An illumination, by request

One of the most interesting things about being married to a man who’s earned a PhD in mathematics is watching how new acquaintances behave when they find out.

I’ve observed two typical reactions.

1. The acquaintance immediately launches into talk about how he or she hates math, can't do math, never understood math, is afraid of math, etc. The babbling usually lasts until Husband can get a word in edgewise, at which point he begins soothing talk that calms them down and helps them realize that one does not have to be good at math to be friends with him. He likes sports, grilling out and playing card and board games. But he doesn’t require that his friends know how to use the Fibonacci tables.

2. The acquaintance gets intimidated and sarcastic, and begins tossing barbs designed to knock Husband down a couple of pegs. Fortunately, he’s developed a gentle and effective way to redirect their energies. He simply takes them seriously and engages them in a conversation about what they’ve thrown at him. It totally disarms them and everyone ends up friends.

My favorite example of this happened at a chef’s dinner at a fancy-schmancy restaurant in downtown D.C. The attendees: My management colleagues and their spouses and partners, all desperate to get the goods on the new man in my life.

One spouse, a woman whom I adore, can sometimes be a bit much, especially after a few glasses of wine. She was true to form that night. About two-thirds of the way through the evening, she found the chair next to Husband empty and threw herself into it.

“You’re new,” she said.

“I am,” he replied.

“I hear you're a mathematician,” she said.

“I am,” he replied.

“Well, do me some math,” she purred.

Without missing a beat, he said, “Algebra or calculus?”

“Calculus,” she answered.

And off they went.

By the end of the conversation, during which they attracted the attention of everyone else at the table, she was completely charmed. No one got hurt. And the evening was a success.

It’s in that spirit that I answer an anonymous request — the tone of which I’m not able to discern and therefore will take seriously — to illuminate you all on pedicures.

1. The word pedicure comes from the Latin words pedis and cura, which translate to “care of the foot.“

2. A good pedicure doesn’t just involve the toenails. It removes dead skin and calluses from the bottom of the feet. And it includes a massage of the feet and calves.

3. The first pedicure I ever had was in Austin, Texas, by a woman named Jennifer. It felt so good I fell asleep.

4. Because of the positive impact they have on my psyche, I often promise myself I will get on a regular schedule of pedicures. I have never made good on that promise.

5. It is legal in Virginia for a professional aesthetician to use a modified razor to remove the calluses and dead skin from one’s feet. It is not legal in Maryland or North Carolina. And that’s a shame.

6. My favorite color of toenail polish is Garnet, by Esse. I’m not able to find it here, but I can order it online.

7. One of my favorite days of the year is the day I can first wear open-toed shoes. I won’t do it, though, until I’ve had my first pedicure of the season.

8. You can ruin a good pedicure experience by trying to cram your toes into those foam toe separators. There are more humane ways to keep your toes from bumping into each other while you paint them, and a good aesthetician knows to use them.

9. I love to go with a girlfriend to have a pedicure done, but I don’t like to talk while it’s happening. Paying attention to the pampering is the biggest part of a pedicure for me. Beautiful toes are just a nice bonus.

10. If you’re smart and you marry the right man, he’ll give you a pedicure, complete with a foot bath, massage and painting. And he won’t make you solve a single quadratic equation in return.

Seven things you won’t read about here*

See, here’s the thing. I don’t know what to write about. It’s been more than a week since I had the time or the inclination to sit down and write. But now that everyone in the family is well again, it’s time to pick up the pen, so to speak.

Problem is, so much has happened, I don’t really know where to begin.

Now, if you were my favorite college professor, you’d solve my problem by asking me a question: How does one eat an elephant?

One bite at a time.

It was his way, of course, of telling me just to sit down and start. Which is exactly what I should do. Except that every time I try, I stall. Because I just can’t.

And so.

Over the past two days, I have started several blog posts. Each of them went nowhere, as in, even after several sentences, they don’t say a damn thing and don’t look like they’re ever going to.

I’ve thought about starting several more blog posts. Then I thought better of it. Among the things I won’t be writing about:

1. How I am apparently incapable of quitting either Diet Coke or the news.

2. How I am, for the second time in my life, addicted to the original Super Mario Bros. game. (This time, however, I’m in love with the man I am married to.)

3. Octomom. Though this story gets curiouser and curiouser with each passing day — dude WANTS to take a paternity test? — all I can think about is those poor kids. All 14 of them. Jesus, Mary and Joseph...

4. “Slumdog Millionaire.” Haven’t seen it. Probably won’t. Save your breath. I know I should. I should also see about 4 million other movies that have come out since “March of the Penguins” did in 2005. I have a 3-year-old, you see. We can’t go to the movies. Wait, what’s that you say? Oh yes, I know about NetFlix. Yes, I know it would allow us to watch these 4 million movies from the comfort of our own couch. We tried. Finally after seven months, we watched “The Cider House Rules” and gave it back to the nice people at NetFlix. Then we canceled our membership because we didn’t want to be accused of holding any more Oscar winners captive.

