"I know what I'm going to do when I grow up. I'm going to be like Mitt Romney! I'm going to make a lot of money, and then go into politics," one of my children said to me.
"Don't talk like that," I said.
"Yes! I'm going to be just like Mitt Romney," the child continued.
Covering my ears with my hands, I said, "LA LA LA I CAN'T HEAR YOU."
The child went on, ignoring me, sensibly enough. "Once I have a lot of money, I'll run for senator. Or governor."
"That didn't work out so well for Meg Whitman," I said.
"I'll be a better politician than that."
Talking to the other child is a bit cheerier, but also can be draining. This second child ran up the stairs and burst into the room. "I just realized what I just said, and it was weird," the child marveled, a propos of nothing.
Saturday, October 20, 2012
Friday, October 19, 2012
out and about with the better half, Gangnam style
For a longish time the Sober Husband and I didn't have a date night, as I enrolled Lola in a writing class which met on the night our babysitter had given us (technically we shouldn't be needing babysitting now that Iris is thirteen, and our lives should be one big date night, but we have made a parenting decision not to leave Lolz under her big sister's supervision for extended periods of time. The babysitter is in charge of Lola only, and Iris is free to do as she wishes without real supervision).
Last night we went out together for the first time in recent memory. We were a little rusty at it. The Sober Husband wanted us to walk to the restaurant; I wanted to wear my new Fluevog high heels, which are not meant for walking down steep hills. Our conversation faltered. We seemed rife with misinterpretations and misunderstandings. Over at Bar Agricole we failed to get cocktails at the bar from the slow moving bartenders while we waited for our reserved table, and when the table was produced, it was a wretched little table inside. I wanted to sit outside in the herb garden; it was one of the few warm evenings of the year in San Francisco, and this table was truly depressing, hot, stuffy.
I was disappointed, but given how long it had taken for us to get a table (despite having a reservation) and our failure at getting a drink, I didn't want to wait for an outside table. The Sober Husband, though, took command, whizzing off and imperiously directing that we be reseated outside. Once ensconced in my outdoors table, so airy and with a view of the herb garden, I was happy.
"Now we'll be eating in style," said the S.H. admiring our new, superior table.
"Gangnam style!" I agreed.
He furrowed his brow. "What is 'Gangnam style?'"
I was appalled. We really hadn't been spending much time together. How could he have missed my fascination for the K-pop sensation, not to mention Iris über Alles's much-vaunted superiority?Having been a fan of Korean pop music for over a year before PSY had a break-out hit with "Gangnam Style", Iris can be quite vocal and quite condescending on the topic. The K-pop scene is an oddly ubiquitous subject in our home, but evidently only when the Sober Husband is at work.
Could these misfits get along? By the time we'd shared a bowl of white onion soup with barhi dates, shallots, chives, and vadouvan oil, as well as a glass of vinho verde, the conversation began to flow. By the end of our roasted jimmy nardello peppers with corno di toro, nepitella, and tonnato sauce, we were cozying up to one another. We shared a Eureka lemon and ricotta tart with a lavender meringue, and we got a delightful Armagnac cocktail made with absinthe and hibiscus bitters as a gesture from the management to make up for the delays in getting our table and our drinks. Far from my prior feeling, while we were waiting for a table and giving up on getting a cocktail, that I was over Bar Agricole, the magnificence of the soup and the Armagnac cocktail left me wanting to eat there every day of my life. The Sober Husband was admiring the results of my fitness regime; my new Fluevogs were delighting me. We were on to the Cat Club, where we danced and drank far later than we normally ever stay out on a weeknight. It was an epic date night, positively Gangnam style.
Last night we went out together for the first time in recent memory. We were a little rusty at it. The Sober Husband wanted us to walk to the restaurant; I wanted to wear my new Fluevog high heels, which are not meant for walking down steep hills. Our conversation faltered. We seemed rife with misinterpretations and misunderstandings. Over at Bar Agricole we failed to get cocktails at the bar from the slow moving bartenders while we waited for our reserved table, and when the table was produced, it was a wretched little table inside. I wanted to sit outside in the herb garden; it was one of the few warm evenings of the year in San Francisco, and this table was truly depressing, hot, stuffy.
I was disappointed, but given how long it had taken for us to get a table (despite having a reservation) and our failure at getting a drink, I didn't want to wait for an outside table. The Sober Husband, though, took command, whizzing off and imperiously directing that we be reseated outside. Once ensconced in my outdoors table, so airy and with a view of the herb garden, I was happy.
"Now we'll be eating in style," said the S.H. admiring our new, superior table.
"Gangnam style!" I agreed.
He furrowed his brow. "What is 'Gangnam style?'"
I was appalled. We really hadn't been spending much time together. How could he have missed my fascination for the K-pop sensation, not to mention Iris über Alles's much-vaunted superiority?Having been a fan of Korean pop music for over a year before PSY had a break-out hit with "Gangnam Style", Iris can be quite vocal and quite condescending on the topic. The K-pop scene is an oddly ubiquitous subject in our home, but evidently only when the Sober Husband is at work.
Could these misfits get along? By the time we'd shared a bowl of white onion soup with barhi dates, shallots, chives, and vadouvan oil, as well as a glass of vinho verde, the conversation began to flow. By the end of our roasted jimmy nardello peppers with corno di toro, nepitella, and tonnato sauce, we were cozying up to one another. We shared a Eureka lemon and ricotta tart with a lavender meringue, and we got a delightful Armagnac cocktail made with absinthe and hibiscus bitters as a gesture from the management to make up for the delays in getting our table and our drinks. Far from my prior feeling, while we were waiting for a table and giving up on getting a cocktail, that I was over Bar Agricole, the magnificence of the soup and the Armagnac cocktail left me wanting to eat there every day of my life. The Sober Husband was admiring the results of my fitness regime; my new Fluevogs were delighting me. We were on to the Cat Club, where we danced and drank far later than we normally ever stay out on a weeknight. It was an epic date night, positively Gangnam style.
Tuesday, October 16, 2012
space exploration news
Teenaged Iris über Alles has an eccentric teacher. Today's update: "He doesn't believe in the moon landing!"
"Well, you must have so much in common, then." I remembered all the debates we'd had in this home and on this blog over whether the moon landing was a hoax.
Iris was dismissive. "Oh, I believe in the moon landing now. I've believed in it for years."
This was news to me.
She went on. "He believes in the Mars landing, he thinks the robots went to Mars, but he thinks the moon landing was a fake." She shook her head in disbelief over this obstinacy, this tinfoil hat thinking.
