This dwarf turned his head back and forth, but notice how his eyes *never stop watching you*.
Saturday, June 04, 2005
Belated Birthday
D.D. had her birthday a couple of weeks ago, but it was in the middle of her school break, and we managed to fart around and not arrange anything then. She today we took her and 4 of her friends to the local amusement park. It's about like Neff's in Angelo (is that place still open?). Anyhow, it's called the Fairy Tale Paradise, and there are lots of kid-friendly rides and playgrounds. D.D. and friends rode on the back of a giant plastic witch around a track, ditto a pony, rode around the park on the train, bounced on the giant moonwalk thingy, and drove non-bumper cars. D.D. almost caused a pile-up as soon as she got in her car, and it took her a couple of tries to get the hang of it. As she careened around, trying to make the car go where she wanted it to, she called out, "I don't have a driver's license!" How irresponsible of us to let her drive without one!
Interspersed among the rides are these creepy animatronic scenes from fairy tales the Brothers Grimm collected back in the day; these things make the Pirates of the Caribbean and It's A Small World at Disney World look cuddly and cute. For your viewing amusement, I'm posting my photos of what I like to call the Animatronic Nightmare. Enjoy.
Interspersed among the rides are these creepy animatronic scenes from fairy tales the Brothers Grimm collected back in the day; these things make the Pirates of the Caribbean and It's A Small World at Disney World look cuddly and cute. For your viewing amusement, I'm posting my photos of what I like to call the Animatronic Nightmare. Enjoy.
The Joys? of Parenting
The crack about the Nixon parenting method was made just before Deep Throat came forward. Talk about a weird coincidence.
Except that the parenting seems not to be working. D.D. punched a boy in the nose at after-school care and made it bleed. There was much eye-closing and sighing around here after she finally confessed. The boy had been pulling her dress up and wouldn't stop, and she claimed she couldn't get the teacher's attention, and finally, her "mind was out of control", and she punched him. Her friends claim he deserves it, because he's punched them, too, but we don't want our daughter to use violence to counter violence. Of course, now that he knows she might *make him bleed*, he might not try anything with her again.
She gave herself a week's restriction from tv before we could even come up with a punishment, so we went with that. Then she wrote a heartfelt letter to Barbie on her web site and said that the one thing she would like to change about herself is her fury. We knew she was on the Barbie site, but our interest was piqued when she asked how to spell "school" and "fury", so I went and had a look at what she was writing. We're thinking that the pre-programmed Barbie response will probably not be appropriate to the Daughter's soul-baring letter.
Except that the parenting seems not to be working. D.D. punched a boy in the nose at after-school care and made it bleed. There was much eye-closing and sighing around here after she finally confessed. The boy had been pulling her dress up and wouldn't stop, and she claimed she couldn't get the teacher's attention, and finally, her "mind was out of control", and she punched him. Her friends claim he deserves it, because he's punched them, too, but we don't want our daughter to use violence to counter violence. Of course, now that he knows she might *make him bleed*, he might not try anything with her again.
She gave herself a week's restriction from tv before we could even come up with a punishment, so we went with that. Then she wrote a heartfelt letter to Barbie on her web site and said that the one thing she would like to change about herself is her fury. We knew she was on the Barbie site, but our interest was piqued when she asked how to spell "school" and "fury", so I went and had a look at what she was writing. We're thinking that the pre-programmed Barbie response will probably not be appropriate to the Daughter's soul-baring letter.
She Comes By It Naturally
D.D. is a bit of a geek (see Yoda picture below) because her dad and I are geeks. We were listening to a radio interview with a man who is part of a group of people who are trying to break a record by reading as many places of pi as possible in 30 hours. This led L.H. and I to rack our brains trying to remember what we knew about pi: I had the denominator—7—and he had the numerator—22. I only remembered 3.1.4, but when he tried to outgeek me (incorrectly, I might add smugly), I was able to come up with 3.1416. Dr. Math at Drexel gives a short version of 3.14159265358979323846, so mine was rounded up. Considering I haven't taken math of any sort since 1995-ish, and no geometry-related math since 1992, I felt less stupid than I have of late.
Tuesday, May 31, 2005
Sunday, May 29, 2005
All D.D., All This Time
I Think I'm Turning Japanese (sing it if you know it). D.D. has gotten into the habit of asking for a drink out of the "waddle boddle." Now I can't say it right. I even caught myself writing "watel" the other day. And it's starting to bleed over into other words. Sometimes I don't even sound like I'm speaking English when I get on a roll.
D.D. is very flexible; she's inherited my grandmother's "loose hips." That means I know 2 people who can cross their legs at the knee, then tuck the top foot behind the ankle of the bottom leg. I certainly can't do it. She's been entertaining us recently by bending and crossing her legs into the shapes of different numbers. She can do 4, 0, and 8, and we expect her to start on letters any time now.
I think D.D. is veering into "whoa, take it easy, kid" territory. I put her in the tub yesterday afternoon, and she asked me to pull the stool over by the tub. On it were her clean shirt, a book of Far Side comic strips, and a guide to the first few seasons of the Simpsons (thanks, JKL!—pre-JEKL). She couldn't believe I wouldn't let her *read in the tub*--"I'll dry my hands off first!" So she read the Far Side book as part of her bedtime reading ritual instead.
D.D. is very flexible; she's inherited my grandmother's "loose hips." That means I know 2 people who can cross their legs at the knee, then tuck the top foot behind the ankle of the bottom leg. I certainly can't do it. She's been entertaining us recently by bending and crossing her legs into the shapes of different numbers. She can do 4, 0, and 8, and we expect her to start on letters any time now.
I think D.D. is veering into "whoa, take it easy, kid" territory. I put her in the tub yesterday afternoon, and she asked me to pull the stool over by the tub. On it were her clean shirt, a book of Far Side comic strips, and a guide to the first few seasons of the Simpsons (thanks, JKL!—pre-JEKL). She couldn't believe I wouldn't let her *read in the tub*--"I'll dry my hands off first!" So she read the Far Side book as part of her bedtime reading ritual instead.
Saturday, May 28, 2005
And in other non-news...
The premenstrual puff receded, then L.H., who was in charge of making the week's menu, fed me pea soup one night and pinto beans the next. I think he's aiming for a heart attack brought on by severe gastric distress. Death by indigestion—the indignity.
In my English class, the tables are arranged in a big square. I was watching this girl on the opposite side of the square, and on behalf of all other females, I think her womanhood should be revoked. She was flirting heavily with the guy next to her, which—normally—I'd be all, "Go for it, girl!" But in this case, I'd have to say, "What in the hell is wrong with your gaydar?" I mean, the only person more obviously gay than this guy would be Liberace. I'm expecting him to show up in sequins and/or feathers any time now.
