important calls are personal and private

Lola was home sick from pre-k for three days last week, and so I had to drag her along to her big sister's piano lesson in the torrential rain. This mostly meant that I got soaked, as Lola currently will not wear her own raingear but instead wants me to unbutton my raincoat and hold it out away from my body over her, creating a little latex cave for her and allowing her to shuffle along slowly without seeing where she is going. (Why do I go along with this? Because it's easier to just take a drenching for the team than to stand at the side of my car and argue with an obstinate five year-old until I've bullied her into putting on her own coat. Lord, I am a lazy woman indeed).

I made her grab some toys to play with on the long drive over to Iris's school and during the piano lesson. I was surprised when Lola pulled a television remote out of her little backpack. This, it turned out, was intended to be a celphone (it would have been truly pathetic if she'd pretended to watch TV in the hallway of the Northern California Music and Cultural Center). Pacing back and forth, Lola muttered urgently into the remote when not listening intently.

"Who are you calling?" I asked.

Lola covered the remote with her hand and looked at me regretfully. "Private", she said condescendingly.

I'm intolerant of all that tolerance

I'm on the fringes of a social community which prides itself on its tolerance, creativity, and warm acceptance of society's misfits. No, I'm not referring to the neighborhood of the Castro, where I reside. I mean the Burning Man community, composed of people who either attend the event and live a life influenced by it or people who used to go back in the day, when it was a small event not yet publicized nationwide, and who now go to little spin-off camping events instead of the current form of Burning Man. (I myself have not attended since 1998, although every year I, tediously enough, yammer on and on about how "this is the year I'm going back to Burning Man" only to sell my tickets at the last minute).

Currently the community has been riled by some vicious debates over whether we can tolerate the behavior of some of the more extreme members. First there was Paul Addis, who prematurely burnt down the Man. Paul currently resides in the psych wing at San Francisco's jail after a dramatic arrest at Grace Cathedral on potential arson charges. I was amused no end at Paul's stunt, which drew me quite a bit of criticism from friends, who huffed, "Don't you know people were right there who could have been killed? There were people who inhaled a lot of smoke."

Even before he burnt down the Man, Paul's behavior was problematic. I've known Paul socially (and casually) since 1996, and during all that time, Paul was intense and sometimes scary. He is also smart, funny, creative, and energetic, unfortunately suffering from bipolar disorder. Paul puts a face to the problem of dealing with the mentally ill, a face with garish yet artful paint on it. How fair is it to judge someone for behavior which is a symptom of a brain disorder? Shouldn't there be compassion for one struggling with a serious illness? On the other hand, most people don't want someone like Paul about any more because he's, well, crazy.

Paul is now yesterday's news. The latest Burning Man figure of controversy is Matty Nash.


Tall, handsome, charismatic, and oh so alternative, 36 year-old Matty was the frontman for the Mutaytor, a huge and bizarre musical ensemble based in LA. He seemed to have it all, including a gorgeous wife who was the self-professed "den mom" for the band. The Mutaytor had professional representation and plenty of gigs. Then Dateline aired a "To Catch A Predator" episode, and there was Matty. A predator. He'd driven an hour to meet up with a putative thirteen year-old girl, with condoms, lubricant, and a vibrator in hand. Online he'd been trolling for sex under the screenname "sugardavis."

It turns out Matty had been arrested ages ago but kept it a secret from his bandmates and friends. In the end, he pleaded no contest to the criminal charges, accepted registration as a sex offender as part of his plea bargain, and posted a whiny pseudo-apology online.

The overall reaction seems to be "awww, he said he's sorry, and the decoy was really twenty years old, and those shows are so sleazy, and haven't you ever done anything bad? How can you be so judgmental?"

One of Matty's supporters wrote online:

"We are one body. If you skin your knee with a bad decision you don't cut off your leg to fix the wound. You acknowledge the misjudgement on your part, make changes, hopefully with the shared wisdom of your tribes experience and wisdom, and learn so as to be able to share the next time a mistake is made.

The Tribe quickly dwindles if you just keep dropping the fuck ups.
What's that whole "cast the first stone" bit?"

Another wrote that he "honors Matty" for "showing us the dark."

I don't honor Matty. When he was arrested, he admitted to the arresting officer he'd been in counseling with his wife because of his "sex addiction" and "meeting people off the internet for sex." (I don't believe sex is an addiction. It belittles the heroic struggles of alcoholics and true addicts to call sleaziness an "addiction").

In his letter to the community, Matty apologized for "having sex with people he met online" -- "people", not minors. He stressed that the decoy was 20 several times... as though to make it out that he went there with the intent of hooking up with a 20 year old. He never copped to having sex with minors or trying to have sex with a minor.

"Having sex with people from online" is a nothing, in my opinion. Although I'm off being monogamous with my husband, I have single friends who have used the Craigslist casual encounters section to hook up with strangers, strangers whom we might say quickly became new friends (and special friends at that). Whatever one might think of that, to me it's fine if everyone involved is a consenting adult. There's a difference between trolling for strange online and chatting for months with someone who is supposedly thirteen years old. The judge who sentenced Matty reportedly observed that he was disturbed by Matty's "grooming" of the decoy (who wrote in authentic kid IMese), which was classic pedophilic behavior.

If Matty had written in his open letter something like, "Oh my god, I was going after a 13 year-old. I can't believe I did that, but I did. Thank God they caught me", I'd feel differently about Matty's letter and about Matty. Instead, he downplayed his situation by talking about having an open marriage. He talked about how he didn't have enough money to hire good enough lawyers to get himself off.

It's also telling to me that all this came out after Dateline aired the footage of Matty being caught --- NOT after Matty was arrested. I wonder if Matty was hoping that footage would never be aired, and he'd be able to go about his life with no one (other than his wife, who seems to have kept his secret) knowing. His band mates were blindsided. One told a reporter that his phone started ringing off the hook the moment the Dateline episode was over, and then the band's booking agency summarily fired them. Gigs were canceled as promoters didn't wish to have a nationally-exposed pedophile performing. Matty whined in his letter that he was just trying to keep the focus off his friends and family by keeping all this secret, but if he had just left the band at the time of his arrest, the band could have had a calm transition and avoided the panic and stress it suffered later.

Like those motherfucking sparrows who always return to Capistrano, once again I was going through that tedious annual ritual of discussing my purported return to Burning Man this year. This time, though, it's a lot less tempting. I don't want to be part of a community which "honors" Matty Nash. I don't want someone like him around my beautiful daughters, and I feel sad for any young girls he preyed upon. Beyond that, I'm sickened by the "radical tolerance." Some things are worth judging.

back to basics

I told the Sober Husband, as a treat, that he could select the dinner menu and recipes of his choice (winter squash risotto and a spinach salad were his choices). Five year-old Lola talked wistfully of what she would choose. "Pasta, but just pasta! No STUPID GARBAGE in it!"

I suspect this is a reaction to the farfalle with pan-seared radicchio I served the other day, which I personally felt was fabulous, but taste is so subjective. One person's gourmet radicchio is another's "stupid garbage."

the heartbreak of the Lola

One of Lola's pre-k friends was turning five, and the little birthday child was, naturally enough, very excited about her birthday party. This adorable little girl had lots to tell Lola about the upcoming party, and Lola came home from pre-k with many breathless updates. "It's a drop-off party. What is a drop-off party? It is a drop-off party, and you have to remember that. I am going to stay after the party! I am going to stay until midnight! And she says there are going to be two Barbie dolls in my thank-you bag."

Apart from the two Barbie thank-you bag (which was mentioned several times a day), the alleged after-party had a powerful hold on Lola's imagination. Lola and another few favored guests were hypothetically going to play until midnight (or as the birthday child herself said to me on my workday at pre-k, "Sixty o'clock! We're going to stay up to sixty o'clock!").

Iris tried to talk some reason into her younger sister. "Lucy, NO ONE is inviting you to stay until midnight. NO ONE. Not for ten years!"

"But she SAID," Lola said obstinately.

