• Three days ago, a fairly small segment of Chicago got rain. Most of the suburbs remained parched, but the North and Northwest Sides selfishly gorged on rainwater. We got 3 to 4 inches of rain in about a 45-minute period. Meteorologically speaking, most impressive! The flooded roads were entertaining. Ben enjoyed watching cars plow into a 5-inch-deep puddle and splash water clear over a parked SUV. (Alas, we also had to drive and walk in this rain. My comfy Naot sandals waded through ankle-deep water. And may building's basement flooded a bit, meaning I put in a lot of time downstairs cleaning out our storage locker this week.)
• On leaving the grocery store today, I witnessed a man digging into his single-item purchase while walking through the parking lot. This guy walked to the store specifically to buy a 16-oz. tub of cottage cheese, which he ate heaping spoonfuls of before he even left store property. Excuse me, but when did cottage cheese become handy on-the-go food? A wrap sandwich, sure. Bag of chips or a candy bar, yes. Granola bar, protein bar, beverage, why not? But a pound of cottage cheese is just bizarre.
• I had a third item and it was every bit a funny as Cottage Cheese Man. But I forgot what it was.
• I don't get tagged for meme duty very often, but the pseudonymous Jay has tagged me to list five reasons I blog. Since I was one of the people who nudged Jay into blogging—I kept sending her links to must-read blogs I knew she'd like—it is incumbent on me to pony up five reasons. Or maybe not quite five. Let's see:
1. Because I got hooked on reading several blogs and joining the commenting communities, and then the lovely PK sent me an e-mail and said something along the lines of "And where is your blog, young lady? (tap, tap, tap)" The impatient tapping pushed me straight into blogging.
2. Brvsudr—is that not the best typo ever for "because"? I was one key over for most of the letters. Reason 2: Because I like to express myself in writing.
3. Initially, because it helped me stay in touch with actual sentient adults when I was home with a small child. And then you get to liking the people, and it would be uncongenial to ditch the mutual read-and-comment relationship. Which is not to say I bear any ill will to those whose priorities have shifted and who no longer have the energy or time to write, or to visit the blogs they used to pop in on regularly. But every time I've met a blogger friend in the flesh, I've discovered that they are exactly as smart, articulate, and funny in speech as in writing. Haven't had a disappointing meet-up yet! Which reminds me—I may stop by the BlogHer conference in a month since it'll be here in Chicago. Her Feral Highness will be in town then, and I'm looking forward to getting beer-silly with her. (I know she can drink me under the table.) Anyone else heading to Chicago July 27–29?
4. I'm out of reasons for this blog. My other blog is a crossword blog. I started that one to have a place to talk about my pastime on my own terms, and what do you know? It led to a book deal. No regrets!
5. Do me a favor: Make up a wildly implausible reason that I blog and jot it down in the comments. If you have any desire to write about your own five reasons for blogging, consider yourself tagged. If you don't, then consider yourself tagged and berate yourself for letting me down every day that you don't write the assigned post.
• Back to random thoughts. This weekend, I have no plans at all. Next weekend, on the other hand, overfloweth with plans! Friday evening, Flea and I are going to the Police concert right here in my general neighborhood. Do I need to study for this? Are there new songs I should know? New songs? Ha! They broke up in the '80s! There are no new songs! At least, I think they'll be playing all old stuff perfectly suited to the aging nostalgic. Saturday evening, there are plans for a blogger meet-up, but a dear friend will also be visiting from out of town. Maybe she'll come along for drinks, or maybe she'll find something else to do, or maybe I'll skip the meet-up to hang with my pal. I only know one of the bloggers, ding, and have been reading another, Sid, for a while via a link at ding's blog. The other bloggers are not people I really know anything about, but everyone knows somebody who'll be there. Networking action!
• Ben started day camp this week. Did I tell you about this camp before? It's so awesome. From 9 to 3, five days a week, for six weeks, at a Chicago Park District facility that has a pool so Ben gets to swim every day. Lunch is included (yay! no packing a lunch!), as are a camp t-shirt and backpack. There's one field trip every week. (And Ben's best friend from school is in the same camp.) Let's play interactive infomercial. What would you expect to pay for roughly 180 hours of engaged child care with a meal? Go ahead. Guess. And then I will astonish you.
Saturday, June 30, 2007
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Hangry time
Ben just said, "Mom, could you get me some more milk? Before I get hangry."
I won myself a fabulous dictionary, the New Oxford American Dictionary, by touting the not-quite-a-real-word word hangry at the New Word Open Mic held during the Dictionary Society of North America meeting a couple weekends ago. I sure as heck didn't coin the word—a blend of hungry and angry, a mood well known to many people—but the lexicographically inclined people in attendance voted for hangry's aptness and utility as a word, so I won the dictionary. (Which, if you pay attention to such things, has really hawt introductory sections.)
If you want to read more about the New Word Open Mic, see here.
Bizarre experience: Being asked afterwards, "What dictionary are you with?" I...I'm referentially single. I'm not going steady with any particular dictionary. I am exactly the sort of geek who's secretly thrilled to be mistaken for a lexicographer, and acutely disappointed to 'fess up that I'm not a lexicographer at all. (Sigh.)
So, hangry is not a word that is listed in the dictionaries...yet. I like to think it'll gain wider use in the next couple decades and earn a slot in the dictionary. Because it's so perfect! Some people have no grasp of the word's meaning, and those people are incredibly fortunate. Being hangry means going a little too long without a meal or a snack, and losing your coping abilities. Road rage, hollering at everyone in the household, being inordinately frustrated by the small hitches in life, losing the ability to keep your voice from being a shriek, finding the world conspiring to make things difficult for you. And then you eat a little something, and the world is a much brighter place. My, wasn't it silly to get so upset about those things!
The savvy hangry-prone individual will take precautions. One friend has begun carrying a spare Luna bar at all times, just in case hunger hits. I have been known to eat a snack immediately before going out to meet someone for lunch or dinner, because if I'm already hungry before I leave the house, I'll be a wreck by the time the waiter delivers my food. Best to nosh on something and stave off the hangries, no?
Hangry. Name it. Use the word. And ward off hanger.
I won myself a fabulous dictionary, the New Oxford American Dictionary, by touting the not-quite-a-real-word word hangry at the New Word Open Mic held during the Dictionary Society of North America meeting a couple weekends ago. I sure as heck didn't coin the word—a blend of hungry and angry, a mood well known to many people—but the lexicographically inclined people in attendance voted for hangry's aptness and utility as a word, so I won the dictionary. (Which, if you pay attention to such things, has really hawt introductory sections.)
If you want to read more about the New Word Open Mic, see here.
Bizarre experience: Being asked afterwards, "What dictionary are you with?" I...I'm referentially single. I'm not going steady with any particular dictionary. I am exactly the sort of geek who's secretly thrilled to be mistaken for a lexicographer, and acutely disappointed to 'fess up that I'm not a lexicographer at all. (Sigh.)
So, hangry is not a word that is listed in the dictionaries...yet. I like to think it'll gain wider use in the next couple decades and earn a slot in the dictionary. Because it's so perfect! Some people have no grasp of the word's meaning, and those people are incredibly fortunate. Being hangry means going a little too long without a meal or a snack, and losing your coping abilities. Road rage, hollering at everyone in the household, being inordinately frustrated by the small hitches in life, losing the ability to keep your voice from being a shriek, finding the world conspiring to make things difficult for you. And then you eat a little something, and the world is a much brighter place. My, wasn't it silly to get so upset about those things!
