After over 20 years of marriage, my husband still dumbfounds me.
We're joining a group of friends for dinner tomorrow. We're bringing homemade pizza. Translation: Keith is making pizza. We both went to the grocery store after work today without notifying the other; hence, we have a surfeit of red and green peppers and asparagus. So it will be a peppers and asparagus pizza. We also have an over-abundance of bananas, but one draws the line. Or so I thought.
Til Keith came out and announced that he's doing a peppers and asparagus and potato pizza, so what kind of cheese did I recommend?
Um. Excuse me. Potato? On pizza?
Yes, yes, trust me, it will be fine, so what cheese, says he.
Potato? On pizza?
I have no recommendation for the cheese. I can't get beyond the potato. Marriage. Always an adventure. Even with potatos.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Outa control
You know, it's bad enough that I can't control my pee, but at least it just drips out, a drop here, a dribble there. In contrast, my verbal peeing constitutes a torrent; my words, once firmly restrained, now gush forth like a creek after the first real thaw, bursting past dams and over levees, pouring foul-smelling water into basements, engulfing innocent passers-by.
Take the other night: Hugh was on the phone to his on-again, off-again girlfriend. Think of a strobe light, a disco ball. That's Hugh's relationship with this girl. Onoffonoffonoffonoff. Sometime Sorta Girlfriend finds Hugh's large number of "girls who are friends" very upsetting. Sometime Sorta Girlfriend thinks Hugh should hang out with only one girl. Ever.
A few nights ago, then, Hugh and SSG were talking on the phone. (For reasons I've never been able to discern, Hugh bellows when he's on the phone. In other words, I was not trying to listen. It was impossible not to listen.) They were arguing. Hugh had gone to the movies the night before with two girls from his church youth group, girls he's known since he was a baby, girls who fill the roles of cousins/sisters in his life. Now I'll admit, I find SSG hard to take and I'm revolted by her "I should be the only double X chromosome in your life" stance.
But what sent me over the edge was overhearing Hugh cajoling, wheedling, even pleading. My confident, assertive, beautiful boy, reduced to sniveling. Plus I was on Hour 56 of the Headache From Hell, and I was tired, and my damned old-lady foot hurt. So, really, is it all that surprising that as I walked past yet one more time and heard yet one more round of this awful, endless phone conversation, that I thought to myself, "Oh, geez, just tell her to fuck off, would ya?" Except I didn't just think it. I said it. Um, well, actually, I pretty much shouted it. Hugh just stared at me, then muttered into the phone, "I'll call you right back," and ran upstairs. I went into our bedroom, shut the door, lay on the bed, and said to Keith, "Really Bad Parenting Moment."
The next afternoon, Hugh came into my home office. "You know last night, when you told me to tell SSG to fuck off?" "Oh, Hugh, honey, I really--" But before I could launch my apology, he continued, "I told all my friends at lunch today. They said, 'Dude! Your mom is awesome!'" And he grinned at me.
Shit. Now what?
Saturday, March 26, 2011
And here's to you. . .
In earlier posts I've likened menopausal women to toddlers and to teenagers. And to my dog. But lately I'm feeling more like Benjamin Braddock in the early scenes of The Graduate. (As opposed to the later scenes with Mrs. Robinson. I am not looking for my own young Benjamin. Nor my own older Mr. Robinson. Just to be clear.) You know, the scenes where he's floating in the pool, or sitting underwater in his scuba diving equipment. The aimlessness. The detachment. The lassitude. The disengagement.
I keep waiting for someone to stick their face in front of me and whisper, "Plastics!"
I keep waiting for someone to stick their face in front of me and whisper, "Plastics!"
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
So it's my fault?
So my husband just said to my son, "You're acting like a real son of a bitch."
Hey, umm, hey, wait a sec. . .
Hey, umm, hey, wait a sec. . .
Monday, March 21, 2011
Bad Hair Day
How much does hair grow in one night? I mean, really?
It's Sunday. You have normal hair. Even attractive, if slightly funky with a tendency toward frizz, hair. You're happy. You have a satisfying career and a charmingly insoucient adolescent son. Life is good.
It's Monday. Your hair has grown exponentially. Flips, waves, cowlicks, erratic curls, bizarre bumps, and random poofs now adorn your head. You face a bleak and pointless future. You wonder why you ever dared have children.
I'm friggin' 50 years old. I thought I'd be better than this by now.
And I will be. Tomorrow. After a haircut, color, and highlights.
It's Sunday. You have normal hair. Even attractive, if slightly funky with a tendency toward frizz, hair. You're happy. You have a satisfying career and a charmingly insoucient adolescent son. Life is good.
