Church Avenue Chomp

Some people equate “easy babies” with “good babies.” They ask questions like “Is he a good baby? Does he sleep really well?”

And then I stare at them until they collapse under the power of my wrathful, twitchy gaze.

Your baby’s life goal might be to sleep narcoleptically, and that might be my life goal, too. But just because my baby’s isn’t doesn’t mean that my baby is a “bad” baby. My baby is an interesting baby. He might even be an ambitious baby. He’s got things to do, people. Things to do, and despite that he was not an easy sleeper at first, he could not have been a better baby.

When Henry was born, he wouldn’t even fall asleep on us. We had to tie him into a bundle, aka, swaddle him, in order to get him to sleep. Well, that was the first choice, and it worked sometimes. The second was to strap him into his carseat, and put him into a swing that the carseat clicked into, and rock him as fast as possible, sometimes adding some manual effort to the battery powered device. We were afraid that what was happening is that we were stunning the poor thing to sleep, but we didn’t see a lot of options.

Naps were . . . actually, naps WEREN’T; That would be the most concise way of describing the first four months. I often think that trying to implement naps was the hardest I have ever worked in my life. It was unparalleled exhaustion because I had a sneaking suspicion that I would fail. Suspicions: confirmed! The most famous nap took an hour to induce and lasted nine minutes, which was not even long enough for me to shove a piece of toast into my mouth.

At one point later on when he was napping pretty regularly, I interviewed a babysitter who admit that her children’s teeth were riddled with cavities out because she only fed them fruit roll-ups. I raised my eyebrows, but I didn’t show her the door, because I was wondering, wow, what else will she say? Then she told me that her kids “never really napped,” they just “didn’t seem to get on a schedule.”

What umbrage I took from this. I, who had worked so hard, not to devise my own schedule, but to support whatever schedule my child was gravitating to, and I read ill-written books, and researched all sorts of swaddling contraptions, and forewent bathing most days so as not to make too much noise outside of his room when he was actually sleeping, decided that this woman and I would not work together.

Perhaps I will write a blockbuster movie, and it will be called Blood Nap.

I AM THAT PARENT

I never wanted to be that parent, the one who was so guarded and insane about her child’s sleep. But guess what, I am, and nice to meet ya!

Once Henry was asleep, there were (um, are) noise machines, and lullaby cds, and NO MOVEMENT OR TALKING by the adults. Because if you move or bathe, you will be the victim of a nine minute nap. I can assure you of this. I once accused my husband, during a nap, of “pouring water too loudly,” though we were through two closed doors with plenty of noise machines.

And instead of having me institutionalized, he accused ME of pouring water too loudly 5 minutes beforehand. That is what things were like. We are both that parent.

Ironically, the baby slept through our argument.

TRANSITION

When we confessed to the doctor that our son was sleeping in a swing in our room at about four months old, she suggested that we move him out of our room and put him into a crib. My child? Flat? You must be some sort of crazy witch doctor, if you think that my child is going to sleep flat.

Of course he could sleep flat, just just needed to be used to it. Finally, we moved to having Henry sleep flat in a cradle.

I WUB YOU

Onto the next crutch, which was a Wubbanub. A Wubbanub is a genius invention: a Soothie pacifier with a tiny stuffed animal sewn to it. So you can stroke the wings of your miniature penguin while you suck yourself to sleep. It seems the height of coziness and frankly, I have always wanted to try it myself. It reminds me of those dogs that you see trotting along, cheerfully carrying their own leashes in their mouths.

By the time you are ready for a Wubbanub, your hands might even sort of work, and when the penguin or horse or whatever you have chosen as your spirit sleeping animal becomes dislodged from your oral cavity, you may be even able to get at least part of it back into your mouth.

The Wubbanub stage, from 4 months to, I don’t know when, is a really cute one.

LOVIES

Once the penguin was filthy enough to pose a health risk, we moved on to a different transitional object: a “lovey,” a bear head sewn onto a blanket. Ours has little white stars on his light green cloak, which lends him sort of a wizard aspect. He is called Pistachio because of his ice-creamlike hue. Pistachio is EXTREMELY popular and is actually one of the first things Henry has tried to say. “PACLABEENOP.” But sometimes, Pistachio’s scary burped-out milk smell (which I actually sort of love) requires that he be laundered. And God help you if Pistachio is not ready for a nap when someone else is.

