Where's my mohawk?

You know how strict teetotalers are supposed to basically be repressed alcoholics? Well, I think uptight people like myself are probably repressed anarchists. I say this because I frequently find myself stamping down anti-social and violent urges, like head-butting the jackass sitting back-to-back with me on the bus, or kicking saggy-panted teens into the street (after yanking said pants down), or stabbing annoying classmates in the head with my pen. If I actually acted on any of these urges, I would be so punk rock. *heh heh*

Racy!

I was riding the bus last week, and I had noticed this, um, interesting looking couple at the bus stop. Apparently they were sitting in the seat right behind me, because I suddenly heard the woman moaning, "Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh!" Four times "Oh!", that's right. The girl I was sharing the seat with and I both whipped our heads around (so we were turning toward each other), but then turned right back to face the front. It was so hilarious, because usually the Germans on the bus are totally unflappable. I guess they make a special exception for orgasmic old ladies on the bus. hee hee!

And in that vein...
Hannah always asks us if it is ok if she plays with her Barbies. Why wouldn't it be? Then she goes in her room and closes the door and *closes all the blinds*. John almost slayed me when he said she'll go blind if she doesn't quit playing with the Barbies so much. Please don't ever show her this post.

Dance, Dance, Dance

Am I a mean mother (1) for making Hannah go to ballet? If she had her druthers, she’d lie on the couch watching tv every day after school. John and I have talked about it, and we agree she needs some kind of extra-curricular activity.

Today she was quite the Chatty Cathy after school, but as soon as we got home, she made a pitifully transparent attempt at crying and claiming she had a headache. While I was making my world-famous headache cure (hot cocoa), she was using the kitchen counter as a barre to do a jump they have been practicing in ballet class. Doesn’t like ballet, my butt. She was as happy as a clam once she got to class. Sheesh.

Her teacher wants to split up the class because it is getting too large and unwieldy (14 kids barely fit in the room, much less at the barre), so Hannah will probably move into the group that meets an hour later. That means she’ll have an extra hour after school on Wednesdays to be a slug before we have to leave for class, but that also means I’ll have to drive in the dark. Oh, well, the days are starting to get longer again, so it won’t be dark forever.

(1) I’m already a mean mutha’. I was just wondering about the other kind.

Apparently I'm much more vain than many of you might have guessed, because I am obsessing (again) over the encroaching white in my hair, which is not so much creeping as making a kamikaze attack. I recently replaced my long-dead hair clip thingie, and the contrast between the end of my hair (which is almost waist-length since I'm too lazy/cheap to get it cut) and the top became suddenly, horrifyingly obvious, as captured here for your viewing enjoyment and sympathy.
 

Bleebity, Blah, Bloo

I realized that it was probably time to put something up here or I’d lose all 3 of my readers. Unfortunately, not a lot has been going on that is particularly bloggable.

Since xmas, we’ve had snow, rain, a smidge more snow, and a hard freeze, so now there’s half-an-inch of snow frozen on to everything. That sure beats the 6 inches we had to scrape off the car over the holidays just to go to the store. And we haven’t gotten anything like the amount they had further south.

I finally broke out my sexy, blue pajamas and have had to endure ridicule from my loving family, but at least I’m warm.

I am on the brink of conquest in what shall evermore be known as “The Battle of the Plantar Warts.” Poor Hannah had one on each foot, but I guess we weren’t treating them aggressively enough, because one of them added 3 offspring, so after New Year’s I really got after them, applying salicylic acid 3-4 times a day and scraping off the dead skin with a cuticle trimmer at least once a day. It was gross but satisfying. I’m still treating 2 small spots that look like they still have the tell-tale black bits in them, but the other 2 warts are completely gone, all without the dreaded doctor’s visit. (I don’t know what Hannah had against the doctor; he is just the sweetest, gentlest man.)

Hannah’s teacher has made notes on her math homework more than once that she needs to practice her mental reckoning, but she is horribly resistant to the idea. I tried to get her to do some word problems on the way home from school on Friday (“if there are 7 cages at the zoo, and 6 animals in each cage...”), but she flat out refused to learn anything (her formulation). And she doesn’t even have the excuse that the boy behind her and his non-stop stream of dirty jokes are more interesting than multiplication (that was my problem in the third grade).

In the next 8 days, I have 1 final exam and 1 presentation, so I will in all likeliness be absent again for a while. See you on the flip side!

