updates

Halloween sweatshop hell: The more attentive readers might wonder, "Did she ever finish those costumes? Or did she just say 'the hell with it' and open up a bottle of Ketel One and then pass out, with her head on a pile of spider patterned tulle?" Look here for your answer.

the sociopathic contractor: I haven't been crossing paths directly with the contractor. He has ceased putting pylons into the street, which makes my life less unpleasant, but he did violate his permit by working late at least once, with a huge, cacophonous cement truck (I didn't call the police on that noise violation because I was, for once in a blue moon, actually going out that evening, although I could have). His workmen parked in front of my driveway one day, but the husband had them move.

The sociopath's permit provides him with a fixed space of 30 feet and the right to have cars ticketed or towed which park there. The reality is that he shifts it about and actually takes up more than that, as well as unallotted space on the other side of the street. Recently my friend Joyce came to visit and parked near the construction. She looked for the signs, but there wasn't one by her car. When she left, she discovered that the evil contractor had moved one of his signs next to her car and that she'd gotten an expensive parking ticket.

In order for her to be ticketed, the contractor had to actually take time out from work and call the Department of Parking and Transportation to ask them to send out a Cushman. This street is not patrolled and ticketed unless it's street cleaning time. What a petty jerk he is. I noticed that yesterday a neighbor parked by one of his signs and didn't get ticketed. This added believability to my theory, which is that the contractor saw Joyce go into my house and that's why he called DPT. (There is paranoia and then there is having an actual enemy. The Sober Husband thinks this is the first, while I'm in the second camp).

"I feel like some industrial sabotage," griped Joyce, who is joining me in the club of people who hate the little contractor.

"I hear you," I said. "We gotta wear gloves, though. My fingerprints are on file with the state of California."

Frowstomatic's doppelganger

Thanks to Dlisted (your choice destination for weird cat news as well as Amy Winehouse updates), I learned about Sgt. Podge, a British cat with a striking resemblance to our own Frowst. It turns out Sgt. Podge, like Frowsty, has a marked sense of entitlement. He wanders off each night and is picked up by his owner at the same spot -- a mile and a half from home -- every morning, whereupon he climbs into the family's luxury car with elan.

Glamorous fluffy cats. Those bastards will take over the earth.

so it's come to this: I'm quoting Silliyak

I have no idea if any of the readers quote me (although I did run across a quote from me once online, I think it's more likely someone would quote the irrepressible Lola or the unquenchable Iris Uber Alles). However, the other day I found myself quoting our esteemed commenter, Silliyak, when I was telling a story about the Sober Husband.

"As a friend* of mine said once, 'It's so special to have a spouse who always knows just the right thing to say, like a Hallmark card.'"

I should have said "invisible friend" or even "reader", as I so pretentiously refer to my commenters, but I was talking to my mother, who doesn't know about this blog. I've never told my parents or family about this blog, because the parents are so conservative and religious that they would find no end of things to criticize and be shocked by here. However, I probably could tell them and they wouldn't bother to read it. The Sober Husband mentioned my "website" several times, and my mother didn't ask what sort of "website" it was. I think my parents just don't find me very interesting.

dodgeball is the new Fight Club

"Did you know grown-ups play dodgeball now?" a mommy friend asked me.

"I've heard of kickball leagues."

"It turns out there's a club for dodgeball. My daughter's teacher plays. They play in different locations every time. They don't know where they're playing until they get a call on the day."

"Oh, like raves used to be, all underground."

"Some of the parents went to see her play. They said she was really good!"

We discussed dodgeball memories from our own youth. I had a traumatic experience involving a hard hit to the head which caused my glasses to fly across the room. The other mother had nothing but good memories. Evidently she was quite an assassin with the ball.

"I'd love to play like that," she said wistfully. "But I can't see myself getting out of the house for it. Can you see me saying, 'I have to go play dodgeball now' so my husband has to take care of the kids?"

"You could hold the ball menacingly," I suggested. I held an imaginary dodgeball in a threatening manner and snarled, "I'm going to play dodgeball now!"

it's Lola's world; we just live in it

"This is my world, my land, my universe, and my butt!" proclaimed five year-old Lola.

escape from Childless Island

The more attentive readers may recall that in October, the Drunken Housewife successfully abandoned her small children and Sober Husband to go away for a weekend of adult pleasures in the hills of Mendocino. How the old thing got there has been described, but the rest of the story has not yet been told.

So after four and half hours of horrendous, parking lot-like conditions on the highway, my beloved acquaintance Kimmie and I arrived as night and a light rain were falling. I set up my tent in a most haphazard manner, as nearby fellow partiers/campers inquired, "Does that look right to you? I don't think that looks right" and "Are you sure you're doing that right?"

"So long as I have my little plastic hole to crawl into, I'll be fine," I said optimistically. Ever the dutiful New England Puritan at heart (only so far as work ethic is concerned, not so far as blue laws, drowning witches, and anti-nudity laws go), I was feeling guilty about having arrived late for my volunteer shift in the kitchen. I trotted off and spent some quality time chopping massive quantities of cilantro for the redoubtable Chef Juke, a computer man who spends his free time cooking for large groups of people. Dinner for 150? No problem for Juke!

I had a lovely evening, but it was so much tamer than I'd expected. This camping weekend is somewhat legendary for its outdoor debauchery: porn clowns, whipping posts, adult party favors, naked hot tubbers roaming off into the woods together, etc... This time, though, it was what one might call "brass monkey weather": it was freezing out (literally). After dinner, everyone hunched up by the fire or went off to bed early.

So I traipsed off to bed, crawling into my sleeping bag sober and alone, in flannel pajamas, a hooded sweatshirt, and heavy wool socks. I pulled a couple of blankets over my sleeping bag and curled up.... to not go to sleep. I was so frigging cold and miserable. I slept less than 2 hours total, dozing off occasionally but then being awoken by my own shivering. I have a lovely three seasons tent, in which I had happily slept before during a snowstorm in Utah, but on that occasion I was delightfully accompanied by the Sober Husband (who was at that point a Less-than-sober Boyfriend). It turns out that this tent can be heated up by two people's body heat, but one voluptuous Drunken Housewife alone cannot create enough heat.

In the wee hours I gave up and crawled out, brushed my teeth, grabbed a bottle of sparkling wine and a couple of Red Bulls from my cooler, and curled up in my camping chair, covered by blankets, with these fine beverages and a good novel. I heard a car drive by at an angry clip, leaving the camping trip, but otherwise, it was quiet, other than the occasional rattling snores heard from nearby RVs. I finished my Mark Haddon novel and my Red Bulls in chilly majesty.

Gradually everyone else got up, and I got dressed and wandered down to the center camp for coffee and breakfast. I found some fellow parents, Abs and Toad, also flying solo for the weekend. I poured them each a cup of sparkling wine and proposed a toast: "We are the alpha parents!" Toad joined in: "The beta parents are home with the zeta kids!" At this, a childless acquaintance standing by chastised me, pointing out how Toad's wife was likely to react at hearing this (no one was concerned about how the Sober Husband or Abs' husband would react to this. Oh, how fearsome Abs and I must be that our poor husbands are assumed to be used to submitting to our wills).

I told everyone that it had been my first night sleeping alone in a tent by myself and it was probably going to be my last. "I either need to check into a hotel tonight or have a one night stand," I said repeatedly. The reactions to this fell into two categories: people who spent the night with one or more significant others (there was at least one "triad" in attendance) or in sturdy RVs, who were astonished to hear that I was such a pathetic weakling as to have been bothered by the cold when they themselves enjoyed such a wonderful night's sleep, and those who were in tents by themselves or with skinny companions who throw off little heat, who had also been miserable. The most satisfactory of these responses came from my friend Bridget, who it turns out was the driver of the early morning angry car. She slept so little and was so miserable that she set out to leave at the break of dawn, but after leaving, she reconsidered and came back. This made me feel like less of a outdoors weakling (after all, I'm from Maine originally and grew up in a home where the heater was set at 42 degrees, but then I was accustomed to sharing my bed with a large dog and several cats, and in general I was used to winter suffering).

I had a lovely day chatting with people. I had my very first tarot reading, from the amazing Epiphany. I took a long walk. But all the while, I was teetering back and forth about leaving. I intended to leave before sunset, but the delightful M talked me out of it and served me a yummy basilico cocktail. However, finally the sun was getting low... and I felt so guilty over not having talked to Lola on the phone (the older Iris is so independent that I was sure she was fine, but Lola had been very opposed to her mother leaving)... so I decided to go. I really couldn't face another night of shivering alone in my tent, and I wanted to get into celphone range. I quickly flung my things into the car and drove off.

While the sun was still up, I did fine navigating the tricky intersections and turns in the hills. I found a great local radio station, and I congratulated myself upon my wonderful sense of direction. This, of course, was the kiss of doom. The next thing I knew, it was darkdarkdark, and I was lost. I spent the next two hours driving around slowly trying to find my way to the town of Willits.

For the first hour or so, my equanimity was perfect. After all, I had food, water, sparkling wine, and a sleeping bag with me. If I had to spend the night in my car, I would have no real problems.

Over the second hour, I slowly started to feel stressed. I was in some pretty remote hills, and I started to feel sorry for myself. Finally I drove near a house with plenty of lights on, and I decided to stop for directions. As soon as I pulled into the driveway, a pack of hounds started barking maniacally. I decided not to walk up to the house, since the last thing I wanted was to provoke a pack of dogs. A man who evidently had quite a buzz on wandered out of the house to see what was going on. He found the novelty of a lost woman quite intriguing and he would have liked to help, but he was incapable of giving good directions. "You'll want to go left, then right, then go across the bridge and take the third left, but watch out for the Y..." I asked him if he knew any of the street names, and he didn't. His directions were entirely incomprehensible and unhelpful, but I got one thing of value from him: I asked him to just point towards Willits, and I drove away in that direction, planning to stop again at the next suitable house.

