Inland Empress

Hello? Anyone there?

I still get 25 hits a day. Who's out there? Should I rename this blog and start over? What gives?

Hello? Hello?

Finis

We're moving to Chicago on Aug. 9th. I'm not sure if I'll begin a new blog once I'm settled in. It depends on how well other writing projects are going at the time.

This domain name will be transferred shortly after the move.

Should you need to contact me, my new email is anne (at) bookbuds (dot) net

Thanks for all your support over the past couple years. It meant a lot.

Stasis

his isn't the end, but pretty darn close. Inland Empress has accomplished what I wanted it to do: rescued some semblence of my sanity and kept my writing skills sharp.

But being funny takes time and patience and multiple drafts. It hasn't been easy watching my hits slip from 500 a day to about 60. I have a Mommy friend who loves Mommy blogs and who's quoted Suburban Bliss and Finslippy to me. Must. Not. Hurt. Her.

I coulda been a contendah. I could've gone in that direction. I'll never know if, with a little more diligence, I might've hit the big time, maybe "Snobby Extraterrestrial" in the TTLB ecosystem, or gotten a paying gig from it.

But life is made of choices, and I'm choosing to move away and move on. We're getting ready to sell the house and flee this endless stretch of cookie-cutterdom known as the Inland Empire. We aren't sure where we'll end up just yet. If I land somewhere nice, I'll let you know. Via email. If I get around to it.

I have ideas for children's books and am working hard over at Book Buds to build bridges to people who know this genre much, much better than I do. Yeah, it averages 35 hits a day, but I get payola (sorta) in the form of free books. Heh.

I have a promise -- not a contract, more like a wish -- from someone to help her write her memoirs. I have two kids to entertain, bath, feed and schlep around. And, oh yeah, my husband likes seeing me every now and then too.

Archives will remain up for the time being and comments will remain open until I get fed up with spammers. Eventually, I intend to sell the domain name for a nominal fee to this same friend, who's starting a line of homemade soaps and toiletries. Seriously.

Thanks to all of you who stopped by, shared part of my life, left a comment and had a little fun. Best of luck to you all.

Love, hugs and all that other mushy stuff,

Anne Boles Levy
Upland, Calif.

At last, a blog in a language I can almost understand

onder of wonders ... both kids are napping at once! Of course, both kids are also sick with stomach flu, but I'll take my miracles however I can get them.

So of course I must waste precious moments to read a blog that only an English major could love. How could I not hearken to such poetic lines as:

we two dide runne like eye makeupe on a televangelistes wyf

That Chaucer certainly has a way with wordes.

What I think about when I'm not thinking about anything

o I'm lying in bed the other night indulging in my usual far-away fantasy thoughts when Plosh brings up politics. I don't remember what, but it was something particularly gory and nasty and mean. Ruined the mood right there.

I tell him, y'know, I had a pretty good fantasy going until you brought that up.

Naturally, he wanted in. What fantasy?

Sigh.

Well, see, I like to think about having wings. I reviewed a book a while back called The Year of Our War about a guy who was the only one in his world whose wings worked the way G-d intended. Or at least, the way the god in that world intended.

Ever since then, I've been trying to figure out the mechanics of how that would work. I calculate what I'd need in terms of wingspan -- I'm skinny in this fantasy, which helps -- to achieve lift. I also read somewhere that birds spend a lot of time preening to remove bugs and dirt and reposition their long flight feathers.

There are nights when I can't sleep and I lay awake imagining all this useless stuff about flying, until my back develops weird aches from overusing my wing muscles and I feel the need to fluff my feathers.

Unless I also grow tail feathers, I'd have to wear a narrow skirt while flying to catch the wind, which helps both with steering and braking to land. I'd look good flying around in a pencil skirt, maybe a dark maroon to contrast with the earthy browns and beiges of my natural plumage.

