Other kids are cute, too

Our upstairs neighbors are getting a puppy soon.
Their kid - age 3 - chose the name "Noodles Popsicle."
The breeder told them there are no males available, so they'll be getting a girl.
So the kid said the name had to be changed. Clearly, Noodles Popsicle is a boy's name.
The new name?
Roxy Popsicle.
Awesome, isn't it?
Sounds like a drag queen. And his/her hit song is the sultry "Melts in Your Mouth."
Or some such. "I'm Only Frigid Till the Wrapper Comes Off."
Other suggestions welcome.

Coco update

We had another good visit with the neurologist.
Knock on wood, but it seems we're just visiting every six months to check in and chat.
And bribe the kids with toys - which, I still maintain, ought to be covered by the insurance.
After all, some doctors I've spoken to recommend bribery.

On the sign by the elevator, somewhere under Coco's neurologist, it humbly says "Oliver Sacks, M.D." And Julie and I went, "Oh." Of course he has to work somewhere.
So now I've requested one of his books from the library. NYC can be so awesome, sometimes.

Tomorrow: Pedal Boats in Prospect Park. Woohoo!

Critiques

I occasionally nose around in Roger Sutton’s blog. Who knows, someday I might read about something I wrote there?
Anyway, he’s been commenting on Harry Potter madness, as he should, being of the publishing world.
In this post he links to an op-ed in the NYTimes.
Sutton highlights this quote: "Our obsession with spoilers has a diminishing effect, reducing popular criticism to a kind of glorified consumer reporting and the audience to babies."
Fine.
Here are two more: “And as you can see from my first memory of the cinema [being ten and shouting at the audience not to worry because E.T. isn’t dead], which was also my first act of criticism, I’m not above ruining an ending for others.”
And, the one that I find more pertinent than the one Sutton highlights: “People outraged by spoilers should avoid all reviews before going to the movies or reading the book they’ve waited so long for, because the fact is all criticism spoils, no matter how scrupulous.”
See, I’m not sure I know anymore what criticism is or does. The first quote I chose seems to indicate that the author of the op-ed piece, Nathan Lee, isn’t too sure either – unless it is an act of criticism to reassure the audience.
The second quote gets more to my general issue with this discussion. What’s the point of reviewing (A) the seventh book of an interrelated series and (B) Harry-Freaking-Potter of which everyone has already formed some opinion or other. All a decent review of the book could really say is, “Yep, she stays true to form,” or “Mmm. This one wasn’t up to snuff.” But even if it wasn’t up to snuff, would you, as a critic, expect someone who’s stuck with the first sixth to abandon the last one because of what you wrote?
The only point to a critique of HP7 I can see is to snag some of that immense HP readership for your publication.
But again to that last quote. Papa likes. “All criticism spoils.” Of course it does. It examines the work of art as work first, art second.

Coco Tuesday

It has taken a while, but Spiderman has now replaced Barbie in my list of despised brands.
Madge's birthday took us to the toystore several times and every time I had the privilege of waiting while Coco drooled over every variant of with web, without web, with motorcycle, on foot, mask on, mask off... only to end by telling him, "No, I told you, we're not getting any Spiderman stuff." Only to start the process all over, of course.

Madge Monday

Madge was the first of us to finish the Harry Potter book. She finished it yesterday.
We (Julie) made her not tell anything. I just finished it today and must say that I'm very impressed with Madge's fairly stony-faced reading. She can't say the name of a store in our neighborhood (Nancy Nancy) without cracking up, but she only had a few gasps and oh-nos and yays while she was dealing with Harry and his friends and enemies.
We (that is, I) got two copies. One for Madge's birthday and another so we can coordinate reading it at the same time.
It's ironic that the only reason I've ever been out until two a.m. in New York City is a children's book.

Group Project

Madge and GrandJohn supplied the lines.
I merely assembled them here.

Can't wait
to be eight.

Then I'll whine
till I'm nine.

(Madge turned eight on Sunday. I have the feeling eight is going to be a great age.)

Waiting.

Busy day today. Swimming class, shopping, swimming, lunch, botanic garden, library, shopping, home.
And still Madge is cranky and nudgy. Partly because she's tired, but mostly because she's getting antsy about her birthday.
We'll see what happens the day after.

Baroooom!

I need to figure out a better way to tell this story.
I related it to Julie this evening and she was fairly unimpressed.
See, today was filled with thunderstorms and we found out the hard way that the pool closes for an hour once they hear thunder. The hard way, in this case, is finally getting to the pool and hearing thunder right before stepping into the icy shower. The lead-up is what made it so difficult to stomach. But we survived. I even got a nap out of the deal because more Flintstones arrived via Netflix.
And we went swimming later that afternoon. In the rain.
And no, it is not "wetter underwater when you're there when it rains."
And yes, we got kicked out when the lifeguards heard thunder. But at least we got to be in the water for a little more than half an hour.

Coco Tuesday Bypassed

By a story too good to pass up.
We had friends over for game night. A family with twin girls Madge's age and a younger girl only slightly older than Coco.
When I was taking out my contacts after everyone had left, I saw some hair by the sink (and remembered an odd conversation between Emily and her mom in which Emily asked if the mom liked her curls). Madge and Julie were in the bedroom.
Me: Who cut her hair?
Madge: Emily.
Julie: How much did she cut?
Madge: Just enough to get your electric toothbrush out.

Ludwig van Rowling

Here’s a comparison you can only take so far. But let’s see if I’m alone on this.
The first five Harry Potter books progress like Beethoven’s first five symphonies.
The first two don’t do that much for you, though they’re well-crafted. And, like Beethoven’s Second, the Chamber of Secrets hints at something larger with Tom Riddle’s past.
The third is where things really take off on a grander and darker scale.
The fourth is the most classical. Symphony, obviously. Book, a tournament with Harry as the dark horse.
And the fifth is the one that really kicks things off.
I was reminded of this comparison when we saw the movie this weekend and also remembered that I felt disappointed in the sixth book not because it wasn’t a good, adventurous read, which it was, but because it wasn’t as leisurely and pastoral as I had – for my own weird reasons – expected.
And the whole calculation will be off anyway, since the seventh book is the last. Will it be like Beethoven’s Ninth or Seventh? Both are great, so the answer doesn’t really matter.
But, since it supposedly has a surprise ending, it might be more like the Ninth. We’ll find out soon enough.

Madge Monday

Ah, Madge.
Today we got to go back to swim class after a weekend off. When we got there, she proclaimed that she didn’t want to do it. It makes her legs hurt.
He does make them kick an inordinate amount. But still. So I bullied her into it, though not happily. I think Wednesday will be better.
I hope.
Coco, of course, wanted to go in the water – since he doesn’t have to kick so much.
And don’t get me wrong, we still went swimming later in the day. It’s the class aspect that was difficult after the brief break.

And cutie-Madge is not a good one for surprises. So she keeps asking about birthday presents for her upcoming eighth. Hee, hee.