It took me over half an hour of stressful driving in the dark in the middle of nowhere to find another house which looked reasonable to stop at. I only wanted to go to a house with plenty of lights on, as I didn't want to disturb anyone (people go to bed earlier in rural areas, as I know all too well from my own childhood), and I didn't want to get cornered by dogs at a house where the owners were out. Finally I found a normal-looking house with both the telltale glow of a large television set and several lights on, and I pulled in. From the road, it looked like there was a pleasant front porch with a front door, but when I walked up, I saw that the porch had been blocked off, which seemed strange, but I overlooked it and walked around to the back of the house and knocked. A man came to the door. At this point, I began to feel self-conscious about my clothes: I hadn't changed before setting off in a hurry, and I was wearing a very low-cut zebra striped shirt over a push up bra. Clearly it was a fascinating novelty for this country dweller to find a middle-aged woman dressed like a skank at his door at night. I pulled my neckline up self-consciously. This fellow didn't feel like just handing out directions until he'd wrapped his mind around how I'd come to be there. "Where's your car? You aren't on foot, are you? You were camping?"

Finally he got to the point of offering me directions, and his were excellent. It turns out I had blundered near town, although it was still unpopulated where I was. The man, so amused and bemused over my arrival, became quite solicitous and offered that I come in to warm up, get something to drink, etc... All I wanted was a hotel, the security of knowing where I was, and celphone service, but I did ask if I could use the bathroom. My host pointed the way and then disappeared into the front of his house.

It was clearly a bachelor home, messy in that way of a man who lives alone, and I felt fine until I saw a side door, which had several shotguns up against it. Usually in hunting homes, shotguns are kept in racks or in a gun closet, so these guns looked more like they were there to defend that particular door. Then the bathroom itself seemed weird: unlike the rest of the house, it was large and clinically clean, brightly lit and weirdly aseptic. "This must be where he disposes of his victims,", I thought. I scurried out of the bathroom and then saw a large number of guns leaning up around the very same door I'd gone into. I've grown up around guns, but never have I been in a home which seemed so clearly set up to annihilate anyone who ventured to the door. I turned my head in the direction my host had gone, but all I saw was a large screen TV with a closeup of a man having his brains blown out on it. "Thanks so much, I'm on my way now!" I called cheerily, and I scuttled quickly to my car before my new acquaintance, whom I was viewing right now as a potential serial killer (but also a possible good ally in any future zombie wars) could get back into the same room. As I practically ran past the front porch, the fact that it had been blocked off now seemed ominous and significant.

I calmed down in my car as the gun enthusiast's directions proved excellent, and soon I was in Willits. The directions were so good that I wondered if I had misjudged this fellow, and I contemplated whether, since I had nothing else to do, I should go back and watch television with him.

I succeeded in checking into the hotel recommended by my friend M., a western-themed hotel, where I was disappointed to be assigned to the Post Office room rather than the Saloon. I talked on the phone to the children (where I learned to no surprise that Lola had indeed been crying for me). The Sober Husband, upon hearing that I was in Willits, announced to the children that Mommy would be home in a few hours! "NO!" I shouted over the sounds of celebration. "My nerves are too shot to drive! I only had two hours sleep! I'm not safe to drive! I told you I'm at a hotel!" Instead I curled up with Scarlett Thomas's "PopCo" and a bag of wasabi peas; I woke up just before check-out time at 11:00 AM. I got home the next day in the early afternoon.

where's the art in it?

So Chicken John Rinaldi, a local bon vivant from Burning Man circles, is running for mayor. At one point I received an email solicitation from someone (not from Mr. Rinaldi) urging me to donate and saying that "this is the greatest art ever!"

I just don't get it. Where is the art? Where is the orginality in it? Jello Biafra ran for mayor of San Francisco already, and I think there was a lot more political discourse that time around. Everyone tends to forget that Jack Fertig, a.k.a. "Sister Boom Boom" of the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence also ran for mayor before.

There seems to be a lot of credulity about. A local blogger, who writes for a weekly newspaper and really should know better, wrote all agush that Chicken John is one of the founders of Burning Man and therefore we should all vote for him. Well, actually, wasn't Chicken John in high school when Burning Man was founded? All the founders are about twenty years older than C.J. When I was a member of the Burning Man LLC, Chicken John had a very tiny role doing some materiel transportation. Chicken John for several years ran a local bar very popular with the Buring Man set, and that is an accomplishment indeed (most people don't have it together enough to be able to meet the various financial and legal requirements needed for a liquor license, as well as run an actual day-to-day business), but not much of a basis upon which to run for mayor.

Even if Chicken John had founded Burning Man, why would that be a reason to vote for him? I adore Larry Harvey, the actual founder of Burning Man, but I would never suggest that Larry would be a good mayor of a major city. (Larry's just not good enough at getting up in the morning to function well as mayor).

Chicken John's ballot statement was pretty boring and seemed to express only that voting for him is somehow threatening to the establishment and a good time. There have always been truly eccentric minority candidates on the ballot, so I don't see why it's so wacky and life-affirming to vote for Chicken.

I'm not enamoured of Mayor Newsom in the least and would really love to see him voted out. I'm disappointed that there has been no substantive opposition at all. There hasn't been any fun anarchy that I've noticed, either. I wish Chicken had done something on a larger, more vivid scale. So far, I don't see the art in any of this, and I don't see any interesting political commentary, either. What I mostly see is people forgetting history.

one I get, but not the other

Just turned five, Lola seems to be growing up with an interesting set of prejudices here in San Francisco. Today at the playground she sang softly to herself as I pushed her on a swing, "We're here, we're queer; we're here, we're queer."

Tonight as we ate pizza (jack o'lanterns are taking up the whole kitchen, so no cooking tonight), Anton asked the children (for some opaque reason of his own) if they knew who was the Jewish person in the family. Iris opined, "You, me and Lola!"

Lola protested, "But I don't have any money!!"

[Technically these children, born to a WASP mother and a secular Jew, are not Jewish, but they do enjoy "the right of return", meaning that they could exercise the option to live in Israel, but of course Lola would have to work hard to get the money for the flight].

just a little ray of sunshine

I tend to be a bit of a negative person, given to ranting and kvetching and bitching, but here are some Things I Love:

* coffee from Southeast Asia. Most of all, I love Celebes Kalossi coffee, oh the best coffee for me ever, but also Mokka Java and Sulawesi. These are the coffees for me. When I went to Borneo, I didn't get a bad cup of coffee. Of course, there coffee was traditionally served with a thick layer of sweetened condensed milk at the bottom of the cup, so one may stir in as much as one wishes. I would drink my coffee like that every day were it not so fattening (evidently I am not so metabolically gifted or energetic as the Borneans);

* Wesley Anderson's movies. I'm excited to see his newest film (hoping to cajole my parents into a night of babysitting when they visit soon). I loved "Rushmore", "The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou", and "The Royal Tenenbaums." He's my ideal director/visionary, one who creates a film with a strong ensemble cast, clever dialogue, and understated yet complex backdrops;

* Lola! She slept in her Halloween costume two nights in a row, loving it so much. "It's not even itchy one bit", she gallantly insisted;

* "The Walking Dead" ongoing comic serial. People, zombies are the new vampire! Auteur Robert Kirkman has the ambition of running his comic book for thirty years, covering the every day life of men after the onslaught of the zombies, and he's given us many a volume so far. Currently I am FRIGGING SPELLBOUND, waiting anxiously for the current cliffhanger to be resolved (hopefully without too many of my favorite characters being killed). Mr. Kirkman is a gifted author, and his scenarios are so stmospheric that they can interfere with one's sleep;

* sangria! I made a large pitcher today with two bottles of red wine, a cup of cognac (I was out of brandy, so had to use cognac... at least I didn't delve into the armagnac for it), and the customary fruit and sugar. How I love a traditional sangria;

* my current litter of foster kitten tabbies, who love to curl up against my neck and purr. Yes, they have a lot of litterbox accidents, but they are so snuggly and dear;

* driving barefoot. Why is this illegal? I have perfect control over the gas and brake with my muscular and flexible big toe, which is more responsive when not blunted by an awkward shoe. How I love to drive barefoot, accelerating and braking with such sensitivity yet verve;

* "Project Runway Canada", which features Iman as the Heidi Klum. The judges are oh so polite, living up to the stereotype of Nice Canadians, but the designers are just as egotistical, short-tempered, given to bursting into song to mock the others, and short-sighted as the American designers. And the clothes: Sheer Genius strutting down the runway next to Oh So Misguided. I could never get enough of "Project Runway Canada." Check out the Slice channel site, which features blogs by the designers (love Biddell's bitchy blog, where he refers to himself constantly in the third person as "the Biddell" and where he snarks at guest judges/Heatherette designers, calling them "the Paris Hilton of fashion").

criminal tendencies in a second grader: the teacher weighs in

So yesterday I reported that eight year-old Iris Uber Alles had filled out a homework assignment in an irreverent manner. Specifically, when asked "Lin wants to buy a toy and has $3. The toy costs $2. What will Lin do?", Iris had written, "Lin will use the five finger discount." In what was perhaps not one of my more stellar moments of parental oversight, I found that hilarious and did not tell her to write a more serious answer.

Tonight Iris's concerned second grade teacher called. It turns out that the teacher did not know what "five finger discount" means. She asked her husband, who explained that it meant shoplifting. Rather than find this amusing, the teacher became alarmed that eight year-old Iris is a seasoned thief. She quickly picked up the phone to alert us to our child's criminal musings. (The Sober Husband reassured her that Iris Uber Alles is an irreverent but law-abiding child).