"Well, you must have so much in common, then." I remembered all the debates we'd had in this home and on this blog over whether the moon landing was a hoax.
Iris was dismissive. "Oh, I believe in the moon landing now. I've believed in it for years."
This was news to me.
She went on. "He believes in the Mars landing, he thinks the robots went to Mars, but he thinks the moon landing was a fake." She shook her head in disbelief over this obstinacy, this tinfoil hat thinking.
Sunday, October 14, 2012
the legend was unveiled
This blog has made me some enemies, but it's made me some great friends as well. I tend to value the friends more highly, because they really understand me, and also it's likely that the people who learned to hate me through this blog would have gotten around to hating me eventually. The blog just speeded things up.
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Whenever I've had the chance to meet a commenter, someone who has commented here more than a few times but instead has commented enough to let their personality shine, it's always been a rollicking good time. Today I finally got to meet the esteemed Hughman, who has always been the alpha commenter here, and my fellow judge in the photo contest (which we should do again one of these days; your DH is lazy and disorganized as ever). Hugh has always been a large figure here; one of my real life friends once asked me, "Who is this Hugh?"
Our planned meeting was a bit in jeopardy when I found myself derailed by an AIDS march. In San Francisco, whenever anyone marches anywhere for any reason, the police allow cross traffic to go through from time to time. West Hollywood, though, is a different story, and I had committed the fatal tourist error of not allocating enough driving time. (This reminded me of how often I've scoffed at people visiting me who make the classic San Francisco tourist error of underdressing for the weather. Poor commenter 2AMsomewhere showed up in a Hawaiian shirt and shorts on a summer evening when it was only about 45 degrees outside, and he was a good sport about both the cold and the ridicule). I bailed out of the rental car and called Hugh as I clipped along. Of course I was dressed like a prostitute from the fifties, complete with retro-looking high heels, and I cursed my decision to wear cute shoes, opposed to the Tevas I'd sported at Disneyland. "You're a long way away," said Hugh sadly after I was finally able to accurately describe my location. But I hung up, hung on, and power-walked a mile up La Cienaga in my shaky heels, with only a little abrasion from an ankle strap to show for this silliness. Someone asked me directions as I raced up the street, and I looked at her as though she were crazy. Wasn't it obvious that I was a moronic tourist?
Finally I got there, and we had a delightful time. At the end, Hugh also got to meet the Sober Husband, Iris über Alles, and an uncharacteristically subdued Lola, who was greatly affected by the SoCal heat. (Earlier Lola had confided in me, "I liked L.A. until I drank the tapwater." She shuddered dramatically). After all these years of reading about them, suddenly they had come to life and were walking about, talking, complaining of the heat, and petting Polly. And for me, I got to see Polly disregarding her owner to scrounge about outside a dumpster (Polly's attitude was clear: if only her owner were to become enlightened, he'd understand how important and enjoyable a bit of dumpster diving can be) and to enjoy sitting outside at Hugh's favorite restaurant, where the handsome waiter treated me like royalty after learning I was Hugh's friend. The internet comes alive at times, and it's delightful.
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Whenever I've had the chance to meet a commenter, someone who has commented here more than a few times but instead has commented enough to let their personality shine, it's always been a rollicking good time. Today I finally got to meet the esteemed Hughman, who has always been the alpha commenter here, and my fellow judge in the photo contest (which we should do again one of these days; your DH is lazy and disorganized as ever). Hugh has always been a large figure here; one of my real life friends once asked me, "Who is this Hugh?"
Our planned meeting was a bit in jeopardy when I found myself derailed by an AIDS march. In San Francisco, whenever anyone marches anywhere for any reason, the police allow cross traffic to go through from time to time. West Hollywood, though, is a different story, and I had committed the fatal tourist error of not allocating enough driving time. (This reminded me of how often I've scoffed at people visiting me who make the classic San Francisco tourist error of underdressing for the weather. Poor commenter 2AMsomewhere showed up in a Hawaiian shirt and shorts on a summer evening when it was only about 45 degrees outside, and he was a good sport about both the cold and the ridicule). I bailed out of the rental car and called Hugh as I clipped along. Of course I was dressed like a prostitute from the fifties, complete with retro-looking high heels, and I cursed my decision to wear cute shoes, opposed to the Tevas I'd sported at Disneyland. "You're a long way away," said Hugh sadly after I was finally able to accurately describe my location. But I hung up, hung on, and power-walked a mile up La Cienaga in my shaky heels, with only a little abrasion from an ankle strap to show for this silliness. Someone asked me directions as I raced up the street, and I looked at her as though she were crazy. Wasn't it obvious that I was a moronic tourist?
Finally I got there, and we had a delightful time. At the end, Hugh also got to meet the Sober Husband, Iris über Alles, and an uncharacteristically subdued Lola, who was greatly affected by the SoCal heat. (Earlier Lola had confided in me, "I liked L.A. until I drank the tapwater." She shuddered dramatically). After all these years of reading about them, suddenly they had come to life and were walking about, talking, complaining of the heat, and petting Polly. And for me, I got to see Polly disregarding her owner to scrounge about outside a dumpster (Polly's attitude was clear: if only her owner were to become enlightened, he'd understand how important and enjoyable a bit of dumpster diving can be) and to enjoy sitting outside at Hugh's favorite restaurant, where the handsome waiter treated me like royalty after learning I was Hugh's friend. The internet comes alive at times, and it's delightful.
Wednesday, October 10, 2012
automotive hell
A couple of months ago I was driving my Volvo merrily down O'Shaughnessy, just about to turn onto the freeway, when suddenly the car lost power, including its power steering. I maneuvered it across a lane of heavy traffic, wrestling with the wheel, and let it drift to a halt. After a short moment of contemplation, I cancelled the appointment I was headed to down the peninsula, as my car did not feel highway-ready. I gingerly turned the car back on. Surprisingly, it drove me back home without doing anything else amiss, and there were no error codes.
We took the car to the Sober Husband's chosen mechanic, who did a variety of things, charging a variety of amounts, and who ominously told us to replace the transmission. "They tell you," he intoned, "that transmissions last a long time, but that's not for San Francisco. That's for ideal driving conditions, you know, freeways." He positively spat with contempt for the lazy driving ways of the non-San Franciscan. "Here in San Francisco, you're driving up hills. You're in traffic. You're stopping and going. You can't have a transmission last like that."
