Last week or so, my husband made a Costco run. I can get a lot of material out of my husband’s Costco runs. His shopping habits in general, in fact, yield tons of funny stories. Did I tell you about the night-vision deer camera? Did I tell you about the Stanley Cup swag (maybe I had a hand in that one, too)? Did I tell you about the decades-old Mercedes convertible? Sit down. Pull up a chair.
So back to the Costco run. He actually got a lot of useful stuff, including a three-bottle carton of Clorox bleach (I gave some away) and enough toilet paper that we were able to supply ourselves, my sister-in-law, my mother-in-law, and two elderly neighbors. He got some chips and salsa, which are always useful; and a case of my beloved Diet Coke. But he also picked up some less-necessary items, including a very large bag of frozen fish sticks.
Full disclosure: I actually like fish sticks. Always have, always will. As far as I’m concerned, there are few better lunches than a plate of fish sticks and some Campbell’s tomato soup. But not everyone shares my love of fish sticks.
Still, food is food; and times being what they are, I decided that we need to incorporate those fish sticks into a dinner menu. Waste not, want not, know what I mean? So I made a delicious and elegant dinner of mixed vegetables, bowtie pasta with garlic and olive oil, and fish sticks.
I know. We live like royalty.
My sons, 18 and 15, hadn’t seen fish sticks since they were toddlers. When they were little, I tried, unsuccessfully, to get them to love fish sticks as much as I do; but I finally gave up. Presented with his meal, my older son looked at the plate and said “I don’t know about the fish sticks. I mean, I don’t really eat seafood.”
His brother scoffed. “Seafood? That’s not seafood. That’s Ocean McNuggets.”
*****
That was a week ago, more or less, give or take. It all runs together now. It’s the day before Mother’s Day and in keeping with my normal policy, I won’t be cooking this weekend; not even fish sticks. I did make eggs this morning, but eggs don’t count as cooking,
It’s 12:25 PM. I’m not really dressed yet, and I’m watching “The Third Man” on AMC. I love black-and-white Cold War cloak and dagger movie dramas. Postwar Europe, especially Germany and Austria, was a dark maze of conspiratorial Soviet vs. West intrigue; or at least that’s how it was in the movies.
The postwar United States of movies and literature was completely different; optimistic, and full of blithe can-do and will-do energy. I’m reading Helene Hanff’s Underfoot in Show Business, all about her early years in New York, writing plays and working in any job in the theater that she could get her hands on. I love this book, filled with stories about sharing kitchen and bathroom space with neighbors and eating at Sardi’s and cheap coffee shops, and sneaking into theaters, and budgeting for nylons and cigarettes and carfare, and making friends and being young in New York in the 1940s and early 1950s.
It’s almost 1 PM on a Saturday and I’m on my couch, still in pajama pants and a sweater and fuzzy socks, watching and reading about cities full of people going places and doing things amid crowds of other people. Has it been so long since this was just normal everyday life?
*****
Now it's Mother's Day, and I hate Mother's Day. I hate everything right now. Today is the first day that I've felt that I really can't do this anymore. I can't muster the energy to do anything and I couldn't do anything even if I wanted to, which I don't. What do I do if this drags on for six months longer? And what do I do if it doesn't? I forget how to have a normal day. I forget how to manage a life that involves leaving the house and seeing people and doing things. I don't know if I can do it anymore.
I'm so tired and sad. I don't want to be in the house anymore. I don't want to know what anyone is watching on Netflix. I don't want to laugh at any more corona memes. I don't want to hear the police radio all day long.
*****
What the hell was that? I was going to just delete those last two paragraphs, but that’s what came out of me yesterday and there’s no point denying the truth. I’m all about keeping it real.
Yes, it’s Monday now and Mother’s Day 2020 is in the rear view mirror. I don’t know why I said that I hate Mother’s Day because I don’t. It’s fine. It’s neither here nor there. My temporary hostility toward Mother’s Day was just a symptom of yesterday’s mental health crisis. I’m better today. Not great, but better.
As promised, I didn’t cook on Saturday or Sunday because it was Mother’s Day weekend. I don’t know who decided that it’s a weekend now but this seems to be prevailing practice and I don’t like to rock the boat. But the weekend is over now and the kitchen awaits. I shopped on Friday night and I know what I'm going to make. I even cut some vegetables yesterday to make today’s prep easier. With the hard part of cooking (figuring out what to cook) done for today, I can approach the early evening with calm equanimity. No one will starve, and no one will have to eat fish sticks unless they want to. I can’t promise anything more than that.
*****
It’s Tuesday now, and dinner last night was fine, but I’m right back to where I started, which is figuring out what to have for dinner again. Ocean McNuggets doesn’t sound bad to me. I’d eat them still-frozen, right out of the box, if I didn’t have to expend another drop of my already-limited mental energy on what to cook for dinner. That’s the thing about dinner. It’s a job that’s never done. People expect to eat, every damn day.
I had an idea last night and just as quickly as I thought about writing it down so I wouldn’t forget it, I started thinking about something else, and then I forgot. With any luck, it will come back to me. Maybe it was an idea about what to make for dinner tonight, which would make it actually useful. But if not, then another harebrained idea will come along to replace it. Meanwhile, I don't think anyone wants to eat Ocean McNuggets today, but I’ll figure something out. And I don’t hate everything today, so it’s all good. It’s all good.
Showing posts with label Seoul Man. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Seoul Man. Show all posts
Wednesday, May 13, 2020
Sunday, December 24, 2017
A creature was stirring
We have a mouse. Not a pet, but an unwelcome rodent invader.