I tried to lower Lola's expectations with no luck. Today as I dropped Lola off ("Remember, IT IS A DROP-OFF PARTY!" Lola instructed me firmly, although as it turns out, other parents stayed, eating exotic cheeses and swilling down microbrews), I asked loudly, for Lola's benefit, "So what time should I pick up Lola?" The birthday child's father looked at me as though I were an idiot and said, "Four o'clock."

When Iris and I arrived to collect Lola, Lola refused to put on her shoes and sat down on the floor in passive protest She did buy herself an extra half an hour (during which time Iris ate two slices of birthday cake), but her staying until midnight was clearly not on the hosts' agenda. Then it was time to take her perfectly reasonable, and indeed beautifully hand-decorated little thank you bag, which contained not a single Barbie ("I knew no one was giving her a Barbie," said Iris happily). And that wasn't all. As we drove home, Lola burst out crying. "I forgot my pinata candy!" Also, she reported that another child had taken away her "only lollipop, I think it was chocolate."

I took Lola to a drugstore for a consolation lollipop on the way home, but a heartbreak which was building for weeks cannot be easily cured, even with sugar. Poor Lola learns again that the world is not as delightful as we hope it will be.

miniature book reviews

I'm a maw constantly consuming and craving books. Let me continue to winnow the wheat from the chaff for you:

"Shopgirl" by Steve Martin: this bestseller was reviewed as being Jane Austenesque. Let's see: Ms. Austen wrote long, witty books populated by believable characters and featuring a plot. Mr. Martin has given us a novella packaged as a novel, really lacking a plot worthy of a book. It should have been hacked down to a short story and published in a magazine. Finally, the characters were not believable enough, other than the immature 50+ year old who is obviously Mr. Martin himself. Would a highly educated young woman, the holder of a graduate degree, really take large sums of money with no agonizing from a man old enough to be her father who makes it clear he is only casually sleeping with her? My female friends would need to discuss the power dynamics and the worrisome traditional fifties-esque roles inherent in that scenario ad nauseam before accepting or rejecting the payments. Even less believably, can a half-witted slacker boy unable to maintain an erection or take a woman on a date suddenly become well-dressed, thoughtful, generous, and decent in bed after only listening in on some self-help tapes? The self-help industry wishes its products were that powerful.

"When We Were Bad", just out, by Charlotte Mendelson. This is a witty and engaging novel about a famous British feminist rabbi whose eldest son runs away on his wedding day... just weeks before the rabbi's next book about family values is due to be published. Unlike in Mr. Martin's work, Ms. Mendelson's characters are eccentric, interesting, and extremely believable. Their crises, arguments, beliefs, ambitions and conflicting loyalties all ring true. I loved this book and will look for Ms. Mendelson's prior works.

"Terminal" by Andrew Vachss, another recent publication. I hope to hell this is the last Andrew Vachss novel I ever read. I am so over him and his annoying Burke character. He lost me earlier in this series with his extraordinarily annoying distinction between "brats" and "bitches." Vachss and his alter ego, Burke, are proud of hating bitches but loving brats. What is the difference? A bitch is a woman with pride and intellect, who doesn't mind pissing off a man. A brat is a woman who loves to piss off a man in the hopes that he'll pull her panties down and turn her over his knee, spanking her into submission. Me, I'm a bitch who feels nauseated when reading this crap. Thankfully "Terminal" spared me more of Vachss' bitch/brat analyses, but basically it was a rather dull outing in Vachss land, with endless repetitions of tough guy prose and posturing.

an update from the sibling wars

Eight year-old Iris Uber Alles burst into the room, angry and aggrieved. "Lola's hurting my feelings! She's being mean!"

It turns out that five year-old Lola's offense was "she's keeping a scorecard! Every time I say something she doesn't like, she writes it on her scorecard! And it's mean!"

As Iris was angrily denouncing Lola, Lola bustled in busily and settled herself down at the nearby coffeetable with a piece of paper and pencil. Completely ignoring Iris's cries of "She's doing it now!", Lola set about making marks in columns. "I need a new piece of paper," she announced importantly.

I smoothed things over by noting that it was nearly bedtime and if Iris Uber Alles wished to follow her tradition of watching a Simpsons episode before bed, we needed to hurry. Upstairs we settled in, followed by Lola, but our fragile detente was shaken when Iris warned Lola not to take her spot on the big bed. "I'm getting my scorecard," threatened Lola.

buying a car with the Sober Husband

Within 48 hours of my old car passing away (and yes, it could have been put on expensive life support and saved with an organ transplant, but we had previously determined that we would put a Do Not Resuscitate order into effect in the event of a transmission or engine failure), we had a new one parked out in front. (It could have been 24 hours, but Saturday afternoon and evening were devoted to one of our more sprightly readers, Lemonjuicer, who may be remembered for the picture of her cleavage she entered into our First, Possibly Annual, Readers' Photo Contest. It turns out that as well as award-winning cleavage, she has an amazing family who are a joy to meet). This speediness nonplussed our friends, who consider the purchase of a car something which should be pondered and worked at, but that's how it is with the Sober Husband.

This was the third time we bought a car together. The first time came after an earlier Oldsmobile of his suffered a catastrophic engine failure while I was driving it at top speeds in the Sierras. To this day I can hardly believe I was able to get out of that situation without serious injury. The Sober Husband actually had that car repaired at great expense, only to total it a month later on the Bay Bridge (and unbelievably enough, he walked away from that with just some bruises. The car's massive front end crumpled up like a piece of Kleenex).

The Sober Husband decided then to try going without a car (we were childless then, not even engaged yet). After a month of commuting without a car, fed up with BART, he called me at work. "I'm going to buy a car after work, if you want to come." He met me at the BART station, and we walked to a nearby dealership. Within a few minutes he had located an acceptable car (the very same recently deceased Oldsmobile, at that point a mere toddler of two years old). "I wish to buy this car," he said to the used car salesman. "I have tickets for the ballet, so I need to get it in the next two hours." The salesman was completely at a loss, as every time he tried to get into his traditional script of selling, the Sober Husband-to-be cut him off. "Yes, yes, I want to buy the car. You don't have to tell me about the car. I just want you to get the paperwork done so we're not late to the ballet."

We got by fine with that car, which was used primarily by the Sober Husband for commuting down to Silicon Valley, until I was in the third trimester of my second pregnancy. I had always been a mass transit girl, having not even obtained a driver's license until the week before I turned 30. But one fateful afternoon, toddler Iris Uber Alles fell asleep on the Muni bus, and I, hideously, hugely pregnant, had to carry her, our stroller and our bags of groceries off the bus, and I felt that I had somehow strained everything in my body at once. "I can't do this anymore," I announced. "I have to have a car."

At that point in time, we were strained for cash. Buying a second car seemed impossible, but I didn't think I could get through the last trimester taking the bus with Iris (who was scheduled to start preschool soon and hence in dire need of regular transportation). Our solution? Buying an extraordinarily crappy car. "I don't care how a car looks," noted the Sober Husband. "I wish there was some way I could buy an old dented car." I discovered a category in the newspaper labelled "Mechanics Specials", which not only included cars which needed work but also cars which ran well but had sustained some flesh wounds. But it was on Craigslist that I found a car advertised under the slogan of "Drive The Ugliest Car On Your Block." We drove up to Sausalito to view an ancient, massive dented Monte Carlo with a trunk lid which wouldn't close. For a few hundred dollars, it was ours. The seller, an attorney who dabbled on the side with reselling cars, told the Sober Husband, "Everyone's going to assume you're a felon driving this car. They're gonna think you just got out of San Quentin."

Although those prior car buying experiences had turned out fine, this time around the Sober Husband felt stressed. The last thing he wanted was to have to take off time from his beloved Doggyo to pick up the children at school. "I don't have time to go shopping," he fussed. "I just don't want to deal with this." We talked on the phone Sunday morning while he escorted Lola to a birthday party on Haight Street. "I want to get a car this afternoon; can you research it?"

The "research" was me spending some quality time online with Consumer Reports. I have no idea who the Consumer Reports people really are, but they have me wrapped around their little finger. I took their list of "Used Cars To Avoid" as gospel, and I poured over their "Top Ten List of Used Cars To Consider." I took some time, some pathetic time, to read ratings of the car of my dreams, the Mini Cooper, but the husband was dismissive over the phone. "How are you going to get groceries in such a little car?"

