Since I became so obsessed with working out and lost a huge amount of weight, I've taken up dressing like a skank. One member of the family (the Sober Husband) not only enjoys this trend but strongly encourages it. Another apparently has no opinion or perhaps has not even paid attention. However, a third member is disapproving.
Yesterday I was having a stressful time (a little foster kitten had a health crisis, which was quite disgusting, and when I bathed him, he sank his fangs deep into my wrist; the kitchen sink clogged up and then when the Sober Husband attempted to fix the clog, a pipe burst; we were running late to get to the polls), and little Lola took that time to raise an issue with my clothes. I was wearing a form-fitting silky t-shirt and a faux wrap skirt which was designed, as the catalogue had said, to "occasionally reveal a tempting slice of leg." Lolz, seeing the slice of leg, was tempted to point out to her mother that some thigh was on display, and the crabby old mother hissed, "Do not say anything critical to me. There is nothing wrong with my clothes."
Other outfits have met with disapproving attempts at censorship, including a lace t-shirt ("From this angle, I can see your bra in that shirt." "Lolz, that is kind of the point of this shirt") and a retro low cut cocktail dress ("It's so wide here", gesturing at the cleavage and trying to pull the sides of the neckline together).
I'm just dreading Lolz's reaction when I sport my newest acquisition, a tight dress with a lace bodice. Yes, the dress looks vaguely like something a mid-priced hooker might wear, but I'm okay with that. It's a truly great dress. A person can go decades without acquiring such a fabulous dress.
I have tried to explain to Lolz that her mother has not spent so much time slaving at the gym and broken her recreational ice cream habit in order to wear caftans and burqas, but still, the remarks, the looks, and the tugging at the necklines go on.
Wednesday, November 07, 2012
Saturday, November 03, 2012
it's just that easy
"I don't want to argue," I said.
"No, you don't have to argue," said the Sober Husband strenuously. "You can just concede that I am right!"
"No, you don't have to argue," said the Sober Husband strenuously. "You can just concede that I am right!"
areas of expertise
Over sandwiches Lola asked me thoughtfully, "What is the fourth dimension?" After I finished chewing, I called the Sober Husband in. He has a Ph.D. in physics, after all, and I, moronically enough, was not sure about what the fourth dimension was. This was the right thing to do, as the Sober Husband lit up when Lola repeated her question and said, "Ah! Now, what is a dimension?"
Later I had my moment in the sun. "What is the Antichrist?" Iris asked her father. He was blank, and I intervened. "Leave this one to me," I said. I didn't have a born-again Christian childhood for nothing.
Later I had my moment in the sun. "What is the Antichrist?" Iris asked her father. He was blank, and I intervened. "Leave this one to me," I said. I didn't have a born-again Christian childhood for nothing.
Friday, November 02, 2012
annoying coworker
Lately I've been thinking that perhaps it's time for me to get a job. However, in one of my volunteer positions, I have been working closely with someone who irritates me profoundly, and this is making me remember all of the annoying coworkers I've ever had. I realized I had been remembering all the paychecks and happy hours and nicest clients, not thinking about the psycho bosses, insane deadlines, and other unpleasantnesses.
Today my annoying co-volunteer was especially annoying, and I thought perhaps instead of vowing to get a job, I should instead vow to never work in any office again. I shared some of my thinking with the Sober Husband and Lola.
"I was romanticizing the work world. I was just thinking, 'Oh, there's always someone to go to lunch with or out for drinks.'"
"I feel like I live in the movie 'Office Space'", the Sober Husband shared.
Little Lola, who has never actually held a job, for inscrutable reasons of her own found what I had to say hilarious. Between guffaws, she asked, "You thought that? Lunch? Drinks?" She slapped her leg in amusement.
Today my annoying co-volunteer was especially annoying, and I thought perhaps instead of vowing to get a job, I should instead vow to never work in any office again. I shared some of my thinking with the Sober Husband and Lola.
"I was romanticizing the work world. I was just thinking, 'Oh, there's always someone to go to lunch with or out for drinks.'"
"I feel like I live in the movie 'Office Space'", the Sober Husband shared.
Little Lola, who has never actually held a job, for inscrutable reasons of her own found what I had to say hilarious. Between guffaws, she asked, "You thought that? Lunch? Drinks?" She slapped her leg in amusement.
Thursday, November 01, 2012
Tuesday, October 30, 2012
survivor's guilt and Tom Sawyer's funeral
On Sunday I had a wonderful day, a fabulous day of sneaking (pre-authorizedly, of course) away from my family for a day of fun, but I returned at night to discover, via Facebook, that someone I knew had killed himself the night before by throwing himself in front of a BART train.
After shock, my next reaction was being pissed off at the people who were piously mourning the deceased, most of whom I knew very well wouldn't have given the deceased the time of day if they'd run into him. It seemed like they were being vultures, grabbing for attention and for emotional thrills. But of course the suicide had worn through almost everyone's love and esteem. He was an unmedicated sufferer of bipolar disorder, a grandiose and annoying person, and the worst part, I think, about mental illness is that it makes everyone stop loving you long before you die.
I myself had a complicated relationship with the deceased. I got a job he wanted, back when he was stable and ambitious, and to add insult to injury, afterwards I wouldn't bring him on to work with me. Of course I was right in that decision; back then, it wasn't common knowledge that he had bipolar disorder, but I did think he was too intense and unreliable to be a good attorney, and in retrospect, I was righter than right. I know he held a grudge against me for years, and he was also right. If it weren't for me, his life would have taken a different direction. I didn't have any hard feelings against him; it wasn't personal from my point of view, but what could be more personal from his?
It wasn't until today that my feelings reared up and hit me. I feel absolutely terrible that this man is dead, that he killed himself, that the BART operator and everyone who had to clean up after him had to deal with the horrors of it all.
On top of that, the situation makes me think of how carrion-feeding and attention-seeking most people are. People (including me due to my writing here; believe me, there are no good feelings for me about myself in this) are mourning publicly, when we avoided the deceased in the last part of his life. Lots of people less connected to the man are attention-seeking, name-checking the glamorous corpse.
As a lot of people know, the suicidal urge is strong with me. And seeing someone who was my age roughly, who was in my profession, who was in my social group, who did give in to that dark urge, gives me an experience like Tom Sawyer had going to his own funeral. And I don't like it. It makes me think of how many of the friends who knew how rough a time I had last year in particular were more concerned about themselves than me, how they felt bad for themselves that they had a close friend who was on the edge. The biggest example of that was someone who told me that if there was anything I needed, to please call, that it was so upsetting that I was in crisis and that if anything would help, I only had to say the word... and then when I did call and ask for a minor favor, the person said, "Sorry, that would involve moving my car, and it might take me up to forty minutes to find a parking space." It was all I could do not to say, "You know, my funeral might have been today. Would you have given up your parking space for THAT?"
It's a horrible, cruel, awful world we live in, a world with so little love and joy in it. People will feel sorry for themselves and seek out all kinds of attention as the bereaved survivors if you die, but if you live, they don't want to spend forty minutes looking for a parking space. And I'm not claiming any moral high ground here, either. It's a bleak, bleak world.
After shock, my next reaction was being pissed off at the people who were piously mourning the deceased, most of whom I knew very well wouldn't have given the deceased the time of day if they'd run into him. It seemed like they were being vultures, grabbing for attention and for emotional thrills. But of course the suicide had worn through almost everyone's love and esteem. He was an unmedicated sufferer of bipolar disorder, a grandiose and annoying person, and the worst part, I think, about mental illness is that it makes everyone stop loving you long before you die.
I myself had a complicated relationship with the deceased. I got a job he wanted, back when he was stable and ambitious, and to add insult to injury, afterwards I wouldn't bring him on to work with me. Of course I was right in that decision; back then, it wasn't common knowledge that he had bipolar disorder, but I did think he was too intense and unreliable to be a good attorney, and in retrospect, I was righter than right. I know he held a grudge against me for years, and he was also right. If it weren't for me, his life would have taken a different direction. I didn't have any hard feelings against him; it wasn't personal from my point of view, but what could be more personal from his?
It wasn't until today that my feelings reared up and hit me. I feel absolutely terrible that this man is dead, that he killed himself, that the BART operator and everyone who had to clean up after him had to deal with the horrors of it all.
On top of that, the situation makes me think of how carrion-feeding and attention-seeking most people are. People (including me due to my writing here; believe me, there are no good feelings for me about myself in this) are mourning publicly, when we avoided the deceased in the last part of his life. Lots of people less connected to the man are attention-seeking, name-checking the glamorous corpse.
As a lot of people know, the suicidal urge is strong with me. And seeing someone who was my age roughly, who was in my profession, who was in my social group, who did give in to that dark urge, gives me an experience like Tom Sawyer had going to his own funeral. And I don't like it. It makes me think of how many of the friends who knew how rough a time I had last year in particular were more concerned about themselves than me, how they felt bad for themselves that they had a close friend who was on the edge. The biggest example of that was someone who told me that if there was anything I needed, to please call, that it was so upsetting that I was in crisis and that if anything would help, I only had to say the word... and then when I did call and ask for a minor favor, the person said, "Sorry, that would involve moving my car, and it might take me up to forty minutes to find a parking space." It was all I could do not to say, "You know, my funeral might have been today. Would you have given up your parking space for THAT?"
It's a horrible, cruel, awful world we live in, a world with so little love and joy in it. People will feel sorry for themselves and seek out all kinds of attention as the bereaved survivors if you die, but if you live, they don't want to spend forty minutes looking for a parking space. And I'm not claiming any moral high ground here, either. It's a bleak, bleak world.
Sunday, October 28, 2012
crazy and crazy-making
I spent a rare, relaxing day with a friend today, away from the domestic madness of children, cats, parrots, and my intense husband. "It's like a mini-vacation," I said to my friend. When I came home, after greeting everyone, catching up on the news, and cleaning up after some tiny foster kittens, I logged on to Facebook for the first time that day... just as a lot statuses were exploding with teasers about a suicide in our social circle. That put a close to my vacation-ish feeling.
As anyone who knows me well should realize, I have a complex relationship with suicide, and it is maddening to me when people are acting like vultures around it, acting like there's some personal tragedy unique to them when someone they wouldn't give the time of day to has passed on in this dark way.
This was not my tragedy. I knew this man, I spent time with him, I joked with him, I flirted with him, I pissed him off thoroughly by refusing to hire him at one point (and I don't think he ever forgave me for that). But it's not my tragedy. It's the tragedy of my friend, who was engaged to him for a while back in the nineties. It's the tragedy of another friend, an old drinking buddy of mine, whom he was actually staying with just before his death. It's the tragedy of his mother, who survives him, and who he left his suicide note for.
And it's a tragedy similar to ones so many other people share. This smart, talented and handsome man had bipolar disorder, which he did not medicate because, as his former fiancee and I discussed just a week before he died, he loved the highs of mania. Bipolar disorder is linked to suicide; the NIH says 25-50% of people with bipolar disorder attempt suicide at least once.
What is the right way to honor the memory of someone who lost his life to bipolar disorder? I'd like to do something nice for the BART driver who had no choice but to run my acquaintance over (that poor bastard must be having nightmares); I'd like to do something for a random suicidal person with bipolar disorder. Donating to a foundation working on treatment for bipolar disorder is something else which seems appropriate. But don't feel sorry for me; it wasn't my tragedy. I'm lucky to be on the far periphery of this one, and I'm not a vulture who'll circle over the corpse, looking for pity.
I'm reminded of how not that long I nearly died myself, and how strange and alienating the reactions were to that, people making it about themselves that I had a close call with mortality. When I go, people, for the love of all that is both holy and unholy, don't post a Facebook status namechecking me as a glamorous corpse.
As anyone who knows me well should realize, I have a complex relationship with suicide, and it is maddening to me when people are acting like vultures around it, acting like there's some personal tragedy unique to them when someone they wouldn't give the time of day to has passed on in this dark way.
This was not my tragedy. I knew this man, I spent time with him, I joked with him, I flirted with him, I pissed him off thoroughly by refusing to hire him at one point (and I don't think he ever forgave me for that). But it's not my tragedy. It's the tragedy of my friend, who was engaged to him for a while back in the nineties. It's the tragedy of another friend, an old drinking buddy of mine, whom he was actually staying with just before his death. It's the tragedy of his mother, who survives him, and who he left his suicide note for.
And it's a tragedy similar to ones so many other people share. This smart, talented and handsome man had bipolar disorder, which he did not medicate because, as his former fiancee and I discussed just a week before he died, he loved the highs of mania. Bipolar disorder is linked to suicide; the NIH says 25-50% of people with bipolar disorder attempt suicide at least once.
What is the right way to honor the memory of someone who lost his life to bipolar disorder? I'd like to do something nice for the BART driver who had no choice but to run my acquaintance over (that poor bastard must be having nightmares); I'd like to do something for a random suicidal person with bipolar disorder. Donating to a foundation working on treatment for bipolar disorder is something else which seems appropriate. But don't feel sorry for me; it wasn't my tragedy. I'm lucky to be on the far periphery of this one, and I'm not a vulture who'll circle over the corpse, looking for pity.
I'm reminded of how not that long I nearly died myself, and how strange and alienating the reactions were to that, people making it about themselves that I had a close call with mortality. When I go, people, for the love of all that is both holy and unholy, don't post a Facebook status namechecking me as a glamorous corpse.
Saturday, October 27, 2012
your reading list
I've had some luck with my reading choices lately, books so good that reading alone makes living worthwhile. In case any of you are bookless at the moment and needing direction, here you are!
