wake-up call

I'll tell you what'll wake you up in a hurry:
Having your preschooler rub a balloon on your stubble until it pops.
(It doesn't take long, trust me.)

Met G and S in NYC

This picture is my homage to one of our great friends in San Francisco. We met him (he always reminds me of a young Frank Sinatra, only cooler and with a better sense of humor) and his husband (who looks like a model, but with character – really, you’d have to hate them both if they weren’t so darn nice) today at Union Square and had a great time.
I did, at least.
Enough sugary stuff.
Here’s why I love this thing. First off, it IS a cute way to get rid of the icky dish-soap bottle that usually clutters the sink. But the best part (for me) is that when I saw him use it in his house and commented on it, he said, “Oh, that thing? [snort (his laugh/snort is a national treasure)] Martha Stewart. I’m sure EVERY fag in the city has it.”
Of course his bottle is better looking than mine. He takes the time for details, so I’m sure he’d scrape off the tacky labels. But, hey, what can I say – I can only take the metro thing so far and then my laziness kicks in.

Food names

To the chagrin of some of our friends in San Francisco who like their food terms clear and unsullied, Coco has now finished the triple crown of egg-dish renaming.
Madge coined “yellow egg.” It stuck.
Coco added “spoon egg” (though now I’m not sure if Madge didn’t make that one up, too).
Today, he added “puddle egg.”
It took me a while to figure out what he meant. But once you see him eat, you’ll know why the term is apt.

Where's my supersuit?

For the sake of domestic tranquility I’ll change the names of the innocent in the following vignette.

Queen Bee: Have you seen my [uh, um] polyester jump suit?
Half-dozing Drone: No. I think it’s on the floor by the bed.
Queen Bee: It’s not there. Help me look.
Half-dozing Drone: Hmph.
[Half-dozing drone, to the sound of a plaintive Purcell lament, drags his sorry stinger-less behind out of the comfy hive and buzzes ineffectively around the apartment – I mean, uh, tree]
Queen Bee: Oh. I found it.
Half-dozing Drone: Where was it? On the floor? By the bed?
Queen Bee: Yes, but it was hidden –
Half-dozing Drone: - under that clear, see-through plastic toy?
Queen Bee: Yes.
[Queen Bee finishes dressing.]
Queen Bee: Wait. Was that supposed to be funny?
Dozing Drone: Sorry.

You had no idea who it was, right? I’m a master of disguise, like Inspector Clouseau.

fitness company

My sister-in-law is starting a fitness company. Good for her. She’s got the mind and dedication to do it.
She asked me to come up with a name. Hm.
The first thing that came to mind was the easy
Booty Camp. We sweat the details while you sweat your tails off.
But the name is already in use (too easy, as I said), so I went to the Thesaurus for inspiration and found some choice words that would make a great Dickensian character: Eupepsia Fettle.
Can’t you just see her? In a dusty old gym, using medicine balls and those bowling pin juggling pin dealies – what are they called when used for a workout? Indian clubs (I looked it up). She probably has a son lost at sea and overcomes her misery by keeping a fit attitude toward life – of course he returns and is almost shipwrecked off the coast but she is strong enough to haul the boat to shore.
Anyway, names:
Can I Get a Fitness?
Saturated Slims
Slogans:
Burn up, not out.
Toned and honed, not big-boned.
Let the workout raise your heart rate, not the billing.
Okay, here’s a serious one:
Personal Best
As a matter of fact, I think it's so good that unless you're my sister-in-law you might as well call your company I-had-a-great-name-but-got-sued-by-some-schmo-blogger-from-Brooklyn-who-claims-to-have-thought-it-up-first Fitness Co.

playground

Here's a downside to having a playground just across the street.
I was nodding off (don't tell Julie or she'll think my job is easy) and jumped up because I heard a kid crying.
Not mine, false alarm. But now I'm awake.

Happy End?

