So! I have been sick for over six months now, not with one thing, but with a series of things each following the other in lockstep. Flus, colds, fevers, sinus infections, coughs, aches and pains... The last few weeks have been marred by severe nausea, causing me to not work and to skip some social engagements I actually wanted to attend.
This week I developed a disturbing new symptom. When I roll over at night in my sleep, I become so dizzy that the dizziness wakes me up and is painful. During the worst episode of this, the room was spinning around me, exactly as if I'd gotten completely trashed and had what we called in college "the bedspins." I had no alcohol in my system at all, though. These episodes are completely miserable, and since my sleep is fragile due to severe insomnia, they are not easily overcome.
Meanwhile, my test results came back. If you were to look at my blood alone, you would have to say, "Huh. There is nothing wrong with this person." No problems with the liver, thyroid, white blood cell levels, glycemic levels, cholesterol, etc.. My blood pressure is fine. Evidently I have no ulcer, either. Every hypothesis so far has been ruled out.
Wednesday, March 19, 2014
Friday, March 14, 2014
an idiot dreaming of the purple rain
Late at night recently Prince's people announced he was playing this weekend in the Bay Area. Last weekend he did a couple of last minute shows in L.A., and presumably he felt like doing the same up in NoCal this weekend. The tickets sold out within minutes, of course.
I figured that he was likely to add another show. I looked at the calendar for the venue. It was suspiciously empty for the next day. Late last night I kept refreshing the calendar, and then the object of my desire appeared: another Prince show the next night. I felt ever so clever. But the link to buy tickets didn't work. I refreshed that many times. Examining the site more closely, I found a link which said that the tickets for that show would go on sale at "12:00 pm Thurs 3/13." Clearly that couldn't be noon on Thursday, because the show's existence wasn't announced until around 10:30 p.m. It must mean midnight on Thursday, I reasoned. Everyone else went to bed. I myself was exhausted but determined, having missed the amazingly wonderful shows Prince put on last year in San Francisco which everyone but me attended and bragged about on Facebook for weeks (I hate them all). The Sober Husband unhelpfully joked, "Don't you know some poor person in Oakland who can go stand in line for you?"
"There is no line! It's all online!" I snapped. I took my laptop downstairs. Around midnight I started trying to buy tickets. Every few minutes I'd refresh the screen, but the tickets never went on sale. Eventually I fell asleep. In the morning I tried again, but it still wasn't working. After I drove the children to school, I looked at the website again, and far from the tickets going on sale, the show had been taken off the listings.
"I lost a night's sleep for nothing," I told the Sober Husband over the phone. "I am so stupid."
I figured that he was likely to add another show. I looked at the calendar for the venue. It was suspiciously empty for the next day. Late last night I kept refreshing the calendar, and then the object of my desire appeared: another Prince show the next night. I felt ever so clever. But the link to buy tickets didn't work. I refreshed that many times. Examining the site more closely, I found a link which said that the tickets for that show would go on sale at "12:00 pm Thurs 3/13." Clearly that couldn't be noon on Thursday, because the show's existence wasn't announced until around 10:30 p.m. It must mean midnight on Thursday, I reasoned. Everyone else went to bed. I myself was exhausted but determined, having missed the amazingly wonderful shows Prince put on last year in San Francisco which everyone but me attended and bragged about on Facebook for weeks (I hate them all). The Sober Husband unhelpfully joked, "Don't you know some poor person in Oakland who can go stand in line for you?"
"There is no line! It's all online!" I snapped. I took my laptop downstairs. Around midnight I started trying to buy tickets. Every few minutes I'd refresh the screen, but the tickets never went on sale. Eventually I fell asleep. In the morning I tried again, but it still wasn't working. After I drove the children to school, I looked at the website again, and far from the tickets going on sale, the show had been taken off the listings.
"I lost a night's sleep for nothing," I told the Sober Husband over the phone. "I am so stupid."
Thursday, March 13, 2014
oddly the same
Recently we were at a friend's home at the same time he was working on his application for disability benefits. "I hate writing," he complained. Additionally, he has limited use of his hands (the primary reason for needing disability), which made typing hard. "Does anyone like writing?"