We took the car to the Sober Husband's chosen mechanic, who did a variety of things, charging a variety of amounts, and who ominously told us to replace the transmission. "They tell you," he intoned, "that transmissions last a long time, but that's not for San Francisco. That's for ideal driving conditions, you know, freeways." He positively spat with contempt for the lazy driving ways of the non-San Franciscan. "Here in San Francisco, you're driving up hills. You're in traffic. You're stopping and going. You can't have a transmission last like that."
The Sober Husband and I paid him a large amount of money but weren't ready to fund a new transmission. "I'd rather get a new car," I said bitterly. I kept driving the Volvo.
On one day I had some time to spare, while I waited for Iris über Alles and some privileged friends of hers to take a sewing class in scenic Hillsborough, and I found a pleasant garage in Burlingame where I had my oil changed. I asked the mechanic to change the air filter as well, but he refused. "This one's still good!" he said. I found this refreshing, as at my last oil change, a less honest mechanic had tried to bully me into getting a new air filter, and this one was that same, unchanged one. "You could make a passenger sick with this filter," lectured the sleazy mechanic at me, but this good one held it up and said, "I'm putting it back in."
This pleasant fellow replaced my serpentine belt for me and changed out my transmission fluid, after I saw for myself how murky it was. He shook his head when I told him that the car had just been at another mechanic's a week or two before, who hadn't noticed that the serpentine belt was about to break (I verified this with my own eyes) or changed the transmission fluid.
The Volvo drove me to Burning Man and drove my friend N. back (I felt like a heel giving it to her, but she had to leave early for reasons of child custody, and I wasn't going to be able to cram all of our camp into the Volvo, so she left me her spacious minivan). But then I was rushing down O'Shaughnessy yet again, with the intentions of speeding merrily all the way to Iris's school for an important meeting, and the car died yet again. Once again I managed to get across a couple of lanes of busy traffic, and I was shaken. If that had happened just a few minutes later, I would have been driving 70 or 75 miles per hour in heavy traffic on 280, and it could have caused a horrific accident.
I had the car towed to my favorite mechanic, the mechanic of my heart, who spent some serious time with it. "My advice to you," he said, looking me in the eye more seriously than anyone has who wasn't proposing marriage, "is to sell this car immediately. And I'm not charging you for today." According to this mechanic, the car hadn't thrown an error code in months, and he could not find anything to cause this intermittent failure. I got him to tell the Sober Husband all this on the phone.
Gingerly I drove home. The Sober Husband and I began a debate which has raged on through today, the debate about whether I should get a replacement car and if so, what the hell should it be. I refuse to drive the Volvo, no matter what pressure I may get from the S.H., who complains that "I spend ten more dollars a day on gas now that you're driving my Prius." "Well then," I retort, "get me that Mini Cooper I want."
"Why don't you drive the Volvo?"
"That car is dead to me."
"Lots of people drive unreliable cars. Poor people do every day. I did when I had the Monte Carlo."
It took me a while to develop a proper retort for that argument, but my psychiatrist handed it to me on a plate. Now I can hiss superiorly, "My psychiatrist thinks you do not value my life highly enough!" This tends to lead to a silence, a satisfying one on my end.
While all this has been raging on, I've been driving the Prius. Today the Prius failed as I was attempting to drive to the gym from Lola's school. It turns out that the dealership had found a problem with the accessory battery, and the skeptical Sober Husband, thinking he was being ripped off, felt that he would prefer to wait until it actually failed before replacing it.
"I hate this car now, too," I said. The poor Sober Husband was apologetic over the phone. "You can take a cab to a dealership and buy a new car," he cajoled me, but I wasn't falling for that. "I'm not buying any car unless you're right there to agree it's acceptable," I said. After all, our marriage, unlike the typical one, is largely based upon an unending competition for the moral upper hand. The failure to replace the accessory battery had put me in a powerful position, and I was not about to throw that advantage away. But these cars, yes. I am prepared to throw them away.
Sunday, October 07, 2012
fears
A troubled Lola: "I saw something about 'meningitis epidemic' on the TV screen at the gas station, and I asked Iris, 'What is meningitis?' And she said, 'It's a deadly disease that runs in the family that you're most likely going to get in this epidemic.'"
Me: "DO NOT ASK IRIS QUESTIONS EVER AGAIN."
Me: "DO NOT ASK IRIS QUESTIONS EVER AGAIN."
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
how I burned
This year's Burning Man was more exhausting than usual. Part of that was the weather: we had a couple of days of "dustpocalypse", non-stop whiteouts leaving us crouched in what shelter we could find, holding scarves over our faces if we didn't have dustmasks, giving thanks for our goggles. At one point, stumbling through a white-out to a porta-potty, I had a realization: I had cleared a week and a half absence from my schedule, and in theory I could have gone anywhere. It was my choice to hunker down in a duststorm. "Next year, let's all go to Bali!" I proposed to my campmates on my return. They hunkered down further, passed around a bottle of ancient port, and looked at me through reddened, dust-plagued eyes.
Other than the duststorms, the weather was lovely: not too hot, not too cold, no storms (just a tiny sprinkling of rain, which caused one of my campmates to go into some hyper-storm preparation mode and rearrange our entire zone for some anticipated hurricane-level winds, all for naught).
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My favorite piece of art this year was La Llorona, a life-size replica of a wrecked Spanish galleon, complete with books, bunks, art, dishes, rigging, and anything else you can think of other than parrots. Exploring the different levels of the ship was the best thing I did this year; it made me so very happy to see the incredible level of detail.
Once again my camp gave out quests, and ahead of time I prepared the quest rewards, each tagged with a whimsical name and description of the powers it bestowed to its wearer. It made me happy to see people wandering around on the playa wearing the name tags we'd slaved so hard to create (and Iris came close to rebelling at one point, saying plaintively, "Am I going to have to work in the sweatshop ALL DAY on my birthday??" Loyal Lola whispered, "Sometimes I like working in the sweatshop" behind Iris's back).
Once again after I returned home, I spiked a fever out of the blue. I've been miserable for the past four days, feverish, with an aching head, achy joints, and atrophying muscles. But I'm ready to start planning for next year.
Other than the duststorms, the weather was lovely: not too hot, not too cold, no storms (just a tiny sprinkling of rain, which caused one of my campmates to go into some hyper-storm preparation mode and rearrange our entire zone for some anticipated hurricane-level winds, all for naught).
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Once again my camp gave out quests, and ahead of time I prepared the quest rewards, each tagged with a whimsical name and description of the powers it bestowed to its wearer. It made me happy to see people wandering around on the playa wearing the name tags we'd slaved so hard to create (and Iris came close to rebelling at one point, saying plaintively, "Am I going to have to work in the sweatshop ALL DAY on my birthday??" Loyal Lola whispered, "Sometimes I like working in the sweatshop" behind Iris's back).
