Mr. Drunken Househusband 2008 speaks!

Today is a Very Special Day in oh so many ways: I have volunteered to chaperone the pre-k sleepover, so I'll be up all night with a large crowd of insane five year-olds. Also, I am informed that one of the other chaperones, whom I don't know, is an insane control freak, so that should make the evening all the more delightful. So wish me luck, and in the meantime, today I'm handing the Drunken Housewife blog over to our dear Brown, the new titleholder in these parts:

As the newly crowned Mr. Drunken Househusband 2008, I have taken a solemn oath to use my powers for Good and not Evil. This post is in service to that pledge.

First, thank you to Hughman and DH for bestowing this honor upon me -- I can only conclude that there were few other entrants. In spite of the very real humiliation of kissing my own toilet seat and then posting a picture of it all on the intertubes for everyone to see, I find it hard to believe that that truly represents the extremes to which readers of this site would go. So you all must be chickens.

Second, I'm a'gonna testify: NO man! Can call him self a MAN! IF he canNOT bear the COMPany of a STRONG WOMAN!

In that vein, please allow me to introduce my sister.


You may have heard her obliquely referred to here and elsewhere as "Chubby." Both a moniker and a descriptor (as me), she is in the habit of daring me to do crazy stuff like run many miles with her. Last year, I begged and wheedled at the feet of Drunken Housewife readership for your support in what eventually became a one-runner race.

Although she had shamed me into preparing for the half-marathon, poor Chubby was unable to join me. Nevertheless, thanks to your generosity the effort was successful. I finished the run and raised over $1000 for the cause. I immortalized the day here, if you're interested in wasting your time surfing the tubes: The Final Adventure of Fat Man and Chubby.

Well, the Chubster is at it again. Actually, she's often at it (it being pretty much anything). In this case, however, it's a run and a cause that is close to both of our hearts.

The Norris Cotton Cancer Center at Dartmouth Hitchcock is where my one of my grandfathers received the last medical treatment of his life. Both of them died from cancer, as did Chubby's father-in-law. As did many of the people we once knew--you may have heard: cancer is quite common. While the CHaD race was my big fundraiser, Chubby attempts the Covered Bridges Half Marathon every year in memory of our grandfathers and as a way to help raise some money for such a fine institution.

IN JUST ONE DAY, she will try the run. You have JUST ONE DAY to pitch in and donate. Please help us out. This is one gritty, determined person. Read the race report in that link for a look inside her head. I know that part of what drives her on is knowing that, while she has the option of quiting, cancer doesn't give you that chance.

Chubby's more than halfway to her $1000 goal. Please help me help her get to that line--she will take care of the rest.

tomorrow is betrayal day

Attention: It appears that some delightful person is passing around the URL to this post, trying to stir up cat lovers into a frenzy of hatred against me. Evidently the person in question has much more heart than brain (or reading comprehension). As anyone with a reasonable grasp of the English language should understand, here I was venting about my sorrow over parting with my FOSTER KITTENS. The word "foster" means that these are not the offspring of any cats I own. My personal pets (all rescued animals) are neutered (with the exception of the parrot, but no one has sex with her). Indeed, I am a volunteer for a nonprofit rescue group which takes the youngest and sickest feral and abandoned kittens. At times I set my frigging alarm clock so I can get up and bottlefeed ill and underweight feral kittens. As part of a small and lean rescue, I spend far too much of my own money on supplies and far too much time cleaning up kitten diarrhea and vomit. Besides assisting cats, I've also washed oiled birds at oilspills and handfed an orphaned baby beaver, as well as driven all over the state of California ferrying rescued rats around. So indeed, dear animal lovers with a poor grasp of reading knowledge, please go protest a veal farm or something and stop harassing someone who actually does put in a great deal of time every single frigging day towards helping animals. You also owe me an apology, but I won't hold my breath.


Some of my foster kittens are ready to be put up for adoption, and that means that tomorrow I'm going to take them down to the shelter. There they will be inoculated and put into a very small cage, where they will live, surrounded by the cries of the other cats, until someone adopts them. That could be a very long time for two of them indeed, because you see, they are black cats.

People often argue this point with me as though they are certain I must be mistaken about this. "Really? People don't like black cats? Where did you hear THAT from?" Funnily enough this argument sometimes comes from people who own orange cats, the number one most popular cat color. One of my current herd is a fluffy orange boy with a loud purr, and he's going to fly out of that pound. I'm not worried about him. But I am on the brink of tears already about my black kittens, and the word from my rescue is that the shelter already has a lot of black kittens rotting around in those little cages.

I hate taking my kittens down. During their time with me, they usually forget whatever horrible things happened to put them in the foster care predicament. They become bold and confident. They meet me at the door when I come home, and they create havoc on my bed when I'm trying to sleep. They frolic everywhere, and, poor deluded darlings, believe this is how their lives will be. Then the day comes, and their beloved lady sets them down on a cold, metal table and walks away, even when they cry after her.

The worst came one day two seasons ago, when I dropped off some kittens and watched as they were installed in their little cage. A few cages down some kittens languished that I'd dropped off a long time before. "Oh, no, you guys are still here!" I said. The poor things recognized me and were freaking out with joy, no doubt thinking, "I knew she'd come back for us! Now our nightmare is over!" I asked the shelter worker if he could take them out for me to hold, but he was harried and it would have involved breaking a rule (Shelter Rule # 5,432: No one -- not even a foster parent-- may handle a cat unless she has been pre-screened at the front desk and given a pass). Also, I needed to go pick up Iris at school. So I left without even holding them, and they cried so desperately as I walked out that door. I felt like the world's biggest jerk. Even now tears come to my eyes remembering that.

houses I have seen and hated

As someone who has bought two houses, I have been on a lot of tours of houses.

One of the most memorable houses I toured was the House of the Reluctant Tenants. Needless to say I wasn't interested in buying that one (I had actually evicted many tenants as a lawyer, and I didn't feel like going there as an owner). One angry young male tenant accosted everyone who came in and said, "You aren't going to evict us, are you?" in a hostile manner. Another unseen tenant was taking a shower (or running the shower; how long could the hot water last?) the whole time I was touring, so no one could see the only bathroom (like most people, I won't buy a house without seeing the bathroom). But that was somewhat understandable and didn't inspire horror or disgust, only pity for the poor listing agent. Other houses crossed the disgust or horror line with boldness and panache. Let me share a few of them with you:

The Sex House: I was really loving one house with a great roof deck across from Buena Vista Park until I went into the master bedroom. There was a variety of sex toys and lubricant and sex books out everywhere. I'm not a prude; I own some toys myself, but seeing some strangers' well used vibrators was just an "ewwwww" moment. Also, it seemed their sexuality was stuck in the seventies, which upped the "ewwww" factor for me. There was no way I could ever have sex myself in that particular master bedroom.

Ironically I had already bought a house with a sex-themed room, but it was more subtle and certainly very antiseptic. On our first visit to the beautifully appointed and perfectly clean little bungalow which became Our First Home, I noticed that one of the tiny rooms was set up with two comfortable recliners facing a television set. Each chair had its own personal box of Kleenex strategically located close by. "Hmm, this must be where they watch gay porn," I thought (perhaps because it was so clean and the actual porn had been tucked away, it didn't make me turn against the house). The Sober Husband chose to disagree with me. "Maybe they have allergies." It could also have been that the owners liked to watch a lot of tearjerkers, but then again, we were four blocks from the Castro. I was voting for gay porn.

In any event, after we put in the winning bid, I asked the sellers' real estate agent about that room. It turns out one of the owners was such an aficionado of gay porn that he'd written an encyclopedic book rating virtually all known gay porn flicks. I made sure to gloat to my husband about how I was RIGHTRIGHTRIGHT as always.

The Serial Killer House: We were excited when a large house went on the market one block from our first house. We loved our quiet, quaint neighborhood and didn't want to leave it; we just needed more space since we'd procreated. This could be our ideal solution!

The house was huge but immensely shabby and dilapidated. I could see some possibilities. On the bottom floor, there was a spellbinding trapdoor under the bed. "If we have Jews, there is where we will hide them," my husband remarked (ignoring for the moment that he himself was Jewish).

But then there was the tiny little enclosed patio off the wretched little kitchen. It was triangular, filthy, and contained only a chopping block, an old and well-used hatchet, and a lot of stains. Seeing this dear little space made me wonder more about the mysterious trap door. Perhaps it was used to smuggle out severed limbs. The house was thereafter The Serial Killer House to me.

My husband tried to argue a little sense into me about that house. "Imagine you live in this house, instead of that one YOU want to buy, and I give you thousands of dollars every month to do whatever you want to with! That's what the difference in mortgages will be." "I'd have to spend EVERY ONE OF THOSE DOLLARS to remodel the kitchen," I snapped back.

The Tampon House: My real estate agent was excited over an old house with spectacular architecture on a very great block in our city. The house had been horribly neglected and was filthy. The old bat of an owner criticized me for letting my toddler call me by my first name. But the final straw was when I saw a desiccated used tampon lying by one of the beds. I had to get out of the Tampon House and told my husband and long-suffering real estate agent, "NO WAY. I am NOT living in the Tampon House." My husband actually got into a squabble with me, claiming that it must have been a piece of art. I told him that I knew art and I knew used tampons, and this was a used tampon. As the only one of us who had actually used tampons, I claimed the expert role in the discussion. After all, the Sober Husband should have remembered from our squabble over the gay porn room that I am RIGHTRIGHTRIGHT when it comes to these things.

perhaps there should be no literary awards

During my mother-in-law's last visit, I took her to a bookstore. She was drawn by the latest Richard Russo novel, "Bridge of Sighs", and I stopped her. "Don't waste your money. In fact, you can have my copy if you want, but I wouldn't recommend it." I urged her to get "Fieldwork" by Mischa Berlinski instead, one of the best books I've ever read, an unbelievably engaging and well-crafted first novel. You see, Mischa Berlinski has not yet been spoiled by literary acclaim. Richard Russo, I fear, has been forever damned by winning the Pulitzer Prize for "Empire Falls."

