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!"

"Well..."

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.

Building Stuff, Number 2

Bunkbed, with bench underneath instead of bed, just to confuse Little Z's preschool teacher who asked,

"Do you sleep on the top or the bottom?" So Z said,

"I sleep on the top because there is no bed on the bottom!"

Which was very confusing to her teacher. But it is actually true.

The reason for the bunk bed was a little embarrassing: Little Z actually turned five and was still sleeping in her crib with the one side of bars removed. She thought it was fun to demonstrate to us that her body filled the mattress from top to bottom

"But that's okay," she said, "because I curl up and bend when I sleep."

Which just made me feel worse, that she was so nice about sleeping in a little crib when she was five. So, I made her a bunk bed, Pooh Bear themed by request. (The Pooh Bear stickers are just some cheap Walmart crap, but they sure look swell, don't they?)

The Fear of 9/11 Erasing

I changed rooms and roommates at both schools where I teach this year. It made for a lot of searching, moving, rearranging, and negotiating with new roommates. Both of my new roommates are good people. I can tell. So that's a plus!

The one roommate, Mrs. R, has this tribute to America and 9/11 victims that she has somehow, miraculously, left "saved" on the board since September 11, 2001. They drew it that day, and she put a save post-it, and no one has touched it since. Many people have moved on to dry erase boards, but she has let the "upgrades" pass her room by. (Which is wise, I think. I prefer blackboard.) This is it:

Eleven years, this has been there. Just chalk. Our school was closed once for deep cleaning because we had mold, and her room had mold, but no one erased that board. Eleven years. Damn.

Now I have something to obsessively fear (which is good because I was low on obsessive fears): some idiot kid in my class leaning up against it and erasing it with his back, or better yet: someone erasing the board for me, as a favor!

Do you think I should buy colored chalk, so I can secretly redraw it as necessary? Just in case? Would that be wrong?

Building Stuff!

The way it all began was when BAH said, "If you're looking for something to do this summer, I could use a dresser."

So, there it is:

Can you believe it? Two dressers made from crap laying around the barn, mostly. The kind of icky orange thing to the right is the old plastic dresser.

Just in Time

I received my new teaching license yesterday. Just in time! It would have been awkward if school started before I'd gotten it~

I haven't been writing here because I have been building things! Cellar Door the Builder! I shall post soon about all that.

Also, my dear daughter will be starting kindergarten on September 4. Kindergarten! How is this possible?

She recently figured out how to ride a bike with training wheels. We live on a big hill, with no sidewalks, so she may be a little late with this one. It's sometimes painfully slow walking beside her while she rides, because she seems to need to stop and talk every four pedal revolutions or so.

Five year old little girls, they never shut up! But we love her.

Psychokinesis

I was driving my car today. I shut the windows, and it was quiet. I thought, I should play some music. And the radio turned on, all by itself. It was playing Bach.

Clearly, I have now transcended to a whole new level.

Fantastic Honey!