I brushed my hair with a toothbrush this morning, for real. I got in the car to go to work, looked in the mirror, and realized I had forgotten to tame my snarly head of hay. I had no hairbrush in the car, but found a grungy toothbrush in my makeup kit. (I use the toothbrush for shaping my eyebrows.) I keep the kit in the car so I will actually have time to put makeup on; I try not to impale my eyes with an eyeliner pencil while my husband drives us work. I'm not proud of the fact that I brushed my hair with a toothbrush; it's just an eye-opener as to how chaotic my life has become, and how I've adapted in order to cope. Better to tame your snarly head with an Oral-B, than with nothing at all, I guess...
I've developed a few other shortcuts in my coping strategy. A handheld shower spray nozzle is a great tool when you want to smell clean, but don't have time to wash and blow dry your hair. Simply pour shampoo around your neck, then use the handheld sprayer to shepherd foam down to your nooks and crannies.
Here's a wardrobe hint: alternate wearing the same two pair of trousers for a year; there's no time wasted choosing what to wear. (One of my two pairs of pants has needed hemming for a year. The turned under cuffs have permanently creased themselves to the point that I don’t need to hem them anymore.) Another hint: Buy one style of shirt in as many different colors as you can. You can wear them every day of the year if you frequently switch out your watches and jewelry. No one will notice, right?
Last week I used masking tape to seal a huge hole in the toe of my favorite chenille socks. It worked well, but haranguing visions of my mother floated around my head until they convinced me to throw the socks away.
My four-year old thought I was tres cool when I taught her this tooth brushing trick: fill your mouth with toothpaste and water, swoosh the minty liquid in your mouth for a few seconds, then spit. No, it’s not a replacement for dental hygiene, and no, it doesn’t really get your teeth clean, but at least it fools your mouth when time has run out for morning ablutions. Now that I think about it, I’ll have to do some toddler deprogramming on that one. (“Oh no, honey, mommy just did that to show you what *not to do....")
I don’t usually worry too much about looking and smelling like a bag lady. It gets me a round of sympathy and free food every now and then. But when I look at my twenty-something, ninety pound, neatly coiffed co-workers, I tend to get a case of the frumpys. Until I go back to my office and look at the pictures of my kids. My mood is automatically buoyed by seeing their fresh little faces, wearing fairly clean clothes and matching socks. I’ll live vicariously through them until they can dress themselves in the morning. At that point the fashion will probably be “grunge” again and they’ll dress like vagrants on purpose. Then I’ll have all the time in the world to brush my hair with a real brush.
Tuesday, March 16, 2004
Monday, March 15, 2004
The scoop on poop.
I’m well aware that I frequently write about dung, in both figurative and literal senses. So please excuse the topic, or move on to wilwheaton.net if you’d prefer to read entries most likely not to involve poop…
Having been a zookeeper of sorts and now being a parent of two humans, I have lots of experience with the stuff. Anyone raising kids has dealt with dirty diapers, so there’s not much I’ve encountered there that’s unique. However, being a Biology major and having been a primate keeper, I’ve come across the Good, the Bad and the Ugly offal of the animal world.
I once had the pleasure of observing a dung beetle (Scarabaeidae deltochilum gibbosum) at work in a local state park. He painstakingly rolled a foul little ball of excrescence along the Piedmont forest floor. (Some d. gibbosum bury balls of dung with their larval offspring inside. Both larvae and adults feed off the yummy “brood ball.”) He was so intent on getting his burden to its destination that I couldn’t fault him for his stinky addiction. Friends and family didn’t share the enthusiasm when I described my fascinating study; it’s hard to rally respect for a bug with a crappy moniker.
A quaint name, or even better yet, a quaint shape, can refine some scatological elements. One of my college biology professors related a story in class about wombat bowel movements. Apparently, wombats leave cube-shaped blocks of waste on rocks throughout the Australian outback. Professor W. found this lore difficult to believe, which spurred an Aussie colleague to collect and mail him a sample of the square stuff. Apparently airport security was confounded as to the contents of an incoming package labeled “one fumigated wombat scat.” Professor W. was delighted to report that wombats are indeed, capable of producing cubic ordure.
Delight is not a term I’d use to describe my frame of mind in this last indelicate narrative...
Shell-shocked is more like it, since I was the target of a carpet bombing mission of sorts. I was a primate technician responsible for the care of several outside "silo" cages of red ruffed lemurs. (Lemur varecia variagata rubra; similar in appearance to fluffy, medium-sized dogs.) The metal-gridded towers were tin roofed and stood several stories high. All silos contained a nest box, a huge tree stripped of bark and several dried vines. The varecia would caper from branch to branch at feeding time, eventually gathering at ground level platforms to eat. Feeding time was a piece of cake, compared to daily cage cleaning. I would enter a silo’s outer door with bucket, wirebrush and rake in hand. I could then walk down a short safety run and through an inner door to access the main silo area. Upon opening the inner door, it was common to hear the "plop plop" of stool ammo blasting the entryway. If I survived the gauntlet to make it to the silo’s center, I could look up and gauge the location of each buttock aimed at me. The challenge was on, however, to rake up the contents of the sandy cage floor before the bombers above could strafe my general direction with foulness. If victorious, I would escape unscathed, or simply with a stained shirt that I could change or wipe off. If defeated, I would slowly stomp my way to the facility shower, covered from head to toe in lemur pudding studded with decaying fruit. "Ohh," the perfumed front desk receptionist would utter with both sympathy and repulsion. I never encountered the center’s director during my “Trail of Smears,” but I fantasized that I might get hazardous duty pay if discovered in my humiliated state.
I never really came up with a foolproof solution to the silo-cleaning dilemma. I even had to chalk up a final victory to the red ruffs the day before I ended my career at the center. If there was anything to be learned from my experience under the "guns," it was this:
Don’t look up with your mouth open, unless you’re really certain what’s overhead.
Words of wisdom from an ex-zookeeper.
Having been a zookeeper of sorts and now being a parent of two humans, I have lots of experience with the stuff. Anyone raising kids has dealt with dirty diapers, so there’s not much I’ve encountered there that’s unique. However, being a Biology major and having been a primate keeper, I’ve come across the Good, the Bad and the Ugly offal of the animal world.
I once had the pleasure of observing a dung beetle (Scarabaeidae deltochilum gibbosum) at work in a local state park. He painstakingly rolled a foul little ball of excrescence along the Piedmont forest floor. (Some d. gibbosum bury balls of dung with their larval offspring inside. Both larvae and adults feed off the yummy “brood ball.”) He was so intent on getting his burden to its destination that I couldn’t fault him for his stinky addiction. Friends and family didn’t share the enthusiasm when I described my fascinating study; it’s hard to rally respect for a bug with a crappy moniker.
A quaint name, or even better yet, a quaint shape, can refine some scatological elements. One of my college biology professors related a story in class about wombat bowel movements. Apparently, wombats leave cube-shaped blocks of waste on rocks throughout the Australian outback. Professor W. found this lore difficult to believe, which spurred an Aussie colleague to collect and mail him a sample of the square stuff. Apparently airport security was confounded as to the contents of an incoming package labeled “one fumigated wombat scat.” Professor W. was delighted to report that wombats are indeed, capable of producing cubic ordure.
Delight is not a term I’d use to describe my frame of mind in this last indelicate narrative...
Shell-shocked is more like it, since I was the target of a carpet bombing mission of sorts. I was a primate technician responsible for the care of several outside "silo" cages of red ruffed lemurs. (Lemur varecia variagata rubra; similar in appearance to fluffy, medium-sized dogs.) The metal-gridded towers were tin roofed and stood several stories high. All silos contained a nest box, a huge tree stripped of bark and several dried vines. The varecia would caper from branch to branch at feeding time, eventually gathering at ground level platforms to eat. Feeding time was a piece of cake, compared to daily cage cleaning. I would enter a silo’s outer door with bucket, wirebrush and rake in hand. I could then walk down a short safety run and through an inner door to access the main silo area. Upon opening the inner door, it was common to hear the "plop plop" of stool ammo blasting the entryway. If I survived the gauntlet to make it to the silo’s center, I could look up and gauge the location of each buttock aimed at me. The challenge was on, however, to rake up the contents of the sandy cage floor before the bombers above could strafe my general direction with foulness. If victorious, I would escape unscathed, or simply with a stained shirt that I could change or wipe off. If defeated, I would slowly stomp my way to the facility shower, covered from head to toe in lemur pudding studded with decaying fruit. "Ohh," the perfumed front desk receptionist would utter with both sympathy and repulsion. I never encountered the center’s director during my “Trail of Smears,” but I fantasized that I might get hazardous duty pay if discovered in my humiliated state.
I never really came up with a foolproof solution to the silo-cleaning dilemma. I even had to chalk up a final victory to the red ruffs the day before I ended my career at the center. If there was anything to be learned from my experience under the "guns," it was this:
Don’t look up with your mouth open, unless you’re really certain what’s overhead.
Words of wisdom from an ex-zookeeper.
Wednesday, March 10, 2004
All in a day's work, Primate Technician-Style.
The whispered words “country drive” right before lunchtime could bring chills to your spine and goosebumps to your flesh. Especially on a warm spring day, when the smell of the blossoming trees and plants and damp earth told you simply had to move, to explore, to do more than just sit at lunchtime. Of course we would end up sitting, because a country drive involved cramming into Fred’s ancient rust-fused yellow sedan and taking in whatever sites happened along the way.
There was always the promise of a “Deliverance” style country store down the gravel edged secondary roads. If we found one we’d stop, go in, and buy Moon Pies and a six-pack of Milwaukee’s Best. We’d covertly observe the obligatory homage to America’s hunting heritage: perhaps a glass case of rattlesnake’s head earrings, stuffed rattlesnakes coiled around ashtrays, or a variety of cobwebbed animal heads on the walls. It seems those of us who have been in the animal keeping vocation have a morbid fascination with how far humans will go to exploit animals. While we don’t condone it and will sign petitions, walk in protests, and give our own pets the most intensive loving care, we can’t help visiting roadside zoos in Florida with a sad, tired tiger panting in his cage with a rusty metal coffee can filled with dirty water. We then try calling the Humane Society, or ASPCA, feeling like we’ve done our duty as watchdogs of the unprotected, but somehow, those roadside zoos never seem to get closed down. As for the country stores, no one ever really seems to want to save the poor rattlesnakes. We just made a point to look at their dried out, frozen fangy faces and acknowledge that they once were alive, once they could have bitten the crap out of any idiot who tried to grab them and stick them on a belt buckle.
