although I have to admit that they are both musicians who I’ve always found to be pleasant but not particularly inspiring.</p>
<p>On Wednesday night, though, I was inspired. These women are very engaging performers, really good musicians. They are fully at ease with themselves and their music. They seem utterly unafraid of so many things: of showing their affection for each other onstage, of long instrumental bridges, of sentimentality, of letting their songs take up time and space. Sometimes they even repeat the first verse again at the end of the song. </p>
<p>Repeating verses: are you <em>allowed</em> to do that?</p>
<p>I have a thing about repetition. I worry about using the same rhymes, the same themes, or the same chord progressions from one song to another, even songs written years apart. I sang one song twice in the same concert series, in performances fully three years apart; and I still feel a little cheap about it.</p>
<p>There are so many other things of which I’m afraid as a songwriter. Musical predictability. Insufficient wit. Excessive length.</p>
<p>But these ladies were fearless, and fabulous. Even better: they talked explicitly about their songwriting processes, and I drank up every word. Mary Chapin Carpenter described taking walks when she’s stuck on a riff or a lyric; Shawn Colvin talked about procrastinating. I take walks when I’m stuck! And I am really, <em>really</em> good at procrastinating.</p>
<p>All the best songs, they both agreed, are about heartache.</p>
<p>Mostly they talked about sitting down at the kitchen table and just <em>writing</em>.</p>
<p>As I listened, I vowed to embrace this fearlessness and just get down to work. The very next morning I sat down to write a list of all of the things about which I might write songs. Here is the list:</p>
<ul>
<li>Pencils</li>
<li>Voting, and choosing between the candidates</li>
<li>Not buying things you don’t need, even when they’re on sale</li>
<li>Trying to sit still at a concert or a lecture</li>
<li>Pencils</li>
</ul>
<p> </p>
<p>I am thinking about pencils because I just found a big bag of them that somehow survived my recent move. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/868acc3f326f50a548cf9ce285ee296c656988a5/original/pencils.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p>I got rid of tons of other office supplies; but couldn’t quite part with the pencils, despite the fact that they are of shrinking utility in my increasingly paperless world. Sort of like Mary Chapin Carpenter’s song, <a href="https://youtu.be/AbL1LptZ8Vc" data-imported="1"><em>This Shirt</em></a>, about an old shirt she can’t bring herself to throw out because it carries so many memories. Only I’ve already written <a href="https://youtu.be/F1kwAIzBx8o" data-imported="1">a song about a shirt.</a> </p>
<p>So I sat down to write this song about pencils. It is also about heartache, because all the best songs apparently are. You can listen to it here:</p>
<p><a href="/files/695470/pencil-love.mp3" data-imported="1">Pencil_Love.mp3</a></p>
<p><a href="http://midlifemomsongs.com/miscellany/s/pencil_love" data-imported="1">http://midlifemomsongs.com/miscellany/s/pencil_love</a></p>
<p><object width="320" height="240" classid="clsid:02bf25d5-8c17-4b23-bc80-d3488abddc6b" codebase="http://www.apple.com/qtactivex/qtplugin.cab#version=6,0,2,0"><param name="src" value="http://gouldtunes.com/files/Pencil_Love.mp3">
<param name="autoplay" value="false">
<param name="scale" value="aspect">
<embed width="320" height="240" type="video/quicktime" src="http://gouldtunes.com/files/Pencil_Love.mp3" autoplay="false" scale="aspect"></embed></object></p>
<p>But that thing about repeating the first verse again at the end: I’m afraid that’s just a bridge too far. </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61150852019-10-26T20:00:00-04:002021-09-04T06:16:04-04:00Tricky Treats
<p>It's my first Halloween in my new urban neighborhood, and signs of the holiday are everywhere.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/336ff537af31e1355183665c9e753f5aaa437501/original/ghoulish-storefront.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/c31c2e6814a36d88ddc166fcc17757950ad7331c/original/skeleton-ball-and-chain.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/898270320c54c5d428375dc3452f630a3e2d9116/original/glow-in-the-dark.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p>I couldn't be more pleased. I adore Halloween; I always have. I love the goofy exuberance of it all: the creativity of the costumes, the spirit of generosity, the community around a common purpose (delighting the neighborhood's children): it honors so many of my most deeply-cherished values.</p>
<p>There was a point when our local elementary school in the town where I used to live decided to stop in-school celebrations of Halloween, because there are some students and teachers who have religious objections to the holiday. I was a little sad – the more Halloween, the better, in my world view – but I recognize that it was the right call. Public schools should certainly limit themselves to unequivocally secular holidays. I have vivid memories of the Christmas pageant put on by my third grade class at Brookside Elementary School, an old-school re-enactment of the birth of the baby Jesus. I recall being somewhat stymied by the whole proceeding. First, I was confused by the whole manger situation, and by the casual presentation of key characters (Mary, Joseph, some Kings) without what I considered to be critical exposition of their backstories. Second, as an 8-year-old diva, I knew in my heart that my place was at center stage, in a leading role. Mrs. Davidoff, on the other hand, had judged it best to keep the Jewish kids out of the creche; so I was stuck singing “Silent Night” from the audience, a grave misuse of my obvious gifts.</p>
<p>So, right: if Halloween is problematic for some for religious reasons, it doesn't belong in the public schools. But out of school: it really is the best. Costumes! My own favorite from my childhood involved co-opting my father’s red velour bathrobe. I made a crown, added a pipe and a bowl, and voila! I was Old King Cole. Not a soul knew who I was; but <em>I</em> knew it was brilliant. Some decades later my older daughter transformed a class project on Elizabeth Cady Stanton into a wicked good Queen Victoria costume. People guessed “witch,” “princess,” or “grim reaper” – and I suppose they weren’t wrong, as Queen V. really was all three. My younger child turned a wig, a plastic guitar and a sparkly jacket into a Velvet Elvis costume; eventually she tired of explaining and switched her identity to Paul McCartney. Who was, in fact, kind of a Velvet Elvis. Costume creation, at its best, is really just art with found objects, leading to surprising insights for creator and viewer alike.</p>
<p>Of course, Halloween costumes are not always so artful; just ask Justin Trudeau, or Virginia governor Ralph Northam. Surely, they should have known that blackface was a hurtful choice. Although back in the day, there were all sorts of costumes about which we didn't think twice. Put on some torn and dirty clothes, rub some dirt on your face, and you were a <em>bum</em>! A few scarves, a long skirt and some black eyeliner: instant <em>Gypsy</em>! A feather in your hair and some lipstick stripes on your cheeks: you were an <em>Indian</em>. Few today would defend these costumes as anything other than deeply offensive to homeless people, Romany, or Native Americans, respectively.</p>
<p>Cross-dressing was once an uncontroversial Halloween option. A decade ago, one of my favorite Halloween traditions was the dad up the street who put on a Glenda-the-Good-Witch costume, chest hair protruding from his sparkly pink bodice, five-o-clock shadow on his chin. “Hey kids,” he’d say in his unaltered baritone, “want some candy?” It was hilarious. I wonder: could he do that now? Would he be seen as mocking the transgender community? Or would he be praised for bravely rejecting the gender to which he’d been assigned at birth: Newton’s own Caitlin Jenner! Who's to say?</p>
<p>And then, of course, there's the matter of candy. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/6e2b4a4aa7701dd8d4cb382d66124acf10668a2c/original/candy.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p>Childhood obesity is an epidemic, or so it seems. By giving kids sugary candy, are we dooming them to a life of Metabolic Complex? Snickers or Reese’s could trigger anaphylactic shock in children with peanut allergies. Twix or Kitkats could cause no end of digestive woes in children with Celiac disorder. Almond Joy bars have soy (not to mention almonds! Killers for those allergic to tree nuts); Three Musketeers bars have egg whites. Allergens, all! Not to mention the many candy bars with palm oil – Baby Ruth, Skittles, Butterfingers. Palm oil -- the monoculture that is destroying the rainforests in Indonesia! And then there's all the extra packaging for those tiny little candy bars. </p>
<p>I could just skip the candy this year and give out little toys – nobody would get poisoned, at the very least. Oriental Trading Company has a ready-made selection:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/a491af9aa6183f63281c088fd5238b880fb6f5ec/original/oriental-trading.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDQ0OSJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="449" width="450" /></p>
<p>But this garbage is just landfill waiting to happen: more plastic in a plastic-laden world. Perhaps I could give out pencils? There are all different shades and fun designs. That would be a functional item to distribute! Except that pencils are BORING. The point is to delight the children, not to elicit epic eyerolls. And anyway, isn’t the name “Oriental Trading Company” itself a little suspect, with its stereotypical images of the Chinese purveyors of cheap goods?</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/7e34810d8cc32f8bdf67a7b7971eaa804aa6c619/original/grim-reaper.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p>This year, I am going to celebrate Halloween in a way that truly embraces <em>all</em> of my values. I will prepare a big batch of healthy treats, made with a gluten-free whole grain (I’m thinking kamut), sweetened with agave nectar and moistened with a sustainably-harvested oil. (I will avoid pumpkin, which is relatively high on the FODMAP scale, and which might thus prove troublesome for children with Irritable Bowel Syndrome.) I will wrap each of these treats in unbleached, compostable parchment paper.</p>
<p>And then, because the children will find them disgusting and because in any event their parents won't let them eat unwrapped stuff from strangers, I will just go ahead and throw them all into the compost bin myself.</p>
<p> </p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61150842019-10-04T20:00:00-04:002022-05-05T02:52:18-04:00Reader Comments
<p>The audience for my blog and my songs is not large; mostly family and friends. Please know that I am grateful for every person who bothers to read or listen. I am particularly grateful for the folks who take time to leave comments. My web hosting service does not offer an easy way to acknowledge or respond to these comments. But please know that I read them all, and many of them make me laugh. All of them make me smile.</p>
<p>And hey: this is the Internet, after all; and you never know who might stumble into your site! A few years back I wrote <a href="http://midlifemomsongs.com/blog/a_massachusetts_yankee_in_king_louis_court/" data-imported="1">a blog post about Louisville, Kentucky</a>, a city I find completely charming. The post ended with some photos of a 250-lb tortoise who was grazing at the edge of a large parking lot, in the middle of a sea of pavement. I wondered in my blog how this creature, who moved at the speed of....well, a <em>tortoise</em>....could possibly have made it from wherever its home might have been to the edge of this parking lot.</p>
<p>Several months later, I got the answer, when a kind soul named Ben posted this comment:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/dd00a4d6a7348c4910d174f67b391345af6d874e/original/louisville-ben.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NjUweDEzMCJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="130" width="650" /></p>
<p>Thank you, Ben, for taking the time to write! And thanks, as well, to the folks who left this supportive post:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/6cfbc96dfaae747c4e8c318d0024b0086182e761/original/famous-blogger.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NjUweDEzNCJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="134" width="650" /></p>
<p>And this one:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/798904e4f1b7db35ba681815ec3a99ddcb1ddb8d/original/generic-praise.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NjUweDE3NSJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="175" width="650" /></p>
<p>I never dreamed that through my modest blog, I'd be able to support the community of English language learners in such a robust way. Here's another:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/b3f96324a75a44cb577b976e399063aad53d507e/original/very-nice-in-favor-of-me.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NjUweDE0OCJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="148" width="650" /></p>
<p>My blog actually has a surprising number of international fans.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/335255eee52a29486b0fbf4ea9eda778fbbda58b/original/vietnamese-comment.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NjUweDkyIl0%3D.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="92" width="650" /></p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/ca005116a2b663903a8d51da8b0c2b5ac29187b3/original/korean-comment.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NjUweDk5Il0%3D.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="99" width="650" /></p>
<p>My Russian audience is particularly enthusiastic! Barely a day passes without a comment on my website from that fine country.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/9633e3b1e83b8a9afd9bfa0c2958fd18fa0d5f1c/original/russian.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NjM3eDMyNCJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="324" width="637" /></p>
<p>I am always particularly touched by commenters who show concern for my well-being. After a post about my move from Newton to Boston, one reader was apparently concerned about the convenience of drug stores in my new neighborhood.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/aa7cda475f0957fe49832be2c7e45a119ef460e1/original/indian-online-pharmacy.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NjUweDE1OSJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="159" width="650" /></p>
<p>Thanks so much for the suggestion, James -- that online Indian pharmacy sounds like a great option! Actually, though, my new apartment is an easy walk from three different CVS stores, plus a Walgreens to boot; so I think I'm good for now. But I'll be sure to keep this in mind for the future!</p>
<p>While we are on the topic of pharmaceuticals, I would like to acknowledge Davidbus for this thoughtful entry:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/adc8b992b090936f063c3c1c328362cb4411491c/original/viagra-for-women.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NjUweDg1Il0%3D.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="85" width="650" /></p>
<p>I do consider myself a feminist blogger; and for some time I have been meaning to write about the under-acknowledged trauma of female erectile dysfunction. Thank you, Davidbus, for bringing this important issue to the fore.</p>
<p>After a post about my new apartment I received comments with helpful decorating tips:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/fceae88df6dbe349830e357ef73d0db97f43fd1d/original/lights.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NjUweDE3OSJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="179" width="650" /></p>
<p>And it is good to know there are ways to make new friends should life in the big city get a little lonely.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/33050af316ff1a96a1374f3f96781422ad49628d/original/singles-frisky.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NjUweDIxMiJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="212" width="650" /></p>
<p>For any of us who are active on the Internet, online security is an issue that is never far from our minds. So I am all sympathy with the kind soul who wrote in to share this concern:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/f72731c915b4ad2eebf5d6750a9692f3172d40eb/original/plugins-to-protect-against-hackers.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NjUweDEyOSJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="129" width="650" /></p>
<p>I, too, would hate to lose my hard work to hackers! I am so grateful that this well-intentioned reader provided a link on which I could click to easily share my ideas on the topic. Because this is, after all, the Internet. And you never know into whose site you might stumble.</p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61150832019-09-14T20:00:00-04:002021-11-05T13:38:17-04:00Operating Instructions
<p>I am a moderately tech-savvy middle-aged person. I don't write code or anything; but I am pretty good at finding my way around both software and hardware. I've served as family tech support for many years. Last month I installed more RAM on my own desktop; I felt quite the badass.</p>
<p>My tech savvy has been tested by several recent acquisitions. First, I replaced a defunct pair of bluetooth headphones. My old headphones had only one button, so it was obvious how to turn them on. This new set has many buttons.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/2f9a09d158b0cd4e4364538691550b79172a84f6/original/headphone-buttons.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p>Fortunately, there are operating instructions!</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/5e820cc490fda83aa7066e532ecd284739fd86c8/original/operating-instructions.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p>As a middle-aged person, my eyeballs are not well-suited to anything smaller than 10-point font.</p>
<p>Thus it is that I resolve to rely on my moderately tech-savvy instincts: the best approach here is to just start pressing buttons until something good happens. </p>
<p>Which I do. And eventually it does.</p>
<p>*************************</p>
<p>My big splurge was a replacement for the 15-dollar tripod I've been using for years to film my music videos. This baby is a big upgrade.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/1813ac8e583c437523b5e476679479b7dd443fea/original/osmo-3.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p>This thing has even more buttons than my new headphones. But fortunately, there are operating instructions!</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/e7b1f0c99ea8f90500ce7e0212347ae9177a9b57/original/osmo-3-operating-instructions.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzA1eDIxNyJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="217" width="305" /></p>
<p>Of course I can't make out the text; but as a moderately tech-savvy person, I can spot the QRT code. So I use it to download the iPhone app and to access the online introductory video, the latter of which I present to you here:</p>
<p> </p>
<p></p>
<div class="video responsive"><div class="video-container"><div class="video responsive"><div class="video-container"><iframe frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/Xah7LpZpFY0" width="560" allowfullscreen="" class="wrapped wrapped"></iframe></div></div></div></div>
<p>This helpful video makes the most critical point perfectly clear: as a middle-aged person, I am REALLY not the target demographic for this product.</p>
<p>But as a moderately tech-savvy person, I know that I can just keep pushing buttons until something good happens. Which I do. And eventually I produce this music video.</p>
<p> </p>
<p></p>
<div class="video responsive"><div class="video-container"><div class="video responsive"><div class="video-container"><iframe frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/TPi64KY8DGg" width="560" allowfullscreen="" class="wrapped wrapped"></iframe></div></div></div></div>
<p> ********************</p>
<p>While I am producing "Rhapsody on Hold," I discover that my 9-month-old microphone has been rendered incompatible with my computer by an intervening operating system upgrade.</p>
<p>As a middle-aged person, I know that no problem I am experiencing in my life is unique; any challenge I encounter has almost certainly been encountered by many, many others in the past. As a moderately tech-savvy person, I know that it is likely that one of those people will have created a YouTube video about how to solve it. </p>
<p>It is through such a video that I discover that this incompatibility problem can be fixed with the purchase of a $15 powered USB port. So I order one, and it arrives in the mail. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/ec336ff98d5211a304ea95a236acdb108ece881d/original/charged-usb-port.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM2eDI4OSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="289" width="336" /></p>
<p>It is, indeed, plug-and-play, just as Amazon promised! But as it turns out, there are many, many plugs.</p>
<p>Fortunately, there are operating instructions!</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/d7cc8942ffd254f24fe01b36b065b3ce008467d6/original/chsarged-usb-operating-instruction.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDAweDIzNSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="235" width="400" /></p>
<p>As a moderately tech-savvy person, I know that if I really, <em>really</em> need to read the microscopic print, I can use the accessibility feature on my phone to triple-click and launch the magnifying app.</p>
<p>Which I do, and it does.</p>
<p>And thus it is that I discover the key to operating this piece of equipment:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/e71948cb436d5f4fcea2d28ff89957ea16a60f1d/original/magnified-opex.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDI1eDE2NCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="164" width="425" /></p>
<p>You simply refrain from immersing it in water! And if it bursts into flames, then you somehow put them out.</p>
<p>As a moderately tech-savvy middle-aged person, I believe I would have eventually figured these things out on my own.</p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61150822019-09-01T20:00:00-04:002019-09-02T11:01:31-04:00Rhapsody on Hold
<p>A new music video to start the school year!</p>
<p>Featuring Sheree Galpert, and the voices of Holly Kania, Mimi Rutledge, Emily Miller and yours truly. Steve Ansolabehere served as literary consultant. Special thanks to Rick Travers, the Boston Public Library, and Nancy Kerrigan.</p>
<p></p>
<div class="video responsive"><div class="video-container"><div class="video responsive"><div class="video-container"><iframe frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/TPi64KY8DGg" width="560" allowfullscreen="" class="wrapped wrapped"></iframe></div></div></div></div>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61150812019-08-24T20:00:00-04:002021-09-09T03:37:01-04:00Make American Great Again
<p>It was not an auspicious way to start a weekend.</p>
<p>I had just finished a tiring week of out-of-town work and I headed to the airport for what was to be an arduous trip home: first flight from New Orleans to Charlotte, second flight out of Charlotte at 10:30 pm; if all went perfectly I would walk in the door around 1:30 in the morning. Not the easiest itinerary after a long week; but at least I had the promise of spending the night in my own bed.</p>
<p>But American announced a 10-minute flight delay, then a 40-minute delay, then an hour-long delay, and then a 2-hour delay that would make it impossible the catch the connecting flight. They issued me the first of what was to be several revised itineraries. Four hours into my Friday night quality time at the New Orleans airport, American announced that the flight was cancelled altogether and they issued me revised itinerary number three.</p>
<p>There ensued the expected sleepless night at an airport hotel, a 4:00 am return to the airport, the flight to my first connection. Then, at the Philadelphia airport, 18 hours into what was to have been a 7-hour trip, I had an interaction with an American Airlines gate agent named Christine that was distressing and humiliating enough to leave me unsettled for the rest of the day. (This was not quite at the scale of last year's widely-viewed video of those United flight attendants dragging that poor man out of his seat and hauling him off the plane, but my little incident exemplified the same general approach to customer service.)</p>
<p>Eventually I get home and do my best to calm down. I'd love to take a nap -- I've had all of two hours of sleep -- but I just can't shake the day's stress enough to settle. My husband makes me a wonderful lunch; I write in my complaint to American Airlines; I unpack and start the laundry. Laundry is my go-to for housework Zen. But today even laundry can't do the trick; I am just too agitated.</p>
<p>Then the phone rings. The caller asks for me by name. He introduces himself as a representative of the Republican National Committee, and he asks me to participate in a brief, one-question poll:</p>
<p>Do I think that Donald Trump is doing a better job of running the country than Barack Obama?</p>
<p>To which I answer, <strong>"I THINK DONALD TRUMP IS THE WORST PRESIDENT IN THE ENTIRE HISTORY OF THE UNITED STATES. SO NO, I'D HAVE TO SAY THAT I DO <span style="text-decoration:underline">NOT</span> THINK HE IS DOING A BETTER JOB 0F RUNNING THE COUNTRY THAN BARACK OBAMA."</strong></p>
<p>After which I toddle off and take a nap.</p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61150802019-08-02T20:00:00-04:002022-06-19T13:26:08-04:00Urban Me
<p>Before I moved into the city, I had a garden. It was not a large garden by suburban standards: 150 sq ft of vegetables, maybe 50 sq ft of herbs, some perennial beds. I gardened it intensely, obsessively. I grew all my veggies from seed. I waged war on the bunnies. I weeded and divided and replanted. It was beautiful, and I loved it.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/07f9db628f93cff8a258adea2837e0291331e40d/original/newton-garden.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /> </p>
<p>Now I live in an apartment on the second floor, and my proprietary outdoor space is limited to a 6’ x 12’ balcony that gets four or five hours a day of very intense sun. I garden it intensively, obsessively. I have a line of windowboxes on the railing; no veggies, but pots full of culinary herbs. It is beautiful, and I love it.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/15347fa304fe489b1ee4ab690eb49cdcb40aeb1a/original/balcony-garden.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /> </p>
<p>I can honestly say that I don’t miss my garden, though it gave me enormous joy for 21 years. My back certainly hurts a lot less. Plus we are blessed to live on the edge of Boston’s Southwest Corridor, a long pedestrian thoroughfare and park that is full of beautiful plantings and community gardens. So I surrounded by trees and flowers, lovingly tended by an army of volunteers (an army in which I will likely enlist at some point). </p>
<p>I see the bunnies scampering about the park. Of course, they can’t make it to the second floor, so my parsley is unmolested. Now when I see the cottontails hopping across the grass, I just think, “oh, how adorable!”</p>
<p>We are so easily seduced by evil.</p>
<p>*************************************************************************************</p>
<p>One of the great things about the balcony is that it provides for top-notch people-watching. There is a group of elderly Chinese women who march by every weekday for their morning exercise; they pass by our building at exactly 8:10. There are periodic parades of summer camp kids, a church group now and again, lots of people passing through on their way to the train or the bus. An endless stream of dog-walkers. The occasional drug deal. Lots of parents and toddlers, a major neighborhood demographic. From here I can certainly tell you how the South End is raising its children. (The main strategy seems to be moving to the suburbs before they hit school age.)</p>
<p>And there are moments of human drama. People live their lives in public in the city, airing all manner of dirty linen and assuming anonymity all the while. One night I am taking out the trash and I walk right through a heated battle between a woman and a man who is presumably her boyfriend. To be more accurate, he is apparently a f@*&#!?! #@$&^*#, who has the @#$)(*#@&) NERVE to have @#$)(#&$ !)(!&@# that @?*@U#)!@(*. Even with my best efforts at eye contact avoidance, it is impossible to ignore this interaction; I have to walk right through it. </p>
<p>But truthfully, unless these people are wearing the same clothes and having the same argument in the same spot, there is no way I'd recognize them if I were to see them again.</p>
<p>On an errand I walk the whole way behind a young woman who is debating two job offers with her phone. There is not only salary to consider, but cost of living issues, upward mobility potential, networking options. By the time we both reach the Hynes Convention Center T stop I am ready to say: “Take the New York job, already!” I don’t, because that would be creepy. But the New York job was clearly the right choice.</p>
<p>I never did see this woman’s face. Unless she happens to be walking in front of me again, in the same gray tank top and burgundy shorts, I wouldn’t know her if I tripped over her.</p>
<p>I wonder how much I should embrace my own anonymity. Dialogue from the park below is clearly audible from my balcony. Does the sound travel as well in the other direction? How about from the adjacent kitchen, if the windows are open? What is it OK to discuss in these semi-exposed places? Plants and window blinds provide a pretty good visual screen. Anyway, I know that I don’t remember the faces of passers-by, even if they’re making a memorable scene; there’s no reason to believe they’d remember mine.</p>
<p>On the other hand: they would know where I live.</p>
<p>******************************************************************************************</p>
<p>One of the benefits of living in a relatively small space is that you can keep track of your stuff. Things would disappear for weeks into the crevices of my rambling Victorian. But in my current four-room apartment, it is much harder to lose things.</p>
<p>Except when it’s not. A pair of sandals evaporates for 24-hours; I can’t find them anywhere. In the end it turns out to be a case of carpet camouflage. Turns out that when you move, it doesn’t improve your eyesight.</p>
<p>******************************************************************************************</p>
<p>I have to find a new yoga studio. This is a big deal, because I do yoga kind of a lot, and I was deeply attached to my old one. <a href="https://www.downunderyoga.com/" data-imported="1">Down Under Yoga</a> has reliably excellent teachers. They got me started on the practice five years ago, and the Newton studio felt very much like home. Plus, I sat squarely in the middle of the demographic. There were younger people, sure; but also older ones, and lots and lots of middle-aged ones like me. There is comfort in that: at Down Under, I was never the only person modifying a pose for creaky knees or sitting out an arm balance.</p>
<p>I do find another yoga studio, quite close to our new home. <a href="https://coolidgeyoga.com/" data-imported="1">Coolidge Yoga</a> is also reliably excellent. But it does skew young (what with all these young parents moving out of the city before their kids hit school age). Here I am often the only person padding my knees or skipping the arm balance. One time I bring my husband, just so I won’t be the only middle-ager in the room.</p>
<p>And I bring my daughter, a favorite yoga buddy. She enjoys class but points out an issue with Shiva, who occupies a mural on one wall of the storefront studio. To be specific: Shiva has no nipples.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/c6144d62dcc10559e73676fb819496d5b5f9171c/original/coolidge-shiva.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzgxeDI4NSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="285" width="381" /></p>
<p>I am not sure sure. Look at his necklaces. Is it truly the case that Shiva has no nipples? Or is it just a case of strategically-placed accessories, sort of the way that a soft-porn mermaid might drape her hair?</p>
<p>This question turns out to be a fine topic for rumination in those moments of quiet meditation, when I get bored of focusing on my breath.</p>
<p>*****************************************************************************</p>
<p>Parking is an adventure. Our street is cleaned every Wednesday between 8 and 12, alternate sides each week. So if you are not lucky enough to nail a spot earlier in the week on the proper side of the street, you have to get up early each Wednesday and move your car before the tow trucks arrive (which they do, promptly at 8:00, every single week).</p>
<p>The challenge is that virtually every street in the neighborhood is on the same Wednesday schedule—I know, because I have spent what seems like hours driving around on Tuesday nights, pulling into tight spaces only to check the parking signs, and then pulling back out when I realize that this street, too, is set to empty before 8:00 am on Wednesday. So once a week, the entire South End loses half of its parking. </p>
<p>I have found one location where the streets are cleaned from 12 am to 7 am on Wednesdays. So if I get into my car at 6:54 am on a Wednesday morning, I can pull in right at 7:00 and my car will be safe from towing for another week.</p>
<p>I could tell you where this spot is. But then I would have to kill you.</p>
<p>Parking is tight even at the best of times. I drive quite little these days, mostly to events outside the city like a cappella group rehearsals or book group meetings. One Thursday I get back late from my book group, 10:30 or so, and there are no spots to be had on my street, nor on either of the parallel streets. After driving around for a while I do find a spot around the corner on Columbus Ave. It is a commercial stretch, but the sign says that residents are exempt from the general 2-hour limit. I check this sign three times before heading to bed. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/b89f3ef44114de9c466a4d0a28f7bd7937fe186c/original/2-hour-limit.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzY4eDMzNyJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="337" width="368" /></p>
<p>The next morning, Friday, some spots open up on my block and I think it might be nice to move into a resident-only space, freeing up my spot on Columbus Ave. for the local businesses. But my car is nowhere to be found. Because here is the sign I did not check the previous night, even once. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/b6b7ecaa722b1d34a8b2ca05969c39b2c8c03fe6/original/tow-zone.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzMweDI4OCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="288" width="330" /> </p>
<p>I have parked on the only street in the South End that gets swept on Friday rather than Wednesday. Too bad for me.</p>
<p>Turns out that the City of Boston makes it relatively easy to locate your car. You can look up the plate on their website, and instantly retrieve the phone number of the towing company who has hauled your vehicle away. In fact, the City of Boston offers to make it even more convenient: register your car, and they will send you a text with this information every time they tow you! You don't have to lift a finger.</p>
<p>I feel grateful to live in a city with such a robust commitment to customer service.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61150792019-07-20T20:00:00-04:002021-08-29T03:13:03-04:00The Things We Bring
<p>Once upon a time, I had a lot of paper clips. Sooooooo many paper clips! And staples.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/72fbf7e02b48abd6456d9e12eeccc48cca6552af/original/paper-clips-and-staples.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDQ2eDI0NCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="244" width="446" /></p>
<p>I remember buying these paper clips. It was in 2000: I was just going into business for myself, and outfitting my home office. I remember how much fun it was to go to Staples (the store) and to buy things like staples (the product) in vast quantities for what seemed like no money at all. Such a deal! And with all those supplies, I definitely had a Real Office, with profession-level paper-securing capacity.</p>
<p>By 2019, though, I have gone mostly paperless; I no longer even own a printer. My staple-and-paper clip burn rate has declined to near zero. So when we moved from our 3,100 sq ft home to a 900 sq ft apartment, the paper clips did not make the cut.</p>
<p>There is nothing like moving out of a home in which you’ve lived for 21 yrs to bring out your inner minimalist. Wading through that vast amount of accumulated crap was humbling, and sobering, and a six-month-long pain in the ass. So in our new home, we were determined to bring only what we really need, what will fit comfortably. We've stored some things (we will likely move into a perhaps-slightly-larger longer-term home within the next year or two), but permanently divested ourselves of much, much more. We are done with the endless accretion of stuff! From now on, we will buy only what we need, replace only what needs replacing, and move the excess along. Live simply, that others may simply live! Or at least, live simply that you may more easily find your shoes. </p>
<p>*************</p>
<p>Our iron did not make the cut. We also have a handheld steamer; and this, I decided, would be sufficient for all of our de-wrinkling needs. This decision was a big deal for me: I love ironing, as I have previously declared in <a href="https://youtu.be/HdRj2oNAjww" data-imported="1">music video form</a>. But in my new, lighter life, ironing would be obsolete. Because you just hang things up and steam them, and how much easier could it be than that? </p>
<p>Well.....the steamer does work pretty well on a limited range of lightweight synthetic fabrics; but on thicker cottons and linens it works poorly if at all. Plus hanging things up to steam them can in some cases be a bit inconvenient:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/b52dc1c5f819da1bc5f434bd3e6fb12312dafe6b/original/hanging-napkins.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDQweDMzMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="330" width="440" /></p>
<p>Turns out the iron was perhaps more essential than I'd thought. Husband Steve points out that in fact our 20-year-old iron, cooling its jets in storage, is in fact a pretty crappy one, and we could easily justify replacing it on the basis of quality alone. </p>
<p>So I buy a new iron; and it is, in fact, way better than the old one in storage. I can live without many things; but not, as it turns out, without neatly-pressed napkins. And anyway, I had a 20% off coupon from Bed, Bath and Beyond, so it wasn't even very expensive!</p>
<p>Why, you might ask, if I have truly eschewed the accumulation of household goods, do I even <em>have</em> a coupon for Bed, Bath, and Beyond? And in response I would say to you: look how nicely my napkins turned out!</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/28477e29daac1a70b5897790ee9ab99b93cab6c6/original/napkins.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p>**************************</p>
<p>The apartment has limited bookshelf space, so I somewhat arbitrarily declare that we will limit ourselves to six cookbooks. </p>
<p>I choose first, a book on whole-grain breads.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/5559b08be71a71f813de201fe71edcad9a5efc5f/original/tartine-whole-grain.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p>Steve chooses next, a book on Basque cuisine.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/7a461f39a93013225c6c69195f25367814cfd5dd/original/basque-table.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzMweDQ0MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="440" width="330" /></p>
<p>I choose a second book on whole-grain baking.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/eac23f8980b94436383f1a3d09304c5638742fd6/original/kaf-whole-grain-baking.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p>Steve chooses another book on Basque food.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/f472ed6d3ebb2d35f2c7ba08b7da4c278d330383/original/sevilla-basque.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzIweDM0MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="340" width="320" /></p>
<p>So we are all set to fill our (smaller) table with a feast of Basque dishes and whole-grain breads (things which are rarely found together in nature). The meal will be accompanied by impeccably-pressed napkins.</p>
<p>*******************</p>
<p>Packing the kitchen was quite a project. We both love to cook and entertain, so we have accumulated a lot of supplies over the years – and in our old, spacious kitchen, that was no problem. There is considerably less room for expansiveness in our current apartment. Being mature adults with excellent executive function, we adopted a deliberative, organized approach. To wit:</p>
<ul>
<li>
<em>Question</em>: what is the maximum number of people we could feed in one sitting in the new apartment?</li>
<li>
<em>Answer</em>: eight.</li>
<li>Therefore we bring only eight dinner plates to the new apartment.</li>
</ul>
<p> </p>
<p>I am pleased to report that we used the same procedure to determine the number of bowls – that decision was even easier, because we’ve broken some and only own seven. </p>
<p>After the plates and bowls we ran out of time and just stuffed shit into boxes.</p>
<p>We did pause to discuss a few items. Steve magnanimously offered to store, rather than bring, the food mill. You probably do not own a food mill, and maybe you don't even know what one is. A food mill is an old-school kitchen implement, hearkening back to days of yore. There is a member of our household who believes a food mill to be essential for creating truly smooth sauces, utterly free from seeds, peels, or other somewhat-solid bits. There is another member of our household who believes food mils to be essentially stupid, because we also own a blender and a food processor and an immersion blender and because really, who CARES if an odd tomato seed slips into your sauce? and because anyway all the vitamins are concentrated in the peels.</p>
<p>I dither somewhat longer over my spiralizer. It is a beautiful thing, this spiralizer. You plug in a zucchini or a carrot and you turn the crank and are then delighted with glorious veggie ribbons that you can roast or saute or serve raw with peanut sauce. Spiralizers are the darling of the low-carb and paleo crowds. Personally, I adore carbs and I think the paleo thing is pretty goofy. But zucchini noodles are fun, carrot noodles have limitless potential, and sweet potato ribbons are positively sublime.</p>
<p>Steve has not yet come to fully appreciate the miracle that is my spiralizer. I believe men are threatened by zucchini noodles. It is perhaps best not to dig too deeply into the reason why.</p>
<p>Now that we're into July, our farm share is delivering boatloads of zucchini and carrots.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/bcb6e19cecf571ae1b9d3902685e30605315aaf8/original/bounty.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p>I am yearning to spiralize these babies! Not a day goes by that I don't think wistfully of my spiralizer, languishing in a storage unit somewhere. And the thing is we could have brought it, after all -- our new kitchen DOES have enough space (albeit on a high, out-of-the-way shelf):</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/c0a78939cb7d16d2c649c26c8754168795928d7c/original/closet-space.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p>Getting it out of storage is not really an option: it costs a lot to get temporary access to dig things out of the storage unit; and anyway, I'd have no idea in what box to find it. A new spiralizer, on the other hand, would only be $24.95 on Prime Day!</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/c030e8c4ef2d3c743bc50d60fe1e73e6f7421127/original/spiralizer.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDIxMCJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="210" width="450" /></p>
<p>I add the spiralizer to my Amazon cart in the morning. I throw in a few environmentally-friendly items (beeswax-covered cloth that is an alternative to plastic wrap; reusable silicone ziploc bags) -- kind of like a carbon offset.</p>
<p>Fortunately, my day gets really busy and I forget about the items in my cart until much later at night, and by that point I am more clear-headed about the whole thing. There really is no excuse for buying a second spiralizer when I already own one that is perfectly good, even if it is a bit inaccessible at the moment. Besides, if I were to buy a second spiralizer, Steve might get it into his head to buy another food mill. And that would be criminal.</p>
<p>You might ask: if I have truly foresworn future mindless acquisition, why do I even know when Prime Day <em>is</em>?</p>
<p>And I would say to you: what, exactly, is your point?</p>
<p>**********************************</p>
<p>The owners of the apartment we're renting have installed a high-efficiency cooling and heating system, featuring Mistubishi mini-split HVAC units. There are a myriad of options for operating these units in very precise ways, all of which are represented by symbols whose meaning is not intuitively clear. After spending about an hour with the manual (which is written in a language that is almost, but not quite, English), I figure out that in order to choose the highest-efficiency operation, you need to depress a tiny button -- the "Sensor" button at the very bottom of the remote control.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/66ddaafe4fb4fdfb5fb16e60a9948852e7ae2047/original/mitsubishi-sensor.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzUzeDI2MSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="261" width="353" /></p>
<p>This button is too small to press with a finger -- you actually need to depress it with a sharp object, such as a paper clip.</p>
<p>Alas, I no longer have any paper clips.</p>
<p>But no worries: Staples is having a sale.</p>
<p> </p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61150782019-07-12T20:00:00-04:002021-09-08T12:22:17-04:00Going for the Bronze
<p>I was on quite a roll for a while! I wrapped up my first visual album, <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CzzyNuyUSfw&list=PL_NHHk1ZM2p5hI0cnMTRuVkWEIig3liRa" data-imported="1">Closet Songs</a>, and then posted the songs, one a week, from March through April. Not missing a beat, I followed it up with a blog post less than a week after the last song, all about selling my house. It was my most widely-read post ever – I know, because I got seven comments – count ‘em; <em>seven</em>!!! And only two of the comments were about Viagra!!</p>
<p>That last post was on April 23. And since then, I’ve been more or less mute.</p>
<p>Not that I haven’t been busy. I moved, of course, while keeping up my full-time job. I went on a cross-country trip for work, and a couple of weeks later went to a family wedding halfway across the country.</p>
<p>And then I went on vacation: to Greece! Yes, the Aegean really <em>is</em> sparkling blue; and no, it is <em>not</em> possible to eat too much feta cheese. But the really remarkable thing about being in Greece is the sense of co-existing with thousands of years of pretty spectacular history. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/c4a12b61496ea0dce39f53e91ea89a12b967dae6/original/delphi.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p>Turn a corner, and there is yet another crumbling, millenia-old Acropolis, such a common site that it’s barely labelled. 4,000 years ago, this area was a hotbed of Bronze Age productivity. There were feats of engineering that wouldn’t be matched until the Renaissance:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/99c774d33646848742ac4b84ee633026663bcc18/original/mycenaean-arch.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/95e2283a3151a3cc5481010f142e3513bc11c1d1/original/vault-at-mycenae.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /> </p>
<p>And the art! Every little town has its museum, and every one of them is loaded with pots, jugs, urns, fragments of frescoes, beautifully etched coins. My favorites were the figurines: evidently the Bronze Age Aegeans had the good sense to engage in Goddess worship. Look at these beauties.</p>
<p> <img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/9e26e30542b167b6a8f665555def0faeda1fe4f1/original/bronze-age-fertility-statue.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/d19206d35bf2e1e574f6e5eba4b5b1868b82c5cb/original/cycladic-goddess.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MjIweDQyMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="420" width="220" /></p>
<p>And this is just the stuff that SURVIVED! And that the British didn’t steal! It boggles the mind to think what it must have been like back in the day, how art and craft at this level must have been everywhere, all the time.</p>
<p>And then, around 1,200 BC, it all stopped. The archeological record dries up entirely. </p>
<p>It turns out to be a matter of heated academic debate, this mysterious collapse of Bronze Age civilizations. I know this because there are <a href="https://youtu.be/KkMP328eU5Q" data-imported="1">several animated videos dedicated to the topic on YouTube</a>, declaring the collapse of the Bronze Age to be one of the Great Mysteries of History. Also, I read an actual academic article on the subject, to be precise: <em>Crisis in Context, the End of the Late Bronze Age in the Eastern Mediterranean</em>, by A. Bernard Knapp and Stuart W. Manning, <span style="text-decoration:underline">The American Journal of Archeology</span>, vol. 20, no. 1, , 2016.<a title="" href="#_ftn1" data-imported="1">[1]</a> </p>
<p>The truth is, nobody really knows why these Bronze Age civilizations collapsed. One too many wars? Earthquakes? Climate change? Disease? Drought and subsequent famine? </p>
<p>One thing for certain: this period was accompanied by some fairly significant population movements. Some people attribute the entire debacle to the arrival of the mysterious Sea People, who may or may not have been Philistines. The Aegeans moved into Syria and Turkey. The Dorians (whoever they were) moved into Greece. The Hittites headed into Syria.</p>
<p>Which, from my perspective, clears up the mystery of why the creativity came to such a sudden halt: it stopped because these people were MOVING! Which is distracting, and disruptive. As I know from recent experience.</p>
<p>Eventually, the Greeks got themselves back to the ceramics studio: pots and urns, with lovely geometric patterns, started to appear again around 800 BC. </p>
<p>I, too, am working to reclaim my creative mojo after my move. Hopefully, it won’t take me another 400 years.</p>
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<div>
<p><a title="" href="#_ftnref1" data-imported="1">[1]</a> So perhaps “read” is a bit of an overstatement -- more like "skimmed and went back to the animated YouTube videos." But I did pause to wonder whether a mention in the MidlifeMomSongs Blog would earn Messrs. Knapp and Manning any points in the <em>Social Science Citation Index</em>.</p>
</div>
</div>
<p> </p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61150772019-04-22T20:00:00-04:002021-09-14T15:14:13-04:00If at first you don't succeed, sell, sell again
<p>I have just sold my house! For the third time, in as many weeks. It looks like this offer will stick, and this long process may finally be coming to an end. There have been lots of ups and downs in recent weeks; and as with all such experiences, I am trying to milk it for life lessons. The biggest, by far, is the importance of not taking things personally.</p>
<p>Because it is an oddly personal process, selling a house. You invite the general public to quite literally come in and dig around in your underwear drawer—and you are asking them, implicitly, to pass judgement on what they see. We have lived in this house for 21 years. We raised our daughters here. We’ve poured 21 years of money and love into its maintenance and upkeep, planting gardens, coloring a life. While we are ready to move on, we love this place; and it is hard not to see it as an expression of who we are. </p>
<p>But it’s the <em>house</em> that people are choosing, or not. It’s not us as people. This is the critical point to remember.</p>
<p>The first thing that happens when you decide to sell is that the potential brokers tell you how much they love your house, and how excited they are about the opportunity to help the universe of potential buyers fall in love with it, too.</p>
<p>Once your agents are under contract, the next thing that happens is that they tell you all the things that are wrong with your house, and why it is thus worth less than you’d thought. This, in fact, is your first opportunity not to take things personally. In our case: the house is located on a busy street. (We have lived here for 21 years, and this fact has not exactly escaped our notice.) Also, the lot is small! Well, perhaps; but we have gardened intensively and lovingly. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/de96ab353a2b7600a37f25b3c781e899aa4c78ee/original/garden.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p>Year after year, I have proven that my modest vegetable and herb garden can amply feed a family of four, as long as I also make frequent trips to the supermarket.</p>
<p>The biggest criticism: our bathrooms are, apparently, woefully out of date. This one, I must confess, mystifies me. My definition of an up-to-date bathroom involves three things: </p>
<ul>
<li>Hot and cold running water,</li>
<li>The absence of mildew; and</li>
<li>A working toilet.</li>
</ul>
<p> </p>
<p>Our bathrooms have all three! Plus they have lots of vintage charm. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/1f12557057b5f0a3f898bb75a72d66d3f46c1e64/original/img-5504.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MTkyeDI1NiJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="256" width="192" /></p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/de0911dd5b35c75c6fe3fd876eefae8b75508899/original/img-5506.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MjU2eDE5MiJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="192" width="256" /></p>
<p>The most funky and fun is the half-bath on the first floor, which is tucked under the stairs. When first-time guests ask where to find the bathroom, we explain that if they were Harry Potter and this were the Dursleys’ house, it would be their bedroom. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/b65717e3a8d6c13b1609137cdcb870d5a83cce0c/original/img-5502.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MTkyeDI1NiJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="256" width="192" /></p>
<p>So why upgrade when you have all this vintage charm? The Dursleys certainly didn’t upgrade for Harry! And if it’s good enough for fictional characters on the other side of the pond….</p>
<p>Frankly, I haven’t thrown money at our bathrooms because they are not the part of the house where I imagined spending many happy hours with family and friends. But apparently, au courant bathrooms are a thing. A thing that our home does not have, and that the buying public wants these days. A thing I should not take personally. If people are focused on fabulous bathrooms it means that <em>they</em> are the ones who are shallow and vain; not me!</p>
<p>Likewise I did not take it at ALL personally when for the first three weeks our house was on the market there was nary a nibble, despite several robustly-attended open houses and a real estate market that was showing clear signs of spring awakening. If people chose to buy one of those new construction duplexes instead of our 1880’s vintage Victorian – well, that just shows that they are incapable of appreciating the gracious curving lines of Queen Anne architecture! It’s <em>their</em> lack of aesthetic sensibility. It’s not about us at all!</p>
<p>Eventually we lowered the price, and a bidding war promptly ensued; that’s when we accepted Offer #1. They were hot to go, those first buyers. No inspection! Closing in five weeks! So we called the movers and started to pack. </p>
<p>But those first would-be buyers, and the ones behind Offer #2 as well, ran into financing problems and pulled out of their respective deals. We stopped packing, put the toothbrushes back in the closet, and put the house back on the market.</p>
<p>And now, a couple of weeks later, we have accepted an offer from Buyer #3. All in all, the negotiation process was a lot more fun in the context of a bidding war between two insolvent parties. These last folks came in super-low and bargained hard over the course of several days. Their realtor’s main negotiating strategy was to justify the low price by regular recitation of all of the house’s shortcomings, to wit:</p>
<ul>
<li>It is on a busy street;</li>
<li>The lot is small; and</li>
<li>The bathrooms are out of date</li>
</ul>
<p> </p>
<p>The whole thing would have been deeply stressful, were it not for those relaxing, hot, mildew-free showers.</p>
<p>Finally, when the negotiations were complete, our realtor told us a bit about the buyers: a family with three young girls, all of whom are utterly enchanted with the Harry Potter bathroom under the staircase on the first floor. And this news makes me happy beyond words.</p>
<p>More than anything else, for me, this house is where my two girls blossomed into the marvelous young women they have become. Now that they are adults, my relationship with each of them is developing into something different than it was – equally precious, but different. No doubt the change in geography will nudge that evolution along. It is easy to fall into old patterns in old spaces. In new places we will continue to find new ways of being with each other – which is all good, all as it should be. But leaving this house means leaving the place where, for 21 years, I have been Mommy before I have been anything else. Leaving here will also mean finding new ways of being with myself.</p>
<p>Although what happens next in this house is not about me – not about me <em>at all</em> – imagining a new generation of growing girls playing hide and seek in the Harry Potter bathroom makes it so much easier to let go. So farewell, house! I wish your new occupants decades of growth, joy, and countless happy hours with family and friends in whatever room in the house they care to spend them. </p>
<p>And of course, I wish them freedom from mildew.</p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61150762019-04-16T20:00:00-04:002021-09-13T14:59:22-04:00Closet Song #5: Red Dress
<p>Here it is, fifth and final Closet Song! Featuring Julia Ansolabehere on the clarinet and Richard Travers on the piano. Special thanks abound: to Rebecca Ansolabehere, Stephen Ansolabehere, Julie and Paul Fox, Allison Hausman, Cawfee Tawk, Kattalina Berriotxoa, and the West Suburban YMCA.</p>
<p></p>
<div class="video responsive"><div class="video-container"><div class="video responsive"><div class="video-container"><iframe frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/wj2TBmQkrO0" width="560" allowfullscreen="" class="wrapped wrapped"></iframe></div></div></div></div>
<p>Enjoy! And as always, I'd be thrilled if you'd share this.....</p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61150752019-04-09T20:00:00-04:002021-09-17T15:15:29-04:00Closet Song #4: Cashmere Sweater
<p>Closet song #4: Cashmere Sweater!</p>
<p></p>
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<p>It's spring, sort of; just about time to put those sweaters at the back of your closet for the season! But you do it at your own risk....</p>
<p> </p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61150742019-04-01T20:00:00-04:002021-09-06T13:21:27-04:00Closet Song #3: Black Pants
<p>And the third entry: Black Pants, featuring Richard Travers on piano, Julia Ansolabehere on clarinet, and me doing most everything else:</p>
<p> </p>
<p></p>
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<p>And in case you are wondering: after the big Selling-My-House-Cleanout, I am down to...let's see....only four pairs!</p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61150732019-03-27T20:00:00-04:002019-03-28T06:51:17-04:00Closet Song #2 -- White Shirt
<p>Featuring Richard Travers on the piano, Linda Toote on the flute, and Julia Ansolabehere on the clarinet. Julia also serves as Airborne Food Choreographer.</p>
<p> </p>
<p></p>
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Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61150722019-03-19T20:00:00-04:002019-03-20T08:48:53-04:00Closet Song #1 -- Favorite Jeans
<p>Enjoy! And if you're so inclined -- please share this song with anyone who, say, has a closet.</p>
<p> </p>
<p></p>
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Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61150712019-03-16T20:00:00-04:002021-09-01T03:23:39-04:00Launching my first VMA!
<p>I am getting ready to launch my very first Video Music Album! Or maybe it's supposed to be called a <em>Visual Music Album;</em> I'm not really sure. Basically, it will be exactly like Beyoncé's <em>Lemonade! </em>Except for a few minor differences:</p>
<ul>
<li>Beyoncé released <em>Lemonade</em> in April; I am releasing <em>Closet Songs</em> in March.</li>
<li>Beyoncé made <em>Lemonade </em>in something less than two years, and I spent two and a half making <em>Closet Songs</em>. I can't tell you what Queen Bey did with her production period, but I spent most of mine procrastinating.</li>
<li>I don't know for sure, because Wikipedia won't say; but I'm pretty sure Beyoncé's production budget was a little bigger (mine was $15.73, spent exclusively at CVS).</li>
<li>
<em>Lemonade</em> sold 485,000 copies the week it was released, and 2.5 million copies in total. I will not be selling any copies of <em>Closet Songs</em><em>--</em>basically, I will be begging people to watch/listen (and, if they like what they see/hear, to share it with friends).</li>
</ul>
<p> </p>
<p><em>Closet Songs</em> is a series of five music videos about stuff in my closet. In addition to Yours Truly, it features the talents of:</p>
<ul>
<li>
<strong>Richard Travers</strong>, music director and pianist (for four of the five videos), who made all of the songs better in all kinds of ways</li>
<li>
<strong>Linda Toote</strong>, much too accomplished a flutist to be playing on my goofy projects, but who does exactly that time and again because she is much too good a friend (and much too much fun) to say no</li>
<li>
<strong>Julia Ansolabehere</strong>, who will very be soon be much too accomplished a clarinetist to be playing on my goofy projects, but who does exactly that time and again because I am her mother. Julia was also pressed into service as camerawoman for a couple of the songs</li>
<li>
<strong>Steve Ansolabehere</strong>, cameraman for a few of the other videos, a job that will likely be his forever because he turns out to be <em>very</em> good at it</li>
<li>Special thanks to <strong>Rebecca Ansolabehere</strong>, <strong>Allison Hausman</strong>, <strong>Stella McToote</strong> and the <strong>West Suburban YMCA</strong> -- you'll have to watch the whole series to find out why!</li>
</ul>
<p> </p>
<p>Beyoncé dropped all 12 songs on <em>Lemonade</em> at once. I, on the other hand, plan to drop one video a week for the next five weeks until all five tunes are online. I have chosen this approach primarily because it allows me to fling around the phrase "drop a video" (three times in this paragraph alone!) -- much the same way as, when I go out for Indian food, I look for all possible opportunities to say the words <em>baingan bharta</em>.</p>
<p>I am choosing Wednesday because it is Hump Day, and I figure that folks may be inclined to fritter away a few extra minutes at the office by clicking around on YouTube.</p>
<p>So tune back in on Wednesday, when I will drop the first track! And in the meantime, you might consider heading into town for some Indian food. I'd suggest you order the <em>baingan bharta.</em></p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61150702019-03-11T20:00:00-04:002021-09-18T05:39:32-04:00Private showing
<p>I am holding a soggy bra when I get a text from our realtor: can she bring a potential buyer through the house in three hours?</p>
<p>Of course, I respond. And then I turn to the problem on hand: where does one hang a just-washed brassiere to dry when one is showing one's house?</p>
<p>In Normal Life, we would drape all of our soggy clothes (at least those not destined for the dryer) over the drying rack that we keep in our laundry room. But this is not Normal Life. This is House-Selling Life, and our drying rack has been banished as Clutter.</p>
<p>As it has been explained to us, the idea, when selling a house, is to present potential buyers with a vision of their possible future that is open, spacious, and most importantly, free of the current owners and the messy detritus of their lives. Not only the dirty dishes but the dish drainer, compost pail, even dish soap need to be cleared from the kitchen counter:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/ebdd96ee3e6f6be7bc782a5c57fedbdab79ffbec/original/pristine-kitchen-counter.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p>Because people who are selling their houses must not be seen as dirtying dishes or generating compost scraps.</p>
<p>Glasses, contact lens cases, toothbrushes and toothpaste all need to be cleared from the bathroom sink:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/fba5859db67655fbfe4653025abbdf6db1af34dc/original/clean-bath-counter.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p>Because people who are selling their houses must not be seen as myopic or subject to plaque build-up.</p>
<p>I have drawn the line at evacuating the soap and shampoo from the shower because, <em>pull-eeze</em>.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/c20669fe91c78f70e1a0527745425bc1c1bc4713/original/shampoo.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MjY4eDMzMiJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="332" width="268" /></p>
<p>Then again, our house has been on the market for a week and a half and we have yet to see an offer -- and I suspect it may have everything to do with our choice in hair-care products.</p>
<p>As it turns out, even without our trusty drying rack, our house is full of places where one might hang a just-washed brassiere:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/4d2b153233467e76628ade2b4220dd18a17003ad/original/fireplace-bra.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/db9e33a36cdb065cdc13ff73c2fe26ffc2113296/original/picture-bra.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/073de25a7312cecee626adf70f5b7f6d3e75293f/original/computer-bra.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/24d824f0c7589a825020152563bc81f0ff0842f6/original/bra-near-realtors-materials.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p>But none of these will do. Because people who are selling their houses must not be seen as having breasts. Certainly not breasts that require underwire support.</p>
<p>Mostly, people who are selling their houses must not be <em>seen</em>. And since it is closing in on tour time, I will head to my favorite local spot to grab a cuppa until the domestic coast is clear.</p>
<p>I think I will take my soggy bra with me to the coffee shop and drape it over the back of my chair.</p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61150692019-02-16T19:00:00-05:002022-03-28T04:56:26-04:00Kondo Association
<p>For the past month or so we have been diligently cleaning out our house, giving things away as fast as we can. Yes, I know, Tidying Up is having its cultural moment. But this effort of ours has nothing to do with Marie Kondo! We are cleaning out the house because we are getting ready to sell it. In order to do so, we need to make the house look uncluttered and spacious, inhabited by people with no discernible personality traits except that they are very clean.</p>
<p>After 21 years here, there is a lot stuff to clear out. Now, I wouldn't really know, because I haven't watched her show, but I understand that Marie Kondo instructs us to thank each thing we throw out, and to kiss it as we let it go. But I am not particularly sentimental about the stuff I'm throwing out. It's just stuff. And I'd just as soon not put my lips on 21 years of dust.</p>
<p>I am grateful, though, to have the option of digitizing the piles of pictures and other mementos with which it might otherwise be difficult to part. Digitization is the perfect option, for example, for the pile of books that I composed for my older daughter, Rebecca, to help prepare her toddler self for a change of life involving a cross-country move and starting full-time daycare. I made the first book when Rebecca and I were traveling east to house-hunt, prior to a move to Boston. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/6f197d477f81c2804b1e67676c3abd89e0a5597d/original/rebeccas-big-trip.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzQ1eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="345" /></p>
<p>I worried that it could be unsettling and anxiety-producing for a toddler with a well-established and fairly predictable routine to go on a cross-country trip through three time zones, to sleep in a whole series of new and different places, and to spend days in the somewhat baffling process of house-hunting. So I made a picture book, explaining what would happen at each step along the way. We read it together, many times, before and during the trip.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/34de07bcb0e646b5d7852de4924573a375b96a93/original/mommy-and-rebecca.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDIyeDU1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="550" width="422" /></p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/eaaf3ddcd2f001e0ec517209e1054073b23fcde1/original/big-job.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDIyeDU1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="550" width="422" /></p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/95bcb81a0db68f8ea4697ae15138a729a66fe591/original/lots-of-houses.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDIyeDU1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="550" width="422" /></p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/9544e2e291fc63d783a6149132a305a3757f7646/original/serious-and-silly-houses.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDIyeDU1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="550" width="422" /></p>
<p>And it worked! Rebecca took the entire event in stride. So I did the same thing for each of the subsequent events in the transition from California to Massachusetts: the cross-country car trip, starting daycare. There are five books in all<em>.</em></p>
<p><em><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/c3cee8c5c20fb78fdfaf4615740300294190fbd5/original/first-two-books.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NTUweDQxMiJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="412" width="550" /></em></p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/179cfa666b041cb6123a81eaeb889dd3f03971a1/original/second-three-books.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NTUweDQxMiJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="412" width="550" /></p>
<p>They are full of reassurances: despite the changing faces and places, there will always be people to love and care for Rebecca.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/67fd17a6314b590c67d0affaa4a5d8c230d16d27/original/mommy-and-daddy-will-be-there.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDIyeDU1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="550" width="422" /></p>
<p>What is amazing to me, as I read these books now (feeding the pages into the scanner, and then throwing them away) is how the series hangs together as a body of work, capturing a particular time and place and set of social relationships. Kind of like Trollope’s <em>Barchester</em> novels. But with pictures! Also my books are twelve sentences long.</p>
<p>I made books for my younger child, too! Well....book. One book. </p>
<p> <img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/b40a59e16b936dbbf4daba96e6176dfd0ddfae07/original/js-book.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzY5eDM5NiJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="396" width="369" /></p>
<p>It’s a saliva-resistant photo album that someone gave her. Mostly I just had to stick pictures in the slots. But I did add some oriiginal text, at the very end.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/3b7d4590e7f49bac676f4e8b3c0ee70bba7c3106/original/back-page-for-j.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NTUweDQxMiJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="412" width="550" /></p>
<p>Maybe it was less of an effort than I'd made for Rebecca. But What’s-Her-Name loved it! At least, I think she did. I wasn’t really paying attention.</p>
<p>Anyway, the whole pile is now digitized and discarded. Does Marie Kondo talk about digitization? I don’t know. I have decided not to read her book until I can do so in the original Japanese (a language I do not know and have no plans to study).</p>
<p>All of this cleaning out is about getting ready to sell our house, which is set to go on the market in just over a week. Fingers crossed that it will sell quickly! And then we'll move out, and go to....well, we haven't figured that part out just yet. We are looking and talking and thinking about what we want to do next. As you can imagine, it's a situation that is a little unsettling and anxiety-producing. </p>
<p>But fortunately, I know just how to deal with anxiety-producing situations.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/ddb0427933a91ef1816d6cc299630e8bec44c3e4/original/lauries-big-leap.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDEyeDU1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="550" width="412" /></p>
<p>Laurie and Steve are selling their house!</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/8137697550883472904e22b8c9414c5e4737af42/original/house.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDEzeDU1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="550" width="413" /></p>
<p>But first they will try to give away a lot of their shit. They will put big piles of it on the front porch.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/60dbc53bda2fb01c93723d02e90fade3c6664ce8/original/donation-pile.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDEyeDU1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="550" width="412" /></p>
<p>Some strong guys will come in a big truck and haul it all away.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/384abc781be4ca091025154ac045d2b88bab9417/original/vets-truck.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDEyeDU1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="550" width="412" /></p>
<p>And then Laurie and Steve will go out and find a new place to live!</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/95bcb81a0db68f8ea4697ae15138a729a66fe591/original/lots-of-houses.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDIyeDU1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="550" width="422" /></p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/9544e2e291fc63d783a6149132a305a3757f7646/original/serious-and-silly-houses.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDIyeDU1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="550" width="422" /></p>
<p>Laurie and Steve will get a little sad because all the really nice houses in the city cost three million dollars.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/78ce0eeb20e8822dfafa55198e76a03ef23eb640/original/screen-shot-2019-02-17-at-10-25-26-pm.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NTUweDI1MSJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="251" width="550" /></p>
<p></p>
<p>But in the end they will find somewhere nice to live in their price range. They <em>will </em>find something eventually, won't they? Even though the middle market is totally dead right now? It's gotta open up eventually, no? Don't you think?</p>
<p>When they do find their new house, Laurie and Steve will pack</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/9f3d43a6c32d92c400790f365e1cfb2faff423a7/original/moving-truck.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDA2eDQ0NSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="445" width="406" /></p>
<p> </p>
<p>Laurie and Steve will be very happy in their new house!</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/048c309bfa421ce2429e0831573df3956ef9e8ea/original/laurie-and-steve.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NTUweDQxMyJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="413" width="550" /></p>
<p>They will be especially happy because they will own so much less shit than they did before. </p>
<p> <img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/f5c5e9bc829eaacf6669c68234f175d4dc2bf139/original/screen-shot-2019-02-17-at-10-26-00-pm.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6Njk2eDM5MiJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="392" width="696" /></p>
<p>But Marie Kondo will have had nothing to do with it. </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61150682019-01-19T19:00:00-05:002021-09-19T03:00:31-04:00At HOME with Google
<p>About a month ago I received a Google Home device in the mail. It was a free gift for renewing a Verizon contract, or some such thing. It sounded like it would be a fun thing to have; and it is! It lives in my kitchen and has cute flashing lights and it tells me useful things like when Walgreens closes or how many grams in half a cup of flour.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/812e71a3980624c13da1b7d985d69cf07c8acf7c/original/google-home.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzcyeDM1MSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="351" width="372" /></p>
<p>My family was alarmed when they saw it; it's a spy machine, they said. And they are not wrong! The press is full of articles talking about how these smart devices are nothing more than machines for gathering information about us, which they use to sell us stuff. Take, for example, this article from <em>The Guardian</em>: <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/technology/2018/nov/10/spy-christmas-smart-home-facebook-portal-google-home-hub-amazon-show-alexa" data-imported="1">Will You Be Getting a Smart Home Spy for Christmas?</a> </p>
<p>I clicked on that article, and was immediately presented with sidebar ads encouraging me give to Planned Parenthood and to buy a streamlined steam cleaner from Dyson that will replace every other home cleaning device I own, but taking up only half the space. They know my politics and they know that I am downsizing. </p>
<p>Of course they do! Every time I go to the grocery store I blithely give Jeff Bezos full information about my consumer preferences in exchange for $.25 per lb. break on the price of organic avocados. Should I be surprised that whenever I log onto Facebook, I am presented with ads for the most wonderful of pants, with pockets in just the right places, presentable in a business setting and yet comfortable enough to wear to yoga class? Which are made from recycled coffee grounds? And every time a pair is sold, the company gives money to retrain rescued sex workers as air traffic controllers!</p>
<p>Big Internet knows what I want before I know it myself. And when I'm elbow-deep in bread dough but can still command the Google Home to play Leonard Cohen, I don't particularly mind.</p>
<p>Yesterday was my birthday. In high spirits as I was cooking dinner, I told the new toy, "OK, Google! Play birthday music!"</p>
<p>And without missing a beat, the Google Home started playing 2Chainz' hit, <em>All I Want for My Birthday is a Big Booty Ho</em>.</p>
<p>I am thinking that perhaps Google has a little work yet to do on its algorithms. Because it is definitely NOT the case that all I want for my birthday is a big booty ho'.</p>
<p>I also want those pants I saw on Facebook.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61150672019-01-14T19:00:00-05:002021-08-28T13:50:33-04:00The Leaky Pen Waltz
<p>Shot last week in Santa Barbara! Check out Julia Ansolabehere on the clarinet. Thanks to Steve Ansolabehere for his ace iPhone camerawork, and to Rick Travers for his musical guidance.</p>
<p> </p>
<p></p>
<div class="video responsive"><div class="video-container"><div class="video responsive"><div class="video-container"><iframe frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/4MW9C4vwrIM?controls=0" width="560" allowfullscreen="" class="wrapped wrapped"></iframe></div></div></div></div>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61150662019-01-01T19:00:00-05:002021-09-08T08:56:50-04:00Resolutions, L.A. Style
<p>It is the dawn of 2019 -- time for a round of resolutions! I am fortunate to have spent the past week in Los Angeles, a city deeply committed to self-improvement. So I have decided to draw my New Year's resolutions entirely from the mile-long stretch of Ventura Blvd. in Studio City, between Coldwater and Laurel Canyons. And here they are.</p>
<p><strong>Resolution 1: Get in Shape</strong></p>
<p>There are dozens of fitness studios in this mile of Ventura Blvd.--I tried to count, but I ran out of fingers. Here's a sample from a single block closest to our vacation rental:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/6a60c38d54a8521c95cfae52bd72d709b014e6a0/original/shape-house.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/157e997e4d5af2fb8f7a5766f2806b2ec7c42e17/original/pilates.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDQ1eDMxMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="310" width="445" /></p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/3dd68de61ee5de7ece7b08c6c1de17b21e3f6eea/original/tracyanderson.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzAweDI5OCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="298" width="300" /></p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/9cb1313b81ab0b355e3cc890454f7c432681c82b/original/hottebodies.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzY1eDM5OSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="399" width="365" /></p>
<p>Full disclosure: I have been to one of these emporia, Electric Soul Yoga, four times during my week in Studio City. I am not yet Hotte, but my soul is at least 65% charged.</p>
<p><strong>Resolution 2: Get a Better Face</strong></p>
<p>This establishment promises a certain European panache:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/70f12e4695a1f64e798f03d699cfc72b5785a4c6/original/face-haus.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzIzeDMzMSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="331" width="323" /></p>
<p>As well as transformation, at least in the short term:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/538b2f9420fa35c90d636b67de534dc6997da7e9/original/facial.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDM1eDI0NiJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="246" width="435" /></p>
<p>And if the Face Haus can't deliver satisfactory results, more dramatic approaches are on offer:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/0c4e2d5a5e137db6684aa0e86d3f0a528b5b88f9/original/mybotox-smaller.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6Mzk1eDIxMyJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="213" width="395" /></p>
<p> </p>
<p><strong>Resolution 3: Find Inner Peace by Getting a Manicure</strong></p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/4d7da155c08c8604d19656c94a9f91e5ad9e404b/original/namaste-nails.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p><strong>Resolution 4: Get Bronzed, Airbrushed and Sugared</strong></p>
<p>I am not at all sure what these processes involve; but there are nearly as many body-sugaring businesses as there are nail salons (which is to say, a LOT); and I'm quite sure they would make me infinitely more lovely in some way I can barely imagine.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/8dfca86ddf11ba3827e4107b1f696e71229107b7/original/airbursh-and-sugar.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzQzeDMyMSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="321" width="343" /></p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/6faee083791a5dcd85bd94998b552ab33afac4b2/original/bronze.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6Mzk2eDMyMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="320" width="396" /></p>
<p>And I figure that if the sugaring aspect gets a little excessive, I can always head here to fix things up:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/1f511ba4106e706dd504f0cba6b152c65e8d0c31/original/coolsculpting.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDkxeDMyNyJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="327" width="491" /></p>
<p><strong>Resolution 5: Get More Hair</strong></p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/0da3440b78e133c2e96ba242713e9ef4da4e24ba/original/hair-ext-repl.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDY3eDE5NCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="194" width="467" /></p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/06798057a8f1f86477b42ac617b2e57c03a7cc7f/original/lash-bar.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MjgweDE3MiJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="172" width="280" /></p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/e0f15d91f2c1909e76457448e5004d3cca1d3439/original/haircessory.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p> </p>
<p><strong>Resolution 6: Get the Right Hair</strong></p>
<p>Should one's hair prove to be erroneous, then the Eddy James Salon offers its expertise in Color Correction:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/89766426ceb2aef2b85aa755221ca511516c89f8/original/color-correction.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDkyeDIwOSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="209" width="492" /></p>
<p><strong>Resolution 7: Get Less Hair</strong></p>
<p>So many options here! You can you can thread:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/2d80c7efee4c74255ba602643c44b0695237be5b/original/thread.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzI2eDI5NSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="295" width="326" /></p>
<p>You can microblade, which sounds scary:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/3130c12da53aa6faf9102c5d1c1c7c509227fc83/original/microblading.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6Mzg0eDE4OCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="188" width="384" /></p>
<p>Or you can wax! I'm thinking that services from this establishment would pair nicely with a facial from the FaceHaus:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/2727f434227972609bab139c02fb2e8c86482b44/original/eurowax.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p>I had to venture out of Studio City, into Silver Lake, to fully comprehend the force of the hair removal imperative.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/92963adc45e69eabefd58439a9dd93501a6989c9/original/waxing-is-not-a-luxury.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p>The very same business urging me to wax immediately(!) displays this book in its front window:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/1d10a84c4314b5df1cb8dec847d44d0bb3453765/original/femrevolution.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p>Which brings me to my final LA-inspired resolution for 2019:</p>
<p><strong>Resolution 8: Join the Feminist Revolution</strong></p>
<p>Because once I am sculpted, laqcuered, wrinkle-free, bronzed, sugared, hairy and waxed, I'll be damned if I'll allow the patriarchy to tell me what to do.</p>
<p> </p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61150652018-12-21T19:00:00-05:002020-01-16T16:05:25-05:00Giving Season
<p>It is the season of giving at our house -- mostly because we are planning to sell the house in a few months, and in preparation we are giving away as much as possible. We're making trip after trip to the Salvation Army donation station; Big Brother has done a few major pickups of household goods. The day after Thanksgiving we brought about 3/4 of our book collection to a donation bin.</p>
<p>At first it was agonizing, parting with much-loved books and souvenirs loaded with happy memories. But I got over that pretty quick. Now I find it postively exhilarating to get all this stuff out of my life.</p>
<p>Good-bye, Dostoevsky! </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/dd54e03edba82149edb235f43487ba8330814cb0/original/dostoevsky.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p>Reading you made me a better person.</p>
<p>Good-bye, Marcel Proust!</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/e6f90b14c2273b6ec7287400447ca4ec704e3ac8/original/proust.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6Mzc0eDQ1MCJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="374" /></p>
<p>It's possible that reading you might have made me a better person....but we'll never find out, now, will we?</p>
<p>Good-bye, ice cream maker!</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/76ff5bea06e0e8481999d9a2b89de6b3351f65e0/original/ice-cream-maker.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p>I am a bigger woman because of you.</p>
<p>Of course, it is also the season of gift exchanges. I have been invited to several parties involving Yankee Swaps. Instructions typically involve a price range, and an exhortation to purchase "something that you yourself would like to receive."</p>
<p>I have been puzzling over that one. Anything that I receive will need to be wrapped in newsprint, packed in a box, maybe moved into and out of a storage unit, schlepped ultimately to a new home, unpacked, and located in cabinet or closet space that is likely to be at a premium; newsprint and box recycled thereafter. So what, in these circumstances, is the perfect gift?</p>
<p>A Whole Foods gift card! Obviously.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/e21e82993d0055f594696f19afb6e5d88caa92c4/original/whole-foods-gift-card.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p>There is a part of my brain that knows that a Whole Foods gift card is not a particularly inspiring Yankee Swap contribution. I am reminded now, as always, that it is not good to be too mired in one's own perspective. I may be immersed in downsizing; but all around me people are embracing the season of giving with generosity, whimsy and creativity. So I must approach these situations in this spirit of openness, trying to understand what the season of giving means to those around me, and to respond in kind.</p>
<p>So the appropriate gift for the next Yankee Swap? A full-body turkey costume. Obviously.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/e23f252163ee7dbccb55edef2759385f32da6276/original/turkey-suit.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /> </p>
<p>Last week I went to a show at the American Repertory Theatre in Harvard Square ("the A.R.T." to us locals), where I am a subscriber. There was a lovely note on my seat from one Emily Wilson, who is apparently the Associate Director of Major Gifts.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/925d83b383e6b9a44eb4134f591e34a284ebbafa/original/art-major-gifts.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p>The A.R.T. shows no inclination to downsize; and if they have the honesty and openness to come right out and request a major gift, then I believe I should respond in the appropriate spirit of generosity.</p>
<p>I think I will get the A.R.T. an Instant Pot.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/1a06adf2658521ab8f06038743d064f5796cfeaf/original/instant-pot.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDM2MyJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="363" width="450" /></p>
<p>Because they are a theatre, after all! </p>
<p>Which means they probably already have a full-body turkey costume. </p>
<p> </p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61150642018-12-13T19:00:00-05:002021-09-12T14:50:38-04:00Suburban Pioneer
<p>Last Sunday I went full-on Pioneer Woman and made my own butter.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/014c37e81e5fcebcfd196731b721b921ab66afc0/original/draining-butter.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MTg3eDIyOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="228" width="187" /></p>
<p>What occasioned this spasm of DIY was that I'd bought some heavy cream for Thanksgiving, because you never know which of your five desserts will need to be slathered with whipped cream. But we failed to slather on Thanksgiving; and the cream was stranded in the fridge, sidling up to its sell-by date. Thus the butter project. And it worked like a charm.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/5d1c17bd49d5cd2bd13e6050768afd2b3b44c90a/original/butter.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p>Look at me, making butter! Just like the Pilgrims. Or at least, just like the Pilgrims if they'd had high-speed electric mixers, refrigerators, and Tupperware.</p>
<p>Truth be told, butter is hardly my only Pioneer Woman venture! I have baked my own bread for almost 30 years, and at this point I'm pretty good at it.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/4d7254986d36fbc38082420c5dcec9e9f0285d1d/original/bread.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p>And I make my own clothes! Just look at this sweater I am knitting:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/14a640a6f6ed53ca4cbe5cf3e598e697b2843537/original/sweater.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p>I've been working on this one for more than a year. Thing is, I've been knitting for longer than I've been baking bread; but I am not at all good at knitting. Right now, while it is still on the needles, this sweater looks pretty nice. But I have learned after decades of knitting experience that once I assemble the sweater, it will become apparent how misshapen and ill-fitting it really is. </p>
<p>And then I will go to Ann Taylor and find a nice sweater on the sale rack. Just as my foremothers did before me! Only my foremothers went to Loehmann's.</p>
<p>I have also knitted socks! Here they are.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/6537f23400b9d385241d8fec29bcc1b2f3ace492/original/sock-yarn.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p>What I have done, actually, is to knit the same sock over and over again, trying to get it into roughly the same shape as a foot. After I ripped it out three times I decided it would be better off left as a ball of yarn.</p>
<p>Most of my DIY projects result from a surplus of food of one sort or another which I am trying to save from consignment to the compost bin. Late summer brought a bumper crop of hot peppers in our farmshare. These I pickled, just as my ancestors in the <em>shtetl </em>would have done, had they been able to stomach anything spicier than a potato.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/400e2a564e20efa438b6dcb05754bccef09b30e7/original/jalapenos.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p>The late-summer farmshare also delivered a Napa cabbage, which I promptly turned into kimchi.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/3d7389fe395c69a847fff129c80fd6209037dae8/original/kimchi.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MjcxeDMxMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="310" width="271" /></p>
<p>Just like Laura Ingalls Wilder did in <em>Little House on the Prairie!</em> Only she also had to make her own gojuchang.</p>
<p>Pickled jalapenos and kimchi all came out just fine. That big jar of pickled jalapenos made enough to accompany twice-weekly taco dinners for a family of 10. Only we are, at the moment, a household of two; and we make tacos maybe once a month (in a good month). The kimchi, on the other hand, is great in grain bowls -- which we make maybe twice a month (in a good month). And also on a wide range of Korean dishes, none of which I know how to make. So it's possible that both kimchi and pickled jalapenos may be destined for the compost bin in the end, after all.</p>
<p>I have an herb garden, and I use its bounty to make poultices to soothe aching joints and tinctures to treat fevers, using old medicinal formulas that have been handed down through my family for generations.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/7ee3f2caadfe0f8227105a567ff6329697e02fbd/original/herb-garden.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzcyeDI4MyJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="283" width="372" /></p>
<p>Just kidding. My family's traditional remedies mostly involve Advil and Scotch.</p>
<p>Look: I may not have what it takes to function as a full-on survivalist. But that butter was a great success; it will not be heading for the compost bin. Because who doesn't love butter, especially when served with homemade bread?</p>
<p>Plus, I've heard it pairs great with kimchi.</p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61150592018-12-07T19:00:00-05:002021-09-18T07:01:49-04:00Would Jew light my candle?