There's been this terrible, terrible "Making of a Pop Group Diary" show on the kids' channel that D.D. watches, and the horrific-ness of the whole thing is sickening. They are obviously patterned on a real, live, successful pop group—Ch!pz (I can't believe I just typed that)—in that they have 2 girls and 2 boys, ranging in age from 18 to 22, but they just aren't believable as a group of friends who love to sing and dance together. Their first song is Dubbi Dam Dam (which actually sounds like doobie dum dum—that's all of the words for 2-1/2 minutes of music), and the animated aliens in the video are more talented performers than these guys.
On further investigation on the channel's web site, there was a contest, and the 4 were put together to give it a go. I'm waiting for the "Making of the Diary Show" show, where it's revealed that one of the girls is in rehab, the other is making porn movies, and the two guys are now dating and doing drag shows in Amsterdam.
D.D. is always a source of amusement for us. We typically visit 2 grocery stores on Saturdays, one that has cheap staples, and the other for everything else. At the cheap store, she wanted her own deodorant, so she wouldn't use mine up; and also, ladies use it. That was news to me, that she was using mine, but I said sure, why not. So she picked out a pink, rose-scented roll-on. She got mad at me because I wouldn't let her carry it into the second store, but no matter, she had already put some on. Before we even crossed the parking lot, she offered to let us sniff her armpits. No thanks, honey. In the store, I caught her—repeatedly—pulling her short sleeve up to her nose for a sniff, then saying, "Mmmm." She was quite pleased with her new 59-cent deodorant.
In my English class, the tables are arranged in a big square. I was watching this girl on the opposite side of the square, and on behalf of all other females, I think her womanhood should be revoked. She was flirting heavily with the guy next to her, which—normally—I'd be all, "Go for it, girl!" But in this case, I'd have to say, "What in the hell is wrong with your gaydar?" I mean, the only person more obviously gay than this guy would be Liberace. I'm expecting him to show up in sequins and/or feathers any time now.
There's been this terrible, terrible "Making of a Pop Group Diary" show on the kids' channel that D.D. watches, and the horrific-ness of the whole thing is sickening. They are obviously patterned on a real, live, successful pop group—Ch!pz (I can't believe I just typed that)—in that they have 2 girls and 2 boys, ranging in age from 18 to 22, but they just aren't believable as a group of friends who love to sing and dance together. Their first song is Dubbi Dam Dam (which actually sounds like doobie dum dum—that's all of the words for 2-1/2 minutes of music), and the animated aliens in the video are more talented performers than these guys.
On further investigation on the channel's web site, there was a contest, and the 4 were put together to give it a go. I'm waiting for the "Making of the Diary Show" show, where it's revealed that one of the girls is in rehab, the other is making porn movies, and the two guys are now dating and doing drag shows in Amsterdam.
D.D. is always a source of amusement for us. We typically visit 2 grocery stores on Saturdays, one that has cheap staples, and the other for everything else. At the cheap store, she wanted her own deodorant, so she wouldn't use mine up; and also, ladies use it. That was news to me, that she was using mine, but I said sure, why not. So she picked out a pink, rose-scented roll-on. She got mad at me because I wouldn't let her carry it into the second store, but no matter, she had already put some on. Before we even crossed the parking lot, she offered to let us sniff her armpits. No thanks, honey. In the store, I caught her—repeatedly—pulling her short sleeve up to her nose for a sniff, then saying, "Mmmm." She was quite pleased with her new 59-cent deodorant.
Paris—Day 4 (Finally!)
I know—it's about time I wrapped this up, eh? So Day 4 was actually not in Paris, but about 30 minutes north at a theme park. D.D. was good and patient at the grown-up, touristy places for 2 days, so we thought she deserved a little fun.
You know how Disneyland—which we did *not* go to—is based on the Disney characters? Well, Parc Asterix is based on a series of comic books about Asterix the Gaul, set in France (Gaul, actually) during the Roman Empire, in 50 B.C. The books are fairly popular here in Europe and have been translated into many languages. So 15 or 20 years ago, they opened an amusement park, and we all enjoyed ourselves, even though everything was in French.
There were lots of rides, including 2 big roller coasters. D.D. is such a brave child and wanted to ride both, until we rode the first one. I would say it compares with the Judge Roy Scream (if they still have it) at Six Flags in Arlington, but without so many tall drops. D.D. shrieked like she was in mortal danger, but when she got off she declared she could scream even louder, but would give the roller coaster with the loops a miss. It didn't help that we had ridden the Spider en route and were all pretty queasy.
Later, D.D. and L.H. left me on the ground while they rode the carousel of hanging chairs that uses centripetal force to swing them out. I was taking zoom photos, and D.D. didn't scream once. This from my daughter who claims to be afraid of heights and cowers on escalators.
We were able to go on a couple of water rides, one right at the beginning, so of course I had a wet ass and L.H. had a wet lap right off. "Hi! Nice to meet you! We're the Incontinent Family!"
D.D. wanted to check out one of the theatrical events, which was funny if unintelligible to us. Caesar wore a blond, rubber Elvis wig and had a band of incompetent legionnaires for slapstick comedy routines. Later, the soldiers performed an interesting, Cirque du Soleil-esque aerial gymnastics-on-a-bungee-cord-dance thing, which would have been quite beautiful if they weren't wearing satin mix-n-match costumes in fuchsia, purple, and fluorescent green and yellow. And satin wrestling masks with plumage on top. But otherwise not too gay. (We neglected to take photos of the spectacle.)
Paris might be the City of Love, but Parc Asterix is the amusement park of *small children*, so I didn't expect to see so many people mackin' on the rides and benches.
There was way more to do and see than we had time for, but we rode some rides, at some hot dogs and ice cream, and got to check out Asterix's world, so all in all it was a success.
On the drive back to Germany, we stopped in Reims to see the Cathedral. It's every bit as beautiful as the Notre Dame in Paris, but way less crowded (about 20 people at 5 pm on Sunday). Then we were all ready to be home. When we finally crossed the border, L.H. said he was ready to get out and kiss the ground.
I have to admit that after struggling to make ourselves understood in France, I vowed to double my efforts in mastering German, 1. because I already have a good start, and 2. because I was afraid I might still be speaking tourist-ese.
***
Here are a few notes I jotted while traveling, which may or may not be of interest to anyone but me:
Paris was fairly expensive. Our hotel was surprisingly reasonable, but ice cream and cold drinks were more expensive at the stands at the tourist sites than at the amusement park. Could you imagine paying more for a coke at the Alamo than at Fiesta Texas?!