A Little John, A Little Nee

I can't believe Hannah likes home video shows so much. For the most part, I find myself cringing and empathizing with the poor people getting maimed and embarrassed. She just laughs. Of course, her dad's favorite scene in My Cousin Vinny is when the cocky defense lawyer addresses the court with a bad stutter, which is when I get up and go to the bathroom or get a drink of water; it's terrible.

So tonight she is laughing at the misfortunes of others, recorded for posterity on video, and last night she was crying almost hysterically at the calf-roping event while we were watching some rodeo documentary on tv. She was afraid the calves might strangle themselves (to death!) on the ropes. She also won't watch nature shows; too many animals eating other animals. But show a man getting racked or a woman sitting on a chair that breaks under her, and Hannah eats it up. *sigh* Fortunately, she only sees this show once in a blue moon.

Heads up!

I’m fiddling around with the content in the frame to the right, including a link to my Flickr account, so check it out once in a while for new stuff.

I started this as a completely anonymous blog, using nicknames and pseudonyms for my loved ones, but I feel now that I can loosen up a bit. (1) Not completely, understand, as my husband is a bit nervous about us being foreigners, etc. Anyhow, I’d like to introduce my Darling Daughter, Hannah, and my Lovely Husband, John. Of course, with those names, they are still fairly anonymous. I’m still Nee; that’s one of my family nicknames, bestowed by a nephew ages ago.

(1) Commenters can still be as pseudonymous as they choose, but it’s not a requirement, and hopefully dropping the initials will make it easier for people to comment without have to keep a cheat sheet of who’s who.

I’ve only been out of the house to run a few errands since New Year’s, so I haven’t actually observed anything new that I can comment on here. (2) Back to my cozy hole under a rock for a few more days until school starts back and I can stare at my fellow students.

(2) Except this: somehow, Hannah has it in her head that Las Vegas is the best place in the world. She called it “the place where dreams come true” the other day. I have no idea how this has happened.

The Insanity Stops Here

For me, the spirit of the season can be summed up thusly:
Now I have a little time to hurry up and finish all the crap lying around so my end-of-year tally doesn’t look so dismal.

I have managed to step back from the hobby madness, though, and get a little perspective, which means that my sister’s quilt might possibly probably won’t be done in time for her tenth anniversary in August. (This is the quilt I started before her wedding. *cringe*)

But at least I finished the Millenium Falcon 3D puzzle I got as a gift sometime between 2001 and 2003, if I had to narrow it down. I had actually put all the separate sections together; I just hadn’t got the sections into a model of the M. Falcon. (I couldn’t bring myself to call it the “M.F.” on the Internets, which made me laugh.) And although the previously posted photo *looks* like the model, it is actually an M. Falcon falling apart at the seams. Unfortunately, the few flimsical (1) cardboard “supports” provided with the puzzle were not sufficient in number or strength to actually hold together the surprisingly heavy sections. And a couple of pieces turned out to be missing (2), so there were a couple of holes. At the time I was working on it, I was cursing a blue streak and threatening to quit or throw it away every 5 minutes; it even got a bit surreal there for a bit: I was fantasizing about making a time machine so I could go back and sterilize my parents, for some reason (either for creating a child with a 3D puzzle mania or for buying me the puzzle in the first place, it’s not clear to me now). Anyhow, I kept doggedly at it until it was together enough for a photo and a ranting blog post.

(1) D.D. started using “flimsical” again recently, a word that I love and have been using to excess myself. Feel free to adopt it.

(2) The puzzle company had a form for replacing missing pieces, so I hope to have a complete set if I ever try to do it again. Of course, that would require several years to blur the memory of the first time, and some reengineering and a pot of glue to make it work.

Stop the insanity! Second and last 3D puzzle of the xmas 2005 season. It's the Millenium Falcon, in case you can't tell. Rant on this topic to follow. 

My Daughter Cracks Me Off

At dinner tonight, I was asking D.D. about something on her cheek, which I at first took to be a scratch, but on closer inspection realized was just some of the hair color rubbed off. L.H. then chimed in to ask about her scratch. At that point, he suddenly realized we had covered that. A moment later, he brought up how weird it was that he was so far behind in the conversation.

Which is when D.D. asked, "Should I put you in a home?" (1)

I almost wet myself laughing.

(1) Back story: My dad moved his dad closer to him since Granddad needs some looking after (getting forgetful and paranoid). My LilSis also lives close by, so I'm pretty sure Dad figured he would let her do the bulk of the watching after Granddad. Except now she's moving 3 or 4 hours away. And wouldn't you know, when I talked to my dad yesterday, he immediately brought up putting Granddad in a home. Which is where the topic of nursing homes came up.