<p>Chanukah started last Sunday evening, about six hours after I left my home for a week of work travel. I have a travel menorah – which is a thing; it folds. And I got as far as pulling it down from the shelf before I left for the airport.</p>
<p> <img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/cb764e82680ec4982e2921ea2b7e38a43a398ef2/original/folding-menorah.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzA1eDI1MiJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="252" width="305" /></p>
<p>But I didn’t end up packing it, because you can’t really light things on fire with impunity in hotel rooms any more. And anyway I didn’t have enough candles, and by the time I figured that out it was too late to go buy any before I had to leave.</p>
<p>Truth be told, Chanukah is a B-list holiday -- not really all that important from a religious perspective. The Maccabees, whose exploits the holiday commemorates, were apparently fundamentalist thugs, the Taliban of their day. So, not such a big deal to miss it. And yet, lighting the candles has been an important part of my life forever; part of the rhythm of the year. So what do you do when you're traveling for the first five nights?</p>
<p>You trust that God and the Internet will provide.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/47db113ff59b8b644ad88923a2bc83fdd01392dd/original/screenshot-menorah.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p>***************************************</p>
<p><em>It's beginning to sound a lot like Christmas....everywhere you go.....</em></p>
<p>Where I've gone this past week has been Pittsburgh, and then New Orleans. And sound like Christmas it did.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/a8d7cc99cc17a2be283d7388988e5c5b96aa38e2/original/lobby-tree.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p>The lobby in the William Penn hotel in Pittsburgh played holiday music nonstop -- only not the good stuff. Look, I have nothing against Christmas music. I enjoy singing carols from time to time; I will never get tired of Eartha Kitt singing <em>Santa Baby,</em> not to mention the Pogues' <em><a href="https://youtu.be/j9jbdgZidu8?t=11" data-imported="1">Fairytale of New York</a>,</em> and I really like the one about the hippopotamus. And who doesn't love a good oratorio? But in the Omni William Penn lobby, it was the <a href="https://youtu.be/4rploTXuh1s" data-imported="1">Dean Martin version of <em>Silver Bells</em></a><em>, </em>and a children's chorus (always a dubious start) singing an anthem to bad parenting called <em>I'm Getting Nuttin'</em> [sic]<em> for Christmas</em>. </p>
<p>It is mid-afternoon when I arrive in New Orleans a little later in the week, and I duck into the first open restaurant I find for a bite to eat. It is 3:00 in the afternoon and the dining room is absolutely empty.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/733f711b38370bc03eaded1cc82228c7225b1897/original/empty-restaurant.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p>These guys have taken the playlist from the William Penn lobby and made it even worse. And then cranked up the volume. Here's a taste.</p>
<p><br><audio width="320" height="240" preload="none" controls="controls" src="http://gouldtunes.com/files/Restaurant_background_music.mp3"></audio></p>
<p>It occurs to me that as I am the only customer, I could ask them to turn it off, or turn it down, or turn on the Pogues. </p>
<p>But I don't. I eat and leave, thereby proving, I suppose, that had I been around at the time of the Maccabees, I would not have had what it takes to hold my own as a fundamentalist whack job.</p>
<p>**********************************************</p>
<p>Chanukah came early this year, a scant 20 minutes after the end of Thanksgiving, and it totally bit me on the ass. I forgot to buy candles and didn't do much about presents. But in the airport terminal, waiting for my third flight of the week, I get a great idea. I know that my younger daughter, a college junior, occasionally treats herself to a bagel at the branch of a national chain that is right around the corner from her apartment. So I can get her a gift certificate! I can even send it electronically so she’ll have it now, before the holiday is over! </p>
<p>So I go on Bruegger’s Bagels website, and I learn that they are having a special this month: if you buy a $25 gift certificate, you get $5 extra for free. In a flush of generosity, I buy two! So my girl will get $60 worth of bagels for the cool price of $50. What a thoughtful and resourceful mom I am!</p>
<p>I text my daughter:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/4c3359e3ce2d620d7bc5d7c9b7300dec8c20ca02/original/screen-shot-2018-12-07-at-4-48-47-pm.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MjkzeDgzIl0%3D.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="83" width="293" /> </p>
<p>And she texts me back:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/b00594e55d18825a92e5a0391a4d10287d11b766/original/screen-shot-2018-12-07-at-4-48-55-pm.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MjgweDc4Il0%3D.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="78" width="280" /> </p>
<p>I am confused: why would she wait to use them until she gets home? Wouldn’t bagels be just the thing this very week, right in the middle of finals??</p>
<p>Oh. Right. Bruegger’s doesn’t do business in Illinois. The bagel shop around the corner in Evanston is Einstein’s.</p>
<p>So I correct the error. I have now scored $50 worth of bagels for the cool price of $100. And they say that my people are savvy shoppers.</p>
<p>******************************************</p>
<p>I am home for exactly 10 1/2 hours between my trips; but this gives me more than enough time to run to the supermarket for a box of Chanukah candles. It is Thursday morning when I get there, well into the holiday; and there are only two boxes left on the shelves. I almost buy them both, since my older daughter has asked me to pick up some candles for her (she, too, forgot before the holiday). But then I put one back, thinking I should leave the last one there for the poor sucker on the next flight.</p>
<p>Boxes of Chanukah candles typically come with 45, which is just enough to get you through the 8 days, plus one extra for breakage.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/5807dad631595de4ebaf34c80aa64d9845e5d862/original/candle-box.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzA2eDMwOSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="309" width="306" /></p>
<p>The way it works is that you light 1 candle the first night plus 1 <em>shamash</em> (or "helper candle"), and then 1 more on each successive night plus 1 helper candle, so that on the 1st night you need 2 and the 2nd night you need 3 and so on. That makes 44 for the entire holiday. I am starting on the 6th night, when I'll need 7; and then tomorrow will be the 7th night, so I'll need 8; followed by the 8th night, when I'll need 9; and 7 + 8 + 9 = 24. My daughter also wants enough candles to finish out the holiday, which would mean 24 for her, too, which would be 48, and I only have 45. But she will celebrate the 6th night, when you need 7, with us; which means she'll only need enough for the 7th night, when she'll need 8, and for the 8th night, when she'll need 9, which makes 17 in all; and if you add the 17 she needs to the 24 I need you get 41, which is less than 45, which is how many I have.</p>
<p>Which means we have enough candles for both of our households to get through the holiday.</p>
<p>And that, my friends, is the miracle of the lights.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61150582018-12-06T19:00:00-05:002021-09-15T16:21:07-04:00Hello, Pittsburgh!
<p>What I really want is to be home in my fuzzy bunny slippers, feeding my sourdough starter and working on my seventeenth interesting way to cook turnips from the winter CSA.</p>
<p>But I am not at home in my fuzzy bunny slippers. Instead I am spending quality time here:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/e2c365e768826fd6ea78f031294d9b12e5f215f9/original/logan-jetblue.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p>This week has me making two round-trip passes through the JetBlue terminal at Logan Airport. </p>
<p>Yeah, I know. This all sounds a little too humble-braggish: I am <em>soooo </em>busy because I am <em>sooooo </em>very accomplished and important. Rest assured: I'm not particularly accomplished. I'm certainly not any more important than anyone else. And to tell the truth, I'm not even all that busy. But on this particular week I do happen to have back-to-back business trips, and homebody that I am, it is making me a little cranky.</p>
<p>I do have strategies for dealing with work travel, and trying to make it as cozy as I can. To start with, I try to maintain my traditions and routines wherever possible. For instance, whenever I am in Pittsburgh, I always stay at the William Penn Hotel downtown.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/1d525bc3548488ddbd4ce2f9be3cc4033f9e3dcb/original/penn-lobby.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p>To be fair, I have only been in Pittsburgh two times in my life: this week, and in June, 1988, when my brother got married here. And the lobby has changed a lot since that time! It has added this Christmas village, which has some disturbing aspects of relative scale:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/5d524cfb283ec00231b00a7dd69d58201d0aee30/original/christmas-village-in-lobby.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDM0MSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="341" width="450" /></p>
<p>I believe this is a replica of the hotel itself -- in which case those gingerbread people flanking it are positively terrifying. </p>
<p>And now the lobby has grown a lot of these:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/cbd91bf16e53132dc9b8cc3cd2506c85ad54d3a7/original/festive-things-in-lobby.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p>But I recognized it right off the bat as the place I'd been thirty years ago! My brother got married here, and I was, of course, a bridesmaid. My dress at the time was a classic of the genre:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/d23c0512e54c2e986beac548a1419ff8c6623d1c/original/bridesmaid-dress.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzQ4eDQ1MCJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="348" /></p>
<p>Perhaps my very favorite travel ritual is Road Yoga. I love hunting down local yoga studios wherever I land; they offer a little window into local cultures. <a href="https://www.inhalepgh.com/" data-imported="1">Inhale Yoga Downtown</a> is particularly delightful. My own home studio, which I adore, is in kind of a crappy basement space below a CVS, and it’s almost always overcrowded and stuffy. Inhale Downtown has great high ceilings, and big open uncrowded spaces, and a very welcoming teacher named Jana (which happens to be the name of a much-loved friend from home – so Pittsburgh Yoga Jana needs to do no more than say her name to win me as a fan). </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/dfa6ecff74e9b0977d7c3a3d7ec70251deceb4c5/original/inhale-welcome.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p>And it has a little buddha next to the bathroom!</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/b5d1e70e64e8b05cedb64b7515beb4ac12b70de7/original/bathroom-buddha.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzI0eDI2NSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="265" width="324" /></p>
<p>! I have chosen this particular class because it’s really the only one that fits into my work schedule. It’s “Dynamic Flow”, their “most advanced” flow class, which may or may not be a bit of a stretch for me. I do a lot of yoga, but my 53-year-old chassis has a lot of miles on it and has been in more than a few fender benders, so let’s just say I watch my asanas. My real test for a class is: 1) does it make me work enough to get my mind out of my head? and 2) will everyone else be doing Stupid Arm Balances while I’m chilling in Child’s Pose?</p>
<p>Turns out the class is great, well-paced and well-cued. One of my fellow yogis looks a lot like my rabbi, who may or may not do yoga; but if she does, would almost certainly be the type of yogi with whom I’d most like to practice. The woman to my left is wearing a pink turtleneck over her yoga clothes to keep warm as we get started, rather than state-of-the-art Lululemon – another point in Inhale’s favor. And when we do finally get to the Stupid Arm Balance, only one person actually does it – the rest of us chill in Child’s Pose.</p>
<p>I like this class. A lot. And the evening ends perfectly, the way all post-yoga evenings should, with a tasty local beer (Mischievous Brown by Helltown Brewery), a big pile of vegetables, and a healthy side of carbs:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/e7c24db1450c3c6fc51cfd1463238d710f38d9ad/original/veg-and-carbs.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p>As the yoga class was settling into savasana, the final resting pose, Jana had the soundtrack cranked on Dylan, specifically the song “North Country.” It is not one of my favorites. And yet it brought such warm thoughts – mostly of my younger daughter's Dylan impression, which is astonishingly good, particularly for someone with no Y chromosome. Her big sister does an awesome John F Kennedy, based largely on her own frequent passages through the Southwest terminal at Logan Airport, where, as you arrive, they play on a repeating loop a recording of JFK intoning, “ask not what your country can do for you.” My girl nails it perfectly.</p>
<p>I know. I shouldn’t be bragging in my blog about my children’s talents. It’s just that I’m so damn proud.</p>
<p>Whom, do you suppose, would my daughters imitate if they passed through Pittsburgh International all the time, instead of Logan? William Penn, perhaps. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/4e2effae29f8d0f52bcef7942cf6be61e29c21ee/original/william-penn-in-airport.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p>What exactly did he do, anyway? I can’t for the life of me remember. But I bet that when he did it, he sounded exactly like a Kennedy.</p>
<p>Or perhaps they would imitate a Steeler:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/ded4ec891676415c93e196a50d854413a4677df0/original/steeler-in-airport.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p>It's quite a sports town, Pittsburgh!</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/996f2183d839f57096b703987d41e35ac9eb162e/original/sportzbar.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/73e23cc37460900d9b53e1525ba6552f63ffded3/original/sportzburgh.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p>Now honestly, I could give a rat's ass about professional sports, not to mention unprofessional sports, not to mention Sportz of any sort. But Pittsburgh has won my heart through the innovative step of getting all of their professional sports teams -- hockey, football, baseball, and whatever else they play -- to have the same team colors, black and gold. This is a bit of efficiency that completely delights my logistics-obsessed self; it makes me fall in love with the place just a little.</p>
<p>How couldn't I, this time of year? It's the holidays, after all; and the macarons in the Pittsburgh airport burn just a little brighter than anywhere else.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/7cf9a70ae545ef98a3a177f52e3cacc61a7518f2/original/airport-macarons.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61150572018-09-01T20:00:00-04:002018-12-01T09:50:30-05:00Nothing here is mine
<p>Last Sunday morning I got into my car and encountered a bit of a mess. Our cheap and largely useless sunglasses were scattered on the floor; the car manual and registration were tossed on the seat, along with a pile of CDs. Soooooo many CDs. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/e6394506e82c0cfb2d1227c22363eec5af3a2c12/original/cds-on-seat.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MTkyeDI1NiJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="256" width="192" /></p>
<p>So I stewed about it for a bit. Why had Steve left the car such a mess? And why does he insist on using CDs instead of Spotify, to which we subscribe, and which streams just fine from any cellphone through our car speakers? This question of the continued utility of CDs is a long-running battle between me and Steve. For the record: I am thoroughly on the side of modernity and progress.</p>
<p>After a few moments of marital self-righteousness, I remembered that I, in fact, had been the last person to drive the car, just the previous evening, while Steve was clear on the other side of the country. And since I had no reason to check either the manual or the registration, and since I no longer believe in CDs and handle them as little as possible, someone else must have broken into the car and rifled through the glove box and other assorted compartments to see if they could take anything of value off our hands.</p>
<p>What they took: about $1.75 in quarters that Steve had on the dashboard to feed meters. For the record: being on the side of modernity and progress, I pay for parking with my phone, and I use cash of any sort as little as possible. So leaving quarters on the dashboard was not my choice. Anyway, I was raised as a New Yorker in the 70’s. Long before I carried a purse of my own I was taught that you keep it zipped and held firmly under your arm. You always lock your house, whether or not you are in it. And you never, <em>ever</em> leave anything of value visible in your car, especially not cash, because it is an invitation to break in.</p>
<p>Last week’s car break-in did feel like a bit of a breach. I have grown accustomed to the idea that my car is my own domain, that I get to decide who gets into it, and that the stuff in the car is mine. But those quarters are quite demonstrably no longer mine. </p>
<p>And alas, the CD’s still are.</p>
<p>To be fair, CD’s do still have some uses! They are readily employed as an ineffectual technique for frightening bluejays away from my blueberries.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/178f98d81fd48d34cef109b3be70d38c8ac76984/original/cds.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzMweDM4MyJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="383" width="330" /> </p>
<p>Then again, why do I think of the blueberries as mine? Just because I planted the bushes, and because the Registry of Deeds believes I have title to the land on which they sit? The jays could care less about the Registry; they help themselves. Chipmunks help themselves to the strawberries; the raccoons eat the grapes; bunnies eat the leaves right off of the bean plants, down to the bare nubbins. Squirrels, damn their tiny, vile souls, eat the bottoms of the most beautiful tomatoes just as they start to ripen.</p>
<p>The back porch is not mine. Most summer days I walk out the door to find evidence of a squirrel bacchanalia:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/bfa8be61a2b801adcccf4ff5dc63752e8faf8b7e/original/squirrel-bacchanalia.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MjU2eDE5MiJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="192" width="256" /> </p>
<p>And a few weeks back my neighbor sent me a photo of another invader:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/639e7f746bb12c549e309e056bd75eb532046a6f/original/porch-turkey.jpeg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzYweDQ4MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="480" width="360" /></p>
<p>I think of the interior of the house as mine; but in truth, over the years, the walls have been breached by squirrels, chipmunks, mice, bats, and a guy who helped himself to a pocketbook I left briefly on the kitchen counter. </p>
<p>I think of my body as mine; but that boundary is breeched all the time, by viruses, bacteria and the occasional surgeon. Plus I can think of a couple of fetuses who took up residence and declared their hegemony for nine-month stints. </p>
<p>The thoughts in my head are mine. But our ideas are so profoundly influenced by the culture around us that the idea of originality is, perhaps, absurd.</p>
<p>The moral of the car invasion? Obviously: ownership is a myth; control an illusion. </p>
<p>And this: always lock your doors! Otherwise, people will disappoint you by breaking in and failing to take your CDs.</p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61150562018-07-31T20:00:00-04:002021-09-14T13:57:37-04:00Visible Me
<p>I am self-employed and I work out of a home office. I’ve been working this way, full-time, for more than 18 years. This arrangement has facilitated a good deal of control over what I do and how and when I do it.</p>
<p>The biggest benefit is time. I make my own. Of course, I only get paid for the work I do; and I do have meetings and deadlines and work trips and all that. But there is nobody counting the hours when I’m at my desk, or monitoring my lunch breaks. I love that.</p>
<p>I can start my workdays at 6:30 or 10:00; I can end them at 3:30 or 9:00. I can use my study breaks to pop a loaf of bread in the oven, or to pick a few grapes or pull a few weeds in the garden. If I’m having a slow day I can sneak out to a noon yoga class (assuming I’m not recovering from rotator cuff surgery). Actually: I don’t even need to sneak! It's nobody's business but my own. That's the whole point of self-employment.</p>
<p>Many days, I don’t even need to dress like an adult. I can work at home in my fuzzy bunny slippers. If one pair of jeans is feeling particularly cozy I can wear them every single day. And if I’m visiting multiple clients in the course of a week, I can wear the same outfit multiple times. I don’t even have to change my accessories! Because who’s to know?</p>
<p><strong><em>Note to any clients who happen to be reading this:</em></strong> I don’t behave this way when I come to <em>your </em>office, of course. When I come to your office I only wear freshly-laundered outfits that I have selected just for you, most likely to match the colors of your latest corporate identity package. </p>
<p>I thought I was working this whole self-determination groove this Monday, when I skidded to my desk a scant half-hour before a Web conference at which I was scheduled to make a presentation. I was coming home from a weekend in the Berkshires which I had stretched into Monday morning. I was prepared for this presentation, mind you -- I finished the Powerpoint last week and sent materials around in advance to all of the participants. </p>
<p>Since I am the presenter, I know my screen will be visible and I have to shut down extraneous windows, so that the highly professional and potentially confidential items on my screen are not visible to external parties. So I do.</p>
<p></p>
<div class="video responsive"><div class="video-container"><div class="video responsive"><div class="video-container"><iframe frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/1oL6c6zKC1o" width="560" allowfullscreen="" class="wrapped wrapped"></iframe></div></div></div></div>
<p> </p>
<p>But when I log into the web conference, I discover that it is not only my computer that will be visible to the other participants. It is my actual self.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/d7cdc2339c5ebcf814e8d0efc0d36d53c57875c9/original/web-conference-interface-smaller.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NTk0eDIxNSJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="215" width="594" /></p>
<p>I have not counted on this, fresh from a weekend in the country. I’m wearing an old tee shirt, no makeup, no lipstick; and I’m not sure which direction my hair is pointing. </p>
<p>But there I am! First order of business: take off the silly reading glasses.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/f090283a86eee95ac8c2b4dbb902b6c3d51716bf/original/silly-reading-glasses.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzQweDIzMSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="231" width="340" /></p>
<p>Here's the thing: I love my silly reading glasses! Here's the other thing: they actually help me to <em>see</em>. Other things being equal, I would rather not be visually impaired while doing this web presentation. But I am already on camera, so I can't really take off to troll around the house looking for glasses with more gravitas.</p>
<p>And the second thing: I work on a treadmill desk. Yeah, I know. But let me tell you: it is a great solution to 1) a lifelong back problem, and 2) my general inability to stay still. But I can't really walk on my treadmill desk during a video conference. Because I kind of bounce.</p>
<p></p>
<div class="video responsive"><div class="video-container"><div class="video responsive"><div class="video-container"><iframe frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/sk-f_HIFHMs" width="560" allowfullscreen="" class="wrapped wrapped"></iframe></div></div></div></div>
<p> </p>
<p>No bouncing during the video presentation! I turn off the treadmill and stand...still. Still is my very least favorite state. But I'm trying.</p>
<p>And I am watching the other participants in their little windows. They are looking....not fascinated. As the call goes on, one by one they turn off their cameras, presumably to preserve some modicum of privacy. What are they doing? What would I be doing if I were not a presenter on this call?</p>
<p>Eating lunch, perhaps. Checking my email. Seeing if those sandals I've been eyeing on Zappos are on sale yet.</p>
<p><em><strong>Note to clients:</strong></em> These are not things I actually DO on conference calls! Not me. I am just imagining, as writers do, what other people might do in the entirely hypothetical event of a conference call that is less than wholly engaging.</p>
<p>But I am a presenter in this case, and I must appear to be wholly engaged (all while watching a little video window of myself appearing to be wholly engaged, which is a post-modern experience if ever there was one). A level of self-awareness is called for here. No yawning, for sure. I must avoid absent-minded nose-picking. Unseemly scratching of any sort is right out.</p>
<p>I can hydrate, though. It is socially acceptable to sip a discreet beverage during meetings.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/4ea12abe5df6762e1f9f13d9829b6ef5235dbe5b/original/hydrate-coffee-cup.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="300" width="450" /></p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/e0f4c692775e772368e2ed644a76253231d5b608/original/hydrate-water-bottle.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6Mzk2eDI5NCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="294" width="396" /></p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/a31d85209502c461da960f7283903794fbedbbaa/original/hydrate-wine.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="300" width="450" /></p>
<p><em><strong>Note to clients: </strong></em>Drinking alcoholic beverages on the job is something I would never, ever do! Certainly not while I'm working on your project!</p>
<p>Unless, of course, you're buying.</p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61150552018-07-14T20:00:00-04:002021-09-10T15:17:34-04:00Urban Terroir
<p>Over the past five or ten years, food magazines (and I read far too many of them) have lingered long and lovingly over the concept of <em>terroir</em>. Here’s how the word is defined in the <a href="https://www.lexiconoffood.com/thefoodlist/terroir" data-imported="1"><em>Lexicon of Food</em></a>:</p>
<p><em>Terroir is the idea that food has specific qualities that are influenced by a sense of place. From the people who tend to it, to the minerals in the soil in which it is grown, to the local microclimates of the area, how food is farmed influences everything about its taste, texture, smell, and overall quality.</em></p>
<p>The notion of <em>terroir </em>has long been familiar to people who are knowledgeable about wine. I am not one of those people. But I have had a couple of opportunities in recent years to go on vineyard tours; and let me tell you, <em>terroir</em> is the only thing they like talking about more than the makes and models of their fermentation tanks. </p>
<p>My first such tour was in Priorat, a region of Catalonia, which may or may not be a region of Spain, depending on who you ask. Oenophiles (a word I do not know how to pronounce) adore the wines of Priorat. And the vintners of Priorat will tell you that their wine is so special entirely because of the landscape, which looks like this:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/6ca385b11bae246c7542dc00c4a698b01b934747/original/gratallops.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /> </p>
<p>Dry as a bone; the soil is barren and full of rocks. It’s nearly impossible to grow anything at all. In a good year, they harvest five grapes per acre. But oh, those five grapes! They are the most magnificent, the most flavorful, precious grapes imaginable. Less is more, as they say. The harsh Priorat terroir enables the region’s vintners to collect their scanty harvests and transform them into incredibly complex, gorgeous, and enormously expensive wines.</p>
<p>Or so they say. Priorat's wines are beloved of people who know how to pronounce the word <em>oenophile</em>. I didn't particularly care for them; my palate isn't quite smart enough.</p>
<p>A couple of years later, I had the chance to tour a vineyard where they make a wine called <em>Txakoli</em>, a word I actually do know how to pronounce. The vineyard is in Getaria, a town in the Basque region, which may or may not be part of Spain, depending on who you ask. The Basque country looks like this:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/783e768793b9dc9d2ad838b339cc5b782d9e9142/original/hike-to-iparla-from-bidarray.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /> </p>
<p>See those big, thick clouds? They are hanging around because it rains <em>all the time</em> in the Basque country. It is rich and verdant and they grow many, many tons of grapes per acre; they can hardly help themselves. Txakoli is not a particularly pricey wine, what with those abundant grapes and all. More is less. But Txakoli is very pleasant, light and (usually) sparking, and I do like it quite a bit, probably because it reminds me of beer.</p>
<p>I have grape vines in my garden, too. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/1d592263521c0afe0f03482ae863a34b8623f0ec/original/grapevine.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p>They produced a handful of grapes the first couple of years after I planted them about a decade ago. But in recent seasons they have produced nary a grape – so any wine I might have produced from those non-existent grapes would in theory have been infinitely expensive.</p>
<p>But this year, the Newton, MA <em>terroir </em>seems hell-bent for leather on churning out all the grapes I could possibly use. Who knows -- maybe I will try to ferment some and see what happens! They are Concord grapes, meaning that the best case scenario is ...Manischewitz.</p>
<p>But mostly, I grow vegetables in my little garden. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/70bcd241ba1e6c4406a0abe84f88523dec6cf405/original/veggie-patch.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p>The <em>terroir </em>here is defined by the compost I regularly provide, but also by shade from nearby houses and trees, and by exhaust fumes from the busy street outside my fence. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/85dbd4effb725074aee62d988dd73d1c3046ff59/original/centre-traffic.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p> </p>
<p>This year, the <em>terroir</em> is also defined by dust from the endless road and sidewalk repair going on outside the fence, as well: the City has been ripping up the street and the sidewalk nonstop since May. </p>
<p>But I think that most of all, the <em>terroir</em> in my vegetable garden is defined by this trumpet vine:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/8d2276db2f94e75d3983261b07454eec47c0a40c/original/trumpet-vine.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p>It is huge, and explosive, and while we hack it back to a bare trunk every year, by July it has swallowed everything in its path. It is separated from the vegetable garden by a distance of maybe ten feet, lots of other plants, and a brick path. But this trumpet vine is voracious, and relentess. Its roots are constantly seeking new territory; every day I find myself pulling new eruptions of trumpet vine foliage out from among the kale or the cukes. It is everywhere, inescapable; a big, orange, ill-mannered bully.</p>
<p>Little wonder that it is called a <strong>Trump</strong>et vine.</p>
<p>They say that the basil grown in Genoa, Italy, makes pesto that tastes like nothing else on this earth. I have not had been to Genoa; but I can say that the basil from the Newton, MA <em>terroir</em> tastes well enough. The lettuce, beans and kale have been doing well. But the tomatoes, sadly, seem a bit scanty this year, as do the eggplants. They are growing, sure; but they look sad to me, not blowsy and dripping with fruit as in some years past. This is the best eggplant in the veggie patch; and thus far it has only one half-matured fruit to its name, and no signs of others on the way:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/64292a0081160f1b02a4bddc038453b411093512/original/sad-eggplant.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /> </p>
<p>But the veggie patch is not my only backyard microclimate. I am also growing some eggplants and tomatoes (along with a whole lot of flowers) in containers near my back porch. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/35bbb26fff5728854366afa7f32eef783c4ce602/original/containers-late-june.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p>This particular <em>terroir</em> is characterized by a scant half-day of sun, bagged potting soil, and a whole lot of dehydrated chicken shit. </p>
<p>But look at the eggplants in <em>terroir</em> number <em>deux</em>:</p>
<p> <img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/a021600032cc7084b64df09c2bd1c503dc960b9f/original/happy-eggplant.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p>This one plant – one plant! – has five fruits already in various states of maturity, and a whole bunch of flowers, male and female, meaning that more eggplants are on the way.</p>
<p>But as they say, more is less, less is more. That single eggplant in the veggie patch, the one that has to fight off the exhaust fumes and the Trumpet vine, if it survives to adulthood, will be the most delicious eggplant the planet has ever seen. And I will make it into a tiny but exquisite serving of eggplant parmesan.</p>
<p>Which I will then bottle and sell for $90.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61150542018-07-02T20:00:00-04:002022-05-16T06:58:57-04:00Mutiny of the Bounty
<p>It is a fecund season. I say that because I learned the word <em>fecund</em> 37 years ago for the SATs, and in all this time I have yet to use it in a sentence.</p>
<p>But fecund it is. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/17778d7d0f76fab42a35e5c77b7e8ae369ae5bb2/original/june-garden.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/a852f4653219d8f2230a95d7fd731ce2f819ccb7/original/containers.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p>The weather has been particularly auspicious for all growing things this year, with ample rain in the spring and summer heat arriving at just the right time. My garden is brimming with nascent eggplants, tomatoes, green beans. And fruits! My blueberry bushes are loaded. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/7b9240e17411415306c8545e0fe13b3da8cc5d25/original/blueberries.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDQxMSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="411" width="450" /></p>
<p>The apple trees, after a hard pruning in the fall, are breaking with their usual biennial pattern and are heavy with fruit for the second year in a row. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/493b59f35d55ef4e916ee85909dfad0480b4f402/original/apples.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p>The grape vines, which have been blighted by something or other and have not fruited in years, are all of a sudden sporting lots of little clusters of grapes-to-be. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/7e13b1f909158f3b18c02a81d8780c66016d8127/original/grapes-2.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p>The animal kingdom is not to be left behind. Take, for example, the bunnies. The New England Cottontail rabbit population has <a href="https://newenglandcottontail.org/content/natural-history" data-imported="1">apparently been on the wane for some time</a>. But I took a walk last night, after the temperature had cooled to a mere 89 degrees, and in the space of half an hour saw no fewer than four of them. </p>
<p>Now, everyone knows that bunnies can wreak havoc on a kitchen garden. Not for nothing did Mr. MacGregor take out after Peter Rabbit with a potentially lethal garden implement! My own veggie patch has hardly survived unscathed the rabbit onslaught. (What is the collective noun for rabbits, anyway? A <em>pride</em> of lions; a <em>school</em> of fish…..) Yes, a <em>pestilence</em> of bunnies has invaded my garden this season. They are particularly fond of newly-planted leafy greens – seedlings of lettuce, parsley, beans and so on. They like their veggies young and tender – much as I, undoubtedly, would most enjoy eating the bunnies themselves in their young and tender phase. </p>
<p>After trying unsuccessfully to <a href="http://midlifemomsongs.com/blog/whitey_bulger_in_the_garden/" data-imported="1">electrocute the bunnies </a>some years back, I learned from a friend about homemade pepper spray. You boil some super-hot peppers for 10 minutes or so, blend them up, strain out the solids, add a drop of dishwashing liquid and a another of oil to give it a little staying power, and then spray it on the most likely targets of rabbit cravings. The bunnies, undoubtedly of Northern European heritage, do not have a taste for capsaicin; they are somewhat inclined to leave the spicy young plants alone.</p>
<p>It’s not failsafe. The bunnies still eat some stuff; and of course you have to repeat the process periodically throughout the season, and in particular after it rains. But it works OK. Some seedlings get fatally stripped, but most survive. And in the end there is enough, and I am grateful.</p>
<p>The aphids are also having a good year. Aphids are one of your more distasteful garden pests: one is never pleased to find a <em>regurgitation</em> of aphids swarming all over a formerly exuberant kale plant. Searching for organic solutions on the web, I came across the suggestion of steeping chopped tomato leaves in water overnight to make a kind of tea. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/69147ce220de29847acb9a66cd65afc9b3d621e0/original/tomato-leaves.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p>In the morning you strain it and spray it on the aphids. The alkaloids in the tomato leaves are apparently inimical to the well-being of soft-bodied insects: it essentially dessicates them. That’s the story, anyway…and it turns out to be pretty much true. The sprayed aphids more or less dry up, and you can easily wash them off with a light spray from the hose.</p>
<p>Of course, there are always more aphids; and you have to keep checking for them and repeating the process every few days. But….it works well enough. That seems to be the essence of organic gardening. The methods are by no means foolproof; but it’s all good enough to get by. And I am grateful for the kale that survives.</p>
<p>I have a lovely edging of woodland strawberries, both red and white, in my little veggie patch.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/abb25fca618e711092b45fb6190d2f71b774890c/original/strawberry-plants.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p>I started them from seed years ago; and this fecund spring, the plants were loaded with lovely little white blooms that turn into fruit, each and every one. They are tiny, these strawberries; but they are scrumptious little flavor bombs.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/07586673c43e93369232e791611f5ac6ac33560b/original/strawberry.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /> </p>
<p>But have I mentioned the chipmunks? They are on a reproductive tear that makes the bunnies look abstinent by comparison. Chipmunks have an entirely undeserved reputation for cuteness. (Admittedly, they do have an excellent publicist – I believe his name is Alvin.) They are adored in popular culture, singing tight harmony in their helium-raised voices. And who could forget the rascally but charming Chip and Dale? </p>
<p>Do not be fooled. Chipmunks are greedy little bastards. The woodland strawberries are right at eye level for them, and these avaricious, fraudulent little buggers help themselves in the most brazen manner. I have no idea what an appropriate organic response would be to the <em>Madoff</em> of chipmunks that is invading my berry patch. Isn’t arsenic a natural compound?</p>
<p>I don’t expect to get many of the apples, either. The squirrels love them and they are particularly piggish about it, taking one or two bites of each nearly-ripe apple before tossing it to the ground. The grapes will likely go to the raccoons who wander up from the Charles River (and who need an alternative food source to the trash bins I have finally learned how to properly secure). </p>
<p>But perhaps that, too, is one of the life lessons of organic gardening: the good guys don’t always win. Although thinking of humans as the “good guys” is also pretty presumptuous. We are, after all, the species that elected Donald Trump.</p>
<p>And then there are the blueberries, beloved of birds everywhere. For this, there are indeed several organic options. The best one is to surround the bushes with protective netting. We tried this for several years. But a few birds invariably find their way into the net cage and eat the berries anyway, after which feast they become frantic trying to escape, and I become equally frantic trying to release them. Not a good time. </p>
<p>This year, I decided to try an alternative approach. Birds, it is said, don’t like flashing, shiny things. So as is done all over Europe, I hung strings of CDs around the nearly-ripe berries, hoping to frighten the birds away.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/178f98d81fd48d34cef109b3be70d38c8ac76984/original/cds.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6Mzg3eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="387" /> </p>
<p>Now, I do not speak Blue Jay, but I’m pretty sure that when I hear the jays calling in the back yard, this is what they are saying:</p>
<p>"HAHAHAHAHAHA!!"</p>
<p>Unless they are saying:</p>
<p>“Is she <em>really</em> still using Office 2011 for Mac? If not, why is she still hanging onto the installation CDs?”</p>
<p>The jays are not fooled by the CDs, not one bit, and they are positively gorging themselves on my blueberries. </p>
<p>But….I am an organic gardener, and it will have to be good enough. I am grateful for what I have. The birds will eat, the chipmunks will eat, I will share with the squirrels and the aphids and the entire pestilence of rabbits. </p>
<p>And in the end I will be grateful for the blessing of the bounty that remains.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/537c27d0bf1fa6725fc4e55a5b0b803f8d2f9344/original/fruit-salad.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzczeDQxMiJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="412" width="373" /></p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61150532018-06-01T20:00:00-04:002021-09-12T13:51:06-04:00What is the sound of one hand blogging?
<p>Early in March I took a tumble on some black ice and definitively separated my supraspinatus tendon from the shoulder bone to which it had hitherto been attached. By the end of March, when it became apparent that no, my shoulder was not going to heal on its own, I took the obvious next step.<br><br>I started tomato seeds for the spring garden. Because a girl has her priorities.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/753e2f81246bad845330957d414944fcffa8a986/original/seed-packets.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /><br>********************************************************************<br>I had the surgery to repair my rotator cuff in mid-May. Rotator cuff surgery involves six weeks in a sling. Sadly, the sling is not optimized as an accessory to the late spring wardrobe.</p>
<p><br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/346af98a1b43863813ed47cdb467f6147b39338f/original/sling-shot.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzQxeDMzNyJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="337" width="341" /><br>It is, however, loaded with Velcro. Velcro has come to play a rather dominant role in my life in the two weeks since the operation. Velcro is the secret to this magnificent ice pack, my very favorite possession in the world at the moment.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/88e3f080535268585777fe269deb869946c009e5/original/ice-holder.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p>You use this big Velcro-fastened harness to keep the ice in place around your shoulder while you go on about your business – say, checking on the progress of the tomatoes in the garden, or watching "The Great British Baking Show," my two predominant pastimes in the past two weeks. Of course, sometimes the Velcro from the ice pack gets a little promiscuous with the Velcro from the sling, and hilarity ensues.<br><br>Then there is this Shoulder Shirt, designed to make it easy for surgery patients to get in and out of their clothing. It fastens at the shoulders so you can step in and out of it instead of pulling it over your head – a big help, especially in the creaky first post-surgical week. And it closes with – guess what? – Velcro! </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/805f83686ea5374b0bc92349fa5085d889b12287/original/shoulder-shirt.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /><br><br>I'm not positive what the surgeon used to close up my incisions. But I have my suspicions.</p>
<p>*****************************************</p>
<p>Here are some things you absolutely cannot do with one arm in a sling:</p>
<ul>
<li> Fold fitted sheets</li>
<li> Open a storm window</li>
<li> Fasten a back–closing brassiere</li>
</ul>
<p> </p>
<p>Here are some things that are surprisingly possible to do with one arm in a sling:</p>
<ul>
<li> Bake bread (if someone helps you get it in and out of the oven)</li>
<li> Open a tightly closed jar of sauerkraut. The technique required involves securing the jar between your knees, anchored with dry rubber gloves to prevent slipping. (I call this my "Genius Move.")</li>
<li> Write texts - thank you, iPhone voice recognition! The software's limitations are a bit puzzling, though. My iPhone knows absolutely everything about me: my location, all of my passwords, my bank balance. But when I ask it verbally to sign an email, it spells my name wrong, every single time.</li>
</ul>
<p> </p>
<p>************************************</p>
<p>After rotator cuff surgery you have to sleep sitting up for a while. It is not delightful, kind of like taking a red-eye flight every single night. Except that there is nobody farting in the seat next to you. You don't have to pay extra for blankets. And instead of liquor in tiny bottles, you can have all the medical marijuana you want.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/fc334e57de7969f0033d3b9c205fc62f882ff8a3/original/pot-card.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /><br><br></p>
<p>****************************************</p>
<p>Most of the post-surgical instructions my doctor provided were pretty clear. But there were a few things that were left rather vague. For example, they put compression socks on me before the surgery, and I was told to continue to wear them afterwards. But for how long? Compression socks, like big-assed Velcro slings, are not optimized for the late spring wardrobe.</p>
<p>Naturally, I asked the Internet. I was deeply intrigued with this answer:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/e16bba86ebcc1490e1621afcf03b746923e60c34/original/bbl.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MjgxeDUwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="500" width="281" /><br><br>A Brazilian Butt Lift! Vastly more interesting than rotator cuff repair. I think I want one, if I can only figure out what it is. To where, exactly, is one's butt lifted?</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/48ef7c96f4fd9d414bb598e62681ec7a9948ed78/original/brazilian-butt-lift.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDQ0MyJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="443" width="450" /><br><br></p>
<p>*******************************</p>
<p>Everything is about attitude: you can't choose what happens to your rotator cuff, but you can choose how you respond. A real post-surgical turning point for me came when I stopped bemoaning the fashion-backwardness of my big black accessory, and decided instead to take advantage of its miraculous quantity of Velcro. </p>
<p> <img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/07fa1e39469a2a28726ef70347082bdb31451e1a/original/velcro-tape.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p>There's fashion!</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/0c1f710d27d5fd31d1df455071fb36d87121ce92/original/velcro-decorations.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p>And function!</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/ada349741d779580f3a1308cd943a1d58de9c7ae/original/velcro-tool-sling.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6Mjg3eDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="287" /><br><br></p>
<p>**********************************</p>
<p>I am very happy to report, two weeks after surgery, that my tomato plants are doing quite well.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/ae9f0492a6ab33900d32c3ad3abe504e6859f0c1/original/tomato-plant.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p><br>Of course, we are still quite a long way from actual tomatoes. They will be ready to harvest in mid-August, right around the time that I will once again be able to lift things with my left arm. Which means that I will be able to pick even the biggest tomatoes with either hand.<br><br>And then I will go inside and fold the fitted sheets.<br><br></p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61150522018-04-07T20:00:00-04:002021-09-20T14:08:11-04:00Replacement Parts
<p>My food processor isn’t working quite right. The plunger no longer moves smoothly in its sleeve, and so grating potatoes is a hit or miss proposition.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/8756dbf7768fd9a9c8ebf66674dac81338c2d322/original/broken-processor.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p>The problem might be with the lid, which has a design flaw such that when it was sitting in the dish drainer and I inadvertently dropped a heavy cast iron pot on top of it, a couple of pieces of plastic broke off. The problem could also be with the plunger, which looks a bit bent from having been pushed repeatedly into a broken lid.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/9b6bf9a381d181cc449a406b94175f059082df14/original/cuisinart-booklet.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p>My Internet search for replacement parts for the Cuisinart DFP-14N yields valuable information: it is not a Lid and a Plunger that I seek, but a Work Bowl Cover and a Large Pusher! But the Internet does not yield an actual DFP-14N replacement Work Bowl Cover, nor does it yield a DFP-14N Large Pusher. There is a Work Bowl Cover for the DFP-14BCNY, which sounds promising: maybe my DFP-14N is a subset of the broader designation DFP-14BCNY, if one accepts the hypothesis that my food processor is compatible with any replacement parts labelled DFP-14*N*, where * can be filled by any string of alphanumeric characters (including the null set). </p>
<p> But Amazon does not accept this hypothesis. Amazon thinks, instead, that my food processor is compatible with the DLC-017BGTX Work Bowl Cover. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/44fa3730d984827e37ac57b799c70d5399e31b49/original/dlc-017bgtx.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDExMSJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="111" width="450" /></p>
<p>As for a replacement Large Pusher Assembly, my choice is limited to the DLC-2014-PN1, the DLC2014P-1, or the promisingly-monikered DLC-118BGTX-1, which might go nicely with my new DLC-017BGTX Work Bowl Cover with Large Food Tube, on the theory that the DLC-017BGTX is compatible with any parts labeled DLC-*1*BGTX, where * can be replaced by any string of alphanumeric characters (including the null set). </p>
<p>But Amazon craps all over this hypothesis a second time. So I order the DLC-017BGTX Work Bowl Cover, eschewing Large Pusher Assemblies for the time being, and hope for the best.</p>
<hr>
<p>My left shoulder isn’t working quite right. It has a design flaw such that when I slip on the ice, fall down a short flight of stairs, and land directly on it, the shoulder no longer moves smoothly in its socket, and so grating potatoes is a hit or miss proposition.</p>
<p>I would like to order a new rotator cuff, so I search the Internet. I am intrigued by the options! But I am not sure about compatibility with the LG1965:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/3f00285a5356a4688369b00dfa53b9c302028389/original/rotator.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDE5OSJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="199" width="450" /></p>
<hr>
<p> I am intrigued by the possibility of ordering replacement parts for the Oval Office. Its current occupant, POTUS-DT-2016, has several design flaws:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/dd2551594223e46b879959d32cd9f75b6a3ac61c/original/trump.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzNyJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="337" width="450" /></p>
<p>Overall, I was much more satisfied with the previous model, POTUS-BHO-2008/2012. But the Internet tells me that the previous model is no longer on the market.</p>
<p>Apparently Oval Office replacement parts are unlikely to be available prior to 2020. And on the off chance that they should be, the choice will be limited to the VPOTUS-MP-2016, which may have design flaws of its own:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/dbcb91601f7bc9804f417fc54e0ea50140cf743d/original/pence-headshot.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzYyeDQ1MCJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="362" /></p>
<hr>
<p> I am considering ordering replacement parts for this box of chocolates:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/633fe74e2da7ef8d8bf8c5bbffbdd410b259d409/original/candy-half-full.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p>It has a design flaw such that when I eat the chocolate, the box becomes empty.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/c8b8e6d9987b1052be89ea5988fb4d2f56b4c84a/original/candy-mostly-empty.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p>The Internet offers many options for replacement chocolates. But after considering the implications of freight charges per kg., I decide to go with a DIY approach.</p>
<div>
<p> <img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/5a9b522b113f9ac6fd48bfce11b8ca486617684f/original/candy-with-fruit.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<hr>
<p> </p>
</div>
<p>I am sorry to report that the DLC-017BGTX Work Bowl Cover does not, in the end, turn out to be compatible with the Cuisinart DFP-14N. Instead I plan to order a CTG-00-BG:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/09969aff043b96f9a32cb4aa1900a70f6970fff8/original/screenshot-2018-04-09-08-49-51.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDE4MSJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="181" width="450" /></p>
<p>Which, I expect, will work perfectly -- once I install that new rotator in the LG1965.</p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61150512018-03-24T20:00:00-04:002021-09-20T04:43:29-04:00Mindfulness and Gratitude
<p>Mindfulness! It’s everywhere. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/f46a5ed62a62d9e30e0afa747fa627fbb1503a0d/original/time-mindfulness.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p>A couple of weeks ago, on a cold Friday morning, I was living mindfully in the moment as I stepped out my back door. I was mindful of the bright sun, which has been rising a little earlier every morning as March replaces February. I was mindful of some green shoots sticking through the snow, sure signs of spring in this late-lingering winter. I was mindful of the cold, clear air as I inhaled. And exhaled. And inhaled again. And I paid attention to inhaling, and exhaling, and inhaling again, because when you’re being mindful that’s what you do.</p>
<p>What I was not mindful of – not at all – was the super-thin sheen of ice that had formed overnight on my otherwise cleanly-shoveled back porch. So the minute I stepped out the door my feet went flying out from under me and I tumbled down the steps, with unfortunate results for my left shoulder.</p>
<p>It’s not dire, this shoulder problem. It’s just one of those things that most of us do to ourselves every now and again – sprain an ankle, break a toe, wrench a knee. (At least, I do those things to myself every so often. You, perhaps, are more coordinated, or more mindful. In either case, my hat's off to you.)</p>
<p>Not dire, no; but a bit of an inconvenience, to be sure. I can’t drive; I can’t open jars without help. I can’t do yoga – the heart of my mindfulness practice. Yoga is one of my favorite things, and I am truly bummed about being sidelined. I am mindful of how full my mind is of minding not doing yoga.</p>
<p>I’ve been in and out of a sling for the past two and a half weeks; and after shopping several drug stores the only one I could find is a dull shade of gray-white:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/803df3904c3dcfb7df502720acfc8aef58a30282/original/sling.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p>A dubious fashion choice. I would much rather have magenta.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/1cf797c48af23dc75585173f0fa24a4281b15ed2/original/purple-sling.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p>So be it. If mindfulness is taking a holiday at the moment, there is always gratitude. Gratitude is as everywhere as mindfulness!</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/70817aea543cac109508ccf877c533128d42b36e/original/gratitude.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDQ1eDQ1MCJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="445" /></p>
<p>Really, there is much to be grateful for. First off: my Photoshop finger still works just fine. In fact, three of my four limbs are in fine shape, so I can manage most of my (non-yoga) life activities.</p>
<p>Not driving is as much a blessing as a curse, since I hate driving. Public transit works well enough in greater Boston that it can get me to most places I have to go, albeit at a more leisurely pace. All of which gives me more time to spending walking outside, being mindful of the bright sun and the chirping birds and the cold crisp air and all that inhaling and exhaling shit. </p>
<p>I am grateful that the arm-in-a-sling thing turns out to be fiscally prudent – I’ve passed up several opportunities to go shopping for spring clothes, since getting dressed and undressed is probably my least favorite activity at the moment. </p>
<p> Oh, and here’s another unexpected object of gratitude! People are <em>nice</em> to you when you wear a sling. Shortly after my fall I had a work trip to St. Louis, and, as I always do in St. Louis, I went to Mission Taco for dinner. Mission Taco has my favorite tacos anywhere – they are awesome. </p>
<p> <img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/79e0f5d0110c8c60461a5e23a256a524643e052c/original/mission-taco.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p>I am grateful for the habanero shrimp at Mission Taco.</p>
<p>So are many others, it turns out, because this place is always jammed, standing room only even on a Monday night during spring vacation at nearby Wash U St. Louis.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/4a84f565d3fd20b6a0b1ac31781969567eb2d370/original/crowded-mission-taco.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p>Here’s the thing about Mission Taco: the waitstaff are always surly. ALWAYS. They can afford to be surly, because the tacos are <em>that good</em>. But on that Monday, when I arrived and slid onto a bar stool with my arm in a fashion-backward light gray sling, they were <em>not surly to me!</em> First observed incident of waitstaff politeness ever, in maybe a dozen visits to Mission Taco!</p>
<p> I am grateful for that not-surliness. And I am grateful that my shopping hiatus left me with more money to spend on habanero shrimp tacos. Because they are <em>that good.</em></p>
<p>Mostly I am grateful because slipping on the ice is no joke – less so the older I get – and I am mindful (mindful!) that the outcome of all this could have been much, much worse.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/cc5a9ba322fe7d79a417c099d1a2768b20926528/original/yellow-sling.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /> </p>
<p>The sling could have been available only in yellow. And I look awful in yellow. </p>
<p> </p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61150502018-02-24T19:00:00-05:002021-08-29T06:13:07-04:00Social Me-dia
<p>I am a bit sluggish getting up the social media learning curve.</p>
<p>I have the blog that you are reading now, and the <a href="http://www.midlifemomsongs.com" data-imported="1">website</a> where it resides. I have a personal Facebook page, plus <a href="https://www.facebook.com/Midlifemomsongs/" data-imported="1">another for my musical alter ago</a>; I have a <a href="https://twitter.com/midlifemomsongs" data-imported="1">Twitter account</a> (that I use infrequently) and a Pinterest account (on which I never post; but Pinterest turns out to be a good way to research potential hairstyles). </p>
<p>And of course I have a YouTube channel for posting my music videos. I posted a <a href="https://youtu.be/HdRj2oNAjww" data-imported="1">new music video</a> this week, in fact! So far, it has 197 views. </p>
<p>197 is a pretty insignificant number in social media terms. 5,000 hits is considered to be barely making a dent. 100,000 is the absolute minimum to be considered "viral." Real social media splashes number in the millions.</p>
<p>Although I want to point out that if I were counting in Base 3, 197 would be 21,022. Which is way more, even though it’s the same.</p>
<p>According to the expert you choose, there are <a href="https://www.entrepreneur.com/article/233676" data-imported="1">five</a>, <a href="https://www.socialmediaexaminer.com/habits-of-successful-social-media-marketers/" data-imported="1">six</a>, <a href="https://www.forbes.com/sites/johnrampton/2014/09/29/25-ways-to-grow-your-social-media-presence/#2025dbc662fb" data-imported="1">twenty-five</a>, <a href="https://www.entrepreneur.com/article/302286" data-imported="1"> ten</a> or <a href="https://www.americanexpress.com/us/small-business/openforum/articles/8-best-practices-to-promote-your-business-on-social-media/" data-imported="1">eight</a> steps to achieving social media success. All agree that Step #3, #2, #19, #6, or #4 is to spend nearly as much time sharing other people's content as creating your own: re-tweeting, re-posting, and so forth. I am not so good at that. I scrounge together what time I can to write the blog or make the videos or whatever, and then I go off to do something else, like eating toast, or putting the laundry in the dryer, or even, on an off day, my job.</p>
<p>Lately we have been hearing a lot of speculation about how social media is contributing to unprecendented dissension in American life. Our social media feeds, so the narrative goes, push us toward content that reinforces the beliefs to which we are already predisposed, driving us further and further into our own self-reinforcing perceptual bubbles. </p>
<p>So I choose to see my relative lack of success on social media as a contribution to greater American civility. By not re-tweeting, re-posting or otherwise having any impact at all on pretty much anybody, I am helping to prevent the tunnel vision that is apparently our most pressing social scourge. I am a true American hero.</p>
<p>Although it is not completely the case that I have failed to redirect my modest number of listeners/followers to other items of interest! This morning I visited my YouTube channel:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/725969c94fabcebadb7c2dfa3d1155bd2c6cc74e/original/youtube-channel.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NTAweDIwMyJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="203" width="500" /></p>
<p>A few things of note here. First, my YouTube channel apparently has twelve (12) subscribers! Twelve is an exciting number because it is larger than the number of people in my immediate family. Also because in Base 3 it is 110, which is way more even though it is the same.</p>
<p>Also, I am pleased to see that the 197 views collected by my latest, <a href="https://youtu.be/HdRj2oNAjww" data-imported="1">Ironing</a>, is more views that has been earned by <a href="https://youtu.be/YbSL2eGHE7M" data-imported="1">Diagnosis</a>, my previous video, which only has 142. Amazing how my impact has grown in just a few short months!</p>
<p>But scrolling down a bit, I find this:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/f5f3e5f41411181090433b4cd7abb0434533ff5f/original/screen-shot-2018-02-25-at-10-23-29-am.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6OTY3eDM4NiJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="386" width="967" /></p>
<p> </p>
<p>I have apparently "LIKED" this video of a <a href="https://youtu.be/PnJo7d-xBjY" data-imported="1">Cat Terrorized by Popcorn</a>, even though I never saw it before finding it on this morning's YouTube channel exploration. I have inadvertently recommended this video to all 110<sub> (Base 3)</sub> of my Subscribers! And these twelve people must have done a pretty good job selling it to their friends in turn, because this thing has over 11 million views (I think YouTube reports in Base 10). Not bad, considering the cat doesn't even write his own lyrics!</p>
<p>Look. To be honest, there’s a part of me that’s delighted that as many as 197 people have bothered to listen to a song I wrote. Besides, this far into middle age, I am pretty much at peace with where my life has taken me thus far. I am well aware that my value as a human being is not measured by how many hits I get on YouTube.</p>
<p>My value as a human being is measured by how much money I make.</p>
<p>And that number, I must tell you, looks pretty impressive in Base 3.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61150492018-02-19T19:00:00-05:002020-01-16T16:04:44-05:00Ironing
<p>Look! A new music video! Special thanks to Steve Ansolabehere for the aerial photography.</p>
<p></p>
<div class="video responsive"><div class="video-container"><div class="video responsive"><div class="video-container"><iframe frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/HdRj2oNAjww" width="560" allowfullscreen="" class="wrapped wrapped"></iframe></div></div></div></div>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61150482018-02-09T19:00:00-05:002021-09-03T12:27:28-04:00Netflix and Chill
<p>Last weekend was a quiet one, and I found myself with some free evenings, nobody else in the house, and a lingering case of jetlag. Perfect moment for Netflix and knitting. </p>
<p>If it were less cold outside and I were less tired, I’d just go to the theatre, because there are at least half a dozen movies playing right now that I really want to see. Isn’t that always the case? And if I just turn to <em>Browse Recent Releases</em>, won’t I then run into all the movies from 2016 and 2017 that I was eager to see at the time, but didn’t quite catch while they were in active circulation?</p>
<p>For example: I remember that a year or so ago, before a Wim Wenders documentary about life in Siberia, there was a delightful trailer for a movie about a Welsh farm boy who makes it as a world-class operatic tenor. Shouldn’t that opera movie be hitting the streaming services right around now?</p>
<p>I flip on Netflix, and I am greeted with a somewhat overwhelming array of choices:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/1f46a2ca26a817532f22701648852fb96939a3f8/original/netflix-home.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDc1eDE5NyJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="197" width="475" /></p>
<p>Where’s that thing about the Welsh tenor? Or maybe he was a Romanian baritone? Netflix doesn’t seem to have it, or at least doesn’t Recommend it for Laurie.</p>
<p> So I troll around for a while, and finally find this:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/936958fbcf682cdd1ce2203c94bf3ebbf452a266/original/screen-shot-2018-02-10-at-12-56-29-pm.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDMyeDU2MSJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="561" width="432" /></p>
<p>I vaguely recall reading reviews of this movie last year. And look at that cast! Laura Linney: I could watch her read the phone book. Steve Coogan: he would read the phone book in that nonplussed British way I always find amusing. Richard Gere: I didn’t used to think I cared about his interpretation of the phone book, but he was a delightful surprise in 2016’s “Norman,” so I think maybe he would read the phone book like an old Jewish guy from my childhood, and I’d like that quite a bit.</p>
<p>And so I click "PLAY."</p>
<p>Half an hour in I am unsure where this is going. Some intriguing plot lines; but I’m not quite hooked.</p>
<p> An hour in I’m still unsure. But at this point it’s too late to start anything else so I just keep going.</p>
<p>Two hours later I have watched the whole thing and I know for sure that it is a really, <em>really</em> bad movie. Those actors were all fine, but the script was weak and the editing worse. I rewound and re-watched a few crucial scenes several times to try to figure out what happened, and I have to tell you that I still don’t really know. </p>
<p>A few days later, when mulling over whether this was a blog-worthy event, I look the movie up on IMDb, and I make a startling discovery--hold onto your seats for this one! It turns out that Chloe Sevigny and Rebecca Hall are <em>not the same person! </em></p>
<p><em><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/1b5ea0bb601f4778416112b4af793ec21fc0bbbb/original/screen-shot-2018-02-10-at-12-54-28-pm.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzcweDMzMyJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="333" width="370" /></em></p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/c1e8eb62a89cc3ff3155e7e2719a2ded6f445347/original/screen-shot-2018-02-10-at-12-54-42-pm.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDM5eDMzMiJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="332" width="439" /></p>
<p>You see, the Chloe Sevigny character only appears in flashbacks; and I’d assumed that Rebecca Hall (in the present) was the same person as Chloe (in the past), just with a new hair color. But these actresses are actually <em>two different people playing two</em> <em>different roles! </em> Imagine that! So now I have to rethink my entire conception of the movie!</p>
<p>OK. Done. <em>The Dinner</em> still sucks.</p>
<p>So there you have it: two hours of my life spent with bad art and bad entertainment. I can’t ever get those two hours back. And I still haven’t seen that movie about the Polish bass. </p>
<p>There’s this thing that sometimes happens when I’m talking with my husband, who is a Social Scientist. I make an observation that feels, to me, like a pithy statement about the human condition, and he responds by saying something like, “actually, sociologists call that <em>Self-Delusional Observational Identity Bias Effect</em>” or “psychologists call that the <em>Retroactive Sympathy Gap Hypothesis</em>.” </p>
<p>I think of this as the "<em>People Smarter Than You Have Already Had All of Your Ideas Phenomenon."</em></p>
<p>Recently, Steve trotted out one of these social science constructs that I rather liked. It is called “<em>Minimax Regret</em>.” Minimax Regret, as I understand it (based on an in-depth five-minute conversation with the house Social Scientist), is a decision-making strategy in which one makes one’s choices based on assessment of what will lead to the least regret later on. This concept resonated with me for several reasons:</p>
<ul>
<li>First, I am fairly certain that Minimax Regret is an under-performing feminine hygiene product I used in the 1980's.</li>
<li>Second, it is a pretty good description of my own decision-making process in many cases.</li>
</ul>
<p> </p>
<p>For example, I adore coffee, and would chug it all day; except that I know that more than a cup or two will send me into overdrive. So after some judicious point in the afternoon I opt instead for wimp-assed herbal tea. Or I might forego buying a new pair of shoes because I know that I if I do I will arrive home and find that I have no more closet space for additional shoes. I will therefore conclude that I am an over-consuming, First World environmental disaster. And I will feel so bad about myself that I will treat myself to a cappuccino, which will then keep me up until the wee hours. </p>
<p>Minimax Regret in action.</p>
<p>I think of all the really, really bad viewing on which I’ve wasted time through random Netflix offerings (I’m looking at you, <a href="https://topdocumentaryfilms.com/russian-revolution/" data-imported="1">Russian Revolution</a> and <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt2710394/" data-imported="1">Reign</a>). So I conclude that a more proactive Minimax Regret strategy might be called for. How can I approach movie night in a way that will not leave me feeling that I have just flushed precious hours down the drain?</p>
<p>A few options come to mind:</p>
<ul>
<li>Always watch <em>Casablanca</em>, because it is perfect and never gets old.</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>Always watch <a href="http://www.dreamworks.com/trolls/" data-imported="1"><em>Trolls</em></a>, because pot is now legal in Massachusetts.</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>Turn off the TV and read a book. There are way more good books than there are good movies.</li>
</ul>
<p> </p>
<p>So there you have it: three strategies sure to minimize movie night buyer's remorse. I will employee them in rotation, according to my mood.</p>
