Welcome to the jungle. Wild & exotic truths, semi-truths and lots of lush exaggeration. ....Celia
Thursday, April 24, 2003
LOST! Have YOU seen this Sea Monkey? Answers to "Cyril" Lost in Conspicuous Consumption Mall area while shopping for tiny hats! If you have seen this sea monkey, please leave a frantically worded "comment." (Please don't feed the sea monkey---he is being rehabilitated for release back into the wild!) REWARD!
In this rare glimpse, a young aboriginal can be seen jealously guarding the chips 'n' dip she brought down herself. Note the spinach and cheese gore splattered everywhere. (Parental discretion is advised.)
Why can't men find things? I don't mean things that are lost or hidden, I just mean everyday objects and belongings, which are where they are supposed to be. Whenever my husband leaves the house, the proceeding 20 minutes go something like this:
HIM: Have you seen my belt?
ME: Well, the last time I wore it....
HIM: Where are my socks? Why don't I have any clean socks? (Frantically tossing through the dirty clothes hamper.)
ME: Have you checked your sock drawer?
HIM: (Ripping the cushions off the couch.)
ME: (Hazarding a guess.) You're looking for change? Your wallet?
HIM: No! My keys! Have you seen my keys?
And so on...
When he cooks, or just stands in the open refrigerator door, seemingly in a trance:
HIM: We're out of catsup. (He's eating ice cream.)
ME: There's a half-full bottle on the door and a new one in the pantry.
HIM: (Laughing condescendingly.) Noooooo, I've looked. There's no catsup.
ME: Look on the door, second shelf down, on the left.
HIM: Nope. No catsup. Man, now I have to go to the store....have you seen my keys?
ME: Here's your catsup.
HIM: Where did you get that? That was NOT in there!
He's started getting a little sensitive about this, and now sometimes tries to get me to help him, before he actually has to ask for help. Yesterday, he was tearing the house apart. I ignored him, but eventually, he was practically on top of me and rummaging like mad. I sighed. "What are you looking for?" I wonder why men's intractible refusal to ask for driving directions doesn't extend to this.
"A book, a yellow and black book, have you seen it?" he muttered.
"What's it called?" I inquired. He mumbled something unintelligible.
"Autocad for Dummies."
Give me credit. I didn't say a word, only pulled the book out of the stack he'd already yanked from the bookcase and handed it to him.
This morning I went to the dentist for my twice-yearly "prophylactic," which is what they now call cleanings. Considering the whole-body condom the hygenist wears, I guess it's pretty appropriate. Not to mention the $60 charge for what essentially takes ten minutes to finish.
Anyway, I had a few other errands and was gone for two hours, leaving my husband alone with our toddler. When I walked in the door, he met me in the front hall (I think that's where we were; the layer of detrius all over everything obscured the details.), our little girl hanging under one arm and a mangled carton of yogurt in the other. "I can NOT handle this anymore right now!" he declared.
Uh-huh. This is the guy who walks in at the end of the day----or the week, if he's been out of town---looks around at a fairly tidy yard, house, kid, wife and pets, and says somewhat patronizingly, "So what did you do all day/week?" These little two-hour solos he does occasionally must be immediately deleted from his brain file the minute they're over, or he couldn't ask that question with a straight face.
It's hard to explain, it really is, so I thought I'd make up a little schedule of my typical day (one where I only have to leave the house once), and see if that clarifies anything for him.
7:30-8:00 am- Get up, start coffee, make bed while child jumps up and down on it and dogs run around under my feet barking.
8:00-9:30 am- Fix child breakfast. Make child laugh hysterically by dragging her around the kitchen on my foot. Pull her out of refrigerator seven times. Feed her, finally. Clean oatmeal off child, high chair, floor, table, walls, and light fixtures. Dress child. Take shower with door open and water shooting everywhere because child and dogs want to watch. Cut myself shaving because child finds my navel.
9:30-10:45am Dry self, child and dogs. Re-dress child. Start a wash of the 3 dozen towels it took to sop up the bathroom. Unload dishwasher and find my hairbrush in there, dammit! But wait, hey---it's clean---huh. How 'bout that. Get child in car for "tumbling" class. Oops....run back inside and dress self. Drive away. Go back for purse which I set on top of car while strapping child in seat.
11:00-2:15pm Tumbling class. Home from tumbling class. Lunch time. Repeat breakfast, only with yogurt and cheese toast and little green peas. Put clean wet clothes in dryer. This takes alone takes twenty minutes because child helps. Run to answer phone. Come back, child has taken iniative and put all dirty clothes in dryer with clean. Start over.
2:15-4:30pm Naptime! Child sleeps, I start to really get moving, get something done...Neighbor comes by, dogs bark, wake child. Put child back to sleep, neighbor stays until child wakes up again.
4:30-5:30pm Snack and video time. See breakfast and lunch.
