Hey, my analytics aren't working and no one is commenting...

I mean, I have totally overhauled the site and pretty sure uglified because no one has said 'boo'....

Is anyone still out there? I mean, I'd understand if you weren't, but....

Anyone? Anyone?

Bueller?

(Chec, one vote for some of the how do we get beyond the depression posts.)

Posted by: Elizabeth at 09:56 AM | Comments (12) | Add Comment
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I began scrubbing this site back in January, and have now begun to see some of the changes. My favorite part? Is that this time I broke the ARCHIVE pages and not the MAIN page. Darling, as long as the front page looks good I can just about convince myself that I'm a goddess.

Although....I miss that picture of Charles DeGaulle airport - it was so beautiful, and I remember the moment I took it, leaving Paris and my heart just aching.

But alas alack life goes on, or so the Beatles sang. And this is soothing, and I finally made some rounded corners. So? What do you think?

In other news...I am so overwhelmed by my to-do list right now. Between the freelance gigs, the house, the budget & bills, and leaving for Boston in less than a month for our annual visit... What needs to happen is that all these details should be prioritized and organized. The problem is, every time I sidle up to my list to really tack a whack at it? It growls and tries to bite me.

Just saying.

I've had 8 hours of sleep since Monday. In case anyone is wondering if I'm high. The answer is: "Oh, there's an easier way to get this lightheaded?"

Posted by: Elizabeth at 04:12 AM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
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".... it was like having a giant thudding vibrator strapped to our heads. The only relief would come on the open upward stretches, when the van simply buzzed around us"

This is the worst of the trip, the part we were awake for... Boston to Pennsylvania, the longest 580 miles. Ever.

Massachusetts
Start time: 6AM, Sunday Morning
Route: Mass Pike - 134 miles
Time: 5 hours 15 minutes

Our alarms were set for 5:30AM and it was still dusky dark when we pulled out of my mom's driveway. We hit Dunkin Donuts (CD - "Can we get going already?") and then put our backs to the sunrise and hopped the highway towards the Mass Pike.

As soon as we hit 50 mph, the antique door that we had bought at New England Salvage and strapped to the roof rack started making a horrible noise; "thwacka thwacka THWACKATHWACKA!"

We pulled over and rearranged the door. Bear, almost asleep in the back, groaned.

20 more miles. 30 more minutes of "THWACKA thwacka THWACKA!"

Holy crap, we were barely to Worcester and we couldn't go over 50mph without rendering ourselves senseless with the noise. We stopped to readjust that ^(*&*$#@! door about a dozen times. We came thisclose to hucking it into a drainage ditch.

There are some serious hills on the Mass Pike. The road is forcibly wedged into rock cliffs, the striations from the dynamite blasts still visible. As the road narrowed, the 'thwacka' noise would increase - it was like having a giant thudding vibrator strapped to our heads. The only relief would come on the open upward stretches, when the van simply buzzed around us, quietly.

By Sturbridge, we were all bonkers. We pulled into the service center and had breakfast, got gas, and ran like banshees in circles. Bear's backseat nest was rearranged and his new Digimon DVD restarted. CD battled the door (again).

"Thwacka! ThwackThwackThwackTHWACKA!" for another hour as we gritted our teeth and made for the New York border.

New York
Hit the border on: Sunday Morning, 11:15AM
Route: NY State Thruway - 442 miles
Time: 11 hours 45 minutes

The first 125 miles of New York state passed in stupor. We were 3 numb bunnies, staring with glassy eyes at the miles of asphalt.

We'd passed through miles of construction, beautiful scenery, and glorious weather and never noticed a thing.

Thwacka. Thwacka.

By Utica, CD had passed back into anger and defiantly pulled off the thruway looking for a Target or something and some kind of solution.

What we found instead was a place called Big Lots. We'd never been to a Big Lots before. Oh. My. Stars. Have you ever been to a Big Lots? This is like a nice clean flea market.

We found a bunch of Rescue Heroes action figures and stuff for Bear's birthday! We found snacks! We found a bra! We found a cheap, streamlined boombox for Bear! We found a garden sprinkler thing! And best of all? We found a foam egg crate mattress liner!