<p>Unless, of course, Netflix streams that movie about the Congolese counter-tenor. I am watching that, for sure!</p>
<p> </p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61150472017-12-16T19:00:00-05:002021-09-14T13:53:08-04:00Hell Outta Bat, revisited
<p>On Wednesday evening I returned home from a work trip. I had been teaching a course -- three full days in front of a classroom. It's an activity I quite enjoy, but this time I was kind of sick, so by the end of it I was pretty fried. Yeah, I know: bitch, bitch, bitch. But it sure felt great to climb into my very own bed and settle in for a good night's sleep.</p>
<p>That good night's sleep came to a an abrupt end at around 1:30 in the morning, when my younger daughter, home for the holidays from college, burst into the hall yelling, "There's a bat in my room!" I believe there were also expletives involved.</p>
<p>I have done this before, so I know the drill: first choice, kill the bat and send it in for rabies testing; second choice, shoo it out of the house (and get the rabies shots just to be sure). I grabbed a murder implement (a lightweight metal bowl -- I don't play tennis, sadly, so my options are a bit limited) and I shut myself in the bedroom with the flying menace. Fortunately, this one was an easy mark: it settled fairly quickly on a flat surface where I was able to bang on it with my bowl. I believe there were also expletives involved. </p>
<p>We dumped the bat into a small cardboard box which we secured with 87 very large pieces of packing tape (yes, it was dead; but <em>still</em>). Then my daughter and I snuggled up in bed with cups of tea and watched <em>My Cousin Vinny</em>, trying to calm down, eventually getting to sleep again around 4:00 am or so.</p>
<p>The City of Newton's website offers these helpful tips if you have a bat in your house:</p>
<ul>
<li>Don't damage the bat's head during capture because the brain is needed for rabies testing.</li>
<li>Place the bat in a clear, sealed container.</li>
<li>Store the bat in the refrigerator until you can drop it off for testing.</li>
</ul>
<p> </p>
<p>Surprisingly, the website says nothing about <em>My Cousin Vinny.</em></p>
<p>Let us address these suggestions one at a time:</p>
<ul>
<li>
<em>Don't damage the bat's head during capture because the brain is needed for rabies testing</em>: This presupposes a degree of finesse which is quite difficult to muster when something is flying around your head. The idea is to hit the bat with something until it stops moving. The concept of aim, under the circumstances, is perhaps a bit optimistic.</li>
<li>
<em>Place the bat in a clear, sealed container: </em>Here's the thing: if I put the bat in a clear container then I will need to LOOK at it, and I am trying very hard to get that image out of my mind. Further, I only have a limited supply of Tupperware, and other things being equal, I'd rather commit it to storing leftover soup than dead bats. But the <em>sealed</em> part? I'm definitely on board with that.</li>
<li>
<em>Store the bat in the refrigerator: </em> I think not.</li>
</ul>
<p> </p>
<p>The next day, a lovely police officer from the Newton PD's Animal Control unit picked up the animal for rabies testing (they make housecalls -- who knew?). He did not seem concerned about the lack of transparency in my bat vessel, nor about the fact that I'd stored it in the trunk of the car rather than the fridge. By mid-afternoon we got the good news that the bat was not rabid. No medical intervention needed: we can go on about our business as usual. Just a bit jumpier.</p>
<p>I have written about bats before, <a href="http://midlifemomsongs.com/blog/hell_outta_bat/" data-imported="1">in this very blog</a>; so I can precisely date our last bat invasion – it was a full four years ago. That’s not a terrible record – it doesn’t necessarily speak to a massive infestation. But I feel like an appropriate number of years between bat invasions is the time between now and, say, ten years after I’ve moved out of the house.</p>
<p>So I am about to sign on for what will be my third round of bat remediation in the past 20 years. This time I am trying a new company, one that offers a service they call "Bat Prevention." I like the sound of that. Surely, an ounce of Bat Prevention is worth at least a pound of dead bats. Even non-rabid ones. </p>
<p>I have in mind a kind of Extreme Vetting on the basis of species. Our household will admit most humans and a discrete selection of pets. But if you're a bat: sorry, but you'll need to stay on your side of the border. Trust me, my flying friends: that will end better for us both. Because I am one mean sonofabitch with a lightweight metal bowl and a mouthful of expletives.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61150462017-12-09T19:00:00-05:002021-09-05T14:40:56-04:00High Security
<p>You can't be too careful these days. There are Internet thieves, election hackers and general evil-doers lurking around every cyber corner. So WebWorld is working to find ways to make us safer, to protect our identities, to do business only after verifying that we are exactly who we pretend to be.</p>
<p>Thus security questions, the answers to which can be provided by you, and only by you. These are items so deeply ingrained in your consciousness that the answers are always with you, and thus you do not have to write them down, because if you write them down then Russians will invade you home and find those scraps of paper and then we will elect Donald Trump.</p>
<p>I am generally mystified by security questions, because I find I can answer so few of them. My favorite color? Well, I guess I had official Favorite Colors when I was growing up. When I was five, it was pink. When I was nine, it was burgundy. When I was 15, it was steel gray and fuck you. But now? Depends on the day; and even then, on most days I don't think I could name a favorite. </p>
<p>So many of the questions follow this pattern. Favorite film? I'd be hard-pressed to limit the list to twenty. Favorite restaurant? Usually the one which most recently served me a really good main course based on cauliflower. But next week I might switch to the place that works magic with chickpeas. </p>
<p>Then there are definitional issues. One website suggested as a security prompt the "city where you had your first kiss." Let's see, now: when I was eight, I played the title role of Snow White in the Camp Sequoia production of the same name. Prince Charming was played by a boy named Harry, who if memory serves, actually did have shoulder-length golden hair. Also horn-rimmed glasses. In the final scene, where Prince C. gives Snow W. the Kiss of True Love that awakens her from death-like slumber, despite the fact that the staging did not require him to do so, Harry actually kissed me. ON THE LIPS. The Forest Animals thought this was a hilarious development. For cyber-security purposes, was <em>that</em> my first kiss? I couldn't tell you. </p>
<p>But I can tell you this: that boy had better not think about running for Congress any time soon.</p>
<p>And spelling questions! No, I do not need to write down the name of the street on which I grew up in order to remember the answer to that one. But is it "Barnes Road?" "Barnes Rd.?" Or just "Barnes?" If the answer is "Barnes Rd" (no period), and you tried answers one through three, then you've already locked yourself out of the system. And heaven alone can help you then.</p>
<p>Fortunately, the U.S. Customs and Border Protection Service has figured all this out. Customs and Border Protection is the agency which has been trusted with securing our nation's borders, keeping out those nasty terrorists about whom we are all pretty much quaking in our boots pretty much all of the time. </p>
<p>The TSA has a system for identifying non-terrorists and waving them through re-entry into our country, called the Global Re-entry program. As a committed non-terrorist, I am in the process of applying for Global Re-entry. Recently I had to log into their data system to manage some part of my application. I was informed that the system was undergoing a major security upgrade and that I would need to transfer my old login credentials to the new system.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/db45266a377ccdd64dc177061c05bc8932f3ec9d/original/screen-shot-2017-12-10-at-2-34-46-pm.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NjA2eDg5Il0%3D.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="89" width="606" /></p>
<p>Great news! The Border gang has figured out how to keep us all more safe and secure -- all to the good. The email goes on to explain how to transfer my personal data to the new system:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/a4f259793a0615b31f03f05af941aa037a79e37a/original/aaa-answer.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NjE1eDQxIl0%3D.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="41" width="615" /></p>
<p>I should have known the Customs and Border Protection system to come up with the solution to the pesky problem of security questions! "Protection" is in their very name. The answer, no matter the question, is always "AAA." </p>
<p>The elegance of it is this: you never have to write it down! Because we all know how much of a security risk THAT can be.</p>
<p> </p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61150452017-11-28T19:00:00-05:002022-08-09T18:00:59-04:00Diagnosis
<p>Just in time for cold and flu season: a new music video!</p>
<p>Special thanks to funny lady Rebecca Ansolabehere for comedic inspiration on this one.</p>
<p> </p>
<p></p>
<div class="video responsive"><div class="video-container"><div class="video responsive"><div class="video-container"><iframe frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/YbSL2eGHE7M?rel=0" width="560" allowfullscreen="" class="wrapped wrapped"></iframe></div></div></div></div>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61150442017-11-07T19:00:00-05:002022-08-14T02:16:20-04:00Leafy greens and perpetual pests
<p>The tax bill introduced last week would (among other disasters) gut funding for affordable housing preservation and development--this at a moment when <a href="http://www.jchs.harvard.edu/sites/jchs.harvard.edu/files/harvard_jchs_state_of_the_nations_housing_2017_chap6.pdf" data-imported="1">39 million American households</a> live in homes they cannot afford. My working life is all about affordable housing preservation and development. I am alarmed.</p>
<p>And so I am going to write this blog post about kale.</p>
<p>*********************</p>
<p>Kale became a big thing six or seven years ago; 2012 was declared the Year of Kale (by whom, I'm not sure). I'm pretty sure some other things also happened in 2012. But be that as it may, by then people were slamming back kale smoothies and scarfing up kale chips like nobody's business. According to the Internet (which, as we know, is never wrong), prior to the current Kale-splosion, the biggest buyer of kale in America was Pizza Hut, which used it as an ornamental on salad bar displays.</p>
<p>I have documentary evidence that I was growing kale as early as 2005 --- witness this photo from my 2005 garden:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/b4d3fd4adcc4afe41e12a56d73182850e4b856ce/original/late-season-garden-05-6-1.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p>Look closely -- way down at the bottom left, there is some Red Russian growing proudly. Was I actually eating the kale I grew back in 2005? Can't remember, honestly. Most likely I was selling it to Pizza Hut.</p>
<p>************************************</p>
<p>Last month I was at Logan Airport, waiting to board a very big plane for a long, uncomfortable overnight flight. I was bored so I headed off in search of a snack. I ended up with these:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/35b3efc906a5cb5d6bdf3d1c7c1cc5b574ad3454/original/kale-chips.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p>Kale chips are a pretty dumb airport snack. They're not quite salty or crunchy or greasy enough to really satisfy. Plus they make a mess:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/e750bfda4a828549c3fc86abf1679f857cd7271e/original/kale-crumbs.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p>European airports do not sell kale chips. Look at these sensible snacks in the Bilbao airport:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/5e2f22991a0c8af2b5ff4b5b8b125710eab89877/original/bilbao-airport-snacks.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p>I couldn't find kale chips in the Frankfurt airport, but I did find these:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/2a5da3f35e5d5b94848ea7634d0c9d8f9ae0a7e4/original/wurst.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p>I could make a joke here about the wurst possible option, or the wurst case scenario, or my wurst airport nightmare, or about eating these only if wurst came to wurst.</p>
<p>But I won't. Because I will not stoop to that level of cheap humor.</p>
<p>***********************</p>
<p>I am told that the Portuguese take their kale very seriously; and from what I saw growing near Lisbon, it seems to be true:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/11257072d31a69ed74b90f181726395a3338a6f3/original/giant-portuguese-kale.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p>In this picture both the kale and my husband are shown at actual size.</p>
<p>Despite the steroidal plants, I found no kale salads on Lisbon menus. Salad in southwestern Europe is in fact a fairly prescribed assemblage of green leaf lettuce, boiled eggs, tomatoes, olives and canned tuna. Occasionally, if you're lucky, someone will drape a piece of smoked salmon over the lettuce. So there's lox -- but no cream cheese! I'm not sure why cream cheese is not a thing in western Europe. Perhaps because it's all being diverted to American Japanese restaurants, where it shows up inexplicably in elaborate maki rolls. What's up with that, anyway?</p>
<p>But I digress; this is not a blog post about cream cheese. It is about American tax policy. So let's get back to kale.</p>
<p>****************************</p>
<p>My brother has a grudge against kale. He is a fan of spinach, and he feels that kale has unseated spinach on restaurant salad menus. And thus he is aggrieved.</p>
<p>All I can say, Howie, is that if Popeye were alive today, he would have your back on this one. But alas, he is not. It's 2017 and we've killed all our heroes.</p>
<p>****************************</p>
<p>Kale is just about the only thing still growing in my very-late-season garden.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/862cc0d397146cff13ea25ad7114cef1945ccc95/original/end-of-season-kale.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p>The kale, at this point, is under major siege by aphids.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/9f7b172e354b7b1899a1a8d3272bde7fd583f862/original/aphids.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p>My options for dealing with the aphids, as an organic gardener, are somewhat limited. What you're supposed to do is to spray off the aphids with a strong blast of water.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/03c44ba9826a83df1d77bc0156950cef7ec5b828/original/water-spray.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p>Which I do; and it cleans the leaves off for a while. But within a few days, the aphids inevitably return.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/2a68f4cea4a4c3e312165d4bc822fcde1d938c2d/original/more-aphids.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p>I am a bit baffed by this. Does the world really contain an unlimited supply of aphids, ready at a moment's notice to climb up on some kale to take the place of their slaughtered brethren?</p>
<p>Perhaps it's not new aphids that reappear on the kale; perhaps it's the very same aphids I knocked off, climbing back up. I see myself as garden Rambo:</p>
<p></p>
<div class="video responsive"><div class="video-container"><div class="video responsive"><div class="video-container"><iframe frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/Ipcr58J1UZk" width="560" allowfullscreen="" class="wrapped wrapped"></iframe></div></div></div></div>
<p>while the aphids, meanwhile, are simply pulling a Buster Keaton:</p>
<p></p>
<div class="video responsive"><div class="video-container"><div class="video responsive"><div class="video-container"><iframe frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/frYIj2FGmMA" width="560" allowfullscreen="" class="wrapped wrapped"></iframe></div></div></div></div>
<p>My water blast is not a death blow to the aphids. It is merely an inconvenience.</p>
<p>But the plants have not succumbed to the bugs: somehow this process keeps the plants going, even well into November. So I guess, futile though it seems, I will head out now to spray the aphids off yet again.</p>
<p>And then I will come back in and call my Congressman about the tax bill. Because it's just the wurst.</p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61150432017-10-12T20:00:00-04:002022-04-28T01:37:14-04:00Notes from the Iberian Peninsula
<p>My Spanish is OK, not great; one of the anticipated benefits of a vacation in Spain is the chance to practice. But my first day in Bilbao, sleepless and jetlagged, all I can really access is <em>Language B</em>, which includes a little bit of everything other than English that I've picked up over the years. </p>
<p>すみません, je voudrais un café con leche пожалуйста. Asante sana.</p>
<p>Look it up.</p>
<p>*******************</p>
<p>We are at the home of our friends Inaki and Amaia, and we are discussing music. I want to explain that I sometimes arrange songs for my a cappella group--a concept a bit more complex than the transactional Spanish with which I am (after a good night's sleep) doing much better. It's an exercise both creative and inelegant, charades with words: how do I paste together the few hundred words at my command to get this notion across?</p>
<p><em>"I put on a page the notes for the sopranos to sing, and the the second sopranos, and the altos, and the second altos, so that when we all sing together it sounds well."</em></p>
<p><em>"Oh," </em>says Amaia, "<em>You write arrangements.</em>"</p>
<p>Exactly.</p>
<p>**********************</p>
<p>My first lunch in Lisbon I am confronted by certain biological imperatives, so working directly from my Portuguese phrasebook, I ask a waiter where I might find the bathroom. She finds my accent hilarious.</p>
<p>"<em>Oh my God, the way you talk</em>!" she says. "<em>You must be Brazilian</em>."</p>
<p>**********************</p>
<p>In Lisbon I can get by speaking Southern European: I learn how to say <em>please</em>, <em>thank you</em> and <em>excuse me</em> in the local vernacular, and then I speak Spanish with what sounds to me like a local accent. In Italy this involved adding a lot of extra vowels. In Portuguese it means pushing the alveolar fricatives further back (s becomes sh; z becomes zh) and pushing rounded vowels up (turning <em>o</em> into <em>u)</em>. Works surprisingly well for my transactional needs. </p>
<p>We rent an apartment for a few days in Lisbon's Graça neighborhood, and I am quite delighted to find that it includes a washing machine. I love laundry; and halfway through my trip I am sure that most people with whom I share subway cars would agree that my doing laundry is at this point a pretty good idea. The laundry machine is familar; but here is the dryer:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/7d97281be73485419ca5305394c28105fa675655/original/hanging-laundry.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p>Hanging clothing to dry is great -- very eco-friendly and all that. But this is laundry-hanging without a net: one false move and the jeans go tumbling three stories down. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/4fca66e20243b4f80a6acd61def6676c96ca6126/original/laundry-drop.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p>If worse came to worst we could figure out in which apartment's patio they've landed -- it's a small building -- and knock on the door to request our clothing back. But how would I begin to explain the issue in Southern European?</p>
<p>"<em>I am the stupid one of whom the brassiere is on your floor."</em></p>
<p>In the end the laundry is retrieved without incident. Another missed opportunity for cross-cultural communication.</p>
<p>***********************</p>
<p>In Lisbon we hear music: a blues band one night, fronted by a native Chicagoan and populated by a grooving bunch of locals. It's great fun. The next night we go to hear <em>fado</em>, the traditional Portuguese folk music, heavy on mournful vocals.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/becd11cba4a7ccb41a3a238287ca1f05a0d2c424/original/fado-instruments.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p>It is as soulful as promised. There are two singers. One waves his hands around a lot. The other sings with his eyes closed and a pained look on his face. I can make out a few words here and there; but for these purposes my Southern European is inadequate and I really don't know what they're singing about. I'm pretty sure there's a fair amount about thwarted <em>amor</em> and the occasional blighted <em>corazon</em>.<em> Lisboa </em>appears a few times, as does the word <em>fado</em> itself. </p>
<p>But who really knows? Maybe he's singing this:</p>
<p><em>Knock knock</em></p>
<p><em>Who's there?</em></p>
<p><em>Orange</em></p>
<p><em>Orange who?</em></p>
<p><em>Orange you glad I didn't say banana?</em></p>
<p>As far as I can tell, <em>fado</em> is pretty much the blues in a minor key. The blues follow set pattern: three chords over 12 bars, in nearly unvarying order. Fado seems a bit less rigid; but after a few songs the chord patterns and melodies are pretty predictable. Blues, fado--you have a structure, and the artist hangs her creativity on it. Like so many art forms! Sonnets. Haiku. Or this:</p>
<p><em>Knock knock</em></p>
<p><em>Who's there?</em></p>
<p><em>Fado</em></p>
<p><em>Fado who?</em></p>
<p><em>Fadon't you hand me that brassiere that just fell three stories onto your patio?</em></p>
<p> </p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61150422017-09-24T20:00:00-04:002021-09-09T10:23:43-04:00Bread of Atonement
<p>We are in the middle of the High Holy Days, a time when the Jewish community comes together for celebration and reflection. At Rosh Hashanah services last Wednesday evening I looked around the full sanctuary and thought, how remarkable it is to be in this room with others with whom I share so much! Mostly this:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/6fae938df0e27927a2034321b9bcaef0f6a5c307/original/curly-hair.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MjY4eDM2MyJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="363" width="268" /></p>
<p>Hundreds of people who have the same hair as me! Imagine the fellowship.</p>
<p>Of course, we share other things, too. For Jews, Rosh Hashanah is a major marker as we move through the year. It is a time to gather with family and friends: almost everyone at the Wednesday night service had come from a dinner that honored their families' traditions. They may have roasted a chicken, braised some tofu, or feasted on a dairy-free tian of non-allium vegetables. In my family, the essence of Rosh Hashanah is my mom's plum cake--and this year, we were lucky enough to have my mom on hand to make it for us.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/5386391a21487d2bae3b1dbda86164e46de408e8/original/plum-cake.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MjUweDI5NSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="295" width="250" /></p>
<p>Most of us will have eaten challah, shaped round for Rosh Hashanah to celebrate the cyclicity of time.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/f253e40b62365f41866781b77f749074bff856a5/original/challah.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MjQ5eDIxMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="210" width="249" /></p>
<p>That is actually the challah I baked last year. I am not showing you pictures of this year's challah because it didn't turn out that well. And I was chagrined.</p>
<p>I have been baking bread for nearly thirty years, and at this point I'm pretty confident in my game. Challah is usually a slam dunk: it's made with commercial yeast, far more predictable and controllable than the sourdough starter I usually use; a much higher percentage of white flour than is my general custom; and the added honey or sugar and eggs give the dough an extra lift. It's pretty hard to make a bad challah.</p>
<p>This year I tried a new recipe: Joan Nathan's <a href="https://cooking.nytimes.com/recipes/6697-my-favorite-challah?mcubz=3" data-imported="1">favorite challah</a>. Joan Nathan is the doyenne, or more appropriately the <em>maven</em>, of Jewish cuisine. Her recipes are flawless. Of course, I couldn't resist messing with this one: substituting some whole wheat flour for the white, tweaking the yeast content.</p>
<p>It seemed off from the start. The dough was sluggish; it rose too slowly, and not nearly enough. The loaves recovered a bit in the oven, but they remained much squatter and more dense than usual. What went wrong? Well, perhaps the water I added initially was too hot, and killed off some of the yeast. Maybe the yeast was a bit too old. Or maybe -- and this is my instinct -- I needed to give the yeast more of a head start, a pre-ferment, in order for it to gather enough strength to lift a dough weighed down by oil, sugar and eggs.</p>
<p>You want to see my disappointing challah? Fine. Here it is.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/7d2a3c0c06f2eab8f2809ee454c5a6d8ea5e21b2/original/wrapped-challah.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDM3eDI5NiJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="296" width="437" /></p>
<p>That's the piece I froze for the Yom Kippur break fast. You got a problem with that?</p>
<p>Our Rosh Hashanah evening meal was lovely -- a nice chicken, some great purple potatoes and veggies from the garden and the CSA, and of course my mom's sublime plum cake. But that mediocre challah! It rankled, all evening, and even into the next day.</p>
<p>What in the world was wrong with me? There I was, at a beautiful service, celebrating a meaningful holiday alongside one of my lovely daughters and my wonderful mother, who had come all the way from Florida to share the occasion. How could a sub-par challah take up any part of my brain at all? This is just not right! Clearly, I need an attitude adjustment.</p>
<p>Fortunately, I have my opportunity. Yom Kippur--the Day of Atonement--is right around the corner. So I will atone! </p>
<p>The liturgy provides us with a perfect template: the <em>Al Chet </em>prayer, an exhaustive compendium of sins for which we atone as a community and as individuals. You just have to find yours on the list and atone away. So simple!</p>
<p><strong><em>For the sin which we have committed before You by a gathering of lewdness,</em></strong></p>
<p><strong><em>And for the sin which we have committed before You by embezzlement.</em></strong></p>
<p>OK. Let's keep going. </p>
<p><strong><em>For the sin which we have committed before You through wanton looks</em></strong></p>
<p><strong><em>And for the sin which we have committed before You through haughty eyes.</em></strong></p>
<p>What do these even MEAN? I have been repenting for these two sins for decades and I still have no idea.</p>
<p><strong><em>For the sin which we have committed before You by eating and drinking.</em></strong></p>
<p><strong><em>And for the sins for which we are obligated to bring a burnt offering.</em></strong></p>
<p>Not sure. I don't think it's an actual <em>sin</em> to serve a sub-par challah. None of it went to waste; it all got eaten in the end. And I didn't actually burn the thing.</p>
<p><strong><em>For the sin of vanity</em></strong></p>
<p>Actually, that one's not in the <em>Al Chet</em> -- it's on the Catholic list. To atone for that one, I'll have to go to Mass with my husband. But as long as we're coloring outside the lines here: </p>
<p><strong><em>For the sin of messing with a Joan Nathan recipe (because really, who do I think I am?)</em></strong></p>
<p><strong><em>For the sin of failing to provide an adequately prefermented starter for a bread dough weighed down with oil, eggs and sugar</em></strong></p>
<p>Getting warmer.....</p>
<p><strong><em>For the sin of allowing myself to believe that I control more than I actually do</em></strong></p>
<p><strong><em>For the sin of letting minor annoyances distract me from the breathtaking blessings right in front of me</em></strong></p>
<p>That's it, of course. That's a pretty good atonement program, right there. Especially if I can also nail that thing about the wanton looks and haughty eyes.</p>
<p>The Yom Kippur liturgy begins with the Kol Nidre prayer, which essentially acknowledges that despite our best intentions, in all likelihood we will screw up again in the coming year. Will I sweat the small stuff in 5778? Of course I will. But I'll do my best to remember that every time I choose gratitude over peevishness I'll be a better, and a happier, person for it.</p>
<p>And I can pledge to you this: the next time I make a bread weighed down with oil, eggs and sugar, I will give my prefermented starter adequate time to ripen.</p>
<p> </p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61150412017-09-14T20:00:00-04:002021-09-20T15:09:22-04:00Basic black and brown
<p>A few months back, I downloaded a recipe for <a href="http://chocolatecoveredkatie.com/2012/09/06/no-flour-black-bean-brownies/" data-imported="1">Black Bean Brownies</a> from a blog called "Chocolate Covered Katie." You make them by blitzing rolled oats and black beans in a food processor, with a little maple syrup or agave nectar, enriched with a healthy dose of cocoa powder; then you fold in some chocolate chips and bake. I thought: wow, that could be really good! Beans are creamy and toothsome, and they could be a fine vehicle for chocolate. I would love to try that!</p>
<p>You know that sound you just made? The guttural “BLECH!” emerging of its own accord from the back of the throat? That’s the sound that everyone in my family would make if I told them I was going to make brownies out of black beans. And that’s why I never got around to trying this recipe.</p>
<p>AHA! But none of them are home at the moment! And so last Friday I found myself at the cusp of the weekend, with a batch of black beans fresh from the slow cooker, and all the other ingredients ready to go in the pantry. What was to stop me? I whipped a batch right up!</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/89658cee6b30cab7f78e0ffcc34ccc817561921f/original/black-bean-brownies-in-processor.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM0eDMxNSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="315" width="334" /></p>
<p>Right out of the oven, they looked pretty much like regular old brownies:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/aa387ba01ca0bcb793c3e3a10be8710a8b0bb396/original/baked-black-bean-brownies.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p>And you know what? They were pretty good! I ate one with a cup of peppermint tea. And then, because six grams of fiber are better than three, I ate a second.</p>
<p>I liked them even better after a night in the fridge, with my morning tea.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/26aa94bd47d5bcb61e2fe71e4ef4601ca586d3dc/original/brownie-with-coffee.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6Mjk5eDI4OSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="289" width="299" /></p>
<p>I mentioned my culinary adventure to my friends Bob and Judy when I went to their house for dinner a couple of nights later. Bob is a terrific cook and an even better baker. "I have the world's best brownie recipe," he said. He sent it to me. It's from Maida Heatter's chocolate cookbook. It involves, among other things, three sticks of butter, a cup and a half of sugar, and seven eggs.</p>
<p>I'm thinking that maybe those brownies taste better than the black bean brownies. But Truly Healthy Brownies! What could be better than that?</p>
<p>Last night my 24-year-old daughter, Rebecca, came over for a cup of tea after we'd gone out for dinner, a meal that featured a big, shared plate of onion rings. Now, I'm sure that onion rings have plenty of fiber, along with a whole army of micronutrients that are doing wonders, even now, for my gut microbiome. Nonetheless, the Truly Healthy Brownies seemed like the right dessert offering. So I pulled out a couple.</p>
<p>Sadly, I was too slow pulling out my phone to capture the truly fabulous face that she made after her first (and last) bite. So I searched the family archives to see if I could find an approximation. It was pretty much an amalgam of these:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/3455ca8634ece49e3f192bb23926aa7555423a93/original/oh-my.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzU4eDMzMiJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="332" width="358" /></p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/26779013a15b24caf19c0bd20cfc459d566b78c9/original/screen-shot-2017-09-16-at-8-39-46-am.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzU2eDM2MSJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="361" width="356" /></p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/fe901f18ec5f00f67138b31c3928b363013f3cca/original/colander-head.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p>(To be fair, I'm pretty sure that middle one isn't actually Rebecca. Must be her sister.)</p>
<p>So we tossed the brownies and ate a couple of ice pops as a palate cleanser.</p>
<p>I guess I liked the black bean brownies initially because it's been kind of a long time since I've eaten one made with three sticks of butter.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/09d69c27db5068473b311a5223e49429f27880c0/original/fudge-brownies-1235430-640.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NjQweDM4MiJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="382" width="640" /></p>
<p>As I say maybe a dozen times a week in my work life: it's all compared-to-what.</p>
<p>I still have four or five of the black bean brownies in my freezer. I'm not sure what to do with them.</p>
<p>But I will say this: I just ate an apple. And it was really, really good.</p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61150402017-09-06T20:00:00-04:002021-09-11T14:08:43-04:00It's quiet...too quiet...
<p>Yesterday morning I dropped my younger child off at the airport so she could head back to college for the beginning of her sophomore year. A few days earlier, my husband left for his sabbatical, a round-the-world adventure. Except for a brief cameo appearance around Thanksgiving, he'll be gone for the better part of six months. </p>
<p>All of a sudden, it's very quiet around here.</p>
<p>I'll be fine; I'm an introvert, and spending stretches of time on my own doesn't phase me. My older daughter lives close by, and she is excellent company. I have wonderful friends. Of course, spending this stretch of time on my own is not my first choice. Living with people you love is a gift. One of the best. </p>
<p>But there are advantages! I've spent the last several decades shaping my lifestyle and my schedule around my husband and kids. With nobody else here, I can do exactly what I want, the way I want to do it, pretty much all the time. </p>
<p>I can stock the freezer with the flavors of ice cream that I like! Forget these dumb fruity flavors. Black raspberry and lemon: YOU'RE FIRED!</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/81ffe4d725053a1f530162f0b0b486db08656cb6/original/fruity-ice-cream.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6Mjc1eDMwMSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="301" width="275" /></p>
<p>Look, I have nothing against fruit. I love fruit! My point is, if you want fruit, you should <em>eat a piece of fruit. </em>If you want ice cream, you should eat it the way God intended: flavored with a caffeinated beverage.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/de064d548179fded80201d5841eb48c0cbeba1be/original/screenshot-2017-09-06-08-51-09.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzE5eDI1NiJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="256" width="319" /></p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/4123e5ca507f4e5f0084e5871698b90b525bdef6/original/green-tea-ice-cream.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6Mzc1eDM1OCJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="358" width="375" /></p>
<p>If it has chocolate bits suspended in it -- so much the better!</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/232e3787a301de6c3165324d89b6bd2e98dfd7e6/original/mocha-chip.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p>Chunky Monkey: now <em>there's</em> a worthwhile ice cream option!</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/eca3ca90aecab2fbe78462bd93c2f48dbab6e84c/original/chunky-monkey.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p>What's that? <em>Bananas are a fruit? </em> Well, quibble if you must. A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds.</p>
<p>The point is, now I can make my bed as soon as I get up in the morning. And it will stay made the whole day.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/f1bcb5ebe1f40b5ecb30806711a95adc64cf458c/original/made-bed.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p>Under normal circumstances, when I make the bed as soon as I get up in the morning, Steve is still in it. Over time I have found that this strategy has certain disadvantages from both his perspective and mine.</p>
<p>I am a major tea drinker. I drink coffee, too (especially when it is suspended in ice cream -- see above), but really, I down large quantities of tea. For some years, I have been buying single-estate Assams from Upton Teas, a Massachusetts Purveyor of Fine Teas. Assams are strong, dark teas, breakfast-style. Really, these single-estate teas all taste pretty much the same; but it's a small luxury and choosing the teas keeps me entertained on boring conference calls.</p>
<p>In my normal life, I favor the quick-brewing, broken-leaf varieties -- you can get a fine cup in about three minutes:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/301ec1f8ee265e167a5743c42ebc4ddced8e8ef2/original/mokalbari-tea.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzIyeDMzMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="330" width="322" /></p>
<p>But now I am thinking of branching out to the whole-leaf varieties, which are a little finer-flavored (or so they say; to be honest, I can't really tell) but take longer to steep.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/919cd5f1e96111cc319eaefdaa5300ae5642e1a5/original/lukwah-tea.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM2eDMxNyJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="317" width="336" /></p>
<p>Yes, that's correct: I may steep my tea for four minutes! Or even five.</p>
<p>Because now I have that kind of time.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61150392017-08-31T20:00:00-04:002021-09-10T06:22:58-04:00Public and private
<p>It’s 4-ish in the afternoon, and I’ve spent most of the day concentrating intensely on a work project that I’ve finally finished and sent off to my client. I run a quick errand, taking my laptop along for the ride; and rather than returning immediately to my desk in my too-quiet home office, I decide to finish my last work task of the day in a coffee shop.</p>
<p>What I really want – what I <em>always</em> really want – is serious coffee; but since it’s late in the day I settle for an iced herbal tea. I get something with rooibos and berries and hibiscus…and some lingering taste that takes me back to my childhood… what is it, exactly? </p>
<p>Robitussin. Just like Proust’s madeleines! Only gross. </p>
<p>But even accounting for the limited appeal of the Robitussin-on-ice-that-I wish-were-cappuccino, it is nice to be here among other humans for a while. When I sit down and crack open my laptop, the place is more or less full. But within five minutes or so most of the others trickle out, until it’s just me and the couple immediately to my left. </p>
<p>It’s totally quiet; no customers at the counter, very little ambient noise. And then the man – sitting maybe 2 feet from me – says to the woman – sitting maybe 18 inches from me – “I think we should stop having sex for a while. We can keep seeing each other, but I’m thinking maybe we should just cool it on the sex.”</p>
<p>So. What are my options here?</p>
<ul>
<li>There are two tables to my right, and some additional tables at the rear of the café; I could certainly move farther away from the couple to offer them some privacy. But to do so at this moment would be to acknowledge that I have overheard their conversation—that I was eavesdropping, even.</li>
<li>I can double down on my laptop, typing with more diligence and concentration, to help preserve the illusion of privacy that these people have decided to construct for themselves. This is, in fact, my first instinct; but I’m a bit distracted, frankly, and the words are not exactly flying off my fingertips.</li>
<li>I can offer my opinion. “Look,” I could say, “I’d like to weigh in here; but first I’m going to need a little more information. You – female half of the couple – were you even <em>enjoying</em> sex with this guy? Maybe this is just the escape hatch you’ve been looking for. Or was sex the best thing about the relationship? Do you enjoy the time you spend with him <em>outside</em> of the bedroom? Beyond physical appeal, does he have other admirable qualities? I believe we can rule out discretion.”</li>
</ul>
<p> </p>
<p>My phone rings. Usually I avoid taking calls in coffee shops and restaurants, because I really do find it rude; but this, frankly, is deliverance. I have a loud and boisterous conversation about refinancing an 82-unit affordable senior housing development in Hull, after which I pack up my laptop, toss the remaining Robitussin, and head out into the glorious privacy of Harvard Square.</p>
<p> </p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61150382017-08-27T20:00:00-04:002022-04-16T09:09:22-04:00Pillow Talk
<p>I have a thing about pillows.</p>
<p>Like many (most?) of my fellow humans, I have chronic back problems. It's s a species design flaw. I have found ways to deal with it, like everyone else. One of my strategies involves sleeping with a lot of pillows.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/1718b77dcb0686ce24e4d04eb6fdca357c6f3f14/original/pillow-pile.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDEzeDI3NyJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="277" width="413" /></p>
<p>I do have a favorite! It's this thing:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/484473febea10f37b59ac96cb45991a5f480eb2a/original/mike-lindell.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDQyNyJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="427" width="450" /></p>
<p>You know that guy! It's Mike Lindell, the inventor of MyPillow®. He spent over two years inventing MyPillow®, featured his Patented Fill, so that it would be everything anyone would ever want in a pillow! It’s machine-warshable [sic] and dryable! And all of his pillows are manufactured in Mike Lindell’s home state of Minnesota!</p>
<p>Yeah, I know, those commercials. Endless. But the thing is, it's a really good pillow. I feel the difference when I'm traveling and sleep on something else. It does come in a travel version.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/f4776fc3759845119c7f55da596d678b2ef91571/original/travel-my-pillow.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDI0MiJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="242" width="450" /></p>
<p>I did consider buying one. But then I'd be That Woman Who Travels With Her Pillow. And that's just a bridge too far.</p>
<p>But: I did buy MyPillows® for each of my daughters when they were complaining about waking up with stiff necks, and they both reported that their MyPillows® solved the problem. My husband likes his. My mom got one, and she likes it, too.</p>
<p>So there you have it: 100% of humans surveyed, aged 19 to 80, find that this pillow makes a positive improvement in their sleeping lives. And as Mike Lindell will tell you, nothing is more important to our health than sleep.</p>
<p>Here, then, is what I'm wondering. I am a firm believer in evolution: Charles Darwin is my dude. What, then, in the theory of natural selection, can explain the fact that an entire species has evolved specifically to need a pillow that Mike Lindell invented in 2004?</p>
<p>And while I'm at it: why don't non-human animals need pillows?</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/68e10cf2124ca21192e18ecc258e416a307bf13b/original/fox-1284512-640.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDI4MSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="281" width="450" /></p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/286e89f425ee55a38de7292f61308f099681fd14/original/sleeping-cats-2555358-640.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDI5OSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="299" width="450" /></p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/09188cd12b3e4fb411305abd069aaa4fb1f03ae4/original/mallard-2461035-640.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDIzMyJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="233" width="450" /></p>
<p>Then again, why do I assume they don't? Maybe a planet-full of foxes, cats and ducks are waking up every day with stiff necks and kvetching about it constantly. We humans just aren't smart enough to know.</p>
<p>Which, of course, raises another question: who will be the Mike Lindell of the cockroach world? </p>
<p>Then again, why do I assume there isn't one? Maybe a planet-full of cockroaches have created an efficient worldwide distribution mechanism for a tiny (to us) but absurdly effective sleeping device, which, among its many virtues, is the cockroach version of machine-warshable and -dryable. </p>
<p>We humans just aren't smart enough to know.</p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61150372017-07-27T20:00:00-04:002021-08-14T12:51:33-04:00Route 128: a new music video!
<p>Just in time for summer road trips: a road song for Massachusetts' most song-worthy highway:</p>
<p> </p>
<p></p>
<div class="video responsive"><div class="video-container"><div class="video responsive"><div class="video-container"><iframe frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/0uGvMRM0jj0" width="560" allowfullscreen="" class="wrapped wrapped"></iframe></div></div></div></div>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61150362017-06-17T20:00:00-04:002022-03-25T16:07:17-04:00Market Garden
<p>In a move that is sure to send shock waves through the home gardening world, Amazon has just announced plans to buy my vegetable patch.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/f4a57ccc1723df6d8d614d25ab6a7e5e3c290312/original/lettuce-and-peas.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p>"This garden has been nourishing and delighting the Gould-Ansolabehere family for years, and we plan to continue that tradition" said Amazon CEO Jeff Bezos. "It's also been a big favorite of marauding local fauna, including chipmunks, rabbits and raccoons. We see this as a natural platform for gaining penetration into the ever-expanding suburban vermin market."</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/79cdb1d412a3d7e770fe6d1087463faf3a9c62a3/original/peas.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p>"Organics are the fastest-growing segment in the food space," said an Amazon spokeman. "After the Whole Foods deal, home gardens are the obvious next step for us." </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/367ce4150d95b9ee5153b31eba463f65d6e2e4bb/original/bee.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p>"It is the holy grail of the retail sector to anticipate consumer needs before the customers themselves know they have them," said market analyst Trend McBuck, speculating about how this acquisition might bring Amazon to a new level of customer intimacy. "From now on Amazon will be able to peer into the family's bathroom windows to see if they're running low on toilet paper. They'll have the capacity to collect real-time data by scanning the household's shelves so they'll know when there's room to sell them more crap."</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/d5e88c799682996053310a388344e5325b1d0331/original/garden-windows.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p>The price of the acquisition was undisclosed.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/9c19b22b0ba83e831b1748a05e683c70c16dd0fc/original/zinnia.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p>Oh, fine. Twist my arm: Bezos offered to cover the cost of my Prime membership for three years! Plus free same-day shipping for any grocery items I purchase from my backyard veggie patch.</p>
<p><em>Absolutely free</em> same-day shipping! You can't beat that.</p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61150352017-05-30T20:00:00-04:002021-09-11T13:21:02-04:00In Brief
<p>I am supposed to be spending a romantic evening with my husband in Minneapolis. But he is pulling an all-nighter, his second in a row, working against a deadline to file a legal brief for a case in which he is serving as an expert witness. Tomorrow he leaves on a six-day camping trip with his brothers. So tonight, instead of walking hand-in-hand with my true love across the Stone Arch Bridge that spans the mighty Mississippi, I am instead strolling through the aisles of Target, attempting, for the first time in my life, to buy underwear for my husband. My kids are girls; so in fact, this is the first time in my life I am buying men's underwear at all. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/d47752a83c33b7cab98f61dad17bbde96610c887/original/undie-aisle-2.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzE4eDQyNCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="424" width="318" /></p>
<p>True confessions: I have always been afraid of going to Target. I have no sense of direction whatsoever; and in Target, I get lost every time. The aisles all look the same! Do I go down this one?</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/57912f3328132b11b5e274031d804dd4cde8a368/original/undie-aisle-1.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzA5eDQxMiJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="412" width="309" /></p>
<p>Or this one?</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/6405f8d8d047917ac0e2a6311f5e60232affd69d/original/undie-aisle-3.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzkweDQ3OSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="479" width="390" /></p>
<p>Or double back to this one?</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/7be0f820206276bf16b032ea4f7a640806d04049/original/undie-aisle-6.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzMzeDQ0NCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="444" width="333" /></p>
<p>It is on this visit that I finally realize why I have long found Target to be so thoroughly confusing: it's because <em>every single aisle</em> is stocked primarily with men's underwear. I can't find my way out. And I have no idea where to begin.</p>
<p>There is a language of flowers: your choice of the blooms that you give as a gift sends a message to the recipient. A red rose in full bloom is a declaration of love. A yellow carnation is a message of rejection. Orange lilies reek of hatred. Monkshood is a dire warning. (When is the last time somebody gave you monkshood? Be grateful that you can't recall.)</p>
<p>There is a language of women's underwear offered as gifts, as well, but its vocabulary is rather limited. This ones says,</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/b6253d7f483253ad585d6dfdc162deaba2fab8cc/original/womens-undies-gift-1.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzEzeDM5OCJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="398" width="313" /></p>
<p>"Have sex!" This one says,</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/174a18e4e9c1855284b576164b06e8c1fc1f765c/original/womes-undies-gift-1b.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM5eDQ2MiJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="462" width="339" /></p>
<p>"Have MORE sex!" This one, on the other hand, says,</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/00f27edda5992ef119fa3dcc5422a147cbe7caaf/original/womens-undies-gift-2.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MjMxeDMwNSJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="305" width="231" /></p>
<p>"Have MORE sex with ME!"</p>
<p>Men's underwear seems to be a little more subtle. Give these:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/4eedd148a247c2a41903feab22bc1c4e3ba7fbf1/original/boxers.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDIweDU1OSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="559" width="420" /></p>
<p>and I suppose you are saying, "You are my rock-solid, dependable guy, and I love you for it." Give these:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/c299116f2fdcb73f6757b024cdf62bf0211b8f77/original/depends.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDU0eDM0MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="340" width="454" /></p>
<p>and you are saying, "I am yours and you are mine, no matter the changes wrought by time." Give these:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/59fa07f204f665bf3f0662835ff626fc8cfd4dbb/original/evolve.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDA4eDU0MyJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="543" width="408" /></p>
<p>and you are saying, "Perhaps you should consider hitting the gym a little more often."</p>
<p>Appealing though all these messages may be, none of these underwear will do. What Steve really wants is long underwear for his camping trip. But alas, creeping up on Memorial Day, long johns are not Target's featured item. The sole aisle <em>not</em> devoted to men's undergarments is selling this stuff:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/b77882cbec77ed2e048de935dd43c0319a815c2f/original/mem-day.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6Mjk3eDM5NiJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="396" width="297" /></p>
<p>And all the stars and stripes in the world won't keep you warm in the woods.</p>
<p>In the end I find the closest approximation I can: a pair of more-or-less form-fitting track pants, that I am guessing could be layered beneath a second pair of pants in a pinch. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/56aaba5b96e3d9d80a461905dac4ad97b228c967/original/img-0483.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDgweDY0MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="640" width="480" /></p>
<p>Steve demurs at first, but then relents and says yes, thank you so much, these will be so truly helpful on my camping trip, and I am grateful to you for braving the wilds of Target on my behalf!</p>
<p>And then he leaves them behind in the hotel room, and I take them home to Boston.</p>
<p>So Steve, the track pants will be here, awaiting your return, along with a little bouquet of whatever is blooming in the garden -- say, purple globe alliums:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/c989e6efd66e97beae20d0d4f842a03293a7872e/original/alliums.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDU0eDMyNyJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="327" width="454" /></p>
<p>In the language of flowers, purple globe alliums mean:</p>
<p>"Take the track pants back to Target yourself."</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61150342017-04-23T20:00:00-04:002021-09-19T05:10:20-04:00Chamber of Horrors
<p>This afternoon I took time out from my workday to practice piano. Because tonight I met with a quartet of like-minded amateur musicians for what was to be the second week of a two-week stint as a guest pianist with their string quartet. We were sight-reading Mozart’s piano quartet in Eb major; and I needed to prepare.</p>
<p> Yes, you’re correct: “sight-reading” means that you pick up the music on the spot and play as you go. And that is just what the others did. But I wouldn’t have gotten very far with that approach. I had to practice to have even a prayer of keeping up. Because the piano part has a LOT of notes! Just look at them:</p>
<p> <img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/df493fd29999310ac4d59bbb5098871544d0bfce/original/notes.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDgweDY0MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="640" width="480" /></p>
<p>MORE THAN ONE AT A TIME. In two clefs! With both hands!!! Really, some things are just too much to ask.</p>
<p>Here is the piece we played, in a recording featuring the marvelous pianist Emanuel Ax (with his buddies Isaac Stern, Yo Yo Ma and Jaime Laredo):</p>
<p></p>
<div class="video responsive"><div class="video-container"><div class="video responsive"><div class="video-container"><iframe frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/umoXND2u-pE" width="560" allowfullscreen="" class="wrapped wrapped"></iframe></div></div></div></div>
<p> </p>
<p>And we sounded just like that! Except for tempo, phrasing, tuning, timing, dexterity, rhythm and overall musicality.</p>
<p>The Eb quartet is Köchel number 493, which means that it was Mozart’s 493<sup>rd</sup> composition. So that means he was maybe 12 at the time. Or perhaps by the time he wrote it, he’d already been dead for five years.</p>
<p>Before this, I have not played chamber music since….ummm….1980. Really. I don’t play piano like I used to. Truly, I was never much good to begin with. But tonight, after a week of (for me) hard practicing, I more or less held my own. My goal was to avoid total humiliation and not to hold the others back. I managed well enough that they invited me back for another round, this time to play the Schumann piano quintet (a lovely piece, Opus 44. When he wrote it, Schumann had been dead for only a year and a half.)</p>
<p>I did hit an awful lot of wrong notes, and some I missed playing altogether. Now this part, I played flawlessly:</p>
<p> <img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/78b4eef0cc0357f0b183d4a60bf5b33d51d757e2/original/rests.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NjQweDIzMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="230" width="640" /></p>
<p>But look at this thing:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/698430a68adf0f88ea85e2985c62e30585954ef0/original/cropped-64hs.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NTAweDMwOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="308" width="500" /></p>
<p>What ARE those? 32<sup>nd</sup> notes? 64<sup>ths? </sup> 256ths? I can’t count that high. And if I can’t count them, there’s no way on earth I can play them. </p>
<p>They’re fired. </p>
<p>What would Mozart say to that?</p>
<p> <img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/11ef36a291e99b974755f0d936c1fd8f9f1c6c74/original/screen-shot-2017-04-24-at-7-08-59-pm.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6Mzk4eDUzOCJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="538" width="398" /></p>
<p>Not a word. Mozart has been dead for a very, very long time. And thus do I forge connections with genius across the centuries: some day I, too, will have been dead for a very, very long time.</p>
<p>Tonight, like last week, was a total pleasure. With or without the 64<sup>th</sup> notes, playing Mozart is pure delight. Making music with other people may be the most fun thing humans can do. As my teacher Rick Travers likes to say: music, like sex, is simply too good to be left to the professionals.</p>
<p>It is the gift of middle age that I can be fully aware of my limitations and yet remain unburdened by them. No matter how I strive, how many hours I steal from my work day to practice, I will never have been dead for as long as Mozart. And I'm fine with that.</p>
<p>Although if I play my cards right, I still have a shot at being dead longer than Emanuel Ax.</p>
<p> </p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61150332017-02-24T19:00:00-05:002021-09-12T10:58:32-04:00Rituals of the Road
<p>The rituals are the same the world over. You and your fellow practitioners have a common language – not the local patois, but an ancient language, a language of ritual. You recognize the melodies. You are welcomed as one of the tribe, and you feel at home.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/910dfcf03d361969584e15155cdf09200e846215/original/screen-shot-2017-02-25-at-7-22-32-pm.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDE0eDI5OCJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="298" width="414" /> </p>
<p>No, I’m not talking religion – I’m talking yoga.</p>
<p>On my travels of late (all domestic, and mostly for work), I have made it my mission to find and attend local yoga classes. (My other travel obsessions include farmer’s markets, public transit, coffee shops, botanical gardens, and local breweries. A girl on a business trip barely has time to work.) </p>
<p>The arc of the class is familiar: the sun salutations, the relaxation at the end. Of course, there is the ritual language: the Sanskrit words, sure; but also the platitudes, which seem to be the same, down to the punctuation, from my home in Newton, Mass. to Great Falls, Montana:</p>
<p> <em>Let the breath move you. Fill the pose with your breath.<br></em></p>
<p><em>This is your practice, no one else’s. Listen to your body; it will tell you what it needs. </em></p>
<p><em>Observe your thoughts without judgement, and let them pass. </em></p>
<p>I spent last week in the Pacific Northwest, and yoga was in ample supply. First stop: Roseburg, Oregon, a rural community in the southwestern part of the state. I am thrilled to find the Body Balance Yoga Studio – an adorable storefront, right downtown. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/76c8ab9b75dd5e1360b9e2a2438332f36e536947/original/screen-shot-2017-02-25-at-7-08-48-pm.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUyeDMxNSJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="315" width="452" /></p>
<p>And they have a 5:30 class! It will be cutting it close after I wrap things up with my clients; but I pull on my yoga duds and hop in the car at 5:20. GoogleMaps says the drive should take only 4 minutes – the studio is just on the other side of the railroad tracks.</p>
<p>I stop at the traffic light. Inhale, exhale. The light turns green – and simultaneously the railroad bridge lowers and a freight train thunders past. </p>
<p>And thunders past.</p>
<p>And keep on thundering.</p>
<p>I hold the position for 10 cycles of breath. Then for 10 more. It is 5:33. </p>
<p><em>Observe your thoughts without judgement, and let them pass.</em></p>
<p>I observe the thought that I will not make it to class. And I turn around and head back to the hotel.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/3c924f22d0a956cc887cecd7ccdc7ac5b5b0399b/original/eugene-scene.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzcweDI3OSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="279" width="370" /> </p>
<p>Eugene, Oregon is full of yoga studios. The one with the most appealing name is <em>Sweaty Ganesh</em>; but since it has rained ceaselessly for my first three days in the region, I decide that I’m soggy enough already. </p>
<p>I do I make it to Everyday People Yoga for a late afternoon class. It is a lovely, high-ceilinged studio, with a beaming Buddha presiding at the front. There is a donation box near the door, under a long, apologetic statement about why it is reasonable that they should presume to ask for a donation from participants. There are teachers to pay. There is rent. And is the requested $8 - $12 donation really such a high price for enlightenment? Lacking change, I leave a $20, feeling that Buddha would approve.</p>
<p>Class begins. I inhale. I exhale. I let the breath fill my downward dog pose. I observe my thoughts without judgement.</p>
<p>I am observing thoughts of tacos. There is a apparently a robust Chicano population in Eugene: on my walk to the studio I passed at least half a dozen taquerias, one smelling more enticing than the next. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/ce1b25e4969d9078e0ab26b1764100561d8ecf3e/original/tacovore.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDEzeDI1MyJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="253" width="413" /></p>
<p>Tacovore must be a local favorite, judging by the long lines at all times of day; but should I choose one of the more-authentic taco shacks further down the street? I am doing my best not to judge these thoughts. But still, I wonder, is it permissible to judge the tacos themselves?</p>
<p><em><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/1acc8cfb15e9a907fa5fa2a1b998ff74f567cbf3/original/tacos.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /> </em></p>
<p><em>Listen to your body; it will tell you what it needs.</em></p>
<p>Mudra Yoga is my second Eugene studio. Like the first, it is light and airy, and white people with dreadlocks are well-represented among its clientele. It is Saturday morning, I have not slept well, and my body is being particularly inarticulate about its preferences. I think my body is telling me that it needs caffeine. Maybe from that cute little coffee shop I passed on the way here…where was it, exactly? I observe these thoughts and try to let them pass, but they settle in for the duration.</p>
<p><em><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/51604636db92b8cfca70b2bdad1c1872c7fbf31b/original/yoga-spa.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /> </em></p>
<p>Urban Yoga Spa in Seattle is not donation-based: it is a vigorous celebration of commerce right in the heart of the shopping district. There are scores of payment options, none of them needs-tested. Weekly! Monthly! Packaged with a facial and a massage! And if you have more money burning a hole in your pocket on your way into class, you can buy outfits!</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/2ecdedd1b5a7f26fb0bd52f318d9efb31d08dbd1/original/yoga-outfits.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /> </p>
<p>The studio here is anything but light and airy: it is huge, windowless, painted gray, crammed with bodies – 50, 60, maybe more – for a popular after-work session. And it is heated, steam-heated, to 105 degrees. </p>
<p>I am observing thoughts of mildew. They fill this place with heat and steam six or seven times a day. And there are no windows. How can they ever air it out? </p>
<p>I exhale. I inhale. I fill my downward dog pose with breath, and probably also with mold spores.</p>
<p>No dreadlocks in this downtown Seattle studio, and no ripped T-shirts; but lots of Lululemon wrapped around perfectly-sculpted bodies. 20-something bodies, 30-something bodies. I look around eagerly for other middle-aged patrons, and I’m delighted to see a man on the other side of the room whose hairline suggests that he and I might be of similar vintage. But on closer inspection (difficult enough in this steamy room, especially when my attention is supposedly focused inward, observing those thoughts I am not judging), I find that he’s just another 20- or 30-something. Bald By Choice. Alas.</p>
<p><em>This is your practice, nobody else’s. Listen to your body; it will tell you what it needs. <br></em></p>
<p>CJ, the teacher in this Seattle class, intones these phrases even as he spits out rapid-fire Boot Camp style instructions. The perfect-bodied, Lululemon’d blonde to my left has apparently taken him at his word, since she stays inert, in child’s pose, for the first half of class. Good, I think—I can be my middle-aged self here in the studio steambath, faux-baldies notwithstanding, finding my own balance of exertion and ease.</p>
<p>Then suddenly my blonde neighbor unfolds and launches herself into an absolutely flawless and utterly impossible arm balance – a Flying Llama or an Inverted Bound Red-Crested Chickadee – which she holds for an improbably long time. After which she folds herself back into child’s pose, where she stays for the rest of class.</p>
<p>My body is telling me I need a shower and a nap. And who am I to judge that?</p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61150322017-01-28T19:00:00-05:002021-10-29T13:22:49-04:00En-Chanting
<p>God, I hate going to rallies.</p>
<p>Don't get me wrong; I am all for political participation. I make phone calls, I write letters, I write checks; I put in plenty of volunteer hours on issues that I care about. While I'm sure I could be doing much more to make the world a better place, I'm not really a sit-on-the-sidelines kind of gal.</p>
<p>But <em>rallies</em>. For the past quarter century I have avoided them like the plague. To start with, I’m an introvert, and there are few things I enjoy less than big crowds. And then there are the slogans and the speeches. I dislike the simple-mindedness of political rhetoric, the jargon, the demonizing of opposing opinions. And the chanting! Don’t get me started. </p>
<p>And yet I have found myself at rallies for the past two weekends. Last weekend, of course, I had to go to the Women’s March (I went in Boston), if only to show off my fabulous new hat, made for me by my daughter Rebecca:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/d0220ee2cf90853997a8108dbd1d46b89b766b77/original/pussy-hats.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDI1MyJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="253" width="450" /></p>
<p>Look: ours are anatomically correct! Figure it out.</p>
<p>Then on Friday the new president issued his executive order on immigration. Banning refugees and establishing a religious test for immigrants: these policies are so inimical to everything I believe that staying home didn't feel like an option. And so I found myself at my second rally in as many weeks, along with several thousand of my new best friends. </p>
<p>Turns out I was supposed to bring a sign -- who knew??</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/f5793ba9419cc4b13ddb09d3b232bd4d58d7623d/original/sitting-signs.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/be9c018fb57c8046986c3eab3ee6ed2091627bcf/original/all-muslims.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/c837e3cf6ae0c830db647377f44a3ad299affe56/original/no-way.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/1529447d5000cef50e3ed1f7878e17fe90df38c0/original/orange-turd.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p>OK. That last sign made me laugh; but it's not one I would ever carry myself.</p>
<p>Here's the thing. Like so many others in my corner of the world, I was devastated by the results of this election. Ever since I have been doing a lot of reading and a lot of thinking about how to respond. While I have no answers about anything, really, the one conclusion I've reached thus far is that I need to personally embrace a more profound kind of tolerance – tolerance that extends not only to people of different religions, skin tones, and sexual preferences, but also – and this is harder – to people who look at the world in which we all live and come to moral and political conclusions that differ sharply from my own.</p>
<p>So while I have renewed my commitment to standing up for the issues I hold dear, I have also renewed my commitment to doing so in a way that is truly respectful of those with whom I disagree. </p>
<p>I am embracing radical tolerance.</p>
<p>Trouble is, tolerance for divergent viewpoints is not really the point of most rallies -- how could it be? The point is to make as strong a statement as possible, to unify people around a shared purpose. And so taking my newly-embraced tolerance to these rallies is a little like going to a potluck when you've just sworn off of, say, gluten. The salad might be ok, if there are no croutons. The potato salad -- that's a definite yes. But steer clear of the pizza. And don't even think about the banana bread.</p>
<p>So here at the rally, what's a radically tolerant girl to chant? This girl, honestly, would prefer not to chant anything at all, ever. But it's a <em>rally. </em>You gotta at least try the potato salad.</p>
<p><strong><em>No hate, no fear; refugees are welcome here!</em></strong></p>
<p>I can chime in on that one.</p>
<p><strong><em>Tell me what democracy looks like – this is what democracy looks like!</em></strong></p>
<p>Also reasonable. </p>
<p><strong><em>Fascists out, refugees in!</em></strong></p>
<p>This one I’m sitting out. I am really hesitant to drop the “f” word. It's true that there is more than a passing resemblance between Trump and Mussolini. And I am deeply disturbed by pretty much all of his administration’s actions and statements in its first week. On the other hand, we’ve yet to see mass incarcerations and executions. So I’m holding off for now on this particular label.</p>
<p>The crowd takes up this cheer:</p>
<p><em><strong>No collaboration / With this administration!</strong></em></p>
<p>A dad next to me turns to his daughter and says, “See, honey? It’s an important skill to learn how to rhyme!”</p>
<p>As a songwriter, I couldn’t agree more. But I do have to say, the –<em>ation</em> rhymes are cheap victories. I have used them shamelessly in my own lyrics. But I feel a little dirty, every time:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/c2bc84e7489799275f321d7ab6d677774db3f552/original/screen-shot-2017-01-29-at-8-49-09-pm.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDY1eDQyNSJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="425" width="465" /></p>
<p> </p>
<p>Here's a REAL challenge, kid: find a rhyme for <em><strong>tolerance:</strong></em></p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/326d157b6806c1aab55442eede77a3cc23781f77/original/screen-shot-2017-01-29-at-9-17-55-pm.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NTYzeDE0MiJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="142" width="563" /></p>
<p>If I really want to contribute to this protest movement, I think I will need to take my songwriting skills and come up with some new, radically tolerant chants. Here's one:</p>
<p><em><strong> It reflects perversity</strong></em></p>
<p><em><strong>To reject diversity</strong></em></p>
<p>How about this? Chant along with me, now:</p>
<p><strong><em>We welcome refugees!</em></strong></p>
<p><strong><em>But we have compassion for people who feel overwhelmed by the pace of change in a rapidly globalizing world.</em></strong></p>
<p>I guess I'll keep working on it. I have no choice, really, since it seems I'll be doing a lot more of this kind of thing in the next few years.<strong> <br></strong></p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61150312017-01-14T19:00:00-05:002022-04-18T02:27:22-04:00Feeling hot, hot, hot!