I swear I can sometimes feel air currents and eddies under my wings, that I can ride the thermals as the heat rises off the ground at midday, and if I stretch and then contract my flight feathers just so, I can do a belly-roll to impress all you landlubbers.

When I finally drift off to sleep, I have the same dreams as any Mommy; usually about five zillion horrible ways for my children to disappear or die. I wake up panicking until I realize the pounding against my ribs is from two tiny pajama'd feet kicking against me.

And then I wonder what my house would look like from the air.

Return of the Persian King

e's my little Shushan boy. Note that he's wearing the same costume as last year. Except it's a bit shorter. Or he's a bit longer. Still the darned cutest Persian monarch ever to hold court in the Inland Empire.

(The fuss is over the Jewish version of Mardi Gras, called Purim, which celebrates one of the few times in our history we evaded massacre. Alas, it's apocryphal.)

On a serious note, a few of us Mommies are in high dudgeon at Minitaur's pre-school. It's a Reform synagogue, which is supposed to be a more liberal kinda place.

Yesterday, they rounded up the kids for a costume parade and then had them file into the sanctuary to sing the usual songs and have the Rabbi and Cantor explain all about wicked Haman (boooo!) and wise, brave Mordecai (yaaaaayyy!) and, oh yeah, pretty Esther (silence).

Just about every girl there had a Disney princess costume on.

Think about this. Think hard.

If you're unfamiliar with the Purim story, it's called the Book of Esther. Not the Book of Mordecai, her uncle. It's Esther who lands the king because she's modest, not just pretty. Big difference.

It's Esther who tells the king she's vegetarian so she doesn't have to eat unkosher meat.

It's Esther who confesses her fears and feels the weight of her position as Haman's plot against the Jews unfolds.

It's Esther who, at Mordecai's urging, screws her courage to the sticking place and finds a way to see the king.

It's Esther, alone and unaided, who pleads with her husband to save her life and that of her people.

But the version my son and all his crinolin-clad playmates heard yesterday is that Esther was real, real purdy, and isn't that nice? And aren't we lucky Mordecai was so brave and wise?

Fictional or not, it's an important story in Jewish lore, and one where a woman plays a prominent role. Can we please not Disney-fy her down to glass slippers and a vapid giggle?

Odd, but last year when I heard the Book of Esther read by Chassidim, they made a great deal about Esther's heroism. They even said a prayer for her predecessor, Queen Vashti, who lost her crown (and likely her head) when she refused to dance for the drunk king at a festival.

Next time somebody tells me the Reform movement is more "egalitarian", I'm going to ask them to explain exactly how.

Proving once and for all that babies do not, in fact, bounce

op quiz time!

The most effective way to drop a baby without killing her is:

a. dangle her Michael-Jackson-style off your balcony;

b. swing her by the ankles and "accidentally" let go;

c. fall asleep standing up while rocking her;

d. launch her from a prone position on the bed while lunging to catch a vintage lamp.

Correct answer: D! Bonus points if it takes your husband's sleep-deprived brain a split second to transition from admiring his quick reflexes to panicky realization he's probably killed her! Ohmigod!

The lamp is perched precariously on a bedside stand. It was late and the baby wasn't sleeping. She did a few push-ups on her Daddy's tummy. He reached for a digital clock that caught her eye.

The two electrical cords are intertwined and the lamp took a dive. So did the hubby. So did the baby.

Milkula is okay. She landed face down on the carpet and took an extremely long second or so to start screaming, indicating she'd not lost consciousness. She has a bruise on her cheek and a reddish spot on her temple, plus a few rug burns on her tummy. Nothing to fret the folks at Child Protective Services.

Five minutes later, she was hugging her Daddy and squealing. All was forgiven. Daddy, on the other hand, still has the look of a condemned man.

Me, I'm biting my tongue. Hard.

Why you haven't heard from me, excuse #906

ot sure why, but I've lost my groove and can't seem to get it back. Everything's off, like my entire psyche is hungover, but without benefit of having gotten drunk. Until I get it back, you can at least enjoy my latest book review.

