Today I took the children out for lunch. We had a lovely time together for once (usually at least one of the three of us is cranky). Towards the end of lunch I made up a game. I made the children look away, and I tore a paper napkin in half. On each half I wrote a word, a word describing each child. I put the pieces of napkin away and set the children to guessing. "It's a word I use, a word that describes you. Something I say to you."
Lola cocked her head to the side and said, "Two words that describe us? 'Caring' and 'shy.'"
Iris burst out laughing. I said incredulously, "When has anyone ever described the two of you as 'caring' and 'shy'?"
(The words I had written down were "whackjob" and "loon").
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Friday, February 18, 2011
the dark that lurks in the hearts of children and an interesting job opportunity
Lola, who just finished reading "Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone", remarked out of the blue to me the other day, "The sorting hat would put Iris in Slytherin."
I thought that was a bit rich coming from a child who is scheming to put together a criminal gang. Lola has become obsessed with security cameras. Wherever we go, she locates the security cameras and points them out to me. In a local business she became excited, blurting out, "Cut cords! Cut cords!" when it looked like a security camera had already conveniently been disabled.
Lola feels that she has a natural affinity for finding all the security cameras. Now "I need a kleptomaniac", she says frankly. "A kleptomaniac will be used to stealing things." Lola used to think she needed an extra gang member, "someone to figure out what they do with the security cameras", but I explained that in most places the cameras just record what they see. Lola had imagined there was always a person somewhere, or at the least a computer, concentrating on the live feeds, and she thought she needed a gang member to deal with that person. She was relieved to hear that the cameras aren't normally attended and that she didn't need to hire some muscle. "Now I just need a kleptomaniac," she said wistfully.
I thought that was a bit rich coming from a child who is scheming to put together a criminal gang. Lola has become obsessed with security cameras. Wherever we go, she locates the security cameras and points them out to me. In a local business she became excited, blurting out, "Cut cords! Cut cords!" when it looked like a security camera had already conveniently been disabled.
Lola feels that she has a natural affinity for finding all the security cameras. Now "I need a kleptomaniac", she says frankly. "A kleptomaniac will be used to stealing things." Lola used to think she needed an extra gang member, "someone to figure out what they do with the security cameras", but I explained that in most places the cameras just record what they see. Lola had imagined there was always a person somewhere, or at the least a computer, concentrating on the live feeds, and she thought she needed a gang member to deal with that person. She was relieved to hear that the cameras aren't normally attended and that she didn't need to hire some muscle. "Now I just need a kleptomaniac," she said wistfully.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Henry's outing
The other day the children and I were making a fuss over Frowst, our most glamorous cat, as is our wont. Frowst spends most of his time outdoors (a petcam we fastened to his collar revealed that he spends much of his life lying in the crawlspace under our house, broken up by occasional bursts of energy spent climbing various trees), and when he comes inside, he likes a good meal and a good petting. Because he is so beautiful, a luxurious-furred black animal with a regal bearing, we are more than happy to oblige. The one naysayer is the Sober Husband.
"I don't see why you guys make such a big deal out of Frowst," he said critically.
"He's so beautiful!" we chimed.
"I think Henry is more perfect looking."
"He loves to be petted so much."
"If I even touch Henry, she sticks to me like glue. She craves attention."
Spurred by the accusation that she might not appreciate Henry enough, eight year-old Lola spoke up. "I love Henry, too! Don't you remember that tantrum I threw when Henry was going to spend the night out?" She spoke with pride, as though a good tantrum were a thing of beauty to be marveled at. Of course we remembered, although not with that same admiration and pride.
Recently some friends of ours who live nearby and know of my proclivity for rodents had an issue with mice. They were working at keeping all food secured and at sealing up all entry points, but those are difficult tasks in a large, older home where a baby lives, a baby who drops Cheerios with abandon. I suggested predator urine crystals, which scare off any prey animal and are non-toxic. I also said that getting a cat wasn't necessarily going to fix things, particularly as we've had cats who loved to catch mice and then release them in our bedroom in the middle of the night to showcase their hunting skills. (Once I had a wild mouse in our bedroom for three days before I managed to catch him and release him, and there was a particularly horrible night involving a partially paralyzed mouse dragging itself along our floor. The cat responsible for this had gone downstairs for some cat chow, satisfied with a good night's work). Oddly enough getting a pet rat is a much better mouse deterrent, as mice are rightfully afraid of rats and will stay away from territory which has been claimed by a rat. All the time I had pet rats, I had no mice, even though our old neighborhood was heavily populated with both mice and wild rats.
But of course getting a pet rat is a big step, and a much lesser commitment would be a loaner cat. I offered the services of Henry as a deterrent for a few days. Henry was the logical choice as the children refused to let Frowst go anywhere, and our other cat, Al, is frankly incompetent as a cat. We brought Henry over with some food and a litter box, and Lola fretted as Henry settled in. Henry paced about and let out some yowls, but she seemed to be settling in and she definitely had a strong interest in the air vents which were the suspected mouse entry point. I kept reassuring Lola that Henry leads a dull life and needs some adventure, a little shaking up, but Lola was fretful. Then the Sober Husband suggested closing the glass door leading to the deck, worried that Henry was going to harm the screen. As Iris held Henry, our friend opened the screen door in order to close the glass door, and Henry was off like a shot. She exploded out of Iris's hands, across the deck, and down the stairs at the back. I followed her down three flights of stairs, calling her, and Lola was on my heels, crying hysterically.
"Lola! I'm not going to be able to hear Henry with your crying," I said. "Go get your father!" But Henry was not to be found on any of the levels of the decks or in the fenced yard. I could see a place in the high fence where Henry could easily have gone into the next yard, and from there, over the neighbor's lower fence. I called Henry, but with no luck. Lola's sobs were deafening.
The Sober Husband proposed setting up camp right there in our friend's yard (I felt terrible for our friend, having all this melodrama breaking out), but I wanted to go back home and look for Henry on the way. "Henry will be disoriented, she's never been this far from home," the Sober Husband said direly. Lola screamed even more hysterically. I glared at the Sober Husband and said, "Lola, Henry's going to be fine. She'll run downhill and find her way back home." "Henry's never been to this block before; I can't imagine she'll find her way," said the Sober Husband darkly. I shot him another glare. "One of us will need to spend the night outside with cat treats," the Sober Husband continued, as Lola sobbed, crying, "Henry! Henry!" through thick tears
Back at home, I hushed Lola. Iris and I thought we heard Henry's collar jingling. Sure enough, when we called, Henry slowly came out from the backyard and stood at the steps to our house, the picture of affronted indignation. Clearly Henry felt betrayed, and she did not want to go near us or go into the house. I scooped her up and carried her inside, where she settled down on a chair and began an extended, ostentatious grooming, restoring her fur to order after her ordeal while ignoring all of us pointedly. By the next day, Henry and Lola were both back to normal, Lola left only with the triumphant memory of her epic fussing and Henry with more inscrutable memories.
"I don't see why you guys make such a big deal out of Frowst," he said critically.
"He's so beautiful!" we chimed.
"I think Henry is more perfect looking."
"He loves to be petted so much."
"If I even touch Henry, she sticks to me like glue. She craves attention."
Spurred by the accusation that she might not appreciate Henry enough, eight year-old Lola spoke up. "I love Henry, too! Don't you remember that tantrum I threw when Henry was going to spend the night out?" She spoke with pride, as though a good tantrum were a thing of beauty to be marveled at. Of course we remembered, although not with that same admiration and pride.
Recently some friends of ours who live nearby and know of my proclivity for rodents had an issue with mice. They were working at keeping all food secured and at sealing up all entry points, but those are difficult tasks in a large, older home where a baby lives, a baby who drops Cheerios with abandon. I suggested predator urine crystals, which scare off any prey animal and are non-toxic. I also said that getting a cat wasn't necessarily going to fix things, particularly as we've had cats who loved to catch mice and then release them in our bedroom in the middle of the night to showcase their hunting skills. (Once I had a wild mouse in our bedroom for three days before I managed to catch him and release him, and there was a particularly horrible night involving a partially paralyzed mouse dragging itself along our floor. The cat responsible for this had gone downstairs for some cat chow, satisfied with a good night's work). Oddly enough getting a pet rat is a much better mouse deterrent, as mice are rightfully afraid of rats and will stay away from territory which has been claimed by a rat. All the time I had pet rats, I had no mice, even though our old neighborhood was heavily populated with both mice and wild rats.
But of course getting a pet rat is a big step, and a much lesser commitment would be a loaner cat. I offered the services of Henry as a deterrent for a few days. Henry was the logical choice as the children refused to let Frowst go anywhere, and our other cat, Al, is frankly incompetent as a cat. We brought Henry over with some food and a litter box, and Lola fretted as Henry settled in. Henry paced about and let out some yowls, but she seemed to be settling in and she definitely had a strong interest in the air vents which were the suspected mouse entry point. I kept reassuring Lola that Henry leads a dull life and needs some adventure, a little shaking up, but Lola was fretful. Then the Sober Husband suggested closing the glass door leading to the deck, worried that Henry was going to harm the screen. As Iris held Henry, our friend opened the screen door in order to close the glass door, and Henry was off like a shot. She exploded out of Iris's hands, across the deck, and down the stairs at the back. I followed her down three flights of stairs, calling her, and Lola was on my heels, crying hysterically.
"Lola! I'm not going to be able to hear Henry with your crying," I said. "Go get your father!" But Henry was not to be found on any of the levels of the decks or in the fenced yard. I could see a place in the high fence where Henry could easily have gone into the next yard, and from there, over the neighbor's lower fence. I called Henry, but with no luck. Lola's sobs were deafening.
