just not understanding

I'm used to being out of step with mainstream America, and often I can see merit in both sides of an issue. However, I'm just flabbergasted by the vehemence and venom being spouted off in the current health reform debate.

Riddle me this: why are public schools good (no one bitches about "socialized education") but public doctors are evil tools of Satan who will bring us all down to hell?

Lots of people scream that they can't trust the government with their healthcare. So we can trust our employers instead? Also, don't we trust the government with our drinking water, roads, police, fire departments, libraries, prisons, etc.., etc...? Why is it okay to entrust those things to the government but not health insurance?

I am lucky to have crappy health insurance through my husband. Crappy health insurance is better than no health insurance at all, which is what I would have on my own (we have applied for private health insurance, and a health insurance broker could not find a single company willing to insure me. I have many friends who have had the same experience).

However, even though I feel lucky to be insured at all, I still wrestle with the occasional desire to burn down my insurance company's headquarters. My crappy health insurance recently sent me a letter asking me to change my antidepressant to a generic one. Going off antidepressants is a bad idea for a person who has struggled with depression since age 13, but switching to a generic sounded okay to me. So I discussed it with my psychiatrist, who told me that there was no true generic alternative for my medication and that the medication my insurer wants me to go on is less effective and has more side effects (he explained this on a biochemical level which went over my head a bit), but yes, the other medicine costs sixty cents a pill, whereas my old medication costs three dollars a pill. He wrote me a prescription to try the crappier, cheaper meds, and I took that to my pharmacy, only to be informed that my insurance company, who wrote to me and asked me to switch to this inferior product, was charging me a $153.00 copay. How on earth did my share of a prescription which should cost $18 for a month's worth end up being $153?

Another cute thing my insurance company did lately was to refuse to pay a cent for my mammogram. My doctor nagged me for years to get one, and I finally gave in (she whipped the test requisition form at me quite firmly), and then it turns out that I must pay quite handsomely for the privilege of having had the mammogram. According to my insurance company, mammograms are whimsical, unnecessary things unless you already have a lump. Since I didn't have a lump, I had to pay every penny of my mammogram's mighty, mighty bill. I was under the impression that mammograms served an important preventive function in society and that they were supposed to find the tiny lumps before they grew large enough that you could feel them, but that must just be me. Silly me.

I posted a note on my Facebook status about my $153 copay, and that made old friends of mine from high school froth at the mouth. Within minutes people were screaming that I should just pay my fair share and that anyone who wants socialized medicine is an idiot who is threatening our American way of life, only morons think there's anything wrong with our current system, etc.., etc..

It is mindboggling how in America we pay more per capita than any other country for health insurance yet overall get less health care and are less healthy, but yet so many people defend it so rigorously. It's also mindboggling how many of those vehement anti-socialized medicine people are on Medicare themselves, which IS socialized medicine.

My friend Epiphany (an occasional commenter here) shared with me a brilliant article which sums up the health care reform situation in remarkably few, well-chosen words: Here Are Our Healthcare Choices. Another must read comes from Dr. Atul Gawande, who traveled to the city in the U.S. which spends the very most on health care and wrote about it for the New Yorker. President Obama asked everyone in his administration to read Dr. Gawande's article, and the Sober Husband nagged me to read it for weeks. When I did read it, finishing it up in the waiting room of the pediatric dentist, I found it highly edifying, and I passed it along on the spot to the children's dentist, who, as it turns out, has strong feelings about getting healthcare for all. Read it for yourselves online.

geniuses and those who sadly fail to make the grade

The Sober Husband made an appointment to take the laptop known around the house as "the Warcraft machine" down to the Apple store's "Genius Bar" to see about getting the fan replaced. The children are huge fans of the Apple store in general and of the "Genius Bar" in particular, and so they were very excited about this and got up early for a Sunday so they could go along. "We'll see a genius!" they said.

