tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32999959852384511832024-03-14T11:26:00.940-05:00Svendlor MomentsSvendlorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03383610314373558447noreply@blogger.comBlogger29125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3299995985238451183.post-84854849800588455392009-10-26T17:20:00.006-05:002009-10-26T17:39:15.939-05:00NaNoWriMoIt's that time of the year again.<br /><br />I'll be writing a novel in November. Somehow. <br /><br />I've joined a few hundred thousand other people participating in <a href="http://www.nanowrimo.org/" target="_blank">National Novel Writing Month</a>. Starting November 1st, we all try to write 50,000 words in one month. Last year, I was able to pull this off, but then, Nola was napping a good 3-4 hours each day. And we weren't spending a week in Texas for Thanksgiving. And we weren't closing on a house.<br /><br />So, in order to get this done, I have to write two thousand words a day, November 1st through the 21st. <span style="font-style: italic;">Two thousand words a day.</span> It should be interesting -- it most definitely will be sloppy -- but I think it can be done. And then, added to what I completed last year, I will have the first draft of my novel done. I'm so excited!<br /><br />Here's a quote that really inspires me around mid-November, when the house is getting filthy and I'm about ready to tear my hear out:<br /><br /><blockquote>It costs a lot to be authentic… And one can’t be stingy with these things. Because you are more authentic the more you resemble what you’ve dreamed of being.<br />--Pedro Almodovar’s “All About My Mother”</blockquote>Svendlorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03383610314373558447noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3299995985238451183.post-45866743705490180822009-07-10T17:40:00.006-05:002009-11-17T19:24:08.325-06:00Life in the PJs<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGZ6517gRuKyN-9zjU27wthooiLda73mNT-deM1skqIHGfVL-SlYcF4ReZ0DltrtB7KjDts7PDogxBnNrZXl1V0YCskRWybDqmVd2FlrxL7FUI4jKCD5BmZAR_ak00uMMQTHUfsABlMHE/s1600/09-Fall_apt-small.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 241px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGZ6517gRuKyN-9zjU27wthooiLda73mNT-deM1skqIHGfVL-SlYcF4ReZ0DltrtB7KjDts7PDogxBnNrZXl1V0YCskRWybDqmVd2FlrxL7FUI4jKCD5BmZAR_ak00uMMQTHUfsABlMHE/s320/09-Fall_apt-small.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5405248303481278258" /></a><br /><br /><br />The cable guy called them the projects. Nola's physical therapist mistook them for barracks. But really they're not so bad. Can a place with hardwood floors actually be considered a project?<br /><br />Still, they're definitely subsidized housing that we couldn't afford if not for the good graces of a paternalistic entity. In this case, Princeton University. If we depended on Princeton, the City, somehow that would be less okay. Why has government aid become so stigmatized, while accepting the bounty from an enormous endowment fund brings no shame? In either case, due to economic conditions, a family cannot afford to rent housing in their community. <br /><br />The answer to this is too long for one simple blogger like myself to tackle. We are lucky that our "Projects" have less crime, neglect, bureaucratic indifference, and all the other lovely problems that our brothers and sisters two blocks over, in the Princeton Township projects, have to put with. They may not be lovely to look at, but we're actually quite happy to be here.Svendlorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03383610314373558447noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3299995985238451183.post-2428494625422101882009-02-16T12:50:00.006-06:002009-02-16T12:53:38.611-06:00You're Not AllowedNobody said that you could grow up and become a toddler, Nola. Sure, you're not quite one yet, and you certainly aren't "toddling." But look at you. That's a not a baby, that's a big girl!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuK2hkN0IhFw5mTtcTRG6dRaQncMLYnBNbr6cMdRvDbv4g9A7RIlUFhOfjaPpntdOWFteK9gFurey_hItafjHhH0mn5DTipXN4sXipmp2RXkWvd58zzvG1MROyh94IJJg_864VAW1UDtc/s1600-h/09-02_computer-smile.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuK2hkN0IhFw5mTtcTRG6dRaQncMLYnBNbr6cMdRvDbv4g9A7RIlUFhOfjaPpntdOWFteK9gFurey_hItafjHhH0mn5DTipXN4sXipmp2RXkWvd58zzvG1MROyh94IJJg_864VAW1UDtc/s320/09-02_computer-smile.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5303469860746712594" /></a>Svendlorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03383610314373558447noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3299995985238451183.post-2310477268864434862009-02-08T20:31:00.013-06:002009-10-18T14:44:46.232-05:00Viva La WhateverWe stumbled upon the Grammys last night. Why are the Grammys even on a major network anymore? Why haven't they scampered off to some MTV-type network?<br /><br />I guess the Grammys are for less grumpy people, people who actually believe that the most popular music is the best music. Those folks who want an authority to decide what should be "awarded," even if said authority figure consists --in the main-- of fifty-five year old record company executives wearing tiny little ponytails.<br /><br />Now, Svendlor is getting old, too, so we shouldn't be deciding what's hip, either. But we can guess it's not Paul McCartney. Or Coldplay, even if Jay-Z is rapping with Chris Martin. MIA was pretty cool, but all people seemed to remember was the outfit semi-covering her nine month pregnant belly. Anyway, the point is, we won't pretend to be up on the latest musical groundswells (although Charlie certainly knows more about it than Laura!), but <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XLaZ-8IMtt0&eurl=http://muttlife.blogspot.com/">this mashup</a> by DJ EarWorm certainly summarizes the past year in music better than the long-ass Grammy celebration we sat through.