reasonable creature

Sometimes, you're watching Sesame Street, and you see something that, well, amazes. For example:

1. The "Elmo's World" about putting on clothing--"you know, clothing!"--in which Elmo dons a seriously leather-man jacket (I tried really hard to find an image of this, but the Children's Television Sesame Workshop people must have sanitized the internets);

2. A song about waking up in the morning that's a rewrite of "Hey Ya" (sans Andre, sans lyrics like "Don't want to meet your Momma/Just want to make you come-ah");

3. Amy Sedaris singing the praises of the humble apple (to a very unimpressed Cookie Monster, it should be noted).

I haven't seen "An Inconvenient Truth," but I did spend the last hour calling up companies to get taken off their catalog mailing lists. (Among them, Chico's--yes, Chico's. From a sad little period of my life.) It's as much for the environment as it is for Husband, who is no doubt sick of carting out all that recycling.

As Kramer said, before he got scary: "now, it's payback time. 'Pottery Barn' is in for a world of hurt."

Although I've agreed with my personal consultant (that is, my pal J) that my daily word count should be no less than 500, I wrote 1000 today, on the dot, no sweat! If I do that again for the next 99 days, I will be in the ballpark. The ballpark of it's time to edit and rewrite. But still.

So I guess I've re-learned how to concentrate on the novel, and how to get a lot of work done.

I've also learned that a breakfast burrito is more than just a euphemism for morning wood!

ADDENDUM: Speaking of which, now I remember what that song in my head is, it's "Nth Degree."

I now feel even more justified in hating "I [heart] Huckabees." Thank you, Defamer.

(P.S. I know that a better blogger than I would have figured out how to post the "heart" symbol, but I'm not wasting that 5 minutes of my life.)

Wanna name your baby Metallica (via Gawker)? Well, why not?

Yes, I'm overreacting. But when I went to purchase the aforementioned Nutella crepe last night, the young woman behind the counter called me "Ma'am."

Is it that obvious?

I guess the flight went well--I mean, I didn't wake up next to a corpse, but then, I wasn't flying first class. I did, however, sit next to a very nice man with a very viscous cold. And I had a "celebrity" sighting: Bubba Sparxxx. No, I didn't know who that was either, but the gals at Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport Starbucks were very excited. I, meanwhile, was mourning the loss of my confiscated hair gel.

And so here I am, miles and miles away from a very pukey Baby (the doctor is sure it's a passing tummy flu), in the land of beautiful undergraduate youths and aged conservative think-tankers. If I were still ranking colleges, I would certainly have to add this to the methodology: At Stanford, you can purchase a freshly made Nutella crepe at 1 a.m. As we used to say at Princeton: 'nuff said.

Although it is infinitely easier to pack for a trip when you're not lugging a toddler along with you, I'm finding myself pressed for time nonetheless, mostly because a sense of duty--ok, guilt--has me doing every piece of laundry in the house so that Husband won't have to deal with that while I'm away. Also, I baked muffins for his breakfasts.

And if that's not enough, I have a review in the Washington Post this weekend. See? You can have it all.

That's right, the Creature is about to head off for a one-week retreat, out in the Old West. But be of good cheer: This should mean more blogging, not less of it.

From the profile of 30-year-old math genius Terence Tao in today's New York Times:

A 2-year-old Terry Tao used toy blocks to show older children how to count. He was quick with language and used the blocks to spell words like “dog” and “cat.”

“He probably was quietly learning these things from watching ‘Sesame Street,’ ” said his father, Dr. Billy Tao, a pediatrician who immigrated to Australia from Hong Kong in 1972. “We basically used ‘Sesame Street’ as a babysitter.”

I have a piece in Tuesday's Washington Post.

Good things come to those who wait--and so I decided to reward myself for this week's successful work-outside-the-home by visiting various independent bookstores and buying sci-fi novels recommended to me by a blogger I met the other night at a dinner at the European Union ambassador's residence.

(see how I slipped that in there, oh so casually?)

Also, I am told by Baby's minder that it is International Women's Day. So remember to congratulate your uterus--or the uterus of someone you love.

Every time I file a story I have the same feeling of karmic rebound. After a decade of being on the other side of things as an editor, I can't help but remember that I wasn't always as kind as I might have been--although, I think most of "my" writers would say that I was pretty darn kind. Still, I am reminded this morning how much it means to have an editor who responds quickly when you send in your pathetic scribblings, hoping for a morsel of approbation.

And so I wait!

Why do people feel compelled to clip their fingernails while sitting behind me on the D6 bus?

Why was there a man getting measured for a suit in the back seating area yesterday at our local Starbucks?

Why has my printer stopped working and my computer gone fritzy the very week I am filing two articles?

Why do I have Baby's "Music Together" cd playing a loop in my head?

Oh yeah, it's 'cause we listened to it four times today. But I still want to know about the first three things.

Mornings are not my time. They never have been. And I've been blessed with a child who often respects this, sleeping until 8 or 9. So consider that this morning--a Saturday morning--I was out of the house by 8:30, walking over to the local rec center to sign Baby up for music class. (And yes, she was still asleep.) Got there at around 8:45, half an hour before registration was set to open, but I was not first on line. Or second. I was 69th.

Two hours later, we had just barely made it into a class on the day we wanted. But I did it! And all joking aside, it means a lot that I am not falling at this hurdle, but putting aside my own desires (for sleep) to do something important for her. It took effort, and it was worth the effort.

Plus, I got to eavesdrop on line and heard this amazing story. There was this woman who pumped 60 bottles of breastmilk (over time, of course). And then her husband left the freezer door open.

Also making me happy today: The mom I met who announced "you know, I really don't like music" when I mentioned Baby's music class. Not that I agree, but I love when people are straightforwardly, surprisingly, honest.