Eight year-old Iris Uber Alles burst into the room, angry and aggrieved. "Lola's hurting my feelings! She's being mean!"
It turns out that five year-old Lola's offense was "she's keeping a scorecard! Every time I say something she doesn't like, she writes it on her scorecard! And it's mean!"
As Iris was angrily denouncing Lola, Lola bustled in busily and settled herself down at the nearby coffeetable with a piece of paper and pencil. Completely ignoring Iris's cries of "She's doing it now!", Lola set about making marks in columns. "I need a new piece of paper," she announced importantly.
I smoothed things over by noting that it was nearly bedtime and if Iris Uber Alles wished to follow her tradition of watching a Simpsons episode before bed, we needed to hurry. Upstairs we settled in, followed by Lola, but our fragile detente was shaken when Iris warned Lola not to take her spot on the big bed. "I'm getting my scorecard," threatened Lola.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
buying a car with the Sober Husband
Within 48 hours of my old car passing away (and yes, it could have been put on expensive life support and saved with an organ transplant, but we had previously determined that we would put a Do Not Resuscitate order into effect in the event of a transmission or engine failure), we had a new one parked out in front. (It could have been 24 hours, but Saturday afternoon and evening were devoted to one of our more sprightly readers, Lemonjuicer, who may be remembered for the picture of her cleavage she entered into our First, Possibly Annual, Readers' Photo Contest. It turns out that as well as award-winning cleavage, she has an amazing family who are a joy to meet). This speediness nonplussed our friends, who consider the purchase of a car something which should be pondered and worked at, but that's how it is with the Sober Husband.
This was the third time we bought a car together. The first time came after an earlier Oldsmobile of his suffered a catastrophic engine failure while I was driving it at top speeds in the Sierras. To this day I can hardly believe I was able to get out of that situation without serious injury. The Sober Husband actually had that car repaired at great expense, only to total it a month later on the Bay Bridge (and unbelievably enough, he walked away from that with just some bruises. The car's massive front end crumpled up like a piece of Kleenex).
The Sober Husband decided then to try going without a car (we were childless then, not even engaged yet). After a month of commuting without a car, fed up with BART, he called me at work. "I'm going to buy a car after work, if you want to come." He met me at the BART station, and we walked to a nearby dealership. Within a few minutes he had located an acceptable car (the very same recently deceased Oldsmobile, at that point a mere toddler of two years old). "I wish to buy this car," he said to the used car salesman. "I have tickets for the ballet, so I need to get it in the next two hours." The salesman was completely at a loss, as every time he tried to get into his traditional script of selling, the Sober Husband-to-be cut him off. "Yes, yes, I want to buy the car. You don't have to tell me about the car. I just want you to get the paperwork done so we're not late to the ballet."
We got by fine with that car, which was used primarily by the Sober Husband for commuting down to Silicon Valley, until I was in the third trimester of my second pregnancy. I had always been a mass transit girl, having not even obtained a driver's license until the week before I turned 30. But one fateful afternoon, toddler Iris Uber Alles fell asleep on the Muni bus, and I, hideously, hugely pregnant, had to carry her, our stroller and our bags of groceries off the bus, and I felt that I had somehow strained everything in my body at once. "I can't do this anymore," I announced. "I have to have a car."
At that point in time, we were strained for cash. Buying a second car seemed impossible, but I didn't think I could get through the last trimester taking the bus with Iris (who was scheduled to start preschool soon and hence in dire need of regular transportation). Our solution? Buying an extraordinarily crappy car. "I don't care how a car looks," noted the Sober Husband. "I wish there was some way I could buy an old dented car." I discovered a category in the newspaper labelled "Mechanics Specials", which not only included cars which needed work but also cars which ran well but had sustained some flesh wounds. But it was on Craigslist that I found a car advertised under the slogan of "Drive The Ugliest Car On Your Block." We drove up to Sausalito to view an ancient, massive dented Monte Carlo with a trunk lid which wouldn't close. For a few hundred dollars, it was ours. The seller, an attorney who dabbled on the side with reselling cars, told the Sober Husband, "Everyone's going to assume you're a felon driving this car. They're gonna think you just got out of San Quentin."
Although those prior car buying experiences had turned out fine, this time around the Sober Husband felt stressed. The last thing he wanted was to have to take off time from his beloved Doggyo to pick up the children at school. "I don't have time to go shopping," he fussed. "I just don't want to deal with this." We talked on the phone Sunday morning while he escorted Lola to a birthday party on Haight Street. "I want to get a car this afternoon; can you research it?"
The "research" was me spending some quality time online with Consumer Reports. I have no idea who the Consumer Reports people really are, but they have me wrapped around their little finger. I took their list of "Used Cars To Avoid" as gospel, and I poured over their "Top Ten List of Used Cars To Consider." I took some time, some pathetic time, to read ratings of the car of my dreams, the Mini Cooper, but the husband was dismissive over the phone. "How are you going to get groceries in such a little car?"
"I'll do it when the kids are in school."
"Are you really going to be able to fit all your kittens in there?"
He had me there. I can go grocery shopping without Iris and Lola, but I can't go pick up fresh foster kittens alone. Iris and Lola are capable of holding a grudge for a long, long time when left out, and I severely doubted the ability of a Mini Cooper to hold me, several cat carriers, and two children who don't like to sit very close to each other and who can come to blows even while restrained by carseats.
So it came down to two theoretical cars, neither of which was a dream car for me: a Toyota Prius (so eco friendly! Think of the savings on gas! And so quiet and well-reviewed by the faceless minions of Consumer Reports) or a Volvo S60 from 2004 or 2005 (the Consumer Reports people recommended against 2003, evidently a questionable vintage). The Sober Husband bruited about the idea of a Toyota Camry on the basis that Click and Clack like it, but I refused to consider it as it regularly tops the lists of most frequently stolen cars and I live in a city replete with car thieves. I couldn't find a conveniently located used Prius online or in the paper (although the new Priuses were surprisingly affordable, we view buying a new car as a fool's game. You pay so much for the prestige of having that new car smell, and anyone with small children won't be able to keep the interior pristine enough to enjoy that smell for long). The suburbs, however, are full of used Volvos.
We drove to Palo Alto as soon as Anton and Lola returned from their dinosaur-themed birthday party, in search of a particular 2004 S60. On the way, I mourned the loss of my dream car. "A Mini Cooper would be so much fun to drive. The whole world would be my parallel parking space." We braced ourself for the buying experience. "Remember, there's probably going to be bait and switch," said the Sober Husband obscurely and darkly. "I just hope it's not silver," I said. "I won't drive a silver or beige car."
"Why not?"
"I read an article about how truck drivers can't see gray and silver cars at night because they're the color of asphalt. It's not safe. And all cars are those colors now. I'll never be able to find it in a parking lot."
"If you could buy a magical device that would always find your car in a parking lot, would you pay two thousand dollars for it? That's what you're doing." He chuckled at the idiocy of his putatively beloved wife. "You could get some spray paint and paint all over it; then you'll be able to find it."
"If I have to drive a silver or beige car, I'm going to nail a Godzilla to the hood for a hood ornament."
The children shouted. "Godzilla! I want Godzilla!"
As it turned out, the Volvo in question was white and surprisingly perfect-seeming. I sadly regarded a green Mini Cooper on the street nearby. I took a test drive, while the husband had a cup of coffee back at the dealership. The salesman politely said nothing when Lola spent much of the test drive shouting, "Butts! Butts! Butts!" The children determined quickly that the Volvo was their dream car. "I wish we could live in the car and never come out," Lola confided. The salesman, unasked, gave us a Carfax report on the car ("This is the kind of thing we were supposed to ask for," I said. "This makes me feel like less of a loser.") The Sober Husband looked under the hood. "If you want to get all meticulous, we're supposed to take it to an independent mechanic for an assessment," I said. "Oh, no, let's not go that far," he said quickly.
And so, once again, we ventured out and purchased the first car we test drove (and indeed the Sober Husband didn't even bother to drive it, relying upon my report), wrapping up the transaction in two hours (most of which was spent waiting for our turn with the financial manager to fill out the forms). Shouldn't a real grown-up put more time and effort into this? Decisive and firm action-takers or idiotic slackers: either way, we thanked each other at home later. "Thank you for making it not a shopping thing,"said the Sober Husband. "Thank you for buying a nice, reliable car suitable to my station in life as a middle-aged, middle class mommy," I said.
This was the third time we bought a car together. The first time came after an earlier Oldsmobile of his suffered a catastrophic engine failure while I was driving it at top speeds in the Sierras. To this day I can hardly believe I was able to get out of that situation without serious injury. The Sober Husband actually had that car repaired at great expense, only to total it a month later on the Bay Bridge (and unbelievably enough, he walked away from that with just some bruises. The car's massive front end crumpled up like a piece of Kleenex).
The Sober Husband decided then to try going without a car (we were childless then, not even engaged yet). After a month of commuting without a car, fed up with BART, he called me at work. "I'm going to buy a car after work, if you want to come." He met me at the BART station, and we walked to a nearby dealership. Within a few minutes he had located an acceptable car (the very same recently deceased Oldsmobile, at that point a mere toddler of two years old). "I wish to buy this car," he said to the used car salesman. "I have tickets for the ballet, so I need to get it in the next two hours." The salesman was completely at a loss, as every time he tried to get into his traditional script of selling, the Sober Husband-to-be cut him off. "Yes, yes, I want to buy the car. You don't have to tell me about the car. I just want you to get the paperwork done so we're not late to the ballet."
