Geek. Pirate. Mom

Now that Pirates of the Caribbean : On Stranger Tides is out, I’m back to working on my pirate novel. I found myself a bit stuck when Dead Man’s Chest came out, and there were certain elements that were similar. Similar enough I didn’t want to be labeled a copycat. So I moved over to other projects (mostly raising my kids) and let this one sit alone, in the hopes that things would percolate in my brain and be ready when I came back later on.

Which I’m pleased to say, it has.

While writing, I use a steady stream of the Pirates soundtracks and a few other tracks that get me in a nautical mind. So I purchased the On Stranger Tides original soundtrack (which can be confusingly abbreviated OST OST). It’s made up of familiar themes from the previous movies (thank you Klaus Badelt and Hans Zimmer), with the addition of Spanish guitar. Very nice. Except that a lot of this soundtrack to me is simply reworking existing tracks to throw in the Spanish undertones (like OST’s Mutiny reminds me of Swords Crossed from Curse of the Black Pearl, but sweetened with Spanish guitar and the orchestral tone that Zimmer brings to the table). A lot of familiar, and not much new. However, I did like that all the choral vocals in this movie are female. I just had to get that off my chest.

Now, the internet is abuzz with the news that Mark Zuckerberg is killing animals for food. More specifically, he’s only consuming the meat of animals that he has killed himself. Every year, he tries to do something to better himself. In 2009 he wore a tie every day (tough one, I know), and last year he learned Mandarin. So he got in touch with someone who has a local farm, learned how they raise their animals and killed them. Now, he does take the slain animal to a butcher to be cut up, but he has been using as much of the animals as he can.

There are people who are horrified. However, he’s pointed out that this means he’s essentially a vegetarian- it isn’t like he’s killing animals around the clock to be able to have meat at every meal. So what is so bad about his experiment- really? It’s forcing him to remember that meat comes from an animal. And considering he only explained himself after posting to friends that he’d killed a goat, he obviously isn’t doing this for a publicity stunt- unlike Sarah Palin who gleefully said she and her family hunted, in an effort to point out that she was just a normal person.

Frankly, there is a lot about the way we eat we don’t think about. We eat foods and do our best not to think about what’s in them or where they came from. We even try to ignore the fact that we regularly ship fruits and veggies across the world so that we can eat strawberries year round. I applaud him for trying to be more involved in the process, and using his wealth (since let’s face it, not everyone could afford to buy the whole goat to slaughter, etc, etc) to do it.

While I’m not slaughtering my own animals, I’ve been roasting whole chickens. The Little Kidlet’s been able to eat chicken now, so I’ve been having fun using Julia Child’s recipe. Laugh all you like, but it’s hard not to remember that a chicken was a chicken when you see it all trussed up- it’s easy to forget once it’s broken down.

With that- I’m off to start my day. I think I might pick up a chicken on the way home, so that I can roast another bird for my baby (and me- Julia Child’s recipe is so good).

The Oldest Kidlet is a lot like me. Same drive, same short-temper (which I’ve learned to control). Same need to be the center of attention. He’s exhausting for that reason. Ever butt heads with a parent, only to wonder why because you’re so much alike? Sometimes it’s because you’re alike in the good and bad ways.

I honestly don’t remember what started it, but we were getting in the car yesterday after hitting up a coffee place on the way to Disneyland. I looked back at my boys and said, “You two are going to be the death of me.” He looked right back and said, “Don’t say that, Mommy.”

We went to Disneyland. TheBoy took some time off so that we could spend this weekend together, and realized that we could go to Disneyland during the day. So we went! Our big splurge was on annual passes this year since we don’t live too far from Anaheim (though I do miss our little apartment near Anaheim that we used to live in. You could hear the whistle from the Mark Twain sometimes, and see the fireworks). And it’s been a nice break from routine for us.

The Oldest Kidlet has been going to Disneyland fairly regularly since he was a baby. We had the nicest annual passes (the ones that let you go whenever you want- they weren’t so expensive 5 years ago), and it was free for him. My mom was watching him and used to take him once a week. It was a nice walk, and they both enjoyed it. He got bigger and bigger, and after his brother came along, we didn’t renew the passes. But he was a fearless kid who would try anything.

Of course, since we’d stopped going to Disneyland, he became more fearful. Crowded spaces, loud noises, unfamiliar terrain… he didn’t like any of it anymore. So we always worried about the Park, especially now that he’s getting into the height range of the “E-Ticket” attractions.