Still in comparison mode, a Happy Meal was 4 euros in Paris, but 3.25 at home.
Seeing Scooby Doo in French was a mind-altering experience.
On the drive home, there was a stretch where the stench of onions permeated the car, so I assumed we were driving past an onion farm. But then a couple of days later I smelled onions on the bus. At first I wondered if I was having olfactory hallucinations brought on by brain trauma from the roller coaster. Then I wondered if I was in line for sainthood—you know, incorruptible (i.e., when the saintly person died, his or her body didn't decay, and also gave off the scent of flowers). It occurred to me that smelling like onions might not make me too popular with the other saints. But then I finally noticed that the girl behind me was eating a pita. Damn reality.
You know how Disneyland—which we did *not* go to—is based on the Disney characters? Well, Parc Asterix is based on a series of comic books about Asterix the Gaul, set in France (Gaul, actually) during the Roman Empire, in 50 B.C. The books are fairly popular here in Europe and have been translated into many languages. So 15 or 20 years ago, they opened an amusement park, and we all enjoyed ourselves, even though everything was in French.
There were lots of rides, including 2 big roller coasters. D.D. is such a brave child and wanted to ride both, until we rode the first one. I would say it compares with the Judge Roy Scream (if they still have it) at Six Flags in Arlington, but without so many tall drops. D.D. shrieked like she was in mortal danger, but when she got off she declared she could scream even louder, but would give the roller coaster with the loops a miss. It didn't help that we had ridden the Spider en route and were all pretty queasy.
Later, D.D. and L.H. left me on the ground while they rode the carousel of hanging chairs that uses centripetal force to swing them out. I was taking zoom photos, and D.D. didn't scream once. This from my daughter who claims to be afraid of heights and cowers on escalators.
We were able to go on a couple of water rides, one right at the beginning, so of course I had a wet ass and L.H. had a wet lap right off. "Hi! Nice to meet you! We're the Incontinent Family!"
D.D. wanted to check out one of the theatrical events, which was funny if unintelligible to us. Caesar wore a blond, rubber Elvis wig and had a band of incompetent legionnaires for slapstick comedy routines. Later, the soldiers performed an interesting, Cirque du Soleil-esque aerial gymnastics-on-a-bungee-cord-dance thing, which would have been quite beautiful if they weren't wearing satin mix-n-match costumes in fuchsia, purple, and fluorescent green and yellow. And satin wrestling masks with plumage on top. But otherwise not too gay. (We neglected to take photos of the spectacle.)
Paris might be the City of Love, but Parc Asterix is the amusement park of *small children*, so I didn't expect to see so many people mackin' on the rides and benches.
There was way more to do and see than we had time for, but we rode some rides, at some hot dogs and ice cream, and got to check out Asterix's world, so all in all it was a success.
On the drive back to Germany, we stopped in Reims to see the Cathedral. It's every bit as beautiful as the Notre Dame in Paris, but way less crowded (about 20 people at 5 pm on Sunday). Then we were all ready to be home. When we finally crossed the border, L.H. said he was ready to get out and kiss the ground.
I have to admit that after struggling to make ourselves understood in France, I vowed to double my efforts in mastering German, 1. because I already have a good start, and 2. because I was afraid I might still be speaking tourist-ese.
***
Here are a few notes I jotted while traveling, which may or may not be of interest to anyone but me:
Paris was fairly expensive. Our hotel was surprisingly reasonable, but ice cream and cold drinks were more expensive at the stands at the tourist sites than at the amusement park. Could you imagine paying more for a coke at the Alamo than at Fiesta Texas?!
Still in comparison mode, a Happy Meal was 4 euros in Paris, but 3.25 at home.
Seeing Scooby Doo in French was a mind-altering experience.
On the drive home, there was a stretch where the stench of onions permeated the car, so I assumed we were driving past an onion farm. But then a couple of days later I smelled onions on the bus. At first I wondered if I was having olfactory hallucinations brought on by brain trauma from the roller coaster. Then I wondered if I was in line for sainthood—you know, incorruptible (i.e., when the saintly person died, his or her body didn't decay, and also gave off the scent of flowers). It occurred to me that smelling like onions might not make me too popular with the other saints. But then I finally noticed that the girl behind me was eating a pita. Damn reality.
Friday, May 27, 2005
Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow?
--when I've been carted off by the guys in the white coats? Considering how yucky I felt this last week, I was downright chipper today. (L.H. kept calling me chipper this evening, but I'm pretty sure he meant "insane.") I bought myself some cute little Chinese Mary Janes, and did I mention how cute they are? And only 9 euros!
I celebrated by devouring a 2-scoop ice cream—peach and melon, yum!—that was probably chock full of artificial flavors, and I didn't have to listen to L.H. pronounce my doom via allergic headache or additive poisoning while I ate it. (I have now been instructed to get only plain vanilla or chocolate ice cream for the family, as they are less likely to contain artificial flavors. This is the man who has been known to complain about the lack of sprinkles, chunks, and cookies in the ice cream I buy. Which we all know are made using only organic ingredients by happy little grandmas in the dairy.)
See what I mean? Mental hospital—here I come!
Last week was really rough for me. My brain was the focal point of a head-on collision between menstrual hormones and an overwhelming amount of homework, and I was, well, overwhelmed. But between my regular day off on Wednesday, a state holiday on Thursday, and dropping one of my (not required) classes on Monday, I managed to come up with a sizeable chunk of time in which to get on top of the pile of work and make a bit of a dent in it.
On Wednesday I took D.D. to the playground after we returned our library books, but she didn't know the only other kid there, so she betook herself to her favorite climbing tree. The other kid, a little boy, was there alone; he looked about 5 years old. He kept going in and out of the little wooden play fort; he'd made a "door" for it by leaning a stick across the opening, and each time he crossed, he'd say something I couldn't catch and open and close the "door." After about 10 minutes of that, he took the stick, held it against his hip, then "unsheathed" it and beat the hell out of an unsuspecting bush, repeatedly, until he broke a large-ish branch off. That's about the time when his dad came for him. Drunky hair guy. I should have guessed.
On Thursday, we all went to the botanical gardens. It was a beautiful day for strolling outside, but we made sure to take a turn through the greenhouses. D.D. is now interested in getting her very own carnivorous plant, and L.H. got a tip on where we can buy one. D.D. was mostly interested in the different ponds and streams around the grounds, and she definitely likes the unpaved paths the best. She kept leading the way, saying, "We like the wild way." That would be "we=me and Dad." We discovered the reason why Germans make frogs say, "quak", which sounds like "kvak." Because they actually sound like that. They definitely do not sound like Texas frogs. At one point, we heard what we thought was a frog croaking a lot, but it might have been a duck attacked with a stick.
