juliloquy

Holiday Road

I may have mentioned that we live in a rather scruffy neighborhood in West Philly. I love it — I do. One prominent feature of our block is the Holiday Rambler.

When we moved into our house in early 2004, I was rather suspicious of the Holiday Rambler. Houses on our block (and in most parts of Philadelphia) do not have garages. They do not have driveways. Our block is mostly twin homes, and people park on the street. The Holiday Rambler was parked directly across from our house. It never rambled. Did someone live in it? Was it a roving (but not really roving) meth lab? I would peek out of our bedroom window, looking for signs of life.

A few months later, we saw a neighbor clunking around with it. There was much revving of the accelerator and cranking of . . . other parts. I was relieved that I could attach a person to the Rambler. Yet still it remained in its non-rambling state. We began to joke about it - use it as a landmark when giving directions to our friends. ("Turn left at the old firehouse, then a quick right, then a left, and we're right across from the Holiday Rambler.")

After a few weeks of our neighbor's tinkering, I woke up again to the characteristic ignition roar. I thought our neighbor was getting an early start on his daily mechanical bricolage. But then something amazing happened: It drove off.

It was gone for about a week and then resumed its spot across the street for another 51 weeks. The next summer was a repeat: a few weeks of tinkering, then gone for a week.

Last summer we noticed a bright orange citation slapped on the RV's window with an order to move it. We weren't sure what our neighbor would do. (You may have realized by now that we don't really talk with this neighbor. We at least say hello to most folks on the block, but we honestly never see this guy except for the few times he's working on the Rambler.) I was relieved when I noticed that he merely moved it around the block. As captured on Google street view. (Click "street view," then the arrow to SW Pentridge.)

A couple of weeks ago, I noticed that the Rambler was back in its original station across the street. The neighbor has been clanking around in his free time. And yesterday morning at 5, the familiar gunning of the ignition. Easing off the emergency brake, then putter-putter-putter-ROAR down the block. I was wishing I had advance notice so I could pack a picnic breakfast for the front porch swing. It seriously felt like a ghetto space shuttle liftoff. Mimosas for everyone!

I rolled over in bed and smiled. I wasn't even mad that the noise woke up the baby.

Did this post's title get the song into your head? No? Well then here:

more stream of consciousness - election day!

I dreamed last night that I was pregnant again and having really uncomfortable contractions. I woke up to find [bulky] Loki cat sleeping on my stomach. Oh. Whew.

So there was an election today? Or something?

Just kidding. HPR and I voted first thing in the morning. Shmooie pushed the green button when I was finished. We boarded the bus going up 52nd and saw lots of clusters of folks with Obama signs, an enormous "West Philly for Obama" banner, at least 8 people in the El Station handing out Obama fliers. This was 7:45 a.m. Awesome. The air has seemed charged all day here in Philly. If only every election day could be like this! We received about 9 "get out the vote" calls today (including one from Samuel L. Jackson!), and several more in the days leading up to today.

As I waited for the trolley this afternoon, a man called out "Who ya think is going to take it?" I replied "Obama, I hope!" He smiled and shrugged, then said "I never thought I'd see the day in my lifetime." (He was a 50something black man.)

Then I got home and found out someone had been shot just a couple of blocks from my house.

Oh, Philadelphia.

I don't know, I don't know, I don't know why

Thoughts for today:

I challenge you to find better 8 a.m. grocery store music than Barry White. Specifically "Can't Get Enough of Your Love, Babe."

Dear peanut-butter- and caramel-filled Hershey's Kisses: You make me proud to be a Pennsylvanian. (I've lived here 5 years now. Am I a Pennsylvanian? Maybe a Philadelphian? This is bouncing around in my head as its own post. We'll see I ever get around to it.)

To JDS, aka Mr. Isoglossia - no, I haven't joined Twitter. Am resisting that and Facebook, thinking that they would become black holes for my scant spare time.

Cat hair is threatening to take over our house. Oh, did I mention that we took in a fourth cat? [Orange] Pekoe, formerly known as Sherbet, Mr. Sherbs, or Peaches and Sherb. He had been living in a box on our front porch. We resisted taking him in: He's neutered, see, so we thought he belonged to somebody. But then it got really cold, so we let him stay in our entryway for a few days. Now that he's been inside (for more than a month), he has shown absolutely no interest in going back out. He's the sweetest thing ever. So if any of you would like a cat, we have a couple to spare.

I have been able to search through flickr for my job for the last two days. Trying to find a good image of Cloud Gate to use for the Sept. 2008 cover of our journal. There are lots of great images, but it needs to work with our vertical format and have people in it, preferably people of diverse ethnic and socioeconomic backgrounds. Lorilea, I may be in touch.

