Punchy
As I am loopy with fatigue, this one had me hooting like a drunken owl. Credit goes to FrogBlog:
What did the Buddhist say to the hot dog vendor?
“Make me one with everything.”
8.11.2004
8.10.2004
Seer Badger
Somehow Badger knew that a fucked-up day was coming down the pipe.
Not enough that I am already so completely tapped out, mentally and physically, that I kept falling asleep during Leelo's team meeting.
Not enough that the cat peed all over the bed. (See below)
Not enough that Leelo is snorfly-sick and had a unprecedented complete meltdown this morning, necessitating much mommy-only soothing and cooing and watching of Dorka the Explorker before he'd agree to resume his sessions.
No, the powers that be decided that in order to make this day really special, I needed an unannounced, overnight visit from my parents' friends and their motorhome. My parents' fundamentalist, we-have-been-saved-and-there's-hope-for-you-too, dinner-expecting friends.
A bit of backstory: These are the same people who are irked with my pilot brother for knocking up and then cohabitating with yet not marrying their granddaughter. The same people who I guess have never heard of consensual sex.
I so want a stiff drink.
Somehow Badger knew that a fucked-up day was coming down the pipe.
Not enough that I am already so completely tapped out, mentally and physically, that I kept falling asleep during Leelo's team meeting.
Not enough that the cat peed all over the bed. (See below)
Not enough that Leelo is snorfly-sick and had a unprecedented complete meltdown this morning, necessitating much mommy-only soothing and cooing and watching of Dorka the Explorker before he'd agree to resume his sessions.
No, the powers that be decided that in order to make this day really special, I needed an unannounced, overnight visit from my parents' friends and their motorhome. My parents' fundamentalist, we-have-been-saved-and-there's-hope-for-you-too, dinner-expecting friends.
A bit of backstory: These are the same people who are irked with my pilot brother for knocking up and then cohabitating with yet not marrying their granddaughter. The same people who I guess have never heard of consensual sex.
I so want a stiff drink.
FREE CAT TO GOOD HOME
Well, not really. I am thinking more along the lines of putting Scabby in a box and leaving her on someone's doorstep.
Something is going on with that cat. I am not sure what, but after dispatching the futon she has taken it upon herself to now piss all over my bed, too. The door was in no way closed, and there haven't been any major upheavals in the household of late (kids over, furniture moved into a different place, etc.).
I don't have the time or energy to elaborate on why she is far more work than a cat should ever be. And this from me, who wants to drag home every cat I ever meet and has sat up with Scabby all night many a times trying to figure out what's behind the piteous meowing.
I love her but she is the most neurotic fucking cat I have ever met, and her cute, snuggly, tribble-like qualities do not in any way compensate for nine years of this crap.
And, no, I'm not really going to do anything with her. But I was already having a crapworthy day.
Well, not really. I am thinking more along the lines of putting Scabby in a box and leaving her on someone's doorstep.
Something is going on with that cat. I am not sure what, but after dispatching the futon she has taken it upon herself to now piss all over my bed, too. The door was in no way closed, and there haven't been any major upheavals in the household of late (kids over, furniture moved into a different place, etc.).
I don't have the time or energy to elaborate on why she is far more work than a cat should ever be. And this from me, who wants to drag home every cat I ever meet and has sat up with Scabby all night many a times trying to figure out what's behind the piteous meowing.
I love her but she is the most neurotic fucking cat I have ever met, and her cute, snuggly, tribble-like qualities do not in any way compensate for nine years of this crap.
And, no, I'm not really going to do anything with her. But I was already having a crapworthy day.
No Problema
Iz's first day was fine. She got to sit next to Blue, who then introduced her to other friends. Since she's a volatile girl, her reports on the silly new chants she learned at recess and learning los dias de la semana were punctuated with passionate recriminations about not allowing her to start in kindergarten. She is pissed off at not being able to understand what people are saying to her.
I explained to her that she would have the same experience in kindergarten, as it also is complete immersion. I then reminded her about her grandfather's experience being dropped in the middle of English-only 6th grade with no assistance whatsoever, and his quickly learning everything so well he became a doctor. Even he said the first weeks of immersion sucked.
She seemed comforted. But she still got ice cream, many reassurances about her resilience and bravery, and one of the pink hydrangea plants she's been coveting ever since she discovered that her traitorous mother chose to make our hydrangeas blue instead of pink.
And that Spanish video we got at the library, the one she watched only under protest until yesterday? She has sweetly requested that I go renew it right away.