Tis the Season to Enable

Right before the holidays, I was able to shake off my early-winter funk and switch into high gear. I got in some required and some extra-curricular (but still school-related) reading. I finished the tree skirt I had moved, unfinished, from house to house for years. I even wrote a bit on a couple of short stories. And by the time we went to bed on xmas eve, I had washed and put away all the laundry, picked up everything but D.D.’s room (because I didn’t have a shovel and safety gear), cleaned my side of the bed and closet, and vacuumed the whole house. I went into xmas at the top of my game.

And then I opened my gifts.

I love my family. They know just what I like, and they got it for me. Unfortunately, what I like can easily become an all-encompassing obsession that takes over my life. L.H. gave me *6* Discworld novels, and my mom gave me the 3D puzzle pictured in the previous post and a Sudoku game. I broke down and put the puzzle together, with L.H.’s reassurance that “It’s the holidays! Have fun!” That was just over 24 hours of my life of fun. I think he started to get an idea of the scope of the problem when dinner was 3 hours later than I had originally planned. Silly man. Doesn’t he remember the photo of me, 20 weeks pregnant, standing in my pjs at the kitchen table until all hours of the night putting together this other 3D puzzle? I just wish I were so diligent with my school work.

D.D. is a lovely little child who did not get us out of bed until 8:30 on xmas morning (unlike my nephew who tried his luck first at *1 AM* and finally succeeded at 3:30, the little turd). She was pleased with all her gifts, although she was somewhat disappointed that she can’t make any explosions with her chemistry set. Damn the luck!

I need to get some more fresh foods in the house. I’ve been living off leftover stuffing, coffee, and the contents of my stocking—chocolate and licorice and blueberry-flavored tea—for 2 days, and I can feel rickets setting in. The grocery list beckons!

Ps. I found a rockin’ recipe for popcorn balls that tastes like slightly chewy Cracker Jacks. Recipe on request.

Here is the 3D puzzle I finished between noon on Xmas Day and 5 pm the next day. I may not be good at originality like my LMIL, but give me something with directions, and I will whip it like a red-headed stepchild. 

I’m Dreaming of a Pink-and-Purple, Polka-Dotted Xmas

So maybe 4 hours before Xmas Day is a little late for the de rigueur pre-xmas post, but I’ve been collecting tidbits for over a week, so it averages out.

Every year, I manage to slide a few more tacky xmas decorations past my husband. This is the man who came into our marriage thinking multi-colored lights were tacky. Oh, silly man. I let D.D. put the ornaments and the silver tinsel on the tree, so everything is lopsided and clumpy. L.H. complained, but he who is too lazy to fix, must endure. Personally, I like it; it reminds me of the fringe on a go-go dancer’s dress. I’ve already bought some red and gold tinsel for next year. My ultimate goal is bubble lights.

I have to draw the line at animatronic xmas decorations, though. I mean, if you want to scare people, why not cut to the chase and hire a clown? A shop in our village has a full-sized Santa outside its door, facing the street. Santa’s head turns left and right, watching you go by. And a pharmacy in town has three little angels in the window, playing trumpets and turning either side to side or bowing. Baby angel musician robots. Eek.

Another mind-boggling decorating misstep I saw in town was in the same window with the headless angels I mentioned previously. Behind the mannequins, some deranged person has hung deer heads—deer heads made of white plaster soaked in iridescent glitter. (Iridescence is another point on which L.H. and I disagree, he being for, and I against.)

But it’s not just the shops getting in on the decorating madness. (But compared to back in Texas, you might not call it mad at all.) One family down the street has a Santa climbing a rope ladder up the size of their house, another lounging on a window ledge, and a third in an old-world style robe standing behind the railing around their terrace, which makes him appear to be trapped in a play pen. Most people (if they put up a Santa at all) would be satisfied with just one Santa.

My sister-in-law’s family has a fun tradition I wish I could participate in: they try to find the ugliest possible wrapping paper. One year her sister skunked the whole family with *Hulk* xmas paper. I thought I might be in the running with Shrek paper I found at the Toys R Us (in this color scheme), but then it occurred to me that “Eat, Stink, and Be Scary” isn’t specifically holiday-themed. And Shrek and Donkey weren’t wearing Santa hats like the Hulk. Rats.