<br /><br />p.s. the link was stolen from one of Charlie's other blogs, MuttLife.Svendlorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03383610314373558447noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3299995985238451183.post-4428008231212603042009-02-03T11:15:00.013-06:002009-10-15T17:19:33.098-05:00'Scuse Me While I Kiss This GuyCharlie and I were sitting around talking smack during the Superbowl (which, disappointingly, did not feature the Patriots or the Cowboys, so we had no stake in it, although it was a great game). We had finally seen <span style="font-style:italic;">The 40 Year Old Virgin</span> the night before, and I was still loving the <a href="http://www.dailymotion.com/video/x2196y_joe-walsh-life-of-illusion_music">opening song</a> by Joe Walsh. Man, that brought me back. The soundtrack from my childhood would feature many tunes from the Eagles, and former Eagles, and Paul McCartney's Wings.<br /><br />Anyway, we got to comparing Joe Walsh's solo career to that of his former bandmates, Don Henley and Glen Fry. For instance, we both feel that Henley's "Boys of Summer" has this heavy vibe of "now that we Baby Boomers are older, there's nothing good in the world anymore." We can't stand this attitude in all its forms (reunion tours, 70's retro fashion, Clinton worship). <br /><br />Just to annoy, I started singing the chorus, "I can see you / your brown skin shining in the sun..." and Charlie stopped me right there, laughing. Seems he always thought the lyric went "your boys still shining in the sun." Which is infinitely funnier. If only Don Henley was expressing his fond memories of male nudity on San Francisco's Baker Beach. That I could get behind. But no, it's just a cheesy song about missing life before SPF30 came along.<br /><br />We would love to hear if anyone else has a good, garbled song lyric. Yes, we know there's a book. That's where this post's title came from.Svendlorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03383610314373558447noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3299995985238451183.post-58459711269739781122009-01-27T10:29:00.008-06:002009-02-16T22:19:41.140-06:00Baby, It's Cold Outside<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1VuSQ-rWUYVz6YhvfCGqHWHfiqmtuo9grJ81YLtXbHnzx6w_MzGScw5STXbH0J3hO0NhR7TQJJSuKbVhWE6VDInIqq1euY9CThwzJvkR5DqLr3tB50eXf6k2a5hFkR2aWcU-pWZbXolQ/s1600-h/bubble-girl.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1VuSQ-rWUYVz6YhvfCGqHWHfiqmtuo9grJ81YLtXbHnzx6w_MzGScw5STXbH0J3hO0NhR7TQJJSuKbVhWE6VDInIqq1euY9CThwzJvkR5DqLr3tB50eXf6k2a5hFkR2aWcU-pWZbXolQ/s320/bubble-girl.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5296121416387432722" /></a><br /><br />Poor Nola. She's just beginning to perceive the world in new ways. She loves to look at the sunlight as it beams into our apartment, and to make shadows with her hands. She's recently learned to imitate mommy and daddy, and especially likes clapping. She should be going out into the world everyday, exploring and making new friends.<br /><br />Instead, she and mommy are house-bound with an indifferent cat. When it's really cold like this, a thick sheet of ice forms on the back stairs, making them dangerous for a mom carrying a kid. And, even if we went down the front stairs and around the back to where our stroller is stored, the snow pack in the alley makes it impassable. So, if it's warm enough for mommy, we take a short walk carrying Nola. If it's below fifteen degrees or so, mommy throws in the towel. We stay inside all day.<br /><br />For company, we watch the daytime version of "Deal or No Deal." Howie cheers the contestants on even as they make bad choices and open more cases than they should. Mommy lectures Nola on the importance of calculating risk and maximizing opportunity. Mommy is not much of a risk-taker, herself.<br /><br />Nola claps. Luckily, just about everything makes Nola happy.Svendlorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03383610314373558447noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3299995985238451183.post-25364304286565146202009-01-23T12:55:00.008-06:002009-02-16T22:21:10.427-06:00When the Levees Broke<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhubGcbaxnWnKfu9m6q7W1z64GFCu5CpsGJGsCyBMoJL7ZE_1T2-DYQWM-P0ArFPLUMIxFnwlRM8dTFTiiTbeXOE2-vygbeTmDJ78AnzkT0Z7YY8A40Tfjswt9P_J6EJpHqtEcVRUhBVtM/s1600-h/5.31.07+047.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhubGcbaxnWnKfu9m6q7W1z64GFCu5CpsGJGsCyBMoJL7ZE_1T2-DYQWM-P0ArFPLUMIxFnwlRM8dTFTiiTbeXOE2-vygbeTmDJ78AnzkT0Z7YY8A40Tfjswt9P_J6EJpHqtEcVRUhBVtM/s320/5.31.07+047.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5294568444099636770" /></a><br /><br />This is a completely untimely post, since New Orleans flooded over three years ago, and the HBO series came out two years ago. But we highly recommend checking out <a href="http://www.hbo.com/docs/programs/whentheleveesbroke/">When the Levees Broke</a>, a four-part documentary by Spike Lee. We finally watched it this week, and it broke our hearts. But it made us fall in love with NOLA all over again (as many of you know, our daughter is named after New Orleans, LA). <br /><br />We last visited New Orleans in 2007, and there was still so much to do. Since much of the population was bussed to far-flung places, "Help Wanted" signs hung everywhere. We didn't do "disaster tourism," so we didn't see the Lower 9th Ward, but even in the wealthy Garden District, where we stayed, people were rebuilding two years in. And the Mississippi coastline still looked like a disaster area.<br /><br />President Obama vows to fulfill the broken promises of the Bush Administration and rebuild the coast. We'd love it if he created some sort of service component to help finally get gulf coast back where it used to be -- the Katrina victims back home, the neighborhoods rebuilt, and the levees actually strong and stable. After viewing this series, we'd be the first to sign up.<br /><br />Oh, and if you ever stay in New Orleans, we highly recommend the <a href="http://www.avenueinnbb.com/">Avenue Inn</a>!Svendlorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03383610314373558447noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3299995985238451183.post-55800908299592426642009-01-20T15:00:00.003-06:002009-01-20T16:24:30.782-06:00It's Been a Long Time Coming......but change has come to America!