At dinner tonight, I was asking D.D. about something on her cheek, which I at first took to be a scratch, but on closer inspection realized was just some of the hair color rubbed off. L.H. then chimed in to ask about her scratch. At that point, he suddenly realized we had covered that. A moment later, he brought up how weird it was that he was so far behind in the conversation.
Which is when D.D. asked, "Should I put you in a home?" (1)
I almost wet myself laughing.
(1) Back story: My dad moved his dad closer to him since Granddad needs some looking after (getting forgetful and paranoid). My LilSis also lives close by, so I'm pretty sure Dad figured he would let her do the bulk of the watching after Granddad. Except now she's moving 3 or 4 hours away. And wouldn't you know, when I talked to my dad yesterday, he immediately brought up putting Granddad in a home. Which is where the topic of nursing homes came up.
Wednesday, December 28, 2005
Tuesday, December 27, 2005
Tis the Season to Enable
Right before the holidays, I was able to shake off my early-winter funk and switch into high gear. I got in some required and some extra-curricular (but still school-related) reading. I finished the tree skirt I had moved, unfinished, from house to house for years. I even wrote a bit on a couple of short stories. And by the time we went to bed on xmas eve, I had washed and put away all the laundry, picked up everything but D.D.’s room (because I didn’t have a shovel and safety gear), cleaned my side of the bed and closet, and vacuumed the whole house. I went into xmas at the top of my game.
And then I opened my gifts.
I love my family. They know just what I like, and they got it for me. Unfortunately, what I like can easily become an all-encompassing obsession that takes over my life. L.H. gave me *6* Discworld novels, and my mom gave me the 3D puzzle pictured in the previous post and a Sudoku game. I broke down and put the puzzle together, with L.H.’s reassurance that “It’s the holidays! Have fun!” That was just over 24 hours of my life of fun. I think he started to get an idea of the scope of the problem when dinner was 3 hours later than I had originally planned. Silly man. Doesn’t he remember the photo of me, 20 weeks pregnant, standing in my pjs at the kitchen table until all hours of the night putting together this other 3D puzzle? I just wish I were so diligent with my school work.
D.D. is a lovely little child who did not get us out of bed until 8:30 on xmas morning (unlike my nephew who tried his luck first at *1 AM* and finally succeeded at 3:30, the little turd). She was pleased with all her gifts, although she was somewhat disappointed that she can’t make any explosions with her chemistry set. Damn the luck!
I need to get some more fresh foods in the house. I’ve been living off leftover stuffing, coffee, and the contents of my stocking—chocolate and licorice and blueberry-flavored tea—for 2 days, and I can feel rickets setting in. The grocery list beckons!
Ps. I found a rockin’ recipe for popcorn balls that tastes like slightly chewy Cracker Jacks. Recipe on request.
And then I opened my gifts.
I love my family. They know just what I like, and they got it for me. Unfortunately, what I like can easily become an all-encompassing obsession that takes over my life. L.H. gave me *6* Discworld novels, and my mom gave me the 3D puzzle pictured in the previous post and a Sudoku game. I broke down and put the puzzle together, with L.H.’s reassurance that “It’s the holidays! Have fun!” That was just over 24 hours of my life of fun. I think he started to get an idea of the scope of the problem when dinner was 3 hours later than I had originally planned. Silly man. Doesn’t he remember the photo of me, 20 weeks pregnant, standing in my pjs at the kitchen table until all hours of the night putting together this other 3D puzzle? I just wish I were so diligent with my school work.
D.D. is a lovely little child who did not get us out of bed until 8:30 on xmas morning (unlike my nephew who tried his luck first at *1 AM* and finally succeeded at 3:30, the little turd). She was pleased with all her gifts, although she was somewhat disappointed that she can’t make any explosions with her chemistry set. Damn the luck!
I need to get some more fresh foods in the house. I’ve been living off leftover stuffing, coffee, and the contents of my stocking—chocolate and licorice and blueberry-flavored tea—for 2 days, and I can feel rickets setting in. The grocery list beckons!
Ps. I found a rockin’ recipe for popcorn balls that tastes like slightly chewy Cracker Jacks. Recipe on request.
Saturday, December 24, 2005
I’m Dreaming of a Pink-and-Purple, Polka-Dotted Xmas
So maybe 4 hours before Xmas Day is a little late for the de rigueur pre-xmas post, but I’ve been collecting tidbits for over a week, so it averages out.
Every year, I manage to slide a few more tacky xmas decorations past my husband. This is the man who came into our marriage thinking multi-colored lights were tacky. Oh, silly man. I let D.D. put the ornaments and the silver tinsel on the tree, so everything is lopsided and clumpy. L.H. complained, but he who is too lazy to fix, must endure. Personally, I like it; it reminds me of the fringe on a go-go dancer’s dress. I’ve already bought some red and gold tinsel for next year. My ultimate goal is bubble lights.
I have to draw the line at animatronic xmas decorations, though. I mean, if you want to scare people, why not cut to the chase and hire a clown? A shop in our village has a full-sized Santa outside its door, facing the street. Santa’s head turns left and right, watching you go by. And a pharmacy in town has three little angels in the window, playing trumpets and turning either side to side or bowing. Baby angel musician robots. Eek.
Another mind-boggling decorating misstep I saw in town was in the same window with the headless angels I mentioned previously. Behind the mannequins, some deranged person has hung deer heads—deer heads made of white plaster soaked in iridescent glitter. (Iridescence is another point on which L.H. and I disagree, he being for, and I against.)
But it’s not just the shops getting in on the decorating madness. (But compared to back in Texas, you might not call it mad at all.) One family down the street has a Santa climbing a rope ladder up the size of their house, another lounging on a window ledge, and a third in an old-world style robe standing behind the railing around their terrace, which makes him appear to be trapped in a play pen. Most people (if they put up a Santa at all) would be satisfied with just one Santa.
My sister-in-law’s family has a fun tradition I wish I could participate in: they try to find the ugliest possible wrapping paper. One year her sister skunked the whole family with *Hulk* xmas paper. I thought I might be in the running with Shrek paper I found at the Toys R Us (in this color scheme), but then it occurred to me that “Eat, Stink, and Be Scary” isn’t specifically holiday-themed. And Shrek and Donkey weren’t wearing Santa hats like the Hulk. Rats.
L.H. and I have a typical xmas shopping arrangement: I buy, wrap, and ship all of the presents for the whole family, including D.D., and he shops for me. And as usual, he started about the time I finished. But we were both finished far enough in advance that there was no need to enter a shop at all on xmas eve (which may not even be possible in these parts).
So that was the pre-xmas blather. I wish all my loved ones a happy, healthy (especially LilSis and her brood), restful, and safe holiday.
