Crazy Jewish Lady

I went to my book club meeting for the Snowman. There's this Jewish lady who always comes without finishing the book. We had soft cheese and crackers to snack on, and she accidentally licked the knife. I'm not into calling people by their religion or whatever, but she always announces herself, "I'm Jewish." And so it is.

Then she looks at me in a different sort of way when she learns my name, which is a very Jewish name, so after the book club meeting, when I am returning my book in the library, I tell her,

"I have a Jewish name because my mother is Jewish."

This was maybe a Mistake.

She put her arm around me and yelled out to everyone in the library,

"Hey, can you believe this girl has Jewish blood in her! Yes! She is a Jew! Can you believe it?"

Fact: My mom converted to be Jewish. Although my mom is Jewish, I technically have no Jewish blood in me.

Fact: My Jewish friend was not using an appropriate library voice.

Fact: I was too embarrassed to correct the error. I am not of Jewish blood, but I was afraid to say so.

A blond woman then described to all how she recently found out that her great grandfather was 100% Cherokee! Who knew? Genetics is so strange.

I was happy to have the attention off of me. I went quietly away to my husband's Japanese convertible, because my car was in the shop. My Volkswagen. (My Jewish friend will never buy a German car.)

Fact: White lies are easier to live with than flat out lies.

Fact: My German car had some messed up electrical issues.

Fact: I like to write "Fact:" and then say somewhat mundane things.

Our Little Artistic Temperament

My daughter is a great kid, of course. I mean, she's ours. Which means she is like us, for better or worse. Which means she is intelligent, sensitive, artistic, creative, stubborn, obstinate, and randomly throws outlandish fits over nothing at all. She's just like us.

Like, today, you know. Today she built a bridge out of popsicle sticks. And then she glued them together carefully. For half an hour. Carefully. Concentrating. And then she screamed,


"No! Don't destroy your bridge!"

And BAH grabbed her and wrapped his arms around her, kicking and screaming, he grabbed her (even though Babyfoot clearly did not want him to grab her, kicking and screaming) and then I took over and finally let her loose, on the promise she would not destroy her bridge. And she destroyed a heart drawing she had made earlier, instead. It was like she had to destroy something.

This kind of thing happens pretty often. If something is not perfect, she starts complaining that she doesn't know how to make it, and she sort of builds up like a volcano and Destructo Z EXPLODES!!!!

When she was a baby, we used to call her, "Our Little Volcano".


I have been reading, The Snowman.

It's this fantastic murder mystery. It takes place in Norway.

The story took an amazing turn today, as I was reading. I was sitting on the futon in the dining room, and BAH walked by. He said,

"You haven't seen that big dog before?"


"Oh my god! You didn't even notice the sheriff was here, did you?"

Well, no. I was too busy reading my police mystery!

Rare Politcal/ Religious Rant

I guess I am not Muslim and I do not understand Muslims. However, I am an atheist and I am quite regularly insulted by every religious group on Earth - except for the Tibetan Buddhists, so I respect them quite a bit. All sorts of false assumptions are made about me as an atheist, and I ignore them. So many bad things are assumed about atheists that I never publicly admit to being one. These people who make terrible assumptions do not know me and I don't care. Who cares if all Christians believe I am going to hell? I do not share their belief system. Even when people tell me personally that I am going to hell, I just don't give them any energy. Their experiences have led them to different beliefs.

I guess I also have a thick skin because I teach thirteen year olds.

So, I do not understand. I am baffled that people have actually been killed now because Mohamed has been insulted. This Youtube video was clearly produced by someone just to anger Muslims. So, if I were a Muslim, I would, oh, I don't know, ignore it?

This is my perspective: At any given moment in time, 90 percent of the world will not agree with me. So what?

All I can think of to be compassionate to the Muslim rioters world wide is this: They don't understand that one crazy person in America does not speak for America. And they do not understand free speech. This is a tragedy, that they should not understand these two concepts fundamental to our very existence. It's terrible. What can we do?

The Babyfoot Chronicles

Bad Assed Husband (BAH) broke a bone in his foot a little over a week ago. The cast is removable, and he was told that he could take it off while relaxing. While he was relaxing, I noticed that the skin on the broken foot was whiter than his other skin. The skin stretched smooth over the swollen foot. It looked like a baby's foot, so wrinkle free and puffy. It was almost cute, yet strangely wrong looking on a grown man.

