more bad timing

So my mother-in-law is supposed to be arriving on Thursday for a week-long visit, while the Sober Husband and I are barely coexisting.

I'm contemplating making a run for it and leaving her and the Sober Husband here to supervise the children, and I actually looked up flights to Barcelona on the internet, but it was all too expensive (and seemed to require lengthy layovers in Cleveland, of all places). I found a really great fare to London, a place I adore, but I've been to London in late March before, and it's not really the best time of year to visit, to say the least. I've seen an English "spring", and I'm not interested that much in seeing another one, thank you. I also contemplated going to L.A. or Washington state to visit friends (er, impose myself at very short notice).

The first problem with me leaving is that I'd be leaving the children behind, and I feel adverse to that. It's not that I don't trust the Sober Husband to keep them alive, but I don't feel good about leaving them with my mother-in-law without me, particularly when the reason for my absence is marital discord. I don't want them crying for me and having my mother-in-law storing up anecdotes to torture me with for the rest of my life. (Way back in the early days of my relationship with the Sober Husband, his mother was visiting us, back when we lived in my old rent-controlled apartment, and the Sober Husband was doing this annoying thing he used to do where he tore out all the ads from the New Yorker right after it arrived. I like looking at the ads. He tore right through part of that issue's long article, and, without losing my temper, raising my voice, or swearing, I told him to be more careful with my New Yorker in the future. Years later the MIL was visiting and saw a New Yorker and said in a sprightly manner to me, "Remember that time he tore your New Yorker and you got SO MAD at him?" She stores this kind of thing up for ammo, even a trivial thing).

I also contemplated emailing her and telling her that her son and I are on the brink of a separation and that it's a terribly bad time for her to visit, but I really just don't want to go there. I don't want to feed her negative information.

Additionally, I have three classes while she's here ("Family Clay Day" with Iris, collage, and pottery), and I'd like to attend those classes, which militates against leaving town. Sigh. I'm also considering checking into a nice hotel here in town, which feels depressing to me because I'd probably just be reading and playing World of Warcraft, whereas if I left town, I'd be exploring and having fun.

bad timing

Over the years (nearly twelve), the All Time Number One Top Cause of Vicious Arguments in my marriage is my mother-in-law ("the MIL"). The Sober Husband has his mother on a a pedestal (during one argument, he memorably said, "My mother has never felt jealousy or anger in her life. She doesn't know those emotions", to which I snapped back, "Notify the Vatican; we have a new saint"), and there's no love lost between the woman and me.

Last week I noticed, while writing all the art classes I'd signed the children and myself up for on the calendar, that the MIL was coming soon for a full week. I counted the days on the calendar to make sure. Years ago, during a prior bout of couple's counseling, we reached a marital treaty on the MIL's visits, where we agreed that a long weekend four times a year would displease both of us equally and was therefore acceptable. The Sober Husband had told me a week or two ago that he had invited his mother out for five days "to make it up to her" that we weren't going away together leaving her alone with the children (neither Iris Uber Alles nor I had turned out to be ready for that). Five did not sound like fun to me, but seven? I was instantly furious.

When I finally brought it up to my husband, he claimed it was only six days (it's seven days and six nights) and that it was a mistake, he thought it was five days. I worked at letting it go and didn't say anything more. A few days later, on Thursday, it was time for couple's counseling, and I raised this as an example of how we've been getting along well lately. How ironic that was, as within seconds the Sober Husband was in a rage and I was in tears.

Our counselor asked me for examples of problems I have with the MIL, in order to understand this dynamic, and I gave two examples off the top of my head: (1) after meeting me for the first time, the MIL then met my parents... and told them that she thought I was having a severe mental breakdown; (2) she used to lie on the floor in my kitchen while I was cooking, and this behavior escalated until once she was lying prone on the floor right in front of my stove. This lying-on-the-floor behavior was famous among my friends, and I was asked to act it out more than once. The counselor was taken by these examples and asked the Sober Husband for his feedback. After expressing the general sentiment that his mother is a perfect guest, a sheer joy, he went on after some time to say that actually, come to think of it, for most of our relationship I was having a severe mental breakdown and could have benefited from commitment to a mental hospital. Oh, and it wasn't true that his mother had ever lain on the floor. I was prone to exaggerating and misunderstanding things and inventing things and believing things that weren't true.

On top of that, when the counselor drew him out about his feelings of me coming between him and his mother, the Sober Husband said with considerable emotion, "Carole comes between me and my work, me and my friends, me and my family, me and the children, me and EVERYTHING." I cried. The therapist made a bravura effort to get the Sober Husband to admit that although in his eyes, his mother might be flawless, she might be hard for me to get along with. No dice.

I left, shattered and unable to look at the man to whom I have had two children. He, weirdly, was smiling and chipper.

"One of us is going to a hotel," I said. "I need to be away from you." The Sober Husband, smiling, suggested that I go to a hotel, but when I informed him that he would then need to pick up the children between five and five thirty, his smile flagged. "Five?" he stammered. I gave him a withering glare as he jumped onto the subway.

After I got home, I informed him that I would pick up the children and he should NOT come home. Then, however, he said he was ready to leave work early to get the children, but I curtly told him not to. Feeling extremely distraught, I managed to safely drive across the town, gather up not only my own two darling hellspawn but one of Iris Uber Alles's best friends, drive them all home, cook a a nutritious but beloved dinner of broccoli pasta, coax Iris and her friend down from the fence, clean the kitchen, supervise Iris's homework, and turn Iris's friend over to her mother. Then we were all unwinding in the living room around 7:30, me with a glass of wine, when the Sober Husband arrived with a weird, fake smile on his face.

"What are you doing here?" I asked. He kept the fake smile on and suggested that he thought I was going to go to a hotel. I said that I'd made it clear that I wasn't, and he said that he'd needed to come home anyhow to get his stuff. The children, who hadn't had a clue before that anything was amiss, asked him what was wrong. Smiling, he said, "Mommy got mad at me during couple's counseling and wants me to go to a hotel."

I felt white hot rage. "How dare you make me the bad guy? He said I was crazy and that I make things up!" I glared at him again. "I was going to tell them you were working late!" Lola cried; Iris looked stressed. I whisked them upstairs, fetched their favorite stuffed animals, started a video, and made them chocolate milks, hissing at my husband on the stairs, "Thanks for being an asshole."

The children calmed down and went to bed a bit troubled but all right. I stayed snuggled up to Lola until she fell asleep. In the morning, I got us all up and out to school early, everyone seeming fine. I spent most of the day at the school, since it was my day to supervise the kindergarteners and first graders at lunch and recess. When it was time to pick up Lola, I recoiled: she was carrying Clover.

Clover is a massive stuffed giraffe who takes turns spending the weekends with the different kindergarteners, whose parents are supposed to record his adventures in a scrapbook. This feels like a contest amongst the parents to show who has the best, most wholesome and fabulous weekends, and here I was, having thrown out my husband. I quailed. I don't even know how to get the pictures off our new digital camera. I cravenly told Lola she should call her daddy and ask him to come help her with pictures of Clover.

the crown jewels visit the kindergarten

Thursday is Lola's "Sharing Day" at kindergarten. She is supposed to bring in a small object, NOT a toy or something which would spark avarice and materialism in the hearts of her fellow five and six year-olds, but something with personal meaning and experience to share with the kindergarten. Lola decided today to bring nine year-old Iris Uber Alles's blood type test sheet.

Iris had been wanting to know her blood type for years, and so I gave her a blood typing test for her birthday. She was happy to get it until she realized we'd have to cut her open to get some blood. Then she decided to save the kit until one of us had some sort of terrible accident and then use the already flowing blood to determine that person's blood type. (Mommy was disqualified due to already knowing her blood type from her youthful past as a blood donor).

Finally Iris got tired of waiting for opportunistic bleeding and decided to take the test. The Sober Husband assisted her, but he was too squeamish to use the little lancet to draw her blood, so I did it. Iris let out a squawk when her skin was pierced (which was Lola's favorite part), but she enjoyed the rest of the testing process very much. Months later Lola decided to take Iris's testing sheet, with the four little smears of dried blood in different boxes, for sharing. Iris was disapproving. Finally Iris relented, on the conditions that Lola bring the test sheet in a plastic bag; that Lola keep the test sheet in her locker, NOT the classroom; that every time Lola left the classroom, she had to go check her backpack in her locker to make sure the test sheet was safe; no other child could touch it; and Lola could only remove sheet from her backpack in her locker at the actual sharing time. There were more conditions, including that Lola help Iris look for her misplaced money (Iris had accumulated about thirty dollars or so in allowance money but then lost it somewhere around the house).

The most ridiculous part of all of these conditions to me was that Iris hadn't wanted the old, blood-smeared paper any more and told me it was okay to recycle it... until her little sister showed an interest in it.

some quick book reviews

I read several very satisfying books lately to commend to you. I've noticed a trend in my reading: I'm gravitating towards books by Scandinavian authors. I guess I should say "North European" authors, as I have learned that the term "Scandinavian" is deeply offensive to many. Indeed, a Scandinavian may recoil and react as though you used the word "snownigger", so offensive is the Sc word for inexplicable reasons. I don't want to say "North European", though, because to me, that does not signify that group of snowy, fjord-infested countries home to so many brilliant authors. If I hear "North European", I think of places like Poland. But then again, I'm just an ignorant American, drawn to the books of that region like an ant to a picnic. I figure that with those long, hard, dark winters, a lot of people stay inside and write, and they get very polished and clever indeed. The only problem is that their work doesn't get translated into English and published over here as quickly and thoroughly as it should.