It's best that the Sober Husband fielded that call, as again my reaction was to laugh uncontrollably.

Halloween sweatshop hell!!!!

So last year Iris wanted to be her cat, Frowstomatic the Immortal God, for Halloween. I was pretty busy with the auction at Lola's preschool and some other things, so I jumped at that chance to get off easy. I bought Iris a black turtleneck and black leggings, and I butchered a boa for a tail. We already owned a black hat with kitten ears.

But then Lola decided to be her cat, Al the idiotic orange tabby, and I couldn't just assemble that easily from pieces. So I sewed her an orange cat costume from scratch.

As we trick-or-treated, everyone oohed and aahed over Lola's costume, while poor Iris got little attention.

So this year the priority is Iris's costume, and Iris decided a month ago that she and one of her friends wanted to have matching costumes. So I'm tediously sewing them elaborate gowns for their witch costumes... from slippery Halloween fabrics which are a terrible pain to work with...

and I just discovered that the little wrists and cuffs are too small to fit over the sewing surface of my crappy old Singer Fashionmate, so now I have A TON OF FUSSY LITTLE HANDSEWING TO DO. My God. How I hate this kind of handsewing. Now I am not lazy about sewing; I'm about a third of the way through piecing together a king sized handsewn quilt, but that is sensible handsewing done with sturdy, easy-to-sew cottons, not some crappy polyester patterned with silver cobwebs. (And don't suggest I shouldn't buy crappy polyester if I don't want to sew it; the children selected this one and set their hearts on it).

I had previously decided to skip the step of handsewing NINE YARDS OF SEQUINED TRIM (I am not joking. Four and a half yards x two costumes = nine yards of unpleasant hand sewing), deciding that if the little children wanted sequins, they could sew them on with their own little hands. But now I'll be up sewing by hand for hours anyway.

Meanwhile the husband had a hard day at the old grind: his funky high-tech start-up held a treasure hunt today. Yes, a treasure hunt. He spent the afternoon running about downtown solving clues, and the evening drinking in a bar. The poor man got a bit of a sucker punch: when I called him to inquire why he had not picked up Iris Uber Alles from her afterschool playdate, I was in a good mood and authorized him to stay and drink. But by the time he came home, I'd lost valuable sewing time driving around to pick up Iris, the children had started squabbling, some weird bugs which breed under our deck at this time of year and give Lola hysterics had gotten in, and I'd discovered that I'd be forced to handsew for hours. So when he arrived by taxi, I bit his head off about how this is two nights he's been out drinking in the last few days when he knows I'm so busy with these frigging costumes and need help around the house. It's getting about time to rename him the Drunken Husband and call me the Sober Seamstress (or perhaps Sober Shrew).

criminal tendencies in a second grader

Iris has asked me on several occasions lately about juvenile hall. "Am I old enough to go to juvie? Is it jail for kids? Is it like jail? What is it like? Were you ever arrested?"

Tonight she was doing her homework, which was "predictions." I took a look. One scenario was that a little girl named Lin wants to buy a toy and has $3. The toy costs $2. What will Lin do? Iris had written, "Lin will use the five finger discount."

I burst out laughing. "What? What?" asked Iris.

"Hassenpfeffer, your teachers aren't going to want to leave their bags in the classroom."

"They already don't," noted Iris.

housework & a news flash from a sister working in a hospital

Since the readers and I have been thinking of late about housework and the domestic division of labor, I shall pass on an update: yesterday I was feeling energetic, and I spent about an hour and a half working hard about the house. Today it looks worse than ever. What could be less rewarding than housework? Incidentally a big part of this is the current batch of kittens, who are remarkably slovenly about their toilet habits. I have resorted to locking them up for large periods of time in a small pen to try to train them to use the litterbox. Today, within 45 minutes of being released from their pen, they had FIVE DISGUSTING ACCIDENTS. I have renamed our home "Kitten Hell." Lola says it is "Kitten Heaven" for her, but we all agree that it's not heavenly for me. (The Sober Husband has been quite acerbic on the topic of these kittens lately, but he is at present sojourning in Minneapolis on business). (Incidentally my forearm is not so gargantuan as in this picture; t'is a trick of the laptop camera).

But before we start imagining, as is my wont, how delightful it would be to escape all this for a lovely office, here is a dispatch from a spritely friend who works as a nurse:

Hee hee...this is kinda weird...but there was this woman that used to be the hospital phone operator. She was a HORRIBLE employee. She used to fall asleep during her shift and pull a drawer open to cover the window that would allow people to catch her. While she was sleeping, patients would call the ER's direct line and complain that they couldn't get through on the hospital's main number, so I would run down there and investigate. It got to be that I started bringing the hospital supervisor with me, we would unlock the door quietly and take her picture sleeping (10 or 20 times of proof)...but they could never seem to fire her.

Also, back then, it used to be that when she went on her dinner break for an hour, that she would transfer the phone system up to the Emergency Room where I worked and I would answer the calls for that time (keep in mind that our shift started at 12 am and ended at 8 am). She was supposed to take her break at 4 or 5 in the morning which would not cause me too to have to answer too many calls during that time (because people are sound asleep for the most part), but even then, sometimes it was difficult for me to do it if my ER was really busy. Anyhow...she started taking her dinner break at 6:30 am or 7 am (I guess she'd try to go home early or something)...

Well, thats when people are awake and have come into the ER and are calling like CRAZY.

I told my boss that it was just completely unreasonable for her to do that and she was told to take her break between 4 and 6 am instead. She was very angry at me, so she started switching the phones to me at 7 am anyway, stating that she had to pee, since she hadn't had a break since 5 am. SO, instead of her going to the bathroom that was 10 feet from her office, she HAD to go to the one that is upstairs 2 flights of stairs...Plus sometimes she would be gone for over a half hour.

I complained again and she was told not to do that...she was again very angry with me. SO, she started peeing in the garbage can in the phone operators' room which is about 7'X14' and it would stink up the entire room. When the next operators would come in, they would feel ill from the smell.

Do you know how they got rid of her? They couldn't fire her, but when she applied for a management position at [a large HMO] they gave her a raving letter of recomendation and she actually got the job. ONLY in a Union can you sleep and pee and slack so bad, and still continue to keep your job. Sheesh!

the lamentation of Lola

It's going to be a long, rough winter by our San Francisco standards, with plenty of rain. This morning Lola, a native San Franciscan who is accustomed to nothing more onerous than a bit of fog, felt assailed by the rain. Dramatically she proclaimed, "Why was I born to this???"

the WSJ has offended me. Oh, my working sisters, resist!

In today's Wall St. Journal, columnist Sue Shellenbarger writes about "family coaches", self-proclaimed experts who teach busy mothers housework and decluttering routines.

Why is this offensive to me? Because Sue Shellenberger, a working mother herself who should certainly know better, portrays this as exclusively the problem of mothers, who need to hire experts and learn how to guilt trip their children. Fathers evidently have no responsibilities in the home.

Shellenberger opens with the heartrending story of Vicki Ryan, whose husband stopped wanting to come home after work because Vicki, an accountant and mother of four, kept such a messy home. So why the hell didn't Derek Ryan start doing some frigging housework himself? Instead, he made his wife feel terrible until she hired a family coach. Now Vicki fines her children for not putting their laundry into baskets, locks up their possessions in "Clutter Jail", and has a "command center" for filing her calendars and bills. There is no mention of any steps taken by Derek to improve the running of the home.

Another mother was taught by her family coach to emotionally manipulate her sons into doing chores by whining about how she hates feeling like their maid. "Since she began making the changes several years ago, her sons have shown more empathy in general." Again, no mention of the husband's role. (I also wonder about these sons, who are perhaps now being programmed to marry whiny, passive-aggressive women).

A third mother, Laura Simon, a full-time worker and mother of four, also turned to a parenting coach in desperation, who talked Ms. Simon into reducing her work schedule to part-time so she could start cooking family dinners. (Shellenbarger seemed rather judgmental of Ms. Simon, noting that family coaches can only help the motivated after astringently observing that Ms. Simon eventually gave up getting up at dawn for an early morning work out, as prescribed by the family couch.)

The only mention of a husband doing anything about the home in Shellenbarger's column is participating in a "7 minute sprint", which is evidently a beloved tool of the family coaches. Mothers set timers for seven minutes, and the entire family must dash about madly picking up toys and clutter. This puts the husband/father on the same level as a toddler, required only to pick up the most egregious clutter briefly.

Why is keeping the home the province of the women, rather than a joint responsibility with their husbands? This is especially annoying given that most of the women used as examples worked full-time when their homes were falling apart.

Indeed, the very phrase "working mother" offends me. Why doesn't anyone talk about "working fathers"?

When two people live together, they should make a mutually suitable agreement about the division of labor. When there are children in the picture, it is much easier all around if one person doesn't go to an office, but that person should not automatically be the woman (I am happy to see stay-at-home fathers increasing). In our case, I'm the parent who is with the children in the days, but it's not because I'm the genetic female. It's because I was so burnt out and over-stressed as a litigator (although being at home with a colicky baby was not exactly peaceful, it was a change of pace). When both people work full-time and there are children, of course it's most likely things will be crazy and stressful (unless the family is able to retain a variety of hired help). But it seems so wrongheaded to make this the woman's responsibility to keep the home lovely.

My own husband does not get off scot-free with the housework, despite the fact that I am not working full-time. And here I'll give you a tip, which has worked very well for us since I invented it, and unlike a "family coach", I won't charge you for it. We often hold an "hour of power" on the weekend, where we set the timer for 1 hour and we both work like demons. There are two virtues to this. First, it avoids the resentment created whenever there is one person doing housework alone, bitter, bitter resentment. Secondly and more practically, it is amazing how much two energetic people can accomplish in one hour.