Afterwards, L.H. taught D.D. how to play frisbee. She picked it up really fast, and we are planning on making her play professionally to pay for our retirement. She doesn't know yet, though, so shhh. (She's reading over my shoulder as I type. Hee! Hee!) Actually, it was somewhat humiliating to see her snatch the frisbee out of the air, because I still can't do it myself. I'm the wiener who ducks when things fly at her, but that might be conditioning from when I got hit in the eye with a softball as a kid. And I guess in general it's a good reflex to have.
Today I noticed a lot of people walking around sporting sunburns. I managed to get sunscreen on our faces before we went out on Thursday, but I noticed my arms are a little pink, in that scary, blotchy way. D.D. tans easily, like her dad, damn them, but she is getting a few little cute freckles on her face. Not as many as me or her aunt, LilSis, thank the 7 Dwarfs.
In village news, the cosmetics boutique is probably driving away customers with their new window display. Aside from the hideous fake roses adorning the counter, there is a window painting? cling? that on close inspection turns out to also be red roses, but from afar appears to be fresh blood. Ick.
Today D.D. and L.H. went to the pool. I got home with a grocery bag full of goodies that I was looking forward to sharing, and there was a note that they had gone swimming because it was too hot. It was only about 85. Pu-lease. Of course, you know me. I'll be asking for a sweater when I get to hell. D.D. did fantastic in the water, her dad reported. She is taking swimming at school, but has been on vacation for the last 2 weeks, but it seems she has not forgotten her lessons. Good girl!
Another good girl is Mini-Nee. She got all A's for the year, is still in Gifted and Talented, and whipped the TAKS or whatever the latest acronym is like it was a red-headed stepchild. Go, Mini-Nee!
I celebrated by devouring a 2-scoop ice cream—peach and melon, yum!—that was probably chock full of artificial flavors, and I didn't have to listen to L.H. pronounce my doom via allergic headache or additive poisoning while I ate it. (I have now been instructed to get only plain vanilla or chocolate ice cream for the family, as they are less likely to contain artificial flavors. This is the man who has been known to complain about the lack of sprinkles, chunks, and cookies in the ice cream I buy. Which we all know are made using only organic ingredients by happy little grandmas in the dairy.)
See what I mean? Mental hospital—here I come!
Last week was really rough for me. My brain was the focal point of a head-on collision between menstrual hormones and an overwhelming amount of homework, and I was, well, overwhelmed. But between my regular day off on Wednesday, a state holiday on Thursday, and dropping one of my (not required) classes on Monday, I managed to come up with a sizeable chunk of time in which to get on top of the pile of work and make a bit of a dent in it.
On Wednesday I took D.D. to the playground after we returned our library books, but she didn't know the only other kid there, so she betook herself to her favorite climbing tree. The other kid, a little boy, was there alone; he looked about 5 years old. He kept going in and out of the little wooden play fort; he'd made a "door" for it by leaning a stick across the opening, and each time he crossed, he'd say something I couldn't catch and open and close the "door." After about 10 minutes of that, he took the stick, held it against his hip, then "unsheathed" it and beat the hell out of an unsuspecting bush, repeatedly, until he broke a large-ish branch off. That's about the time when his dad came for him. Drunky hair guy. I should have guessed.
On Thursday, we all went to the botanical gardens. It was a beautiful day for strolling outside, but we made sure to take a turn through the greenhouses. D.D. is now interested in getting her very own carnivorous plant, and L.H. got a tip on where we can buy one. D.D. was mostly interested in the different ponds and streams around the grounds, and she definitely likes the unpaved paths the best. She kept leading the way, saying, "We like the wild way." That would be "we=me and Dad." We discovered the reason why Germans make frogs say, "quak", which sounds like "kvak." Because they actually sound like that. They definitely do not sound like Texas frogs. At one point, we heard what we thought was a frog croaking a lot, but it might have been a duck attacked with a stick.
Afterwards, L.H. taught D.D. how to play frisbee. She picked it up really fast, and we are planning on making her play professionally to pay for our retirement. She doesn't know yet, though, so shhh. (She's reading over my shoulder as I type. Hee! Hee!) Actually, it was somewhat humiliating to see her snatch the frisbee out of the air, because I still can't do it myself. I'm the wiener who ducks when things fly at her, but that might be conditioning from when I got hit in the eye with a softball as a kid. And I guess in general it's a good reflex to have.
Today I noticed a lot of people walking around sporting sunburns. I managed to get sunscreen on our faces before we went out on Thursday, but I noticed my arms are a little pink, in that scary, blotchy way. D.D. tans easily, like her dad, damn them, but she is getting a few little cute freckles on her face. Not as many as me or her aunt, LilSis, thank the 7 Dwarfs.
In village news, the cosmetics boutique is probably driving away customers with their new window display. Aside from the hideous fake roses adorning the counter, there is a window painting? cling? that on close inspection turns out to also be red roses, but from afar appears to be fresh blood. Ick.
Today D.D. and L.H. went to the pool. I got home with a grocery bag full of goodies that I was looking forward to sharing, and there was a note that they had gone swimming because it was too hot. It was only about 85. Pu-lease. Of course, you know me. I'll be asking for a sweater when I get to hell. D.D. did fantastic in the water, her dad reported. She is taking swimming at school, but has been on vacation for the last 2 weeks, but it seems she has not forgotten her lessons. Good girl!
Another good girl is Mini-Nee. She got all A's for the year, is still in Gifted and Talented, and whipped the TAKS or whatever the latest acronym is like it was a red-headed stepchild. Go, Mini-Nee!
Wednesday, May 25, 2005
Y'Know--Stuff
I have been cruelly duped. I bought a bag of mixed Haribo gummy candies, just because it included licorice. I bit into a beautiful black and white one, and it was licorice—laced with coconut. Noooooo! It was like delicious licorice with a side of ass.(1) And *every single black one* had a layer of white. L.H. didn't want to eat them because of the licorice, and I didn't want to eat them because of the coconut, so they are still sitting on the kitchen counter, hardening.
Yesterday I looked less like I was retaining water and more like I was retaining a watermelon. I seem to have deflated a bit this morning, but I really hate the start-of-period puff. It makes me even grouchier than normal to wear my new jeans that are usually quite roomy and to get squeezed like a cocktail waitress in a construction workers' convention.