When our booty was duly purchased and we had made a mental survey of the store’s inhabitants (clothing, number of teeth missing, whether they were playing checkers, eating pork rinds, or just sleeping), we would jump in the car to digest our lethal snack food and to seek out other roads in the area that might lead to anything, anything of the slightest interest. From gigantic Muffler Men dethroned and reincarnated as Paul Bunyan in a farmer’s field, to abandoned old mills or pump stations along creeks, we sought out the camp, the historic; it really didn’t matter as long as we saw something worth discussing on the long drive back to work. At some point, some idiot in the car would start jabbering about how much they had to do today, or how this drive was taking too long. We would soon thereafter pull into the dusty and furrowed parking lot of the center, the magic spell of the country drive broken. An occasional burp from your beer or moon pie as you raked up lemur poo would bring back fond memories of a lunch worth remembering.
There was always the promise of a “Deliverance” style country store down the gravel edged secondary roads. If we found one we’d stop, go in, and buy Moon Pies and a six-pack of Milwaukee’s Best. We’d covertly observe the obligatory homage to America’s hunting heritage: perhaps a glass case of rattlesnake’s head earrings, stuffed rattlesnakes coiled around ashtrays, or a variety of cobwebbed animal heads on the walls. It seems those of us who have been in the animal keeping vocation have a morbid fascination with how far humans will go to exploit animals. While we don’t condone it and will sign petitions, walk in protests, and give our own pets the most intensive loving care, we can’t help visiting roadside zoos in Florida with a sad, tired tiger panting in his cage with a rusty metal coffee can filled with dirty water. We then try calling the Humane Society, or ASPCA, feeling like we’ve done our duty as watchdogs of the unprotected, but somehow, those roadside zoos never seem to get closed down. As for the country stores, no one ever really seems to want to save the poor rattlesnakes. We just made a point to look at their dried out, frozen fangy faces and acknowledge that they once were alive, once they could have bitten the crap out of any idiot who tried to grab them and stick them on a belt buckle.
When our booty was duly purchased and we had made a mental survey of the store’s inhabitants (clothing, number of teeth missing, whether they were playing checkers, eating pork rinds, or just sleeping), we would jump in the car to digest our lethal snack food and to seek out other roads in the area that might lead to anything, anything of the slightest interest. From gigantic Muffler Men dethroned and reincarnated as Paul Bunyan in a farmer’s field, to abandoned old mills or pump stations along creeks, we sought out the camp, the historic; it really didn’t matter as long as we saw something worth discussing on the long drive back to work. At some point, some idiot in the car would start jabbering about how much they had to do today, or how this drive was taking too long. We would soon thereafter pull into the dusty and furrowed parking lot of the center, the magic spell of the country drive broken. An occasional burp from your beer or moon pie as you raked up lemur poo would bring back fond memories of a lunch worth remembering.
Monday, March 08, 2004
Always wash your coffee mug.
The dull muscle aches are setting in from yesterday’s hike up Occoneechee Mountain. I guess it’s officially a “hill,” since the only thing I recall from eighth-grade geography is that a mountain must be 1000 feet or higher in elevation. I’m going to call it a mountain anyway, since everybody else does, and 860 feet above sea level is high enough to give you breathtaking views and incredibly tired legs.
We crested the gravelly mountain trail and were looking for an optimal viewing spot to rest when my daughter gave the inevitable “I have to pee” call. I nervously directed her over the leafy forest floor, on the lookout for any happy snake families that might be enjoying an outing as well. We finally reached an optimal tree for screening our shiny white rears from the hikers on the mountain top above. I wiggled her pants, panties and shoes off and directed her to go facing downhill. “Why did you take my clothes off?” she inquired. “So that you won’t accidentally get them wet,” I replied. “Why do I have to face downhill?” came the next probe, to which I answered, “It will help the pee-pee to go away from your feet.” With all of my planning and Girl Scout cunning, my four-year old proceeded to release a yellow stream directly down her leg and onto her feet.
I became angry. Inwardly angry. Not at her, bless her heart, but at the poor mechanics women have for voiding anywhere, be it in the woods or on the commode of our own bathrooms. It is absolutely not fair to be equipped with sub-par relief systems. I’m not envious of the equipment of the opposite sex; I just want my own to perform without dysfunction. How many times have I done the very thing my daughter just did? How many times have I stood over a plague-laden public toilet seat, only to soak my underwear and legs when I missed the target? How many times have I ended up in extremely awkward situations after the call of nature hearkened at inconvenient times?
Read on, if you really must know.
Awkward Life Scarring Incident Number One:
I am twelve years old. I am camping with my father on a daddy-daughter outing, and have tried to ignore the late-night pain in my bladder to no avail. I follow the purple-white light of the bug zapper that serves as the outdoor light of the cinder blocked bathroom. I find both stalls occupied with grown-up women discussing grown-up things that both frighten and intrigue me. I stand against the bathroom wall quietly and politely until I am at the point of no return; I must go somewhere this very minute. I quietly tread into the shower stall, squat over the drain, and proceed to water my very stiff and very blue jeans. Perhaps a drop actually makes it into the drain. To my horror, one of the women now exits her stall and waits along the very wall I had been leaning on minutes before. Their scary mystifying discussion continues. Something about “histerektomees” and other things that my brain erases out of concern for my well-being. The other woman remains in her stall and I remain squatting in the shower, legs burning with lactic acid pain. I finally can stand it no longer. I am wet, tired, and want to be free of their marathon discussion. I stand up, emerge from the shower stall and walk with my head held high past the leaning woman. She watches me with baffled raccoon-eyes, thick with mascara. As I exit the shower and walk over the dewy wet grass to my tent, I hear her exclaim, “What the?!” “Some kid just walked right out of the shower, with all of her d*#! clothes on!!” I quickly zip myself into the tent where my father lay snoring. I drift into a wet, cold, and yet satisfying sleep.
Awkward Life Scarring Incident Number Two:
I am in my mid-twenties. I am staying with a friend for the weekend. We have gone to her grandmother’s house at the beach to take part in their family reunion. We swim, eat seafood, and socialize as new people keep arriving by the carload. By Saturday night, the house is so packed that I am relegated to sleeping on the floor in the laundry area. I sleep comfortably until late in the night, when I find myself again in a sleeping bag with an aching bladder. There is only one bathroom in the house. It is accessible only two ways: 1) through the grandparent’s bedroom, or 2) through the den and back hall, both filled with sleeping bags and sleeping bodies. I try to quietly open the laundry door to the yard outside but find it dead bolted no key in sight. The front door exit is blocked by a sofa-bed. I am trapped and yet I must go. I scan the washer and dryer area, hoping to find a bucket, or Mason jar, or anything to serve as a chamber pot. I spy a coffee mug on the lip of the stainless steel sink; it’s now or never. (The sink was too high and tight for access; believe me, I thought of it.) I grab the mug, lift my nightshirt and squat as tightly on the mug as I physically can. It’s not tight enough, however. I end up wetting the floor, my nightgown and my sleeping bag. And now I’ve peed in grandma’s coffee mug. I’m going to hell. I dump the mug’s contents into the sink, rinse the mug with a trickle of water, and mop the floor with paper towels. In the morning I wake early, scrub the mug like a madwoman and throw the damp sleeping bag into my car trunk. I shower, put on clean clothes and take a walk on the beach. When I get back to the house I decline coffee with breakfast.
Awkward Life Scarring Incident Number Three:
I am in my early thirties. I am pregnant with my first child. It is late in the evening. My husband is trying to wrestle his money out of a 24-hour bank ATM that doesn’t want to give it up. I watch him excitedly tap buttons on the keyboard, set his hands on his hips, and then throw hands up in the air, over and over. The baby decides to stand on my bladder, which makes the calling far stronger than that time in the campground shower, or the time at J.’s grandma’s house. I am in my car with nowhere to go to the bathroom. (The bank is closed.) I wave my hands frantically at my husband, who waves his hands frantically back at me and then turns around to resume his money-machine rain dance. I focus my watering eyes on the car floor to see a plastic souvenir cup (acquired at my husband’s alumni picnic). Without hesitation, I ratchet my car seat back and slide my body forward to the edge. I grab the plastic cup, shove it under my maternity dress and try to form an air-tight seal. I am rewarded with a mocking trickle down my ankle that wets my Birkenstocks and soaks the carpeting. My husband returns to the car to see me dump something out of his college cup and into the parking lot. I tell my tale with deadpan face; my husband gulps and starts the car. He drives home silently despite the wafting ammonia. I toss the souvenir cup into the outdoor trashcan before going inside to change my wet muumuu. After all, his alma mater and my alma mater were rivals. Maybe I could have held it if the cup had been from *my school.
We crested the gravelly mountain trail and were looking for an optimal viewing spot to rest when my daughter gave the inevitable “I have to pee” call. I nervously directed her over the leafy forest floor, on the lookout for any happy snake families that might be enjoying an outing as well. We finally reached an optimal tree for screening our shiny white rears from the hikers on the mountain top above. I wiggled her pants, panties and shoes off and directed her to go facing downhill. “Why did you take my clothes off?” she inquired. “So that you won’t accidentally get them wet,” I replied. “Why do I have to face downhill?” came the next probe, to which I answered, “It will help the pee-pee to go away from your feet.” With all of my planning and Girl Scout cunning, my four-year old proceeded to release a yellow stream directly down her leg and onto her feet.
I became angry. Inwardly angry. Not at her, bless her heart, but at the poor mechanics women have for voiding anywhere, be it in the woods or on the commode of our own bathrooms. It is absolutely not fair to be equipped with sub-par relief systems. I’m not envious of the equipment of the opposite sex; I just want my own to perform without dysfunction. How many times have I done the very thing my daughter just did? How many times have I stood over a plague-laden public toilet seat, only to soak my underwear and legs when I missed the target? How many times have I ended up in extremely awkward situations after the call of nature hearkened at inconvenient times?
Read on, if you really must know.
Awkward Life Scarring Incident Number One:
I am twelve years old. I am camping with my father on a daddy-daughter outing, and have tried to ignore the late-night pain in my bladder to no avail. I follow the purple-white light of the bug zapper that serves as the outdoor light of the cinder blocked bathroom. I find both stalls occupied with grown-up women discussing grown-up things that both frighten and intrigue me. I stand against the bathroom wall quietly and politely until I am at the point of no return; I must go somewhere this very minute. I quietly tread into the shower stall, squat over the drain, and proceed to water my very stiff and very blue jeans. Perhaps a drop actually makes it into the drain. To my horror, one of the women now exits her stall and waits along the very wall I had been leaning on minutes before. Their scary mystifying discussion continues. Something about “histerektomees” and other things that my brain erases out of concern for my well-being. The other woman remains in her stall and I remain squatting in the shower, legs burning with lactic acid pain. I finally can stand it no longer. I am wet, tired, and want to be free of their marathon discussion. I stand up, emerge from the shower stall and walk with my head held high past the leaning woman. She watches me with baffled raccoon-eyes, thick with mascara. As I exit the shower and walk over the dewy wet grass to my tent, I hear her exclaim, “What the?!” “Some kid just walked right out of the shower, with all of her d*#! clothes on!!” I quickly zip myself into the tent where my father lay snoring. I drift into a wet, cold, and yet satisfying sleep.