Beyond an account of the thorough strangeness of being anointed Islam's top enemy, this book is a lyrical and profound examination of what it means to write, what a book is (was "The Satanic Verses" a novel or an insult? ), and the value of dissent and expression. Bonus: lots of literary gossip! The PEN meetings will never be the same again now the dirt is out.
"Joseph Anton" by Salman Rushdie: Rushdie writes about his life after the fatwa, and as a memoir, it's deeply satisfying. Who knew that the worst part of being in hiding wasn't the loneliness; it was the lack of solitude? With police officers always lumbering around and frying sausages, Rushdie couldn't get any peace and quiet to write.
Beyond an account of the thorough strangeness of being anointed Islam's top enemy, this book is a lyrical and profound examination of what it means to write, what a book is (was "The Satanic Verses" a novel or an insult? ), and the value of dissent and expression. Bonus: lots of literary gossip! The PEN meetings will never be the same again now the dirt is out.
"Out of the Ordinary: True Tales of Everyday Craziness" and "What I Do: More Tales of Everyday Craziness" by Jon Ronson: I've been reading Jon Ronson since before "Men Who Stare At Goats" was made into a movie. He is amazingly witty, and he's not afraid to skewer himself (such as his piece about a new neighbor he meets, who won't ask Ronson what he does for a living, no matter what tempting little conversational morsels Ronson lays out for him). These books are worth the price alone for the accounts of his marital spats alone, never mind the chapter on the strange cult which pressures its members into donating kidneys to strangers.
"The Vanishers" by Heidi Julavits: I thought Julavits' prior novel, "The Uses of Enchantment", was hugely overrated, and so I was skeptical. But "The Vanishers" lured me in, and I will say without reservations that it is one of the best books I have ever read. A washed up, physically ill psychic is hired to use her now pathetic powers to sense the truth about a bizarre feminist film maker. The characters and plot are original and thought-provoking, but more than that, the prose is so luscious, so crisp. Reading these gorgeous sentences is like receiving an almost endless series of odd little surprises.
"The Collective" by Don Lee: Three disaffected, unhappy Asian American college students form a lifelong friendship and devote their lives to art. The most successful of them commits suicide, leaving his friends to try to make sense out of their lives, as well as the tragedy. A dense and engaging novel with very real characters, whose flaws and gifts are carefully mapped out.
"Some Kind of Fairy Tale" by Graham Joyce: I've been hugely taken with Graham Joyce lately, and "Some Kind of Fairy Tale" was a joy. He takes an ancient, hackneyed premise (a woman is taken away to live with the fairies and returns, thinking only a few months have passed, to discover that decades have gone by) and does something deeply moving and thought-provoking with it.
"True Believers" by Kurt Andersen: A law school dean decides to write a memoir about her long-covered up past as a college radical. I love how Andersen conveys the passion of political thought and the carelessness and purity of youth. However, there were some bits which I found hard to swallow that broke up the mood for me (for example, his protagonist during her first year of law school has a memorable encounter with a charming third year student, President Clinton in a cute cameo, during a class they are taking together, never mind that a third year student would NOT be taking one of the basic, introductory classes everyone else takes during first year. I cannot tell you how much this bothered me).
Meanwhile Lola enjoyed "The One And Only Ivan" by Katherine Applegate, a lonely gorilla's account of his captivity at a peculiar shopping mall attraction, and Iris is reading "Murder On The Orient Express" by Agatha Christie. The Sober Husband, upon my recommendation, is reading "Joseph Anton", but he's being driven crazy by wondering whether he should put it aside and read "The Satanic Verses" first. "I feel like I'm missing so much," he frets.
Friday, October 26, 2012
I get no buy-in
The other night I saw "7 Psychopaths" with the Sober Husband, a movie I thoroughly enjoyed, and the desert scenes left me feeling nostalgic for the days when I went camping in the desert. (Burning Man doesn't really count as "desert camping", as it is its own peculiar thing).
Before I procreated, I used to love to go on road trips to the desert and camp far from anyone else. My ex-husband and I developed a Thanksgiving tradition of driving down to Death Valley and exploring that wonderful, strange, huge desert.
I dragged along husband 2.0, the Sober Husband, on just one such trip, to the wilds of Utah, when we were first dating. We'd only known each other a few months, and we drove until we found majestic places with amazing views, where we didn't see anyone else for days. One day it snowed, and we holed up in our tent with a bottle of wine. On other days the weather was more typical for a desert camping trip, where it's hot enough that, if one chose to do so, one could comfortably hike naked but for sensible socks and boots, but at night, you want to huddle around a fire and snuggle up to a companion.
Coincidentally the children in Lola's class are studying California's ecosystems, and Lola has been assigned to study and report upon California's deserts, much to her dismay. She had wanted either the coast or the mountains, and she was disgusted to get stuck with the desert. Lola, an urban child, doesn't even like to look at pictures of deserts. "I like cityscapes," she says firmly.
As we walked out of "7 Psychopaths", filled with love and longing for the desert I proposed to the Sober Husband that we take the children camping in the desert for spring break. He gave me a look. "That sounds like a great idea, forcing something on them that you love and you know they are going to hate. That's going to lead to some therapy."
"Hey! I just went to Disneyland for them, and I didn't want to do that!"
He had to note that I had a point. It is payback time.
Today I raised the idea to the children, who were aghast. Lola pointed out that she barely escaped Hollywood with her life, as it was far too hot and the tap water was undrinkable, and cannot be expected to survive a night in a desert.
"And would you expect us to camp?" Iris said with disgust.
"Why can't you have open minds and a sense of adventure?"
Lola buried her head in her hands. "I expect to be unhappy."
Before I procreated, I used to love to go on road trips to the desert and camp far from anyone else. My ex-husband and I developed a Thanksgiving tradition of driving down to Death Valley and exploring that wonderful, strange, huge desert.
I dragged along husband 2.0, the Sober Husband, on just one such trip, to the wilds of Utah, when we were first dating. We'd only known each other a few months, and we drove until we found majestic places with amazing views, where we didn't see anyone else for days. One day it snowed, and we holed up in our tent with a bottle of wine. On other days the weather was more typical for a desert camping trip, where it's hot enough that, if one chose to do so, one could comfortably hike naked but for sensible socks and boots, but at night, you want to huddle around a fire and snuggle up to a companion.
Coincidentally the children in Lola's class are studying California's ecosystems, and Lola has been assigned to study and report upon California's deserts, much to her dismay. She had wanted either the coast or the mountains, and she was disgusted to get stuck with the desert. Lola, an urban child, doesn't even like to look at pictures of deserts. "I like cityscapes," she says firmly.
As we walked out of "7 Psychopaths", filled with love and longing for the desert I proposed to the Sober Husband that we take the children camping in the desert for spring break. He gave me a look. "That sounds like a great idea, forcing something on them that you love and you know they are going to hate. That's going to lead to some therapy."
"Hey! I just went to Disneyland for them, and I didn't want to do that!"
He had to note that I had a point. It is payback time.
Today I raised the idea to the children, who were aghast. Lola pointed out that she barely escaped Hollywood with her life, as it was far too hot and the tap water was undrinkable, and cannot be expected to survive a night in a desert.
"And would you expect us to camp?" Iris said with disgust.
"Why can't you have open minds and a sense of adventure?"
Lola buried her head in her hands. "I expect to be unhappy."
Thursday, October 25, 2012
no exit strategy
Like an army that has invaded Afghanistan, I find myself in a difficult situation with no good exit strategy.
Several months ago I returned my foster cats, ready to go up for adoption, and the head of my rescue asked me, as a favor, to take a cat home for a weekend. "He just needs a little work." The cat in question was gorgeous, a large kitten, but not friendly. It was very difficult to get him into a carrier, but since he'd already been in foster care and had been returned as being deemed ready for adoption, I assumed he just needed a few days.
The days, weeks, and months have gone on, and the cat still isn't ready to go up for adoption. When he arrived, he was never seen by anyone, spending all his energy on avoiding any encounters with people. But "Coconut", as the children re-named him (he was previously referred to as "Bandit"), has slowly adapted to life in our house and has become very happy. He loves our other kitten, Zorro, and he enjoys watching the parrots. He even loves our company, following us from room to room. He'll sleep at the foot of our bed or with Lola; he'll follow me into the bathroom and watch me put on my make-up. He has absolutely no interest in going outdoors and is a happy, playful indoor cat.
So what's the problem? You can't handle him. He'll happily sit or lie near you, but if you reach out and touch him, no matter how stealthily or gently you do, he'll tear off. Recently, after he asked me for food, seeking me out, making eye contact with me, meowing, and leading me to the dish, I looked down at him as he trustingly ate from a freshly-opened can. "Our relationship has come so far," I thought to myself. "It's time to pick him up." I bent down and grabbed him. Coconut struggled. I held on. He whipped his head around and sank his fangs deep into my right hand. I let go. Coconut was not seen for most of the rest of the day, and my hand hurt like hell.
After that, I gave in and confessed to the rescue that I have failed with this cat.
The head of the cat rescue found a solution of sorts: the woman who owns the yard in which Coconut was trapped is willing to have Coconut put back in her yard. He'd be fed then and expected to become a feral cat again.
I can't bear to do that. Coconut has no interest in going back outdoors. He is truly happy and healthy as a pet, so long as no one touches him. And he is a very attractive, decorative cat.
The Sober Husband is bitterly opposed to Coconut remaining on the premises. "That would make two cats adopted this year. If you kept rescuing cats for ten years, then we'd have twenty cats!"
I easily countered that argument. "I HAVE been doing this for ten years, and we don't have twenty cats! We just have three, and one visiting cat."
"Visiting cat with no plans to leave!" The Sober Husband returned to his prior point, even after I'd debunked it. "Imagine a house with ten cats in it," he said sarcastically.
"It would be like heaven," I said sincerely. "Cats everywhere! All the cats you'd want."
Several months ago I returned my foster cats, ready to go up for adoption, and the head of my rescue asked me, as a favor, to take a cat home for a weekend. "He just needs a little work." The cat in question was gorgeous, a large kitten, but not friendly. It was very difficult to get him into a carrier, but since he'd already been in foster care and had been returned as being deemed ready for adoption, I assumed he just needed a few days.
The days, weeks, and months have gone on, and the cat still isn't ready to go up for adoption. When he arrived, he was never seen by anyone, spending all his energy on avoiding any encounters with people. But "Coconut", as the children re-named him (he was previously referred to as "Bandit"), has slowly adapted to life in our house and has become very happy. He loves our other kitten, Zorro, and he enjoys watching the parrots. He even loves our company, following us from room to room. He'll sleep at the foot of our bed or with Lola; he'll follow me into the bathroom and watch me put on my make-up. He has absolutely no interest in going outdoors and is a happy, playful indoor cat.
So what's the problem? You can't handle him. He'll happily sit or lie near you, but if you reach out and touch him, no matter how stealthily or gently you do, he'll tear off. Recently, after he asked me for food, seeking me out, making eye contact with me, meowing, and leading me to the dish, I looked down at him as he trustingly ate from a freshly-opened can. "Our relationship has come so far," I thought to myself. "It's time to pick him up." I bent down and grabbed him. Coconut struggled. I held on. He whipped his head around and sank his fangs deep into my right hand. I let go. Coconut was not seen for most of the rest of the day, and my hand hurt like hell.
After that, I gave in and confessed to the rescue that I have failed with this cat.
The head of the cat rescue found a solution of sorts: the woman who owns the yard in which Coconut was trapped is willing to have Coconut put back in her yard. He'd be fed then and expected to become a feral cat again.
I can't bear to do that. Coconut has no interest in going back outdoors. He is truly happy and healthy as a pet, so long as no one touches him. And he is a very attractive, decorative cat.
The Sober Husband is bitterly opposed to Coconut remaining on the premises. "That would make two cats adopted this year. If you kept rescuing cats for ten years, then we'd have twenty cats!"
I easily countered that argument. "I HAVE been doing this for ten years, and we don't have twenty cats! We just have three, and one visiting cat."
"Visiting cat with no plans to leave!" The Sober Husband returned to his prior point, even after I'd debunked it. "Imagine a house with ten cats in it," he said sarcastically.
"It would be like heaven," I said sincerely. "Cats everywhere! All the cats you'd want."
Tuesday, October 23, 2012
wastewater.... and a treatment plant!!! (Guest post by Lola)
These are Lola's complaints about the wastewater treatment plant she visited. It sucked.
Hi narrator dude.
The script, Lola...
Oh. Today, my class went on a field trip to the nearest wastewater treatment plant. You had to cover your wrists, so I had to wear my jacket the whole time. I got very hot. When we got there, we went to this room and sat down. They ranted and showed us a video, none of which stood out except for a small rant about how quote and quote "Flushable" wipes were often flushed down the toilet while, when you can physically flush it, it does not break up and cause a problem at the wastewater treatment plant. We were told to put on a hard hat liner and a hard hat (blah blah blah Federal law) and these gloves, so we wouldn't get as many germs. Oh, those gloves sucked. They were the plastic-ey latex kind, and in the beginning they were uncomfortable and through the tour it started to get sweaty, crumpled, and yeah. We were not allowed to take it off until we finished the tour. I will always remember the purple of those gloves.
We then we walked to the place where they drag a metal.... thingy through the water to get the big things out. It smelled absolutely horrible, and one girl got nauseous. After that was dealt with, we went into the next part, where they...... do something. All I remember is complaining to my friend about the gloves and smell. Then they have this whole mess of tubes called the tube gallery, and then....... well, at some point they let the water sit there for a few hours so the organisms eat up the leftover solids, and also at some point it gets so smelly they have to clean the air to breathe. They have a few tubes labeled"CONTAMINATED AIR". After that, the water is clean and it goes 4,000 feet (1,219.2 meters, and I also found 2.54 centimeters makes exactly one inch) into the bay. Also by then, my gloves were sweaty and wrinkled, and my hard hat was falling off (not really, they have a nifty thing on the hard helmets to make it the right size). When I finally took my gloves off, the inside of it was literally covered with a thin layer of sweat, and my hair was tangled from the hard hat.
