Golden October held out through the 31st, and Dreary November jumped in to take its place on the first, just like clockwork. German weather is just as punctual as German people.
I overdid it carrying the groceries (I lugged 6 or 7 canvas bags—some hanging from my shoulders, some carried by the handles—in one go from the car to our third-floor apartment), so now I have a pinched nerve or strained muscles or something in my right shoulder up into my neck. I look like I’m doing a wicked impersonation of Frankenstein’s monster. Then when I went to give away some of my blood this morning to have my iron-levels checked, the phlebotomist (the good one) noticed the spot where I burned my arm last week on a cookie sheet coming out of the oven. It’s already kind of scabby, so it should be all pink and puckery in a few more days once the crust rubs off. I just need a big, gashing wound on my face now to top off the whole look.
With the neck and the blah weather, I haven’t really been able to make myself do anything productive, so then there’s the self-guilt thing...blah, blah, blah, boring-cakes.
But I am finally getting to the eye doctor this afternoon, so maybe I will have new contacts soon. These glasses have been a disaster from the beginning. I tried to save a little money by going to Pearle Vision (I think) instead of buying them from my optometrist, but with such a wonky prescription, I should have just stuck with the more expensive but better glasses at his office. Since I have a pretty bad astigmatism, I need some kind of special coating on the lenses, which is now peeling off the right lens. I have noticed that I see well up close only with my right eye and from afar only with the left, so I’m thinking my prescription might need some tweaking.
What else? Oh, yeah...what is up with furry boots this year? Even when it was still warm, say in early October, I saw a woman wearing a sundress and boots with fur trim and two little dangly, furry balls. Now they are in all the shops, and everyone is wearing them. Ick. And then I saw a purse that is cylindrical and covered in fur. Fur that appears to have been taken from a vomit-covered ocelot. Yes, it appears that I am still violently opposed to fur (even fake fur) as an accessory.
Wednesday, November 02, 2005
Plant Blogging: It�s Not Just for Horticulturists Anymore
So here is the photographic evidence of Day 2 of the Cactus blooming. Still the same 10 flowers, but fully open and up close and personal. I don�t recall my Texan cacti ever looking like this. Of course, they are some kind of tropical plant, not a true cactus, but whatever.
Tuesday, November 01, 2005
More photo blogging, because I am too blah and nothing-doing for real content. This is my poinsettia, which I believe is the same age as the Thanksgiving Cactus--about 2 years. I don't know if you can tell how tall it is, but I would estimate about 2-1/2 feet tall. I put it in this dim corner and hope it will turn reddish by xmas. So that makes 2 store-bought plants I have managed not to kill. I feel like I'm finally getting my money's worth--except I refuse to pay more than about 2 bucks for a plant, so I am getting more than my money's worth!
Monday, October 31, 2005
Sunday, October 30, 2005
Friday, October 28, 2005
A Groovy Kind of Fall
It looks like the Italian ice cream-mongers have fled to warmer climes. Where once fantastical concoctions of frozen dairy products graced the tables, now stand racks of leather goods, cheap clothing, and Lebkuchen. But the joke’s on them! It has turned warm-ish, enough so that dandelions are sprouting up again, aphids have swarmed our still-blooming geraniums, and I can walk outdoors in my shirt sleeves. That means we’ve had sunshine and temps in the 60s. On a drizzly but warm day, I overhead an elderly auditor in one of my classes remark that it felt like summer had broken out again. Well, given the kind of summer we had, I guess he’s right.
I saw a couple of ads in the window of a department store for Paris Hilton’s new perfume; I would now like to scrub my brain with bleach and never shop in that store again.
Luckily, I was able to counteract the effects somewhat by discovering the print ad for the men’s deodorant commercial I was banging on about previously. Turns out it’s from Rexona. The photo on their web site shows men commuting via bus-roof, but the print ad shows them commuting by hanging from the open door and landing skids on a helicopter.
I really should stop window-shopping, because I am frequently disturbed by what I see. For example, the bra with the x-straps on each side. The bottom legs of the x are attached on each side of the cup; the middle of the x sits at about the collarbone. God knows what the back looks like with all the straps going hither and thither. It makes me wonder who would want to strap down the tops of their breasts after enclosing the rest in a cute little demi-cup. Must have been designed by a man.
The wedding shop finally came through with a beautiful dress—in an ugly green-yellow crayon color. The dress itself was lovely—strapless but with one decorative (not structural) strap made of small silk flowers; the empress-style bodice had vertical pleating all the way around; and the skirt was straight but not tight (not something someone my height can carry off—sob!). Then they had to go and ruin it with the steno-pad paper color.
I generally make it a rule not to comment on people I know personally, but some people practically put a gun to your head. The grandma of one of D.D.’s classmates came to pick her up from school while I was waiting for D.D. I saw her walking up the stairs with a grumpy frown on her face; combined with the black, fuzzy sweater with red, black-spotted shoulders, I couldn’t help but think she looked like a ladybug with a bad attitude.
I might laugh at drivers getting speeding tickets and old ladies in ladybug clothing, but there is a line even I will not cross. I saw a man who had injured himself tripping over a knee-high chain that he hadn’t seen; it surrounds a small square near the mayor’s offices, so I guess it’s to keep people from trying to park there. Anyhow, at first I thought he was having a heart attack, because he was sitting on the ground in the midst of the pile of stuff he had been carrying and rubbing his ribcage on the left side. But when I offered to help him, he seemed as equally embarrassed as hurt. I could totally see myself doing that—which is one reason why I spend a lot of time scanning the ground and my immediate surroundings when I walk (and also the dog poo)—so there’s no way I would make fun of him. Drat my tender side!
I saw a couple of ads in the window of a department store for Paris Hilton’s new perfume; I would now like to scrub my brain with bleach and never shop in that store again.
Luckily, I was able to counteract the effects somewhat by discovering the print ad for the men’s deodorant commercial I was banging on about previously. Turns out it’s from Rexona. The photo on their web site shows men commuting via bus-roof, but the print ad shows them commuting by hanging from the open door and landing skids on a helicopter.
I really should stop window-shopping, because I am frequently disturbed by what I see. For example, the bra with the x-straps on each side. The bottom legs of the x are attached on each side of the cup; the middle of the x sits at about the collarbone. God knows what the back looks like with all the straps going hither and thither. It makes me wonder who would want to strap down the tops of their breasts after enclosing the rest in a cute little demi-cup. Must have been designed by a man.
The wedding shop finally came through with a beautiful dress—in an ugly green-yellow crayon color. The dress itself was lovely—strapless but with one decorative (not structural) strap made of small silk flowers; the empress-style bodice had vertical pleating all the way around; and the skirt was straight but not tight (not something someone my height can carry off—sob!). Then they had to go and ruin it with the steno-pad paper color.
I generally make it a rule not to comment on people I know personally, but some people practically put a gun to your head. The grandma of one of D.D.’s classmates came to pick her up from school while I was waiting for D.D. I saw her walking up the stairs with a grumpy frown on her face; combined with the black, fuzzy sweater with red, black-spotted shoulders, I couldn’t help but think she looked like a ladybug with a bad attitude.
I might laugh at drivers getting speeding tickets and old ladies in ladybug clothing, but there is a line even I will not cross. I saw a man who had injured himself tripping over a knee-high chain that he hadn’t seen; it surrounds a small square near the mayor’s offices, so I guess it’s to keep people from trying to park there. Anyhow, at first I thought he was having a heart attack, because he was sitting on the ground in the midst of the pile of stuff he had been carrying and rubbing his ribcage on the left side. But when I offered to help him, he seemed as equally embarrassed as hurt. I could totally see myself doing that—which is one reason why I spend a lot of time scanning the ground and my immediate surroundings when I walk (and also the dog poo)—so there’s no way I would make fun of him. Drat my tender side!
Tuesday, October 25, 2005
Letting It Down Easy
Dear Computer,
I love you, but I can’t keep seeing you. The hours and hours of mind-numbing entertainment with you were great, but now I’ve got to move on. We’ll still see each other once in a while, but we’ll be more like work-friends who don’t socialize outside the office, and less like real friends that happen to work together but go to each other’s kids’ birthday parties, whose husbands fool around on the guitar and brew beer together, who laugh themselves into asphyxiation watching Waking Ned (Divine) together.
No, it’s strictly a working relationship now: a little email, some word-processing, a bit of Internet research, and the occasional blog post, but that’s it. No more evenings spent surfing the web and other people’s blogs; no more hours of solitaire; no more 26 levels of Homing Hippogriffs.
I hope you understand.
Sincerely,
Nee
Ps. Lovely Husband hasn’t abandoned you. I hope you like Democracy Now webcasts, though.
I love you, but I can’t keep seeing you. The hours and hours of mind-numbing entertainment with you were great, but now I’ve got to move on. We’ll still see each other once in a while, but we’ll be more like work-friends who don’t socialize outside the office, and less like real friends that happen to work together but go to each other’s kids’ birthday parties, whose husbands fool around on the guitar and brew beer together, who laugh themselves into asphyxiation watching Waking Ned (Divine) together.
No, it’s strictly a working relationship now: a little email, some word-processing, a bit of Internet research, and the occasional blog post, but that’s it. No more evenings spent surfing the web and other people’s blogs; no more hours of solitaire; no more 26 levels of Homing Hippogriffs.
I hope you understand.
Sincerely,
Nee
Ps. Lovely Husband hasn’t abandoned you. I hope you like Democracy Now webcasts, though.
Sunday, October 23, 2005
More Musical Bitching
The most horrible remake of Cyndi Lauper’s “Girls Just Want to Have Fun” has been playing in an endless loop on Nick. Somehow this girl group from The Netherlands, Bad Candy, has managed to suck all the life out of what started as a really fun, upbeat song, and have turned it into a dull, plodding travesty of pop music. I just hope they don’t get their mitts on “She Bop.”
It hasn’t gotten down to freezing at night yet, so I put my Thanksgiving cactus back outside. I went out to put some laundry in the drier (on the lower balcony), and I noticed that what I had first taken to be the buds that grow into leaves, are actually buds that grow into flowers. I am going to have about 30 blooms on this baby in a couple of weeks, and I will post a picture here to prove to the Internets that I am *not* a plant killer.
I survived the first week back to school, but D.D. starts her first school holiday at the end of next week, which means we’ll start a week-plus of kid juggling. That, I might not survive.
We’ve had rain off and on since Wednesday (it’s “on” full-blast as I type), but have only been sprinkled on while out and about, thank goodness. The first time, D.D. wanted to know why God couldn’t go pee on some other continent. So now it’s a running joke that God is taking a whiz when it rains:
“Ha, ha, Mom! You’ve got God-pee on your glasses!”
“Yeah, well, you’ve got it on your jacket.”
“That means it’s holy.”
We’re a whole family of heetherns.
We’ve decided that it isn’t worth the time and money to light the tile oven this winter. It did not play a very major role in keeping the house warm last year, and it was a pain to try to keep going. So we’re holding on to the last few sticks of firewood for a special occasion.
And to fill out this banal bit of fluff I like to call a blog post, I’ve decided to include something I jotted down as a writing exercise during a break in one of my classes. I call it, “Classmate”.
diffident but annoying; sharp, nervous movements as he shifted from foot to foot, drifting back and forth between the electronics cabinet and the podium, making me want to glue his feet to the floor
It hasn’t gotten down to freezing at night yet, so I put my Thanksgiving cactus back outside. I went out to put some laundry in the drier (on the lower balcony), and I noticed that what I had first taken to be the buds that grow into leaves, are actually buds that grow into flowers. I am going to have about 30 blooms on this baby in a couple of weeks, and I will post a picture here to prove to the Internets that I am *not* a plant killer.
I survived the first week back to school, but D.D. starts her first school holiday at the end of next week, which means we’ll start a week-plus of kid juggling. That, I might not survive.
We’ve had rain off and on since Wednesday (it’s “on” full-blast as I type), but have only been sprinkled on while out and about, thank goodness. The first time, D.D. wanted to know why God couldn’t go pee on some other continent. So now it’s a running joke that God is taking a whiz when it rains:
“Ha, ha, Mom! You’ve got God-pee on your glasses!”
“Yeah, well, you’ve got it on your jacket.”
“That means it’s holy.”
We’re a whole family of heetherns.
We’ve decided that it isn’t worth the time and money to light the tile oven this winter. It did not play a very major role in keeping the house warm last year, and it was a pain to try to keep going. So we’re holding on to the last few sticks of firewood for a special occasion.
And to fill out this banal bit of fluff I like to call a blog post, I’ve decided to include something I jotted down as a writing exercise during a break in one of my classes. I call it, “Classmate”.
diffident but annoying; sharp, nervous movements as he shifted from foot to foot, drifting back and forth between the electronics cabinet and the podium, making me want to glue his feet to the floor
Friday, October 21, 2005
Ding, Dong, The Witch is Dead
Tra la la la la la! I just showed my UT transcript (you know, where I already have a degree in German) to my advisor in the Foreign Language department, and I get to skip the class that is taught by the worst teacher I have ever had, including the one in third grade. Even though another faculty member misplaced some very important (for me) paperwork, I am so happy to be shot of the witch that sunshine is shining right out my ass. That’s happy!
I just realized that I graduated from UT 9 years ago. !!9 years ago!! Ohmygod! I mean, married 10 years—no biggie. Child turned 8—twinge, but no tears. Entered the adult world from the womb-like environment of the university 9 years ago—aaaaahhh! (insert scene of running about, screaming incoherently)
Sorry about that. It’s out of my system now.
So... The wedding shop has been a big disappointment to me lately. The dresses on display have been perfectly nice. I didn’t really care for the beige formalwear, but it was more of a “personal preference” thing and less of a “crime against the institution of marriage” thing.
But then my faith in humanity’s ability to fug itself was renewed in the main shopping street: I saw a woman in pants that appeared to have been made of black garbage bags. It’s the new Glad designer-wear (as opposed to their designer-ware)! There was only a thin layer of shiny, black plastic between her and the world. Fortunately, I think she may have already caught on to her mistake, because she was headed into the jeans store.
Here’s a quick request to the family for D.D.’s xmas shopping: books. She’s always complaining that she doesn’t have enough books to read, and she’s basically read everything in her room multiple times (even the new books from Gwamma this summer have been read through twice). They are less bulky than any toy, and you can go crazy in the Half Price Books or on eBay and not feel guilty, and not break the bank on shipping. Thank you for your attention.
I just realized that I graduated from UT 9 years ago. !!9 years ago!! Ohmygod! I mean, married 10 years—no biggie. Child turned 8—twinge, but no tears. Entered the adult world from the womb-like environment of the university 9 years ago—aaaaahhh! (insert scene of running about, screaming incoherently)
Sorry about that. It’s out of my system now.
So... The wedding shop has been a big disappointment to me lately. The dresses on display have been perfectly nice. I didn’t really care for the beige formalwear, but it was more of a “personal preference” thing and less of a “crime against the institution of marriage” thing.
But then my faith in humanity’s ability to fug itself was renewed in the main shopping street: I saw a woman in pants that appeared to have been made of black garbage bags. It’s the new Glad designer-wear (as opposed to their designer-ware)! There was only a thin layer of shiny, black plastic between her and the world. Fortunately, I think she may have already caught on to her mistake, because she was headed into the jeans store.
Here’s a quick request to the family for D.D.’s xmas shopping: books. She’s always complaining that she doesn’t have enough books to read, and she’s basically read everything in her room multiple times (even the new books from Gwamma this summer have been read through twice). They are less bulky than any toy, and you can go crazy in the Half Price Books or on eBay and not feel guilty, and not break the bank on shipping. Thank you for your attention.
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
And Bone-Head was her Name-O!
On Wednesday (a week ago), I ended up sitting around outside D.D.’s school because I stupidly forgot that trying to run an errand in the afternoon in our village is an exercise in futility. I had to take D.D. to the doctor the day before for a sore foot (something is irritating or inflaming her Achilles tendon), but the pharmacy didn’t have the meds in stock, but instead of going straight there the next morning when they were supposed to get their delivery, I decided to roll it into my trip out of the house to pick up D.D. from school.. Dumb, dumb, dumb! I will never learn that this particular pharmacy is *completely closed* on Wednesday afternoons. Except now I have a note in my Palm, if I remember to check it.
Then I was walking to the bus stop on Thursday morning, and I looked up to see a beautiful full moon just above the trees. There had been a LOT of fog in the mornings last week and the one before, and the whole scene of moon and fog was beautiful. Until I realized, “Hey, IDIOT—that’s the sun.” So I probably seared my retinas staring at “the moon.”
Fact of Nature: 1
Nee’s Brain: 0
There’s a reason I don’t accompany L.H. out in public. At D.D.’s ballet recital, he described one of the other dads as sporting a “poodle mullet.” He fusses at D.D. for calling cartoon characters “Trottel” (meaning “moron, jackass, idiot, twat, schmuck”—take your pick), yet when it comes to his own name-calling behavior... I, on the other hand, call names with abandon and don’t apologize, which might be one reason I don’t have a lot of friends here. Heh.