<p>I have a brand new oven! It is a very exciting development for me, because I am a somewhat obsessive bread-baker. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/4255dbeee045eaf825e5cbe3a0361bc0d99393cb/original/loaves.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p>This is how the bread is supposed to look when it comes out of the oven. This is not how the bread looked when I pulled it out on December 23, when our old oven gave up the ghost mid-bake. Those loaves were pale and sad. I did my best to finish the off in the toaster oven (which is not a culinary technique I am likely to repeat).</p>
<p>Other things being equal, it would be better for major appliances to choose expiration dates other than the ones immediately preceding major holidays. We couldn't get anyone out to look at the oven until December 27, when we paid $129 to learn that the motherboard (more commonly known as the <em>mother!$&#*!</em>) was busted, and that They Don't Make That Part Anymore.</p>
<p>So off we went to the appliance store. The oven was eleven years old when it died, which is younger than we would have liked; but everyone in our family loves to cook and we use the oven constantly, so choosing a replacement was kind of fun (until the part where we had to produce a credit card and pay for the thing).</p>
<p>But still: a new oven! My breads will LOVE that! And the great thing about a new appliance is that someone delivers it, plugs it in, takes the old one away, and leaves; and just like that, you have a new and undoubtedly much better way to bake your whole-grain sourdough bread. </p>
<p>Except that our old oven uses both gas and electricity, so we needed a plumber to disconnect the old one before it could be carted off, and then to come back to reconnect the new one: Plumber--delivery--plumber. No problem; we love our plumber, and are always happy to see him, and once we called the amazing Eric he wasted no time at all in coming right over to disconnect our oven. </p>
<p>At which point we learned that the old oven was hard-wired; so that we would need an electrician to disconnect it before it could be carted off, and to install a new outlet so that the new one could be plugged in. We also found, when we slid the old oven out of its slot, that our stone countertop had been cut to fit the idiosyncratic shape of our old oven, and so we'd need a stonecutter to trim the sides of the granite in order to slide the new one into place.</p>
<p>OK. We used an electrician to install some light fixtures four or five years ago....got his number around somewhere. And counters. Who cuts counters? Maybe we could call the dealer who installed the counters when we bought them eleven years ago. Surely they have someone who could help us out?</p>
<p>A dozen phone calls later we have it all lined up: plumber-electrician-stove delivery-stonecutter-plumber again. And just like that, we will have a working oven! No sweat.</p>
<p>Only once the stove is here we find that there is a problem. There is a little strip of granite at the back of the oven that didn't get removed during the stonecutter's first visit, and so we can't push the stove in all the way, and thus we can't open our storage drawers because they are obstructed by the oven's handle:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/9dd1f97edec98696c3f9b58d95500a994c09e20f/original/drawer-problem.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p>So we need the stonecutter to come back out and trim the little strip in the back so we can push it flush to the wall. Plumber-electrician-appliance delivery-stonecutter-plumber-stonecutter. Easy!</p>
<p>And God bless this lovely stonecutter, who sends his nephew to trim our granite (for the second time) on a Saturday. Now THAT is service! We are so grateful that we will be able to fire this thing up AND get full access to our bowls, pots and pans before the weekend is out.</p>
<p>Except that even once the granite is trimmed, we still can't push the oven flush with the wall, because the electrician has installed the connection box about an inch too high for this particular model. So we will need to have the electrician come back out to re-install it an inch or two lower down. Plumber-electrician-appliance delivery-stonecutter-plumber-stonecutter-electrician. (This should sound familiar to those of you who sing the songs at the back of the <em>Haggaddah</em> at Passover.)</p>
<p>But it is all worth it, is it not? because at the end of all this, we have a brand new, super-effective oven! Just look at this beauty:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/2fc1cfab67f9623c4b4e5f856cd368a3a32c9298/original/oven-shot.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzYzeDI2MyJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="263" width="363" /></p>
<p>See that little word in the upper left-hand corner? Here it is, close up:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/7386404c6f623f513a23c49f13c5107d982cdcb0/original/hot.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p>That is what the oven is supposed to say at the end of a self-cleaning cycle, as long as the temperature is still over 590 degrees. When the Hot message is showing, no further operation of the oven is possible.</p>
<p>The Hot message has shown continuously, since we managed to get the oven hooked up to gas and plugged in on Friday afternoon. Only in this case, it's not quite accurate. Here is how Hot our oven is:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/05d48e8caa1d2a1ab1758d944e25feefe466782f/original/head-in-oven.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p>Yes, my head is <em>all the way inside</em>. The oven thinks it's <em>Hot</em>, but in fact it is stone cold, as it has been since its arrival.</p>
<p>I think the problem is the mother!$&#*!.</p>
<p>Perhaps "Hot" is not really a statement of temperature, after all. Perhaps the oven is just trying to butter me up (as I would butter up my bread, had I the capacity to bake any), flattering me about my 51-year-old physique.</p>
<p>But I am on to you, Expensive-But-Useless-Oven. Flatter me all you want: I am painfully aware that I don't turn you on at all.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61150302016-12-21T19:00:00-05:002021-09-20T15:52:04-04:00The Root of the Problem
<p>Tomorrow, just in time for the holidays, Santa is delivering to my stocking...a root canal. Thanks, Santa. You're a peach.</p>
<p>I think it has something to do with the fact that I'm Jewish. I have never left out a plate of cookies on Christmas Eve, much less properly cleaned the chimneys that lead to my (non-functional) fireplaces. </p>
<p>Santa feels mistreated. And Santa is pissed.</p>
<p>This whole root canal thing came out of a routine visit to the dentist: my teeth look fine; nothing hurts. Like most people, I don't much like going to the dentist, except that they always compliment me on my excellent home care. As recently as last year, my dentist was marveling over how fabulously healthy my 50-year-old teeth were. Look: I will take all the praise I can get.</p>
<p>The dental technician did not disappoint (let me just say that I am VERY good at flossing). But then they looked at my x-rays and showed me how someone had apparently colored in tooth #28 with a Sharpie. Off I went to the endodontist (new vocabulary word! It means "Root Canal Guy"). Root Canal Guy confirmed that Tooth #28 has Severe <em>Blah Blah Blah</em> Resorption, and that 1) if I don't take action immediately I will <em>definitely</em> lose the tooth; and that 2) even if I do go ahead with the root canal, there's some chance I might lose the tooth anyway.</p>
<p><br>I am deeply aware that I have many blessings. In this case, I am profoundly grateful for the blessing that is dental insurance. My co-pay will set me back a few hundred bucks -- not a welcome expense, but not, in my case, financially ruinous. Root Canal Guy was very excited about my dental insurance - so excited that I began to wonder if the <em>Blah Blah Blah</em> Resorption was really as Severe as he made out. Then I looked at his x-rays, which have better resolution than my dentist's -- and it now looks like the Sharpie that colored in Tooth #28 was of the extra-wide-tip variety. Bring on the Yuletide root canal.</p>
<p>When life's hiccups arise, I ask three questions:</p>
<p>1. What can I learn from this?</p>
<p>2. Is there a blog post in there?</p>
<p>3. Is there a song or, better yet, a music video in it?</p>
<p> </p>
<p>So first: what can I learn? Well, there is this matter of insurance. I am lucky to have it. Truth is, though, the co-pay alone would be enough to price out many families. And without dental insurance? We're talking about a month and half of rent for much of the country. 40% of Americans, apparently, have no dental coverage at all. Obamacare does not include dental coverage, either.</p>
<p><br>No wonder the country voted for change in November! 128 million people can't pay for their root canals! </p>
<p>And they are pissed.</p>
<p>I have to say, as well, that this matter of potentially losing a tooth has taken me a bit off guard. Keys, earrings, gloves, and occasionally my lunch -- these are things that I lose. But teeth -- really?</p>
<p>Of course, I am not alone in my dental jeopardy. Tooth loss is a problem all over. The Centers for Disease Control has published this rank-ordered list of states with the greatest incidence of adult tooth loss (apparently nobody told them that Puerto Rico is not a state):</p>
<p>#1 West Virginia<br> #2 Kentucky<br> #3 Tennessee<br> #4 Alabama<br> #5 Louisiana<br> #6 Oklahoma<br> #7 Mississippi<br> #8 North Carolina<br> #9 Georgia<br> #10 Kansas<br> #11 Indiana<br> #12 South Dakota<br> #13 Missouri<br> #14 North Dakota<br> #15 Arkansas<br> #16 Puerto Rico<br> #17 Maine<br> #18 Pennsylvania<br> #19 Iowa<br> #20 Nebraska<br> #21 Alaska<br> #22 Idaho<br> #23 New Mexico<br> #24 South Carolina<br> #25 Wyoming</p>
<p>In case the point is not immediately obvious, let me color-code it for you:</p>
<p><span style="color:#ff0000">#1 West Virginia</span><br><span style="color:#ff0000"> #2 Kentucky</span><br><span style="color:#ff0000"> #3 Tennessee</span><br><span style="color:#ff0000"> #4 Alabama</span><br><span style="color:#ff0000"> #5 Louisiana</span><br><span style="color:#ff0000"> #6 Oklahoma</span><br><span style="color:#ff0000"> #7 Mississippi</span><br><span style="color:#ff0000"> #8 North Carolina</span><br><span style="color:#ff0000"> #9 Georgia</span><br><span style="color:#ff0000"> #10 Kansas</span><br><span style="color:#ff0000"> #11 Indiana</span><br><span style="color:#ff0000"> #12 South Dakota</span><br><span style="color:#ff0000"> #13 Missouri</span><br><span style="color:#ff0000"> #14 North Dakota</span><br><span style="color:#ff0000"> #15 Arkansas</span><br><span style="color:#000000"> #16 Puerto Rico</span><br><span style="color:#0000ff"> #17 Maine</span><br><span style="color:#ff0000"> #18 Pennsylvania</span><br><span style="color:#ff0000"> #19 Iowa</span><br><span style="color:#ff0000"> #20 Nebraska</span><br><span style="color:#ff0000"> #21 Alaska</span><br><span style="color:#ff0000"> #22 Idaho</span><br><span style="color:#0000ff"> #23 New Mexico</span><br><span style="color:#ff0000"> #24 South Carolina</span><br><span style="color:#ff0000"> #25 Wyoming</span></p>
<p><span style="color:#ff0000"><span style="color:#000000"> Turns out that red state America is <strong>missing its teeth</strong>! And they are pissed.</span></span></p>
<p><span style="color:#ff0000"><span style="color:#000000">The British Isles have long been mocked for the poor state of their dental care. And: Brexit! Just sayin.'</span></span></p>
<p><span style="color:#ff0000"><span style="color:#000000">Hey: if I lose Tooth #28 to the dreaded Severe <em>Blah-Blah-Blah</em> Resorption, then I myself will be pissed! And then who KNOWS who I might vote for in 2020? <span style="color:#ff0000"><span style="color:#000000">Election 2016 explained! </span></span></span><br></span></p>
<p><span style="color:#ff0000"><span style="color:#000000">So there's our answer to Question #1, what I -- what we ALL -- can learn from my dental travails. Question #2 -- is there a blog post in it? -- well, obviously.</span></span></p>
<p><span style="color:#ff0000"><span style="color:#000000">As for Question #3 - is there a music video? -- that will all depend on whether the endodontist can sing. I'll let you know tomorrow.</span></span></p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61150292016-12-04T19:00:00-05:002021-09-18T13:02:35-04:00The thrill of the spill
<p>This weekend I had a gig with BroadBand, my <em>a cappella</em> group. We performed at Celebrate Newton, a craft fair at one of our town's high schools. We sang a mix of songs: some jazz standards, some pop tunes, a bunch of holiday music. It was a hoot.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/4d8851bad656322064a4fbe13dad6cb3c6469c34/original/screen-shot-2016-12-05-at-9-06-36-pm.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDI3NCJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="274" width="450" /></p>
<p>I was more or less the person who organized the performance on behalf of the group; but truth be told, I didn't do much to drum up an audience. Still, it was a community event, and I figured I was bound to run into a bunch of people I knew. I wondered, in particular, if I would see my Alexander Technique teacher. I studied with her for a few months three or four years ago, and she was wonderful, and I learned a ton. My posture, sadly, still leaves much to be desired. But should Lauren happen to pass by, I was determined to be on my very best, most well-aligned behavior. </p>
<p>So as we launch into our first song, I think about my Alexander instructions: I release my neck so I can tilt the crown of my head forward and up. I let my back be wide and strong. I relax my shoulders. And as I do, I feel my bra straps slip right down my arms.</p>
<p>One is not supposed to tug on one's undergarments in public, especially not on stage. But perhaps there is some subtle gesture I could make that would subtly coax my bra back into place....a shrug? A shoulder scratch?</p>
<p>I try these things. They do not work. My lingerie is inching south. Just how opaque, I wonder, is this white shirt I'm wearing?</p>
<p>No sooner do I start to lose my lingerie when I begin to notice tons of people I know milling around the room. Friends from my synagogue! Fellow parents from my kids' elementary, middle and high school years! The Health Professional With Whom I Had a Bad Experience! </p>
<p>It is very distracting, to have one's bra sliding towards one's belly button while one is trying to perform. I miss an entrance. I come in early on another one. But hey, I am just part of the chorus. Who is going to notice, really, either my vocal missteps or my wardrobe problems?</p>
<p>But then it is time to step forward for my solo. And maybe, just maybe, I am about to go full-on Janet Jackson:</p>
<p></p>
<div class="video responsive"><div class="video-container"><div class="video responsive"><div class="video-container"><iframe frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/yPrTXBD5uFw" width="560" allowfullscreen="" class="wrapped wrapped"></iframe></div></div></div></div>
<p>Laurie, you are thinking, your situation has <strong>nothing</strong> in common with Janet Jackson at the Superbowl! Hundreds of millions of people across the globe were watching her live, close-up, on television, paying rapt attention to her every move. Meanwhile, in the cafeteria of Newton South High School, maybe fifteen people are half-listening to our chorus as they browse cutting boards made out of burled maple. Janet was executing sexy, intricate dance moves while wearing a fabulous, tight-fitting bustier and high heels. I am trying to sway a little so I don't look stiff as a board, while wearing a frumpy button-down business blouse and sensible shoes.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/9402fd1785fef4357ca3c3d6d3583f57295f9474/original/bb-at-celebrate-newton.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NjQweDQ4MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="480" width="640" /></p>
<p>All true. But let me just point out the following:</p>
<p>Janet Jackson was wearing black pants.</p>
<p>I myself am wearing black pants.</p>
<p>What are the odds?</p>
<p>Anyway, I am about to step out for my solo when up walks a work colleague, someone senior in my field for whom I have enormous respect. This is alarming because 1) I am in a state of semi-undress, which may or may not be visible to everyone in the room; and 2) I am about to step forward and claim as my own the most inane song on the planet.</p>
<p>This song, "Everybody," was written by Ingrid Michelson, who also wrote some songs that I rather like. This particular song, however, is dumb as a post, words and music both. Thing is, Ingrid Michelson herself is absolutely adorable, so she can sing really doofy songs like this one and she is still totally fetching. My own adorableness, on the other hand, is well past its expiration date. That is why, when I write my own songs, I fill them with words like <em>anaphylactic, obsidian, </em>and <em>eschew.</em><em> </em>The songs may not be particularly good, and I may not sing them all that well, and Lord knows I can't dance. But at least they might get you a few extra points on the SATs.</p>
<p></p>
<div class="video responsive"><div class="video-container"><div class="video responsive"><div class="video-container"><iframe frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/-m5N5mukOlg" width="560" allowfullscreen="" class="wrapped wrapped"></iframe></div></div></div></div>
<p>I usually hate hearing recordings of myself, and seeing videos is beyond mortifying. But I was relieved to see this one. Because as you can see, despite the fact that I was at that point going top-tier commando, it was not, apparently, particularly noticeable.</p>
<p>But I did learn from the experience! I studied that video - the Janet Jackson one, I mean, her full-length Superbowl performance. I did not fail to notice that as Janet gyrated, sang and leaped around the stage, her costume stayed perfectly in place -- and would have continued to do so, had Justin Timberlake not ripped it off of her.</p>
<p>So next time I gig a craft fair, I will do so in a tight-fitting bustier -- laced into place, so that it will not slip an inch, no matter how Alexander Technique-perfect my posture. Maybe I'll throw in a cape for good measure.</p>
<p>But I think I can keep the black pants.</p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61150282016-11-11T19:00:00-05:002021-09-14T15:36:53-04:00We the People
<p style="text-align: center;" align="center"></p>
<p style="text-align: center;" align="center"></p>
<p style="text-align: center;" align="center"><strong>M E M O R A N D U M</strong></p>
<p> </p>
<p><strong>From:</strong> The 13 originals (MA, CT, NH, RI, NY, NJ, PA, VA, MD, DE, GA, NC, SC)</p>
<p><strong>To: </strong> The other 37 “states”</p>
<p><strong>Date:</strong> November 9, 2016</p>
<p> </p>
<p>We are sure that you will agree, in light of recent events, that our alliance has grown rather uncomfortable. In response, we have undertaken a close review of our original contract. Article 4, Section 3 of the Constitution provides for the admission of new states purely at the discretion of Congress – a Congress which obviously, in the minds of the framers, included only the thirteen original signatories. </p>
<p>Upon reflection, we have come to the conclusion that inviting the rest of you to join us was a regrettable lapse of judgement – a mistake that we are now determined to set right. In short: the thirteen United States of America have decided to revert to our original membership. The other thirty-seven of you are out on your ass.</p>
<p>Vermont, we have to admit that we have been torn up about you, and we almost grandfathered you in. After all, your statehood goes all the way back to 1791! And to be honest, we still feel kind of guilty about the border kerfuffle with New York in the 1780’s. But then we remembered what a dick Bernie was this past spring, and it affirmed our initial sense that a clean break would be best. We know that you and Canada will be very happy together.</p>
<p>For those of you who were part of the Louisiana purchase (and that’s a lot of you! Arkansas, Iowa, Missouri, Kansas, Oklahoma, Nebraska, and parts of Minnesota, Louisiana, New Mexico, South Dakota, Wyoming, Montana and Colorado) – we have taken the liberty of making initial overtures to France, and they just might take you back. If Colorado could bring along some particularly choice Green Crack or Sour Diesel, then it would almost certainly seal the deal.</p>
<p>Texas, you are clearly destined for Mexico. True, they were really offended by the sombrero-wearing Chihuahua in that Taco Bell commercial. But if you can just stop talking smack about the Wall, we’re pretty sure they’ll welcome you with open arms.</p>
<p>The rest of you, we’re afraid, are shit out of luck. But that’s not really our problem, now, is it?</p>
<p>We are not heartless! California, Oregon, Washington and Illinois – you have unlimited visiting rights! And for our part, we would love to retain unlimited visiting rights to Hawaii—save us a nice spot on the beach come February.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/2b71db1e6848b917fdeb8731f2ee4c35fbc084b9/original/electoralcollege.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDExeDQyNSJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="425" style="display: block; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="411" /></p>
<p>If you are looking for a forwarding address, in a nod to tradition, President Clinton will be setting up shop in Philadelphia. True, at the moment, we are pretty pissed at Pennsylvania. And we sure did have some fun times when we were housed in New York City in 1789. But real estate prices are insane in the Big Apple, and if you’re planning to commute in from Jersey, the traffic can be a living hell. Besides which, <em>Hamilton</em> is sold out into the 2020’s. Philadelphia does have an amazing food scene these days, with some truly world-class vegan restaurants. And given its age, that Liberty Bell still looks pretty good.</p>
<p>So this is good-bye, then! We are off to re-form our more perfect Union. But if we run into you at the 2018 Olympics, maybe we can have a beer.</p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61150272016-10-15T20:00:00-04:002022-04-16T12:32:35-04:00All Write
<p>Now that I am an empty nester, I finally have the time I have dreamed of for years to focus on my writing -- to blog weekly or more often, to ramp up my song composition efforts, and most important, to get going, at long last, on that musical. Of course I have the time! After all, I am no longer juggling the demands of motherhood and full-time work. I have no more carpools to drive, far less laundry to do, and never again will I be expected to throw a little something together for a bake sale.</p>
<p>Well, one month into the empty nest, and these vast expanses of free time don't seem to have materialized quite yet. The past few weeks have brought the demands of the Jewish High Holidays -- and with them the requirement to bake my own challah and to ensure the proper 3:1, dessert:appetite ratio:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/dd54cef2b1e2bd2ddf4108ad4a7ca461f1e4175d/original/rosh-hashanah-goodies.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NTAweDM3NSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="375" width="500" /></p>
<p>Even without the holidays, there is just so much to do! I have to iron the napkins:</p>
<p> <img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/ab35831a4e9fda422b9c99ff289f3f0868ab170b/original/ironing-napkins.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p><em>(Note to self, potential plot for musical: menopausal empty-nester abandons her career in real estate finance to pursue her lifelong dream of becoming a laundress. Hilarity ensues.)</em></p>
<p>I bought a nice bottle of brandy as a gift for a friend’s birthday, and I had to cover the box with stickers in lieu of wrapping paper:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/cdc0c2d7989bf79dccb63eb6ddbb52a92eabaa0d/original/armagnac-stickers.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /> </p>
<p>And it turns out that without children in my house, I need to go to yoga class five or six times a week. Other people dither at their computers in order to avoid exercise. I exercise in order to avoid dithering at my computer.</p>
<p>The last few years that my younger daughter was at home, I got into a pretty good writing rhythm built around my driving obligations. Every Saturday, while I waited for her during her clarinet lesson at Symphony Hall, I would sit in the hip coffee shop around the corner with my laptop. It was a great opportunity to make sure that I got in at least a little writing weekly.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/23481917b819deb05df231a8c376475c1169fbf2/original/pavement.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p>Of course, it didn't always work out so perfectly. There were lots of great conversations on which to eavesdrop at the Pavement coffiee shop. Staff and clientele alike were amply pierced, which was a distraction in itself. I found myself wondering in particular about the interaction between tongue piercings and the essential coffee shop activity of drinking hot beverages. Metals, as we all know, are excellent conductors of heat. So if your tongue is pierced and you drink a hot beverage, does the kinetic energy in the drink flow disproportionately to the metal tongue-stud, making the beverage feel cooler in the drinker’s mouth? Or does the stud heat up rapidly, burning the contiguous tongue tissue? Or does the piercing process kill all the nerve endings in the contiguous tongue tissue, so that it doesn’t really matter?</p>
<p><em>(Note to self, potential plot for musical: menopausal empty-nester spontaneously gets tongue pierced, and finds she can use the stud to channel signals from alien planets. Chorus of extra-terrestrials. Hilarity ensues.)</em></p>
<p>This afternoon I decided to try to re-create that weekend writing magic of yesteryear by packing up my laptop and walking over to the nearest coffee shop in our suburban town.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/3c4de510e269f3db46ab8e224fbefe7fd70095a6/original/george-howell.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p>It is a much more conventional crowd here at the George Howell cafe in Newton. Today it is a quiet bunch, as well; no conversations on which to eavesdrop! And no distracting piercings.</p>
<p>So instead I am observing eyebrows.</p>
<p>A recent conversation with friends who are of a similar age focused on midlife loss of eyebrows. This was a new one for me, although it should not have been. I know all about midlife loss of head hair, muscle tone, reflexes, skin elasticity, memory, nerve, fashion sense, and aplomb. But eyebrows? Who knew??</p>
<p>Anyone who’d bothered to observe, apparently; something I have neglected to do until now. But I am making up for lost time. I am studying eyebrows on every face available. What is the median eyebrow density among 30-somethings? 40-somethings? 50-, 60- and 70-somethings? Is there a predictable rate of eyebrow hair loss? And if so, are we talking about a linear function, or an exponential one? </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/311f8b62d01c04fc7bf00b2521d60c291c87437f/original/curves.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDM2OSJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="369" width="450" /></p>
<p>(<em>Note to self, potential topic for musical: menopausal empty-nester develops miracle cure for midlife eyebrow depletion, and finds love, fame and fortune in the process; hilarity ensues. Eleven-o'clock-number done entirely in downward dog.</em>)</p>
<p>I do not think that weekend afternoons at George Howell will become my new writing routine. For one thing, there are relatively few seats, and a long line of people, so I feel guilty hogging the table once my coffee is gone.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/beb8becec998dd5a36f9625ff04f3b8cbc89dc76/original/george-howell-line.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /> </p>
<p>For another – and here is the real issue – there are entirely too many eyebrows coming in and out of this place. It’s just too distracting. I can’t posslbly write a thing.</p>
<p>Now, if you’ll excuse me, I will head home to iron the dish towels. And I'd better hurry if I want to get them done before my 4:30 yoga class.</p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61150262016-09-26T20:00:00-04:002022-04-16T02:23:18-04:00Self-Starter
<p>Here I am, two weeks into my life in the empty nest, and I am discovering that I now have lots more time for my many extra-curricular interests. Yes, yes, I know I am supposed to be writing my musical -- and I will start, any day now, I promise! But for now, I am baking bread.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/66a590449db02ad4f77e922ac0fe7dec93ca732e/original/loaves.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p>Bread-baking is not new for me. Some time during the year before the birth of my first child, Rebecca, I bought some <a href="http://www.kingarthurflour.com/shop/items/classic-fresh-sourdough-starter-1-oz?utm_source=Google&utm_medium=CPC&utm_campaign=Shopping&utm_keyword=Classic+Fresh+Sourdough+Starter+-+1+oz&gclid=Cj0KEQjwsai_BRC30KH347fjksoBEiQAoiaqsYTvj8bOpXl17U_BT1VrvhZawy3F9DicyYrNGVXXbYkaAs0r8P8HAQ&kwid=productads-adid%5E75955886673-device%5Ec-plaid%5E70559718062-sku%5E1522-adType%5EPLA" data-imported="1">sourdough starter from King Arthur Flour</a>. In the 24 years since, I have been using this same starter to bake most of our family's bread.</p>
<p>I'm pretty sure that I took a little time off from regular baking in the years following the births of each of my daughters, when I was juggling life with a newborn and full-time work. Those years are something of a blur: I can't remember much of what we did, let alone what we ate. Although I am pretty sure we <em>did</em> eat. At least enough to survive.</p>
<p>And I must have fed my starter as well as my children, because it, too, is still bubbling away.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/922e265f8b2bc5315d637a64d531c01613d142c2/original/starter.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM0eDMwMSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="301" width="334" /></p>
<p>In 1996, three and a half years after the birth of my first child and two years before the birth of my second, I started a bread diary, to keep track of what I was baking and how different recipes and methods turned out.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/3faa6940d6b8cb75a999e31b8c0748cdbe0b40b2/original/bread-diary.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p>The amazing thing about bread-baking is that while it is a simple, fundamental task, there is always more to learn. The number of ways you can combine flour, water, leavening and salt is infinite, and infinitely improvable. I have been making pizza dough for nearly 30 years, and while my pizza has come out pretty well for most of that time, it's only in the past six months that I found a change in technique that upped my game dramatically.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/66dd9d24da7af1f0580609983ef58c417720ada0/original/new-pizza.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p>Of course, I wasn't taking pictures of my loaves back in 1996 when I started my bread diary. In those days, in order to take pictures, you needed a device called a <em>camera</em>, into which you inserted something called <em>film; </em>and then you had to pay to have the pictures <em>developed.</em> We were in no position to squander our money on developing photos of mere food. We needed all of our money to buy hay for our horses, on whom we relied for transportation.</p>
<p>But I did take notes in my bread journal, and so I do have documentary evidence of what I was baking back then. To start with, it was mostly white sourdough loaves. At the time nutritional experts like the <em>New York Times'</em> Jane Brody were encouraging us to fill up our plates with carbohydrates, as most of the world does, because carbs were Good, and it seemed we were eating far more protein than we needed (especially meat and eggs, which were Bad). And fat--we were eating way too much fat! Fat was Bad.</p>
<p>Eventually, of course, we learned that some fats – Good Fats – are Good, but that all carbs are Bad. This was followed by the realization that some carbs – Good Carbs – are Good, and that maybe no fats are Bad Fats, but that there really are Good Fats and that those Good Fats are very, very Good. Gluten, alas, is now Bad. Nuts are Very Good, and are in fact <a href="http://www.forbes.com/sites/alicegwalton/2015/06/11/nuts-reduce-risk-of-death-from-any-cause-study-finds/#597318295b7c" data-imported="1">a good way to prevent death</a>; unless they happen to send you into anaphylactic shock, in which case they are Death Nuts. (In elementary schools all nuts are Death Nuts.) Sugar is pure evil. Coke is Satan in a can.</p>
<p>Whatever. I have never stopped loving, or baking, bread, and putting actual butter on it in fairly generous amounts. The one exhortation I have embraced is the whole-grain thing, first because that particular set of nutritional claims made sense to me, and also because I find the taste and texture of whole-grain bread to be more complex and compelling. Finally, I have made the switch because baking a really good loaf of sourdough whole grain bread is quite challenging. I have come to think of white flour as, well, cheating. </p>
<p>I started dabbling with adding whole grains to my loaves -- a little whole wheat here, a little rye there -- in the fall of 1996. By 2004 I had started the hunt in earnest, limiting myself to breads that are at least half whole grain (I'm now up to 75% or more). Alas, I do not have pictures of these early efforts. Hard though it is to believe, in the early days of this great century, the only things a cellphone could do was make calls and send emails. Even after I finally got a smartphone, I was 20 years too old to appreciate this obvious truth: <em>if it's worth eating, it's worth tweeting.</em></p>
<p>In 2010, I did, however, take this photo of a cake that I baked with my younger daughter, Julia, and our friends Henry and Claire, in the shape of a traffic cone:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/8af11391bfc50fe43bbee41aceb91a98713fc279/original/traffic-cone-cake.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p>But I digress. The point here is that now that nobody lives in my house who might ask me, at any moment, to drop everything and bake a cake in the shape of a traffic cone. I have more time to hone my bread craft. I have a big collection of bread books:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/98c85428a4b58465064172381107f1f7e629f6f4/original/bread-bookshelf.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p>Extensive though my collection is, resourceful and introspective bakers continue to publish books and share new techniques and insights about the art of baking bread. I have particularly loved the evolution of Peter Reinhart, from his <a href="https://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0201624672/typepad0c2-20" data-imported="1">Brother Juniper's Bread Book</a> to my current favorite, <a href="%20https://www.amazon.com/Bread-Revolution-World-Class-Sprouted-Techniques-ebook/dp/B00JYWW486/ref=sr_1_3?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1475010982&sr=1-3&keywords=peter+reinhart" data-imported="1">Bread Revolution</a>. A few days after I returned from depositing Julia at college, I treated myself to another new book on whole grain baking with which I have been flirting for some time, Chad Robertson's <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Tartine-Book-No-Ancient-Classic-ebook/dp/B00F8H0FKU/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1475011201&sr=1-1&keywords=tartine+book+no.+3" data-imported="1">Tartine Book No. 3, Modern Ancient Classic Whole</a>.</p>
<p>I read it cover to cover. Then I started baking. And taking pictures of my bread! Because now I have someone with whom to share them. Last month, Rebecca brought some of my sourdough starter back to her current apartment in St. Louis. Becca texts me pictures of her lovely bread (and yes, I am a VERY proud mom).</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/1b97e0f437ef85b0646da2adf8c8d7e402a8c8cc/original/more-becca-bread.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MjczeDE4NCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="184" width="273" /></p>
<p>And I text her pictures of mine.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/c5a5d1d72b7062791ec66ea993c12465827280b0/original/new-loaves.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p>Rebecca recently informed me that she has started a bread journal of her own.</p>
<p>There is one new problem, however. With the traffic-cone-cake crowd out of the house, our bread consumption rate is down substantially. My freezer is filling up with loaves. If this continues, I will have no place to store my 5-lb. bags of emmer flour.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/a99990a8f646098153e78eb64967cc9ebbdd13c7/original/emmer.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzMweDMzMSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="331" width="330" /></p>
<p>Not to mention the Sprouted Kamut flour that I need to buy pretty much immediately. This just won't do.</p>
<p>But we all get by with a little help from our friends. I think I have two or three friends left who are still eating gluten; perhaps I can start leaving loaves on their front porches, like zucchinis. Or better yet, we can sit down together and share a slice...</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/04a8b2a18b97943a5babe909e515492364448758/original/loaf-interior.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p>...just as Rebecca will share slices of her sourdough babies with her friends.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/0730ad1c3d4c974a7095b6b84c7aad60ab4bd62f/original/becca-bread.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMxMyJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="313" width="450" /></p>
<p>We will wash them down with organic green tea, or with cold Sam Adams (here in Boston; Schlafly in St. Louis), or maybe just some good ol' Satan-in-a-can.</p>
<p>Generations move on, tastes and beliefs turn and turn back again. Life changes, and then changes some more. </p>
<p>But a good sourdough starter can keep going forever.</p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61150252016-09-17T20:00:00-04:002021-09-03T12:26:47-04:00Breast Check
<p>It has been two years since my last mammogram. I have been overdue for a check-up, and last week I finally got around to it. It is critical, as you know, to periodically review how things have progressed, to analyze where matters now stand compared to where they were a year (or two) ago.</p>
<p>So I did what needed to be done. I revisited my 2013 "Singing Mammogram" on YouTube, to see how I now rank in the all-important category of Musical Mammograms.</p>
<p></p>
<div class="video responsive"><div class="video-container"><div class="video responsive"><div class="video-container"><iframe frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/XwweWTe4TOg" width="560" allowfullscreen="" class="wrapped wrapped"></iframe></div></div></div></div>
<p>The results? Not so great. My video comes in as the eleventh option on the Musical Mammogram YouTube search. In the past three years I have garnered a total of 1,043 views -- which does seem like a lot, until you consider that my mother is probably responsible for 586 of them (thanks, Mom!). Or until you consider that a<em> Compilation of the Most Funny Cat Videos Ever, Part 1</em> has garnered 109,454,102 views (probably 110 million by the time you read this). </p>
<p>So who is topping the charts in the genre of Musical Mammograms, and how are they achieving their success? Because it is, indeed, a genre. These videos are sponsored by medical institutions (the <a href="https://youtu.be/zEegRsnnSXY" target="_parent" data-imported="1">USC Norris Cancer Center</a>) or advocacy organizations (<a href="https://youtu.be/UtHhZQzLwp4" target="_parent" data-imported="1">the Susan Komen Foundation</a>). Most feature good production quality (got me there; although I am ever-grateful for the miracle that is iMovie) and cheerful groups of singers making boob jokes, ending with a sincere exhortation to go in for your mammogram (starting at age 50, or 40, or even, as in my <a href="https://youtu.be/3kN2JpHU_AU" target="_parent" data-imported="1">very least-favorite example of the genre</a>, at age 30) because, doggonit, it may just save your life.</p>
<p>There are some anomalies in the Top 10 Musical Mammograms -- Jane's Mammogram, for example:</p>
<p></p>
<div class="video responsive"><div class="video-container"><div class="video responsive"><div class="video-container"><iframe frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/r4tNS1sveOk" width="560" allowfullscreen="" class="wrapped wrapped"></iframe></div></div></div></div>
<p>This one is simply a poor-quality video of <em>a woman's actual mammogram</em>, set over a soundtrack. And yet this thing has 6,830 views (6,831, now that you have clicked on it!) -- nearly <em>seven times as many as mine</em>. What am I doing wrong?</p>
<p>Here's the one that gets me the most--the Giggling Gramma's [sic]:</p>
<p></p>
<div class="video responsive"><div class="video-container"><div class="video responsive"><div class="video-container"><iframe frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/e1GMXWbXHz4" width="560" allowfullscreen="" class="wrapped wrapped"></iframe></div></div></div></div>
<p>The production quality is as mediocre as mine; there is no original music here, let alone images of steamrollers or vices. These ladies do nothing but giggle for the first 1:01 of their video--just about half of its length. And yet they have 4,233 views -- nearly four clicks for every one of mine.</p>
<p>All of which leaves me with the age-old question, familiar to everyone on the planet, or at least to all those of us who have a web presence: <em><strong>how can I get more people to look at</strong></em> <em><strong>me</strong></em>? Please send your suggestions my way.</p>
<p>Oh, yes -- and in between obsessively checking my web rankings, I did actually get my mammogram done. It was a bit of a hassle, because my health center is under construction, and many of its services have been temporarily relocated.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/3287844224bc159d6699bbf55c5e4943b4cff215/original/construction.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p>A few days before the exam, I received an email instructing me to arrive early, and informing me of the location to which I must report.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/c15e3fc42885e98018bbd2553a722ee35f447583/original/screenshot-2016-09-18-13-15-04.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDIwNCJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="204" width="450" /></p>
<p>And arrive early I did, because I had absolutely no idea where the Richard A and Susan F Smith Campus Center B (ANCILLARY) was located, nor could I find an address on their website. </p>
<p>But the helpful health center folks were very happy to direct me when I arrived, 45 minutes in advance of my appointment, with plenty of time to sprint to the other side of campus, if necessary: the mammography center is in exactly the same place as it's always been. They've just given it a new name.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/32b18fd144a6174f8f09e91cd672feda2e248fdc/original/waiting-area.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p>It occurs to me that this is perhaps just the inspiration I need to boost the ranking of my Singing Mammogram. I will re-post the video to YouTube -- but this time, with a brand-new name! That ought to do it.</p>
<p>I am planning to call it <em>Compilation of the Most Funny Cat Videos Ever, Part 2.</em></p>
<p> </p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61150242016-09-07T20:00:00-04:002021-09-14T07:17:58-04:00Cleaning the nest before it empties
<p>I am about to deliver my younger child to college for her freshman year, thus ushering in this next phase of my life, in which no children will be living in my house. It marks the end of more than two delicious decades in which my most important obligation was raising my two wonderful daughters. It is, as you can imagine, a deeply bittersweet moment.</p>
<p>Along with all the packing and preparing there has been a fair amount of cleaning and clearing. Both of my daughters have, over the past few weeks, done yeomen's jobs (or yeowomen's jobs?) of cleaning out both their rooms and the common space they shared as kids. We have gotten rid of piles of old clothes, dead notebooks, school supplies. And because tomorrow is garbage day, today was the moment to take the big step of emptying the Display Shelf of Three-Dimensional Art.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/780774fd10e67c3cc415f2ccc3c328005e372612/original/shelf-of-art-1.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p>Yes, these are all the handmade treasures that could not easily be stored in a portfolio of drawings and paintings, or -- even better -- slipped surreptitiously into the recycling bin. So here they came to rest.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/0c15fe810532c3bc3ffad5f09a8521832ac8b35b/original/shelf-of-art-2.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/8a555fe51ee51e2826595454d4829ea34f290b43/original/ceramic-thing.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p>Ah, memories. It goes by so fast. It truly does.</p>
<p>So I have this message for my younger friends, those of you who still have little children at home: </p>
<p>When you look into the heart-breakingly beautiful faces of your precious children, those innocent smiles, those trusting eyes, know that in 13 or 15 or 18 years, years that will fly by more quickly than you can imagine, you, too, will be able to take all of the shit with which your children have been clogging your home, and dump it in the trash. </p>
<p>You will not mind at all. And neither will they. In fact, they may even help.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/ac57fc0518f4569f560ca37d5082450b778b3518/original/helping.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p>By that time, if all goes well, they will have turned into adult humans with whom you will be thoroughly delighted to share a cup of coffee or a burrito or a beer. </p>
<p>Hopefully they will have learned to spell.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/5a9a9ef3992de043a48633792b5fe3bcf9388c57/original/frendship.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p>They will have skills, and interests, and opinions all their own, some of which -- or who knows? maybe <em>all</em> of which -- are wholly different from yours.</p>
<p>And none of which, God willing, will in any way involve painting crappy little cows made out of plaster.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/9a3721caf648380baa10d6d7979598c56c58319c/original/plaster-cow.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzY4eDI3MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="270" width="368" /></p>
<p> </p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61150232016-08-31T20:00:00-04:002022-08-15T04:48:57-04:00Gardening in the time of drought
<p>Now that we’ve closed out August, it is officially true that Boston has just had the driest meteorological summer on record, and one of the hottest, to boot. We are in the midst of a miserable drought. As a gardener, I am a bit bereft. It has not been a good year in my little backyard Shangri-la.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/f5d049a041be31901f4f7c45d86c7d99a620fd45/original/img-4720.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzkxeDI5NCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="294" width="391" /></p>
<p>There is of course a silver lining in every cloud – in this case, in the utter lack of clouds. In New England this year, the prevailing view is that the drought’s silver lining involves the tomato crop. Tomatoes, the absolute glory of August, are heavy feeders (and moderate drinkers to boot), but they are also deeply susceptible to a wide range of fungal diseases that get way, way worse in wet years. Plus, a watery tomato is a less tasty tomato: in dry years like this one, tomato plants stay healthier way longer, and the tomatoes are intensely flavorful.</p>
<p>Well, bully for me – I planted eight tomato plants, all different varieties, all of which I raised myself from seed! So let me show you a picture of this year’s tomato bounty:</p>
<p> <img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/4a8ce64ecd3d958ca523924ed8cb4c66d882485b/original/img-4736.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p>That’s it. Two lousy little Sungolds. There have been a few other small tomatoes in the patch, but the squirrels and chipmunks, desperate for any source of liquid, have nailed every one. The birds got the blueberries. The squirrels did in the apples. It is a good thing I live in the age of Whole Foods; were I trying to live off the land, by now I'd have been dead for weeks.</p>
<p>The silver lining in my garden? Well, there is at least one plant that is having an absolute banner year – this trumpet vine:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/b6aaeac03a6ac8986ac35b79fd574b2c1b45ec85/original/img-4727.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /> </p>
<p>It is a thing of utter magnificence from early July well into September. And it has never had a year like this one: it is lush and fabulous and going into its glorious third month of full and spectacular bloom.</p>
<p> But this plant is a total vampire. Its roots have clawed their way into the nearby vegetable patch (which is the only area of the yard I water), sending up shoots among the tomatoes and basil, sucking every bit of moisture and nourishment from the soil. It’s not the drought that’s stunted my tomatoes – it’s the hyper-aggressive trumpet vine.</p>
<p> <img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/3a1e58f3df90963f27b2e3d283408e7ff3721ffd/original/img-4730.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p>This season in the garden has taught me many things, as it always does. I look at this year’s tomato harvest, so meager despite the time and care I put into raising the plants from seed and coddling the transplants. Every gardening season I start with a vision and I do my best, but the outcomes are often totally different from what I intended. I work in my garden, and I learn non-attachment.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/13dbd1cf4370bbaaeb859082cc274f85eb888c41/original/img-4723.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /> </p>
<p>However disappointing the tomato harvest, I am astonished by the bounty of green beans. Even in this driest of years, the garden has gifts to offer. I harvest from my garden, and I learn gratitude.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/d092e3217ad94f6a647d44ab492c0232987855ee/original/img-4690.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /> </p>
<p>I look at the dusty earth, and at the plants that are losing their leaves and going dormant way too soon. And I remember that while this was a hard year, next year will likely be better; that seasons of drought are inevitable, as are years of rain and bounty. I walk in my garden, and I learn forbearance.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/2124488a068ecc33529db8a1bde475c3669cc16b/original/img-4691.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /> </p>
<p>I gaze at the trumpet vine, unbelievable floozy that she is, and I am astonished at the aggression of this utterly beautiful plant, how it has managed to leach the life out of everything around it. I gaze at my garden, and I learn to distrust anyone who is exceptionally good-looking. Those hotties will suck you dry.</p>
<p>P.S. Tropical Storm Hermine – YO! HEY! We’re over here!!!!</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61150222016-08-15T20:00:00-04:002021-09-20T06:27:33-04:00My musical response to a bureaucratic mess
<p>At the end of February, 2015, the city of Newton mailed excise tax bills for our cars. About a week later, my dad died in Florida. I left town for two weeks, and after I got back it was another week before I could bring myself to deal with the pile of backlogged mail on my desk. When I did, I found that I was almost two weeks overdue on the excise tax bills. So I got online and paid them immediately, along with the three or four dollars of interest that had accrued because of the late payment. I got an email from the City confirming receipt of payment in full of everything that was due; I printed it, filed it, and promptly forgot about it.</p>
<p>Until three months later, when a warrant arrived, demanding payment of these same excise taxes, along with a whole host of fees and penalties. I called the City, and they said that the warrant had been sent in error; my account was current, and I should just ignore it. So I did.</p>
<p>Three months later a second bill arrived, also disavowed by the City. When the third warrant arrived I arranged a conference call between the warrant officers and the City of Newton Treasury staff person, in which everyone on the line agreed that the continued warrants were in error and that they would clear them from the system. That was in January of this year. I haven't thought about the incident since.</p>
<p>Until Friday, when a notice arrived from the Massachusetts Registry of Vehicles, saying that they would not be renewing my car registration because......of unpaid excise taxes to the city of Newton.</p>
<p>Now, as anyone who has visited this website knows, I have long been in the habit of dealing with life's vicissitudes by capturing them in song. This little bureaucratic morass, I think, deserves not just a song, but a music video all its own. So midlifemomsongs is proud to present:</p>
<p><strong>The Ballad of the Excise Tax Fiasco</strong></p>
<p>Please forward it to your favorite bureaucrat.</p>
<p> </p>
<p></p>
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Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61150212016-07-24T20:00:00-04:002022-02-08T05:37:35-05:00Multicultural incompetence
<p>I have recently returned from a two-week trip to Spain -- and yes, it was as delightful as it sounds. There were impossibly charming mountain villages:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/eb7a5994e9fdec1c3f50eeea06bf6e047470df43/original/alta.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p>Roman ruins by the sea:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/e2247c7ecefb2a4f412c1991292d0ec677f84d09/original/tarragona.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p>Sidewalk vending machines selling uncooked hamburger patties:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/2798db724dbed8cd83f068d6cc384cc8128a0cd7/original/vending-meat.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p>And best of all, there was laundry:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/40bb1be234ab82819034337ed175b790eef7f84b/original/eco-laundry.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p>Now, I adore doing laundry, even at home: it is my small way of creatng order in a chaotic world. (I did a LOT of laundry last week, during the Republican convention.) But beyond my general yen for laundry, one of my favorite things about travel is figuring out trivial daily tasks in unfamiliar territory, and in unfamiliar languages. At this San Sebastian laundromat, the instructions are bilingual: Spanish and Basque. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/afe58803022f12ad80cb938177fb0de593c56503/original/instructions.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p>Really, the Ecolaundry process was not all that hard to figure out. It's an environmentally sensitive, detergent-free event. I estimated the weight of my laundry (a VERY rough estimate; I had no idea, especially in kilograms, how much my laundry weighed), loaded up the machine, inserted the requisite number of Euros, and then frittered away the hour reading "Mujer Hoy"</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/252a44f8a08ec2e899ca538fc64a6869041617c1/original/mujer-hoy.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p>....where I learned that Frida Kahlo is this year's Fashion It-Girl.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/17c6ef301cb29431e86e07ce49cf3b82c78ce282/original/img-4397.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p>And in the end I came away with a neat, fresh-smelilng pile of clean clothing -- feeling, I must say, pretty pleased with myself. I believe I can declare victory over the cross-cultural laundry event:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/e9baa6925c5cc2704478913e2b7ccec5e8004ab5/original/clean-laundry.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p><strong>Laurie: 1</strong></p>
<p><strong>Laundry: 0</strong></p>
<p>Except, alas, for the small matter of having scarred all the light-colored clothing with unfortunate blue spots:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/001651247588e02b0806cddc834b83a84887d042/original/shirt.jpeg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p>Too bad about that. The revised score:</p>
<p><strong>Laundry: 1</strong></p>
<p><strong>Laurie: 0</strong></p>
<p>Next on my list of familiar obsessions: vegetables. I really do not understand vegetables in Spain. Clearly, vegetables exist. There are gardens everywhere (growing the same assortment of veggies: onions, zucchini, tomatoes, potatoes, and peppers, in neat rows). There are lovely produce markets. But just try to find a single vegetable on a restaurant menu! This one is typical:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/b21a29b8137febf2add14a6a95ce19ab676b98ae/original/bocadillos.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p>No fewer than seven different ways to eat a slice of pig on white bread.</p>
<p>So I was particularly delighted one evening to find chick peas on the menu of a lovely Santander bistro. I knew it was chick peas because the Spanish word (<em>cecina</em>) is so very similar to the Italian (<em>ceci</em>). Of course chick peas would be on the menu in coastal Spain! Chick peas, I'd just been reading, had gotten Bilbao and San Sebastian through a brutal siege during the Spanish civil war. So I ordered some right up, delighted with the chance to both honor the region's history and to add one to my five-a-day (or is it nine-a-day? I've lost track).</p>
<p>In any event, here was my <em>cecina</em>, my plate of chick peas:</p>
<p> <img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/4b7ee316e5f10c5d7a1381dd908ecafb160803dd/original/screen-shot-2016-07-27-at-10-43-42-pm.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NjA1eDM2OSJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="369" width="605" /></p>
<p><strong>Pork: 1</strong></p>
<p><strong>Laurie: 0</strong></p>
<p>Apparently if you want vegetables, you apparently have to prepare them yourself. I can get with that program! I would scoop some up for a picnic on the beach -- I had plans to hit the supermarket first thing in the am in any case, because I needed to buy sunscreen. I arrived at the supermarket promptly at 8:00, ready to be the first customer in the door.</p>
<p>Except that nothing opens at 8:00 in Spain. The supermarket opens at 9:00. I had to go across the street and have a cup of coffee while I waited -- which was no problem, since I truly am very good at ordering coffee in all sorts of languages.</p>
<p>When I toddled back to the store at 9:00, I was part of a sizable crew looking to get in an errand or two before the work day started (at 10:00, in Spain, more or perhaps less). I plucked a bottle of 50 SPF sunscreen off the shelf, selected a promising-looking tomato and a just-ripe avocado, and joined the growing line, which was moving forward with a fair degree of efficiency.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/9626a95c3fb2cae5dd766527851493ad1e940d1e/original/supermarket.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p>Until, that is, the cashier got to me. Because I had done something wrong on every one of my three items. The sunscreen had no bar code, because apparently it had been pulled out of a four-item gift pack (who knew? It had been sitting on the shelf all on ts own, I swear). As far as the produce was concerned, what I was supposed to have done was to weigh these bad boys myself, generating barcode labels to be scanned at checkout:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/01b8313ad0697154dd572bd2418057599e3d9747/original/tomato-avocado.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p>It took the cashier a solid five minutes to address each element of my incompetence to enable me to pay and leave. Meanwhile, a robust line of impatient errand-runners grew behind me, at whom I could only shrug and say, "disculpe." </p>
<p><strong>Supermarket: 1</strong></p>
<p><strong>Laurie: 0</strong></p>
<p>My abysmal scorecard notwithstanding, foreign travel is still a treat and a privilege. It's humbling to be confronted with one's own incompetence. But you watch, you listen, and you learn from the locals. The Basque separatists in the village of Leitza, lobbying for the return of their political prisoners, told me exactly how to handle those nasty blue stains:</p>
<p> </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/0aa8fb85f297eb481c2be8f7c96f5f890d7f162e/original/presoak.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61150202016-07-02T20:00:00-04:002021-09-17T11:47:38-04:00Riding shotgun
<p>Yesterday, the younger of my two children passed her road test. She is now a licensed driver. Naturally, this is a major rite of passage in her young life: it means that her mother is no longer legally obligated to ride shotgun.</p>
<p>My daughter is a fine driver (my definition of good driving is paying attention to what is going on around you, while maintaining a healthy humility about the gravity of what it is you're doing every time you get behind the wheel of a car). I have no qualms about handing over the keys to the car. But I am really bad at being a parent-passenger. I'm jumpy and nervous, fully aware how unhelpful this is, and yet totally powerless to stop myself. I'm sure my daughter will be thrilled to pull out of the driveway and leave me behind.</p>
<p>I confessed this to my own mother yesterday. "I know," she said. "My teeth are still clenched from your brother." The only reason her teeth are not still clenched from teaching <em>me</em> to drive is that by the time I came of age, she'd figured out how to outsource the whole process: to a lovely man named Mr. Carr (no kidding) who had taught our entire town how to drive in his enormous yellow '72 Ford. </p>
<p>I told my mom that I'm finally beginning to relax a bit with my older daughter (who, at 23, has owned her car for a year and has driven more or less all over the country).</p>
<p>"That's pretty good," she said. "I began to relax with you when you were 45."</p>
<p>In any event, here's what I have to say (or rather, sing) about that:</p>
<p><strong><a href="http://gouldtunes.com/dont_check_the_box1/s/teaching_susie_to_drive_feat._tony_damico_richard_travers_mike_monaghan_james_gwin__david_burd" data-imported="1">Teaching Susie to Drive (from "Don't Check the Box")</a></strong></p>
<p><strong><a href="http://midlifemomsongs.com/dont_check_the_box1/s/teaching_susie_to_drive_feat._tony_damico_richard_travers_mike_monaghan_james_gwin__david_burd" data-imported="1"> </a></strong></p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61150192016-06-03T20:00:00-04:002021-09-20T14:38:42-04:00Graduation Honors
<p>The Merton Benzinger Prize is awarded to the graduating senior who most exemplifies the indomitable spirit of Merton Benzinger, an exemplary scholar-athlete. During his four years on the track and field team, Merton broke records in five different events, three of which (the Cookie Toss, the Swing Jump, and the Troll Vault) he had invented himself. Merton was not only a stellar athlete, he was also a straight-A student and more importantly, a straight-A human being. Merton’s friends used to joke that he was so generous, he’d give his right arm for a buddy. In his senior year Merton proved them right, when he insisted on becoming an arm donor to help a fellow javelin-thrower who had been sidelined by tendonitis. Tragically, Merton never regained consciousness after the amputation. In honor of his memory, we present the Benzinger prize to the student who, in the judgement of our faculty, best captures Merton’s brilliance, athleticism, and profligate generosity with his body parts.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/7a2c6b98272b2c1d1faaea03c1236b51fa2b0961/original/img-4045.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzMzeDI2MSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="261" width="333" /></p>
<p>The Pennstock Ziegler Award is given to a graduating senior who most consistently demonstrates the virtue of persistence. Pennstock Ziegler may have been the hardest-working student ever to attend this august institution. He spent countless hours in the library, grinding away at problem sets, researching and revising his papers, cramming for exams. Pennstock’s efforts were never sufficient to overcome the modesty of his intellectual gifts; his grade point average peaked at a C+. But he soldiered away, tireless, nonetheless. The Ziegler Award is presented to the student who most clearly demonstrates Pennstock’s dogged tenacity in the face of mediocrity.</p>
<p>The Mehlman Prize honors our beloved Suds Mehlman, a member of our janitorial staff from 1956 until his long-deferred retirement in 2015. The Mehlman Prize is presented to the student who best captures Suds’ obsession with germs, preferably expressed through compulsive hand-washing.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/4b721baba17407c1601f7a20d9805de95ad205a0/original/img-4047.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p>The Pennfield Scholarship is given in appreciation of the generosity of the Pennfield family, who endowed the Chip Pennfield Stadium in which we currently sit, as well as the Skip Pennfield Theatre Annex and of course, the Pennfield Field. The Pennfield Scholarship is presented each year to the graduating senior who the faculty deems most likely to make an astounding fortune through vaguely unethical means, and then to use a small portion of those ill-gotten gains to build us a new library.</p>
<p>The Felicity Feldman Fellowship is presented to the student who best captures the passion and commitment of the late, great Felicity Feldman. Felicity was revered for her tireless advocacy for the powerless, particularly those of the non-human variety. Known affectionately as "Auntie Vivisection," it was Felicity who led the annual sleep-in at the biology lab to protest the clinical dissection of harmless frogs, rats and eyeballs--a tradition that Felicity continued for a good twenty years after her graduation. Every year our faculty awards the Feldman Fellowship to the student who most passionately advocates for trivial causes.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/25fadb9a566a390906c3228d8fd9e77f662479bd/original/img-3902.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p>The Harmon Exeter Bennington Memorial Scholarship is offered in honor of our present dean, Harmon Exeter Bennington, who has been serving in his current position since 1973, despite the fact that many of his would-be successors have long since given up and retired. The Harmon Exeter Bennington Memorial Scholarship is awarded EVERY SINGLE FREAKIN' YEAR to the senior who most consistently refuses to take a hint, no matter how blatant.</p>
<p>The Baby Bennington Prize honors the memory of Dean Bennington's sixth child, borne after only 18 weeks of gestation, who sadly did not survive the delivery. The Bennington Prize is given to the student who, in the judgement of the faculty, spent the largest portion of his or her senior year in fetal position.</p>
<p>Our last and greatest honor, the Alex D'Urberville Lobachevsky Scholarship, is awarded to the graduating senior who exemplifies the many virtues of the remarkable and much-missed Alex D'Urberville Lobachevsky. Alex was a brilliant student who won science prizes at the state and national levels for her ground-breaking work on using maple syrup to power manufacturing plants. She was a star athlete, leading the school co-ed Curling team to four successive regional victories and even one state championship. Nobody who heard it could forget Alex's brilliant performance of the Vivaldi Concerto for Flugelhorn. And I'm sure most of you have read at least one of the two volumes of poems she published during her tenure here, before she met her untimely end mere days before she would have addressed this very stadium as class valedictorian.</p>
<p>The Alex D'Urberville Lobachevsky Scholarship is awarded, posthumously, to Alex D'Urberville Lobachevsky (as is it was last year, and for that matter, the year before that). Because frankly, no living student could possibly measure up.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61150182016-05-13T20:00:00-04:002022-09-06T06:38:08-04:00L.A. Yoga
<p>Last week I was away for a full seven days, most of it in downtown Los Angeles. The trip, alas, threatened to wreak havoc with my yoga practice.</p>
<p>I have been doing a ton of yoga for the past couple of years. When I'm home, I go to class three, four, occasionally five times a week. For Women of a Certain Demographic, yoga is the prescribed way to navigate one’s way through a host of life stresses and transitions. It’s a great alternative to meditation for those of us who are congenitally unable to sit still. Plus, my back hurts way less than it used to. And I'm stretching parts of my person that I didn't even know were capable of bending.</p>
<p>But yoga is not about getting into shape! Or relieving pain! Or any of that crap! Yoga is About the Journey. It is Not About the Destination.</p>
<p>Thing is, it is way easier to keep your attention on the Journey when you are surrounded by other yogis of a similar demographic. This is my absolute favorite pose -- I could do it all day:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/1b40d77fdd23f28f796d795111ad8c2a3d41013b/original/screen-shot-2016-05-14-at-3-07-11-pm.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDI1MCJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="250" width="450" /></p>
<p>This, too, is a favorite:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/2904a11594213cf7d10517e769ae5f4e693698fd/original/screen-shot-2016-05-14-at-3-03-38-pm.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MjgxeDQ1MCJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="281" /></p>
<p>I have achieved a rough approximation of this next pose once or twice, for about one and a half seconds (not long enough for anyone to take a picture of ME doing it); and while my Yoga Practice is TOTALLY About the Journey, it really is, I am quite proud of myself for my temporary layover in this particular Destination:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/61fdec4d04d73e957f0885b1cdf004a51c494998/original/screen-shot-2016-05-14-at-2-55-48-pm.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzA1eDMwNSJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="305" width="305" /></p>
<p>However, for Yogis of a Certain Demographic, the following will never be a good idea:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/b778abe4a4da270c3147ebb11b90787dc865da85/original/screen-shot-2016-05-14-at-3-14-55-pm.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDMxeDI1NSJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="255" width="431" /></p>
<p>And if everyone around me is doing this:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/efae83d7b549d4c4e32a01e7015a3a3acf0ed284/original/screen-shot-2016-05-14-at-3-15-23-pm.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDY3eDM5MSJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="391" width="467" /></p>
<p>I can be pretty sure that they are on a Journey for which I, personally, will never hold a ticket.</p>
<p>But how to find the right yoga studio in Downtown LA? While Downtown was dominated by Skid Row when I lived there in the early 90's, it's a hip and happening place now, full of high-ceiinged lofts occupied by the young, ambitious and svelte. Of course, yoga these days is a popular enterprise from coast to coast, and a quick web search revealed no shortage of studios in Downtown LA. Here's the site that came up first on the search. What do you think of this studio description?</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/d56f8195c75c8b2c7800f97f691a4b242519443b/original/evoke-iphone.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzYweDY0MCJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="640" width="360" /></p>
<p>If you have ANY opinion about this -- if you can read it <em>at all</em> -- then you are NOT a Yogi of a Certain Demographic. I crossed that one off the list simply because I couldn't read the address with my middle-aged eyeballs.</p>
<p>This next studio was very convenient to my hotel, just a short walk down the street:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/2dbeb006a0fd1c0e8a76ecaa967b1e2de99c7aa4/original/yas.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzYweDY0MCJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="640" width="360" /></p>
<p>As it turns out, YAS stands for “Yoga And Spinning.” It is a "Revolutionary Concept." The one yoga class on the schedule is Yoga for Athletes, promising to “help all athletes excel.” </p>
<p>But I, alas, am not an athlete, athleticism being far too Desitination-based for a klutz of a certain demographic like myself. And this woman --I think she's the founder of YAS-- does not look like her Journey is making her particularly serene:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/1a878577fef907e3747461ff562b0dafa4f9ed4b/original/screen-shot-2016-05-07-at-1-38-26-pm.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDIyMSJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="221" width="450" /></p>
<p>I do not think she is focusing on her breath. I think she is focusing on how long she can let her hair grow without re-frosting the tips. </p>
<p>No worries at YAS, however, if I haven't brought my yoga mat from home! I can buy this one right at the studio:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/40c21aeab2904afea3bea89383e3e51ca6f5d323/original/screen-shot-2016-05-07-at-1-34-42-pm.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzAxeDQ5NCJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="494" width="301" /></p>
<p>Hmm. The starting point for this particular Journey may be convenient; but it's not at all clear that I will make it out alive.</p>
<p>I finally found my way to Yoga Circle Downtown, for a 9:00 pm Thursday evening class:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/a70ce49564b0a4a230308a4f0edd0304eb0121b5/original/yoga-circle-downtown.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p>Yoga Circle Downtown is a beautiful, high-ceilinged studio in a funky old office building converted to lofts for the young, hip and ambitious. But these yogis are absolutely All About the Journey! Let me just say that they are likely to be on their individual Journeys for 20 or 25 years after mine has ended.</p>
<p>I mostly kept up pretty well, although at one point, near the end of class, when I couldn't quite follow the instructions about a twist, the teacher came over and asked, in the respectful voice one uses with the aged and infirm, "are you working an alternative asana, here?" before she gently untangled me.</p>
<p>From what I overheard in the preliminary chatter, many of my fellow yogis had plans to head off after class and whip up for themselves the nightcap of the moment, which involves a blend of Heineken and Boba tea. </p>
<p>The Yogis of a Certain Demographic -- that would be, um, <em>me</em> -- headed back to our hotel rooms for a cup of peppermint tea and some dark chocolate.</p>
<p>Namaste.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61150172016-03-25T20:00:00-04:002021-09-03T14:34:42-04:00Rejection Season
<p>It is college admissions season, and I am the parent of a high school senior. So we are deeply enmeshed in the daily drama of emails from colleges and Facebook proclamations from friends. So far, things are going OK in our part of the world – returns are not yet fully in, but thus far our senior has been accepted at two wonderful schools that were at the very top of her list.</p>
<p>Of course, it is not all wine – <em>ahem</em>; grape juice – and roses; along with the acceptances have come a certain number of waitlists and we’re-sorry-to-inform-you’s. And it is clear that even with plenty of love coming from her favorite places, those rejections still sting.</p>
<p>As a parent, I try to model balanced reactions to the situation. I remind my daughter that she can only go to one school, after all, and that she has fabulous options; that she should be glad that she is not taking an admissions slot from some other kid at a school she is not likely to select; and that she needs to find her sense of self-worth from within, and not from a tally of schools that do or do not admit her. </p>
<p>Nah, maturity is overrated. Here is my typical response to a text from my daughter about a school’s (clearly misguided) decision to turn her down:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/70d98e7008fdd3ef0a89165b49525e478a850c4d/original/screen-shot-2016-03-26-at-3-11-40-pm.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MTYzeDMxIl0%3D.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="31" width="163" /></p>
<p>At least I kept it clean, right? </p>
<p>I am also quite fond of the Sour Grapes response. I remind my daughter that this was the school where we had witnessed the machinations of Operator Mom, a woman with an expensive haircut and impossibly chic clothing, who kept maneuvering her equally well-dressed daughter to the front of every crowd. She got in, and stayed in, the face of the admissions officer who ran the info session, and even dominated discourse with the hapless undergrad who ran the tour. Thus this text:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/047be96bee2b6af22cbd001ecf980e84ab640ace/original/evil-spawn-text.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MjgweDQ4Il0%3D.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="48" width="280" /></p>