5. Sarah and the whales. First she shoots wolves from a helicopter. Then she sues the feds over protection of the polar bear. Now she plans to sue over protection of a group of genetically different, and therefore important, beluga whales. In case you're still wondering Sarah Palin has an ounce of shame, this should clinch it.

6. Anyone's Oscar dress. I’m no good at reviewing fashions anyway. I usually love what everyone hates (see Miley Cyrus). And vice versa (see Reese Witherspoon). The only thing I think about this year's Oscar dresses is how I wish I could fit into just one of them (see also Jennifer Aniston). And if I had to pick just one (and definitely see Marisa Tomei and Tina Fey), I couldn't. So see, it makes no sense to write about Oscar fashions when I clearly have no feeling one way or the other.

7. Anyone's Oscar speech. Because, really, what can anyone do to improve upon Dustin Lance Black’s? There are many people, including even some who read this blog, who will recoil at his words. In my view, they're the ones who could most benefit from listening to them. Love they neighbor. And do unto others. Amen.

So, as you can see dear reader, I’m stuck. Fresh out of words. Nothing to say.

Maybe tomorrow.

* with snaps to JDW, who thought the whole thing up.

Back from the dead

It’s true. Caring for Urchin brought the plague upon me. In a big, big way.

Now, though, after almost a week, I’m on my way back.

Stay tuned for more blogginess. And thanks for reading.

A lullaby for my baby girl

I wish I could play this song for you, dear reader. It's haunting and lovely, and it captures exactly how I'm feeling about my sweet little Urchin, who's had a fever of at least 102° all day.

It's not strep, flu, pneumonia or meningitis. But it's something — and she's fighting something fierce.

She's a tough one, my little Urchin. Armed with popsicles, her blanket, her teddy bear and Elmo, she's taking it on. Here's hoping that dawn brings her closer to victory.

In the meantime, thank you k.d. lang, for the soundtrack to my day.

Golden Slumbers/The End
From the “Happy Feet” soundtrack

Once there was a way, to get back homeward
Once there was a way, to get back home
Sleep pretty darling, do not cry
And I will sing a lullabye

Golden slumbers fill your eyes
Smiles await you when you rise
Sleep pretty darling, do not cry
And I will sing a lullabye

Once there was a way, to get back homeward
Once there was a way, to get back home
Sleep pretty darling, don't you cry
I'll sing a lullabye

And in the end
The love you take
Is equal to the love
You make

Golden slumbers fill your eyes
Smiles await you when you rise
Sleep pretty darling, do not cry
I will sing a lullabye

A natural selection

Today would have been Charles Darwin’s 200th birthday. And given that this blog is subtitled “The organized ramblings of a woman struggling to evolve,” it only seems right to mention it before the day is out.

The celebration of Darwin’s birthday is timely for me because right now, this very instant, a book written by his great-great grandson is waiting for me at the library: 40 days and 40 nights: Darwin, intelligent design, God, Oxycontin, and other oddities on trial in Pennsylvania is Matthew Chapman’s take on a court case in Dover, Pa., where a group of parents successfully sued the school district to keep intelligent design from being introduced into the curriculum a few years ago.

I heard Chapman on my favorite NPR show the other day. He’s a movie writer/producer/director who’s written couple of books and cofounded a group called Science Debate, formed to pressure the 2008 presidential candidates into having a debate on science and technology issues. (Several of the group’s cofounders are now part of the Obama administration.)

Chapman's manner in handling the question of evolution and the people who attempt to deny it was the best I've ever heard. (Go here if you want to hear it too.)

I wish I had some well-though-out commentary on Darwin and his theory to add to this post. I don’t.

I believe in the theory of evolution by natural selection.

I believe that ignorance, recklessness and stupidity are naturally selective traits.

I try not to laugh when I hear someone say that all the research actually shows that dinosaurs and man walked the Earth at the same time, about 3,000 years ago. I trust evolution will deal with them.

Peace to you.

Reeeeeeeeead meeeeeee…*

* Read in a gruff, Cookie Monster-ish voice

This isn’t news. Is it?

A total blackout

Today, I feel like a traitor.

For the first time in my life, I’m thinking about blacking out the news. Turning it off. Shutting it down. Stopping its leakage into every nook and cranny of my life.

No daily newspaper. No New York Times website. No NPR. No msnbc.com. Not even People magazine.

See, I’m in a funk. A fog. Again. And this time, I think it might be atmospheric. As in the atmosphere around here is bringing me down.

I’ve spent the better part of a week trying to pinpoint the source of my current malaise. As you already know, I’m prone to these bouts of feeling crappy, but they don’t usually happen so close together. Having just recovered from my usual end-of-the-year bout, I’m really struggling to figure out what this new bout is, well, about.

I cleared most of the usual suspects right away. Not a single one of them is prowling around inside my head looking for trouble. This angst is a new variety that I haven’t felt before. This one rises and falls like barometric pressure. Sometimes it rages. Other times, it simmers.