Knowing that we're missing a lot of great reads from that region-formerly-known-as-Scandinavia, be sure not to miss what does make its way to these uncouth shores. In particular, I'm commending "Nemesis" by Jo Nesbo to you. This thick and thoroughly satisfying book is more than a murder mystery; Mr. Nesbo manages to combine several murder mysteries into one, with lots of thoughts on the impact of 9/11 in Norway, the historical and psychological underpinnings of revenge, Sun Tzu's teachings on the importance of consistency, alcoholism and other kinds of escapism, etc., etc... Mr. Nesbo is a great writer, and I'm glad, seven years after it came out in Norway, that "Nemesis" made it here.

"Let the Right One In" by John Ajvide Lindquist was a big blockbuster in Sweden and the rest of Europe. I intend to write about modern vampire fiction on another day, but I'm just throwing this one in here as another example of an original and greatly talented author from the world zone formerly known as Scandinavia. Dark, depressing as hell, and violent, but very, very gripping, "Let the Right One In" is a thoroughly engaging read for the more stouthearted reader.

"Calling Mr. Lonely Hearts" by Laura Benedict was a weird and compelling book I hated to put down. Three well-off middle-aged, Midwestern women have their lives turned upside down, the repercussion of something terrible they did together as teenagers. Ms. Benedict is a beautiful and imaginative writer, and she packs a lot into a page. My only bitch was that she put her lengthy flashbacks into italic font; it gets really old, reading page after page after page in italics. The reader can figure out that it's not the present without that, Ms. Benedict! Give us some credit!

"Chasing Smoke" by Bill Cameron: this talented Portland author gives us a hero who is a lonely policeman on convalescent leave for bladder cancer. Skin Kadash, nicknamed for an eyesore of a birthmark, is an alcoholic who has managed to ruin almost every corner of his life. I loved this book; Bill Cameron has a great updated noir style.

"The Zero Sum Game" by Brad Meltzer: a quick read set in D.C. politics, with the conceit that jaded staffers and politicians are manipulating legislation as part of a game with prizes. This book started off very engagingly but then was less winning, for me at least, after the narrator was summarily dispatched a quarter of the way in. I loved this book at first but then turned on it. At least Mr. Meltzer had the backbone to resist adding a romance to his story. This one would be a fine book to take to the beach, but turn to the formerly-known-as-Scandinavians for a more deeply satisfying read.

at the gas station

Sometimes, if I'm feeling perky and yet don't have anything pressing to do, I drive the Sober Husband to work (this saves him about twenty minutes from his usual two bus routine). Yesterday after dropping him off, I stopped for gas. The man at the next pump called over, "I like your tattoos." I thanked him, and a conversation sprung up about them. He turned out to be from Tonga originally and had a tattoo on his ankle done the traditional way, with a fishbone dipped in ink. It was a great tattoo.

This man, who was very good-looking at probably a decade younger than me, asked me which was my first tattoo, did they mean anything, where did I get them, etc... During this conversation I said I'd have a lot more tattoos if my husband didn't hate them so much. He was disbelieving. "He hates them?"

"Oh, yeah, that's why I don't have more. I'd have a lot more otherwise. After I got this one (holding out my right forearm), he didn't talk to me for days."

My new acquaintance shook his head. "He's crazy." He looked me over. "The guy's CRAZY."

the torturing of the teeth

After a long time of procrastinating and agonizing, I geared up and tried another dentist yesterday. The procrastination and agony were the result of some bad dental experiences in the past, and it would appear I'm not yet through with this dark chapter in the history of my teeth.

Today my mouth hurts, a lot. X-rays and a cleaning should not be traumatic and painful proceedings that leave a person feeling like her mouth was raped and and in discomfort for days. I've decided never to return to that dental practice for another x-ray or cleaning again.

The x-rays took over half an hour. They did a total of 18 x-rays, EIGHTEEN, which each involved cramming a large, painful piece of equipment into a slightly different place in my mouth, while I fought to control my gag reflex. I believe there are bruises on the roof of my mouth.

I asked for gas during the cleaning, which I was refused because it is the policy of that dental office not to pamper patients. I should have gotten it, because the cleaning had some agonizing moments that had me leaping with pain out of the chair. Afterward I just wanted to go home, curl up under one of my homemade quilts, and cry for hours, but instead I had to race down to pick up the children, whom I discovered squabbling on the playground at their school (nine year-old Iris overheard Lola describing her to another kindergartener as "a weird, bossy little thing"), take them home, oversee Iris's homework, and take Iris to her writing class in the Mission, plus pick up the Sober Husband and buy cat food, all done on the brink of tears with a hurting mouth.

End diagnosis: I have two cavities and a cap which needs to be replaced. My dilemma: get the work done at that office, which has the extensively thorough x-rays, and then let my teeth go to hell for a few more years until I feel like braving the dental wilderness again OR just try another dentist to get that work done, which may or may not be better. I could also just wait until my teeth actually start hurting. Another option would be to fly to Arizona and go see my old, beloved dentist who moved away for the cavities, but I can't get a crown replaced that way because that means more than one visit spaced a few weeks apart. (I don't think asking for the x-rays to take to another office is an option, because there are no physical x-rays. It was all computerized, and given my bad luck with dentists, I have no reason to be hopeful that a prospective new dental office would have compatible software).

There's a special dental office down the Peninsula for people who have dental issues, and they sedate you completely before doing a thing, gently waking you after all your work is done. I really want to go there, but the Sober Husband is deeply opposed, thinking this is unhealthy. I don't think it's particularly good for my physical or mental health for me to be awake in a dental chair experiencing pain and stress, on the other hand, but he is freaked out by the sedation dentist enough to deter me from booking an appointment (and I would need someone to drive me home, obviously).

My children now have a lovely pediatric dentist, lovely, and I wish I could just go to him. Sigh. I'm starting to wonder if American dentistry and maybe this whole having-teeth thing altogther are overrated.

the extreme version of us, and I hate what I see

I don't watch very much television (although that is less true than it used to be; I'm insane for "The Amazing Race" and "Project Runway", and Iris Uber Alles and I have been watching old seasons of "The Office"). In particular I haven't watched "Wife Swap" other than one episode years ago, which I watched after I was approached online by someone purporting to be a producer of that show recruiting me for it (I didn't follow up). Over the last some weeks I've heard mention now and again of a local venture capitalist whose shameful behavior on that show is creating a lot of stir. I decided the other night to see what the fuss was about, with a little help from Youtube:

I soon found myself full of rage at this smug Noe Valley couple for going on television to represent San Francisco environmentalists. As if people don't hate us enough already, we had to have bullying Stephen Fowler spouting his superiority on national television at a perfectly nice woman who committed the unforgivable sins of being born in Missouri and not going to college. His wife, while not abusive, was just as snobby. As Stephen's wife Renee sniffed, the other family didn't have advanced degrees, and she gave an interview to ABC where she espoused the feeling that the only positive thing that came out of participating in this show was that her children have been vividly taught the value of a good education. The children are now terrified of ending up like Gayla, a pleasant, friendly woman who seemed bright enough and who took a genuine interest in their well-being and tried to influence their blowhard father to lighten up on them.

Stephen Foster, who brags about having once scored in the 99th percentile on a standardized test (assuming everyone is too stupid to understand what that means, Foster spelled it out in irritating detail that it means he has an IQ of 158 and is smarter than 99.9 out of a hundred of the rest of us), blames the producers for manipulating him into being a bullying elitist snob. Well, Stephen, if you're truly smarter than 99.9 % of the rest of us dumb Americans, then you should have been smarter than 99.9% of the producers and realized that it is not a good idea to behave badly on national television. Calling a nice woman a "dumb redneck" to her face and sniffing that you're surprised she can read is pretty rude, and Stephen Fowler added hypocrisy by saying to his child in front of Gayla, "She's a rude lady, isn't she? That's because she doesn't have an education." All his education didn't train him in etiquette to any noticeable extent. He seems shocked now that his charities have canned him from their boards and that his house was egged.

I'm fascinated by the fact that Stephen Fowler is so obsessed with his superiority due to his advanced degrees from Cambridge, but yet he's married to a New Age charlatan whose career, "certified life coach and certified destination coach", is lacking in intellectual rigor or scientific basis (Renee's bouncing about to demonstrate how she physically wafts energy back towards her clients is usually the sort of thing which irks a highly educated person). But I'm not fascinated enough to ever want to interact with him. I'm thoroughly irked that he portrayed people of my ilk so horribly.

I told the Sober Husband that I felt Stephen and Renee were an exaggerated version of us, and that is why I found myself actually caring over how someone acted on a foolish reality show (although I certainly don't care as much as the person who went to the trouble of creating stephenfowlersucks.com).. He was drawn aback by that, but I noted the following similarities: a couple with two children, living in San Francisco, who both have advanced degrees and place an extreme value on education. We also have a "no shoes" policy in the home, and I'm a rather gung ho recycler and composter (but that is typical in San Francisco, where we have a municipal composting program). I also pride myself on my foreign travel and am trying to raise my children as citizens of the world. We also send our children to an expensive private school, and like Stephen, I'm overly fond of a bottle of wine. I buy a lot of organic produce and care about my carbon footprint.

I meet parents like Renee and Stephen who drive their children far too hard (Stephen and Renee's poor children have to earn the right to a playdate, and Stephen and Renee have already determined -- for these little, little children -- which athletic pursuits they must perfect while learning three languages and the piano in order to get into the top colleges of Renee and Stephen's choice). At our school, I admired a self portrait of a second grader who'd painted herself with elaborate bloodshot eyes, until I found out that the child in question had painted herself that way because she'd been crying so much because a tennis injury had caused her parents to freak out on her that she was no longer on track to become a world-class professional tennis player.

I used to feel a bit guilty that I didn't push the overly bright Iris Uber Alles harder. Then I did some research on "gifted children" and came to the conclusion that the best gift I could give my daughter would be not to turn her into a perfectionist who was expected to constantly excel. Recently I let my children quit piano lessons, which surprised everyone. I had by happenstance heard Dr. Laura (I always feel ashamed when I admit to my secret love of Dr. Laura) lecture a mother about the importance of letting children quit. Dr. Laura opined--- quite convincingly to me-- that it discourages children from trying new things if once they start something, they can't quit it if they end up not liking it. Meanwhile grown-ups hypocritically quit things all the time.