I couldn't resist. I pulled up a chair and studied what he'd written. "You need to really emphasize the pathetic parts," I said. "You're leaving out so much. And you've got to lead with the worst parts." I sat down and rewrote the short essay, emphasizing the truly horrific facts in my friend's case.
On the way home, I noted to the Sober Husband, "It was just like applying to Lowell!"
San Francisco has one -- and only one-- academic magnet high school. (There is also a magnet school for the arts). Dreaming of a high-quality and free education, we had Iris uber Alles apply. The process was not quite what we'd expected. First, the application required a couple of essays -- and they were all explicitly aimed at establishing just how much Iris had suffered in life. The application specified that essays should address issues the applicant had experienced such as homelessness, poverty, immigration, parents being jailed, etc.. Then later in the process, Iris was required to write an essay at her present school, while being proctored --- and once again the topic was what challenges she'd faced in life, aimed at drawing out stories of great socioeconomic suffering.
I think it's appropriate that kids who have had a rough start in life be given an advantage in getting into the special public school. Bright kids who've faced so much adversity in life but managed to cope nonetheless deserve the very finest in life. But yet it's sad that San Francisco has only the one magnet school for academic high-fliers and that the process is so one-note. There seems to be something amiss if applying for an academic magnet school is eerily like applying for SSI.
I couldn't resist. I pulled up a chair and studied what he'd written. "You need to really emphasize the pathetic parts," I said. "You're leaving out so much. And you've got to lead with the worst parts." I sat down and rewrote the short essay, emphasizing the truly horrific facts in my friend's case.
On the way home, I noted to the Sober Husband, "It was just like applying to Lowell!"
San Francisco has one -- and only one-- academic magnet high school. (There is also a magnet school for the arts). Dreaming of a high-quality and free education, we had Iris uber Alles apply. The process was not quite what we'd expected. First, the application required a couple of essays -- and they were all explicitly aimed at establishing just how much Iris had suffered in life. The application specified that essays should address issues the applicant had experienced such as homelessness, poverty, immigration, parents being jailed, etc.. Then later in the process, Iris was required to write an essay at her present school, while being proctored --- and once again the topic was what challenges she'd faced in life, aimed at drawing out stories of great socioeconomic suffering.
I think it's appropriate that kids who have had a rough start in life be given an advantage in getting into the special public school. Bright kids who've faced so much adversity in life but managed to cope nonetheless deserve the very finest in life. But yet it's sad that San Francisco has only the one magnet school for academic high-fliers and that the process is so one-note. There seems to be something amiss if applying for an academic magnet school is eerily like applying for SSI.
Wednesday, March 12, 2014
feline failures to perform
The last couple of nights my insomnia has been particularly intense. Last night, as I lay awake in the wee ours of the night, I felt irritated that no cats were keeping me company. Usually you can rely upon having one about, but lately, no. "There are five cats in this house," I thought, "and where are they?" None were pulling their weight, I felt.
At some point I padded quietly to the bathroom. As I passed Iris's room, I heard the sound of multiple cats purring. Evidently all five cats had chosen to spurn me for Iris.
It was hard not to take this personally. "$#*@& ingrates," I thought.
Eventually I fell asleep, only to be awakened by the insistent attentions of Coconut, our largest and neediest cat. Coconut pushed against me until I petted him, and he walked on me, crying. It was hard to feel excited about this, though. Coconut was clearly thinking of breakfast. Affection was a means to an end. I accepted it, though, reaching down to stroke his silky fur.
At some point I padded quietly to the bathroom. As I passed Iris's room, I heard the sound of multiple cats purring. Evidently all five cats had chosen to spurn me for Iris.
It was hard not to take this personally. "$#*@& ingrates," I thought.
Eventually I fell asleep, only to be awakened by the insistent attentions of Coconut, our largest and neediest cat. Coconut pushed against me until I petted him, and he walked on me, crying. It was hard to feel excited about this, though. Coconut was clearly thinking of breakfast. Affection was a means to an end. I accepted it, though, reaching down to stroke his silky fur.
