unique (and it's okay to use that snarkily, if you wish) opportunity

Today my poor kitten who was mauled by the raccoon went back to the vet. He had developed a large seroma on the top of his head, which may be why he has been unable to open one eye (he opens his other eye a little bit and manages to see quite well through that slit). The poor baby had to be put under general anesthesia to get shaved, have his seroma drained, and get and a surgical drain installed. Next week he'll go back to have his drain removed. In the meantime, I have to continue medicating his eyes and giving him antibiotics and a painkiller.

Labor Day is traditionally a time to raise funds for medical treatment (remember the Jerry Lewis telethons? I saw that in person once when I happened to be in Las Vegas over Labor Day. In person, it seemed really dusty and boring, but yes, it was a very good cause. We soon drifted away from the telethon room and back to the blackjack tables, though).

Here at Drunken Housewife Industries we are hoping to raise some funds to help defray the kitten's large veterinary bills from his mauling. (Some of his care -- such as, thankfully, today's surgery-- is free to me, his foster mother, but I have to pay for his emergency treatments which occur after regular office hours, and I'm out over $400 to date). In the tradition of public radio (where I used to work as a young person. Indeed, back in the late 80's I could be heard live begging over the air for funds to pay for a new transmitter), I have exciting Donor Packages available. How to contribute: the easiest way is to send a Paypal contribution to drunkenhousewife@gmail.com, OR, more labor intensively, email drunkenhousewife@gmail.com for a mailing address to send checks or cash. Include a shipping address.

What's in it for you? Well, aside from the karma and good feelings about sponsoring a young animal caught in a crisis, you'll receive a Drunken Housewife Donor's Thank You Package. I'll give each package a theme, such as "For A Sot" or "High-brow" or "Lowlife in High Heels" or "Sober Husband Geek-style." These packages will contain such items as
- autographed photo of the Drunken Housewife in a silk evening gown, leading a naked man (NOT the Sober Husband) on a leash,
- original artwork by Iris and Lola,
- Linux or other geek-themed T-shirt,
- stuffed penguin imploring you to use Linux systems,
- trashy paperback thriller,
- high-minded hardback nonfiction or highly erudite fiction,
- vegetarian cookbook,
- assorted alternative, artsy comic books,
- lesbian porn mags from the Drunken Housewife's "bicurious" phase,
- forty or fifty year old collectible paperbacks (for a very generous donor, there could be even one of my treasured Richard Stark "Parker" paperbacks, which are very hard to come by indeed).
etc.., etc... Just like with public radio, the more you donate, the more you receive. Feel free to specify your own theme or leave it up to me.

a special guest post: an expose of the strange world of ballet stage mothers!

Today at Drunken Housewife Industries we are happy to present a searing expose of the dark, twisted world of Ballet Moms. The Drunken Housewife herself briefly experienced that world, and quailed. The delighful Missy, current reigning holder of the Mrs. Drunken Housewife title, is made of sterner stuff and has stuck it out for over a decade of ballet parenting while maintaining her personal sanity. Thrill to her tales of psycho stage moms:

Sometimes when I take one of my daughters to class and we walk past the preschool moms with their adorable little dancers, so cute and sweet, I think, "Oh, those mothers just don't know what's ahead for them. It's too bad they are going to turn into balletmoms." Then I see one letting her toddler son bang his toy car on the window of the class room, another letting two more kids spill water all over the floor without cleaning it up, another one complaining because this class is clearly too easy for her daughter, while a third baby is howling and his mother is gabbing away, and I think: Too late.

Caroline's Mom is "Flake Mom." You go by your kid's name for the first two or three years of balletmom, until you earn the right to your own name. Flake Mom has the same first name as three other moms so she still gets called by her daughter's name, though.

Flake Mom, at Nutcracker auditions, laughs: "We missed the WHOLE first week of class! I didn't know we had class last week!"

Flake Mom used to call another balletmom regularly on holidays and such to ask if we had class. Like swallows returning to Capistrano, if it was Martin Luther King Jr. Day, Flake Mom was on the phone. Info about class dates comes to Flake Mom the same way it does to the rest of us, in the registration forms, posted in the studio, on the website, and in emails.

"What time is this thing over?" Some one else says an hour, and I say, "3:45, that's what the form said, didn't it?"

Flake Mom, laughs: "I never read those things!"

"Stage Mom" is also back this year. Two years ago Stage Mom's younger daughter (9 years old or so) was a Young Party Girl along with my younger daughter (11). I feel badly about Stage Mom because she's exuberantly friendly and always cheerful! and I can't stand her.

This summer Stage Mom's younger kid had jazz class with mine. The summer classes are more mixed in level, which can be a nasty surprise to some balletmoms, who then assume their child has been promoted up to so-and-so's level, and then the fall class schedules and arrive and reality returns. (Incidentally, the mixing levels has never once, ever, been to our benefit, but I'm not bitter about it).

