sunny side up

chicks dig scars

I'm a fan of Dr. Charles' writing even if I don't always agree with his politics.  He seems to be the kind of doctor who views his patients as human beings and treats them with compassion.  Dr. Charles recently started Eschara, a word that, roughly translated, means "fireplace" and which is derived from the Greek root word for "scar" (this, according to Dr. Charles).   Eschara is a blog along the lines of  PostSecret in that people send in pictures of a scar and the story behind it.  Sometimes scars are like secrets we are dying to tell, and still we don't go blabbing about them. Sometimes we feel at ease to reveal them under the safety of anonymity or in a community where everyone seems to be doing it.  But scars, like secrets, aren't about shame.  Sometimes when even Mederma can not fade them, we learn to grow proud of them or at least recognize them for their value as a conversation piece.

I submitted a picture and a few words regarding a triumvirate of scars I bear.  It appeared over the weekend.  Dr. Charles was gracious enough to tell me he liked my submission.  (My writing's a little choppy, but I labored under a 100-word limit.  You can always read the full story here.)  Perhaps you, too, have a scar story?  Don't be shy.  I've shown you mine, now show us all yours.  Then we can be like Quint and Hooper in Jaws in that scene where they sit around the table drinking and comparing scars.  I'll even have a drink with you, if only virtually.  All you too timid to participate will be like that wimp Brody, who sits back and watches the one-upmanship like a wallflower.    

So come on.  Hie thee over to Eschara and submit!

i can talk about the weather but i can't do a damn thing about it

Today was that one day a year when it is so cold that I have to wear thick running tights, a long-sleeved thermal shirt, a drylete shirt and a hat to go for a run. I don't think I produced one bead of sweat, which means it must have been really cold because I can sweat just reaching to touch my toes in a temperate climate.  (Someone once assured me that this meant I have an efficient cooling system, but that's just like telling me I "glow" rather than perspire.  Fact is, I sweat bullets once physical activity begins.  It's what I do.)  And yet, only four and five days ago I was lying on the beach in my bathing suit and the temp had shot up to the low 80s.  Now that is how winter is supposed to be. 

I know there are those of you out there who claim you couldn't live anywhere that didn't have a "change of seasons."  And when you claim this, you speak so wistfully of this "change of seasons," what with its falling leaves and first snowfall.  You're not so wistful when you have to rake those leaves or shovel the snow or de-ice your car windows for the umpteenth time, are you?

We have friends who every winter send us pictures of some snow-filled scenery taken near their home.  I know they mean to say, "Isn't this beautiful?" but Bell and I always respond (to each other) with a shudder and a "Thank god I don't live there!"  I could understand wanting a change of seasons if you lived in a place where your seasons sucked, but otherwise why mess with a good thing?  Why wish that a time of blooms and fruit-bearing changes into a time of death?  Because that necessarily also means you have to wear socks, and I hate wearing socks. 

So.  I will put up with this freak temperature drop for today, but I expect much better from Mother Nature tomorrow. 

well, what brings you here?

Like many bloggers, I'm curious about how new visitors find their way to this blog, especially those who come here via Google or other search engines.  Unlike many bloggers who post about such things, however, my visitors aren't drawn here by typing in a bunch of words plus the word "porn" or "fetish."  I guess I'm just not that kind of girl and you're not that kind of user.

Behold, the most common search terms that bring you to me on a daily basis:

brown + snot

green + snot

mucus + green (or brown)

bug +  ear + itch

twitching + won't stop

uncontrollable + spasms

lasagna + food poisoning

lasagna + leftover + sick

lasagna + fridge + how long

itch + rash+ welt

hives + itch

[many variations of words] + vomit

piss like a [russian] racehorse

Some of you out there have a thing for your sister in pantyhose, or your sister's pantyhose, and as many are interested in a Pepe Le Pew tattoo or pictures of Ernest Borgnine in a wifebeater.  A surprising number of people want the lyrics to Terry Jacks "Put the Bone In."  (Why, exactly?)  Several have found their way here by stalking Googling some of my readers, namely Glen Whitman, Neal Whitman, Tim Sandefur, Amber Taylor, and some guy named "Tom Bell."

