The Sober Husband met a friend and the friend's new girlfriend for coffee. The girlfriend has cats and asked about our cats. As the Sober Husband described it, "I told her we had two types of cats."
"What?" interjected Iris, Lola and I all at once. "What are the two types?" Republicans and Democrats? Extroverts and introverts? Scientologists and agnostics?
"Let him tell the story," said one child reprovingly, after our derisive laughter had gone on long enough.
"So I said we had four adult cats," the Sober Husband continued gamely.
"WRONG! We have five cats," I pounced.
"Shit!"
"Count them on your fingers by name," I said.
"Frowsty, Henry, Emo, and Nert," he said.
"You left out Zorro."
The Sober Husband appeared disgusted at this point that we had somehow acquired five cats without his realizing it. After some time, he was able to resume his narrative. "So I said we have kittens, and every year there is some kitten we can't resist, so we are constantly accumulating cats."
Sunday, October 26, 2014
the further adventures of tiny, amazing Lola
Recently we ran across some art Lola did when she was younger. She turned her name into an acrostic:
Legally a minor
Optimistic
Loyal
Artistic
Iris and I were slayed by the first L and fell about laughing. "Really, Lola? That's what you thought was the most important thing about yourself?" Luckily Lola had a sense of humor about her younger self as well and didn't take offense.
On Friday Lola had no school, and I took my tiny, amazing, legal-minor to a corn maze. I felt ashamed of never having had this American experience. It must be a midwestern and western thing, as we had lots of corn in New England growing up, but no corn mazes. My Puritan ancestors would have been horrified at the idea of wasting good corn on fools traipsing about idly.
At the corn maze, Lola and I got lost quickly. We attempted to use our powers of memory and reasoning. These powers were evidently too weak. Lola asked with trepidation, "What if we don't find our way out?"
I reassured Lola. "If worst comes to worst, we can make our way between the corn and get out. We will do our best to gently bend the corn and not trample any. And we have water." We soldiered on.
At some point we came upon one of the two viewing platforms, where you could climb out a flight of stairs and look across the maze. We decided to skip it, because we thought it would be cheating, and we regretted that as we wandered on in the maze. Later we talked sorrowfully about that platform as we trudged on. "I thought we were going to see it again," I said. "I can't believe we didn't circle back to it."
Still later we came upon a viewing platform, and we were excited. We climbed up and learned that using the viewing platforms was not cheating. The corn maze paths were so narrow that all you saw from up in the air was a solid field of corn. We did figure out, however, that we were on the very same viewing platform we'd scorned earlier and had been wandering around in the beginning of the maze for a whole hour. Online we had read that the typical person spent about forty-five minutes in the corn maze, but we were not typical, and we were atypical in a bad way. We decided it was time to adopt a basic strategy and turn the same direction at every single intersection.
After a while, we found ourselves back at the very beginning of the maze. This was disheartening. We were out of the maze, but we knew we'd only experienced the first third of it. The lady who sells tickets to the maze also felt sorry for us. "Did you try always turning left?"
"We started always turning right."
The woman shook her head sorrowfully. "You could try again."
Lolz and I looked at each other.
"If you're going back in, you might want to do it before these kids start," advised the woman. A huge group of tiny preschoolers was advancing upon the maze.
I grabbed Lola's hand and we ran in. We methodically turned left at every crossing, which felt efficient but when we reached the first viewing platform (our third visit) we found the preschoolers. They had beaten us there. Disheartened we trudged on. "We are people of the corn," we said. We tried to sing a song the Sober Husband is fond of about a chicken in the corn, but we didn't know enough of the lyrics. "Chicken... corn... la la la la," we chanted.
Eventually we came to another viewing platform, and we clambered up. "It's the same one," said Lola pessimistically. "No, Lola, look! We're closer to the trees. But where's the other one?"
"They took it down!" said Lola wildly. "They took it down while we were in here!"
We scanned the field. Then a man came into view, climbing up on the other platform. "Oh, there it is," said Lola deflatedly.
We climbed down and finished the maze. We could see from how pristine the paths were that most people didn't reach this part of the maze. When we left, the ticket lady congratulated us. The woman selling pumpkins said, "You wouldn't catch me going in there. How long did it take?"
"An hour and forty-five minutes," we said shamefacedly.
"They'd have to get me out the next day," said the pumpkin lady consolingly.
Legally a minor
Optimistic
Loyal
Artistic
Iris and I were slayed by the first L and fell about laughing. "Really, Lola? That's what you thought was the most important thing about yourself?" Luckily Lola had a sense of humor about her younger self as well and didn't take offense.