It's Monday. Your hair has grown exponentially. Flips, waves, cowlicks, erratic curls, bizarre bumps, and random poofs now adorn your head. You face a bleak and pointless future. You wonder why you ever dared have children.
I'm friggin' 50 years old. I thought I'd be better than this by now.
And I will be. Tomorrow. After a haircut, color, and highlights.
Friday, March 18, 2011
Supernanny
regret (verb) : 1)to feel sorrow or remorse for; 2) to think of with a sense of loss.
I'm watching Supernanny. I love Jo the Supernanny. Tonight she's dealing with a poor, lost, clueless young Houston widower and his three out-of-control little boys. (All with shaven heads; they look like concentration camp kids.) One hour. Total transformation; complete healing. Screaming, biting, hitting, kicking, emotionally autistic, junk-food addicted, horrid hellions transfigured into banana-bread-baking, mom-remembering, veggie-adoring, well-disciplined little troopers.
OK. A bit unrealistic. Yet, watching Jo, she does make sense. You can see the hows and whys and what ifs.
Damn. If I'd only had had a supernanny. I didn't feel the need, actually, with Owen. I could read and he conformed to the baby books. You stuck Owen in timeout; he jumped out; you put him back; he got it: "Oh,right, here I stay." You gave him a reward chart with stickers; he thought, 'ooh stickers! nifty-keen!'; he performed accordingly. But then came Hugh. You stuck Hugh in timeout; he jumped out; you put him back; he jumped out; you put him back; he jumped out; you put him back; he jumped out; you put him back; he jumped out; you put him back; and on and on and on until you're screaming and you realize you're about to throw Hugh out the window. You gave Hugh a reward chart with stickers; he thought, 'who gives a shit about stickers?' and careened on to his next act of destruction. So, given the data at hand, I concluded, umm, ok, timeouts and reward charts don't work with this kid. Umm, now what?
And then, years later, I watched Jo the supernanny cheer a mom on through four hours--four hours--of firmly but gently placing a toddler back in timeout. If only I'd had someone like Supernanny saying yes, yes, you're doing it right, it's ok, you can do this, yep, this is it, this is what moms do. I watched that episode with Hugh, Hugh, who kept saying, "Gosh, a kid like that would drive me nuts."
I could do it better now. Really. I'd be really good at it now.
I'm watching Supernanny. I love Jo the Supernanny. Tonight she's dealing with a poor, lost, clueless young Houston widower and his three out-of-control little boys. (All with shaven heads; they look like concentration camp kids.) One hour. Total transformation; complete healing. Screaming, biting, hitting, kicking, emotionally autistic, junk-food addicted, horrid hellions transfigured into banana-bread-baking, mom-remembering, veggie-adoring, well-disciplined little troopers.
OK. A bit unrealistic. Yet, watching Jo, she does make sense. You can see the hows and whys and what ifs.
Damn. If I'd only had had a supernanny. I didn't feel the need, actually, with Owen. I could read and he conformed to the baby books. You stuck Owen in timeout; he jumped out; you put him back; he got it: "Oh,right, here I stay." You gave him a reward chart with stickers; he thought, 'ooh stickers! nifty-keen!'; he performed accordingly. But then came Hugh. You stuck Hugh in timeout; he jumped out; you put him back; he jumped out; you put him back; he jumped out; you put him back; he jumped out; you put him back; he jumped out; you put him back; and on and on and on until you're screaming and you realize you're about to throw Hugh out the window. You gave Hugh a reward chart with stickers; he thought, 'who gives a shit about stickers?' and careened on to his next act of destruction. So, given the data at hand, I concluded, umm, ok, timeouts and reward charts don't work with this kid. Umm, now what?
And then, years later, I watched Jo the supernanny cheer a mom on through four hours--four hours--of firmly but gently placing a toddler back in timeout. If only I'd had someone like Supernanny saying yes, yes, you're doing it right, it's ok, you can do this, yep, this is it, this is what moms do. I watched that episode with Hugh, Hugh, who kept saying, "Gosh, a kid like that would drive me nuts."
I could do it better now. Really. I'd be really good at it now.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Have mercy on me, a sinner.
Goddammit. Bloody hell. Bugger all.
In the past few weeks I've signed contracts to write two books. Let me be clear: I want to write these books. One might actually be read by ordinary folks and even make me a wee bit of money: It's about Margaret Thatcher; I mean, who's not interested in Margaret Thatcher, total she-devil and anti-feminist persona?
