Re-election Day!

9:53 am

Just back from a run, sweaty and good-sore. Mallory fell asleep in the jogging stroller. Waiting for M to swing by on a break from work so we can all head to the polls together. Feeling even more excited than I was on Halloween. Today marks the end of Mitt Romney as someone I should know or care about. Now that's a treat.

12:25 pm

Just back from voting, where I was delighted to see Roseanne Barr and Cindy Sheehan on the ballot for the Peace and Freedom Party :) After casting our votes, M and I had sandwiches at the Village Bakery and then walked home in the lovely hot sunshine. I realized that this is the fourth election I've voted in, my first time being the soul-crushing "defeat" of Al Gore in 2000. If Obama's win four years ago helped to redeem that travesty of democracy, then this year will surely help redeem Bush's reelection in 2004.

5:34 pm

Can't believe it's dark out already! Our jack-o-lanterns are glowing one final time and the champagne is chilling. I just interviewed Terri and Mark Stark, who own five outstanding restaurants in the county and who are two of the nicest folks I've talked to in awhile. Instead of bowing down to the almighty customer, they are primarily committed to taking care of their staff. Instead of recruiting big-name chefs, they promote from within. Home now, we eagerly await news of Ohio and Florida.

7:45 pm

M is glued to the TV, I'm working on an article at my desk, and Mallory is ping-ponging between us. Our bellies are full of gold beets and pasta and our hearts are full of hope. All signs point to Obama! Elizabeth Warren won the Senate seat in Massachusetts!

9:32 pm

Four years ago M and I were a newly-hatched couple, cheering Obama's victory at his house in Sebastopol. Tonight we are two years married with an eight-month old daughter, who is now fast asleep as we celebrate with champagne, rum balls, ice cream, and leftover Halloween candy. Obama will be president until Mallory is practically in kindergarten. I love it!

11:12 pm

We're up later than usual, elated at the prospect of four more years in which, at the very least, we have a president who is not committed to protecting the super-rich and stripping away the rights of everyone who is not white, male, straight, and privileged. The crowd at Romney headquarters shows mostly pasty men in suits, pudgy and joyless. At Obama headquarters there are people of all ages, races, styles, and identities. In their faces I see the future of our country, and it's beautiful.

Crawfish and Cracklins

Louisiana is lovely in October. On the country roads, fields of sugarcane stretch to the horizon, their long stalks swaying in the warm breeze. Autumn has softened the searing heat. Sun and clouds rumble in the sky, never letting the other take over for too long. After spending a week there, for Mallory's debut with her extended southern family, I am once again struck by the beauty and uniqueness of my home state, which is celebrating its 200th birthday this year.

 Thanks to my mom, who is quite effortlessly the most devoted and doting grandmother ever, M and I got to go on three dates. We drove back roads with the windows down, smelling the sweet burning sugarcane, chatting about the future, chuckling at the persistent (and creative) Cajun spellings.

We even made it to the alligator swamp at the university, the nation's only college campus to have one, which I used to visit as a child. I have memories of feeding bread to the gators with my brother and of once losing my Jelly sandal in the murky water.

In New Orleans, we rode a ferry across the Mississippi and delighted in the elaborate Halloween decorations adorning the high balconies and wide porches.We rode the the St Charles streetcar (the oldest continuously running streetcar in the entire world!) to levee park, where, together with our friends Triel and Chris, we lounged in the thick grass and sipped frozen pina coladas. Kai, their 3 year-old son, rolled down the hill and jumped in his dad's lap. Mallory crawled around and pulled out tufts of greenery. The river hosted huge barges and lapped at the land.

On our last day, we headed to the tiny hamlet of Breax Bridge, where we strolled the high sidewalks and, finding everything closed on a slow Monday, headed to the local grocery store for lunch. We bought two pre-made tuna sandwiches, an iced tea, and a small bag of cracklins (fried pork skins). As we moved through the check-out line, the cashier smiled and asked, "Where y'all from?"

And even though M responded, "California," he was quick to point out that I'd grown up in nearby Lafayette. Sure, you can take the girl out of Louisiana, but as my week of eating crawfish etouffee and shrimp po'boys proves, there's still plenty of Louisiana left in me.

