Bread and Bread

Last night Amy fed us cookies and spinach empanada thingies and narrated the Emmys for us. Even though AK and I don’t have cable and usually block our TV with plants, the biggest nominees were conveniently the shows we do watch: Glee, 30 Rock, Modern Family . And I’d seen at least a couple episodes each of Mad Men, Nurse Jackie and The United States of Tara thanks to in-flight entertainment. AK missed them because she was, like, reading or something. Awards shows are all about heckling snarkily, but I have to say Amy takes it to new heights. Case in point, re: the many awards for Temple Grandin : Amy: I just found out from my mom that she went to high school with my Aunt Owie. [The real Temple Grandin stands up in the audience, wearing her signature cowboy shirt and kerchief. Waves.] Wait, that’s Temple Grandin?! She looks terrible! She looks thirty years older than my Aunt Owie. The rest of us: Well, she’s autistic. Amy: Autism doesn’t make you look old . Me: Maybe your Au...

I realized that my last, like, six blog posts have been about death. And the ones before that were about depression and anxiety and fighting with my family. When did I turn into a 15-year-old goth kid? Even though I probably blogged about that stuff in an upbeat way (“You present very cheerfully,” my therapist told me once), it may not be totally evident that now I actually am upbeat. To counteract the death posts, some news from the other side of the circle of life*: Jamie and Lee-Roy’s healthy baby girl was born this morning at 10:25 a.m. That’s all the official news we** have so far, since they want to give their families the scoop on the name and birth details. But I was so excited when I saw Lee-Roy’s post that I actually gasped and put my hand over my mouth like an anime schoolgirl. I like to think that Jamie and Lee-Roy’s little one will be a sorta niece—at least she’ll be the first of my friends’ kids who doesn’t need to be reintroduced to me every time we meet. (We may see T...

Seven years ago tomorrow, my mom passed away. I used to hate the phrase “passed away” because it seemed like a euphemism. (I also refused to refer to her as “dead.” I would say, “My mom died” but not “My mom is dead.” The former suggested she was a person who just happened to have died, the last in a long line of activities. In the latter, death superseded who she was—like referring to “the gays” as opposed to “gay people.”) But then I heard someone—poet Imani Tolliver , maybe?—talk about how, in the African American community, passing on is understood as transitioning to another state, like passing through a toll booth. That seemed accurate, not euphemistic. So now I like it, as much as one can like a phrase that means death. I also like this poem by Eloise Klein Healy . I don’t think anyone has summed up the predictable shock of parental death quite so well. Appropriately, it’s from her book Passing . Living Here Now My father’s dying resembles nothing so much as a small village buil...

This morning I went to the dentist, where the technology was very 2010 and the soundtrack was 1996. Hello, Blues Traveler. Hello, Goo Goo Dolls. I felt like I was milling around the lobby of Rieber Hall my freshman year at UCLA. It was a tough year, but still probably a better mental space to occupy than the current one, where someone was scraping my teeth with a sharp object. On the way into work afterward, I listened to AirTalk with Larry Mantle , the fun, less current-events-oriented second half of the program that I usually don’t get to hear. A theology prof named Velli-Matti Karkkainen ( Shermer proposed that humans like the notion of an afterlife because, like all animals, we’re wired to want to live, but unlike all animals, we know that we’ll eventually lose the battle. So we make up a myth to comfort ourselves. Having made up plenty of myths to comfort myself (“You keep staring at her legs because you want to look like her, not fuck her,” I told my 14-year-old self, except I do...

The summer after my freshman year in college I worked part time at the Wherehouse . My duties consisted largely of alphabetizing now-archaic media, explaining to people that no, we could not just open up another register every time there were more than two people in line because you have to count out the drawer and shit, and occasionally being sent home for wearing a T-shirt beneath my red apron. Because we were supposed to be a classy polo- shirt-and-red-apron-wearing joint. But it was actually a great job because it was so much easier than the hardcore journalism training I was spending the rest of my summer doing. The training was full of unpleasant surprises: What’s a budget meeting? What do you mean you mean the lead dancer at American Ballet Theater isn’t available for an interview two hours before my deadline? At the Wherehouse, all I had to do was alphabetize in a kind of Zen fog accompanied by the soundtracks of that summer: Dave Matthews Band’s Crash and Harry Conni...

