1. If you go one micro-inch past the line where your back turns into your bum do you still have to wash your hands? (YES)
2. Can germs crawl up forks? (YES)
3. Even if germs could crawl up forks, is it guaranteed that they will make you sick? (YES)
4. The dog licks his butt but he doesn't get sick--would I? (YES)
5. Are you sure that's egg white and not chicken snot? (YES)
6. Are you sure these eggs are safe to eat? (YES)
7. Are you really really really sure that's ketchup and not chicken blood? (YES)
8. Mommy, are you crying? (YES)
Saturday, March 3, 2012
Thursday, February 9, 2012
Science (isn't) fair
Okay, first things first: I'm probably not the most logical choice for science fair judge, even if the science fair is at an elementary school. I like science, I know how to spell it, and, technically, my doctorate is in comparative medieval science as much as it is in anything not otherwise labelled "whackadoo." (In fact, next time someone asks me what my doctorate is in, I'm going to say "whackadoo.") But still, let us be clear: I am an insane person. I am a writerly person. I am a person who believes that no one is bigger than the story--even if that story happens to be about how maybe batteries work.
Knowing full well that I was an imposter, I spent quite some time this morning making sure that I had "science" hair--a neat chignon, no wisps, sprayed into place. I might have rearranged things so that the white covered the last brave strands of whatever colour you call that. . . .rodent? Old people are good at science. Hello, Marie Curie? Einstein? Rex Morgan, MD?
I wore "science" clothes, too: a dark sweater reminiscent of a lab coat except that it was black, not white, had a ruffled Elizabethan zipper effect up the front, and featured a sparkly 1940s Sherman paste brooch. But other than that? Dead on science.
I was filled with confidence. I didn't even need one of their lousy rice crispie squares to help me gnaw away nervous tension. I could handle Grade 6 Science. Rational, equilibrium-y and very clever in an unassuming sort of way: that was me, entering the gym.
The first little boy that I was to judge--blond, blue-eyed, wearing a tie and a checked shirt--was the double of my son. Science? It went bye-bye and I helped him fix his hair, congratulated him on his printing, taught him how to use regulated breathing to control anxiety, and noticed that in the photograph of his sub-sub-zero temperature tests, he appeared to be wearing only a thin hoody. Was he trying to catch galloping pneumonia? Where was his common sense? Did he know how this kind of self-destructive behavior hurt his mother? My judgey partner, the bad cop, came over all intelligent, asking questions about data spikes and controls. When he raised a question about Blond Science Boy's data, I snarled "CAN'T YOU SEE HOW HARD HE WORKED ON THIS?"
An uncomfortable science may or may not have followed. I was busy fixing the kid's tie.
In the end, I gave him a perfect score. The girls who reminded me of the mean girls in elementary? Not so much. It might have been that their science wasn't up to snuff. I mean, it probably was because of that.
Next year, they might want to think about maybe asking someone less properly turned out and more completely tuned in to do their judging for them. It could be me. In a year? I could maybe do that. It would be kind of a neat experiment.
Knowing full well that I was an imposter, I spent quite some time this morning making sure that I had "science" hair--a neat chignon, no wisps, sprayed into place. I might have rearranged things so that the white covered the last brave strands of whatever colour you call that. . . .rodent? Old people are good at science. Hello, Marie Curie? Einstein? Rex Morgan, MD?
I wore "science" clothes, too: a dark sweater reminiscent of a lab coat except that it was black, not white, had a ruffled Elizabethan zipper effect up the front, and featured a sparkly 1940s Sherman paste brooch. But other than that? Dead on science.
I was filled with confidence. I didn't even need one of their lousy rice crispie squares to help me gnaw away nervous tension. I could handle Grade 6 Science. Rational, equilibrium-y and very clever in an unassuming sort of way: that was me, entering the gym.
The first little boy that I was to judge--blond, blue-eyed, wearing a tie and a checked shirt--was the double of my son. Science? It went bye-bye and I helped him fix his hair, congratulated him on his printing, taught him how to use regulated breathing to control anxiety, and noticed that in the photograph of his sub-sub-zero temperature tests, he appeared to be wearing only a thin hoody. Was he trying to catch galloping pneumonia? Where was his common sense? Did he know how this kind of self-destructive behavior hurt his mother? My judgey partner, the bad cop, came over all intelligent, asking questions about data spikes and controls. When he raised a question about Blond Science Boy's data, I snarled "CAN'T YOU SEE HOW HARD HE WORKED ON THIS?"
