I was up until 2 AM because I sustained a large burn on the palm of my hand cooking Anton's special dinner for his birthday, and the pain prevented me from going to sleep. I got through the dinner itself by icing my hand, but the pain when I was trying to stop icing was unbelievable. I used up all the ice in the house, plus a bag of frozen corn and a cylinder of grape juice concentrate (plus a bottle of chilled white wine, this last taken internally, while the others were administered externally).
We're fostering a litter of tiny kittens right now, three little gray tigers with a lot of attitude. On day one, they were growling and biting (there's nothing much cuter than a baby animal who can't even effectively walk trying to scare someone), but now they have come to regard me as The Source Of All Food. They're at this incredibly awkward phase, where they are transitioning from bottlefeeding to eating solids, which means they have to be fed and they make a huge mess. I'm doing at least one load of laundry a day which is solely cat laundry (I use a towel every time I feed them, plus there's a towel in their container which needs constant changing).
So now, when I get up, the parrot is screaming for breakfast, our own three cats are squawking and leading me towards their bowls, the fish needs feeding, the children need breakfast, AND before I can really do anything, I have to sit down and feed the starving kittens. Thankfully the rats are low maintenance and are happy to chill out in the mornings. (Rats: the ideal pet!)
The three kittens need two different medications: one twice a day, one three times a day. Al, Lucy's cat, needs two different medications as well, and this normally mellow cat turns into a spitting, shrieking monster when he sees the medications. Al lost control of his bladder when I was medicating him yesterday, the little orange freak, meaning I had to strip the couch cushion covers and launder them.
All this means, at a minimum, that before I've even had a cup of frigging coffee I have to spend a solid hour feeding and medicating animals, then cleaning the kittens' container. I've gone from having a halfway house with my pet alcoholic to having a veterinary clinic. It was my idea, so I shouldn't complain, but it's hard work, and there's no support to be had from the husband. I should note that I don't expect him to do any of the routine work of the foster kittens or pets (although he does traditionally have the parrot out during his breakfast). He has been helping me medicate Al, which turns out to be a 3 person job: me using one hand to scruff Al and the other to administer the meds, both Anton and Iris restraining the struggling animal. For someone who only weighs seven pounds, Al sure has a lot of pent up rage.
This morning was extra stressful because the phone was ringing off the hook (including a call from Al's vet asking how the meds are helping him; he's only been on them for TWO DAYS so it's too soon to tell, so why are you wasting your presumably valuable time and mine, vet?). Also, without consulting me, Anton had scheduled a document destruction company to come take my old legal files, which were taking up too much room in the garage. I had to go through all the boxes to make sure everything was good to go. A truck arrived with the world's largest shredder in the back, and they shredded everything in plain sight and then presented us with a bill.
I'm hoping tomorrow's hellish routine will be easier, without the document destruction and with hopefully more sleep.
Off now for the night-time routine of feeding and medicating cats. Sigh.
Monday, August 21, 2006
Sunday, August 20, 2006
the husband elaborates
Defending his adoption of Tony Soprano as a role model, the husband soliloquized today. "It's because Tony's at one end of a spectrum, and that guy from Harvard, you know, that guy who talks about race all the time?"
"Cornel West."
"Yeah, Cornel West. Tony Soprano is at one end of a spectrum, and Cornel West is at the other. And I feel like I'm at the Tony Soprano end.... I'm a nihilist. I am amoral. I have no morals. I don't think I can have any morals until I"m making a lot more money. It's like Tony says, he's doing it to support his family."
"Tony's also into organized crime for his own twisted purposes," I said.
"Well, that's what it looks like to us. But he's doing it for his family. I have to support my family. I can't afford to have any morals... until I have a lot more money [pauses to think]. Then I'll be able to give money to public TV."
"Cornel West."
"Yeah, Cornel West. Tony Soprano is at one end of a spectrum, and Cornel West is at the other. And I feel like I'm at the Tony Soprano end.... I'm a nihilist. I am amoral. I have no morals. I don't think I can have any morals until I"m making a lot more money. It's like Tony says, he's doing it to support his family."
"Tony's also into organized crime for his own twisted purposes," I said.
"Well, that's what it looks like to us. But he's doing it for his family. I have to support my family. I can't afford to have any morals... until I have a lot more money [pauses to think]. Then I'll be able to give money to public TV."
Saturday, August 19, 2006
my cat is allergic to his own teeth
So Lucy's cat, Al, is kind of freakish. We've had him since he was a tiny little thing, weighing only 10 ounces or so (we were his foster parents; I bottlefed him). He's skeletal but bizarrely ravenous, mooching food very aggressively. Al is so sweet and such a beta cat by nature. The major selling point for adopting him was that he allowed Lucy, then only two, to swaddle him in a towel and pretend he was a human baby.
He has always had bad breath and pinkish gums, and today, on a visit for suspected earmites, I asked the vet to take a look in his mouth. Previously I tried treating his inflamed gums with an over-the-counter substance which you add to the cats' water. The only result was that the cats shunned their water and survived for a week by licking the tub out after Anton or I took a shower.
So the new vet (I dramatically fired our old vet last week) first ruled out feline HIV and feline leukemia, and then said, "This is going to sound crazy, but this is the best way to explain it. Some cats are allergic to their own teeth. That's not exactly accurate, but it's the closest I can come to describing it." The vet put Al on antibiotics, which he doesn't expect to fix his gums but feels he should try. After that, it's on to a course of steroids. And if the steroids fail, I'm supposed to have all of Al's teeth pulled by a feline dentist under anesthesia, which should cost ~$1,000. (Yes, I will get a second opinion before I have his teeth pulled).
Anton, who previously questioned the point of his entire existence when a vet bill for some sickly rats exceeded his daily pay ("I can't work for rats"), can't be expected to pony up for this without a fight.
He has always had bad breath and pinkish gums, and today, on a visit for suspected earmites, I asked the vet to take a look in his mouth. Previously I tried treating his inflamed gums with an over-the-counter substance which you add to the cats' water. The only result was that the cats shunned their water and survived for a week by licking the tub out after Anton or I took a shower.
So the new vet (I dramatically fired our old vet last week) first ruled out feline HIV and feline leukemia, and then said, "This is going to sound crazy, but this is the best way to explain it. Some cats are allergic to their own teeth. That's not exactly accurate, but it's the closest I can come to describing it." The vet put Al on antibiotics, which he doesn't expect to fix his gums but feels he should try. After that, it's on to a course of steroids. And if the steroids fail, I'm supposed to have all of Al's teeth pulled by a feline dentist under anesthesia, which should cost ~$1,000. (Yes, I will get a second opinion before I have his teeth pulled).
Anton, who previously questioned the point of his entire existence when a vet bill for some sickly rats exceeded his daily pay ("I can't work for rats"), can't be expected to pony up for this without a fight.
Friday, August 18, 2006
the gist of the matter
After Iris's swimming lesson, we needed to pick up Lucy from a playdate. Iris was pissed. "I hope you know I'm doing this under protest," she informed me. Her position was that we leave Lucy to live forever at her friend's house, not going to see her ever, "not even for a visit."
"You know, Lucy is just as important a member of this family as you are," I said.
"No way! That's crazy!"
"Yes."
"I don't think Anton would say that." Her almost seven year-old mind was blown.
"You know, Lucy is just as important a member of this family as you are," I said.
"No way! That's crazy!"
"Yes."
"I don't think Anton would say that." Her almost seven year-old mind was blown.
wish me strength
Tonight is the night Lucy's been looking forward to all week: her pajama party (the guests include me and Anton; snobby Iris is above attending a 3 year-old sister's function). She's going to be allowed to stay up all night long (read: until she drops). Everyone will wear pajamas and play sardines until the wee hours!!
This is the husband's idea. Ever since Lucy saw a Bananas in Pajamas story about the Bananas' pajama party, she's been obsessed. I suggested at one of her playdates that she play pajama party, and she screamed and screamed. "I want a real pajama party ... where you stay up all night long!"
God. Wish me strength.
11:18 update: I'm tired, despite having had two Red Bulls earlier in the evening. Lucy reports whiningly, "This is a pajama party, but Daddy is getting sleepy!" Iris has consented to going to bed, even though Lucy's staying up for her pajama party, under the conditions that (a) she get a good bedtime snack, (b) Anton reminds her to disinfect her newly pierced ears, (c) Lucy is required to brush Lucy's teeth, and (d) "you KEEP QUIET!" at the pajama party. What a little lawyer. She recited her list of conditions several times to make it all clear.
This is the husband's idea. Ever since Lucy saw a Bananas in Pajamas story about the Bananas' pajama party, she's been obsessed. I suggested at one of her playdates that she play pajama party, and she screamed and screamed. "I want a real pajama party ... where you stay up all night long!"
God. Wish me strength.
11:18 update: I'm tired, despite having had two Red Bulls earlier in the evening. Lucy reports whiningly, "This is a pajama party, but Daddy is getting sleepy!" Iris has consented to going to bed, even though Lucy's staying up for her pajama party, under the conditions that (a) she get a good bedtime snack, (b) Anton reminds her to disinfect her newly pierced ears, (c) Lucy is required to brush Lucy's teeth, and (d) "you KEEP QUIET!" at the pajama party. What a little lawyer. She recited her list of conditions several times to make it all clear.
our role models
Iris has lately been adopting Bart Simpson as an example to follow. This drives me insane, with her pestering me to assist her in Bartlike capers, e.g., "When can I smoke butter? I want to smoke butter! Bart smokes butter!"
Losing it in the car one day, I said loudly, "Bart Simpson is a fictional character and NOT A ROLE MODEL, Iris, and that goes for you, too, Anton, with Tony Soprano!"
Anton, who had been sniggering, clammed up at that point. He has asked for a custom "What Would Tony Soprano Do?" bumper sticker for his birthday.
Losing it in the car one day, I said loudly, "Bart Simpson is a fictional character and NOT A ROLE MODEL, Iris, and that goes for you, too, Anton, with Tony Soprano!"
Anton, who had been sniggering, clammed up at that point. He has asked for a custom "What Would Tony Soprano Do?" bumper sticker for his birthday.
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
the mind of the husband
My husband has a strange mind. He likes to call himself "an enigma wrapped in a mystery", but I prefer to refer to him as an idiot savant (which sometimes feels like only a slight exaggeration).
His educational background sums him all up: he's a high school dropout who never bothered to get a GED, but instead bummed around and smoked a lot of pot, but he also holds a PhD. in physics from a very prestigious university. The man is brilliant, but sometimes he can be the dumbest genius you've ever met.
Things my husband has done which smack of brilliance:
* when the refrigerator broke, he just pulled it out from the wall, opened it up, figured out the problem, and fixed it... taking about twenty minutes total. He had never repaired a refrigerator before;
* with no assistance, built a radio-controlled robot which broadcast television pictures of what it saw. By watching the televised feed, you could then use the radio control to order the robot to spray people with its pressurized water gun;
* so many computer software feats of magnificence that I can't catalogue them all.
But don't forget the Dark Side of the husband's brain. For example, he can't cook. When I was pregnant and on bedrest, I asked him to make me some frozen pierogies. The box contained instructions suitable for an idiot: they were detailed and written quite simply. Nonetheless, the husband asked me NINE QUESTIONS (I started counting them), such as "The box says to put the pierogies in oil up to their lip. Does that mean the bottom of the pierogi lip or the top of the pierogi lip?" and "The box says to cook it until they are golden. How dark is golden?" It's enough to make a person gibber.
I had told the Pierogi Story before, but friends discounted it. Then one of my friends was over for dinner, and I asked Anton to help out by making breadcrumbs. All he needed to do was to take some frozen bread (I save the ends of artisanal loaves in the freezer for this purpose) and put it in the food processor. What could be easier? But he could not figure it out. He kept interrupting my friend and me over and frigging over again. "Should I cut it up first?" "How much should I put in at once?" "Can you take a look at this? Is this small enough?" It went on and on and on. She said, "I thought you were exaggerating about him, but now I see you weren't."
His brain has no space in it for Machiavellian maneuvers or diplomacy. It's straight, painful honesty you get from the man. A few years ago, when we had a toddler, a second baby on the way, and he'd just gotten his benefits and pay slashed at his struggling start-up employer, it was clear the man needed a new job. As he was leaving the house to interview at a successful company, he remarked to me, "If they ask me why I want the job, I'm going to just have to tell them that I don't want the job." Hormonal and stressed out, I freaked out, literally pulling my hair out. "YOU CAN'T SAY THAT!" He stared at me, nonplussed. "But I don't want the job, so how can I lie to them?" "Just.. promise me... you .. WON'T SAY YOU DON'T WANT THE JOB!" I screamed at him. (He ended up liking the interviewers and taking the job, which led to making great connections and obtaining the finest healthcare benefits, which we later milked through COBRA).
But anyhow, through much of my life I have felt like I was the smartest person in a given room, and I always feel happier when that's not the case. I like being around sharp minds, able intellects, wits who can keep up a rapid volley. With my husband, I'm never the smartest person in the room, but we don't actually volley much badinage around. Our brains are smart in such differing ways that there isn't much overlap where we can enjoy being smart together. Instead, one is always sneering down or gazing up admiringly at the other. On the bright side, although the conversation may not be Algonquinesque, we do complement one another nicely in practical terms. For example, he got an imposingly long and dense consulting contract, and I marked it up for him and showed him the controversial parts. "Don't read these other pages; just don't trouble your pretty little head with them," I crooned. But when the wireless network was hosed, I was helpless to do more than flip the power switch off and on. "Just let the tech support take care of it," he said sweetly ("tech support" being one of his nicknames).
His educational background sums him all up: he's a high school dropout who never bothered to get a GED, but instead bummed around and smoked a lot of pot, but he also holds a PhD. in physics from a very prestigious university. The man is brilliant, but sometimes he can be the dumbest genius you've ever met.
Things my husband has done which smack of brilliance:
* when the refrigerator broke, he just pulled it out from the wall, opened it up, figured out the problem, and fixed it... taking about twenty minutes total. He had never repaired a refrigerator before;
* with no assistance, built a radio-controlled robot which broadcast television pictures of what it saw. By watching the televised feed, you could then use the radio control to order the robot to spray people with its pressurized water gun;
* so many computer software feats of magnificence that I can't catalogue them all.
But don't forget the Dark Side of the husband's brain. For example, he can't cook. When I was pregnant and on bedrest, I asked him to make me some frozen pierogies. The box contained instructions suitable for an idiot: they were detailed and written quite simply. Nonetheless, the husband asked me NINE QUESTIONS (I started counting them), such as "The box says to put the pierogies in oil up to their lip. Does that mean the bottom of the pierogi lip or the top of the pierogi lip?" and "The box says to cook it until they are golden. How dark is golden?" It's enough to make a person gibber.
I had told the Pierogi Story before, but friends discounted it. Then one of my friends was over for dinner, and I asked Anton to help out by making breadcrumbs. All he needed to do was to take some frozen bread (I save the ends of artisanal loaves in the freezer for this purpose) and put it in the food processor. What could be easier? But he could not figure it out. He kept interrupting my friend and me over and frigging over again. "Should I cut it up first?" "How much should I put in at once?" "Can you take a look at this? Is this small enough?" It went on and on and on. She said, "I thought you were exaggerating about him, but now I see you weren't."
His brain has no space in it for Machiavellian maneuvers or diplomacy. It's straight, painful honesty you get from the man. A few years ago, when we had a toddler, a second baby on the way, and he'd just gotten his benefits and pay slashed at his struggling start-up employer, it was clear the man needed a new job. As he was leaving the house to interview at a successful company, he remarked to me, "If they ask me why I want the job, I'm going to just have to tell them that I don't want the job." Hormonal and stressed out, I freaked out, literally pulling my hair out. "YOU CAN'T SAY THAT!" He stared at me, nonplussed. "But I don't want the job, so how can I lie to them?" "Just.. promise me... you .. WON'T SAY YOU DON'T WANT THE JOB!" I screamed at him. (He ended up liking the interviewers and taking the job, which led to making great connections and obtaining the finest healthcare benefits, which we later milked through COBRA).
But anyhow, through much of my life I have felt like I was the smartest person in a given room, and I always feel happier when that's not the case. I like being around sharp minds, able intellects, wits who can keep up a rapid volley. With my husband, I'm never the smartest person in the room, but we don't actually volley much badinage around. Our brains are smart in such differing ways that there isn't much overlap where we can enjoy being smart together. Instead, one is always sneering down or gazing up admiringly at the other. On the bright side, although the conversation may not be Algonquinesque, we do complement one another nicely in practical terms. For example, he got an imposingly long and dense consulting contract, and I marked it up for him and showed him the controversial parts. "Don't read these other pages; just don't trouble your pretty little head with them," I crooned. But when the wireless network was hosed, I was helpless to do more than flip the power switch off and on. "Just let the tech support take care of it," he said sweetly ("tech support" being one of his nicknames).
garbage on TV
Lucy (in disgust): "Now there is something I never wanted to see in my whole life. Garbage on TV!" Lucy leaves room, comes to see me: "Mommy, there was GARBAGE on TV!"
(I think "Reading Rainbow" took a field trip to a landfill, and poor Lucy's sensibilities were scarred).
(I think "Reading Rainbow" took a field trip to a landfill, and poor Lucy's sensibilities were scarred).
Sunday, August 13, 2006
Lucy's interrogation
Lucy, wearing sunglasses, flowered pajama bottoms, and nothing else, leaned coolly on the back of the couch and interrogated me in a rather professional manner:
"Question one: How did you get to the playground, baby monkey? [said in a very accusatory manner]...
Question four: How did you get to Disneyland? ...
Question eight: How did she get a baby in her tummy and make her have a big tummy?...
Question eleventy: How did Joyce's hair get pink in it?"
This went on for half an hour.
"Question one: How did you get to the playground, baby monkey? [said in a very accusatory manner]...
Question four: How did you get to Disneyland? ...
Question eight: How did she get a baby in her tummy and make her have a big tummy?...
Question eleventy: How did Joyce's hair get pink in it?"
This went on for half an hour.
Iris's lament
Iris's letter of complaints, written for her father during his absence:
*"Muosey/Mousy" = a nickname for the Drunken Housewife
** Lied.
"Lucy bad when Antons not there. Cried too much hoged muosey*
Mean
She intorapted me even on the phone.
