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The Wine List October 17 2001

Star power: Sip and savor heady wines at Star Provisions in the company of gourmet foods and accessories. Sample and compare at wine tastings Fridays 7-8 p.m. But be careful. After a few glasses, you'll want to press on through to Bacchanalia. 1198 Howell Mill Road, 404-365-0410, ext. 134.

Take the Fifth: Fifth Group Restaurants, formerly known as the South City Management Group, presents a fall wine dinner series at each of its restaurants featuring Robert Mondavi Wines. Up next, South City Kitchen hosts Arrowood wines Oct. 24. Arrowood wines pride themselves on being made from grapes that come exclusively from Sonoma County. As little as possible is done to the wine to let its natural goodness come through. Each menu is a five-course dinner. $75 per person. Reservations: South City Kitchen, 1144 Crescent Ave., 404-873-7358, or e-mail southcitykitchen@mind spring.com. Also, www.fifthgroup.com.

I'll take the lo Road: And I'll get to Lo Sputino before you, take my place at the wine bar and get to drinking. On Oct. 27, the wines up for debate are Warrabilla, DeBortoli, Fox Creek and Wits End. Tastings are held the last Saturday of every month 2:30-4:30 p.m. $10 a person. Lo Sputino Wine Bar, 3005 Peachtree Road, NE Suite D. 404-237-5724.

Das Bottle: Ach, mein Gott! Chef Guenter Seeger throws his own version of Oktoberfest at Seeger's this Oct. 31. His goal, however seems not to frighten you, but to make you as big as a pumpkin with his eight-course food and German wine blitz featuring wines from Gunderloch, Robert Weil Estates and others. Reception 7 p.m.; dinner 7:30 p.m. $150 per person (oooh, there's the scary part), inclusive. 111 W. Paces Ferry Road. 404-846-9779.

The vin in Vinings Inn: Savor the flavor at the charming Vinings Inn, where every Monday is flight night. Enjoy three wines for $15 with food. 3011 Places Mill Road. 770-438-2282.

Tastes like Tuesday: Tantalize your taste buds Tuesdays at Vino! with wines from around the world. With a different theme every week, it's always a fresh experience. On Oct. 23 say hola to Spanish Reds. Complimentary hors d'oeuvres. 5-8 p.m. $20. 2900 Peachtree Road. 404-816-0511.??



More By This Writer

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  string(3530) "?I thought I was sick of mini-muffins, do-it-yourself waffles, and eggs in a tray, both hard-boiled and scrambled.

But put me in a hotel without continental breakfast and watch me crumble like a day-old biscuit waiting to be topped with delicious sausage gravy.

That´s another continental breakfast staple, in case you´re not familiar with hotel life Ñ biscuits with sausage gravy. I´ve been living mostly in hotels since November, so I´ve got the routine down.

Sadly, though, the rooms keep getting smaller, which I take as a sign to get the hell back into a real dwelling Ñ you know, with a yard or a mailbox. We´ve gone from a suite with sitting area, to one that was merely hot plate-equipped to one that doesn´t even have a mini-fridge. (I´ve sunk below your average college freshman.) Or continental breakfast. I mean, really, who booked this room? I want sausage gravy, dammit! I´ve often imagined the vat it must come in, industrial-sized and plainly labeled with an expiration date stretching far into the future, perhaps 2010, the year of the flying car.

I´m tempted to check my horoscope to see where my own future is headed, and yet I dare not. I don´t have the shelf life of sausage gravy and I fear things may go bad at any moment.

I try to masquerade as a sensible person. But sometimes I want a little help. Maybe it´s just relief at having some outside direction, but I´ll confess that I´m overly susceptible to predictions. Astrological forecasts, psychic visions, crystal ball readings, you name it.

In fact, I´ve based most of my adult life on a 1991 reading from the Psychic Friends Network. ¨No, you will not be a singer,¨ the operator told me. ¨You will write for an audience.¨ Making these decisions on my own seemed scary. But having my ambitions confirmed by a complete stranger at $4.99 a minute gave them added weight. Indeed, it was nothing short of a mandate.

My boyfriend finds it preposterous that any thinking being would take to heart any advice from the Psychic Friends Network, much less plan his or her life around it. I don´t have the heart to tell him it wasn´t actually quite the Psychic Friends Network, but a discount bargain version. He got huffy enough when he thought it was the real deal. ¨I just can´t talk to someone who planned her life around a psychic reading!¨ But it was a good reading.

He just better hope I don´t decide to listen to the CL psychic. She had plenty to say about him, stuff that I haven´t heeded Ñ yet.

That used to be one of the job benefits of working at this paper: the company psychic. A couple of times a year, she would come and give readings. (Hey, some workplaces have great dental plans, others connect you with outer dimensions.)

Every single time I saw her, she told me I reminded her of Stephanie Zimbalist from the old TV detective show ¨Remington Steele.¨ And then she´d launch into the Zimbalist family publishing history and link that up to my destiny of running my own business.

So far, most of her predictions for me have come to pass. She told me that my boyfriend and I would have one child and never marry.

But she also said that we´d break up and then get back together later. That last part is confusing because I break up with him all the time in my head.

It helps me get through the day. Ha! I think. The jackass doesn´t even know we´re not together right now! I broke up with him this morning and he has no idea.

So does that count? Madame Cleo? Anyone?

jane.catoe@creativeloafing.com

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But put me in a hotel ''without'' continental breakfast and watch me crumble like a day-old biscuit waiting to be topped with delicious sausage gravy.

That´s another continental breakfast staple, in case you´re not familiar with hotel life Ñ biscuits with sausage gravy. I´ve been living mostly in hotels since November, so I´ve got the routine down.

Sadly, though, the rooms keep getting smaller, which I take as a sign to get the hell back into a real dwelling Ñ you know, with a yard or a mailbox. We´ve gone from a suite with sitting area, to one that was merely hot plate-equipped to one that doesn´t even have a mini-fridge. (I´ve sunk below your average college freshman.) Or continental breakfast. I mean, really, who booked this room? I want sausage gravy, dammit! I´ve often imagined the vat it must come in, industrial-sized and plainly labeled with an expiration date stretching far into the future, perhaps 2010, the year of the flying car.

I´m tempted to check my horoscope to see where my own future is headed, and yet I dare not. I don´t have the shelf life of sausage gravy and I fear things may go bad at any moment.