The weather has gone from cold and wet to warm and wet, to warm and humid, back to cold and wet, and finally to clear, warm, and sunny. No one is more ready for it to be summer than I. Our landlord is supposed to start converting our terrace into a glassed-in sun-room in three weeks, so even in the winter we'll be able to enjoy whatever sunlight comes our way.
We are so un-together that we still haven't organized a bday party for D.D. (actual birthday: May 22). It doesn't help that she changes her mind every 5 minutes about what she wants. At some point she has wanted a movie party, a fairy party, a Harry Potter party, a swim party, and a rock-climbing party. We may end up pushing it back yet one more weekend, since it might be difficult to organize a party and round up guests in 3 days.
On her bday, we took her to see the new Star Wars, and we all liked it. It was kind of strange to take her to a film that children under 12 are required to be accompanied to, but she had to sit on a booster seat to be able to see the screen. I've heard a lot of complaints online about the stiff dialog (and I've seen all the rest of the films in English and can attest to the stiff dialog in them), but it was not so noticeable in German. Also, it was so hard to visually follow what was actually going on half the time with the heavily laden special effects that the dialog was a welcome relief from all the spaceships and explosions and battle scenes. That said, we'll probably get it on DVD when it comes out. We don't have a DVD player, but we do have a computer particularly designed for multi-media, so we just use it as a tv when we want to play one of our tiny collection of DVDs.
(1) One of L.H.'s former grad school colleagues—coincidentally a German—says licorice tastes like ass, but what does he know.
Yesterday I looked less like I was retaining water and more like I was retaining a watermelon. I seem to have deflated a bit this morning, but I really hate the start-of-period puff. It makes me even grouchier than normal to wear my new jeans that are usually quite roomy and to get squeezed like a cocktail waitress in a construction workers' convention.
The weather has gone from cold and wet to warm and wet, to warm and humid, back to cold and wet, and finally to clear, warm, and sunny. No one is more ready for it to be summer than I. Our landlord is supposed to start converting our terrace into a glassed-in sun-room in three weeks, so even in the winter we'll be able to enjoy whatever sunlight comes our way.
We are so un-together that we still haven't organized a bday party for D.D. (actual birthday: May 22). It doesn't help that she changes her mind every 5 minutes about what she wants. At some point she has wanted a movie party, a fairy party, a Harry Potter party, a swim party, and a rock-climbing party. We may end up pushing it back yet one more weekend, since it might be difficult to organize a party and round up guests in 3 days.
On her bday, we took her to see the new Star Wars, and we all liked it. It was kind of strange to take her to a film that children under 12 are required to be accompanied to, but she had to sit on a booster seat to be able to see the screen. I've heard a lot of complaints online about the stiff dialog (and I've seen all the rest of the films in English and can attest to the stiff dialog in them), but it was not so noticeable in German. Also, it was so hard to visually follow what was actually going on half the time with the heavily laden special effects that the dialog was a welcome relief from all the spaceships and explosions and battle scenes. That said, we'll probably get it on DVD when it comes out. We don't have a DVD player, but we do have a computer particularly designed for multi-media, so we just use it as a tv when we want to play one of our tiny collection of DVDs.
(1) One of L.H.'s former grad school colleagues—coincidentally a German—says licorice tastes like ass, but what does he know.
Saturday, May 21, 2005
The Throw-Away Post (sort of)
Today I am puffy and surly/manic and unfunny, but here are a couple of things that don't require any additional humor from me (or any humor at all, for that matter).
As soon as I walked in the door on Thursday, D.D. accosted me: the most disgusting thing in the world had just happened. Thinking I was going to be in charge of a cat-barf mess, she went on to inform me that a snail had just climbed onto her new sandal and onto her foot (!) when she was playing in the meadow across the street. So she had to wash the new sandal, and would probably never wear it again. I know that the snails around here are large and relatively fast, but I couldn't quite make out how she was still long enough for one to crawl onto her foot. The best I can tell, she was walking through tall-ish grass and kicked up a slug (not a snail), which then befouled her foot. The trauma!
While walking past a large (5-story) department store early one morning, I heard this weird whistling sound, interspersed with metal clinking. It was the metal lines that were holding the sides of some banner-things that hung down the sides of the building. The banners were whistling, and the metal lines were clinking. It gave me gooseflesh, since it gave me a mental picture of one of the lines snapping and whipping through the air to maim passersby. I try not to walk so close to that building now. *shudder*
As soon as I walked in the door on Thursday, D.D. accosted me: the most disgusting thing in the world had just happened. Thinking I was going to be in charge of a cat-barf mess, she went on to inform me that a snail had just climbed onto her new sandal and onto her foot (!) when she was playing in the meadow across the street. So she had to wash the new sandal, and would probably never wear it again. I know that the snails around here are large and relatively fast, but I couldn't quite make out how she was still long enough for one to crawl onto her foot. The best I can tell, she was walking through tall-ish grass and kicked up a slug (not a snail), which then befouled her foot. The trauma!
While walking past a large (5-story) department store early one morning, I heard this weird whistling sound, interspersed with metal clinking. It was the metal lines that were holding the sides of some banner-things that hung down the sides of the building. The banners were whistling, and the metal lines were clinking. It gave me gooseflesh, since it gave me a mental picture of one of the lines snapping and whipping through the air to maim passersby. I try not to walk so close to that building now. *shudder*
Thursday, May 19, 2005
So Proud!
I found out from my mom that my niece made a sweep (almost) at her school's award night—8 out of 10! I shall call her (pinky to lips)...Mini-Nee.
She even won a citizenship award, but according to LilSis, a bit of the luster was rubbed off by M-N's bored expression. That's no way to be a good citizen, Mini-Nee! You should show *some* appreciation and modesty. Unless you're *really* bored, then full steam ahead!
***
D.D. hates it when people (generally old people) pat her head or *gasp* talk to her in public. She's starting to get quite surly about it. Today she practically ran to me at the grocery store check-out to get away from an old lady asking her about her doll. Don't want to be approached, don't look so cute, honey.
"I hate it when old Omas talk to me. That *gets on my nerves*." (You can say that last bit with one word in German, which is the most economical I've ever seen the language be.)
When I got onto her for being impolite, she replied that she's not supposed to talk to strangers. I pointed out that she's probably not in much danger from such an elderly person, plus I was only 5 feet away. She came back with an elaborate tale of the woman and her husband probably desperately wanting a little girl of their own—just like her! I let it drop at that point, but I'm starting to wonder about D.D.'s concept of reality.
***
After reading one of my entries, L.H. declared himself surprised that I noticed what other people were wearing so much of the time. He should remember that I am an inveterate people-watcher (a.k.a. starer). Plus, some people's clothing just cannot be missed.
