I don't do well in the heat. I say this with a cringe because in the past that statement has been greeted with anything from eye-rolling (that I wasn't supposed to see) to directly expressed disbelief. And these are the people who actually like me.
So I feel more than a little defensive about this weakness. People think it's all in my head so it probably is all in my head and really I'm just being difficult.
Which means that once a year or so I pretend that I don't get overheated ridiculously easily, that I'm not living in a you-gotta-be-kidding-me desert place, and that really by September it's quite cool outside. Honest.
That happened Monday. I was nagging at the Children, particularly one child, who were planning on spending the day draped over bits of furniture and furrowing their brows at various electronic devices. The combination of button pressing and brow furrowing was apparently going to raise their heart rate enough to constitute exercise. [NOTE: to be fair, Child 1 had done its button pressing - except for the sibling-related type which is constant - early in the morning and was now fretting about nothing to doooOOOOOooo] I chased them all outside with some orange cones and a soccer ball but after the fourth episode of "Child is doing _______ even though I never _______ and..." I had had it. Also I felt a little guilty since I had spent the whole morning crouched over a computer and pressing buttons. Granted mine was Work, but that was hardly the point. So I suggested a nice walk over to a lovely local park! What could be better? It was much cooler than it had been, the walk was only a mile or so, and the whole thing went by bike path.
Yes. Well, I had the good sense to realize, after a few rounds of soccer-ball passing, that I was getting a leetle warm. I just might have needed to realize it a tad earlier.
I've done this just often enough to be able to anticipate all the lovely symptoms of heat exhaustion. Ooooh, I thought as we started on the bridge, there are the muscle cramps! I think I'll feel nauseous next.... there we go! Nausea, now as we get to that traffic light the spots before my eyes should be just about making it impossible to see which means I might manage to stagger to that patch of shade before I actually get so dizzy I pass out.
The Children were quite interested by this demonstration of Heat Exhaustion - How to Recognize, and entertained themselves and me by narrating the bits I couldn't appreciate. "Ooooh, you're not really flushed now, you're all pale. Even your lips are pale - hey! Your ears are pale too!" Thanks guys.
We made it home, having stopped once more to sit in humiliation on a shady curb and then barely making it into the door to collapse on the couch. Child 2 brought me water, then gave me a nice commentary for the next hour. "You're gray now! Really gray. Okay, now you're more greeny - yah, definitely greenish. NOW you're all pink!"
Have I mentioned that I really, really don't like the heat?
Tuesday, September 04, 2007
Friday, August 31, 2007
Activity
When we found out we were having a third Child (making three in five years) Kirk and I knew at once we were going to have to go from a man-on-man to a zone defense. As long as the Children stayed reasonably well clustered we could, using extra hands or an ankle in a pinch, maintain physical contact if not control over them most of the time. Of course, it's asking far too much to have three small ones maintain a tight formation at all times. Herding cats doesn't begin to cover it. I still have a compulsive need to count heads before going through a door - almost any door - and the Children by now ignore my fevered mumbles of "one... two... how many did we start with today?"
As they got older, more independent and easier to threaten (never underestimate the power of a Child's imagination on potential punishment - ours included the concept of white socks with sandals, shorts and a hawaiian shirt... at the next school dance) the immediate need to physically wrangle them all diminished, but the logistical issues increased. We began by limiting each Child to one need-transport activity. Anything that was bussed or chauffeured in some way was fine, but we would only drive each Child to one thing. They all picked soccer which was fine until we realized this meant three teams, each meeting twice or three times a week for practices (almost all of them on different days) plus games. Add in Kirk's insane willingness to coach AND ref and the Children (drawn by the allure of striped polyester and the right to wear a whistle) volunteering for field duty as well and we just spent the year in an endless frenzy of soccer events.
Now of course it's just me doing the driving and the attending and the cheering on. So far it's going fairly well, with everyone's schedule meshing reasonably with the available transport. Children 1 and 3 are doing JROTC which means 4x weekly extra class plus (as of yesterday) civil air patrol which might take some doing. It also means going to "armed" and "unarmed" drill meets which makes for two problems. Unarmed has the kids marching around in little squares and being asked Gotcha! questions by various people - how do you cheer for that? I've only been to a couple and I have no idea if you're supposed to pump your arms in the air and shout, "Yeeeeawww! Way to about face baby!!" or if that's considered de trop. For armed it's more simple - that's the one where they take 13lb. "rifles" and hurl them at each other with enormous vigor and enthusiasm. It's going to be worse than watching Olympic ice-skating (I shut my eyes every time someone's going to jump or throw someone or something - the possibility for humiliating mistakes is far too great) because not only might Child drop something with an huge clatter, it might miss a catch and knock out its teeth or break a nose. I just know I'm going to be the one mom on the sidelines saying "hey! Don't play with those! You'll shoot your eye out!" and Child will disown me.
I need a manual for this stuff.
As they got older, more independent and easier to threaten (never underestimate the power of a Child's imagination on potential punishment - ours included the concept of white socks with sandals, shorts and a hawaiian shirt... at the next school dance) the immediate need to physically wrangle them all diminished, but the logistical issues increased. We began by limiting each Child to one need-transport activity. Anything that was bussed or chauffeured in some way was fine, but we would only drive each Child to one thing. They all picked soccer which was fine until we realized this meant three teams, each meeting twice or three times a week for practices (almost all of them on different days) plus games. Add in Kirk's insane willingness to coach AND ref and the Children (drawn by the allure of striped polyester and the right to wear a whistle) volunteering for field duty as well and we just spent the year in an endless frenzy of soccer events.
Now of course it's just me doing the driving and the attending and the cheering on. So far it's going fairly well, with everyone's schedule meshing reasonably with the available transport. Children 1 and 3 are doing JROTC which means 4x weekly extra class plus (as of yesterday) civil air patrol which might take some doing. It also means going to "armed" and "unarmed" drill meets which makes for two problems. Unarmed has the kids marching around in little squares and being asked Gotcha! questions by various people - how do you cheer for that? I've only been to a couple and I have no idea if you're supposed to pump your arms in the air and shout, "Yeeeeawww! Way to about face baby!!" or if that's considered de trop. For armed it's more simple - that's the one where they take 13lb. "rifles" and hurl them at each other with enormous vigor and enthusiasm. It's going to be worse than watching Olympic ice-skating (I shut my eyes every time someone's going to jump or throw someone or something - the possibility for humiliating mistakes is far too great) because not only might Child drop something with an huge clatter, it might miss a catch and knock out its teeth or break a nose. I just know I'm going to be the one mom on the sidelines saying "hey! Don't play with those! You'll shoot your eye out!" and Child will disown me.
I need a manual for this stuff.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Vocabillary
I have a particularly attractive... we'll call it dress... that I save for the hotter days of summer. I come home from work and, if the temperature is what I would call "#$%$#" I reach into the closet for this piece of sartorial wonder. Yes, it is black and made of some sort of material that I strongly suspect features heavily in "Bingo Hall Beauties - the Summer Collection!" It also completely lacks a shape of any kind (unless you want to count unidentifiable tube thing as a shape) BUT I know it's gorgeous because - it's cool. I can, given a leetle swamp-cooling and some shade, wear this thing and manage not to melt into a sad little puddle by the end of the afternoon.
The Children are not so impressed. In fact, the other day while we were sitting around in the almost cool of the late evening one of them quite rudely called it a mu-mu. This, I replied snidely, is not a mu-mu. It is elegant and black and mu-mu's have ginormous flowers. Also they are worn by ginormous women.
Yes, said another Child darkly, and they are see through. It sat in silent and grim contemplation of the memory that produced this remark. None of us wanted to know any more so we left it to it. The originator of the rude comment expanded on its opinion of The Dress and giggled. It stood there, tossing a soccer ball up and down and smiled superiorly at me. That's when I realized what it was wearing: it's favorite striped dress (which had fit it. Five years ago) and a pair of plaid flannel pajama bottoms. I spluttered a bit and pointed meaningfully at it. It had the grace to blush a bit, but retorted "at least it's not a mu-mu!"
"No!" Shouted Child 3 with glee, "it's a Pajoomoo!"
The Children are not so impressed. In fact, the other day while we were sitting around in the almost cool of the late evening one of them quite rudely called it a mu-mu. This, I replied snidely, is not a mu-mu. It is elegant and black and mu-mu's have ginormous flowers. Also they are worn by ginormous women.
Yes, said another Child darkly, and they are see through. It sat in silent and grim contemplation of the memory that produced this remark. None of us wanted to know any more so we left it to it. The originator of the rude comment expanded on its opinion of The Dress and giggled. It stood there, tossing a soccer ball up and down and smiled superiorly at me. That's when I realized what it was wearing: it's favorite striped dress (which had fit it. Five years ago) and a pair of plaid flannel pajama bottoms. I spluttered a bit and pointed meaningfully at it. It had the grace to blush a bit, but retorted "at least it's not a mu-mu!"
"No!" Shouted Child 3 with glee, "it's a Pajoomoo!"
Monday, August 27, 2007
Let Me Hear You Fren-u-l8
Friday was dies ipse* - the Day of Frenectomy. We had spent a very entertaining week running through the likely consequences of this Procedure (Children 1 and 2 and I agreed in the end that 3 would go to say something irritatingly pedantic and it would put its eye out - a just and righteous outcome we all felt) and Child 3 had given its teachers a several-day count down to I Won't Be Able To Talk Day. All in all we got pretty good value out of the thing.
I have an irritating - I'll call it habit but it's more like obsession - with timeliness. Surely other people suffer from this (my Children are nodding and chorusing "yes Mom, WE suffer from this), but I think mine is frighteningly worse than the norm because I was raised by 1 scientist with a firm mind for precision which is where the need to be prompt comes from and 1 writer with a tremendous gift for imaginary catastrophes. It means I can't just leave for somewhere with travel time and a five minute window I have to add in enough time for a flat tire, a back up on the freeway and a funeral procession. Which is a long way of saying we might maybe have gotten to the ENT place an hour before 3's actual appointment.
It was okay though because for the first (and probably last) time ever they trilled happily that actually they could maybe probably see us right now, and instead of leaving us sat on our disturbingly stained lobby chairs they whisked us right into the inner sanctum. We answered the usual questions, and the nurse entertained herself by asking Child 3 to stick out its tongue and then giggling at it (at Child, not tongue). I had brought a book along (family tradition - might have mentioned it) but Child 3 insisted on being entertained (selfish little git) so instead we learned a great deal about the inner workings of the nose, and spent a little time looking in the mirror and poking our fingers up the illustrated septum. Apparently we weren't entirely quiet because we heard more giggling from outside the door.
Dr ENT arrived eventually, peered around in Child's mouth [NOTE: I had indeed told Child to take its toothbrush to school and brush its teeth before the appt. I'm very thoughtful that way. Child 3 isn't though - it forgot] AND - I almost forgot this bit - you know that big round thing on a strap that Buggs Bunny wears when he's being a doctor? Dr ENT actually had one! I've never seen one before but he solemnly donned it. Turns out it's a mirror with a hole in the middle. I suppose if you spend all your time looking up people's noses or into their not-recently-brushed gobs you need special equipment. But I digress...
He asked why we wanted this thing done and Child 3 trotted out the dentist story. Dr ENT looked down his nose at us and announced "you know, I've heard that so many times but I don't really believe it." Child 3 looked at me in terror thinking that I would shake the good Dr's hand and haul its unsnipped lingual frenulum right on out of there. However, and this isn't necessarily a good thing, I figured darn it, I got the Child out of school, I drove all the way out here AND I paid the stupid co-pay - we're getting this thing snipped dadgummit!
Child 3 had its mouth stuffed with cotton loaded with topical anesthetic which made things much quieter for a while. Then Dr ENT wandered back in and jabbed the poor Child seven or eight times with the numbing stuff and then wandered out again. We spent a very happy 20 minutes or so having a discussion, half of which sounded like "Ah, cah you uhehgag ee ow?" while more giggling came from the desk outside.
The actual Procedure was impressive and quite fun to watch since Child 3 was effectively gagged with two large clamps hanging out of its mouth. It only took a second though, and Child was cauterized, declamped and given a small glass of ice for its trouble. We managed to get out the door before our actual appointment time - a personal record.
Poor Child 3 chattered unintelligibly and delightedly down to the car, out the parking lot and about two blocks up the street before the numbing meds wore off. I think it hadn't considered that part of things so it was highly affronted that Procedures can be painful. I assured it that mouths heal quickly, and that it would feel better soon (which was received politely but with the thanks it deserved) and since the poor little insect was clearly unhappy we stopped by Target for some orajel type stuff which restored some of Child's spirits.
Child 3 has spent the entire weekend in delighted exploration of its new tongue. As a parent I should be filled with the wonder of seeing an offspring discover something anew like this. However this process has pretty much meant: "Hey, Mom! Check out the bottom of my tongue! There's a black pit there, isn't it gross?" and "You know what?? The underside of my tongue feels really slimy and squishy and soft!" and "Hey! I keep thinking I have stuff in my teeth and you know what? It's my TEETH!! HA!"
Sheer poetry.
*I fought it, I really did. I was going to put the stupid pun right up there in the very first sentence but I managed to resist and instead I'll put it here. You can ignore it if you like. "It wasn't dies ipse, it was dies snipse." I'm sorry.
I have an irritating - I'll call it habit but it's more like obsession - with timeliness. Surely other people suffer from this (my Children are nodding and chorusing "yes Mom, WE suffer from this), but I think mine is frighteningly worse than the norm because I was raised by 1 scientist with a firm mind for precision which is where the need to be prompt comes from and 1 writer with a tremendous gift for imaginary catastrophes. It means I can't just leave for somewhere with travel time and a five minute window I have to add in enough time for a flat tire, a back up on the freeway and a funeral procession. Which is a long way of saying we might maybe have gotten to the ENT place an hour before 3's actual appointment.
It was okay though because for the first (and probably last) time ever they trilled happily that actually they could maybe probably see us right now, and instead of leaving us sat on our disturbingly stained lobby chairs they whisked us right into the inner sanctum. We answered the usual questions, and the nurse entertained herself by asking Child 3 to stick out its tongue and then giggling at it (at Child, not tongue). I had brought a book along (family tradition - might have mentioned it) but Child 3 insisted on being entertained (selfish little git) so instead we learned a great deal about the inner workings of the nose, and spent a little time looking in the mirror and poking our fingers up the illustrated septum. Apparently we weren't entirely quiet because we heard more giggling from outside the door.
Dr ENT arrived eventually, peered around in Child's mouth [NOTE: I had indeed told Child to take its toothbrush to school and brush its teeth before the appt. I'm very thoughtful that way. Child 3 isn't though - it forgot] AND - I almost forgot this bit - you know that big round thing on a strap that Buggs Bunny wears when he's being a doctor? Dr ENT actually had one! I've never seen one before but he solemnly donned it. Turns out it's a mirror with a hole in the middle. I suppose if you spend all your time looking up people's noses or into their not-recently-brushed gobs you need special equipment. But I digress...
He asked why we wanted this thing done and Child 3 trotted out the dentist story. Dr ENT looked down his nose at us and announced "you know, I've heard that so many times but I don't really believe it." Child 3 looked at me in terror thinking that I would shake the good Dr's hand and haul its unsnipped lingual frenulum right on out of there. However, and this isn't necessarily a good thing, I figured darn it, I got the Child out of school, I drove all the way out here AND I paid the stupid co-pay - we're getting this thing snipped dadgummit!
Child 3 had its mouth stuffed with cotton loaded with topical anesthetic which made things much quieter for a while. Then Dr ENT wandered back in and jabbed the poor Child seven or eight times with the numbing stuff and then wandered out again. We spent a very happy 20 minutes or so having a discussion, half of which sounded like "Ah, cah you uhehgag ee ow?" while more giggling came from the desk outside.
The actual Procedure was impressive and quite fun to watch since Child 3 was effectively gagged with two large clamps hanging out of its mouth. It only took a second though, and Child was cauterized, declamped and given a small glass of ice for its trouble. We managed to get out the door before our actual appointment time - a personal record.
Poor Child 3 chattered unintelligibly and delightedly down to the car, out the parking lot and about two blocks up the street before the numbing meds wore off. I think it hadn't considered that part of things so it was highly affronted that Procedures can be painful. I assured it that mouths heal quickly, and that it would feel better soon (which was received politely but with the thanks it deserved) and since the poor little insect was clearly unhappy we stopped by Target for some orajel type stuff which restored some of Child's spirits.
Child 3 has spent the entire weekend in delighted exploration of its new tongue. As a parent I should be filled with the wonder of seeing an offspring discover something anew like this. However this process has pretty much meant: "Hey, Mom! Check out the bottom of my tongue! There's a black pit there, isn't it gross?" and "You know what?? The underside of my tongue feels really slimy and squishy and soft!" and "Hey! I keep thinking I have stuff in my teeth and you know what? It's my TEETH!! HA!"
Sheer poetry.
*I fought it, I really did. I was going to put the stupid pun right up there in the very first sentence but I managed to resist and instead I'll put it here. You can ignore it if you like. "It wasn't dies ipse, it was dies snipse." I'm sorry.
Friday, August 24, 2007
Boring, Possibly Nerdy Post About Workish Stuff
So I've been sat here for at least half an hour trying to do a really good trace of an original Edison style lightbulb. Doesn't that sound exciting? I'll post something possibly more interesting about Child 3's frenulectomy to make up for it later. Maybe.
See, the trouble is someone kind sent me an email asking me what I do (you know, other than writing up blog posts and tormenting Children) and it's hard to answer that without making it sound much cooler than it is. So... this week I have...
