The house just two doors up from ours is being sold, and naturally all of us who've lived here longer than a couple of years are terrified that it's going to be gutted and we'll have to endure another year of construction. Our collective nerves are still frayed from the psychopathic little contractor who gutted and rebuilt the bungalow a bit further up on the block.
My next door neighbor B. and I were gossiping about the sale the other day, sharing stories of potential buyers we'd met. Just that day B. had met the couple who are the fall-back buyers, who came by to yearn at the almost-theirs house. "It's a lesbian couple; they'll get it if the sale falls through," he said.
"That's nice. Maybe they like cats," I said, thinking of the various crazy cat-lady couples I've met (it's a very special thing, when two crazy cat ladies fall in love). I live in fear that a cat-hater will move into our block and get annoyed that two of my cats roam through everyone's yards.
B. made a face. "Lesbians can be awfully noisy."
"Homophobe!"
He burst out laughing. He's a gay man, living with his long-term love.
I pressed the point. "Homophobia, right here in the Castro! I should report you."
Through his fit of laughter, B. asked, "Report me? To whom?"
"GLAAD." I walked up my stairs and turned back. "The HRC. I don't know. I'll find someone to report you to." I could still hear his laughter as I let myself in my front door.
Thursday, March 15, 2012
Tuesday, March 06, 2012
mother's little helper
In the grocery store today, I mused, "What else do we need?" Sweet little Lola murmured solicitously, "Gin? Do we have enough gin?"
appalled
I cannot believe that in the year 2012 contraception is controversial and one of the big issues facing America. I was just a baby when the Supreme Court decided Griswold v. Connecticut,381 U.S. 479 (1965), forbidding states to outlaw contraception, and now I have to worry about my daughters' access to contraception in an increasingly woman-hating society. It's like science fiction, like Margaret Atwood's dystopian "A Handmaiden's Tale" is coming true.
When I had a horrendously painful ovarian cyst as a teenager, my doctor put me on the pill to prevent further cysts. The pill was expensive, and it was difficult for me to pay for it. I remember one terrible day, where I stood for a long time in a drugstore, shifting from foot to foot, while I pondered whether to get a refill on my prescription or not. I didn't have enough money for both food and my medicine, despite the fact that I had two part-time jobs and an austere student lifestyle (no cable to cancel, no expensive shoes). It was either the pill or being able to eat for the next several days, and that was not a pleasant choice. When I hear a politician condescendingly state that there is no such thing as women who can't afford birth control, my blood pressure skyrockets.
There's a terrible shaming of women who take the pill, who are supposedly sluts and prostitutes. Why does getting a prescription change someone's sexual activities into "prostitution"? A variety of people, most notably Rush Limbaugh and Deborah Heaton, seem to be confused over whether the price of contraception goes up the more often a woman has sex. My theory vis-a-vis Rush is that he, a known Viagra user, is confused by the fact that he himself needs to take more pricy pills the more often he can manage to find a sexual partner. That's not how it works for women, honey. The price is the same, whether the woman has sex even once.
And unlike Viagra, the pill is medically needed for a variety of painful, non-sexual conditions, such as endometriosis, hypermenorrhea, and polycystic ovarian syndrome. I shudder for my daughters and everyone's daughters. How frigging pathetic and immature we are as a country right now, when we can ignore true crises (climate change, the horrendous violence in Syria, etc..) and instead shame women for responsibly taking contraception as directed by their doctors.
When I had a horrendously painful ovarian cyst as a teenager, my doctor put me on the pill to prevent further cysts. The pill was expensive, and it was difficult for me to pay for it. I remember one terrible day, where I stood for a long time in a drugstore, shifting from foot to foot, while I pondered whether to get a refill on my prescription or not. I didn't have enough money for both food and my medicine, despite the fact that I had two part-time jobs and an austere student lifestyle (no cable to cancel, no expensive shoes). It was either the pill or being able to eat for the next several days, and that was not a pleasant choice. When I hear a politician condescendingly state that there is no such thing as women who can't afford birth control, my blood pressure skyrockets.
There's a terrible shaming of women who take the pill, who are supposedly sluts and prostitutes. Why does getting a prescription change someone's sexual activities into "prostitution"? A variety of people, most notably Rush Limbaugh and Deborah Heaton, seem to be confused over whether the price of contraception goes up the more often a woman has sex. My theory vis-a-vis Rush is that he, a known Viagra user, is confused by the fact that he himself needs to take more pricy pills the more often he can manage to find a sexual partner. That's not how it works for women, honey. The price is the same, whether the woman has sex even once.
And unlike Viagra, the pill is medically needed for a variety of painful, non-sexual conditions, such as endometriosis, hypermenorrhea, and polycystic ovarian syndrome. I shudder for my daughters and everyone's daughters. How frigging pathetic and immature we are as a country right now, when we can ignore true crises (climate change, the horrendous violence in Syria, etc..) and instead shame women for responsibly taking contraception as directed by their doctors.
Monday, February 20, 2012
from Barcelona, my gift to you
Towards the end of our stay in Barcelona, we discovered a bar named D-luz near our hotel, which specializes in "gintonics", which is what Catalonians call "gin and tonics." These gintonics were very creative, using only gin and tonic water for fluids but adding a bizarre-to-the-American-eye assortment of solid ingredients selected to complement each of a large number of gins.
Over the course of a couple visits, between the two of us the Sober Husband and I got through every gintonic on the menu, a feat which the inordinately handsome metrosexual bartender congratulated us upon enthusiastically. My favorite of these gintonics was the one that seemed the strangest to me, and here is how it was made for me:
Take a large, sturdy stemmed glass (like the one in the picture above). Slice up some fresh strawberries and strew many of the slices in the glass. To the extend you can pound them without breaking the glass, do so with whatever pounding implement you have on hand. Add a lot of ice to the glass. Pour in a shot of Tann's (a Spanish gin I had never heard of before). Next, gently insert a grooved pouring-stick into the glass (I dont even own such a thing, but am determined to acquire one). Pour Schweppes tonic over this stick, so that not a single bubble forms due to some physics concept which the Sober Husband immediately grasped. Fill glass to top. Give it a little stir with the grooved pouring-stick. Take a generous pinch of chocolate sprinkles, the ordinary kind which you might put on a child's ice cream cone, and add to the glass. Que aproveche!