L.H. and I have a typical xmas shopping arrangement: I buy, wrap, and ship all of the presents for the whole family, including D.D., and he shops for me. And as usual, he started about the time I finished. But we were both finished far enough in advance that there was no need to enter a shop at all on xmas eve (which may not even be possible in these parts).

So that was the pre-xmas blather. I wish all my loved ones a happy, healthy (especially LilSis and her brood), restful, and safe holiday.

Nee and Rudolph are Goin’ Down in History

Today, I officially became the last American to set foot in a Starbucks. And I didn’t even burst into flames! But I didn’t drink coffee, so I’ll still be the last person to drink Starbucks coffee if I get around to it before I die.

I had made plans to meet a classmate for tea this morning, and since I didn’t have all afternoon to hang out (her first suggestion was going to her place on the far south side of town; I live on the far north side of town), she suggested Starbucks. It was terribly crowded, but we got the last two seats in the farthest nook.

And that’s about all there was to it. It was ok as far as coffee houses go. I do have to mention that I’d been looking for xmas music for my old man, and after popping into 4 or 5 shops in the shopping district, I found basically what I had been looking for *at the counter at Starbucks.* American commercialism strikes again.

Now that I'm actually doing it, I feel kind of lame blogging a photo of a felt tree skirt. But this is a felt tree skirt that I *made*, and it only took 5 years or so. That might be some kind of record for my entire family. 

The Good, the Bad, and the Pissy

By the time we got to school this morning, I was ready to boot D.D. out of the car as I sped past the building. I would have sold her to the first Gypsy to wander by, but no self-respecting Gypsy would pay good money for her the way she was acting.

Today is the last day of school before the holidays, so I’m hoping she straightens up before we’re trapped at home with her for a couple of weeks. Otherwise I may turn hamster and eat her.

She was in a perfectly good mood yesterday. Of course, what 8-year-old wouldn’t be: she got to eat lunch at McD (blech—it totally tore the ass out of me), go on a toy shopping spree *for herself* at Toys R Us, ride the carousel at the xmas market, and go ice skating. She made me so proud in the department store: “Mom, that scarf is *so* tacky.” The scarf in question was knit in lengthwise stripes in magenta, acid green, turquoise, and brown, and all but the turquoise stripes were garnished with matching fur. That’s my girl!

D.D. has got the German slang down, so L.H. and I are always learning something new from her. In English, if you don’t have a special interest in something, you can say, “It’s all the same to me.” In German, you can add either “fart” (grade-schoolers) or “shit” (everyone else) to that phrase, which gives it a certain flavor not easily translated into English.

Her English is also developing an unusual slant, thanks to the gentle warping from her parents. She often declares that she has to “take a whiz” (1) on the “terlet”; when she’s cold, she needs a “blanklet.” I’m almost positive she got that last one from her younger cousin K.E., although she can’t recall now.

(1) From the game introduced on Ren and Stimpy: Don’t Whiz on the Electric Fence (sample track 13 here).

Ode to My Friend

My best friend since the sixth grade has also caught the bloggin’ bug, and I’ve been enjoying seeing her life in more detail than had previously been possible from seven time zones away. But imagine my surprise to read this about myself. Although she might have overdone it a wee bit *grin*, it really touched me. And although I know I will not be able to do her justice in mere words, I want to tell WestTexGirl here just how much she means to me. (1)

We went through most of our teenage firsts together: first dance, first boyfriend, first heartbreak. We weren’t clones of one another; we had interests apart—WTGirl managed the girls’ sports teams in junior high, and I...um...took homemaking against my inclination—but the differences never served to split us up, just to make us each more well-rounded. And they didn’t prevent us from spending hours on the phone every evening after spending all day at school together. One reason I was such a reasonably well-behaved teen was that my parents threatened to take away the phone as a punishment for rule-breaking. What would I ever do without at least 10 hours of contact with my best friend every day?! And we somehow always had something to talk about.

I spent my last night before driving the four hours to start university the next day with her—first at the Kettle until midnight, drinking hot cocoa, then standing in my driveway for a couple more hours, not wanting to say goodbye. Despite the distance, we managed to stay in touch and see each other semi-regularly. And at each visit, we picked up right where we left off, as if there had never been a separation or major changes in each of our lives.

We used to joke about being on the same brain wave, but now I realize it was probably all WTGirl. I can’t count how many times I’ve been in need of a sympathetic ear or a shoulder to cry on, and the phone rang, or there was a “thinking of you” email from her in my inbox. Even with hundreds of miles between us. And it’s not just her timing; she always knows the exact right thing to say. She is tactful and warm, and a compliment from WTGirl is like a bear hug.