An uncomfortable science may or may not have followed. I was busy fixing the kid's tie.
In the end, I gave him a perfect score. The girls who reminded me of the mean girls in elementary? Not so much. It might have been that their science wasn't up to snuff. I mean, it probably was because of that.
Next year, they might want to think about maybe asking someone less properly turned out and more completely tuned in to do their judging for them. It could be me. In a year? I could maybe do that. It would be kind of a neat experiment.
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
Why we hope he retains his good looks
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
The truth is out
Me: Hold on there, short wheels! Let me make sure you've gotten all the peanut butter off your face before you head out the door.
Kid: Did you get it all? Are you sure? Are you lying?
Me: Why would I let you go to school with breakfast all over your face?
Kid: Because you're an evil un-mother who hates her child.
There you have it. Unmasked.
Kid: Did you get it all? Are you sure? Are you lying?
Me: Why would I let you go to school with breakfast all over your face?
Kid: Because you're an evil un-mother who hates her child.
There you have it. Unmasked.
Monday, January 9, 2012
Our Great Lives
Every morning, it's the same thing around here.
Me (suspicious, surly): You have to be at school in 10 minutes. Ready?
Kid (beaming, positive): Yep. I just have to do one small thing. Where's that book? I'm supposed to have read up to chapter 4.
He is/we are about to break the school "times late" record, set back in 1972 by a kid who didn't know he was enrolled at that school.
It's not all that surprising, I suppose, along the lines of "the nut does not fall THREE HOURS LATE too far from the tree."
DH has his own time zone, which is 15 minutes later than whatever time it is wherever he's supposed to be. It gets complicated on some of those international dateline trips we're always taking, and it has so far kept us from visiting Newfoundland, which, as you certainly know, operates 30 minutes ahead of Atlantic time. On Newfoundland Standard Time--observed only on Newfoundland, the little islands offshore, and in Labrador south of Black Tickle. (As an aside, "South of Black Tickle" sounds like a salty maritime romance novel, doesn't it?)-- we would never know whether it was The Reckly or Bumbuy. Which cannot be a good thing. There is probably some way I could work it all to our social advantage, but it would involve moving to Newfoundland and lying to DH about what time it was for the rest of my life. I have no moral qualms about this, I simply worry that I'm not smart enough to remember what time it really was. Is. Will be. See?
I myself am an accomplished waster of time, no matter what time it is. Today, for example: today I had a day off and resolved to write fiction for a few hours, to get back into the swing of things. Except that I had to look up the etymology of "procrastinate" in our giant OED, which meant finding the magnifying glass. I researched Banff hotels and made reservations for this weekend's inaugural ski trip. I looked at maybe 3000 pairs of shoes on Zappos. Even though they no longer ship to Canada. I contemplated the purchase of clocks made in the shape of biohazard signs. I researched Newfie slang (obviously), consulted a hip-hop dictionary, and shared bad jokes on Facebook with people only too happy to play along. Most of them are writers, naturally, probably with their own deadlines to avoid. And so here it is, 11:24pm MST (2:54am NST) and I've managed maybe 150 words of "real" writing, despite having been writing all day.When this book is finally done, it will have a molecular weight of 53 words for every word visible on the page. (That's how "Science" works.)
I can't fault Kid for having observed and internalized a relationship with time that is not strictly sidereal. From now on, I'll be making it clear to everyone we know--teachers, friends, dentists, music instructors, tennis coaches, babysitters, etc.--that we move in Great Years here in the voodoo bungalow: stuff gets done but according to no calendar that any person currently alive could possibly hope to see through its cycle. 25,800 years seems about right for most of the things we aim to do, from spelunking in the laundry room to finishing The Breadwinner to nailing the step back onto the front porch. We've obviously been setting the bar waaay too high by attempting to live our Great Lives according to a cramped and insufficient schedule. Already I feel the stress simmering down.
The Suburban "Great Year" Excuse: brought to you--slowly, peripatetically, with no discernible sense of schedule--by your friends in the voodoo bungalow.
Me (suspicious, surly): You have to be at school in 10 minutes. Ready?
Kid (beaming, positive): Yep. I just have to do one small thing. Where's that book? I'm supposed to have read up to chapter 4.
