I am beginning to take an obsessive interest in pants. They're fascinating! For instance, I am noticing a definite trend in pants that double as optical illusions.
Exhibit A
Tan cargo-style pants with gothic lettering, in white, across the seat (seen as the wearer was heading into the Ladies'.) It appears that someone from Pimp My Ride went crazy and started putting letter decals on everything in sight, and the afflicted pants caught on. Unfortunately, the letter-applier stayed true to the original form (an arc; you know, like on the back window of a low-rider), and I suspect that has a magnifying/distorting effect. Have you ever successfully seen what's inside one of those Magic Eye posters? (Dude! It even works online!) Same effect.
Exhibit B
Dark-colored, pin-striped, tight, women's pants. These are not being worn as part of a suit, either (although I did see a woman in a pin-striped suit recently, and her pants did not melt my brain, because they were properly tailored). No, these pants are topped with baby tees and cropped sweaters and such. It makes my eyes water to see the lines distorted over the bulgy parts, and it's horribly unflattering. Who talked these women into thinking that straight vertical lines are attractive on a normal, curvy figure?
And to make matters worse, I saw a pair on a *pregnant woman*. I know! What was she thinking? If there's one thing a pregnant lady has, it's bulges, trust me, and this lady's pants were affecting my brain like acid-laced Fruit Stripe gum.
Coinciding with my pants fetish is the need for new pants. Well, jeans. I really need to find a store that carries petite, i.e., short, sizes, because I was ready to stab my eyes out after roaming the juniors section of the large department store. I even braved the horrors of a shop helpfully named "Pretty Fashion", but I detest pre-distressed jeans, and also the size problem; on the other hand, I was very much tempted to buy from their array of silk kimonos and Mandarin evening gowns. I have no plan whatsoever to enter "Jeans Palace", and I learned last year that H&M caters to women who are 6 feet tall with legs shaped like dowel rods, i.e., not me.
***
[Grossness Warning]
If you are like me, you have a large-ish stack of unread books, perhaps left over from your *cough* university classes. Maybe you would like to read them but don't feel you have the time. I am here to share with you my new system: put a book in the bathroom! Toss Redbook or Reader's Digest or Carpentry Weekly in the trash and get edjumicated! It'll take you forever to finish (for this reason I suggest starting with a compilation of essays or articles), but at least you'll be making progress (no pun intended).
***
Le Mariage Royale has foisted another travesty of formal wear on unsuspecting passersby. The gown on the left in the window is not too bad on first glance: a simple design in white with dark red piping along the bodice seams—bold but not ugly. Until you see that someone added a row of cross-lacing, with a red tie, up the left hip. Perhaps it was supposed to be a corset top, but the seamstress misplaced her glasses and decided to keep on with her work anyway.
The dress on the right.... I can only speculate that it's part of a new line aimed at retired prostitutes, those who found the red-trimmed dress too demure. I can't even describe it, but suffice it to say that it is a confounding amalgamation of mini-skirt/mermaid dress, tiny tulle ruffles, and plunging necklines.
Saturday, June 11, 2005
Friday, June 10, 2005
Composed June 9
The Weather-Bitching Level is back! And it's a 2.7! (0 being 'nothing to bitch about weather-wise' and 3 being 'I will never stop bitching', i.e., winter.) According to the weather-lady on tv yesterday, we're having the coldest June in recent memory. South of us they even had a frost. In June! It hasn't even hit 70F since over the weekend. One morning, we saw smoke rising from someone's chimney, and that evening my polar-bear child wanted a blanket to go with her long jammies during the bedtime reading. I hate! the cold. The only way the weather could be worse would be if it started raining, which will probably happen now that I've said it.
You see some interesting people riding the bus, but after a while you get used to your fellow commuters. Today there was a new face on the bus, and it was *crazy*. Not like threatening crazy, just avoiding eye contact but talking loudly *in English* crazy. I didn't catch what exactly she was saying, but she seemed to be addressing someone; I checked her out several times, because I thought she might have a cell phone with a headset or a mini-recorder, but I didn't see anything of the sort. Great. Now the Germans around here will think Americans are war-mongers AND crazy.
But that wasn't even the scariest thing to happen on the bus that time. Whenever we came to a stop, you could tell the driver was trying to stop as gradually as possible, letting off the brakes 2 or 3 times before coming to a complete halt, at which point the brakes would make a terrible noise. I was concerned that perhaps there was a bicycle up in the wheel well, with or without bicyclist, but I didn't notice once when I got off. I was also worried that we might start to skid since the noise was a bit like the sound of brakes locking. Have I mentioned that my house is at the top of a steep hill?
Do you ever notice yourself blinking, then you can't stop noticing, and then you wonder how weird you must look because you're consciously blinking? I think this awareness of involuntary movements is becoming a theme with me.
My Darling Daughter had a wart on her foot; I didn't dawdle in treating it, because I've had a plantar wart before, and having a doctor jab a skewer covered with wart-poison into her foot is not something I would wish for my daughter. Anyhow, a couple of days after starting to use the salicylic acid on her foot (carefully!), I noticed that the wart on my thumb knuckle was making a break for freedom. Now, this has been a tenacious wart; I've accidentally scraped the skin off that spot *twice* with a cheese grater—don't try that at home, kids!—yet the wart always returned. I guess the wart got wind of the acid and decided not to stick around to be the next victim, so after picking off the little seed thingie—which was literally hanging out—I am officially wart-free.
I took my Latin mid-term today, and I don't think I bombed, so that was good. I did go through all the psychological stages of studying, though:
denial—"I've got plenty of time!"
panic—"There's too much to learn!"
death wish (self)—"I want to lie down and die."
death wish (instructor)—"If he had a heart attack last night, I won't have to take the test today."
and resignation.
You see some interesting people riding the bus, but after a while you get used to your fellow commuters. Today there was a new face on the bus, and it was *crazy*. Not like threatening crazy, just avoiding eye contact but talking loudly *in English* crazy. I didn't catch what exactly she was saying, but she seemed to be addressing someone; I checked her out several times, because I thought she might have a cell phone with a headset or a mini-recorder, but I didn't see anything of the sort. Great. Now the Germans around here will think Americans are war-mongers AND crazy.
But that wasn't even the scariest thing to happen on the bus that time. Whenever we came to a stop, you could tell the driver was trying to stop as gradually as possible, letting off the brakes 2 or 3 times before coming to a complete halt, at which point the brakes would make a terrible noise. I was concerned that perhaps there was a bicycle up in the wheel well, with or without bicyclist, but I didn't notice once when I got off. I was also worried that we might start to skid since the noise was a bit like the sound of brakes locking. Have I mentioned that my house is at the top of a steep hill?
Do you ever notice yourself blinking, then you can't stop noticing, and then you wonder how weird you must look because you're consciously blinking? I think this awareness of involuntary movements is becoming a theme with me.