Russo used to be one of my favorite authors of all time. I have lent out my copy of "Straight Man" so many times and reread it so often that it's barely holding together (plus there are still some spray sparkles on some of the pages because I took it to the Burning Man festival). It's a brilliant academic satire, right up there with Kingsley Amis's "Lucky Jim". Indeed, a professor of art I loaned it to ended up buying several copies to give to his colleagues, but when he gave them out, he made sure to tell them, "Don't worry, I don't see you as "Orshee" (a highly annoying young professor who insists upon constantly correcting his colleagues with a lofty "or she" whenever they say "he"). Russo's "Nobody's Fool" is an ubelievably rich and amazing work, with a heavy-drinking, aging manual laborer for a protagonist. It's remarkable how gradually and subtly Russo changes the reader's perceptions of Sully, the loserish protagonist, and his nemesis, a wealthy real estate developer, as the book progresses.

He used to write with such humor and flair, but now Richard Russo is determined to Write A Big Important Book, which evidently means being dreary and focusing on depressing subjects and really, really obsessing about how adolescent traumas can never be overcome. Oy vey.

Tragically the same thing has happened to my beloved, beloved Jonathan Coe. Coe, a British author, wrote one of the most moving and beautiful books ever penned, "The House of Sleep." It's also in places almost unbearably funny. Coe's first big success came with "The Winshaw Legacy", which combined humor with seriousness perfectly. Indeed one of my current literary loves, Scarlett Thomas of "The End of Mr. Y", credits that book with inspiring her to become both a vegetarian and a successful novelist who tries to write about big issues.

It was almost unbelievable that anyone could write so beautifully as Jonathan Coe in his prime. His characters were varied and real (I will never forget the medical student with a fetish for sticking his fingers in the eyes of his narcoleptic girlfriend), and his craft was unparalleled. "The House of Sleep" shifts between decades seamlessly, and an article written by one character ends up libeling the Pope and Maggie Thatcher's husband, among others, due to a footnote labeling error. There's no one like Jonathan Coe... including the Jonathan Coe who is currently turning out depressing downers like "The Closed Circle" and "The Rain Before It Falls."

Like Richard Russo, Jonathan Coe has won awards and is now writing Serious Fiction which evidently means losing all of his sparkling wit altogether. Sad, depressed characters enduring one blow after another, that's what we get with these two authors. Bleh. I wish someone would remind them that Shakespeare used to insert a bit of humor here and there, even in "MacBeth" and "Hamlet", and we don't think any the less of him for it.

Shortly after I had warned my mother-in-law off the latest Russo, I read an article in the Wall Street Journal about "importantitis." The author was addressing music, not literature, but it was just as I'd observed with poor Richard Russo. The writer used Leonard Bernstein as his prime example: after Bernstein won a particular award, he was never able to compose anything of any value again. His pre-award work was innovative and delightful, but what came after was stilted and trying too hard for greatness to achieve it.

Just the other day I read that Doris Lessing has been unable to write since winning the Nobel Prize for literature. Ms. Lessing warns authors to devote as much time as they can to writing while they still have the gift, since their abilities could vanish suddenly and unpredictably.

I really, really miss Richard Russo and Jonathan Coe. Lately the best books I've been reading have been first novels, like "Fieldwork" and also "The Lost City" by Henry Shukman. I can only hope that Mischa Berlinski and Henry Shukman don't win any major prizes any time soon.

the joys of working with the young

On Tuesday I started entering into my daily routine after enduring a four day migraine. I still felt a bit shaky, but I had to do my weekly shift at the parent cooperative preschool (read: I couldn't figure out a way to get out of it which wasn't shameful, and I needed to get out of the house anyhow). As I was driving, I thought over and over, "I hope Jim does something quiet and easy today." (Jim is our iconic pre-k teacher. Despite having worked over 25 years at this same preschool, he still has plenty of energy and an Elvis-esque quiff).

As soon as I arrived, little Stella bounded up full of enthusiasm. "WE'RE GOING ON A GIANT HIKE!!"

I barely averted blurting out "Oh, fuck."

Later Jim informed us working parents that we would indeed be going on a nature hike in the Presidio. I said pathetically that I was just coming off a four day migraine and didn't know if I were up to it. With the nerves of steel and the intolerance for whining which have made him a major success in the preschool world, Jim said calmly, "Are you wearing good shoes for walking?"

As the afternoon of breaking up squabbles wore on, I felt more fragile, and I broke the school rules (Rule #4,972: Workday Parents May Not Make Phone Calls When They Are Supposed To Be Supervising The Children) to leave a series of increasingly imploring emails on the Sober Husband's voicemail, begging him to bail me out by leaving work early. He finally returned my call (provoking another rule violation, as the office manager had to leave her post to find me to call me to the phone) and promised to cab over. He arrived in the nick of time, as the children were being assigned to grownups (the only thing that saved him from missing the start of the hike was that a lengthy debate had been waged over how to assign the two most troublesome and argumentative children, as the random method had stuck one parent with both those little cherubs, which was patently unfair to the poor parent).

Later I drove back to collect the Sober Husband and Lucy. Everyone else trudged back from the field trip, but there was no sign of the Sober Husband and his little band of children. Finally, after school dismissal time, they appeared, looking a bit harried and stressed. The husband was quick to explain: one of his charges (a very athletic and energetic boy) had lain down in the street at a major intersection and refused to get up. He was unable to make this child stand up and walk and in the end carried this large child back to the school.

Another mother and I contemplated this. This mother, a calm and smiling woman who has an almost Buddha-like persona, said, "I would have screamed at him until he got up and walked. I just won't take any nonsense from these kids."

I concurred. "The lash of my viperous tongue would have driven him onwards," I said. There is nothing like a warmhearted, loving and calm stay-at-home mother when it comes to viciously effective scolding.

hurry up and enter the Name Hokgardner's Baby contest!

I'm feeling efficient and like wrapping up all the loose ends (I advise our photo contest winners to write to me about their prizes while this mood prevails; poor Silliyak had to wait aeons for his prize last year). Therefore, let me call your attention to the Name Hokgardner's Baby Contest. I'm giving you a last chance to win before we call it closed. Enter now and have the glamor and glory of having named a real live baby without having to endure labor or pay the baby's college tuition!

a feel good song from Lucy

Five year-old Lucy happily sang to herself a song she made up about her older sister:

"Iris is a servant
Iris is a servant
Yeah yeah yeah!
She does all the boring stuff
She does all the boring stuff
Iris is a servant
She does all the boring stuff
Like cooking
And washing all the clothes."

Later, Lucy walked up to me and asked, "Wouldn't Iris make a good target?", her beautiful cherubic face beaming.

the winners of our Annual Readers Photo Contest!!

Once again your aging sot of a blogger commanded you to enter your photos for her amusement, and you rose to the occasion, you darlings (or at least some of you did. The rest of you are just skating by and will need to make it up to me next year). You may wonder, "Why the hell has it taken so long for this contest to wrap up?" At first, we (meaning Celebrity Guest Hughman and I) extended the deadlines to let some late entries sneak in, and then we extended it again, and then I was preoccupied, and then finally I did declare the winners and write it all up. However, only one of the pictures would show up: the one I uploaded to Blogger from my main email account. The others, sent to my gmail account, wouldn't load, even though they seemed to upload normally as I was composing the post. Evidently there is some bug, which makes no sense as Google owns both gmail and blogger, so one would expect them to go together like Armagnac and prunes (and if the image of Armagnac and prunes causes you to recoil, you need some more classic French desserts in your life. And while we're meandering, I have an anecdote: I used to have a pet rat, Leo, who lived cagefree. He occupied my apartment like another resident, which was delightful most of the time, but once I left out a Tupperware container full of prunes marinating in very good and expensive Armagnac for a planned dessert, and he ate all of it. Poor Leo must have felt like hell after eating his bodyweight not only in Armagnac but again in prunes). Anyhow, so finally a week later Hughman has nagged me into trying again, and here we are. Let me just say that I am hating gmail today.

Last year's winner and current holder of the Mr. Drunken Househusband title, Silliyak, weighed in with an unusual choice, a sad anorexic woman viewed from behind. This disturbed me, but the more blase celebrity guest judge Hughman said, "Frankly I can see this on the streets of LA every day."


Our beloved Carol Ann shared her travel duck with us. She explains: "This green rubber duck always go with me on trips and gets his picture taken. He's been to Vegas, Disneyword and Disneyland, and New York City, among other destinations. So, I decided that he should visit your blog." Awww! Hughman sez, "I love the duck. Is this where you get Green Eggs for Green Eggs and Ham? I wish the duck was swimming in a cocktail."