Every year, I manage to slide a few more tacky xmas decorations past my husband. This is the man who came into our marriage thinking multi-colored lights were tacky. Oh, silly man. I let D.D. put the ornaments and the silver tinsel on the tree, so everything is lopsided and clumpy. L.H. complained, but he who is too lazy to fix, must endure. Personally, I like it; it reminds me of the fringe on a go-go dancer’s dress. I’ve already bought some red and gold tinsel for next year. My ultimate goal is bubble lights.
I have to draw the line at animatronic xmas decorations, though. I mean, if you want to scare people, why not cut to the chase and hire a clown? A shop in our village has a full-sized Santa outside its door, facing the street. Santa’s head turns left and right, watching you go by. And a pharmacy in town has three little angels in the window, playing trumpets and turning either side to side or bowing. Baby angel musician robots. Eek.
Another mind-boggling decorating misstep I saw in town was in the same window with the headless angels I mentioned previously. Behind the mannequins, some deranged person has hung deer heads—deer heads made of white plaster soaked in iridescent glitter. (Iridescence is another point on which L.H. and I disagree, he being for, and I against.)
But it’s not just the shops getting in on the decorating madness. (But compared to back in Texas, you might not call it mad at all.) One family down the street has a Santa climbing a rope ladder up the size of their house, another lounging on a window ledge, and a third in an old-world style robe standing behind the railing around their terrace, which makes him appear to be trapped in a play pen. Most people (if they put up a Santa at all) would be satisfied with just one Santa.
My sister-in-law’s family has a fun tradition I wish I could participate in: they try to find the ugliest possible wrapping paper. One year her sister skunked the whole family with *Hulk* xmas paper. I thought I might be in the running with Shrek paper I found at the Toys R Us (in this color scheme), but then it occurred to me that “Eat, Stink, and Be Scary” isn’t specifically holiday-themed. And Shrek and Donkey weren’t wearing Santa hats like the Hulk. Rats.
L.H. and I have a typical xmas shopping arrangement: I buy, wrap, and ship all of the presents for the whole family, including D.D., and he shops for me. And as usual, he started about the time I finished. But we were both finished far enough in advance that there was no need to enter a shop at all on xmas eve (which may not even be possible in these parts).
So that was the pre-xmas blather. I wish all my loved ones a happy, healthy (especially LilSis and her brood), restful, and safe holiday.
Thursday, December 22, 2005
Nee and Rudolph are Goin’ Down in History
Today, I officially became the last American to set foot in a Starbucks. And I didn’t even burst into flames! But I didn’t drink coffee, so I’ll still be the last person to drink Starbucks coffee if I get around to it before I die.
I had made plans to meet a classmate for tea this morning, and since I didn’t have all afternoon to hang out (her first suggestion was going to her place on the far south side of town; I live on the far north side of town), she suggested Starbucks. It was terribly crowded, but we got the last two seats in the farthest nook.
And that’s about all there was to it. It was ok as far as coffee houses go. I do have to mention that I’d been looking for xmas music for my old man, and after popping into 4 or 5 shops in the shopping district, I found basically what I had been looking for *at the counter at Starbucks.* American commercialism strikes again.
I had made plans to meet a classmate for tea this morning, and since I didn’t have all afternoon to hang out (her first suggestion was going to her place on the far south side of town; I live on the far north side of town), she suggested Starbucks. It was terribly crowded, but we got the last two seats in the farthest nook.
And that’s about all there was to it. It was ok as far as coffee houses go. I do have to mention that I’d been looking for xmas music for my old man, and after popping into 4 or 5 shops in the shopping district, I found basically what I had been looking for *at the counter at Starbucks.* American commercialism strikes again.
Wednesday, December 21, 2005
The Good, the Bad, and the Pissy
By the time we got to school this morning, I was ready to boot D.D. out of the car as I sped past the building. I would have sold her to the first Gypsy to wander by, but no self-respecting Gypsy would pay good money for her the way she was acting.
Today is the last day of school before the holidays, so I’m hoping she straightens up before we’re trapped at home with her for a couple of weeks. Otherwise I may turn hamster and eat her.
She was in a perfectly good mood yesterday. Of course, what 8-year-old wouldn’t be: she got to eat lunch at McD (blech—it totally tore the ass out of me), go on a toy shopping spree *for herself* at Toys R Us, ride the carousel at the xmas market, and go ice skating. She made me so proud in the department store: “Mom, that scarf is *so* tacky.” The scarf in question was knit in lengthwise stripes in magenta, acid green, turquoise, and brown, and all but the turquoise stripes were garnished with matching fur. That’s my girl!
D.D. has got the German slang down, so L.H. and I are always learning something new from her. In English, if you don’t have a special interest in something, you can say, “It’s all the same to me.” In German, you can add either “fart” (grade-schoolers) or “shit” (everyone else) to that phrase, which gives it a certain flavor not easily translated into English.
Her English is also developing an unusual slant, thanks to the gentle warping from her parents. She often declares that she has to “take a whiz” (1) on the “terlet”; when she’s cold, she needs a “blanklet.” I’m almost positive she got that last one from her younger cousin K.E., although she can’t recall now.
(1) From the game introduced on Ren and Stimpy: Don’t Whiz on the Electric Fence (sample track 13 here).
Today is the last day of school before the holidays, so I’m hoping she straightens up before we’re trapped at home with her for a couple of weeks. Otherwise I may turn hamster and eat her.
She was in a perfectly good mood yesterday. Of course, what 8-year-old wouldn’t be: she got to eat lunch at McD (blech—it totally tore the ass out of me), go on a toy shopping spree *for herself* at Toys R Us, ride the carousel at the xmas market, and go ice skating. She made me so proud in the department store: “Mom, that scarf is *so* tacky.” The scarf in question was knit in lengthwise stripes in magenta, acid green, turquoise, and brown, and all but the turquoise stripes were garnished with matching fur. That’s my girl!
D.D. has got the German slang down, so L.H. and I are always learning something new from her. In English, if you don’t have a special interest in something, you can say, “It’s all the same to me.” In German, you can add either “fart” (grade-schoolers) or “shit” (everyone else) to that phrase, which gives it a certain flavor not easily translated into English.
Her English is also developing an unusual slant, thanks to the gentle warping from her parents. She often declares that she has to “take a whiz” (1) on the “terlet”; when she’s cold, she needs a “blanklet.” I’m almost positive she got that last one from her younger cousin K.E., although she can’t recall now.
(1) From the game introduced on Ren and Stimpy: Don’t Whiz on the Electric Fence (sample track 13 here).