Not this trip, but the trip before… things started the way they usually do. We got on the train, by and large one of their favorite things to do. We got Fastpasses for Autopia, but the Oldest Kidlet just wasn’t understanding the concept. He refused to wait to go on the cars- unless it was in line. So we split up. I took the Little Kidlet on Buzz Lightyear (where he refused to shoot anything, and did not like a giant Zurg, but was all smiles about it), and TheBoy took the Oldest Kidlet on Autopia.

Afterwards, we met up and went off to go on the Casey Jr Circus Train (another favorite) and get some lunch from Village Haus (which has dedicated fryers for their fries, so I don’t have to worry about cross-contamination for the kidlet or I. And they have gluten-free buns for their burgers!). While we were there, the Oldest Kidlet mentioned that he saw the submarines and wanted to ride them. And I knew that disaster awaited us. I haven’t been able to get him on Haunted Mansion or Pirates of the Caribbean for the last two years. He sees the dark queues inside, puts on the brakes and insists he can’t go. I knew, deep in my heart, that the second the submarine went into the caverns… that he would freak out and be stuck on the submarine. So I explained that it would get dark. He said it was fine. I told him that he wouldn’t be able to get off once we left the dock. He promised he could wait.

So what happened? The second it got dark, he freaked out and I finished the ride holding his little brother on my lap (who was fine with the whole thing and appreciated the better view), with the Oldest Kidlet holding my other hand over his eyes, while I reassured him that it was all pretend. But I am proud of him. While it still scared him, and he admits this freely, he doesn’t regret going on it. He told both me and my mother in law, that now he can say he’s been on a submarine.

So why am I mentioning this? Yesterday’s trip to Disneyland had a lot of familiar visits. We went on Autopia, the Train, Casey Jr… and then we split up. The Little Kidlet and I were hungry, and so TheBoy took the Older Kidlet to ride the Mark Twain (they’d wanted to go on the Columbia, but just missed it). And passed Big Thunder Mountain. “It’s a train rollercoaster,” my son said. They discovered he was tall enough to go, but my son said no. We went on more rides- the Carrousel, played at the Pirates Lair on Tom Sawyer’s Island.

On the Island, my son became brave. He jumped on the pontoon bridge, ran through caves- and got lost. While in a cave, he decided that he wanted to go to the other cave we’d passed by, and turned a couple wrong ways. We found him… but it was one of the scariest moments of my life (though not quite as scary as when he cut his forehead and there was blood everywhere). As we were leaving the Island (angering the Little Kidlet, who decided he didn’t want to go in caves, but liked climbing on piles of treasure), the Oldest Kidlet announced that he wanted to ride the rollercoaster.

TheBoy got them Fastpasses, and they had their lunch while we waited (which in retrospect seems stupid since we didn’t know how he’d handle Big Thunder Mountain, but he was grumpy and hungry). And off the went. The Little Kidlet and I rode the sailing ship, and when we got off… they were waiting for us. They’d gone on! My brave little son was scared (both TheBoy and I had forgotten how noisy Big Thunder is), but didn’t completely freak out, and proudly told everyone that he’d ridden a real roller coaster- but he thought it went a little too fast for him.

We came home from Disneyland, and TheBoy and I packed up for a weekend away from the boys! As we were leaving, my son told me to have a great time. And to stay for three nights, but not four. Because he’d miss me too much if it were four.

I’m proud of my brave boy. Here’s to hoping he’s always willing to try something new. Maybe next time I can get him back on Pirates of the Caribbean.

I had my groove thrown off today.

We were running late. So late, in fact, that I had completely forgotten to put on makeup. Which, for me is a problem. Without concealer under my eyes, I look like a raccoon. Thank you, anemia/allergies/whatever. But I digress, we were running late.

On our route to the Oldest Kidlet’s school is a construction zone that’s a little bit like a slalom. The entrance to the construction area is on the opposite end of the construction zone, and I was zipping through as usual, trying to make up the lost time when I saw… a highway patrol car. I tried to slow down without looking like I was slamming on my brakes because I saw him, but on went the lights. I pulled off to the side, put the car in park as I tried to get out all the paperwork I needed.

Meanwhile, the kids were excited that they got to see a cop. So nice when the kids are on your side, right?

I got my ticket. I got a lecture. All while I watched cars speed past me because they knew they couldn’t get pulled over.

As I watched the officer walk back to his patrol car, all I could think was, “You threw off my groove!”

I'm sorry, but you've thrown off the Emperor's Groove.

I was floating through the day, trying to get back my groove. A chai latte didn’t work. Nor did my son trying to make me laugh.

