Missing Link

I just took a link down, over there on my little link list, and at the risk of being preachy and not at all amusing, I'm gonna tell you why. I used to read Celebrity Baby Blog all the time. It was my time-sucker of choice, my crack, my porn, and I spent an unhealthy amount of time reading about crazy names being bestowed on celebrity offspring, whether Gwyneth and other A-listers were breastfeeding or not, whether they'd gained 60 pounds during pregnancy, like I did, if they had a nanny, or several, whether they were driving with their kids on their laps or having nervous breakdowns - you know, all the good gossip. I knew it was stupid and wrong, but I couldn't help myself.

I started feeling bad about it back when Johnny Depp talked about how he doesn't want his kids to be photographed, but the paparazzi still hounds them and scares his kids. I felt worse when Ryan Phillipe said that his daughter got teased at school because of a paparazzi photo of her holding a blanket. One afternoon in January, I was on my way to catch the F train home, and I came upon a horde of paparazzi camped in the street outside Heath Ledger and Michelle Williams' place. I knew he'd just died, I knew that was their house, but I hadn't thought anyone would be there - I thought Michelle Williams was still in Sweden or something. No - she was inside with her daughter, and this pack of wolves was outside. I felt sick to my stomach. Still, I didn't banish my CBB habit. But today they published a picture of Sarah Jessica Parker's son, and he's just trying to be a kid and have fun, and he's got a camera in his face, and he looks scared. It put me over the edge. Enough. I'm done. Yuck.

So CBB is no longer linked here, and I've added two lovely mamas whose blogs I enjoy - Carole and Jenn. Go read those instead.

Ah, I feel better now.

Coney Island Daze

Our little family spent Memorial Day at Coney Island, along with roughly a million other people. The weather report forecast a high of 80 degrees, so I didn't think we needed to bring jackets, but the stiff sea breeze left us shivering and clutching our beach towels around our shoulders.

We huddled on the boardwalk and ate greasy pizza, corn on the cob, and French fries, while the wind whipped trash around us and blew our hair into our faces. The people-watching couldn't be beat though, with colorful characters everywhere, and the ocean was sparkling, and I was having a Happy New York Moment even though I was covered in goosebumps and sitting in a pile of trash by the end of lunch. We watched Shoot the Freak, the kids waded in the ocean and squealed with joy, and Tom and the girls rode the Wonder Wheel. Later in the day, Tom held Violet while she napped and I took Molly on the kiddie rides. She braved the Freefall, a ride where you are strapped in and dropped from high up. The first couple of drops, I could tell she was deciding whether or not to cry, but then her terror turned to laughter, and when she came off the ride she was giddy with pride and exhilaration.

The story of the illustration above: when I took Molly to the bathroom, Violet wanted to tag along even though she didn't have to go, but trust me, you don't want to tag along to the bathrooms at Coney Island unless you really have to go. Tom talked her into drawing pictures while we were gone, and when we returned, this is what they'd done. Tom asked Violet what he should draw, and she said, "A mommy, a Molly, a Violet, and a daddy." She pointed and showed him exactly where to draw them, too, so it was really her picture. When I saw it, I wondered where all the people were, as it was elbow-to-elbow crowded on the boardwalk, and why the wind wasn't whipping our hair and we didn't look cold. In response, Tom titled it "A Fantasy of Coney Island." Then I stuffed it into our beach bag next to the water bottle and smeared the ink a little bit. I think it's just the right finishing touch, though.

Lucky Number Seven

Seven years ago . . .


the bride was touching up her makeup,



the groom was being escorted to the ceremony by his security detail,



the cakes were ready (thanks to the mother of the bride, impromptu pastry chef extraordinaire),



the getaway car was waiting,



and we embarked on this journey together for better or for worse.

Seven years have brought two beautiful daughters, a cross-country move, and more joy and sorrow than either of us bargained for.

I'm looking forward to finding out what's in store for the next seven. Happy anniversary, sweetie. You're the only one for me.

The Beauty of the Blogfest

So I went to the Blogfest last night, along with over 200 other Brooklyn bloggers, some of whom (I hope) might be here to see me. If this is your first visit, hello! Thanks for stopping by. You might want to read this post, explaining the origin of Midnight Cowgirls, and for further reading, I give you 50 things about me.