Sunday

As a kid, I could do without Sundays. I often felt bored on Sundays, from the start of eleven o'clock mass in the morning to the witching hour of 6 in the evening, when Life Goes On, that heart-wrenching drama whose pilot episode made me so sad I can still vividly recall the very scene, came on. Sunday nights were the worst, of course, with an entire week of school looming over me and my freshly-painted fingernails.

When I became a teacher, Sundays became even more powerfully bittersweet, as I watched the hours of my precious weekend sink with the sun, my lessons still under-planned, my papers only half-graded. The inevitable threat of Monday morning and all its attendant pressure to perform tainted even the sweetest, sit-by-the-river-afternoons.

But now that my full-time job is Mother, now that my flexible freelance writing and tutoring schedule permits (or rather, forces) me to work when Mallory's sleeping, Sundays are no longer the downer they used to be.

Sunday mornings are for chores, the kind I love. While M lays on the floor with Mallory, I wash the dishes, scour the sink, and start a load of laundry. Then, while M makes French toast and coffee, I hold Mallory in one arm and with the other, make the bed and wipe the counters. We eat while she scoots about underfoot, licking the wood floor.

I hang our clean wet clothes in the just-peeking-out sun and vacuum the bedroom floor. M takes over and moves into the living room while I do some dusting. He takes Mallory outside to water the garden (one of her favorite activities) and I sweep the front porch. I find an old pair of sandals to set out by the Giving Tree.

By noon, the house is clean, the sun is burning hot, and Mallory is down for her nap. I do some free-to-make-mistakes writing until she wakes up. After lunch, we crack the windows, light a stick of incense, and head out to Target, where we buy delightfully satisfying things like toothpaste and ice cube trays. We take a walk in a different neighborhood than the ones we're used to. The hours move slow.

I don't dread the end of the day. At a birthday party later on, I don't worry about the fading light or think about all that I have to get done before I go to bed. Instead I linger, chatting with friends. When we get home, I feed Mallory bananas, then take her into the warm shower with me. M gets her ready for bed while I fold the last of the crisp dry laundry. Mallory falls asleep on my lap while I read. And just like that, Sunday becomes my new favorite day of the week.

La-La Land

A few days back from our very first vacation with Mallory, a road trip down to LA, which was filled with sweat, sand, family, urban liveliness, and lots of lucky napping in the car.

We kicked things off with a stop in Santa Cruz, where the three of us glowed with the kind of serenity found on a California beach at the swirly pink of sunset. Later, Mallory slept soundly on my chest while M and I devoured antipasto in the romantic outdoor seating area of a restaurant called Chocolate.

After an awful night's sleep in what is no longer our favorite Santa Cruz hotel, we ventured to San Luis Obispo and restored ourselves with culinary delights like fried herb goat cheese on roasted beet salad and brown sugar braised pork chops and salted caramel butterscotch pudding. Yum!

Back in December we'd encountered such a shockingly lackluster, poker-faced, brusque waiter at the Big Sky Cafe that we'd complained to the manager. So we were surprised to see the same waiter seven months later, this time grinning jollily at Mallory, happily engaging her stare contest. (He, of course, did not recognize us as the chagrined couple on New Year's Eve who asked for our dessert to go).

We arrived in LA on the hottest day of the summer, collapsing on a blanket in the sweaty shade of the park that M traipsed as a fifth grader. Nearby, kids in a dance troupe rehearsed for a televised contest. So LA. Mallory met her three older cousins who loved her showy tricks (screeching like a wild night creature, sucking on her own toes, spontaneously flashing big gummy smiles) even more than the impossible twists and low-splash entries of the Olympic high-divers.

At Zuma Beach north of Malibu I dove under big, scary waves in my yellow and green striped one-piece. Mallory laughed and flailed her limbs at the kids going wild with the final days of summer vacation. M strummed his little guitar in the shade of the umbrella and dipped his daughter's toes in the water.