We got by fine with that car, which was used primarily by the Sober Husband for commuting down to Silicon Valley, until I was in the third trimester of my second pregnancy. I had always been a mass transit girl, having not even obtained a driver's license until the week before I turned 30. But one fateful afternoon, toddler Iris Uber Alles fell asleep on the Muni bus, and I, hideously, hugely pregnant, had to carry her, our stroller and our bags of groceries off the bus, and I felt that I had somehow strained everything in my body at once. "I can't do this anymore," I announced. "I have to have a car."
At that point in time, we were strained for cash. Buying a second car seemed impossible, but I didn't think I could get through the last trimester taking the bus with Iris (who was scheduled to start preschool soon and hence in dire need of regular transportation). Our solution? Buying an extraordinarily crappy car. "I don't care how a car looks," noted the Sober Husband. "I wish there was some way I could buy an old dented car." I discovered a category in the newspaper labelled "Mechanics Specials", which not only included cars which needed work but also cars which ran well but had sustained some flesh wounds. But it was on Craigslist that I found a car advertised under the slogan of "Drive The Ugliest Car On Your Block." We drove up to Sausalito to view an ancient, massive dented Monte Carlo with a trunk lid which wouldn't close. For a few hundred dollars, it was ours. The seller, an attorney who dabbled on the side with reselling cars, told the Sober Husband, "Everyone's going to assume you're a felon driving this car. They're gonna think you just got out of San Quentin."
Although those prior car buying experiences had turned out fine, this time around the Sober Husband felt stressed. The last thing he wanted was to have to take off time from his beloved Doggyo to pick up the children at school. "I don't have time to go shopping," he fussed. "I just don't want to deal with this." We talked on the phone Sunday morning while he escorted Lola to a birthday party on Haight Street. "I want to get a car this afternoon; can you research it?"
The "research" was me spending some quality time online with Consumer Reports. I have no idea who the Consumer Reports people really are, but they have me wrapped around their little finger. I took their list of "Used Cars To Avoid" as gospel, and I poured over their "Top Ten List of Used Cars To Consider." I took some time, some pathetic time, to read ratings of the car of my dreams, the Mini Cooper, but the husband was dismissive over the phone. "How are you going to get groceries in such a little car?"
"I'll do it when the kids are in school."
"Are you really going to be able to fit all your kittens in there?"
He had me there. I can go grocery shopping without Iris and Lola, but I can't go pick up fresh foster kittens alone. Iris and Lola are capable of holding a grudge for a long, long time when left out, and I severely doubted the ability of a Mini Cooper to hold me, several cat carriers, and two children who don't like to sit very close to each other and who can come to blows even while restrained by carseats.
So it came down to two theoretical cars, neither of which was a dream car for me: a Toyota Prius (so eco friendly! Think of the savings on gas! And so quiet and well-reviewed by the faceless minions of Consumer Reports) or a Volvo S60 from 2004 or 2005 (the Consumer Reports people recommended against 2003, evidently a questionable vintage). The Sober Husband bruited about the idea of a Toyota Camry on the basis that Click and Clack like it, but I refused to consider it as it regularly tops the lists of most frequently stolen cars and I live in a city replete with car thieves. I couldn't find a conveniently located used Prius online or in the paper (although the new Priuses were surprisingly affordable, we view buying a new car as a fool's game. You pay so much for the prestige of having that new car smell, and anyone with small children won't be able to keep the interior pristine enough to enjoy that smell for long). The suburbs, however, are full of used Volvos.
We drove to Palo Alto as soon as Anton and Lola returned from their dinosaur-themed birthday party, in search of a particular 2004 S60. On the way, I mourned the loss of my dream car. "A Mini Cooper would be so much fun to drive. The whole world would be my parallel parking space." We braced ourself for the buying experience. "Remember, there's probably going to be bait and switch," said the Sober Husband obscurely and darkly. "I just hope it's not silver," I said. "I won't drive a silver or beige car."
"Why not?"
"I read an article about how truck drivers can't see gray and silver cars at night because they're the color of asphalt. It's not safe. And all cars are those colors now. I'll never be able to find it in a parking lot."
"If you could buy a magical device that would always find your car in a parking lot, would you pay two thousand dollars for it? That's what you're doing." He chuckled at the idiocy of his putatively beloved wife. "You could get some spray paint and paint all over it; then you'll be able to find it."
"If I have to drive a silver or beige car, I'm going to nail a Godzilla to the hood for a hood ornament."
The children shouted. "Godzilla! I want Godzilla!"
As it turned out, the Volvo in question was white and surprisingly perfect-seeming. I sadly regarded a green Mini Cooper on the street nearby. I took a test drive, while the husband had a cup of coffee back at the dealership. The salesman politely said nothing when Lola spent much of the test drive shouting, "Butts! Butts! Butts!" The children determined quickly that the Volvo was their dream car. "I wish we could live in the car and never come out," Lola confided. The salesman, unasked, gave us a Carfax report on the car ("This is the kind of thing we were supposed to ask for," I said. "This makes me feel like less of a loser.") The Sober Husband looked under the hood. "If you want to get all meticulous, we're supposed to take it to an independent mechanic for an assessment," I said. "Oh, no, let's not go that far," he said quickly.
And so, once again, we ventured out and purchased the first car we test drove (and indeed the Sober Husband didn't even bother to drive it, relying upon my report), wrapping up the transaction in two hours (most of which was spent waiting for our turn with the financial manager to fill out the forms). Shouldn't a real grown-up put more time and effort into this? Decisive and firm action-takers or idiotic slackers: either way, we thanked each other at home later. "Thank you for making it not a shopping thing,"said the Sober Husband. "Thank you for buying a nice, reliable car suitable to my station in life as a middle-aged, middle class mommy," I said.
Friday, January 11, 2008
R.I.P. Oldsmobile
Today my aged Oldsmobile died a dramatic death as I was attempting to reverse out of my parking space. RIP, old car. You served us well and complained so little (except for your incessant "Check Engine" light, which I learned to ignore).
It is suspected that the transmission failed (there was a loud noise and then an unending grinding as I tried to reverse, and the car completely would not reverse but did slowly, lamely and noisily move forward in a most nerve-wracking manner). There is no point in repairing the transmission on such an aged car (it's a '96, and its 12 years are dog years, not human ones, given that its mileage is almost entirely city miles and the very worst sort of city miles at that, stop and go over Twin Peaks every day).
The husband is beyond distraught, into sort of a depressed state. One of our economy measures over the years has been to drive aged cars which are owned outright and which have such a low bluebook value that they don't require comprehensive insurance (although I, a former lawyer, insist upon maintaining much more liability insurance than is legally required). "This means financial issues, retail issues, and debt issues," mourned the Sober Husband. The man hates shopping.
My initial thought, once the husband proclaimed the car past saving, was, "Maybe I can take this opportunity to get a Mini Cooper!" Oh, how I have longed for a Mini Cooper, preferably in burnt orange or a sage green. After perusing the car ads in the handy Chronicle Car section, I determined a Mini Cooper was too pricy. Currently the plan is to go to a Volvo dealership in the suburbs on Sunday and buy whichever used Volvo seems most reasonably priced. I anticipate a huge amount of angst on the part of the husband (who seems, no matter how he tries to view the situation rationally, to have an undercurrent of thought that this is somehow my fault, but perhaps that is mere defensiveness on my part) and inordinate amounts of excitement on the part of the children.
It is suspected that the transmission failed (there was a loud noise and then an unending grinding as I tried to reverse, and the car completely would not reverse but did slowly, lamely and noisily move forward in a most nerve-wracking manner). There is no point in repairing the transmission on such an aged car (it's a '96, and its 12 years are dog years, not human ones, given that its mileage is almost entirely city miles and the very worst sort of city miles at that, stop and go over Twin Peaks every day).
The husband is beyond distraught, into sort of a depressed state. One of our economy measures over the years has been to drive aged cars which are owned outright and which have such a low bluebook value that they don't require comprehensive insurance (although I, a former lawyer, insist upon maintaining much more liability insurance than is legally required). "This means financial issues, retail issues, and debt issues," mourned the Sober Husband. The man hates shopping.
My initial thought, once the husband proclaimed the car past saving, was, "Maybe I can take this opportunity to get a Mini Cooper!" Oh, how I have longed for a Mini Cooper, preferably in burnt orange or a sage green. After perusing the car ads in the handy Chronicle Car section, I determined a Mini Cooper was too pricy. Currently the plan is to go to a Volvo dealership in the suburbs on Sunday and buy whichever used Volvo seems most reasonably priced. I anticipate a huge amount of angst on the part of the husband (who seems, no matter how he tries to view the situation rationally, to have an undercurrent of thought that this is somehow my fault, but perhaps that is mere defensiveness on my part) and inordinate amounts of excitement on the part of the children.