All this, for like 5 bucks.

Out in the parking lot, CD and I pulled the %^#@@! door off the van roof, wrapped it in egg crate, and put it back on. We got back on the road.

Silence.

Oh, the blessing this was. I can't begin to explain. Nirvana.

I stuck the cruise control on 72mph and we tried to make up some of our lost time.

The next 200 miles spun by in a blur. Other than some bathroom and gas breaks, we sailed into the sunset on wings.

In Buffalo, we asked the toll booth guy for directions to his favorite hot wings joint. He sent us to Duffs. Wowza. CD, who is a hot wings gourmand of the highest caliber, purred like a kitten. Bear and I played in the grass with his new action figures.

Then we decided, what the heck?! Let's go to Canada.

After about 15 minutes waiting about a mile from the border in traffic, we decided that Canada? Not so much.

We turned around and headed to Niagara Falls. We pulled into the park just about sunset.

The lookout tower over Niagara

It was a 3-hour detour, give or take. We were all physically exerted, fed, and awed by the time we clambered back into the car. The plan was to drive to Erie and spend the night at a hotel.

40 miles later, we pulled into the Angola rest area - which actually sits in the grassy thruway median, accessible via a walking bridge from either side of the highway.

We took over the family bathroom (I love family bathrooms) to wash up, brush teeth, change into soft clothes/pajamas, and whatnot. Then we made a family decision - we were feeling strong, it was only around 10 PM. Erie was about an hour or so away - but did we really need to stop? Why not just keep driving until we got tired?

So we picked up some coffee and juice, cleaned up the car some and rearranged Bear's nest back into optimal sleeping position. The cool night air was good for a few stretches.

50 miles to the the Pennsylvania border, 550 miles home, a full tank of gas, a sleeping (wait - what time is it here?) 3 year old, a cooler full of juice and snacks, and a quiet door strapped to the roof.

Hit it. more...

Posted by: Elizabeth at 02:33 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
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Fenway Park, from Sect 18, Box 39, Row G, Seat 1
Game 67: Ana 7 - BoSox 12 (Yeah Baby), 09/01/2004

My old friend Kevin was into baseball in a very big way and infected me with it when I was in my 20's. I lost count of how many games we caught together.

I remember one night, Kevin and I drove around Chicago looking for a somewhere quiet we could talk. It was a melancholy night, just before he moved away.

Finally he pulled over on Addison, and I looked up at that old sign over the stadium. "I think this," he told me quietly as we gazed at Wrigley Field, "is about as Holy a place in Chicago as you could find."

I understood.

Baseball is a language that has given me common ground with other people as well. Like my dad.

Last night, he took CD and I to the Red Sox-Anaheim Angels game. Dad surprised us with amazing seats, and we lucked out with weather - warm with a cool breeze and a bright moon.

Johnny Damon got 5 hits for 5 at-bats and made it home 3 times. Millar got a 3-run homer. Manny got walked a couple of times. Red Sox spanked Anaheim. It was a rollicking boisterous game, and a great time.

It was the second Fenway game I've been to with my dad.

Aug 18, 1993 was the first time we'd taken in a Red Sox home game together. We got same-day SRO tickets, White Sox/Red Sox and grabbed some programs and some beers.

Danny Darwin, #44, was the starting pitcher. Usually, the Red Sox go through pitchers in a game like a cocktail nuts at a bar - but this day would be different.

It was a sunny summer day and my dad and I found a piece of railing with a good view. As the first outs were made, Dad and I got into a rhythm - he held the beers while I scored the game. He'd look over my shoulder once in a while, correcting my marks - "That was 9 to 3" he'd say. Or, "I'm not sure they gave him the error on that play."

Midway through the top of the 3rd, and a hush began to spread around the stadium. Dad peered at my box scores and asked, "Is that what I.." and I nodded. We shared a long look, and then held our breath.

Darwin, that inconsistent pitcher, was pitching a perfect game.

The full stadium was riveted. We watched in absolute silence.