Monday, December 19, 2005
Ode to My Friend
My best friend since the sixth grade has also caught the bloggin’ bug, and I’ve been enjoying seeing her life in more detail than had previously been possible from seven time zones away. But imagine my surprise to read this about myself. Although she might have overdone it a wee bit *grin*, it really touched me. And although I know I will not be able to do her justice in mere words, I want to tell WestTexGirl here just how much she means to me. (1)
We went through most of our teenage firsts together: first dance, first boyfriend, first heartbreak. We weren’t clones of one another; we had interests apart—WTGirl managed the girls’ sports teams in junior high, and I...um...took homemaking against my inclination—but the differences never served to split us up, just to make us each more well-rounded. And they didn’t prevent us from spending hours on the phone every evening after spending all day at school together. One reason I was such a reasonably well-behaved teen was that my parents threatened to take away the phone as a punishment for rule-breaking. What would I ever do without at least 10 hours of contact with my best friend every day?! And we somehow always had something to talk about.
I spent my last night before driving the four hours to start university the next day with her—first at the Kettle until midnight, drinking hot cocoa, then standing in my driveway for a couple more hours, not wanting to say goodbye. Despite the distance, we managed to stay in touch and see each other semi-regularly. And at each visit, we picked up right where we left off, as if there had never been a separation or major changes in each of our lives.
We used to joke about being on the same brain wave, but now I realize it was probably all WTGirl. I can’t count how many times I’ve been in need of a sympathetic ear or a shoulder to cry on, and the phone rang, or there was a “thinking of you” email from her in my inbox. Even with hundreds of miles between us. And it’s not just her timing; she always knows the exact right thing to say. She is tactful and warm, and a compliment from WTGirl is like a bear hug.
She is also wonderfully supportive. Many is the time I’ve had an ass-headed idea, when my normally supportive husband looks at me like he’s trying to decide on the best institution to have me committed to, but WTGirl enthusiastically cheers me on, although with a helping of advice and common sense so I don’t go immediately down in flames.
Part and parcel with her supportiveness is her fierce loyalty to her friends and her generous heart. There are a lot of us she could have given up on as being too far away or too busy with our own silliness, but she doesn’t. For example, when one of her friends recently had twins as a single mother, WTGirl could have said, “I’d love to help, but I have a full-time job, and a family of my own” (including a toddler and a stubborn little 8-year-old). Instead, she became this friend’s main lifeline, even more so than her own mother: she took her to the doctor, took care of a million tiny details while she was on bed rest, even accompanied her into the delivery room, and she was there when her babies came home.
The flip side of being friends with WTGirl is that you always wonder if you’ll ever live up to such a high standard of friendship. But I like to think that I am benefiting from her example.
She is also a super-smart lady. You have to take what she said in her blog entry with a grain of salt. This woman teaches ANATOMY, people. I would never in a million years be able to remember everything she does; I get to “the foot bone’s connected to the ankle bone,” and then I’m lost. And she manages to deal with college-aged students and not go on a killing spree. Tact. Patience. She’s got them both in aces.
And she is eloquent. You should read her entry on our home town. I promise you, no one else could make it sound so good. The Chamber of Commerce should be cutting her a check. She sees the good no one else sees, and she can translate it so the rest of us start to get it.
I am proud that she still thinks I am worthy of her friendship, because it is something worth having.
(1) Lovely Husband has pointed out that this is something only women would do. The last two message he received from his best friend from high school were a birth announcement for his second child (typed by his wife, I think) and an evil, gloating missive on the occasion of George Bush’s reelection. To say nothing of the porn.
We went through most of our teenage firsts together: first dance, first boyfriend, first heartbreak. We weren’t clones of one another; we had interests apart—WTGirl managed the girls’ sports teams in junior high, and I...um...took homemaking against my inclination—but the differences never served to split us up, just to make us each more well-rounded. And they didn’t prevent us from spending hours on the phone every evening after spending all day at school together. One reason I was such a reasonably well-behaved teen was that my parents threatened to take away the phone as a punishment for rule-breaking. What would I ever do without at least 10 hours of contact with my best friend every day?! And we somehow always had something to talk about.
I spent my last night before driving the four hours to start university the next day with her—first at the Kettle until midnight, drinking hot cocoa, then standing in my driveway for a couple more hours, not wanting to say goodbye. Despite the distance, we managed to stay in touch and see each other semi-regularly. And at each visit, we picked up right where we left off, as if there had never been a separation or major changes in each of our lives.
We used to joke about being on the same brain wave, but now I realize it was probably all WTGirl. I can’t count how many times I’ve been in need of a sympathetic ear or a shoulder to cry on, and the phone rang, or there was a “thinking of you” email from her in my inbox. Even with hundreds of miles between us. And it’s not just her timing; she always knows the exact right thing to say. She is tactful and warm, and a compliment from WTGirl is like a bear hug.
She is also wonderfully supportive. Many is the time I’ve had an ass-headed idea, when my normally supportive husband looks at me like he’s trying to decide on the best institution to have me committed to, but WTGirl enthusiastically cheers me on, although with a helping of advice and common sense so I don’t go immediately down in flames.
Part and parcel with her supportiveness is her fierce loyalty to her friends and her generous heart. There are a lot of us she could have given up on as being too far away or too busy with our own silliness, but she doesn’t. For example, when one of her friends recently had twins as a single mother, WTGirl could have said, “I’d love to help, but I have a full-time job, and a family of my own” (including a toddler and a stubborn little 8-year-old). Instead, she became this friend’s main lifeline, even more so than her own mother: she took her to the doctor, took care of a million tiny details while she was on bed rest, even accompanied her into the delivery room, and she was there when her babies came home.
The flip side of being friends with WTGirl is that you always wonder if you’ll ever live up to such a high standard of friendship. But I like to think that I am benefiting from her example.
She is also a super-smart lady. You have to take what she said in her blog entry with a grain of salt. This woman teaches ANATOMY, people. I would never in a million years be able to remember everything she does; I get to “the foot bone’s connected to the ankle bone,” and then I’m lost. And she manages to deal with college-aged students and not go on a killing spree. Tact. Patience. She’s got them both in aces.
And she is eloquent. You should read her entry on our home town. I promise you, no one else could make it sound so good. The Chamber of Commerce should be cutting her a check. She sees the good no one else sees, and she can translate it so the rest of us start to get it.
I am proud that she still thinks I am worthy of her friendship, because it is something worth having.
(1) Lovely Husband has pointed out that this is something only women would do. The last two message he received from his best friend from high school were a birth announcement for his second child (typed by his wife, I think) and an evil, gloating missive on the occasion of George Bush’s reelection. To say nothing of the porn.
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
Sensitive but Tough
I saw a short bit in Der Spiegel about research by an American doctor (plastic surgeon) that proves women have more nerve endings per square inch of skin than men, therefore, we are more sensitive to pain. This will confirm my husband’s perception of me, since I really love to milk a minor injury for sympathy. Of course, he has never given birth to a 9-pound baby without drugs, so I think that should automatically give me a pass for...oh...FOREVER.