So yes, it sucked. Bye. May kittens make you happy.
Monday, October 22, 2012
the cursed pencil
Little Lola loves pencils. Once she cried for ages after one of the parrots chewed up a pencil... which Lola herself had given the parrot. "Lola," I said exasperatedly, "why did you give the pencil to the bird if you didn't want the bird to chew it up?"
Sobbing, she said, "I didn't realize how much I would love him." The pencil was mourned for days.
Each pencil lost at school is like a little death. Days when no pencils are lost, we celebrate.
So naturally when I noticed a pencil rolling around in the driver's footwell of the Prius, I offered it to Lola. It seemed a handsome pencil, with hearts on it.
"Lola, would you like this pencil?" I asked, extending it.
Lola drew herself back. "Why, NO NO NO NO NO NO NO!"
"What? Is it a cursed pencil? Is it the pencil of the devil?"
Lola recoiled.
"Does it have bad mojo? I thought you loved pencils!"
Lola shuddered. "Not THAT pencil."
Sobbing, she said, "I didn't realize how much I would love him." The pencil was mourned for days.
Each pencil lost at school is like a little death. Days when no pencils are lost, we celebrate.
So naturally when I noticed a pencil rolling around in the driver's footwell of the Prius, I offered it to Lola. It seemed a handsome pencil, with hearts on it.
"Lola, would you like this pencil?" I asked, extending it.
Lola drew herself back. "Why, NO NO NO NO NO NO NO!"
"What? Is it a cursed pencil? Is it the pencil of the devil?"
Lola recoiled.
"Does it have bad mojo? I thought you loved pencils!"
Lola shuddered. "Not THAT pencil."
Sunday, October 21, 2012
am I proposing a dinner date or the Bataan death march?
A male friend of mind suggested that he and his wife have dinner with the Sober Husband and me. I've met his wife, but the Sober Husband remains a figure of mystery and legend to them. It sounded fine to me, but the Sober Husband is warier than I am. He took a jaundiced view when I raised the subject.
"Sure, you love him, he loves you..."
I cut him off. "I don't 'love' him!"
"Just because you guys 'love' each other doesn't mean I have to like him and his wife." He sighed. According to the Sober Husband, going out to dinner with my friend and his wife was one of the most daunting yet boring prospects imaginable.
"Maybe we could go to the theatre instead and get a drink afterwards," I said. "Then we wouldn't have to talk so much, and we could talk about the play."
The S.H.'s response was visceral. "No no no, that would ruin the performance!" Evidently the dread of having to later discuss a show with these friends of mine would completely suck any pleasure from it.
"I could invite them over for dinner," I said.
That prospect was also horrifying. "Please, for the love of God, make it short. Make it in a public place, so we can leave if we need to."
I'm used to getting this reaction from the children when I'm scheduling them to have their teeth cleaned or to get shots, but from my husband over dining out with other middle-aged people? It's no wonder my social life is often conducted in a different zipcode from him.
"Sure, you love him, he loves you..."
I cut him off. "I don't 'love' him!"
"Just because you guys 'love' each other doesn't mean I have to like him and his wife." He sighed. According to the Sober Husband, going out to dinner with my friend and his wife was one of the most daunting yet boring prospects imaginable.
"Maybe we could go to the theatre instead and get a drink afterwards," I said. "Then we wouldn't have to talk so much, and we could talk about the play."
The S.H.'s response was visceral. "No no no, that would ruin the performance!" Evidently the dread of having to later discuss a show with these friends of mine would completely suck any pleasure from it.
"I could invite them over for dinner," I said.
That prospect was also horrifying. "Please, for the love of God, make it short. Make it in a public place, so we can leave if we need to."
I'm used to getting this reaction from the children when I'm scheduling them to have their teeth cleaned or to get shots, but from my husband over dining out with other middle-aged people? It's no wonder my social life is often conducted in a different zipcode from him.
Saturday, October 20, 2012
conversations with children
"I know what I'm going to do when I grow up. I'm going to be like Mitt Romney! I'm going to make a lot of money, and then go into politics," one of my children said to me.
"Don't talk like that," I said.
"Yes! I'm going to be just like Mitt Romney," the child continued.
Covering my ears with my hands, I said, "LA LA LA I CAN'T HEAR YOU."
The child went on, ignoring me, sensibly enough. "Once I have a lot of money, I'll run for senator. Or governor."
"That didn't work out so well for Meg Whitman," I said.
"I'll be a better politician than that."
Talking to the other child is a bit cheerier, but also can be draining. This second child ran up the stairs and burst into the room. "I just realized what I just said, and it was weird," the child marveled, a propos of nothing.
"Don't talk like that," I said.
"Yes! I'm going to be just like Mitt Romney," the child continued.
Covering my ears with my hands, I said, "LA LA LA I CAN'T HEAR YOU."
The child went on, ignoring me, sensibly enough. "Once I have a lot of money, I'll run for senator. Or governor."
"That didn't work out so well for Meg Whitman," I said.
"I'll be a better politician than that."
Talking to the other child is a bit cheerier, but also can be draining. This second child ran up the stairs and burst into the room. "I just realized what I just said, and it was weird," the child marveled, a propos of nothing.
Friday, October 19, 2012
out and about with the better half, Gangnam style
For a longish time the Sober Husband and I didn't have a date night, as I enrolled Lola in a writing class which met on the night our babysitter had given us (technically we shouldn't be needing babysitting now that Iris is thirteen, and our lives should be one big date night, but we have made a parenting decision not to leave Lolz under her big sister's supervision for extended periods of time. The babysitter is in charge of Lola only, and Iris is free to do as she wishes without real supervision).
Last night we went out together for the first time in recent memory. We were a little rusty at it. The Sober Husband wanted us to walk to the restaurant; I wanted to wear my new Fluevog high heels, which are not meant for walking down steep hills. Our conversation faltered. We seemed rife with misinterpretations and misunderstandings. Over at Bar Agricole we failed to get cocktails at the bar from the slow moving bartenders while we waited for our reserved table, and when the table was produced, it was a wretched little table inside. I wanted to sit outside in the herb garden; it was one of the few warm evenings of the year in San Francisco, and this table was truly depressing, hot, stuffy.
I was disappointed, but given how long it had taken for us to get a table (despite having a reservation) and our failure at getting a drink, I didn't want to wait for an outside table. The Sober Husband, though, took command, whizzing off and imperiously directing that we be reseated outside. Once ensconced in my outdoors table, so airy and with a view of the herb garden, I was happy.
"Now we'll be eating in style," said the S.H. admiring our new, superior table.
"Gangnam style!" I agreed.
He furrowed his brow. "What is 'Gangnam style?'"
I was appalled. We really hadn't been spending much time together. How could he have missed my fascination for the K-pop sensation, not to mention Iris über Alles's much-vaunted superiority?Having been a fan of Korean pop music for over a year before PSY had a break-out hit with "Gangnam Style", Iris can be quite vocal and quite condescending on the topic. The K-pop scene is an oddly ubiquitous subject in our home, but evidently only when the Sober Husband is at work.
Could these misfits get along? By the time we'd shared a bowl of white onion soup with barhi dates, shallots, chives, and vadouvan oil, as well as a glass of vinho verde, the conversation began to flow. By the end of our roasted jimmy nardello peppers with corno di toro, nepitella, and tonnato sauce, we were cozying up to one another. We shared a Eureka lemon and ricotta tart with a lavender meringue, and we got a delightful Armagnac cocktail made with absinthe and hibiscus bitters as a gesture from the management to make up for the delays in getting our table and our drinks. Far from my prior feeling, while we were waiting for a table and giving up on getting a cocktail, that I was over Bar Agricole, the magnificence of the soup and the Armagnac cocktail left me wanting to eat there every day of my life. The Sober Husband was admiring the results of my fitness regime; my new Fluevogs were delighting me. We were on to the Cat Club, where we danced and drank far later than we normally ever stay out on a weeknight. It was an epic date night, positively Gangnam style.
Last night we went out together for the first time in recent memory. We were a little rusty at it. The Sober Husband wanted us to walk to the restaurant; I wanted to wear my new Fluevog high heels, which are not meant for walking down steep hills. Our conversation faltered. We seemed rife with misinterpretations and misunderstandings. Over at Bar Agricole we failed to get cocktails at the bar from the slow moving bartenders while we waited for our reserved table, and when the table was produced, it was a wretched little table inside. I wanted to sit outside in the herb garden; it was one of the few warm evenings of the year in San Francisco, and this table was truly depressing, hot, stuffy.
I was disappointed, but given how long it had taken for us to get a table (despite having a reservation) and our failure at getting a drink, I didn't want to wait for an outside table. The Sober Husband, though, took command, whizzing off and imperiously directing that we be reseated outside. Once ensconced in my outdoors table, so airy and with a view of the herb garden, I was happy.
"Now we'll be eating in style," said the S.H. admiring our new, superior table.
"Gangnam style!" I agreed.
He furrowed his brow. "What is 'Gangnam style?'"
I was appalled. We really hadn't been spending much time together. How could he have missed my fascination for the K-pop sensation, not to mention Iris über Alles's much-vaunted superiority?Having been a fan of Korean pop music for over a year before PSY had a break-out hit with "Gangnam Style", Iris can be quite vocal and quite condescending on the topic. The K-pop scene is an oddly ubiquitous subject in our home, but evidently only when the Sober Husband is at work.
Could these misfits get along? By the time we'd shared a bowl of white onion soup with barhi dates, shallots, chives, and vadouvan oil, as well as a glass of vinho verde, the conversation began to flow. By the end of our roasted jimmy nardello peppers with corno di toro, nepitella, and tonnato sauce, we were cozying up to one another. We shared a Eureka lemon and ricotta tart with a lavender meringue, and we got a delightful Armagnac cocktail made with absinthe and hibiscus bitters as a gesture from the management to make up for the delays in getting our table and our drinks. Far from my prior feeling, while we were waiting for a table and giving up on getting a cocktail, that I was over Bar Agricole, the magnificence of the soup and the Armagnac cocktail left me wanting to eat there every day of my life. The Sober Husband was admiring the results of my fitness regime; my new Fluevogs were delighting me. We were on to the Cat Club, where we danced and drank far later than we normally ever stay out on a weeknight. It was an epic date night, positively Gangnam style.
Tuesday, October 16, 2012
space exploration news
Teenaged Iris über Alles has an eccentric teacher. Today's update: "He doesn't believe in the moon landing!"
"Well, you must have so much in common, then." I remembered all the debates we'd had in this home and on this blog over whether the moon landing was a hoax.
Iris was dismissive. "Oh, I believe in the moon landing now. I've believed in it for years."
This was news to me.
She went on. "He believes in the Mars landing, he thinks the robots went to Mars, but he thinks the moon landing was a fake." She shook her head in disbelief over this obstinacy, this tinfoil hat thinking.
"Well, you must have so much in common, then." I remembered all the debates we'd had in this home and on this blog over whether the moon landing was a hoax.
Iris was dismissive. "Oh, I believe in the moon landing now. I've believed in it for years."
This was news to me.
She went on. "He believes in the Mars landing, he thinks the robots went to Mars, but he thinks the moon landing was a fake." She shook her head in disbelief over this obstinacy, this tinfoil hat thinking.
Sunday, October 14, 2012
the legend was unveiled
This blog has made me some enemies, but it's made me some great friends as well. I tend to value the friends more highly, because they really understand me, and also it's likely that the people who learned to hate me through this blog would have gotten around to hating me eventually. The blog just speeded things up.
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Whenever I've had the chance to meet a commenter, someone who has commented here more than a few times but instead has commented enough to let their personality shine, it's always been a rollicking good time. Today I finally got to meet the esteemed Hughman, who has always been the alpha commenter here, and my fellow judge in the photo contest (which we should do again one of these days; your DH is lazy and disorganized as ever). Hugh has always been a large figure here; one of my real life friends once asked me, "Who is this Hugh?"
Our planned meeting was a bit in jeopardy when I found myself derailed by an AIDS march. In San Francisco, whenever anyone marches anywhere for any reason, the police allow cross traffic to go through from time to time. West Hollywood, though, is a different story, and I had committed the fatal tourist error of not allocating enough driving time. (This reminded me of how often I've scoffed at people visiting me who make the classic San Francisco tourist error of underdressing for the weather. Poor commenter 2AMsomewhere showed up in a Hawaiian shirt and shorts on a summer evening when it was only about 45 degrees outside, and he was a good sport about both the cold and the ridicule). I bailed out of the rental car and called Hugh as I clipped along. Of course I was dressed like a prostitute from the fifties, complete with retro-looking high heels, and I cursed my decision to wear cute shoes, opposed to the Tevas I'd sported at Disneyland. "You're a long way away," said Hugh sadly after I was finally able to accurately describe my location. But I hung up, hung on, and power-walked a mile up La Cienaga in my shaky heels, with only a little abrasion from an ankle strap to show for this silliness. Someone asked me directions as I raced up the street, and I looked at her as though she were crazy. Wasn't it obvious that I was a moronic tourist?