Unsex me now

Our weekend has been highly cultural. The park outside our building has summer events, and this year their Shakespeare production is Macbeth. Fair enough.
Teach this neighborhood of slackers a little something about ambition.
But, for those of you who may not know this, the park has a playground attached to it which stays active fairly late.
This involves a lot of shushing while the productions are under way.
It also means that the audience consists of people who find out about events there through bringing their children to the playground.
Which means that there were several audible gasps at some lines one might normally find merely over the top.
LADY M:
… I have given suck, and know
How tender ‘tis to love the babe that milks me –
I would, while it was smiling in my face,
Have pluck’d my nipple from his boneless gums,
And dash’d the brains out, had I so sworn
As you have done to this.

I do not believe the “What to Expect” people, or even Dr. Spock with his “trust your instincts” approach, would approve.

International House of Movies

When we saw Harry Potter and the Order of the Pe- I mean Phoenix, there were, as so often, adults without accompanying children in the audience. Not that this is unusual, but at a matinee, alone, borders on sad.
So of course one of them struck up a conversation with us. She was sweet, though, well, a bit desperate for conversation. Still, open minds and all…
Turns out she’s a chef (found out via a Ratatouille conversation) and works in the diplomatic section of the UN. And, yes, creating menus is an act of diplomacy, there. Apparently each county gets featured for a week. (My question “You mean Luxemburg and China get a week each?” was met with a blank stare.) And the delegates seem to really enjoy having their country featured. Not because they’re looking forward to their native cuisine, but, in true “international” style, because they love telling everyone how it’s not quite right.

Friday Follies: Greekin' Out

For example, putting Heraclitus in context, I think the first fragment comes from a story he was telling about the time his wife caught him in a hot tub with six nude underage Spartan cheerleaders. “Okay, so first I told her that she is the only one for me, and that she is the model of all womanhood – or boyhood, in the case of two of my “friends” – in my mind. And then I said:

(1) It is wise to hearken, not to me but to my word, and to confess that all things are one.

Adjectives that make you think

Do you ever catch yourself writing redundant adjectives, like "close proximity"?
Editing tip: if the opposite adjective doesn't make any sense, for example "far proximity," then your original adjective is unnecessary.
Unless you're making a poetic point. For example a couple poring over a crossword puzzle (see, I still have memories of times before children) is in close proximity, while a couple reading separate sections - one reading the Arts section while other reads the obits - may be in far proximity.

Anyway. This evening I walked by a hair salon on which the sign read:

Franchezka Unisex Human Hair.

I'm still trying to figure out the customer interaction they had that made them insert that extra word. Were people bringing in their draft horses?

Greekin' out

Okay, so I recently got through the Heraclitus bit (the Heraclitic section, heh, heh) in the Greek Reader (which sounds like an oxymoron, but there are literate Greeks around, I hear – Texan Reader, I wouldn’t be too sure.)
Heraclitus is the guy who said who can’t step in the same river twice. He wrote other goodies, too, but the writings are really fragments, I think, so they make for awkward reading at times. For example:
32. The sun is new every day.
33. (Thales foretold an eclipse.)
34. … the seasons that bring all things.
So of course I want to put them in context. All I need is time and brains.

my met favorite

The tension!

Doesn't he look like he's about to spew a bunch of profanities?

The plaque said that it's the head of a piper or floutist - and I guess the body and instrument disappeared a while ago.

But I'm quite sure I like the sculpture much better like this.

Who knows, they may have had it all wrong and he might have been a Thracian garbage collector.

Also, I believe that this is the rock that Coco was wishing to throw into the reflecting pool. He's already holding his breath, after all.

It's Greek to me

I flutter from obsession to obsession.
Today, as in the picture of a few days ago, a butterfly landed on me. (Coco was jealous, but he does understand – luckily – that I am more capable of holding still and that, lately, I dress in brighter shades of gray and black than he does.)
This reminded me again of one of the many loose bits of knowledge I have. It’s something I’ve been thinking about since we visited the Met and it’s Greek statuary exhibit on the same day as a butterfly landed on me.
Apparently, the Greek word Psyche means breath and soul and all those related things. It also, in old Greek (as far I vaguely remember from a muddled source), means butterfly. And in the myth about Cupid and Psyche, he (the god of love, remember) gets careless and cuts himself on one of his own arrows while doing some task (not remembered, sorry) involving Psyche. He falls in love with her (spelled out, the god of love falls in love with the human soul) and finagles that she be granted immortality. Hence also the relation to the butterfly: fluttery, airy, and a visible manifestation of the concept of transformation.
So now I’m reading The Viking Portable Greek Reader which I purchased a long time ago because I was so impressed by the editor--who happens to be W.H. Auden--’s introduction.
(On this a note to all you published authors out there: Don’t slack on ANYTHING you put out there, you never know what bit of writing happens to be a reader’s introduction to the world of your mind. - I’d like to say that this was my introduction to Auden, but I’d heard of him before and then – the shame – checked out more of his writing after seeing Four Weddings and a Funeral.)
Anyway, my odd literary thoughts don’t stop here. In the past (not for a class), had also started Ovid’s Metamorphoses, but had given up because too many of the stories were about gods falling in lust with some human and the ensuing jealous rages of mortals and immortals.
Now. The other day I got to thinking how it’s cute that in their world gods and humans are in such jealous proximity of each other. Much different from other conceptions of a single god and mortals – or, even, of more primary Greek gods, Zeus’ et al.’s progenitors, and humans. These squabbles and jealousies are like high school, where the most animosity is between proximal grades, while the extremes hardly acknowledge one another.
And then, through some fortuitous leap, I thought of the world of Jane Austen and how the social stratifications. Not that Colin Firth – I mean Fitzwilliam Darcy – is Cupid, but there is that aspect of the sacred commingling with the profane for each other’s mutual benefit.
Discuss in 750 words or less. Use footnotes.

Newsflash!

It has to be said:
I have the cutest wife ever.

Creative, I guess

Okay, here's what happened.

Madge grabbed the extra-thick sunscreen and applied it, liberally, to my back. My back started itching and I asked her to scratch it. She noticed that she could write with her fingernails and I figured the longer she wrote, the longer I'd get my back scratched.

Fair enough.

Then I wanted to see what she wrote, but the mirror was no help, so she told me.

Eek.

In case you can't read it, it's my name followed by the words "butt party."

I just hope she doesn't decide to Google those words

or it'll be like the time at the SFMOMA when she insisted we go through the photography exhibit, entitled "Sex Workers of Asia."

Ah, good times.

Coco Tuesday

Coco's swim class today. More mixed crowd. If I were to generalize, I might say that the change in ethnic makeup in this neighborhood is fairly recent.
But that's totally wrong. It's more of an economic thing. The east coast, after all, is camp central. Parents send kids to camps, day, pony, swim, fat, shop, or panhandle camp. We're just doing camp dad instead, which right now seems to be a modified version of swim camp.

His recent cute things he says are, "I KNOW dat," and, "I hate dat."
And, at bedtime tonight, "I hate nos."

Don't we all.

Madge Monday

The swimming pool seems to know my blogging schedule. Madge's swim class is on Monday (and Wednesday and Friday), Coco's on Tuesday (and Thursday). (Our weeks fill up quickly.) Unfortunately for us, Coco wasn't too understanding of this arrangement and cried through most of her first session.
She did great. This time around swim class might be a winner.
And to Julie, Madge said tonight, "I'm the only peach person there."
(She goes by crayon designations.)

Classic

There is a fountain in the new Greek and Roman sculpture hall of the Met where the following conversation (more or less) was overheard.

