WTF

I don't know what happened to the fonts on my last post. I'm sorry--I've tried and tried to fix it, to no avail. I don't know WTF is going on, but it sure does ruin the post. So sorry.

Post Haste

Okay--still swamped with birthday stuff (my son's "real" birthday is today), Passover stuff etc., so instead of writing something original--I'll crib from my kids.

First, though, my kindergarten son had a piano recital at his school last night, and I was so proud of him. He really can play! Even cooler? He was pretty darn proud of himself. He has natural talent--if only I could convince him to actually practice periodically. . .

Okay--here's another one of those things that may end up lost in translation. It is a little comic strip-type work my 9-year-old daughter drew. As I do not have a scanner, I can't scan in the artwork, so I'll just have to describe it--don't worry, there is dialog, too; just picture the speech bubbles!

First Frame: A cat in profile, looking at a scowling mouse in profile (although I must confess, I initially thought the cat was a fox. . . .). Way up in the sky, barely noticeable (I didn't even notice it until the 4th time I read the strip), a little unidentified object in the distance. Cat to Mouse: Can I eat you? Mouse to Cat: When pigs fly!

Second Frame: Again in profile: Cat looking up mouth open in surprise, mouse standing on Cat's nose, also looking up, open-mouthed. What are they looking at? A pig on a hang glider, complete with curly tail and goggles. Pig, looking down, smiling: Hey guys!

Third Frame: Again in profile, Cat (still looking fairly fox-y to me) with it's mouth open on the ground, tongue rolled out like a red carpet. Mouse resignedly walking up the cat's tongue into its mouth. Mouse: Okay. . . .

F0urth Frame: Full frontal view of the foxy cat, with a big Cheshire grin on it's face. Cat: I love a happy ending.

Fifth Frame: Full front view of the mouse in the stomach, floating in stomach juices. Mouse, scowling: Hmph!

Macabre sense of humor my daughter has. But I swear--it really was funny!

Hope everyone survived tax day more or less intact.

Until next time. . .

Yada yada and matzoh

Okay--bit of a lull there. It's not that I didn't want to write--it's my usual plaint--too busy. I even started drafting a couple of things. . .only to find I didn't have time to complete them. One of them I'm ditching altogether--too whiny--even for me.

What, pray tell, is keeping me so busy?--Oh, this and that. Among other things, my son's birthday party was this past weekend. (Californians are flakes about RSVPing, in case you wanted to know). Additionally, no sooner does my husband get back from his 2-week business trip, than my housekeeper unexpectedly has to take off to Mexico for a week, as her mother is gravely ill.

Now, it's always a little more difficult for me when she's gone--I really rely on her more than any other human being, as my husband works all the time and we have no family here, but it's usually bearable. (Well, it's bearable for me, because I've lived with my slob of a self all my life. For my husband, my housekeeping skill--or rather, lack thereof-- is, at best, a grimace-and-bear-it situation when the housekeeper is here. It verges on disaster (can you spell D-I-V-O-R-C-E?) when she's gone. Just so you know, though, I'm not DIRTY, just messy. Really. Truly. Cross my heart. For example, I will keep the bathrooms and kitchens pretty darn clean. . .I figure anything remotely connected with an orifice should be clean, clean, clean). But the week before Pesach (or Passover, if you prefer) is probably one of the worst times EVER for her to be gone. There is so much cleaning and clearing out, packing up and unpacking, washing and scrubbing, shopping and cooking that goes on that I normally rely on her very heavily at this time. Ah well, guess dear hubby will have to pitch in if he wants the kitchen as Pesadich as he normally likes it.

An aside: My housekeeper was not sure if I would "let" her go see her possibly dying mother. Good grief. What kind of monster does she think I am? I don't know how I could have lived with myself if I had said no. Who would do that? Are people really that heartless and selfish? Never mind, I don't even want to know. I think I prefer to live in the la-la land of my own making, where people really do want to do the right thing. . .

So, it will continue to be hit or miss for the next week or two. I'm hoping to slip in a book recommendation, some humor, and lord knows what else (probably a little whining. . .I'm still me, after all).

For all of you who celebrate (or barely tolerate) it--Happy Pesach. Enjoy the matzoh (and all its attendant digestive, um, effects)!

Congrats

A big congrats to my husband for being named one of the Top 10 Copyright attorneys in the state. Way to go, oh copyright guru!

Melancholy Baby

Don't know why. Just am.

P.P.S.

I got carded (and that hasn't happened in a decade or more)! I almost hopped over the counter and planted one on the vendor! He definitely made my night.

Oh, and we had great parking karma. As we were waiting in the long line of cars attempting to enter the parking lot, we allowed some guys in a white Chevy Malibu to cut in front of us. Next thing we know, we're being flagged to go into the reserved parking area, where selfsame guys had given us a free parking pass. My friend and I would like to think it's because we're still cute, but most likely it was just that we were nice enough to let them in.

We tried to find them after we parked and at the end of the concert in order to thank them (and to assuage our consciences for having cursed them out--to ourselves--as we let them in line)--to no avail. Somewhere out there, are two chivalrous dudes in a Chevy Malibu to whom two chicks in a Honda Pilot owe a big thanks. So thanks, guys!

P.S.

I certainly did not expect Tom Morello from Rage Against the Machine to show up at Bruce's concert. But he did--played The Ghost of Tom Joad with the Boss--and I've got to say--his guitar work BLEW me away. Remind me to go to the next RATM concert. He's fucking incredible. (Yeah, I know I sound like a teenage boy. . .)

Here's a link to a bootleg You Tube video of the song. Unfortunately, it cannot do justice either to the sound or the visuals of the performance. Still worth a gander, though.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dJT1EdKRF2g

Bruce ROCKS!!!!!!!