At the Blogfest, I realized that I am starting to really make friends here, and that made me very happy. Rob greeted me at the door, putting me at ease immediately, and soon I was chatting away with Joyce, Cathryn, Anne and Katia. I felt all warm and fuzzy when Amy showed up, and of course Eleanor and Mike and Chris and Adrian and Louise were all there too. I was glad to see all of them, plus several other faces I'd seen before, and I met a bunch of new people, too. These are small, delicate buds of friendships, but everything starts somewhere, doesn't it?

I asked to have a job, so something would occupy me and force me not to be a wallflower, and I ended up working the sign-in table with Miss Heather, of New York Shitty. Her blog is totally hilarious, and you must read it if you haven't. Dead rats, lots of shit, profanity - right up my alley! Mr. Heather was with her, and he turned out to be a gentle midwestern soul like me. They make a sweet and interesting pair - a Kansas boy who grew up on a dairy farm and fell in love with a gorgeous, hardboiled city girl. She reminds me of a 1940s film noir actress - so very pretty, with a great voice. And did I mention she's hilarious? I was glad to meet them both - and everyone else, too. I feel incredibly grateful to be meeting such wonderful people.

One of the highlights of the evening was a short film put together by Morgan, The Brooklyn Optimist. Here it is:



For those of you back home in Colorado who wonder what our life is like here, this film shows it very well. These are the sights I see around me here all the time, but am not able to capture myself. Watching it, you'll get a sense of this Brooklyn life we've come to love. I don't think we'll ever want to leave.

At the end of the evening, as I was waiting to have my picture taken by the lovely Hugh Crawford, an extremely drunk young man stumbled over and attempted to dance with me, twirling me around and mumbling incoherently. Remember that scene in Say Anything, at the end of the graduation party, when they find the drunk guy in the bathroom? He was so exactly like that guy, I can't even tell you. I was cracking up. After I shook him off, he proceeded to perform a little dance for us, losing a shoe in the process. I was grateful for that guy, too. He was the cherry on my Blogfest sundae. Thanks for the memories, drunk dude!

Inappropriate Feelings

Last weekend, Tom and I went to see Endgame at BAM. The show was just all right, I have to say, perhaps because Macbeth, which we saw there in March, was so breathtaking. It was a hard act to follow. Anyway, Alvin Epstein was wonderful, but the rest of the cast was, I think, not really feeling it. Or at least if they were, it didn't show. Beckett is tricky to do well - actually he's simple, but sometimes simple is hard.

After the show, we popped into BAMcafe for cocktails, me teetering along in my painfully high heels, Tom still feeling a happy glow from the performance, which he loved, and with which he found no fault. Toward the end of my first gin and tonic, I noticed an extremely good-looking bartender doing his side work behind the bar. It was nearly closing time, and he was washing glasses and bagging up trash, no doubt eager to go home to his girlfriend, or perhaps just to prowl the night. Maybe I downed my drink just a bit too quickly, because I found I couldn't stop staring at this boy - for he was just a boy - and I started to go weak with desire. His shoulders, his hips, his smooth black hair and sultry eyes - oh, my. I wanted to consume him. Truly, I think if he'd come within reach of me, I might have devoured him. You always hear that women hit their sexual peak in their thirties, but I didn't imagine it would feel like this. Kind of fun though, really. I always did enjoy being naughty.

Then yesterday on the subway, I felt again a sort of yearning - a longing for some sort of connection with someone, or with everyone. I didn't want to rip anyone's clothes off and do dirty things to them, but I kind of wanted to ask people if they'd give me a hug. What would they have done, I wonder? How many people would, if approached by an attractive, sweet-smelling woman in the subway, give her a hug if she said she really needed one because she was feeling sad that day? Would you?

Anyway, I didn't ask. I sat down on the train and took out my knitting, and as the train jerked forward, my eyes filled with tears. It was the anniversary of the loss of a beloved friend, the day before had been full of small irritations, I was very tired, and altogether I felt like an open wound. As the train jostled me, my eyes filled and dried, filled and dried. I took deep breaths and focused on my knitting. Knit two together six times, yarn over, knit two, now purl a row, now knit again.