Iz's first day was fine. She got to sit next to Blue, who then introduced her to other friends. Since she's a volatile girl, her reports on the silly new chants she learned at recess and learning los dias de la semana were punctuated with passionate recriminations about not allowing her to start in kindergarten. She is pissed off at not being able to understand what people are saying to her.
I explained to her that she would have the same experience in kindergarten, as it also is complete immersion. I then reminded her about her grandfather's experience being dropped in the middle of English-only 6th grade with no assistance whatsoever, and his quickly learning everything so well he became a doctor. Even he said the first weeks of immersion sucked.
She seemed comforted. But she still got ice cream, many reassurances about her resilience and bravery, and one of the pink hydrangea plants she's been coveting ever since she discovered that her traitorous mother chose to make our hydrangeas blue instead of pink.
And that Spanish video we got at the library, the one she watched only under protest until yesterday? She has sweetly requested that I go renew it right away.
8.09.2004
Adiós, Mija...
A new era has begun. Our Iz is at this very moment sitting at a real desk, in a real school. I wonder how great a surprise public first grade will be to her, coming from the monastic calm and individualized attention of her MonteCristo preschool.
We arrived on time, and she lined up with all the other kids. I was worried about her shortness, about her looking obviously out of place, but she blended in, height-wise. She shrank back a bit from all the noise and chaos rumbling around her, hanging on to my hand while looking shyly about for familiar faces. (Unfortunately the two children she knows were late, and didn't arrive until after she was inside.)
The teacher (maestra) arrived spot on time to herd the kids into the classroom. And there the real shock hit our girl square in the stomach and was evident on her face: class policy is to speak only en Español.
Iz didn't quite understand that knowing los colores, los números, mucho vocabulario, and having an opinion as to whether or not Ch and LL should have been deleted from the official alfabeto does not actually mean she can speak or understand Spanish. She finally realized that she is rudderless in the classroom, language-wise. The only benefit I can imagine for the first few weeks is that she won't be able to talk (back) so much, because she won't know how.
I hope she doesn't end up crying. She can be tough, but she's also only five years old. I hope the other students, including her friend Blue, will be kind enough to help her out. It's a six-hour day, with completely new routines and an assumption of independent functioning on the kids' parts. Difficult enough if you're the only new student in the class, but doubly taxing in a foreign language. She will definitely have earned some nice comforting ice cream or McFuckwad's, this afternoon.
I left her in the classroom (*sob*) and walked back out to the playground, where I found Blue's mom and a circle of her friends chatting. Blue's mom is a glamorous, gregarious Kiwi, and lost no time in telling all the other parents how Iz skipped a grade and in her opinion is totally brilliant and perfect and amazing. Shit. I had hoped to avoid Iz's being outed; while most people are cool, parents can be grimly competitive, and I like lying low.
I got four nods and smiles, and then they started chatting away about signing up volunteers for the book fair. Whew. I had no chance (or inclination, really) to tell them the real story, which is that our girl skipped nothing, and instead finished kindergarten early. Oh well.
Perhaps her age won't be an issue. But even the maestra, when we came to visit on Friday, commented that "ella es una poco joven." Perhaps, but I doubt that many of the other kindergardeners would want to listen to Iz's theories about bringing plants to Mars to convert the carbon dioxide in the atmosphere to usable oxygen--in either language. This is the best schooling solution we have for her, for now.
Three more hours. I hope she's doing okay.
A new era has begun. Our Iz is at this very moment sitting at a real desk, in a real school. I wonder how great a surprise public first grade will be to her, coming from the monastic calm and individualized attention of her MonteCristo preschool.
We arrived on time, and she lined up with all the other kids. I was worried about her shortness, about her looking obviously out of place, but she blended in, height-wise. She shrank back a bit from all the noise and chaos rumbling around her, hanging on to my hand while looking shyly about for familiar faces. (Unfortunately the two children she knows were late, and didn't arrive until after she was inside.)
The teacher (maestra) arrived spot on time to herd the kids into the classroom. And there the real shock hit our girl square in the stomach and was evident on her face: class policy is to speak only en Español.
Iz didn't quite understand that knowing los colores, los números, mucho vocabulario, and having an opinion as to whether or not Ch and LL should have been deleted from the official alfabeto does not actually mean she can speak or understand Spanish. She finally realized that she is rudderless in the classroom, language-wise. The only benefit I can imagine for the first few weeks is that she won't be able to talk (back) so much, because she won't know how.