The savvy hangry-prone individual will take precautions. One friend has begun carrying a spare Luna bar at all times, just in case hunger hits. I have been known to eat a snack immediately before going out to meet someone for lunch or dinner, because if I'm already hungry before I leave the house, I'll be a wreck by the time the waiter delivers my food. Best to nosh on something and stave off the hangries, no?
Hangry. Name it. Use the word. And ward off hanger.
Saturday, June 23, 2007
À votre santé!
My pal Flea from One Good Thing is also writing at the Offpsrung parenting site, with a sex-related blog called Lock the Bedroom Doors. In tonight's post, Flea offers sage advice about sex toys. Namely, don't buy those cheap-ass "jelly" vibrators or dildos because that substance releases icky chemicals—and do you want icky chemicals going where your toys go? No. No, you do not.
Flea recommends springing for the more expensive silicone toys. Aren't your orifices and nerve endings worth it? Yes. Yes, they are.
Flea knows whereof she speaks because she runs a sex-toy business called the Honeysuckle Shop. You can shop for toys there, you can buy your toys elsewhere, but wherever you shop, please heed her advice and treat yourself to high-quality merchandise.
Hmm? What's that you say? You haven't got any sex toys and you're not sure you need one? Nonsense! You could always start with the cute sculptural LAYAspot vibe, which scarcely looks risqué at all. Honeysuckle's premium products page includes that turquoise and magenta one plus five other color combos; your friendly neighborhood sex-toy purveyor may have still other colors in stock. In whatever color, it is sure to be efficient. Saves time! Reduces operator fatigue! Cuts risk of carpal tunnel syndrome! It features multiple settings and intensities, much like those Sharper Image massage chairs. But while a chair costs hundreds or thousands of dollars, the LAYAspot's under $50!
The famous Rabbit vibes are on the premium page, too—you may have heard raves about the classic Rabbit Pearl and Rabbit Habit. I believe the Hitachi Magic Wand is the one that was featured on Sex and the City. The premium page also has a zillion toys sold under the Sue Johansen label, and this frightens me—she's the grandmotherly sexpert with a show on the Oxygen channel or something.
Basic rule of thumb for sex-toy shopping: If it costs, say, $40 to $100, it's probably a good one. If it's less than $20, it's probably a scary, chemical-leaching, germ-retaining, material-degrading, mechanically-failing piece of junk, and unless you have some kind of fetish for shoddy craftsmanship and materials, it's not going to be worthwhile in the long run. Buy a good toy and it should last you for years and years.
Don't forget the batteries!
Flea recommends springing for the more expensive silicone toys. Aren't your orifices and nerve endings worth it? Yes. Yes, they are.
Flea knows whereof she speaks because she runs a sex-toy business called the Honeysuckle Shop. You can shop for toys there, you can buy your toys elsewhere, but wherever you shop, please heed her advice and treat yourself to high-quality merchandise.
Hmm? What's that you say? You haven't got any sex toys and you're not sure you need one? Nonsense! You could always start with the cute sculptural LAYAspot vibe, which scarcely looks risqué at all. Honeysuckle's premium products page includes that turquoise and magenta one plus five other color combos; your friendly neighborhood sex-toy purveyor may have still other colors in stock. In whatever color, it is sure to be efficient. Saves time! Reduces operator fatigue! Cuts risk of carpal tunnel syndrome! It features multiple settings and intensities, much like those Sharper Image massage chairs. But while a chair costs hundreds or thousands of dollars, the LAYAspot's under $50!
The famous Rabbit vibes are on the premium page, too—you may have heard raves about the classic Rabbit Pearl and Rabbit Habit. I believe the Hitachi Magic Wand is the one that was featured on Sex and the City. The premium page also has a zillion toys sold under the Sue Johansen label, and this frightens me—she's the grandmotherly sexpert with a show on the Oxygen channel or something.
Basic rule of thumb for sex-toy shopping: If it costs, say, $40 to $100, it's probably a good one. If it's less than $20, it's probably a scary, chemical-leaching, germ-retaining, material-degrading, mechanically-failing piece of junk, and unless you have some kind of fetish for shoddy craftsmanship and materials, it's not going to be worthwhile in the long run. Buy a good toy and it should last you for years and years.
Don't forget the batteries!
"Lady Bird Johnson Hospitalized"
I always laugh when I see a news headline about someone I'd assumed was long dead. "What? She's not dead yet? Huh."
Lady Bird Johnson, the widow of LBJ, is 94, which is awfully old but not impossibly so. After all, my grandma was 94½ when she died last year. LBJ died way back in 1973, and I just figured Lady Bird had followed him to the grave long ago.
Who's the last person you were amazed to learn was still alive and kicking?
Lady Bird Johnson, the widow of LBJ, is 94, which is awfully old but not impossibly so. After all, my grandma was 94½ when she died last year. LBJ died way back in 1973, and I just figured Lady Bird had followed him to the grave long ago.
Who's the last person you were amazed to learn was still alive and kicking?
Friday, June 22, 2007
Framing the issue of rape versus sex
Over at Pandagon, Amanda Marcotte presents some apt analogies for what she calls the "conservative-sexist" and the "liberal-feminist" views of sex and rape: engaging in battles versus playing music. She extends the sexist battle concept into a basketball analogy:
The conservative-sexist model of rape is the same one used to define a foul in basketball. Basically, when sexual intercourse happens, the man team has scored a point against the woman team. Each team is allowed some strategies and disallowed others. In basketball, you’re supposed to snatch the ball from the other team, but you can’t cross certain lines or you’ll get a foul. This explains why rape trolls are so eager to find out what the “rules” are, i.e. when they are permitted to force sex. (”Is it rape if she’s drunk? What if she says yes and changes her mind? Is it okay to bully someone into it, so long as you don’t actually hold her down and force her? Are guilt trips okay?, etc.”) If there’s some ambiguity when the referee calls a foul, your teammates (other men) are supposed to clamor to your defense, regardless of whether or not you actually fouled. If the foul is called, then the woman team scores a point (or a free throw in basketball, but you get the idea). The idea that it’s wrong to have sex with someone unless she really, really wants to do it makes about as much sense as saying that you should only be allowed to get the ball in basketball if the defense hands it to you.
Whereas from the feminist angle, figuring out how to bend the rules doesn't enter into it at all. It's all about collaboration, about both people wanting to have sex with one another.
Go read Amanda's post, will ya?
The conservative-sexist model of rape is the same one used to define a foul in basketball. Basically, when sexual intercourse happens, the man team has scored a point against the woman team. Each team is allowed some strategies and disallowed others. In basketball, you’re supposed to snatch the ball from the other team, but you can’t cross certain lines or you’ll get a foul. This explains why rape trolls are so eager to find out what the “rules” are, i.e. when they are permitted to force sex. (”Is it rape if she’s drunk? What if she says yes and changes her mind? Is it okay to bully someone into it, so long as you don’t actually hold her down and force her? Are guilt trips okay?, etc.”) If there’s some ambiguity when the referee calls a foul, your teammates (other men) are supposed to clamor to your defense, regardless of whether or not you actually fouled. If the foul is called, then the woman team scores a point (or a free throw in basketball, but you get the idea). The idea that it’s wrong to have sex with someone unless she really, really wants to do it makes about as much sense as saying that you should only be allowed to get the ball in basketball if the defense hands it to you.
Whereas from the feminist angle, figuring out how to bend the rules doesn't enter into it at all. It's all about collaboration, about both people wanting to have sex with one another.
Go read Amanda's post, will ya?
