Productivity, YouTube and the Bee Gees

Productivity grew 4.3% in the second quarter, according to the Bureau of Labor Statistics. I’m not sure how this is possible, when an office worker can get a song in her head, google it and spend an hour watching a dozen versions of it performed by original artists and others on YouTube. Which brings me to “Nights on Broadway,” which for some reason was playing in my head for hours today (and, so far, tonight, too).

So finally I googled it and watched several snappy concert videos of the Bee Gees performing it on YouTube, plus part of a sad, black-and-white, homeless-themed version, plus a happy, enjoyable, long clip from a ’70s variety show in which Olivia Newton-John, Andy Gibb and ABBA performed a medley of their music. Quite cool. Then I came home and bought “Nights on Broadway” from iTunes, as well as one of the few songs that might be able to get it out of my head, “Dancin’ Queen.” (This wonderful ”Nights on Broadway” concert performance is my favorite YouTube video so far, even more than LisaNova’s Sarah Palin spoofs.)

I just didn’t appreciate ABBA and the Bee Gees as I should have at the time, hung up as I was on the already broken-up Beatles. No one could be as good as the Beatles, whose reunion I was awaiting like Linus in the pumpkin patch. And I was the right age to like these people, too.

Enjoy the tunes, and don’t think too much about the fact that a couple of these guys are no longer around. (I Wikipedia’d that, figuring out which Bee Gee had departed (Maurice), in addition to young brother Andy.) Also, disregard the stalkerish lyrics. Now, I’ll be generous with you, as they say you can get a song out of your head by sharing it with someone.

Well I had to follow you, though you did not want me to, that won’t stop my lovin’ you …

P.S. Know what I like about ABBA, besides the music? These girls dance like I do, which is not particularly deftly at all: shift to left leg, shift to right leg, and back to the left leg, and swing the arms a little, and kick – little kicks — and kick, and maybe a moment of what Billy Crystal’s Harry character termed “the white man’s overbite.” Better than Elaine’s dance, maybe, not by much, though. This makes Agnetha and Frida heroines of the spirit, in a fashion.

The Sardine Anniversary

The people who track these things say the 18th wedding anniversary should be marked with porcelain. Perhaps there’s porcelain somewhere in the lovely MacBook my husband presented to me for our anniversary, which we mark tomorrow. Yes, we have a newly minted three-year-old — and a grand party we had — and we’ve been married 18 years, minus about 14 hours. The little girl was our 15th anniversary gift, the best gift we’ve ever had, and I’ll mark our 18th anniversary by taking her to her three-year-old checkup. Too many numbers there?

OK, I’ll change the subject a little, to fish. Last night, shortly before the little girl’s bedtime, I made a run to the little health-food grocery a few blocks away, and, on impulse, picked up some sardines. I thought I might have some later, for dinner or a snack. So the night went on, we put the little girl to bed, watched “Curb Your Enthusiasm,” frittered away precious moments of life on the Internet, then took some medicine and prepared for bed. It was late, and as I stood in the kitchen, washing down 1 mg of folic acid with lime-flavored, carbonated Poland Springs, it dawned on me that I had forgotten the sardines.

My husband sat at the dining table. I looked at him. It was almost midnight.

“I forgot to have sardines,” I said, swigging my carbonation. I waited for a response.

Then suddenly I burst into giggles. It never hurts to tickle oneself.

“Exciting marital conversation,” he said.

So that’s where we are, apparently, 18 years in. We’re laughing about it, at least.

On a related point, I seem to have inherited my father’s wheezy Muttley laugh, although I don’t smoke and he died from smoking. I am hoping there’s nothing ominous in this, beyond the unfemininity of laughing like Muttley.

Happy Anniversary, Husband Who Wishes To Remain Anonymous!

…

On another note: Why have so many menu options changed, i.e. “Please listen to this entire message, as our menu options have changed?” Really? At so many businesses? Is this an obscure marketing consulting ploy to make businesses sound ever fresh? If so, hear this: It’s annoying, time-consuming, and leaves the impression that maybe you’re disorganized or you got your menu options wrong the first time, or that people are leaving or being laid off. The changing of your menu options is of little interest outside a select few at your company who are paid to be interested in it.