Sigh. 

Just desserts

ook up, there's the moon up in the sky.
It's big and round and I have found
it looks just like a lemon pie

I'm hoping I got those lyrics right, from Laurie Berkner. She's another one of these kiddie folk singers, very hot right now with the four-feet-and-under crowd. The hubby plans to review her latest CD, but I'm more interested in the pie, thank you.

Y'see, with all this lactose intolerance in our family, it's impossible to fill our pie holes with, well, pie. There's butter and cream and other cow-byproducts. My husband had pretty much given up on the idea of ever eating another dessert that didn't taste like it came out of one of the cow's other orifices.

But of course, he underestimated me. A friend gave me lemons off her tree, and I didn't make lemonade. Instead, I made lemon custard pie ... with tofu! Yes, tofu!

Oh, stop it. It's good. Really. I used pudding mix from the tofu maker and fresh-squeezed lemon juice.

I'm so proud of myself. That, and I discovered the next best thing since Jell-o. Seriously. You use this stuff called agar agar (you buy it in the Japanese section of Whole Foods or from an Asian grocer) that comes from seaweed and you boil it in fruit juice until it dissolves and pour it into custard cups and voila! Vegan Jell-o!

I'm such a domestic goddess.

Only I made up a new recipe, using coconut milk, lime juice, sugar and chopped pistachios, and agar agar. Ooooh ... a coconut lime mould! Yes!

Maybe I should open a cafe. Yes, maybe a vegan cafe, someplace you can go for non-dairy desserts and herbal teas and, oh, I'm just getting orgasmic thinking of the possibilities!

There could be a whole line of wheat-free cakes for celiacs or nut-free candies or, or, or ...

We could all just go to Whole Foods.

Never mind. I'm going downstairs for a slice. See ya.

A fine romance

losh and I usually spend the wee hours lounging in front of our respective computers in our jammies, Web surfing, posting, maybe schmoozing or solving the world's problems. It's become our morning routine, him in front of his state-of-the art Velocity Micro and me huddled over his laptop.

Yesterday, without tearing his eyes from the screen, he asked, "Would you marry me?"

Sure, I said. How come?

"I want you to be my wife."

I'm 30 lbs. heavier than when he met me and a whole lot flabbier, not to mention I'm wearing hole-y flannel jammies flecked with spit-up. And still this guy wants to marry me. Huh.

Just when you think you know a person.

My Dad used to say that nothing kills a fine friendship like romance, and nothing kills a fine romance like marriage. Says who?

The spice of life

have two words for you all today: SOLID FOODS.

Yes!

Milkula may need yet another moniker soon (I hope I hope I hope) as she is now eating cereal, some mashed banana and applesauce. I'm NOT going to repeat the mistakes I made with Minitaur, who didn't wean until he was 2 (gag) and to this day thinks chicken nuggets are the staff of life.

I remember Plosh feeding him avocado once and me, stupid me, saying, "Oh no, I don't think a 10-month-old should be eating that, should he?" Moron! Communist vegetable hater! What was wrong with my 39-year-old self?

Now that I'm 42 and much wiser, I have a better idea what to feed baby:

1. Chili peppers: the sooner she develops a taste for these, the better. I'm sick of all these namby-pamby kids who cry about their mouths hurting. Tough! Peppers are loaded with Vitamin C, capsicum wards off cancer and is a natural antibiotic. I'm thinking pureed, or cut into strips with some ranch dressing.

2. Garlic: the hubby complains it gives him gas. Feh. If I can get Milkula hooked, I can conspire with her to sneak it back into my cooking. It wards off vampires and is also a natural antibiotic, and life isn't worth living without it. Perhaps I'll roast a few cloves and smear them on crackers for her.

3. Tea: it's the world's most popular beverage, separating us civilized folk from the coffee-swilling hordes. It's also loaded with antioxidants, comes in every flavor imagineable these days, and is traditionally shared with teddy bears in floppy hats. I can't wait.