I tried to explain that just because the Apple store puts up a sign saying "Genius Bar" and hires young people to work there does not mean those workers are actually geniuses. The children scoffed and suggested that the Sober Husband and I are just jealous because we ourselves are not geniuses.

"You aren't smart enough to have a cool job!" jabbed six year-old Lola at her father.

"Did you hear that?" I asked him. "Being vice president for research and development at Doggy-o is not as cool a job as working at the Genius Bar at the Apple store."

"THAT'S RIGHT!" shouted Lola smugly.

Maybe if I made him a "Genius" sign for his workplace, he could win the respect of his small children (and if I want that respect, I should change the name of this blog to "the Drunken Genius").

Iris has answers!

Ages ago we here at the Drunken Housewife did Ask The Lola, where Lola answered a variety of questions. One satisfied customer raves, "I actually asked Lola a question last time around and took her advice! I was trying to decide whether to get a large dog or a purse dog. Lola advised large and I then acquired, from a German Shepherd rescue organization....a Belgian Tervuren. Since she came to live with me, she has foiled two prowlers at my home. Thanks Lola!" Ever since we ran Ask Lola, older sister Iris uber Alles has been consumed with rage, and as a result, Ask Iris had to occur. Iris has a lot to live up to, little sister Lola having actually foiled crime with her guest column. Let's see how she does:

2 AmSomewhere asks: Q1: You know, this whole "dominion over everything" role probably exacts a great toll upon you. Have you considered shifting the scope of your power base to something less overwhelming, or at least rebranding away from the "über Alles" image to something a bit kinder and gentler?

No. I am powerful so my name has to be. I am ruler of everyone, and they should look up to me.

Q2: How was the deity status of Frowsty established? Is there a mythos behind the mightiness?

He loves being powerful. When he was small and just a puffball, he acted like he was king. and he was. He even claimed his throne, which is on top of the tv. He still sits there.

Snowqueen said,"Iris, I would like to know what is the thing you find most puzzling about grown ups?"

They do not appreciate tv. even cats like to sit and stare. I see them do it all the time. especially at the simpsons. Adults say that tv makes you stupid. I have never heard a more absurd thing.

Laggin asked,"Does your nickname have anything to do with the Dead Kennedys?"

Maybe. A long time ago, I wanted to have a nickname like daddude does. and so we had a contest. Silliyak came up with Iris Uber Alles, and it won. I didn't come up with it.

Davi inquired, "I am currently locked in an epic battle with the villain Maleficent, in the game Kingdom Hearts, and I've already been KO'd once. What battle tactic should I employ to ensure victory for myself and my comrades, Goofy and Donald??"

KILL EVERYTHING. As you must know, We love world of warcraft. and in warcraft at least, you have to kill! I have died so many times because I hesitated. I tried to just walk around them and hide. That was a very wrong thing to do.

NonymousGoatsePants said, "Hey Iris! How long do you think it would take for you to be good enough at WoW to beat Mom-dude? Think you could do it in a month? Two months? Or, are you not good enough... Let us know!

Ok, dude. We have been playing warcraft since the dawn of time. meaning a couple years ago. I have never beated her. But according to tv, nothing is impossible except for dinosaurs.

Transient Me said, Dear Iris, If somebody gave you a million dollars, what would you spend it on?"

More money. I would create a Ponzi scheme, and I would sell soap.

Summer asked, "What are your feelings on bugs?"

Ohhh, I hate them all. except bees. many people hate bees. But they are so small and fuzzy. But I hate mosquitoes so much! Why can't they just all die. I also like spiders, but only the ones that dance.

Silliyak inquired, "What is your policy on the treatment of peons?"

Well, they are like feet. more like shoes. Sometimes they are stupid, and you have to move them yourself. Sometimes they give you blisters. You need to order them around. "Okay right foot, mush! Left foot now! Mush!"

Coyote Blue said, "Iris, should I keep growing my hair out or cut it?"