The problem with signing book contracts is that then you actually have to write the damn book(s).
Which means: one must not lose entire work days because one has a headache. Even if it's a nonstop motherfucking killer I'm gonna die headache.
Sooooo, what does one do, when one loses several entire work days because one has said nonstop etc. headache?
One gets depressed. One gets tired and cranky and bitchy. And one feels really really sorry for one's self.
Except:
Ordinary men and women and (God help us all) children are fighting for their freedom and their lives in Libya. And oh dear God, those beautiful Bahrainis are being mowed down by Saudi troops. And Jesus Jesus Jesus, entire cities destroyed and hundreds of thousands on the move and a nuclear holocaust impending. . . and one's heart and one's soul and one's spirit reaches across continents and oceans to Japan. . . . and I bet not a one of those Libyans or Bahrainis or Japanese cares about their literary legacy or their professional careers right now. I bet "Damn, my head hurts" is not a phrase of much meaning out there, on the edge of cosmic significance, right at this moment.
And yet, there's the Lucipherian ego, the Satanic self, the demonic part of me that screams, "Excuuuuse me!!!! I'm having a rough time here! My head really hurts! I don't wanna think about you people." And I feel so guilty for such horrible, self-obsessed, oh-so-trivial thoughts, and then, in the ultimate confirmation of Original Sin, I find myself utterly absolutely furious at the Libyans and the Bahrainis and the Japanese for making me feel so goddamned guilty. . . .
Jesus Christ. Oh dear God.
Have mercy.
In the past few weeks I've signed contracts to write two books. Let me be clear: I want to write these books. One might actually be read by ordinary folks and even make me a wee bit of money: It's about Margaret Thatcher; I mean, who's not interested in Margaret Thatcher, total she-devil and anti-feminist persona?
The problem with signing book contracts is that then you actually have to write the damn book(s).
Which means: one must not lose entire work days because one has a headache. Even if it's a nonstop motherfucking killer I'm gonna die headache.
Sooooo, what does one do, when one loses several entire work days because one has said nonstop etc. headache?
One gets depressed. One gets tired and cranky and bitchy. And one feels really really sorry for one's self.
Except:
Ordinary men and women and (God help us all) children are fighting for their freedom and their lives in Libya. And oh dear God, those beautiful Bahrainis are being mowed down by Saudi troops. And Jesus Jesus Jesus, entire cities destroyed and hundreds of thousands on the move and a nuclear holocaust impending. . . and one's heart and one's soul and one's spirit reaches across continents and oceans to Japan. . . . and I bet not a one of those Libyans or Bahrainis or Japanese cares about their literary legacy or their professional careers right now. I bet "Damn, my head hurts" is not a phrase of much meaning out there, on the edge of cosmic significance, right at this moment.
And yet, there's the Lucipherian ego, the Satanic self, the demonic part of me that screams, "Excuuuuse me!!!! I'm having a rough time here! My head really hurts! I don't wanna think about you people." And I feel so guilty for such horrible, self-obsessed, oh-so-trivial thoughts, and then, in the ultimate confirmation of Original Sin, I find myself utterly absolutely furious at the Libyans and the Bahrainis and the Japanese for making me feel so goddamned guilty. . . .
Jesus Christ. Oh dear God.
Have mercy.
Friday, March 11, 2011
Sabbath
When I remember, I tune into WGN at 9:00 pm. The wonders of cable tv: I sit in my south Louisiana living room and watch the local Chicago news. It tickles me every time. (I'm a simple soul, obviously.)
This past Wednesday, Keith was on the couch as well, so we both had a good chuckle when one of Chicagoland's ace reporters told us that because Easter is late this year, Lent is longer than usual: 46 rather than 40 days. Ummm. If Easter is late, so is Ash Wednesday and there are always 46 days between: 40 days of Lenten observance and the six Sundays which are Feast Days, and therefore not part of Lent. But you knew that already.
Sundays are Feast Days.
Gosh. Not quite the way I was raised. Certainly the Christian Reformed Church regarded Sundays as special but its interpretation and enforcement of that specialness translated not into festivity but rather into tedium: two lengthy somber church services (no children's sermons or any such levity), compulsory afternoon naps (required for everyone, adult and child; we took "Day of Rest" literally), and a variety of bizarre prohibitions. These prohibitions varied by family. My family was on the liberal end--unlike many in our church, we could watch tv and do homework on Sundays. But the list of what we could not do was still lengthy. Most importantly, we could not earn money (I still remember the face of the "Hickory Farms" manager at the mall when she asked my 15-year-old self if I could work on Sunday in an emergency and I replied, in utter and absolute sincerity, "Well, yes, but I couldn't accept payment for it."). But we could also not spend money (no shopping, no movie-going, no dining out), do housework or laundry or yardwork (not a much resented prohibition, actually), or join in any neighborhood activities (definitely no Little League or any kind of organized sports). More confusingly, we could not play catch or ride bikes or jump rope but it was ok to play inside with paper dolls or stuffed animals or board games or even consumerist secular fashion-obsessed Barbie and Ken. In other families, the prohibitions were similarly odd: one friend could not use scissors.