Hogged the rats.
Hoged Mousy.
Lieade.**
Hogged everythinge."
*"Muosey/Mousy" = a nickname for the Drunken Housewife
** Lied.
Friday, August 11, 2006
plenty of cuteness for some of us
There's nothing cuter than three year-old Lucy/Lola intoning, "Don't.. push... Lola..'cuz... she's... close... to ... the ... edge", unless she's also dancing with dramatic hands and gets it slightly wrong, chanting "Don't... push...Lola...'cuz... she's ... close... to...the...side."
Today Iris slept in until 11 (what a tiny teenager). Anton left at 4:30 a.m. to catch his flight to Chicago. Lola/Lucy and I got up, and she insisted (before I'd even had any coffee) that we were to do a project from my Preschoolers' Activity Book. For the first time, our hitherto unfailable book fucked me over. I picked making stained glass window crayons, which meant combining all our broken crayons (which I'd been saving up for some vague art project), peeling the paper off them, and baking them at 400 degrees in a greased muffin tin.
Round one: although we had generously greased the tins, the beautiful stained glass crayons would not come out. Casualty: one muffin tin. We tried again, lining another tin with tin foil. This time, I had to do most of the work, as Lola/Lucy was fed up. We succeeded in making three beautiful stained glass crayons, but somehow the molten crayon mix ate through the tin foil and adhered to the bottom of the other cups. Second round casualties: second muffin tin, slight burn to right hand, and molten wax all over kitchen sink. I tried scrubbing it out, but it wouldn't come off. I was able to chip most of it off with a knife, but still quite a lot of wax remains.
I had a dreadful sore throat all day, but I mustered us up to meet friends we hadn't seen in ages at the playground. I'm so glad I did, because the sun came out, we basked delightfully in the heat while the children played, and one friend sneaked us in a bottle of Prosecco. Other mommy/children combos we knew were there as well, and it was great right up until pissy Lola/Lucy tired of being there and commenced to whining mightily, pulling at me, and demanding to go home. I tried to talk her into going to a restaurant, but she'd have none of that, so home it was.
And at home, we had a horrendous sibling war over who could hold the rat known alternatively as "Cute Bone" and "Tinky Winky", depending upon which pissy little child you ask. We fed the vacationing neighbors' cat, and the children just wanted to rifle through the glamorous teenaged daughters' bedrooms, which I couldn't allow. The horrible keys didn't work in the locks without a huge amount of frustration and effort. On the bright side, there's strawberry cake left over from yesterday's dinner party (which was another bright point in the Drunken Housewife's life: visiting friends from Tucson over for plenty of rat rescue chat and food), and the husband's morning sucked more. He got up at 4:00 after about a grand total of three hours sleep, drove to the airport where he reported a hideously long wait for a shuttle bus from long-term parking, and such huge, horrendous lines for checking in baggage that he abandoned his pocket knife and just carried on his one bag. The poor thing was flying on the day of a huge terrorism scare, with the National Guard swarming about the airport and all coffee forbidden aboard aircraft. Heh, I enjoyed (meanly enough) thinking about that while I was basking at the park, but after a full day of squabbling siblings, I'm wanting him back.
Today Iris slept in until 11 (what a tiny teenager). Anton left at 4:30 a.m. to catch his flight to Chicago. Lola/Lucy and I got up, and she insisted (before I'd even had any coffee) that we were to do a project from my Preschoolers' Activity Book. For the first time, our hitherto unfailable book fucked me over. I picked making stained glass window crayons, which meant combining all our broken crayons (which I'd been saving up for some vague art project), peeling the paper off them, and baking them at 400 degrees in a greased muffin tin.
Round one: although we had generously greased the tins, the beautiful stained glass crayons would not come out. Casualty: one muffin tin. We tried again, lining another tin with tin foil. This time, I had to do most of the work, as Lola/Lucy was fed up. We succeeded in making three beautiful stained glass crayons, but somehow the molten crayon mix ate through the tin foil and adhered to the bottom of the other cups. Second round casualties: second muffin tin, slight burn to right hand, and molten wax all over kitchen sink. I tried scrubbing it out, but it wouldn't come off. I was able to chip most of it off with a knife, but still quite a lot of wax remains.
I had a dreadful sore throat all day, but I mustered us up to meet friends we hadn't seen in ages at the playground. I'm so glad I did, because the sun came out, we basked delightfully in the heat while the children played, and one friend sneaked us in a bottle of Prosecco. Other mommy/children combos we knew were there as well, and it was great right up until pissy Lola/Lucy tired of being there and commenced to whining mightily, pulling at me, and demanding to go home. I tried to talk her into going to a restaurant, but she'd have none of that, so home it was.
And at home, we had a horrendous sibling war over who could hold the rat known alternatively as "Cute Bone" and "Tinky Winky", depending upon which pissy little child you ask. We fed the vacationing neighbors' cat, and the children just wanted to rifle through the glamorous teenaged daughters' bedrooms, which I couldn't allow. The horrible keys didn't work in the locks without a huge amount of frustration and effort. On the bright side, there's strawberry cake left over from yesterday's dinner party (which was another bright point in the Drunken Housewife's life: visiting friends from Tucson over for plenty of rat rescue chat and food), and the husband's morning sucked more. He got up at 4:00 after about a grand total of three hours sleep, drove to the airport where he reported a hideously long wait for a shuttle bus from long-term parking, and such huge, horrendous lines for checking in baggage that he abandoned his pocket knife and just carried on his one bag. The poor thing was flying on the day of a huge terrorism scare, with the National Guard swarming about the airport and all coffee forbidden aboard aircraft. Heh, I enjoyed (meanly enough) thinking about that while I was basking at the park, but after a full day of squabbling siblings, I'm wanting him back.
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
teamwork and disgust
We saw "The Ant Bully" today, a movie about a child who kills ants but is shrunk down to ant size and made to join the colony. Lucy professed to dislike the movie, but then when we came home, all evening long, she kept saying firmly, "Teamwork! That is what I always say! It's about teamwork!" Never mind that the word "teamwork" was not in her vocabulary until she saw the film; she says, "I love to say 'teamwork!' It's all about teamwork! That is what I always say!"
Iris and I have been fighting over my computer. Anton, without my knowledge or consent, installed several seasons of "The Simpsons" on my computer. That means that computer-savvy Iris can, whenever she likes, turn on my computer and sit, rapt, watching episode after episode of "The Simpsons." Never mind that my parental policy, which the husband had allegedly signed on to, was that there is no TV and no videos or DVDs during the day. Now the computer allows Iris constant access to beloved animation. Whenever I want to check my email or surf the web, I have a battle on my hands.
The other day, I was selling my Burning Man tickets on ebay, and I really needed access to my computer. I threw Iris off, mid-Simpsons episode, telling her I would just do my email and not take long. She hung over my shoulder, stating ominously, "I am watching you... WITH DISGUST." I lost all composure.
Iris and I have been fighting over my computer. Anton, without my knowledge or consent, installed several seasons of "The Simpsons" on my computer. That means that computer-savvy Iris can, whenever she likes, turn on my computer and sit, rapt, watching episode after episode of "The Simpsons." Never mind that my parental policy, which the husband had allegedly signed on to, was that there is no TV and no videos or DVDs during the day. Now the computer allows Iris constant access to beloved animation. Whenever I want to check my email or surf the web, I have a battle on my hands.
The other day, I was selling my Burning Man tickets on ebay, and I really needed access to my computer. I threw Iris off, mid-Simpsons episode, telling her I would just do my email and not take long. She hung over my shoulder, stating ominously, "I am watching you... WITH DISGUST." I lost all composure.
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
the husband's getting out on parole
Our forecast here is for increasing crankiness, skyrocketing on Saturday night, when we expect children to be snapping at each other and their mother breaking down, possibly so far as to say, "Jesus fucking Christ, will you children give me a break??" Why? The husband's going off for a long weekend in Chicago, to attend a faux wedding.
Why do I say faux wedding? Because the couple in question got married a year ago at a quiet, city hall ceremony, and now they regret not having had a big wedding (my bitchy take is that they regret not reaping in a ton of presents). So they registered at all the expensive stores, rented a venue, had some invitations engraved, and they're going through all the steps, although they've been married for over a year. I find this irritating. Additionally, since our funds are limited these days, I would have preferred to have attended my cousin's wedding in Maine, which is a first wedding. My cousin, who is bipolar and has had a rough childhood, never expected to find love, and when her fiance proposed to her, she demanded that they have a long engagement because she expected him to break it off. So, of course, the whole family is thrilled for her that she is marrying someone who really loves her and who is there for her, despite her feelings of not being lovable enough. But my husband asked that for his birthday, he get to go to Chicago for this "wedding", and I'm a sucker for him, so I agreed that he would go, even though I'm not making it to my cousin's wedding.
I was feeling okay about this until my husband casually showed me an email about the bachelor party, which is evidently going to be one of those uber-traditional ones with a hired stripper and lots of liquor. Ugh. I got rather pissy about this. Let's just say that my husband has a couple of old friends who don't like me, the woman who ruined all their fun by tying down their carefree bachelor friend and saddling him with a mortgage and children (hey, it was all his idea!). I explained to the old spouse that I would have no problem with his sleazing around here in town with friends who know and like me, because then I could feel comfortable that the sleazing would go right up to a certain line and no further. But sleazing around far away from home, with friends who would instead be egging him on and pressuring him to sleaze it up more? Not a nice thought for me. Am I going to ask him not to go? Hell, no. He's a grown-up. I'm not his boss. I'm just not going to like it. He suggested that he pressure another friend to go to the wedding, who also lives here and is my friend as well, for my peace of mind, but I pointed out that this particular friend is an out-of-control alcoholic who nearly set our house on fire when drunk, and hence not a reliable, upstanding companion.
I feel awkward admitting that I even had an issue with this. In my social milieu, there are people with open marriages, people who profess polyamory, and in general a certain amount of tolerance for risque behavior. It seems old-fashioned of me to get riled over this.
Oh, well. So I will be alone for days with the crabby, battling children (who have low-grade fevers today, making us all housebound and supercranky), while the husband's off in another time zone playing poker, smoking, drinking, and cavorting with strippers. Happy birthday, darling spouse.
Why do I say faux wedding? Because the couple in question got married a year ago at a quiet, city hall ceremony, and now they regret not having had a big wedding (my bitchy take is that they regret not reaping in a ton of presents). So they registered at all the expensive stores, rented a venue, had some invitations engraved, and they're going through all the steps, although they've been married for over a year. I find this irritating. Additionally, since our funds are limited these days, I would have preferred to have attended my cousin's wedding in Maine, which is a first wedding. My cousin, who is bipolar and has had a rough childhood, never expected to find love, and when her fiance proposed to her, she demanded that they have a long engagement because she expected him to break it off. So, of course, the whole family is thrilled for her that she is marrying someone who really loves her and who is there for her, despite her feelings of not being lovable enough. But my husband asked that for his birthday, he get to go to Chicago for this "wedding", and I'm a sucker for him, so I agreed that he would go, even though I'm not making it to my cousin's wedding.
I was feeling okay about this until my husband casually showed me an email about the bachelor party, which is evidently going to be one of those uber-traditional ones with a hired stripper and lots of liquor. Ugh. I got rather pissy about this. Let's just say that my husband has a couple of old friends who don't like me, the woman who ruined all their fun by tying down their carefree bachelor friend and saddling him with a mortgage and children (hey, it was all his idea!). I explained to the old spouse that I would have no problem with his sleazing around here in town with friends who know and like me, because then I could feel comfortable that the sleazing would go right up to a certain line and no further. But sleazing around far away from home, with friends who would instead be egging him on and pressuring him to sleaze it up more? Not a nice thought for me. Am I going to ask him not to go? Hell, no. He's a grown-up. I'm not his boss. I'm just not going to like it. He suggested that he pressure another friend to go to the wedding, who also lives here and is my friend as well, for my peace of mind, but I pointed out that this particular friend is an out-of-control alcoholic who nearly set our house on fire when drunk, and hence not a reliable, upstanding companion.
I feel awkward admitting that I even had an issue with this. In my social milieu, there are people with open marriages, people who profess polyamory, and in general a certain amount of tolerance for risque behavior. It seems old-fashioned of me to get riled over this.
Oh, well. So I will be alone for days with the crabby, battling children (who have low-grade fevers today, making us all housebound and supercranky), while the husband's off in another time zone playing poker, smoking, drinking, and cavorting with strippers. Happy birthday, darling spouse.
call the police! call the police!
We have many pets, and the most charismatic pet is Frowsty, aka Frowstomatic the King, aka Frowstomatic The Immortal God. Frowsty is a fluffy black cat who knows everyone adores him and parcels out his affection stingily in return. Currently his most annoying habit is that he catches butterflies and releases them, crippled, into the house. This distresses Lucy no end, who is afraid of butterflies and other insects, and who will genuinely freak out, sobbing.
The last few days, Lucy has been demanding that I call the police on Frowsty. I tried to explain that you can't ask the cops to arrest your own cat, but Lucy won't hear of it. When Frowstomatic brings in a maimed butterfly, Lucy hounds me and hounds me, tears in her eyes, "CALL THE POLICE! CALL THE POLICE! CALL THE POLICE!"
The last few days, Lucy has been demanding that I call the police on Frowsty. I tried to explain that you can't ask the cops to arrest your own cat, but Lucy won't hear of it. When Frowstomatic brings in a maimed butterfly, Lucy hounds me and hounds me, tears in her eyes, "CALL THE POLICE! CALL THE POLICE! CALL THE POLICE!"
Sunday, August 06, 2006
the unbearable cuteness of Lola
Lucy isn't answering to "Lucy" these days; she's gone back to using her preferred name, Lola. (She adopted this name after the girls went through a phase of obsessively watching "Shark Tales", after the glamorous, gold-digging fish voiced by Angelina Jolie. Ms. Jolie's hypnotic sway extends beyond Brad Pitt to Lucy/Lola). Aside from that, she's been positively adorable.
Yesterday she was cranky, and I cheered her up by making up a song about her. "Looola is a special girl" and so on (sung to the tune of the "Red Dwarf" theme). She danced and danced as I sang, and then she began interjecting her own, very different lyrics: "She always eats the right things! She doesn't eat junk!"
As you may have guessed, Lola has discovered how much people in our milieu adore a child with good eating habits. Whenever she wants attention from grownups other than her parents, she'll spread her arms wide, beam out a big Shirley Temple smile, and say, "I LOVE BROCCOLI!"
Today I was yet again appointed physician to her ailing toys, this time presented with a grubby Teletubby who had allegedly taken ill. As I poked through the toy veterinarian kit, which doubles as a toy pediatrician kit, I discovered my nice glasses case. I opened it, expecting to see my glasses, but instead Lucy had substituted a toy rubber dogbone. What slayed me is that it fit perfectly. It was as though my glasses case had been wasted all this time on my glasses, when in reality it was made to house the vet kit's faux dogbone.
Yesterday she was cranky, and I cheered her up by making up a song about her. "Looola is a special girl" and so on (sung to the tune of the "Red Dwarf" theme). She danced and danced as I sang, and then she began interjecting her own, very different lyrics: "She always eats the right things! She doesn't eat junk!"
As you may have guessed, Lola has discovered how much people in our milieu adore a child with good eating habits. Whenever she wants attention from grownups other than her parents, she'll spread her arms wide, beam out a big Shirley Temple smile, and say, "I LOVE BROCCOLI!"
Today I was yet again appointed physician to her ailing toys, this time presented with a grubby Teletubby who had allegedly taken ill. As I poked through the toy veterinarian kit, which doubles as a toy pediatrician kit, I discovered my nice glasses case. I opened it, expecting to see my glasses, but instead Lucy had substituted a toy rubber dogbone. What slayed me is that it fit perfectly. It was as though my glasses case had been wasted all this time on my glasses, when in reality it was made to house the vet kit's faux dogbone.
Saturday, August 05, 2006
more birthday opinions
Since becoming a mother, I have been to a lot of children's birthday parties, and I've hosted seven of the them. Anton and I have formed some strong opinions, which thankfully we share, such as Pinatas Are Evil; Please, No Gifts In The Thank You Notes; and RSVP Goddammit Don't Make Me Have To Call All Of You On The Phone.
It probably won't surprise anyone to learn that we have many opinions about the proper handling of birthday gifts. The thing which irritates us no end is when parents do not allow their children to open their birthday gifts. I keep my mouth firmly shut about this, unless the parent asks my opinion, because no one wants to hear their parenting criticized and it's not exactly a child abuse crisis. But later, in the car, we complain. I guess the parents feel that it's too hard on the other children to see presents without getting them, but they're all getting grab bags and pinata swag, so that doesn't seem that strong an argument. My problem is that my children -- and the other child guests--- WANT to see their friend open their gift. They are excited about it. It's a big letdown to them when they can't be there to see their friend tear open the wrapping paper and react to the gift.
Additionally, many parents feel that their children would be spoiled if they got a lot of presents on one day. Arguably by instead parcelling out the presents and giving them over a month, they lessen the impact. I actually think it's much more spoiling to give children a gift every day for weeks. It makes the actual presents seem less special, and it sets up an atmosphere where the child gets a present every day for a full frigging season, with no particular entitlement on any one day.
Other parents use the birthday presents as a disciplinary device. One mother confided in me that she doled out the birthday presents for months afterward as rewards for good behavior. That, however, diminishes the relationship between the child and her friends. The item is presented for cleaning her room or flossing for a week or whatever, when it is really something picked out by a little pal for her birthday.
Just let the kids open their gifts, please. Let the other little kids get to see their friend open the box. The other kids will be okay, truly. It just builds up anticipation for when their own birthday rolls around. And don't make me have to bring a gift for all children in your family; that's really spoiling the other siblings and setting them up for a lifetime of feeling entitled.