Thursday, January 10, 2008
the state of the January
I'm sick again, with a sore throat, fever, and general malaise, but not sick enough to keep the Sober Husband home from work, so I must struggle on. Meanwhile we're in a rare cycle of storms.
On the worst day, hurricane force winds lashed the city, dropping trees left and right. We were lucky not to lose power that day, although my odyssey to deliver Lola to pre-k was filled with adrenaline. Power outages all around us meant that the traffic lights were not functioning, including at a rather scary intersection we negotiate many times a day. This particular intersection is located at a twist in the road, so one cannot see whether there is oncoming traffic when making one's way across several lanes.
Later in the day I collected one of Iris's best friends, who attends what is generally considered the best public school in the city (once heralded by Redbook magazine as one of the top public schools in the country). The power was out all day at her school, so she spent the day playing mancala. This young second grader insisted on going outside in the storm with no coat on the hopes of acquiring an illness severe enough to keep her out of school for at least a week (I didn't have the heart to tell her that illnesses come from bugs, not from wind and rain). Later yet, pining for pre-k, my young friend proposed to Iris that they sneak back into pre-k under the guise of being new students. "Lola is so going to bust you," I said, but she believed donning a foreign accent would cause the other students not to believe Lola. She tried out a Slavic sounding one in the car all the way home from Iris's school.
We finally took down our Christmas tree and lights last night. We hadn't put them up until three days before Christmas, shamefully enough, but we left them up long enough afterward to compensate (adding a different form of shame, the House That Keeps Its Christmas Lights Up Too Far Into January). The children were quite pissed and fussed at us the entire time we were taking down the ornaments. "Don't take our tree," they whined and whined. Their whininess changed to cheerful greed when the Sober Husband did his annual tradition of paying them to find any straggling ornaments we had overlooked. On the spot he decided to give them a dollar per ornament, a sharp raise from the traditional quarter. Lola earned three dollars, bringing one-dollar Iris close to tantrums, but then kindly "found" a dollar lying around (obviously one of her own), which she presented to Iris as possibly being hers. Iris was not too ashamed to scoop up that charity dollar with alacrity.
And in another mark of the season, The Party Is Over. I took my last foster kittens in to the shelter yesterday. This was depressing enough, as normally I circumvent the front desk and deal only with my rescue (the kitten rescue for which I toil is a private 501(c)(3) which has an arrangement with the city's Animal Care and Control shelter). Any day you will see people turning in once-beloved cats and dogs. Up in the intake room, one black cat had a beautiful tiger-striped collar and was hissing at the shelter workers sadly. Thinking she was a lost cat, I said, "Oh, someone loves you. They got you that great collar. They'll come get you," but the shelter worker corrected me. "That woman down at the desk just surrendered her."
Coming home, my house felt empty and dull. No kittens greeted me at the front door. Soon the scabs all over my legs will heal, with no more kittens trying to jump into my lap and skidding off. Often with five kittens squirming for position in my lap, I'd remark, "There's a party on my pants", but now the party is over. The Sober Husband was celebratory. When I mourned about missing my little kitten herd, he said acerbically, "Perhaps I should have saved some of their dander for a souvenir." But on the bright side, my little Henry Hairball will be coming home in a few days, as the Sober Husband was weak enough to give me Henry as a Christmas present.
Warcraft update: My character is now at level 37, and I have a formidable goal. I'm in sight of reaching level 40, whereupon my character (if she has amassed enough gold) will be able to train a mount. No more walking around on her own pixillated legs, she'll be able to ride in style. The Sober Husband was happy about reaching level 17 until he saw my level 37. "I'll never catch up," he said bitterly. There is a website where one may buy level 40 characters (for a few hundred dollars) all the way up to level 70 characters (over a thousand dollars). The Sober Husband isn't desperate enough to buy a character, but he proposed I sell mine soon and start another as a part-time job. I reminded him that it wouldn't even work out to be minimum wage given the hours it takes to level those characters up. "But wouldn't you get efficient at it?" "If it were that easy, people would have 'bots doing it."
2008 book tally: I just read "The Summer Before the Darkness" by Doris Lessing. Written in 1970, it's the tale of a middle-aged mother confronting her loss of individual identity as her children, now young adults, no longer need her and her neurosurgeon husband devotes himself to affairs. I found this book maddening. First I loved it, then I hated it, then back to love. Although the character is exactly my age, I could not relate to her passivity.
On the worst day, hurricane force winds lashed the city, dropping trees left and right. We were lucky not to lose power that day, although my odyssey to deliver Lola to pre-k was filled with adrenaline. Power outages all around us meant that the traffic lights were not functioning, including at a rather scary intersection we negotiate many times a day. This particular intersection is located at a twist in the road, so one cannot see whether there is oncoming traffic when making one's way across several lanes.
Later in the day I collected one of Iris's best friends, who attends what is generally considered the best public school in the city (once heralded by Redbook magazine as one of the top public schools in the country). The power was out all day at her school, so she spent the day playing mancala. This young second grader insisted on going outside in the storm with no coat on the hopes of acquiring an illness severe enough to keep her out of school for at least a week (I didn't have the heart to tell her that illnesses come from bugs, not from wind and rain). Later yet, pining for pre-k, my young friend proposed to Iris that they sneak back into pre-k under the guise of being new students. "Lola is so going to bust you," I said, but she believed donning a foreign accent would cause the other students not to believe Lola. She tried out a Slavic sounding one in the car all the way home from Iris's school.
We finally took down our Christmas tree and lights last night. We hadn't put them up until three days before Christmas, shamefully enough, but we left them up long enough afterward to compensate (adding a different form of shame, the House That Keeps Its Christmas Lights Up Too Far Into January). The children were quite pissed and fussed at us the entire time we were taking down the ornaments. "Don't take our tree," they whined and whined. Their whininess changed to cheerful greed when the Sober Husband did his annual tradition of paying them to find any straggling ornaments we had overlooked. On the spot he decided to give them a dollar per ornament, a sharp raise from the traditional quarter. Lola earned three dollars, bringing one-dollar Iris close to tantrums, but then kindly "found" a dollar lying around (obviously one of her own), which she presented to Iris as possibly being hers. Iris was not too ashamed to scoop up that charity dollar with alacrity.
And in another mark of the season, The Party Is Over. I took my last foster kittens in to the shelter yesterday. This was depressing enough, as normally I circumvent the front desk and deal only with my rescue (the kitten rescue for which I toil is a private 501(c)(3) which has an arrangement with the city's Animal Care and Control shelter). Any day you will see people turning in once-beloved cats and dogs. Up in the intake room, one black cat had a beautiful tiger-striped collar and was hissing at the shelter workers sadly. Thinking she was a lost cat, I said, "Oh, someone loves you. They got you that great collar. They'll come get you," but the shelter worker corrected me. "That woman down at the desk just surrendered her."
Coming home, my house felt empty and dull. No kittens greeted me at the front door. Soon the scabs all over my legs will heal, with no more kittens trying to jump into my lap and skidding off. Often with five kittens squirming for position in my lap, I'd remark, "There's a party on my pants", but now the party is over. The Sober Husband was celebratory. When I mourned about missing my little kitten herd, he said acerbically, "Perhaps I should have saved some of their dander for a souvenir." But on the bright side, my little Henry Hairball will be coming home in a few days, as the Sober Husband was weak enough to give me Henry as a Christmas present.
Warcraft update: My character is now at level 37, and I have a formidable goal. I'm in sight of reaching level 40, whereupon my character (if she has amassed enough gold) will be able to train a mount. No more walking around on her own pixillated legs, she'll be able to ride in style. The Sober Husband was happy about reaching level 17 until he saw my level 37. "I'll never catch up," he said bitterly. There is a website where one may buy level 40 characters (for a few hundred dollars) all the way up to level 70 characters (over a thousand dollars). The Sober Husband isn't desperate enough to buy a character, but he proposed I sell mine soon and start another as a part-time job. I reminded him that it wouldn't even work out to be minimum wage given the hours it takes to level those characters up. "But wouldn't you get efficient at it?" "If it were that easy, people would have 'bots doing it."
2008 book tally: I just read "The Summer Before the Darkness" by Doris Lessing. Written in 1970, it's the tale of a middle-aged mother confronting her loss of individual identity as her children, now young adults, no longer need her and her neurosurgeon husband devotes himself to affairs. I found this book maddening. First I loved it, then I hated it, then back to love. Although the character is exactly my age, I could not relate to her passivity.
Tuesday, January 08, 2008
a new year, a new idea
I normally read more than anyone I know (my reading has been cut into lately by my obsessive World of Warcraft playing, but I think that will be short-lived). When I was practicing law, my reading was cut down to about a book a month due to too much work and too little time (and indeed it took me a few months to get through Camille Paglia's "Sexual Personae", which I loved and the title of which witlessly scandalized all the partners at my old firm. Why didn't Ms. Paglia ever finish the sequel??). Typically though, I plough through a book a day, as I am a powerful speed-reader. This is actually a curse, as it means short books are unsatisfying. I hate to read more than one book a day, as the segues can be jarring. I love a good, long, rich and complicated book, and I love a very prolific author. Those were happy days indeed when I discovered Iris Murdoch and Patrick O'Brien: both so very good, and both so very productive. When I found them, they were both still alive and publishing at an alarming rate, and it was just so satisfying to feel I had more of their books ahead. (Indeed Iris Uber Alles is named after Iris Murdoch).