Then, the Little Kidlet stopped and looked down at his trains and yelled, “It’s a track!” and sounded as much like Admiral Ackbar as a three year old can. I laughed, and did was all parents do these days, I tweeted about it.

Which led to DoctorFlux (one of the tweeps I talk to frequently these days) sending me picture after picture of Admiral Ackbar.

And after seeing the above picture? I could safely say that I managed to regain my groove.

I don’t write a lot about my faith, simply because it isn’t something that is easy to define using labels.

Today is the day that Family Radio has chosen as the date of the Rapture- the date that the son of God is supposed to return to whisk away his true believers to be spared the horrors of the End of the World. They claim that the natural disasters are proof of the end times… and have spent a lot of money trying to convince people that this is it.

Yes, I believe in God. I still sort of identify myself as Catholic because that’s what I came from, but I certainly don’t believe a lot of the things they say I should. I believe that all people are equal, regardless of sexuality and should be treated the same in the church. That loving someone of the same gender shouldn’t label a good person a sinner. That’s just wrong. (I also believe that if someone doesn’t believe that you should respect their decision, and not hound them into believing. Using fear to make people believe in God is wrong. Faith should be about love, compassion and acceptance, not fear. And this would be why Jerad, who was an athiest, and I got along infamously- we respected that the other was entitled to their choice, even if we didn’t completely understand.)

Anyhow, I don’t want to get into a discussion of why I believe- I just do. I have my reasons, and it isn’t simply “because that’s what I was taught.” This is about Family Radio. This isn’t the first time they’ve said it was going to be the End of the World. Which makes it interesting that anyone is even treating this as fact- it’s a fringe group that’s been wrong before. In the Bible it says that no one will know when the end times begin, except for God. So…. anyone predicting a date is wrong. Especially someone who’s been wrong before (I believe that they fall under false prophets).

I am a positive person. I want to plan for the future, live my life as I see fit. I don’t see the point of living with dread or regret that the End of the World may be coming. After all, if you believe in God – you’re fine. And isn’t that the point? That you’re supposed to have faith and that faith will be what protects you in the end? I don’t see how worrying and regretting about things you haven’t done will help you all.

Just live your life. What happens, happens. You can’t change that, nor can you really prepare for it. All you can do is have faith, and live your life. Besides, when you buy into garbage like this, it just makes everyone who identifies themselves as Christian look stupid (and thanks to people who are hell bent on converting anyone who isn’t Christian, denouncing all Muslims, persecuting gays…. we already look pretty stupid. And yes, I did deliberately choose hell bent).

This Crew is Full. A couple months back, we decided we aren’t going to have any more kids. I’d wanted to wait to write about it until after certain things were past, but now it feels like talking about the reasons why are the blogging equivalent of the LeBron Decision special. (However, I did want to touch on the subject – so I thought I’d pull out a pirate metaphor and see where that went)

I’ll say this. When I was a kid, I always said I’d have two kids. After I had the Little Kidlet, I thought about a third, mostly because I wanted to try for a girl. But honestly, these two keep my hands full. Not to mention they’ve given me plenty of gray hair. If I had a third, I’d wind up looking like Storm. Which actually, might be awesome.

TheBoy and I had both secretly been thinking about whether or not we should stop at two, so at least there were no disagreements there. He had a vasectomy. I was there for it, and I’m proud of him for not being knocked out – I know that he’s had issues with blood and such in the past. (No, he didn’t watch it, but I did. It was cool, but keep in mind, I used to want to be a coroner… so don’t go looking up videos based on my word alone) He did his research, and followed the doctor’s directions to the letter, as well as took the advice posted from men who’d already had the procedure. Which were essentially, ice often, wear an athletic supporter and don’t exercise. He followed that advice, and there were no complications.

The strangest part was him having to wait to go give a specimen for them to test so that they could certify that he was indeed sterile (I honestly think this is the first time I’ve written the word). Mostly because it’s not like that’s anything he’s done before, so it was odd. And the doctor’s office forgot to check the box that said it was a post-vasectomy testing, so he had to check that box himself. Then we waited a week, and he got the call from the doctor… and here we are. (He made a certificate saying he was sterile that I wish I could have shown here, but it wasn’t letting him save it as an image – it also certified that the procedure gave TheBoy ninja powers. Go him)

I salute everyone who can handle more than two kids. I just know TheBoy and I just aren’t in that group. So, sorry to all those who’ve commented that I need to have more kids (and there have been plenty in the last year). You’ll just have to be satisfied with these two quirky kidlets.

As a writer, I’ve discovered something upsetting. I rewrite television shows as I watch them.