My Darling Daughter had a wart on her foot; I didn't dawdle in treating it, because I've had a plantar wart before, and having a doctor jab a skewer covered with wart-poison into her foot is not something I would wish for my daughter. Anyhow, a couple of days after starting to use the salicylic acid on her foot (carefully!), I noticed that the wart on my thumb knuckle was making a break for freedom. Now, this has been a tenacious wart; I've accidentally scraped the skin off that spot *twice* with a cheese grater—don't try that at home, kids!—yet the wart always returned. I guess the wart got wind of the acid and decided not to stick around to be the next victim, so after picking off the little seed thingie—which was literally hanging out—I am officially wart-free.
I took my Latin mid-term today, and I don't think I bombed, so that was good. I did go through all the psychological stages of studying, though:
denial—"I've got plenty of time!"
panic—"There's too much to learn!"
death wish (self)—"I want to lie down and die."
death wish (instructor)—"If he had a heart attack last night, I won't have to take the test today."
and resignation.
Wednesday, June 08, 2005
Games You Can Play with Your Child
The next time your child gives you a kiss, throw your hands over your face, writhe, and screech, "It burns!" Guaranteed child pleaser, and sure-fire way to get more voluntary kisses.
***
My Darling Daughter was reading a book the other day, and I popped into the living room to ask her a question. She gave me a curt "No", which, translated for any non-compulsive readers out there, means, "Shut up and go away." I wasn't offended, but I ran back into the kitchen for a giggle because it was so me as a child. She really is Mini-Me.
***
D.D. got a big birthday box in the mail from her gwamma that was filled with one large and several small packages. Interestingly, she started with the small boxes: "A tiny waddle bottle!" Joy! Molly, her American Girl doll, really raked it in with an entire bedroom suite, complete with a tiny working lamp, a bed, a dresser with a drawer in it, and water bottle (obviously). D.D. had to stop in the middle of the proceedings to get batteries for the lamp, and she's been dragging it around the house like she used to carry her blankie as a toddler, because you never know when she might need the extra light of a 10-Watt bulb. She also generously offered to let L.H. take it with him to an 8 p.m. meeting in case it was dark when it ended; he pointed out that the car's headlights should provide plenty of light, thanks.
The bedroom suite has been in the living room, in the "clubhouse/hotel" under her play-bed, and in the bed next to D.D.'s pillow. I'm surprised she hasn't jabbed herself in the eye with a wooden edge (even if it is covered by a corduroy bedspread) in her sleep. In the mornings, I tickle D.D. awake, then she gently wakes Molly by slowly lifting her upright until her eyes open. She's a much sweeter mom than I am.
***
When we were in Paris, we had dinner with Lovely Husband's friend, and she roasted a chicken. D.D. wanted the wishbone, but we couldn't find it as it was probably broken up in the process of carving. So the friend's daughter explained that this was 'poulet', not 'chicken', therefore French chickens must not have a wishbone. Shades of Gary Larson and his "Boneless Chicken Ranch." Hee!
***
There's a formal-wear shop near the German as a Foreign Language department called "Le Mariage Royale." (Makes me think of a plastic clock L.H. 'rescued' from the garbage room when we lived in Sweden that was helpfully labeled "High Class Clock.") Every time I walk by with D.D., she says I need to get one of the (wedding) gowns on display. I've repeatedly pointed out that I'm not exactly in the market for such a dress.
Most of the time this shop has duelling gown models in varying degrees of tackiness in the window, but these days they have a bridal couple *made of balloons*. The groom is a column of gray balloons topped with a white balloon with a Lego-esque face drawn on it. I think he also has a gray top hat. The bride is a column of ivory balloons with a white balloon head and a veil. But that's not all! She's also got a tube balloon (like clowns bend into poodles and swords and hats) for arms at waist height with a pink bouquet attached to the front. It's a classy display for a classy shop.
***
Usually I'm pretty nonchalant around here about my blog. I'll mention to L.H. that I've updated it, or tell him if I felt I had something particularly witty to say, but otherwise I try to play it cool. But sometimes, like a couple of days ago, I get all hovery and want to watch L.H. while he reads. (Because I'm a megalomaniac—surprise!—,a term we've been bandying about recently.) He finally told me I was creeping him out, kinda like the old lady in The Wedding Singer who wants to watch Adam Sandler eat the meatballs, because "That's my favorite part!" So I'm backing off. But maybe I'll install a surveillance camera. Hmmm....
***
My Darling Daughter was reading a book the other day, and I popped into the living room to ask her a question. She gave me a curt "No", which, translated for any non-compulsive readers out there, means, "Shut up and go away." I wasn't offended, but I ran back into the kitchen for a giggle because it was so me as a child. She really is Mini-Me.
***
D.D. got a big birthday box in the mail from her gwamma that was filled with one large and several small packages. Interestingly, she started with the small boxes: "A tiny waddle bottle!" Joy! Molly, her American Girl doll, really raked it in with an entire bedroom suite, complete with a tiny working lamp, a bed, a dresser with a drawer in it, and water bottle (obviously). D.D. had to stop in the middle of the proceedings to get batteries for the lamp, and she's been dragging it around the house like she used to carry her blankie as a toddler, because you never know when she might need the extra light of a 10-Watt bulb. She also generously offered to let L.H. take it with him to an 8 p.m. meeting in case it was dark when it ended; he pointed out that the car's headlights should provide plenty of light, thanks.
The bedroom suite has been in the living room, in the "clubhouse/hotel" under her play-bed, and in the bed next to D.D.'s pillow. I'm surprised she hasn't jabbed herself in the eye with a wooden edge (even if it is covered by a corduroy bedspread) in her sleep. In the mornings, I tickle D.D. awake, then she gently wakes Molly by slowly lifting her upright until her eyes open. She's a much sweeter mom than I am.
***
When we were in Paris, we had dinner with Lovely Husband's friend, and she roasted a chicken. D.D. wanted the wishbone, but we couldn't find it as it was probably broken up in the process of carving. So the friend's daughter explained that this was 'poulet', not 'chicken', therefore French chickens must not have a wishbone. Shades of Gary Larson and his "Boneless Chicken Ranch." Hee!
***
There's a formal-wear shop near the German as a Foreign Language department called "Le Mariage Royale." (Makes me think of a plastic clock L.H. 'rescued' from the garbage room when we lived in Sweden that was helpfully labeled "High Class Clock.") Every time I walk by with D.D., she says I need to get one of the (wedding) gowns on display. I've repeatedly pointed out that I'm not exactly in the market for such a dress.
Most of the time this shop has duelling gown models in varying degrees of tackiness in the window, but these days they have a bridal couple *made of balloons*. The groom is a column of gray balloons topped with a white balloon with a Lego-esque face drawn on it. I think he also has a gray top hat. The bride is a column of ivory balloons with a white balloon head and a veil. But that's not all! She's also got a tube balloon (like clowns bend into poodles and swords and hats) for arms at waist height with a pink bouquet attached to the front. It's a classy display for a classy shop.