I have no idea how much I read in a year. I think I will try to keep track this year of what I read, and accordingly here are the first books of the year: "Hidden Moon", just out by James Church, and Stephen Chbosky's "The Perks of Being A Wallflower." "Hidden Moon" is set in North Korea and was lauded in various high-toned periodicals as being remarkably authentic, written under a pseudonym by a Western intelligence officer. I enjoyed this, but I didn't love it. Very atmospheric, very literary, but I found myself slogging through it. "The Perks of Being A Wallflower" on the other hand came out in 1999 and was a quick read. It's a charming book about a depressed, friendless boy starting high school, but I personally disliked the ending. According to the back cover, "The Perks of Being A Wallflower" set off a huge debate over the respective benefits of passion versus passivity, but I don't see it. If you're a fan of the coming-of-age genre and missed it the first time around, go hunt up a copy.
The other book I've been spending time with was an extremely thoughtful Christmas present from the Sober Husband, "World of Warcraft Atlas", but I'll spare you further discussion (except to note that it makes the perfect gift for the Warcraft obsessive in your life, but not me, 'cuz I already have a copy).
I have no idea how much I read in a year. I think I will try to keep track this year of what I read, and accordingly here are the first books of the year: "Hidden Moon", just out by James Church, and Stephen Chbosky's "The Perks of Being A Wallflower." "Hidden Moon" is set in North Korea and was lauded in various high-toned periodicals as being remarkably authentic, written under a pseudonym by a Western intelligence officer. I enjoyed this, but I didn't love it. Very atmospheric, very literary, but I found myself slogging through it. "The Perks of Being A Wallflower" on the other hand came out in 1999 and was a quick read. It's a charming book about a depressed, friendless boy starting high school, but I personally disliked the ending. According to the back cover, "The Perks of Being A Wallflower" set off a huge debate over the respective benefits of passion versus passivity, but I don't see it. If you're a fan of the coming-of-age genre and missed it the first time around, go hunt up a copy.
The other book I've been spending time with was an extremely thoughtful Christmas present from the Sober Husband, "World of Warcraft Atlas", but I'll spare you further discussion (except to note that it makes the perfect gift for the Warcraft obsessive in your life, but not me, 'cuz I already have a copy).
Monday, January 07, 2008
the WoW diet
Which is a more effective diet: an extreme case of salmonella or an obsessive case of World of Warcraft? The answer is most definitively World of Warcraft.
Since I started playing, I've been so caught up in the game that I've skipped meals. I've dropped an entire size. I don't know how many pounds it has been as our scale is broken. Yes, I know that's a set-up for a great joke -- how fat is the Drunken Housewife? So big she broke her scales!-- but the reality is that some child removed necessary parts from the scale. Unsurprisingly enough, no child admits responsibility. (Similarly no child will cop to having severely shorn the whiskers on Henry the Hairball, our last foster kitten. Lola, my top suspect likes to say aliens and ghosts are all around us and is quite insistent of her own virtue vis-a-vis the whiskers).
My Warcraft character is now a level 36 Orc hunter known as "Hassenpfeffr" on the realm of Drenden, with a level 35 pet cougar called "Frowstomatic." (A prior character, a Night Elf named "Lolathird", was abandoned at level 9 due to my deciding that the elf world was too cutesy. A gnome character came next, but I couldn't stand to see myself so short and lumpy and abandoned her before she even reached level 2. A Tauren hunter looked promising, but by the time she was level 5, I couldn't bring myself to log in. Finally I created Hassenpfeffr, and I haven't tired of her. I'm startled every time someone addresses me as "Hass", however, as that's my nickname for "Iris Uber Alles." Sadly her new helmet squashes down her perky purple mohawk, but she still has sass -- and extra protection from enemies.)
Now that our Christmas vacation is over, Warcraft time is more limited. I need to work in Lola's pre-k classroom tomorrow. The day after that, I'm supposed to spend half the day chaperoning a second grade field trip. Today I had errands to run, children to drive hither and yon, groceries to buy. Meanwhile my Hassenpfeffer alter ego lurks in the recesses of the internet, waiting for me to log on.
Since I started playing, I've been so caught up in the game that I've skipped meals. I've dropped an entire size. I don't know how many pounds it has been as our scale is broken. Yes, I know that's a set-up for a great joke -- how fat is the Drunken Housewife? So big she broke her scales!-- but the reality is that some child removed necessary parts from the scale. Unsurprisingly enough, no child admits responsibility. (Similarly no child will cop to having severely shorn the whiskers on Henry the Hairball, our last foster kitten. Lola, my top suspect likes to say aliens and ghosts are all around us and is quite insistent of her own virtue vis-a-vis the whiskers).
My Warcraft character is now a level 36 Orc hunter known as "Hassenpfeffr" on the realm of Drenden, with a level 35 pet cougar called "Frowstomatic." (A prior character, a Night Elf named "Lolathird", was abandoned at level 9 due to my deciding that the elf world was too cutesy. A gnome character came next, but I couldn't stand to see myself so short and lumpy and abandoned her before she even reached level 2. A Tauren hunter looked promising, but by the time she was level 5, I couldn't bring myself to log in. Finally I created Hassenpfeffr, and I haven't tired of her. I'm startled every time someone addresses me as "Hass", however, as that's my nickname for "Iris Uber Alles." Sadly her new helmet squashes down her perky purple mohawk, but she still has sass -- and extra protection from enemies.)
Now that our Christmas vacation is over, Warcraft time is more limited. I need to work in Lola's pre-k classroom tomorrow. The day after that, I'm supposed to spend half the day chaperoning a second grade field trip. Today I had errands to run, children to drive hither and yon, groceries to buy. Meanwhile my Hassenpfeffer alter ego lurks in the recesses of the internet, waiting for me to log on.
Thursday, January 03, 2008
are you an Iris or a Lola?
Are you an edgy intellectual or a charismatic cutie? Are you preternaturally gifted at giving guilt trips or a brooding maker of hate lists? Or perhaps you're a Drunken Housewife or a Sober Husband type. Take this quiz and find out.
1. If asked what your favorite color is, you might say:
a. Black,
b. Pink,
c. I like lots of different colors,
d. I don't think about things like that. I hate aesthetic choices.
2. Your favorite food is:
a. Potatoes,
b. Probably candy but you like to say broccoli,
c. Ice cream,
d. "Pasta in the style of a glutton" (pasta with potatoes).
3. How do you feel about dessert?
a. I usually would rather have something savory, like a second helping of potatoes.
b. I look forward to it all day! Dessert makes my world go round.
c. I love dessert but don't obsess about it.
d. Love it, but usually I'm too full to go on to dessert.
4. What's your personal style like?
a. Usually I dress like a slob, but occasionally I like to glam it up.
b. I am all about fashion, baby. I dress beautifully.
c. I have my own very iconoclastic style. I'm not afraid to mix things up and look like no one else.
d. I'm afraid to look weird and like to stick to the basics.
5. Which would you prefer to read?
a. The more funky or literary fiction, gripping memoirs of fucked-up childhoods, and European detective novels.
b. Books about princesses.
c. Detective stories and comic books.
d. The Wall Street Journal and serious non-fiction.
6. Favorite drink?
a. Coffee in the morning and prosecco in the evening.
b. Chocolate milk.
c. Izze sodas.
d. Root beer.
7. Your dream vacation destination is ____.
a. Antarctica.
b. Disneyland.
c. Rome.
d. Traveling to see extended family.
8. Your romantic history?
a. Married twice, engaged various other times, have to count on fingers to tot up how many marriage proposals you've received.
b. Never been in a real relationship yet, but that's normal because you're young!
c. You've had a few boyfriends/girlfriends.
d. Married and happy to have gotten out of the dating rat race.
9. How about some shopping?
a. You can't rip me out of a bookstore.
b. I always like new clothes, and I'm always up for a trip to the mall if someone suggests it, but on my own, I won't initiate a shopping trip.
c. I shop 'til I drop! What could be more fun?
d. I hate shopping. I can't stand to be in too many stores. Retail depresses me.
10. What's your dream career?
a. Saving wild animals, but with flexible hours.
b. Princess.
c. Fashion designer.
d. Working at a successful high-tech start-up.
11. How energetic are you?
a. Eh, I'm fairly lazy, but I can have some surprising spurts of industriousness.
b. I love to exercise.
c. On my free days, I don't even want to get dressed. My dream day is spent in my underwear, playing around on the computer, watching TV, reading, calling for a pizza.
d. I can't stand to sit around. I'm always on the go.
Scoring:
For each a answer, one point.
For every b, two points.
A c gets you three points.
Each d wins four points.
If your score is between 11-19: You're a Drunken Housewife! You could do just about anything you wanted to, but usually you can't be bothered. Have another glass of Prosecco and put up your feet.
Between 20-27: You're living in Lolaland! You're a charismatic people-pleaser who can charm (or guilt trip) just about anyone into doing what you want. Feel the power of the cute!
Around 28-36: You're an Iris uber Alles! Your cutting intellect and many talents make you a valuable friend, while your tendency to brood and collect enemy lists makes you a formidable foe. You're confident and sassy.