Saturday, March 08, 2014
medical hypotheses
I saw a new medical practitioner, who thinks that there is probably a combination of things going on with me, likely some but not all of the following: (a) ulcer, (b) vitamin D deficiency, (c) diabetes, (d) anemia, and/or (e) thyroid problem. Her top bets are an ulcer/vitamin D deficiency combo. I'm skeptical about the vitamin D theory (I go into the light; I drink vitamin D enhanced milk in my coffee) but willing to swallow some supplements.
On Monday I'm having a large amount of blood drawn for labwork, but we did the ulcer test already (but the results won't be back from the lab for weeks). I was fascinated to see that ulcer tests are done by breath nowadays. Long, long ago in the eighties I was tested for an ulcer, and I had to drink a lot of barium and have a series of x-rays taken while I was cavorting about topless and embarrassed. Nowadays there's still a drink involved, but it's relatively tasty. "It tastes like Crystal-Lite. Lemony," said the tech, and she was right. Not at all like the thick, nasty barium solution which solidified in my gut and caused me to feel as though I'd swallowed a cannonball.
The entire ulcer test was charming, as opposed to its eighties forebear. First I had to wait until a full hour had elapsed after the last thing had gone into my mouth (I'd had a glass of water upon arrival at the office, injudiciously as it turned out). Then I took a deep breath, held it, popped the cap off a little mylar bag, and then thoroughly exhaled through a spout, filled the bag, and capped it. Then the tech carefully watched me drink the faux Crystal-lite down through a special straw (I am not sure why the straw was important, but it was included in the lab kit, and the tech made a big point out of searching for it and having me use it). Then after exactly fifteen minutes, I took another deep breath, held it for over four seconds, and then filled up another mylar bag. So much nicer than the old barium days, which no one would have described as charming.
What would really be charming would be a functioning immune system. While I was at the doctors, I also got a tetanus shot, which the tech tried to talk me out of on the grounds that it is risky to get vaccinated when one has a depressed immune system. I took it anyhow, because I'm going through training offered only once a year for wildlife rehabilitation work, and I have to get a tetanus shot by the end of the month or I'll be dropped from the training and will have to wait a full year for another chance. There's no reason to think waiting another couple of weeks is going to mean a drastic improvement in my health, so I ignored the well-meant advice and got the shot.
Today, the day after the shot, I dragged myself to my training despite feeling ill, and the class was full of sick people who'd evidently done the same: a room of coughing, sneezing, feverish looking animal lovers forcing themselves out of bed. I looked about and thought, "Good luck getting healthy" about myself.
On Monday I'm having a large amount of blood drawn for labwork, but we did the ulcer test already (but the results won't be back from the lab for weeks). I was fascinated to see that ulcer tests are done by breath nowadays. Long, long ago in the eighties I was tested for an ulcer, and I had to drink a lot of barium and have a series of x-rays taken while I was cavorting about topless and embarrassed. Nowadays there's still a drink involved, but it's relatively tasty. "It tastes like Crystal-Lite. Lemony," said the tech, and she was right. Not at all like the thick, nasty barium solution which solidified in my gut and caused me to feel as though I'd swallowed a cannonball.
The entire ulcer test was charming, as opposed to its eighties forebear. First I had to wait until a full hour had elapsed after the last thing had gone into my mouth (I'd had a glass of water upon arrival at the office, injudiciously as it turned out). Then I took a deep breath, held it, popped the cap off a little mylar bag, and then thoroughly exhaled through a spout, filled the bag, and capped it. Then the tech carefully watched me drink the faux Crystal-lite down through a special straw (I am not sure why the straw was important, but it was included in the lab kit, and the tech made a big point out of searching for it and having me use it). Then after exactly fifteen minutes, I took another deep breath, held it for over four seconds, and then filled up another mylar bag. So much nicer than the old barium days, which no one would have described as charming.
What would really be charming would be a functioning immune system. While I was at the doctors, I also got a tetanus shot, which the tech tried to talk me out of on the grounds that it is risky to get vaccinated when one has a depressed immune system. I took it anyhow, because I'm going through training offered only once a year for wildlife rehabilitation work, and I have to get a tetanus shot by the end of the month or I'll be dropped from the training and will have to wait a full year for another chance. There's no reason to think waiting another couple of weeks is going to mean a drastic improvement in my health, so I ignored the well-meant advice and got the shot.