Keep growing it out until you get lice and somebody says, "Cut it! Cut it now!"

Kim said, "Iris, how should I keep my kids from bickering so much? And should I intervene or let them work it out?"

Well, You should intervene just so much that they feel threatened. then they will be scared and forget everything. then you make pie, so they forget about being threatened. Then everyone eats pie and is happy.

Debbie said, "I want to make my little sister as miserable as possible. I am 58 and she is 51. What do you think I should do?"

First, wait until her birthday. Then make her a pie. then say, the pie is not for you. then she will say, "it is my birthday." then, you must say, "Oh, right. here is a card."
Then you hand her a very ripped piece of paper that says, "you are old." Then, you cut a piece of pie. then you pick it up, run around the room shouting pie pie pie! then she will feel awkward. then, you throw the pie in her face.

Julep said, "Hey Iris, I'm getting married in December and I'm trying to figure out what I will give my guests as favors. I think I'll give the grown-ups wine or some other kind of alcohol, but there will be a lot of kids there too. All ages from 2 up to 19. I need to figure out what to give the kids (since I can't give them alcohol). I was thinking about a mug full of chocolates or something, but I thought maybe you would have a better idea. Is there some kind of candy you think all those ages would like? Or something else entirely? I need specifics, I have no idea what to do!"

Chocolate coins. Kids love chocolate, they also love money chocolate coins combine them both. then, maybe there should be a little bowl of assorted candies. You let them spend the money on candy. 1 coin for two candies. then, you get the chocolate coins they spent, and give them back to the kids evenly. I wish I went to a wedding with that.

Also, I would like to say, since nobody asked the question, you need to always assume threats are hollow. with the exceptions of; death threats, threats from your mother, and, death threats from your mother.

you can also ask more questions by commenting on this post. I will answer them!

And, I will give you some spare advice; follow my advice.

GOOD BYE!

P.S. I am supposed to tell you that Lucy had a question. I guess I will answer it. here it is.

Lucy said; My cat keeps meowing at me. Should I take it to Wag hotels or should I say that I am very stressed out with my sister, she should be ashamed. Ray Charles should be ashamed for meowing at me A LOT for ten weeks, but only a little. I have a little hex bug named rob champ. and from all this, I need a stress monitor. Who do you suggest?

I suggest the tv. Thats my final answer. Also, that's my hex bug! and that's not his name!!! He looks like his;



And there you have it: the wit and wisdom of nine year-old Iris uber Alles. Ask more questions in the comments if you dare.

sibling rivalry is running high

For days six year-old Lola has been stalking around dramatically shouting, "Iris has been stressing me out FOR TEN WEEKS!"

Today she said vehemently, "I won't be happy until Iris is dead...and I'm not going to her funeral."

no internet, no television, just suckage

Our internet connection has been really crappy lately, and I shamed my tech god husband, saying, "If your coworkers only knew how bad my internet connection was, they would ridicule you so much" and other aspersions against his tech godliness (my shrink reminded me of the old adage about the cobbler's children going shoeless). I threatened to grab a credit card and order up cable, and the husband instead worked at upgrading our DSL.

As part of this effort, the wretched local phone company came out last Wednesday to upgrade our physical phone line (they oh-so-helpfully gave us an 8 am to 8 p.m. window of when they might stop by. This was exceedingly helpful. The children, who otherwise are thrilled to spend a day at home in their underpants, were freaking out with cabin fever by 11 a.m.). The ISP sent a man out on Friday to install a new modem.

After the ISP representative left, I was unable to access the internet at all, and on top of that, he broke the jack and outlet where our cordless phones and answering machine were plugged in (our over-a-century-old home only has one spot, in the children's bedroom, where there is an outlet anywhere near a phoneline, and that one spot was wrecked). I was bitter. I'd even given the internet guy a cup of coffee with real cream. I didn't exactly want to kill him, but I wouldn't have minded stabbing him lightly a few times.