37 and over: You're a Sober Husband type. Smart and energetic, you're the kind of person who gets things done. Maybe you could use a little make-over. Consider having the Lola or Iris in your life pick you up some new shirts, at the least. Or maybe not. In any event, wave your geek flag with pride!
1. If asked what your favorite color is, you might say:
a. Black,
b. Pink,
c. I like lots of different colors,
d. I don't think about things like that. I hate aesthetic choices.
2. Your favorite food is:
a. Potatoes,
b. Probably candy but you like to say broccoli,
c. Ice cream,
d. "Pasta in the style of a glutton" (pasta with potatoes).
3. How do you feel about dessert?
a. I usually would rather have something savory, like a second helping of potatoes.
b. I look forward to it all day! Dessert makes my world go round.
c. I love dessert but don't obsess about it.
d. Love it, but usually I'm too full to go on to dessert.
4. What's your personal style like?
a. Usually I dress like a slob, but occasionally I like to glam it up.
b. I am all about fashion, baby. I dress beautifully.
c. I have my own very iconoclastic style. I'm not afraid to mix things up and look like no one else.
d. I'm afraid to look weird and like to stick to the basics.
5. Which would you prefer to read?
a. The more funky or literary fiction, gripping memoirs of fucked-up childhoods, and European detective novels.
b. Books about princesses.
c. Detective stories and comic books.
d. The Wall Street Journal and serious non-fiction.
6. Favorite drink?
a. Coffee in the morning and prosecco in the evening.
b. Chocolate milk.
c. Izze sodas.
d. Root beer.
7. Your dream vacation destination is ____.
a. Antarctica.
b. Disneyland.
c. Rome.
d. Traveling to see extended family.
8. Your romantic history?
a. Married twice, engaged various other times, have to count on fingers to tot up how many marriage proposals you've received.
b. Never been in a real relationship yet, but that's normal because you're young!
c. You've had a few boyfriends/girlfriends.
d. Married and happy to have gotten out of the dating rat race.
9. How about some shopping?
a. You can't rip me out of a bookstore.
b. I always like new clothes, and I'm always up for a trip to the mall if someone suggests it, but on my own, I won't initiate a shopping trip.
c. I shop 'til I drop! What could be more fun?
d. I hate shopping. I can't stand to be in too many stores. Retail depresses me.
10. What's your dream career?
a. Saving wild animals, but with flexible hours.
b. Princess.
c. Fashion designer.
d. Working at a successful high-tech start-up.
11. How energetic are you?
a. Eh, I'm fairly lazy, but I can have some surprising spurts of industriousness.
b. I love to exercise.
c. On my free days, I don't even want to get dressed. My dream day is spent in my underwear, playing around on the computer, watching TV, reading, calling for a pizza.
d. I can't stand to sit around. I'm always on the go.
Scoring:
For each a answer, one point.
For every b, two points.
A c gets you three points.
Each d wins four points.
If your score is between 11-19: You're a Drunken Housewife! You could do just about anything you wanted to, but usually you can't be bothered. Have another glass of Prosecco and put up your feet.
Between 20-27: You're living in Lolaland! You're a charismatic people-pleaser who can charm (or guilt trip) just about anyone into doing what you want. Feel the power of the cute!
Around 28-36: You're an Iris uber Alles! Your cutting intellect and many talents make you a valuable friend, while your tendency to brood and collect enemy lists makes you a formidable foe. You're confident and sassy.
37 and over: You're a Sober Husband type. Smart and energetic, you're the kind of person who gets things done. Maybe you could use a little make-over. Consider having the Lola or Iris in your life pick you up some new shirts, at the least. Or maybe not. In any event, wave your geek flag with pride!
Wednesday, January 02, 2008
first an imposter...
Recently I was paid the great compliment of having someone post here stating that this blog is 'the greatest fake blog since Anonymous Lawyer." I wasn't a big fan of "Anonymous Lawyer" (although I read the paperback... a bit too light for me, but nicely written), but I did feel immensely flattered by this accusation. How charming that someone thinks Iris and Lola are great fictional characters.
On the web today I ran across someone who says I am the infamous Stanford Law Hooker, the Stanford graduate who turned prostitute to pay off her student loans and then married a Silicon Valley hotshot (believed to be the Sober Husband). I have actually been offered money for sex (declined it) and for domination services (declined that also) and was once mistaken for a porn star in my twenties (it was flattering, believe it or not), but no, I am not the Stanford Law School Hooker. I am what I am: a Drunken Housewife with my degree from Stanford hanging by the refrigerator in the kitchen. I don't have enough energy to fake this blog. If I did have some creative energy bubbling up, I have a half-finished novel lurking in the recesses of my laptop to finish.
In any event, I don't care what believes for the most part, so long as they enjoy the blog.
On the web today I ran across someone who says I am the infamous Stanford Law Hooker, the Stanford graduate who turned prostitute to pay off her student loans and then married a Silicon Valley hotshot (believed to be the Sober Husband). I have actually been offered money for sex (declined it) and for domination services (declined that also) and was once mistaken for a porn star in my twenties (it was flattering, believe it or not), but no, I am not the Stanford Law School Hooker. I am what I am: a Drunken Housewife with my degree from Stanford hanging by the refrigerator in the kitchen. I don't have enough energy to fake this blog. If I did have some creative energy bubbling up, I have a half-finished novel lurking in the recesses of my laptop to finish.
In any event, I don't care what believes for the most part, so long as they enjoy the blog.
Thursday, December 27, 2007
Bravery
I found a little note, obviously transcribed by Iris Uber Alles from dictation by five year-old Lola:
* Iris refuses to call Lola by her chosen name and passive-aggressively refers to her as Lucy, her birthname.
I'M BRAVE page by Lucy*
Dear Ghost, I hop on one foot, I can jump very high, I'm able to sleep with all the doors closed. I can do bellete[ballet]. If I wasent brave I would tell you. I do things bravly! I AM BRAVE!
* Iris refuses to call Lola by her chosen name and passive-aggressively refers to her as Lucy, her birthname.
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
Christmas at the Drunken Housewife's
We had a rather quiet Christmas. First, early on Christmas Eve, Lola threw up voluminously all over what was formerly known as "the new couch." Feverish and weak, five year-old Lola was enthroned in the master bedroom and allowed that most treasured perk of the ill: all the videos she could stand. Iris was practically ill herself with jealousy.
Lola was fine the next day, in time for eight year-old Iris Uber Alles to spike a fever late on Christmas and become extremely fussy. Endless mugs of warm milk with honey were ordered up from the kitchen, and Mommy was required to stay by the sickbed at all times. When Mommy sneaked off downstairs to have some Christmas dinner leftovers, a sick and whiny child followed her down, interrupting Mommy's repast with repeated "Will Mommy come back upstairs with Hassie? When will Mommy come back up?" Today the children were listless and refused to leave the house (and indeed, poor Iris Uber Alles had the chills for much of the day). Lola raided her father's candy from his Christmas stocking and took to calling her father each time she unwrapped one of his candies. "Garbage Machine!"
"Did you hear what she calls me?" inquired the Sober Husband. "Garbage Machine!"
"Oh, Garbage Machine!" called Lola again, and she put another candy wrapper into his hand.
Sad to say, being cooped up in the house suited me just fine, given my new addiction to World of Warcraft. I'm equally ashamed and proud to inform the world that my new character has achieved level 22 (in the world of World of Warcraft, level 70 is what one aims for, so a level 22 is not particularly awe-inspiring. However, to have achieved so many levels in just a couple of days is both pathetic and impressive). Last year I held a little party on Christmas Eve which was really wonderful, and the Sober Husband wanted to repeat this, but I shrugged him off on the grounds that I didn't have the time and energy for all the cooking (but to be honest, if I weren't playing Warcraft, I could have made a ten course meal). There is some lip service given to the idea that a party might be held around New Year's.
And what holiday season would be complete without a Christmas miracle? There was one today which left my jaw hanging. The psychopathic little contractor, the one whom I believe tried twice to sabotage my car and who definitely got my friend Joyce ticketed, came up and warned me to move my car so I wouldn't get a ticket for street-cleaning. "Thank you!" I called multiple times, as this saved me $45. I'm still astonished. I hope all of you enjoyed a happy holiday and experienced plenty of your own miracles (and hopefully you got out of the house more than I did!).
Lola was fine the next day, in time for eight year-old Iris Uber Alles to spike a fever late on Christmas and become extremely fussy. Endless mugs of warm milk with honey were ordered up from the kitchen, and Mommy was required to stay by the sickbed at all times. When Mommy sneaked off downstairs to have some Christmas dinner leftovers, a sick and whiny child followed her down, interrupting Mommy's repast with repeated "Will Mommy come back upstairs with Hassie? When will Mommy come back up?" Today the children were listless and refused to leave the house (and indeed, poor Iris Uber Alles had the chills for much of the day). Lola raided her father's candy from his Christmas stocking and took to calling her father each time she unwrapped one of his candies. "Garbage Machine!"
"Did you hear what she calls me?" inquired the Sober Husband. "Garbage Machine!"
"Oh, Garbage Machine!" called Lola again, and she put another candy wrapper into his hand.