Second post in March, wh-WHOO!

New rules! I'm going to try to post more than twice a month. This can only mean a drop to an all-time low in standards. Bulleted lists galore. A blog version of Twitter. Here we go.

Today

It is 45 degrees out, yet the ice cream truck has thrice driven by our house. The song it plays is "La Cucaracha." Not exactly what I want to hear in relation to ice cream.

Smart boy

The other day we were sitting around the table after dinner. Out of the blue, Shmooie said "Daddy, you're sirty-sree." We affirmed that Daddy is, indeed, 33. Then I said "How old am I, Shmoo?" He thought about it and said "you're twenty-six."

Book review

I finished What Is the What several weeks ago. My six-word review: "Please read this book. It's amazing." Got to go to the One Book, One Philadelphia finale last week. The entire crowd beamed when Valentino Achak Deng entered the room. Podcast is here.

joiner

I finally finished the stupid book. I think I renewed my library copy 3 times. I had only about 50 pages left to go for the past month, but my entire family visited at the end of December; I set it aside and just now got back to it.

My summary? The catch-22 is that I spent hours reading it only to find it was a waste of my time. Too bad I have such a compulsion to finish books.

I read another WWII book in September/early October: In Harm's Way. Now that, my friends, is a book. It's about the sinking of the USS Indianapolis, "The Worst Naval Disaster in U.S. History." It criticizes the military somewhat like Catch-22, but it's all true. I was riveted in part because my great uncle, Raymond Koppang, was one of the crew members who died in the disaster. We don't know how he died, but my hope is that he died immediately when the torpedo struck - did not survive to face the shark attacks, hypothermia, dehydration, and other hideous tortures of the open sea. Imagine the awful feeling of learning that life vests don't work after a couple of days because they get waterlogged. The delayed rescue, because of a series of oversights, cost hundreds of lives.

In Harm's Way was the book I was reading when Polly was in the NICU. Great, light fare for the post-partum mom! The nurses approved of HPR's book choice much more. (He would read aloud to the wee Roo.)

Despite my love of books and career in publishing, I have never belonged to a book group. Just haven't been able to commit to the time schedule. But on a recent breeze-through of the library, I noticed the One Book, One Philadelphia selection, What Is the What, right there on the shelf. I'm only on page 14 and I'm already devastated and hooked.

So, two group-y book things in the four months. Too sleepy to make a clever conclusion, so off to bed I go . . .

SEPTA Mama

I have handed off the Roo-baton to HPR. He is home with Polly until the end of January and, in addition to my return to work, I have taken on the role of Mommy Sherpa for da Shmoo. Although we live and I work in West Philly, daycare is near HPR's work in Old City, so this means I will be logging many hours on our fair transit system. Shmooie likes to be carried. It's faster, so I usually acquiesce in the form of a piggy-back ride. He tips the scales at 40 pounds. I am going to be cut by the end of the month.

We have typically used transit tokens and have thereby stuck with the trolley/subway combo to take advantage of the free transfer stations. But because I will take 4 trips a day through January, I bought a monthly SEPTA pass. With the pass, we can throw options like the bus into the mix, much to the delight of my motor-head son.

Here's the typical weekday schedule.

I nurse da Roo when she stirs in the 6 or 7 a.m. range.

7ish: We get up whenever da Shmoo awakens. I never thought I'd see the day when he'd rise so late. (Thinking back to those awful days when he would wake up for the day at 4:30 a.m.) HPR wrangles the kids while I dress and primp. I drink some OJ while I get ready.

Ideally, Shmoo and I would leave the house by 7:50, but it was closer to 8 this past week. We take a bus north to the El station. We try to sit/stand at the very front for the poor man's roller-coaster.

We arrive at daycare at about 8:30-8:40. We are at the mercy of the transit schedule. I try for a quick drop-off, then run back to the subway station. I get to work between 9 and 9:10. I can read page proofs for the Shmoo-less legs of my transit.

I eat breakfast and drink coffee at my desk. I pump at about 10:30. When it's lunchtime I eat at my desk. I pump again at 2:30 or 3. At 5 sharp I pack up the refrigerated milk and catch the subway to Shmooie's daycare. I get there around 5:30. With either subway/trolley or subway/bus combo, we get home at about 6:20.

Wednesday, Jan 2, was the first day of the new routine. I was feeling a bit sorry for myself during the day, but then HPR uttered the six words a woman loves to hear: "What would you like for dinner?"