5:50-6:30pm Take walk.
6:30-8:30pm Pull dead leaf off geranium and fix supper. See fix breakfast. Feed child. See breakfast/lunch/snack.
8:30-9:30pm Bath time for child. Same as my shower only with toys. Get the 3 dozen momentarily clean, dry towels and sop up that bathroom.
It isn't that I don't think, with a little practice, my husband couldn't handle this job, too. I just don't think he could handle the hours, the pay, and the recognition and accolades that (riiiight) go along with it. All that being said, I will admit this: the perqs are outta this world. At the risk of sounding sappy, the truth is, I look at my baby's merry little face lifted in a kiss, feel a sticky little hand slip into mine----and I know I'm the luckiest salt miner in the world.
Pressed for time today, but if you haven't had your daily dose of weirdness, check out this site . It has three stories by Ulrich Haarbürste, who, and I quote, "likes to write stories about Roy Orbison being wrapped up in cling-film." I'm not making this up. posted by Celia 9:34 PM
Sunday, April 20, 2003
"One of the Kings of the Jungle"
Okay, one more thing, because the Easter Bunny has to get up early. Over on Wendy City, I found that Wendy, who reliably posts just the darndest links, had this one tonight: Babelfish. It's a little dohickey that translates just about any language into just about any other language---how cool is that?
So, for fun, I did a search for Britany Spears, thinking there ought be be plenty of foreign fodder on that subject. Well, there was, but it wasn't exactly G-rated fare. In fact, just reading the site descriptions was enough to induce hormonal fluctuations...and I don't even like Britany...or girls....or...ah, you know. So I tried George Clooney. Paydirt! The French Celebrites had a recent article, so I merrily posted the URL into the translater, and this is what I got. It's probably just another glitch on the same gene that caused me to crack up over the article on the teenager who got shot in the face with a live frog (from some kind of homemade bazooka...don't ask. And I mean, the kid's in the hospital, what's wrong with me?), but this just had me rolling.
A mouth in Hollywood It is one of the men best equipped with Hollywood. The class quasi british. It leaves in war against the paparrazi, in crusade against the media with pewters. It pretty promised in marriage French which is worth the ones of Paris Match. to him, And a black pig like pet.
It it is George Clooney. A still unknown guy 3 years ago. And from now on to arrange ray charmer with the striking down smile.............Faithful until the end with those which bring to him. George became meanwhile one of the kings of the jungle...
Evidently, Babelfish does a pretty literal translation. Either that, or this explains why the French are so confused about life.
Yesterday, I purchased (a fairly expensive) something I really needed ---not wanted, but needed---) from someone online. I have done this in the past, and all has ultimately gone well, but it still makes me just a leeetle nervous. The whole oh-please-god-what-am-I-doing phase, between my money leaving and my item arriving (and being what it is supposed to be) has always been eased by lots of emails and occasional phone calls flying to and fro between me and Dear Seller, and (I guess) the Paypal verification process. All of which may be flimsy, but is reassuring nonetheless.
BTW, if you're getting all intrigued by the purchase itself, let's just pretend you already found out and were disappointed, because it isn't anabolic steroids, farm animal porn, or anything else that comes in a plain brown wrapper. (I hear.) It's just that explaining it would be too, too exhausting. Repeat after me: Exhaustion is bad.
This seller, though, vanished between my hitting "send payment" and this evening, when she finally replied to my 403rd politely phrased email requesting she bring me up to speed on my package. Here's what she wrote:
I did get you payment Thank you... And Yes I did mail it off today! Let me know when you get it, WE are going out the the country on a church group to Africa so I won't be back for 4 month's! I wish you the best!
Oh. Well, that explains it, she's probably busy packing and...WHAT? She's going continent-hopping just when exactly? I don't want to hear this. Or if I have to hear this, I want details, dammit! Hey, L, I'm talking to you! Mailed it how? What country, on what date, which church? Things are a little unstable in Africa lots of places; I can't be calling consulates all over the Dark Continent, looking for you, if my stuff doesn't turn up and you caught the Rwandan Redeye on Easter Sunday, for crying out loud. Maybe your being with a church group is supposed to be a relief, but hey, it could be the Church of Satanic Impulses for all I know (financed no doubt, by internet selling scams). Groan.
Needless to say, I wrote back immediately. At first my email looked like the previous paragraph, but then I reconsidered revealing my hysteria (always time for that later) and tried being wily instead, you know: "Oh, L-----, dear lady, how perfectly riveting. I probably won't sleep tonight unless you write back right now, this minute and tell me all about it. Perhaps I might be interested in joining your church or at least making a hefty donation. Did I mention I changed banks recently? The check-art at BS Bank is so much trendier than at my old one. I don't go to bed until----ever, so you write back soon, you hear?" Or something like that.
Happy Easter to all! And the first one to tell me I'm an idiot is a rotten egg.