Thursday, June 21, 2007
Bratz conflict and baked goods
You know those horrible Bratz dolls that make Barbie dolls look practically butch in comparison? With the hypersexualized mouths, skimpy clothes, and heavy makeup? The ones that make me glad I don't have a daughter clamoring for to play with this product line> Yeah.
So, I took Ben to see the new CGI penguin cartoon, Surf's Up, this afternoon. (It was actually pretty decent.) One of the previews was for a movie about four teen girls coerced into joining cliques at school, but eventually they wise up and return to their core foursome and reject the Head Clique Girl's mandates. It looked like a not-terrible movie for tween girls to watch, with lessons about the importance of friendship and the idiocy of cliques. And then the trailer reached the end and revealed its title...Bratz: The Movie. Aaaagh! They snuck it right past my radar! The girls in the movie had cute clothes and makeup, sure, but they didn't look a thing like the Bratz dolls. I think it's all a plot on the part of the toy maker (MGA Entertainment) to make the characters more palatable so they can try to persuade parents that Bratz dolls aren't so appalling after all. Never!
After the movie, we walked over to the bakery that employs a bloggerly acquaintance of mine. I could no longer resist the rumors of superlative dough lamination, so I needed to try these croissants of hers. Ben polished off a chocolate-filled one within five minutes of leaving the bakery (this pastry was twice the height of the usual pain au chocolat—light and buttery, soft rather than crunchy/flaky on the outside) but shared the less chocolaty bits with me. Later on at home, Mr. Tangerine launched an attack on the almond one, which apparently doesn't sell well at the bakery. He said it was scrumptious—buttery and soft. The cherry turnover (all-butter crust!) was good, but not as much to my liking as croissants. The plain croissant—I snagged the last one in the shop!—will be my breakfast in the morning.
So, I took Ben to see the new CGI penguin cartoon, Surf's Up, this afternoon. (It was actually pretty decent.) One of the previews was for a movie about four teen girls coerced into joining cliques at school, but eventually they wise up and return to their core foursome and reject the Head Clique Girl's mandates. It looked like a not-terrible movie for tween girls to watch, with lessons about the importance of friendship and the idiocy of cliques. And then the trailer reached the end and revealed its title...Bratz: The Movie. Aaaagh! They snuck it right past my radar! The girls in the movie had cute clothes and makeup, sure, but they didn't look a thing like the Bratz dolls. I think it's all a plot on the part of the toy maker (MGA Entertainment) to make the characters more palatable so they can try to persuade parents that Bratz dolls aren't so appalling after all. Never!
After the movie, we walked over to the bakery that employs a bloggerly acquaintance of mine. I could no longer resist the rumors of superlative dough lamination, so I needed to try these croissants of hers. Ben polished off a chocolate-filled one within five minutes of leaving the bakery (this pastry was twice the height of the usual pain au chocolat—light and buttery, soft rather than crunchy/flaky on the outside) but shared the less chocolaty bits with me. Later on at home, Mr. Tangerine launched an attack on the almond one, which apparently doesn't sell well at the bakery. He said it was scrumptious—buttery and soft. The cherry turnover (all-butter crust!) was good, but not as much to my liking as croissants. The plain croissant—I snagged the last one in the shop!—will be my breakfast in the morning.
Friday, June 15, 2007
I live in Gotham City today
Remember the Christian Bale Batman movie a couple summers ago? The sequel, The Dark Knight, is currently filming in Chicago. I don't typically follow filming schedules or movie location news, but today, this Major Motion Picture was filming in my neighborhood!
There were a couple dozen movie trailers parked on the basketball courts at Ben's school. The extras holding area and lunchroom was in the annex where I pick Ben up from school each day. I took a couple pictures with my cell phone of a Gotham Police Department cop car parked near the school. The main event was filming inside an apartment on a nearby side street.
Apparently the school gets a hefty check for renting out the property to Hollywood, and has done this before. (This is how the school was able to afford a digital music lab, where Ben had music class in kindergarten.) No wonder movies cost so much to make! Not only are they hiring actors and renting locations, but then there are the dozens of people getting paid to loiter at any given time. (Is it boring to be on the crew?)
Now I'm hankering to see this movie for $10 when it comes out next July, and I'm hankering to take my kid even though it'll be PG-13 and violent. I wonder how much of the movie will be identifiably in Chicago, and how much it'll be convincingly Gotham.
Oh! A woman we were talking to on the sidewalk said she'd seen Gary Oldman heading to his trailer earlier. I don't know which other stars have been haunting my neighborhood today. Maggie Gyllenhaal? Heath (Brokeback Mountain) Ledger? Christian Bale??
Edited 6/20 to add: They used their GPD squad cars a few blocks away, under the El tracks; video over here. I Googled up other posts about the local filming and saw what appears to be a stuntman in the Batsuit on the back porch stairs of the apartment where they were filming, and video from my neighborhood a few hours before Ben and I gawked there. There was also some murky footage from the wee hours purporting to show Gary Oldman in the back courtyard of that apartment in a dark suit, but I couldn't make him out.
There were a couple dozen movie trailers parked on the basketball courts at Ben's school. The extras holding area and lunchroom was in the annex where I pick Ben up from school each day. I took a couple pictures with my cell phone of a Gotham Police Department cop car parked near the school. The main event was filming inside an apartment on a nearby side street.
Apparently the school gets a hefty check for renting out the property to Hollywood, and has done this before. (This is how the school was able to afford a digital music lab, where Ben had music class in kindergarten.) No wonder movies cost so much to make! Not only are they hiring actors and renting locations, but then there are the dozens of people getting paid to loiter at any given time. (Is it boring to be on the crew?)
Now I'm hankering to see this movie for $10 when it comes out next July, and I'm hankering to take my kid even though it'll be PG-13 and violent. I wonder how much of the movie will be identifiably in Chicago, and how much it'll be convincingly Gotham.
Oh! A woman we were talking to on the sidewalk said she'd seen Gary Oldman heading to his trailer earlier. I don't know which other stars have been haunting my neighborhood today. Maggie Gyllenhaal? Heath (Brokeback Mountain) Ledger? Christian Bale??
Edited 6/20 to add: They used their GPD squad cars a few blocks away, under the El tracks; video over here. I Googled up other posts about the local filming and saw what appears to be a stuntman in the Batsuit on the back porch stairs of the apartment where they were filming, and video from my neighborhood a few hours before Ben and I gawked there. There was also some murky footage from the wee hours purporting to show Gary Oldman in the back courtyard of that apartment in a dark suit, but I couldn't make him out.
Tuesday, June 05, 2007
Shameless unpaid endorsements
I still like that tea tree oil Blemish Touch Stick I bought six months ago, and Mr. Tangerine swears by it, too. Time to head to Trader Joe's to buy another!
Another "natural"-type product I'm grooving on these days is Ecos lavender laundry detergent. It makes me so happy to pull wet laundry out of the machine gently perfumed with lavender. And this stuff is economical! The big jug holds 128 ounces, a gallon, and it's concentrated so you need just a half of a small capful to wash one load. The 128-ounce jug will yield 64 loads, whereas a standard 150-ounce jug of nonconcentrated laundry detergent gets just 32 loads. (I hear Tide is venturing into concentrated formulas now, which is grand because who wants to carry a jug that's twice as heavy as it needs to be? And that heavy jug with too much water mixed in has to be trucked across the country in a model of inefficiency.) Ecos laundry detergent also has a dye- and scent-free version, and something lemongrassy, and something with magnolia, I think.
We're partway through our first roll of Charmin Mega-Roll toilet paper. The roll is giant! And the paper is soft! But not too soft, because a lot of paper is compacted tightly in one fat roll. ("Soft and sturdy," says Mr. Tangerine.) It's rather like buying the quantity of sheets you get with Scott, but with a cushier paper.