I'm glad it was a three-day work week. Polly-roo was literally attached to me from 6:30-9:30 Wednesday night. Thursday night she woke up during each of the hours between 1 a.m. and 6 a.m. Wait, she didn't wake up from 2-3 but Shmooie did. They both woke up during the 4 o'clock hour. Thank God for caffeine and adrenaline, which got me through the day Friday.

In the evenings we divide the tasks of kid wrangling, dinner clean-up, and lunch-packing, although HPR has done more than his half of these tasks. I have had to shower in the evenings, too, because the morning schedule has been too tight.

HPR got Polly on a routine on the very first day. He credits her for being easy and malleable, but he also deserves credit for knowing her signals and working with them. She has taken the bottle well. (We learned from our mistakes with Shmooie and kept her to one bottle of my pumped milk a day since the beginning.)

I already have a few SEPTA stories to tell, but they will have to wait for another post.

Shmoo knows how to pick 'em

Congratulations, Mayor-Elect Nutter!

(Photo taken in March and written about here. [Polly was just making herself known - that was the last time I wore those pants.])

She'll be comin' round the Schuylkill when she comes

I gave birth to Shmooie at Hahnemann Hospital. Labor & delivery is on the 16th floor and we had a terrific view North on Broad Street to the glorious Inky building.

Image by XOZ.

My experience there was fine, but the only reason I went to that hospital was because that was where my OB clinic admitted. After Shmoo was born, the clinic changed staff and I wasn't crazy about the new folks. So I decided to switch my care to the hospital on the same campus as my office. It has been convenient to get there for appointments during the work day. My boss and I joke about calling security for a golf cart ride across campus if I go into labor while at work.

The maternity wing where I'll deliver Polly is on the 7th floor, so I don't know what the view will be. Campus or the Schuylkill River or the new construction for the Children's Hospital.

It's still a bit surprising to me that I will birth both of my children in Philadelphia. (And you may ask yourself-well . . . how did I get here?) Growing up, I thought of Philadelphia as a sort of legendary city. My family visited on our Great East Coast Trip of 1977, with just enough time to take in Independence Hall, the Liberty Bell, and the Betsy Ross House. I never would have guessed that those would be the very streets my future husband would walk every day for his work.

I have planned my life about as much as a dandelion seed charts its course on the wind. Tried out a few majors before settling on English, scrambled in my last year of college to get a minor in Publishing & Printing Arts since it was doable. My adviser set up an internship for me after graduation and voila, I was lucky enough to work in book publishing in the Twin Cities for 9 years.

I let Peace Corps decide where to send me, which took me to Bulgaria, where I met Handsome Ponytail Pennsylvanian. After Peace Corps we looked for work near our families both on the East Coast and the Midwest. East Coast won. Here we are. (For now.)

I don't know that I had a major point in all this, but I'll bet others of you had similar experiences. As a child, when you imagined your future life, did you have any expectation that it would unfold the way it has?

Let's get this bloody show on the road  - or - more cooking time, Polly?!

On Wednesday I had an OB apt. I asked about timing contractions and at what point I should call/come in. She gave me the usual "don't come in too soon, blah blah blah" talk.

[On that tangent, I have to reproduce the fabulous words of finslippy: You know this part if you've had a baby already: everything you read, every doctor you speak to, every hospital orientation you attend, every labor preparation course you take, they all tell you the same thing: don’t go to the hospital right away. We won’t admit you until you’re four centimeters dilated! they say. You’ll probably panic at those first contractions and think you need to go to the hospital! But you won’t! Stay at home and be comfortable and don’t bother the hospital until you’re absolutely certain! Maybe then you can come. Maybe. But until then we don’t want you. So don’t go to the hospital! Did you hear us? Were you listening carefully, when we said the part about waiting? Please sign this form that tells us you understood that part, because Jesus we don’t want you. Until, you know, such time as you’re truly, absolutely ready. But at that point when you think you should come, it will probably be even a few hours later than that. P.S.: Don’t come here.]

OK, back to me. Then came the internal exam. After some uncomfortable probing and prodding, the OB discovered that I was 2 cm dilated and my cervix, according to her, was "so, so anterior." She changed her tune from "don't come in too soon" to "you should be sure to come in right when you go into labor." She held up her glove after the exam and said "bloody show." (And I'm thinking: well, what do you expect with all the rummaging around you were doing in there?) She said "make an appointment for next week, but I doubt you'll last that long." [My sister, who chose an early date in the pool, is gloating.]

Meanwhile, HPR (back from his weeklong trip to Denver) had been sick as a dog on the couch since early Tuesday. Upon hearing that labor might be right around the corner, I immediately felt a bit panicked and teary. HPR found out Thursday that it was strep throat. Thank God for antibiotics; he's much better now.