Awkward Life Scarring Incident Number Two:
I am in my mid-twenties. I am staying with a friend for the weekend. We have gone to her grandmother’s house at the beach to take part in their family reunion. We swim, eat seafood, and socialize as new people keep arriving by the carload. By Saturday night, the house is so packed that I am relegated to sleeping on the floor in the laundry area. I sleep comfortably until late in the night, when I find myself again in a sleeping bag with an aching bladder. There is only one bathroom in the house. It is accessible only two ways: 1) through the grandparent’s bedroom, or 2) through the den and back hall, both filled with sleeping bags and sleeping bodies. I try to quietly open the laundry door to the yard outside but find it dead bolted no key in sight. The front door exit is blocked by a sofa-bed. I am trapped and yet I must go. I scan the washer and dryer area, hoping to find a bucket, or Mason jar, or anything to serve as a chamber pot. I spy a coffee mug on the lip of the stainless steel sink; it’s now or never. (The sink was too high and tight for access; believe me, I thought of it.) I grab the mug, lift my nightshirt and squat as tightly on the mug as I physically can. It’s not tight enough, however. I end up wetting the floor, my nightgown and my sleeping bag. And now I’ve peed in grandma’s coffee mug. I’m going to hell. I dump the mug’s contents into the sink, rinse the mug with a trickle of water, and mop the floor with paper towels. In the morning I wake early, scrub the mug like a madwoman and throw the damp sleeping bag into my car trunk. I shower, put on clean clothes and take a walk on the beach. When I get back to the house I decline coffee with breakfast.
Awkward Life Scarring Incident Number Three:
I am in my early thirties. I am pregnant with my first child. It is late in the evening. My husband is trying to wrestle his money out of a 24-hour bank ATM that doesn’t want to give it up. I watch him excitedly tap buttons on the keyboard, set his hands on his hips, and then throw hands up in the air, over and over. The baby decides to stand on my bladder, which makes the calling far stronger than that time in the campground shower, or the time at J.’s grandma’s house. I am in my car with nowhere to go to the bathroom. (The bank is closed.) I wave my hands frantically at my husband, who waves his hands frantically back at me and then turns around to resume his money-machine rain dance. I focus my watering eyes on the car floor to see a plastic souvenir cup (acquired at my husband’s alumni picnic). Without hesitation, I ratchet my car seat back and slide my body forward to the edge. I grab the plastic cup, shove it under my maternity dress and try to form an air-tight seal. I am rewarded with a mocking trickle down my ankle that wets my Birkenstocks and soaks the carpeting. My husband returns to the car to see me dump something out of his college cup and into the parking lot. I tell my tale with deadpan face; my husband gulps and starts the car. He drives home silently despite the wafting ammonia. I toss the souvenir cup into the outdoor trashcan before going inside to change my wet muumuu. After all, his alma mater and my alma mater were rivals. Maybe I could have held it if the cup had been from *my school.
Friday, March 05, 2004
The naked lunch. (Actually, it was supper.)
Let me begin with a testimony; I detest the type of restaurant we keep finding ourselves at these days...Those restaurants that have huge food bars of pasta, vegetables, and heart clogging fried entrees. They usually have a basket of obese yeasty rolls waiting at your table, dripping with bubbly butter slime. Yet this is the most convenient restaurant option; our toddlers like to forage from various tiny samples off the food chain. The noise levels in these places accommodate the unexpected rousing verse of “Itsy Bitsy Spider” quite well.
What I loathe is the organization and coordination it takes to survive in one of these sneeze guard jungles. You usually have to start in a line at a cute little soda fountain of sorts where you get drinks, trays and utensils. Strike one. Holding a tray of multiple drinks in one hand and a child’s hand in the other is a recipe for a soaking of lemonade napalm, or sticky red fruit punch. If you successfully juggle the tray and toddler past the cashier, you now get the patronizing “Let me help you” offering and smirk from the person waiting to seat you. Strike two. Now the death march to your table; the toddler will buzz frenetically around adjacent tables and the thirty-pound “baby” will try to use his weight leverage to dump out of your arms and into someone’s dinner. Strike three.
Let’s say you make it to your table without disaster. You now get to test your Scout knowledge of knots on the broken seatbelt of the baby’s high chair. You get to compete with the toddler for a seat next to daddy. And then, it’s time for the part I dread the most; the hunting and gathering of the food. You can: A) take the toddler and spend a lifetime getting her to choose from the smorgasbord, or B) fill a plate for baby and return to feed him immediately before the screams reach ear splitting decibels. Either way, you aren’t going to get to eat anything but scraps off the baby’s plate, if you’re lucky. If you do get the chance to slip out to fill a plate for yourself, you’ve left the other parent alone with the kids, vunerable.
That’s where I found myself one evening recently—left to conduct the traffic of mashed potatoes and spilled milk on the table while my husband desperately tried to find sustenance. Enter Murphy ’s Law. “I have to go to the bathroom,” my toddler whined. “Just wait, sweetie,” I pleaded, “Daddy will be back in a minute.” “No, I have to go NOW!” Any seasoned parent knows better than to let this statement go unheeded. I looked at the macaroni and cheese crusted baby and knew I didn’t have time to extricate him from my knots, nor could I leave him alone. “Okay,” I sermonized, “You’ve been in this potty a million times and you know which one is the girl’s, right?” “Uh-huh,” she murmured, legs crossed and eyes roving nervously. “I want you to go straight to the potty and straight out; do you understand me?,” I directed. “Okay, mommeeee,” I heard in a diminishing Doppler effect as she ran to the correct bathroom door and disappeared within.
Hey, thought I, that was easy! Wow, she’s just so grown up, I don’t give her enough credit sometimes. I shortly diverted my attention to the floor to retrieve my son’s pacifier and returned my eagle’s gaze on the woman’s bathroom door. “Hon!” I heard whispered in my direction. “Honey!” I heard my husband bark, concealed for the most part behind a wall of salad fixings. He pointed at the far side of the restaurant, where my daughter was walking around with undies and pants around her ankles announcing, “Mommy, Mommy, I need help!” Time came to a standstill. Something was out of place here. A half naked child just doesn’t walk around a restaurant... But mine did. Time hitched back into motion as I pondered why my husband wasn’t running over to snatch her from the guffawing crowd? My scanning eyes detected him crouched behind the salad bar, frozen in battle. “Go watch the baby!” I hissed in my most disgusted voice as I ran over to my daughter, slung her into my arms, and dashed for the bathroom.
I can’t even remember what her reasoning was for the peep show. I know I asked for an explanation and that she gave an answer, but it’s all a blur of recollection. What I’ll never forget was that feeling of pure mortification, and the snapshot of my poor husband, a prisoner of his own discomfiture behind the crudités. You gotta love the guy.
What I loathe is the organization and coordination it takes to survive in one of these sneeze guard jungles. You usually have to start in a line at a cute little soda fountain of sorts where you get drinks, trays and utensils. Strike one. Holding a tray of multiple drinks in one hand and a child’s hand in the other is a recipe for a soaking of lemonade napalm, or sticky red fruit punch. If you successfully juggle the tray and toddler past the cashier, you now get the patronizing “Let me help you” offering and smirk from the person waiting to seat you. Strike two. Now the death march to your table; the toddler will buzz frenetically around adjacent tables and the thirty-pound “baby” will try to use his weight leverage to dump out of your arms and into someone’s dinner. Strike three.
Let’s say you make it to your table without disaster. You now get to test your Scout knowledge of knots on the broken seatbelt of the baby’s high chair. You get to compete with the toddler for a seat next to daddy. And then, it’s time for the part I dread the most; the hunting and gathering of the food. You can: A) take the toddler and spend a lifetime getting her to choose from the smorgasbord, or B) fill a plate for baby and return to feed him immediately before the screams reach ear splitting decibels. Either way, you aren’t going to get to eat anything but scraps off the baby’s plate, if you’re lucky. If you do get the chance to slip out to fill a plate for yourself, you’ve left the other parent alone with the kids, vunerable.
That’s where I found myself one evening recently—left to conduct the traffic of mashed potatoes and spilled milk on the table while my husband desperately tried to find sustenance. Enter Murphy ’s Law. “I have to go to the bathroom,” my toddler whined. “Just wait, sweetie,” I pleaded, “Daddy will be back in a minute.” “No, I have to go NOW!” Any seasoned parent knows better than to let this statement go unheeded. I looked at the macaroni and cheese crusted baby and knew I didn’t have time to extricate him from my knots, nor could I leave him alone. “Okay,” I sermonized, “You’ve been in this potty a million times and you know which one is the girl’s, right?” “Uh-huh,” she murmured, legs crossed and eyes roving nervously. “I want you to go straight to the potty and straight out; do you understand me?,” I directed. “Okay, mommeeee,” I heard in a diminishing Doppler effect as she ran to the correct bathroom door and disappeared within.
Hey, thought I, that was easy! Wow, she’s just so grown up, I don’t give her enough credit sometimes. I shortly diverted my attention to the floor to retrieve my son’s pacifier and returned my eagle’s gaze on the woman’s bathroom door. “Hon!” I heard whispered in my direction. “Honey!” I heard my husband bark, concealed for the most part behind a wall of salad fixings. He pointed at the far side of the restaurant, where my daughter was walking around with undies and pants around her ankles announcing, “Mommy, Mommy, I need help!” Time came to a standstill. Something was out of place here. A half naked child just doesn’t walk around a restaurant... But mine did. Time hitched back into motion as I pondered why my husband wasn’t running over to snatch her from the guffawing crowd? My scanning eyes detected him crouched behind the salad bar, frozen in battle. “Go watch the baby!” I hissed in my most disgusted voice as I ran over to my daughter, slung her into my arms, and dashed for the bathroom.
I can’t even remember what her reasoning was for the peep show. I know I asked for an explanation and that she gave an answer, but it’s all a blur of recollection. What I’ll never forget was that feeling of pure mortification, and the snapshot of my poor husband, a prisoner of his own discomfiture behind the crudités. You gotta love the guy.