5th inning, into the 6th and we still had, unbelievably, a no-hitter on our hands. Danny was throwing strike after strike. The catcher, Tony Pena, had practically crawled out of his shorts. Darwin was cool. We were praying, pulling, with glistening eyes and bated breath.

The Chicago White Sox were swinging with everything they had. And theirs was a roster of power hitters.

But no one could get a piece of Darwin.

Finally, in the 8th, with one out, Dan Pasqua connected and ran hell bent for leather before settling on 3rd. Darwin retrieved the ball, ready to pitch to the next batter. As though nothing had happened. No sign of disappointment, just steady focus.

But the fans had were not about to let the moment slide by. Before he could throw the next pitch, we stopped the play.

The noise erupted all at once, overtaking me with emotion. My eyes were puddled with tears. I looked around and saw that every man, woman, and child was up. Dad put out beers on the ground and we joined in pounding our hands together in a beat that shook the walls.

"Darwin, Darwin..." came the cheer. We screamed ourselves hoarse for long minutes, while the refs let the man have his due. Darwin stood alone, tall on the mound.

This wasn't Ripken, or Williams, or any of the guys who I've cheered for before or since. This wasn't Ramirez last night, used to the pounding affirmation from stadium full of admirers.

This was Danny Darwin. Traded around, stats up and down, the oldest guy on the team. You think he'd want to bust out in the Macarena. But there's an unwritten code in baseball. It's dictates a calm, unruffled gratitude to appreciation. A stoic's approach to the boiling emotions of the game. Darwin embodied all the class and grace of that code on that August afternoon.

He simply nodded in acknowledgement.

And I joined with 30,000 fans to peal a last hoot of frenzied joy and appreciation before allowing Darwin to finish his day's work- a 5-0 shutout that was much more than the stats of the day.

It was the best game I've ever seen.

Last night, my Dad driving out of Boston and we look back at the park, windows open and the night breeze still soft and cool.

I got a chill watching Fenway recede. It's as Holy a place in Boston as you could find.

Posted by: Elizabeth at 09:59 AM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
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Dear Paul Mahoney,

I bet you're surprised to see your real name on the internet. True, I usually follow my own rat rule in these things, which can be summed up in the words "first, do no harm".

The thing is, they are not releasing the name of the bus driver who abandoned the little girl on the side of a road. They released the name of the little girl, sure. Branded her a victim for life. No harm there.

Well, I gave that some thought. And I realized, I could counter the dark corner of secrecy by outing YOU. I hope you don't mind.

You are a real person, and you did something noble at an age when nobility and kindness are almost out of reach. I thought that deserved the credit of your own name.

You won't know me by this name. So let me help you. You went to Jr. High school in Fairfield County, Connecticut during the late 70's. Your house was second to the end of a long bus route, kind of in the woods, and for the last 15 minutes each day it was just you and me.

You were popular. You looked like a young Paul McCartney, a little. You were comfortable in your skin, with a quick sense of humor and a big heart. You were known for being a flirt, but a good guy. You were into music, and as soon as the bus was a little emptied you'd convince the bus driver to turn up the radio.

I thought you were the coolest person I knew.

Conversely, I was pretty beat up. The kids bullied me something fierce for a while. Over the months, it softened to a dull roar; I made a few friends and had someone to each lunch with.

But I hated school, Paul. Counted the days in between the holidays.

At the beginning of the year, you were strictly a "back of the bus" guy and I was at the front. I would curl up behind the bus driver for safety. You'd expand, somehow. Taking up the entire bench seat with your arms and legs and white smile.

One day, in the crisp end of autumn, you yelled to me. It took you a week to convince me that it was all right for me to move to the back of the bus once it was just us and the driver.

You were a bit of the firefly, you liked the attention. You liked having someone to talk to.

You made me laugh.

I had girls in my life. Neighbors, cousins, girlfriends at school. I'd had crushes. But you were the first guy to ever hold a conversation with me without your mother forcing the relationship.

Did I mention you made me laugh, Paul?

You used to use your hands to tell the stories. I never saw so much happy personality tied up in so much testosterone before.

I wrote about you in my diary. Then I destroyed the pages because I had no privacy back then. But I didn't forget your name.

