After-school idea

Madge’s school, now Madge and Coco’s school, has a program called the Kids’ Club Workshop, which allows parents and others to volunteer to teach courses after school. They solicit ideas and volunteers every so often. And I’d like to do it, I think, but A) I wouldn’t know what to teach and B) I wouldn’t know who’d be watching my kids while I’m doing so.
I said as much to Madge and together we came up with this course. “Taking Care of Coco,” an eight-week crash course in handling a stubborn four-year-old. Learn intermediate toddler-speak; approximate anger-management; begin basic bribery; indulge in pretend hide-and-go-seek; and so much more. Handwashing mandatory.
When I told Julie about this, she loved the idea. I told her that the only class that would get perfect attendance would be something along the lines of “Share your Gameboy expertise and secrets,” in which the kids got to play video games nonstop and show off their skills at pushing little buttons which make animated characters do things.
Julie had a great idea, too. One which might get some forced attendance. “Clean Your Apartment.” In each of our eight weeks we draw one lucky family’s home upon which a team of ten to sixteen schoolchildren (ages 7+ only, please) will descend with brooms, mops, buckets, and washrags. (Homeowner’s insurance strongly recommended.)
It might have to be retitled “Get in Touch With Your Inner Cinderella.”
Ideas abound.

New Link

I've got a new site I feel the need to link to. Here. It's the Guardian's Digested Read, a silly recap of a new book. How often it's updated, I don't know yet, but I guess it's weekly.
Here's an excerpt, from their adaptation of Grisham's new book:

"I guess you must be in the mafia," Rick whispered.
"Er, no."
"But this is a John Grisham book and we're in Italy."
"I see what you mean," Sam smiled. "But it's not that type of story. He's writing something homier and cuter this time."
"No gangsters, then?" Rick asked, somewhat disappointed.
"No. It's just a feelgood travel romp to show that Italy may be foreign and bad at football - they play soccer here - but even airheaded jocks can appreciate the quaintness if they really try. Look, to get us started, why don't you start by asking me some brainless questions so I can explain a few of the basic differences between the US and Italy."

Coco Tuesday

I need to remind myself that one of the reasons I’m doing this blog thing is to look on the outside of the insanity in our house. It’s getting difficult.
Every day after school, Coco asks, ever so politely, for a new toy. This process takes about nine or ten hours. And what with retail greed and abuse of random holidays, he’s been asking for Halloween decorations and costumes since about mid-August. And his concept of time is still that of a four-year-old. Imagine.
This means that whenever his eyes alight on a new costume, he wants it. Of course I could praise his active imagination, but man, is it ever annoying. As of yesterday he wants to be a knight.
“Please, Daddy, can you get me a knight costume?”
“Not yet.”
“Please, Daddy, after school?”
“No, it’s not Halloween yet. You’re going to change you mind again. You wanted to be Spiderman yesterday.”
“Please, Daddy, can I have a knight costume?”
Etc.

Ah. I’ve got it. I’ll read him some Arthurian Romances. Not to bore him about knighthood, but to make him understand that he needs to earn it either by slaying dragons or by rewriting the lyrics to an old song of his to suit the funeral of a divorced former princess.

Madge Monday

“We” were watching Scooby-Doo this weekend. The kids are on a Scooby-Doo frenzy right now, and for some reason Netflix and DVD rental stores are accommodating them. Scooby-Doo, like The Flintstones, is the kind of animated series that employs a laugh track.
Me: Don’t you find it weird that the characters in the show are drawn and yet there seem to be people laughing in the background?
Madge: No. Why? It’s funny.

Case Closed.

Madge bonus

Madge Flashback. For some reason having Coco flop around in a recently emptied bathtub reminded me of this incident.
Madge (5 and a little) and Coco (around 2) and I (in my prime) were in a fish market on Clement Street in San Francisco. Madge liked to look at the masses of fish huddled in the tanks as well as the various lobsters. On one visit to the fish market, a fish had been taken out of the tank to be “processed” for sale. The fish slipped out of the guy’s hand and flopped around on the floor. Not phased in the least, the guy took a club and whacked the fish on the head several times, until the flopping ceased. All before I could usher my little ones out of the store. I think Coco was asleep in his stroller at the time; I’m not sure. At last I got Madge out of the store, squinched my eyes, took a deep breath, and awaited her questions and/or concerns.
What she said was, “Cool. Can we see that again?”

I wonder what she’d say nowadays. She might run screeching out of the store. Or not. And I’m not sure which would bother me more.

Does this actually happen in real life?