Friday, February 17, 2012
the artisanal cocktails and costumed children of Cataluña
Last night we stopped by a bar around the corner from our hotel, a bar specializing in "gintonics", which is what Barcelonans call that alluring mixture of gin with tonic water. However.... this bar had shelves and shelves of gins, and the owner had created a special "gintonic" around each gin. The only fluids involved were gin and Schweppes brand tonic water, so technically these were gin and tonics.... but.... I HAD A GIN AND TONIC WITH MUDDLED FRESH STRAWBERRIES AND WITH LITTLE CHOCOLATE SPRINKLES IN IT, like you'd put on an ice cream cone. AND I LIKED IT. There were gintonics with pomelo, with nutmeg, with little sticks of licorice... The Sober Husband had one with fresh apple slices.
A big TV screen behind the bar played the local version of old-MTV-when-it-played-music-videos, but without the sound while instead American pop music blared. This was disconcerting. A crazed gin genius spent a very large amount of time making our cocktails, and his assistant spoiled us with countless dishes of amazing olives and nuts.
All I know is that when I am back home, I am buying some chocolate sprinkles from the ice cream section, and I am putting them in my cocktails, and no one will stop me.
Today we took a road trip to a seaside town an hour away, to see some remarkable Roman ruins and a cathedral which features ancient Catholic art portraying rats staging a funeral for a cat, who comes back to life. Heartbreakingly the cathedral closed just as we showed up, at only 2:00, and we were despondent and walked about sadly with our heads down. "Tancat, why'd it have to be tancat?" we complained, having just learned the Catalan word for "closed" that day [a big part of the Roman ruins were also "tancat"]. Then we came upon a parade. It was a very big parade, composed exclusively of very small children and people who were presumably their parents and teachers. The parade had a large section of children dressed as "construction workers of tomorrow", lots of mice, a lot of little wolves accompanied by Red Riding Hoods, and then, most fascinating to me, the parade ended with a group of very little children dressed in the local street cleaning uniforms. We were enchanted, and our hearts, so disappointed by the tancat-ness of the cathedral, lifted. "It reminds me of how when I was studying Russian, we learned how to say, 'ever since I was a small child, I dreamed of being a collective farm worker'," I said.
A big TV screen behind the bar played the local version of old-MTV-when-it-played-music-videos, but without the sound while instead American pop music blared. This was disconcerting. A crazed gin genius spent a very large amount of time making our cocktails, and his assistant spoiled us with countless dishes of amazing olives and nuts.
All I know is that when I am back home, I am buying some chocolate sprinkles from the ice cream section, and I am putting them in my cocktails, and no one will stop me.
Today we took a road trip to a seaside town an hour away, to see some remarkable Roman ruins and a cathedral which features ancient Catholic art portraying rats staging a funeral for a cat, who comes back to life. Heartbreakingly the cathedral closed just as we showed up, at only 2:00, and we were despondent and walked about sadly with our heads down. "Tancat, why'd it have to be tancat?" we complained, having just learned the Catalan word for "closed" that day [a big part of the Roman ruins were also "tancat"]. Then we came upon a parade. It was a very big parade, composed exclusively of very small children and people who were presumably their parents and teachers. The parade had a large section of children dressed as "construction workers of tomorrow", lots of mice, a lot of little wolves accompanied by Red Riding Hoods, and then, most fascinating to me, the parade ended with a group of very little children dressed in the local street cleaning uniforms. We were enchanted, and our hearts, so disappointed by the tancat-ness of the cathedral, lifted. "It reminds me of how when I was studying Russian, we learned how to say, 'ever since I was a small child, I dreamed of being a collective farm worker'," I said.
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
todavia en Barcelona
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Back to the pigeons! They loved me, and I loved them.
Sunday, February 12, 2012
En Barcelona: day II
Most of our day today was lost to jet lag. We didn't leave the hotel until after 3:30 p.m. We had a parental-guilt inspired lengthy reunion with Iris uber Alles over video (little Lola being too busy baking brownies with her grandmother to come to the computer).
Today I took Anton for a surprise walk, telling him nothing and making him follow me, when we ended up at La Sagrada Familia, Gaudi's big unfinished cathedral. He freaked out in ecstasy at the crazy architecture inside. It was a big success on my part in planning a surprise outing. I spent over 135 euro on a scarf (but a really amazing scarf, a crazy beautiful black and gray scarf) and a more realistic 5 euro on a pair of gloves. IT IS REALLY FREAKING FREEZING HERE, SO MUCH COLDER THAN THE GUIDEBOOK SAID IT WOULD BE. I AM SO COLD. Tomorrow I plan to buy a winter coat and take a walking tour of the Modernisme architecture.
We saw thee of Gaudi's most famous buildings today (inside of one, I bought the 135 E scarf, which is truly fabulous). Our own hotel, the Casa Fuster, is a masterpiece of Modernisme.
In the evening, we took advantage of our fancy suite's two person bathtub with jets, which allowed us to warm up after our walk to La Sagrada Familia. Afterwards, we slipped down to the hotel's bar, which is a mix of Dr. Seuss and Gaudi, where the drinks were extremely expensive but also very generously poured. We longed for the children to be present, as any middle-aged parent would.
Today I took Anton for a surprise walk, telling him nothing and making him follow me, when we ended up at La Sagrada Familia, Gaudi's big unfinished cathedral. He freaked out in ecstasy at the crazy architecture inside. It was a big success on my part in planning a surprise outing. I spent over 135 euro on a scarf (but a really amazing scarf, a crazy beautiful black and gray scarf) and a more realistic 5 euro on a pair of gloves. IT IS REALLY FREAKING FREEZING HERE, SO MUCH COLDER THAN THE GUIDEBOOK SAID IT WOULD BE. I AM SO COLD. Tomorrow I plan to buy a winter coat and take a walking tour of the Modernisme architecture.
We saw thee of Gaudi's most famous buildings today (inside of one, I bought the 135 E scarf, which is truly fabulous). Our own hotel, the Casa Fuster, is a masterpiece of Modernisme.