I try to masquerade as a sensible person. But sometimes I want a little help. Maybe it´s just relief at having some outside direction, but I´ll confess that I´m overly susceptible to predictions. Astrological forecasts, psychic visions, crystal ball readings, you name it.

In fact, I´ve based most of my adult life on a 1991 reading from the Psychic Friends Network. ¨No, you will not be a singer,¨ the operator told me. ¨You will write for an audience.¨ Making these decisions on my own seemed scary. But having my ambitions confirmed by a complete stranger at $4.99 a minute gave them added weight. Indeed, it was nothing short of a mandate.

My boyfriend finds it preposterous that any thinking being would take to heart any advice from the Psychic Friends Network, much less plan his or her life around it. I don´t have the heart to tell him it wasn´t actually quite the Psychic Friends Network, but a discount bargain version. He got huffy enough when he thought it was the real deal. ¨I just can´t talk to someone who planned her life around a psychic reading!¨ But it was a ''good'' reading.

He just better hope I don´t decide to listen to the ''CL'' psychic. She had plenty to say about him, stuff that I haven´t heeded Ñ yet.

That used to be one of the job benefits of working at this paper: the company psychic. A couple of times a year, she would come and give readings. (Hey, some workplaces have great dental plans, others connect you with outer dimensions.)

Every single time I saw her, she told me I reminded her of Stephanie Zimbalist from the old TV detective show ¨Remington Steele.¨ And then she´d launch into the Zimbalist family publishing history and link that up to my destiny of running my own business.

So far, most of her predictions for me have come to pass. She told me that my boyfriend and I would have one child and never marry.

But she also said that we´d break up and then get back together later. That last part is confusing because I break up with him all the time in my head.

It helps me get through the day. ''Ha!'' I think. ''The jackass doesn´t even know we´re not together right now! I broke up with him this morning and he has no idea.''

So does that count? Madame Cleo? Anyone?

[mailto:jane.catoe@creativeloafing.com|jane.catoe@creativeloafing.com]

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  string(3837) "    Parlor games and pesky predictions, off the sausage-gravy train   2005-02-03T05:04:00+00:00 Bad Habits - Self-fulfilling prophecy - March 23 2005   Jane Catoe 1223629 2005-02-03T05:04:00+00:00  ?I thought I was sick of mini-muffins, do-it-yourself waffles, and eggs in a tray, both hard-boiled and scrambled.

But put me in a hotel without continental breakfast and watch me crumble like a day-old biscuit waiting to be topped with delicious sausage gravy.

That´s another continental breakfast staple, in case you´re not familiar with hotel life Ñ biscuits with sausage gravy. I´ve been living mostly in hotels since November, so I´ve got the routine down.

Sadly, though, the rooms keep getting smaller, which I take as a sign to get the hell back into a real dwelling Ñ you know, with a yard or a mailbox. We´ve gone from a suite with sitting area, to one that was merely hot plate-equipped to one that doesn´t even have a mini-fridge. (I´ve sunk below your average college freshman.) Or continental breakfast. I mean, really, who booked this room? I want sausage gravy, dammit! I´ve often imagined the vat it must come in, industrial-sized and plainly labeled with an expiration date stretching far into the future, perhaps 2010, the year of the flying car.

I´m tempted to check my horoscope to see where my own future is headed, and yet I dare not. I don´t have the shelf life of sausage gravy and I fear things may go bad at any moment.

I try to masquerade as a sensible person. But sometimes I want a little help. Maybe it´s just relief at having some outside direction, but I´ll confess that I´m overly susceptible to predictions. Astrological forecasts, psychic visions, crystal ball readings, you name it.

In fact, I´ve based most of my adult life on a 1991 reading from the Psychic Friends Network. ¨No, you will not be a singer,¨ the operator told me. ¨You will write for an audience.¨ Making these decisions on my own seemed scary. But having my ambitions confirmed by a complete stranger at $4.99 a minute gave them added weight. Indeed, it was nothing short of a mandate.

My boyfriend finds it preposterous that any thinking being would take to heart any advice from the Psychic Friends Network, much less plan his or her life around it. I don´t have the heart to tell him it wasn´t actually quite the Psychic Friends Network, but a discount bargain version. He got huffy enough when he thought it was the real deal. ¨I just can´t talk to someone who planned her life around a psychic reading!¨ But it was a good reading.

He just better hope I don´t decide to listen to the CL psychic. She had plenty to say about him, stuff that I haven´t heeded Ñ yet.

That used to be one of the job benefits of working at this paper: the company psychic. A couple of times a year, she would come and give readings. (Hey, some workplaces have great dental plans, others connect you with outer dimensions.)

Every single time I saw her, she told me I reminded her of Stephanie Zimbalist from the old TV detective show ¨Remington Steele.¨ And then she´d launch into the Zimbalist family publishing history and link that up to my destiny of running my own business.

So far, most of her predictions for me have come to pass. She told me that my boyfriend and I would have one child and never marry.

But she also said that we´d break up and then get back together later. That last part is confusing because I break up with him all the time in my head.

It helps me get through the day. Ha! I think. The jackass doesn´t even know we´re not together right now! I broke up with him this morning and he has no idea.

So does that count? Madame Cleo? Anyone?

jane.catoe@creativeloafing.com

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Article

Thursday February 3, 2005 12:04 am EST
Parlor games and pesky predictions, off the sausage-gravy train | more...
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  string(59) "Bad Habits - Surfing in shallow channels - February 03 2005"
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  string(3822) "As a 4-year-old, I used to raise eyebrows among my parents' friends by telling them I went to Martin Luther King Kindergarten. It was the early '70s in the cradle of the Confederacy, Charleston, S.C., and this bit of information marked my parents as progressives, not to mention that they'd gone to see Charlie Pride when he came to town.

Unfortunately, I didn't actually attend MLK Kindergarten. I only went to Martin Luther Kindergarten up at the Lutheran church. But see, I didn't know who plain-old Martin Luther was. Whereas I'd seen plenty of Martin Luther King on the evening news and on PBS, which my mom propped me up in front of every morning before she left for work.

Like I said, it was the early '70s. So there was no Nickelodeon or movies on demand. Just ABC, CBS, NBC and PBS, and if the weather was bad, sometimes not even those channels. Cartoons came on once a day. Had they come on more often maybe I would have missed the shows on Dr. King - or failed to learn the alphabet. But I hadn't and was proud that I went to (in my mind, anyway) Martin Luther King Kindergarten; somehow I felt linked to goodness, destined for achievement. And it depresses me a little that King doesn't get more fanfare on his holiday.