On the whole and by and large (as Dennis "The Hutch" Hutchinson used to say), this blog seems to attract a bunch of sick people.

stir it up, little darlin'

You know what I find to be the most abominable task of my domestic life?  Mixing the peanut butter with the oil when I open a new jar. God, I hate it.

Every time I see that we are down to the last teaspoon of PB, it is with utmost dread that I open the cupboard for a new jar.  Each time, I tell myself it's not so bad and that this will be the time I will do it quickly and without making a mess.  I try to avoid the mistakes I've made in the past by employing new implements or procedures, but I always fail.  I'm left with peanut butter and oil all over my hands, the jar, the counter, and my instruments of choice.  In turn, I build up a little more hate for the project, and I will unleash that hate the next time. 

Last night it took me 20 minutes. To stir peanut butter! All the while it seemed like such a waste of time, like I should have been doing something else.  And yet, it had to be done.  If I don't mix the peanut butter with the oil, who will?  You're suggesting Bell do it?  I'm afraid not, my friends. Mixing the peanut butter is like replacing the empty toilet paper roll: if it comes up empty on your watch, you are responsible for a suitable replacement.   The jar always seems to come up empty on my watch.  (A coincidence? This merits further investigation.)

In every new jar of peanut butter, most of the oil sits in the top 1/5 of the jar.  One must mix it thoroughly with all the peanut butter so that 1) peanut butter at the top is not too oily and 2) the peanut butter on the bottom is not too dry and unspreadable.  It's a delicate balance.  It sounds easy enough--how hard can a little stirring be?--which is why I feel stupid hating it so much, but it never ever ev-er goes my way. 

One must insert a thin but sturdy implement all the way to the bottom of the jar and begin to  carve out a path into which the oil can sink.  This will moisten your peanut butter and make it more amenable to stirring.  It's no small task since the peanut butter at the bottom is dense  and tough to penetrate, even with a sharp edged implement.  One quick move and the oil will fly out onto your gown.  Once the first path is carved, one must remove the implement by slowly pulling straight up (a huge bolus of peanut butter will be attached to your implement and you must take care not to let it slide down too quickly or it will plunge into the oil and--again--create a huge mess with oilsplash.  It is best to have a second implement on hand to slowly guide the release of the bolus back into the pool of PB and oil).

This painfully slow path-carving must be repeated fortytwohundred more times, all the while you curse your taste buds for their inability to make Skippy or JiF an acceptable option.  With some of the oil now at the bottom, attempt to mix it with the peanut butter using a verrrrrry slow stirring motion without spilling oil over the sides of the jar.  It is best not to hold a conversation or attempt to think about anything other than the task at hand.  This step requires your complete concentration in order to perform it properly.  In this way, it's a lot like Pilates.  One false move and you'll screw it up.

I have never managed to not screw it up. I try; I try so hard.  Yet I always end up with oil and peanut butter all over my hands and clothes and the counter.  Worse, whenever I get to the bottom of the peanut butter jar, the peanut butter is too dry--I haven't mixed it enough. 

You know, I don't mind scooping kitty litter, taking out the garbage, doing the laundry, dust ing and vacuuming, cleaning the refrigerator, changing diapers, washing mirrors and windows and cleaning the bathrooms* without complaint.  But when it comes to the peanut butter, dammit, I just gotta stir things up. 

* except for the toilet seat and lid.  I will complain about that. It's not my urine, dammit.  But the bowl?  That's not so bad.

a non-starter

One day in the kitchen recently I noticed a very slight but distinct sulfur smell when I stood at the sink. It was one of those passing whiffs that was putrid enough to get my attention but not quite enough to set me on my hands and knees for investigation.  After all, I had only gone into the kitchen to scarf down a quick bite of bread and cheese.  I hadn't planned on staying for additional activity.  As I swallowed a big chunk of cheese I wondered whether the garbage disposal had backed up, as it sometimes does.  I dismissed that possibility.  As a conoisseur of the malodorous I can tell you that this sulfur stink was a little different--perhaps it was the floral notes? --from the garbage disposal dank.  I think Bell put it nicely when he walked into the kitchen sometime later and asked, "Did you notice a poop smell in here?"

Yes, that was it.  It smelled like someone had pooped in the kitchen.