Finally I got there, and we had a delightful time. At the end, Hugh also got to meet the Sober Husband, Iris über Alles, and an uncharacteristically subdued Lola, who was greatly affected by the SoCal heat. (Earlier Lola had confided in me, "I liked L.A. until I drank the tapwater." She shuddered dramatically). After all these years of reading about them, suddenly they had come to life and were walking about, talking, complaining of the heat, and petting Polly. And for me, I got to see Polly disregarding her owner to scrounge about outside a dumpster (Polly's attitude was clear: if only her owner were to become enlightened, he'd understand how important and enjoyable a bit of dumpster diving can be) and to enjoy sitting outside at Hugh's favorite restaurant, where the handsome waiter treated me like royalty after learning I was Hugh's friend. The internet comes alive at times, and it's delightful.
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Whenever I've had the chance to meet a commenter, someone who has commented here more than a few times but instead has commented enough to let their personality shine, it's always been a rollicking good time. Today I finally got to meet the esteemed Hughman, who has always been the alpha commenter here, and my fellow judge in the photo contest (which we should do again one of these days; your DH is lazy and disorganized as ever). Hugh has always been a large figure here; one of my real life friends once asked me, "Who is this Hugh?"
Our planned meeting was a bit in jeopardy when I found myself derailed by an AIDS march. In San Francisco, whenever anyone marches anywhere for any reason, the police allow cross traffic to go through from time to time. West Hollywood, though, is a different story, and I had committed the fatal tourist error of not allocating enough driving time. (This reminded me of how often I've scoffed at people visiting me who make the classic San Francisco tourist error of underdressing for the weather. Poor commenter 2AMsomewhere showed up in a Hawaiian shirt and shorts on a summer evening when it was only about 45 degrees outside, and he was a good sport about both the cold and the ridicule). I bailed out of the rental car and called Hugh as I clipped along. Of course I was dressed like a prostitute from the fifties, complete with retro-looking high heels, and I cursed my decision to wear cute shoes, opposed to the Tevas I'd sported at Disneyland. "You're a long way away," said Hugh sadly after I was finally able to accurately describe my location. But I hung up, hung on, and power-walked a mile up La Cienaga in my shaky heels, with only a little abrasion from an ankle strap to show for this silliness. Someone asked me directions as I raced up the street, and I looked at her as though she were crazy. Wasn't it obvious that I was a moronic tourist?
Finally I got there, and we had a delightful time. At the end, Hugh also got to meet the Sober Husband, Iris über Alles, and an uncharacteristically subdued Lola, who was greatly affected by the SoCal heat. (Earlier Lola had confided in me, "I liked L.A. until I drank the tapwater." She shuddered dramatically). After all these years of reading about them, suddenly they had come to life and were walking about, talking, complaining of the heat, and petting Polly. And for me, I got to see Polly disregarding her owner to scrounge about outside a dumpster (Polly's attitude was clear: if only her owner were to become enlightened, he'd understand how important and enjoyable a bit of dumpster diving can be) and to enjoy sitting outside at Hugh's favorite restaurant, where the handsome waiter treated me like royalty after learning I was Hugh's friend. The internet comes alive at times, and it's delightful.
Wednesday, October 10, 2012
automotive hell
A couple of months ago I was driving my Volvo merrily down O'Shaughnessy, just about to turn onto the freeway, when suddenly the car lost power, including its power steering. I maneuvered it across a lane of heavy traffic, wrestling with the wheel, and let it drift to a halt. After a short moment of contemplation, I cancelled the appointment I was headed to down the peninsula, as my car did not feel highway-ready. I gingerly turned the car back on. Surprisingly, it drove me back home without doing anything else amiss, and there were no error codes.
We took the car to the Sober Husband's chosen mechanic, who did a variety of things, charging a variety of amounts, and who ominously told us to replace the transmission. "They tell you," he intoned, "that transmissions last a long time, but that's not for San Francisco. That's for ideal driving conditions, you know, freeways." He positively spat with contempt for the lazy driving ways of the non-San Franciscan. "Here in San Francisco, you're driving up hills. You're in traffic. You're stopping and going. You can't have a transmission last like that."
We took the car to the Sober Husband's chosen mechanic, who did a variety of things, charging a variety of amounts, and who ominously told us to replace the transmission. "They tell you," he intoned, "that transmissions last a long time, but that's not for San Francisco. That's for ideal driving conditions, you know, freeways." He positively spat with contempt for the lazy driving ways of the non-San Franciscan. "Here in San Francisco, you're driving up hills. You're in traffic. You're stopping and going. You can't have a transmission last like that."
The Sober Husband and I paid him a large amount of money but weren't ready to fund a new transmission. "I'd rather get a new car," I said bitterly. I kept driving the Volvo.
On one day I had some time to spare, while I waited for Iris über Alles and some privileged friends of hers to take a sewing class in scenic Hillsborough, and I found a pleasant garage in Burlingame where I had my oil changed. I asked the mechanic to change the air filter as well, but he refused. "This one's still good!" he said. I found this refreshing, as at my last oil change, a less honest mechanic had tried to bully me into getting a new air filter, and this one was that same, unchanged one. "You could make a passenger sick with this filter," lectured the sleazy mechanic at me, but this good one held it up and said, "I'm putting it back in."
This pleasant fellow replaced my serpentine belt for me and changed out my transmission fluid, after I saw for myself how murky it was. He shook his head when I told him that the car had just been at another mechanic's a week or two before, who hadn't noticed that the serpentine belt was about to break (I verified this with my own eyes) or changed the transmission fluid.
The Volvo drove me to Burning Man and drove my friend N. back (I felt like a heel giving it to her, but she had to leave early for reasons of child custody, and I wasn't going to be able to cram all of our camp into the Volvo, so she left me her spacious minivan). But then I was rushing down O'Shaughnessy yet again, with the intentions of speeding merrily all the way to Iris's school for an important meeting, and the car died yet again. Once again I managed to get across a couple of lanes of busy traffic, and I was shaken. If that had happened just a few minutes later, I would have been driving 70 or 75 miles per hour in heavy traffic on 280, and it could have caused a horrific accident.
I had the car towed to my favorite mechanic, the mechanic of my heart, who spent some serious time with it. "My advice to you," he said, looking me in the eye more seriously than anyone has who wasn't proposing marriage, "is to sell this car immediately. And I'm not charging you for today." According to this mechanic, the car hadn't thrown an error code in months, and he could not find anything to cause this intermittent failure. I got him to tell the Sober Husband all this on the phone.
Gingerly I drove home. The Sober Husband and I began a debate which has raged on through today, the debate about whether I should get a replacement car and if so, what the hell should it be. I refuse to drive the Volvo, no matter what pressure I may get from the S.H., who complains that "I spend ten more dollars a day on gas now that you're driving my Prius." "Well then," I retort, "get me that Mini Cooper I want."
"Why don't you drive the Volvo?"
"That car is dead to me."
"Lots of people drive unreliable cars. Poor people do every day. I did when I had the Monte Carlo."
It took me a while to develop a proper retort for that argument, but my psychiatrist handed it to me on a plate. Now I can hiss superiorly, "My psychiatrist thinks you do not value my life highly enough!" This tends to lead to a silence, a satisfying one on my end.
While all this has been raging on, I've been driving the Prius. Today the Prius failed as I was attempting to drive to the gym from Lola's school. It turns out that the dealership had found a problem with the accessory battery, and the skeptical Sober Husband, thinking he was being ripped off, felt that he would prefer to wait until it actually failed before replacing it.
"I hate this car now, too," I said. The poor Sober Husband was apologetic over the phone. "You can take a cab to a dealership and buy a new car," he cajoled me, but I wasn't falling for that. "I'm not buying any car unless you're right there to agree it's acceptable," I said. After all, our marriage, unlike the typical one, is largely based upon an unending competition for the moral upper hand. The failure to replace the accessory battery had put me in a powerful position, and I was not about to throw that advantage away. But these cars, yes. I am prepared to throw them away.
Sunday, October 07, 2012
fears
A troubled Lola: "I saw something about 'meningitis epidemic' on the TV screen at the gas station, and I asked Iris, 'What is meningitis?' And she said, 'It's a deadly disease that runs in the family that you're most likely going to get in this epidemic.'"
Me: "DO NOT ASK IRIS QUESTIONS EVER AGAIN."
Me: "DO NOT ASK IRIS QUESTIONS EVER AGAIN."
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
how I burned
This year's Burning Man was more exhausting than usual. Part of that was the weather: we had a couple of days of "dustpocalypse", non-stop whiteouts leaving us crouched in what shelter we could find, holding scarves over our faces if we didn't have dustmasks, giving thanks for our goggles. At one point, stumbling through a white-out to a porta-potty, I had a realization: I had cleared a week and a half absence from my schedule, and in theory I could have gone anywhere. It was my choice to hunker down in a duststorm. "Next year, let's all go to Bali!" I proposed to my campmates on my return. They hunkered down further, passed around a bottle of ancient port, and looked at me through reddened, dust-plagued eyes.
Other than the duststorms, the weather was lovely: not too hot, not too cold, no storms (just a tiny sprinkling of rain, which caused one of my campmates to go into some hyper-storm preparation mode and rearrange our entire zone for some anticipated hurricane-level winds, all for naught).
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My favorite piece of art this year was La Llorona, a life-size replica of a wrecked Spanish galleon, complete with books, bunks, art, dishes, rigging, and anything else you can think of other than parrots. Exploring the different levels of the ship was the best thing I did this year; it made me so very happy to see the incredible level of detail.
Once again my camp gave out quests, and ahead of time I prepared the quest rewards, each tagged with a whimsical name and description of the powers it bestowed to its wearer. It made me happy to see people wandering around on the playa wearing the name tags we'd slaved so hard to create (and Iris came close to rebelling at one point, saying plaintively, "Am I going to have to work in the sweatshop ALL DAY on my birthday??" Loyal Lola whispered, "Sometimes I like working in the sweatshop" behind Iris's back).
Once again after I returned home, I spiked a fever out of the blue. I've been miserable for the past four days, feverish, with an aching head, achy joints, and atrophying muscles. But I'm ready to start planning for next year.
Other than the duststorms, the weather was lovely: not too hot, not too cold, no storms (just a tiny sprinkling of rain, which caused one of my campmates to go into some hyper-storm preparation mode and rearrange our entire zone for some anticipated hurricane-level winds, all for naught).
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Once again my camp gave out quests, and ahead of time I prepared the quest rewards, each tagged with a whimsical name and description of the powers it bestowed to its wearer. It made me happy to see people wandering around on the playa wearing the name tags we'd slaved so hard to create (and Iris came close to rebelling at one point, saying plaintively, "Am I going to have to work in the sweatshop ALL DAY on my birthday??" Loyal Lola whispered, "Sometimes I like working in the sweatshop" behind Iris's back).
Once again after I returned home, I spiked a fever out of the blue. I've been miserable for the past four days, feverish, with an aching head, achy joints, and atrophying muscles. But I'm ready to start planning for next year.
Wednesday, September 05, 2012
home vs. Burning Man
Last night I got home from a week and a half sojourn away at Burning Man. I threw my dust-covered possessions in the garage and rejoined my family, who were kind enough to make a "Welcome Home Mommy" sign.
Readjustment to normal life is never completely easy. At Burning Man, when I have insomnia, I can roll out of bed, put on a jacket, and walk a few yards to a bar where I will find friends. At that bar, I do not have to pay for my drinks.
On the other hand, when I wish to visit a bathroom here, I don't have to walk half a city block to a portapotty. Not to mention that a handsome man carried a cup of coffee, made just the way I like it, upstairs to me this morning...
Readjustment to normal life is never completely easy. At Burning Man, when I have insomnia, I can roll out of bed, put on a jacket, and walk a few yards to a bar where I will find friends. At that bar, I do not have to pay for my drinks.
On the other hand, when I wish to visit a bathroom here, I don't have to walk half a city block to a portapotty. Not to mention that a handsome man carried a cup of coffee, made just the way I like it, upstairs to me this morning...
Saturday, August 25, 2012
don't go
Lola is concerned about me going to the Burning Man festival. Last night she pleaded, "Don't go! Muzzy is going to be set on fire!"
"I'm not going to be set on fire."
"You'll never come back!"
When I told her I was going to miss her, she whispered clandestinely, "You can just stay home." I couldn't argue with that logic.
"I'm not going to be set on fire."
"You'll never come back!"
When I told her I was going to miss her, she whispered clandestinely, "You can just stay home." I couldn't argue with that logic.
can it be?
Today Iris über Alles turned thirteen. She's seemed like a teenager for a long time, years actually, so it seems odd that it took this long for her to reach the teens officially.
She's more than independent enough. Right now she's researching far away boarding schools. "Won't you miss me?" I say, pathetically enough, and she says, with great kindness, "Of course I will, but my education is important!"
She's more than independent enough. Right now she's researching far away boarding schools. "Won't you miss me?" I say, pathetically enough, and she says, with great kindness, "Of course I will, but my education is important!"
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
fiber art
Today I speed-read "Mrs Dalloway" by Virginia Woolf, neglecting my Burning Man preparations, in order to get to my new book club. On my way there I realized I would be confronting this group of lovely, educated, articulate, well-read and refined women with a head full of crazy yarn. Indeed, when I rang the doorbell, the reaction was, well, one of quiet shock.
One book lover rallied gamely. "I've seen a lot of fiber art lately."
One book lover rallied gamely. "I've seen a lot of fiber art lately."
Tuesday, August 21, 2012
ask the Lola
Not long ago I solicited questions for Iris and Lola, and Lola is ready to answer her questions! Without further ado, I hereby present "Ask The Lola."
Longterm reader Silliyak asked, "Should there be a 'Burning Woman' event? Where? What would it be like?"
Lola opines, "Yes, there should be one. I have no idea where it would be. Yeah. There would be no men, I guess, since it's 'Burning Woman.'"