Today, the day after the shot, I dragged myself to my training despite feeling ill, and the class was full of sick people who'd evidently done the same: a room of coughing, sneezing, feverish looking animal lovers forcing themselves out of bed. I looked about and thought, "Good luck getting healthy" about myself.
Thursday, March 06, 2014
six months sick
For over six months now, I've been sick. Not with one ailment, one precise disease, but with a multitude of little ones, each one following on the previous one's heels. Over that six months, I've felt almost healthy one or two days each month -- each time thinking, "Hey! I feel almost all better! Maybe I'll go to the gym tomorrow", only to wake up feeling sick the next day with something new.
Colds, flus, viruses, low grade fevers, aches and pains-- each illness seeming too unimportant for a doctor's visit, none seeming to require a prescription be written. For the past three weeks, it's been consistent nausea, headaches, and weakness.
And... I'm gaining back weight, my once amazing gym-toned muscles are turning to flab, and I'm bored and boring.
Holed up at home, my existence is somewhat Proustian at the moment, but I don't have his admirable cork soundproofing. Marcel vanquished the street noises of Paris, but I'm hearing San Francisco tear up the sidewalks in my neighborhood.
Meanwhile my doctor quit and moved away (this is my second good doctor to do this, following on the heels of my long-term, beloved dentist). I'm trying a new medical professional out tomorrow, but it feels ridiculous to go to the doctor with such a nebulous sort of problems.
Colds, flus, viruses, low grade fevers, aches and pains-- each illness seeming too unimportant for a doctor's visit, none seeming to require a prescription be written. For the past three weeks, it's been consistent nausea, headaches, and weakness.
And... I'm gaining back weight, my once amazing gym-toned muscles are turning to flab, and I'm bored and boring.
Holed up at home, my existence is somewhat Proustian at the moment, but I don't have his admirable cork soundproofing. Marcel vanquished the street noises of Paris, but I'm hearing San Francisco tear up the sidewalks in my neighborhood.
Meanwhile my doctor quit and moved away (this is my second good doctor to do this, following on the heels of my long-term, beloved dentist). I'm trying a new medical professional out tomorrow, but it feels ridiculous to go to the doctor with such a nebulous sort of problems.
Saturday, March 01, 2014
humiliating wishes
Recently the Sober Husband asked me what I want (which he could give me, of course; if I could have anything, it might be an improved immune system, outlawing veal, ending testing on rats, a Chinese crested dog, or a houseboy). Pondering this led to a conversation with Iris uber Alles.
"There are two things I want, but I'm too embarrassed to tell you. It's really pretty humiliating. You're going to make fun of me."
"Now you have to tell me!"
"You're going to say I'm too materialistic. Well, the first one is a vintage trailer."
Contemptuously Iris spat out, "Everyone knows that!" It's true that over the past few years, I've spent a lot of time looking at what I call "trailer porn", and I went so far as to leave a note on a beautiful little vintage Scamp begging the owners to call me if they ever want to sell it.
I carried on, but lost my courage. "I can't say the other one. I can't."
"There's been so much build-up, you have to say it!"
Finally, after some pressing, I admitted to wanting a browlift. "My eyes are the main good thing about me." I'd like to get rid of the bags under my eyes and tighten up my sagging brows.
Iris reacted with surprise. "Honestly, I don't think you need one. You're not aging badly like [name deleted] or other people your age."
"But look." I demonstrated how fabulous I'd look by pulling back my brow.
"I'd get the trailer."
However, in the end what the Sober Husband probably has in mind is more along the lines of buying me a bag of jelly beans or taking me out to dinner. While I'm dreaming, I should probably imagine myself post brow-lift, looking bright-eyed and merry in my darling vintage trailer.
Sunday, February 09, 2014
love, Sober Husband style
"I'm going to Texas," the Sober Husband, who travels a lot for work nowadays, informed me. "On February 14th."
I looked at him. "Do you know what day that is?" I asked sternly.
He gave me his best Bambi-caught-in-the-headlights look, with long, fluttering eyelashes over beseeching eyes. I stared stonily.
Eventually a child broke the silence. "It's Valentine's Day, duh!" said the child contemptuously to her father.
"And I guess we're not doing anything for it," I said.
