sunny side up

house of mouse

When I was in the ninth grade, I had a geometry teacher named Mr. Simmons (or "Mithter Thimmons" as we referred to him because he had a lithp).  Mr. Simmons came off as an angry man who did not suffer fools gladly.  I think that his lisp, coupled with what seemed like some kind of skin affliction (I'm guessing vitiligo) contributed to his defensive--and sometimes offensive--personality.  Still, I could see that beneath his rough exterior that Mr. Simmons wasn't so bad.  I was particularly drawn to him when he was annoyed or disgusted, like when a student gave the wrong answer or didn't turn in homework.  Mr. Simmons would draw up a scowl and mumble, summing up what he thought by yelling out "Mickey Mouse Situation!" (or "Mickey Mouth Thituathun!").  I loved that phrase more than bacon or even Ward Donnelly and Eddie Bruno combined. When Mr. Simmons saw through your lies about the dog eating your homework, he called it for what it was: a Mickey Mouse Situation.

***

Kai and I (and my wallet) finally made it to Disneyland last Tuesday.  We invited his classmate Maya and her mother to use our spare ticket.  The ticket, which I purchased back in April, was a Disney Twofer: it allows SoCal residents admission to both Disneyland and California Adventure for the price of one park so long as the ticket is used by a certain date and the visits don't occur on the same day.  My tickets had, prominently hand-printed in red ink, the following: "First use must occur by 5/22/08.  Second visit must occur by 6/22/08."  We first used them at California Adventure back in April, and I wanted to go to Disneyland before June because 1) my life will be much busier then, and 2) the park will be more crowded then.  Still, I figured I had until June 22 to use the Disneyland ticket.

However, when we showed up at the gate on Tuesday, the sweet little ticket taker lady said the tickets had expired.  Maya's mom had purchased her own ticket so she was okay, but apparently my and Kai's and Maya's tickets had expired.  "What?" I asked.  "How can that be?  It says right here that the second visit must occur by June 22."

"Don't worry.  I've sent for someone to take care of  it," the ticket-taker said.  As I stood waiting for someone to take care of me, I pondered having to pay full price for an adult ticket and two kids. Yipes.  Suddenly my enthusiasm for Disneyland flagged.  And yet, we had pulled the kids out of school for this; we couldn't just send them back.

Then a very young lad in the tell-tale Disneyland uniform approached and took the tickets from the sweet ticket taker.  "These tickets have expired," he told me, quite matter-of-factly.

"But it says I have to use them by June 22.  How could they have expired?" I asked. 

"You have to use them within 30 days of your first use," he said, pointing to the teeeeeny tiny black type obscured by some bar code thingy. 

"What? It says right here that the first use must be by May 22, which it was, and the second use by June 22, which it is."  I was getting annoyed.

"Yes, ma'am.  It does. But it also says that whenever your first use was you have 30 days after that for your second use." 

Oh, crap.  He was right. I must have looked at those tickets twenty times--even reading the fine  print, because that's what I do--but my eyes always fixed on the red print with the specific dates.  This made me a little bit mad at myself but more mad at whoever printed the tickets for obscuring a key term of the Twofer tickets.  And yet, I knew that if I was going to turn this around I would have to go deep down into the darkest recesses of my person and (temporarily) shove my smart-assiness there, at least until I convinced the guy to let us into Disneyland without paying for new tickets.  This is also called simply "being nice," something I'm not completely incapable of doing.  Except.  Except when I think The Man is putting me under his fat hairy thumb, and then I get all spastic and ready for a fight.  And here, the big fat hairy thumb was this stupid 30-day provision and The Man was the young tough in a polyester uniform sent to enforce it. 

So.  I paused, took a deep breath, and flicked off the little devil on my shoulder that tempted me to fight with The Man about his Stupid Rule.  Sure, the devil kept trying to jump back on but in the end, the little angel prevailed.  I looked at The Man with big brown anime eyes and asked, "Ohhh, could you please let us in anyway?"  Then I gestured toward the children with their big brown anime eyes, and I looked back at The man and batted my eyelashes.  It took everything I had--everything, People--to do this.   

**

For you see, I needed to show myself I could do it.  I needed to know that I could keep my trap shut when the situation called for it. 

Recently I got pulled over for making a U-turn where one was not permitted.  I had not seen the "No U-Turn" sign.  I had never been pulled over before, but I knew that the cop had some discretion in deciding whether to issue a ticket, so I told myself to be nice.  However, as soon as the cop approached my car he was a jerk:  "Did you not see the universal sign forbidding a U-Turn back there where you made that U-turn?" 

"Wha? No, sir, I didn't.  I didn't see a sign." 

"Well, it was there, plain as day. You're telling me you didn't see it?"

"No, sir, I didn't see it." It was keeeling me, this refraining from being a smartass.

Then he asked to see my license, which chapped me because um, that information is personal, sir.  You do not need to know where I live or how much I weigh.  But then!  When he asked to see my registration and proof of insurance, that was the straw that broke the camel's back.  How dare he invade my privacy?!  I popped open the glove compartment.  I pulled out the plastic case that holds my registration and insurance info--actually alllllllll my insurance renewals for the past five and a half years, two per year.  (Yes, I suppose I should throw away the expired ones, but 1) oh, the effort involved in removing a 3x5 piece of paper, and 2) what? I'm sentimental.)

I considered being cooperative, really I did.  But I swear I have this thing inside me that wells up whenever a cop or border patrol agent or IRS officer confronts me, especially when I think they are being jerks who get their jollies exercising power over people.  And the welling up gets to be too much until finally, I have to be a smartass.  So, although my most recent insurance information was at the top of the pile, I proceeded to thumb through each. Piece. Of. Paper. One. By. One. All the while the cop stood waiting, waiting, as I said things like, "Hmmm. I am sure it's in here somewhere" and "Noooo, that's not it.  Not thaaaat..."   I had to make Mr. Copman suffer for pulling me over for breaking the law.  Right? 