I don’t know how to write this up accurately, but here it is.
My parents are both seventy, as of Wednesday. Happy Birthday, Mom!
This means that their friends are about that age as well.
Because I don’t want to get anyone in trouble directly, though why not I’m not so sure, let’s pose this as a series of hypotheticals.
Part one. A is having an affair. He says to his wife that he is going somewhere with his friend B, somewhere where they can’t be reached, like camping or hiking or whatever. Now B needs to be off the map for the duration of A’s tryst and asks if he can stay at your place so that B’s wife can’t get in touch with him and figure things out for A’s wife. Would you let B stay at your place?
Hypothetical, part two. If all these people were in their late sixties or early seventies, would you think it’s a little late for a midlife crisis thingy?
Hypothetical, part three. If any of the people involved were your parents (and, in their defense, you’d assume there were degrees of guilt and innocence and therefore they were on the innocent-ish end of the spectrum), what would you drink to soothe your nerves? And at what time of day would you start?
Bottoms up.

Aronian/Anthony

I bet you've been following the World Championship in Mexico City, just as I have.

And I'd lose the bet, because you're asking, "The World Championship of what?"

Chess.

Anyway, there's a player, Levon Aronian, who reminds me of the singer Marc Anthony.

Take a guess which is which.

(I was hoping to be able to upload a more recent picture of Marc Anthony, with scruffy beard, pinstripe suit, and all, but alas, I'm incompetent. Or, maybe They have made the pictures inaccessible in order to hide his chess-player alter-ego identity.)

An aphorism of my own

Which is to say I'm not sure where it's from and it doesn't sound quite right (i.e., mellifluous and memorable), so I'm claiming it as mine:

A rose is a weed in a wheat field.

Feel free to tell me the actual source (if there is one) or to improve upon it. The idea, I hope, is clear.

Great Line from Colbert

(or one of his writers, of course)
Al Gore's movie made money, so global warming must be true. The market has spoken.

Coco Tuesday

New school year means that it's time to meet new parents. And, of course, to see the old ones again. While I'm not quite as direct as Coco and say to their faces that they have "dying skin" I will say behind their backs that they have dyed hair.
What makes the hair dying so interesting during pick-up and dropoff (Cartalk's Russian chauffeur, btw.: Pikap Andropov) is that the grey and white roots come and go in waves. It's almost as if the mothers' time of the month has changed from what it used to be to a time to get out of touch with their roots, so to speak.

More parents in da house

On a more uplifting note - and this is mostly for Julie, who is out of town (remember what that means? Yep, I'm aching for email contact. Any sort of adult-ish converstation) - that pregnant couple in our builing just had their baby today. I know, only the woman is actually pregnant, but they really seemed to be going through this as a couple, so I'm saying he was pregnant, too.
Anyway, I saw her lurching out of the building this morning, gently guided by him (so sweet).
Later in the evening, he was collecting mail.
When I asked him how she was, he said fine, and that was it.
But then I, super-sleuth dad ("Wait. You say you washed your hands, but I never heard any water..."), noticed a hospital bracelet peeking out from his shirt sleeve and confronted him with the truth: "You, sir, have had a baby!"
And he broke down and confessed.
And I nearly cried. I'm such a sucker for newborns and that whole new life thingamagig.

Julie, you'll be proud of my social restraint (though disappointed in my lack of gossip), I didn't press him on the name or weight or details because he hadn't even volunteered that they now have a baby. I just congratulated him most heartily and told the kids that his is the kind of smile you can't translate to anyone who has never experienced it.
Aw, shit, here I am, tearing up again.
I'm a weenie.

Madge Monday

I realized today what a nag I am, but also the causes. To begin with the overly sensitive and defensive bit: I’m a nag because I don’t get the answers I want, if I get any at all. Or, if I do, they have the wrong tone or something.
I’m not proud of it, but there it is.
I think I told Madge about four times this afternoon that she had to do her homework – and we weren’t even home yet. Poor Madge.
But
I noticed it and laid off. Tooth brushing I’ll still need to nag about, I fear, but I’ll let the homework thing go. She’s good about that on her own, as she is with most everything.

Where were we, if not at home? We were supposed to be at Coco’s dance class, but he REALLY didn’t want to go, so maybe my nagging started there. I just wanted some sort of “yes, daddy” success. Instead of the dance class, we were at the nearby Target because the weather has cooled down and some of us have outgrown our long pajamas and our long pants. We also needed batteries for our remote and our Tamagachi, but now I’ve gone past boring you. Sorry.
Though I only lived there about three years total, I guess I’m more of a Minnesotan than I thought. See, contrary to Brooklyn evidence, I keep thinking of Target as a calm, spacious store, not crowded and well-stocked. In other words, I forget about what we have come to call “Ghetto Target.” That name arose one day when we wanted to buy band-aids and noticed that several boxes had been opened and the contents removed.
Today, while we were in the toy department we had promised we wouldn’t whine about, some kids thundered through, whacking each other with floaty noodles before discarding the and giving some nearby bicycles a test ride. I had the stroller with me, which I only mention because only one of the elevators worked on the way up. On the way down, none. Oh, and they didn’t have the batteries we came for and the pants were too big.
So I didn’t feel too bad as a drink fell out of the stroller and spilled all over the ground when I picked the stroller up to take it down the escalator. (It is too wide otherwise.)
But now I realize that most people there feel that way about the Brooklyn Target, especially the employees, which is why it’s in the shape it’s in.