On MLK Day, I couldn't even find a show about the man. It may be because as much as I flipped, I kept getting stuck on VH1. That channel really loves the '70s. And the '80s. And the '90s. How did I forget so much about the '90s in such a short time? And those celebrity reality shows are awesome.

Especially the one with the midget. I like that almost as much as the program about the jungle fever-style romance between Flava Flav and Brigitte Nielsen. That one is so good it literally made me dumber - in just 30 minutes. (Seriously, Chuck D, if you're reading, can't you do anything?) And I really hope Vince Neil gets (back?) into shape. But I can't remember what channel that's on, so I may never know.

I only wish Dr. King were around to be on one of those celebreality TV shows. I have a great idea: "Who Can Provoke Dr. King to Violence?"

The main reason I think it'd be great is that my boyfriend could handily win a cool million. I imagine Dr. King in robe and slippers and fedora simmering outside the bathroom door as Kevin spends 30 minutes in the shower and then another half-hour getting ready.

When Kevin finally came out, I feel certain Dr. King would whack him in the back of the head with his hat. No one can live happily with a man who takes that long to get ready, at least not without the occasional skirmish. Surprisingly, my boyfriend also enjoys thinking about this reality show because he believes MLK would yell less than I do.

I know. I know. I shouldn't write these sorts of things. Dr. King would never do a reality show. Marty King? Maybe, but Dr. King? No. He was one of those guys obsessed with dignity and self-respect, that stuff we don't worry about too much anymore.

In truth, I spend a little too much time wondering what King or John Lennon would think of "The Swan" or "Big Brother" or Iraq. I'm not fantasizing about the resurrection of relentless scolds. I enjoy the guilty pleasure as much as the next guy. I'm just thinking about a few people who might help us put things in perspective, who might provide some balance. When King and Lennon fell, there wasn't anyone to take their place. Just a vacuum created only to be filled by lesser channels.

Oh, hold on a sec: VH1 is revisiting the '90s again. Hey, do you think Dr. King would look as good in a track suit as Biz Markie? And there's Dionne Warwick, Madame Cleo and the Psychic Friends Network.

It looks like someone saw the future all right. And you can forget about content of character, characters of content and the content of your programming.

jane.catoe@creativeloafing.com"
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  string(3862) "As a 4-year-old, I used to raise eyebrows among my parents' friends by telling them I went to Martin Luther King Kindergarten. It was the early '70s in the cradle of the Confederacy, Charleston, S.C., and this bit of information marked my parents as progressives, not to mention that they'd gone to see Charlie Pride when he came to town.

Unfortunately, I didn't actually attend MLK Kindergarten. I only went to Martin Luther Kindergarten up at the Lutheran church. But see, I didn't know who plain-old Martin Luther was. Whereas I'd seen plenty of Martin Luther King on the evening news and on PBS, which my mom propped me up in front of every morning before she left for work.

Like I said, it was the early '70s. So there was no Nickelodeon or movies on demand. Just ABC, CBS, NBC and PBS, and if the weather was bad, sometimes not even those channels. Cartoons came on once a day. Had they come on more often maybe I would have missed the shows on Dr. King - or failed to learn the alphabet. But I hadn't and was proud that I went to (in my mind, anyway) Martin Luther King Kindergarten; somehow I felt linked to goodness, destined for achievement. And it depresses me a little that King doesn't get more fanfare on his holiday.

On MLK Day, I couldn't even find a show about the man. It may be because as much as I flipped, I kept getting stuck on VH1. That channel really loves the '70s. And the '80s. And the '90s. How did I forget so much about the '90s in such a short time? And those celebrity reality shows are awesome.

Especially the one with the midget. I like that almost as much as the program about the jungle fever-style romance between Flava Flav and Brigitte Nielsen. That one is so good it literally made me dumber - in just 30 minutes. (Seriously, Chuck D, if you're reading, can't you do anything?) And I really hope Vince Neil gets (back?) into shape. But I can't remember what channel that's on, so I may never know.

I only wish Dr. King were around to be on one of those celebreality TV shows. I have a great idea: "Who Can Provoke Dr. King to Violence?"

The main reason I think it'd be great is that my boyfriend could handily win a cool million. I imagine Dr. King in robe and slippers and fedora simmering outside the bathroom door as Kevin spends 30 minutes in the shower and then another half-hour getting ready.

When Kevin finally came out, I feel certain Dr. King would whack him in the back of the head with his hat. No one can live happily with a man who takes that long to get ready, at least not without the occasional skirmish. Surprisingly, my boyfriend also enjoys thinking about this reality show because he believes MLK would yell less than I do.

I know. I know. I shouldn't write these sorts of things. Dr. King would never do a reality show. Marty King? Maybe, but Dr. King? No. He was one of those guys obsessed with dignity and self-respect, that stuff we don't worry about too much anymore.

In truth, I spend a little too much time wondering what King or John Lennon would think of "The Swan" or "Big Brother" or Iraq. I'm not fantasizing about the resurrection of relentless scolds. I enjoy the guilty pleasure as much as the next guy. I'm just thinking about a few people who might help us put things in perspective, who might provide some balance. When King and Lennon fell, there wasn't anyone to take their place. Just a vacuum created only to be filled by lesser channels.

Oh, hold on a sec: VH1 is revisiting the '90s again. Hey, do you think Dr. King would look as good in a track suit as Biz Markie? And there's Dionne Warwick, Madame Cleo and the Psychic Friends Network.

It looks like someone saw the future all right. And you can forget about content of character, characters of content and the content of your programming.

[mailto:jane.catoe@creativeloafing.com|jane.catoe@creativeloafing.com]"
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Unfortunately, I didn't actually attend MLK Kindergarten. I only went to Martin Luther Kindergarten up at the Lutheran church. But see, I didn't know who plain-old Martin Luther was. Whereas I'd seen plenty of Martin Luther King on the evening news and on PBS, which my mom propped me up in front of every morning before she left for work.

Like I said, it was the early '70s. So there was no Nickelodeon or movies on demand. Just ABC, CBS, NBC and PBS, and if the weather was bad, sometimes not even those channels. Cartoons came on once a day. Had they come on more often maybe I would have missed the shows on Dr. King - or failed to learn the alphabet. But I hadn't and was proud that I went to (in my mind, anyway) Martin Luther King Kindergarten; somehow I felt linked to goodness, destined for achievement. And it depresses me a little that King doesn't get more fanfare on his holiday.

