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July 22, 2006



Hear, hear!


I find myself stalking you more than I should. I am one of the many who sit in the shadows and hit refresh more than they care to admit, waiting impatiently for yet another post.
I am (often) happily married and I don't really lean that way (yet), but at least once a post of yours I think of things to email or comments to add or flowers to plant or pictures to draw. I love the simplicity and the intricacy, the style and the flow.
I am childless (still raising the one I married...), unaccomplished and not as courageous. I guess what I'm trying to say is that, despite the lil similarities between our lives (although we do seem to share the same "un-American" (it's easier for me coz I'm Italian..) views), you inspire me to go above and beyond (...still trying to escape Ohio, yes).
It's Saturday and I just washed my hair, I figure it was the best time to share this with you.
Shh! Let it be our little secret...

Rock on you awesome woman with the amazing family :)


Carla, how kind. I, too, am at my most vulnerable and open after I wash my hair.

Seriously, if I had ever imagined an Italian woman would ever comment on my "style" ... well, OK, I never would have imagined it. Because Italian women pretty much have the style market cornered.

So, thanks.
(Although I'm not so sure I'd call myself "un-American" so much as just "kind of weird.")


I didn't mean to offend and will blame the greasy, slightly smelly conditioner for the un-American comment. However, having lived in Ohio for 3 years, that to me is quite the good compliment. I wish I could explain without generalizing (master at that) or offending (again, another thing I'm good at), but I tried doing that and erased the comment a million times over.
In my defense, I can accessorize and that's why they don't revoke my passport or let my Italian citizenship lapse...


Great post and pics! I stood in front of mirror while breastfeeding once, and immediately decided that the freak outs are completely irrational... there's nothing to see, folks, really! Breastfed all over the place with a kind of "I dare you to say something" attitude... which of course meant that no one ever said anything. 13 months of bliss. Although I never thought to take a picture, which would have been cool, I'll NEVER forget the sweetness.

Your comment about the much-feared awesome power of breasts reminded me of a great old Kate Clinton routine in which she talks about her mother saying (about Kate being gay), "Don't tell your father. It could kill him." And Kate thinking, "Really? Maybe there are a few other people I should tell..."

Mwwwahhh hah hah hah!


This great fear of the effects public breastfeeding - on men? on other children?? - reminds me strongly of the attitude that women wearing mini-skirts (or, in the past, showing uncovered arms, unplaided hair) don't know which uncontrollable and dangerous desires they wake in otherwise innocent men...so it would be to their own good if they are kept from doing so...
In the end, this all comes down to seeing a woman mainly as a sexual object, even if this is hidden behind the wish to protect her from this point of view.
Strange, that quite likely the same kind of people minding public breastfeeding will go mental about the concept of the headscarf for muslim women, though the attitude behind it seems comparable in some respects! (Although at least the headscarf is additionally a religious symbol...)

(Moreena, you show your attitude so much funnier and therefore less aggressive than I do - wish I had this gift as well. Sorry. Just makes me mad that issues my mother had to deal with pop up again --- and not only in the USA, I'm afraid.)


Oh, looking once more at the photo of Jörg and Frankie certainly makes me RELAX again now ---
and the other one certainly cheers me up a lot...
Thank you.

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Falling Down, November 2004

  • Balloon in hand, my 4-year-old
    twirled across the kitchen floor,
    singing nonsense words
    in her own key.
    "It's my gift!" she declared
    to the world at large, which
    was really only me,
    sitting at the table. Enough
    twirling, and she lost
    her balance, tumbling
    to the floor in a theatrical
    slapstick of elbows and knees.

    She lay on her back
    for a few seconds,
    at the textured ceiling
    with the mysterious
    spaghetti sauce stain.
    Suddenly she
    flapping her arms and legs
    there on the floor, as if to swish
    the imaginary snow
    into a snow angel.

    "Falling down is also a gift!" says she.

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