After the Sober Husband came home from his high prestige position as a sparkling gem in Silicon Valley's diadem, he managed over the weekend to get the answering machine and cordless phones back up (after a failed interim attempt where they lived on the floor in the kitchen, which I rejected vociferously). He couldn't get the internet to work, however. It now cuts out for roughly 50 seconds out of every two minutes. The husband has created a computer script to document this and is using my laptop to monitor it, so if I wish to check my email, I need to crouch on the floor in the children's room and hope I can achieve my email-checking between outages. I have resorted to "borrowing" a neighbor's unprotected wifi network, but I don't feel obnoxious enough to play Warcraft on that network.

As we don't have cable, television is usually watched via Hulu.com, and it's been impossible lately. The children are cranky and unconsolable in the evenings, predictably uncomforted by their parents' remarks about how in olden times, there was no television.

Personally, bereft of Warcraft, I've been reading too much. I'm a powerful speedreader even when I don't want to be, and I'm mowing through all the reading material on hand. Sadly I hit a bad patch of several unsatisfying books over the weekend. Lola, who takes after her mother in this regard, finished up her library books and got rather crabby. "What am I supposed to be reading! I read 17 chapters already today!" To put the icing o the cake of crappiness, some of those 17 chapters involved a hammerhead shark, reigniting Lola's shark phobias. For the last three nights, sometime in the middle of the night poor, wretched old Mommy has had to go in and hold both of Lola's hands (an unheld hand could be caught by a shark!) and talk Lola down. The Sober Husband attempted to use logic and humor to defuse the hammerhead phobia, saying jocularly, "Why are you afraid to go to bed? Sharks could be in this room, too! Sharks could be anywhere!", resulting in a fit of hysteria and a cranky, internetless wife.

ask Iris

Aeons ago I solicited questions from the readers for Lola, who happily answered your questions and gave you life advice. Older sister Iris uber Alles never forgot or forgave this, and it's high time we did Ask The Iris. Please post your questions here, and Iris will be happy to dish out the dirt or direct you in your dilemmas.

a swan and a fart

The Sober Husband always wants to drive (which incidentally is not a reflection of my alcohol appreciation; I never drive drunk). He's a very slow, poky driver who comes to stops at times for no apparent reason and who, until recently, was given to texting a lot on his iPhone while driving. I can be driven to madness while riding shotgun (the trip to insanity is shortened by the squabbling emanating from the backseat). Today he was insisting on driving and wanting me to look at his iPhone to tell him how to go, despite the fact that I didn't want to look at the damn iPhone because I knew exactly where we were going and if I were driving, I could just head there expeditiously. I voiced that opinion and said, "Why do you always have to drive? I'm a great driver! I drive like a swan! Graceful and quick!"

"Well, I drive like a fish! Smooth and strong!"

"You do NOT drive like a fish! You do not drive 'smooth'!"

I appealed to the children, normally reasonable arbiters (in other words, usually siding with their mother on the driving question. They adore their father but have been known to say, "Oh, good, Mommy's driving" when their mother managed to grab the seat behind the wheel first). "What do I drive like?"

"Like a big wooden stick," said Lola judiciously. I had committed the Cardinal Sin of Litigators: I had asked a question when I hadn't been sure what answer I would get. Emboldened, he Sober Husband jumped in. "What do I drive like?"

"Like a fart!" shouted Iris uber Alles.

Later Lola reconsidered the "big wooden stick" judgment and opined that her dear mother "drives like vomit. But vomit is a GOOD driver."

not told

Six year-old Lola accosted me fiercely last night, her hands on her hips. "You never told ME you had a stress problem!"

keeping a list

Iris uber Alles remarked animatedly the other day, "I'm going to keep a list of everyone Momdude calls an idiot! There are so many!"

"Who did I call an idiot?"