The Sober Husband proposed setting up camp right there in our friend's yard (I felt terrible for our friend, having all this melodrama breaking out), but I wanted to go back home and look for Henry on the way. "Henry will be disoriented, she's never been this far from home," the Sober Husband said direly. Lola screamed even more hysterically. I glared at the Sober Husband and said, "Lola, Henry's going to be fine. She'll run downhill and find her way back home." "Henry's never been to this block before; I can't imagine she'll find her way," said the Sober Husband darkly. I shot him another glare. "One of us will need to spend the night outside with cat treats," the Sober Husband continued, as Lola sobbed, crying, "Henry! Henry!" through thick tears
Back at home, I hushed Lola. Iris and I thought we heard Henry's collar jingling. Sure enough, when we called, Henry slowly came out from the backyard and stood at the steps to our house, the picture of affronted indignation. Clearly Henry felt betrayed, and she did not want to go near us or go into the house. I scooped her up and carried her inside, where she settled down on a chair and began an extended, ostentatious grooming, restoring her fur to order after her ordeal while ignoring all of us pointedly. By the next day, Henry and Lola were both back to normal, Lola left only with the triumphant memory of her epic fussing and Henry with more inscrutable memories.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
underachieving parrots
There are two parrots who live here: one very intense double yellow-headed Amazon, a relic from the time when I used to spend a lot of my time working with birds at a wildlife hospital for aquatic birds, where the head of the clinic dabbled in parrot rescue on the side, and a ditzy African grey named Pigwidgeon.
The African grey is the only pet we have who is not supposed to be defective or secondhand; we picked her out as a baby from a bird store. She was an expensive present to me when the Sober Husband and I worked out some problems we'd been having, and she's supposed to be a top-of-the-line parrot, smart, handfed as a baby, and carefully raised.
Meanwhile the Amazon parrot was a lost bird we adopted after her original owners never claimed her. She had an infection when I got her, and she seemed to have been fed exclusively junk food by her prior owners, refusing to eat any fruits or vegetables but perking up dramatically if a bag of chips rustled nearby. She was about four years old when we got her, and she's as mean as a snake to everyone but the Sober Husband, whom she loves with a deep passion. Last year when I severely sprained my ankle and had to use crutches, the green bird saw her chance to finish me off. More than once she leaped off her cage to attack me, me screaming, "Get it off me, get it off me" as I tried to shake the vicious bird off while balancing on my crutches. Originally the Amazon parrot was named Zoe, but after we got Piggle, everyone stopped using that name. Now she's called "the green bird", and even she's taken to saying that. "Green bird, green bird," she remarks.
Part of why we picked out an African grey for the second parrot was because those birds are famous for their wit and conversation. We had seen the videotapes of Alex, the world-famous African grey who challenged scientists' conception of intelligence in animal species. I'd read about parrots who tattled on their cagemates. The children and I were excited to get such a smart bird and couldn't wait until she'd talk.
Two years later we're still waiting. Evidently we picked out the one African grey who was as dumb as a stump. Poor Piggle makes horrible noises which sound like a smoke detector going off, whistles, and screams, but she can't speak. There are plenty of other signs of a disturbing lack of reason as well. Pigwidgeon has a phobia of sticks and objects which resemble sticks. Ladders are also terrifying to her, causing her to scream and collapse in her cage when they are carried nearby. The other day we had an appraiser in as part of refinancing our house, a rather innocuous fellow, and Pigwidgeon somehow found him terrifying and nearly deafened us all with her screams of terror and frenzied thrashing.
She's a sweet bird in her own way, one who loves to be with me and the children and who enjoys grooming us. She's a very companionable creature who likes to sleep on the headboard of our bed. But at a time in her life when she should be learning new words and building a vocabulary, she's resolutely limited to harsh squawks and screams. I am quite defensive when people ask how many words she knows and when they look at me as though I must be mistaken when I say she can't talk, because "everyone knows African greys are the smartest birds there are." "Well, it's like humans," I try to explain. "You can have an Einstein, and you can have an idiot. This bird is an idiot." The children sadly remark, "Pigwidgeon is not as smart as the green bird. Why is the green bird smarter than Pigwidegeon?"
Yesterday the green bird was in a rare chatty mood, and we ended up having a long conversation. "Lola? Lola?" she asked.
"Lola's at school." She asked for the Sober Husband in the same way, and I informed her that he was at work.
"Pretty bird? Pretty bird?"
"Yes, you are pretty birds."
"Green bird. Green bird."
"Yes, you are a green bird."
"Hello? How you doing?"
"Fine! Good morning! How are you doing?" I said politely.
"Lola? Lola?"
This went on for half an hour, this rather stilted exchange of ideas on the riveting subjects of Lola's whereabouts and the greenness and attractiveness of the bird. Meanwhile my bird, Pigwidgeon, was agog. She concentrated and quivered, fascinated. But still she didn't try to talk.
Meanwhile the Sober Husband has upped the ante. He has become convinced that our birds should learn songs. Alex, the counting and reasoning lab parrot, is no longer the role model our birds are compared to. Instead, it's the Heavy Metal Parrot:
"Maybe if we play that song, 'Let The Bodies Hit The Floor', all day, the parrots will learn it," he said enthusiastically.
I snorted. "Good luck with that. I've been trying to teach them to say 'good morning' for two years now."
The African grey is the only pet we have who is not supposed to be defective or secondhand; we picked her out as a baby from a bird store. She was an expensive present to me when the Sober Husband and I worked out some problems we'd been having, and she's supposed to be a top-of-the-line parrot, smart, handfed as a baby, and carefully raised.
Meanwhile the Amazon parrot was a lost bird we adopted after her original owners never claimed her. She had an infection when I got her, and she seemed to have been fed exclusively junk food by her prior owners, refusing to eat any fruits or vegetables but perking up dramatically if a bag of chips rustled nearby. She was about four years old when we got her, and she's as mean as a snake to everyone but the Sober Husband, whom she loves with a deep passion. Last year when I severely sprained my ankle and had to use crutches, the green bird saw her chance to finish me off. More than once she leaped off her cage to attack me, me screaming, "Get it off me, get it off me" as I tried to shake the vicious bird off while balancing on my crutches. Originally the Amazon parrot was named Zoe, but after we got Piggle, everyone stopped using that name. Now she's called "the green bird", and even she's taken to saying that. "Green bird, green bird," she remarks.
Part of why we picked out an African grey for the second parrot was because those birds are famous for their wit and conversation. We had seen the videotapes of Alex, the world-famous African grey who challenged scientists' conception of intelligence in animal species. I'd read about parrots who tattled on their cagemates. The children and I were excited to get such a smart bird and couldn't wait until she'd talk.
Two years later we're still waiting. Evidently we picked out the one African grey who was as dumb as a stump. Poor Piggle makes horrible noises which sound like a smoke detector going off, whistles, and screams, but she can't speak. There are plenty of other signs of a disturbing lack of reason as well. Pigwidgeon has a phobia of sticks and objects which resemble sticks. Ladders are also terrifying to her, causing her to scream and collapse in her cage when they are carried nearby. The other day we had an appraiser in as part of refinancing our house, a rather innocuous fellow, and Pigwidgeon somehow found him terrifying and nearly deafened us all with her screams of terror and frenzied thrashing.
She's a sweet bird in her own way, one who loves to be with me and the children and who enjoys grooming us. She's a very companionable creature who likes to sleep on the headboard of our bed. But at a time in her life when she should be learning new words and building a vocabulary, she's resolutely limited to harsh squawks and screams. I am quite defensive when people ask how many words she knows and when they look at me as though I must be mistaken when I say she can't talk, because "everyone knows African greys are the smartest birds there are." "Well, it's like humans," I try to explain. "You can have an Einstein, and you can have an idiot. This bird is an idiot." The children sadly remark, "Pigwidgeon is not as smart as the green bird. Why is the green bird smarter than Pigwidegeon?"
Yesterday the green bird was in a rare chatty mood, and we ended up having a long conversation. "Lola? Lola?" she asked.
"Lola's at school." She asked for the Sober Husband in the same way, and I informed her that he was at work.
"Pretty bird? Pretty bird?"
"Yes, you are pretty birds."
"Green bird. Green bird."
"Yes, you are a green bird."
"Hello? How you doing?"
"Fine! Good morning! How are you doing?" I said politely.
"Lola? Lola?"
This went on for half an hour, this rather stilted exchange of ideas on the riveting subjects of Lola's whereabouts and the greenness and attractiveness of the bird. Meanwhile my bird, Pigwidgeon, was agog. She concentrated and quivered, fascinated. But still she didn't try to talk.
Meanwhile the Sober Husband has upped the ante. He has become convinced that our birds should learn songs. Alex, the counting and reasoning lab parrot, is no longer the role model our birds are compared to. Instead, it's the Heavy Metal Parrot:
"Maybe if we play that song, 'Let The Bodies Hit The Floor', all day, the parrots will learn it," he said enthusiastically.
I snorted. "Good luck with that. I've been trying to teach them to say 'good morning' for two years now."
Monday, January 31, 2011
how to elicit homicidal feelings
I was having a spectacularly bad day, a terrible, awful, horrible day, which was known to my life's companion, the Sober Husband. As I was having problems using a translation application on the iPad to try to communicate with the Chinese exchange student staying with us, the Sober Husband remarked cruelly, "Even a toddler can use an iPad."
He'll be lucky if he makes it through the next twenty-four hours without being maimed.
