American backwater

I'm beginning to think we're living in the socially progressive boonies. Holland, Belgium and, God willing soon, Canada I understand kicking our progressive butts. But Spain? Spain? We're talking about a Catholic country that held an inquisition for hundreds of years for anyone who didn't follow the Church. Our lawmakers need to pull their heads out of their own smelly orifices and make some progress on this essential civil right.

Swamp Thing

We went up to Eli's boss' cottage this weekend and I swam once in the lake. Typically, I love swimming in natural bodies of water but this lake was rather verdant. It looked quite pretty and clean, but smelled too green for my taste. Also, its primarily function seemed to be the use of motorized water sports -- jet skis, pontoons, motorboats -- rather than kyaking, sailing and swimming, and I was a bit paranoid about the amount of residual fuel that must be in a relatively closed water system.

I don't mind swimming with the odor of rotting kelp and dead fish mixed with salt water, but this just bothered me. I felt like the Swamp Thing when I emerged and, despite an initial rinse, I ended up putting my swim suit through the wash twice, since I swear I still smelled lake muck on it. The lake, Gravel Lake (although I saw no gravel), was surprisingly warm, which made me slightly suspicious. When I've swum in Lake Michigan all the way at the tippy top of Michigan state (not UP) with my friend Tony, the water was crystal clear and excruciatingly frigid, due to the cold springs that feed into the lake. I much preferred that -- I didn't feel like nasty bacteria and gasoline was working its way into my body's crevices.

Feeling Nappy

As a child, I presume some time after infancy, I allegedly stopped taking naps. My brother would nap, other children would nap, but I would not. I'm not sure if I would just lie awake quietly or protest violently, but at some point my mother must have realized putting me down for a nap was worth neither her while nor mine. I even had a note exempting me from nap time at preschool, kindergarten and at the baby-sitter's, Mrs. Mumm. (The Dickensian appropriateness of her name was lost on me at the time, but I think that is perhaps the most fabulously literary name from my childhood.) All the other children would pull out their cots or pallets while I could stay up and quietly read or play with toys on my own, which I probably much preferred to playing with the rowdy children who needed downtime. I remember having nice conversations with Mrs. Mumm while everyone drooled on their mats. She probably liked it, too, since I remember helping her pour juice for the afternap snack.

Well, that has changed. Now I am fully into the afternoon nap. Thank God I have my own office at work. Last Thursday we had some of Eli's work friends over for dinner and they were talking about how I would be good at their line of work. I guffawed. Sure, I might make more money (I'd certainly have to work a lot harder) but I couldn't stand the environment of being in a pit for more than a week and proceeded to tell them how that very day I had closed my office door, put down a bit of bubble wrap for cushioning, taken a quilt from my cupboard and laid it over the bubble wrap, and took a peaceful 20 minute shluff. They were incredulous. It was a bit George Costanza, but I am 8.5 months pregnant and thus far no one has commented on the daily closed office door.

Behind Books

Well, my reading goal was to have read 30 books by the end of June. Right now I am in the midst of #27, David Grossman's Her Body Knows, which was finally translated into English. Sometimes I think I should work on my Hebrew just so I don't have to wait 3 years to read his books, but to gain reading fluency in another language would take a hell of a lot of time. I had to read a few art history articles in French in college and it took me bloody forever, with a dictionary by my side the whole time. In terms of novels, anything past the 5th grade reading level in French eludes me (without the dictionary), although I could probably pick up a couple of grades with a little effort. My French reading skills out pace my aural comprehension skills by about 5 years. (Damn accents!) I couldn't read much more than Dick and Jane (Shlmo v' Elisheva?) in Hebrew right now. When I took my 3 university quarters of German in 8 weeks --not highly recommended by the way -- by the end of the session I was reading Mann and Brecht short stories, which is pretty amazing since I cannot remember more than 5 phrases of German right now, so I guess anything is possible with a bit of dedication and a ton of time. Or a ton of dedication and a bit of time.

Anyway, I am a bit behind on my reading, primarily due to moving and napping. I plan on finishing the Grossman this weekend and at least one other book over our weekend getaway. I guess that's pretty close to my goal. Some friends say they read a lot while breast feeding on maternity leave, others say as soon as they had a baby their reading slowed down tremendously. Only time shall tell. Since we have no cable, and thus no reception, at least I won't be watching TV as I become a milk fountain, although I do have all the seasons of Buffy in our Netflix cue just waiting for me to give birth. Or maybe that's until I leave work, 2 weeks before my due date. Hmm.