Well, not every television show. If it’s a well-written show like Law & Order Criminal Intent or Mad Men, I don’t bother. But if it’s a good show that’s suffering from inconsistent characterization… well, that’s another matter entirely.

Like Glee. I love Glee. It’s a fun show, punctuated with music and just as over the top as high school seems to you when you’re in it. Really, think back on it – you might not have walked down the hall singing, but I’m pretty sure that having a date to the dance was the biggest thing in the world. And every test failed, every breakup, ever snub seemed like the worst thing that ever happened to you.

And while Glee knocks out a few great episodes a season, the rest waver between good to meh. And usually not because of the overall plot of the episode- it’s the character reactions that make no sense.

Take last night’s Prom episode, “Prom Queen”. (spoilers, if you keep reading) Read More…

Dear Mom,

-W

The lemon tart to the right was made by my mom for Christmas (obviously). I’m sharing my horrible picture of it because it was a great example of how brilliant she is in the kitchen- she combined a few recipes on the spot to make this, and you’d never know. It was so good!

I love food. If you didn’t know that, you’ve probably just stumbled across this blog. I pick vacations not just for the experience, but where to eat. I go to Vegas yearly, and it isn’t for the gambling. I stopped going to concerts, and started splurging on nice restaurants.

This is something I got from my parents, who also both love to eat. But mostly, this is something I learned from my mom. The more I look at my current view of food, the more I realize that I got here because of her.

I suppose you could have called me a foodie even as a child, looking back . I was passionate about the foods I ate. The only way to make a good tuna salad was with whole albacore that was packed in water (never in oil), Best Foods Mayo, dill pickle chips (preferably Arnold’s from Arizona) and seasoned with a touch of salt, lots of garlic powder and white pepper. I believed, and still do, that it’s the white pepper and the quality of the pickle that sets my tuna apart from everyone else’s. And I learned this recipe from my mom. (I also learned that you never use Miracle Whip or sweet pickles. That’s tuna sacrilege.) I could also spend an hour explaining why certain potato chips were better than others- and I’m pretty sure I did.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

As a kid, I would come home from school and start working on my homework in the dining room. Up until I was in middle school, I did my homework at the dining room table, so that my mom could help me if I needed it. (After that, it wasn’t so much that I didn’t need my mom’s help, but I could work on my own) It meant that more often than not, I had a front row seat for watching my mom make meals.

The layout of our kitchen was a half moon shape (as is her current kitchen, now that I think about it) – with one long countertop interrupted by a stove in the middle. The pantry and fridge were to one side, the sink was on the other.

She’s a graceful woman. She took ballet as a girl, and you can see it still in the way she carries herself. There she’d be, moving back and forth through the kitchen, preparing dinner. She’d chop and shift, go to the pantry to get ingredients. It was always fun to watch.

We were heavily involved in the menus. She asked us what we wanted to eat when we all went to the grocery store together. If it was something we wanted in our lunches, it was something that we had to tell her to get. She had strict rules about what we could and couldn’t eat. Candy wasn’t something that we regularly ate, but it wasn’t uncommon for us to have ice cream in our freezer- for those special occasions. During long power outages, it was the first thing she broke from our fridge. We knew it wouldn’t really melt before the power came back, but it was always that soothing touch needed to take away the fear of not knowing how long we’d be without power.

She showed me that there was no shame in making food from scratch. She explained that when my friends thought they were cool by bringing Lunchables, that the only thing cool about it was the divided tray – they were paying a lot of money for a piece of plastic that was just being thrown away. We talked a lot about nutrition and making sure you had enough vegetables and proteins. I learned a lot. She also showed me helpful shortcuts. A well stocked pantry and freezer meant that you could always find something to eat. We weren’t the sort to make our own stocks, but our freezer always had vegetable mixes that could easily be thrown in with some stock to make soup. Even with those canned stocks (which at the time weren’t that great), it still tasted better than anything else that Campbell’s could make. Or the vegetables made a quick stir fry, or where steamed for a quick side.

She taught me that with a few easy recipes, you always have something to fall back on when you aren’t sure what you want to eat. Lunch was always as easy as shredding cheese, putting it on a flour tortilla and letting it crisp up in the oven (we weren’t quesadilla people). If it was dinner, and we were all exhausted from a long day, she’d heat up a couple cans of refried beans and we’d have bean burros. Or toss some corn tortillas in the oven to crisp and have some tostadas.