And Polly has stayed put. I have felt some twinges here and there, but I remind myself that I was 2 cm dilated with Shmooie 3 weeks before he arrived, and 4 cm 4 days before I delivered. These kids do what they want, when they want. Here I am again, a dandelion seed on the wind. (Although perhaps "walrus on a rip tide" is a more apt metaphor these days.)

HPR's mom has Shmoo for an overnight tonight, so HPR and I can alternately relax and turbo nest. Maybe we'll even go on a real date! Maybe we'll walk the cobblestone streets of Old City, admiring the buildings in this legendary city where our children are beginning their life journeys.

still more Shmooieisms

Because the window of Shmooie's only-child status is getting smaller and smaller, I must indulge myself in more Shmooieisms. I keep remembering more after I hit "publish."

Catch phrases

Whenever Shmooie hears mention of Philadelphia, he chimes in with an excited "That's our city!" Guess he doesn't know yet that he's supposed to have a defensive chip on his shoulder about the city of his birth. We'll have to teach him "yeah! and who needs New York?"

Likewise, whenever someone mentions electricity, he says "That's what the trolleys use!" We then have to go into detailed discussions about the overhead contact system and what the driver has to do if the trolley pole disengages (this happened in the tunnel on one of the boys' recent commutes). As a result, I know more about pantographs and catenaries than I ever thought I'd need to know.

The electric transit discussion often leads to conversations about what else uses electricity and what fuels other vehicles. Shmoo gave HPR a great joke opening recently when he asked "What does a coal train use?" HPR lost no time in saying: A saxophone! (Get it? Allow pop-ups to hear the music.)

The parrot

I suppose it's adult vanity that makes us think it's so cute when kids repeat what we say. But, well, cute it is. Here are some

"I have an idea! Let's play."

Last night, as we were singing his bedtime song (Embraceable Shmoo), he started to say "I have a feeling that . . ." HPR and I kept singing (trying to ward off the stall tactics), so we didn't get to hear what his feeling was, but I wish we had let him finish.

Through a child's eyes

Then there's the parental cliche about how observant kids are. It is pretty amazing the things they pay attention to that adults might otherwise miss. We were reading a Franklin book from the library and got to this page (click to embiggen). After I read "Franklin couldn't believe his ears . . ." Shmooie said "But he doesn't have any ears!

Authority figure

Sometime over the summer, we started the bad habit of allowing Shmoo to take a sippy cup of soy milk to bed. This is a bad idea for his oral hygiene and also our rest: Sometime in the night, Shmooie would finish the milk in the cup and ask for more. We knew we had to break the cycle, but how to do it without major fuss/protest? Cue Dentist. The only thing we had to say was: "The Dentist says you shouldn't have milk in bed; it's bad for your teeth." Shmooie has never even been to the dentist (once again, bad parents). The only dentist he knows about is P. Sherman in Finding Nemo. But it worked like a charm. Maybe too well. When he was sick this past week, he hardly ate anything during the day and had thrown up once, so I was fine with sending him to bed with milk in a sippy. But Shmooie protested: "The Dentist says no milk in bed." I told him the dentist said it was OK when he's sick, but Shmooie was VERY reluctant to break the rules.

Talking about music . . .

(You know the rest of the quote. If you don't, I'm sure someone [Steve?] will be happy to leave it in the comments :)

I'm trying to come up with a descriptive phrase for our neighbor's band's music. Surf metal on speed? Power punk wah-wah metal? Give it a listen and tell me how you'd classify it. Either way, it makes for a rad blend with my milquetoast* classical background music when Stinking Lizaveta rehearses on the days I work from home. Polly likes it, too.

This article from JamBase declares that the band members themselves call it "doom jazz," which is kind of fun, but to me doesn't quite tell the whole story (leaving out, for example, the maniacal pulse of most of the songs). There are a lot of good descriptors in this paragraph:

Their newest long player, Scream of the Iron Iconoclast is their most exhilarating smorgasbord of heavy jazz transgressions and psychedelic wipeouts yet, with raids of metal menace, jagged post rock, mutated blues riffs and drummer Cheshire Agusta's esoterically woven, technically crunchy drum patterns that signal a sonic clutter in the middle of a black hole. Joined by Yanni's brother Alexi Papadopoulos - whose rapid fire upright electric bass lines force out the soul of Stinking Lizaveta's rhythmic bedlam - their live shows induce a lumbering hypnosis to the eyes, ears and minds of the crowd, especially when Yanni howls into his pickups and grinds his teeth against them.

*HPR's description of WRTI's classical playlist. We love the station and are members, but it's mostly for the evening jazz.