It probably won't surprise anyone to learn that we have many opinions about the proper handling of birthday gifts. The thing which irritates us no end is when parents do not allow their children to open their birthday gifts. I keep my mouth firmly shut about this, unless the parent asks my opinion, because no one wants to hear their parenting criticized and it's not exactly a child abuse crisis. But later, in the car, we complain. I guess the parents feel that it's too hard on the other children to see presents without getting them, but they're all getting grab bags and pinata swag, so that doesn't seem that strong an argument. My problem is that my children -- and the other child guests--- WANT to see their friend open their gift. They are excited about it. It's a big letdown to them when they can't be there to see their friend tear open the wrapping paper and react to the gift.
Additionally, many parents feel that their children would be spoiled if they got a lot of presents on one day. Arguably by instead parcelling out the presents and giving them over a month, they lessen the impact. I actually think it's much more spoiling to give children a gift every day for weeks. It makes the actual presents seem less special, and it sets up an atmosphere where the child gets a present every day for a full frigging season, with no particular entitlement on any one day.
Other parents use the birthday presents as a disciplinary device. One mother confided in me that she doled out the birthday presents for months afterward as rewards for good behavior. That, however, diminishes the relationship between the child and her friends. The item is presented for cleaning her room or flossing for a week or whatever, when it is really something picked out by a little pal for her birthday.
Just let the kids open their gifts, please. Let the other little kids get to see their friend open the box. The other kids will be okay, truly. It just builds up anticipation for when their own birthday rolls around. And don't make me have to bring a gift for all children in your family; that's really spoiling the other siblings and setting them up for a lifetime of feeling entitled.
Friday, August 04, 2006
impending festivities
So, Iris's birthday is looming, and it's time to make the invitations. I have a tradition now of making her party invitations by hand, and this was the first year she was old enough that I couldn't just make them, asking for her approval. I had to make them with her. That is much, much harder than making them myself with her creative input.
Of course, just like with the Halloween costumes, we learn yet again that making invitations is more expensive than buying invitations (but probably not as expensive as having custom-made invitations, which we have received for other girls' parties). We dropped more than we expected at the art supply store (on the other hand, the rubber stamps and stamp pads we bought will go into our art supplies and be used again).
Making the invitations was a two day process. We figured out a design last night, and started on it, but we had some setbacks. First, we were stamping a large picture onto tissue paper and pouring glitter on it before the ink dried, then cutting out (with special li'l scissors) the pictures which came out the best. That took us aeons. Then we did my old high school arts trick of spraying these with hairspray as a fixative. That turned out to be the act of a moron. The ink ran, and the tissue became adhered to the table. (Why did that always work so well in high school?? Damn you, Aquanet!). So we were left with a big fat mess, and a husband with the rights to be sarcastic. Only partially daunted, we started over again, and we got the invitations mostly done.
Today, we wrote the text for the cards, which we printed out and glued into our decorated cards, and we decorated and addressed the envelopes. Iris also signed each card "Love, Iris." The first few cards had the "Love, Iris" written in painstakingly artistic writing, with each letter written in a new, jiggly font invented for the occasion by Iris. The middle several cards had the capital L and capital I in the new Iris Font. The last few cards were written in regular old handwriting by the birthday child after crabby old Mommy refused to finish signing them for Iris.
So I was thinking that probably some of the invitees' mothers will be pissed that I handmade the cards and think, "That pathetic stay-at-home mother, she needs to get out of the house." Once I read one of those interminable pieces in the SAHM vs. working mother wars (where are the fathers in all this?), and a working mother confessed to ridiculing a stay-at-home mother for making cupcakes for the school. A gaggle of working mothers, feeling out of place at a classroom Halloween party, joined together to cattily trash the SAHMs who had decorated and baked. "They really need to get a job" was the verdict. After reading that, I imagine the working mothers looking down at me for my pastries, Halloween costumes, and handmade invitations. Hey, even when I was a working attorney, I created such baking extravaganzas as pies with braided crusts, and I made myself the ultimate Medusa costume. It's not that I'm a SAHM; I'm just into cooking, costumes, and cards. My own mother, a SAHM the whole time I was growing up, sniffed at one of my decorated pies once when I was in law school. "I can't be bothered to make crust like that."
I love making Iris's invitations; we also make our Valentines (overharried at the holiday season, we either don't send out Christmas cards at all, or we buy them). Last year, Iris and I, with some assistance from Anton and outright hostility from Lucy, made about one hundred Valentines by hand (Lucy was required to bring one to every child at her preschool; Iris, to bring one for every child in her kindergarten room).
But we have our limits. Where I will not go is joining the increasing trend of photographing all party guests, creating a keepsake with the pictures, and mailing those little gifts in the thank-you notes. My plea to all parents: PLEASE DO NOT JOIN THE TREND OF PEOPLE WHO SEND PRESENTS IN THE THANK YOU CARDS! It's just creating more pressure and elevating the standards. When I get something like this, yes, it's nice for my kid, but I think, "Oh, fuck. Do I have to start taking every single kid's picture and making sure it's a nice one and then print it out, making something out of it, and mail it now??? Is everyone doing this?? Please, oh god, when the fucking party is over, I don't want to have to keep working!" It's enough trouble to do the thank-you cards, which we always do; I don't want to have to create precious keepsakes for each child commemorating the party, too.
Sorry. I just want to draw the line somewhere. I'm doing the fucking gift bags, and I'm sending the thank-you notes (note I did not say "fucking thank you notes", because I think thank you notes are a good thing), but I don't wanna have to send a present of any sort with the thank you note. I have my limits.
Of course, just like with the Halloween costumes, we learn yet again that making invitations is more expensive than buying invitations (but probably not as expensive as having custom-made invitations, which we have received for other girls' parties). We dropped more than we expected at the art supply store (on the other hand, the rubber stamps and stamp pads we bought will go into our art supplies and be used again).
Making the invitations was a two day process. We figured out a design last night, and started on it, but we had some setbacks. First, we were stamping a large picture onto tissue paper and pouring glitter on it before the ink dried, then cutting out (with special li'l scissors) the pictures which came out the best. That took us aeons. Then we did my old high school arts trick of spraying these with hairspray as a fixative. That turned out to be the act of a moron. The ink ran, and the tissue became adhered to the table. (Why did that always work so well in high school?? Damn you, Aquanet!). So we were left with a big fat mess, and a husband with the rights to be sarcastic. Only partially daunted, we started over again, and we got the invitations mostly done.
Today, we wrote the text for the cards, which we printed out and glued into our decorated cards, and we decorated and addressed the envelopes. Iris also signed each card "Love, Iris." The first few cards had the "Love, Iris" written in painstakingly artistic writing, with each letter written in a new, jiggly font invented for the occasion by Iris. The middle several cards had the capital L and capital I in the new Iris Font. The last few cards were written in regular old handwriting by the birthday child after crabby old Mommy refused to finish signing them for Iris.
So I was thinking that probably some of the invitees' mothers will be pissed that I handmade the cards and think, "That pathetic stay-at-home mother, she needs to get out of the house." Once I read one of those interminable pieces in the SAHM vs. working mother wars (where are the fathers in all this?), and a working mother confessed to ridiculing a stay-at-home mother for making cupcakes for the school. A gaggle of working mothers, feeling out of place at a classroom Halloween party, joined together to cattily trash the SAHMs who had decorated and baked. "They really need to get a job" was the verdict. After reading that, I imagine the working mothers looking down at me for my pastries, Halloween costumes, and handmade invitations. Hey, even when I was a working attorney, I created such baking extravaganzas as pies with braided crusts, and I made myself the ultimate Medusa costume. It's not that I'm a SAHM; I'm just into cooking, costumes, and cards. My own mother, a SAHM the whole time I was growing up, sniffed at one of my decorated pies once when I was in law school. "I can't be bothered to make crust like that."
I love making Iris's invitations; we also make our Valentines (overharried at the holiday season, we either don't send out Christmas cards at all, or we buy them). Last year, Iris and I, with some assistance from Anton and outright hostility from Lucy, made about one hundred Valentines by hand (Lucy was required to bring one to every child at her preschool; Iris, to bring one for every child in her kindergarten room).
But we have our limits. Where I will not go is joining the increasing trend of photographing all party guests, creating a keepsake with the pictures, and mailing those little gifts in the thank-you notes. My plea to all parents: PLEASE DO NOT JOIN THE TREND OF PEOPLE WHO SEND PRESENTS IN THE THANK YOU CARDS! It's just creating more pressure and elevating the standards. When I get something like this, yes, it's nice for my kid, but I think, "Oh, fuck. Do I have to start taking every single kid's picture and making sure it's a nice one and then print it out, making something out of it, and mail it now??? Is everyone doing this?? Please, oh god, when the fucking party is over, I don't want to have to keep working!" It's enough trouble to do the thank-you cards, which we always do; I don't want to have to create precious keepsakes for each child commemorating the party, too.
Sorry. I just want to draw the line somewhere. I'm doing the fucking gift bags, and I'm sending the thank-you notes (note I did not say "fucking thank you notes", because I think thank you notes are a good thing), but I don't wanna have to send a present of any sort with the thank you note. I have my limits.
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
another of our days
I haven't been able to hear out of my right ear for days, and finally I break down, stop trying to use over-the-counter eardrops, and make a doctor's appointment. My doctor has a convenient opening just one hour after my call. But! Iris and Lucy are sitting around in their underwear, one eating cereal with half-and-half (we ran out of milk), the other playing with toys while the morning PBS cartoons are on in the background. One hour is barely enough time to get us dressed and there; it is not enough time to arrange someone to watch them.
"We have to get ready to go to Mommy's doctor," I say brightly. "I AM NOT DONE!" growls Lucy (if you were moving a stuffed unicorn and a stuffed princess around with your hands and making noises, when would you consider yourself done?).
I run downstairs and try Iris. "We have to finish up and get ready to go! Chop chop!" Iris seems to vaguely roll her eyes and move her spoon towards her mouth at a slightly enhanced, but still slow, speed.
We manage to get there on time, and the children behave well in the waiting room (Lucy brings the princess and unicorn; Iris brings a Simpsons comic). When the nurse calls my name, they dawdle. "Come on, guys!" I urge. The nurse bends her head around to see what on earth is taking the patient so long to go through the door, and seems to recoil when she sees both children.
When I finally get them through the door, they drag their heels and keep standing in front of the nurse, who is trying to lead us all to an examination room. In the small exam room, there is a table/bed thing for the patient, one small wheeled stool for the doctor, and one small chair (probably for the patient to put her clothes and purse on). I tell the children to try sharing the chair and tell them I'm sorry it will be crowded. They squeeze on obediently enough, but soon they are kicking each other.
"What are you doing!!" I scolded. "We are fighting," said Lucy, logically enough.
"One of you is going to have to sit on the floor or stand," I said. Iris volunteered to sit on the floor, and she leaned against Lucy's legs. Lucy squawked. "You're going to have to move further down, Iris," I said. Iris scootched down the wall a bit, but repetitively swung one leg and knee so that it kept striking Lucy's leg. Lucy started to cry. "Move down further, Iris, and stop that." Iris obediently enough moved down immediately, but swung the same leg more vigorously so she was still hitting Lucy's leg. "Iris, I told you to move down so that wouldn't happen. Quit it!"
When that crisis was over, Lucy got bored with her princess and unicorn and threw them on the floor. "I am done with them." Iris became engrossed in her comic, and Lucy demanded her own Simpsons comic, which was at home. I told her to look at the magazines in a big rack by the chair, and she started fussing at me. "I don't want to look at magazines!"
And my husband wonders why I always put off going to the doctor.
"We have to get ready to go to Mommy's doctor," I say brightly. "I AM NOT DONE!" growls Lucy (if you were moving a stuffed unicorn and a stuffed princess around with your hands and making noises, when would you consider yourself done?).
I run downstairs and try Iris. "We have to finish up and get ready to go! Chop chop!" Iris seems to vaguely roll her eyes and move her spoon towards her mouth at a slightly enhanced, but still slow, speed.
We manage to get there on time, and the children behave well in the waiting room (Lucy brings the princess and unicorn; Iris brings a Simpsons comic). When the nurse calls my name, they dawdle. "Come on, guys!" I urge. The nurse bends her head around to see what on earth is taking the patient so long to go through the door, and seems to recoil when she sees both children.
When I finally get them through the door, they drag their heels and keep standing in front of the nurse, who is trying to lead us all to an examination room. In the small exam room, there is a table/bed thing for the patient, one small wheeled stool for the doctor, and one small chair (probably for the patient to put her clothes and purse on). I tell the children to try sharing the chair and tell them I'm sorry it will be crowded. They squeeze on obediently enough, but soon they are kicking each other.
"What are you doing!!" I scolded. "We are fighting," said Lucy, logically enough.
"One of you is going to have to sit on the floor or stand," I said. Iris volunteered to sit on the floor, and she leaned against Lucy's legs. Lucy squawked. "You're going to have to move further down, Iris," I said. Iris scootched down the wall a bit, but repetitively swung one leg and knee so that it kept striking Lucy's leg. Lucy started to cry. "Move down further, Iris, and stop that." Iris obediently enough moved down immediately, but swung the same leg more vigorously so she was still hitting Lucy's leg. "Iris, I told you to move down so that wouldn't happen. Quit it!"
When that crisis was over, Lucy got bored with her princess and unicorn and threw them on the floor. "I am done with them." Iris became engrossed in her comic, and Lucy demanded her own Simpsons comic, which was at home. I told her to look at the magazines in a big rack by the chair, and she started fussing at me. "I don't want to look at magazines!"
And my husband wonders why I always put off going to the doctor.
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
our days
Iris and Lucy:
"We're going to the mall, so put your shoes on!" demanded Iris bossily.
"I hate the mall," said three year-old Lucy.
"That is the STUPIDEST THING I have EVER heard! How can anyone hate a mall?" (Iris paused at this point to call her father on his celphone to inform him that Lucy hates the mall).
Returning to the fray, Iris explained, "A mall is a whole bunch of stores. It's like stores all rolled together into one store. Indoors. How can anyone possibly hate a store of stores? It's crazy!"
Although Lucy complained bitterly all the way to the mall, when she arrived there, she said, "I love it here! I want to stay here until I want to leave!" At various times, when finished with our errands, Iris begged to go home, Lucy would demand, "I want to stay until I want to leave!"
"Ruins"-induced sanity watch update: basically back to normal (or what passes for normal with me), although I did flinch as I walked past an exuberant, red-flowered vine today while going to my friend Lisa's house.
"We're going to the mall, so put your shoes on!" demanded Iris bossily.
"I hate the mall," said three year-old Lucy.
"That is the STUPIDEST THING I have EVER heard! How can anyone hate a mall?" (Iris paused at this point to call her father on his celphone to inform him that Lucy hates the mall).
Returning to the fray, Iris explained, "A mall is a whole bunch of stores. It's like stores all rolled together into one store. Indoors. How can anyone possibly hate a store of stores? It's crazy!"
Although Lucy complained bitterly all the way to the mall, when she arrived there, she said, "I love it here! I want to stay here until I want to leave!" At various times, when finished with our errands, Iris begged to go home, Lucy would demand, "I want to stay until I want to leave!"
"Ruins"-induced sanity watch update: basically back to normal (or what passes for normal with me), although I did flinch as I walked past an exuberant, red-flowered vine today while going to my friend Lisa's house.
Thursday, July 27, 2006
"The Ruins"-induced sanity watch
So yesterday and last night I was still weirded-out by "The Ruins", and again I had nightmares.
My spouse has been under a lot of stress last night, for different, less frivolous reasons. At dinner, I confided, "I feel weird", but before I could go on to describe my state of "The Ruins" induced madness, he interjected, "Me, too! Do you think it could be the croquettes?"
The croquettes? THE CROQUETTES?? How dare you question THE CROQUETTES!! The croquettes in question were a three-day-in-the-making gourmet extravaganza, a Barcelonan recipe I'd been meaning to try for ages. They were painstakingly made by hand and safely stored (day one: create fresh breadcrumbs; day two: create and freeze filling; later, when frozen, cut up filling and dredge into three different things to create outer layer, then refrigerate; day three: fry in good olive oil, drain, serve). May I note that I wash my hands when in the kitchen like a cross between a surgeon and an OCD patient. I am hygienic beyond complaint when it comes to food (although a bit of a slob outside the kitchen).
I barely spoke to him for the rest of the evening. Mind you, the croquettes were fabulous; even he liked them when they were served, although he turned on them again so soon. The man may deserve someone who will just serve Tuna Helper day after day, instead of painstakingly prepared gourmet food (which is what you get from me several days a week; the other days, I make stuff like mac 'n cheese or leftovers).
Anyhow, our scorecard now for "The Ruins" damage is three nights of disturbed sleep and one spat with husband (why would he be so foolish as to imply he got food poisoning from my croquettes? I note that the health of everyone is perfect after having consumed the questioned croquettes), plus one evening of neglecting husband and children while reading "The Ruins". This book stands alone. Apparently Ben Stiller has the film option, although I think he's a bit long in the tooth to play the character he's probably itching to do.
My spouse has been under a lot of stress last night, for different, less frivolous reasons. At dinner, I confided, "I feel weird", but before I could go on to describe my state of "The Ruins" induced madness, he interjected, "Me, too! Do you think it could be the croquettes?"
The croquettes? THE CROQUETTES?? How dare you question THE CROQUETTES!! The croquettes in question were a three-day-in-the-making gourmet extravaganza, a Barcelonan recipe I'd been meaning to try for ages. They were painstakingly made by hand and safely stored (day one: create fresh breadcrumbs; day two: create and freeze filling; later, when frozen, cut up filling and dredge into three different things to create outer layer, then refrigerate; day three: fry in good olive oil, drain, serve). May I note that I wash my hands when in the kitchen like a cross between a surgeon and an OCD patient. I am hygienic beyond complaint when it comes to food (although a bit of a slob outside the kitchen).
I barely spoke to him for the rest of the evening. Mind you, the croquettes were fabulous; even he liked them when they were served, although he turned on them again so soon. The man may deserve someone who will just serve Tuna Helper day after day, instead of painstakingly prepared gourmet food (which is what you get from me several days a week; the other days, I make stuff like mac 'n cheese or leftovers).
Anyhow, our scorecard now for "The Ruins" damage is three nights of disturbed sleep and one spat with husband (why would he be so foolish as to imply he got food poisoning from my croquettes? I note that the health of everyone is perfect after having consumed the questioned croquettes), plus one evening of neglecting husband and children while reading "The Ruins". This book stands alone. Apparently Ben Stiller has the film option, although I think he's a bit long in the tooth to play the character he's probably itching to do.
speech therapy (and why does it piss everyone off?)