"I'll do it when the kids are in school."

"Are you really going to be able to fit all your kittens in there?"

He had me there. I can go grocery shopping without Iris and Lola, but I can't go pick up fresh foster kittens alone. Iris and Lola are capable of holding a grudge for a long, long time when left out, and I severely doubted the ability of a Mini Cooper to hold me, several cat carriers, and two children who don't like to sit very close to each other and who can come to blows even while restrained by carseats.

So it came down to two theoretical cars, neither of which was a dream car for me: a Toyota Prius (so eco friendly! Think of the savings on gas! And so quiet and well-reviewed by the faceless minions of Consumer Reports) or a Volvo S60 from 2004 or 2005 (the Consumer Reports people recommended against 2003, evidently a questionable vintage). The Sober Husband bruited about the idea of a Toyota Camry on the basis that Click and Clack like it, but I refused to consider it as it regularly tops the lists of most frequently stolen cars and I live in a city replete with car thieves. I couldn't find a conveniently located used Prius online or in the paper (although the new Priuses were surprisingly affordable, we view buying a new car as a fool's game. You pay so much for the prestige of having that new car smell, and anyone with small children won't be able to keep the interior pristine enough to enjoy that smell for long). The suburbs, however, are full of used Volvos.

We drove to Palo Alto as soon as Anton and Lola returned from their dinosaur-themed birthday party, in search of a particular 2004 S60. On the way, I mourned the loss of my dream car. "A Mini Cooper would be so much fun to drive. The whole world would be my parallel parking space." We braced ourself for the buying experience. "Remember, there's probably going to be bait and switch," said the Sober Husband obscurely and darkly. "I just hope it's not silver," I said. "I won't drive a silver or beige car."

"Why not?"

"I read an article about how truck drivers can't see gray and silver cars at night because they're the color of asphalt. It's not safe. And all cars are those colors now. I'll never be able to find it in a parking lot."

"If you could buy a magical device that would always find your car in a parking lot, would you pay two thousand dollars for it? That's what you're doing." He chuckled at the idiocy of his putatively beloved wife. "You could get some spray paint and paint all over it; then you'll be able to find it."

"If I have to drive a silver or beige car, I'm going to nail a Godzilla to the hood for a hood ornament."

The children shouted. "Godzilla! I want Godzilla!"

As it turned out, the Volvo in question was white and surprisingly perfect-seeming. I sadly regarded a green Mini Cooper on the street nearby. I took a test drive, while the husband had a cup of coffee back at the dealership. The salesman politely said nothing when Lola spent much of the test drive shouting, "Butts! Butts! Butts!" The children determined quickly that the Volvo was their dream car. "I wish we could live in the car and never come out," Lola confided. The salesman, unasked, gave us a Carfax report on the car ("This is the kind of thing we were supposed to ask for," I said. "This makes me feel like less of a loser.") The Sober Husband looked under the hood. "If you want to get all meticulous, we're supposed to take it to an independent mechanic for an assessment," I said. "Oh, no, let's not go that far," he said quickly.

And so, once again, we ventured out and purchased the first car we test drove (and indeed the Sober Husband didn't even bother to drive it, relying upon my report), wrapping up the transaction in two hours (most of which was spent waiting for our turn with the financial manager to fill out the forms). Shouldn't a real grown-up put more time and effort into this? Decisive and firm action-takers or idiotic slackers: either way, we thanked each other at home later. "Thank you for making it not a shopping thing,"said the Sober Husband. "Thank you for buying a nice, reliable car suitable to my station in life as a middle-aged, middle class mommy," I said.

R.I.P. Oldsmobile

Today my aged Oldsmobile died a dramatic death as I was attempting to reverse out of my parking space. RIP, old car. You served us well and complained so little (except for your incessant "Check Engine" light, which I learned to ignore).

It is suspected that the transmission failed (there was a loud noise and then an unending grinding as I tried to reverse, and the car completely would not reverse but did slowly, lamely and noisily move forward in a most nerve-wracking manner). There is no point in repairing the transmission on such an aged car (it's a '96, and its 12 years are dog years, not human ones, given that its mileage is almost entirely city miles and the very worst sort of city miles at that, stop and go over Twin Peaks every day).

The husband is beyond distraught, into sort of a depressed state. One of our economy measures over the years has been to drive aged cars which are owned outright and which have such a low bluebook value that they don't require comprehensive insurance (although I, a former lawyer, insist upon maintaining much more liability insurance than is legally required). "This means financial issues, retail issues, and debt issues," mourned the Sober Husband. The man hates shopping.

My initial thought, once the husband proclaimed the car past saving, was, "Maybe I can take this opportunity to get a Mini Cooper!" Oh, how I have longed for a Mini Cooper, preferably in burnt orange or a sage green. After perusing the car ads in the handy Chronicle Car section, I determined a Mini Cooper was too pricy. Currently the plan is to go to a Volvo dealership in the suburbs on Sunday and buy whichever used Volvo seems most reasonably priced. I anticipate a huge amount of angst on the part of the husband (who seems, no matter how he tries to view the situation rationally, to have an undercurrent of thought that this is somehow my fault, but perhaps that is mere defensiveness on my part) and inordinate amounts of excitement on the part of the children.

the state of the January

I'm sick again, with a sore throat, fever, and general malaise, but not sick enough to keep the Sober Husband home from work, so I must struggle on. Meanwhile we're in a rare cycle of storms.

On the worst day, hurricane force winds lashed the city, dropping trees left and right. We were lucky not to lose power that day, although my odyssey to deliver Lola to pre-k was filled with adrenaline. Power outages all around us meant that the traffic lights were not functioning, including at a rather scary intersection we negotiate many times a day. This particular intersection is located at a twist in the road, so one cannot see whether there is oncoming traffic when making one's way across several lanes.

Later in the day I collected one of Iris's best friends, who attends what is generally considered the best public school in the city (once heralded by Redbook magazine as one of the top public schools in the country). The power was out all day at her school, so she spent the day playing mancala. This young second grader insisted on going outside in the storm with no coat on the hopes of acquiring an illness severe enough to keep her out of school for at least a week (I didn't have the heart to tell her that illnesses come from bugs, not from wind and rain). Later yet, pining for pre-k, my young friend proposed to Iris that they sneak back into pre-k under the guise of being new students. "Lola is so going to bust you," I said, but she believed donning a foreign accent would cause the other students not to believe Lola. She tried out a Slavic sounding one in the car all the way home from Iris's school.

We finally took down our Christmas tree and lights last night. We hadn't put them up until three days before Christmas, shamefully enough, but we left them up long enough afterward to compensate (adding a different form of shame, the House That Keeps Its Christmas Lights Up Too Far Into January). The children were quite pissed and fussed at us the entire time we were taking down the ornaments. "Don't take our tree," they whined and whined. Their whininess changed to cheerful greed when the Sober Husband did his annual tradition of paying them to find any straggling ornaments we had overlooked. On the spot he decided to give them a dollar per ornament, a sharp raise from the traditional quarter. Lola earned three dollars, bringing one-dollar Iris close to tantrums, but then kindly "found" a dollar lying around (obviously one of her own), which she presented to Iris as possibly being hers. Iris was not too ashamed to scoop up that charity dollar with alacrity.

And in another mark of the season, The Party Is Over. I took my last foster kittens in to the shelter yesterday. This was depressing enough, as normally I circumvent the front desk and deal only with my rescue (the kitten rescue for which I toil is a private 501(c)(3) which has an arrangement with the city's Animal Care and Control shelter). Any day you will see people turning in once-beloved cats and dogs. Up in the intake room, one black cat had a beautiful tiger-striped collar and was hissing at the shelter workers sadly. Thinking she was a lost cat, I said, "Oh, someone loves you. They got you that great collar. They'll come get you," but the shelter worker corrected me. "That woman down at the desk just surrendered her."