One day, in the spring, someone had really gotten to me. I couldn't face you, because I was crying. Huddled behind that chain-smoking bus driver, staring doggedly out a window that only opened from on top, and pretending not to notice that my cheeks were chapped. And wet.

You tapped me on the shoulder, and I still couldn't face you.

You'd moved. To the front of the bus. For me. And it only made things worse.

You said "Come on, now".

You said "What's wrong?"

You sat behind me. Until it was time for you to get off.

The next morning, you got on. You took my hand and led me to the back of the bus. You sat me against the window and took the aisle. And as the stops piled up, and disbelieving kids punched your shoulder, and you didn't move from my side until we got to school.

Then you silently exited, melding into your crowd.

So for a few weeks until school ended, I sat at the back. Everyday. With you.

No one said a word. That was a lot of power you had in the Darwinian ooze of adolescent political structure.

Why were you so kind? I guess it doesn't matter anymore but at the time, it mattered a lot. It was a domino that got knocked in the right direction, and my life was better for it.

The last day of school, you squeezed my hand and didn't look back. You said goodbye to the driver. I never knew what happened to you. I always kind of wondered.

Dear Paul Mahoney,

You were the only good thing that ever happened to me on a bus.

I hope you're having a splendid life.

Thank you. more...

Posted by: Elizabeth at 01:34 AM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
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Hey, this one's PG-13 for language. You've been warned.
**************************************

I'm a hybrid.

I was born to a McCain Republican and a Obama Democrat. Which is kind of like saying that my mom was an alligator but my dad was a crocodile. If that leaves you scratching your head and asking what the fuck's the difference? Yeah, I'm with you there.

I like McCain. I like Obama. I'm a pro-choice, pro-family independent Christian. I like you, even if you're the opposite of all those things. I like people trying to have smart ideas. I like people who take the high road. I like tolerance, respect, and good listening skills.

I like the conflict of arguments looking for the greater good. I'll go face to face with you screaming about the issues, and know all long that neither of us will budge. And it will be cool.

Conversely, I am a fierce clawed predator who puts the vego-matic to the crap spewed by the bastards who make it personal. Who take debate to its lowest common denominator.

So, Cathy Seipp.

One day she's at a grocery store, sees a stay at home dad's attention drift from his kid in the grocery cart, and turns it into a treatise on all stay at home dads.

She took her bully pulpit via the National Review Online, ranted at the use of the word "parent" versus the word "father", mixed in some examples from the TV show Everwood, and voila! came up with: stay at home dads are woosie suckwads who are incompetent at best.

Like women trying to parallel park. Her example, not mine.

Then she went on the radio to defend her position. Then she blogged about going on the radio. Then she quoted her friend blogging about her going on the radio. She called her article "making fun" and sheathed her claws while shouting "look at me!".

Wait.

Doesn't that sound like Nellie Olson on Little House?

Heh.

Seriously, as Rebel Dad said, you don't even want to sanctify this shit with a mention in your own world. On the other hand, well, the truth is that there aren't as many stay at home dads out there. I know and love some stay at home dads.

In fact, the ones I know are so cool. And when I paid attention, I realized with outrage that Cathy's argument has nothing to do with stay at home dads, really.

It has to do with propagating disgust with the non-traditional simply because it's non-traditional. So here's my say:

1. It takes two people to make a kid. 3, if you're counting the gestational surrogate. Maybe 5 if the child's going to be adopted. Do we count the doctors? Here's the point: NO ONE GETS TO BE THE ONLY "RIGHT" PARENT.

Right out of the chute, there are lots of people deeply invested in that child. Personally, I think introducing my 2 year old son to beef jerky was insane. But my husband thought it was fine. Welcome to reality. The differences from maybe the ideas we have in our head about stay at home parents? They're gender. They're cultural. They're personality. But they are just differences, not "wrongnesses".

Let's remember this students, there will be a quiz later in the form of a grown child. DIFFERENT does NOT equal WRONG.

2. Everyone gets to be an asshole, sometimes.

Cathy talks about a kid maybe almost falling out of a cart.

Hell, I was in a grocery store once and ran into a stay at home mom and we got to chatting. She cooed over mine, I wanted to coo over hers. Figured she'd been left at home.