I hope she doesn't end up crying. She can be tough, but she's also only five years old. I hope the other students, including her friend Blue, will be kind enough to help her out. It's a six-hour day, with completely new routines and an assumption of independent functioning on the kids' parts. Difficult enough if you're the only new student in the class, but doubly taxing in a foreign language. She will definitely have earned some nice comforting ice cream or McFuckwad's, this afternoon.
I left her in the classroom (*sob*) and walked back out to the playground, where I found Blue's mom and a circle of her friends chatting. Blue's mom is a glamorous, gregarious Kiwi, and lost no time in telling all the other parents how Iz skipped a grade and in her opinion is totally brilliant and perfect and amazing. Shit. I had hoped to avoid Iz's being outed; while most people are cool, parents can be grimly competitive, and I like lying low.
I got four nods and smiles, and then they started chatting away about signing up volunteers for the book fair. Whew. I had no chance (or inclination, really) to tell them the real story, which is that our girl skipped nothing, and instead finished kindergarten early. Oh well.
Perhaps her age won't be an issue. But even the maestra, when we came to visit on Friday, commented that "ella es una poco joven." Perhaps, but I doubt that many of the other kindergardeners would want to listen to Iz's theories about bringing plants to Mars to convert the carbon dioxide in the atmosphere to usable oxygen--in either language. This is the best schooling solution we have for her, for now.
Three more hours. I hope she's doing okay.
8.08.2004
8.06.2004
Back
Very tired. And in case you're looking for candidates for this year's Complete Fucking Idiot awards, I nominate myself for wearing brand new shoes during a whirlwind travel and event day. My feet look and feel like someone took a birch switch to them. Stupid! Stupid! One of the dangers of a shopping style that prohibits spending more than five minutes in any given store. "Yes, those look fine. Please ring them up. No, I don't need to try them on."
Yesterday was a big whirl. Seymour and I got an ironical kick out of getting to spend our ninth wedding anniversary together, sans kiddies. (After he reminded me that it was our anniversary, that is. I did write "whirl.") We also greatly enjoyed skipping from airport point to point like happy little child- and luggage-free butterflies.
The service was lovely, and just what Seymour's grandmother wanted. Everyone behaved themselves. We could almost feel her there, nodding and approving, telling people to adjust things just so. She will be missed.
After the service was a reception, also lovely. With tons of sushi, shellfish, salmon, caviar, and an open bar. I know it is a privilege to be pregnant, but I still drowned my bitterness in a series of Shirley Temples.
Then one of the attendees invited us to hang out on his boat. His 150-foot boat. Damn! All I will write here is that I am glad the boat makes its owners so deliriously happy. It was fun to hang out on the prow with my cocktail glass full of grenadine and soda, and field questions from looky-loos.
"Is that your boat?"
*snicker* "Yes."
"How much did it cost?"
"I would have to be a lot more drunk to ask that question."
etc.
While we were in the alternate universe of yachthood, My gorgeous, darling sister-in-law Bree cornered me and started asking about baby names. I forgot that I'd told her some of my favorites after Leelo was born, since, y'know, we weren't intending to use them.
She asked me point-blank about our girl's name, and told me that there were four little girls with that name in her daughter Leigh's class. I think I kept a straight face in telling her that I shy away from popular names, but I'm sure she read much into my non-answer. But as she also told me that the four girls were British, a quick SS name check for last year puts the name at 400+ in popularity, and I have dreamed about using this name since I was eight, I will hold true. Unless it's a boy.
Another whirly plane and then taxi ride, and we returned to a home with peacefully sleeping kiddies--and an office where Scabby the cat decided to protest our absence by peeing all over the futon. GAAAAAAAH. Does anyone know if this futon can be saved?
Very tired. And in case you're looking for candidates for this year's Complete Fucking Idiot awards, I nominate myself for wearing brand new shoes during a whirlwind travel and event day. My feet look and feel like someone took a birch switch to them. Stupid! Stupid! One of the dangers of a shopping style that prohibits spending more than five minutes in any given store. "Yes, those look fine. Please ring them up. No, I don't need to try them on."
Yesterday was a big whirl. Seymour and I got an ironical kick out of getting to spend our ninth wedding anniversary together, sans kiddies. (After he reminded me that it was our anniversary, that is. I did write "whirl.") We also greatly enjoyed skipping from airport point to point like happy little child- and luggage-free butterflies.
The service was lovely, and just what Seymour's grandmother wanted. Everyone behaved themselves. We could almost feel her there, nodding and approving, telling people to adjust things just so. She will be missed.
