Monthly Archives: June 2009

IJ quote of the day 8

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Well, at least we get to reread endnote 304. Twice in two days. Fecal deposits and all.

So we end where 304 begins, thematically:

“Struck’s been at this over an hour, and his original sights have lowered considerably. He’s been feeling a bit punk all day, sinuses with that infallible  storm’s-on-the-way feeling of weight and clot and a goalie-mask headache that throbs with his heart, and he’s not trying to find some new resource in the piles that’s obscure and amateurish enough for him to transpose and semi-plagiarize without worrying about Poutrincourt  having read it or smelling a rat in the woodpile” (1055).

Consider this

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Item one: Peanut walked at least 3 miles and ran on half mile of today’s 4.5 mile hike in my favorite of all places to find early blackberries, Tilden Regional Park.

Item two: I had counted on a two hour workout with 35 lbs in a backpack but settled for a glorious four hour blackberry and poison oak extravaganza.

Item three: Peanut took a full hour to eat his pudding (yes, it’s Tuesday!) and PB&LC before acquiescing to nap.  I almost clawed my own eyes out.

Item four: But I didn’t. I read Infinite Jest instead.

Item five: Spouse came home early for Tennis Tuesday and we all ate crackers and hummus in between sets. And by sets I mean whenever Peanut decided he was done playing hockey with my old tennis racquet and the pink tennis ball he picked out. I’ve been playing tennis since I could walk. And I think I found out today that I’m really a lefty.

Item six: We walked the half block home and played one round of Candyland. Ask The Kitchen Witch how I feel about Candyland.

Item seven: Peanut and Spouse screamed at each other through another bath. And teeth. And new mouthwash because, my  god, that kid’s breath stinks for someone who brushes twice a day. Damn.

Item eight: After his timeout for kicking Daddy, Peanut and I had a lovely talk and two books.

Item nine: Peanut then screamed and cried for an extra song after stories and songs.

I need an item ten. Because today is all ping-pongy between phenomenal and crappy. And though the day was great overall, I’m left on a slight aftertaste of crappy. So I’m breaking all this week’s rules about refined sugar and dairy and wine and such (long story, different post, fourteen alien pounds dragging me down as though they need to be the straw that f—ing poked the camel in the eye then laughed as it tried to cry but couldn’t because it lives in a desert and even a camel’s body knows not to waste tears on something so stupid, but mine doesn’t) to have a South African shiraz and some mediocre soy ice crap with coffee and chocolate in it. And pizza. And some pistachios  I just found. And maybe some heirloom tomatoes with balsamic and olive oil and grey salt. For fiber.

on that note…

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This week’s Peanutisms:

“Mommy. Don’t EVER give me plain goat cheese again. I only want my cheese without herbs.”

“I want something really new that we haven’t had in long time.”

“Mommy, Daddy. ‘P’ peanut. ‘P’ pee. ‘P’ punkin. ‘P’ pree. ‘P’ I don’t want to do this game anymore.”

“I just don’t want one baby. They’re too little.”

“Mommy, you picked me so many blackberries that I need to go poop.”

IJ quote of the day 7

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Cop-out quote all of note 304, sub.

Slightly less cop-out, since it picks a favorite passage: all the anti-academese of note 304.

actual quote of the day, unofficially, according to only me and nobody else at infinitesummer.org:

“‘…the prenominate oversized infants reputedly do exist, are anomalous and huge, grow but do not develop, feed on the abundance of annularly available edibles the overgrowth periods in the region represent, do deposit titanically outsized scat, and presumably do crawl thunderously about, occasionally sallying south of murated retention lines and into populated areas of New New England.'” (1056)  [within the spolier line limits because it’s a note referenced way back in the 80s. As in page 80 or so, not as in pre-subsidized time 1980.]

Come on, folks—giant babies depositing gargantuan shite in the area forced upon Canada in order for Americans to export refuse? It doesn’t get much better. Except in this book.

Oh, the fans. If only we had the fans, those of us who do encounter such outsized scat…

Blue, cloudless sky

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You wanna know how lucky I am? (Since I mostly post snark about loathing parenthood despite loving my kid, i figure today is the perfect reason to tell you why I totally lucked out, in spite of the whole “not  cut out for this job and seriously considering running away from home” technicality.)

In Trader Joe’s, which, in addition to tasty, affordable loveliness, offers kids stickers and balloons, and P was in fine form. “May I have a bar?” Nope. Already had one today. “Okay……May I have some juice?” Nope. Yesterday was juice day and you had lemonade at the party. “Yeah. That was good lemonade.”

He helps the checker by handing over groceries. She gives him stickers. “May I have one balloon?” Sure. We ask. They’re out of helium.

“Oh, bug, I’m sorry. They’re out of helium, the special air that makes the balloons.” Breath held, calm distractions planned, explanations of world and its unfairness and yet relative goodness calculated.

“Well. Stickers are nice.” Proceeds to decorate his shirt and mine with stickers.

Seriously, does it get any better than a three year old who can shake off balloonlessness?