Stories for kids are mean. Why? you ask. Because their aim for your soft spots is so true. Well, maybe “true” is a cheeky choice of words on my part.
This was supposed to be an entry about watching the movie of A Little Princess with Madge and Coco this morning, but I think I must begin with a digression.
In order to properly talk about our movie-watching experience, I must warn that I’ll be giving away crucial information about the movie’s ending. Or, as other blogs seem to put it: SPOILER ALERT (the caps, apparently, are needed, in order to catch skimmers – those who are most likely to “spoil” books for themselves anyway – but I’ll write about my favorite skimmer some other time)!
I’ve been inadvertently caught by a SPOILER before, because I wasn’t alerted properly. We were reading Anne of Green Gables aloud (get out your hankies); in the midst of this I was doing some internet research, reading about kids’-book editors. In an interview, one of these editors talked about how she still cries when BLANK dies in Anne of Green Gables, only she said BLANK’s name! I’m getting choked up right now. This news struck, as they say, like a lightning bolt. I was so mad I called Julie at work. This was almost like the time when we read Charlotte’s Web aloud (it was my first time – I didn’t grow up here) and E.B. White was describing the autumn and I realized that death was in the air for a certain character and I refused to read the book any further. (Well, after a few days I did manage to move on.) The Anne of Green Gables thing was worse, though, because it wasn’t the book’s foreshadowing that did it, it was some uncouth editor in an interview. (I tried finding the interview again and giving the lady a piece of my mind, but I couldn't find it. I think I'm going crazy. I couldn't have imagined it, could I? My foreshadowing nose isn't that good. I would have guessed someone else dies.)
So, back to the movie SPOILER. We were watching the movie. Coco had tuned out long ago. It’s a little advanced and plotty (read: non-cartoony and slow) for him. Madge had read the book a few days before (223 pages the first day – she kills me) and was up to speed, enjoying putting faces to the names. Cute. Asking me, as the people appeared, was this so-and-so? I didn’t know. I hadn’t read the book. I still haven't, but she's urging me to do so. Soon.
Apparently the movie changes the plot. The father doesn’t die (told you there was a big SPOILER) but it only taken for dead while suffering from some kind of amnesia and blindness, gets mistaken for another soldier (the actual corpse) and sent to the dead soldier’s father’s house, which happens to be next to Sara’s (his daughter’s) boarding school, in which Sara has borne her suffering as only a heroine in a kid’s story can. The details escape me because I was busy with Coco and the internet and the dishes and breakfast and …
Anyway, there’s a big climax at the end, with Sara escaping from the mean Miss (I think she’s a Miss, she has to be in a world like that because she can’t form attachments) Minchin in a thunderstorm, across a rickety board, from one building to another. She’s hiding there, dodging from room to room trying to escape Minchin and the police, who are about to arrest her because her friends stole back her locket from Minchin and Minchin thinks Sara did it. Hooo. During this escape, Sara’s Dad regains his sight, but not his memory, and she slips into the room where he is. She sees him and cries out Daddy, but he doesn’t recognize her.
The cops come and try to pry her away as she is shouting for her Dad and
I’m rolling my eyes because it’s A MOVIE and there’s no way it’s going to end badly (badly in the sense of good people not getting rewarded and bad people not getting punished, not badly in the sense of what I was witnessing) and I’m thinking, jeez, what other emotional screw are they going to turn
When I hear a howl and sniffly-slurf from Madge and I’m brought back to a seven-year-old’s reality and realize that having your Daddy not recognize you as you’re being dragged off by the police (she stressed the police part when talking about it) must be horrific
And now I’m crying, too, trying to soothe Madge while keeping Coco quiet between us.
Oh, it was a mess.
Like I said, Stories for kids are mean.

Madge’s verdict of the movie, by the way, was that it’s not as good as the book and that the ending is too scary.

Fables are back

Okay, I’m back on the Fable track again. You've missed them, haven't you. Basically, I’m doing it because of Lessing’s book of fables. Specifically this one (pardon the stiff translation).

Bk.I, Nr. 9, The Steed
Upon a fiery steed proudly fled an impertinent boy. Thereupon a wild steer cried to the steed: Shame! I would not let myself be ruled by a boy!
But I, replied the steed. For what sort of honor would it bring me to throw off a boy?