Bell was immediately exonerated since he was the first to ask about the smell (but see "A Skunk Smells His Own Smell First!," 'I Know You Are But What Am I'? and Other Stock Childhood Phrases (California; Washington; Virginia) (1974), pp. 10-11).  I reasoned that had he been the culprit I would have found him on all fours trying to claw invisible litter onto his mishap. Also, since he is potty-trained, I automatically ruled him out as a suspect.  In fact, potty-training led me to rule out every human in the household, leaving only Hamlet to blame.  I looked in Kai's room where Hamlet was sleeping on the bed.  I was about to point at him and declare, "J'accuse!" but first I sniffed the air.  It smelled unexpectedly benign--not the sort of thing you'd expect if the cat left part of a dingleberry in the kitchen and then dragged the other half hanging off his rear when he leapt onto the warm bed.  I felt ashamed for considering blaming the animal, who was in fact more innocent than some of the others (namely Jade and Kai) who in their days have had a few accidents on the floor.  Hamlet has never stooped to such indignities.

Bell, who is renowned the household over for his Super Sniffer skillz, would not rest until the source of stink was located and destroyed.  Kai, a fellow Super Sniffer, saw his father nosing around the kitchen and ran in to see what the fuss was about.  He stopped dead in his tracks when he got near the sink.  Then his face turned red and he gagged and coughed and let out that sound he makes when he's about to blow.  This confirmed for me that indeed something nasty and at this point invisible lurked in the kitchen.  Beyond that, however, Kai was of little help because his supersensitive nose is matched by a supersensitive gag reflex.  We had to send him out of the kitchen.  Bell, blessed with a Super Sniffer and a gut of steel, remained on the case like a bloodhound smelling the air, the floor, and the counters.  He went outside to the other side of the kitchen window to try uncover clues.  No luck. The investigation continued back in the kitchen and was concluded shortly thereafter when he discovered the culprit next to the microwave.  There, sitting in a cesspool of stench was Krusty, my beloved sourdough starter of eleven years.

Apparently the last time I made a batch of sourdough I hadn't sealed the container airtight.  A green/grey/brown oozing bacterial fungus saw that as the perfect opportunity to sneak in and take up residence on my Krusty.  I was crushed.  I tried to think of a way to save him, but the evil bacterial ooze held my Krusty in an impossible half-Nelson.  It was too late.  I had killed Krusty with brutal negligence, just like the time I killed my hamster.  Does it worry you that I am allowed to parent human beings? It does me.

Jade tells me not to fret, that we can start all over.  I feel like a pet has just died and I need time to grieve before getting another one.  It took years to get Krusty to a point where the bread I made had that really sour, earthy flavor, a kind of flavor unavailable in any of the store or restaurant breads that claim to be "sourdough", a flavor of patience and love and care.  I know I won't always feel this way.  Soon enough Jade will beg to come home to the smell of sourdough bread and honey after school, and I will appease her. 

Yes, someday the sour shall rise again.

mission accomplished

On our most recent road trip to the Bay Area, we took Hwy. 101, which is largely coastal and adds about 30 minutes to the trip, instead of the I-5, which goes through the Central Valley and is fairly boring and smelly in some parts.  The decision was based on our desire to stop at a few of the California Missions for Jade's class project, but also on the fact that it would be easier to get to a hospital should Jade suddenly cough up a throat scab and begin to hemorrhage all over the backseat of the car. (The mess would have been less of a concern had we listened to the kids and rented a minivan, their preferred mode of travel. But we know far too many people in the Bay Area to risk our reputations driving a minivan in broad daylight.) As Bell had armed us with a list of hospitals and their phone numbers and we had packed the cooler with lots of ice cold water for Jade to gargle in the event we needed to stop the bleeding, we felt pretty confident defying doctor's orders. (For those of you who think us foolish and cavalier,  the risk of Jade bleeding at that point was about 1% and decreasing with each passing day.  It was probably even less for her specifically because we constantly made her hydrate and prohibited any physical activity or remotely hard foods--all factors that increase the likelihood of a big bleed.  Sometimes you just gotta live on the edge.)

For those of you who visit here exclusively for the pictures of our adventures (and by this I can only be speaking of relatives), this is your lucky day.  For the rest of you, I suppose it's just your ... day.