So, my youngest daughter has a speech problem. Hers is called developmental apraxia (sometimes called dyspraxia), which means an inability to control the movements of the mouth needed to produce speech. Stroke victims also often have apraxia. Thankfully this can be treated by professional speech therapists, who can work with the child (or stroke patient, but I'll limit myself to children ) to train the child to make sounds reliably.
Lucy's apraxia was very severe. She was basically incomprehensible to anyone other than Iris and me. Her preschool teachers and other kids understood about zero (yes, zero) of what she said. She "telegraphed", speaking in as few words as possible, and relied heavily upon body language and facial expressions. She would go to extremes to avoid speaking to anyone other than me and Iris. Even Anton understood less than half of what she had to say. This began to affect her personality after she started nursery school, and she became silent and sad. "I can't talk", she said tearfully to me.
We had her thoroughly evaluated by an excellent speech therapist, who ranked Lucy in most ways as being in the 2nd percentile in speech for her age. At over 3, she was below the average 18 month-old in verbal abilities. She even had difficulty doing things like sticking her tongue between her teeth, her apraxia was so severe. However, at the same time, her vocabulary (shown in her ability to recognize spoken words, albeit not say them herself) was way above her age, and she was obviously a bright little girl.
Now here comes the part which pisses everyone off: Immediately we started Lucy in private speech therapy twice a week. This is not covered by our insurance (it would be if she'd had a stroke), so we are paying out of pocket. We did not request an evaluation and services from the local school district.
Are we fabulously wealthy? No, we are not. Anton took a second job to pay for this, also we made budget cutbacks (no vacation this year, no curtains for our room, put off replacing the roof, etc.., etc..). As Anton said, "This is the biggest problem we have right now, so it's what we need to throw money at. What's more important?"
I never expected putting Lucy into speech therapy to piss everyone off. It continually surprises me. I have had so many people lecture me that the right thing to do is to call the school district, have Lucy tested, get an IEP written, and then let the school district treat her for free. Evidently Anton and I are just morons is the implication. But more than that, there's anger at us. Now, I understood that when it came from someone who is getting free school district-provided speech therapy for her own child; she is bound to have conflicting feelings. (By the way, I don't run around bragging, "Oh, my child gets the finest in everything, including speech therapy! Nothing is too good for my darling!" It comes up in conversation, as her speech issues are a huge part of our family's life, sad to say). But why would a person with a child with no speech issues get mad? Or a childless person?
The other night, a friend-of-a-friend got a little heated in discussing this. I explained that what my child needed (one-on-one intervention, multiple sessions a week) was more than what I could get from the school district (group speech therapy, most likely once a week). She insisted that "you can get whatever you want. They have to do exactly as you tell them!" Umm, actually I did look into this, and it turns out that if you believe your child's IEP is not good enough, you generally have to file a lawsuit and slug it out in court. I knew a family who did that. Also, I know a special ed teacher who used to create IEP's for my school district who told me that she got into trouble for creating too ambitious IEP's. She was admonished not to suggest too many services. And I did check and discover that the official policy for children my child's age is group speech therapy, not one-on-one speech therapy.
Additionally, there is a pheonomenon called "generalization." That means that apraxic children must not only learn how to make sounds; they must learn how to use those sounds in a variety of words and situations. A child we know for a long time was only able to say words correctly if someone was holding a flashcard up to her; she could not generalize and pronounce that word in conversation. Part of "generalization" is that if a child takes speech therapy in a clinical office, she may not be able to reproduce what she learns in other atmospheres. It has been shown that children who receive speech therapy in the home (where so much of their lives unfold) have much better ability to generalize, so the speech therapy tends to be more effective. I brought this up in the debate with the friend's friend, and although she took the point, she was still irked. That didn't seem a good enough reason to opt out, for her.
The school district where we live is in a state of continual financial emergency. Schools are being closed each year. Teachers are going out on strike. Services are being trimmed. Why shouldn't people be happy that we, who can, opt out of requiring expensive, specialist services? Why is it better that we burden the district by demanding extensive, expensive services (and by suing to get them)?
Anyhow, the difference Lucy has made in six months of extensive speech therapy is amazing. Her therapist says that she has never had a patient make such astronomical progress.
But the thing that makes me almost happier is that she's not so ashamed of her speech any more. She's feeling a lot better about how she talks.
Recently we spent the day hanging out with one of her friends from preschool, and Lucy tends to mispronounce this little girl's name. The girl, tactfully enough for her age, brought up how "a lot of kids can't say my name right." L. got the subtext (that she wasn't saying the name right) and said, with confidence, "Jill comes all the time to teach me, and I practice every night in bed, and soon I will be talking really really good!" She told her friend that she would work on her name in speech therapy. I was so happy that she wasn't shutting up in shame, like she always used to.
Now: I understand about 98% of what she says, and even new people (especially parents, who are used to talking to little kids) can understand most of what she says. Every now and then she stumps me (today I had a lot of trouble figuring out the word "sneaker"), but the sheer fluidity of her speech and the confident way she trots out new words makes tears come into my eyes.
Today in speech therapy, she worked on words ending in "ish", on pronouncing c/k without sticking an l in there (and her speech therapist taught me a touch cue to show her not to put an l in: speak k and then hold your own tongue down with an index finger), and on the name "Louise."
Her speech problem was wrecking her natural, sunny personality. The first speech therapist, who evaluated Lucy, was so worried about her that she contacted our preschool director to express her concern that we might not have her problem treated intensively enough (that speech therapist had a 6+ month waiting list for her practice and could not treat Lucy personally). By hiring a great pediatric speech therapist who works with Lucy one-on-one, we've changed Lucy's life. Why should that piss everyone off?
Lucy's apraxia was very severe. She was basically incomprehensible to anyone other than Iris and me. Her preschool teachers and other kids understood about zero (yes, zero) of what she said. She "telegraphed", speaking in as few words as possible, and relied heavily upon body language and facial expressions. She would go to extremes to avoid speaking to anyone other than me and Iris. Even Anton understood less than half of what she had to say. This began to affect her personality after she started nursery school, and she became silent and sad. "I can't talk", she said tearfully to me.
We had her thoroughly evaluated by an excellent speech therapist, who ranked Lucy in most ways as being in the 2nd percentile in speech for her age. At over 3, she was below the average 18 month-old in verbal abilities. She even had difficulty doing things like sticking her tongue between her teeth, her apraxia was so severe. However, at the same time, her vocabulary (shown in her ability to recognize spoken words, albeit not say them herself) was way above her age, and she was obviously a bright little girl.
Now here comes the part which pisses everyone off: Immediately we started Lucy in private speech therapy twice a week. This is not covered by our insurance (it would be if she'd had a stroke), so we are paying out of pocket. We did not request an evaluation and services from the local school district.
Are we fabulously wealthy? No, we are not. Anton took a second job to pay for this, also we made budget cutbacks (no vacation this year, no curtains for our room, put off replacing the roof, etc.., etc..). As Anton said, "This is the biggest problem we have right now, so it's what we need to throw money at. What's more important?"
I never expected putting Lucy into speech therapy to piss everyone off. It continually surprises me. I have had so many people lecture me that the right thing to do is to call the school district, have Lucy tested, get an IEP written, and then let the school district treat her for free. Evidently Anton and I are just morons is the implication. But more than that, there's anger at us. Now, I understood that when it came from someone who is getting free school district-provided speech therapy for her own child; she is bound to have conflicting feelings. (By the way, I don't run around bragging, "Oh, my child gets the finest in everything, including speech therapy! Nothing is too good for my darling!" It comes up in conversation, as her speech issues are a huge part of our family's life, sad to say). But why would a person with a child with no speech issues get mad? Or a childless person?
The other night, a friend-of-a-friend got a little heated in discussing this. I explained that what my child needed (one-on-one intervention, multiple sessions a week) was more than what I could get from the school district (group speech therapy, most likely once a week). She insisted that "you can get whatever you want. They have to do exactly as you tell them!" Umm, actually I did look into this, and it turns out that if you believe your child's IEP is not good enough, you generally have to file a lawsuit and slug it out in court. I knew a family who did that. Also, I know a special ed teacher who used to create IEP's for my school district who told me that she got into trouble for creating too ambitious IEP's. She was admonished not to suggest too many services. And I did check and discover that the official policy for children my child's age is group speech therapy, not one-on-one speech therapy.
Additionally, there is a pheonomenon called "generalization." That means that apraxic children must not only learn how to make sounds; they must learn how to use those sounds in a variety of words and situations. A child we know for a long time was only able to say words correctly if someone was holding a flashcard up to her; she could not generalize and pronounce that word in conversation. Part of "generalization" is that if a child takes speech therapy in a clinical office, she may not be able to reproduce what she learns in other atmospheres. It has been shown that children who receive speech therapy in the home (where so much of their lives unfold) have much better ability to generalize, so the speech therapy tends to be more effective. I brought this up in the debate with the friend's friend, and although she took the point, she was still irked. That didn't seem a good enough reason to opt out, for her.
The school district where we live is in a state of continual financial emergency. Schools are being closed each year. Teachers are going out on strike. Services are being trimmed. Why shouldn't people be happy that we, who can, opt out of requiring expensive, specialist services? Why is it better that we burden the district by demanding extensive, expensive services (and by suing to get them)?
Anyhow, the difference Lucy has made in six months of extensive speech therapy is amazing. Her therapist says that she has never had a patient make such astronomical progress.
But the thing that makes me almost happier is that she's not so ashamed of her speech any more. She's feeling a lot better about how she talks.
Recently we spent the day hanging out with one of her friends from preschool, and Lucy tends to mispronounce this little girl's name. The girl, tactfully enough for her age, brought up how "a lot of kids can't say my name right." L. got the subtext (that she wasn't saying the name right) and said, with confidence, "Jill comes all the time to teach me, and I practice every night in bed, and soon I will be talking really really good!" She told her friend that she would work on her name in speech therapy. I was so happy that she wasn't shutting up in shame, like she always used to.
Now: I understand about 98% of what she says, and even new people (especially parents, who are used to talking to little kids) can understand most of what she says. Every now and then she stumps me (today I had a lot of trouble figuring out the word "sneaker"), but the sheer fluidity of her speech and the confident way she trots out new words makes tears come into my eyes.
Today in speech therapy, she worked on words ending in "ish", on pronouncing c/k without sticking an l in there (and her speech therapist taught me a touch cue to show her not to put an l in: speak k and then hold your own tongue down with an index finger), and on the name "Louise."
Her speech problem was wrecking her natural, sunny personality. The first speech therapist, who evaluated Lucy, was so worried about her that she contacted our preschool director to express her concern that we might not have her problem treated intensively enough (that speech therapist had a 6+ month waiting list for her practice and could not treat Lucy personally). By hiring a great pediatric speech therapist who works with Lucy one-on-one, we've changed Lucy's life. Why should that piss everyone off?
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
the Wall Street Journal gave me nightmares
On Saturday, the WSJ ran a rave review of "Ruins" by Scott Smith, an unusually strong review ending with a plea for Mr. Smith not to take so long to provide the world with another book (he wrote one prior book in the '90s, which I never read. When I was practicing law, I NEVER had time to read anything more than the paper, which I tried to read on the bus going downtown. Just about the only things I read in the '90s were "The Pelican Brief", which associates furtively passed around at my law firm, hissing, "It's so true" and Camille Paglia's giant book about art, sexual roles, and history, which I lugged around for months). I had to go to a bookstore anyhow on Sunday, because I had promised Iris some beautiful books she wanted as her reward for enduring a root canal (yes, I am a bad parent: my child had an abscessed tooth requiring a root canal and a cap. The dentist said judgmentally to me, "I hope you knew this was going on", which left me to wonder: wouldn't I have been a worse parent if I'd known my child had a cavity and I didn't bring her in? Puzzled, Iris asked me, "Are cavities supposed to hurt?" She had never felt a twinge). So of course I grabbed one of the two remaining copies of "Ruins", even though I'm not supposed to buy books due to budget issues. Hey, the WSJ made me do it! It's my husband's fault for splurging and renewing the WSJ! The bookstore guy said, "This is the hot book."
I read "The Ruins" on Monday (I am a powerful speed reader, which is actually bad because it leaves me craving more; I'm a gaping maw seeking books now that I'm not overworked as a lawyer). I didn't realize from the WSJ that the applicable genre here was not suspense, but horror. And horror it was. The book was masterfully unsettling, disturbing, and whatever adjectives you feel like throwing in along those veins. I finished it up around midnight, and of course, my sleep was utterly fucked. I had horrific nightmares, when I could doze off.
The next day, the mood lingered. Driving to a preschool group playdate, I pondered what I would have done in the characters' place. It was all too real-feeling. As I was getting Lucy out of the car, my friend Tina called out, "Carole" behind me, and I must have looked insane as I jumped. Thankfully Tina is also a horror aficionado and after I explained my state of mind as being book-induced, she determined to drive to her favorite bookstore and procure "The Ruins", rather than wait to hook up and borrow my copy.
Lucy lived her own nightmare yesterday: the heat left her lethargic and crabby, lurching around the playground like a zombie. We left the playdate early and went to the beach, but she cried that it was too windy. We went to a grocery store to buy her Fudgsicles, but she cried that it was too cold in the store. Back in the heat, she fell asleep in the car, and I ran in leaving the front door open, put our Fudgsicles in the freezer and grabbed "The Ruins", and ran back out, where I sat in the car re-reading sections of "The Ruins" and waiting for her to wake up. When she did, she had a fever, which was brought down by Fudgsicles. Today she has a slight sunburn on her feet on the parts which were covered by her sandals when I applied sunscreen, as she must have taken her sandals off just long enough to burn. It's her first sunburn, and she's feeling proud and dramatic. I, on the otherhand, am still preoccupied by "The Ruins" and feeling just a bit off.
I read "The Ruins" on Monday (I am a powerful speed reader, which is actually bad because it leaves me craving more; I'm a gaping maw seeking books now that I'm not overworked as a lawyer). I didn't realize from the WSJ that the applicable genre here was not suspense, but horror. And horror it was. The book was masterfully unsettling, disturbing, and whatever adjectives you feel like throwing in along those veins. I finished it up around midnight, and of course, my sleep was utterly fucked. I had horrific nightmares, when I could doze off.
The next day, the mood lingered. Driving to a preschool group playdate, I pondered what I would have done in the characters' place. It was all too real-feeling. As I was getting Lucy out of the car, my friend Tina called out, "Carole" behind me, and I must have looked insane as I jumped. Thankfully Tina is also a horror aficionado and after I explained my state of mind as being book-induced, she determined to drive to her favorite bookstore and procure "The Ruins", rather than wait to hook up and borrow my copy.
Lucy lived her own nightmare yesterday: the heat left her lethargic and crabby, lurching around the playground like a zombie. We left the playdate early and went to the beach, but she cried that it was too windy. We went to a grocery store to buy her Fudgsicles, but she cried that it was too cold in the store. Back in the heat, she fell asleep in the car, and I ran in leaving the front door open, put our Fudgsicles in the freezer and grabbed "The Ruins", and ran back out, where I sat in the car re-reading sections of "The Ruins" and waiting for her to wake up. When she did, she had a fever, which was brought down by Fudgsicles. Today she has a slight sunburn on her feet on the parts which were covered by her sandals when I applied sunscreen, as she must have taken her sandals off just long enough to burn. It's her first sunburn, and she's feeling proud and dramatic. I, on the otherhand, am still preoccupied by "The Ruins" and feeling just a bit off.
Sunday, July 23, 2006
what I'm reading
This morning I neglected poor Lucy (I did make her the breakfast of her choice, and I did clap when she made up a song, so it wasn't all Living in Neglectville) to finish "Lost and Found" by Carolyn Parkhurst. I almost didn't pick up this book at the library, because it seemed too light: it's set in a reality show, a la "The Amazing Race." I love "The Amazing Race", but I don't necessarily want to read reality show novels. But! I loved this book so much that I may buy it; I'll want to re-read it at some point. I loved her cynical but loving approach to reality show contests; I adored her flawed characters.
Parkhurst writes from the point of view of different contestants on the show, and her one mother character perfectly voices what motherhood is like:
"No one else ever loves you the way your children do when they're young. No one else will ever cry when you leave the room. I try not to spend too much time thinking about those days, because I know they're perfect only in memory, and I know I need to focus on the girl I've got in front of me right now. But sometimes I can't help but give in to it... To remember what it was like, back when she smiled just to see me, when she needed my help to move a spoon to her mouth or to walk down a flight of steps. Back when she had to reach up to hold my hand. Back when she thought I could turn on the sky....
During the first week after we brought her home, I remember saying to my husband, 'I love her, but I don't know if I love her enough.' It was a terrifying thing to me to be responsible for this child, unfathomable and fragile, with all her squalling need. I was scared to be alone with her. I didn't know how I was going to carry out this job I'd taken on, the raising of this new person. It seemed too great a task. . . . I don't know what it's like for other women, women with calmer temperaments and vast inner resources; for me, it was very hard. I knew how mothers were supposed to be, and I knew I wasn't holding my own. A mother isn't supposed to cry because the baby keeps kicking off her socks; she's not supposed to feel utterly defeated by the task of clipping minuscule fingernails. She's certainly not supposed to stand over the crib in the middle of the night and say, as I once did when we'd been awakened four different times in three hours, 'I hate the fucking baby.'"
So there you have it: the utter, mindroasting high of the complete love and need you get from your baby, but the horrible feelings of inadequacy and stress, especially in those dark, sleepless nights. And for those of you not so interested in reading about motherhood, other chapters feature gay sex, the art of the Swedish subway system, violence, and the politics of reality television.