An anonymous reader asked, "Lola, is it fun to be the Fun Police?" Lola said, "Yes. Yes, it is!"
"Is there anything else you want to say about that, Lola?"
"No. The Fun Police work alone."
Another anonymous reader asked, "Lola, what is your favorite word?"
"Eureka!"
A third anonymous person asked, "What is the best advice your sister has ever given you? What is the worst advice your sister has ever given you?"
"I don't know."
"Lola, you gotta say something."
"Seriously, I have no idea."
"Has Iris ever given you any advice?"
"Not that I can remember."
Carroll asked, "What advice would you give to a nine-year-old girl who is starting 3rd grade at a new school where she doesn't already have any friends?"
"Make friends or be alone forever!"
"How would she make friends, Lola?"
"That's the hard part."
"Do you have any advice for her to succeed?"
"Stay in school. Don't tattle on people, or they'll be like [aarrrgh noises]. Yeah."
More questions from Carroll: "Please describe some of your mother's cooking projects for us. Successes? Failures? Your personal Favorites? Do either of you like to cook too? Do you get to use the Aga?"
"Sometime I get to use the Aga. My favorite is da da da da, drum roll, umm, I think mashed potatoes. Definitely mashed potatoes. I don't like any kind of salad, not just that [Muzzy] makes but in general. I don't like salad. I don't really like to cook, but I like stomping mashed potatoes. Muzzy has made broccoli pasta, she has made ... why can't I remember anything you've made? You've made lots of food."
Jane asked, "Lola, I'm buying a new couch this week. What color should I get?"
"Oooh ooh ooh, couches. Orange! If not orange, then black."
Anything else you want to tell the readers, Lolz?
"Pet the cats! Be happy! And that's a wrap."
Longterm reader Silliyak asked, "Should there be a 'Burning Woman' event? Where? What would it be like?"
Lola opines, "Yes, there should be one. I have no idea where it would be. Yeah. There would be no men, I guess, since it's 'Burning Woman.'"
An anonymous reader asked, "Lola, is it fun to be the Fun Police?" Lola said, "Yes. Yes, it is!"
"Is there anything else you want to say about that, Lola?"
"No. The Fun Police work alone."
Another anonymous reader asked, "Lola, what is your favorite word?"
"Eureka!"
A third anonymous person asked, "What is the best advice your sister has ever given you? What is the worst advice your sister has ever given you?"
"I don't know."
"Lola, you gotta say something."
"Seriously, I have no idea."
"Has Iris ever given you any advice?"
"Not that I can remember."
Carroll asked, "What advice would you give to a nine-year-old girl who is starting 3rd grade at a new school where she doesn't already have any friends?"
"Make friends or be alone forever!"
"How would she make friends, Lola?"
"That's the hard part."
"Do you have any advice for her to succeed?"
"Stay in school. Don't tattle on people, or they'll be like [aarrrgh noises]. Yeah."
More questions from Carroll: "Please describe some of your mother's cooking projects for us. Successes? Failures? Your personal Favorites? Do either of you like to cook too? Do you get to use the Aga?"
"Sometime I get to use the Aga. My favorite is da da da da, drum roll, umm, I think mashed potatoes. Definitely mashed potatoes. I don't like any kind of salad, not just that [Muzzy] makes but in general. I don't like salad. I don't really like to cook, but I like stomping mashed potatoes. Muzzy has made broccoli pasta, she has made ... why can't I remember anything you've made? You've made lots of food."
Jane asked, "Lola, I'm buying a new couch this week. What color should I get?"
"Oooh ooh ooh, couches. Orange! If not orange, then black."
Anything else you want to tell the readers, Lolz?
"Pet the cats! Be happy! And that's a wrap."
the friendliest place in Bakersfield
My friend M. and I road-tripped down to far away San Juan Capistrano over the weekend, to hear the legendary Dick Dale on his alleged retirement tour (Dick D. seemed in top form, so enjoying performing and so very good that I suspect true retirement is not going to happen). We decided ahead of time to break up our stay on the way back, rather than do the practically-the-full-length-of-California drive twice in one massive effort. M. found us a charming hotel in Bakersfield, about halfway between S.J.C. and old S.F., ahead of time.
Once we found our lovely hotel in Bakersfield, we had a bit of trouble as our reservation had been mistakenly put into the system for the night before, and we'd been already charged as no-shows. According to the very sweet desk clerk, this happens all the time with online reservation websites, and because those websites don't pass on to the hotel the customer's phone number, the hotel can't call to see if you are truly a no-show. We were tired from our drive and from the heat (we Bay Area girls find the SoCal heat delightful yet draining), and we were pleasant despite this expensive screw-up. The desk clerk wanted to be kind to us, and after M. said, "I just want to check in so we can have a drink" sadly, she asked "How many drinks do you ladies want?" "Maybe four," said M. judiciously, and the clerk surprised us with four buy-one-drink-get-one-free certificates for the hotel bar.
Readers may not be surprised to learn that this gift was welcomed. I'd planned this night to be my night off on my diet competition, and we intended to relax with some alcohol before soaking in the hot tub. After we found our room, we headed to the bar. "Do you have the certificates?" I hissed.
"Yes," M. hissed back. "I haven't let go of them. They haven't left my hand!"
Down at the bar, we found the jukebox painfully loud. The side of the bar away from the jukebox was packed solid, so we were forced to sit on the louder side. The young, female bartender took her time coming over to take our order, and gave us the impression that making drinks for us was the last thing she wanted to do. M.'s inquiry about a margarita was greeted with the gleeful news that no blender drinks were available (you'd have thought she'd asked for a kidney). Stalwart as ever, M. insisted we would accept our margaritas on the rocks and that they be made with Patron. "We might as get expensive ones if we're getting free ones," she whispered.
Eventually the drinks turned up, and the bartender took great bureaucratic pleasure in explaining to us that we couldn't use our wealth of free drinks. "Only one a visit," she said gleefully.
"Okay then," said M. "We're going to have a drink, go to the pool, and then come back. We'll make several visits."
"Only one per visit to the hotel," said the bartender, with even more joy at denying us.
After she bustled off to ruin someone else's fun, we conferred. "Obviously the desk clerk meant for us to drink all these tonight! How can she do that?" I figured out that surely we must each be able to use one of the cards. We were two people, after all. How could the bartender even know we were in the same room? We could be in separate rooms.
That argument seemed to make the bartender even happier, giving her another chance to deny us. I offered one of the cards to a very wrinkled old man sitting near us, but he said he'd used one already and would, like us, be denied. Happily this man, who turned out to be named Don, joined us in excoriating the poor customer service of the bartender. "It's not like anyone would know that she'd taken more than one from you" he said. "And you'd tell everyone to come here. It would be better for the place." He went on at length, and we nodded. The bartender avoided our corner.
We did eventually get more drinks, and although it was not easy, we managed to order some crappy bar food. Getting a glass of water from the bartender was particularly hard, and M. was a bit bitter that only one glass of water came (I offered to split it with her). We confirmed that we intended to leave an uncharacteristically crappy tip.
The one joy of our evening was that M. put a lot of money into the jukebox. "I played every rock song they had," she said happily. "We're gonna hear a lot of Led Zeppelin."
The four deeply sunburnt young men playing pool were not pleased when M.'s jukebox selections started playing. "What the fuck is this shit?" They convened by the jukebox, staring at it.
Our margaritas had taken some effect, and we found this funny. We whispered to each other. "What is song? What play this? Where come from?" Our joy was over, though, when the pool players moved the jukebox out of the wall laboriously and unplugged it, so all the Led Zeppelin M. had paid for was not heard. Instead terrible, crappy country music rang out again, and the four very sunburnt scruffy men congratulated each other loudly.
A sign on the wall stated, in large letters, that this bar was "the friendliest place in Bakersfield."
"If this is friendly, I don't wanna see antagonism," I bitched. We agreed that only Don, also passing through was friendly. A woman passing through the door slammed it in my face as I headed out of the bar.
Once we left the immediate environs of the Friendliest Place In Bakersfield, things picked up. Some men relaxing near the hot tub were eager to show us how to turn the jets on. The weather was beautiful. We remembered the kindness of the desk clerk and resolved to report to her that it was no good giving out those free drink cards.
Once we found our lovely hotel in Bakersfield, we had a bit of trouble as our reservation had been mistakenly put into the system for the night before, and we'd been already charged as no-shows. According to the very sweet desk clerk, this happens all the time with online reservation websites, and because those websites don't pass on to the hotel the customer's phone number, the hotel can't call to see if you are truly a no-show. We were tired from our drive and from the heat (we Bay Area girls find the SoCal heat delightful yet draining), and we were pleasant despite this expensive screw-up. The desk clerk wanted to be kind to us, and after M. said, "I just want to check in so we can have a drink" sadly, she asked "How many drinks do you ladies want?" "Maybe four," said M. judiciously, and the clerk surprised us with four buy-one-drink-get-one-free certificates for the hotel bar.
Readers may not be surprised to learn that this gift was welcomed. I'd planned this night to be my night off on my diet competition, and we intended to relax with some alcohol before soaking in the hot tub. After we found our room, we headed to the bar. "Do you have the certificates?" I hissed.
"Yes," M. hissed back. "I haven't let go of them. They haven't left my hand!"
Down at the bar, we found the jukebox painfully loud. The side of the bar away from the jukebox was packed solid, so we were forced to sit on the louder side. The young, female bartender took her time coming over to take our order, and gave us the impression that making drinks for us was the last thing she wanted to do. M.'s inquiry about a margarita was greeted with the gleeful news that no blender drinks were available (you'd have thought she'd asked for a kidney). Stalwart as ever, M. insisted we would accept our margaritas on the rocks and that they be made with Patron. "We might as get expensive ones if we're getting free ones," she whispered.
Eventually the drinks turned up, and the bartender took great bureaucratic pleasure in explaining to us that we couldn't use our wealth of free drinks. "Only one a visit," she said gleefully.
"Okay then," said M. "We're going to have a drink, go to the pool, and then come back. We'll make several visits."
"Only one per visit to the hotel," said the bartender, with even more joy at denying us.
After she bustled off to ruin someone else's fun, we conferred. "Obviously the desk clerk meant for us to drink all these tonight! How can she do that?" I figured out that surely we must each be able to use one of the cards. We were two people, after all. How could the bartender even know we were in the same room? We could be in separate rooms.
That argument seemed to make the bartender even happier, giving her another chance to deny us. I offered one of the cards to a very wrinkled old man sitting near us, but he said he'd used one already and would, like us, be denied. Happily this man, who turned out to be named Don, joined us in excoriating the poor customer service of the bartender. "It's not like anyone would know that she'd taken more than one from you" he said. "And you'd tell everyone to come here. It would be better for the place." He went on at length, and we nodded. The bartender avoided our corner.
We did eventually get more drinks, and although it was not easy, we managed to order some crappy bar food. Getting a glass of water from the bartender was particularly hard, and M. was a bit bitter that only one glass of water came (I offered to split it with her). We confirmed that we intended to leave an uncharacteristically crappy tip.
The one joy of our evening was that M. put a lot of money into the jukebox. "I played every rock song they had," she said happily. "We're gonna hear a lot of Led Zeppelin."
The four deeply sunburnt young men playing pool were not pleased when M.'s jukebox selections started playing. "What the fuck is this shit?" They convened by the jukebox, staring at it.
Our margaritas had taken some effect, and we found this funny. We whispered to each other. "What is song? What play this? Where come from?" Our joy was over, though, when the pool players moved the jukebox out of the wall laboriously and unplugged it, so all the Led Zeppelin M. had paid for was not heard. Instead terrible, crappy country music rang out again, and the four very sunburnt scruffy men congratulated each other loudly.
A sign on the wall stated, in large letters, that this bar was "the friendliest place in Bakersfield."
"If this is friendly, I don't wanna see antagonism," I bitched. We agreed that only Don, also passing through was friendly. A woman passing through the door slammed it in my face as I headed out of the bar.
Once we left the immediate environs of the Friendliest Place In Bakersfield, things picked up. Some men relaxing near the hot tub were eager to show us how to turn the jets on. The weather was beautiful. We remembered the kindness of the desk clerk and resolved to report to her that it was no good giving out those free drink cards.
Sunday, August 19, 2012
a long drive
The legendary surf music king, Dick Dale, is doing a farewell tour, and my friend Michele and I roadtripped down to see him perform. We bought the tickets when we were both under the misimpression that San Juan Capistrano is near San Luis Obispo, on California's Central Coast. We discovered later, to our dismay, that it was south of Los Angeles.
Oh, how the children laughed merrily at the stupidity of their dear mother. "You have so far to drive!" jeered one, pointing at me and laughing deep, big belly laughs. "How long? Seven hours?
Most of the drive was actually quite pleasant. My friend and I chatted. She read out loud outrageous quotations from Karl Lagerfeld. We were fascinated by his breakfast routine:
Around Los Angeles we, of course, hit traffic, and the last seventy five miles or so of our trip were a taste of stop and go freeway hell. One of my contacts was irritating my eye, and I'd finished my giant bottle of water. I kept reminding myself, "Just a few more miles." But those miles took so long. Finally we arrived at our hotel, where the sound of the freeway is always heard. The weather is spectacular, the surf music was magnificent, Dick Dale is a wonder of the ages (but his son is not so great a drummer, clearly parental affection has clouded the eyes of the surf master). Despite the jeers of the children, this is proving to be a delightful outing.
Oh, how the children laughed merrily at the stupidity of their dear mother. "You have so far to drive!" jeered one, pointing at me and laughing deep, big belly laughs. "How long? Seven hours?