It haunts me, especially since I run into this dilemma every day with the kids. On the one hand, I feel that they run all over me. On the other hand, I would feel terrible to really let loose on them. I’m pretty mean already, sometimes.
To both sides I can only say, “But…”

So that’s what I’m hoping to achieve in my fables. Two equally compelling sides, with the seemingly incorrect one emerging triumphant. Or is it better to be a wild steer than a fiery steed?

Suppose, for example, that your country’s infantile elected leader were riding the country like a madman. Would it be shameful to topple him, because, after all, he’s just an idiot?

Or does the image not apply to that specific situation because there is someone with a shotgun (pardon the cheap shot) ready to take control of the steed one the boy is thrown?

M Fable

The Mouse and the Moral

A mouse ran into a moral and complained. “You always manipulate me, just to make your point. First I’m typecast as something small and timid and then I’m set to do something extraordinary like help a huge animal in distress. Can’t you just leave me alone?”
To which the moral answered, “I wish I could. At least you have a variety of roles. Predictable, sure, but usually you come out looking good or upstaging the larger creatures. I have no choice. I always get trotted out to make a tale more palatable for those who like to assign readings.”
“I understand,” the mouse said. “But couldn’t you just let me be myself?”
“I’ll try,” answered the moral.
Just then a cat came along, trapped the mouse, toyed with it for a while, and, tired of that activity, ate it.
The moral hung its head and sighed.

Tristram Shandy

Originally I wanted to blog about the movie I saw last night, Tristram Shandy.
It's awesome. I loved it. All I will say for now is that it's well worth seeing, if only for the out-of-body laugh you get from the hot-chestnut-in-my-pants slapstick.
That made no sense. What I mean is that the whole movie is so "clever" and "smart" in the way those words are supposed to mean that witnessing genuine slapstick is a true relief, and yet you can't watch the scene without being aware that you're being put on and manipulated with cheap, low-common-denomiator humor.
Let me say it again. I loved it.

the mailbag

I get comments, occasionally. Yay! Here’s one:
you could take up running as a kid-free activity, but i'm not sure if something that's just for your own betterment (not the family's) would feel as 'productive'...
Actually, if you parse it right for yourself, running is a selfless activity. The logic goes like this: I’m getting older, as are the kids. For them it means they’re getting bigger and stronger. For me it means I’m getting bigger and weaker. Therefore, in order to keep up and be a physically entertaining Dad (kids can’t always work out with ironies and Beta versions of jokes-to-be), I need to keep in shape. See? I run for them.
But.
I have a double-wide running stroller. So it’s not really a kid-free activity. Sure, with the iPod in my ears and the kids in front of me, either sleeping or reading or genially admiring the landscape, it is almost a solitary activity.
On a tangent here, but related. One of the reasons I doubt I’d make a good stand-up (aside from the obvious lack of time and, gulp, hard-hitting humor talent) is that I don’t like repeating my jokes.
Yet, when I go running, the following two set-ups always present themselves, and I’m running out of varieties of the same punch lines.
Situation 1:
Me: Excuse me. Coming through!
Pedestrians: Watch out. A double-wide.
Me (patting my hips as I pass): Aw, c’mon. I’m working on it.
Situation 2 (when running with only Coco in the double stroller):
Pedestrian (almost always a male): You lost one.
Me (screeching to a halt, slapping forehead): Oh, crap! Where?
There are other standard lines I hear for which I still need to come up with short answers:
Shouldn’t they be pushing you?
Soon they’ll be pushing you?
Ah, that’s the life. [addressed to the kids]
The time goes by faster than you think.
But in none of these do the speakers really open themselves to a quick comeback. They need to be pried open a little to expose the laziness inherent in the comment and probed to see if they see it as well and have a sense of humor about it.
So my witty response is: “Yeah.”
(Except for the last one. If anyone uses the phrasing, “IT goes by so fast,” I can say, “Why, thank you. Just wait till I really pick up the speed.”
But I’m usually stuck with “yeah.”

doctor's office

We just came back. It's always a bad sign when someone opens a box lunch as you step into the waiting room.
A Bento box.
And someone else is in the middle of a tea ceremony.