This one's for you, Jerome!

Vegetable Insults

Sorry about the radio silence. As you may recall I was out-of-town this weekend (more on that another time), and I was just knackered beyond belief today. Now, I'm getting ready to head out to a Springsteen concert. . .and so will not have time to post much of consequence (as if any of it were really of consequence). . .

Still. . .something just happened . . .so I thought I'd share. . .This probably won't be nearly as funny as it was when it occurred, but what the hell:

I picked up my kids from their after-school activity today, and as usual when they are particularly pooped, they were bickering about some utterly stupid thing or another. As we were getting out of the car, my daughter closed the door before my son could get out--a not unusual tactic of hers. This happens to be something that really gets his goat. As they continued to bicker, he then decided to make his exit from the rear hatch. . .I suppose I should be impressed with the kids' ability to multi-task bickering and whatever else they're doing. . .Anyhow, as he was climbing over the back seat the kids continued to hurl insults at each other. . . Finally, my son looked at my daughter and, stuttering in his frustration, yelled:

"You . . .you're. . . an ARTICHOKE!"

Then he fell off the seat, plop.

And we all just cracked up. There is nothing like a good vegetable insult to improve everyone's mood.

Actually, I'm hoping that we come up with more vegetable insults. Much more creative and less damaging than stuff like dumb-dumb and poop-head. I wonder if Brussels Sprouts are next on the menu?

A toute a l'heure. (And to all you francophones out there--I haven't yet figured out how to put in proper accents in french, so you'll just have to imagine they're there, over each "a.")

I don't know

I don't know what I want to say today--I have a couple of topics percolating, but I don't feel up to dealing with them. And nothing else has struck my fancy today. It's amazing how the stress of anticipating packing can suck the creativity right out of you. We're off for a weekend of family camp. Should be fun, pray it'll be fun, even if dear hubby can't make it. Luckily, I have lots of friends going, so hopefully I won't be too lonely--or feel too bereft.

So, off I go to make our packing list. . .Talk at ya after the weekend, probably.

Wilted lettuce

I know I write about my kids a lot, but I'm a stay-at-home mom, so it should be no surprise that much of my life, and my blogging, revolves around them. No exception today.

My kids continue to blow me away with their ability to describe their feelings (usually their negative ones, but, hey, creativity is creativity). Last night, my daughter and I were having a pre-bedtime chat. She was talking about cliques and other stuff related to friends-- this social maneuvering seems to start earlier and earlier, by the way--and she was trying to describe the way she felt when one of her friends stopped in the middle of their game and joined some other kids instead. "Sad," I suggested? No. "Angry?" No. "It's hard to describe," she said, going silent. After a few minutes' pause, during which she had clearly been thinking hard, she said "Wilted lettuce. I feel like wilted lettuce when that happens." She's so far ahead of me in her use of simile; no way I could've described it any better.

Tonight, my son and I got into an argument--bottom line was that I had to take a toy away from him for the night because he failed to live up to a very clear agreement we had made (an agreement as to what he needed to do, as well as what the consequences would be if he didn't). Needless to say, tired as he was (and he hasn't been sleeping very well the past few days) he was extremely upset about this and I had to chase him around a bit before I could get the toy back. He was really feeling wretched, but he came up with a great idea: he was going to draw how he mad and sad he felt on a series of notecards--which he ultimately taped up to the wall by my bed, so I wouldn't forget how he felt! Well, the final notecard held a monochromatic picture of a rainbow, superimposed with the words (spelling his): "I fel like a ded rainbo." Again, I don't think I could have said it any more aptly than he did. (And I felt it like a punch to the gut, which I suppose was it's intended purpose!)

Like I said, sometimes my kids blow me away.

It's hee-eeere. . .

Yes, folks, it's that time of the year again, the time all westside Angelenos starve themselves the entire month of March for--Grilled Cheese Month at Clementine! The ooey-gooey fun starts tomorrow! So put those scales away, ignore the fact that bathing suit season is on the way and load up on all the cheesy goodness that is Clementine in April. See you there! www.clementineonline.com

Dishwasher Rant

Why is it that every housekeeper we have ever employed has no clue how to load a dishwasher? This is a source both of annoyance and perpetual mystery to my husband and me. Now, I'm not trying to be racist, classist or otherwise politically incorrect--in fact, I'm about as wracked with liberal guilt as anyone.

(I'm not sure my dear hubby is as wracked as I am, but he is overall a person of integrity and fairness, willing to judge by performance above all, and thus is far less prejudiced than many folks I know. Except maybe when it comes to intelligence. He does not suffer fools gladly, or even tolerably well. This quality--the integrity/fairness quality--may also be attributable to the fact that his parents sent him to a sleep-away camp primarily for poor inner-city youth when he grew up. To this day, we have no idea what his folks were thinking, or if they even knew what the camp was. In any event, I think it's safe to say he was pretty much the only shrimpy, jewish nerd at that camp. He quickly learned what he needed to do . . .he befriended the biggest and baddest guys at camp by ghost-writing their love letters for them; in return he got protection and a sort of respected mascot status. Whatever else he may or may not be, my husband is not a fool, and his survival instincts are spot on.)

Now, I understand that not all of our housekeepers may have had a lot of personal experience with dishwashers. But you'd think after years and years of working for us and seeing how we very logically and consistently load the dishwasher ourselves, they'd figure it out. And not one of them ever has. Or is it just their passive-aggressive way of sticking it to the man? Who knows.

And yes, both my husband and I are fully aware how petty this complaint is. But we just can't stop being irked--no matter how hard we try.