He'll be lucky if he makes it through the next twenty-four hours without being maimed.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
drawing life
I take life drawing classes, where a room of artists (many of whom are extremely gifted) each week painstakingly and silently draw a naked model. The Sober Husband has perhaps not understood the seriousness of this venture, and recently called out to me as I left, "Have fun! I hope you get someone really good looking!"
"That's not what it's about," I corrected him loftily. "It's actually better if it's someone interesting looking, like once we had a fat person and everyone loved it. It was so much better than when we had the really gorgeous body builder."
In truth, the energy in the room had been terrible the time we had the handsome, perfectly toned gym-goer (who spent his break periods perusing a magazine which I swear was called "The Perfect Body"). Normally there's no creepy energy to be detected anywhere, but that time, the model himself seemed to be getting off on having us draw him, and it seemed, well, unwholesome. I felt almost exploited (and also I found it was surprisingly hard to draw true washboard abs without having the washboard-ness of it come out looking like wrinkles).
Last night I remembered that conversation, as I ended up having to eat my own words. I settled in happily at my easel, and I looked up to see the ugliest person I have ever seen naked (and I've been to nude beaches, people, as well as to leather events). My initial reaction, I am ashamed to admit, was "I don't want to see this." The model was a woman of indeterminate but far from young age, who had a small frame but was carrying a lot of excess weight. She had rolls and rolls of fat and horrible, draping, loose, crepey skin. And sadly, she wasn't the kind of fat person of whom they always say, "She has such a pretty face." Her face looked like a child's drawing of a witch: tiny, squinty eyes, a sharp nose, and thin, nearly nonexistent lips, and bags, such bags under her eyes. Her hair was wispy and thin and needed the roots touched up.
I quailed, and I hated myself for it. I reminded myself during the first short pose: "You're not the spring chicken you once were, either. You aren't the same size you were in your twenties, and you always go far too long before you touch up your own roots. You've got no right to be judgmental. " Then the model turned and bent over, presenting me and my companions on either side with a remarkably explicit view of her crotch. I wanted to flee. "I can't draw this," I thought to myself. "I don't want to look at this." I drew a leg only.
Our instructor was trying to teach us (or those of us who want to learn new techniques; many of the more accomplished artists prefer to follow their own lead) a new technique, "massing in", where we would shade in the bulk of a form, rather than drawing its outline. I tried to focus on that, and I made a lot of exuberant, bright, pastel sketches. They were slightly abstracted, and I liked that. Gradually I got caught up in the art, and I lost that horrible feeling of wanting to flee. I drew and drew, losing track of time. I admired the model for her bravery in presenting herself to us.
I challenged myself to find something beautiful about this model, and I did. Her small feet had the most delicate arches, so beautifully shaped. I drew the feet.
Towards the end of the class I was pleased with some of the work I'd done, and I felt I'd gotten a lot out of the "massing in" technique, which I resolved to use again. We reached my favorite part of the class, the longer poses. And then it went all bitter and unhappy for me. The model was facing me directly for a twenty minute pose, and she was watching my every pencil stroke. I was struggling with drawing her face, and I could see her looking at my awful, ugly, witch drawing. I erased the face and redrew it, and then erased it and re-redrew it. I could not stomach having her look at my ugly picture, and I tried hard to make it look more flattering. I felt awful.
After that, I tore off one of my most exuberant orange pastel sketches, one with the model's hair flying about and no face shown at all, to turn in to my instructor, and I left early. "There's another pose, Carole," the teacher said wheedlingly, but I said, as nicely as I could, "Gotta get home."
"That's not what it's about," I corrected him loftily. "It's actually better if it's someone interesting looking, like once we had a fat person and everyone loved it. It was so much better than when we had the really gorgeous body builder."
In truth, the energy in the room had been terrible the time we had the handsome, perfectly toned gym-goer (who spent his break periods perusing a magazine which I swear was called "The Perfect Body"). Normally there's no creepy energy to be detected anywhere, but that time, the model himself seemed to be getting off on having us draw him, and it seemed, well, unwholesome. I felt almost exploited (and also I found it was surprisingly hard to draw true washboard abs without having the washboard-ness of it come out looking like wrinkles).
Last night I remembered that conversation, as I ended up having to eat my own words. I settled in happily at my easel, and I looked up to see the ugliest person I have ever seen naked (and I've been to nude beaches, people, as well as to leather events). My initial reaction, I am ashamed to admit, was "I don't want to see this." The model was a woman of indeterminate but far from young age, who had a small frame but was carrying a lot of excess weight. She had rolls and rolls of fat and horrible, draping, loose, crepey skin. And sadly, she wasn't the kind of fat person of whom they always say, "She has such a pretty face." Her face looked like a child's drawing of a witch: tiny, squinty eyes, a sharp nose, and thin, nearly nonexistent lips, and bags, such bags under her eyes. Her hair was wispy and thin and needed the roots touched up.
I quailed, and I hated myself for it. I reminded myself during the first short pose: "You're not the spring chicken you once were, either. You aren't the same size you were in your twenties, and you always go far too long before you touch up your own roots. You've got no right to be judgmental. " Then the model turned and bent over, presenting me and my companions on either side with a remarkably explicit view of her crotch. I wanted to flee. "I can't draw this," I thought to myself. "I don't want to look at this." I drew a leg only.
Our instructor was trying to teach us (or those of us who want to learn new techniques; many of the more accomplished artists prefer to follow their own lead) a new technique, "massing in", where we would shade in the bulk of a form, rather than drawing its outline. I tried to focus on that, and I made a lot of exuberant, bright, pastel sketches. They were slightly abstracted, and I liked that. Gradually I got caught up in the art, and I lost that horrible feeling of wanting to flee. I drew and drew, losing track of time. I admired the model for her bravery in presenting herself to us.
I challenged myself to find something beautiful about this model, and I did. Her small feet had the most delicate arches, so beautifully shaped. I drew the feet.
Towards the end of the class I was pleased with some of the work I'd done, and I felt I'd gotten a lot out of the "massing in" technique, which I resolved to use again. We reached my favorite part of the class, the longer poses. And then it went all bitter and unhappy for me. The model was facing me directly for a twenty minute pose, and she was watching my every pencil stroke. I was struggling with drawing her face, and I could see her looking at my awful, ugly, witch drawing. I erased the face and redrew it, and then erased it and re-redrew it. I could not stomach having her look at my ugly picture, and I tried hard to make it look more flattering. I felt awful.
After that, I tore off one of my most exuberant orange pastel sketches, one with the model's hair flying about and no face shown at all, to turn in to my instructor, and I left early. "There's another pose, Carole," the teacher said wheedlingly, but I said, as nicely as I could, "Gotta get home."
Monday, January 24, 2011
busy, busy
I've had a burst of energy lately, which has been mostly channeled into cooking. Here are two observations I have to share with you: first, the next time you make an upside-down cake, instead of melting butter and mixing in brown sugar, instead cook a quarter cup of honey until it is dark and slightly reduced. Add your fruit to that and proceed making your cake. You'll discover that caramelized honey is one of the most magnificent tastes in the world, and you'll wonder, "Caramelized honey? Why haven't I been eating that forever?" Secondly, if you make your own onion dip from scratch -- and I don't mean mixing powdered soup mix with sour cream, I mean cooking your own onions in butter until they're golden and soft, mincing them, and mixing them with sour cream, cream cheese, salt, and pepper -- the results will cause everyone who tastes it to go into a contemplative gobbling state. They will not want to stop eating that onion dip, even if you implore them to save some room because there are four other dishes coming.
As well as cooking, another hobby, reading, has been paying off of late. Thankfully my long, rough stretch of reading God-awful books came to an end, with the excellent "Blind Submission" by Debra Ginsberg. "Blind Submission" is the story of a young, aimless woman who winds up working for an extremely tightly wound boss, a boss who insinuates herself into all areas of her employees' lives and leaves their sanity on shaky ground. This reminded me very much of an over-the-top boss I had for a while when I was practicing law. My old boss used to try power ploys like trying to make us come in at six a.m. "My MUNI route doesn't start running until seven," I said acerbically. "Just roll out of bed and call a cab," said my boss airily. "I am not about to start taking a ten dollar taxi ride to work every day," I said firmly. "That's going to be fifty dollars a week!" But then my favorite colleague, who lived even further from the office than I do, agreed to come in at six. Our boss then decided to up the ante and by the end of the day had forced him to agree to show up at four thirty a.m. Meanwhile I was still scheduled to arrive hours later, after the 5 Fulton majestically began its route and leisurely conveyed me downtown. My friend looked haunted at the prospect of needing to be at the office by 4:30, and I chided him. "You've got to grow a backbone!" "I do have the backbone.. the backbone of a frog," he mourned.
After reading "Blind Submission", I had horrendous nightmares that I was back in that job. But perhaps the true nightmare is that a highly educated, talented person chooses to be unemployed, as though Betty Friedan had never written "The Feminine Mystique." My psychiatrist tried a few weeks ago to push me gently into going back into the law, but I"m resisting. "I can't face it, all that stress," I told him frankly. Maybe next time I'll tell him I'm still having nightmares about one of my hellish bosses from those days. But my psychiatrist thinks I'd be happier if I had people routinely appreciating my intelligence and paying me for my insights. Maybe he's right. After all, that's an occasional cause of strife in the home, my accusations of being treated like a dullard. Here's a cinematic treatment for you all:
As well as cooking, another hobby, reading, has been paying off of late. Thankfully my long, rough stretch of reading God-awful books came to an end, with the excellent "Blind Submission" by Debra Ginsberg. "Blind Submission" is the story of a young, aimless woman who winds up working for an extremely tightly wound boss, a boss who insinuates herself into all areas of her employees' lives and leaves their sanity on shaky ground. This reminded me very much of an over-the-top boss I had for a while when I was practicing law. My old boss used to try power ploys like trying to make us come in at six a.m. "My MUNI route doesn't start running until seven," I said acerbically. "Just roll out of bed and call a cab," said my boss airily. "I am not about to start taking a ten dollar taxi ride to work every day," I said firmly. "That's going to be fifty dollars a week!" But then my favorite colleague, who lived even further from the office than I do, agreed to come in at six. Our boss then decided to up the ante and by the end of the day had forced him to agree to show up at four thirty a.m. Meanwhile I was still scheduled to arrive hours later, after the 5 Fulton majestically began its route and leisurely conveyed me downtown. My friend looked haunted at the prospect of needing to be at the office by 4:30, and I chided him. "You've got to grow a backbone!" "I do have the backbone.. the backbone of a frog," he mourned.