Mallory met her Uncle John, who's been sober a month longer than she's been alive. The last time I saw my brother was in Louisiana. I was four months pregnant and he was cat-eyed with liquor and pills and obstinate partying. He slept through my grandmother's 80th birthday party and hardly noticed the swollen bump of my belly. So it was a real treat to see him giddy with sobriety and uncle-dom. He brought Mallory a ruffle-bottomed Ralph Lauren onesie and couldn't get enough of holding her, murmuring softly, "Don't cry, don't cry."

And, thanks to Uncle John's Brazilian girlfriend Giselle, Mallory got to "swim" in her very first pool. In Beverly Hills. At the sprawling mansion of a former Warner Brother. Giant bright goldfish floated beneath a bridge that led to a shaded seating area. The pool itself was made to look like a natural watering hole, surrounded by rocks and flowering shrubbery. We all took turns swirling Mallory through the tepid water as she screamed with delight. As soon as she got out she peed on Daddy's feet and we took her right back in.

I, as always, loved the cacophony of the city, the tree-lined streets and squat 1950s buildings and effortless diversity. On our way out of town, we met up with our friend Tabitha and watched a local baseball league game. Armed with her thoughtful care package--coconut water, granola bars, ginger candy, strawberries, even a tiny bud vase with soft pink lilies--we drove the entire eight hours home, stopping a few times to feed, change, and hold our little dumpling.

Once in the front door, bags unloaded, Mallory fast asleep, M and I ate bowls of cereal and smiled sleepily at each other. We made it.

Half Birthday

I think I was 24 the first time I actually celebrated my half birthday. Or, more accurately, I was 24.5, which was also the title of a mixed CD given to me by my friend Jess (the boy) on the occasion. That CD introduced me to the throaty goodness of Lucinda Williams and the tender lyrics of Bonnie Prince Billy, and fueled me all the way across the country later that summer.

I blared it loud and long, until the day my Volvo was broken into on a Nonesuch rafting trip and all my CDs were stolen. The kids duct-taped my rear window for me. M remembers me giving him a look across the fire that night; I remember noticing my new co-worker, whose sweet guitar strumming soothed my troubled soul.

27.5 is the next half-birthday that sticks in my memory. I was in Chiang Mai, Thailand, just getting into the rhythm of traveling alone. I looked in the Lonely Planet, found a hotel pool, and paid a dollar to swim for an hour, all by myself. I did the butterfly until it took my breath away. Then I headed to an outdoor cafe to savor my new favorite drink, iced coffee, and read Louise Erdrich's "Love Medicine," a beautiful novel that, in its own way, took my breath away.

This is the first time I've been in California on my half-birthday since moving out here nearly nine years ago. The day started tired and gray. M had to rush out to the store unexpectedly. Somehow it was already time to nurse Mallory again. I combed my bookshelf for a new novel to read, landed on Erdrich's "The Painted Drum," and dug in.

Later, Carrie, Thomas, and their kids Belle and Ethan (who we call simply, "the family") came over. It was one of our classic homemade mojito-and-pizza Sunday afternoons, totally delightful in its mellowness and serenity. We spent most of our time out on the front porch (where the plants are happy but the couch is dusty) chatting and laughing and watching Mallory break into spontaneous smiles. For dessert we had strawberry shortcake and, as Belle calls it, "hoof-less" Jello.

Still, I'd forgotten to sweep the sycamore debris off the porch. I ate one too many pieces of pizza. The kitchen counter devolved into an unholy mess of discarded crusts, whipped cream splatter, and crushed mint. Mallory badly needed a bath. By the evening, tempted to feel bad about this stuff, overwhelmed, still, at 33.5, by the constancy of imperfection, I sought refuge in my new novel. It's passages like this one that make Louise Erdrich so dear to me:

"In the woods, there is no right way to go, of course, no trail to follow but the law of growth. You must leave behind the notion that things are right. Just look around you. Here is the way things are."

Uncle E

I'm usually the one to leave, to pack my bags and triple-check the windows and watch my feet grow tan and gnarled from so much exploring. So it was a great surprise (and relief) to learn that hosting a friend for a few days could still invoke those carefree, possibility-laden feelings of vacation.

M met Elizabeth a decade ago in LA. They became fast friends and have remained close even as the miles between them have multiplied. When I first met E, with her tatted-up arms and understated wit, I never could have imagined that she spoke fluent baby and loved browsing antique stores. But during her lovely five-day visit last week I realized that M's friend had truly become my friend too.