Thursday, March 04, 2004
Jasmine, the killer microcebus.
Jasmine was no bigger than a hamster. She had chocolate brown orbs for eyes with huge black pupils, a petite mousy nose, and thin perky little ears that looked like shiny paper. But Jasmine was no mouse or hamster, she was a primate. (Species Microcebus Murinus to be exact; the gray mouse lemur.)
She was a “prosimian” primate, which meant she looked nothing like the monkeys and gorillas on the other side of the taxonomy tree. Sure, she had fingernails instead of claws, and tiny opposable thumbs on her tiny hands, but for all intensive purposes she looked like a run-of-the-mill mouse. A blood craving, psycho-mutant mouse from hell, that is. At least that’s how I viewed her after I’d been painfully indoctrinated as her caretaker.
I encountered Jasmine’s wrath shortly after I started my job as a Primate Technician. (See "Zookeeper for a while, Cynic for life” if you’re giggling at my job title. No, we didn’t use wrenches on monkeys!!) As a biology major fresh out of college, I had stars in my eyes. How noble I was, nurturing endangered species at this wonderful facility. Noble my tuckus. A firm chomp on the finger was my reward the first time I presented Jasmine with her lovingly prepared lunch of chopped fruit and monkey chow. (Yes, Purina Monkey Chow. No fooling.) So began my ill-matched relationship with Jasmine; she terrorized my days, while my ragged fingers satisfied her lust for dominion.
I would actually tremble when the time would come to open her cage door. She’d freeze in the optimal ready position, waiting to grab some flesh. Then she would either get down to the business of eating her food, or she’d bounce Matrix-style off the food dish and into my face. Passers-by to the window weren’t likely to see Jasmine—they were likely to see me thrashing and flailing about the room in my St. Vitus’ dance. If you think catching grasshoppers is a challenge, try shortstopping a bouncing furry vampire with opposable thumbs.
Jasmine’s reign of terror was finally rear-ended by a blessed event; the birth of her twin daughters, Nutmeg and Cinnamon. She took to the role of motherhood right away, sitting protectively in the nest tube with her precious charges. I wasn’t prepared for my complacent reception at feeding time; where were the teeth? Where was the sound and fury? Alas, an end to an era had come, and Jasmine the terrible was no more. From then on, I didn’t have to wear a garden glove to open her cage door. My blood pressure didn’t soar to skin prickling heights when I needed to clean her cage. It was a relief, and at the same time a letdown. I didn’t get to affect an air of superiority when I entrusted her care to a junior technician later in the year. I couldn’t say, “look out for that one” or, “I’ve got a few tips and tricks I’ll need to show you.” Jasmine left my care without ceremony or goodbyes, but maybe it was better that way. The bonds of fingers bitten and fur flying are strictly between Jasmine and me.
She was a “prosimian” primate, which meant she looked nothing like the monkeys and gorillas on the other side of the taxonomy tree. Sure, she had fingernails instead of claws, and tiny opposable thumbs on her tiny hands, but for all intensive purposes she looked like a run-of-the-mill mouse. A blood craving, psycho-mutant mouse from hell, that is. At least that’s how I viewed her after I’d been painfully indoctrinated as her caretaker.
I encountered Jasmine’s wrath shortly after I started my job as a Primate Technician. (See "Zookeeper for a while, Cynic for life” if you’re giggling at my job title. No, we didn’t use wrenches on monkeys!!) As a biology major fresh out of college, I had stars in my eyes. How noble I was, nurturing endangered species at this wonderful facility. Noble my tuckus. A firm chomp on the finger was my reward the first time I presented Jasmine with her lovingly prepared lunch of chopped fruit and monkey chow. (Yes, Purina Monkey Chow. No fooling.) So began my ill-matched relationship with Jasmine; she terrorized my days, while my ragged fingers satisfied her lust for dominion.
I would actually tremble when the time would come to open her cage door. She’d freeze in the optimal ready position, waiting to grab some flesh. Then she would either get down to the business of eating her food, or she’d bounce Matrix-style off the food dish and into my face. Passers-by to the window weren’t likely to see Jasmine—they were likely to see me thrashing and flailing about the room in my St. Vitus’ dance. If you think catching grasshoppers is a challenge, try shortstopping a bouncing furry vampire with opposable thumbs.
Jasmine’s reign of terror was finally rear-ended by a blessed event; the birth of her twin daughters, Nutmeg and Cinnamon. She took to the role of motherhood right away, sitting protectively in the nest tube with her precious charges. I wasn’t prepared for my complacent reception at feeding time; where were the teeth? Where was the sound and fury? Alas, an end to an era had come, and Jasmine the terrible was no more. From then on, I didn’t have to wear a garden glove to open her cage door. My blood pressure didn’t soar to skin prickling heights when I needed to clean her cage. It was a relief, and at the same time a letdown. I didn’t get to affect an air of superiority when I entrusted her care to a junior technician later in the year. I couldn’t say, “look out for that one” or, “I’ve got a few tips and tricks I’ll need to show you.” Jasmine left my care without ceremony or goodbyes, but maybe it was better that way. The bonds of fingers bitten and fur flying are strictly between Jasmine and me.
Wednesday, March 03, 2004
Big Brother is watching you.
We bit the financial bullet and bought a digital video camera this year, hoping to capture shining family moments to burn for posterity on DVD. We’ve captured the shining family moments, now if we can just figure out how to beat a PC into submission to burn them to DVD. (Yeah, yeah, I know, get a Mac and iMovie; I would love to do nothing more, but transferring files from home to work is easier if we to stick to one platform.)
I’ve taken note as we’ve filmed the kids at various stages of cuteness; the mild-mannered one-year old is never in a frame for more than two seconds before the whirlwind four-year old blasts on scene, pushing said baby brother out of view. Ah, the recollections spring forth of times I’d asked my mother to see our home movies of me as a child. She’d set up the movie screen and we’d watch amidst the whirring of the movie projector. I would ask, “Where was I?" "Where are the movies of me?” “That was you right before your brother popped in,” Mom would say, referring to the five-second little white blip. “Aww, look at him in his little cowboy outfit...” The circle of life grinds on today as it did back then.
I think it just goes with the territory that the oldest sibling expects more attention—after all, their birth and safekeeping is the focal point of their inexperienced parents. Subsequent siblings realize that there are multiple chicks in the family nest and live accordingly, having never known any other way. Subsequent siblings are also prone to a phenomenon I’ve experienced personally; hero worship of the eldest brother or sister.
I’ve watched my son grin toothily as my daughter grabs his hand, trying to squeeze the blood right out of his fingertips. I’ve seen him laugh heartily as she banged on his “busy table” with his favorite plastic tractor. I’m sure he’d squeal gleefully, even if she burned his beloved stuffed whale on a pyre of his “Baby Einstein” tapes. That’s just the way idolatry works; your idol can do no wrong. Which is why I thought my brother was the coolest thing since the EZ-Bake oven when he tied me to a tree, told me I needed to learn about Houdini, and walked away. I really did learn how Houdini escaped his cords, albeit by coincidence. I clenched my fists and held my arms stiff as boards when he tied me up; upon relaxing my muscles I found the rope was loose enough to slip out of with minor rope chafe. Voila!
I also handle elevator breakdowns with peace of mind thanks to his claustrophobia experimentation. Brother would open up the den sofa bed and encourage me to climb through the horizontal gap between the mattress and the sofa back. This would dump me into a little 6’x 3’ “cave” that had absolutely no room for anything but laying flat down on the cold linoleum floor. He then would proceed to stuff the sofa cushions into the gap above, blocking out all light and escape routes. He would talk to me in hypnotist’s purring voice, saying things like, “just breathe deeply,” or “just relax” as my tension built and a freak-out became imminent. He would pull back the cushions in disgust after a minute or two of me banging and yelling from my upholstered coffin, my failure to thrive a strike against me. Eventually I could no longer fit under the sofa; at that age I secretly wished I could go down there to see how long I could last.
Teen hood brought an end to the mad scientist bond we shared, with both of us preferring the company of our peers. Sometimes brother would ask me to help him decode the notes of a guitar chord, or he’d play his “Tommy” by The Who album for me, but our time together was infrequent and low key. The days of brother worship were gone, but a mutual tolerance had developed that I could live with.
As my brother grew older and moved on to college, marriage, and eventually parenthood, our time together grew slimmer yet more precious. I would go to his house once or twice a year to visit, our time often spent enjoying good food and sharing cd favorites. Our canoe foray down a murky Dismal Swamp canal has become a highlight of fond memories. We didn’t end up anywhere of note and we didn’t see anything spectacular, but it was time together, to talk, and laugh at or with each other. That’s where I hope the wobbly circle of life takes my two children; to a point where they’ll cherish each other as adults, despite the tumultuous “experiments” along the way.
I used to get emails from my big brother with the cryptic number “1984” at the end of them. I finally called him one day to get the scoop, and he indignantly replied, “C’mon, Vick, the book '1984'—'Big Brother'...Get it?” I thanked him for clearing up the mystery, and noted to self that he was on a cerebral plane that I will never likely reach in my lifetime. But it doesn’t matter. I used to love him just ‘cause he was my big brother, now I love him ‘cause he’s my big brother.
I’ve taken note as we’ve filmed the kids at various stages of cuteness; the mild-mannered one-year old is never in a frame for more than two seconds before the whirlwind four-year old blasts on scene, pushing said baby brother out of view. Ah, the recollections spring forth of times I’d asked my mother to see our home movies of me as a child. She’d set up the movie screen and we’d watch amidst the whirring of the movie projector. I would ask, “Where was I?" "Where are the movies of me?” “That was you right before your brother popped in,” Mom would say, referring to the five-second little white blip. “Aww, look at him in his little cowboy outfit...” The circle of life grinds on today as it did back then.
I think it just goes with the territory that the oldest sibling expects more attention—after all, their birth and safekeeping is the focal point of their inexperienced parents. Subsequent siblings realize that there are multiple chicks in the family nest and live accordingly, having never known any other way. Subsequent siblings are also prone to a phenomenon I’ve experienced personally; hero worship of the eldest brother or sister.
I’ve watched my son grin toothily as my daughter grabs his hand, trying to squeeze the blood right out of his fingertips. I’ve seen him laugh heartily as she banged on his “busy table” with his favorite plastic tractor. I’m sure he’d squeal gleefully, even if she burned his beloved stuffed whale on a pyre of his “Baby Einstein” tapes. That’s just the way idolatry works; your idol can do no wrong. Which is why I thought my brother was the coolest thing since the EZ-Bake oven when he tied me to a tree, told me I needed to learn about Houdini, and walked away. I really did learn how Houdini escaped his cords, albeit by coincidence. I clenched my fists and held my arms stiff as boards when he tied me up; upon relaxing my muscles I found the rope was loose enough to slip out of with minor rope chafe. Voila!