Coming home, my house felt empty and dull. No kittens greeted me at the front door. Soon the scabs all over my legs will heal, with no more kittens trying to jump into my lap and skidding off. Often with five kittens squirming for position in my lap, I'd remark, "There's a party on my pants", but now the party is over. The Sober Husband was celebratory. When I mourned about missing my little kitten herd, he said acerbically, "Perhaps I should have saved some of their dander for a souvenir." But on the bright side, my little Henry Hairball will be coming home in a few days, as the Sober Husband was weak enough to give me Henry as a Christmas present.

Warcraft update: My character is now at level 37, and I have a formidable goal. I'm in sight of reaching level 40, whereupon my character (if she has amassed enough gold) will be able to train a mount. No more walking around on her own pixillated legs, she'll be able to ride in style. The Sober Husband was happy about reaching level 17 until he saw my level 37. "I'll never catch up," he said bitterly. There is a website where one may buy level 40 characters (for a few hundred dollars) all the way up to level 70 characters (over a thousand dollars). The Sober Husband isn't desperate enough to buy a character, but he proposed I sell mine soon and start another as a part-time job. I reminded him that it wouldn't even work out to be minimum wage given the hours it takes to level those characters up. "But wouldn't you get efficient at it?" "If it were that easy, people would have 'bots doing it."

2008 book tally: I just read "The Summer Before the Darkness" by Doris Lessing. Written in 1970, it's the tale of a middle-aged mother confronting her loss of individual identity as her children, now young adults, no longer need her and her neurosurgeon husband devotes himself to affairs. I found this book maddening. First I loved it, then I hated it, then back to love. Although the character is exactly my age, I could not relate to her passivity.

a new year, a new idea

I normally read more than anyone I know (my reading has been cut into lately by my obsessive World of Warcraft playing, but I think that will be short-lived). When I was practicing law, my reading was cut down to about a book a month due to too much work and too little time (and indeed it took me a few months to get through Camille Paglia's "Sexual Personae", which I loved and the title of which witlessly scandalized all the partners at my old firm. Why didn't Ms. Paglia ever finish the sequel??). Typically though, I plough through a book a day, as I am a powerful speed-reader. This is actually a curse, as it means short books are unsatisfying. I hate to read more than one book a day, as the segues can be jarring. I love a good, long, rich and complicated book, and I love a very prolific author. Those were happy days indeed when I discovered Iris Murdoch and Patrick O'Brien: both so very good, and both so very productive. When I found them, they were both still alive and publishing at an alarming rate, and it was just so satisfying to feel I had more of their books ahead. (Indeed Iris Uber Alles is named after Iris Murdoch).

I have no idea how much I read in a year. I think I will try to keep track this year of what I read, and accordingly here are the first books of the year: "Hidden Moon", just out by James Church, and Stephen Chbosky's "The Perks of Being A Wallflower." "Hidden Moon" is set in North Korea and was lauded in various high-toned periodicals as being remarkably authentic, written under a pseudonym by a Western intelligence officer. I enjoyed this, but I didn't love it. Very atmospheric, very literary, but I found myself slogging through it. "The Perks of Being A Wallflower" on the other hand came out in 1999 and was a quick read. It's a charming book about a depressed, friendless boy starting high school, but I personally disliked the ending. According to the back cover, "The Perks of Being A Wallflower" set off a huge debate over the respective benefits of passion versus passivity, but I don't see it. If you're a fan of the coming-of-age genre and missed it the first time around, go hunt up a copy.

The other book I've been spending time with was an extremely thoughtful Christmas present from the Sober Husband, "World of Warcraft Atlas", but I'll spare you further discussion (except to note that it makes the perfect gift for the Warcraft obsessive in your life, but not me, 'cuz I already have a copy).

the WoW diet

Which is a more effective diet: an extreme case of salmonella or an obsessive case of World of Warcraft? The answer is most definitively World of Warcraft.

Since I started playing, I've been so caught up in the game that I've skipped meals. I've dropped an entire size. I don't know how many pounds it has been as our scale is broken. Yes, I know that's a set-up for a great joke -- how fat is the Drunken Housewife? So big she broke her scales!-- but the reality is that some child removed necessary parts from the scale. Unsurprisingly enough, no child admits responsibility. (Similarly no child will cop to having severely shorn the whiskers on Henry the Hairball, our last foster kitten. Lola, my top suspect likes to say aliens and ghosts are all around us and is quite insistent of her own virtue vis-a-vis the whiskers).

My Warcraft character is now a level 36 Orc hunter known as "Hassenpfeffr" on the realm of Drenden, with a level 35 pet cougar called "Frowstomatic." (A prior character, a Night Elf named "Lolathird", was abandoned at level 9 due to my deciding that the elf world was too cutesy. A gnome character came next, but I couldn't stand to see myself so short and lumpy and abandoned her before she even reached level 2. A Tauren hunter looked promising, but by the time she was level 5, I couldn't bring myself to log in. Finally I created Hassenpfeffr, and I haven't tired of her. I'm startled every time someone addresses me as "Hass", however, as that's my nickname for "Iris Uber Alles." Sadly her new helmet squashes down her perky purple mohawk, but she still has sass -- and extra protection from enemies.)

Now that our Christmas vacation is over, Warcraft time is more limited. I need to work in Lola's pre-k classroom tomorrow. The day after that, I'm supposed to spend half the day chaperoning a second grade field trip. Today I had errands to run, children to drive hither and yon, groceries to buy. Meanwhile my Hassenpfeffer alter ego lurks in the recesses of the internet, waiting for me to log on.

are you an Iris or a Lola?

Are you an edgy intellectual or a charismatic cutie? Are you preternaturally gifted at giving guilt trips or a brooding maker of hate lists? Or perhaps you're a Drunken Housewife or a Sober Husband type. Take this quiz and find out.

1. If asked what your favorite color is, you might say:

a. Black,
b. Pink,
c. I like lots of different colors,
d. I don't think about things like that. I hate aesthetic choices.

2. Your favorite food is:

a. Potatoes,
b. Probably candy but you like to say broccoli,
c. Ice cream,
d. "Pasta in the style of a glutton" (pasta with potatoes).

3. How do you feel about dessert?

a. I usually would rather have something savory, like a second helping of potatoes.
b. I look forward to it all day! Dessert makes my world go round.
c. I love dessert but don't obsess about it.
d. Love it, but usually I'm too full to go on to dessert.

4. What's your personal style like?

a. Usually I dress like a slob, but occasionally I like to glam it up.
b. I am all about fashion, baby. I dress beautifully.
c. I have my own very iconoclastic style. I'm not afraid to mix things up and look like no one else.
d. I'm afraid to look weird and like to stick to the basics.

5. Which would you prefer to read?

a. The more funky or literary fiction, gripping memoirs of fucked-up childhoods, and European detective novels.
b. Books about princesses.
c. Detective stories and comic books.
d. The Wall Street Journal and serious non-fiction.

6. Favorite drink?

a. Coffee in the morning and prosecco in the evening.
b. Chocolate milk.
c. Izze sodas.
d. Root beer.

7. Your dream vacation destination is ____.

a. Antarctica.
b. Disneyland.
c. Rome.
d. Traveling to see extended family.

8. Your romantic history?

a. Married twice, engaged various other times, have to count on fingers to tot up how many marriage proposals you've received.
b. Never been in a real relationship yet, but that's normal because you're young!
c. You've had a few boyfriends/girlfriends.
d. Married and happy to have gotten out of the dating rat race.

9. How about some shopping?

a. You can't rip me out of a bookstore.
b. I always like new clothes, and I'm always up for a trip to the mall if someone suggests it, but on my own, I won't initiate a shopping trip.
c. I shop 'til I drop! What could be more fun?
d. I hate shopping. I can't stand to be in too many stores. Retail depresses me.

10. What's your dream career?

a. Saving wild animals, but with flexible hours.
b. Princess.
c. Fashion designer.
d. Working at a successful high-tech start-up.

11. How energetic are you?

a. Eh, I'm fairly lazy, but I can have some surprising spurts of industriousness.
b. I love to exercise.
c. On my free days, I don't even want to get dressed. My dream day is spent in my underwear, playing around on the computer, watching TV, reading, calling for a pizza.
d. I can't stand to sit around. I'm always on the go.

