the crown jewels visit the kindergarten

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

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

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

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

some quick book reviews

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

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

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

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

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

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

at the gas station

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

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

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

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

the torturing of the teeth

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

to cockatiel or not cockatiel?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

no, actually

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

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

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

the battling martyrs and the stimulus package

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lola's got a fever of a hundred and three

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

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

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

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

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

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

two baby butts, dozing

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

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

"Of course it is."

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

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

manners at the table

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

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

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

a lovely day with the little freaks

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

an update on Cupy

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

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

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

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

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

the heartbreaks of the uncaring public and disobedient talentcats

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

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

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

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

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

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

I hate Mendel's.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lola makes her candy taste even sweeter

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

"Sure," I said.

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

tiny Lola's big drama

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

"Not really," I said.

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

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

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

moi, a prude?

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

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

one thing after another

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lola's fall from grace

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

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

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

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