<p>Yes, Shakespeare was right about that “sweet are the uses of adversity” business. We do grow from our failures. Both of my daughters have taken on very difficult challenges; both have had their setbacks; and both have dusted themselves off and kept at it. I am enormously proud of them for their persistence and resilience, two of the best virtues going. </p>
<p> But rejection is its own special category of setback. It sucks, every time. It just does.</p>
<p>For my own part, I remember every single rejection in my personal history. The a cappella groups who turned me down in college. The plays in which I was not cast. The editors who rejected my writing. The jobs I did not get. I’m not sure that I remember all the groups in which I <em>did</em> sing, or the plays in which I <em>did</em> perform – but dammit, those rejections have staying power. Of course, what makes it so pathetic is that it is so terribly one-sided. The people in those a cappella groups had forgotten me before I even walked out of the audition room.</p>
<p>So, to all the seniors who are dealing with rejections right now, I have this to say: </p>
<p><strong>Those colleges that didn’t take you? THEY ARE DICKS. Go shit in a shoebox, address it to the Admissions Department, slap on a few stamps and pop it in the mailbox. You’ll be so glad you did.</strong></p>
<p>And to the directors of “Bye, Bye Birdie” (1975), “Look Homeward, Angel” (1978), and “A Doll’s House” (1982); to the members of Red, Hot & Blue and Proof of the Pudding (1981); to the eleven publishers who rejected the book I wrote on suburban homelessness (1990), let me reach back across the decades and wish you a hearty FUCK YOU. </p>
<p> Oh – and watch your mail – a shoebox should be arriving shortly.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61150162016-03-11T19:00:00-05:002021-09-05T14:29:36-04:00A New Dawn
<p>I have been traveling like a crazy person: just got back from my sixth trip in five weeks, and I leave tomorrow for the seventh. I've had tons of work, and in between some busted plumbing, a terribly sad memorial service, a colonoscopy...Really, it's been nonstop, and I haven't had a minute to myself.</p>
<p>Until last night, when I was finally alone for the evening. I went to a lovely yoga class, made myself a late dinner, and settled in with a cup of tea, with time, at last, to sit and contemplate the important things in life.</p>
<p>So naturally, my thoughts turned to Tony Orlando and Dawn.</p>
<p> <img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/51f455e047aff71d621854ca8fb6fe0f881f359b/original/tony-orlando-and-dawn.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzQ5eDMzNyJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="337" width="349" /></p>
<p>When is the last time YOUR thoughts turned to Tony Orlando and Dawn? If you are under, say, 49, then you have probably never thought about Tony Orlando and Dawn at all. If this is true of you, then I really believe you should watch this clip, because it will give you valuable insight into the world that made your parents:</p>
<p></p>
<div class="video responsive"><div class="video-container"><div class="video responsive"><div class="video-container"><iframe frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/wWn1Oj2V7Xw" width="560" allowfullscreen="" class="wrapped wrapped"></iframe></div></div></div></div>
<p>No, my young friends; life in our youth was not all "Brady Bunch" and "Batman." There were also variety shows. Sonny and Cher, Donny and Marie....and of course, the immortal Tony Orlando and Dawn. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/17aab608bd335af7f3b136635b9ba27a0ff43274/original/screen-shot-2016-03-12-at-1-34-11-pm.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzcxeDQ0NCJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="444" width="371" /></p>
<p>I loved these variety shows. In fact, in second grade I successfully petitioned my parents for a bedtime waiver (usuallyl 8:30, extended to 9:00) just so I could watch the second half of "Sonny & Cher." Magical.</p>
<p>And then I forgot about them entirely. Just last month, on one of the aforementioned trips, I found myself in Cleveland at the Rock 'n Roll Hall of Fame. Shockingly, there was <em>nothing</em> there to remind me of the golden careers of Tony Orlando & Dawn. They did not cross my mind at all for close to 40 years.</p>
<p>Until last night, when I was enjoying my first moment of domestic solitude in maybe two months, and the song "Tie a Yellow Ribbon 'Round the Old Oak Tree" popped into my head and wouldn't leave. This song was an enormous hit in 1973. And for some reason last night, something in my yoga-besotted brain hit the "play" button and the endless loop began. </p>
<p><em>Tie a yellow ribbon 'round the old oak tree</em></p>
<p><em>It's been three long years</em></p>
<p><em>Do you still want me?</em></p>
<p>So this guy in the song is headed home after three years, and he asks his -- girlfriend? wife? whatever -- to signal her continuing commitment by tying a yellow ribbon around the tree in the front yard. Should he fail to see said ribbon, he will simply pass the house by and continue on his way:</p>
<p><em>If I don't see the yellow ribbon 'round the old oak tree</em></p>
<p><em>I'll stay on the bus</em></p>
<p><em>Forget about us</em></p>
<p><em>Put the blame on me!</em></p>
<p>I have always assumed that the narrator in the song was coming home from Vietnam -- because a lot of people were doing exactly that in 1973, which was, after all, the year that US troops finally pulled out. A happy homecoming from a war that had thoroughly exhausted the country: certainly, that would explain all those relentlessly major chords. </p>
<p>But as I listened to this song in my head last night, a jarring thought occurred to me: was this guy coming home from Vietnam? Or from prison?</p>
<p>So I texted my husband, who is an expert on all sorts of things. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/33a504ba61f6462a236a88a64cf235880987b1d2/original/screen-shot-2016-03-12-at-1-56-23-pm.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDM1eDE1OCJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="158" width="435" /></p>
<p>That's Steve for you. Always hedging his bets.</p>
<p>Listening to the fifth or sixth loop of the song in my brain, I concluded it was, indeed, jail.</p>
<p><em>I'm coming home, I've done my time</em><em>...</em></p>
<p><em>If you received my letter telling you I'd soon be free....</em></p>
<p><em>I'm really still in prison, and my love, she holds the key....</em></p>
<p>This is definitely the return of an ex-con. My childhood soundtrack was dominated by a super-happy song about the return of a convicted felon.</p>
<p>Which raises all kinds of questions. What was he in for? Something violent? Should we be alarmed by the almost-desperate possessiveness of the lyrics?</p>
<p><em>I've got to know what is and isn't mine</em></p>
<p>There's a bit of menace in those lines, it seems to me. I am also concerned about our narrator's Plan B:</p>
<p><em>If I don't see a yellow ribbon 'round the old oak tree</em></p>
<p><em>I'll stay on the bus</em></p>
<p><em>Forget about us</em></p>
<p><em>Put the blame on me</em></p>
<p>How <em>long</em> will he stay on the bus? Where does the bus route end -- and at what time? He'll have to get off <em>somewhere</em> and do <em>something</em>. I believe he has not fully thought this through.</p>
<p>Of course, as anyone who survived the 70's knows very well, the song does have a happy ending:</p>
<p><em>Bus driver, please look for me</em></p>
<p><em>'Cause I cannot bear to see what I might see </em></p>
<p><em>Now the whole damn bus is cheering and I can't believe I see</em></p>
<p><em>A hundred yellow ribbons 'round the old oak tree!</em></p>
<p>Of course, I'm glad it worked out for our steadfastly cheerful ex-con (and with that positive attitude, I'm sure he was the most popular guy in Alcatraz). But why does the "whole damn bus" know this man's business? Clearly he has no boundaries. Yet more cause for concern. </p>
<p>So much for my peaceful Friday evening. I am now tormented by visions of a stalker-ish ex-con, possibly violent, with no boundaries and no backup plan.</p>
<p>For further exploration of the iconography of desire, I refer you to Tony Orlando's other great hit, <em><a href="https://youtu.be/k7Jvsbcxunc" data-imported="1">Knock Three Times on the Ceiling if you Want Me</a>.</em></p>
<p>And yeah, the <a href="https://youtu.be/4qoymGCDYzU" data-imported="1">Wichita Lineman</a> is still on my mind.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61150152016-02-20T19:00:00-05:002021-09-08T13:58:47-04:00Dad's onion
<p>This is my dad's onion.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/9b0755c6e2007600b74631631e2ee50d9b684119/original/img-3520.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6Mjk3eDI5MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="290" width="297" /></p>
<p>My mom bought this onion shortly before my father died. And about a year later, it is still here.</p>
<p>Whether my dad actually died a year ago depends on who you ask. He passed away on March 3, 2015. According to the Hebrew calendar, though, the one year anniversary is tomorrow, which means that it officially starts at sundown tonight, February 21. Because the Jews, apparently, are not very good at math.</p>
<p>On Friday night my mother and I went to services, rising to recite the Mourner's Kaddish to mark the end of the one year mourning period. And then we decided that we needed to cook the onion, which has been sitting on my mom's counter for a poorly-counted Jewish year.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/b314ca1a3567dc2aa4cddf23159c529daaf7f107/original/img-3517.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p>Why an onion should come to represent my father is a bit of a mystery. My dad did indeed love onions. And sure, there's that whole thing from Shrek about onions ("Onions have layers; ogres have layers"). Yes, my father was a multi-layered man. But what human isn't?</p>
<p>Maybe it's the sheer, improbable keeping quality that makes this onion a stand-in for my father. The last four years of his life were very tough -- after several strokes, he was profoundly disabled, and he needed help with the most basic of physical functions. A deeply private person, he needed minute-to-minute supervision. His once-fearsome intellect was substantially diminished. But in many ways he remained very much himself through his last days, treating everyone with respect and gratitude, expressing his love for family, friends and good music. So sure, if Dad was an onion, he was the one onion in a million that would stay true to its onion-y nature for an improbable year.</p>
<p>And I will say that hardly a day goes by when I don't start cooking some dish or other by chopping an onion and throwing it into a pan with some olive oil. So my father was an onion in his very foundational nature -- as onions are at the heart of nearly all good food, my dad is at the root of me in some profound way.</p>
<p>OK. Maybe I'm reaching here. But really, an onion sticking around for a year is a little crazy. These are foods that stick around for a year:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/62c2a5832c9d6618d504357370621cd0ed9114fc/original/img-3515.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p>Because they are not really food! But an onion is as real as it gets.</p>
<p>Yesterday morning we went to the Sarasota Farmer's Market to buy some more real food to accompany the onion.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/ccedb3df305121ce4cec4f942555840d98bc5188/original/img-3521.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p>And we cooked up a nice meal that was free of all the things my mother is not eating at the moment. It included roasted multi-colored cauliflower, a stew of kale and white beans (and onions), and quinoa. It was vegan and gluten-free and very colorful.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/8ea62fbb18f3c1fcccd6d54bbe35cea3fde3a0d1/original/img-3522.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDM5eDMwNiJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="306" width="439" /></p>
<p>My dad would have hated this meal. If I'd served this meal to my father, I would have had to give him a roast beef sandwich for dessert.</p>
<p>But it made my mom and me very happy. And that, my dad would have liked very much indeed.</p>
<p> </p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61150142016-01-29T19:00:00-05:002022-05-05T11:44:29-04:00Toaster Child
<p>Last week it was my birthday. So I decided to treat myself to a new toaster.</p>
<p>The old toaster was really a dud. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/54f87ea91b36b6ad6c6f8b845700921dd48e08bb/original/old-toaster.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p>It just didn't toast very well. Usually only the top heating element fired; which meant that the top of the bread got toasty while the bottom stayed kind of soggy. Unless you fired up the broiler, in which case only the bottom element fired. Which is the exact opposite of what is supposed to happen.</p>
<p>I haven't had this toaster for all that long; really only about a year and a half. And the problems with it were evident early on. I should have returned it and asked for a repair or replacement, but I didn't, because, well, life. </p>
<p>But this time I did the research! I Googled "best toaster oven," and came up with the Breville SmartOven. After measuring my counter space and checking product dimensions, I settled on the smaller model (cleverly named the "Breville Mini Smart Oven"). And people LOVE this oven! Here's a customer review from the Williams Sonoma website:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/9408fc17af8b78307f57607ff939e4a944532318/original/screen-shot-2016-01-30-at-5-53-26-pm.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NzI1eDEzNSJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="135" width="725" /></p>
<p>Lots of five-star reviews on Amazon! Here are a few of the headlines:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/757d79a2322a7989fde360d6023387464a903fc8/original/screen-shot-2016-01-30-at-6-01-09-pm.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzE4eDc2Il0%3D.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="76" width="318" /></p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/ba0d08cd84461f408ab21a99bc952d155b5782f4/original/screen-shot-2016-01-30-at-6-01-21-pm.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDczeDEwMSJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="101" width="473" /></p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/2415ba86782fc88505ffa94b0aa01fa3c595c9aa/original/screen-shot-2016-01-30-at-6-01-29-pm.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MjU0eDU5Il0%3D.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="59" width="254" /></p>
<p>And another rave from Best Buy:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/8f70759f9d0db4044f2ebeab55e1812a8a1afa6c/original/screen-shot-2016-01-30-at-6-03-01-pm.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NTYxeDE1NSJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="155" width="561" /></p>
<p>This clearly is the "best of the best!" So I am confident that this time around, I will not be disappointed; my toast will be everything i want it to be.</p>
<p>And here is my new toaster!</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/54f87ea91b36b6ad6c6f8b845700921dd48e08bb/original/old-toaster.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p>Oops.</p>
<p> </p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61150132016-01-22T19:00:00-05:002021-09-20T13:16:58-04:00Ringtones in the Mourning
<p>Two nights ago I went to a shivah minyan. In case you don't know, a shivah minyan is an observance at the home of Jew who has lost an immediate family member, a chance for friends and community members to offer comfort, support, and coffee cake. This minyan was at the home of someone I know from my synagogue, after the passing of his 90-year-old mother.</p>
<p>After our household's end-of-the-day rush I was a bit late to arrive at this gathering, and the prayer service was already underway. The living room was mobbed with a tight circle of family and friends. The rabbi encouraged us latecomers to make our way to the few empty chairs at the back of the crowd on the opposite side of the room -- a journey that involved climbing over a couch-full of the bereaved and stepping over a dozen or so laps and sets of legs. It's a disruptive room-crossing, and after it's made you expect -- and are expected -- to stay put. Looking at the obstacle course and then at my huge purse, I thought the better of it and left my bag in the vestibule, under my coat, before wading my way across to a discreet spot in the rear.</p>
<p>We sing some songs (“life is like a very narrow bridge, and the important thing is to cross without fear”), and we have some sensitive Marge Piercy readings; and I am musing about mortality, and about the loss of my own father last winter, and about how precious is it for a community to come together to support each other in times of sadness.</p>
<p>And then I remember that my phone is on. What is worse, I turned the ringer up to full volume while cooking dinner earlier in the evening so that if anyone called, I'd hear it over the noise of frying onions.</p>
<p>In case you’re wondering why I was worried, here’s my current ringtone:</p>
<p><audio width="300" height="32" src="http://gouldtunes.com/files/Avoidance_ringtone.m4r" preload="none" controls="controls"><source src="http://gouldtunes.com/files/Avoidance_ringtone.m4r"></source></audio></p>
<p>So I am thinking: who might call me now, and how big is the risk? It’s 7:45 at night, so a work call is unlikely, although not impossible if it’s someone from the West Coast who’s forgotten about the time difference. Husband is at the glass-blowing studio at the moment, so his mouth is otherwise engaged; younger child is at home practicing her clarinet, so her mouth, too, is otherwise engaged. I’ve spoken to older child a few hours ago; so while a call is not impossible if there is late-breaking news to report, it is unlikely.</p>
<p>Who else? </p>
<p>Oh. Right. Mom. </p>
<p>It has been two days since I’ve talked to Mom, and she sent an email this very afternoon which I have not yet answered. Which means that she is certain to call this evening, “just to make sure everything is OK.” Because as every mother knows, if your child hasn't answered an email in three hours, it is definitely because she is in the emergency room.</p>
<p>Only hopefully she won't call during this standing silent prayer. Which will go on for….how long? Another five minutes? Six?</p>
<p>I am calculating how long it will take me, if the phone rings, to leap over two rows of folding chairs, two sofas, five mourners and a rabbi, in order to haul the phone out of my purse and turn it off. It could, of course, be worse. I could have this ringtone loaded:</p>
<p><audio width="300" height="32" preload="none" controls="controls" src="http://gouldtunes.com/files/Kegel_rington.m4r"><source src="http://gouldtunes.com/files/Kegel_rington.m4r"></source></audio></p>
<p>And now the shivah moves on to reminiscences of the recently departed. I love this part of the service, actually. The stories are always wonderful, and I’m grateful for these small windows into the lives and histories of people in my community. The woman who has just passed away sounds like she was a total gem. My favorite story was about how she and her identical twin decided, at the age of 16, that it was time to stop wearing matching clothes. So they went shopping for new wardrobes – parting at the door, and vowing not to even look at the other one’s selections until they were done. Then they proceeded to buy exactly the same things. Too good!</p>
<p>How awful it would be if, right as this story reaches its marvelous climax, a voice, seemingly from beyond the grave, were to ring out “I KNOW YOU’RE AVOIDING ME…..”</p>
<p>But we get through the son’s moving reminiscences (which are lovely); and the daughter-in-law’s (which are sweet and very funny), and then the crowd breaks off to chat and offer consoling hugs. It is 8:10. And the house gets noisy.</p>
<p>Noisy enough that I don’t hear my phone across the room when it rings – at 8:12. It is my mom, as it turns out. Just calling to make sure that everything’s OIK.</p>
<p>PS: If you want to embarrass yourself at your next funeral, you can <a href="/ringtones" data-imported="1" data-link-type="page">download these ringtones and more right from this very website!</a></p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61150122016-01-08T19:00:00-05:002021-09-02T17:38:32-04:00Be it Resolved
<p>It is January, and naturally I am fussing over my New Year's resolutions. Specifically, I am fussing because I don't have any. Quite a few years ago I resolved to eat more vegetables and to exercise regularly. And then I started doing those things. So with the iconic New Year's resolutions lapsing into personal irrelevance, I find myself at a loss.</p>
<p>Well, that's not entirely true. I did make one resolution the other day, boldly, in front of my children. "This year," I announced, "I am going to make more of an effort to work the expression '<em>polishing the turd</em>' into conversation."</p>
<p>It's a fine expression, and a good resolution. 2016 will surely improve with more references to polished turds. But there are only so many turds one can polish in a year's utterances. It still seems to me I'm leaving something on the table, New Year's Resolution-wise. </p>
<p>Really, though, while there are undoubtedly a lot of things I personally could do to make 2016 truly fabulous, there are so many more things the rest of the population could do to improve my quality of life. In a truly communitarian spirit, then, I have decided that this year, I am going to make my New Year's Resolutions <em>for other people.</em></p>
<p>So here goes:</p>
<ul>
<li>On behalf of my family, I hereby resolve that this year, they will hang up their coats when they enter the house. Really, it takes all of five extra seconds to put the thing on a hanger rather than dumping it on a kitchen chair. Just hang it up. You'll be the better human for it. And your wife/mother will be so much more cheerful.</li>
</ul>
<p> </p>
<ul>
<li>I hereby resolve that the college of my daughter's choice will admit her. Thank you, college of my daughter's choice.</li>
</ul>
<p> </p>
<ul>
<li>I resolve that Whole Foods will stock their shelves amply with items they frequently run out of right when I need to buy them: to wit, Original Flavor Organic Valley Soymilk, kosher salt, rye flour, and Bengal Spice tea. </li>
</ul>
<p> </p>
<ul>
<li>To tell you the truth, I heartily dislike Bengal Spice tea; but it's a favorite of my husband's and also of one of my dearest friends. So on behalf of my husband Steve and my friend Linda, I hereby resolve that if Whole Foods does not start re-stocking its shelves with Bengal Spice, they will find a new favorite flavor of tea, so that I can stop feeling guilty for not having Bengal Spice on hand.</li>
</ul>
<p> </p>
<ul>
<li>On behalf of all of the drivers in the Boston area, I resolve that they will stop honking their horns when other drivers are waiting for oncoming traffic to pass before making left turns. This rude behavior has reached epidemic proportions (which means that I, personally, have experienced it at least twice). Really, friends: it may be the case that in your judgment, there is ample time to execute a quick left turn without having oncoming traffic slam into the passenger side door. But you are not driving my car, now, are you? So your judgment is not really relevant. I hereby resolve that you will learn patience. Meditate or something while you're waiting. And put that middle finger back in your glove.</li>
</ul>
<p> </p>
<ul>
<li>I resolve that my book group will choose shorter books. Right now we are reading a trilogy by Evelyn Waugh (<em>Sword of Honor</em>) and it's damn near killing me. My Kindle has been at 69% for three weeks. Of course, it doesn't help that Waugh makes liberal use of arcane British military terminology, with no footnotes or explanations, and thus I'm missing out on a significant number of plot intricacies.</li>
</ul>
<p> </p>
<ul>
<li>On behalf of Evelyn Waugh, I hereby resolve that he will stop using arcane British military terminology. </li>
</ul>
<p> </p>
<p>Of course, Waugh died fifty years ago, in 1966. But it is in the spirit of New Year's Resolutions to believe that it is never too late to turn over a new leaf.</p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61150112015-12-11T19:00:00-05:002021-09-16T06:13:43-04:00The Music Biz and Me
<p>The past month has been deeply heartening for singer-songwriters everywhere. Three weeks ago, British superstar singer-songwriter Adele released her new album, “25.” This is her third album, following her first, “19,” recorded when she was (you guessed it) nineteen years old, and her second album, “21,” recorded when she was 22½. </p>
<p>Yesterday I read in <em>The Guardian (</em>a highly-respected British paper that I read whenever I look up facts about Adele) that "<em>25" </em>has sold 5 million copies in its first three weeks of release. This, at a time when musicians everywhere despair of making a decent living by selling their original recorded music! Adele has shown to the world, over 5 million times, that people will indeed still fork $$ over to listen to new songs from beloved recording artists. You go, girl!</p>
<p>As a singer-songwriter, I have found Adele’s success to be enormously inspiring. I am a bit behind Adele, as it happens, with only two albums of original music to date: “<a href="http://www.cdbaby.com/cd/lauriegould2" data-imported="1">Songs of Domestic Bliss</a>,” released when I was 45, and “<a href="http://www.cdbaby.com/cd/lauriegould2" data-imported="1">Don’t Check the Box!</a>,” released earlier this year, a few months after my 50<sup>th</sup> birthday. Like Adele’s, my fans have been flocking in droves to purchase my new release! Sales to date, five months after the album's release:</p>
<ul>
<li>17 physical CDs</li>
<li>5 whole-album downloads</li>
<li>84 hits on streaming websites</li>
</ul>
<p> </p>
<p>Those 84 hits padded the domestic coffers by a grand total of $1.04.</p>
<p>Honestly, I am quite sure that the number of people who have listened to the entire album is solidly north of 22. My mother has personally given away at least 126 CDs. And don’t laugh at the power of Mother Marketing! Recall Alan Sherman’s classic comedy album, “My Son the Folksinger,” which become one of the biggest hits of 1962. (I myself considered releasing an album that year, entitled, “-3”).</p>
<p>Clearly, I have much to learn from Adele’s success. Adele (or rather, her People) created enormous buzz in advance of the album release. She launched the first single (“Hello”) about a month before the album as a whole, along with a preview of the album’s artwork, which was as soulful and moving as her soulful and moving songs.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/549eeba01aaa61506a2e4966e0cdf7950914c5c7/original/screen-shot-2015-12-12-at-1-51-41-pm.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NTMzeDMwMSJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="301" width="533" /></p>
<p>My next album is probably a couple of years in the future. But my People and I think it's none too soon to start the buzz! For my best-selling single, you will have to wait until a month before the album is released, some time in 2018. But hold onto your hats, friends -- I have decided to release the title and the cover art NOW:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/1ac6fedbf0ff78f06d452ef4ede6c612b1a3c662/original/screen-shot-2015-12-04-at-4-35-45-pm.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NTUweDI4NSJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="285" width="550" /></p>
<p>Don't forget that you saw it here first. </p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61150102015-11-07T19:00:00-05:002021-09-19T14:30:48-04:00Keeping it clean
<p>Today I am going to write about personal hygiene.</p>
<p>I am writing this, in fact, right out of the shower, after a somewhat sweaty yoga class. I feel clean and fresh and overall pretty great. Clean is pretty much my favorite way to be. Of course I am a gardener, so at the right time of year I like nothing better than getting covered in dirt from head to toe. But part of the delight is the shower afterwards, the chance to start grimy and end sparkling (except for that bit of dirt that gets ground into my fingers in April and never really scrubs off until October). </p>
<p>I am a daily bather, as were my parents before me, and I raised my children to be daily bathers, as well. Alas, the younger generation no longer believes in bathing. My older daughter was in college for about 20 minutes when she apparently learned from her peers that it is not actually necessary to bathe every day. Less than a year later my younger daughter learned the same "fact" at music camp (<em>music</em> camp! So much for the notion of the arts as a high-minded pursuit!)</p>
<p>So how much should I be worried about the younger generation's more relaxed standards of personal hygiene? For answers, I turned to the U.S. Centers for Disease Control, figuring that I could rely on them to give me cause for alarm.<img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/cb07af5e2850f30a75ac672ad24e762e3da60396/original/screen-shot-2015-11-08-at-8-47-12-pm.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NTg4eDE4NSJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="185" width="588" /></p>
<p>And they did not disappoint! Here are just a few items from the CDC's helpful list of <a href="http://www.cdc.gov/healthywater/hygiene/disease/index.html" data-imported="1">hygiene-related diseases</a>: athlete's foot, scabies, pinworm, head lice, and lymphatic filariasis (this last a mosquito-borne parasitic disease caused by microscopic, thread-like worms).</p>
<p>Just the ammunition I need to convince the younger generation of the virtues of daily bathing! YOUNG PEOPLE: IF YOU DO NOT SHOWER EVERY DAY, YOU WILL FIND YOUR BODY INVADED BY MICROSCOPIC, THREAD-LIKE WORMS.</p>
<p>But upon reflection, this is just not convincing. If the dreaded lymphatic filariasis is mosquito-borne, in what way, exactly, is it hygiene-related? Does bathing repel mosquitoes? Personal experience would suggest otherwise. Perhaps it is the failure of the mosquitoes themselves to bathe adequately?</p>
<p>And head lice! I happen to know that head lice is NOT hygiene-related. Head lice (once again, I speak from bitter personal experience) is simply a side effect of having preschoolers while simultaneously being too stupid to cut your hair short. </p>
<p>On a side note, the CDC's page on hygiene includes a lengthy piece on the dangers of <a href="http://www.cdc.gov/healthywater/hygiene/body/fish_pedicures.html" data-imported="1">Fish Pedicures</a>. This is an apparently real spa treatment wherein you stick your feet in a tub filled with a particular species of small fish (the <em>garra rufa</em>), which fish then obligingly proceed to nibble away at your psoriasis. The problem, according to the CDC, is that Fish Pedicures can lead to <em>nontuberculous mycobacterial infections </em>(and you can bet your bottom dollar that these are second in severity only to <em>tuberculous</em> mycobacterial infections). In any case, the CDC and I agree on this advice: YOUNG PEOPLE, DO NOT GET FISH PEDICURES.</p>
<p>The CDC does not, alas, opine upon the proper frequency for bathing, at least not on its website. So I turned instead, to the next obvious source of wisdom and authority: Buzzfeed. Buzzfeed, in <a href="http://www.buzzfeed.com/rachelwmiller/how-often-you-really-need-to-shower#.meKNR9P08" data-imported="1">an article with over six million views </a>(approximately 5,999,990 more than my typical blog post), claims that Americans bathe far too often, and that excessive bathing is actually <em>bad for us</em>. Buzzfeed managed to find a dermatologist to back this up: to wit, a Dr. Joshua Zeichner, who explains that our perception of body odor is "really more of a cultural phenomenon." Maybe so. But while body odor may be a wholly cultural construct, the culture in question just happens to be the one in which we presently reside. </p>
<p>So I will continue to bathe, thank you very much.</p>
<p>Perhaps it is inevitable that each generation will be more slovenly than the ones that came before. I am well aware that my housekeeping standards fall far short of those of my mother, who is, for example, chagrined at the stains on my cutlery, stains about which I just can't be bothered. I draw the line, however, at stains on my clothing; but my kids seem to be far more at home with the odd oil stain or paint splatter. And then, of course, there is the bathing issue. </p>
<p>These things go in cycles, surely. The ancient Romans, as we all know, bathed frequently (and publicly), sometimes multiple times per day. But everyone was really dirty by the time the Middle Ages rolled around -- we have documentary evidence:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/611da7dff8459c715cc45fd39e1e62f8c91f310b/original/holy-grail-5.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDI3MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="270" width="450" /> </p>
<p>The way things are going, my grandchildren will be as grimy as John Cleese playing a Medieval peasant. And then perhaps the tides will turn and my great-great-great grandchildren will have spotless cutlery and spend whole days in the tub. </p>
<p>Let us hope only that the tub in question is not filled with psoriasis-eating fish.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61150092015-10-24T20:00:00-04:002021-09-11T05:59:36-04:00Following the Rules
<p>It's time for a little trash talk. </p>
<p>Thursday is trash pickup day on our street. Last Wednesday evening, I wheeled my City-issued garbage bins to the curb. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/4ed71512aa83fef25daefbbe1477592e3de9088a/original/both-trash-bins.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p>By Thursday evening, the green recycling bin was empty but the blue garbage bin was still full. So I filed the online form to report a missed trash pickup.</p>
<p>On Friday morning the bin was emptied, but this sticker was affixed to the lid:</p>
<p> <img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/4b81c157e8f268cf212fecb565f00b701bc6df1c/original/yellow-sticker.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p>My trash was NOT ACCEPTED, the note stated, because of “late put out” (the same reason, I suppose, that I had trouble finding dates in high school). The handwritten note on the sticker went on to chide, “You need to put before 7:00 Please.”</p>
<p><em>Late put out?</em> I don’t think so! I fussed and fumed, and logged on to the Newton city website to write back. How DARE they accuse me of the transgression of <em>late put out</em>!! My trash had been out for nearly 11 hours before the 7:00 am deadline! I don’t mind when people make mistakes; but I do mind when they blame those mistakes on others!!</p>
<p>But then I thought about it, thought about the garbage guy (oh, sorry -- “sanitation engineer”, to use the City's words) trying to cover his ass when his supervisor yelled at him for forgetting a house. Poor guy is just trying to earn a living. What does it matter to me? They DID eventually pick up my trash, after all. I closed the browser window and let it ride.</p>
<p>A few hours later, however, adding insult to injury, the City of Newton followed up the sticker with a finger-wagging email, scolding me for putting my trash bins out late. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/88504ddd05bc6fcc6242cc96ffb014ede9f656ce/original/screen-shot-2015-10-25-at-3-04-04-pm.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDc5eDE3MiJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="172" width="479" /><br> </p>
<p>The email invited me to RESPOND ABOVE THE LINE – so this time I did. I poured out all my righteous indignation above that line and sent it back.</p>
<p>And now I am waiting for the City to respond. When are they going to write back and acknowledge that I <em>did</em> follow the rules after all? I am checking my email far too often, looking for this response.</p>
<p>Why in the world do I care?</p>
<p>As long as I can remember, I have been a rules-follower. When I was four years old, we had a wonderful babysitter named Beth. It was 1969 and Beth had long hair and played "Where Have All the Flowers Gone?" on her guitar. At four, it didn't occur to me that the song was about the futility of war. To me it was about flowers. And in fact, I knew perfectly well where all the flowers had gone: they were on the fabulous beaded necklaces that Beth wore, necklaces that she made herself. Here's a picture of just such a necklace that I found on Etsy (from <a href="http://www.etsy.com/shop/jewellerybyjora" data-imported="1">jewellrybyjora</a>, in case you're in the market):</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/1ba47b21bf22526f298674c4e5d08ad48590677b/original/etsy-beaded-necklace.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDY4eDMyOCJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="328" width="468" /></p>
<p>Flowers! And beads!!!! How I loved those necklaces. And then, when I was about to turn five, Beth promised to make me a beaded flower necklace for my birthday. Could there be any greater miracle?</p>
<p>Then I started to churn the matter over in my almost-five-year-old mind. Such a wonderful creation as a beaded flower necklace was bound to get attention when I wore it around town. But as a homemade item the necklace would come to me without documentation. How would the police know that I came by it honestly? Surely they would assume that I’d stolen it! Obviously, the only way to avoid a life behind bars was to refuse this long-coveted and most generous gift, <em>because it would not come with a receipt</em>.</p>
<p>For some reason the obvious logic of this conclusion eluded the adults in my orbit.</p>
<p>My compulsive need to observe the rules has persisted for half a century. I do most of my blog-writing in a downtown coffee shop, while sipping a soy latte, which is much more delicious if you can skim off some of the foam with a spoon.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/36a8bbe4661f889fe34da3cfa556ad3e25e6ba4a/original/pavement-latte.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p>Here is the counter where I pick up my drink:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/d7aeaa3ce2fd0f981d8eba043e43b07f1615667e/original/pavement-counter.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p>The spoons live on the far side of the counter. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/6d21b985f54ca4e6faab5087b5c247c45ac741ef/original/spoons.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p>The first time I ordered a coffee here, I just reached over and took one, earning a glare and a scolding from the generously-tattoed barrista. “Next time,” she said, “ask us first.”</p>
<p>OK. So now I ask first, quite politely. Only this week, when I asked the generously-tattooed barrista of the moment for a spoon, I earned another glare as he said with a sneer of his pierced lip, “they’re right there! Just take one!” </p>
<p>I opened my mouth to explain, but then stopped. Because what’s the point, really? I've been around long enough to know that following the rules does not always yield the anticipated or hoped-for results, in work, in love, or in the consumption of sanitation engineering services. Now that I'm 50, it's high time that I stop trying to be a good girl.</p>
<p><em>Ask forgiveness, not permission: </em> that's my new credo! </p>
<p>If I need a spoon for my coffee, I will reach out and take one! </p>
<p>I may even put my leaf bags on the curb without rolling them closed!</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/ec88124843f6845e1962e02afd30c72dc9b9fb70/original/open-leaf-bag.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p>And Beth, if you're out there: I AM READY FOR MY BEADED FLOWER NECKLACE! </p>
<p>I can generate a receipt on my computer, and we can both sign it. I'm sure the authorities will find it perfectly adequate.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61150082015-10-17T20:00:00-04:002021-09-16T06:30:00-04:00Yoga song -- a new video!
<p>Thanks to my wonderful friend and co-conspirator Sheree Galpert for joining in the fun:</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p></p>
<div class="video responsive"><div class="video-container"><div class="video responsive"><div class="video-container"><iframe frameborder="0" height="360" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/UdhrLqWM5IQ?rel=0" width="640" allowfullscreen="" class="wrapped wrapped"></iframe></div></div></div></div>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61150072015-10-09T20:00:00-04:002022-08-09T18:43:57-04:00Woman of Leisure
<p>I am now going to make a shocking confession, and the confession is this:</p>
<p>I am not particularly busy.</p>
<p>My husband is out of town; my one child still living at home is occupied with her over-scheduled 17-year-old life. I tried to make plans for the weekend with friends; but they are mostly....busy. Which I, at the moment, am not.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/b4fcd3bb4505e62d4a5e93195a6cf85bc4049f35/original/screen-shot-2015-10-10-at-5-23-13-pm.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MjIzeDMxNCJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="314" style="display: block; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="223" /></p>
<p>I’ve caught up on my work. I’ve even caught up on the laundry. I brought the empty egg cartons back to the farmer’s market. I mailed the shoes that didn’t fit back to ShoeBuy. </p>
<p>I’ve cooked all the veggies in this week’s farm share, only four days into the week. So I have nothing to preserve, pickle, or puree. Serves me right for being a model of efficiency: yesterday for dinner I hatched a menu that used, in alphabetical order: arugula, cabbage, carrots, garlic, kale, radishes, scallions. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/35c6b9e66d975342a3d6794a81d36f776a095c92/original/veggies.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p>I have alphabetized the vegetables.</p>
<p>Here's how bad things are: I cleaned my desk.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/e5278ebff008d1161c8ed1f1ffa563a96f12a123/original/clean-desk.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDM4eDI5NCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="294" width="438" /></p>
<p>It is a new experience for me, this not-busy-ness. For 22 years I've been a mom with a full-time job and a bunch of time-consuming hobbies and volunteer commitments, plus certain obsessive tendencies that lead me to do things like bake all the family's bread. I have spent so much of the past two decades running from airplanes to meetings to high school band concerts and the like that this quiet is truly jarring.</p>
<p>Look at that last paragraph: I clearly feel the need to tell you how busy I usually am! Amazing how hard it is to 'fess up to free time. There are so many other things that would be easier to disclose! For example:</p>
<ul>
<li>I was a serial shoplifter as a teenager</li>
<li>Bill Cosby made unwanted sexual advances to me in 1973</li>
<li>I am a man trapped in a woman's body</li>
<li>I am a woman trapped in a man's body</li>
</ul>
<p> </p>
<p>None of these happens to be true. But I can write these words, in bold HTML for all to see, without the slightest twinge of discomfort. And I know that if I were to make a public confession of anything on this list, I would be lauded for my bravery in coming forward and comforted by the sympathetic clucking of those who have been there themselves.</p>
<p>But to confess to not being busy! That is truly a source of shame. Busy people are <em>needed</em>! They are <em>important</em>! So if I am not busy....hmmmmm.</p>
<p>And there is fear in this confession, as well. If I cop to not being overbooked, then people will expect me to do things that I truly do not want to do. If I have time on my hands, why don't I spend it canvassing the neighborhood on behalf of a worthy progressive candidate for the Board of Aldermen? Why don't I rake the leaves out of my driveway in a more timely way, since they are blowing into my neighbor's yard? Or--God forbid!--why don't I finally run a bake sale for the PTO?</p>
<p>Shame, fear -- here's what all of this means about contemporary society....oh, good grief, would you look at the time?! I'm so sorry -- I'd love to stick around and discuss this topic, but the grocery store closes in only five hours! And then, there are napkins to iron.</p>
<p> <img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/a819fa3b8eb1bcab11d733a99a1eb0705cd064b1/original/img-1542.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p> </p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61150062015-09-26T20:00:00-04:002021-09-18T16:33:41-04:00Me and Mr. Pavlov
<p>Anyone who has tried to write knows how very easy it is <em>not</em> to. I do love writing this blog, but getting down to it can be a challenge. There are so many other more compelling activities! Checking my email. Ironing the kitchen towels. Whipping up a pan of brownies. Eating up a pan of brownies.</p>
<p>To counteract my natural tendency to do anything but write, I try to structure routines that might eventually make writing almost automatic. In particular, I do my best to write while I am sitting at a certain downtown Boston coffee shop which I frequent on Saturday afternoons, while I am waiting for my daughter to finish her clarinet lesson at Symphony Hall down the street. </p>
<p>You have surely heard of the great Russian psychologist Ivan Pavlov and his seminal work on the "conditioned response." Ring a bell each time a dog is fed, and eventually the bell alone, absent the food, will be enough to provoke the dog to salivate. This is my plan for Saturdays at the Pavement Coffee Shop: eventually the simple act of walking through the door will provoke the conditioned reflex: <strong>MUST.....WRITE....BLOG!</strong></p>
<p>At this point I do recognize a definite Pavlovian response when I walk into the coffee shop: <strong>MUST....HAVE.....LATTE!</strong></p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/5020c7009f18e7010970803580ff68b60e74df5f/original/latte.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p>This past Saturday it was my husband who drove our daughter to her clarinet lesson, so I missed my normal writing time. Not to put things off for another week, I decided on Sunday afternoon to venture forth to our local coffee shop with my laptop, hoping to keep up the steady stream of Pavlovian conditioning. Sundays in Newtonville are usually sleepy and sedate. But this week I was surprised to find the roads blocked off for the local Village Fair:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/0056da892565469b7fc4e2550327a0daae314ffa/original/village-fair.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p>Friends and regular blog readers know of my vegetable fetish, so you will not be surprised at my response to the brightly-colored tents, which called to mind the many farmers' markets I frequent: <strong>MUST....BUY.....TOMATOES! </strong> Or at least a few eggplants.</p>
<p>But there were neither eggplants nor tomatoes at the Newtonville Village Fair. Here's what I found:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/ca84647b3011ddd5f97cc48f8478db6d39b8cef7/original/slding-sign.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/bed42460e60d0620a123b0b22665fd2bed9762ee/original/villagebank.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/a204ae046a500c01b34b5ae42ff322dedf7d0c41/original/tupperware.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p>The collection of which triggered this Pavlovian response: <strong>MUST....MOVE....SOMEWHERE WAAAAAY MORE INTERESTING!</strong></p>
<p>(A brief shout out, at this point, to the one super-cool display at the fair: the Newton North Ligerbots, the high school robotics club, which produced this bitchin' robot:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/d3ede75bb35ad6b2994e0bbeaa4bd5b2836f5eaf/original/ligerbots.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p>Rock on, Ligerbots!)</p>
<p>In truth, the more I wandered through the fair, the more Pavlovian responses I experienced. I spotted the face-painting booth:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/ee9bbdf4d2bd66409e2dd73507932aff3706baa7/original/face-paint.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p>....and immediately reacted: <strong>MUST...PROTECT....UPHOLSTERY FROM THE CHILDREN!</strong></p>
<p>I saw the sand-art table:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/857696379965df48b3bb77d001b7577e28f24e7d/original/sandart.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p>and thought: <strong>MUST....VACCUUM....SANDY MESS OUT OF REAR CAR SEAT!</strong></p>
<p>I saw this thing:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/0365eca840f05f3d2357cddd84a29dd85cbfe72d/original/lame-train.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p>and responded: <strong>MUST...KEEP....CHILDREN FROM SEEING THIS LAME-ASSED TRAIN OR THEY WILL INSIST ON RIDING IT, AND I WILL HAVE TO GO WITH THEM!</strong></p>
<p>Now, it is important to note at this point that the children in question are 17 and 22 years old, and on Sunday afternoon they were far and very, very far, respectively, from the dubious delights of the Newtonville Village Fair. But those conditioned responses were deep-seated enough that they kicked in, at the mere glimpse of greasy face-paint and spillable sand, absence of small children notwithstanding. This Pavlovian thing can be powerful, indeed.</p>
<p>And so I set out anew for the coffee shop, seeking to deepen the latte-sipping -> blog-writing trigger:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/84e6c4d5699269d2c696c03882d77e802d87efcb/original/coffeeshop.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p>And while it wasn't instantaneous, eventually I did experience that conditioned response at which I arrive almost every week at that coffee shop down the street from Symphony Hall:</p>
<p><strong>MUST...FIND....BATHROOM!</strong></p>
<p><strong> </strong></p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61150052015-09-18T20:00:00-04:002021-09-04T14:42:03-04:00Packing the farm
<p>Last night I got into my husband's car and was assaulted by a swarm of fruitflies and the unmistakable odor of fermentation. Steve acknowledged that matters were amiss: "There's gotta be something under one of the seats; but I looked and I couldn't find it."</p>
<p>Fortunately I have been practicing yoga recently, and by breathing deeply from my belly and finding <a href="http://www.yogabasics.com/asana/threading-the-needle/" data-imported="1">Threading the Needle</a> pose I was able to contort my arm under the front seat to extract an unspeakably icky something in an advanced stage of decay. </p>
<p>I'm pretty sure that it was one of these lovely Italian prune plums that Steve bought at the farmers' market near his office:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/e2da2230667952b13a4f6616359ac9441434f426/original/plums.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p>These are the best plums in the world for baking, and they're fresh and wonderful in the way that only farmers' market produce can really be. No shrink-wrapped, over-packaged, flavorless supermarket plums for us! These are the real deal, absolutely fabulous.</p>
<p>Of course, those shrink-wrapped supermarket plums would not have the freedom to leap out of an airy, lovingly-hand-packed bag to roll wherever they pleased in the car. But that, too, would be a missed opportunity! I can't remember all the details of exactly how Alexander Fleming accidentally cultured the <em>penicillin</em> bacterium; but I'm pretty sure it involved wayward produce under the front seat of his Honda.</p>
<p>I adore farmers' markets, all farmers' markets; and despite the fact that I have both a garden and a CSA share, I try to make weekly visits to our town's Saturday morning market during the four months that it's in operation. Just look at this week's bounty! Ah, the peppers...</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/c897f21d77955641ba83c1c30b18841312aa7d2e/original/peppers.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p>The cilantro! The eggplants!</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/b80331a3cf14d377a92b2868ce17302e743c5056/original/cilantro.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p>Even if I were totally flooded with produce, as I often am (what with the garden and the CSA), I would go to the market anyway just for the eggs. Every summer and early fall weekend I grab the carton from last week's eggs:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/30b7d6d5a233e71f059db4d56a02c7da0a276869/original/egg-carton.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p>...and I bring it with me to the market so I can give it back to the farmer when I buy this week's dozen. True, it's made of styrofoam (bad); but I am offering it up for re-use (good). And then there are the eggs themselves -- they have that certain something that only truly locally-produced food can offer. Exceptional flavor? Well, perhaps...But let's be real: they are <em>eggs</em>. They just taste like <em>eggs</em>. Which is very good -- I love eggs -- but <em>eggs are eggs</em>, once you get beneath the shell.</p>
<p>Here's what these eggs really have to offer: an extra coating of birdshit. Look in the lower right-hand corner:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/d31eada43f1d6d12233bd50a2a5069ee317a1240/original/egg-with-birdshit.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p>I know I should welcome this extra additive, that our society's obsessive war on bacteria has detracted from the microbial diversity on our planet and in our diets. Just think of the good bacteria that these super-authentic eggs will add to my family's collective gut microbiome! </p>
<p>Then again, maybe they will just give us salmonella.</p>
<p>I have one more weekend marketing stop to make, this one at Whole Foods. Yes, it would be very nice to buy absolutely everything at the farmers' market or to pluck it from my own backyard garden. But in Massachusetts you can't buy locally-sourced lemons:</p>
<p> <img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/ce2abc59d96fc3a5e998e2ad1c962f6ca4deee56/original/lemons.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p>And sometimes a girl just needs some chips:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/3258a3522ce300cb629b117c05faee9d4c8bfb4a/original/chips.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p>Or even...imagine!....a chicken:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/bab6c93cf176652b7ace098aad43552337d63590/original/chicken.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p>Yes, I know what you're thinking. I should be eating lower on the food chain. I should be eating mostly plants. But here's the thing about this chicken: it is a STEP 4 chicken:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/85c1a57025d4c50ff999f787609971be12890c6a/original/level-four.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p>Whole Foods rates all of its meat and poultry on a scale of moral rectitude ranging from 1 to 5. Step 1 is the lowest ranking, presumably for those farms subjecting animals to conditions not fit for....well, <em>animals</em>, I suppose. I have never seen Step 1 products sold in the store. They must be despicable indeed. I, personally, would not be caught dead in the company of a Step 1 chicken (although the Step 1 chicken would presumably be dead by the time it could be caught in company with me).</p>
<p>Nor, for that matter, have I ever been able to find a Step 5 chicken in the store. I'm almost certain the Step 5 meat is made out of soybeans.</p>
<p>But a Step 4 chicken: that's not too shabby. It's a solid B on the Virtue scale. This is a Pasture-Centered, Hormone-Free chicken, one that has not been tormented by antibiotic injections, a chicken that has not been disparaged for the size of its breasts. This is a chicken for right-minded folks like myself, folks who buy free-range plums at the farmer's market, folks who re-use their egg cartons. </p>
<p>Having earned a solid B on my chicken purchase and looking for a few extra credit points, I offer a re-used plastic CVS bag for wrapping the bird for the ride home. I usually remember to bring re-usable cloth bags to the supermarket, and they are fine for most of the things I buy. But this Step 4 chicken is a little leaky; and I don't really need the extra salmonella that is oozing from the raw poultry, since, as you may recall, this week I am getting all the salmonella I need from the birdshit on my eggs. So I ask the store clerk to double-wrap the chicken in a re-used (good) plastic (bad) bag. </p>
<p>The thing is, this chicken in its re-used plastic bag from CVS has a rather low profile in the trunk of my car:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/b9fbfafe169439eb2519309336b44fb1ce07e796/original/chicken-in-bag.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p>I have seen the energy with which these super-virtuous foodstuffs pursue the free-range lifestyle. That plum took it upon itself to wander from one side of the car to the other, hiding in a cozy niche under the passenger seat. I can easily see this little Step 4 chicken rolling under the spare canvas shopping bags in the trunk, hiding for days, ultimately turning into a science experiment that would put that foul, fruitfly-infested prune plum to shame.</p>
<p>But then again, any maggots it might attract in my trunk would be Step 4 maggots. And just think what they could do for my gut microbiome.</p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61150042015-09-08T20:00:00-04:002021-09-10T15:02:03-04:00You Gotta Ac-Cent-uate the Negative
<p>The week after Labor Day is always a wistful one, as we say goodbye to summer's leisure and get back to the business of business and school. This year it was a particularly wistful week for me, since this is my last year of having a kid at home. My younger child is a senior in high school, so I am less than a year away from an empty nest. I'm sure that this next phase of my life will be full of adventure and freedom and opportunity, and I will embrace it with great enthusiasm when it comes. But after nearly 23 years of being Mom first and foremost, this is a poignant moment indeed.</p>
<p>I have been doing lots of yoga and meditation over the past year; and if I have learned anything, it's that there is great strength to be found in living in the moment. I can choose a constructive mindfulness rather than wallowing in anxiety about the future. I need to focus on the present, to fully embrace the experience that I am having right now.</p>
<p>And so I am approaching this coming transition in a constructive, mindful way. I am choosing to focus on the stuff I <strong>hate right now</strong> about having children at home, the things that I will not miss at ALL.</p>
<p>Admittedly, it's a short list. I love being a mom. But of course there are negatives. I don't much like filling out forms, especially the ones where you designate emergency contacts, mostly because 23 years into this parenting business, I'm still fuzzy about the protocols surrounding the selection of one's emergency contacts. I definitely hate those forms. What else? PTO guilt trips; I hate those. Actually, I'm not particularly nuts about the PTO itself. </p>
<p>But all of that pales before the nightmare that is Staples on the first day of school. Here, then, are some scenes from the Fifth Circle of Hell:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/06f5f734bb522edd628b44cfe5ada6cfb8f3ea23/original/storefront.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p>Note that it is nighttime when we arrived, around 8:30. And still, there was a hefty line at the checkout counter, winding all the way to the back of the store:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/937d5ff72bd59d62279658e5bfffe6103b330bb3/original/line.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p>The binders are picked over:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/ecacbc04f0fbbe1d1f8469ef7d2407a0722e4db8/original/binders.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p>You ALWAYS need graph paper, if only for the particularly prime doodling opportunities it affords:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/b8d26fbbbbc65cecd302738522d102aceb70a95d/original/graph.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p>But wait -- what is this?</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/732893f63376ffe2aa7ff319995275bb5979719f/original/tape.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p>It's TAPE! Washi tape! Scotch tape! Tape has gotten SO much more awesome since I was buying school supplies for myself. Check this out -- this tape has pink, purple and orange CUPCAKES on it!</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/267d237681df5dc6a24f43fd461736647155a7c2/original/img-2574.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p>Just think of the things you could do with tape like this! You could....um, you might use this tape to....well. I have no clue what you could do with such tape, especially since paper itself is barely a part of our lives anymore. But it is SO COOL. I throw a few rolls in the basket.</p>
<p>I do love school supplies...</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/70ad3e6fc1a16f1f8220b4888870edfb39ac9fd5/original/basket.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p>....and all the opportunities for impulse novelty tape purchases that a visit to Staples affords, despite the first-day-of school crowds.</p>
<p>So much for that effort to find on the negative in the here-and-now. I guess I will have to focus instead on how much I hate the PTO.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61150032015-09-01T20:00:00-04:002015-09-02T01:16:15-04:00It's Fugue'in September!
<p>Novelty Fugues are a genre that is somewhat limited in repertoire; but I have three of them on my new album. And since it's the season for such things, here's one now, the first of the September Fugues--click on the link, then the "Play" arrow, to have a listen:</p>
<p><a href="http://midlifemomsongs.com/dont_check_the_box1/s/september_fugues:_on_the_theme_of_forms" data-imported="1">September Fugues: On the Theme of Forms</a></p>
<p>Happy September!</p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61150022015-08-01T20:00:00-04:002020-01-16T16:03:11-05:00To knit, or knot?
<p>I am not very good at sitting around and doing nothing. </p>
<p>And yet that was the top priority for a big chunk of the vacation I just took with my husband. We rented a lovely cabin on a beautiful lake on Vancouver Island for four days, totally off the grid--no Internet, no cellphone reception, no civilization within easy reach. "We will just sit and <em>be</em> and do nothing at all," my husband enthused as he finalized the arrangements on Air B&B.</p>
<p>Yes. That is all very nice. But if I'm doing to sit around and do nothing, I need something to <em>do</em>. So in preparation for this trip, I went out and bought materials for a knitting project. </p>
<p>This is what my sweater will look like when it is done:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/5959b58a33d9e030ec5524854d523ee2431817ed/original/pattern.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p>HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA</p>
<p>No, it won't look anything like that. My sweaters always come out somewhat mis-shapen; they have that unmistakable look that my friend Jennifer describes as "made at home with loving hands." Here's one:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/1d0aacb39ac1e5bc97727e52ddb80f2ce4e69314/original/green-sweater.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p>Not awful; but it's way too big, and it sheds and it pills and it is <em>extremely</em> itchy. Here's another one:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/a33166ca8fea3ef129da81ba01da254860d3ff0f/original/purple-sweater.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p>You may not be able to tell from the picture, but the sleeves are WAY too short. It's wool, rather thick wool at that; so you really only want to wear it when it's very cold--when you want to cover your ENTIRE arms, and not just 3/4 of your arms. But the pattern produced 3/4-length sleeves, which I then tried to lengthen by adding some really large cuffs. It didn't work out particularly well. Plus, it's <em>really</em> itchy.</p>
<p>This one looks almost normal, and it actually kind of fits: </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/0df51680acbc50c6f7ea1e3614ada2f7354f1cb1/original/red-sweater.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p>But is it ever ITCHY! I can barely stand to put it on.</p>
<p>To make matters worse, it is <em>expensive</em> to make these mis-shapen, itchy sweaters. Usually the yarn and the patterns and such come in north of $100 a pop. So why in the world would I keep doing this over and over again: paying a bundle to make sweaters that fit poorly and<em> itch</em>?</p>
<p>Because, you see, I am not very good at sitting still. Nor, perhaps, at learning from my mistakes.</p>
<p>The yarn for this new project comes in looped, twisted skeins, 475 yards each:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/587fade5f8e72f16097abc1ae2535761efe9a14c/original/skein.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p>You can't really knit from this kind of skein, because it will get hopelessly tangled; so the very first thing you do is to roll it into a ball. I started the process on first plane trip of the journey, on our way to visit our older daughter in St. Louis. Alas, things quickly devolved into a tangled mess. Here's what it looked like after the first three hours of effort:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/cd909f24336cc0071a62b5800023d814645dff6e/original/first-stage.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p>My daughter Rebecca, who is a way better knitter than I am, saw the mess and said, "MOM: you're supposed to loop those skeins around your neck when you wind them, so they don't get tangled." </p>
<p>Excellent advice, dear. Next time I will be sure to take it.</p>
<p>St. Louis is a very vibrant city, very much on the grid, with lots and lots of interesting things to do. And Rebecca had picked out a whole bunch of them for us: we would go to the botanical garden, and to blues clubs, and to the museum, and to explore hip, artsy neighborhoods, and to a late-night movie screening in the park. Awesome plans, all of them.</p>
<p>But here's the thing: once you are in the middle of unraveling a mess like this one, it is almost impossible to stop. I listened to Rebecca's plans with great interest, and then I said, "you guys go on ahead. I'll join you after I finish untangling this yarn." At one point, Rebecca found the other end of the skein and started winding. "I don't think this is going to work," I told her. "We can't really be pulling at the same knots at the same time."</p>
<p>"I know," she said. "But this gives me something to do. I can't just sit here doing nothing." Where do you suppose she gets it?</p>
<p>I managed about three hours of unraveling time that second day in St. Louis.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/521ded6c02af093f4777fdc4db1fd56928992ae6/original/img-2537.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p>On the third day of my vacation I got up before everyone else, as I often do. I took my yarn mess to a coffee shop around the corner. Two hours later, right around when Steve and Rebecca were rolling out of their respective beds, I untangled the last knot:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/98dcadb72d8404899e94473ac94938dcf1fd1694/original/img-2539.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p>It took only a few more minutes to finish the job:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/4f6882778d32d72d1c7fb7e3d57d98b11e115002/original/img-2541.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p>That's eight hours of work over my first 2 1/2 days of vacation. And I had yet to knit a stitch.</p>
<p>At that beautiful house on the lake, I did no knitting at all. During our four days of Sitting Around and Just Being we took five hikes, went spelunking through some nearby caves, rented a canoe, explored four adorable coastal villages, baked a pie, visited two farmer's markets and an arts festival, and took long, daily after-dinner strolls. I believe I am beginning to see a family pattern.</p>
<p>Now I am thinking that I won't even bother knitting the sweater. My ball of yarn is not mis-shapen at all; it's lovely and round, just as a ball of yarn should be. Perfect. Why mess with success?</p>
<p>And best of all: it doesn't itch.</p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61150012015-06-24T20:00:00-04:002021-09-08T13:59:14-04:00What I'm Not Doing at the AIrport
<p>I'm at the airport, ready for my flight home. And I am surprised to see that at least so far, it is on time.</p>
<p>I've had a lot of business travel lately; this is my eighth flight in the past eight weeks. If this one leaves on schedule, it will be only the second of those eight flights to do so. </p>
<p>But think of all the quality airport time I'll be missing! I won't be doing any impulse shopping at the BestBuy kiosk:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/73fc471eaa87c2acf3f004946881b201b06e810f/original/img-2457.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MjQweDMyMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="320" width="240" /> </p>
<p>I won't have time to upgrade my headphones--and I know these are WAY better than mine:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/5159b3a83392aac83e5b45759b661a3a1a765fb3/original/headphones.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p>Nor to buy one of these things for the sole purpose of figuring out what the hell it does:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/b67278a7c4e976367ee0423a66ab0169b63af630/original/img-2459.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MjQweDMyMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="320" width="240" /></p>
<p>No time to slam back a few burgers here!</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/58b1855fe3bb1e0be438939f1a17181824f5ac47/original/img-2474.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MjQweDMyMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="320" width="240" /></p>
<p>Nor beers, here:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/d66996dbc526709c18fb2e619c5dd23756e17268/original/img-2477.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzIweDI0MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="240" width="320" /></p>
<p>If I were to spend a few hours at the Columbus International Airport, I would surely emerge on a very different spiritual plane:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/a19d49ea9086d3d7c4e22d8dc8084bc2701ecdf4/original/img-2464.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MTk3eDI2MyJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="263" width="197" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/286ad845b25b0f2505118212dfb78a4c7b8a88b1/original/img-2465.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MTk3eDI2MiJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="262" width="197" /></p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/45ce9af8d02f5cb07732a97513e83a19f039eeff/original/img-2466.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MTk3eDI2MyJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="263" width="197" /></p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/0228a3f5c0c80d7c81d0aa5abc69604a0016d866/original/img-2467.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MTk3eDI2MSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="261" width="197" /></p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/d807faba900bb61d15a3297eee6d301009fc53ca/original/img-2468.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MTk3eDI2MyJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="263" width="197" /></p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/ec891c171e8876435bb4032765956c5155511df1/original/img-2469.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MTk4eDI2MiJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="262" width="198" /></p>
<p>Let me make it very clear to the good proprietors of the Terminal C newsstand that I am deeply grateful for your concern for my immortal soul. Thanks, guys! But I have no time for salvation today: I'm going HOME, and on time!</p>
<p>In the Newark airport one evening last month, I had extensive leisure to contemplate a different kind of book cover:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/542169eb8a7520c982f2db07eb41dbbb08b658b9/original/book-title.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="338" /></p>
<p>This volume was being devoured quite voraciously by the woman sitting opposite me, waiting for the same Boston-bound flight, delayed more than three hours (United; mechanical difficulty). Contemplating this title naturally raised a number of questions, principal among them:</p>
<ul>
<li>Are we talking <em>really</em> new? Or just <em>new-to-me</em> (i.e., used)?</li>
<li>What would I do with the old husband?</li>
<li>Which Friday?</li>
</ul>
<p> </p>
<p>Tonight, alas, there will be no time to contemplate such matters.</p>
<p>I will not be buying one of these:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/c9580e95919af688c75e5b6e959983896919930b/original/img-2460.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MjQweDMyMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="320" width="240" /></p>
<p>Nor one of these:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/8aaaa8b5030e385e1efac514c0f332c60ec3fd60/original/img-2479.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MjQweDMyMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="320" width="240" /></p>
<p>Although you have to admit that $8.88 is a damn good deal.</p>
<p>I will not have time to wonder what in God's name has happened to the eyes of Beanie Babies:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/894721b55d57bf80d43d2170cab2498b3d8944cd/original/img-2483.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzIweDI0MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="240" width="320" /></p>
<p>The Beanie Babies of my younger days had beady little eyes, as befits a stuffed animal. These things look like they're possessed. If I had one in my room when the lights went out I would need to stuff it in a drawer.</p>
<p>But no worries about creepy Beanie Babies disturbing my slumber! I have no time to purchase such things today. My flight is on time, at least for now, and I am heading home. Where I am looking forward to a joyful reunion with the Old Husband. </p>
<p>Unless, of course, it's Friday.....</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61150002015-06-22T20:00:00-04:002022-01-07T06:37:46-05:00Wrong number; not sorry at all
<p>It is a normal weekday afternoon, and I am working away at whatever it is I do during the working day, when the phone rings and I answer.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/d8d49ae8b8f2c840a89e2c35eebb5340238e05df/original/phone.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6Mzc3eDUwMSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="501" width="377" /> </p>
<p>"This is Sylvia," the caller announces. "And I am coming to the party."</p>
<p>From the sound of her voice, Sylvia has at least two decades on me, more likely three; and we share similar New York roots.</p>
<p>"I'm sorry," I answer, "but I think you have the wrong number."</p>
<p>"No," she answers, "I don't! You're the party maker; and I'm coming to the party. The party Mr. Hayden's making."</p>
<p>"Really," I protest, "I don't know Mr. Hayden. I'm quite sure you have the wrong number."</p>
<p>"Oh, no!" she gasps. "Maybe it was supposed to be a surprise."</p>
<p>"I couldn't tell you," I answer. "I hope you have a wonderful party; but all I know is that it's not going to be here."</p>
<p>"Anyway," says Sylvia. "I am wondering if you have any advice."</p>
<p>"Advice?"</p>
<p>"I wonder if you think we should make it a costume party? I think people like a costume party."</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/49dfc4275cb36c2d194a4a61faa5c5db826c97cf/original/costues.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NzQ1eDI1NSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="255" width="745" /></p>
<p>"I'm sure that's a great idea," I say. "But I am very, very certain you have the wrong number, and I think I need to go now."</p>
<p>"But you didn't even ask me how old she's going to be," Sylvia complains.</p>
<p>"OK. How old is she going to be?</p>
<p>"NINETY!" Sylvia declares triumphantly. "She's going to be 90 years old!"</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/cc8dfc43f63002fa8ad16afd100cceaf6985f662/original/90th-balloons.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MjAweDIwNCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="204" width="200" /></p>
<p>I give Sylvia my best wishes for a joyful birthday celebration, and hang up before she can ask anything else.</p>
<p>It's been more than 24 hours since I answered Sylvia's misdirected phone call; and I've been in a good mood ever since. Perhaps it's the afterglow of a good laugh. Or maybe it's the reminder that any random encounter can lead to something celebratory and life-affirming.</p>
<p>So to Sylvia: thank you for making my day! To Mrs. Hayden: I wish you a very, very happy 90th birthday, and as many happy returns as you can manage.</p>
<p>And to the rest of you: yes, costumes, definitely. And please arrive before 6:45 if you don't want to spoil the surprise.</p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61149992015-06-14T20:00:00-04:002021-08-29T11:56:35-04:00To market, to market....