On MLK Day, I couldn't even find a show about the man. It may be because as much as I flipped, I kept getting stuck on VH1. That channel really loves the '70s. And the '80s. And the '90s. How did I forget so much about the '90s in such a short time? And those celebrity reality shows are awesome.

Especially the one with the midget. I like that almost as much as the program about the jungle fever-style romance between Flava Flav and Brigitte Nielsen. That one is so good it literally made me dumber - in just 30 minutes. (Seriously, Chuck D, if you're reading, can't you do anything?) And I really hope Vince Neil gets (back?) into shape. But I can't remember what channel that's on, so I may never know.

I only wish Dr. King were around to be on one of those celebreality TV shows. I have a great idea: "Who Can Provoke Dr. King to Violence?"

The main reason I think it'd be great is that my boyfriend could handily win a cool million. I imagine Dr. King in robe and slippers and fedora simmering outside the bathroom door as Kevin spends 30 minutes in the shower and then another half-hour getting ready.

When Kevin finally came out, I feel certain Dr. King would whack him in the back of the head with his hat. No one can live happily with a man who takes that long to get ready, at least not without the occasional skirmish. Surprisingly, my boyfriend also enjoys thinking about this reality show because he believes MLK would yell less than I do.

I know. I know. I shouldn't write these sorts of things. Dr. King would never do a reality show. Marty King? Maybe, but Dr. King? No. He was one of those guys obsessed with dignity and self-respect, that stuff we don't worry about too much anymore.

In truth, I spend a little too much time wondering what King or John Lennon would think of "The Swan" or "Big Brother" or Iraq. I'm not fantasizing about the resurrection of relentless scolds. I enjoy the guilty pleasure as much as the next guy. I'm just thinking about a few people who might help us put things in perspective, who might provide some balance. When King and Lennon fell, there wasn't anyone to take their place. Just a vacuum created only to be filled by lesser channels.

Oh, hold on a sec: VH1 is revisiting the '90s again. Hey, do you think Dr. King would look as good in a track suit as Biz Markie? And there's Dionne Warwick, Madame Cleo and the Psychic Friends Network.

It looks like someone saw the future all right. And you can forget about content of character, characters of content and the content of your programming.

jane.catoe@creativeloafing.com             13017012 1252120                          Bad Habits - Surfing in shallow channels - February 03 2005 "
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Thursday January 27, 2005 12:04 am EST
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  string(3540) "On Wednesday, I bit my daughter. To the corporal punishment-obsessed, it might not have seemed too far out of line. After all, she had the last piece of Snickers bar clutched in her tiny chocolatey hands, taunting me. So when she stretched out the piece of candy toward my face, I had to act quickly. She offers food the way Stalin sent people to the gulags - almost whimsically, and you never know when she'll change her mind. She is, after all, just 14 months old. A demographic not famous for its attention span.

So I bit. I noticed the thumb and finger on the side of the bar. I missed the little digit just under all that snacktime goodness.

She screamed. I screamed. My boyfriend rushed in, snatched her up and shot me a look like I was some underachieving Andrea Yates. If I had had a protective shell, candy or otherwise, I might still be inside it.

Thankfully, like the emergencies of most 14-month-olds, it passed in a few minutes — no marks, just hurt feelings and a mother who now understands that taking candy from a baby isn't always as easy as it sounds.

But my day of biting wasn't over. That night, my boyfriend's mother called to say that my generally friendly, though boneheaded and territorial, mongrel who is (make that was) staying with her, had attacked her dog.

Was it over a Snickers bar? No one knows for sure why the fur flew. While the dogs emerged from the scrape unharmed, it scared the bejeezus out of my boyfriend's mom, who took a few bites to the leg trying to separate them. So now we're still without a house, but we've added a tooth-baring dog to the traveling circus.

My life is beginning to sound a little too much like a Steinbeck novel: drifting, savage nature, depression. If a slow-witted guy who likes to talk about rabbits starts hanging around, I swear to Christ I'm on the next plane to Cabo.

I've also come to understand how an experience like a fire can deal some people a knockout punch. When you're vulnerable, you seem to invite calamity. It's like life sees you stumble, and it can't wait to deliver the overhand right to the head. Bam! Like George Foreman vs. Ali in the Rumble in the Jungle.

It also reminded me of the time long ago - another dark moment in my personal history - when I bit my god-poodle's ear over a candy bar. It wasn't a tussle or any sort of dominance game. Not that I was above that kind of behavior, but because I would have lost: That 5-pound poodle was the boss, big-time. It was, however, a good dream gone bad. We were napping and up through the ethers of my mind floated the dreamy image of a giant Nestle Crunch bar smothered with peanut butter.

I did what anyone else might reasonably do; I lunged my sleepy head forward and started chewing. Oh, I don't know who was more shocked - me or the dog - when we woke to find me chewing on her little black ear.

And what, 10 years later, here I am confusedly biting again over the food of the gods. But this time I was so distraught I nearly swore off chocolate. And I've definitely sworn off eating food from my baby girl's hands.

Later that night, though, she put me on notice. While nursing away, she paused and gave a little bite. Then she looked up and laughed, if not sinisterly, at least mischievously. A laugh that said: You may have gotten a finger, but look what I have access to. The message was clear: All was forgiven, but not forgotten.

She'd better leave those alone, though. I'll need the casabas if our Joadian saga should take us to California.

jane.catoe@creativeloafing.com"
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  string(3579) "On Wednesday, I bit my daughter. To the corporal punishment-obsessed, it might not have seemed too far out of line. After all, she had the last piece of Snickers bar clutched in her tiny chocolatey hands, taunting me. So when she stretched out the piece of candy toward my face, I had to act quickly. She offers food the way Stalin sent people to the gulags - almost whimsically, and you never know when she'll change her mind. She is, after all, just 14 months old. A demographic not famous for its attention span.

So I bit. I noticed the thumb and finger on the side of the bar. I missed the little digit just under all that snacktime goodness.

She screamed. I screamed. My boyfriend rushed in, snatched her up and shot me a look like I was some underachieving Andrea Yates. If I had had a protective shell, candy or otherwise, I might still be inside it.

Thankfully, like the emergencies of most 14-month-olds, it passed in a few minutes -- no marks, just hurt feelings and a mother who now understands that taking candy from a baby isn't always as easy as it sounds.