"Tracy is SO THRILLED to be dancing with the same girls her sister Lacy danced with!"

"Oh. How nice for Tracy."

Stage Mom repeats this several times for the first three or four weeks of class (poor older sister Lacy). Tracy is photogenic and very cute and very talented. In fact, we regularly were told all about Tracy's talent as a gymnast and her awards or whatever.

Gymnasts and ice skaters often take ballet to help "develop grace" as their mothers tell us. Gymnastmoms and skatermoms always make sure everyone knows their daughter is "JUST TAKING BALLET FOR GRACE." We used to silently hate one gymnastmom who would say things loudly like "I can't believe the kids in this class can't do full splits! Lindsey's been doing that since she was TWO!" Oh, we were so thankful when Lindsey no longer needed grace and quit ballet.

Stage Mom's older daughter, Lacy, on the other hand, loves horses and wanted to ride (away from her younger sister Tracy). Finally Lacy kicked over the traces, revolted, and told her mother she didn't want to do dance anymore, ever. Stage Mom had to be dragged from the younger girls' dressing room where she was taking photos of Tracy, to come and help with Lacy's group.

"But Tracy needs me!"

"You signed up for Lacy's group, and there's no other mother there. And Tracy's group has plenty of other parents to help."

So Stage Mom walked through the dressing room with all the older girls saying, "Now y'all, this is Lacy's LAST recital! Let's all try and talk her into staying in dance!"

Lacy, alone in the corner, barely even looked up from her Nintendo DS.

During Nutcracker, when Tracy and my daughter Katie were both playing Young Party Girls, requiring tedious Victorian style ringlets and costumes of multiple pieces that had to be tacked down before each show, and checked meticulously afterwards, I glanced over from my work to see Stage Mom sitting on the floor in the dressing room.

Curling her own hair. For almost an hour.

On her way out she said cheerfully, "You're SO welcome! I love to help!" when the office manager thanked her for volunteering.

There is also "Granny" who accused me of cheating on the carpool schedule to take advantage of her, and "Time-Challenged Mom," who has been late every single time for for four freakin' years it's her turn to drive carpool. Or "Diva Mom," whose daughter was so incredibly gifted and beautiful as a dancer that it barely compensated for two of the most excessively controlling and detail obsessive parents in the world. Diva Dad once stood over me as I put framed posters in easels on a table, directing how they should line up. This is not a task that requires managerial supervision.

The two Latin American Moms are always talkative. One sighs and asks questions constantly about how my daughter and comparing answers to her daughter. "Does Mea-ghan....Because Ga-bri-ella...." This includes dance, school, menstrual cycles, and anything Gabriella is currently fighting with her mother over.

The other Latin American Mom just glares and glowers at the director and talks about how when she was in ballet in her country they use leather pointe shoes and leather pointe shoes are SO much better and why, why, why does the director not allow them here?

Last year she almost created a mini-revolt with Granny about the leather pointe shoes. Granny is Irish and always up for a rebellion.

"Crazymom" was legendary, though. Crazymom had a certain kind of Spartan warrior mentality about her daughters and dance. Once one came out tearfully from class with an injury from and without raising her eyes from her book Crazymom ordered her back in the class before the director noticed she was making a fuss over something like that.

Crazymom reluctantly put her time in volunteering, but they let off after she went off in a screaming fit at a group of girls for taking up too much time changing in the restroom stalls when she needed to get in. My daughter Megan happened actually to be using the facilities at the time of the nuclear meltdown, huddling in terror behind the pitiful protection of the metal door while Crazymom was screaming "You have to get over this modesty thing!"

Thus causing a nuclear reaction with at least two mothers who weren't in any hurry to see their fifth-graders get over any modesty thing.

After that, Crazymom went back to painting her toenails and reading her novel in the corner.

I heard later that Crazymom got hormone therapy for menopausal mood swings and her daughters both quit ballet, but sometimes we all still reminisce about the legendary Restroom Rant.

My daughter told me last night that in Tuesday's class, the girl I call "Pretty Girl" came out and was taking off her shoes when Pretty Girl's mom came over and said,"You weren't very good tonight. You need to be more graceful."

Then she patted her daughter's arm. "Otherwise, you won't make Nutcracker, and you want to make that, right?"

If I ever did that to either of my daughter, they would either say, "Shut the crap up, Mom!" or,in a very patronizing tone, "Mom, you need to go back and sit down, because you clearly don't know what you are talking about."

I stopped going so much to watch this fall, especially after my honor was impugned with the Carpool Cheating accusation. The girls are both getting older and it makes them nervous when I watch. Eventually as the dancers get older most parents just drop the girls off. They say they're "doin' the drop and drive this year."

Besides, I'm pretty sure that at least one of the other moms out there is making up names for me.

wishes

"I wish I were a bird, so I could poop wherever I want," said Lola wistfully. "A bluebird! I wish I were a bluebird."

update on the raccoon-mauled kitten

The baby is doing much better. Yesterday he batted at Iris Uber Alles's hair playfully and purred, and later he initated some mild horseplay with the other kittens. That was a breakthrough: feeling well enough to play again! His wounds are healing up nicely.