BAH is out at the moment, so I cannot take a photo, but the foot looked something like this:

... but with a hairy man leg attached.

So, BAH thought that was really funny, that he had a Baby Foot. And thus was "Babyfoot" born.

"Babyfoot is tired," he says when he comes home from work. (Babyfoot has this Babyfoot voice, too, sort of like Towley.)"Babyfoot had to walk so far today! That makes Babyfoot want to cry. Waaa."

I am terrified of Babyfoot.

"Babyfoot doesn't want to be confined in that stupid boot anymore," apparently. "Babyfoot wants to be free!"

I don't want Babyfoot to be free. I want Babyfoot locked up in that boot where nothing bad can happen to Babyfoot. I see Babyfoot propped up on an ottoman, all naked and Babyfoot like, and I just know I'm going to drop a bowling ball on Babyfoot! Then Babyfoot will look like this:

Owner of Babyfoot does not share my fear, and just lets Babyfoot go galavanting around any old way. The night before last, Babyfoot bonked into the bed frame and got hurt. Babyfoot is looking a little bit green and purple now, not so Pure White Babyfootish. More just plain old Hurtfoot than Babyfoot, actually.

I think we all miss Regular Healthy Man Foot a whole lot. I hope he comes home soon.

The Week in Review

The week started with BAH breaking his foot, and ended with a near tragic beer calamity!

Little Z started kindergarten on Tuesday. I am too tender hearted to start kindergarten, myself. I go with her every morning and drop her off, and my belief in public education completely dissolves. Those poor souls. We should just let them stay with their mommies for all of eternity. Most of them are fine, happy, but there are the few who are so lost, so not ready to join the grind. Little Z seems okay, though. My main advice to her was,

"Use the bathroom every break they give you. That way, you won't pee on the bus," and she said,
"I learned that already in preschool."

Did you know that they don't have nap time anymore in kindergarten? Unbelievable.

I fretted about her all day, while I was at my first day of school.

But, all went well. After I picked her up at the bus (right outside our house- such service!) she informed me that a naughty boy had told the teacher that he hated her,
"Not even in his indoor voice, either- he yelled it! And we were inside!" and also, she said, "The bus was like a roller coaster!"

So, my second piece of advice to her, after the bit about going to the bathroom when you can, was,
"Don't make friends with that kid who hates the teacher. Be nice to him, but keep your distance."

"I will show a good example and he will learn to be nice someday!" she said.

Well, probably not. But I just nodded and smiled.

At one of the schools where I teach, I had a parent complain that her daughter, "said she was the only white kid in the class. Is that true? We're not racist, but..."

I could go on, but I won't!

Every year I teach, I enjoy it a little bit more.

Having a husband with a broken foot and a hobby farm makes for a very busy me. So busy, in fact, I lost three pounds this week. How careless of me.

I didn't drink beer all week because I was disgusted with how much beer I drank last week. BAH still wanted beer, though, so I was carrying his beer and getting the mail at the same time, and tragically, I dropped the beer. The tops of the beer caps came loose and beer started squirting all over the street. None of the beers were broken, though. Just the caps came off, partly. I righted them, still squirting, and brought them into the sink.

They were all going to just go flat! Beer, precious beer, wasted! It was clearly a sign from god that I had to drink the beer- not that I believe in god when she isn't telling me to drink beer. Anyway, I saved the beer. My good deed for the day. I drank it. Then went to meet the school bus. I may now be known by the bus driver as: That Drunk Mom. Or not.


I realized I was going to have to mow the lawn. I had never done that before. I cook and clean, like every good feminist, and pretend like I don't, and he mows the lawn. Of course. But he couldn't mow the lawn, even on the riding mower, because the brake is on his bad foot side. I said,

"So, how do you mow the lawn?" and he said,

"What do you mean how do you mow the lawn? You drive the lawn mower around the yard and it mows the lawn!"

I wrote that down carefully on my note pad. Then I went and mowed the lawn.

It was surprisingly fun. I only hit the truck with the riding mower once!


Building Stuff, The Grand Finale: Stargazing Station

Bad Assed Husband and I put up the frame, and then I did the rest myself. The idea is to lay on the top outside at night, look at the stars, and hope that no bears climb up to join you. Or raccoons. Or coyotes. Mostly bears. Five year olds are okay, mostly. Five year old people, I mean.

This is it:

It's sort of like a boat.

Now, back to work. Because I have done absolutely nothing all summer! Just like all of the lazy teachers in America.