A new reader, April, gave me a scare. She sent in two pictures of herself, and this one, in thumbnail size in my email inbox, made my heart pound for a moment (and not for the same reason some of you readers' hearts are pounding as you gaze upon it). This picture, when tiny, looks uncannily like I did in the early nineties. I had very short bleached blonde hair, bright red lipstick, and a dominatrixish wardrobe for the weekends. For a moment, I thought our sprightly April was a stalker from my past (and I have been stalked; I have been stalked on two continents). When I opened the picture up to full size, I felt like an idiot, since her tattoos are quite different from mine and our facial features are different. Obviously April is my soulmate and not a stalker. If only we had teamed up back in the nineties; we would have been unstoppable. However, as Hughman noted, April is not going to take top honors because she hasn't added the Drunken Housewife URL to her picture, but she has a special place in our hearts (and I note that as I was uploading the picture AGAIN today, pulling up the thumbnail gave me a start once again. My god, it's uncanny).


Captain Steve had a very thoughtful entry, which really captured that Drunken Housewife zeitgeist. A book, a bathrobe, a cat: c'est moi. Hughman says, "It's all about the shoes. Kudos for including cats, cocktails, leopard print and Bust all in one pic."



Hughman and I felt that nothing could beat Captain Steve's entry, but a last-minute effort from defending champion Missy, holder of the Drunken Housewife title, blew us away. We loved the cat, the snarl, the cocktail, the beautiful colors... This had to be the winner, and it's ensconced at the top of this entry. However, I am declaring Capt. Steve to be Iris Uber Alles 2008, a new title!





Although the fight for Ms. Drunken Housewife 2008 was a hardfought and close one indeed, the Mr. Drunken Househusband 2008 was all too easy to call. Our dear Maine commenter, Jim aka "Brown" submitted a bold and carefully thought out entry which had Hughman musing, "Who can resist a man in lipstick? Sure he's supposed to be drunk but still he's not afraid to show his housewifey side." The only thing wrong with this picture is that it brought back unfortunate memories of my hideous bout with salmonella earlier this year, shudder; but of course that makes it all the more a propos. Jim, you are Mr. Drunken Househusband 2008! Enjoy your reign and don't abuse your powers!

Missy, Capt. Steve, Jim, Silliyak, Carol Ann, and April: please contact me to discuss your prizes (your choices include a book from my collection selected especially for you, darling; a t-shirt modified by me (I'm in love with my "108 Ways To Use A T-shirt" book); ordering up the post of your choice; or commandeering the space for your own rantings).

best not to ask

It is so tedious to tell one's dreams, and Miss Manners decrees that dreams should be shared only with those who share your bed. Nonetheless, I shall share that I dreamed last night that I went on a date with Hellboy. This could in theory have been quite a spicy dream, but in actuality the date consisted of our getting into an argument in a bar.

The husband's dreams, however, were of a higher calibre. He woke me up in the middle of the night with wandering hands, which led to a marked decrease in sleep all around but smiles over the coffee. "That must have been some dream you had last night," I said. He gave a silent nod, clearly choosing not to share any details.

"Mmm hmm," I thought to myself, concluding that I hadn't taken a starring role in that particular dream. "Too bad all Hellboy did was squabble." The Sober Husband has all the luck.

high expectations

Yesterday when we were putting her clean laundry away, five year-old Lucy's mind turned to romance. "When I get married, my husband will be very beautiful."

"More beautiful than Daddy?" I asked.

"Oh, yes! More beautiful than Daddy! As beautiful as Mommy!" Lucy turned a shirt over and over in her hands as she pondered her beautiful future spouse. "As beautiful as a butterfly! As beautiful as a flower! As beautiful as a princess!"

former lab rats make the best pets, karmically speaking

A public service announcement:

Here's the good news:

Cal State Northridge psych lab is permanently shutting down

Here's the bad news:

They want all the animals out by Wednesday, May 7, or they will all be killed. They have 50 mice; 20 hamsters (dwarf, syrian golden & black), 20 rat (black/white & brown/white), 5 guinea pigs (1 pair, 1 trio).

Dwarf hamsters, mice, rats + guinea pigs can live in same sex or spayed/neutered groups. Syrian (regular) hamsters generally need to live alone.

All animals are healthy and have only been used for animal behavior observation.

These animals were all whisked away in the nick of time by the delightful Debra Jenkins, a local rat and rabbit rescuer of great renown (I have not met Debra in person, but I got to know her a bit during the Great Petaluma Rat Hoarding Disaster of 2006. She has amazing networking skills for saving animals). Please contact Debra to adopt or sponsor a rescued lab rat.

I myself had several rescued lab rats, who came from a UCSD lab, who were charming pets who brought a lot of joy during their lives. I can't take in any myself right now, as my cat population is at ten (five kittens, including a pathetically undersized runt; one undersocialized young cat; plus four "regular" cats).

an extremely special contest

You may be wondering, "So, what happened to the Second, Possibly Annual, Readers' Photo Contest"? The answer is that we got a couple of requests for extensions, and seeing as how we're rather slothful here, we granted them. Also, it's been a tough decision this time around. We will announce the winners over the weekend.

But! Why wait a second longer to start the long-awaited NAME HOKGARDNER'S BABY CONTEST!!!! Why, indeed (we'd hate for poor Hokgardner to have her nameless baby before we get around to starting the contest).

Our dear commenter Hokgardner is expecting a child, but seeing as how this is child #4, she and her husband have run out of names. They have decided not to determine the gender ahead of time, doubling their work in choosing prospective names. So we will here enlist the readers to solve Hokgardner's problem.

Grand prize: actually naming a baby. (Please note that just like on "Project Runway" where they say, "The winning design may be part of Macy's fall collection", the winning names may or may not be used). Imagine the bragging rights from this: you can swivel neatly on your stool, turning to the next barfly, and say truthfully, "I named a baby in Texas once."

Runner-up prizes: right to use this space for a rant or reflection of your choice, unedited (but I reserve the right to mock) or the right to commandeer me to write about the topic of your choice.

Guidelines: The other children are named Lily, Ella, and Campbell. There is a general sentiment that perhaps the letter L has been used enough and should not dominate the next (and probably final) child's name. The parents, as you may have surmised, favor traditional names and do not particularly care for creative spelling. That said, the expectant mother loves the name "Tallulah", but Mr. Hokgardner has refused to give his consent.

Also, think about the initials. The last name begins with G, so let us wasteth not our time proposing names such as Penelope Ingrid and Franklin Allen.

How to enter: post your suggested names in comments to this post. Enter as many times as you like. Eventually I will call a halt, and after Hokgardner and Mr. Hokgardner have conferred, we'll declare some winners.

an update in our ongoing studies of (a) hypochrondria in the young and (b) rudeness in contractors

On Friday morning, I was relaxing in my bathrobe with five year-old Lucy, when the doorbell rang. It was one of the workmen employed by the contractor building a home nearby, who has locked horns with me on a number of occasions. The worker asked me to please move my car (which was legally parked by my house) because a truck was stuck trying to get through. I told him I'd move it in a few minutes (there was no way I was leaving the house in my bathrobe; I didn't even have underwear on). The worker told me that there was a car stuck behind the truck which wanted to get through. (Funnily enough when one of those trucks trapped me in my car, unable to reach my house and meet our scheduled speech therapist, the contractor told me I had no right to complain as anyone who lives in a city must expect to get stuck behind trucks all the time).

After I got dressed, washed my face, and brushed my teeth, I went down and moved my car. The contractor was in a fury, pacing about in the street, but he didn't speak to me.

Six hours later I was driving the children home when I found a peculiar obstacle. The contractor -- or his minions -- had put five or six orange cones out in front of my house, arranged in a pyramid shape. It was difficult to get past them (this is a very narrow street), and they prevented me from parking in front of my own house (and mind you, there are two houses and an alley between me and his construction site. There was clearly no purpose to be served by the cones other than to annoy me).

I told the Sober Husband about this later, and he clearly didn't want to hear about it. "Why don't you write on your blog about this?"

"That must be a euphemism for 'shut up with your ceaseless yammering'," I said.

Meanwhile in that same day, Iris Uber Alles reported a headache in the evening and some nausea. I believed this, because she was wan, clingy, and wanting to lie down. However, five year-old Lucy would not stand for her big sister getting any extra attention. "I have a headache! And my stomach hurts, too!" she chirped, jumping up and down as she tried to get my attention as I felt Iris's forehead. Lucy then moved in for the kill: "And my tongue hurts!" She always goes one symptom too many, poor Lucy. She's a failure as a hypochondriac.

providing incentives to improve at school

Eight year-old Iris Uber Alles reported to me today that from now on, she doesn't have to write out her spelling words three times each. She only has to copy them out once apiece.

"That's great, honey!" I said. I assumed it was a nod from the teachers in response to Iris's perfect record of spelling. It makes no sense to make a child who already knows how to spell words write them out over and over again.

"They did this for one of the girls before."

"Oh, is she really good at spelling, too?"

Iris clarified: the reason she only has to write her words once apiece is that her handwriting is so dreadful that the teachers don't want to subject themselves to reading so much of it.

"And this is supposed to motivate you to improve your handwriting? Having less homework?" I asked in disbelief. "Maybe you should make up a system of hieroglyphics."

We laughed so hard that the cashier at our cafe raised an eyebrow.

children can't appreciate the glories of Warcraft

After a truly delightful outing to "Bug Day" at a local children's museum (Iris bravely held a giant cockroach; the Sober Husband ate a fried cricket and a fried larva; we learned that the large insects which terrify Iris and Lucy on a regular basis are "crane flies"), the Sober Husband took Lucy off to her soccer game. Eight year-old Iris and I needed something to do, and I proposed we make new, human characters together on "World of Warcraft." Iris, who has long nagged me to try the human side of Warcraft, was excited. Soon our characters were questing and exploring the world.