I think I'm going to enjoy this. Maybe too much. Okay, so Milkula developed a head-to-toe rash the other week, with hives the size of dimes all over her pudgy body. I rushed her to the pediatrician, who shrugged and said "No idea."

She suggested I wait a week or two before trying any new foods, but two weeks have elapsed and I'm giddy about the possibilities.

C'mere, my little poblano! Heh heh.

Reason #237 why I suck at parenting

here comes that crystal clear moment in every Momma’s life when reality wallops her.

No matter how much she cherishes the fruit of her womb, no matter how much she nurtures and cozens them, no matter how many thousands of lullabies she chirps off-key or allergen-free cupcakes she bakes, no matter how much she schleps, chauffeurs, buys, sews, glues, reheats or secretly tosses, there will still come that fraught moment when her suckiness is inescapable.

Last night was that moment for me. Correction: last night was the latest such moment.

My first mistake was letting Minitaur head toward the downstairs bathroom while I went upstairs with his fussy sister. This was after dinner, and he was obviously going to perform his evening potty, even if he insisted he only had to pee.

I’m nursing, and listening. He calls out that he needs his shirt changed, meaning he got a few drops of pee on it. I call out that I’ll put him in his jammies whenever he’s finished. He has to poop, he yells. No shit, I think to myself.

A minute later, I hear a lot of yelling and jumping and thumping. He’s obviously climbed on the counter in his stockinged feet and is in some imaginary land or distant planet and having a grand ol’ time. I can picture him holding his pipi, staring at himself in the mirror, jumping and leaping and wiggling and shouting.

Um, earth to Momma: this was your cue to go downstairs, hoist him off the counter with a stern lecture about his safety, wipe his bottom, pull up his pants, wash his widdle fingees and drag him, no doubt mid-tantrum, off to bed.

Instead, I just listened, while the baby sucked away.

Crash.

The timbre of his shouting changed. It was no longer fun.

A piercing story

y husband is one of these people who's deathly afraid of needles. The dentist had to give him Valium before a Novocaine injection, and even so he got all nervous and queasy. So when I broached the subject of getting Milkula's ears pierced, I worried more about my big baby than my little one.

Naturally, I did what any loving, respectful wife would do, and got it done behind his back. Heh.

It was an operation worthy of the CIA, only I like to think more competently performed.

First, I had to persuade Minitaur he needed another train from the Thomas the Idiot Engine set, or whatever it's called. This took about .00001 seconds, even when I insisted he use his "allowance" money, which consists of him picking his father's pockets every night.

We shook out $40 in quarters from a ceramic bank in the shape of a fire engine. How did my son come to have more cash than his ol' lady?

So off we go to Victoria Gardens, which, despite my protests, is an attractive mall even if cars do run through it, which is just about the stupidest thing I've ever seen. I mean, geez, drivers just do not remember how to share the road any longer. They haven't successfully made room for pedestrians in about 30 years -- I don't even think they teach it in driver's ed any longer -- and then you let them careen through a friggin' mall? And make them parallel park?

Anyway.

We somehow survived the onslaught of impatient parkers and made our way to a Thomas the Torpor-inducing Tank Engine store there. I let Minitaur act out his aggressions on the displays before he proudly offered up several pounds of coinage for Percy, Thomas' gay lover best friend.

But I felt sure Minitaur would need further convincing to come along to a jewelry store with me, so I bought him a Hot Dog on a Stick, just about the best food innovation since, well, anything else on a stick.

Finally, it came time to do the dirty deed, to bring Operation Gold Stud to a successful close and get my agent in from the cold and change her diaper. Or something like that.

We went to a junque jewelry shop called Claire's. Milkula perched in my lap, and then Minitaur wanted to do so too and screamed. He fussed more than she did.

I chose simple 3mm gold studs. First one ear, and a heckuva lot of squawling and wriggling later, with my arms pinning her in place, we did the other ear. Then I held her up to a mirror and she was too entranced by her own pulchritude to cry.