Sad to say, being cooped up in the house suited me just fine, given my new addiction to World of Warcraft. I'm equally ashamed and proud to inform the world that my new character has achieved level 22 (in the world of World of Warcraft, level 70 is what one aims for, so a level 22 is not particularly awe-inspiring. However, to have achieved so many levels in just a couple of days is both pathetic and impressive). Last year I held a little party on Christmas Eve which was really wonderful, and the Sober Husband wanted to repeat this, but I shrugged him off on the grounds that I didn't have the time and energy for all the cooking (but to be honest, if I weren't playing Warcraft, I could have made a ten course meal). There is some lip service given to the idea that a party might be held around New Year's.
And what holiday season would be complete without a Christmas miracle? There was one today which left my jaw hanging. The psychopathic little contractor, the one whom I believe tried twice to sabotage my car and who definitely got my friend Joyce ticketed, came up and warned me to move my car so I wouldn't get a ticket for street-cleaning. "Thank you!" I called multiple times, as this saved me $45. I'm still astonished. I hope all of you enjoyed a happy holiday and experienced plenty of your own miracles (and hopefully you got out of the house more than I did!).
Saturday, December 22, 2007
making lists like Richard Nixon
Yesterday I noticed one of Iris's notebooks on the coffeetable, and I idly flipped through it. My casual nosiness was rewarded when I saw a page labelled, "Loser List." The "loser list" read as follows:
* Lola's legal name.
** Lola's best friend.
*** a girl from Iris's school whom Iris heartily despises.
I loved the lawyerlike methodicalness with which Iris singled out everyone associated with Lola: not just Lola and her best friend are losers, but also everyone who goes to school with them! Iris is SO ready to draft interrogatories. Attending law school would be an unnecessary formality. I also loved the way she tempered the Sober Husband's entry with "just lately."
I shared this with the husband, who laughed but then had to stop to ponder, wondering what he had done "lately" to earn the loser status.
LOSER LIST
Lucy*,
Louise**,
Lucy's friends,
Lucy's schoolmates,
I.L.***,
Anton (just lately).
* Lola's legal name.
** Lola's best friend.
*** a girl from Iris's school whom Iris heartily despises.
I loved the lawyerlike methodicalness with which Iris singled out everyone associated with Lola: not just Lola and her best friend are losers, but also everyone who goes to school with them! Iris is SO ready to draft interrogatories. Attending law school would be an unnecessary formality. I also loved the way she tempered the Sober Husband's entry with "just lately."
I shared this with the husband, who laughed but then had to stop to ponder, wondering what he had done "lately" to earn the loser status.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
snippets and snails
Overheard at the posh Mollie Stone's supermarket: a middle-aged woman was trying to convince a younger one to hit the salad bar. "When you're older, it's going to be a lot hotter," she wheedled. Global warming = more bikini weather. Who knew climate change provided us with a diet incentive?
Overheard in the parking lot behind Laurel Village: one expensively dressed woman in stilettos with exquisite make-up said to another, "The thing about our relationship is.... (very long pause)... we're both very promiscuous." Thankfully Lola was a bit abstracted and didn't ask me what "promiscuous" means. I'm still worried about how my answer to "What are drugs?" will sound when repeated to other five year-olds.
Overheard in my own home: "When are we going to get a Christmas tree?", said repeatedly by the resident five year-old and eight year-old. Last week and week-end, I was too ill. Last night we should have gone out to get a tree, but the husband and I chose to stay home and play World of Warcraft instead (we did a tricky quest together; isn't it so romantic when spouses can geek out together?). Iris played also but was forced to go to bed twenty minutes after her official bedtime, and her requests that I not play without her were ignored. The husband has been operating on a sleep deficit since the World of Warcraft was introduced into the home.
Overheard in the parking lot behind Laurel Village: one expensively dressed woman in stilettos with exquisite make-up said to another, "The thing about our relationship is.... (very long pause)... we're both very promiscuous." Thankfully Lola was a bit abstracted and didn't ask me what "promiscuous" means. I'm still worried about how my answer to "What are drugs?" will sound when repeated to other five year-olds.
Overheard in my own home: "When are we going to get a Christmas tree?", said repeatedly by the resident five year-old and eight year-old. Last week and week-end, I was too ill. Last night we should have gone out to get a tree, but the husband and I chose to stay home and play World of Warcraft instead (we did a tricky quest together; isn't it so romantic when spouses can geek out together?). Iris played also but was forced to go to bed twenty minutes after her official bedtime, and her requests that I not play without her were ignored. The husband has been operating on a sleep deficit since the World of Warcraft was introduced into the home.
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
back in the front lines
So yesterday was the first day, after a full week of lying about in my pajamas with a trusty vomit bowl at my side, of being Back On The Job. The Sober Husband departed snappily in the morning for his beloved Doggyo, after dropping Iris Uber Alles off at her carpool. It was just me, pitted against five year old Lola and seven cats (the parrot and rats watched warily from the sidelines).
I geared myself up to drive for the first time in over a week and got Lola down to her swimming lessons on time. The only problem was that the swimming lessons were canceled due to remodeling. I would have known that if the Sober Husband had taken Lola to her lesson last week, while I was ill (during his week playing the dual roles of Drunken Housewife and Sober Husband, the man was compelled to cut a few corners, and the swimming lesson was the first thing sacrificed). We compensated for this by visiting the excellent nearby Salvation Army, where I picked up gorgeous silk ties to make Lola a skirt and Lola got the piggybank of her dreams. We also visited Lola's favorite Starbuck's (a rather nondescript one with lackluster baristas who like to turn the air conditioning up waaaaay too far) and Lola's favorite grocery store. In the car on the way home, Lola cradled her piggybank in her arms.
At home, I felt tired and crabby after putting away the groceries and wanted to rest. Lola was upset with me and created a book full of pictures of an upset Lola, ending with a dramatic drawing of a tall mommy towering over Lola and ranting away (a dialogue bubble was filled with dark scribbles), while tears coursed down the face of the tiny penciled-in Lola. There is nothing like a Lola for an effective guilt trip. Lola eventually dozed off.
When the Sober Husband came home, he was tired and crabby as well. "Are you ever going to do these litter boxes?" he demanded. (Normally I clean the boxes every day, but during my week's illness, I was incapacitated. The husband cleaned the boxes just twice, with a huge amount of drama, during that week). "I'm still getting well!" I retorted. "I'll do my best after I rest!" I did clean the boxes, but got quite whiny when the husband interrupted me to locate a package which we needed to send and to sanitize the bathtub so Lola could bathe (one poor kitten had, while I was in the literal act of cleaning the litterboxes, resorted to using the tub for his needs). "I only have two hands!" I said repeatedly.
In love with her new Salvation Army piggybank, Lola carried it all through the house, shaking it to hear her change rattle. In the kitchen, she dropped it and it smashed. I partially cheered her up by saving the face, which was intact (Lola also found the front feet and tearfully asked for those to be saved), which I displayed on the mantle for her. Lola cried brokenheartedly for an hour. The Sober Husband was loftily dismissive ("I try to avoid these attachments") on the basis that material possessions are meaningless and should be avoided (unless they are iPhones or iPods).
Finally the children were put to bed, and we collapsed. I played some World of Warcraft while the husband, holding his scholarly history of the CIA, nagged me over my shoulder. "Go left! Chase it! Chase it!"
"I'm not going to chase it; I'm going to throw things at it!"
"Go left!"
"Leave me alone! You're driving me crazy!"
One day, lounging on the couch in silk pajamas and being brought ginger ale by the children. The next day, time to pull on the sweatpants and do manual labor about the home. I just want to be whisked off to the sanatorium in Thomas Mann's "The Magic Mountain" so I can be wrapped in blankets and brought out onto a balcony for some fresh air and then perhaps lovingly prepared for a convalescents' ball if all goes well.
I geared myself up to drive for the first time in over a week and got Lola down to her swimming lessons on time. The only problem was that the swimming lessons were canceled due to remodeling. I would have known that if the Sober Husband had taken Lola to her lesson last week, while I was ill (during his week playing the dual roles of Drunken Housewife and Sober Husband, the man was compelled to cut a few corners, and the swimming lesson was the first thing sacrificed). We compensated for this by visiting the excellent nearby Salvation Army, where I picked up gorgeous silk ties to make Lola a skirt and Lola got the piggybank of her dreams. We also visited Lola's favorite Starbuck's (a rather nondescript one with lackluster baristas who like to turn the air conditioning up waaaaay too far) and Lola's favorite grocery store. In the car on the way home, Lola cradled her piggybank in her arms.
At home, I felt tired and crabby after putting away the groceries and wanted to rest. Lola was upset with me and created a book full of pictures of an upset Lola, ending with a dramatic drawing of a tall mommy towering over Lola and ranting away (a dialogue bubble was filled with dark scribbles), while tears coursed down the face of the tiny penciled-in Lola. There is nothing like a Lola for an effective guilt trip. Lola eventually dozed off.