<br /><br />Nola and momma watched the inauguration today (daddy watched at work). Nola has just recently learned to wave and clap, but it was Mom who jumped up and down like a little kid. Has there ever been more hope for the country in our lifetime, despite seemingly insurmountable problems? Obama makes us all believe that we *can* overcome whatever faces us, not someday, but now.<br /><br />We are proud to be early followers, proud to be Chicagoans, and proud to be Americans.Svendlorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03383610314373558447noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3299995985238451183.post-73276010325978755572009-01-16T15:42:00.013-06:002009-07-10T17:44:13.069-05:00Somewhere Over the RainbowMy Grandma S died last night. She was 98 years old, and ornery all the way up til the end. At least, that's how I imagine it. Actually, she died quietly in her sleep after a short illness. I wasn't there (and don't know how I could have been) and I regret it a little. <br /><br />We did get to see her on our East Coast Odyssey last August-September. She got to meet Nola, and afterward apparently talked her up to whomever would listen. She kept several pictures of Nola on her nightstand. When we were there, Oprah was blaring on the TV and Grandma was criticizing Tina Turner and Cher. We took a few pictures that Grandma was NOT happy with, then, having nothing left to say, we left. <br /><br />It was a short visit, but it meant a lot to me, and I think to Grandma, for Nola to meet her. They both have a feisty spirit. They look the same; I look like my Grandma, and Nola looks like me. And there is something private and contrary in each of us. Nola is blessed with her father's love of laughter and silliness, which leavens our dour Scandinavian-ness a bit. So I hope her life will be a little more Harold Ramis and a little less Ingmar Bergman.<br /><br />My Grandma isn't getting a funeral; she wanted to be cremated and that's it. So I decided to put on some <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0ltAGuuru7Q">Iz</a> and say goodbye in my own way, just thinking of her. While I was thinking, Nola was squiggling on the floor, smiling and giggling, and I thought about how Grandma lives on in her, and how wonderful my baby girl is, and how wonderful life is, and this is what Grandma made. I picked Nola up and hugged her tight, and while I was feeling all warm and fuzzy, Nola knocked over the glass of milk sitting beside me. <br /><br />Milk ran all over the couch, onto my fancy pillow, and spread across the seat of my pants and into my underwear. Everything had to be changed and washed, and I thought maybe Grandma was playing a joke on me, for being so foolish and sentimental. <br /><br />Sorry, Grandma, but I'll never forget you, I will always love you, and you'll just have to deal with my warm, fuzzy vibes for a little while yet. XOXOXO Grandma S, 7/4/1910-1/15/2008.Svendlorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03383610314373558447noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3299995985238451183.post-39142758810635286082009-01-14T17:06:00.004-06:002009-01-14T17:11:35.155-06:00Spring training is just one month away...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV2p0Hvek6XwIzESDag0F6G9CDiL5zFvTuJ6CD8MyU4lfqlaOrokT9zSlajRea7DD_j5s8w2O-lslrFzTA7mDqtgqRqfkR1CVfvXKx1Uou9jgSEbhZBZDB7ZohtUOCc0wGGQtowHIi-CY/s1600-h/Christmas08_cap.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 244px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV2p0Hvek6XwIzESDag0F6G9CDiL5zFvTuJ6CD8MyU4lfqlaOrokT9zSlajRea7DD_j5s8w2O-lslrFzTA7mDqtgqRqfkR1CVfvXKx1Uou9jgSEbhZBZDB7ZohtUOCc0wGGQtowHIi-CY/s320/Christmas08_cap.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5291290544957781746" /></a><br />And Nola is ready! She'd like to congratulate Jim Rice, Red Sox great, for his election to the Hall of Fame.Svendlorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03383610314373558447noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3299995985238451183.post-29409258602562025412008-11-05T08:57:00.002-06:002008-11-05T09:02:54.711-06:00I'm so happy! Yes! I'm so happy!That's a refrain from a church song my first boss, an African-American woman, taught me. I've been singing it since last night.<br /><br />All yesterday felt like Christmas morning, the part before dawn when I'd wait at the top of the second floor steps. At breakfast, my parents would wake up and tell me it was OK to go downstairs, but until then I'd wait impatiently and think of the joy to come, but not really be able to see it yet. <br /><br />Yesterday at 10 p.m., I felt that joy again, and it was just like Christmas. The Svendlor household shed a tear or two. Yes, we are very, very happy today.Svendlorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03383610314373558447noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3299995985238451183.post-78527957936945879672008-10-07T14:41:00.001-05:002008-10-07T14:44:28.546-05:00Solid!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPXILdBOjSqiBPVu1PYN2A52XzGR3rv95ZFIB2kx-mSzuoBRYQ1YMjL3aUQUwlbBbq3yBWMRRrzLRjVMTvkswt8IOpfJeG4inUTuZreQd4PSVdnfw80V-tK-4dfUzbfQARA0J0YmDVfWI/s1600-h/6mo-pic.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPXILdBOjSqiBPVu1PYN2A52XzGR3rv95ZFIB2kx-mSzuoBRYQ1YMjL3aUQUwlbBbq3yBWMRRrzLRjVMTvkswt8IOpfJeG4inUTuZreQd4PSVdnfw80V-tK-4dfUzbfQARA0J0YmDVfWI/s320/6mo-pic.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254500130757729266" /></a>Svendlorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03383610314373558447noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3299995985238451183.post-16649525401614664162008-08-07T17:42:00.009-05:002008-08-07T22:29:45.176-05:00Onesie explosionMe: Holy over-consumption, Nola! You sure do have a lot of onesies!<br /><br />BabyLady: Um, mom? Would that be because you just bought fifteen of them?<br /><br />Me: Yeah, but, Nola! You can't pass up a pack of five onesies for $8!<br /><br />BabyLady: I'll go along with that. But <font style="font-style: italic;">three </font>packs?