Surpassing even Pistachio in popularity is his fraternal twin, the Monkeyblanket, purchased by my mother for emergencies. The monkey blanket is also a lovey, and looks nothing like Pistachio but slightly closer to something that would exist in the nonwizard animal world, ie, he is Monkey colored, and sort of monkey shaped.

These are supposed to be transitional objects, and I think that means that they are supposed to be able to stand in for me. Except now, when Henry nurses — yes, he still frequently nurses, please leave your judgmental comments on someone else’s blog — he runs off and grabs one or both of these guys so we can all snuggle together.

Before bed is an excellent time. It’s fun and I’m happy and confident because the sleeping is going really, really well lately. We goof around and tickle and laugh a lot and have milk and look at the moon and stars projected onto the wall.  Another popular activity for right before bed is lunging towards Dino to hug him.

EVOLUTION TO DINO

Who is Dino? Dino is our newest, big league crutch: a very fat and happy knit dinosaur. Actually, Dino came to live with us in the days before Henry was born. He was a gift from my friend Louise, who commissioned him from the talented and appropriately insouciant Rachael Rabbit.

Dino has lived on the full-sized futon on the floor of Henry’s room for as long as I can remember, except, sometimes when I am vacuuming and I want Henry to hang out in the crib and watch, I put Dino in there with him so they can play. When Dino is suddenly in your crib taking up all of the room, it’s like a funny holiday.

But then one day, to make Henry laugh, I put the Dino in the crib with him when it was time for bed. He cuddled up on Dino’s fat fat legs to sleep.

Now every day is a holiday!  Henry won’t sleep without him. And Pistachio, and Monkey Blanket.

Who’s next?

i like you.

My friend Mark posted a Facebook update the other day about eating delicious duck tacos in Millenium Park in Chicago. In the comment thread, we talked about making some sometime soon.

Then I did a bad friend thing to my good friend and decided to make them without him just this once, for some crazy duck-loving crazies who are coming through town tonight. But this is a trial run, Mark. A trial run, and you’ll see why:

They are underway but thus far, I have done a lot of things one shouldn’t do while cooking.

1. I read a recipe only once before shopping, and therefore didn’t get a lot of the stuff on the list. Well, actually, I got MOST of the stuff on the list, with the exception of tamarind sauce, which, what the hell is that anyway, and where am I supposed to get it.

2. I didn’t confit my own duck. Therefore, I bought 3 ALREADY CONFIT’D duck legs at, cover your eyes, $999 a pop. Sorry, I meant $9.99. Same diff. They say that they weigh 5 oz. each, but some 5 oz. ones are heavier than others, so I compared them all and chose those. Then, I tried my damnedest to distract Matthew while the food was being rung up, since only idiots spend $9.99 on a five ounce thing, much of which is skin and bones.

3. When I did reread the recipe and realize I’d need tamarind sauce, I thought: easy. Tacos are Mexican food, and tamarind is Mexican, witness tamarind soda, and so I can probably get tamarind sauce at a Mexican deli.

Uh, no. Just as confit is French which is not Asian, tamarind sauce is something sold at “Asian Grocery Stores,” according to this recipe. Oh, Emeril. Enough of this fusion crap. While I live amongst many Mexicans and get to buy their fresh delicious cheeses and can always find tomatillos, there aren’t any Asian supermarkets around, except for one, and that is a very small deli which does not carry tamarind sauce. I checked this morning.

4. A new and fancy Philippino-inspired style place opened in my happenin’ hood recently. It’s where you can get MANGOSTEEN JUICE, people. The restaurant is very delicious and pretty, and it’s called Purple Yam. Please note how The New York Times and I both endorse it.

I looked at the menu in the window. “Lumpia” is a dish they serve that is really delicious, and they are frequently out of it when I go. What do they serve it with, you ask? Peanut and tamarind sauce.