Once again after I returned home, I spiked a fever out of the blue. I've been miserable for the past four days, feverish, with an aching head, achy joints, and atrophying muscles. But I'm ready to start planning for next year.
Wednesday, September 05, 2012
home vs. Burning Man
Last night I got home from a week and a half sojourn away at Burning Man. I threw my dust-covered possessions in the garage and rejoined my family, who were kind enough to make a "Welcome Home Mommy" sign.
Readjustment to normal life is never completely easy. At Burning Man, when I have insomnia, I can roll out of bed, put on a jacket, and walk a few yards to a bar where I will find friends. At that bar, I do not have to pay for my drinks.
On the other hand, when I wish to visit a bathroom here, I don't have to walk half a city block to a portapotty. Not to mention that a handsome man carried a cup of coffee, made just the way I like it, upstairs to me this morning...
Readjustment to normal life is never completely easy. At Burning Man, when I have insomnia, I can roll out of bed, put on a jacket, and walk a few yards to a bar where I will find friends. At that bar, I do not have to pay for my drinks.
On the other hand, when I wish to visit a bathroom here, I don't have to walk half a city block to a portapotty. Not to mention that a handsome man carried a cup of coffee, made just the way I like it, upstairs to me this morning...
Saturday, August 25, 2012
don't go
Lola is concerned about me going to the Burning Man festival. Last night she pleaded, "Don't go! Muzzy is going to be set on fire!"
"I'm not going to be set on fire."
"You'll never come back!"
When I told her I was going to miss her, she whispered clandestinely, "You can just stay home." I couldn't argue with that logic.
"I'm not going to be set on fire."
"You'll never come back!"
When I told her I was going to miss her, she whispered clandestinely, "You can just stay home." I couldn't argue with that logic.
can it be?
Today Iris über Alles turned thirteen. She's seemed like a teenager for a long time, years actually, so it seems odd that it took this long for her to reach the teens officially.
She's more than independent enough. Right now she's researching far away boarding schools. "Won't you miss me?" I say, pathetically enough, and she says, with great kindness, "Of course I will, but my education is important!"
She's more than independent enough. Right now she's researching far away boarding schools. "Won't you miss me?" I say, pathetically enough, and she says, with great kindness, "Of course I will, but my education is important!"
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
fiber art
Today I speed-read "Mrs Dalloway" by Virginia Woolf, neglecting my Burning Man preparations, in order to get to my new book club. On my way there I realized I would be confronting this group of lovely, educated, articulate, well-read and refined women with a head full of crazy yarn. Indeed, when I rang the doorbell, the reaction was, well, one of quiet shock.
One book lover rallied gamely. "I've seen a lot of fiber art lately."
One book lover rallied gamely. "I've seen a lot of fiber art lately."
Tuesday, August 21, 2012
ask the Lola
Not long ago I solicited questions for Iris and Lola, and Lola is ready to answer her questions! Without further ado, I hereby present "Ask The Lola."
Longterm reader Silliyak asked, "Should there be a 'Burning Woman' event? Where? What would it be like?"
Lola opines, "Yes, there should be one. I have no idea where it would be. Yeah. There would be no men, I guess, since it's 'Burning Woman.'"
An anonymous reader asked, "Lola, is it fun to be the Fun Police?" Lola said, "Yes. Yes, it is!"
"Is there anything else you want to say about that, Lola?"
"No. The Fun Police work alone."
Another anonymous reader asked, "Lola, what is your favorite word?"
"Eureka!"
A third anonymous person asked, "What is the best advice your sister has ever given you? What is the worst advice your sister has ever given you?"
"I don't know."
"Lola, you gotta say something."
"Seriously, I have no idea."
"Has Iris ever given you any advice?"
"Not that I can remember."
Carroll asked, "What advice would you give to a nine-year-old girl who is starting 3rd grade at a new school where she doesn't already have any friends?"
"Make friends or be alone forever!"
"How would she make friends, Lola?"
"That's the hard part."
"Do you have any advice for her to succeed?"
"Stay in school. Don't tattle on people, or they'll be like [aarrrgh noises]. Yeah."
More questions from Carroll: "Please describe some of your mother's cooking projects for us. Successes? Failures? Your personal Favorites? Do either of you like to cook too? Do you get to use the Aga?"
"Sometime I get to use the Aga. My favorite is da da da da, drum roll, umm, I think mashed potatoes. Definitely mashed potatoes. I don't like any kind of salad, not just that [Muzzy] makes but in general. I don't like salad. I don't really like to cook, but I like stomping mashed potatoes. Muzzy has made broccoli pasta, she has made ... why can't I remember anything you've made? You've made lots of food."
Jane asked, "Lola, I'm buying a new couch this week. What color should I get?"
"Oooh ooh ooh, couches. Orange! If not orange, then black."
Anything else you want to tell the readers, Lolz?
"Pet the cats! Be happy! And that's a wrap."
Longterm reader Silliyak asked, "Should there be a 'Burning Woman' event? Where? What would it be like?"
Lola opines, "Yes, there should be one. I have no idea where it would be. Yeah. There would be no men, I guess, since it's 'Burning Woman.'"
An anonymous reader asked, "Lola, is it fun to be the Fun Police?" Lola said, "Yes. Yes, it is!"
"Is there anything else you want to say about that, Lola?"
"No. The Fun Police work alone."
Another anonymous reader asked, "Lola, what is your favorite word?"
"Eureka!"
A third anonymous person asked, "What is the best advice your sister has ever given you? What is the worst advice your sister has ever given you?"
"I don't know."
"Lola, you gotta say something."
"Seriously, I have no idea."
"Has Iris ever given you any advice?"
"Not that I can remember."
Carroll asked, "What advice would you give to a nine-year-old girl who is starting 3rd grade at a new school where she doesn't already have any friends?"
"Make friends or be alone forever!"
"How would she make friends, Lola?"
"That's the hard part."
"Do you have any advice for her to succeed?"
"Stay in school. Don't tattle on people, or they'll be like [aarrrgh noises]. Yeah."
More questions from Carroll: "Please describe some of your mother's cooking projects for us. Successes? Failures? Your personal Favorites? Do either of you like to cook too? Do you get to use the Aga?"
"Sometime I get to use the Aga. My favorite is da da da da, drum roll, umm, I think mashed potatoes. Definitely mashed potatoes. I don't like any kind of salad, not just that [Muzzy] makes but in general. I don't like salad. I don't really like to cook, but I like stomping mashed potatoes. Muzzy has made broccoli pasta, she has made ... why can't I remember anything you've made? You've made lots of food."