I wish I could lock Stephen and Renee up in a room with Dr. Laura. Or perhaps exile them to the Mall of America. I'm ashamed of them, deeply ashamed.

to cockatiel or not cockatiel?

Nine year-old Iris Uber Alles fell in love with a cockatiel at our local bird supply store, while waiting for our crabby old Amazon parrot to get her nails and wings trimmed. "I couldn't believe it, Mom-dude," she reported back to me. "A bird that LIKED me and let me touch her!"

This amiable cockatiel was the topic of conversation for weeks, with Iris constantly asking me to take her back to see the bird again. Today we did go back, but as I'd predicted, the sweet, friendly cockatiel wasn't there any more. We peered at some cute owl finches and tried to strike up a conversation with some African Grays, but there weren't any birds who struck us. Then, after having us carefully wash our hands, one of the store managers brought us out a tiny baby cockatiel wrapped in a towel. He was so little and fragile that the skin over his neck was see-through, and Iris cradled him carefully. I stroked his head and beak softly. He seemed too small for his feathers.

Some other children ventured over. "Is that real?" one asked me.

We were in love. I carefully gave the baby back after almost half an hour of our cuddling him. The manager told us that if we wanted him, we needed to buy him before Sunday, as he was sure to be spoken for by then. He would not be ready to go home for another six to eight weeks, but during that time, we could visit him frequently, and then he'd know us well when time came to go home.

Positives: I've been intrigued by cockatiels for decades, and Iris has been longing for a bird for a long time. Cockatiels are legendarily charming and easy-going. Also, you can buy 110 cockatiels for the price of one Amazon Gray.

Negatives: we already have five cats (yes, I got one I haven't formally told my blog about --- I didn't mean to adopt him, it's just that he, the last of the 2008 kitten season fosters, went up for adoption and NO ONE WOULD TAKE HIM. He rotted down at the San Francisco pound for a couple of months, because no one particularly wanted a nondescript short-haired black cat) and one crabby old parrot who only likes the Sober Husband. An Amazon parrot, like cranky Zoe, is big enough and powerful enough to more than defend herself against a cat (our cats don't even make a move against her), but a fragile cockatiel would need to be scrupulously chaperoned.

Update: It would appear that we won't be adding a cockatiel to the household just yet. Iris didn't push very hard.

no, actually

Today at the grocery store I ran into another third grade mother from the children's elite private school. In the checkout line, she breezily asked, "Is it true that you own a tattoo store?"

I was a bit taken aback. It turns out there is a rumor circulating around the third grade that I own a tattoo parlor. This mother said, "When I heard it, I thought, 'Oh, I guess that adds diversity.'" (There is always an ongoing self-flagellation at our school over our diversity, or lack thereof. The quintessential family from our school would consist of a hedge fund manager, his size zero, bleached blonde trophy wife, and their adorable children with either old-fashioned names or last names for first names).

"Actually, I was a litigator," I said. "No diversity there."

the battling martyrs and the stimulus package

The Sober Husband and I made a deal some months ago, sort of a reparations package for the Martha's Vineyard Fiasco of 2008 [in a nutshell, he manipulated and guilt-tripped me into going on his mother's Extremely Expensive Celebration of Herself in an overpriced resort town on the other side of the continent, and I was angry and resentful]. In this deal, he would not travel to see his family this year unless there were a wedding or funeral of significant importance, and instead, we would take a trip together. This made me happy, and I started planning our trip, especially after my mother agreed to come to San Francisco to watch the little hellspawn for us. I felt that this was affordable, because I thought that if we took the money wasted last year on going to Martha's Vineyard, plus the expenses from two personal trips the Sober Husband took by himself (one to Chicago against my express wishes, one to the East Coast which I was in favor of), that would equal a nice, short vacation for two to somewhere exotic. If we could afford the hellish Martha's Vineyard boondoggle, which the Sober Husband obviously thought was in our budget, we could afford a week away somewhere exotic.

Some little time of happiness went by, with me bubbling from time to time little witlessisms like "September and October are really the best months to travel; airfares are always so low! And everything is so deserted!" and "I'm going to present this to you like a menu: Barcelona, Cuba, or Angkor Wat?

Then the Sober Husband turned on me. He began speaking in depressed tones about how "we don't live within our means; I'm just presenting that to you as a fact" and not talking any more about a vacation. In marriage counseling, with all the enthusiasm a corpse would have for taking the formaldehyde drip, he mustered up a lifeless, "I'm willing to go on a vacation with you even though we can't afford it." I was livid. "I refuse to go on any vacation with you!"

So there we were, a pair of battling martyrs. The Sober Husband kept insisting, "Oh, even though we can't afford to take a trip, I'm willing to do it to make you happy," with me rebutting, "I refuse to do anything expensive that you're going to bring up to me later" and "Oh, it's fine, I'll never go on a vacation again for as long as I live" and "Why is it when your MOTHER wants to go on an expensive trip you can afford it, but when I want to, we can't?"

"Now, now, Carole," chided the marriage counselor. "I'm not sure that is productive."

After a few rocky counseling sessions, the Sober Husband has arrived at a new, cheerier, less martyr-like attitude. He explained it to me today: "I forecast a deficit year, but I'm in favor of a stimulus package."

"A what? What is it stimulating, my happiness in the marriage?"

"Precisely. I believe a stimulus package will have payoffs."

We'll see how his mental state fares over the next few months. I'm tentatively raising my hopes for a trip again, fearful of disappointment.

Meanwhile I've already had one smackdown from another mother. I confided in the mother of one of Iris Uber Alles's closest friends yesterday that I am hoping to save up to take a vacation later in the year, without children. She drew herself up and said, in an icy voice, "Well, I must just be unusual, because I wouldn't dream of going anywhere without my child." Ouch!

In my case, I've been a martyr for long enough and am dying to spend a week drinking in sleazy foreign bars, spending whole days in art museums, and having sex. I'm quite eager to dream of going somewhere without my children. However, if the husband switches back into competitive martyrism, all bets are off. I predict then the vacation will be recancelled and there'll be an upsurge of catty remarks about his mother and HER expensive trip.

Lola's got a fever of a hundred and three

The other day I dropped kindergartener Lola off at her ballet class, where she ran up to the introverted teacher and shouted, "I'm hotblooded!" The teacher looked nonplussed. "I was born in the year of the horse!" Lola shouted for explanation.

Someone put it into Lola's head that people born in the year of the horse are hotblooded, and she's never going to get over it. I suspect that future suffering boyfriends and husbands will never know that the seed of their torture was implanted in Lola's brain so early as kindergarten.

The day before ballet we were driving home from school, and that cheesy classic, "Hotblooded", came on the radio. Feeling nostalgic, I turned it up. As soon as it was over, Lola shared that she, too, unlike me and her big sister, Iris, was hotblooded. We, being born in the years of the dragon and rabbit respectively, were relatively coldblooded. Iris instantly put the kibosh on this. "EVERYONE is hotblooded. That is because we are mammals."

Lola was indignant but unable to articulate her issues with that blanket statement. I helped her out. "There's a difference between 'warmblooded' and 'hotblooded.' Birds and mammals are warmblooded, and that means we don't depend on the sun to warm us up. But hot-blooded is different. It means you're unusually full of love and hate."

After some argument, Iris tried to salvage a victory where she could. "It means you're FULL OF HATE, Lola! FULL OF HATE!"

With no hesitation, in the sweetest, piping little voice imaginable, Lola replied, "And it's all for you, Iris!"

two baby butts, dozing

Last night Lola was cranky. It was the last night of her week off from school, and the impending return to kindergarten was not happily anticipated (Lola, grinning devilishly, had the idea of staying home sick, but both last night and this morning her proffered forehead was felt and deemed non-feverish, causing her to shake a tiny fist at her mother). She sulked while her older sister brushed her teeth, then brightened with a thought. "Can I draw Buttopolis on you?"

"Sure," said her tired mother. Lola grabbed a pen and drew on her mother's leg, pausing to inquire about an old, black lion on my foot, "Is this tattoo permanent?"

"Of course it is."

Lola was offended. "You never told me it's permanent! I've seen it there for years, but you never said."

She went back to her art. When she was called to go to bed, she was upset to leave her drawing. She told her father, "I drew Buttopolis! There is a mommy butt and two baby butts, dozing." I haven't washed the butts off my leg yet.

manners at the table

Last night the children were having a bowl of soup while the Sober Husband studied chess problems and I cut out pieces for a new quilt. The conversation was quite lively, focusing on Lola's newest nickname, "Buttseed." Last week Lola asked me to make up a story for her, and, having just logged off the World of Warcraft where one player used the word "buttseed" in a lengthy diatribe on the trade channel against another player, I made up a story about two little children named Buttseed and Hairbrick who had a rather banal adventure. Lola giggled every time I said "Buttseed", and she ended up going off to kindergarten the next day to tell everyone about a new nickname, "Buttseed." She reported back to me that all her kindergarten friends "think Buttseed is a very good name", and she went so far as to sign her Valentine to me as "from Buttseed Lola."

Iris demanded to know, "What kind of person wants to be called 'Buttseed'?" She ended up snorting soup out her nose as Lola defended the nickname and I decided that the children's nicknames would be "Big Buttseed" and "Little Buttseed." "Soup just came out my nose," she said incredulously. Lola and I laughed uproariously, and the Sober Husband silently moved his chess pieces about, his brow furrowed with concentration. I chided him for not joining in the riveting butt-centered conversation at the table.