Scoring:
For each a answer, one point.
For every b, two points.
A c gets you three points.
Each d wins four points.

If your score is between 11-19: You're a Drunken Housewife! You could do just about anything you wanted to, but usually you can't be bothered. Have another glass of Prosecco and put up your feet.

Between 20-27: You're living in Lolaland! You're a charismatic people-pleaser who can charm (or guilt trip) just about anyone into doing what you want. Feel the power of the cute!

Around 28-36: You're an Iris uber Alles! Your cutting intellect and many talents make you a valuable friend, while your tendency to brood and collect enemy lists makes you a formidable foe. You're confident and sassy.

37 and over: You're a Sober Husband type. Smart and energetic, you're the kind of person who gets things done. Maybe you could use a little make-over. Consider having the Lola or Iris in your life pick you up some new shirts, at the least. Or maybe not. In any event, wave your geek flag with pride!

first an imposter...

Recently I was paid the great compliment of having someone post here stating that this blog is 'the greatest fake blog since Anonymous Lawyer." I wasn't a big fan of "Anonymous Lawyer" (although I read the paperback... a bit too light for me, but nicely written), but I did feel immensely flattered by this accusation. How charming that someone thinks Iris and Lola are great fictional characters.

On the web today I ran across someone who says I am the infamous Stanford Law Hooker, the Stanford graduate who turned prostitute to pay off her student loans and then married a Silicon Valley hotshot (believed to be the Sober Husband). I have actually been offered money for sex (declined it) and for domination services (declined that also) and was once mistaken for a porn star in my twenties (it was flattering, believe it or not), but no, I am not the Stanford Law School Hooker. I am what I am: a Drunken Housewife with my degree from Stanford hanging by the refrigerator in the kitchen. I don't have enough energy to fake this blog. If I did have some creative energy bubbling up, I have a half-finished novel lurking in the recesses of my laptop to finish.

In any event, I don't care what believes for the most part, so long as they enjoy the blog.

Bravery

I found a little note, obviously transcribed by Iris Uber Alles from dictation by five year-old Lola:

I'M BRAVE page by Lucy*

Dear Ghost, I hop on one foot, I can jump very high, I'm able to sleep with all the doors closed. I can do bellete[ballet]. If I wasent brave I would tell you. I do things bravly! I AM BRAVE!

* Iris refuses to call Lola by her chosen name and passive-aggressively refers to her as Lucy, her birthname.

Christmas at the Drunken Housewife's

We had a rather quiet Christmas. First, early on Christmas Eve, Lola threw up voluminously all over what was formerly known as "the new couch." Feverish and weak, five year-old Lola was enthroned in the master bedroom and allowed that most treasured perk of the ill: all the videos she could stand. Iris was practically ill herself with jealousy.

Lola was fine the next day, in time for eight year-old Iris Uber Alles to spike a fever late on Christmas and become extremely fussy. Endless mugs of warm milk with honey were ordered up from the kitchen, and Mommy was required to stay by the sickbed at all times. When Mommy sneaked off downstairs to have some Christmas dinner leftovers, a sick and whiny child followed her down, interrupting Mommy's repast with repeated "Will Mommy come back upstairs with Hassie? When will Mommy come back up?" Today the children were listless and refused to leave the house (and indeed, poor Iris Uber Alles had the chills for much of the day). Lola raided her father's candy from his Christmas stocking and took to calling her father each time she unwrapped one of his candies. "Garbage Machine!"

"Did you hear what she calls me?" inquired the Sober Husband. "Garbage Machine!"

"Oh, Garbage Machine!" called Lola again, and she put another candy wrapper into his hand.

Sad to say, being cooped up in the house suited me just fine, given my new addiction to World of Warcraft. I'm equally ashamed and proud to inform the world that my new character has achieved level 22 (in the world of World of Warcraft, level 70 is what one aims for, so a level 22 is not particularly awe-inspiring. However, to have achieved so many levels in just a couple of days is both pathetic and impressive). Last year I held a little party on Christmas Eve which was really wonderful, and the Sober Husband wanted to repeat this, but I shrugged him off on the grounds that I didn't have the time and energy for all the cooking (but to be honest, if I weren't playing Warcraft, I could have made a ten course meal). There is some lip service given to the idea that a party might be held around New Year's.

And what holiday season would be complete without a Christmas miracle? There was one today which left my jaw hanging. The psychopathic little contractor, the one whom I believe tried twice to sabotage my car and who definitely got my friend Joyce ticketed, came up and warned me to move my car so I wouldn't get a ticket for street-cleaning. "Thank you!" I called multiple times, as this saved me $45. I'm still astonished. I hope all of you enjoyed a happy holiday and experienced plenty of your own miracles (and hopefully you got out of the house more than I did!).

making lists like Richard Nixon

Yesterday I noticed one of Iris's notebooks on the coffeetable, and I idly flipped through it. My casual nosiness was rewarded when I saw a page labelled, "Loser List." The "loser list" read as follows:

LOSER LIST

Lucy*,
Louise**,
Lucy's friends,
Lucy's schoolmates,
I.L.***,
Anton (just lately).

* Lola's legal name.
** Lola's best friend.
*** a girl from Iris's school whom Iris heartily despises.

I loved the lawyerlike methodicalness with which Iris singled out everyone associated with Lola: not just Lola and her best friend are losers, but also everyone who goes to school with them! Iris is SO ready to draft interrogatories. Attending law school would be an unnecessary formality. I also loved the way she tempered the Sober Husband's entry with "just lately."

I shared this with the husband, who laughed but then had to stop to ponder, wondering what he had done "lately" to earn the loser status.

snippets and snails

Overheard at the posh Mollie Stone's supermarket: a middle-aged woman was trying to convince a younger one to hit the salad bar. "When you're older, it's going to be a lot hotter," she wheedled. Global warming = more bikini weather. Who knew climate change provided us with a diet incentive?

Overheard in the parking lot behind Laurel Village: one expensively dressed woman in stilettos with exquisite make-up said to another, "The thing about our relationship is.... (very long pause)... we're both very promiscuous." Thankfully Lola was a bit abstracted and didn't ask me what "promiscuous" means. I'm still worried about how my answer to "What are drugs?" will sound when repeated to other five year-olds.

Overheard in my own home: "When are we going to get a Christmas tree?", said repeatedly by the resident five year-old and eight year-old. Last week and week-end, I was too ill. Last night we should have gone out to get a tree, but the husband and I chose to stay home and play World of Warcraft instead (we did a tricky quest together; isn't it so romantic when spouses can geek out together?). Iris played also but was forced to go to bed twenty minutes after her official bedtime, and her requests that I not play without her were ignored. The husband has been operating on a sleep deficit since the World of Warcraft was introduced into the home.

back in the front lines

So yesterday was the first day, after a full week of lying about in my pajamas with a trusty vomit bowl at my side, of being Back On The Job. The Sober Husband departed snappily in the morning for his beloved Doggyo, after dropping Iris Uber Alles off at her carpool. It was just me, pitted against five year old Lola and seven cats (the parrot and rats watched warily from the sidelines).

I geared myself up to drive for the first time in over a week and got Lola down to her swimming lessons on time. The only problem was that the swimming lessons were canceled due to remodeling. I would have known that if the Sober Husband had taken Lola to her lesson last week, while I was ill (during his week playing the dual roles of Drunken Housewife and Sober Husband, the man was compelled to cut a few corners, and the swimming lesson was the first thing sacrificed). We compensated for this by visiting the excellent nearby Salvation Army, where I picked up gorgeous silk ties to make Lola a skirt and Lola got the piggybank of her dreams. We also visited Lola's favorite Starbuck's (a rather nondescript one with lackluster baristas who like to turn the air conditioning up waaaaay too far) and Lola's favorite grocery store. In the car on the way home, Lola cradled her piggybank in her arms.