1. how do animals experience time? The Team Gato update is that Team Gato is at risk of losing its team leader.* T-Mec has a not-small tumor in her left lymph node and a bunch of small ones starting to bloom nearby. According to the kitty oncologist, it hasn’t spread to her organs yet, which is good. The kitty oncologist also thinks this is reason to do surgery, which would mean amputating her left front leg (which includes one of her Ferd-batting paws), and some follow-up chemo. So I’ve spent a few days trying to separate my contradicting brands of selfishness (I Want My Cat Alive For At Least Another Five Years vs. I Would Like More Than $5 Left In My Savings Account) from what’s best for T-Mec. The three-leg thing is not the issue. T-Mec would rock that look. The constant trips to the vet and the months spent healing from a surgery that might only buy her a matter of months are the issue. I consulted D, one of my New York co-workers, who is practically a pet psychic. She’s the pers...

1. cool kids in camo I’ve fallen in love at first episode with If You Really Knew Me , an MTV reality show which A) is a reality show actually based in reality and therefore free of the weird scripted puns of, say, Parental Control and B) makes teenagers look like the sweetest, most vulnerable creatures ever to walk the earth. The show follows a program called Challenge Day, which is basically high school group therapy aimed at preventing bullying. Over the course of an intense day of activities, the kids let down their guard and share the most difficult parts of their lives—we learn that the homecoming queen has been scarred by her parents’ divorce and the bipolar outcast deserves a ton of admiration for the shit she’s gone through. Half the fun is seeing the subcultures at different high schools. Jocks and nerds may be universal, but “creekers” are particular to West Virginia, where hunting, fishing and wearing camouflage put you on the upper social rungs. (My friend ...

I just took one of those great literary field trips that remind me why leaving the office make you do better work. Jamie, new co-worker Cathy ( Libros Schmibros . As the Spanish/Yiddish name alludes to, it’s in Boyle Heights. (At 2000 E. 1 st St., to be exact, since the website will be under construction until David’s DSL is up and running.) As we arrived one by one, David mildly shamed us for not only driving (it’s right off the Mariachi Plaza Gold Line stop) but taking three separate cars. Yes, we are Angelenos. Then he showed us around: the barred storefront window where two men with very loud tools were carving a door, the vintage Born in East L.A. poster (Kipen was born in Hollywood), the shelf he’s reserving for authors featured at the Guadalajara International Book Fair, which recently spotlighted L.A. literature. While we talked about all the possibilities for the space—readings! workshops! movies!—a woman with two small kids came in to renew her copy of Shit My Dad S...

When I'm not posting photos on Facebook or eating Trader Joe's sun-dried tomato pesto directly from the container or Googling "bed bug stains" (don't worry--the funny marks on my box spring are something else, possibly cat-related...although that's probably not cause not to worry), I obsess over books. Books and writing are probably the only healthy obsessions I have. Here's a review I wrote for Gently Read Literature if you're like, Dammit, those capsule reviews re-posted from Goodreads just aren't long enough. Testimony by Anita Shreve: This novel tracks the lead-up to and fallout from a prep student orgy that gets taped and posted online. Shreve calls upon many (possibly too many) characters to tell the controversial and mysterious story: the school's headmaster, the boys involved, the girl involved, their parents, their roommates, a reporter, a cop, a lunch lady...the list goes on. I was a little unnerved by the girl--Shreve's char...

Christine and Jody got married Friday night, and I know I say this every time one of my good friends gets married , but it was one of the most fun weddings I’ve been to. (Not too long ago I came across a blog entry where I sung the praises of my friend Cara’s wedding , and in retrospect I was like, Really? What made that so great? All I remember about it now is that B wouldn’t go, so I was date-less, and that Cara’s aunt tried really hard to get me and Cara’s [quite possibly gay] cousin to dance to “YMCA.”) So I’m probably totally unreliable, but whatever. I can unequivocally say that Christine and Jody’s wedding was the most conveniently located one I’ve been to. AK and I could have biked there. (But we didn’t, seeing as how my shoes were barely made for walking.) They got married at the L.A. River Center and Gardens, a stunning piece of landscaping and mission-style architecture tucked somewhere between our house and the Gold Line, and they decked the place out with black-and-wh...