I also handle elevator breakdowns with peace of mind thanks to his claustrophobia experimentation. Brother would open up the den sofa bed and encourage me to climb through the horizontal gap between the mattress and the sofa back. This would dump me into a little 6’x 3’ “cave” that had absolutely no room for anything but laying flat down on the cold linoleum floor. He then would proceed to stuff the sofa cushions into the gap above, blocking out all light and escape routes. He would talk to me in hypnotist’s purring voice, saying things like, “just breathe deeply,” or “just relax” as my tension built and a freak-out became imminent. He would pull back the cushions in disgust after a minute or two of me banging and yelling from my upholstered coffin, my failure to thrive a strike against me. Eventually I could no longer fit under the sofa; at that age I secretly wished I could go down there to see how long I could last.
Teen hood brought an end to the mad scientist bond we shared, with both of us preferring the company of our peers. Sometimes brother would ask me to help him decode the notes of a guitar chord, or he’d play his “Tommy” by The Who album for me, but our time together was infrequent and low key. The days of brother worship were gone, but a mutual tolerance had developed that I could live with.
As my brother grew older and moved on to college, marriage, and eventually parenthood, our time together grew slimmer yet more precious. I would go to his house once or twice a year to visit, our time often spent enjoying good food and sharing cd favorites. Our canoe foray down a murky Dismal Swamp canal has become a highlight of fond memories. We didn’t end up anywhere of note and we didn’t see anything spectacular, but it was time together, to talk, and laugh at or with each other. That’s where I hope the wobbly circle of life takes my two children; to a point where they’ll cherish each other as adults, despite the tumultuous “experiments” along the way.
I used to get emails from my big brother with the cryptic number “1984” at the end of them. I finally called him one day to get the scoop, and he indignantly replied, “C’mon, Vick, the book '1984'—'Big Brother'...Get it?” I thanked him for clearing up the mystery, and noted to self that he was on a cerebral plane that I will never likely reach in my lifetime. But it doesn’t matter. I used to love him just ‘cause he was my big brother, now I love him ‘cause he’s my big brother.
Tuesday, March 02, 2004
Won't you be my neighbor?
Good fences supposedly make good neighbors. Yet you’re supposed to love your neighbor as well, according to the robed one. I can unequivocally state that I love my neighbors; I adore my neighbors. I must have moved into Beaver Cleaver’s old neighborhood, because the kids say “please and thank you” and the adults look out for each other’s homes and well-being. My old neighborhood was a swell second; I had steadfast friends to the left of me, and seasoned parents to the right of me who were ripe with good advice and helping hands. (I knew we were kindred spirits when they brought my vacation mail to me in a cardboard Miller Lite box.) Sure, our tiny crammed-together houses were identical save the house paint, but it was a good neighborhood nonetheless.
Apparently the good neighbor vibe mostly applies to home-dwellers with little grassy patches of buffer zone. I always made a point of being polite to my neighbors back in the “apartment days,” but the paradigm changes somewhat in the face of population density and lack of soundproofing. My husband and I chose “Pinegate” to be our first apartments of wedded bliss. We moved into a one-bedroom apartment, our ferrets Barney and Scooter in tow, and proceeded to live a compact yet comfortable life. We never expected our neighbor across the breezeway to be a part of that life, and yet he was, with knife and liquor bottle in hand.
Our first encounters with Dan were nothing more than mumbled exchanges of “hi” as we opened or closed our respective apartment doors. As time progressed, his greetings evolved to the point of “how you doing-”, or “how’s it going?”. They evolved to the extent that we noticed his slurred speech, his flamingo-pink bloodshot eyes and cloud of alcohol vapor that seemed to surround his person. Yet Dan was a nice guy. We obviously learned his first name, he learned ours, and we began to knock on each other’s doors if we got locked out and needed a phone, or needed jumper cables, or whatever.
One day Dan knocked on the door as my husband and I were hunkering down to dinner in front of the TV. “What’s that you guys eatin?”, he inquired with hungry eyes. “African Fire Pork Stew,” I remarked sheepishly, feeling somehow embarrassed being a white girl eating food from the homeland of my African-American neighbor. “Is it good?” he inquired. “Try some—” I replied, the little Samaritan in me feeling good that I could feed our tawny scrawny neighbor. He was headed out, he said, so I fixed him a bowl and told him to refrigerate it and eat it later. Same time, next day there was a knock on the door. Dan stood there with a hefty woman to his left, empty bowl in hand. “What’s this stuff again?” “It’s good! ” “Can we get some more?”
And so we were introduced to Dan’s girlfriend, R., and began a bizarre relationship based mostly on them coming over to eat our food, or “borrowing” beers. (Yes, looking back, it probably wasn’t prudent to give an alcoholic his fuel, but we were poor at the time so we didn’t have much to share anyway...) A story in itself would be the night we were invited to Dan’s party, where I met “Zeke the m.f’ing freak”. He slurringly threatened to kill me within the first five minutes I arrived, and ended up dancing to the “Gap Band” with me before it was all over. But I digress.
The days with Dan were without incident for the most part, so I didn’t have a second thought when my big brother suggested he’d come over one Saturday for a visit. Which is the exact day that Dan went berserk and my brother decided his sister was insane for living in a crack world. It started with the typical knock on the door. Only it was a pounding; I should have paid attention to the pounding. But I opened the door like a dimwit, and R. barreled past me in a sweaty shove, saying “Dan gone crazy!” “Dan got a knife and he gone crazy!” Oh crap.
I agreed to let her use the phone as I locked the door with chain, deadbolt and knob lock. I didn’t know she was going to call Dan. My heart went into my stomach as I heard her taunt, “You better let him get his money!” “No, I ain’t telling you where I am!” “You can’t do nothing to me!”. It turned out Dan owed R’s “little” brother some money, and now had cut the young man with a knife in lieu of payment. As I peered out the peep-hole, I saw a streak of blood on Dan’s door. “Go get him, baby!” I heard R. scream, as I saw to my horror that she had moved to my outdoor balcony. She was encouraging her brother, who had returned from his car with a crowbar. So much for the secret of her location.
The crowbar gashes on Dan’s door and the dripping of blood on the stairs and second-floor landing created a graphic symphony of sights for my brother, who pulled into the driveway as the police led Dan away in handcuffs. (R. and little brother took possession of his apartment like feudal lords.) I give my brother credit for not shrieking in horror and driving away—instead he gave me a casual, “Sis, what gives?”, and walked to my apartment amidst drops of blood and door paint flakes. I lamely came up with a watered-down version of the story, and we went about our day as if nothing ever happened. But I couldn’t help staring at the metal slashes and scrapes on the door across from ours, even when Dan quietly moved out the next week. They never fixed that door, and we never got to know our new neighbor well enough to explain what had happened to it.
Apparently the good neighbor vibe mostly applies to home-dwellers with little grassy patches of buffer zone. I always made a point of being polite to my neighbors back in the “apartment days,” but the paradigm changes somewhat in the face of population density and lack of soundproofing. My husband and I chose “Pinegate” to be our first apartments of wedded bliss. We moved into a one-bedroom apartment, our ferrets Barney and Scooter in tow, and proceeded to live a compact yet comfortable life. We never expected our neighbor across the breezeway to be a part of that life, and yet he was, with knife and liquor bottle in hand.
Our first encounters with Dan were nothing more than mumbled exchanges of “hi” as we opened or closed our respective apartment doors. As time progressed, his greetings evolved to the point of “how you doing-”, or “how’s it going?”. They evolved to the extent that we noticed his slurred speech, his flamingo-pink bloodshot eyes and cloud of alcohol vapor that seemed to surround his person. Yet Dan was a nice guy. We obviously learned his first name, he learned ours, and we began to knock on each other’s doors if we got locked out and needed a phone, or needed jumper cables, or whatever.
One day Dan knocked on the door as my husband and I were hunkering down to dinner in front of the TV. “What’s that you guys eatin?”, he inquired with hungry eyes. “African Fire Pork Stew,” I remarked sheepishly, feeling somehow embarrassed being a white girl eating food from the homeland of my African-American neighbor. “Is it good?” he inquired. “Try some—” I replied, the little Samaritan in me feeling good that I could feed our tawny scrawny neighbor. He was headed out, he said, so I fixed him a bowl and told him to refrigerate it and eat it later. Same time, next day there was a knock on the door. Dan stood there with a hefty woman to his left, empty bowl in hand. “What’s this stuff again?” “It’s good! ” “Can we get some more?”
And so we were introduced to Dan’s girlfriend, R., and began a bizarre relationship based mostly on them coming over to eat our food, or “borrowing” beers. (Yes, looking back, it probably wasn’t prudent to give an alcoholic his fuel, but we were poor at the time so we didn’t have much to share anyway...) A story in itself would be the night we were invited to Dan’s party, where I met “Zeke the m.f’ing freak”. He slurringly threatened to kill me within the first five minutes I arrived, and ended up dancing to the “Gap Band” with me before it was all over. But I digress.
The days with Dan were without incident for the most part, so I didn’t have a second thought when my big brother suggested he’d come over one Saturday for a visit. Which is the exact day that Dan went berserk and my brother decided his sister was insane for living in a crack world. It started with the typical knock on the door. Only it was a pounding; I should have paid attention to the pounding. But I opened the door like a dimwit, and R. barreled past me in a sweaty shove, saying “Dan gone crazy!” “Dan got a knife and he gone crazy!” Oh crap.
I agreed to let her use the phone as I locked the door with chain, deadbolt and knob lock. I didn’t know she was going to call Dan. My heart went into my stomach as I heard her taunt, “You better let him get his money!” “No, I ain’t telling you where I am!” “You can’t do nothing to me!”. It turned out Dan owed R’s “little” brother some money, and now had cut the young man with a knife in lieu of payment. As I peered out the peep-hole, I saw a streak of blood on Dan’s door. “Go get him, baby!” I heard R. scream, as I saw to my horror that she had moved to my outdoor balcony. She was encouraging her brother, who had returned from his car with a crowbar. So much for the secret of her location.
The crowbar gashes on Dan’s door and the dripping of blood on the stairs and second-floor landing created a graphic symphony of sights for my brother, who pulled into the driveway as the police led Dan away in handcuffs. (R. and little brother took possession of his apartment like feudal lords.) I give my brother credit for not shrieking in horror and driving away—instead he gave me a casual, “Sis, what gives?”, and walked to my apartment amidst drops of blood and door paint flakes. I lamely came up with a watered-down version of the story, and we went about our day as if nothing ever happened. But I couldn’t help staring at the metal slashes and scrapes on the door across from ours, even when Dan quietly moved out the next week. They never fixed that door, and we never got to know our new neighbor well enough to explain what had happened to it.