After some serious thinking, a pattern emerged. The disconnect between how I feel at home in the evening and how I feel during the rest of day is a chasm that opens wider each day. The more I studied it, the clearer it became.

My diagnosis: An acute case of TMI.

The only real difference between day and night — other than my work, which is fulfilling and challenging but not at all stressful — is the amount of news I consume, which during the day is extraordinary and at night is almost non-existent.

All day long I read headlines and stories about war and famine and economic catastrophe and domestic violence and arson and sadness and shame. I weep for the koalas. I get angry at Congress. I grieve for the octuplets. I stew about Vladimir Putin and Mahmoud Amadenijad and Mike Huckabee.

But in the evenings, when I’m not reading about how to organize my pantry or make a great navy bean soup, I’m doing a sudoku, listening to “Peter and the Wolf,” working a jigsaw puzzle or playing Memory and Candy Land.

It’s not really rocket science, is it?

So I’m thinking about turning it all off. Not forever. Just for now. Until the fog lifts and I can once again put the freakin’ koalas in perspective.

I’m sure I’m not the first person on Earth to do this. In fact, I’ll bet there’s some rich author or guru or yogi or something who suggested it in one of his wildly successful bestsellers that I should have read and didn’t. I’ll bet there are zillions of you wondering why I’m just now jumping on the bus.

Before you get all uppity, realize this: For a journalist and news junkie like me, this is tantamount to cutting off a limb. My entire life has been wallpapered with newsprint. My very existence is supported by the news business. And while I’m no longer actively involved in gathering or disseminating it, news still pays my bills.

To even think about blacking it out is damn near blasphemy. But I think might be necessary for my peace of mind. I get so irritated, so sad, so angry, so disillusioned with the news of the world — and, frankly, with the way some of my brothers and sisters cover it — that I can’t separate it from my own life, which, on balance, is pretty wonderful.

So, that’s what I’m thinking. Just a week. Maybe two. Instead of feeding on the bad news of the world, I’ll focus solely on the good news of my life. A husband and daughter I love beyond words. An existence so cozy and sweet it brings tears to my eyes. Friends who complete my soul. Resources enough to do the things I want to do.

I’ll add one disclaimer: If something really big happens (think Sept. 11 kind of big), all bets are off. But barring that — and dear God, please do — no news. At all.

There was a time when I would never have attempted this. But today, with more life and experience behind me, I think it’s important and achievable.

Besides, if I can’t do it, it seems to me, that’s all the more reason to keep trying.

25 random things about misery and company

Oh, for cryin’ out loud.

First, a cool fad sweeps Facebook: “25 random things about me...” I have a bunch of fun coming up with 25 things that many people don’t know about me. Then I ask you my friends to do the same.

Next comes the wave of people who can’t believe how much fun they’re having with such a simple thing. And say so. Out loud.

Next, of course, come the “cool kids,” many of them in my chosen profession, to rain on our parade. They tell us how silly we are to enjoy the pleasure of such a simple thing. They examine it from every direction, pulling it apart and eventually proclaiming it a childish waste of time. They tell us they’re too cool to care that much about their friends. That they’re far too busy to take time to learn about the people they know. They look down their crinkled up noses. They huff and puff. They work like hell to make the rest of us feel like dorks.

Well, I won’t. Not this time, dude.

I’m damn tired of your negativity. I’m sick of your condescension and judgment. If you want to live your life in the rough, snickering at things that make other people smile, you go right ahead. You can hang out in your groups of mean girls. You can stifle your own attempts at joy. You can pick on the weak. But be sure to watch your back -- you might be next.

You can have your sarcasm, your high-mindedness, your crappy attitude. You can live in the shadows, curling your lip and letting the slime pool around your feet. You can be too cool for school.

Meanwhile, the rest of us will look for the good in where we are and who we know. We will take joy in what we learn about each other and ourselves. We will take comfort in human connections and revel in simple pleasures. We’ll allow ourselves to be vulnerable and open to friendship and love. We’ll laugh and be hopeful. We’ll deflect your ridicule, and send it right back to you. (We do, however, ask that you stop pulling the legs off of spiders. And kicking puppies.)

You’ve been hurling your snark at us for too long. We’re tired of being bullied for being happy. Go away. And take your friends with you.

Before you laugh at me, look around. There are many, many of us -- 20 million on Facebook alone. In fact, we far outnumber you.

Your time is up. We win.

My favorite

I know that snark and sarcasm usually plays best in those lists of the best Super Bowl commercials. And usually I’m right on board with that.

This year, though, my favorite is my favorite precisely because it isn’t one of those. No moose butts. No screaming women or throwing snow globes at the vending machine (although, that one made me laugh out loud).

My favorite also would have been my daughter’s favorite, if we had let her stay up to watch it, which we didn’t.

Anyway... I love the music. I love the concept. And mostly I love that it makes me feel good inside.

I don’t know what’s up these days, but I like it.

Peace, man.

T-shirt of the week

I want s’more…