reasonable creature

I have a review in tomorrow's Washington Post Book World.

How has my life changed since I had a baby and lost my job? Here's a hint: Tonight is the White House Correspondents Association Dinner. In years past, I would have spent the day at the hairdresser's and then having my makeup done at George's at the Four Seasons (Carl Ray is the mad genius of maquillage), before rushing over to the Hilton for the pre-parties, around 6pm. To give you a sense of it, at previous WHCA dinners and afterparties--where boring Washington bigwigs mingle with improbably attractive Hollywood types, and somehow it's okay that even though we're journalists everyone is kissing up to the administration--I:

(1) almost fainted, literally, at the nearness of Harrison Ford;
(2) drunkenly told Oliver Platt he was "just great, just great!";
(3) was urged by NYPD Blue hottie Henry Simmons to watch the next episode ("you get to see my butt!");
(4) got kissed by a lesser Phoenix sister;
(5) eavesdropped as Ralph Nader and Katherine Harris argued over who would be the smaller footnote in history.

So what do I have planned for today? Well, we're almost out of formula again, and I'd like to get some plants for the containers in the front yard, and I never got to that laundry pile yesterday....

*previous entries in this series can be found here

"humanitarian"

Isn't the Kaavya Viswanathan story a bit puzzling? These cases tend to be bizarre anyway--Slate has a good rundown on why plagiarists do it. But I really want to know the nuts and bolts of this one. Try to imagine what actually happened: You're 17, writing a 310-page book, and you're stuck for material. So you crack open a couple of successful chick-lit books and start pulling things directly from them. And you do this more than 40 different times, barely bothering to change the wording at all. I dunno, to me that seems so much harder than just writing something with a similar plot line to another book. If you pull out someone else's sentences, then you have to figure out how to make them work within the story you already have, and you still have to write the rest of the stuff.

The alternate theory is that her book packager did the copying, but that's almost weirder. Do these people so believe in formulas that they are afraid to stray a few inches away from what has sold in the past? Oh, whoops. Asked and answered.

Okay, so my degree may be in English lit, but that doesn't mean I know a thing about poetry. Poetry! I like the idea of it, and I sure enjoy reading Paul Muldoon, but a lot of the time I just don't get it. (Is this the autistic part of me? I know it's in there somewhere....) Plus which, I hate the idea of having a "month" for something, like women's history month, or whatever--it seems to me a way to marginalize something while pretending not to.

Still and all, as we are apparently nearing the end of "National Poetry Month," I recommend to you what bookslut's been doing with poetry lately, which I find mostly intelligible and often funny.

It turns out that all this time I've actually been in training for a new (paying) job, and it's right now being advertised on Craigslist: "Celebrity Personal Assistant". (Just substitute "baby" for each instance of "artist.")

In a surprisingly satisfying Wall Street Journal review (subs. req'd) of the new Caitlin Flanagan book everyone loves to hate, this statement brought me up short:

Ms. Flanagan's most famous phrase to date is "When a mother works, something is lost." The feminists she disdains are enraged by that truth, so evident to the rest of us. (emphasis added)

I suppose that this might sound like a simple, "evident" fact, but on closer scrutiny it is anything but. When a mother doesn't work, many things might be "lost": money, for one thing, something that doesn't seem to be an issue for Flanagan, who is a stay-at-homer with a nanny to boot. Not to mention self-esteem, identity, etc. (some might add that you can lose your mind...). And when a mother works, yes, there are sacrifices to be made, or at least major adjustments. In other words, either way, "something is lost"--that is the price of being an adult. We make the best choices we can, and we learn that we can never achieve perfection, can never live the ideal. Yes, this means that there is no one right way to do motherhood--and that is a very, very good thing.

This bit of brilliance brings to mind the Gwar show I saw in college, probably the most transcendent performance I will ever experience. With fake bodily fluids, that is.

More news on the schnuller front: I'm now told that the word has also become German slang for "penis." (I'm forgoing the obvious jokes to be made here.) However, in the course of further investigation, I have found other languages' words for pacifier:

Dutch: fopspeen, vredestichter; French: sucette, tétine; Italian: succhiotto, ciuccio; Spanish: chupete, pacificador, apaciguador; Portuguese: chupeta

and, perhaps bringing us full circle:

Russian: соска.

(I know, I know, those are cyrillic letters, that's not how it's pronounced, but how could I resist?)

In repsonse to an earlier post, a new father in the RC audience writes: "I like to use the german word for soother--schnuller-- because it sounds onomatopoetic."