He keeps one of his eyes shut and the other open only a slit, but he is able to find his way around. I'm very happy with his quick healing.

breaking news

I just heard some spell-binding news: an acquaintance of mine, Paul Addis, set the Burning Man on fire and was arrested! Ha ha, this just makes my whole day. I cannot really explain why this amuses me so, but it does.

When I first started going to Burning Man, the ceremonial burning of the Man was not choreographed. We all just sat in a big circle and watched him burn. By the time I dropped out of attending, due to being pregnant with Iris (whose due date was right around the time of the Burning Man festival; I got some pressure to be the first to give birth at Burning Man, but it was not hard for me to decline that particular glory. I wished to celebrate that painful passage in a hygienic, air-conditioned hospital), the burning was a long, ornate ceremony, with approved fire dancers here and there and much pageantry. As a member of the audience, I found it all a bit too constrained and formal.

On the one hand, it's a hilarious prank bringing the festival back to its roots to burn the Man early. On the other hand, it was the destruction of a painstakingly built thing of beauty before its time.

My acquaintance, who is under arrest, is a long-time Burning Man aficionado. His mugshot is truly a work of art: I predict there will be an upswelling of support for him (and a defense fund) amongst the Burning Man crowd, but others who'll back the festival organizers in having him arrested. I used to be one of those organizers (I was general counsel for the festival for a couple of years), and I'm ever so glad not to have to deal with these issues any more. It's enough controversy for me mandating Iris and Lola's bedtimes.

Sidenote: my friend Joyce called me to tell me this had happened, and I could not hear enough. She signed off, telling me to be sure to tell the Sober Husband. I snorted. "He's gonna say, 'Who's Paul Addis?'" We both laughed (the Sober Husband and I have both been acquainted with Mr. Addis casually for over a decade, but the S. H. doesn't remember people well who aren't either (a) uber-geeks or (b) well stacked). Joyce said that immediately upon hearing this news, she had phoned her husband, Phil, who was satisfyingly enrapt at the news. "He's so much better at gossip," I said enviously.

Eventually the Sober Husband arrived home. "Paul Addis burnt down the Man!" I told him. He stared at me blankly. "Who's Paul Addis?"

"I should ask Joyce's permission to call Phil when these things happen," I said. "You're just not satisfying to talk about things with."

"Let me try again," he said. Rearranging his face in a truly horrifying manner, he said brightly, "Oh my God! Someone burnt down the Man??"

Update: you can contribute to pay my old friend Chris Radcliffe (I miss you, Radcliffe; I haven't seen you in aeons) back the bail money and contribute to Paul Addis's defense fund at freepauladdis.com.

no time

Since the Sober Husband took his fabulous new job at Doggy-o, we see little of each other. He used to work at home several days a week, and we'd have a leisurely cup of coffee over the papers together, and often I'd make a nice lunch for us all. But now, he's gone from before I get up until 7:00 or later at night, and he also works at home whenever the children permit. When we are together, we've been intermittently squabbling about the kittens and housework (the children and I had a virus last week, and the house went to hell in a handbasket. I dragged my feverish carcass around to clean the litterboxes regularly, but that was about it).

Then last night Lola found an old batch of pictures from when the husband and I were first dating. We both got quite sentimental (me over my lost looks as well as over how adorable we looked when we were first together. We looked so young then!) This morning, the husband woke me up to say goodbye and said, "I don't get to see you enough." That wasn't as sad, though, as what Lola said. At breakfast, Lola pored over a book about the Simpsons and pointed out a picture of Homer and Marge kissing. "You never kiss any more because Daddy is only for Doggy-o." Oh, the wisdom of a four year-old.

the lazy days of summer are over

Although it's not Labor Day yet, yesterday was my personal End Of Summer. It was Lola's first day of pre-k, and my first day of Extreme Parental Busy-ness.

In the morning, my friend Joyce dropped off her two year-old, the Baby Violet. I owe Joyce a bunch of babysitting favors, so I had jumped at the chance to help her out while she was at some meetings. (But whether I'm evening up the balance of trade is debatable, since today I'm already leaving Iris Uber Alles with her for the afternoon. Iris is old enough, a seasoned eight, that she's not going to choke on any coins and doesn't need help with her pottying habits, but she CAN drive you insane with her constant yammering. "Do you believe in Satan? What's your favorite 'Simpsons' episode? On 'King of the Hill', do you think Peggy is like Marge? Where did you live outside the country? Did I live outside the country? Is Jesus God?" Just yesterday I fobbed her off on the local Comic Book Guy when she was hounding me as to why Hell Kid has horns and Hell Boy Jr. does not. "See that guy behind the register? He knows much more than Mommy does. Go ask him").

