Ashcroft quit! Woo hoo! I'm doing the happy dance!
Oooh, I think I sprained something with the enthusiastic happy dancin'; no matter—I'd get up from a coma to happy dance at that news. (Ok, I know it's not exactly news at this moment, but that doesn't mean I'm not still stupidly happy about it.)
**
Many, many years ago, back when lovely husband and I were roommates with his brother, I made a dish that was equal parts garlic and penne, sauteed in oil. That is only a slight exaggeration; the recipe called for *10* cloves of garlic, and I follow recipes slavishly.
Needless to say, after consuming such heroic amounts of garlic, we all reeked. There is no way someone in our family will pass up such a garlic-laden dish, even if it burns both ways, if you know what I mean. We were walking garlic bombs for at least 2 days.
I generally learn from my mistakes, but I guess if I slipped after 10 years, you could cut me some slacks, right? I overdid it with the garlic powder on my salad last night, and neither toothbrushing nor coffee nor mint gum has killed it. I'm considering an olfactory-lobe-ectomy.
**
Today I saw a girl carrying a purse that was made out of a large fish with colorful scales that just swallows the items she wants to tote around, or perhaps the purse was made from leftover upholstery swatches cut into circles and attached like sequins. Maybe she's an interior designer and the purse is multi-purpose. Or maybe she's hoping that anyone getting close enough to mug her will have their retinas seared and thus be foiled.
**
The one day I have stuff to jot down for my blog and one of my stories (!—more on that later), I left the damn spiral at home. Damn. I have some tiny pages out of my old daytimer that I used instead. Stupid tiny pages. I couldn't use my Palm because somehow it was almost out of juice. That has not happened yet in the 11 months I've had it, and it freaked me out. Stupid Palm.
Many things have been stupid lately, due the fey mood I'm in (borrowed that from Tolkien; you've got to love a man who describes people as fey, repeatedly).
**
D.D. and L.H. are at a small procession in honor of St. Martin, a Roman who became a saint because he shared his cloak with a beggar on a cold night (like tonight!). I'm sure there's more to the story than that, but I'm getting the info from a 7-year-old who is being forced to take a Catholic religion class in school and who might not be paying as much attention as necessary for relaying all the details. Anyhow, all the little kids make paper lanterns, and there are various processions around town. D.D. is attending the one hosted by her friend's sister's (evangelic) church daycare.
There's usually a pretty big one in our village, starting at the church about half a mile up the hill past us. Last year D.D. cried and threw a pretty big fit when we tried to get her to go, so we gave up when we got to our house. I hope L.H. is having more luck with her this year. I had Latin and didn't get home until 6:30, so I missed the procession, but I am getting to cook the spaghetti, lucky me.
Thursday, November 11, 2004
Wednesday, November 10, 2004
winter is here to stay
So I was totally wrong about the snow. There were at least 3 inches on our patio furniture this morning, and it was still falling, but not heavy, when I left the house.
Darling daughter was all psyched about playing in it, so I bundled her up head to foot in snow gear and sent her off to school with her dad. Mr. "Germanic" made one concession to the cold: he wore gloves with his jacket (*not* coat). Knowing D.D.'s love of snowballs, he probably ended up pretty wet. Heh.
Darling daughter was all psyched about playing in it, so I bundled her up head to foot in snow gear and sent her off to school with her dad. Mr. "Germanic" made one concession to the cold: he wore gloves with his jacket (*not* coat). Knowing D.D.'s love of snowballs, he probably ended up pretty wet. Heh.
Tuesday, November 09, 2004
Let it snow, etc.
It was cold and wet (surprise!) in our village today, but it was actually snowing in the village at the top of the hill where darling daughter has ballet. Fortunately, we ride the bus, so I don't worry about sliding off the switchback road in such a heavy vehicle.
(Lovely husband wants to buy a car next year so we don't have to wait on the bus. Driving in the snow terrifies me, so I secretly have my fingers crossed that we don't find anything in our price range until about April.)
When we got home 2 hours later, it was snowing in our village, too, just not as heavily. We live up under the roof in our building, so most of our walls and windows are slanted, and the snow is starting to build up from the bottoms of the windows. It's really pretty, especially from inside, next to the heated tile oven. D.D. thinks she'll be able to sled tomorrow, but since it's barely hit freezing lately, the ground's not cold enough for the snow to stay.
Proofreading bitchiness:
I would probably be done with the tea job if all the examples weren't culled from every variety of English *except* American and British. I'm just saying.
Husband bitchiness:
We have to record our own meter readings for our utilities at the end of each year in order to set the monthly payment for the next year. Landlord showed L.H. the meters when we moved in a year ago so he could verify that the readings were correct for our lease. Now he has no idea where they are, so I've been the one who has to poke around in the dusty, musty, dirt-floored, cobwebby cellar. L.H. suggested I look "on the wall". There are 3 rooms down there. Thanks, Honey, that really clears it up for me.
(Lovely husband wants to buy a car next year so we don't have to wait on the bus. Driving in the snow terrifies me, so I secretly have my fingers crossed that we don't find anything in our price range until about April.)
When we got home 2 hours later, it was snowing in our village, too, just not as heavily. We live up under the roof in our building, so most of our walls and windows are slanted, and the snow is starting to build up from the bottoms of the windows. It's really pretty, especially from inside, next to the heated tile oven. D.D. thinks she'll be able to sled tomorrow, but since it's barely hit freezing lately, the ground's not cold enough for the snow to stay.
Proofreading bitchiness:
I would probably be done with the tea job if all the examples weren't culled from every variety of English *except* American and British. I'm just saying.
Husband bitchiness:
We have to record our own meter readings for our utilities at the end of each year in order to set the monthly payment for the next year. Landlord showed L.H. the meters when we moved in a year ago so he could verify that the readings were correct for our lease. Now he has no idea where they are, so I've been the one who has to poke around in the dusty, musty, dirt-floored, cobwebby cellar. L.H. suggested I look "on the wall". There are 3 rooms down there. Thanks, Honey, that really clears it up for me.
How I miss UT
(Too tired to type this up last night, but composed during the day.)
Those of you near and dear to me may remember me bitching (when have I not?) about the lack of central organization when I began studying at the university last year. Well, it tried to strike again, but I struck back and conquered!
The state government has declared that every couple of semesters, students must prove that they are making progress in their studies (i.e., not dead wood). There is no central database (!) for course completions and grades; we get a little certificate at the end of each course saying if we passed or not. We have to collect and keep track of these slips of paper, because no slips = no degree at the end.
So when you've reached the end of your couple of semesters, you have to hand over the slips to your academic department to prove you've been attending class. Then you get *another* certificate saying you had the right number and kind of slips (kind of like the McD Monopoly game, ick), which you get back.
According to my department, once I got the certificate, the main university would be notified electronically, automatically, without any effort on my part, that I am making progress toward my degree and to let me stay enrolled.
Do you see where this is going?
Didn't happen. Instead of getting my long-awaited student I.D., I got a letter informing me I was exmatriculated, or in other words, kicked out. Son of a bitch!
(Darling daughter wondered why I was bothering to do my homework since I was kicked out. Obviously, to her, I'm nuts!)
So I was the first person in line when the doors opened (which is no mean feat; the damn things are probably 12-feet tall and the handle is at eye level on me)—certificate in hand—and everything was fixed in about five minutes. The university people would have to deal with fewer bad-German-speaking people like me if they'd just hire a programmer so some administrative stuff could be automated.