"Hey, Madge, what did you wish for?"

"I'm not going to say because then it might not come true."

"Oh."

"What did you wish for, Coco?"

"A rock."

(Meant, of course, was, "A rock to throw in here instead of the measly nickel my dad gave me.")

Shock and Awwww

Same day, different combinations, but basically the same feeling.
Some friends of ours from the Bay Area met us on the Upper East Side for breakfast and we finally got to see their new baby (new to us, about six months old to them) up close. Such a cutie. But then again, the whole family's adorable.
Since we were already in Manhattan, we followed it up with a visit to the Met and the Central Park Zoo, where I met my winged friend.

helpful movie review

Last night I watched The Good Shepherd.
Very informative. For example, before I watched the movie, I didn't know that it was three hours long.

Coco Tuesday

I have no idea how much he understood of the game itself, but Coco sure caught on to the ballpark experience. He knew exactly where the cotton candy was, figured out what kinds of goodies you can snag, and ran away when they were singing "God Bless America."

"Too loud," apparently.

Madge Monday

Madge at our first Yankee's game.

It was a busy day: birthday party in Brooklyn, game in Bronx. All in all, about two and a half or three hours on the subway that day.

But we survived, thanks to fun events.

And Madge had some books along, so she could tune out when she needed to.

Where'd he go?

Is his identity revealed?

Hang on

Saving the world will have to wait while I get this.

It's amazing, btw., how many trucks honked at Coco, how many people stopped to ask him if he was saving the world, and how many construction workers smiled and waved. Maybe because it's New York, but Spidey got quite a welcome.

The costume

See? The ultimate Spidey costume, because it's reversible. And, trust me, we make full use of this function (about once every 12 minutes).

And, in case you were wondering, the authority insists that what we have here is a costume. Peter Parker's is different. His is a suit.

the accent

The accent here is the weirdest.
I don't know if you were following my problems with being "axed" a question.
Coco was at the playground with his new Spiderman (reversible!!) costume and a little girl asked to see his "max." But even she realized how weird that sounded and tried it again, "ma-a-x."
Poor thing.
The dropped t is a secondary peeve. I don't mind it so much in others, but for some reason it bugs me when Madge says "ki'en."
This week I heard an even more extreme version of it when a lady referred to a "co-hang-guh" (dropped t, overenunciated g).

vacation

Eek.
Now my blogging time is being eaten up.
My voice recorder is collecting ideas, but how to tease them into a post is a mystery to me.
Recent recording: To say that a novel is plotted and planned like a chess game is not only a cliche, but a bad one. Many chess games are terribly obvious and lopsided. Those that aren't frequently end in a draw. Most of what happens in a chess game is beneath the surface and all you really see is some pawn magically making it to the last rank to be promoted.
The novels described as chess-like tend to be more domino-like, where everything gets set up painfully and then, pllllllllllllllllllllt, all fall down.

How did I get to thinking about this? Well, the ominous goldfish opening led to books on chess openings which take a simple beginning and explore several promising continuations.
For example, the classic Goldfish would lead to a frantic trip to the pet store to find identical fish as replacements.
But you could also have a Talking Goldfish Gambit in which the Goldfish begin to spill secrets about their owners.
Or the Literal Goldfish Sacrifice in which a child shaves the gold off one of the fish to make a ring, which turns out to be magic.
I'm just saying.

The Fish

You may wonder why Julie left such a panicked comment yesterday.
See, this weekend, one of the fish got him or herself stuck in the decorative leaves. It appears a fish does not have much of a “reverse” function. And, when we freed him or her, the fish spend a good bit of time floating belly up before paddling first with one fin and then sprinting around with both.
Understandably, Julie (never too much of an optimist) is concerned.

pre-k spells relief

Got a call yesterday, letting me know that someone dropped out of the half-day Pre-K program at Madge's school and that Coco can go.
Whew.
Now it's time to fill out antiquated paperwork.

Ominous openings

Some stories have great opening lines that suck you in and don’t let you go.
For example, from George and Martha, “George was fond of peeking in windows.”
Other stories have opening lines that can only lead in one direction.
For example, from Our Life in Park Slope, “We were taking care of our neighbor's goldfish.”

Coco Tuesday

Coco seems to equate vacation, (or, “bocation,” as he calls it) with leaving town. So I foresee some problems next week when Julie is taking some time off work – which, unfortunately means nothing to him, otherwise our problems would be solved.

Madge Monday

What a mixed-up day. Because of last week’s postponed picnic for Madge’s class, I was set to go to the park with them this morning. Then, as I dropped off Coco, I noticed that they were set up for their end-of-the year diploma-giving and sentimentalizing. Eek.
So I zipped back to Madge’s school and got her to attend as well, after which we’d meet her class in the park. So far, so good. Unfortunately, the final goodbye with Madge ended in tears – on her part, not mine. I’ve got a day and a half of relative freedom before the summer break (although the schools obviously do their best to impinge on it), so maybe I should have been the one crying.

There was a potentially awkward moment on the way back from the park. The kids were being antsy – they had been playing ballgames in the park, after all – and Madge’s teacher wanted some sort of order. So she said, “Hold on to your balls as you walk.”
I’m pleased to report that I didn’t draw attention to it then. That’s what the blog is for.

Finally, the pseudo-graduation. It was cute. And I think I deserve a sort of diploma as well because I reached a milestone today. See, John Turturro occasionally drops off or picks up his kid who attends Madge’s school. Today was the first day I actually looked in his face and nodded. Nonchalantly, I thought. I think I deserve a cookie for that. Now I’m ready to actually try a conversation next year.
Just you wait. Before you know it, we’ll be playing chess together.

more test bashing

Markus commented on the "first-borns are smarter - yeah, right" post.

markus :-) said...
Talk about a representative population! 250,000 Norwegian men signing up for the military between '85 and '04.

I'll go one better and say that, because of the representative population, they figured that 2.3 points on an IQ test are a big deal and blew it way out of proportion. Because that's what, a 47% difference in their statistical sample?

this is your brain on exams

I was forwarded an article with this title, “First-born kid a tad brainier than siblings, study says.”
I have a feeling, if a latter-born had written the article, the title might have read, “First-born kid way more willing to impress authority figures, especially on needless exams, study confirms.”

Response to Comments

Oooh. Comments. I love comments.
But since I fear nobody goes back to reread and see if I've commented on the comments, here is a separate entry.
The term defined by the Evanses, by the way, is "Pickwickian sense."
Now, of course, I'll have to use it in regular conversation.
As in,
Waiter: Are you still working on that?
Me: Yes, but only in a Pickwickian sense.
And then I'll laugh and Julie will roll her eyes.
Again.
This being New York, the actor-waiter will meanwhile have flashed a vacant smile and wandered off. The bus-person will have shyly refilled the water glasses and said, "Esscuse me, ees a cliche, no?"

And, hey, teacherAna, if you really want it, let me know. I still haven't worked through my Fowler (i.e., A Dictionary of Modern English Usage) for which I paid good money and to which I ought to refer first, anyway. And which, if you're nerdy like me, is a trove of good, clean fun.