Jane asked, "Lola, I'm buying a new couch this week. What color should I get?"
"Oooh ooh ooh, couches. Orange! If not orange, then black."
Anything else you want to tell the readers, Lolz?
"Pet the cats! Be happy! And that's a wrap."
the friendliest place in Bakersfield
My friend M. and I road-tripped down to far away San Juan Capistrano over the weekend, to hear the legendary Dick Dale on his alleged retirement tour (Dick D. seemed in top form, so enjoying performing and so very good that I suspect true retirement is not going to happen). We decided ahead of time to break up our stay on the way back, rather than do the practically-the-full-length-of-California drive twice in one massive effort. M. found us a charming hotel in Bakersfield, about halfway between S.J.C. and old S.F., ahead of time.
Once we found our lovely hotel in Bakersfield, we had a bit of trouble as our reservation had been mistakenly put into the system for the night before, and we'd been already charged as no-shows. According to the very sweet desk clerk, this happens all the time with online reservation websites, and because those websites don't pass on to the hotel the customer's phone number, the hotel can't call to see if you are truly a no-show. We were tired from our drive and from the heat (we Bay Area girls find the SoCal heat delightful yet draining), and we were pleasant despite this expensive screw-up. The desk clerk wanted to be kind to us, and after M. said, "I just want to check in so we can have a drink" sadly, she asked "How many drinks do you ladies want?" "Maybe four," said M. judiciously, and the clerk surprised us with four buy-one-drink-get-one-free certificates for the hotel bar.
Readers may not be surprised to learn that this gift was welcomed. I'd planned this night to be my night off on my diet competition, and we intended to relax with some alcohol before soaking in the hot tub. After we found our room, we headed to the bar. "Do you have the certificates?" I hissed.
"Yes," M. hissed back. "I haven't let go of them. They haven't left my hand!"
Down at the bar, we found the jukebox painfully loud. The side of the bar away from the jukebox was packed solid, so we were forced to sit on the louder side. The young, female bartender took her time coming over to take our order, and gave us the impression that making drinks for us was the last thing she wanted to do. M.'s inquiry about a margarita was greeted with the gleeful news that no blender drinks were available (you'd have thought she'd asked for a kidney). Stalwart as ever, M. insisted we would accept our margaritas on the rocks and that they be made with Patron. "We might as get expensive ones if we're getting free ones," she whispered.
Eventually the drinks turned up, and the bartender took great bureaucratic pleasure in explaining to us that we couldn't use our wealth of free drinks. "Only one a visit," she said gleefully.
"Okay then," said M. "We're going to have a drink, go to the pool, and then come back. We'll make several visits."
"Only one per visit to the hotel," said the bartender, with even more joy at denying us.
After she bustled off to ruin someone else's fun, we conferred. "Obviously the desk clerk meant for us to drink all these tonight! How can she do that?" I figured out that surely we must each be able to use one of the cards. We were two people, after all. How could the bartender even know we were in the same room? We could be in separate rooms.
That argument seemed to make the bartender even happier, giving her another chance to deny us. I offered one of the cards to a very wrinkled old man sitting near us, but he said he'd used one already and would, like us, be denied. Happily this man, who turned out to be named Don, joined us in excoriating the poor customer service of the bartender. "It's not like anyone would know that she'd taken more than one from you" he said. "And you'd tell everyone to come here. It would be better for the place." He went on at length, and we nodded. The bartender avoided our corner.
We did eventually get more drinks, and although it was not easy, we managed to order some crappy bar food. Getting a glass of water from the bartender was particularly hard, and M. was a bit bitter that only one glass of water came (I offered to split it with her). We confirmed that we intended to leave an uncharacteristically crappy tip.
The one joy of our evening was that M. put a lot of money into the jukebox. "I played every rock song they had," she said happily. "We're gonna hear a lot of Led Zeppelin."
The four deeply sunburnt young men playing pool were not pleased when M.'s jukebox selections started playing. "What the fuck is this shit?" They convened by the jukebox, staring at it.
Our margaritas had taken some effect, and we found this funny. We whispered to each other. "What is song? What play this? Where come from?" Our joy was over, though, when the pool players moved the jukebox out of the wall laboriously and unplugged it, so all the Led Zeppelin M. had paid for was not heard. Instead terrible, crappy country music rang out again, and the four very sunburnt scruffy men congratulated each other loudly.
A sign on the wall stated, in large letters, that this bar was "the friendliest place in Bakersfield."
"If this is friendly, I don't wanna see antagonism," I bitched. We agreed that only Don, also passing through was friendly. A woman passing through the door slammed it in my face as I headed out of the bar.
Once we left the immediate environs of the Friendliest Place In Bakersfield, things picked up. Some men relaxing near the hot tub were eager to show us how to turn the jets on. The weather was beautiful. We remembered the kindness of the desk clerk and resolved to report to her that it was no good giving out those free drink cards.
Once we found our lovely hotel in Bakersfield, we had a bit of trouble as our reservation had been mistakenly put into the system for the night before, and we'd been already charged as no-shows. According to the very sweet desk clerk, this happens all the time with online reservation websites, and because those websites don't pass on to the hotel the customer's phone number, the hotel can't call to see if you are truly a no-show. We were tired from our drive and from the heat (we Bay Area girls find the SoCal heat delightful yet draining), and we were pleasant despite this expensive screw-up. The desk clerk wanted to be kind to us, and after M. said, "I just want to check in so we can have a drink" sadly, she asked "How many drinks do you ladies want?" "Maybe four," said M. judiciously, and the clerk surprised us with four buy-one-drink-get-one-free certificates for the hotel bar.
Readers may not be surprised to learn that this gift was welcomed. I'd planned this night to be my night off on my diet competition, and we intended to relax with some alcohol before soaking in the hot tub. After we found our room, we headed to the bar. "Do you have the certificates?" I hissed.
"Yes," M. hissed back. "I haven't let go of them. They haven't left my hand!"
Down at the bar, we found the jukebox painfully loud. The side of the bar away from the jukebox was packed solid, so we were forced to sit on the louder side. The young, female bartender took her time coming over to take our order, and gave us the impression that making drinks for us was the last thing she wanted to do. M.'s inquiry about a margarita was greeted with the gleeful news that no blender drinks were available (you'd have thought she'd asked for a kidney). Stalwart as ever, M. insisted we would accept our margaritas on the rocks and that they be made with Patron. "We might as get expensive ones if we're getting free ones," she whispered.