He is/we are about to break the school "times late" record, set back in 1972 by a kid who didn't know he was enrolled at that school.
It's not all that surprising, I suppose, along the lines of "the nut does not fall THREE HOURS LATE too far from the tree."
DH has his own time zone, which is 15 minutes later than whatever time it is wherever he's supposed to be. It gets complicated on some of those international dateline trips we're always taking, and it has so far kept us from visiting Newfoundland, which, as you certainly know, operates 30 minutes ahead of Atlantic time. On Newfoundland Standard Time--observed only on Newfoundland, the little islands offshore, and in Labrador south of Black Tickle. (As an aside, "South of Black Tickle" sounds like a salty maritime romance novel, doesn't it?)-- we would never know whether it was The Reckly or Bumbuy. Which cannot be a good thing. There is probably some way I could work it all to our social advantage, but it would involve moving to Newfoundland and lying to DH about what time it was for the rest of my life. I have no moral qualms about this, I simply worry that I'm not smart enough to remember what time it really was. Is. Will be. See?
I myself am an accomplished waster of time, no matter what time it is. Today, for example: today I had a day off and resolved to write fiction for a few hours, to get back into the swing of things. Except that I had to look up the etymology of "procrastinate" in our giant OED, which meant finding the magnifying glass. I researched Banff hotels and made reservations for this weekend's inaugural ski trip. I looked at maybe 3000 pairs of shoes on Zappos. Even though they no longer ship to Canada. I contemplated the purchase of clocks made in the shape of biohazard signs. I researched Newfie slang (obviously), consulted a hip-hop dictionary, and shared bad jokes on Facebook with people only too happy to play along. Most of them are writers, naturally, probably with their own deadlines to avoid. And so here it is, 11:24pm MST (2:54am NST) and I've managed maybe 150 words of "real" writing, despite having been writing all day.When this book is finally done, it will have a molecular weight of 53 words for every word visible on the page. (That's how "Science" works.)
I can't fault Kid for having observed and internalized a relationship with time that is not strictly sidereal. From now on, I'll be making it clear to everyone we know--teachers, friends, dentists, music instructors, tennis coaches, babysitters, etc.--that we move in Great Years here in the voodoo bungalow: stuff gets done but according to no calendar that any person currently alive could possibly hope to see through its cycle. 25,800 years seems about right for most of the things we aim to do, from spelunking in the laundry room to finishing The Breadwinner to nailing the step back onto the front porch. We've obviously been setting the bar waaay too high by attempting to live our Great Lives according to a cramped and insufficient schedule. Already I feel the stress simmering down.
The Suburban "Great Year" Excuse: brought to you--slowly, peripatetically, with no discernible sense of schedule--by your friends in the voodoo bungalow.
Saturday, January 7, 2012
Pregnancy Diet
I was the most content pregnant woman in Germany, maybe even in all of Europe. I'd just left a stressful and all-consuming job in LA that involved a lot of silly but somehow sharp office drama (it devolved to the point that at least once an hour I held scissors to my own throat and pretended to cut my jugular just because and only because it upset one of my co-workers). I was a bitch and a drudge and a scourge and my name was well on its way to becoming a byword among the nations. My unpleasantness and disaffection were Biblical.
And then a miracle happened and I was whisked off through no virtue of my own to this shiny new life in Europe: no work, no reponsibilities, no deadlines. Plus: a free car! It was that magical. And the most magical thing of all: at an advanced age and with no expectations at all, suddenly a suspected case of food poisoning turned into a baby on the way.
I had just finished a lovely 6-week vacation/language intensive on the Baltic Sea, in which I swam. I walked about 5 miles a day through hilly German vineyards, ate well and often and according to the finest of nutritional guidelines, slept when I was tired, read books, saw old friends and made new ones. I tried different things--not just odd German things like their late-night talk shows that inevitably end with someone on rollerskates wearing feathers talking about the Euro Zone, but different clothes and different music, books, speed limits, opportunities, boundaries and horizons. I did all this in the name of being a memorable parent, a deserving mother, a woman prepared and excited to help this child make his way through a strange world.
I glowed.