Have you recently started using a product and wondered how you made it so long without this marvel? Feel free to share your tawdry commercialistic recommendations in the comments.
Another "natural"-type product I'm grooving on these days is Ecos lavender laundry detergent. It makes me so happy to pull wet laundry out of the machine gently perfumed with lavender. And this stuff is economical! The big jug holds 128 ounces, a gallon, and it's concentrated so you need just a half of a small capful to wash one load. The 128-ounce jug will yield 64 loads, whereas a standard 150-ounce jug of nonconcentrated laundry detergent gets just 32 loads. (I hear Tide is venturing into concentrated formulas now, which is grand because who wants to carry a jug that's twice as heavy as it needs to be? And that heavy jug with too much water mixed in has to be trucked across the country in a model of inefficiency.) Ecos laundry detergent also has a dye- and scent-free version, and something lemongrassy, and something with magnolia, I think.
We're partway through our first roll of Charmin Mega-Roll toilet paper. The roll is giant! And the paper is soft! But not too soft, because a lot of paper is compacted tightly in one fat roll. ("Soft and sturdy," says Mr. Tangerine.) It's rather like buying the quantity of sheets you get with Scott, but with a cushier paper.
Have you recently started using a product and wondered how you made it so long without this marvel? Feel free to share your tawdry commercialistic recommendations in the comments.
Friday, June 01, 2007
Talented Mr. Tangerine
He took a sketchbook along on our trip to England. You can see a few of his drawings here.
Blogging for LGBT Families 2007
Hey, everybody! It's the 2nd annual Blogging for LGBT Families Day tomorrow!
As luck would have it, I did something else relating to LGBT families today—I mixed up a panful of peanut butter/chocolate bars (Mmm, butter! Mmm, sugar!) for the baby shower I'm cohosting this Saturday. My oldest and dearest friend, Cheryl, will become a mother in June when her partner, Carrie, delivers her baby.
The couple planned this baby together, are preparing their home for this baby, and will raise this baby together. They will both become moms the day that baby decides he wants to come out. Of course, laws being what they are, only the gestational mom has legal standing as a parent. For mom #2 to legally be a parent, the couple will have to shell out a couple grand in legal fees (wow, $2000+ would buy a lot of diapers and baby clothes!) and take the baby to court to appear before a judge in adoption proceedings. And of course, if the family gets saddled with some sort of regressive judicial troglodyte (like the one encountered here), the adoption would hit a snag.
Ideally, two people planning a baby together could both have their names on the birth certificate and both be considered parents from the moment labor begins. Sure, one can be present for the conception, support one's partner throughout the pregnancy, stay up all night tending to a newborn, and love that baby with all one's heart, but...that's not deemed to be enough if the parents are in a same-sex relationship. It's patently unfair.
What's most important is that a child be loved and nurtured, and I don't know anyone more innately empathetic and nurturing than Cheryl. She'll be a terrific mom. This baby-to-be is lucky: He'll have two devoted parents (whatever their legal status) and a community of supportive relatives and friends. I wish every child born to or adopted by a same-sex couple could be as lucky—and I hope that someday, their families won't have to jump through hoops for legal recognition.
******************
Even though this is a dadless baby shower, it won't be the traditional ladies-only event. Ben will be one of the boys and men in attendance, and I'm glad he's got the opportunity to grow up in an environment in which a baby with two moms isn't a startling thing. His gay-friendly upbringing will continue when the Pride Parade passes through our neighborhood on June 24. The folks on the floats hardly toss any candy, but kids always have a blast at the Pride Parade anyway. If you live in Chicago and have kids, I encourage you to join the crowds in Lakeview and watch the parade!
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
Jet-lagged
Yeah, I'm still off-kilter three days after coming home from the glorious two-week vacation in England. Short version of recap, sans handy links or else I will sit here too long and forget to pick up Ben from school:
The Chester Zoo is awesome. Dramatic highlights: The bat house, in which fruit bats fly around in a dark space, swooping past the human visitors and freaking out a few of them (read: me). The tapirs. I was just beginning to tell Ben how Mr. Tangerine and I had once seen a gnarled tapir penis at another zoo, and how crazy that thing looked, when one of the sistah tapirs took umbrage at my talking smack about her brethren, so she sprayed us all with pee from a good six feet away. And there were no warning signs! "Don't let a tapir turn its back on you unless you're wearing full protective gear." Great zoo, though.
Liverpool is boasting of being a "Culture City 2008," but holy crap, have they got a lot of litter. And a lot of ramshackle boarded-up buildings. They've revamped the Albert Docks area with retail and museums and restaurants, but...most everything is closed by 6 p.m. Work in progress, that town.
The vows in England's civil ceremony (or at least the vows used by this particular marrying official) are perfect. The bride (my old high-school pal) and groom promised to respect and support one another, and "I will be there for you when you need me most." Isn't that lovely? The wedding reception's high notes: My first Pimm's Cup cocktail (sweet like candy! yet potent!), temporary tattoos, Englishwomen with crazy-ass feather thangs affixed to the sides of their heads, a post-dinner/time-to-dance buffet line so you could eat something instead of drinking on a now-empty stomach (brilliant! why don't we always do that?). Alas, I left my Merrell sandals behind in the castle, and some limey bastard is probably wearing them now. I just bought a replacement pair (plus a super-comfy pair of Naot sandals) this morning.
London! Too much to say about London. Super-short version: We walked a ton (or perhaps a tonne), saw many historic sites, loved each day we were there and hated to leave it Saturday morning. Spent far too much on the luxury hotel, but you know what? Our suite had laundry equipment, which was invaluable. And a kitchenette, so we could have breakfast on the cheap.
Next time, I will have to better coordinate my vacation plans with those of my regular mail carrier. She's on vacation now, and dammit, the post office screws things up when she's not around. The two weeks' worth of mail that was held? Is nowhere to be found. Got a small amount of mail on Saturday and Monday, haven't seen the giant stack of accumulated stuff, and it ain't at the post office. I suspect a substitute mail carrier burned it all in his back yard (because that sort of thing actually happened a few years ago with a mail carrier working out of my local post office). Irksome! Two weeks' mail, desaparecido!
Hope to write in greater detail when I have more time—remind me, or beg me to skip the travelogue, whichever you prefer.
The Chester Zoo is awesome. Dramatic highlights: The bat house, in which fruit bats fly around in a dark space, swooping past the human visitors and freaking out a few of them (read: me). The tapirs. I was just beginning to tell Ben how Mr. Tangerine and I had once seen a gnarled tapir penis at another zoo, and how crazy that thing looked, when one of the sistah tapirs took umbrage at my talking smack about her brethren, so she sprayed us all with pee from a good six feet away. And there were no warning signs! "Don't let a tapir turn its back on you unless you're wearing full protective gear." Great zoo, though.
Liverpool is boasting of being a "Culture City 2008," but holy crap, have they got a lot of litter. And a lot of ramshackle boarded-up buildings. They've revamped the Albert Docks area with retail and museums and restaurants, but...most everything is closed by 6 p.m. Work in progress, that town.
The vows in England's civil ceremony (or at least the vows used by this particular marrying official) are perfect. The bride (my old high-school pal) and groom promised to respect and support one another, and "I will be there for you when you need me most." Isn't that lovely? The wedding reception's high notes: My first Pimm's Cup cocktail (sweet like candy! yet potent!), temporary tattoos, Englishwomen with crazy-ass feather thangs affixed to the sides of their heads, a post-dinner/time-to-dance buffet line so you could eat something instead of drinking on a now-empty stomach (brilliant! why don't we always do that?). Alas, I left my Merrell sandals behind in the castle, and some limey bastard is probably wearing them now. I just bought a replacement pair (plus a super-comfy pair of Naot sandals) this morning.