After reading "Blind Submission", I had horrendous nightmares that I was back in that job. But perhaps the true nightmare is that a highly educated, talented person chooses to be unemployed, as though Betty Friedan had never written "The Feminine Mystique." My psychiatrist tried a few weeks ago to push me gently into going back into the law, but I"m resisting. "I can't face it, all that stress," I told him frankly. Maybe next time I'll tell him I'm still having nightmares about one of my hellish bosses from those days. But my psychiatrist thinks I'd be happier if I had people routinely appreciating my intelligence and paying me for my insights. Maybe he's right. After all, that's an occasional cause of strife in the home, my accusations of being treated like a dullard. Here's a cinematic treatment for you all:
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
get the message
How I get messages left for me, regarding my volunteer work: "Some crazy cat lady called, wants you to take a crazy cat."
Thursday, January 13, 2011
the state of things
I have been in a deep funk since New Year's Eve, a depression which I haven't felt like talking about. I don't feel entitled to be depressed: I have a lovely life, truly. My immune system has never gotten back up to par after I had surgery last year, but I'm not in chronic pain any more, like I was before I had surgery. I don't want to whine. But yet I have no energy and no joy.
I have been cooking, though, making food that requires me to grind up four different kinds of seeds with my mortar and pestle and finally opening the dusty bottle of pomegranate molasses I'd bought ages ago. Today I bought a bottle of maraschino liqueur so I can make my own maraschino cherries for Manhattans, a good winter drink. Last week I bought a lovely, expensive whiskey on sale for Manhattans, and I couldn't get the fancy, sealed-in-wax cork out. I ended up running down the block in slippers, Lola trailing behind, seeking out the first gym-toned, gay neighbor I could find to extract the cork for me. "Manhattans? That's what my mom drinks," said my buff across-the-street neighbor. I felt humiliated by the matronly nature of my intended beverage and, trying to get my image restored as a sophisticate, confided that I was going to make my own maraschino cherries, before heading back across the street with the bottle in one hand and Lola's arm in the other.
Contributing to the funk, I hit a bad streak in reading, picking up one terrible, poorly written book after another. The only good book I've read over the past month was a terrifically depressing one, "The Good Soldiers" by David Finkel, telling the story of a particular battalion sent to Iraq. This incredibly engrossing and dark account led to a lot of contemplation about the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, the price paid by individual service members for our national policy aims, and the bizarre split between what is said in Washington, D.C. about the course of a war and what is said by the people who are waging it. It wasn't a pick-me-up, but I was glad I read it, and I pushed the Sober Husband into reading it as well.
The Sober Husband has been in a funk of his own of late, and Iris is perpetually looking on the dark side. Only Lola remains perky, laughing maniacally. Even so, she has become convinced that there is a yeti living on our block, a yeti which peers in the laundry room windows of an evening. I've taken her out to the yard and shone a light around, demonstrating that clearly no yeti lurks out there, but Lola remains convinced that the yeti is nimble and able to evade the beams of the flashlight.
Adding to our melancholic winter mood, we have a pathetic, undersocialized tortoiseshell cat living here. Iris, Lola and I are supposed to be working our magic on her, turning her into a loving, snuggly lapcat as we've done so many times before, but this cat is intractable. She has been here at least three weeks and still is very difficult to catch. I can't imagine anyone ever adopting this cat, which is a depressing thing to think about. She's sweet and, no matter how terrified, will not scratch, but no one wants a cat who lives under your bed and attempts to live without interacting with you whatsoever.
This cat is such a nonentity that even our own cats have not reacted to her presence. Normally our three resident cats, all former foster kittens themselves, hiss at any foster cat for a few days and then accept the visitor into their tribe, but this cat seems to be below them somehow, not important enough to be noticed. She was abandoned as a kitten in the projects, and I don't know what is going to become of her. For now, she's hiding under my bed, lurking about and avoiding the overtures of the depressed people who live here, and we're trying to have some hope for her.
I have been cooking, though, making food that requires me to grind up four different kinds of seeds with my mortar and pestle and finally opening the dusty bottle of pomegranate molasses I'd bought ages ago. Today I bought a bottle of maraschino liqueur so I can make my own maraschino cherries for Manhattans, a good winter drink. Last week I bought a lovely, expensive whiskey on sale for Manhattans, and I couldn't get the fancy, sealed-in-wax cork out. I ended up running down the block in slippers, Lola trailing behind, seeking out the first gym-toned, gay neighbor I could find to extract the cork for me. "Manhattans? That's what my mom drinks," said my buff across-the-street neighbor. I felt humiliated by the matronly nature of my intended beverage and, trying to get my image restored as a sophisticate, confided that I was going to make my own maraschino cherries, before heading back across the street with the bottle in one hand and Lola's arm in the other.
Contributing to the funk, I hit a bad streak in reading, picking up one terrible, poorly written book after another. The only good book I've read over the past month was a terrifically depressing one, "The Good Soldiers" by David Finkel, telling the story of a particular battalion sent to Iraq. This incredibly engrossing and dark account led to a lot of contemplation about the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, the price paid by individual service members for our national policy aims, and the bizarre split between what is said in Washington, D.C. about the course of a war and what is said by the people who are waging it. It wasn't a pick-me-up, but I was glad I read it, and I pushed the Sober Husband into reading it as well.
The Sober Husband has been in a funk of his own of late, and Iris is perpetually looking on the dark side. Only Lola remains perky, laughing maniacally. Even so, she has become convinced that there is a yeti living on our block, a yeti which peers in the laundry room windows of an evening. I've taken her out to the yard and shone a light around, demonstrating that clearly no yeti lurks out there, but Lola remains convinced that the yeti is nimble and able to evade the beams of the flashlight.
Adding to our melancholic winter mood, we have a pathetic, undersocialized tortoiseshell cat living here. Iris, Lola and I are supposed to be working our magic on her, turning her into a loving, snuggly lapcat as we've done so many times before, but this cat is intractable. She has been here at least three weeks and still is very difficult to catch. I can't imagine anyone ever adopting this cat, which is a depressing thing to think about. She's sweet and, no matter how terrified, will not scratch, but no one wants a cat who lives under your bed and attempts to live without interacting with you whatsoever.
This cat is such a nonentity that even our own cats have not reacted to her presence. Normally our three resident cats, all former foster kittens themselves, hiss at any foster cat for a few days and then accept the visitor into their tribe, but this cat seems to be below them somehow, not important enough to be noticed. She was abandoned as a kitten in the projects, and I don't know what is going to become of her. For now, she's hiding under my bed, lurking about and avoiding the overtures of the depressed people who live here, and we're trying to have some hope for her.
Wednesday, January 05, 2011
the latest craze
The latest craze around here is a game eleven year-old Iris uber Alles thought up. We have to be each other and stay in character (although Iris, the director of the game, allows herself to break out of character to rage at Lola for being out of character).
Iris's imitation of Lola is pretty much limited to braying "Hyunnh hyunnh hyunnh" nonstop, imitating her little sister's laugh. "Iris, you gotta swear if you're being Lola," I said (Lola has taken up recreational swearing in a big way lately, although I have urged her strongly to limit this to the home). Iris agreed. "Fuck the fuck on! Fuck the fuck on!" she shouted. "Lola says that in a sweet little happy voice," I criticized.
Lola had trouble getting into character at first, and I gave her too some helpful suggestions. "Remember to shout 'LUCY!!!' a lot. Also, you could say, 'I hate you!'"
They made me play the Sober Husband, and I turned on NPR. A voice droned about biochemicals, and I said firmly, "Be quiet. This is interesting. I'm trying to listen." I went easy on him, though, feeling that it would encourage disrespect on the part of the children if I ridiculed their father too much.
Evidently he felt no such compunctions. I was out much of the evening at my life drawing class, and later he said, "We played a new game all evening. I had to pretend to be you, and they were each other."
"Oh? What did you do?" I looked at him. He was shamefaced and unable to admit the hideous truth, although he did mumble something about saying "I need to play Warcraft now" in the game.
Iris's imitation of Lola is pretty much limited to braying "Hyunnh hyunnh hyunnh" nonstop, imitating her little sister's laugh. "Iris, you gotta swear if you're being Lola," I said (Lola has taken up recreational swearing in a big way lately, although I have urged her strongly to limit this to the home). Iris agreed. "Fuck the fuck on! Fuck the fuck on!" she shouted. "Lola says that in a sweet little happy voice," I criticized.
Lola had trouble getting into character at first, and I gave her too some helpful suggestions. "Remember to shout 'LUCY!!!' a lot. Also, you could say, 'I hate you!'"
They made me play the Sober Husband, and I turned on NPR. A voice droned about biochemicals, and I said firmly, "Be quiet. This is interesting. I'm trying to listen." I went easy on him, though, feeling that it would encourage disrespect on the part of the children if I ridiculed their father too much.