When the Sober Husband came home, he was tired and crabby as well. "Are you ever going to do these litter boxes?" he demanded. (Normally I clean the boxes every day, but during my week's illness, I was incapacitated. The husband cleaned the boxes just twice, with a huge amount of drama, during that week). "I'm still getting well!" I retorted. "I'll do my best after I rest!" I did clean the boxes, but got quite whiny when the husband interrupted me to locate a package which we needed to send and to sanitize the bathtub so Lola could bathe (one poor kitten had, while I was in the literal act of cleaning the litterboxes, resorted to using the tub for his needs). "I only have two hands!" I said repeatedly.
In love with her new Salvation Army piggybank, Lola carried it all through the house, shaking it to hear her change rattle. In the kitchen, she dropped it and it smashed. I partially cheered her up by saving the face, which was intact (Lola also found the front feet and tearfully asked for those to be saved), which I displayed on the mantle for her. Lola cried brokenheartedly for an hour. The Sober Husband was loftily dismissive ("I try to avoid these attachments") on the basis that material possessions are meaningless and should be avoided (unless they are iPhones or iPods).
Finally the children were put to bed, and we collapsed. I played some World of Warcraft while the husband, holding his scholarly history of the CIA, nagged me over my shoulder. "Go left! Chase it! Chase it!"
"I'm not going to chase it; I'm going to throw things at it!"
"Go left!"
"Leave me alone! You're driving me crazy!"
One day, lounging on the couch in silk pajamas and being brought ginger ale by the children. The next day, time to pull on the sweatpants and do manual labor about the home. I just want to be whisked off to the sanatorium in Thomas Mann's "The Magic Mountain" so I can be wrapped in blankets and brought out onto a balcony for some fresh air and then perhaps lovingly prepared for a convalescents' ball if all goes well.
Monday, December 17, 2007
no, Lola, you are not actually a cat
Recently Lola had a flu shot, the indignity of which is never to be forgiven.
The other day she stared at the perfectly healed spot in which the vile needle once sunk and inquired, "I don't remember. Did I get a flea shot or a ringworm shot?"
The other day she stared at the perfectly healed spot in which the vile needle once sunk and inquired, "I don't remember. Did I get a flea shot or a ringworm shot?"
Sunday, December 16, 2007
no one knows you're a preschooler on the WoW
Against my wishes, the Sober Husband has introduced the World of Warcraft into our home. I had consciously shunned WoW over the years, fearing that the husband or I would become obsessed with it (indeed the husband had gone through an extensive obsession with Warcraft II, in the days before WoW was invented. During a more obliging phase of my pregnancy with Iris, I used to while away the hours during my premature labor bedrest creating custom levels for him).
The children are obsessed with it. The husband is facilitating this geeky interest of theirs. Indeed, the other day as I weakly called him to my sickbed, he brushed off my invalid inquiries with a brusque, "I need to help the children with their Warcraft."
All Lola wants to do is create new characters and run around. She favors a more buxom character ("Look! Like Mama!") Tonight, after Iris had gone to bed, I helped Lola pick a name for her latest character, a sexy lady zombie. "How about 'Fluffypants'?" I suggested helpfully. We roared with laughter. "No fair!" shouted Iris from her top bunk in the next room.
The children are obsessed with it. The husband is facilitating this geeky interest of theirs. Indeed, the other day as I weakly called him to my sickbed, he brushed off my invalid inquiries with a brusque, "I need to help the children with their Warcraft."
All Lola wants to do is create new characters and run around. She favors a more buxom character ("Look! Like Mama!") Tonight, after Iris had gone to bed, I helped Lola pick a name for her latest character, a sexy lady zombie. "How about 'Fluffypants'?" I suggested helpfully. We roared with laughter. "No fair!" shouted Iris from her top bunk in the next room.
Friday, December 14, 2007
still pathetically ill
I finally left the house... to go see my esteemed physician, Dr. Stephanie Scott. It has been my only outing of the week.
Dr. Scott thinks that since my gastro distress has gone on so long, it's not food poisoning, but instead a stomach flu. I'm kind of skeptical, because I think that in general, when digestive disorders come out of the blue so violently, it's food poisoning. In any event, Dr. Scott wrote me some prescriptions, advised me to try hard to eat, and filled me in that "the BRAT diet" has been completely discredited. (As a mother, I've had it beaten in to me over the years, "BRAT, BRAT, BRAT" [bananas, rice, applesauce, toast], but Dr. Scott says there's no evidence whatsoever for its efficacy).
One might have expected that after getting the drugs, I would have been on the mend, but no. I was up in the middle of the night horking my guts out again, and today I've been miserable. I'm consumed with an unending thirst, and I can't get enough ginger ale.
The newest wrinkle in this is that Iris Uber Alles's best friend is flying in for the weekend from Chicago (how cosmpolitan these urban children are). I hesitate to expose her to this, if it is a flu(although the rest of the family remains perfectly healthy). Anton's thought was to get me a hotel room to store me in. Pathetically enough I feel too miserable to enjoy that thought. If only I were healthier, how heavenly it would be to leave the husband with all the little children and instead stretch out in a hotel bed, perhaps calling for room service or pawing through the minibar. The sad reality is that I'd have no one to fetch me more ginger ale and listen to my whining.
Dr. Scott thinks that since my gastro distress has gone on so long, it's not food poisoning, but instead a stomach flu. I'm kind of skeptical, because I think that in general, when digestive disorders come out of the blue so violently, it's food poisoning. In any event, Dr. Scott wrote me some prescriptions, advised me to try hard to eat, and filled me in that "the BRAT diet" has been completely discredited. (As a mother, I've had it beaten in to me over the years, "BRAT, BRAT, BRAT" [bananas, rice, applesauce, toast], but Dr. Scott says there's no evidence whatsoever for its efficacy).
One might have expected that after getting the drugs, I would have been on the mend, but no. I was up in the middle of the night horking my guts out again, and today I've been miserable. I'm consumed with an unending thirst, and I can't get enough ginger ale.
The newest wrinkle in this is that Iris Uber Alles's best friend is flying in for the weekend from Chicago (how cosmpolitan these urban children are). I hesitate to expose her to this, if it is a flu(although the rest of the family remains perfectly healthy). Anton's thought was to get me a hotel room to store me in. Pathetically enough I feel too miserable to enjoy that thought. If only I were healthier, how heavenly it would be to leave the husband with all the little children and instead stretch out in a hotel bed, perhaps calling for room service or pawing through the minibar. The sad reality is that I'd have no one to fetch me more ginger ale and listen to my whining.
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
meeting the readers, and acting like a psycho!
So our esteemed commenter Brown (one of the prizewinners from the First, Possibly Annual, Readers' Photo Contest) came all the way across the continent on business, and this seemed a worthy basis to round up some of the local regulars. The august holder of the Mr. Drunken Househusband title, Silliyak, and his esteemed spouse, Moonrabbit, plus commenter A. all convened upon the Drunken Housewife's home last Sunday. All was proceeding according to plan (although I had hoped to hook our dear Hughman up for a videoconference, but that was not to materialize, alas). The commenters were, to a person, as congenial and witty as one would have expected.
But then... I was suddenly overcome by nausea and had to slip out in order to vomit repeatedly. I brushed my teeth, reapplied my lipstick, washed my hands like a surgeon, and went back downstairs. I told the Sober Husband that I felt that I had food poisoning from a questionable egg consumed earlier in the day and needed him to step up to the fore.
I was caught in a dilemma. Here were these delightful people, with their charming hostess gifts and nice manners, ready to spend a lovely evening, and since I'd never met them in person before, perhaps they would think I was some kind of a psycho if I abruptly sent them away. I didn't want to ruin anyone's evening, so I felt I could spare them knowing I'd become ill. (Since then, I've been advised that it was really stupid of me not to immediately send everyone away, as I was risking exposing them. Sorry, beloved commenters! I was a well-intentioned idiot). I slipped away a few times to discreetly be ill, washing my hands like an OCD patient. Soon it became clear that not only was I leaving the room inexplicably, but I was also not joining anyone in eating or drinking. I confessed that I had just developed food poisoning, and the guests carried on.
When I was able to be present in the room, the commenters were just delightful. The low point of the evening (aside from my questionable judgment in not evicting everyone for their own health's sake) was when the Sober Husband slipped off to answer some work emails, while I was slipping off to answer the swan song of salmonella. "I need you!" I hissed at him. "It's emails from the CEO," he said defensively.
So, the record for Meeting The Readers is very mixed. When our dear 2AM visited San Francisco, the Drunken Housewife was in fine health, did not leave the room repeatedly, and got solidly trashed as one would expect of her, and on the whole, performed as billed. The second set of readers got a different experience altogether (but still were wined and dined nonetheless).
After the dear readers departed, things grew worse. I haven't left the house or eaten since. I'm hoping to try some solid food today for the first time in 72 hours. Cross your fingers for me, people, that it goes well!
But then... I was suddenly overcome by nausea and had to slip out in order to vomit repeatedly. I brushed my teeth, reapplied my lipstick, washed my hands like a surgeon, and went back downstairs. I told the Sober Husband that I felt that I had food poisoning from a questionable egg consumed earlier in the day and needed him to step up to the fore.