Interesting--though isn't the root here just the word for "quiet?" I.e., a "quietener"? Which is more like "pacifier" than "soother" in content. In any case, this all makes me wonder what the Yiddish is for pacifier/soother. I certainly remember a lot of other useful Yiddish words (keppela, schuff, etc) from my childhood. Let me know if there are other good soother words we should add to the list.

I find it just plain impossible not to watch Big Love. Every week I say to myself, all right, that's enough, it's just a soap opera. But it's a soap opera about polygamists! Who dress funny! And even though it's abundantly clear that everything is going to come falling down on these people, painfully and wretchedly, I just can't look away. I even adore creepy ol' Chloe Sevigny as the bratty second wife. And I lurve Jeanne Tripplehorn rediscovering her love life with her boring husband. Plus, I want to find out if Margene and the oldest son are going to start fooling around.

Is this a sign that it's time for me to get a job?

Here's the joke: I find myself spying out the window at the rather handsome young man doing garden work next door. But this isn't some kind of cougar or milf thing--I just want to pick up some weeding pointers! And no, that's not some new euphemism. I really need some help with my shrubbery. Doh! REALLY, I'M JUST TALKING ABOUT THE GARDEN. Really.

So what do the exhausted parents of an 8-month-old baby do on a Thursday night?

Not so long ago, we might have been going out to dinner, you know, starting the weekend a day early and all that. Maybe we'd catch a movie, or hang out late playing video games at a friend's house. (You wanted the truth, I'm telling the truth. Straight up.)

But now things are far different. Which is why we're watching a rerun of VH1 Classic's "Hangin' with Rush" special. Husband and baby are reclining in the gymini, and as the first strains of "Closer to the Heart" start pounding, he turns to her with undisguised delight and says, "See? That's Geddy Lee! He's Jewish, just like you!"

Yes, VH1 Classic, which basically defines the Middle Age in the 21st century. And yes, Rush, the wretched grandfathers of prog rock. The only thing that makes this all ok is that with a flick of the channel we're watching Pink's "Stupid Girls" video. (If you haven't seen it: It's a send-up of the Olsens/Hiltons/skinny bimbo culture.) As husband's people might say, "Brilliant!"

Amid the controversy over whether Tom and Katie know what their new baby's name means (and if the birth was silent, and when Grier will be old enough to shun her at celebrity gymboree class), an important issue has been ignored. That is, what are the other meanings of "Suri"? After some in-depth research (read: fits of googling in between wiping baby's nose), I can tell you the following:

* In the Netherlands, Suri is an ethnic slur, meaning someone from Suriname (Wikipedia)

* "Suri alpacas emanate extraordinary vigor, intelligence, ease of breeding, and adaptability to hot and cold climates. ... The fiber of suri alpacas is coveted by the fashion industry... ." (The Suri Network)

* "What is Idaman Suri? Its every cooks dream and just what food lovers would crave for. It’s fuss free, healthy and adds an authentic taste to your every meal. Now with the help of Idaman Suri, everything is taken care of. Not only the lady of the house will be at ease but also you men and young adults will find cooking with Idaman Suri, pleasurable and so convenient." (idaman suri)

* "Abu Musab al-Suri might be the most dangerous terrorist you've never heard of." (CNN)

I'm sure this all means something. Also, note to the Gawker folks: While of course it is Sara(h) that means princess in Hebrew (indeed, I spent my childhood informing others of this fact), I've also seen Suri as a variant of that same name.

The little vector has passed her cold on, and it seems to be hitting me harder than husband (as usual). But with the cleaner coming, we had to leave the house for a few hours yesterday. Then baby's fussing got too disruptive for Starbucks and we took off to the playground. She was asleep in the stroller by the time we got there, and I felt so ill I could hardly sit up, so I lay down on a park bench in the shade. The playground was empty, so I figured it wouldn't be too weird. Then the shade got too cold, so I moved over to a bench in the sun, balancing the newspaper over my head to block out the brightness.

I woke to find a nanny standing over me with a concerned look on her face. I think I kind of freaked her out. But--given the "sleep when the baby sleeps" policy I've chosen to follow--shouldn't it be ok to nap on a park bench? Or, indeed, anywhere?

Anyway, with the festival of puking and diaper explosion that followed later, I was glad to have had the nap.

While baby had a terrific first trip to NYC, she did do a bit of whingeing during the car trip back. "Whingeing," not "whining:" it's one of those words husband uses that are so much more apt than the American version--"whingeing" is far better at capturing that pre-verbal plaint. Another example: soother, for pacifier. As a friend's son pointed out recently, "pacifier" is condescending. Soothing is a much kinder thing to do.