I just finished reading The Streetwise Cycle , a writing/publishing/web 2.0 adventure my friend Bronwyn decided to embark on. Despite the amount of time I spend on blogs and Facebook, I’m fairly old-fashioned when it comes to lit-er-a-ture (that was my attempt to write out a snobby accent phonetically). I like a good narrative, and even though I’m not picky about how it finds me—hardcover, paperback, CD, e-book—I don’t usually crave interactivity, and fakey bells and whistles annoy me when they come at the expense of a good narrative. So I wasn’t the most obvious or un-skeptical audience for this project, except for the good narrative part. But ultimately I’m envious of Bronwyn, who has a great eye for detail (I wish you guys could read her near-future novel Off the Grid , but it’s not online…yet) but also loves to do things like search out open-source Hungarian alternatives to PowerPoint in her spare time. I would kill to be technologically curious like that. Since I’m not, though, I...

This is Jamie. Have I mentioned she’s 37 weeks pregnant ? Over the past 37 weeks, I’ve learned things like: 1) Even though non-pregnant people use phrases like “eight months pregnant,” pregnant people count in weeks. 2) The placenta is an organ that pregnant people’s bodies grow just for the purpose of being pregnant. 3) You can eat it . This weekend I co-hosted a baby shower in celebration of the mama-to-be and the fact that she didn’t go into early labor, since we were cutting it a little close date-wise. We decorated bibs with fabric markers, which seemed like a nice alternative to weird baby shower games where you have to smell melted fake-poop chocolate bars in diapers. Although at least one shower attendee said she thinks that game is hilarious. I could get behind just eating candy bars. Not melted, not in a diaper. That’s my kind of game. Jamie opened her gifts, including the uber-cute angel-wing footie pajamas above, and even though there was a lot of cuteness going o...

About a month ago, our landlord had to tear up our house to do some construction (long story that may or may not involve proper permits), which had many pauses in it because AK and I kept going out of town. But now we’re back and our missing wall is back and, as of last night, our office is finally sort of in order again. For the OCD-inflicted, having a room that once resembled an episode of Hoarders resemble a room again is like getting a new set of lungs. (But not, like, literally, since I’m sure the organ transplant process doesn’t exactly leave you feeling immediately light and free.) There’s still a bunch of junk piled on one side of the room, and deep down I still believe I need a completely new filing system. So it’s not perfect. Oh, and the whole room still sort of tilts downhill, which makes my particle-board bookshelf settle at a weird angle. But I feel like step two in Operation: Get My Life Back (step one was staying in one city for more than two effing weeks at a time) can...

1. topp of the world The heat was intense this weekend, but I’m still so happy to be home that it all feels like a wonderful game. The Let’s Live In L.A.! game. Saturday AK and I managed to spend four hours in air-conditioned movie theaters, which is how you win the Let’s Live In L.A.! game. First stop: Redcat for an Outfest screening of The Topp Twins: Untouchable Girls . Imagine if Flight of the Conchords were middle-aged lesbian twins who played a variety of characters in their act and were just as into herding cattle as singing. That would be Jools and Lynda Topp , who are apparently quite famous in New Zealand. It’s always a little odd to witness documentation of a huge phenomenon you’ve never heard of. It’s what makes Canada, with its own set of movie stars and TV shows, seem like a parallel universe more than a foreign country. But the Topp twins made me want to live in some such universe. My favorite part was when someone (their manager?) said, “I mean this in the nicest way,...

After saying farewell to my family, AK and I had a blessedly smooth train ride back to London. If, before, we were one of those lumbering dinosaurs with an extra brain in its tail, now we were a quick, savvy hawk. But once the thrill of being on our own subsided, we crashed and took an hour-and-a-half nap. When we were mildly re-energized, she indulged my desire to go to Ruislip, the area of London where my dad’s mom apparently lived a little later in her childhood. We also wanted good, classic fish and chips for dinner, so we Googled Ruislip fish restaurants. “I’m basically having us drive out to Van Nuys for pizza,” I said. But she was a good sport. The fish at Aquarius was creamy and crispy and fresh, even if the tartar sauce was just another mayonnaise product. We ate until we couldn’t. Then we walked around Ruislip a little more. The blocks we saw were pretty standard-issue suburban, with rows of houses that looked like they were built in the fifties or sixties, jus...

