I saw Norah Jones this weekend.

(Step-touch, step-touch)
by R.J. Biermann

Tonight I saw Norah Jones
dancing like a groupie to her own songs.
Made me realize that my greatest days
were marked by that small, unseen sway,
how many times I've played back-up drums...
I don't know why I didn't come

To my friends' short, off-Broadway plays,
performed on random, rainy October days:
they've played auxillary drums for me.
Together, we made grandiloquent symphonies.

We may not feel the lights
on anyone's opening night,
the acoustics are never what they're advertised.
We're not as tall in real life.

Under stage make-up we are what we'll be,
the people most will never see.
You were worth the encore song.
I don't know why I didn't come?
I don't know why I didn't come.

This morning I am working from home. The little angel and I are on a blanket on the floor. I have to go in to the office this afternoon to make an Important Presentation to a Vice President. But for now, the blanket.

I decided to break down and let the little angel watch Baby Einstein for the first time. I've let her watch Baby Mozart twice or three times before. In general, I'm not a big fan of babies watching television. My beloved thinks it's funny when I angrily catch her watching football, but I believe the American Academy of Pediatrics when they say television kind of makes you stupid. I've noticed this phenomenom in myself. I probably just misspelled that word, further cementing my ignorance.

I think they're not really speaking any real languages on this show. I think they're just affecting foreign accents and speaking TeleTubby, just like New York City receptionists.

The little angel is totally sucked in. It's like an accident scene. She can't look away. Even the cat is watching.

It's addictive. I've got to go watch them stack plastic bricks. I mean, check my work e-mail.

Bye.

In a funk today. Weather is dismal for the fourth straight day with no signs of letting up. Truck is going to be expensive to fix. Bumped someone with my Geo today in the rain (though she was VERY NICE - thank you, kind stranger). Tired. Feeling fat. Anyone else having this problem today?

Yesterday, I did a silly thing. I cancelled my online subscription to Weight Watchers. After two months of consistency, I got proud. My hubris angered Those Who Fend Off Fat. Last night, for NO REASON AT ALL, I couldn't walk.

It started when I was walking down the stairs with the little angel, just a twinge, the faintest hint that something might not be well with my Achilles tendon. Three hours later, I was hobbling around the house like the Hunchback of Notre Dame, calling Ask a Nurse and whining to my beloved to bring me Advil and put the little angel to bed for me (one of my favorite things to do). It really, really hurt.

Of course, my new injury rendered me incapable of facing the gym this morning, therefore wildly throwing off my schedule for the second week in a row. Yes, I admit - I am that freakish about my exercise. It really cramps my style (ha ha ha) when I can't work out.

And also - it scares me. Last night, limping around like a moron, I felt very helpless. My beloved frequently travels overnight for business - will be gone most of next week, in fact - and I was quite ineffectual with my injury last night. What if it didn't go away? What if I really hurt myself? How would I take care of the little angel?

I'm getting old. But this whole exercise (I can't stop) really drove home how terribly important one's health is. I am forcing myself to be good today. Hopefully I'll be hopping around again by tomorrow.

On Friday, I left work at noon to go pick our 1998 Explorer up from getting an oil change. We were going to pack right after that and be off for a weekend in Iowa City. Alas, when I arrived, Dan the Pro Brake Man told me there was no way we could drive the truck, because the rear axle is going out. Could go out, in fact, at any moment.

I called my beloved, and, after he finished cursing, we discussed the option of driving our 1994 Geo Prizm (136k miles and ticking) the 5.5 hours to Iowa City each way. Unfortunately, the Geo is so old the backseat middle belt is like an airplane belt and doesn't lock automatically, rendering it not an ideal candidate to hold the carseat in place. Either we were going to have to rent a car or stay home.

We decided to rent a car. This only took 1.5 hours and a lot of angst. We ended up, ironically, with another Explorer. Dan thinks it will only cost around $1400 for the part and two hours (whatever that translates to) for the labor. My beloved says it's not worth it, because the truck isn't worth that much. However, on the way home, I was listening to Car Talk, and Click said that you should compare the cost of repairs to the cost of a new car, not to the value of the old car. If that is true, I'm a genius after pouring around $2k in the past two years into the Geo, which has a Blue Book value of $1580. See? I am smart.

So today my beloved is returning the rental and trying to figure out what to do about this rear-axle problem. I'm inclined to keep the car, because the thought of buying another huge, monster vehicle so close to Christmas is more paralyzing to me than coughing up thousands to fix it. Why? I am completely adverse to debt. I would live in a teepee if my beloved would let me. I'm strange. Other people buy new cars and new houses and feel GOOD about their decisions. I stay up at night wondering what would happen if we both lost our jobs tomorrow. I know this is not normal, but I can't help myself. Why can't I join the disposable nation?

Yesterday we took the little angel in for her six-month check-up and immunizations. The pediatrician told us she's doing great, she's still a big girl for her age, very happy, la la. Then I asked about flu vaccintions, it being the current thing we should all worry about, after spending lots of time in tall buildings in major cities and traveling with a pocketknife.

She told us she prefers for the babies to get the nonpreservative form of the flu vaccine, but they are out. If we waited until November to see if we could get the nonpreservative form, there might be none left. Since the little angel is six months old and in Ozcare, she is considered "high risk." Of course last year, the flu vaccine didn't even address the types of flu people got. But then again, you can die from "real flu," which is apparently respiratory (I didn't know that). Especially babies. Babies can die. Parents, have fear.

