Minutia

The other day, Genome was angry and wouldn't speak to me. To voice (as it were) his displeasure, he hid in the closet. With two feet sticking out. He lasted perhaps twenty seconds before he hurried out.

"Genome, why did you leave the closet?"
"Der GHOSTS in dat coset!"
He hurriedly closed the door, giving it an extra shove for good measure.
"Keep the ghosts in DER."

Genome is becoming a young man. Yesterday he cheerfully suggested that his toy be fixed with duct tape.

Someone suggested that if I didn't allow (nay, encourage) my children to read the types of books that they do, it's possible that they wouldn't communicate in knight-and-ghost talk. This is in all likelihood true. On the other hand, that Jack is out of its box, and I can't say that the results aren't colourful. I'll have to cook up some theory of being inspired by Bruno Bettleheim and advancing their psychological development in some way.



I live in one of those rainy single-season coastal cities that never gets particularly hot, nor particularly cold. It only becomes really hot for a brief period, perhaps a week or two interspersed with rain. This means that owning a pair of shorts is really surplus to requirements, let alone a proper summer wardrobe, one capable of keeping the wearer cool while maintaining his dignity. Come heat, people dig in their closets for whatever seems vaguely appropriate, unwilling to spend any actual money for what amounts to seven days of wear.

This week has been hot. About half the people I see are in their gym strip. Not "sports-styled" clothing. Actual gym strip, ratty shorts and occasional school athletic logos. Other people choose to wear the same Summer Outfit they've had since they vacationed to Disney World in August of 1985. One man in his late middle age looked particularly fetching in a pair of neon-on-neon shorts. Those were ravingly cool when I was a child. It was orange neon flowers on a green neon background. Do you remember orange neon? I never see it around now.

I can't wait until winter. That's when all our children go sledding in their rainboots, stuffed with several pairs of cotton socks.

Subway

Last week, the Captain was riding the subway home from work. Our subway system has no turnstiles. Instead, your ticket is checked by a highly paid, unionised employee who is also in charge of general crowd control, policing, and so forth.

Since the employees are highly paid and unionised, there aren't a whole lot of them. And since there aren't a whole lot of them (and, I assume, they're giving priority to resolving potential or actual Situations over checking tickets), not a lot of ticket-checking goes on. It's not uncommon to go months, even years, without being asked to show proof of fare.

So on Friday, the Captain was asked to show his proof of fair. He absent-mindedly pulls out his transit pass. The transit cop points out that he hasn't scratched out whether this is a transit pass for zone one, two, or three. Quite true, he hasn't. He scratches out zone one.

Walking home he notices that he has forgotten to replace his pass this month. He is riding on July's.

My daughter is on acid. She hears orange, thinks it's very pink today, and feels sorry for eight having to be there by mean Mr. Nine. She's usually having a good trip, but it's been known to go the other way.

My older son is on marijuana. He's happy and laid-back. He always has the munchies. He really, really likes Scooby Doo.

I don't know what my younger son is on. He buzzes around happily doing something or nothing, and then at the ninety minute mark he erupts in shrieking, the world's most hideous broken alarm clock. He does this at ninety minute intervals throughout the night, and sometimes throughout the day. He has this shriek that penetrates your reptile brain and urges you to suffocate him for the good of the tribe, lest a sabertooth tiger eat you all.

On the other hand, it's plausible that like a skunk or a hedgehog, his shriek is a way of signaling to sabertooth tigers that eating him isn't worth the aggravation.

I could be on anything, except I've got a massive addiction and I haven't had it for three days. In other words, today I could plausible feature as an addict in Intervention.

The problem is I didn't do any drugs (i.e. have any fun) to get here. It's just a manifestation of living with the world's loudest broken alarm clock.

Munchkin was punished for general bratty and impossibly spoiled behaviour, which she had the charming sense of timing to break into in front of several visitors.

She went in to the bathroom and poured out her woes to the toilet paper.

"Toilet paper," she said, "I am so sad and so tired. I have had such a hard day. I wish someone would come and carry me to bed and tuck me in."

I went into the bathroom. "Munchkin," I said, "may I carry you up to bed and tuck you in?" She agreed. I scooped her up and she said good night to the toilet paper.

As I carried her to her bedroom, she put her head against my shoulder and closed her eyes. "Mummy," she said, "how did you know where to find me?"

I should not let my children look at pattern collections. Other people, people with standards, have children who wear normal clothing. Maybe these children even request new regular clothing to wear. Someone has to be buying all of the clothing sold outside of the "costume" section.

My son alternates between dressing as a superhero, and as a dinosaur.

The other day, Genome was wandering around wearing a Darth Vader mask. He was carrying a long sword in one hand and a cutlass in the other. He was singing to himself: "I like dogs. I like dogs."

Good to know.

Parasol

I was going to title this post, "this is how babies get shaken," and talk about my youngest keeping me up all of last night. But since this blog got dragged elsewhere, and someone was using my lack of sandwich-making prowess as an example of my sub-par parenting, it would probably be best to avoid the shaken-baby angle.

That was a joke people.

For the record, angry readers, I am not unfit to home school because I'm no good at making lunches. I home school _because_ I'm no good at making lunches. I'm also not particularly good at filling out forms printed on coloured paper and adorned with clip-art.