The Grossman is, of course, excellent. Forget this, "He's one of the best writers in Hebrew business," he's frankly one of the best writers writing now. From the charm of the Zig Zag Kid to the despair of The Book of Intimate Grammar, the accute assessment of the political situation of Smile of the Lamb and his journalism to his examination of love and jealousy in Be My Knife and his most recent novellas that I'm currently reading, he has an extraordinary range and emotional poignancy that I find pretty much unmatchable in any other author.

I also just slogged through Leonard Cohen's Beautiful Losers. I wish I hadn't. I love Cohen as a songwriter and a poet but, despite Nextbook's recommendation of his 1964 novel, reading his book was tough going in a why-the-hell-can't-this-end-already kind of way and, although totaly unrelated, has turned me off of his music temporarily. Yes, I know it was about sex and death and loss and so forth, but I got over Henry Miller a decade ago. Also, guys, unless you're really funny please, please, pretty please keep the masturbation scenes down to two per novel! I know it may be an essential part of your day, but so is drinking water and how many descriptions does one need to read of that? Portnoy's Complaint or Sabbath's Theater aside (Philip Roth has earned his right to multiple masturbation scenes per novel), reading about tossing off gets boring fast, even as a metaphor. Especially as a metaphor.

Get Away

Eli's boss offered us his cabin in Michigan, two hours away, for the weekend. At first, I was thinking, 'But I have to recover the chairs. But we have to go check out cribs. But the kitties...' and then I realized, 'Wow. We can get away for a couple days, together, alone, and not be tempted away from relaxing by endless chores.' How novel! It's also our anniversary next week so it the timing is apropos. Yay! We can read and play cards and go for walks and I can swim in the freezing lake while Eli sits in the sun.

Iamb iamb

New Sally Potter film! The dialogue is completely in iambic pentameter, to boot. And it's starring Joan Allen, who I think is one of America's finest actors. Here's an interview with Ms Potter at the NYT.

Last Dance

Last night was the final dance class of the session. Waaa! By the time the next session starts I will be approximately 36 weeks and it will go past my due date, so no can do. This was a mini 3 week session so the classes were 1.5 hours instead of an hour, so at least I got in a good fix before going on hiatus. Unless my doctor gives me an early go ahead, I should only miss 2 sessions and be back for the second fall session. I need to practice my shimmy a few times a week since I would really hate to loose it now that it's finally smooth and sustainable. Shimmying a baby is hard work -- I bet it'll be a relief once there is no one living in my pelvis. Perhaps I shall shimmy out the baby in the delivery room.

Baby does love to dance! Yesterday, the little critter was using my bladder as a pillow, banging around and causing me a bit of discomfort throughout the day. But as soon as class started it fell asleep and was calm until I got home. Swimming today, when using the kickboard to practice butterfly kicks (my butterfly stroke is pretty modified by now, since back arching is impossible), the baby kept jabbing its hands into my kidneys. First on the right then on the left. Very inconsiderate. Squatting a few times seemed to adjust it back to a mutually agreeable position.

Lengthy Pregnancy Rant

Decent article in Salon about invasive questions regarding possible future pregnancies. I'm not sure if people are heartless or just don't think. A while ago, before I got knocked up, we couldn't commit to a future social obligation for a variety of reasons and a third party informed many people that our lack of commitment was because we were planning on starting a family. Well, perhaps, but that's an assumption. What if we decided to postpone? Or not to at all? What if we couldn't? Why the assumption that then comes marriage and then comes baby in a baby carriage?

I have a few friends who have struggled with infertility and frequent inquiries of when they're planning on having children, which is frankly hurtful and annoying. I also feel for my friends who are not planning on having children and made to feel like freaks because they've made quite a rational decision. I mean, no one ever asks completely dysfunctional couples why they would ever bring a child into such a fucked up marriage! I have a close friend who is very intelligent and mature and decided years ago she doesn't want to have children, yet, a few people have asked me if she's changed her mind. For God's sake, she's 35, she knows her own mind!