Discards

Our neighborhood is pretty awesome for many reasons. One of the main ones is the quality of books that people leave on their stoops when they’re cleaning house.
Within the last month, I’ve picked up, among other things, Writing Poems, by Robert Wallace (1982) – which, at the very least, is a nice anthology of poetry – and, my favorite so far, A Dictionary of Contemporary American Usage (1957 contemporary, that is), by Bergen and Cornelia Evans (siblings, not spouses). With names like those, I don’t know what other career they might have chosen, except perhaps vaudevillian funeral eulogists.
Between those two books, I’ll be ready to write some cutting-edge ante-post-Soviet mid-post-modern symbolist advertising jingles, or heavy-metal power ballads. Or news-quiz limericks.
Anyway, nosing around in the latter book, I came across this:

The term has become a cliché of the literary and therefore should not be used in their company. It is totally meaningless to the unliterary and therefore should not be used in their hearing either.

Which, really, sums up most grad school discussions. But now I’m getting personal.

when the cat's away, the mice miss her

Dear Readers,
In case you didn’t know, let me spell it out. When I write something to the effect of “Julie is out of town,” it means, “for God’s sake, send me an email or something because I’m tired of having my only conversational material be ‘put that down’ or ‘clean that up.’” Which is to say, when you see that Julie is out of town, go ahead an comment or send me an email.
Yours truly,
Mr. Lonely

Having sick kids in the house isn’t helping. I swear, for two nights in a row, the clock on the microwave was taunting me with “2:28” (exactly on the nose both nights) when Coco was “asking” (for lack of a better word) for something to drink.

And the straw that almost broke my camel-back yesterday was the fridge. Around five I saw that the beers were sweaty and thought “How odd.” Then, after the kids were asleep, it dawned on me. It’s not just freakin’ humid (it is), but the fridge isn’t working. The light was on, but the numbers indicating the coolness level weren’t on 4, they were on “-“ (maybe they were commenting on me, who knows).
After much frustration and some venting calls to Julie, I realized that I might as well try to move the thing, though it might fall on me and squish me. At least I would have gone out swinging.
But the fridge wouldn’t budge, so I’m still alive.
Luckily, I finally remembered that we have a fuse box.

Coco Tuesday

So now Coco is sick, too, but something is telling me it's not strep.
Maybe the "something" is called "wishful thinking," but still.
Crusty eyes, whinyness, fever, whinyness, runny nose, whinyness, fitful sleep. Have I mentioned whinyness? What am I forgetting? Oh, a shorter temper than ever.
But now he's asleep on the couch. Poor dude.
Let's hope we can go to Madge's picnic tomorrow. His school has one on the same day, but I'm not sure I can handle that, not to mention that, with him sick, I don't know how to shop for treats for said picnics.

Madge Monday

Poor Julie. The guilt.
Julie left town on Sunday, Happy Father’s Day to me – thank you, so of course Madge got strep throat. She’s doing better now and thankfully she understands why she has to take the awful-tasting penicillin.
Oh, and “we” also have our neighbor’s goldfish in the house for a few weeks while they’re out of town. Every time the cat gets close, Madge screeches.
Joy.

Shield your eyes

A requested by T-Bone - the Gin-Rummy champion of the 612 area code - a pic of me with the facial hair and new haircut.

Fade to what?

I know that fiction finds its sources in life, but I’m still surprised when I see the real-life models.
The other day I was picking up some items at a corner cheapo store (Save On Fifth). As I was leaving, I heard one of the employees say, “No, we don’t [indecipherable]” I looked and saw a guy in a stained tracksuit, with gray, slicked back hair get back into his crappy red Chevy SUV (with Jersey plates) that was filled with what looked like “prime” merchandise.
Without the Hollywood magic, that behavior is incredibly cheesy.

lookin' good

Got a haircut yesterday. And read these lines by George Peele the same day:

Let not my beauty’s fire
Inflame unstaid desire,
Nor pierce any bright eye
That wand’reth lightly.

Coincidence? I think not.

Speaking of which, Coco sure has a thing for pretty girls – pretty by his standards, which appear to be those of a New Jersey mobster. Yesterday, he literally hounded this girl, probably eleven, at the playground. A mom and three kids (Brianna, Steven, and Taylor). Big gap between the first, the “pretty” girl and the little siblings. It must have been nanny’s day off, because the mom was totally overdoing the singing and jumping and chasing and playing and … You can always tell the inexperienced ones at the playground, usually aunties, uncles, or just friends, because they have no idea of pacing. If you don’t have dinner and bedtime in view at all times you’re going to be a wreck by 5 pm. As this lady will have been. And I think she bribed the girl (tight jeans, tight white shirt, padded bra, white hoop earrings – Coco called them “moon earrings”) to help out.
The mom also got the “Head and shoulders” lyrics wrong.
C’mon, people. Things rhyme.
“Head and shoulders, knees and toes, knees and toes.” (repeat)
Then – and I know I’m a picky dork for getting irritated, but there you go – she sang/grunted:
“Eyes…ears…nose…and a mouth.”
And forgot about the rest of the song. Jeez. That song should be part of the parent application program.
The mom also thought that Coco wanted to play with her two-year-old, Steven. It was a bizarre love-play triangle.

your plumbing is showing

(Sorry, but you're going to have to follow this link to get the visual)

Here's how I imagine the community meeting about this building.

Builders: We think a twenty-story building would be great here.
Neighbors: We think it would block our view.
Builders: Huh. How about this? Glass. You can see through glass, right?
Neighbors: Yeah.
Builders: Okay, then.

And apparently that was it.

comment on comment

Speaking of Madge's shorter hair,

xineymarie said...
i disagree -- i specifically grow my hair for summer
because i like being able to put it up, both off my neck AND out of my face
(shorter hair falls in the face more frequently, i've found).

There is a character in German lore, Till Eulenspiegel, who loves walking uphill because he knows he'll be going downhill soon after (and gets sad when going downhill).
It seems xineymarie is the kind of person who dons sweaters in the summer for the joy of taking them off when everyone else is complaining. Either that or she works in the same place as Julie where they can't seem to get the climate control working so the general population is comfortable.

it also takes less time for me to 'do', since you can just throw longer hair in
a ponytail, rather than having to make sure the short hairs are all in their
[untethered] places....then again, i'm not responsible for untangling a
seven-year-old's knots. so i can see that particular logic. a few weeks ago i
had a rather unproductive chat with my boyfriend's niece (age 4) about us
unknotting HER hair. i did not receive permission, and greg made her cry. oh
well.

And there you go, she answered her own disagreement. Love it.

Coco Tuesday

Coco tidbits, because I'm in a rush.
He's super clingy lately. So much so, he has a fit when I say I'm going to the store without him.
Grrr.
On Saturday I wanted to play soccer and not take him, but because of fits and because he hadn't been out much and because I'm a sucker, I took him along. It went fine, since there were other kids, too.
After, he expressed his surprise. "You like playing 'no-hands' ball?"

Madge Monday

Last night Madge asked me to play guitar while she fell asleep.
“Awww,” you might say, being ignorant of how often I mess up, and, in response to which, cuss.

[Mental note: write “lullaby” called “Sweet $#@!%! Dreams”]

Revisionist History

Speaking of petrified historical remnants.
Madge, who has been reading Asterix (she’s got good taste, after all), asked me yesterday if the Gauls and Romans were the “second people alive.”
“What do you mean?” didn’t get me very far, so I asked her who the “first people alive” might have been.
She said, “You know. The Flintstones.”
I guess the answer to her question is, “Yes.”