***
Usually I'm pretty nonchalant around here about my blog. I'll mention to L.H. that I've updated it, or tell him if I felt I had something particularly witty to say, but otherwise I try to play it cool. But sometimes, like a couple of days ago, I get all hovery and want to watch L.H. while he reads. (Because I'm a megalomaniac—surprise!—,a term we've been bandying about recently.) He finally told me I was creeping him out, kinda like the old lady in The Wedding Singer who wants to watch Adam Sandler eat the meatballs, because "That's my favorite part!" So I'm backing off. But maybe I'll install a surveillance camera. Hmmm....
Monday, June 06, 2005
The Bird Man of Ziegelhausen
My husband's family, at least on his dad's side, has a strange affinity for birds. His grandparents used to have a house full of the vermin, I mean, parakeets and cockatiels, plus doves out back, and his grandmother used to cook scrambled eggs for them and let them drink out of her coffee cup. (Needless to say, I have never kissed her on the mouth. And I don't leave D.D. unattended around her in case she decides to cook her up and serve her to the rest of the family.) Family grudges have been held over who let whose bird escape. And L.H.'s dad is always going on about a song he composed and taught his bird to whistle. He'll be on Broadway next.
In the past, L.H. has shared my distaste for all things feathery and indiscriminately excretory, but now he swears he's been hearing a bird outside our window who is singing the Munchkin-Land tune from The Wizard of Oz. I think he's getting some fumes up through the floor from the teenager in the apartment below us. I haven't heard the bird myself, but L.H. claims he was vindicated in the case of the piss bugs (which we actually saw in action on one of his grandmother's trees), and he will be proved right this time. Quite a track record, eh?
According to the Partaay Quiz (that's not misspelled) L.H. took at D.D.'s behest on the Disney web site, Dijonay of Proud Family fame has labeled him a "Party Pooper." "That explains why I never get invited back; I should go before I leave home," he quipped. (We're all about scatalogical humor around here, since we're in BIL withdrawal.)
And in related news (wait for it...), D.D.'s German is not just bleeding into her English these days, it has taken it hostage and is only letting it out for cigarette breaks. She doesn't use the cute kid-English for bathroom functions anymore (one and two, remember?); instead she has to "make a big (or enormous, in her case) or a small." If you don't learn any other German idioms from this site, be sure to master this one.
The weather is driving me mad(-der; ha ha *twitch*). If the first day of Summer is June 21, why am I still wearing jeans and a long-sleeved shirt and a jacket? We had four clear, warm, sunny days about a week and a half ago, then a pretty powerful storm blew in with thunder and rain to cool things off, which we appreciated at the time. On the plus side, it also knocked a bunch of baby chestnuts off the trees, so that means less head-conking this fall. On the minus side, it seems to have also taken casualties among the apple trees down the street.
Since then we've had cool, wet, almost warm, windy, and cloudy, but no truly warm weather. Why oh why did we buy that oscillating fan? I feel like a fool for pushing our long-sleeved clothes and sweaters to the back of the closet, because who knows when we might need them again (like today)? In Texas, you put everything made of yarn away in May, and you get it back out in October. There is no overlap in the seasons. Here, you never know when a new one has started. L.H. found out that it is now safe to put out geraniums, i.e., no threat of frost. At the start of June! Ok, I should stop this line of complaining before I give myself a stroke.
Some of the Spring/Summer phenomena I have noticed around here are UGLY pumps and loafers, and thin, white cotton pants. If you ask me, the latter are a recipe for disaster. And the former—so ugly! I saw one woman in normal clothes and *gold glitter flats*. D.D. had a red pair as a 4-year-old that we called her Dorothy shoes (it's the Oz recursion!), but I had never thought of them as appropriate for 25-year-olds. The other shoes look like someone sent a dumpster from the 80s through a time portal that landed in the local department stores. Eek!
Another Summer pastime is mowing. I have seen the following techniques used here in our village (keep in mind that the sides of the valley are steep, and houses are built up along both sides): mowing with an industrial-strength, tractor-type mower; weed-whacker followed by raking; a scythe; and sheep. The last two amuse me to no end, especially since I can watch the mad scyther while I wait for the bus near D.D.'s school, and we can sometimes hear the sheep bleating from at home; they usually sound pretty pissed off, although I don't claim to be a sheep interpreter. I would be pissed off, too, if I were an ersatz lawn-mower, lazy owners.
In the past, L.H. has shared my distaste for all things feathery and indiscriminately excretory, but now he swears he's been hearing a bird outside our window who is singing the Munchkin-Land tune from The Wizard of Oz. I think he's getting some fumes up through the floor from the teenager in the apartment below us. I haven't heard the bird myself, but L.H. claims he was vindicated in the case of the piss bugs (which we actually saw in action on one of his grandmother's trees), and he will be proved right this time. Quite a track record, eh?
According to the Partaay Quiz (that's not misspelled) L.H. took at D.D.'s behest on the Disney web site, Dijonay of Proud Family fame has labeled him a "Party Pooper." "That explains why I never get invited back; I should go before I leave home," he quipped. (We're all about scatalogical humor around here, since we're in BIL withdrawal.)
And in related news (wait for it...), D.D.'s German is not just bleeding into her English these days, it has taken it hostage and is only letting it out for cigarette breaks. She doesn't use the cute kid-English for bathroom functions anymore (one and two, remember?); instead she has to "make a big (or enormous, in her case) or a small." If you don't learn any other German idioms from this site, be sure to master this one.
The weather is driving me mad(-der; ha ha *twitch*). If the first day of Summer is June 21, why am I still wearing jeans and a long-sleeved shirt and a jacket? We had four clear, warm, sunny days about a week and a half ago, then a pretty powerful storm blew in with thunder and rain to cool things off, which we appreciated at the time. On the plus side, it also knocked a bunch of baby chestnuts off the trees, so that means less head-conking this fall. On the minus side, it seems to have also taken casualties among the apple trees down the street.
Since then we've had cool, wet, almost warm, windy, and cloudy, but no truly warm weather. Why oh why did we buy that oscillating fan? I feel like a fool for pushing our long-sleeved clothes and sweaters to the back of the closet, because who knows when we might need them again (like today)? In Texas, you put everything made of yarn away in May, and you get it back out in October. There is no overlap in the seasons. Here, you never know when a new one has started. L.H. found out that it is now safe to put out geraniums, i.e., no threat of frost. At the start of June! Ok, I should stop this line of complaining before I give myself a stroke.
Some of the Spring/Summer phenomena I have noticed around here are UGLY pumps and loafers, and thin, white cotton pants. If you ask me, the latter are a recipe for disaster. And the former—so ugly! I saw one woman in normal clothes and *gold glitter flats*. D.D. had a red pair as a 4-year-old that we called her Dorothy shoes (it's the Oz recursion!), but I had never thought of them as appropriate for 25-year-olds. The other shoes look like someone sent a dumpster from the 80s through a time portal that landed in the local department stores. Eek!