But my day of biting wasn't over. That night, my boyfriend's mother called to say that my generally friendly, though boneheaded and territorial, mongrel who is (make that ''was'') staying with her, had attacked her dog.

Was it over a Snickers bar? No one knows for sure why the fur flew. While the dogs emerged from the scrape unharmed, it scared the bejeezus out of my boyfriend's mom, who took a few bites to the leg trying to separate them. So now we're still without a house, but we've added a tooth-baring dog to the traveling circus.

My life is beginning to sound a little too much like a Steinbeck novel: drifting, savage nature, depression. If a slow-witted guy who likes to talk about rabbits starts hanging around, I swear to Christ I'm on the next plane to Cabo.

I've also come to understand how an experience like a fire can deal some people a knockout punch. When you're vulnerable, you seem to invite calamity. It's like life sees you stumble, and it can't wait to deliver the overhand right to the head. Bam! Like George Foreman vs. Ali in the Rumble in the Jungle.

It also reminded me of the time long ago - another dark moment in my personal history - when I bit my god-poodle's ear over a candy bar. It wasn't a tussle or any sort of dominance game. Not that I was above that kind of behavior, but because I would have lost: That 5-pound poodle was the boss, big-time. It was, however, a good dream gone bad. We were napping and up through the ethers of my mind floated the dreamy image of a giant Nestle Crunch bar smothered with peanut butter.

I did what anyone else might reasonably do; I lunged my sleepy head forward and started chewing. Oh, I don't know who was more shocked - me or the dog - when we woke to find me chewing on her little black ear.

And what, 10 years later, here I am confusedly biting again over the food of the gods. But this time I was so distraught I nearly swore off chocolate. And I've definitely sworn off eating food from my baby girl's hands.

Later that night, though, she put me on notice. While nursing away, she paused and gave a little bite. Then she looked up and laughed, if not sinisterly, at least mischievously. A laugh that said: You may have gotten a finger, but look what I have access to. The message was clear: All was forgiven, but not forgotten.

She'd better leave those alone, though. I'll need the casabas if our Joadian saga should take us to California.

[mailto:jane.catoe@creativeloafing.com|jane.catoe@creativeloafing.com]"
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  string(3846) "    Don't bite the hand (or breast) that feeds you   2005-01-20T05:04:00+00:00 Bad Habits - Like taking candy from a baby - February 03 2005   Jane Catoe 1223629 2005-01-20T05:04:00+00:00  On Wednesday, I bit my daughter. To the corporal punishment-obsessed, it might not have seemed too far out of line. After all, she had the last piece of Snickers bar clutched in her tiny chocolatey hands, taunting me. So when she stretched out the piece of candy toward my face, I had to act quickly. She offers food the way Stalin sent people to the gulags - almost whimsically, and you never know when she'll change her mind. She is, after all, just 14 months old. A demographic not famous for its attention span.

So I bit. I noticed the thumb and finger on the side of the bar. I missed the little digit just under all that snacktime goodness.

She screamed. I screamed. My boyfriend rushed in, snatched her up and shot me a look like I was some underachieving Andrea Yates. If I had had a protective shell, candy or otherwise, I might still be inside it.

Thankfully, like the emergencies of most 14-month-olds, it passed in a few minutes — no marks, just hurt feelings and a mother who now understands that taking candy from a baby isn't always as easy as it sounds.

But my day of biting wasn't over. That night, my boyfriend's mother called to say that my generally friendly, though boneheaded and territorial, mongrel who is (make that was) staying with her, had attacked her dog.

Was it over a Snickers bar? No one knows for sure why the fur flew. While the dogs emerged from the scrape unharmed, it scared the bejeezus out of my boyfriend's mom, who took a few bites to the leg trying to separate them. So now we're still without a house, but we've added a tooth-baring dog to the traveling circus.

My life is beginning to sound a little too much like a Steinbeck novel: drifting, savage nature, depression. If a slow-witted guy who likes to talk about rabbits starts hanging around, I swear to Christ I'm on the next plane to Cabo.

I've also come to understand how an experience like a fire can deal some people a knockout punch. When you're vulnerable, you seem to invite calamity. It's like life sees you stumble, and it can't wait to deliver the overhand right to the head. Bam! Like George Foreman vs. Ali in the Rumble in the Jungle.

It also reminded me of the time long ago - another dark moment in my personal history - when I bit my god-poodle's ear over a candy bar. It wasn't a tussle or any sort of dominance game. Not that I was above that kind of behavior, but because I would have lost: That 5-pound poodle was the boss, big-time. It was, however, a good dream gone bad. We were napping and up through the ethers of my mind floated the dreamy image of a giant Nestle Crunch bar smothered with peanut butter.

I did what anyone else might reasonably do; I lunged my sleepy head forward and started chewing. Oh, I don't know who was more shocked - me or the dog - when we woke to find me chewing on her little black ear.

And what, 10 years later, here I am confusedly biting again over the food of the gods. But this time I was so distraught I nearly swore off chocolate. And I've definitely sworn off eating food from my baby girl's hands.

Later that night, though, she put me on notice. While nursing away, she paused and gave a little bite. Then she looked up and laughed, if not sinisterly, at least mischievously. A laugh that said: You may have gotten a finger, but look what I have access to. The message was clear: All was forgiven, but not forgotten.

She'd better leave those alone, though. I'll need the casabas if our Joadian saga should take us to California.

jane.catoe@creativeloafing.com             13016960 1252023                          Bad Habits - Like taking candy from a baby - February 03 2005 "
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Thursday January 20, 2005 12:04 am EST
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  string(3652) "Apparently, you're not supposed to do what a magical, talking goose tells you to do. You'd think you could trust a magical, talking goose who'd just fed you and warmed your chilly little cabin on the farthest edge of the north woods, but you'd be wrong and you'd suffer for it.

Is it only in hindsight that choices can be determined "good" or "bad"? You can choose with the best of intentions, but if it all goes to hell, if the outcome doesn't  pan out, then you're left with nothing but nay-saying, I told you so's and general  misery. This distresses me. It seems a  little unfair that forces beyond my control are going to derail my plans and spank me on the ass.

Even my most harmless choices lately — a trip to see miniature animals, selecting a parking space, ordering a cake for the  holidays — end in calamity. I've become almost paralyzed. Should I go out? Should I stay in? Should I eat this or that?  Normally meaningless decisions now have me agonizing about the horrifying paths of possibility and probability that spread out before me in a matrix of potential mayhem. All of my choices seem to be wrong, even in fairy tales.