As with most adventures around here, we begin with the fresh face of our driver and co-passengers before the sun has come up:

Dad Mode.

It's well-nigh impossible to get a flash-picture of Kai in which he is not mid-blink.  They look happy and excited about the possibilities ahead here, but don't think for a minute that Kai wasn't already setting the stage to throw up all over those new fleecy pajamas.  Yay!

Jade and her classmates had each been assigned one of the 21 missions on which to do a report.  Happily for all concerned (that is to say, everyone of us) she got Mission San Buenaventura, located in the bitchin' little town of Ventura, which is near where my sister used to live.  Now I know surfy beach towns aren't for everyone, but we at sunny side up love them.  Love them.  That's why we live in one and hate to venture out for very long except to go to other coastal towns.

Before arriving at Mission San Buenaventura, we asked Jade to give us the skinny on the place.  She shared her favorite fact, which was that in 1818 a French pirate named Hippolyte de Bouchard had raided other missions along the California coast.  He was spotted near enough to Ventura that the missionaries moved themselves and their Chumash neophytes to a temporary location, thinking that if Bouchard happened by and found it empty, he would move on without incident. Turns out Bouchard never actually stopped in Ventura, and he did go on  to sack the jewel of the missions, San Juan Capistrano.  But everyone at Buenaventura returned unscathed, if a little shaken.

As it happened, upon hearing this story I realized that my hair was thrown back in a headbandy thing with little skulls all over it.  I considered removing it so as not to terrorize our fine Catholic friends. I didn't want them to think I was a descendant of Bouchard returning to claim some golden chalice and bread loaves. (ARRRRR!) But since my hair looked like crap without the coverage, I kept the accessory and decided to go into the church coughing the word "Bouchard" into my fist.  Sadly for me, it was Christmas Eve so no one was really around.  I would have to keep my immature antics to myself.   

And now, highlights from the mission.

  Again with the Bells. They're everywhere.

Jade learns about Catholic guilt as she bows before an early confessional.  I tried to convince her to tell me some real sins, but her lips remained zipped. Drat!

Like, a virgin.

Since I grew up with the Catholic church, and mostly old-fashioned ones at that, this place, with its vivid images and colors and smells was very familiar and comforting to me. The only thing missing was an accessible balcony where I could bite off little pieces of missal book and form them into spitballs to be dislodged onto the heads of parishioners lined up for communion.  Ah, good times.

The only significant picture missing from this collection is one of the unsupervised teenaged boy we saw hanging around the Virgin Mary. He appeared to be doing something sneaky every time we looked over at him or passed him by.  Bell asked him if he was setting things on fire and he knew enough to say "no," but it was clear that some sort of hooliganism was afoot.  It was only after we got in the car to drive away that I realized I could have put the fear of God (or at least the police, or maybe his parents) in him by openly taking his picture.  He looked still young enough to be scared of my capturing him on camera and using the evidence to have him thrown in jail. Besides, how much of a true delinquent could he have been?  He was at a church in broad daylight.  The hardcore criminals his age were doing their dirty work out on the streets.  Amateur.

Love him or hate him, the homunculus Father Junipero Serra is a looming figure in California history for having established many of the missions, including Mission San Buenaventura.  (But let's be honest here: he was not a pretty man). There are several statues of him, but none so large or so artistically hideous as the 26' monstrosity at a rest stop off of the 280 Freeway in Hillsborough. I've driven by this thing a million times but only ever looked at it from the freeway.  Often vandals have taken liberties with the statue, most commonly hanging a paint can dressed up as an oversized beer in his right hand.

Father Serra points west, some say directing us to the path of enlightenment. I used to believe this story until recently when I had the opportunity to inspect the statue closely.   Here's what I discovered when we walked around to the other side:

  Look closer.  That's right, rather than directing you to enlightenment, the padre is actually trying to draw attention away from the itch on his left cheek so he can sneak a scratch.  It's a classic, "Hey, what's that over there?" move. 

Point. Counterpoint.