Monday, March 01, 2004
Snow!
Back to a slightly more normal week of work and living after snow and sickness altered the norms for a while. The snow was a letdown, alas. The streets were never blanketed in white and the grass tips pointed through what did stick to indicate this was a failed attempt at a winter wonderland.
When we do get a decent snowstorm, I love the way the snow covers the ground and all surroundings to erase as many manmade interventions as possible. Pavement and street markings, sidewalks and parking places all disappear under a duvet of white, almost allowing your imagination to envision that "this is what it looked like around here a hundred years ago"--before we developed the heck out of every nook and cranny and strung phone lines and electric cable allover the daggone place.
I tend to get a time-travel sensation at night when the snow is whirling down from fog white mists. I almost expect to see a horse drawn carriage appirate out of the veil, white powder dusting the coachman's top hat. When the fading dusk light makes snow glow an eerie blue, to the dark of night when snow appears brown but beautiful under halogen lights, I think that snow is god's way of saying, "Look--this is what it used to be like here. See how pretty it was before you littered it with all of your mess?"
When we do get a decent snowstorm, I love the way the snow covers the ground and all surroundings to erase as many manmade interventions as possible. Pavement and street markings, sidewalks and parking places all disappear under a duvet of white, almost allowing your imagination to envision that "this is what it looked like around here a hundred years ago"--before we developed the heck out of every nook and cranny and strung phone lines and electric cable allover the daggone place.
I tend to get a time-travel sensation at night when the snow is whirling down from fog white mists. I almost expect to see a horse drawn carriage appirate out of the veil, white powder dusting the coachman's top hat. When the fading dusk light makes snow glow an eerie blue, to the dark of night when snow appears brown but beautiful under halogen lights, I think that snow is god's way of saying, "Look--this is what it used to be like here. See how pretty it was before you littered it with all of your mess?"
Thursday, February 26, 2004
A squirrelly past.
Ski trip's a bust, boy's still sick, and all Dad has to show for his birthday is a DVD of the Simpson's third season. (Thank goodness for Amazon.com since I can't ever get to the stores these days!)
I was washing out the syringe that I used to give Bo-Bo his medicine cocktail this morning and noticed two squirrels, nose to nose, flicking tails on the tree in my neighbor's front yard. It zapped back memories from childhood long ago, when I tried to domesticate a squirrel, and created a monster instead.
I was eleven or twelve. I named the squirrel Roberta because I had a crush on Robert Redford at the time. Actually, I named her Robert, until she stood up on her hind legs on the side porch rail and Mom noticed a neat row of mammary glands. With our limited knowledge of squirrel sexual differentiation, we assumed Sir Robert was now Miss Roberta. (Turns out we were wrong; you have to look at their naughty bits to determine the sex.)
Anyway, Roberta had been hanging out at the side porch rail off of our kitchen for several weeks, flicking her tail and looking gosh darned cute. I asked Mom if we could leave a few unsalted peanuts on the porch rail for Roberta and before I knew it, she had gotten to the point that she would actually tap on the door for her peanutty treat. I decided that Roberta was the opportune candidate to be my pet squirrel. After all, my dad regaled in stories of his pet raccoon that he had as a boy on the farm-- why couldn't I conquer the wild kingdom and have stories of my own to tell?
So, I set off to "tame" said squirrel. Every time Roberta would appear on the porch railing, I would run to the sliding glass doors in the den and slip out to the back yard. I would slowly creep around to the kitchen side porch and coax her to the backyard with a trail of peanuts. This process continued through the weeks to the point that Roberta would hop in my lap and feast on peanuts in the back yard until she was stuffed. Turns out, it wasn't the "Bambi and me" moment I had envisioned. Squirrels are absolutely SCARY when you look at them up close. They have huge freaky pupils that make them look like they're on crack, their fur is rough and wiry, and they have talon-like black claws that could scratch your skin to ribbons in a heartbeat. So, I always wore thick jeans and garden gloves when I fed Roberta, and controlled my terror enough to bond with my squirrel, my very own pet squirrel.
Yes, it was an idyllic time for a while, the parents snapping pictures of their little St. Frances and the animal, me bragging to my friends about my conquest of nature. But then Roberta began to change. One day, as I was sitting in the sunken back yard patio after a feeding session, I heard the strangest noise; it was a shrill shriek, much like a Blue Jay makes if you get too close to it's nest. I looked up to see Roberta on a tree branch above my head, one paw pointed at her chest, her jaws rolling back and forth as she screeched indignantly for more peanuts. Hmm, thought I, maybe I should back off on the feedings a little. I didn't want her to become dependant on me for her sole source of food, and I sure didn't like having a sharp toothed, razor clawed animal giving me a piece of her mind.
So, feedings became less frequent as the irritated squirrel drive-bys increased. Roberta would fling herself at our side porch door, cussing at us in that creepy screechy rabid hamster voice, royally P.O'd that she wasn't getting peanuts on a regular basis. "No more feeding that animal", came the mandate from my parents, who feared peanut-withdrawl attacks by Roberta the squirrel junkie. And then the real war on mankind began. Roberta took to eating through anything plastic in our yard, trying to find one last peanut, one last fix. She rampaged into the garage and chewed through an industrial strength garbage can lid to eat dry dogfood that was stored within. My parents became irritated with having to keep the garage doors down at all times, and I had to pay for a new garbage can.
Then came the frantic call from our neighbor--the neighborhood matriarch who happened to share a back yard with ours. "Oh my God! " I could hear Mrs. H. scream through the telephone handset which my mother held far away from her ears. "It's headed your way! Lock your doors! It's headed your way!" My mother walked out of the room with the calm, collected attitude she maintains in time of family emergency. I heard strains of "Why no, we haven't seen any strange squirrels around our yard", and "I'm sure it was just an accident; you probably scared him more than he scared you..." After my mother returned to the room and hung up the phone, she proceeded with the grim details; Roberta had flung herself into Mrs. H's den when the door was opened to let the dogs out. The nut crazed animal screeched and shat around the room as squirrel obsessed dachsunds yipped and jumped at their manna from heaven. Mrs. H's heart-weak husband managed to open the door and flick Roberta out with a broom before collapsing in the poop-crusted recliner to catch his ragged breath.
From that moment on, my claim to fame as a child squirrel-tamer was erased from the annals of history. I was not to speak of my exploits, for fear that we would be ridden out of town on a rail for encouraging the neighborhood squirrels to riot. Every now and then I would see Roberta, sitting in crook of the Y-Shaped tree in the front yard. She would daintily curl her paw to her chest as if to say, "What about me?"... "I thought we had a deal?!"
I was washing out the syringe that I used to give Bo-Bo his medicine cocktail this morning and noticed two squirrels, nose to nose, flicking tails on the tree in my neighbor's front yard. It zapped back memories from childhood long ago, when I tried to domesticate a squirrel, and created a monster instead.
I was eleven or twelve. I named the squirrel Roberta because I had a crush on Robert Redford at the time. Actually, I named her Robert, until she stood up on her hind legs on the side porch rail and Mom noticed a neat row of mammary glands. With our limited knowledge of squirrel sexual differentiation, we assumed Sir Robert was now Miss Roberta. (Turns out we were wrong; you have to look at their naughty bits to determine the sex.)
Anyway, Roberta had been hanging out at the side porch rail off of our kitchen for several weeks, flicking her tail and looking gosh darned cute. I asked Mom if we could leave a few unsalted peanuts on the porch rail for Roberta and before I knew it, she had gotten to the point that she would actually tap on the door for her peanutty treat. I decided that Roberta was the opportune candidate to be my pet squirrel. After all, my dad regaled in stories of his pet raccoon that he had as a boy on the farm-- why couldn't I conquer the wild kingdom and have stories of my own to tell?
So, I set off to "tame" said squirrel. Every time Roberta would appear on the porch railing, I would run to the sliding glass doors in the den and slip out to the back yard. I would slowly creep around to the kitchen side porch and coax her to the backyard with a trail of peanuts. This process continued through the weeks to the point that Roberta would hop in my lap and feast on peanuts in the back yard until she was stuffed. Turns out, it wasn't the "Bambi and me" moment I had envisioned. Squirrels are absolutely SCARY when you look at them up close. They have huge freaky pupils that make them look like they're on crack, their fur is rough and wiry, and they have talon-like black claws that could scratch your skin to ribbons in a heartbeat. So, I always wore thick jeans and garden gloves when I fed Roberta, and controlled my terror enough to bond with my squirrel, my very own pet squirrel.
Yes, it was an idyllic time for a while, the parents snapping pictures of their little St. Frances and the animal, me bragging to my friends about my conquest of nature. But then Roberta began to change. One day, as I was sitting in the sunken back yard patio after a feeding session, I heard the strangest noise; it was a shrill shriek, much like a Blue Jay makes if you get too close to it's nest. I looked up to see Roberta on a tree branch above my head, one paw pointed at her chest, her jaws rolling back and forth as she screeched indignantly for more peanuts. Hmm, thought I, maybe I should back off on the feedings a little. I didn't want her to become dependant on me for her sole source of food, and I sure didn't like having a sharp toothed, razor clawed animal giving me a piece of her mind.
So, feedings became less frequent as the irritated squirrel drive-bys increased. Roberta would fling herself at our side porch door, cussing at us in that creepy screechy rabid hamster voice, royally P.O'd that she wasn't getting peanuts on a regular basis. "No more feeding that animal", came the mandate from my parents, who feared peanut-withdrawl attacks by Roberta the squirrel junkie. And then the real war on mankind began. Roberta took to eating through anything plastic in our yard, trying to find one last peanut, one last fix. She rampaged into the garage and chewed through an industrial strength garbage can lid to eat dry dogfood that was stored within. My parents became irritated with having to keep the garage doors down at all times, and I had to pay for a new garbage can.
Then came the frantic call from our neighbor--the neighborhood matriarch who happened to share a back yard with ours. "Oh my God! " I could hear Mrs. H. scream through the telephone handset which my mother held far away from her ears. "It's headed your way! Lock your doors! It's headed your way!" My mother walked out of the room with the calm, collected attitude she maintains in time of family emergency. I heard strains of "Why no, we haven't seen any strange squirrels around our yard", and "I'm sure it was just an accident; you probably scared him more than he scared you..." After my mother returned to the room and hung up the phone, she proceeded with the grim details; Roberta had flung herself into Mrs. H's den when the door was opened to let the dogs out. The nut crazed animal screeched and shat around the room as squirrel obsessed dachsunds yipped and jumped at their manna from heaven. Mrs. H's heart-weak husband managed to open the door and flick Roberta out with a broom before collapsing in the poop-crusted recliner to catch his ragged breath.