A Political Prediction

You heard it here first. John Edwards’ admission of an extramarital affair will reignite the Hillary for Veep campaign, if not pave the way for her anointment. It’ll remind people what they don’t like about political guys, the sort of sentiment that propelled HRC into the U.S. Senate. Mrs. Edwards isn’t running for public office, Mrs. Clinton is, Mr. Obama, maritally faithful though he may be, will want to distance himself from any taint associated with his gender, political profile and party, which seems to allow candidates to reach high levels before these dalliances come to light, and voila, Hillary.

This is only an analysis, not necessarily a reflection of my personal political preference. Just sayin’.

Junque

A hoity toity children’s boutique opened in my town about a year ago, a place somewhat inviting, with its appealing stuff, while at the same time employing clerks who might have felt at home in Julia Roberts’ Rodeo Drive in “Pretty Woman.” You know, there’s a bit of that are-you-trendy-enough-to-shop-here vibe. Several months ago I was there to buy the little girl an umbrella, I think because she wanted one, or I thought she should have one.

She likes her little umbrella and is very cute with it. This morning, on the wet sidewalk on our street, with yellow-green droplings from the trees forming a pretty covering on the puddles that reminded me of Monet paintings, the little girl twirled and danced with her umbrella as I provided the accompaniment, singing and humming “It’s Starting to Rain” from the Justine Clarke “I Like To Sing” DVD that our Australian cousins sent. She smiled as she imitated the choreography from the video, an adorable moment. So yes, the umbrella was worth whatever I paid for it, as were the extra couple of minutes we spent watching her performance before loading ourselves into the car.

Anyway, when I acquired the umbrella, I also made an impulse purchase, a $30, or maybe $35, wooden kiddie guitar. The little girl loves music and likes guitars and I thought it would be nice to give her one, so I let her pick it out, a blue painted guitar. It is, in a word, crappe, nothing more than a decoration. Even in the realm of a tiny kiddie guitar, it’s useless. A couple of the tuning pegs don’t even stick in place, so it can’t be tuned at all and those strings don’t stay taut. I considered Elmer’s Gluing them in position. No, I didn’t return it, although I should have, and no, I won’t go back there, probably.

You’d think I would have learned to avoid junque after that. Then this week, I saw a newspaper blurb about a stylish ice-cream-cone kitchen timer from a clothing and housewares chain catering to hip young adults. (I’m an adult with hips, anyway.) So I purchased it for all of twelve bucks, thinking the little girl would like it and I could use it to help corral her into bed, since some parenting magazine included a tip from a mom who swears by the kitchen timer method. Well, it doesn’t work. Just doesn’t work. I mean the timer. I doubt the timer method would work either, and the little girl wanted to play with the toy ice cream cone, which doesn’t help when you want her to get ready for bed. I’m probably not returning it, either, although I should.

So in case you need reminding, don’t be tricked by junque. It’ll add to the clutter in your home and to your sense of frustration, and remove dollars from your bank account that you could better save or invest or spend on something valuable.

Yes, this is coming from someone who furnishes a good deal of her home with products from Ikea, which make up in style what they lack in quality of materials and workmanship. That’s OK at this point, however. Ikea furniture is functional, can be sat upon, and a kid can spill orange juice, milk, apple butter or blueberries on your Dick Van Dyke Showesque chair and you could buy another chair for $59. Wasteful, perhaps, except when someone small is eating and then some on your furniture. You want blueberries on a $1,000 seat?

Oh, and take what works from the parenting magazines, and remember that just because a kid in Sheboygan or Boise hops to at the dinging of a kitchen timer, it doesn’t mean your kid will, which is more than OK.

My Heartstrings

Had to go to the office early today, which meant only a few precious minutes in the a.m. with the little girl, who didn’t want me to go. When she realized I was going anyway, my hand on the doorknob, she handed me one of her tiny sneakers.

“Here, take this,” she said. It was a keepsake, I suppose, to make sure I kept her in mind throughout the day. She gave me her other sneaker, too, and a Pez dispenser. They sat on my desk all day, and I pictured her sweet little face watching me get in the car, her little hand knocking on the window, and wondered how I could rearrange my life so I wouldn’t have to leave the little girl this way.