I know! I know it was stupid, me and my big mouth.  Sometimes I'm just a thirteen year old girl at heart.  And so, not surprisingly, the cop handed me a ticket and said, "You be careful out there, Miss.  Drive defensively, and within the speed limit."   A-hole.

**

Flash forward to Disneyland.  I was not going to be burned again, not at Disneyland when others were counting on me. I displayed my nicest, most deferential persona until it almost broke me.  The young gate manager came through just in time. 

"Alright.  I'm going to let you in this time," he conceded, all the while I gave him big eyes and nodded affirmatively.  "BUT.  If you leave the park, that's it. You cannot come back in.  Once you leave these gates for the day, you will not be allowed back."  He spoke gravely, just so we were all clear about the seriousness of my offense and the extent of his awesome power. Then he turned to my friend.

"Well, you can come back since you just purchased your ticket," he said nicely.  "But you three--" and he pointed to Kai and his friend and, of course, me, "you will not be allowed back!   So remember that.  You must remain here at Disneyland until you leave these gates, and that's it  . . ."

Oh my freakin' g*d, enough already! I get it.  The urge to be a smartass began to grow, and all because this guy couldn't just shut up and let us pass.  "Do it for the children," I told myself. "The children."

"Ohh, thank you sir! Thank you so much! I totally understand, and I'm so sorry about the tickets. Thank you SO MUCH!", and I flashed him my Poligrip smile.  This must have dazzled him because he finally let us pass. 

And we had a great time at Disneyland that day.  By 6:30 p.m., we were beat.  We were hungry.  It was time to go home.  As I passed through the gate to exit, the friendly gentleman manning the turnstile asked, "Can I stamp your hand in case you want to return?"  Instinctively I answered no, but immediately I realized that I could, in fact, have my hand stamped.  Why, if I wanted to, I could get my hand stamped and return that same day.  The morning gate manager had lied to me!  It was a classic Mickey Mouse Situation.  It almost made me turn back to get my hand stamped before going home. That would fix someone's little red wagon.

no one loves you better than your m-o-double-m-y

Happy Mother's Day!  Jade had asked if they could make me breakfast in bed for Mother's Day, and I was a little reluctant because 1) when I wake up I wanna get out of bed to start my day, not wait around for three hours for the rest of them to rise; and 2) since I work out in the morning, my breakfast usually consists of decaf coffee and 2 tablespoons of whole roasted flaxseed on a spoonful of peanut butter with a dab of honey.  I dip the spoon in the peanut butter, drizzle a little honey on it, then scoop up a healthy dose of flaxseeds.  That doesn't translate well to breakfast in bed, and not just because I would spill some seeds between the sheets (that sounds naughty), and it would be like having cracker crumbs in bed (although, presumably, Bell would not kick me out).

* My nice family surprised me with a brand-new Seagull acoustic guitar, sized perfectly for a diminutive person such as Yours Truly.  I've been wanting to learn to play for a while now, and this is just the thing I need to transition me into rock-stardom.  I will not, however, quit my day job while my guitar gently weeps.

* In addition to a lovely little book-like card, Kai delivered this note to me this morning:

Translation: "What would you like for dinner?"

* Speaking of Mother's Day, early last week Jade and Bell both complained of sore throats.  This was particularly bad news for Jade, whose class had a three-day field trip to Catalina Island planned starting (last) Wednesday.  I mentioned that I vaguely remember hearing that apple cider vinegar will knock out a sore throat.  But it has to include "the Mother," which means it is unfiltered. ("The Mother" refers to certain beneficial enzymes and whatnot.)

We just happened to have apple cider vinegar with The Mother on hand, and no sooner did I mention this when Bell whipped out a shot glass and downed a shot.  Then he poured one for Jade who, quite conveniently, was sitting at the bar, but she was not so willing.  When there's something she doesn't want to do, she has to complain about it many many times.  This is her way of processing the bad stuff (or simply complaining).  "You don't have to drink it," I told her, "but if you've got a bad cough and sore throat there's no way you're going on the field trip."  I turned away while she sat eyeing the shot glass and Bell proclaimed his sore throat better already. 

At some point when we were ignoring Jade she downed the shot, and I know this because she said, "My stomach burns!  Owwww!"  I tried to focus on the positive, but for several hours that night she complained that her stomach burned.  As time wore on, I totally blew her off because I've drinken ACV before and yes, it does feel like battery acid initially, but it goes away. Sometimes.  Sort of.

Anywho, after Jade went to bed I decided to check the Internets about this claim that ACV cures a sore throat, and sure enough, it purportedly does.  However, I discovered it should be diluted in water and gargled, not thrown back like a shot of Jack Daniels.  Ooops.  Fortunately, Jade's throat did get better and she went to Catalina and got to dissect a squid and go snorkeling and pet a giant bat ray and not shower for three days.   

* On Friday Kai's class held a Mother's Day Tea.  Kai had been very excited about this beforehand, especially when his teacher said the kids had to wear dressy clothes. I think the other boys in the class "forgot" to tell their mothers because many of them were in shorts or jeans while the girls were allllll pertied up.  As was Kai.  For as you know, Kai is all about the style.  I got him a little white linen shirt, and my friend Sue, who owns a school uniform conglomerate, hooked me up with a bitchin' red power tie, perfectly sized for the dapper 5 year old.  Kai topped off his outfit with, of course, his cowboy boots, and the ladies never had a chance. 