I was caught in a dilemma. Here were these delightful people, with their charming hostess gifts and nice manners, ready to spend a lovely evening, and since I'd never met them in person before, perhaps they would think I was some kind of a psycho if I abruptly sent them away. I didn't want to ruin anyone's evening, so I felt I could spare them knowing I'd become ill. (Since then, I've been advised that it was really stupid of me not to immediately send everyone away, as I was risking exposing them. Sorry, beloved commenters! I was a well-intentioned idiot). I slipped away a few times to discreetly be ill, washing my hands like an OCD patient. Soon it became clear that not only was I leaving the room inexplicably, but I was also not joining anyone in eating or drinking. I confessed that I had just developed food poisoning, and the guests carried on.
When I was able to be present in the room, the commenters were just delightful. The low point of the evening (aside from my questionable judgment in not evicting everyone for their own health's sake) was when the Sober Husband slipped off to answer some work emails, while I was slipping off to answer the swan song of salmonella. "I need you!" I hissed at him. "It's emails from the CEO," he said defensively.
So, the record for Meeting The Readers is very mixed. When our dear 2AM visited San Francisco, the Drunken Housewife was in fine health, did not leave the room repeatedly, and got solidly trashed as one would expect of her, and on the whole, performed as billed. The second set of readers got a different experience altogether (but still were wined and dined nonetheless).
After the dear readers departed, things grew worse. I haven't left the house or eaten since. I'm hoping to try some solid food today for the first time in 72 hours. Cross your fingers for me, people, that it goes well!
storing our most treasured possessions
Our house has a weird hidden compartment low in the kitchen. It's clearly designed for storing contraband. The husband terms it a Prohibition thing, and he may be right (the house is old enough).
Today Lola revealed that she had been storing the ribbons she earned at her swimming class there. (She has a rainbow ribbon for not crying, a green ribbon for dog paddling six feet, and most recently and gloriously! a blue ribbon for performing six "upfaces", i.e., swimming far enough with her face in the water that she must raise her head to breathe six times).
If we were ever burgled, the swimming ribbons would have been secure!
Today Lola revealed that she had been storing the ribbons she earned at her swimming class there. (She has a rainbow ribbon for not crying, a green ribbon for dog paddling six feet, and most recently and gloriously! a blue ribbon for performing six "upfaces", i.e., swimming far enough with her face in the water that she must raise her head to breathe six times).
If we were ever burgled, the swimming ribbons would have been secure!
Thursday, December 06, 2007
haircut humiliation hell!
The longer-term readers may recall that I have been cutting and dying my own hair as an economy measure (indeed, one darling commenter once wrote, "Don't make me come over there and drag you out by your home-dyed hair!", which reminds me that I need to get off my voluptuous rump and announce that I'm going to start having "Comment of the Week", like the witty Comics Curmudgeon does). However, I felt like changing my hairstyle somewhat, and Iris Uber Alles needed a professional color intervention (I dyed Iris's hair blonde last summer, and it needed a professional assist to move back towards its natural color). So I booked us in together for an appointment, taking the latest one available so as not to cut into the husband's work time.
The Sober Husband was supposed to handle Lola, and he did arrive most satisfactorily at the beginning of our appointment, from whence he whisked Lola away for tea and a brownie at Samovar, an elegant teahouse nearby. However, he wanted to get away in time for a "Dads Night Out" held by our preschool, where the fathers would be convening at a particular bar before moving next door to a poolhall. So he brought Lola back before our mutual appointment was over.
For completely oblique reasons of his own, the Sober Husband brought back a single cupcake (evidently the last one for sale) and a chocolate croissant (intended to be a consolation prize). He asked Iris Uber Alles which one she wanted, and surprise surprise!, she picked the cupcake. Lola burst out into tears, entirely predictably, because Her Big Sister Had A Cupcake And She, Poor Cheated Orphan, Had None. "Bye, sweetie, I've got to go now! Enjoy your appointment with a screaming child!" the husband wittily remarked as he bolted out to make his beer-drinking appointment (and mind you, coincidentally there was a field trip, err, "morale booster" at Doggyo that very same day where all the little employees visited the Anchor Steam Brewery and spent the afternoon seeing how beer is made, so it's not as though he were particularly in need of beer-themed relaxation).
So there I was, mid-haircut, in a tiny hair salon surrounded by non-parents who were clearly not amused by hearing crying. I called Lola to me and held her in my lap. I promised her a cupcake later, which my non-breeding hairdresser Michele thought was poor parenting. "She had a brownie already!" said Michele. "But that didn't have frosting on it, and she has to see her sister eat the cupcake!" I said weakly. (Of course, it would have made sense to split the cupcake in half, but I just inherited the situation from my husband).
The always perky Nancy, co-owner of the salon, got down a gothic Tim Burton doll from a display to cheer Lola up, and I got her to sit next to me, away from her sister. Meanwhile Iris made sure to eat her cupcake slowly and luxuriantly, theatrically savoring each bite. She gave me her napkin and the scorned chocolate croissant to throw away.
I slunk out of the salon after paying, carrying my stench of Bad Parent Who Takes Crying Children Into A Place Where They Don't Belong with me.
The Sober Husband was supposed to handle Lola, and he did arrive most satisfactorily at the beginning of our appointment, from whence he whisked Lola away for tea and a brownie at Samovar, an elegant teahouse nearby. However, he wanted to get away in time for a "Dads Night Out" held by our preschool, where the fathers would be convening at a particular bar before moving next door to a poolhall. So he brought Lola back before our mutual appointment was over.
For completely oblique reasons of his own, the Sober Husband brought back a single cupcake (evidently the last one for sale) and a chocolate croissant (intended to be a consolation prize). He asked Iris Uber Alles which one she wanted, and surprise surprise!, she picked the cupcake. Lola burst out into tears, entirely predictably, because Her Big Sister Had A Cupcake And She, Poor Cheated Orphan, Had None. "Bye, sweetie, I've got to go now! Enjoy your appointment with a screaming child!" the husband wittily remarked as he bolted out to make his beer-drinking appointment (and mind you, coincidentally there was a field trip, err, "morale booster" at Doggyo that very same day where all the little employees visited the Anchor Steam Brewery and spent the afternoon seeing how beer is made, so it's not as though he were particularly in need of beer-themed relaxation).
So there I was, mid-haircut, in a tiny hair salon surrounded by non-parents who were clearly not amused by hearing crying. I called Lola to me and held her in my lap. I promised her a cupcake later, which my non-breeding hairdresser Michele thought was poor parenting. "She had a brownie already!" said Michele. "But that didn't have frosting on it, and she has to see her sister eat the cupcake!" I said weakly. (Of course, it would have made sense to split the cupcake in half, but I just inherited the situation from my husband).
The always perky Nancy, co-owner of the salon, got down a gothic Tim Burton doll from a display to cheer Lola up, and I got her to sit next to me, away from her sister. Meanwhile Iris made sure to eat her cupcake slowly and luxuriantly, theatrically savoring each bite. She gave me her napkin and the scorned chocolate croissant to throw away.
I slunk out of the salon after paying, carrying my stench of Bad Parent Who Takes Crying Children Into A Place Where They Don't Belong with me.
Wednesday, December 05, 2007
achievement du jour
So today I had set myself, for once, a list of things to achieve and had even blown off a lunch invitation from friend (and occasional commenter) Joyce in my zeal for achievement, but that was interrupted by an official phone call announcing that the normally uberhealthy Iris Uber Alles had spiked a high fever at school. I told the school I'd be there in 45 minutes, which was greeted by a sigh and the distinct inference that I am a slacking, unsatisfactory mother (I thought 45 minutes was pretty prime! What if I'd been in court or in the East Bay?).
Hence, my planned day of productivity became a day of keeping a feverish child company. We have snuggly foster kittens, we have warm blankets, and we have a laptop. On the one occasion I ventured downstairs, the fevered child dragged herself from the bed to cry plaintively from the stairs, "Mommy? Where are you?"
However, that didn't stop me from making progress towards crossing off one of the "evergreens" from my to-do list. I suspect even the most die-hard readers have forgotten that I vowed to invent a Drunken Housewife cocktail. With a headache and a crabby child confined to bed, I felt like a drink, and on the spur of the moment, I combined a healthy shot of vodka with a large dose of maple syrup(inspired by a throw-away mention by the esteemed Eric Felten that maple syrup can be used in cocktails), plus some sparkling water. As they would say in the Philippines, "Masarap!" Fabulous! I may just need to refine this and dub it with the Drunken Housewife nomme. Cheers, y'all.
Hence, my planned day of productivity became a day of keeping a feverish child company. We have snuggly foster kittens, we have warm blankets, and we have a laptop. On the one occasion I ventured downstairs, the fevered child dragged herself from the bed to cry plaintively from the stairs, "Mommy? Where are you?"
However, that didn't stop me from making progress towards crossing off one of the "evergreens" from my to-do list. I suspect even the most die-hard readers have forgotten that I vowed to invent a Drunken Housewife cocktail. With a headache and a crabby child confined to bed, I felt like a drink, and on the spur of the moment, I combined a healthy shot of vodka with a large dose of maple syrup(inspired by a throw-away mention by the esteemed Eric Felten that maple syrup can be used in cocktails), plus some sparkling water. As they would say in the Philippines, "Masarap!" Fabulous! I may just need to refine this and dub it with the Drunken Housewife nomme. Cheers, y'all.
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