"Yeah," said Lola firmly. "It is RUDE not to join in the conversation!" He was unmoved.

a lovely day with the little freaks

Iris and Lola have the week off from school, what is called "ski week" at private schools (and indeed most of their friends are up in Tahoe skiing, but not us). One of our goals for the week was to (finally) go to the new Academy of Sciences, thinking it would be less crowded when the public schools were in session, but we failed. On two consecutive days we drove out to the Academy, only to find that the parking garage was full and there was no street parking within literally a mile. There was no point in having the children hike for one mile to the museum, as they'd then be tired and crabby before they even got inside (and I couldn't contemplate what it would be like leaving).

Today instead we ended up out at the beach, where we ran and frolicked and looked for sand dollars. It was practically like being in a commercial, so adorable and wholesome and happy. Of course, the commercial would have needed a voiceover covering up the actual dialogue. Lola decided to make up a song, and her lovely lyrics featured, "I hate you in the ass! I hate you in the guts!"

"WAIT!" I said. "Did you just say, 'I hate you in the ass'? What kind of kindergartener says 'in the ass'?" Iris laughed hysterically. Lola defended herself by saying, "I also said 'in the guts.'"

"Who taught you to talk that way?" I said with genuine curiosity. "Was it Iris?" Lola didn't know, but she did know that her song was now a big hit, having achieved Parental Offensiveness. "I hate you in the ass, I hate you in the guts," she sang merrily. Later she informed her dear mother that she hated her "in the ass and in the guts."

"I'm not taking any little children who hate me in the ass out for ice cream," I proclaimed.

"Oh! I love you in the ass! I love you in the guts!" said Lola in the voice of a suck-up.

"That's not really all that much better," I said. "No more talk about 'in the ass'!"

Lola changed her song to "I hate you in the eyeballs, I hate you in the earwax", which was deemed acceptable and ice cream was put back on the schedule, although her loving mother did remark, "You are such weird little freaks." Iris agreed. "Especially Lola!" she said, jumping around.

an update on Cupy

From time to time people ask me how Cupy is doing. (I took kindergartener Lola to see "Wall-E", and she formed a violent attachment to her Slushee cup, which she named "Cupy" and kept, giving him a place of honor on the dining room sideboard, which she named "Cupy's Palace." On another occasion I made her throw out a similar cup while we were out of the house, which later led to tears and accusations that I had stopped her from giving Cupy a brother, "and Cupy wants a brother!" Later Cupy did acquire a brother, a bottle, but heartbreak ensued when our every-other-week cleaning lady recycled Cupy's brother. Cupy himself has been saved from purges as he has been labelled "CUPY" with a post-it note).

Cupy is the same as ever, but now he has a mate/friend/sibling/whatever. Lola brought home a cup from the 7-11, which is of indeterminate gender. This second, nameless cup sports a post-it note reading "CUPY FAMILY."

The other day I referred to Cupy as being in his palace, and Lola cut me off mid-sentence. With the utmost condescension and disgust towards my ignorance, she pronounced carefully, "CUPY HAS A MANSION. Not a palace. A MANSION."

I tried to argue with her. "You SAID it was 'Cupy's Palace.'"

Lola would have none of that and shouted, "MANSION. MANSION. MANSION" until I covered my ears and said, "Okay, okay, okay. Cupy has a mansion."

the heartbreaks of the uncaring public and disobedient talentcats

Six year-old Lola decided to put on a show, and she made a big poster:

TODAY! TALLENTCAT!
INTRADOSING HENRY
MY MOM'S CAT (AS I LIKE TO CALL HIM HEN)
hates to be caried
+ RAY CHARELS! FAMILY CAT
C'MON YAALL
WHERE (MY HOUSE/LIVING ROOM)
BOY/GIRL: (FEMALE CAT + BOY CAT)

This was illustrated with garish drawings of Henry and Ray Charles, with lots of sunbursts drawn around them and the text.

Lola put up a label behind the couch reading "SEATS" and a label on the coffee table, "CHILD SEATS." She carefully put cushions on the floor for the anticipated child audience. The poster was taped up on our garage door at Lola's direction, for maximal notice by passers-by.

All day Lola was buzzing with anticipation about how great her show would be. The first heartbreak came when, at the appointed hour of the show, no one came except Mommy, Daddy, and pissy old big sister Iris. Lola was greatly saddened and disappointed and could barely bring herself to go on with the show. Next came heartbreak number two: "tallentcat" Henry refused to perform in any satisfactory manner whatsoever. Ray Charles was not much better. Lola cried, deeply, deeply disappointed and frustrated. Iris, ever eager to grab the spotlight, took over and managed to get Ray Charles to chase a toy about briefly. We applauded this greatly and told Lola it was all the talentcats' fault. "Cats will always let you down," I advised her.

Lola was scarred by this failed foray into show business. Days later she muttered unhappily, "If only we lived on Haight Street, then one hundred people would have come!" She felt bitterly towards all our neighbors and all the people who walk their dogs up and down this street, all too important to come to Lola's talent cat show. I pointed out that all one hundred people would have then been disappointed by the failures of the talentcats to perform, but Lola wasn't cheered up.

I hate Mendel's.

I'm taking a class in building little shrines, and one of the techniques I learned was embossing, using those same rubber stamps that people usually just pound into inkpads. Embossing can be a subtle use of imagery, and I was excited about adding it to the little shrine I'm currently building. I wanted stamps in the form of a palm tree and a monkey, not a cheesy, smiling monkey, but an aloof, intelligent monkey, and I've visited virtually every craft and hobby store in San Francisco with no luck. I'm also hunting for the distress ink pads made by Ranger, which I read about in the lastest "Quilting Arts" magazine, which allow you to easily fake the appearance of age for your art.

Yesterday I stopped by the loathed Mendel's on Haight Street in my continuing search (I'd already been to Pearl's the same day with no luck). Mendel's used to have an amazing selection of rubber stamps by the register, and I hoped to have luck there. I didn't see a single rubber stamp, though, which surprised me, but I did score the only Ranger distress pad I've seen anywhere (but in "Mustard Yellow", alas. I would have preferred one of the other colors). When my purchases were being rung up, I asked the snooty sales clerk, "I didn't see any rubber stamps. You don't have those any more?" He arched a supercilious eyebrow at me and said, "They're right there behind you," in a tone of voice that made it clear that I was a complete idiot for asking this question while standing right in front of the rubber stamps. I persevered: "I saw stamp pads there, but I didn't see any rubber stamps. They used to be by the register."

"We're slowly phasing them out," he said, again in a rude voice. After a pause, he then added, again in a tone of voice as though he were addressing a severely retarded person, "We haven't had any rubber stamps in a very long time." So which is it, rude boy: they're right behind me and I'm stupid for not seeing them, they're being "slowly phased out", or you "haven't had any in a very long time?"

I just hate that place. Once a woman in the fabric department was so rude to me that I walked out seething, abandoning my intended three figure fabric purchase. The problem is that the store is so inviting, with fascinating merchandise. Why is it that, unlike other stores on Haight Street, that Mendel's store culture is to be relentlessly condescending and rude to the customer?

Other people used to bitch about rudeness and condescension at the Discount Fabrics close to Mendel's, but I'd bonded with the sales people there. I buy a lot of fabric, and they all love my oversized pirate bag, being admirers of good fabric. Sadly the Discount Fabric people closed the Haight Street store after opening a large, less convenient one in the SoMA (and this store is clearly aimed towards the decorating fabrics market, having a much smaller selection of the solid cottons and wacky trims I buy), leaving Haight Street with only the horribly rude Mendel's for fabrics.

The staff was even rude to me the time I returned a stolen wallet, which turned out to belong to the niece of Mendel's owners. I found that wallet abandoned in a Haight St. gutter, stripped of its cash, but still containing various pieces of ID. At home the Sober Husband and I managed to find the owner's phone number on line, and she was happy to hear she could recover anything from the stolen wallet. "Just drop it off at Mendel's, if you can. My aunt and uncle are the owners." It was a pain to drive back over there, with no parking available and the Sober Husband driving around and around the block while I walked in. I must admit I was hoping for a warm reception, maybe even an offer of a discount on something as a reward for the wallet, but instead all I got was an arched brow from the cashier and a very cold reception indeed, as though I were a leper passing over a fallen-off finger.

I shouldn't have expected any better. The only other time I returned a stolen wallet, chock full of driver's license, credit cards, library cards, etc.., just not cash, the wallet's owner accused me of being the actual thief. That was a bit much on her part, particularly as the wallet had been found by a worshiper exiting church and turned into me, the church's receptionist, and I was seated right there at my post at the venerable old Episcopalian sanctuary. How was I supposed to be picking pockets while manning this desk at a church? And why would I call someone to return their wallet to them if I'd taken it?

In any event, returning wallets seems to be a thankless job, and shopping at Mendel's is a joyless way to spend your money. I should just buy my art supplies online if I can't find them at the delightful Flax, where the art students who work there are always sweet and helpful.

Lola makes her candy taste even sweeter

The other day Lola got a bag of various Chinese New Year-themed treats at kindergarten. In the car, she asked me, "Can I have my candy I got?"

"Sure," I said.

Lola said happily to herself, "I have two pieces of candy. I'll eat one now... and then I'll show one to Iris and eat it in front of her!"

tiny Lola's big drama

I was sick for about a month, with a flu followed by a pair of back-to-back colds. This was the kind of sickness where a person feels miserable and spends most of their time lying around with the appropriate props (ibuprofen, kleenex, generic Benadryl and Sudafed, etc...), but their husband doesn't take time off from work, and they still have to go pick up their squabbling children at school. When I dragged myself out to pick up Lola from kindergarten, I noticed towards the end of the month that her kind teachers were becoming increasingly solicitous of me, asking in gentle voices how I was feeling. I suspected that Lola was talking about me being sick, but I didn't think much of it... until Saturday morning when Lola asked me, "Are you still sick?"

"Not really," I said.

"DAMMIT!" Lola shouted. "I wasn't done with my thing." She stomped off, unconsoled by my saying, "Well, I do still have a sinus headache, and my nose is still runny."