Gross.
We last had a mouse during a cold snap in 2011 or 2012, and we hadn't seen or heard one since. Then one day last week, I heard a sound that could only be described as "scurrying," but whatever was scurrying stayed out of sight. The next day, my husband said that he saw a gray streak flash by; and then the day after that, I saw the actual live-in-the-flesh mouse.
So gross.
My husband called the exterminator, and they came out and set traps. Something, as I pointed out, that we could easily have done ourselves, saving the almost $250 per year that we pay the exterminator (but that's a story for another day). After a few days, to no one's surprise, the mouse remained at large. So my husband took matters into his own hands, and built a better mousetrap.
*****
A long time ago, when the boys were little, the three of them were obsessed with keeping the rabbits out of our tomatoes. They'd set Havahart traps in the backyard, and in the mornings, they would drive to a park and let the rabbits go. This went on all summer, until one night, we left the gate open by accident, and some deer came in and ate all of the tomatoes. With the tomato crop ravaged, there was no longer any reason to force the rabbits into exile. We packed away the traps, and the rabbits roamed freely once again.
Another battle in the long war between my husband and the rodents involved unauthorized squirrel access to his beloved birdfeeder. After a few days of studying the squirrels and their habits, he fashioned a squirrel-proof birdfeeder out of an actual birdfeeder, several frisbees, and part of an umbrella. I can't describe it any better than that. Use your imagination. The thing actually worked, though it looked ridiculous hanging from the tree in our front yard.
*****
So the mouse is round three. There are mouse traps everywhere, and my husband has constructed barriers for the doorways, using cardboard boxes. The barriers have small holes, baited and booby-trapped. Wile E. Korean is quite sure that the mouse will be irresistibly drawn to the hole, and will run through it, only to be inextricably trapped on the other side.
It's now the third morning since these makeshift walls were erected (I have to step over them to get through the doorway) and we haven't trapped a mouse yet. I make my husband get up to check, because I don't want to be the first person to see a trapped mouse at 6 in the morning.
*****
We finally caught the mouse the day after I wrote this. Not a moment too soon, as I'd begun to worry about new and extreme measures threatened by the male members of the household. I had already caught my 16-year-old son patrolling the kitchen, armed with a loaded BB gun. ("Mom. Trust me. It ran under the stove, and it has to come out eventually. When it does, I'll pop a cap in its ass.") Again, teenage boys are idiots, in case you missed my last post. Meanwhile, I'd begun to be afraid to walk through my own house in the dark, for fear that I'd end up in a bear trap, or hanging upside down by my ankle from a zip line.
So the stockings are hung by the chimney with care, and humans are the only creatures stirring, and that's the way we like it. Merry Christmas.
Gross.
We last had a mouse during a cold snap in 2011 or 2012, and we hadn't seen or heard one since. Then one day last week, I heard a sound that could only be described as "scurrying," but whatever was scurrying stayed out of sight. The next day, my husband said that he saw a gray streak flash by; and then the day after that, I saw the actual live-in-the-flesh mouse.
So gross.
My husband called the exterminator, and they came out and set traps. Something, as I pointed out, that we could easily have done ourselves, saving the almost $250 per year that we pay the exterminator (but that's a story for another day). After a few days, to no one's surprise, the mouse remained at large. So my husband took matters into his own hands, and built a better mousetrap.
*****
A long time ago, when the boys were little, the three of them were obsessed with keeping the rabbits out of our tomatoes. They'd set Havahart traps in the backyard, and in the mornings, they would drive to a park and let the rabbits go. This went on all summer, until one night, we left the gate open by accident, and some deer came in and ate all of the tomatoes. With the tomato crop ravaged, there was no longer any reason to force the rabbits into exile. We packed away the traps, and the rabbits roamed freely once again.
Another battle in the long war between my husband and the rodents involved unauthorized squirrel access to his beloved birdfeeder. After a few days of studying the squirrels and their habits, he fashioned a squirrel-proof birdfeeder out of an actual birdfeeder, several frisbees, and part of an umbrella. I can't describe it any better than that. Use your imagination. The thing actually worked, though it looked ridiculous hanging from the tree in our front yard.
*****
So the mouse is round three. There are mouse traps everywhere, and my husband has constructed barriers for the doorways, using cardboard boxes. The barriers have small holes, baited and booby-trapped. Wile E. Korean is quite sure that the mouse will be irresistibly drawn to the hole, and will run through it, only to be inextricably trapped on the other side.
 |
| Did you think I was kidding? |
It's now the third morning since these makeshift walls were erected (I have to step over them to get through the doorway) and we haven't trapped a mouse yet. I make my husband get up to check, because I don't want to be the first person to see a trapped mouse at 6 in the morning.
*****
We finally caught the mouse the day after I wrote this. Not a moment too soon, as I'd begun to worry about new and extreme measures threatened by the male members of the household. I had already caught my 16-year-old son patrolling the kitchen, armed with a loaded BB gun. ("Mom. Trust me. It ran under the stove, and it has to come out eventually. When it does, I'll pop a cap in its ass.") Again, teenage boys are idiots, in case you missed my last post. Meanwhile, I'd begun to be afraid to walk through my own house in the dark, for fear that I'd end up in a bear trap, or hanging upside down by my ankle from a zip line.
So the stockings are hung by the chimney with care, and humans are the only creatures stirring, and that's the way we like it. Merry Christmas.
Sunday, November 19, 2017
Saturday afternoon and Sunday morning
Depression is nothing if not predictable. Not so much in when it comes back as in that it always does seem to come back. I don't like to talk about it anymore, not to anyone, so I just write about it here, and wait for it to go away.