Things got really bizarre, however, during summer vacations. There we'd be, at the cottage--no air conditioning, sweltering heat, the lake glistening before us. But swimming on Sunday was forbidden. Unless, that is, the temperatures rose above 90 degrees. Then we could swim; evidently heat wiped out the sin. So we'd cluster, sweaty and forlorn, around the outside thermometer, desperately willing the mercury to climb. My friend Cindy had a different Sunday swimming rule. No matter what the temperature, they could swim out to the floating deck and lie down there. But no splashing or jumping or overt enjoyment. Just, you know, sober reverent holy swimming.
Slowly, gradually, the prohibitions lifted. My mom began buying the Sunday paper at the White Hen Pantry (but not from the White Hen just down the block from the church, in case a church member saw her). We stopped going to the cottage and started taking hotel vacations that required us to use restaurants on Sundays. I went off to college and--even tho' it was Calvin College, where the library was closed on Sundays and where we all got up and went to church, even without our parents' presence, and then went back to the dorms and took naps--we quickly grew used to Sunday laundry stints and pancake suppers out at the IHOP. By the time I graduated, even my grandmother was ok with buying a nice dinner out at a nice restaurant after church. God seemed ok with it too.
But, you know, it's a slippery slope. We're a church-going family, but the rest of Sunday is just like the rest of the week: hectic, disheveled, crammed with the detritus of daily living. No rest, nothing special, nothing sacred.
Still no Feast.
This past Wednesday, Keith was on the couch as well, so we both had a good chuckle when one of Chicagoland's ace reporters told us that because Easter is late this year, Lent is longer than usual: 46 rather than 40 days. Ummm. If Easter is late, so is Ash Wednesday and there are always 46 days between: 40 days of Lenten observance and the six Sundays which are Feast Days, and therefore not part of Lent. But you knew that already.
Sundays are Feast Days.
Gosh. Not quite the way I was raised. Certainly the Christian Reformed Church regarded Sundays as special but its interpretation and enforcement of that specialness translated not into festivity but rather into tedium: two lengthy somber church services (no children's sermons or any such levity), compulsory afternoon naps (required for everyone, adult and child; we took "Day of Rest" literally), and a variety of bizarre prohibitions. These prohibitions varied by family. My family was on the liberal end--unlike many in our church, we could watch tv and do homework on Sundays. But the list of what we could not do was still lengthy. Most importantly, we could not earn money (I still remember the face of the "Hickory Farms" manager at the mall when she asked my 15-year-old self if I could work on Sunday in an emergency and I replied, in utter and absolute sincerity, "Well, yes, but I couldn't accept payment for it."). But we could also not spend money (no shopping, no movie-going, no dining out), do housework or laundry or yardwork (not a much resented prohibition, actually), or join in any neighborhood activities (definitely no Little League or any kind of organized sports). More confusingly, we could not play catch or ride bikes or jump rope but it was ok to play inside with paper dolls or stuffed animals or board games or even consumerist secular fashion-obsessed Barbie and Ken. In other families, the prohibitions were similarly odd: one friend could not use scissors.
Things got really bizarre, however, during summer vacations. There we'd be, at the cottage--no air conditioning, sweltering heat, the lake glistening before us. But swimming on Sunday was forbidden. Unless, that is, the temperatures rose above 90 degrees. Then we could swim; evidently heat wiped out the sin. So we'd cluster, sweaty and forlorn, around the outside thermometer, desperately willing the mercury to climb. My friend Cindy had a different Sunday swimming rule. No matter what the temperature, they could swim out to the floating deck and lie down there. But no splashing or jumping or overt enjoyment. Just, you know, sober reverent holy swimming.