From that moment on, my claim to fame as a child squirrel-tamer was erased from the annals of history. I was not to speak of my exploits, for fear that we would be ridden out of town on a rail for encouraging the neighborhood squirrels to riot. Every now and then I would see Roberta, sitting in crook of the Y-Shaped tree in the front yard. She would daintily curl her paw to her chest as if to say, "What about me?"... "I thought we had a deal?!"
Tuesday, February 24, 2004
The Poop on skiing.
Man oh man, the poor little guy just can't seem to get over this stomach bug. He's sore and diaper-rashed, I'm exhausted from daylong diapering marathons, clothes washings, and cleaning up the barf session every now and then. Sorry for the graphic beginning to this post, but parenting is not for the feint of heart.
Apparently there's a nasty Rotovirus going around; some kids are churning the mud for almost ten days! One little girl from the doctor's office was hospitalized. This is not good. For little Bo-Bo, for mommy, and especially for daddy. I'm not too worried about Bo, since the doc says he's well hydrated and the fact that Bo's still obsessed with waffles and chicken nuggets (actually patties) is a good sign.
I am worried about Daddy; his birthday is coming up, and he has a ski trip planned for it. But if the little guy is sick, we won't be able to leave him with the appointed caretakers, and that means Daddy might have to stay home. Why would I be so cruel as to make him miss a ski trip on his birthday? Because *I haven't been on this annual ski trip with our work buddies for over two years now! Because someone had to stay home with the kids due to sickness or lack of sitters in the past, and that person has been me. Sometimes daddy's even gotten to go skiing twice in one year, whereas I'm lucky to go once every three years. So, this year we agreed that I would go no matter what, and that if he wanted to go, he had to arrange for all childcare.
Now the metaphorical monkeywrench threatens our plans to make sure this vacation isn't going to be easy, or without guilt. It's daddy's birthday, but my turn to go skiing, dagnabbit. Little Bo is certainly the main focus of my concern, but the doctor is encouraged by his weight and hydration. The fact remains that he may still be sick by the time ski trip time comes around later this week. So, the secondary focus of my day is what to do: let the man go skiing on his birthday, or miss out on the annual ski trip for the third or fourth year in a row? I sure don't want to be away from him on his birthday, but the trip is already paid for. At best, we could try to get someone to go in our place and reclaim our losses. At worst, one will go and one will stay. Not cool, either way. For Bo's sake, for mommy's sake, and especially for daddy's sake, I hope Montezuma takes his Revenge elsewhere. Really soon.
Apparently there's a nasty Rotovirus going around; some kids are churning the mud for almost ten days! One little girl from the doctor's office was hospitalized. This is not good. For little Bo-Bo, for mommy, and especially for daddy. I'm not too worried about Bo, since the doc says he's well hydrated and the fact that Bo's still obsessed with waffles and chicken nuggets (actually patties) is a good sign.
I am worried about Daddy; his birthday is coming up, and he has a ski trip planned for it. But if the little guy is sick, we won't be able to leave him with the appointed caretakers, and that means Daddy might have to stay home. Why would I be so cruel as to make him miss a ski trip on his birthday? Because *I haven't been on this annual ski trip with our work buddies for over two years now! Because someone had to stay home with the kids due to sickness or lack of sitters in the past, and that person has been me. Sometimes daddy's even gotten to go skiing twice in one year, whereas I'm lucky to go once every three years. So, this year we agreed that I would go no matter what, and that if he wanted to go, he had to arrange for all childcare.
Now the metaphorical monkeywrench threatens our plans to make sure this vacation isn't going to be easy, or without guilt. It's daddy's birthday, but my turn to go skiing, dagnabbit. Little Bo is certainly the main focus of my concern, but the doctor is encouraged by his weight and hydration. The fact remains that he may still be sick by the time ski trip time comes around later this week. So, the secondary focus of my day is what to do: let the man go skiing on his birthday, or miss out on the annual ski trip for the third or fourth year in a row? I sure don't want to be away from him on his birthday, but the trip is already paid for. At best, we could try to get someone to go in our place and reclaim our losses. At worst, one will go and one will stay. Not cool, either way. For Bo's sake, for mommy's sake, and especially for daddy's sake, I hope Montezuma takes his Revenge elsewhere. Really soon.
Monday, February 23, 2004
Got Spam?
I'm working from home today, which is frequently the case in winter when disease is rampant throughout daycare and Sunday school. Thusly, little Bo-Bo is home with a raging case of Montezuma's revenge, and I, the non-manager of the family, will stay home with him today.
While the little guy was catching some well earned ZZZ's, I crept to the kitchen pantry to see what sort of grim fare was available for lunch. By not being a stay-at-home mom, my larder is shallow and haunting compared to the lovingly overstocked kitchen I recall from my childhood. (Yes, I enjoyed the luxury of staying at home with my stay-at-home mom; more about that some other time.)
Scanning the shelves crammed with carbohydrate packed boxes, I focused in on the plastic lazy susans filled with three tiers of canned food goodness. Surely a can of Ravioli lurked in there somewhere? Alas, my husband has been on a "Spaghettios with Meat Sauce" junket lately, though no one has deemed themselves starving enough to down the foul swill. I then took notice of a stack of square cans on the far right side of the shelf; SPAM galore! And "non fat" canned chicken, Dinty Moore Beef Stew....It's the Apocalypse survival stash!
Or, more accurately, our /Y2k/ice storm/hurricane/bad camping trip/ food stash. It all started in December of 1999 (strains of "Prince" are allowed to play in your head here), when shop talk at work turned to those who were stocking up for the potential end of the world due to Y2k computer disasters. Some had done nothing, some had gone as far as bottling water and buying barrels of textured vegetable protein. (Which they are trying to sell on e-bay to this day.) I realized that my cool, "nothing's going to happen" demeanor regarding the Y2k threat was diminishing as the new millennium drew nearer. Out I dashed, to buy large box shaped containers of water, cases of baked beans, golden canned bricks of Spam, and a humongous box of powdered milk. The stash stayed sequestered in the baby's nursery closet, out of the way of my father's critical eyes, yet there if somehow the worst happened.
And there it stayed. Until the water boxes starting leaking on the floor of the closet, and it got inconvenient to go into the baby's room every time we wanted baked beans with our hot dogs. Eventually the Y2k cache was re-orged into the kitchen pantry closet; the leaking or weird items were quietly thrown away. What remained, however, was a spirit of survival. The little Scarlet O'Hara within me was awakened. I would never go hungry again. (Actually, my girthy frame will attest to the fact that I have never gone hungry.) But now, when the harsh winds of November howl with sleet, or the raging rains and winds of tempestuous August blow, I remain confident in the face of potential power-outtage. The gleaming cans of Spam will always be there.
While the little guy was catching some well earned ZZZ's, I crept to the kitchen pantry to see what sort of grim fare was available for lunch. By not being a stay-at-home mom, my larder is shallow and haunting compared to the lovingly overstocked kitchen I recall from my childhood. (Yes, I enjoyed the luxury of staying at home with my stay-at-home mom; more about that some other time.)
Scanning the shelves crammed with carbohydrate packed boxes, I focused in on the plastic lazy susans filled with three tiers of canned food goodness. Surely a can of Ravioli lurked in there somewhere? Alas, my husband has been on a "Spaghettios with Meat Sauce" junket lately, though no one has deemed themselves starving enough to down the foul swill. I then took notice of a stack of square cans on the far right side of the shelf; SPAM galore! And "non fat" canned chicken, Dinty Moore Beef Stew....It's the Apocalypse survival stash!
Or, more accurately, our /Y2k/ice storm/hurricane/bad camping trip/ food stash. It all started in December of 1999 (strains of "Prince" are allowed to play in your head here), when shop talk at work turned to those who were stocking up for the potential end of the world due to Y2k computer disasters. Some had done nothing, some had gone as far as bottling water and buying barrels of textured vegetable protein. (Which they are trying to sell on e-bay to this day.) I realized that my cool, "nothing's going to happen" demeanor regarding the Y2k threat was diminishing as the new millennium drew nearer. Out I dashed, to buy large box shaped containers of water, cases of baked beans, golden canned bricks of Spam, and a humongous box of powdered milk. The stash stayed sequestered in the baby's nursery closet, out of the way of my father's critical eyes, yet there if somehow the worst happened.
And there it stayed. Until the water boxes starting leaking on the floor of the closet, and it got inconvenient to go into the baby's room every time we wanted baked beans with our hot dogs. Eventually the Y2k cache was re-orged into the kitchen pantry closet; the leaking or weird items were quietly thrown away. What remained, however, was a spirit of survival. The little Scarlet O'Hara within me was awakened. I would never go hungry again. (Actually, my girthy frame will attest to the fact that I have never gone hungry.) But now, when the harsh winds of November howl with sleet, or the raging rains and winds of tempestuous August blow, I remain confident in the face of potential power-outtage. The gleaming cans of Spam will always be there.
Sunday, February 22, 2004
The Preschool Marketing conspiracy theory.
The other night I drew the short stick, so it was my turn to give our four year old daughter a bath. (Not that it's a painful process, it just takes FOREVER to get a four year old out of the bathtub as opposed to her nonverbal one-year old little brother.) I prepared myself for the imminent requests for playing "mommy-sister", "baby-mommy" and the typical relationship playacting the wee lass tends to engage, when she floored me with the following:
"Hi, and welcome to Pepsi House!"
Hmm? Hrmm? Thinks I as I jerk my head in her direction..."What's that, honey?", I inquired, hoping I had misheard or she had misspoken.
"Welcome to Pepsi House. Would you like to try some of our delicious Pepsi? It's REALLY home-made". Says my daughter with a cocked head, smarmy grin on her face, eyelids in an almost alluring droop.
What the? How in the heck does this kid even know what Pepsi is? We are in the Southern neck of Pepsi's birth, admittedly, but this house is a Diet Coke house, dagnabbit! That kid has never seen me drink a Pepsi, or Diet Pepsi, I guarantee.
"What flavor Pepsi would you like, ma'am", she croons, in an all too realistic waitress voice (that of the waitress who wants a great tip?)
Egads! Who has gotten to her, and how? The only t.v. she watches in our house is before school and after dinner, strictly PBS kids shows recycled on digital cable one after the other. Minimal commercials, mostly for fiber-rich cereals. Nope, she's not getting the Pepsi indoctrination at home, that's for sure.