When I don't want to get out of bed, and I don't want to do any of the things that I need or like to do, I make myself do them anyway. It helps a little bit. It helps to go out walking on Sunday morning and find that Running Lady is out running, and that Bike Helmet Guy is out for his morning ride, and that my neighbor is out walking the World's Happiest Dog. I don't really even know most of these people, but we always say hello because we're neighbors, and we like to be outside on Sunday mornings, even when it's cold. And you can't feel completely bad after two minutes with the WHD.
Another thing that's predictable: It always feels like it will never go away, and like the fog will never lift, but it always does.
*****
My younger son is a planner. He likes to be prepared. You never know, for example, when you might need a mini survival kit packed in an Altoids tin, or a large notebook and pens in every color, or a rolled-up towel, so he usually just tries to bring everything with him, just in case. He loves to go on trips and outings, and planning and packing are his favorite part of every trip.
We have to rein him in sometimes. Deep in the weeds of gathering every possible thing that he could ever possibly need, and in figuring out the perfect system for organizing and carrying it all, he will forget that one small 13-year-old boy won't enjoy a trip to Hersheypark when he's carrying a forty-pound pack containing extra socks and gloves, a freezer pack to keep chocolate from melting, a flashlight, and a water bottle big enough to sustain an expedition through the Gobi Desert. "Put that back," we tell him. "There are no circumstances under which you'll need a scientific calculator. And your fielder's glove is too heavy to carry all day."
I haven't been to Hersheypark since I was 15 or so. My son sent me pictures (he was invited to join a friend's birthday trip), and it's nothing like what I remember. But he had fun, and he bought king-size candy for all of us: A Mr. Goodbar for my husband, Reese's Cups for my other son, and a four-piece Mounds for me. I still have three left. So things can't be all bad.
*****
And I think that's all for now.
When I don't want to get out of bed, and I don't want to do any of the things that I need or like to do, I make myself do them anyway. It helps a little bit. It helps to go out walking on Sunday morning and find that Running Lady is out running, and that Bike Helmet Guy is out for his morning ride, and that my neighbor is out walking the World's Happiest Dog. I don't really even know most of these people, but we always say hello because we're neighbors, and we like to be outside on Sunday mornings, even when it's cold. And you can't feel completely bad after two minutes with the WHD.
Another thing that's predictable: It always feels like it will never go away, and like the fog will never lift, but it always does.
*****
My younger son is a planner. He likes to be prepared. You never know, for example, when you might need a mini survival kit packed in an Altoids tin, or a large notebook and pens in every color, or a rolled-up towel, so he usually just tries to bring everything with him, just in case. He loves to go on trips and outings, and planning and packing are his favorite part of every trip.
We have to rein him in sometimes. Deep in the weeds of gathering every possible thing that he could ever possibly need, and in figuring out the perfect system for organizing and carrying it all, he will forget that one small 13-year-old boy won't enjoy a trip to Hersheypark when he's carrying a forty-pound pack containing extra socks and gloves, a freezer pack to keep chocolate from melting, a flashlight, and a water bottle big enough to sustain an expedition through the Gobi Desert. "Put that back," we tell him. "There are no circumstances under which you'll need a scientific calculator. And your fielder's glove is too heavy to carry all day."
I haven't been to Hersheypark since I was 15 or so. My son sent me pictures (he was invited to join a friend's birthday trip), and it's nothing like what I remember. But he had fun, and he bought king-size candy for all of us: A Mr. Goodbar for my husband, Reese's Cups for my other son, and a four-piece Mounds for me. I still have three left. So things can't be all bad.
*****
And I think that's all for now.
Saturday, April 29, 2017
Sic transit gloria
What we have here is a total breakdown of law and order. It's Monday, and I haven't even MADE a to-do list yet. Now, I'm debating whether or not to even bother. I just finished a chore that I had particularly dreaded, and didn't even have the fun of crossing it off my list, because I don't have a list. TOTAL BREAKDOWN! Civilization is dead.
Why didn't I make a list? I'm sure that's what you're wondering. Well, I'm glad you asked. I didn't make a list because the list would have been so long that I couldn't even stand to think about it. This time of year, which already induces daily panic attacks for different reasons altogether, is also extremely busy. Yes, I know that's tiresome. You can't swing a cat without hitting some suburban mother who thinks she's the busiest person in the world. Maybe you're one of those people who wouldn't swing a cat under any circumstances. It takes all kinds, I suppose. But I really am a little busy. A full-time job, three volunteer jobs, and a house that's not going to compulsively clean itself leave little time for list-making and blogging about nothing.
Why do I have three volunteer jobs? I'm glad you asked that, too. It's because I'm an idiot.
*****
It's Tuesday. I finally wrote a to-do list, because I can't seem to breathe without one. Then, in a distinct violation of the to-do list end user license agreement, I wrote down a task that I had already finished, and then crossed it off. I'm pretty sure that I got nailed by a red light camera on my way home from work, too. Coincidence? Maybe. Or maybe just and deserved retribution for my unethical to-do list practices. I needed a red light camera ticket anyway; that is, if I want to make a Rosary out of my camera-issued traffic tickets, using speeding tickets as Hail Mary beads and red light tickets for the Our Fathers. I'll be almost two decades in after this latest ticket arrives in my mailbox. I got your Sorrowful Mysteries, right here.
And now I'm going to Hell, too. Damn it.