Most of the drive was actually quite pleasant. My friend and I chatted. She read out loud outrageous quotations from Karl Lagerfeld. We were fascinated by his breakfast routine:
The first thing I do when I get up, I have breakfast. I have two protein shakes made for me by my doctor--they have a chocolate taste and no sugar, of course—and steamed apples. That's all. I don't like anything else in the morning. I never drink anything hot; I don't like hot drinks, very strange. I drink Diet Coke from the minute I get up to the minute I go to bed. I can even drink it in the middle of the night, and I can sleep. I don't drink coffee, I don't drink tea, I drink nothing else.We debated the steamed apples. I felt that the best part of an apple is the crisp, satisfying crunch, and steaming the apple seemed insane. Michele felt, on the other hand, that she enjoys baked apples and that a steamed apple could be good. We agreed that we now feel compelled to steam some apples. It must be done.
Around Los Angeles we, of course, hit traffic, and the last seventy five miles or so of our trip were a taste of stop and go freeway hell. One of my contacts was irritating my eye, and I'd finished my giant bottle of water. I kept reminding myself, "Just a few more miles." But those miles took so long. Finally we arrived at our hotel, where the sound of the freeway is always heard. The weather is spectacular, the surf music was magnificent, Dick Dale is a wonder of the ages (but his son is not so great a drummer, clearly parental affection has clouded the eyes of the surf master). Despite the jeers of the children, this is proving to be a delightful outing.
Thursday, August 16, 2012
an elegant salad and descriptive faux pases
I usually prefer to buy salads in restaurants or at the one grocery store in town with a really great salad bar (the Molly Stone's in Pacific Heights), because it feels to me that homemade salads are usually not so good. It's too expensive and too much trouble to buy and prepare so many fresh vegetables at home, whereas a restaurant enjoys the economy of scale. Simpler salads usually are unsatisfying to me. I want my salad to be complex.
There have been a few exceptions to this, interesting simple salads that I've made and enjoyed, but nothing that really made me think, "Here it is! This is the salad of my heart, that I can make here at home." But! Then this week I finally made the salad that made me stop and say, "Oh my God, I have to say this myself, this is really fucking good... and it's so simple. It's as good as something from a restaurant."
"It's better than something from a restaurant", said the Sober Husband, who sometimes rises to the occasion verbally. He did not stay at that level of conversational grace, however, when it was time to clear the table. In the kitchen, when he was putting away the food, he said loudly, "Hey! There's more of this green glop left!" I winced. The "green glop" was pistou for the entree, soupe au pistou, made lovingly by me from organic fresh basil and really expensive Sicilian olive oil, and it tasted to me like one of the best things I'd ever made (I am completely over pesto; I'm all about its French version, pistou, which seems infinitely better to me).
Iris paid the salad the compliment of having many servings, and it was basically demolished. Lola, however, eyed it with distrust and was not interested in it.
Just two days later we had friends over for a small dinner party, and I made the salad again, but changing it up a bit, featuring asparagus instead of zucchini. Once again it was loved and devoured, but before then, having a bit of trouble with the crowded table, the Sober Husband asked, "Can everyone just pass that stuff around", indicating the beautiful salad in a lovely, large, hand-made bowl. I balked.
"Please don't describe something I made as 'stuff'," I said. "Can you call it a salad?" I brought up the "green glop" remark which still stung. "I work hard to make good food, and please don't call it 'glop' or 'stuff.' If you can't think of the category word, like 'salad' or 'sauce', just call it 'food.' 'Food' works. Say, 'Pass that food around.'"
The guests were bemused at this little contretemps and set forth on a discussion of whether "stuff" is dismissive or not. But soon they began to eat, and instead the conversation moved to how good the food is and then to the fascinating topic of what does Mitt Romney really believe in his heart, and the dinner was on.
Hours later, as our guests were leaving, our friend said loudly, for the Sober Husband's benefit, "And thanks for that GREEN STUFF, it was really great!"
The Green Stuff Salad
large amount of fresh baby spinach, arugula, or other very pleasing fresh green
a vegetable to contrast (zucchini and asparagus are the two I have used)
1/2 cup or more fresh basil
1/4 cup pine nuts
1/4 cup pine nuts
olive oil (must be very good, flavorful olive oil -- pick the murkiest cold pressed, extra virgin one on the shelf at the store)
a few lemons
a little sea salt (optional)
good Parmesan cheese
Steam the vegetable until it is soft but not mushy. Set aside to cool. (If you use a zucchini, slice it in half lengthwise to steam, steam about 5 minutes, and after it has cooled, cut it in as paper-thin slices as you can. For asparagus, snap the hard end of the stem off by hand, steam the remaining stalks 5-8 minutes but do not overcook, then slice in short, diagonal pieces).
Toast the pine nuts in a little pan over a burner, frequently stirring.
Squeeze the lemons and measure the juice. You want a ratio of 1:2 lemon juice to olive oil. If you are making a small salad, whisk 1 T lemon juice with 2 T olive oil. I made a big salad last night, with 1/4 C olive oil and 1/8 C lemon juice. Pour any leftover lemon juice into a glass of water and drink it.
Toss the greens and basil leaves with the dressing. Spread the steamed vegetable on top. Sprinkle with the pine nuts. Sprinkle a bit of sea salt on top, if you like. Take the good Parmesan and, with a vegetable peeler, peel off some nice curls of Parmesan. Decorate the top of the salad with those. Bon appetit!
Tuesday, August 14, 2012
enjoy this blog while it lasts
"Is my last name on that blog? Will you delete it when I run for president?" asked an ambitious child. "I don't want it used against me."
"No, and I'll be dead by then."
"I'll delete it for you then."
"No, and I'll be dead by then."
"I'll delete it for you then."
Monday, August 13, 2012
in my neon armor
The Sober Husband and I collaborated on a project this year, if by "collaborate" you mean one person has an idea and the other one does 100% of the work. My idea was a corset lit up with little programmable lights; I got the idea from an eighth grader at Iris's school, who made a jacket with wearable lights integrated into it. "Thank you, I am so doing this for Burning Man!" I said to her sincerely, and she gave me a look which I took to mean that she was having a hard time knowing whether I was joking or not.
Over many trials throughout the past few months, the Sober Husband persevered in building a prototype. The first version was on a corset, but projected out too far from my body, making me despair. "I look so huge in this," I mourned. "I'm sure it will look cool, but my vanity..." Also, as several people noted, it looked like a dalek.
The S.H. was undaunted. "It's like on 'Project Runway', it's always the tailoring that is the problem." We abandoned the idea of a corset. For the next version, he took casts of my body and built a sort of plastic armor for the lights. Eventually we arrived at the second version, after an interim attempt which sliced open my finger so theatrically while I was trying it on that I actually opened up an artery, dramatically spraying blood across the room. Its running time is about ten hours, and its charging time is currently 24 hours (but the never-fazed Sober Husband thinks he can get that charging time down to 12 hours).
After the hardware was built, it was time for the software. Everyone had ideas. "I want it to say 'Iris!'" demanded a certain child. I thought perhaps a Union Jack pattern would be good or a sort of rainstorm interrupted by lightning. The Sober Husband liked a pattern like the matrix, of downward drifting strings of green lights. Some combinations were too seizure-riffic.
Fully expecting some errors in the field out at Burning Man, the Husband fretted that it would not be robust enough to survive without him. No one entertained the idea that I be expected to repair it. I asked my camp's mailing list who could solder, and it turned out that several campmates intended to bring soldering irons to Burning Man. A helpful campmate came over to our house and was trained by the Sober Husband on how to maintain the mechanism.
Tonight I'm giving it a test run in the home. "Do normal things," the Sober Husband instructed me. So as I write this, I am strapped into a neon cuirass. The main things I am noticing are that it digs into the insides of my upper arms and that the lighting from below my chin is a bit reminiscent of Halloween. I started making ghoulish faces, and little Lola was bemused, but quickly coopted. It has not failed yet, nor caused anyone to have a seizure, but it's early days yet.
Sunday, August 12, 2012
I won't ask for that again
He took a look. "This looks great!"
"Go to Calmart," I instructed him. "I know they have cranberry beans there; I saw them. Also, then you can go to the bookstore there and buy the book for Lola's bookclub."
He began to look harried.
When I came home around 5:30, a bit tired and low energy as I hadn't eaten since 9 AM and had walked halfway across San Francisco (during the lunch break I stood patiently in a sluggish line, at the only place near my class which sells food, behind a large clot of puzzled French tourists trying to figure out what a churro is, only to discover that this lunch spot was out of all the vegetarian food. And why couldn't they have written that on the menu board and saved us all precious time, which we'll never have again??), I noticed that there were three bags of fresh cranberries on the counter, along with some other vegetables.
"Um, what did you get these for?" I asked. It didn't seem incomprehensible to me that there were cranberries, as the children love cranberry pie and cranberry juice.
"For the soup! And it was really hard to find them!" said the Sober Husband proudly.
"Sugarplum, you were supposed to get cranberry beans, not cranberries!" I said.
"I asked the children, and none of us knew what cranberry beans were," he said, crestfallen.
"Why didn't you ask someone in the produce section? I know they have them; they were hard to miss!" I kvetched.
We put the cranberries in the freezer. A bit later the Sober Husband asked me tentatively, "If I went and got the cranberry beans, do you still have enough energy to cook?"
I assured him, and he set off again. This time he returned proudly with two bags of dried cranberry beans.
"Sweetheart, it was supposed to be FRESH cranberry beans. I can't use those."
He looked at them. The instructions on the bags clearly stated that the beans needed to be soaked overnight. "Can you soak them and use them tomorrow?"
"No, this soup is just for FRESH vegetables." By then an hour and a half had elapsed since I came home from my class. I stomped into the kitchen and heated myself up some leftovers. "Are you doing this so I'll never ask you to go to the store again?" I asked suspiciously.
Saturday, August 11, 2012
the 2 pack
As a result of a year of keeping to a rigid, strenuous exercise regimen, there have been a lot of changes to my body. The one zone of my body which sums everything up nicely is my abdomen.
Up at the top of my abdomen, I have developed some very noticeable muscular definition. I have the outline of the top of a lovely six pack. But down a bit lower the entire situation dissolves into chaos, a flabby, stretchmarked mess with baggy skin, attesting to my having carried two massive, nine pound babies (one three weeks overdue, so a very long pregnancy with a very large baby, indeed). Some damage was also done by my having carried around my "third baby" for so long (a massive benign tumor which, by the time I had it removed, was giving me many of the physical symptoms of being in the third trimester). And of course it would be only honest to admit that I put on a lot of weight, first after I had Lola, when I was depressed and went on medication with the side effect of "unexplained weight gain" which was explained to me only after I'd put on twenty-five pounds, later when I was in chronic pain from my tumor and also from an ankle injury. Losing most of that weight has been good for me and my body overall, but the lower abdomen is where the story of my excesses and sufferings has been written.
If you poke the top of my abdomen, around the two pack, it's like poking something inanimate. The muscles are so strong and hard. I welcome that sort of prodding; sometimes I bully the poor Sober Husband into admiring that little zone. Just don't go prying around below it, where you'd expect to find the rest of a six-pack. You're just going to depress us all.
Up at the top of my abdomen, I have developed some very noticeable muscular definition. I have the outline of the top of a lovely six pack. But down a bit lower the entire situation dissolves into chaos, a flabby, stretchmarked mess with baggy skin, attesting to my having carried two massive, nine pound babies (one three weeks overdue, so a very long pregnancy with a very large baby, indeed). Some damage was also done by my having carried around my "third baby" for so long (a massive benign tumor which, by the time I had it removed, was giving me many of the physical symptoms of being in the third trimester). And of course it would be only honest to admit that I put on a lot of weight, first after I had Lola, when I was depressed and went on medication with the side effect of "unexplained weight gain" which was explained to me only after I'd put on twenty-five pounds, later when I was in chronic pain from my tumor and also from an ankle injury. Losing most of that weight has been good for me and my body overall, but the lower abdomen is where the story of my excesses and sufferings has been written.
If you poke the top of my abdomen, around the two pack, it's like poking something inanimate. The muscles are so strong and hard. I welcome that sort of prodding; sometimes I bully the poor Sober Husband into admiring that little zone. Just don't go prying around below it, where you'd expect to find the rest of a six-pack. You're just going to depress us all.
Friday, August 10, 2012
special troubles
Lately the most noticeable thing going on in my life is that I'm playing the the Game On Diet competition. I've been having a rough time this week, and it makes me feel guilty.
Meanwhile my teammates have been excelling, and I'm pulling them down. It's like my team is Michael Phelps, and I'm a little rock tied to his ankle. He's still winning, but he must look down at that rock and think, "*#@&#, I gotta get rid of this!" My teammates insist they are not feeling that way, but I think they must be.
First I was sick. I ran a fever for three days, and on one of those days, I did not exercise at all. The second day I exercised lightly (which is allowed in this game if one is ill); the third day I made myself exercise vigorously. Yesterday I went back to the gym for one of my normal hellish workouts, but still, that is one day with no exercise and one with baaaarely any exercising (running errands on foot).
Next, I went off to have my hair braided. This screwed up my diet day largely because I couldn't meet my water drinking goal for the day (one of the most important rules is to drink three liters of water each day) because I spent six hours without drinking, while my head was being wrenched to and fro and things fastened to it.
Stupidly enough I only realized as I left the salon that I had just added several pounds of weight... which meant I couldn't make my weigh-in goal. I felt like an idiot. I weighed myself at the gym, and I had gone up over three pounds, three pounds of yarn, some little metal clips, and hair extensions.