Catchin' Up is Hard to Do
I love it when I am almost out of stationery supplies, because that means fresh supplies are right around the corner. I started this post (*cough* several days ago *cough*) on the last few blank and partially blank pages of my spiral, and with the last smidge of ink in my pen, but by the end I’m sure it’ll be new paper and ink for me. Hoorah!
The last parent meeting for D.D.’s class was held at a local restaurant, back in the bar. The teacher opted for the more informal, comfortable setting (compared to the tiny desks in their classroom) since we were only discussing the logistics of their class xmas party. We started at 8 (so late!), and after an hour, another group filed into the adjoining room. It turned out to be a birthing class. A birthing class meeting at 9 pm on a Monday in a bar. Why wasn’t this an option when I was pregnant?!
D.D. and I have spotted Kujo the dog several times recently, and it is never a confidence-inspiring event. Twice we’ve passed him and his owner on their walk, and both times the owner only put the leash on him while we walking past them. It also was a bit unnerving that he turned his head to watch us go by, and also that his owner reminded him about 50 times to stay sitting. One of the times we saw them, D.D. had been scooping up snow as we walked and had a big ball of it in her left hand. I told her not to even pretend she was going to throw is while we were in view of him, because I did not doubt he’d interpret it as an attack on himself or his owner. Most recently, we saw the daring duo tooling by in their convertible (top up, this time). When we got to their house, Kujo was in the yard, snarling and snapping as usual. His owner was in the garage, and she yelled something at him that sounded like “Ray-bo.” D.D. thought it was short for “Ra-bies,” but the word for that in German is “Tollwut.” Good guess, though, kid.
There’s a business near my optician that I figure is some kind of nightclub, because its hours are listed on the door as “until 3 am.” But what I really like about the place is its name—The Loo. I wonder if they know what that means... Wouldn’t it be fun to go in there, all, “I’m in the loo! I’d go *to* the loo, but I’m already there!” You could keep it up all night until they ban you! Good times.
Sometimes I wonder what in the hell I’m doing back in school. (L.H. does not like to hear that since I bitched and moaned for ages about going back.) There are lots of days when the thought flits through my mind, how nice it would be to just stay on the bus when it gets to my stop. –
Enough pointless wallowing! I started it on Friday, I talked L.H. into joining my pity party on Saturday, and by Sunday we had it out of our systems.
I got to thinking in the shower (I do all my best thinking in the shower (1)) about my recent bout of angst and dissatisfaction and generally depression/bitchiness/moodiness/unpleasantness, and I realized that if my studies were childbirth, I’d be in transition. I had toughed it out until that point, but then I was all, “Just give me some medication and let me go to sleep, but wake me up when you’ve pulled my baby from my inert body, thanks.” That’s the point when the nurses say, “Too late!” Same thing with my studies. I’ve been through 3 hellacious semesters of Latin plus the exam; I took remedial German and have managed to make As and Bs in all my classes since. But when I start to think of my exams coming up next semester, I start to feel all panicky and overwhelmed. I’d like to hope I’ll end up with a bouncing baby ‘A’, but even with perfect pre-testing habits (which I don’t have), you just never know, right?
(1) My favorite boss ever once told me that a womb-like environment is very conducive to creative thinking.
The last parent meeting for D.D.’s class was held at a local restaurant, back in the bar. The teacher opted for the more informal, comfortable setting (compared to the tiny desks in their classroom) since we were only discussing the logistics of their class xmas party. We started at 8 (so late!), and after an hour, another group filed into the adjoining room. It turned out to be a birthing class. A birthing class meeting at 9 pm on a Monday in a bar. Why wasn’t this an option when I was pregnant?!
D.D. and I have spotted Kujo the dog several times recently, and it is never a confidence-inspiring event. Twice we’ve passed him and his owner on their walk, and both times the owner only put the leash on him while we walking past them. It also was a bit unnerving that he turned his head to watch us go by, and also that his owner reminded him about 50 times to stay sitting. One of the times we saw them, D.D. had been scooping up snow as we walked and had a big ball of it in her left hand. I told her not to even pretend she was going to throw is while we were in view of him, because I did not doubt he’d interpret it as an attack on himself or his owner. Most recently, we saw the daring duo tooling by in their convertible (top up, this time). When we got to their house, Kujo was in the yard, snarling and snapping as usual. His owner was in the garage, and she yelled something at him that sounded like “Ray-bo.” D.D. thought it was short for “Ra-bies,” but the word for that in German is “Tollwut.” Good guess, though, kid.
There’s a business near my optician that I figure is some kind of nightclub, because its hours are listed on the door as “until 3 am.” But what I really like about the place is its name—The Loo. I wonder if they know what that means... Wouldn’t it be fun to go in there, all, “I’m in the loo! I’d go *to* the loo, but I’m already there!” You could keep it up all night until they ban you! Good times.
Sometimes I wonder what in the hell I’m doing back in school. (L.H. does not like to hear that since I bitched and moaned for ages about going back.) There are lots of days when the thought flits through my mind, how nice it would be to just stay on the bus when it gets to my stop. –
Enough pointless wallowing! I started it on Friday, I talked L.H. into joining my pity party on Saturday, and by Sunday we had it out of our systems.
I got to thinking in the shower (I do all my best thinking in the shower (1)) about my recent bout of angst and dissatisfaction and generally depression/bitchiness/moodiness/unpleasantness, and I realized that if my studies were childbirth, I’d be in transition. I had toughed it out until that point, but then I was all, “Just give me some medication and let me go to sleep, but wake me up when you’ve pulled my baby from my inert body, thanks.” That’s the point when the nurses say, “Too late!” Same thing with my studies. I’ve been through 3 hellacious semesters of Latin plus the exam; I took remedial German and have managed to make As and Bs in all my classes since. But when I start to think of my exams coming up next semester, I start to feel all panicky and overwhelmed. I’d like to hope I’ll end up with a bouncing baby ‘A’, but even with perfect pre-testing habits (which I don’t have), you just never know, right?
(1) My favorite boss ever once told me that a womb-like environment is very conducive to creative thinking.
Wednesday, December 07, 2005
Family McFoulmouth
I can tell when I’m supressing large-ish frustrations, because smallish ones—like paper falling out of the recycling bag when I’m trying to add some more to it—induce me to screech such obscenities as “son of a f*ckin’ bitch!” Normally, that one is reserved for smashing my hand in a door, or getting rear-ended, or some such, requiring that level of foulmouthery.
Not that I’m the only foul-mouthed bass (1) in this family. L.H. officially gave D.D. the green light to say “crap” at will. Neither of us really find it offensive, although I did catch myself saying to her, “It sounds terrible for you to say that” (an old favorite of my mom’s, although it never worked). The horror of turning into my mom! Of course, when D.D. says it “cwap”, we’re taken back to her toddlerhood, and she gets a cuddle. Me-mo-ries!
(1) Five points if you get the reference without looking at the link.
