paraphrase
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Sufficient unto the day is the Getting Stuff Done thereof.
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*logorrhoea n pathologically excessive and often incoherent talkativeness or wordiness, prolixity [Gr logos word + roia flow, stream]
blogorrhoea n online manifestation of the above
it's a free concert from now on
Played a Bat Mitzvah yesterday: you know it's going to be a great gig when people are already up dancing in a circle during the sound check. Gave me an idea for the next Klezmer Rebs album title, actually: Shiny Happy Hebrews Holding Hands. No? Well you should have heard Jack's suggestion.
Wellington people: come and hear us play at the Newtown Fair(e)! Next Sunday, 2 March at 1.00pm. Or at the Newtown Community Centre on Thursday, 6 March: 7.30pm (it's FREE!). Or at the synagogue on Webb Street, Sunday, 9 March, with Cantor Alex Stein. Details, as ever, on the Rebs site.
it's my party and i'll kvell if i want to
Friday, February 22, 2008
Nine months today: Maggie's been the same amount of time on dry land as not. Talking to other mums, apparently I'm not alone in finding this a poignant marker, almost more significant than the first birthday. It takes a long time for your body to let go of them.
On a not unrelated subject, we're continuing with the boobie thing because Maggie is still most partial. Mind you she's cutting her first tooth so this may be revised in fairly short order, I don't know: I've never been in a position to decide whether to wean a baby before. After the difficulties nursing Becca, I honestly didn't think I'd still be breastfeeding Maggie at nine months.
Having spent the past few weeks commandoing it around the place at terrifying speeds, the wee'un has now turned her attention to trying to stand, and has so far managed to pull herself up on the side of her cot onto her knees, where she squats looking extremely pleased with herself and clearly plotting how she can vault over the edge to freedom. So we're going to have to drop the cot base. Current favourite phoneme, despite my attempts to get her to pronounce 'm's, is Da da da da da da da (how sharper than a serpent's tooth &c...). With the extra advantage that 1mm of tooth confers, she's more of an eating machine than ever, and it recently dawned on me that she doesn't, during meals, do that trick that I though all babies did of storing baby mush in her cheeks until critical mass is achieved and then letting fly and spurting it all out in a fine orange mist (evil cackle optional). Sensible kid, she obviously thinks that there is no point wasting perfectly good food. We're off to Plunket on Monday so vital statistics will be duly furnished.
halcyon
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Dancing around the kitchen with Maggie the other day to Orbital's second album and hearing her squeals of delight, I'm taken back to Cambridge, nine years ago. I'd enticed Jack over there from Wellington on the grounds, among many other compelling arguments, that he'd stand a better chance of catching the lads live in the UK than back in NZ. Turned out I was right: weeks after his arrival, we went to see them play the Cambridge Corn Exchange, and I'll never forget glancing at Jack during the gig and seeing this huge, joyful grin. No wonder he married me, eh? Eight years today. Happy anniversary, dear.
out of my way, peasants
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Following last month's car–taxi interface, the Big Ugly Gas Guzzler's been at the panel beaters for the past few days; fortunately our insurance covers a rental car, and as I wasn't about to haul two kids, two kiddie car seats and a pram across town on the bus, I sent Jack off on Monday to pick it up after work. At 4.30 I received a text message. Holy shit, it said. Ten minutes later the back door opened and Jack stepped in, grinning like a motherfucker. Behind him was a gleaming SUV, the marque of which I will omit to mention lest you assume I actually give a crap. Because unlike many, I don't consider a car, any car, to be an object of erotic contemplation, or erotic anything else for that matter. To me it really is just a great big annoying smelly money-incinerating machine to get you and your crap and your children's crap from A to B when you would probably rather have stayed home in the first place. In fact, the only times I've owned a car have been in circumstances of strict logistical necessity, viz.: a. while doing shift work in Auckland, where there are no bus services at 3.00 am and – surprise! – the area health board wouldn't stump up for a taxi; b. while pregnant and no longer able to cycle to work and we were having a kid anyway so we might as well get a car and; c. once I'd actually had the kid, and yes, I know there are some virtuous types who manage the sprog thing without a car but I'd rather not have to load my kids into a bike trailer for emergency dashes to doctors, for instance.
So here we were, capitalist bastards for the week, so with some trepidation I took the monstrosity out for a test drive. And all I can say is, I can see why people are always reversing over toddlers in them: the visibility's for shit. It was like driving a tank, but not in a good way, which would involve an actual tank, with ordnance, with which you could then, if you chose, do as you saw fit to rid the road of SUV drivers. Wankers.
On the other hand, it was rather fun picking up Jack's sister, back from Switzerland for a visit, from the airport in. Except now she thinks we're all successful or something; hopefully she won't notice when we swap it back for the non-gleaming station wagon. Which is back from the garage earlier than expected, but every time I suggest that we can now get shot of the rental, certain lower lips start to wobble.
unintended consequences
Friday, February 08, 2008
One of the many unexpected benefits of having another wee'un is that it offers a means of leveraging tidiness in the firstborn. Because Becca, if you leave your books on the floor, Maggie will EAT them is not merely compelling but empirically provable.
rinsing out the lumps
Thursday, February 07, 2008
Last night, Becca came down with a 24-hour vomiting bug. Today I am mostly rinsing out the lumps. Meanwhile Marauding Maggie, imprisoned in her playpen, rehearses her I have been abandoned on an ice floe in the middle of a fast-flowing river with no hope of rescue I can keep this up for hours you know screech. It's very effective, I must admit.
(Six words? Peh. See, I can do it in four.)
words and music
Monday, February 04, 2008
For those who are interested in such things, mamazine have just published one of my pomes. Typically of the stuff of mine that does get published (admittedly not a huge corpus), it was written in about 10 mins, with barely any revision. I say this only because the stuff I spend weeks and weeks labouring over meets with wholesale, and occasionally savage, rejection. If and when I work out why this is I'll probably save me a lot of paper. And words.
Anyway, music. The Klezmer Rebs are playing three public gigs early next month: Sunday, 2 March at the Newtown Faire, outside from about 1–1.45; Thursday 6 March at the Newtown Community Centre from about 7.30 (it's FREE!) and 9 March at the Jewish Community Centre on Webb St, backing up Cantor Alex Stein. Details, as ever, on the web site. Come! dance! be merry! &c.
hth
Sunday, February 03, 2008
Just learned of the existence of Kiwiology and bugger me if I'm not on it. So who grassed me up? Go on, 'fess up, I won't be mad.
The personal details are out of date, btw: I've since updated them to include Maggie. It would be a shame to leave her out, as she is very cute, even if she does have no sense of self-preservation. About which more tomorrow: I've just played at a semi-impromptu gig and am utterly shagged. (Funniest part was the small group of Goths* who, while everyone else was dancing around in circles to the merry klezmer vibe, stood at the back looking mournful. And undernourished.)
*although they might have been Emos: I'm too middle-aged to know the difference. Incidentally, does anyone know the collective noun for Goths/Emos? I'm thinking a 'mope'. 'A mope of Goths'. Whaddyareckon?