D.D.’s poor ballet class got screwed at the recital. Halfway through their dance, the CD skipped to the end. They ended up rushing off the stage in a confused bunch, but managed to run back out in a neat line to take a bow. D.D. said she feels like someone is picking on just *her*: none of the other groups had problems with their music, and in school she thinks the teacher is ignoring her raised hand (usually to choose instead one of D.D.’s mortal enemies in the back of the class). Shit happens, Baby, but not all the time.
It was downright cold this morning (by 11 am it had gotten *up* to 50F), so I made sure D.D. was well-bundled before we walked to school. She complained that she felt puffy in that jacket. Then she made up this whole explanation that she was once a marshmallow in my belly (1), but then she grew into a real baby that I gave birth to, then she was hit by lightening (I think?), and now she’s “Puffaloaf” from the land of “Puffalot”. She confided that it was supposed to sound like the Care Bear land. Ahhhh.
(1) If that were really the requirement for having children, I would have remained barren, because I hate eating marshmallows and all marshmallow-related foodstuffs, such as Peeps and circus peanuts. Ick!
Then I was walking to the bus stop on Thursday morning, and I looked up to see a beautiful full moon just above the trees. There had been a LOT of fog in the mornings last week and the one before, and the whole scene of moon and fog was beautiful. Until I realized, “Hey, IDIOT—that’s the sun.” So I probably seared my retinas staring at “the moon.”
Fact of Nature: 1
Nee’s Brain: 0
There’s a reason I don’t accompany L.H. out in public. At D.D.’s ballet recital, he described one of the other dads as sporting a “poodle mullet.” He fusses at D.D. for calling cartoon characters “Trottel” (meaning “moron, jackass, idiot, twat, schmuck”—take your pick), yet when it comes to his own name-calling behavior... I, on the other hand, call names with abandon and don’t apologize, which might be one reason I don’t have a lot of friends here. Heh.
D.D.’s poor ballet class got screwed at the recital. Halfway through their dance, the CD skipped to the end. They ended up rushing off the stage in a confused bunch, but managed to run back out in a neat line to take a bow. D.D. said she feels like someone is picking on just *her*: none of the other groups had problems with their music, and in school she thinks the teacher is ignoring her raised hand (usually to choose instead one of D.D.’s mortal enemies in the back of the class). Shit happens, Baby, but not all the time.
It was downright cold this morning (by 11 am it had gotten *up* to 50F), so I made sure D.D. was well-bundled before we walked to school. She complained that she felt puffy in that jacket. Then she made up this whole explanation that she was once a marshmallow in my belly (1), but then she grew into a real baby that I gave birth to, then she was hit by lightening (I think?), and now she’s “Puffaloaf” from the land of “Puffalot”. She confided that it was supposed to sound like the Care Bear land. Ahhhh.
(1) If that were really the requirement for having children, I would have remained barren, because I hate eating marshmallows and all marshmallow-related foodstuffs, such as Peeps and circus peanuts. Ick!
Friday, October 14, 2005
So We’re Not Ozzie and Harriet
This evening L.H. and I realized that we are a special kind of couple. I had accused him recently of “asshattery”, and after I choked on my dinner for the umpteenth time tonight, he started speculating on whether I might be “deformed.” We totally cracked each other up with our cheek. I love that man.
Tuesday, October 11, 2005
Loose Ends
Darling Daughter is trying to find a balance between fitting in with her peers and not being bored/annoyed by them. The latest school-yard fad is collecting and trading paper. Not any old paper, but stationery decorated with these mouse characters. At first, D.D. was not interested at all, but then she admitted that maybe she would like to try it. I got her a couple of notepads, and she had a heavy day of trading last Friday. But Monday morning when we discussed whether she wanted to take her collection to school, she admitted that she wasn’t really all that into it after all, since it was basically an excuse for a hen party. Picky, picky.
I have started tutoring someone in English on Tuesdays, so I found myself outside my normal route this morning. That means new opportunities for people-watching, and I spotted a doozy: Drunky Hair Guy’s MOTHER. She had to be. She was old enough that she had a permanent stoop and slight palsy (and I heard her making that weird sucking sound that elderly people missing teeth unconsciously make), but her long, straightened hair and lipstick were magenta, and her clothes (except for the D.A.R.E. t-shirt) were all leather, with the jacket sleeves rolled up. When she got off the bus, she slung her bag over her shoulder, put her hand in her pants pocket, and strutted away.
Lovely Husband insisted that we go ahead and crank the heater up, even though we haven’t awoken to any less-than-68F-indoors mornings yet. But please don’t think he did this for his cold-natured wife or clothing-averse child. It was completely for the sake of the batch of mead that is fermenting up against a radiator in our living room. You can see where his loyalties lie.
It turns out my xmas cactus is really a Thanksgiving cactus, at least, that is what this site has led me to believe. Also, I have been taking care of it completely wrong, but it doesn’t seem to care. It put on four blooms recently, and after I brought it in out of the cold last week, almost every single “branch” put on a new leaf at the end. So take that, Schlumbergera Bridgesii fanciers!
In my then muddle-headed state, I left out a contender for favorite commercial. A model is sashaying down the catwalk in her orange C&A cardigan and black slacks, all very tasteful. On one side are your typical fashion-show attendees with their notebooks and their cameras. On the other side are the male version of the bystanders when the Beatles landed on American soil—men shrieking and crying and fainting. Hee!
I thought I was the only person disturbed by the side-effects (no pun intended) of low-rise pants, but thanks to I, Asshole, I now know that the icky side-pooch mashed potato-bag of love handles caused by low-rise pants are called “muffin top.” My life is complete.
I have started tutoring someone in English on Tuesdays, so I found myself outside my normal route this morning. That means new opportunities for people-watching, and I spotted a doozy: Drunky Hair Guy’s MOTHER. She had to be. She was old enough that she had a permanent stoop and slight palsy (and I heard her making that weird sucking sound that elderly people missing teeth unconsciously make), but her long, straightened hair and lipstick were magenta, and her clothes (except for the D.A.R.E. t-shirt) were all leather, with the jacket sleeves rolled up. When she got off the bus, she slung her bag over her shoulder, put her hand in her pants pocket, and strutted away.
Lovely Husband insisted that we go ahead and crank the heater up, even though we haven’t awoken to any less-than-68F-indoors mornings yet. But please don’t think he did this for his cold-natured wife or clothing-averse child. It was completely for the sake of the batch of mead that is fermenting up against a radiator in our living room. You can see where his loyalties lie.
It turns out my xmas cactus is really a Thanksgiving cactus, at least, that is what this site has led me to believe. Also, I have been taking care of it completely wrong, but it doesn’t seem to care. It put on four blooms recently, and after I brought it in out of the cold last week, almost every single “branch” put on a new leaf at the end. So take that, Schlumbergera Bridgesii fanciers!
In my then muddle-headed state, I left out a contender for favorite commercial. A model is sashaying down the catwalk in her orange C&A cardigan and black slacks, all very tasteful. On one side are your typical fashion-show attendees with their notebooks and their cameras. On the other side are the male version of the bystanders when the Beatles landed on American soil—men shrieking and crying and fainting. Hee!
I thought I was the only person disturbed by the side-effects (no pun intended) of low-rise pants, but thanks to I, Asshole, I now know that the icky side-pooch mashed potato-bag of love handles caused by low-rise pants are called “muffin top.” My life is complete.
Friday, October 07, 2005
Happy Birthday to Me
Knowing that I started this puppy up last October, I checked just now to see exactly when. And it was exactly TODAY, one year ago that I started inflicting my words on the Internet. wipes tear from eye It was a bit like realizing in March that I'd been married 10 years. Whoa! Where has the time gone?
Anyhow, thanks to all my beloved friends and family (all 5 of you) who've stuck through it with me. Here's to another year of navel-gazing and bitching!
Anyhow, thanks to all my beloved friends and family (all 5 of you) who've stuck through it with me. Here's to another year of navel-gazing and bitching!
Paris Revisited
The specter of the un-blogged Paris trip has been hanging over me ever since we got back, but I have to admit that we were so busy and having such a good time that I didn’t jot down a single note while we were there. Trying to reconstruct the entire trip at this point seems fruitless, but I thought I’d at least hit the highlights. [LMIL—feel free to jog my memory in the comments.]
Lovely MIL’s Travel Guru (TM), Rick Steves, advises going to the Eiffel Tower in the evening because the lines are shorter, but we got an even better treat than a short wait. As we were walking away at 8 pm, flashbulbs started going off all over the Tower. It was an amazing sight that lasted about 5 minutes. Rick Steves never mentioned *that*!
The sewers were overrated. The history of Paris’ water and wastewater systems is fascinating, but it would have been more interesting if 1) the sewers we were walking through were a lot older without so many modern contraptions, and 2) if the museum was not situated *directly above flowing sewage.* The smell was strong enough that we never got used to it during the hour or more we were down there.
We skipped the Louvre for Versailles, which words just can’t do justice to, if you’re into a palace made of mirrors and gold. One fantastic feature that we will never again pass up on at a museum or historical site was the self-guided tour via headphones. It kept D.D. from getting bored out of her skull, and it was easier to learn about the rooms we were passing through than if we had to crowd around signs with hundreds of other visitors. Versailles—2 thumbs up.
LMIL insisted we eat in a real French restaurant at least once, so we got a recommendation at the hotel and settled in for a 2-hour meal. I ordered Steak Tartar. The waitress asked if I knew what I was ordering. Oh, yes. Mmmm...raw meat. If the idea of trichonosis never scared me off raw bacon, what’s a little raw ground beef prepared by a French chef? Everything was wonderful.
All in all, we had a great time. We were able to rein in L.H.’s checklist-tourist tendencies by hopping on a tour bus that lets you get on and off as often as you want for the whole day, so we were able to see lots more places than the first time, although we didn’t get off at as many. LMIL had her off-the-beaten-path tips from ol’ Rick Steves, so we even saw a few things we hadn’t known we’d missed before. I think LMIL is already trying to figure out how to get back to Paris, maybe as a “chick trip” with her sister. You could spend months there, only visiting one place a day, and never run out of places to see.
Lovely MIL’s Travel Guru (TM), Rick Steves, advises going to the Eiffel Tower in the evening because the lines are shorter, but we got an even better treat than a short wait. As we were walking away at 8 pm, flashbulbs started going off all over the Tower. It was an amazing sight that lasted about 5 minutes. Rick Steves never mentioned *that*!
The sewers were overrated. The history of Paris’ water and wastewater systems is fascinating, but it would have been more interesting if 1) the sewers we were walking through were a lot older without so many modern contraptions, and 2) if the museum was not situated *directly above flowing sewage.* The smell was strong enough that we never got used to it during the hour or more we were down there.
We skipped the Louvre for Versailles, which words just can’t do justice to, if you’re into a palace made of mirrors and gold. One fantastic feature that we will never again pass up on at a museum or historical site was the self-guided tour via headphones. It kept D.D. from getting bored out of her skull, and it was easier to learn about the rooms we were passing through than if we had to crowd around signs with hundreds of other visitors. Versailles—2 thumbs up.
LMIL insisted we eat in a real French restaurant at least once, so we got a recommendation at the hotel and settled in for a 2-hour meal. I ordered Steak Tartar. The waitress asked if I knew what I was ordering. Oh, yes. Mmmm...raw meat. If the idea of trichonosis never scared me off raw bacon, what’s a little raw ground beef prepared by a French chef? Everything was wonderful.
All in all, we had a great time. We were able to rein in L.H.’s checklist-tourist tendencies by hopping on a tour bus that lets you get on and off as often as you want for the whole day, so we were able to see lots more places than the first time, although we didn’t get off at as many. LMIL had her off-the-beaten-path tips from ol’ Rick Steves, so we even saw a few things we hadn’t known we’d missed before. I think LMIL is already trying to figure out how to get back to Paris, maybe as a “chick trip” with her sister. You could spend months there, only visiting one place a day, and never run out of places to see.
Tuesday, October 04, 2005
D.D. Takes Ballet By Storm
Today was the pre-recital trying-on of the costumes that the ballet teacher spent the whole summer vacation (6 weeks) sewing. She had a couple of ladies helping her who I think are participants in her adult dance classes. Anyhow, they were a new audience for the hyped-up little girls (and one boy). I could hear from the waiting room that someone must have pulled D.D.’s string:
“I’m from America. My whole family is English: my mom, my dad...”
“My grandma sews for money.”
I got a mental image of LMIL standing on the freeway with a cardboard sign. Hee!
***
While LMIL was here visiting, she and D.D. had planned to make smothered steak (or “smothered snakes” in our idiolect). We ran out of time (or maybe energy) before they left, so I was forced to make it on my own. D.D.’s verdict? “Gwamma-licious!”
“I’m from America. My whole family is English: my mom, my dad...”
“My grandma sews for money.”
I got a mental image of LMIL standing on the freeway with a cardboard sign. Hee!
***
While LMIL was here visiting, she and D.D. had planned to make smothered steak (or “smothered snakes” in our idiolect). We ran out of time (or maybe energy) before they left, so I was forced to make it on my own. D.D.’s verdict? “Gwamma-licious!”
Little Route of Horror
We often see some unusual, potentially frightening things on the way to and from school. For instance, a couple of weeks ago, some contractors were putting some pipes in the yard of a house on our route. Scary! I know! Anyhow, one of them had this fake arm sticking up from under the front end of his truck, and it made me think of that segment from Creepshow 2: “Thanks for the ride, lady!” That movie gave me nightmares for like a year; I think I was 12 or 13 when I saw it, and my dad made sure to jump out and yell “Thanks for the ride, lady!” as often as possible. Needless to say, I didn’t mention that association to D.D.
Then there’s the charming dog we like to call “Cujo.” He looks like a white Husky, but I don’t know dogs. We only see him about once every 2 or 3 months, but when he’s out in his yard, snarling and trying to eat us through the fence, D.D. and I usually jump out of our skin. D.D. is usually an Animal Friend(TM), but on the rare occasion when I wonder why we haven’t seen Cujo in a while, she hopes he died.
Finally, there’s this fantastic “Do Not Block Driveway” sign (see prior post; stupid Blogger seems to think I've used up all my photo space). It just seems to sum up the whole surreal experience of Walking To School.
Then there’s the charming dog we like to call “Cujo.” He looks like a white Husky, but I don’t know dogs. We only see him about once every 2 or 3 months, but when he’s out in his yard, snarling and trying to eat us through the fence, D.D. and I usually jump out of our skin. D.D. is usually an Animal Friend(TM), but on the rare occasion when I wonder why we haven’t seen Cujo in a while, she hopes he died.
Finally, there’s this fantastic “Do Not Block Driveway” sign (see prior post; stupid Blogger seems to think I've used up all my photo space). It just seems to sum up the whole surreal experience of Walking To School.
D.D.-isms
On the way home from school this afternoon, D.D. noticed that a street sign at the end of our block was lying across the top of a utility box instead of its usual place on the pole. She blamed some nameless, reckless teenagers: “Stupid teenagers are very crafty.” I can’t wait to see what she says about them when she is one.
When we got to the front door, she was telling me, “Last night, when I was terrorizing the squeaker [out of the Taboo Junior game], I was trying to get my Wut [anger] out.” She then went on to describe how she smashed it against the door to her room, stepped on its head, and even bit it a little. Between the crying and the carrying on, she managed to give herself a pretty bad headache. All this because we fussed at her for changing the tv channel without asking first. It’s a bad habit she has, and this time L.H. was taping something.
When we got to the front door, she was telling me, “Last night, when I was terrorizing the squeaker [out of the Taboo Junior game], I was trying to get my Wut [anger] out.” She then went on to describe how she smashed it against the door to her room, stepped on its head, and even bit it a little. Between the crying and the carrying on, she managed to give herself a pretty bad headache. All this because we fussed at her for changing the tv channel without asking first. It’s a bad habit she has, and this time L.H. was taping something.
Monday, October 03, 2005
Now is the Time on Blogger When We Writhe in Self-Embarrassment
I have this handy way of learning something so that I NEVER, EVER forget it. It is called mortification. For instance, my high school boyfriend corrected me that it is “PRE-rogative.” (Stupid Bobby Brown.) We were both being asses about it, but that crow, it was bitter to eat, let me tell you.
As I spend more time on the Internet, I find that I mortify myself more and more frequently. That is only natural in a medium where words are all you have to present yourself. When I am not careful how I phrase something, or I try to be cute or flip, it invariably comes back to bite me in the ass. In the most recent case (in the comments of a blog I follow), I tried to go back and briefly but politely restate what I said, but I know it probably came off as being defensive. So now I have basically messed it up for myself to “hang around with the cool kids,” so to speak.
Fortunately, I have this little blog in which to do my penance. Consider this my dose of self-mortification.
