By now, half way into it’s fifth season, HBO’s The Wire, has the reputation for being the best show on television. W and I have been fans of the show all along, and I have to say, this season is the best so far. I won’t spoil it for those of you who haven’t seen last week’s episode. All I’ll say is, brace yourselves. I do however, feel the need to look back and share one of my favorite moments. I still remember watching this scene. It was the moment I knew I wasn’t watching just any old tv show and even now, five years later, I often think about this scene.

One of the things I struggle with as an African-American writer is figuring out ways to break away from the cliche’s our culture has presented about black people and present complicated, nuanced characters. The first time I watched this scene, which embraces and then explodes so many stereotypes, all I could think was “Oh my God. They’ve done it.” It didn’t matter that the scene features everything we’ve come to expect–young black men dealing drugs on a ghetto street corner–the dialog is brilliant. Entirely unexpected. Whoever wrote that scene leaned into the cliche, embraced it, then came broke through to the other side. The result is characters and dialog that reveals something surprising. Emily Dickinson writes, “Tell All the Truth but tell is Slant” which is precisely those writers did. So for those of you looking for a really fine show, I suggest you check out The Wire. You won’t regret it. I promise.

This Christmas, my parents announced that they were taking all the grandkids on a Disney Cruise. So last week, we headed for Florida and boarded The Disney Wonder. For those of you familiar with cruising, you can imagine what the experience was like: endless amounts of food served around the clock, cheesy entertainment, overpriced tours of tropical ports. Now, take all that, multiply it by 1000, add 2500 sun-starved tourists (half of them children), 85 Disney characters, pack them on a ship in the middle of the ocean, and you’ll have a good idea of the hell I experienced.

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After weeks of rain, Mother Nature has served up some pretty delicious weather these last few days. While other parts of the country are buried in snow, our little corner of the continent has experienced some unseasonably warm weather. I’m not complaining. Since our move to the city almost 5 years ago, I’ve had to rethink my romantic notions. My conclusion: while I like having all the seasons, I don’t like bone chilling cold. When the temperature drops below 40 degrees, I start getting worried. Maybe it’s the native Angeleno in me. I like blue skies and feeling of the sun on my shoulders. I enjoy bay area weather–the fog and overcast skies, the wind and rain–nine months out of the year, but come summer, my body is ready for heat. So this past week been a real treat. I don’t know how long these balmy conditions will last, but I’m trying to appreciate them while they’re here.

In the frenzy of my daily life, it’s easy to fall into a routine and loose sight of the small gifts life has to offer. But when it’s warm like it’s been these past few days, I tend to look up and take joyful note of the miracles that surround me. It occurred to me this morning that nature has her own way to celebrate Valentines Day. I’ve always wondered where the red, pink and white theme came from. Now I think I know.

My apologies for these sideways picture. I can’t figure out how to rotate it. Hopefully, you still get the idea.

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Okay, so there’s one moment from our cooking party that I didn’t share in my original post; one teensy weensy, itsy bitsy moment, one in a thousand moments in an otherwise successful and festive gathering.

I’d like to think that I’m the kind of person who doesn’t over react, the kind of gal who lets insults pass by her like water off of a proverbial ducks back. But as Valentines Day approaches, I have to confess my mind keeps wandering back to this one uncomfortable but potentially revealing moment.

Thirty minutes into our Thai meal we were all feeling pretty good. The wine was flowing, our stomachs were full, and as usually happens when friends gather together, conversation turned from the more polite topics (kids, school, vacations plans) to the real issues that are on peoples’ minds. We were getting down to the nitty gritty, the good stuff, and as you might expect, we eventually came to the topic of marriage–the joys, of course, but also the challenges. How do you keep a marriage fresh after seventeen years? What will happen when the kids are out of the house and it’s just the two of you? Will you remember why you loved each other in the first place or will the relationship have become so brothy (as in bland, boring and transactional) that the moment the last kid graduates from high school you pack our bags and head for the hills? The conversation was getting pretty interesting. People were being candid and honest–a quality I admire in friends. Everything was going smoothly until W said, “Sometimes I wake up and wonder ‘who is this bitch lying next to me.’”