My sisters, especially the working ones, do not accept the sexist status quo! If your able-bodied husband bitches about the state of the house, arch a sarcastic eyebrow at him over your cocktail and inquire what he intends to do about it.

sociopathic contractor update

I haven't had many run-ins with the sociopathic contractor lately, in large part because some storms have interfered with his construction project. But this morning, he woke me up starting construction at an ungodly early hour. It was 7:22 when I gave up and consulted the clock.

As a veteran insomniac, my sleep is incredibly fragile and precious to me. It's completely unfathomable why this man feels he can run motorized equipment, hammer and saw in a residential neighborhood so early. The Sober Husband went out for a chat with the workers, who say they have the right to start work at 7:00 AM but apologized.

We have no complaints against the actual workers. The husband actually tried to help them the other night when they were locked out of their car and the police came by and questioned them. (It's a pretty white, upscale neighborhood, and someone other than us must have called the police). My problem is with their boss, that pocket-sized sociopath. I smile at the workers when I cross their path as they are moving pylons into the street.

it's a wonder

Iris loomed over me as I was reading the latest Richard Russo novel, rubbing her surgically gloved hands together (she has many pairs of these disposable gloves, enjoying the squeaking sounds they make when rubbed together). "You make me nervous!" I complained. "I feel like you're going to perform some kind of medical procedure on me."

"Have you ever had a medical procedure?"

"Oh God, yes."

After much questioning, I explained that, on various occasions, I'd had my gallbladder, miscellaneous gallstones, and a growth removed (I forgot to mention the operation I had to remove part of Lola's placenta). Iris was spellbound.

"With so many things removed from you, it's a wonder you can still stand!"

while setting up

The morning before Lola's birthday party, the Sober Husband inquired, "Are you planning to do the litterboxes?"

"What kind of a question is that? I do the litterboxes EVERY DAY. Actually, I was planning to do it as an activity. I'll have the kids fish for turds during the party."

Iris wandered in at this point. "What? What? Fish for what?"

"At Lola's party, I'm going to have the kids clean the litterboxes as an activity. I'll give them the litter scoop, and they can see who fishes out the most!"

"That's gross."

Lola's birthday party, take II

Lola's "Flower Kitten"-themed fifth birthday party was canceled at the last moment due to unscheduled vomiting, and yesterday we tried again. Unfortunately several of the invited guests were unable to attend the rescheduled party, but perhaps it was for the best, as we nearly achieved the Developmentally Correct Birthday Party of one guest for each year. In the event, we had six guests; if the first party had proceeded as planned, there would have been nine or ten guests (I had over-invited on the theory that many children would be busy and unable to attend, so you need some overage, and also due to the fact that Lola made a long list of desired child invitees).

Of course the Sober Husband and I didn't manage to completely prepare for the party. The first guests arrived as the husband was vacuuming and before I'd set up the snacks. Lola herself was dithering about. She has long been obsessed with the idea of a surprise party and has often harangued me about why didn't I make her last party a surprise party. On innumerable occasions she nagged me to be sure to make her guests hide and jump out to "surprise" her. I am dubious that four and five year-olds can be directed to that extent, and besides that, how can it be a surprise if Lola saw me make the cake and hang up the Hello Kitty birthday banner? In the end, I told her she was welcome to hide in her room and come down after some guests had arrived so she could be "surprised", and she planned to do this, but yet she couldn't resist answering the door herself and playing with the very first guests to arrive. I anticipate another solid year of being harangued about why I didn't throw her a surprise party like she requested.

I tried to create a special role for Iris. Last year, Iris was in a foul mood throughout Lola's birthday party and went so far as to create a sign that said, "Stop. Stay Out" which she posted on the door of the master bedroom, wherein she sulked. Of course all Lola's friends were illiterate, I was unobservant, and the only one who paid attention to the sign was the Sober Husband, who ironically was the only person who would have been welcomed by the little sulker.

What I had in mind for Iris this year was Keeper of the Kittens. For the first party date, I arranged for one of Iris's best friends, a delightful girl, to join Iris, and I thought they could keep all the kittens in the master bedroom with toys and supervise Lola's guests in playing with the kittens. On the second party date, Iris's friend was not available, and Iris had no interest in staying with the kittens, who were set free to roam the house. Most of them climbed on top of the guests' mothers and took naps in these exciting new laps. Iris did however accept the last minute post of Face Painter, and she gave nearly every guest a kitten visage. (I had meant to paint my own face to set the tone, but the first guest arrived before I could start on a nose and whiskers. All I had was extravagant eye make-up, which no one remarked upon but which happily startled me every time I passed a mirror).

For the grown-ups, we had fresh homemade salsa and chips, as well as iced tea, beer, and sparkling wine. For the children, we had a fruit punch, hardboiled eggs, bananas, goldfish crackers, and some semi-stale Pirate Puffs. (Here we see a decline in the quality of the Drunken Housewife's birthday parties. For Iris's fifth birthday party, I made a big buffet of homemade snacks, with chickpea dip; handheld Caesar salads; two kinds of punch, including one for which I grated ginger; and many more delights. Probably next year for Lola's birthday, I'll heat up some TV dinners). For all ages, we had artisanal bread, a yuppie cheese, and a homemade chocolate cake. With the cake, Lola had directed that "on the frosting, make a kitten. Make the kitten be about to take a flower in his mouth", but that proved beyond my abilities. I did draw various cat faces and stuck some candy flowers hither and yon on the cake, and Lola accepted this gracefully.

The successes of the party were the latest crop of foster kittens, who were very friendly and tiny (last year's foster kittens hid during Lola's party and were not seen until several hours after the last little guest departed), and the barbaric pinata. The Sober Husband and I hate pinata as we believe they promote pushiness, plus it's so grotesque to see children hitting cute things with sticks. On the other hand, Lola feels strongly that it is not a party without a pinata, so we obtained an adorable Hello Kitty pinata in the Mission. At the store where we found the intellectual property-infringing pinata, there was a plethora of cheap socks and underwear for sale. I briefly fantasized about filling the pinata with sensible socks and underpants, imagining the reaction of the guests, but Lola is not one to be toyed with.

The only problem at the party was one of the mothers, who got solidly drunk. I am not sure how much she drank, but I believe it was on the order of 5-7 or more drinks in a two hour period. I myself had only 1.5 drinks, and no one else had more than one (most parents chose to have a single beer or a glass of iced tea along with the salsa and chips). Everyone else left at the appointed hour, and only the inebriated mother was left. She was upstairs bathing a foster kitten in the sink, and she was too intoxicated to turn the sink off. I felt somewhat responsible, as we were indeed providing drinks, but the Sober Husband did not, as the mother in question had helped herself to several beers plus several glasses of sparkling wine from the refrigerator. We had in actuality not served her a single drink. This left us in a very awkward position, as I did not want her to drive, but she refused our repeated overtures regarding getting her home. (We offered to have the Sober Husband drive her car to her home with her in it, from whence he would make his way home on foot or by taxi). In the end, she left, leaving her daughter behind, whom we ferried home an hour later. The husband and I were still squabbling over how to handle this, in whispers, when we ended up leaving to take the little girl home. We were both relieved to find that the mother in question had gotten home safely. (Readers, how does one most effectively remove a guest's keys? It was more difficult in this situation in that we didn't know the guest well at all. Also, her keys were concealed about her person, not in a purse which could have been confiscated. We tried, but I feel terrible that we did not succeed).

This morning Lola requested that she have a birthday party every day. "I can be five plus every day! We can have cake every day! And guests!"

close enough

Recently I picked up some new foster kittens. The head of my program wanted to give me a litter of three plus a singleton kitten. She had the paperwork ready for me; it was just a matter of rounding up the correct kittens in her spacious home. After a while, she grew impatient and grabbed the next tabby she saw. "Close enough," she remarked.

not Shrub, no

"Can you pray to the President?" Lola asked.

She couldn't understand why we --- Anton, Iris, and I --- reacted with horror.

gender

"Usually dogs are boys, and usually cats are girls," argues Lola. She refuses to accept the reality that most of our current foster kittens are of the male persuasion.

In other news, Lola is concerned that there may be an impending alien invasion. Keep your eyes on the sky!

escape from Child Island, part I

So yes, last Friday the Drunken Housewife shrugged aside her responsibilities and left town. I had initially planned to leave around 7:00, after the husband got home from work, but then I realized, "Why am I being so thoughtful and considerate?" I decided instead to leave right after dropping Lola at pre-k, forcing the husband to leave his beloved job early to pick up the children at their various schools, take Iris to her piano lesson, etc.. I picked up an old acquaintance I hadn't seen in years, and we were off, after cramming my aged Oldsmobile to capacity with our tents, coolers, provisions, etc..

Friday seemed to be a Law Enforcement Extravaganza in Northern California. First, we saw police handcuffing someone in the city for obscure reasons. Later we stopped along the way for a bathroom break and snack, and as we were wolfing down our salads in the car, an officer arrested a man in the parking lot. Then we had to stop again in Cloverdale when my car's coolant light went on. Cloverdale was swarming with police everywhere. The barista at the Starbucks explained that there was a drive to bust people for "making California stops" (my passenger could not understand this, and I explained it meant a rolling stop, rather than a true, respectable stop). My passenger grew nervous at all these police and kept repeating, "I've seen two people put in handcuffs!" I wondered to myself whether it would be safe to try to make up lost time by speeding and decided not to; I was happy with this decision after we passed a speed trap.