...Done tedious and piecemeal updates to some vital but very dull parts of a web site. This has included shining moments like staring firmly at a sheet of paper and thinking "Gee... that looks like a Q, or maybe a 2 but I think they mean Wednesday."
...Reworked several previously locked projects because of last minute but serious changes that meant juggling files between the computer I actually have at work and the one at home that has the vital and obscure fonts I stupidly used (they look pretty good though). At one point this involved expanding the text into vector shapes which is never a comfortable thing to do since you can't then edit the darn text. Much fun was had but so far the edits seem to have been accepted.
...Joined in Happy Fun Department Housekeeping Day necessitated by an upcoming visit from Higher Up the food chain. Boxes were shifted! Ancient but highly sensitive pieces of paper were collected for shredding! Rude comments were thought of and said sotto voce just for fun! And hopefully a delicate balance was achieved between making the department look sleek and highly efficient and somehow conveying that we would quite like a great deal more space and money please and thank you.
... Consulted on marketing for a major program, trying to nail down this year's key theme and looking into the best media and methods for presenting it which has meant mocking up three different central images and writing several tag lines and a bit of copy.
So, when asked what I do I usually say "I'm a web designer" and leave it at that because no one wants to stick around to hear "I do marketing strategy with a heavy helping of web programming and design served up with a side of graphic work. Oh, and if pressed I'll help you take out the trash."
Scuze me now, I have bezier curves to tweak.
See, the trouble is someone kind sent me an email asking me what I do (you know, other than writing up blog posts and tormenting Children) and it's hard to answer that without making it sound much cooler than it is. So... this week I have...
...Done tedious and piecemeal updates to some vital but very dull parts of a web site. This has included shining moments like staring firmly at a sheet of paper and thinking "Gee... that looks like a Q, or maybe a 2 but I think they mean Wednesday."
...Reworked several previously locked projects because of last minute but serious changes that meant juggling files between the computer I actually have at work and the one at home that has the vital and obscure fonts I stupidly used (they look pretty good though). At one point this involved expanding the text into vector shapes which is never a comfortable thing to do since you can't then edit the darn text. Much fun was had but so far the edits seem to have been accepted.
...Joined in Happy Fun Department Housekeeping Day necessitated by an upcoming visit from Higher Up the food chain. Boxes were shifted! Ancient but highly sensitive pieces of paper were collected for shredding! Rude comments were thought of and said sotto voce just for fun! And hopefully a delicate balance was achieved between making the department look sleek and highly efficient and somehow conveying that we would quite like a great deal more space and money please and thank you.
... Consulted on marketing for a major program, trying to nail down this year's key theme and looking into the best media and methods for presenting it which has meant mocking up three different central images and writing several tag lines and a bit of copy.
So, when asked what I do I usually say "I'm a web designer" and leave it at that because no one wants to stick around to hear "I do marketing strategy with a heavy helping of web programming and design served up with a side of graphic work. Oh, and if pressed I'll help you take out the trash."
Scuze me now, I have bezier curves to tweak.
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
The Problem with X and Y
Can someone tell me when they changed math? I thought it was a settled thing, that the Ancient Greeks (those whacky toga wearing baklava eaters) had worked out the whole thing ages ago - with a little interference from Newton. Isn't math supposed to be one of those lovely reliable things that never changes? It's the one thing where you can learn in kindergarten that 2+5=7 and it always will (foreverandever AAAAAHmen).
Well, someone didn't tell Child 2's teacher that, or else he is one sick man because Child 2 came home with a quadratic equation that needed graphing and...
It started just fine. I instantly set X to zero and whammo showed it how to find the Y intercept. Then Child 1 looked in and suggested that maybe it would be a good idea to factor the thing and do that special bit of magic where you set each little set of parenthesis to zero (which always seemed like cheating to me) and Child 2 did that too. Then we eyed "A" (after we all thought waaaaay back to last year - or many many many years ago for me - and remembered what A, B and C are in a quadratic equation) and Child 2 was able to announce that this particular piece of math was going to be a downward pointing one. We were definitely on a roll. BUT then some spoil sport mentioned finding the vertex, and we sort of hit a wall. See, Child 1 figured we could throw a bit of -2A and a B around and since that sounded like what I almost remembered from my Algebra In the Stone Age class I was all for it.
BUT - but Child 2 had taken notes (lots of notes it said! Thorough and complete notes! Look!) which said:
UNFOIL the @%#$#@. [equation]. If you find a number you haven't seen before, do something with it. [totally different equation with brand new number].
We squinted at these fine notes and looked dubiously at the problem in hand. It didn't look like anything I had seen before and frankly I didn't trust that whole new number thing. Fine Child 2, I said, we're going to do it my way (and Child 1's way, and actually the way Child 2 now remembered being taught as well) because that's the way I know and if it was good enough for me... and then I mumbled something about showing its work and hoping for the best. Oh, and asking the teacher to walk it through the UNFOILING magical new number method and maybe taking slightly better notes.
Child 2 did that and I figured it was the end of story until the next day when it turned out that the Ancient History method of finding a vertex returned the wrong answer.
We're not taking it lying down though. Child 2 is bearding the lion in its den (or the math teacher in its study hall - whatever) and is determined to walk out with the Answer to All UNFOILING or die trying. Then it will sit down and explain it all to its elderly mother - hopefully in a kind and gentle voice with lots of pauses for strengthening sips of tea.
I'm going to rest up now. I have a feeling Child 1 is coming home today to tell me they changed all of the biology as well.
Well, someone didn't tell Child 2's teacher that, or else he is one sick man because Child 2 came home with a quadratic equation that needed graphing and...
It started just fine. I instantly set X to zero and whammo showed it how to find the Y intercept. Then Child 1 looked in and suggested that maybe it would be a good idea to factor the thing and do that special bit of magic where you set each little set of parenthesis to zero (which always seemed like cheating to me) and Child 2 did that too. Then we eyed "A" (after we all thought waaaaay back to last year - or many many many years ago for me - and remembered what A, B and C are in a quadratic equation) and Child 2 was able to announce that this particular piece of math was going to be a downward pointing one. We were definitely on a roll. BUT then some spoil sport mentioned finding the vertex, and we sort of hit a wall. See, Child 1 figured we could throw a bit of -2A and a B around and since that sounded like what I almost remembered from my Algebra In the Stone Age class I was all for it.
BUT - but Child 2 had taken notes (lots of notes it said! Thorough and complete notes! Look!) which said:
UNFOIL the @%#$#@. [equation]. If you find a number you haven't seen before, do something with it. [totally different equation with brand new number].
We squinted at these fine notes and looked dubiously at the problem in hand. It didn't look like anything I had seen before and frankly I didn't trust that whole new number thing. Fine Child 2, I said, we're going to do it my way (and Child 1's way, and actually the way Child 2 now remembered being taught as well) because that's the way I know and if it was good enough for me... and then I mumbled something about showing its work and hoping for the best. Oh, and asking the teacher to walk it through the UNFOILING magical new number method and maybe taking slightly better notes.
Child 2 did that and I figured it was the end of story until the next day when it turned out that the Ancient History method of finding a vertex returned the wrong answer.
We're not taking it lying down though. Child 2 is bearding the lion in its den (or the math teacher in its study hall - whatever) and is determined to walk out with the Answer to All UNFOILING or die trying. Then it will sit down and explain it all to its elderly mother - hopefully in a kind and gentle voice with lots of pauses for strengthening sips of tea.
I'm going to rest up now. I have a feeling Child 1 is coming home today to tell me they changed all of the biology as well.
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Pestilence
Over here where I live it gets hot in the summer. I might have mentioned this before because from June to September I often can't think of anything else. I have made a serious effort not to whinge too much this year since some of my more honest friends have pointed out that it's actually not much fun listening to me wail about how it's over 100! Again! Which is hot! Again! Like yesterday! So basically I save that stuff for the kids and we spend long fruitful hours draped over the furniture in melty strings and discuss how hot. it. is. and how much we hate it. We're a ton of fun, really!
But I digress. What I was saying is that it's really hot, that this month in particular has been a scorcher. So I've been bemused to see, at nearly every off-ramp I use, a dedicated pan-handler walking the goat-head infested strip of sand, hoping that before the light turns someone will feel guilty enough to empty their ashtray of spare change. I hope it's reasonably profitable to do this because honestly I can think of few more horrible ways to spend an afternoon than striding around next to the baking hot tarmac.
Usually there's no way to tell one from another - even gender is difficult to really nail down with certainty - but yesterday's was distinctive. She was wearing a full length coat for one thing, and had two enormous blankets wrapped firmly around herself for good measure. She was at least 20 years older than the usual type, and was flashing a pleasant and toothless smile at each car as they came by. She seemed happy and fairly harmless and I was pretty sure she would do well for herself if she didn't pass out from heat exhaustion first. Traffic was heavy and even after the light turned the cars were only slowly trickling through the intersection so I was able to watch as one by one a driver would approach, begin to slow down and roll down a window and then suddenly lurch forward again. I couldn't figure out what was going on until I passed her myself and managed to read her cardboard sign.
"Homeless. Please Help. I got the Playge. God Blass"
But I digress. What I was saying is that it's really hot, that this month in particular has been a scorcher. So I've been bemused to see, at nearly every off-ramp I use, a dedicated pan-handler walking the goat-head infested strip of sand, hoping that before the light turns someone will feel guilty enough to empty their ashtray of spare change. I hope it's reasonably profitable to do this because honestly I can think of few more horrible ways to spend an afternoon than striding around next to the baking hot tarmac.
Usually there's no way to tell one from another - even gender is difficult to really nail down with certainty - but yesterday's was distinctive. She was wearing a full length coat for one thing, and had two enormous blankets wrapped firmly around herself for good measure. She was at least 20 years older than the usual type, and was flashing a pleasant and toothless smile at each car as they came by. She seemed happy and fairly harmless and I was pretty sure she would do well for herself if she didn't pass out from heat exhaustion first. Traffic was heavy and even after the light turned the cars were only slowly trickling through the intersection so I was able to watch as one by one a driver would approach, begin to slow down and roll down a window and then suddenly lurch forward again. I couldn't figure out what was going on until I passed her myself and managed to read her cardboard sign.
"Homeless. Please Help. I got the Playge. God Blass"
Monday, August 20, 2007
Relief
We have had some small experience with starting new schools in this family. While waiting in the advisor's office during one of the Four Days Of Registration Fun we counted up and realized that Child 3 has attended seven different schools, Child 2 has managed 8 and Child 1 beats them both with 9.
There have been good transitions - we went from a quite good school to a superb school in Alaska for example - and less good transitions (going from Alpenglow's brand new play structure, sledding hill and ice skating rink to Nelson Elementary's single chin up bar and broken swings. That was fun). The worst naturally was moving from California back here.
It would have been horrible anyway; we were all leaving well loved friends and a small, warm community under the very worst circumstances. But the school they would be going to was dreadful. I knew it was dreadful - I had gone there myself and it had not gotten any better - and for a while I tried to believe that we wouldn't be here for long, that Kirk would be found and we would be able to go home again, so the kids could be home-schooled for just a few weeks. Weeks of course became months and there was no choice but to register them.
It was hard - one of a long list of things I didn't think I could bear to do, but there was no choice for any of us and so we went through the tedious and ridiculous process of proving they were all gifted (lumped in this school in with all the special learning kids so they were, as I was, labeled "special needs") hoping that this would at least put them in some better classes. They did their best. They went every day, grimly sometimes but bravely. They learned first hand about prejudice and bias (as I was, they were a 6% ethnic minority) which I hope will be a constant reminder to them about not judging people on appearance. They also unfortunately learned that as bright kids in a struggling school they could get full credit simply by handing in an assignment - never mind doing their best work (or even doing it on time). Child 3 was shocked, on attending a different school, to discover that month-late assignments aren't normally accepted for full marks.
This is a long way of saying that we were all, particularly Child 2 and me, more than a little anxious about this yet-another new school. When they came back after the first day with mostly positive stories to tell I realized how incredibly tense I had been - how my guilt over everything, the multiple schools, all of the unhappiness and distress had been twisted up so tightly I could hardly breath.
So. Child 3 has found a set of people to play soccer with at lunch. It loves its Survival class, thinks its biology teacher speaks too quietly but is otherwise okay, finds its English teacher amusing and is happily confident that math will be no problem at all. Child 1 is still hoping to find some congenial people to eat lunch with, but has a temporary arrangement that makes it happy. It has signed up for a 7th hour and it is charmed to realize that one of its set books for the semester is not only not deeply depressing, it is also an entertaining read. And Child 2? Child 2 whose shyness and tension sometimes expresses itself in a scowl that looks unfriendly and angry but is really nervousness; Child 2 who of all of the Children answered my questions about how it felt about starting another new school with a brief, tight "It'll be alright" - Child 2 approached a couple of strangers all on its own and started a conversation. Child 2 found not one or two but a laughing, boisterous crowd of 20 who like the same music, watch the same movies and quote the same ridiculous lines. Child 2 went to a sleep-over birthday party this weekend and met even more friends. Child 2 is happy.
And so am I.
There have been good transitions - we went from a quite good school to a superb school in Alaska for example - and less good transitions (going from Alpenglow's brand new play structure, sledding hill and ice skating rink to Nelson Elementary's single chin up bar and broken swings. That was fun). The worst naturally was moving from California back here.
It would have been horrible anyway; we were all leaving well loved friends and a small, warm community under the very worst circumstances. But the school they would be going to was dreadful. I knew it was dreadful - I had gone there myself and it had not gotten any better - and for a while I tried to believe that we wouldn't be here for long, that Kirk would be found and we would be able to go home again, so the kids could be home-schooled for just a few weeks. Weeks of course became months and there was no choice but to register them.
It was hard - one of a long list of things I didn't think I could bear to do, but there was no choice for any of us and so we went through the tedious and ridiculous process of proving they were all gifted (lumped in this school in with all the special learning kids so they were, as I was, labeled "special needs") hoping that this would at least put them in some better classes. They did their best. They went every day, grimly sometimes but bravely. They learned first hand about prejudice and bias (as I was, they were a 6% ethnic minority) which I hope will be a constant reminder to them about not judging people on appearance. They also unfortunately learned that as bright kids in a struggling school they could get full credit simply by handing in an assignment - never mind doing their best work (or even doing it on time). Child 3 was shocked, on attending a different school, to discover that month-late assignments aren't normally accepted for full marks.
This is a long way of saying that we were all, particularly Child 2 and me, more than a little anxious about this yet-another new school. When they came back after the first day with mostly positive stories to tell I realized how incredibly tense I had been - how my guilt over everything, the multiple schools, all of the unhappiness and distress had been twisted up so tightly I could hardly breath.
So. Child 3 has found a set of people to play soccer with at lunch. It loves its Survival class, thinks its biology teacher speaks too quietly but is otherwise okay, finds its English teacher amusing and is happily confident that math will be no problem at all. Child 1 is still hoping to find some congenial people to eat lunch with, but has a temporary arrangement that makes it happy. It has signed up for a 7th hour and it is charmed to realize that one of its set books for the semester is not only not deeply depressing, it is also an entertaining read. And Child 2? Child 2 whose shyness and tension sometimes expresses itself in a scowl that looks unfriendly and angry but is really nervousness; Child 2 who of all of the Children answered my questions about how it felt about starting another new school with a brief, tight "It'll be alright" - Child 2 approached a couple of strangers all on its own and started a conversation. Child 2 found not one or two but a laughing, boisterous crowd of 20 who like the same music, watch the same movies and quote the same ridiculous lines. Child 2 went to a sleep-over birthday party this weekend and met even more friends. Child 2 is happy.
And so am I.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Pardon Me, But Your Frenulum Is in My Ankyloglossia
Child 3 is tongue-tied. Hang on a moment whilst I Google for the much more impressive medical term which I'm sure exists... Ah! There it is! Child 3 suffers from Ankyloglossia - sounds fatal doesn't it? Actually, suffers is a slight exaggeration. Child 3 did not exhibit any difficulties feeding (nor does it yet although we're hopeful), nor does its "unusual lingual frenulum" stop it from talking, singing, humming, making irritating noises with its cheeks etc.
Its doctors have looked at it, enjoyed the view, and then announced callously that "it'll probably resolve itself when It's playing soccer sometime or something." As a loving, caring parent I thought hard, realized this meant no further fuss and/or bother on my part and decided doctor must know best!
However some spoil-sport of a dentist thought otherwise so now Child 3 must get the darn thing fixed. Personally I feel the Child bribed the dentist because it had visions of improved machine gun noises and an ability to roll its "r's" dancing before its eyes. I offered to do the job myself with a pair of hedge-trimmers but Child 3, although recently shot for tetanus, politely turned me down. I think the glorious possibilities of local anesthetic combined with a small potential for spurting blood has really captured the imagination.
So while getting the Children shot the other day we took the opportunity and asked for an appointment to do the tongue thing please. Foolishly I thought that when the nurse complied I would arrive at the appointment, hand over my larger-than-last-year co-pay (thanks so very much kindly work provided health insurance!) and this very minor procedure would be carried out then and there. Oh no, naturally not. Our kindly doctor looked earnestly into Child 3's mouth (doing the most amusing series of imitative facial grimaces all the while) and soberly told me that he could not tread where the sacred ENT folks walk and we would have to be Referred. So irritating that we couldn't be Referred to begin what with the driving across town and paying the co-pay and all that.
So now we have to wait two days to get the Referral so we can call the people who will then make an appointment and start the merry dance again. Except since this is a Genuine Procedure the co-pay will likely be twice as much.