Evidently he felt no such compunctions. I was out much of the evening at my life drawing class, and later he said, "We played a new game all evening. I had to pretend to be you, and they were each other."
"Oh? What did you do?" I looked at him. He was shamefaced and unable to admit the hideous truth, although he did mumble something about saying "I need to play Warcraft now" in the game.
Friday, December 31, 2010
a rough time, a crappy vacation
Iris uber Alles and I are both under the weather. She's definitely much healthier than me, having had a big headstart on this ailment (we can trace its vector all too well: classmate of Iris goes to school despite being incredibly sick, sneezes and coughs all over Iris, Iris comes home spreading germs to her all-too-doting mother). So then the beautiful expanse of time spent off school is reduced to sitting around the house, fetching kleenex and cold drinks and painkillers for an ailing mother. I offered to drive them to the House of Air, so they could bounce their brains out for an hour while I sat on a couch with my box of kleenex, but Iris didn't feel up to it.
Their father took a little break from work to take them bowling, but he forgot to find out ahead of time whether the alley was open or not, so that outing involved driving across town, staring forlornly at the forbidden bowling alley, and then returning home. I was so glad I hadn't dragged along with them. The next day the Sober Husband took Iris to the Disney Family Museum, having gotten some passes as a present, while Lola and I stayed home. I napped on the couch -- at night, my coughing prevents me from getting any quality sleep, so I am prone to falling asleep during the day. I didn't even realize that Iris and the Sober Husband had been out until after they were back. "I had my Rat yell swear words at you, and you didn't even wake up!" said Lola gleefully (one of her best Christmas presents was a stuffed version of Rat from "Pearls Before Swine").
I've apologized repeatedly to the children for giving them a crappy holiday, but I know that doesn't prevent them from scrawling hate-filled screeds against me in the many diaries strewn about the house. Meanwhile I am having a hard time keeping my own spirits level. Did you know the last babysitter I tried to hire charged $20 an hour and flaked twice on interviews? I'm supposed to pay $20 an hour to some loser who can't even call until two hours after she was supposed to be at my house to meet me? The next-to-the-last babysitter I tried to hire didn't respond to my carefully-crafted introductory email, mentioning our mutual acquaintance, until over a month later, sending a weird, ditzy response asking, "Did I answer this or not? I thought I did, but now I think I didn't."
I'd like to think there is a deeper meaning to this, like that by becoming so invested in my children that I allowed my own life to wither away, that my children will appreciate this and will go on to have fabulous lives themselves, but that is wishful thinking. They are both prone to holding lengthy grudges (Lola still brings up The Pinata Incident from her third birthday party) and they both will probably remember this particular Christmas vacation forever. "Remember that Christmas Momdude was whiny and sick and we were always bringing her kleenex, and we had that foster cat that was hiding under the bed all the time? God, that sucked. We sat around the house all vacation. At least we got a Kinect that year."
Their father took a little break from work to take them bowling, but he forgot to find out ahead of time whether the alley was open or not, so that outing involved driving across town, staring forlornly at the forbidden bowling alley, and then returning home. I was so glad I hadn't dragged along with them. The next day the Sober Husband took Iris to the Disney Family Museum, having gotten some passes as a present, while Lola and I stayed home. I napped on the couch -- at night, my coughing prevents me from getting any quality sleep, so I am prone to falling asleep during the day. I didn't even realize that Iris and the Sober Husband had been out until after they were back. "I had my Rat yell swear words at you, and you didn't even wake up!" said Lola gleefully (one of her best Christmas presents was a stuffed version of Rat from "Pearls Before Swine").
I've apologized repeatedly to the children for giving them a crappy holiday, but I know that doesn't prevent them from scrawling hate-filled screeds against me in the many diaries strewn about the house. Meanwhile I am having a hard time keeping my own spirits level. Did you know the last babysitter I tried to hire charged $20 an hour and flaked twice on interviews? I'm supposed to pay $20 an hour to some loser who can't even call until two hours after she was supposed to be at my house to meet me? The next-to-the-last babysitter I tried to hire didn't respond to my carefully-crafted introductory email, mentioning our mutual acquaintance, until over a month later, sending a weird, ditzy response asking, "Did I answer this or not? I thought I did, but now I think I didn't."
I'd like to think there is a deeper meaning to this, like that by becoming so invested in my children that I allowed my own life to wither away, that my children will appreciate this and will go on to have fabulous lives themselves, but that is wishful thinking. They are both prone to holding lengthy grudges (Lola still brings up The Pinata Incident from her third birthday party) and they both will probably remember this particular Christmas vacation forever. "Remember that Christmas Momdude was whiny and sick and we were always bringing her kleenex, and we had that foster cat that was hiding under the bed all the time? God, that sucked. We sat around the house all vacation. At least we got a Kinect that year."
Monday, December 27, 2010
ouch ouch ouch ouch
In one of the world's geekiest incidents, I broke my arm playing World of Warcraft. I didn't break any bones, that would be truly difficult to pull off; but I did harm my right arm, my main Warcraft-playing arm, to the point of agony.
It began on December 6th, the very eve of the long-awaited Cataclysm update to the World of Warcraft. My computer suffered a catastrophic stroke that day in the morning, when I was working on private school admission essays for Lola (Lola may or may not change schools next year, and I wanted to get the appallingly detailed work of the applications done before starting Cataclysm). I called the Sober Husband and asked him, "How bad would it be if I just ran out with a credit card and bought a new computer today?" After some discussion, we agreed to go together to the Apple store that afternoon (the Sober Husband having stipulated that his tech support services would be severely limited for a non-Macintosh computer). I moved up to the study and finished the applications on the archaic dinosaur computer normally used only by eight year-old Lola, a computer which would not be able to handle the demands of the monstrous Cataclysm software.
All that day emails were flying back and forth amongst Warcraft players, many of whom were planning on gathering for a non-slumber party. At midnight Blizzard would release the long-awaited Cataclysm, allowing players to enter new lands and to start characters of new races, and a variety of Warcraft players would do that together at the Burning Man headquarters. I'd planned on going, but my computer's death screwed things up. It would take me a long time to get the software set up on a new computer -- Warcraft is truly huge. On my sad old now-dead computer, it had taken me several tries until I'd succeeded at finishing an eight hour download for the newest version. If that computer hadn't stroked out, all I would have needed was the special code I'd get from a copy of the new software in order to start playing Cataclysm. I couldn't face trying to do that heroic download again, and I didn't even have a working computer capable of Warcrafting.
That evening, my truly indulgent husband bought me a new laptop. "My family has been struggling with inadequate technology for too long," he said, as he impulsively added an iPad to the purchase. The children danced about in a consumer glee, gamboling around the Apple store. Iris hugged the iPad box to her chest all the way to the parking garage.
At home I made everyone a nutritious dinner and got the Sober Husband to skim through the application essays I'd written. Almost predictably I started feeling ill that evening. My immune system has been shot to hell all year. Ever since I had surgery last February, I've been sick more often than not, with one bug after another. On Thanksgiving Day itself I'd been felled with a wretched virus, and then again a new one hit on Cataclysm day. "Are you going to Best Buy at midnight?" the Sober Husband asked, but by ten I felt too wretched to contemplate driving. I just went to bed.
The next day over breakfast the Sober Husband asked, "Why are we not at Best Buy?" He wanted to see me enjoying my lovely new computer. I drove him to work and then bought myself Cataclysm on the way home. It wasn't until well after noon that Warcraft was ready to play, and then it was pretty much time to get the children. But then after we came home, I sank into playing, serious playing, and I played so much over the following two weeks that I virtually destroyed my right arm. Extreme pain in my right elbow had me pulling out my leftover painkillers from surgery. My right shoulder was agonizing, and I had to shamefacedly confess to the Sober Husband that I had incurred these extreme Warcraft related injuries. I spent a weekend alternating ice packs with a heating pad on my shoulder, not touching my new laptop. The children enjoyed their turn and started goblin and worgen characters on Warcraft, playing and playing while I lay on the couch, unable to do really anything.I couldn't even turn the pages of a book with my right hand. Driving and cooking, the things I seem to spend most of my time doing, were completely out of the question. I asked Iris to post on my blog explaining my absence, but she couldn't be bothered, preferring to make the most of her own turns at the computer to play Warcraft.
Thankfully my shoulder responded well to the complete lack of computer usage, massive doses of Motrin, and the hot-and-cold packs, and after a few days, it became pain-free. My right elbow and hand are still fragile, and I have significant pain in my elbow. The Sober Husband asked, "Don't you think you should see a doctor?", but I said, "Aaah, I'm already doing what a doctor would tell me to do."
Ironically I knew other players had played many, many more hours of Cataclysm than I had. My elemental shaman of a troll had reached level 85 and was geared for heroics when my arm gave out, but I was seeing goblins that same level ... characters who had been started from scratch at Cataclysm, while I'd started my troll months ago. Evidently those players, unlike me, had right arms of steel.
Meanwhile another online gaming injury occurred in our family, this one a psychic injury. Little Lola has long been devoted to Poptropica, a children's online gaming community. Like Warcraft, Poptropica opened a new land in December--- one dedicated to controversial creatures of the tabloids. Lola immediately plunged into lore of the Loch Ness Monster, the chupacabra, Big Foot, and the Jersey Devil. After a day or so, Lola was unable to sleep through the night, walk through any dimly lit area, or generally be alone at all due to a consuming fear of the Jersey Devil, and, to a lesser extent, chupacabras. She often becomes convinced a Jersey Devil is breaking into our home, despite the fact that I pointed out that not only is their very existence dubious, but their alleged habitat, New Jersey, is several thousand miles away.