The transition between mommy and party-goer was made easier for me because my passenger was a preschool teacher, who enjoyed discussing the developmental appropriateness of various educational approaches. All through Marin, we were mired in stop-and-go traffic, and around Santa Rosa, we were again reduced to a hideous crawl. Santa Rosa is always a bottleneck of all roadtrips, and I've noticed a miasma of depression emanates from 101 there. We were just cheering up from the depression of Santa Rosa and its traffic when we were caught in a torrential rainstorm around Boonville. Of course, we had neither of us packed raingear, relying upon weather reports indicating clear skies, highs in the seventies and lows in the forties. However, we saw the most psychedelic double rainbow I've ever seen outside of Maui. "You could really believe there's gold at the foot of that one," I said.

We got to our destination nearly five hours after setting out, after a final 45 minutes drive on small, mostly unpaved, winding roads off the highway. (The official directions cheerily state that this destination is "2 1/2 hours from the Golden Gate Bridge", but I say, "Ha!"). My passenger and I braced ourselves for our "greeting" as we arrived. (Over the last decade, the phenomenon of "greeters" has arisen at Burning Man and various other camping events. The concept is that a seasoned attendee will answer your questions and direct you to where there is still room for you to set up your camp. The reality is that 99% of the people arriving know what to do and where to go already and just want to get down to it. The further reality is that greeters have developed their own version of the "Security Guard syndrome" and have taken to demanding presents, alcohol, pharmaceuticals, love, and admiration). We had both had a bad experience being greeted on a prior occasion at this same camping party. "Just roll the windows down part-way and don't get out," hissed my normally laid-back passenger. Perhaps because it was getting dark and spitting a few drops of rain, our greeter let us through without argument.

I had a lot of trouble turning my car around on a steep, unpaved, narrow path near my passenger's chosen campsite, but soon I was settled in "Codgerville." (I had asked some old friends to save me a spot in this quiet zone). Later I renamed this spot "Daly City", as people were thinking of Bay Area equivalents for their campsites. ("You're in Fruitvale", one person taunted another. "Try to think of it as Emeryville", I advised the alleged Fruitvale resident).

As it got dark quickly, I threw up my tent in a rather haphazard manner. Another Codgerville resident opined, "That doesn't look right." "I'll fix it in the morning," I said as I flung my Thermarest mattresses and sleeping bag in. I was fretting at being late for my volunteer shift in the communal kitchen and eager to start the party. "As long as I have a little plastic hole to crawl into, I'll be fine."

to be continued (honestly, "to be milked" would be more accurate. I don't get out of the city limits much so must make the most of it when I do)

learning to spell

As we drove home from pre-k, Lola was angry with me and largely uncommunicative. Finally she perked up and inquired, "How do you spell 'ass'?"

road raging five year-old

The other day Lola, Iris and I got caught up in some very intense rush hour traffic. Lola was seething in the backseat and finally, fed up, demanded, "Can't you even honk this thing?"

I said that I could in theory honk my horn but I didn't feel like it, and Lola, exasperated at dealing with someone of so little acumen, pointed out, "All the other cars are honking!"

a ballad about a Drunken Housewife

The "Wild Dog of Paradise" ran across this blog and was kind enough to share with me that he has written a song, "Drunken Housewife." He sang it at his wedding, and his bride sang along (a woman with a sense of humor, no doubt). Enjoy!

the song of the pink and gold Barbie

This morning Lola made up a very long and complicated song, which she sung while waving her new birthday Barbie about. I sneakily slipped into the study and wrote down as many of the lyrics as I could while she sang. Later, I told her, "I loved your song!"

"What?"

"That song you made up!"

"What?"

"This morning, when you were singing!"

"What?"

After several rounds of this, we established that the Barbie made up and performed the song, not Lola. Anyhow, here, for your delectation, are some of the lyrics written by the pink and gold birthday Barbie:

You have to be completely yourself!
Be completely emotion-full!
Be completely ocean-full!
Oh, change the world with love!
Oh, sing along!
You can attract it even if you don't sing along!
But please choose to sing along!
Please make a choice with action!
Please make a choice!
Please let it be my choice!
'Cuz I really need a partner, so please choose my idea.

It started out rather stirring and inspirational (which is when I started secretly writing down the lyrics), but it devolved into rather pathetic begging. Somehow, that seems to suit the core concept of Barbie.

will I escape?

First: the Sober Husband has requested that I inform the readers how he did shopping for Lola (I asked him to run out on her birthday and pick her up a couple of extra gifts). He did very well indeed, bringing home a nightlight and a Barbie sporting a pink and gold gown with some accessories. Lola loves this Barbie and likes to fuss about with her tiny plastic accoutrements.

Poor Lola evidently was too miserable on Sunday to grasp what was going on with her party. It wasn't until Tuesday that she asked me, sadly, why her friends didn't come to her party. "Because I called all their mothers and told them you were throwing up" helped her to shake her belated feelings of rejection. She worried that we'd eaten too much of her birthday cake to have enough for her friends, but again the promise of a new birthday cake cleared up her sorrows.

Until... I remarked at the dinner table, "You do know I'm going out of town this weekend, right?" This was met with sullen acknowledgment from the Sober Husband and outright astonishment and woe by five year-old Lola. "No Mommy World, no Mommy love??!" she said pathetically.

I'm planning to leave Friday to go on an annual camping party held in the Mendocino hills each year by friends. I haven't been to one of these since Lola was a fetus, and somehow it would never have occurred to me that I could brazenly drive off and attend by myself (children are persona non grata, and the Sober Husband doesn't care for this sort of thing much). My friend Abs, a more dynamic sort of mommy than me, proposed that I attend, pointing out that she was leaving her two children with her husband for the weekend. Thinking about it, I couldn't see a valid reason not to go (aside from Lola's hurt feelings). The husband has escaped back to Chicago and other points back East to attend various weddings, poker games, funerals, business trips, etc.. without us from time to time (indeed, he'll be off on a conference later this month), but since I procreated over eight years ago, I've only gone off on my own three times (twice on quick trips to see my best friend from high school, and once to drive seventy-odd rats down to L.A. to go up for adoption).

Currently I'm waiting for a shoe to drop or a child to vomit, causing me to stay home. It feels impossible that I can just drive off. We'll see. We will also see whether I have a good time off on my own. I'm very much looking forward to this, but the sad underlying reality is that I've become very unaccustomed to prolonged conversations not involving children. Can the Drunken Housewife resuscitate a bit of her former personality, one which was allegedly witty and vivacious? Or is she going to be one of those sad, sad lifeless parent-losers who keeps telling pointless anecdotes about how cute her children are? ("And then Iris called her father 'Dorky McDork of the Dorks!', and Lola and I laughed and laughed").

tiny little updates

The sociopathic contractor: I have decided that my parking spot is my Achilles' heel. It is true that I have become irrationally attached to that parking spot (to the point that I cringed when I read an article about a serial killer who had seemed oh so normal ... except for his extreme anger when anyone parked in his chosen parking spot). The Buddha teaches us that our attachments cause us suffering, and that is obviously true in this case. For example, I get upset when anyone stays parked in my spot for days. Also, parking in my spot all the time leaves me vulnerable. Security advisors are always stressing the importance of not having a predictable routine. I am certain Sun Tzu would agree.

So, I must part with my beloved parking space (right in front of my house! So easy to get children and all their things to and fro! Shaded!). Today I parked in front of my neighbor's house across the street. As I did that, the evil contractor, who was on the sidewalk at the time, gave a double take and stared at my car. Advantage: Drunken Housewife. Sun Tzu would be proud.

My cooking blog: Experience the passive-aggressive joys of beets!

Lola's birthday: We will hold her Flower Kitten party in two weeks. In the mean time, Lola and I are not well enough to do much, but not sick enough to take to our beds with any happiness. I felt a bit idiotic today as I had only gotten two presents for Lola (a snowglobe from the Hotel Del Coronado and a stuffed cat which comes with a key to unlock the wonders of the Webkinz website). Yes, those are measly offerings indeed for a fashion goddess turning five, but I figured she was going to get a ton of presents from her friends the day before, as well as presents from her grandparents. So I gave the Sober Husband the mandate today to get a present or two for the Birthday Child. We shall just see what he comes home with.

crappy (but not too eventful) update

I realized (and I should have realized this a long time ago) that the contractor who was giving me such grief is actually not only the contractor on this project, but the owner as well. I was talking to my next door neighbor, who brought up the subject, and he reminded me that the short, balding pylon-obsessive is indeed the same person who paid nearly one million dollars for this tiny lot with a tiny house on it. (Incidentally my neighbor has also run over a pylon. "He's taking over the street!" complained my sweet-tempered neighbor).

This, to me, makes the contractor's behavior worse. He's not trying to please some fussy homeowner, as dear Mombo suggested (and hello to you, Mombo! I hope you are well!). He's just a rich jerk who came into this very quiet residential nook and doesn't care if he disturbs the residents who were here before him and will be here after him. Everyone's understanding is that he's here to build his mini McMansion and then sell it for a profit. There is some worry that he intends to turn it into more than one unit, which is NOT what the permit was for. I'll just be happy if he does sell it; he's not my idea of a dream neighbor.

I can't fathom the arrogance of someone who thinks they have the right to disturb other people for their own profit without apology. Not every real estate developer is like this. There was a major construction project on the lot directly behind our house, and the owner came to our home in person, carrying a nice bottle of wine and a business card. He nicely apologized for any disruptions and asked us to call him if we had any particular problems. We did indeed call once, when his roofers were dropping stuff into our backyard and we were concerned for our toddler's safety, and we all got along well enough through that major construction project.