In the evening, we took advantage of our fancy suite's two person bathtub with jets, which allowed us to warm up after our walk to La Sagrada Familia. Afterwards, we slipped down to the hotel's bar, which is a mix of Dr. Seuss and Gaudi, where the drinks were extremely expensive but also very generously poured. We longed for the children to be present, as any middle-aged parent would.
Saturday, February 11, 2012
en Barcelona
It's 9:07 P.M. in San Francisco and 6:13 A.M. local time in Barcelona. I'm wide awake while the Sober Husband sleeps peacefully.
I'm drinking weird not-available-in-US sodas from the minibar which cost me 5 euros apiece, and I will regret that when check-out time rolls around, but I can't resist, and chatting online with Iris. The internet allows near-constant parent-child communication, at least with one child. The other child is too busy playing board games with her grandmother to come to the computer to say hello to her absent mother.
We were exhausted when we got here last night, but we walked around for a long time and went to a restaurant/bar inhabited by Barcelona hipsters, all wearing gray sweaters & glasses with heavy frames. I have not seen another American yet apart from my own husband. We ate "natxos" (I will forever spell "nachos" that way) and the best olives and drank a lot of a local wine.
My Castilian Spanish only goes so far here, as everything is in Catalan. Today my goal is to go find some of the Gaudi buildings and drink more Fanta Limon, my favorite soda from when I studied in Madrid as an undergrad.
I am feeling like a plutocrat in our hotel; the Sober Husband always wants to stay at 5 star hotels, and we got upgraded to a suite for no apparent reason. I think we could afford to take more vacations if we stayed at crappy hotels -- my ex and I used to stay at the worst places, including notably a hotel in Mexico with bedbugs and one in Paris with roaches and horrible stains everywhere which was so filthy that at one point I had a freakout -- but I have to admit that this suite is fucking fantastic. We have four small but luxurious rooms and a huge balcony which makes me want to get a megaphone and shout things at people going by. "This is where I will give my speeches," I said to the Sober Husband when we discovered our balcony. "Just like Franco," he said approvingly.
We were exhausted when we got here last night, but we walked around for a long time and went to a restaurant/bar inhabited by Barcelona hipsters, all wearing gray sweaters & glasses with heavy frames. I have not seen another American yet apart from my own husband. We ate "natxos" (I will forever spell "nachos" that way) and the best olives and drank a lot of a local wine.
My Castilian Spanish only goes so far here, as everything is in Catalan. Today my goal is to go find some of the Gaudi buildings and drink more Fanta Limon, my favorite soda from when I studied in Madrid as an undergrad.
I am feeling like a plutocrat in our hotel; the Sober Husband always wants to stay at 5 star hotels, and we got upgraded to a suite for no apparent reason. I think we could afford to take more vacations if we stayed at crappy hotels -- my ex and I used to stay at the worst places, including notably a hotel in Mexico with bedbugs and one in Paris with roaches and horrible stains everywhere which was so filthy that at one point I had a freakout -- but I have to admit that this suite is fucking fantastic. We have four small but luxurious rooms and a huge balcony which makes me want to get a megaphone and shout things at people going by. "This is where I will give my speeches," I said to the Sober Husband when we discovered our balcony. "Just like Franco," he said approvingly.
Thursday, February 09, 2012
fusion
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Lately we've been loving the food truck craze. Our family's favorite food truck is Señor Sisig's, which provides Mexican food with a Filipino flavor. We are all dying to try the Creme Brulee truck, which we have seen occasionally parked down at the gas station at Castro and 18th Street but only when we were all too well-fed to stop for creme brulee. And then on a recent date night, the Sober Husband and I caught sight of Eire Trea, an Irish-Eritrean food truck, shut down at a parking lot. We can only dream of what it has to offer... I paced around its exterior impatiently, but there were no menus in sight. Colcannon wrapped up in injeera bread? I can only dream.
Monday, February 06, 2012
"children just want their parents to be happy"
I brought home a laminated street map of Barcelona, which I was very happy to find as soon the Sober Husband and I will be traveling there for our first child-free vacation since procreating nearly 13 years ago. Little Lola spat at the map and said she was going to cut out the part which showed where our hotel was (so presumably we wouldn't be able to find our way to our reserved room).
Earlier in the day a child who shall remain unnamed picked a fight with me because I refused to go into detail about something I'd done. "I don't have any secrets from your father, but I can from you," I noted.
The child's face settled into firm disapproval. She spat out, "He thinks it's okay for you to do anything that makes you happy!" Clearly I need a different authority to answer to, one less permissive than my spouse. I should settle under the yoke of my child overlord.
Earlier in the day a child who shall remain unnamed picked a fight with me because I refused to go into detail about something I'd done. "I don't have any secrets from your father, but I can from you," I noted.
The child's face settled into firm disapproval. She spat out, "He thinks it's okay for you to do anything that makes you happy!" Clearly I need a different authority to answer to, one less permissive than my spouse. I should settle under the yoke of my child overlord.
Sunday, February 05, 2012
depressed depressed depressed
Life has no flavor or joy for me (and I'm not even a football aficionado).
I'm slogging my way through "Los Detectives Salvajes" by Roberto Bolaño, currently on page 520, and enjoying only one out of every fifteen pages or so. How did this become an international blockbuster? And why did I devote so much energy into obtaining a copy in the original Spanish?
I'm having that horrible feeling again, that I myself am so profoundly unlikeable by my basic nature, not through anything I do or say.
And of course being in a funk like this is asinine. I have a lovely, lovely life. Only a horrible person would be unhappy in such a delightful set of circumstances as mine. The only thing which makes sense as kickstarting this funk is that I had to give up my three foster kittens yesterday, the last from the season. The vet at the city pound joked with me that the head of my rescue is also at loose ends, given that it's a drought year so there's no good skiing to be had and that we don't have newborn kittens yet. Crazy cat ladies, maybe it's our time of the year to be down.
I'm slogging my way through "Los Detectives Salvajes" by Roberto Bolaño, currently on page 520, and enjoying only one out of every fifteen pages or so. How did this become an international blockbuster? And why did I devote so much energy into obtaining a copy in the original Spanish?
I'm having that horrible feeling again, that I myself am so profoundly unlikeable by my basic nature, not through anything I do or say.