I fed the children breakfast, and since Lola's breakfast included a piece of Iris Uber Alles's birthday sour cream fudge cake, the Baby Violet decided to join in. This went well until Violet got over-excited gesturing and tipped over backwards. A good sport, she soon calmed down and got back to finishing her cake.

After breakfast, it was time for my shower and for everyone to get ready to go to Lola's swimming lesson. I had them all assembled at the door, fumbling for footwear, when the Baby Violet announced thoughtfully, "I have poopy diaper." It was just like old times. Just as I was ready to leave to take Iris Uber Alles to any activity, baby/toddler Lola always befouled herself at the last minute. After cleaning up Violet and washing my hands, I loaded the children into the car, but Lola freaked out that Violet was using HER carseat. Lola cried hysterically for about ten miles. Needless to say we were quite late to the thirty-minute swimming lesson, but I felt just getting there at all was victory enough. We would have been later, as Lola observed, if I hadn't told Iris and Lola to run ahead. (We all crossed the street together holding hands, but then I bade Iris and Lola to sprint ahead down the block and go in together, with Iris escorting Lola, who was already wearing her bathing suit, to the pool. I had a clear view of them as they ran down the block).

Then it was time to get Lola to pre-k. I had packed snacks for the car, and I had to break it to Lola that we had no time to stop at Starbuck's. Earlier I had put Iris in charge of helping Violet, and she did a wonderful job, including scolding Lola fiercely for making faces at the Baby Violet. (The Baby Violet's feelings weren't hurt, and indeed the Baby V. reportedly made faces right back at Lola, which, hypocritically enough, offended Lola, who complained to me). We got to pre-k just on time, but I had to double-park (the shame, the shame). Baby Violet behaved very well, but was completely puzzled by why we left Lola somewhere. "Where Lola? Where Lola?" she asked over and over again.

Iris and I delivered Violet to her mother, who was much more visibly excited at this reunion than the blase Violet. We hung out for an hour, and then we went to the pet supply store and the grocery store. Iris was dragging, having developed blisters from wearing her new birthday present shoes all day (these are extremely impractical strappy sandals, with a clear heel and a big rhinestoned flower on the toe strap, a beloved gift from a grandmother. Who knew they made stripper heels for eight year-olds?). Then it was time to pick up Lola from her big first day of pre-k. Tired and cranky, Lola refused to go into detail. "It was almost good." She reportedly made one friend, but declined to go into detail about this friend.

At home, Lola and Iris squabbled until Iris refused to be in the same room with her sister. "I need a break!" "You're telling me," I thought to myself. Around 7:00, I instructed Iris to call her father at work and tell him we needed him at home. We were all of us exhausted and cranky. It was definitely the end of our relaxing summer.

wan' cake?

I just explained, in possibly too much painstaking detail, how to make the world's most delightful chocolate cake over at my food blog, so if you're in a cake mood, wander on over.

Last week I actually made two cakes, as it was both the Sober Husband and Iris Uber Alles's birthdays. For the Sober Husband, I made a very fancy cake I'd been longing to try for ages. It was a lemon bundt cake with caramel, which took over 4 hours to make. The cake had a limoncello syrup brushed over it when it was fresh out of the pan, and then a layer of caramel was applied to create a crisp shell. I actually burnt the hell out of my left hand on the caramel and had to finish the cake -- and indeed the entire festive meal -- clutching an icebag in my left hand. The cake was then served with whipped cream made with fresh lime juice. It was good, but honestly I'm not going to bother to make it again. It wasn't good enough to justify all those hours of work, although perhaps my outlook is flavored by the fact that my left index finger still hurts.

For Iris's birthday, I gave her my big Cook's Illustrated baking book and let her pick the cake she wanted. She chose a sour cream fudge cake, which Lola simply adores. I don't think this recipe is half as good as the easier cake recipe I posted at Cooking with the Drunken Housewife, but Lola is in heaven eating this cake.

Anyhow, we're suffering from a surfeit of cake here. I threatened to compost the remains of the Sober Husband's cake to make space for Iris's cake, but the Husband was appalled. He's still enjoying that cake and takes the position that one can not have too much cake about the house. Bon appetit, y'all!

portrait of strength

I'm amazed by the recovery my little orange tabby foster kitten is making after being attacked by the raccoon. This morning he climbed the stairs by himself, and tonight he has been purring and rubbing his poor injured head against me.This picture shows him AFTER the swelling has gone down; he looked so terrible yesterday that the children were unable to bring themselves to look at him (and indeed it was pretty hard for me to administer his eye medicine; I didn't want to touch the top of his head, where his poor skull has a little crack, but I needed to hold his head still). (I would never traumatize y'all by showing you something like what he looked like at his worst; that was the stuff of nightmares. I was the only one in the family willing to touch the poor, gory baby).