Slowly, gradually, the prohibitions lifted. My mom began buying the Sunday paper at the White Hen Pantry (but not from the White Hen just down the block from the church, in case a church member saw her). We stopped going to the cottage and started taking hotel vacations that required us to use restaurants on Sundays. I went off to college and--even tho' it was Calvin College, where the library was closed on Sundays and where we all got up and went to church, even without our parents' presence, and then went back to the dorms and took naps--we quickly grew used to Sunday laundry stints and pancake suppers out at the IHOP. By the time I graduated, even my grandmother was ok with buying a nice dinner out at a nice restaurant after church. God seemed ok with it too.
But, you know, it's a slippery slope. We're a church-going family, but the rest of Sunday is just like the rest of the week: hectic, disheveled, crammed with the detritus of daily living. No rest, nothing special, nothing sacred.
Still no Feast.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
The Horrible Truth
So I'm watching the Rahm Emanuel Twitter impersonator on Colbert. And now I know what I've suspected for quite some time: My life is worthless. I have never and will never live up to my potential. I will never be a clever fake Twitter person. And really, then, what's the point of going on?
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Thanksgiving II
More Things for Which I Am Thankful:
1. Lipstick. I never used to wear lipstick. Even back in my make-up days, when I actually wore liquid foundation every day (I was young; I was foolish; I had time to waste and hope to squander), I did not wear lipstick. The occasional lip gloss, frequent applications of Chapstick, yes, but none of that old lady stick stuff. So, now I'm an almost-old lady. And I thank the Lord for lipstick. I've never seen this discussed in any scientific study or woman's magazine, but lips fade with age, don't they? I mean, I'm quite sure my lips had color when I was young. Now it's like I'm a color photo but my lips are in black and white. Lipstick makes life more livable. Thank you, unknown lipstick inventor.
2. My VW Beetle. I'm not a car person. My first car was a basic 2-door Toyota Tercel. Manual transmission. Manual door locks. Manual windows. Not even any carpet. It went from 0 to 70 in about 15 minutes. And it was fine. But now I have my Beetle. It's cute. It accessorizes well. I fit in it. It's actually spunky and funky. And it has a cd player so I can get my regular injections of Springsteen without any effort. I might not be a car person but I'm a this-car-person. Thank you Volkswagen.
3. HRT. Chances of cancer and heart disease aside, this is great stuff. Thanks, Big Pharma. . . not that you deserve those obscene profits. Just sayin'.
1. Lipstick. I never used to wear lipstick. Even back in my make-up days, when I actually wore liquid foundation every day (I was young; I was foolish; I had time to waste and hope to squander), I did not wear lipstick. The occasional lip gloss, frequent applications of Chapstick, yes, but none of that old lady stick stuff. So, now I'm an almost-old lady. And I thank the Lord for lipstick. I've never seen this discussed in any scientific study or woman's magazine, but lips fade with age, don't they? I mean, I'm quite sure my lips had color when I was young. Now it's like I'm a color photo but my lips are in black and white. Lipstick makes life more livable. Thank you, unknown lipstick inventor.
2. My VW Beetle. I'm not a car person. My first car was a basic 2-door Toyota Tercel. Manual transmission. Manual door locks. Manual windows. Not even any carpet. It went from 0 to 70 in about 15 minutes. And it was fine. But now I have my Beetle. It's cute. It accessorizes well. I fit in it. It's actually spunky and funky. And it has a cd player so I can get my regular injections of Springsteen without any effort. I might not be a car person but I'm a this-car-person. Thank you Volkswagen.
3. HRT. Chances of cancer and heart disease aside, this is great stuff. Thanks, Big Pharma. . . not that you deserve those obscene profits. Just sayin'.
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Thanksgiving
After all the whining, moaning, and bitching in my last post, I figure I'd better focus this one on something more positive. You wouldn't know it, but I genuinely am trying to cultivate an outlook of gratitude. No really, honestly. So here's proof: a list of Five Things For Which I Am Thankful:
1. Wimsey the Normal Kitty. She pees and poos in her litter box, and that's a fine and wondrous thing. (I'm scarred by the Peeing Kitty.) And she doesn't suddenly up and bite the nice neighbor lady, as Rowan the Neurotic Dog did just this afternoon, hence raising the specter of a huge lawsuit leading to the loss of our house and all our worldly possessions. Not that the nice neighbor lady is going to sue, she assures us she is not, but a pattern of erratic biting is emerging and sooner or later he's going to bite the wrong person and we'll end up in a trailer park having to hunt squirrel for supper. But I'm not going to talk about that. I'm being grateful and positive. Like Scarlett, "I'll think about that tomorrah." Meanwhile, I will appreciate my self-sufficient, supremely self-assured, angst-free kitty.