As I spend more time on the Internet, I find that I mortify myself more and more frequently. That is only natural in a medium where words are all you have to present yourself. When I am not careful how I phrase something, or I try to be cute or flip, it invariably comes back to bite me in the ass. In the most recent case (in the comments of a blog I follow), I tried to go back and briefly but politely restate what I said, but I know it probably came off as being defensive. So now I have basically messed it up for myself to “hang around with the cool kids,” so to speak.
Fortunately, I have this little blog in which to do my penance. Consider this my dose of self-mortification.
Not Clear on the Concept
Lovely Husband was in a self-affirming mood yesterday. “I have lots of hobbies: I play guitar; I brew mead; I carve wood...”
“You’re a Viking,” Darling Daughter helpfully supplied.
We had to explain that being a Viking is more a way of life than a hobby.
“You’re a Viking,” Darling Daughter helpfully supplied.
We had to explain that being a Viking is more a way of life than a hobby.
Saturday, October 01, 2005
Reason #2 for Grumpiness
Reason #1 is the past week of rain. #2 is the fact that I am 32 years old, and this is my hair:
Thanks, Dad.
Thanks, Dad.
Friday, September 30, 2005
Damn
I hate having my illusions shattered. Here I’ve been going along, thinking that my German’s improving, and suddenly I’m confronted with writing a paper. It wasn’t even a difficult topic, but there sure were a lot of corrections when L.H. got through with it. (He was a German teacher at a *large* public university in his previous west-of-the-Atlantic life.) That’s *after* I had looked up something for almost every single sentence over 7 pages.
While waiting for the bus to take the damned thing to my instructor, I met the mother of an acquaintance. She speaks very easy-to-understand German (trust me, some people’s dialects are completely impenetrable to a doofus like me), but I was having the hardest time following her. I guess it would have helped if I had realized that Monday is a public holiday, since she was talking about not being able to get to the bank until Tuesday, something, something. I mean, I can follow Darling Daughter when she speaks German; what was the problem?! Then it occurred to me that D.D. is probably speaking slow and using small words because she knows she is speaking to a BIG DUMMY. Sigh.
I had progressed this last week from normal-sized and psychotic to puffy but pleasant, but now I think I would like to lie down and cry, except I’m on a bus full of unsympathetic strangers who can *already speak German.*
Screw that—I’m going to work on my German every day and not sound like a moron who hasn’t learned a thing in *2 years of living and attending university in GERMANY.*
***
In other news, I cut D.D.’s hair last weekend. I only meant to take off 2 inches or so, but it seems that it might have been more like 4. Oops. It’s still down to her armpits, so it’s not *short*, but it is a hell of a lot easier to comb. Hallelujah! She has even taken on the onerous task of *brushing her own hair.* At only 8 years old! By 13 she should be able to tie her own shoelaces, and by 15 cut her own meat! We’re on a roll!
She had a jar with a bit of plastic wrap for a lid that she had tried to catch bees in without success, so that became the home of the sacrificed hair. She was convinced that the Hair Fairy was going to come, even though I tried to tell her the opposite. She was a bit bitter the next morning that the friggin’ Hair Fairy hadn’t bothered to show up. I guess she didn’t get the memo.
***
I am totally obsessed with this 13-year-old singing sensation from Sweden, named Amy Diamond. Ok, that does not sound Swedish at all, but she lived in England as a baby, so maybe her folks are English. [I went back and looked at her site. Her dad is English. And she enjoys Math, PE, and needlework. I will be adopting her as soon as that bus driver I hired finds her parents. Or not.] Or maybe she gave herself a stage name so freaky stalkers wouldn’t be tatooing her real name on themselves. Maybe. Anyhow, our cable rearranged itself one day, so now we get Nickelodeon, and they’ve been playing her video (“What’s In It For Me?”) like twice an evening. I don’t know. The song seems kind of grown up, and you can tell in the video that she *doesn’t even have all her adult teeth in yet.* But I bet she grows into a really attractive young lady, and I hope her parents have bought a shotgun before Kevin Federline finds out about her.
While waiting for the bus to take the damned thing to my instructor, I met the mother of an acquaintance. She speaks very easy-to-understand German (trust me, some people’s dialects are completely impenetrable to a doofus like me), but I was having the hardest time following her. I guess it would have helped if I had realized that Monday is a public holiday, since she was talking about not being able to get to the bank until Tuesday, something, something. I mean, I can follow Darling Daughter when she speaks German; what was the problem?! Then it occurred to me that D.D. is probably speaking slow and using small words because she knows she is speaking to a BIG DUMMY. Sigh.
I had progressed this last week from normal-sized and psychotic to puffy but pleasant, but now I think I would like to lie down and cry, except I’m on a bus full of unsympathetic strangers who can *already speak German.*
Screw that—I’m going to work on my German every day and not sound like a moron who hasn’t learned a thing in *2 years of living and attending university in GERMANY.*
***
In other news, I cut D.D.’s hair last weekend. I only meant to take off 2 inches or so, but it seems that it might have been more like 4. Oops. It’s still down to her armpits, so it’s not *short*, but it is a hell of a lot easier to comb. Hallelujah! She has even taken on the onerous task of *brushing her own hair.* At only 8 years old! By 13 she should be able to tie her own shoelaces, and by 15 cut her own meat! We’re on a roll!
She had a jar with a bit of plastic wrap for a lid that she had tried to catch bees in without success, so that became the home of the sacrificed hair. She was convinced that the Hair Fairy was going to come, even though I tried to tell her the opposite. She was a bit bitter the next morning that the friggin’ Hair Fairy hadn’t bothered to show up. I guess she didn’t get the memo.
***
I am totally obsessed with this 13-year-old singing sensation from Sweden, named Amy Diamond. Ok, that does not sound Swedish at all, but she lived in England as a baby, so maybe her folks are English. [I went back and looked at her site. Her dad is English. And she enjoys Math, PE, and needlework. I will be adopting her as soon as that bus driver I hired finds her parents. Or not.] Or maybe she gave herself a stage name so freaky stalkers wouldn’t be tatooing her real name on themselves. Maybe. Anyhow, our cable rearranged itself one day, so now we get Nickelodeon, and they’ve been playing her video (“What’s In It For Me?”) like twice an evening. I don’t know. The song seems kind of grown up, and you can tell in the video that she *doesn’t even have all her adult teeth in yet.* But I bet she grows into a really attractive young lady, and I hope her parents have bought a shotgun before Kevin Federline finds out about her.
Wednesday, September 28, 2005
Back to Our Regular Programming
Now that I no longer feel like disemboweling anyone who so much as looks in my direction, what better time to blog?
Le me introduce the newest Rescue Hero: LilSis. She flew into Houston last Thursday and snatched our grandfather from the jaws of the hurricane. Then she, my dad’s new wife, and my grandpa joined the ranks of the evacuees crawling out of Houston. If I remember correctly, they made it to Arlington in about 16 hours. Pretty soon she’ll have her own action figure who cleans, rears a passel o’ kids, and make daring rescues, and maybe wears sexy lingerie under her fire-retardant jump suit. Go, LilSis!
Our American neighbor loaned Darling Daughter some books she had checked out from the library on base. It’s weird as hell to see books stamped “Property of the US Army” in my house, and even weirder that they’re collections of Far Side comics.
Le me introduce the newest Rescue Hero: LilSis. She flew into Houston last Thursday and snatched our grandfather from the jaws of the hurricane. Then she, my dad’s new wife, and my grandpa joined the ranks of the evacuees crawling out of Houston. If I remember correctly, they made it to Arlington in about 16 hours. Pretty soon she’ll have her own action figure who cleans, rears a passel o’ kids, and make daring rescues, and maybe wears sexy lingerie under her fire-retardant jump suit. Go, LilSis!
Our American neighbor loaned Darling Daughter some books she had checked out from the library on base. It’s weird as hell to see books stamped “Property of the US Army” in my house, and even weirder that they’re collections of Far Side comics.
Friday, September 23, 2005
It’s Not Easy Being Green
I didn’t know the color for „pissed at the whole world for little reason,“ so green will have to do. And I’m wearing a green shirt. Will the coincidences never end?
L.H. got back from Sweden at 11 pm on Monday, and at 9 am on Tuesday, one of his former grad school colleagues [to be ever-more known as “The Sponge”] called from the train station that she had made it to Germany and could we please pick her up? WTF. There had been some mention *way* back at the start of the summer about her stopping in to visit while on a year-long exchange to Berlin, but I seriously don’t remember a request to *crash with us for 4 days* upon arriving in this country, and neither does L.H. She hasn’t really been underfoot—she biked into town Tuesday and had a meeting at a town just north of here Wednesday—but she and L.H. were not, you know, friends or anything back in grad school, which he graduated *2 years ago.* I get the impression that she is planning to mooch her way across central Germany until she can get into her student housing in Berlin. She’s leaving here tomorrow, so I guess I can keep my head from imploding until then.
Wednesday, it was like frickin’ Grand Central Station around here. Right after D.D. and I got home from school, the neighbor locked herself out, so we invited her to hang with us until her BF got home. She had been walking her 2 gay-named Yorkies, so she tied their leashes to the stair rail to keep them out of the way. They were well-behaved and quiet; no prob. Until Missy Cat tried to come downstairs, spotted them, and began hissing her threat to disembowel them. I herded her back upstairs and locked her and Eliza in the bedroom. Back to peace and quiet. Except for me and D.D. fighting about her homework. They’ve been getting a lot more this year, which is kind of to be expected, so she hasn’t always had enough time to finish it at after-school care. Anyhow, as soon as she finished her math, the doorbell rang. It was D.D.’s friend. I let them watch a movie while I cooked dinner and chatted with the neighbor, who’s American. Then the BF came, and he’s very nice, but a bit loud and boisterous. And L.H. came home in the midst of all this, so he was talking to the BF, I was talking to the neighbor, and there was a movie in the background. If The Sponge had walked in right then, I might have lost it. Right now, I feel like, “Where is my beloved rock for hiding under?”
I had to put another estrogen patch on this week, so I have a sneaking suspicion that part of my lingering foul mood proceeds from that. I have had very few thoughts this week that don’t contain some form of the word “fuck,” so that might give you a clue how pissy I am. [As a side note: While the neighbor was here, I hurt my foot and whispered, “Fuck!” She seemed taken aback, and actually said—laughingly—“You said the F-word?” Dude, I just ripped half the skin off my toe on a *metal bolt* sticking up from the floor; you’re lucky I only whispered it. I don’t know if she thought Texans don’t curse, or women, or—hell, I have no idea what assumption she was going on, but really. Damn.]
I will now try to sedate myself with posting and more coffee, although I don’t actually expect either to help. On the plus side, I am now mentally prepared to put words to paper for my term paper, having finished my prep work yesterday, so maybe that and losing The Sponge will make me more pleasant next week.
L.H. got back from Sweden at 11 pm on Monday, and at 9 am on Tuesday, one of his former grad school colleagues [to be ever-more known as “The Sponge”] called from the train station that she had made it to Germany and could we please pick her up? WTF. There had been some mention *way* back at the start of the summer about her stopping in to visit while on a year-long exchange to Berlin, but I seriously don’t remember a request to *crash with us for 4 days* upon arriving in this country, and neither does L.H. She hasn’t really been underfoot—she biked into town Tuesday and had a meeting at a town just north of here Wednesday—but she and L.H. were not, you know, friends or anything back in grad school, which he graduated *2 years ago.* I get the impression that she is planning to mooch her way across central Germany until she can get into her student housing in Berlin. She’s leaving here tomorrow, so I guess I can keep my head from imploding until then.
Wednesday, it was like frickin’ Grand Central Station around here. Right after D.D. and I got home from school, the neighbor locked herself out, so we invited her to hang with us until her BF got home. She had been walking her 2 gay-named Yorkies, so she tied their leashes to the stair rail to keep them out of the way. They were well-behaved and quiet; no prob. Until Missy Cat tried to come downstairs, spotted them, and began hissing her threat to disembowel them. I herded her back upstairs and locked her and Eliza in the bedroom. Back to peace and quiet. Except for me and D.D. fighting about her homework. They’ve been getting a lot more this year, which is kind of to be expected, so she hasn’t always had enough time to finish it at after-school care. Anyhow, as soon as she finished her math, the doorbell rang. It was D.D.’s friend. I let them watch a movie while I cooked dinner and chatted with the neighbor, who’s American. Then the BF came, and he’s very nice, but a bit loud and boisterous. And L.H. came home in the midst of all this, so he was talking to the BF, I was talking to the neighbor, and there was a movie in the background. If The Sponge had walked in right then, I might have lost it. Right now, I feel like, “Where is my beloved rock for hiding under?”
I had to put another estrogen patch on this week, so I have a sneaking suspicion that part of my lingering foul mood proceeds from that. I have had very few thoughts this week that don’t contain some form of the word “fuck,” so that might give you a clue how pissy I am. [As a side note: While the neighbor was here, I hurt my foot and whispered, “Fuck!” She seemed taken aback, and actually said—laughingly—“You said the F-word?” Dude, I just ripped half the skin off my toe on a *metal bolt* sticking up from the floor; you’re lucky I only whispered it. I don’t know if she thought Texans don’t curse, or women, or—hell, I have no idea what assumption she was going on, but really. Damn.]
I will now try to sedate myself with posting and more coffee, although I don’t actually expect either to help. On the plus side, I am now mentally prepared to put words to paper for my term paper, having finished my prep work yesterday, so maybe that and losing The Sponge will make me more pleasant next week.
Tuesday, September 20, 2005
A Tisket, A Tasket, A Pile of Random Crap-et
Here’s something you never expect to hear from your sister-in-law:
“You’re digging your Christmas grave!”
***
I didn’t mean to imply in my last post that I don’t like cartoons. Au contraire. To wit, The Simpsons, Spongebob Squarepants, Dave the Barbarian, and Fillmore! are some of my favorite tv viewing. And I signed up to be the president of the fan club when I saw the commerical for The Dragon Slayers; any show that's about dragons and with a theme song by The Cure is all right with me. Even if it comes from France. Gasp!
***
I don’t know what exactly this IUD is doing to my body, but I suspect it has something to do with the fact that I have had the physical coordination of a gifted 4-month-old lately. The last time I was this clumsy, I was very pregnant. [It would take micro-surgery and/or a miracle for that to be the cause this time.] All I know is that I’m sick of spilling, dropping, bumping, and breaking everything. The way I’ve snapped off the tips of several of my fingernails by banging them into wooden furniture and ripped my cuticle so it bled (while wrestling bags of cat litter into the back of the car), I’m surprised I didn’t chop off a finger making stew.
***
Thanks to the power of low-budget tv programming, I have come to realize that Quincy was a really preachy show. Emergency rooms should always have surgeons at the ready. Child molesters/killers should be locked up and the key thrown away. Well, DUH.
***
We’ve almost reached the end of geranium season. I haven’t dead-headed them in days, and I miss it. The stems are satisfyingly crispy when I break them off, like snapping green beans. And I’m so anal, I find searching for dead blooms among the mass of flowers to be quite satisfying and even relaxing. One day I will have a yard, and I will plant geraniums and make compost, and my life will be complete.
***
When we were in Paris, I saw what some might term “high fashion,” but that I felt to be “mummy chic.” In a shop window, someone draped a mannequin in strips of cast-off linen mummy wrappings. At the time, I chalked it up to that wacky sense of Parisian fashion. But in Salzburg a couple of weeks later, I spotted a woman wearing a very similar shirt, but more toilet paper-y looking. She had paired it with pants that tied at the ankles, so I figure she might have had a lobotomy? Who can say.
***
We were watching tv, and a commercial came on for some phone service. That reminded Darling Daughter that she needed God’s phone number so she could call him and tell him what she wanted for xmas. My SIL pointed out that you never see God and Santa in the same place, and that they both know when you’ve been naughty and when you’ve been nice, so it would be easy to confuse them.
“You’re digging your Christmas grave!”
***
I didn’t mean to imply in my last post that I don’t like cartoons. Au contraire. To wit, The Simpsons, Spongebob Squarepants, Dave the Barbarian, and Fillmore! are some of my favorite tv viewing. And I signed up to be the president of the fan club when I saw the commerical for The Dragon Slayers; any show that's about dragons and with a theme song by The Cure is all right with me. Even if it comes from France. Gasp!
***
I don’t know what exactly this IUD is doing to my body, but I suspect it has something to do with the fact that I have had the physical coordination of a gifted 4-month-old lately. The last time I was this clumsy, I was very pregnant. [It would take micro-surgery and/or a miracle for that to be the cause this time.] All I know is that I’m sick of spilling, dropping, bumping, and breaking everything. The way I’ve snapped off the tips of several of my fingernails by banging them into wooden furniture and ripped my cuticle so it bled (while wrestling bags of cat litter into the back of the car), I’m surprised I didn’t chop off a finger making stew.
***
Thanks to the power of low-budget tv programming, I have come to realize that Quincy was a really preachy show. Emergency rooms should always have surgeons at the ready. Child molesters/killers should be locked up and the key thrown away. Well, DUH.