<br /><br />Me: Er, well, one pack was the same 0-3 month onesies I just packed away. It's so hard to say goodbye to those cute little outfits. So I guess I was kind of trying to revisit your newborn days with that purchase.<br /><br />BabyLady: And the other two packs?<br /><br />Me: Jeez, what is this, the Inquisition? All right, Nola, it's totally true that I didn't need to get those. Or all the Zutano. Or all the Tea Collection stuff. But I'd been slobbering over those designer clothes for months and yet I could never justify spending so much money on a piece of baby clothing that you'd only wear for three months. But if said baby clothing is 70% off...<br /><br />BabyLady: Yeah, I'm on to you, mommy. It's hard to resist. But weren't you just talking to daddy about how cheap clothing is probably being made by child slaves in China? At $1.60 a piece, I doubt this onesie I'm wearing is feeding a family of four.<br /><br />Me: Wait. You're a baby -- you can't remember previous conversations!<br /><br />BabyLady: On the Interwebs I can. And stop evading the question.<br /><br />Me: Whatever. I might have said that. But you just look so cute in that orange-stripe onesie and the pear-print overalls! For myself, I just don't care too much about clothing these days...<br /><br />BabyLady: <font style="font-style: italic;">Obviously.<font style="font-style: italic;"></font></font><br /><br />Me: Jeez, already with the smart mouth. Anyway, I guess I do idealize you a bit, with your super-sweet smile and all. I still think happy clothing will actually <font style="font-style: italic;">make</font><font><font> you happy</font></font><font style="font-style: italic;"><font style="font-style: italic;">.</font></font><br /><br />BabyLady: Mommy, I'm so disappointed. I'm pretty sure one day you're going to tell me repeatedly that happiness comes from actions, not consumerist fantasies.<br /><br />Me: When you're older and your clothes start getting more expensive, you bet I will!<br /><br />BabyLady: On the bright side, along with my other outfits you only need to do laundry once every month. That's not so bad.<br /><br />Me: Sigh... unfortunately, your dad and I would run out of underwear in about one week.Svendlorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03383610314373558447noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3299995985238451183.post-49613456669425506012008-08-01T14:08:00.015-05:002009-01-16T16:27:23.583-06:00Pauvre Nous** This is where I teach Nola French AND how to whine.<br /><br />Long ago, pre-BabyLady, we had a choice between two apartments. One was kinda small, and kinda dark, and kinda far from the train, but had an awesome gourmet kitchen and central air. The other, the one we chose, was large, very sunny, and right near the L. We loved all the southern exposure windows, even if it got a little hot in the summer. And I really hated central air anyway, having grown up in Maine and gotten used to feeling a part of nature in the summer.<br /><br />Well. Now we *do* have BabyLady, and boy my outlook has changed. I spend all day now in this hot, hot apartment. Because the rest of the apartment has an open floor plan, the only rooms we can air condition using window units are the two bedrooms. And we're afraid to install AC #2 in the second bedroom because we're not eager to go through all that trouble when, used in conjunction with AC #1, it might blow a fuse. So poor Nola hasn't seen much this past week besides the inside of our 12X14 bedroom.<br /><br />I suppose I shouldn't complain; some apartments in New York are not much larger than our one little bedroom. And surely many people in Burma/Myanmar would just love to have our problems. But it's humid and I'm cranky, so here goes with a few more complaints:<br /><br />-- The wonderful southern exposure is made possible by the fact that our entire apartment faces the street. It never really seemed that loud before, but when you've got a 4 month old napping, every rumbling diesel truck, booming car stereo and barking dog could mean the premature end of said nap, and a cranky baby.<br /><br />-- The quaintly 80's-themed kitchen (mmm... wood laminate... tan tile...) never bothered me until I had to spread out bottles, lunchbox and dinner fixins all on its 6 linear feet of counter space. The floor is permanently filthy; I've tried scrubbing and scrubbing at its darker patches to no avail. Water somehow runs from the dishrack and pools in front of the sink, but I always forget this, leading to a nice, urine-sized stain on the crotch.<br /><br />-- Filth in general, now that we have a baby, tends to bother me more. Little pieces of Bella litter now seem like enticing choking hazards. Our messy office area, once tucked away in the second bedroom, is now out in the open, in the sunroom, for me to see and sigh over every day. And let's not even speak of the bathroom.<br /><br />One thing that's almost universally true in America is nobody's ever happy with what they've got. I don't really blame anyone but myself for my less than glamorous apartment hovel. I made a whole bunch of choices that valued being the moment instead of preparing for the future and saving gobs of money. I still stand by those choices: I've had an amazing life and paid attention to every minute of it. I know Charlie feels the same. We would rather be slightly under-privileged in stuff and yet privileged with lots of time for our little girl. It's a hard current to swim against in this country, but we're trying.Svendlorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03383610314373558447noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3299995985238451183.post-57472498270217684722008-07-25T17:37:00.005-05:002009-01-16T16:30:38.254-06:00311 Is a JokeWhile Nola sleeps off her latest vaccine bender, I thought I'd hang out in our sun room, listening to the lovely babbling brook below. What? you say. I thought Svendlor lived in Chicago, and not near the river -- what is this brook you speak of?