2. The fact that the Peeing Kitty has successfully made the transition from cossetted, clawless, indoor pet to vulnerable outdoor pet. I figured that without claws she'd be dead in a matter of days, but instead she's flourished, a poster cat for living life on the wild side. She is even beginning to look the part. Her long silky hair, designed for daily grooming and arrangement on a pillow, is shaping itself into dreadlocks: Reggae Kitty. Rastafarifeline. Marley-Miaow. (OK, I'll stop now.) I am grateful that she has lived this long because now when, as is inevitable, she is run over by a car or mauled by a stray dog, I'll feel less guilty. Life on the edge suits her. Some of us were just made for a short wild ride.
3. The iPhone. It has made Hugh happy. It's downright scary how happy he is with that thing. But he's happy. And happy Hugh means much less conflict in the household. Thank you, Apple people.
4. My Gap Body tee-shirt bras. Now, I hate bras. I hate the feel of a bra. I hate the damn straps that always drift down my upper arms and I despise that tight elastic around my chest. But several years ago I discovered Victoria's Secret simple cotton triangle bras. So light and comfy, with straps that stayed in place. And then VS stopped making my bra! Just like that! Without even thinking about my needs, absolutely no consideration whatsoever. After months of searching and much money squandered on various torture-inflicting boob-holders, then, I rejoice in the Gap Body no-wire tee-shirt bra. Not as effortlessly comfortable as the VS triangle, but close. . . and unlike the VS bra, this one contains enough fabric to hide the sight of an erect nipple. A good thing, actually, as I often do get excited when I teach--intellectually rather than sexually, mind you, but the nipple looks the same. And undergraduates are easily distracted. Gap, I am grateful--as, I am sure, are my students, who are no doubt nauseated by the thought of an aroused 50-year-old history professor.
5. My Dyson vacuum cleaner. It's difficult to admit, as I would very much like to be the sort of woman whose mood never depends on household appliances. . . but I am not that woman, not yet, so until I get there, thank you, Mr. Dyson. This vacuum cleaner rocks.
1. Wimsey the Normal Kitty. She pees and poos in her litter box, and that's a fine and wondrous thing. (I'm scarred by the Peeing Kitty.) And she doesn't suddenly up and bite the nice neighbor lady, as Rowan the Neurotic Dog did just this afternoon, hence raising the specter of a huge lawsuit leading to the loss of our house and all our worldly possessions. Not that the nice neighbor lady is going to sue, she assures us she is not, but a pattern of erratic biting is emerging and sooner or later he's going to bite the wrong person and we'll end up in a trailer park having to hunt squirrel for supper. But I'm not going to talk about that. I'm being grateful and positive. Like Scarlett, "I'll think about that tomorrah." Meanwhile, I will appreciate my self-sufficient, supremely self-assured, angst-free kitty.
2. The fact that the Peeing Kitty has successfully made the transition from cossetted, clawless, indoor pet to vulnerable outdoor pet. I figured that without claws she'd be dead in a matter of days, but instead she's flourished, a poster cat for living life on the wild side. She is even beginning to look the part. Her long silky hair, designed for daily grooming and arrangement on a pillow, is shaping itself into dreadlocks: Reggae Kitty. Rastafarifeline. Marley-Miaow. (OK, I'll stop now.) I am grateful that she has lived this long because now when, as is inevitable, she is run over by a car or mauled by a stray dog, I'll feel less guilty. Life on the edge suits her. Some of us were just made for a short wild ride.
3. The iPhone. It has made Hugh happy. It's downright scary how happy he is with that thing. But he's happy. And happy Hugh means much less conflict in the household. Thank you, Apple people.
4. My Gap Body tee-shirt bras. Now, I hate bras. I hate the feel of a bra. I hate the damn straps that always drift down my upper arms and I despise that tight elastic around my chest. But several years ago I discovered Victoria's Secret simple cotton triangle bras. So light and comfy, with straps that stayed in place. And then VS stopped making my bra! Just like that! Without even thinking about my needs, absolutely no consideration whatsoever. After months of searching and much money squandered on various torture-inflicting boob-holders, then, I rejoice in the Gap Body no-wire tee-shirt bra. Not as effortlessly comfortable as the VS triangle, but close. . . and unlike the VS bra, this one contains enough fabric to hide the sight of an erect nipple. A good thing, actually, as I often do get excited when I teach--intellectually rather than sexually, mind you, but the nipple looks the same. And undergraduates are easily distracted. Gap, I am grateful--as, I am sure, are my students, who are no doubt nauseated by the thought of an aroused 50-year-old history professor.