***
We’ve almost reached the end of geranium season. I haven’t dead-headed them in days, and I miss it. The stems are satisfyingly crispy when I break them off, like snapping green beans. And I’m so anal, I find searching for dead blooms among the mass of flowers to be quite satisfying and even relaxing. One day I will have a yard, and I will plant geraniums and make compost, and my life will be complete.
***
When we were in Paris, I saw what some might term “high fashion,” but that I felt to be “mummy chic.” In a shop window, someone draped a mannequin in strips of cast-off linen mummy wrappings. At the time, I chalked it up to that wacky sense of Parisian fashion. But in Salzburg a couple of weeks later, I spotted a woman wearing a very similar shirt, but more toilet paper-y looking. She had paired it with pants that tied at the ankles, so I figure she might have had a lobotomy? Who can say.
***
We were watching tv, and a commercial came on for some phone service. That reminded Darling Daughter that she needed God’s phone number so she could call him and tell him what she wanted for xmas. My SIL pointed out that you never see God and Santa in the same place, and that they both know when you’ve been naughty and when you’ve been nice, so it would be easy to confuse them.
Monday, September 19, 2005
Who Needs Reality TV When There Are Commercials?
Most of my television-watching these days consists of cartoons interspersed with 5-minute CNN bits whenever D.D. goes to the bathroom. The only bright spot in my endlessly animated days are the commercials.
My favorite, which has since gone off the air, was for a men’s deodorant or aftershave (I can’t remember which brand). It’s supposed to be a product for manly men, so it shows the first guy punching through the medicine cabinet mirror to get out his aftershave. He jumps out the window onto the top of a bus, where some other men are already sitting, reading the paper. A cop turns a donut and skids up to the window of a coffee shop, where the girl has his coffee waiting for him. At the office, guys are flipping their cars into their parking spaces or dropping from a helicopter through the skylight into a meeting. A delivery guy, who is *on fire* jumps his motorcycle through the front window of the building, and the security guy shows no reaction other than to point to a sign that shows “no helmets.” If I were a guy, I would definitely have bought their product.
D.D.’s favorite, which is a classic in its own right, is for Kinder Chocofresh. This is a chocolaty, creamy, cool dessert that should be a food group all on its own. In the commercial, a mom and her two kids (one of each) ask the grocery store guy where they can find them. He pulls them off the fridge shelf and starts emoting about how wonderful they are while opening the package and wafting them in front of the children as he cracks them open to show the delicious middle. When he pops one in his mouth, the little girl—who looks about 5 years old and has a cutsey lisp—cracks: “Give me one or I’ll knock over your cooler shelf!” That is a self-confident child.
And I just now came across this ad for Carlton Draught (via Making Light), and I almost peed my pants. A meta-ad set to Carmina Burana has to be the highest form of advertising. EVAH.
My favorite, which has since gone off the air, was for a men’s deodorant or aftershave (I can’t remember which brand). It’s supposed to be a product for manly men, so it shows the first guy punching through the medicine cabinet mirror to get out his aftershave. He jumps out the window onto the top of a bus, where some other men are already sitting, reading the paper. A cop turns a donut and skids up to the window of a coffee shop, where the girl has his coffee waiting for him. At the office, guys are flipping their cars into their parking spaces or dropping from a helicopter through the skylight into a meeting. A delivery guy, who is *on fire* jumps his motorcycle through the front window of the building, and the security guy shows no reaction other than to point to a sign that shows “no helmets.” If I were a guy, I would definitely have bought their product.
D.D.’s favorite, which is a classic in its own right, is for Kinder Chocofresh. This is a chocolaty, creamy, cool dessert that should be a food group all on its own. In the commercial, a mom and her two kids (one of each) ask the grocery store guy where they can find them. He pulls them off the fridge shelf and starts emoting about how wonderful they are while opening the package and wafting them in front of the children as he cracks them open to show the delicious middle. When he pops one in his mouth, the little girl—who looks about 5 years old and has a cutsey lisp—cracks: “Give me one or I’ll knock over your cooler shelf!” That is a self-confident child.
And I just now came across this ad for Carlton Draught (via Making Light), and I almost peed my pants. A meta-ad set to Carmina Burana has to be the highest form of advertising. EVAH.
Friday, September 16, 2005
The Wonderful, Funderful Thing about D.D.
My daughter is what some people might call a “character.” She’s not necessarily a ham; as a matter of fact, she doesn’t usually care to have attention called to herself. But every day I discover something new and interesting (and often, entertaining) about her.
When we were driving to Paris with the grandparents, Gwamma the RN wanted to take a look at a sore that D.D. had on her wrist. From the back seat, I heard, “You’re pressing on my weak spot!” In retaliation, she pressed—hard—on Gwamma’s “weak spot”: her voice box. That’ll learn her!
But D.D. got back into Gwamma’s good graces by giving her a water-bottle full of kisses when we returned home. She has since bestowed such a bottle on her dad. Where’s mine?!
When we went to Versailles, she was a bit bored, as you could imagine an 8-year-old to be. She insisted on keeping her empty drink bottle from lunch, and since we were going to tour the gardens next, we figured, “Why not?” So we got a jug-band accompaniment through the gardens of Versailles.
I found a note in my Palm, but I’m not sure where we were when she cheerfully inquired, “Who wants to dress up like a tree?” Farther down in the note, she informed us that her itchy ears were caused by chicken bones and Caesar salad in her ears. O-kay.
She has the power to be unintentionally cruel, but also kind. I was sitting on the bed, changing into my jammies, when she commented, “Those panties make your butt look bigger than it really is.” So charming!
But she can also break my heart a little. Last night, she wrapped her Molly doll in a blanket, deposited her at the foot of my chair, and ran behind the couch to hide. I looked down at Molly, who had a post-it note stuck on her blanket: “Please love her.” Crack—there went my heart. She explained that she wanted me to treat Molly well, not like the Dursleys treat Harry Potter.
When we were driving to Paris with the grandparents, Gwamma the RN wanted to take a look at a sore that D.D. had on her wrist. From the back seat, I heard, “You’re pressing on my weak spot!” In retaliation, she pressed—hard—on Gwamma’s “weak spot”: her voice box. That’ll learn her!
But D.D. got back into Gwamma’s good graces by giving her a water-bottle full of kisses when we returned home. She has since bestowed such a bottle on her dad. Where’s mine?!
When we went to Versailles, she was a bit bored, as you could imagine an 8-year-old to be. She insisted on keeping her empty drink bottle from lunch, and since we were going to tour the gardens next, we figured, “Why not?” So we got a jug-band accompaniment through the gardens of Versailles.
I found a note in my Palm, but I’m not sure where we were when she cheerfully inquired, “Who wants to dress up like a tree?” Farther down in the note, she informed us that her itchy ears were caused by chicken bones and Caesar salad in her ears. O-kay.
She has the power to be unintentionally cruel, but also kind. I was sitting on the bed, changing into my jammies, when she commented, “Those panties make your butt look bigger than it really is.” So charming!
But she can also break my heart a little. Last night, she wrapped her Molly doll in a blanket, deposited her at the foot of my chair, and ran behind the couch to hide. I looked down at Molly, who had a post-it note stuck on her blanket: “Please love her.” Crack—there went my heart. She explained that she wanted me to treat Molly well, not like the Dursleys treat Harry Potter.
Thursday, September 15, 2005
Life—Live It! *
Monday was a whirlwind of activity for all of us. L.H. was out the door by 5:25 to take the bus to the train station, where he caught the first shuttle to the regional airport ... and still didn’t make his flight. So he ended up taking an alternate route; at least he made it to Sweden, if not his final destination in Sweden, on the same day he left home.
D.D.’s first day of school went without a hitch. I’ve managed to get her to school on time every day this week (if just barely yesterday), and although she had homework already on the first day, she hasn’t complained about it too much. Except about her times tables, which I force her to practice.
Her first ballet class since July also went better than she had expected. They have a recital in 4 weeks, and D.D. remembered their dance well enough that she was able to hiss directions at the girl in front of her, who, unfortunately, was just as clueless before the summer vacation. D.D. claims she wants to drop ballet, but I told her that she’d have to wait until xmas break at the earliest. When I asked her what kind of class she would like to take instead—L.H. and I agree that she needs a couple of extracurricular activities—she answered, “Play with my friends?” Wrong!
I made a list of about a hundred million errands to do on Monday, so once I got D.D. safely tucked away at school, I headed to town. By 1, I had done everything possible on my list, and I was ready to lie down and never get up again. Since Monday, I have contented myself with piddling, time-wasting chores around the house, but I really need to work on my paper that’s due October 1. Eek!
Of course, in the midst of all this busy-work, I had an idea for another story, and a flash of insight on a work-in-progress. Not the best timing, eh? But it seems that the more mental power I am devoting to life and stuff, the more the creative juices get flowing. (Actually, I hate that phrase—I always have a mental image of a thawing turkey dripping blood. Ick!) One day I’ll get it together and complete some of these stories floating around in my head, but not today.
* Thanks, Louie Anderson, for the best philosophy of life ever.
D.D.’s first day of school went without a hitch. I’ve managed to get her to school on time every day this week (if just barely yesterday), and although she had homework already on the first day, she hasn’t complained about it too much. Except about her times tables, which I force her to practice.
Her first ballet class since July also went better than she had expected. They have a recital in 4 weeks, and D.D. remembered their dance well enough that she was able to hiss directions at the girl in front of her, who, unfortunately, was just as clueless before the summer vacation. D.D. claims she wants to drop ballet, but I told her that she’d have to wait until xmas break at the earliest. When I asked her what kind of class she would like to take instead—L.H. and I agree that she needs a couple of extracurricular activities—she answered, “Play with my friends?” Wrong!
I made a list of about a hundred million errands to do on Monday, so once I got D.D. safely tucked away at school, I headed to town. By 1, I had done everything possible on my list, and I was ready to lie down and never get up again. Since Monday, I have contented myself with piddling, time-wasting chores around the house, but I really need to work on my paper that’s due October 1. Eek!
Of course, in the midst of all this busy-work, I had an idea for another story, and a flash of insight on a work-in-progress. Not the best timing, eh? But it seems that the more mental power I am devoting to life and stuff, the more the creative juices get flowing. (Actually, I hate that phrase—I always have a mental image of a thawing turkey dripping blood. Ick!) One day I’ll get it together and complete some of these stories floating around in my head, but not today.
* Thanks, Louie Anderson, for the best philosophy of life ever.
Wednesday, September 14, 2005
My Worst Fear as a Writer
from CNN International online:
Failure, escape and 'The Outsiders': Francis Ford Coppola remembers a labor of love
...
He's taken a year's break from "Megalopolis," a script about New York in the future that he's labored on for more than two decades.
" 'Megalopolis' is like being in love with a beautiful woman who doesn't want you," he said. "So you don't get to meet anyone else and you don't get her."
Failure, escape and 'The Outsiders': Francis Ford Coppola remembers a labor of love
...
He's taken a year's break from "Megalopolis," a script about New York in the future that he's labored on for more than two decades.
" 'Megalopolis' is like being in love with a beautiful woman who doesn't want you," he said. "So you don't get to meet anyone else and you don't get her."
Friday, September 09, 2005
Trip the Second: Rothenburg
So I lied (well, forgot). Before the trek to Paris, we made a day-trip to Rothenburg ob der Tauber, which is basically an intact medieval town. We strolled about, gawping at the half-timbered houses and window-shopping. After St. Jacob’s Church, we hit the Christmas store. Oh. My. God. I love xmas, but I was smothering in it by the time we fought our way out of there. I can only stand so much flocking and cinnamon incense before descending into madness.
So then we split up. The chicks went to the Doll and Toy Museum, where they had a rockin’ Barbie display, and the guys went to the Medieval Crime Museum. Make of that what you will. We ended the trip with a walk along the top of the defensive wall surrounding the old town. I had to hold D.D.’s hand at first, because she’s “afraid of heights” (it comes and goes). She was telling me all the things she’s afraid of: “heights, snakes with big teeth (she put her fingers to her mouth like fangs, a la Holy Grail), giant snakes that can squeeze you like a boa constructor [sic], ok—all snakes.” My mom doesn’t like snakes, either, so you’re in good company kid.
We stayed home on Monday to do some laundry, and when I popped out to pick up some groceries, D.D. and LMIL got busy tie-dying a couple of t-shirts and 2 pairs of socks (D.D.’s idea). We hid what was left of the dye, in case she got any other ideas. So now she has enough to wear that she’ll only have to pick a non-batik outfit once a week.
So then we split up. The chicks went to the Doll and Toy Museum, where they had a rockin’ Barbie display, and the guys went to the Medieval Crime Museum. Make of that what you will. We ended the trip with a walk along the top of the defensive wall surrounding the old town. I had to hold D.D.’s hand at first, because she’s “afraid of heights” (it comes and goes). She was telling me all the things she’s afraid of: “heights, snakes with big teeth (she put her fingers to her mouth like fangs, a la Holy Grail), giant snakes that can squeeze you like a boa constructor [sic], ok—all snakes.” My mom doesn’t like snakes, either, so you’re in good company kid.
We stayed home on Monday to do some laundry, and when I popped out to pick up some groceries, D.D. and LMIL got busy tie-dying a couple of t-shirts and 2 pairs of socks (D.D.’s idea). We hid what was left of the dye, in case she got any other ideas. So now she has enough to wear that she’ll only have to pick a non-batik outfit once a week.
A Joke Composed by Darling Daughter
What do you call a Ballerina who fell down?
She piroueted [sic] out fine!
pirouette=turn
Get it?
She piroueted [sic] out fine!
pirouette=turn
Get it?
Thursday, September 08, 2005
Farewell to Summer
Summer is over, and what a busy summer it was. In the 6 weeks D.D. was out of school, we visited with 2 sets of relatives and made 6 trips encompassing 12 towns. We’ve been to the pool a handful of times, including the time of composition, and I am now sporting a wicked farmer tan consisting of a white stripe across my wrist from my watch and brown stripes across my feet from my Mary Janes. Eat your heart out!
We heard on the radio that September 1 was meteorologically the first day of fall. We’re getting a last gasp of “high summer” weather—sunny and warm—but I can tell that the light is already different. In Texas, the light is basically the same all year round. It lasts a little longer and is more intense in summer, but the sun rises and sets in the same part of the sky. In another couple of weeks here in Germany, the sun will be rising noticeably later and farther south. It’s not as extreme as in Sweden (thank the 7 dwarfs!), but it is still disconcerting to a Texas girl.
I just heard from a friend at the pool that there are thunder storms in the forecast, then it is supposed to get cooler. D.D. had already been predicting cool weather: school’s starting, therefore it must cool down. Rats. The plus side is that I didn’t have to buy much in the way of summer clothes for D.D. this year because she still fit most of them from last year, although the shorts were bordering on indecently short, even though they fit in the waist. Since she’s only been out of jeans for about a week, she still has something to wear to school next week. Soon we’ll be into the season of layering for crisp fall mornings and warm fall afternoons. Step Dad was the first to notice that some of the trees were already changing color. Oh well, I like fall, I just would have liked a little more summer this year. Sigh.
We heard on the radio that September 1 was meteorologically the first day of fall. We’re getting a last gasp of “high summer” weather—sunny and warm—but I can tell that the light is already different. In Texas, the light is basically the same all year round. It lasts a little longer and is more intense in summer, but the sun rises and sets in the same part of the sky. In another couple of weeks here in Germany, the sun will be rising noticeably later and farther south. It’s not as extreme as in Sweden (thank the 7 dwarfs!), but it is still disconcerting to a Texas girl.
I just heard from a friend at the pool that there are thunder storms in the forecast, then it is supposed to get cooler. D.D. had already been predicting cool weather: school’s starting, therefore it must cool down. Rats. The plus side is that I didn’t have to buy much in the way of summer clothes for D.D. this year because she still fit most of them from last year, although the shorts were bordering on indecently short, even though they fit in the waist. Since she’s only been out of jeans for about a week, she still has something to wear to school next week. Soon we’ll be into the season of layering for crisp fall mornings and warm fall afternoons. Step Dad was the first to notice that some of the trees were already changing color. Oh well, I like fall, I just would have liked a little more summer this year. Sigh.
Today’s Guest Blogger: Darling Daughter
Well, I’m back from a boring Trip to PARIS. I think I would like to draw a Mustache [sic] and Beard on the Mona lisa (and devil horns!).
[Typed verbatim from her written notes. As you may have noticed, she has a very German way of looking at capitalization.]
[Typed verbatim from her written notes. As you may have noticed, she has a very German way of looking at capitalization.]
Wednesday, September 07, 2005
Heads up on comments change
Within an hour of my last post, I had 2 spam comments, and rather than let them get a toe-hold, I've set my comments so that you have to enter a word that appears on the screen (like when you start almost any online account these days) when you comment. I hope that doesn't put any of you off commenting, but I hope it keeps the comment section spam-free. Let me know if anyone has problems with it.