Have I become too practical? Because  I, for one, would have killed the  Christmas Goose.

But let me fill you in, in case you don't know the story. And let me present my  case, lest you judge too quickly: See,  there was a lonely, starving, freezing  Woodsman living at the edge of the  farthest forest. He had a starving cow and some other animal, but he didn't want to  eat them because then he'd be even  lonelier (sigh). So he goes out in a  snowstorm on Christmas Eve in a last-ditch effort to find food for himself and his  animals. And he does, sort of. He finds a wounded Goose; he praises his luck and grabs for his gun — just what you'd want in a book for a 1-year-old.

But as he's about to shoot her, the Goose speaks! It promises him that if he spares her and nurses her back to health, she'll grant him a wish.

OK. So they go back to the cabin and she feeds all the animals, lays a feast for the Woodsman and provides a roaring fire. Then she says that before midnight, the Woodsman has to kill her. She further  elaborates and says to the Woodsman that  if he doesn't kill her, she's going to leave anyway. The Woodsman is sad and doesn't want to harm such a beautiful creature and he agonizes mightily over the decision as the Goose sadly, and oh-so-dramatically  stretches out her neck.

At this point, I was like, "Look, Woodsman, you got lucky finding that Goose in the first place; hurry up and drop the ax or you're going to be screwed." I mean, hello, it's a magic Goose. I would assume it could regenerate itself. It's  obviously a Christmas rebirth story,  right? He kills the Goose; she resurrects, right? Wrong. Oh, how very wrong.  Because, of course, there was a curse on  the Goose that can only be lifted if the  person she is helping — the Woodsman — takes pity and doesn't kill her.

So, the Woodsman doesn't kill the Goose and he's rewarded with bounty. Naturally, the Goose turns into a beautiful woman and becomes his wife. Whereas I would have killed the Goose and the Goose would have had to spend the rest of eternity in the underworld. I mean, come on, can I get a freakin' break here! What the hell kind of soap opera change-up is that? The Woodsman gets everything because he's  too paralyzed to act? I was all ready for instruction about the necessity of making hard decisions. Instead I got a lesson that through indecision and paralysis, your dreams can come true. Now that's a story I can relate to.

jane.catoe@creativeloafing.com
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Is it only in hindsight that choices can be determined "good" or "bad"? You can choose with the best of intentions, but if it all goes to hell, if the outcome doesn't  pan out, then you're left with nothing but nay-saying, I told you so's and general  misery. This distresses me. It seems a  little unfair that forces beyond my control are going to derail my plans and spank me on the ass.

Even my most harmless choices lately -- a trip to see miniature animals, selecting a parking space, ordering a cake for the  holidays -- end in calamity. I've become almost paralyzed. Should I go out? Should I stay in? Should I eat this or that?  Normally meaningless decisions now have me agonizing about the horrifying paths of possibility and probability that spread out before me in a matrix of potential mayhem. All of my choices seem to be wrong, even in fairy tales.

Have I become too practical? Because  I, for one, would have killed the  Christmas Goose.

But let me fill you in, in case you don't know the story. And let me present my  case, lest you judge too quickly: See,  there was a lonely, starving, freezing  Woodsman living at the edge of the  farthest forest. He had a starving cow and some other animal, but he didn't want to  eat them because then he'd be even  lonelier (sigh). So he goes out in a  snowstorm on Christmas Eve in a last-ditch effort to find food for himself and his  animals. And he does, sort of. He finds a wounded Goose; he praises his luck and grabs for his gun -- just what you'd want in a book for a 1-year-old.

But as he's about to shoot her, the Goose speaks! It promises him that if he spares her and nurses her back to health, she'll grant him a wish.

OK. So they go back to the cabin and she feeds all the animals, lays a feast for the Woodsman and provides a roaring fire. Then she says that before midnight, the Woodsman has to kill her. She further  elaborates and says to the Woodsman that  if he doesn't kill her, she's going to leave anyway. The Woodsman is sad and doesn't want to harm such a beautiful creature and he agonizes mightily over the decision as the Goose sadly, and oh-so-dramatically  stretches out her neck.

At this point, I was like, "Look, Woodsman, you got lucky finding that Goose in the first place; hurry up and drop the ax or you're going to be screwed." I mean, hello, it's a ''magic Goose''. I would assume it could regenerate itself. It's  obviously a Christmas rebirth story,  right? He kills the Goose; she resurrects, right? Wrong. Oh, how very wrong.  Because, of course, there was a curse on  the Goose that can only be lifted if the  person she is helping -- the Woodsman -- takes pity and doesn't kill her.

So, the Woodsman ''doesn't'' kill the Goose and he's rewarded with bounty. Naturally, the Goose turns into a beautiful woman and becomes his wife. Whereas I would have killed the Goose and the Goose would have had to spend the rest of eternity in the underworld. I mean, ''come on'', can I get a freakin' break here! What the hell kind of soap opera change-up is that? The Woodsman gets everything because he's  too paralyzed to act? I was all ready for instruction about the necessity of making hard decisions. Instead I got a lesson that through indecision and paralysis, your dreams can come true. Now that's a story I can relate to.

__[mailto:jane.catoe@creativeloafing.com|jane.catoe@creativeloafing.com]__
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  string(3949) "    On fowl choices, letting the ax fall and fairy tale endings   2005-01-13T05:04:00+00:00 Bad Habits - The Christmas Goose - January 20 2005   Jane Catoe 1223629 2005-01-13T05:04:00+00:00  Apparently, you're not supposed to do what a magical, talking goose tells you to do. You'd think you could trust a magical, talking goose who'd just fed you and warmed your chilly little cabin on the farthest edge of the north woods, but you'd be wrong and you'd suffer for it.

Is it only in hindsight that choices can be determined "good" or "bad"? You can choose with the best of intentions, but if it all goes to hell, if the outcome doesn't  pan out, then you're left with nothing but nay-saying, I told you so's and general  misery. This distresses me. It seems a  little unfair that forces beyond my control are going to derail my plans and spank me on the ass.

Even my most harmless choices lately — a trip to see miniature animals, selecting a parking space, ordering a cake for the  holidays — end in calamity. I've become almost paralyzed. Should I go out? Should I stay in? Should I eat this or that?  Normally meaningless decisions now have me agonizing about the horrifying paths of possibility and probability that spread out before me in a matrix of potential mayhem. All of my choices seem to be wrong, even in fairy tales.