<br /><br />Well, we had a big rainstorm last weekend. Drains were overflowing, water was pouring down the streets. Fine, but this kept going on our street well into Monday, and then Tuesday, etc. Charlie investigated, and found something cracked near a fire hydrant up the street. He said it actually looks like a natural spring, just a couple of holes in the street with water streaming up and out of them. A dutiful citizen, he called 311 and was told, oh, we already know about this; we're on it. <br /><br />So here we are, on Friday, and gallons of water per second are still rushing down our street, pooling for a moment at the corner where we live, then running down a storm drain. It really is an authentically brook-ish sounding babble. But an ecological nightmare. OK, maybe nightmare is too strong a word. An ecological misfortune? Disappointment? <br /><br />Which makes me wonder: why do we live in the city? Certainly not for the great night life, which, while it exists, is not particularly baby-friendly, and our whole lives revolve around a certain little girl at the moment. I guess I just don't picture myself as a suburban person. I've never lived in a suburb (unless you count Berkeley, California, as a suburb; I don't). They just seem a bad combination of blandness and neuroticism about the blandness. Yes, I'm sure you can live a decent, happy life in the suburbs, just so far, it hasn't been our style.<br /><br />We'd like our kid to see different kinds of people and different ways of living. For instance, today on the bus, Nola got to see a huge cross-section of Chicago humanity. She sat in her stroller in a corner, scoping out the passengers, looking entranced the whole time. We met a nice old lady named Angie who was a gerontologist/sex therapist and knew <span style="font-style:italic;">allll</span> about babies. It was fun. I don't think we'd have had the same experience sealed up in a car, puttering down some exurban boulevard to one of those box-like office complexes. <br /><br />So, we put up with the babbling brook for now. And, if the city stays true to form, they'll find the loudest way possible to fix that water leak bright and early at 7:30 a.m. (See: November 2004, gas goes out just as we're cooking Thanksgiving dinner).Svendlorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03383610314373558447noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3299995985238451183.post-51051838792604594792008-07-06T21:05:00.006-05:002008-07-06T22:12:26.940-05:00The Many Names of Nola<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://lh6.ggpht.com/svendlor/SGU-mfdrOAI/AAAAAAAABTo/CC5eLT9bfv4/Wk13_passport-pose.jpg?imgmax=512"><img style="float:center; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px;" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/svendlor/SGU-mfdrOAI/AAAAAAAABTo/CC5eLT9bfv4/Wk13_passport-pose.jpg?imgmax=512" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br />This weekend, a fellow parent we had just met asked us, well into the evening, "What's her name again?" The confusion was totally understandable -- other than when we introduced her, we probably didn't call her Nola once. Here are some of the many names of Nola.<br /><br />Nola<br />Noles<br />No-No<br />Baby Lady (we love this one)<br />Big Girl (she loves this one)<br />Disi (Cherokee for "little bird")<br />Little Bird<br />Ms. Opposite<br />Fuzzy<br />Sweetie Weetie<br />Droolie Christie<br />Julie Crusty<br />CrankazoidSvendlorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03383610314373558447noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3299995985238451183.post-86654612720593257712008-04-18T14:32:00.002-05:002008-04-18T14:39:38.388-05:00Baby's First EarthquakeWho would have thought, here in the Midwest, that Nola would feel the earth move? We had a 5.3 earthquake last night; mom was in the middle of feeding, and got very excited. She'd sort of missed the periodic shifting of the earth from her Bay Area years. Dad woke from sleeping to see the radiator shaking. Nola, however, was oblivious. <br /><br />Our dear, sweet baby, of course, has been a monumental first for us. Every day she is a delight and a challenge. Just as active "on the outside" as she was in the womb, Nola can be very demanding in her own little way, but -- and we can't emphasize how grateful we are for this -- she hardly ever cries. She squeaks and fusses in her sleep, though, all through the night, which is hard on mom, a light sleeper. But we love her squeaky songs. Someday we have to record them.Svendlorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03383610314373558447noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3299995985238451183.post-60094454866337725472008-03-27T12:07:00.002-05:002008-03-27T12:14:11.936-05:00Mystery LadyWell, we are at due date plus five now, just waiting for the mystery lady to show herself. Really, who is this creature residing in my torso area? She rolls her little body around all day and night, has sneezed twice (totally cute) and hiccuped possibly ten thousand times (not so cute after hiccup 10,001 at 2 o'clock in the morning). She certainly has made her presence felt. And yet we both know she will be so much more captivating/beautiful/tiring/scary once she's here with us in the outside world. <br /><br />If mom and baby can't get in sync by the weekend, labor will be induced and we'll force you to make your entrance, Nola! Everyone is so excited to finally meet you!Svendlorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03383610314373558447noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3299995985238451183.post-9544621582927692652008-02-18T21:06:00.003-06:002008-03-27T12:06:03.828-05:00Susan Jacoby Don't Know Nuthin'Probably the most annoying interview we've seen on the Bill Moyers show (and that's saying a lot) was shown last weekend: Susan Jacoby shilling her new book, The Age of American Unreason.<br /><br />For Charlie's take on it, go to the interview comments on Bill Moyers's Web site:<br /><br /><a href="http://www.pbs.org/moyers/journal/blog/2008/02/bill_moyers_rewind_susan_jacob.html">http://www.pbs.org/moyers/journal/blog/2008/02/bill_moyers_rewind_susan_jacob.html</a><br /><br />And here is mine; I used it for fodder in my Literary Journalism class:<br /><br />Last week, I caught an interview on Bill Moyers Journal with Susan Jacoby, author of the new book, The Age of American Unreason. She called various segments of the American public “dumb” five times in the interview, always punctuating this word with that unique combination of frustration and relish that exposes the inner dilemma of the unpopular class egghead. How to compassionately display concern for your less intellectually endowed classmates, while remaining triumphant and superior?