And, on perhaps a related note, we saw some kids (early teens) arrested and taken in a police van in downtown Manhattan over the weekend. I’m guessing for shoplifting, but what do I know? That, combined with the pain-in-the-ass kids at Target today makes me think that juvie might have an amnesty program for the beginning of the school year.
Or maybe they kids just want something concrete they can atone for this coming weekend.

favorite part about the "pool boy"

With all that going on for him, he was adamant about everyone washing his hands after using the bathroom.

Pool recap, or, Cabana Boy, Brooklyn-Style

It’s been a while since we’ve gone swimming and the pool is closed now and the guy probably doesn’t blog, so I feel relatively safe writing about him, the locker room guy at the public pool, that is.
Picture this. A stubby little man, maybe five feet tall, shaved head, including eyebrows. The hair on his head has been replaced by a skull tattoo – and sundry others; the hair on his chinny-chin has been replaced by a Maori (I'm guessing) tribal design; the hair on his pierced brow ridge has been replaced by the tattoo “white” on his right (left as you’re reading) and “pride” on his left (right as you’re reading). My reason for the parentheses is that he would have seemed oh-so-much tougher if it had been reversed because then it would have appeared that he did it himself, assisted only by a mirror and the copious amounts of alcohol he admittedly consumes.
As in, “Let’s face it, I’m an alcoholic.”
What prompts people to say stuff like this to me is beyond me, other than that I appear to be listening.
Most of our “conversations” involved the usual small talk about one’s well-being, which for him invariably meant a lack of sleep because of late drinking and getting some new tattoos from his buddies.
Now, the neighborhood we and pool find ourselves in is rather mixed, and the pool itself is closer to some projects than to our gentrified neck of the borough. In other words, “white pride” is a surefire conversation starter with the general population there. Incidentally, our friend had, surprise, surprise, done some time, too. But the conversations that got started by the black kids seemed to involve unfriendly comments. Imagine. The high point, apparently, involved an accusation by the kids involving a sexual crime and the guy’s sister. This apparently hit too close to home, so to speak, because his brother seems to be doing time for that exact activity. Imagine.
After the incident, the guy told me that he was willing to “kill the little &%s” because they seemed to have crossed a line. Instead of what he would have considered forgivable manslaughter, he got a time-out. In other words, the security staff and the cop on duty put him in a little room until he calmed down. But he’s claustrophobic.
In his words, “Fire me or kick me in the teeth, but don’t lock me in a &%!ing room. You know what I mean?”
Ah, New York.

PS Last week I saw him on the playground cleanup crew, but they rotate, so I think I’m done running into him.

to look or not to look

The kids recently got scooters. Wheeeeeee!
Coco is finally getting the hang of it.
And here's something I noticed, let's call it Parenting Conundrum #377:

When you're trying to talk to your kids or when they want something from you around the house, they don't deign to look up from their task in order to ease communication.
But when they're about to bash into an oncoming pedestrian or stationary tree or when they're balancing precariously on some narrow ledge, they are desperate for eye contact.

snooty neighborhood

Coco's class had a sign outside, saying that parents should "please bring in old NYTimes to cover tables for art projects."

I guess they don't want any trashy or shocking news for the wee ones.

I'll show them. I'll bring in the Wall Street Journal.

Coco Tuesday

Here he is: the Dancer. Tights and a "Don't Mess With Texas" shirt. Talk about a mixed message. Or not.

He enjoyed the class, but not the fact that I dropped him off and picked him up again later.

The embarrassing moment came later, when we saw a girl from his class and he said, "See that girl? I think her hair and eyebrows are terrible!" One dance class and he turns bitchy. Yikes.

And, of course, I had to have the "talking about other people's appearance" speech ready again. I fear it needs a rewrite since the message isn't getting across.

Madge Monday

She's such a big girl. So I feel bad when she gets dragged around the neighborhood in the double running stroller and stared at by other kids. But I don't think she minds because she gets to go places while still reading.
And today, for the first time ever, we went to an activity that was strictly for Coco. He makes her late all the time and she feels like she has to wait for him every minute of the day, but usually that's because I'm dragging him along to some event of hers. But today Coco had his first dance class and Madge was just along for the ride. And, man, let me tell you, it sure is easier to just hang out with an eight-year-old than it is with a four-year-old.
Though next time I need more singles for the vending machines.
And, don't worry, for Coco Tuesday you'll get some pictures of the little guy in his dance tights and my own special touch (because he doesn't have a solid-colored t-shirt).