After the mothers opened their child's handmade gift, the kids lined up and sang this song.  If you're not a mama, maybe it seems corny to you but there was not a dry eye in the house.  And the best part was that while each kid looked at his/her mama while singing, my kid winked at me (several times) during the song, like he was pitching woo or something.  He totally killed me softly with his song.

And the winking thing? He does that a lot, and it makes him seem so mature.  So much so that my friends do a double-take and ask, "Did ... Kai just wink at you?"  I am not sure who he thinks he is or where he learned this, but he has developed several variations on this theme: sometimes it's a straight-up wink; sometimes he clicks and winks.  When something pleases him he he winks, clicks, and gives a thumbs-up, as here:

My personal favorite is the wink, click, and making his hand into a gun and shooting at me.  It gets me every time. 

* Lady Skittles doesn't know this yet but since she is also a mother, we are giving her a surprise mani-pedi this evening.  We have not been diligent about trimming her or Lord Chubblesworth's claws like we were with Hamlet.  They were so skittish in the beginning that we did not want to freak them out.  But they've grown quite comfortable and loving and into a nice routine here--both like to sit in each of the two bathroom sinks and watch while I put my face on--it's time to show them who is really in charge.  We're going to attempt to put on nail caps tonight.  I expect it will take a series of attempts before each cat gets a complete set.  Just for grins, I may top off the kitty spa service with an eyebrow waxing.

* And finally, when we were newly minted parents for the first time almost a decade ago, Bell and I were walking with Baby Jade down the streets of Old Town Alexandria.  She was but a couple of weeks old.  Bell wore her in a Baby Bjorn while she cried that wee newborn cry, and as people passed they'd smile.  As one woman walked by she said, "Aww, enjoy it now. It doesn't get any better than this!" (which I think was supposed to convey how special having a newborn is, but instead it frightened us).  "It doesn't?" asked Bell. This did not bode well for us.

Turns out, however, it does get better.  All the time.

i ain't sayin' he's a golddigger

Kai and I were planning to go to Disneyland with his best friend, Ryan ("Wyan"), and Wyan's mom today.  When we went to California Adventure recently and Jade thought I was going to check her into the psyche ward, I had purchased "Twofer" tickets (2 Disney parks for the price of one) because my campus sold them for even less than a Disneyland pass.  I didn't want to waste the Disneyland pass on Jade--who would be content to walk around--so I invited Wyan and his mom.  I think Jade was actually relieved.

The boys have been looking forward to this for over a month, and I was excited to finally get to go on rides I haven't been on for many, many years.  However, Wyan suddenly had to get a T&A on Monday, so he is currently recovering and cannot make it.  Last night Kai and I were discussing whether we should invite another friend or put off the adventure until Wyan feels better (although I only have a little window in which to act since the ticket expires soon).  We talked about whom he might like to invite and he nixed most of his girl-friends because they'd want to do all the Pwincess things, except for Maya, a fellow half-Filipina/half-white girl who is a complete tomboy.  Then he said, "If Maya can't go, then how 'bout you'n me still go tomowow?"

"Oh! Okay.  Do you think you could have fun with just your mom?"

"Syuh!!  As long as you wemember your wallet."

to top it off . . . or not (that is the question)

When I left you last Sunday evening, I was very cross about my inability to acquire G12 in an efficient and timely manner.  I went to sleep thinking about how to make the many things I had to do on Monday run smoothly, and this would include the acquisition of G12 from an inconvenient location. 

Then came the dawn of a new day.  On Monday morning, it occurred to me how extraordinarily heinous traffic would be during the time I planned to drive to the VW dealership to acquire the goods.  I remembered this heinousness from a few months prior, when I had to go to the dealership a after I had dropped Jade off at school: traffic was at a complete standstill on the freeway.  I ended up taking a bunch of backstreets and it took me twice as long to my destination as the freeway would have.  And, according to Bell (who used to travel in that direction by freeway but switched to the train and is so much happier), this traffic was business as usual.

I decided to cut my workout short so that I could get to the dealership by 7:00 a.m., when they open.  This alone was a great sacrifice because I do not like to cut my workout short. I get cranky when I have to cut my workout short.  Remember the time I saw that dude wankin' off during my run on the beach and I happened to say something to the lifeguard, and he radioed another lifeguard who asked me to stop running and go back to file a report?  That made me cranky.

However. After performing some highly technical calculations involving the cost of getting stuck in rush hour traffic vs. the benefit of having the G12 in hand early enough to make it home in time to shower and get the kids to school so that I would not have to reschedule my meetings on campus, my cost/benefit calculator came up in favor of skipping the triceps.  I'm not entirely irrational, it turns out.  And I decided not to be cranky because I was about to make my day much simpler than it first appeared it would be.

I pulled up to the dealership at 6:58, but the driveways were blocked off by those gy-hugic car-hauling trucks.  The lights at the dealership were off.  I hung out for a spell, but time kept ticking away beyond 7:00.  It was beginning to look like I had not saved myself any time, and that made me remember how I could have worked my triceps and made it here and the dealership still wouldn't be open.  Cursing under my breath, I finally parked down the block and walked up to the "Service" Center. Right thar on the window it claimed that its Hours of "Operation" were "7:00 a.m.-7:00 p.m."  But they lied!  Because by now it was 7:13 and nary a Service person was in sight.  The building was endarkened.  At 7:16 a young lady casually strolled up with her coffee in hand.

"Hey, are you guys open?" I asked.

"Isn't anyone there?" she asked.

Pointing to the endarkened Service Center I said, "I'm thinking . . . no.  Is someone supposed to be there?"