This is no longer the case, this glowing. And it's not because all those bouncy hormones have pulled up stakes. It's not just that I'm watching 50 creeping up on me in 15 short months, bringing with it crepe-y skin, kooky knees and adult acne. It's that I've lost my lustre. It's not depression, that black velvet comforter that keeps a girl in bed with the blinds down; this is more like a set of scratchy flannel pyjamas in an unpleasant shade of ecru. There are no raisins in my oatmeal. One of my sparkplugs has crud in it. My dog won't hunt. My tiara don't sparklie. Bleah. Just. . . bleah, is all.
Getting knocked up isn't an option this time, but I'm going to put myself on a pregnancy diet again just the same. I'm not talking just blueberries and brazil nuts (tho also blueberries and brazil nuts). I'm going to try to live this day-to-day adventure as though I were uniquely responsible for nurturing a small life inside. But this time it's mine.
And then a miracle happened and I was whisked off through no virtue of my own to this shiny new life in Europe: no work, no reponsibilities, no deadlines. Plus: a free car! It was that magical. And the most magical thing of all: at an advanced age and with no expectations at all, suddenly a suspected case of food poisoning turned into a baby on the way.
I had just finished a lovely 6-week vacation/language intensive on the Baltic Sea, in which I swam. I walked about 5 miles a day through hilly German vineyards, ate well and often and according to the finest of nutritional guidelines, slept when I was tired, read books, saw old friends and made new ones. I tried different things--not just odd German things like their late-night talk shows that inevitably end with someone on rollerskates wearing feathers talking about the Euro Zone, but different clothes and different music, books, speed limits, opportunities, boundaries and horizons. I did all this in the name of being a memorable parent, a deserving mother, a woman prepared and excited to help this child make his way through a strange world.
I glowed.
This is no longer the case, this glowing. And it's not because all those bouncy hormones have pulled up stakes. It's not just that I'm watching 50 creeping up on me in 15 short months, bringing with it crepe-y skin, kooky knees and adult acne. It's that I've lost my lustre. It's not depression, that black velvet comforter that keeps a girl in bed with the blinds down; this is more like a set of scratchy flannel pyjamas in an unpleasant shade of ecru. There are no raisins in my oatmeal. One of my sparkplugs has crud in it. My dog won't hunt. My tiara don't sparklie. Bleah. Just. . . bleah, is all.
Getting knocked up isn't an option this time, but I'm going to put myself on a pregnancy diet again just the same. I'm not talking just blueberries and brazil nuts (tho also blueberries and brazil nuts). I'm going to try to live this day-to-day adventure as though I were uniquely responsible for nurturing a small life inside. But this time it's mine.
Friday, December 16, 2011
There's nothing funny about stage 3 lymphoma
Actually, there is.
To have her intensive biopsy, mom had to remove her dentures, as they were putting her under a general. This is a proud and elegant woman, a stunning beauty, really, even inher 80s. Just the victim of Depression-era dentistry and childhood poverty. Moving on: she didn't like the whole no-teeth thing--it meant she couldn't engage in witty repartee, she couldn't put on a brave smile. Seriously, YOU try to smile bravely while you're in a hospital gown, those ass-ugly slippers AND NO TEETH. She didn't want me looking at her, she didn't want anyone looking at her. Scared and tiny and now no sarcasm to get her through. So I did the only respectful and reassuring thing I could have done, given the circumstances.
I challenged her to a "She sells seashells by the seashore" duel.
And that's the memory I will keep of that hospital corridor: not the fear or that plashy self-pity that comes when you find yourself mothering your own mother, but of the two of us laffing our heads off over what a strange bond we've forged over the past 50 years, one that no stupid cancer could ever chew through.
To have her intensive biopsy, mom had to remove her dentures, as they were putting her under a general. This is a proud and elegant woman, a stunning beauty, really, even inher 80s. Just the victim of Depression-era dentistry and childhood poverty. Moving on: she didn't like the whole no-teeth thing--it meant she couldn't engage in witty repartee, she couldn't put on a brave smile. Seriously, YOU try to smile bravely while you're in a hospital gown, those ass-ugly slippers AND NO TEETH. She didn't want me looking at her, she didn't want anyone looking at her. Scared and tiny and now no sarcasm to get her through. So I did the only respectful and reassuring thing I could have done, given the circumstances.
I challenged her to a "She sells seashells by the seashore" duel.
And that's the memory I will keep of that hospital corridor: not the fear or that plashy self-pity that comes when you find yourself mothering your own mother, but of the two of us laffing our heads off over what a strange bond we've forged over the past 50 years, one that no stupid cancer could ever chew through.
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