Author: jenzug

Warning: Drunk Blogging in Progress

I’m on my fourth cocktail with friend Jenny present on our ‘let the hair down’ night without husbands and children, and yes, we are drunk.

We are compiling a ‘hairbrush’ mix tape. You know the hairbrush songs… the ones you listen to in front of the mirror with the hairbrush as a microphone…

If you were to make a hairbrush mix tape, what songs would you include? I take this task so seriously I’m terrified of missing that really. important. song. If your song makes it on my mix, you’ll get a free copy. How’s THAT for drunken promises????????????

Book Review: Love Is a Mix Tape

Love is a Mix TapeI’m halfway through the book, Love is a Mix Tape: Life and Loss, One Song at a Time. It was an impulse purchase made as we stood in the check out line at Powell’s this weekend. We already had scads of books in our basket, but given that Bryan and I had just had a conversation in the car about the book I’m writing and whether he thought it was stupid for me to write about the impact of music in my life, we just HAD to check it out.

And it has turned out to be a gem.

Rob Sheffield, who now writes for Rolling Stone, is a lover of music and master at making mix tapes. In fact, when he was thirteen he ran for student counsel JUST so he could be on the Event Planning committee JUST so he could be put in charge of making mix tapes for the school dance.

“I believe that when you’re making a mix, you’re making history,” he writes. “You ransack the vaults, you haul off all the junk you can carry, and you rewire all your ill-gotten loot into something new. You go through an artist’s entire career, zero in on that one moment that makes you want to jump and dance and smoke bats and bite the heads off drugs. And then you play that one moment over and over. A mix tape steals these moments from all over the musical cosmos, and splices them into a whole new groove.”

After giving a brief run down of mix tapes in general – the party tape, the i-want-you tape, the make-out tape, the friendship tape, and the road trip tape, among others – he uses the songs from fifteen different mix tapes he’s made or been given to tell the story of his time with Renee, a woman he loved and lost.

This memoir is funny, and beautiful, and tragic, and so easy to identify with, both musically and on a personal level.

The question I had asked Bryan in the car was whether he thought it was possible to write about the soundtrack of my life without being cheesy. His answer was – as it typically is – It could be a really great idea, or it could really suck. When he read the inside jacket of this book he said, This is a really cool way to write about music.

If you are a freak about making mix tapes as I am, you will eat this book up. I highly recommend it.

Film Review: Babel

Bryan and I just saw Babel this weekend while away without the kids. And by the way, I don’t recommend watching this movie when you are away from your children on a vacation – it causes an irrational fear about what YOUR babysitters are up to…. If you’ve seen the film, you’ll know what I mean.

But all that aside, I really enjoyed the film, if ‘enjoyed’ is the appropriate term for such heavy content. I was pleased that it was not turned into a Brad Pitt Blockbuster, but that his role was actually on equal ground with all the other major players, and he was not given a special limelight just because he has a pretty face.

One of the conversations that Bryan and I had was in comparing it to Crash in the way the two movies give you a slice of life into how these people are connected. We liked the dissonance of Babel, that not everything was wrapped up in neat bow, that not everything in life is resolved the way we want it to be. I think Crash was a great film overall, but it contained that cheeseball scene where Matt Dillon’s character just HAPPENS to drive past the accident of the gal he had violated, and just HAPPENS to be able to redeem himself by rescuing her from a burning vehicle.

I just thought that was hokey.

I also liked the contrast between the American kids and the Moroccan kids. The American kids were soft, and dependent, and spoiled, while the Moroccan kids were tough and carried their weight within the family and farming structure. The American kids were lost and afraid in the desert, while the Moroccan kids made a life in the harsh desert.

Not a mind-blowing thing to point out, but I always appreciate perspective on my cushy American life.

It seems I’ve been watching a lot of films with strong willed kids in them, or kids with a strong ‘life-force’ as my friend, Kristin, likes to call it. I mentioned in another post my thoughts on the boy from Duma, and Ofelia from Pan’s Labyrinth – how these kids possessed a strong life-force that caused desert drifters to follow them and frogs to regurgitate large keys – how I think of my own children, and whether they will possess a strong life-force.