At home, I felt tired and crabby after putting away the groceries and wanted to rest. Lola was upset with me and created a book full of pictures of an upset Lola, ending with a dramatic drawing of a tall mommy towering over Lola and ranting away (a dialogue bubble was filled with dark scribbles), while tears coursed down the face of the tiny penciled-in Lola. There is nothing like a Lola for an effective guilt trip. Lola eventually dozed off.

When the Sober Husband came home, he was tired and crabby as well. "Are you ever going to do these litter boxes?" he demanded. (Normally I clean the boxes every day, but during my week's illness, I was incapacitated. The husband cleaned the boxes just twice, with a huge amount of drama, during that week). "I'm still getting well!" I retorted. "I'll do my best after I rest!" I did clean the boxes, but got quite whiny when the husband interrupted me to locate a package which we needed to send and to sanitize the bathtub so Lola could bathe (one poor kitten had, while I was in the literal act of cleaning the litterboxes, resorted to using the tub for his needs). "I only have two hands!" I said repeatedly.

In love with her new Salvation Army piggybank, Lola carried it all through the house, shaking it to hear her change rattle. In the kitchen, she dropped it and it smashed. I partially cheered her up by saving the face, which was intact (Lola also found the front feet and tearfully asked for those to be saved), which I displayed on the mantle for her. Lola cried brokenheartedly for an hour. The Sober Husband was loftily dismissive ("I try to avoid these attachments") on the basis that material possessions are meaningless and should be avoided (unless they are iPhones or iPods).

Finally the children were put to bed, and we collapsed. I played some World of Warcraft while the husband, holding his scholarly history of the CIA, nagged me over my shoulder. "Go left! Chase it! Chase it!"

"I'm not going to chase it; I'm going to throw things at it!"

"Go left!"

"Leave me alone! You're driving me crazy!"

One day, lounging on the couch in silk pajamas and being brought ginger ale by the children. The next day, time to pull on the sweatpants and do manual labor about the home. I just want to be whisked off to the sanatorium in Thomas Mann's "The Magic Mountain" so I can be wrapped in blankets and brought out onto a balcony for some fresh air and then perhaps lovingly prepared for a convalescents' ball if all goes well.

no, Lola, you are not actually a cat

Recently Lola had a flu shot, the indignity of which is never to be forgiven.

The other day she stared at the perfectly healed spot in which the vile needle once sunk and inquired, "I don't remember. Did I get a flea shot or a ringworm shot?"

no one knows you're a preschooler on the WoW

Against my wishes, the Sober Husband has introduced the World of Warcraft into our home. I had consciously shunned WoW over the years, fearing that the husband or I would become obsessed with it (indeed the husband had gone through an extensive obsession with Warcraft II, in the days before WoW was invented. During a more obliging phase of my pregnancy with Iris, I used to while away the hours during my premature labor bedrest creating custom levels for him).

The children are obsessed with it. The husband is facilitating this geeky interest of theirs. Indeed, the other day as I weakly called him to my sickbed, he brushed off my invalid inquiries with a brusque, "I need to help the children with their Warcraft."

All Lola wants to do is create new characters and run around. She favors a more buxom character ("Look! Like Mama!") Tonight, after Iris had gone to bed, I helped Lola pick a name for her latest character, a sexy lady zombie. "How about 'Fluffypants'?" I suggested helpfully. We roared with laughter. "No fair!" shouted Iris from her top bunk in the next room.

still pathetically ill

I finally left the house... to go see my esteemed physician, Dr. Stephanie Scott. It has been my only outing of the week.

Dr. Scott thinks that since my gastro distress has gone on so long, it's not food poisoning, but instead a stomach flu. I'm kind of skeptical, because I think that in general, when digestive disorders come out of the blue so violently, it's food poisoning. In any event, Dr. Scott wrote me some prescriptions, advised me to try hard to eat, and filled me in that "the BRAT diet" has been completely discredited. (As a mother, I've had it beaten in to me over the years, "BRAT, BRAT, BRAT" [bananas, rice, applesauce, toast], but Dr. Scott says there's no evidence whatsoever for its efficacy).

One might have expected that after getting the drugs, I would have been on the mend, but no. I was up in the middle of the night horking my guts out again, and today I've been miserable. I'm consumed with an unending thirst, and I can't get enough ginger ale.

The newest wrinkle in this is that Iris Uber Alles's best friend is flying in for the weekend from Chicago (how cosmpolitan these urban children are). I hesitate to expose her to this, if it is a flu(although the rest of the family remains perfectly healthy). Anton's thought was to get me a hotel room to store me in. Pathetically enough I feel too miserable to enjoy that thought. If only I were healthier, how heavenly it would be to leave the husband with all the little children and instead stretch out in a hotel bed, perhaps calling for room service or pawing through the minibar. The sad reality is that I'd have no one to fetch me more ginger ale and listen to my whining.

meeting the readers, and acting like a psycho!

So our esteemed commenter Brown (one of the prizewinners from the First, Possibly Annual, Readers' Photo Contest) came all the way across the continent on business, and this seemed a worthy basis to round up some of the local regulars. The august holder of the Mr. Drunken Househusband title, Silliyak, and his esteemed spouse, Moonrabbit, plus commenter A. all convened upon the Drunken Housewife's home last Sunday. All was proceeding according to plan (although I had hoped to hook our dear Hughman up for a videoconference, but that was not to materialize, alas). The commenters were, to a person, as congenial and witty as one would have expected.

But then... I was suddenly overcome by nausea and had to slip out in order to vomit repeatedly. I brushed my teeth, reapplied my lipstick, washed my hands like a surgeon, and went back downstairs. I told the Sober Husband that I felt that I had food poisoning from a questionable egg consumed earlier in the day and needed him to step up to the fore.

I was caught in a dilemma. Here were these delightful people, with their charming hostess gifts and nice manners, ready to spend a lovely evening, and since I'd never met them in person before, perhaps they would think I was some kind of a psycho if I abruptly sent them away. I didn't want to ruin anyone's evening, so I felt I could spare them knowing I'd become ill. (Since then, I've been advised that it was really stupid of me not to immediately send everyone away, as I was risking exposing them. Sorry, beloved commenters! I was a well-intentioned idiot). I slipped away a few times to discreetly be ill, washing my hands like an OCD patient. Soon it became clear that not only was I leaving the room inexplicably, but I was also not joining anyone in eating or drinking. I confessed that I had just developed food poisoning, and the guests carried on.

When I was able to be present in the room, the commenters were just delightful. The low point of the evening (aside from my questionable judgment in not evicting everyone for their own health's sake) was when the Sober Husband slipped off to answer some work emails, while I was slipping off to answer the swan song of salmonella. "I need you!" I hissed at him. "It's emails from the CEO," he said defensively.

So, the record for Meeting The Readers is very mixed. When our dear 2AM visited San Francisco, the Drunken Housewife was in fine health, did not leave the room repeatedly, and got solidly trashed as one would expect of her, and on the whole, performed as billed. The second set of readers got a different experience altogether (but still were wined and dined nonetheless).

After the dear readers departed, things grew worse. I haven't left the house or eaten since. I'm hoping to try some solid food today for the first time in 72 hours. Cross your fingers for me, people, that it goes well!

storing our most treasured possessions

Our house has a weird hidden compartment low in the kitchen. It's clearly designed for storing contraband. The husband terms it a Prohibition thing, and he may be right (the house is old enough).

Today Lola revealed that she had been storing the ribbons she earned at her swimming class there. (She has a rainbow ribbon for not crying, a green ribbon for dog paddling six feet, and most recently and gloriously! a blue ribbon for performing six "upfaces", i.e., swimming far enough with her face in the water that she must raise her head to breathe six times).

If we were ever burgled, the swimming ribbons would have been secure!

haircut humiliation hell!

The longer-term readers may recall that I have been cutting and dying my own hair as an economy measure (indeed, one darling commenter once wrote, "Don't make me come over there and drag you out by your home-dyed hair!", which reminds me that I need to get off my voluptuous rump and announce that I'm going to start having "Comment of the Week", like the witty Comics Curmudgeon does). However, I felt like changing my hairstyle somewhat, and Iris Uber Alles needed a professional color intervention (I dyed Iris's hair blonde last summer, and it needed a professional assist to move back towards its natural color). So I booked us in together for an appointment, taking the latest one available so as not to cut into the husband's work time.