Or maybe not. I might have redeemed myself. I teach 8th grade catechism. Did I mention that? It's one of my volunteer jobs. I like 8th graders; I like adolescents in general. This group, however, is a little challenging, and one girl in particular can be very challenging. Often disruptive and occasionally disrespectful, she is also very bright and full of fun. It's hard not to like her.
This girl obviously likes one of the boys in the class, who obviously likes her in return. He is, I have learned (because people tell me stuff), one of the popular boys at the middle school that they both attend, and because the girl is not conventionally pretty, I think that his obvious attraction to her confuses him. He doesn't understand yet that he might not ever meet another girl as lively and fearless as she is.
But how does the redemption come in? Again, I'm glad you asked. When she came into class last night, I said hello, as I always do, and told her that I liked her hoodie. She smiled happily and said "Thanks! It's my favorite thing right now!" And that's when I decided not to tell her the whole truth, which is that I, her 51-year-old catechism teacher, have the same hoodie. That should be ten years off my purgatory sentence, at least.
*****
Wednesday. I left work early today for a doctor's appointment. It was weird to be at large at 3:30 in the afternoon.
After the doctor, I went grocery shopping. My husband called me as I was loading the groceries into the back of my car. As usual, he said "Safeway? You're at Safeway again? Didn't you just go to Safeway?" And as usual, I wondered how this could possibly be cause for questioning, because he and I both live with the same two teenage boys who eat is if it's their job, as if it's the actual profession for which they studied and trained. Blissfully unaware that the food that my sons consume in vast quantities will not replenish itself, he persists in asking me why I must return to the store, when I was just there.
My husband is a police detective, and speaking of vast quantities of food, he interviewed a crime victim today whose girlfriend is a competitive eater. As the man told my husband, this woman came in second in a recent competition to the woman who defeated Kobayashi. And so speaking of questions, this prompted several:
1. Competitive eating. Why? Why does this exist?
2. Why did I not need to ask "Who's Kobayashi?" Why did I know who he is?
3. WHAT AM I DOING WITH MY LIFE? Oh my God.
*****
Friday. Yes, I skipped Thursday. Well, except for one thing. Apparently, the rules no longer apply, and hockey players can now just throw their bodies onto the puck as if it was a football. Maybe they can just kick it into the net, now, too. Or toss it in, like a basketball. It's a damn free-for-all. Anything goes.
I'm home sick today. I can't stand being sick. But I did get two watch two episodes of "The Mary Tyler Moore Show," and one of them featured Rhoda's mother, played by the brilliant Nancy Walker. There's always a silver lining.
*****
I was flipping channels one night last week (yeah, I know--too busy to make a list, but not too busy to watch TV), and even though I've seen it a dozen times, I was delighted to find that "Rushmore" was on HBO (we had a free preview).
"Rushmore" is one of a small group of movies that I'll watch whenever they're on. These movies don't have to be good (for example, "The American President" and "Stepmom" are both really terrible movies that I can't seem to look away from when they're on) but "Rushmore" is really good. In fact, it's as good as movies get. There are movies that make me laugh really hard, and movies that make me cry, but there are only a small handful that make me both laugh and cry, over and over again. I'll laugh my head off every time Jason Schwartzman sneers "oh are they?" at clueless Luke Wilson, as Bill Murray nearly spits out his drink. And I'll cry happy happy tears every time Max offers his punctuality award to Herman, and then finally introduces him to his dad (the barber and not the neurosurgeon). A really good day for me is a day when I have an opportunity to say "Oh yeah? Well you tell that mick that he just made my list of things to do." I'm from an Irish-Catholic family, so that happens more often than you might think.
*****
Saturday: I don't have the strep that I thought I had, but I do have bronchitis, the cure for which is apparently nothing. The sun came out and I feel capable of doing something other than lying down, so I guess I'm getting better. My list is about 75% crossed off, and I don't care (that much) if I finish it or not. I'll start over again on Monday.
Why didn't I make a list? I'm sure that's what you're wondering. Well, I'm glad you asked. I didn't make a list because the list would have been so long that I couldn't even stand to think about it. This time of year, which already induces daily panic attacks for different reasons altogether, is also extremely busy. Yes, I know that's tiresome. You can't swing a cat without hitting some suburban mother who thinks she's the busiest person in the world. Maybe you're one of those people who wouldn't swing a cat under any circumstances. It takes all kinds, I suppose. But I really am a little busy. A full-time job, three volunteer jobs, and a house that's not going to compulsively clean itself leave little time for list-making and blogging about nothing.
Why do I have three volunteer jobs? I'm glad you asked that, too. It's because I'm an idiot.
*****
It's Tuesday. I finally wrote a to-do list, because I can't seem to breathe without one. Then, in a distinct violation of the to-do list end user license agreement, I wrote down a task that I had already finished, and then crossed it off. I'm pretty sure that I got nailed by a red light camera on my way home from work, too. Coincidence? Maybe. Or maybe just and deserved retribution for my unethical to-do list practices. I needed a red light camera ticket anyway; that is, if I want to make a Rosary out of my camera-issued traffic tickets, using speeding tickets as Hail Mary beads and red light tickets for the Our Fathers. I'll be almost two decades in after this latest ticket arrives in my mailbox. I got your Sorrowful Mysteries, right here.
And now I'm going to Hell, too. Damn it.
Or maybe not. I might have redeemed myself. I teach 8th grade catechism. Did I mention that? It's one of my volunteer jobs. I like 8th graders; I like adolescents in general. This group, however, is a little challenging, and one girl in particular can be very challenging. Often disruptive and occasionally disrespectful, she is also very bright and full of fun. It's hard not to like her.