Have I become too practical? Because  I, for one, would have killed the  Christmas Goose.

But let me fill you in, in case you don't know the story. And let me present my  case, lest you judge too quickly: See,  there was a lonely, starving, freezing  Woodsman living at the edge of the  farthest forest. He had a starving cow and some other animal, but he didn't want to  eat them because then he'd be even  lonelier (sigh). So he goes out in a  snowstorm on Christmas Eve in a last-ditch effort to find food for himself and his  animals. And he does, sort of. He finds a wounded Goose; he praises his luck and grabs for his gun — just what you'd want in a book for a 1-year-old.

But as he's about to shoot her, the Goose speaks! It promises him that if he spares her and nurses her back to health, she'll grant him a wish.

OK. So they go back to the cabin and she feeds all the animals, lays a feast for the Woodsman and provides a roaring fire. Then she says that before midnight, the Woodsman has to kill her. She further  elaborates and says to the Woodsman that  if he doesn't kill her, she's going to leave anyway. The Woodsman is sad and doesn't want to harm such a beautiful creature and he agonizes mightily over the decision as the Goose sadly, and oh-so-dramatically  stretches out her neck.

At this point, I was like, "Look, Woodsman, you got lucky finding that Goose in the first place; hurry up and drop the ax or you're going to be screwed." I mean, hello, it's a magic Goose. I would assume it could regenerate itself. It's  obviously a Christmas rebirth story,  right? He kills the Goose; she resurrects, right? Wrong. Oh, how very wrong.  Because, of course, there was a curse on  the Goose that can only be lifted if the  person she is helping — the Woodsman — takes pity and doesn't kill her.

So, the Woodsman doesn't kill the Goose and he's rewarded with bounty. Naturally, the Goose turns into a beautiful woman and becomes his wife. Whereas I would have killed the Goose and the Goose would have had to spend the rest of eternity in the underworld. I mean, come on, can I get a freakin' break here! What the hell kind of soap opera change-up is that? The Woodsman gets everything because he's  too paralyzed to act? I was all ready for instruction about the necessity of making hard decisions. Instead I got a lesson that through indecision and paralysis, your dreams can come true. Now that's a story I can relate to.

jane.catoe@creativeloafing.com
             13016903 1251908                          Bad Habits - The Christmas Goose - January 20 2005 "
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Article

Thursday January 13, 2005 12:04 am EST
On fowl choices, letting the ax fall and fairy tale endings | more...
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  string(33) "News you can use for the new year"
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  string(3956) "It's the new year and thus time for my annual newsletter, The Catoe Crier. If you aren't receiving an individual copy, please imagine this memo on colored paper with lots of candid photos and exciting fonts.

The year 2004 was a busy one full of lessons learned. And unlearned. Only to be relearned again the hard way. No job updates or travelogues here, just a mother's wisdom being passed on, a year of lessons learned. I shiver with fear at what I'll need to know in 2005.

A woman's breasts aren't just for fun. No, the dirty pillows seem to be uniquely designed for feeding small humans. Not dwarfs, mind you, though I'm sure someone out there is into that, but babies. Once you latch onto this concept, it makes the idea of drinking cow's milk seem bizarre. Why are we drinking milk from cow teets that's meant for calves? Freaky. But delicious.

Holidays make people cranky. Even if they're not real holidays but artificially created ones, like Mother's Day. What asshole invented Mother's Day? I'm going to find him and kick his ass. Mothers get screwed over all the time, we really don't need a day where it's so obvious. Brunch and some flowers? I don't fucking think so. Let me remind you: 7 pounds, 11 ounces came out of my vagina. Did you hear me? My vagina! I don't care what people say, that is not "natural." If you don't have diamonds, don't come near me. (Unless you're the baby; her mere presence is more than enough.)

Keep track of your phone at all times. Especially if you have a baby who can dial the contact list on your cell phone. It's also best to stop talking about people, period, unless you're going to set up a soundproof room with no electronics in it. Otherwise, you too could be having conversations with (former?) friends who overheard that you didn't answer your phone when they called because you weren't in the mood for their manufactured drama. And if the baby hides the phone in your bed, some lucky friends may get to hear you having sex.

Don't ever agree with your husband that he's gained weight. Ever. Even if he brings it up. It's a trap! Just as much a trap as when we women bring it up, maybe more so. The weight issue always surfaces after Thanksgiving and there's no right answer. If you say they look fine, they say you're lying. If you agree, then forget it — we've all been there and it's uglier than the back fat we tried to politely comment on.

I've found a solution, only it requires a baby. Here's what you do: As soon as you hear, feel or sense the oh-so-heavy subject approaching, gasp suddenly, grab for the baby and say, "Ohmygod. What do you have in your mouth?" Then, take the baby — but mainly yourself — out of the room. (If you're babyless, God help you. Feign stomach cramps and head for the bathroom. Keep this up until your partner gets so worried about you that he forgets his question.)

Easy come, easy go. Revisited the material-existence-is-fleeting lesson when all belongings were lost in a house fire. Re-revisited same lesson later the same month when the new car got rammed in slo-mo in the Publix parking lot by an older gent driving a huge truck. Fittingly for someone driving a land yacht, he was wearing a captain's hat.

Babies can't be trusted with small change. This seems like an obvious one. But what happens if you have a baby who for months has only pretended to eat change, who seemed to have learned that eating change was not OK? I'll tell you what happens: As soon as you turn your back on the little double-crosser, she'll eat a quarter. Maybe two. But here's a tip: A whack to the back will send a quarter sailing out of baby's mouth and across the room. (And Tide with bleach is good at getting stains out of mom's pants after they've been scared off her.)

I hope these tips help you stay ahead of the curve in 2005. But I'm sure you'll still have to learn something the hard way. That's just how it works.

jane.catoe@creativeloafing.com
"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_raw"]=>
  string(4037) "__It's the new year and __thus time for my annual newsletter, ''The Catoe Crier''. If you aren't receiving an individual copy, please imagine this memo on colored paper with lots of candid photos and exciting fonts.

The year 2004 was a busy one full of lessons learned. And unlearned. Only to be relearned again the hard way. No job updates or travelogues here, just a mother's wisdom being passed on, a year of lessons learned. I shiver with fear at what I'll need to know in 2005.

__A woman's breasts aren't just for fun.__ No, the dirty pillows seem to be uniquely designed for feeding small humans. Not dwarfs, mind you, though I'm sure someone out there is into that, but babies. Once you latch onto this concept, it makes the idea of drinking cow's milk seem bizarre. Why are we drinking milk from cow teets that's meant for calves? Freaky. But delicious.