Someday (if all goes well), I may be like the mom in an ad I saw the other night, taking her girl to college, saying goodbye, watching the daughter run to her for one more hug before the mom heads home and the girl heads into her own grownup life. I may be the one looking longingly out a window, knocking.

The little girl doesn’t want mommy to go to the office. Mommy doesn’t want to go to the office. We need to be together. How do we get from here to there?

Togs For Little Tykeoons

Wandering home from a doctor’s appointment, I stepped into a notoriously extravagant children’s furniture, buggy and clothing shop, only to learn just how obscenely extravagant it is. I checked out the 50% off rack — sounds downright discount storish, right? — to see if there might be something for Little Miss 3T.

Well! There was this somewhat cute pink cotton tank top, not terribly unlike something one might find at Tarjay, paired with blue jeans decorated with pink applique of some sort. The price tag indicated this stylish toddler outfit originally retailed for $198, and had been reduced to $138, give or take small change.

I asked the gentleman at the store about it.

“Does this say a hundred and thirty eight dollars?”

“Yes, but it’s half that now,” he said, indicating the tank top and jeans for a 3-year old were now only about $65. “I’m at the wrong store,” I was thinking, and he must have read my mind.

“Look how it’s made,” he said, pointing out the patches and rhinestones on the blue jeans. “It’s boutiquey.” He then pointed me to some less pricey 3Ts, preppy Ralph Lauren Polo tennis dresses for $55.

The little girl actually does play tennis, or at least hits a ball with a racquet, and looks fantabudorable in whatever she’s wearing. She puts together her own funky ensembles, without being fussy about it, and, while they might not work for you or me, she looks very groovy in them. A style-industy neighbor even commented on the little girl’s fashion sense, and we’re talking about little pants and blouses purchased, for the most part, at mass merchandisers. She also stains almost everything she wears, so no, we’re not buying a $198 outfit that’s been reduced to $65, when we can pick up something comparable elsewhere for $20 at most.

Who buys this stuff? Do the wealthy really spend $200 for a toddler play outfit? How would they keep their money? That’s a lot of dough to feel like you, via your preschooler, are one of the cool kids.

Inner Child: “No Way!”

My employer generously offers an appreciation gift upon milestone anniversaries at the company. They don’t simply send an engraved fountain pen, mind you. They’ve contracted with a company to provide a catalog of gift options, based on years of service. I’ve been with the company long enough to qualify for some quite nice gifts, and for some reason, seem to have narrowed it to a rugged bike or a snazzy Calphalon cookware set.

The Calphalon would see more action than the bike, which probably would join the vintage Schwinn 12-speed World Sport now sitting with flat tires, collecting some sort of wall crumblings in the basement. I should ride a bike, yet for a number of reasons I’m not likely to suddenly become a bike commuter. OK, two big reasons: I don’t want to get creamed riding amongst the law-breaking rageaholics motoring in my city, nor do I want to so endanger the little girl, whom I surely would want to give a pedal ride.

There are other nice gifts, although they’d probably collect dust too, or frustrate me. The Calphalon we could use, and I’m less likely to run out and buy such a cookware set for myself than I would be to purchase a new bike if I ever adjusted my attitude about city cycling. The thing is, sedentary and middle-aged as I am, there’s a little kid in me — a very active one, who wonders why she hasn’t been allowed to ride a bike in years — who’s yelling at me. “What?!?!?!” she says. “What’s cookware? What’s Calphalon? You’re picking that when you could have a mountain bike? No way!”

I’m trying to explain things to my inner child. Maybe she will enjoy making pancakes with the new cookware, or soup. Yeah, soup! That should make her stop nagging me about the bike.

Caillou’s Mommy and Daddy, Her Especially

I encourage my daughter to watch Caillou. It’s a gentle show about a 4-year-old boy who, like most any toddler, finds adventure in everyday life. So, he has an annoying voice and manner of speech — not authentically childlike. It’s a relatively minor grating element in a show about discovering the joy of planting a tree or making music or sailing in a boat or just plain old playing. It sure beats that psychedelic Noddy, a Pinocchio lookalike in an eerily unsettling toyland who once had insomnia and drove his wee car off the road. Guess I have to catch the little girl up on Disney characters, because she saw a picture of Pinocchio and said, “Noddy!” (And whose bright idea was it to give an addictive children’s character a name that sounds like “naughty?” I digress.)