Ouch

Julie, as you may or may not know, now works for a new company (new to us, not to the world).
The old one blocked my blog. I don't claim causality, but the facts remain.
Anyway, her new company is more conscious of the impact of its act of producing and selling than the old one was.
(For the corporate angle, see here.)
I'm learning all about the company and its products, of course. Just ask me about any of the almond oil products. Omigod you gotta try them. Buy them. Put them all over yourself and feel mm-mmm pampered. It makes me want to take multiple showers. It makes me wish I were bald so I could rub it all over my scalp.
Enough, already.
Julie is also fond of the Shea Butter products. Which is why we had this conversation.

JULIE

The women's collective thing is great. Apparently only women get to touch the Shea trees and handle the nuts -

ME

[I hadn't heard the "-"; they're very hard to hear in a conversation. And I couldn't resist the seventh-grade joke]

What a coincidence, because I also only let women handle my Shea tree and touch my nuts.

JULIE [not even cracking a smile]

- and beat them into a paste.

J.R.

Here's my new friend Jules.

I'm noticing that I need a shirt with a collar like that. (But not the scar on the forehead.)

And, much as I'd like to, I can't really bear the feeling of suspenders.

Oh, well, back to my own style. Which reminds me, all my shorts pooped out during these last weeks of summer.

Well, "pooped out" may give you the wrong image. But they're all becoming torn and frayed I'm afraid. (Hee, hee.)

Other people's words

I'm reading a book by Jules Renard right now, called "Poil de Carotte." Yes, I'm reading it in French, but only because the library copy is one of those instructional books that has text on one side and vocabulary words on the facing page.
The problem is, I can't usually tell if a word is used because it's the regular word or because it's a fanciful one. Not until I try them in conversation and get laughed at - rather than with - will I know. But how to use French words in coversation, you ask? Well, there seem to be French mommy groups in this neighborhood... (Don't worry, Julie, nobody could match your "ponponponfonfonfonfonfon" false francais.)
Anyway, the reason I got a book by Renard in the first place is because of his aphorisms in my aphorism book. (Other great ones are by Cyrill Connolly and Cesare Pavese, both of whom I've read because of this.)
Here's one:

The danger of success is that it makes us forget the world's dreadful injustice.

Magnifique, non?

Wha-?

Luckily the original wasn’t altogether unpleasant, but this is an “artist’s” rendering of the image now permanently burned into my retina.
We were on the subway, coming back from a baseball game in Coney Island. Coco was asleep on my lap and I was only half-alert and staring blankly in front of me. The seats across from us emptied and a young guy sat down at the same time as skinny chick moved towards the seat. He made the voiceless gesture of, “Oh, did you want this seat? I hope not because I really don’t feel like getting up again.” And she made the shruggy smile and forward lean that said, “No, no. Don’t worry, I’m just looking at the subway map.”
At that point Julie said, “You can stop staring now.”
I never thought people actually did double takes, but my eyes blinked and my head snapped back and forth as I realized that the skinny chick’s yoga pants were down past her butt cheeks and she was busy tugging them up with her free hand. About a foot and a half from my face. And I had missed the whole thing!
To top things off, our half of the subway car erupted in laughter. We had already been primed a few stops earlier by the guy who got stuck in the doors.
Ah, New York.

Coco bonus

Two days in a row he's referred an older woman as,
"That girl with the dead skin."

Not to their faces, luckily.

Coco Tuesday

Back to school. Except it's a new school for Coco and nothing is as expected.
He goes half days now. Like before, really, but half days at Madgie's school are from 8:40 to 11:00, so less than before. Oh, well.
One part of the routine was already set, though.
"I don't want to go to school. I'm not going."
"Let's just take Madge."
"Oh, awwight."
And today was from 8:40 to 9:40. You know, to warm them up slowly. And I got to stay the whole time. Cute. None of the kids wanted to talk to the teachers during circle time. Except one, but she didn't want to answer the teachers' questions, so I'm not sure it counted.
But Coco did enjoy the solo time with Daddy, I think, so that's a benefit. We only need to figure out how to transition to having Madge around at 3.
She, by the way, is awesome in her attitude towards school. Not gung-ho, but accepting.
The stomach aches won't start until later.

Madge Monday

There must be a script that I never received.
Today, the last day of our vacation, was the first day for the kids, Madge in particular, to "sleep in" to nine o'clock.
Wish me luck tomorrow morning, when we go back to school.

Refried Mr. Bean

Of course I had marvellous observations today, but because I had two teeny-tiny beers I can't remember any of them. So maybe I should just speak unintelligibly and laugh too loudly at my own jokes - wait a second, that's what I do anyway.
Don't tell anyone, but we saw the Mr. Bean movie again, this time with Julie and her sister, who's in town. Hee, hee. We know art when we see it.
It's enjoyable the second time around, too.
And this time I don't need to keep watching Rowan Atkinsons as he tries to distract me from his co-star.

It's also funny to see the neighborhood now as it's exploding with people who are returning from vacations and camps and whatnot to resume regular life. Not as bad as a college town, but still a surprising change of demographic makeup. Pretty soon the sidewalks will be congested with strollers, scooters, like-a-bikes, and protruding bellies (female and male).

