reasonable creature

The crazy Republican public broadcasting scandal just gets better and better.

Didn't really mean to watch the Emmys last night, but wasn't it charming to see Mariska Hargitay proudly displaying her normal-ish postpartum bod? And to hear Julia L-D thank her nanny?

Celebrities, they're just like us.

I just figured out the difference between "stay-at-home" and "working" moms. Turns out all the arguing over day care and the value of women's work is just window dressing. Here's the real distinction: Because I'm at home, I have time to do the extraneous household work that I always felt I should do, but never had time for. Today, for example, I stored baby's outgrown Bundle Me (that's a fleece stroller bunting, fyi). The old me would have just crammed it in the corner of a closet, formula stains and all, leaving it to moulder until it's unearthed, months from now, only to be thrown away. But this time I washed it, found its original plastic zipper bag, repacked it, and stashed it in the basement.

Is life any better because of this? Arguably not. I'm certainly not a better mother for having laundered a Bundle Me. But there is something satisfying about doing even small things well.

From today's Publisher's Lunch weekly email:

NONFICTION
Advice/Relationships
Amy Sutherland's WHAT I LEARNED FROM SHAMU, based on her "most-emailed" NYT Modern Love article about applying the principles of exotic animal training to her marriage, extending those lessons to other everyday relationship challenges -- from your brother-in-law's chronic lateness to your boss's OCD to the driver who likes to tailgate, to Stephanie Higgs at Random House, in a pre-empt, by Jane Chelius of the Jane Chelius Literary Agency (world).

Of course, this email also brought news of a David Hasselhoff autobiography, so perhaps it was just all a bad dream?

Getting the cavity filled wasn't the worst thing that happened today. But watching the DVR recording of Richard Dean Anderson's return to the Stargate franchise, well, that was harrowing. Macgyver is getting old!

And who will take his place? Who will be the O'Neill for baby's generation? Has he even been born yet? These are the great questions of our time, I think.

One of the many fun things about visiting Philadelphia is the chance to play Scrabble with baby's American uncle. He's the house champion, although not invincible, with a personal best score of 474. (Typical games in our house have scores in the high 200s/low 300s.) And he always seems surprised when I win, like he really doesn't expect me to be all that smart.

All of that has changed, however. Because tonight, not only did I beat him, I beat his personal best, with a score of 477.

Here's what I'd like to take away from this: That ridding myself of outside stress (i.e. a "real" job) has fired up my intellect, freeing up my brain to run wild. Let's assume that's the case, and not that I have just been doing too many crossword puzzles.

Harry and the Potters at the First Unitarian Church, Philadelphia: Oh. My. God.

The show started with the Hungarian Horntails, fronted by seven-year-old Darius, backed by his 4-year-old brother.

Yes, this is true.

They had a sort of death metal vibe, but really high-pitched. Also, very cute. "Kill the Basilisk" was a highlight.

Next came Draco and the Malfoys, a muscular rock duo (also two brothers) with such songs as "Your Family Is Poor" (about Ron Weasley) and an awesome reinterpretation of the 80s pop classic "99 red balloons": "99 deatheaters." Some fine trash-talking about the Potters, too.

Then it was time for the main event. And here's the thing: Harry and the Potters are actually a perfectly delightful indie-rock band, who happen to sing only songs about the Harry Potter books. They are, again, brothers, both of whom are dressed Potter-ish; their origin myth involves time travel that allows the Year 4 Harry to form a band with the Year 7 Harry. Their best-loved song may be "Save Ginny Weasley," with the memorable lyric "are you petrified of being petrified?"

It's true that this was the first show I've been to in at least three years, so I may be guilty of overenthusiasm, but golly! It was swell. And not only because of the crowd, which perfectly illustrated the venn-diagram overlap of hipsters and geeks. Some of whom came in costume. Some of whom brought their knitting. Or their parents.

For 35 years, I looked forward to each dentist visit. Yeah, I sometimes had a lot of tartar build-up, but in all that time I never had a cavity.

Until today.

The dentist seemed sort of sad giving me the news. I asked, "Does this mean you'll have to use a drill, like in the movies, when someone goes to the dentist?" Yes, he told me, it does.