She is also wonderfully supportive. Many is the time I’ve had an ass-headed idea, when my normally supportive husband looks at me like he’s trying to decide on the best institution to have me committed to, but WTGirl enthusiastically cheers me on, although with a helping of advice and common sense so I don’t go immediately down in flames.

Part and parcel with her supportiveness is her fierce loyalty to her friends and her generous heart. There are a lot of us she could have given up on as being too far away or too busy with our own silliness, but she doesn’t. For example, when one of her friends recently had twins as a single mother, WTGirl could have said, “I’d love to help, but I have a full-time job, and a family of my own” (including a toddler and a stubborn little 8-year-old). Instead, she became this friend’s main lifeline, even more so than her own mother: she took her to the doctor, took care of a million tiny details while she was on bed rest, even accompanied her into the delivery room, and she was there when her babies came home.

The flip side of being friends with WTGirl is that you always wonder if you’ll ever live up to such a high standard of friendship. But I like to think that I am benefiting from her example.

She is also a super-smart lady. You have to take what she said in her blog entry with a grain of salt. This woman teaches ANATOMY, people. I would never in a million years be able to remember everything she does; I get to “the foot bone’s connected to the ankle bone,” and then I’m lost. And she manages to deal with college-aged students and not go on a killing spree. Tact. Patience. She’s got them both in aces.

And she is eloquent. You should read her entry on our home town. I promise you, no one else could make it sound so good. The Chamber of Commerce should be cutting her a check. She sees the good no one else sees, and she can translate it so the rest of us start to get it.

I am proud that she still thinks I am worthy of her friendship, because it is something worth having.

(1) Lovely Husband has pointed out that this is something only women would do. The last two message he received from his best friend from high school were a birth announcement for his second child (typed by his wife, I think) and an evil, gloating missive on the occasion of George Bush’s reelection. To say nothing of the porn.

Sensitive but Tough

I saw a short bit in Der Spiegel about research by an American doctor (plastic surgeon) that proves women have more nerve endings per square inch of skin than men, therefore, we are more sensitive to pain. This will confirm my husband’s perception of me, since I really love to milk a minor injury for sympathy. Of course, he has never given birth to a 9-pound baby without drugs, so I think that should automatically give me a pass for...oh...FOREVER.

Catchin' Up is Hard to Do

I love it when I am almost out of stationery supplies, because that means fresh supplies are right around the corner. I started this post (*cough* several days ago *cough*) on the last few blank and partially blank pages of my spiral, and with the last smidge of ink in my pen, but by the end I’m sure it’ll be new paper and ink for me. Hoorah!

The last parent meeting for D.D.’s class was held at a local restaurant, back in the bar. The teacher opted for the more informal, comfortable setting (compared to the tiny desks in their classroom) since we were only discussing the logistics of their class xmas party. We started at 8 (so late!), and after an hour, another group filed into the adjoining room. It turned out to be a birthing class. A birthing class meeting at 9 pm on a Monday in a bar. Why wasn’t this an option when I was pregnant?!

D.D. and I have spotted Kujo the dog several times recently, and it is never a confidence-inspiring event. Twice we’ve passed him and his owner on their walk, and both times the owner only put the leash on him while we walking past them. It also was a bit unnerving that he turned his head to watch us go by, and also that his owner reminded him about 50 times to stay sitting. One of the times we saw them, D.D. had been scooping up snow as we walked and had a big ball of it in her left hand. I told her not to even pretend she was going to throw is while we were in view of him, because I did not doubt he’d interpret it as an attack on himself or his owner. Most recently, we saw the daring duo tooling by in their convertible (top up, this time). When we got to their house, Kujo was in the yard, snarling and snapping as usual. His owner was in the garage, and she yelled something at him that sounded like “Ray-bo.” D.D. thought it was short for “Ra-bies,” but the word for that in German is “Tollwut.” Good guess, though, kid.

There’s a business near my optician that I figure is some kind of nightclub, because its hours are listed on the door as “until 3 am.” But what I really like about the place is its name—The Loo. I wonder if they know what that means... Wouldn’t it be fun to go in there, all, “I’m in the loo! I’d go *to* the loo, but I’m already there!” You could keep it up all night until they ban you! Good times.