"Yeah. I'm a little late but there should be someone else in there."  Clearly she was traditionally "a little late" for work and she just assumed everyone else was more responsible than her.  "I'll go around and turn on all the lights and let you in," she kindly offered.

After five minutes of her light-turning on, she unlocked the door for me. Seated at the "service" desk was a squinty-eyed guy named Ken who looked like he had been there for hours clacking away on his keyboard. When I told him I just needed to buy some coolant he said, "I can't sell that to you.  You have to go over to the Parts Department," then he looked across the way and said, "but it doesn't look like they're open yet.  They're supposed to open at 7."  Yes.  Aren't we all.

I walked over to Parts when the lights came on.  Nobody was at the front desk.  I had to call out "Helloooooo!" a few times before someone finally moseyed up to the counter.  I asked for G12 (by name!) and voila! At long last, there it was.

"That'll be $25.18," he said.

"Are you frickin' kidding me?" I asked rhetorically, complete with loud exhalations and a vigorous head nod.  You know, because it was totally that guy's fault. He looked confused.

"No."

Liquid gold.  This is one of the planet's most precious nectars, second only to the breastmilk** I've spent countless hours pumping.

While he processed the transaction I read the back of the bottle, which instructed me to drain the old coolant, flush out the engine, and replace it with the new bottle.  And all along I thought I just needed to top off my overflow tank. So I asked the guy, "Do I have to drain the old coolant and flush the tank?  Because my manual says this coolant need not ever be fully replaced, only topped off."

"How many miles you got on your car?"

"Over 100K."

"Oh yeah, you need to drain and replace.  At 100 thousand, you should replace it. You have to replace it if there is anything in it, if it's been contaminated."

"How do I know if there is 'anything in it'?"

"Well, you have to have it analyzed."

"Analyzed? Who's going to analyze it?"

"You have to bring it to a shop that does that." By now, or maybe it was a little sooner than now, I was becoming slightly apoplectic.  At the same time, this was getting laughably ridiculous.  So you see, I struggled with my emotions.

"But the manual says it never has to be replaced."

"Yeah, it says that, but I'm just tellin' you---"

I growled a low growl, like Patty and/or Selma of The Simpsons.  So then the guy trys to get all sweet and suave-ay on me.  He tilts his fat head and says, "Heyyyyy, wha's goin' on?" Like, tell Papa your troubles, baby; it'll be all right.

"What's going ON?? I looked around everywhere for this stuff over the weekend but it turns out I can only get it here--SURPRISE!--and it's way more expensive than other coolants at the auto supply stores. [He nods sympathetically.]  I skipped part of my workout just to avoid traffic and get here early to buy this stuff when you opened, but you weren't even open so I had to wait around for you! [Here he looks guilty, and slightly afraid I'm going to tell his boss.] And now you're telling me I have to go home and DRAIN THE OLD COOLANT AND FLUSH THE SYSTEM  WITH DISTILLED WATER--or I could have the old stuff analyzed by experts first--when really, what I need to do is go home and get ready for work and get my kids to school and then drive to San Diego! THAT'S WHAT'S GOIN' ON!" I turned away from the counter, and at that point I think he realized his smooth-talking ways were fruitless.

Upon my exit, however, I had to add, "I know it's not your fault, though," because, well, it wasn't.  Still, when I got outside and saw the sign that said "PARTS" I thought, "Hey, Volkswagen--KISS MY PARTS!"

As I drove home I realized there might well be a leak in my engine or the coolant overflow tank, which would explain why it was suddenly dangerously low.  I decided to take my car to the mechanic to check this before I went through the trouble of pouring the liquid gold into my tank, only to later find out I have a leak, the fixing of which would require him to drain My Precious from the tank.  So I called Trusty Dan, whom I adore because he always bumps me up in the line (I think it's because I give him cookies and homemade toffee).  I 'splained the situation about needing a leak check, and I told him he didn't need to order the ridiculously priced VW coolant because I had just purchased some from the dealer. 

"Oh, you didn't need to do that," says Dan. "We always keep that stuff in stock."

__________

**You know how much work it is to pump that stuff out?  And inevitably someone accidentally tips over the bottle before you can get the lid on and you reach to catch it and you're all, "N-n-n-n-n-o-o-oooooooooooo!" but it's too late.  So you're left trying to sop it up off the floor or carpet with a sponge and then wring the sponge over the bottle.  I hate when that happens.

trashed

When I was in the third grade, I had a tremendous crush on a little boy named Darryl Gates.  (No, not the former Chief of the LAPD).  He had dirty blond hair and happy brown eyes.  I distinctly remember him in an orange shirt with brown lowrider Levi's cords (which were the fashion at the time).  Now, if there was one thing about Darryl Gates that was a tad off-putting, it was that he was reaaaaaally puny.  Given that I was probably--at best--between the third and fifth percentiles for height in my age group, you might think I was in no position to complain.  However, Darryl was even punier than me. If you have ever met me in person, you will understand how very remarkably puny he must have been. 

And yet.  The way Darryl's cowlick made his stick-straight dirty blond hair flop over to one side more than compensated for the puny.  Also, he was a pretty good athlete.  Since I was generously inclined to overlook his size, the only real obstacle to a meaningful relationship with Darryl Gates was the fact that he never paid one bit of attention to me.  Of course, this could only mean that he was shy, something I found even more appealing.  (But see The Case of Danny Harris, another boy in the same class with a different approach whom I did not find appealing.)

One day in class, Mrs. Terranova asked Darryl to walk down to the P.E. closet to get some balls for a dodgeball game.  This request demonstrated that Mrs. Terranova also thought highly of my Darryl--maybe she was also attracted to the cowlick?--because only the special ones were chosen to complete tasks requiring independence outside the classroom.  (I once got asked to go fetch the piano for music class. I was wheeling it down the hall back to homeroom and really got my momentum up,  so much so that when I tried to 'round the corner I accidentally tipped it over to the tune (if you will) of $300 worth of broken.  Oops. They never asked me to do that again.)