<br /><br />The next day, I saw an article about Jacoby’s book in the New York Times, which allowed me to flesh out her argument a bit more. She mostly declaims lowered expectations and anti-intellectualism in the public arena. Both pieces featured a sadly entertaining moment from reality television where a “celebrity” contestant, Kellie Pickler, says “I thought Europe was a country,” and “I’ve heard of Turkey. But Hungry? I’ve never heard of it.” In Jacoby’s interview, other examples of the debasement of American culture include the use of the word “folks” in political speech, which she finds condescending (or maybe the language has simply changed?), and the fact that maps sold out during FDR’s fireside chats (but now, can’t we use the Internet? If maps are all over the Internet, does that really point to less interest in the larger world?).<br /><br />These are classic straw man arguments. Of course there will always be ill-informed people in any society. Shine a light only on them, and you will never see the real picture. To quote the Times article:<br /><br /><blockquote>Ms. Jacoby, whose book came out on Tuesday, doesn’t zero in on a particular technology or emotion, but rather on what she feels [emphasis mine] is a generalized hostility to knowledge. She is well aware that some may tag her a crank. “I expect to get bashed,” said Ms. Jacoby, 62, either as an older person who upbraids the young for plummeting standards and values, or as a secularist whose defense of scientific rationalism is a way to disparage religion.</blockquote><br /><br />What I would like to know is: are Americans really becoming less informed and anti-intellectual? Hasn’t this charge been leveled in the past? For instance, I’ve read arguments against full democracy that reason that the people, as a whole, really aren’t smart enough to make decisions that affect their country. I’ve also read that the difficulty of IQ tests has been raised several times since their inception in order to keep the median score at 100. Wouldn’t that make a case that Americans are actually getting smarter?<br /><br />If this has been a common complaint throughout history, is there anything unique about the current situation? Or, as I suspect, have we accurately “tagged her as a crank,” one of a long line of a less than lovable species?Svendlorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03383610314373558447noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3299995985238451183.post-27353426503510151692008-02-04T21:26:00.001-06:002008-02-06T20:10:29.047-06:00Does this make me look fat?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvzIfQ_e9VXG0soNCwNOx_GBJoUYHJni35a8aOg86DlxSmvUyppbHei_Kljnh_IK0tkVzAisbWxqnTUmgmhzrLhHHE6h4uBBp6ZrMllDCTtJ_gpJDomOl6Yw6Z3Y_6u5ACtIvdtMhFG1U/s1600-h/does_this_make_me_look_fat.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvzIfQ_e9VXG0soNCwNOx_GBJoUYHJni35a8aOg86DlxSmvUyppbHei_Kljnh_IK0tkVzAisbWxqnTUmgmhzrLhHHE6h4uBBp6ZrMllDCTtJ_gpJDomOl6Yw6Z3Y_6u5ACtIvdtMhFG1U/s320/does_this_make_me_look_fat.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5164028827232384578" /></a><br /><br /><br />"You look great!"<br /><br />This compliment is almost always closely followed by, "You can hardly tell you're pregnant!"<br /><br />I hear this all the time, and I know it's meant as a compliment. But it always sounds weird to me -- is "looking pregnant" supposed to be the equivalent of "not looking great"? That seems to be the implication.<br /><br />Before I got pregnant, I always thought that the pregnant women I knew or saw on the street looked like goddesses. They were bringing new life into the world, they had the special clothes, they were plump and happy about it. Who wouldn't be? I thought. A woman is supposed to gain weight to feed her baby. She's supposed to get the glow and ignore the scale.<br /><br />I guess this is just another fiction that formed in my head because I don't spend enough time with other people. It seems like, in this country, weight is *always* a concern, and body image *always* tied to looking thin, no matter what the circumstance. I mean, why else tie "looking great" with "hardly looking pregnant"? We don't actually hate the growing baby, just the way she detracts from the idealized image of a woman as thin, athletic, yet still curvy, or whatever it is we're supposed to be.<br /><br />I know I'm lucky in that I escaped these pressures growing up naturally thin (although, wearing a back brace, I didn't exactly conform to the feminine ideal, either). I never had to worry about dieting, and my mother, thankfully, didn't ever talk about dieting. So, for the most part, I was never indoctrinated. I tend to think of most women I know as pretty attractive, whether fatter or thinner, taller or shorter. <br /><br />My whole life, mostly I've heard, "you're so thin!" expressed kiddingly or approvingly, but with an undertone of something, I'm not sure what. But I hear it again in "you can hardly tell you're pregnant." To me, it's not a compliment -- I want to celebrate my big, huge belly and the little girl that's growing inside it.Svendlorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03383610314373558447noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3299995985238451183.post-35120918459474261802007-12-14T17:32:00.002-06:002008-03-27T12:31:30.391-05:00Svendlor to gain a memberOK, we're not so great at blogging. But in case anyone still checks this site, we wanted to show off the ultrasound of our latest accomplishment. <br /><br />Nola is on the way -- look out, world!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcP5_QiYSOSsCO0M0t5tG-c4uw7JhXZcXvjK_PUs0Z_YtsKNlG1OE9Zfvk1lVZAexDBQoC3vGJgIihA3Og7pLjo85J3MV8u6Fut-MsvWVYL5rcUJekvV7YVFKdW7fVKky9V1hLwzBH4GY/s1600-h/Nola+at+20wks.