Museum items

We went to the Transit Museum yesterday. Fun.
The old subway cars had chewing gum ads from the forties, and gum under the seats from the twenties.

words, words, words

After a chaotic pot luck at Madge's school, Coco fell asleep early. (So did I, but Madge was kind enough to wake me up and remind me that I had limericks to write.)
While I was "working on the limericks," which involves a lot of random procrastinary web-surfing, Madge was looking up a word in her Children's Dictionary, a word that had no chance of being there.
"R-E, R-E..."
"What are you looking for?"
"Creepuscular."
"Crepuscular?"
"Uh-huh. What does it mean?"
Now, I happen to know the Thelonious Monk song, "Crepuscule With Nellie," so I said, "It means 'of the evening.'" Where does she get words like this?
"'Of the evening'?"
"Yes, 'crepuscule' means 'evening-time' or 'dusk' or something like that, so 'crepuscular' means 'happening at that time.'"
"Oh. 'cause it says here that the rabbit is crepuscular."
"Yeah, I guess it means that they like evening-time rather than..."
and at that time she blanked out.
But still.

Then, later, as I was actually thinking of rhymes, she sat at the table, copying out definitions from her dictionary, each entry in a new color. She's up to "abolition the act of getting rid of."

Today, she's being a "regular" kid again, watching a Disney cartoon and arguing with her brother.

Phew.

Asking for trouble

Madge's school is pairing up with Barnes and Noble for a mutually beneficial bookfair. You buy books, present a voucher, and the profits get split somehow between the two institutions.
But the flyer we got in the folder included this:

PS321 Students, Parents and Teachers:
Come read your Pandamonium poem, or any poem you
like, at our first 321 OPEN MIC NIGHT
and
Barnes & Noble
Bookfair

I can just see some dad, dressed in requisite black, smelling of frankincense and myrrh - or maybe just cigarettes and gin - going up to the mic and saying:
Here's a little something I wrote, called "Full Custody, My Ass."

The kids will love it.

One more

Coco was coloring Spiderman yesterday. He's finally gotten over breaking down in agony when he accidentally colors Spidey's eyes, which must stay white at all times.
Then he seamlessly went from "accidentally" getting some red on his arm to taking off his shirt and coloring a complete costume on his chest.
But he didn't finish. Not because I intervened, but because he was using the scented markers and I think the faux cerises were getting to be too much for him.
Of course he was duly complimented by his friends at school today.

Madge and Coco, Mommy's away remix

Julie's out of town, so here are some more updates for her benefit.
Good timing on her part, too, because she hates it when people spit.
And Coco's logic has led him to believe that he won't have to go potty if he just spits enough.
At least I got him to spit in the sink or potty. If he keeps this up, he'll be the first 4-yr-old Brooklynite (of the twenty-first century - oh, how I'd hate to be wrong about the factual aspects of this awkward joke) with his own spittoon. ptoink.

Madge, our lighthearted one, has taken to writing in her diary which choices she has already made in the choose-your-own-adventure book she's reading now. Saves time, I guess.

Coco Tuesday

Coco keeps wanting me to have a playdate with his teacher. His selling point: she’s beautiful.
What impression does he have of me? (I know, I know, it’s harmless, but, still, taken out of context… “Really, Julie, it was Coco’s idea. A playdate with a beautiful woman. Please, get your mind out of the gutter.”)
So today I had my playdate with his teacher. I called it that to get him off my back. (Writing those words, I see the irony, since his preferred mode of transportation is still my shoulders.) It was really an end-of-the-year parent-teacher conference. No surprises. He’s got a temper. He’s sweet. He doesn’t like being bossed around or rushed. He’s active and charming and caring. He’s better at using his words rather than scratching or hitting. In all, rather similar to my last performance review.
But back to the playdate aspect. Who wouldn’t want a playdate with his teacher? Honestly, sometimes it feels like have a caretaker for your child is cruel and unusual punishment. As an only moderately attractive male (three beers or two glasses of white wine and I’m kind of cute, I hear) it is rare that I get to see females be as openly cheerful and warm as around my kids. Now add the fact that I’m essentially gay to them – i.e., unavailable, therefore appealing – and you end up with a potentially frustrating situation.
Luckily I never think about these matters.

Madge Monday

The unimaginable has happened. Madge agreed to get her hair cut short. She volunteered it, even. New York humidity has its benefits, I guess. See, what happened was this. We’ve been telling her and telling her that shorter hair is cooler (as in less hot) because it exposes your neck and in general doesn’t trap as much heat. Of course she didn’t buy it. But, luckily, she actually heard it and remembered it. (Which she does with many, many other things that I don’t always realize at the time.) The other day it was, to her, unbearable, and we used a clip to put her hair up. She was amazed at the difference and, after about half an hour, said that she wants a haircut. Short. Like mommy’s.
I’m just relieved that we don’t have to fight about brushing the hair anymore.

Lighter mood

It’s weird how much a diet affects my mood. Eating less turns me into a grumpy prick.
Now I’m eating more regularly and have become my old self, a happy prick.
For example, I saw someone wearing a hoodie this morning which read, “Authentic American.” Last week I would have gone into a hateful spiral of how, judging by the people who “represent” Americans, it means ignorant, rude, greedy, insensitive, selfish, etc. But today I just thought that it would be funny to have a hoodie that read, “Fake American: don’t ask for my papers,” or, better yet, “Superficial American: more authentic than the Authentic kind.”
Similarly, a birthday party I attended yesterday, for a friend of Coco’s would have upset me, because the parents are affluent enough to get a mini soccer camp organized, headed by four coaches, well-equipped.
But, as it was, I enjoyed it. They were good and had great coaching techniques for the little ones. Miyagi-like, but with fun activities rather than housework.

The best part was this, though. The coaches were Italian. Coco goes to an international school and some of the parents are French. One of the French dads started playing with the coaches. Of course I joined in after a while even though I had been restraining myself because it wasn’t a party for me – but, hey, I didn’t start it. And that’s sort of my point. As much as we pretend to be older, we always fall into irritating childish habits (“I didn’t start it, so it’s okay for me to join later”). And so it was with the other dad. Not only did he start playing, but, after the kids were done, he wanted to play a game and said that the teams were Italy against France, a rematch from the World Cup.
I was on the Italian team, so I called him a son of a terrorist whore and he headbutted me, but still got to keep his Adidas endorsement contract.

A Madge zinger

I'm still giggling about it.

Madge is going to a friend's birthday party at Chuck E. Cheese's this weekend. Of course Coco wants to go, but can only go separated from the party itself.
He said, "When I get big like Madgie I go to birthday party, too."
To which she replied, "The party will be over by then."

Mistah, c'n I ax you somethin'?

I subbed yesterday and got a little fed up about, well, a lot, really. Seventh graders. Man.
As usual, I’m not sure school is what they need, and I’m not just being facetious. From the teacher’s end, I want them to sit, quietly. But, c’mon. They’re 12-14 – or 25, depending – and sitting quietly from nine to three makes no biological sense whatsoever.