Iris mused. "Hmmm.... Oh! Ray Charles[the cat, not the talented singer]! And lots of people driving!"

stirring drama

Iris and Lola are writing a play, which begins with Iris announcing, "Hello, I am an artist, and I would like a martini." I can't really follow the plot well, but at some point they break out into a rousing chorus of "Butts and alcohol! Butts and alcohol! Who doesn't love butts and alcohol!"

the importance of having good standards

Over burritos tonight I made some mention of maintaining my high standards, and nine year-old Iris uber Alles interjected passionately, "It's very important to have low standards! And then you won't be disappointed! If there's one thing I've learned in all my years, it's to have really low standards!"

"In all those long years?" I asked ironically.

"Yes," said Iris uber Alles with complete seriousness. "I have learned to have really low standards!"

a need

"Dad-dude, I know why you are so stressed all the time! It is because you don't have an enemy! Everyone needs to have a nemesis! The brain can't function well without someone to hate!" said nine year-old Iris uber Alles excitedly to her father. "You need an ENEMY!"

beautiful butterflies

"Momdude," said six year-old Lola, staring into my eyes and speaking with the intensity of Christopher Walken in the watch scene from "Pulp Fiction." "I forgot to tell you something. When we were at Dolores Park, I saw a flock of butterflies."

"Oh, that's nice, honey," I said abstractedly.

Lola grabbed my arm. "Now I am afraid of butterflies." She shuddered.

days of sloe gin and idiocy

On Friday I stopped off at a wine shop to pick up some inexpensive yet fabulous wine and beer, amongst running other errands with my complaining children. Among other distractions and irritations, Lola, who had been charged with carrying a loaf of fresh artisanal bread from the bakery, dropped the bread on the sidewalk after complaining bitterly about having to carry it, and Iris uber Alles fussed about being hot and tired. When we got home, I unpacked all our purchases and found that along with my bottle of wine and bottle of beer, there was a bottle of Plymouth Sloe Gin. I hadn't paid for it.

This caused a crise du conscience. I love Plymouth Sloe Gin (we went through two bottles of it last year in a sloe gin fizz craze), but I hadn't intended on buying a bottle. I really am trying to cut back on spending after the incredible extravagance of buying my baby parrot (who had her first word lately, "hello"; I am so proud). I initially decided to keep the sloe gin, figuring that multimillionaire and mayor Gavin Newsom could afford to give me a bottle of sloe gin (he's half owner of this particular store), plus I have a grudge against that store because they give some customers tastings but never offer me a sip of anything, even when I hold a bottle up and twist it about in my hands pointedly, but then I would be too ashamed to go there again, and it is conveniently located near Lola's dance lessons. I really wasn't raised to be a thief, even an accidental thief, so in the end I called the store and authorized them to charge the sloe gin to my credit card. They were thankful I'd called, having realized the sloe gin went astray.

The next day was a long-awaited, rare date night for the Sober Husband and me. I'd bought us tickets for "Jack Goes Boating" at the Aurora Theatre, a play which had great reviews (indeed Philip Seymour Hoffman, who originated the role of Jack in New York, is turning it into a movie which should come out in 2011). As I was getting ready, the Sober Husband asked me what time the play was. "Eight, I think," I said, wriggling into my fishnets. He wasn't satisfied by that and went off to check, using his iPhone rather than a computer, as is his iPhone-addicted habit. "Seven!" he shouted. "It's at SEVEN, not eight!" He looked at Google maps on the iPhone. "It will take us at least forty-five minutes to get there, and it's at SEVEN."

We'd planned to go by the Triple Rock Brewery first, but that was clearly out. "I'm glad you checked," I said as I brushed my hair and put on make-up.

By six o'clock I was ready to go, in my shoes, with my velvet coat over my arm. The husband was anxious. The children, still in a funk from having been made to do housework that afternoon, were eager to escape from their parents' eyes into the custody of their teenaged babysitter. But where was she? At 6:05 the Sober Husband began to stress. "Relax," I said. "But she's never been late before," he said. He called and left a message. At 6:15 he walked down and knocked on her door, but there was no answer. He came back. "At this point, we can't get to the play on time," he said.