On Friday Lola had no school, and I took my tiny, amazing, legal-minor to a corn maze. I felt ashamed of never having had this American experience. It must be a midwestern and western thing, as we had lots of corn in New England growing up, but no corn mazes. My Puritan ancestors would have been horrified at the idea of wasting good corn on fools traipsing about idly.
At the corn maze, Lola and I got lost quickly. We attempted to use our powers of memory and reasoning. These powers were evidently too weak. Lola asked with trepidation, "What if we don't find our way out?"
I reassured Lola. "If worst comes to worst, we can make our way between the corn and get out. We will do our best to gently bend the corn and not trample any. And we have water." We soldiered on.
At some point we came upon one of the two viewing platforms, where you could climb out a flight of stairs and look across the maze. We decided to skip it, because we thought it would be cheating, and we regretted that as we wandered on in the maze. Later we talked sorrowfully about that platform as we trudged on. "I thought we were going to see it again," I said. "I can't believe we didn't circle back to it."
Still later we came upon a viewing platform, and we were excited. We climbed up and learned that using the viewing platforms was not cheating. The corn maze paths were so narrow that all you saw from up in the air was a solid field of corn. We did figure out, however, that we were on the very same viewing platform we'd scorned earlier and had been wandering around in the beginning of the maze for a whole hour. Online we had read that the typical person spent about forty-five minutes in the corn maze, but we were not typical, and we were atypical in a bad way. We decided it was time to adopt a basic strategy and turn the same direction at every single intersection.
After a while, we found ourselves back at the very beginning of the maze. This was disheartening. We were out of the maze, but we knew we'd only experienced the first third of it. The lady who sells tickets to the maze also felt sorry for us. "Did you try always turning left?"
"We started always turning right."
The woman shook her head sorrowfully. "You could try again."
Lolz and I looked at each other.
"If you're going back in, you might want to do it before these kids start," advised the woman. A huge group of tiny preschoolers was advancing upon the maze.
I grabbed Lola's hand and we ran in. We methodically turned left at every crossing, which felt efficient but when we reached the first viewing platform (our third visit) we found the preschoolers. They had beaten us there. Disheartened we trudged on. "We are people of the corn," we said. We tried to sing a song the Sober Husband is fond of about a chicken in the corn, but we didn't know enough of the lyrics. "Chicken... corn... la la la la," we chanted.
Eventually we came to another viewing platform, and we clambered up. "It's the same one," said Lola pessimistically. "No, Lola, look! We're closer to the trees. But where's the other one?"
"They took it down!" said Lola wildly. "They took it down while we were in here!"
We scanned the field. Then a man came into view, climbing up on the other platform. "Oh, there it is," said Lola deflatedly.
We climbed down and finished the maze. We could see from how pristine the paths were that most people didn't reach this part of the maze. When we left, the ticket lady congratulated us. The woman selling pumpkins said, "You wouldn't catch me going in there. How long did it take?"
"An hour and forty-five minutes," we said shamefacedly.
"They'd have to get me out the next day," said the pumpkin lady consolingly.
Monday, October 13, 2014
tiny, amazing Lola and the make-up mystery
When Iris uber Alles graduated from middle school, her little sister Lola and I had some trouble finding our assigned seats. As we wandered throughout the auditorium, reading the labels on the folding chairs and failing to find our name, we ran into one of Iris's teachers, one she greatly admires ("C. is so badass!"). I took this opportunity to share with this teacher how highly Iris spoke of her. In reply, the teacher, C., fixed me with a very stern eye and said intently, "Iris shouldn't be allowed to wear makeup! She's too hot!" There was an awkward pause.
Eventually Lola and I moved on and found our seats. "That was weird," I said. "I know," said Lola. "Was that some kind of criticism of my parenting?" I mulled.
Much later (after each and every student had given not one but two speeches, some other people had given speeches, and the students had had lots of pictures taken and consumed lots of h'ors d'oeuvres), I started to tell Iris about this chance encounter. Lola decided that she, not me, should tell it.
"So! C. was fascinated by tiny, amazing Lola," began Lola. "Mommy was telling C. about how Iris thought she was a badass, so C. sadly had to tear her attention away from tiny, amazing Lola."
At this point Lola was interrupted by her audience, who wished to know what exactly was so amazing about Lola. Lola eventually got back into the groove of her story: "So then C. said to Mommy, 'Iris shouldn't be allowed to wear makeup!' Then she turned her attention back to tiny, amazing Lola. And Mommy was all surprised by what C. said. And Mommy asked tiny, amazing Lola, 'What did she mean by that?'"