I sneaked a look at Lola's "thing", a piece of paper she had brought home from kindergarten and had been very secretive about the day before. It was labeled "Mommy Newspaper." In the center there was a very flattering drawing of me beaming a happy smile, in a black t-shirt and my old green skirt. Under this it said in very small letters, "Lola's Mother." Written along the sides of the pictures was the newspaper's article:

We all know that tiny Lola's mother is very sick. We have trid everything but she stays sick. We hope she dos'ent die of illnes. So very much we hope only for her.

moi, a prude?

When Lola started kindergarten, I took advantage of having some free time in the day by signing up for ceramics classes (the classes I am taking are horrendously sought after; in order to gain a spot, one must get in line on Sign Up Day by 5 AM and then wait until noonish). Most people in the classes make vases, bowls, and platters, but I've been making a lot of small sculptures. Lately I've been branching out from the usual small animals and making little princesses, usually evil ones.

As I was wrapping up my latest little princess of evil, one of the grandmotherly types in the class, who'd never before initiated a conversation with me, spoke up. "You never make your little ladies naked. It's been bothering me."

one thing after another

In early January I acquired a rather banal flu, the kind that has you taking far more ibuprofen for that pounding headache than your liver would like and just lying on the sofa feeling like death warmed over, asking the children to PLEASE stop screeching and fetch mommy some more ibuprofen and a glass of water, and for the love of God don't shout in Mommy's ear.

That flu segued seamlessly into a cold. I sent the Sober Husband out for Kleenex and Benadryl, and he came back with one measly box of cheap Kleenex, the kind that sands down your delicate nostrils. "We have plenty of Benadryl, so I didn't get any."

"Plenty" turned out to mean four, so the next day I dragged my grotesque, snot-ridden self down to Walgreen's, where I bought Kleenex and generic Sudafed. The perky cashier said, "Enjoy your Walfed!" as she handed over my bag. I mulled that little pleasantry over for some time. First, pharmacy cashiers should pretend they don't notice what they are ringing up (I really don't want to be bade, "Enjoy your Tampax!" And what about the poor souls buying pregnancy tests, hemorrhoid creams, bunion pads, yeast cures, etc..?) Next, who in the hell enjoys themselves with Kleenex and generic Sudafed? They've changed the Sudafed formula so that one can't use it to make methamphetamines any more.

That cold dragged on, leaving me a snuffling, miserable hulk who still had to drive her children over hell and back and listen to their nonstop squabbling.

I realized last week that I hadn't had a drink in a couple of weeks (I never feel like drinking when I'm sick). I decided that I might as well extend the accidental dryness, as I had a headstart on one of my semi-annual Liver Vacations (I was once told by a doctor friend that social drinkers like her and me already have the beginnings of liver damage, but just one alcohol free month will restore a social drinker's liver to pristine health. I didn't bother to fact check this assertion, but I've lived by it, giving my liver a one month vacation to freshen it up from time to time). I'm not sure exactly when in January I had a drink, so I'm extending this Liver Vacation into February. Sadly though it hasn't been much of a true vacation for the old liver, seeing as how I've been marinating it in Theraflu, Walfed, Waldryl (love those generics) and ibuprofen.

On Monday I started to feel recovered from the flu-following cold, feeling well enough to feel bored and to start getting caught up on laundry. I also went to my evening art class, which I skipped the week before because I was just too sick to get off the couch. Then on Tuesday I woke up, utterly miserable, with either a resurgence of that cold or (more probably) a completely new cold I'd acquired on that one day of near-health.

I've laid in a new supply of Kleenex and Walfed, and I'm walking around carrying a Kleenex box and just feeling disgusting in general. I feel guilty whining about colds and flus, as it's not cancer or HIV, but I'd love to get it over with.

My house is a vivid illustration of the fact that I actually do housework when I feel okay. "See," I said to the Sober Husband. "You can now tell that I normally do housework during the day", that being a point which has been the subject of some scholarly debate in the past. There are those, mostly children, who would contend that I spend all day buying books and playing World of Warcraft. Sadly this month there have been many days when I didn't even log on, because I felt too sick to play Warcraft. The little skeptics refuse to believe that Mommy went a day or two without playing Warcraft.

Lola's fall from grace

For a couple of years now kindergartener Lola has styled herself a god, one with the power to condemn people to hell, but today there was a surprise. Her big sister Iris informed me, "Lola is Satan now."

I looked at Lola for more information. Lola grinned happily and shouted merrily, "I am the Satan Lola!"

"Yeah, she calls herself 'Satan Lola' now," interrupted Iris. "And she has Satan monkeys..."

Interrupting Iris right back, tiny, sweetfaced Lola screamed, "SATAN MONKEYS IN HELL! AND THEY KILL KILL KILL!" She clawed furiously at the air to demonstrate the killing abilities of her Satan monkeys.

my child's greatest talent

The more faithful readers may realize that here at the Drunken Housewife, we tend to beat a topic into the ground (as well as talk about ourselves with the lovely royal we). Give us a stick and an equine corpse, and we'll sing a merry tune as we whale away. Remember when this blog was just about elevators, entry after frigging entry? Well, right now we're focusing on the scarily advanced nine year-old Iris Uber Alles, at least until we become concerned that this blog is going to traumatize her or cause her to stick us in a substandard nursing home in our dotage, where there won't even be cocktails.

The other day I wrote about my fears for my academically brilliant daughter, who is prone to bragging insensitively about her intellectual abilities, causing me to wince and worry. Many of the readers had wonderful advice, including Amy, who suggested I send Iris Uber Alles over to the house of another mother from her school, whose beautiful manners and social graces I admired. That suggestion made me laugh out loud. Why? Because Iris is given to passionate hatreds, and this gracious and warm woman is the mother of Iris's current Enemy Number One.

Iris's vitriol sparks her into rants. Spit flies from her lips and her voice gets higher and louder, as she spouts on and on about her enemy. Lola loves to get her fired up and often inquires in a sweet, piping voice, "Any Annie Patrick stories today?" [name changed to protect the feelings of a child who is no doubt a perfectly fine human being]. This hatred goes so far that once a woman of the same surname was coming over, and Iris got me to ask her ahead of time whether she was related to a little girl in the third grade at Burke's, because Iris was extremely freaked out over the possibility of a relative of Annie's setting foot in her home.

Why does Iris Uber Alles hate this particular little girl? When asked, Iris can cite numerous offenses, which include (1) the other child, who is being raised as a devout Catholic, told Iris, who'd exclaimed "God!", that she shouldn't use the name of the Lord in vain; (2) she was astonished to hear Iris doesn't go to church and thinks Iris should; (3) on a field trip to a Chinese restaurant, she told Iris she shouldn't put her elbows on the table; (4) once Annie told Iris she shouldn't call President G.W. Bush "Shrub", and as Iris explained to me with raising volume and shrillness, that was just hypocrisy on Annie's part because although she was offended by Iris's flippancy, she went on to later herself copy Iris and refer to the outgoing president as "Shrub"; and (5) some incident between the two about Jesus, which I can't recall the details of and don't want to ask Iris about because if I get her started, she'll be ranting and raving for some time. However, I can't help but notice that all of these offenses occurred AFTER Iris had formed a strong hatred of Annie (I am sure there have also been eye-rolling and sarcasm on Iris's part towards this other girl).

Iris's father, the Sober Husband, likes to egg Iris on and went so far as to coach her on some aggravating remarks about Jesus which could be dropped into the classroom conversation. After I stopped laughing, I begged him not to encourage Iris, and I tried to be the voice of responsible parenting. "Iris," I said earnestly, "You are going to offend a lot of people if you go around making remarks about Jesus. People are not going to like a little girl who mouths off about Jesus." This devolved into a debate pitting the family's believers, Lola and me, against the family's agnostics, the Sober Husband and Iris, rather than the discussion on social graces I wanted, but it's probably just as well. I should save my time and energy. There's nothing but time which will get Iris past this hatred.

Iris has had enemies since she was four. As a preschooler, she made a comic book starring herself and then-best friend as superheroes defeating two particular boys she disliked (in the comic, Iris's superpower was tattling!). And, of course, there's her arch-rival, her little sister. "She ruined my life!" sobs Iris from time to time. "Why did you have to have her? I hate her!"

In kindergarten, she had a vociferous, burning hatred for a particular little girl. This hatred literally kept Iris up at nights at times. She wrote down a long rant where she told off that girl for everything wrong with her, and Iris worried that sometime this girl might come into her house and find this document. I assured Iris, when these worries arose, that in the unlikely event her mortal enemy came to our house, I'd let Iris know ahead of time so she could hide the rant. Iris was often angry, unbelievably angry with this child, and I used to console her by making up happy endings to the situation. Iris felt that this girl should be expelled from school after she was made to apologize to Iris for her various offenses at a school-wide assembly, and Iris was always cheered up when we imagined that assembly. "And then she'll have to walk out alone, with everyone looking at her, and I'll be there." This hatred lasted well into the second grade, when eventually Annie supplanted the original object of animosity and became the new Iris Enemy No. 1. Now, as far as I can tell, Iris has nothing but indifference for her former chief enemy.

When Iris was in the first grade, I had occasion to meet with the head of the lower school to discuss a number of issues, and I told the head about that hatred. The head was rather astonished and took time to muse over it. "We don't see that at those grades," she said. "That's really a hatred, isn't it? We just don't see that level of intensity starting at kindergarten. We don't see that normally until upper school."

Forget all those parents of violin prodigies or tiny tennis champions: since kindergarten, my child has been hating on an eighth grade level.

a kind of compliment I fail to take well

I had a flu last week, which, as it faded, gave way to a good, old-fashioned head cold. Yesterday I was completely miserable, but it was my day to supervise lunch and recess at the children's school. I only do this once or twice a month, so it was just bad luck it fell on a day, a rainy day, when I was sick. I washed some Benadryl (to reduce blowing my nose) down with a Red Bull (to combat the Benadryl's drowsiness) and took some acetaminophen as well (general headache), dressed warmly, washed my hands really well to reduce contagion, and headed off.

