sarcasm where sarcasm is not due

Over dinner the family was discussing budget cuts we could make ('tis the season to cut back on discretionary spending; we are attempting to figure out whether we can afford to send Iris to private high school).  The Sober Husband noted that he rarely drives his car nowadays, since he normally takes a luxurious company bus to work (the bus in question has hardwood floors, a very friendly driver, and a WiFi connection faster and more reliable than any home internet we've ever had).  

"I wasn't asking you to sell your car because I know you love it so much," I said.  The Sober Husband and his Prius (nicknamed by me "the Science Coffin") seem like a perfect match.

The Sober Husband scoffed. "I don't care if that car lives or dies."

I looked at him in horror.  "Don't talk that way!"

Iris intervened.  "It's not like it's the Baby," she said, referring to my beloved MINI Cooper.  "The Baby is a beloved member of the family.  His car is just a car."

"I'm so glad you understand," I said.

Iris rolled her eyes. "I was being sarcastic."

sojourning in Ojai

Iris über Alles and I roadtripped down to Ojai, to visit a boarding school.  This school is famous for its horses (each freshman is assigned a horse to care for), but no one had told us it could also be famous for its dogs.  Delightful dogs roamed the campus freely.  The campus itself was breathtaking:  gorgeous views at every turn, contented teenagers going about their responsible ways amongst bucolic spectacular beauty, devoted faculty members gazing with admiration at the students.

Private schools always talk about their diversity, but this one seems to have achieved it.  At a school-wide assembly, teenagers of every color and size all appeared engaged and happy, not a single one rolling their eyes or acting above it all.  Iris was taken about the school by a miniskirted girl from Japan; I was given a tour by a rangy Christian from Texas.  I remarked to my guide, "Everyone tells you about the horses, but no one mentions the dogs."  Her delightful reply was, "There's lots of cats, too!"

Later Iris and I reconvened.  "Thacher is the happiest place on earth," I said wonderingly.  "I have never seen such happy teenagers."  Iris agreed, but darkly noted that she might be too sarcastic and unhappy by nature to attend.

ugh, another year stuck being me

It's my birthday, a day of great depression and unhappiness always for me. Two "friends" have severed contact with me this week, kind of icing on the cake. Usually I feel on this day that the world would have been a much happier place if I had not been born (certainly my family of origin would have been), but I have to reconsider because that would mean Iris and Lola wouldn't exist. They are so wonderful and really all I have in the world, with the Sober Husband. I guess I have good luck with making a little family, although very little luck with friends.

the kindergarten promotion

The Sober Husband took a new job, at a new company.  The job is a huge promotion, a much loftier and important job than he's held before, with huge new challenges and responsibilities.  However, to us, he's like a kindergartener.

This grew out of a joke I made, when I regretted not being there to send him off on his first day (I was at Burning Man).  "That's silly, you don't need to be here," said the Sober Husband.

"But it's like your first day going off to school," I said.  "I should take a picture of you."

While I was just being silly, the parallels began to mount.  The Sober Husband now takes a bus to work, like a school child.  After the children started school, he tried a different bus route so that he could spend more time with us in the morning, but the new route didn't suit him so well.  "I had people I talked to in the morning on the other bus," he said fretfully.  He changed back to his old routine.

I explained this to the children.  "Daddy has bus friends, and he didn't make new friends on the other bus, so he wants to ride the old bus with his old friends.  He's like a kindergartener."

Also, the kids at the new school dress differently than the ones at the last place.  I ordered the Sober Husband a new sort of shirt so he would feel that he fit in better.

And, as the icing on the cake, at work, when the Sober Husband needs to clear his head, he goes into a special nap room.   The children seized upon this.  "He really is a kindergartener.  He naps!"

The poor man is beset with stress and responsibility, but to us, he is a tall kindergartener.