5. My Dyson vacuum cleaner. It's difficult to admit, as I would very much like to be the sort of woman whose mood never depends on household appliances. . . but I am not that woman, not yet, so until I get there, thank you, Mr. Dyson. This vacuum cleaner rocks.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
It's come to Crocs
I am now in physical therapy for my foot. Alert readers will remember that I had foot surgery back in December. A bone spur, basically a problem with the left big toe, no big deal.
Sigh. I suppose I really should have known better. But. Well. I didn't. I thought, you go in, you get the operation, you lie around for a bit, you limp around for a bit, and then all is well. Because that's the point, right? The surgery fixes the problem; it makes all things well.
But foot surgery, it turns out, is like kitchen renovation. It never turns out ok. Every day now I meet someone new who regales me with yet another story of Foot Surgery Gone Bad, a story that always involves many subsequent surgeries to correct the problems caused by the first surgery. And you know what's really frustrating? Everyone seems to know all about all of this. When I tell various enquiring friends and family members that my surgery not only seems to have made the initial problem worse, but to have created new problems, they smile sadly, shake their heads, and say, "Weellll, I was afraid of that. . . "
Fine, fine, just fine. But: new rules, ok? If I am about to do something really self-destructive, you fucking tell me so.
So now I have a locked-solid big toe joint and plantar fasciitis (yes, that's really how it's spelled). Turns out if your toe can't bend, your foot can't roll. Feet must roll. If a foot does not roll, the foot's tendons go on strike. I think it's in their contract or something: no rolling, ok, well then, no stretching. Foot with tendons that don't stretch = foot in pain. And then you know what happens? You start walking funny to reduce the pain, and if you walk funny, you get hip problems, which lead to shoulder problems, which produce neck problems, which infect your brain and you die. Well, not quite, but awfully close because you're limping and you're limited and yes, you've become your grandma. Except she was 85 and you're 50. She was a gentle, gracious lady. And you're a pissed-off , kvetching, middle-aged cripple.
Yesterday I met a fellow foot surgery victim while having my nails shellacked. On my feet I sported these godawful ugly-but-let's-call-them-funky New Balance "flip-flops" (more like the offspring of flip-flops mated with those gargantuan orthopedic shoes that girls named Peggy always had to wear in grade school). Said flip-flop offspring don't bother the scar on the top of my foot. (Oh! right, haven't mentioned The Scar, have I? Turns out my princess-and-the-pea body won't tolerate the dissolving stitches; nope, won't let those vulgar things dissolve in my ultra-fine, oh-so-sensitive interior; so instead each of them is slowly creeping to the surface, accompanied by lots of dramatic inflammation and infection.) Anyhoo, my new foot friend expressed surprise at my footwear (in a kind way; most people just bust out laughing) and said, "I'm amazed you're not wearing Crocs. I don't know what I'd do without my Crocs. That's all I've worn for two years."
Crocs. For two years.
I'm a comfy, funky shoe person. But. Crocs. For two years. Really? It's come to this?
Sigh. I suppose I really should have known better. But. Well. I didn't. I thought, you go in, you get the operation, you lie around for a bit, you limp around for a bit, and then all is well. Because that's the point, right? The surgery fixes the problem; it makes all things well.
But foot surgery, it turns out, is like kitchen renovation. It never turns out ok. Every day now I meet someone new who regales me with yet another story of Foot Surgery Gone Bad, a story that always involves many subsequent surgeries to correct the problems caused by the first surgery. And you know what's really frustrating? Everyone seems to know all about all of this. When I tell various enquiring friends and family members that my surgery not only seems to have made the initial problem worse, but to have created new problems, they smile sadly, shake their heads, and say, "Weellll, I was afraid of that. . . "
Fine, fine, just fine. But: new rules, ok? If I am about to do something really self-destructive, you fucking tell me so.
So now I have a locked-solid big toe joint and plantar fasciitis (yes, that's really how it's spelled). Turns out if your toe can't bend, your foot can't roll. Feet must roll. If a foot does not roll, the foot's tendons go on strike. I think it's in their contract or something: no rolling, ok, well then, no stretching. Foot with tendons that don't stretch = foot in pain. And then you know what happens? You start walking funny to reduce the pain, and if you walk funny, you get hip problems, which lead to shoulder problems, which produce neck problems, which infect your brain and you die. Well, not quite, but awfully close because you're limping and you're limited and yes, you've become your grandma. Except she was 85 and you're 50. She was a gentle, gracious lady. And you're a pissed-off , kvetching, middle-aged cripple.