Iris started getting fidgety. She went outside a few times to check on the cats, while her character was actually in a fight. "I'll come back when she killed him."

Soon Iris got even more restless. "Let's take a Warcraft break, and I don't mean like when you say you're taking a Warcraft break. I mean, let's take a break from Warcraft."

once I was a micro-celebrity

The other night there was a reception at our school for the parents of the incoming kindergarten class. The Sober Husband and I went to a great deal of logistical trouble to attend (now here's a logic problem much worse than anything I faced on the LSAT: A quasi-important reception both parents should attend begins at School A at 5:00, and no children may attend. At 4:30, Child A's fencing class ends at School A. Coincidentally at 4:30 Child B needs to be picked up from School B, a few miles away. Additionally, the babysitter obtained by the husband of the logician has been told to show up at the children's home at 4:30. Therefore the logician needs to be in three places at 4:30 on the dot. Additionally, the logician and Children A and B live halfway across San Francisco from Schools A and B, and traffic is slow and ornery after 4:30, meaning that it will take 30 minutes to travel between the schools and the home one way. I spent an entire cranky, cranky day solving this little puzzle).

As the reception was winding down, I was explaining to the Head of Lower School why I was informing them, after they're been so careful to use "Lola", that in fact my child is now named "Lucy." This explanation was quite embarrassing to me as a parent as it involved various epiphanies had by my child while vegetating before the worst sorts of children's pop culture, "Barney" and that wretched film, "Shark Tales." (Irritatingly enough "Lucy" is practically the "Jennifer" of her kindergarten class. There will be three Lucys and three Olivias, no Lolas. I hear one Lucy goes exclusively by "Goose", though).

While we were having that conversation, a parent charged up with a big head of steam and a huge grin. I assumed he wanted an audience with the Head of Lower School, so I angled my body at an inviting and modest angle, so he'd get the message that I wasn't hogging the Head and he could join our conversation. Instead, he blurted out loudly, "YOU'RE FAMOUS! YOU FOUNDED BURNING MAN!" to me. The Head, who knows me as an eccentric stay-at-home mom, gave me a double take and faded away. I said modestly, "Oh, no, I wasn't the founder. I was the lawyer. I came along later. I just put the LLC in 'Burning Man, LLC.'"

It's been a long time since this has happened. I used to be extensively involved in Burning Man and its organization, and people who attend that event tend to live their lives around it. Accordingly many have a hero worship for any of the top organizers, and as San Francisco is the epicenter for Burning Man, it used to be that I was accosted quite frequently by admirers, who often called me "The Lawyer." As I'd be walking, people would shout out, "Carole! Carole!" from cars, really wanting to get my attention for a second. If I were downtown, I'd overhear someone pointing me out: "That's her; she's THE LAWYER" in tones of awe. At parties, there'd be a little circle of sycophants. It's a shame my children will never experience When Mommy Was Cool, but then again, they wouldn't like it. They strongly prefer the spotlight to be directed unwaveringly at them.

After this reception, we drove downtown to a nightclub, where the Sober Husband's employer, Doggyo, was holding an event. The husband had a wristband to get him in, some drinks tickets (only good for beer and wine; the shame, Doggyo, the shame. Do not cheap out on the drinks!), and an official Doggyo name tag. I looked around upon entering. Everyone was filling out nametags, putting on their web or media affiliation. "Do you want one?" asked the Sober Husband, probably imagining that I'd write "Doggyo Spouse." "Oh, yes," I said, and I wrote "Carole www.drunkenhousewife.com" on mine. The husband laughed. (Later in the evening, someone asked me seriously, "Is Drunkenhousewife.com hiring?")

And here's how the coin has flipped: back in the day when the Sober Husband and I were dating, he came along as my arm candy to a variety of Burning Man events, where I was a Big Important Drunk. Nowadays I tag along with the husband, and my once massive ego has a hard time with my nonentity status. I've noticed in particular that my husband's female coworkers have exactly zero interest in getting to know me, which I assume is because they know I'm a stay-at-home mother, which means I'm some sort of braindead throwback to the fifties, something to be shuddered at and avoided lest, like a zombie, I devour their feminist brains. If a male colleague actually gets into a conversation with me, he'll usually enjoy talking to me, but a female coworker won't go there.

At this second event, the crowd of Web 2.0 enthusiasts was salivating when the youthful founder and the youthful CEO took the stage. These are pin-up boys for Silicon Valley: multi-millionaires before they turned thirty, with messy hair and untucked pinstriped shirts over their jeans. It was just like the hipsters used to react when we Burning Man board members spoke. At least I'd had the tiny thrill of a little hero worship from a stranger earlier in the day, a tiny residue from the Time When the Drunken Housewife Was A Cool Demi-celebrity.

there is no chocolate milk in hell

My old friend Elliott came by yesterday afternoon and was soon acquainted with our household theology, that five year-old Lucy is a god and sends people to hell, where they won't have any friends. Elliott opined that he himself would be going to hell, but he expected an icy cold martini to be waiting for him there.

Eight year-old Iris had never contemplated what one would drink in hell. We asked the God Lucy if Iris could have chocolate milk in hell.

"No! Plain WATER!"

Remembering the old saying, 'in hell they want ice water...", I suggested to Iris that indeed ice water is the very best possible drink to have in that fiery afterlife. Lucy interrupted: "HOT WATER! IRIS JUST GETS HOT WATER!" Elliott, not having incurred the Great God Lucy's wrath, has not had his martini forbidden, but the anger of the Great God Lucy is vast indeed against poor Iris Uber Alles.

breakfast with the god

This morning resident five year-old and self-proclaimed god, Lucy, had cinnamon toast (she has become inordinately fond of Cinnabon brand bread and its trademarked "cinnamon bursts") while I looked at the paper.

Musing to herself, Lucy said thoughtfully, "Mommy goes to heaven. IRIS GOES TO HELL! I go to heaven."

"Where does Daddy go?"

"With me."

He'll be happy to hear that his prior fate of being sent to hell where he would have no friends has been rescinded.

a proud husband

I was having a cup of coffee with my friend Joyce the other morning, and my husband wandered in and interrupted us.

"Did Carole tell you she reached level 70 on World of Warcraft?"

Joyce rolled her eyes and said, voice dripping with sarcasm, "You must be so proud."

The Sober Husband answered quite seriously, "It gives me something to brag about around the office."

Patrick Buchanan is an idiot

Failed ex-presidential candidate Patrick Buchanan is using San Francisco as a symbol of how Barack Obama is out-of-touch with mainstream America. Never mind that Obama has never lived here; he was here when he made his controversial remarks about bitter workers clinging to guns and religion for consolation. Buchanan won't let you forget that it was "behind closed doors to the Chablis-and-brie set of San Francisco, in response to a question as to why he was not doing better in that benighted and barbarous land they call Pennsylvania."

The people of San Francisco are not unacquainted with hardship. Indeed, within recent memory pretty much everyone has gone through hardship. Remember the dot com bubble? If we are to imagine it as a burst gum bubble, we'd see the very most gum over the faces of everyone in San Francisco and its surroundings. Nearly 20% of the population left. Landlords slashed their rental rates. Developers were devastated. Homeless shelters were overwhelmed. I could go on and on.

But never mind that: Oh, my poor idiotic Patrick, Chablis and Brie are FRENCH products. Here in San Francisco we take great pride in our local products. We are the Zinfandel and Cow Girl Creamery set, precious, and don't you forget it.

last call for contest entries in the Annual Readers' Photo Contest

You, my darlings, have this weekend to take a photo, which in some way contains the words "Drunken Housewife" or the URL "www.drunkenhousewife.com", and email it to me at drunkenhousewife@gmail.com (or to send me a compelling enough plea to get the deadline extended). Celebrity Guest Judge Hughman and I stand at the ready to issue our rulings next week.

Mind you, the picture need not contain your visage or be flattering to the Drunken Housewife. We're looking for wit and dash, my duckies, or photographic talent. Insulting images are as likely to win as charming ones.

the accusation and the tragedy and the short memories

THE ACCUSATION: This morning I ordered the children to get dressed if they wished to be conveyed to the Daly City Playhouse, an establishment comprised largely of a three story climbing structure shaped like a castle, abutted by a number of couches upon which a Drunken Housewife may recline. Their preparations were interrupted by conflict.

"MOM!! LUCY SAYS I HAVE A GOOGOL CLOTHES!!" shouted a livid eight year-old Iris.

"Well, you do have a lot of clothes. Maybe not a googol but that's not an insult."

"YES, IT IS!!"

I threatened cancelling our expedition if they didn't stop their squabbling, but I regretted that rash utterance once it had crossed my lips. If I didn't take them to the Playhouse, I'd be stuck with the fighting siblings all morning at home. Thankfully they did not realize the hollowness of my threat and instead toed the line, more or less.

SHORT MEMORY, PART I: Lucy

After the children had spent a delirious hour cavorting and giggling ecstatically in the Playhouse, I herded them out to the car. The sun shone into Lucy's eyes, and she said bitterly, "I'm having a TERRIBLE MORNING!"

"What! I just drove you guys here and paid for you to play, and that's a 'TERRIBLE MORNING?"

SHORT MEMORY, PART II: Iris

This evening, after a beautiful and full day, the Sober Husband asked Iris Uber Alles how her last day of spring break went.

"Terrible!"

"WHAT!" I interjected. "I took you to the Playhouse, and I took you out to lunch, and I bought you a comic book and a magazine, and I took you to the beach, and then I took you out to the Beach Chalet!! And I listened to your yammering! How can you say that was terrible??"