Gracias (Bean in France)

Ah, the simple joys. If you get a chance to see "Mr. Bean's Holiday," go. Hurharhurharhurhur.

We were actually shushed quite a bit during the movie, because the Other Kid had already seen it and occassionally explained what was coming up, Coco kept asking to make sure he was caught up with all the plot points - and later to ask if Willem Defoe is going to turn into Green Goblin any time soon -, and Madge kept saying things like "Oh, no," "stop it," "don't." Mr. Bean kills her.

I may have to see it again because of the potty breaks I had to take. But I don't mind. Some of the bits are worth seeing again.

And, thinking about it, the fact that the kids had an urge to speak up just proves how good Atkinson's timing is.

Hands out for hand outs

At the bank of ATMs at my bank, there is occasionally a person who holds the door open, saving after-hours visitors the agony of inserting the card they will use later anyway in a slot near the door in order to unlock it. In exchange this person is hoping for a little something on the way out.
But
On my way in I tend to have nothing, and on my way out I have nothing but twenties. I assume others are in a similar situation. If I were an honest and consistent person I guess I'd have to decline the open door and insist on opening it myself because I know I'm not going to trade a twenty for the service.
As it is I give the usual noncommittal hypocritical nod/headshake/mumble and go on my way.

Coco Tuesday

The kid who's been with us the past two days is fun and good-natured, as I've said.
And he likes playing with Coco, especially when Coco is being fun and not shouting or whiny.
But Coco's verbal inexactitudes drive him nuts. He's gotten used to having his favorite game referred to as "thwacker ball" but having his favorite show not called by its proper name is too much.
I, on the other hand, love it, because Coco is tuning in to something most people with reasonable ears and a modicum of experience know anyway. All Disney teeny-singers sound similar. Part perky, part constipated.
And therefore Coco calls everything High School Musical 2 (this number part in particular drives the other kids nuts) that has some teenager singing about something unfamiliar in an overproduced fashion.
Today, for example, he proudly remembered that we had a Hilary Duff CD and kept telling the other kid that it's High School Musical 2.
"No it's not."
"Yes it is."
"No it's not."

On the other hand, I recently downloaded the Go-Go's doing the original "Our Lips Are Sealed" and Coco preferred Hilary Duff's version.
What is the world coming to?

Madge Monday

Little behind, but here we go.
Had another kid with us all day, a former classmate of hers. And one of his coping mechanisms, I think - what do I know, I don't have a degree in child psychology; but then again, what to child psychologists know, they only have a degree in child psychology - is to ask endless meaningless questions. For example, on the way home from the library:
He: Can we go down this street?
I: Sure.
He: Why?
Madge was extremely (that adverb is an understatement) frustrated with him. At one point she said, "I know I can't call him dummy, but I wish I could."
He is pretty good-natured (and had been bugging me, too), so I said, "You know what? Go ahead."
So she said, "Dummy!" and we all laughed and she felt better.
Then, of course, I had to make her stop.

(And, for some reason, Coco didn't pick up on the name-calling. Lucky all around.)

Monkee Doo

Coco events are always convoluted. Yesterday he threw up after being on the swings too long.

Why was he on the swings too long?

Because we rented some Monkees episodes and their music videos feature them frolicking and swinging and hanging upside down and doing a flip dismount.

On sand.

Coco's version looked a bit different. I should considere myself lucky that it only ended with vomit.

For the interested parties: the main note was red Kool Aid.

absent-minded

Weird how time flies. I was so busy with limericks last night that I forgot to post.

Lucky for you, though, I got to read another poem at the playground.

IT is not growing like a tree
In bulk, doth make man better be;
Or standing long an oak, three hundred year,
To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sear:
A lily of a day
Is fairer far in May,
Although it fall and die that night,--
It was the plant and flower of Light.
In small proportions we just beauties see;
And in short measures life may perfect be.

Cute, at first sight, because of the little "day - May" thingie in the middle. But it doesn't hold up to much rereading because of the cheap rhymes (i.e., I'm no theorist, it's just what I call it when none of the rhyming words carry much meaning).
And, as a result, he may have ironically counteracted his premise.
("He" being Ben Jonson.)

Coco Tuesday

Tonight we went to get a birthday card for GrandJohn. (Happy Birthday, GrandJohn!)
As so often happens, merely going on such a shopping trip means that bribery must take place. Therefore Madge and Coco each got a mood ring.
While Madge's stayed somewhere around purple, I think Coco's ran through the whole rainbow and then stuck out a white flag in resignation.
Those things really work.

Madge Monday

We saw Harry Potter again today. Good thing, too, because the kids asked to leave during different parts, which means that Julie and I got to fill in the gaps on what we missed the first time.
Madge actually talked back at the screen today. Hee, hee.
At her age it's excusable, I think. The first time there were grownups doing it. Less amusing.
But I'm not sure what the cut-off age is.