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcP5_QiYSOSsCO0M0t5tG-c4uw7JhXZcXvjK_PUs0Z_YtsKNlG1OE9Zfvk1lVZAexDBQoC3vGJgIihA3Og7pLjo85J3MV8u6Fut-MsvWVYL5rcUJekvV7YVFKdW7fVKky9V1hLwzBH4GY/s320/Nola+at+20wks.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5182475293145168642" /></a>Svendlorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03383610314373558447noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3299995985238451183.post-8396542816593925512007-10-20T11:58:00.001-05:002007-10-20T14:26:14.015-05:00"Classy"<img src="http://assets.espn.go.com/photo/2007/1016/mlb_ap_indians_fans_412.jpg" alt="http://assets.espn.go.com/photo/2007/1016/mlb_ap_indians_fans_412.jpg" src="http://assets.espn.go.com/photo/2007/1016/mlb_ap_indians_fans_412.jpg" /><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Watching Boston at Cleveland for games 3 through 5 tested my patience in so many ways. Watching Cleveland beat Boston's brains out isn't fun for a Sox fan no matter where they're playing (though I'm grateful they pulled out a win and the series returns to Boston, regardless of the outcome of </span><span style="font-family:arial;">tonight's game</span><span style="font-family:arial;">). But adding insult to injury were Fox's presentation, the Cleveland mascot, and the most visible of Cleveland's fans (see above).<br /><br />Start with Joe Buck. I've never had beef with him until this series. Maybe I'm the one who's biased, but it seems to me his commentary was one-sided -- as though Cleveland winning was inevitable and favorable and he just couldn't wait to get it over with. Is he bitter about the Sox sweeping the Cardinals in the 2004 World Series? Don't know, don't really care, but I certainly wouldn't call his commentary objective. Not to mention he and Tim McCarver kept getting Ortiz and Ramirez mixed up. They have some things in common, sure (both great Sox hitters of Dominican descent), but are they really that hard to keep straight?<br /><br />The worst was when Buck, in game 3, went on and on about the Cleveland organization, which he characterized as "classy". Um... what?! Sorry -- any team with Chief Wahoo as its mascot could not be called classy. This seems like an incredibly obvious point but, if anything, that makes it all the more important to make.<br /><br />I grabbed the picture above from <a href="http://www.salon.com/sports/col/kaufman/2007/10/18/thursday/">King Kaufman's Sports Daily</a>. (No point in rehashing the whole column, but I agree 100%.) His point is that this was posted, without comment, as the lead photo on the ESPN website. What he doesn't mention is how often Fox showed these jackasses (and many others, also offensively attired) during the game, also without comment. (On a side note, Cleveland fans, step away from the towel. </span><span style="font-family:arial;">Only Steelers fans can get away with it.</span><span style="font-family:arial;">)<br /><br />I'm not singling out Cleveland. Boston, home of my Sox, has been guilty in the past. It's had Braves and Redskins franchises. (Unfortunately, though they're not in Boston, they live on in Atlanta and Washington.) The worst of all these mascots, in my opinion, was a college mascot -- Chief Illiniwek. Luckily, it's gone, though it took threatened sanctions from a governing body, the NCAA, to convince the University of Illinois to retire it.<br /><br />That brings me to my point. Major League Baseball: Do the right thing. Obviously, Cleveland is not going to get rid of its racist mascot without strong incentives to do so, and that's what you must provide. In the short run, it might be painful -- to fans, possibly to the city itself -- but it's the right thing to do.<br /><br /><br /></span>Charliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07374468858047046317noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3299995985238451183.post-14914270704736062762007-09-24T21:13:00.001-05:002009-01-16T16:38:09.323-06:00An Open Letter to Lovie SmithDear Lovie,<br /><br />You're a guy, so maybe you've never experienced this. It's something many women have had to learn the hard way.<br /><br />I'll get straight to it – Rex, he's no good for you. And when he's no good, you have to let him go.<br /><br />You can argue all you want about his talent and his potential. You can keep thinking that if you're just loyal enough, and support him enough, he'll change. But no matter what special, wonderful qualities drew you to him (like a moth to the flame), you have to look at his actions. Sunday after Sunday – interceptions, fumbles, those eyebrows. They're always the same.<br /><br />But don't blame yourself. You did all you could. It's not you – it's him. And there has to be a point when you say, I'm just not going to take it anymore. We Chicagoans all support you and want you to do well. That's why I'm writing to you today. You've got to move on.<br /><br />Everyone can see it but you, Lovie. He's a loser. You deserve so much better than him. Don't settle for less than that. I just know there's a guy out there who's willing and able to give you what you need. For instance, I can think of one, named Donovan, who's also in a bad relationship right now. Give yourself some time and space to heal from this experience, Lovie. But then, maybe you should give him a call.Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15942806699280020515noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3299995985238451183.post-38554090502143077742007-08-13T21:24:00.002-05:002007-08-13T21:42:58.939-05:00Surprise...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://lh3.google.com/svendlor/RsESF89m0VI/AAAAAAAAAf4/40zd2SGwTS0/Summer%2007%20023.jpg?imgmax=512"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:left;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px;" src="http://lh3.google.com/svendlor/RsESF89m0VI/AAAAAAAAAf4/40zd2SGwTS0/Summer%2007%20023.jpg?imgmax=512" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br /><center>We're married!