Maybe it won’t translate to the post, but I’m leaving a big gap between paragraphs to represent the gaping silence that fall over the table when this gem of a phrase rolled off W’s lips–at least that’s the way if felt to me. I’m sure the silence only lasted a minute . . . I’m sure it did . . . and like I said, we’d been drinking . . . and I’m fairly certain there was a perfectly good reason why everyone suddenly looked down at their plates . . . and shifted in their seats . . . and twisted their napkins . . . . . and like I said, we’d been drinking . . . but I have to tell you it was pretty shocking.

I’ve never been good with the quick, witty, on-the-spot-come back. I need time to process information, let it bake. Sometimes I don’t figure out what I wish I’d said until hours or even days later. If I were more linguistically skilled, quicker on the draw, I’d probably have said something like, “that bitch lying next to you is your future ex-wife.” But the truth is, I was at a complete loss for words.

I’m not under any illusion about what marriage is like after seventeen years. Sometimes it’s really hard. I’m not trying to pretend I’m the perfect wife or act like I think W is in love with me all the time. But there’s something about what he said, the word he chose, that has me thinking. If he’d called me a battle-ax, a ball and chain, a nag, a control freak or a mother hen I wouldn’t have thought anything of it. But a BITCH? ME?? REALLY??? There’s something so hostile, so biting, so resentful and angry about the word.

The moment he uttered it–well, after my heart started beating again–I started thinking about what I’ve done that would possibly make W think of me that way. I came up with a decent list of minor offenses, but none of them seemed to warrant the “bitch” label.

I try to be pretty careful about telling W what to do, offering advice on how he should live his life. He wants to eat that whole bag of potato chips for dinner? Go ahead. He wants to chew that tobacco or smoke those cigars? Be my guest.

But as Valentines Day approaches, I have to wonder. Is there a way to say the word “Bitch” with grace and humor? Is there a way to call your WIFE a bitch and mean it as anything other than an insult? I’m stumped.

So I thought I’d find a few examples of how professionals do it. Maybe then I’ll understand.

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Today H invited some friends over to bake cookies. Their school is holding a bake school bake sale to raise money for Darfur. The notion that twelve and thirteen year kids are aware of what’s happening in the world is admirable, but the idea that they actually feel empowered enough to think they can have an impact on the situation blows my mind. I didn’t develop this level of consciousness until I was in college.

While I granted permission for H to host the baking at our house, I purposely didn’t get involved with the planning or execution. I didn’t suggest a recipe or even pre-heat the oven. The only observation I made was that a pound of butter equaled two sticks, not one, and soon after H’s friends arrived, C and I went down to the park to play basketball.

But I couldn’t help but be charmed by what I was greeted with when I returned home. The kitchen looked like a small tornado had blown through. The floor was dusted lightly with flour, bowls and dishes were everywhere, and the girls were spooning cookie batter onto baking sheets covered with wax paper rather than parchment–all of this to the Black Eyed Peas’ song, “Can You Feel It.”

Surveying the scene, I was almost fooled into thinking I hadn’t been missed, that H didn’t need me. The bottles of pink nail polish on top of the egg carton said it all. I thought of all the batches of cookies H and I have made together over the years, all the raw dough we’ve licked off spoons and scraped from the bottoms of bowls. I wasn’t sad to think that H had moved on, that at this point, making cookies with friends to solve the world’s problems trumped making cookies with mom. After all, this is the moment I’ve been waiting for. H is a terrific kid. She’s becoming everything I’ve hoped she’d become and so much more.

So I had to chuckle when, upon seeing that I’d come back from the park, H asked me if I could watch the batch of cookies in the oven while she and her friends went out to jump on the trampoline. It was a classic 7th grade moment. One minute she’s thinking about how to raise money for refugees and the next, she’s dragging her ipod out to the backyard so she and her pals can jump to the Legally Blonde soundtrack.