Sometimes I wonder what in the hell I’m doing back in school. (L.H. does not like to hear that since I bitched and moaned for ages about going back.) There are lots of days when the thought flits through my mind, how nice it would be to just stay on the bus when it gets to my stop. –

Enough pointless wallowing! I started it on Friday, I talked L.H. into joining my pity party on Saturday, and by Sunday we had it out of our systems.

I got to thinking in the shower (I do all my best thinking in the shower (1)) about my recent bout of angst and dissatisfaction and generally depression/bitchiness/moodiness/unpleasantness, and I realized that if my studies were childbirth, I’d be in transition. I had toughed it out until that point, but then I was all, “Just give me some medication and let me go to sleep, but wake me up when you’ve pulled my baby from my inert body, thanks.” That’s the point when the nurses say, “Too late!” Same thing with my studies. I’ve been through 3 hellacious semesters of Latin plus the exam; I took remedial German and have managed to make As and Bs in all my classes since. But when I start to think of my exams coming up next semester, I start to feel all panicky and overwhelmed. I’d like to hope I’ll end up with a bouncing baby ‘A’, but even with perfect pre-testing habits (which I don’t have), you just never know, right?

(1) My favorite boss ever once told me that a womb-like environment is very conducive to creative thinking.

Family McFoulmouth

I can tell when I’m supressing large-ish frustrations, because smallish ones—like paper falling out of the recycling bag when I’m trying to add some more to it—induce me to screech such obscenities as “son of a f*ckin’ bitch!” Normally, that one is reserved for smashing my hand in a door, or getting rear-ended, or some such, requiring that level of foulmouthery.

Not that I’m the only foul-mouthed bass (1) in this family. L.H. officially gave D.D. the green light to say “crap” at will. Neither of us really find it offensive, although I did catch myself saying to her, “It sounds terrible for you to say that” (an old favorite of my mom’s, although it never worked). The horror of turning into my mom! Of course, when D.D. says it “cwap”, we’re taken back to her toddlerhood, and she gets a cuddle. Me-mo-ries!

(1) Five points if you get the reference without looking at the link.

Right now D.D. is spotting a big bruise and scrape on her forehead where she was accidentally whacked with a stilt at school. She calls it her dent.

I just spotted a girl (speaking Russian, I think) wearing a high-heeled version of the pink Yeti boots mentioned here previously. My faith in the general goodness of mankind is gone. The existence of these boots is obviously part and parcel with the evil being perpetrated on our fellow human beings.

In one particularly touristy side street in town, every shop has an xmas tree outside its door. Most are tastefully decorated—white lights, red bows—but one is wonderfully tacky, with *blue* tinsel. I didn’t even know it came in colors. Around the corner, a couple more shops had trees drunkenly leaning against light poles, but no bases or decorations. I’m trying to decide if the city provides the trees (in keeping with the regulations on the upkeep of historical/touristy buildings), or if maybe there’s a business association agreement for them. See? This is how I use my brain most days, speculating on the downtown xmas tree delivery system, instead of something useful, like solving the world hunger problem.

Apparently the juice bar near the English department changed its mind about the advisability of an all-red decor—maybe it was attracting the wrong kind of clientele *wink*--because it has gone to a delightfully awful marigold and pine-green interior. In stripes. They seriously need to fire their interior decorator.

And what is with the yellow-green thing lately? D.D.’s school was repainted around the first of the school year, and the walls are egg-yolk yellow, and the doors and trim are kelly green. It’s like walking around in an Easter basket there.

L.H. and I sometimes daydream about having our own home (which will probably never happen, since we don’t stay any one place long enough, but I’m not too sad at this point). I have specifically requested that we paint it some shade of purple (2)—violet, lilac, mauve; I’m not picky. He insists it will be a Viking long-house. So a purple long-house it is.

(2) My most favorite cottage-style house in Austin’s Hyde Park was *3* shades of purple, and it was a thing of beauty. I’ve been watching a less purple (only one shade), and uglier, house from the bus, and the comparison makes me want to weep.

L.H. is the master of timing. I was rushing to put on my boots so I wouldn’t be late for the bus, and he asks, “So what do you want for xmas?”—“Uh, could we talk about this later, Honey? I kind of have class...” At least this time wasn’t so, um, gross as the last time, when I tried to kiss him and he belched. L.H. the barbarian. I’m wondering about the barn-like environment of his upbringing.

Another near-celebrity sighting:
On the bus this morning, I sat facing young Kurt Cobain, who was wearing smart-glasses and looked clean and not strung out. He really could be a double for KC.