Iris hemmed and hawed.

"Look at your shirt!" (said shirt was bespeckled with sauce from the grilled asparagus and catsup from the garlic fries consumed sloppily by the child at the Beach Chalet). "It's evidence of spoilage! I have spoiled you!"

THE TRAGEDY: At home this evening, the children munched some goldfish crackers while watching a Simpsons episode. (Iris Uber Alles was horrified recently to learn that the Simpsons have been banned in Venezuela. "We must NEVER, NEVER go there!!!"). In doing so, they made a hellish mess of cracker crumbs upon the floor, which they were bade to sweep up. In tidying their mess, Iris put some crackers which were on a little table back into the bag of crackers. Five year-old Lucy burst into tears.

"I WAS GOING TO EAT THOSE!! I PUT THOSE THERE TO EAT!"

We consoled her, explaining that the crackers were fine and could still be eaten. She could still take some crackers from the bag if she wanted more.

'BUT I WON'T KNOW WHICH ONES WERE MINE!!" she sobbed. Oh, the humanity.

creepy contractor update

Over the past few months, I've had virtually no interactions with the sociopathic little contractor building a luxury house close to mine. There has been plenty of construction noise and dust, of course (I hear a loud, annoying drill as I type this).

For some time I had been looking forward to the expiration of the contractor's construction zone permit. He has two large signs warning "NO PARKING/VIOLATORS WILL BE TOWED" on posts embedded in concrete, which he deployed where he wished, moving them about. Indeed he moved one by my friend Joyce's car after she'd parked one day and then called DPT to have her ticketed, but she had the ticket overturned after pointing out that he'd moved the sign after she parked. Anyhow, his paid permit to deploy these signs expired last month, and for some time he didn't put them out. But then this last week he started setting the expired signs out again.

I found this maddening. Normally parking is easy on this block, but on street cleaning days, it can be quite stressful to find a spot. By putting his signs out, he's unlawfully preventing people from using several spaces.

While that was just irritating, another occurrence was unsettling. I stopped by my house briefly with Iris Uber Alles in tow the other day, and when we left, I heard one of the workers call, "SHE'S GOING OUT NOW." I looked around. Iris and I were the only "shes" in sight. Were they monitoring my movements?

I reported this to the Sober Husband, who was dismissive as usual. He even defended the little sociopath's use of his expired signs. "Think of it this way: the sign is just a way of saying 'Please don't park here.'"

"It's not saying 'please!' He's not the type to say please. It's saying "I will tow you!'"

"But you know he can't tow you. It's just stopping people who are too lazy to read it."

I seethed. How dare he side with a balding sociopath against his allegedly beloved wife!

Quickly switching into condescension mode, the husband pulled me close and hugged me. Speaking in the same tone of voice he uses to reassure toddlers, he murmured, "How dare he put those signs out! And watching when you come and go! How terrible!"

Dismissive husbands aside, the idea that the contractor has his workers monitor my comings and goings is profoundly unnerving.

spare the children! oh, spare them!

Eight and a half year-old Iris Uber Alles is on spring break this week, and I am in the mood to take in a matinee with her. Currently the only G rated film playing, "Horton Hears A Who", is one I can't contemplate attending (I do love Dr. Seuss, but in book form, please). There are two movies I dearly wish to see, "Juno" (yes, I'm virtually the last adult woman in North American who hasn't already seen it) and "The Band's Visit" (an obscure Egyptian film about a marching band stranded in a small Israeli town). However, they are both rated PG-13. Should I take Iris?

I decided to try out some of the special reviews for parents, which elaborate upon questionable and age-inappropriate material, to help me make my decision. First up, kids-in-mind.com.

Soon I reached my conclusion: the Kids-in-mind.com people are clearly idiots.

Under "Violence/Gore", they write, among other things, "We see a fetus on a sonogram screen and a teenage girl makes a remark about the size of the baby's head." Oooh, how gory! How utterly violent! Those black and white sonogram blobs are just so scary. They also list as Violence/Gore "a teenage girl talks about ripping off all her clothes and jumping into a shopping mall fountain." How is that gory? Are they imagining she'd slip and skin her knee?

The Kids-in-mind reviewer was also up in arms over a scene where a pregnant person vomits. The violence! Oh, the violence! My own children have not only seen me vomit (my still remembered salmonella bout provided many, many opportunities to see this), but they have also vomited themselves. I hope they aren't unduly traumatized by that "Violence/Gore."

These people are not only unclear upon what gore and violence are, they're a bit fuzzy on profanity. Under Profanity, they include "name-calling (jock, jerk, stupid, nerds, squares, stink eye)." I hear worse than those epithets every time I do a workday at Lucy's pre-k (not to mention that five year-old Lucy utters more profane insults than those, what with her proclivity, in her self-proclaimed role as "the God Lucy", of threatening her father with eternal hellfire and damnation).

Next, I turned to parentpreviews.com. Interestingly enough the Parent Previews people were able to sum up the questionable content of "Juno" in three sentences, while the Kids-in-mind idiots went on for pages. With their admirable succinctness, the Parent Previews folks said: "A teen pregnancy results from a one-night stand (depicted with near nudity) between Juno and Paulie. The ongoing crass and casual discussion of male body parts and sexual activity are included along with repeated profanities and strong sexual expletives. A brief comment on the abuse of prescription drugs and a bloody impaling scene from a horror movie are also contained in the film."

I still can't decide whether to take Iris or not, but I'm more fascinated by how the Kids-in-mind morons missed that "bloody impaling scene from a horror movie." I guess they were so stunned by the sonogram image that their scarred retinas were unable to register anything else for a while.

shopping list

Our shopping lists are a joint effort, particularly since Lucy became literate. I ran across an old one in my handbag I felt like sharing:

Bread (written in the Sober Husband's handwriting and then heavily marked out)
kitty litter (written in my own slapdash hand)

The next two items were in Iris Uber Alles's handwriting:

Whale milk (presumably she meant "whole milk")
MARSHMELLOW PASTE!!! (this was written in very large and dark handwriting; recently Iris has taken up a serious Fluffernutter habit and evidently she was really jonesing)

Then the list reverted back to the Sober Husband's writing, who was presumably planning a cocktail surprise for his very own Drunken Housewife:

Scotch
Bourbon
toothpicks
Cheese sticks

Finally five year-old Lucy makes an appearance, with a carefully scrawled
CHEEZ-ITS

And there you have it: cheese items, Fluffernutter supplies, liquor and kitty litter. What else does one need?

a vengeful god

The resident five year-old has had an eventful week, changing her name from Lola back to Lucy and declaring herself to be a god.

Last night the God Lucy was feeling inadequately served. Her tired and cranky father refused to get up and make her a cup of chocolate milk, and Lucy's divine and vengeful temper resonated throughout the land. "I'LL DESTROY YOU!! I'LL KILL YOU AND YOU'LL GO TO HELL!! AND THEN YOU WON'T HAVE ANY FRIENDS!!"

In disbelief, the Sober Husband queried her. "You're going to send me to hell?"

"AND YOU WON'T HAVE ANY FRIENDS THERE!!"

Photo contest!

There's another week to enter the Second Readers' Photo Contest. The entries are trickling in, with one photo taking the lead, but it's not sewn up yet. Get your entry in or ask for an extension! Celebrity Guest Judge Hughman is fairly lively, but I'm lazy and could push the deadline back if asked nicely enough.

Prizes! Bragging rights! The joys of victory! All can be yours, just for submitting an entertaining photo with the words "www.drunkenhousewife.com" or "Drunken Housewife" in it somewhere.

Coming soon: the exciting "Name Hokgardner's Baby" Contest! I'll post some guidelines on that soon, but in the meantime, while you're taking photos, you can mull some good names over in your fevered little brains.

reaching out and receiving support

It was a bad week here. Towards the end of it, I confided in my dear friend Joyce.

"I kind of hate talking about this, because I know it puts you in a bad position. Like, 'do I call 911 or not?' I was feeling suicidal again this week."

Joyce murmured some supportive things.

"But you know what kept me from doing anything? My tattoos. I can't stand the thought of them dying with me."

"Dude, that is so weird." Pause. "You have got to put that on your blog."

a Lola by any other name

When I was pregnant the second time around and learned from my amnio that I was expecting a girl, I felt stymied over a name. "I feel like we shot our wad with 'Iris Alison,'" I complained over and over again to my husband.

We soon settled upon "Antonia" as a middle name, partially after writer A.S. Byatt and partially after a relative, but a first name evaded us for months. We named Iris after novelist Dame Iris Murdoch and cartoonist Alison Bechdel, but no literary namesakes could be agreed upon the second time around. I lobbied for "Jane" after Jane Austen, to no avail. The Sober Husband had been traumatized by being made to read "Pride and Prejudice" in high school and could not countenance the name.

"How about naming her after a suffragette?" the Sober Husband offered in a moment of brilliance. I waddled off to the public library and pored through a book about the suffrage movement. The British suffragettes were, to a woman, stuck with unwieldy names, but there were a few Americans with pleasing names. We soon had two finalists, "Lucy" after Lucy Stone (a brilliant suffragette who campaigned for the reform of marriage laws and who pioneered the practice of women keeping their own last name after marriage) and "Julia," after Julia Ward Howe (author of "The Battle Hymn of the Republic" as well as a notable suffragette and abolitionist). Later we flirted with "Lydia," after Lydia Becker (editor of "The Women's Suffrage Journal").

We let then three year-old Iris Uber Alles decide. "The baby in your belly is named LUCY," she said emphatically, over and over again.