Sometimes, a girl just has to get her groove on. Last night some friends and I went to the Jill Scott concert. It was a blast! The concert was sold out and you could feel the surge of energy as soon as she came on stage.

What I love about Jill Scott’s music is that it’s interesting and complicated–sort of the way life is. The beat is always jammin’, her musical style is wide ranging (from r&b, hip hop & jazz standards to opera!) and the lyrics completely unexpected. Scott started out as a poet and you can hear that element in her songs. Best of all, she always tells the truth–even the stuff that’s not so pretty. She’s fierce and her music has an unflinching quality that speaks to the challenges and the triumphs of real life.

I’ll try to include two songs here. The first is called “Golden,” from her second album. I love this message of this song. It’s a real celebration. The second song, “Hate on Me,” is from her latest album. The beat is killer. No doubt about it, Jill Scott is the real thing.

I’ll start by saying this is probably the most uncomfortable subject I’ve discussed in the blog so far.

Recently, a friend asked me to join her and some other women for a girls’ getaway weekend. No sooner had the invitation escaped from her lips before I said, “count me in.” I was excited by the idea of getting away. I’d heard a lot about this particular spa, but it had never occurred to me to actually go, so this seemed like the perfect introduction.

A couple of days later, my friend sent me an e-mail with all of the information and my heart stopped because even with the discount, the spa ain’t cheap. A weekend away, reservation plus airfare, will cost about $1000 bucks. And herein lies the problem, and it only has a little to do with the money.

In an earlier post, I admitted that I have trouble with the whole pleasure thing. Not just the expense, but the idea that I can actually have something just because I want it. My tendency is to give other people exactly what their hearts desire, no matter the cost, and then figure out ways to treat myself around the edges. I don’t have a problem buying  cute top or a pair of shoes (as long as they’re on sale, ha ha). It’s the medium to big ticket items I’m talking about.

Let me give you a few examples:

When I wanted to apply to graduate school for creative writing, I hesitated because the program cost $6,000 a semester. That’s $12,000 a year on top of private school tuition and all of our family’s other expenses. At the time, it didn’t matter that I’d already waited six years for my children to be old enough for me to go away. It didn’t matter that the program was one of the finest in the country, or that it was absolutely the right step to take at that point in my writing life. I couldn’t justify sending the money on myself. I solved the problem by winning a fellowship which took care of tuition, room and board. It was the only way I could allow myself to pursue my dream and not feel guilty.

This summer, I’m sending the girls to Pennsylvania for sleep away camp. Once again, it’s going to cost a pretty penny. But guess what? I don’t care. Because I know, right down to the marrow in my bones, this camp will expand their horizons in ways they can’t imagine. I know they’re going to have an amazing time, and that makes me happy. What about W you ask? This summer, he’s going to Ireland to play in a rugby tournament. I don’t begrudge him the trip, but I notice he’s not asking where the money’s coming from. He wants to go, so he’s going.

This summer I’ve applied for some writing residencies, so that I can finally finish this novel, and true to form, they’re all FREE. Not only that, I’m about to write to the admissions committees to say that I have to modify my request for time. Even though I applied for four weeks and assuming I’m accepted, I can only go for three. Because once again, I can’t bring myself to take the time for myself or pull the trigger on the money gun. I can’t bring myself to ask for something I want. I tell myself I can’t be away for so long and that I’d rather take those funds and apply them to something for my girls.

Can you see a pattern here? It’s a problem, but I’m not sure how I’m going to solve it.

If I go away to the spa, I’m not sure that as I’m lying on that massage table, I won’t say to myself, “I can’t believe I spent this much for someone to slather oil on my ass and put hot rocks on my back.” I’m not sure I’ll be able to convince myself that a hike in the desert or leaping off some cliff will be worth the money I’ve spent. But if I don’t go, I’m going to be bitter. No, I’m going to be pissed–not with anyone else–just with myself. Because in the end, I’ll only have myself to blame.