I looked at him. "Do you know what day that is?" I asked sternly.
He gave me his best Bambi-caught-in-the-headlights look, with long, fluttering eyelashes over beseeching eyes. I stared stonily.
Eventually a child broke the silence. "It's Valentine's Day, duh!" said the child contemptuously to her father.
"And I guess we're not doing anything for it," I said.
Thursday, January 23, 2014
IMing with the Sober Husband
IM convo with husband:me: Are you there?
Sober Husband: Yup. Composing my reply to your reply.
me: about what?
Sober Husband: Nearing the airport now, home in maybe an hour.
...about the meaning of all that jargon in the Wikipedia entry on the Pauli principle.
me: i don't even remember this
Sober Husband: You wrote me 19 minutes ago. I'm replying.
me: ?? Did I get hacked?
Sober Husband: Oh, you're my wife.
Wednesday, January 08, 2014
Lolz has an idea
"If we get another kitten that's mutated, like Lobster [a foster kitten with deformed front feet]? We should name it 'Vodka Mutini." - eleven year-old Lolz
Sunday, January 05, 2014
who knew?
The Sober Husband is en route to Bangalore on a lengthyish business trip, one which he dreaded due to jetlag reasons and which I dreaded because (a) I am lazy and don't want to have to do everything while he is gone and (b) once I went to India for about a month, and I considered myself lucky to get out. I got gored on the arm by a street cow, and my ex had such violent dysentery that, already a skinny man, he lost about thirty pounds and resembled a Holocaust victim. Also, I got weirdly attacked in a group groping in Varanasi, my ex got attacked by a cab driver, and we spent the last day of our trip holed up in our hotel reading an Ayn Rand novel (me, the faster reader, reading a section then tearing it out and handing it to him).
I famously vowed never to go to India again, and now my favorite husband has gone off there without me there to keep an eye on him. The man has lots of urban street smarts, having grown up in a very rough neighborhood in Chicago, but no foreign street smarts, so I worry. When we were in Palestine, we saw a riot forming, and he wanted to push our infant's stroller over to join it, quelled only by my hissing "Are you insane?"
While he's away, I consoled myself by eating all his Christmas candy. Indeed I ate every palatable piece of candy in this house. I had some pride, though. As I was doing housework I discovered part of a sriracha-flavored candy cane lying discarded on the floor, and I chose not to eat this myself. Instead I fed it to the parrot.
It turns out parrots are insane about sriracha candy canes. Who knew? The combination of sweet and spicy tickled the avian taste buds just right, and the parrot greedily crunched the candy cane, swivelling her eyes about in fear that someone might attempt to steal this delicious treat away.
Meanwhile the Sober Husband stumbled off his overnight flight in Singapore to discover a truly odd monument to Spongebob and Christmas. Again, who knew?
I famously vowed never to go to India again, and now my favorite husband has gone off there without me there to keep an eye on him. The man has lots of urban street smarts, having grown up in a very rough neighborhood in Chicago, but no foreign street smarts, so I worry. When we were in Palestine, we saw a riot forming, and he wanted to push our infant's stroller over to join it, quelled only by my hissing "Are you insane?"
While he's away, I consoled myself by eating all his Christmas candy. Indeed I ate every palatable piece of candy in this house. I had some pride, though. As I was doing housework I discovered part of a sriracha-flavored candy cane lying discarded on the floor, and I chose not to eat this myself. Instead I fed it to the parrot.
It turns out parrots are insane about sriracha candy canes. Who knew? The combination of sweet and spicy tickled the avian taste buds just right, and the parrot greedily crunched the candy cane, swivelling her eyes about in fear that someone might attempt to steal this delicious treat away.
Meanwhile the Sober Husband stumbled off his overnight flight in Singapore to discover a truly odd monument to Spongebob and Christmas. Again, who knew?
Thursday, December 19, 2013
driving with Baby
My love affair with my Mini Cooper, a.k.a. "Baby", continues. Yesterday I admonished the children to speak respectfully of her. "Her? 'Baby' is a girl?" asked Iris as she got into the car. Buckling her seatbelt, Iris turned to me, obviously making a great effort to keep a straight face. "Where are Baby's genitals?" she asked with great faux seriousness.