But then, there's always her Montessori pre-school, yeah, that institution of higher learning that will mold her inner child into a genius by age five...Surely capitalist advertising isn't allowed within the bastion of learning that is "Children's House?" The only time I can recall seeing the classroom t.v. on is at the end of the day, when the kids are waiting to be picked up by their parents. And they've always been watching the de rigeur "Bob the Builder" or "Magic Schoolbus" videos.
Perhaps there's more sinister goings-on during the day, however? Is it possible that the teachers have fallen into the sleazy trap of Pepsi marketers, lured by hints of free soda to enhance their lowly pedagogical salaries? Did the "Pepsi Mobile" stop by one day, the slick suited driver strutting in to announce, "This is now the Children's House of PEPSI! Yessiree!"
Do the teachers take each child aside slyly, out of earshot of the others, and whisper things like: "I want to tell you a super duper secret--only to you, because you are my favorite--Drink Pepsi!" Or, "Did you know that Pepsi is the greatest, and tastes homemade?" ... "Make sure your Mommy and Daddy buy lots of Pepsi..."
Hmm, maybe they even get a commission if they can prove they've switched a family "over from the other team"?!
I dunno, maybe too much Diet Coke is going to my head? Lots of sodium, you know. But then, there was that little bathtime incident. It went on for almost an hour; her pouring different "flavors" of Pepsi bath-suds into a little pink pitcher for me to pretend to ingest, over and over. Oh, the horror! What awaits for me the next time I draw bath duty, I wonder?
"Hi, and welcome to Pepsi House!"
Hmm? Hrmm? Thinks I as I jerk my head in her direction..."What's that, honey?", I inquired, hoping I had misheard or she had misspoken.
"Welcome to Pepsi House. Would you like to try some of our delicious Pepsi? It's REALLY home-made". Says my daughter with a cocked head, smarmy grin on her face, eyelids in an almost alluring droop.
What the? How in the heck does this kid even know what Pepsi is? We are in the Southern neck of Pepsi's birth, admittedly, but this house is a Diet Coke house, dagnabbit! That kid has never seen me drink a Pepsi, or Diet Pepsi, I guarantee.
"What flavor Pepsi would you like, ma'am", she croons, in an all too realistic waitress voice (that of the waitress who wants a great tip?)
Egads! Who has gotten to her, and how? The only t.v. she watches in our house is before school and after dinner, strictly PBS kids shows recycled on digital cable one after the other. Minimal commercials, mostly for fiber-rich cereals. Nope, she's not getting the Pepsi indoctrination at home, that's for sure.
But then, there's always her Montessori pre-school, yeah, that institution of higher learning that will mold her inner child into a genius by age five...Surely capitalist advertising isn't allowed within the bastion of learning that is "Children's House?" The only time I can recall seeing the classroom t.v. on is at the end of the day, when the kids are waiting to be picked up by their parents. And they've always been watching the de rigeur "Bob the Builder" or "Magic Schoolbus" videos.
Perhaps there's more sinister goings-on during the day, however? Is it possible that the teachers have fallen into the sleazy trap of Pepsi marketers, lured by hints of free soda to enhance their lowly pedagogical salaries? Did the "Pepsi Mobile" stop by one day, the slick suited driver strutting in to announce, "This is now the Children's House of PEPSI! Yessiree!"
Do the teachers take each child aside slyly, out of earshot of the others, and whisper things like: "I want to tell you a super duper secret--only to you, because you are my favorite--Drink Pepsi!" Or, "Did you know that Pepsi is the greatest, and tastes homemade?" ... "Make sure your Mommy and Daddy buy lots of Pepsi..."
Hmm, maybe they even get a commission if they can prove they've switched a family "over from the other team"?!
I dunno, maybe too much Diet Coke is going to my head? Lots of sodium, you know. But then, there was that little bathtime incident. It went on for almost an hour; her pouring different "flavors" of Pepsi bath-suds into a little pink pitcher for me to pretend to ingest, over and over. Oh, the horror! What awaits for me the next time I draw bath duty, I wonder?
Friday, February 20, 2004
Zookeeper for a while, Cynic for life.
It's funny; I feel like I'm perpetrating a sham when I say I once was a "zookeeper". The problem is, I didn't work at a zoo, and my title wasn't "zookeeper", it was "Primate Technician".
Straight out of college, I landed a job at a local University that happened to have a most unique biological and anthropological facility; a "Primate Center". The Center existed as a harbor for endangered primates called lemurs, providing a one-of-a-kind opportunity for fostering and observing these rare and fascinating creatures. For some reason that only HR can unveil, those of us responsible for the care of those prosimian primates were called “Primate Technicians”. It almost makes you wonder if some disgruntled employees came up with the title to see if anyone would notice. Were they sitting at their desk debating? “...Monkey Keeper...” “Nah, how about, “Lemur Husbandry Specialist...” “giggle- Hey, I got it! Primate Technician!!” I assume major Yucks ensued as the official title was bestowed on those who fed, cleaned up poop after, and cared as best we could for these magnificent creatures.
The majority of us had at least four-year degrees in biology, anthropology, or zoology; several were pursuing graduate degrees as well. Many of us came with an interest in animal behavior, an appreciation of observational research, or simply a love of animals. It’s ironic, however, that after investing physical and emotional time in what seems to be a noble cause, it’s possible to get to a point where you can’t stand to see a wild animal in captivity, whether it’s endangered or not. My loathing of zoos, circuses, “dolphin encounters” and petting zoos didn’t evolve from any personal or overheard scenarios of animal neglect. I simply came to a place where the cleanest, biggest cage full of natural trees and “enrichment puzzles” was not good enough. The animals were still behind wire, glass, or Plexiglas, and that became intolerable to me. Granted, at the Center, a large proportion of the animals roamed freely in huge wooded enclosures—perhaps that’s what spoiled it for me. Maybe I came to expect all wild animals in captivity to live as such.
I know my breaking point was the afternoon some of us went to a nearby zoo to check out a new chimpanzee exhibit; the amount of hooting, armpit scratching, and screeching nauseated me. Of the human visitors, that is, who were banging on the glass observation panels and making general horses’ asses of themselves. I looked at the chimps, lolling in the grass of the “natural” cement enclosure that had one synthetic disease-proof fiberglass tree, and thought to myself, this is not worth whatever educational value someone thinks they are imparting at the expense of these animals’ dignity. No animal needs to be subjected to the forced observation of sweating, overweight and sun burnt tourists, no matter how endangered their natural habitat. They’d probably be better off given a suite at the Sheraton or Hilton; at least there they could shut their doors and put up a “do not disturb” sign when they weren’t in the mood to watch the natural habitat of humankind.
Straight out of college, I landed a job at a local University that happened to have a most unique biological and anthropological facility; a "Primate Center". The Center existed as a harbor for endangered primates called lemurs, providing a one-of-a-kind opportunity for fostering and observing these rare and fascinating creatures. For some reason that only HR can unveil, those of us responsible for the care of those prosimian primates were called “Primate Technicians”. It almost makes you wonder if some disgruntled employees came up with the title to see if anyone would notice. Were they sitting at their desk debating? “...Monkey Keeper...” “Nah, how about, “Lemur Husbandry Specialist...” “giggle- Hey, I got it! Primate Technician!!” I assume major Yucks ensued as the official title was bestowed on those who fed, cleaned up poop after, and cared as best we could for these magnificent creatures.
The majority of us had at least four-year degrees in biology, anthropology, or zoology; several were pursuing graduate degrees as well. Many of us came with an interest in animal behavior, an appreciation of observational research, or simply a love of animals. It’s ironic, however, that after investing physical and emotional time in what seems to be a noble cause, it’s possible to get to a point where you can’t stand to see a wild animal in captivity, whether it’s endangered or not. My loathing of zoos, circuses, “dolphin encounters” and petting zoos didn’t evolve from any personal or overheard scenarios of animal neglect. I simply came to a place where the cleanest, biggest cage full of natural trees and “enrichment puzzles” was not good enough. The animals were still behind wire, glass, or Plexiglas, and that became intolerable to me. Granted, at the Center, a large proportion of the animals roamed freely in huge wooded enclosures—perhaps that’s what spoiled it for me. Maybe I came to expect all wild animals in captivity to live as such.
I know my breaking point was the afternoon some of us went to a nearby zoo to check out a new chimpanzee exhibit; the amount of hooting, armpit scratching, and screeching nauseated me. Of the human visitors, that is, who were banging on the glass observation panels and making general horses’ asses of themselves. I looked at the chimps, lolling in the grass of the “natural” cement enclosure that had one synthetic disease-proof fiberglass tree, and thought to myself, this is not worth whatever educational value someone thinks they are imparting at the expense of these animals’ dignity. No animal needs to be subjected to the forced observation of sweating, overweight and sun burnt tourists, no matter how endangered their natural habitat. They’d probably be better off given a suite at the Sheraton or Hilton; at least there they could shut their doors and put up a “do not disturb” sign when they weren’t in the mood to watch the natural habitat of humankind.
Wednesday, February 18, 2004
Hi, and welcome to "(Not) Words out of my mouth."
Christened as such since these cathartic posts will likely never see the light of day as the spoken word--Just thoughts that need to get out, go somewhere. And now, with the wonderful world of Blogs, anyone with anything to say has their outlet--Hallelujah!
As an introduction, I'm a thirty-something nearing fourty-something year old web/usability designer at a large software company, said company to remain nameless. In my previous life I was a zookeeper, nay, a "primate technician" (no, we never got out the wrenches on the monkeys), so I've encountered about every level of s**t there is in the working world, from cage level to corporate level.
Feel free to ride along, lurk, drive by (no violence, please), or just relax a while reading the mind spew of someone who doesn't give a dang if you're reading or not. Heck, I care, I just don't want to know if you *don't like my Blog. There's plenty of outlets for that on Vent_my_Angst.com... Anyway, thanks for stopping by. Here goes.
As an introduction, I'm a thirty-something nearing fourty-something year old web/usability designer at a large software company, said company to remain nameless. In my previous life I was a zookeeper, nay, a "primate technician" (no, we never got out the wrenches on the monkeys), so I've encountered about every level of s**t there is in the working world, from cage level to corporate level.
Feel free to ride along, lurk, drive by (no violence, please), or just relax a while reading the mind spew of someone who doesn't give a dang if you're reading or not. Heck, I care, I just don't want to know if you *don't like my Blog. There's plenty of outlets for that on Vent_my_Angst.com... Anyway, thanks for stopping by. Here goes.
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