The ordeal seems to have bonded him to me; he fusses sometimes until he finds me, and he purrs ecstatically (although the poor mite must still have a horrendous headache; I have a painkiller for him, but I can only give it to him once a day). I really admire this little animal's proud spirit and the warmth of his personality. He's a pretty amazing little cat.

it's a hard world for the frail

Last night I was sewing while I kept Lola company, who had turned the sound up very loud on "The Simpsons." I had a freshly made Manhattan by my side. The Sober Husband, who had come home from a company party at which he had been made to play beer pong, shouted, "Why aren't you checking on that kitten?"

"I can't hear anything!"

"There's a kitten in distress!"

I tore downstairs after him. "Come out here! Come out here!" he shouted at me from the backyard. I fumbled for the flashlight I keep near the door, but he already had it outside. The neighborhood raccoon had come in through the cat door and dragged our tiny orange foster kitten back out. The Sober Husband scared the raccoon off, but he wasn't willing to touch the kitten, who was gushing blood and crying pathetically.

I grabbed the kitten. At first sight, it looked like the kitten had lost both eyes and a lot of blood. "Get me a towel!" I shouted. I carried the kitten inside; the husband got me a towel. "Hold the kitten! I've got to put pants on!" (I had been lounging about in a t-shirt and underwear). I had blood all over me, but I didn't take time to clean it up. While I was pulling pants on, I told Lola to get her shoes on. She refused. I had no time to get into a war of wills with stubborn Lola, so I ran downstairs. I grabbed the phone book with the address of the veterinary night hospital, put the crying kitten into a carrier because Iris was too freaked out by the blood to hold him, and ran off with Iris. We didn't take the time to get books or sewing or anything.

It was 11:00 when we got to the hospital. I parked in front of a fire hydrant and we ran in with the kitten, with no jackets. I was glad I hadn't had my cocktail, since the kitten had lost so much blood that it would have been dangerous to wait for a cab. The veterinary hospital was crowded with a variety of dogs and a very sad waif with her pet rat. I pushed past the other pet owners. "This animal was just attacked by a raccoon!" They took the kitten back immediately. Iris and I went back to the car, parked it legally, put on our jackets (which weren't warm enough for the middle of the night), and went back to settle down in the waiting room.

We were in the waiting room for two hours, tired, cold, and bored. But it is truly an ill wind which blows no one any good, and the kitten's trauma gave Iris the long-desired chance to watch an entire episode of "South Park." I have forbidden the Sober Husband to show "South Park" to Iris, which has been an ongoing source of strife. "But Cartman is one of the great comedic inventions of all time," he has argued time after time. "I just want to share him with Iris."

"NO ONE BUT YOU thinks it is appropriate to watch "South Park" with a little child!" I've said again and again. "Do you want her to go to school and call people 'unclefucker'??"

But in the veterinary waiting room, the television showed "South Park", and Iris hung on every word. "I am so lucky," she said reverently.

Finally we were called in to see our kitten. It turns out that although his eyelids were lacerated, his eyes were still intact. He had gone into shock and had a fractured skull and hematoma. The little tabby was admitted to the hospital for the night, but I had to come back and get him before 8:00 AM, when the night clinic closed.

We got home around 1:00 AM. Unbelievably Lola and the Sober Husband were up waiting for us. Lola was happy to hear the kitten wasn't dead, but the husband was angry that I'd put a $200 deposit down at the clinic. He went off to sleep in a separate room.

I slept less than three hours. Iris couldn't sleep either, and we went together to pick up the kitten. At the clinic, we were happy to see the kitten had improved after getting painkillers, IV fluids, and spending the night in an incubator with oxygen and heat. I paid another $200, and we took the kitten home. He was visibly happy to be reunited with his littermates.

In the afternoon, we took our little fellow to the shelter's staff vet, who gave us two antibiotics, medicine for the kitten's wounded eyes, and painkillers to dole out to the little mite. We were all happy to see the kitten eat a little Trader Joe's tuna ("I buy this because it's the smelliest tuna there is," the vet explained). It looks as though he will survive his ordeal, but he'll need special care during his convalescence.

I'm going to have to suck up to the Sober Husband to make up for this budget-breaking emergency. Sigh. My rescue is a nonprofit, and I can get free veterinary care for my foster kittens IF I get it during business hours from the shelter's vet. If I have an emergency off-hours, I'm on my own financially. (Should any readers wish to contribute to the veterinary bills, their contribution would be gladly welcomed. Email me at drunkenhousewife@gmail.com).

We felt we had learned the fate of the poor missing kitten from our prior litter: eaten by the raccoon, who we always thought was a jovial and pleasant animal. But then this evening, as I was making dinner for the children, I looked out the window and saw a large redtailed hawk perched on the back fence. Cat-eating raccoons and redtailed hawks on the property: the kittens are under siege. It's a hard world for a tiny fluffball that weighs less than a pound.

heaven is a cruel place

Iris Uber Alles (who turns 8 tomorrow!) and four year-old Lola have been playing heaven lately.

"I'm going to have a fashion show," said Lola happily.

"There's no fashion show in heaven!" said Iris sternly.

"Well, there could be a fashion show."