This girl obviously likes one of the boys in the class, who obviously likes her in return. He is, I have learned (because people tell me stuff), one of the popular boys at the middle school that they both attend, and because the girl is not conventionally pretty, I think that his obvious attraction to her confuses him. He doesn't understand yet that he might not ever meet another girl as lively and fearless as she is.
But how does the redemption come in? Again, I'm glad you asked. When she came into class last night, I said hello, as I always do, and told her that I liked her hoodie. She smiled happily and said "Thanks! It's my favorite thing right now!" And that's when I decided not to tell her the whole truth, which is that I, her 51-year-old catechism teacher, have the same hoodie. That should be ten years off my purgatory sentence, at least.
 |
| "OMG! Twinsies! Wear it again next Tuesday--I'll totally wear mine, too!" |
*****
Wednesday. I left work early today for a doctor's appointment. It was weird to be at large at 3:30 in the afternoon.
After the doctor, I went grocery shopping. My husband called me as I was loading the groceries into the back of my car. As usual, he said "Safeway? You're at Safeway again? Didn't you just go to Safeway?" And as usual, I wondered how this could possibly be cause for questioning, because he and I both live with the same two teenage boys who eat is if it's their job, as if it's the actual profession for which they studied and trained. Blissfully unaware that the food that my sons consume in vast quantities will not replenish itself, he persists in asking me why I must return to the store, when I was just there.
My husband is a police detective, and speaking of vast quantities of food, he interviewed a crime victim today whose girlfriend is a competitive eater. As the man told my husband, this woman came in second in a recent competition to the woman who defeated Kobayashi. And so speaking of questions, this prompted several:
1. Competitive eating. Why? Why does this exist?
2. Why did I not need to ask "Who's Kobayashi?" Why did I know who he is?
3. WHAT AM I DOING WITH MY LIFE? Oh my God.
*****
Friday. Yes, I skipped Thursday. Well, except for one thing. Apparently, the rules no longer apply, and hockey players can now just throw their bodies onto the puck as if it was a football. Maybe they can just kick it into the net, now, too. Or toss it in, like a basketball. It's a damn free-for-all. Anything goes.
I'm home sick today. I can't stand being sick. But I did get two watch two episodes of "The Mary Tyler Moore Show," and one of them featured Rhoda's mother, played by the brilliant Nancy Walker. There's always a silver lining.
*****
I was flipping channels one night last week (yeah, I know--too busy to make a list, but not too busy to watch TV), and even though I've seen it a dozen times, I was delighted to find that "Rushmore" was on HBO (we had a free preview).
"Rushmore" is one of a small group of movies that I'll watch whenever they're on. These movies don't have to be good (for example, "The American President" and "Stepmom" are both really terrible movies that I can't seem to look away from when they're on) but "Rushmore" is really good. In fact, it's as good as movies get. There are movies that make me laugh really hard, and movies that make me cry, but there are only a small handful that make me both laugh and cry, over and over again. I'll laugh my head off every time Jason Schwartzman sneers "oh are they?" at clueless Luke Wilson, as Bill Murray nearly spits out his drink. And I'll cry happy happy tears every time Max offers his punctuality award to Herman, and then finally introduces him to his dad (the barber and not the neurosurgeon). A really good day for me is a day when I have an opportunity to say "Oh yeah? Well you tell that mick that he just made my list of things to do." I'm from an Irish-Catholic family, so that happens more often than you might think.
*****
Saturday: I don't have the strep that I thought I had, but I do have bronchitis, the cure for which is apparently nothing. The sun came out and I feel capable of doing something other than lying down, so I guess I'm getting better. My list is about 75% crossed off, and I don't care (that much) if I finish it or not. I'll start over again on Monday.
Tuesday, June 21, 2016
Boys of summer
I have a bunch of half-finished drafts about nothing in particular; whatever I happened to be thinking at the moment ended up in writing, only to be abandoned in draft limbo. Eventually, I'll finish and publish some of those half-finished posts, but the rest of them will languish, never to see the light of day. Those that I actually publish will mystify my reading public, because by the time I get around to finishing them, they'll no longer be relevant.
Anyway, it's been several weeks since I've posted anything, and I just felt like writing something other than my novel, which I'm still working on. Since I can only work on it for a few minutes a day, it's going very slowly, but I haven't lost interest yet, so I suppose that's a sign that I should continue. I have another fiction idea, but it will have to wait, likely for a long time. I can read two books at once, but I can only write one at a time.
This was one of the weirdest springs ever, with March-like weather right through the third week of May. And then, just like that, it was summer. Saturday of Memorial Day weekend showed up bright and sunny and hot, and the pool opened, and everyone emerged from hibernation all at once. It's really summer now, and it feels like it's always been summer and it always will be.
*****
When I run out of things to write about, I can always write about these two boys:
Some backtracking is necessary. A few days ago, my husband impulsively bought the car that's partially pictured here. It's a 1980 Mercedes 450 SL convertible. Apparently, money does grow on trees, and the mid-life crisis-driven purchase of red convertibles is a common real-world occurrence, and not just a sitcom plot. It could be worse, I suppose. And I have to admit that the car is beautiful, even though I'm afraid to drive it.
But back to the boys. They are my 11-year-old son, in the driver's seat, and his best friend. They have been friends since they were four, and they never tire of each other, even during the summer, when most days they meet at 8:30 AM for swim practice, and then spend the entire day together, until well into the evening, and then pick up where they left off at the next morning's swim practice. When they're not driving without a license, they're making a commercial for a product they invented ("But it's a scam, Mom. Because our product is terrible.") or making goalie pads out of foam rubber and cardboard, or waterskiing on land (boy on rollerblades attached via bungee cord to boy driving motorized electric scooter) or debating the relative merits of the Beastie Boys' discography. I have little to offer that is as entertaining as a conversation between these two. And listening to them makes me feel like it's always been summer, and it always will be.