<p>My new album, "Don't Check the Box!," has been out on the streets for about a week, and so far it has been getting a great deal of attention.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/583186ca3b7499cd4afd9082eba1cd5c7f9d4fd5/original/opening-the-box.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MjgxeDMwNCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="304" width="281" /></p>
<p>Most of the attention has been from my husband, who kept tripping over the boxes of CDs when they were in our front hall. Now that he has carried them up to my third-floor office, most of the attention has been coming from me (as I try not to trip), although I haven't paid enough attention to actually figure out where I should put the damn boxes away.</p>
<p>As for that OTHER kind of attention -- you know, reviews, web hits, album sales, downloads -- well, there hasn't been all that much of it, at least not yet. Although my mother did listen to the album--twice!!--and says she really likes it (thanks, Mom!). And yes, I do have a small coterie of faithful fans who did get right online and purchase the album the very week of its release. </p>
<p>To those faithful fans I have this special message: <em>I love you both.</em> <em>I really do. </em></p>
<p>As it turns out, marketing is an activity for which I lack all instinct and inclination. This fact became apparent to me on my recent World Tour, which began and ended on the morning of April 27th, with a concert for the Newton Lifelong Learning Series.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/89f8197d09c7d26f5c7beb289acf65f764912a2e/original/performance-cropped.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MjAxeDM4NSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="385" width="201" /></p>
<p>It was my first full-length performance of my own material, and honestly, it went quite well. The audience (and it was a decent-sized crew!) laughed throughout, and sang along when they were supposed to sing along, and seemed generally pleased with the experience. It was enough of a success that I've already booked my first follow-on gig and I'm hoping to set up a few more shows in the fall. And yes, I did remember to bring a stack of CDs with me to sell (my first one; second one was not yet available).</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/f9602112f4d84944a8449dc16b0f899f82ad97f9/original/first-albums.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDY3eDM1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="350" width="467" /></p>
<p>But did I announce from the stage that the CDs would be available for sale? No, I did not. Did I remember to refer the audience to my website, or to tell them that I had another CD forthcoming? No again. Did I set the CDs out on a table so they'd be visible as people left the auditorium? Nope, nope, nope. </p>
<p>I did end up selling eight CDs after the show -- but that was only because several audience members tracked me down after the show to ask if I happened to have any with me.</p>
<p>I do not think that is the way it is supposed to work.</p>
<p>So here I am with my brand-new CD, the product of years of effort, and I am eager to share it with the world. It's not about money -- my first album had a cost-of-capital adjusted return rate over the five years since its release of negative 85% (I can calculate that because I went to business school). So I am well aware that this song-writing habit of mine is unlikely to be a viable commercial enterprise. (Luckily, I adore my day job; and luckily, it's a good deal more viable from a financial perspective.) But music and humor, and humorous music, are written to be shared; and I would like to share mine. </p>
<p>SO in that spirit, I created an initial marketing plan for "Don't Check the Box!" Here it is:</p>
<ul>
<li>Announce the album release in my blog</li>
<li>Email family, friends and blog subscribers to let them know it's available</li>
<li>Send word around to listserves and community groups to which I belong</li>
<li>Post the album release on Twitter, Pinterest and Facebook</li>
</ul>
<p> </p>
<p>Of course, I have now done all those things, and not much has happened. Clearly, I need a more aggressive, energetic plan, a plan with more pizzazz.</p>
<p>How about this revised version?</p>
<ul>
<li><strong>Announce the album release in my blog!</strong></li>
<li><strong>Email family, friends and blog subscribers to let them know it's available!!</strong></li>
<li><strong>Send word around to listserves and community groups to which I belong!!!</strong></li>
<li><strong>Post the album release on Twitter, Pinterest and Facebook!!!</strong></li>
</ul>
<p> </p>
<p>If you have better ideas, I would be thrilled to hear them. </p>
<p>And I really DO love you both.</p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61149982015-05-24T20:00:00-04:002021-09-06T03:01:57-04:00The Missing Instructions
<p>When I first had children I read lots of parenting books: books about child development, books about child health, books about how to get your child to sleep through the night, books about why you shouldn't even try to get your child to sleep through the night. Eventually I stopped reading parenting books, first, because I realized that they were just making me anxious and second, because there are way more interesting things to read.</p>
<p>But ignoring the instruction manual has its cost. Sometimes it seems that every single mom but me knows exactly what she's supposed to do. It would have helped twenty years ago, for example, had I read the chapter stating that children are required to bring valentines to preschool for the other (resolutely pre-literate) 2-year-olds. Flubbed that one. I also failed to take the mandatory series of first-day-of-school pictures, wherein your child, proving herself to be taller than she'd been the previous year, stands grinning on the front porch, proudly modeling her new backpack. Oops. </p>
<p>22.5 years later, I am still screwing up the details. The latest chapter of my parental incompetence involves my life as the parent of a teenage musician. </p>
<p>My younger kid is a clarinetist, and in recent years she's gotten pretty serious about the whole thing. Parenting by instinct, as I generally have, I've found her some wonderful teachers and challenging youth music ensembles. I've ponied up for a decent clarinet (thankfully, only a small percentage of the cost of a decent violin). She has reeds a-plenty, and a good reed case, and reed humidifiers for the dry winter months; she has not one but two folding music stands, and a big bag of clothespins to hold her music in place on windy days at orchestra camp.</p>
<p>That is all very well and good. But had I read the proper chapter in <em>Nurturing Your Budding Musician,</em> here's what I would have procured: video recording apparatus.</p>
<p>This Sunday my daughter played in a chamber music recital. I had to deliver her to downtown Boston at 8:00 am--so I must admit I was feeling pretty self-congratulatory about my ratings on the Supportive Parent Meter. But the smugness was not to last. The parents in the know -- the ones who had both read and followed the operating instructions -- were ready not only to listen, but to capture the whole event for posterity. Here's the A-list setup:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/74db6dac0ec7f8b700e2289dd58b8b1a27c891ff/original/tripod.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzE3eDUzOSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="539" width="317" /></p>
<p>Note the tripod in the center aisle: the picture will be steady, unobstructed, every moment and every movement captured flawlessly. Twenty years from now, this kid will watch this video, and he'll know that the steadiness of the shot represents his mother's unwavering love.</p>
<p>The B-level parents at least jockey their way into an unobstructed position for their iPhone videos:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/dbaf6d847a42697c1d5d02625e9624d3d4f109be/original/filiming-dad.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6Mzc2eDUxMiJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="512" width="376" /></p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/fddb5bd1bf0be4312dd39880f5ae81587b69a35f/original/mom-with-clear-shot.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzUweDQ2NyJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="467" width="350" /></p>
<p>Note the arm supported by the chair: this is proper parent-videographer form, at least for those sad souls who have neglected the tripod imperative. These kids will watch these videos someday as well, and will know that their parents love them, only maybe not quite as much as the kid whose mom had a tripod.</p>
<p>I, alas, was far less enterprising. I did manage sufficient charge for my iPhone to make it through the 18-minute piece. But visually, the best I could manage was to lean sideways so that my view was not 100% obstructed by the guy in front of me. My video featured such fine bits of camera work as this:</p>
<p></p>
<div class="video responsive"><div class="video-container"><div class="video responsive"><div class="video-container"><iframe frameborder="0" height="360" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/OH8cQV6_1vk?rel=0" width="640" class="wrapped wrapped"></iframe></div></div></div></div>
<p> </p>
<p>(Yes, it <strong>IS</strong> supposed to sound like that: it's Schoenberg. The kids, by the way, kicked its ass.)</p>
<p>Note the prominence of the right shoulder of the gentleman in the purple shirt. It wasn't so obtrusive when I started -- his presence is part of the overall composition of the shot, allowing the viewer to experience what it was like to be there, in the audience, just as I was:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/304b047bea8da58725376a00876f271d3adf23c8/original/starting-position.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDI3MCJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="270" width="450" /></p>
<p>By the end of the piece, Purple Shirt Guy takes on a more of a starring role:</p>
<p> <img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/c99a605de35bfe40f4b6b50ca1ec63c8abb1d2fb/original/ending-position.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzgzeDI1NiJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="256" width="383" /></p>
<p>Once again, I have been done in by lack of parenting know-how. Sorry, kids. </p>
<p>But on the brighter side: I can assure you that <em>every single one</em> of my 22-year-old daughter's classmates in the engineering program at Washington University in St. Louis received a valentine this February. Damned if I'll make THAT mistake twice!</p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61149972015-05-19T20:00:00-04:002015-05-21T04:53:55-04:00Ms. Know-it-all
<p>I am in the garden center, trying not to be an asshole.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/9caaab58be2e7150696df8866177f0a6d9047fd0/original/garden-centr-1.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6Mzc1eDUwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="500" width="375" /></p>
<p>To be clear: the garden center is one of my happy places. I love just about everything that has anything to do with flora (except, perhaps, the fauna who eat them). </p>
<p>But here's the thing: it is mid-May, mid-colder-than-average May; and it is not in <em>anyone</em>'s best interest to be planting mid-July-sized tomato plants:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/db2296d46560b1116bb9b37d6eb085cb07957d96/original/tomatoes.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6Mzc1eDUwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="500" width="375" /></p>
<p>Mid-May in Boston, tomatoes should not have blossoms. In fact, nighttime temperatures are still in the 40's this week; these tomatoes shouldn't even be planted out yet. These peppers are also WAY too big for this season in this place:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/2b748907303e015c8de26a1d30eb8db36c15fef1/original/peppers-in-garden-ctr.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6Mzc1eDUwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="500" width="375" /></p>
<p>I am watching people buying these tomatoes and peppers, and I know what will happen. They will go home and plant them outside, delighted at first with the size and promise of these plants. Then the nighttime temps will plummet for a few days and the plants will get cranky. Plus these plants are oversized for transplanting and that will make them even crankier when the temps drop. </p>
<p>Heartbreak will ensue. Sorrow and woe. I see it all clearly. But I say nothing. Because spouting off about such things would make me an asshole.</p>
<p>Here's another way in which I am not being an asshole: I am <strong>not</strong> telling people not to buy these foxgloves:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/fcb015b28b6b4b67cdc74d7f41d9e9c6072ef3a1/original/foxglove.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6Mzc1eDUwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="500" width="375" /></p>
<p>But they shouldn't buy them! I adore foxgloves; I myself just planted a whole bunch of them, first-year seedlings, in slightly acidic soil in part shade. But these garden center foxgloves are already in full bloom (normally an event that would occur a month or so later in the season), and thus putting on their best show <em>now</em>, before they're even transplanted. Foxgloves are biennial, blooming in their second year. So for the foxgloves in this picture, this is it, the big show. Now they bloom. Next year they'll be dead. The hapless garden center customers will take these plants home, lovingly tuck them into a garden bed, and it will all be downhill from here. Heartbreak is sure to follow. Sorrow and woe.</p>
<p>But I stop myself from saying anything about it. Because I am trying not be an asshole.</p>
<p>And just look at these full, green basil seedlings, apparently thriving! I am watching people scoop them up by the cartload.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/4e2abc0761da625b3b1f9697e1e26ce0e55d7c7b/original/multi-stemmed-basil.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDc1eDM1NiJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="356" width="475" /></p>
<p>There are two big problems here. First, these pots are crowded with multiple seedlings. Basil, like most plants, needs space: you want one seedling in a square foot area. These pots include six jam-packed plants; they may not die, but they will never get as full and healthy as a single-stemmed seedling:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/24b6375a2c37db4cff6d75316b3d5e326ae3faa1/original/basil.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NjQweDQ4MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="480" width="640" /></p>
<p>Here are mine, grown these from seed, one stem per cell. (And yes, I realize that bragging about my home-grown seedlings rather makes me an asshole. Which I am trying not to be.)</p>
<p>The second problem is that it is WAY too soon to be putting basil out of doors all night. Basil likes to be coddled; these plants will sulk terribly when the temps hit the 40's on a handful of nights this week. Heartbreak is sure to follow. Sorrow and woe. But I am not saying anything. Because of that thing I am trying not to be.</p>
<p>Here's another thing that makes my tongue hurt from all the biting: watching people buy zucchini seedlings.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/4fd6a561ee00b75a25afdac1849a0a6cafa94e00/original/zukes-in-garden-ctr.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6Mzc1eDUwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="500" width="375" /></p>
<p>DON'T BUY ZUCCHINI SEEDLINGS! You can get plants this big in a week by just sticking a couple of seeds in the ground and keeping them moderately moist. Plus the direct-seeded plants will be much stronger without the trauma of the transplant. Zuke, cuke, bean and nasturtium seedlings are a waste of money. </p>
<p>I am not saying a word about any of this. Because...you know why.</p>
<p>But it is exhausting, this business of keeping my opinions to myself! I need a break. So I think I will go to the supermarket and give people unsolicited advice on how to dress their children.</p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61149962015-04-26T20:00:00-04:002021-09-18T12:18:33-04:00The College Tour
<p>Good afternoon, and welcome to the U of X! We are so thrilled that each and every one of you is here visiting us today. I myself am a U of X alumnus, and I can tell you that this is the MOST AMAZING place to go to college in the country. </p>
<p> Do you know about all of our Really Famous and Accomplished Alumni? Three US presidents went here! </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/b8f37219a356d1d96443dcc44924827119b1d591/original/coolidge.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MjM4eDI4OCJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="288" width="238" /></p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/509dbde6f2b26005be57bd997dbdf6f10b0001cc/original/jefferson.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MjQ1eDI0NiJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="246" width="245" /></p>
<p>Eighty-nine current CEOs of Fortune 500 companies! Kesha and Beyonce – both alums! </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/8eb88c2b8fe5a327ebde52319d8b5decc8c16969/original/kesha.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MjcyeDMyMiJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="322" width="272" /></p>
<p>And who’s your favorite cast member on SNL? Whoever it is: he went here! Or she went here! The U of X churns out celebrities and over-achievers at a pace that can only be described with one word: RELENTLESS. </p>
<p>Plus, we’ve had affiliations with more Nobel Prize winners than any other university on the planet. By “affiliations,” I am including Nobel Prize winners who have studied here, taught here, visited here for a semester, attended a conference here, or driven through town on their way to the airport. Every one of these people has added to the rich aroma of intellectualism that we inhale around here every minute of every day. And if you come here, you’ll be sucking it in, sucking it up, just sucking it. All the time. It’s awesome.</p>
<p>We have students from 87 countries and from all 50 states. Every single year. Even last year, when there were no 18-year-olds in all of Wyoming. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/9f1fb906d5e33ee1424808958a6dca93acfb33b2/original/college-2.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDIyeDIxOSJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="219" width="422" /> </p>
<p>How many people already know what they want to major in? OK: raise your hand for natural sciences. Three, four, five – that’s awesome! Art, music, theatre – OK, that’s three, good. Literature and the humanities? History? Eight – wonderful. How many of you people have no idea what you want to major in? Be brave! Raise your hands! Because the U of X is a place that’s really, really perfect for you undecided types. You can try EVERYTHING here! We have 500 possible majors – more than one major for every member of the Freshman class. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/929ce510e6f126c5cd9cf07af178ec85f9f092c7/original/college-1.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MTg1eDI0NSJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="245" width="185" /> </p>
<p>So even people who come here thinking they know what they want, end up changing their minds along the way. I, myself, am a perfect example. I changed my major eight times! I started out pre-med, then I changed to pre-law, then pre-business. In the end I decided to major in Art History, because it’s in Art History that I truly found my passion. Art History turned out to be my absolute true love, the thing I was born to do in this world. It was such a rich journey of self-discovery to find out that my life’s passion is Art History – the kind of rich journey of self-discovery that is only possible at a place like U of X. And that is why I am now working in the Admissions Office. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/cb230a61f4fc8fe145322fc1f552206bfb91c003/original/winslow-homer.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDAweDIzMiJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="232" width="400" /> </p>
<p>I do hope you’re starting to love the U of X as much as I do, after this enthusiastic presentation! Of course, you don’t stand much of a chance of getting in. Last year we had 28 applicants for every spot in our Freshman Class. So you’re pretty much out of the running, even before you send in your application. Unless you’re from North Dakota or Arkansas, because it’s very important to us to have students from all 50 states, and those two only have 27 18-year-olds between them. If you come from North Dakota or Arkansas, you’re in! Same is true if your dad buys us a new sports arena. Otherwise, I’m afraid you’re more than likely shit out of luck.</p>
<p> <img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/fb5bb0c41fcd322b93adabf2a0a05b77058b8feb/original/college-3.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUxeDMxNSJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="315" width="451" /></p>
<p>But please know that if you weren’t SOL in terms of getting into the U of X, then we would make it possible for you to attend, regardless of your financial situation. Because we are really, really committed to creating a diverse and open learning environment that is open to everyone. Well, that is, open to 3.7% of everyone that applies. And of course, to 78% of the 18-year-olds from Wyoming.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61149952015-04-18T20:00:00-04:002015-04-19T09:08:45-04:00Don't Check the Box!
<p>Here it is, folks -- the title track from my second album! Cop a listen. The whole kit & kaboodle will be available soon -- and you'll hear it here first!</p>
<p><a href="http://gouldtunes.com/dont_check_the_box1/s/dont_check_the_box" data-imported="1">http://gouldtunes.com/dont_check_the_box1</a></p>
<p> </p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61149942015-04-11T20:00:00-04:002021-09-19T11:58:59-04:00Announcing my upcoming concert tour!
<p>CDBaby, the website on which I sell my music, is constantly telling me that I should use my blog to announce my upcoming concert schedule. I have failed to heed this sound advice for many reasons, the biggest being that I have not had any concerts to announce. Now, however, I am finally ready to make appropriate use of the blog to announce my grand tour. So here it is:</p>
<p><strong>MIDLIFE MOMSONGS' GLOBAL TOUR</strong></p>
<p><strong>Monday, April 27, 10 am</strong></p>
<p style="padding-left: 30px;"><strong>Newton Lifetime Learning Series</strong></p>
<p style="padding-left: 30px;"><strong>Wilson Chapel at Andover Newton Theological Seminary in Newton, MA</strong></p>
<p>OK. So it's a rather short concert season; and the global tour is staying within three miles of my house. Still: for the first time I'll be performing a full hour program of original songs, for an audience of people who are not actually related to me. And I'm pretty pumped.</p>
<p>For this exploit I will be joined by the inimitable Richard Travers, my music teacher, a wonderful musician, all-around awesome guy, and tremendously good sport. He probably has a press photo, which I probably should have requested before posting this global tour announcement. This is not it:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/eb9c419f9dd2c82c9593e4cd0c16df225ed30537/original/travers.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDAweDUzMyJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="533" width="400" /></p>
<p><em>Photo by Tom LaMark, another musical mentor par excellence</em></p>
<p>The biggest part of preparing for this gig, I have discovered, is attempting to memorize lyrics that<em> I myself have written</em>. I am truly puzzled as to why this is so difficult. I have cleared the 50-year birthday hump without apparent incident; and so far my memory appears to be more or less intact. Further, I am GOOD at remembering lyrics. For example, I can still sing, from first track to last, every lyric to every song in the Raffi magnum opus <em>Bananaphone</em>, despite the fact that my opera-loving younger child has not listened to it in at least a dozen years. To whit:</p>
<pre style="padding-left: 30px;"><em>Ring ring ring ring ring ring<br><br>Bananaphone</em></pre>
<pre style="padding-left: 30px;"><em>Ping pong ping pong ping pong ping</em></pre>
<pre style="padding-left: 30px;"><em>Bananaphone</em></pre>
<pre style="padding-left: 30px;"><em>It grows in bunches</em></pre>
<pre style="padding-left: 30px;"><em>I've got my hunches</em></pre>
<pre style="padding-left: 30px;"><em>It's the best</em></pre>
<pre style="padding-left: 30px;"><em>Beats the rest</em></pre>
<pre style="padding-left: 30px;"><em>Cellular, modular, interactive oddular</em></pre>
<p style="padding-left: 30px;"> </p>
<p>Now THOSE, my friends, are LYRICS! Unforgettable. Unlike, apparently, my own. But please join me on my world tour and see how well I manage. Brand-new songs, never before heard by human ears, include an homage to midlife yoga practice, and a road song about Massachusetts' own Route 128. Come on over to Andover Newton Theological Seminary and sing along! </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p></p>
<p> </p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61149932015-03-15T20:00:00-04:002021-08-29T02:18:35-04:00Garden of Memory
<p>About two weeks ago, my wonderful father passed away. To quote a birthday card my brother gave him in the early '70's, my dad was absolutely loving and hilarious. I miss him terribly.</p>
<p>Dad died a few minutes before midnight on a Tuesday, and I got the call just a few minutes later. At 5:00 am, in a sleepless daze, I packed my suitcase for what would be an 11-day long journey, first to Florida to be with my mom and help organize the memorial service, and then for a long-planned work trip which would immediately follow. (As for packing: I did pretty well on underwear, less well on socks. And no, you <em>can't</em> get away with wearing the same pair of black pants five days in a row, because they <em>do</em> actually show dirt, particularly if you spend one of those days splashing through the muddy March rain in St. Louis.)</p>
<p>At 7:00 am Steve drove me to the airport, asking on the way if there was anything he needed to take care of in my absence. "The seedlings in the basement," I answered. "Just keep them alive."</p>
<p>In mid-February, between record-setting blizzards, I had planted a tray of lettuce seedlings and a couple dozen cells of foxglove. And Steve did keep them alive, beautifully. When I finally got home, I found that my lettuce had blossomed into a lush collage of thriving plants:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/4ef642da352386ba2f2ea2d4e69d096f0d0fe5e6/original/lettuce-1.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDI1eDMxOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="318" width="425" /></p>
<p> <img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/50ade96a77abe369ce12d2c6f83e2bfcbf10fdcd/original/lettuce-2.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDMweDMyMiJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="322" width="430" /></p>
<p>The finicky foxgloves, too, had begun to pop:</p>
<p> <img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/9cc27c9a158ecbce6644cb53fcfd5f3c046162ed/original/foxgloves.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDQyeDMzMSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="331" width="442" /></p>
<p>Yesterday, two days after my return, Steve and I traipsed out into the backyard, where the snow is still 20 inches deep. We cleared a space in the vegetable garden so we could plop down the coldframe.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/0993d8c9b44561557489b460ede9ee38726d4651/original/cold-frame.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDAweDMwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="300" width="400" /></p>
<p>The sun will heat the soil in the frame, and in a week or two I'll be able to plant out the lettuce. With any luck we'll be munching on home-grown salads by the end of April. </p>
<p>This symbolism of rebirth, of the arrival of spring after the cold and loss of a miserable winter, is so obvious that I'm almost embarrassed to write about it. But why would any of us garden if not for renewal and hope and beauty? For that matter, why would we even get out of bed?</p>
<p>Truth be told, my dad wasn't the biggest fan of leafy greens. At some point my mom, or maybe a doctor, had convinced him that salads were salutary, so he'd eat one from time to time, especially if it was graced by beets, of which he was rather fond (I'm with you there, Dad).</p>
<p>Here's what my dad would really have loved me to grow in my garden: steak. Or bagels and lox, or pretty much any other salty Jew food. Or spare ribs or clams, lest you get the wrong idea about his dietary limitations. (As it happens, clam seeding is an actual thing; maybe I should give it a try.)</p>
<p>Or blintzes! Dad loved blintzes. A Blintz Bush.....there's an idea with potential:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/20620b6753dcc12d7cd16c01adbb4906c0354932/original/blintz-plant.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDgweDY0MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="640" width="480" /></p>
<p>The one actual vegetable my dad truly loved was tomatoes. His favorite breakfast was a treat he learned from his father, a cream cheese and tomato sandwich. My grandfather (who died long before I was born) called it a "Super Duper," and my dad did, too.</p>
<p>So this summer, I will grow the biggest and juiciest slicing tomatoes I can manage.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/7b6343bf651a4679c3eb3a15986abc6c1a4bab59/original/tomatoes.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDIweDMxNSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="315" width="420" /></p>
<p>When they're ripe, I'll get out the bread and the cream cheese and make myself a whole tray of drippy, luscious Super Dupers.</p>
<p>And when I eat them, Dad, I'll think of you.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/356b9ac21c6e49103d3cf495d36479999d3beddd/original/portrait-2007.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDAweDQ5OCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="498" width="400" /></p>
<p> <em>Photo by Robert Weber, <a href="http://bweberphotography.com/" data-imported="1">http://bweberphotography.com/</a></em></p>
<p> </p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61149922015-02-13T19:00:00-05:002023-12-10T11:52:34-05:00The Unbearable Whiteness of Being
<p>It is mid-February in Boston, and by now we have had all that we can handle. It is endless, this onslaught of whiteness, pile on top of pile. We didn't mind at first; it's what we expect in winter in New England. But we no longer have any idea what to do with all of it. We have no place to put it. We've run out of room, out of ideas, out of patience.</p>
<p>I am writing, of course, about turnips.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/4054f7949972b3cf6061931fd4f4bc695b214329/original/turnips.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NTYweDQyMSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="421" width="560" /></p>
<p>I subscribe to a year-round farm share, which I absolutely adore. The arrival of the Siena Farms box is a high point of my week. The most recent one, delivered between blizzards, may have been the best winter box yet. There were Chiogga beets, with their lovey candy stripes; daikon radishes; sweet potatoes. Oh -- and look -- parsnips! I love parsnips!</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/935855b5e6ed0395763a92537744b48b234beca7/original/parsnips.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NTIyeDM5MSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="391" width="522" /></p>
<p>Carrots -- loads of them! Crunchy, sweet, endlessly versatiie Bolero carrots -- they seem to get sweeter the longer winter rolls on.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/b70a427bdfad42ac85322ead4f1f32d27a4e2ae4/original/carrots.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDI1eDU2NiJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="566" width="425" /></p>
<p>Not one, but TWO butternut squashes -- an absolute favorite!</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/9ff65b5a35cf1355ff277949f432a095ee3f8720/original/butternut.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzI1eDQzNCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="434" width="325" /></p>
<p>Oh...and at the bottom of the box.....turnips. More turnips. To add to the very full drawer full of turnips already languishing in my fridge.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/18cd69e2f4a14fbbf0bdbfad3459eebf7b2c7f8c/original/more-turnips.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzcxeDQ5NSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="495" width="371" /></p>
<p>I have been eating turnips every day for months. I dice them raw and toss them into salads; I snack on turnip wedges dipped in hummus. I have roasted them, sauteed them, pickled them.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/e05fbc37f6e12c5e1a31d8a1b3d1294dee6cc6d4/original/pickled-beets.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p>I have pureed them into cream of turnip soup. I have stir-fried them with hoisin sauce, chili garlic paste, fermented black beans; braised them with miso butter, lemon butter, peanut butter. And yet the supply never seems to diminish. </p>
<p>I am constantly on the lookout for new and exciting things to do with turnips. I found one five-star recipe for <a href="http://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/anne-burrell/turnip-gratin-recipe.html" data-imported="1">Turnip Gratin</a> from the Food Network's Ann Burrell. "Who knew," she writes, "a turnip could be soooooooooooooo good!" </p>
<p>The recipe does, indeed, look delicious, mostly because it includes two cups of heavy cream, half a stick of butter, and a cup and a half of grated fresh parmigiano cheese. The turnips are entirely beside the point: a steaming pile of shit would taste good if baked for an hour with 2 cups of heavy cream, half a stick of butter, and a cup and a half of parmigiano. Not that I plan to try.</p>
<p>My daughter Julia says that turnips are the flat fish of vegetables, and I believe she is right. For several years, we subscribed to a seafood community-supported agriculture program. Every Tuesday we'd pick up a delivery of whole fish, whatever the Cape Ann fishermen had available. We were ecstatic when we got bluefish; thrilled when it was monkfish; pleased enough with pollack, haddock or hake. Ocean perch was bony but tasty. But at least half the time, what we got was flat fish--yellow flounder, gray sole--usually a big pile of them, five or six whole fish at a shot. They were a huge amount of work to gut and bone; and in the end we would get a little pile of puny fillets, fillets that tasted like nothing much and which were never totally free of nasty little bones and foul-tasting bits of fish viscera. </p>
<p>Steve, who is the house Fish Chef (and a very good one, at that), was floridly enthusiastic about these flat fish. "Oh look, aren't these beautiful!" he'd exclaim as he pulled flounder after flounder out of the bag. After hours of cleaning and fileting, he'd proudly present us with the finished plate (shockingly small in comparison to the massive pile of fish from which it derived). "Don't you love this flounder?" he'd enthuse. "Isn't it delicious?"</p>
<p>"Yes, it's very nice," we'd answer, with all the energy we could muster, which was not much. Because truly, while I'm not sure if Steve really liked the flat fish or if he was just pretending, I do know for certain that the rest of us regarded the flounder and the sole with a hearty distaste.</p>
<p>Turnips, thankfully, do not have bones or clinging bits of viscera. They are not objectionable, exactly. They just don't have much to offer, compared with the other white veggies of winter. They can't compete with the crunch of daikon radish, the sweetness of kohlrabi, the luscious creaminess of parsnips. Turnips just <em>are</em>. And I find myself, many too many times a week, serving up a bowl of, say, turnips with brown butter, lemon and capers, and enthusing, "Don't you like this? Isn't it delicious?"</p>
<p>"Yes, it's very nice," says Julia. </p>
<p>Steve doesn't even pretend to like them. "They're <em>turnips</em>," he scowls. And that's that.</p>
<p>But alas, it is winter in New England, and turnips are what we have to get through to make our way to the fresh green sprouts of spring. We'll just have to deal with the turnip overload in any way we can. Maybe it is finally time to bring on the heavy cream, the butter and the parmigiano.</p>
<p>And then, perhaps, I will try pouring the cream, butter and parmigiano onto that other white stuff currently piling up at the foot of my driveway.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61149912015-01-23T19:00:00-05:002021-09-12T14:11:11-04:00I scream, you scream, we all scream for eye cream
<p>Earlier this week I had my 50th birthday, a major milestone. So naturally, my thoughts have lingered on the topics on which one dwells at such junctures. I am thinking of the roads not taken, and the one that stretches ahead. I am thinking of friendship, of love, and of loss. I am contemplating mortality, my own and that of those I love. And of course, I am thinking about eye cream.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/2988b9ed6ee6fa77596532efb78fd977701516a3/original/really-expensive-eye-cream.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6Mzc0eDQ5OSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="499" width="374" /></p>
<p>I have known for many years that eye cream is a central concern at life's trickier passes. When I was in my 20s, I ran a drop-in center for homeless women in Santa Monica, California. Our clients were women who in previous, less sensitive times might have been called "bag ladies;" they suffered from chronic mental illness, and largely untreated, they lived on the streets. In our center they could get a couple of meals, do their laundry, take a nap, take a shower. The Neutrogena company had a major distribution center not far from the shelter, and they were generous in-kind donors. We were delighted to receive boxes of soap, shampoo, and occasionally sunscreen--items that were enormously useful to the women we served.</p>
<p>And then one day, we opened a shipment from Neutrogena to find dozens of boxes of....eye cream. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/202f680b289c298e1ad593eec04815562d627c65/original/screen-shot-2015-01-24-at-6-19-29-pm.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MjMweDI0NCJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="244" width="230" /></p>
<p>I and the other staff, all in our callow 20's, thought this was the most absurd thing we'd ever seen. What did homeless women need with <em>eye cream</em>? But I will tell you: the stuff flew off of our shelves. For months -- maybe years -- afterwards, women would come in and ask, "Do you have any more of that eye cream?"</p>
<p>And now, decades later, I totally get it. I show my age in many ways, and for the most part it doesn't much bother me. But the one persistent annoyance involves the dark circles under my eyes. In the past two months I have been asked by no fewer than four different people how I got the shiner(s). Now, I am quite the klutz, and I am frequently beset by bruises whose provenance I promptly forget. I could tell you that I bruise easily, and it's true, in the sense that it is easy for me to bump into things, at which point I bruise in the usual way. But mishaps that cause black eyes tend to be memorable; and I can assure you that the only things that have slammed into my face are the 50 years I've spent on this planet. </p>
<p>I actually started to think about this pet beauty peeve a few months back, around Thanksgiving; and on a trip to Walgreen's I found this fine item for about $13:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/4285de376a23626aaa4c168809b0c1e97c68120c/original/grapefruit.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzEzeDQxOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="418" width="313" /></p>
<p> This lovely stuff promised to CORRECT my dark circles -- with GRAPEFRUIT. Of course! So I bought it, and immediately began using it religiously, twice a day, as part of my morning and evening ablutions.</p>
<p>It was after about a month of this diligent eye care activity that I got my first two black eye inquiries.</p>
<p>No problem, I thought: obviously, I just haven't thrown enough money at this yet. The Sephora website kindly presented me with a plethora of options, plus a holiday-season coupon:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/cd19972a883e02954da6980df9f4599fbcd215b2/original/screen-shot-2015-01-24-at-5-57-57-pm.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NjIyeDQxMiJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="412" width="622" /></p>
<p>Turns out you can spend a LOT of money on eye cream. I selected a middle-of-the road product -- more than the $13 from Walgreens, but still a few bucks less per tube than my age, a totally arbitrary but somehow reasonable-sounding standard:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/06179e1a755e9aadc461a1a82752aad8f6ae6f74/original/screen-shot-2015-01-24-at-5-56-43-pm.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MjAzeDMyNiJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="326" width="203" /></p>
<p>A few weeks later: black eye inquiries three and four.</p>
<p>I do have Plan C at the ready. On a recent trip to New York City, I found this flashy stuff at an over-the-top cosmetics emporium called Ricky's:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/166c42f8b575dca46f11989976aab8eddd386f2c/original/glamglow.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDY3eDM1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="350" width="467" /></p>
<p>I know for a fact that it is going to revolutionize my entire face, because the saleswoman told me it would. Also because it was really expensive: $69!! More than I've ever paid for a cosmetic item before in my life. "And there's a three or four month supply in there!" said that highly reliable saleswoman. $23 a month to lose my perennial black eyes -- I'd do that! Especially for my birthday. So I did.</p>
<p>When I brought it home and read the instructions, I learned that this box does include an adequate supply for 12 <em>treatments</em>. But the recommended usage is two or three treatments a week -- the higher number to be used for particularly troublesome cases (say, people who are, I don't know.....over 50). So my $69 has really just subsidized a one-month supply.</p>
<p>Of course, I have not tried the GlamGlow yet. Because I want it to last. </p>
<p>It may in fact be the case that my solution will be found not in eye cream, but in lighting. My eyes definitely have more of an injured vibe in harsher light, or in light that casts shadows from overhead. In softer, warmer light, my dark circles really aren't all that noticeable. So perhaps I will simply carry a personal lighting system with me, to ensure that I am flatteringly illuminated, wherever I go. Certainly a more economical solution than the $69-per-month approach. </p>
<p>And maybe I can add a filter that will obscure my gray hairs.</p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61149902014-12-19T19:00:00-05:002021-07-13T14:21:53-04:00The Miracle of Lights
<p>And it came to pass on the seventh day of the month of Kislev, just after the Feast of Turkeys, that Laurie, daughter of Bob and Inge, went unto Whole Foods. And she saw in Whole Foods a Whole Shelf of Chanukah candles, and she saw that they were good candles, hand-dipped, in colors many and various. And she saw that they cost $22 a box; and she said unto herself; "That is a lot of shekels for a box of Chanukah candles." And Laurie, child of Israel, did vow on that day to find and purchase more reasonably-priced Chanukah candles before the 23rd of Kislev when began the Festival of Lights.</p>
<p>But Laurie, daughter of Bob and Inge, grew distracted with work and family; verily, Laurie had a life. And thus did Laurie break her vow, and she did not purchase Chanukah candles before the 23rd of Kislev; but instead did light the Menorah for three nights using leftover candles from the previous year. </p>
<p>And on the 27th of Kislev did Laurie go again to Whole Foods, seeking to purchase Chanukah candles, which candles had once been plenteous. But lo, she found the Chanukah candles displaced by a large display of Christmas ornaments; and the staff at Whole Foods did say unto her, "Verily, Chanukah is <em>so</em> last Tuesday." And there were no candles at Whole Foods.</p>
<p>Thus did Laurie venture forth in search of Chanukah candles. In Harvard Square did she search, in gift shops and craft shops; even in Cardullo's, purveyor of fine foods and wines, did she search. But candles there were none. And Laurie, daughter of Bob and Inge, went forth to two different CVSs. Laurie, daughter of Bob and Inge, found ample displays of Christmas goods:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/78df43399e41c7b61f3b8b18936c0fc58e90d51f/original/cvs-chanukah-1.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzIweDI0MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="240" width="320" /></p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/bc30fe221aab1c51a2831e43c17205ccfe30a3aa/original/cvs-chanukah-2.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MjQweDMyMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="320" width="240" /></p>
<p>And one sad shelf of leftover Chanukah merchandise:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/e852325a1a4f3e7588190a2c135bfee8ab7e985b/original/chanukah-leftovers.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MjQweDMyMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="320" width="240" /></p>
<p>But of candles, there were none.</p>
<p>Rebecca, the oldest child begotten of Laurie and Steve, son of Carol and Maurice, said unto her mother, "Go thou forth to Brookline. For there are Jews in Brookline, and much Jewish retail. Even is there kosher Chinese food in Brookline. There thou shalt find candles for the Festival of Lights."</p>
<p>Thus spake Laurie to her child:</p>
<p>"Nay, we shall not buy candles tomorrow in Brookline. Behold thy iPhone: it declareth that today is Friday. And behold the sun, which doth begin to set: thus begins the Sabbath. The Jews in Brookline are righteous Jews: they do not sell bagels on the Sabbath, nor rugelach, nor pastrami; neither do they sell candles on the Sabbath. Whereas we, the Jews of Newton, are wicked Jews. Behold, we eat smoked mussels even as we grate the potatoes for latkes."</p>
<p>And Laurie and Steve and the two children begotten of their loins lit the candles, on two menorahs, with four candles plus a Shamash or "helper" candle, five candles in each menorah, ten candles in total. And they asked aloud whether tradition called for lighting the candles from left to right or right to left, and they knew not, and were confused. Then they beheld the box of candles, and they found that the remaining candles numbered nine:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/1fa64d7e7262d7cc06cf547ac9243f4cba7331eb/original/9-candles.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MjA3eDI4MSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="281" width="207" /></p>
<p>And the children of Israel knew that these would not suffice. These candles could light but one menorah for one more night, or two menorahs for the fifth night of Chanuakah if they left off the Shamash and squinted at the second menorah to pretend that there were five candles and not but four. And yet there remained four nights in the Festival of Lights, leading to the Festival of Dim Sum. And the Children of Israel grew worried.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/834b42063ed34fe297502fca4319ab65a2072186/original/sad-children.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MjMweDE3NiJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="176" width="230" /></p>
<p>Thus spake Steve, son of Carol and Maurice: "Lo, we might fill these candle reservoirs with oil, and light the oil afire, as did the Jews of old." But Laurie, daughter of Bob and Inge, answered thus: "We have used all the oil in the frying of latkes. And in any event, that would probably burn down the house."</p>
<p>And the Children of Israel thought their parents were stupid.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/d6ab03415efd9b401698f5505558b45e397c18ca/original/frustrated-children.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MjQ3eDE4OCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="188" width="247" /></p>
<p>And it came to pass on the 28th day of Kislev that Laurie, daughter of Bob and Inge, rose early; to yoga class did she go. Then Laurie went unto Shaw's, and she beheld this miracle:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/011113108ec26615acd3f23009a439392f388086/original/shaws-candles.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzIweDI0MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="240" width="320" /></p>
<p>Here the lights were plentiful, and cost only $.59 per box, far fewer shekels than the good, hand-dipped candles of Whole Foods. And thus did Laurie buy three boxes, although in truth she needed but two, because Laurie, daughter of Bob and Inge, could not resist a bargain.</p>
<p>And when they children of Israel saw that the lights would be sufficient for eight days, they rejoiced.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/cf0cb13a83efe23b04c3c351bcd31106334e67a9/original/happychildren.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MjUxeDE4NiJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="186" width="251" /></p>
<p>And therefore did they celebrate in the manner of the Jews of Newton.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/63a3252858737652570f416b271b101332a8e381/original/mussles.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MjQweDMyMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="320" width="240" /></p>
<p> </p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61149892014-12-13T19:00:00-05:002021-09-09T10:22:43-04:00Bang-Up Job
<p>I must tell you about the bruise on my knee. It's a three-dimensional, technicolor marvel. There's a huge lump in the middle, and my kneecap is surrounded by a purple ring, like Saturn. Red stripes radiate from the center, perpendicular to the kneecap, but tilted about 10 degrees south. Fascinating.</p>
<p>Earlier this week I took a spill, something that happens to me every so often because I am a little klutzy and more than a little absent-minded. I slammed my knee – hard – on the concrete floor of a parking garage. I was with my mother at the time, and she was a bit freaked out – understandably so, because she has a few decades on me (she’s my <em>mother</em>, after all). For someone her age, a fall of that sort could be catastrophic. But I am still this side of 50, and lucky for me, my bones are still pretty strong. I was able to get up, dust myself off, and hobble on. (Let me assure you that I am truly, absolutely fine; as a three-time knee surgery veteran, I can tell you for a fact that this beauty of a bruise is only skin deep.)</p>
<p>While I am indeed this side of 50, I am barely so: the mid-century milestone is closing in, just over a month away. It’s a big one, this birthday. Sure, by anyone's definition, I have been middle-aged for quite a few years now. But when you hit 50 you are unquestionably, incontrovertibly flipping the album over to Side B. (And you unquestionably, incontrovertibly need to be at least 49 to parse that metaphor.)</p>
<p>I think a lot about how I want Side B to look. What I’d really love is to be one of the super-flexible seniors I occasionally see in yoga class: folks in their late 70’s who are doing exotic poses wherein they support their entire body weight on three fingers of their left hands while they wrap their right legs behind their heads. I have recently started going to yoga class pretty regularly (although the purple golf ball on my left knee has kept me off the mat for the past week). Four months in, I have almost gotten to the point where I can support my entire body weight on both of my feet. Some of the time. At least while I'm stationary. </p>
<p><br>Alas, this mess on my left knee is proof of the limits of my capacity to balance. But this bruise! It changes daily, hourly even: the colors! The shape! It's like a little work of performance art that I carry with me wherever I go.</p>
<p>"Check it out, Steve!" I say to my husband. "It's swelling down to my shin! And yesterday it was not nearly this green."</p>
<p>"Hmmm," he says, absorbed in his book, oblivious to the museum-quality aesthetics playing out on my left lower limb.</p>
<p><br>I do plan give up this habit of tripping over my own feet once I flip over to Side B next month. I will, after all, be a mindful, well-balanced Yogi, at least once my knee heals. But my telomeres are growing shorter, as they inevitably must; and in time I will face whatever age-related health concerns I have to face. Who knows? Perhaps those three fingers on which I learn to support my entire body weight may even develop arthritis. </p>
<p>But whatever health challenges I face, I will not bore you by talking about them! I refuse to become someone who dwells endlessly on my physical infirmities. As Gordon Livingston writes in <em>Too Soon Old, Too Late Smart: </em></p>
<p style="padding-left: 30px;"><em>What could be less interesting and more discouraging than a litany of aches, pains, and bowel difficulties, delivered in the querulous tone of those who realize that what they are suffering from is beyond remedy and getting worse? <br></em></p>
<p>Livingston goes on to write about how our culture is dismissive of the wisdom of the elderly, and thus the elderly become dismissive of themselves. No worries: I plan to become EXTREMELY wise! Pithy little pearls of wisdom will drip off my tongue at discreet intervals, which tongue will not be otherwise occupied talking about my failing health. </p>
<p>Anyway, why would I talk about my health in the future, when nothing that happens could possibly be as interesting as the colossal bruise I have right now on my left knee? (I finally do manage to get Steve to pay proper attention. "Steve," I say, "how do you suppose we would calculate the area this bruise occupies on my leg?" He pulls out a tape measure and we decide it's best described, geometrically, as a rhombus, 4 inches in height by 10 in length, making it 40 square inches in area. Thanks, Steve!)</p>
<p>You wanna see it, don't you?</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/9237e365797ce026ae14700ed84cfc6a308dfceb/original/knee.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzAweDQwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="400" width="300" /></p>
<p>Surely you didn't expect me to show you my actual bruise!?! It's <em>gross</em>. And it's winter--way too cold to take my clothing off long enough for a photo shoot. Besides which, No Shave November is still going strong, here in mid-December.</p>
<p>All of which is way more information than you need. I will not speak of such trivial, self-involved things next month, once I'm playing Side B. The only things that will pass my lips will be those precious, pithy bits of wisdom, at discreet intervals.</p>
<p>But I'm still 49. So as of yet, I don't know shit.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61149882014-11-23T19:00:00-05:002020-01-16T16:02:41-05:00Rocky Mountain Liftoff
<p>I am at the Denver Airport, shopping for gifts that will express something truly unique about the Rocky Mountain State.</p>
<p>There are fridge magnets with cute woodland animals:</p>
<p> <img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/b2c2ad6fd2338ed569d630181e535ae3d450ea2f/original/fox.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDAweDM4MiJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="382" width="400" /></p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/c8fc5fa1c734961a3625aa1f459bdae5b5d57588/original/animal-magnets.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDAweDIwNSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="205" width="400" /></p>
<p>But really, we have foxes and bears in the Northeast, and I'd match Maine with Colorado, moose for moose, any day of the week. </p>
<p>Not sure what these creatures are -- perhaps they are unique to Denver and environs:</p>
<p> <img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/d0fe3ab5c3b2520e33b17f97498a092863252039/original/mystery-animal.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzAweDQwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="400" width="300" /></p>
<p>But anything that cute has got to be running around the Berkshires.</p>
<p>There is a Southwest vegan cookbook:</p>
<p> <img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/55b5623af57b421c4b9b0fb1321b31f414c7afe7/original/vegan-colorado.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDc5eDM4NiJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="386" width="479" /></p>
<p>But of course, Massachusetts is lousy with vegans. Nobody in Northampton has eaten an animal product in the past decade. True, our vegans show a bit less cleavage.</p>
<p>I can't imagine what is uniquely Coloradan about popcorn:</p>
<p> <img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/30b900c54b39df474796cfcdae23c0f3df9df05f/original/popcorn.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzAweDQwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="400" width="300" /></p>
<p>Vermont produces the same varieties of poop joke chocolates:</p>
<p> <img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/8fc16025a35604289e0aedfabdeb8c324711c530/original/droppings.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzUweDE5MyJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="193" width="350" /></p>
<p>Why would I go to Colorado for cider spices (do they even grow apples in this climate)?</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/b0e40c19eafb26c168e7e04a506a36ac1db9c0c8/original/co-cider.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDAweDMyNiJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="326" width="400" /></p>
<p>And why would Colorado-roasted coffee be any better than the stuff we roast back East? </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/443e598ef7f7933f6eeda66650397a2f2e7784e5/original/coffee.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDAweDQyMiJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="422" width="400" /></p>
<p>After all, the Coloradans live almost as far from the actual coffee growers as we New Englanders do.</p>
<p>No. I am after something that I can't readily buy back home in Boston, something that speaks to what is uniquely Colorado. </p>
<p>What I am looking for, of course, is hash brownies But here are the airport, they are nowhere to be found. A marketing opportunity missed, to be sure.</p>
<p>Ah, well. I guess I will have to find something else to bring back home to the kids.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61149872014-11-15T19:00:00-05:002020-01-16T16:02:37-05:00Meditation on an empty stomach
<p>I discovered yoga three or four months ago when I was going through a bit of a rough patch. Now I go to three classes a week on a pretty regular basis; and in between I practice with DVDs and online videos. Because, as I like to tell my kids, anything worth doing is worth over-doing.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/8003fbf1fb4eb8c57d3e0a10f694460f1ec0a758/original/yoga-videos.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzIweDI0MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="240" width="320" /> </p>
<p>Of the three yoga classes I attend regularly, my very favorite is early Sunday mornings, with yoga instructor Tom the Calm. Tom sometimes brings a harmonium and plays open fifths while we all chant "Om." Everyone chants the top note. Sometimes I think about chanting the bottom note and getting a little harmony going. But that would be showing off, which is a very un-yogi thing to do. On the other hand, there are plenty of people in the class who can get their heels all the way down to the ground when they do Downward Facing Dog. Or who can go straight from Eagle to Warrior 1, standing only on one foot for long periods of time with nary a wobble. If that's not showing off, what is?</p>
<p>Right. Next time, I'm Om-ing the harmony. Those one-footed Warriors can suck on it.</p>
<p>But this past Sunday was a particularly awesome class, because Tom shifted the format from <em>Flow</em> to <em>Flow with Meditation</em>. And how exciting is that???</p>
<p>OK. You're not supposed to get excited about meditation. Meditation is supposed to calm you way the hell down. All of which goes to show you just how much I, of all people, really need to meditate.</p>
<p>Tom the Calm shows us lots of different options for sitting comfortably, with your spine erect, while you meditate. Tom tells us that when our attention wanders, we should bring our attention gently back to our breath. Tom tells us that through meditation we will learn to focus on What Is, and to separate What Is from what our mind <em>does</em> with What Is.</p>
<p>So I choose my Comfortable Erect Sitting Option, a nice little setup involving a yoga block and an ugly yoga blanket, and I close my eyes. Tom rings this wonderful little bell to start the meditation clock, as it were. I am loving the shit out of this little bell. But is it as good as the harmonium? No harmony, but lots of great overtones. On the other hand, there is no singing along with the bell. I like singing. But I remind myself that the bell is What Is, and that comparing it to the harmonium is what my mind is doing with What Is. And I gently bring my awareness back to the breath.</p>
<p>I inhale. I exhale. I inhale some more.</p>
<p>It is so liberating to let my mind just go blank this way. How calm and un-excited I am! How great would it be if I could meditate every day? I really have no excuse not to, now that I have my very own ugly yoga blanket, courtesy of Amazon. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/0634014dea683e9ecbe0077a6da6c7e9f6f6ae98/original/yoga-blanket.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzIweDMwOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="308" width="320" /></p>
<p>I wonder how I will fit my daily meditation into my schedule of work and carpools and volunteer obligations and family stuff. Maybe right after dinner? Except not on Tuesdays. Or Wednesdays. And Sundays can be hard to predict....</p>
<p>I remind myself that this meditation session is What Is, and this planning to meditate more is what my mind is doing with What Is. And I inhale and exhale some more.</p>
<p><em>What Is:</em> this ugly yoga blanket under my butt.</p>
<p><em>What Is:</em> my muscles feeling stretchy and loose after an hour of yoga.</p>
<p><em>What Is:</em> a stomach rumbling. Very, very loudly. I do not think it is mine. </p>
<p>In fact, this stomach rumbling That Is, is loud and sustained enough that it is perhaps the product of two stomachs, in two different meditating yogis on this early Sunday morning. These two or perhaps even more empty stomachs in the row directly behind me are singing <em>Om</em> at full volume in some interesting harmony (not open fifths). That's What Is. And what my mind does with the stomach rumbling that is What Is, is to inventory the contents of my fridge and think about what I will eat for breakfast when I get home.</p>
<p>Tom the Calm rings the little bell again. I am loving the shit out of that little bell.</p>
<p>And I am loving the shit out of Sunday morning meditation. But it sure does make me hungry.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61149862014-10-31T20:00:00-04:002014-11-01T23:49:56-04:00Bounty of the Season
<p>It is the end of the harvest season, and I have been processing its bounty.</p>
<p>First, the apples. Some months ago I blogged about putting pantyhose on my apples to shield them from boring insects (although pantyhose, in my experience, have done little to shield me from boring people). I am pleased to report that it worked quite well. Here's an unprotected apple, riddled with apple maggots and other things unpleasant:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/334dfc3365619bab17a4a01e55ee9e3eea3d318c/original/unprotected-apple.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MjQweDMyMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="320" width="240" /></p>
<p>Versus one of the apples that we'd sheathed in peds (the foot-sized items used in shoe stores to protect the goods from customers' feet):</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/835ca50efa3ada3b77430434d7138915a328fcd6/original/protected-apple.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MjQweDMyMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="320" width="240" /></p>
<p>Quite a difference! Of course, you can only protect the apples you can reach. (There's a metaphor in there for something -- social justice or child-rearing or maybe Ebola. You figure it out.)</p>
<p>This week I pulled the last of the hosed apples off the trees, maybe a dozen. These trees are quite old, and I have no idea what variety the apples are; they are delicious straight from the tree, but not very good keepers. So I chopped this last batch up, put them in a pot, and made sauce. A worthwhile horticultural venture overall, this pantyhose thing. A handful of preventive hose:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/fa9baaa2aaec45213047a5b83d2a9e46c897bf66/original/2-oz-hose.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MjQweDMyMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="320" width="240" /></p>
<p>....yielded a nice vat of sauce:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/873de149064cf488fe000756e3033b524349bcb2/original/applesauce-weight.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzIweDI0MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="240" width="320" /></p>
<p>If .2 ounces of prevention yields 2.73 pounds of sauce, then a full ounce of prevention would yield 13.65 pounds of sauce -- way outperforming the prevention-to-cure ratio. I would definitely do it again.</p>
<p>Next up: tomatillos. I bought a package of seed and raised a dozen tomatillo seedlings this year, the first time for this particular veggie in my little urban garden. I planted six of the seedlings myself and gave the rest to my friend Linda. I was feeling pretty good about my own haul:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/729ef890e23af7a00c00d7e8b3ab37742b4ad7c9/original/my-tomatillos.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzIweDI0MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="240" width="320" /></p>
<p>Until Linda showed up with hers (she gardens in the Berkshires, in full sun):</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/c930e526b0d74c43951e548b097bb94a3dcd0dd1/original/lindas-tomatillos.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MjQweDMyMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="320" width="240" /></p>
<p>Processing the huge combined tomatillo harvest seemed like the ideal project for Halloween night. It's hard to do much on Halloween, I reasoned, because you constantly have to stop what you're doing to answer the door. And I was prepared to answer the door a lot. The number of trick or treaters varies quite a bit from year to year, but I always buy a<em> lot</em> of candy, just in case. Because one year I ran out. And I vowed right then and there that as God was my witness, I would never deprive the neighborhood kids of processed sugar again.</p>
<p>Chop, roast, puree; chop, roast, puree: processing the tomatillos turned out to be a 3 1/2 hour project.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/67122259bdf4a87687733153ba12511c9c492d2c/original/tom-process-1.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzIweDI0MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="240" width="320" /></p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/42163ae884210c886e695a9ac6a06ff0161a1a65/original/tom-process-2.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzIweDI0MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="240" width="320" /></p>
<p>In the end I got two huge bowls, destined for ziploc bags in my freezer, and Linda's:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/8bda0220902a12a6214abcafe09c25d451642c66/original/tomatillo-juice.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzIweDI0MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="240" width="320" /></p>
<p>Come on over! We're having enchiladas verdes. </p>
<p>One package of seeds yields yielded more salsa verde than two households could possibly use in a season: another good horticultural deal. </p>
<p>My investment in candy, however, was less successful: three 50-piece bags yielded maybe 20 trick-or-treaters. I ended the night with roughly the same volume of leftover candy as I had salsa verde:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/e51f7c74b522f2861a926089b50eac2720b85542/original/candy-ready-for-halloween.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzIweDI0MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="240" width="320" /></p>
<p>But no problem! I know exactly what to do with the season's excess bounty. The only question: oven?</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/ccf7af88a9185761448e4727b4498ee26a3b53cc/original/roasted-candy.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MjQweDMyMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="320" width="240" /></p>
<p>Or pressure cooker?</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/c127bcff43bcddb19be67b9683af1243779057d1/original/pressure-cooker-candy.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MjQweDMyMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="320" width="240" /></p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61149852014-10-22T20:00:00-04:002021-09-15T11:38:59-04:00Guess who's coming to visit?