Girls. Geez.

Then I made the mistake of trying to pick out a few more earrings for her. I hear a door jingle and my son is wheeling the stroller out onto the sidewalk. "Time to go, Mommy!"

Um, gotta pay first, sweetie.

"No, it's time to go!"

Men just don't have that shopping instinct, do they?

Somehow I managed to pay, grab the earrings, my red-earred daughter, my red-faced son and the stroller and make it back to the car without getting run over and with only one or two more screaming fits (from my son, naturally).

The baby snoozed all the way home.

My husband made grimacing faces when he came home.

It's been three weeks and the baby looks adorable. Nobody mistakes my baldy for a boy anymore, and my husband has stopped fainting at the sight of her.

And my son's announced he wants another Thomas the Twit Engine.

Name's Boles. Anne Boles. Agent 007-3/4.

Heh.

Like my new look?

hoo-hoo! A new blog banner. Let me know what you think. Eventually, I'll get around to redoing the icons too, which have been absent while I work from the hubby's laptop most mornings. That is, when I get to post at all.

Be back soon with more funny tales from suburbia.

Update: okay, new icons are done. Phew.

The adventurous herbivore

very now and then I must devote a post to the endlessly beige span of desert known as the Inland Empire, since this is nominally what my blog's about, and it helps in the occasional non-porn Google search.

I live in a part of the world known for its cancerous growth -- the fastest in North America, if the newspapers are to be believed. More articulate and smarter people (who generally don't live here, almost by definition) can tell you all about what problems that generates. I care about all of them, but not right now.

Right now, I'm concerned that this population boom means my corner of the world now has the lowest per capita rate of vegetarian restaurants in all of herbivorous California. This is shocking.

Even though I've joined the legions of leaf eaters, I'd like to have the occasional culinary adventure just like other civilized people who throw caution and lower dress sizes to the wind. Imagine my delight upon hearing there is a vegetarian Chinese restaurant in my town. With some pluck and help from a site called the Happy Cow, I found Veggie Way (formerly Panda Wok) less than 3 miles from my humble, meat-free abode.

Last night, we ventured there, keeping our expectations low, which turned out to be wise. First, we had to find the strip mall, nearly indistinguishable from all the other fading, litter-strewn wrecks with gaping vacancies and cracked blacktop. We found it wedged between the Liquorama and a nail spa. Doesn't that tell you everything you need to know?

The restaurant was your typical greasy spoon, with a few creaky tables, dim lighting and crimson Japanese lanterns. A mirrored wall kept the baby busy most of the evening, and a TV console broadcast Chinese religious programming with English subtitles: "Find the person who knows God and let him enlighten you!"

Sure. Right after I finish my egg rolls.

We seemed to be the only people over 30 there, which meant we were also the only ones whose every last inch of flesh hadn't been given over to tattoos and piercings. It never fails to amaze me how many holes the human body can sport without leaking.

We shared chicken-less chow mein noodles and curried vegetables. I didn't die. Minitaur ate his customary brown rice and steamed tofu. You read that correctly. This is what my son has eaten in every Asian-themed restaurant he's ever been in, though sometimes it's soba noodles instead of rice. Poor kid. I've pretty much ruined him, haven't I?

As we ate, others filtered in who didn't seem as threatening: two gay college kids, a middle-aged European couple, and a few others of non-Anglo ethnicity. You would never have noticed any of them if we didn't live in Vacuous Fatso Land. Most people seemed in a good mood, especially the gay couple, who were all giddy with young love.

It took a while for the two women behind the counter to warm to us. We were clearly the interlopers here, us middle-class family types wearing jeans and sweaters and without any visible bodily alterations.

It isn't exactly our piece of Santa Monica or Laguna Beach, but it's not terrible, which is about what you expect in our part of the world. Sad, I know, but until someone offers one of us a job in a less carniverous part of the country, this is what we get.