-Nee
-Nee
Trip the First
So, the last 3 weeks or so... For those just tuning in, my Lovely Mother-In-Law and her husband (Step Dad), were the first to break the time/money/distance-barrier and come to visit us here in Germany. We had them for 12 fun-filled, travel-packed days, so we (and they!) were exhausted by the time we put them on the plane a week ago Tuesday.
When they arrived, Darling Daughter must have thought xmas had come early, because in addition to the “supplies” we had requested (like grape jelly and mac-n-cheese) and some books we had ordered to be sent to them, they also brought some fantastic gifts for her (and some for us), like a new dress and even more books. Since their arrival on Aug. 18, D.D. has read 7 new books for a total of 1,040 pages. That doesn’t include the books she already had that she reread at bedtime during that period. We’ve got a reader on our hands! Anyhoo, the books helped keep her occupied during all our boring travelling.
Our first extended-family excursion was a cruise up the Rhine on the castle tour. Step Dad especially loved it; I don’t think he really knew what to expect from Germany, but it seems he was more than pleasantly surprised. D.D. retreated beneath her umbrella to ward off the sun while she read her book, not even emerging when the Spanish contingent of the World Youth Day goers began dancing and singing. We were treated to the sight of teens in low-rise jeans dancing flamenco and the macarena, ostensibly for God. Having grown up Southern Baptist, I was somewhat scandalized. Ok, I’m lying—our church was of the hypocritical variety, and I do not recall dancing ever being mentioned, much less condemned, there. Mostly we were annoyed because they were obviously not appreciating the castles like we were trying to. Fortunately, they got off before we did.
We visited the town of Braubach and its castle, the Marksburg. It was the in-laws' first castle! Then we took a regional train down to Rüdesheim, a short ferry ride away from our car. We probably could have skipped the Drosselgasse, but at least LMIL and S.D. were able to eat their first German fast food there—pork steak and onions on a roll, if I remember correctly. Much better then McFood!
It was late when we got home, then we spent the next day recouperating.
Next installment: Trip the Second (Paris)
When they arrived, Darling Daughter must have thought xmas had come early, because in addition to the “supplies” we had requested (like grape jelly and mac-n-cheese) and some books we had ordered to be sent to them, they also brought some fantastic gifts for her (and some for us), like a new dress and even more books. Since their arrival on Aug. 18, D.D. has read 7 new books for a total of 1,040 pages. That doesn’t include the books she already had that she reread at bedtime during that period. We’ve got a reader on our hands! Anyhoo, the books helped keep her occupied during all our boring travelling.
Our first extended-family excursion was a cruise up the Rhine on the castle tour. Step Dad especially loved it; I don’t think he really knew what to expect from Germany, but it seems he was more than pleasantly surprised. D.D. retreated beneath her umbrella to ward off the sun while she read her book, not even emerging when the Spanish contingent of the World Youth Day goers began dancing and singing. We were treated to the sight of teens in low-rise jeans dancing flamenco and the macarena, ostensibly for God. Having grown up Southern Baptist, I was somewhat scandalized. Ok, I’m lying—our church was of the hypocritical variety, and I do not recall dancing ever being mentioned, much less condemned, there. Mostly we were annoyed because they were obviously not appreciating the castles like we were trying to. Fortunately, they got off before we did.
We visited the town of Braubach and its castle, the Marksburg. It was the in-laws' first castle! Then we took a regional train down to Rüdesheim, a short ferry ride away from our car. We probably could have skipped the Drosselgasse, but at least LMIL and S.D. were able to eat their first German fast food there—pork steak and onions on a roll, if I remember correctly. Much better then McFood!
It was late when we got home, then we spent the next day recouperating.
Next installment: Trip the Second (Paris)
Tuesday, September 06, 2005
Boo-Hoo for Me
I’m not getting much sympathy from L.H., so I’ll cry on the virtual shoulder of my online friends and family instead. After I got out of the shower this morning, I noticed a rash on the insides of my forearms. In the meanwhile, it has moved across my chest, torso, neck, face, and now feet. I haven’t dropped my pants to check my legs. L.H.’s unhelpful response when I showed him: heat rash. Could be, if it weren’t 75F in our shady house. Anyhow, this rash is just the latest in a string of minor illnesses over the last week-and-a-half.
First, I think I had a kidney infection. We got back from France with the extended family on Friday, and I developed back pain and pee-urgency on Saturday. (And I started my period. Insult to injury, eh?) Fortunately, my Lovely MIL is an RN, and she always travels with UTI meds after having developed one on vacation several years ago. So she hooked me up with some sulfa drugs. Mmmm... I still had intermittent back pain over the following week, but Alleve came to my rescue.
Then there was the pill-swallowing incident. Even at 32, I still gag on large pills. [I think LilSis does, too, so maybe it’s a family thing.] Anyhow,
Large Pill + Nee = Barf > 2 Days of Nausea.
Also, mucho travelling means mucho constipation, so I’ve been dealing with the end results of that (no pun intended), including diarrhea. I’m about ready to trade in this body for a more reliable one.
[Added the next day:] The morning we were leaving for southern Germany, I woke up with no back pain, but with a crick in my neck. I couldn't move my head to the right, so I missed all the scenery on that side of the car.
Needless to say, once must of the above had passed, Lovely Husband had a bout of vomiting while in southern Germany, and Darling Daughter had one in the car on the way home. I’m hoping we will all be well again by next week, because on Monday D.D. starts third grade and L.H. flies to Sweden for a week. That means I get to be a single parent again, if only for a week, but at least my classes haven’t started yet. Otherwise I’d probably need another vacation when L.H. got back.
First, I think I had a kidney infection. We got back from France with the extended family on Friday, and I developed back pain and pee-urgency on Saturday. (And I started my period. Insult to injury, eh?) Fortunately, my Lovely MIL is an RN, and she always travels with UTI meds after having developed one on vacation several years ago. So she hooked me up with some sulfa drugs. Mmmm... I still had intermittent back pain over the following week, but Alleve came to my rescue.
Then there was the pill-swallowing incident. Even at 32, I still gag on large pills. [I think LilSis does, too, so maybe it’s a family thing.] Anyhow,
Large Pill + Nee = Barf > 2 Days of Nausea.
Also, mucho travelling means mucho constipation, so I’ve been dealing with the end results of that (no pun intended), including diarrhea. I’m about ready to trade in this body for a more reliable one.
[Added the next day:] The morning we were leaving for southern Germany, I woke up with no back pain, but with a crick in my neck. I couldn't move my head to the right, so I missed all the scenery on that side of the car.
Needless to say, once must of the above had passed, Lovely Husband had a bout of vomiting while in southern Germany, and Darling Daughter had one in the car on the way home. I’m hoping we will all be well again by next week, because on Monday D.D. starts third grade and L.H. flies to Sweden for a week. That means I get to be a single parent again, if only for a week, but at least my classes haven’t started yet. Otherwise I’d probably need another vacation when L.H. got back.
Monday, September 05, 2005
Non-Blogging Raised to an Art Form
It has been much harder getting back into the swing of blogging than I would have thought. On the one hand, I haven’t done much more than jot down enigmatic notes (“duck”--?) for the last 3 weeks or so, so cobbling them together into a witty, coherent post is proving to be a challenge. On the other hand, so much has happened that it is overwhelming trying to 1) remember everything, and 2) explain it. Darling Daughter just got two new videos today, so I’m hoping to scribble away the evening as she vegges out.
Of course, my pathetic attempt to explain away my absence pales to the eloquence of Fafnir (see “The News” and “missing time”).
Of course, my pathetic attempt to explain away my absence pales to the eloquence of Fafnir (see “The News” and “missing time”).
Wednesday, August 31, 2005
Aack! 14 days since my last post!
Blog Protective Services will be coming after me for neglecting this thing, and there are still more days of non-blogging to come. Tomorrow we're leaving to visit L.H.'s grandfather's girlfriend (it's a long story) in southern Germany/Austria, and we won't be back until Sunday. I have tons I could say (but have not yet) about the last 2 weeks, but I promise to busily scribble while L.H. drives this weekend.
Carry on.
Carry on.
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
Cleaning House
After 5 days of cleaning my home (1), we took a day off and went to the pool and out to dinner. Except for the fact that my freckles have decided to form one giant freckle across my nose and cheeks, the whole outing was a success.
(1) And not just because the in-laws are winging their way across the Atlantic even as I type. I was mostly in student mode during the spring and early summer, when I would normally give Spring Cleaning a go, so I had saved up all the teeny, gritty jobs for "when I'm done with school." It caught up with me with a vengeance, but you won't find cleaner windows, sliding-glass-door runners, or grout anywhere.
And in the spirit of cleaning house, I'm trimming some of the dead wood here. For instance, the horrible post from July 27 is already gone, but I fully intend to put the photo (of the orange lion statue) back up with new commentary that's a little more erudite than "What the f***?"
As I mentioned above, though, the in-laws will be here for 2 weeks, so I'll be having so much fun I probably won't have time to post much. We'll be in Paris for another whirlwind, 4-day excursion starting next week, so there will be much to see and discuss when I get back. See you then!
(1) And not just because the in-laws are winging their way across the Atlantic even as I type. I was mostly in student mode during the spring and early summer, when I would normally give Spring Cleaning a go, so I had saved up all the teeny, gritty jobs for "when I'm done with school." It caught up with me with a vengeance, but you won't find cleaner windows, sliding-glass-door runners, or grout anywhere.
And in the spirit of cleaning house, I'm trimming some of the dead wood here. For instance, the horrible post from July 27 is already gone, but I fully intend to put the photo (of the orange lion statue) back up with new commentary that's a little more erudite than "What the f***?"
As I mentioned above, though, the in-laws will be here for 2 weeks, so I'll be having so much fun I probably won't have time to post much. We'll be in Paris for another whirlwind, 4-day excursion starting next week, so there will be much to see and discuss when I get back. See you then!
Sunday, August 14, 2005
The Seinfeldian Post
D.D. and I actually had a very good shopping experience yesterday. L.H. had to stay home and work (so sad! and on his birthday!). I had a fairly thorough list, a working pen, and my slug for the cart—I have managed to leave one or more of these items at home in the recent past—plus we’d had a snack before we left, so we were all set. D.D. didn’t have the gimmes and was a good helper. It was great.
Halfway through the store, I wanted to lie down and die. Not due to the usual store-induced stress, though. The in-store music was one of my favorite Depeche Mode songs, one I’ve been listening to repeatedly while I work in the kitchen. My youth was suddenly ripped from me for the listening pleasure of persons trying to decide between lemon-scented or plain toilet bowl cleaner. Noooo!
L.H. just turned 32, but it’ll be a cold day in hell when the Mini-Mal plays *anything* by Yngwie Malmsteen, his favorite rock musician, the epitome of an 80s hair-rocker (although, to give him his musical props, he is supposed to be something of a guitar virtuoso). So L.H. will be able to hold on to the illusion of being too young and hip for grocery store music. Grrr...
I’m withholding judgment on this stupid estrogen patch thing until after I take it off tonight. If the spotting stops, it’ll be the best thing since sliced bread. If not, I could have saved myself the five bucks and just put a piece of tape on my stomach, because that’s what it felt like at first. It’s an odd sensation—try it sometime.
LMIL commented that little kids can be satisfied with the smallest things, and I thought, “Yeah, but not mine,” because D.D. was in full Barbie-wanting mode at the time. But once again she’s proved me wrong. She got a cheap, 4-inch, stuffed dog from a package of wet wipes, and you’d think it was her newborn the way she cares for it. It has a special fortified bed made of pillows to protect it from the cats (and light, and noise) while it sleeps, and she’s been keeping it on a strict eating and napping schedule. She even gave it her own middle name. I can only imagine the level of care a rubber band or a twist tie might receive.
Halfway through the store, I wanted to lie down and die. Not due to the usual store-induced stress, though. The in-store music was one of my favorite Depeche Mode songs, one I’ve been listening to repeatedly while I work in the kitchen. My youth was suddenly ripped from me for the listening pleasure of persons trying to decide between lemon-scented or plain toilet bowl cleaner. Noooo!
L.H. just turned 32, but it’ll be a cold day in hell when the Mini-Mal plays *anything* by Yngwie Malmsteen, his favorite rock musician, the epitome of an 80s hair-rocker (although, to give him his musical props, he is supposed to be something of a guitar virtuoso). So L.H. will be able to hold on to the illusion of being too young and hip for grocery store music. Grrr...
I’m withholding judgment on this stupid estrogen patch thing until after I take it off tonight. If the spotting stops, it’ll be the best thing since sliced bread. If not, I could have saved myself the five bucks and just put a piece of tape on my stomach, because that’s what it felt like at first. It’s an odd sensation—try it sometime.
LMIL commented that little kids can be satisfied with the smallest things, and I thought, “Yeah, but not mine,” because D.D. was in full Barbie-wanting mode at the time. But once again she’s proved me wrong. She got a cheap, 4-inch, stuffed dog from a package of wet wipes, and you’d think it was her newborn the way she cares for it. It has a special fortified bed made of pillows to protect it from the cats (and light, and noise) while it sleeps, and she’s been keeping it on a strict eating and napping schedule. She even gave it her own middle name. I can only imagine the level of care a rubber band or a twist tie might receive.
Saturday, August 13, 2005
Friday, August 12, 2005
Time Flies When You're Soaking Wet
My Lovely Husband will be 32 tomorrow, and he’s going into it kicking and screaming. I hadn’t realized it was such an issue for him until he confessed that he really thought he was turning 31.
2005-1973=32, Baby.
I may be 6 months older, but he can’t make the difference even larger just by wishing it. I told him that he can feel as young as he wants (I myself often feel about 12).
Darling Daughter has been stuck in high-glam mode for a couple of days now, so the dress-up box and make-up bag have taken up semi-permanent residence in the living room. Yesterday she was a fairy, complete with feather-bedecked wings, magic wand, and high heels. She discovered that the heels can poke holes in cardboard, so part of the evening was spent perforating the flaps I had cut off a box. Later, though, she declared that even fairies like to be comfortable, and she changed her heels (still with the wings) for sock and tennies. That’s my girl!
I was also supposed to be a fairy, but I was in turbo-cleaning mode; I allowed myself to be dolled up a bit with make-up and a choker made of a shoelace and an enormous, blue silk carnation. I think it was just the right touch to go with my Muppet t-shirt and flannel pajama pants.
First, D.D. wanted to have a fairy ball, but as it was just the two of us (L.H. was out), that was a bust. Then it was time for fairy school. I had my wand revoked for not attending class and for not watching Dave the Barbarian. D.D. is a harsh teacher, people.
Later that evening, she changed into what she thought looked like a belly-dancing costume, complete with veil. She gets this really serious look on her face when she’s dancing; it’s almost comical, but you can tell she’s totally earnest.
This morning she wore one of her tutus plus a metric ton of make-up, including a purple stripe under her eyes and across the bridge of her nose. So she could be an Indian ballerina, don’t you know. She opted to ditch the make-up and tutu but keep the bun to go into town, of which I heartily approved to myself, although I told her that whatever she wanted was fine. She obviously thought she looked great (and we repeatedly told her she looked great; sue me), but no one would mistake her for a mini-Britney Spears, so I figured, what the hell. But it turns out that she’s more modest in public than at home, so she wanted the make-up off before going out.
The weather today is just fabulous—sunny but mild and only occasionally overcast. I don’t think it’s gotten over 80. Mmmm... D.D. and I went to the playground to enjoy the good weather. She ran about for 10 minutes or so, then decided to read and cool off. She had a book handily tucked into her large, black, vinyl purse, which I had to tote for her starting when we got off the bus. I’m sure it’s the perfect accessory for my Harry Potter t-shirt and jeans. She managed to read about 30 pages and finish it while we sat there.
After writing the above, Mother Nature ran up behind me with a large “Kick Me” sign. D.D. and I went into a shop, and while I was buying her a long-sleeved Barbie shirt and some new socks, it started to rain. Buckets. Neither of us had a jacket or an umbrella, but at least we had the new shirt to pull over D.D.’s sundress. So instead of getting an ice cream while we were out, we got hot chocolate.
Last year, D.D. swore that the icky Tales from the Cryptkeeper cartoon series [I know...what were we thinking?!] was not scary and that she liked it. We cut her off when the episodes started repeating, and then it went off the air. We foolishly thought we were safe. It recently came back on, but now, as soon as the intro starts, D.D. yells, “Turn it off! Turn it off! Turn it off!” and puts her hands over her ears. She has decided that the music creeps her out, and if we don’t turn it off quickly, it gets stuck in her head. I can relate to that. [B-O-M-B-Y!] When we got in the car the other day, some “heavy” rock song was playing on the radio, and D.D. informed me that it was her and her dad’s favorite song; it was also the only song that could banish the TftC theme song. I think she just hasn’t given BOMBY a chance.
2005-1973=32, Baby.