Anyway, it's been several weeks since I've posted anything, and I just felt like writing something other than my novel, which I'm still working on. Since I can only work on it for a few minutes a day, it's going very slowly, but I haven't lost interest yet, so I suppose that's a sign that I should continue. I have another fiction idea, but it will have to wait, likely for a long time. I can read two books at once, but I can only write one at a time.
This was one of the weirdest springs ever, with March-like weather right through the third week of May. And then, just like that, it was summer. Saturday of Memorial Day weekend showed up bright and sunny and hot, and the pool opened, and everyone emerged from hibernation all at once. It's really summer now, and it feels like it's always been summer and it always will be.
*****
When I run out of things to write about, I can always write about these two boys:
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| What up, ladies? |
But back to the boys. They are my 11-year-old son, in the driver's seat, and his best friend. They have been friends since they were four, and they never tire of each other, even during the summer, when most days they meet at 8:30 AM for swim practice, and then spend the entire day together, until well into the evening, and then pick up where they left off at the next morning's swim practice. When they're not driving without a license, they're making a commercial for a product they invented ("But it's a scam, Mom. Because our product is terrible.") or making goalie pads out of foam rubber and cardboard, or waterskiing on land (boy on rollerblades attached via bungee cord to boy driving motorized electric scooter) or debating the relative merits of the Beastie Boys' discography. I have little to offer that is as entertaining as a conversation between these two. And listening to them makes me feel like it's always been summer, and it always will be.
Thursday, January 21, 2016
Lovely weather we're having
This is the proverbial calm before the proverbial storm. I finally turned off the local news channel because I just couldn't bear to hear one more word about the potentially historic snowstorm that's bearing down on Washington, DC right now, nor about the very real possibility that we'll be snowbound and without power for days after the snow hits. Right now, we're cozy and secure: The house is stocked with food and other essentials, schools are closed tomorrow, and there's a neat pile of recently chopped firewood right outside. We'll be fine.
My husband loves me, and I love him. This doesn't stop us, though, from engaging in frequent marital chop-busting. There are variations. Sometimes, it's event-specific, like after I received my fifth speed camera ticket in 2009*; or like when security man, who never stops nagging me about locking my car, went out and left the front door WIDE OPEN (an event which he denies any memory of, two years after it most assuredly took place.) At other times, the busting of chops is focused on particular quirks. I never answer my phone, and he'll interrupt anything to answer his. I misplace things all the time, while he can engage in a lengthy conversation with me and then just minutes later, forget that the entire conversation took place. Today, we went a few rounds of what I call situational chop-busting. This is distinguished from event-specific chop busting in that it occurs during a recurring situation, such as putting up Christmas lights, or negotiating over playlists for a road trip. Or shoveling snow.
My normal snow-shoveling method consists of standing at the kitchen window. That's why I got married, I'll think to myself as I watch my husband shovel. Today, however, there's really just too much snow for one person to handle. So I put on my boots and jacket, picked up a shovel, and started to move snow with it. How long do you suppose it took for him to begin offering helpful critiques of my shoveling technique? If you guessed anything longer than 10 seconds, you're wrong.
"Hey hon?" he said.
Holy Mother of God, I thought. Already? He has a helpful snow-shoveling hint already?
"What?" I said, in what I hoped was a "don't start with me" voice. By the way, I'm not sure why I even bother with the "don't start with me" voice, because it has no effect whatsoever on him.
"Try to move the snow to your right, not to your left. See, that just adds more snow in back of your car, and I'm eventually going to have to shovel that out, too."
"Fine," I said, in what I felt was a very clear "shut the hell up" tone. The "shut the hell up" tone, incidentally, is also lost on him.
Since we were trying to shovel out his truck, because that's the only thing we'll be able to drive in an emergency, I thought that it would be wise to clean the truck off first, so that I could then shovel up the snow already on the ground along with the snow that I cleaned off the truck. That's good thinking, right? I thought so, too.
"Hon?"
Jesus Christ on the Cross, I thought.
"WHAT?"
"You should use the broom on my car. Good idea to clean the truck off first, but you should use the broom."
"There's two fucking feet of snow on this truck," I said. "Nothing but a shovel is going to make the slightest dent in this snow. I'm not going to hurt your car." I couldn't promise that I wouldn't assault him with the shovel, but I was very careful with the car.
He continued to shovel without further comment. HA, I thought, I WIN! How long do you think his diplomatic silence lasted? If you guessed any length of time longer than thirty seconds, you are wrong again.
"Hon?"
"WHAAAAAT????" A blind and deaf person would have clearly discerned the "God help you if you say one more word" tone, but he missed it entirely.
"Don't you see where you're shoveling? That's the grass, there. You don't need to shovel the snow off the grass. Just concentrate on making a path down to the street for the truck."
"NO, I can't see where I'm shoveling because AGAIN, there's TWO FEET OF SNOW OUT HERE. How am I supposed to distinguish grass from pavement when they're both under two feet of snow?"
"Yeah, but the truck is parked on the bump-out, and the grass is right behind the bump-out. Even you should know where the driveway ends and the grass begins".
"Oh REALLY? Well you know what else? EVEN I know that you're wearing a woman's hat!"
"What are you talking about? My mom made this hat."
"Yeah, I know. She made it for me. It's a lavender and teal crocheted cap with a tassel on top. What about this hat says menswear to you?"