Anyway, Caillou’s dad is something of a eunuch who can barely change a lightbulb himself and carries a man-purselike diaper bag for Rosie, the little sister. The fact he carries such a bag, however, is but one small indicator of what a nice, involved father he is.

What annoys me about the father, and even more so the mother, is that these people are completely unflappable, tirelessly creative parents. They never show the least amount of frustratation, despite operating a household with an almost-toddler girl and a preschool-age boy. There’s never the slightest edge to any adult’s voice in this show, no one ever asks, while trying to cook or speak to another adult for a second, “What is it, Caillou?” (Nice Mr. Alan on Sesame Street becomes audibly annoyed with Elmo’s incessant interruptions on the “Ready for School” DVD,’ indeed asking, “What is it, Elmo?” Yay Sesame Street.) No one ever says, “Please stop whining, Caillou.” And Caillou whines a lot.

The mom and dad always are ready with a clever distraction when Caillou is upset or disappointed, and it works every time. Caillou’s complaining because Rosie is taking a nap and Mommy asks him and best pal Leo to play quietly with their rockets. What does Mommy do? She suggests a space walk, which is quiet, and helps them with it! And Caillou goes for it, bigtime! She never misses a beat with these ideas and never lacks for one. The woman is a walking moms-tip page from Parenting magazine. (Not from Cookie magazine, however, which targets real and wouldbe “stylish” moms.)

Caillou’s parents have responsible, patient, equally creative babysitters at the ready. Upset you can’t go to dinner with Mommy and Daddy, Caillou? Here, the babysitter says! Let’s play restaurant! You make a menu and I’ll take your order. Hee hee, laughs Caillou. Disappoined the band in the gazebo in the park isn’t there today? Let’s make our own instruments and play them there, Grandma says. Wee!

Maybe my problem with Caillou’s mom is bigger than her wellspring of creative distractions. She is always relaxed and confident, never hurried, never needs to tell Caillou they’re running late and he needs to cease his exciting childhood adventure of the moment to get into his car seat, keeps a tidy home apparently without expending any effort to do so, and never needs to put aside anything when her children require her attention. When Mr. Hinkle the next door neighbor has a cold, Caillou asks if they can make soup for him, and Mommy says, “Good idea!” Is she just standing around, waiting for Caillou to give her something to do? Is there not a checkbook or bill she must put down first?

The dad shows a moment of selfish parental humanity in the sleep episode, in which the parents must repeatedly return Caillou to his own room. (The little girl and I both watched that episode with rapt attention.) While Mommy patiently escorts Caillou out the door, Daddy, with some gusto, covers himself with a blanket and turns on his side, back to door. I had to laugh to myself.

I wonder whether Caillou, the show, is meant as much to be a how-to primer for parents of toddlers — with impossibly high standards and tactics that likely aren’t as reliably effective as they are for Caillou’s folks — as it is education and entertainment for the children. Come on, Caillou’s mommy, what are you not telling us?

New Set Of Wheels, Handles Like Buttah

Some people in midlife, I hear, seek therapy through the purchase of a new red sports car. A few years ago, my husband met his need for red wheels with a cherry red Samsung Quiet Storm vacuum cleaner. For a long time he didn’t want me to touch it, a request he now regrets. For me, a red and cream Inglesina Zippy stroller arrived this week, sparking the best rush of retail excitement I’ve had in a long while. (Yep, even better than the Brita pitcher that broke our bottled water habit.)

Strollers have been on my mind for almost three years. We had two, not counting the simple metal foldup one from a friend and the ruggedly used, once-fancy hand-me-down from another friend. While our two strollers served us faithfully, and I’ll remember one of them particularly fondly, I always felt we just hadn’t found “the” perfect stroller. I kept any Bugaboo envy I may have had in check; they look good and have reversible handles — great for an infant — but who wants to pay $850 for a stroller, especially one that requires removing the seat from the frame to fold it?