"No! Lola, Jesus is going to be mad at you."

"I want a fashion show," said Lola stubbornly.

""LOLA, Jesus is going to hate you! He's going to hit you if you have a fashion show."

more beautiful than a vacuum cleaner

"I'm a rock star, and I have five babies! But I'm still a rock star. I'm not gay. I met a beautiful girl, and she asked me to marry her, and then before I could marry her, I met a handsome boy, and he asked me to marry him. So I said yes to the boy and no to the girl. I had to tell the girl. My husband is so handsome! He is more beautiful than a vacuum cleaner or animals. We own a zoo! And I am a rock star."

like old home week

Next week Lola will start pre-k. She's going to a new preschool for this, the same preschool Iris Uber Alles attended. Lola herself is puffed up with pride over this and has been informing the world (including disinterested strangers), "I'm in pre-k!" She'll spend four hours a day at her new school, most of which will be playing freely indoors or out. I'll be there at least one day a week, working my assigned shift.

Last night I said to myself, "It all begins again" as I headed off to a three hour evening meeting. The two co-op preschools we've been a part of are very, very different, and one of the biggest, glaring differences is that at Lola's new school, there are A Lot Of Meetings. Parents must attend at least two night meetings a month, while at Lola's old school, we could go several months without a single meeting. Last night's was the most annoying in many ways, because it was an orientation for first-time parents. I am not a first-time co-op parent. This is year six of toiling in the co-op preschools for me. I'm past seasoned and into overcooked and oversalted by now. It's ridiculous for me to be required to spend three hours listening to someone explain how It Is Deathly Vital That You Be On Time for Your Workday, and, unlike six years ago, I'm not wound up about potty training my child.

My entire goal for the evening was to wangle a seat on the single couch. The evening passes so much more pleasantly if one is not perched on a tiny preschool wooden chair. As I strode quickly towards the couch, I was so happily surprised to see two returning families, delightful European families. We had all been there six years before together, and we'd served on the same committee together and had our children in the same room for years. The husbands gallantly yielded the good seating. "Look at us, we're like princesses," one wife said, as we veteran mommies relaxed on the couch.

At the midpoint of the evening, the no-nonsense vice president said that at the break, we needed to sign up for our committees. Immediately the princesses of the couch tensed up: There were about sixty people on little wooden chairs between us and those pieces of paper. "You need to push in there," hissed one to her husband. "Don't stand in my way," I said to that same husband. It was just as well I didn't have my husband for this; he's far too polite and sees the humor in these situations too much, rendering him ineffective. The year I let him go to the meeting alone where the sign-ups were out, he hung back and called me on his celphone to inform me that there were only two choices left, each a horrible, hateful choice. That's what you get when you send a Sober Husband to do a Drunken Housewife's work.

One of the husbands got up to start making his way over, and the vice president, with an edge in her voice, told him to sit back down. We got more tense. I put my sewing down. At the break, we were off. "Excuse me, excuse me," I pushed among the poor, overwhelmed new parents. One woman said to no one in particular, "Why are they racing to get to the table?" "As you'll know for next year, this one moment will determine your happiness for the entire year," I said. I wriggled in and managed a spot on a happy slacker committee, my old committee from the happier days of the past. Equipment! Feeding fish and mending broken toys! So much less stressful than fundraising or event planning.

Once that was done, we were free to mingle. I had a lovely chat with a woman I'd happily spotted in the sea of little wooden chairs. Our life stories are similar: back in the nineties, we were hotties roaming the Burning Man playa in skimpy clothes, with a trail of broken hearts in our wake. Now we are older and heavier, wearing much more concealing clothing, with husbands we picked from the playa throng and little children. It turns out that we've both taken up sewing. She has a serger, though, the hussy. (I want a serger and an embroidery machine, dammit). We're going to get together and sew.

I asked the vice president if my husband truly had to attend an orientation as well, given that he'd spent six years laboring in the preschool mines and had been to various orientations before. "Everyone has to go to orientation," she said with no humor. "Look over there at Maria, she TAUGHT pre-k here, and she has to go to orientation." This struck me as patently ridiculous. Why be proud of wasting the time of Maria (who used to teach Iris Uber Alles's preschool room and was greatly loved by all)? (Let the record reflect that the extremely patient and good-natured Maria had no complaints herself and was as cheerful and warm as ever, truly a woman of a superior nature to your old Drunken Housewife).

At home, I filled the husband in. "The main thing is they outlawed alcohol." In the old days, we used to bring bottles to share to our evening meetings and work parties. (The Europeans and the Drunken Housewife all murmured disapprovingly when the new, abstemious policy was announced. "We used to have wine," one European mother said mournfully). "And you're going to have to do an orientation, too."