And finally,

The toes on this statue reminded me of an old woman in my neighborhood when I was growing up.   Mrs. Russo had disturbingly ugly toenails. They were actually big thick square chunks of toenail material, 3D rather than the 2D sheets of toenail the rest of us were blessed with.  Worse, it seemed Mrs. Russo always wore open-toed shoes when she walked the neighborhood.  I think she did this to upset our appetites and haunt our dreams. And it usually worked.  I hadn't thought of Mrs. Russo's toes for years, until I saw Father Serra's honkers.

***

Unfortunately, we didn't make it to the San Francisco Zoo this year.  After a tiger attacked a trainer during a Friday feeding (with about 50 horrified visitors looking on), my favorite exhibit, The Lion House, was closed. I saw no point in going.  Instead we went to the Exploratorium and the California Academy of Sciences Steinhart Aquarium, both of which are always amusing.  Kai usually took off as soon as we arrived and Bell followed, and I hung out with Jade.  That's why most of the pictures are of her. (Incidentally, I've noticed that when we go to museums Jade runs from exhibit to exhibit looking at every single thing while Kai often stands and looks at/plays with the same thing for long stretches, like that time at the Vancouver museum when Kai spent a full hour and a half damming--not damning--water.  This is contrary to how they eat candy: Jade will savor the same little piece of jelly belly for an hour, whereas Kai will eat as many as possible in a minute.)

  The Exploratorium has some awesome exhibits on perception and the mind.  Here Jade's looking at the girl in the mirror. (Ooh!) /She's asking her to change her ways. (Ooh!)/ No message could have been any clearer. / If you want to make the world a better place, take a look at yourself and make a change.

Or not.

Most of the kids, including Jade, were squeamish about drinking from the toilet-shaped water fountain.  Me, not so much.  It's probably because my head has spent too many long nights inside a toilet bowl.  It practically felt natural.

The kids begged to go over the Golden Gate Bridge on a stormy day. She's a lovely lady, no?

Back at Ocean Beach, we checked out the waves. "The sea was angry that day, my friends.  Like an old man returning soup at a deli..."

The next day we visited Steinhart Aquarium's temporary quarters.  Here we happened upon the ugly tank.   I could not stop staring at the horror that is the giant sea bass and the moray eels. I returned to their tank twice. I could not bear to look, yet I could not turn away.

Likewise, these alligator snapping turtles were hideous but I couldn't stop watching them while Jade played with anemones. 

Pardonez moi, les seahorses! Didn't mean to interruptus your coitus(es).

Jade's beloved Humuhumunukunukuapua'a.

I know a bunch of skulls may seem out of place at an aquarium, but the aquarium is only one part of a comprehensive museum that includes a huge natural history section.  All are temporarily housed with the fishes while the renovation of the building in Golden Gate park continues through 2008. If you are at all interested in this sort of thing and are in San Francisco, the Academy of Sciences is a must-see.

***

On our road trip home we hit traffic in Santa Barbara, so we stopped at the mission there. It had just closed so we were left to walk the grounds.  Here Jade poses with a more respectable statue of Father Serra, one in which he is not scratching his butt (query what she is doing with her hands).

The setting was beautiful, especially at sunset.  Santa Barbara rocks.  Unfortunately you can not tell from this picture. 

We made it home safe and sound, if a bit cranky after having sat in so much traffic in L.A.  Hamlet was a little hoarse from all his meowing in our absence, or at least that's what he wanted us to believe.  I sort of think he was faking it since we had friends taking care of him at the house.

Nevertheless, it's good to be back home again. Thanks for sticking around.

farewell, 2006. we'll always remember you.

"...And there's a hand, my trusty fere
And gie's a hand o' thine
And we'll tak' a right gude-willie waught
For auld lang syne.

For auld lang syne, my dear
For auld lang syne
We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet
For auld lang syne."

the airing of grievances (2006)

Festivus is now upon us.  Unfortunately, I have little time to air all of my grievances (indeed, that is one of my grievances), but I cannot let this occasion pass without setting free a few gripes such as I have against:

1. Skinny jeans.  Who thought it was a good idea to exhume this fashion embarrassment from the '80s? Maybe there are a few heroin addicts out there who can get away with this look, but for the most part most women and teenage girls cannot pull it off.  And I live in a part of the country that probably contains fewer hefty people than elsewhere.