For instance, I haven't seen her lately, but there's a woman in our village I have mentally named "The Old French Whore." She typically wears clothes that are 30 years too young, 2 sizes too small, and inevitably include a combination of fake fur, leather or vinyl, and animal prints. Paired with elaborately curled and badly dyed hair, 2-inch-long nails, and 4-inch-high heels, well, you can see where I'm going with this. I have no idea how she gets up and down the steps to the bus without tanking.
She even won a citizenship award, but according to LilSis, a bit of the luster was rubbed off by M-N's bored expression. That's no way to be a good citizen, Mini-Nee! You should show *some* appreciation and modesty. Unless you're *really* bored, then full steam ahead!
***
D.D. hates it when people (generally old people) pat her head or *gasp* talk to her in public. She's starting to get quite surly about it. Today she practically ran to me at the grocery store check-out to get away from an old lady asking her about her doll. Don't want to be approached, don't look so cute, honey.
"I hate it when old Omas talk to me. That *gets on my nerves*." (You can say that last bit with one word in German, which is the most economical I've ever seen the language be.)
When I got onto her for being impolite, she replied that she's not supposed to talk to strangers. I pointed out that she's probably not in much danger from such an elderly person, plus I was only 5 feet away. She came back with an elaborate tale of the woman and her husband probably desperately wanting a little girl of their own—just like her! I let it drop at that point, but I'm starting to wonder about D.D.'s concept of reality.
***
After reading one of my entries, L.H. declared himself surprised that I noticed what other people were wearing so much of the time. He should remember that I am an inveterate people-watcher (a.k.a. starer). Plus, some people's clothing just cannot be missed.
For instance, I haven't seen her lately, but there's a woman in our village I have mentally named "The Old French Whore." She typically wears clothes that are 30 years too young, 2 sizes too small, and inevitably include a combination of fake fur, leather or vinyl, and animal prints. Paired with elaborately curled and badly dyed hair, 2-inch-long nails, and 4-inch-high heels, well, you can see where I'm going with this. I have no idea how she gets up and down the steps to the bus without tanking.
Wednesday, May 18, 2005
Life in the Climbing Lane
A few days ago, I got home from school to find L.H. picking up the last shards of glass from a broken jar. It turns out that D.D.+jar+tile floor=pickle bomb. Who would have guessed? It took several attempts at mopping to get all the brine up, and there was a horrid pickle/lemon cleaner stench until I succeeded.
***
Earlier today I was in the ladies', and I heard D.D. stomping up the stairs toward me (the child can't just walk up stairs), so I preemptively yelled, "I'm in the bathroom!" And she answered, "I just wanted to tell you something." Now, D.D. often has interesting insights on the world, so my curiosity was piqued. After washing my hands, I found out that "These chips are delicious with ketchup. I just tried them."
It was hard to suppress my natural sarcasm. My brain was saying, "Thanks for the newsflash!", but my mouth managed to say, "I'm glad you like them." I don't want to crush her fragile spirit with my sarcastic tendencies.
***
So I started some homemade bread to go with some homemade carrot soup (I make a mean carrot soup), but I was having trouble with one line in the directions: "Continue adding flour as you knead until the dough is no longer sticky." The damn stuff was still sticky, but was starting to approach the density of a black hole, so I declared, "I dub thee satiny and smooth. Now rise!" (Actually, I just now added that "rise" bit, because I'm—you know—a geek. hee!hee!)
***
For the most part, I think Disney television programming is insipid and pointless, but I have to give them their props when they get one right. D.D and I are addicted to "Fillmore," and we've only seen 3 or 4 episodes. It's like a police detective drama, but set in a school with school-aged detectives. They even have a big cocoa urn instead of coffee. Hee! There are lots of misleading clues and conflicting motives that make for interesting stories. So I like cartoons—sue me.
Speaking of which, I am afraid there are only about 4 voice talents in all of Germany, going by the number of cartoon characters with the same set of voices. It's gotten to the point that I can't even guess what show is on when walking past the living room; I have to actually look at the tv set, which I try to avoid as much as possible. And 9 times out of 10 I'll be surprised. Spongebob-guy is 6 other voices, off the top of my head, and Squidward-guy is getting up close to that number. L.H. thinks those guys should give some other voice-actors a break and step down once in a while, but I can't imagine it's that lucrative a field anyhow.
***
We have a surprisingly difficult time finding children's bubble bath around here, so we stocked up when we came across some in a grocery store in Paris. Now D.D. has Hunchback of Notre Dame (Disney again, I know) bubble bath, with packaging in French. I like to think of it as horizon-expanding.
***
And here is one of mine and L.H.'s all-time favorite lines from Public Television:
"You are an idiot, but your produce is delicious."
Jennifer, one of the "2 Fat Ladies", to a live chicken while gathering fresh eggs
***
Earlier today I was in the ladies', and I heard D.D. stomping up the stairs toward me (the child can't just walk up stairs), so I preemptively yelled, "I'm in the bathroom!" And she answered, "I just wanted to tell you something." Now, D.D. often has interesting insights on the world, so my curiosity was piqued. After washing my hands, I found out that "These chips are delicious with ketchup. I just tried them."
It was hard to suppress my natural sarcasm. My brain was saying, "Thanks for the newsflash!", but my mouth managed to say, "I'm glad you like them." I don't want to crush her fragile spirit with my sarcastic tendencies.
***
So I started some homemade bread to go with some homemade carrot soup (I make a mean carrot soup), but I was having trouble with one line in the directions: "Continue adding flour as you knead until the dough is no longer sticky." The damn stuff was still sticky, but was starting to approach the density of a black hole, so I declared, "I dub thee satiny and smooth. Now rise!" (Actually, I just now added that "rise" bit, because I'm—you know—a geek. hee!hee!)
***
For the most part, I think Disney television programming is insipid and pointless, but I have to give them their props when they get one right. D.D and I are addicted to "Fillmore," and we've only seen 3 or 4 episodes. It's like a police detective drama, but set in a school with school-aged detectives. They even have a big cocoa urn instead of coffee. Hee! There are lots of misleading clues and conflicting motives that make for interesting stories. So I like cartoons—sue me.
Speaking of which, I am afraid there are only about 4 voice talents in all of Germany, going by the number of cartoon characters with the same set of voices. It's gotten to the point that I can't even guess what show is on when walking past the living room; I have to actually look at the tv set, which I try to avoid as much as possible. And 9 times out of 10 I'll be surprised. Spongebob-guy is 6 other voices, off the top of my head, and Squidward-guy is getting up close to that number. L.H. thinks those guys should give some other voice-actors a break and step down once in a while, but I can't imagine it's that lucrative a field anyhow.