Staten Island

I'm always impressed with minor league baseball. Not the games themselves, what with the sloppy pitching and all, but with the experience as a whole. And yesterday was a good one. We went to see the Staten Island Yankees play the Brooklyn Cyclones in Staten Island. So the trip itself was fun, obviously. Taking the ferry is always a pleasure, and actually having something to do in Staten Island is a plus. The stadium also has a view of downtown Manhattan, so if the game it too boring, there's always that to distract you as well.
The best part was getting the tickets. As we got to the ticket booth, the lady told us it was sold out. "Awww." But right next to the booth was a lady who couldn't believe her luck to find a party wanting six tickets together. She was so happy to get rid of them all at once that she sold them to us below cost. Not much of a capitalist, obviously. More hotdogs for us.
Speaking of scalping tickets.
This was the second group of guest we've taken on the ferry and they were the second to express their suprise at the fact that the ferry is free of charge. Which got me to thinking that you could make a pretty penny without actually lying directly by standing in the waiting area with a roll of tickets, shouting, "Tickets! Who needs tickets?"
Can they arrest me if I don't say that they are tickets for anything in particular?
And the price? "Five dollars. Wait. Do you have a Metro Card? Yes? Then only three."
I think it could be lucrative.

Not-so-random Aphorism

It's not easy to find one about money that's not over the top.
Here's one by one of the best aphorists ever.

Plenty of people despise money, but few know how to give it away.
-- La Rochefoucauld

money money money

We went to the Federal Reserve today. Going to Manhattan is always an adventure, but that part of town is especially tough for certain people who don't like crowds. The Federal Reserve was quite a respite from all that because it is the Holy Shrine of Gold, complete with sharpshooting monks who enforce silence and humility.
Before you get to go into the vault and see a cage filled with gold bars, you get to watch a video of them handling the stuff. By the wheelbarrow. Literally. And this stuff is 99% pure, not 60%, like the stuff around people's fingers and in their ears.
Anyway, it was quite a mind trip. Especially when the guide asked if anyone was claustrophobic. Because, once your mind is thinking about being trapped, all the information afterward gets filtered through the Escape and Freedom Lobe. Information about being five stories underground in so and so much reinforced steel. And then they start shutting the vault door and talking about how it's air- and water-tight and anyone locked in would stay for 24 hours because the door mechanism is linked to a timer and that there's enough air there for one person for 72 hours. The group had about ten people.
Eek.
Needless to say, I didn't explain any of this to Coco, who gets a little antsy in the subway.

Guests in town

A good thing, because we now have a change of pace. We'll see how much tourist action the kids can take, but it could be fun.
But first. Sticky day. Pool. Picnic in park.
Here's something, though.
Julie asked if Coco had any tantrums today and our guest said yes. I clarified that he just pouted a little. I guess our guest is in for quite a surprise.

word thoughts

It appears the English language doesn't have too high an opinion of offspring since the only rhymes for "babies" that spring to mind are:
maybes, scabies, and rabies.
What is our linguistic heritage trying to tell us?
I should stick to the legal word: issue.

Coco Tuesday

Temperatures in the eighties and Coco is wearing a long-sleeved fleece sweater.
Here's why.
Today's my birthday (thank you, thank you).* Madge was in charge of opening a package from Lands' (they never corrected their inaugural apostrophic typo - shows you what kind of conservatism they practice) End from Granny. The instructions were to hide the thing for me and wrap it and keep and enjoy the things for them. They loved their lunchboxes and her new skirt. This morning I unwrap two things. A nice short-sleeved shirt (thanks, Mom) and a fleece sweater, size M. Turns out the fleece is a kid's M. First I thought Granny made a little online ordering mistake, but then I realized it was supposed to be for Coco. And he was so excited he wore it throughout the day.
He loves it.
And ya gotta love giving little ones gifts. Though that kids of enthusiams stops around age seven, when you start getting, "Is that all?"
I, by now, have learned that actually saying "Is that all?" out loud is considered rude.

* Happy Birthday to Gary Larson, Steve Martin, and Russell Baker as well.

Madge Monday

I always thought it was understood, but I should add here beforehand that facts on this blog (especially conversations) get altered for comic impact. But the gist...

Sunday morning. Yesterday's leftover bagel and cream cheese has just been consumed.

Madge: Do we have more cream cheese?
Julie: No, I had the last. Do you want me to get you more?
Madge: Yes.
Moi: Don't worry. I'll go.
Madge: Thank you, Mommy.
Moi: ?!?

Another Aphorism

And why not? Picked from my book at random again, I swear.

Praises of the unworthy are felt by ardent minds as robberies of the deserving.
-- Coleridge

Thing is, though, that the lack of context here doesn't make clear whether Coleridge thinks it a good or bad thing to have (or be) an ardent mind.