I may be 6 months older, but he can’t make the difference even larger just by wishing it. I told him that he can feel as young as he wants (I myself often feel about 12).
Darling Daughter has been stuck in high-glam mode for a couple of days now, so the dress-up box and make-up bag have taken up semi-permanent residence in the living room. Yesterday she was a fairy, complete with feather-bedecked wings, magic wand, and high heels. She discovered that the heels can poke holes in cardboard, so part of the evening was spent perforating the flaps I had cut off a box. Later, though, she declared that even fairies like to be comfortable, and she changed her heels (still with the wings) for sock and tennies. That’s my girl!
I was also supposed to be a fairy, but I was in turbo-cleaning mode; I allowed myself to be dolled up a bit with make-up and a choker made of a shoelace and an enormous, blue silk carnation. I think it was just the right touch to go with my Muppet t-shirt and flannel pajama pants.
First, D.D. wanted to have a fairy ball, but as it was just the two of us (L.H. was out), that was a bust. Then it was time for fairy school. I had my wand revoked for not attending class and for not watching Dave the Barbarian. D.D. is a harsh teacher, people.
Later that evening, she changed into what she thought looked like a belly-dancing costume, complete with veil. She gets this really serious look on her face when she’s dancing; it’s almost comical, but you can tell she’s totally earnest.
This morning she wore one of her tutus plus a metric ton of make-up, including a purple stripe under her eyes and across the bridge of her nose. So she could be an Indian ballerina, don’t you know. She opted to ditch the make-up and tutu but keep the bun to go into town, of which I heartily approved to myself, although I told her that whatever she wanted was fine. She obviously thought she looked great (and we repeatedly told her she looked great; sue me), but no one would mistake her for a mini-Britney Spears, so I figured, what the hell. But it turns out that she’s more modest in public than at home, so she wanted the make-up off before going out.
The weather today is just fabulous—sunny but mild and only occasionally overcast. I don’t think it’s gotten over 80. Mmmm... D.D. and I went to the playground to enjoy the good weather. She ran about for 10 minutes or so, then decided to read and cool off. She had a book handily tucked into her large, black, vinyl purse, which I had to tote for her starting when we got off the bus. I’m sure it’s the perfect accessory for my Harry Potter t-shirt and jeans. She managed to read about 30 pages and finish it while we sat there.
After writing the above, Mother Nature ran up behind me with a large “Kick Me” sign. D.D. and I went into a shop, and while I was buying her a long-sleeved Barbie shirt and some new socks, it started to rain. Buckets. Neither of us had a jacket or an umbrella, but at least we had the new shirt to pull over D.D.’s sundress. So instead of getting an ice cream while we were out, we got hot chocolate.
Last year, D.D. swore that the icky Tales from the Cryptkeeper cartoon series [I know...what were we thinking?!] was not scary and that she liked it. We cut her off when the episodes started repeating, and then it went off the air. We foolishly thought we were safe. It recently came back on, but now, as soon as the intro starts, D.D. yells, “Turn it off! Turn it off! Turn it off!” and puts her hands over her ears. She has decided that the music creeps her out, and if we don’t turn it off quickly, it gets stuck in her head. I can relate to that. [B-O-M-B-Y!] When we got in the car the other day, some “heavy” rock song was playing on the radio, and D.D. informed me that it was her and her dad’s favorite song; it was also the only song that could banish the TftC theme song. I think she just hasn’t given BOMBY a chance.
Tuesday, August 09, 2005
Growing Pains
Sometimes my Darling Daughter seems so grown up; part of being a precocious only child, I guess. Like today while watching The Wizard of Oz, she said, "Wow. That Miss Gulch is a real bitch." She got reprimanded, of course. Then a little later, when Auntie Em declared that she couldn't say what she wanted against Miss Gulch because she herself was a Christian woman, D.D. asked, "She means what I said earlier, right?"
Then other times, I'm reminded of just how little she is. Like when her friend spent the night, and they slept in a pile of teddy bears and baby dolls.
But this afternoon showed me how she's really both at once. She set up her Play-doh sundae maker thingie and offered me a series of ice creams whose flavors were based on their colors. Typical 8-year-old behavior. Then she wanted me to rate each flavor as part of a taste test; she labeled the containers with the label maker. I wasn't aware that marketing was so in among the third-grade set.
Then other times, I'm reminded of just how little she is. Like when her friend spent the night, and they slept in a pile of teddy bears and baby dolls.
But this afternoon showed me how she's really both at once. She set up her Play-doh sundae maker thingie and offered me a series of ice creams whose flavors were based on their colors. Typical 8-year-old behavior. Then she wanted me to rate each flavor as part of a taste test; she labeled the containers with the label maker. I wasn't aware that marketing was so in among the third-grade set.
I Am the Stupidest Woman Alive
So today, I let two strangers into my home. Vacuum cleaner salesmen. Or rather, one salesman and one trainee. It only occurred to me after I had let them in that maybe it wasn't such a good idea, since it was just me and D.D. at home. I'm afraid I was only paying half-attention to the spiel, the other half of my brain trying to remember the number for the police while simultaneously planning either a hurried escape or a lunge toward the knife block in the kitchen.
Anyhow, it was a cool vacuum cleaner, if I had *an extra grand plus change* for a household appliance to suck hair and kitty litter off my floors. It came with so many attachments, I'd probably have to devote a whole closet to the beast. One attachment had a brush for cleaning between the coils of the radiators, but I bet that Swiffer brush doo-dad can't run more than five bucks, no?
My favorite attachment, though, was introduced with a flourish: "For the man." It was a tube with what appeared to be a cloven hoof on the end. My brain re-engaged and went into overdrive at that point, trying to figure out *how* it was to be used by said man. Hygiene? Personal grooming? My guesses were getting wilder and more graphic; it must have shown on my face, because he hurried to explain that it sticks to the wall where *the man* is drilling a hole, to suck up the bits of plaster and sheet rock that are knocked loose. Of course! Because only *men* know how to use a drill. Riiight!
Needless to say, we didn't get the vacuum cleaner, although I did let L.H. be the one to turn them down over the speaker phone at the door when they returned later. Yes, I am a chicken. I've decided from now on to just pretend I'm not home if L.H. is not here and the doorbell rings, because I'm obviously incapable of turning away polite but potentially murderous door-to-door salesman.
Anyhow, it was a cool vacuum cleaner, if I had *an extra grand plus change* for a household appliance to suck hair and kitty litter off my floors. It came with so many attachments, I'd probably have to devote a whole closet to the beast. One attachment had a brush for cleaning between the coils of the radiators, but I bet that Swiffer brush doo-dad can't run more than five bucks, no?
My favorite attachment, though, was introduced with a flourish: "For the man." It was a tube with what appeared to be a cloven hoof on the end. My brain re-engaged and went into overdrive at that point, trying to figure out *how* it was to be used by said man. Hygiene? Personal grooming? My guesses were getting wilder and more graphic; it must have shown on my face, because he hurried to explain that it sticks to the wall where *the man* is drilling a hole, to suck up the bits of plaster and sheet rock that are knocked loose. Of course! Because only *men* know how to use a drill. Riiight!
Needless to say, we didn't get the vacuum cleaner, although I did let L.H. be the one to turn them down over the speaker phone at the door when they returned later. Yes, I am a chicken. I've decided from now on to just pretend I'm not home if L.H. is not here and the doorbell rings, because I'm obviously incapable of turning away polite but potentially murderous door-to-door salesman.
The Arts and Crafts Movement
...at Chez Nee.
Darling Daughter and I have been trying to find ways of entertaining ourselves that don't involve so much tv on these wet and dreary days. Monday, it barely reached 70F. We were able to get out for about an hour for some errands during a timely break in the rain, but we weren't home five minutes when it started again. Otherwise, we've been stuck at home. On Sunday, we even had some rock-salt-sized hail.
So far, we've made play dough (1), worked on a paint-by-numbers of a princess on a pony, half-finished a tiny model of a funicular car, and built and rebuilt many, many Lego buildings. [FYI: MegaBlocks are compatible with Lego Duplo.] D.D. has declared that she wants to be called "Bob-ina the Builder." We've also baked a couple of batches of cookies.
Yesterday we watched A Christmas Story, and D.D. wanted to write a "theme" like Ralphie: "What I Want for Christmas." It quickly turned into a letter to Santa, which she folded, sealed with a label (she discovered the label-maker we got from her aunt and uncle for xmas, so now everything in the house is labeled with its name and/or price), and has hoarded it away for December. She wished a kitchen robot for me, a watch that turns into anything you want for her dad, and a McDonald's kitchen playset for herself. At one point while brainstorming, she was trying to come up with a way to combine a coffee maker and a massage chair; she will make a fortune when she figures it out.
I was trying to remember the bedtime story I used to tell D.D. as a toddler, about the floppy fish who didn't want to go to bed. So she wrote a title, "The Adwentures [sic] of Floppy Fish," and started dictating a few lines of text. When we looked at it again the next morning, she said, "That's good, but...it needs about 50 more pages!" I don't know when she thought I was going to whip out 50 more pages of a story I couldn't remember.
(1) LilSis's Play Dough Recipe
2 cups flour
½ cup salt
1 Tbsp. cream of tartar
1-3/4 cups boiling water
2 Tbsp. vegetable oil
food coloring
Mix together the dry stuff; mix together the wet stuff and add it to the dry stuff. (Actually, I usually wait to add the food coloring until after the dough is mixed so I can divide it and make several colors.) Cool for 10 minutes. Knead until smooth, adding flour if needed. It lasts several weeks if sealed properly (those ziploc containers work well). D.D. really enjoyed following the "recipes" on the back of the food coloring box for exotic colors like dusty rose and turquoise.
Darling Daughter and I have been trying to find ways of entertaining ourselves that don't involve so much tv on these wet and dreary days. Monday, it barely reached 70F. We were able to get out for about an hour for some errands during a timely break in the rain, but we weren't home five minutes when it started again. Otherwise, we've been stuck at home. On Sunday, we even had some rock-salt-sized hail.
So far, we've made play dough (1), worked on a paint-by-numbers of a princess on a pony, half-finished a tiny model of a funicular car, and built and rebuilt many, many Lego buildings. [FYI: MegaBlocks are compatible with Lego Duplo.] D.D. has declared that she wants to be called "Bob-ina the Builder." We've also baked a couple of batches of cookies.
Yesterday we watched A Christmas Story, and D.D. wanted to write a "theme" like Ralphie: "What I Want for Christmas." It quickly turned into a letter to Santa, which she folded, sealed with a label (she discovered the label-maker we got from her aunt and uncle for xmas, so now everything in the house is labeled with its name and/or price), and has hoarded it away for December. She wished a kitchen robot for me, a watch that turns into anything you want for her dad, and a McDonald's kitchen playset for herself. At one point while brainstorming, she was trying to come up with a way to combine a coffee maker and a massage chair; she will make a fortune when she figures it out.
I was trying to remember the bedtime story I used to tell D.D. as a toddler, about the floppy fish who didn't want to go to bed. So she wrote a title, "The Adwentures [sic] of Floppy Fish," and started dictating a few lines of text. When we looked at it again the next morning, she said, "That's good, but...it needs about 50 more pages!" I don't know when she thought I was going to whip out 50 more pages of a story I couldn't remember.
(1) LilSis's Play Dough Recipe
2 cups flour
½ cup salt
1 Tbsp. cream of tartar
1-3/4 cups boiling water
2 Tbsp. vegetable oil
food coloring
Mix together the dry stuff; mix together the wet stuff and add it to the dry stuff. (Actually, I usually wait to add the food coloring until after the dough is mixed so I can divide it and make several colors.) Cool for 10 minutes. Knead until smooth, adding flour if needed. It lasts several weeks if sealed properly (those ziploc containers work well). D.D. really enjoyed following the "recipes" on the back of the food coloring box for exotic colors like dusty rose and turquoise.
Friday, August 05, 2005
Medicine and Mayhem
My GYN offered to put me on an estrogen patch (1) instead of taking out my IUD like I asked—thanks, Doc!—so if I start acting all whacked out or express a desire to wear polyester outfits, well, you've been forewarned.
(1) She normally prescribes this to women going through "change of life," as my grandmother calls it.
L.H. has been warning me since I got the IUD that I shouldn't dick around with Mother Nature, and apparently a hormone-laden, plastic, uterine irritant is just not enough to knock her out. Who would have thought?
While at the doctor's office, I had the second worst phlebotomy experience ever. Normally, nurses look at me and have a Tootsie Roll moment, where they see a giant, pulsing vein, then they start to drool. The first vial was filled without a hitch. The second vial—two squirts, then nothing. What the hell? I couldn't have been *out of blood.* [L.H. asked if I heard 'pssst' when she put the needle in. ha ha] So the nurse looked at the partial vial and said, "It's probably enough." She slapped a band-aid on my arm, told me to press on it, and sent me on my way.
While I was waiting at the pharmacy across the street, I felt something wet on my arm. I had bled through the band-aid and my sleeve. Despite my legendarily full veins, that's never happened to me before. And it hurts like hell, to the point that I almost made myself cry test-poking it.
And in the window of the apothecary, I saw the PHARMACIST OF THE DAMNED. Marionettes are creepy enough, but a *pharmacist puppet* is downright disturbing somehow.
Our neighbors have 2 (normally) well-behaved Yorkies, Lola and Arthur. [And what is it with Yorkie owners and gay pet names? I wouldn't be surprised to meet a Hell's Angel and his Yorkie Priscilla.] Today, L. and A. have been barking almost non-stop for *5-and-a-half hours.* You'd think they would have barked themselves hoarse by now, but no such luck. After the first hour, we heard another neighbor knock on the door and ring the bell, but no one was home. Personally, I think the dogs have eaten their owners and are barking for fresh meat. L.H. is doubtful for some reason. In any case, they have just reconfirmed for me my hatred of small, yippy dogs.
Missy Cat is still taking it slow and easy after her near-death experience, but I think she's feeling more like her old self, because she tried to rip Eliza Cat a new ass for sniffing at her.
I noticed while down in the village that hairdressers must be the only people in the world who can get away with wearing a metal-studded, low-slung belt *and* thong FMPs (2) at the same time. Outside of a music video (and the aforementioned beauty parlor), I don't think I've ever seen the combination in the real world.
(2) FMPs=Fuck Me Pumps
(1) She normally prescribes this to women going through "change of life," as my grandmother calls it.
L.H. has been warning me since I got the IUD that I shouldn't dick around with Mother Nature, and apparently a hormone-laden, plastic, uterine irritant is just not enough to knock her out. Who would have thought?
While at the doctor's office, I had the second worst phlebotomy experience ever. Normally, nurses look at me and have a Tootsie Roll moment, where they see a giant, pulsing vein, then they start to drool. The first vial was filled without a hitch. The second vial—two squirts, then nothing. What the hell? I couldn't have been *out of blood.* [L.H. asked if I heard 'pssst' when she put the needle in. ha ha] So the nurse looked at the partial vial and said, "It's probably enough." She slapped a band-aid on my arm, told me to press on it, and sent me on my way.
While I was waiting at the pharmacy across the street, I felt something wet on my arm. I had bled through the band-aid and my sleeve. Despite my legendarily full veins, that's never happened to me before. And it hurts like hell, to the point that I almost made myself cry test-poking it.
And in the window of the apothecary, I saw the PHARMACIST OF THE DAMNED. Marionettes are creepy enough, but a *pharmacist puppet* is downright disturbing somehow.
Our neighbors have 2 (normally) well-behaved Yorkies, Lola and Arthur. [And what is it with Yorkie owners and gay pet names? I wouldn't be surprised to meet a Hell's Angel and his Yorkie Priscilla.] Today, L. and A. have been barking almost non-stop for *5-and-a-half hours.* You'd think they would have barked themselves hoarse by now, but no such luck. After the first hour, we heard another neighbor knock on the door and ring the bell, but no one was home. Personally, I think the dogs have eaten their owners and are barking for fresh meat. L.H. is doubtful for some reason. In any case, they have just reconfirmed for me my hatred of small, yippy dogs.
Missy Cat is still taking it slow and easy after her near-death experience, but I think she's feeling more like her old self, because she tried to rip Eliza Cat a new ass for sniffing at her.
I noticed while down in the village that hairdressers must be the only people in the world who can get away with wearing a metal-studded, low-slung belt *and* thong FMPs (2) at the same time. Outside of a music video (and the aforementioned beauty parlor), I don't think I've ever seen the combination in the real world.
(2) FMPs=Fuck Me Pumps
Thursday, August 04, 2005
Oh, How the Mighty Have Fallen, So to Speak
Missy Cat has just proven that intelligence is *not* her defining trait. She wouldn't come in from the roof-top terrace when I called her, so I slid the door to; if she wanted in, she'd have to beg (or miaow, I'm easy). Instead, I heard 'thump, thump, thump', and she was gone. L.H. went outside and checked all around the house, and there was no sight or sound of her. I took a turn during his and D.D.'s bedtime reading and found M.C. crouching in the bushes by the front door. She had apparently fallen (jumped? slipped?) from the roof of the third floor. She loves L.H. more than me, so she let him pick her up and bring her back inside.