That evening I petitioned everyone in the game. "I have a Burner problem," I said. "I got my hair braided for the playa, and it weighs over three #(@& pounds!" I attached a photo. Everyone in this game has been to Burning Man, and they all empathized. Even the people on the other teams agreed that I should be able to adjust my weight by several pounds to compensate for the huge weight on my head, although the word "freak" was used.
Struggling on, I persist as well as I can. I must not be a rock, or if I am a rock, I must be a pebble.
Meanwhile my teammates have been excelling, and I'm pulling them down. It's like my team is Michael Phelps, and I'm a little rock tied to his ankle. He's still winning, but he must look down at that rock and think, "*#@&#, I gotta get rid of this!" My teammates insist they are not feeling that way, but I think they must be.
First I was sick. I ran a fever for three days, and on one of those days, I did not exercise at all. The second day I exercised lightly (which is allowed in this game if one is ill); the third day I made myself exercise vigorously. Yesterday I went back to the gym for one of my normal hellish workouts, but still, that is one day with no exercise and one with baaaarely any exercising (running errands on foot).
Next, I went off to have my hair braided. This screwed up my diet day largely because I couldn't meet my water drinking goal for the day (one of the most important rules is to drink three liters of water each day) because I spent six hours without drinking, while my head was being wrenched to and fro and things fastened to it.
Stupidly enough I only realized as I left the salon that I had just added several pounds of weight... which meant I couldn't make my weigh-in goal. I felt like an idiot. I weighed myself at the gym, and I had gone up over three pounds, three pounds of yarn, some little metal clips, and hair extensions.
That evening I petitioned everyone in the game. "I have a Burner problem," I said. "I got my hair braided for the playa, and it weighs over three #(@& pounds!" I attached a photo. Everyone in this game has been to Burning Man, and they all empathized. Even the people on the other teams agreed that I should be able to adjust my weight by several pounds to compensate for the huge weight on my head, although the word "freak" was used.
Struggling on, I persist as well as I can. I must not be a rock, or if I am a rock, I must be a pebble.
Thursday, August 09, 2012
my head is ready
Today I spent six hours having my hair microbraided, extensions put in, and several skeins of exotic yarn woven into the braids. My head is Burning Man ready, but the rest of me isn't.
It's early to get this done; I have another two weeks before it's time to go. But it's practically impossible to get an appointment for braiding the week before Burning Man, and also it's very difficult to sleep on the pained, abused head for several nights after the braiding is done. I may as well go through the uncomfortable nights here at home, so I can get whatever sleep is possible at the event.
When I drove home, I ran across Iris and Lola trudging up the hill with our friend who was babysitting them. I honked and called to them. They were considerably reluctant to cross the street and get into the car, frozen in spot staring at the masses on my head.
At home, our new kitten gave me a wide berth. "Look, Zorro is afraid of me!" I said.
"I can't stop staring at it," said Lola.
"Can I pet it?" asked Iris.
The negative note came from the poor, patient Sober Husband. Taking a deep breath, he said slowly to himself, "It's only temporary."
Tuesday, August 07, 2012
ask the supporting characters, er, stars
"Do you remember when you did 'Ask The Lola' on your blog?" said little Lola wistfully the other day.
"Of course!" I said.
"Can you do that..." Lola began to ask, but she was interrupted by her big sister.
"Ask Iris! Do 'Ask Iris' again! That was better!"
So submit your questions, to either Iris, Lola, or both, and we'll get back with answers!
"Of course!" I said.
"Can you do that..." Lola began to ask, but she was interrupted by her big sister.
"Ask Iris! Do 'Ask Iris' again! That was better!"
So submit your questions, to either Iris, Lola, or both, and we'll get back with answers!
Sunday, August 05, 2012
soundbites from around the home
- I talked to the Sober Husband about how this health competition I am in, with friends, has upset my cooking mojo. Previously I'd been cooking a lot, and the Sober Husband would arrive home to find me slaving over my beloved Aga, but now I'm eating things like low fat cottage cheese with fresh scallions or goatsmilk yogurt for dinner.
The Sober Husband burst out passionately with "I'd rather have a fat wife that cooks than a thin wife!" I hugged him consolingly.
- One of the offspring was holding forth about how wrong it is that parents can name children before their personalities were evident. "I should have been named Evil Villain of Awesomeness!"
- Sweet Lola is worried about her mother's sojourn to Burning Man. "You need to bring lots of sunscreen, water, and A FIRE EXTINGUISHER!" Lolz said repeatedly.
"I'm not planning to start any fires, Lolz," I said, but Lola was adamant and Iris scoffed. "Its Burning Man; there's going to be stuff on fire everywhere!"
"Yes, but I'm not setting it on fire."
Iris rolled her eyes sarcastically. "BURNING... MAN. It says 'burning.' There's stuff on fire everywhere."
The Sober Husband burst out passionately with "I'd rather have a fat wife that cooks than a thin wife!" I hugged him consolingly.
- One of the offspring was holding forth about how wrong it is that parents can name children before their personalities were evident. "I should have been named Evil Villain of Awesomeness!"
- Sweet Lola is worried about her mother's sojourn to Burning Man. "You need to bring lots of sunscreen, water, and A FIRE EXTINGUISHER!" Lolz said repeatedly.
"I'm not planning to start any fires, Lolz," I said, but Lola was adamant and Iris scoffed. "Its Burning Man; there's going to be stuff on fire everywhere!"
"Yes, but I'm not setting it on fire."
Iris rolled her eyes sarcastically. "BURNING... MAN. It says 'burning.' There's stuff on fire everywhere."
Saturday, August 04, 2012
the game continues
It's getting towards the end of the first week in the four week-long diet game I'm engaged in, and I'm having mixed results.
The rules allow for one meal off and a whole day off, and these are the only allowable drinking occasions each week. On our semi-weekly date night, the Sober Husband and I went to Bar Agricole, and I explained my plan to him ahead of time. "I'm going to try to have only one cocktail and call this my meal off. If it's so good I have to have another one, it's my day off. But don't let me go wild."
At Bar Agricole, the drinks were delightfully tempting. "We make our own bitters," said our waiter proudly. "It makes no sense to take so much care with a cocktail and then just pour some nasty old bitters in." He made a disgusted face. I've never myself been disappointed with store-bought bitters, but I was happy to sample the precious, carefully crafted drinks with the house-made bitters, and after the first I said to the Sober Husband, "We're calling it my day off."
I felt later proud, as I only consumed a bowl of white corn and padrones soup (the single best soup I have ever had at any restaurant), two cocktails, and a glass of Moscato while splitting a cheese plate with the Sober Husband. "That's pretty good for a day off from my diet," I bragged. But at the gym the next day, the scales told another story. Far from losing any weight, I'd gone up six pounds.
How can that be? Was it hormonal? Was it the effects of the fattening alcohol upon my alcohol-starved body, just coming off a long month of no drinking? Whatever it was, it was depressing. My diet teammates rallied behind me, encouraging me to hang in there.
I tried to remember how far I've come already. I've been cleaning out my closet of clothes I can no longer wear, as they hang upon me too loosely. I got the most treasured compliment I've had yet lately, from a friend who mourned, "The sad part about you losing weight is your ass. You had the greatest ass... so large, but so great." I don't know why I like that compliment so much, but I do.
Whether I lose any more weight or not on this diet, the game is definitely influencing me. Tonight we came home late after taking Iris to see "Beasts of the Southern Wilds" (which achieved the previously-unthought of accolade of three thumbs up, approved by the Sober Husband, Iris über Alles, and me in a rare moment of cinematic accord). While the Sober Husband climbed into bed, I changed clothes and climbed on my rowing machine. "My opponents are losing weight," I hissed. "I have to exercise!"
The rules allow for one meal off and a whole day off, and these are the only allowable drinking occasions each week. On our semi-weekly date night, the Sober Husband and I went to Bar Agricole, and I explained my plan to him ahead of time. "I'm going to try to have only one cocktail and call this my meal off. If it's so good I have to have another one, it's my day off. But don't let me go wild."
At Bar Agricole, the drinks were delightfully tempting. "We make our own bitters," said our waiter proudly. "It makes no sense to take so much care with a cocktail and then just pour some nasty old bitters in." He made a disgusted face. I've never myself been disappointed with store-bought bitters, but I was happy to sample the precious, carefully crafted drinks with the house-made bitters, and after the first I said to the Sober Husband, "We're calling it my day off."
I felt later proud, as I only consumed a bowl of white corn and padrones soup (the single best soup I have ever had at any restaurant), two cocktails, and a glass of Moscato while splitting a cheese plate with the Sober Husband. "That's pretty good for a day off from my diet," I bragged. But at the gym the next day, the scales told another story. Far from losing any weight, I'd gone up six pounds.
How can that be? Was it hormonal? Was it the effects of the fattening alcohol upon my alcohol-starved body, just coming off a long month of no drinking? Whatever it was, it was depressing. My diet teammates rallied behind me, encouraging me to hang in there.
I tried to remember how far I've come already. I've been cleaning out my closet of clothes I can no longer wear, as they hang upon me too loosely. I got the most treasured compliment I've had yet lately, from a friend who mourned, "The sad part about you losing weight is your ass. You had the greatest ass... so large, but so great." I don't know why I like that compliment so much, but I do.
Whether I lose any more weight or not on this diet, the game is definitely influencing me. Tonight we came home late after taking Iris to see "Beasts of the Southern Wilds" (which achieved the previously-unthought of accolade of three thumbs up, approved by the Sober Husband, Iris über Alles, and me in a rare moment of cinematic accord). While the Sober Husband climbed into bed, I changed clothes and climbed on my rowing machine. "My opponents are losing weight," I hissed. "I have to exercise!"
Wednesday, August 01, 2012
healthy living will kill me
Today I woke up with a pounding headache. Normally when this happens (and it happens far more than I'd like), my "supportive" spouse points to something I did, usually involving alcohol, which made the headache my fault. But yesterday I exercised vigorously, ate healthily, and consumed absolutely no alcohol, so how can I be blamed? "Could you be allergic to something?" mused my husband (no doubt in order to get the blame right back on me, for having eaten something I should have known not to eat).
Healthy living is not helping my insomnia, also. Last night I was wide-frigging-awake in the middle of the night, bored, and restless. Usually after I determine that I have no chance of falling asleep again for the foreseeable future, I pull out my laptop (conveniently placed under the bed) and amuse myself online. But! As part of my healthy living competition, I am required to get seven hours of sleep a night. Playing online would mean losing points not just for myself, but for my team. The rules of the game take insomnia into account, and an insomniac may count her time spent lying awake fretting as sleep, so long as she stays prone, in the dark, with her eyes shut. Taking one for the team, I laid there in the dark, with my eyes shut, for a very long time. Eventually some sleep came, but not long after that, the Sober Husband arrived, eager to wake me up (strange as it may seem to some of you, he has a thirst for my company and has taken to waking me up in the mornings in the hopes I will get up and talk to him before he goes to work).
After I dragged my poor, aching, sleepy head downstairs to swallow ibuprofen and drink coffee, as well as to have a healthy breakfast of goatmilk yogurt with some nuts and dried cranberries, I emailed my team members about my insomnia (the rules of the game require me to communicate daily with team members and our adversaries). "I laid there and laid there, thinking of the points," I whined. Thanks poured in by email from team members, who took a brief break from sharing tips on how to largely survive on Greek yogurt to congratulate me on my competitive spirit.
Now my top goal for the day is to vanquish this headache so I can work out (daily exercise is a key component of this health competition). Honestly I think what my body is crying out for is a bottle of blanc de noirs and some fried food. It certainly doesn't seem to thrive upon clean, vigorous, honest living.
Healthy living is not helping my insomnia, also. Last night I was wide-frigging-awake in the middle of the night, bored, and restless. Usually after I determine that I have no chance of falling asleep again for the foreseeable future, I pull out my laptop (conveniently placed under the bed) and amuse myself online. But! As part of my healthy living competition, I am required to get seven hours of sleep a night. Playing online would mean losing points not just for myself, but for my team. The rules of the game take insomnia into account, and an insomniac may count her time spent lying awake fretting as sleep, so long as she stays prone, in the dark, with her eyes shut. Taking one for the team, I laid there in the dark, with my eyes shut, for a very long time. Eventually some sleep came, but not long after that, the Sober Husband arrived, eager to wake me up (strange as it may seem to some of you, he has a thirst for my company and has taken to waking me up in the mornings in the hopes I will get up and talk to him before he goes to work).
After I dragged my poor, aching, sleepy head downstairs to swallow ibuprofen and drink coffee, as well as to have a healthy breakfast of goatmilk yogurt with some nuts and dried cranberries, I emailed my team members about my insomnia (the rules of the game require me to communicate daily with team members and our adversaries). "I laid there and laid there, thinking of the points," I whined. Thanks poured in by email from team members, who took a brief break from sharing tips on how to largely survive on Greek yogurt to congratulate me on my competitive spirit.
Now my top goal for the day is to vanquish this headache so I can work out (daily exercise is a key component of this health competition). Honestly I think what my body is crying out for is a bottle of blanc de noirs and some fried food. It certainly doesn't seem to thrive upon clean, vigorous, honest living.
Monday, July 30, 2012
so much virtue: does it call for a renaming?
Recently I went to a fabulous tiki party held by a very old friend, someone I met back in the mid-nineties, and I saw a lot of people I used to run around with back when I was livelier and childless (and many of them have, like me, married and spawned and live a G-rated existence for the most part). At the tiki party my iron willpower was much on display, as I was on a liver vacation (no alcohol for a month whatsoever to let my much-abused liver regenerate long before going to Burning Man).
"You really need to rename your blog," said more than one old friend.