I pity the vice president who must orient the Sober Husband; the man has a low tolerance for being made to sit in meetings. My old playa acquaintance is much better suited for co-op life in that regard. "As a civil servant, I have acquired a very high tolerance for meetings," she said perkily.

when we amuse others

We were waiting to order bagels this morning, and Iris Uber Alles asked me, "Mom, when you were an attorney, were you ever on the news?" (Seven year-old Iris Uber Alles has taken up watching the McNeil-Lehrer hour, much to her little sister Lola's disgust. "I can't believe it; it's so BORING!" shouts Lola).

"No," I answered honestly (although a brief I helped write was quoted in many newspapers, I knew Iris only wanted to hear about television appearances). "I was on the news when I was a lawyer, but not for being a lawyer. I was on the news for doing wildlife rehabilitation and for being at Burning Man."

A middle-aged woman waiting for her bagel let out a big snort of laughter and turned around and stared at me. The children were a bit nonplussed at her reaction. After all, Mommy was just answering a question.

flair

The Sober Husband has been at his new job for several weeks, and he's still happy as a clam at high tide. The only criticism that has been levelled at him to date came from his new company's founder. "We need to do something about your cubicle," said the founder, as he gazed around at the completely blank walls and the lack of personal effects. The Sober Husband had failed to bring in any trinkets or toys, while the other employees all have decorated their cubicles. In his own defense, the Sober Husband said on the spot, "I have a whole house at home for that kind of thing", but that didn't stop him from devoting a large portion of the weekend to going through his things and putting together a box of crap, err, treasures, to decorate his cubicle.

Today he reports that another colleague stopped by his cubicle and poked through the Sober Husband's gewgaws. "What's all this?" The Sober Huband explained about the founder's remarks, and the coworker instantly got it. "Ah, this is your seventeen pieces of flair." Precisely. (Note: if this makes no sense to you, rent the delightful comedy "Office Space").

It's been a long time since I had an office, and I don't remember having much "flair" on display. I had a little stuffed lion on top of my monitor and a small photo of the Sober Husband when we were dating, and I used to hang a big watercolor on the wall which I bought for myself when I graduated from law school (it's currently hanging in my kitchen, along with my framed diplomas. My kitchen is the closest I have to an office). When I worked at a large law firm, I wasn't into having executive desk toys or special paperweights or anything of the sort. I did, however, crave having an office pet. In particular, I used to wish I could have a pet rat at the office. I knew better than to attempt having one as a mere junior associate. If I worked at the Sober Husband's hip start-up, I'd agitate for an office rodent.

entrepreneurs

Four year-old Lola asked her speech therapist today, "Do you have a boss?"

"That is a very good question," said Jill the therapist. "No, I don't. I have my own business."

Excitedly Lola said, "I have my own business, too! Being pretty!"

secrets that should best be left unshared

From ""Sex Secrets of an American Geisha" by Py Kim Conant:

Create a shrine to his manhood. Your man will be very pleased when you create a shrine to him in your bedroom. He’ll know how much his sexuality inspires you when you devote some space in your bedroom exclusively to his maleness. Your shrine may contain a naked framed photo of him or one of the two of you, small notes and poems you have written for him, incense, candles and other personal items that reflect your relationship. You may change the elements that make up the shrine from time to time, always pointing out to your man what is new.

If I were to follow this advice, I know the person most interested in the shrine to the Sober Husband's manhood would be seven year-old Iris Uber Alles. She would be constantly cross-examining me over each object and monitoring any additions or deletions. And a nude photo? Four year-old Lola would shriek, "I SEE A PENIS!" and would doubtlessly confide artlessly in the world at large, "I have a picture of my daddy's penis!" (because of course everything in the house not nailed down or previously claimed by Iris belongs to Lola).

Beyond the Oedipal issues, I think it's outright creepy to worship a specific man's "maleness." There are plenty of sacred lingams about in India, but those are more generic. Appreciate, yes; make good use of, certainly; but worship, no.

I myself would be frankly creeped out if my husband were to create a shrine to my sexuality and perhaps burn a candle there on days when he especially wished to get laid. I should be worshiped indeed, no question about that, but in a more subtle manner which doesn't traumatize the children or raise questions of either heresy or mental stability.

dreams

"I dreamed I was wearing a pair of leather shoes," said seven year-old Iris Uber Alles.

"I dreamed I had a GIANT REMOTE, a BIG REMOTE, and I used it on Iris!" said four year-old Lola excitedly. "And you'll be mad if I tell you what happened!"

the Drunken Housewife: one of the rudest women on earth????

As a devotee of Miss Manners (who attended elementary school with my mother-in-law, but I gather they were not fond of one another; I have a class photo showing Miss Manners smiling at the camera demurely, as good as gold, while my future mother-in-law looked about to bolt away), I like to read etiquette columns and discussions. I'm not going to claim, though, that I have perfect manners. Once someone scathingly said to me, "You do that Miss Manners shit about 95% of the time", going on to vividly describe the remaining five percent in a way which time has mercifully obscured from my memory. But! Despite my studies of the world of polite protocol, I had no idea of how incredibly rude I am, sinning against etiquette on a grand scale.