Once in college, we needed limes and didn’t have any, so I stopped at the local bar, where I knew they had limes, and asked to buy some. They let me, and this may have set a bad precedent.

I walked by 4 times before I could get up the courage to go in. The executive chef and owner, who is a very gentlemanly man, was sitting the front, and I sort of needed to avoid asking the actual chef and owner. I was hoping for a hostess who would perhaps laugh at me and turn me away, but at least I would have asked.

Walking by for the third time, I thought: Barbecue sauce! That would be a good sub, because: tangy, sweet, and saucy. I could either make my own, or enhance some bottled barbecue sauce! And that would be delicious with duck confit tacos, especially if it’s the sort with orange juice in it. But no. I finally decided to ask.

Hi. Uh, I am making something and it requires tamarind sauce — but — I thought it was Mexican but it’s not — long story short could I ask to buy 1/2 cup of YOUR tamarind sauce?

This is not a proper request, you see. I know this because I checked with a friend who owns a restaurant on the walk home, I called her right up, and her reaction indicated that I will never do this again. This is not as easy as selling someone limes, of course. However: he was extremely indulgent and kind and unegotistical. He checked to see if they had enough of his delicious chef-made tamarind sauce to sell me. He did. What a guy. If you are in the Brooklyn or greater NYC area, you’d do well to eat at Purple Yam, and try the Korean sliders on purple yam bread, and the Soju cocktail with HOMEMADE COCONUT ICE CREAM in it.

And if you make these tacos, do not bother him. That is not the lesson, here.

Thanks to Gastev on Flickr for creative commons use of this amazing photo.

"someone et most of me already"

Being a toddler, Henry wants nothing to do with any of the good food that I make. He only likes the good food that the higher powers make, like blueberries or grapes.

I also make pizza a lot at home, because I’ve found a store-made crust I love. It’s better than any other crusts I’ve had, plus you don’t have to defrost it, or roll it out, or let it rest, or use flour. (If you don’t live near the Fairway in Red Hook Brooklyn’s milk and cheese aisle, just get another brand, frozen, or even ask the boys down at the pizza place if they’ll sell you a hunk of pizza dough.)

You can top with cheese and real sauce or pepperoni or whatever you like, obviously, who am I to tell you what to do? But I am stuck on this recipe, which used to be a recipe for fancy pizza with pancetta and fontina and caramelized onions and no tomato sauce, which sounds fancy and is good, but I’ve subbed and swapped and arrived at this version which I love, because that, dear readers, is how I roll. And yes, I prefer bacon to pancetta.

Ingredients:

Onion / Bacon / Thyme / Tomato / Cinnamon / Salted Mozzarella / Crust

Slice the better part of a medium onion into rings. Cook in some EVOO over medium to medium high while you cut some bacon. (Tip: I never really cook bacon to eat on its own: I use it as an enhancer. So instead of taking a few strips and chopping them up, I slice through the whole of the pack, and freeze the rest for the next time I’ll do the same thing. If that wasn’t clear enough, I cut a little bit off of every strip, and save a few knife strokes, and that makes me feel efficient, professional, and organized.)

Add a nice fragrant amount of thyme to the onions. Don’t skip the thyme; it’s important. Add the bacon and cook until no longer raw, yet still soft. (If you like your bacon crisp, you’ll still have a chance to crisp it in the oven, which, oh yeah, should be heating to 450. Or whatever temp your crust specifies.)

While this is happening, put some crushed tomatoes or chopped tomatoes or whole peeled tomatoes that you will smush with a spoon a lot, into a small sauce pan. Sprinkle a bit of cinnamon in there. Simmer and add nothing else.

Spread a bit of oil around the bottom of a baking sheet (the kind with tiny walls; I am afraid of the kind without tiny walls). Or at least, that’s what I used to do, before I threw out my filthy and warped tiny-walled baking sheet because I refused to move a baking sheet that was in such terrible condition. And now, Target only sells the scary flat kind. So without the proper pan, I look to the pizza stone, then clutch my head because it demands to be washed and completely dried before its first use, which would take a long time to wait for when one is already preheating the oven. Then, one must preheat the stone for hours and hours in the oven while one realizes that they don’t own a damn a pizza peel with which to use it.