***
After months of badgering by lovely husband, I finally cut D.D.'s waist-length hair. It's now just below the level of her armpits, and I rounded the bottom. D.D. has been fighting us tooth and nail about it, but suddenly decided as I was about to begin that she wanted it short-ish, to the top of her shoulders. I didn't think she'd like that (she's quite vain about her hair, like the rest of us), so I went with the middle length. She and L.H. were pleased at the results, and she wondered if her friends would recognize her at school the next day.
On more than one occasion, D.D has commented that she would like spikes in her hair. (Drat the influence of her red-headed boy cousin!) I told her, as soon as she starts washing and brushing her own hair and can manage products, she can do whatever she likes to her hair. At the rate we're going, she'll be 35.
***
We've finally gotten into the freezing range weather-wise. The paper yesterday said the range of temps would be 1-11 C (about 33-53 F). I've finally mastered the art of layering and bundling D.D., but she won't put the layers back on to come home, so half her wardrobe gets left at school. Poor L.H. is hopeless at remembering to fetch it from her classroom (D.D. attends after-school care in another classroom), so I end up dragging home a huge bag of clothes every other day when it's my turn for the pick-up. At least we're not both that way.
Those of you near and dear to me may remember me bitching (when have I not?) about the lack of central organization when I began studying at the university last year. Well, it tried to strike again, but I struck back and conquered!
The state government has declared that every couple of semesters, students must prove that they are making progress in their studies (i.e., not dead wood). There is no central database (!) for course completions and grades; we get a little certificate at the end of each course saying if we passed or not. We have to collect and keep track of these slips of paper, because no slips = no degree at the end.
So when you've reached the end of your couple of semesters, you have to hand over the slips to your academic department to prove you've been attending class. Then you get *another* certificate saying you had the right number and kind of slips (kind of like the McD Monopoly game, ick), which you get back.
According to my department, once I got the certificate, the main university would be notified electronically, automatically, without any effort on my part, that I am making progress toward my degree and to let me stay enrolled.
Do you see where this is going?
Didn't happen. Instead of getting my long-awaited student I.D., I got a letter informing me I was exmatriculated, or in other words, kicked out. Son of a bitch!
(Darling daughter wondered why I was bothering to do my homework since I was kicked out. Obviously, to her, I'm nuts!)
So I was the first person in line when the doors opened (which is no mean feat; the damn things are probably 12-feet tall and the handle is at eye level on me)—certificate in hand—and everything was fixed in about five minutes. The university people would have to deal with fewer bad-German-speaking people like me if they'd just hire a programmer so some administrative stuff could be automated.
***
After months of badgering by lovely husband, I finally cut D.D.'s waist-length hair. It's now just below the level of her armpits, and I rounded the bottom. D.D. has been fighting us tooth and nail about it, but suddenly decided as I was about to begin that she wanted it short-ish, to the top of her shoulders. I didn't think she'd like that (she's quite vain about her hair, like the rest of us), so I went with the middle length. She and L.H. were pleased at the results, and she wondered if her friends would recognize her at school the next day.
On more than one occasion, D.D has commented that she would like spikes in her hair. (Drat the influence of her red-headed boy cousin!) I told her, as soon as she starts washing and brushing her own hair and can manage products, she can do whatever she likes to her hair. At the rate we're going, she'll be 35.
***
We've finally gotten into the freezing range weather-wise. The paper yesterday said the range of temps would be 1-11 C (about 33-53 F). I've finally mastered the art of layering and bundling D.D., but she won't put the layers back on to come home, so half her wardrobe gets left at school. Poor L.H. is hopeless at remembering to fetch it from her classroom (D.D. attends after-school care in another classroom), so I end up dragging home a huge bag of clothes every other day when it's my turn for the pick-up. At least we're not both that way.
Friday, November 05, 2004
friends and enemies
L.H. was concerned about D.D.'s mental health when he found a picture she had drawn of a child in a cherry-covered dress, frowning and saying, "I am weird." He wasn't sure he felt any better when I explained that it was a boy from her class. She had "forced" him into these girl's clothes (oddly enough, her favorite dress from her grandma). I ascribe it to the on-going battle of the sexes at her school and am glad that she used her pen for drawing and not stabbing.
Since school is out for the week (Fall Holiday), maybe she is missing her arch-enemies. She has seen her friends a few times, and they got along ok, so maybe she just needed to get that meanness out of her system. As long as she doesn't take it out on us.
L.H. and I have been having opposite responses to the US election. He has been really agitated and upset, and I've been plugging up my ears and saying, "na na na na na na na". I can't imagine what the election fatigue in the US must be like; we didn't have the deluge of ads that USians got. And that, gentle readers, will probably be the last thing I have to say on the topic.
My FIL sent L.H. a polaroid of a biker that was taken back in the day when FIL was an undercover narcotics agent, then he pointed out how much he thought L.H. looked like this person. FIL really knows how to give a compliment. God knows what he'll come out with next—probably a comparison with Manson. He has totally lost touch with social norms and all other aspects of reality. I could really go on, but I think this should now go on the tabu topics list, or at least on the only-over-the-phone-with-the-relatives list.
(Can you see where D.D. may come by her need to get the meanness out?)
Sometimes I feel like turning off the world and losing myself in a book. Two weeks into the semester is not a good time for that feeling to come knocking, but it's a bit like PMS—I can't prevent it and just have to ride it out. I have learned that skimming books satisfies the itch, but it still takes a while to read Lord of the Rings. I haven't even felt like blogging (heaven forbid!). I guess this post is an indicator that I'm about over it.
Weather-bitching level: n.a.
I think that barring a blizzard, the weather will be predictably cold and possibly wet from now until March, so what's the point trying to put it on a scale? I'll reserve my weather comments for exceptionally unusual weather, like sunshine (which we had a little of today).
Since school is out for the week (Fall Holiday), maybe she is missing her arch-enemies. She has seen her friends a few times, and they got along ok, so maybe she just needed to get that meanness out of her system. As long as she doesn't take it out on us.
L.H. and I have been having opposite responses to the US election. He has been really agitated and upset, and I've been plugging up my ears and saying, "na na na na na na na". I can't imagine what the election fatigue in the US must be like; we didn't have the deluge of ads that USians got. And that, gentle readers, will probably be the last thing I have to say on the topic.
My FIL sent L.H. a polaroid of a biker that was taken back in the day when FIL was an undercover narcotics agent, then he pointed out how much he thought L.H. looked like this person. FIL really knows how to give a compliment. God knows what he'll come out with next—probably a comparison with Manson. He has totally lost touch with social norms and all other aspects of reality. I could really go on, but I think this should now go on the tabu topics list, or at least on the only-over-the-phone-with-the-relatives list.
(Can you see where D.D. may come by her need to get the meanness out?)
Sometimes I feel like turning off the world and losing myself in a book. Two weeks into the semester is not a good time for that feeling to come knocking, but it's a bit like PMS—I can't prevent it and just have to ride it out. I have learned that skimming books satisfies the itch, but it still takes a while to read Lord of the Rings. I haven't even felt like blogging (heaven forbid!). I guess this post is an indicator that I'm about over it.
Weather-bitching level: n.a.
I think that barring a blizzard, the weather will be predictably cold and possibly wet from now until March, so what's the point trying to put it on a scale? I'll reserve my weather comments for exceptionally unusual weather, like sunshine (which we had a little of today).