My mom was the person who showed me that you should know where your food comes from. When I was 13, she had seen a video about how most meat is produced, and it sickened her. We became pescetarians. Eventually, I began to add meat back in during college. Mostly because it seemed like being a pescetarian was expensive, and I was suddenly falling in love with fast food (and falling in love with TheBoy, who would have fast food with me after our shifts). In came beef. Eventually, I came to my senses and found a balance- I simply found people who produced meat in a way that I was comfortable with. And fast food chains that I felt comfortable eating at.

If it weren’t for her, I wouldn’t try to shop for vegetables and fruits in season. I wouldn’t care as much as I do about supporting restaurants that source local foods and sustainable seafood.

My mom is an excellent cook (heck, my dad is too, even if he denies it), and I’ve often written about her brilliance with combining flavors. But more important than either is her love of food. I’ve known from an early age that food can be something special and that if you make a dish with care and love, that it’ll be evident to the people who enjoy it. She taught me that recipes are wonderful things, not just a path to a specific dish, but the springboard to find any number of new and unexpected dishes.

But most importantly, she showed me that there’s no shame in being a woman that loves to cook. That you can be an activist, a feminist and cook for your family- that there’s nothing contradictory about it. It isn’t about happening to fit into what’s expected- it’s about surpassing those expectations, and being true to yourself.

She taught me that it’s perfectly fine to serve a fancy meal to family, and eat it in your pajamas. That Christmas dinner can be a bunch of side dishes if that’s what you want, or even a bunch of delicious appetizers. That it’s okay to have your dessert first just so you won’t fill up. That any reason is a good reason to break out the good china- and that you should never drink water before or during your meal. (You’ll only fill up faster, and take away room from a delicious meal.) And that one of the things you don’t skimp on at your wedding is the wedding cake.

I could go on and on and on, but ultimately it comes back to one thing. Food and love go hand in hand, for her and for me.

Love you Mom.

Earlier in the week, I blogged about the names that Mariah Carey and Nick Cannon gave their twins. When I posted the link to that blogpost to Facebook… my sister and I went on such a grammar tangent of made-up names that I had to record it here for all posterity.

Seester: Monroe isn’t actually so bad, but Moroccan has to be the worst name ever. Even Morocco would have been better. But I’m going with Modern Joe for my imaginary boy and Makhalina for the girl. And frankly, as far as adjectival first names go, Modern isn’t half as bad as Moroccan.
Me: No, I’m pretty sure that Moroccan is the worst adjectival name possible. At least he has a decent middle name.
Seester: Now I just know someone’s going to give some poor child a verb for a name.
Me: Or an adverb. Read More…

Mariah Carey announced the names of her children. Moroccan Scott (for the boy) and Monroe (for the girl).

Their logic? Moroccan Scott was named after the Moroccan Room in her NY apartment, which is where Nick Cannon proposed. Monroe is after Marilyn Monroe- an icon who inspired Mariah. (Apparently Marilyn was just too obvious)

Please tell me that people will stop making fun of Coco and Apple now. Because these are infinitely worse.

Before I knew that Moroccan was after the name of the room (and the decor style), I thought she was simply going with using the term to describe someone from Morocco. Which led to the following conversation with my mother.

MyMom: Would you name someone The Virginian?
Me: Now I want to. (That would be the most rugged baby ever, I imagine)

Then after we realized it was after the decor style, I named my super-imaginary next child French Colonial (My mom suggested Hollywood Regency). But because Moroccan Scott just seemed like it’s describing someone, I am now partial to Jamaican Bob. Welsh Rhys is also in the running.

But ultimately, Mariah Carey has created the ultimate baby naming meme. If it’s a boy, you name it after the location your proposal took place. If it’s a girl, you use the last name of someone you admired – bonus points if it’s used as a male first name.

So if I were having a boy and girl, they would be… Autopia Y-Position and Peron. Oh super-ultra-imaginary children, I do apologize. But Autopia Y-Position, it could be worse. It’s currently the Offroading/Backbridge area of the ride… which would make you Autopia Backbridge or Autopia Offroading. It’s also the Fantasyland Smoking Area, which just doesn’t help matters much does it? And Peron, I couldn’t resist picking the most bizarre role-model of all my childhood role models. Because ultimately, Hepburn actually is a kinda cool name. (But for a boy)

Sorry Mariah. I’m sure you think these are wonderful names. But you’ve definitely raised the bar when it comes to crazy names. Because there’s no way that anyone can use Moroccan for a first name.

Share your imaginary babies’ names, or if you aren’t engaged or married… just come up with the most ridiculous thing possible. Because after awhile, it’s just sort of fun. Sorry Mariah. I don’t normally like mocking people’s name choices… but these are just bad.