Darn it, what's the point of living in this cowboy desert if you can't perform minor surgery on a beloved relative with nothing but a rusty bowie knife and a bottle of rot-gut whiskey?
I wonder if they carry those at Costco...
Its doctors have looked at it, enjoyed the view, and then announced callously that "it'll probably resolve itself when It's playing soccer sometime or something." As a loving, caring parent I thought hard, realized this meant no further fuss and/or bother on my part and decided doctor must know best!
However some spoil-sport of a dentist thought otherwise so now Child 3 must get the darn thing fixed. Personally I feel the Child bribed the dentist because it had visions of improved machine gun noises and an ability to roll its "r's" dancing before its eyes. I offered to do the job myself with a pair of hedge-trimmers but Child 3, although recently shot for tetanus, politely turned me down. I think the glorious possibilities of local anesthetic combined with a small potential for spurting blood has really captured the imagination.
So while getting the Children shot the other day we took the opportunity and asked for an appointment to do the tongue thing please. Foolishly I thought that when the nurse complied I would arrive at the appointment, hand over my larger-than-last-year co-pay (thanks so very much kindly work provided health insurance!) and this very minor procedure would be carried out then and there. Oh no, naturally not. Our kindly doctor looked earnestly into Child 3's mouth (doing the most amusing series of imitative facial grimaces all the while) and soberly told me that he could not tread where the sacred ENT folks walk and we would have to be Referred. So irritating that we couldn't be Referred to begin what with the driving across town and paying the co-pay and all that.
So now we have to wait two days to get the Referral so we can call the people who will then make an appointment and start the merry dance again. Except since this is a Genuine Procedure the co-pay will likely be twice as much.
Darn it, what's the point of living in this cowboy desert if you can't perform minor surgery on a beloved relative with nothing but a rusty bowie knife and a bottle of rot-gut whiskey?
I wonder if they carry those at Costco...
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
And There Was Much Rejoicing
Soooo....
It only took four days to get the Children registered at their school. Yes, just the four - a dawdle really, a saunter down a sun-dappled lane. With a little screaming and hair rending thrown in for ambiance.
However! They are now registered - every last three of them. Granted, Child 1 had a totally unacceptable schedule, but it has now become a tolerable schedule instead and Child 1 declares itself Well Pleased. Child 2 is missing an entire class because the kindly adviser hemmmed and hawed on day 4 and announced that there were no classes open for Child 2 because Child 2 (silly thing) is insisting on keeping up with its language and said language year II is only taught 5th hour and apparently all other really good classes are also only offered at 5th hour. Child 3 started out with what was nicely called a "temporary" schedule but has been upgraded to a "nearly finalized" schedule with asterisks because it is now in honors math AND honors English and might-be-could-be in honors biology but maybe not. At this point I'm dusting my hands off and calling it all done.
Well, except for the tetanus shots which Children 2 and 3 unexpectedly required (hence one of our fruitless Days Of Registration Fun) and which they will have to receive this afternoon. Rather interesting actually - I was monologuing my way through the next day's Things To Do: and you will have the house key, yes? And also your class schedule? And what do you mean you already lost your combination lock???* And don't forget I'll be calling you out of class so you can get shot. I said the last thing several times as we worked out where they were to come and what time of day it would all happen and I realized that the buzz of talk around us had died down to a rather shocked hush.
Don't worry. I plan on offering them blindfolds.
*ETA: We found the lock. It was on a ceiling fan blade. Placed there "so I could find it."
It only took four days to get the Children registered at their school. Yes, just the four - a dawdle really, a saunter down a sun-dappled lane. With a little screaming and hair rending thrown in for ambiance.
However! They are now registered - every last three of them. Granted, Child 1 had a totally unacceptable schedule, but it has now become a tolerable schedule instead and Child 1 declares itself Well Pleased. Child 2 is missing an entire class because the kindly adviser hemmmed and hawed on day 4 and announced that there were no classes open for Child 2 because Child 2 (silly thing) is insisting on keeping up with its language and said language year II is only taught 5th hour and apparently all other really good classes are also only offered at 5th hour. Child 3 started out with what was nicely called a "temporary" schedule but has been upgraded to a "nearly finalized" schedule with asterisks because it is now in honors math AND honors English and might-be-could-be in honors biology but maybe not. At this point I'm dusting my hands off and calling it all done.
Well, except for the tetanus shots which Children 2 and 3 unexpectedly required (hence one of our fruitless Days Of Registration Fun) and which they will have to receive this afternoon. Rather interesting actually - I was monologuing my way through the next day's Things To Do: and you will have the house key, yes? And also your class schedule? And what do you mean you already lost your combination lock???* And don't forget I'll be calling you out of class so you can get shot. I said the last thing several times as we worked out where they were to come and what time of day it would all happen and I realized that the buzz of talk around us had died down to a rather shocked hush.
Don't worry. I plan on offering them blindfolds.
*ETA: We found the lock. It was on a ceiling fan blade. Placed there "so I could find it."
Monday, August 13, 2007
Good Advice
I am so lucky, yes lucky, lucky, lucky. I am apparently so incredibly desirable that large numbers of Russian women are simply clamoring to form a deeply loving and committed relationship with me (they assure me that they are very religious and also believe in families so it's not like they're toying with my affections here). I also have total strangers concerned about my health and well being so they give me advice on how to enhance, enliven and probably em-biggen all sorts of areas of my life - some of which I don't actually have.
And now, now a very intelligent and creative individual has shared with me a top-secret something that I'm sure is the answer to all my problems. I believe it's a financial tip although the prose is a little difficult in places:
H*u*g*e N-e w_s To Imp'act C Y'T*V
Chi+na Yo*uTV C*o*r*p*.
Symbo,l: C-Y,T V
We h.a'v-e a+lready s_e.e_n CYTV' s ma.rket imp act befo*re climbin- g to o,v,e-r $2'.00 w i_t*h n,e-w+s+.
P-ress Relea_se:
Chi_na YouT-V's CnB oo W-e'b S_i,t,e Ran_ks N*o+..1 on M+icro*soft L-i+v.e Sear.ch Eng'ine
C'nBoo Tr_affic I*n.creases 4_9,% O,v,e r T,w+o Month*s
R'e-a.d t*h'e news+, thin*k ab out t*h e imp-act, and
j.u_m p on t+h-i's firs+t thin.g Tom,or-row m ornin_g! $ -0.42 is a g*i+f.t at t,h i,s pri ce..._..
Do y-o'u'r h*omewo.rk a+n+d w+atch t_h-i*s t rade Monda y morning..
I have to admit, this is the sort of careful marketing that makes me want to leap out and invest everything I have.
I also have a strange urge to learn Esperanto, but I'm not sure if that's related.
And now, now a very intelligent and creative individual has shared with me a top-secret something that I'm sure is the answer to all my problems. I believe it's a financial tip although the prose is a little difficult in places:
H*u*g*e N-e w_s To Imp'act C Y'T*V
Chi+na Yo*uTV C*o*r*p*.
Symbo,l: C-Y,T V
We h.a'v-e a+lready s_e.e_n CYTV' s ma.rket imp act befo*re climbin- g to o,v,e-r $2'.00 w i_t*h n,e-w+s+.
P-ress Relea_se:
Chi_na YouT-V's CnB oo W-e'b S_i,t,e Ran_ks N*o+..1 on M+icro*soft L-i+v.e Sear.ch Eng'ine
C'nBoo Tr_affic I*n.creases 4_9,% O,v,e r T,w+o Month*s
R'e-a.d t*h'e news+, thin*k ab out t*h e imp-act, and
j.u_m p on t+h-i's firs+t thin.g Tom,or-row m ornin_g! $ -0.42 is a g*i+f.t at t,h i,s pri ce..._..
Do y-o'u'r h*omewo.rk a+n+d w+atch t_h-i*s t rade Monda y morning..
I have to admit, this is the sort of careful marketing that makes me want to leap out and invest everything I have.
I also have a strange urge to learn Esperanto, but I'm not sure if that's related.
Tuesday, August 07, 2007
Well Loved
Child 2 has an emotional relationship with nearly everything. With its close (and dearly beloved) family it's often a rather grumpy emotional relationship, but given how much button-pushing it puts up with I feel that's only to be expected. It's the inanimate things that are a little more problematic.
Child 2 is a hoarder and collector from a long and distinguished line of such beings. In fact it has a double dose because there's the genetic link (from my side definitely, less certainly on Kirk's) as well as the behavioral link since its paternal grandfather is the Hoarder Grand Poobah and High Mucketty Muck. With an emphasis on the muck.
Child 2 has a fine even handed approach to its hoards; currently its dresser top is strewn with small plastic toys from a friend's brother's recent birthday, several DVDs brought in apparently simply to gently pat the covers, an inevitable stack of books and a general dusting of papers etc that refuse category. When told that "clean your room" needs to include such surfaces it looks at me in blank confusion and wonders how I cannot see that all of these objects are fabulous and utterly desirable and must be in plain sight (or semi-obscured sight) at all times to be truly appreciated.
It also owns an enormous number of stuffed animals. It was banned from acquiring any more several years ago when the population overflowed its bed and seemed to be planning an invasion of the rest of the house, but that left the dozens of "best friend" cuddly toys that already had burrowed their plastic-eyed way into its heart. When we moved after Kirk's disappearance we had to cram our not-too-large household into a considerably smaller space and so, with much difficulty, Child 2 was forced to decide exactly which among the many would become the chosen few allowed to remain out and about. The others were tucked carefully into plastic garbage bags and interred in bins in the garage. They have remained there for well over a year now, but Child 2 refuses to hear gentle (loud and continuous) hints about thinning the herd.
Then there are its clothes. Child 2 was one of those children who seemed to stay the same size for ever. It was petite - to say the least - for most of its young life and so could wear the same grubby, worn out sweaters and jeans for two, sometimes three years running. Maybe that's why emotional attachment to clothes, for Child 2, is enormous, what with having invested years of sweat and grass stains and all. Even more beloved are things handed down by friends - doubly valuable and impossible to relinquish.
Yesterday Child 2 took out a shirt I had washed and pointed out to it as probably no longer wearable. It was a magical shirt, I admit, bought just for Child 2 all itself, bought because it was clear Child 2 would love it (new clothes were and are much more now extremely rare in our family). It was, however, bought five years ago. Child 2, after squeezing into the shirt with much effort, glanced down at the exposed bits of flesh and admitted, reluctantly, that just maybe the shirt is on the small side. It has agreed that the shirt can be handed down, probably with ceremony and a solemn promise that Child 2 can visit the shirt when necessary.
It will be missed.
Child 2 is a hoarder and collector from a long and distinguished line of such beings. In fact it has a double dose because there's the genetic link (from my side definitely, less certainly on Kirk's) as well as the behavioral link since its paternal grandfather is the Hoarder Grand Poobah and High Mucketty Muck. With an emphasis on the muck.
Child 2 has a fine even handed approach to its hoards; currently its dresser top is strewn with small plastic toys from a friend's brother's recent birthday, several DVDs brought in apparently simply to gently pat the covers, an inevitable stack of books and a general dusting of papers etc that refuse category. When told that "clean your room" needs to include such surfaces it looks at me in blank confusion and wonders how I cannot see that all of these objects are fabulous and utterly desirable and must be in plain sight (or semi-obscured sight) at all times to be truly appreciated.
It also owns an enormous number of stuffed animals. It was banned from acquiring any more several years ago when the population overflowed its bed and seemed to be planning an invasion of the rest of the house, but that left the dozens of "best friend" cuddly toys that already had burrowed their plastic-eyed way into its heart. When we moved after Kirk's disappearance we had to cram our not-too-large household into a considerably smaller space and so, with much difficulty, Child 2 was forced to decide exactly which among the many would become the chosen few allowed to remain out and about. The others were tucked carefully into plastic garbage bags and interred in bins in the garage. They have remained there for well over a year now, but Child 2 refuses to hear gentle (loud and continuous) hints about thinning the herd.
Then there are its clothes. Child 2 was one of those children who seemed to stay the same size for ever. It was petite - to say the least - for most of its young life and so could wear the same grubby, worn out sweaters and jeans for two, sometimes three years running. Maybe that's why emotional attachment to clothes, for Child 2, is enormous, what with having invested years of sweat and grass stains and all. Even more beloved are things handed down by friends - doubly valuable and impossible to relinquish.
Yesterday Child 2 took out a shirt I had washed and pointed out to it as probably no longer wearable. It was a magical shirt, I admit, bought just for Child 2 all itself, bought because it was clear Child 2 would love it (new clothes were and are much more now extremely rare in our family). It was, however, bought five years ago. Child 2, after squeezing into the shirt with much effort, glanced down at the exposed bits of flesh and admitted, reluctantly, that just maybe the shirt is on the small side. It has agreed that the shirt can be handed down, probably with ceremony and a solemn promise that Child 2 can visit the shirt when necessary.
It will be missed.
Monday, August 06, 2007
Words of Wisdom
The thing about kids - you know, having them and then keeping them around and things - is that conversation becomes rather surreal. I know it's not just my particular kids because I had a dear friend ask me to wait a moment while she hollered "that, young man is a one way door and you know we've had this conversation before, so put down the carrot."
You learn quite quickly not to ask for context when these things come up, so while I know it happened, I'm not entirely sure why Child 2 had to say severely, "YOU are over-stretching my frog!" but it stuck in my mind.
Today was register-for-school day, and we have reached that plateau of bliss where all three Children are attending the very same school which means 1 schedule for holidays etc and 1 bus. Things haven't been this good since Child 1 was unfortunately allowed to graduate from 5th grade. However there is a price. I had to register all of them which meant I trotted down with two of the three clutching two pieces of id per person, copies of shot records and what I was assured (twice) was perfectly adequate Proof Of Residence. Only it wasn't naturally which we discovered after standing in the wrong line for only an hour. Not to worry, if we lumbered home, picked up the piece of Really And For True Proof Of Residence they would be happy to register all Children at once thus saving me another trip out to the school.
You can see it coming, right?
Picked up Child 3 (meaning it was peeled off of its video game and forcibly inserted into its shoes), found original copy of Really And For True Proof Of Residence, went and stood in entirely NEW line for another 1/2 hour only to discover... that our Proof Of Residence is faulty AND they're closing down for the day so we'll have to so-sorry-come-back-tomorrow.
I seriously wanted to lean across the desk and hiss, "lady, you are totally over-stretching my frog." Child 2, I hear you baby.
You learn quite quickly not to ask for context when these things come up, so while I know it happened, I'm not entirely sure why Child 2 had to say severely, "YOU are over-stretching my frog!" but it stuck in my mind.
Today was register-for-school day, and we have reached that plateau of bliss where all three Children are attending the very same school which means 1 schedule for holidays etc and 1 bus. Things haven't been this good since Child 1 was unfortunately allowed to graduate from 5th grade. However there is a price. I had to register all of them which meant I trotted down with two of the three clutching two pieces of id per person, copies of shot records and what I was assured (twice) was perfectly adequate Proof Of Residence. Only it wasn't naturally which we discovered after standing in the wrong line for only an hour. Not to worry, if we lumbered home, picked up the piece of Really And For True Proof Of Residence they would be happy to register all Children at once thus saving me another trip out to the school.
You can see it coming, right?
Picked up Child 3 (meaning it was peeled off of its video game and forcibly inserted into its shoes), found original copy of Really And For True Proof Of Residence, went and stood in entirely NEW line for another 1/2 hour only to discover... that our Proof Of Residence is faulty AND they're closing down for the day so we'll have to so-sorry-come-back-tomorrow.
I seriously wanted to lean across the desk and hiss, "lady, you are totally over-stretching my frog." Child 2, I hear you baby.
Friday, August 03, 2007
Lesson Learned
As I was leaving work the other day I walked behind a woman about my age who appeared to have forgotten her trousers. It was a little strange because her hair was absolutely perfect and her make-up had been done with great care. Maybe she spent so long on her head she just figured - Oh, what the heck I'll throw on this mini-sweater dress and call it done. Or maybe she was about to attend a high school reunion and wanted to make sure everyone would recognize her so she wore her favorite outfit from junior year.
The problem was she had realized too late what a tragic mistake it was, and so as she walked she kept almost-but-not-quite tugging on the hem to try to stretch it down towards her knees. There was a desperate tenseness about her - she might as well have stopped and shouted "yes! Yes, I decided I could get away with wearing a piece of knit maroon whatever that would make a generous tea cozy but is a little on the skimpy side as a piece of clothing." Out of pity I had to look away.
The same day in the bookstore a man sailed past me wearing a bicycle helmet. He wore it with enormous grace and elegance and as he looked around there was an expression of such supreme certainty on his face it seemed utterly right that he should wear that helmet.
Confidence my friends is key.
The problem was she had realized too late what a tragic mistake it was, and so as she walked she kept almost-but-not-quite tugging on the hem to try to stretch it down towards her knees. There was a desperate tenseness about her - she might as well have stopped and shouted "yes! Yes, I decided I could get away with wearing a piece of knit maroon whatever that would make a generous tea cozy but is a little on the skimpy side as a piece of clothing." Out of pity I had to look away.
The same day in the bookstore a man sailed past me wearing a bicycle helmet. He wore it with enormous grace and elegance and as he looked around there was an expression of such supreme certainty on his face it seemed utterly right that he should wear that helmet.
Confidence my friends is key.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Mental scars
Yesterday something terrible happened.
For the rest of my life now I will have a vivid and dreadful visual whenever I hear the phrase
Hair shirt.
ETA: It's been suggested I clarify. Okay, but follow the link at your own risk. Your mental scars are your responsibility.