Sunday, October 31, 2004
Loverly Husband
My husband (L.H.) really is a nice man. When darling daughter (D.D.) has a friend over, he plays games with the two of them. And when the mom comes to pick her up, he chats her up for 20 or 30 minutes because he is helping her make contacts in the U.S. for an exchange program (she teaches H.S. English).
Personally, I'm just not that full of the milk of human kindness. In my case, it would be more like buttermilk. L.H. thinks I'm kind of shy, or maybe I'm holding back because of the language thing, but really, I think I'm just not that friendly.
It takes me a while to warm up to people; at my last job, it took me 2 or 3 months of seeing the same people day in and day out before I could let my innate wackiness shine through. I'm just not around anyone that much these days, so I don't see myself finding many "kindred spirits" (as Anne Shirley of Green Gables would say) any time soon. Also, humor doesn't always translate well, and I'm not sure what people here would make of my sarcastic sense of humor.
D.D. is lucky that she has one outgoing parent anyway. L.H. reminds me a bit of my mom in that respect. I found it embarrassing as a kid for her to be chatting up people in line at the grocery store, and now I'm married to a man with the same trait. He can tell me all about the neighbors, even ones not in our building, and about the parents of D.D.'s classmates because he's actually held one or more conversations with them. I usually just smile and nod in passing.
What's funny is that L.H. always thought of himself as introverted as a kid. I think that's because his dad tends to be fairly anti-social and kind of squished his kids into that mold when they were little. Nowadays we joke that L.H. is an extrovert who was raised as an introvert.
Today's Halloween party proves the point. I was ready to chuck all 11 kids out the door after an hour, but he kept them moving from one activity to the next with impressive patience. He was even so kind as to walk home a couple of kids (D.D. went home with one of them to play some more). I told him even before he left that I'd rather clean up after 50 kids than have to deal with any of them a minute longer.
My grandmother and mother keep telling me that I'm such a good mom and that I should have had more kids. The reason I'm such a good mom is *because* I only have one kid. I'll admit it: I'm selfish. I need some time to myself, if not physically then mentally apart from my family, and multiple children doesn't seem conducive to that. MIL told me of a woman of her online acquaintance with 9 children! That first caesarean section must have come with a labotomy!
I'll be the first one to admit that L.H. has oodles and gobs more patience than I; I can give D.D. boundless love and lots of silliness, and I know a trick or two to help her when she is in a bad mood or upset, but L.H. is the one who will sit on the floor and play Barbies with her. He should be in line for sainthood for that alone.
Weather-bitching update: 0.5
Clouds, some sun, no rain. It could have been worse.
Personally, I'm just not that full of the milk of human kindness. In my case, it would be more like buttermilk. L.H. thinks I'm kind of shy, or maybe I'm holding back because of the language thing, but really, I think I'm just not that friendly.
It takes me a while to warm up to people; at my last job, it took me 2 or 3 months of seeing the same people day in and day out before I could let my innate wackiness shine through. I'm just not around anyone that much these days, so I don't see myself finding many "kindred spirits" (as Anne Shirley of Green Gables would say) any time soon. Also, humor doesn't always translate well, and I'm not sure what people here would make of my sarcastic sense of humor.
D.D. is lucky that she has one outgoing parent anyway. L.H. reminds me a bit of my mom in that respect. I found it embarrassing as a kid for her to be chatting up people in line at the grocery store, and now I'm married to a man with the same trait. He can tell me all about the neighbors, even ones not in our building, and about the parents of D.D.'s classmates because he's actually held one or more conversations with them. I usually just smile and nod in passing.
What's funny is that L.H. always thought of himself as introverted as a kid. I think that's because his dad tends to be fairly anti-social and kind of squished his kids into that mold when they were little. Nowadays we joke that L.H. is an extrovert who was raised as an introvert.
Today's Halloween party proves the point. I was ready to chuck all 11 kids out the door after an hour, but he kept them moving from one activity to the next with impressive patience. He was even so kind as to walk home a couple of kids (D.D. went home with one of them to play some more). I told him even before he left that I'd rather clean up after 50 kids than have to deal with any of them a minute longer.
My grandmother and mother keep telling me that I'm such a good mom and that I should have had more kids. The reason I'm such a good mom is *because* I only have one kid. I'll admit it: I'm selfish. I need some time to myself, if not physically then mentally apart from my family, and multiple children doesn't seem conducive to that. MIL told me of a woman of her online acquaintance with 9 children! That first caesarean section must have come with a labotomy!
I'll be the first one to admit that L.H. has oodles and gobs more patience than I; I can give D.D. boundless love and lots of silliness, and I know a trick or two to help her when she is in a bad mood or upset, but L.H. is the one who will sit on the floor and play Barbies with her. He should be in line for sainthood for that alone.
Weather-bitching update: 0.5
Clouds, some sun, no rain. It could have been worse.
Saturday, October 30, 2004
Footwear for the 21st century
I was awoken to the sound of Eliza-cat meowing mutedly; I figured she was stuck in the closet. Turns out she was downstairs with L.H. and D.D., so she is now officially "the cat who cried 'stuck'."
Later, she fell off the stairs. She's not much smarter than a pair of slippers at this point; it won't be much of a change when I'm wearing her on my feet.
I expect my new slippers will be more attractive than these boots, at least. I saw a woman wearing something similar the other day. It was much too warm for such heavy-duty boots, and I thought, "Her poor dog-sled team! They must be baking."
Later, she fell off the stairs. She's not much smarter than a pair of slippers at this point; it won't be much of a change when I'm wearing her on my feet.
I expect my new slippers will be more attractive than these boots, at least. I saw a woman wearing something similar the other day. It was much too warm for such heavy-duty boots, and I thought, "Her poor dog-sled team! They must be baking."
Friday, October 29, 2004
Goblins and ghosts and princesses, oh my!
Darling daughter wanted a Halloween party, so she's getting the crafty-est Halloween party of all time. We've learned the hard way that if you have a dozen kids over and nothing planned to do, chaos will ensue. So I have paper for making jack-o-lanterns and wizard hats, and lots of straight sticks and feathers and foil for making magic wands. The only game we came up with is the old grapes-and-spaghetti-in-a-covered-bowl game. Is it brains? Guts? Eeeew!
DD also wants dancing, so we'll pull out the Best of the 80s CDs and let them boogie down. She's going to dress up as a princess; the other kids were asked to dress up, but DD has a pile of dress-up clothes, mostly princess stuff, that they can swap if they want.
And what's Halloween without goodies? I got the coolest Halloween gummis—black ones shaped like skulls and rats, white skeletons, pink and white fangs complete with gums, spiders—and some small wrapped chocolates. I'm going to make some chocolate cupcakes; the ones with orange frosting will be mini-pumpkins; the ones with black licorice strings poking out of them will be spiders (I couldn't find black food color for the frosting). One of the moms offered to bring veggie kabobs—lovely husband managed not to laugh at her over the phone. Silly woman! Halloween is not about nutrition! It is about gluttony! Sheesh.
L.H. brought home a pumpkin, but we're just going to draw a face on it with a black marker. I am not to be trusted with a knife, and we want to cook it later, so intact is better.
D.D. will be out of school next week, but I think we figured out that she'll only have to come to class with us a couple of days. Monday is a state holiday (All Saints), so we can all hang out at home, then Tuesday I have no classes to attend, and Friday L.H. has no classes to teach. One of my instructors has school-aged kids, too, and she said she might bring them to class, or let them play in her office down the hall, so D.D. coming is no problem. The other classes are large and anonymous, so no problem there, either. Of course, poor D.D. has been dragged to the university so often in her life already that she'll probably not want to go to college by the time she's old enough. It's that boring place.