Tuesday, December 17, 2013
the wisdom of Lola's mother
Lola has been taking quotations from her idols, such as Einstein and da Vinci, and making inspirational posters at school. I suggested immodestly that she make one with some quote from me.
"What do you say? I don't remember anything you say," said Lola dismissively.
"What do you say? I don't remember anything you say," said Lola dismissively.
Wednesday, December 11, 2013
festive expectations
Our stalwart eleven year-old Lola is getting braces in the New Year, as soon as her last baby tooth falls out. We were discussing what life with braces will be like, including what she won't be able to eat, and Lola pointed a finger at me and said sternly, "I WILL be expecting at least two pounds of taffy for Christmas. It IS required..."
I cut her off mid-sentence. "Expecting? Required? You can't talk about Christmas that way!"
Lola backtracked immediately. "I am so sorry!"
Still, the expectation lingers...
I cut her off mid-sentence. "Expecting? Required? You can't talk about Christmas that way!"
Lola backtracked immediately. "I am so sorry!"
Still, the expectation lingers...
Sunday, December 08, 2013
why we rarely go out of an evening
The Sober Husband's new company held its Christmas party last night, and we dragged ourselves there. I felt like staying in, as it was very cold out and we have four very cute foster kittens and two reasonably cute children in the home. "There'll be free alcohol," said the Sober Husband winningly. "I can drink at home," I said loftily. But guilt over my relative loseriness as a spouse caused me to wriggle into a glamorous outfit, exhibiting lots of lace-lined cleavage, and strap on glamorous shoes.
Next there was a bit of conflict over transit. I started calling for a car, but the Sober Husband looked at me as though I were an idiot. "You do know where this is, right? Walking distance from the train?"
I pointed out my footwear and the fact that we were having a cold snap. "You want me to go out in that cold and walk down a cliff in heels?"
Winning that little disagreement, I summoned a Lyft. However, I then noticed my cellphone thought my location was downtown. I called the driver and told him our true location. He called me back and pressured me into canceling. "I don't want to cancel because it's a five dollar fee, and I don't feel I should have to pay that," I whined, but the driver had no intention of coming out to get us, and I finally caved.
I regretted that when I then tried to call a new Lyft and learned that no drivers were available. I started taking off my shoes and determined to stay home. The Sober Husband balked. "I thought we were going out; I thought we had a date."
Eventually we obtained an UberX car, one with a driver who had no idea how to reach our destination and no GPS. The Sober Husband suggested to the driver that he could just let us out roughly half a mile away, and I snorted. In the end the Sober Husband got directions on his iPhone and struggled to impart them to the driver.
At the large, cavernous party location, we saw a lot of lines. Lines for the coat checks. Lines for sushi. Lines for alcohol. It was cold. We forged on, not checking our coats, and found a bar with no line in a remote, outdoor zone. The drinks were small and mostly composed of ice. Then we discovered a candy bar, with limitless amounts of candy and convenient paper bags. We each filled a bag with candy with the intention of bringing it home to the children. The Sober Husband kept protesting that we couldn't take so much, but I pshawed. "You think they don't have more?"
We roamed about, running into only three people the Sober Husband knew. The place was gorgeously decorated but cold, so cold. I found a spot by a snaky duct which blew blistering hot air on my ankles, and I stood there a long time. After about an hour total, we left. A famous band was scheduled to play, but I wasn't interested. "Their music is whiny," I said. "I have nothing against them, but it's wasted on me."
We went outside to summon a Lyft home and discovered one of the three people the Sober Husband had recognized, doing the same. "You're leaving already?" the Sober Husband asked. We bonded, and I explained to this coworker how to use app-based car services.
At home I summoned the young people. "Assemble! Assemble!" They ignored me. "I have candy!" This brought results. "Why, hello there," breathed the same Lola who had ignored me upon my arrival. We dumped out all the candy on the dining room table, and our offspring were in ecstasy. I took off my shoes and changed out of my sultry, tight clothes into a bathrobe, to the disappointment of the Sober Husband, who'd made a few admiring remarks about the view. He soon wandered off to become immersed in a coding project, and I opened my literary horror novel. Normalcy was restored.