For the rest of my life now I will have a vivid and dreadful visual whenever I hear the phrase
Hair shirt.
ETA: It's been suggested I clarify. Okay, but follow the link at your own risk. Your mental scars are your responsibility.
Monday, July 23, 2007
Reading Aloud
My mother is a brilliant reader-alouder. From the time we were tiny she read to us - at the lunch table while I was trying to avoid eating my liverwurst sandwich, in the afternoons down in the den with me hanging upside down off the swing (yes, we had a swing in our den) or trying and failing to stand on my head. She read Francis Hodgson Burnett and Louisa May Alcott, Elizabeth Goudge and Eleanor Farjean. She read when we were driving to Colorado or Kansas to keep my sister and me from murdering each other in the back seat. She just read.
So I read too, to the Children, and have since they were babies. We used to be able to squash up into the couch together while we read A.A. Milne or Dr. Seuss. As the books (and the legs) got longer the children began to sprawl out on the floor or arrange themselves with drawing things, cards or other projects to keep their hands busy. I read them many of the books I was raised on, and added others of my own: Arthur Ransome, Susan Cooper and Philip Pullman. Usually after the book is over there is a general rush to claim it so one Child or another can re-read as quickly as possible. Child 3 won on His Dark Materials and then committed the cardinal sin of losing the book before finishing it (it found it again but things were a bit fraught for a while there!)
So now we're reading The Deathly Hallows. We got through nearly half on Saturday although it meant I had a rather sore throat. Sunday there were too many other commitments already made so we only squeezed in a few chapters, unfortunately leaving all of the final stuff still to come. Child 1 did indeed bring out its project bits and pieces and lay on the floor to listen, forgetting its card house now and then as things heated up in the story. Child 2 perched across the room and did glare at me whenever a particularly beloved character seemed in danger. It also has announced gloomily at every plot turn "XXX is going to die, I just know it. I KNOW it," just so that if the sad event does take place it will be well prepared - and have the consolation of being able to say "I TOLD you so!" Child 3 has punctuated the reading with wild predictions and shouts of "Oh! that's what happened..." and has also bounced into my room multiple times when it was supposed to be face-washing-teeth-brushing to tell me its latest ideas about What Will Happen Next.
Seven books worth of reading aloud; we'll finish this afternoon.
I wonder what we'll read tomorrow.
So I read too, to the Children, and have since they were babies. We used to be able to squash up into the couch together while we read A.A. Milne or Dr. Seuss. As the books (and the legs) got longer the children began to sprawl out on the floor or arrange themselves with drawing things, cards or other projects to keep their hands busy. I read them many of the books I was raised on, and added others of my own: Arthur Ransome, Susan Cooper and Philip Pullman. Usually after the book is over there is a general rush to claim it so one Child or another can re-read as quickly as possible. Child 3 won on His Dark Materials and then committed the cardinal sin of losing the book before finishing it (it found it again but things were a bit fraught for a while there!)
So now we're reading The Deathly Hallows. We got through nearly half on Saturday although it meant I had a rather sore throat. Sunday there were too many other commitments already made so we only squeezed in a few chapters, unfortunately leaving all of the final stuff still to come. Child 1 did indeed bring out its project bits and pieces and lay on the floor to listen, forgetting its card house now and then as things heated up in the story. Child 2 perched across the room and did glare at me whenever a particularly beloved character seemed in danger. It also has announced gloomily at every plot turn "XXX is going to die, I just know it. I KNOW it," just so that if the sad event does take place it will be well prepared - and have the consolation of being able to say "I TOLD you so!" Child 3 has punctuated the reading with wild predictions and shouts of "Oh! that's what happened..." and has also bounced into my room multiple times when it was supposed to be face-washing-teeth-brushing to tell me its latest ideas about What Will Happen Next.
Seven books worth of reading aloud; we'll finish this afternoon.
I wonder what we'll read tomorrow.
Friday, July 20, 2007
Harry Potter
Yes... I know... but the fact is that the Children are going to a midnight party tonight, and one of them will be dressed as a Death Eater, and another is seriously considering Hermione (having natural assets of unmanageable hair and a know-it-all attitude - Love you Child!) while the third has rejected my suggestion of an old pillowcase thus becoming Dobby.
Child 1 was given a Harry Potter book in Alaska by its very best friend. I had heard rumblings about the books, but since they were *gasp* popular I assumed they were also horrible and I wasn't going to have MY children read them. (see also cultural deprivation as described in an earlier post) But Child 1's best friend was a charming and wonderful person, and it insisted that the books were fantastic! Marvelous! Really, really great! So I practiced my best oh-well-if-you-must-but-we-all-know-we're-better-than-this face and read the book.
Like how many thousands of other children mine have now grown up with the series. I think of them geographically: books 1-3 were Alaska, book 4 we got in Virginia, book 5 in California.
So now we'll be going, at midnight, to pick up book 7. They still want me to read it aloud to all of them, although it's a little harder to cuddle everyone together now that legs have stretched so alarmingly and they come darn close to outweighing me. So probably Child 1 will have some project spread out over the floor as it listens, Child 2 will be ensconced in a corner of the other couch where it can glare at me if the plot goes against its likings and Child 3 will spend half its time bouncing up as its inspired to make something or try something out or shout out a prediction.
I'll probably stop at the end of every really exciting chapter and make to close the book. There's no point in ending at a boring bit - you have to make them suffer a little bit - and the Children will howl in anguish and insist I read just one more chapter... and then another...
So - do you think Harry will die?
Child 1 was given a Harry Potter book in Alaska by its very best friend. I had heard rumblings about the books, but since they were *gasp* popular I assumed they were also horrible and I wasn't going to have MY children read them. (see also cultural deprivation as described in an earlier post) But Child 1's best friend was a charming and wonderful person, and it insisted that the books were fantastic! Marvelous! Really, really great! So I practiced my best oh-well-if-you-must-but-we-all-know-we're-better-than-this face and read the book.
Like how many thousands of other children mine have now grown up with the series. I think of them geographically: books 1-3 were Alaska, book 4 we got in Virginia, book 5 in California.
So now we'll be going, at midnight, to pick up book 7. They still want me to read it aloud to all of them, although it's a little harder to cuddle everyone together now that legs have stretched so alarmingly and they come darn close to outweighing me. So probably Child 1 will have some project spread out over the floor as it listens, Child 2 will be ensconced in a corner of the other couch where it can glare at me if the plot goes against its likings and Child 3 will spend half its time bouncing up as its inspired to make something or try something out or shout out a prediction.
I'll probably stop at the end of every really exciting chapter and make to close the book. There's no point in ending at a boring bit - you have to make them suffer a little bit - and the Children will howl in anguish and insist I read just one more chapter... and then another...
So - do you think Harry will die?
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
GRANDfather
I was thinking about my grandfather the other day.
That's my father's father - the only one of my grandparents I knew very well at all; the other three died before I was seven.
He was Grandfather with a rolled "r" and and emphasis on the GRAND. I seriously envied my friends who had a grandpa, but he was introduced to me as GRANDfather and GRANDfather he remained.
He was the dean of an episcopal cathedral which meant he got to wear really impressive robes, and all of our birthday cards came with a return address to "The Very Reverend." That certainly added to the grand impression, and when I wasn't around him it was easy to think of him as terribly stern and very, very holy.
He tended to destroy that image in person since he liked to wear plaid golfing caps with little bobbles on the top and started out every visit by announcing "You grew just enough this year - your legs are just long enough to reach the ground!" I used to get a wonderful image of myself the next year solemnly wading around in several inches of earth.
His wife, my grandmother, died when I was six and I have no real memories of her. We went to visit when she was very ill and I vaguely recall being frightened because the room was dim and she was so terribly frail. I wish I had known her because she sounds like an amazing woman. She went to a very posh college where she majored in chemistry and (according to my probably twisted memory) also acquired the skill of eating a banana with a knife and fork. She also single-handedly got my grandfather through divinity college by writing all of his papers for him.
He remarried fairly quickly - a member of the cathedral who spent the rest of her life calling him "the dean." We weren't to call her GRANDmother or even Grandma - she was Mimi (meye-meye). She took wonderful care of him, keeping his house meticulously tidy and cooking enormous meals. She loved to take us shopping and my grandfather was the chauffeur. She would keep up a constant stream of comment "I think that was the turn... are you sure this is the exit we need? Now, you're not going by the railroad are you??" and he would serenely smile as he drove just the way he wanted. We realized that he had been discretely turning off his hearing aid just before he got in the car and literally turning a deaf ear.
We toured his cathedral several times - I covered myself with glory once by successfully identifying Judas in a stained glass window (he was the grumpy one with the huge bag of money). I remember attending Midnight Mass one magical Christmas (I got to stay up! As a child! On Christmas Eve!) and not recognizing the purple-stoled man with the deep voice. My parents were what my mother calls "heathen" when I was a small child, and then converted to a non-episcopalian religion to my step-grandmother's chagrin. When we stayed with them my sister and I were often asked to say grace before dinner. Our prayers were fairly short, casual embarrassed affairs including rote phrases from our own church ("keepusfromharmoraccident," "blessthisfoodthatitmaynourishandstrengthenourbodies") and just as we were rushing for the end Mimi would shoot out an iron hand, grasp our wrists and say firmly "Aaaaaaand..." adding in all the things we had missed out and closing with "andmakeusevermindfuloftheneedsofothers [breath] throughChristourLord [significant pause] Ahmen."
When Kirk and I were married in my parent's living room - a five minute service by a very nervous Mormon bishop who had never performed a marriage before - Mimi stood up at the end and announced that my grandfather would give us a wedding prayer. Kirk, who had just been feeling terribly relieved that his endless ordeal (in front of at LEAST 12 people) was over, swallowed hard and agreed. I don't remember what he said, just that he smiled sweetly at us at the end and told us we should kiss again (which we did very awkwardly). "There," Mimi said with relief, "he doesn't tie many slip knots!"
He didn't.
That's my father's father - the only one of my grandparents I knew very well at all; the other three died before I was seven.
He was Grandfather with a rolled "r" and and emphasis on the GRAND. I seriously envied my friends who had a grandpa, but he was introduced to me as GRANDfather and GRANDfather he remained.
He was the dean of an episcopal cathedral which meant he got to wear really impressive robes, and all of our birthday cards came with a return address to "The Very Reverend." That certainly added to the grand impression, and when I wasn't around him it was easy to think of him as terribly stern and very, very holy.
He tended to destroy that image in person since he liked to wear plaid golfing caps with little bobbles on the top and started out every visit by announcing "You grew just enough this year - your legs are just long enough to reach the ground!" I used to get a wonderful image of myself the next year solemnly wading around in several inches of earth.
His wife, my grandmother, died when I was six and I have no real memories of her. We went to visit when she was very ill and I vaguely recall being frightened because the room was dim and she was so terribly frail. I wish I had known her because she sounds like an amazing woman. She went to a very posh college where she majored in chemistry and (according to my probably twisted memory) also acquired the skill of eating a banana with a knife and fork. She also single-handedly got my grandfather through divinity college by writing all of his papers for him.
He remarried fairly quickly - a member of the cathedral who spent the rest of her life calling him "the dean." We weren't to call her GRANDmother or even Grandma - she was Mimi (meye-meye). She took wonderful care of him, keeping his house meticulously tidy and cooking enormous meals. She loved to take us shopping and my grandfather was the chauffeur. She would keep up a constant stream of comment "I think that was the turn... are you sure this is the exit we need? Now, you're not going by the railroad are you??" and he would serenely smile as he drove just the way he wanted. We realized that he had been discretely turning off his hearing aid just before he got in the car and literally turning a deaf ear.
We toured his cathedral several times - I covered myself with glory once by successfully identifying Judas in a stained glass window (he was the grumpy one with the huge bag of money). I remember attending Midnight Mass one magical Christmas (I got to stay up! As a child! On Christmas Eve!) and not recognizing the purple-stoled man with the deep voice. My parents were what my mother calls "heathen" when I was a small child, and then converted to a non-episcopalian religion to my step-grandmother's chagrin. When we stayed with them my sister and I were often asked to say grace before dinner. Our prayers were fairly short, casual embarrassed affairs including rote phrases from our own church ("keepusfromharmoraccident," "blessthisfoodthatitmaynourishandstrengthenourbodies") and just as we were rushing for the end Mimi would shoot out an iron hand, grasp our wrists and say firmly "Aaaaaaand..." adding in all the things we had missed out and closing with "andmakeusevermindfuloftheneedsofothers [breath] throughChristourLord [significant pause] Ahmen."
When Kirk and I were married in my parent's living room - a five minute service by a very nervous Mormon bishop who had never performed a marriage before - Mimi stood up at the end and announced that my grandfather would give us a wedding prayer. Kirk, who had just been feeling terribly relieved that his endless ordeal (in front of at LEAST 12 people) was over, swallowed hard and agreed. I don't remember what he said, just that he smiled sweetly at us at the end and told us we should kiss again (which we did very awkwardly). "There," Mimi said with relief, "he doesn't tie many slip knots!"
He didn't.
Friday, July 13, 2007
Second Hand Harry Potter Review
So, I took the Children to the Harry Potter movie yesterday, but that's all I did. I bought the tickets, drove to the theater (sorry, I save Theatre for ackshual plays what have people in 'em. At least when I remember I do), threw them enthusiastically out the door and waved buh-bye.
It's not that I have anything against Harry Potter - I like Harry Potter. I refuse to dislike it on the basis of popularity OR fantasy genre OR books-for-kids.
It's just that I have a few things I truly cannot bear in plots and while books have this really neat feature where you can skip on a few pages and Ta Dah! Icky bit over! Movies in theaters don't let you do that, and your Children might be a wee bit embarrassed if their mother sits through much of the movie with eyes squinched shut, finger jammed in ears saying "la la LA LA LA IS THAT PART OVER YET?"
One of my real problems is people making fools of themselves. I've never liked that. It makes me squirm for the poor saps - even if it's the bad guy I get all twisty and uncomfortable and I want to look away QUICKLY. That's why I hated Laverne and Shirley. Or I would have if we had watchable television in our house.
The thing that I really have trouble with though is any story line that depends on the hero being framed or falsely accused. I don't know why, it's just the way I am. Now, not to spoiler anyone who hasn't seen the movie or read the book, but let's just say there's a weency bit of that sort of thing in this film. So I sent my kids on ahead as scouts to see if all the good stuff was going to make the misery of the bad stuff worthwhile.
This is made more difficult because we have a family rule about Not Spoiling Movies For People Who Have Not Seen Them. So they honestly tried to give me the information I wanted without actually ruining the whole thing. Here's their report as far as I can translate:
"OMG! It was so cool with the... I mean, the dementors, they redesigned them (insert nerdy question from me on the art design and lighting) and there's this part where... no never mind. But then! They didn't have some of the stuff - oh, but they did have the part where, and I'd tell you about it, but I can't! Oh! And pink kittens, and Umbridge was like 'hem!' and that was.... but the end was really! And the rooms! With the... oh, and I liked the kiss."
So there you are. Three thumbs up and a resolution from me to wait until either the theater will be fairly deserted and I can hide under my seat in peace, or it comes out on DVD and I can take frequent bathroom breaks while the Children shriek "Wait Mom! This is the best part!"
It's not that I have anything against Harry Potter - I like Harry Potter. I refuse to dislike it on the basis of popularity OR fantasy genre OR books-for-kids.
It's just that I have a few things I truly cannot bear in plots and while books have this really neat feature where you can skip on a few pages and Ta Dah! Icky bit over! Movies in theaters don't let you do that, and your Children might be a wee bit embarrassed if their mother sits through much of the movie with eyes squinched shut, finger jammed in ears saying "la la LA LA LA IS THAT PART OVER YET?"
One of my real problems is people making fools of themselves. I've never liked that. It makes me squirm for the poor saps - even if it's the bad guy I get all twisty and uncomfortable and I want to look away QUICKLY. That's why I hated Laverne and Shirley. Or I would have if we had watchable television in our house.
The thing that I really have trouble with though is any story line that depends on the hero being framed or falsely accused. I don't know why, it's just the way I am. Now, not to spoiler anyone who hasn't seen the movie or read the book, but let's just say there's a weency bit of that sort of thing in this film. So I sent my kids on ahead as scouts to see if all the good stuff was going to make the misery of the bad stuff worthwhile.
This is made more difficult because we have a family rule about Not Spoiling Movies For People Who Have Not Seen Them. So they honestly tried to give me the information I wanted without actually ruining the whole thing. Here's their report as far as I can translate:
"OMG! It was so cool with the... I mean, the dementors, they redesigned them (insert nerdy question from me on the art design and lighting) and there's this part where... no never mind. But then! They didn't have some of the stuff - oh, but they did have the part where, and I'd tell you about it, but I can't! Oh! And pink kittens, and Umbridge was like 'hem!' and that was.... but the end was really! And the rooms! With the... oh, and I liked the kiss."
So there you are. Three thumbs up and a resolution from me to wait until either the theater will be fairly deserted and I can hide under my seat in peace, or it comes out on DVD and I can take frequent bathroom breaks while the Children shriek "Wait Mom! This is the best part!"
Thursday, July 12, 2007
Indoctrination
I was culturally deprived as a child. It's sad to say that, because my parents probably wanted what was best for me, but it's quite true. We had only one television in the entire house, and for many many years it was a black and white one so I honestly believed that Leave it to Beaver, M*A*S*H and Happy Days were all filmed in the 50's. It also meant that I did indeed shout loudly and with consternation, "Hey! Who colorized this??" when watching Wizard of Oz in college. Oh yeah, that'll leave a scar.