That said, how about that Barry Bonds, hunh?

kid-heavy posting

I've realized why I've been posting mostly about kid activities. It's because we're on vacation and I don't really have contact with anyone else. These last two days we've just stayed at home. The first day because Madge seemed worn out, and today because the weather was too cool for our regular pool routine. So we lounged around in the morning and then bickered and fought later in the afternoon.
But we're good now. All it takes is looking at them when they sleep and things get better.

Read a poem the other day - whoa, alert the media. No, not a big deal, but it was one of Shakespeare's and it was called "The Phoenix and the Turtle" and I (like many other modern readers, I assume) thought it was some sort of Edward Lear thing until I realized in the last line that the titular turtle was a dove. So I had to reread it.
I still didn't make any sense to me.

Give it a go if you want.

For those with short attention spans, here are my favorite lines:

So they loved, as love in twain
Had the essence but in one;
Two distincts, division none:
Number there in love was slain.

...Either was the other's mine.

Property was thus appalled,
That the self was not the same;
Single nature's double name
Neither two nor one was called.

Reason, in itself confounded,
Saw division grow together,
To themselves yet either neither,
Simple were so well compounded,

...

Truth may seem, but cannot be:
Beauty brag, but 'tis not she;
Truth and beauty buried be.

mnemonic hint

Count the letters.
If you need even more, check the comments to this post. I'm leaving the answer there.

mnemonics

My SAT prep gig just showed up again in my inbox and I'll be signing on soon.
It reminded me of stumbling upon an entry on mnemonics. I'm not a big fan of them, because they are usually more difficult to remember than the thing itself. Though, for some people, it really works. Case in point, my mom tends to remember combinations and phone numbers by people's birthdays she knows, which is fine, but she often has to add a number here and there. "It's your great-aunt's birthday plus sixteen, the age you were when she finished that 5,ooo piece puzzle." Or some such.

Here's an example from the entry on mnemonics. I'll give it as a quiz (and don't just type it into Google - that's cheating).

"How I want a drink, alcoholic of course, after the heavy lectures involving quantum mechanics."

What is this sentence supposed to remind you of?
Leave your best guesses in the comments and check in later for a hint and then, maybe, the answer.

I'm a goober

I can't help myself. Sometimes goofy things make me laugh or snicker aloud even when I'm alone.
For example, I occasionally put crappy songs on Julie's iPod just to remind her of me when she's shuffling through the on the subway. This time I picked a real stinker, The Carpenters' "Superstar." I just listened to it. Creepily terrible, but I might have to listen again because there's also something catchy about it. I may have it wrong, but there is a line in it that goes something like, "Baby, baby, baby, baby, oh, baby."
Magic!
And the orchestration, aside from the dull drumming and annoying bass, includes the inevitable english horn plaintive line and harp glissando.
Whoooo!
I can't wait for Julie to call me to complain.
And I'm giggling again right now.

Coco Tuesday

A couple of choice father-and-son moments.

At the pool, he's started bobbing up and down and flailing his arms. I think he's touching the bottom with his feet when he's submerged. The whole thing looks like he's drowning and struggling to stay alive.
Needless to say I get many concerned looks from other parents.
Here's our conversation about it:
"Coco, are you okay?"
"Yes."
"What are you doing?"
"It tickles my penis."
"Oh." ["Carry on."]

A woman who was too big for her clothing - but not by much - was crossing the street ahead of us. I was in the process of determining whether the entire effect was pleasant or not (a difficult task with only a distant view from behind), when we had this conversation about it:
"Daddy. Look at her butt."
"Coco! Shhh. You shouldn't say stuff about people's looks in general and bodies in particular." ["Way ahead of you."]

Madge Monday

Highlights of today's playdate (that is, Madge had a playdate, which then migrated to our house):
When we got there, Madge - who wanted a playdate so she could get away from Coco for a while and play with kids her own age - said, "Can Coco stay?" (I've got a little bald patch from yanking out a chunk of my hair.)
The playdate was brave and tried to eat the bread Coco had chosen at the store even though none of the kids could manage to chew it. I finally made her a peanut butter sandwich.
They played shoe store. Not my shoes, obviously. But those of the person in the house who has more shoes than feet (and fingers and toes and ...) [Oh, have I mentioned that Julie's work has been blocking the blog?]
Finally, I was called in to adjudicate a dispute as to whether the "sugar packets" in the shoe boxes are edible or not. One had already been opened, but none eaten. Or so I must trust.
Meanwhile, I've pressed 9 and 1 and am holding my phone ready just in case.

my likeness

See, this is the fun kind of thing you can make at the Simpsons site. They call it making an Avatar.

(It's late, so I'm wearing my glasses.)

Finished Faulkner

I'm not sure I should have been laughing as much as I was. The beer probably helped.
As did the suddenness and bizarreness of some of the events. Still, not much of a plot.
But, hey, there's other ways to get plot. Like the Three Musketeers, which I'm reading to Madge at bedtime. Now I have two reasons to look forward to the kids' bedtime(s).