Realizing how unhealthy our familial addiction to computer games has become, for Christmas I went back to that Best Buy and bought a Kinect for our Xbox, one of those amazing new devices which allows a person to become their own game controller and to play games by leaping about. If we're going to be spending far too much time playing videogames, at least we should be getting some exercise at the same time. The children worked up a considerable sweat playing Kinect games right away, and even I, sadly and all-too-predictably sick as as a dog again with a severe chest cold, couldn't resist a few rounds of Dance Revolution, trouncing Iris uber Alles at a Dance Battle to "Poker Face."
And then today a Christmas letter came from graduate school friends of the Sober Husband. I absentmindedly rubbed my hurting elbow as I read the long list of amazing accomplishments of this family. Once we had been comparable to this family, but over the last several years, we stopped achieving while they stepped up the pace. The wife finished her PhD at Harvard this year, took a new teaching position, received a variety of grants, and traveled to many academic conferences. The husband, a professor at MIT, is writing a book on physics and traveled the world, expenses paid, to work with collaborators in such pleasure spots as Japan and Aspen. The children have black and brown belts in karate -- and as the letter specified, these are adult belts, not the usual, inferior, juvenile versions other lesser children earn. They speak foreign languages and perform in jazz ensembles and are silversmiths.
What did we do this year? We didn't travel. I haven't left the country in six years, ever since we realized we couldn't afford international vacations on one salary. Our children do not make beautiful silver jewelry for their friends and family or play jazz; they develop phobias of the Jersey Devil or crackpot theories about the moon landing, and they quit their piano lessons ages ago. All I did this year, other than have major surgery and approximately one thousand minor illnesses, was to go to Burning Man and wreck my arm playing Warcraft. I am a middle-aged slacker, too lazy to make my children over-achieve, instead having passed my unhealthy love of gaming on to a new generation. "I LOVE Warcraft," Lola said exuberantly the other day, hugging me in abandon on my left side while carefully leaving my weakened right side alone.
It began on December 6th, the very eve of the long-awaited Cataclysm update to the World of Warcraft. My computer suffered a catastrophic stroke that day in the morning, when I was working on private school admission essays for Lola (Lola may or may not change schools next year, and I wanted to get the appallingly detailed work of the applications done before starting Cataclysm). I called the Sober Husband and asked him, "How bad would it be if I just ran out with a credit card and bought a new computer today?" After some discussion, we agreed to go together to the Apple store that afternoon (the Sober Husband having stipulated that his tech support services would be severely limited for a non-Macintosh computer). I moved up to the study and finished the applications on the archaic dinosaur computer normally used only by eight year-old Lola, a computer which would not be able to handle the demands of the monstrous Cataclysm software.
All that day emails were flying back and forth amongst Warcraft players, many of whom were planning on gathering for a non-slumber party. At midnight Blizzard would release the long-awaited Cataclysm, allowing players to enter new lands and to start characters of new races, and a variety of Warcraft players would do that together at the Burning Man headquarters. I'd planned on going, but my computer's death screwed things up. It would take me a long time to get the software set up on a new computer -- Warcraft is truly huge. On my sad old now-dead computer, it had taken me several tries until I'd succeeded at finishing an eight hour download for the newest version. If that computer hadn't stroked out, all I would have needed was the special code I'd get from a copy of the new software in order to start playing Cataclysm. I couldn't face trying to do that heroic download again, and I didn't even have a working computer capable of Warcrafting.
That evening, my truly indulgent husband bought me a new laptop. "My family has been struggling with inadequate technology for too long," he said, as he impulsively added an iPad to the purchase. The children danced about in a consumer glee, gamboling around the Apple store. Iris hugged the iPad box to her chest all the way to the parking garage.
At home I made everyone a nutritious dinner and got the Sober Husband to skim through the application essays I'd written. Almost predictably I started feeling ill that evening. My immune system has been shot to hell all year. Ever since I had surgery last February, I've been sick more often than not, with one bug after another. On Thanksgiving Day itself I'd been felled with a wretched virus, and then again a new one hit on Cataclysm day. "Are you going to Best Buy at midnight?" the Sober Husband asked, but by ten I felt too wretched to contemplate driving. I just went to bed.
The next day over breakfast the Sober Husband asked, "Why are we not at Best Buy?" He wanted to see me enjoying my lovely new computer. I drove him to work and then bought myself Cataclysm on the way home. It wasn't until well after noon that Warcraft was ready to play, and then it was pretty much time to get the children. But then after we came home, I sank into playing, serious playing, and I played so much over the following two weeks that I virtually destroyed my right arm. Extreme pain in my right elbow had me pulling out my leftover painkillers from surgery. My right shoulder was agonizing, and I had to shamefacedly confess to the Sober Husband that I had incurred these extreme Warcraft related injuries. I spent a weekend alternating ice packs with a heating pad on my shoulder, not touching my new laptop. The children enjoyed their turn and started goblin and worgen characters on Warcraft, playing and playing while I lay on the couch, unable to do really anything.I couldn't even turn the pages of a book with my right hand. Driving and cooking, the things I seem to spend most of my time doing, were completely out of the question. I asked Iris to post on my blog explaining my absence, but she couldn't be bothered, preferring to make the most of her own turns at the computer to play Warcraft.
Thankfully my shoulder responded well to the complete lack of computer usage, massive doses of Motrin, and the hot-and-cold packs, and after a few days, it became pain-free. My right elbow and hand are still fragile, and I have significant pain in my elbow. The Sober Husband asked, "Don't you think you should see a doctor?", but I said, "Aaah, I'm already doing what a doctor would tell me to do."
Ironically I knew other players had played many, many more hours of Cataclysm than I had. My elemental shaman of a troll had reached level 85 and was geared for heroics when my arm gave out, but I was seeing goblins that same level ... characters who had been started from scratch at Cataclysm, while I'd started my troll months ago. Evidently those players, unlike me, had right arms of steel.
Meanwhile another online gaming injury occurred in our family, this one a psychic injury. Little Lola has long been devoted to Poptropica, a children's online gaming community. Like Warcraft, Poptropica opened a new land in December--- one dedicated to controversial creatures of the tabloids. Lola immediately plunged into lore of the Loch Ness Monster, the chupacabra, Big Foot, and the Jersey Devil. After a day or so, Lola was unable to sleep through the night, walk through any dimly lit area, or generally be alone at all due to a consuming fear of the Jersey Devil, and, to a lesser extent, chupacabras. She often becomes convinced a Jersey Devil is breaking into our home, despite the fact that I pointed out that not only is their very existence dubious, but their alleged habitat, New Jersey, is several thousand miles away.
Realizing how unhealthy our familial addiction to computer games has become, for Christmas I went back to that Best Buy and bought a Kinect for our Xbox, one of those amazing new devices which allows a person to become their own game controller and to play games by leaping about. If we're going to be spending far too much time playing videogames, at least we should be getting some exercise at the same time. The children worked up a considerable sweat playing Kinect games right away, and even I, sadly and all-too-predictably sick as as a dog again with a severe chest cold, couldn't resist a few rounds of Dance Revolution, trouncing Iris uber Alles at a Dance Battle to "Poker Face."
And then today a Christmas letter came from graduate school friends of the Sober Husband. I absentmindedly rubbed my hurting elbow as I read the long list of amazing accomplishments of this family. Once we had been comparable to this family, but over the last several years, we stopped achieving while they stepped up the pace. The wife finished her PhD at Harvard this year, took a new teaching position, received a variety of grants, and traveled to many academic conferences. The husband, a professor at MIT, is writing a book on physics and traveled the world, expenses paid, to work with collaborators in such pleasure spots as Japan and Aspen. The children have black and brown belts in karate -- and as the letter specified, these are adult belts, not the usual, inferior, juvenile versions other lesser children earn. They speak foreign languages and perform in jazz ensembles and are silversmiths.
What did we do this year? We didn't travel. I haven't left the country in six years, ever since we realized we couldn't afford international vacations on one salary. Our children do not make beautiful silver jewelry for their friends and family or play jazz; they develop phobias of the Jersey Devil or crackpot theories about the moon landing, and they quit their piano lessons ages ago. All I did this year, other than have major surgery and approximately one thousand minor illnesses, was to go to Burning Man and wreck my arm playing Warcraft. I am a middle-aged slacker, too lazy to make my children over-achieve, instead having passed my unhealthy love of gaming on to a new generation. "I LOVE Warcraft," Lola said exuberantly the other day, hugging me in abandon on my left side while carefully leaving my weakened right side alone.
Monday, December 13, 2010
did you wanna buy a book for someone for Christmas?
As we all know, yer Drunken Housewife reads far, far too much. I've always got a book on the hop. The children have inherited this tendency, and the Sober Husband always needs to have a book going as well. Between us all, we've got a lot of perspectives covered. And so, herewith some recommendations for your help if you were looking to buy a book for someone and had no idea what the hell to get:
For the youngest readers:
the Skippy Jon Jones picture book series by Judy Schachner. A kitten is obsessed by the thought that he is in reality a chihuahua. Iris and Lola sing and act out parts of the first "Skippy Jon Jones" book; it's just that entertaining.
Older children (say, grades 4-8):
"The School of Fear" by GItty Daneshwari. An extremely eccentric former beauty queen runs an odd school for children with extreme phobias. Lola loved this book so much that she became very upset towards the end as she didn't want to finish it. We spend a lot of time talking about this book and its sequel, "School of Fear: School Is Not Dismissed." There's a lot to love here: Lola says that this is her favorite book because it's the only book where she couldn't tell what would happen next. Highly recommended for children who, like Lola, have phobias.