We did not have cable so I missed the entire time frame when MTV actually played music (except for illicit viewing at various friend's house). I saw maybe... mentally totting up.... maybe 12 movies in an actual movie theatre by the time I hit high school and that includes Snow White where I wept bitterly for the last 20 minutes or so because Dopey had cried (I was going to marry Dopey and take him away from all his friends. Grumpy would have beaten the crap out of me), and Sleeping Beauty where I had to hide under my seat for much of the end what with the ginormous dragon and the possibility that the ginormous dragon would somehow come back and eat the poncey prince (leaving the three fairies as after dinner mints probably). I didn't see any Molly Ringwald movies when they came out which meant I had to get my fashion tips second hand (wait, no fingers in the gloves? And how many pairs of socks are we supposed to wear? Dangit, my mom won't let me wear a sweatshirt with the neck cut out 'cause it might show my bra strap) AND I missed the television airing of Red Dawn which had all the rest of my friends discussing how far from the blast point of a nuclear bomb you'd have to be to ensure instant snuffing rather than long, drawn out radiation sickness agony.
To be fair I was given alternatives. I could tell you who the Secret Seven were, I knew which new girls were likely to cause the most trouble each year at Saint Clare's boarding school and I had read every last Agatha Christie by the time I was 11. Oh yeah, I was really great at parties.
Kirk on the other hand had been handed a summer pass to the movie theatre each year (with strict instructions not to lean his head back on the seat - stranger hair goo is contagious, not to sweat, and not to come home for at least four hours). He was served his fast-food dinners on a tray in front of one of the two or three televisions there were in the living room alone. I was a granola child - he was definitely twinkies.
But I felt the isolation of not sharing culture with my peers, I truly did. So when I had children of my own I was definitely going to make sure that they were well exposed to all the most important and useful bits of popular culture. As a result they know most if not all of the really seminal Monty Python sketches (Dead Parrot naturally, but they also like Close Order Swanning About) along with several other really vital things, like Yes Prime Minister and Good Neighbors (British title - The Good Life). Recently I realized though that maybe this doesn't quite provide a large range of experiences. They need to be prepared for the tough life ahead. Perhaps old Brit coms aren't enough?
So we've been watching Animaniacs cartoons all week. I'm such a good mom.
We did not have cable so I missed the entire time frame when MTV actually played music (except for illicit viewing at various friend's house). I saw maybe... mentally totting up.... maybe 12 movies in an actual movie theatre by the time I hit high school and that includes Snow White where I wept bitterly for the last 20 minutes or so because Dopey had cried (I was going to marry Dopey and take him away from all his friends. Grumpy would have beaten the crap out of me), and Sleeping Beauty where I had to hide under my seat for much of the end what with the ginormous dragon and the possibility that the ginormous dragon would somehow come back and eat the poncey prince (leaving the three fairies as after dinner mints probably). I didn't see any Molly Ringwald movies when they came out which meant I had to get my fashion tips second hand (wait, no fingers in the gloves? And how many pairs of socks are we supposed to wear? Dangit, my mom won't let me wear a sweatshirt with the neck cut out 'cause it might show my bra strap) AND I missed the television airing of Red Dawn which had all the rest of my friends discussing how far from the blast point of a nuclear bomb you'd have to be to ensure instant snuffing rather than long, drawn out radiation sickness agony.
To be fair I was given alternatives. I could tell you who the Secret Seven were, I knew which new girls were likely to cause the most trouble each year at Saint Clare's boarding school and I had read every last Agatha Christie by the time I was 11. Oh yeah, I was really great at parties.
Kirk on the other hand had been handed a summer pass to the movie theatre each year (with strict instructions not to lean his head back on the seat - stranger hair goo is contagious, not to sweat, and not to come home for at least four hours). He was served his fast-food dinners on a tray in front of one of the two or three televisions there were in the living room alone. I was a granola child - he was definitely twinkies.
But I felt the isolation of not sharing culture with my peers, I truly did. So when I had children of my own I was definitely going to make sure that they were well exposed to all the most important and useful bits of popular culture. As a result they know most if not all of the really seminal Monty Python sketches (Dead Parrot naturally, but they also like Close Order Swanning About) along with several other really vital things, like Yes Prime Minister and Good Neighbors (British title - The Good Life). Recently I realized though that maybe this doesn't quite provide a large range of experiences. They need to be prepared for the tough life ahead. Perhaps old Brit coms aren't enough?
So we've been watching Animaniacs cartoons all week. I'm such a good mom.
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
NPR drive by
While half-listening to NPR in the background -
Me: Hey, is that Beverly Sills?
Boss: I think so
Me: Oh.... um, isn't she dead?
Boss: Yes, I'm pretty sure.
Me: Well, in that case, she sounds great.
Me: Hey, is that Beverly Sills?
Boss: I think so
Me: Oh.... um, isn't she dead?
Boss: Yes, I'm pretty sure.
Me: Well, in that case, she sounds great.
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Indoor League
My boss told me a story today about how her step-sons were using their airSoft guns to fight some sort of sibling-annihilating guerrilla war game inside their mother's house. We both agreed easily that probably this is not an idea that would have flown had any reasonable female, and even some reasonable males, been around. Which instantly made me remember a story...
I came home in California one day to find the living room furniture all desperately hugging the walls. The rug had been rolled up and put aside as well to expose the grey carpet, and an entire field complete with goal boxes, midfield and free kick lines was marked out with masking tape. The combatants were spread out around the room and all looked up with a certain amount of guilt.
Except for one of course - the largest one. It had been his idea in the first place. Granted, Kirk felt he was being very responsible and sensible by insisting they replace the real soccer ball with a balloon. It was hardly his fault that one of the children still bears a scar from a mid-air collision when going for a header.
These things just happen you know, even in the best regulated households.
I came home in California one day to find the living room furniture all desperately hugging the walls. The rug had been rolled up and put aside as well to expose the grey carpet, and an entire field complete with goal boxes, midfield and free kick lines was marked out with masking tape. The combatants were spread out around the room and all looked up with a certain amount of guilt.
Except for one of course - the largest one. It had been his idea in the first place. Granted, Kirk felt he was being very responsible and sensible by insisting they replace the real soccer ball with a balloon. It was hardly his fault that one of the children still bears a scar from a mid-air collision when going for a header.
These things just happen you know, even in the best regulated households.
Monday, July 09, 2007
Instructions
Child 3 took its hard earned cash to Sharper Image and purchased one of these: Ripstik. It promptly demolished the packaging (leaving a hamster trail of shredded cardboard and bits of foam packing) in the back seat of the car and settled down to read the Instruction Manual.
The front cover says in large formidable letters: Read This Before Using This Product
Then there are about four inner pages which give the following instructions for enjoying this fine piece of recreational equipment.
DEATH or INJURY can result from NOT READING INSTRUCTIONS
INJURY or DEATH can result if you do not wear the following VERY IMPORTANT SAFETY GEAR: Helmet, elbow pads, knee pads, long sleeved shirt, long pants, well soled shoes in good condition.
DEATH or INJURY may result even if you do wear the VERY IMPORTANT SAFETY GEAR
INJURY or DEATH may result from replacing worn parts with UNOFFICIAL parts. USER must CALL US before using UNOFFICIAL parts.
PARENTS must READ and UNDERSTAND these instructions, and explain them to the child. These instructions should be REREAD every few months.
Oh, and you clean it with a damp cloth.
Child 3 has spent a happy three days Ripstiking around the neighborhood. Despite not wearing any of the VERY IMPORTANT SAFETY GEAR (except shoes - it is wearing shirt and shorts) it has not yet managed serious INJURY or DEATH.
I think its just not trying.
The front cover says in large formidable letters: Read This Before Using This Product
Then there are about four inner pages which give the following instructions for enjoying this fine piece of recreational equipment.
DEATH or INJURY can result from NOT READING INSTRUCTIONS
INJURY or DEATH can result if you do not wear the following VERY IMPORTANT SAFETY GEAR: Helmet, elbow pads, knee pads, long sleeved shirt, long pants, well soled shoes in good condition.
DEATH or INJURY may result even if you do wear the VERY IMPORTANT SAFETY GEAR
INJURY or DEATH may result from replacing worn parts with UNOFFICIAL parts. USER must CALL US before using UNOFFICIAL parts.
PARENTS must READ and UNDERSTAND these instructions, and explain them to the child. These instructions should be REREAD every few months.
Oh, and you clean it with a damp cloth.
Child 3 has spent a happy three days Ripstiking around the neighborhood. Despite not wearing any of the VERY IMPORTANT SAFETY GEAR (except shoes - it is wearing shirt and shorts) it has not yet managed serious INJURY or DEATH.
I think its just not trying.
Friday, July 06, 2007
Slave Labor
Kirk and I have always been lovingly honest with our children. We would look into their beloved wee faces and croon "now darlings, you know we only had you for the slave labor, right?" and they would wrinkle their adorable noses up at us and lisp back, "of courth, and may we do the vacuuming now?"
Or something like that.
In practice they have a mixed history when it comes to household chores. Child 3 is willing, sometimes, but has a peculiar blindness to anything that is in contact with another object or surface. So it will swear absolutely that its room is clean and looks on with astonishment when I point out the bread-crumb trail of lego pieces up against the walls. Child 2 read The Gammage Cup at far too early an age and was happy to discover a fictional character who believes strongly in the "organize with heaps" method of room cleaning. Child 1 will cheerfully tidy up when pressed but is blissfully unaware of messes left behind when showers are taken or clothes changed.
We did have one glorious coup when we convinced them all that dish-washing was a terribly, terribly grown-up and exciting thing to do. Child 1 had watched one of us at the sink (taking in the unbelievable possibilities of foamy white suds and a large amount of water) and had asked if it could wash dishes some time. We wrinkled our brows and looked dubious - oh, I don't know really. Maybe when you're older, if you're really good we might let you wash dishes as a very special treat. But not now sweetheart, not yet. We spun that out for several weeks and as a reward got a full six months of happy, even grateful dishwashing. Even better, Child 2 watched the whole thing, green with envy, and tacked an extra three months on the end of that. Child 3 however managed to spread the water so far and wide that it was ruled out on the basis of collateral damage.
Apparently that's the hard way to get 'em to do things though. My parents came up with a much more simple plan. For the last week all three Children have happily weeded, stacked wood, ripped up and disposed of carpeting, removed ancient and well-glued tiles (of unknown matter - probably asbestos lightly seasoned with lead), washed walls, swabbed floors, sanded, plastered, patched and painted apparently without complaint.
I could suggest it's the kindness of their hearts and their deep and abiding love for their wonderful grandparents.
But I'm pretty sure it's the cold, hard cash.
Or something like that.
In practice they have a mixed history when it comes to household chores. Child 3 is willing, sometimes, but has a peculiar blindness to anything that is in contact with another object or surface. So it will swear absolutely that its room is clean and looks on with astonishment when I point out the bread-crumb trail of lego pieces up against the walls. Child 2 read The Gammage Cup at far too early an age and was happy to discover a fictional character who believes strongly in the "organize with heaps" method of room cleaning. Child 1 will cheerfully tidy up when pressed but is blissfully unaware of messes left behind when showers are taken or clothes changed.
We did have one glorious coup when we convinced them all that dish-washing was a terribly, terribly grown-up and exciting thing to do. Child 1 had watched one of us at the sink (taking in the unbelievable possibilities of foamy white suds and a large amount of water) and had asked if it could wash dishes some time. We wrinkled our brows and looked dubious - oh, I don't know really. Maybe when you're older, if you're really good we might let you wash dishes as a very special treat. But not now sweetheart, not yet. We spun that out for several weeks and as a reward got a full six months of happy, even grateful dishwashing. Even better, Child 2 watched the whole thing, green with envy, and tacked an extra three months on the end of that. Child 3 however managed to spread the water so far and wide that it was ruled out on the basis of collateral damage.
Apparently that's the hard way to get 'em to do things though. My parents came up with a much more simple plan. For the last week all three Children have happily weeded, stacked wood, ripped up and disposed of carpeting, removed ancient and well-glued tiles (of unknown matter - probably asbestos lightly seasoned with lead), washed walls, swabbed floors, sanded, plastered, patched and painted apparently without complaint.
I could suggest it's the kindness of their hearts and their deep and abiding love for their wonderful grandparents.
But I'm pretty sure it's the cold, hard cash.
Thursday, July 05, 2007
Glorious Fourth
It always feels a little petty of the universe to put the Fourth on a Wednesday. No four day weekend naturally, but worse, you have to then get up and go back to work the next day as though the entire neighborhood weren't firing off illegal fireworks well past 11 the night before.
Good fun was had though. Children 1 and 2 went one direction to incite acts of arson among young and impressionable types while Child 3 and I spent the evening with friends on the other end of town. They have a house that looks out over much of the city with a gorgeous view of the firework displays held at the fair-grounds, the balloon park, at least two country clubs as well as the enthusiastic if law-breaking neighbors. Since it's monsoon season we also had a very impressive lightening display and were finally chased out of our chairs by the rain.
No one lost a limb although Child 1 managed a small burn on the sole of its foot. It needs to come up with a really good story for that though because "sparkler accident" just doesn't sound all that heroic somehow. Nope, it definitely needs something that starts out:
"There I was..."
Good fun was had though. Children 1 and 2 went one direction to incite acts of arson among young and impressionable types while Child 3 and I spent the evening with friends on the other end of town. They have a house that looks out over much of the city with a gorgeous view of the firework displays held at the fair-grounds, the balloon park, at least two country clubs as well as the enthusiastic if law-breaking neighbors. Since it's monsoon season we also had a very impressive lightening display and were finally chased out of our chairs by the rain.
No one lost a limb although Child 1 managed a small burn on the sole of its foot. It needs to come up with a really good story for that though because "sparkler accident" just doesn't sound all that heroic somehow. Nope, it definitely needs something that starts out:
"There I was..."
Wednesday, July 04, 2007
Alan Johnston is Free
Thanks to all of you who emailed me - this is amazing news. Alan Johnston has been freed after 114 days in captivity. You can read the BBC article here.
What an incredible and wonderful thing to happen.
What an incredible and wonderful thing to happen.
Tuesday, July 03, 2007
Kandahar Journal
I found a wonderful blog the other day. It's the journal of Richard Johnson, a Canadian illustrator who is documenting his time in Afghanistan. The sketches are fascinating (and it's interesting to see him gain assurance as he goes along - he mentions in the first post that he's a little rusty), but the prose is just as good.
Afghanistan is often overlooked with all the noise and confusion and anger over Iraq. It's good to see this ongoing effort to rebuild and restore being documented so vividly.
News combat art isn't seen much anymore, but there's something very evocative about it. Maybe it's because the sketches have to be done with deliberation. I certainly find something in them that reaches me in a way photographs don't.
A Kandahar Journal
Afghanistan is often overlooked with all the noise and confusion and anger over Iraq. It's good to see this ongoing effort to rebuild and restore being documented so vividly.
News combat art isn't seen much anymore, but there's something very evocative about it. Maybe it's because the sketches have to be done with deliberation. I certainly find something in them that reaches me in a way photographs don't.
A Kandahar Journal
Monday, July 02, 2007
Perspective
I met a man in Target the other day.
I was waiting for Child 1, sort of browsing-not-buying in the movie section and I had just picked up Flags of Our Fathers. He tapped me on the shoulder and said, "I was just looking at that."
Have you seen it yet? I said, I saw it in the theater, and it was pretty good. But I read the book first, and that helped.
No, I didn't need to see it. I was there.
He was a navy corpsman in the Pacific, and he was quick to say that he wasn't on Iwo, he just treated the guys who were evacuated. We talked for a while there in the store. He said he loves to find Marines and go give them a hard time, calling them "jarhead." Then he tells them what his job was, and every last one of them has given him a hug.
I can understand that.
He didn't go into medicine when he got out, he said. He went to work for the post office instead. But he was glad of the medical training, because when his wife got cancer a few years ago he could be her nurse - the only one she had. He cared for her until the day she died. She was his second wife - he had been married 21 years the first time, 28 the second. That made him about 53 he said, and I agreed.
His son wanted him to move out to California, but he wouldn't go because his wife was buried in the national cemetery in Santa Fe and he didn't want to leave her grave. She had been a WAV in Korea and you could see the way his shoulders straightened when he talked about that. He was going to be buried with her - not beside her, but with her, and he told the officials at the cemetery that he didn't care what they said about his service so long as hers was on the marker.
He asked me if I'd ever been to Washington DC, and then wanted to know if I'd seen the memorial. I knew for him it wasn't the Vietnam Memorial, the one most people of my generation think of, but the World War II Memorial. I had, I told him, and I thought it was about time they put one up too. He shrugged.
He had an application form sitting on his desk at home for the American Legion. He was already a member of the American Veterans of Foreign Wars, but he didn't think he wanted to join the Legion. Their literature was all about benefits, he said, all about getting what was owed you. No one owes me anything.
I think we do, I told him, but he shook his head.
Nope, look at me, I have all my limbs, I've got my head on (for all the good it does me), no one owes me anything. I had an adventure, that's all. I saw a lot of stuff, and some of it was pretty hard, but I was just doing what we all needed to do.
He smiled at me then, and slowly wheeled his basket away.
I was waiting for Child 1, sort of browsing-not-buying in the movie section and I had just picked up Flags of Our Fathers. He tapped me on the shoulder and said, "I was just looking at that."
Have you seen it yet? I said, I saw it in the theater, and it was pretty good. But I read the book first, and that helped.