As of bedtime, she has a light nosebleed and seems ginger on her feet, but she let me pet her and didn't try to bite off my hand when I pressed all over her belly, looking for possible internal injuries. According to a paper I read online about high-rise syndrome, cats who fall several stories tend to have injuries to the face and chest, and fractures of the limbs. M.C. doesn't seem to be in bad pain when she walks (no crying or falling or limping, just a stiff gait), so we're hoping she's better—and wiser!—in the morning. If not, there's a vet right down the street.
I am relieved as much for D.D.'s sake as for the cat's that things turned out so well (knock on wood), because Missy Cat was suddenly D.D.'s own, personal, favorite cat the minute she went missing. L.H. and I are planning to wake up early just in case.
At least we found her before it started to rain. I think it may have got up to 80F during the day, but at bedtime it was probably closer to 60F. Ick.
***
M.C. doesn't seem to have developed any further complications during the night, but we did notice a scrape on her belly this morning. It must be tender, because she nipped me when I tried to touch it. But she had made it up onto the couch on her own, and later she joined us on the bench at breakfast, so she must have been feeling much better to make the effort of hopping up on the furniture to be so sociable. Now we need to figure out how to block up the balcony where she can't get out onto the roof. Of course, with all the cool weather recently, we probably didn't even need to have that door open yesterday (but L.H. isn't happy unless he has every door and window in the house open, even when it's 60F outside).
As of bedtime, she has a light nosebleed and seems ginger on her feet, but she let me pet her and didn't try to bite off my hand when I pressed all over her belly, looking for possible internal injuries. According to a paper I read online about high-rise syndrome, cats who fall several stories tend to have injuries to the face and chest, and fractures of the limbs. M.C. doesn't seem to be in bad pain when she walks (no crying or falling or limping, just a stiff gait), so we're hoping she's better—and wiser!—in the morning. If not, there's a vet right down the street.
I am relieved as much for D.D.'s sake as for the cat's that things turned out so well (knock on wood), because Missy Cat was suddenly D.D.'s own, personal, favorite cat the minute she went missing. L.H. and I are planning to wake up early just in case.
At least we found her before it started to rain. I think it may have got up to 80F during the day, but at bedtime it was probably closer to 60F. Ick.
***
M.C. doesn't seem to have developed any further complications during the night, but we did notice a scrape on her belly this morning. It must be tender, because she nipped me when I tried to touch it. But she had made it up onto the couch on her own, and later she joined us on the bench at breakfast, so she must have been feeling much better to make the effort of hopping up on the furniture to be so sociable. Now we need to figure out how to block up the balcony where she can't get out onto the roof. Of course, with all the cool weather recently, we probably didn't even need to have that door open yesterday (but L.H. isn't happy unless he has every door and window in the house open, even when it's 60F outside).
Wednesday, August 03, 2005
A Little of This, A Little of That
Yesterday, D.D. declared she was just *too excited* because Gwamma is coming and Austin Powers will be on tv. See, Gwamma, you're in the same popularity category as Austin Powers. It's true love!
[L.H. said I should rename this "The Grandma Stroking Blog," but is it my fault that D.D. is so sweet all the time?]
My daughter is generally averse to eating anything that looks remotely natural, like vegetables, but apparently she decided to suspend the rule when it comes to cherries. Last time we bought some, she put a cherry in each cheek (several times) and was all, "Look at me! I'm a squirrel!" Unfortunately, she was a squirrel with diarrhea, because she ate most of the pint by herself at one sitting. That'll learn her.
I HATE driving down the hill in our village, because cars are parked all along the downhill side, but even more than that, I HATE riding in the passenger seat when L.H. drives down the hill. He is not driving recklessly, but he drives as close as possible to the parked cars, forcing me to gasp, flinch, and clench my gut. Not the most preferred method of exercising my stomach muscles, let me tell you. And it will never get better. Sigh.
While on our outing over the weekend, D.D. spotted a pizzeria that we will NEVER, EVER dine in. Have you ever seen the cute little pizza cook statue that adorns the sidewalk outside an Italian/pizza restaurant? He usually has a board where the day's specials are posted. This one was also holding up a tray, on which was a severed pig's head. Not remotely appetizing.
[L.H. said I should rename this "The Grandma Stroking Blog," but is it my fault that D.D. is so sweet all the time?]
My daughter is generally averse to eating anything that looks remotely natural, like vegetables, but apparently she decided to suspend the rule when it comes to cherries. Last time we bought some, she put a cherry in each cheek (several times) and was all, "Look at me! I'm a squirrel!" Unfortunately, she was a squirrel with diarrhea, because she ate most of the pint by herself at one sitting. That'll learn her.
I HATE driving down the hill in our village, because cars are parked all along the downhill side, but even more than that, I HATE riding in the passenger seat when L.H. drives down the hill. He is not driving recklessly, but he drives as close as possible to the parked cars, forcing me to gasp, flinch, and clench my gut. Not the most preferred method of exercising my stomach muscles, let me tell you. And it will never get better. Sigh.
While on our outing over the weekend, D.D. spotted a pizzeria that we will NEVER, EVER dine in. Have you ever seen the cute little pizza cook statue that adorns the sidewalk outside an Italian/pizza restaurant? He usually has a board where the day's specials are posted. This one was also holding up a tray, on which was a severed pig's head. Not remotely appetizing.
Monday, August 01, 2005
So Sad!
It seems that Darling Daughter has lost track of the number of days until Gwamma and PawPaw come, but she has a good excuse—her classmates got so annoyed with her continually announcing the countdown that she stopped counting. The shame! The infamy!
My pleasure in container gardening has turned to rage at the ants who dare to chomp my plants. Somehow, our *fourth floor balcony* has become an ant haven. They don't seem to be damaging my food plants (chives and parsley), but they're eating the hell out of the leaves on my (not yet) flowering plants. They really seem to have a jones for one type with long, grass-like blades; they've eaten most of them down to the stems! After a few violent, ineffectual rages, I got smart and looked for ant killer when I went grocery shopping. Success! The stuff smells like seasoned salt but kills like cyanide. Woo! hoo!
The ants are lucky that I didn't take a page out of the neighbor's book and bust out a flame thrower. L.H. and I thought that was kind of overkill for weed removal, but to each his own.
L.H. is in the dog house right now. [I wonder if I need a set of crocheted fridgies like his grandmother has—a dog house and several animals, each labeled with the name of a family member. The problem with that set-up is 1) magnets don't stick to our fridge, 2) I try to avoid crocheted ugliness, 3) it's a little too passive-aggressive for my taste, and 4) it's more fun to tell off my loved ones in person than to relegate their crocheted likeness to the crocheted dog house.]
Anyhow, yesterday L.H. talked us into a "short" day-trip since the weather was so nice. A "quick" trip to two nearby towns turned into an 8-hour excursion that included a hike to a spring that is allegedly the site of a major event in the Nibelungenlied (when Siegfried gets whacked), and another hike (that D.D. and I passed on) to a chapel dedicated to Saint Walburga. We packed a lunch to take with us, but we were still starving and tired when we got home. L.H. is in the dog house because he conveniently "forgot" to mention that he wanted us to do the last two things, which doubled the length of our outing and added the hated element of strenuous exercise.
My pleasure in container gardening has turned to rage at the ants who dare to chomp my plants. Somehow, our *fourth floor balcony* has become an ant haven. They don't seem to be damaging my food plants (chives and parsley), but they're eating the hell out of the leaves on my (not yet) flowering plants. They really seem to have a jones for one type with long, grass-like blades; they've eaten most of them down to the stems! After a few violent, ineffectual rages, I got smart and looked for ant killer when I went grocery shopping. Success! The stuff smells like seasoned salt but kills like cyanide. Woo! hoo!
The ants are lucky that I didn't take a page out of the neighbor's book and bust out a flame thrower. L.H. and I thought that was kind of overkill for weed removal, but to each his own.
L.H. is in the dog house right now. [I wonder if I need a set of crocheted fridgies like his grandmother has—a dog house and several animals, each labeled with the name of a family member. The problem with that set-up is 1) magnets don't stick to our fridge, 2) I try to avoid crocheted ugliness, 3) it's a little too passive-aggressive for my taste, and 4) it's more fun to tell off my loved ones in person than to relegate their crocheted likeness to the crocheted dog house.]
Anyhow, yesterday L.H. talked us into a "short" day-trip since the weather was so nice. A "quick" trip to two nearby towns turned into an 8-hour excursion that included a hike to a spring that is allegedly the site of a major event in the Nibelungenlied (when Siegfried gets whacked), and another hike (that D.D. and I passed on) to a chapel dedicated to Saint Walburga. We packed a lunch to take with us, but we were still starving and tired when we got home. L.H. is in the dog house because he conveniently "forgot" to mention that he wanted us to do the last two things, which doubled the length of our outing and added the hated element of strenuous exercise.
Saturday, July 30, 2005
More D.D.
There are few things in the world my child loves more than water, string, and paper, or any combination thereof. [The mini-crossbow with suction-cup arrows she got from a magazine in the meantime might be giving the other bits a run for their money, though.] L.H. and I have seen a wide variety of mail games D.D. came up with on her own: Delivery Duck, who speaks in a robotic quack; Letter in a Bottle, which requires a full bathtub and an empty soda bottle; the Mail Basket, which is an Easter basket tied, with a string, to the upper railing on the stairs and hoisted up and down between sender and addressee; and your basic Mailbox, which started out as a Lego box, but through the power of D.D.'s imagination and a coat of paint, has become—a mailbox!
As I've been cleaning out D.D.'s toy boxes (a couple of Rubbermaid storage bins and a cardboard box left over from our trip to Texas at xmas), I have come across more bits of paper and pieces of string and yarn than a whole kindergarten art class could use in a year. Once I got all the string detached from her toys, I made a mental note to address the string tied to every knob, bed-rail, and handle in her room tomorrow. Too tired today. Frankly, I'm surprised she hasn't accidentally strangled herself by now.
Once I finished the first toy box, I was covered in dirt and glitter, so I felt filthy but glamorous. Fortunately the other boxes turned out to be much cleaner. Hoorah! The boxes are sorted and repacked, but I still have to go through a couple of shelves in the cabinet and the space under her playbed, then actually *clean*, like with the vacuum and a dustrag. A mother's work is never done.
D.D. should actually be helping me more, seeing how she has so much free time on her hands. I'm not talking about school vacation; she is restricted from tv over the weekend because she used up *an entire bottle of dishsoap* washing a toy tea set with only 3 place settings. L.H. and I still haven't figured out how she managed to do it: she was only out of the room 5 or 10 minutes, and there was no mountain of suds to indicate that *an entire bottle of dishsoap* had just been used up. She got punished because this is not the first time she's done something like this, and she's been warned not to do it. It is really frustrating to be giving her a bath and find that both the liquid soap and the shampoo bottles have been filled with water, so there is about 5% soap to 95% water. Aargh!
She has tried to be more helpful around the house to make up for it, like being my quiche-mixing helper and table-setter last night, but she's going to find that from now on, she's going to have more chores, if only to keep her out of trouble.
As I've been cleaning out D.D.'s toy boxes (a couple of Rubbermaid storage bins and a cardboard box left over from our trip to Texas at xmas), I have come across more bits of paper and pieces of string and yarn than a whole kindergarten art class could use in a year. Once I got all the string detached from her toys, I made a mental note to address the string tied to every knob, bed-rail, and handle in her room tomorrow. Too tired today. Frankly, I'm surprised she hasn't accidentally strangled herself by now.
Once I finished the first toy box, I was covered in dirt and glitter, so I felt filthy but glamorous. Fortunately the other boxes turned out to be much cleaner. Hoorah! The boxes are sorted and repacked, but I still have to go through a couple of shelves in the cabinet and the space under her playbed, then actually *clean*, like with the vacuum and a dustrag. A mother's work is never done.
D.D. should actually be helping me more, seeing how she has so much free time on her hands. I'm not talking about school vacation; she is restricted from tv over the weekend because she used up *an entire bottle of dishsoap* washing a toy tea set with only 3 place settings. L.H. and I still haven't figured out how she managed to do it: she was only out of the room 5 or 10 minutes, and there was no mountain of suds to indicate that *an entire bottle of dishsoap* had just been used up. She got punished because this is not the first time she's done something like this, and she's been warned not to do it. It is really frustrating to be giving her a bath and find that both the liquid soap and the shampoo bottles have been filled with water, so there is about 5% soap to 95% water. Aargh!
She has tried to be more helpful around the house to make up for it, like being my quiche-mixing helper and table-setter last night, but she's going to find that from now on, she's going to have more chores, if only to keep her out of trouble.
Friday, July 29, 2005
Correction to July 26
L.H.'s comment about my abruptly ending post from a few days ago actually referred to the fact that several lines disappeared between typing and posting, not my bad post-ending skills. So I dug out the original post (thank goodness I learned my lesson from using Hotmail not to type directly into a Web-based program) and have fixed it. Sorry.
Thursday, July 28, 2005
Just Call Me Cussy McFoulmouth
Despite evidence to the contrary here, I really don't curse that much. Well, I don't consider it to be much: my daughter is not unfamiliar with the words "crap" and "ass." But I try not to let it be every other word. Of course, all bets are off when I'm driving the hairpin-filled road over the hill to get D.D. to ballet. Last week was particularly bad; *three* assholes had driven over the line into my lane in a curve. Hel-lo! White lines, people, use 'em! I have noticed a lot of the locals kind of aimlessly slaloming up and down the hill, and it drives me batshit, because—dangerous!
So I'm glad that D.D. has way outgrown the parroting stage, because the grandparents would be treated to a tiny-voiced rendition of "Goddamn! Asshole!" [Yes, two separate words—one to curse the situation and one to curse the shit-for-brains endangering our lives.] Worse for me, D.D. is in the reminding stage, so I get to hear that I shouldn't say such bad words. I'm thinking, "Hey, kid, you're lucky I don't have a missile launcher on this car, because the input from your eyes would be much worse than that from your ears."
She's not Miss Perfect, either, let me tell you. While trying to construct a temple out of Legos (so she'll be an architect instead of an engineer!), there was a repeated series of collapses during the roof-building phase, followed each time by an angry "shit!" So I got to be the reminder, which is actually the natural order of things.
Now I'm remembering when she was a toddler, and she'd refuse something to eat by saying, "I don't want that cwap!" It was so funny that we had a hard time scolding her with a straight face.
But it's not all cursing and carrying on at Chez Nee.
D.D. decided the other night that her tie-dye t-shirt just wasn't fancy enough, so she bummed some gold ribbon off me and began to sew it in a big bow on the front, then to take the extra and make a loopy pattern across the stomach. Tres chic!
She and her friends have decided to make an all-girls club, and they call themselves the "Wild Girls", after the soccer movie called Die Wilden Kerle (the wild guys). The only thing is, the other girls in their class also want to be the Wild Girls, so it's a permanent point of contention between the groups, I'm afraid.
Yesterday was D.D.'s last day of school. She has 6 weeks off for summer vacation and goes back in mid-September. She was awake for 10 minutes this morning before she declared that she was bored. It's going to be a long 6 weeks.
I just hope she goes back to staying in her own bed all night. One morning at 5 am, I heard her alarm go off, then she came cheerfully traipsing up the stairs with her tiny American Girl lamp as a flashlight (15 watts can be pretty bright in a dark room). She was quite proud that she had gotten herself up, but I was less pleased to be awoken when I had an oral exam a mere 4 hours later. Then last night she made it into our bed again. Of course, it was stiflingly hot, so I can understand that it was hard to sleep. L.H. hooked us up with the fan, and we managed to sleep the rest of the night in slightly crowded coolness. (LMIL: it clouded over this morning, so that makes 1 hot day for about 8 cool days; think you guys can handle that?)
We heard this horrible song on the American radio station. It was a "heavy-ish" rock song, and the chorus was something about "Have a Nice Day", sung in this kind of tough-guy, growly voice. It was the stupidest thing I've ever heard. I couldn't tell if it was supposed to be ironic or sarcastic, which would make it seem more acceptable in my book, but I got the impression it was sung straight. I mean, did the band have a big, yellow smiley face on their album cover? Are the other songs on the album "Y'all Come Back and See Us" and a remake of "You Are My Sunshine"?
As much as I'd like to blather the day away, D.D. and I have a date with her horribly messy room.
So I'm glad that D.D. has way outgrown the parroting stage, because the grandparents would be treated to a tiny-voiced rendition of "Goddamn! Asshole!" [Yes, two separate words—one to curse the situation and one to curse the shit-for-brains endangering our lives.] Worse for me, D.D. is in the reminding stage, so I get to hear that I shouldn't say such bad words. I'm thinking, "Hey, kid, you're lucky I don't have a missile launcher on this car, because the input from your eyes would be much worse than that from your ears."