We did it

Fresh Direct.
I suspect
Their marketers are shrewd.

They reflect.
Then deflect
With “It’s about the food.”

I’ll inject
Disrespect
By claiming they are crazy.

I expect
I’m correct
With “It’s about the lazy.”

Yep, we ordered out groceries to be delivered to the house. But, because I waited for the kids to be asleep before I finalized the order - and because I read and played guitar and surfed the web and procrastinated in any other way I could think of - I missed the 11pm deadline for the next day's delivery.
Net result: Coco was better and we could have gone out but now had to stay in the apartment to wait for the truck to arrive.
Irony is a busy god.
The kids didn't care, though, they'd gotten used to staying home and watching movies. Something it's been hard to break this weekend. Wish me luck for the coming week.
I have mixed feelings about my Fresh Direct order. It worked fabulously, of course. And after a few orders, I’m sure I’ll be able to figure out which items are a good value and which aren’t and how to maximize what they do. Clearly, since we don’t have a car, I’ll do best to have them schlep the heavy (drinks, watermelon) and the bulky (toilet paper) things. Fresh items I’ll order by phone from Union Market or even pick up myself.
See, here’s where the mixed feelings come in. There are a few activities that let me feel productive and yet let me get away from the kids. One of them used to be washing dishes, which I didn’t mind because of this fact, but now that we have a dishwasher, I’m not going back. The other is going shopping when the kids don’t want to (which seems to be more frequent of late), which means that I wait until Julie gets home, strap on the iPod and set out into the wild to forage.
If I could substitute these activities with other child-free things I’d give them up without qualms, but as it is, I just don’t know. Still, I think the indulgences are winning.
Next step, tattoo. What do you say?Then I’ll figure out how to flush a twenty down the toilet without breaking out in tears.

Marco Polo

We’ve been going to the pool more, lately (discounting, of course, the chicken pox break). And every day there’s kids there, playing “Marco Polo,” the game where one kid has his or her eyes closed (sure they do) and the others help him or her along by answering “Polo” every time the one who is it (the voluntarily self-blinded one) says “Marco.”
Ah, good times.
Remember them? Remember cheating by going underwater? Or out of the pool? Or by not answering because the nominated “Marco” was getting too close and he’d listen for your panting breath like some Hitchcock thriller? It’s an inane game, and yet you’d try to “beat the system” because, really, the house (Marco) always wins.
All the kids except for the blinded one are moving backwards in order to keep an eye out for potential cheating and for last-minute evasive maneuvers. And they’re continually backing into innocent bystanders and their kids – the smarter innocent bystanders circulate in the lap lane. Let me tell you, I hadn’t noticed the obesity thing as much until recently. Some of those Polo-ists are bulky.
How, by the way, did that game develop? How does adding water to a game of “blind man’s buff” equal shouting the name of a Venetian explorer? Where’s the link? And if the one who is “it” is “Marco” why is he shouting his own first name only to hear his surname in response? Was he supposedly senile? Or an egomaniac? If I were a descendant of the Polo line (the Venetians, not the nasty Florentines or Ralph Laurentians), I’d sue.
It’s become automatic for me to expect a resounding “Polo” every time I hear some kid shout “Marco.” So it was quite a surprise today when I heard a kid shout “Marco” and nobody answered. I thought, “Oh, man. Poor kid. They told him they’d play and then all left him alone when his eyes were closed.”
But the kid kept shouting “Marco” at regular intervals and his eyes were open.
Finally he found his friend.
I think if my name were Marco I’d look for a nickname before I went to the pool. That kid must be going nuts when the games are in full swing.

It: Marco!
Marco: What?
Kids: Polo!
Marco: Oh.
Ca Capo al Pool Closing.