Pizza stone, if you worked for me, I would fire you for your inefficiencies.

The last time I was moaning because I don’t have a new baking pan and I’d forgotten to wash and dry the stone in advance yet again, all while looking around for a way to fashion a stupid pizza peel out of a cardboard box, my husband first suggested takeout, but then he came up with a brilliant idea, one he would just barely live to regret.

How about the cast-iron griddle?

And I could just tell that it would make a brilliant, delicious, never-to-be-forgotten pizza.

The cast-iron griddle was a genius present from my sister in law and her partner. It covers two burners and it large enough to  make a protein, vegetable, and starch on it all at the same time, should you choose to griddlify your whole dinner in different portions as I did the other day with asparagus, polenta rounds, and shrimp with garlic, oregano, chili pepper, and cilantro. It’s wicked heavy, I think 17 pounds, but cast iron conducts heat brilliantly — better, I’m sure, than the fake rock purporting to be a pizza stone.

I oiled the flat side of the griddle and stretched the dough out onto it, in an oval or a rectangle shape. I had to stretch it many times because it just skates back to the center on the oiled surface, but this isn’t specific to the griddle, it would do that on any oiled pan.

I ladled some sauce on, if you can call tomatoes made slightly less harsh by cinnamon sauce, then added some mozzarella, then the bacon and onions. Cooked for 20 minutes. If you are like us, the smoke alarm will go off at least once.

The flip side to me flipping out about the pizza stone is Matthew flipping out when it is time to remove a 20 pound 450 degree object from a scalding oven. This week was the second time we had done this.

Based on the level of swearing — 8 out of a scale of 10 — I cannot in good conscience recommend the cast iron griddle as a pizza pan. However, the pizza certainly is is extremely delicious and rewarding. Perhaps I will look for a somewhat thinner and lighter cast iron thing to cook pizzas on. Oh! I just found one online that only weighs 11 lbs.

Maybe I will reconsider my standoff with the stone.

This is an unusually long post. I would have split it into 2 but you can’t split stories like this in two. I’ll attempt brevity next time around!

Everyone is in the top five percent of something — and there are so many ways to be superlative. Henry, for instance, is in the top five percent of babies who are like bats with pizza radar. I know this because  of how he lunges, open-mouthed, for the tip of a huge slice. Another superlative quality is how affectionate he is to all living things, and even inanimate stuff like blankets and balloons and shadows.

The flip side of this passion and sensitivity is that when he doesn’t like something, you’ll know. Oh, make no mistake, you will know.

We take a lot of car trips together. We mostly go to the swimming pool, and these are brief and popular trips, though sometimes we have an altercation getting into or out of the car. But this is normal, I hear, for the sub-two set.

In these instances, I realize that I do not yet know how to deal with small angry people. I sense that you just have to breathe and act like you are patient and pretend that they aren’t winning and try not to be ashamed of your own decisions.

Last week was tough in terms of tantrums, though. On Friday, when it was 125% humidity and I was trying to stuff Henry into his carseat to go to Connecticut, he protested in a shrill enough way to curdle the upholstery off of the seats. As if the upholstery isn’t having a hard enough time lately.

But music fixes many many things, and the trip was generally ok, though a patch of weather had us literally parked on the highway for upwards of an hour. It might have been this “strapped in but not moving” memory that triggered the following, though we will never know:

When I was taking him back from Connecticut, we had only just gotten onto the highway when he started getting antsy, and the ramp-up was unusually speedy. He was not whining, he was not whimpering. He was generating breathless, strangled-sounding screams. I pulled over to the side of the highway.

Fact: Pulling over on the highway sucks, and though I think about it more than you’d like to know about, I need to be in a genuine panic to do it. To lend this fact context, I did not even pull over on the highway two weeks ago when I realized that Henry had fully wriggled out of the top straps of his carseat, and that his torso was freewheeling all around. I was panicked then, but I waited for an exit.