And of course being in a funk like this is asinine. I have a lovely, lovely life. Only a horrible person would be unhappy in such a delightful set of circumstances as mine. The only thing which makes sense as kickstarting this funk is that I had to give up my three foster kittens yesterday, the last from the season. The vet at the city pound joked with me that the head of my rescue is also at loose ends, given that it's a drought year so there's no good skiing to be had and that we don't have newborn kittens yet. Crazy cat ladies, maybe it's our time of the year to be down.
Sunday, January 29, 2012
Friday, January 27, 2012
odds and ends
- There is a new rule: in my car, Florence and the Machine must be blasted at top volume at all times. This rule pleases one child, who loves this music, but displeases another child, who gripes, "I don't see what is supposed to be so great about this Florence person."
- The foster kittens I've had since late September are back, since one developed an upper respiratory infection at the pound. The Sober Husband called this kitten "a flopper", because since he tore out of the cat carrier, he's been racing around this house like an Olympic athlete and appearing to be in the finest of health.
- I went out clubbing for the first time in memory (how many years has it been?), and after my companion got distracted, I ended up dancing in towering high heels with a cute gay boy of only about 24 years old for aeons. I discovered to my delight that someone out there has created at least one dark, danceable Shriekback cover. After my tortured feet finally gave out, my new friend and I were sitting in a booth when an adorable drag queen, also of only about 24 years old, threw herself across my friend and me, draping her arms around both of us. After we all chatted until closing time, the beautiful drag queen, kissing first me on the cheek and then my new friend, said longingly, "Wouldn't it be wonderful if we all had a house together? If the three of us lived together in a house?" I came so close to rudely laughing and saying, "I do own a house, and I live in it with my husband and children BECAUSE I AM OLD ENOUGH TO BE YOUR MOTHER."
- In other midlife-crisis related news, I got dressed up very fancily to go out, sans children, recently. Little Lola was obviously struggling to find the right, most tactful wording to bring something up, and delicately, gently she said, "From this angle, it seems like I can see your bra in that shirt." I said, "Lola, that is kind of the point of this shirt." Oh, the horrors of a middle-aged mother dressed as a skank!
- But do not fear, all these fashion, grooming, and exercise efforts do not go wasted. On a recent date night, I commanded the Sober Husband to give me a compliment, because I had put a lot of work into my appearance. After looking me up and down, he said, "You have much less cat hair on you than usual." Romance is not dead!!
- The foster kittens I've had since late September are back, since one developed an upper respiratory infection at the pound. The Sober Husband called this kitten "a flopper", because since he tore out of the cat carrier, he's been racing around this house like an Olympic athlete and appearing to be in the finest of health.
- I went out clubbing for the first time in memory (how many years has it been?), and after my companion got distracted, I ended up dancing in towering high heels with a cute gay boy of only about 24 years old for aeons. I discovered to my delight that someone out there has created at least one dark, danceable Shriekback cover. After my tortured feet finally gave out, my new friend and I were sitting in a booth when an adorable drag queen, also of only about 24 years old, threw herself across my friend and me, draping her arms around both of us. After we all chatted until closing time, the beautiful drag queen, kissing first me on the cheek and then my new friend, said longingly, "Wouldn't it be wonderful if we all had a house together? If the three of us lived together in a house?" I came so close to rudely laughing and saying, "I do own a house, and I live in it with my husband and children BECAUSE I AM OLD ENOUGH TO BE YOUR MOTHER."
- In other midlife-crisis related news, I got dressed up very fancily to go out, sans children, recently. Little Lola was obviously struggling to find the right, most tactful wording to bring something up, and delicately, gently she said, "From this angle, it seems like I can see your bra in that shirt." I said, "Lola, that is kind of the point of this shirt." Oh, the horrors of a middle-aged mother dressed as a skank!
- But do not fear, all these fashion, grooming, and exercise efforts do not go wasted. On a recent date night, I commanded the Sober Husband to give me a compliment, because I had put a lot of work into my appearance. After looking me up and down, he said, "You have much less cat hair on you than usual." Romance is not dead!!
Sunday, January 22, 2012
Narcissus, Part II
Last week, two people I know, unprompted, remarked favorably on the muscle tone of my rump, one referring to it as a "toned butt" and the other as a "firm ass." These remarks were, of course, received favorably by me, whose two chief hobbies these days are working out and making my husband admire my muscles.
Sadly the week before, in a special moment between spouses, I had asked my dear husband if he could see a difference in my posterior, confiding artlessly, "I've been really working on my glutes lately." Put on the spot, he froze up and couldn't answer. It's a good thing others are taking up the heavy burden of noticing my muscle tone for him; the poor man is flagging beneath the weight of this onerous chore.
Sadly the week before, in a special moment between spouses, I had asked my dear husband if he could see a difference in my posterior, confiding artlessly, "I've been really working on my glutes lately." Put on the spot, he froze up and couldn't answer. It's a good thing others are taking up the heavy burden of noticing my muscle tone for him; the poor man is flagging beneath the weight of this onerous chore.
Saturday, January 21, 2012
how the children exceed their parents
This morning Iris uber Alles breezily shared with me, "At my school yesterday, we learned meditation, and the leader said I reached enlightenment!" I asked who this "leader" was, and it turned out to be a fifth grade teacher who deemed Iris enlightened.
Seeking to share this new interest, I mentioned that once, thanks to my dear old friend Kate, I meditated with the Dalai Lama. "But YOU didn't reach enlightenment!" Iris jeered.
Thursday, January 19, 2012
Narcissus
Since September I've been weight training with rigor, and the results are unmistakable. Well, to be more honest, the effects would be less noticeable if I weren't always calling people's attention to them.
"Prod my quadriceps! See? Now prod your father's! His is just a bunch of gristle! Mine is like steel! Like titanium!" I commanded obedient little Lola, who asked, "What is 'gristle'? What is a 'quadriceps'?"
On a date night, I reminded the Sober Husband: "Feel free to remark upon my muscle tone at any moment!"
Out with a friend at a party, I was dressed in my crazy steampunk skirt cut up to the upper thigh, and by chance I found myself by a full-length mirror. I had to stop for a moment to admire my own upper leg, usually hidden in more modest attire. "Look at that," I immodestly marveled. "It's so firm." A less indulgent person would have pointed out that admiring oneself in a mirror in public is unbecoming to an adult, but my friend was kind. "It's okay, you've worked hard for it."