After the service was a reception, also lovely. With tons of sushi, shellfish, salmon, caviar, and an open bar. I know it is a privilege to be pregnant, but I still drowned my bitterness in a series of Shirley Temples.
Then one of the attendees invited us to hang out on his boat. His 150-foot boat. Damn! All I will write here is that I am glad the boat makes its owners so deliriously happy. It was fun to hang out on the prow with my cocktail glass full of grenadine and soda, and field questions from looky-loos.
"Is that your boat?"
*snicker* "Yes."
"How much did it cost?"
"I would have to be a lot more drunk to ask that question."
etc.
While we were in the alternate universe of yachthood, My gorgeous, darling sister-in-law Bree cornered me and started asking about baby names. I forgot that I'd told her some of my favorites after Leelo was born, since, y'know, we weren't intending to use them.
She asked me point-blank about our girl's name, and told me that there were four little girls with that name in her daughter Leigh's class. I think I kept a straight face in telling her that I shy away from popular names, but I'm sure she read much into my non-answer. But as she also told me that the four girls were British, a quick SS name check for last year puts the name at 400+ in popularity, and I have dreamed about using this name since I was eight, I will hold true. Unless it's a boy.
Another whirly plane and then taxi ride, and we returned to a home with peacefully sleeping kiddies--and an office where Scabby the cat decided to protest our absence by peeing all over the futon. GAAAAAAAH. Does anyone know if this futon can be saved?
8.04.2004
Off
To Orange County. Just for the day. For a memorial service.
It will take place in the part of Orange County that lives up to the stereotypes codified by Reagan politics, and the eponymous movie and TV series.
It will not take place in the part of Orange County where I grew up, which is an ugly fucking grid, and is the birth place of agro/goof bands like Agent Orange, The Vandals, The Offspring, and The Aquabats.
The Northern O.C. spirit that I love so much, and which has not a farking thing to do with the carefully planned, conservative shopping mall that is Southern O.C., is summed up well in this most romantic of all songs, Skateboard! by The Aquabats:
Nostalgic sigh.
Back some time in the wee hours.
To Orange County. Just for the day. For a memorial service.
It will take place in the part of Orange County that lives up to the stereotypes codified by Reagan politics, and the eponymous movie and TV series.
It will not take place in the part of Orange County where I grew up, which is an ugly fucking grid, and is the birth place of agro/goof bands like Agent Orange, The Vandals, The Offspring, and The Aquabats.
The Northern O.C. spirit that I love so much, and which has not a farking thing to do with the carefully planned, conservative shopping mall that is Southern O.C., is summed up well in this most romantic of all songs, Skateboard! by The Aquabats:
I just wanted you to come over
Sit on the couch and hold me tight
But you went out with some dumb jock
And left me alone with my skateboard tonight
Nostalgic sigh.
Back some time in the wee hours.
8.03.2004
Baby. Healthy. Modest.
Ah, yes. The results of the level II ultrasound. Sorry, the Pat drama was distracting. Dear darling Clyde came over and got him out yesterday. I don't know where Ep found her partner, but he is a gem. And he was willing to work for Smarties (the Canadian M&M kind) and Seymour's hand-me-down first generation Treo.
Ultrasound. Try as they might (and they tried jiggling the baby quite a few times, to my great surprise), they could not get our modest little thirdling to uncross his or her legs. The only thing they would commit to is that they couldn't find a penis, but that doesn't mean it wasn't tucked down safely out of view.
The baby seems mightily healthy. The technicians and doctor spent a good 30 minutes ultrasounding, and didn't see anything off. I know this because they said they would tell me if there were any anomalies. I'm assuming they're litigation-savvy enough not to lie to patients.
Iz was fascinated by the baby's face, mouth, hands, feet, skull, ribs, spine, beating heart, etc. She said, "Is the baby head down yet?" and the technician assured her it was. No breech birth for me, whew! Another big whew: the placenta is nice and posterior, instead of previa (covering the cervix) like it was initially.
Because I will be 35 for all of 6 weeks by the baby's due date, they asked me if I wanted to see a genetic counselor. I declined. They kind of shit I'm worried about wouldn't show up, anyhow.
As for boyness and girlness, the rest of you will find out when I do.
Ah, yes. The results of the level II ultrasound. Sorry, the Pat drama was distracting. Dear darling Clyde came over and got him out yesterday. I don't know where Ep found her partner, but he is a gem. And he was willing to work for Smarties (the Canadian M&M kind) and Seymour's hand-me-down first generation Treo.