No, I didn't need to see it. I was there.
He was a navy corpsman in the Pacific, and he was quick to say that he wasn't on Iwo, he just treated the guys who were evacuated. We talked for a while there in the store. He said he loves to find Marines and go give them a hard time, calling them "jarhead." Then he tells them what his job was, and every last one of them has given him a hug.
I can understand that.
He didn't go into medicine when he got out, he said. He went to work for the post office instead. But he was glad of the medical training, because when his wife got cancer a few years ago he could be her nurse - the only one she had. He cared for her until the day she died. She was his second wife - he had been married 21 years the first time, 28 the second. That made him about 53 he said, and I agreed.
His son wanted him to move out to California, but he wouldn't go because his wife was buried in the national cemetery in Santa Fe and he didn't want to leave her grave. She had been a WAV in Korea and you could see the way his shoulders straightened when he talked about that. He was going to be buried with her - not beside her, but with her, and he told the officials at the cemetery that he didn't care what they said about his service so long as hers was on the marker.
He asked me if I'd ever been to Washington DC, and then wanted to know if I'd seen the memorial. I knew for him it wasn't the Vietnam Memorial, the one most people of my generation think of, but the World War II Memorial. I had, I told him, and I thought it was about time they put one up too. He shrugged.
He had an application form sitting on his desk at home for the American Legion. He was already a member of the American Veterans of Foreign Wars, but he didn't think he wanted to join the Legion. Their literature was all about benefits, he said, all about getting what was owed you. No one owes me anything.
I think we do, I told him, but he shook his head.
Nope, look at me, I have all my limbs, I've got my head on (for all the good it does me), no one owes me anything. I had an adventure, that's all. I saw a lot of stuff, and some of it was pretty hard, but I was just doing what we all needed to do.
He smiled at me then, and slowly wheeled his basket away.
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Taboo
Right from the start I kept talking about Kirk. Not about what was happening always, although it was important to talk about that too, but just about him. He was part of our lives, he always would be, and I didn't want the horrible stuff that was happening now to stain backwards over the rest of our lives together.
So whenever something happened that reminded me or the kids of Kirk, of something we had done together or the sort of things he would say, I would talk about it. It wasn't a huge choice on my part; it was perfectly natural. We've never really lost those memories, we talk about him all the time and it's good.
The problem is other people. I'll be talking with friends and something Kirk said, or something we did together will be relevant and I'll quite happily add it into the conversation. It seems to be the social equivalent of tossing a matching set* of underwear into the middle of the room.** Everyone gets embarrassed and uncomfortable and then reacts according to their personality:
Type 1 feigns complete unawareness of the underwear. There is no underwear. There is no underwear.
Type 2 shifts a little, gives a sort of combination hiccup-cough to acknowledge that the underwear is there but really we should not mention the underwear because Miss Manners has not covered underwear (HA! Best phrase I have ever written on this blog! I'm unbelievably pleased...)*** and what does one do at this point?
Type 3 acknowledges the underwear gravely with a preternatural solemnity - even if the story was funny. Underwear: it is very serious stuff and should never be taken lightly.
Type 4 flares its nostrils a bit but girds up metaphorical loins and soldiers on with the conversation, valiantly including the underwear but making a bit of an effort to do so.
Type 5, the rarest of all beasts, accepts that now and then into every room a little underwear must fall and (oh dear. I should have chosen a better metaphor) embraces the underwear gracefully.
I do understand that it's hard to know what to say when someone has had a tragedy. I'm past the point now when I feel I have to work extra hard to make other people feel comfortable around me and my Very Dreadful Life. I've gotten used to the fact that yes, it makes people uneasy when I talk about Kirk.
I could stop doing it I suppose, although it would take a real effort because we were married for 15 years; my stories are his stories. I would have to mentally edit much of my life just to keep people from feeling a little uneasy. Somehow I think that would be wrong.
Of course, it would be much more wrong to do it on purpose just to watch folks squirm. I save that for special occasions.
NOTES:
*Tasteful mind you, and clean.
** Not that I have ever done this.
*** I have a deep suspicion that this post will bump me up the Weird Searches on Google That Include The Word Underwear and Miss Manners. The price I pay...
So whenever something happened that reminded me or the kids of Kirk, of something we had done together or the sort of things he would say, I would talk about it. It wasn't a huge choice on my part; it was perfectly natural. We've never really lost those memories, we talk about him all the time and it's good.
The problem is other people. I'll be talking with friends and something Kirk said, or something we did together will be relevant and I'll quite happily add it into the conversation. It seems to be the social equivalent of tossing a matching set* of underwear into the middle of the room.** Everyone gets embarrassed and uncomfortable and then reacts according to their personality:
Type 1 feigns complete unawareness of the underwear. There is no underwear. There is no underwear.
Type 2 shifts a little, gives a sort of combination hiccup-cough to acknowledge that the underwear is there but really we should not mention the underwear because Miss Manners has not covered underwear (HA! Best phrase I have ever written on this blog! I'm unbelievably pleased...)*** and what does one do at this point?
Type 3 acknowledges the underwear gravely with a preternatural solemnity - even if the story was funny. Underwear: it is very serious stuff and should never be taken lightly.
Type 4 flares its nostrils a bit but girds up metaphorical loins and soldiers on with the conversation, valiantly including the underwear but making a bit of an effort to do so.
Type 5, the rarest of all beasts, accepts that now and then into every room a little underwear must fall and (oh dear. I should have chosen a better metaphor) embraces the underwear gracefully.
I do understand that it's hard to know what to say when someone has had a tragedy. I'm past the point now when I feel I have to work extra hard to make other people feel comfortable around me and my Very Dreadful Life. I've gotten used to the fact that yes, it makes people uneasy when I talk about Kirk.
I could stop doing it I suppose, although it would take a real effort because we were married for 15 years; my stories are his stories. I would have to mentally edit much of my life just to keep people from feeling a little uneasy. Somehow I think that would be wrong.
Of course, it would be much more wrong to do it on purpose just to watch folks squirm. I save that for special occasions.
NOTES:
*Tasteful mind you, and clean.
** Not that I have ever done this.
*** I have a deep suspicion that this post will bump me up the Weird Searches on Google That Include The Word Underwear and Miss Manners. The price I pay...
Monday, June 25, 2007
Alan Johnston - Video II
Another video of Alan Johnston has been released. You can read about it on the BBC news site here.
Saturday, June 23, 2007
Blog For a Year
This is an interesting experiment. Basically, if I can get enough votes then they'll pay me for a year to blog. Trying hard to come up with a more enticing possibility... well, outside of being handed mind-numbingly large amounts of cash I honestly can't come up with one! Click on the link once a day and it counts as a vote. Have no idea what else goes on with this, but hey! Fun times!
Thursday, June 21, 2007
Not Posting on What I Could Post on If Only I Didn't Have a Mother
It's so hard. It's like the entire universe is spitting in your Wheaties when something happens first thing in the morning that would make an unbelievable post, but you can't post on it because your mother reads your blog and she's not supposed to know about some things.
I mean, look at the ingredients:
3 children (ages varying, but all of reasonable intelligence) and me
1 homeless man (cleaner variety, nicely trimmed beard, belongings in plastic trash bag)
1 word that my mother does not admit to knowing the meaning of.
See, the homeless guy really and truly seemed to be trying to come up with a good opening line, something casual but friendly, something that would establish a rapport before he then followed up with the inevitable request for "coffee" money. I give him credit for that effort. It's just that, well.... he might want to work on his content.
But to go back to the main point, what he said was so obviously intended as blogger fodder, and I can't blog it. Darn my continuing efforts to keep distress out of my parent's lives.
After all, it was just the one word that was the problem, all the other words were perfectly fine for a conversation starter with a complete stranger.
It went something like this:
Oddly tidy homeless man: "I'd have a/an [WORD ALERT!!!].... If I could. Do you have some change?"
Phew. Got the post out of my system, and didn't offend any maternal sensibilities. I'll just let you guys fill in with a word of your choice. I even edited the article so you won't be unduly influenced by "an" vs. "a."
It's a class act, this blog.
I mean, look at the ingredients:
3 children (ages varying, but all of reasonable intelligence) and me
1 homeless man (cleaner variety, nicely trimmed beard, belongings in plastic trash bag)
1 word that my mother does not admit to knowing the meaning of.
See, the homeless guy really and truly seemed to be trying to come up with a good opening line, something casual but friendly, something that would establish a rapport before he then followed up with the inevitable request for "coffee" money. I give him credit for that effort. It's just that, well.... he might want to work on his content.
But to go back to the main point, what he said was so obviously intended as blogger fodder, and I can't blog it. Darn my continuing efforts to keep distress out of my parent's lives.
After all, it was just the one word that was the problem, all the other words were perfectly fine for a conversation starter with a complete stranger.
It went something like this:
Oddly tidy homeless man: "I'd have a/an [WORD ALERT!!!].... If I could. Do you have some change?"
Phew. Got the post out of my system, and didn't offend any maternal sensibilities. I'll just let you guys fill in with a word of your choice. I even edited the article so you won't be unduly influenced by "an" vs. "a."
It's a class act, this blog.
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
Parenting is Your Chance to Screw Up the Next Generation
Everyone's family is nuts in some way, right? Mine is beautifully normal in all the important areas - loving, generous, supportive, hospitable - and completely crackers everywhere else. Which is why when I started to date Kirk I startled him (and possibly nearly sent him screaming in the other direction) by having a rather unusual habit. It's this thing, see, where someone says something quite innocent and all, and you immediately respond with a song. Kirk even tested me once, and thought he would stump me with "splinter." Poor man had obviously not sung "Clementine" shrilly at top volume over and over and over again.
Yes, I know. Annoying AND embarrassing! It's the perfect personality quirk!
It's not my fault though, my mother whiled away every spare minute, particularly on long road trips, by singing. And as she had memorized the collective works of Peter, Paul and Mary, Pete Seeger, and many, many other artists of the folk-singy-granola bunch her repertoire was extensive. Also it was augmented by a large set of songs-for-kids that mostly take well known and otherwise inoffensive numbers and make them unfit for public use by adding twee or "funny" lyrics, preferably of the infinitely repeating variety.
When we married and had children of our own we were on a long road trip and I, well trained, turned around and started suggesting that the kids sing a particularly awful song along with me. It's not that I wanted to sing, mind you, or that the children did anything but look at me with disdain and disbelief, it's just that in my experience you have to sing on road trips. It's sort of like having a book when you head to the bathroom - it's required. Kirk however looked at me as though I had sprouted something unpleasant from the top of my head.
"What," he asked reasonably, "do you think you're doing?"
"Singing!"
"You do know that song is horrible, right?"
"Well... yes."
"You do know that if you sing it it will run around in your head for weeks and you will complain to me the whole time about how you have this stupid song going through your head."
"Well... yes."
"And you also know we're in an enclosed car and none of us can get away from you, right?"
"Um.... yes?"
"So why are you singing?"
I blinked at him for a few seconds and then blurted, "you mean, I don't have to??"
It was a beautiful moment.
However, it didn't cure the root disease of being mentally equipped with far too many obscure, or irritating songs which tend to lurch out of my subconscious at the strangest moments.
It's not all bad though. I sat down today without a clue what I would write about, and the titles of the last two posts stared at me. Sure, now I've got "3 Coins in a Fountain" running lightly through my brain, but on the other hand, I got a post out of it.
EDIT: It's such a waste really that I should have that inspiration on what to write today of all days, because this morning I also got a charming message which is worth a post in and of itself. Clearly it's from someone who loves me deeply. She said:
"abernathy aminobenzoic corpse cure" and
"bestselling bolshoi bernard" and even
"breast axolotl comprehensive alphameric aberdeen breakdown"
Verna Fontenont, whoever you are, you always say the sweetest things.
Yes, I know. Annoying AND embarrassing! It's the perfect personality quirk!
It's not my fault though, my mother whiled away every spare minute, particularly on long road trips, by singing. And as she had memorized the collective works of Peter, Paul and Mary, Pete Seeger, and many, many other artists of the folk-singy-granola bunch her repertoire was extensive. Also it was augmented by a large set of songs-for-kids that mostly take well known and otherwise inoffensive numbers and make them unfit for public use by adding twee or "funny" lyrics, preferably of the infinitely repeating variety.
When we married and had children of our own we were on a long road trip and I, well trained, turned around and started suggesting that the kids sing a particularly awful song along with me. It's not that I wanted to sing, mind you, or that the children did anything but look at me with disdain and disbelief, it's just that in my experience you have to sing on road trips. It's sort of like having a book when you head to the bathroom - it's required. Kirk however looked at me as though I had sprouted something unpleasant from the top of my head.
"What," he asked reasonably, "do you think you're doing?"
"Singing!"
"You do know that song is horrible, right?"
"Well... yes."
"You do know that if you sing it it will run around in your head for weeks and you will complain to me the whole time about how you have this stupid song going through your head."
"Well... yes."
"And you also know we're in an enclosed car and none of us can get away from you, right?"
"Um.... yes?"
"So why are you singing?"
I blinked at him for a few seconds and then blurted, "you mean, I don't have to??"
It was a beautiful moment.
However, it didn't cure the root disease of being mentally equipped with far too many obscure, or irritating songs which tend to lurch out of my subconscious at the strangest moments.
It's not all bad though. I sat down today without a clue what I would write about, and the titles of the last two posts stared at me. Sure, now I've got "3 Coins in a Fountain" running lightly through my brain, but on the other hand, I got a post out of it.
EDIT: It's such a waste really that I should have that inspiration on what to write today of all days, because this morning I also got a charming message which is worth a post in and of itself. Clearly it's from someone who loves me deeply. She said:
"abernathy aminobenzoic corpse cure" and
"bestselling bolshoi bernard" and even
"breast axolotl comprehensive alphameric aberdeen breakdown"
Verna Fontenont, whoever you are, you always say the sweetest things.
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
The Coin
I thought I had told about this, but after an exhaustive (two minute) search through the archives I can't find the story.
This was in Germany so... way-back machines set nicely. Kirk (remember) was a Russian linguist working intelligence intercepting radio transmissions from the Soviets.
At some point he intercepted a message and, translating it, believed it was really important - not just sort of important, but time sensitive, vitally, politically essential important. He found more messages, translated them, and pushed the whole thing up the chain as hard as he could.
As always, I don't know what the interception was about specifically. What I do know is that it was August 1991 and there was a significant coup attempt in the Soviet Union. I also know that some anonymous person sent us a section of barbed wire, and that seemed significant to Kirk.
The message and the results were important enough that Kirk's immediate commander put him in for a pretty important award. That recommendation went up chain, where the major (who had not even been aware of what was going on until it was all over) downgraded Kirk's suggested award and put himself in for a more important one. The same thing happened again at the next level. In the end, Kirk was given an Army Achievement medal (I think... I'd have to dig through the dusty box of plastic award folders) while the colonel or someone was trying for a Silver Star. It was all very silly, and Kirk was mostly irritated that people who had nothing to do with anything were trying to grab glory for themselves. He certainly never paid attention to the medal he was given, except that he enjoyed wearing it sometimes on his Air Force uniform and watching the other officers try to work out just what that ribbon meant.
However, someone up the command line must have felt a little guilty, because on the day the award was pinned on they also handed him a division coin.
It's a big brass thing, heavy and thick, and on the front is the name and symbol of the 8th Infantry Division enameled in blue and green. It's a bit battered now because Kirk carried it around with him when he was in the Air Force. He had generals tell him that they had never seen division level coins - it was a good conversation piece, and never failed to win the coin game.
In California he had stopped keeping it with him - there was only one friend who would understand the significance anyway - and the coin just sat in a drawer with some other bits and pieces. Then he went to Iraq, and my memory betrays me. For a long time I thought he must have taken it with him, and it had been lost along with all of his other personal belongings. Now I have a faint memory of him asking me to send it out to him, along with a few other things. I think I tried to find it and couldn't. I know I looked again when we were moving, but there was no sign of it that I could see.
So it was a little strange when, along with a Russian watch, a WWI German ring we found in the soil one day, and a few other pieces of memorabilia, the coin turned up in a plastic bin. I had been so sure it was gone, stolen with all of Kirk's other belongings, another thing missing in Iraq.
The other things were dusted off, more carefully protected, and stored again for the unseen time when we'll want them again. But the coin will stay out. It's on the bookshelf now, in incongruous company with a blue glass bottle and a piece of Russian cloisonnes work.
One piece of the past reclaimed.
This was in Germany so... way-back machines set nicely. Kirk (remember) was a Russian linguist working intelligence intercepting radio transmissions from the Soviets.
At some point he intercepted a message and, translating it, believed it was really important - not just sort of important, but time sensitive, vitally, politically essential important. He found more messages, translated them, and pushed the whole thing up the chain as hard as he could.
As always, I don't know what the interception was about specifically. What I do know is that it was August 1991 and there was a significant coup attempt in the Soviet Union. I also know that some anonymous person sent us a section of barbed wire, and that seemed significant to Kirk.
The message and the results were important enough that Kirk's immediate commander put him in for a pretty important award. That recommendation went up chain, where the major (who had not even been aware of what was going on until it was all over) downgraded Kirk's suggested award and put himself in for a more important one. The same thing happened again at the next level. In the end, Kirk was given an Army Achievement medal (I think... I'd have to dig through the dusty box of plastic award folders) while the colonel or someone was trying for a Silver Star. It was all very silly, and Kirk was mostly irritated that people who had nothing to do with anything were trying to grab glory for themselves. He certainly never paid attention to the medal he was given, except that he enjoyed wearing it sometimes on his Air Force uniform and watching the other officers try to work out just what that ribbon meant.