A related pet peeve is when people tell me that having a child is the best thing that will ever happen to me or the best thing that could happen or, my favorite, that I'll understand only once I have a child of my own. That's really presumptuous. It's one thing for them to declare that it's the best thing that ever happened to them, another for them to assume that it is a universal maxim. Recently, I was at a dinner when someone made this statement of ultimate experience in front of a friend who didn't want children. I felt really awful for her, in the same way I would if someone made a racist joke. The implication is that, by her choice, she was only half a person or, in much more sexist language, that she was merely an empty vessel. I am very excited about having this baby and I am sure it will rank as one of the most important and life-altering events, but by saying this where does this leave my relationship with my husband, without whom this child would not be possible? Or my next child, if I have one?

While I am on a roll, I do have to vent about my body suddenly being in the public domain. Yo people, it is offensive under any circumstances to ask someone how much weight they've gained! (I also think it's tacky to ask how much weight people have lost. "You look fantastic," or "You look elegant," conveys the compliment without judgment. Or even a discrete, "Do you have any advice?" if it's a good friend.) Also, comparing your past pregnancy to mine is irritating. Yeah, maybe I am bigger than you were and perhaps you're trying to be empathetic with how uncomfortable I must be in my burgeoning state (although I'm doing quite well, thank you) but it's still really offensive to say that you never got as big.

Also, I do truly enjoy hearing others' labor stories. They are helpful, interesting and educational, but I loathe when someone assumes that just because x happened to her that I'm crazy for thinking that y would happen for me. Yes, I am planning on natural childbirth. Yes, I realize complications may occur. Yes, I understand I may have to undergo one or several medical interventions if necessity knocks. But I am a different person with a different body. I may strike the next near stranger who commands me to get an epidural.

Finally, I want to eradicate the phrase, "You think it's so easy," from everyone's vocabulary. I've heard this applied to everything from aforementioned natural childbirth to wanting to cloth diaper to refusing to feed my hypothetical children bright orange macaroni and cheese or raising them without television. I know it's difficult for people in our consumer culture to get this through their immediately gratified skulls, but easy isn't necessarily a virtue. At least not to me. After all, I did choose to go to the University of Chicago and it wasn't because I couldn't get into a real party school. (Violin, why anyone can just pick it up. Meisner, no challenge there. Slogging through Chicago winters, a dream.) If I could deal with that, why would someone assume that I'm delusional because I plan on taking a little extra time per week to put cloth diapers in the laundry?

Advancements sacred and profane

From the sacred (below) to the profane, today seems to be the day to focus on small steps of progress for feminism in the Muslim world.

A little bit of progress

Exciting news from the Muslim woman who was on the Faith and Feminism panel at Wiscon with Isabel. She had been invited to deliver a sermon and lead juma prayers in Toronto. Well, she's not only leading Friday prayers and delivering a sermon, but it's going to be in a mosque! She reports that there have been three or four women who have led prayers in the past few months, but none of them have been in a mosque. As far as she knows, this may be the first time both will be led/given by a woman in a mosque in hundreds of years. She doesn't expect mosques all over the Muslim world to follow suit, but any little advancement is fantastic.

Hooky

I called in pregnant today. I did. I left a message for my boss and stated, "Hi, it's Mila on Friday morning and I'm calling in pregnant." Nothing really wrong, just a bit tired combined with the knowledge that if I don't use a sick day or two in the next 5 weeks (5 weeks!) they will be gone forever. The unused vacation time, they pay out, but not the sick days. If I had anything going down at the office I'd be there. I suspect they suspect I am not planning on returning.

So I'm at home blogging from our DSL, able to surf and talk to my honey on the phone simultaneously just like at work. I'm looking out the office window into our back yard and am admiring all the clear dirt along the back of the fence where he dug up the roots of the invasive foliage. Thanks to his hard work, our backyard may actually look like a garden by the end of the summer.

Last night Eli and I saw Endgame at Court Theatre. I am a huge Beckett fan, especially his short plays, but I now understand why Endgame isn't performed as often as Waiting for Godot. The acting was excellent but it was a lot of concentrated Beckett. I appreciate Beckett's writing and worldview, but I'm relieved he's only one of a thousand playwrights. I feel an urge to see a frivolous Restoration comedy right now.

Dig out your 3-D glasses

Yesterday we went for our 32 week ultrasound. Baby is well and is currently situated in the vertex position like a good little baby, although that could always change. It's estimated at 4.15 pounds right now, in the 48th percentile. Our doctor said we should expect about a 7 pounder, which sounds good to me. The ultrasound technician said 7.5 to 8 pounds and when I repeated this to the doctor, she wrinkled her nose and shook her head and asserted a bit over 7 pounds. I choose to believe her.

