Today is Jackson’s eight-month birthday so I thought I’d burn him a CD of his favorite sides. He seems to like Pink, parts of the O, Brother Where Art Thou? soundtrack, and the Beatles (especially “Across the Universe”). He’s a little lukewarm on Oasis and P.J. Harvey.

Jack has already given Jackson one of his electric basses — he lays it down on the floor and puts Jackson’s hands on the strings and lets him make random noises. They both really light up when he hits a note.

Now:

Mary J. Blige, P.J. Harvey, Bjork, Radiohead, Beck

In 1992:

Throwing Muses, Pixies, Jane’s Addiction, Nick Cave

In 1982:

Pretenders, David Bowie, Specials, Police, Clash, Elvis Costello, Bruce Springsteen, Prince

In 1972:

Stevie Wonder, Beatles, Jackson 5, Cher, Chi-Lites, Elton John

You know, I don’t want to be a spoiled brat, but this dishes-and-laundry thing gets old some days. Today I arranged Jack’s polo shirts by color in the order of the visible spectrum.

Lance Armstrong was in town last week, riding around with Fastrack Dave. Lance comes here to train sometimes, because of Santa Barbara’s temperate climate, plus the combination of hills and flats makes for good cycling. I’ve been reading his book and sometimes it puts a lump in my throat.

Jack and his friend Dennis just went out for a ride. When Jack told Dennis that Lance Armstrong was in town, Dennis put on this real low, mean voice and said, “Tell him I’m looking for him.“

Jack has been feeling creative in the kitchen these days. Last night it was sesame-encrusted salmon on a bed of basmati rice, surrounded by pickled red cabbage in sesame oil, and the whole thing was drizzled with bright green wasabi-sake sauce. That was good, but two nights ago he stuffed chicken breasts with feta cheese, then rolled them in egg batter and basil and fried them in olive oil, and they were incredible. He just makes this stuff up after a long day of yelling at roofers, shopping for appliances with the wives of millionaire homeowners, and hustling free t-shirts from the guys at Bob’s Backhoe & Trucking.

Jackson’s second tooth arrived Sunday to great fanfare. So far he hasn’t let me take a picture of it, though.

This morning I did what you might consider to be a terrible thing. I was cleaning house, after a tearful episode with Jack in which he asked me point blank how I could spend so much time on the Internet surrounded by piles of newspapers and dirty clothes and cat litter and yada yada yada. It was the moment that I reluctantly confronted my status change from powerful media figure (ha ha) to ordinary stay-at-home mom, and how unimportant I felt doing housework.

Once I dried my tears and took out the garbage I realized how great I feel when the house is clean, but while I was clearing off my desk I came across a pile of query letters I’d brought home to review before I lost my job. Several people had written to pitch articles, and here were all their ideas, with SASE, waiting for a reply, some of them since October. And you know what I did with them all?

I threw them out.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned about proposing stories to magazines, it’s that half the time you don’t get a response for several months, if you get one at all, and it’s the people who follow up and bug you relentlessly that get published, often simply to get them off your back.

So I’ve put my karma at stake once again, but the hard truth of it is, if these people haven’t already called or written the magazine to ask about the status of their queries, they don’t deserve to get their stories printed anyway.

Boo! Hiss!

The morning after Valentine’s Day I was changing Jackson’s diaper and I started having chest pains. I got into bed to nurse him and the pain didn’t go away, it just felt like the muscles around my heart were squeezing hard and wouldn’t stop.

Once I reminded myself that more women die of heart disease than of breast cancer, I started making a mental inventory — I hadn’t made a will yet; there were some things on my computer that I would have wanted to delete before I died; I’d given Jackson a healthy start; Jack would just have to find some daycare, and after he’d grieved for me he’d find someone new who would love Jackson, too.

You know, fun positive things to think about while having chest pains.

Then Jack walked in, home for a quick espresso and an English muffin before going back out to the job site, and found me sitting in bed with The Nut with tears running down my face.

Me: I’m having chest pains.

Jack: Do you want to go to the doctor?

Me: I don’t have any insurance.

Jack: Who cares? Go to the walk-in clinic.

Me: I’m scared.

Never one to panic, Jack took the baby and played with him until I stopped crying, made sure I wasn’t having shooting pains down my arm or shortness of breath, kissed me, and went back to work.

About thirty minutes later the pain subsided, and for those of you who have never had heartburn the morning after a luscious meal of sushi, sake, and Veuve Cliquot, let me tell you, it isn’t just an annoying burning sensation in the esophagus that is easily beaten back with a couple of Tums. This is why all those harried executives go to the emergency room thinking they’re having a heart attack, and then the doctor quietly sends them home an hour later with a sample pack of Tagamet and everybody else thinks, Sheesh, what a worrywart.

Happy Valentine’s Day, indeed.

Blogging is just plain hard some days.

Which is why poetry comes in handy. This is by Mark Strand.

Eating Poetry

Ink runs from the corners of my mouth.

There is no happiness like mine.

I have been eating poetry.

The librarian does not believe what she sees.

Her eyes are sad

and she walks with her hands in her dress.

The poems are gone.

The light is dim.

The dogs are on the basement stairs and coming up.

Their eyeballs roll,

their blond legs burn like brush.

The poor librarian begins to stamp her feet and weep.

She does not understand.

When I get on my knees and lick her hand,

she screams.

I am a new man.

I snarl at her and bark.

I romp with joy in the bookish dark.

Happy Valentine’s Day

Yes, I am wearing red underwear.

An old scenario.

Jack: Do you want to watch Howard’s End?

Me: Howard Zinn?

Jack: Yeah.

Me: There’s a movie of him?

Jack: Yeah — we bought it last year, remember?

Me: No.

Jack: We bought it in Palm Springs at that used place.

Me: Really?

Jack: Yes, really.

Me: Howard Zinn?

Jack: Yes.

Me: Is it a documentary?

Jack: No. It’s f*cking Merchant-Ivory. What are you, high?

Me: I’m so confused.

Jack: We bought it with that butler thing with Anthony Hopkins.

Me: Remains of the Day?

Jack: Right.

Me: OH, Howard’s End!

Jack: What the f*ck have we been talking about?

In the kitchen this morning.

Me, having made a cappuccino with half-and-half instead of regular milk: “Look at all that foam! Holy cow!”

Jackson, hanging quietly in his Johnny Jump-up: (blank look)

Me, doing a Foghorn Leghorn impression: “Why, I made a funny! That’s a joke, son!”

Jackson, growing confused as to what I’m expecting from him: (blank look)

Me, as a giant cartoon rooster with an improbable Southern accent: “It’s a joke, son!”

Jackson, struggling for an appropriate response: “Boeuf!”

* * * * *

This is how Jackson kisses.

1. Sees your face coming toward him, laughs.

2. Reaches out arms.

3. Grasps your ears, hair, or cheeks, depending on mood, reach.

4. Opens mouth ominously.

5. Plants big wet open mouth wherever he can on your face without regard to etiquette, geography.

6. Stays this way until you pry him off or start tickling him.

Today is my mom’s 77th birthday. She was born in Chisholm, Minnesota, in 1925, the second-oldest girl in a family of seven Gustafson children, three girls and four boys. Her father worked on building the Eisenhower Tunnel through the Continental Divide in Colorado, and her mother taught elementary school and raised her half-Finnish, half-Swedish children. They spent the winters in town and the summers on a farm in the country, picking strawberries and practicing their violins.

My mom is awesome.