***
We have a surprisingly difficult time finding children's bubble bath around here, so we stocked up when we came across some in a grocery store in Paris. Now D.D. has Hunchback of Notre Dame (Disney again, I know) bubble bath, with packaging in French. I like to think of it as horizon-expanding.
***
And here is one of mine and L.H.'s all-time favorite lines from Public Television:
"You are an idiot, but your produce is delicious."
Jennifer, one of the "2 Fat Ladies", to a live chicken while gathering fresh eggs
Tuesday, May 17, 2005
Paris—Day 3: Into the Bowels of the Louvre
(n.b. French spelling is not my forte, so please disregard any typos.)
Actually, the Louvre is an amazing place (and their web site is very user friendly; the virtual tours are the bomb!). The building itself is 4 stories and too huge to get into one photo without a helicopter. It was originally a palace; we were able to see rooms that Napoleon had used, and let me tell you, it was more opulent even than the current Swedish royal family's digs. But the French aristocracy back then must have felt it was lacking, because they abandoned it for Versailles (which, from the photos I've seen, appears to be gilded from toilets to kitchen counters).
You enter through a large glass pyramid that seems a bit out of place at first, but the effect from inside is really cool. Then you go down an escalator, and the main level is one floor underground, lighted by the pyramid that now acts as an elaborate skylight. There are three wings, and each wing has four floors.
We spent !6! hours walking around and didn't even make it onto every floor of every wing. (That's as long as it took us to *drive to Paris* in the first place.) Mostly we decided what we really wanted to see, and planned it out on the handy map we got when we arrived. If they hadn't thoughtfully put numbered signs on the walls, we would have been irretrievably lost in a matter of 10 minutes.
Darling Daughter got her wish and stood before the Mona Lisa, along with the 100 people pushing us forward. Choosing not to join the teeming throng in prematurely aging the Mona Lisa via flash-photography, we declined to take our own photo. Also, we didn't know how to turn the flash off on our new-ish digital camera. But we bought a postcard and a bookmark of the M.L. later at the bookshop, so take that, Philistines!
Poor D.D. was bored out of her mind after that, and I have to admit that the thousands of paintings (even the 30-foot-high ones) kind of became a blur of colored oil after a while. L.H. dutifully looked at most of the paintings, but D.D. would find the nearest bench and flop down until we were ready to go to the next room. Then L.H. would sing a little piece from the Disney "Alice in Wonderland" to get us moving: "Clean cups, move down..."
We saw the Mona Lisa and the Venus de Milo, but we missed the Egyptian section. We saw David's painting of Napoleon crowning Josephine empress, but not the medieval moat that originally surrounded the Louvre when it was a fortress. I think it would take a week just to physically walk past everything, and months to read all the labels (if we could read French; there are no multi-lingual signs on the displays in the Louvre, for future reference).
Afterwards we walked the length of the gardens, which are still being renovated, I understand, until we came out on the Champs Elysees. We walked all the way up to the Arc d'Triomphe, which is a goodly way, but it was blocked off from visitors. We're not exactly certain, but we think it was related to the next day being the anniversary of the end of WW2 in France. There was supposed to be something there on the 8th (we were there on the 7th). Anyhow, we still got to see it from fairly close, but we were all too tired and cranky by then to be properly appreciative. Thank goodness the Metro station was right there.
Yes, we managed to use the Metro and not die. Please, hold your applause. The train was no problem; finding the correct platform was the problem. After asking at the information desk (and getting half-squashed in the ticket barrier—I'm alright!), we followed the signs until we reached some tracks. And of course it wasn't the right set. How silly of us not to realize that we had to follow the platform until we were behind the original escalator we took downstairs, then take another escalator *back upstairs.* We came out in a totally different area, don't ask me how. I suspect there was some kind of time-and-space-warp into another dimension, but we made it to the Place d'Italie, so who cares how we got there.
***
Each evening, L.H. would whisper, "Hey, Baby... we're in the City of Love..." To which I would respond, "And I'm the mayor of Tiredville. Sorry, Babe." Walking around for like 12 hours is only conducive to instantly falling asleep as soon as you lie down.
Actually, the Louvre is an amazing place (and their web site is very user friendly; the virtual tours are the bomb!). The building itself is 4 stories and too huge to get into one photo without a helicopter. It was originally a palace; we were able to see rooms that Napoleon had used, and let me tell you, it was more opulent even than the current Swedish royal family's digs. But the French aristocracy back then must have felt it was lacking, because they abandoned it for Versailles (which, from the photos I've seen, appears to be gilded from toilets to kitchen counters).
You enter through a large glass pyramid that seems a bit out of place at first, but the effect from inside is really cool. Then you go down an escalator, and the main level is one floor underground, lighted by the pyramid that now acts as an elaborate skylight. There are three wings, and each wing has four floors.
We spent !6! hours walking around and didn't even make it onto every floor of every wing. (That's as long as it took us to *drive to Paris* in the first place.) Mostly we decided what we really wanted to see, and planned it out on the handy map we got when we arrived. If they hadn't thoughtfully put numbered signs on the walls, we would have been irretrievably lost in a matter of 10 minutes.
Darling Daughter got her wish and stood before the Mona Lisa, along with the 100 people pushing us forward. Choosing not to join the teeming throng in prematurely aging the Mona Lisa via flash-photography, we declined to take our own photo. Also, we didn't know how to turn the flash off on our new-ish digital camera. But we bought a postcard and a bookmark of the M.L. later at the bookshop, so take that, Philistines!
Poor D.D. was bored out of her mind after that, and I have to admit that the thousands of paintings (even the 30-foot-high ones) kind of became a blur of colored oil after a while. L.H. dutifully looked at most of the paintings, but D.D. would find the nearest bench and flop down until we were ready to go to the next room. Then L.H. would sing a little piece from the Disney "Alice in Wonderland" to get us moving: "Clean cups, move down..."
We saw the Mona Lisa and the Venus de Milo, but we missed the Egyptian section. We saw David's painting of Napoleon crowning Josephine empress, but not the medieval moat that originally surrounded the Louvre when it was a fortress. I think it would take a week just to physically walk past everything, and months to read all the labels (if we could read French; there are no multi-lingual signs on the displays in the Louvre, for future reference).
Afterwards we walked the length of the gardens, which are still being renovated, I understand, until we came out on the Champs Elysees. We walked all the way up to the Arc d'Triomphe, which is a goodly way, but it was blocked off from visitors. We're not exactly certain, but we think it was related to the next day being the anniversary of the end of WW2 in France. There was supposed to be something there on the 8th (we were there on the 7th). Anyhow, we still got to see it from fairly close, but we were all too tired and cranky by then to be properly appreciative. Thank goodness the Metro station was right there.