2.  Skinny jeans on guys, especially those emo guys with that haircut that looks like truffula trees.  (No high-maintenance hairdos for men, I say! You may not remember this, but there once was an "actor" named John Davidson who paid a little too much attention to his hair.  I don't think I have to tell you where he is today.)  I admit it never bothered me when women bought  men's undershirts or Levi's jeans back in the day--I myself admit to doing this--but when guys start venturing into the women's department for their skinny jeans, there's something just 'taint right about that.  Soon they'll be trying to wear feminine napkins.

3. Grumpy parents dropping off their kids.  Every week at Jade's school I am a traffic circle monitor, which means that when the cars pull up to drop a kid off, the driver and passengers are treated to my ridiculously upbeat, "Good morning! We've been waiting for you!" and then I escort the kid to safety.  Often kids pile out of the cars without so much as looking back at their parents while the parent stares straight ahead, much less saying, "Loveyou!" or "G'bye! Have a great day!"  This bugs the crap out of me because I don't think they would behave this way if they knew it was the last time they would ever see each other, and I think that's how we should want to act when we are with our loved ones.  Like it might be the last time.

4. One of my former college roommates whom I still see fairly regularly.  How hard can it be to remember that I never changed my last name when I got married, and I've told her a gazillion times that I have the same last name I had when she met me, the very very same last name?  And yet every year she addresses our Christmas cards to "the Bell Family" or "Tom and Donna Bell" ("Donna Bell"--mooooooooo!)  Maybe I should not remind her what my name is when we've been drinking.

5. People in town who tell me they remember when I was pregnant with Jade.  Liars!  I didn't even live here then.  We fled DC when Jade was six weeks old, so maybe they remember her as a newborn and are blurring that with the time they saw me pregnant with Kai.  Or maybe I'm the one who is misremembering; first-time parenting is always a blur. Maybe 32 people can't be wrong. 

6.  Jade's otorhinolaryngologist.  She began seeing him both because her tonsils were ginormous and I feared she had sleep apnea (the symptoms were all there) and because she was having trouble distinguishing words at a certain decibel level (sound was muffled).  I thought the apnea was the more pressing problem but the ENT insisted Jade undergo a full hearing workup first, and this included a brain MRI and multiple blood tests, both of which so terrified Jade and left her traumatized.  He recommended a hearing aid, an amplification system at school, and that we get on a schedule of having her hearing retested many times in the next year. He was about to send us on our merry way when I inquired about the tonsils (which he knew he was supposed to be treating as well) and he just quickly said, basically, "yeah, yeah, we'll take them out. Call the scheduling department about that."  I was a little irked at his dismissive tone; I mean, if she didn't need the surgery I didn't want to have it.  But I was also pretty sure what was ailing her.  So I took her to our heroic pediatrician for confirmation that she actually did need her tonsils out. 

Jade had not even been discharged from the recovery room when she declared that her hearing  was better.  She reiterated this at home, and then again to the ENT when she had a followup checkup.  I said, "Yeah, what's that all about? She said her hearing was better the same day you took her tonsils out."

He looked a little awkward or something and said without looking me in the eye, "Well, it's probably because now she can open her mouth wider to pop her ears." 

"I never do that!" Jade exclaimed, and I'm glad she did because that is one of the lamest things I've ever heard a doctor say (but it is not alone. I've heard quite a few lame-o things by doctors this year.)

He stood up and said, "So I guess that's all," and attempted to end the checkup.  I'm no conspiracy theorist (or at least I'm not a paid professional), but could it be that he wanted to treat the hearing first because it would require us to pay him numerous visits? Why would he put her health in jeopardy--for apnea is nothing to screw around with--in order to treat something that was 1) neither life threatening nor dangerous and 2) not impeding Jade's ability to do well in school or in her daily life and 3) not degenerating?

But that is not my only grievance against this man.  Before he left, Jade asked him if we could travel up to the Bay Area for Christmas with my parents and he said, "No." 

"Maybe-no or definitely-no?" she asked.

"Definitely-no! The risk of bleeding is 1-2% and what happens if you are on the highway and cough up a scab and start bleeding and don't know where the hospital is or who will treat you? What if they don't know what they're doing? [Ed. note: Because tonsillectomies are so rare!  He's probably one of the only doctors who knows how to handle them!]  Definitely NO." 