Next there was a bit of conflict over transit. I started calling for a car, but the Sober Husband looked at me as though I were an idiot. "You do know where this is, right? Walking distance from the train?"
I pointed out my footwear and the fact that we were having a cold snap. "You want me to go out in that cold and walk down a cliff in heels?"
Winning that little disagreement, I summoned a Lyft. However, I then noticed my cellphone thought my location was downtown. I called the driver and told him our true location. He called me back and pressured me into canceling. "I don't want to cancel because it's a five dollar fee, and I don't feel I should have to pay that," I whined, but the driver had no intention of coming out to get us, and I finally caved.
I regretted that when I then tried to call a new Lyft and learned that no drivers were available. I started taking off my shoes and determined to stay home. The Sober Husband balked. "I thought we were going out; I thought we had a date."
Eventually we obtained an UberX car, one with a driver who had no idea how to reach our destination and no GPS. The Sober Husband suggested to the driver that he could just let us out roughly half a mile away, and I snorted. In the end the Sober Husband got directions on his iPhone and struggled to impart them to the driver.
At the large, cavernous party location, we saw a lot of lines. Lines for the coat checks. Lines for sushi. Lines for alcohol. It was cold. We forged on, not checking our coats, and found a bar with no line in a remote, outdoor zone. The drinks were small and mostly composed of ice. Then we discovered a candy bar, with limitless amounts of candy and convenient paper bags. We each filled a bag with candy with the intention of bringing it home to the children. The Sober Husband kept protesting that we couldn't take so much, but I pshawed. "You think they don't have more?"
We roamed about, running into only three people the Sober Husband knew. The place was gorgeously decorated but cold, so cold. I found a spot by a snaky duct which blew blistering hot air on my ankles, and I stood there a long time. After about an hour total, we left. A famous band was scheduled to play, but I wasn't interested. "Their music is whiny," I said. "I have nothing against them, but it's wasted on me."
We went outside to summon a Lyft home and discovered one of the three people the Sober Husband had recognized, doing the same. "You're leaving already?" the Sober Husband asked. We bonded, and I explained to this coworker how to use app-based car services.
At home I summoned the young people. "Assemble! Assemble!" They ignored me. "I have candy!" This brought results. "Why, hello there," breathed the same Lola who had ignored me upon my arrival. We dumped out all the candy on the dining room table, and our offspring were in ecstasy. I took off my shoes and changed out of my sultry, tight clothes into a bathrobe, to the disappointment of the Sober Husband, who'd made a few admiring remarks about the view. He soon wandered off to become immersed in a coding project, and I opened my literary horror novel. Normalcy was restored.
Friday, December 06, 2013
strange as it may seem
I have started working. I have, at least for the nonce, gotten up off the couch, turned off the internet, and re-entered the world of the working for pay.
What will become of this? Where will it all end? How long will it last?
What will become of this? Where will it all end? How long will it last?
Tuesday, November 26, 2013
sarcasm where sarcasm is not due
Over dinner the family was discussing budget cuts we could make ('tis the season to cut back on discretionary spending; we are attempting to figure out whether we can afford to send Iris to private high school). The Sober Husband noted that he rarely drives his car nowadays, since he normally takes a luxurious company bus to work (the bus in question has hardwood floors, a very friendly driver, and a WiFi connection faster and more reliable than any home internet we've ever had).
"I wasn't asking you to sell your car because I know you love it so much," I said. The Sober Husband and his Prius (nicknamed by me "the Science Coffin") seem like a perfect match.
The Sober Husband scoffed. "I don't care if that car lives or dies."
I looked at him in horror. "Don't talk that way!"
Iris intervened. "It's not like it's the Baby," she said, referring to my beloved MINI Cooper. "The Baby is a beloved member of the family. His car is just a car."
"I'm so glad you understand," I said.
Iris rolled her eyes. "I was being sarcastic."
Sunday, November 24, 2013
sojourning in Ojai
Iris über Alles and I roadtripped down to Ojai, to visit a boarding school. This school is famous for its horses (each freshman is assigned a horse to care for), but no one had told us it could also be famous for its dogs. Delightful dogs roamed the campus freely. The campus itself was breathtaking: gorgeous views at every turn, contented teenagers going about their responsible ways amongst bucolic spectacular beauty, devoted faculty members gazing with admiration at the students.