<p>My mother is coming to visit tomorrow, and I am really excited. She's a great lady, my mom, and she doesn't get many opportunities to travel. So her visit will be a real treat for me, and hopefully for her, as well.</p>
<p>But there is this little issue of dirt.</p>
<p>My mother is the cleanest person I have ever met, with the possible exception of <em>her</em> mother. When my grandmother decided, late in her 70's, to hire a housekeeping service to give her apartment a weekly scrub, the housekeeper told her, "I'd be glad clean for you, Mrs. Vollweiler, but apparently I will need to bring my own dirt." My mother's cleaning service is similarly challenged. I am fairly certain that my mom chose an apartment on the 8th floor of her building because dirt cannot possibly migrate up that high. (If the dirt has met my mom, it wouldn't dare try.)</p>
<p>For the past week, in anticipation of my mom's visit, I have been viewing my house with a critical eye, cataloguing the dirt and disorder, triaging the domestic disarray.</p>
<p>First up: the cushions on my kitchen chairs:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/116cb1008da465f97484b4e96edd158c3043a3b8/original/dirty-chair-cushion.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NjQweDQ4MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="480" width="640" /></p>
<p>Look at those stains! Fortunately, I caught this little outrage nearly a week in advance; plenty of time to take corrective action:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/447d1d3153d6845963ea7c94ed2013a87efecba1/original/cleaning-chairs.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzY5eDQ5MiJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="492" width="369" /></p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/dd25de4da4d29cd3af1169d9bd54e3380bb3596a/original/drying-cushion-covers.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NTQ2eDQyNyJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="427" width="546" /></p>
<p>Then there is the issue of shoes. We live in a big, old Victorian which has lots of room for people but less room for stuff. I'm not sure where the Victorians stored their shoes: they are lucky it took Zappos another century to emerge. In any event, my house is pocked with shoe farms. This one, near the kitchen door, we can probably disappear before my mom arrives:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/45e71b2b294d2098b306247aeb6671739f1d82df/original/ktichen-shoe-farm.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NjI3eDMwNiJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="306" width="627" /></p>
<p>But this one, in our bedroom, is probably here to stay, simply because there is nowhere else to put these things:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/def88293b94c4e00709daf5ef334283c1bfe064e/original/shoe-pile.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NjQweDQ4MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="480" width="640" /></p>
<p>I will keep the bedroom door closed. </p>
<p>Similarly, the duct tape has been living on my back staircase for as long as I can remember:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/63ed3eee707b472682697780abf901f4d983baec/original/duct-tape-on-stairs.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDgweDY0MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="640" width="480" /></p>
<p>It lives there partly because I can no longer remember where we are actually supposed to store the duct tape; but also because duct tape is just one of those things that you want to have close at hand in case anything breaks. In January I had a little run-in with a snow bank; this very roll of duct tape kept my bumper attached to my car for the six months or more that it took me to get to a body shop.</p>
<p>And then there's this -- and let me warn you right now, the squeamish may want to stop reading here:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/19cd8357e2657f67f6f179102c3e0499aca85e62/original/liner-mildew.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NjQweDQ4MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="480" width="640" /></p>
<p>It's not just a mildewed shower curtain: it's a pharmacological experiment. Legend has it that Alexander Fleming stumbled on penicillin after a slovenly research assistant left a mess to fester on a lab bench. Here in my bathroom, I am trying to culture a vaccine for C-Diff. </p>
<p>Fortunately, I have a spare shower curtain on hand (taking up storage space that would otherwise be devoted to shoes or duct tape):</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/cdec39f29ea9dcc28a623c89ed435baeebc039e1/original/shower-curtain-no-mildew.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDgweDY0MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="640" width="480" /></p>
<p> So it's a relatively quick matter to dispose of the old, offensive shower curtain: that MRSA antidote has been banished to the trash bin. My shower now gleams with mildew resistance.</p>
<p>And my mom will never know that things were ever any other way! Will you, Mom?</p>
<p> </p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61149842014-10-17T20:00:00-04:002021-09-20T05:27:38-04:00Coughing up my inner diva
<p>Last night I went to see <em>La Traviata</em>, Verdi's classic opera about love and death. Yeah, right, operas are ALL about love and death. But <em>La Traviata</em> does it better than most. For one thing, it features Western culture's greatest party song:</p>
<p><a href="http://youtu.be/9_XD-zN3Jg8" data-imported="1"><div class="video responsive"><div class="video-container"><div class="video responsive"><div class="video-container"><iframe frameborder="0" height="360" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/9_XD-zN3Jg8?rel=0" width="480" class="wrapped wrapped"></iframe></div></div></div></div></a></p>
<p>Actually, it's the second greatest party song -- in this category, the gold goes to Otis Day's "Shout," from Animal House:</p>
<p></p>
<div class="video responsive"><div class="video-container"><div class="video responsive"><div class="video-container"><iframe frameborder="0" height="360" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/MG7KCOO76Wc?rel=0" width="640" class="wrapped wrapped"></iframe></div></div></div></div>
<p>As is often true of operas, the plot of <em>La Traviata</em> is pretty flimsy. Violetta is a successful Parisian courtesan, less successful at fending off tuberculosis; the opera opens with her throwing an opulent party and also hacking up a lung. Enter Antonio, a wealthy and histrionic tenor, who reveals that he has been loving her from afar for the past year. By Scene Two, Antonio has gotten down to the business of loving Violetta from a-close. The two are co-habitating in the country somewhere, a move that appears to be bankrupting Violetta, although she is too proud to let Antonio know. Antonio's father shows up and browbeats Violetta into leaving Antonio, in order to preserve the family's honor. Hilarity ensues. There's another party, at which Antonio behaves badly. In Act 3 Antonio arrives at Violetta's deathbed to beg her forgiveness just in time for her noisy death.</p>
<p>There are in fact a LOT of problems with the plot, but here are the two that bug me the most: </p>
<ul>
<li>Why is Violetta footing the bill for her Act 2 country idyll with Antonio? Isn't he the rich one? And weren't boys supposed to cover the checks back in those days?</li>
<li>Tuberculosis is a highly contagious disease, spread through airborne sputum. Presumably, by the end of the opera, Antonio has had ample opportunity to get up close and personal with Violetta's sputum: after all, she is forever singing in the man's face. But judging by the tenor's striking corpulence, which persists unabated right through Act 3, Antonio remains perfectly healthy. Certainly his lung capacity shows no sign of compromise. (For that matter, neither does hers.)</li>
</ul>
<p> </p>
<p>Whatever. It's an amazing opera; and even though I've seen and heard it a bazillion times, and even though it's clear from the very first measure of the overture that Violetta will be dead before the final curtain, I cry every single time. Let's face it: tuberculosis is a damn fine plot device. Mimi dies of tuberculosis in <em>La Boheme</em> (followed by Nicole Kidman in <em>Moulin Rouge</em>); Fantine expires of TB in <em>Les Miserables</em>. Greta Garbo in <em>Camille</em>. Ingrid Bergman in <em>Bells of St. Mary's</em>. Writers keep coming back to TB because it just plain <em>works</em>.</p>
<p>It is such a fine plot device that I am thinking of incorporating it into my own life. </p>
<ul>
<li>
<em>I'm sorry I didn't finish that report I'd promised you by close of business yesterday, but</em> <<cough, cough, hack...>> <em>Oh, please don't worry. It's nothing. I'm just going to go and lie down for a minute; I'll be fine, I promise.</em>
</li>
<li>
<em>Carpool? 7:00 a.m. tomorrow? My turn? <<</em>cough, cough<em>>> Oh, of course...I'm sure I can do it....if I can sit upright behind the wheel.....it's just that right now I'm feeling.....so......weak......</em>
</li>
<li><em><strong>All right already, Steve. I'm dying of fucking TUBERCULOSIS here! NOW are you ready to apologize?</strong></em></li>
</ul>
<p> </p>
<p>You've got to admit: it has promise! </p>
<p>Or not. I'm a low alto, even on my most exuberant days; and everyone knows you have to be a soprano to die of consumption. So I will swing by to get the kids at 6:55 tomorrow, just to make sure we're not late. And that report will be on your desk first thing in the morning.</p>
<p>*********</p>
<p>So I was about to publish this blog post and I remembered that a long time ago, I actually wrote a song that was more or less on this topic. It was a really long time ago -- 2006 -- that's 56 years ago in dog time! It was the year I wrote my very first song. And it definitely has that One-of-her-first-songs quality to it. But what the hell: here it is:</p>
<p><a href="/miscellany" data-imported="1" data-link-type="page">The Alto 2's Complaint</a></p>
<p> </p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61149832014-10-11T20:00:00-04:002021-09-11T13:47:56-04:00Euthanasia Botanica
<p>Last night I turned on the heat in our house for the first time this season. The temperature hovered around 50 all day and when the sun set it plunged to the low 40's, forecast to drop as low as 39; so we needed the heater to take the edge off the chill in the house. And yet, improbably, there were still tomatoes in the garden this morning:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/7014a9633a8a7777d4440ac3168aa881c0f0623e/original/cherry-cluster.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6Mzg5eDM2MSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="361" width="389" /></p>
<p>A few ripening Sungolds, as you can see; and many more that are still green. And just as improbably, the zinnias are still blooming:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/189085c1f4bd43cbc02c115854bde9f7c7edc545/original/new-zinnia.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NjQweDQ4MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="480" width="640" /></p>
<p>with lots of buds left to open:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/1c20297e93b2a84f6ecbf27b2b4921f069b95fbc/original/zinnia-bud.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NjQweDQ4MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="480" width="640" /></p>
<p>although their foliage is at this point covered with mildew from the cool, wet autumn weather:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/d046f2119f1f645ad037fe216a7bf10168d0a538/original/zinnia-mildew.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDgweDY0MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="640" width="480" /></p>
<p>What is a gardener to do with these hangers-on from summer? It is undeniably pumpkin season -- in fact, here is a pumpkin muffin I baked yesterday:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/ee8e5bed8d7ea17af73e2cfe0f99a8cac9f19447/original/pumpkin.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDI1eDMxOSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="319" width="425" /></p>
<p>Proof positive! But nonetheless, the frost is not yet on the pumpkin in my little urban garden (not that it ever will be, since I have no space to grow pumpkins; but you get the point). There are cherry tomatoes and zinnias and even a few jalapeno peppers, although the chill in the air says to me that they should be long gone. These plants are my babies; I grew them from seed, every last one, starting them in March and April and coddling them under grow lights. Do I nurture them straight through to Halloween, in the hopes that we'll hang on to enough frost-free days that some of them will ripen? </p>
<p>Nah. One of the wicked pleasures of gardening is that you get to be angel of death as well nurturer of life. These plants are past their prime; I am my own horticultural Death Panel. I am done with this summer, and its fruits; and I am now going to obliterate them, destroy them, yank them out by their roots.</p>
<p>I'm icing the tomatoes.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/0866b89611d75eeac819b4036374f353c44c9359/original/tomato-yard-waste.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDE0eDM4NCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="384" width="414" /></p>
<p>The zinnias sleep with the fishes.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/0bbca5174447a77aff0d465195ed279c95e3ad72/original/zinnia-waste.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDc4eDQ1MSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="451" width="478" /></p>
<p>I am ready for the fall, for the chill, and for the winter to follow; for the delights and challenges of the new season. Bring it on.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/bd5c7ba207f892498b68d2b9e6150c2aa34571ed/original/zinnias-in-vase.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6Mzg0eDUxMSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="511" width="384" /></p>
<p>But wasn't it nice while it lasted?</p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61149822014-10-05T20:00:00-04:002021-09-20T06:51:32-04:00If it's broke, fix it
<p>Saturday was Yom Kippur, the Jewish Day of Atonement. You're supposed to approach the day in a spirit of brokenness, and through fasting and meditation, you find community and healing. It all came off pretty much as planned: what with one thing and another, I started the day feeling very broken indeed; and after 26 hours of fasting and meditation my spirit was much on the mend.</p>
<p>Sadly, after a day and a half in a crappy auditorium chair, that sense of brokenness had moved from my spirit to my lower back. And so early the next morning, I headed off to yoga for a little more healing.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/e36feb38db211cedd33988c766a657f3ff75e8ba/original/yoga-mat.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDMweDMyMyJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="323" width="430" /></p>
<p>I adore this early Sunday yoga class. It's taught by this guy named Tom, who radiates a calm that borders on beatific. Tom leads us through a great workout, and I always emerge feeling stretchy and strong and balanced. </p>
<p>But what I like even better is that Tom really knows how to talk the talk. He started class by telling us that if we've been noticing changes lately it's because Mercury is in the ascendancy, which apparently (according to Tom the Calm) throws everything a bit off-kilter. As class proceeded Tom talked about our Prana bodies (not sure I have one, but I do like saying those words. <em>Prana body.</em>) I know I worked extensively on my second and third Chakras, not that I could locate them. And while I never found out what Asanas are, I did learn that there are more than 100 of them. Imagine that! At the end of class Tom had us chant "Om" and try to make it vibrate in our third eye. So I chanted away, pretending all the while that I was a Beatle on an acid trip (George). By the end of class I felt pretty damn fine.</p>
<p>Having healed both spirit and body, I decided it was high time to heal some of the longer-term brokenness in my life. Specifically, i decided at long last to replace the battery in my car keys, which has been dead for many, many months. The car in question is a 2002 model, from the early-ish days of remote vehicle entry. There is exactly one lock on this car -- on the driver's side door. If you want to put something in the trunk (groceries, bass clarinets, suitcases), lacking a working remote, you have to unlock the driver's side door first, then lean in and pull the trunk tab, kind of a pain if your arms are full of groceries, suitcases, and/or bass clarinets. It would be a nice convenience to have a working key.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/ee642b3693b7501b15ba30c0ac3621946f5c7756/original/key-bac.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6Mzg0eDUxMiJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="512" width="384" /></p>
<p>But how to fix this thing? I could buy a replacement at the dealer; but I just know that would be absurdly expensive. And it's a battery, fer Chrissake! I should be able to unscrew the back (see that little teeny-tiny screw up top?) and just replace it! But in order to do so, I need a little, tiny screwdriver. And that is a thing I do not have.</p>
<p>And then there's my kitchen dish rack. The tray underneath is supposed to drain water into the sink, but it's busted, so every time I do dishes I end up with a sloppy mess on my counter:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/5a3a1e7e4d1ef02df4196019e0a7f94e351e480b/original/leaky-drainer.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NTIzeDM5MyJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="393" width="523" /></p>
<p>The plan to heal this particular brokenness involved sticking a simple plastic drainer tray underneath the rack.</p>
<p>So: all I needed to continue on my weekend project of healing the broken places was a plastic tray and a teeny-tiny screwdriver. I first tried Home Depot, but they do not carry such things. Instead they sent me across the street to the third circle of Hell:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/7479c1cf5a3046d54d575086b54cbb1fad5b05c7/original/target.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDQ1eDMzNSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="335" width="445" /></p>
<p>Truly, my Prana body reviles Target. Mostly because my Prana body gets totally lost in Target.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/0130f5adce3ee432af2c5f9fcfd28e126b353a84/original/target-interior.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDk4eDM3MyJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="373" width="498" /></p>
<p>I spent a very, very long time looking for the Kitchen section; and once I finally found it, I spent a very, very long time looking for the dish drainers. Turns out that dish drainers are not kitchen supplies! They are actually Home Storage items. Who knew?</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/0dd7c447acef9648a5f2a22c3d3bf6d4084d4bfc/original/home-storage.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDkxeDM2OCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="368" width="491" /></p>
<p>While there were plenty of dish <em>racks</em> in Home Storage, there was not a single drainer tray to be had. It was <em>Target,</em> however, so there were lots of other attractive purchase opportunities! My fifth Chakra thinks I need some of these:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/e6680e3d9f6f4f927bbe5493655ca67d0b8e7d70/original/piggy-banks.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NTE1eDM4NiJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="386" width="515" /></p>
<p>However, Asanas 75 - 82 were deeply calmed when I located the teeny-tiny screwdriver set:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/df84eb54ef8225c16923541d4e7908559b458637/original/stanley-set.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzcweDQ5MyJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="493" width="370" /></p>
<p>I bought it and took it right to the car to open up my car key and pull out the dead battery, thinking I would run my Prana body right back into Target to buy a replacement. But when I pried open the back of the key, here's what I found:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/36048656ef493edf779ab04cc319b773468453f8/original/interior-key.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDcxeDQ5NyJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="497" width="471" /></p>
<p>That's no battery! It is a secret message from the good people of Lexus: <em>There is no escaping the Lexus Parts Counter.</em> Which, while not far from Target, was closed on Sunday.</p>
<p>Two box stores and a half-dozen impulse buys later, my broken places remained broken.</p>
<p>Fucking Mercury.</p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61149812014-08-20T20:00:00-04:002022-04-13T13:00:51-04:00Me and my breasts in Orlando
<p>It has been a long and challenging summer, characterized by cancelled vacation plans, too much work, a lingering summer cold, and other travails with which I need not bore you. So I decided to cheer myself up by shopping for bras.</p>
<p>Perhaps I would have come up with a better plan under better circumstances. I am in Orlando at the moment (for work), at a hotel adjoining the Orlando Convention Center. It is mid-August and the weather in Central Florida is a few degrees north of delightful. Orlando, I am sure, is replete with charms; but the only thing within easy reach of the hotel is...the Convention Center.</p>
<p> <img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/ca3e67f4bb3e6022d8111f5792c0da9dc546f86e/original/orlando-convention.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDAweDMwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="300" width="400" /></p>
<p>But about a half mile past the Convention Center, assuming you can stand the heat and manage the walk, there is a modest outdoor mall featuring a modest assortment of modest mall stores. And there in the middle of it all was, predictably, a Victoria's Secret. So I decided it was high time my boob-wear got an upgrade.</p>
<p>My saleswoman was a marvelous Latina woman named Migdalia who showered me with attention and brassieres. Every time I tried one on she would clasp her hands to her chest and exclaim, in her gorgeous Cuban accent, "Oh, my GOOOOOOOOOOODDDD!!!" as though she had never previously encountered, nay, even imagined, such magnificent mammaries. Then she would stand back and look at me critically and say, "actually, I don't think that fits you at all."</p>
<p>Mostly I kept Migdalia busy looking for the plain beige bras I tend to favor, and she kept me busy trying things on in shades of bright turquoise and fuschia. In the end we compromised -- a few stripes, a little pink lace:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/5598585a9684181a3e48675344ddc4c483525dc5/original/bras.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NTIyeDM5MSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="391" width="522" /></p>
<p>After all, I'm 49, and it's high time I started to live a little.</p>
<p>It's true that even in Orlando, I probably could have found better and more restorative pastimes than bra shopping at Vicky's. My wonderful friend Jennifer suggested I splurge on a massage at the hotel spa. But I never quite got my act together to schedule a massage; and after a day trapped in a hotel conference room, I was rather desperate to get off the premises. After all, a massage (which costs two bras) may be a deep pleasure, but it is a transitory one, lasting but an hour. While with proper laundering, my new bras will offer me years of looking in the mirror and exclaiming, "oh, my GOOOOOOODDD!!!"</p>
<p>Finally, in honor of my breasts, I would like to re-run my breakout hit, the Singing Mammogram, 13 months after its initial posting on this site. (It was a "breakout hit" in the sense of having been viewed by at least 15 people whom I do not actually know).</p>
<p> </p>
<p></p>
<div class="video responsive"><div class="video-container"><div class="video responsive"><div class="video-container"><iframe frameborder="0" height="360" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/XwweWTe4TOg?rel=0" width="640" class="wrapped wrapped"></iframe></div></div></div></div>
<p>If you like it, pass it along! In the competitive category of Songs about Mammograms, I am still lagging far behind the adorable but dubious Giggling Grannies, who have logged over 1,000 hits, while I've been holding steady for some months in the 650 range.(But please, DON'T Google them! You'll only make the disparity worse.)</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61149802014-07-17T20:00:00-04:002020-01-16T16:02:20-05:00Stick to your ribs
<p>My blog post from a few days ago centered on a visual pun involving a condom. I actually got this idea a couple of weeks ago. So I went straight to CVS to buy the goods.</p>
<p>And I stocked up on razors.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/f396b96778dfe3c47a2a33f4bf84d37a736a5d01/original/razors.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NjQweDQ4MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="480" width="640" /></p>
<p>On my next trip to CVS, I got everything I needed: two kinds of lotion and eye makeup remover pads:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/18771c5f049e511242f8e45348a877d5ade8db0f/original/lotion.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MjQweDMyMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="320" width="240" /></p>
<p>On my third trip I made a list, because I knew there was something I was forgetting. And I found what I was looking for: my favorite brand of bandaids, so hard to find that I bought two boxes, right then and there:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/f114941de33bfb86b62fa508317f8b4b8594c0f8/original/bandaids.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzIweDI0MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="240" width="320" /></p>
<p>How hard could it be to just march into CVS to buy a condom? I am solidly middle-aged and I've been married for 24 years. For reasons that are both perfectly obvious and none of your business, let's just say it's been quite a while since the last time I did so. And now that I'm here again, the choices are not at all obvious. I am shopping, really, for <em>photogenic</em> condoms. But which to choose??</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/a214259cebbb215319738bb3132a1ecf4b6acd62/original/condom-selection.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NjQweDQ4MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="480" width="640" /></p>
<p>Ultra-thin might be hard to see. "Magnum XL" sounds promising promising. But does size matter, in this context? Further, condoms seem only to come in quantities of three or more. But I only need one for my photo shoot. Alas, I can't bring myself to ask the clerk if they sell singles. I can barely bring myself to buy them at all. </p>
<p>It occurs to me that I could pull attention from the condoms in my shopping basket by loading it up with other things:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/14aa3aceac8dff45fa403c890ffca66797fb3210/original/ringworm.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6Mzk4eDI5OCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="298" width="398" /></p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/80e67a0108245e873e9e1d343243dcc5b67a412a/original/depends.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDc0eDM1NSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="355" width="474" /></p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/1a2423b813c87bdc79b3231eaca990d9c1305a30/original/vag.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDE2eDU1NCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="554" width="416" /></p>
<p>But in the end I am paying $6.99 for a small box of condoms for a sight gag that maybe 20 people will see; and the extra goodies seem even more excessive.</p>
<p>When I finally make it to the counter with my Ribbed Trojans, the salesgirl says, with an arched eyebrow: "<em>Surely </em>these are not for you...?"</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/c493d7eb9c31b30d17bda0316c2150fb38364337/original/cvs-counter.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDk4eDM3MyJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="373" width="498" /></p>
<p>No, of course she doesn't. She couldn't give a rat's ass what anybody buys at her CVS, as long as they actually pay for it.</p>
<p>The ribbed condoms are, as it turns out, quite photogenic:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/31f35a19d91023889c3f3f9f97820a321be44da4/original/apple-condom.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NTQ4eDU0OCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="548" width="548" /></p>
<p>But the apple needs only one of three condoms. What to do with the other two?</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/639864e052c9ba041324fc9e11e615eb09b4b73b/original/extras.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MjQweDMyMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="320" width="240" /></p>
<p>I briefly consider putting them in a care package and sending them to my teenage daughter at music camp; but in the end I decide that this might send her the wrong message. (For the record: yes, honey, I <em>do</em> want you to practice safe sex. Just not until you're thirty. And now get off of your cellphone: you're supposed to be at <em>camp</em>.)</p>
<p>To the rest of you: if you're in the market for a couple of condoms, give me a ring. I will send that extra box of bandaids right over.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61149792014-07-12T20:00:00-04:002020-01-16T16:02:17-05:00Practicing Safe Apples
<p>A lovely weekend in July, and I have spent a chunk of it putting pantyhose on the apples in the two trees in my garden.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/9f5920cf62bb16e9ecae38a4fe740793a36542bb/original/apple-hose-2.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDgweDY0MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="640" width="480" /></p>
<p>It was my neighbor's idea last summer, and it proved to be a good one. Left to their own devices, our apples are magnets for all kinds of worms, beetles and maggots:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/be6ea6e4338174e767f64a1f851e2266e5303fa9/original/crapapple2.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NjQweDQ4MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="480" width="640" /></p>
<p>If you want to get any edible apples at all, you really need to do something to keep out the insects. So last summer our clever neighbors bought a big box of peds and used them to cover all the fruit they could reach. We took a handful and experimented on our own trees. It worked surprisingly well: the sheathed apples were mostly un-invaded, and quite tasty. So this year we bought some peds of our own and took to the ladders.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/4f019edae2a4c754eb249c05baaaa3c082553e77/original/ladder.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDgweDY0MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="640" width="480" /></p>
<p>Wearing a dress with no pockets, I had no choice but to stash my handfuls of peds in my bra:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/d5393ae4228eb2ec1e1eb33e3c8675922a98afe2/original/bra-stuff.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDgweDY0MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="640" width="480" /></p>
<p>I got through three cupfuls. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/f8bcf9f1724039c90fe8dcccef4485a99f595cad/original/tree-of-hose.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDgweDY0MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="640" width="480" /></p>
<p>Arguably we could have saved more apples if I had bigger breasts. </p>
<p>The peds are cheap to buy in quantity. Plus, now the apples will be ready to go if they find that must-have pair of red patent leather pumps.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/348f5650b25793c22098cee138a8416a4d3a2cdb/original/sox-box.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NjQweDQ4MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="480" width="640" /></p>
<p>As a barrier method, the peds seem to work pretty well. Of course, other barrier methods come to mind:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/31f35a19d91023889c3f3f9f97820a321be44da4/original/apple-condom.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NjQweDY0MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="640" width="640" /></p>
<p>Can't imagine any apple maggots slipping past THAT goalie.</p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61149762014-06-21T20:00:00-04:002022-04-21T06:06:47-04:00Killing it at the bake sale
<p>I have been a parent for 21+ years -- 22 if you count the prior nine months during which I responsibly refrained from alcohol and high-mercury fish. As a parent, bake sales loom large in my consciousness. Two of the songs on my new album -- that's over 15% -- actually feature bake sales as a prominent theme. But this month, after more than two decades, I have finally found the key to mastering the bake sale. So as a public service, I share my new-found knowledge with you now.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/84065ae852b95d8c1e4e112db2035c9b3820fa6e/original/krispie-treats.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6Mjg1eDM4MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="380" width="285" /></p>
<p>Rice Krispie Treats. You should never, ever make anything else for a bake sale again. And neither will I.</p>
<p>The great virtue of the Rice Krispie Treat is that it has prep time of approximately 7 minutes -- 15, if you include <em>mise-en-place</em> and cleanup. Plus, you don't even have to go to the grocery store for the ingredients. Because the ingredients are not actually food! I got this tasty lineup at Walgreen's:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/7241df634fb98c3af5bc135b583ac3981248ffcf/original/bake-sale-ingredients.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NjQweDQ4MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="480" width="640" /></p>
<p>"Buying health food today," I joked with the cashier. "Oh, not at all!" she said. "If you make those Rice Krispie Treats, they are actually good for you!" And she should know: she works at a <em>drug store</em>. Those people give health advice <em>all the time</em>.</p>
<p>And the best part is that when you show up at the bake sale with your 15-minute creation, you get serious uber-mom cred because you have actually produced something homemade. Unlike all those slacker moms who bought packaged Rice Krispie Treats from Costco.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/5c1d0d172c8d0dea15e294bb58d6ec2785ee2c00/original/bake-sale-table.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NjQweDQ4MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="480" width="640" /></p>
<p>Before I go any further, let me say right here that bake sales are a truly dumb idea. Think about the batch of Rice Krispie Treats pictured above. Consider the cost of the ingredients: </p>
<ul>
<li>$4.32 for the box of Rice Krispies;</li>
<li>$1.99 for the bag of marshmallows;</li>
<li>$3.89 for the bag of M&Ms;</li>
<li>For argument's sake, let's round off the cost of the 3 Tbsps. of margarine to 25 cents, plus another 25 cents for the Saran Wrap.</li>
</ul>
<p> </p>
<p>That's $10.70, just for the raw materials. Then there's the cost of labor: 20 minutes to go to Walgreens for ingredients; 15 minutes food prep and clean-up; plus another 10 minutes to wrap each precious RKT individually in its very own sheath of Sarah Wrap. 45 minutes all told. It is probably appropriate to categorize RKT Production as unskilled labor (although it does take a bit of finesse to fold in the M&Ms at just the right moment, so that the marshmallow is still pliable but not hot enough to melt the food coloring). Using the new Massachusetts minimum wage of $10.50 per hour, that's $7.88 worth of labor, then, bringing the entire cost of the enterprise to $18.58, not including water, fuel or transportation costs. And this effort yielded a batch of 12 (11 of which were available for sale after the mandatory in-house Quality Testing). They sold for $1 each -- $11 total. A net loss to the economy of $7.58. </p>
<p>Of course, those are just the stats for the batch I donated the first night of the Drama Club production. The second night it was my turn to actually <em>run</em> the bake sale during intermission. I baked a double batch, plus I cut each pan into 15 instead of 12 squares. I did, after all, go to Harvard Business School. If I'm going to take on a bake sale, then I'm going to <em>kick its ass</em>.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/1e22cbaf55c6baaa240c784a9af5eb41ad510cf9/original/bake-sale-cashbox.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NjQweDQ4MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="480" width="640" /></p>
<p>But even after these modest economies of scale, it's a pretty absurd exercise, spending my time making mediocre sugar bombs to sell at a loss to kids who eat far too much crap anyway. It makes me want to ask, as I do about so many other Parent Volunteer Opportunities: <em>can't I just write a check</em>?</p>
<p>Of course you could argue that the bake sale is not only about raising money; it's about supporting the community, and about offering sustenance during intermission to kids who might not otherwise survive the second half of the show. And I guess it would make economic sense if I just happened to have a surplus of Rice Krispies and marshmallows, and thus could pull the whole effort off at relatively little marginal cost beyond my labor. But I don't have a surplus of any of those things.</p>
<p>As a gardener, what I do have in surplus, pretty much all of June, is lettuce:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/4c5323510f11cc2ed91aec5cb1ba2614aa336244/original/lettuce-pile.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDM4eDU4NCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="584" width="438" /></p>
<p>SO much healthier as an intermission snack! Of course, you can't expect kids to eat lettuce instead of Rice Krispie Treats, even the inferior pre-packaged variety. Unless, of course, you provide the proper incentives.</p>
<p>So here's the plan for next year:</p>
<ul>
<li>Write the Drama Club a check for $14 -- a 21% increase over the $11 they currently raise from my (generously-cut) batch of Rice Krispie Squares;</li>
<li>Use the remaining $4.58 to provide financial incentives to the teenagers to eat lettuce during intermission.</li>
</ul>
<p> </p>
<p>A perfect plan! Everyone wins.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61149782014-06-18T20:00:00-04:002021-09-14T03:56:54-04:00The Rites of Spring
<p>'Tis the season: click on the song title to have a listen! And even a free download, should you be so inclined:</p>
<p><a href="http://www.gouldtunes.com/domestic_bliss/s/rites_of_spring_feat_richard_travers_jim_gwin__chris_rathbun" data-imported="1">Rites of Spring</a></p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61149772014-06-13T20:00:00-04:002021-09-13T05:19:03-04:00Fig revisited
<p>My fig tree is dead, an event ripe with metaphorical significance of biblical proportions. And in last week's blog post I posed the question: what does it mean?</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/c103d0e0e3f017b42901782592da54756f76fc20/original/dead-fig-3.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzE2eDQyMSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="421" width="316" /></p>
<p>Thanks for the suggestions -- they were all wonderful. Here are the main themes:</p>
<p><strong>Sometimes loss can be the beginning of something new and wonderful. </strong> This from my friend Liz, and it is lovely -- you can read her whole message in the comments at the end of the last blog post. Let me just say that I am giving serious consideration to bees and chickens (but am likely to settle for peas and squash).</p>
<p><strong>I apparently do not have enough puns in my life. </strong> Suggestions for enriching my personal humor stash: that I think FIGuratively, that I FIGure something out, and that perhaps the whole event was a FIGment of my imagination. Thanks, guys. I'm on it.</p>
<p><strong>The fig is dead: whatever will I wear? </strong>Surely you are aware of World Naked Gardening Day: <a href="http://wngd.org/" data-imported="1">http://wngd.org/ </a> True, I missed it this year (it was the first Saturday in May, which was rather chilly in Boston). But the weather is plenty warm now. I will save the shopping spree for the fall.</p>
<p>And finally, let me add one note of my own:</p>
<p><strong>Embrace the empty spaces. </strong> Turns out that the spot formerly occupied by the fig tree is exactly the right size for nothing:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/446ec6fe8890926e6eb263c6e6a110fbcd7ed0fa/original/no-fig.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NjQweDQ4MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="480" width="640" /></p>
<p>As it happens, I don't mind the gap at all.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61149752014-06-06T20:00:00-04:002021-09-09T13:31:45-04:00A fig grew in Newton
<p>My fig tree is dead.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/983a0d90098bf8606dbd6aa80a005a622b460961/original/dead-fig-10.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDgweDY0MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="640" width="480" /></p>
<p>I've had this fig tree for twelve years, raising it from a 3-inch seedling that I mail-ordered from Park Seeds in (I'm pretty sure) 2002. I live and garden in the Boston area--not generally fig-growing latitude. Growing a fig tree in Eastern Massachusetts involves schlepping it into the basement each winter for six months of dormancy, a process generally accompanied by a loud and boisterous chorus of four-letter words. In November and again in April, it was officially known as the "$*!#@$-*&#^!!! fig." But by July, it looked like this, and we were all more kindly disposed:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/5e110de912f6f0f0c712088b8b5c79ccb3b0b2bf/original/live-fig.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzI1eDQ1NCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="454" width="325" /></p>
<p>I enjoyed major bragging rights from that fig. "Oh, yes," I would say to my fellow gardeners with modesty wholly (and no doubt obviously) feigned. "I do grow figs in Newton. I get maybe 50, 60 figs a year. They're delicious." And they were. They didn't all ripen -- it was always a race against the first frost come autumn, and invariably the final dozen or so figs would be frozen in an unripe and unpleasantly dessicated state on some cold October morning. But otherwise it was a pretty fabulous and problem-free plant. Squirrels, chipmunks and other vermin love to eat the other fruit I grow in very modest amounts in my little urban yard (blueberries, woodland strawberries, grapes. And worm-infested apples, which are perfect for making a uniquely high-protein form of apple crisp). But the figs baffled the varmints --not in their geographic frame of reference -- so they left them alone. As did the fungal diseases that plague many of the other plants in my overcrowded garden. The fig tree was pretty, healthy, and productive. </p>
<p>Until it up and died.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/c4aed0f4dfe3461366a53216914a785bf81ff404/original/dead-fig-9.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NjQweDQ4MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="480" width="640" /></p>
<p>"My fig tree is dead," I told my friends Mark and Linda. "It's a metaphor!" they said. </p>
<p>Of COURSE it's a metaphor. But for what?</p>
<p>Your call, friends. For what is my fig tree a dead metaphor? All suggestions welcome -- see comment box below. And check back in over the next few days as I search for the answer.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61149742014-05-21T20:00:00-04:002022-04-16T02:53:53-04:00A Massachusetts Yankee in King Louis' Court
<p>I have spent the past week in Louisville for work. While I am generally cranky about travel that takes me away from home and family for extended periods (in fact, I am cranky right now!), I have to say that I have found Louisville to be totally captivating. We in the Northeast tend to be a little arrogant about our cosmopolitan lifestyles. But really, we should get over ourselves. Louisville has everything Boston has, and then some. </p>
<p>To start with, these people know how to deploy plastic wildlife. A few years back in my inner Boston 'burb of Newton, there was a rash of lawn flamingos -- they popped up all over town, in intimate groupings, or occasionally in large flocks. We were very proud of our sense of civic whimsy. </p>
<p>Fine. But check out these red penguins, lined up on the roof of a hotel in the Main Street historic district:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/92214fe9e309204e60ebabaf19e99ffd781f03ca/original/photo-4.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDAweDMwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="300" width="400" /></p>
<p>Louisville has hipper-than-hip coffee shops with impossibly cool signage:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/3bd9ccea8e0119a554ed7e93eaaed385daf70627/original/coffee-shop-marquis.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzcxeDMyNCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="324" width="371" /></p>
<p>They have a BIG damn river -- puts our own River Chuck to shame:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/22c42b63681d77bf9d05585146d6f50d8d39e883/original/ohio.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NjQweDQ4MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="480" width="640" /></p>
<p>And it's brown, just like ours! </p>
<p>I have eaten astonishingly well here, some absolutely fabulous food. Louisville is <em>way</em> into the farm-to-table thing. One place served me a salad of fresh limas, asparagus and arugula which may be the best thing I've eaten in my life. </p>
<p>It is also possible to eat quite badly here. Discount sushi doesn't seem to me to be a particularly good idea:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/bdc04094a43e70e3e08d45c7e16da9963b737c92/original/photo-3.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6Mzc1eDUwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="500" width="375" /></p>
<p>The local specialty is something called a "Hot Brown." As I understand it, a Hot Brown is turkey, topped with bacon, drenched in gravy, and smothered in melted cheese. "A heart attack on a plate," one colleague called it. But is that really so much worse for you than my own state's cream-loaded clam chowder? After all, turkey is a very lean meat.</p>
<p>Louisville has a five-story baseball bat:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/1835e1e1f88facadc6ee94bd3e69ba17b16e0f51/original/slugger.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6Mzc1eDUwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="500" width="375" /></p>
<p>There is a porn palace conveniently located around the corner from my midtown hotel:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/9a07872a8a3fc551618a75c5e92df7e458ba909a/original/porn-shop.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDAweDMwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="300" width="400" /></p>
<p>All week they have been advertising a Buy-2, Get-1-Free DVD sale. Sadly, I have not had a chance to stock up. </p>
<p>They have this guy:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/5763348fe5b76e8e7968418d3187a1a9ada6f3ea/original/112-sr-ky-mcconnell-mitch.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDA0eDQ5NCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="494" width="404" /></p>
<p>Him, they can keep.</p>
<p>Hands down, the best thing I stumbled on in Louisville was this man, out for a walk with his 250-pound pet tortoise:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/3128d5730a693d1a2e28298ced148fea1ba10585/original/tortoise.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p>I took this photo on a narrow grassy strip at the edge of a McDonald's parking lot. How, exactly, do you take your pet tortoise out for a walk to McDonald's? He's not going to hop into the back seat of your car. And the curb where I saw them was quite a few blocks from the nearest residential area. It must have taken hours for this tortoise, who moves at the pace of -- well, a tortoise -- to walk from his home to this tiny patch of lawn in the most urban imaginable part of town. </p>
<p>No Bostonian would <em>ever</em> have the patience to wait for his tortoise to stroll to McDonald's. Up north, we are pure hare.</p>
<p> </p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61149722014-05-13T20:00:00-04:002021-09-09T14:52:08-04:00Spring Fever
<p>It's a Saturday, a little after 1:00; and as is my usual routine at this hour, I am waiting for my daughter to finish her clarinet lesson. I'm about to eat lunch:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/8f79eecf958dbfb68ececee9fb49586337fcdad0/original/salad.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NjQweDQ4MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="480" width="640" /></p>
<p>It's a gorgeous salad, with many of my very favorite things: sweet potatoes, caramelized onions, goat cheese. The coffee shop is a tad less crowded than usual, and I have scored a prize table:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/d63d1040c6e3750dca3d052c8caee67dac763b20/original/choice-table.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDgweDY0MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="640" width="480" /></p>
<p>And to wash down my lovely lunch, I have been served this picture-perfect soy latte. Bliss, right?</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/1a6e51b5e3ca9f84d979f3d22cd0278bad615aee/original/latte.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NjQweDQ4MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="480" width="640" /></p>
<p>I am climbing the walls. Counting the minutes. Can't wait to leave. It's MAY, for heaven's sake -- what in the world am I doing ANYWHERE but my garden?</p>
<p>They say that in the spring a young man's fancy turns to love. I wouldn't know, never having been a young man myself. But I can say with authority that in spring, a middle-aged woman's fancy turns to plants, with an obsessiveness that would put any hormone-driven 17-year-old boy to shame.</p>
<p>It's astonishing that I get anything done at all, really, this time of year. I am constantly stealing out to the garden to see what's broken dormancy. I'm sneaking in trips to the garden center to get an extra hosta or columbine to fill in a bare patch in the border. I make countless daily visits to check on my lettuce patch:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/aef6c4379b2243935c193cc7c41c0b2144bf681f/original/lettuce-and-kale.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NjQweDQ4MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="480" width="640" /></p>
<p>And then repeat visits, to see if anything has grown in the last few hours. Because sometimes it has:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/ac3a54cb6b77b78f64d0ccbe17b1abd767820ac3/original/more-lettuce-and-kale.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NjQweDQ3OCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="478" width="640" /></p>
<p>Have you ever seen kale so hale? Lettuce so lush? Don't you want to yank it out of the soil and devour it on the spot, dirt still clinging to the leaves?</p>
<p>No, you really don't. Dirt tastes like dirt. And besides, you don't really know what wildlife has been prowling around the garden in your absence, and <em>e coli</em> is no joke. Wash your food before you eat it. And while you're at it, wash your hands. </p>
<p>Spring fever has its moment. But motherhood transcends all seasons.</p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61149732014-05-10T20:00:00-04:002021-08-29T12:17:45-04:00Breakfast in Bed
<p>Home alone on Mother's Day, I decide to take matters into my own hands and make breakfast in bed for myself:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/a8f6eecb5105a6db6c5d35b8d512d379c8d43120/original/breakfast-in-bed.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDMyeDU0OCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="548" width="432" /></p>
<p>Happy Mother's Day!</p>
<p>p.s. Have a listen to this sneak preview of a song from my new album -- it will sound way better after it's edited; but it's the right tune for the day, so I couldn't resist:</p>
<p><a href="http://www.midlifemomsongs.com/rough_cuts_album_2/" data-imported="1">I'm Turning Into My Mother</a></p>
<p>Enjoy!!</p>
<p> </p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61149712014-05-09T20:00:00-04:002021-09-07T07:18:55-04:00It's almost Mother's Day: are you turning into your mother??
<p>Here's a sneak preview of a song from my new album -- not quite in final form; but I think you can get the idea! "I'm Turning Into My Mother" was recorded during February school vacation week with an intrepid gang of 10 moms, daughter and grandmas, aged 15 to 67. Singers include: Julia Ansolabehere, Sophie Pels, Claire McEwen, Sonia Joffe, Molly Dalzell, Linda Toote, Mary Elise Connelly, Judy Weber, Liz Haas, and your truly. Instrumentalists include Jim Gwin on drums, Tony D'Amico on bass, and the inimitable Richard Travers on piano.</p>
<p>Have a listen!!! <a href="http://gouldtunes.com/rough_cuts_album_2/" data-imported="1"> I'm Turning Into My Mother</a></p>
<p>And while we're on the topic: check out <a href="http://www.bostonglobe.com/lifestyle/style/2014/05/09/are-you-turning-into-your-mother/q0GP9UXKWqSH5f85xbcw7J/story.html?s_campaign=8315" data-imported="1">Beth Teitell's deiightful piece in today's Boston Globe</a>.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61149702014-04-12T20:00:00-04:002021-08-28T13:31:42-04:00On my mind
<p>So I am walking down the street in Boston and I find myself in the middle of a group of young, blonde women, in their late teens or early twenties. They are beautiful, these young women, with long legs and silky golden tresses. I am thinking that when I was their age, theirs was considered the pinnacle of female beauty: the willowy Scandinavian, the blonde bombshell. And I am thinking how wonderful it is that our culture has evolved to embrace beauty in so many more colors and cultures and varieties. </p>
<p>Still, I'm thinking, these blonde babes are undeniably gorgeous. It's the first truly warm day of spring and they are wearing shorts, and sandals, and crop tops. And I'm thinking about the <a href="http://www.bostonglobe.com/lifestyle/style/2014/04/09/fashion-experts-must-have-trends-for-spring/Y8PyTNg7XOrJTZo8iDoiYM/story.html" data-imported="1">story that the Boston Globe ran a few days ago</a> about fashion trends for spring. Fashion is a realm in which I am inept, but aspirational; so I read that article start to finish (easy to do; there were lots of pictures and not many words). </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/88d18c61e02dc21596e533ddcf38177df14bcf7a/original/screen-shot-2014-04-13-at-3-23-08-pm.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6Mjc5eDMwMSJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="301" width="279" /></p>
<p>Some of the fashion tips in that article: wear something pink. I'm thinking I can do that; I have a few pink things. Floral prints: check. Pastel colors: a little iffy with my complexion, but I can manage. And then I read about how the hottest thing for spring is the return of the crop top, and I am thinking: absolutely not, no way, out of the question.</p>
<p>But these gorgeous blonde creatures are absolutely rocking their crop tops, and I am wondering: why is this such a categorical impossibility in my mind? Mind you, I am neither young, nor blonde, nor gorgeous; but frankly, I couldn't care less. I happily wear shorts and expose my middle-aged legs; and I wear sleeveless tops, exposing my middle-aged arms; and occasionally I wear something with a plunging neckline and expose my middle-aged decolletage. But expose my abdomen? Never. Not in a million years. And I am thinking: why not?</p>
<p>The girls are speaking a Germanic language, but I'm thinking it's not German, and I'm puzzling over what it is. Swedish? Danish? Norwegian? I know it's not Finnish, which is not Germanic. In fact, Finnish is not even Indo-European. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/6adaba161bb5f5debb57f86dccc433e898d77f1b/original/screen-shot-2014-04-13-at-3-41-26-pm.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NTgyeDMwOCJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="308" width="582" /></p>
<p>Finnish is a Finno-Ugric language; and I'm thinking that some historical linguist once hypothesized that it might be related to Japanese. And I'm thinking how strange it is to think of Finnish being related to Japanese, since the Finns don't look at all like the Japanese. But I'm thinking: what do they look like, the Finns? Finland is kind of snuggled in between Sweden and Russia. So do the Finns look like these blonde goddesses? Or do they look more Russian? </p>
<p>And I am thinking that there are so <em>very</em> many ways to look Russian. There's that high-cheekboned, Georgian aesthetic, like Joseph Stalin, or my daughters' old piano teacher. And then there's the Northern European look, like Julie Christie in <em>Doctor Zhivago</em>. Surely Julie Christie wasn't really Russian...Perhaps her character was supposed to be from the northwestern part of the Russian empire, just across the border from Finland? That's what I'm thinking.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/dcc9b9268add724f3c49f1747b7b2f1c3703b2a0/original/screen-shot-2014-04-13-at-4-14-19-pm.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6Mjc5eDM2OSJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="369" width="279" /></p>
<p>And Omar Sharif: he was Egyptian, and he looked it. Where was his <em>Doctor Zhivago</em> character supposed to be from? I'm thinking the Kazakh border, maybe?</p>
<p>Here's what I'm NOT thinking: that the sidewalks have heaved and buckled a bit this past nasty winter, and they're no longer predictably flat. And so my foot catches on a break in the concrete and I do a flying faceplant, right onto the pavement.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/f839d92eb757da2789cffd985eff4234d98f4673/original/sidewalk.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NTA2eDM3OSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="379" width="506" /></p>
<p>"Oh, my God! Are you OK?" one of the blondes exclaims, in perfect, un-accented English. And I am thinking: does she have an American accent in the non-Finnish language in which she was just chatting?</p>
<p>"Yes, I'm really fine, thanks very much," I answer, as i get up and brush myself off. I'm a little scraped up and bloodied, so I search around in my pocketbook for some band-aids. But i find none. So I duck into CVS and buy some, a big box:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/4082040baf80aac2066fff71bdba31720c9a6d8f/original/bandaids.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDI3eDMyMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="320" width="427" /></p>
<p>And I'm thinking how when my kids were younger I used to carry band-aids around all the time, as a matter of course; and I'm thinking what a good idea that was, and how I probably ended up using more of the band-aids on myself than on my kids.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/5a444d616b95fb860c596ca31b72557e66b0d6c1/original/bandaged-hand.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDcweDM1MiJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="352" width="470" /></p>
<p>And I'm thinking that now I really understand why I would not in a million years consider wearing a midi shirt. It's because a midi shirt would leave that much more exposed skin to scrape and bloody the next time I take a spill. And who really wants a scabby abdomen?</p>
<p>So I tuck a big bunch of bandaids into my purse, to have on hand next time I trip. Because it's just a matter of time before this happens again. After all, I have a lot on my mind.</p>
<p> </p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61149692014-04-06T20:00:00-04:002022-04-27T03:36:04-04:00Voting feet
<p>I am in a shoe store, trying to replace the Ugliest Shoes in the World.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/03e957718384b32528acd27b1a7a204253746af5/original/the-ugliest-shoes.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NjQweDQ4MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="480" width="640" /></p>
<p>I have written about <a href="http://gouldtunes.com/blog/fashion_week/" data-imported="1">these beauties</a> in this blog before (which leaves them in a three-way tie for first place in the Blog Citation Index with my <a href="http://gouldtunes.com/blog/el_dia_de_los_muertos_chez_nous/" data-imported="1">now-defunct waffle iron</a> and my husband, <a href="http://www.gov.harvard.edu/about-department/faculty-staff-directory/stephen-ansolabehere" data-imported="1">Steve</a>). I've had them for seven or eight years and they get scruffier all the time. Every so often I try to upgrade -- I'm an accomplished professional woman, in the prime of life. I should wear decent-looking shoes, right? Shoes that tell the world that I've got some panache, maybe even a bit of gravitas---that's what I'm looking for.</p>
<p>Oooh....look at these Merrells:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/4b4a6bd1e747a3f86d01516450f5117e129f7edf/original/merrells.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDgweDY0MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="640" width="480" /></p>
<p>No, no, no. They are identical to the Ugliest Shoes in the World, only new.</p>
<p>Hmmmm....shiny brown croc skin loafers? Super-comfy....</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/db276508ca95830f9559d56fc45f0a68f52f40c5/original/brown-croc-ugly-shoe-modeled.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDgweDY0MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="640" width="480" /></p>
<p>Perhaps not the personal fashion statement that I was seeking. </p>
<p>Very relieved that the $365 pair doesn't fit at ALL:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/4829768243679c310829cc5ed985cedcfe17dc5e/original/birkenstock-box.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NjQweDQ4MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="480" width="640" /></p>
<p>But here's a pair, on the sale rack, in my own rather hard-to-find size. They fit great -- and they're not bad-looking, right?</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/849fd0181ade7c2ccb1e59bfc8bd71d1273871f6/original/equally-ugly-shoe-modeled.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NjQweDQ4MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="480" width="640" /></p>
<p>And such a deal! </p>
<p>So they come home with me (deep discount; final sale). And I proudly show them to my sixteen-year-old daughter. "Look!" I say. "I have finally replaced the Ugliest Shoes in the World! And they were a deal! Aren't they nice??"</p>
<p>She pauses for a long time. And because I've apparently raised her to be a very nice person, she says, "Mom, if you think they're comfortable, then that's <em>really great.</em>"</p>
<p>Fine. I have now bought the Second Ugliest Shoes in the World. Even I must admit that they lack both gravitas and panache.</p>
<p>What really confounds me this time of year is the sock problem. In the summer I can wear flats or sandals with bare feet. In the winter a reasonable pair of boots is always a spiffy choice. But it's early spring: too nippy for bare feet, way too warm for boots. The weather demands <em>socks</em>. </p>
<p>But it's hard to make socks look good. They bunch up; they roll down. Panache and gravitas are incompatible with bunchy, baggy socks. And God forbid I should cross my legs -- then everyone will see my monkeys! </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/5ca7fe3782ceb95c6a9049d1c2a01ccaf5996be1/original/better-monkey-socks.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NjQweDQ4MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="480" width="640" /></p>
<p>OK. I see your point. I am a middle-aged professional woman aspiring to panache and gravitas, and these socks do not make a meaningful contribution to either. At my stage of life I do <em>not</em> need to wear monkey socks. True enough.</p>
<p>I do, however, need to wear these:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/eec764affba7758f92c9fb6cd208f704b124cb6d/original/veggie-socks.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NjQweDQ4MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="480" width="640" /></p>
<p>They were a gift from my daughter, whom I adore; and anyway I have a thing for veggies. Now if I could just find the shoes to complement them.</p>
<p>It's not that I don't know stylish footwear when I see it. I did, after all, purchase these honeys:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/900626253345386f4ffcb43546104daa2735e668/original/fashion-sandals.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NjQweDQ4MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="480" width="640" /></p>
<p>Nice little heel, spunky design; SO fun. I took a step ahead for fashion when I bought these. Walked the talk. Voted with my feet, at least for panache, if not gravitas.</p>
<p>Problem is, while I regularly vote with my feet, my feet do not always vote with me. I have worn these spunky sandals....let me count....zero times. They have been in my closet for four years, but my feet have not voted for them once. What my feet vote for, time and time again, are the Ugliest Shoes in the World. </p>
<p>And maybe those shoes are not so awful-looking after all. They do kind of bring out the chestnut color in my sock monkeys. Which gives the monkeys a bit of panache, maybe even gravitas -- don't you think?</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61149682014-03-29T20:00:00-04:002021-09-06T06:34:15-04:00Seed Porn
<p>It was a grueling winter in most of the country; certainly in Boston, where the first day of spring still looked like this:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/e70cefe16382ac14bd4fd4504a14c5c4f947ddbe/original/melting-snow.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDgxeDM1OSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="359" width="481" /></p>
<p>But I am a gardener, and gardeners know that winter is as vital a season as any other. It gives the earth and its human cultivators a chance to recharge, re-assess, rehydrate. A gardener in winter has the chance to engage in long, leisurely fantasies about the growing season to come, unhampered by the realities of pests, diseases, or evil bunnies. Also to buy things. </p>
<p>Plant fantasies and the acquisitive impulse unite gloriously in the seed catalogues that start filling my mailbox as early as November.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/5e57aefdd5cf39caaf8f9464d58b0ee447a098f7/original/catalogues.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDc5eDM1OSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="359" width="479" /></p>
<p>In November, truth be told, I'm kind of sick of the garden, having spent the season's final sad, muddy hours at the tedious tasks of winding hoses and bagging dead tomato plants. But by the New Year I am ready to devour these catalogues, reading them like novels, drooling over the descriptions, swooning over the pictures. </p>
<p>Yep, January 1 is the official beginning of Seed Porn Season. And if you have any doubts about the accuracy of the name, get a load of this entry from the John Scheepers Kitchen Garden Seeds catalogue for turnips -- <em>turnips</em>:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/47beafc1ce215922978149927338b213f5e45509/original/turnip-text.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NjQweDI3OCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="278" width="640" /></p>
<p>If that doesn't turn up your personal thermostat, I can't imagine what does. </p>
<p>I do like the Scheepers catalogue for its torrid prose, and for its delightfully pretentious capitalization of vegetable names (note that the white-fleshed beauties in question are not "turnips" but "Turnips"). But really, I can be delightfully pretentious on my own, without any help. To really feed my garden fantasies, I often favor the Johnny's Selected Seeds catalogue, a massive tome (226 pages) from hearty growers in Maine. Johnny's caters to small farmers as well as home gardeners. I buy my seeds in packets; but Johnny's also includes prices for 5 lbs. at a shot--5 lbs. of lettuce seed, for your reference, includes approx. 2.5 million individual seeds. That's a lotta lettuce. The Johnny's catalogue sends me deep into my Farmer Laurie fantasies. Here's the kind of thing you get from Johnny's:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/215625239383997e855e6cdab39a81a6724905b7/original/johnnys-offerings.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NjgzeDMwOCJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="308" width="683" /></p>
<p>Yes, I want to expand my lettuce markets! Here's a variety that travels well; here's one that makes a splash at the farmers' market; here's one that will be a novelty with my farmstand customers.</p>
<p>Have I mentioned that the farm in question is about 150 square feet? In partial shade? And that I feel compelled, in any given year, to grow ten or 15 different kinds of vegetables in it? So lettuce gets about 10 square feet. Which, given hyper-intensive cultivation, will get me about 40 heads of lettuce, if all goes perfectly. Which it won't.</p>
<p>They say you shouldn't go to the grocery store when you're hungry. On a similar theory, you shouldn't place seed orders when you're really starved for spring. I placed my lettuce seed order on February 2, just after Punxatawney Phil delivered some wicked bad news about the endless stretches of winter still ahead. I bought six varieties of lettuce in all, including Panisse:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/c946639f911d2fe9109090f6fb7e792b96c081c3/original/screen-shot-2014-04-02-at-4-27-49-pm.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDIwNSJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="205" width="450" /></p>
<p>And a long-time favorite, Flashy Trout Back:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/0b6f10db1a16420363cab7e0ce99007971415f55/original/screen-shot-2014-04-02-at-4-29-05-pm.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDI1eDIzOCJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="238" width="425" /></p>
<p>And then I fell for the siren call of the glorious Skyphos:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/380a6350388074b56c2611a0cfde0ad619604794/original/screen-shot-2014-04-02-at-4-28-25-pm.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDE4MSJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="181" width="450" /></p>
<p>How could I resist? It's <em>the surest-heading of the red butterheads</em>! It's got <em>intermediate resistance to lettuce mosaic virus</em>! I don't know what lettuce mosaic virus is, but I know I don't want it. And it's resistant (robustly!) to downy mildew races 1-26 and 28! I strongly suspect that if downy mildew hits my garden it will be the dreaded Race 27; but nonetheless, Skyphos seems like a garden must-have.</p>
<p>At $5.95 it's a little steep for a packet of seeds. But I get 500 seeds for that low price! More than enough to plant the...let's see...five or six heads of Skyphos I can plausibly grow in my garden. And of course, I could always save money by buying in bulk -- 500,000 seeds for a mere $3,630 -- and finding 50,000 gardener friends to with whom to split them.</p>
<p>But gardening isn't about economy. It's about raising some little bits of life under growlights in darkest February, when I would otherwise be driven to despair (or <a href="http://youtu.be/woDBLRARGdQ" data-imported="1">music videos</a>). Here was the scene in my basement during our last snowstorm, a few mere weeks ago:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/6598c7a6d91b31448caa16c31b40fd6a03ba6eea/original/seedlings1.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NjQweDQ3OCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="478" width="640" /></p>
<p>And it's about the chance to get outside in the end of March, as the last bits of snow are melting, and plant these precious seedlings in my coldframe. Just look at these luscious beauties, lolling in the voluptuous warmth of their makeshift greenhouse:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/5701a4da0b25623dee9c6b1c15ad8d35e2f191e7/original/seedlings-cold-frame.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NjQweDQ4MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="480" width="640" /></p>
<p>If that doesn't turn up your personal thermostat, I can't imagine what does. </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61149672014-03-01T19:00:00-05:002021-09-19T16:19:13-04:00Boarding the Friendly Skies
<p>We will be boarding the plane this morning by group number. Your group number should be printed on your boarding pass in inescapably large font. If you do not have a group number on your boarding pass it means that you have failed in some way. Please approach the podium so that we can mock you.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/4a7fea7192ef1116c44e8c2c1330b7e85c722924/original/boarding-groups.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzAweDQwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="400" width="300" /></p>
<p>Alternatively, you can calculate your own group number by multiplying your age by 9/5 and adding 32.</p>
<p>We would like to welcome Group #1 to board at this time. Group #1 includes First Class passengers, Platinum level Frequent Fliers, and People Who Are Much More Important Than You. We invite you to board via the Red Carpet lane, because we are confident that walking on 5 yards of red indoor-outdoor carpet will greatly enhance your boarding experience.</p>
<p>Also welcome to board at this time are members of the armed services, especially those wearing camouflage fatigues. Because we've read all about PTSD and Abu Ghraib, and quite frankly, you guys scare us.</p>
<p>We would like to remind our customers that you are only allowed to bring one piece of carry-on luggage plus one Personal Item onto the plane with you. Bags full of carry-out food from the airport food court are exempt from this limit, unless the bags contain General Gao's Chicken from the Golden Panda, because that stuff smells so good that it makes us all much too hungry and we just know you're not going to share. </p>
<p>Group #2 is now welcome to board. Group #2 includes Business Class passengers, Gold and Silver level Frequent Fliers, and People Who Are Somewhat More Important Than You. </p>
<p> </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/d15f9bc60c78281d41c92986e5efdcdedb033cb2/original/boarding-pass.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MjQweDI5NSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="295" width="240" /></p>
<p><br>Those traveling in wheelchairs, to whom we will euphemistically refer as "people who need a little extra help down the aisle," can now come forward, so that a sullen and resentful flight attendant can help you to your seat. We used to board you people first, even before first class; but we have determined that such preferential treatment creates a disincentive for our patrons to achieve independent ambulation.<br><br>Those of you who truly just need a little extra help down the aisle -- those of you dealing with sprained ankles, painfully arthritic knees, or recovering from hip replacement surgery -- can sit down and wait your damned turn.<br><br>Parents who are traveling with small children are welcome to board between Groups 3 and 4. Children traveling with small parents can board between Groups 4 and 5, or not at all.</p>
<p> </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/96fb08576efd1db3b9be7b90d6cb9c6ff3b2e2a3/original/airport-crowd.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDIweDMxNSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="315" width="420" /><br><br>Members of the military who did not board with Group 1 are welcome to board whenever the mood strikes you. In fact, you guys are welcome to take any seat on the plane that strikes your fancy, whether or not it is occupied. This airline is proud to support our troops.<br><br>We are pleased to welcome Group 3 to board at this time. Group 3 includes Tin and Bauxite level Frequent Fliers and People with More Money Than You (But Not All That Much More Or They'd Be In Group 1). <br><br>As you board the plane, people, please try to step quickly out of the aisles. You are blocking the way and keeping us from the important business of shooing Groups 4 and 5 into their seats. The sooner we take off, the sooner we will all be able to get to Happy Hour in our destination city. We would like to remind you that two-for-one beers and free jalapeno poppers are only available at the Airport Hilton until 6:00, and right now we are cutting it close.<br><br>If your ticket shows that you are in Group 4 or 5, we are astonished that you think you are going to get your carry-on luggage into an overhead bin. Not a chance, my friends. Please bring your bags to the service desk, where they will be promptly and securely detonated. <br><br>We are now willing to tolerate boarding by members of Groups 4 and 5. Board if you must; but we would like to ask you to refrain from doing the many things you do that annoy us, such as: stowing your coats in the overhead bins, dallying in the aisles, talking, smiling or breathing. We have places to go and things to do, people, and quite frankly right now you are just plain in the way.<br><br>But we'd like to thank you for flying with us today. Because we know you have choices. Just not on this particular route, for which we happen to have a monopoly. <br><br></p>
<p> </p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61149662014-02-20T19:00:00-05:002014-02-21T10:02:20-05:00February
<p>A sneak preview video from my new album, "Anxiety Dream," to be released this summer! But I'm sure you'll agree that this particular tune is much more appropriate now:</p>
<p> </p>
<p></p>
<div class="video responsive"><div class="video-container"><div class="video responsive"><div class="video-container"><iframe frameborder="0" height="360" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/woDBLRARGdQ?rel=0" width="640" class="wrapped wrapped"></iframe></div></div></div></div>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61149652014-02-08T19:00:00-05:002020-01-16T16:01:52-05:00Calling all lactobacilli
<p>If you know me, or if you’ve been reading the blog for a bit, you may be aware that I have certain Earth mother habits which, depending on your perspective, make me a paragon of righteous living, a sanctimonious prig, or a hopeless eccentric. Most of these habits center on food: I make all of our household’s bread (whole grain, sourdough), as well as salad dressing, soup stock, corn tortillas. Most important, I’ve never met a vegetable I didn’t like, with the exception of okra, because it is objectively disgusting.</p>
<p>Before you get too concerned, let me set your mind at ease. I wear lipstick. I don’t own a pair of Birkenstocks. I made damn sure that my children got every single one of their vaccinations, right on time. And then I had the pediatrician give them a few extra shots for good measure.</p>
<p>But I do have this vegetable thing, which led me to sign on to a year-round farmshare. Yes, this is <em>in addition</em> to my vegetable garden. So there are times of the year when I harvest head after head of lettuce, and then eagerly tear open my farmshare box to find....a half-bushel of lettuce. But that’s OK with me. Because who can ever have enough lettuce?</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/a32534a89a4dd6e8cdd251c65007175cb44da86d/original/lettuce.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDAweDMwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="300" width="400" /> </p>
<p>OK. Maybe you are a person who can have enough lettuce. But lettuce, need I point out, is not okra. And it’s light-weight stuff! I can chomp through a box of lettuce in no time at all, and then head out to the garden for more.</p>
<p>But it is not lettuce season. It is February, deepest winter in Massachusetts. No frilly green heads in our weekly farmshare box. The winter CSA brings only the most earnest of vegetables: turnips, cabbage, beets, storage radishes, carrots. These are vegetables that would surely wear Birkenstocks if they came in the right size. Here is this week’s box:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/a081311b633a9b6ea231573847ba9777096eac11/original/farmsharebox.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDQ4eDMzNiJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="336" width="448" /></p>
<p>It weighs 17.5 pounds. That adds up to 70 four-ounce servings. Truth is that it's pretty hard for three medium-sized people to eat 70 servings of earnest, Birkenstock-wearing vegetables every week, and then pony up for more the following Wednesday.</p>
<p>This cabbage alone weighs more than four pounds (and it is not the biggest we've received):</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/77e7d2b255fcfc883f443a1ff7a966cecf312f20/original/weighedcabbage.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzI1eDQzMyJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="433" width="325" /></p>
<p>That's sixteen servings of cabbage, right there. Three people. One week. You do the math.</p>
<p>When life gives you too much cabbage....you make sauerkraut! Of course. It's the clear next step. And the media, at the moment, is awash with people extolling the miracles of fermentation, of flooding our bodies with helpful bacteria and their glorious bi-products. Michael Pollan loves fermentation. People like me love Michael Pollan. Michael Pollan loves Sandor Katz, the fermentation guru. People like me feel they need to own his book:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/a85ac195369e6a065b58d09b66fae0747ce0f8eb/original/sandorkatz.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDgweDY0MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="640" width="480" /></p>
<p>And so I joyfully, and perhaps somewhat arrogantly, set about making sauerkraut from kohlrabi, following a recipe provided by my CSA. I shredded the kohlrabi, massaged it with salt and spices, packed it into a crock, per instructions. This was not my first bout of fermentation: i have successfully preserved lemons and pickled turnips, and I've kept my sourdough starter going for 22 years. But this was my first attempt to rely solely on the ambient bacteria in the environment to get my ferment going, with no support from starter cultures, vinegar or other acids. Just me and the lactobacilli, baby. Bring it on!</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/9f8f6a522b157844b3cb93526a7259528ca6ce29/original/kohlrabi.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDY3eDM1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="350" width="467" /></p>
<p>A few days after I put my nascent kohlrabi sauerkraut on the counter, the kitchen started to smell a little rank. I took out the garbage. I took out the garbage again. We all started to avoid the side of the kitchen in which resided the brewing crock o' kraut.</p>
<p>"It smells like big farts," said my daughter.</p>
<p>"No, it does NOT!" I answered. "It smells like the lactobacilli which will soon re-populate our guts, which have been depleted of all healthy bacteria by the industrial food complex."</p>
<p>We made it through the prescribed week--barely, given the growing stench--and then we gathered around the crock for a taste. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/d7464f98eeb564da82508564f814c0c2f0f50fd5/original/image.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzUweDQ2NyJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="467" width="350" /></p>
<p>My husband and daughter went lurching for the garbage to spit theirs out; but I took time to chew mine thoughtfully. Tangy, certainly; but not at all in a pleasant way....musty. Redolent of old socks. But the real problem was the texture. It was <em>slimy, </em>like....OKRA. I had turned four lovely orbs of kohlrabi into the only vegetable I detest. After three years, this was the first chunk farmshare produce that I've consigned to the trash.</p>
<p>Will I try again? Probably. We have a <em>lot</em> of cabbage on our hands. It makes sense to preserve some of it. Otherwise, what will we grace our tables during those grim days in June, when all we have to eat is lettuce?</p>
<p> </p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61149642014-02-04T19:00:00-05:002021-09-04T14:32:38-04:00For the record....
<p>Tomorrow I will head to the recording studio for my first session for my second album.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/43d0a1db78039c3a0b71f2568fc72f0c23da26c4/original/studio-shot.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDI2eDMxOSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="319" width="426" /></p>
<p>There is a fabulous bunch of session musicians lined up to play tomorrow. It is an unbelievable kick to hear tunes I've written performed by truly talented musicians -- the songs become something else entirely, so much better than I could have imagined. And these are guys who could make "Twinkle Twinkle, Little Star" sound great.</p>
<p>The only problem is that I am the vocalist. And I am going to suck.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/0ed31e0a406a69c9e9ee0f30100c97a0b81dbaa2/original/mike1.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzUweDQ2NyJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="467" width="350" /></p>
<p>"But no!" you say. "You have such a lovely voice!" And how could you say anything else, really, when I am so obviously fishing for compliments?</p>
<p>Except that I'm not. I am pretty clear-eyed about my abilities as a vocalist. My voice is nothing spectacular. It's just fine, certainly adequate for the material at hand. And the advantage of performing my own work is that I can be pretty sure that the singer will understand all the jokes.</p>
<p>When I say "I am going to suck," I mean "I" in the sense of anyone who takes the trouble to record herself. I may rock the shower; but when I hear myself on tape, I hear every little break, every time I'm just a tad sharp or (more frequently) a bit flat. It is, to say the least, a humbling experience. </p>
<p>My younger daughter has spent the last two weeks listening to herself suck as she prepares clarinet auditions for some competitive summer music programs. </p>
<p>Now, let me say right now that from my perspective, she sounds wonderful: she has a great tone and a real sense of musicality, and I can’t believe the sounds she gets from that black chunk of wood. I’m putting my money where my mouth is on this one by featuring her on a song or two on this album. To my ears, she sounds absolutely great. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/23ed96e9ecf945edd4de832b58c7d29f39f2e329/original/clarinet-hands.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzI1eDQwOSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="409" width="325" /></p>
<p>But just ask her. She sucks. She listens to her recordings and can only hear how the tempo is a smidge uneven, or the <em>subito piano</em> part isn’t quite as <em>subito</em> or as <em>piano</em> as she intended. I listen and I hear Mozart, played pretty darned well by a 15-year-old.</p>
<p>And so tomorrow, I'm going to spend the day in the studio with a bunch of people who really do <em>not</em> suck at <em>all. </em>By any standard, subjective or objective, I will be the least musically competent person in the room, by a wide margin. Pretty intimidating.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/f9ab99cd272b665553d8599b79b583b91ad8ef11/original/keyboard.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzI1eDQzNCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="434" width="325" /></p>
<p>It's an unbelievable privilege. I can't wait. </p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61149632014-01-25T19:00:00-05:002021-09-03T15:35:53-04:00The Stork Goes to Europe
<p>In a couple of weeks I will be heading to the recording studio to start work on my second album. This is enormously exciting for me, but also a little scary, since it will once again involve an outlay of a bit of money and a lot of time. But no problem, because my first album continues to rake in the cash: $54.87, in fact, deposited in my bank account by CDBaby on December 24. It was the only music-related payment I received in 2013.</p>
<p>I am definitely keeping my day job.</p>
<p>But financial windfalls aside, the payment report from CDBaby was actually pretty exciting, because it showed that a bunch of people have listened to my songs over the past year. Most of the activity was through Spotify, which pays (as far as I can tell) a penny per song played. But the most exciting thing on the report was revenue of $.86 from iTunes Europe -- as it turns out, for a single purchase of one song from my album, "The Stork." </p>
<p>Who in Europe could have purchase this song? I can't be positive, but I'm pretty sure it has something to do with Kate Middleton and rumors of her second pregnancy--she must be looking for parenting advice on how to explain to Prince George the impending arrival of a new sibling.</p>
<p>If she were to have logged onto the blog today, Kate could have saved herself $.86, because here it is for free:</p>
<p><a href="/domestic-bliss" data-imported="1" data-link-type="page">http://www.gouldtunes.com/domestic_bliss/</a></p>
<p>Of course, by posting this as a free download I have just killed my entire European marketing strategy. Too bad about that.</p>
<p> </p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61149622014-01-19T19:00:00-05:002021-12-02T15:44:33-05:00A good birthday scrub
<p>Yesterday was my birthday. I was blessed with calls from family, sweet and thoughtful gifts and notes from friends, a lovely dinner out with dear friends followed by an equally lovely dinner out with my husband and our younger daughter. Email brought birthday wishes from my dentist, the Red Cross, and a dating service. Along with messages from friends near and far, Facebook (clearly respecting the sanctity of my personal information, like, I don't know, my <em>birthda</em>y) offered me this:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/81bc4e2a74a505741fb158be7158e576324549b7/original/birthday-horoscope.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NjE2eDQ4NyJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="487" width="616" /></p>
<p>"Reading more," as it turned out, would involve signing on for daily messages from these astrologers, whoever they might be; and while that might have given me a leg up on next year's birthday offerings from the dating service, I opted to decline. But perhaps I shouldn't have, because these folks definitely had my number. </p>
<p>What a treat it was to have my birthday on the Sunday of a three-day weekend! It was a day with few obligations. And I planned to spend it luxuriating in lassitude, curled up with a good book and a cup of tea (or five). But first I decided to throw in a load of laundry, because I truly love doing laundry, and also because the week goes much better if you get on top of the laundry pile before it gets out of control. But one load, that was all: I did NOT intend to spend my birthday cleaning! </p>
<p>So I made my first cup of tea and headed to the den with my book. Sadly, the den was a mess, distractingly so; I straightened up a bit, put a few things away, and moved some books to the hall for re-shelving. But it was just a few minutes of tidying up: I would <em>not</em> be spending my birthday cleaning.</p>
<p>Of course I had to walk through the hall to get anywhere else in the house; and that took me past the piles of books I'd just moved, which were stacked on top of the piles of books already in the hall waiting for re-shelving or some other disposition. I asked Steve if he wouldn't mind helping me sort through these piles of books to decide which to move along, just to make the hall less of a fire hazard. Steve agreed immediately: he is our household's leading foe of clutter, our quickest finger on the disposal trigger. But I warned him not to expect a major effort -- it was my birthday, after all.</p>
<p>An hour later, we achieved a (nearly) clean bookshelf:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/dfae1f9b3cb8b7a504a0d8603b860be66e9b289d/original/clean-shelf.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDgzeDM2MiJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="362" width="483" /></p>
<p>A thing of beauty, to be sure! Now if only I could get deal with that stack of books on the floor, next to my bed, the one I was always tripping on in the middle of the night. How long could that take? </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/9303582648822da0254d2f012c9aef692ae65465/original/clean-floor.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzU3eDQ3NiJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="476" width="357" /></p>
<p>Forty-five minutes. Not that you asked.</p>
<p>Of course, once we cleared away the books, it became harder to ignore the pile of stuff waiting to go to Goodwill. And the pictures that had sat around for years waiting to be hung on the walls. And those old VHS tapes that we don't even have the technology to play anymore. Not that I intended to spend my birthday cleaning, mind you. </p>
<p>But it does look good to finally have those pictures on the walls, no?</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/d0aa79cc91db78f6613fc72837eb69e9300a85b9/original/pictures2.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM4eDI1MyJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="253" width="338" /></p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/ecfa3cb479b3810635ed9e63c1d2973bed9c5621/original/pictures-1.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzE1eDQyMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="420" width="315" /></p>
<p>Final birthday tally:</p>
<ul>
<li>One load of dishes</li>
<li>Three loads of laundry</li>
<li>Five boxes of books, 2 boxes of VHS tapes, three bags of clothing, and a rarely-used humidifier delivered to Goodwill</li>
<li>Seven pictures finally wall-mounted</li>
</ul>
<p> </p>
<p>In the end, of course, I did spend my birthday cleaning. It proved a fitting way to start this next year of my life, which, as I learned from my horoscope, is destined to be all about "cleaning out the dead wood" and "letting go of things that no longer serve a purpose."</p>
<p>A day later, I am basking in the glow of all these clean, smooth, uncluttered surfaces. Truth is that my personal surfaces are not growing any smoother, and my brain certainly isn't getting any less cluttered. Midlife birthdays are bittersweet. They call to mind the passage of time, and the constancy of change; and as I get older more and more of these changes involve loss of one kind or another. And I can control so little of it. Might as well restore order in those small ways that I can. </p>
<p>But enough of this melancholy! Birthdays are not all about "dead wood." My horoscope exhorted me as well to "hold onto things that have a future." Birthdays are a time not only to broom the old, but to celebrate the eternal, to hold fast to those things of enduring value. And so in spite of the cleaning frenzy, I found time for a small shopping expedition, where I made a life-affirming investment in my personal future:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/71cf742ef425946807afbb459f81fc46281b1b1d/original/birthday-tp.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NTE5eDM5MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="390" width="519" /></p>
<p>Whenever your birthday happens to be, may the coming year bring you an abundance all that is truly essential in life.</p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61149612014-01-11T19:00:00-05:002022-04-14T02:51:29-04:00The memos I didn't get
<p>I spent much of the past week trapped in a hotel room with a jacuzzi.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/304695ec833e4db2cb622ce331f58d723113ae11/original/jacuzzi.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUyeDMzOSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="339" width="452" /></p>
<p>I was upgraded to the hotel room with the jacuzzi because a pipe burst above the room in which I was initially housed, so I had to make a move. "And for your trouble," said the desk clerk, with great enthusiasm, "we'll upgrade you to a room with a JACUZZI!"</p>
<p>"Oh, how wonderful!" I replied. Except that I didn't really care one way or the other. What's the big deal? It's a large bathtub. I guess I never got the memo explaining what's so great about jacuzzis.</p>
<p>My new super-deluxe room also featured this chair:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/a5b94a2fe724b4b21a4331b533fd623e67fc3fd2/original/massage-chair.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6Mjg2eDQ0NCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="444" width="286" /></p>
<p>I definitely didn't get the memo about what this chair was supposed to do, or why its presence in my new room was a feature, not a bug. But never mind; it came with this purportedly helpful remote control:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/4c97d6d1ba4e21b46ebbeddd35b8aeb9b7636824/original/chair-control.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzY5eDQ5MiJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="492" width="369" /></p>
<p>Where to begin? "DreamWave" sounded a little too flaky; "Quick," in the hotel room context, sounded, well, a little too cheap. So I sat down and hit the "FullBody" button. Things started to move. And when the pouches around my wrists and ankles began to inflate in an apparent death grip, I turned it off in a hurry.</p>
<p>My kids have been watching a lot of "Dr. Who" lately, and I like to think I know an alien invasion when I see one.</p>
<p>But then there was that jacuzzi, facing me every time I walked past the bathroom, reminding me that I was supposed to be luxuriating therein. Now, I just have to say, luxuriating in general has never been my strong suit. I have missed the memos on manicures, pedicures, facials and massages: I don't care for any of them. (To tell you the truth, I'm not a fan of any activity that makes me sit -- or worse, <em>lie</em> -- still for more than, say, 20 minutes. In fact, I'm writing this blog on a treadmill desk. I kid you not.) But the sense that I was missing something finally got the better of me the night before my departure, and I took the plunge.</p>
<p>But I definitely did NOT get the memo on how to use the thing. Here's the control panel:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/b83956e43e49d0e3c69bf1d4f10a2fa3b5725d48/original/jacuzzi-panel.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NTIzeDI4MSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="281" width="523" /></p>
<p>First I hit the “On” button, which lit up the screen, but nothing more. Then I hit the “Up” button a couple of times, figuring that would be a way to get things going. Nothing. I tried the “OK” button – as in the sense of “OK! All righty then!! BRING IT ON!!!” But the jacuzzi was not impressed.</p>
<p>So I pushed the little HOME key, and that did result in some action – on the screen, if not in the water. The first thing that the jacuzzi did was to ask me my preference for the “Dry Cycle.” Which confused me even more. Because while I know very little about jacuzzis, it has always been my impression that <em>Dry</em> is not the point.</p>
<p>Finally I resorted to hitting the keys in a more or less random pattern. After a bit the screen announced it was on “20% Massage” (20% of WHAT, exactly?) and the water started to move. I hit some more keys, and it eventually reached “90% Massage” (for the record, indistinguishable from "20% Massage"). Overall, there was very little massaging going on; really, it was like being in the bathtub with a very exuberant, splashy toddler. A NOISY toddler, at that. </p>
<p>Eventually I tired of the noise and the splashing, hit the “On/Off” button, and climbed out, a wetter woman, but no wiser. And I am still left with the question: "Jacuzzis: WTF???"</p>
<p>If you know -- send me a memo.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61149602013-12-20T19:00:00-05:002021-09-16T06:13:18-04:00Re-run of a favorite holiday music video
<p>OK: it's <em>my</em> favorite of <em>my</em> holiday music videos. It's also my ONLY holiday music video. But in the words of my people: what's not to like?</p>
<p>You can now find all my music videos on this website's new "videos" page. Check it out! </p>
<p>But first, watch this:</p>
<p> </p>
<p></p>
<div class="video responsive"><div class="video-container"><div class="video responsive"><div class="video-container"><iframe frameborder="0" height="360" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/hxu9qsZ4U94?rel=0" width="640" class="wrapped wrapped"></iframe></div></div></div></div>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61149592013-12-13T19:00:00-05:002023-12-10T12:21:04-05:00Airborne Snacks
<p>Air travel is such an odd experience. Last Sunday I got on a plane in Boston (45 degrees) and got off in Kansas City (15 degrees). On Tuesday I flew to Tampa (79 degrees); on Friday I returned to Boston (20 degrees). Such huge transitions in a such a short period of time! It's like the laws of nature don't apply.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/f8b10df18dd5c6b6d3161870b8daa169b9ba9a7d/original/airport.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDI2eDMyMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="320" width="426" /></p>
<p>Certainly it's like the laws of MY nature don't apply. Air travel means that I need to stand in lines a lot and sit still for long periods of time. I believe that these are my two very least favorite activities. Let's just say that oral surgery is a distant third. </p>
<p>Something bizarre happens to my dietary habits on airplanes. Normally, I am a wheat-berries-and-kale kinda gal. But in the course of air travel I find myself eating all sorts of things I wouldn't touch on the ground. It is widely known, of course, that lifesavers have no calories on airplanes:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/6abc995fd90167f8e2fa0b8add8da058c43b0132/original/life-savers.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p>It stands to reason that the same principal applies to Skittles:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/4c2a7bfe5750e4f036165f0b2dcdfc8f22dc1ead/original/skittles.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDY3eDM1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="350" width="467" /></p>
<p>In fact, pretty much anything sold in an airport is in bounds. Starbucks, anyone? </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/de610f828a94ca15f6e37c8714dbea60738f824c/original/starbucks-board.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p>Love that mocha latte!</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/d1650a26221e69032407b14e7562899c87632abe/original/latte.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzIweDQyNyJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="427" width="320" /></p>
<p>Turns out that there is a legitimate explanation for why I totally go off the dietary reservation when I travel. We all know that excess calories, if not converted to energy by our bodies, will be stored as fat; this leads to an increase in body mass -- in other words, weight gain. </p>
<p>Aha! But in order to fly, airplanes need to counteract their own weight, and the weight of everything in them (i.e., you and me). Here's how the NASA website explains it:</p>
<p><strong><em>To overcome the weight force, airplanes generate an opposing force called <a href="https://www.grc.nasa.gov/www/k-12/airplane/lift1.html" data-imported="1">lift</a>. Lift is generated by the motion of the airplane through the air and is an <a href="https://www.grc.nasa.gov/www/k-12/airplane/presar.html" data-imported="1">aerodynamic force.</a></em></strong></p>
<p>There you have it! Airplanes counteract the weight force! The laws of aerodynamics mean that all that crap you eat to pass the time on the plane is, in effect, calorie-free.</p>
<p>So next time the snack tray comes around, help yourself.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/b458375e0fb687684962b75520846fa52f977062/original/snack-tray.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p>These snacks will have no effect on your weight. It's SCIENCE. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/58baf896d396c02ce401b42b6fbff8754bafc4ba/original/cupcake-wars.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p>What's more, watching "Cupcake Wars" on the seat-back TV won't even make you stupid.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61149582013-12-04T19:00:00-05:002022-04-28T03:34:12-04:00Giving thanks, giving blood
<p>My life last week:</p>
<p>Tuesday I braved the insanity that is Whole Foods two days before Thanksgiving. Wednesday I hosted a latke party for nine, brined the turkey, made the beds for the first wave of houseguests, and cooked the pastry cream for the Buche de Thanksgivukkah (pictured below). Thursday was Thanksgiving for 13 (15, really, but two didn't show up), including two turkeys, stuffing, cranberry sauce, buckets of veggies of all sorts, two kinds of homemade bread, a couple of pies, and of course, the Buche:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/564af4fa46f0b296f9abc1e44bd5629bcfc886f8/original/buche-de-thanksgivukkah.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDYwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="600" width="450" /></p>
<p>Friday I woke up early to make muffins for the crowd, washed the sheets and towels after the first round of departing houseguests, served lunch for six, drove to the train station, served dinner for four. Saturday I woke at 4:45 am to drive my older daughter to the airport, worked out, helped out at synagogue, took my younger daughter shoe shopping, and hosted a leftover fest for eight. </p>
<p>By Sunday I was exhausted. So I did the most relaxing thing I could think of: I went to the local Masonic hall to donate blood.</p>
<p>Not exactly a day at the spa, you say? Oh, but it's so much better! The Red Cross folks put out a narrative about how noble and helpful it is to give blood, as if it goes right from your veins into the arms of some lovable accident victim down the street whose life is thereby saved, thanks solely to your largesse. Not really. RadioLab did a great <a href="http://www.radiolab.org/story/308403-blood/" data-imported="1">program on blood</a> recently, in which they revealed that while your blood might eventually make its way into some needy vein, it will be bought and sold like the commodity it is along the way, making great big profits for many of those who handle it.</p>
<p>But who cares? I have no illusions about the nobility of the thing. I love giving blood because it provides an excuse to lie still for half an hour. And because they have people working at blood drives whose sole job it is to be nice to the donors. They bring me cranberry juice (cold! as much as I want!!) and ply me with pretzels and cookies. They give me swag, usually coupons for crappy coffee, but occasionally really great athletic socks. And if I look a little pale, they fuss over me and make me lie down some more and bring me cold compresses and even more cranberry juice. For decades now, I have been the fuss-er rather than the fuss-ee. Except when I give blood.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/4bf1c04e88c09c7c77a7678bddd96a6a81095889/original/blood-form.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzUweDQ2NyJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="467" width="350" /></p>
<p>It's a pretty good deal, overall. But because we all have room for improvement, I would like to offer the Red Cross these helpful suggestions for how to make the experience even better:</p>
<ul>
<li>
<strong>Bake sales and blood drives are a bad match. </strong>Free food is at the heart of the blood drive experience; it's awfully hard for the paid version to compete. Sunday's kids were at an even greater disadvantage, two days after Thanksgiving, when at least half of the donors had come to give blood as a weight loss strategy.</li>
<li>
<strong>Explain why women have to be 5'6" to give double red blood cell donations, but men only have to be 5'. </strong> This rule is written on a giant poster at the check-in desk of every single blood drive, and it makes no sense to me. I find it particularly irksome because I was 5'6", once upon a time, but I seem to have misplaced one of my inches. I would appreciate it if the Red Cross would stop rubbing my face in it every time I show up to donate.</li>
<li>
<strong>Santa has no place at blood drives. </strong> I was somewhat alarmed to see Santa at last Sunday's blood drive. Fact is that Santa is a divisive presence, appealing to only one part of the population. I'm talking about children, of course; and children are not the target audience at blood drives. Now, I'm Jewish, so maybe I'm missing something; but it is hard for me to see how Santa could cause anything but anxiety for your average adult. He devotes every December to upping the ante in terms of gift expectations. And then he steals all the credit. Honestly, if I choose to buy my children's love, I would like that love to accrue to <em>me</em>, thank you very much, and not to some bearded guy in fake fur with an overactive thyroid.</li>
</ul>
<p> </p>
<p>These are all good points, of course; but if the Red Cross wants to really hit one out of the park, they'll take me up on my last suggestion:</p>
<ul>
<li><strong>Allow people to donate fat instead of blood. </strong></li>
</ul>
<p> </p>
<p>They'd line up around the block for that one. Even Santa.</p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61149572013-11-19T19:00:00-05:002021-09-09T08:02:39-04:00Ringtone #3!