Darryl left the class to go get the balls for P.E. 

After about five minutes, Mrs. Terranova began to wonder where Darryl was, as did I. The P.E. closet was only down the hall, after all.  So the class lined up in formation and Mrs. Terranova marched us down the hall, hoping to pick up Darryl along the way.  As we approached the corner we could hear the faintest little "Help.  Help." coming from the closet, as if from the mouth of a Who down in Whoville.

Since I was at the front of the line, when Mrs. Terranova opened the door I could see Darryl's feet sticking out of the giant trash can-sized box that held the red balls.  Apparently he had leaned in to grab a few and got stuck between the balls somehow in an upside down position.  Had I not known any better, I would have thought he was foraging for trash. 

Many, many years later--the other day in fact--Bell was out in the backyard pulling weeds and cutting roses and doing whatever you people who garden do.  It was a bazillion degrees out in that hot sun but he was working like the farm boy he was destined to be.  He had big green-waste receptacle was in front of him, tilted toward him for easy access.  I came out to the backyard to say "hi" as he was leaning forward to put clippings in the receptacle.  He lost his balance and fell completely inside, head first.  One minute he was about to kiss me "hello," the next he's showing me the soles of his shoes.  Then Kai, who witnessed the debacle from the sunroom, yelled out, "Whaddya doin' out there Dad, dumpster diving? Ha ha!" It was a beautiful moment.

So for the last few days, everytime I get the image of my tall handsome sweaty husband falling into the trashcan, or indeed, every time I see anyone bend over in a vulnerable position it makes me think of my tall handsome sweaty husband falling into the trashcan, and this makes me smile really big.  That is one reason why I am still head over heels in love with him. 

temperature rising

This morning as I drove to the gym, an indicator light on my instrument panel went off (well, other than the engine light that's been on for two weeks now because my mechanic told me it was probably just randomly misfiring, so I've learned to ignore it).  Then I got the red "STOP IMMEDIATELY. Check coolant" warning.  I turned around and went back up the hill, hoping my car wouldn't just break then and there because it's about 700 degrees outside today and I didn't feel like walking the rest of the way home.  Once safely home, I checked my car manual (after I found the right one, that is. For some reason my car came with a thick pile of various manuals offering different bits of fascinating information about my car.)  I popped the hood and looked at the coolant overflow tank.  Much to my surprise, it was filled waaaaaaaaay below the minimum required for the efficient operation of my engine.  And yet, this was the first warning I'd had.  (Or was it?  Maybe my mechanic's idea of an engine warning light "misfire" is actually an actual warning.  Remind me to take that up with him tomorrow.)

Anywho, point is the coolant is very low.  So of course I decide to go buy more to refill the tank, an easy enough task, yes?

No.

The first auto parts store did not have the type indicated in my trusty manual.  "Good luck finding that," the chubby greasy man told me as I walked out the door.  I decided to call another auto parts store before I drove there. 

Me: I need coolant for my VW.  Do you have G12?
Kragen Auto Supply: Coolant?
Me: Yes, you know--so the engine doesn't overheat?
Kragen: Ohhhh, you mean anti-freeze?
Me: Yes, but around here we need it to cool, not not freeze.
Kragen: We have that.
Me: Do you have G12?
Kragen: Er, what color is it?
Me: Orangey-red.
Kragen: Oooh! We have that!
Me: But is it G12?  My manual says not to mix what's in there with anything else.
Kragen: Hold on.  [Puts down phone. I hear footsteps back and forth.]  Hello? Yea, it doesn't say anything about G12 but it says it can be used on VWs. 
Me: [Imagining my car exploding on my way to work] Nah.  I'll try elsewhere.
Kragen: But we have the orangey-red one.  We have it.
Me: Thanks. [click]

I call the VW dealership but since their Service & Parts department is closed, they won't sell me any super-special coolant.  I will have to wait until Monday morning.  When Bell hears this he  picks up the phone to take issue with the dealer, a move which rather surprised me for its impulsiveness, touch of righteousness, and sheer futility. It's the kind of thing I would have done if VW had put out a recall on a car part, the replacement of which would have required me to leave the car with them all day, then told me I would have to pay for a car rental myself.  Hey wait--they did do that to me, and my righteous indignation was completely lost on them. The VW sales dealer was kind enough to suggest auto supply stores if I really needed coolant today.  Everyone's a  comedian.

Next we hit the Auto Zone on the off-chance that we had just been checking the wrong auto supply stores. This may come as a surprise to you, but they don't carry G12. Ah, but there is always EZ Lube.  The very name suggests EZness, and at this point I just wanted things to be EZ.  I needed EZ.  I called them before going there, just to be sure.  When I said I needed G12 for my VW, a woman said she'd go take a look.  It was a very long look, and perhaps she left the store to continue her search because I was on hold for a spell when a guy finally picked up the line.  I told him I was waiting for someone to find coolant for my VW, specifically G12.  Did they have that?

"We have coolant for VWs," he said.  But of course, he did not answer the question. If I learned anything taking depositions, it was how to listen when an adversary's witness answers a question.

"Is it G12?" 

" . . .Welllllll, it's for VWs. We use it on VWs all the time.  . ."

Not so EZ after all.

So now I have to wait until tomorrow morning to drop both kids off at school (with the one car that has sufficient coolant), then drive north to buy the g-damn G12, then head south for an hour and fifteen minute commute to work (assuming no traffic), for which I'll be late, which means I have to reschedule some appointments.