At the next stop, a distinguished-looking man sat next to me, and as we waited for the train to start again, I felt him watching me. He asked, in a soft French accent, if the train would be going to 50th street. I said yes, eventually it would. Still the train didn't move, although the doors had closed. Knit two together, yarn over, purl. A plainclothes police officer with a badge around his neck walked past our car, peering inside. My French seatmate wondered why announcements were being broadcast in the station but no announcement was made to us, and I joked that they didn't want the passengers to panic; it would be mass hysteria if we knew what was going on. We sat in companionable silence after that, and finally the train started to move. He asked me what I was knitting, and I told him it was a blanket for my daughter's doll. I said I didn't have the patience to knit anything but doll things and dishcloths.

"No," he said, "you are patient. I can tell. You are a very patient woman."

I smiled. He told me that I reminded him of his mother, who used to knit when he was a child. She had to knit, he said - it was how she made a living. All this time, as he spoke gently to me and I smiled and responded, I didn't lift my eyes from my knitting. I was afraid that if I did, those endless, threatening tears would well up and spill over. When he got off at 50th street he wished me well, and once again said, "You are patient. Don't worry. You are very patient." I realized that what I'd really wanted to do was lay my head on his shoulder and let my tears flow. He would have told me more about his childhood, in that lilting French accent, and my grief would have washed away along with my tears. Instead, I finished my row, took a deep breath, and got off the train at Columbus Circle, ready to go on with my day. I was precariously balanced, but with every step, I grew steadier.

Excitement Brewing in Brooklyn

I know you've all been waiting patiently for my return to the blogosphere while I was off celebrating National Don't Post Month (NaDoPoMo). Wait - you've never heard of NaDoPoMo? Well, in the spirit of NaNoWriMo and NaBloPoMo, which are in November because of the crappy weather, I figured April was the perfect time to take a break from the computer and spend more time in the fresh spring air. That, or I was just busy waiting hand and foot on my children, running in the park, and drinking gin whilst catching up on Battlestar Galactica, courtesy of Netflix. We'd never seen it and just started from the beginning, and hey, it's really good! I guess the rest of the world already knew that, huh?


I have such excitement to report, though. First, I tiptoed into Tom's office this morning and oh, oh, oh! Just look at the wonderful thing that is happening in there at this very moment:




Yes, that's right - after months of begging and badgering, this blog will soon have a fabulous, original T. Motley-drawn masthead. I planned to keep my mouth shut and just spring it on you in all its finished glory, but come on - when have I ever been able to keep a secret?

I know I'm prejudiced, because he's my husband and all, but he really is fabulous to work with. I had this extremely ambitious, scattered, and overreaching concept, which I drew with lots of stick figures and scribbles, and shoved at him. He teased out my main idea and jettisoned the rest, threw in a couple of his own ideas, and presented me with a sketch that was everything I wanted but could never have come up with on my own. He's good - really good. Also, when he draws me he always makes me look much cuter than I really am. I mean, I'm cute, but not that cute. He draws me the way I like to see myself in my head.

In other news, the Brooklyn Blogfest is coming right up. Blue Barn Pictures made a very short film about Brooklyn bloggers, which will premier at the Blogfest, but you can see the 30-second promo right now! It looks great, and I'll try not to cringe too hard if they used any more of my footage in the actual piece; Tom says I'm cute and funny, but all I can see is my usual spazzy self. I giggled and fidgeted my way through that interview and figured they wouldn't get any usable footage of me - I certainly didn't say anything very interesting. "I put on my makeup, I do my hair . . ." Good Lord. Could I be any cheesier?

Anyway, the Blogfest will surely be a good time, and after a couple of beers I'm sure I'll be able to mingle and meet new people and not fixate too much on my relentless dorkiness.

Tom just came and peeked over my shoulder and told me not to run myself down so much. He says people will be inclined to see whatever I tell them to see. Who is this person giving me optimistic, inspirational advice, and what has he done with my husband? Very curious, indeed. Perhaps he's right, though. All right, I take it back. I'm cute and fabulous and not at all sheepish about my giggly performance in the Blogfest video. Take that, Motley!