Anyway, at one point I interrupted all the shrieking – “shrieking” to me, “regular conversation” to them – to pick up the trusty dry-erase marker and say, “Okay, we’re gonna play a game of charades now. [“Oh, I love charades. I wanna go first”] Sorry, not charades, pictionary. And you don't get a turn.”

Then I drew what I hoped was a picture of a hatchet.

“Ax.” “Or ‘axe.’” [No, of course nobody said that, but wouldn’t that have been amusing?]
“That’s right.”

Then I drew a picture of a head with a speech bubble that had a question mark in it.

“Talking.” “A cartoon.” “A question.”
“Okay, what do you say when you’re ‘talking’ a ‘question’?”
“Ax.”
“NO! That’s my point. Ask. A-S-K. Ask.”
“Ax.”
“Ask.”
“Ax.”
“Good grief!”

Then I drew a picture of a butt. I wrote “ass+k.”
Finally, after a lot of "hey, he drew a ass," I heard, “Oh, I get it.”
“Okay. Try it. Asss-k.”
“Assssukuh.”
“Ask.”
“Ax.”
“Asssssk.”
“Asssssukuh.”
“Good enough.”

I may have put them on the managerial track at McDonald’s now.

Wang Dang Doodle All The Way

This was in my inbox today.

It's a wedding announcement, of Anna Wang and Brad Holder. For some reason, they didn't rename the wedding party.

I love single entendres.

Madge Monday and Coco Tuesday

Running the Birth Order Classic:

"I win."
"No. We weren't racing to the door. We were racing to the mailbox."

"I win."
"No. I didn't say 'go.' [Starts running. Once comfortably ahead:] 'Go!"

"I win."
"No. I wasn't even racing."

Guess which child said which.

Wages of fossil fuels

Great movie, that. (N'est-ce pas, Tazwell?)

But that's beside the point.

On Friday, I was walking back from dropping off the kids and I smelled heating oil. The source was obvious. There was a gas truck parked by an apartment building. The driver was busy connecting the hose from the truck to the building. No problem, really.

But the dude was smoking - and I don't mean he was attractive. No, he had a lit cigarette dangling from his mouth.

Book Title

The chess books I've been nosing around in lately often feature this phrase, which strikes me as a good book title:

Favourable Complications

(and, yes, it needs the "ou")

Carl in the Chicago Trib.

How can you not love Carl Kassell?

Here, see for yourself - yes, it's a video clip.
(You don't usually get to see him, after all.)

Colby Preface

As promised earlier, here’s the preface to Frank Moore Colby’s Imaginary Obligations (1904).

[For the impatient (for all others as well): the book is a collection of essays about “the … anxieties that make up our chief imaginary obligation to seem something different from what we are.”
The extremely impatient should skip the first sentence (and then know that “hortatory” is an adjectival version of the verb “to exhort”).]

Enjoy:

I presume it will not be denied that the Anglo-Saxon conscience is apt to encroach on the zone of moral indifference. We are a hortatory people, forever laying down the law in a region where diversity is most desirable. Apparently we would rather teach than live; we count votes even in our dreams; and we suppress nine-tenths of our thoughts for fear of seeming incorrect. We are sometimes frank in private, but coram populo our souls are not our own. In proof whereof see any magazine or newspaper or almost any current book or play, and mark especially the amazing difference between public speeches and private thoughts. There are the romantics of politics, and the self-concealment of debate, and the duty to the crowd, and the duty to the coterie, and the duty to the time of day, and the constraint of success, and the fear of being misunderstood, and the care of the universe, and the hundred other anxieties that make up our chief imaginary obligation to seem something different from what we are – something wiser or more sententious or more brilliant or more reasonable and educational, something far less human and infinitely less absurd. We cannot even see a man with a book without worrying over the effect it may have on him, and we would turn every critic into a sort of literary legislator. We try to compel good taste ad the harmless word “culture” has already acquired a grim and horrid sound. On the lightest of matters we lay the heaviest of hands. At every point our indefatigable instructors would substitute a formula for a vital process. Our fancied obligations to these little formulas are for the most part the subject of this book, which is made up of certain newspaper and magazine articles, edited and rearranged. The topics discussed are transitory, but they are bound to recur, and the writings quoted are evanescent but they are of a kind that often return. I have written about them because I enjoyed their absurdity, but incidentally they may show why so many of us grow old rigidly or develop an alarming spiritual pomposity in our middle age.

Classic subbing moment

Kid comes into class.
"What? Mr. M isn't here? Daaaaamn!"
Kid turns and leaves. Sees me. "Oh. Don't worry. I'll be back."

Right. Don't worry. I'm not worried.

Memes aweigh!

I get the feeling I’m thinking too much about this Meme. But forgive me, it’s my first time. Here it is:

The Little-Known Favorites MemeRules: List and describe three of your favorite books that other people might not be familiar with. Then tag five people. See, easy!

Easy? EASY?? (See, I can do it, Megan.)

First I wanted to go the route of choosing “books that other people might not be familiar with,” forsaking the “favorites” a bit. As in:
The U.S. Constitution. Okay, in and of itself not a book, but available in book form, usually with other texts. Attempts to set down some minimal ground rules about getting along in a more or less civilized way.
The Dictionary. Any version, really. Attempts to set down some consensus on how to communicate with words.
A First Aid Manual. Attempts to show how you might be able to save a life, literally.
The problem with this list: I’ve only poked around in these, but haven’t actually read one end to end, so a recommendation in this case is merely idealized.
Not a bad list, though, hunh?

Then I wanted to be silly and do the ol’ switcheroo, as in:
The DaVinci Code (ever hear of it? didn't think so)
Nancy Drew, Book 9, The Sign of the Twisted Candle (all the others suck, really),
And anything on Oprah’s list.
But that’s too easy.


Finally, here’s my real list:


Roy Blount’s Book of Southern Humor. Roy Blount jr., ed. I’m cheating here, because it was the stepping stone for me in finding other great books. But that’s the point. Read it, note which excerpts you especially liked, and chase down more by that writer. Also a great read on its own (though not in a handy size for subway reading).


The Perfect Vacuum, by Stanislaw Lem. Lem’s a Polish science-fiction writer, best known, probably, for Solaris. This is a collection of fictional introductions and reviews of books that have never been (and/or could never be) written. Except for the first entry, a fictional review of the book itself. Mind-opening stuff. And witty, of course.


Imaginary Obligations, by Frank Moore Colby. You’ll have to go to alibris.com or abebooks.com or some such site to track this down, but it’s worth it. The novels I tend to read happen to be well-known (aka “classic”), so here’s another set of pieces. Colby’s essays are witty without being cutesy, and the theme is – but, you know what, I’ll just quote the entire preface in a future post.


Now, the hard part, tagging five people. I’m not sure I even have five readers of this blog, not to mention five readers who have blogs of their own. So here’s the deal. If you don’t have a blog, just write your answer in the comments and then tag people by sending your answer along with the question by email to five others.