It's as though I'm losing a part of my self. It used to be one of my things, part of a triumvirate of boasts: "I never learned how to ride a bike, I've never eaten a pickle, and I've never had a cavity." Now that there is decay in my dentin layer, am I still the same person I used to be? This is kind of how it felt when I realized I needed glasses--like part of me that I'd always trusted to work perfectly was letting me down. Like I'm rusting.

Baby's aunt and I made 150 blini yesterday.

And what did you make? Hmmm? Yes, I see.

Don't blame Kelefa Sanneh: Readers of today's New York Times arts section may well have been confused by his "badonkadonk" piece since Times standards rendered any actual explanation of the term impossible. Sanneh was reduced to this definition: "hip-hop slang — sly onomatopoeia for the imaginary sound made by a decidedly nonimaginary asset."

Er, okay. Um, huh?

I can think of at least three possible "nonimaginary" but not-for-prime-Times body parts he might be describing. So, for the record, he's talking about a very big and curvy female rear-end. Now that wasn't so difficult, was it?

I am wearing my brand-new jeans, which have ZIPPERS ON THE LEGS. Which is what I was wearing 20-some-odd years ago. Which means that, since the fashions of my teenage years have come back into style, I am officially old.

Baby's aunt and I came up with a new term today. It's to be used when you and another person figure out that you both like the same somewhat unlikely thing.

"It's a Potsie!"

In this case, although she professes some love for Chachi, we both admitted to secretly desiring Potsie all along.

One of the many great things about watching Murder, She Wrote reruns is the chance to see extremely unlikely cameos. Remember, when the show was in its heyday, it was the place to be. (That's why Magnum did the crossover episode.) So we're introducing a new RC Unnecessary List feature, which begins today with:

Surprising (yet genuine) Murder, She Wrote guest stars

Bill Maher

Joaquin Phoenix (and Summer Phoenix)

George Clooney

Courteney Cox

Martin Landau

Zeljko Ivanek

Jerry Orbach (recurring!)

Linda Hamilton

Jane Leeves

Yaphet Kotto

Megan Mullally

Paul Sorvino

Jenna Elfman (uncredited)

Marcia Cross

Cynthia Nixon

I had decided to hate Gene Simmons on account of the way he acted with Terry Gross. But I just watched his new reality TV show, Gene Simmons Family Jewels, and despite what you may have read, it is way better than The Osbornes, for one very good reason: against all odds, Gene Simmons and porn star Shannon Tweed seem to have raised two really nice, cute kids.

Took a two-day break from my labors just now, to commemorate the two days of my labor. Yes, it's been a year of motherhood. And what do I know that I didn't know before? That "natural" childbirth is a crock; that office jobs are for chumps; that the two Murder, She Wrote reruns every morning are repeated every afternoon; that braids are not really a sustainable hairstyle if you're 35; that friends (and cool sisters) are the best family of all; and that creating and nurturing a new little person is the most profound experience there is.

One year ago today--August 2, 2005--I spent my last hour at work, madly trying to finish up a few last emails and memos (and seeing to the care of an ancient plant) before going to the hospital for the induction of labor. Waddling up toward M street to hail a cab I found that a crepe-and-bubble-tea joint had just opened a few doors down from the office, on Thomas Jefferson Street, so of course I had to make a pit stop. Vanilla bubble tea and sucre-citron crepe in hand, I proceeded home, and from there to the labor and delivery room.

And then everything changed.

Was it fitting that I spent today at Ikea? Perhaps--the intellectual mettle necessary to navigate its maze of mysterious Swedish home furnishings is not far outpaced by the work required to make a newsmagazine. Assembling the stuff once you get home, well, that's even trickier. And much more fun than rubbing some clips together to produce 100 lines about Mel Gibson, or Hezbollah. (Subjects which are then rendered equal, by the interior logic of the newsmag.) I'm sad that I never got to go back to the crepe-tea place, or the wonderful bakery that is its neighbor. But apart from a few sweet souls, I can honestly say that's all I miss from life on Thomas Jefferson Street.

What do you do with a baby when the forecast promises 100 degrees?

Why, take her to Ikea, of course!

At least that's the plan. I'll be chugging ice water and hoping my headache goes away. She'll be sweating up her stylishly-but-unwisely black carseat and warbling her phonemes. If we manage to purchase anything more than a 100-pack of tea lights I'll be amazed.

* other posts in this series can be found here