However, someone up the command line must have felt a little guilty, because on the day the award was pinned on they also handed him a division coin.
It's a big brass thing, heavy and thick, and on the front is the name and symbol of the 8th Infantry Division enameled in blue and green. It's a bit battered now because Kirk carried it around with him when he was in the Air Force. He had generals tell him that they had never seen division level coins - it was a good conversation piece, and never failed to win the coin game.
In California he had stopped keeping it with him - there was only one friend who would understand the significance anyway - and the coin just sat in a drawer with some other bits and pieces. Then he went to Iraq, and my memory betrays me. For a long time I thought he must have taken it with him, and it had been lost along with all of his other personal belongings. Now I have a faint memory of him asking me to send it out to him, along with a few other things. I think I tried to find it and couldn't. I know I looked again when we were moving, but there was no sign of it that I could see.
So it was a little strange when, along with a Russian watch, a WWI German ring we found in the soil one day, and a few other pieces of memorabilia, the coin turned up in a plastic bin. I had been so sure it was gone, stolen with all of Kirk's other belongings, another thing missing in Iraq.
The other things were dusted off, more carefully protected, and stored again for the unseen time when we'll want them again. But the coin will stay out. It's on the bookshelf now, in incongruous company with a blue glass bottle and a piece of Russian cloisonnes work.
One piece of the past reclaimed.
Monday, June 18, 2007
An Excercise in 3's
Three things I thought I have but don't (anymore):
1 Bombay Company wooden shelf/plinth thing that hangs on the wall and used to hold a tasteful reproduction of a Greek vase.
1 set of 6 (does that still count as 1?) simple silver candle holders
1 can opener
Three things I have but had completely forgotten about:
1 brass unicorn, gift of grandfather at age of about 10 (actually gifted to entire family, but he placed me in charge of caring for it which obviously meant absconding with it when I married)
1 glass pumpkin (small), the only thing I could stand to buy from the annual Half Moon Bay pumpkin festival (except wine. We bought wine too)
1 small box shaped like two toads - best surprise of the move as I had forgotten all about this lovely thing and I ADORE it. Favorite thing in the house. Sorry kids.
Three things I thought were lost, stolen or strayed but which have turned up:
1 book on the history of the English language - a linguistic study (bedtime reading for children if they don't behave darnit)
1 high school diploma (see mom! I did gradumagate!)
AND - Kirk's division coin, his 8th ID division level coin that I thought had been lost in Iraq.
Very strange finding that coin. More tomorrow.
1 Bombay Company wooden shelf/plinth thing that hangs on the wall and used to hold a tasteful reproduction of a Greek vase.
1 set of 6 (does that still count as 1?) simple silver candle holders
1 can opener
Three things I have but had completely forgotten about:
1 brass unicorn, gift of grandfather at age of about 10 (actually gifted to entire family, but he placed me in charge of caring for it which obviously meant absconding with it when I married)
1 glass pumpkin (small), the only thing I could stand to buy from the annual Half Moon Bay pumpkin festival (except wine. We bought wine too)
1 small box shaped like two toads - best surprise of the move as I had forgotten all about this lovely thing and I ADORE it. Favorite thing in the house. Sorry kids.
Three things I thought were lost, stolen or strayed but which have turned up:
1 book on the history of the English language - a linguistic study (bedtime reading for children if they don't behave darnit)
1 high school diploma (see mom! I did gradumagate!)
AND - Kirk's division coin, his 8th ID division level coin that I thought had been lost in Iraq.
Very strange finding that coin. More tomorrow.
Friday, June 15, 2007
Point Me At the Boy Scout Sign Ups
So Child 3 and I had a very important talk this morning. Not that Very Important Talk - Child 3 could probably tell me a thing or two there. No, we had a preparedness talk.
It started with Child 3 letting me know that it had worked out something pretty essential. It had spent the night before mulling over the best way to escape from hostage-holding mobsters - you know, the variety that jam a handgun up to your throat and ripple their muscles suggestively. I thought about it for a moment and announced that I too had a solution. Child 3 wasn't interested. It just wanted to let me know what it had figured out. Its method used some lightning quick reflexes and a bit of head butting. Mine was much simpler.
I'd lick 'em.
Then we went on and solved other conundrums that might emerge. We are now prepared for the following. For those who haven't been as careful and might wish to know how to deal with life's little emergencies I provide our separate solutions:
1. Alligator attack:
Child 3 - punch it in the nose
Me - reach down its gullet and lift up the flappy valve thing Steve Irwin claimed was there so the critter starts to drown and then spits you out, probably making cat-with-hairball-noises
2. Killer bees:
Child 3 - explain to the bees that you live in a swamp and offer to give them a tour of the home (based on apocryphal book it claims to have read at some point)
Me - drive away really really fast. Or do that thing they do in the cartoons where you walk on the bottom of the lake with a reed to breath through. Of course, in the cartoons the bees are never fooled and they spell out rude messages or make themselves into arrows and things, but I don't think bees are as smart as they are in cartoons.
3. Stranded on top of disintegrating ferris wheel:
Child 3 - climb down superstructure, doing the fireman pole slide on the straight bits.
Me - use the mountaineering equipment you brought along to rig up a belay line and whiz down on a carabiner. (small argument about whether one would have this gear. My point being that having worked out the solution one would now never go on a ferris wheel without such items)
4. Falling off cliff:
Child 3 - dive headfirst so as to avoid lengthy and painful death
Me - glide gracefully down using your skydiving suit thing with the flaps on it. I know I've seen one in a movie somewhere. (same argument)
I think we covered all the basics. You're welcome.
It started with Child 3 letting me know that it had worked out something pretty essential. It had spent the night before mulling over the best way to escape from hostage-holding mobsters - you know, the variety that jam a handgun up to your throat and ripple their muscles suggestively. I thought about it for a moment and announced that I too had a solution. Child 3 wasn't interested. It just wanted to let me know what it had figured out. Its method used some lightning quick reflexes and a bit of head butting. Mine was much simpler.
I'd lick 'em.
Then we went on and solved other conundrums that might emerge. We are now prepared for the following. For those who haven't been as careful and might wish to know how to deal with life's little emergencies I provide our separate solutions:
1. Alligator attack:
Child 3 - punch it in the nose
Me - reach down its gullet and lift up the flappy valve thing Steve Irwin claimed was there so the critter starts to drown and then spits you out, probably making cat-with-hairball-noises
2. Killer bees:
Child 3 - explain to the bees that you live in a swamp and offer to give them a tour of the home (based on apocryphal book it claims to have read at some point)
Me - drive away really really fast. Or do that thing they do in the cartoons where you walk on the bottom of the lake with a reed to breath through. Of course, in the cartoons the bees are never fooled and they spell out rude messages or make themselves into arrows and things, but I don't think bees are as smart as they are in cartoons.
3. Stranded on top of disintegrating ferris wheel:
Child 3 - climb down superstructure, doing the fireman pole slide on the straight bits.
Me - use the mountaineering equipment you brought along to rig up a belay line and whiz down on a carabiner. (small argument about whether one would have this gear. My point being that having worked out the solution one would now never go on a ferris wheel without such items)
4. Falling off cliff:
Child 3 - dive headfirst so as to avoid lengthy and painful death
Me - glide gracefully down using your skydiving suit thing with the flaps on it. I know I've seen one in a movie somewhere. (same argument)
I think we covered all the basics. You're welcome.
Monday, June 11, 2007
Feeling Blue
We painted Child 3's room this weekend. It chose a nice blue, bright but not cold, and I set about training the available Children in the fine art of DIY painting.
Step 1 - purchase supplies. This is an art in itself. Not only must one negotiate the Mammoth Home Center, one must avoid the charms and allurements of the power tool section (mmmmmm.... sliding compound miter saw.... laser cut line... oooooh), forcibly pry all three children away from the color sample chips (NO Child 2 you may not paint your room a. black or b. red), resign oneself to handfuls of paint sample chips lying around for days AND remember to get all those little niggling extras like two rolls of masking tape, a drop cloth, and edging tools. Check. Success on all fronts. Also, does anyone want to buy slightly used paint sample cards? We have a few...
Step 2 - move furniture. Designate - that's the key. In other words, children are slaves and should be used for all heavy lifting and other manual labor. However, the adult in charge should stand around helpfully saying things like "mind the walls," and "didn't I tell you to mind the walls?"
Step 3 - tape. Here's where the adult in charge has to dance carefully between the perfectionist's need to get the masking tape EXACTLY in a straight line around every baseboard/window/door and the aforementioned slave status of children who really should be doing this tedious job as well. It's a difficult life I live.
Step 4 - drop cloth. Realize that going cheap and buying only one drop cloth (even though it's a tiny room) and also going lazy and not removing the large and bulky bed means it's going to be a harrowing morning as we shift the drop cloth c-a-r-e-fully from one side of the room to another. Inform the Children that dripping paint is one of the signs of the apocalypse, and war and/or pestilence will be visited upon them if they get any paint on the pristine surface of the drop cloth.
Step 5 - edge. Child 2 realizes at this point that messiness is going on and passing it by, and wanders casually into the confined space of the semi-drop-cloth-covered room. It is allowed to edge because it of all the children has inherited that perfectionism, but it should not be left alone as it also has a tendency to lie prone on the floor in the middle of everything and sigh heavily.
Step 6 - roll. With drill-sergeant precision one must coordinate the efforts of the edger (with rolly edgey tool thingy), secondary edger (with paintbrush for the corners) and roller. Special attention should be paid to height/reach, and the ability to notice when bright blue paint is dripping down one's arm. Assign child 2 to checking walls for bald patches, which it does happily and with great thoroughness, but remove it from duty after two walls because no one wants to go back and fill in at that point.
Step 7 - clean up. Adult in charge should do the primary clean up as Children seem to lack grasp of staining capabilities of paint on carpet, furniture and concrete. However allow Child 3 the delight of holding its thumb on the hose and creating a high-pressure spray for the roller. Point out that it is possible to do this and have most of the milky-paint water spray forwards rather than backwards at the hose holder and its closest relatives.
Step 8 - assess damage. Final count - three highly painted bodies (me, forehead and temple plus arms, Child 2 arms with marvelous coverage, Child 3... easier to point out the small bits still flesh toned), not one drip or mark on the carpet, and one freshly painted blue room.
Not bad. Not bad at all.
Step 1 - purchase supplies. This is an art in itself. Not only must one negotiate the Mammoth Home Center, one must avoid the charms and allurements of the power tool section (mmmmmm.... sliding compound miter saw.... laser cut line... oooooh), forcibly pry all three children away from the color sample chips (NO Child 2 you may not paint your room a. black or b. red), resign oneself to handfuls of paint sample chips lying around for days AND remember to get all those little niggling extras like two rolls of masking tape, a drop cloth, and edging tools. Check. Success on all fronts. Also, does anyone want to buy slightly used paint sample cards? We have a few...
Step 2 - move furniture. Designate - that's the key. In other words, children are slaves and should be used for all heavy lifting and other manual labor. However, the adult in charge should stand around helpfully saying things like "mind the walls," and "didn't I tell you to mind the walls?"
Step 3 - tape. Here's where the adult in charge has to dance carefully between the perfectionist's need to get the masking tape EXACTLY in a straight line around every baseboard/window/door and the aforementioned slave status of children who really should be doing this tedious job as well. It's a difficult life I live.
Step 4 - drop cloth. Realize that going cheap and buying only one drop cloth (even though it's a tiny room) and also going lazy and not removing the large and bulky bed means it's going to be a harrowing morning as we shift the drop cloth c-a-r-e-fully from one side of the room to another. Inform the Children that dripping paint is one of the signs of the apocalypse, and war and/or pestilence will be visited upon them if they get any paint on the pristine surface of the drop cloth.
Step 5 - edge. Child 2 realizes at this point that messiness is going on and passing it by, and wanders casually into the confined space of the semi-drop-cloth-covered room. It is allowed to edge because it of all the children has inherited that perfectionism, but it should not be left alone as it also has a tendency to lie prone on the floor in the middle of everything and sigh heavily.
Step 6 - roll. With drill-sergeant precision one must coordinate the efforts of the edger (with rolly edgey tool thingy), secondary edger (with paintbrush for the corners) and roller. Special attention should be paid to height/reach, and the ability to notice when bright blue paint is dripping down one's arm. Assign child 2 to checking walls for bald patches, which it does happily and with great thoroughness, but remove it from duty after two walls because no one wants to go back and fill in at that point.
Step 7 - clean up. Adult in charge should do the primary clean up as Children seem to lack grasp of staining capabilities of paint on carpet, furniture and concrete. However allow Child 3 the delight of holding its thumb on the hose and creating a high-pressure spray for the roller. Point out that it is possible to do this and have most of the milky-paint water spray forwards rather than backwards at the hose holder and its closest relatives.
Step 8 - assess damage. Final count - three highly painted bodies (me, forehead and temple plus arms, Child 2 arms with marvelous coverage, Child 3... easier to point out the small bits still flesh toned), not one drip or mark on the carpet, and one freshly painted blue room.
Not bad. Not bad at all.
Friday, June 08, 2007
Familiar Faces
It's a strange sort of unpacking we're doing. Our other moves were simple, if irritating, affairs; we just loaded our belongings into boxes at one end, and a few days or weeks later unloaded them again. This time I hadn't even been the person packing everything - there were so many friends and family helping out that day that boxes were just filled, taped and hustled to the truck without my even seeing inside them.
Once we got to my parent's house those boxes lived a sad sort of life for a few months, mouldering in the garage while we pulled out only the few things we considered "needs." That meant that legos were quickly uncovered for one child, books for another. Movies and computer programs slowly emerged and were found shelf space as available. Everything else sat there, ignored by me and fretted over by my mother.
Eventually the dust and the possibility of flood forced a new plan - large plastic bins. It meant disinterring the box contents and at least trying to force a general sort-by-category on the contents. I knew it had to be done; I just couldn't bring myself to do it.
All of Kirk's things were there - we had even kept socks and t-shirts because, of course, he would need them when he got back. Arm-pit stained white t-shirts should not be emotional objects, but they smelled of him, and when I opened the first box and came across them I simply closed it up again and left.
There were his Russian things as well - uniforms of various types, the hideously impractical and uncomfortable tall leather boots, pot-metal awards pinned half-haphazardly onto a strange, thick swatch of cotton cloth.
Even the boxes of kitchen things had traps for the unwary - the Wildflecken stein we had bought together, the pottery bowls and mugs with moose and bear on them from Alaska. Every thing - a story.
In desperation my mother finally did it all, tossing everything into bins based on her best guess as to what it was. And there things stayed - about 12 large blue bins containing everything we owned - our mutual past.
Now, in our new house the kids and I have been doing archaeological work on those bins, slowly working our way through. We haven't seen much of this stuff for over three years, and I find I have no expectations about what will emerge. I recognize it all, or almost all, I just haven't thought about these things for so long that they no longer feel like mine.
There are the two crystal "snow ball" candle holders from Germany, the chipped set of mixed cappuccino cups and saucers from Wechtesbach which the kids used for tea-parties when they were small. There is a small Greek vase with the Death of Achilles on it, and two plaster bas reliefs - St Cecilia and a Gryphon. There are antique pictures we picked up at flea markets, and a series of photographs of the cliff-side beach near our house in California framed in plain black frames.
We bought these things because we loved them, and because they were powerful reminders of things we did, places we lived - our story in objects. Maybe it's because that story-line was broken, but I do feel removed from them all. Our things are only acquaintances now, no longer friends.
Once we got to my parent's house those boxes lived a sad sort of life for a few months, mouldering in the garage while we pulled out only the few things we considered "needs." That meant that legos were quickly uncovered for one child, books for another. Movies and computer programs slowly emerged and were found shelf space as available. Everything else sat there, ignored by me and fretted over by my mother.
Eventually the dust and the possibility of flood forced a new plan - large plastic bins. It meant disinterring the box contents and at least trying to force a general sort-by-category on the contents. I knew it had to be done; I just couldn't bring myself to do it.
All of Kirk's things were there - we had even kept socks and t-shirts because, of course, he would need them when he got back. Arm-pit stained white t-shirts should not be emotional objects, but they smelled of him, and when I opened the first box and came across them I simply closed it up again and left.
There were his Russian things as well - uniforms of various types, the hideously impractical and uncomfortable tall leather boots, pot-metal awards pinned half-haphazardly onto a strange, thick swatch of cotton cloth.
Even the boxes of kitchen things had traps for the unwary - the Wildflecken stein we had bought together, the pottery bowls and mugs with moose and bear on them from Alaska. Every thing - a story.
In desperation my mother finally did it all, tossing everything into bins based on her best guess as to what it was. And there things stayed - about 12 large blue bins containing everything we owned - our mutual past.
Now, in our new house the kids and I have been doing archaeological work on those bins, slowly working our way through. We haven't seen much of this stuff for over three years, and I find I have no expectations about what will emerge. I recognize it all, or almost all, I just haven't thought about these things for so long that they no longer feel like mine.
There are the two crystal "snow ball" candle holders from Germany, the chipped set of mixed cappuccino cups and saucers from Wechtesbach which the kids used for tea-parties when they were small. There is a small Greek vase with the Death of Achilles on it, and two plaster bas reliefs - St Cecilia and a Gryphon. There are antique pictures we picked up at flea markets, and a series of photographs of the cliff-side beach near our house in California framed in plain black frames.
We bought these things because we loved them, and because they were powerful reminders of things we did, places we lived - our story in objects. Maybe it's because that story-line was broken, but I do feel removed from them all. Our things are only acquaintances now, no longer friends.