I haven't had any more run-ins with the contractor in person. I am not going to take the approach suggested by several readers, who are nicer people than I am, that I kill everyone with kindness and run over with baked goods. I refuse to cook for a wealthy butthole who most likely tried to sabotage my car. IF he were to apologize, then we might see some cookies or muffins in his future... but there are no signs of that. What I'm going to do is to try to disengage to the best of my abilities and just not interact in any way with this little sociopath.

Today I was out in the street by my house, calling up critical suggestions to the Sober Husband on how best to display a festive Hello Kitty "HAPPY BIRTHDAY" banner, when I noticed a very large shard of glass strategically placed by a front tire of my car. It was an unusual piece of glass: unusually thick and unusually sharp. It was clearly not from anything broken in the street, because it was alone. It wasn't from a bottle (which would be the most typical thing for someone to break on a city street); the glass was too thick. If I had not been standing in the street today, I would have driven over the shard in the morning and most likely punctured my tire. I cannot assume this was the contractor again; I am going to keep an open mind. On the other hand, there's no one else I know of who currently has a hate-on for me.

I showed the huge shard to the Sober Husband, who gave me a very weary look in return. He thinks I'm paranoid and doesn't want to hear any more of it.

Just after I went back inside with my shard, poor birthday Lola threw up. Oh my poor darling, it was just a few hours before her guests were expected to arrive for her "Flower Kitten" themed party. The Sober Husband asked me to clean up the vomit, but I declined on the basis that I needed to immediately call all the parents to tell them not to come. Now, at the time we should be welcoming our little guests and having them eat homemade cake, bash our kitten-shaped pinata (how barbaric!), and play with our little herd of foster kittens, we are quietly resting. Poor old Lola, what horrific timing for a stomach virus.

if anything should happen to me...

On my block a house is being gutted and turned into as much of a McMansion as can be squeezed into its tiny lot. This is an inconvenience to anyone in the neighborhood who is home during the day, but it should be a bearable annoyance. In my case, however, it has developed to a point where I actually have concerns for my personal safety, and my husband, who should be concerned about my safety, is instead concerned for my personal sanity.

The crux of the matter is that the contractor has a number of orange plastic pylons, which he likes to place in the street. This is a very narrow street. Although it is nominally a two-way street, it is just wide enough for one carefully-piloted car to squeeze through if cars are parked on both sides. (On this street, one must be prepared at all times to squeeze into empty parking spaces if a car is coming the other way). The street is not wide enough to play slalom and dodge those pylons.

As the only stay-at-home parent on the block, I am unique in coming and going all day: take Lola to pre-k, return, get Iris from school, perhaps take a child to gymnastics, go to the grocery store, pick up Lola at pre-k... It never ends. So perhaps it is inevitable that I would enter into conflict with anyone who chooses to put things into the street each day in front of my house. Once I got one of the loathsome pylons caught under my car and dragged it accidentally for two blocks.

Of course, the pylons are not the only cause of annoyance. I held my tongue when the workers woke me up early one Saturday morning blasting mariachi music at insane volumes. I didn't say anything when the excavations threw up so much dirt that my car was unsafe to drive each day (there was so much dirt on my rear window that I couldn't see through it to reverse, and it was scary). It wasn't until the day I was blocked in by trucks that open conflict erupted. That day I was on a tight schedule, returning Lola home from gymnastics in time to meet her speech therapist. As I turned into my block, a large truck pulled out in front of me. Irritatingly enough it waited -- as did I -- for a woman driving the other direction, but rather than wait for me, the truck decided, "Screw you, Oldsmobile-driving loser" and pulled out, nearly hitting me. It then just stopped, at an awkward angle blocking the street, and started performing various arcane construction maneuvers. Further down the block ANOTHER truck was parked in the street, fencing off the block in another direction (and mind you, the speech therapist paid $110 an hour was expected to arrive any minute by car). "I need to get through!" I said through my window to the contractor. "Just park here," he said. At that point, I was cranky and expressed that the street should not be blocked, I should be able to get through, and that they had thrown up so much dirt every day that it wasn't safe to drive my car. The contractor did not apologize for anything at any time, insisting that this was just a part of life and I needed to accept it, but did allow that he might have a worker hose off my car at the end of the day. I said that if he did that, I would really appreciate it, and then Lola and I rushed into the house.

A little over an hour later, Lola and I emerged, practicing our R-words as we drove our filthy, unsafe car to pre-k. I then took the car to the world-famous Touchless Carwash and ran some other errands. Later in the day, I drove home after collecting Iris and Lola from their schools. There was a pylon idiotically placed right in the street in front of my house, where I customarily (and obsessively, as I'm a bit of a crank about my god-given parking space) park. There was no way to park without hitting it unless I were to stop the car in the street, get out, move the pylon, park, and then replace it. I refuse to do that, and so I ran over the pylon.

As I got out of the car, the contractor came over and went into a rage that I had run over his pylon. (Indeed, I had not realized as I parked that my front wheel had actually come to rest on the pylon). He said that he had washed my car for me that day, but that was an out-and-out lie which did not take me in. I was home for only an hour, and when I left, my car was completely covered with dirt obscuring the rear window (indeed the poor workers at the Touchless let out exclamations of horror as I drove in; sorry, Touchless artisans!). There was no way the car could have been washed, dried completely, and become covered in dirt again IN JUST ONE HOUR. I didn't point out the lie, but I said, "Actually, it was unsafe when I left and I just paid $30 to have it washed." The contractor demanded I move my car off his pylon, and he got in my face in a rage. A former litigator myself, I am no stranger to men trying to intimidate me, and my trained response is to not back down. I refused to move my car and said that if he didn't want his pylons run over, he shouldn't leave them in the fucking street. Meanwhile Iris and Lola were nervously fidgeting. The contractor stomped off mumbling threats, and I ushered the girls into the house quickly. I felt genuinely unsafe, and I called the Sober Husband. He was in a meeting and declined to take my calls.

The next day, the Sober Husband walked over to talk to the contractor. The husband reported back that the contractor was obviously very upset over his run-in with me and felt I was being completely unreasonable in running over his pylon. The pylons are supposed to alert drivers that there will be construction ahead. The Sober Husband, without consulting me, agreed that I should stop my car in the street, get out while leaving the car running, move the pylons, then park and replace the pylons. Likewise when I leave, I should adjust the pylons, again leaving the car running. The husband looked chagrined and pissed when I informed him that I refuse to live by that. I do not feel comfortable leaving my car running on a steep hill with my children in it while I fuss about with a pylon, and I just don't feel that I should have to go through this inconvenience. In my opinion, if someone leaves something in the street, they should assume the risk it will be run over, NOT expect others to take care of that property.

Yesterday when I left at noon to take Lola to pre-k, there were no pylons in front of my house. They were placed across the street and further up the street from my house. I felt relieved and thought that perhaps the contractor had come to his senses and decided to just not put the stupid pylons where I was coming and going all day. Later I returned with Iris and Lola, and what did I see but a pylon placed very prominently, centered right in front of my house. There was no way to get into the spot where I traditionally park without striking the pylon (or, in theory, leaving the car blocking the street in order to get out and move the stupid thing). However, no one was parked in front of my next door neighbor's house, so I decided to be the better person and park in a different spot. I reversed and backed up so that I was partially in front of my house. When I got out, I saw that my bumper had just tipped over the pylon, although I hadn't run over it... and there was a big, heavy thing which had been hidden under the pylon. Fuck. I carried in the object, which appeared to be part of a construction pole with a large metal ring embedded in one end, and put it on my porch. (The Sober Husband opined later that it is a chock for stopping large trucks).

The only logical explanation is that the contractor planted that chock hidden under the pylon to sabotage my car and teach me a lesson. If I had run over that pylon on my way into my spot, it could have severely damaged my car. I was shaken. I considered calling the police, but felt that in my city, where there is considerable gang violence in places, the police would not want to bother with an incident of "I almost had my car damaged." I couldn't prove that the contractor had done this, although there was no one else who would have a reason to do such a thing.

This morning the Sober Husband told me that he was going to return the chock to the contractor in case he needed it. "No! It's evidence!" I said. He looked at me with a sort of pity mixed with disgust. "I don't want to be the guy who is against safety," he said. In the Sober Husband's mind, the contractor stands for Safety and Hard Work, and evidently the wife stands for Danger and Sloth. I think this contractor, a short, prematurely balding man, is likely suffering from Napoleon's Syndrome, which causes him to think he can bully women. I also think he's unhinged, trying to wreck my car.

My discussion with the husband was interrupted by a spectacularly ill-timed phone call. Over a month ago, I sent a complaint email after I had some astonishingly bad and rude service at my pet food supply store, and this was the moment at which the owner of the store was calling to discuss my complaint. It was the first time in fifteen years I'd made a complaint against someone at a business, and the response came just as I was trying to convince my husband that the contractor tried to sabotage my car. The husband's thoughts were transparent. Against my wishes, he carried the chock back to the contractor and went off to Doggyo to spend a day working and refusing to take his crazy wife's calls.

Dear readers, if you should cease to hear from me, look for my remains in the construction project on Mono Way in San Francisco (or perhaps in a burnt-out teal Oldsmobile with Burning Man and PETA stickers). Feel free to say, in a judgmental way, "She told you so" to my widowed spouse. And, incidentally, the Sober Husband drove over a pylon today and had great difficulty extricating it from the undercarriage of his car. "It was impossible not to run over it," he admitted.

it's not over until the drunken lady sings

On August 23d, late at night, the Sober Husband yelled for me to come quickly, and I discovered our tiny orange foster kitten hemorrhaging and crying. Our local raccoon had come in through the cat door, caught the kitten, and dragged the kitten back outside. Iris uber Alles and I raced the kitten over to All Animals Emergency Hospital, where he was admitted for the night. The kitten was in shock and had lost a lot of blood.