"The fact that it's keeping my head warm. I don't care what the hat looks like, my head feels just fine."
"And it looks downright pretty. I have a scarf to match, I can get it for you."
"No, don't bother. You just keep shoveling out the lawn in case someone wants to play badminton. When you're finished, you can climb up and shake the snow off the tree branches...you never know if a hibernating squirrel's going to need an ambulance up there."
I crack up at things that are far less funny than that, so the back-and-forth ceased for a few minutes. I'm nothing if not gracious in defeat. This was a good-natured argument to begin with, but even if it wasn't, I'd have laughed at the tree suggestion.
We continued to shovel for a bit, talking about this and that. Did I see how the mailboxes were just barely poking out of the snow? Yes, I did. Did he know that the Postal Service had announced that there would be no mail delivery today? No, really? Yes, and they'll probably close school on Monday, too.
I was finally tired, so I decided to take a break. "Go ahead," he said indulgently. "I'm going to keep going for a while...it's good that you cleared off some of that grass, just in case anyone needs to practice putting."
I put my shovel down. "That's still a woman's hat," I said.
* So many more speed camera tickets since then. I lost count at 12. I wish I was joking about that.
We get a fair amount of snow in DC, but the last (crippling, historic, catastrophic, fill-in-the-blank adjective) snowstorm that I can remember was in early 2010. This is something I wrote the day after that storm. I'm posting it again because we're nothing if not predictable, and it's very likely that some variation of this will play out on Saturday. Snow is not the only thing we need shovels for.
January 2010
I like snow as well as the next person, which is to say not much at all. This is entirely too much snow.
My husband loves me, and I love him. This doesn't stop us, though, from engaging in frequent marital chop-busting. There are variations. Sometimes, it's event-specific, like after I received my fifth speed camera ticket in 2009*; or like when security man, who never stops nagging me about locking my car, went out and left the front door WIDE OPEN (an event which he denies any memory of, two years after it most assuredly took place.) At other times, the busting of chops is focused on particular quirks. I never answer my phone, and he'll interrupt anything to answer his. I misplace things all the time, while he can engage in a lengthy conversation with me and then just minutes later, forget that the entire conversation took place. Today, we went a few rounds of what I call situational chop-busting. This is distinguished from event-specific chop busting in that it occurs during a recurring situation, such as putting up Christmas lights, or negotiating over playlists for a road trip. Or shoveling snow.
My normal snow-shoveling method consists of standing at the kitchen window. That's why I got married, I'll think to myself as I watch my husband shovel. Today, however, there's really just too much snow for one person to handle. So I put on my boots and jacket, picked up a shovel, and started to move snow with it. How long do you suppose it took for him to begin offering helpful critiques of my shoveling technique? If you guessed anything longer than 10 seconds, you're wrong.
"Hey hon?" he said.
Holy Mother of God, I thought. Already? He has a helpful snow-shoveling hint already?
"What?" I said, in what I hoped was a "don't start with me" voice. By the way, I'm not sure why I even bother with the "don't start with me" voice, because it has no effect whatsoever on him.
"Try to move the snow to your right, not to your left. See, that just adds more snow in back of your car, and I'm eventually going to have to shovel that out, too."
"Fine," I said, in what I felt was a very clear "shut the hell up" tone. The "shut the hell up" tone, incidentally, is also lost on him.
Since we were trying to shovel out his truck, because that's the only thing we'll be able to drive in an emergency, I thought that it would be wise to clean the truck off first, so that I could then shovel up the snow already on the ground along with the snow that I cleaned off the truck. That's good thinking, right? I thought so, too.
"Hon?"
Jesus Christ on the Cross, I thought.
"WHAT?"
"You should use the broom on my car. Good idea to clean the truck off first, but you should use the broom."
"There's two fucking feet of snow on this truck," I said. "Nothing but a shovel is going to make the slightest dent in this snow. I'm not going to hurt your car." I couldn't promise that I wouldn't assault him with the shovel, but I was very careful with the car.
He continued to shovel without further comment. HA, I thought, I WIN! How long do you think his diplomatic silence lasted? If you guessed any length of time longer than thirty seconds, you are wrong again.
"Hon?"
"WHAAAAAT????" A blind and deaf person would have clearly discerned the "God help you if you say one more word" tone, but he missed it entirely.
"Don't you see where you're shoveling? That's the grass, there. You don't need to shovel the snow off the grass. Just concentrate on making a path down to the street for the truck."
"NO, I can't see where I'm shoveling because AGAIN, there's TWO FEET OF SNOW OUT HERE. How am I supposed to distinguish grass from pavement when they're both under two feet of snow?"
"Yeah, but the truck is parked on the bump-out, and the grass is right behind the bump-out. Even you should know where the driveway ends and the grass begins".
"Oh REALLY? Well you know what else? EVEN I know that you're wearing a woman's hat!"
"What are you talking about? My mom made this hat."
"Yeah, I know. She made it for me. It's a lavender and teal crocheted cap with a tassel on top. What about this hat says menswear to you?"
"The fact that it's keeping my head warm. I don't care what the hat looks like, my head feels just fine."
"And it looks downright pretty. I have a scarf to match, I can get it for you."
"No, don't bother. You just keep shoveling out the lawn in case someone wants to play badminton. When you're finished, you can climb up and shake the snow off the tree branches...you never know if a hibernating squirrel's going to need an ambulance up there."
I crack up at things that are far less funny than that, so the back-and-forth ceased for a few minutes. I'm nothing if not gracious in defeat. This was a good-natured argument to begin with, but even if it wasn't, I'd have laughed at the tree suggestion.