Our first stroller, sitting at this moment by the dining table, is a Britax Preview that I purchased to go with a high-safety-rated Britax infant seat. It’s a workable, functioning stroller, although it doesn’t fold easily and doesn’t feel very light. You can’t push it easily with one hand, and yes, although pushing a stroller with one hand doesn’t sound very wise, moms do that.

Our main stroller was a $100 Combi that served our need for a lightweight, compact, easy-to-fold, stands-when-folded city stroller that I could carry up a flight of stairs. The Combi was the antithesis of the fancy stroller phenomenon — no cachet, no reversible handles, no all-terrain wheels, no coffee holder, with twisty, skinny straps. Nonetheless, I associate it with the little girl and me, with her infancy, with stroller naps, watching her sleep in it in the park while I read the paper and drank coffee, pushing her to the diner in it. I could push it with one hand, so the coffee holder wasn’t a necessity.

Well, the Combi broke last week. We were on our way to a playgroup, on a vacation day for me, and the foldable handle snapped. Maybe there was one curb or sidewalk bump too many. Maybe the little girl, while lean, surpassed the weight limit without my realizing it. Anyway, it broke, giving me the excuse I needed to buy a new stroller. A kind of fancy new stroller. When I told my daughter I’d buy her a new stroller, she looked up at me from the broken Combi and said, “a soft one, like (a playgroup mate’s).” Well, that guy rides in a kind of three-wheel SUV, and I told her we weren’t getting one of those, although I’d buy her a soft stroller. And then the question in my head: Has she been uncomfortable in that Combi the past year or two?

The little girl’s almost 3, so we could get by with the Britax. There’s that whole doesn’t-fold-easily obstacle, though, and well, hey, I’d discovered this Zippy. It folds very easily (with one hand, they say, although no stroller I’ve seen really does that). It stands on its own when folded. It’s nicely padded. The hood, unlike those on many strollers, pivots forward to truly keep the sun out of the passenger’s face. One little issue, though, is that a new Inglesina Zippy stroller retails for upwards of $300. How can one rationalize spending that kind of money on a stroller for an almost-3-year-old who prefers to walk, and run, a good deal of the time?

Ah ha! The wonders of eBay. I found a new, as in unused, 2006 model Zippy being sold by a bricks-and-mortar retailer who was trying to move old inventory. Perhaps some hyper-style-conscious parents care about this year’s stroller color. Not I. While it wasn’t as inexpensive as the Combi, the price was excellent. “We could just get another Combi,” I told my husband. “She deserves some luxury,” he said. Yes!

I told the little girl a new red stroller was coming. (I had let her choose the color.) “Where is it?” she asked. “It’s coming soon. It’s on a truck,” I told her. “It’s on a truck?”

It arrived yesterday. This stroller, my friends, is dreamy. It’s made in Italy, well designed, well assembled, parent friendly, comfy for the child. She’s excited about it, by the way, so she wants to ride in it. I pushed it up and down the hall, feeling a bit of what I assume is the excitement she feels when pushing her little dolly stroller there. It feels light, bouncy. It has a cup holder for the parent, a snack tray for the child, it assembled, literally, in snaps, no tools required. So many baby items seem as if they were designed by people downright hostile to parents trying to assemble and operate them.

Is it 100% perfect? No. It could use a pouch of some sort, the basket under the seat could be a bit more accessible. These are small concerns. Had I known about this stroller when I had a newborn and numerous people asking what we wanted for a gift, I would have suggested that a few of them chip in for a Zippy. It’s a pleasure to have it now. The little girl wants to show it to her friends, and showed another daycare mom today “my new red stroller,” explaining, “It came on a truck, it came a long way.”

A First (In Our Car)

Heading to a July 4 pool party an hour and a half away, we hadn’t yet turned off our street when a little voice from the back seat asked, “Are we there yet?” It was the first official “Are we there yet?” from the little girl. Previously, she just cried over and over, “Beeacch! I want beeeaach now! I want beeaaach now!!!”

“Where did you hear about `Are we there yet?’ ?” I asked. She’s almost 3. Perhaps she received a manual. (I know I could use a manual.)