However, I wasn’t in the best state of mind myself, having just come from visiting my sister in the nursing home. The strangled quality of this screaming noise really got to me. And earlier that day, I’d noticed a noise that sounded like a slight hitch every time he exhaled. And I’d been a little worried when I heard that breathing noise, but not worried enough to like, call 911 or anything.

Maybe there was a stray cracker behind his head, poking into his neck and making him uncomfortable. Hey! That would be something I could fix, and then we could enjoy the trip home, which would take 2.5 hours under the best of circumstances. So I pulled over onto the shoulder, and got into the back seat with him. I noted that the weird breathing hitch was still there, and that no crackers were poking into his neck, nor was anything else awry that I could see.

This is an abbreviated list of things that did not make him stop crying:

• The presentation of cheddar bunnies
• water
• singing
• maracas
• the favorite monkey blanket

I had given it my best shot. I knew he didn’t need to be changed, since I’d just changed him before we left. I knew he was not hungry, since I’d just shared a peanut butter sandwich and a peach with him — plus he rejected the cheese bunnies. I also knew that he desperately needed a nap, so I would just have to get back into the driver’s seat and drive and perhaps the screaming would morph into sleeping.

I steeled myself and pulled the car back into traffic. Henry screamed on but he was so upset that soon, he started to have trouble screaming. I was watching him at least as much as  I was watching the highway, and  . . . wait. Was he getting splotchy? Was he sounding strangled because he actually couldn’t breathe? There had been a priest at the nursing home, and he was telling me about how humidity triggers his asthma. Was Henry having his first ever asthma attack from the oppressive humidity?

Or was Henry’s throat closing from the peanut-based snack that we’d cavalierly shared 20 minutes earlier? He has peanut butter all the time but so did a friend’s daughter who’d recently gone into anaphylactic shock.

And maybe the fact that he’d fallen over and skinned his forehead two days earlier was adding a neurological element to the toxic health cocktail I was brewing in my mind.

I stopped the car again, pulled as far over onto the right shoulder as possible, and got into the backseat. Henry did seem to be having real trouble catching his breath. I grabbed my phone to call my husband — but then: what if I was actually right? If there was a real and immediate problem, my husband was not the person to call. I’d have to fill him in later.

My policy on calling 911 goes something like this: If you think you might want to call, chances are good that you should. Henry’s pediatrician corroborates this by telling me every single time I call that the single best predictor of there being something wrong with a kid is the parent’s gut. My gut was actually feeling pretty wrenched. So I did it. I called 911.

The moment someone answered, I tried to think of what to say. My baby can’t breathe! Except — yes of course, he is breathing. But there is a hitching noise. Well, there was one before. Wait. Now that he’s out of the carseat, and I am on the phone with 911, he is . . . why yes! He is smiling! I called you because my baby is crying. That is what I did. I mean, smiling.

The dispatcher was very nice. She told me that if my son seemed to be having trouble breathing, that it was of the utmost importance that I get him checked out, regardless of the severity or the nonexistence of the problem. She dispatched an ambulance immediately and told me that she’d stay on the phone with me until someone arrived.

I was pointed westbound, but I saw a cruiser pull onto the eastbound road and turn on the magic lights. It passed us and turned around somewhere and was pulling up fast behind us.

The dispatcher told me that the police are trained as first responders and yes, it was likely that an officer would arrive first. One cruiser was pulling up behind us when I saw another one sparkling in the distance not far behind it. Henry at this point had a huge smile on his face, and was pretending to be conducting important business by phone. As he cheerfully jabbered into his palm, the dispatcher told me that she is a parent and that she was glad that I had called and that under no circumstances should I feel silly about my call, regardless of the outcome.  Okay, so, here are the police. But wait. Here comes an SUV. No sorry, I meant . . three SUVs with paramedics in them. And hey! Looky here! Two full-length fire trucks zoom up and completed the entourage. The entourage of seven emergency vehicles.

The associated lightstorm was . . . let’s just call it moving and memorable. In a wholly different context, would have been a perfect birthday present for Henry. Or in another wholly different context . . .

I was getting nervous, but not for the reason I had originally been nervous. It appeared that with three little numbers, I had summoned every single emergency professional in the county.