She's not Miss Perfect, either, let me tell you. While trying to construct a temple out of Legos (so she'll be an architect instead of an engineer!), there was a repeated series of collapses during the roof-building phase, followed each time by an angry "shit!" So I got to be the reminder, which is actually the natural order of things.
Now I'm remembering when she was a toddler, and she'd refuse something to eat by saying, "I don't want that cwap!" It was so funny that we had a hard time scolding her with a straight face.
But it's not all cursing and carrying on at Chez Nee.
D.D. decided the other night that her tie-dye t-shirt just wasn't fancy enough, so she bummed some gold ribbon off me and began to sew it in a big bow on the front, then to take the extra and make a loopy pattern across the stomach. Tres chic!
She and her friends have decided to make an all-girls club, and they call themselves the "Wild Girls", after the soccer movie called Die Wilden Kerle (the wild guys). The only thing is, the other girls in their class also want to be the Wild Girls, so it's a permanent point of contention between the groups, I'm afraid.
Yesterday was D.D.'s last day of school. She has 6 weeks off for summer vacation and goes back in mid-September. She was awake for 10 minutes this morning before she declared that she was bored. It's going to be a long 6 weeks.
I just hope she goes back to staying in her own bed all night. One morning at 5 am, I heard her alarm go off, then she came cheerfully traipsing up the stairs with her tiny American Girl lamp as a flashlight (15 watts can be pretty bright in a dark room). She was quite proud that she had gotten herself up, but I was less pleased to be awoken when I had an oral exam a mere 4 hours later. Then last night she made it into our bed again. Of course, it was stiflingly hot, so I can understand that it was hard to sleep. L.H. hooked us up with the fan, and we managed to sleep the rest of the night in slightly crowded coolness. (LMIL: it clouded over this morning, so that makes 1 hot day for about 8 cool days; think you guys can handle that?)
We heard this horrible song on the American radio station. It was a "heavy-ish" rock song, and the chorus was something about "Have a Nice Day", sung in this kind of tough-guy, growly voice. It was the stupidest thing I've ever heard. I couldn't tell if it was supposed to be ironic or sarcastic, which would make it seem more acceptable in my book, but I got the impression it was sung straight. I mean, did the band have a big, yellow smiley face on their album cover? Are the other songs on the album "Y'all Come Back and See Us" and a remake of "You Are My Sunshine"?
As much as I'd like to blather the day away, D.D. and I have a date with her horribly messy room.
Wednesday, July 27, 2005
A Week of Fun
L.H. pointed out that my last post ended rather abruptly; to tell you the truth, I ran out of steam and notes at the same time. But you are free to think that I was abducted by aliens at that point, or that I was rendered unconscious by the neighbor's "washing machine music," as L.H. calls it.
***
Life didn't come to a complete halt for us once the university semester was over on July 15. L.H. is just now finishing up the last of his grading, and I had the 2-part Latin exam looming over my head. Plus I had a week of marinating in Harry Potter 6.
I did manage to crank out a baby outfit over the weekend for a friend who is due in August. D.D. and I had checked out 2 DVDs from the book bus, so I spent a lot of my weekend crocheting and watching Monsters, Inc. and Bend it Like Beckham. I'm a whirlwind of activity! [There's a scene in BILB where the heroine is being fitted for a sari, and the seamstress quips, "I'll make these mosquito bites look like juicy, juicy mangos." Damn! Why isn't she my seamstress?]
I have also spent a lot of time being a grouch. I blame it on hormones, or maybe the thought of my second Latin exam poking me in the brain. Of course, one day I think we all got up on the wrong side of the bed, because none of us could be civil. "L."H. even asked if I was "riding the crimson wave," to which I responded that he was a "whirling vortex of suckitude." That put us in a better mood; L.H. has suggested that we start using my new phrase everywhere. [Actually, I *think* I came up with it on my own, but I'm like a word-magpie, picking up shiny words I come across. So I don't want to make any easily refutable claims.]
L.H. had a really crappy Monday last week, even compared to mine. I had the 3-hour Latin exam, but he locked himself out of the house. He was scheduled to pick up D.D. from school and take her with him to a meeting on campus. As it so happens, HP6 was delivered that afternoon, and in his haste to dress (it was a hot, muggy day) and meet the mail man in the stairwell, he left his keys inside. With every window in the house open against the heat, a pretty strong breeze gets drawn into the apartment...and the front door slammed shut. L.H. was so flustered by being locked out that he forgot he had shoes in the wardrobe in the stairwell and went to pick up D.D. *barefoot*. The new neighbors let the 2 of them stay there and tried to call the landlord. When they got ahold of him, his helpful advice was to borrow a ladder from his shop downstairs and climb up the roof to the open terrace door (on the 4th floor). The whole afternoon was a disaster.
Then another day he had a minor accident on his bike.
[Oh, no! The Maniacal Laughing Woman just got on the bus!]
All in all, it was not one of his better weeks.
[Now she is talking loudly to herself, to the point that the guy behind her got up and moved to the back of the bus.]
Yesterday while on an errand, I walked past an unfortunate example of why tanning is bad. This woman was probably 60. She had on a blouse with a wide neck, which had slipped off her shoulder. There was no bra strap, so I got an eyeful of a broad expanse of what appeared to be rich, Corinthian leather. *shudder*
We have spotted more doppelgangers this semester. A friend of a friend was teaching D.D. belly dance, and it turns out that she looks almost *exactly* like my friend Dani, down to the color of her hair and the style of her makeup. And a guy in my Latin class is the spitting image of her husband, Jason, if only Jason grew his hair out waist length and dyed it black. It's getting a little freaky.
Every few weeks, an old, white van will be parked across the street, then after another couple of weeks, it'll be gone. I don't know if the owner has a work schedule like on an off-shore oil rig—2 weeks home, 4 weeks on the rig—or if he just can't always find an open spot on that stretch of the street, but the reason I notice the van is that the back side windows are covered with a poster from Pirates of the Caribbean and a poster of what I think is a VW Golf. Now, I'll be the last to complain about Johnny Depp and Orlando Bloom being visible from my house, but it still seems odd for someone to cover their van windows.
On the street that runs parallel to the main shopping street, there is a high turnover in businesses. My newest favorite shop for window browsing sells scented oil and crystal lamps and fountains. If I had an extra 300 bucks to blow on myself, I'd buy the fountain that has a base made of jagged amethyst crystals supporting a clear crystal ball that spins on the flowing water. It is mesmerizing. Of course, if I had it, I would spend all my time gazing at it and would forget to, you know, eat and stuff, so maybe it's better that I enjoy it from the safety of the shop window.
My butt has fallen asleep because I am sitting on the floor in the hall outside my teacher's door, waiting to talk to him during his office hours. Perhaps I will stand and wait. Ciao!
[Added after the office hours:]
I just found out that I made the second highest grade on the final for one of my linguistics classes (German inflectional morphology). The guy whose history course I took (which is only graded pass/fail) said my exam there was "weak for a third semester student." Fuck him right in the ear, says I.
***
Life didn't come to a complete halt for us once the university semester was over on July 15. L.H. is just now finishing up the last of his grading, and I had the 2-part Latin exam looming over my head. Plus I had a week of marinating in Harry Potter 6.
I did manage to crank out a baby outfit over the weekend for a friend who is due in August. D.D. and I had checked out 2 DVDs from the book bus, so I spent a lot of my weekend crocheting and watching Monsters, Inc. and Bend it Like Beckham. I'm a whirlwind of activity! [There's a scene in BILB where the heroine is being fitted for a sari, and the seamstress quips, "I'll make these mosquito bites look like juicy, juicy mangos." Damn! Why isn't she my seamstress?]
I have also spent a lot of time being a grouch. I blame it on hormones, or maybe the thought of my second Latin exam poking me in the brain. Of course, one day I think we all got up on the wrong side of the bed, because none of us could be civil. "L."H. even asked if I was "riding the crimson wave," to which I responded that he was a "whirling vortex of suckitude." That put us in a better mood; L.H. has suggested that we start using my new phrase everywhere. [Actually, I *think* I came up with it on my own, but I'm like a word-magpie, picking up shiny words I come across. So I don't want to make any easily refutable claims.]
L.H. had a really crappy Monday last week, even compared to mine. I had the 3-hour Latin exam, but he locked himself out of the house. He was scheduled to pick up D.D. from school and take her with him to a meeting on campus. As it so happens, HP6 was delivered that afternoon, and in his haste to dress (it was a hot, muggy day) and meet the mail man in the stairwell, he left his keys inside. With every window in the house open against the heat, a pretty strong breeze gets drawn into the apartment...and the front door slammed shut. L.H. was so flustered by being locked out that he forgot he had shoes in the wardrobe in the stairwell and went to pick up D.D. *barefoot*. The new neighbors let the 2 of them stay there and tried to call the landlord. When they got ahold of him, his helpful advice was to borrow a ladder from his shop downstairs and climb up the roof to the open terrace door (on the 4th floor). The whole afternoon was a disaster.
Then another day he had a minor accident on his bike.
[Oh, no! The Maniacal Laughing Woman just got on the bus!]
All in all, it was not one of his better weeks.
[Now she is talking loudly to herself, to the point that the guy behind her got up and moved to the back of the bus.]
Yesterday while on an errand, I walked past an unfortunate example of why tanning is bad. This woman was probably 60. She had on a blouse with a wide neck, which had slipped off her shoulder. There was no bra strap, so I got an eyeful of a broad expanse of what appeared to be rich, Corinthian leather. *shudder*
We have spotted more doppelgangers this semester. A friend of a friend was teaching D.D. belly dance, and it turns out that she looks almost *exactly* like my friend Dani, down to the color of her hair and the style of her makeup. And a guy in my Latin class is the spitting image of her husband, Jason, if only Jason grew his hair out waist length and dyed it black. It's getting a little freaky.
Every few weeks, an old, white van will be parked across the street, then after another couple of weeks, it'll be gone. I don't know if the owner has a work schedule like on an off-shore oil rig—2 weeks home, 4 weeks on the rig—or if he just can't always find an open spot on that stretch of the street, but the reason I notice the van is that the back side windows are covered with a poster from Pirates of the Caribbean and a poster of what I think is a VW Golf. Now, I'll be the last to complain about Johnny Depp and Orlando Bloom being visible from my house, but it still seems odd for someone to cover their van windows.
On the street that runs parallel to the main shopping street, there is a high turnover in businesses. My newest favorite shop for window browsing sells scented oil and crystal lamps and fountains. If I had an extra 300 bucks to blow on myself, I'd buy the fountain that has a base made of jagged amethyst crystals supporting a clear crystal ball that spins on the flowing water. It is mesmerizing. Of course, if I had it, I would spend all my time gazing at it and would forget to, you know, eat and stuff, so maybe it's better that I enjoy it from the safety of the shop window.
My butt has fallen asleep because I am sitting on the floor in the hall outside my teacher's door, waiting to talk to him during his office hours. Perhaps I will stand and wait. Ciao!
[Added after the office hours:]
I just found out that I made the second highest grade on the final for one of my linguistics classes (German inflectional morphology). The guy whose history course I took (which is only graded pass/fail) said my exam there was "weak for a third semester student." Fuck him right in the ear, says I.
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
More blibber-blabber, but with love
I have finally crawled out from under my rock. I did the oral exam for Latin this morning and found out that I passed the whole thing and should be getting my certificate in the mail soon. Hoorah! Now I can stop cramming Latin into my brain and start doing more important stuff, like money-earning work and writing self-indulgent blibber-blabber on the Internet. Woo! Hoo!
After encountering Maniacal Laughing Woman on the bus yesterday morning, I realized on the trip home that Drunky Hair Guy is really not so bad. So he flips his hair and is a bit unsteady on his feet. [Then again, the way he was fiercely scratching his head, I was glad to be sitting half the bus away.] At least he doesn't burst into hysterical laughter while everyone around him looks the other way, strenuously avoiding eye contact. The MLW got off at my stop, and she had another spastic laugh attack in the middle of the street. Thank goodness I've mastered the art of purposeful walking and managed to outdistance her.
Attack of the low-rise jeans! Aaack! I swear, there are only about 10 women in the world with the right shape to wear these pants, and yet they are squeezing the hips of every young woman I come across. It is bad enough when the end result is two fleshy pockets at waist-level that appear to be filled with mashed potatoes, but it is worse when one of the pockets is sporting a large hairy wart (seen in the shopping district). I know, people can't help having warts, but for the love of all that's sacred, don't exacerbate the scary hairiness by making it protrude atop a gelatinous mound of denim-bound horror.
If you ever think of renting the movie Seven Days to Live, don't bother; we saw it on tv recently. It's supposed to be scary (and I guess the zomby-ish creatures arising from the backed up sewer in the basement are icky), but at the "Fall of the House of Usher"-esque climax where the house collapses, Lovely Husband had to say, "So I built another house. That one fell over, caught on fire, then sank into the swamp." If the scariest part of your movie prompts quotes from Monty Python films, you've missed the boat.
I know I've mentioned the bicyclists around here, and up until a few days ago, L.H. and Darling Daughter had a little joke about them: Boy, are they going to be pissed when they realize how far off course from the Tour de France they are! Hee! Hee!
After encountering Maniacal Laughing Woman on the bus yesterday morning, I realized on the trip home that Drunky Hair Guy is really not so bad. So he flips his hair and is a bit unsteady on his feet. [Then again, the way he was fiercely scratching his head, I was glad to be sitting half the bus away.] At least he doesn't burst into hysterical laughter while everyone around him looks the other way, strenuously avoiding eye contact. The MLW got off at my stop, and she had another spastic laugh attack in the middle of the street. Thank goodness I've mastered the art of purposeful walking and managed to outdistance her.
Attack of the low-rise jeans! Aaack! I swear, there are only about 10 women in the world with the right shape to wear these pants, and yet they are squeezing the hips of every young woman I come across. It is bad enough when the end result is two fleshy pockets at waist-level that appear to be filled with mashed potatoes, but it is worse when one of the pockets is sporting a large hairy wart (seen in the shopping district). I know, people can't help having warts, but for the love of all that's sacred, don't exacerbate the scary hairiness by making it protrude atop a gelatinous mound of denim-bound horror.
If you ever think of renting the movie Seven Days to Live, don't bother; we saw it on tv recently. It's supposed to be scary (and I guess the zomby-ish creatures arising from the backed up sewer in the basement are icky), but at the "Fall of the House of Usher"-esque climax where the house collapses, Lovely Husband had to say, "So I built another house. That one fell over, caught on fire, then sank into the swamp." If the scariest part of your movie prompts quotes from Monty Python films, you've missed the boat.
I know I've mentioned the bicyclists around here, and up until a few days ago, L.H. and Darling Daughter had a little joke about them: Boy, are they going to be pissed when they realize how far off course from the Tour de France they are! Hee! Hee!
Monday, July 25, 2005
Call for help
Help! I am trying to think of something that is technically edible, but slightly disgusting. Along the lines of escargot, but not just lying around in nature. Maybe something that has to be prepared, like a jar of pickled eggs. And it must be "clean" enough to hold in the hand without filthing it up (or maybe in a cloth sack).
Ok, let the brainwaves roll in!
Ok, let the brainwaves roll in!
Friday, July 22, 2005
Decisions, decisions
Exhibit A
Exhibit BWhich of these would you vote to be the next Village People action figure? I think they are looking for a new band member under the title "Future Guy" or "Space Man."
Thursday, July 21, 2005
Reading is my life
In case anyone has been wondering what I've been up to:
3-hour Latin exam on Monday (translating from Latin into German, eek!)
Harry Potter 6
My husband doesn't understand the way I read books: I read the book, then I reread it multiple times in a row, or at least bits of it. I may have read the equivalent of 3 HP6s over the last 2 days. And D.D. and I are reading it for her bedtime reading; we're up to Chapter 3.
That means my brain was full of Latin, but I got rid of it in favor of Harry Potter, and that's all that's in there, no independent funny, so sorry, but I will try to pull myself together soonish.
Please everyone cross your fingers that my dear friend WestTexasGirl has a wildly successful interview and gets the perfect job today. Hell, I'd be surprised if they didn't offer it to her on the way out the door (and if they don't *threatening glare*...).
3-hour Latin exam on Monday (translating from Latin into German, eek!)
Harry Potter 6
My husband doesn't understand the way I read books: I read the book, then I reread it multiple times in a row, or at least bits of it. I may have read the equivalent of 3 HP6s over the last 2 days. And D.D. and I are reading it for her bedtime reading; we're up to Chapter 3.
That means my brain was full of Latin, but I got rid of it in favor of Harry Potter, and that's all that's in there, no independent funny, so sorry, but I will try to pull myself together soonish.
Please everyone cross your fingers that my dear friend WestTexasGirl has a wildly successful interview and gets the perfect job today. Hell, I'd be surprised if they didn't offer it to her on the way out the door (and if they don't *threatening glare*...).
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