Before this, I read David Housewright's "Pretty Girl Gone." I liked "Tin City", and this one was entertaining enough, but I spotted the ending a mile away. It's irritating when you read a book with a protagonist who's allegedly brilliant, and he can't see the obvious clues screaming out at him. Also, Housewright's dialogue is incredibly clunky. Can you imagine the retired cop who would deliver this speech:
"Have either of you ever stopped to look at this painting? You've probably passed it a thousand times, but have you ever taken a moment to really look at it? The lines, the blending of color, the woeful expression on the ballerina's face? Critics didn't like the ballerinas that Degas painted. They said he was vulgar and cruel. But he was neither. It's just that while everyone else at the time was painting dancers in all their resplendent glory, Degas wanted to capture them offstage, catch them when they were worn down by tedious tryouts and exhausting rehearsals. He wanted to show us the pain they endured, the suffering that went into their art. Perhaps he thought it would help us to appreciate them more."
To make it even worse, the retired cop delivers that speech while he is being abducted at gunpoint.
In contrast, I recently read Tim Parks' "Rapids", and that book's glory was the dialogue. Parks's characters spoke just like people do in real life, which is so hard for any author to do. He beautifully captured the painful-to-listen-to, overly cheery cant of a group leader speaking to a bunch of itchy, hormonal adolescents. He had down the tring-to-be-funny-and-failing thing of a teenaged boy trying to impress girls and come off as edgy and daring, but instead coming across as an awkward geek. I hated the ending, but the dialogue made the book a joy to read.
Parkhurst writes from the point of view of different contestants on the show, and her one mother character perfectly voices what motherhood is like:
"No one else ever loves you the way your children do when they're young. No one else will ever cry when you leave the room. I try not to spend too much time thinking about those days, because I know they're perfect only in memory, and I know I need to focus on the girl I've got in front of me right now. But sometimes I can't help but give in to it... To remember what it was like, back when she smiled just to see me, when she needed my help to move a spoon to her mouth or to walk down a flight of steps. Back when she had to reach up to hold my hand. Back when she thought I could turn on the sky....
During the first week after we brought her home, I remember saying to my husband, 'I love her, but I don't know if I love her enough.' It was a terrifying thing to me to be responsible for this child, unfathomable and fragile, with all her squalling need. I was scared to be alone with her. I didn't know how I was going to carry out this job I'd taken on, the raising of this new person. It seemed too great a task. . . . I don't know what it's like for other women, women with calmer temperaments and vast inner resources; for me, it was very hard. I knew how mothers were supposed to be, and I knew I wasn't holding my own. A mother isn't supposed to cry because the baby keeps kicking off her socks; she's not supposed to feel utterly defeated by the task of clipping minuscule fingernails. She's certainly not supposed to stand over the crib in the middle of the night and say, as I once did when we'd been awakened four different times in three hours, 'I hate the fucking baby.'"
So there you have it: the utter, mindroasting high of the complete love and need you get from your baby, but the horrible feelings of inadequacy and stress, especially in those dark, sleepless nights. And for those of you not so interested in reading about motherhood, other chapters feature gay sex, the art of the Swedish subway system, violence, and the politics of reality television.
Before this, I read David Housewright's "Pretty Girl Gone." I liked "Tin City", and this one was entertaining enough, but I spotted the ending a mile away. It's irritating when you read a book with a protagonist who's allegedly brilliant, and he can't see the obvious clues screaming out at him. Also, Housewright's dialogue is incredibly clunky. Can you imagine the retired cop who would deliver this speech:
"Have either of you ever stopped to look at this painting? You've probably passed it a thousand times, but have you ever taken a moment to really look at it? The lines, the blending of color, the woeful expression on the ballerina's face? Critics didn't like the ballerinas that Degas painted. They said he was vulgar and cruel. But he was neither. It's just that while everyone else at the time was painting dancers in all their resplendent glory, Degas wanted to capture them offstage, catch them when they were worn down by tedious tryouts and exhausting rehearsals. He wanted to show us the pain they endured, the suffering that went into their art. Perhaps he thought it would help us to appreciate them more."
To make it even worse, the retired cop delivers that speech while he is being abducted at gunpoint.
In contrast, I recently read Tim Parks' "Rapids", and that book's glory was the dialogue. Parks's characters spoke just like people do in real life, which is so hard for any author to do. He beautifully captured the painful-to-listen-to, overly cheery cant of a group leader speaking to a bunch of itchy, hormonal adolescents. He had down the tring-to-be-funny-and-failing thing of a teenaged boy trying to impress girls and come off as edgy and daring, but instead coming across as an awkward geek. I hated the ending, but the dialogue made the book a joy to read.
Saturday, July 22, 2006
the hopefully last tragedy from Petrataluma
Suddenly I have all sorts of free time (note the sudden rash of blog entries), and it's because the pet rat crisis of 2006 has largely been resolved, but not without a final tragedy.
To refresh your memory: a man was discovered to be living in a one room cottage in Petaluma with over one thousand (1,000!!) living rats and countless dead rats. The rats were living many layers deep in cages; what an absolute hell that must have been. The Petaluma pound had the terrible job of clearing out the animals, and the head of the pound, Ms. Nancee Tavares, announced that she would be keeping the rats and offering them out for adoption. Without notice or fanfare, Ms. Tavares ordered over 900 of the rats killed... including the mothers of still-nursing babies. Rat enthusiasts, who were rallying to rescue the rats, were heartbroken and thrown off course. However, after regrouping, the remaining hundred odd rats, and their babies, were gradually all removed from the pound and sent off to foster and permanent homes. The last group was taken out in a hurry after Ms. Tavares announced her intent to euthanize them all, including a nursing mother and her babies, but she relented and kept them alive a few more days after she was promised they would all be taken away by rat rescuers.
One incredibly dedicated rat rescuer, herself in the third trimester of her pregnancy, undertook the mission of driving a large carload of these last rats to Missouri, where Midwest rat fanciers would take them. Her car's air conditioning broke down in Martinez, California, and five of the rats died of heat stroke.
These poor, poor, poor rats. They survived the hoarding hell, and they survived the hideous culling at the Petaluma pound, which was truly like a rat Auschwitz selektion, and then, just as they were en route to loving homes, they died a painful death. And the poor woman driving, someone I've met before who has truly devoted huge amounts of energy and work towards saving rats, how absolutely awful she must feel.
To refresh your memory: a man was discovered to be living in a one room cottage in Petaluma with over one thousand (1,000!!) living rats and countless dead rats. The rats were living many layers deep in cages; what an absolute hell that must have been. The Petaluma pound had the terrible job of clearing out the animals, and the head of the pound, Ms. Nancee Tavares, announced that she would be keeping the rats and offering them out for adoption. Without notice or fanfare, Ms. Tavares ordered over 900 of the rats killed... including the mothers of still-nursing babies. Rat enthusiasts, who were rallying to rescue the rats, were heartbroken and thrown off course. However, after regrouping, the remaining hundred odd rats, and their babies, were gradually all removed from the pound and sent off to foster and permanent homes. The last group was taken out in a hurry after Ms. Tavares announced her intent to euthanize them all, including a nursing mother and her babies, but she relented and kept them alive a few more days after she was promised they would all be taken away by rat rescuers.
One incredibly dedicated rat rescuer, herself in the third trimester of her pregnancy, undertook the mission of driving a large carload of these last rats to Missouri, where Midwest rat fanciers would take them. Her car's air conditioning broke down in Martinez, California, and five of the rats died of heat stroke.
These poor, poor, poor rats. They survived the hoarding hell, and they survived the hideous culling at the Petaluma pound, which was truly like a rat Auschwitz selektion, and then, just as they were en route to loving homes, they died a painful death. And the poor woman driving, someone I've met before who has truly devoted huge amounts of energy and work towards saving rats, how absolutely awful she must feel.
jobs with animals?
This past week, I've been reading "Gig: Americans Talk About Their Jobs" (ed. by John Bowe, Marisa Bowe, and Sabin Streeter). It's a fascinating compendium of people talking about their jobs, including such jobs as transvestite hooker, long distance truckdriver, Kinko's "coworker", computer chip designer, crime scene cleaner, etc.., etc... It's a huge book, with over 200 jobs outlined.
But what struck me after finishing it was that there careers related to animals were underrepresented. It's almost as if the editors occupy an animal-free world. Where were the veterinarian, vet tech, goat farmer, wildlife rehabilitator, animal activist, zookeeper, dairy inseminator, dogcatcher, etc...? Where are even the lab rat breeder and animal testers? (You can guess how the Drunken Housewife feels about those last professions, which is probably fair enough, given that the people in those jobs probably, like society at large, despise lawyers and housewives). To be fair, there was a dog trainer and a man obsessed with gathering geckos.
Even worse, when I was a disgruntled lawyer I took a class at a career center, which I referred to as "disgruntled lawyer class." (It was actually called "New Careers For Attorneys"). We met weekly for months, and we networked, took personality assessment tests, read about careers, etc... and NOWHERE were animals mentioned. There were booklets about one's interests, and the closest it came was "careers outdoors" for people who just love the outdoors. You could be a landscape artist or a roofer or a park ranger, but there was no category whatsoever for animal lovers. I brought this up, and I got a weird stare from the woman leading our class. She suggested that I teach high school, which is a pretty bad idea.
That class was almost as worthless for me as my friend's mandatory welfare career assessment. My beloved friend, when she was on welfare as a single mom, was compelled to spend a day being tested for her career compatibilities. At the end of a long, dreary day, she was told that she was suited emotionally and intellectually for two jobs: mortician and president. "President of what?" she asked. "Oh, a company, I guess, or the United States." Talk about helpful. (She's back to gainful employment as a graphic artist now, no thanks to her career testing).
When I somehow get to the position where I can have a second career (or third, if you count stay-at-home parenting as a career, which I guess I should), I'd like it to be with flexible hours and working with animals. I am not prepared to go to vet school, although I may do a vet tech course so I could work hands-on with animals. (My own teenaged niece is considering the same option). I'd like to do wildlife rehabilitation, and I should start volunteering again in that area. But to the world at large, animal lovers' jobs are non-existent.
But what struck me after finishing it was that there careers related to animals were underrepresented. It's almost as if the editors occupy an animal-free world. Where were the veterinarian, vet tech, goat farmer, wildlife rehabilitator, animal activist, zookeeper, dairy inseminator, dogcatcher, etc...? Where are even the lab rat breeder and animal testers? (You can guess how the Drunken Housewife feels about those last professions, which is probably fair enough, given that the people in those jobs probably, like society at large, despise lawyers and housewives). To be fair, there was a dog trainer and a man obsessed with gathering geckos.
Even worse, when I was a disgruntled lawyer I took a class at a career center, which I referred to as "disgruntled lawyer class." (It was actually called "New Careers For Attorneys"). We met weekly for months, and we networked, took personality assessment tests, read about careers, etc... and NOWHERE were animals mentioned. There were booklets about one's interests, and the closest it came was "careers outdoors" for people who just love the outdoors. You could be a landscape artist or a roofer or a park ranger, but there was no category whatsoever for animal lovers. I brought this up, and I got a weird stare from the woman leading our class. She suggested that I teach high school, which is a pretty bad idea.
That class was almost as worthless for me as my friend's mandatory welfare career assessment. My beloved friend, when she was on welfare as a single mom, was compelled to spend a day being tested for her career compatibilities. At the end of a long, dreary day, she was told that she was suited emotionally and intellectually for two jobs: mortician and president. "President of what?" she asked. "Oh, a company, I guess, or the United States." Talk about helpful. (She's back to gainful employment as a graphic artist now, no thanks to her career testing).
When I somehow get to the position where I can have a second career (or third, if you count stay-at-home parenting as a career, which I guess I should), I'd like it to be with flexible hours and working with animals. I am not prepared to go to vet school, although I may do a vet tech course so I could work hands-on with animals. (My own teenaged niece is considering the same option). I'd like to do wildlife rehabilitation, and I should start volunteering again in that area. But to the world at large, animal lovers' jobs are non-existent.
Friday, July 21, 2006
crime wave?
I live on a very quiet, secluded street. It's an obscure little corner of the city, very near busy, major streets and retail areas, but surprisingly sleepy and residential. The parking is to die for; the neighbors are, nearly to a man (and I do mean man) responsible gay high-earners who maintain their homes meticulously. You would not know (other than the pretty views of the Financial District) that you were in a major city here.
Not long ago, we were awakened by a phone call at some ungodly early hour, which turned out to be a police detective who wanted to ask each of us separately if we'd "noticed anything unusual" on the previous Tuesday around 1:00 p.m. We weren't home, so of course we hadn't, and the detective was not forthcoming. My neighbor Brad swears he will get to the bottom of this and find out what transpired, but of course, my opinion was that no one bothers to do any investigative detective work unless someone died.
Then last weekend, I heard what I believe was a gunshot. I'm not exactly an alarmist there; the only other time I heard a gunshot in the night, it turns out that the lead singer of a band I loved, Buck Naked and the Barebottom Boys, was gunned down right in front of my apartment building by a morbidly obese pigeon feeder whom I'd exchanged weird eye contact with before. On this occasion, the newspaper did not reveal any details as to the shot, but when I discussed it with Brad, Brad shared that someone had broken into the house two houses up from him. "During the daytime", Brad intoned meaningfully.
I posited that the ideal cover in our neighborhood would be posing as a dogwalker, as professional dogwalkers haunt our streets every day. No one would think twice if someone leading a pack of dogs on leashes was fumbling at a particular door (unless I was around and it was the neighbor on my other side, whom I know to possess nothing more animated than a few houseplants). Brad was alarmed at this idea. "How do you even think of these things? There's something wrong that you would even think that up." I reassured Brad that I'd cut off any potential life of crime in the bud when I got fingerprinted as part of taking the California bar exam. Also, has he seen me with my pack of dogs yet? No, he has not.
And then this week, Brad phoned to tell us that he'd learned of another daytime break-in. Sigh. I think the onus is on me, as pretty much the sole unemployed adult in the neighborhood, to keep an eye on the block, but we drunken housewives do have lives (of a particular sort) and are not always around evil eyeing everyone who passes by.
Not long ago, we were awakened by a phone call at some ungodly early hour, which turned out to be a police detective who wanted to ask each of us separately if we'd "noticed anything unusual" on the previous Tuesday around 1:00 p.m. We weren't home, so of course we hadn't, and the detective was not forthcoming. My neighbor Brad swears he will get to the bottom of this and find out what transpired, but of course, my opinion was that no one bothers to do any investigative detective work unless someone died.
Then last weekend, I heard what I believe was a gunshot. I'm not exactly an alarmist there; the only other time I heard a gunshot in the night, it turns out that the lead singer of a band I loved, Buck Naked and the Barebottom Boys, was gunned down right in front of my apartment building by a morbidly obese pigeon feeder whom I'd exchanged weird eye contact with before. On this occasion, the newspaper did not reveal any details as to the shot, but when I discussed it with Brad, Brad shared that someone had broken into the house two houses up from him. "During the daytime", Brad intoned meaningfully.
I posited that the ideal cover in our neighborhood would be posing as a dogwalker, as professional dogwalkers haunt our streets every day. No one would think twice if someone leading a pack of dogs on leashes was fumbling at a particular door (unless I was around and it was the neighbor on my other side, whom I know to possess nothing more animated than a few houseplants). Brad was alarmed at this idea. "How do you even think of these things? There's something wrong that you would even think that up." I reassured Brad that I'd cut off any potential life of crime in the bud when I got fingerprinted as part of taking the California bar exam. Also, has he seen me with my pack of dogs yet? No, he has not.
And then this week, Brad phoned to tell us that he'd learned of another daytime break-in. Sigh. I think the onus is on me, as pretty much the sole unemployed adult in the neighborhood, to keep an eye on the block, but we drunken housewives do have lives (of a particular sort) and are not always around evil eyeing everyone who passes by.
circus camp
Iris is enrolled in three weeks of "circus camp", and today I got the chance to see a show. This week's theme was "Creepie Crawlies", and the children pretended to be insects, staged a "Bug Olympics", and cavorted about.
Circus camp's greatness is its sense of humor. So many little kid activities are unbearably pompous (a certain ballet instructor comes to mind, although Lucy's current ballet teacher is endearingly down-to-earth). The parents get so emotionally invested in their child's alleged greatness, and there's a lot of pseudo-seriousness. At circus camp, there's none of that. There were actually some mindbogglingly accomplished children doing amazing stunts, but with humor: plenty of pratfalls, insect make-up, and funny background music. Some of the children are obviously hams, while one African-American girl seemed so shy while she performed seemingly superhuman feats of preternatural strength on the trapeze.
Circus camp's greatness is its sense of humor. So many little kid activities are unbearably pompous (a certain ballet instructor comes to mind, although Lucy's current ballet teacher is endearingly down-to-earth). The parents get so emotionally invested in their child's alleged greatness, and there's a lot of pseudo-seriousness. At circus camp, there's none of that. There were actually some mindbogglingly accomplished children doing amazing stunts, but with humor: plenty of pratfalls, insect make-up, and funny background music. Some of the children are obviously hams, while one African-American girl seemed so shy while she performed seemingly superhuman feats of preternatural strength on the trapeze.
a crisis, possibly of hypochondria
Last night, I had a freaky thing happen. Anton hugged me, and it hurt. There was an incredibly bad pain, out of the blue, around my navel. Later I probed inquisitively with my hand, and when I pushed to the right of my navel, the pain was agonizing (I leaned against the counter with tears in my eyes and said, "Motherfucker!" out loud; an obscenity I normally do not use). It hurt when I moved or when it was touched.
I looked up appendicitis online, and I learned that the pain usually starts around the navel but then moves down and is worse when touched or when the patient moves. That seemed right. I was running a low-grade fever.
But then I laid down, and the pain went away, and today it's not really back. I probed around with my hand, and it only hurt a tiny bit. I haven't called my doctor, because it seems asinine to call and say, "I had a lot of abdominal pain yesterday, but it's gone now." If it were appendicitis, it wouldn't just go away.
Today I feel tired and under the weather, possibly slightly feverish, but then again, both my girls were sick this week (Iris was home sick yesterday with a fever and sore throat). I am feeling a bit nervous about my decision to wait-and-see if the pain comes back again. I hate going to the doctor when there's no clear reason to go (plenty of time in the waiting room, copayment, embarrassment of wasting my excellent doctor's time), and my doctor normally only works a half day on Fridays anyhow, which would mean it would be hard to get in to explain "I was in pain yesterday."