<p>Your next ringtone is ready right now--be the first kid on the block to get it! Best part: you'll never have to wonder whether the phone that's ringing is yours.</p>
<p>This file is ready for your iPhone:</p>
<p><a href="/files/695444/you-forgot-ringtone-take-2.m4r" data-imported="1">You_forgot_ringtone_take_2.m4r</a></p>
<p>Or you can listen and/or load the mp3:</p>
<p><a href="/ringtones" data-imported="1" data-link-type="page"> http://gouldtunes.com/ringtones/</a></p>
<p> </p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61149562013-11-15T19:00:00-05:002021-09-13T14:44:37-04:00Hell Outta Bat
<p>These are the steps to follow should you find a bat flying around inside your house:</p>
<p>1. Jump up and down and scream (recommended: "A bat! A bat!! A bat!!!)</p>
<p>2. Calmly and rationally, take a moment to review what you know about bats:</p>
<p style="padding-left: 30px;">a. They are helpful animals, eating a gazillion times their weight in mosquitos and other harmful insects</p>
<p style="padding-left: 30px;">b. Most bats are not rabid: 95% of the bats caught in Massachusetts test negative for rabies</p>
<p style="padding-left: 30px;">c. Of course, that means that 5% of the bats in MA <strong>do</strong> test positive for rabies</p>
<p style="padding-left: 30px;">d. And there are no mosquitoes inside the house, so what the hell is it doing in here?</p>
<p>3. Repeat Step #1.</p>
<p>In fact, there are two more steps, and I have followed them successfully, either on my own or with Beloved Spouse and Helpmate Steve, with the first eight (yes, 8!) bats that have flown into my house over the years: </p>
<p>Close as many doors as you can to isolate the bat in a single room. Then open the windows and wait for it to fly out. If the bat stops flying and settles on a wall, you can trap it under a bowl or box (our favorite is a big blue colander). Slide a piece of cardboard underneath. Then take your package of bat outside (being sure to close the doors and windows behind you). Wish the bat Godspeed as you lift the colander and watch it fly away, encouraging it to eat as many mosquitos as it likes as it goes</p>
<p>Piece of cake, right? I was pretty good at the bat thing, I thought, until the other night when Bat #9 paid an unexpected visit. My daughter took the initiative to execute Step #1, sending the Bat Alert to her mother as I finished the dinner dishes. Upstairs I went, big blue colander and cardboard box at the ready. But there were two problems:</p>
<ul>
<li>First, during my last round of bat remediation (completed, lamentably, just weeks before the arrival of Bat #9), the Bat Remediation Technician told me that the current recommendation for those who find a bat in the house is to capture the bat and have it tested for rabies, since there have now been one or two documented instances of bat-to-human rabies transmission in the Northeast.</li>
<li>Second -- and this was really the clincher -- I COULD NOT FIND THE BAT. I spent two solid hours inspecting every square inch of my house, armed with colander, cardboard and ladder, looking behind pictures and cabinets, rustling drapes, inspecting the tops of the books in the bookshelves. I found dust bunnies, long-lost buttons, unpaid parking tickets, and enough spare change to park for a month. But no bat. And you can neither shoo a bat out a window nor capture it under a colander if you can't find the damn thing.</li>
</ul>
<p> </p>
<p>Did I mention that Helpmate Steve was out of town? Helpmate Steve is extremely good at being out of town at moments when some particularly nasty bit of household labor is required. His specialty is missing blizzards.</p>
<p>Two hours later, slightly panicked about the prospect of spending the night with my child and a rabid but invisible bat in the house, I called my town's Emergency Animal Control number, and was promptly referred to an enterprise called Bay State Wildlife. Bay State Wildlife, as it turns out, is a bleary-eyed guy named Mike with a tennis racket (and, no doubt, an advanced degree in Animal Behavior). Mike and I spent another 40 minutes searching the house and we were just about to give up, when our little winged friend took to the air again. The evening ended with a dead bat in a ziploc bag in a shoebox in the trunk of my car. </p>
<p>My efforts to get the bat tested for rabies the next morning were nearly stymied by the fact that the good folks at the City Hall could not find the relevant form. After watching them search for 15 minutes or so, mindful of the mountain of work on my desk, I helpfully suggested that I write my name, address and phone number on a piece of paper affixed to the box. Absolutely not! I was told. I MUST fill out the form in its entirety -- it was crucial to the public health matter at hand.</p>
<p>The form, when found, did in fact include critical public health information, to wit:</p>
<ul>
<li>My name</li>
<li>My address</li>
<li>My phone number</li>
<li>The fact that the dead animal in the box was a bat</li>
</ul>
<p> </p>
<p>As it turned out, the bat was not rabid. But my house has been mosquito-free ever since.</p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61149552013-11-10T19:00:00-05:002021-08-28T14:00:22-04:00Ringtone #2! It's a ringtone AND a public service announcement!
<p>And here it is! You can download the ringtone here to your iPhone:</p>
<p><a href="/files/695443/kegel-rington.m4r" data-imported="1">Kegel_rington.m4r</a></p>
<p>Or listen and download it as an mp3 for your Android or whatever:</p>
<p><a href="http://midlifemomsongs.com/ringtones/" data-imported="1">http://gouldtunes.com/ringtones</a></p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61149542013-11-02T20:00:00-04:002021-09-11T12:37:27-04:00November is Ringtone Month -- Week 1!
<p>One brand-new, totally free, downloadable ringtone for you, every week for the entire month? What could be better?</p>
<p>To hear the ringtone, or to download it as an mp3 file (good for Androids and other non-Apple phones), click here:</p>
<p> <a href="/ringtones" data-imported="1" data-link-type="page">http://gouldtunes.com/ringtones/</a></p>
<p>And here's a file in m4r format, for iPhone users -- click here to download, and then open it in iTunes:</p>
<p><a href="/files/695442/avoidance-ringtone.m4r" data-imported="1">Avoidance_ringtone.m4r</a></p>
<p>Enjoy! And don't fret if you tire of it quickly -- there will be a new one next week!</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61149532013-10-30T20:00:00-04:002021-09-20T15:00:06-04:00El Dia de los Muertos Chez Nous
<p>It is Halloween Night, just hours before Dia de los Muertos, and despite the mountains of candy I purchased this weekend, our doorstep has yet to be graced by a single trick-or-treater. I think the word is out that truly creepy things have been happening at our house, and the kids are wisely keeping their distance. In fact our household has experienced an unusually high mortality rate this October. Here, then, is a tribute to those we have recently lost:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/37fe1e8be6c9121d8e040486fab9c6d1e7c80750/original/toaster.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NjMzeDQ3NSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="475" width="633" /></p>
<p>This brave little toaster expired last week after a long illness, a mere nine years after it first came to live with us. We purchased the toaster just before beginning a kitchen renovation, because the promotional material assured us it could bake pies and roast chickens. What a great way, we thought, to survive five months without a kitchen! Ridiculous, of course; toasters can't roast chickens or bake pies. But they can make toast, and this one toasted an estimated 18,000 slices during its years on this earth, along with 2,500 or so grilled cheese sandwiches. We will miss you, my friend.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/3ecf1c7cb6734ab07d73c92c9a8146cc05a22899/original/waffleiron.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p>This waffle iron was an engagement gift from my in-laws, received some time in 1990. It emerged recently from obscurity in the back of a cabinet to make a starring (and stirring) appearance in "<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XwweWTe4TOg&sns=em" data-imported="1">The Singing Mammogram</a>," posted on this very website in July. I was planning to write that the waffle iron was our household's Norma Desmond, the once-famous actress played by Gloria Swanson in "Sunset Boulevard," who spends her twilight years preparing for her next star turn long after her star has completely set. But then Steve reminded me that it's not actually Norma Desmond who dies in "Sunset Boulevard," but the William Holden character. And our waffle iron was nothing at all like William Holden. Maybe the waffle iron was actually the Eric von Stroheim of our household -- he won an Academy Award for his performance in "Sunset Boulevard" as Gloria Swanson's director-turned-butler. (In real life, he had at one time been Gloria Swanson's actual director, but Swanson ruined his directing career when she got him fired from what turned out to be his final gig.) </p>
<p>No: our waffle iron was no Eric von Stroheim. Steve thinks it was more like the main character in "Tosca," or maybe like Marlene Dietrich in "The Blue Angel."</p>
<p>I am not at all surprised that children are avoiding our house.</p>
<p> </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/1516f0e6200b841047bb7299fceb79f3ca6b2793/original/jeanstain.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzM2eDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="336" /></p>
<p>Can you see the grease stains on my favorite jeans? They were four years old, these jeans, and worn in to absolute perfection. Sadly, these jeans were another October fatality, done in when I realized, too late, that before you vigorously shake a jar of salad dressing it is highly recommended that you screw on the lid. At least now, when I put them on, I will be secure in the knowledge that I am wearing organic olive oil grown and pressed by a Palestinian fair trade collective.</p>
<p>Rest in peace, my old denim friends.</p>
<p>And finally, this relative newcomer:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/fbe8deaeba279504a83bdd5f9ec054b0d746f68d/original/lavalamp.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDYwMiJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="602" width="450" /></p>
<p>Dead before it even got started. I won this lava lamp in a charity raffle, and I was very, very thrilled, since I have always loved and coveted lava lamps, and I was quite sure this one would lift me out of my dead toaster-and-ruined-jeans funk. But alas, I could never even get it to turn on. Which, come to think of it, happened as well to the last lava lamp I brought home. </p>
<p>Lava lamp, I hardly knew ye'.</p>
<p>On a cheerier note: November is Ringtone Month at midlifemomsongs!! I will be posting one new downloadable ringtone every week. Stay tuned!!</p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61149522013-10-24T20:00:00-04:002021-09-06T05:27:11-04:00I Am My Inbox
<p>The NSA, we have recently learned, is collecting all sorts of data about all sorts of things, including email accounts. Senders, address lists, subject lines -- it's all fair game. As explained in one <a href="http://www.washingtonpost.com/world/national-security/nsa-collects-millions-of-e-mail-address-books-globally/2013/10/14/8e58b5be-34f9-11e3-80c6-7e6dd8d22d8f_story_1.html" data-imported="1">Washington Post article</a>, "Taken together, the data would enable the NSA, if permitted, to draw detailed maps of a person’s life, as told by personal, professional, political and religious connections."</p>
<p>So what could the NSA discern about me from my inbox, should the notion pop into its adorably furtive little institutional head? I took a look to find out what they could learn, just from one representative 24-hour period:</p>
<p><strong>1. Barack Obama is my best friend.</strong></p>
<p><strong>2. I am lonely. Very lonely.</strong> Apparently the mate of my dreams is senior:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/719dae6c780c3931465502eee5f5813875ff1746/original/senior-singles.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDAweDMyOCJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="328" width="400" /></p>
<p>Black:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/1e816479ea7a893924802f11538643ceefb932a9/original/blacksingles.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDQxNCJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="414" width="450" /></p>
<p>Russian, and female:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/1cd1fcb6563dee37389948375a59d4c393bb1b09/original/russian-singles.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDAweDMyOSJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="329" width="400" /></p>
<p>Preferably, all at the same time.</p>
<p><strong>3. I am struggling mightily to lose weight:</strong></p>
<p><strong><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/dbdb573e91dcec589f38fba6b95f2b7907a23663/original/garcinia-cambodgia.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDAweDM3MCJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="370" width="400" /></strong></p>
<p>(This one took me a bit by surprise -- I'd always thought that Garcinia Cambodgia was a slugger for the Red Sox.)</p>
<p>I have not been so very worried about my weight recently, to be honest; but I guess I should be. These elderly black Russian babes must like their women really trim.</p>
<p><strong>4. Dr. Oz is my personal physician, and he is taking my weight problem firmly in hand.</strong></p>
<p><strong>5. Michelle Obama is my best friend.</strong></p>
<p><strong>6. I like my cars exotic:</strong></p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/28fcaa50cc47f18855b24502aa845b734b59762c/original/exotic-cars.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDAweDM0OSJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="349" width="400" /></p>
<p>Like my women.</p>
<p><strong> 7. I am looking for a career boost,</strong> either from earning a PhD:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/2ddfc930767957bbf0e1d4d1f22b9bb49ef9aea6/original/phd.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDAweDM3NSJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="375" width="400" /></p>
<p>Or alternatively by training as an electrician:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/cc7a21084060cbb224e06a87735687c24d108835/original/electrician-training.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDAweDMyOSJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="329" width="400" /></p>
<p><strong>8. I am in the market for a walk-in tub:</strong></p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/1354ef232f098f5e137c4e27f29d97a35ffa5341/original/walkin-tub-pm.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDAweDM0NCJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="344" width="400" /></p>
<p>It's not for me, actually -- it's for my black Russian ladyfriend, who as we know is getting a bit infirm.</p>
<p><strong>9. Nancy Pelosi is my best friend.</strong></p>
<p><strong>10. Laundry is a transformative force in my life:</strong></p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/f7606a3c7300f1c646d5a7b24ff11cfd21bb7d65/original/tide.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDMzeDI1MSJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="251" width="433" /></p>
<p>This one is true, actually. I ADORE doing laundry. And if that hot black babushka thinks she's going to horn in on the ironing board, she's got another think coming!</p>
<p>If the NSA were to take the long view and analyze my inbox over the span of the last several years, then they would be relieved to learn that I have apparently recovered from the erectile dysfunction which was plaguing me so insistently a few years back.</p>
<p>The Russian babe will be so pleased.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61149512013-10-17T20:00:00-04:002021-09-13T05:41:00-04:00A musical love note for my book group
<p>My book group has caused me to burst into song -- proving once again that life really IS exactly like musical comedy, only with way slower reaction times.</p>
<p> </p>
<p></p>
<div class="video responsive"><div class="video-container"><div class="video responsive"><div class="video-container"><iframe frameborder="0" height="360" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/727itIR_BkA?rel=0" width="480" class="wrapped wrapped"></iframe></div></div></div></div>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61149502013-10-11T20:00:00-04:002021-10-29T02:17:03-04:00A throne of one's own
<p>We need a new toilet. Two, in fact. Which means that I am now confronted with the specter of toilet shopping. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/2c552339f7fa12c657e278dc6c56970ad5d9abaf/original/toilet-specs.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzAweDQwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="400" width="300" /></p>
<p>There was certainly a time in my life when news of my toilets' demise would have sent me into a tailspin (perfect metaphor!), the way that unanticipated home expenses can do when money is tight. Fortunately for us, my husband and I are both gainfully employed at the moment. Perhaps even better, neither of us is a federal employee (once again, the crapper providing exactly the right metaphor). So the prospect of toilet shopping fills me with--well, perhaps "delight" is an over-statement; but sure, I'll admit to a certain amount of sophomoric giddiness. I acknowledge that the sheer dumb luck of economic good fortune allows me to enjoy rather than dread this moment. I think of it as Bathroom Privilege.<br><br>I started my toilet shopping online, because online shopping of any sort is a much more compelling option, in the middle of a weekday, than doing the actual work for which people pay me. I sent my husband links to two possible options: one, a standard white toilet for around $275, the sort with which we will almost certainly end up. Here was the second:<br><br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/134bf7dc7be3a0090bb201bb3fdcf3572ded2008/original/neorest.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzMyJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="333" width="450" /><br><br></p>
<p>The Neorest, in the tasteful shade of Sedona Beige pictured here, retails for $5,175. Truly the toilet for the 1% (although, for this price, one would expect it to serve the 2% equally well). And we need two! So much better than a semester -- make that a month -- no, three weeks -- of college tuition! How much can you learn in three weeks? <br><br>Steve, who will sometimes go for days without acknowledging my emails, responded immediately. He left messages on my office phone, my cell phone, and our home phone, then he sent an email, followed by a text. His answer, in dead earnest, was that really, though the Toto Dee-LUXE! was a thing of beauty, $5,175 is perhaps excessive for a toilet, and I should please please please not buy one (or two).<br><br>Well, DUH. I had to remind him that I am in fact the cheap one in our household, the one who buys generic aspirin while he reaches for Bayer; and that it would be thoroughly out of character for me to suggest anything beyond the barest-bowl toilet options; and how long have we been married, anyway, that he didn't immediately understand that I was joking? And in any event, the Neorest in Cotton White only costs $4,500, and fits in much better with our decor.</p>
<p><br>A couple of weeks ago, I was talking to my friend Katherine about blogging. Katherine is a gifted and insightful writer (<a href="http://katherineozment.com/" data-imported="1">http://katherineozment.com/</a>) who used to blog regularly for <em>Boston Magazine</em>. She spoke of how, when she was blogging more frequently, she would constantly think of how she could find meaning in the most mundane of daily experiences.So I started to think about the meaning I could find in toilet shopping. What does it mean that we reject as absurd the notion of a luxury toilet purchase? In fact, when confronted with my last consumer purchase earlier this week, I made a very different choice. My 15-year-old daughter is a very enthusiastic clarinetist, and she needed a new reed case. We looked at several options. With a flourish of the credit card, I encouraged her to choose the top of the line model--despite the fact that it requires several replacements of the prioprietary humidifier package, every single year. Just look at this baby:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/c96c30be8f5c1a3e5c14813f679a993f0e7e2cb6/original/reed-case.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NTM3eDM2MiJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="362" width="537" /></p>
<p>It holds eight reeds! Eight!! And it keeps them at pitch-perfect 85% humidity!</p>
<p>So yes to the bitchin' reed case. No to the luxury toilet. Perhaps I was willing to splurge on the reed case because it supports a narrative that feeds my ego. I am the supportive mother of a dedicated young classical musician. It takes discipline, classical music does. She must get it from her mother. And I like having a kid who can throw around references to Wagner and Stravinsky. There's "class" in classical music! So I am supportive, self-disciplined and classy. Nice story! I think I'll buy it.</p>
<p>Of course, buying it cost all of 28 bucks, plus of course the $5 humidifier inserts of which we will need maybe 3 a year. So what does it really say that I was willing to splurge on the $28 reed case but not on the $5,175 toilet? Not much, maybe.</p>
<p>I guess I wanted to write about buying toilets because toilets make my porcelain complexion flush with glee. Because they bowl me over. Because they make me Skip to my Loo. Because a new toilet is a Johnny-come-lately.</p>
<p>I wanted to write about toilets because toilets are <em>funny</em>. And sometimes that is enough.</p>
<p> </p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61149492013-10-04T20:00:00-04:002022-04-19T04:23:43-04:00The best weekends start with muffins....and here are mine
<p>We all have our gifts, and here are mine: I write very good thank you notes. I grow really beautiful lettuce. And I can bake any kind of muffin. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/90d9c0beafdae7d6ded8f6362bcd3d667e04ccb6/original/muffin.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzNiJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="336" width="450" /></p>
<p>I cracked the muffin code in 1987, when I was a graduate student in theoretical linguistics. Some time in January, I figured out that I really, really did NOT want to be a linguist when I grew up. Yet I needed to finish out the academic year at UC Santa Cruz. So I pondered what unique, life-enriching experiences I could have in my four or five remaining months on California's Central Coast. And looking around me, I decided that what was truly exceptional about that place at that time was the quality of the muffins. They had fabulous muffins in Santa Cruz, and I set out to learn how to make them. I baked muffins every day. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/7ca8ddb9c61c7187785c948cfe1e4ef4ef9d7431/original/buttermilkpowder.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzNiJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="336" width="450" /></p>
<p>I found a willing set of taste-testers in my fellow graduate students: graduate students will eat <em>anything</em>. I'm pretty sure that a quarter century later, this is still true.<em><br></em></p>
<p>Over the years, the master recipe has changed very little, although I have made hundreds of variations. These muffins are fast--I can go from muffin concept to loaded oven in 12 minutes and 43 seconds (but who's counting?). And they are pretty healthy: these days I make them exclusively with whole-grain flour and canola oil, and I usually load them up with fruit and nuts. Yes, there's some sugar in there. But I think you should relax about that.</p>
<p>Here is the Master Muffin Recipe:</p>
<p>2 cups flour (I like white whole wheat or whole-grain pastry flour; but any kind will do)</p>
<p>1/2 cup sugar</p>
<p>1/4 tsp. salt</p>
<p>1 tsp. baking powder</p>
<p>1 tsp. baking soda</p>
<p>1 cup dairy (buttermilk, yogurt, or milk soured with 1 tsp. vinegar)</p>
<p>1/3 cup oil or melted butter</p>
<p>1 egg</p>
<p>1 tsp. vanilla</p>
<p>Whatever else you want to add: dried fruit, diced fresh fruit, nuts, bananas, pumpkin, chocolate chips</p>
<ul>
<li>Combine the dry ingredients</li>
<li>Combine the wet ingredients</li>
<li>Gently mix the wet and dry ingredients together until they are just barely combined</li>
<li>Fold in whatever fruit, nuts, etc. strike your fancy</li>
<li>Spoon batter into greased or lined muffin cups, and bake until done (usually 22-25 minutes)</li>
</ul>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/63cb628606f9a51973bd90fd40796f76a51f8edc/original/loadedtray.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzNiJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="336" width="450" /></p>
<p>Thousands of muffins later, here are some suggestions:</p>
<ul>
<li>Dried buttermilk is awesome: if you use it, then add 4 Tbsp. to the dry ingredients, and use water instead of other dairy in the wet ingredients.</li>
<li>Feel free to add other spices to the dry ingredients: cinnamon is the obvious choice; ground ginger and nutmeg are also lovely, or you could get a little edgy and add cayenne pepper.</li>
<li>If you want to add in a fruit or vegetable puree (mashed bananas, a can of pumpkin, grated carrots, grated zucchini), then mix it in with the wet ingredients and decrease the liquid to 3/4 cup.</li>
<li>You can swap 1 cup of rolled oats for 1/2 cup of the flour.</li>
<li>You can substitute a little lemon or orange juice for some of the liquid. Be sure to add a little grated peel as well.</li>
<li>If you make banana muffins, then increase the salt to 1/2 tsp. I don't know why it makes those muffins sing, but it does</li>
<li>You can use frozen berries straight from the freezer; no need to defrost them first. But you will need to increase your baking time a little bit.</li>
</ul>
<p> </p>
<p>Some of my favorite variations: chopped plums and walnuts; peaches and pecans; pears, nuts and crystallized ginger; blueberry lemon; oatmeal and mixed berries; cranberry orange; raspberry chocolate chip; banana walnut chocolate chip (with a little extra salt--trust me!); jalapeno cornmeal; and the current household favorite, pumpkin chocolate chip:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/25da79417a687141db01a4c7d3eb14547696d5b3/original/finished.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzNiJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="336" width="450" /></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> It is October, so today's muffins will be apple cinnamon, maybe with some walnuts. They will be ready around 9:00. Bring your own coffee.</p>
<p> </p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61149482013-09-25T20:00:00-04:002021-09-18T11:44:52-04:00Jet Blues
<p>It is late at night, I am on a plane, and someone around me is having a very bad gas attack. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/8fe0282720c6f63f65f6a13b0788ce071861847b/original/plane-at-night.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDAweDI5OSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="Plane at night" height="299" width="400" /></p>
<p>Is it Noise-Canceling Headphones Guy? Or Movies-on-the-Laptop Guy? Actually, my money is on the guy in the seat in front of me. He started the flight by unwrapping, and presumably devouring, an extremely pungent package of take-out Chinese from the airport's Food Court. You surely get what you pay for in this world. And sometimes your neighbors do, too.</p>
<p>I had such high hopes for this flight. Four quiet hours, with the workday behind me, nobody to bother me, and nothing else to do: just think of what I could accomplish! I have this musical I'm thinking about writing, and this seemed like the perfect time to start laying out the plot and the songs. I've been planning this writing session for weeks.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/fe95aa427e83cbf47df28eef38f7cc6c990983cd/original/jetblue-interior.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MjUweDMzMyJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="333" width="250" /></p>
<p>But here I am, and it's been a long day, and there's this TV screen in front of me, and maybe I'll just flip through the channels for a minute....Look, it's the improbably muscular Robert Irvine on "Restaurant Impossible," trying to save a cafe, family-run for three generations, that has fallen on hard times. Can he do it? In only 48 hours? How can I turn it off before I see how it ends?</p>
<p>My creativity never fails to come to screeching halt when I travel, especially when I'm on the road for work. It seems like I should have lots of leftover time--after all, I'm not cooking, or driving carpools, or doing laundry. I don't know where that extra time goes; but I never seem to have any. I think I end up spending a lot of it just outside walking around wherever I happen to be, because I hate hanging out in hotel rooms, mostly because I don't like the way they smell. Which is, in any event, nowhere near as bad as the smell of this plane at the moment.</p>
<p>And yes, I will have another bag of Terra Blue chips -- thanks very much.</p>
<p>Truth is, my home didn't smell too great when I left it, either. A nasty odor had begun seeping into the first floor bathroom, and leaking from there throughout the house. I couldn't for the life of me tell what it was, although it had the noxious whiff of something-very-bad-and-expensive-to-fix-happening-inside-my-walls. So I called the plumber, because he is the guy who solves things in my house. I love my plumber. We have a special bond because once, while he was under my kitchen sink working on the garbage disposal, he had a visitation from his long-dead father. It was a beautiful moment, actually. Thankfully, earlier this week, this wonderful plumber made a house call in my absence, and yesterday he left a message on my cellphone to tell me that while disassembling the bathroom sink to investigate the problem, he had found a decomposing dead rat. Nice. But this wonderful plumber went the extra mile and disposed of the rat, thereby solidifying his lofty ranking on the list of my very favorite people.</p>
<p>At the moment, Chinese Food Guy is giving the decomposing rat a run for its money.</p>
<p>I am pleased to report that Robert Irvine has saved the restaurant by perching a piece of broiled salmon on top of a pile of polenta and also by painting the restaurant walls white. The tension was pretty high there for a while; glad I stuck around to see the surprise ending! And look, the next show is about a bakery, family-run for three generations, that has fallen on hard times! Will the prim British pastry chef, whatever her name is, be able to save the business? Can she do it? In only 48 hours? How can I turn it off before I see how it ends?</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/bb0fc21d6b6f3d13e9ec363f31d4d5e9e99701ee/original/jetblue-map.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzNiJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="screen" height="336" width="450" /></p>
<p>It will be very, very good to be home. And by now, more than 24 hours post-rat, home should be smelling pretty good.</p>
<p>You will be pleased to hear that the pastry chef has saved the bakery by perching fondant roses on the top of a very hip looking mousse cake, and also by painting the restaurant walls teal. The tension was pretty high there for a while. Glad that I stuck around for the surprise ending.</p>
<p>And here I am, ready to de-plane, having accomplished nothing beyond the demolition of a few bags of blue potato chips. When will I next find four hours together to try to do any real writing?</p>
<p>December. Flight home from a business trip to Kansas City. I guess that not writing my musical will have to wait until then.</p>
<p> </p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61149472013-09-14T20:00:00-04:002021-09-05T14:45:52-04:00When life hands you apples....
<p>The other day, Steve went to the market near his office to buy a few apples. The apples, he reported with dismay, were all from Chile or New Zealand. Why, in New England, in September, would anyone go to the trouble of importing apples from so far away? When our local orchards are chock-full in this record-harvest year?</p>
<p>As we discussed this over breakfast, we worked ourselves into quite a self-righteous lather. We should all eat locally, whenever possible! So much better for the planet! And so much tastier!</p>
<p>And how much more local can you get than your own backyard? In fact, we have two large apple trees in our little backyard, planted perhaps by the Victorians who built the place (or more likely, by the groovy group home that installed itself here in the 60's). Mostly, these apple trees serve the function of crapping all over our garden: they are a major source of debris, shedding diseased leaves pretty much all season long, and providing a home for much-detested squirrels, who feast on the apples and then fling their half-eaten fruit on our heads.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/d3afdfb85e660126846d171965e4110293999d3c/original/apple-litter.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6Mzc1eDI4MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="Apple tree debris" height="280" width="375" /></p>
<p>But now the apples are ripe and beckoning most fetchingly from the top of these 40-ish-ft-tall trees. These precious apples, planted by our ancestors! Bearing the sanctity of the hyper-local! They're organic! No fossil fuel miles on these babies! And they are no banal supermarket varieties, no Red Delicious or Granny Smith. They are probably <em>heirlooms</em>!</p>
<p>The ones on the bottom are a little gnarly. But the ones near the top -- they look lovely, all the way up there. Ripe and shapely and gorgeous. So this morning, my younger daughter and I, with appropriate solemnity, undertook the annual harvest ritual:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/b786b364e66184786faa47e959558294aafbc9ef/original/apple-harvesting.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzUweDI2MyJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="Harvesting out the window" height="263" width="350" /></p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/a67613b4e5cce8ec4a68b55c0a64c0345c099d42/original/apple-harvest-process-2.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzUweDQ2NyJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="Apple harvesting 2" height="467" width="350" /></p>
<p>The best way -- the only way -- to reach the prettiest apples is to grab them with an apple picker from the second-floor bathroom window. And just look at the morning's haul!</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/3b475a6df272c76fb870ee7c1a5b63bbccea761c/original/bag-of-apples.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzUweDI2MSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="Upstairs apples" height="261" width="350" /></p>
<p>Not your supermarket-perfect, blemish-free fruit, of course; but they are ours! So local! So organic! We grew them ourselves! And so I set out to brew this bushel of fresh-from-the garden bounty into the tastiest applesauce on the planet.</p>
<p>Who was it that said "beauty is only skin deep, but ugly cuts all the way to the bone?" (Or perhaps to the core?)</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/2b75cc733277044f8aa2de91edddbab0f6140208/original/unlovely-apples.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzUweDI2MSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="Ugly from within" height="261" width="350" /></p>
<p>It's a lot of work, as it turns out, to get much edible anything out of these apples, once you cut out all the burrowing creatures. This applesauce was quite an undertaking. When all was said and done and simmered, here was the applesauce yield:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/1438bffe71c8822f9fa0ae2c82811fd4be6c5b13/original/apple-sauce-yield.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzE3eDIzNyJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="237" width="317" /></p>
<p>A scant 1 3/4 cups. Factoring in the cost of the labor, at my professional billing rates, that comes out to....let's see....$47.14 per half-cup serving. </p>
<p>On a happier garden note: the five regular readers of this blog* are aware that our summer has been characterized by a struggle with the Evil Forces of Bunny-dom. I am pleased to report that Phase 3 of Operation FYYFB*** has met with great success. The bunnies <em>are</em> actually repelled by the pepper spray. Here is the late-season crop of beans and kale that regrew after pepper-spray treatment, despite the fact that the Evil Bunnies had previously gnawed it down to bare, leafless stalks:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/cf2abc8f70d3af8a29def354f0401e2cf55c5cdd/original/recovered-beans.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzQ4eDMwOSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="309" width="348" /></p>
<p>Bunnies notwithstanding, I have been delightedly harvesting late-season beans, a generous pile just about daily:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/33361448ac53021d899602e2250d20c263ec9c4e/original/pole-bean-harvest.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6Mjk0eDIwMiJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="202" width="294" /></p>
<p>The reborn bush beans are inspiring, of course; but the real payload is coming from the pole beans, born high up on very tall plants.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/d9fb0c076b6bdbe53beab902f8c8ff383d96a3ba/original/pole-beans.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzEweDQzNSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="435" width="310" /></p>
<p>Way too high for the bunnies to reach. After all, the bunnies can't levitate.</p>
<p>At least, not yet.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>* I just want to say to those five faithful readers that you are my VERY FAVORITE PEOPLE ON THE PLANET, and that I love and adore you and would do anything to make you happy.**</p>
<p>**Especially you, Mom!</p>
<p>***Operation "Fuck You, You Fucking Bunny!"</p>
<p> </p>
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Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61149462013-09-08T20:00:00-04:002022-08-07T00:45:11-04:00Fashion Week
<p>It’s Fashion Week in New York City. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/2712aff7a5b4d76bbcde0216c449206beb9e63ae/original/new-york-fashion-week.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MjUweDIzNyJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="237" style="vertical-align: middle;" width="250" /></p>
<p>Actually, Fashion Week began last Thursday, a full four days ago – the fact that I am just catching on is proof enough of just how unfashionable I am, here in unfashionable Boston. </p>
<p>Further proof of my lack of fashion savoir faire: it would never occur to me to begin a Week on a Thursday. Anyone inclined toward symmetry would pick Sunday or Monday to begin a Week. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/636000045cf187699a7a157f418400d00575d952/original/sharkweek.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MjUweDE0MSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="141" width="250" /></p>
<p>Shark Week, for example, ran from Sunday, August 4 through Friday, August 9. Which raises the question: why only six days for Shark Week? Are the sharks taking Saturday off in observance of Shabbat? </p>
<p>The sharks may indeed be Jewish; but the fashionistas, apparently, are not. The first day of Fashion Week corresponds to the first day of Rosh Hashanah. So any observant Jews wishing to start 5774 on a more fashionable note will need to bide their time and wait until Yom Kippur to strut their stuff.</p>
<p>Two years ago, I actually found myself in New York for Fashion Week. I was spending a semester in NY with my husband, who was teaching at NYU on his sabbatical from the more prosaic Boston-area university where he normally teaches. We lived (all too briefly) at the edge of the Meatpacking District, one of NYC's several fashion centers. There, in the fashion heart of the fashion city, I quickly learned what defines fashionable clothing:</p>
<ul>
<li>It is more expensive than mine</li>
<li>It is (at least) two sizes smaller than mine</li>
<li>It has shorter hemlines and lower necklines than mine</li>
<li>It has fewer stains than mine</li>
</ul>
<p> </p>
<p>So Fashion Week did not transform me into much of a fashionista. But I definitely stepped up my game when I was in New York. It is a walking city; I walked four or five miles most days, on unforgiving pavement. So these super-comfy, well-padded shoes should have been perfect:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/03e957718384b32528acd27b1a7a204253746af5/original/the-ugliest-shoes.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6Mzc1eDI4MSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="281" width="375" /></p>
<p>Not a chance. They are the Ugliest Shoes on the Planet. I shoved them in the back of the closet and didn't touch them until it was time to move them home. Of course, I wasn't exactly mincing around the city on Jimmy Choo platforms or Christian Louboutin spikes; I am, after all, a middle-aged woman with a bad back and a bum knee. There are limits. Most days I settled on a pair of ballet flats that left my feet sore but my knees intact. And it felt great.</p>
<p>When I was younger, my mother used to say that you should never leave the house without putting on your makeup and pulling yourself together, because the one time you did, you'd be sure to run into someone you knew. In New York, I never, ever ran into anyone I knew, not once. And yet in New York, I never left the house without putting on my makeup and pulling myself together. I got a good haircut. I learned how to tie a scarf. I accessorized.</p>
<p>Back in Boston, where dowdiness is considered a civic duty, I have regressed. I swore I'd get rid of the Ugliest Shoes on the Planet; but somehow they remain in my closet, and they find themselves on my feet more often than I'd care to admit. When someone compliments me on something I'm wearing, I feel obliged to tell them how comfortable it is, or how I bought it on sale. Real beauty comes from within, after all. Too much attention to my appearance would only reveal how shallow I am, or how profligate, or how oppressed by mainstream notions of how a woman should look.</p>
<p>But I miss that sense of putting on a game face before I leave the house. I wish I could still wear my fabulous Vampira-red lipstick without feeling self-conscious; in New York, I didn't give it a second thought. There are a couple of fun dresses I bought in New York; in Boston, I have worn each exactly once:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/45490ed3435e6ee5a68e9b85ecfbb8e3e295a496/original/black-dress.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MjQ1eDQ4MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="480" width="245" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/641a3b6659a17893a4d2e33757f746ec99b08989/original/red-dress.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MjQ1eDM5NSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="395" style="vertical-align: text-bottom;" width="245" /></p>
<p>In New York, I wore these dresses out to dinner all the time; here, it feels like they show a little too much leg, a little too much cleavage. I choose the black pants instead.</p>
<p>But it's too bad, don't you think? Those dresses are awfully cute. And so comfortable! What's more, I got them on sale. </p>
<p> </p>
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Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61149452013-09-01T20:00:00-04:002013-09-02T08:31:36-04:00Return of the Carpool Blues
<p>It's Labor Day -- can the Carpool Blues be far behind? Here's another tune from "Songs of Domestic Bliss" -- a hymn for the season.</p>
<p>Click here for listening, lyrics and free download!</p>
<p><a href="http://www.midlifemomsongs.com/domestic_bliss/" data-imported="1">CLICK HERE for the Carpool Blues!</a></p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61149442013-08-23T20:00:00-04:002021-09-03T13:18:46-04:00What to do while the rest of the family is on vacation?
<p>Something is wrong with this picture.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/91841f1e852f8ccd9e083b888636ff297ee44fc0/original/glove-in-freezer.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDAweDMwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="Pink gloved freezer cleaning" height="300" width="400" /></p>
<p>Husband Steve is cavorting with his brothers in the Basque motherland. My older child, a college junior, is leading a group of incoming freshmen on a kayaking expedition in the glorious Pacific Northwest. Child #2 is off to orchestra camp, to spend a week playing Grieg, Stravinsky and Wagner with 100 of her new best friends. </p>
<p>And I am home, defrosting the freezer.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/8453e45bc3a8701446040325e6960c44d2e26c0c/original/freezer-stock-in-chest.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="Ice chest during freezer cleaning" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p>Everything fits in the ice chest for temporary storage, with the exception of these two orphaned containers of ice cream:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/c17c08e1f39f823954ed7e2f57e60c39c474e352/original/ice-cream-leftover.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzUweDI2MyJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="Orphaned ice cream containers" height="263" width="350" /></p>
<p>I think I will just eat them.</p>
<p>On the plus side, I have control of the soundtrack -- a rare occurrence in my house. I am usually the last one to grab the family iPod. But today, I have the chance to choose the music -- and the mood.</p>
<p>First stop: self-pity! Soundtrack: Edith Piaf, because she, too, suffered greatly:</p>
<p></p>
<div class="video responsive"><div class="video-container"><div class="video responsive"><div class="video-container"><iframe frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/JKPvx38D4GM?rel=0" width="420" class="wrapped wrapped"></iframe></div></div></div></div>
<p> </p>
<p>But that gets old after about two songs (one and a half, unless one of them is "La Vie en Rose"). Besides, the sheer exuberance of scientific curiosity gets the better of me pretty quickly (soundtrack: <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LsAiCs66l40" target="_blank" data-imported="1">Particle Man</a>, by They Might Be Giants). Here is the bowl of ice I scraped off the bottom of my freezer, chunky with God-knows-what food bits and general filth:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/1310df14948b1c1c9191bc56df88e0983226463a/original/ice-from-freezer.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="Bowl of dirty ice from freezer cleaning" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p>I'm quite sure that if I were to defrost this and culture it in some appropriate substrate, I'd discover the next penicillin, a miracle cure for something dreadful. I nominate head lice.</p>
<p>I have this nagging feeling that I could perhaps get the most out of this experience if I could only surrender myself to the here and now, and capture the Zen of freezer-cleaning. (Soundtrack: The Gyuto Monks):</p>
<p></p>
<div class="video responsive"><div class="video-container"><div class="video responsive"><div class="video-container"><iframe frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/HakplugtPQI?rel=0" width="560" class="wrapped wrapped"></iframe></div></div></div></div>
<p> </p>
<p>But not really. Because Zen is incompatible with nagging feelings, and also probably with pink rubber gloves.</p>
<p>I think, in the end, I will need to settle for the satisfaction of a job well done (soundtrack: Queen's "<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=04854XqcfCY" target="_blank" data-imported="1">We Are the Champions</a>"). Just look at this:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/8b04b989761dd44de4a4aabe58408462e4bb7628/original/pristine-freezer.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="Freshly cleaned freezer" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p>Magnificent! From now on, nobody eats out of it but me.</p>
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Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61149432013-08-13T20:00:00-04:002022-04-29T11:36:17-04:00The Bunnies' Revenge
<p>It didn't work out so well for Whitey, either.</p>
<p>A few weeks ago, I posted a blog entry ("<a href="http://midlifemomsongs.com/blog/whitey_bulger_in_the_garden/" data-imported="1">Whitey Bulger in the Garden</a>") in which I enthused, rather smugly, about the many strategies I have employed to keep marauding members of the animal kingdom out of my veggie patch. I was particularly eloquent about a certain electric fence we'd installed -- a single wire, set at bunny height, which would deliver to any encroaching rabbit a jolt big enough to scare him off, but not enough to do any actual harm. At that point, the fence seemed to have been completely successful: parsley, beets, and beans, veggies that had been chomped to the ground in previous years, had all survived and thrived.</p>
<p>Then I went on vacation for a week. Here's what I found when I returned:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/11f074c08bf58bd1697a312fbf00b31b38cdaa92/original/beans.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6Mjc1eDIwNiJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="206" width="275" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/48ae3331297c53d57ffdfe0935c74155b71cf4bd/original/kale.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6Mjc1eDIwNiJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_right border_" alt="" height="206" style=" border: 0px none;" width="275" /></p>
<p>The skeletal remains of previously thriving beans and kale. I am drawing the only possible conclusions:</p>
<ul>
<li>The bunnies have returned.</li>
<li>They are literate.</li>
<li>And they have Internet access.</li>
</ul>
<p> </p>
<p>Until I had the temerity to boast of my bunny-exclusion techniques on my website, the bunnies had been completely and totally out of the garden picture this year. But barely a week passed after the "Whitey" post before the first signs of rabbit damage had begun to appear. They're onto the fact that the electric fence is essentially harmless. The bunnies did the research, and they have reacted accordingly: they are now brazen residents of the garden, hopping under (babies) or over (biggies) the wire with scarcely a care in their bunny heads. They have figured out what's what. And further, they know that I referred to them as "dumb bunnies," and used a few choice epithets besides. </p>
<p>And now they are exacting their rabbit revenge, by devouring my bean plants, down to the very stalks, and then going after the kale (clearly, they have also read <a href="http://midlifemomsongs.com/blog/live_well_eat_longer/" data-imported="1">last week's post</a> on the virtues of kale). Curiously enough, while they mowed down the beans, the kale, and a few beet plants, they have left some lovely chard (a beet relative) more or less unscathed. (Of course, now that I've published this, I'm betting the chard plants will be victimized before the sunrise tomorrow). </p>
<p>So now I am left scrambling after the usual pansy-assed organic solutions, basically, coating my garden with smells and tastes that the rabbits will find irksome. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/3ddfdb88f0113e0e80237623c37ddf3c1e752a74/original/scram.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6Mjc1eDM2NyJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="367" width="275" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/3d6c5596d124d9e82d0cb3a137d7f99bd6c2364a/original/ingredients-edited.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6Mjc1eDIwNiJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_right border_" alt="" height="206" width="275" /></p>
<p>This stuff guarantees (or rather, GUARANTEES!!!) that the rabbits will leave in a huff. Skeptical of any promises on this front, I have also whipped up some pepper spray, choosing the most noxious-sounding recipe the Internet had to offer (half a dozen hot peppers, pureed in their entirety, steeped, strained and sprayed on the most bunny-attractive plants. And then sprayed a second time. Because I am leaving little to chance.)</p>
<p>And this time around, I am going to use the blog to further my cause: </p>
<p>BUNNIES, IF YOU ARE READING THIS, KNOW THAT WHATEVER MAY HAVE HAPPENED WITH THAT WIRE, THIS TIME IF YOU MESS WITH MY GARDEN, I WILL MAKE YOU REALLY, REALLY MISERABLE. THE FOOD YOU WILL FIND HERE WILL BURN YOUR LITTLE MOUTHS LIKE NOBODY'S BUSINESS. AND I AM NOT GOING TO GIVE YOU ANY BEER OR YOGURT TO CUT THE HEAT.</p>
<p>There! That ought to do it.</p>
<p>As an ironic postscript to my return to my much-reduced garden, this sign confronted me on my post-vacation, restock-the-fridge trip to Whole Foods:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/583a8ab8408184dd43f77b32cc8a81ea32a82c7d/original/bunny.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p>Bunnies, I will tell you from deep and ugly personal experience, are the <em>enemies</em> of vegetarian options. Anyone who is truly dedicated to a vegetarian lifestyle should be <em>eating the bunnies</em>. It's the only sensible response.</p>
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Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61149422013-08-07T20:00:00-04:002021-11-03T11:43:01-04:00Live well, eat longer
<p>I am sitting in a vacation cottage in Maine, watching the late afternoon sun glint off the water, listening to the calling of the gulls. <img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/b1b0ac9df9707338e5a0abe3f9c4af2c680da6a1/original/view-from-porch-in-me.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NjQweDQ3OCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="478" width="640" /></p>
<p>It is lovely and peaceful. What a treat to let my mind wander at such moments, wherever it wants to go, contemplating the great and small questions of the universe: what's for dinner? And is it too soon to start cooking?</p>
<p>I have been thinking a lot about food lately -- well, mostly because I always think a lot about food. Also I am on vacation, and eating is one of my favorite recreational activities. And I am roughing it in this cabin here in Maine, without my usual pantry staples, and certainly without my usual complement of kitchen utensils. A whole week without a salad spinner -- imagine! I have to dry my lettuce in a colander, as my pioneer foremothers did in days of old.<img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/81972c85e57a4052bd664ba4e8c722c069158bae/original/pots-and-pans.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NjQweDQ4MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="480" width="640" /></p>
<p>More challenging, there is not a muffin pan to be found, despite the fact that around every bend in the road there is a roadside stand selling wild blueberries (magical for baking). Muffins are a critical part of my family's ecosystem. But pioneer mama that I am, I made do, commandeering the cottage's single baking vessel (a pie plate) and baking one single, giant muffin (with <a href="http://www.kingarthurflour.com/shop/items/king-arthur-white-whole-wheat-flour-5-lb" data-imported="1">King Arthur's white whole wheat flour</a>, because I brought a 5 lb bag with me, because there are some things which a girl simply cannot live without, even on vacation):</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/d717ae1e17f21c8251fc6de04427e6d3fe23eaa5/original/giant-muffin.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDgweDM1OSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="359" width="480" /></p>
<p>It was as awesome as it looks.</p>
<p>I have also been thinking about thinking about food a lot this week, because shortly before I left, <a href="http://www.npr.org/blogs/thesalt/2013/07/29/205845319/two-day-diets-how-mini-fasts-can-help-maximize-weight-loss" data-imported="1">NPR ran a story about fasting</a>, and how it turns out that fasting may be the best think for your health since sliced bananas (or rather, since not eating sliced bananas). They interviewed a researcher named Mark Mattson from the National Institute on Aging who fasts for 18 hours a day. He says it focuses his mind and makes him more productive. </p>
<p>Sure, if I were to fast 18 hours every day, my mind would be focused, too: on my next meal, what it would be, and exactly how long it would be before I got to eat it. I organize my life in such a way that I spend as much time as possible eating. Yes, I know, I know; there are more important things in life than food. But are there really? We are members of the animal kingdom, after all. Nature tells us to feed ourselves and to procreate. There are good biological reasons why food and sex are pretty darned compelling.</p>
<p>My central strategy for spending as much time eating as possible is to eat lots and lots of vegetables. <img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/a121f044e01175f288ad52796f18bdf158921850/original/lettuce.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NjQweDQ4MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="lettuce from my garden" height="480" width="640" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/7d3c2f49edafa16bfef1086fb5262484db787943/original/carrots-and-beets.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NTAweDY2NyJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="667" width="500" /></p>
<p>I have a farm share as well as a (small) veggie garden, and I use up every bit of both. The thing is, a great big serving of <a href="http://www.eatingwell.com/recipes/massaged_kale_salad.html" data-imported="1">my favorite kale salad</a> has about the same number of calories as 2 1/2 ounces of steak. I'd gobble up the steak in a heartbeat. But kale, you have to chew (and chew, and chew). You're eating for a long, long time. It's a good thing.</p>
<p><br><a href="http://markbittman.com/" data-imported="1">Mark Bittman</a> says to eat vegan before six. <a href="http://michaelpollan.com/books/in-defense-of-food/" data-imported="1">Michael Pollan</a> says eat food, not too much, mostly plants. I say: eat constantly, mostly vegetables. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/c9463747c04cc3a3bebd196bfa18c12a7cdee8f3/original/lobster-dinner.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NjQweDQ4MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="480" width="640" /></p>
<p>Although I have to say, here in Maine, that lobster is pretty good, too.</p>
<p> </p>
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Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61149412013-07-27T20:00:00-04:002020-01-16T16:00:38-05:00Don't mess with the mama bear
<p>Probably my favorite song from "Songs of Domestic Bliss" -- and now with a video, in case you're one of those people who prefers to watch your music rather than just listening. Or you can just listen, on the Music page or the sidebar to the left. Full credits are on the "Music" page.</p>
<p>Let me just say right now that I was working on this song long before Sarah Palin was a gleam in John McCain's eye.....</p>
<p></p>
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Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61149402013-07-20T20:00:00-04:002021-09-10T13:56:55-04:00Whitey Bulger in the Garden
<p>Anyone who is easily offended by off-color language may want to skip today's post. The topic invites, even demands, profanity. I am talking, of course, about organic gardening.</p>
<p>I have been gardening, and gardening organically, for the better part of two decades. Yes, I am one of those people who feels most alive when my hands are plunged wrist-deep in compost-enriched soil. <img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/7f20da12f7fd6955fc4184e267caddb4b241915e/original/spring-garden.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NjQweDQ4MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="480" width="640" /></p>
<p>Nice, right? But before you imagine me working my way into a Zen-like state of oneness with all things, let me set the record straight. I see a tomato hornworm burrowing into one of my Brandywines, and I turn into Tony Soprano. The hornworm gets smashed under my shoe. Aphids get blasted to hell with the hose. Japanese beetles get drowned in a bucket of water. (Although it is perhaps the same instincts that prompt me to garden organically that also make me wonder whether my decision to target Japanese beetles, in particular, is just a little bit racist.)</p>
<p>The point is that conventional gardeners get to do their dirty work rather antiseptically, spraying insecticides at a decorous remove. We organic gardeners have to kill with our bare hands. We are brutal. Nature is not necessarily our friend. Earthworms – yes, they are friends, even though they are slimy and I don’t particularly like to touch them. (Steve, on the other hand, loves nothing more than plunging his hands into a squirming pile of worms. More on that another week.) Ladybugs are friends. Spiders: friends. Birds: frenemies. Squirrels: not friends. Bunnies: mortal foes.</p>
<p>Last August, in a blinding flash of recognition of the obvious, I realized that the reason my parsley, beans and beets were nothing more than stubby nubbins--despite my lavish use of compost and general helicopter plant parenting--was that deceptively cute bunny who’d been hopping around my little urban garden all summer, treating it as his own personal mini-fridge. So we launched, somewhat belatedly, into operation “Fuck You, You Fucking Bunny,” erecting clumsy fences around the garden bed with a mismatched bunch of sticks and bird netting. </p>
<p>It was unsightly, but it worked. They don’t call them dumb bunnies for nothing.</p>
<p>This year, Operation FYYFB has gone a step further. My friend Mark, who likes to fix things, build things and blow things up, came up with a much more elegant solution: he installed an electric wire around the garden, at bunny-height, using dog fencing technology. It doesn’t hurt the bunnies, it just pisses them off. Which is fair, I believe, because the bunnies piss me off when they eat my parsley. I only had to leave it on for a few days to get those bunnies so pissed that they stormed off in a huff and haven’t been back since.<br> <img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/0e49368bae41794246f3990b0451adebdcc11a33/original/pat-the-bunny.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NjQweDQ4MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="480" width="640" /></p>
<p>This year, the parsley is mine, all mine. Fuck you, bunnies!</p>
<p> <img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/a65ac24dbcd562794159a8aa9870f66d21a33ceb/original/parsley.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NjQweDQ4MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="480" width="640" /></p>
<p>I turned it on again when I noticed the chipmunks eating my strawberries. Fuck you, chipmunks!</p>
<p>Next project: the blueberries. In years past, the birds have eaten every last blessed berry. This year, we erected a big, ugly structure and covered it with bird netting, keeping the little feathered bastards off of the fruit.</p>
<p> <img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/f5a4ab8bff6b028cf79e66c6fcfccfded8ed6afe/original/blueberries-behind-nets.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NjQweDQ4MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="480" width="640" /></p>
<p>Fuck you, birds!</p>
<p>And so it goes that the more I garden, the more hostile and ruthless I become. Fuck with my plants and I will crush you, blast you, fry you, grind you under my heel.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/d5260f957a244f01580e423f1159733e056d2b78/original/blueberries.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NjQweDQ4MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="480" width="640" /></p>
<p>But the berries are delicious. Kumbaya.</p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61149392013-07-11T20:00:00-04:002021-09-17T15:41:44-04:00The Singing Mammogram
<p><a href="http://www.bloglovin.com/blog/9908795/?claim=yrgbfxs2t9k" data-imported="1">Follow my blog with Bloglovin</a></p>
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Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61149382013-07-04T20:00:00-04:002021-09-13T06:35:00-04:00Empty nest trial run
<p>The first weekend of our empty nest trial run culminated in a wild naked bicycle ride through the streets of Cambridge.</p>
<p>OK. So Steve and I weren’t actually on bicycles. And we were fully clothed. But we watched about 50 folks who were in fact both naked and cycling, whooping and hollering their way through Central Square, this past Saturday night, as we sat with friends at a sidewalk cafe. It was in fact a steamy night, hot and humid; and my friend Lisa was very concerned lest the unclad cyclists experience painful chafing. Lisa is an epidemiologist: I think this will open up a whole new line of research for her. </p>
<p>The more pressing question: how many of the naked riders were on borrowed Hubway bikes? <img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/393339/e17b694e219ffaf1ebd63edc540aa66ecf510b37/original/solo-ducky.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MjQ4eDMzMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="330" width="248" /></p>
<p>Saturday was Day 3 of our Empty Nest Trial Run. For the first time in forever, we have no children at home with us. My older daughter has been away at college the past two years, and this summer she has an internship in another city. My younger daughter left for a month of music camp last Wednesday afternoon. And so now it’s just me and Steve, with a relatively empty laundry basket and a glut of lettuce from our garden and farm share: a preview of the empty nest that will be ours in three short years. After more than 20 years of parenting, of organizing my life primarily around the needs of my kids, I’ve been a bit nervous about the quiet times to come.</p>
<p>And yet….so far our quiet week has included a spontaneous movie, several spontaneous dinners with friends (braised lettuce! Grilled lettuce! Spicy minced lettuce in lettuce cups!), a visit to an art installation in East Boston, a trip to the aquarium, and a night at the theater, after which we lingered to witness the naked bike ride. I wrote most of a new song, posted my Very First Tweet Ever (follow me! @midlifemomsongs), baked some bread, and wrote this blog. </p>
<p>And thus far, no uncomfortable chafing whatsoever! A girl could get used to this. </p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songstag:midlifemomsongs.com,2005:Post/61149372013-06-30T20:00:00-04:002021-08-28T13:43:08-04:00New blog! New album! New me!
<p>I am itching to record a second album. </p>
<p>My first album, “Songs of Domestic Bliss,” sold like hotcakes. I can say that because nobody, in 2013, buys hotcakes; who even knows what hotcakes <em>are</em>? In the final tally, gross sales of the album made almost enough to pay for the snacks that I fed to my musician friends--almost, but not quite, because at one point Steve made martinis for the crowd using really expensive gin. (And don’t ask about net album proceeds. There were no net proceeds.)</p>
<p>Still, I am dying to do it again. Making that first album was pretty much the most fun thing I’ve ever done in my life. (Note to kids: except, of course, for going to your concerts and hockey games! What could be more fun than that?) (Note to Steve: except, of course, for having sex with you! What could be more fun than that?) (Note to kids: Don’t read that last note to Dad; it will just embarrass you.)</p>
<p>Here are some things that I learned in the process of making “Songs of Domestic Bliss:” </p>
<ul>
<li>As it turns out, money can buy you talent. I got to perform with musicians who are so much more gifted than I that it’s amazing they would even stand in the same room with me, let alone play my tunes – for the most part, because I paid them. </li>
<li>I used to think that I can sing in tune; but apparently I don’t. I’m flat, flat, flat; except when I’m sharp, sharp, sharp. Give me the shower over a recording studio any day. I sound awesome in the shower.</li>
<li>What generous friends I have! I was wowed by the folks I haven’t seen or heard from in decades who surprised and delighted me by buying my album.</li>
<li>On the other hand, I don’t really have that many friends. Because in the end the album sold like hotcakes. </li>
</ul>
<p> </p>
<p>Older and wiser, I am raring to go on album #2. I’ve never entertained the notion of making money with my music; and I’ve given up on the idea of using music sales to cover my recording costs (because honestly, my day job is a much more efficient way to raise cash). </p>
<p>BUT: I would like my tunes to get heard. So now I plan to post them, one by one, on this very website, alternating with blog entries. And with this brand-new blog, and my brand-new commitment to slapping something amusing up here on a relatively regular basis, I am hereby making a play for some modest number of listeners, people who might not have had the gumption or wherewithal to actually buy my last album, but who just might cop a listen for free. </p>
<p>Think of it as a Kickstarter campaign, but where I’m asking not for money, but for a few minutes of your attention a week. (I thought about doing a real Kickstarter campaign; but then I thought about how I’d have to compete with the guy who is raising funds to grow portraits of Albert Einstein in petrie dishes out of bacteria. And I just don’t think I can match that level of creative energy.)</p>
<p> So: come back often! Send links to friends! I will post each of the “Domestic Bliss” songs; and then, if and when I get a decent stream of visits, I will record and post songs from my new album. </p>
<p>Which, I can tell you right now, is destined to sell like hotcakes.</p>
Laurie Gould -- Midlife Mom Songs