Another Summer pastime is mowing. I have seen the following techniques used here in our village (keep in mind that the sides of the valley are steep, and houses are built up along both sides): mowing with an industrial-strength, tractor-type mower; weed-whacker followed by raking; a scythe; and sheep. The last two amuse me to no end, especially since I can watch the mad scyther while I wait for the bus near D.D.'s school, and we can sometimes hear the sheep bleating from at home; they usually sound pretty pissed off, although I don't claim to be a sheep interpreter. I would be pissed off, too, if I were an ersatz lawn-mower, lazy owners.
Sunday, June 05, 2005
True Confessions
I need to get something off my chest. You'll probably want to sit down for this. If you have a weak heart, be sure to pick up the phone and dial 9-1 before proceeding to the next line.
I de-haired my legs.
Yes, I realize this is a terrible shock, but it is true nonetheless. Note that I did not *shave* my legs, as that usually entails copious blood loss for me, and I'm trying to keep my anemia under control.
I finally caved and bought some depilatory cream because we had four very warm (high 80s) days and no AC. Hairless seemed a much cooler way to go. The stuff I bought didn't stink and promised to last twice as long as shaving (so that would be two days as opposed to one for me). I will never take a razor to my legs again.
As long as I'm coming clean, I ironed today, and not even my own clothes, and not even because someone needed it right then. I know! What is wrong with youth today? Gwamma sends D.D. beautiful dresses, and usually I am lazy enough to let her go around wrinkled, but today I needed to re-melt an iron-on back on, so I ironed the whole dress, plus one of L.H.'s particularly wrinkly shirts. I realize that this unprecedented act of housekeeping is a desecration to my mother's name, but I can still make her proud to be my mom with my closet full of half-finished craft projects.
My lovely MIL sent me two cute blouses, so with them and my freshly de-haired legs in mind, I decided to go shopping for a skirt. Normally, the only thing that would be worse is falling into an open sewer, but I braved *two* department stores in search of a prairie-style skirt. (At least, that's how I think of them—I don't know fashion.) By the second store, I couldn't even bring myself to go up to the second floor. It was a soul-withering experience, and I have decided to just be happy with my long denim skirt for now.
And, I was a black drag queen in a former life, but you probably already knew that.
I de-haired my legs.
Yes, I realize this is a terrible shock, but it is true nonetheless. Note that I did not *shave* my legs, as that usually entails copious blood loss for me, and I'm trying to keep my anemia under control.
I finally caved and bought some depilatory cream because we had four very warm (high 80s) days and no AC. Hairless seemed a much cooler way to go. The stuff I bought didn't stink and promised to last twice as long as shaving (so that would be two days as opposed to one for me). I will never take a razor to my legs again.
As long as I'm coming clean, I ironed today, and not even my own clothes, and not even because someone needed it right then. I know! What is wrong with youth today? Gwamma sends D.D. beautiful dresses, and usually I am lazy enough to let her go around wrinkled, but today I needed to re-melt an iron-on back on, so I ironed the whole dress, plus one of L.H.'s particularly wrinkly shirts. I realize that this unprecedented act of housekeeping is a desecration to my mother's name, but I can still make her proud to be my mom with my closet full of half-finished craft projects.
My lovely MIL sent me two cute blouses, so with them and my freshly de-haired legs in mind, I decided to go shopping for a skirt. Normally, the only thing that would be worse is falling into an open sewer, but I braved *two* department stores in search of a prairie-style skirt. (At least, that's how I think of them—I don't know fashion.) By the second store, I couldn't even bring myself to go up to the second floor. It was a soul-withering experience, and I have decided to just be happy with my long denim skirt for now.
And, I was a black drag queen in a former life, but you probably already knew that.
Saturday, June 04, 2005
Belated Birthday
D.D. had her birthday a couple of weeks ago, but it was in the middle of her school break, and we managed to fart around and not arrange anything then. She today we took her and 4 of her friends to the local amusement park. It's about like Neff's in Angelo (is that place still open?). Anyhow, it's called the Fairy Tale Paradise, and there are lots of kid-friendly rides and playgrounds. D.D. and friends rode on the back of a giant plastic witch around a track, ditto a pony, rode around the park on the train, bounced on the giant moonwalk thingy, and drove non-bumper cars. D.D. almost caused a pile-up as soon as she got in her car, and it took her a couple of tries to get the hang of it. As she careened around, trying to make the car go where she wanted it to, she called out, "I don't have a driver's license!" How irresponsible of us to let her drive without one!
Interspersed among the rides are these creepy animatronic scenes from fairy tales the Brothers Grimm collected back in the day; these things make the Pirates of the Caribbean and It's A Small World at Disney World look cuddly and cute. For your viewing amusement, I'm posting my photos of what I like to call the Animatronic Nightmare. Enjoy.
Interspersed among the rides are these creepy animatronic scenes from fairy tales the Brothers Grimm collected back in the day; these things make the Pirates of the Caribbean and It's A Small World at Disney World look cuddly and cute. For your viewing amusement, I'm posting my photos of what I like to call the Animatronic Nightmare. Enjoy.
The Joys? of Parenting
The crack about the Nixon parenting method was made just before Deep Throat came forward. Talk about a weird coincidence.
Except that the parenting seems not to be working. D.D. punched a boy in the nose at after-school care and made it bleed. There was much eye-closing and sighing around here after she finally confessed. The boy had been pulling her dress up and wouldn't stop, and she claimed she couldn't get the teacher's attention, and finally, her "mind was out of control", and she punched him. Her friends claim he deserves it, because he's punched them, too, but we don't want our daughter to use violence to counter violence. Of course, now that he knows she might *make him bleed*, he might not try anything with her again.
She gave herself a week's restriction from tv before we could even come up with a punishment, so we went with that. Then she wrote a heartfelt letter to Barbie on her web site and said that the one thing she would like to change about herself is her fury. We knew she was on the Barbie site, but our interest was piqued when she asked how to spell "school" and "fury", so I went and had a look at what she was writing. We're thinking that the pre-programmed Barbie response will probably not be appropriate to the Daughter's soul-baring letter.
Except that the parenting seems not to be working. D.D. punched a boy in the nose at after-school care and made it bleed. There was much eye-closing and sighing around here after she finally confessed. The boy had been pulling her dress up and wouldn't stop, and she claimed she couldn't get the teacher's attention, and finally, her "mind was out of control", and she punched him. Her friends claim he deserves it, because he's punched them, too, but we don't want our daughter to use violence to counter violence. Of course, now that he knows she might *make him bleed*, he might not try anything with her again.
She gave herself a week's restriction from tv before we could even come up with a punishment, so we went with that. Then she wrote a heartfelt letter to Barbie on her web site and said that the one thing she would like to change about herself is her fury. We knew she was on the Barbie site, but our interest was piqued when she asked how to spell "school" and "fury", so I went and had a look at what she was writing. We're thinking that the pre-programmed Barbie response will probably not be appropriate to the Daughter's soul-baring letter.