Eventually Lola and I moved on and found our seats. "That was weird," I said. "I know," said Lola. "Was that some kind of criticism of my parenting?" I mulled.
Much later (after each and every student had given not one but two speeches, some other people had given speeches, and the students had had lots of pictures taken and consumed lots of h'ors d'oeuvres), I started to tell Iris about this chance encounter. Lola decided that she, not me, should tell it.
"So! C. was fascinated by tiny, amazing Lola," began Lola. "Mommy was telling C. about how Iris thought she was a badass, so C. sadly had to tear her attention away from tiny, amazing Lola."
At this point Lola was interrupted by her audience, who wished to know what exactly was so amazing about Lola. Lola eventually got back into the groove of her story: "So then C. said to Mommy, 'Iris shouldn't be allowed to wear makeup!' Then she turned her attention back to tiny, amazing Lola. And Mommy was all surprised by what C. said. And Mommy asked tiny, amazing Lola, 'What did she mean by that?'"
Wednesday, October 08, 2014
and yet life meanders on
Life has not been the most fabulous lately, and I realize there is no one to blame but myself. I am healthy once again, after resetting my own immune system successfully, and my husband is employed once again. I'm back to my gym rat days, obnoxiously enough, and was taunting Iris uber Alles today. "Poke me here" (forcing the poor thing to prod me in the upper six-pack zone). "See! You could bounce a coin off there. " Then I poked her similarly. "Look! It's like a marshmallow!" Later, I noted, "Feel free to prod me in the abs whenever you want. Perhaps you are afraid you might harm your finger." Iris rolled her eyes.
I tend to be a glass-half-empty (probably drained by a rich sociopath when my back was turned) kind of gal on the whole. Funnily enough, given how dark my outlook has been of late, that I'm bizarrely able to take with equanimity the one thing which drives most women my age insane: hot flashes. I've been 'pausing hard lately, and for the most part, I'm fine with it. I lived in the tropics for a couple of years and liked it; for a while I led a fruitless campaign to get our family to move to a warmer climate. So I'm viewing this all as my having moved to my own private tropics.
But yet, it is a dark time. Warm, but dark. My psychiatrist retired, the slacker, and I feel abandoned. The Sober Husband and I are in marriage counseling, and it's been what Jane Austen might refer to as "a right old clusterfuck." For example, yesterday our counselor suggested that since I am irked by the Sober Husband's ubiquitous complaining, I should try doing everything just the way he likes so that he will never need to complain. I used about fifty swear words in my explanation of why that is never going to fucking happen.
I'm of a mind to call it a day and not return to pay for more of these gems of counseling, feeling I could get more from a vintage copy of "The Total Woman" (which I read in sneaky bursts while babysitting as a tween), but the Sober Husband is in strong disagreement.
After Robin Williams died, people thought for awhile about depression. I saw so many Facebook statuses urging, "If you ever feel like that, call me!!!" I rolled my eyes at each and every one of these. The sad truth is that at this point, honestly I am not going to call anyone on a bad day. Everyone is fucking sick of hearing about how I am depressed. There is nothing more dreary than hearing about someone's depression, and anyone whose phone number I have has undoubtedly long ago had their share of hearing about mine. Additionally, the last thing I want to hear is unsolicited advice from someone who has never attempted suicide and who is not a psychiatrist. "Just look on the bright side" and "Why don't you just shake out of it?" and the like are not helpful in the least. And, finally, if you really feel that bad, you don't feel up to talking on the phone. You feel more like curling up in bed in silence.
In times like this, honestly it is literature that keeps me going. If I were to die, there are so many books I wouldn't have read. Lately, there have been some amazing books, gorgeous jewels of books that made me gasp and feel that it was worth it, dragging through life, if you at least get to now and then put up your feet, take off your shirt if you're 'pausing hard, and get drunk in words.
Recent books you should read, particularly if you have my flavor of depression:
California by Edan Lepucki: A dark dystopic tale about life after our society collapses due to economic and environmental disasters. Beautifully written, it raises so many questions about political activism, what life is like living off the grid, how to build a society, the use of a liberal arts education. Absolutely brilliant. When I finished it, I started it over from the beginning, just not wanting it to be done.
Station 11 by Emily St. John Mandel: Another novel set in the near-future after society's collapse, this time due to a pandemic. Mandel's book is so beautifully written, such luscious language and such an intricately linked plot, that I kept exclaiming out loud as I read it. "This book is like a necklace," I informed the uninterested Lola. "It's just so gorgeous, and it all ties together."