Private schools always talk about their diversity, but this one seems to have achieved it. At a school-wide assembly, teenagers of every color and size all appeared engaged and happy, not a single one rolling their eyes or acting above it all. Iris was taken about the school by a miniskirted girl from Japan; I was given a tour by a rangy Christian from Texas. I remarked to my guide, "Everyone tells you about the horses, but no one mentions the dogs." Her delightful reply was, "There's lots of cats, too!"
Later Iris and I reconvened. "Thacher is the happiest place on earth," I said wonderingly. "I have never seen such happy teenagers." Iris agreed, but darkly noted that she might be too sarcastic and unhappy by nature to attend.
Private schools always talk about their diversity, but this one seems to have achieved it. At a school-wide assembly, teenagers of every color and size all appeared engaged and happy, not a single one rolling their eyes or acting above it all. Iris was taken about the school by a miniskirted girl from Japan; I was given a tour by a rangy Christian from Texas. I remarked to my guide, "Everyone tells you about the horses, but no one mentions the dogs." Her delightful reply was, "There's lots of cats, too!"
Later Iris and I reconvened. "Thacher is the happiest place on earth," I said wonderingly. "I have never seen such happy teenagers." Iris agreed, but darkly noted that she might be too sarcastic and unhappy by nature to attend.
Wednesday, November 20, 2013
ugh, another year stuck being me
It's my birthday, a day of great depression and unhappiness always for me. Two "friends" have severed contact with me this week, kind of icing on the cake. Usually I feel on this day that the world would have been a much happier place if I had not been born (certainly my family of origin would have been), but I have to reconsider because that would mean Iris and Lola wouldn't exist. They are so wonderful and really all I have in the world, with the Sober Husband. I guess I have good luck with making a little family, although very little luck with friends.
Friday, November 01, 2013
the kindergarten promotion
The Sober Husband took a new job, at a new company. The job is a huge promotion, a much loftier and important job than he's held before, with huge new challenges and responsibilities. However, to us, he's like a kindergartener.
This grew out of a joke I made, when I regretted not being there to send him off on his first day (I was at Burning Man). "That's silly, you don't need to be here," said the Sober Husband.
"But it's like your first day going off to school," I said. "I should take a picture of you."
While I was just being silly, the parallels began to mount. The Sober Husband now takes a bus to work, like a school child. After the children started school, he tried a different bus route so that he could spend more time with us in the morning, but the new route didn't suit him so well. "I had people I talked to in the morning on the other bus," he said fretfully. He changed back to his old routine.
I explained this to the children. "Daddy has bus friends, and he didn't make new friends on the other bus, so he wants to ride the old bus with his old friends. He's like a kindergartener."
Also, the kids at the new school dress differently than the ones at the last place. I ordered the Sober Husband a new sort of shirt so he would feel that he fit in better.
And, as the icing on the cake, at work, when the Sober Husband needs to clear his head, he goes into a special nap room. The children seized upon this. "He really is a kindergartener. He naps!"
The poor man is beset with stress and responsibility, but to us, he is a tall kindergartener.
This grew out of a joke I made, when I regretted not being there to send him off on his first day (I was at Burning Man). "That's silly, you don't need to be here," said the Sober Husband.
"But it's like your first day going off to school," I said. "I should take a picture of you."
While I was just being silly, the parallels began to mount. The Sober Husband now takes a bus to work, like a school child. After the children started school, he tried a different bus route so that he could spend more time with us in the morning, but the new route didn't suit him so well. "I had people I talked to in the morning on the other bus," he said fretfully. He changed back to his old routine.
I explained this to the children. "Daddy has bus friends, and he didn't make new friends on the other bus, so he wants to ride the old bus with his old friends. He's like a kindergartener."
Also, the kids at the new school dress differently than the ones at the last place. I ordered the Sober Husband a new sort of shirt so he would feel that he fit in better.
And, as the icing on the cake, at work, when the Sober Husband needs to clear his head, he goes into a special nap room. The children seized upon this. "He really is a kindergartener. He naps!"
The poor man is beset with stress and responsibility, but to us, he is a tall kindergartener.
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