I looked up appendicitis online, and I learned that the pain usually starts around the navel but then moves down and is worse when touched or when the patient moves. That seemed right. I was running a low-grade fever.
But then I laid down, and the pain went away, and today it's not really back. I probed around with my hand, and it only hurt a tiny bit. I haven't called my doctor, because it seems asinine to call and say, "I had a lot of abdominal pain yesterday, but it's gone now." If it were appendicitis, it wouldn't just go away.
Today I feel tired and under the weather, possibly slightly feverish, but then again, both my girls were sick this week (Iris was home sick yesterday with a fever and sore throat). I am feeling a bit nervous about my decision to wait-and-see if the pain comes back again. I hate going to the doctor when there's no clear reason to go (plenty of time in the waiting room, copayment, embarrassment of wasting my excellent doctor's time), and my doctor normally only works a half day on Fridays anyhow, which would mean it would be hard to get in to explain "I was in pain yesterday."
Thursday, July 20, 2006
the Drunken Housewife goes to the theatre
I have two friends named Kim in my life: both of them live sadly far away from me, and both of them are strongly interested in the theatre. Kim #1 came to visit for a few days, and our major activity was seeing some shows. Anton and I also share a love of live theatre, but alas our budget does not provide for hiring many babysitters to see many shows. So, leaving Anton at home with the children, we got out to some plays. (Anton was okay with this, because he was sucking up to me so I'd agree to his going to Chicago next month).
On Sunday, we saw "Killer Joe" at the Magic Theatre. I'd been vaguely wanting to go to this play all summer; it enjoyed a sold-out run at the Marin theatre company, and then it moved down to the Magic and was extended there. It was billed as a dark comedy, but as Kim noted at intermission, "I'm seeing a lot of dark, but not much comedy." We did laugh out loud at some point during the second act, but comedy was definitely not the applicable genre.
The first act had quite a lot of female nudity, and Kim said during intermission that she hoped to see a penis to make up for this during act two. Right on order, a penis was exhibited in a display of full-frontal male nudity in Act II, which saved us from finding the play overly sexist or exploitive. We loved the trailer set, with its wealth of details. We loved all the actors save one, and, weird as this may be to say, the play had the best use of stage make-up I have ever seen. Kudos to the make-up crew, who were obviously working hard behind the scenes as the play went on.
I'm being purposefully vague about the plot, so as not to spoil anything for anyone, and I highly recommend seeing this play, with the sole caveat that women who are past victims of sexual assault or molestation may find the play to be triggering and upsetting.
On Tuesday, we saw "Restoration Comedy" at the Cal Shakes festival. I am ashamed that I have lived in the Bay Area for almost twenty years, but never attended the Cal Shakes festival. Anton's attitude ("You are driving to the suburbs to see comedy??") was pretty negative (on Sunday, he asked me, "Which play are you seeing tonight? The good one? Or the one in the suburbs?"). However, the setting was fabulous, an outdoor stage in the beautiful hills. We saw cows grazing behind the stage, and we picnicked beforehand. The only problem was that, as always a picnic overachiever, I packed my picnic basket, with real flatware, champagne flutes, a bottle of sparkling wine, cloth napkins (the mood was slightly marred by my plastic plates with pictures of duckies on them). The picnic basket did not fit under my seat, and I could not leave it in the aisle, as the performers often ran up and down the aisles. I had to sit awkardly with my feet on the basket through the show, and we had to assist the others seated in our row in getting in and out.
"Restoration Comedy" was the anti-"Killer Joe": a comedy of manners in costume, with light, stylized sets (as opposed to "Killer Joe"'s extremely detailed and realistic set), beautifully broadcast harpsichord music (as opposed to "Killer Joe"'s deliberately distorted and fuzzy occasional music), a large chorus ("Joe" had only 5 actors), occasional forays into verse, and the "breaking of the fifth wall" for humorous effect ("Killer Joe" was so intense that I worried about the effect the performance must have on the actors). More trivially, the stage make-up in "Restoration Comedy" was the sort of over-done make-up I hate. But! Never have you seen such luscious, wonderful costumes! I was left longing to go to "Burning Man" this year, so I could sew myself some crazy historical costumes. Men in long, curly wigs and gorgeous purple frock coats, women in corsets and huge skirts, beautiful colors and textures... With some good-looking actors, the stylish sets, and the luxurious costumes, "Restoration Comedy" was true eye candy.
Again, I refuse to spoil the plot, and I do recommend "Restoration Comedy", but maybe not for those who may have struggled with infidelity issues unhappily. The theme of "Restoration Comedy" is that monogamy is a hopeless endeavour. (The Drunken Housewife isn't usually so nitpicky in her recommendations, but these excellent plays could overly affect the previously traumatized).
On the way to the stage, we passed several huge, expensively printed banners proclaiming that Cal Shakes is "for all ages" and a quote from someone about having achieved a lifelong love of Shakespeare and the theatre from attending Cal Shakes as a wee tot. The program guide touted drama classes for ages 4 and up. However, then the performance went on to have quite a lot of sexual content, which made it seem a lot less child-friendly than touted.
Lately there haven't been any movies I've really wanted to see (I'll wait until "The Devil Wears Prada" and "Strangers with Candy" come out on DVD to catch them). Going to the movies is so expensive, especially if one adds in babysitting. The live theatre is a better entertainment choice, in my opinion. Even if you see a bad play, somehow you have more fodder for conversation. The presence of the actors commands more attention. I've never left a play with that left-a-bad-movie feeling where you say, "My God, I'll never get those two hours of my life back." I have left a few plays at intermission (notably the hideous rap version of Moliere which the misguided ACT staged some years ago), but even so, I didn't regret having gone in the first place (okay, maybe I would have regretted the rap Moliere if I'd bought the tickets to it; I went as part of my season subscription). I'm eager to see more plays, and I feel bad that Anton missed "Killer Joe."
On Sunday, we saw "Killer Joe" at the Magic Theatre. I'd been vaguely wanting to go to this play all summer; it enjoyed a sold-out run at the Marin theatre company, and then it moved down to the Magic and was extended there. It was billed as a dark comedy, but as Kim noted at intermission, "I'm seeing a lot of dark, but not much comedy." We did laugh out loud at some point during the second act, but comedy was definitely not the applicable genre.
The first act had quite a lot of female nudity, and Kim said during intermission that she hoped to see a penis to make up for this during act two. Right on order, a penis was exhibited in a display of full-frontal male nudity in Act II, which saved us from finding the play overly sexist or exploitive. We loved the trailer set, with its wealth of details. We loved all the actors save one, and, weird as this may be to say, the play had the best use of stage make-up I have ever seen. Kudos to the make-up crew, who were obviously working hard behind the scenes as the play went on.
I'm being purposefully vague about the plot, so as not to spoil anything for anyone, and I highly recommend seeing this play, with the sole caveat that women who are past victims of sexual assault or molestation may find the play to be triggering and upsetting.
On Tuesday, we saw "Restoration Comedy" at the Cal Shakes festival. I am ashamed that I have lived in the Bay Area for almost twenty years, but never attended the Cal Shakes festival. Anton's attitude ("You are driving to the suburbs to see comedy??") was pretty negative (on Sunday, he asked me, "Which play are you seeing tonight? The good one? Or the one in the suburbs?"). However, the setting was fabulous, an outdoor stage in the beautiful hills. We saw cows grazing behind the stage, and we picnicked beforehand. The only problem was that, as always a picnic overachiever, I packed my picnic basket, with real flatware, champagne flutes, a bottle of sparkling wine, cloth napkins (the mood was slightly marred by my plastic plates with pictures of duckies on them). The picnic basket did not fit under my seat, and I could not leave it in the aisle, as the performers often ran up and down the aisles. I had to sit awkardly with my feet on the basket through the show, and we had to assist the others seated in our row in getting in and out.
"Restoration Comedy" was the anti-"Killer Joe": a comedy of manners in costume, with light, stylized sets (as opposed to "Killer Joe"'s extremely detailed and realistic set), beautifully broadcast harpsichord music (as opposed to "Killer Joe"'s deliberately distorted and fuzzy occasional music), a large chorus ("Joe" had only 5 actors), occasional forays into verse, and the "breaking of the fifth wall" for humorous effect ("Killer Joe" was so intense that I worried about the effect the performance must have on the actors). More trivially, the stage make-up in "Restoration Comedy" was the sort of over-done make-up I hate. But! Never have you seen such luscious, wonderful costumes! I was left longing to go to "Burning Man" this year, so I could sew myself some crazy historical costumes. Men in long, curly wigs and gorgeous purple frock coats, women in corsets and huge skirts, beautiful colors and textures... With some good-looking actors, the stylish sets, and the luxurious costumes, "Restoration Comedy" was true eye candy.
Again, I refuse to spoil the plot, and I do recommend "Restoration Comedy", but maybe not for those who may have struggled with infidelity issues unhappily. The theme of "Restoration Comedy" is that monogamy is a hopeless endeavour. (The Drunken Housewife isn't usually so nitpicky in her recommendations, but these excellent plays could overly affect the previously traumatized).
On the way to the stage, we passed several huge, expensively printed banners proclaiming that Cal Shakes is "for all ages" and a quote from someone about having achieved a lifelong love of Shakespeare and the theatre from attending Cal Shakes as a wee tot. The program guide touted drama classes for ages 4 and up. However, then the performance went on to have quite a lot of sexual content, which made it seem a lot less child-friendly than touted.
Lately there haven't been any movies I've really wanted to see (I'll wait until "The Devil Wears Prada" and "Strangers with Candy" come out on DVD to catch them). Going to the movies is so expensive, especially if one adds in babysitting. The live theatre is a better entertainment choice, in my opinion. Even if you see a bad play, somehow you have more fodder for conversation. The presence of the actors commands more attention. I've never left a play with that left-a-bad-movie feeling where you say, "My God, I'll never get those two hours of my life back." I have left a few plays at intermission (notably the hideous rap version of Moliere which the misguided ACT staged some years ago), but even so, I didn't regret having gone in the first place (okay, maybe I would have regretted the rap Moliere if I'd bought the tickets to it; I went as part of my season subscription). I'm eager to see more plays, and I feel bad that Anton missed "Killer Joe."
Saturday, July 15, 2006
general busy-ness
Yesterday, when I was driving to Petaluma, I drove by a wildfire. It had obviously just started, in the dry hills of North Marin, as there were no firefighters there yet. I'm sure it was put out soon thereafter, since it wasn't in the paper this morning (there are currently some huge wildfires raging elsewhere in the state). I was on a tight time schedule (take Lucy to Joyce's! Drive to Petaluma! Get rats! Drive to Vacaville! Drive home!), so I couldn't stop. I didn't call 911, as I didn't feel safe dialing out while driving 70 m.p.h., and I rationalized that surely one of the other drivers in our heavy traffic had already called 911. I wanted to stop and see the fire, from a little distance, because it was so beautiful and strange, the largest fire I've ever seen personally. It was the most interesting thing which happened in a day where I spent nearly six hours on my rat errands.
Today I have to pick up some neutered lady rats at a vet in Pacifica (let us all take a moment and think well of Dr. Hurlbut, DVM, who does huge amounts of reduced-cost veterinary work for animal rescues, and whose name never fails to amuse my three year-old, as it sounds like "butt"). I'll be holding them for a fosterer who will come by after protesting at Neiman Marcus in an anti-fur demonstration (I should be in that demonstration myself, but it's a crazy day). The Baby Violet will be dropped off so I can repay some of the babysitting I owe and so her parents can go see a movie. I will in theory clean my entire house and do all the laundry, because my incredibly tidy, uberhousecleaner friend from high school is arriving in the morning to be horrified at my gross untidiness. "Just don't get a tattoo" was Anton's plea when I told him she was coming (we got matching tattoos for her birthday last year).
So why am I sitting about on my voluptuous rump with so much to do? I'm touching up my roots as we speak, waiting for it to be time to go shower, and waiting for my tired Iris to get up. Lucy is at ballet, driven by the anti-ballet Anton (he's got second child burnout, being sick of watching adorable three year-olds dance and also sick unto death of parent-child woodworking and parent-child swimming classes).
Today I have to pick up some neutered lady rats at a vet in Pacifica (let us all take a moment and think well of Dr. Hurlbut, DVM, who does huge amounts of reduced-cost veterinary work for animal rescues, and whose name never fails to amuse my three year-old, as it sounds like "butt"). I'll be holding them for a fosterer who will come by after protesting at Neiman Marcus in an anti-fur demonstration (I should be in that demonstration myself, but it's a crazy day). The Baby Violet will be dropped off so I can repay some of the babysitting I owe and so her parents can go see a movie. I will in theory clean my entire house and do all the laundry, because my incredibly tidy, uberhousecleaner friend from high school is arriving in the morning to be horrified at my gross untidiness. "Just don't get a tattoo" was Anton's plea when I told him she was coming (we got matching tattoos for her birthday last year).
So why am I sitting about on my voluptuous rump with so much to do? I'm touching up my roots as we speak, waiting for it to be time to go shower, and waiting for my tired Iris to get up. Lucy is at ballet, driven by the anti-ballet Anton (he's got second child burnout, being sick of watching adorable three year-olds dance and also sick unto death of parent-child woodworking and parent-child swimming classes).
the dreaded metablogging
It's so self-referential to blog about blogging, but here goes: I'm wondering whether I should use the real names for my innocent spouse and children. My oldest child is getting to the point where she can be embarrassed by silly anecdotes. On the other hand, I personally find it annoying when I read blogs where a mother refers to her children as "The Boy" and "The Girl" or by pet names (not that we don't have pet names, we're oversupplied in our house with those). Columnist Ellen LastnameIcan'tremember always wrote about her daughter, and she paid her daughter a token sum whenever she did. The daughter, though, was affected by this (I say this from the viewpoint of having dated someone in college who went to private school with the daughter). On the other hand, Ellen Whatever was nationally syndicated, and this is a fairly obscure blog. My own role model in writing about my children is the inimitable Shirley Jackson, who wrote a couple of delightful books about her own children using real first names, but not the last name used by her children, when she wasn't writing gripping horror novels (sidenote: the fascinatingly strange Sally I loved in those books grew up to be my acquaintance Sadie, who lives on the Russian River, goes to Burning Man, and urged me to freeze my placentas and make a form of "tea" from them).
My husband asked me if he could give the URL to the blog to my mother-in-law, and I (in my mind shrieking, "NOOOOOOO!") said, "I'm not giving it to any family yet. I don't feel comfortable with that. It's one thing for my friends and total strangers to read it, but I don't want my parents reading it." I wanted to give the URL to my niece and nephew, but I don't want my sister to have it. (Yes, the family dynamics which produced our flawed Drunken Housewife are obscure and often unappetizing).
Blah, blah, blah. It seems a bit grandiose to think or write about this sort of thing, but I have started to get comments from people whom I do not know and did not give the URL to, so someone out there is reading this. Also, the blog may get an infusion of British readers, as it will be a stopping point on Ayun Halliday's virtual book tour when "Mamalamadingdong" is released in the U.K. (More, much more, on this later, when the Drunken Housewife declares Ayun Halliday Day, which is quietly in the works). But does that matter, that British people whom I personally do not know will learn that a girl named Iris taunts her sister, named Lucy, into peeing in the backyard under the pretence of "having a penis" and "being a rockstar"?
My husband asked me if he could give the URL to the blog to my mother-in-law, and I (in my mind shrieking, "NOOOOOOO!") said, "I'm not giving it to any family yet. I don't feel comfortable with that. It's one thing for my friends and total strangers to read it, but I don't want my parents reading it." I wanted to give the URL to my niece and nephew, but I don't want my sister to have it. (Yes, the family dynamics which produced our flawed Drunken Housewife are obscure and often unappetizing).
Blah, blah, blah. It seems a bit grandiose to think or write about this sort of thing, but I have started to get comments from people whom I do not know and did not give the URL to, so someone out there is reading this. Also, the blog may get an infusion of British readers, as it will be a stopping point on Ayun Halliday's virtual book tour when "Mamalamadingdong" is released in the U.K. (More, much more, on this later, when the Drunken Housewife declares Ayun Halliday Day, which is quietly in the works). But does that matter, that British people whom I personally do not know will learn that a girl named Iris taunts her sister, named Lucy, into peeing in the backyard under the pretence of "having a penis" and "being a rockstar"?
Friday, July 14, 2006
chauffeur to the rats
If you wonder why I'm not blogging, arranging playdates for my children, or even doing the most minimal housework, it's because I'm obsessing about the surviving rats recovered from the Petaluma rat hoarding horror. There's an email list for people trying to help the rats, the petalumarats yahoo group, and I'm posting and reading there or exchanging email with rat activists. I've also been doing a lot of driving rats hither and yon, with more driving today and tomorrow.
This afternoon I'm driving up to Petaluma, after leaving my three year-old with my very patient friend Joyce (whom I now owe a lot of babysitting). It's wonderful for Lucy to get to spend an afternoon with her friends Joyce and "The Baby Violet", as Lucy always calls her, rather than spend another day in the car driving rats around. I'm going to pick up three nursing mother rats with their litters of babies, and then I'll drive them out to Vacaville to rendezvous with a famed rat fosterer, who has the magical superpower of being able to find homes for whole litters of baby rats. Then I'll drive back to the city, undoubtedly getting caught in rush hour traffic, and missing my six year-old's gymnastic camp show.
I got a guilt trip from the old husband yesterday about missing the show. "I feel that for a stay at home mother, I'm missing a lot of Iris's special moments," I said. Instead of reassuring me, he said, in a judgmental voice, "Do you have to go in the afternoon so you miss the show?"
"But the pound doesn't open until noon, so I can't go there in the morning. And the person I'm meeting isn't free to leave until after one, so she can't meet me before 2:30."
"Can't you do it another day?"
"I can't do it tomorrow, because I'm picking up the rats who got neutered in Pacifica. And the pound's closed on Monday, and we can't do it Tuesday, so it's either tomorrow or Wednesday. And the rats could get euthanized before then." That last remark was actually unjustified, as now the pound knows it has someone who's taking those specific rats off their hands, they are unlikely to kill them, but Anton failed to call me on it. He just gave me a cool, disappointed look. Of course, he was pissy because we bought a new cage for our adopted rats and a rat carrier as well. "Anton thinks the carrier is a waste of money," artlessly tattled Iris.