It was an easy day, where I was just called upon to rip open a lot of catsup packets and open one stubborn Tupperware for the children. I didn't see any tears or tricky social situations requiring adult intervention, thank God, as I wasn't feeling up to those.

But then I got myself into one of those tricky social situations where I just fail. The other mother on lunch duty was someone I really like although I don't know her well. She's one of those people who are almost too good to be true: stunningly beautiful in a conventional, skinny blonde way, from a wealthy background, and with such lovely manners and personal warmth that you can't possibly resent her for having it all. She's charming and highly likeable. But then the conversation took a particular turn I have trouble with: she came over to me and said, "Your daughter is so brilliant!" She had chaperoned a field trip to the San Francisco dump and told me that "Iris knew things the guy from the recycling program didn't know." (I had previously heard from another chaperone that Iris had awed the crowd by knowing what "molybdenum" was, or maybe it was "manganese", and its particular role in recycling).

I tried to smile and move the conversation along, saying generally about my own children, "They're so much smarter than their parents" and "It's not anything we did", but the conversation kept going back on its tracks.

"Oh, no," demurred the other mother. "We were talking and we were all saying, 'They must be doing something right at home.'"

I felt tired and stupid from my cold and blurted out, "Actually I'm a horrible mother," but thankfully then some catsup packets needed to be opened and the conversation was over.

I'm having a lot of trouble accepting compliments about nine year-old Iris Uber Alles's smarts. I don't want to take any credit for the lucky combination of sperm and egg (in the Sober Husband's family of origin, there is the scarily smart Sober Husband, but there was also a severely mentally retarded brother who never functioned beyond the level of a toddler. That's a pretty clear illustration of luck's role in combining the genetic material of two particular people). Next, I personally despise those smug mothers who speak in awed tones with pauses where they look at you expectantly, awaiting your homage to their children's "gifts." More importantly, Iris is already teetering on the brink of being obnoxiously conceited, and I don't want to add to that.

At our parent-teacher conference, the teacher informed me, in a deadpan voice, that at the beginning of the year, Iris had informed the entire class that "I am extremely advanced" and already knew most of what would be studied that year. I covered my head with my hands in despair when I heard that reported back. Oh, Iris. The other day Iris said with pride, "Many people say I am the smartest in my grade."

I don't think I need to worry that her confidence needs bolstering. What I do worry about is that she's going to offend and upset the girls who are struggling with the material. And there are a lot of girls in her class who are struggling with the curriculum; there are girls who are seeing the "learning specialists" and who find it hard.

I don't think I would have these conflicted feelings if Iris were a gifted athlete or preternaturally beautiful. I don't think in those instances, I'd be so averse to taking credit or worried about the effects of her bragging. I'm worried about her being a Lisa Simpson, so smart and yet so lonely.

the Great God Lola answers readers' questions

The Great God Lola, a six year-old self-styled deity, has deigned to accept questions from the readers. Herewith the Gospel as dictated to the Drunken Housewife by the temperamental deity:

J9 asked, "Who's nicer, Mommy or Daddy?"

Okay. (Laughing). They are both pretty nice. And very NICE to ME. (Nine year-old Iris says, "You've got to put down that she screeched that.")

Crazy Mo said, "I always buy Honey Nut Cheerios. I want to try something new. What cereal should I buy when I do my groceries?"

Cap'n Crunch is GREAT; you should try that!

Hughman asked, "What do you want to be when you are an adult? Who is your favorite princess? What does your home look like?"

I always wanted to be a Hannah Montana. Rock star. My favorite princess is Princess Garbage. My home looks like a giant white building; it's very nice, with a cababahead that lives here. [Editor's note: we do not live in a "giant white building"; Lola watched the inauguration today and is clearly thinking ahead].

Silliyak mused, "In a no holds barred cage match with Frowsty, who emerges victorious?"

FROWSTY! [The editor must note here that older sister Iris was screaming "FROWSTYFROWSTY
FROWSTYFROWSTY", which clearly affected the interview subject].

Melissa said, "What book are you reading right now? And what's your favorite book? Have you read Tale of Despereaux, and did you like it?"

I haven't been reading, I haven't decided. [The older sister, Iris Uber Alles, was banned from the interview area at this point due to excessive interference aimed at making the interview subject look like an idiot, by pressuring the Great God Lola to provide witless answers]. My favorite book is Cinderella. I haven't read Despereaux [editor's note: her older sister owns a copy but hasn't started it yet, having gotten sidetracked into the Harry Potter series].

Davi says, "My cats are slowly, but surely, destroying my apartment. There's Simi the Spazmatic Kitty, fat male Siamese, and SoCo with Lime, my boyfriend's pretty little bar cat. How do I put a stop to the destruction?!?!"

Get lots of cat toys! They're crazy about those! Just wriggle those when they're doing all the killing department, and then they'll run around. Well, sometimes. But that works best!

Kim said "What kind of dog should I buy? A pocket dog or a big one, like a German Shepherd?"

A pocket dog sounds cute, but a German Shepherd? I think that is a nice dog.

Snowqueen said, "If you ruled the world what is the first thing you would do to make it a better place?"

NO MEAT-EATERS!

Laggin asked, "What's the best thing about having a sister? (Yes. It must be a GOOD thing.) Would you rather have a sister or a wart on your nose? What's the best poem you've ever read?

Actually my sister, she's kind of bossy, but really, she does things. Like chores. And sometimes she helps me, cababahead. I would rather have a sister than a wart. Have I read any poems? That is the question. I've read some fairy poems; they are pretty nice.

Hughman weighed in again to posit, "What would be your favorite piece of trash ever? Who is your favorite teacher and why? What's the best word in the world?

My favorite piece of trash would be recycling, an old Izze, a kind of drink bottle. Ms. Capiello because she's just so nice. Once I was in the bathroom and they were lining up and she helped me. The best word in the world is [made-up nonsense word which Lola was unable to spell for her transcriptionist].

Vodalus inquired, "Which is prettier: the Mandarin Dragonet or Mantis Shrimp?"

The Mantis Shrimp; it is like a peacock!

Joyce asked, "How do I adjust a pattern to make room for my big butt? And what is a better color, orange or green?"

I don't know anything about sewing. Orange is a nice color, but green is a GREAT color!

Is there anything else you'd like to say to the readers, Lola?

Even though orange is a sports color and I do like sports, I would still stick with green. It is even on my uniform!

So there you have it: wear green! Acquire German Shepherds! Enjoy some Cap'n Crunch!

ask Lola!

Here at the Drunken Housewife, from time to time we've had "Ask The Sober Husband", where your questions on any topic and in any degree of seriousness were answered with great seriousness by the Sober Husband himself. Here's a new twist: Ask Lola (a.k.a. the Great God Lola)! Six year-old and self-proclaimed deity Lola has agreed to take your questions.

how growing up in the Castro affects one's nascent theology

Kindergartener Lola has taken to reading "A Child's First Bible" (a gift to her older sister years ago from my parents). The Sober Husband asked her if she thought God looked like the picture in this bible, an old white man with a beard. Lola did.

"How do you know God isn't a woman?"

Lola squawked at that. "God is a daddy!" Then she thought about it. "Maybe God had a sex change operation."

more hoarding woes

Six year-old Lola hoards things and starts up collections and saves the most ridiculous things (most egregiously a Slushee cup from "Wall-E", which is named "Cupy" and lives in our dining room). Today when I picked her up at kindergarten, I pointed out that I'd gotten the car washed. "Doesn't it look nice?"

"Yes," Lola said condescendingly as I unlocked the car. Then Lola climbed into the backseat. "WHERE'S MY GARBAGE COLLECTION? I WAS KEEPING MY GARBAGE COLLECTION BACK HERE!"

all the horrible dental experiences and a paean to Dr Judy Huey

My teeth have not been professionally cleaned for a couple of years, and part of a porcelain cap cracked last year and came off, leaving a slightly jagged metal undercovering behind. This distressed me until I realized that the tooth in question was visible only to me personally, when I turned my head at an angle and peered towards the back of my mouth. The tooth is functional and painfree, and since it didn't affect my appearance, I did nothing about it. Because, as you see, I am without a dentist. My beloved dentist, the goddess of all teeth, Dr. Judy Huey, moved to Scottsdale years ago, leaving me and my teeth in the lurch.

When I was a child, I had a perfectly satisfactory dentist who had a strong resemblance to Superman and who had a pleasant way of chatting while he did his work. As a troubled adolescent, I had braces, and I became so accustomed to having my teeth worked over that I more than once dozed off at the orthodontist's in the chair. I had no dental phobias, despite having been stuck by poor genetic luck with a set of brittle yellowish teeth. I was innocent and ignorant.

Then my bad dental experiences began. For two years, my family lived on naval bases in the Philippines, with my father working as a civilian there. We were in a sort of strange position: we lived in government-supplied housing, officer's housing at that for one of the two years; we could shop at the commissary; but we were forbidden to go near the medical providers. For two years whenever I had a health problem, my parents just dithered and ignored the issue aside from the usual, painful and embarrassing family laying-on-of-hands, faith healing rituals. Thankfully I never got appendicitis, and meningitis was in the future but hadn't yet struck, so I got by for two years without seeing a doctor despite what I thought were ear infections and strep throat and a bout with pinkeye. But I did have dental problems. I had gone to the Philippines with braces on and no plan for getting them taken off, leaving behind my orthodontist in New Hampshire. More pressingly, a boy gave me a piece of gum on the school bus (we had an hour long drive over very bad roads that first year to get to the Department of Defense high school), and as I was chewing it, a large piece of one of my teeth broke off. This was painful and horrible and traumatic, and I never chewed gum again. I was left with a jagged, wretched, painfilled shard of a tooth.