Yes, we managed to use the Metro and not die. Please, hold your applause. The train was no problem; finding the correct platform was the problem. After asking at the information desk (and getting half-squashed in the ticket barrier—I'm alright!), we followed the signs until we reached some tracks. And of course it wasn't the right set. How silly of us not to realize that we had to follow the platform until we were behind the original escalator we took downstairs, then take another escalator *back upstairs.* We came out in a totally different area, don't ask me how. I suspect there was some kind of time-and-space-warp into another dimension, but we made it to the Place d'Italie, so who cares how we got there.
***
Each evening, L.H. would whisper, "Hey, Baby... we're in the City of Love..." To which I would respond, "And I'm the mayor of Tiredville. Sorry, Babe." Walking around for like 12 hours is only conducive to instantly falling asleep as soon as you lie down.
The Madness of my Darling Daughter
D.D. and I had been to the grocery store, and she was telling me about the limited set of veggies that she considered ok to eat: raw carrots, frozen peas, salad with dressing, green beans, and cucumbers. But definitely NOT asparagus. (Asparagus season has just started, a big deal around here.) I reminded her that as a baby she used to eat canned asparagus. She answered that she didn't have any teeth back then and had to eat mushy food. Oh, and she was insane. I guess that explains it.
***
The neighbor's yard is looking less like a beautiful meadow and more like an abandoned lot. It just needs a few discarded cars or large appliances, and the transformation will be complete. It has been raining or overcast off and on since...forever, and the homeowners who didn't get around to mowing on one of the clearer days are now having to wade through their lawns to get to the front door. Make that a "pro" of living in an apartment.
***
D.D. is counting down the days until Star Wars comes out (tomorrow, right?). She had told her friends at school that we were going to take them all to Star Wars for her birthday, but she neglected to verify with us first, so too bad, so sad. It's not really a birthday-party kind of movie. We're taking her to see it on the day of her birthday, but we'll have an actual party the week after.
She got a tiny, plastic light saber out of her cereal box, and it has been a dual-purpose weapon and lipstick. We have a little game going, where she pretends to apply lipstick to me, and I pretend to have my lips sliced off. It's always fun and games around here.
***
The neighbor's yard is looking less like a beautiful meadow and more like an abandoned lot. It just needs a few discarded cars or large appliances, and the transformation will be complete. It has been raining or overcast off and on since...forever, and the homeowners who didn't get around to mowing on one of the clearer days are now having to wade through their lawns to get to the front door. Make that a "pro" of living in an apartment.
***
D.D. is counting down the days until Star Wars comes out (tomorrow, right?). She had told her friends at school that we were going to take them all to Star Wars for her birthday, but she neglected to verify with us first, so too bad, so sad. It's not really a birthday-party kind of movie. We're taking her to see it on the day of her birthday, but we'll have an actual party the week after.
She got a tiny, plastic light saber out of her cereal box, and it has been a dual-purpose weapon and lipstick. We have a little game going, where she pretends to apply lipstick to me, and I pretend to have my lips sliced off. It's always fun and games around here.
Saturday, May 14, 2005
Paris--Day 2: Let the Tourism Begin!
On Friday, L.H.'s friend took us to Notre Dame cathedral. On the way, we saw a medieval museum in a "townhouse" that had once belonged to the monastery at Cluny, the church of Saint Severin, the Shakespeare and Co. bookstore, and the Sorbonne (the original building of the University of Paris plus an old student quarter). It was a bit chilly and damp, but I have finally figured out how to pack for traveling in Europe: one warm-weather outfit plus one cold-weather outfit per day, worn in layers in case it warms up.
Notre Dame was huge and beautiful. D.D. took a crying fit; she claimed it was the male chorus that was singing in the background, but I could understand if it was just the size of the place that got to her. Also, there were hundreds of people strolling through it, so in all, it was an overwhelming experience. But after we sat and talked quietly for a few minutes, she calmed down and we made our way around to where L.H. was checking things out. The line for the tower tour was a block long, so we didn't go.
Then we walked around the rest of that island. (There are 2 islands in the middle of the Seine, and therefore in the center of Paris, that were the original settlement of Paris.) The Sainte Chapelle is on the other end, and although it is smaller than the Notre Dame, it is more opulent. It was a private chapel for the king, dedicated to the Crusaders.
We eventually made it to the Eiffel Tower at the end of the day. It is much bigger than I had imagined from just seeing it in photos. There are *2* elevators *each leg*, plus a set of stairs. An hour-long line stretches from one leg to another along one side of the base. We had dinner plans with L.H.'s friend, so we weren't able to go up, but we wandered around the gardens. Paris definitely *is* the city of love, going by the number of couples we saw mugging on every occupied park bench or stretch of grass. But the final straw was when D.D. noticed that a tree at the Eiffel Tower was covered with initials that had been carved into it. Fuckin' lovers.
There are lots of snack stands catering to tourists, and every single one of them carries cotton candy. Now I understand the character in the children's book Barbapapa. Barbe a papa is cotton candy in French.
Notre Dame was huge and beautiful. D.D. took a crying fit; she claimed it was the male chorus that was singing in the background, but I could understand if it was just the size of the place that got to her. Also, there were hundreds of people strolling through it, so in all, it was an overwhelming experience. But after we sat and talked quietly for a few minutes, she calmed down and we made our way around to where L.H. was checking things out. The line for the tower tour was a block long, so we didn't go.
Then we walked around the rest of that island. (There are 2 islands in the middle of the Seine, and therefore in the center of Paris, that were the original settlement of Paris.) The Sainte Chapelle is on the other end, and although it is smaller than the Notre Dame, it is more opulent. It was a private chapel for the king, dedicated to the Crusaders.
We eventually made it to the Eiffel Tower at the end of the day. It is much bigger than I had imagined from just seeing it in photos. There are *2* elevators *each leg*, plus a set of stairs. An hour-long line stretches from one leg to another along one side of the base. We had dinner plans with L.H.'s friend, so we weren't able to go up, but we wandered around the gardens. Paris definitely *is* the city of love, going by the number of couples we saw mugging on every occupied park bench or stretch of grass. But the final straw was when D.D. noticed that a tree at the Eiffel Tower was covered with initials that had been carved into it. Fuckin' lovers.
There are lots of snack stands catering to tourists, and every single one of them carries cotton candy. Now I understand the character in the children's book Barbapapa. Barbe a papa is cotton candy in French.
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