Developmentally, the baby's measurements indicate that it's perfectly aligned with its August 10 due date. The 3-D part of the ultrasound was cool, except the baby's face was off to the side and facing back a bit so there was a bit of distortion as the ultrasound gets the best picture straight on in the middle of the belly. Also, the baby had its hand over different parts of its face the whole time, so we couldn't get a great full on look. Most of the time its hand was over its forehead in an exasperated gesture, "Oh, I am so weary of this womb," or maybe just, "Get that camera away from me!"

Anyway, it looks like a cute baby! Eli thinks it looks like a boy, I think it looks like a premature baby. I suspect it may have Eli's nose, but its hand was smushing down on the nose the whole time so, again, we couldn't get a great look. Eli thinks it has my chin. It already has some hair on its head, which is excellent for 32 weeks. I love a hairy baby!

Life Update

No scintillating news here. We're still slogging through some of the basic stuff we want done to the house before we determine it's presentable to the general public. Yesterday Eli chopped down the wild foliage growing alongside the fence of our yard, so it looks a bit less like a jungle. I hung some pictures and we finally measured our closets so we could order rods and organizers and such. I started on a mosaic table for the living room (which should be awesome, if I do say so myself) and ordered this fabric to reupholster our dining room chairs. I am doing it myself, since it is relatively easy and a hell of a lot more affordable. We just need to get some new light fixtures for the first floor, install said closet organizers once received and do one hundred other little things. Oh yeah, and shlep out to the burbs and order some baby stuff for when the baby arrives. We are trying to be as traditional as possible and not have baby stuff in the house before there is an actual baby, except for the bare minimum required for the hospital bag. (Hence, no baby showers! Yay!) Our fairy godmother's bambino is outgrowing his carseat so we are the lucky beneficiaries of a mint condition infant carseat and stroller, without which, of course, the hospital won't let us take home our baby.

I am feeling fine except for the damn @$^@%&@ing swelling. Last night in dance class I once again enviously gazed upon everyone's beautiful feet as I repeatedly pulled my leotard over my poofy, unsightly ankles. I don't mind that this enormous belly obstructed the view of belly rolls and undulations, I do mind that I am not going to be nominated Miss Pointed Toe 2005. I swam today, and my feet were briefly midway back to normal, but are now clubby again. Well, not as bad as they could be since it is mercifully cooling down a bit here. Yay! My friends all assure me that this too shall pass.

OK, I am very lucky. So far, not to tempt the fates, absolutely no back pain (except the occasional muscle tightness if I don't stretch enough after working out, but that's my own bloody fault), no rashes, no sciatica, no sinus problems, no bleeding gums, no Jeff Goldblum-in-The Fly-like hairs growing in unsightly places, so I really ought not to complain. I'm just a bit more tired and increasingly expansive. And calf cramps in the night.

Book update

Article on Murakami in today's NYT! Lucky Harvard, getting him as a writer-in-residence. Must be nice to be well-endowed. NYT also pans Michael Cunningham's new book. I liked, but did not love, The Hours. Now I know not to bother with this one.

Murakami related, I recently read Underground, his non-fiction book about the 1995 Tokyo subway gas attacks. It was very Studs Terkel-esque, comprised of concisely edited interviews with victims and witnesses. It was slow-going and a bit repetitious. I would probably feel differently if were Japanese and needed the acknowledgement of the cultural shock. It was notable how few of the victims felt rage toward the Aum attackers.

I also recently read Life by Gwyneth Jones, one of Wiscon's guests of honor this year. It was a jolly good read, although ultimately unsatisfying because of a too quick climax and denouement. (This is becoming the Mila-complaint.) I'm not sure why it's classified as science fiction, other than she typically writes primarily in that genre and that it was fiction that was marginally about science, although the science was the least engaging part of the book. I thought its exploration of gender and feminism was much more interesting.

I am savoring Kalpa Imperial, the first novel of Argentinian writer Angelica Gorodischer to be translated into English. I remember reading an article about her in the NYT a couple months ago and then stumbled across this novel at one of the dealer's tables at Wiscon. When I asked the dealer if it was any good she referred me to her colleague who said it was one of the best books he'd ever read. It is excellent. Borges is the obvious comparison, but the diverse stories about the same empire really reminds of Calvino's Invisible Cities, with all the different stories of Venice. It is fantastic. It's a short book, so I should have finished it by now, but I find myself re-reading passages, which is something I rarely do. Ursula K. Le Guin did an excellent job translating it. If you can read Spanish, I strongly encourage you to read her other books.