My parents got this deemed an emergency, which allowed me to be treated by a base dentist, who was angry and resentful. During the entire appointment to fix my tooth, this man cursed me out, ranting at me, a shy fifteen year-old girl who was homesick and whose tooth hurt, that he had not trained to fix the teeth of people like me. He was there to fix soldiers' teeth, not stupid girls' teeth, and he should never have been asked to work on my mouth, and he couldn't understand why any dentist ever would touch my abhorrent, teenaged girl mouth. I had never been treated meanly or rudely by a dentist before, and I shrunk up and said nothing in return. Little did I know that this was the first of many horrible, horrible, horrible dental experiences ahead.

More happily in the Philippines my mother found a wonderful orthodontist, trained in the U.S., who had a delightful personality and gentle hands. Some of the happiest days I ever had with my mother, a woman with whom normally I have a lot of tension, especially in those days, were on orthodontist days. We would bring one of her friends, I would miss a day of school, and we would make the long drive to Angeles City. After my orthodontist appointment, we would eat lunch at a fabulous Mexican restaurant offering the Filipino take on Mexican food. We used to pay a street child to watch our car (there was always competition for that position), and I remember giving one of them a bag of Mexican food to his sheer and utter delight. (In the Philippines I learned how wealthy indeed the American middle class is if you look from a global perspective).

When we returned to the States, I went back to my Superman lookalike childhood dentist. When I went to Boston for college, I always did my dental work during the holiday breaks and summers. When I graduated from college and lived in Boston for real, I thought I should get a Boston dentist. I asked my boss, the head of WBUR-FM, what dentist she used (a very particular woman, my boss was, and I thought her dentist must be the best of the best). That led me to Traumatic Dentist Visit #2, as the doddering dentist administered an unbearably painful cleaning, botched the X-rays and couldn't tell from them what needed to be done for work, but insisted I needed many follow-up visits. I managed to get the failed x-rays and, facing reality, went back up to visit my family and my childhood dentist, who in his Portsmouth, N.H. office mocked the wretched X-rays I'd brought along. "That must be some dentist you saw down there in Boston! Can't even take an x-ray! Well, I'm just glad you can bring yourself to come to us here in tiny little Portsmouth, when you could be at a big city dentist."

Then I was accepted at Stanford and moved out west, too far to go to the dentist in Portsmouth. My parents moved at the same time to Tucson, so I wouldn't be able to mix dental business with visiting them. I was dentistless.

At Stanford I got student dental insurance, a kind of dental insurance that turned out to be the worst of the worst of dental insurance. It was a dental insurance that paid a dentist a flat monthly fee for each enrolled patient, as well as negotiated, low amounts for each treatment. The first two dentists assigned to me and my first husband (whom I married at the end of my first year of law school, under the false impression that if our relationship could survive a cross-country move and the first year of law school, it would survive anything and therefore I should just as well turn it into marriage) refused to see us. Whenever we called for appointments, they were too busy. Evidently their plan was to enroll as many patients as possible, pocket the monthly fees, and provide no services. This was Traumatic Dentist Experiences #3 and #4, the dentists who would never see us, no matter how often we called.

We did manage to get reassigned to another dentist (Traumatic Dentist #5) one who was willing to treat our teeth, all too willing to treat our teeth. He just wasn't willing to give us novocaine. It was kind of a shock to go in for fillings and have the painkilling step just omitted without discussion. I was good friends with a doctor at that time who prescribed me some painkillers I would take on the 5 Fulton on the way to this dentist, which helped until the doctor expansively told me that what I was getting from him would not help sharp pains, only diffused ones, and that at best I was getting a placebo effect, which of course vanished after that heartless discurse. This dentist was ambitious and greedy, and he confided in me, whom he saw as a kindred soul given that I was in law school, that he really wanted a Mercedes. On that same visit we discussed the Mercedes, the dentist told me I needed three teeth capped and root canaled. I had never had a root canal and was frankly terrified of having it done by a man who didn't normally administer novocaine. I stalled. On my next visit, the dentist pressured me to set up a series of visits for my four root canals. "I thought you said three?" I said. He clearly prevaricated and mumbled, "One is recommended." This was Traumatic Dentist #5, the most horrifying and traumatic of them all to date.

I left that day and never returned. I didn't get any dental treatment for the next two years, spending all that time fretting from time to time over how three of my teeth must be rotting out of my head due to my not having had them given root canals and caps.

Once I was entrenched as a young associate at a large law firm, I took my improved dental insurance and went nervously out to get my neglected teeth treated. I was assigned to a dentist in a very tall downtown building, a fancy building near my fancy office. This dentist said that I didn't need any root canals at all, which made me all the angrier at my last, sleazy dentist (who went into local politics and whose name I often see plastered across the city at election time, which always brings me flashbacks of those novocaine-less fillings and those threatened root canals). However, this dentist was no great gem, either. He did little work himself, leaving it to his young, fresh-out-of-dental school associates. I had one of my neglected teeth capped, and the dentist's office had no time for me to return to get the permanent cap put on. I went for a long time with the frail temporary cap, which led the head dentist to give the associate dentist assigned to me a dressing-down within my hearing. I sank down further and further in the examining chair as the head dentist railed on and on about how it was a miracle my tooth had survived.

My first husband had a worse experience. This dentist's office was really, really into x-raying, and their greatest pride and joy was a space age x-ray machine which rotated around your skull as you sat still in the chair. While he was being x-rayed, this machine got stuck trying to go around his head (he had a very large head indeed, being 6'4" and with a large head even for that height). While the machine was still attempting to X-ray him, techs had to wrestle with it and shove it and his head about, trying to extricate him from it. After they got it off him, they adjusted it and tried to get him to sit for another panoramic x-ray. He refused, feeling that he'd had more than enough X-ray exposure that day to last him for years, which pissed off the dentists, who truly felt you could never get enough X-rays done. Thus ended our experiences with Traumatic Dentist #6.

We were wondering if there were any acceptable dentists at all in the city of San Francisco, and we took a hiatus from dental work. Then my ex had a friend at his new job refer him to a dentist, a wonderful dentist. "I think I'm the only white patient there," the friend said. "It's the greatest dental office. You won't believe it."

By that point, I was pretty cynical, and my teeth were pretty neglected once again (after the delayed cap and the X-ray horror of my husband, we once again went for a couple of years without dental treatment). In the waiting room, I filled out the history form, and I wrote down all the terrible experiences I'd had. Then a petite woman of Asian descent walked out into the waiting room, and turning her large, kind eyes on me, introduced herself gently as Dr. Judy Huey, expressed her sympathies on my bad experiences, and asked me kindly if I needed some gas to help me get back to the treatment room. My teeth and I were in love, and we embarked upon a happy era of dental health. Dr. Huey had tiny, tiny hands with deft little fingers one can barely detect in one's mouth, and her warm personality made the patient feel confident and relaxed.

I took to gushing about my dentist to everyone I knew. "I never realized how the size of a dentist's hands make such a big difference. I never want to go to a dentist again who isn't an Asian woman, with such tiny little hands. Dr. Huey can put her whole hand in my mouth and I wouldn't notice it." People looked at me oddly when I went on like that, and I was aware that I sounded like a pervert, but I didn't care. Dr. Huey was the goddess of all teeth and deserved to be worshipped and to have her patient acolytes spread the word of her wonders.

During this happy dental era, I not only got my teeth cleaned on a regular basis and filled as needed, but I also underwent optional, cosmetic dentistry. I tried cosmetic whitening (still not getting my teeth up to Hollywood levels, but an improvement). I replaced an old cap to get a better appearance and had a veneer put on the tooth neighboring the cap to make them match. The day did come that I did need a root canal, and it turned out painless (I was so glad again that I'd never submitted to the quack dentist's plans to do four root canals. Dr. Huey sent me to an endodontologist who was also of Asian descent with tiny, gentle hands and who also had generous painkillers and a movie menu for me to pick from).

Along the way I divorced the old husband, and my new husband soon became a regular at Dr. Huey's. Dr. Huey changed offices, and we moved along with her. When Iris was born, Dr. Huey gave her a gentle introduction to dentistry. First Iris was brought along as a toddler to watch Mommy get check-ups, cleanings, and fillings. Then Iris was, with Mommy close at hand, given her own cleaning and had a couple of small cavities filled. This was done so gently and smoothly, and I felt such happiness that my child was being introduced to dental work so kindly. Maybe she could live a life without dental trauma. I wrote thank you notes to Dr. Huey and to her very kind dental assistant for making Iris's introduction to dentistry so happy.

Then dental tragedy struck. Dr. Huey's husband's health required a move to the desert. Soon Dr. Huey was in Scottsdale and I was without a dentist. A very young dentist purchased Dr. Huey's practice, and I didn't have confidence in her. My husband found a dentist, practically enough one near our house, but he told me not to go there. "It's good enough for me, but you would hate him. I just know." He wasn't taken with this dentist at all, but felt he would settle for him due to convenience.

I tried my friend Joyce's beloved dentist, but that was another trauma. The dentist herself was a lovely, gentle person who inspired confidence, but there is no way I am enduring her office staff or dental technicians. My visit was upsetting before I even got there: a nasal, bitchy office worker called me several times on the phone with questions about the dental insurance. In my experience, normally you just present a dental office with your insurance card, and they take care of the rest. Not this office. The woman called me, her tone and voice extremely unpleasant, before I had even set foot in the office, demanding such things as where to submit the claims (which was not printed on the card I had). At that time, my husband's employer, Doggyo, was so small that it had no HR person, which deeply offended the dental office woman, who was quite sniffy about it. I cravenly gave the woman my husband's cellphone number to get her off my back, under the pretense that he, the employee through whom all benefits flowed, was in a better spot to answer her questions. At the end of the day I actually went to the dentist for a routine cleaning and exam, this nasal bitch called my husband seven times on the phone, giving him attitude each time.