The young Moroccan boy in Babel has a strong life-force, only he is deviant and cocky, and his lack of discernment and concern for others has tragic outcomes for many people around him. His life-force leaves behind a wake of sadness, not one of admiration. So now I have the contrast of these two kinds of life-forces in children – in one example I am in awe of these kids and their use of the strong character they are given, but in this other example, the Moroccan boy, I am terrified by what damage a strong life-force can cause, and it gives me pause to consider how I lead my strong willed daughter through life.

Saturday Night Wine Down

Saturday night we saw Babel in a cute art house theater in North Portland (review to follow), and we stopped in to this wine bar for something to tide us over until dinner. We ordered a yummy French wine and a cheese plate, and listened to the colorful employees bickering in the kitchen. The bar tender kept apologizing and asking if we’d rather sit in the restaurant (we were at the bar), but we were just happy to be sitting in a local non-chain establishment … even IF the ‘atmosphere’ was not really what we expected!

Death to lattes. The Macchiato is my friend.

The Macchiato is my friend.

After spending the morning at Powell’s we spent the afternoon reading in a coffee shop. I’m not a big fan of sweet drinks, alcoholic or otherwise, and was not in the mood for your standard drip coffee. So I tried a macchiato, which is a shot (or two) of espresso with foam. Have you ever wanted to bathe in a cup of coffee? I wanted to lather it all over my body for the richness and foaminess it possessed – all without the yucky sweetness of flavoring or the stomach-churning dysfunction of milk.

I will never drink another latte again.

President’s Day Getaway

Several years ago Bryan and I started a tradition of getting away for a long weekend together without the kids. I can’t remember exactly what prompted it, but I think it had to do with his transitioning from freelance work to full time employment, thus having these things called ‘paid holidays’ where you get paid even if you don’t work that day, so we took full advantage of President’s Day.

These weekends have become second honeymoons for us, serving to rejuvenate our relationship, recharge our creativity, and give us room to breathe. We sit in bookstores, we have deep conversations, we drive around looking at architecture – we connect. Two years ago Bryan ordered me up a massage for my swelling, tired, 8-month-pregnant body.

It takes a small army of people to make this happen for us – an army of friends who bless us more than they realize by loving our children and keeping them safe while we are gone. I recognize each year that this trip is not an inherent right that obligates other people, but rather it is a blessing that others participate in. And so I thank you, dear friends, for blessing us with your kindness.

You can read about last year’s amazing trip here and here.

Grace Sneaks In

Lately I have been struggling with guilt and condemnation. We are working through Grace in our recovery group, so of course it draws up all the nasty reasons in my heart of why I shouldn’t be worthy of God’s grace. Today is a particularly bad day as I have struggled all week in my relationship with Ruthie. In referring to the list I have on my kitchen cabinet, I am ashamed to admit that I have been self-important, rude, self-seeking, easily angered, and a holder of grudges.

I am an unpredictable parent – I will be loving, patient, and attentive, then out of the blue I respond to something Ruthie says or does with anger and irritation that is way more exaggerated than the offense calls for. I take it personally. I am irritated that Ruthie does not always do the right thing. I am exasperated at being inconvenienced by her disobedience.

But not all the time.

Many times I respond correctly: I am patient, I am kind, I shepherd, I correct. But other times I am not, and it kills me that Ruthie cannot count on me to be consistent in my response to her. I have failed in all the ways that Love Is, and feeling this way after being in this damn recovery program for over a year, it seems like crawling into a dark hole with a bottle of gin is the only real consolation.

[blink. blink. blink.]

Now that I have written these words, and stare at them in front of me, and ponder them for several minutes, I begin to feel a wash of peace. These are irrational thoughts, I know, but sometimes it takes me getting them out of my head to see them for what they really are. I am no longer sobbing ridiculously, and I can see a glimpse of the flip side of this coin.

I am no stranger to the dysfunction of a parent/child relationship, for I’ve had my own troubles and insecurities with my biological father. I struggled throughout my childhood and teen years, wondering what my place was in his life and doubting that he really cared about me. And today, after many difficult conversations over many years, we are reconciled, and I am at peace in my relationship with him. And more importantly, I am able to see how my journey through those issues (and my continuous maintenance of them) matured me and shaped me. They are part of my DNA.