We continued to shovel for a bit, talking about this and that. Did I see how the mailboxes were just barely poking out of the snow? Yes, I did. Did he know that the Postal Service had announced that there would be no mail delivery today? No, really? Yes, and they'll probably close school on Monday, too.
I was finally tired, so I decided to take a break. "Go ahead," he said indulgently. "I'm going to keep going for a while...it's good that you cleared off some of that grass, just in case anyone needs to practice putting."
I put my shovel down. "That's still a woman's hat," I said.
* So many more speed camera tickets since then. I lost count at 12. I wish I was joking about that.
Tuesday, September 29, 2015
I hear her voice in the morning hour she calls me
We went to the KORUS festival last Saturday. We're a hybrid family (Korean-American husband, Caucasian wife, mixed children) so we fit right in. This particular festival, though, was far more US than KOR, and more weird than either.
The top-level parking deck at Tyson's Corner Center is first of all a less-than-festive venue for a festival, particularly on a hot day. Almost all of the tents belonged to corporate or political sponsors; small-time electioneering ahead of the mid-terms was in full swing, and my sons collected stickers, pens, and shopping bags from council, register-of-wills, and judicial candidates. We can't vote for any of them, of course; we live in Maryland.
The stage was occupied by a Korean girl rapper who was accompanied by a Black rapper and backing band. The rap was in English, and Christian-themed. Both rappers claimed to be former thug lifers, almost lost to crack and the street, but now redeemed, having found the Lord. I didn't fact-check them. The audience regarded them with a mixture of puzzlement and curiosity.
We wandered around to see the other exhibitors, who were mostly food vendors. My husband waited in line for bulgogi and kimchi, while I took my two-year-old nephew for frozen yogurt. Disregarding my advice to enjoy the female attention now when it's readily available, he ignored the two halmonis who smiled and waved and made faces and tried their hardest to get a tiny smile or giggle from the Toddler of Nope. He ate his yogurt and barely deigned to turn his head toward the ladies. When he did, he gave them no more than a baleful stare.
After an hour or so, we'd seen all of the exhibitors once and had just begun one last circuit to make sure that we hadn't missed anything. Anyone in the audience who had thought that witnessing the rap performance had moved them into "Now I've Seen It All" territory had only to hang around for a few minutes, when they'd have heard a Korean version of "Country Roads," made even better by a Korean dance team dressed in rhinestone-studded satin cowboy dresses.
My Korean husband, born in Seoul and raised in the close-in suburbs of Washington DC, has always claimed that he should have been a country boy. He's more urban than a subway pass, but that doesn't stop him from rhapsodizing about country living. He'd bale his own hay, and he'd grow his own food, and he'd live off the grid, if only he were in the country.
"This is what I'm talking about," he said. "See? My people know that I'm a country boy. They're singing my song." On a sun-beaten blacktop parking platform connecting one wing of a suburban mall to another, just off one of the most heavily traveled Capital Beltway exits, surrounded by high-density mixed-use development, which is surrounded by traditional suburban sprawl, an all-American Korean longs for the place where he belongs, which is apparently West Virginia. Meanwhile, the heat reflecting off the blacktop beneath our feet and the relentless sun overhead were finally enough. "Take me home," I said.
The top-level parking deck at Tyson's Corner Center is first of all a less-than-festive venue for a festival, particularly on a hot day. Almost all of the tents belonged to corporate or political sponsors; small-time electioneering ahead of the mid-terms was in full swing, and my sons collected stickers, pens, and shopping bags from council, register-of-wills, and judicial candidates. We can't vote for any of them, of course; we live in Maryland.
The stage was occupied by a Korean girl rapper who was accompanied by a Black rapper and backing band. The rap was in English, and Christian-themed. Both rappers claimed to be former thug lifers, almost lost to crack and the street, but now redeemed, having found the Lord. I didn't fact-check them. The audience regarded them with a mixture of puzzlement and curiosity.
We wandered around to see the other exhibitors, who were mostly food vendors. My husband waited in line for bulgogi and kimchi, while I took my two-year-old nephew for frozen yogurt. Disregarding my advice to enjoy the female attention now when it's readily available, he ignored the two halmonis who smiled and waved and made faces and tried their hardest to get a tiny smile or giggle from the Toddler of Nope. He ate his yogurt and barely deigned to turn his head toward the ladies. When he did, he gave them no more than a baleful stare.
After an hour or so, we'd seen all of the exhibitors once and had just begun one last circuit to make sure that we hadn't missed anything. Anyone in the audience who had thought that witnessing the rap performance had moved them into "Now I've Seen It All" territory had only to hang around for a few minutes, when they'd have heard a Korean version of "Country Roads," made even better by a Korean dance team dressed in rhinestone-studded satin cowboy dresses.
My Korean husband, born in Seoul and raised in the close-in suburbs of Washington DC, has always claimed that he should have been a country boy. He's more urban than a subway pass, but that doesn't stop him from rhapsodizing about country living. He'd bale his own hay, and he'd grow his own food, and he'd live off the grid, if only he were in the country.
"This is what I'm talking about," he said. "See? My people know that I'm a country boy. They're singing my song." On a sun-beaten blacktop parking platform connecting one wing of a suburban mall to another, just off one of the most heavily traveled Capital Beltway exits, surrounded by high-density mixed-use development, which is surrounded by traditional suburban sprawl, an all-American Korean longs for the place where he belongs, which is apparently West Virginia. Meanwhile, the heat reflecting off the blacktop beneath our feet and the relentless sun overhead were finally enough. "Take me home," I said.
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