Yesterday I met a fellow foot surgery victim while having my nails shellacked. On my feet I sported these godawful ugly-but-let's-call-them-funky New Balance "flip-flops" (more like the offspring of flip-flops mated with those gargantuan orthopedic shoes that girls named Peggy always had to wear in grade school). Said flip-flop offspring don't bother the scar on the top of my foot. (Oh! right, haven't mentioned The Scar, have I? Turns out my princess-and-the-pea body won't tolerate the dissolving stitches; nope, won't let those vulgar things dissolve in my ultra-fine, oh-so-sensitive interior; so instead each of them is slowly creeping to the surface, accompanied by lots of dramatic inflammation and infection.) Anyhoo, my new foot friend expressed surprise at my footwear (in a kind way; most people just bust out laughing) and said, "I'm amazed you're not wearing Crocs. I don't know what I'd do without my Crocs. That's all I've worn for two years."
Crocs. For two years.
I'm a comfy, funky shoe person. But. Crocs. For two years. Really? It's come to this?
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Lost the Plot
Whenever we can, Keith and I watch "The Daily Show" at 6:00 (Central time). Of course this is the rerun; we're too old and tired to watch the live show the night before. And yes, yes, we do know we can watch the rerun any old time online. But we're old. We like routines.
If all goes well, then, most Tuesdays thru Thursdays at around 5:55 one of us is turning on the tv and turning in to Comedy Central. That means for a number of years now, we catch the last few minutes of "Scrubs." We've never seen anything of "Scrubs" but these last few minutes; we know no characters' names; yet, over time, we've developed some sense of the characters and the plot. So, yesterday, when the nerdy but sweet main guy who's perennially involved with the attractive but all-over-the-place blonde doctor woke up next to a different woman with curly brown hair, Keith objected, "Hey, who's that? Where'd she come from? He's in love with the blonde."
"Dunno," I began, and then it suddenly hit me. Our knowledge of "Scrubs" mirrors our understanding of our teenaged sons. Every now and then we're allowed a quick glimpse into their lives. And on the basis of a five-minute snippet seen here and a dialogue overheard there, we extrapolate entire narratives; we delude ourselves into thinking we understand the plot and we discourse with great confidence on the motivations of the major characters. Actually, of course, we haven't a clue as to the storyline or cast list.
I remember once I was watching an episode of "Little House on the Prairie," and my mom, who never watched television, came and sat down next to me. In one of those excruciating Mom-trying-to-relate moments, she said, "Oh, this is 'The Brady Bunch,' isn't it?"
So here we are, thinking we're watching our sons and their chums Greg, Peter, and Bobby, when actually they're in another century, clearing the land, battling smallpox and blizzards and that annoying spoiled-rotten shopkeeper's daughter.
If all goes well, then, most Tuesdays thru Thursdays at around 5:55 one of us is turning on the tv and turning in to Comedy Central. That means for a number of years now, we catch the last few minutes of "Scrubs." We've never seen anything of "Scrubs" but these last few minutes; we know no characters' names; yet, over time, we've developed some sense of the characters and the plot. So, yesterday, when the nerdy but sweet main guy who's perennially involved with the attractive but all-over-the-place blonde doctor woke up next to a different woman with curly brown hair, Keith objected, "Hey, who's that? Where'd she come from? He's in love with the blonde."
"Dunno," I began, and then it suddenly hit me. Our knowledge of "Scrubs" mirrors our understanding of our teenaged sons. Every now and then we're allowed a quick glimpse into their lives. And on the basis of a five-minute snippet seen here and a dialogue overheard there, we extrapolate entire narratives; we delude ourselves into thinking we understand the plot and we discourse with great confidence on the motivations of the major characters. Actually, of course, we haven't a clue as to the storyline or cast list.
I remember once I was watching an episode of "Little House on the Prairie," and my mom, who never watched television, came and sat down next to me. In one of those excruciating Mom-trying-to-relate moments, she said, "Oh, this is 'The Brady Bunch,' isn't it?"
So here we are, thinking we're watching our sons and their chums Greg, Peter, and Bobby, when actually they're in another century, clearing the land, battling smallpox and blizzards and that annoying spoiled-rotten shopkeeper's daughter.
Early signs of genius
I have a nephew, Teddy. Actually, he's my grand-nephew, and also my godson.
He's two and he's brilliant. And, I think, a budding surrealist:
Knock, knock.
Who's there?
Interrupting fish with a gun.
How bizarrely wonderful is that?
He's two and he's brilliant. And, I think, a budding surrealist:
Knock, knock.
Who's there?
Interrupting fish with a gun.
How bizarrely wonderful is that?
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