She said the funniest thing the other day. She wore her new corduroy dress from her Grandma to school, and the after-school teacher asked her if it was her birthday, since she was so dressed up. And she got a book from a classmate (long story). So when she got home, she told me it felt like her birthday, particularly since she was so pretty. No confidence problems there!
Weather-bitching level: I can't decide.
It didn't actually rain today, but we've had a weird mix of slightly overcast and sunshine. The overcast was not even that distressing since the clouds were big and puffy instead of a solid layer of smothering gray. So I guess I can't complain. Drat.
DD also wants dancing, so we'll pull out the Best of the 80s CDs and let them boogie down. She's going to dress up as a princess; the other kids were asked to dress up, but DD has a pile of dress-up clothes, mostly princess stuff, that they can swap if they want.
And what's Halloween without goodies? I got the coolest Halloween gummis—black ones shaped like skulls and rats, white skeletons, pink and white fangs complete with gums, spiders—and some small wrapped chocolates. I'm going to make some chocolate cupcakes; the ones with orange frosting will be mini-pumpkins; the ones with black licorice strings poking out of them will be spiders (I couldn't find black food color for the frosting). One of the moms offered to bring veggie kabobs—lovely husband managed not to laugh at her over the phone. Silly woman! Halloween is not about nutrition! It is about gluttony! Sheesh.
L.H. brought home a pumpkin, but we're just going to draw a face on it with a black marker. I am not to be trusted with a knife, and we want to cook it later, so intact is better.
D.D. will be out of school next week, but I think we figured out that she'll only have to come to class with us a couple of days. Monday is a state holiday (All Saints), so we can all hang out at home, then Tuesday I have no classes to attend, and Friday L.H. has no classes to teach. One of my instructors has school-aged kids, too, and she said she might bring them to class, or let them play in her office down the hall, so D.D. coming is no problem. The other classes are large and anonymous, so no problem there, either. Of course, poor D.D. has been dragged to the university so often in her life already that she'll probably not want to go to college by the time she's old enough. It's that boring place.
She said the funniest thing the other day. She wore her new corduroy dress from her Grandma to school, and the after-school teacher asked her if it was her birthday, since she was so dressed up. And she got a book from a classmate (long story). So when she got home, she told me it felt like her birthday, particularly since she was so pretty. No confidence problems there!
Weather-bitching level: I can't decide.
It didn't actually rain today, but we've had a weird mix of slightly overcast and sunshine. The overcast was not even that distressing since the clouds were big and puffy instead of a solid layer of smothering gray. So I guess I can't complain. Drat.
Thursday, October 28, 2004
Thoughts on a Thursday
L.H. thought I was unaccountably harsh in my blog the other day on those American students. He doesn't understand that I would be just as harsh on the Russian and Chinese students if they were as loud as the Amis and if I could understand what they were saying.
I try to be efficient with my time on campus so I don't have to spend all my time at home locked away with my homework, and it irritates me to have my concentration broken by 2 girls discussing the state of their pens—"mine's almost out of ink"; "this kind's better but costs more"; blah, blah—and the search for a salsa partner, which segued into a discussion on someone else's roommate, who also happens to dance salsa, with a dash of revisiting high school dance team escapades thrown in. I stand by what I said before—inane blather.
I think part of the possible difference in opinion between L.H. and me stems from the fact that he was a college student for 12 of the last 13 years, and now teaches college students, so he still strongly associates with "youth culture." I, on the other hand, was out of school for 7 years before going back, and I worked in the administrative offices of a university almost that whole time, so I definitely do not.
Also, I like to bitch about stuff, which is the ostensible purpose of this blog. Don't like the bitching, Honey? Then don't read. (I already told him this in person. I wouldn't bitch about him behind his back.)
Weather-bitching level: 1.5
More off-and-on rain. I couldn't even manage to light the tile oven today, although L.H. thought it was too warm for it anyway.
I try to be efficient with my time on campus so I don't have to spend all my time at home locked away with my homework, and it irritates me to have my concentration broken by 2 girls discussing the state of their pens—"mine's almost out of ink"; "this kind's better but costs more"; blah, blah—and the search for a salsa partner, which segued into a discussion on someone else's roommate, who also happens to dance salsa, with a dash of revisiting high school dance team escapades thrown in. I stand by what I said before—inane blather.
I think part of the possible difference in opinion between L.H. and me stems from the fact that he was a college student for 12 of the last 13 years, and now teaches college students, so he still strongly associates with "youth culture." I, on the other hand, was out of school for 7 years before going back, and I worked in the administrative offices of a university almost that whole time, so I definitely do not.
Also, I like to bitch about stuff, which is the ostensible purpose of this blog. Don't like the bitching, Honey? Then don't read. (I already told him this in person. I wouldn't bitch about him behind his back.)
Weather-bitching level: 1.5
More off-and-on rain. I couldn't even manage to light the tile oven today, although L.H. thought it was too warm for it anyway.
Wednesday, October 27, 2004
The Eyes Have It
The latest generation of Barbies freak out L.H. and me. Their eyes keep getting bigger and more oblong—sideways. We think it looks even more trampy than usual. The regular Barbie that Mattel puts out as various fairy-tale princesses looks the same as before (only mildly trampy), but the My Scene dolls and the latest Fairy Something-or-Other dolls have the freaky eyes. Why doesn't Mattel just go straight to producing the Crack Whore Barbie? Sheesh.
The xmas toy advertising is well underway here. Don't get me wrong, there are always ads aimed at kids on TV, but now instead of trying to get D.D. to give up her allowance for gum and yo-yos, they're trying to get Mom and Dad to buy the giant Barbie mansion and cruise ship.
Every commercial it's "Mom, I want that." It drives us nuts. But one night D.D. actually commented unfavorably on a baby doll that transforms into a princess with the addition of *ta!da!* a princess costume. "She has creepy eyes." See! Even a 7-year-old will catch on to these things. On the other hand, as L.H. said, 1 toy down, 900 to go.
***
I can feel the winter bloat coming on. Even after my period, I am craving sour cream and onion Pringles and chocolate covered cherries. I may not normally eat enough fruits and veggies, but I also generally avoid sweets and junk food. Coffee is my one food vice, and they'll have to pull my favorite "Canada" mug from my cold, dead hands after I hit the floor.
It's been hard getting up in the cold, dark mornings; that's probably cluing in my body that it's time to step up the blubber production. It's hard enough finding pants when you're only 5 feet tall, but if I end up 5 feet wide as well, it'll be impossible. Also, I don't know my metric measurements. Just thought I'd throw that out there.
Weather-bitching level: 1-ish
It's not raining, but it was pretty chilly today. Also, it seems to be too overcast to see the lunar eclipse. Damn the luck.
The xmas toy advertising is well underway here. Don't get me wrong, there are always ads aimed at kids on TV, but now instead of trying to get D.D. to give up her allowance for gum and yo-yos, they're trying to get Mom and Dad to buy the giant Barbie mansion and cruise ship.
Every commercial it's "Mom, I want that." It drives us nuts. But one night D.D. actually commented unfavorably on a baby doll that transforms into a princess with the addition of *ta!da!* a princess costume. "She has creepy eyes." See! Even a 7-year-old will catch on to these things. On the other hand, as L.H. said, 1 toy down, 900 to go.