"If she doesn't like her name, I'll just tell her, 'We let your three year-old sister name you,'" I said presciently.

And she didn't like her name. As a toddler, Lucy referred to herself as "Baby." When she potty-trained, she decided that as she wasn't a baby any more, she would no longer be called "Baby." Refusing to answer to "Lucy", she was nameless for a while. She tried calling herself "Gaa" (which sadly enough I didn't realize until much, much later was her attempt to say "Girl" during her worst apraxia, before speech therapy), but that didn't get picked up by anyone. I frankly refused to introduce my child to anyone as "Gaa."

Then Iris Uber Alles rented the movie "Shark Tales", which the children watched over and over again one week. It was about the same time that Brad Pitt left Jennifer Aniston for Angelina Jolie, and my nameless child was smitten with the glittering gold-digging fish, "Lola", voiced by Ms. Jolie. "Lola!" she said. "I Lola."

For the next three years, she was very insistent that the name "Lola" must be used. In our home, the word "Lucy" was on a par with the n-word, absolutely abhorrent. Lola went so far as to get upset whenever I listened to the Lucy channel on satellite radio, always forcibly changing the dial to "the one and the two", as she called the X-Country station, over her mother's ineffectual protest.

The only person who would not use the name "Lola" and persisted with "Lucy" was big sister Iris. Iris, very passive aggressively, insisted upon always saying, "Lola, oh I mean Lucy" in a way which made "Lucy" sound like an imprecation.

But then last week Lola saw a "Barney" show about the meaning of names. She then went on a kick, insisting I look up the meaning of everyone's names. I already knew the meaning of my name, "Carole", which means "bright sound", and the meanings of "Iris" (which means either the flower or a rainbow, after the goddess Iris who is the goddess of the rainbow). The children howled when it turned out that the Sober Husband's name has no known meaning. Lola's best friend's name, "Louise", means "fierce warrior", which is extremely appropriate given that she fights with Iris without regard for the usually daunting age difference.

The trouble came with looking up "Lola." As a derivative of "Dolores", it means "sorrows" or "pains." Lola found this frankly depressing. Lola was indeed so troubled by this that she actually reverted to "Lucy", which means "light." This shocking development caused Iris, who had stubbornly refused for years to ever use the name "Lola", to suddenly take it up. She now now refers to her sister as "Sorrows" or "Lola Sorrows."

"I'm not SORROWS!! I'M LIGHT!!" Lola/Lucy yells at her sister, with a dramatic flourish of her hands up towards whatever light fixture or heavenly body is visible.

The Sober Husband and I, long trained to refer to our child as "Lola", are having trouble adapting to this name change. We now call our daughter "Lola-I-mean-Lucy."

It's hard to predict whether this change will stick. I do know one thing, though: I'm glad we looked into role models, rather than relying upon baby name websites. I've become addicted in spare moments to hitting refresh on the random baby name generator at thinkbabynames.com. It invariably yields such gems as "Swanhild Damaris" and "Pocahontas Roderiga" (and the Thinkbabynames people insist "Pocahontas" is a Hebrew name meaning "playful", fascinatingly enough). I've just got to keep Lola/Lucy away from that site, though. I wouldn't put it past her to suddenly insist upon being addressed as "Pocahontas Roderiga."

children with too much self-esteem

'IRIS! I AM YOUR GOD!!!" shouted five year-old Lola.

the guilds and I

The Sober Husband introduced the World of Warcraft into our home before Christmas, against my express wishes. I had opposed WoW out of a fear that he, a former Warcraft II enthusiast, would become addicted to it, and I felt the children already spent too much time on the computer as it is. If he could go back in time and undo that action, I'm sure he would. The horrible truth is that I've become a Warcraft addict, and he is a WoW widower.

It's a solitary pursuit for me. At first, we played together, the Sober Husband, eight year-old Iris, and me. We ran around together, figuring out how to sit down, laugh, dance, and kill things. The earlier quests we all did together. But then I began to pull ahead. Now I have a level 64 Orc hunter. The Sober Husband's main character isn't even a level 20 yet, and he's ready to pull the plug on his account.

Lately I've been finding it frustrating, because there is so much I can't do as someone who customarily plays by herself doing solo quests. I can't run the good dungeons alone. I sometimes do quests with other players I run across, but I'm not good at keeping in touch with them later. I should be in a guild, I suppose, but my history with them has been so speckled.

When I was just starting out, I was solicited all the time to join guilds, but I never felt like making a commitment. One day Iris and I were goofing around, fishing in Ratchet, when someone struck up a conversation with us and asked us to join his guild. He seemed lively and polite, so we impulsively joined. Right off we were darting off to run the Wailing Caverns with our new guild members.

Within twenty minutes, it went south. Two of the guild members got into a fight before we even entered the Wailing Caverns. I got irked when one called someone else "fag" on the guild chat. The guild owner resigned, then resumed his post, then resigned again. The emotions flew over the guild chat. Several people on our WC run became so distracted by the guild infighting that they fell behind. Iris and I resigned from the guild, with Iris doing the honors of announcing to the guild that we were "quitting! We want a guild that's better!" (Oh, her very first flouncing off online! What a rite of passage!) Our first guild membership had lasted not much more than an hour. I don't even remember the name of that guild.

But! We were instantly on to our next guild. I signed a guild charter for a guild started by the very person called "fag", who said he could lure away the most adult members of that guild. It was all low level characters. I was, in fact, the highest level player.

At first, this seemed fine. I spent a lot of time questing with the guildmaster, who was a few levels below me (although he certainly spent a lot more time playing Warcraft than I did). This usually seemed more to his benefit than mine. I helped him and his wife complete some quests I'd already done myself, on the theory that I could get help with my own quests later.

But then this, too started going south. The guildmaster developed grand ambitions, and he came to rely upon me to be his helpmeet. His own wife didn't want to be bothered by him when playing, so I became his World of Warcraft wife. And he was a nagging and hyper-critical husband, telling me to change my professions, donate to the guild bank, ask permission before taking any loot in a dungeon (although he himself seemed quite grabby and, worse yet, gloated about his newfound treasure)... The final straw came when he was hounding me to donate to the guild bank when he knew full well I was saving for my first mount (oh, that special time in a Warcraft player's life, when she first reaches level 40 and may acquire a giant wolf or dinosaur or zombie horse to ride on, rather than having to shamble about on foot). It was all for the Guildmaster's glory and empire-building, as he promised a brand new recruit that the guild would pay for his professional training and help him get new equipment.

I resigned from the guild, and of course I got some guilt-tripping messages from the guildmaster. He then dropped out of direct communication with me, but yet, with the stalking instincts of an ex-boyfriend, kept tabs on me from afar. He, nicely but creepily, congratulated me when I reached level 50, and he got back in touch again to gloat when he passed me and achieved a higher level AND acquired an epic mount first. (I'd cut back on my playing so I could make a quilt for Lola's preschool auction and because my husband was out of town keeping vigil at a dying friend's bedside. It's nice that this hectic and stressful time in my life brought joy to someone else).

Next I tried another guild after playing with a polite and helpful fellow one day. He assured me his guild was drama-free, and it seemed so for a while, until a rather immature member picked a fight with me one day. I quit quickly.

The time that came next was the happiest in my Warcraft life since those halcyon days when I started. I played alone, guildless, free of nagging or oversight. Whenever anyone I happened to pay with incidentally suggested I join their guild, I'd tell them, "I'm taking a break from guilds right now. Too much drama." They always found that amusing.

I flew through the forties and fifties, but finally after reaching level 60, I felt like I was stagnating. I felt frustrated by not being able to run dungeon quests. Trying to get an impromptu group together with strangers was maddening. When I finally had gotten into a sizeable enough group to run Zul'Farrak after weeks of trying, the group fell apart when our leader's mother made him log off and go outside to play in the fresh air. As a mother and alleged grown-up myself, I found this ironic.

By accident I met another player of the same level in Orgrimmar one day, who asked me to join forces with him. His idea was that we would focus on getting other 60ish level players to join us and we'd all work together to reach level 70, and it sounded reasonable to me. I joined his guild. Two days later, when I logged on, the guild didn't exist any more. I'd had no warning.

Subsequently I joined another guild on the basis that it had upper level players who would ostensibly run instances with me. Over the next few days, all the upper level players quit (including the one who recruited me, the only one I knew). At least the drama went on behind the scenes, but soon I was the highest level left by far in the guild. Needless to say, there was no point asking any of my guildmates to help me run my quests, as they'd be killed instantly.

Then the true insult came: my new guildmaster asked me repeatedly over several days to buy the guild from him! He found another patsy, at a much lower level, and I resigned to be guild-free again.

Realistically I know that I need to join a guild if I ever want the finest epic equipment and to raise money for a flying mount. This time, I think I'm making a more rational decision. I plan to pay the Warcraft people to transfer me to a different server, where an online acquaintance tells me there are delightful guilds which will nourish and cherish my character. I'm happy to join her guild and leave my server behind, land of a thousand flawed guilds. I wonder if my stalkerish ex-guildmaster will track me down.

our ongoing study of hypochondria in the young

I've been sick off and on for two weeks, with first a terrible sore throat and torturous lung congestion accompanied by a racking and dramatic cough, followed by a rather humdrum head cold which reduced my IQ by about half.

Now any sensible person would have distanced herself from this contagion and instead rejoiced in her own relative health, but not my offspring. They were jealous and continually cajoled me to feel their perfectly normal foreheads for imaginary fevers.