I felt like crying. I had really wanted to see this play, and I'd been looking forward to it all week. Since it was a sold-out show, I called the box office and told them they were free to release my tickets from will call and sell them. The box office woman kindly told me that she'd treat it as a donation to the theatre and send me a letter for my taxes.

We were at a loss, being all dressed up with no ability to go out. "We could all go out to dinner," said the husband, but the children were tired and slobby. We decided to open the sloe gin and have sloe gin fizzes, and I made a list of what we needed (lemons, soda water) and started to make a batch of simple syrup. Then our teenager called, apologetic, saying she could be there in a few minutes.

The Sober Husband, for some unfathomable reason, decided to look at the theatre schedule again. At this point he discovered that he had misread it. The show was at eight, like I'd said, not seven. It was on seven on Sundays. He shared this with me. "Dammit!" I said. "I gave the tickets back, and I didn't have to!"

I made him call the box office, and unbelievably enough they could restore our tickets unto us, and we set out once our babysitter was in place. The play was just what I like, a strong ensemble cast performing a witty script, with an imaginatively done set. On the way home the Sober Husband expressed a desire to see more experimental theatre, rather than "people talking", and I felt defensive. "I always feel like I'm apologizing for my taste to you," I said. "This was what I like. I like this sort of thing. I like to read novels, and I like to see this kind of play. I like Southeast Asian coffee, and I like a strong ensemble play, not a big musical or something with a star." The husband however wants either "old plays that have stood the test of time" or "something more experimental, like in Chicago." In the end, though, which one of us keeps an eye on the theatre listings and knows when there's a play which has good buzz, and which one of us doesn't even read the datebook section of the newspaper? I foresee plenty more witty ensemble plays in the future and a dearth of improv.

The next day we opened the sloe gin and were able to agree upon the sloe gin fizz as one of the world's finest cocktails. "It's fruity, but it's still manly enough for you," I remarked, and we both lifted out glasses happily.

Sloe gin fizz

2 parts sloe gin (preferably Plymouth)
1 part regular gin (I like Tanqueray)
1 part simple syrup
1/2 part fresh lemon juice

Shake over ice, and then pour into a highboy with plenty of soda water. Garnish with a lemon slice if you aren't lazy.

an insult

Nine year-old Iris uber Alles sized up some friends of Lola's and said to me confidentially, "They look like their mother dresses them! All... The color..." She struggled for words.

"You mean 'color-coordinated,' right? They are so color-coordinated."

"Exactly, Momdude! Exactly!" She felt vastly superior.

The children in question look like they're ready to pose for a Hanna Andersson catalogue shoot at a moment's notice, whereas Iris tends to look like she got lost on the way to Burning Man and Lola usually looks like a hobo's child. I expressed that opinion to Iris, and Iris beamed and reached out to me in a moment of affection for the mother who lets her children choose to be weird or shabby.

This was a change of sentiment from the morning, when Iris scolded Lola severely for wearing a purple butterfly shirt I gave Iris when she was only four, which is tattered but still beloved after five years and two owners. Lola owns many beautiful new pieces of clothing but prefers to wear certain beloved pieces, no matter how may tears, rips, or stains they have acquired over the years. "Someone is going to call CPS if you wear that! CPS!" shouted Iris.

trouble

Two severely undersocialized kittens I was given to work with, along with my crack team of kitten tamers, Iris and Lola, escaped and are living in the guts of my dishwasher.

exciting foods

Lola insisted on barbecuing Doritos and chocolate chip cookies today. Iris and I did not try these exciting new foods, choosing instead to stick to corn and potatoes.