***
I can feel the winter bloat coming on. Even after my period, I am craving sour cream and onion Pringles and chocolate covered cherries. I may not normally eat enough fruits and veggies, but I also generally avoid sweets and junk food. Coffee is my one food vice, and they'll have to pull my favorite "Canada" mug from my cold, dead hands after I hit the floor.
It's been hard getting up in the cold, dark mornings; that's probably cluing in my body that it's time to step up the blubber production. It's hard enough finding pants when you're only 5 feet tall, but if I end up 5 feet wide as well, it'll be impossible. Also, I don't know my metric measurements. Just thought I'd throw that out there.
Weather-bitching level: 1-ish
It's not raining, but it was pretty chilly today. Also, it seems to be too overcast to see the lunar eclipse. Damn the luck.
Tuesday, October 26, 2004
Rain, rain, go away, dammit
I have only been back to school for a week, and already I am feeling slightly overwhelmed. Well, not too overwhelmed, but I was going to proofread today since I have no classes, but instead I have been preparing for an oral presentation I have to give on Thursday. Really, the presentation is pretty straightforward as far as I'm concerned, but the professor wanted me and the other presenter to contact him in advance, and I had to clear up a couple of things I couldn't figure out on my own, wah wah wah.
On top of that, Tuesday is my grocery-shopping day, my day to drop DD off at school and pick her up and take her to ballet. I think I'll have plenty of time for school stuff or work stuff, but it never works out that way. Alas.
It's pouring rain, and I have to walk out the door in 15 minutes to pick up DD. Stupid rain. At least we both have umbrellas. She spent some of her own allowance to buy a new-er one at a flea market. The old Pippi Longstocking umbrella has seen better days. We got it in Sweden when we lived there 4 years ago, and since then it has been dragged around the world (well, back to Texas, then to Germany).
Ok, ok, must spend last 15 minutes on presentation.
On top of that, Tuesday is my grocery-shopping day, my day to drop DD off at school and pick her up and take her to ballet. I think I'll have plenty of time for school stuff or work stuff, but it never works out that way. Alas.
It's pouring rain, and I have to walk out the door in 15 minutes to pick up DD. Stupid rain. At least we both have umbrellas. She spent some of her own allowance to buy a new-er one at a flea market. The old Pippi Longstocking umbrella has seen better days. We got it in Sweden when we lived there 4 years ago, and since then it has been dragged around the world (well, back to Texas, then to Germany).
Ok, ok, must spend last 15 minutes on presentation.
Monday, October 25, 2004
Cats and kids
I complain about our clumsy cats on a regular basis, and with good cause. Eliza can't jump from the floor to the third stair without missing her footing and slipping. The 2 of them even managed to fling themselves (and my ivy) off the top of the tile oven (a 5-foot drop) while tussling; it was a bit like a cliff scene in an action movie. And Missy has somehow fallen off the terrace on the top floor of the house and slid down the roof *4 or 5 times.*
I mean, I know "cat" does not equal "brain surgeon," but—really. You'd think that if she could learn to run into our room when the closet door is opened, she could learn to avoid death by terrace. Actually, bad example. She gets locked in the closet on a regular basis.
Last night, though, Missy was redeemed. (Eliza, on the other hand, remains clumsy until proven otherwise.) While pulling her back inside the house through the window, I noticed that her lips looked dark. "Great," I thought. "She's probably bleeding internally." I followed her into darling daughter's (D.D.) room, where she was standing over a small brown pile. Luckily (for me, anyhow), it was a bat. Turns out Missy's the great brown hunter.
A bat flew into our house one evening when we had all the windows wide open, and Missy managed to bat it out of the air, but that didn't seem fair. I had no idea she'd fling herself off the terrace for the chance. It explains all the roof-sliding.
***
Today I had my first dose of young American people in a long time. Please. Shut. Up. Shut. Shut. Shut. Why isn't karma or whatever striking these people mute!?
I'm not usually bothered by other people talking around me while I'm trying to study, because they are speaking in Chinese or Russian, and there's nothing I can recognize in what they're saying that could interrupt me, so I can tune them out. Not so with the Americans. Here I am, trying to read about the complexities of verb phrases, and I can't get their inane blathering out of my head. Must... resist... fist... of... death.
Weather-bitching level: 0.5
I think 3 days of Golden October are all we're going to get, so today we had to be satisfied with "At least it's not raining, and the foliage is beautiful." It was warmish until after dark, so that pleased me, except for the part where I was waiting for the bus after dark in my clothes that were appropriate only before dark. At least it wasn't raining.
I mean, I know "cat" does not equal "brain surgeon," but—really. You'd think that if she could learn to run into our room when the closet door is opened, she could learn to avoid death by terrace. Actually, bad example. She gets locked in the closet on a regular basis.
Last night, though, Missy was redeemed. (Eliza, on the other hand, remains clumsy until proven otherwise.) While pulling her back inside the house through the window, I noticed that her lips looked dark. "Great," I thought. "She's probably bleeding internally." I followed her into darling daughter's (D.D.) room, where she was standing over a small brown pile. Luckily (for me, anyhow), it was a bat. Turns out Missy's the great brown hunter.
A bat flew into our house one evening when we had all the windows wide open, and Missy managed to bat it out of the air, but that didn't seem fair. I had no idea she'd fling herself off the terrace for the chance. It explains all the roof-sliding.
***
Today I had my first dose of young American people in a long time. Please. Shut. Up. Shut. Shut. Shut. Why isn't karma or whatever striking these people mute!?
I'm not usually bothered by other people talking around me while I'm trying to study, because they are speaking in Chinese or Russian, and there's nothing I can recognize in what they're saying that could interrupt me, so I can tune them out. Not so with the Americans. Here I am, trying to read about the complexities of verb phrases, and I can't get their inane blathering out of my head. Must... resist... fist... of... death.
Weather-bitching level: 0.5
I think 3 days of Golden October are all we're going to get, so today we had to be satisfied with "At least it's not raining, and the foliage is beautiful." It was warmish until after dark, so that pleased me, except for the part where I was waiting for the bus after dark in my clothes that were appropriate only before dark. At least it wasn't raining.
Saturday, October 23, 2004
Battle of the Stereos
It appears that "Phantom of the Opera" played loudly has no effect on the volume of the music played by the teenager who lives below our study. Surprisingly, Depeche Mode does. I guess 80s techno-pop can totally kick the ass of modern techno. I won the battle of the volume control!
I haven't been posting much lately because classes just started, and I'm trying to get back into the swing of things. I am taking 20 hours *eek!*, so many future posts will probably be scribbled on campus and typed up after darling daughter (D.D.) goes to bed. Lovely husband (L.H.) thinks I will drop the blog now that the semester is underway, but I don't think he understands the ego-maniacal pleasure I get from it. Where else can I blithely make whatever comments I want without being called to task?
I think I'll pop Enya into the CD player (well, not her—"Get in there, dammit!"), then get back to the proofreading.
Weather-bitching level: 0.5
We had 2 glorious days—clear, sunny, and not too cold—what the locals call "Golden October", but today it's overcast again. As long as it doesn't start raining again. Urgh!
On a happier note, we did manage to get the tile oven fired up last night. This morning the landlord dropped by and shared the secret of keeping it hot all night, so if it gets cold again, we'll give it a try.