Eventually the drinks turned up, and the bartender took great bureaucratic pleasure in explaining to us that we couldn't use our wealth of free drinks. "Only one a visit," she said gleefully.
"Okay then," said M. "We're going to have a drink, go to the pool, and then come back. We'll make several visits."
"Only one per visit to the hotel," said the bartender, with even more joy at denying us.
After she bustled off to ruin someone else's fun, we conferred. "Obviously the desk clerk meant for us to drink all these tonight! How can she do that?" I figured out that surely we must each be able to use one of the cards. We were two people, after all. How could the bartender even know we were in the same room? We could be in separate rooms.
That argument seemed to make the bartender even happier, giving her another chance to deny us. I offered one of the cards to a very wrinkled old man sitting near us, but he said he'd used one already and would, like us, be denied. Happily this man, who turned out to be named Don, joined us in excoriating the poor customer service of the bartender. "It's not like anyone would know that she'd taken more than one from you" he said. "And you'd tell everyone to come here. It would be better for the place." He went on at length, and we nodded. The bartender avoided our corner.
We did eventually get more drinks, and although it was not easy, we managed to order some crappy bar food. Getting a glass of water from the bartender was particularly hard, and M. was a bit bitter that only one glass of water came (I offered to split it with her). We confirmed that we intended to leave an uncharacteristically crappy tip.
The one joy of our evening was that M. put a lot of money into the jukebox. "I played every rock song they had," she said happily. "We're gonna hear a lot of Led Zeppelin."
The four deeply sunburnt young men playing pool were not pleased when M.'s jukebox selections started playing. "What the fuck is this shit?" They convened by the jukebox, staring at it.
Our margaritas had taken some effect, and we found this funny. We whispered to each other. "What is song? What play this? Where come from?" Our joy was over, though, when the pool players moved the jukebox out of the wall laboriously and unplugged it, so all the Led Zeppelin M. had paid for was not heard. Instead terrible, crappy country music rang out again, and the four very sunburnt scruffy men congratulated each other loudly.
A sign on the wall stated, in large letters, that this bar was "the friendliest place in Bakersfield."
"If this is friendly, I don't wanna see antagonism," I bitched. We agreed that only Don, also passing through was friendly. A woman passing through the door slammed it in my face as I headed out of the bar.
Once we left the immediate environs of the Friendliest Place In Bakersfield, things picked up. Some men relaxing near the hot tub were eager to show us how to turn the jets on. The weather was beautiful. We remembered the kindness of the desk clerk and resolved to report to her that it was no good giving out those free drink cards.
Sunday, August 19, 2012
a long drive
The legendary surf music king, Dick Dale, is doing a farewell tour, and my friend Michele and I roadtripped down to see him perform. We bought the tickets when we were both under the misimpression that San Juan Capistrano is near San Luis Obispo, on California's Central Coast. We discovered later, to our dismay, that it was south of Los Angeles.
Oh, how the children laughed merrily at the stupidity of their dear mother. "You have so far to drive!" jeered one, pointing at me and laughing deep, big belly laughs. "How long? Seven hours?
Most of the drive was actually quite pleasant. My friend and I chatted. She read out loud outrageous quotations from Karl Lagerfeld. We were fascinated by his breakfast routine:
Around Los Angeles we, of course, hit traffic, and the last seventy five miles or so of our trip were a taste of stop and go freeway hell. One of my contacts was irritating my eye, and I'd finished my giant bottle of water. I kept reminding myself, "Just a few more miles." But those miles took so long. Finally we arrived at our hotel, where the sound of the freeway is always heard. The weather is spectacular, the surf music was magnificent, Dick Dale is a wonder of the ages (but his son is not so great a drummer, clearly parental affection has clouded the eyes of the surf master). Despite the jeers of the children, this is proving to be a delightful outing.
Oh, how the children laughed merrily at the stupidity of their dear mother. "You have so far to drive!" jeered one, pointing at me and laughing deep, big belly laughs. "How long? Seven hours?
Most of the drive was actually quite pleasant. My friend and I chatted. She read out loud outrageous quotations from Karl Lagerfeld. We were fascinated by his breakfast routine:
The first thing I do when I get up, I have breakfast. I have two protein shakes made for me by my doctor--they have a chocolate taste and no sugar, of course—and steamed apples. That's all. I don't like anything else in the morning. I never drink anything hot; I don't like hot drinks, very strange. I drink Diet Coke from the minute I get up to the minute I go to bed. I can even drink it in the middle of the night, and I can sleep. I don't drink coffee, I don't drink tea, I drink nothing else.We debated the steamed apples. I felt that the best part of an apple is the crisp, satisfying crunch, and steaming the apple seemed insane. Michele felt, on the other hand, that she enjoys baked apples and that a steamed apple could be good. We agreed that we now feel compelled to steam some apples. It must be done.
Around Los Angeles we, of course, hit traffic, and the last seventy five miles or so of our trip were a taste of stop and go freeway hell. One of my contacts was irritating my eye, and I'd finished my giant bottle of water. I kept reminding myself, "Just a few more miles." But those miles took so long. Finally we arrived at our hotel, where the sound of the freeway is always heard. The weather is spectacular, the surf music was magnificent, Dick Dale is a wonder of the ages (but his son is not so great a drummer, clearly parental affection has clouded the eyes of the surf master). Despite the jeers of the children, this is proving to be a delightful outing.
Thursday, August 16, 2012
an elegant salad and descriptive faux pases
I usually prefer to buy salads in restaurants or at the one grocery store in town with a really great salad bar (the Molly Stone's in Pacific Heights), because it feels to me that homemade salads are usually not so good. It's too expensive and too much trouble to buy and prepare so many fresh vegetables at home, whereas a restaurant enjoys the economy of scale. Simpler salads usually are unsatisfying to me. I want my salad to be complex.
There have been a few exceptions to this, interesting simple salads that I've made and enjoyed, but nothing that really made me think, "Here it is! This is the salad of my heart, that I can make here at home." But! Then this week I finally made the salad that made me stop and say, "Oh my God, I have to say this myself, this is really fucking good... and it's so simple. It's as good as something from a restaurant."
"It's better than something from a restaurant", said the Sober Husband, who sometimes rises to the occasion verbally. He did not stay at that level of conversational grace, however, when it was time to clear the table. In the kitchen, when he was putting away the food, he said loudly, "Hey! There's more of this green glop left!" I winced. The "green glop" was pistou for the entree, soupe au pistou, made lovingly by me from organic fresh basil and really expensive Sicilian olive oil, and it tasted to me like one of the best things I'd ever made (I am completely over pesto; I'm all about its French version, pistou, which seems infinitely better to me).