I tag
Matt Groening, Tom Stoppard, Willie Nelson, Gary Oldman (for Julie), and Marisa Tomei

Or maybe I should tag
Auntie Boo
Warner P.
Green Clementine
Glenn J.
GrandJohn

Coco Tuesday

Coco exposed some marketing the other day. (“Marketing,” I just realized, seems to mean “lying for the sake of selling something” to me.) He asked me to get some “yummy cheese” while he was at school. I told this to Juan (the awesome cheese guy). “Coco has requested me to get some ‘yummy cheese,’” I said.
We both chuckled.
Then Juan got a cheese off the shelf, the same he usually gets when “yummy” is requested. A Pyrenean cheese called Istara (sometimes he chooses Etorki, which is similar in provenance and flavor).
What are the other cheeses there for? They’re obviously not “yummy.”
Or, conversely (since I’m guessing at possible responses), what’s the point in “acquiring” a taste?

Madge Monday

The last post about the ALL CAPS reminded me of this about Madge. She always finds it funny when she reads them in a story.
It has happened several times now that she has laughed aloud at something she read silently. And, when I ask her about it, she invariably replies by reading the section aloud, too fast, and mumbly. Then, when I go over to look, there’s something about a kid screaming exasperatedly (usually it’s Ron Weasley, but it’s happened with other books, too).

My first meme

Ooooh.
I've seen these before, but have never been involved.
My new BFF Megan "tagged" me with a meme.

The Little-Known Favorites MemeRules: List and describe three of your favorite books that other people might not be familiar with. Then tag five people. See, easy!

The Facetious Guy at facetiae. You don’t have to do this if you don’t want (I mean, that goes without saying, but I’m not sure where you stand on memes. I know you don’t do CAPITAL LETTERS FOR EMPHASIS!)

So now I have homework. Not only do I get to think of three books, but I also need to figure out five people to tag - which, to me, seems the more difficult task since I don't know the etiquette of this sort of thing and I don't really know too many people online.
We'll see how I stand on these things. Probably shakily.
And I'm not into all caps because I HAVE ENOUGH PEOPLE SHOUTING AT ME ALREADY!

5th Avenue Fair

It's a mystery to me why antacid companies don't set up emergency shacks at street fairs.
Just pass out free Tums right by the Italian-Sausage-with-onions-and-peppers stand and see if people aren't convinced. Or set up a grand slam of funnel cakes, cotton candy, beer, and Rolaids.
(And people say I don't know about marketing.)

Song Titles

Now my mind is on country song titles or song titles in general.
How about "Her Legs Brought My Heart to its Knees."
Or "Downright Upright."
Knowing me, there'll be more soon.

Expectations, lived up to

The song, "It Was Always So Easy To Find an Unhappy Woman (Till I Started Looking for Mine)" sounds just like it ought.

As does the song about a double date with Edith and Kate that went awry, called (you guessed it), "You Can't Have Your Kate and Edith Too." It even modulates every time the punch line comes around. Great stuff.

A Title of the Gods

Thanks to Roy’s new book I’m filling in my country music lacunae.
One such is that I never knew “If I Said, 'You Have a Beautiful Body,' Would You Hold It Against Me” is an actual song. But then again, because I didn’t know it was an actual song, I didn’t know it was an actual bad song, so perhaps it’s a wash. The Bellamy Brothers took the line and made it into a song about getting around small talk, set to a cheesy L.A.-Vegas-Hawaii mishmash of the early eighties. Billy Ocean could have sung it. Or Jimmy Buffett. Or Warren Buffett, for that matter.
Here are some more of the lyrics. Bear in mind, nothing can approach the brilliancy of the title (by the way, “Bare In Mind” would be a good one, too), but still.

If I said “You have a beautiful body,” would you hold it against me?
If I swore you were an angel would you treat me like a devil tonight?
If I was dying of thirst, would your flowing love come quench me?
If I said “You have a beautiful body,” would you hold it against me?

Now we could talk all night about the weather
Could tell ya about my friends out on the coast
I could ask a lot of crazy questions
Or ask you what I really wanna know.

If I said…

Now rain can fall so soft against a window
Sun can shine so bright up in the sky
But daddy always told me, “Don’t make small talk.”
He said, “Come on out and say what’s on your mind.”

If I said…

See what I mean? It really ought to be about someone living with a partner who has a skewed body image.
Or about picking up someone at:
Anorexics (or Overeaters) anonymous
A Bench Press in the Gym
A Prosthesis Convention
I’m just saying.

So: Fix the tune to at least make the cheesiness more ironic; change the setting to do justice to the double meaning; and, finally, rhyme with “against.” If you set yourself a challenge like that, at least give it a try, rather than bailing out with “quench.” I’m sure something like, “You kept saying you’re ugly, and, lordy, how that incensed me” might work.
Just an idea.

life lessons

Subbing yesterday reminded me of the previous time I subbed and was subjected to cruel and unusual punishment: career day.
I ask you, what is more humbling than to be babysitting a group of resentful teenagers and then be lectured on boundless career opportunities?
Maybe being Ms Hilton’s parole officer. But only maybe.
Anyway, one of the orators was from People magazine, which got due applause, since it appeals to the students’ scholastic intellect. But the person giving the speech sent the wrong message, inadvertently, I’m sure. See, she was pregnant. And, while she rattled off her career in a monotone (IwenttocollegeandgotajobsellingadvertisingwhichInowdoforpeoplemagazine), she positively beamed while talking about her burgeoning belly.
The message: blahblahcareer, but you’re not fulfilled unless you have a bun in the oven. So, teenage girls, go out and do … what, again?

what to give

My dad turned seventy yesterday - Yay, Opa! - and I'm clueless about what to get him.
Turns out one of his favorite gifts was something he got himself: a BB gun.
So now I know what to get him: protective eyewear and a helmet. He already has a forest and a Russian UAZ jeep.

Waiting for

I'm having groceries delivered. It's the easiest way to get a whole watermelon home.
But
I forgot that delivery before noon is quite spotty. So I'll have to step out to get Coco before the stuff gets here - stuff that is lacking the cat litter that should have been the number one item on my list.
Last time I did this I ran into the guy just as I came out the front door. Which meant that I missed the wonderful, "Delibbery!" from the intercom.
(Julie has taught Coco to say that into the intercom when they're downstairs. Funny stuff. He cracks himself up doing it.)

Berlin Day, NYC

I found out that tomorrow is BerlinDay.
Who knew?
Here's the link.
It took me a while to find, so it can't be all that important to people around here.
Also, Koffer aus Berlin wants explanation, doesn't it?
By show of hands, who here has heard of the song, "Ich hab' noch einen Koffer in Berlin?"
Okay, now, who has actually heard it, not just of it?
That's what I thought.

Coco Tuesday

Last night Coco told me that I’m big, therefore I can do a flip. I proceeded to do a somersault, on the floor. No, no, he corrected me, a flip in the air. Like Spider-Man.
Yikes.

Madge Monday

GrandJohn visited over the weekend, which was lovely.
Madge was all over his belt attachments, one of which is a step-counter, the other, a fancy phone. On which Madge discovered the camera and games almost immediately.
To get her away from the phone and to pacify her while the battery was charging, we taught her how to play solitaire with real cards. Ooooooh.
She actually likes it. Yay, us. It seems a much more soothing game when the player is not sitting hunched in front of a screen with a hand perched over a mouse pad.
Same somewhat brainless game, but a whole different mood.
Went to Hoyle and learned a new Solitaire game called Accordion. Fun, mostly because you’re not planning and hoping so much (“a red six would open up this pile which would uncover a space so I can move over a king and finally get at the stack I haven’t been able to…”), but rather watching how the rules of the game and the rules of chance interact.
Try it.