I haven't been posting much lately because classes just started, and I'm trying to get back into the swing of things. I am taking 20 hours *eek!*, so many future posts will probably be scribbled on campus and typed up after darling daughter (D.D.) goes to bed. Lovely husband (L.H.) thinks I will drop the blog now that the semester is underway, but I don't think he understands the ego-maniacal pleasure I get from it. Where else can I blithely make whatever comments I want without being called to task?
I think I'll pop Enya into the CD player (well, not her—"Get in there, dammit!"), then get back to the proofreading.
Weather-bitching level: 0.5
We had 2 glorious days—clear, sunny, and not too cold—what the locals call "Golden October", but today it's overcast again. As long as it doesn't start raining again. Urgh!
On a happier note, we did manage to get the tile oven fired up last night. This morning the landlord dropped by and shared the secret of keeping it hot all night, so if it gets cold again, we'll give it a try.
Tuesday, October 19, 2004
Tuesday morning
Mornings are not my forte. This morning has just reconfirmed my hatred of the early hours of the day. It wasn't actually a *bad* morning until the cats decided to fight on top of the tile oven and knocked over my ivy in the process of flinging each other over the edge. It's a 5-foot drop, so there was soil *everywhere*. This is the second time that has happened; I think the cats will make lovely house slippers when I'm done with them.
I expected to be crippled with foot pain today, but am pleasantly surprised that I am only experiencing mild soreness in my legs and knees. Yesterday I decided to follow lovely husband's (L.H.) creed, which is "Don't dress for the job you have; dress for the job you want." His mother told him that back when he was a graduate instructor, and he has been natty on the job ever since.
I don't quite have the wardrobe to pull off natty, but I decided to spruce myself up a bit on my first day back to school with a pair of nice-looking, tall-heeled loafers my sister gave me. Damn her and her attractive shoes! A hundred yards past the front door I realized the folly of my thinking. Screw business attire! I'm sticking to tennis shoes and jeans until I can put my hands on a pair of those cute little velvet, Chinese mary janes. I have my eye on a black brocade pair. They won't be weather-appropriate, but I'm sure I can find some rain boots that will fit over them for the outdoors.
I expected to be crippled with foot pain today, but am pleasantly surprised that I am only experiencing mild soreness in my legs and knees. Yesterday I decided to follow lovely husband's (L.H.) creed, which is "Don't dress for the job you have; dress for the job you want." His mother told him that back when he was a graduate instructor, and he has been natty on the job ever since.
I don't quite have the wardrobe to pull off natty, but I decided to spruce myself up a bit on my first day back to school with a pair of nice-looking, tall-heeled loafers my sister gave me. Damn her and her attractive shoes! A hundred yards past the front door I realized the folly of my thinking. Screw business attire! I'm sticking to tennis shoes and jeans until I can put my hands on a pair of those cute little velvet, Chinese mary janes. I have my eye on a black brocade pair. They won't be weather-appropriate, but I'm sure I can find some rain boots that will fit over them for the outdoors.
Sunday, October 17, 2004
Rain, rain, rain--I'm so sick of rain
Lovely husband (L.H.) has a new hobby, reading Bushisms online. He's been working steadily at it for at least the last 3 nights, with no end in sight. I hear him chuckling and snorting downstairs in the unheated study and know that he's found his calling.
[Interesting side note—we actually lived in Gothenburg, Sweden when this jewel was uttered:
"We spent a lot of time talking about Africa, as we should. Africa is a nation that suffers from incredible disease."--After meeting with the leaders of the European Union, Gothenburg, Sweden, June 14, 2001
We stopped admitting that we were Americans at that point and tried to pass ourselves off as Canadians.]
Home life has been light on blog-able material for the last couple of days, mostly due to PMS. Enough said.
Here's a funny episode, though: L.H. and darling daughter (D.D.) were looking at a collection of Far Side comics, and L.H. was suddenly explaining about cows and cud and multiple stomachs (Gary Larson has a lot of cows in his work). D.D. broke in on the explanation to say that she already knew what the four stomachs were for: "1 for cans, 1 for plastic, 1 for paper, and 1 for foil, Tee!Hee!"
When D.D. is being so cute and clever, I thank my lucky stars for her. But other times, like much of this weekend, I think that hamsters may be on to something with that eating their young thing. That may be the PMS talking. Or the rain-induced insanity.
I thought the weather in Texas changed fast, but in this part of Germany you can literally watch the change from pouring rain to a sunny, cloudless sky in about 5 minutes. L.H. and I watched it happen repeatedly yesterday. We even got to see a full double rainbow. Of course, we were out in the pouring rain at the time, so maybe we weren't able to appreciate the beauty of it fully.
Today, all rain. And I don't even have the energy to bitch about it.
[Interesting side note—we actually lived in Gothenburg, Sweden when this jewel was uttered:
"We spent a lot of time talking about Africa, as we should. Africa is a nation that suffers from incredible disease."--After meeting with the leaders of the European Union, Gothenburg, Sweden, June 14, 2001
We stopped admitting that we were Americans at that point and tried to pass ourselves off as Canadians.]
Home life has been light on blog-able material for the last couple of days, mostly due to PMS. Enough said.
Here's a funny episode, though: L.H. and darling daughter (D.D.) were looking at a collection of Far Side comics, and L.H. was suddenly explaining about cows and cud and multiple stomachs (Gary Larson has a lot of cows in his work). D.D. broke in on the explanation to say that she already knew what the four stomachs were for: "1 for cans, 1 for plastic, 1 for paper, and 1 for foil, Tee!Hee!"
When D.D. is being so cute and clever, I thank my lucky stars for her. But other times, like much of this weekend, I think that hamsters may be on to something with that eating their young thing. That may be the PMS talking. Or the rain-induced insanity.
I thought the weather in Texas changed fast, but in this part of Germany you can literally watch the change from pouring rain to a sunny, cloudless sky in about 5 minutes. L.H. and I watched it happen repeatedly yesterday. We even got to see a full double rainbow. Of course, we were out in the pouring rain at the time, so maybe we weren't able to appreciate the beauty of it fully.
Today, all rain. And I don't even have the energy to bitch about it.
Thursday, October 14, 2004
The Magical World of Writing
My best friend in high school took creative writing. I took physics and calculus. She is now a biology instructor, and I am a fledgling copy-editor and aspiring writer. We always comment on how weird that is when we talk.
After working on the same short story off and on for *cough* 2 years, I finally finished it. There was a beginning, a middle, and—most importantly, an end. I had pared it down, weighing the usefulness of each word, and was very pleased with the end result.
My lovely husband (L.H.) had read through it and made comments and suggestions until he was sick of it. Luckily for me, my dear friend (D.F.)—7 months pregnant and with an older child to take care of, and student-teaching to boot—graciously agreed to be a reader. Not only did she have her own creative writing experience (and formal instruction) to refer to, but she herself had been a fantasy fan back in the day. So she was familiar with the conventions of the genre I write in.
And, she's the most tactful and clear-spoken person I know. Must come from explaining the intricacies of the human body to numbskulls like me.
All wrapped up in a warm fuzzy about how she likes my writing—I tell you, she's the best!—she suggests that I flesh out the world in which the story is set. I set to work adding details. Then I see one bit that's kind of awkward and unnecessary. *snip* I prune it. Then I realize that some parts are repetitive. I analyze; I make notes; I tweak. Finally, I realize that if I'm going to do the story justice, I must write it again from scratch.
"What?!" you might say. "After 2+ years of work?"