Over at GUBU, sister-in-law has been doing some nice blogging on the subject (though unfortunately her kids also seem to call their soothers "doodies," which oddly echoes my previous post...).

According to the website of Child magazine (via Baby Chic 101),

Bloomers Baby Diaper Cakes are all the rage for agents and execs to send as shower or baby gifts to their A-list clients. Among the recipients: Debra Messing, Julia Roberts, and Denise Richards. Decorated with silk flowers and topped with a porcelain baby block, they come wrapped in white tulle.

I've been puzzled about this phenomenon for a while. (If you aren't interested in clicking through, just imagine accordian-style tiers of disposable diapers stacked like a wedding cake, each layer bound by a ribbon--blue for the boys, pink for the girls, naturally.) Why would one want to conflate these two very different things, associated with two opposite ends of the digestive track? Is it pleasing in Hollywood to think about eating super-absorbent disposable plastic? Perhaps if you've been subsisting on lettuce and chlor-trimeton for the past decade it doesn't seem so strange.

So we're sitting at the Chipotle eating tacos and drinking Negro Medelo. And I decide it's time to bring up this issue that's been on my mind. That I appreciate the fact that since my freelancing nets about enough money to keep baby in formula for, um, maybe three weeks, husband has become the sole breadwinner, allowing me to write my little doodles and lounge about in yoga pants and a muumuu.

So husband says--and this is pretty close to a direct quote:

"I don't see it that way--as the University of Chicago's Gary Becker would say, just because there's not a market transaction, it doesn't mean there isn't production going on."

Which is, oddly enough, the most comforting thing I've heard in a long time.

Here is George Saunders (as always, let us give thanks for George Saunders!) talking to Deborah Solomon in today's Times magazine:

That for me was the big turning point in my artistic life, when my wife and I had our kids. The world got infused with morality again.

Which is a nice antidote to hearing that, at a recent Folger event, Michael Chabon proclaimed that each child you have kills a book you would have written.

Addendum: How can Deborah Solomon not know what a Swiffer is? Seriously, I'm kind of worried about her.

As someone who's had the fortune (?) of being featured on Page Six (sadly, the item is now cloistered behind the pay wall), the current revelations about pay-for-good-play and New York Post gossip Jared Paul Stern are fascinating indeed. The latest: P. O'Neill points out the "coincidence" of Stern making time with Jeff Gannon last year. Sweet stuff. But before we get all up in the Post's grill, consider this: Only one reporter who wrote about my getting laid off during maternity leave actually bothered to call me for comment. It wasn't the New York Times (though they did spell my name correctly). It was the Post's Keith Kelly. So, props to you, sir.

Just what does a stay-at-home mother do all day? I used to wonder, too, especially while I was pregnant--and I was never particularly satisfied by the answers I got from other women. "Oh, the time just flies by, I can never get anything done!" was the usual response. Turns out they were all hiding the truth. And since this blog is concerned with dispelling the myths around parenthood (or something like that), I am about to reveal the secrets of the sahms*. I believe this sums it up:

It's after 3pm, baby and I are both still in pajamas, she is happily sucking on a bottle in her playpen while I watch Buffy reruns and eat Nutella straight from the jar.

Ah, motherhood!

* I promise not to use those abhorrent acronyms on a regular basis.

You know you've been wondering: Why is it that none of the photos of the scary Britney-giving-birth sculpture show the crowning of Sean Preston's head?

Now you know. And you'll never feel the same again.

It's okay to be rather tickled by the idea of the Department of Homeland Security's deputy press secretary being charged with seducing a minor over the Internet--after all, the "14-year-old girl" turned out to be a Polk County, Fla., detective. (Don't these guys read the New Yorker?) But here's a little puzzle: today's New York Times, in reporting on the case against Brian J. Doyle, mentions in passing that "From 1975 to 2001, he worked on the Washington news desk for Time magazine."

So is this what a quarter century at a newsweekly can do to a person? Just askin'....

It can't be a coincidence that, just as I am launching this blog, today's mail brings an offer for a charter subscription to Cookie magazine. The glorified magalog debuted in December (though not before Si Newhouse was heard to call his newest venture's cover baby "too fat"). The very fact of Cookie's existence encapsulates everything that is at stake with today's parents, as is evident in the subscription pitch copy:

If you don't care about how to cut sandwiches into cute little stars...

If you've vowed never to dress your child in anything with a licensed character on it...

If you want everything you do and buy for your child to be the best it can possibly be, and nothing less...

COOKIE is the magazine for you.

The striving, the anxiety, the guilt, the addiction to consumption: All this, for just a buck an issue!

Of course I signed up.