Seven years, almost

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Overheard in L.A.

Peanut: I love you, friend.
Friend: [whispering] I love you, too.
Peanut: [louder] I said, I love you!
Friend: I said, I love you, too!
Peanut: I didn’t hear you.
Friend: [louder] I said, I love you, too!
Peanut: Oh. I didn’t hear you.
Friend: [shouting] I said, I love you, too!

Lucy and Ethyl, ladies and gentlemen, at ages three and three and a half.

IJ quote of the day 6

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Eeking in just below the spoiler line today:

“The thing with Schtitt: like most Europeans of his generation, anchored from infancy to certain permanent values which—yes, OK, granted—may, admittedly, have a whiff of proto-fascist potential about them, but which do, nevertheless (the values), anchor nicely the soul and course of a life—Old World patriarchal stuff like honor and discipline and fidelity to some larger unit—Gerhardt Schtitt does not so much dislike the modern O.N.A.N.ite U.S. of A. as find it hilarious and frightening at the same time” (82).

Dang, man, ain’t that the truth about subsidized time and Entertainment.

Go read Ininite Jest.

Marital hope

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According to a fluff piece over at CNN (sorry, Ms. Stinchfield, but it is pretty fluffy), marriage is better before kids and after kids leave.

My takeaway:

“A 2008 study found that marital satisfaction actually improves once children leave home. Female participants reported spending equal amounts of time with their partners both while their children lived at home and after, but they noted that the quality of that together time was better once the kids were out of the picture. “Suddenly the tyranny of the children controlling the household is relieved,” says Dr. Robbins. “You don’t have to have dinner at 6, you don’t have to spend Saturdays at the soccer field, and you don’t have to be so responsible all the time.”

So I’m putting out a call to all landlords, employers, and colleges who will take a 3 year old. Please.

IJ quote of the day 5

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The entire section with Kate Gompert is really the quote of the day, in part for its humor and in part for the intense psychic pain. Jesus this is a great section.

“The doctor tool an early clinical gamble and asked Kate whether it might not be easier if she rolled over and say up so that they could spea with each other more normally, face to face.
‘I am sitting up.’
The doctor’s pen was poised. His slow nod  was studious, blandly puzzled-seeming. ‘You mean to say you feel right now as if your body is already in a sitting-up position?’
She rolled an eye up at him for a long moment, sighed meaningfully, and rolled and rose. Katherine Ann Gompert probably felt that here was yet another psych-ward M.D. with zero sense of humor. This was probably because she did not understand the strict methodological limits that dictated how literal he, a doctor, had to be with the admits on the psych ward” (71).

And the parenting award goes to…

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Kid, in a 60 degree house, is intoning, over and over, “I’m hot. I’m hot.”

I just hollered “Stop saying that; I don’t care.” Roll out the red carpet, I know I’ve been nominated.

Come on. He’s wearing shortie jammies, he’s on top of the covers. He’s fine.

And he’s been up no fewer than three times (next time gets the door shut completely, so he won’t be up again) to tell me that his friends don’t all fit in the bed. The whole day was about how they, they being Clementine the rabbit, Oliver the dog, Pizza the zebra, Uncle Bear the bear, Madeline the monkey, and Biff the Billy Goat, don’t fit in the dining room chairs and in the small table’s benches, and in the small orifice where I crammed them all by about 5pm.

Now he’s intoning, “Where’s Daddy? Where’s Daddy?”

Man, that kid knows on which side his bread is buttered.

IJ quote of the day 4

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Infinite Summer is not even one week old. We’re barely 50 pages in. Join us in reading David Foster Wallace’s novel this summer.

“He [Gately] kept his big square chin up and his smile wide, but he bowed neither toward nor away from any man. He took zero in the way of shit and was a cheery but implacable exponent of the Don’t-Get-Mad-Get-Even school” (55).

Ah, Gately, I’ve missed you.

There are days…

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Oh, boy, here comes my most boringest post ever. But if they still don’t like me, boring or funny, serious or ruefully tongue in cheek, then f— ’em, right? Okay, then, here goes:

There are just days like this. When I’m up late worrying or grousing or fretting or frenetically doing, and when I wake up slowly and painfully at the ungodly hour my kid demands (and he read in his bed for an hour before dragging me into the kitchen today, so yay four hours instead of three).

Today’s one of those days. And we can’t go anywhere because they’re ripping out a window in Peanut’s room and making it much bigger so it’ll meet fire code. Yay fire safety.

So I made a huge pot of play dough, and we’re going to town. Because all those things I worried about last night—all those people I wanted to excise from my life—they don’t matter. This little whirlwind of learning and growing does.

Plus he kisses me when he’s been rude, which is more than I can say for the rest of the planet.**

in a big pot stir:
4 C flour
1/2 C salt
1/2 C cream of tartar
then add
4T oil
4 C water

Cook on low/medium until it’s not sticky.

**You’re damned right. I just got all perspective-y then posted a playdough recipe. I’ve gone soft in the head. So? Ya wanna fight?