The best audience by far has been my gay neighbor, himself an example of devotion to the gym, who humored me by admiring my upper arms. "Now flex! Now make a muscle! Now move your arms like this!" he said, then adding kindly, "Look at that! I'll bet you could throw me on the floor and sit on me." Of course that was a gentle fib, my neighbor being like a Greek god, but I reveled in it. "Now feel my quads," I demanded.
"Prod my quadriceps! See? Now prod your father's! His is just a bunch of gristle! Mine is like steel! Like titanium!" I commanded obedient little Lola, who asked, "What is 'gristle'? What is a 'quadriceps'?"
On a date night, I reminded the Sober Husband: "Feel free to remark upon my muscle tone at any moment!"
Out with a friend at a party, I was dressed in my crazy steampunk skirt cut up to the upper thigh, and by chance I found myself by a full-length mirror. I had to stop for a moment to admire my own upper leg, usually hidden in more modest attire. "Look at that," I immodestly marveled. "It's so firm." A less indulgent person would have pointed out that admiring oneself in a mirror in public is unbecoming to an adult, but my friend was kind. "It's okay, you've worked hard for it."
The best audience by far has been my gay neighbor, himself an example of devotion to the gym, who humored me by admiring my upper arms. "Now flex! Now make a muscle! Now move your arms like this!" he said, then adding kindly, "Look at that! I'll bet you could throw me on the floor and sit on me." Of course that was a gentle fib, my neighbor being like a Greek god, but I reveled in it. "Now feel my quads," I demanded.
Thursday, January 12, 2012
termites termites termites
This morning I was dreaming about candy, beautiful, technicolored candy, and my husband woke me up shouting, "You gotta come see what the carpenter found when he pulled off those shingles! There's a whole nest of termites we didn't know about! Come see!" I affixed him with an eye, a baleful, sleepy eye, and he backpedaled. "Let me get you a cup of coffee first."
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
no no no, don't make me look at any more termites
The time had come, in my opinion, for some repairs to be made to our over-100-year-old home. The deck had some highly questionable spots in it and was the home of a thriving community of Pacific dampwood termites which caused Lola to go into hysterics whenever one got into the house. (We had to cancel a date and come home early when our normally intrepid babysitter called to report that Lola's bug hysterics were too much for her). The Sober Husband's theory was these termites were not a risk to our house, because they only attack damp wood and supposedly our house's wood is nice and dry, but I wasn't buying it. Additionally the top of our house needed to be powerwashed (we powerwashed ourselves the parts which we could without risking our necks), a strange screen door frame, without any screen door attached to it, was crumbling and termite-infested, some shingles needed replacing, and arguably some parts of the house should be repainted.
To begin with, I hired one of my campmates from Burning Man to do the work, an unlicensed contractor who earns a living of sorts doing this kind of work. He took care of the door, removing the old door frame, fumigating the shell, and creating a new frame. He also did some initial probing on the deck and showed the skeptical Sober Husband just how bad things were. My Burning Man friend proposed just replacing half of the deck as a conservative measure (he seemed to have mystical feelings about redwood and wanted to dispose of as little of it as possible). All appeared well, until the Sober Husband requested an estimate. "I don't work that way," said my Burning Man campmate. "I'm just not comfortable working that way. I just like to be paid by the hour."
"But he just wants to have an idea of how much it's going to be," I said.
"But what," my campmate said with emotion rising in his voice, "if I open up that deck and it's worse than I thought? What do I do then?"
"You call the Sober Husband and say it's going to cost more than you thought," I said calmingly, but it was to no avail. "I"m just not comfortable working that way," he said. "And I don't like to drive all the way to your house." He did admit that he enjoyed eating lunch with me, but the charms of lunch with the Drunken Housewife were not enough to cajole him into giving the scary Sober Husband an estimate.
Later I laughed with the Sober Husband. "You broke my Burning Man carpenter, what with your fancy city ways! Estimates!" We laughed, but the Pacific dampwood termites were gnawing away. "Now it's your turn," I said. "You broke my carpenter; you have to get a new one."
Subsequently the Sober Husband did bring in a new contractor, one who enjoyed a manly laugh with the Sober Husband at the expense of the Drunken Housewife and her Burning Man carpenter. Now this contractor is hard at work, exposing the horrors of termites to the poor Drunken Housewife. Yesterday several times I was called away from whatever the hell it is I do around here all day to go see newly uncovered termite atrocities. "Look! Look! And it's RIGHT UP NEXT TO THE HOUSE!" was the refrain. The subtext of each of these little show-and-tell episodes was "this here, this scary thing, is going to cost you another thousand dollars." And there is no joy for a Drunken Housewife in looking at a termite. None.
I have seen the termites. I have seen the hell they hath wrought to the supporting structures of my deck. And to the side of my house, by the laundry room. I have witnessed the devastation. And all I can say is I just want to curl up in a ball on my bed, possibly with some chocolates, and never look at another termite again.
To begin with, I hired one of my campmates from Burning Man to do the work, an unlicensed contractor who earns a living of sorts doing this kind of work. He took care of the door, removing the old door frame, fumigating the shell, and creating a new frame. He also did some initial probing on the deck and showed the skeptical Sober Husband just how bad things were. My Burning Man friend proposed just replacing half of the deck as a conservative measure (he seemed to have mystical feelings about redwood and wanted to dispose of as little of it as possible). All appeared well, until the Sober Husband requested an estimate. "I don't work that way," said my Burning Man campmate. "I'm just not comfortable working that way. I just like to be paid by the hour."
"But he just wants to have an idea of how much it's going to be," I said.
"But what," my campmate said with emotion rising in his voice, "if I open up that deck and it's worse than I thought? What do I do then?"
"You call the Sober Husband and say it's going to cost more than you thought," I said calmingly, but it was to no avail. "I"m just not comfortable working that way," he said. "And I don't like to drive all the way to your house." He did admit that he enjoyed eating lunch with me, but the charms of lunch with the Drunken Housewife were not enough to cajole him into giving the scary Sober Husband an estimate.