<br />7/30/07</center>.Svendlorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03383610314373558447noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3299995985238451183.post-4633561955002122682007-08-12T20:27:00.000-05:002007-08-15T22:29:45.539-05:00Home Sweet Homeikan<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcDPNBgX5CSeS6mEXZ0EM8ZbrOg59cEiys7Jh-psZ_jerjg5fgUOq0GZWHLMXfc578axhPCRjvS8rcQ-zTQ0_vyXfahc17tq4D910dbG9T585GTPLtdyr_uNkOn9wG3wnD3E2pJ6W12fM/s1600-h/6.29.07+107.jpg"><img style="float:center; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcDPNBgX5CSeS6mEXZ0EM8ZbrOg59cEiys7Jh-psZ_jerjg5fgUOq0GZWHLMXfc578axhPCRjvS8rcQ-zTQ0_vyXfahc17tq4D910dbG9T585GTPLtdyr_uNkOn9wG3wnD3E2pJ6W12fM/s320/6.29.07+107.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5099135127210041554" /></a><br /><br />Hello again after a *long* break, during which we got married!<br /><br />Yes! We kind of sprung it on everyone, even ourselves. We're happy though (well, we were happy before, but now we don't have to plan a wedding, so we're super-happy).<br /><br />The trip to Honolulu, Tokyo, and Singapore seems such a long time ago, but we seem to have left the impression that all we did was watch TV, so I'd like to blog a little longer about it. What I liked best about this trip was our <font style="font-style: italic;">ryokan</font> (inn), the Homeikan. If you're ever in Tokyo and want a cheap place to stay, we'd highly recommend it. A room plus a big breakfast every morning only costs about $90 a night, and you'll get a great feeling for Japanese culture.<br /><br />We loved every minute we were in the Homeikan (perhaps we *are* homebodies). It is a little place located two twisty blocks west of Tokyo University. We were glad to have a cab with GPS to find the tiny alley where it sits, just at the top of a steep incline. We walked in and were greeted in fairly competent English, and told to take off our shoes and put on slippers. Our shoes went in a little cubby marked with our name; each of the guests had one. We were led down several dark, wood-walled hallways to our room. Our guide showed us the gate to our room, how to lock and unlock it, and where to place our slippers inside it. He then slid the rice paper door aside and place our luggage in tiny anteroom, where our robes and towels for bathing also waited. He slid another paper door aside to show us our room. As in the anteroom, tatami mats covered the floors, and he explained we must not walk on the mats in our slippers. Two futons lay on the floor, each covered by a heavy comforter. Beyond these was a small sitting area with two chairs and a table that looked out on a garden. Across from the futons against the opposite wall was a low table with a thermos with hot water for tea and two bowls. We were extremely thirsty after a 7-hour plane trip and 2-hour commute into the city, so we drank as soon as our host left.<br /><br />Part of what I loved about the Homeikan rooms was that everything had a certain Japanese feel and integrity about it, but the room also felt a bit like a Stonington, Maine harborside motel my family stayed in back in the early 70's. You know, not so polished -- the little TV with iffy reception, the old-fashioned soda bottles in a tiny fridge with a bottle opener on top and glasses waiting under a plastic hood. There were shelves above the TV with curio dolls, also under plastic, that looked like they hadn't been touched in twenty years. Next to the shelves, a flashlight was mounted on the wall with precise operating instructions in Japanese and English. The walls themselves were a strange combination of knotty wood and fiberboard. Both charming and charmless, all these things combined to make us feel nested in a unique corner of domesticity within the overwhelming city.<br /><br />The Homeikan has no private baths, but we were lucky to be a short walk from the first floor half-bath. The toilet (brand named Washlet*) had a cool feature where, when you flushed, the water that was eventually to refill the tank first ran through a faucet above, so you could wash your hands without wasting water, which drained into the tank. You were supposed to take off your slippers and put on special "toilet slippers" that waited inside, but I stopped doing this pretty quickly and hope I wasn't breaking any sacred traditions. Outside the toilet room was a very big, tiled sink that could accommodate four people at once. I expected this to be hopping in the mornings, but I almost never saw anyone at it, or walking in the hallways in general.<br /><br />Every day in the evening we would put on our cotton robes, bundle our towels and toiletries, and head to the opposite end of the Homeikan for a bath. Bathing was a special treat. We left everything except our soaps in a changing room, then entered the hot and humid bathing room. It was octagonal, all tile, two stories high with clerestory windows lining the top, and with four bathing stations at one end and an enormous tub at the other. As instructed by our guide, we washed and completely rinsed ourselves using hand-held showers. Then, all clean, we hopped in the whirlpool tub, which was big enough to float around in. I could have stayed for hours, but we always took private baths so we didn't want to hog the room. We both remarked that, in our future dream house, we would build a bath with the same set-up. Such a luxurious and sensuous experience compared with the cursory showers we take back in the States.<br /><br />After our baths, we would pull our futons together for a snuggle and immediately drop off to sleep. Tokyo during the day is exhausting. I loved this deep and restful post-hot tub slumber, each night knowing that we would be greeted by our maid knocking on the door, bringing in a seven-course breakfast. Miso soup, a pork dish, a vegetable, a fish dish, a tofu dish, pickled things, and desert fruits, along with rice and delicious hot tea left us ready to go forth and conquer the daunting subway system, on to our next destination.<br /><br />*Turns out there are a whole lot of other features we missed out on, not being able to read Japanese. The site is great:<a href="http://www.cleanishappy.com/"> http://www.cleanishappy.com/</a> Warning -- it contains partial nudity.Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15942806699280020515noreply@blogger.com0