Indeed. I realized that the story had so many parts I wanted to alter that it was almost a different story. Here's the way I've been thinking about it: it's like trying to put last year's dress on a 13-year-old girl. No matter what I do to it, the dress is not going to fit right. And even if I make a new dress, there's every chance that it won't fit next year, because she'll have continued to grow and develop. I think that's the point I'm at with my writing in general, and this story in particular.
So D.F.—it's all your fault! Just kidding. I may have needed someone to adjust my blinders so I could see what was missing from the story, but it's totally up to me to see if the story is everything I want it to be. And it isn't. Not yet, anyhow. But I feel like it's well on its way.
After working on the same short story off and on for *cough* 2 years, I finally finished it. There was a beginning, a middle, and—most importantly, an end. I had pared it down, weighing the usefulness of each word, and was very pleased with the end result.
My lovely husband (L.H.) had read through it and made comments and suggestions until he was sick of it. Luckily for me, my dear friend (D.F.)—7 months pregnant and with an older child to take care of, and student-teaching to boot—graciously agreed to be a reader. Not only did she have her own creative writing experience (and formal instruction) to refer to, but she herself had been a fantasy fan back in the day. So she was familiar with the conventions of the genre I write in.
And, she's the most tactful and clear-spoken person I know. Must come from explaining the intricacies of the human body to numbskulls like me.
All wrapped up in a warm fuzzy about how she likes my writing—I tell you, she's the best!—she suggests that I flesh out the world in which the story is set. I set to work adding details. Then I see one bit that's kind of awkward and unnecessary. *snip* I prune it. Then I realize that some parts are repetitive. I analyze; I make notes; I tweak. Finally, I realize that if I'm going to do the story justice, I must write it again from scratch.
"What?!" you might say. "After 2+ years of work?"
Indeed. I realized that the story had so many parts I wanted to alter that it was almost a different story. Here's the way I've been thinking about it: it's like trying to put last year's dress on a 13-year-old girl. No matter what I do to it, the dress is not going to fit right. And even if I make a new dress, there's every chance that it won't fit next year, because she'll have continued to grow and develop. I think that's the point I'm at with my writing in general, and this story in particular.
So D.F.—it's all your fault! Just kidding. I may have needed someone to adjust my blinders so I could see what was missing from the story, but it's totally up to me to see if the story is everything I want it to be. And it isn't. Not yet, anyhow. But I feel like it's well on its way.
Weather 101
Before I could spew my vitriol against the weather onto these pages, it stopped raining, and the sun is even trying to come out, if ever-so feebly. From the window here next to the table, I can see dark clouds moving in to put a stop to that sunshine business, smoke rising from several neighboring chimneys, and some valley fog. It's at the far end of our valley, where it intersects with another one. When it's really thick and fills more of the valley, it makes me think of the arrival of the "fire worm" in the film Thirteen Warrior. Oh, Antonio Banderas—you are my sunshine.
It's still chilly in the house. Lovely husband (L.H.) is working on getting the wood delivered; it feels decadent (and expensive!) to turn on the heater when it's almost 21 C (70 F) inside, so we don't. I wonder if it's cheaper to pay for the gas to heat the water in the radiators, or to pay for the electricity to run all the incandescent lights and heat up the house? (Hoorah! The sun shooed away the clouds and is now searing into the skin on my face, intensified through the glass of the window. Aaaah!)
My normal cold-beating M.O. is to put on a pot of coffee, work in the unheated study until I can't feel my toes or my bladder threatens to burst, then take a break long enough to defrost, refill my coffee cup, and pee. Sometimes, I put on another pair of socks or a scarf or a second sweater. (In case you were wondering, I don't like the cold.) Then it's a cup of soup for lunch, and a pot of decaf in the afternoon. I'm all about hot drinks, you see.
When I get really, really cold, I vacuum or take a hot shower. Vacuuming actually does provide enough movement to warm up the old muscles, but unfortunately it also sets off the never-ending nosebleed. So I try to ignore the dirt for as long as possible, which is not easy when you have beige tile. The showers are less about cleanliness than about boiling myself until my bones start radiating residual heat to the rest of my body. Mmmmm... boiling.
The other remedy for cold weather is enjoying our plants (I knew I'd finally be able to work them in!), but that's more of a mental health thing. I have managed to keep a poinsettia and a xmas cactus alive and thriving since last winter. The cactus even has 8 or 9 new buds; they are white with fuchsia edges—very dramatic. I don't have it together enough to force the poinsettia (which entails moving it in and out of dark closets so it will flower), so it's green.
Then there's Pumpkin Head. I bought flowers (mums?) last fall in a pot that is covered with small orange and black tiles that create the effect that the pot is a jack-o-lantern. Very cute. So I put some hot-pink heather in it recently, and it looks like Don King, if he had hot-pink hair and a jack-o-lantern face. It could be a new look for him.
L.H. bought over 100 Euros worth of flowers last May, many of which promptly drowned during the horribly wet summer we had. The hanging geraniums seem to be the sturdiest of the lot; there are still plenty in the window boxes on the lower balcony (very Bavarian-looking). In a last-ditch attempt to keep them alive, L.H. moved the surviving standing geraniums inside, where they look cheerful on the windowsill. And they don't stink like the ones my mom had when I was a kid. Maybe those were the special stinky Texas kind.
****
After picking up my darling daughter (D.D.) from school (stabbing-free days: 1), I spent a large part of the afternoon sitting next to her in the sun, crocheting and offering moral support for her homework. What I really needed to be doing was proofreading (400 pages down, 400 to go); what I really wanted to be doing was updating my blog. Is that obsessive? Good, I didn't think so.
[Note to family members reading this: if you have a strong aversion to crochet, comment below or email me, or it's potholders for xmas. Bwa!ha!ha!]
It's still chilly in the house. Lovely husband (L.H.) is working on getting the wood delivered; it feels decadent (and expensive!) to turn on the heater when it's almost 21 C (70 F) inside, so we don't. I wonder if it's cheaper to pay for the gas to heat the water in the radiators, or to pay for the electricity to run all the incandescent lights and heat up the house? (Hoorah! The sun shooed away the clouds and is now searing into the skin on my face, intensified through the glass of the window. Aaaah!)
My normal cold-beating M.O. is to put on a pot of coffee, work in the unheated study until I can't feel my toes or my bladder threatens to burst, then take a break long enough to defrost, refill my coffee cup, and pee. Sometimes, I put on another pair of socks or a scarf or a second sweater. (In case you were wondering, I don't like the cold.) Then it's a cup of soup for lunch, and a pot of decaf in the afternoon. I'm all about hot drinks, you see.
When I get really, really cold, I vacuum or take a hot shower. Vacuuming actually does provide enough movement to warm up the old muscles, but unfortunately it also sets off the never-ending nosebleed. So I try to ignore the dirt for as long as possible, which is not easy when you have beige tile. The showers are less about cleanliness than about boiling myself until my bones start radiating residual heat to the rest of my body. Mmmmm... boiling.
The other remedy for cold weather is enjoying our plants (I knew I'd finally be able to work them in!), but that's more of a mental health thing. I have managed to keep a poinsettia and a xmas cactus alive and thriving since last winter. The cactus even has 8 or 9 new buds; they are white with fuchsia edges—very dramatic. I don't have it together enough to force the poinsettia (which entails moving it in and out of dark closets so it will flower), so it's green.