She Comes By It Naturally
D.D. is a bit of a geek (see Yoda picture below) because her dad and I are geeks. We were listening to a radio interview with a man who is part of a group of people who are trying to break a record by reading as many places of pi as possible in 30 hours. This led L.H. and I to rack our brains trying to remember what we knew about pi: I had the denominator—7—and he had the numerator—22. I only remembered 3.1.4, but when he tried to outgeek me (incorrectly, I might add smugly), I was able to come up with 3.1416. Dr. Math at Drexel gives a short version of 3.14159265358979323846, so mine was rounded up. Considering I haven't taken math of any sort since 1995-ish, and no geometry-related math since 1992, I felt less stupid than I have of late.
Tuesday, May 31, 2005
Sunday, May 29, 2005
All D.D., All This Time
I Think I'm Turning Japanese (sing it if you know it). D.D. has gotten into the habit of asking for a drink out of the "waddle boddle." Now I can't say it right. I even caught myself writing "watel" the other day. And it's starting to bleed over into other words. Sometimes I don't even sound like I'm speaking English when I get on a roll.
D.D. is very flexible; she's inherited my grandmother's "loose hips." That means I know 2 people who can cross their legs at the knee, then tuck the top foot behind the ankle of the bottom leg. I certainly can't do it. She's been entertaining us recently by bending and crossing her legs into the shapes of different numbers. She can do 4, 0, and 8, and we expect her to start on letters any time now.
I think D.D. is veering into "whoa, take it easy, kid" territory. I put her in the tub yesterday afternoon, and she asked me to pull the stool over by the tub. On it were her clean shirt, a book of Far Side comic strips, and a guide to the first few seasons of the Simpsons (thanks, JKL!—pre-JEKL). She couldn't believe I wouldn't let her *read in the tub*--"I'll dry my hands off first!" So she read the Far Side book as part of her bedtime reading ritual instead.
D.D. is very flexible; she's inherited my grandmother's "loose hips." That means I know 2 people who can cross their legs at the knee, then tuck the top foot behind the ankle of the bottom leg. I certainly can't do it. She's been entertaining us recently by bending and crossing her legs into the shapes of different numbers. She can do 4, 0, and 8, and we expect her to start on letters any time now.
I think D.D. is veering into "whoa, take it easy, kid" territory. I put her in the tub yesterday afternoon, and she asked me to pull the stool over by the tub. On it were her clean shirt, a book of Far Side comic strips, and a guide to the first few seasons of the Simpsons (thanks, JKL!—pre-JEKL). She couldn't believe I wouldn't let her *read in the tub*--"I'll dry my hands off first!" So she read the Far Side book as part of her bedtime reading ritual instead.
Saturday, May 28, 2005
And in other non-news...
The premenstrual puff receded, then L.H., who was in charge of making the week's menu, fed me pea soup one night and pinto beans the next. I think he's aiming for a heart attack brought on by severe gastric distress. Death by indigestion—the indignity.
In my English class, the tables are arranged in a big square. I was watching this girl on the opposite side of the square, and on behalf of all other females, I think her womanhood should be revoked. She was flirting heavily with the guy next to her, which—normally—I'd be all, "Go for it, girl!" But in this case, I'd have to say, "What in the hell is wrong with your gaydar?" I mean, the only person more obviously gay than this guy would be Liberace. I'm expecting him to show up in sequins and/or feathers any time now.
There's been this terrible, terrible "Making of a Pop Group Diary" show on the kids' channel that D.D. watches, and the horrific-ness of the whole thing is sickening. They are obviously patterned on a real, live, successful pop group—Ch!pz (I can't believe I just typed that)—in that they have 2 girls and 2 boys, ranging in age from 18 to 22, but they just aren't believable as a group of friends who love to sing and dance together. Their first song is Dubbi Dam Dam (which actually sounds like doobie dum dum—that's all of the words for 2-1/2 minutes of music), and the animated aliens in the video are more talented performers than these guys.
On further investigation on the channel's web site, there was a contest, and the 4 were put together to give it a go. I'm waiting for the "Making of the Diary Show" show, where it's revealed that one of the girls is in rehab, the other is making porn movies, and the two guys are now dating and doing drag shows in Amsterdam.
D.D. is always a source of amusement for us. We typically visit 2 grocery stores on Saturdays, one that has cheap staples, and the other for everything else. At the cheap store, she wanted her own deodorant, so she wouldn't use mine up; and also, ladies use it. That was news to me, that she was using mine, but I said sure, why not. So she picked out a pink, rose-scented roll-on. She got mad at me because I wouldn't let her carry it into the second store, but no matter, she had already put some on. Before we even crossed the parking lot, she offered to let us sniff her armpits. No thanks, honey. In the store, I caught her—repeatedly—pulling her short sleeve up to her nose for a sniff, then saying, "Mmmm." She was quite pleased with her new 59-cent deodorant.
In my English class, the tables are arranged in a big square. I was watching this girl on the opposite side of the square, and on behalf of all other females, I think her womanhood should be revoked. She was flirting heavily with the guy next to her, which—normally—I'd be all, "Go for it, girl!" But in this case, I'd have to say, "What in the hell is wrong with your gaydar?" I mean, the only person more obviously gay than this guy would be Liberace. I'm expecting him to show up in sequins and/or feathers any time now.
There's been this terrible, terrible "Making of a Pop Group Diary" show on the kids' channel that D.D. watches, and the horrific-ness of the whole thing is sickening. They are obviously patterned on a real, live, successful pop group—Ch!pz (I can't believe I just typed that)—in that they have 2 girls and 2 boys, ranging in age from 18 to 22, but they just aren't believable as a group of friends who love to sing and dance together. Their first song is Dubbi Dam Dam (which actually sounds like doobie dum dum—that's all of the words for 2-1/2 minutes of music), and the animated aliens in the video are more talented performers than these guys.
On further investigation on the channel's web site, there was a contest, and the 4 were put together to give it a go. I'm waiting for the "Making of the Diary Show" show, where it's revealed that one of the girls is in rehab, the other is making porn movies, and the two guys are now dating and doing drag shows in Amsterdam.
D.D. is always a source of amusement for us. We typically visit 2 grocery stores on Saturdays, one that has cheap staples, and the other for everything else. At the cheap store, she wanted her own deodorant, so she wouldn't use mine up; and also, ladies use it. That was news to me, that she was using mine, but I said sure, why not. So she picked out a pink, rose-scented roll-on. She got mad at me because I wouldn't let her carry it into the second store, but no matter, she had already put some on. Before we even crossed the parking lot, she offered to let us sniff her armpits. No thanks, honey. In the store, I caught her—repeatedly—pulling her short sleeve up to her nose for a sniff, then saying, "Mmmm." She was quite pleased with her new 59-cent deodorant.
Paris—Day 4 (Finally!)
I know—it's about time I wrapped this up, eh? So Day 4 was actually not in Paris, but about 30 minutes north at a theme park. D.D. was good and patient at the grown-up, touristy places for 2 days, so we thought she deserved a little fun.