Later I laughed with the Sober Husband. "You broke my Burning Man carpenter, what with your fancy city ways! Estimates!" We laughed, but the Pacific dampwood termites were gnawing away. "Now it's your turn," I said. "You broke my carpenter; you have to get a new one."
Subsequently the Sober Husband did bring in a new contractor, one who enjoyed a manly laugh with the Sober Husband at the expense of the Drunken Housewife and her Burning Man carpenter. Now this contractor is hard at work, exposing the horrors of termites to the poor Drunken Housewife. Yesterday several times I was called away from whatever the hell it is I do around here all day to go see newly uncovered termite atrocities. "Look! Look! And it's RIGHT UP NEXT TO THE HOUSE!" was the refrain. The subtext of each of these little show-and-tell episodes was "this here, this scary thing, is going to cost you another thousand dollars." And there is no joy for a Drunken Housewife in looking at a termite. None.
I have seen the termites. I have seen the hell they hath wrought to the supporting structures of my deck. And to the side of my house, by the laundry room. I have witnessed the devastation. And all I can say is I just want to curl up in a ball on my bed, possibly with some chocolates, and never look at another termite again.
Thursday, January 05, 2012
like Schrodinger's cat
The other day, during the children's vacation, I broke off from all the family togetherness to go out for coffee with a friend from Burning Man. This bothered the children. They couldn't see the point and were judgmental, with Iris going so far as to mumble darkly about her mother "going out for coffee with creepy friends."
"You people think I don't exist without you!" I said. "You think I'm like Schrodinger's cat, and when you're not looking at me, it's questionable whether I exist or not. When you're in school, you think I flicker out of existence. Newsflash: sometimes I go out for coffee! Sometimes even lunch!"
Iris glowered, but little Lola took up the discussion. "I think Muzzy exists," she said. "I don't think you go out of the house, though. I think you spend the day feeding the cats and reading a book."
"You people think I don't exist without you!" I said. "You think I'm like Schrodinger's cat, and when you're not looking at me, it's questionable whether I exist or not. When you're in school, you think I flicker out of existence. Newsflash: sometimes I go out for coffee! Sometimes even lunch!"
Iris glowered, but little Lola took up the discussion. "I think Muzzy exists," she said. "I don't think you go out of the house, though. I think you spend the day feeding the cats and reading a book."
Monday, December 26, 2011
as promised: the attempt to muzzle the Drunken Housewife
In September 2010, a few days after I returned from Burning Man and just at the beginning of the school year, my phone rang. It was someone calling from Iris and Lola's school, asking me to meet with the head of school. As any mother would, my first assumption was that something had happened to either Iris or Lola, but no. The head of school wanted to meet with me about my blog, along with another administrator. The tone was definitely negative.
That very day I had written on my blog about an argument I'd had with Iris uber Alles. Iris was slightly sick but wanted to go to school anyway, and I had forced her to stay home because there was a new girl in her grade, a girl recovering from bone cancer who still had a very low immune system. All the parents from that grade had been severely cautioned not to send their children to school with even mild symptoms. I looked at what I'd written. From my point of view, it was clear that I'd had an excess of care and concern for this other little girl, but I had written in my usual sarcastic style, and I could see how it could conceivably offend someone. I deleted it. I'm not usually one to back away from causing offense, but a child who'd had cancer was a sensitive subject.
Before this meeting, I stewed. I was sleep-deprived and cranky to begin with, having left Burning Man before I was ready. I longed to be back padding through the dust with a bottle of prosecco in my hand, gazing upon crazed art and making cocktails for my campmates. For a while, I determined to bring an attorney with me. As a former attorney, of course I know plenty of them. I felt I was not being taken seriously in this situation and that having an attorney with me would add gravitas. The Sober Husband strongly disagreed with that and said simply, "I will go with you." He, unlike me, has always been quite popular with the school's administration.
My falling out had come earlier. At the annual fall festival, Iris and I had been horrified to see toy kittens being sold... covered in real cat fur. The grotesquerie of cats being murdered to make cheap toys, which were then sold to benefit our school, was greatly disgusting and upsetting to Iris and to me. (Note: whenever you buy something from China containing fur, take a good, long, hard look at the fur. It is usually labeled as "rabbit" but normally is either cat or dog fur. As a certified crazy cat lady, I can tell rabbit fur from cat fur, and it wasn't particularly hard, given that plenty of the fur was orange tabby. Rabbits do not come in orange tabby). I had never seen fur things sold before at our festival, and I thought it was a terrible idea. I wrote the head of school a letter, asking that the school adapt a rule forbidding the sale of fur. I noted that fur is controversial in our society and that surely we would not want to upset those students who are huge animal lovers. I received a very short reply saying that the school had no control over what vendors sold and which ignored every point I'd made. This made me furious, because the "vendor" in question who sold the fur toys was a group of parent volunteers, and surely the school had immense control over this vendor. Acting as if it were some remote entity with no real ties to the school seemed ridiculous. I wrote another letter, which was not answered. Subsequently I wrote about the fur foofaraw here on this blog.
After that, there was no love lost between the head of school and me. I had had no problems whatsoever with the prior head of school, whom I admired, but this one had no use for me and my delicate feelings about fur.
When the day of the meeting came about, the head of school and the director of communications gushed over the handsome Sober Husband and gave me cold looks. My dignity was compromised by the fact that I was still wearing my Burning Man extensions and had bright green braids all the way down to my waist. After the initial greetings were done, the head cleared her throat and said, "Many would consider this meeting long overdue" in a self-pleased voice. The Sober Husband laid a calming hand upon my knee.
The major points made by the head were "Many people here consider it unethical that you keep a blog" and "You may not realize that your ability to form relationships is harmed by your blog."
The major points made by the Drunken Housewife were "any institution threatened by one person's blog which is mostly cat stories appears weak" and "is the school going to institute a new screening policy for potential parents? Add the line 'no mommy bloggers allowed' to the application form?" and "I am completely confident that in this day and age, I am not the only blogger here in this parent population", as well as "I've been told by more than one teacher here that they wished there were more parents like me at this school."
Getting down to specific instances, the Head was rather superior in discussing the post I'd made about the new student with a shaky immune system. "Yes, after I reread that, I saw it could be taken the wrong way," I said, "so I took it down. I would hope anyone who read it would see that it was motivated throughout by my concern for that girl's health, but I took it down anyway." This visibly took the wind out of the head's sails. "You took it down?"