Then there's Pumpkin Head. I bought flowers (mums?) last fall in a pot that is covered with small orange and black tiles that create the effect that the pot is a jack-o-lantern. Very cute. So I put some hot-pink heather in it recently, and it looks like Don King, if he had hot-pink hair and a jack-o-lantern face. It could be a new look for him.
L.H. bought over 100 Euros worth of flowers last May, many of which promptly drowned during the horribly wet summer we had. The hanging geraniums seem to be the sturdiest of the lot; there are still plenty in the window boxes on the lower balcony (very Bavarian-looking). In a last-ditch attempt to keep them alive, L.H. moved the surviving standing geraniums inside, where they look cheerful on the windowsill. And they don't stink like the ones my mom had when I was a kid. Maybe those were the special stinky Texas kind.
****
After picking up my darling daughter (D.D.) from school (stabbing-free days: 1), I spent a large part of the afternoon sitting next to her in the sun, crocheting and offering moral support for her homework. What I really needed to be doing was proofreading (400 pages down, 400 to go); what I really wanted to be doing was updating my blog. Is that obsessive? Good, I didn't think so.
[Note to family members reading this: if you have a strong aversion to crochet, comment below or email me, or it's potholders for xmas. Bwa!ha!ha!]
Wednesday, October 13, 2004
The Joys of Parenting
My darling daughter (D.D.) is probably going to hell: she stabbed a boy in the hand with a pencil *during religion class* yesterday. It doesn't really matter that he asked her to do it, even suggesting that she sharpen the pencil first. I'm sure he meant to pull his hand away at the last minute, perhaps adding a taunting "ha! ha!" What he didn't count on was D.D.'s lightening-fast reflexes, honed by years of flopping and, more recently, ballet.
D.D. apologized, and the boy said he'd been hurt much worse by another boy in the class before, but... still. Where was the teacher in all this?
[Addendum: L.H. pointed out that most teachers wouldn't feel they'd need to keep an eye out for kids stabbing each other until at least junior high.]
Lovely husband (L.H.) is worried about getting a hospital bill or a lawsuit. Germans have insurance for everything, but we haven't gotten around to buying more than our health insurance. It's crazy—at a birthday party we attended a few months ago, every person we talked to brought up the need for extra insurance. If I didn't know better, I'd think they were all in training to be insurance salesmen. Maybe they get a kick-back for bringing in new customers, I don't know.
D.D. is home today with a tummy ache. Last year we sent her to school a couple of times with a tummy ache, and she barfed. So now we know that she's not just using it as an excuse to stay home. No barf so far.
Since D.D. is technically home sick, we've been doing quiet, lounging-about type activities like watching videos and playing on the computer. I had to excuse myself when she went to the Barbie My Scene site, though. Otherwise I'd be the one barfing.
In case you are not the parent of a girly-girl, let me introduce you to the horror that is My Scene. Imagine, if you will, animated versions of Barbie and Ken—hip young things that love shopping and dancing. The interactive games on this site include beauty makeover and clothes shopping. Then there are the video clips—shudder. "Let's roam around the mall, buying things and ogling at and being ogled at by the guys!" or "Let's have a canned food drive for the blind before we go to the ultra-glam high school dance!"
This is not believable as real youth culture as far as I'm concerned. There is no acne, no back-stabbing, no messy break-ups, no sex. Definitely not teenage reality. Fortunately, there's lots of time before high school for D.D. to figure that out.
New bitching topic: the never-ending nosebleed. Enough said.
Weather-bitching level: 1
Overcast. Yuck.
D.D. apologized, and the boy said he'd been hurt much worse by another boy in the class before, but... still. Where was the teacher in all this?
[Addendum: L.H. pointed out that most teachers wouldn't feel they'd need to keep an eye out for kids stabbing each other until at least junior high.]
Lovely husband (L.H.) is worried about getting a hospital bill or a lawsuit. Germans have insurance for everything, but we haven't gotten around to buying more than our health insurance. It's crazy—at a birthday party we attended a few months ago, every person we talked to brought up the need for extra insurance. If I didn't know better, I'd think they were all in training to be insurance salesmen. Maybe they get a kick-back for bringing in new customers, I don't know.
D.D. is home today with a tummy ache. Last year we sent her to school a couple of times with a tummy ache, and she barfed. So now we know that she's not just using it as an excuse to stay home. No barf so far.
Since D.D. is technically home sick, we've been doing quiet, lounging-about type activities like watching videos and playing on the computer. I had to excuse myself when she went to the Barbie My Scene site, though. Otherwise I'd be the one barfing.
In case you are not the parent of a girly-girl, let me introduce you to the horror that is My Scene. Imagine, if you will, animated versions of Barbie and Ken—hip young things that love shopping and dancing. The interactive games on this site include beauty makeover and clothes shopping. Then there are the video clips—shudder. "Let's roam around the mall, buying things and ogling at and being ogled at by the guys!" or "Let's have a canned food drive for the blind before we go to the ultra-glam high school dance!"
This is not believable as real youth culture as far as I'm concerned. There is no acne, no back-stabbing, no messy break-ups, no sex. Definitely not teenage reality. Fortunately, there's lots of time before high school for D.D. to figure that out.
New bitching topic: the never-ending nosebleed. Enough said.
Weather-bitching level: 1
Overcast. Yuck.
Tuesday, October 12, 2004
MS Word sadness
I personally am fairly proficient with Word, so my sadness stems from the paper I am currently proofreading. This poor person managed to put together over *800* pages without knowing how to use the automatic numbered list setting or how to change the margins for long, indented sections.
I was checking for double spaces, so I turned on the feature that shows space and paragraph marks (our version of Word has everything labeled in German, and I can't think of what it was called in English). Oh. Dear. Lord. This person obviously does not know about the return key, because at the end of each item in the indented numbered list (all done manually), there is a string of 20 or more spaces to make the next item move down to the next line. Which means that I can't do a global find and replace, or it would move everything out of whack.
I am definitely not being paid enough to reformat *800* pages, and they look clean enough in regularly viewing mode, but the urge, she is there, let me tell you. That's what I get for being so anal retentive.
I was checking for double spaces, so I turned on the feature that shows space and paragraph marks (our version of Word has everything labeled in German, and I can't think of what it was called in English). Oh. Dear. Lord. This person obviously does not know about the return key, because at the end of each item in the indented numbered list (all done manually), there is a string of 20 or more spaces to make the next item move down to the next line. Which means that I can't do a global find and replace, or it would move everything out of whack.
I am definitely not being paid enough to reformat *800* pages, and they look clean enough in regularly viewing mode, but the urge, she is there, let me tell you. That's what I get for being so anal retentive.
Tea Sickos
So, I'm proofreading a paper on tea, and I've come across the term "agony of the leaves". This describes the way loose leaf tea uncurls after the boiling water has been poured on it.
Perhaps tea lovers don't have a problem with this term, but I think I would be imagining the tea leaves to be writhing and shrieking in tiny, high voices, "Help me!"
Maybe that's just me.
In any case, I'll be sticking to tea bags, where the tea leaves are broken up and don't uncurl. [See how much you can learn while proofreading? It's one of the reasons while I like the work.]
Perhaps tea lovers don't have a problem with this term, but I think I would be imagining the tea leaves to be writhing and shrieking in tiny, high voices, "Help me!"
Maybe that's just me.
In any case, I'll be sticking to tea bags, where the tea leaves are broken up and don't uncurl. [See how much you can learn while proofreading? It's one of the reasons while I like the work.]
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