Nope, she'd been left to chill, playing with her feet on top of a stack of frozen pizzas. She'd crawled out of her seat and fallen (not hurt) into one of those open-topped freezers and yes, her frazzled mother didn't notice until I asked about her a few moments later.

That's because ALL stay at home mothers are over-tired martyrs who can't parallel park. Right? RIGHT?

Here's something to have tattooed in backwards writing on your forehead. It will make the world a better place if you do: Never judge anyone by their worst day or moment.

Better yet, don't judge at all - unless you wear a swirly black overcoat and were elected to do so.

3. If we don't value men who nurture, we will continue to raise boys who value war.

'Nuf said.

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posted by Elizabeth at 10:42:00 AM
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10 Comments:

Jenny said...

Rave on, sister! (This is why I'm a huge fan of grocery delivery)
3:28 PM
Michele said...

Amen Sister!! You are my new best friend! And I also want to hang out with the mom who didn't notice her kid dumped it into the frozen pizza bin! We'll do lunch!
3:55 PM
Anonymous said...

Words to live by, Mom. This coming from a guy who's coming to realize he might rather be a stay at home dad than a trial attorney.

That was seriously well written.

RP
randompensees.mu.nu
3:39 AM
kalisah said...

I love when you rave. Especially when you're so RIGHT.
6:29 AM
Sexy Soccamom said...

Ah, I meant to comment yesterday. I loved your post! We must be kindred spirits.
3:59 PM
Philip said...

Thanks for bringing this article to my attenion. You've compelled me to write about this myself.
11:58 AM
Anonymous said...

Thank you! I'm a working mom married to a stay home dad and Seipp's column made my blood boil. Last time I checked, my daughter had two parents who participated equally in bringing her into the world (well, he didn't have the heartburn or the swollen ankles) and there's no reason in the world to think that he is not equally able and appropriate to take care of her. I'm not sure how one guy in a store and a fictional character are really a compelling indictment on stay home dads, but I can tell you that no one could take better care of my daughter than my husband. Oh, and for the record, I parallel park like a champ.
6:56 AM
Elizabeth Blair York said...

Dear Anon,

I identify with your story.

For 2.5 years, my husband was an At-Home Dad (thus his affiliation with the group a couple of posts upward) and it took a long time for him to figure out his own "style" - I was a SAHM when Bear was nursing and had set the schedule and the bar. Eventually, he established his own patterns and approach. We are different parents, imperfect - but equal in our investment in our child. Your husband is just as valid a parent as you.

It seems like Kramer Vs. Kramer was a very long time ago, and yet - we as a society is still struggling with that same issue.

In addition to Dave L.'s letter, - Philip at The Blue Sloth, Rebel Dad, and Jay at Zero Boss are 3 fathers who also took to their blogs against this article. All their links are in my blogroll.

Thanks for stopping by and commenting!
9:11 AM
Anonymous said...

"continue to raise boys who value war."

I think this kind of gender stereotyping is exactly what you are accusing Seipp of doing, isn't it? I mean if you really believe that men are intent on warring and violence, then you must believe that Seipp is correct that child rearing is best left to women, no?

"value men who nurture." I'm curious what does nurturing have to do with being a stay at home dad? Are you saying that all the mothers who are not stay at home moms are not nurturing?

Another question: do you think we value women who nurture? Since you seem to equate nurturing with staying at home, do you think we value stay at home moms? Clearly we do not. For the past 40 years we as a society have been ridiculing and belittling the idea that a stay at home mom has any importance or necessity, and instead we have extolled the idea of the career woman as the ideal. So if we believe in treating men and women equally, then since we don't value nurturing women, why should we value nurturing men? Again this is predicated on your apparent believe that nurturing equals staying at home. Or is that your belief only when it comes to men?

It seems to me that an article ridiculing and condemning men for staying at home with their children should not get any more criticism than all the gazillions of articles ridiculing and condeming women for staying at home, that we've seen since Betty Friedan's "The Feminine Mystique." But that's just how it seems to me.
7:02 AM

Posted by: Elizabeth at 04:42 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
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