Really though. If you feel that you are more capable of making a dairy-free, nut-free, meat-free, and kosher jam; and if you want me to know that you are therefore a more fit mother than I am, please contact me c/o StealthJew. I will sample your wares and get back to you with a verdict.

An anecdote, to close.

Actual adult: Munchkin, you can't have an umbrella in bed.
Munchkin: It's a parasol.

YM

My house is something of the flophouse of our neighbourhood. Sandwiched between accommodating neighbours and down the block from a large synagogue, we easily attract people, many of whom have an open invitation. Were we in college, ours is the type of house that would always produce wafts of marijuana smoke.

My house itself is in poor condition. I live in a city where the property makes up so much of our value that I await the day that the city deducts money from our assessment for having any structure on our property at all. As far as the city is concerned, I might as well live in a mid-ranged pup tent. My house is managed by a subpar housekeeper (yours truly). But I'm a good cook. So coming to my house gives the visitor that warm, happy feeling of being in the company of people who keep a much messier house than you do, with fairly good food to boot. Additionally, everyone living in my house except for me is a nice person, and good company.

This Shabbes, we had not one, not two, but three young and attractive couples over.


That's the stuff. Anyone feel like taking some quizzes?

I have been married for awhile now, and my husband and I both had the same thought: I am so happy that I am not dating.

When one is married, one learns to take certain good qualities for granted. But having young friends who are just dating reminds the observer that there is an entire world of faults out there, faults that the observer had forgotten existed.

A young lady broke up with the Captain for "inhibiting the positivity of [her] self-worth." Date, and you may end up dating someone who speaks in psychobabble.

Date, and you may end up dating someone who eats octopus or eel and wants to share.

Date, and you may find a vegan, or someone someone who Master Cleanses.

The next man you date may be Casey Serin. The next woman you date may be Aria Star

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Casey Serin, serial fraudster.

A friend of mine is adjusting to a new marriage. They are compatible. They had a long courtship. Nonetheless, I think a certain amount of marriage adjustment just has to be done with teeth gritted and the thought "I could always torch this place and run off to stay at the Hotel 6" in the back of one's mind.

Actually, that last part might just have been me.

American Pie

My husband invited some American ex-pats for the Fourth of July. As the most humane climate in Canada, we have quite a few. i wanted to do something American for the Americans. Fourth of July, yes? So I made iced tea. I found some instructions on the internet.

Apparently it requires tea. But the recipe didn't specify which type of tea, and this gave me some trouble. First I found herbal teas, mint and such. I'm pretty sure that's too hippie fruity for Fourth of July iced tea.

Then I had Earl Grey and English Breakfast and Irish Breakfast. None of those seemed quite appropriate. They're all quite distinct-tasting, so I would think that if the recipe had intended for me to use Earl Grey, it would have specified.

So I found some bags that were unlabeled, and that's what I went with. After all, it may be the correct type of tea, whereas the others were almost certainly not.

I followed the recipe quite carefully. It tasted much too sweet for me. I was brought up drinking tea without sugar, so that may be the thing.

The Americans drank it. This may be a good sign. It may just have been politeness.

I had considered making an apple pie (As American as . . . ), but I've never made a pie and this seemed ambitious.

A second interlude: my daughter attending day camp for the first time. In fact, she's never been in any class, and never attended school. This is not because I am intentionally over-protective. She's five. More that I'm disorganised, and she was a late bloomer, and so on, and so forth. When I worked my children had a nanny. Having her attend an additional programme would be doubling up, since the second and third children followed in rather short order. One thing follows another and now she's five and attending day camp for the Very First Time.

I carefully pored through the parent's manual in search of anything that may have changed since my last day camp experience, which was some 15 years ago. One still labels everything with the child's name. Done. Send a bathing suit? Done. Make a sandwich. I can do this!

Make a sandwich with no meat (kosher reasons) and no nuts of any sort (allergies).

This became rather more complicated.

My daughter is lactose intolerant.

I made jam. Munchkin was pleased by a food that is sweet, strawberry-flavoured, pink, and devoid of nutritional value. All appeared to be going well.

She enjoyed day camp, but does not wish to attend tomorrow, as she said she was kept busy all day.

She also says that she slept poorly because her father and I kept waking her. I remember this. I woke her up to go to the bathroom. I woke her up because she was hungry. I woke her because her invisible friend told her something and I just had to hear about it.

Oh no, wait. That was all her, wasn't it? Well I can see why she was confused.

The Medium is the Message

This evening I noticed that Noah and his wife (nameless) are riding around in a Fisher-Price TV van. This is from a Noah's Ark playset, of course. I think they may have some of the animals in there as well.

There is a statement there, something about religion and modern media and contemporary culture, but I have no idea what that statement would be.

In the meantime, I have a lot of rhubarb. Too much rhubarb. About six mature plants' worth. I inherited the rhubarb with the house, and we've harvested it thrice this season already. It would be nice if it weren't so cold, and then I could harvest something that isn't rhubarb.

Rhubarb has surprisingly few uses. Once you've made jelly, and compote, and pie, you're more or less rhubarb-ed out. It's one of those plants where a little goes a long way. And I have a lot.

From now on I think I am giving my children designated cups. This won't stop them from leaving the cups about. I will, though, have the opportunity to track down whomever left a given cup, and lock the offender in the closet.

Too bad I don't have locks on the closets.