Bigotry

It's a proud American heritage, why not embrace it?
I'm kidding, of course. My only encounter with "No Irish Need Apply" is from Mark Twain's Roughing It, in which it appears as a brainless slogan shouted out in order to pick a fight. Or put one's dukes up or whatever. It's so archaic, though, that I wish someone would try it and see what sort of response it engenders. Not me, of course.
As to "others of the same kidney," I'm still not sure that can be beat. But I welcome suggestions.
Boring, common alternatives, are:
others of the same cloth
others of the same ilk
others of the same persuasion
color? is that one?
How about:
others of the same tax bracket
others of the same pant size
others of the same I.Q.
others of the same hair colorist
others of the same dietary restrictions
ah, the possibilities are seemingly endless. It seems to be something that needs to be tailored to the situation.
Generically, however, I still vote for kidney.

Archaic phrase

Every once in a while I run across an older phrase I wish I could incorporate in my daily speech without confusing listeners. (No Irish Need Apply is one of them, though I don't have the physical strength to back it up in case someone actually gets it.) The phrase I ran across tonight (while reading to Madge - she's letting me read to her again, yay! Now that she can read "inside her head" my "funny voices" aren't so appealing anymore) is, "others of the same kidney."
Say that a few times. Isn't it great?
Now go use it and tell me how it worked for you.

I'll be in my office

I got this in an email that was entitled “Employee of the Month.” Clearly that title was given by an optimistic manager type.
What, really, is this person (I’m guessing it’s a woman) doing?

Taking advantage of a space that is more private and larger than her cubicle.
Updating her blog.
Checking if there really is “Wi-Fi access throughout the entire building.”
Trying to avoid electronic eavesdropping. (Unclear on the concept, obviously.)
Figuring out how to fix her “blocked progress” on WebMD.

But really, what I don’t get is why – other than for photographic purposes – the laptop isn’t actually on her lap? Wouldn’t that be more comfortable AND less obvious?

Is it stealing

to appropriate someone else's blog photo? (I'm quite sure they got the picture from some other source, themselves.)
I found this picture on the jawboneradio blog.

It's part of a caption contest there. My caption would be too personal for broader acceptance, so I didn't post it there.

It would be something along the lines of,

"No, really, honey. There's a princess in movie and furry animals. All the little girls love it. Now can we watch Star Wars?"

or, "What?! A light-saber is phallic, you say? Well, I never!"

One of the Greats retires

One of the great things about Indian restaurants is the lunchtime (all you can eat) buffet. You get to sample foods you might not otherwise be able to recognize by what’s written on the menu, and you get to eat all you want. (I write “want,” but I still view the “can” as a challenge.)
Unfortunately, the Indian restaurants in Park Slope don’t offer this fun option.
Last week, there was a news story with the headline, “India’s ‘monster eater’ retires.” I wrote this limerick for Wait W. which (for obvious reasons) didn’t air.

There was a big man in Kizhakkumpattukara,
an all-you-can-eat buffet wizhakkumpattukara.
But nothing could squelch
his post-lunchtime belch.
No seltzer has got enough fizzhakkumpattukara.

Then, today, I see a sign at Star India that announces an all-you-can-eat buffet brunch.
Hm. Coincidence?

among my issues, you'll find

There are some things for which I am too stubbornly middle class or something. By “or something” I mean not affluent enough.
I can’t really get myself to do the following, mostly because of the cost, but sometimes because of the social hierarchy implied in the transaction:
Get a tattoo.
Get a pedicure.
Have my shoes shined.
Have a maid.
Have a nanny.
Have groceries delivered to the house.
Literally flush a $20 bill down the toilet. (I have the feeling this would be very liberating, though.)

But I have done the following, even though it either took some convincing or it took someone else footing the bill:
Have movers pack, move, and unpack our things.
Get a manicure (Julie couldn’t make it to the appointment, so I took it).
Get a massage (it was paid for, though).
Pay for a cart at the airport.
I’m sure there’s more, but I’ve probably blocked them from my memory somehow.

In other words, I appreciate the www.freshdirect.com suggestion, but I don’t know if I’ll take advantage of it.