You know how Disneyland—which we did *not* go to—is based on the Disney characters? Well, Parc Asterix is based on a series of comic books about Asterix the Gaul, set in France (Gaul, actually) during the Roman Empire, in 50 B.C. The books are fairly popular here in Europe and have been translated into many languages. So 15 or 20 years ago, they opened an amusement park, and we all enjoyed ourselves, even though everything was in French.
There were lots of rides, including 2 big roller coasters. D.D. is such a brave child and wanted to ride both, until we rode the first one. I would say it compares with the Judge Roy Scream (if they still have it) at Six Flags in Arlington, but without so many tall drops. D.D. shrieked like she was in mortal danger, but when she got off she declared she could scream even louder, but would give the roller coaster with the loops a miss. It didn't help that we had ridden the Spider en route and were all pretty queasy.
Later, D.D. and L.H. left me on the ground while they rode the carousel of hanging chairs that uses centripetal force to swing them out. I was taking zoom photos, and D.D. didn't scream once. This from my daughter who claims to be afraid of heights and cowers on escalators.
We were able to go on a couple of water rides, one right at the beginning, so of course I had a wet ass and L.H. had a wet lap right off. "Hi! Nice to meet you! We're the Incontinent Family!"
D.D. wanted to check out one of the theatrical events, which was funny if unintelligible to us. Caesar wore a blond, rubber Elvis wig and had a band of incompetent legionnaires for slapstick comedy routines. Later, the soldiers performed an interesting, Cirque du Soleil-esque aerial gymnastics-on-a-bungee-cord-dance thing, which would have been quite beautiful if they weren't wearing satin mix-n-match costumes in fuchsia, purple, and fluorescent green and yellow. And satin wrestling masks with plumage on top. But otherwise not too gay. (We neglected to take photos of the spectacle.)
Paris might be the City of Love, but Parc Asterix is the amusement park of *small children*, so I didn't expect to see so many people mackin' on the rides and benches.
There was way more to do and see than we had time for, but we rode some rides, at some hot dogs and ice cream, and got to check out Asterix's world, so all in all it was a success.
On the drive back to Germany, we stopped in Reims to see the Cathedral. It's every bit as beautiful as the Notre Dame in Paris, but way less crowded (about 20 people at 5 pm on Sunday). Then we were all ready to be home. When we finally crossed the border, L.H. said he was ready to get out and kiss the ground.
I have to admit that after struggling to make ourselves understood in France, I vowed to double my efforts in mastering German, 1. because I already have a good start, and 2. because I was afraid I might still be speaking tourist-ese.
***
Here are a few notes I jotted while traveling, which may or may not be of interest to anyone but me:
Paris was fairly expensive. Our hotel was surprisingly reasonable, but ice cream and cold drinks were more expensive at the stands at the tourist sites than at the amusement park. Could you imagine paying more for a coke at the Alamo than at Fiesta Texas?!
Still in comparison mode, a Happy Meal was 4 euros in Paris, but 3.25 at home.
Seeing Scooby Doo in French was a mind-altering experience.
On the drive home, there was a stretch where the stench of onions permeated the car, so I assumed we were driving past an onion farm. But then a couple of days later I smelled onions on the bus. At first I wondered if I was having olfactory hallucinations brought on by brain trauma from the roller coaster. Then I wondered if I was in line for sainthood—you know, incorruptible (i.e., when the saintly person died, his or her body didn't decay, and also gave off the scent of flowers). It occurred to me that smelling like onions might not make me too popular with the other saints. But then I finally noticed that the girl behind me was eating a pita. Damn reality.
You know how Disneyland—which we did *not* go to—is based on the Disney characters? Well, Parc Asterix is based on a series of comic books about Asterix the Gaul, set in France (Gaul, actually) during the Roman Empire, in 50 B.C. The books are fairly popular here in Europe and have been translated into many languages. So 15 or 20 years ago, they opened an amusement park, and we all enjoyed ourselves, even though everything was in French.
There were lots of rides, including 2 big roller coasters. D.D. is such a brave child and wanted to ride both, until we rode the first one. I would say it compares with the Judge Roy Scream (if they still have it) at Six Flags in Arlington, but without so many tall drops. D.D. shrieked like she was in mortal danger, but when she got off she declared she could scream even louder, but would give the roller coaster with the loops a miss. It didn't help that we had ridden the Spider en route and were all pretty queasy.
Later, D.D. and L.H. left me on the ground while they rode the carousel of hanging chairs that uses centripetal force to swing them out. I was taking zoom photos, and D.D. didn't scream once. This from my daughter who claims to be afraid of heights and cowers on escalators.
We were able to go on a couple of water rides, one right at the beginning, so of course I had a wet ass and L.H. had a wet lap right off. "Hi! Nice to meet you! We're the Incontinent Family!"
D.D. wanted to check out one of the theatrical events, which was funny if unintelligible to us. Caesar wore a blond, rubber Elvis wig and had a band of incompetent legionnaires for slapstick comedy routines. Later, the soldiers performed an interesting, Cirque du Soleil-esque aerial gymnastics-on-a-bungee-cord-dance thing, which would have been quite beautiful if they weren't wearing satin mix-n-match costumes in fuchsia, purple, and fluorescent green and yellow. And satin wrestling masks with plumage on top. But otherwise not too gay. (We neglected to take photos of the spectacle.)
Paris might be the City of Love, but Parc Asterix is the amusement park of *small children*, so I didn't expect to see so many people mackin' on the rides and benches.
There was way more to do and see than we had time for, but we rode some rides, at some hot dogs and ice cream, and got to check out Asterix's world, so all in all it was a success.
On the drive back to Germany, we stopped in Reims to see the Cathedral. It's every bit as beautiful as the Notre Dame in Paris, but way less crowded (about 20 people at 5 pm on Sunday). Then we were all ready to be home. When we finally crossed the border, L.H. said he was ready to get out and kiss the ground.
I have to admit that after struggling to make ourselves understood in France, I vowed to double my efforts in mastering German, 1. because I already have a good start, and 2. because I was afraid I might still be speaking tourist-ese.
***
Here are a few notes I jotted while traveling, which may or may not be of interest to anyone but me:
Paris was fairly expensive. Our hotel was surprisingly reasonable, but ice cream and cold drinks were more expensive at the stands at the tourist sites than at the amusement park. Could you imagine paying more for a coke at the Alamo than at Fiesta Texas?!
Still in comparison mode, a Happy Meal was 4 euros in Paris, but 3.25 at home.
Seeing Scooby Doo in French was a mind-altering experience.
On the drive home, there was a stretch where the stench of onions permeated the car, so I assumed we were driving past an onion farm. But then a couple of days later I smelled onions on the bus. At first I wondered if I was having olfactory hallucinations brought on by brain trauma from the roller coaster. Then I wondered if I was in line for sainthood—you know, incorruptible (i.e., when the saintly person died, his or her body didn't decay, and also gave off the scent of flowers). It occurred to me that smelling like onions might not make me too popular with the other saints. But then I finally noticed that the girl behind me was eating a pita. Damn reality.
Friday, May 27, 2005
Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow?