The other example brandished about was the time I wrote about a fourth grader who wore a micro-micro miniskirt and fishnet stockings to a school event. Here I contended that as a feminist who was deeply concerned about the premature sexualization of girls, I was going to write about that kind of thing if I saw it. I viewed this as part of an important moral issue of our day.
Eventually the meeting ended, with nothing concluded. The head expressed some bitterness that I'd written on my blog about the fur issue, and I made the point that my blog is normally a silly, personal one but that animal welfare is my hot button item and that the school could have handled the issue differently. I refused to stop keeping my blog. I pointed out that I'd had severe problems with one of the girl's teachers the year before, culminating in my unsuccessfully asking to have my daughter transferred to a different classroom, and "I never wrote about that on my blog, because it wouldn't have helped any of us." This point was not taken, but rather the head portrayed the staff as quivering in fear that they would be victimized by me on my blog. I said that anyone who had an issue with me was welcome to talk to me, but evidently they were afraid of me. I thought that was a bit silly, given that there are truly intimidating parents lurking about the place, as opposed to a mommy blogger who calls herself tongue-in-cheek a "drunken housewife" and who volunteered in the playground, lunchroom, library, and art room.
The next week, my phone rang again. It was another staff member at the girls' school. At this time and the year before, one of my daughters was having a very big problem at school (it was her prior teacher's failure to do anything about this huge issue which was the source of our problems with her the year before, which we had brought up with the head). She cried desperately each morning not to have to go to school, and the Sober Husband and I were feuding about homeschooling. I was in touch with homeschooling groups and had set a deadline with the poor Sober Husband by which, if things were not improved, I was pulling this child out of the school, with my husband's agreement or not. This new caller told me that she "had an idea on how to help" my daughter.
Excited, the Sober Husband and I raced over to the school to hear this new idea about how to solve our child's problem. The staff member, smiling, explained to me that the staff wanted to help my daughter but were paralyzed by fear of me because of my blog. She had been nominated by the staff to approach me and share an idea. This exciting new idea was for me to quit keeping a blog! Then the staff would have the confidence they needed to try to help my child.
This completely blindsided me, and I exploded. "ARE YOU PEOPLE GOING TO CALL ME EVERY SINGLE WEEK AND PRESSURE ME ABOUT MY BLOG? EVERY WEEK? IT'S JUST A BUNCH OF STORIES ABOUT CATS AND THINGS MY KIDS SAY!"
The staff member's jaw dropped open and she stared at me in shock. We quickly put the pieces together. She had no idea that I'd been called on the carpet just the week before and leaned on about the blog. She felt she'd been made a patsy under the circumstances. We parted with hugs and remonstrations of mutual admiration. (The Sober Husband's head was spinning by how fast this reconciliation came about).
By this point, I was feeling distinctly alienated at the school and not wanting to deal with anyone there. The child in question had a birthday, and I asked the Sober Husband to be the parent who brought celebratory snacks for the classroom. I knew I needed to calm down before I was in a position to speak to anyone there. I was red hot mad over the idea that my child's problems were not going to be addressed because I keep a blog (never mind the over $20,000 paid per year for her tuition). The Sober Husband came home smiling. He told me that another high level administrator had attended our child's birthday celebration (which is extremely unusual) and taken him aside to tell him that I was always welcome to come to her with any problems whatsoever. And then, laughing, he told me that, as I'd requested, he asked our daughter's main teacher if she had any problems with my blog, and this sweet woman looked at him blankly and said, "Blog? I don't even know it." We laughed.
We ended up meeting with the teacher, who formed a thorough plan to deal with our child's problem. This woman, who is indeed one of the finest teachers I have ever met, did such a skillful and caring job working with our child that by the time the deadline came about I'd set for homeschooling, it was obvious that there was no longer any need. And around that same deadline, the head of school gave notice, as she was returning to the Deep South to become the head of a larger school.
In retrospect, it all made sense to me then. The hassling and pressuring of me to take down my blog --- was it all so I wouldn't write anything that might embarrass her while she was under scrutiny for this new and better job? My dear friend Melissa (known here as the repeated winner of the Drunken Housewife Semiannual Photo Contest), who is a teacher in the Southern state in question, opined that the head should have been glad to have my blog, as what would give her more credibility in the Deep South than having pissed off a San Francisco animal rights loon?
That very day I had written on my blog about an argument I'd had with Iris uber Alles. Iris was slightly sick but wanted to go to school anyway, and I had forced her to stay home because there was a new girl in her grade, a girl recovering from bone cancer who still had a very low immune system. All the parents from that grade had been severely cautioned not to send their children to school with even mild symptoms. I looked at what I'd written. From my point of view, it was clear that I'd had an excess of care and concern for this other little girl, but I had written in my usual sarcastic style, and I could see how it could conceivably offend someone. I deleted it. I'm not usually one to back away from causing offense, but a child who'd had cancer was a sensitive subject.
Before this meeting, I stewed. I was sleep-deprived and cranky to begin with, having left Burning Man before I was ready. I longed to be back padding through the dust with a bottle of prosecco in my hand, gazing upon crazed art and making cocktails for my campmates. For a while, I determined to bring an attorney with me. As a former attorney, of course I know plenty of them. I felt I was not being taken seriously in this situation and that having an attorney with me would add gravitas. The Sober Husband strongly disagreed with that and said simply, "I will go with you." He, unlike me, has always been quite popular with the school's administration.
My falling out had come earlier. At the annual fall festival, Iris and I had been horrified to see toy kittens being sold... covered in real cat fur. The grotesquerie of cats being murdered to make cheap toys, which were then sold to benefit our school, was greatly disgusting and upsetting to Iris and to me. (Note: whenever you buy something from China containing fur, take a good, long, hard look at the fur. It is usually labeled as "rabbit" but normally is either cat or dog fur. As a certified crazy cat lady, I can tell rabbit fur from cat fur, and it wasn't particularly hard, given that plenty of the fur was orange tabby. Rabbits do not come in orange tabby). I had never seen fur things sold before at our festival, and I thought it was a terrible idea. I wrote the head of school a letter, asking that the school adapt a rule forbidding the sale of fur. I noted that fur is controversial in our society and that surely we would not want to upset those students who are huge animal lovers. I received a very short reply saying that the school had no control over what vendors sold and which ignored every point I'd made. This made me furious, because the "vendor" in question who sold the fur toys was a group of parent volunteers, and surely the school had immense control over this vendor. Acting as if it were some remote entity with no real ties to the school seemed ridiculous. I wrote another letter, which was not answered. Subsequently I wrote about the fur foofaraw here on this blog.