The Petaluma pound will soon have about 20 rats left which need homes. Please spread the word. I will personally lavishly reward anyone who adopts some.
This afternoon I'm driving up to Petaluma, after leaving my three year-old with my very patient friend Joyce (whom I now owe a lot of babysitting). It's wonderful for Lucy to get to spend an afternoon with her friends Joyce and "The Baby Violet", as Lucy always calls her, rather than spend another day in the car driving rats around. I'm going to pick up three nursing mother rats with their litters of babies, and then I'll drive them out to Vacaville to rendezvous with a famed rat fosterer, who has the magical superpower of being able to find homes for whole litters of baby rats. Then I'll drive back to the city, undoubtedly getting caught in rush hour traffic, and missing my six year-old's gymnastic camp show.
I got a guilt trip from the old husband yesterday about missing the show. "I feel that for a stay at home mother, I'm missing a lot of Iris's special moments," I said. Instead of reassuring me, he said, in a judgmental voice, "Do you have to go in the afternoon so you miss the show?"
"But the pound doesn't open until noon, so I can't go there in the morning. And the person I'm meeting isn't free to leave until after one, so she can't meet me before 2:30."
"Can't you do it another day?"
"I can't do it tomorrow, because I'm picking up the rats who got neutered in Pacifica. And the pound's closed on Monday, and we can't do it Tuesday, so it's either tomorrow or Wednesday. And the rats could get euthanized before then." That last remark was actually unjustified, as now the pound knows it has someone who's taking those specific rats off their hands, they are unlikely to kill them, but Anton failed to call me on it. He just gave me a cool, disappointed look. Of course, he was pissy because we bought a new cage for our adopted rats and a rat carrier as well. "Anton thinks the carrier is a waste of money," artlessly tattled Iris.
The Petaluma pound will soon have about 20 rats left which need homes. Please spread the word. I will personally lavishly reward anyone who adopts some.
Saturday, July 08, 2006
I waste a glorious day
Today was one of the rare true summer days of San Francisco: beautifully warm, with no clouds in the sky. It would have been a great day to go to the beach, but Anton hates the beach, and I thought the beach would be overcrowded, hot Saturdays being so unusual. Anton is feeling generous in spirit right now (he said to me the other day, in a rare moment, "This is the best marriage ever!"), so I could have gotten my beach wish granted. What instead did I squander my marital capital on? A trip to Target.
I hate driving to Target; I hate the particular freeway exit and parking lot and lane merges required for that outing. Anton hates all retail, and he is trying to get us to live within our means. But Iris needed a leotard and some other clothes appropriate for the day-long gymnastics camp she's starting on Monday, and I felt like stocking up on stuff like tampons and envelopes, and I wanted to do it on the cheap, so a trip to Target seemed called for, prevailing upon the husband to do the driving.
My God, I must be losing whatever verve was left in me.
On the other hand, I did enjoy having my coffee outside, and I drank quite a bit of yummy cava while cooking a cucumber risotto and baked radicchio. My verdict on the meal: the risotto was okay, but since I've already made the discovery of the fabulousness of cooked cucumber, it wasn't particularly enlightening. On the other hand, the baked radicchio was miraculous.
Baked Radicchio
Preheat oven to 400. Oil a large, shallow baking dish.
Wash and chop a head of radicchio. Drizzle with olive oil; sprinkle with salt and pepper. Bake 20 minutes. Top with lots of slivered gorgonzola and liberal amounts of balsamic vinegar; return to the oven until the cheese is melted.
From the Farmer John cookbook, my new obsession.
I hate driving to Target; I hate the particular freeway exit and parking lot and lane merges required for that outing. Anton hates all retail, and he is trying to get us to live within our means. But Iris needed a leotard and some other clothes appropriate for the day-long gymnastics camp she's starting on Monday, and I felt like stocking up on stuff like tampons and envelopes, and I wanted to do it on the cheap, so a trip to Target seemed called for, prevailing upon the husband to do the driving.
My God, I must be losing whatever verve was left in me.
On the other hand, I did enjoy having my coffee outside, and I drank quite a bit of yummy cava while cooking a cucumber risotto and baked radicchio. My verdict on the meal: the risotto was okay, but since I've already made the discovery of the fabulousness of cooked cucumber, it wasn't particularly enlightening. On the other hand, the baked radicchio was miraculous.
Baked Radicchio
Preheat oven to 400. Oil a large, shallow baking dish.
Wash and chop a head of radicchio. Drizzle with olive oil; sprinkle with salt and pepper. Bake 20 minutes. Top with lots of slivered gorgonzola and liberal amounts of balsamic vinegar; return to the oven until the cheese is melted.
From the Farmer John cookbook, my new obsession.
insane desserts of New York
The New Yorker recently profiled Will Goldfarb, an insanely creative and cranky pastry chef. I'm spellbound by his ideas and wish I could visit "Room 4 Dessert" in New York. Here are a few of his past and present excesses, not all of them desserts:
- "Picnic", pancetta, tomatoes stewed in olive oil, and vanilla (yes, as a vegetarian, I'm not really in favor of bringing meat over into the one area of the menu which is traditionally meat-free, but I love craziness in food),
- a rose-petal vapor served via gas mask,
- tobacco sabayon,
- "an interactive Futurist menu that included a starter served on silk and sandpaper, a dish that required the customer to be blindfolded and bound, and a desert that a waiter injected with a syringe of hot oil at the table";
- "St Barts May 2001", meant to capture memories of a beach vacation, served with a beach towel and spray can of salt water;
- "Mr. Clean", a cocktail including a very strongly scented pine liquor (this I actually would not want to try).
You'd think the man behind these ideas would be a genial performance artist type, but instead, he is a tightly wound control freak who is obsessed with how the kitchen towels are folded. I don't think I'd last a day in his kitchen, but I'd like to experience some of his concepts.
- "Picnic", pancetta, tomatoes stewed in olive oil, and vanilla (yes, as a vegetarian, I'm not really in favor of bringing meat over into the one area of the menu which is traditionally meat-free, but I love craziness in food),
- a rose-petal vapor served via gas mask,
- tobacco sabayon,
- "an interactive Futurist menu that included a starter served on silk and sandpaper, a dish that required the customer to be blindfolded and bound, and a desert that a waiter injected with a syringe of hot oil at the table";
- "St Barts May 2001", meant to capture memories of a beach vacation, served with a beach towel and spray can of salt water;
- "Mr. Clean", a cocktail including a very strongly scented pine liquor (this I actually would not want to try).
You'd think the man behind these ideas would be a genial performance artist type, but instead, he is a tightly wound control freak who is obsessed with how the kitchen towels are folded. I don't think I'd last a day in his kitchen, but I'd like to experience some of his concepts.
speech therapy
L/L (she's switching back and forth betw. the names in a very confusing manner) has made astronomical progress in speech therapy this year. But the thing that makes me almost happier is that she's not so ashamed of her speech any more. She's feeling a lot better about how she talks.
Yesterday we spent the day hanging out with one of her friends from preschool, and L. mispronounces this little girl's name. The girl, tactfully enough for her age, brought up how "a lot of kids can't say my name right." L. got the subtext (that she wasn't saying the name right) and said, with confidence, "Jill comes all the time to teach me, and I practice every night in bed, and soon I will be talking really really good!" She told her friend that she would work on her name in speech therapy. I was so happy that she wasn't shutting up in shame, like she always used to (the day she said so quietly and sadly, "I can't talk" was heartbreaking).
Those of you who were on the camping weekend might have noticed that she didn't talk to you for the most part. She's not comfortable talking with new people, usually (although we had a charismatic cabdriver last week who got her to give him directions). She loves attention, but she can be shy about her speech. I was so thrilled with her little speech to her friend because it showed her own pride in her work and her optimism.
it's night and day. Black and white. It is absolutely MINDBOGGLING the progress she's made this year. She's done more in half a year than I hoped she'd achieve in two years of speech therapy.
Before: only me & Iris able to understand much, and we understood about 80% of what she said. Anton understood about 30-40% of what she said. Her preschool teachers and other kids understood about zero (yes, zero) of what she said. She "telegraphed", speaking in as few words as possible, and relied heavily upon body language and facial expressions. She would go to extremes to avoid speaking to anyone other than me and Iris. She was diagnosed at being in the 2nd percentile (second!) for speech ability for a child her age; at 3 1/2, she was speaking BELOW the level of the average 18 month old.
Now: I understand about 98% of what she says, and even new people (especially parents, who are used to talking to little kids) can understand most of what she says. Every now and then she stumps me (today I had a lot of trouble figuring out the word "sneaker"), but the sheer fluidity of her speech and the confident way she trots out new words makes tears come into my eyes. I was so afraid for her, but speech therapy has fixed her up to an almost unbelievable extent.
Today in speech therapy, she worked on words ending in "ish", on pronouncing c/k without sticking an l in there (and her speech therapist taught me a touch cue to show her not to put an l in: speak k and then hold your own tongue down with an index finger), and on the name "Louise."
Yesterday we spent the day hanging out with one of her friends from preschool, and L. mispronounces this little girl's name. The girl, tactfully enough for her age, brought up how "a lot of kids can't say my name right." L. got the subtext (that she wasn't saying the name right) and said, with confidence, "Jill comes all the time to teach me, and I practice every night in bed, and soon I will be talking really really good!" She told her friend that she would work on her name in speech therapy. I was so happy that she wasn't shutting up in shame, like she always used to (the day she said so quietly and sadly, "I can't talk" was heartbreaking).
Those of you who were on the camping weekend might have noticed that she didn't talk to you for the most part. She's not comfortable talking with new people, usually (although we had a charismatic cabdriver last week who got her to give him directions). She loves attention, but she can be shy about her speech. I was so thrilled with her little speech to her friend because it showed her own pride in her work and her optimism.
it's night and day. Black and white. It is absolutely MINDBOGGLING the progress she's made this year. She's done more in half a year than I hoped she'd achieve in two years of speech therapy.
Before: only me & Iris able to understand much, and we understood about 80% of what she said. Anton understood about 30-40% of what she said. Her preschool teachers and other kids understood about zero (yes, zero) of what she said. She "telegraphed", speaking in as few words as possible, and relied heavily upon body language and facial expressions. She would go to extremes to avoid speaking to anyone other than me and Iris. She was diagnosed at being in the 2nd percentile (second!) for speech ability for a child her age; at 3 1/2, she was speaking BELOW the level of the average 18 month old.
Now: I understand about 98% of what she says, and even new people (especially parents, who are used to talking to little kids) can understand most of what she says. Every now and then she stumps me (today I had a lot of trouble figuring out the word "sneaker"), but the sheer fluidity of her speech and the confident way she trots out new words makes tears come into my eyes. I was so afraid for her, but speech therapy has fixed her up to an almost unbelievable extent.
Today in speech therapy, she worked on words ending in "ish", on pronouncing c/k without sticking an l in there (and her speech therapist taught me a touch cue to show her not to put an l in: speak k and then hold your own tongue down with an index finger), and on the name "Louise."
Friday, July 07, 2006
Elizabeth Wurtzel annoys me
I just read "More, Now, Again", Elizabeth Wurtzel's memoir of her addiction to Ritalin (which she ground up and snorted) and cocaine. I can't really understand why I read the entire book, other than that I have been puzzling mentally over addiction and rehabilitation issues since our pet alcoholic relapsed (a childhood friend of Anton's stayed in our living room while going through rehab).
Wurtzel is one of those academically bright people who can't stop telling you, "I'm smart, I'm smart, I'm smarter than you and everyone else." She reminds me of a boyfriend I had for a while in college, who made sure everyone knew he was a National Merit Scholar (I was also a National Merit Scholar, but none of my college friends knew that, as I didn't bring it up all the time, although now I've mentioned it here and somewhat weakened my arguments vis-a-vis Ms. Wurtzel). Stop telling us how smart you are and instead let us infer it, puhleeze.
Even more irritating, Wurtzel finds the people around her are insufficiently interested in "culture." She brags that she is able to interest people in "culture" if she puts it right under their noses. And what is this "culture" which is so glorious, to which regular people do not sufficiently attend? Movies, popular music, and glossy magazines. Ms. Wurtzel's version of "culture" seems frozen at a high school level. She's not exactly attending Mark Morris Dance Group performances or current photography exhibits and performance art installations; she's not knowledgeable about opera or ballet.
Wurtzel's sense of entitlement is truly staggering. Arrested (and rightfully so) for shoplifting, she demands that her Ritalin and her glossy magazines be brought to her holding cell. Later, after she was bailed out, she calls a large firm lawyer she knows, haranguing the woman to file a civil rights lawsuit based upon the denial of her magazines and Ritalin. Oh, yes, the Constitution protects one's rights to "Vanity Fair" and the prescription drug that one is currently grinding up and snorting at a pace of forty pills per day.
Lastly, Wurtzel irked me no end in her dismissiveness of her well-behaved young adolescent nieces. She harangues the nieces to rebel, telling them that at their age, she was listening to punk and sneaking out to give guys blowjobs. What is wrong with these young girls, that they won't listen to the music Wurtzel prescribes? Wurtzel never asks herself why her nieces should take her as a role model, given that she has struggled with depression and addiction, is unable to manage her finances, has screwed up many professional opportunities, and is unable to get into a relationship.
Did I learn anything about the nature of addiction? No, not really.
Wurtzel is one of those academically bright people who can't stop telling you, "I'm smart, I'm smart, I'm smarter than you and everyone else." She reminds me of a boyfriend I had for a while in college, who made sure everyone knew he was a National Merit Scholar (I was also a National Merit Scholar, but none of my college friends knew that, as I didn't bring it up all the time, although now I've mentioned it here and somewhat weakened my arguments vis-a-vis Ms. Wurtzel). Stop telling us how smart you are and instead let us infer it, puhleeze.
Even more irritating, Wurtzel finds the people around her are insufficiently interested in "culture." She brags that she is able to interest people in "culture" if she puts it right under their noses. And what is this "culture" which is so glorious, to which regular people do not sufficiently attend? Movies, popular music, and glossy magazines. Ms. Wurtzel's version of "culture" seems frozen at a high school level. She's not exactly attending Mark Morris Dance Group performances or current photography exhibits and performance art installations; she's not knowledgeable about opera or ballet.
Wurtzel's sense of entitlement is truly staggering. Arrested (and rightfully so) for shoplifting, she demands that her Ritalin and her glossy magazines be brought to her holding cell. Later, after she was bailed out, she calls a large firm lawyer she knows, haranguing the woman to file a civil rights lawsuit based upon the denial of her magazines and Ritalin. Oh, yes, the Constitution protects one's rights to "Vanity Fair" and the prescription drug that one is currently grinding up and snorting at a pace of forty pills per day.
Lastly, Wurtzel irked me no end in her dismissiveness of her well-behaved young adolescent nieces. She harangues the nieces to rebel, telling them that at their age, she was listening to punk and sneaking out to give guys blowjobs. What is wrong with these young girls, that they won't listen to the music Wurtzel prescribes? Wurtzel never asks herself why her nieces should take her as a role model, given that she has struggled with depression and addiction, is unable to manage her finances, has screwed up many professional opportunities, and is unable to get into a relationship.
Did I learn anything about the nature of addiction? No, not really.
Thursday, July 06, 2006
when we all got along vs. today
When Lucy was a baby and toddler, Iris, Lucy and I spent our days largely in an atmosphere of love. Yes, we did have the hassles any household containing a baby and a preschooler has, but we three got along during the days. When Iris was five, she suddenly turned upon her formerly beloved "Mr. Goose", and a new, harsh reality of sibling rivalry set in. Here, however, a paean to the days in which "Iya" (Lucy's toddler version of "Iris") and "Mr. Goose" (the most enduring nickname endowed upon Lucy by Iris) lived together in peace and love:
Lucy used to ask Iris to give her a horsey ride by climbing on top of Iris and reaching out with her hands. I have not seen anything cuter than a four year-old giving a toddler a horsey ride.
Baby Lucy also took to kissing rather elaborately. She would only kiss me and Iris, but when she did, it was like getting a big, climactic screen kiss. (Poor Anton was left out of this).
Iris loved to make Lucy laugh. She had a cute malapropism: she called Lucy a "gigglepush." Another overly adorable thing Lucy baby habit was to say "gigglegigglegiggle." Who can resist a baby, who sports "gigglegigglegiggle" as one of her first words?
A less adorable thing Lucy did was to constantly carry my shoes to me and say, "Go! go!", meaning I was commanded to take her somewhere. She cried if I didn't put my shoes on at her command (plus she cried if I tried to put on a different pair of shoes than this one pair she likes). We spent very little time at home in those days, but that suited the Luce. During the afternoons while Iris was at preschool, Lucy and I were fixtures at the nearby playground, where we made friends and enjoyed the sun.
Ah, the good old days. Now poor Lucy lives under the tyrannical thumb of an often cruel older sister. Today Lucy had a four year-old friend over, an only child, who was not afraid of Iris. Emboldened by this company, Lucy said to Iris, "Shoo! Shoo!" Her friend chimed in, "We don't need you!" (although they did enlist Iris to assist them in building a fort, which I was forbidden to see). Now here's the double standard: if Iris had a friend over and they shooed Lucy, I would have intervened, but in this instance, it felt like Iris getting a taste of her own medicine, and I allowed it. It's a cruel sibling world we now inhabit, and we, the nominal rulers, are not sure how to govern the battling siblings.
The other day, Anton completely was stymied on how to handle the sibling relations. He had declared bathtime and run a bath. In the good old days, the girls bathed together and played together in the tub, but those days are over. Iris always insists on going first (does she pee vindictively in the water? I wonder). Lucy wanted to watch Iris get her hair washed, and she pulled up a stool and sat so sweetly on it, her little arms folded. Iris wanted privacy from Lucy, but she wanted Anton to hang out with her while she bathed.