Right now D.D. is spotting a big bruise and scrape on her forehead where she was accidentally whacked with a stilt at school. She calls it her dent.
I just spotted a girl (speaking Russian, I think) wearing a high-heeled version of the pink Yeti boots mentioned here previously. My faith in the general goodness of mankind is gone. The existence of these boots is obviously part and parcel with the evil being perpetrated on our fellow human beings.
In one particularly touristy side street in town, every shop has an xmas tree outside its door. Most are tastefully decorated—white lights, red bows—but one is wonderfully tacky, with *blue* tinsel. I didn’t even know it came in colors. Around the corner, a couple more shops had trees drunkenly leaning against light poles, but no bases or decorations. I’m trying to decide if the city provides the trees (in keeping with the regulations on the upkeep of historical/touristy buildings), or if maybe there’s a business association agreement for them. See? This is how I use my brain most days, speculating on the downtown xmas tree delivery system, instead of something useful, like solving the world hunger problem.
Apparently the juice bar near the English department changed its mind about the advisability of an all-red decor—maybe it was attracting the wrong kind of clientele *wink*--because it has gone to a delightfully awful marigold and pine-green interior. In stripes. They seriously need to fire their interior decorator.
And what is with the yellow-green thing lately? D.D.’s school was repainted around the first of the school year, and the walls are egg-yolk yellow, and the doors and trim are kelly green. It’s like walking around in an Easter basket there.
L.H. and I sometimes daydream about having our own home (which will probably never happen, since we don’t stay any one place long enough, but I’m not too sad at this point). I have specifically requested that we paint it some shade of purple (2)—violet, lilac, mauve; I’m not picky. He insists it will be a Viking long-house. So a purple long-house it is.
(2) My most favorite cottage-style house in Austin’s Hyde Park was *3* shades of purple, and it was a thing of beauty. I’ve been watching a less purple (only one shade), and uglier, house from the bus, and the comparison makes me want to weep.
L.H. is the master of timing. I was rushing to put on my boots so I wouldn’t be late for the bus, and he asks, “So what do you want for xmas?”—“Uh, could we talk about this later, Honey? I kind of have class...” At least this time wasn’t so, um, gross as the last time, when I tried to kiss him and he belched. L.H. the barbarian. I’m wondering about the barn-like environment of his upbringing.
Another near-celebrity sighting:
On the bus this morning, I sat facing young Kurt Cobain, who was wearing smart-glasses and looked clean and not strung out. He really could be a double for KC.
Not that I’m the only foul-mouthed bass (1) in this family. L.H. officially gave D.D. the green light to say “crap” at will. Neither of us really find it offensive, although I did catch myself saying to her, “It sounds terrible for you to say that” (an old favorite of my mom’s, although it never worked). The horror of turning into my mom! Of course, when D.D. says it “cwap”, we’re taken back to her toddlerhood, and she gets a cuddle. Me-mo-ries!
(1) Five points if you get the reference without looking at the link.
Right now D.D. is spotting a big bruise and scrape on her forehead where she was accidentally whacked with a stilt at school. She calls it her dent.
I just spotted a girl (speaking Russian, I think) wearing a high-heeled version of the pink Yeti boots mentioned here previously. My faith in the general goodness of mankind is gone. The existence of these boots is obviously part and parcel with the evil being perpetrated on our fellow human beings.
In one particularly touristy side street in town, every shop has an xmas tree outside its door. Most are tastefully decorated—white lights, red bows—but one is wonderfully tacky, with *blue* tinsel. I didn’t even know it came in colors. Around the corner, a couple more shops had trees drunkenly leaning against light poles, but no bases or decorations. I’m trying to decide if the city provides the trees (in keeping with the regulations on the upkeep of historical/touristy buildings), or if maybe there’s a business association agreement for them. See? This is how I use my brain most days, speculating on the downtown xmas tree delivery system, instead of something useful, like solving the world hunger problem.
Apparently the juice bar near the English department changed its mind about the advisability of an all-red decor—maybe it was attracting the wrong kind of clientele *wink*--because it has gone to a delightfully awful marigold and pine-green interior. In stripes. They seriously need to fire their interior decorator.
And what is with the yellow-green thing lately? D.D.’s school was repainted around the first of the school year, and the walls are egg-yolk yellow, and the doors and trim are kelly green. It’s like walking around in an Easter basket there.
L.H. and I sometimes daydream about having our own home (which will probably never happen, since we don’t stay any one place long enough, but I’m not too sad at this point). I have specifically requested that we paint it some shade of purple (2)—violet, lilac, mauve; I’m not picky. He insists it will be a Viking long-house. So a purple long-house it is.
(2) My most favorite cottage-style house in Austin’s Hyde Park was *3* shades of purple, and it was a thing of beauty. I’ve been watching a less purple (only one shade), and uglier, house from the bus, and the comparison makes me want to weep.
L.H. is the master of timing. I was rushing to put on my boots so I wouldn’t be late for the bus, and he asks, “So what do you want for xmas?”—“Uh, could we talk about this later, Honey? I kind of have class...” At least this time wasn’t so, um, gross as the last time, when I tried to kiss him and he belched. L.H. the barbarian. I’m wondering about the barn-like environment of his upbringing.
Another near-celebrity sighting:
On the bus this morning, I sat facing young Kurt Cobain, who was wearing smart-glasses and looked clean and not strung out. He really could be a double for KC.
Monday, December 05, 2005
Out and About with Nee
There are laws of nature—like gravity—that normal people (i.e., non-pilots, non-astronauts, etc.) just can’t win against. Similar to this is the First Law of Nee: if I have more time, I will waste more time. The one day I *wasn’t* actively wishing for my teacher to be out sick, he was. So instead of getting caught up on the reading for that class, I wandered to the other end of the Old Town to find a special pastry for D.D. from St. Nikolaus (he’ll be putting goodies in her boots tonight!). (1) Yes, it was something I was planning to do after class anyway, but the time I saved then will probably get wasted on something else frivolous, like *cough* surfing the Web. Time management is not my forte.
(1) from Wikipedia: “Saint Nicholas is revered by many as the patron saint of seamen, merchants, archers, children, prostitutes...” [emphasis mine] Quite a collection, eh?
I’ve been enjoying the wide variety of xmas window displays, which have been out for quite a while now. There’s your standard green tree covered with colored balls and lights and surrounded by flocking. Then there’s your wire tree, each branch tipped with a large rhinestone, and the black and white ball ornaments (2) piled into a glass urn standing next to the tree. Finally, there’s your green tree covered in 80’s fluorescent-colored ornaments—some glass balls, some blown-glass birds with matching tail-feathers, and some feathers arranged into tiny angel wings or xmas trees. I kind of like that one. I do not like the reindeer standing under it that is covered in tiny, square, mirrored tiles. My eyes!
(2) The patterns on them remind me of those mind-stimulating baby toys.