--when I've been carted off by the guys in the white coats? Considering how yucky I felt this last week, I was downright chipper today. (L.H. kept calling me chipper this evening, but I'm pretty sure he meant "insane.") I bought myself some cute little Chinese Mary Janes, and did I mention how cute they are? And only 9 euros!
I celebrated by devouring a 2-scoop ice cream—peach and melon, yum!—that was probably chock full of artificial flavors, and I didn't have to listen to L.H. pronounce my doom via allergic headache or additive poisoning while I ate it. (I have now been instructed to get only plain vanilla or chocolate ice cream for the family, as they are less likely to contain artificial flavors. This is the man who has been known to complain about the lack of sprinkles, chunks, and cookies in the ice cream I buy. Which we all know are made using only organic ingredients by happy little grandmas in the dairy.)
See what I mean? Mental hospital—here I come!
Last week was really rough for me. My brain was the focal point of a head-on collision between menstrual hormones and an overwhelming amount of homework, and I was, well, overwhelmed. But between my regular day off on Wednesday, a state holiday on Thursday, and dropping one of my (not required) classes on Monday, I managed to come up with a sizeable chunk of time in which to get on top of the pile of work and make a bit of a dent in it.
On Wednesday I took D.D. to the playground after we returned our library books, but she didn't know the only other kid there, so she betook herself to her favorite climbing tree. The other kid, a little boy, was there alone; he looked about 5 years old. He kept going in and out of the little wooden play fort; he'd made a "door" for it by leaning a stick across the opening, and each time he crossed, he'd say something I couldn't catch and open and close the "door." After about 10 minutes of that, he took the stick, held it against his hip, then "unsheathed" it and beat the hell out of an unsuspecting bush, repeatedly, until he broke a large-ish branch off. That's about the time when his dad came for him. Drunky hair guy. I should have guessed.
On Thursday, we all went to the botanical gardens. It was a beautiful day for strolling outside, but we made sure to take a turn through the greenhouses. D.D. is now interested in getting her very own carnivorous plant, and L.H. got a tip on where we can buy one. D.D. was mostly interested in the different ponds and streams around the grounds, and she definitely likes the unpaved paths the best. She kept leading the way, saying, "We like the wild way." That would be "we=me and Dad." We discovered the reason why Germans make frogs say, "quak", which sounds like "kvak." Because they actually sound like that. They definitely do not sound like Texas frogs. At one point, we heard what we thought was a frog croaking a lot, but it might have been a duck attacked with a stick.
Afterwards, L.H. taught D.D. how to play frisbee. She picked it up really fast, and we are planning on making her play professionally to pay for our retirement. She doesn't know yet, though, so shhh. (She's reading over my shoulder as I type. Hee! Hee!) Actually, it was somewhat humiliating to see her snatch the frisbee out of the air, because I still can't do it myself. I'm the wiener who ducks when things fly at her, but that might be conditioning from when I got hit in the eye with a softball as a kid. And I guess in general it's a good reflex to have.
Today I noticed a lot of people walking around sporting sunburns. I managed to get sunscreen on our faces before we went out on Thursday, but I noticed my arms are a little pink, in that scary, blotchy way. D.D. tans easily, like her dad, damn them, but she is getting a few little cute freckles on her face. Not as many as me or her aunt, LilSis, thank the 7 Dwarfs.
In village news, the cosmetics boutique is probably driving away customers with their new window display. Aside from the hideous fake roses adorning the counter, there is a window painting? cling? that on close inspection turns out to also be red roses, but from afar appears to be fresh blood. Ick.
Today D.D. and L.H. went to the pool. I got home with a grocery bag full of goodies that I was looking forward to sharing, and there was a note that they had gone swimming because it was too hot. It was only about 85. Pu-lease. Of course, you know me. I'll be asking for a sweater when I get to hell. D.D. did fantastic in the water, her dad reported. She is taking swimming at school, but has been on vacation for the last 2 weeks, but it seems she has not forgotten her lessons. Good girl!
Another good girl is Mini-Nee. She got all A's for the year, is still in Gifted and Talented, and whipped the TAKS or whatever the latest acronym is like it was a red-headed stepchild. Go, Mini-Nee!
I celebrated by devouring a 2-scoop ice cream—peach and melon, yum!—that was probably chock full of artificial flavors, and I didn't have to listen to L.H. pronounce my doom via allergic headache or additive poisoning while I ate it. (I have now been instructed to get only plain vanilla or chocolate ice cream for the family, as they are less likely to contain artificial flavors. This is the man who has been known to complain about the lack of sprinkles, chunks, and cookies in the ice cream I buy. Which we all know are made using only organic ingredients by happy little grandmas in the dairy.)
See what I mean? Mental hospital—here I come!
Last week was really rough for me. My brain was the focal point of a head-on collision between menstrual hormones and an overwhelming amount of homework, and I was, well, overwhelmed. But between my regular day off on Wednesday, a state holiday on Thursday, and dropping one of my (not required) classes on Monday, I managed to come up with a sizeable chunk of time in which to get on top of the pile of work and make a bit of a dent in it.
On Wednesday I took D.D. to the playground after we returned our library books, but she didn't know the only other kid there, so she betook herself to her favorite climbing tree. The other kid, a little boy, was there alone; he looked about 5 years old. He kept going in and out of the little wooden play fort; he'd made a "door" for it by leaning a stick across the opening, and each time he crossed, he'd say something I couldn't catch and open and close the "door." After about 10 minutes of that, he took the stick, held it against his hip, then "unsheathed" it and beat the hell out of an unsuspecting bush, repeatedly, until he broke a large-ish branch off. That's about the time when his dad came for him. Drunky hair guy. I should have guessed.
On Thursday, we all went to the botanical gardens. It was a beautiful day for strolling outside, but we made sure to take a turn through the greenhouses. D.D. is now interested in getting her very own carnivorous plant, and L.H. got a tip on where we can buy one. D.D. was mostly interested in the different ponds and streams around the grounds, and she definitely likes the unpaved paths the best. She kept leading the way, saying, "We like the wild way." That would be "we=me and Dad." We discovered the reason why Germans make frogs say, "quak", which sounds like "kvak." Because they actually sound like that. They definitely do not sound like Texas frogs. At one point, we heard what we thought was a frog croaking a lot, but it might have been a duck attacked with a stick.
Afterwards, L.H. taught D.D. how to play frisbee. She picked it up really fast, and we are planning on making her play professionally to pay for our retirement. She doesn't know yet, though, so shhh. (She's reading over my shoulder as I type. Hee! Hee!) Actually, it was somewhat humiliating to see her snatch the frisbee out of the air, because I still can't do it myself. I'm the wiener who ducks when things fly at her, but that might be conditioning from when I got hit in the eye with a softball as a kid. And I guess in general it's a good reflex to have.
Today I noticed a lot of people walking around sporting sunburns. I managed to get sunscreen on our faces before we went out on Thursday, but I noticed my arms are a little pink, in that scary, blotchy way. D.D. tans easily, like her dad, damn them, but she is getting a few little cute freckles on her face. Not as many as me or her aunt, LilSis, thank the 7 Dwarfs.