While I waited for forty-five minutes after my appointment time, occasionally overhearing the mean, nasal woman calling my husband on the phone, I was stuck enduring a really loud trailer for an offensive Disney movie being shown over and over again at top volume on a large screen TV. I came close to leaving then, and in retrospect, I wish I had. Because when I was finally ushered back, I underwent Traumatic Dental Experience Number Seven. The supercilious tech rammed a painful x-ray plate into my mouth which was clearly too large for my poor mouth, and which triggered my gag reflex. The tech laughed merrily at me as I was dry heaving, and then she took the same plate up again and sadistically shoved it into my mouth again. Once again I was retching, and she was laughing at me. Oh, what a merry sight, a middle-aged woman dry heaving in a dental chair. There was not an apology to be heard, the impression being given that I had made the day of the sadistic staff and that they were well-pleased by the turn of the events. The irony of this? This was a dental practice specializing in traumatized, phobic dental patients!!

I was also somewhat freaked out by the weird office layout. There were no partitions or privacy walls separating patients; we were all in chairs radiating off from a curving hallway. Thus while I was waiting, I had to hear a loud, nervous man have his cleaning and treatment. I don't want to hear other people's dental work, and I also think it was no treat for the other patients to listen to my retching noises.

To further add to that discomfort, the chairs were placed such that you couldn't see the staff, who lurked behind us in the center of the radius of this strange, round dental office. This was not enjoyable for me as some of the staff were happily discussing my hilarious dry heaving, which was evidently the highlight of their day, maybe their whole week.

When I finally met the kindly, chubby, soft spoken dentist with gentle hands and eyes, there had been too much damage already done. There is no way I will ever set foot in that office again. (My friend was a bit upset with me for not liking her dentist, to whom she was greatly loyal, and criticized me for the way in which I'd handled things. A year later, though, she did share with me a spectacularly rude thing said to her by the nasal office bitch).

Meanwhile my poor children underwent their own Traumatic Dental Experience. I signed up my poor, dental orphans with what was considered by virtually every parent I knew to be the finest pediatric dental office in the city. I had the impression that everyone who was anyone took their children to that dentist. Indeed I'd had other parents sniff at my habit of taking Iris along to my own dentist, rather than to this particular pediatric dentist. However, events showed that I had been right. This dentist practice became Traumatic Dental Experience Number Eight for me and Traumatic Dental Experience Number One for Iris and Lola.

Just because a dental office sports a small dog in a tutu and has toys strewn about does not mean that it treats children well. The dental technicians were rough, and one scolded poor three year-old Lola for nervously flipping her skirt up and down. "Sit like a lady!" The original dentist who had made this place so fashionable amongst parents wasn't really about any more (I noticed she had a nameplate up at another building), and the dentists who saw my girls were not particularly warm or nice or gentle. They weren't particularly nice to me, either. Iris was diagnosed as having a cavity with an abscess, and the dentist glared at me. "I hope you knew about this!"

I was stymied. Wouldn't I have been a worse parent if I'd known about the abscess but just not bothered to do anything about it? Iris was puzzled, also. After we left, she whispered to me, "Is an abscess supposed to hurt? It never hurt." We both felt stupid and ashamed.

At a later visit, one of the dentists was lecturing me about how I should be applying topical fluoride to the children's teeth and hounded me about why, why, why wasn't I doing that. I confided that I felt that they got a lot of fluoride already in their tap water and toothpaste and that I'd been reading about fluoridosis online. The dentist rolled her eyes in disgust and slammed her body against the cabinet at what she so clearly saw as my internet-assisted idiocy. Lola had been crying throughout her treatment without much comfort that day, and it seemed appropriate to draw curtain over this particular act in our dental odyssey.

Over a year went by, close to two years, with a perennial item in my To Do List being "Find New Dentists." Eventually, after some canvassing of acquaintances, I had gathered several recommendations for Dr. Katz, a pediatric dentist located conveniently not far from the girls' school. I steeled my nerves for the lecture I was undoubtedly going to get for not having taken the children to the dentist in so long. Instead, Dr Katz was jovial and joking, hugging me and handing out toys to the children. Lola, thoroughly traumatized by her horrible prior dentist, burst into tears the moment her turn came to be examined. Instead of forcing her, as the prior dentist would have done (that dentist was quite gifted at ignoring a small child's sobs), this new, more satisfactory dentist didn't make Lola get into the chair at all. Her cleaning and exam were done with her sitting on a stool, holding my hand, and no X-rays were done because they didn't want to force them on a crying child.

Iris's same old tooth which had had an abscess before, leading the ex-dentist to tell me off, had a new abscess. The highly satisfactory new dentist was critical of the old dentist's decision to leave that baby tooth in place. It would never have formed a new abscess if it had been pulled, and the material used for a cap on that tooth was not in favor any more among dentists who kept up with technology. Clearly that tooth had been mishandled.

I liked hearing criticism of the technique of the old dentist. It made me feel better about having left for personal reasons. As Iris said to the new dentist when he asked why she was changing dentists, "We have to get a new dentist because the old dentist rolled her eyes at Mommy."

On Lola's return visit to get a cavity fixed, the dentist introduced her to the joys of laughing gas. Lola soon went from terrified crying and clutching at my hand to relaxing in the chair. After we left, she confided in me, "Do you know why this dentist is better than the old one? He doesn't make me keep my mouth open too long!" On her second visit, Lola fell in love with the "giggle gas" and had not a single tear. She confided in everyone she knew that going to her dentist makes her giggle and giggle because she gets giggle gas.

Lola had clearly been on the path to lasting dental phobia, but has been saved due to an overdue change in dentists. Iris herself was spared that only because she could remember her kind first dentist (after every visit to the old pediatric dentist, Iris would say, "I miss Dr. Huey" and hound me to find a new grown-up dentist for myself and her alike. Lola could go to the unliked pediatric dentist, but Iris and I, Iris thought, needed a grown-up's dentist). The new pediatric dentist told me that he'd been badly treated by horrific dentists himself and that had inspired him to create his practice, a practice where children would feel no pain or discomfort and would be treated like they were important. It pained him to see that Lola had developed a dental phobia, and he was genuinely happy to see her move past it, aided by the delightful "giggle gas."

Now it is only I who is dentistless, with my poor, uncared for teeth languishing into decay. Iris and the Sober Husband have both taken to nagging me to try another dentist, but I just don't want to. In my lifetime there have only been two satisfactory dental offices for me and so many others which were really and truly awful. My childhood dentist has retired, and Dr. Huey, my only good dentist of my adulthood, is so far away. Occasionally the idea is bruited about that I should just go to Scottsdale twice a year to see my one true dentist. I can't justify that lavish lifestyle, but I can't bring myself to try another San Francisco dentist, either. I'm basically waiting it out until something truly terrible happens in my mouth, which will force me to action.

RIP Parker and Dortmunder

Just two weeks ago, I wrote

the first sentence of "Firebreak" is, in my personal opinion, the best first sentence of a novel I've ever read: "When the phone rang, Parker was in the garage, killing a man." Such a mix of the banal and the horrific, such an economic use of words.... and it sucks you in and has you prepared for the rest of the ride, right there in the first twelve words. I think that's a better first sentence than the famous first sentence of "Anna Karenina": "Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way." Donald Westlake is the master, and I hope he lives forever.

Today I learned that on New Year's Eve, Donald Westlake died suddenly from a heart attack while getting dressed for dinner in Mexico, on vacation.

I'm absolutely crushed. Mr. Westlake was ninety years old, so it shouldn't have come out of the blue, but he was at the top of his game, publishing a couple of excellent novels a year. There will be one last book, due out from the publishers in April, and then no more. RIP Parker. RIP Dortmunder.

I first became a fan of Donald Westlake before I knew his name. When I saw "The Grifters", I marveled at it, such a dark and strange and witty film. Much later, after I became a fan of Donald Westlake's Dortmunder books, I realized Mr. Westlake wrote the script for "The Grifters", among various other films. Perhaps the most famous film made from one of his works is "Point Blank", starring Lee Marvin as the inimitable Parker.

For those of you who have not acquainted yourself with the work of the master, Parker is the ultimate noir character. Under the pen name of "Richard Stark", Donald Westlake wrote this series for thirty years (given his huge productivity, Mr. Westlake used several nommes de plume, such as "Tucker Coe" and "Richard Stark." Like Stephen King, Donald Westlake had the problem of just producing too much good work for one author to credibly publish). Parker is a killing machine, a severely disciplined and controlled sociopath whose adventures are entertaining beyond belief. I will miss him more than anything.

In a lighter vein, Mr. Westlake wrote a popular series about the adventures of Dortmunder, a stooped, overweight criminal mastermind with the worst luck, and his odd assortment of friends and enemies. These were funny and engaging books, and I loved them dearly. Some of these books were made into movies, at least one with spectacular miscasting. Mr. Westlake wrote once, "Imagine my surprise to find out that Dortmunder was Robert Redford."

Once when I was severely depressed, contemplating suicide and trying to get through just one day at a time, I discovered a new Dortmunder book had come out. It quite literally gave me a new reason to live and made me question my idiocy for having considered suicide to begin with.

On another day during that period, a terrible, sad and dark time, I was driving from Iris's elementary school to pick up Lola when I was delayed by a broken down Brinks truck in the road. One of the armored guards was out waving traffic around, looking deeply depressed himself. I burst into a smile. "It's Dortmunder. It's Dortmunder in the flesh." It would have been just like Dortmunder to successfully hijack a Brinks truck only to have it break down on one of the most busy city streets.

RIP, Donald Westlake. You gave me a reason to live, you gave me so much entertainment, happiness, and food for thought. I will miss you more than I can say. Only your death could have felled the indefatigable, indestructible Parker, only that could have outwitted the brilliant Dortmunder.