Iris paid the salad the compliment of having many servings, and it was basically demolished. Lola, however, eyed it with distrust and was not interested in it.
Just two days later we had friends over for a small dinner party, and I made the salad again, but changing it up a bit, featuring asparagus instead of zucchini. Once again it was loved and devoured, but before then, having a bit of trouble with the crowded table, the Sober Husband asked, "Can everyone just pass that stuff around", indicating the beautiful salad in a lovely, large, hand-made bowl. I balked.
"Please don't describe something I made as 'stuff'," I said. "Can you call it a salad?" I brought up the "green glop" remark which still stung. "I work hard to make good food, and please don't call it 'glop' or 'stuff.' If you can't think of the category word, like 'salad' or 'sauce', just call it 'food.' 'Food' works. Say, 'Pass that food around.'"
The guests were bemused at this little contretemps and set forth on a discussion of whether "stuff" is dismissive or not. But soon they began to eat, and instead the conversation moved to how good the food is and then to the fascinating topic of what does Mitt Romney really believe in his heart, and the dinner was on.
Hours later, as our guests were leaving, our friend said loudly, for the Sober Husband's benefit, "And thanks for that GREEN STUFF, it was really great!"
The Green Stuff Salad
large amount of fresh baby spinach, arugula, or other very pleasing fresh green
a vegetable to contrast (zucchini and asparagus are the two I have used)
1/2 cup or more fresh basil
1/4 cup pine nuts
1/4 cup pine nuts
olive oil (must be very good, flavorful olive oil -- pick the murkiest cold pressed, extra virgin one on the shelf at the store)
a few lemons
a little sea salt (optional)
good Parmesan cheese
Steam the vegetable until it is soft but not mushy. Set aside to cool. (If you use a zucchini, slice it in half lengthwise to steam, steam about 5 minutes, and after it has cooled, cut it in as paper-thin slices as you can. For asparagus, snap the hard end of the stem off by hand, steam the remaining stalks 5-8 minutes but do not overcook, then slice in short, diagonal pieces).
Toast the pine nuts in a little pan over a burner, frequently stirring.
Squeeze the lemons and measure the juice. You want a ratio of 1:2 lemon juice to olive oil. If you are making a small salad, whisk 1 T lemon juice with 2 T olive oil. I made a big salad last night, with 1/4 C olive oil and 1/8 C lemon juice. Pour any leftover lemon juice into a glass of water and drink it.
Toss the greens and basil leaves with the dressing. Spread the steamed vegetable on top. Sprinkle with the pine nuts. Sprinkle a bit of sea salt on top, if you like. Take the good Parmesan and, with a vegetable peeler, peel off some nice curls of Parmesan. Decorate the top of the salad with those. Bon appetit!
Tuesday, August 14, 2012
enjoy this blog while it lasts
"Is my last name on that blog? Will you delete it when I run for president?" asked an ambitious child. "I don't want it used against me."
"No, and I'll be dead by then."
"I'll delete it for you then."
"No, and I'll be dead by then."
"I'll delete it for you then."
Monday, August 13, 2012
in my neon armor
The Sober Husband and I collaborated on a project this year, if by "collaborate" you mean one person has an idea and the other one does 100% of the work. My idea was a corset lit up with little programmable lights; I got the idea from an eighth grader at Iris's school, who made a jacket with wearable lights integrated into it. "Thank you, I am so doing this for Burning Man!" I said to her sincerely, and she gave me a look which I took to mean that she was having a hard time knowing whether I was joking or not.
Over many trials throughout the past few months, the Sober Husband persevered in building a prototype. The first version was on a corset, but projected out too far from my body, making me despair. "I look so huge in this," I mourned. "I'm sure it will look cool, but my vanity..." Also, as several people noted, it looked like a dalek.
The S.H. was undaunted. "It's like on 'Project Runway', it's always the tailoring that is the problem." We abandoned the idea of a corset. For the next version, he took casts of my body and built a sort of plastic armor for the lights. Eventually we arrived at the second version, after an interim attempt which sliced open my finger so theatrically while I was trying it on that I actually opened up an artery, dramatically spraying blood across the room. Its running time is about ten hours, and its charging time is currently 24 hours (but the never-fazed Sober Husband thinks he can get that charging time down to 12 hours).
After the hardware was built, it was time for the software. Everyone had ideas. "I want it to say 'Iris!'" demanded a certain child. I thought perhaps a Union Jack pattern would be good or a sort of rainstorm interrupted by lightning. The Sober Husband liked a pattern like the matrix, of downward drifting strings of green lights. Some combinations were too seizure-riffic.
Fully expecting some errors in the field out at Burning Man, the Husband fretted that it would not be robust enough to survive without him. No one entertained the idea that I be expected to repair it. I asked my camp's mailing list who could solder, and it turned out that several campmates intended to bring soldering irons to Burning Man. A helpful campmate came over to our house and was trained by the Sober Husband on how to maintain the mechanism.
Tonight I'm giving it a test run in the home. "Do normal things," the Sober Husband instructed me. So as I write this, I am strapped into a neon cuirass. The main things I am noticing are that it digs into the insides of my upper arms and that the lighting from below my chin is a bit reminiscent of Halloween. I started making ghoulish faces, and little Lola was bemused, but quickly coopted. It has not failed yet, nor caused anyone to have a seizure, but it's early days yet.
Sunday, August 12, 2012
I won't ask for that again
He took a look. "This looks great!"
"Go to Calmart," I instructed him. "I know they have cranberry beans there; I saw them. Also, then you can go to the bookstore there and buy the book for Lola's bookclub."
He began to look harried.
When I came home around 5:30, a bit tired and low energy as I hadn't eaten since 9 AM and had walked halfway across San Francisco (during the lunch break I stood patiently in a sluggish line, at the only place near my class which sells food, behind a large clot of puzzled French tourists trying to figure out what a churro is, only to discover that this lunch spot was out of all the vegetarian food. And why couldn't they have written that on the menu board and saved us all precious time, which we'll never have again??), I noticed that there were three bags of fresh cranberries on the counter, along with some other vegetables.
"Um, what did you get these for?" I asked. It didn't seem incomprehensible to me that there were cranberries, as the children love cranberry pie and cranberry juice.
"For the soup! And it was really hard to find them!" said the Sober Husband proudly.
"Sugarplum, you were supposed to get cranberry beans, not cranberries!" I said.
"I asked the children, and none of us knew what cranberry beans were," he said, crestfallen.
"Why didn't you ask someone in the produce section? I know they have them; they were hard to miss!" I kvetched.