What is my unforgivable crime against Western civilization, committed on a regular basis? Brace yerselves: I invite people over to dinner, and I serve them a vegetarian meal, even though they are usually not vegetarians themselves. I'll understand if you faint dead away at the mere contemplation of this unholy action.

If you peruse etiquette discussion boards, you'll find that there is a lot of hatred and anger directed towards vegetarians. Mass opinion holds that vegetarians are a selfish lot, demanding rudely that their hosts provide meat-free foods for them, which is unbearably difficult for the poor, beleaguered hostesses of the world, and then when these hellish vegetarians begrudgingly return the hospitality, they selfishly refuse to buy and serve meat for their guests. How dare they????

I've held a lot of dinner parties over the years, and in general, when someone leaves, they usually say, "God, that was so great, Carole, thank you so much." It turns out they're a pack of liars. Secretly they are suffering from indigestion at best, dangerous health conditions at worst. As I have recently learned, vegetarian hostesses should inform their guests ahead of time that they will selfishly not be serving any meat, because many people become "dangerously imbalanced" if they don't get a constant flow of meat into their flesh-eating maws. My God, who knew every time I opened up a bottle of Prosecco and set out some h'ors d'oeuvres that I was actually risking my friends' health??

As I pause to solemnly reflect upon my evil, evil ways, I remember the most ambitious dinner party I ever held, a tapas feast. This was actually sold (and many foolish, foolish people bid upon it) at a preschool auction, and some friends of mine I love bought it and invited two other couples to join them. I worked hard for days in advance, and I enlisted another father from our preschool to be my waiter. The Sober Husband was drafted as a sous chef, but he kept drifting off to the garden to smoke and drink with one of the guests (I actually called him on his celphone once to summon him back to the kitchen. We vegetarians are a particularly cruel race. Never forget: Adolf Hitler was a vegetarian!!)

The guests were greeted at the door by my assistant, who wore a snappy suit for the occasion, and presented with glasses of cava (Spanish sparkling wine). They were then seated casually in the living room, and served the following there:

First courses, accompanied by garrapinado (a sort of white sangria)

manchego cheese with tapenade
marinated potatoes

The next courses came accompanied by traditional red sangria:

tortilla a la espanola
two kinds of tostadas: one with a smoky spread (incorporating vegetarian sausage, will the horrors never end) and one with romesco sauce

These were trickled out sequentially, so the guests could nibble as they talked and drank. Towards the end of this part of the evening, I forced my assistant (who felt it was a bad idea) to serve the guests each a foster kitten for the evening. This was actually the hit of the night, as there were enough kittens for each dinner guest to cuddle one, and after the bonhomie from several courses of tapas and several glasses of sangria, the guests were loosened up enough to truly appreciate kitten antics.

By the time the guests had been here for about an hour and a half, it was time to transition into the dining room. I had my assistants help them carry their glasses.

The transitional course, served at table: white gazpacho (with peeled grapes as a garnish)

Next, served all at once at the table, along with red and white Spanish wines:

cauliflower with manchego and almond sauce (a time-consuming dish to prepare which is one of my favorite foods of all time)
ensalada with salsa xato
vegetarian paella (I used the occasion as an excuse to finally buy a proper paella pan)

And then, the digestifs and coffee, followed by lemons filled with pudding. (These had to be prepared over a day in advance and chilled).

My friend who bought the meal brought me a huge bouquet of flowers the next day in thanks. As far as I know, no guests were sent into sudden health crises as the result of having missed meat. I can't imagine, with the quantities they ate and drank, that any of them ate any flesh later at home.

Now those were truly the victims of the greatest torture, being confined in my home for many hours and served many foods. Other sufferers might only get desserts (I do a lovely tiramisu) and a glass or two of wine. But think of the true victims of my kitchen of horrors: a husband and two children, served vegetarian meals day in and day out FOR YEARS. Shudder. That is my confession, dear readers, my terrible, terrible confession. I hope you can find it in your heart to accept me as I am, but know that I repenteth not and amendeth not my evil, evil ways.

well, talk about observant

As I drove home today, I noticed a stop sign had been installed at the end of my block. It was always a dangerous intersection, where you can't see oncoming traffic, and now it's a dangerous intersection with stop signs on my street, but not the intersecting street. The only thing which stops this intersection from hosting regular bloodbaths is that we get very little traffic up here in this corner of the city.

"When did they put stop signs here? I never noticed them before," I observed.

"At least a month ago!" Iris said snappily.

"That long?" I stared critically at the signs; one of them had graffitti already.

"Maybe back in June." Iris was positive.

I usually drive the other way on our block... and I always stopped, even with no stop sign, because to drive through that blind intersection without stopping for a little look-see would be the act of someone either much more arrogant than me or more suicidal.. but still, only a particularly unobservant idiot would have failed to notice the installation of a stop sign on her very own block. Sigh. Lola once accused the Sober Husband of "dumbening every day"; I think that I am.