Speaking of feathers, last year around xmas I noticed white, feathery angel wings in different sizes as part of a display at a jeweler’s. It was really pretty, and I found myself eagerly looking forward to window-gazing whenever I had to walk down that street. It reminded me of my earlier, inexplicable lusting after a cotton, tomato-print dress at The Cadeau in Austin, many, many years ago. Anyhow, after about a week, I realized that a *lot* of shops were using the same angel-wing motif, including an optician, so the attraction was gone. But I saw recently that a different jeweler was using an understated version of that same display, and it made me think about my former angel-wing love. Oh, the memories.
Then I saw the full-sized, headless mannequins sporting white, feathery angel wings in the window of the big department store in town. Why?!
(1) from Wikipedia: “Saint Nicholas is revered by many as the patron saint of seamen, merchants, archers, children, prostitutes...” [emphasis mine] Quite a collection, eh?
I’ve been enjoying the wide variety of xmas window displays, which have been out for quite a while now. There’s your standard green tree covered with colored balls and lights and surrounded by flocking. Then there’s your wire tree, each branch tipped with a large rhinestone, and the black and white ball ornaments (2) piled into a glass urn standing next to the tree. Finally, there’s your green tree covered in 80’s fluorescent-colored ornaments—some glass balls, some blown-glass birds with matching tail-feathers, and some feathers arranged into tiny angel wings or xmas trees. I kind of like that one. I do not like the reindeer standing under it that is covered in tiny, square, mirrored tiles. My eyes!
(2) The patterns on them remind me of those mind-stimulating baby toys.
Speaking of feathers, last year around xmas I noticed white, feathery angel wings in different sizes as part of a display at a jeweler’s. It was really pretty, and I found myself eagerly looking forward to window-gazing whenever I had to walk down that street. It reminded me of my earlier, inexplicable lusting after a cotton, tomato-print dress at The Cadeau in Austin, many, many years ago. Anyhow, after about a week, I realized that a *lot* of shops were using the same angel-wing motif, including an optician, so the attraction was gone. But I saw recently that a different jeweler was using an understated version of that same display, and it made me think about my former angel-wing love. Oh, the memories.
Then I saw the full-sized, headless mannequins sporting white, feathery angel wings in the window of the big department store in town. Why?!
Saturday, December 03, 2005
Return from the Grave
On Thanksgiving Day, we had school and work as usual (1), so we put off our big dinner until that Saturday. L.H. was in charge of cleaning up, with D.D.’s help. I managed to roast a turkey, bake a pumpkin pie and two loaves of bread, and otherwise whip up my grandmother’s stuffing, green bean casserole, steamed cauliflower and broccoli with cheese sauce, cranberry sauce, and fruit salad. L.H. cooked some mean carrots. But consider that here in Germany, there are no such things as frozen pie crusts (and no such thing as pie, for that matter), canned pumpkin, condensed cream of mushroom soup, Velveeta, cornbread mix, biscuits in a can, pecans, or cranberry sauce. All of those things had to be substituted or *made from scratch.* So our dinner turned out to be a lot more labor-intensive than your typical modern American Thanksgiving.
(1) L.H.’s dad was surprised to hear that we didn’t get the day off, but maybe he was pulling our leg. Or maybe not.
We invited a family from down the street to eat with us—mom, dad, grandma, and two girls about D.D.’s age. They seemed to be enjoying everything and having a good time, except for the youngest, who didn’t like anything, including the bread, and just wanted to lie with her head in her grandma’s lap. It became apparent why her nose was out of joint when she stood up and projectile vomited. She managed to only hit the end of the tablecloth, but she was covered, the floor was covered, and the grandma wasn’t looking too good, either. Fortunately, she’s of a size with D.D. (the little girl, not the grandma), so I dug up a change of clothes while her mom stripped her. Then the mom and grandma took her home. The dad was fully expecting the mom to come back once she’d gotten their daughter settled in bed or in front of the tv, but we finally had dessert without her around 9.
The parents were pretty embarrassed, but it was no big deal. Kids get sick; it happens. D.D. went through a phase at age 4 where she barfed almost every day in the car on our morning commute from Elgin to Austin while we were staying with L.H.’s brother after moving back from Sweden. Barf is the bane of the parent, because we’re automatically the ones in charge of calming *and* cleaning. Blech.
My Lovely Husband got his xmas bonus (which the government is planning to phase out after this year—boo!), so I was able to finish up most of the holiday shopping I had planned to do on this side of the pond for family on the other side. It actually went pretty well. I picked up a couple of things at the xmas market—
I must interrupt myself here to say that the xmas market is what makes early winter here bearable for me. From almost any spot in the Old Town, you can detect the heavenly scents of candied nuts, grilled pork steak and onions, and mulled wine. *swoon*
--went into a shop or two, got a coffee, but then I ran into my first obstacle: a jewelry store. Now don’t get excited, no one’s getting *real* jewelry; it’s not that big of a bonus. But I had seen this shop with cute stuff in the window, arranged in sets, that I thought would be appropriate for my almost-12-year-old niece. I walked in and was blinded by the bling. The walls were covered in a solid layer of necklaces hanging above shelves of rings. This place made Claire’s look minimalist. I went around two or three times before spotting a cute bracelet. At that point, I was about to lose my mind, even with a hot cup of coffee right there in my hand. So I showed the bracelet to the clerk: “Do you have a necklace to match?” The display of sets in the window was a LIE. She led me over to the opposite side of the shop, I found what I wanted, paid, and fled the shop like bling-covered devils were on my heels.
The rest of my shopping is an overheated blur. Must a department store be heated to 85F when all its customers are bundled up against the 38F outside? I’m just saying. Although hot and sweaty under my 2 shirts, sweater, and wool coat, and overlooking one or two minor frustrations, I managed to finish up and get out of there without going on a murderous rampage, so that was good. Of course, then I had to crowd onto a bus with 20 lb. of packages, but I was ALIVE. That’s all that matters.
Once I got home, it was time to wrap. That is not necessarily as easy as it sounds. There is so much static in our house, due to the cold weather and our fuzzy furniture/rug, that the tape and the paper were attracting every bit of fuzz and hair in the vicinity. Have you remembered that our family consists of 3 long-haired persons, 1 long-haired projectile-shedding cat, and 1 short-haired cat who sheds if you look at her? So if your xmas package has a side order of hair... Just fair warning.
This time of year, there is a lot of fur around (in the form of hats and boots and coats), more than I could comment scathingly on in a month, but my current fur ire is directed at a furrier in town. I am not against fur per se, but if I were a fur-bearing animal—scratch that; if I were an animal whose fur was *coveted*, I would be highly insulted by the uses to which this furrier has put the fur of other animals. Weirdly dyed fur fringe; strangely shaped *felt* garments bedecked with bits of fur; hats made of the rotting upholstery from a 1976 Ford Pinto and trimmed in fur. Horrific. And one shoe shop has finally made it to the inevitable, terrible outer-limit of ugly footwear: boots covered in fuzzy pink house-shoe fabric. They call it the “Yeti-look.”