Ultrasound. Try as they might (and they tried jiggling the baby quite a few times, to my great surprise), they could not get our modest little thirdling to uncross his or her legs. The only thing they would commit to is that they couldn't find a penis, but that doesn't mean it wasn't tucked down safely out of view.
The baby seems mightily healthy. The technicians and doctor spent a good 30 minutes ultrasounding, and didn't see anything off. I know this because they said they would tell me if there were any anomalies. I'm assuming they're litigation-savvy enough not to lie to patients.
Iz was fascinated by the baby's face, mouth, hands, feet, skull, ribs, spine, beating heart, etc. She said, "Is the baby head down yet?" and the technician assured her it was. No breech birth for me, whew! Another big whew: the placenta is nice and posterior, instead of previa (covering the cervix) like it was initially.
Because I will be 35 for all of 6 weeks by the baby's due date, they asked me if I wanted to see a genetic counselor. I declined. They kind of shit I'm worried about wouldn't show up, anyhow.
As for boyness and girlness, the rest of you will find out when I do.
Pat in a Tree! How Can That Be?
Pat the cat somehow got himself treed. He's been up there since yesterday afternoon. I've no idea how this happened. I figured he'd be down by now, and so was entirely uninvolved while Ep and Jo took turns trying to croon and coax him out of his nest. They are such suckers for his cuteness, whereas I have achieved partial immunity over the past ten years.
Pat's been treed once before, when a friend's 'friendly' dog decided chasing cats was more important than listening to his owner. Our blue-eyed rascal was up there for more than three days, until a friend loaned me his electrician's 30 ft. ladder, my very strong neighbor came over and helped set it up and held it while I climbed to the ladder's top, and I plucked poor dehydrated, stinky Pat from the last branch I could have possibly reached.
I can't do that this time, obviously. Plus, this is a different trees, with a deck on one side, and a ten-foot drop off to the yard on the other. Yikes.
We give Pat a lot of grief over being cute yet not-so-bright. I think the real problem is his eyesight--he has a wandering eye, and I'm guessing this means he has no depth perception. No wonder he's scared to climb down a nearly vertical, limbless tree. I'll give him another few hours, and will then start formulating plans.
And, no, the local fire fighters will not come get him, because of liability. Bad things would happen if they arrived at a fire too late, just because of someone's pussy.
Pat the cat somehow got himself treed. He's been up there since yesterday afternoon. I've no idea how this happened. I figured he'd be down by now, and so was entirely uninvolved while Ep and Jo took turns trying to croon and coax him out of his nest. They are such suckers for his cuteness, whereas I have achieved partial immunity over the past ten years.
Pat's been treed once before, when a friend's 'friendly' dog decided chasing cats was more important than listening to his owner. Our blue-eyed rascal was up there for more than three days, until a friend loaned me his electrician's 30 ft. ladder, my very strong neighbor came over and helped set it up and held it while I climbed to the ladder's top, and I plucked poor dehydrated, stinky Pat from the last branch I could have possibly reached.
I can't do that this time, obviously. Plus, this is a different trees, with a deck on one side, and a ten-foot drop off to the yard on the other. Yikes.
We give Pat a lot of grief over being cute yet not-so-bright. I think the real problem is his eyesight--he has a wandering eye, and I'm guessing this means he has no depth perception. No wonder he's scared to climb down a nearly vertical, limbless tree. I'll give him another few hours, and will then start formulating plans.
And, no, the local fire fighters will not come get him, because of liability. Bad things would happen if they arrived at a fire too late, just because of someone's pussy.
8.02.2004
Ultrasounding
The level II ultrasound is this afternoon. My heart just skipped a beat on writing that. I am nervous yet giddy, as I've never seen one of these high-res dealies. Toes! Fingers! Let's hope!
Iz is going with me, as it'll be fascinating for her, and I think I can trust the doctor to keep a straight face and voice if there are any irregularities.
Until then, I am trying to catch up with my real life, and so will respond to the comments for which I am ever so grateful this evening.
The level II ultrasound is this afternoon. My heart just skipped a beat on writing that. I am nervous yet giddy, as I've never seen one of these high-res dealies. Toes! Fingers! Let's hope!
Iz is going with me, as it'll be fascinating for her, and I think I can trust the doctor to keep a straight face and voice if there are any irregularities.
Until then, I am trying to catch up with my real life, and so will respond to the comments for which I am ever so grateful this evening.
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