Sigh.

At this point I could use a little coolant bath myself.

taking it to the next level

I spent last weekend in San Francisco for my high school reunion (thoughts about which I shall try to post later).   On our way to Zeum (which, btw, so. cool.) we stopped by the Sony store at the doomed Metreon--an "entertainment mall" originally owned by Sony.  As you might imagine, the Sony store prominently features its products at little demo stations all over the store.  Kai and Jade were all over it like a hot rash.  The first demo station we visited involved some dude and his horse in a medieval setting.  Presumably gamers were supposed to get the armed warrior onto his horse so he could ride across the hills to meet his enemy.  Oh, how my two gaming amateurs tried to figure out how to mount the horse while the animal just looked around and occasionally tapped a hoof on the ground.  Jade finally gave up and ran off to another game, and that's when Kai took control.  Instead of trying to get the guy to mount, however, he made the warrior slash and stab at his horse.  He figured out those movements pretty quickly.

"Whoa, buddy. It looks like you're hurting your horse.  You're not supposed to fight the horse; you're supposed to ride it out to fight your enemy. I mean, if you can ever get on it."

"No, I'm twying to stab it.  It's funnier."

Er, oh-kay.  Is this what they mean when they say video games cause violence?

I backed away slowly. No longer interested in watching Kai slay Black Beauty, I looked around for Jade, who was with my best friend from law school. And then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw this fair maiden, with a lovable toothless grin and a little mustache above that toothless grin.

For those living lives of leisure, San Francisco is a very livable city.  Apparently this is true of people at both ends of the income spectrum.  The homeless in San Francisco have always had it pretty good compared to homeless elsewhere. But now?  Now they have it so damn good. The whole time we were in the Sony store, this happy homeless woman stayed glued to the video demo, all her worldly possessions strewn about her feet.  Did she beg for money? No.  Did she ask for a place to sleep? A warm shower and shave? Negative.  All she really wanted was to make it to the next level.

alright already! i'll tell you.

My Internets friend Fringes tagged me for a meme a while back. I don't often do memes, in part because like Fringes I'm a "don't tell me what to do" kind of gal.  But she asked so nicely, and she claims she's dying to know my answers. Dying. I can't have her blood on my hands, so here goes:

List three books you've always meant to read but haven't gotten around to.
1.  I've been meaning to read "Two Lucky People" by Milton and Rose Friedman ever since it came out three years ago.  I finally started it last fall, but I only made it up to the point where our amorous protagonists have married and moved to Washington, D.C. (1941-43).  Part of the problem I have not a lot of trouble putting this one down is that while the two are exceptionally clear and brilliant writers, let's face it, they're economists (with all due respect for my economist friends, especially those of you with flair for a good story). (Glen.) The writing, especially Milton's, tends toward a strict recounting of details remembered.  The real stumbling block, however, is the size of the damn book. At 589 pages in hardback (excluding appendix and index) this is no five-and-dime novella I can throw in my purse to read during my downtime.  At best, I used to lug it to the gym in my perfectly-sized Puma bowling bag for the days I was on the Elliptical Edge.  These days, however, I'm only on The Edge once or twice a week since I prefer to get my cardio by running outside or doing sprint training on the treadmill.  Just as standing on a docked boat can make me vomit, trying to read while doing 45-second speed drills will surely put me over the edge. 

It's hard not to love Milton Friedman if you have any affiliation with the University of Chicago; I had met him even before I attended the U of C.  I was at the time a freshly minted college grad working for a think tank in San Francisco when our organization held a dinner in Dr. Friedman's honor.  Several years later, about fifteen years ago, I was again working in San Francisco when I ran into the Drs. Friedman at a University of Chicago alumni affair.  They passed me on the escalator up to the ballroom, he in a tuxedo, she in a fetching dress.  When the band fired up, Milton escorted Rose to the dance floor and the two cut up a rug for much of the evening. They looked so happy and lively and perfectly suited to each other; it made me hope that someday that would be Bell and me (perhaps sans Nobel prize or, sadly, a bitchin' pad on Nob Hill)--a couple not worn down by their years together but built up and invigorated by them.

On a side note, as I was flipping through my copy of this book (borrowed from my brother), I discovered that my mom must have also read it. Apparently she scribbled in the margins of a passage about Milton's visit to a Chinese hotel for communist leaders the words, "Typical Commie Hypocrites!  Effete Elitists!"  Effete Elitists? That is pure poetry, my friends. And you wonder where I get it.

2. "The Creators," by Daniel Boorstin.  I went through a Daniel Boorstin phase sometime after college, voraciously devouring his excellent series "The Americans" (covering the founding of the country and the people who peopled it), and "The Discoverers" (not surprisingly, a history of famous discoverers and their discoveries).  During my Boorstin-o-philia I picked up "The Creators" at a used bookstore and had every intention of diving right in.  Events took a surprising turn when I suddenly entered into a biographies-of-famous-anarchists phase (I am easily distracted by bright shiny rebelliousness), which biographies contained many fewer pages than the whopping "Creators."  Anarchy prevailed, as did convenience, and I never picked up "The Creators" except to pack it up each time we moved. 

3. And speaking of creators, one of these days I'm gonna plop into a comfy chair with a cup of joe and read the Bible. It speaks ill of my upbringing that I don't know more about The Good Book than I do since I was raised Catholic by an immigrant whose Catholicism runs deep and a former nun who then left the Church when I was about 11, explored some kind of pentecostal speaking-in-tongues sect that met in a basement every Wednesday night (and freaked me the hell out) and embraced Zionist Judaism.  Sure, I attended First Communion classes but all I got was this fantastic picture.  Yeah, I grew up going to church every week but it was all about seeing and being seen, baby.   And also because church held the promise of Krispy Kreme Donuts.  I'll sit through this, Lord, but please come through on the old-fashioned glazed today.