[While searching their site, I found this. I could totally buy this; it kind of redeems the above-mentioned horror, but not really.]
I am realizing that I could use this blog to track my mood swings over time. When I’m up, you all get to slog through extremely long posts, or 5 posts in one day. When I’m down, I might go a week without posting. And it’s not that I’m too busy to post; if I feel I have something witty to force on you all (bwa ha ha!), I will do it, busy or not. But sometimes I barely have the energy to snipe at my lovely husband, much lest post a snippet of blah. I wonder what kind of wave it would look like, smooth or jagged.
(1) L.H.’s dad was surprised to hear that we didn’t get the day off, but maybe he was pulling our leg. Or maybe not.
We invited a family from down the street to eat with us—mom, dad, grandma, and two girls about D.D.’s age. They seemed to be enjoying everything and having a good time, except for the youngest, who didn’t like anything, including the bread, and just wanted to lie with her head in her grandma’s lap. It became apparent why her nose was out of joint when she stood up and projectile vomited. She managed to only hit the end of the tablecloth, but she was covered, the floor was covered, and the grandma wasn’t looking too good, either. Fortunately, she’s of a size with D.D. (the little girl, not the grandma), so I dug up a change of clothes while her mom stripped her. Then the mom and grandma took her home. The dad was fully expecting the mom to come back once she’d gotten their daughter settled in bed or in front of the tv, but we finally had dessert without her around 9.
The parents were pretty embarrassed, but it was no big deal. Kids get sick; it happens. D.D. went through a phase at age 4 where she barfed almost every day in the car on our morning commute from Elgin to Austin while we were staying with L.H.’s brother after moving back from Sweden. Barf is the bane of the parent, because we’re automatically the ones in charge of calming *and* cleaning. Blech.
My Lovely Husband got his xmas bonus (which the government is planning to phase out after this year—boo!), so I was able to finish up most of the holiday shopping I had planned to do on this side of the pond for family on the other side. It actually went pretty well. I picked up a couple of things at the xmas market—
I must interrupt myself here to say that the xmas market is what makes early winter here bearable for me. From almost any spot in the Old Town, you can detect the heavenly scents of candied nuts, grilled pork steak and onions, and mulled wine. *swoon*
--went into a shop or two, got a coffee, but then I ran into my first obstacle: a jewelry store. Now don’t get excited, no one’s getting *real* jewelry; it’s not that big of a bonus. But I had seen this shop with cute stuff in the window, arranged in sets, that I thought would be appropriate for my almost-12-year-old niece. I walked in and was blinded by the bling. The walls were covered in a solid layer of necklaces hanging above shelves of rings. This place made Claire’s look minimalist. I went around two or three times before spotting a cute bracelet. At that point, I was about to lose my mind, even with a hot cup of coffee right there in my hand. So I showed the bracelet to the clerk: “Do you have a necklace to match?” The display of sets in the window was a LIE. She led me over to the opposite side of the shop, I found what I wanted, paid, and fled the shop like bling-covered devils were on my heels.
The rest of my shopping is an overheated blur. Must a department store be heated to 85F when all its customers are bundled up against the 38F outside? I’m just saying. Although hot and sweaty under my 2 shirts, sweater, and wool coat, and overlooking one or two minor frustrations, I managed to finish up and get out of there without going on a murderous rampage, so that was good. Of course, then I had to crowd onto a bus with 20 lb. of packages, but I was ALIVE. That’s all that matters.
Once I got home, it was time to wrap. That is not necessarily as easy as it sounds. There is so much static in our house, due to the cold weather and our fuzzy furniture/rug, that the tape and the paper were attracting every bit of fuzz and hair in the vicinity. Have you remembered that our family consists of 3 long-haired persons, 1 long-haired projectile-shedding cat, and 1 short-haired cat who sheds if you look at her? So if your xmas package has a side order of hair... Just fair warning.
This time of year, there is a lot of fur around (in the form of hats and boots and coats), more than I could comment scathingly on in a month, but my current fur ire is directed at a furrier in town. I am not against fur per se, but if I were a fur-bearing animal—scratch that; if I were an animal whose fur was *coveted*, I would be highly insulted by the uses to which this furrier has put the fur of other animals. Weirdly dyed fur fringe; strangely shaped *felt* garments bedecked with bits of fur; hats made of the rotting upholstery from a 1976 Ford Pinto and trimmed in fur. Horrific. And one shoe shop has finally made it to the inevitable, terrible outer-limit of ugly footwear: boots covered in fuzzy pink house-shoe fabric. They call it the “Yeti-look.”
[While searching their site, I found this. I could totally buy this; it kind of redeems the above-mentioned horror, but not really.]
I am realizing that I could use this blog to track my mood swings over time. When I’m up, you all get to slog through extremely long posts, or 5 posts in one day. When I’m down, I might go a week without posting. And it’s not that I’m too busy to post; if I feel I have something witty to force on you all (bwa ha ha!), I will do it, busy or not. But sometimes I barely have the energy to snipe at my lovely husband, much lest post a snippet of blah. I wonder what kind of wave it would look like, smooth or jagged.
Tuesday, November 29, 2005
Checking In
So I’ve hit the bottom end (at least, I hope it’s the bottom) of one of my monthly mood swings. Basically, I just want to lie in bed with a stack of books and a coffee IV. And maybe our video of Lord of the Rings on a loop. But instead, I am sitting erect, drinking coffee in single-cup servings, and overseeing the completion of D.D.’s homework. At least she’s doing it cheerfully enough, unlike the crying and carrying on last night. But then again, she had a ton of homework on top of a very long day, so that is kind of understandable.
Part of my bad mood on this particular afternoon has to do with an earworm that not even B-O-M-B-Y was able to dispel: Wham’s “Last Christmas.” It’s surprisingly tenacious. I walked past some electricians who were working in an open garage, and not only was Wham blasting from their radio, but one of them was singing along. Now it is indelibly marked on my BRAIN.
I know I’m biased, but I think D.D. is one of the better dancers in her ballet class. Of course, a bunch of kids just got moved up, so just being a year older already puts her at an advantage, but she’s pretty graceful, even with L.H.’s clumsy genes and my spazztic genes (that’s really saying something). Today her teacher approached me about moving her into another class. She didn’t say specifically, but I think it’s the next class up. I suspect that a few of her pre-recital classmates have already made the transition, so hopefully there will be a few familiar faces. The new time is much better for us; I will only have to drive one way in the dark.