I handed Henry to a police officer since I was on the traffic side. Henry looked at the man in a somewhat stunned manner, but he was happy to be going to what looked like a really good party. When I was out of the car he handed Henry back to me, and led us up a steep and scruffy unmowed hill next to the highway.

Twelve or thirteen guys were pouring out of vehicles and putting on yellow safety vests. The hill filled with testosterone and other gallant hormones as they ambled over and up toward us.

I wasn’t quite sure who to address. Looking around, I tried to explain the hitched breathing and the hysteria and my concerns about peanut butter. Someone produced a stethoscope and Henry starting wailing again. But this was a noise I recognized: it was his “I’m at the dr and I don’t like it” call. A paramedic had somehow managed to hear Henry’s lungs through the roar of traffic and the roar of baby. He also tried to listen to his heart.

Listening to his heart was challenging because Henry was acting like the gentle touch of the stethoscope was a particularly hot poker. “Is this behavior normal?” I was asked. The crying? Yes. They pronounced his color normal. His lungs were clear. His throat was not closed. His heart rate was stellar. But would I like to go to the hospital to get him checked anyhow?

Wait. I have to decide this? The thirteen of you aren’t going to advise me? That is what gets me about being a parent. It is executive decision after executive decision after executive decision. It is like being the President of the United States of Henry. Many of the decisions don’t matter too much, though they can seem stressful in the moment. Should I let someone eat asparagus and nothing else for dinner?  Like 10 spears? Uh, ok, just this once. Should I let him whimper for 5 minutes at 3am before going in to see what is wrong?

The consequences from most of these decision on one day are not going to be too great. But this? I had no idea. Would I be a fool to go to the hospital? Was I negligent not to go? Had I already shown poor judgment?

These men were all kind, and were all trying to look me in the eye and see what I wanted to do. I was still worried about Henry, but couldn’t help but feel like I’d overreacted. I decided to call my husband, though I knew that from a different state, he would also defer to me on whether or not to go to the hospital.

I don’t like keeping random strangers waiting, especially twelve at a time who have extremely important jobs. Calling would require me to go down the hill to the car, find the phone, and explain to Matthew while this large team of men bursting with health just stood there waiting. They said it was fine. I should call.

A week before I’d kicked a wall in my house accidentally. We get really bad cell phone reception in the new apartment so as I’d answered the phone, I’d starting running towards a window so as not to drop the call. Except, I don’t quite know where all of the walls are yet. Consequently my right foot is still bluish and bruised, and eight days later the only footwear bearable to my toes was a pair of flip flops. Flip flops weren’t the best choice for this hill.

So, while beginning to make my way down this big hill with Henry in my arms, towards my car parked on the shoulder, I took a weird misstep. For the record, I was not going to fall, I just needed to put my foot down differently than I tried to the first time, and I would have been able to do that. Still, either nine or ten of the men lunged forward to save me. “Woman Cradling Perfectly Healthy Toddler Tumbles Down Hill and Into Westbound Traffic,” is the headline what they were probably trying to avoid. Thirteen first responders watch in awe.

So for my next attempt down the hill, one of them grabbed my hand.

Let’s talk about this hand. First, let me tell you that my husband has big, tan, strong hands. (Very manly, honey!) I noted them when I first met him and he told me that he’d been out chopping wood in Colorado for some fix-it project he was doing with his family. I was impressed.

However. The hand that reached out to grab me was in a different league. Like a baseball league. It was the size of a baseball mitt, in fact. I’m sorry sir, are you a bear?

And whereas this hand had a familiar texture, I couldn’t place it at first. Oh, wait, I know. This guy’s hand texture was like of the bottom of someone’s grizzled foot, someone who needs a pedicure, and fast. This hand made the hands of my friends and relatives, the editors, ones with office jobs, the intrepid reporters, the musicians, even the personal trainers, seem like silky lady hands. Sorry, guys, but at least you’re all in this ladylike hand thing together.

As I climbed down to the car, I looked back at the twelve bright-eyed big-pawed men with their stethoscopes and glowing vests, so willing to help. If, as it turns out, my child’s life did not need saving, they would at least see me down a hill with their firebeaten hands.