The next morning, Iris and I went back and picked up the kitten. His little skull had a fracture, his eyes had been mauled and were shut (although the vet assured me the actual eyeballs were intact), and he was very weak. Later that day, we took him to see the staff vet at the shelter, who gave us antibiotics, eye medications, and painkillers. I kept the baby on a heating pad and tried to get him to eat. A few days after the incident, the swelling had gone down enough to make him bearable to gaze upon, and he looked like this:

The kitten had problems with his head wound becoming swollen, and he had to have a surgical drain installed. At this point, the children christened him "Sideshow Mel", as his surgical drain reminded them of Sideshow Mel of the Simpsons' ornamental bone-through-the-hair.

For weeks, he kept his eyes shut as much as possible. Eventually he became able to open one eye partway, and by then he seemed to recover some energy. It happened slowly, but one day I realized that far from the little convalescent who didn't stir from his hotpad, Sideshow Mel had become the feistiest and most violent of our kittens, wreaking havoc throughout the household. Mel also went on a growth spurt and became the heftiest kitten as well. Unbelievably, the kitten mauled by a raccoon who nearly died was the first one of the litter to be ready to go up for adoption. The only lasting effect of the attack was that his eyes are shaped a bit oddly, and they don't point in the exact same direction. His left eye has a bit of a devilish slant to it, and its gaze is a bit off-kilter.

Iris and I bade a very sentimental farewell to Mel and his brother, Alastair, as we took them in to go up for adoption. (We still have the three smaller kittens from this litter).

Over Labor Day, I shamelessly declared a marathon here on this blog to raise funds to help defray Mel's hospital bill. The readers generously pitched in and contributed $395, which was an enormous help to me, not just budgetwise but emotionally. I felt supported, in so many meanings of the word, in this so often lonely work of animal fostering (the loneliest time is cleaning the litterboxes. No one wants to join in that part of the job!)(incidentally any donor who did not receive a thank you card or gift and who wanted one --- I know some donors prefer to receive absolutely no cheap crap in the mail, even cheap crap lovingly selected and mailed by a drunken person -- should please email me at drunkenhousewife@gmail.com so I may amend that oversight. "Capt. Steve", your thank-you card is in the mail, and everyone else should have received their already).

Several of the readers insisted that like Jerry Lewis, I should end my marathon with a song, and here you are. This one's for you, darling readers and donors: the Drunken Lady sings.

fear her

At the breakfast table this morning, Lola announced, "I am God! Watch out for me!" and chuckled demoniacally.

"What??" was my clever, witty response.

Lola gave a double take and looked at me and then said in a false voice, "Just kidding."

the wit of Lola

As I drove her to pre-k, four year-old Lola talked to herself in the backseat: "Duck... duck...duck..duck... duck... say goose, you stupid idiot!"

Later in the evening, I assisted Iris Uber Alles with her homework after the Sober Husband left (tonight is the annual dads' poker night benefiting Iris's school, and I bought the husband a seat at the game as his Father's Day present). The homework was playing a math cardgame, and Iris insisted upon singing rather than focusing. "Do you think Anton is singing as he plays poker?" I asked pointedly. "La la la, oh give me a card, la la la?"

Lola interjected. "Yes! He is singing, 'La di da, St. Doggyo! La di da, St. Doggyo!" Iris and I laughed, but this show of amusement meant that for the next forty minutes, Lola would not cease singing "La di da St. Doggyo!" at the top of her lungs.

"Survivor" premiere (live blogging off the cuff)

Do forgive us, but eight year-old Iris Uber Alles and I are die-hard "Survivor" fans. Some seasons are boring, but yet we still watch. Here we are, live blogging! With four year-old Lola!

Why are the contestants bringing PERSONAL LUGGAGE??? Iris says, "If it's not hard, I won't watch."

Why is one of the contestants wearing FISHNET TIGHTS and high boots!! Why on earth would anyone think FISHNET TIGHTS are useful to wear on "Survivor"?

One of the contestants is a "school lunch lady" with a mullet.

Courtney says, "I want to sit back with a lemonade. I don't want to be bowing" at the Buddhist welcome ceremony. Has she even watched Survivor? On Survivor Guatemala, they had to hike about 20 miles in the jungle after arrival.

Jeff Probst announces that the contestants must abandon their luggage. The idiot in the fishnet stockings whines that her heavy metal boots "weigh 20 lbs apiece." Courtney the lemonade-wanter whines that she's not wearing a bra. Instead, she's wearing a floor-length orange gown and a pashmina (she's vying to be the biggest idiot this season).

Jeff gives them Sun Tzu's "The Art of War." Once again, I am shamed I have not read this. When I was a litigator, I vowed to read it, but I lazily never got around to it. Recommend me an obscure Scandinavian novelist, and I WILL hunt down their works, but recommend to me a great book of strategy, and the decades drag on that I don't get around to it.

One of the contestants is a Christian talk show host. She says perkily when it starts raining before anyone has had the chance to build a shelter, "It looks like the big guy is providing!" That is exactly the sort of person who drives everyone away from church.

There is a professional poker player who feels he can read everyone and tell who is devious. His name is "Jean-Robert." I think this is particularly moronic that he is, on Day One, advertising his self-proclaimed excellence at intuiting truthfulness. This is truly the Season of the Idiots.

During the commercial, I force the children to go fetch their pajamas.

We see a panda! Iris gets excited.

Sherea is wearing heeled pumps and a pink, ruffled minidress. Another idiot for the ages! If you know you are going on reality TV, why would you bring anything other than comfortable clothing?

"Chicken" is a chicken farmer. I automatically hate him on animal rights grounds, and I'm sure everyone else hates him due to his drawl and condescension.

A monkey! We rejoice.

Ashley is "a WWW diva." She has two rings in her lip and pink and black streaks. "I know my fans are going to want me to win." The Chinese girl hates her. Peih-Gee says, "I can't connect to the wackiness. I feel like so serious."

In the distance, I hear kittens yowling (in our home, not on Survivor).

James is an inordinately muscular and handsome gravedigger. How did a man so gorgeous fall into such an occupation?

The lady wrestler runs off and horks on her first day. She has the chills.

Another monkey! Iris says, "Awww."

I love Todd the gay male Mormon flight attendant.

"Frosti" is a "student athlete." I love his name. He is a parkour enthusiast, which he thinks will make him a huge winner at challenges. I just want to know how he came by the name "Frosti."

The first challenge! The tribes will be tethered to giant dragons and make their way through an obstacle course. The immunity idol is statue of a handsome looking kneeling man.

Jeff announces off-handedly, "Oh another thing. You were given your running shoes for his challenge, you can take them back to camp with them." Damn you, Jeff Probst! I wanted to see that idiot limp in her heels!

Iris says, "Cool! It looks like dragons!" at an overhead shot.

James our hunky gravedigger is a great athlete! I'm glad his team wins. (Our new favorite looks a lot like the vegan spokesmodel lauded on this blog in the past).

I think Lola is asleep already.

The losing tribe has no shelter. Peih-Gee points out that the tribe won't win any challenges if they don't have a shelter. She's fed up with the lack of any work and starts driving everyone to build the shelter.

Ashley the professional wrestler feels Peih-Gee shouldn't be taking a leadership role. "Chicken" wants Ashley voted out instead. Ashley's immense silicon implants should win her some fans, though.

I feel for Peih-Gee. If I were in the middle of nowhere with a pack of idiots (and Peih-Gee is with the woman in the orange gown and pashmina AND the one who came out in heels), I'd be driving them to stop joking around and build a friggin' hut.

Tribal council! Dave the surf instructor is threatened by Peih-Gee's willingness to take the lead. He was voted the leader, but he hasn't actually led.

I feel this tribal council is awkwardly edited. Jeff keeps saying that they made a "first tribal decision", but I am not sure what that was.

Frosti is the first to vote. I wish Jeff would ask him about the provenance of his name.

Peih-Gee votes against Chicken the inarticulate chicken farmer. Why doesn't she vote against Ashley the malevolent pierced-lip wrestler?

Chicken shouts, "Damn!" in a very angry voice at being voted out.

Jeff throws a flint to the losing tribe nonchalantly. God, this is a cushy season of Survivor. They are given running shoes and a fire-making flint for doing nothing??? Where is the picturesque suffering which added so much viewing pleasure in the past??

Summary: "So, Hassepfeffer, what do you think so far?"

"Of what?"

"Survivor!

"Meh. I say Meh!"

After some consideration, Iris added, "I liked the pandas and monkeys."

who'd a thunk it?

Last night we were talking with one of the fathers from Iris Uber Alles's school about the Bohemian Grove, as this father is a devoted regular attendee of that annual gathering of powerful white men. My friend told me something I never, never would have thought true: there are a number of men who go straight from the Bohemian Grove to Burning Man. Wow. I never imagined there was an overlap of those subcultures. I'm fascinated.

cranky pants!

There's nothing like coming back from a relaxing long weekend away and plunging into a life of crankiness and errands. I can feel every bit of relaxation being stripped away from me. Right now, my shoulders are a mass of pulsating knots, and I have a pounding headache (undoubtedly a tension headache).

Why? All day I've been behind. I woke up to a hideous mountain of laundry, a filthy house, stinking catboxes, and a husband who reminded me as I was reading the morning paper that I stupidly invited another family over for a dinner party tomorrow night. "Motherfucker!" was my sprightly rejoinder.

The day didn't improve much. It was my day to work at Lola's pre-k. The pre-k boys were tearing around like rabid weasels. Lola had a giant tantrum leaving school because I carried her grape juice. We were late to get Iris. Lola had a second giant tantrum because I refused to walk in place and play other games on the way to get Iris(I was paying by the minute for Iris's care). Lola's idiotic cat has been growling and hissing non-stop.