I was distraught. What to do? If I give my baby this preservative flu shot that contains trace levels of mercury, she could end up with some horrible thing I keep reading about on the mommy Web sites. Of course, there is no "real" connection, or at least not one anyone wants to admit, but no one admits that we test nukes in Nevada or dump waste in the ocean, either. Of course, if I didn't give her the shot and the real flu hit Oz, she could get very sick from a "preventable" illness. The media scare hasn't helped.

We asked her what she would do, for her professional opinion. But my pediatrician is scared of malpractice and simply shrugged her shoulders. I hate that! Give me your professional opinion! You would if you were a plumber, damn it!

So in the end, I let my beloved make the decision, and she got the shot. Then I called my sister, who told me about someone in her boyfriend's family who has some retardation they think is connected to a vaccine. Lovely.

Yet another parenting "choice." Tra la!

Like many Americans, my beloved, the little angel, the newly vaccinated Sybil and I watched Kerry and Bush sling mud at each other last night. About halfway through the debate, I found myself wondering again for the 8,974th time why there are no female candidates for president.

I mean, this really makes me angry. How is that Canada is more progressive than we are in this arena? Why am I still listening to two white men with IDENTICAL TIES throwing each other under the bus and talking about a woman's right (or not right) to choose? Do THEY have ovaries? Would THEY have to carry and care for an unwanted child? Do THEY have instinctual mothering instincts that would cause them to lactate if their baby cried two rooms away? Do THEY even know how to stop an argument in a playground without using force, let alone one 6,000 miles away?

I wouldn't vote for a woman just because she was a woman, but I would probably give her five points of extra credit from the get-go. I watch women in business every day, making the same sorts of decisions as men, but executing differently. Not all women, but the right women, execute behind the scenes in a way that gets a hell of a lot more done than blustering about right in the front row. Couldn't America benefit from a softer sell? The entire world hates us for our brashness. We already have more money and a more land than MOST other countries. What would be so wrong about negotiation versus sub-machine guns?

Not all women are good at this, you are thinking. Just because a person has ovaries does not make her a good negotiator. I'll give you that. But I answer "being white and owning a red tie and having lots of money does seem to make you a presidential candidate, though, doesn't it?" It may hurt to examine this. It may make you uncomfortable to realize we still have never had a president who wasn't a middle-aged, white man, kind of the way it makes me uncomfortable to realize my SUV only gets 23 miles a gallon under perfect conditions. But until we all confront those unrecycled cans in the closet, we're going to be stuck watching Bush look constipated and Kerry look old on national television. Neither one of them last night really looked like someone I wanted to vote for - they looked like more of the same. Shame on America. Put someone FEMALE in the hot seat and see what you get. I dare you.

On Tuesday nights, I teach composition at a local community college. It's Comp I, and they all admitted on the first day of class that they are only there to fulfill a graduation requirement. Still, it's nice to talk about writing for three hours straight even if your conversation partners are less than enthralled.

Last night, I decided to go out on a limb. We were preparing for a reaction paper essay, which will be due next month. Up until now, they've been writing position and profile essays. However, I think the reaction essay will really be what they use for most of their academic careers. They have no idea how to cite things, no clue about MLA style and no interest in either. So I thought I'd lob them a soft one to start out with - my own work.

I was a little nervous that my short story, "Some Kind of Samson," wouldn't stand up to the tenets of good reaction papers. What if it didn't have an obvious theme? What if the characters weren't developed enough for a position? Egads - what if there were no context clues? I didn't tell them it was mine until after we'd discussed it for about forty-five minutes, after it had actually held up to most of the tests. One student said as soon as she'd finished it that she really liked it. It was the first thing she said she liked all semester.

I floated all the way home. Maybe publication isn't as important as readership. Maybe more people read my story last night than would have had it made the 132nd page of a slick literary magazine. Maybe not, but I like to console myself with that supposition.

This morning when I dropped the little angel off at Oz, I heard what I have been dreading all fall: "We seem to have a flu bug going around."

I., the little angel's morning teacher, was worried. She didn't want to get sick. She didn't want her babies to get sick. But two babies and a teacher were out for the count from Infant II. We are supposed to go out of town this weekend to see my husband's family and cheer on the Iowa Hawkeyes. My beloved will CRY if we can't go. I'm trying to think positive thoughts.

I called my mother on the way to work so that she could talk me off the ledge. She explained the fever-busting power of children's Tylenol and the way pediatricians do tend to call you back if your baby is sick. I had forgotten all these details in my panic. Then she said the best thing, the thing that I had secretly been hoping for: "If she gets REALLY sick, I can always come down to coach you through it."

It's times like these that I really, really wish my parents lived in Kansas City. I jealously listen to those lucky souls whose mothers are only a short car ride away and can be counted on for in-person parenting advice. I see the benefit of having them 2.5 hours away, as well (it is nice to have one's own life, after all), but the first baby can reduce an otherwise bring-home-the-bacon-fry-it-up-in-a-pan modern woman to a sniveling mess when the little angel spikes a fever. The mere thought of that happening really makes me want my mommy.