Child of any age or indeed a grownup (particularly one who works in any field requiring client approval for work):
"The Tiny Art Director" by Bill Zeman. Zeman, an extremely talented artist, is often commanded by his little daughter to "make me a picture of a dinosaur" or "paint a poop airplane." He goes off and creates an amazing work of art, suitable for the cover of the New Yorker, and then gets his work ripped up one side and down the other by the Tiny Art Director, who usually says something like, "Are you always stupid, Daddy? More blood! I want more blood!" Absolutely hilarious, and the art is amazing.
FIction lovers: I read a lot of novels this year, and these three were hands down the best. I loved them dearly.
"The House of Tomorrow" by Peter Bognanni. A teenaged boy is kept isolated in "the House of Tomorrow" by his homeschooling grandmother whose life mission is to keep Buckminster Fuller's ideas alive. Awkward, lonely, overeducated but extremely sheltered, the protagonist is naive and hungry for life experience. I loved this book so very, very much: all of the characters are very human and very real with their own perspectives. The redemptive powers of punk rock were never so clear and harshly beautiful. My only complaint was that the ending seemed a bit too tidy, following all the all-too-real messiness of the character's situations, but it's a brilliant book.
"Broken Teaglass" by Emily Arsenault. A young man takes a job at a famous dictionary publisher. It is a strange and silent place, where the word-lovers toil in quiet monotony interrupted at times by calls from cranks and bored prisoners arguing about definitions. Then he begins to discover some very strange things in some of the definitions. I cannot recommend this highly enough for the intelligent, word-loving reader.
"The Full Catastrophe" by David Carkeet: an overeducated linguist finds himself at loose ends after his research lab looses funding. He takes a job at an innovative marriage counseling service, which sends qualified linguists to live with and observe troubled married couples on the theory that their communication must be causing their woes. An unbelievably smart and witty book, with a highly likable, fish-out-of-water academic stranded in a middle class family in the Midwest pretending that he's going to be able to help his squabbling hosts.
People who are insane about reading:
"Running the Books" by Avi Steinberg. Steinberg is a Harvard graduate who is floundering and careerless, a disappointment to his Jewish family who expected greatness from him. For lack of anything better to do, he takes a job as a librarian in a prison. This memoir is spellbinding. Steinberg portrays vividly the power dynamics and struggles in prison. For example, a prisoner correcting the way another holds a pen caused Steinberg to tense up, as any touch between inmates normally would lead to violence. Steinberg himself is in an awkward position, not part of the guards and not part of the inmates, and at risk from both. Ironically the guards make more trouble for him than the inmates. He bonds, too closely at times, with violent criminals and has troubles that follow that. But beyond being about Steinberg's experiences, this is a memoir about books. What do prisoners read? What is a book, really? To the guards, a book is something that should not be in a prison. To an inmate, a book could be mindless entertainment or it could be a source of redemption, or it could just be something to steal to make rolling papers from the pages. For anyone who really loves books, this is a thought-provoking read about the power of books and their very nature. For anyone with a sociological bent who has not personally been to prison, it's a great vicarious experience of a book. Should I ever need to go to prison, I feel better prepared now.
For the NPR listener:
"Travels in Siberia" by Ian Frazier. I gave this to the Sober Husband for our anniversary, and he's enrapt. Ian Frazier pokes around in Siberia with a dry wit; the Sober Husband is often heard laughing out loud of an evening as he works through this massive tome. Perfect for the person who wants educational value from their leisure reading but who also enjoys a laugh. Not for those intimidated by a long book; this thing is the size of my head.
For the serious cook: [hint hint to the reader that these are what I want for Christmas, I hope someone out there may pay attention):
"In the Kitchen with a Good Appetite" by Melissa Clark. I've been a fan of Melissa Clark for nearly ten years now since finding her recipes in "Food & Wine", and now the whole world is a fan as well since she got a column in the New York Times. I've been making a cocktail called the Melissa Clark for nearly a decade, and many of my signature dishes are from her recipes. She has a new cookbook out, and you can't miss with it. Woman's a genius.
"India: The Cookbook" by Pushpesh Pant. A huge volume of Indian recipes. It looks pretty damn near encyclopedic in its scope. I want it.
Happy shopping, everyone!
For the youngest readers:
the Skippy Jon Jones picture book series by Judy Schachner. A kitten is obsessed by the thought that he is in reality a chihuahua. Iris and Lola sing and act out parts of the first "Skippy Jon Jones" book; it's just that entertaining.
Older children (say, grades 4-8):
"The School of Fear" by GItty Daneshwari. An extremely eccentric former beauty queen runs an odd school for children with extreme phobias. Lola loved this book so much that she became very upset towards the end as she didn't want to finish it. We spend a lot of time talking about this book and its sequel, "School of Fear: School Is Not Dismissed." There's a lot to love here: Lola says that this is her favorite book because it's the only book where she couldn't tell what would happen next. Highly recommended for children who, like Lola, have phobias.
Child of any age or indeed a grownup (particularly one who works in any field requiring client approval for work):
"The Tiny Art Director" by Bill Zeman. Zeman, an extremely talented artist, is often commanded by his little daughter to "make me a picture of a dinosaur" or "paint a poop airplane." He goes off and creates an amazing work of art, suitable for the cover of the New Yorker, and then gets his work ripped up one side and down the other by the Tiny Art Director, who usually says something like, "Are you always stupid, Daddy? More blood! I want more blood!" Absolutely hilarious, and the art is amazing.
FIction lovers: I read a lot of novels this year, and these three were hands down the best. I loved them dearly.
"The House of Tomorrow" by Peter Bognanni. A teenaged boy is kept isolated in "the House of Tomorrow" by his homeschooling grandmother whose life mission is to keep Buckminster Fuller's ideas alive. Awkward, lonely, overeducated but extremely sheltered, the protagonist is naive and hungry for life experience. I loved this book so very, very much: all of the characters are very human and very real with their own perspectives. The redemptive powers of punk rock were never so clear and harshly beautiful. My only complaint was that the ending seemed a bit too tidy, following all the all-too-real messiness of the character's situations, but it's a brilliant book.
"Broken Teaglass" by Emily Arsenault. A young man takes a job at a famous dictionary publisher. It is a strange and silent place, where the word-lovers toil in quiet monotony interrupted at times by calls from cranks and bored prisoners arguing about definitions. Then he begins to discover some very strange things in some of the definitions. I cannot recommend this highly enough for the intelligent, word-loving reader.
"The Full Catastrophe" by David Carkeet: an overeducated linguist finds himself at loose ends after his research lab looses funding. He takes a job at an innovative marriage counseling service, which sends qualified linguists to live with and observe troubled married couples on the theory that their communication must be causing their woes. An unbelievably smart and witty book, with a highly likable, fish-out-of-water academic stranded in a middle class family in the Midwest pretending that he's going to be able to help his squabbling hosts.
People who are insane about reading:
"Running the Books" by Avi Steinberg. Steinberg is a Harvard graduate who is floundering and careerless, a disappointment to his Jewish family who expected greatness from him. For lack of anything better to do, he takes a job as a librarian in a prison. This memoir is spellbinding. Steinberg portrays vividly the power dynamics and struggles in prison. For example, a prisoner correcting the way another holds a pen caused Steinberg to tense up, as any touch between inmates normally would lead to violence. Steinberg himself is in an awkward position, not part of the guards and not part of the inmates, and at risk from both. Ironically the guards make more trouble for him than the inmates. He bonds, too closely at times, with violent criminals and has troubles that follow that. But beyond being about Steinberg's experiences, this is a memoir about books. What do prisoners read? What is a book, really? To the guards, a book is something that should not be in a prison. To an inmate, a book could be mindless entertainment or it could be a source of redemption, or it could just be something to steal to make rolling papers from the pages. For anyone who really loves books, this is a thought-provoking read about the power of books and their very nature. For anyone with a sociological bent who has not personally been to prison, it's a great vicarious experience of a book. Should I ever need to go to prison, I feel better prepared now.
For the NPR listener:
"Travels in Siberia" by Ian Frazier. I gave this to the Sober Husband for our anniversary, and he's enrapt. Ian Frazier pokes around in Siberia with a dry wit; the Sober Husband is often heard laughing out loud of an evening as he works through this massive tome. Perfect for the person who wants educational value from their leisure reading but who also enjoys a laugh. Not for those intimidated by a long book; this thing is the size of my head.
For the serious cook: [hint hint to the reader that these are what I want for Christmas, I hope someone out there may pay attention):
"In the Kitchen with a Good Appetite" by Melissa Clark. I've been a fan of Melissa Clark for nearly ten years now since finding her recipes in "Food & Wine", and now the whole world is a fan as well since she got a column in the New York Times. I've been making a cocktail called the Melissa Clark for nearly a decade, and many of my signature dishes are from her recipes. She has a new cookbook out, and you can't miss with it. Woman's a genius.
"India: The Cookbook" by Pushpesh Pant. A huge volume of Indian recipes. It looks pretty damn near encyclopedic in its scope. I want it.
Happy shopping, everyone!
but... what am I supposed to do between 2 and 4 a.m.?
My insomnia is acting up, and the World of Warcraft is down. This is highly irritating to me, as it is my wont to amuse myself during the worst of my insomnia playing Warcraft. I took a look at the customer service forum online, and I saw that thousands of players had already whined to Blizzard about it. Insomniacs everywhere were at various levels of pissed-offedness, but one named Sither, a level 85 Night Elf druid, stood apart:
I can't LOG IN, Blizzard! This is an EASILY SOLVEABLE PROBLEM that could be fixed by A TRAINED MONKEY IN A JAUNTY HAT, for crying out loud! This is THE START OF THE EXPANSION and you have MILLIONS OF PEOPLE who paid to play this game with REAL DOLLARS. They didn't play to SIT IN FRONT OF THEIR COMPUTER AND WEEP GENTLY, did they?