Anton came to me for a ruling, and I felt like a Supreme Court justice weighing various constitutional mandates. On the one hand, it's good for Lucy to see a hairwashing role model, and Lucy was being nicer than Iris. In sibling disputes, I usually side with the one who is being (however temporarily) nicer (perhaps akin to Prof. John Hart Ely's Constitutional law theory that the outcome favoring greater representation should always be preferred). However, I ended up creating a new rule for our home: you can pick whoever you will be naked around. If you do not want to be naked around any particular person, you don't have to be. This one resonated with the children, just like the "one person, one vote" Supreme Court ruling resonated with the public. I learned in law school that there is no real Constitutional basis for "one person, one vote", and analogously I lacked any good child developmental basis for my parental ruling. Some rules just sound good.
Lucy used to ask Iris to give her a horsey ride by climbing on top of Iris and reaching out with her hands. I have not seen anything cuter than a four year-old giving a toddler a horsey ride.
Baby Lucy also took to kissing rather elaborately. She would only kiss me and Iris, but when she did, it was like getting a big, climactic screen kiss. (Poor Anton was left out of this).
Iris loved to make Lucy laugh. She had a cute malapropism: she called Lucy a "gigglepush." Another overly adorable thing Lucy baby habit was to say "gigglegigglegiggle." Who can resist a baby, who sports "gigglegigglegiggle" as one of her first words?
A less adorable thing Lucy did was to constantly carry my shoes to me and say, "Go! go!", meaning I was commanded to take her somewhere. She cried if I didn't put my shoes on at her command (plus she cried if I tried to put on a different pair of shoes than this one pair she likes). We spent very little time at home in those days, but that suited the Luce. During the afternoons while Iris was at preschool, Lucy and I were fixtures at the nearby playground, where we made friends and enjoyed the sun.
Ah, the good old days. Now poor Lucy lives under the tyrannical thumb of an often cruel older sister. Today Lucy had a four year-old friend over, an only child, who was not afraid of Iris. Emboldened by this company, Lucy said to Iris, "Shoo! Shoo!" Her friend chimed in, "We don't need you!" (although they did enlist Iris to assist them in building a fort, which I was forbidden to see). Now here's the double standard: if Iris had a friend over and they shooed Lucy, I would have intervened, but in this instance, it felt like Iris getting a taste of her own medicine, and I allowed it. It's a cruel sibling world we now inhabit, and we, the nominal rulers, are not sure how to govern the battling siblings.
The other day, Anton completely was stymied on how to handle the sibling relations. He had declared bathtime and run a bath. In the good old days, the girls bathed together and played together in the tub, but those days are over. Iris always insists on going first (does she pee vindictively in the water? I wonder). Lucy wanted to watch Iris get her hair washed, and she pulled up a stool and sat so sweetly on it, her little arms folded. Iris wanted privacy from Lucy, but she wanted Anton to hang out with her while she bathed.
Anton came to me for a ruling, and I felt like a Supreme Court justice weighing various constitutional mandates. On the one hand, it's good for Lucy to see a hairwashing role model, and Lucy was being nicer than Iris. In sibling disputes, I usually side with the one who is being (however temporarily) nicer (perhaps akin to Prof. John Hart Ely's Constitutional law theory that the outcome favoring greater representation should always be preferred). However, I ended up creating a new rule for our home: you can pick whoever you will be naked around. If you do not want to be naked around any particular person, you don't have to be. This one resonated with the children, just like the "one person, one vote" Supreme Court ruling resonated with the public. I learned in law school that there is no real Constitutional basis for "one person, one vote", and analogously I lacked any good child developmental basis for my parental ruling. Some rules just sound good.
Tuesday, July 04, 2006
Petrataluma: the road trip
Unforgivably the Petaluma pound summarily euthanized almost all of the rats from the recently discovered hoarding situation. (I note that I personally called the pound the day the rats first went up for adoption and was assured there was no firm kill date and that "these rats will be around for a long time"... that same day, nine-tenths of them were killed by the pound). When this news came out, the individual animal lovers who were organizing to save the rats were devastated. However, Ratty Ratz, a registered 501(c(3) in the Bay Area, made a plan for the surviving babies, and I was able to take part in saving these fabulous little animals.
On Saturday, I met Nicole of Ratty Ratz at the pound. We did not know what we were going to find; her plan was to "pull rats" to be placed for adoption at the upcoming RMCA (Rat and Mouse Club of America) in L.A. The RMCA were looking forward to finding homes for some of the Petaluma rescues. We found that of the ~1,000 original rats, fewer than 100 survived the pound's culling. There were two cages with small babies, one small cage with a few rats who'd bitten staff members, which were being quarantined, and two cages of about 25 rats who were quarantined because they'd shared a cage with the biters. These adult rats were not separated by gender, which means that any female in those cages must be presumed to be pregnant. Sigh. I offered to separate the rats by gender while I was there, but my offer was declined.
I left with one cage of three baby boys (the pound director told us not to take all available baby boys as she felt, based on the calls coming in, that she didn't have enough baby boys to adopt out; I had to bite my tongue from remarking that she shouldn't have euthanized so many then. Because I was there as a humble volunteer for a group which must get along with the pound, I felt a need to be politic), another cage full of 25 baby girls, and a cage of ten grown up female rats from a separate hoarding rescue (there have been a lot of rat hoarders in California recently).
These rats, all adorable beyond belief, stayed at my house for a couple of days. The plan was for me to drive them halfway to L.A., to be met by an RMCA volunteer, on the Monday before the 4th of July. I figured I'd go to scenic San Luis Obispo for the handoff, or maybe meet at the Hearst Castle parking lot, and then go on a tour after I passed on my little charges. However, the RMCA volunteer flaked. Anton was acting very pissy about having the rats in our home any longer than planned. I suggested a different rat activist to do the driving, but it turned out that although he was ready to pick up the rats with no real notice, he was not willing to drive farther than Bakersfield that day. Sigh. We negotiated a meet-up at the Motel 6 off I-5 in Buttonwillow, near Bakersfield, so I wouldn't have to get off the freeway and I could spend the night for only $32. These glorious accommodations were found for me online by my husband, who didn't want me to spend a cent more than necessary. "This is charity work," he noted.
So, far from enjoying San Luis or wallowing in the endless, glorious tack of the Hearst Castle, I had to quickly pack and drive 32 rats in the blazing heat of the Central Valley down I5. It was heavy traffic all the way, the sort of traffic which tailgates you at 90 mph while you're passing a poky truck, and when you finally manage to get by the truck and pull into the slower lane, it is revealed that the aggressive, road-raging tailgating SUV was sporting a Jesus fish or a "Peace is Patriotic" bumper sticker. I stopped twice at rest-stops, but I couldn't leave the rats for more than a minute without fearing for their safety in the heat.
I finally got to Buttonwillow around 8:20 p.m., just in time to meet Dan, driving up from L.A., who reported happily that he'd made great time with no real traffic in his direction. On my end, I felt lucky to have survived the drive. He took possession of all the rats, and as I subsequently learned, managed to well document his time with them before passing them over to the RMCA.*
Dan regaled me with sad stories of other rat rescues, including one in which a woman died leaving 300 rats. Her father gave them to a pet store but refused to tell Dan where it was. Dan spent weeks fruitlessly calling petstores of SoCal, before he had the brainwave to offer to pay the father $200 to reveal the petstore's name. For $200, the father told only the location, but it was enough. Dan refused to pay up and found the rats, which were still alive, and the petstore owner was glad to give back the rats.
After Dan took off with my adorable little travelling companions, I was left in Buttonwillow, which appears to be a small conglomeration of businesses serving truckers and people transporting horses. I tried eating at Denny's, but when no one came to take my order (I read over 20 pages of my novel while waiting), I left. I ended up getting a sandwich from Subway on verrrry stale bread and some Mike's Hard Lemonade from a gas station convenience store (again facing some difficulty in getting the teenaged retail workforce of Buttonwillow to conduct my transaction in a reasonable amount of time), which I consumed in my Motel 6 splendor. There were flies in the room, and nothing better than "Titanic" on cable. Sigh. Let's just say that there were signs posted warning that this was a dust zone. On the other hand, I heard a lot of birds in the morning, which is always pleasant, and the Motel 6 did have a pool (which I didn't get a chance to use, but still, credit must be given).
Lucy and Iris got into a fight on separate phone extensions over who was supposed to talk to me and who missed me. Lucy kept saying, over and over again, "I have something else to say! I really really miss you because it is dinner time and I am used to having dinner with you so I really really really miss you."
The next morning, I got up, pulled myself together, had a slight altercation with yet another inept teenaged customer service professional, this time at the Starbuck's, and finally, coffee and fireworks (sold very professionally by the only grown-ups I had retail dealings with in Buttonwillow) in hand, I got on the highway. Again I5 was heavily trafficked with speeding, aggressive SUVs and pick-up trucks elbowing each other past the sluggish trucks. The radio options near Bakersfield were heavily slanted towards "soft rock"; evidently, the people of Bakersfield have an insatiable appetite for soft rock and the rap stylings of "Daddy Yankee."
I got home almost exactly 24 hours after leaving, having had almost no fun, no rest, and no relaxation. I felt lonely once the rats were gone. I'm not accustomed to being alone in a crappy hotel; usually, I have my spouse to listen to my carpings and my children to entertain me.
Oh, and, completely foreseeably, we ended up keeping two of the rats for ourselves. What is not foreseeable is that we didn't keep two of the famous Petaluma rats; we kept two grown-up rats (one hooded, one rex) from the other rescue. They are now named Cutebone and Tinky Winky and live in the study. Anton is very bitter, but he agreed to this (I left it completely up to him when Iris asked to keep Cutebone, leaving the room to avoid the conversation).
What I learned: I hate driving on I5, I should never go on a roadtrip without bringing CDs or a book on tape, and crappy hotels are only fun with good company. Anton told me if I'd only asked, he'd have loaned me the book about the Cold War he's currently listening to on tape.
"But I thought that wasn't any good."
"It's good enough for I5."
If I ever do a trip like this again, I will do SOMETHING to add some entertainment value for myself. Exploring Buttonwillow is not a vacation. It's no Visalia (I once broke up a drive to Death Valley by crashing at a cheap hotel in Visalia, which was well worth the brief visit).
* See Dan's website for great pictures of the amazingly perfect babies (I am referred to here as a bit player in the rats' drama, with my name misspelled).
On Saturday, I met Nicole of Ratty Ratz at the pound. We did not know what we were going to find; her plan was to "pull rats" to be placed for adoption at the upcoming RMCA (Rat and Mouse Club of America) in L.A. The RMCA were looking forward to finding homes for some of the Petaluma rescues. We found that of the ~1,000 original rats, fewer than 100 survived the pound's culling. There were two cages with small babies, one small cage with a few rats who'd bitten staff members, which were being quarantined, and two cages of about 25 rats who were quarantined because they'd shared a cage with the biters. These adult rats were not separated by gender, which means that any female in those cages must be presumed to be pregnant. Sigh. I offered to separate the rats by gender while I was there, but my offer was declined.
I left with one cage of three baby boys (the pound director told us not to take all available baby boys as she felt, based on the calls coming in, that she didn't have enough baby boys to adopt out; I had to bite my tongue from remarking that she shouldn't have euthanized so many then. Because I was there as a humble volunteer for a group which must get along with the pound, I felt a need to be politic), another cage full of 25 baby girls, and a cage of ten grown up female rats from a separate hoarding rescue (there have been a lot of rat hoarders in California recently).
These rats, all adorable beyond belief, stayed at my house for a couple of days. The plan was for me to drive them halfway to L.A., to be met by an RMCA volunteer, on the Monday before the 4th of July. I figured I'd go to scenic San Luis Obispo for the handoff, or maybe meet at the Hearst Castle parking lot, and then go on a tour after I passed on my little charges. However, the RMCA volunteer flaked. Anton was acting very pissy about having the rats in our home any longer than planned. I suggested a different rat activist to do the driving, but it turned out that although he was ready to pick up the rats with no real notice, he was not willing to drive farther than Bakersfield that day. Sigh. We negotiated a meet-up at the Motel 6 off I-5 in Buttonwillow, near Bakersfield, so I wouldn't have to get off the freeway and I could spend the night for only $32. These glorious accommodations were found for me online by my husband, who didn't want me to spend a cent more than necessary. "This is charity work," he noted.
So, far from enjoying San Luis or wallowing in the endless, glorious tack of the Hearst Castle, I had to quickly pack and drive 32 rats in the blazing heat of the Central Valley down I5. It was heavy traffic all the way, the sort of traffic which tailgates you at 90 mph while you're passing a poky truck, and when you finally manage to get by the truck and pull into the slower lane, it is revealed that the aggressive, road-raging tailgating SUV was sporting a Jesus fish or a "Peace is Patriotic" bumper sticker. I stopped twice at rest-stops, but I couldn't leave the rats for more than a minute without fearing for their safety in the heat.
I finally got to Buttonwillow around 8:20 p.m., just in time to meet Dan, driving up from L.A., who reported happily that he'd made great time with no real traffic in his direction. On my end, I felt lucky to have survived the drive. He took possession of all the rats, and as I subsequently learned, managed to well document his time with them before passing them over to the RMCA.*
Dan regaled me with sad stories of other rat rescues, including one in which a woman died leaving 300 rats. Her father gave them to a pet store but refused to tell Dan where it was. Dan spent weeks fruitlessly calling petstores of SoCal, before he had the brainwave to offer to pay the father $200 to reveal the petstore's name. For $200, the father told only the location, but it was enough. Dan refused to pay up and found the rats, which were still alive, and the petstore owner was glad to give back the rats.
After Dan took off with my adorable little travelling companions, I was left in Buttonwillow, which appears to be a small conglomeration of businesses serving truckers and people transporting horses. I tried eating at Denny's, but when no one came to take my order (I read over 20 pages of my novel while waiting), I left. I ended up getting a sandwich from Subway on verrrry stale bread and some Mike's Hard Lemonade from a gas station convenience store (again facing some difficulty in getting the teenaged retail workforce of Buttonwillow to conduct my transaction in a reasonable amount of time), which I consumed in my Motel 6 splendor. There were flies in the room, and nothing better than "Titanic" on cable. Sigh. Let's just say that there were signs posted warning that this was a dust zone. On the other hand, I heard a lot of birds in the morning, which is always pleasant, and the Motel 6 did have a pool (which I didn't get a chance to use, but still, credit must be given).
Lucy and Iris got into a fight on separate phone extensions over who was supposed to talk to me and who missed me. Lucy kept saying, over and over again, "I have something else to say! I really really miss you because it is dinner time and I am used to having dinner with you so I really really really miss you."
The next morning, I got up, pulled myself together, had a slight altercation with yet another inept teenaged customer service professional, this time at the Starbuck's, and finally, coffee and fireworks (sold very professionally by the only grown-ups I had retail dealings with in Buttonwillow) in hand, I got on the highway. Again I5 was heavily trafficked with speeding, aggressive SUVs and pick-up trucks elbowing each other past the sluggish trucks. The radio options near Bakersfield were heavily slanted towards "soft rock"; evidently, the people of Bakersfield have an insatiable appetite for soft rock and the rap stylings of "Daddy Yankee."
I got home almost exactly 24 hours after leaving, having had almost no fun, no rest, and no relaxation. I felt lonely once the rats were gone. I'm not accustomed to being alone in a crappy hotel; usually, I have my spouse to listen to my carpings and my children to entertain me.
Oh, and, completely foreseeably, we ended up keeping two of the rats for ourselves. What is not foreseeable is that we didn't keep two of the famous Petaluma rats; we kept two grown-up rats (one hooded, one rex) from the other rescue. They are now named Cutebone and Tinky Winky and live in the study. Anton is very bitter, but he agreed to this (I left it completely up to him when Iris asked to keep Cutebone, leaving the room to avoid the conversation).
What I learned: I hate driving on I5, I should never go on a roadtrip without bringing CDs or a book on tape, and crappy hotels are only fun with good company. Anton told me if I'd only asked, he'd have loaned me the book about the Cold War he's currently listening to on tape.
"But I thought that wasn't any good."
"It's good enough for I5."
If I ever do a trip like this again, I will do SOMETHING to add some entertainment value for myself. Exploring Buttonwillow is not a vacation. It's no Visalia (I once broke up a drive to Death Valley by crashing at a cheap hotel in Visalia, which was well worth the brief visit).
* See Dan's website for great pictures of the amazingly perfect babies (I am referred to here as a bit player in the rats' drama, with my name misspelled).
Monday, July 03, 2006
all the news, according to Iris
Inspired by newsreaders, Iris drafted her own broadcast, with Anton's assistance:
Today is Saturday, July first, 2006. The weather in San Francisco today is overcast, with temperatures not too chilly and only light breezes. It's a good day for walks, picnics, and playing in the park.
Here is how to feed the cats. First locate some canned cat food. If none is stored in the laundry area, a trip to the grocery store may be necessary. Then, count the cats present. One can is sufficient for up to two cats, but three or more require more cans. For each can, grasp the tab firmly with an index finger and pull hard. It may help to brace the can against a hard surface such as a countertop. Once the lid is removed, discard it and empty the can contents before the cats.
But anyway. You may not understand as many people that a bearded dragon is not a real thing but it is a kind of lizard. And bay area aquariums well most are closing down all barracudas. Thank you and good night.
Today is Saturday, July first, 2006. The weather in San Francisco today is overcast, with temperatures not too chilly and only light breezes. It's a good day for walks, picnics, and playing in the park.
Here is how to feed the cats. First locate some canned cat food. If none is stored in the laundry area, a trip to the grocery store may be necessary. Then, count the cats present. One can is sufficient for up to two cats, but three or more require more cans. For each can, grasp the tab firmly with an index finger and pull hard. It may help to brace the can against a hard surface such as a countertop. Once the lid is removed, discard it and empty the can contents before the cats.
But anyway. You may not understand as many people that a bearded dragon is not a real thing but it is a kind of lizard. And bay area aquariums well most are closing down all barracudas. Thank you and good night.
Lucy's dinner party conversation
We had a dinner party last night, and we set up a little table for Lucy and her young guest. The little girls were very excited about their own pretty table, and they sat down to eat before everyone else was ready. They were talking so animatedly, so I drifted over to eavesdrop. Lucy was holding forth: "My mommy has a BIG BUTT! It's so really big!" Rising in her chair, spreading her arms out for emphasis, Lucy concluded, "I call it a FIREBUTT!!!"
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