As an adult, I've never had the endurance necessary to sit down and read the whole thing front to back.  I'm not interested in studying the Bible with a group or taking a class on it like some people do--I just want to read it, front to back, not unlike the time Jade stood at her bookshelf for 10 days and read the Scholastic Children's Encyclopedia when she was but five years old. Or the time she attempted to read the Scholastic Dictionary front to back until she learned that it could also be used to look up words.  In other words, I'm not trying to understand the Bible's nuances, I'm  just looking for some good material.  Is that bad?

Share two books that changed your life.

1.  Some of you will sneer when I name "The Fountainhead," and to those who do I invite you to bite me because here I am pouring my heart out to you and you judge. 

A friend of mine gave it to me in college (of course! When else does anyone read The Fountainhead?)* It's no literary masterpiece, I'll grant, but from the moment Howard Roark laughed and stood naked on the edge of the cliff, I was hooked.  This book gave voice to my irrepressible individualist leanings, leanings it seems I was born with and no one could dispel me of no matter how hard they try.  Of course "The Fountainhead" is really just a gateway drug book for "Atlas Shrugged" and, for some, other more serious ventures into objectivist philosophy.  (It's perhaps no surprise then that my first copy of "The Fountainhead" was a freebie.)  Potential readers should perhaps be warned of the dangers and approach "The Fountainhead" with caution. Or not.

2. This one might throw the lot of you, but Ann Louise Gittleman's "Before the Change: Taking Charge of Your Perimenopause" really really did change my life.  Now, before you go getting all freaked out by hearing the word "menopause," let me just say that until I read this book I assumed that it was this thing that happened one day when a woman gets to be in her fifties. It's a thing our moms go through.  Turns out, however, that a woman's body starts changing and gearing up for this big change as early as 35, and these changes affect her entire system. And! It's not just the sex hormones (progesterone, estrogen), but all those other ones we handily ignore (e.g., serotonin, adrenalin, insulin) that go screwy in response to both this gearing up and other factors  like diet and vitamin/mineral deficiencies.  Then one day a gal finds herself suffering depression, anxiety, irritability, lack of energy, insomnia, night sweats, and the inability to get rid of love handles and belly fat no matter how hard she seemingly tries.  Or, in my case, lots of other freaky  thangs happened that were very clearly tied to hormone imbalances. 

As some of you know, I experienced these mysterious bodily changes and went to many a doctor, none of whom did a damn thing to solve the mystery.  It was my own medical Googling that led me to Gittleman's book, and I have not had midnight twitchings, visual light shows and distortions, random heart palpitations, insomnia, over-the-top reactions to caffeine, or unfounded irritability since then.  "Before the Change" talks about how our hormones, they are a-changin'. But all is not lost.  There are effective natural (i.e., nonmedicated) ways to bring things back in balance so that you aren't standing at the kitchen counter one day, unable to control your wildly palpitating heart and thinking you are experiencing a heart attack.

If you are a woman between the ages of 35 and 50, or you think one day you will be, or you know someone that fits this description, you ought to read this book. Over the last couple of years, I probably talked to eleventy thousand women in this age range about various symptoms and all thought they were the only ones experiencing them.  And, I kid you not, every single one of them said, in describing their symptoms, "I feel like I'm going crazy," It made me wonder how it was that all these women experience most of the same core symptoms and are told by their doctors that it's just anxiety and/or depression--nothing a little pill won't take care of.  Is it a mere coincidence that this age range is experiencing so much "anxiety" and "depression"? I haven't looked at the statistics, but it makes me wonder whether a high proportion of anti-depressants are distributed to women between the ages of 35 and 50;  I also wonder if, back in the old days, the women institutionalized for "hysteria" mostly fell within this age range.  (If any of you have the answer, please tell me in the comments.)

So yeah, this book changed my life because it helped me understand what is going on systemically and to see how many wildly different symptoms are related. It confirmed that I need to be proactive in keeping my hormones in check.  You all know how I have embraced vitamin B, but have I told you about my best friend magnesium (and how, despite blood tests showing that my magnesium was low, no doctor figured out that maybe a magnesium supplement would do the trick)?  "Before the Change" changed my life in other ways: it opened a dialogue with other women who had heretofore felt alone and crazy with their symptoms.  It helped me recognize the suffering woman (she's usually trying to strangle bunnies and spit on Girl Scouts), and to reach out to her (you men have me to thank). 

God, that was so serious.

Recommend the ONE book you have been talking about since the very first day you read it.

Well, that would be Gittleman's book, and not only have I not really stopped talking about it, I've been buying it in bulk and handing it out to distressed women everywhere.  Sometimes I don't even know them very well but I see that look in their eyes, that cry for help.  I consider this an act of community service.  Some do-gooders work the soup kitchen on Thanksgiving; others knit blankets for orphaned babies.  Still others fly around the word to repair cleft palates. Me? I hand out Gittleman's book.  I believe it's my calling. Don't tell me I'm not goin' to heaven.

[Damn! This meme has been like writing three blog posts.  I'm good for the rest of the week.]