more running in the family

Six year-old Lola has a blog. Today she used the blog to ask me to keep her favorite foster kitten... but I can't. Sigh. It's going to be a very rough day tomorrow, when I turn the kittens back in at the San Francisco Animal Care and Control. Know anyone who wants a very charismatic black or tortoiseshell kitten?

it skipped two generations --- why not three generations

Lola has always had a lot of special physical gifts. As a baby, she crossed her eyes spontaneously one day, and after everyone reacted with "Look at the baby's crazy eyes!" and doting on her, she made "crazy eyes" forever after. Once I raised one eyebrow at then-toddler Lola, who considered and then perfectly quirked a single eyebrow (her father still can't raise a single eyebrow, and I only taught myself to after considerable effort, during a "Star Trek" phase as a child). These feats were all the more amazing as Lola didn't even talk yet.

Recently she took up sport burping, so much burping that often she is sent into the backyard to spare her mother's sensibilities. An awestruck Iris once returned to tell me, "Lola burped sixty-nine times so far, and it hasn't even been an hour!"

The Sober Husband informed the children that his grandfather had been able to make himself burp on command and how amazing and rare that was. Lola burped at him. "Wait, did she do that on purpose?" Lola burped again, proving that she was indeed burping on command.

Iris got excited. "Lucy, you have GOT to teach me that!" Later Iris came up to me, depressed. "Lucy says that I have to SWALLOW air, not breathe it. Eat it. Then I will burp. But I don't get it."

Later Iris claimed to have mastered this arcane art, but I am not convinced. The two of them go around bragging, "Burping skips two generations. We are the generation that burps. We can burp whenever we want!"

I am not charmed.

my children are talented at freaking out

Yesterday I noticed several pages, stapled together with an illustration on the cover, lying on the coffee table. I picked it up and took a look. It was a short story, which I assumed was part of Iris's schoolwork which she'd brought home on the last day of school (Iris had brought home some similar documents, including one short story, "The Killing Dude", which had deeply disturbed the school's lower school librarian. I swear that I do not watch horror films with the children or worship Satan about the house; it comes to the child naturally. Maybe she'll be Clivette Barker when she grows up). I started reading it. It was a very well-written piece about a girl who had moved and was taking skating lessons.

Nine year-old Iris uber Alles walked into the room and freaked out. "You can't read that!" It turned out that it wasn't a school assignment; it was something she'd written recently on her own (she often uses computers to do some creative writing). She started crying uncontrollably and couldn't calm down or explain why she was upset. In yet another display of terrible parenting, I paid her ten dollars to let me finish reading the story (which was really very good; obviously writing comes naturally to her and equally obviously she has profited from her writing classes at 826 Valencia Street). She didn't stop crying for hours. I told her (and later her father reiterated) that, if she wants something to be private, for the love of God don't leave it on the frigging coffee table and that it was excellent and nothing to be embarrassed about, but our evening was ruined by all the uncontrollable crying.

Then six year-old Lola started playing the DvD of her recent dance recital. Lola had nagged me about this DvD repeatedly, saying "ISABELLE has a copy of it; why don't I?" and "I KNOW there is a DvD but I don't have it." I had finally picked it up that day, and Lola had eagerly asked permission to go watch it, but the moment it started playing, she freaked out crying uncontrollably (joining her older sister), saying that she was embarrassed and couldn't stand to watch herself. "So why the hell did you ask to put it on?" was my thought; "honey, just watch the parts you're not in" was my ineffectual attempt to calm her down. One might assume this was Lola's attempt to copy her older sister in the hopes of attention and ten dollars of her own, but she was upstairs while Iris had that freakout and got the payout and had witnessed only Iris's later inconsolable, inarticulated crying.

I went down to the kitchen and had a couple glasses of wine. The Sober Husband arrived home to a house filled with neurotic, crying, talented children and a very cranky wife. "We had a GOOD DAY," I tried to explain. "Right up until mid-afternoon, we had a GOOD DAY." The children wailed.