The Sober Husband was supposed to handle Lola, and he did arrive most satisfactorily at the beginning of our appointment, from whence he whisked Lola away for tea and a brownie at Samovar, an elegant teahouse nearby. However, he wanted to get away in time for a "Dads Night Out" held by our preschool, where the fathers would be convening at a particular bar before moving next door to a poolhall. So he brought Lola back before our mutual appointment was over.

For completely oblique reasons of his own, the Sober Husband brought back a single cupcake (evidently the last one for sale) and a chocolate croissant (intended to be a consolation prize). He asked Iris Uber Alles which one she wanted, and surprise surprise!, she picked the cupcake. Lola burst out into tears, entirely predictably, because Her Big Sister Had A Cupcake And She, Poor Cheated Orphan, Had None. "Bye, sweetie, I've got to go now! Enjoy your appointment with a screaming child!" the husband wittily remarked as he bolted out to make his beer-drinking appointment (and mind you, coincidentally there was a field trip, err, "morale booster" at Doggyo that very same day where all the little employees visited the Anchor Steam Brewery and spent the afternoon seeing how beer is made, so it's not as though he were particularly in need of beer-themed relaxation).

So there I was, mid-haircut, in a tiny hair salon surrounded by non-parents who were clearly not amused by hearing crying. I called Lola to me and held her in my lap. I promised her a cupcake later, which my non-breeding hairdresser Michele thought was poor parenting. "She had a brownie already!" said Michele. "But that didn't have frosting on it, and she has to see her sister eat the cupcake!" I said weakly. (Of course, it would have made sense to split the cupcake in half, but I just inherited the situation from my husband).

The always perky Nancy, co-owner of the salon, got down a gothic Tim Burton doll from a display to cheer Lola up, and I got her to sit next to me, away from her sister. Meanwhile Iris made sure to eat her cupcake slowly and luxuriantly, theatrically savoring each bite. She gave me her napkin and the scorned chocolate croissant to throw away.

I slunk out of the salon after paying, carrying my stench of Bad Parent Who Takes Crying Children Into A Place Where They Don't Belong with me.

achievement du jour

So today I had set myself, for once, a list of things to achieve and had even blown off a lunch invitation from friend (and occasional commenter) Joyce in my zeal for achievement, but that was interrupted by an official phone call announcing that the normally uberhealthy Iris Uber Alles had spiked a high fever at school. I told the school I'd be there in 45 minutes, which was greeted by a sigh and the distinct inference that I am a slacking, unsatisfactory mother (I thought 45 minutes was pretty prime! What if I'd been in court or in the East Bay?).

Hence, my planned day of productivity became a day of keeping a feverish child company. We have snuggly foster kittens, we have warm blankets, and we have a laptop. On the one occasion I ventured downstairs, the fevered child dragged herself from the bed to cry plaintively from the stairs, "Mommy? Where are you?"

However, that didn't stop me from making progress towards crossing off one of the "evergreens" from my to-do list. I suspect even the most die-hard readers have forgotten that I vowed to invent a Drunken Housewife cocktail. With a headache and a crabby child confined to bed, I felt like a drink, and on the spur of the moment, I combined a healthy shot of vodka with a large dose of maple syrup(inspired by a throw-away mention by the esteemed Eric Felten that maple syrup can be used in cocktails), plus some sparkling water. As they would say in the Philippines, "Masarap!" Fabulous! I may just need to refine this and dub it with the Drunken Housewife nomme. Cheers, y'all.

a lovely Monday morning with those darling spouses, the Drunken Housewife and Sober Husband

I was lounging in bed, nursing the tail-end of a migraine, when the Sober Husband requested I join him downstairs for coffee and newspapers (which is usually our happy little social hour). Over coffee, the Sober Husband trotted out the following topics, which were delivered with an unblinking stare and deep, guilt-provoking tones of voice:

- the impending property tax payment and our need to draw on the home equity line to cover it, which segued not-so-nicely into

- the horrendous debt associated with the home equity line and its unfavorable interest rate (so why did we refinance the frigging equity line if that means we got a worse rate???);

- a misdemeanor committed by one of the kittens (a spool of thread was carried throughout the house by the little criminal, leaving an annoying spiderweb of thread behind until the thread was exhausted, at which point the furry miscreant abandoned the empty thread on the staircase);

- the appalling status of the housework, and

- how the Sober Husband planned to pull an all-nighter that evening at St. Doggyo working. (This is all well and fine for him, especially as there is plenty of camaraderie and catered food, but the reality for me is a lack of a break from the dear little children and a tired, crabby husband for the rest of the week).

I interrupted the delightful flow of conversation at this point and told him if he couldn't think of anything which would be as a ray of sunshine for the poor defeated Drunken Housewife who had spent the weekend with a severe migraine and a mother-in-law, then I wished death would come and deliver me from any more of this. A silence followed.

a plea at Christmastime: down with the Moose

If there is a special vegetarian in your life and you wish to buy that person a wonderful gift which reflects their incomprehensible vegetarian lifestyle, for the love of God don't get them the vastly overrated "Moosewood Cookbook."

As the holiday season rolls around, I know, sure as those motherfucking swallows return to Capistrano, I'm going to get another "Moosewood Cookbook." Why is it that this asinine book with its childish drawings is the only vegetarian cookbook any non-vegetarian has ever heard of? And why is it that the publishers keep tweaking it, so my carnivorous relatives think, "Oh, it's the Twentieth Anniversary issue of 'The Moosewood Cookbook'! It will look so nice on the Drunken Housewife's shelves right next to the Tenth Anniversary one and the regular one and the Sunday brunch one!"

Of course, what I write in the thank you note is along the lines of "Thank you so much for the thoughtful gift. Yes, I am still a vegetarian! I appreciated it so much", but as I write those lines this year, I'll be seething. Not just because I actually hate that cookbook, but because the author, Mollie Katzen, has not only taken up eating meat but had a preachy interview with "Food & Wine" about how carnivores are the new vegetarians. It turns out that Ms. Katzen has decided that now one can buy dead free range cows, only the prissiest of vegetarians wouldn't take up eating meat. (I think there should be a law against non-vegetarians trying to exploit the vegetarian market, kind of like the one which prevents murderers from profiting off tell-all books of how enjoyable the actual murder was). Thanks a lot, Ms. Katzen. Not only am I stuck seeing your stupid book under my tree every year, now I'll have the added joy of knowing that you're taking the profits to buy meat.

Lola views the Golden Gate Bridge, that paragon of hygiene

Today five year-old Lola saw her first live theatre, a production of "Cinderella" by a children's theatre group. I had to park a half mile away due to the overwhelming craziness of a holiday season weekend at Fort Mason (Craftswomen of Northern California annual event! The Guardsmen Christmas tree lot! Jewelry show! Animal rights film festival! Rhode Island School of Design Graduates sample sale!).

After the show, Lola started to lag as we trudged to the car. To distract her, we looked at various birds as we walked along, and finally we came across a postcard view of the bridge. "Look, Lola, it's the Golden Gate Bridge! Isn't it beautiful!"

Lola took this opportunity to once again stop walking, and she pondered the bridge. "Yes, it is beautiful. It must have been cleaned many, many times!"

what a day

Yesterday I had a migraine and my mother-in-law was in town.

In the evening Iris Uber Alles came up stairs to visit me on my sickbed. She was near tears over a conflict with her little sister in which evidently the winsome Lola had achieved a grandmother-assisted victory. We put on "The Simpsons" and snuggled. Looking up with love, Iris asked, "Will Mommy ever leave me?"

It was the only nice thing that happened to me in days.

no one reads the newspaper any more

Today Leah Garchik's popular column in the San Francisco Chronicle had a paragraph quoting me:

"Carole Morrell says that zombies are the new vampires, dodgeball is the new Fight Club, and she read in the Wall Street Journal, sopranos are the new tenors (as in Three Tenors).