The best house guests are the ones who are happy to weave themselves into the tapestry of your life, demanding only that they help with the dishes. And so it was that the facets of our late spring life carried on--picking salad greens from our garden, taking turns holding the baby, venturing on evening walks to find wildflowers and lemons, bathing the baby--only with an infused sense of fun, E's laughter and spunk and curiosity.

On Saturday, trying to escape 102 degree weather here in the Santa Rosa Valley, we drove west to Occidental to score some of E's favorite apricot turnovers at the Union Hotel. As we tried to leave, my car's alarm (which I only recently became aware of) engaged in two rounds of panic-inducing bleating that left M and I frantically searching the manual. E stayed cool and took sleeping Mallory into the shade while we opened and closed the doors over and over again.

By the time we figured out how this vestigial alarm is triggered and managed to get reloaded in the car, we were desperate to get to the coast. Sweaty behind the wheel, M started up Coleman Valley Road. We heard a thump. "Probably a pine cone," M said, laying on the gas. A minute later we realized the thump was actually M's glasses case, which had popped open and deposited his prescription glasses on the pavement. His wallet was just sliding off the trunk when he stopped the car.

Much laughter ensued. Buoyed by our luck (the glasses were unbroken), we spent a couple of hours trolling a nearly-deserted beach, snacking on carrots and getting chased by waves. E gathered some sea debris that will find its way into one of her many artistic endeavors. Mallory quieted at the sound of crashing surf.

And then on Father's Day we did something we'd been wanting to do for three months, something that, out of all our friends, we could only imagine doing with E. In our fourth garden bed, nestled right next to the remains of my wedding bouquet, we buried my (defrosted) placenta. For months it sat in our freezer; now it's going to nourish our wildflowers. E, ever the dutiful photographer, got plenty of footage (I'll spare you). Afterwards, we ate M's delicious pizza and made cupcake frosting.

Saying good-bye is never easy. But we've got photos out the wazoo (mostly of Mallory) to remind us that summer is sweeter when Uncle E comes to town :)

It's personal

Dear Jessica:

While I really enjoyed your essay, and found much to admire in your writing, I've decided to pass on this submission.

Please feel free to submit to us again. I'd love to see more of your writing.

All the best, Editor

When I first started submitting my work for publication beyond the local alt-weekly, a personal rejection like this had me flying for days. The guest editor from Smokelong thinks my characters are strong! A Narrative editor is asking to see more of my writing! The folks at Swink and Booth think I should keep submitting to them! Even Brevity, one of my top favorite journals, rejected me with a lengthy paragraph about how my essay had made it to the final round! The editor told me not to lose heart about this "close-but-no-cigar" news because, after all, they receive a large number of excellent submissions, and just can't publish them all.

It felt validating to know that editors had taken the time to carve out a note to me personally, to offer words of encouragement. The editor at Revolution House, who recently rejected my Cuba Libre essay, actually said that she was sure I would find a home for the piece soon. Sure enough, Recess Magazine accepted it just a few days later. So, yes, there are some victories folks. But. Not enough.

Each time I click on an email, subject line RE: SUBMISSION, my heart flutters with disappointment as soon as I see how short it is. I've now submitted many pieces to many, many places, and my "Submissions" folder weighs heavier and heavier with "thanks, but..." The personal rejections are starting to feel like cruel jokes. Why, if they like my writing, if they want to read more of it, won't they just publish "The Cave"? It's the title, isn't it? "The Cave"... how lame.

I'm starting to lose heart. This week alone I've been personally rejected by Hunger Mountain, Literary Mama, and, just this morning, as my peanut butter and honey toast swirled uneasily in my stomach, I clicked on a very prompt reply from an editor at Salon, my dream destination. She enjoyed reading my piece! But it's not quite right for their purposes. Best of luck placing it elsewhere.

So I strapped my fussy baby to my chest. I stripped the sheets from our bed and by the time I loaded them into the washer, Mallory was nearly asleep. I love feeling the warm weight of her body against me. I love sniffing the sweet-smelling fuzz on her head, the scrape of her tiny fingernails on my chest.