After that, there was no love lost between the head of school and me. I had had no problems whatsoever with the prior head of school, whom I admired, but this one had no use for me and my delicate feelings about fur.
When the day of the meeting came about, the head of school and the director of communications gushed over the handsome Sober Husband and gave me cold looks. My dignity was compromised by the fact that I was still wearing my Burning Man extensions and had bright green braids all the way down to my waist. After the initial greetings were done, the head cleared her throat and said, "Many would consider this meeting long overdue" in a self-pleased voice. The Sober Husband laid a calming hand upon my knee.
The major points made by the head were "Many people here consider it unethical that you keep a blog" and "You may not realize that your ability to form relationships is harmed by your blog."
The major points made by the Drunken Housewife were "any institution threatened by one person's blog which is mostly cat stories appears weak" and "is the school going to institute a new screening policy for potential parents? Add the line 'no mommy bloggers allowed' to the application form?" and "I am completely confident that in this day and age, I am not the only blogger here in this parent population", as well as "I've been told by more than one teacher here that they wished there were more parents like me at this school."
Getting down to specific instances, the Head was rather superior in discussing the post I'd made about the new student with a shaky immune system. "Yes, after I reread that, I saw it could be taken the wrong way," I said, "so I took it down. I would hope anyone who read it would see that it was motivated throughout by my concern for that girl's health, but I took it down anyway." This visibly took the wind out of the head's sails. "You took it down?"
The other example brandished about was the time I wrote about a fourth grader who wore a micro-micro miniskirt and fishnet stockings to a school event. Here I contended that as a feminist who was deeply concerned about the premature sexualization of girls, I was going to write about that kind of thing if I saw it. I viewed this as part of an important moral issue of our day.
Eventually the meeting ended, with nothing concluded. The head expressed some bitterness that I'd written on my blog about the fur issue, and I made the point that my blog is normally a silly, personal one but that animal welfare is my hot button item and that the school could have handled the issue differently. I refused to stop keeping my blog. I pointed out that I'd had severe problems with one of the girl's teachers the year before, culminating in my unsuccessfully asking to have my daughter transferred to a different classroom, and "I never wrote about that on my blog, because it wouldn't have helped any of us." This point was not taken, but rather the head portrayed the staff as quivering in fear that they would be victimized by me on my blog. I said that anyone who had an issue with me was welcome to talk to me, but evidently they were afraid of me. I thought that was a bit silly, given that there are truly intimidating parents lurking about the place, as opposed to a mommy blogger who calls herself tongue-in-cheek a "drunken housewife" and who volunteered in the playground, lunchroom, library, and art room.
The next week, my phone rang again. It was another staff member at the girls' school. At this time and the year before, one of my daughters was having a very big problem at school (it was her prior teacher's failure to do anything about this huge issue which was the source of our problems with her the year before, which we had brought up with the head). She cried desperately each morning not to have to go to school, and the Sober Husband and I were feuding about homeschooling. I was in touch with homeschooling groups and had set a deadline with the poor Sober Husband by which, if things were not improved, I was pulling this child out of the school, with my husband's agreement or not. This new caller told me that she "had an idea on how to help" my daughter.
Excited, the Sober Husband and I raced over to the school to hear this new idea about how to solve our child's problem. The staff member, smiling, explained to me that the staff wanted to help my daughter but were paralyzed by fear of me because of my blog. She had been nominated by the staff to approach me and share an idea. This exciting new idea was for me to quit keeping a blog! Then the staff would have the confidence they needed to try to help my child.
This completely blindsided me, and I exploded. "ARE YOU PEOPLE GOING TO CALL ME EVERY SINGLE WEEK AND PRESSURE ME ABOUT MY BLOG? EVERY WEEK? IT'S JUST A BUNCH OF STORIES ABOUT CATS AND THINGS MY KIDS SAY!"
The staff member's jaw dropped open and she stared at me in shock. We quickly put the pieces together. She had no idea that I'd been called on the carpet just the week before and leaned on about the blog. She felt she'd been made a patsy under the circumstances. We parted with hugs and remonstrations of mutual admiration. (The Sober Husband's head was spinning by how fast this reconciliation came about).
By this point, I was feeling distinctly alienated at the school and not wanting to deal with anyone there. The child in question had a birthday, and I asked the Sober Husband to be the parent who brought celebratory snacks for the classroom. I knew I needed to calm down before I was in a position to speak to anyone there. I was red hot mad over the idea that my child's problems were not going to be addressed because I keep a blog (never mind the over $20,000 paid per year for her tuition). The Sober Husband came home smiling. He told me that another high level administrator had attended our child's birthday celebration (which is extremely unusual) and taken him aside to tell him that I was always welcome to come to her with any problems whatsoever. And then, laughing, he told me that, as I'd requested, he asked our daughter's main teacher if she had any problems with my blog, and this sweet woman looked at him blankly and said, "Blog? I don't even know it." We laughed.
We ended up meeting with the teacher, who formed a thorough plan to deal with our child's problem. This woman, who is indeed one of the finest teachers I have ever met, did such a skillful and caring job working with our child that by the time the deadline came about I'd set for homeschooling, it was obvious that there was no longer any need. And around that same deadline, the head of school gave notice, as she was returning to the Deep South to become the head of a larger school.
In retrospect, it all made sense to me then. The hassling and pressuring of me to take down my blog --- was it all so I wouldn't write anything that might embarrass her while she was under scrutiny for this new and better job? My dear friend Melissa (known here as the repeated winner of the Drunken Housewife Semiannual Photo Contest), who is a teacher in the Southern state in question, opined that the head should have been glad to have my blog, as what would give her more credibility in the Deep South than having pissed off a San Francisco animal rights loon?
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