_________

*I have this friend who is really smart, graduated from high school at 16 and went off to Yale (I realize this makes her a slacker compared to our mutual friend, the indefatigable Eugene, who dropped out of high school at twelve so he could start college, graduating at 15.  But still.)  She once spoke of the time her father introduced her to Ayn Rand when she was 11.  I asked her in my deadpan but joking way whether she and Rand discussed Rand's work.  She replied, in a deadpan but not-joking way, "Well, I had only read "The Fountainhead" and "Atlas Shrugged" at that point; I hadn't read "Philosophy: Who Needs It?" or "An Introduction to Objectivist Epistemology" yet."  Before she was 11, people!  I am totally getting Jade "The Fountainhead" for her upcoming 10th birthday.

girl, interrupted

A few weeks ago at California Adventure Jade alllllllmost rode the Mulholland Madness rollercoaster, but then she backed out at the very last minute. Nay, the very last second. She expressed her doubts after we had been waiting in line, just as we were settling into our car.  "It'll be fun! Don't worry," I assured her.  "Remember how you didn't want to go on the river rafting ride and now it's 'your most favorite ride. EVER.'?" 

Jade: No. No. No. No. I don't want to go on this.

She happened to say this just as the Mulholland Madness Safety Assistant walked by to make sure we were safely pinned to our seats. Everyone else was strapped in and ready to go.

MMSA [to Jade]: What's the matter?

Jade: I don't want to go on this ride.

Me: Ohhhh, she'll be fine. She's fine! [In my head: Move along, sir.]

MMSA: Ma'am, we can't make her ride if she doesn't want to.

Jade: I don't want to!

Me: [INHAAAAAAAAAALE.  EXHAAAAAAAAAALE. INNNNHAAAAAAAALE.  EXXXXXHAAAAAAALE.] Okaaaaaaaaay.   Everybody out!

Kai [from the seat behind us]: Wha? Why? What's going on?

Me: Chop chop! People are waiting!

***

I herded them off the ride and down the stairs while the lucky ones got to remain in their seats and ride the ride.  Was I bitter that I wound up sitting on a bench sandwiched between my two crying kids on a blistering hot and crowded day?  Benched, while my friend and her daughter enjoyed the Mulholland Madness? Oh come on, you know me better than that.

As we sat there waiting while everyone else had all the fun, Jade and I talked about facing fears. I don't mind that she is afraid of roller coasters, I understand that. One of the reasons I don't enjoy amusement parks much these days is because Jade doesn't like riding the rides (except for the Teacups) and I always have to sit out with her because Hello? perverts frequent amusement parks looking for little girls who sit alone while their parents are on the rides.  Jade is perfectly happy to just walk around and look at everything, but I am not so happy to shell out all that money on a sightseeing tour.  I mean, take a picture, it lasts longer!  (And costs less).  Sooo, the only reason we ended up at California Adventure in the first place was that my dear friend Deb was in town from Virginia with one of her daughters, and they really really wanted to go.

I was pleasantly surprised when Jade told me she actually wanted to try the sissy* rollercoaster; I think she must have been feeling pretty confident after surrendering to the Grizzly River Run earlier in the day, only to discover she had a HUGE EFFING BLAST.  Alas, at the last minute, piling into Mulholland Madness, she let her fear overwhelm her.

I told her that everyone has fears, and sometimes in order to conquer them you have to go to that place inside where you store up your guts, and you have to call on those guts to power you through the fear.  Take a deep breath, dig deep, all that stuff.  That was essentially the message.

A little while later we sat frying eggs on the concrete while we waited for the High School Musical traveling parade,** and Jade asked, "Were you really going to take me to a mental hospital?"

Me: Huh?

Jade: You said I would have to go to a mental hospital.

Me: What? When? I never said that.

Jade: Yes you did.  You said that when I let my fear overwhelm me I would need to "go to that place." I thought that "that place" was a mental hospital.

Poor kid!  For about twenty minutes she probably thought that when we got home she would have to pack a suitcase and say goodbye, and she wouldn't even get to turn in her book report. I'm glad we cleared that one up.

On the bright side, it forced her reflect on how to deal with her fears and to make an effort to try harder whenever she's outside her comfort zone.  That's more like the kind of commitment I had in mind. 

_____

*Compared to its awesome cousin, California Screamin'

**Someone please shoot me and put me out of my misery.

clothes encounters

Earlier this year Kai turned five, and since then he has taken charge of picking out his outfits. When left to his own devices, you can see he is a force to be reckoned with.  He discovered some old clip-on ties in his repertoire, accessories I purchased at a thrift store for various costumes. He now dons them with some regularity (on weekends, in particular), clipping them to the neck of his t-shirts or button downs or, in some cases, with no shirt at all.  As Bell has observed, "He's the only kid at the park who wears a tie."

This photo was taken after Kai had already removed his favorite weekend clip-on, which he had attached to point where this (very small) Brooks Brothers blazer buttons up.  He took off the tie so that he and his little buddy could unearth dinosaur fossils without obstruction.  A man can't chisel and hammer and brush with his tie in the way.  The blazer, by the way, was part of his old Halloween costume (two and a 1/2 years, ten pounds, and about eight inches ago). Tell me, ladies, how can you resist the charms?

One day he emerged from his room in this get-up.  "Wow!" I exclaimed. Because what else is there to say? Just. Wow.

"Don't I look like a teenager?" he asked most sincerely.  I told him I didn't know any teenage boys who wear ties, much less clip-ons, and lesser still clip-ons that attach that far down on the shirt.  I've never actually seen a teenager with a NASCAR hat from the local Albertsons bakery department, as the locals are all about the beanie and the jaunty fedora.  But that's okay!  Because damn, Kai looks good.  I'm not the only one to say so--whenever he is out and about in one of his outfits, he always seems to attract comments from young and old alike.  I think he is especially encouraged by the teenagers and young men who encounter him and say things like, "Dude! Lookin' good!" or "Hey man, like your tie.  You look cool!"  And the thing is, they are not mocking him, they are amused and charmed and always kind.

Who's got style?  Who's got flash? Uh-huh, you know it. 

Tha's what I'm talkin' about.