Britten Head

Some people followed the Dead or Phish. Others won't miss a performance of a complete Ring Cycle. If I weren't pregnant, perhaps I'd follow the Benjamin Britten summer circuit. Eli doesn't care for opera, but even he likes Peter Grimes.

Next reading

Nextbook posts some author's summer reading choices. (I always wonder whether the implication of "summer reading" is that we don't read in the winter -- reading as a beach activity -- or that we are seeking lighter fare as respite from the humidity. Me, I'm going to finally read Moby Dick this summer -- it will be my first breast feeding book.) The list is good, since it's not fluffy. I'm surprised by Tony Kushner's choice, Amos Oz's exquisitelymoving memoir A Tale of Love and Darkness, since Kushner is renown for his anti-Zionist stance. Amos Oz is far from a Likudnik, but he certainly supports the existence of Israel, something which Kushner professed not to when I heard him speak a few years ago. I was with my friend Jamil and we were both unsatisfied with Kushner's proclamation without any explanation behind it. Kushner also must have been on speed since I've only heard hyper Skittle-eating fourth graders talk that fast. He may have written the best play of the past 20 years, but he was a lousy speaker.

Stem cells revisited

Apparently baby teeth are a great source of stem cells, too. When they fall out, pack 'em in ice and ship 'em off to the cell banking center of your choice.

Chick lit and my discontents

Interesting article about sex and chick lit in Nerve this week. Or rather the lack of stimulating, interesting or honest of the former in the ouevre of the latter. Here are two non-sex bits that stood out:

[The] message is chick lit to the core: dishonest, even dangerous. It tells women that the yearning in their soul can be filled by the love and acceptance of a man.

No literary movement before this one has ever made me angry. People's taste is none of my business. But this shit is being marketed to young girls, who are already getting weak enough ideas from other media about what being a girl means — why should the few who read be plowed under, too?

Last night Eli and I briefly discussed Disneyfied fairy tales and why I hate them so much. (Not the original Grimm fairy tales. Those are gory and terrifying enough to warrant my appreciation.) I ranted the enlightened party line, about how if the obedient pretty girl were patient enough with a situation thrust upon her by the powerful/empowered and thus evil mezzo-soprano (the witches, bitches and whores, for you non-opera aficionados) then a prince will arrive on the scene and rescue her from her plight, the end. Toss in some crappy ballads, a side-kick with frighteningly large eyes and a xenophobic subtext or two and you have yourself a Disney film. Historically, it sucks to be a princess. Princesses are merely pawns in the political marriage game, the glue in alliances between kingdoms, who dare not have any sense of self. Really, what an awful thing to thrust upon our daughters. And chick lit is the adult stop in this continuum of Disney-Sweet Valley High-Bridget Jones.

One could argue that most light-hearted Western comedy ends in a wedding masque or an impending engagement, perhaps chick-lit just develops from this trope. I would say that the journey is different, the characters' desires and actions more complex and the social context seeped with satire or insight. Rosalind is not just mooning over Orlando; she is fleeing the court of a mad bad duke and along the way meets a dreamy boy who she tests repeatedly before revealing herself as his beloved. Once the curtain closes, you know feisty Rosalind doesn't stop thinking and acting, Katherine is not "tamed" by Petruchio, Beatrice is just as witty as before -- they have found a match, but the yearning in their souls burns on.

Or let's take Jane Austen, who chick-lit marketers have tried to commandeer. Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy both evolve over the course of the novel and both become better people because of the other -- she is not a princess being rescued, she is fully realized. (Although what I think of Fanny Price is another matter.) This is very different from the passive, slightly quirky but essentially middle-of-the-road, middle class, pretty-but-not-beautiful, in no way exceptional or enlightened or evolving heroines of chick lit. And, along the way, Ms Austen makes fun of every insipid woman in the novel.

Eli said, but what if this princess stuff makes little girls happy? (He's not completely indoctrinated yet.) Well, it's like rock candy. A little here or there in a balanced diet isn't going to ruin their chances of becoming a fully-realized person. But if your child craves sweets, why not turn her on to lemon tarts or homemade ice cream, something richer and full of intellectual and emotional calories? Same with chick-lit. If you're not up to reading Dostoevsky right now and want some summer reading, there are much better written, more interesting choices out there.