In village news, the cosmetics boutique is probably driving away customers with their new window display. Aside from the hideous fake roses adorning the counter, there is a window painting? cling? that on close inspection turns out to also be red roses, but from afar appears to be fresh blood. Ick.
Today D.D. and L.H. went to the pool. I got home with a grocery bag full of goodies that I was looking forward to sharing, and there was a note that they had gone swimming because it was too hot. It was only about 85. Pu-lease. Of course, you know me. I'll be asking for a sweater when I get to hell. D.D. did fantastic in the water, her dad reported. She is taking swimming at school, but has been on vacation for the last 2 weeks, but it seems she has not forgotten her lessons. Good girl!
Another good girl is Mini-Nee. She got all A's for the year, is still in Gifted and Talented, and whipped the TAKS or whatever the latest acronym is like it was a red-headed stepchild. Go, Mini-Nee!
Wednesday, May 25, 2005
Y'Know--Stuff
I have been cruelly duped. I bought a bag of mixed Haribo gummy candies, just because it included licorice. I bit into a beautiful black and white one, and it was licorice—laced with coconut. Noooooo! It was like delicious licorice with a side of ass.(1) And *every single black one* had a layer of white. L.H. didn't want to eat them because of the licorice, and I didn't want to eat them because of the coconut, so they are still sitting on the kitchen counter, hardening.
Yesterday I looked less like I was retaining water and more like I was retaining a watermelon. I seem to have deflated a bit this morning, but I really hate the start-of-period puff. It makes me even grouchier than normal to wear my new jeans that are usually quite roomy and to get squeezed like a cocktail waitress in a construction workers' convention.
The weather has gone from cold and wet to warm and wet, to warm and humid, back to cold and wet, and finally to clear, warm, and sunny. No one is more ready for it to be summer than I. Our landlord is supposed to start converting our terrace into a glassed-in sun-room in three weeks, so even in the winter we'll be able to enjoy whatever sunlight comes our way.
We are so un-together that we still haven't organized a bday party for D.D. (actual birthday: May 22). It doesn't help that she changes her mind every 5 minutes about what she wants. At some point she has wanted a movie party, a fairy party, a Harry Potter party, a swim party, and a rock-climbing party. We may end up pushing it back yet one more weekend, since it might be difficult to organize a party and round up guests in 3 days.
On her bday, we took her to see the new Star Wars, and we all liked it. It was kind of strange to take her to a film that children under 12 are required to be accompanied to, but she had to sit on a booster seat to be able to see the screen. I've heard a lot of complaints online about the stiff dialog (and I've seen all the rest of the films in English and can attest to the stiff dialog in them), but it was not so noticeable in German. Also, it was so hard to visually follow what was actually going on half the time with the heavily laden special effects that the dialog was a welcome relief from all the spaceships and explosions and battle scenes. That said, we'll probably get it on DVD when it comes out. We don't have a DVD player, but we do have a computer particularly designed for multi-media, so we just use it as a tv when we want to play one of our tiny collection of DVDs.
(1) One of L.H.'s former grad school colleagues—coincidentally a German—says licorice tastes like ass, but what does he know.
Yesterday I looked less like I was retaining water and more like I was retaining a watermelon. I seem to have deflated a bit this morning, but I really hate the start-of-period puff. It makes me even grouchier than normal to wear my new jeans that are usually quite roomy and to get squeezed like a cocktail waitress in a construction workers' convention.
The weather has gone from cold and wet to warm and wet, to warm and humid, back to cold and wet, and finally to clear, warm, and sunny. No one is more ready for it to be summer than I. Our landlord is supposed to start converting our terrace into a glassed-in sun-room in three weeks, so even in the winter we'll be able to enjoy whatever sunlight comes our way.
We are so un-together that we still haven't organized a bday party for D.D. (actual birthday: May 22). It doesn't help that she changes her mind every 5 minutes about what she wants. At some point she has wanted a movie party, a fairy party, a Harry Potter party, a swim party, and a rock-climbing party. We may end up pushing it back yet one more weekend, since it might be difficult to organize a party and round up guests in 3 days.
On her bday, we took her to see the new Star Wars, and we all liked it. It was kind of strange to take her to a film that children under 12 are required to be accompanied to, but she had to sit on a booster seat to be able to see the screen. I've heard a lot of complaints online about the stiff dialog (and I've seen all the rest of the films in English and can attest to the stiff dialog in them), but it was not so noticeable in German. Also, it was so hard to visually follow what was actually going on half the time with the heavily laden special effects that the dialog was a welcome relief from all the spaceships and explosions and battle scenes. That said, we'll probably get it on DVD when it comes out. We don't have a DVD player, but we do have a computer particularly designed for multi-media, so we just use it as a tv when we want to play one of our tiny collection of DVDs.
(1) One of L.H.'s former grad school colleagues—coincidentally a German—says licorice tastes like ass, but what does he know.
Saturday, May 21, 2005
The Throw-Away Post (sort of)
Today I am puffy and surly/manic and unfunny, but here are a couple of things that don't require any additional humor from me (or any humor at all, for that matter).
As soon as I walked in the door on Thursday, D.D. accosted me: the most disgusting thing in the world had just happened. Thinking I was going to be in charge of a cat-barf mess, she went on to inform me that a snail had just climbed onto her new sandal and onto her foot (!) when she was playing in the meadow across the street. So she had to wash the new sandal, and would probably never wear it again. I know that the snails around here are large and relatively fast, but I couldn't quite make out how she was still long enough for one to crawl onto her foot. The best I can tell, she was walking through tall-ish grass and kicked up a slug (not a snail), which then befouled her foot. The trauma!
While walking past a large (5-story) department store early one morning, I heard this weird whistling sound, interspersed with metal clinking. It was the metal lines that were holding the sides of some banner-things that hung down the sides of the building. The banners were whistling, and the metal lines were clinking. It gave me gooseflesh, since it gave me a mental picture of one of the lines snapping and whipping through the air to maim passersby. I try not to walk so close to that building now. *shudder*
As soon as I walked in the door on Thursday, D.D. accosted me: the most disgusting thing in the world had just happened. Thinking I was going to be in charge of a cat-barf mess, she went on to inform me that a snail had just climbed onto her new sandal and onto her foot (!) when she was playing in the meadow across the street. So she had to wash the new sandal, and would probably never wear it again. I know that the snails around here are large and relatively fast, but I couldn't quite make out how she was still long enough for one to crawl onto her foot. The best I can tell, she was walking through tall-ish grass and kicked up a slug (not a snail), which then befouled her foot. The trauma!
While walking past a large (5-story) department store early one morning, I heard this weird whistling sound, interspersed with metal clinking. It was the metal lines that were holding the sides of some banner-things that hung down the sides of the building. The banners were whistling, and the metal lines were clinking. It gave me gooseflesh, since it gave me a mental picture of one of the lines snapping and whipping through the air to maim passersby. I try not to walk so close to that building now. *shudder*
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