I find that when I have days and weeks like this, I see every false move I make in direct proportion to the number of hours Ruthie will spend in therapy or in an unhealthy relationship or hating me or contemplating her own demise. I blame myself for all her future dysfunction before it even happens, and therefore I walk under a cloud of guilt and condemnation because the story is over before it’s even begun.

I have not allowed for Grace.

Ruthie will have her own journey to walk, and her mother’s dysfunction is part of that DNA. I have to trust that God’s grace will extend to her, as well, and shore up her strength to spend many long hours over many years in conversation with me so that we can maintain reconciliation.

That is not meant to give me license, but to give me peace. God began writing her story in my womb. He knew her before the stars were made. Trusting him is how grace sneaks in.

The True Meaning of Valentine’s Day

I should have known what I was getting into. Friends had warned me. I saw the signs, but ignored them. Thinking I was a beautiful swan diver, I belly flopped dramatically. And painfully.

For the Valentine’s party in Ruthie’s preschool class on Tuesday we were told to bring valentines for each kid in class, so that’s what I did. Over the weekend we bought Go! Diego, Go! valentines, Ruthie helped me fold them, and she added the stickers, and together we remembered all the names of the kids in her class as I wrote them on the outside of each valentine. We had a lovely time doing a project together.

Only to realize that every other Super Mom in the class had either created homemade valentines or had attached a handful of candy in cute cellophane bags and tied with pretty ribbons. They were masterpieces of beauty.

But don’t you worry – I’ve got your numbers now, bitches. You’d better be prepared for the biggest f-ing chocolate bunny Easter has ever seen! Your kid will be high on sugar until the Fourth of July!

Valentine's Day Candy Thief

All was quiet in the living room yesterday as Bryan, Ruthie, and I finished eating lunch. Suddenly realizing I heard nothing from The Boy, I asked Bryan to peak around the corner to see what he was up to.

Bryan choked on his soda and subtly motioned for me to come see – without alerting Ruthie. He had busted into Ruthie’s stash of candy from her party at school, and had successfully eaten all the chocolate from one package before we realized what had happened. Fortunately Ruthie had not taken inventory of her loot, so we were able to clean up the mess before she even knew what happened, averting World War III.

Valentine's Day candy breach

Ruthie has recently attended three birthday parties in addition to the Valentine’s Day party at school – all which provided her with copious amounts of candy. In order to control how much and when she ate said candy, I stashed her stash in a basket on top of our very tall refrigerator.

As you can see, The Girl is resourceful.

Cha-CHING! (That’s the sound of my home value rising)

We already have this mall going in near my house, which will include a Target store, which will test my shopping willpower. Bryan says I should only be allowed to buy what I can carry while walking home – I think he underestimates how many home organizational items I can attach to my body with bungie cables.

This is the latest big news for my neighborhood today, because if the deal goes through I could WALK to a basketball game, or a concert, or whatever. Bryan and I recently saw Paul Simon at the current basketball arena – maybe in a few years I could have dinner and see a major show in my own neighborhood! Hopefully the unavoidable traffic problem will not want to make me pull my hair out.

Yada, yada, yada

All is well, or nearly so, with the Zugs. Thomas is getting over his bout of bronchialitis, Ruthie is so far staying healthy, and most importantly… daddy is home again. The computer has been turned off, for the most part, to focus on these things.

In other news, we had accidental success this week in potty training Ruthie through the night. Though she is potty trained through the day and even through her naps, I have hesitated to attempt all night success since she usually ends up in our bed in the wee hours of the morning… and MY mattress does not have a plastic covering over it. However, the other night we must have forgotten to put her pull-up on because we met on the stairs at midnight as I was heading up to bed.

‘What are you doing?’ I asked.

‘I have to go potty.’

‘You don’t have a pull-up on?’

‘No.’

And she continued past me, still half asleep.

So I followed her down into the bathroom and talked about what a big girl she was for sleeping in her underpants, then I carried her back up stairs and tucked her into bed.

The next night we put her to bed in her underpants again, and when I went up to bed around midnight I woke her up and carried her down to the bathroom. She peed, I tucked her in again, and she woke up in the morning with dry jammies.

So cross my fingers: I may be done with one set of diapers!