Today I think my biggest accomplishment was not getting into a traffic accident. Sigh.

a request for the readers (will it never end? Not monetary, thank the merciful God)

My darlings, could any readers who are located outside the United States or who will be travelling abroad soon please consider assisting Iris Uber Alles's second grade class? The girls are studying geography, and as a class project, they are writing letters to people in farflung places. They hope to get letters back telling them what it is like to live in those exotic locales.

If you'd like to get a letter from Iris Uber Alles, please send a mailing address to drunkenhousewife@gmail.com. smooches, your old Drunken Housewife

UPDATE: Iris is all set, thank you! However, if someone somewhere ESPECIALLY exotic for a California girl sees this (e.g., Dubai, Singapore, Papua New Guinea, South Africa, etc..), I'm sure she can add you in...

a hodgepodge

- In a free San Diego newspaper, there is a column which reviews and rates churches. I could not believe that they actually give stars to churches (the one reviewed got 2 1/2 stars), based upon the quality of the sermon, the snacks, the music, the architecture, etc... I was fascinated. The actual awarding of the stars seems so sacrilegious, but the review was written very respectfully. What a brilliant and ballsy concept!

- Despite having learned how to doggy paddle quite respectably at her expensive swimming lessons, Lola refused to swim an inch at the hotel pool. She spent a lot of time in the water hanging onto the side of the pool, splashing about on the steps, and letting Iris ferry her about. Iris later explained it to me: "I asked her to swim, and she said she only knows how to swim in that one swimming pool" where she takes lessons.

Huh. I guess this is the generalization problem I heard so much about in the context of speech therapy: if a child learns to do something in a special setting which is removed from the child's everyday life, the child often has difficulty using that skill in any other context. That is a big part of why we chose to have private speech therapy in our home, rather than using the public system for free group speech therapy in an office.

- I failed to pack my mascara and went without for three days. This was good in the sense that I didn't have to worry about raccoon eyes when I was in the pool and jacuzzi. However, I learned that "the smoky eye" does NOT work without mascara. I smudged on some purple eyeshadow for a beautiful smoky eye one evening, and it was completely wrong with natural lashes. Keep that in mind when you're getting glamorous, people!

- When one goes to rent a car, children will insist upon getting a convertible, but then when it actually comes time to drive in the rental car, the children whine endlessly about the wind if you have the top down. "Close it! Close it! I'm cold! My hair is blowing in my face!"

- Today's Wall Street Journal reports that a Filipino judge regularly converses with three elves which only he can hear. The Supreme Court of the Philippines had this man removed from the bench on the theory that he is psychotic, but since then, a number of mysterious tragedies have befallen the Court and its members. The Supreme Court, hedging its bets, has not put the man back in office, but has requested that he revoke any curses he has set. The public protests: they want their judge and his elves restored to power!

vacationing with my family

We're in San Diego for the weekend, taking advantage of Southwest's triumphant return to SFO ($26 one way to San Diego!). It's our first real vacation in four years, albeit just a long weekend. It's delightful (Lola says, "Best... vacation... ever!", and Iris, looking through the minibar, said, "This is heaven! Mom, can you imagine anything more like heaven than this?), but vacationing with this family is definitely unique.

The Sober Husband didn't want to eat out all weekend and found a grocery store. He proposed that we eat room temperature lentil soup and canned baked beans for dinner, served in water glasses. The man was actually surprised that I found his plan disgusting. After this reaction, he decided to heat his mass of beans in the room's coffeepot over my objections ("I may want to make some coffee, and I don't want lentil coffee").

We went for a long walk along the beach in the evening, and the children became frantic after we walked past a house where the inhabitants were watching Spongebob. "We're missing valuable TV! We need to get back to the TV!"

But on the other hand, our hotel room is lovely, and when we're lounging by the pool, there is a little flag on the back of the chairs, and if I raise that flag, a polite woman will come around and bring me a margarita. What's not to love?

Today we went to the San Diego Zoo for much of the day, and it was truly amazing. The zoo is artfully built in a canyon, so there are many levels and things tucked away hither and yon. The family favorite was the hippos' enclosure, where glass allows you to see the depths of the hippos' pond. Who knew that huge hippos float underwater like balloons, bobbing gently in the water, completely submerged but occasionally sticking their nostrils above the water level? How can something so heavy float so effortlessly? Iris and I saw bonobos playing tag and a delightful sort of monkey called a swamp monkey, and so much more.

The children are campaigning to move to San Diego. I can't argue with them. Neither the Sober Husband nor I ever intended to live in San Francisco permanently; it just happened. It would be a lot of work to move, however (sell the house! find new schools! make new friends!). And here I am an anomaly: I notice a lot more people staring at me as I walk about. I'm an example of a type found all over San Francisco: black-haired chubby girls with very good tattoos and sometimes a bit of a retro thing going (a brush of the old Bettie Page). In San Diego this phenotype does not seem common, whereas in the Bay Area, you can't swing a stick without striking several.

Now I'm dying to go to the beautiful outdoor hotel bar, but the children cannot bear to leave the television. Sigh. It's such a romantic destination here, but when the fruits of one's love are with you, you can't expect much more romance than watching cartoons.

the traumas of parenting

My daughter Lola is in a co-op preschool, which means I work a shift a week (it means a lot more than that, sigh, but we'll leave it there for now). Today I was supervising the bike deck (historically where the craziest, most dangerous play occurs). A small child was at risk of being run over by a larger child in a little car. I said to the car-driving child, "Be careful, you don't want to hit her!"

As it turns out, I inadvertently made a huge faux pas. The child I'd referred to as "her" said tearily, "I'm not a girl!" His father was within earshot, and the father came over, scooped up the child, and said in a nasty voice, "Of course you're not a girl." The father didn't speak to me but turned his back on me and then stomped off.

The little boy in question is a three year-old with an angelic little face and a high, piping voice and long hair several inches past his shoulders. If it's so frigging traumatic to him to be called a girl and if it's so upsetting to the father, then why the hell don't they cut his motherfucking hair?

I never got pissy with anyone who mistook my older daughter for a boy when she was little, and it happened quite a lot. Iris Uber Alles had a very serious demeanor and I tended to dress her in overalls and other practical, rough-and-tumble clothes. (Lola, on the other hand, was a very girly baby from the day one, with a very feminine face, giggly bearing, and an insistence right away on wearing beautiful dresses).

Of course, the long-haired little boy, being in a bad mood, refused to obey the basic safety rules of the bike deck, and when, as a consequence, I told him he had to play elsewhere, he said, "I hate you", refused to obey, and hit me. Oh, what a joyous life we lead at the preschool. (And people keep telling me I should go into teaching ... oy vey. To be fair, the other children were, for the most part, charming and respectful to my authority as they careered about madly, but yet it remains true that the Drunken Housewife is not cut out for the teaching life).

That was not the worst part of my day as An Involved and Active Parent, however. That came when I registered online to pay for Iris Uber Alles's school lunches. Her school has given its lunch business to a new outside company, and now we are required to pay online with Paypal. I was fine with that... UNTIL I LEARNED THAT IRIS HAD RUN UP AN $11.25 DEFICIT ON THE FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL. It costs $11.25 for her frigging school lunch now??? One day's lunch for a SECOND GRADER is $11.25??? When Lola starts kindergarten next year, it's gonna cost $22.50 a day for their motherfucking lunches???

Trying to figure out why her lunch cost so much, Iris mused, "I had soy milk." "Did it come in a golden cup?" I acerbically remarked.

shocking others with sucky mothering: it's your Drunken Housewife

So today was Iris Uber Alles's first day of school (yes, on September 10th. Her school keeps a more casual, truncated calendar than most, and this year's start was pushed back even further to allow for construction). Following our traditional division of labor, her father got up early to make her breakfast and take her to school, while I slept in with Lola.

Truthfully we needed the sleep. Lola had been traumatized by a giant, lunging Venus Flytrap playing "Second Life" the day before and had nightmares. She already had a pre-existing fear of Iris Uber Alles's venus flytrap and of one of my orchids, and running across a gigantic attack plant on "Second Life" caused the little phobic to utterly freak out. Lola's plant trauma is getting to be practically on a par with something from Scott Smith's "The Ruins" (which if you haven't yet read, you must read. It's out in paperback. Oh, and if you're an avid "Second Life" player and you run across a player who types in gibberish, keep in mind that on the internet, no one knows if you're a preschooler).

I did want to get up and kiss Iris goodbye on the first day of school, but after being up much of the night with Lola assuring her that blankets were not plants and that no plants were present in the room or likely to enter it, it didn't happen. When I went to pick up Iris, one of the other mothers quizzed me about this. "Isn't it normal that both parents go on the first day of school? I got up super early to be sure to get a parking space. Just about everyone had both parents there."

I scoffed politely. "That's people with ONE CHILD. I was home with my other child. I'm not going to drag Lola across town in the morning." The other mother (who indeed has only the one child) wasn't convinced. I could tell she was judging me as insufficiently interested in my child and/or her education. But for Christ's sake, we're talking about the first day of second grade. I was there for the first day of preschool, pre-k, and kindergarten. Is that not enough, people???

Over at pre-k, I noticed as I signed Lola in that there was a big old Venus flytrap in the classroom. "Fuck", I thought to myself. I had a confidential chat with the teacher and filled him in on Lola's nightmares and the fact that Iris's Venus flytrap had to be kept out of Lola's sight at home. He listened attentively, thanked me for letting him know, but then shook his finger at me sternly. "No more of this computer game for her!"

"It's Anton that does it with her," I said weakly. "It's not my idea." Talk about a rousing defense of my mothering skills! 0 for 2, people, 0 for 2.