London! Too much to say about London. Super-short version: We walked a ton (or perhaps a tonne), saw many historic sites, loved each day we were there and hated to leave it Saturday morning. Spent far too much on the luxury hotel, but you know what? Our suite had laundry equipment, which was invaluable. And a kitchenette, so we could have breakfast on the cheap.
Next time, I will have to better coordinate my vacation plans with those of my regular mail carrier. She's on vacation now, and dammit, the post office screws things up when she's not around. The two weeks' worth of mail that was held? Is nowhere to be found. Got a small amount of mail on Saturday and Monday, haven't seen the giant stack of accumulated stuff, and it ain't at the post office. I suspect a substitute mail carrier burned it all in his back yard (because that sort of thing actually happened a few years ago with a mail carrier working out of my local post office). Irksome! Two weeks' mail, desaparecido!
Hope to write in greater detail when I have more time—remind me, or beg me to skip the travelogue, whichever you prefer.
Sunday, May 06, 2007
Blog lying fallow
Yes, it's true. I'm really going to break the tethers of blog addiction and go on vacation for two weeks. London, Northwest England, and Wales. We plan to see the "virgin mum" Komodo dragon and her hatchlings at the Chester Zoo, and Mount Snowdon, the Chester Rows (basically a 700-year-old version of a two-story shopping mall), and maybe take in a Beatles tour. Then there's the wedding at this castle, where we'll be staying for a weekend. After that, we spend the week in London and do all the touristy things we need to do. We'll need to photograph Ben, of course, with Big Ben in the background; ride The Eye; find some kickass ethnic food; shop at Harrods; go spout off where people orate in Hyde Park (huh?); and maybe play at the Princess Diana Memorial Playground.
And then we'll return home, exhausted and hankering to be reunited with our stuff and our routines. See you in a couple of weeks!
P.S. Could someone please come over and pack everything for me? I haven't started setting out the clothes that will be going into suitcases tomorrow. Eek!
And then we'll return home, exhausted and hankering to be reunited with our stuff and our routines. See you in a couple of weeks!
P.S. Could someone please come over and pack everything for me? I haven't started setting out the clothes that will be going into suitcases tomorrow. Eek!
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
Sunday, April 29, 2007
The next big food craze
You know some Mexican restaurants tout "burritos as big as your head"? No, no, no. That won't do. It's too one-size-fits-all. People want food that's customized for the individual.
That's why we're introducing a boffo new concept to the food-service industry: Burritos As Big As Your Penis™. No two burritoes the same! Our trained staff use sanitized calipers and rulers—pre-warmed for your comfort!—to get your exact dimensions. Your measurements are sent to the kitchen via our computerized order-management system, and your burrito is lovingly hand-made to match. Order as many as you like.
For speedier service on return visits, become a Burritos As Big As Your Penis™ Member. Your measurements are stored electronically on your Member card, and you get your card pierced for every burrito you buy. For every five piercings you earn a bottomless soft drink and when you have ten piercings, you may choose to upgrade your burrito size.
For franchising opportunities, visit our website.
That's why we're introducing a boffo new concept to the food-service industry: Burritos As Big As Your Penis™. No two burritoes the same! Our trained staff use sanitized calipers and rulers—pre-warmed for your comfort!—to get your exact dimensions. Your measurements are sent to the kitchen via our computerized order-management system, and your burrito is lovingly hand-made to match. Order as many as you like.
For speedier service on return visits, become a Burritos As Big As Your Penis™ Member. Your measurements are stored electronically on your Member card, and you get your card pierced for every burrito you buy. For every five piercings you earn a bottomless soft drink and when you have ten piercings, you may choose to upgrade your burrito size.
For franchising opportunities, visit our website.
Saturday, April 28, 2007
More loosely connected tidbits
• The best industrial pollution in the world comes from the chocolate factory. I drove downtown this morning and when I got out of my car up on level 7 of the parking garage, the air was deliciously redolent of the Blommer chocolate factory a mile away. It smells like brownies in the oven. Down at ground level, the chocolaty aroma was attenuated somewhat, and exhaust fumes battled their way to my olfactory receptors.
• I took Ben with me to the accountant in Old Town yesterday. One year, I called too late (it's that damned phone phobia that Bitch Ph.D. blogged about a couple months ago, that scores of us shared stories about) for an appointment pre-April 15, so Jim said I could come in after the 15th and he'd file for an extension. It was lovely to be gathering together my tax papers in May, and not thinking about it at all during everyone else's rush period. Next year, same thing; pulled out the Rolodex card in January, didn't call until late February when all the pre-April 15 appointments were booked. This year, same thing. It ended up costing me $5 in penalties and interest for our state income taxes, but we've got yet another refund of federal taxes. And! And! Not only did Ben behave beautifully at the accountant's office, but I also got the awesomest parking spot ever. A parking spot so choice, one would make sweet, sweet love to it if only such a thing were possible. A parking spot where the front of my car was visible from the accountant's window. I've been seeing the same accountant for about a decade, and never have I found parking within a city block.
• Ben dropped down a level in first-grade reading groups (I think there are upwards of six different reading groups in the first grade) this week, and WOW IS IT NICE to have a little less homework. Instead of fighting for several hours practically every day—first with me, then with Mr. Tangerine when he gets home from work—he's whizzing through his assignments. He brought home next week's reading, writing, and spelling homework, and did most of Monday's work this afternoon...without prompting. My sister had a similar experience with her son, whose seventh-grade math homework was making them both miserable until he dropped down to non-honors math, where he's now getting an A+. He's also got the time and energy to read for pleasure again. If you're ever agonizing over whether your kid would be well-served by changing to a less challenging curriculum, I do encourage you to give it a try if homework misery is vexing your family.
• I went back to Macy's for the post-alterations bridesmaid's dress (and parked in the aforementioned garage with the chocolate perfume). The left shoulder strap will be cinched up a skosh more, and I'll pick it up next week. Also hit up the Intimates department (am I the only one who thinks of Homer Simpson when I see that word? On a Simpsons episode years ago, Homer had written a to-do list or a note to self along the lines of GET INTAMIT WITH MARGE) for some long-overdue bra shopping. As a grad student in the Bitch Ph.D. School of Brassierology, I head straight for the Wacoal boutique in a department store. I know my boobs have shrunk a bit since I embarked on the health club jaunt (more on that below), so I figured I was between a C and D cup. While Marshall Field's always seemed nicer than the Macy's the store recently turned into (cheap-ass plastic bags instead of classy paper shopping bags? Quelle horreur!), I never had a helpful Field's bra lady. Macy's is no Nordstrom (where they insist on offering help up front), but after I'd tried on a batch of bras in assorted C/D sizes (smaller cup for the bigger of two band sizes I was trying on), a Macy's employee eyeballed me and assured me that I was between D and DD. Despite the exercise-induced shrinkage! Who knew? So I bought two new Wacoals, both in the smaller band size and one in each cup size, and thus can my boobs sing "Up Where We Belong."