Because WORLD OF WARCRAFT IS INCREDIBLY SERIOUS BUSINESS, I am prepared to attempt to kill myself by drinking TWO ENTIRE BOTTLES of lemonade (I get 2.25L bottles of a lesser-known brand because they are A PRETTY GOOD DEAL) and attempting to AVOID GOING TO THE BATHROOM until my insides rupture.
Since this MIGHT TAKE A WHILE, consider this my ULTIMATUM. If your login servers go up before I DIE OF CARBONATED INTERNAL ORGAN FAILURE, then I will continue playing your EXTREMELY FINE GAME. If not then my death will be on YOUR HEAD because you made BASICALLY THE WORST MAINTANED GAME EVER.
I expect a BLUE POST [a response from a Blizzard employee] in FIVE MINUTES or I am uncapping the first bottle. Drinking from a glass though, chugging from the bottle is for people who are NOT WEARING VERY NICE SHIRTS.
Sunday, December 12, 2010
a new crackpot belief held by Iris
The other day I was carrying in some bags of groceries when eleven year-old Iris uber Alles, long known to believe passionately that the moon landing was faked by the American government, said provocatively, "The pyramids were built by aliens!" I ignored this and continued wrestling the groceries in, but Iris was relentless. She was clearly angling for a fight.
"Because according to ancient writing things they wrote on like walls of the pyramids, they wrote about how they built the pyramids, and it says they built them over a certain time period, and if that time period was read right, they lifted one limestone block which weighed about two tons in two minutes , and obviously they needed help from aliens! Could YOU lift a limestone block that weighs two tons in two minutes? Could you?" jeered Iris. "And you know, they had a lot of people, but STILL.. They must have had one really massive helper", presumably an alien.
These special beliefs are saved for the home. Iris showed me a test on Egypt she'd gotten an A on, and it had nary a mention of aliens.
I tried arguing about the pyramids, but to no avail. My arguments about the moon landing didn't change Iris's resolute belief that it was faked. I'm currently reading "Voodoo Histories: The Role of the Conspiracy Theory in Shaping Modern History" by David Aaronovich in the faint hope that I'll be better educated and better able to argue with Iris, but I'm pessimistic. Iris is a tough nut to crack.
"Because according to ancient writing things they wrote on like walls of the pyramids, they wrote about how they built the pyramids, and it says they built them over a certain time period, and if that time period was read right, they lifted one limestone block which weighed about two tons in two minutes , and obviously they needed help from aliens! Could YOU lift a limestone block that weighs two tons in two minutes? Could you?" jeered Iris. "And you know, they had a lot of people, but STILL.. They must have had one really massive helper", presumably an alien.
These special beliefs are saved for the home. Iris showed me a test on Egypt she'd gotten an A on, and it had nary a mention of aliens.
I tried arguing about the pyramids, but to no avail. My arguments about the moon landing didn't change Iris's resolute belief that it was faked. I'm currently reading "Voodoo Histories: The Role of the Conspiracy Theory in Shaping Modern History" by David Aaronovich in the faint hope that I'll be better educated and better able to argue with Iris, but I'm pessimistic. Iris is a tough nut to crack.
Tuesday, December 07, 2010
guest post from Iris
This video here just illustrates my whole life. I am the baby monkey, and life is the pig.
-Iris
-Iris
inside the dark corners of Lola's psyche
The other night Lola woke up screaming, and her father went in to calm her down. I went back to sleep, only to be woken up again by more screaming. This was the loudest Lola had ever screamed in the night, really terrified, top-volume shrieking, and I darted across the landing in the dark.
Once i was there, Lola was quite happy to sit up in bed and cheerfully tell me about her nightmares. "First I dreamed that aliens came, and they looked like lemons. They saw me making lemonade, and they were so angry!" Lola shuddered dramatically. "Then I dreamed that I was making all kinds of mistakes with Henry. I picked him up [our tabby, Henry, is a dignified animal who hates to be picked up], and I was petting him the wrong way. You know how the fur grows." Lola took an extremely long amount of time to explain how she had petted Henry against the grain, using gestures and simple language aimed at explaining to the very stupidest of audiences, her mother. I tried to cut that short, since it was the wee hours. "Then Henry could speak English, and she was biting me all over!" [Henry, a rather butch female tabby, is interchangeably referred to as "he" or "she", and the children have been heard to remark, 'You're a little lesbian boy, aren't you, Henry?"].
The next day Lola elaborated more about the lemon aliens. "I defeated them, and then I had a lemonade party with the Congress!" But the lemonade party was not all fun: President Obama explained to Lola why he was opposed to gay marriage. Lola demonstrated how she put her head in her hands, murmuring sadly, "Obama, Obama." Then tragedy struck: "I didn't use half a lemon, it was left over, and then it grew arms. Arms and legs popped out of it!" The regenerated lemon was crazed with rage, and it was then that Lola woke up screaming.
Once i was there, Lola was quite happy to sit up in bed and cheerfully tell me about her nightmares. "First I dreamed that aliens came, and they looked like lemons. They saw me making lemonade, and they were so angry!" Lola shuddered dramatically. "Then I dreamed that I was making all kinds of mistakes with Henry. I picked him up [our tabby, Henry, is a dignified animal who hates to be picked up], and I was petting him the wrong way. You know how the fur grows." Lola took an extremely long amount of time to explain how she had petted Henry against the grain, using gestures and simple language aimed at explaining to the very stupidest of audiences, her mother. I tried to cut that short, since it was the wee hours. "Then Henry could speak English, and she was biting me all over!" [Henry, a rather butch female tabby, is interchangeably referred to as "he" or "she", and the children have been heard to remark, 'You're a little lesbian boy, aren't you, Henry?"].
The next day Lola elaborated more about the lemon aliens. "I defeated them, and then I had a lemonade party with the Congress!" But the lemonade party was not all fun: President Obama explained to Lola why he was opposed to gay marriage. Lola demonstrated how she put her head in her hands, murmuring sadly, "Obama, Obama." Then tragedy struck: "I didn't use half a lemon, it was left over, and then it grew arms. Arms and legs popped out of it!" The regenerated lemon was crazed with rage, and it was then that Lola woke up screaming.
Saturday, December 04, 2010
the wonders of pets
Iris uber Alles and I were lounging around, and Al, our drooling, skeletal, mentally-challenged cat jumped up on my chest, as is his wont. Then Pigwidgeon, our witless African Grey parrot, flew over on to me. "Pig, Al was here first! Iris, take her!" I said. "I can't have both Pig and Al on me; I get overstimulated."
"Yeah, you can't have two mentally retarded animals on you at once," Iris said judiciously. "It's too much."
We laughed.
"Yeah, you can't have two mentally retarded animals on you at once," Iris said judiciously. "It's too much."
We laughed.
Thursday, December 02, 2010
Lola's list --- with an addendum
I've owed Lola a reward for over a week now, since her amazing progress report came (at the girls' school, the children in lower school don't get letter grades; instead, they get long, thorough progress reports. Iris has just graduated to the upper school, where she'll get a report card and... the introduction of letter grades). I was waiting until Iris's report card came, as I suspected Iris would deserve a reward as well and then I could do them at the same time (last time, they got a trip to the shoe store and the shoes of their choice). But it seems Iris's report card won't come until after Christmas, and Lola is not to be denied that long. So I asked her to let me know what she'd like for a modest treat, and she presented me with a long list, and she couldn't say which thing she wanted most. I asked her to prioritize her list, and I suggested we let the readers weigh in. After a huge amount of thought, Lola came back with an edited list. Herewith The List Of Lola:
FINAL UPDATE: Lola was taken to see "Tangled", which she said was "better than I thought it would be!" She reportedly laughed out loud several times, and the chameleon was her favorite character. She wants to see it again.
7. Limited amount of money to spendThe last item, numbered #2, was heavily scribbled out. I asked Lola about this, and she said her father made her cross it out. I asked her to restore it, and it was
6. A chumum (surprise or choice) [note: a chumum is what the children call the spherical stuffed animals created by the Luby people]
5. Day without chore (for me)
4. Trip to Mel's (without Iris) [note: Mel's is a horrible local chain restaurant, modeled after Al's from "Happy Days". The children cannot get enough of it. I can't stand paying $8.75 for a formerly frozen garden burger]
3. I am king for day and you must obey me
1. I get served candy and Gak in bed ["Gak" is what the children affectionately call chocolate milk]
2. Break from Iris (Iris mustn't talk to me and I won't do stuff for her.)UPDATED: Lola has asked me to add another potential reward, "Being taken to see 'Tangled'", and she requests that the readers vote.
FINAL UPDATE: Lola was taken to see "Tangled", which she said was "better than I thought it would be!" She reportedly laughed out loud several times, and the chameleon was her favorite character. She wants to see it again.
was it Nietzsche who said, "Consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds"?
Recently that noted young environmentalist, Iris uber Alles, said to me passionately, "Did you know there's a huge garbage dump on the moon? All those astronauts just dumped all their trash up there!"
"Uh, Iris, I thought you didn't believe in the moon landing," I said.
"I don't!"
There was then a long, awkward pause.
"Uh, Iris, I thought you didn't believe in the moon landing," I said.
"I don't!"
There was then a long, awkward pause.
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