Maybe I should step up and put my money where my mouth is. Afterall, isn’t that what life is all about? What am I waiting for? And what about my video from yesterdays post?”Get the best out of life. Treat youself to something new. I won’t let nothing stand in my way?” What about that???

Right now, I could really use a self help book to ease me over this hump or at least a bumper sticker that read “WWOD?” What would Oprah do?

It’s crazy I know, but it’s the trench I’m in. What would you do if this happened to you?

Every now and then I hear a song that lifts my spirits and puts a smile on my face.For weeks last Fall, I’d see this video playing on the tvs at the gym but I never paid attention. Then one day, when I forgot my ipod, the video came on and I plugged in. The moment I heard the melody, my heart started to race and then I heard the lyrics and my skin got all tingly. Now this is the first song on my “gym music” playlist. Sometimes I even play it in the morning while the girls are eating breakfast. If there’s time, we’ll play the song over and over and even dance around the kitchen. Even now, months later, I love this song and can’t help but move every time I hear it. Hope you like it too. One other thing: I have to thank Courtney at Crushlabs for helping me with this blog design. She’s been a real trooper. I’ve been trying to upload this song all week but couldn’t figure out how, so I Courtney offered to do it for me. It took her all of 30 seconds.

This weekend W and I hosted our first cooking party. It was an idea inspired by my visit, back in November, to see my pal Gabrielle who lives in Santa Fe, NM. One night, Gabrielle, another pal, Catherine and I cooked Indian food together. Actually, Gabrielle and Catherine did most of the heavy duty cooking and I, not knowing any Indian recipes, smeared butter on the garlic naan, and drank a lot of wine. But it was so much fun to spend the evening with close friends, all of us cooking and then eating together, that I came home and told W I thought we should have a cooking party. The idea was to invite some friends over and attempt to prepare an entire meal from a different culture. We had to choose dishes and recipes we’d never cooked before, things that we like to eat, but wouldn’t ordinarily think to make on our own.

I found a great Thai cookbook and a week ago, W and I decided which dishes sounded the most appealing. Our menu included Thai chicken and coconut soup, chicken satay, Panaeng Beef Curry with cucumber relish, chicken with crispy holy basil leaves, a vegetable and jasmine rice.

The big adventure came when W had to shop for the ingredients. Palm sugar? Tamarind puree? Green bird’s eye chillies? He said it was like shopping on Diagon Alley. Thankfully, May Wah market on Clement street was a great resource. It took him a while to decipher the labels, but he managed to find everything.

I’m pleased to report the experiment was a success. Every team worked hard to prepare their dish and judging from the number of empty wine and beer bottles, people had a good time. The beef and the soup seemed to be the overall favorites, so I thought I’d share the recipe.

Thai Chicken and Coconut Soup (from Donna Hay cookbook Modern Classics book 1)

2 red chilies, seeded and chopped

1 tablespoon shredded ginger

1 stalk lemongrass, bruised

6 cups (2 1/2 pints) chicken stock

2 cups (16 fl. oz) coconut cream

3 chicken breast fillets, sliced

100 g (3 1/2 oz) button mushrooms, halved

2 baby bok choy, seperated into leaves

6 kaffir lime leaves, shredded

1 tablespoon fish sauce

1 tablespoon lime juice.

Place the chili, ginger, lemon grass and stock in a saucepan over medium-high heat. Bring to a boil then reduce the heat, cover and simmer for 7 minutes. Remove the lemongrass, add the coconut cream and allow to simmer for another minute. Add the chicken, mushrooms, bok choy and kaffir lime leaves. Stir to separate the chicken and cook for 3 minutes or until tender. Stir through the fish sauce and lime juice and cook for a further minute. Serves 4.

I think we’ll try Indian food next time. Would you like to join us?

This is the last picture I’ll post from Cafe Des Ami. I love this guy’s shirt. I’m pretty sure he’s a regular. He had all the moves. If I ever go back (which I’m sure I will), and certainly, once I get my groove on I’ll work up the courage to ask him to dance.