• Yeah, so, the health club. I still rarely go in to work out unless I have an appointment with the trainer. I know I should. I know I'm wasting those dues payments by only going in for training appointments (which cost extra!). But I am in much better shape than I have ever been before. I have muscles (which I like to pronounces as "muskles"). I will voluntarily wear shorts this summer. I have more stamina, more exercise tolerance. The gut, though...ehhhh, the gut. That's a permanent blobberrific feature. As Mr. Tangerine pointed out, I have always had that, even back when I was a skinny 21-year-old. It's hereditary. I think it would shrink a wee bit if I did more cardio every week, but what are the odds of that happening? Frankly, I don't care anywhere near enough to motivate me to exercise a lot more, much less to ever consider lipo.
Ah, look at those transitions! From the parking garage, to parking with Ben, to Ben's school, back to shopping at the first parking garage, to shopping for bras for exercise-altered boobs, and then to the exercise itself. And for the piece de resistance (mentally add any diacritical marks needed), I can bring it full circle thus: Since I'm not too hung up on body image, there's nothing to stop me from having some chocolate...and that birthday cake isn't going to finish itself.
• I took Ben with me to the accountant in Old Town yesterday. One year, I called too late (it's that damned phone phobia that Bitch Ph.D. blogged about a couple months ago, that scores of us shared stories about) for an appointment pre-April 15, so Jim said I could come in after the 15th and he'd file for an extension. It was lovely to be gathering together my tax papers in May, and not thinking about it at all during everyone else's rush period. Next year, same thing; pulled out the Rolodex card in January, didn't call until late February when all the pre-April 15 appointments were booked. This year, same thing. It ended up costing me $5 in penalties and interest for our state income taxes, but we've got yet another refund of federal taxes. And! And! Not only did Ben behave beautifully at the accountant's office, but I also got the awesomest parking spot ever. A parking spot so choice, one would make sweet, sweet love to it if only such a thing were possible. A parking spot where the front of my car was visible from the accountant's window. I've been seeing the same accountant for about a decade, and never have I found parking within a city block.
• Ben dropped down a level in first-grade reading groups (I think there are upwards of six different reading groups in the first grade) this week, and WOW IS IT NICE to have a little less homework. Instead of fighting for several hours practically every day—first with me, then with Mr. Tangerine when he gets home from work—he's whizzing through his assignments. He brought home next week's reading, writing, and spelling homework, and did most of Monday's work this afternoon...without prompting. My sister had a similar experience with her son, whose seventh-grade math homework was making them both miserable until he dropped down to non-honors math, where he's now getting an A+. He's also got the time and energy to read for pleasure again. If you're ever agonizing over whether your kid would be well-served by changing to a less challenging curriculum, I do encourage you to give it a try if homework misery is vexing your family.
• I went back to Macy's for the post-alterations bridesmaid's dress (and parked in the aforementioned garage with the chocolate perfume). The left shoulder strap will be cinched up a skosh more, and I'll pick it up next week. Also hit up the Intimates department (am I the only one who thinks of Homer Simpson when I see that word? On a Simpsons episode years ago, Homer had written a to-do list or a note to self along the lines of GET INTAMIT WITH MARGE) for some long-overdue bra shopping. As a grad student in the Bitch Ph.D. School of Brassierology, I head straight for the Wacoal boutique in a department store. I know my boobs have shrunk a bit since I embarked on the health club jaunt (more on that below), so I figured I was between a C and D cup. While Marshall Field's always seemed nicer than the Macy's the store recently turned into (cheap-ass plastic bags instead of classy paper shopping bags? Quelle horreur!), I never had a helpful Field's bra lady. Macy's is no Nordstrom (where they insist on offering help up front), but after I'd tried on a batch of bras in assorted C/D sizes (smaller cup for the bigger of two band sizes I was trying on), a Macy's employee eyeballed me and assured me that I was between D and DD. Despite the exercise-induced shrinkage! Who knew? So I bought two new Wacoals, both in the smaller band size and one in each cup size, and thus can my boobs sing "Up Where We Belong."
• Yeah, so, the health club. I still rarely go in to work out unless I have an appointment with the trainer. I know I should. I know I'm wasting those dues payments by only going in for training appointments (which cost extra!). But I am in much better shape than I have ever been before. I have muscles (which I like to pronounces as "muskles"). I will voluntarily wear shorts this summer. I have more stamina, more exercise tolerance. The gut, though...ehhhh, the gut. That's a permanent blobberrific feature. As Mr. Tangerine pointed out, I have always had that, even back when I was a skinny 21-year-old. It's hereditary. I think it would shrink a wee bit if I did more cardio every week, but what are the odds of that happening? Frankly, I don't care anywhere near enough to motivate me to exercise a lot more, much less to ever consider lipo.
Ah, look at those transitions! From the parking garage, to parking with Ben, to Ben's school, back to shopping at the first parking garage, to shopping for bras for exercise-altered boobs, and then to the exercise itself. And for the piece de resistance (mentally add any diacritical marks needed), I can bring it full circle thus: Since I'm not too hung up on body image, there's nothing to stop me from having some chocolate...and that birthday cake isn't going to finish itself.
Friday, April 27, 2007
Sea Monkeys!
My sister gave Ben a Sea-Monkey kit for his birthday. Mr. Tangerine set up the wee tank and supplied it with bottled water, and sprinkled in the powder or whatever. Then he spent two days gazing into the plastic tank insisting that he could see the Sea-Monkeys (a.k.a. brine shrimp) swimming. "Uh, those are crumbs floating around," I told him. (Indeed, the website cautions that 65° to 70° temperatures mean a wait of three to six days for the eggs to hatch.)
But today, those itty-bitty little critters are swimming around! Mr. Tangerine will be such a proud papa when he gets home from work.
Somehow I doubt that the Sea-Monkeys will assuage Ben's longing for a pet...
And will they still be alive after we leave them alone for two weeks? Gosh, now I'm nervous.
But today, those itty-bitty little critters are swimming around! Mr. Tangerine will be such a proud papa when he gets home from work.
Somehow I doubt that the Sea-Monkeys will assuage Ben's longing for a pet...
And will they still be alive after we leave them alone for two weeks? Gosh, now I'm nervous.
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
Two more things
• Toonhead always has the best links. For a good time, watch this 1967 short film. If you have kids, they'll love it too.
• I've got an aunt who's more Catholic than most of the other relatives. She lives far away but always makes sure to send birthday cards, and the young kids also get a little token gift in the mail. This year? She sent Ben this book a wee Bible pop-up story. (That link is to the same book on eBay, with a "buy it now" price of $2.95 and shipping costs of $3.95. Brand new, the book runs $3.95, and I'm guessing my aunt got it for a buck or less because that's always been her thang, the buck-or-less token gifts for kids she doesn't need to get anything for.) It's sweet of her to send it, yes, but Bible stories for heathen children? They leave the house quickly.
• I've got an aunt who's more Catholic than most of the other relatives. She lives far away but always makes sure to send birthday cards, and the young kids also get a little token gift in the mail. This year? She sent Ben this book a wee Bible pop-up story. (That link is to the same book on eBay, with a "buy it now" price of $2.95 and shipping costs of $3.95. Brand new, the book runs $3.95, and I'm guessing my aunt got it for a buck or less because that's always been her thang, the buck-or-less token gifts for kids she doesn't need to get anything for.) It's sweet of her to send it, yes, but Bible stories for heathen children? They leave the house quickly.
Split-personality posting fest
• You know how it takes a while to find a deodorant or antiperspirant that you like? I fell for a mildly scented Suave invisible dry concoction that few stores in my area ever carry. Somewhere along the way, I bought Dove's "cool essentials with cucumber and green tea extracts." Sounds innocuous enough. But my underarms now smell like watermelon Jolly Rancher candy more than anything else.