Our last day together as a family in England. It ended on a nice note, so already I’m nostalgic for the trip we didn’t actually have. Memory is a weird beast. We’re staying at a cute old brick mansion called The Groves, with creepy portraits of children in the hall, which look like they’re going to stretch a la the paintings in the Haunted Mansion’s elevator. We toured the gigantic York Minster cathedral. AK got pretty into it, especially the undercrofts, where you could see the foundations of the Roman and Norman buildings that were once on the same site. I could see a history-geek glimmer in her eye for the first time. Later we visited Clifford’s Tower, a true medieval fort at the top of a grassy hill. It was just big enough, or small enough, to feel both fake and real—like it was a fort you’d built out of blankets and cushions, with all kinds of secret hiding places and twisty staircases. I think everyone dug it and felt like a kid in the best way.

Another day. Another train station. Another power struggle. The peaceful four hours of reading and sleeping on the train to York that I was hoping for were not to be. After our transfer, the train got really crowded, and we quickly discovered that a lot of people had reserved seats. Those who hadn’t, like us, had to play musical chairs or stand in the aisles. It all seemed kind of third world, minus chickens, and made me long for the civility of air travel. Cathy and I were worried about our tons of luggage, and about one mysterious unattended bag. Why is there always one? “I want, like, a mint julep right now,” she said. “I was thinking heroin,” I said. Meanwhile, Dad asked the train attendant a lot of questions, and befriended the woman next to him, who told him all about her three boyfriends. When the train stopped in York, we were delayed while some guy got escorted out by police, so we had time to gather our luggage. Thank you, rude young man without a ticket! I...

We’re sitting in a little pub across from our hotel—meaning a townie pub off the main drag—called The Bear. There’s a polar bear on the roof. I’m drinking a Guinness and, theoretically at least, watching the final game of the World Cup. I feel terribly cosmopolitan. There are English flags strung around the room and a big American flag with a sign taped to it that says “No Chance.” What I like about pubs is, even during the final game of the World Cup, they’re quiet and well-lit. I am a nerd. Today was our most relaxed day yet, which probably had a lot to do with spending two hours of it on a purple shuttle bus to and from Stonehenge. It’s good to have a leader. It’s good to sit. Cathy warned us that Stonehenge would be small and crowded. It was small and crowded. I’d only come along in the spirit of family togetherness, but when I got there, I was nevertheless like, “This is bullshit.” Then I listened to my little headset and got kind of into the… [Spain just won—woo-ho...

The day started with a big schlep to and through Paddington Station. No time to stop and admire the little namesake bears they sell there. Just a lot of counting of heads and suitcases, and Cathy yelling at Dad to stop taking pictures. But the train ride to Bath was smooth and quiet, and the Bath train station was about one twentieth the size of Paddington. The air was fresh and breezy, and a flowing green river curled around the station. If I were more of a Jane Austen fan, I probably would have freaked out. But I just took a deep breath and hoped things would be better and mellower from here on out. They mostly have been. We checked into the Austen Guest House, which is a proper B&B, not a glorified (if cutely glorified) dorm like the Merlyn. We’re staying in a room with yellow walls and floral curtains and a basket of digestive biscuits. The town is full of butter-colored stone buildings. And tourists. It’s sort of a relief to be in the Palm Springs of England (we saw ...

I lost my temper with my dad some more. I may have used the phrase, “For us non-robots….” But miraculously, or maybe not, due to the upside of robotics, we were able to have a nice time in Streatham, where my dad’s mother was born. We didn’t know much more than that, so there were no touching family stories, but it was cool to get out of Zones 1 and 2 and see what non-tourist London is like. I think the U.S. is the only country where the inner cities are rough and the suburbs are posh. So Streatham seemed like a working-class town, with a lot of women in headscarves and stores where you could wire money to Ghana and trucks unloading sides of beef. We didn’t do much there, but we found a charming old Anglican church, St. Leonard’s (one of the lesser-known saints?) with a rector named Mandy. We couldn’t find any Standings or Desdemaines-Hugons among the lovely mossy headstones, though, and most of the engravings were long rubbed off. In the afternoon AK and I went to the Vi...