The software for our Internet provider decided to not play nice with Explorer this evening, so I spent a good half hour screwing around with this and that, including reinstalling a couple of things, but I finally beat it into submission. Of course, this happened at the exact time L.H. was trying to get ready for a meeting, and he couldn’t get to the info he needed to take to the meeting. I will leave the computer on so he will see that his semi-tech-savvy wife (here’s where I buff my nails on my sweater) managed to save the day (this time).
Part of my bad mood on this particular afternoon has to do with an earworm that not even B-O-M-B-Y was able to dispel: Wham’s “Last Christmas.” It’s surprisingly tenacious. I walked past some electricians who were working in an open garage, and not only was Wham blasting from their radio, but one of them was singing along. Now it is indelibly marked on my BRAIN.
I know I’m biased, but I think D.D. is one of the better dancers in her ballet class. Of course, a bunch of kids just got moved up, so just being a year older already puts her at an advantage, but she’s pretty graceful, even with L.H.’s clumsy genes and my spazztic genes (that’s really saying something). Today her teacher approached me about moving her into another class. She didn’t say specifically, but I think it’s the next class up. I suspect that a few of her pre-recital classmates have already made the transition, so hopefully there will be a few familiar faces. The new time is much better for us; I will only have to drive one way in the dark.
The software for our Internet provider decided to not play nice with Explorer this evening, so I spent a good half hour screwing around with this and that, including reinstalling a couple of things, but I finally beat it into submission. Of course, this happened at the exact time L.H. was trying to get ready for a meeting, and he couldn’t get to the info he needed to take to the meeting. I will leave the computer on so he will see that his semi-tech-savvy wife (here’s where I buff my nails on my sweater) managed to save the day (this time).
Friday, November 25, 2005
Thursday, November 24, 2005
Wednesday, November 23, 2005
Kids, Teeth, Fur, and Fun
I think it was my Lovely MIL who told me that age 8 can be kind of a dry run for puberty, with all the attendant mood swings. And now I know she was right. You just don’t appreciate how good your kid normally is until she turns into a smart-mouthed, angry, crying monster. Monday is a *really* long day for D.D.—school starts at 7:45 am, then after-school care until 3, hop in the car with Dad to go to Swedish School across town, and get home around 6:30 pm. When she got home Monday night, she had an armful of stuff. I heard her whining all the way up the stairs, then she dumped everything in the middle of the floor and kicked her gym bag across the room. It made me think of the home video show we saw recently, where a little girl threw down her bike and started kicking the tires and screaming. She was probably 8, too.
I can’t be the only person who has suddenly noticed the feel of her teeth against the inside of her lips, or the way her tongue sits in her mouth, or how it feels to breathe in and out. Except then you can’t un-feel it, and then I’m not even sure what the “natural” position of my tongue is, and I feel like it’s getting bigger or lying wrong somehow, or I don’t know how I normally breathe, and maybe I start to feel like I’m hyperventilating since I’m paying too much attention to my breathing. So I have this totally normal reaction (every once in a while), and my husband thinks I’m developing body dysmorphia.
[Edited to add: I think he means some kind of Verfremdungseffekt. Besides, the weird spaghetti squash shape of my head went away as soon as I got used to my new contacts. It was the contacts' fault!]
Oh. My. God. A woman on the bus skinned the Shaggy Dog to make a coat!
In other news, the Christmas Market opens today. I will start toting my camera with me into town for a Christmas photo-blogging extravaganza!
Sunday, November 20, 2005
All Self-Reference, All the Time
Darling Daughter lost her tooth. I can’t believe it came out so quickly. She lost it in the middle of class, so she was able to squeeze a little fame from the experience. The tooth fairy had a business dinner and wasn’t able to get change, so she ended up getting 2 Euros (there’s a 2-Euro coin) instead of the usual 1. German kids get gifts for their teeth, but we’ve found that cash turns out to be cheaper.
D.D. has come up with a tooth fairy theory: the t.f. used to be famous [D.D. didn’t say what for], and she travelled to a lot of different countries being famous, and that’s how she collected so much money from different places so she could give out dough for teeth all over the world. This is what goes through my daughter’s head while she’s getting dressed.
On the way to school, we spotted this enormous black bird in the top of a pine tree that towered over a four-story house. We were trying to estimate how big it was (bigger than our embarrassingly big cats, I would say); D.D. thought it looked a lot like a penguin. That would be pretty big.
In the window of the wedding shop, someone had added a white fur cape to the mermaid dress. Handmade paper dress—you are dead to me now.
Remember my photo of the giant teddy bear? The same company has made an even larger stuffed animal; I spotted it in a department store window recently. Because nothing says “cuddly toy” quite like an enormous stuffed buffalo.
I had to ride a particularly crowded bus one day, and I found myself crammed into a spot where I could not but help staring at the atrocious footwear on the teenaged girl across from me. You know how I feel about the new boots. What this girl was wearing was even worse. She looked like she had gone for a stroll in her best moccasin-boots and stepped into a dead woodchuck. What the hell? she thought, and pulled the woodchuck up around her ankle. Then she had to go find another dead woodchuck so her moccasins would match.
Today we are going to go see the new Harry Potter film. We couldn’t find any showings of the original, so we’re going to watch it in German. We first saw #3 in German, so I guess we won’t be permanently scarred. Interestingly enough, Star Wars #3 didn’t seem so stilted dialog-wise in German, what little we could hear over the tremendously loud special effects.
D.D. has come up with a tooth fairy theory: the t.f. used to be famous [D.D. didn’t say what for], and she travelled to a lot of different countries being famous, and that’s how she collected so much money from different places so she could give out dough for teeth all over the world. This is what goes through my daughter’s head while she’s getting dressed.
On the way to school, we spotted this enormous black bird in the top of a pine tree that towered over a four-story house. We were trying to estimate how big it was (bigger than our embarrassingly big cats, I would say); D.D. thought it looked a lot like a penguin. That would be pretty big.
In the window of the wedding shop, someone had added a white fur cape to the mermaid dress. Handmade paper dress—you are dead to me now.
Remember my photo of the giant teddy bear? The same company has made an even larger stuffed animal; I spotted it in a department store window recently. Because nothing says “cuddly toy” quite like an enormous stuffed buffalo.
I had to ride a particularly crowded bus one day, and I found myself crammed into a spot where I could not but help staring at the atrocious footwear on the teenaged girl across from me. You know how I feel about the new boots. What this girl was wearing was even worse. She looked like she had gone for a stroll in her best moccasin-boots and stepped into a dead woodchuck. What the hell? she thought, and pulled the woodchuck up around her ankle. Then she had to go find another dead woodchuck so her moccasins would match.
Today we are going to go see the new Harry Potter film. We couldn’t find any showings of the original, so we’re going to watch it in German. We first saw #3 in German, so I guess we won’t be permanently scarred. Interestingly enough, Star Wars #3 didn’t seem so stilted dialog-wise in German, what little we could hear over the tremendously loud special effects.
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