Jade started bawling because her heart was set on this annual trip, and the doctor just stared at her coldly. For a tiny moment it almost looked as if he would exercise compassion when he looked at her chart and said, "Well, let's see....No.  No, I'm sorry. No."  And he stood up to leave while she boo-hooed her eyes out.

For what it's worth, I'm sure he was only doing his job, and since he know Bell and I are lawyers he was probably being superduperly cautious.  But he had just praised Jade for her remarkably fast healing and expected no complications in the last week of recovery (especially since coblation patients tend to heal faster and are at less of a risk for bleeding than other adenotonsillectomy patients).  And he could have at least shown a modicum of empathy and/or sympathy for the kid.  Asshole.

***

Blogging probably will be light over the next few days.  We're taking a road trip to the Bay Area and my parents have a dialup connection that takes forEVER to use.  It'd be quicker to handwrite letters to you.

Hey, happy Festivus everyone. Let the wrestling begin!

house of cards

I'm not quite sure what happened to my plan to get our "holiday" cards out early this year.  I wasn't striving for Day-After-Thanksgiving early (that achievement used to belong to one of my college roommates until she up and birthed her third boy about a year ago. Now I imagine she feels accomplished if she takes a shower before dinnertime.)  I would have been happy with getting them out by the second week of December.  We already had the pictures we wanted to use, but the card itself never seemed to will itself into being while I was busy with other matters such as distributing Tylenol with Codeine to an ailing adenotonsillectomy patient.

Sure, I could have gone out and bought a dozen boxes of cards to slip the family photo into, but I like our cards to have a more personal, original touch.  Besides, when I finally decided we would have to resort to the boxed card option in order to meet my early-to-mid-December goal, I could not find enough cards in the same design to suit my purposes.  Apparently other people out there were planning to send out Christmas cards with photo inserts!

In the end, we had to design our own card after all.  And by "we" I mean "me."  Usually Bell plays a major role in the design and greeting.  But ever since that year we went to Hawaii in December and upon return everyone except him got the flu at the same time, leaving card production entirely in his hands (I remember him coming to me to approve the final draft as I lay in a nauseated, groggy state), he seems to have lost all passion for it. He still has veto rights, but it seems by his inaction that he has delegated card production to moi.  It is during times like these when I recruit Jade for assistance.  I was most in need of a pithy sentiment -- something to boost an otherwise ordinary card into the realm of extraordinary. An award-winning card, if awards were given for such things.  Alas, she proved not-very-helpful.  Maybe it was the codeine talking, but her suggestions lacked both humor and originality.  I was on my own. 

I considered posting the photo here and inviting you all to come up with a greeting, rewarding the winner with an autographed copy of the card.  Seeing as only two or five of you ever comment on this blog, I thought it might be a waste of time to sit around waiting for someone to enter the contest, and time was of the essence here.  In the end, I had to come up with my own, unoriginal saying just so I could have the cards made up.

And that was just the beginning.  The cards finally arrived via FedEx yesterday, and I spent much of the afternoon and evening gluing photos of our (covered) asses to the back of each card, applying labels and stamps (here I was able to recruit Jade) and including a handwritten message to the recipients.  I know I would save a lot of time if only I could give up this last step.  Still, since this is often the only time of year I stay in contact with some people, I like to do a quick rehash of events and inquire into their goings-ons. My heart always sinks just a little when I get a card from a friend and it lacks a personal message or even a real signature. It makes me feel so ... small and insignificant, like I'm one of 200 employees in a widget factory who receives a token ham every Christmas.  Or that the sender paid an orphan kid off the street to insert cards and lick envelopes.  What ever happened to the good old days when we used our hands to write notes to each other?  Have we lost all ability to care, America?

Where was I? Ah yes, the cards.

Fortunately we did not have to make many changes to our recipient list.  I did a semi-serious culling a few years back, when the number of cards began to escalate to the point that I viewed each addressee in terms of how much it cost us to send her/him a card (these things add up).  We've managed to narrow things down to 125 of our closest friends and family members.  These days, it's rather hard to get bumped off The List unless: you do something really egregious to harm or piss us off; I suddenly get a wild hair and think, "Why the hell are we sending them a card?  We haven't heard from those people in ten years!"; or you move your family to New Zealand because you think the surf will be better and I don't even know when you're leaving until I happen to be at the pediatrician's one day and your friend, who is a nurse there, tells me, and then you don't even bother to leave a forwarding address (you know who you are).