Also, if you're looking to use your work time creatively and meaningfully, mosey over to www.simpsonsmovie.com and make characters that look like you, your friends, your colleagues, etc.

Friday slowdown

I can't think of anything witty myself - at this moment - so I'll dip into my handy book of Aphorisms.

How's this? It's the first one I landed on, really.

Regarded as a means, the businessman is tolerable; regarded as an end he is not so satisfactory.
--John Maynard Keynes.

I'd say, if Keynes knew some of our neighbors, he'd realize that it is too weakly worded.

elevator troubles

Our summer schedule has been shifted a bit this week, mostly because the elevator has been out two mornings in a row.
We get to the pool the Flintstones way – through the courtesy of my two feet while the kids recline in the stroller. The stroller is too wide for the regular door and stairway, but it’s just fine in the elevator. And the elevator is one of those fancy contraptions that opens right into our apartment. Which makes it such a crushing blow to discover that it isn’t working.
Now. I happen to be on the email list for the people who own the condos in this building and there’s been quite a bit of yapping about the elevators in the other buildings with the same management company, built by the same developer. Not happy. One of the members suggested going to the NYTimes. I suggested storming the Bastille, but then decided against actually sending that email.
But I think they may have a point with the company that maintains the elevators – called Rotavele (tricky, no? and also ironic since they tend to get things backwards). See, on the days they fixed the elevators they left a scrawled note on the ground floor door saying that they needed to get parts and it would be another day.
Too bad I didn’t take a picture for evidence, because the best part followed. Carelessly scratched out were the words “Sorry for.”
Obviously they thought better of having any compassion for the tenants. Heavens forefend there might be a wheelchair-bound person on an upper floor. (There’s not, but a family with twinfants on the fifth floor who were quite inconvenienced, I’m sure.)

Dead-bleeping-wood

I’m no bleeping prude, but…

On the recommendation of some friends, I rented the first disc of the HBO series “Deadwood.” And within the first few minutes of a show set in the Dakotas in 1876, there were some f—ks, some c—ksuckers, even a c—t. And they made me cringe. Not because I don’t appreciate the use of these words, but because they seem out of place, or out of time, rather.
I’m still trying to decide whether it’s as if the characters were wearing sneakers or merely boots with a Harley-Davidson logo on them.
Typing a few choice words into Google I found this:
http://nymag.com/nymetro/news/people/columns/intelligencer/n_10191/
of which my favorite quote is,

[Creator David Milch] cites a bibliography he put together in his research. “It’s called ‘Profanity in Deadwood,’ and it has like 50 sources.”

That’s like so cool.
I couldn’t finish the first episode the first time around.But then I figured, hell, I rented it, why not watch it. And there’s good stuff, though it seems like a prolonged “It’s a Wonderful Life” set in a Wild West Pottersville. Still, the bad guy is really bad. Who knows, maybe I’ll rent another disc. And pretty soon I won’t care if they’re wearing espadrilles.

Coco Tuesday

Guess who got a little package from his auntie in the mail. Big score, of course. And he's being ogled at the pool a lot.

I told you the Spidey thing is getting out of hand.

yay, photos

Sure, the faces are cute. But what lurks beneath...

The manipulator, btw. is the one who's posing. But you knew that.

... when he was a baby we called his output "The Diapers of Dorian Gray."

Faulkner gush

I'm reading my first Faulkner novel, As I Lay Dying. I figured it's about time.
This is good stuff. Part fable, part insanity. Not much for plot, but I just got done with Harry Potter 7, so I'm good on plot for a while. Maybe that's the secret. Read some Dickens or Dumas or Rowling (I wonder when people will start referring to her instead of her main creation) first and then some Faulkner.
Anyway, a bit I really enjoyed:

It begins to rain. The first harsh, sparse, swift drops rush through the leaves and across the ground in a long sigh, as though of relief from intolerable suspense.

Read it aloud. Can't you just hear the rain beginning? From the right pen, all words (almost: forget it, to, the, and...) are onomatopoetic.

Same chapter:

And since sleep is is-not and rain and wind are was, it is not.

Hee-hee. Take that, J.K.Rowling.

Madge Monday

I need to start taking my voice recorder with me again. I know I had something but now it's gone.

Ah, unrelated, but: I saw a barbershop in the neighborhood with a sign in the window that reads,
"We specialize in all styles."

(A little unclear on the verb, methinks.)

Oh, verbs and other parts of speech: Madge is into Madlibs now. But we don't have a car or lengthy trips, so we do them around the house. Fun, but not really a game for the whole family. A) because Coco can't play, B) because they tend to be funnier when you use borderline crass words. Which Madge can't spell yet.

We also had a sleepover playdate this weekend. Quite a bit of work, but these things alwasy give refreshing insights into how well our kids are doing in much of their social and intellectual development. (Which is to say that Madge's friend is quite a princess.)

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.