• Speaking of crazy fruit scents, don't buy "Grapple" apples. They're billed as apples that taste like grapes. "Ooh! Intriguing!" you think. Yeah. You know why they taste and smell like grapes (or, more accurately, like grape-flavored purple stuff)? Because they've been permeated with natural and artificial flavors. I thought I was buying an interesting heirloom variety or something. Not much in the habit of reading labels closely in the produce section, after all.
• Here's a must-read essay by Naomi Wolf about the corrosion of America's democratic safeguards by actions strikingly reminiscent of the tried-and-true fascist techniques. Link from Francis.
• Bill Moyers was on "Fresh Air" with Terry Gross yesterday; you can listen to the show here. They talked about the ways in which the media failed to do its job during the run-up to the Iraq war. Don't miss the documentary episode of the new show, Bill Moyers' Journal, on the subject. "Buying the War" airs Wednesday night on PBS; check your local listings and set your TiVo, your DVR, your VCR, or your ass on the couch tomorrow.
• Yes, Mr. Tangerine and I forgot to take a camera to Ben's birthday party. Fortunately, Flea whipped out her cell phone and took a picture of the birthday boy sporting a lovely set of teeth he obtained at Chuck E. Cheese's:
• Ding posted a great video about weight and overweight. I can't really find the words to describe it well—sort of a fat chick's declaration of independence? Go watch it.
• Bridesmaid update: Went in to try on the dress and arrange for alterations last week. Spent a traumatic hour in the "intimates" department trying (and failing) to find a bra (or bustier! per the instructions from the lady in the bridal salon) that would (1) fit right, (2) be properly supportive, and (3) not peek out of the top of the dress. Then I returned to the bridal department with a wrong-size loaner bustier, and this genius from alterations named Juanita instructed me to chuck the bustier and let her show me how the dress would work better without a bra. Well, what do you know? She was right. Tight fabric around the ribs = nowhere for the boobs to drop down. Multiple layers of fabric around the bust = firm support. And! And! I was terrified that the dress would be too tight in the belly zone, but it actually drapes nicely, and the dark tulle overlay means zero clinging/bulging action. So I will be able to wear this dress without a bra and without control-top hose (which, if you ask me, are the offspring of the very Devil himself).
• I'm supposed to send my publisher a brief "about the author" squib to go on the Amazon page. You'd think I'd jump right on that, wouldn't you? I've procrastinated for three full weeks already! Maybe I should delegate this task to you, my lovely readers. "When she writes even a simple blog post, she's so damned lazy she just throws everything into a bulleted list of completely unrelated things. Too lazy to make transitions!"
• Speaking of crazy fruit scents, don't buy "Grapple" apples. They're billed as apples that taste like grapes. "Ooh! Intriguing!" you think. Yeah. You know why they taste and smell like grapes (or, more accurately, like grape-flavored purple stuff)? Because they've been permeated with natural and artificial flavors. I thought I was buying an interesting heirloom variety or something. Not much in the habit of reading labels closely in the produce section, after all.
• Here's a must-read essay by Naomi Wolf about the corrosion of America's democratic safeguards by actions strikingly reminiscent of the tried-and-true fascist techniques. Link from Francis.
• Bill Moyers was on "Fresh Air" with Terry Gross yesterday; you can listen to the show here. They talked about the ways in which the media failed to do its job during the run-up to the Iraq war. Don't miss the documentary episode of the new show, Bill Moyers' Journal, on the subject. "Buying the War" airs Wednesday night on PBS; check your local listings and set your TiVo, your DVR, your VCR, or your ass on the couch tomorrow.
• Yes, Mr. Tangerine and I forgot to take a camera to Ben's birthday party. Fortunately, Flea whipped out her cell phone and took a picture of the birthday boy sporting a lovely set of teeth he obtained at Chuck E. Cheese's:
• Ding posted a great video about weight and overweight. I can't really find the words to describe it well—sort of a fat chick's declaration of independence? Go watch it.
• Bridesmaid update: Went in to try on the dress and arrange for alterations last week. Spent a traumatic hour in the "intimates" department trying (and failing) to find a bra (or bustier! per the instructions from the lady in the bridal salon) that would (1) fit right, (2) be properly supportive, and (3) not peek out of the top of the dress. Then I returned to the bridal department with a wrong-size loaner bustier, and this genius from alterations named Juanita instructed me to chuck the bustier and let her show me how the dress would work better without a bra. Well, what do you know? She was right. Tight fabric around the ribs = nowhere for the boobs to drop down. Multiple layers of fabric around the bust = firm support. And! And! I was terrified that the dress would be too tight in the belly zone, but it actually drapes nicely, and the dark tulle overlay means zero clinging/bulging action. So I will be able to wear this dress without a bra and without control-top hose (which, if you ask me, are the offspring of the very Devil himself).
• I'm supposed to send my publisher a brief "about the author" squib to go on the Amazon page. You'd think I'd jump right on that, wouldn't you? I've procrastinated for three full weeks already! Maybe I should delegate this task to you, my lovely readers. "When she writes even a simple blog post, she's so damned lazy she just throws everything into a bulleted list of completely unrelated things. Too lazy to make transitions!"
Sunday, April 22, 2007
Life with Chuck
Ah, Chuck E. Cheese. How you give me both pleasure and pain.
"Pleasure? From Chuck E. Cheese?" you may ask.
Yes, pleasure! You just show up for your kid's birthday party (Ben will turn seven in a few days). Have you made a cake? Cleaned the house? Thought about the food you'll serve? Figured out how to entertain the kids for two or three hours? Bought the finest small plastic toys imported from China to fill goodie bags? Bought party decorations? Decorated the house? No? You haven't done any of that? Well, that's totally fine! The Giant Rat's people will do all this for you. Technically, they won't clean your house, but then, you're not having company over for the party, and you won't have a pack of young children to clean up after. Yes, indeed. The Chuck party is the lazy parent's salvation.
The pain, of course, comes from having to spend two or three hours inside a Chuck E. Cheese restaurant. It's not even so much the jumbo animatronic animals on stage—those were entertaining in that Ben and a couple of his pals hung out on stage, manhandling the beasts and their musical instruments, and nary a peep was uttered by the employees. So they didn't get busted—but when the music stopped suddenly, Ben froze like the cops had just caught him stealing animatronic jewels, much to the amusement of Flea and JT. We adults also chatted about what sort of shenanigans might transpire after closing, when it's just the animatronic vermin. "Chuck E. Cheese After Dark," said...either Flea or JT, I forget which one. It's highly possible that CEC After Dark is one of those "gentlemen's clubs," if you catch my drift. The foxy duck in the magenta lamé miniskirt? Hot. Here's one thing I like about JT and Flea: Even though Ratsopalooza is an awfully noisy place, these women both laugh so heartily (nay, almost uncontrollably) that you're gonna have a fun time wherever you are.
Speaking of lazy parents, guess who forgot to bring a camera? That's right. La famille Tangerine neglected to document the festivities. We'll have a do-over Sunday, when we have a small family party. Oh, crap, I should have maybe baked that cake tonight. Eh, I'll get to that in the morning. Worst-case scenario, the cake mix goes in the cupboard and I'll buy a damn cake in the afternoon.
This is a crappy post. What will make it better is audience participation, clearly. So tell me: If you could be seven years old again, what is the one thing you'd want most for your birthday?
"Pleasure? From Chuck E. Cheese?" you may ask.