__Holidays make people cranky.__ Even if they're not real holidays but artificially created ones, like Mother's Day. What asshole invented Mother's Day? I'm going to find him and kick his ass. Mothers get screwed over all the time, we really don't need a day where it's so obvious. Brunch and some flowers? I don't fucking think so. Let me remind you: 7 pounds, 11 ounces came out of my vagina. Did you ''hear'' me? My ''vagina''! I don't care what people say, that is not "natural." If you don't have diamonds, don't come near me. (Unless you're the baby; her mere presence is more than enough.)

__Keep track of your phone at all times.__ Especially if you have a baby who can dial the contact list on your cell phone. It's also best to stop talking about people, period, unless you're going to set up a soundproof room with no electronics in it. Otherwise, you too could be having conversations with (former?) friends who overheard that you didn't answer your phone when they called because you weren't in the mood for their manufactured drama. And if the baby hides the phone in your bed, some lucky friends may get to hear you having sex.

__Don't ever agree with your husband that he's gained weight.__ Ever. Even if he brings it up. It's a trap! Just as much a trap as when we women bring it up, maybe more so. The weight issue always surfaces after Thanksgiving and there's no right answer. If you say they look fine, they say you're lying. If you agree, then forget it -- we've all been there and it's uglier than the back fat we tried to politely comment on.

I've found a solution, only it requires a baby. Here's what you do: As soon as you hear, feel or sense the oh-so-heavy subject approaching, gasp suddenly, grab for the baby and say, "Ohmygod. ''What'' do you have in your mouth?" Then, take the baby -- but mainly yourself -- out of the room. (If you're babyless, God help you. Feign stomach cramps and head for the bathroom. Keep this up until your partner gets so worried about you that he forgets his question.)

__Easy come, easy go.__ Revisited the material-existence-is-fleeting lesson when all belongings were lost in a house fire. Re-revisited same lesson later the same month when the new car got rammed in slo-mo in the Publix parking lot by an older gent driving a huge truck. Fittingly for someone driving a land yacht, he was wearing a captain's hat.

__Babies can't be trusted with small change.__ This ''seems'' like an obvious one. But what happens if you have a baby who for months has only ''pretended'' to eat change, who seemed to have learned that eating change was not OK? I'll tell you what happens: As soon as you turn your back on the little double-crosser, she'll eat a quarter. Maybe two. But here's a tip: A whack to the back will send a quarter sailing out of baby's mouth and across the room. (And Tide with bleach is good at getting stains out of mom's pants after they've been scared off her.)

I hope these tips help you stay ahead of the curve in 2005. But I'm sure you'll still have to learn something the hard way. That's just how it works.

__[mailto:jane.catoe@creativeloafing.com|jane.catoe@creativeloafing.com]__
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  string(4219) "    News you can use for the new year   2005-01-06T05:04:00+00:00 Bad Habits - The Catoe crier - January 13 2005   Jane Catoe 1223629 2005-01-06T05:04:00+00:00  It's the new year and thus time for my annual newsletter, The Catoe Crier. If you aren't receiving an individual copy, please imagine this memo on colored paper with lots of candid photos and exciting fonts.

The year 2004 was a busy one full of lessons learned. And unlearned. Only to be relearned again the hard way. No job updates or travelogues here, just a mother's wisdom being passed on, a year of lessons learned. I shiver with fear at what I'll need to know in 2005.

A woman's breasts aren't just for fun. No, the dirty pillows seem to be uniquely designed for feeding small humans. Not dwarfs, mind you, though I'm sure someone out there is into that, but babies. Once you latch onto this concept, it makes the idea of drinking cow's milk seem bizarre. Why are we drinking milk from cow teets that's meant for calves? Freaky. But delicious.

Holidays make people cranky. Even if they're not real holidays but artificially created ones, like Mother's Day. What asshole invented Mother's Day? I'm going to find him and kick his ass. Mothers get screwed over all the time, we really don't need a day where it's so obvious. Brunch and some flowers? I don't fucking think so. Let me remind you: 7 pounds, 11 ounces came out of my vagina. Did you hear me? My vagina! I don't care what people say, that is not "natural." If you don't have diamonds, don't come near me. (Unless you're the baby; her mere presence is more than enough.)

Keep track of your phone at all times. Especially if you have a baby who can dial the contact list on your cell phone. It's also best to stop talking about people, period, unless you're going to set up a soundproof room with no electronics in it. Otherwise, you too could be having conversations with (former?) friends who overheard that you didn't answer your phone when they called because you weren't in the mood for their manufactured drama. And if the baby hides the phone in your bed, some lucky friends may get to hear you having sex.

Don't ever agree with your husband that he's gained weight. Ever. Even if he brings it up. It's a trap! Just as much a trap as when we women bring it up, maybe more so. The weight issue always surfaces after Thanksgiving and there's no right answer. If you say they look fine, they say you're lying. If you agree, then forget it — we've all been there and it's uglier than the back fat we tried to politely comment on.

I've found a solution, only it requires a baby. Here's what you do: As soon as you hear, feel or sense the oh-so-heavy subject approaching, gasp suddenly, grab for the baby and say, "Ohmygod. What do you have in your mouth?" Then, take the baby — but mainly yourself — out of the room. (If you're babyless, God help you. Feign stomach cramps and head for the bathroom. Keep this up until your partner gets so worried about you that he forgets his question.)

Easy come, easy go. Revisited the material-existence-is-fleeting lesson when all belongings were lost in a house fire. Re-revisited same lesson later the same month when the new car got rammed in slo-mo in the Publix parking lot by an older gent driving a huge truck. Fittingly for someone driving a land yacht, he was wearing a captain's hat.

Babies can't be trusted with small change. This seems like an obvious one. But what happens if you have a baby who for months has only pretended to eat change, who seemed to have learned that eating change was not OK? I'll tell you what happens: As soon as you turn your back on the little double-crosser, she'll eat a quarter. Maybe two. But here's a tip: A whack to the back will send a quarter sailing out of baby's mouth and across the room. (And Tide with bleach is good at getting stains out of mom's pants after they've been scared off her.)

I hope these tips help you stay ahead of the curve in 2005. But I'm sure you'll still have to learn something the hard way. That's just how it works.

jane.catoe@creativeloafing.com
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Thursday January 6, 2005 12:04 am EST
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