Tuesday, June 05, 2007
Moving - California
The move from California was... difficult. Partly because I was still desperately hoping it wouldn't have to happen, that Kirk would be found, that he could come back to our home. I did set a deadline though, and my parents planned to drive out to the coast about a month after Kirk went missing.
I sorted through things, packed boxes, and started trying to re-paint the living room and hall we had only painted together two months before. We had finally decided that we would stay put in California for a while, so we should try to make this house (a house I didn't particularly like) feel like home. Painting it was our way of marking it as ours. Now I had to try and undo it. I was trying to work hard at it every day, but somehow couldn't seem to get everything done as I should.
Only a few people knew what was happening - Kirk's best friend in California, his friend and former colleague from the counter-terrorist days, my family, his family. There was so little I could do, keeping the secret was the only way I could think of helping Kirk, of trying to keep him safe. If the story got out inevitably his background would be discovered as well, and if he were being held by someone then his past as a spy, and as a counter-terrorist expert with high clearance knowledge, would surely endanger him. So, after the first week, the kids went back to school, we kept going to soccer practices and games; we went through all the motions of life as normal.
And then the story broke. An article was written by a British reporter who had met Kirk once or twice in Iraq. It had his name, it gave the same details I had heard from the army investigators, and it also included our home town. Someone called to warn me I think, but I can't remember who now. I just remember feeling as though I had been punched - winded.
Within an hour of reading that article on-line, the doorbell rang. The guy was young - one of those people who look like they're about 12 or so, and he asked if I was My Name. Then he asked me about the story, and it was so quick - I hadn't imagined anyone would find me so soon. I had not begun to think about how I should respond, so I just said "no comment." And by the smug, satisfied smile that spread over his face as he turned away I knew that I had confirmed the whole thing. He spent the rest of the morning knocking on all my neighbor's doors. That was the day before my parents were due to come into town.
So when we moved, we didn't have a week to quietly sort and pack all of our things. Instead, our amazing friends, family and neighbors came over and worked all day while reporters and photographers camped outside the house and ambushed everyone who went in or out. They tried to follow my children down the street when they were going to another house to get away from the madness. They shoved business cards into people's hands and insisted they be carried in to me. They left dozens of phone messages on the telephone until in desperation I unplugged it. One of them even tried to carry away an old computer that had been placed out on the street for the trash. A friend took it in his truck instead, wiped the drive with a powerful magnet, and drove it out to the dump himself.
There was no time to organize anything, or make reasoned decisions about things. The majority of our furniture was simply given away. The only things I cared about were keeping as much of the kid's belongings as possible; and throwing away nothing of Kirk's. People kindly pointed out that we might sometime want kitchen things again, and I nodded and agreed to everything they said.
The reporters stayed around all day, only leaving in twos or threes to follow cars that left the drive. One friend chased a van away, then followed it down the highway, and when it was clearly planning on circling back pulled up next to it and gave the driver a full and explosive piece of her mind. "We're just doing our job," he said. "This is a huge story." I knew that - it wasn't their fault that doing their job felt like they were killing my husband.
We had planned to leave the next day, but I was so distressed I couldn't face staying in the house one more night. We spirited the kids away to one friend's house, mixing them in with her children and driving around the block. We parked the moving truck there as well because it could be hidden off the street behind a high gate. My parents and I went to Kirk's best friend's house for dinner; a few hours of peace where we could talk quietly, and admire their baby daughter. Then we spent the night with yet another dear friend who took us, and my large and messy dog in and loved and supported us without a thought.
I'll never be able to repay all of the people who helped us that awful day. But I think of them constantly, and am always aware of how generous and loving people can be.
It helps to remember that.
I sorted through things, packed boxes, and started trying to re-paint the living room and hall we had only painted together two months before. We had finally decided that we would stay put in California for a while, so we should try to make this house (a house I didn't particularly like) feel like home. Painting it was our way of marking it as ours. Now I had to try and undo it. I was trying to work hard at it every day, but somehow couldn't seem to get everything done as I should.
Only a few people knew what was happening - Kirk's best friend in California, his friend and former colleague from the counter-terrorist days, my family, his family. There was so little I could do, keeping the secret was the only way I could think of helping Kirk, of trying to keep him safe. If the story got out inevitably his background would be discovered as well, and if he were being held by someone then his past as a spy, and as a counter-terrorist expert with high clearance knowledge, would surely endanger him. So, after the first week, the kids went back to school, we kept going to soccer practices and games; we went through all the motions of life as normal.
And then the story broke. An article was written by a British reporter who had met Kirk once or twice in Iraq. It had his name, it gave the same details I had heard from the army investigators, and it also included our home town. Someone called to warn me I think, but I can't remember who now. I just remember feeling as though I had been punched - winded.
Within an hour of reading that article on-line, the doorbell rang. The guy was young - one of those people who look like they're about 12 or so, and he asked if I was My Name. Then he asked me about the story, and it was so quick - I hadn't imagined anyone would find me so soon. I had not begun to think about how I should respond, so I just said "no comment." And by the smug, satisfied smile that spread over his face as he turned away I knew that I had confirmed the whole thing. He spent the rest of the morning knocking on all my neighbor's doors. That was the day before my parents were due to come into town.
So when we moved, we didn't have a week to quietly sort and pack all of our things. Instead, our amazing friends, family and neighbors came over and worked all day while reporters and photographers camped outside the house and ambushed everyone who went in or out. They tried to follow my children down the street when they were going to another house to get away from the madness. They shoved business cards into people's hands and insisted they be carried in to me. They left dozens of phone messages on the telephone until in desperation I unplugged it. One of them even tried to carry away an old computer that had been placed out on the street for the trash. A friend took it in his truck instead, wiped the drive with a powerful magnet, and drove it out to the dump himself.
There was no time to organize anything, or make reasoned decisions about things. The majority of our furniture was simply given away. The only things I cared about were keeping as much of the kid's belongings as possible; and throwing away nothing of Kirk's. People kindly pointed out that we might sometime want kitchen things again, and I nodded and agreed to everything they said.
The reporters stayed around all day, only leaving in twos or threes to follow cars that left the drive. One friend chased a van away, then followed it down the highway, and when it was clearly planning on circling back pulled up next to it and gave the driver a full and explosive piece of her mind. "We're just doing our job," he said. "This is a huge story." I knew that - it wasn't their fault that doing their job felt like they were killing my husband.
We had planned to leave the next day, but I was so distressed I couldn't face staying in the house one more night. We spirited the kids away to one friend's house, mixing them in with her children and driving around the block. We parked the moving truck there as well because it could be hidden off the street behind a high gate. My parents and I went to Kirk's best friend's house for dinner; a few hours of peace where we could talk quietly, and admire their baby daughter. Then we spent the night with yet another dear friend who took us, and my large and messy dog in and loved and supported us without a thought.
I'll never be able to repay all of the people who helped us that awful day. But I think of them constantly, and am always aware of how generous and loving people can be.
It helps to remember that.
Monday, June 04, 2007
Life in Statistics - Moving
I got curious after I had done my quick count-on-the fingers. Even though I knew it was a rough count, and probably not accurate since I'm a bit lazy, I still have told at least four people this past week that this latest was our 18th move. So now I have to actually do a real count, and face up to the fact that I have been counting move-across-the-city moves as well as move-across-the-country moves and I feel vaguely guilty about that. If you have to box up and shift all your stuff doesn't it still count? Or do you need the additional bother of a multi-state drive or a long and harassing plane ride?
So, I present the Opera of Life in 18 (or so) Move[ments]
1. New Mexico to California - with all our worldly goods (mostly brand new wedding presents including about 5 crock pots) crammed into a VW bus. Kirk had chosen the apartment without my ever seeing it, so we ended our two day drive in Monterey in a one-room bedroom-cum-everything-else that barely contained us much less the five crock pots. Which led, only a month or so later to:
2. Monterey to Pacific Grove 2 - This one had two whole bedrooms with real doors and was furnished almost entirely with founds and cast-offs. Yes indeed Kirk did come home in utter joy and announce that someone had actually left a "perfectly good" mattress by the side of the road! Imagine! Our first child was born while we lived here, and one of my main memories is rocking it while Kirk meticulously polished his boots. Two repetitive motions; trying to keep sane.
3. Pacific Grove to San Angelo, TX - Our friends from Pacific Grove found our apartment for us, right next door to them. It was Texas in the summer, and since I was no longer working we couldn't afford to run the air-conditioner. In the evenings when Kirk came home from intel school we would put Child 1 in a stroller and go swim in the deserted apartment pool. When we came back we would have to spray down the sheets repeatedly with water to get the bed cool enough to sleep in.
4. San Angelo to sort of New Mexico kind of - Kirk had one more school to go to (and I don't remember at all what it was - some kind of radio school maybe?)in Boston, and as it was only for a few weeks it made sense for me to go back to New Mexico for the duration and wait until he was settled in his final assignment.
5. New Mexico to Wildflecken - Our first Germany apartment was the top floor of a white-stucco house (tells you nothing - every house in that town was white stucco with red tile roof). The town's name was Sandberg, and it totaled about 200 people, most of them retired. The hausfraus had nothing to do but watch each other and make sure everyone was tidying their house properly and on the right day. Until we arrived that is - then they spent most of their time talking about how I didn't hang my bedding out the window on Wednesday (or was it Thursday?). The father of our landlord had a crooked back and walked with two sticks - a gift from the Russians in WWII. He loved Kirk because Kirk was spying on the Soviets.
6. Sandberg to Sandberg - The second Germany apartment. This one was over a cow-barn, on a farm. The actual town was a mile down the road. The landlady was gruff and angry and disliked us because we didn't buy her cheap cigarettes from the BX. At least not very often.
7. Sandberg to... can't remember the town! Block away from the Rhine - The only time we lived in government housing. It was my favorite of the places we lived, but I remember it mostly because of Kirk's unhappiness as he tried to get out of the army.
8. Germany to New Mexico - back to live with my long-suffering parents. We had two small children (aged 3 and 1) and I was pregnant.
9. New Mexico to New Mexico2 - Kirk's father signed over a house to all of his children, allowing us to move out of my parent's to everyone's relief. We didn't have to pay rent, but until Kirk got his commission we were still desperately poor. But it was our own (sort of), the closest we have ever been to actual home ownership.
10. New Mexico to New Mexico3 - Back to the parents (I have mentioned many, many times of the amazing saintliness of my family) while I finished my last semester of college and Kirk went on to Texas for asymmetric warfare intelligence training.
11. New Mexico to San Angelo - We spent four months here. Kirk had chosen a house that was close enough to base for him to bicycle in, and it was horrible. We could run the air conditioner at last, but it was so awfully hot the kids couldn't play outside for more than a few minutes before they would droop in to lie pathetically on the furniture and sigh.
12. San Angelo to Anchorage - Our first Alaska house, remarkable for its emerald green carpets and proximity to the school.
13. Anchorage to Eagle River - Second Alaska house. I loved this house, although there were things about it that were very odd (drop panel light fixture thingy in the kitchen that I never could work out what it was for). This was the house we brought Sophie the dog home to, the house where Child 2 broke its arm, the house where the kids for the first time had dozens of friends to play with, and it was safe enough that they could run around everywhere and I didn't worry. Unfortunately, the owner decided to sell which led to:
14 Eagle River to Eagle River - Final Alaska house. It brought Child 1 to within a block or two of its absolute soul-mate best friend. Also there was a balcony with a view of the Chugach mountains. I remember lying on the couch in dark of night, watching the aurora out the window and talking to Kirk on the phone from Italy where he was planning bombing targets in Kosovo.
15 Eagle River to Newport News, VA - Biggest and most impressive house we ever lived in. We never did get truly settled though. This was where Kirk slept no more than four hours a day sometimes, and we went on long mountain biking trips every weekend while he tried to forget about blast radii, bio-weapons, and terrorist targets.
16. Newport News to Moss Beach, CA - We lived in this house longer than we had lived anywhere else - a full three years. There are only two places that really have felt like home - Alaska, and California.
17. Moss Beach to New Mexico - The move we made when Kirk went missing. I do have a post about that running around in my head. Probably later this week.
18 - New Mexico to New Mexico - This move.
Looks like I can count after all. Eighteen moves. And we still don't feel like we're home. But we're together - and for now, that's home enough.
So, I present the Opera of Life in 18 (or so) Move[ments]
1. New Mexico to California - with all our worldly goods (mostly brand new wedding presents including about 5 crock pots) crammed into a VW bus. Kirk had chosen the apartment without my ever seeing it, so we ended our two day drive in Monterey in a one-room bedroom-cum-everything-else that barely contained us much less the five crock pots. Which led, only a month or so later to:
2. Monterey to Pacific Grove 2 - This one had two whole bedrooms with real doors and was furnished almost entirely with founds and cast-offs. Yes indeed Kirk did come home in utter joy and announce that someone had actually left a "perfectly good" mattress by the side of the road! Imagine! Our first child was born while we lived here, and one of my main memories is rocking it while Kirk meticulously polished his boots. Two repetitive motions; trying to keep sane.
3. Pacific Grove to San Angelo, TX - Our friends from Pacific Grove found our apartment for us, right next door to them. It was Texas in the summer, and since I was no longer working we couldn't afford to run the air-conditioner. In the evenings when Kirk came home from intel school we would put Child 1 in a stroller and go swim in the deserted apartment pool. When we came back we would have to spray down the sheets repeatedly with water to get the bed cool enough to sleep in.
4. San Angelo to sort of New Mexico kind of - Kirk had one more school to go to (and I don't remember at all what it was - some kind of radio school maybe?)in Boston, and as it was only for a few weeks it made sense for me to go back to New Mexico for the duration and wait until he was settled in his final assignment.
5. New Mexico to Wildflecken - Our first Germany apartment was the top floor of a white-stucco house (tells you nothing - every house in that town was white stucco with red tile roof). The town's name was Sandberg, and it totaled about 200 people, most of them retired. The hausfraus had nothing to do but watch each other and make sure everyone was tidying their house properly and on the right day. Until we arrived that is - then they spent most of their time talking about how I didn't hang my bedding out the window on Wednesday (or was it Thursday?). The father of our landlord had a crooked back and walked with two sticks - a gift from the Russians in WWII. He loved Kirk because Kirk was spying on the Soviets.
6. Sandberg to Sandberg - The second Germany apartment. This one was over a cow-barn, on a farm. The actual town was a mile down the road. The landlady was gruff and angry and disliked us because we didn't buy her cheap cigarettes from the BX. At least not very often.
7. Sandberg to... can't remember the town! Block away from the Rhine - The only time we lived in government housing. It was my favorite of the places we lived, but I remember it mostly because of Kirk's unhappiness as he tried to get out of the army.
8. Germany to New Mexico - back to live with my long-suffering parents. We had two small children (aged 3 and 1) and I was pregnant.
9. New Mexico to New Mexico2 - Kirk's father signed over a house to all of his children, allowing us to move out of my parent's to everyone's relief. We didn't have to pay rent, but until Kirk got his commission we were still desperately poor. But it was our own (sort of), the closest we have ever been to actual home ownership.
10. New Mexico to New Mexico3 - Back to the parents (I have mentioned many, many times of the amazing saintliness of my family) while I finished my last semester of college and Kirk went on to Texas for asymmetric warfare intelligence training.
11. New Mexico to San Angelo - We spent four months here. Kirk had chosen a house that was close enough to base for him to bicycle in, and it was horrible. We could run the air conditioner at last, but it was so awfully hot the kids couldn't play outside for more than a few minutes before they would droop in to lie pathetically on the furniture and sigh.
12. San Angelo to Anchorage - Our first Alaska house, remarkable for its emerald green carpets and proximity to the school.
13. Anchorage to Eagle River - Second Alaska house. I loved this house, although there were things about it that were very odd (drop panel light fixture thingy in the kitchen that I never could work out what it was for). This was the house we brought Sophie the dog home to, the house where Child 2 broke its arm, the house where the kids for the first time had dozens of friends to play with, and it was safe enough that they could run around everywhere and I didn't worry. Unfortunately, the owner decided to sell which led to:
14 Eagle River to Eagle River - Final Alaska house. It brought Child 1 to within a block or two of its absolute soul-mate best friend. Also there was a balcony with a view of the Chugach mountains. I remember lying on the couch in dark of night, watching the aurora out the window and talking to Kirk on the phone from Italy where he was planning bombing targets in Kosovo.
15 Eagle River to Newport News, VA - Biggest and most impressive house we ever lived in. We never did get truly settled though. This was where Kirk slept no more than four hours a day sometimes, and we went on long mountain biking trips every weekend while he tried to forget about blast radii, bio-weapons, and terrorist targets.
16. Newport News to Moss Beach, CA - We lived in this house longer than we had lived anywhere else - a full three years. There are only two places that really have felt like home - Alaska, and California.
17. Moss Beach to New Mexico - The move we made when Kirk went missing. I do have a post about that running around in my head. Probably later this week.
18 - New Mexico to New Mexico - This move.
Looks like I can count after all. Eighteen moves. And we still don't feel like we're home. But we're together - and for now, that's home enough.
Friday, June 01, 2007
Alan Johnston - Video
A video of Alan Johnston has been released, the first since his capture, and can be seen on the BBC site here:
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/middle_east/6710863.stm
Of course there's no knowing how old the video is, but it's encouraging to see it. Hopefully this will help keep Alan's story in people's minds.
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/middle_east/6710863.stm
Of course there's no knowing how old the video is, but it's encouraging to see it. Hopefully this will help keep Alan's story in people's minds.
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