We put the cranberries in the freezer. A bit later the Sober Husband asked me tentatively, "If I went and got the cranberry beans, do you still have enough energy to cook?"
I assured him, and he set off again. This time he returned proudly with two bags of dried cranberry beans.
"Sweetheart, it was supposed to be FRESH cranberry beans. I can't use those."
He looked at them. The instructions on the bags clearly stated that the beans needed to be soaked overnight. "Can you soak them and use them tomorrow?"
"No, this soup is just for FRESH vegetables." By then an hour and a half had elapsed since I came home from my class. I stomped into the kitchen and heated myself up some leftovers. "Are you doing this so I'll never ask you to go to the store again?" I asked suspiciously.
Saturday, August 11, 2012
the 2 pack
As a result of a year of keeping to a rigid, strenuous exercise regimen, there have been a lot of changes to my body. The one zone of my body which sums everything up nicely is my abdomen.
Up at the top of my abdomen, I have developed some very noticeable muscular definition. I have the outline of the top of a lovely six pack. But down a bit lower the entire situation dissolves into chaos, a flabby, stretchmarked mess with baggy skin, attesting to my having carried two massive, nine pound babies (one three weeks overdue, so a very long pregnancy with a very large baby, indeed). Some damage was also done by my having carried around my "third baby" for so long (a massive benign tumor which, by the time I had it removed, was giving me many of the physical symptoms of being in the third trimester). And of course it would be only honest to admit that I put on a lot of weight, first after I had Lola, when I was depressed and went on medication with the side effect of "unexplained weight gain" which was explained to me only after I'd put on twenty-five pounds, later when I was in chronic pain from my tumor and also from an ankle injury. Losing most of that weight has been good for me and my body overall, but the lower abdomen is where the story of my excesses and sufferings has been written.
If you poke the top of my abdomen, around the two pack, it's like poking something inanimate. The muscles are so strong and hard. I welcome that sort of prodding; sometimes I bully the poor Sober Husband into admiring that little zone. Just don't go prying around below it, where you'd expect to find the rest of a six-pack. You're just going to depress us all.
Up at the top of my abdomen, I have developed some very noticeable muscular definition. I have the outline of the top of a lovely six pack. But down a bit lower the entire situation dissolves into chaos, a flabby, stretchmarked mess with baggy skin, attesting to my having carried two massive, nine pound babies (one three weeks overdue, so a very long pregnancy with a very large baby, indeed). Some damage was also done by my having carried around my "third baby" for so long (a massive benign tumor which, by the time I had it removed, was giving me many of the physical symptoms of being in the third trimester). And of course it would be only honest to admit that I put on a lot of weight, first after I had Lola, when I was depressed and went on medication with the side effect of "unexplained weight gain" which was explained to me only after I'd put on twenty-five pounds, later when I was in chronic pain from my tumor and also from an ankle injury. Losing most of that weight has been good for me and my body overall, but the lower abdomen is where the story of my excesses and sufferings has been written.
If you poke the top of my abdomen, around the two pack, it's like poking something inanimate. The muscles are so strong and hard. I welcome that sort of prodding; sometimes I bully the poor Sober Husband into admiring that little zone. Just don't go prying around below it, where you'd expect to find the rest of a six-pack. You're just going to depress us all.
Friday, August 10, 2012
special troubles
Lately the most noticeable thing going on in my life is that I'm playing the the Game On Diet competition. I've been having a rough time this week, and it makes me feel guilty.
Meanwhile my teammates have been excelling, and I'm pulling them down. It's like my team is Michael Phelps, and I'm a little rock tied to his ankle. He's still winning, but he must look down at that rock and think, "*#@&#, I gotta get rid of this!" My teammates insist they are not feeling that way, but I think they must be.
First I was sick. I ran a fever for three days, and on one of those days, I did not exercise at all. The second day I exercised lightly (which is allowed in this game if one is ill); the third day I made myself exercise vigorously. Yesterday I went back to the gym for one of my normal hellish workouts, but still, that is one day with no exercise and one with baaaarely any exercising (running errands on foot).
Next, I went off to have my hair braided. This screwed up my diet day largely because I couldn't meet my water drinking goal for the day (one of the most important rules is to drink three liters of water each day) because I spent six hours without drinking, while my head was being wrenched to and fro and things fastened to it.
Stupidly enough I only realized as I left the salon that I had just added several pounds of weight... which meant I couldn't make my weigh-in goal. I felt like an idiot. I weighed myself at the gym, and I had gone up over three pounds, three pounds of yarn, some little metal clips, and hair extensions.
That evening I petitioned everyone in the game. "I have a Burner problem," I said. "I got my hair braided for the playa, and it weighs over three #(@& pounds!" I attached a photo. Everyone in this game has been to Burning Man, and they all empathized. Even the people on the other teams agreed that I should be able to adjust my weight by several pounds to compensate for the huge weight on my head, although the word "freak" was used.
Struggling on, I persist as well as I can. I must not be a rock, or if I am a rock, I must be a pebble.
Meanwhile my teammates have been excelling, and I'm pulling them down. It's like my team is Michael Phelps, and I'm a little rock tied to his ankle. He's still winning, but he must look down at that rock and think, "*#@&#, I gotta get rid of this!" My teammates insist they are not feeling that way, but I think they must be.
First I was sick. I ran a fever for three days, and on one of those days, I did not exercise at all. The second day I exercised lightly (which is allowed in this game if one is ill); the third day I made myself exercise vigorously. Yesterday I went back to the gym for one of my normal hellish workouts, but still, that is one day with no exercise and one with baaaarely any exercising (running errands on foot).
Next, I went off to have my hair braided. This screwed up my diet day largely because I couldn't meet my water drinking goal for the day (one of the most important rules is to drink three liters of water each day) because I spent six hours without drinking, while my head was being wrenched to and fro and things fastened to it.
Stupidly enough I only realized as I left the salon that I had just added several pounds of weight... which meant I couldn't make my weigh-in goal. I felt like an idiot. I weighed myself at the gym, and I had gone up over three pounds, three pounds of yarn, some little metal clips, and hair extensions.
That evening I petitioned everyone in the game. "I have a Burner problem," I said. "I got my hair braided for the playa, and it weighs over three #(@& pounds!" I attached a photo. Everyone in this game has been to Burning Man, and they all empathized. Even the people on the other teams agreed that I should be able to adjust my weight by several pounds to compensate for the huge weight on my head, although the word "freak" was used.
Struggling on, I persist as well as I can. I must not be a rock, or if I am a rock, I must be a pebble.
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