Save the brats!

Bad Assed Husband broke his foot today. It happened like this: he was barbecuing, and he walked down the back door steps, but he didn't walk down the back door steps, he fell down the back door steps. They are concrete.

I was in the kitchen and heard a terrible shriek from outside. I ran out and he was sitting on the pavement, in agony,

"What do I do?" I asked. "Should I call the doctor?"

"The brats! You have to turn the brats!" he yelled, and then he nearly fainted from pain. So I helped him inside and got him a glass of water.

"I think I'm going to faint," he said. "Did you turn the brats?"

We called the doctor and the doctor said... "come in and get an x-ray." So. We decided to finish cooking the brats, and eat them, first. They were delicious. Charcoal barbecuing is the best. BAH ate his on the couch, leaning back with his foot perched up on some pillows. The foot had a bump where a bump shouldn't be. It was strange looking.

Then, Little Z and I took Daddy to the doctor. The doctor assured us in a really weird way that everything was going to be okay,

"A lot of things in your body, you brake them, they never really get better. This part always heals well, though, no problems. You'll be fine."

I then had to ask,

"What if I came to you with one of those parts broken, the parts that never really get better?"

"I wouldn't tell you that, then. I would say something more reassuring."

What an honest doctor!

Then they fitted Bad Assed Husband for a "boot" instead of a cast. It's this big thing with lots of straps to keep his foot immobile.

The nurse said,

"You have to have a Master's Degree in Engineering, almost, to figure out how to get this thing on." Then Bad Assed Husband said,

"I actually have a Master's Degree in Engineering."

It's true! He does. So, can he put the boot together? You might ask.

Yes, he is quite capable with the boot. It totally makes the whole "Master's Degree in Engineering" thing worth while!

We had leftover brats for dinner, too. They were still really delicious.

Building Stuff, Number 4

So, for our bed, I was thinking "grandiose". Somehow, though, everything I make looks vaguely Swedish. It must be genetic.

"You know what would really be nice?" said BAH. "What would really be nice would be a bed outside, like a raised bed, sort of a bunk bed outside to go camping on? That would be nice."

"I'm done making beds!" said I. "Forget it. I go back to work soon. I can't do this stuff anymore."

"I'll help you!"


I guess I'm a sucker for teamwork...

Tomorrow: The final installment of "Building Stuff," Stargazing Station.

Mail Order Husband

Mail order brides seem to be pretty common, here in these Americas. Of course, these days, people meet each other first, go on a few dates, then get married and come home to the U.S. together. It's all the same, though. Women who want to move to the U.S. and men who are attracted to foreign women.

One movie follows the Mexican Bride trade quite closely, Cowboy del Amor. It's about a man who, for a fee, sets up the marriages between Mexican women and men from the United States. It's a great documentary. The men want love and women who are, according to them, less demanding than American women. The women want to move to the U.S. because they think that American men are less demanding and more respectful of women. It's a little bit ironic, because the men want subservient women, and the women want men who don't boss them around so much, yet it seems to work. The movie ends with a happy couple, matched by the Cowby del Amor himself, having a baby. And all is right in the world.

I was pondering what I would do if I were thirty-eight (as I am) and still single, or divorced (as I am not). Would I want a mail order husband? Why does one never hear of mail order husbands?

Then I thought about the guys I knew in Sweden. They could be walking three feet in front of you, and let the door slam in your face before they opened it for you. That didn't impress me much.

Then I thought about the 38 French men who propositioned me when I was nineteen in Paris. In the space of ten days. That didn't impress me much, either.

I guess the Scottish men were okay, though. But are there really hoards of Scotsmen wanting American citizenship?

Honestly, when it comes right down to it, American men are the best of the lot. They're diverse, respectful towards women, and usually have some sense of humor. Almost all of them! I might sooner be lesbian than have a mail order husband.

This has been the year's xenophobic entry. Now I will go back to being open minded.

Building Stuff, Number 3

For the bunk bed, I needed a mattress. So, I took it off of "Aunt Lou's Bed". Then there was no Aunt Lou's bed. So, I built a new bed for Aunt Lou:

The head board is actually the two ends of the crib put together.

I used the mattress from underneath our bed, the thing giving our "bed" height. Without the added height from the random old mattress underneath, the bed in our room looked like what it was: a mattress on the floor.

You see how it is? Where does it all end?

So, I realized I needed to make BAH and me a bed.