On Thursday Iris had a headache (believed by me to be genuine). Five year-old Lola, competitive as ever, interrupted her big sister. "I have a headache, too! And I am sick!"

"LUCY!" shouted Iris. "YOU ARE NOT SICK!"

I quieted Iris. "Tell me your symptoms, Lola."

"I have a headache. And my arm hurts." She stopped to ponder, then smiled brightly. "And the bottom of my foot hurts!" Needless to say this assemblage of symptoms did not win her the coveted Officially Ill status.

Eight year-old Iris Uber Alles is not above a bit of hypochondria as well. At her school many of her classmates are being diagnosed with "learning differences", and Iris has become convinced that she has dysgraphia. She finds her parents' indifference maddening. Brandishing a purple brochure she had obtained somewhere, Iris cried out, "But all of these apply to me!" On another occasion, she said emotionally, "My handwriting is bad, and my papers are always a mess! I have dysgraphia! It explains everything!" Not the drama queen behavior, honey, not the drama queen behavior. That is still a Mystery of Science.

the return of the Possibly Annual Readers' Photo Contest

My darlings, I am pleased to inform you that, after a rousing success last year, the Readers' Photo Contest is back! And with the return of our esteemed commenter, Hughman, as our Celebrity Guest Judge as well!

Last year the photos were supposed to be of the readers and were supposed to somehow encapsulate the spirit of the blog. We had some delightful pictures presented, with regular commenters Silliyak and Missy capturing the titles of Mr. Drunken Househusband and Mrs. Drunken Housewife for the year (can they defend their titles?), with stiff competition from other readers, including Brown, Lemonjuicer, grand prize winner Jack's Raging Mommy, Susie, and even the Sober Husband.

This year, the rules are a bit different. The photo may be of anyone or anything, but it must contain the words "Drunken Housewife" or "www.drunkenhousewife.com." The photo need not present those words in a flattering light (e.g., if you found some poor passed-out drunken skank, you could lean a piece of paper up next to him or her with the URL scrawled on it, and that would be a fine entry). Of course, the more humorous or beautiful or exotic or scathing the picture is, the more likely it is to win.

The prizes: some or all of the following will be rewarded (a truly great winning entry will sweep the board and could receive all of the following): I write a post on the topic of your choice; I let you write whatever you want here, uncensored (but I reserve the right to comment upon it); a good book from my vast collection; a funny geeky T-shirt modified by me in an artistic manner; the right to lord it over the other readers in an insufferable manner.

The deadline: two weeks from now, or longer if I get lazy or distracted. Submit yer entries to drunkenhousewife@gmail.com.

Let the contest begin!

the sorceress sings a sad, sad song

Yesterday morning five year-old Lola went off by herself. I was in the next room torturing myself over the daily paper's Sudoku (got it on the second try, but with shame at having needed a second go-round), and I used my Sudoku pencil to write down her lyrics (later Lola inquired, "Mama, why do you write on the newspaper?" "Because it was there").

Lola evidently was feeling the brunt of her older sister's displeasure, as she sang softly and sorrowfully,

"It's all my fault
It's all my fault
It's all my fault
That's all I want to say
I don't know what to put in your lunch
It's a big deal
It's a big deal
And that is that
And that is that
Oh yeah, yeah, yeah."

(Incidentally, lest the reader condemn the Drunken Housewife for forcing little Lola to labor at her sister's behest, Lola had not been required to pack any lunches for her sister. Interestingly enough Iris insists on making the lunch for her little sister to take to pre-k whenever there's a chance, and Lola-hating Iris prides herself on making a fine boxed lunch. "Lucy, I put SEVEN THINGS IN!" she announced yesterday).

Iris had the day off from school and had been using it to torment her sister psychologically, with the occasional maternal intervention, but the hour came for Lola to be taken to pre-k. At pre-k, one of the parents drew me aside. Her daughter had come home the day before with an agenda. She had a long list of things, beginning with pine needles, which she needed to acquire and mix up together, stat. "What do you need all that for?" the mother asked bemusedly. "Lola says if I mix it all up together, I will get ANYTHING I WISH FOR," said the little girl with absolute faith.

I'm so happy to see Lola striking a tone of authority outside the home. It was also, as I discussed with this mother and one of my favorite dads, nice to hear of the girls playing something other than their endless dreary housekeeping and Cinderella games. "Why are they so obsessed with mopping," one parent said wonderingly.

"Lola certainly doesn't see that modeled in our home," I said guiltily. We laughed, and crabby old Iris pulled my sleeve to get me away on my assigned errand of buying candy as her thank-you present for working with our undersocialized foster cat. Why should a mother stand around discussing Lola when she could be buying candy for Iris? The mind boggles.

of cats and big breasts

It's been a time of great achievements, people, great achievements. First off, I captured the undersocialized foster cat who'd gotten out and was living in the crawl space under the house. Frankly, this cat is not the brightest light on the Christmas tree strand, and that was my salvation. Tux, as we call her, is an unbearably beautiful animal (who looks uncannily like the cat in the signature Drunken Housewife illustration) with the silkiest black-and-white fur in existence, but she's no genius. She clearly wants to be one of the herd of regular cats, who come and go with elan, but she's too timid and not clever enough to figure out how to join in. In the backyard, she would make eye contact with me and come a bit closer when I crooned, "here, kitty, kitty." She would come closer yet when she saw me petting the other cats, who are casual in their acceptance of the Drunken Housewife's love. But she would not come within reach. She did come a few steps in to the house, only to freak out and flee over and over again.

Today I ostentatiously went out into the yard, petting Frowst, the king of our block; Peter Robin aka "Defecto", our dearly beloved foster cat; and Princess Henry, my Christmas present cat. These cats all wandered about, accepting the odd pat while enjoying the day. Tux stood a bit away, mesmerized but terrified. Then I called all the cats in for food, and Tux obviously wanted to go (as part of my strategy, I stopped putting food out in the backyard for her). She tried over and over again to get the nerve to join the other cats for a meal, but something spooked her every time. Finally I went and stood behind the (glass-paned) door. She seemed to feel this way that I couldn't possibly grab her, since I was behind a barrier, and didn't understand that I could -- and did-- slam that glass-paned door shut.

Since her capture, she has been held and petted a lot. The poor half-witted cat has enjoyed the attention she can't bring herself to be bold enough to go get. I feel so glad that I have her back in the house.

On another note of achievement, I FINALLY got a mammogram. I'd been asked by my doctor to go get my first one nearly four years ago, and I could never bring myself to do it. Somehow it seemed morbid, and also I'd been traumatized by horrible forwarded email jokes about how it's like having your tits squashed by an automatic garage door or concrete blocks. When it came down to it, the Sober Husband issued various nagging ultimatums which got me to make the appointment. He was out of town when it came to keeping the appointment, but I sucked it up and went. Unfortunately for me it was a time of day when keeping my sobriety was vital (the children needed to be ferried about afterwards), so getting a little Dutch courage first was not possible.

I was, of course, just being silly avoiding that exam. After all, I have had natural childbirth (of a nine pound baby with a giant head, never again! I understand now why my fore-sisters fought for the right to painkillers in the delivery room), as well as a variety of tattoos and piercings. The tech who did my mammogram wondered aloud why I had been afraid of a mammogram when I'd gotten tattooed. "That was in my rockstar past," I explained. "I'm old and weak now."

In the event, it was a non-event. The last two films were uncomfortable, but not excruciating. The recently upgraded facilities at the Breast Health Center at the California Pacific Medical Center are lovely, just lovely. The staff are quite polite and caring. Even the hospital gowns provided were of higher quality than one would expect. The techs told me that all those old jokes and horror stories are outdated, from the days when the mammogram equipment was more unwieldy and the techs less skilled. Additionally, the small-breasted tech who took my x-rays explained that mammograms are easier for women with large breasts. Who knew that big tits had an extra perk, aside from attracting mates? It turns out that smaller breasts get pulled and pinched in those plates, while the more endowed may simply lay their assets out. If someone had told me that before, I would have gotten this taken care of years ago.

So now, cat captured and breasts mammogrammed with relative ease, I may relax and enjoy a Blood and Sand cocktail or two. The worst of my to-do list has been struck off.

I suck.

Lately I've been fostering a couple of reject cats left over from last kitten season. I have "Tux", a psychotically timid black and white cat, and "Peter Robin Rabbit" a/k/a "Defecto", a very confident young cat who is partially blind in one eye and appears to have an incurable upper respiratory infection. Today it was a spectacularly nice day, and I left the back door open for some time to air out the house, as is my wont. Iris and I think that Tux sneaked out the back and is lost to us. Words cannot convey how awful I feel about this. I am such an idiot. I've kept that door shut punctiliously for weeks, and now today I felt like airing the house out, and it was a tragic error. God, I suck.

On that note, I also forgot Iris's piano lesson today. I was congratulating myself on remembering to put out the trash and move my car to avoid street cleaning day but I forgot the frigging piano lesson. Sigh.

I feel so terrible. I have left out a can of tuna for Tux, but I despair of ever capturing her again.

Meanwhile, the Sober Husband's lifelong friend died today. The Sober Husband and another long-term friend were the only ones present at the actual moment of the death. The friend's parents accused the friend's wife of "letting him die." Dear Lord Goddess, when the day comes I have three different types of cancer and can only be sustained by a ventilator and extreme medical interventions, please do not let anyone argue over switching the ventilator off. Thanking you in advance, your pathetic servant, the Drunken Housewife.