Too darned hot

Per our contract, the seller of our house was to ensure that our A/C was charged and running come warmer weather. Of course now that it is suddenly hot in Chicago, they are radio silent, despite attempts to contact them through our attorney and our broker. We broke down today and called an independent HVAC company. Originally, they weren't available until Friday but Eli mentioned his wife was 8 months pregnant and they moved us up to tomorrow. Pregnancy has some privileges.

Only one more restless night of waking up every couple hours to drink a pint of water and wash my face. Eli slept like a dormant volcano all night -- I went in after a cool bath to kiss him goodnight, as I knew sharing a bed with anyone other than an ice elemental wouldn't be an option (Cheru did follow me around from basement to guest bedroom to bedroom and stretched out 2 inches away from me in each location, but even he didn't want to snuggle), and was almost burned by the heat radiating off him. My man's so hot! Here I am from California and once it hits 80 I need A/C while my husband slumbers sweetly. Although it typically cools down at night there. Or it did back then. I also love swimming in cold water and Eli hates it. Go figure. I typically look forward to summer, but my internal fireball masquerading as a baby has changed that.

I may have little pouches of water at the base of each of my toes but this heat is expediting produce season. Still no basil, but sugar snaps, strawberries and cherries all made their debut this week. I'll be back for more snappy goodness on Thursday.

Cord cutting

We finally made a decision about this cord blood banking racket. Perhaps racket is too strong a word, but the majority of literature, at least the stuff the doctors give you, guilts the future parent in such an extreme way that we felt like we would be horrible, non-loving parents if we didn't shell out $2k to extract the cord blood and another $200/year to bank it. (The basic gist of cord blood banking is that you have a store of stem cells in case your child or other relative ever needs them in order to treat blood and immune disorders and, down the road, other diseases.) After talking to my brother and a few other people with a science background who keep up with innovations in human biology, we decided not to pay an exorbitant amount to do this as right now biotech is perfecting extracting stem cells from one's own living tissue and thus this whole banking technology will be obsolete in a few years.

But the real clincher was our discovery that the cord blood needs to be collected within the first 5 minutes of delivery. This means that the cord has to be cut while it's still pulsating, while the baby is still partially reliant on its placenta to breathe. This is really bad. (Plus, there would be a whole extra team of personnel swooping into the delivery room at the moment we will most want to calmly meet our baby.) We're willing to take the gamble that, in the next few years, our child won't need stem cells to fix a disease it has a 1 in umpteen thousand chance of getting versus making its first hour of life uncomfortable and complicating its chances of breathing and breastfeeding successfully. There are a ton more studies that demonstrate babies whose cords remain intact until they're finished pulsating (only about 15 minutes or so) feed better and are healthier than their instantly snipped counterparts than that cord blood banking is going to save a life. If someone else wants to do this, and everyone I know seems to, I can understand. We just decided it's not worth the trauma to the baby or to us.

Que Serra

The NYT raves about Richard Serra's new permanent installation in the Guggenheim Bilbao, citing it as one of the most important art works of the past half-century. I have always l0ved Serra -- he's undoubtedly the best sculptor since Henry Moore -- and it's wonderful that he's finally getting his due. Spain isn't really on the top of my travel list, but I think we'll need to swing by Bilbao in the next few years. (Sorry, Frank. I like you, too, but by yourself you weren't enough of an incentive.)

Physically, if not mentally, back

Oof, I am tired. I haven't had much blogging motivation the past few days, since I can barely string together a coherent sentence verbally, let alone manipulate the keyboard into conveying an articulate thought. This weekend plumb-tuckered (or is that plum-tuckered?) me out, my parental units are now in town and this whole pregnancy thing is catching up with me. I need some alone time to flop on the sofa with a good book, a cat and a popsicle (Whole Foods' strawberry).

I had a good time at Wiscon this past weekend and miss hearing the elevator dryad at the Concourse Hotel saying, "Going down," in quite possibly the most provocative tone ever employed by an inanimate object. I swear, the elevator could have seduced Hal into serving humanity if she so chose. The voice in the doctor's office elevator today left me cold and wistful. I'll never meet another elevator like her.

Some panels were better than others. Some I left after 10 minutes and was gratified by my new choice. My friend, Isabel, was on two panels (one on faith and science fiction -- the monotheistic ones, since there were a lot of neo-pagans floating around -- and one on global disasters) that both went well. Best of all, I bought lots of books, both at Wiscon and on the drive home at a used bookstore.