The Bend of The World by Jacob Bacharach: Bacharach's protagonist is a rather aimless man with a meaningless job and a shallow relationship whose gay, drunken best friend is obsessed with arcane theories and conspiracies. Extraordinarily witty and chock-full of silliness, but yet extremely moving and beautifully written, with an breathtakingly spare use of language at times. I literally laughed out loud at one point and teared up at another, and there is not another book I can think of which has drawn both of these reactions from my black, shriveled soul.
Your Face In Mine by Jess Row: A man sees someone he thinks he knows on the street, but this can't be his old friend. This oddly familiar person is the wrong race. A weirdly gripping intellectual exploration of the implications of racial reassignment surgery, pairing beautiful writing with original ideas. I was so engaged by this book that I paid no attention to my surroundings and ended up with a rather wretched sunburn on my left thigh. It seems appropriate that part of my skin changed color while I was reading this book, a little unintended homage to the power of Row's writing.
I tend to be a glass-half-empty (probably drained by a rich sociopath when my back was turned) kind of gal on the whole. Funnily enough, given how dark my outlook has been of late, that I'm bizarrely able to take with equanimity the one thing which drives most women my age insane: hot flashes. I've been 'pausing hard lately, and for the most part, I'm fine with it. I lived in the tropics for a couple of years and liked it; for a while I led a fruitless campaign to get our family to move to a warmer climate. So I'm viewing this all as my having moved to my own private tropics.
But yet, it is a dark time. Warm, but dark. My psychiatrist retired, the slacker, and I feel abandoned. The Sober Husband and I are in marriage counseling, and it's been what Jane Austen might refer to as "a right old clusterfuck." For example, yesterday our counselor suggested that since I am irked by the Sober Husband's ubiquitous complaining, I should try doing everything just the way he likes so that he will never need to complain. I used about fifty swear words in my explanation of why that is never going to fucking happen.
I'm of a mind to call it a day and not return to pay for more of these gems of counseling, feeling I could get more from a vintage copy of "The Total Woman" (which I read in sneaky bursts while babysitting as a tween), but the Sober Husband is in strong disagreement.
After Robin Williams died, people thought for awhile about depression. I saw so many Facebook statuses urging, "If you ever feel like that, call me!!!" I rolled my eyes at each and every one of these. The sad truth is that at this point, honestly I am not going to call anyone on a bad day. Everyone is fucking sick of hearing about how I am depressed. There is nothing more dreary than hearing about someone's depression, and anyone whose phone number I have has undoubtedly long ago had their share of hearing about mine. Additionally, the last thing I want to hear is unsolicited advice from someone who has never attempted suicide and who is not a psychiatrist. "Just look on the bright side" and "Why don't you just shake out of it?" and the like are not helpful in the least. And, finally, if you really feel that bad, you don't feel up to talking on the phone. You feel more like curling up in bed in silence.
In times like this, honestly it is literature that keeps me going. If I were to die, there are so many books I wouldn't have read. Lately, there have been some amazing books, gorgeous jewels of books that made me gasp and feel that it was worth it, dragging through life, if you at least get to now and then put up your feet, take off your shirt if you're 'pausing hard, and get drunk in words.
Recent books you should read, particularly if you have my flavor of depression:
California by Edan Lepucki: A dark dystopic tale about life after our society collapses due to economic and environmental disasters. Beautifully written, it raises so many questions about political activism, what life is like living off the grid, how to build a society, the use of a liberal arts education. Absolutely brilliant. When I finished it, I started it over from the beginning, just not wanting it to be done.
Station 11 by Emily St. John Mandel: Another novel set in the near-future after society's collapse, this time due to a pandemic. Mandel's book is so beautifully written, such luscious language and such an intricately linked plot, that I kept exclaiming out loud as I read it. "This book is like a necklace," I informed the uninterested Lola. "It's just so gorgeous, and it all ties together."
The Bend of The World by Jacob Bacharach: Bacharach's protagonist is a rather aimless man with a meaningless job and a shallow relationship whose gay, drunken best friend is obsessed with arcane theories and conspiracies. Extraordinarily witty and chock-full of silliness, but yet extremely moving and beautifully written, with an breathtakingly spare use of language at times. I literally laughed out loud at one point and teared up at another, and there is not another book I can think of which has drawn both of these reactions from my black, shriveled soul.
Your Face In Mine by Jess Row: A man sees someone he thinks he knows on the street, but this can't be his old friend. This oddly familiar person is the wrong race. A weirdly gripping intellectual exploration of the implications of racial reassignment surgery, pairing beautiful writing with original ideas. I was so engaged by this book that I paid no attention to my surroundings and ended up with a rather wretched sunburn on my left thigh. It seems appropriate that part of my skin changed color while I was reading this book, a little unintended homage to the power of Row's writing.
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