Update: Tux is okay, but still out of the house. She is using the crawl space as a homebase, but she's coming out to socialize with Frowst (and then ducking back into hiding when people come near). She ate some cat food we put out for her. I think we'll get her back in the house at some point, and in the meantime, I feel better now she's coming out into sight occasionally. I talked to her old foster parent and learned that Tux was living on the street and was tormented by boys who threw rocks at her, which is probably why she's so obsessively scared of people.

weird days

The Sober Husband has been gone for three nights so far, keeping a vigil by his friend's deathbed. The friend's wife, who had her heart set upon getting her husband's condition stabilized enough so that he could be brought home from the hospital, gave up yesterday. It was very, very hard for her, but she issued the order to stop treating her husband's cancers. Today he will be taken off his ventilator, and he is expected to die soon.

This difficult decision made it much easier to spend time with poor Dan. Previously, with everyone valiantly and energetically trying to save Dan's life, the Sober Husband was required to wear surgical scrubs and a mask at the bedside. Now anything goes, and the dying man's bed has been lowered so that it is easier to touch him (previously he was kept up at a level making it easier for the staff to work on his mostly unconscious body).

Now that the end is near, the dying man's family is returning, so the Sober Husband's presence is less vital. I am so proud of him for being there this week. He consoled his friend's wife and told her, when she was crying and doubting herself, that she'd made the right decision, and he spent so much time alone at the bedside, holding his friend's arm (the actual hand was covered with medical devices).

I don't know when he'll be back. He has decided to stay up until the end. Meanwhile back at the homefront, the children are fussing and missing him. Lola insists that he is coming home today, and I'm not looking forward to her disappointment. I told her gently that he's not, but she dismissed me airily. "Daddy SAID. Daddy SAID he is coming home today. He SAID."

If you ever have to die of cancer and wish to be surrounded by loved ones, let me recommend the Johns Hopkin to you. The Sober Husband has been treated quite kindly by the staff and even put up in a special house, steps from the hospital, for family members of cancer victims. We had worried that as he wasn't technically family, he'd have issues getting into the hospital, but a red carpet was practically laid out for him. Dan's wife told the hospital in advance that the Sober Husband was coming, and so he had not only full access but also assistance from the staff in getting a spot at the family house. The doctors, nurses, and technicians have also taken time out to explain to the Sober Husband (ever curious and the son of a doctor) what procedures they are doing and why.

The only issue is internet access. The Sober Husband had previously intended to work while away, but the internet access is so weak and limited that he has been unable to do a thing. He reads email over his iPhone but is unable to program (or even to read this blog, which has been blocked by Johns Hopkins' firewall as a suspected unsavory site. This gives us a rare opportunity to talk about him behind his back, but under the circumstances, I'll pass. If he were off on a pleasure trip without blog access, no holds would be barred, but now I've got nothing but love and admiration going on for the man).

We have a trivial illness here. Iris and Lola had headaches and low grade fevers yesterday and so were kept home from school. Irritatingly enough, for the first time in my six years as a co-op workday parent, I was called yesterday to do a mandatory substitute shift. I didn't even get upset or worried; I simply called the director and said, "I just can't do it. My husband's out of town at a friend's deathbed, and I'm keeping the kids home with fevers." Our old director would have been inflexible, but the new director said kindly, "Oh, Carole, sometimes things happen. I'll work the phones and figure something out." This was such a happy change from three years ago, when I was dropping off then-preschooler Iris Uber Alles on my way to the airport to go to my teenaged nephew's funeral. Teary-eyed and semi-crazy, I stopped by the office to tell the then director and office manager that I had been unable to find anyone to cover my workshift and I was leaving right then for the funeral. I was heartlessly instructed to take the roster with me and make calls from Denver until I could get someone lined up to work my shift. (By the way, I didn't make those calls. I refused. I was too busy wrestling emotionally with my family dynamics and my grief over the senseless death, so my phone calls were limited to venting to my husband over my sister's incomprehensible behavior and crying long distance). I did send out an email yesterday to the pre-k parents offering bribes to anyone who could cover the shift (I offered cash, a traded workshift, homemade pies or ice cream... I did stop short of offering sexual favors, though), and then I devoted myself to watching "Spongebob Squarepants" with the children, feeling their foreheads as requested, and taking calls from my husband when he wanted to talk.

Today I'm keeping Iris home again, but we'll have to venture out to a grocery store at some point as we're out of milk, bread, and other basic necessities. The children were stymied without their normal toast and cereal for breakfast, but I introduced them to the joys of cold pizza for breakfast. It feels so strange here, waiting to hear of the friend's death and staying home with the querulous children.

The six cats currently residing here have formed a sort of pack. Evidently once the number of cats in a home exceeds the number of humans by a ratio of 2:1, herd behaviors emerge and the bonds between individual humans and specific cats break down. Thankfully I have plenty of cat food on hand, so I needn't worry just yet for my personal safety.

death, overthinking & annoying metablogging

So the Sober Husband is away, keeping a vigil at his friend's deathbed. I feel guilty for having pressured him to go (although it wasn't just me; the friend's wife called him and asked him to please help out), because it sounds like a living hell. The friend is worse than imagined. My husband wants so much to be able to communicate with his friend, but the hospital staff are keeping the friend sedated. Evidently when he starts breathing on his own, it clashes with the rhythm of the ventilator, and that alone is grounds to keep him unconscious. The horrible truth is that it's no longer a question of Dan the person, Dan the unique individual whom I will always remember wearing his wristwatch strapped to his ankle. It's a matter of doing things to Dan the dying body. Shudder. So is it of any use whatsoever to have my husband, Dan's lifelong friend, by the sedated, dying body's side? Fuck if I know.

I do know that I don't want to go out that way myself and neither does the Sober Husband.

Iris Uber Alles was crying at bedtime last night. Immediately I assumed she was upset about death, since her pet rat is dying of cancer at the same time her father's friend (whom Iris knows) is also dying. I bucked myself up for a Big Talk and gently inquired about what Iris was feeling. It turns out that her father had just been away for a conference and now he was gone again, and she missed him. No big worries about mortality. I've got to give up on that overthinking.

Another thing I'm going to give up on is keeping track of what I read. It's only March, and I've already forgotten some of the books I've read, and I've failed to track them all here as I resolved. I looked at "The Homecoming" by Bernhard Schlink today at a bookstore and vaguely remembered having read it and not cared for it, but it took time for me to remember anything about the plot. I also suspect that I was driving the readers crazy with all those book reviews. Y'all come here for witty anecdotes of a sot beleaguered by her precocious children and cats, not book reviews and cancer stories. So! Fewer book reviews and less overthinking, but more "advance directives" all around, I think. Let's all make "living wills" or whatever you're supposed to call the things.

the Sober Husband mans up

When I met the Sober Husband, he had two very close, long-time friends whom he'd grown up with in Chicago. The three of them had a Peter Pan thing going on. Although they were turning thirty, they were all single, never engaged, no girlfriends in sight, and no serious careers, either (with the exception of the Sober Husband, who'd finished up a Ph.D. and was doing a post-doc). One was even still living at home.

The Sober Husband was the first of the lot to grow up, taking a perfectly good drunken litigator and turning her into a Drunken Housewife by impregnating her and buying her a house. His friends were rather appalled at all that domesticity but, years later, followed down that path as well.

Now at age 42, one of these old friends is dying of cancer. He has metastasized lymphoma, leukemia, brain tumors, and I don't know what else. He's being kept sedated, but reportedly when he wakes, he pulls at his ventilator and other equipment until he's talked down, whereupon he goes back to sleep. (This really gets to me, as I came to during surgery once. It was like those alien abduction experiences people rant about. There were blurry figures in white bent over strange equipment, and I felt so trapped and panicky and just instinctively started clawing at the tubes going down my throat, and the nurses and doctors shouted harshly at me, "HOLD STILL! HOLD STILL!" It was nightmarish, and then thankfully I lost consciousness. I think my surgeon was nervous I was going to sue him, but the day after the surgery, I felt so much better that I didn't bring it up when he came by my room in the hospital to check on me).

Anyhow, it's not as if we have the money or the time, but the Sober Husband is manning up and flying out to the East Coast tonight to spend some days by his old friend's side. I've never been close to this friend, but I can't bear to think of him waking up and freaking out in the hospital. I'm so glad the Sober Husband will be able to be with him. Sad to say the friend's wife, brother, parents, and in-laws all took time off work already and collectively need to get back to work (and their own lives occur in different states, aside from the wife).

The biggest sacrifice here will have to be made by our own Lola/Cupcake, who is accustomed to sleeping in. Lola will have to get up and leave the house at 7:45 with me, as I can't leave her home alone while I drive Iris Uber Alles to school. (The other sacrifice is unspoken; I was daydreaming of a trip to Bruges for myself and was mulling over a sort of proposed marital treaty, involving certain things to be done in exchange for a ticket to Belgium and a block of childfree time).

The husband is positively dreading this. He hates the thought of seeing his friend in this position. My point of view is that there is little point comparatively in going to the friend's funeral; funerals are for comforting the survivors. Spending time in the hospital comforts the dying person and is a huge service that can be done, the last chance to do something for a loved one. The Sober Husband is going to play some old "Hitchhikers' Guide to the Galaxy" episodes for his friend as well as be there to comfort him when he wakes.

I'm proud of him for doing this. So many people are weak and selfish in life and won't go to hospitals. "It's just too depressing. I hate hospitals," they say with an air of self-discovery as though they were unique in a crowd of hospital-lovers who just can't be pried away from the sides of sickbeds. It also sets a good example for Iris and Lola, who will hopefully some day be willing to suck it up and sit next to their old mother's hospital bed.