Evidently no one I know, save moi, reads the Chron, as no one noticed this. The only person who was impressed was five year-old Lola, who carefully struggled to read my name out loud.

Aeons ago I wrote a letter to the editor of the Boston Globe, and when that ran, I got mail and phone calls from people who'd read it (this rather modest accomplishment was hyped up by my friends and its fame grew undeservedly, until one went so far as to introduce me to someone, saying, "She had an op-ed in the New York Times!"). My experience would substantiate the general understanding that newspapers are dying in this internet world.

easily impressed

Five year-old Lola often says, with a sage expression on her face, "Only God knows the future!" (Lola has taken to religion lately and recently informed me that she had prayed for the Tooth Fairy to come).

Recently Iris and Lola were in the kitchen, and Iris announced, "I'm going to fart" and then followed through on her promise.

In tones of awe, Lola inquired, "Iris, how did you know the future?"

Only God and Iris know the future. But can Iris summon the Tooth Fairy?

I am thankful

Today is Thanksgiving, and although I was in a funk earlier this week over my birthday (which my mother-in-law forgot, which is annoying because she sent out four emails this week micromanaging her own birthday celebration which won't occur until frigging July of next year), today I'm feeling happy and thankful.

I am so lucky to live in a beautiful house in one of the most beautiful cities of the world. Every day, I am surrounded by natural and manmade splendor. Even though I've lived here long enough that I don't pay a lot of attention to the gorgeous view from my bedroom window, every time I drive over 30th Avenue to pick up Iris Uber Alles at school, my breath is taken away as I crest that hill and see the Marin headlands and the bay.

And who out there has better children? Practically every day (except the days when they are being total little pills) I am amazed and astounded by how funny, smart, sweet, and beautiful Iris and Lola are. I drew the lucky sperms with those two girls, all right.

I have my health (true, my metabolism has just been hosed since I went on Paxil for post-partum depression, but I'm healthy!).

I have the one-of-a-kind Sober Husband., but the Sober Husband is a dogged kind of husband who always comes through when there's a problem. He's good-looking, brilliant, competent (always able to fix my sewing machine when it gets that annoying thread tension problem and able to find my "Project Runway Canada" fixes), and kind (although we are at odds currently over whether I can buy Iris a Hello Kitty electric guitar for Christmas).

I feel I've often had poor luck with friends, sometimes ending up falling out with them (ask me about the former BFF who vandalized my garage) and sometimes ending up having them move far away (lately I've been missing my BFF from my early legal career, who lives in France), but the truth is that I have some wonderful friends who are there for me and who are smart and funny.

And finally, I am so grateful for you readers. You listen to the stories of my little kids with the attention of a doting blood relative. When my kitten was mauled by a raccoon, you generously contributed and covered the emergency vet bills, enabling me to continue fostering kittens. You write comments which make me smile and sometimes laugh out loud. When I'm feeling depressed, you have kind things to say. You are each and every one of you appreciated very much (well, maybe not so much the one who wrote nasty things about me on the Elizabeth Wurtzel entry, but I suspect she hasn't bookmarked the page). You're a part of my life now, oddly enough (indeed I've had "real life" friends ask me such things as, "So, what's up with Hughman?") Smooches to each and every one of you, your devoted Drunken Housewife.

vampire fairies

Iris and Lola are dancing and pretending to be fairies. "We are frolicking, and I am the center of attention," instructs eight year-old Iris Uber Alles. "Frolic around me!"

They get thirsty, and I give them goblets of sparkling cider. "We could put blood in there, "suggests five year-old Lola.

"We are fairies! Fairies don't drink blood!"

"You could be vampire fairies," I suggest, inspired by Lola's "witch fairy" costume for Halloween.

"Vampire fairies!" They run off into the next room.

"We drink this after we kill a human," instructs Iris in a low voice. "Grab a human and bite it!"

"Death of a human!" shouts Lola merrily.

"We celebrate the death of a human!" They dance to the Mozart CD playing loudly.

"We are so happy! Blood of a human!"

why oh why, cruel fates?

"Why was I born a pencilneck?" eight year-old Iris Uber Alles mourned. "Why, why, why? Why must I be a pencilneck?"

a dark secret

Cradling the foster kitten named "Datebread" in her arms, five year-old Lola sang softly this morning, "Datebread, I love Datebread. Why are you named 'Datebread?' What dark secret made you be named 'Datebread?' What dark, dark secret made you be named 'Datebread?'"

(The hideous truth is that Datebread's coloration is that of datebread, which sparked the name. It could have been worse. Her brother is named "Henry the Hairball").

it's my birthday (tomorrow), and I'll cry if I want to (today and tomorrow, but hopefully not the day after)

So I've been in a huge funk lately. It's an annual thing: I always get depressed this time of the year. Some people who have been unlucky in love get depressed every year at Valentine's Day. Many, many people get depressed at Christmas. Me, I love Valentine's Day and Christmas. For me, it's my birthday which is the quagmire of unhappiness on the calendar.

The roots of this malaise are in my childhood. Let me just say that my own parents have forgotten my birthday twice. When I say forgotten, I mean F-O-R-G-O-T-T-E-N. One year they asked me why I was being so curt with them, and I informed them that it was because they hadn't called me on my birthday (or sent a card or a gift, but I left it at calling), and there was an awkward pause. "Umm... what... when is it... OH, YOU'RE RIGHT!"

My ex-husband sucked at my birthdays as well. The entire time I was married to him, I didn't have a birthday cake. In theory I could have made one myself or bought one, but that seemed too pathetic. One year he told me all excitedly about a bakery he'd gone to and a wonderful cake I would have loved which he'd considered buying. I heard this story over a cakeless meal at home.

Now the Sober Husband makes a genuine effort (and a genuine cake) each year, but still there's a seasonal depression. It's exacerbated this year by a recent visit from my parents and by a first-time-ever Thanksgiving funk. Thanksgiving has always been fine by me, a pretty happy day, but last year I was traumatized when none of my invitees RSVPed. Right up to the day before Thanksgiving, every time I asked, all invited guests would say, "Uh, I don't know." This was so weird for me. Every other year I'd invited people for Thanksgiving, I got firm answers and plenty of happy acceptances. Two of the invitees had spent Thanksgiving at my house the year before and had a wonderful time, getting drunk off French battle cocktails (the same drinks Napoleon's officers quaffed to get their nerves ready for the fighting) and eating past satiety. It's not as if I were reaching socially, as the invitees were comprised of my brother-in-law (the only in-law who likes me), his wife, a friend and her daughter, the friend's best friend, and a single woman who had proclaimed her loneliness and lack of options. When it came to the week of Thanksgiving, I had no idea what to buy, how much to cook, and whether anyone was coming. In the event, none of them did show up, but the children, husband and I had an amazing feast by ourselves.

This year, I couldn't bring myself to invite anyone. I couldn't set myself up for that again. At least the husband and children will be here, and indeed Iris Uber Alles has been shocked by my inertia. "Aren't you making that cranberry sauce again? I love that! It's good!"

I should focus on all the other Thanksgivings, where the guests RSVPed and came and were happy, and just write off last year as an anomaly. If it weren't the same frigging week as my birthday, perhaps I could, but it's just not the right time of the year for me to be breezy and glass-half-full. It's not as though I've been traumatized right out of inviting in general I've had some dinner parties since then, which were all perfectly fine (at least so far as I know. Lord only knows what the guests have to say). I just feel unwilling to try Thanksgiving again.

Last week, I felt great before my parents came (and before I had $1,800 in emergency repairs done to my car... which sadly does not appear to have been fixed, and before I had a fight with my husband over whether it is reasonable for his mother to require that we fly to Martha's Frigging Vineyard on the other side of the continent and stay in some godawful house with his family for HER birthday AND a squabble with the husband over whether it was reasonable for me to spend $17 on a Spongebob DVD for Lola, and, less selfishly, before the San Francisco bay oilspill, which is profoundly depressing and which causes guilt in me because my personal response so far has been only one day of volunteering). Hopefully next week will be another week of cheer. This week, though, is going to require a stiff upper lip (and possibly some French battle cocktails).

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.