I decided to forgo a trip to the hospital and drive on. They’d convinced me very politely, while leaving all decisions up to me, that Henry seemed completely fine to them. I knew that we had a long trip ahead of us and that maybe Henry did and that maybe that was the problem. Saying goodbye, I joked. “Well, if he panics again, or if I do, I guess I can stop and call 911.”

I was rolling my eyes at myself, but the main talker in the group made me make eye contact with him with his special testoroney powers. He would not break gaze, so neither could I. “That is absolutely what you will do,” he said.

A few of them pulled into the right lane of highway traffic and stopped their vehicles so I would have plenty of time and space to get back onto the highway, so it wasn’t scary at all. Then they turned off their lights and drove off, waiting for the next call.

Superlative, indeed.

The other day someone from the cable company called to try to sell me on the 3 in 1 deal, with phone, cable TV and Internet. “We’re all set with just the phone and Internet,” I explained. “We don’t need cable, but thanks.” I was as freakishly pleasant to the telemarketer as always, until she kept pushing.

“But I don’t understand,” she asked. “What do you do about television?”

So I said, in the questioning tone that people use when being really snotty to people who probably don’t have the inclination to read, “We read?”

Regardless of my penchant for the written word, I do love to watch TV when it is meted out in the correct doses. Like most people I know, I grew up watching incredible amounts of Loveboat, Happy Days, Bewitched, Hardy Boys, Fantasy Island, but as an adult I find it extremely depressing and time consuming to turn it on unless it’s for a very specific purpose. After all, watching CSI Miami at the gym would be nothing at all like a birthday if I could do it at home.

But I also beg to watch TV at night, especially since I have a child and am now too tired to have civilized conversations. We own Arrested Development, which we can watch forever and ever because it is the funniest and best with amazing characters, and really captures family lunacy well, though what they portray is of course over the top. And we watch 30 Rock online, and we get movies via Netflix sometimes.

And then, there is Mad Men.

Mad Men is the definition of an addiction, because I think about it far too much; I cannot wait to do it; and then I feel devastated the minute it’s over.

A few years ago I called a good friend one morning after going out for drinks the night before, and I was feeling really down. She pointed out that it was really only after drinking that I called her up and told her her how awful everything is. How astute, that a depressant could leave me feeling depressed! Speaking of drinking and depression and failing to make the connection, let’s head straight back to Mad Men, because we don’t have a whole lot of time to chat about it before the SEASON FOUR PREMIERE.

I have a Jon Hamm obsession but I like to think that it’s not like everyone else’s. What I really like is the goofy real life Jon Hamm who loves talking about farting and his dog and is smiley. The one who hosts SNL and mocks himself for having his last name being a homonym of “ham,” or who makes fun of Don Draper’s character. The version I like doesn’t comb his hair back.

This boyish person who doesn’t take himself too seriously is in high contrast to the haughty exhausted-looking lying and yet judgmental sexaholic with slicked back hair who I still can’t seem to get enough of. He’s a prime example of one of those self-obsessed withholding bastards who, in real life, you’re always trying to attribute some sort of mystery or depth to in order to justify the way he can make you feel when he casts his narcissistic gaze upon you.

“Tractor beams,” we call this gaze. Or shall I call it a glance, because it’s likely to be short lived, and to angle right off of you again and leave you with some sort of head injury.

And yet, Don Draper is both a national and a personal obsession.

But at the same time that I’m obsessed with the show — the outfits, the sexism, the lack of conscience, the completely ignoring your offspring, the crazy rack of Joan — I’m not totally sold. I really want it to have a sum greater than its parts, and whether it will is hard to know until the end. I, like many women including his fictional and beautiful and dumb wife, want to know both if Don Draper is really worth it as a human. However, the discerning television consumer in me also wants to know if he’s worth it as a character.

Enough thinking: let’s start drinking. Bring on the cocktails from 1964! I cannot wait to get together with friends and drink this one in tomorrow.

I’ll let you know if I still don’t think it’s worth getting cable.