"I know," I said. "I especially need to change the description, where I say I don't get enough exercise. Now I exercise all the time; I get panicky if I can't work out." Everyone laughed. I didn't mention it, but the "thinks too much" part of this blog's description is, more sadly, no longer accurate. My brain has atrophied over the years, alas, and I am continually reminded by my spouse and children of how little I think.
And the iron willpower will continue to be exercised, thanks in large part to my attending that party. A couple of old friends I hadn't seen in years were chatting about a game they are playing. Being a gamer of sorts, I wanted to find out more about it, and it turns out they were in a diet competition. For four weeks teams diet, exercise, drink a metric fuckton of water, and taunt one another, and then the winners are declared at the end.
"It's so much fun!" one said over and over again.
"Get ready to pee a lot," said the other. "And it's so much fun."
I was interested. "We're starting a new game soon," they told me. I followed up, and now it's on. My team is called the Jaguars, and we are taking on quite a few other teams in the "Game On Diet", www.thegameondiet.com.
Over the weekend I tried to figure out the basics of this rather ambitious program. "Wait a minute," I said after I got the impression this diet banned drinking. "This is terrible! I'm just coming off a liver fast, and I need to get my alcohol tolerance back up before Burning Man. How do you other lushes handle this?"
A friend given to the consumption of fine alcohols reassured me. "You can drink on your day off, have a drink with your meal off, and I usually take a 25 point hit for drinking on another day." I decided I could live with that.
This diet is more than a diet; it tries to harness the power of competition to reform a person's life. We are supposed to give up a bad habit and acquire a new one, a habit which is unrelated to food. I pondered this. I already took up exercise, cut back on my drinking, and have been virtuous in no end of ways; what else do I need to do? I'm not thrilled with becoming any more virtuous than I currently am; I know my limits.
Finally I decided to make my good habit writing every day and my bad habit asking my husband to get things for me, a habit acquired after my hysterectomy and reinforced after my terrible ankle injury. "That's pretty vague," criticized the husband. But he was able to see the upside. "Does this mean you'll stop asking me to get out of bed and turn off your bedside light?" I didn't bother to mention, yet again, that my stubby little arms can't reach the bedside light. I just said, "Yes. Yes, it does." Pleased, he wandered off to do whatever it is that he does of an evening, and I went off to drink more water, eat sensibly, write, and no matter what, not ask my husband to help me with small things I could theoretically do myself.
"You really need to rename your blog," said more than one old friend.
"I know," I said. "I especially need to change the description, where I say I don't get enough exercise. Now I exercise all the time; I get panicky if I can't work out." Everyone laughed. I didn't mention it, but the "thinks too much" part of this blog's description is, more sadly, no longer accurate. My brain has atrophied over the years, alas, and I am continually reminded by my spouse and children of how little I think.
And the iron willpower will continue to be exercised, thanks in large part to my attending that party. A couple of old friends I hadn't seen in years were chatting about a game they are playing. Being a gamer of sorts, I wanted to find out more about it, and it turns out they were in a diet competition. For four weeks teams diet, exercise, drink a metric fuckton of water, and taunt one another, and then the winners are declared at the end.
"It's so much fun!" one said over and over again.
"Get ready to pee a lot," said the other. "And it's so much fun."
I was interested. "We're starting a new game soon," they told me. I followed up, and now it's on. My team is called the Jaguars, and we are taking on quite a few other teams in the "Game On Diet", www.thegameondiet.com.
Over the weekend I tried to figure out the basics of this rather ambitious program. "Wait a minute," I said after I got the impression this diet banned drinking. "This is terrible! I'm just coming off a liver fast, and I need to get my alcohol tolerance back up before Burning Man. How do you other lushes handle this?"
A friend given to the consumption of fine alcohols reassured me. "You can drink on your day off, have a drink with your meal off, and I usually take a 25 point hit for drinking on another day." I decided I could live with that.
This diet is more than a diet; it tries to harness the power of competition to reform a person's life. We are supposed to give up a bad habit and acquire a new one, a habit which is unrelated to food. I pondered this. I already took up exercise, cut back on my drinking, and have been virtuous in no end of ways; what else do I need to do? I'm not thrilled with becoming any more virtuous than I currently am; I know my limits.
Finally I decided to make my good habit writing every day and my bad habit asking my husband to get things for me, a habit acquired after my hysterectomy and reinforced after my terrible ankle injury. "That's pretty vague," criticized the husband. But he was able to see the upside. "Does this mean you'll stop asking me to get out of bed and turn off your bedside light?" I didn't bother to mention, yet again, that my stubby little arms can't reach the bedside light. I just said, "Yes. Yes, it does." Pleased, he wandered off to do whatever it is that he does of an evening, and I went off to drink more water, eat sensibly, write, and no matter what, not ask my husband to help me with small things I could theoretically do myself.
Wednesday, July 25, 2012
I am under surveillance
Over the last year I decided it was time to start building a new social life for myself, outside the children. I had the horrible realization that I was on track for one hell of an empty nest syndrome when the children leave home. I should have more of a life outside the home; the children are growing up rapidly and needing me less, and my purpose for living is proportionately dwindling.
The Sober Husband supports me in this goal but does not share it. He mused recently over how he doesn't need to socialize. "I guess I don't like people as much as you do."
Not everyone is supportive. Iris über Alles grills me over where I go, what I do, and who accompanies me. One new friend became known as "Mommy's creepy friend", with a heavy implication that it was stupid for me to spend time with a "creepy friend" when I could be with my darling children. "Why did you have us, if you didn't want to spend time with us?"
And now the heavy hand of the law has intervened. Lola has formed the "Fun Police." Every time I have too much fun (mostly meaning that I go out and stay out past the time Lola falls asleep), I get a ticket and a very stern lecture. Lolz recently took the time to document the Fun Police's anti-mommy policies:
The Sober Husband supports me in this goal but does not share it. He mused recently over how he doesn't need to socialize. "I guess I don't like people as much as you do."
Not everyone is supportive. Iris über Alles grills me over where I go, what I do, and who accompanies me. One new friend became known as "Mommy's creepy friend", with a heavy implication that it was stupid for me to spend time with a "creepy friend" when I could be with my darling children. "Why did you have us, if you didn't want to spend time with us?"
And now the heavy hand of the law has intervened. Lola has formed the "Fun Police." Every time I have too much fun (mostly meaning that I go out and stay out past the time Lola falls asleep), I get a ticket and a very stern lecture. Lolz recently took the time to document the Fun Police's anti-mommy policies:
This is the guide of the FUN POLICE: STOPPING FUN SINCE LAST WEEK OR SOMETHING.
A ticket
A ticket is a warning from the FUN POLICE. If you stay out too late for an event, you will get a ticket. You need not keep track of your tickets, the POLICE will take care of that for you. If you get five tickets, you get a penalty which is a stern note from the Chief of POLICE, a guilt trip about it, and stern-ness from Lolz. Your tickets are kept track of in the Ticket List. Each person ha a seperate Ticket List, and your Lists are refreshed when you get five tickets.
What are events?
To put it simply, events are any type of party or bar or camp you go to.
Can I lose tickets?
No. NO-DIDDLY-GODDAMN NO.
Do you like milk?
Yes.
-The chief of FUN POLICE
What do you look like?
We are spheres with arms twice the size of us that fly in the air. We are robots too.
HAHA NOT!
Do you like pastries?
Yes. Continue with important questions.
Resonable hours to come home
Resonable hours to come home are from 6:00 to 11:00. If you come home later than that, you will get a ticket. If you come earlier, you will not get a ticket. If you come home earlier than 6:00, you won’t get a ticket either.
THIS HAS BEEN A BOOK FROM THE FUN POLICE: STOPPING FUN SINCE LAST WEEK OR SOMETHING.
Sunday, July 22, 2012
harsh truths
A good friend of ours has four dogs, little bulldogs who are unruly and high energy. Our friend and her husband have elaborate systems for containing them and separating them (certain subsets of the four dogs are particularly volatile and must be avoided), and essentially the main thing you notice when you enter their home is that these dogs take up so much of our friend's life with their exuberant craziness.
Recently she reached a point of despair and found a powerful dog trainer to visit her dogs. I stopped by that afternoon, and the dogs looked shellshocked. Far from jumping up on me and licking me, as they normally would, and whining and whirling about, they were lying scattered on the ground, staring blankly into the middle distance with a stunned expression.
My friend was gleeful. She told Lola and me about the trainer. "He said, 'You're letting these dogs make all the decisions, and the problem is they don't make good decisions.'" Lola and I nodded. The dog trainer forced the most aggressive dog to sniff the most bullied dog's butt, making the bully to act like a caring pack member. When he and our friends walked the dog, he scolded our friend. "Don't say good dog! These are not good dogs! They are assholes!"
Our friend laughed and laughed. The dogs laid still, evidently processing their morning of discipline, their reign of misrule sadly coming to a close.
Recently she reached a point of despair and found a powerful dog trainer to visit her dogs. I stopped by that afternoon, and the dogs looked shellshocked. Far from jumping up on me and licking me, as they normally would, and whining and whirling about, they were lying scattered on the ground, staring blankly into the middle distance with a stunned expression.
My friend was gleeful. She told Lola and me about the trainer. "He said, 'You're letting these dogs make all the decisions, and the problem is they don't make good decisions.'" Lola and I nodded. The dog trainer forced the most aggressive dog to sniff the most bullied dog's butt, making the bully to act like a caring pack member. When he and our friends walked the dog, he scolded our friend. "Don't say good dog! These are not good dogs! They are assholes!"
Our friend laughed and laughed. The dogs laid still, evidently processing their morning of discipline, their reign of misrule sadly coming to a close.
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
what is this feeling?
There's something strange going on. After months of being in a deadly funk, the old Drunken Housewife has been seen smiling and even laughing, sometimes dancing a little in the kitchen while she's cooking. Could this be... happiness?
It's somewhat of a sudden onset, this feeling of pleasure at being alive. Just a few days ago I was ranting angrily over the butt-ugly new fence which mars the beauty of my little yard, raised at my neighbor's behest (I had to kill all my beloved jasmine vines AND pay half the cost of this #*@&! ugly fence!!). Not that long ago, I semi-politely asked the Sober Husband, "Please do not say anything which could be considered REMOTELY STRESSFUL. Thank you." It seems like just the other day I was sunk in despondence upon the couch.
What gave me this turn-around? Some credit goes to the children, who have been so charming and funny and well-behaved lately. Some goes to our current batch of feral kittens, so clever and smart and beautiful. The Sober Husband is always a source of support. I've made some new friends lately; I've been taking some social risks which have paid off generously. I've been exercising like a fiend (I've lost 37 pounds), and the endorphins are powerful. But in the end, who can say why a person is happy? Better to enjoy than to over-analyze.
It's somewhat of a sudden onset, this feeling of pleasure at being alive. Just a few days ago I was ranting angrily over the butt-ugly new fence which mars the beauty of my little yard, raised at my neighbor's behest (I had to kill all my beloved jasmine vines AND pay half the cost of this #*@&! ugly fence!!). Not that long ago, I semi-politely asked the Sober Husband, "Please do not say anything which could be considered REMOTELY STRESSFUL. Thank you." It seems like just the other day I was sunk in despondence upon the couch.
What gave me this turn-around? Some credit goes to the children, who have been so charming and funny and well-behaved lately. Some goes to our current batch of feral kittens, so clever and smart and beautiful. The Sober Husband is always a source of support. I've made some new friends lately; I've been taking some social risks which have paid off generously. I've been exercising like a fiend (I've lost 37 pounds), and the endorphins are powerful. But in the end, who can say why a person is happy? Better to enjoy than to over-analyze.
Monday, July 02, 2012
catching up
I've been off in a funk, except when I was up at Camp Mather for our annual week of rusticating without internet or cellphones. It's been a rough time lately for me, but I've been doing my best, exercising like a fiend, socializing feral kittens, and reading some good books. Here's a quick alert of the state of affairs:
Lola has been doing well, enjoying some time now school is out with her oldest friend (sometimes referred to as "Lawyer, Jr." here), which has the added bonus of driving her older sister crazy. Iris über Alles hates Lawyer, Jr. and views it as a crime against humanity that Lawyer, Jr. is not just allowed but invited to come into our home.
Iris has formed some powerful ambitions for the future after a weeklong field trip to Washington, D.C. She's studying for the SATs, teaching herself a programming language, and attending a mock trial summer camp.
The Sober Husband is working diligently, dabbling in advising some friends who have start-ups, dealing stoically with a very long commute, and has finally gotten back into hobbying. He's making me a programmable corset, which will have over 200 lights flashing into various, changing colored patterns. This is for me to wear at Burning Man this year, where the question is whether it will be sturdy enough for the extreme weather conditions and idiot-proof enough for me to keep it going while he's off in another state.
Lola has been doing well, enjoying some time now school is out with her oldest friend (sometimes referred to as "Lawyer, Jr." here), which has the added bonus of driving her older sister crazy. Iris über Alles hates Lawyer, Jr. and views it as a crime against humanity that Lawyer, Jr. is not just allowed but invited to come into our home.
Iris has formed some powerful ambitions for the future after a weeklong field trip to Washington, D.C. She's studying for the SATs, teaching herself a programming language, and attending a mock trial summer camp.
The Sober Husband is working diligently, dabbling in advising some friends who have start-ups, dealing stoically with a very long commute, and has finally gotten back into hobbying. He's making me a programmable corset, which will have over 200 lights flashing into various, changing colored patterns. This is for me to wear at Burning Man this year, where the question is whether it will be sturdy enough for the extreme weather conditions and idiot-proof enough for me to keep it going while he's off in another state.
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