"I didn't do it"

The subject heading is, apparently, what every teenager is required to say when he or she has been caught doing something desctructive and stupid. It's in the rulebook. "It wasn't me" is a viable alternative.

Every time I'm done subbing for a junior high class, I realize how wrong Golding's Lord of the Flies is.
He understated everything.

(Btw., has anyone out there read anything else by the Nobel Prize winner, Golding? If so, what do you recommend?)

Subbing today

I'm on a break right now. Duuuhuude, those Middle School kids are a royal pain.
Anyway.
At one point the principal came along, a bullfrog of a woman with a bullhorn of a mouth. And the whole package would have been incredibly intimidating if she hadn't had a smidgen of cream cheese or something stuck on her lip.
Wait. Who's the pain, the kids or me?

Someone got glasses

Since Julie and I are equally blind, it was only a matter of time.

Smug, smug parents

Madge’s PTA is inviting people to an event, and I think I might have to go just to see.
And maybe rile up some people, depending on how much coffee I will have had.
The event is by “an investigative journalist, broadcaster, and … parent” and is called, “Buy, Buy Baby: How Consumer Culture Manipulates Parents and Harms Young Minds.” It’s based, of course, on material from her new book.
Why isn’t it entitled, “Fret, Fret Parent: How the Media Attacks Itself to Sell Itself” or some such.
In other words, how is this talk/topic/discussion different from what it purportedly “exposes”?
Sure, who doesn’t hate the endless “I want, I want” from their kids? But isn’t that part of growing up? And, more to the point, we happen to live in a consumer culture. If kids don’t understand how it works, how are they going to fend for themselves when their time comes – which is sooner than any of us would like to acknowledge?
How can anyone claim that consumer culture is harmful and still justify living in NYC?
I have yet to hear someone say they moved to NYC to get away from it all.

In other words, I’ll be going in order to see how many people I can alienate before noon.

Coco Tuesday

Coco’s got a new way of trying to kill me. The good news is that he wakes up to go to the bathroom rather than pee in his bed. The bad news is that it happens around 6:15 in the morning, after which he doesn’t go back to sleep and gets me up for company.
It’s as if I traveled to a new time zone.

Madge Monday

Madge is sick today. Well, yesterday, too, but that didn’t really disrupt any scheduled events, because there were none.
News on the Madge front, though, is that she is in the process of getting glasses (they should be ready tomorrow). Coincidentally, her cousin got glasses recently as well, which is a nice sympathy move on his part. Julie and I are extremely myopic and warped, in a cornial way, so it was really just a matter of time before our offspring became in need of corrective lenses. We’re guessing Coco will be due for some around age seven or eight as well. We hope not, but chances aren’t in his favor.
Luckily, Madge is very decisive in matters of fashion – oh, who am I kidding, she’s decisive in all matters – and picking frames was fairly easy.
And now she’s home, watching Tom and Jerry (don’t tell Julie) while I do this and go clean the catbox and whatever else pops up.
Fun stuff.

Oh. The other thing. She picked up a new game at a playdate last week, Skip-Bo. It’s fun enough, but basically a competitive solitaire – aimed at obsessive-compulsive types. The problem for me is that it is a new game and I keep trying out strategies to see how it might work best. Why is this a problem? Because I end up winning without really meaning to and I don’t realize that I shouldn’t have until somebody is crying.
Which leads me to something else. I don’t know how often my parents and sisters “let” me win, but I think I minded the condescension in that more than losing. I may not have, but I know I would now, so I’m projecting backwards (re-jecting? Post-jecting?). And I’m left in an awkward position, playing with Madge because she actually wants me to let her win whereas I want to spare her feelings by trying to make her feel like a “worthy opponent.”
And, then, to top things off, she will start criticizing the way I played a game which she told me before hand to let her win. I just can’t, either way. Win, that is.

Maybe there’s a lesson there.

Overheard from Coco's mouth

A new (to me) word: magicadabra.

Now that I've written it out, I realize it might have older sister overtones as well, as in: Madge-acadabra.

Overheard from my mouth

"Sure, it might be taking a nap, Coco, but I don't think squirrels sleep in the street."

BennyBenFreshBen

Alert the media.
A good friend of ours and wife and kids might, I repeat, MIGHT be coming to New York for a weekend.
You read it here first.

(There, Ben. Happy? Now will you come?)

a resolution backfires

I made a resolution at New Year that sounded okay to me.
Every five pounds I lose, I get to buy a new item of clothing. Doesn't sound too bad.
But I've inadvertantly found a problem in the system. I haven't lost diddly-squat, but my only pair of jeans recently got a hole in the knee.
Now I need to go to the gym just so I can look presentable.

A listener

I had a nice experience yesterday afternoon. Picking up Madge from a playdate, I was trying to be witty with the mom and mentioned Sea Monkeys as an example of disappointing toys and the power of advertising to burn kids again and again even though they ought to know better blahblah.
She went into this thing about a show on NPR that she loves and how she heard something about the inventor of the Sea Monkeys. And then she said the only problem with the show are those damned limericks.
I'm kidding. I told her I write for WaitWait and she was duly enthused about it.

We may have a new institution

Game night.
Last night friends came over to play Scrabble. Fun stuff. I didn’t even win and I still think it was fun. Aren’t I growing up? (Except for that last leading question of course. But feel free to pat me on the back with an affirmation.)
Which brings me to an observation about trading kid time for adult time. The adults were more immature, which is as it should be. Right?
We’re always trying to be what we’re not. The kids want to be responsible and to make decisions and we want to toss this to the wind. So while we wanted to go out for ice cream, the kids were working out a better household budget.
Let's make it a regular thing. (Not the budget. Duh. The game night.)

Coco Tuesday

No TV has really changed Coco’s schedule since he’s been using a movie or Spongebob or whatever to have a pseudo-nap after school. And I was able to keep farting around on the computer or around the apartment.
So now we’re butting heads more. But it turns out that he’s different from Madge in many ways, if not all. For example, and to my relief, he enjoys being outdoors. And, big bonus, because of it, now she’s beginning to enjoy it more, too. Until the temperature gets to be above 75 and she complains of the heat, but we’ll work with that, I hope.
Coco has also begun speaking more and has noticed that he can get and hold attention by talking. And now he’s seriously intruding on her turf. Sibling stuff is so much fun, I tell you.

Madge Monday

The week without TV is over and we’re back in business. Was it a success? I don’t know. Our rhythm was thrown off and we got to fight more.
Of course it’s all my fault. More to the point, it’s the fault of those stupid birth order books. See, now I know that firstborns would rather be right than have fun. And I know, by saying that, I sound like the lastborn that I am. So? Now what?
Actually this morning I had a minor insight. Not only is Madge a perfectionist who likes to follow rules and, of course, make the rules in the first place, but she also has a hard time saying no. And this seems to be the source of much conflict. Coco invites her to play. She says no. He manipulates her into saying yes, which means she already starts playing without really wanting to. Then she’ll set rules which he never wanted to follow because it was his game (usually with her toys since she’s older and there are many hand-me-downs around) and boom, we have some sort of conflict escalating into tattling. Which I hate.
Here’s what I’ve noticed: The middle child? That’s the parent.