Unlike many who think of sending cards as yet another thing to stress about during the holidays, I actually love it. I love to send; I love to receive.  I love to look through the pile of them after Christmas and to go through piles of pictures from Christmases past with fondness.  I especially enjoy seeing how my friends' kids eventually grow up to look just like them.  I don't know how many do that with our cards each year, but I've heard tell that a few of you out there do. 

Now if you'll excuse me.  I've piles to go before I sleep.

no longer list-less

When Jade was a wee lass, we never asked her to draw up a list of things she wanted for Christmas. It seemed that doing so only created an opportunity to let her down, and I figured we would have so many other opportunities to do that in her life. I didn't want to peak too soon. But there were other reasons as well.  The idea of actively encouraging little kids to want a bunch of stuff--junky stuff they see on commercials, or ridiculously expensive stuff we wouldn't possibly blow their college funds on, or just additional stuff to add to all the stuff they already don't play with--just doesn't sit well with me.  I have this idea that kids "should" be happy to play with a reasonable number of toys and other entertainments without having to fortify their supply with new things every month.

One problem with asking little kids to make a list of things they want for Christmas is that few can distinguish between a wish list and a list of things they expect to get, especially once the parent has opened the door by inviting them to list these things.  And I don't think they quite get the distinction between "If you don't buy me this I'll be in therapy for the rest of my life" and "Oooh! What a bright and shiny toy! (Batteries not included.)" 

Still, when Jade was 4, 5, then 6, and I knew other kids her age got to make up their Christmas lists, I did wonder if she secretly thought we didn't like her because we never suggested she do so.  One day I summoned the courage to ask if she wanted to make a list.  "No, that's okay," she replied.  "I'm sure I'll like whatever you guys get me."  And I admit that her response warmed my small dark heart. What a good kid.  (Incidentally, it's not that I object to buying my kids Christmas presents.  In fact, as the Chief-Present-Buyer-in-Residence, I probably spend too much time trying to think of the things they will absolutely love, the things they will try to sneak a peek at before Christmas, and will remember opening 30 years from now.)

***

Last summer, about a month after her birthday Jade discovered this game and really really really wanted it. She asked if we would buy it for her.  Since she had just received quite a nice bit of loot for her birthday, I said no.  Much to my surprise, she never resorted to undignified begging (i.e., the whiny beg that kids adopt because they think their parents will break down just so they don't have to listen anymore.  My own tactic is to say, "If you ask one more time, then for sure I won't get it for you."  That usually shuts 'em up.). Nor did she even ask a second time.  Instead, she took a marker to her mirror and wrote:  "Don't spend another penny until you have saved up $40!!!"  Every week she subtracted her allowance from the $40 goal (this was also good for her math skillz) until she had saved up enough money to buy Dream Life for herself.  Sure, there were setbacks, mostly to the tune of about $12 in overdue library fees, but the kid pulled it off without complaint.  She seemed very proud to plunk down a purse loaded with about $27.43 in change (Bell often pays her allowance out of his change box, and I admit to doing this too) (not out of Bell's change box, however) and a few bills. She even had coins left over, and she immediately dedicated them to her next acquisition.

***

Recently Jade asked if she could make a list of things she wanted for Christmas. At 8, she has definite ideas about things she likes and is interested in, and it's been six whole months since we bought her anything of significance. She planned very carefully how she would create her list, collecting catalogs and hording office supplies.  She began the undertaking one day at my office, flagging pictures of (some of) the things she wanted. I heard clipping and stapling, the sound of scotch tape zipping off the roll, and the roaring of the pencil sharpener.  By the time we left she had not  finished, so the work continued when she got home.  (Her fervor was unmatched by any project she's ever cranked out for school.) The end result was a nine page compendium of toys, software, books and other entertainments.  She created columns for item name and picture (if available), item description, price, where the item may be purchased, and parental comments.  "I couldn't find a picture for everything," she said. So I made a supplement with just text.  Is that okay?"

Far be it for me to say no.