Yes, pleasure! You just show up for your kid's birthday party (Ben will turn seven in a few days). Have you made a cake? Cleaned the house? Thought about the food you'll serve? Figured out how to entertain the kids for two or three hours? Bought the finest small plastic toys imported from China to fill goodie bags? Bought party decorations? Decorated the house? No? You haven't done any of that? Well, that's totally fine! The Giant Rat's people will do all this for you. Technically, they won't clean your house, but then, you're not having company over for the party, and you won't have a pack of young children to clean up after. Yes, indeed. The Chuck party is the lazy parent's salvation.
The pain, of course, comes from having to spend two or three hours inside a Chuck E. Cheese restaurant. It's not even so much the jumbo animatronic animals on stage—those were entertaining in that Ben and a couple of his pals hung out on stage, manhandling the beasts and their musical instruments, and nary a peep was uttered by the employees. So they didn't get busted—but when the music stopped suddenly, Ben froze like the cops had just caught him stealing animatronic jewels, much to the amusement of Flea and JT. We adults also chatted about what sort of shenanigans might transpire after closing, when it's just the animatronic vermin. "Chuck E. Cheese After Dark," said...either Flea or JT, I forget which one. It's highly possible that CEC After Dark is one of those "gentlemen's clubs," if you catch my drift. The foxy duck in the magenta lamé miniskirt? Hot. Here's one thing I like about JT and Flea: Even though Ratsopalooza is an awfully noisy place, these women both laugh so heartily (nay, almost uncontrollably) that you're gonna have a fun time wherever you are.
Speaking of lazy parents, guess who forgot to bring a camera? That's right. La famille Tangerine neglected to document the festivities. We'll have a do-over Sunday, when we have a small family party. Oh, crap, I should have maybe baked that cake tonight. Eh, I'll get to that in the morning. Worst-case scenario, the cake mix goes in the cupboard and I'll buy a damn cake in the afternoon.
This is a crappy post. What will make it better is audience participation, clearly. So tell me: If you could be seven years old again, what is the one thing you'd want most for your birthday?
Thursday, April 12, 2007
Peanut butter and the patriarchy of shoes
Two reports on the peanut butter front:
• I just bought this dark chocolate peanut butter at the grocery store. I've had only a taste of it, but it's rather like a mouthful of Reese's Peanut Butter Cups in one of those dark chocolate special editions—only in a sandwich-friendly form! I predict this will be a popular jar in our household. The Peanut Butter Co. website's locator function is unaware that their product is sold in my neighborhood Jewel store and not just in wee gourmet groceries. Plebeian Jewel! With fancy peanut butters from Greenwich Village! I love my neighborhood.
• Mr. Tangerine has devised a method to have a little toasted crunch and warmth to a peanut butter sandwich—but without the usual cascade of crumbs. He stacks two slices of bread on the toaster oven rack so that the insides stay soft, flips them over on the plate, puts sandwich fixin's on the toasted surfaces (he likes to combine peanut butter, jelly, and chocolate chips), and smooshes it together. Soft on the outside, toasty on the inside. Fewer crumbs, but just as much dripping of melted peanut butter (that's inescapable even when the PB is refrigerated). Dee-lish!
And from the front lines of the patriarchy battlefield:
• There's nothing like being a bridesmaid to encounter society's expectations for women. I will wear a dress that (a) is expensive, (b) is not terribly likely to find further use, given how seldom I am called upon to attend formal events, (c) needs costly alterations because the sizing is contrived to fit no one without alterations, and (d) will require purchase of a special strapless bra, again unlikely to find much further use. (I love the bride, but not so much bridal traditions.)
And shoes! Must wear girly shoes. [Hardcore shoe rant beginning:] I found a decent pair of sandals at the sort of shoe store that sells a lot of Merrell, Dansko, and Naot shoes. These sandals (Söfft Shoes brand) probably won't be worn too much this summer, but they might get a few extra wearings. Am feeling fortunate that my most persnickety feet did not holler at me when I tried on these sandals and walked around the store for several minutes. Just for the hell of it, I then looked at sandals across the street at Nine West, and OH MY GOD the atrocity! The majority of the sandals had skinny heels or platform/wedge heels measuring upwards of 3 inches. With my feet? I'd require narcotics to handle the pain that would result (and would last for weeks, no joke; you should've seen me last August).
I have no intention of committing fully to the radical feminist agenda (I'll keep my husband, thanks, and will wear lipstick several times a year), but Twisty is dead-on about the traditional trappings of femininity and how they serve to constrain women. I'm sure plenty of you admire Manolo Blahnik heels and like to wear high heels on occasion, but sheesh! Barneys New York sent out a shoe catalog this week that featured strictly high-heeled shoes, with prices ranging from about $450 to $1,200. For non-everyday shoes! If you've got Paris Hilton's millions, fine; but if you're on a budget, spending that kind of money on shoes that can hobble you, that you can't run in, that you won't wear every day, that hurt your feet, instead of plunking that money down for savings (for retirement, for a house, for a nice vacation)—it's nuts.
• I just bought this dark chocolate peanut butter at the grocery store. I've had only a taste of it, but it's rather like a mouthful of Reese's Peanut Butter Cups in one of those dark chocolate special editions—only in a sandwich-friendly form! I predict this will be a popular jar in our household. The Peanut Butter Co. website's locator function is unaware that their product is sold in my neighborhood Jewel store and not just in wee gourmet groceries. Plebeian Jewel! With fancy peanut butters from Greenwich Village! I love my neighborhood.
• Mr. Tangerine has devised a method to have a little toasted crunch and warmth to a peanut butter sandwich—but without the usual cascade of crumbs. He stacks two slices of bread on the toaster oven rack so that the insides stay soft, flips them over on the plate, puts sandwich fixin's on the toasted surfaces (he likes to combine peanut butter, jelly, and chocolate chips), and smooshes it together. Soft on the outside, toasty on the inside. Fewer crumbs, but just as much dripping of melted peanut butter (that's inescapable even when the PB is refrigerated). Dee-lish!
And from the front lines of the patriarchy battlefield:
• There's nothing like being a bridesmaid to encounter society's expectations for women. I will wear a dress that (a) is expensive, (b) is not terribly likely to find further use, given how seldom I am called upon to attend formal events, (c) needs costly alterations because the sizing is contrived to fit no one without alterations, and (d) will require purchase of a special strapless bra, again unlikely to find much further use. (I love the bride, but not so much bridal traditions.)
And shoes! Must wear girly shoes. [Hardcore shoe rant beginning:] I found a decent pair of sandals at the sort of shoe store that sells a lot of Merrell, Dansko, and Naot shoes. These sandals (Söfft Shoes brand) probably won't be worn too much this summer, but they might get a few extra wearings. Am feeling fortunate that my most persnickety feet did not holler at me when I tried on these sandals and walked around the store for several minutes. Just for the hell of it, I then looked at sandals across the street at Nine West, and OH MY GOD the atrocity! The majority of the sandals had skinny heels or platform/wedge heels measuring upwards of 3 inches. With my feet? I'd require narcotics to handle the pain that would result (and would last for weeks, no joke; you should've seen me last August).
I have no intention of committing fully to the radical feminist agenda (I'll keep my husband, thanks, and will wear lipstick several times a year), but Twisty is dead-on about the traditional trappings of femininity and how they serve to constrain women. I'm sure plenty of you admire Manolo Blahnik heels and like to wear high heels on occasion, but sheesh! Barneys New York sent out a shoe catalog this week that featured strictly high-heeled shoes, with prices ranging from about $450 to $1,200. For non-everyday shoes! If you've got Paris Hilton's millions, fine; but if you're on a budget, spending that kind of money on shoes that can hobble you, that you can't run in, that you won't wear every day, that hurt your feet, instead of plunking that money down for savings (for retirement, for a house, for a nice vacation)—it's nuts.
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