Wednesday, February 28, 2007

Weight Capsule

Today is weigh in.

Yes, I know. You suspected, perhaps even downright feared I was one of those--overly and overtly concerned with my weight. And yes, I will tell you honestly. I am.

I'd like to say I've soared above the battery of Twiggy imagery, of bounce-back from baby bodies, of supertaut arms and powerlegs. Of hollowed checks and really, really wide smiles. Not so much, no.

So I weigh in dutifully. Every Wednesday. And today the gods smiled on my scale. Down 1.5 pounds from last week.

This weight last time I was pre-baby, wondering what the rationale was behind the ginkgo tree that dropped stinky flowers on my graduate school campus, losing fistfulls of hair over my first graduate paper, and drinking like an understudy for Barfly.

Before I accrued babyfat, this weight was the biggest I had been.

So it's a little minimilestone for me. I'm happy to be here and I'll be even happier to pass it.

Monday, February 26, 2007

Knock, Knock

We have entered the joke phase. Well, the attempt at joke phase. A sample:

Finn: Knock, knock.
Me: Who's there?
Finn: Banana.
Me: Banana who?
Finn: Banana grace.

And again.

Finn: Knock, knock.
Me: Who's there?
Finn: Orange.
Me: Orange who?
Finn: Orange it's cold outside.

Tuesday, February 20, 2007

Wherein I Launch a New Label and Use "Wherein" in My Title. Again.

Every three months, I go to the oncologist.

They have a nice fishtank there. Very clean, very polished. The fish seem to just float in it rather than swim. You really have to squint hard to figure out if there's water, if the fish are even real. I often wonder as I flip through Travel&Leisure's "25 Best Places I Can't Afford to Visit," glancing every few at that fishtank, how often they have to come out and put the Windex to it.

It's all part of the small touches of escapism that are the oncology office--fish tank, travel mags, origami opportunities (seriously, last visit their was a little origami crane competition going on)--and that are balanced out by the Surviving and Thriving class that meets on the other side of the office.

I suppose life lessons can even be found in waiting rooms. (Oo, that metaphor could just keep on going. I'll let you keep it alive.)

So far (test results pending) the visit was, in the parlance of the field, "unremarkable." Except that I'm signed up for a colonoscopy. My doc doesn't seemed concerned about it. Invasive microscoping--maybe not cause for foghorns, but really, very much not the parting gift I was hoping for.

I was thinking along the lines of lollipop.

Or even Scooby-Doo bandaid.

Not sure where they'd put that, though.

Saturday, February 17, 2007

Wherein I Play the Straightman. Again

K: How did your evening go? Survive the pleas for pudding?

Me: Yes. We had no pudding so that helped. (Finn said at one point, "We could go to the store and get pudding. Oh, no, we don't have any money.")

K: What?!?

K: "Oh, no, we don't have any money"?

Me: He gets that they don't give pudding away for free. It was cute. He wasn't despondent or anything. He just found a little piece of logic and went back to coloring.

K: But why does he think he's a pauper?

K: I like to look at it more as we have to make choices with our money--and perhaps for him pudding just wasn't the golden goose he thought it was?

K: But you aren't paupers. Are you? I mean pudding is cheap.

Me: We'd rather spend that money on beer and cocaine. Priorities.

K: Ah.

K: It's all clear now.

Me: And hookers. I shouldn't forget the hookers.

Me: Finn likes the hookers.

K: It's really funny. The mental image of tarted-up women in knee-high boots having to contend with the phenomenon that is Finn. He'd be raiding their lipstick bags. Then he'd say he didn't want to talk to them until Christmas, and they'd be confused. Not at all pretty.

Sunday, February 11, 2007

Get Ready. Get Set. Boil.

Since last Friday, our neighborhood has been under a boil order. I can't say we understand the particular plot behind the order, something about water main, it broke. But we do get the directive: boil water.

Unfortunately, we didn't get the directive until today (re: issued Friday, received Sunday.) Oops.

But we've been dutiful. We've been boiling. We've trashed our ice. We've filled one pitcher with water. We're learning what it was like--very approximately--to live before water heaters. And what a dark time that was.

If you haven't figured it out yet, we've been rather spoiled by life. This is our first boil order, so we're not really hip to what you're supposed to do. How long do you boil? For what purposes do we need to boil? Where do you store it?

I thought about filling a tub, but that's something you do for hurricanes (and I can't say exactly why). We did figure out that in lieu of ice cubes (uncivlized!) that we can use our super Costco jumbo stash of frozen fruit to chill our sterile bevs. I will supply photos as they become available.

Here are some other things I learned from my handy search engine:

  • Pour water back and forth between two clean pots to cool and add air. Air makes water taste better.
  • A pinch of salt per quart may improve the rather "flat" taste of boiled water. Salt makes water taste better.
  • Water should be boiled somewhere between 2 and 10 minutes.
Or you could just drink bottled water and skip the history lesson.

Saturday, February 03, 2007

Whoop De Doo and You Can Too

Last night, our wee crew slapped on snow boots, heavy coats, and mittens to go see some art in a bustlin' little Kansas City.

Now, I want the next line to sound as Hallmark Movie of the Week, sappy sweet as possible, although I'm not sure how to strike the right tone. Let's see if I can nail it:

It was a bittersweet experience as wWe bid adieu bid a fond farewell swapped saliva like parting lovers who have to make it to seventh period on time for once made our tearsoaked goodbyes to our Society for Contemporary Photography (re: the bitter) and then darted over a few blocks, swabbed our eyes, and hootenannied our helloes and welcomes to that sassy young thing (re; sweet), Jamie Warren's Whoop De Doo.

It was a special night.

Jamie Warren's Whoop De Doo ("De" may have two Es), if you haven't caught one, is billed as an art event.


Think about it like a younger, less accomplished, and less scripty Saturday Night Live (with a more challenging production quality), conducted by art school kids for a live art audience (including toddlers) and you'll be not quite, but slightly there. It toys with the ironic, delves with two fetish-booted feet into the funny, and offers some interesting sets and interpretative dance along the way.

The portion of this installment that we squatted for (maybe about an hour) included these crowd-pleasing highlights, if I may dip into a bullet list:

  • a school-room debacle in which an economics teacher gets usurped by Twizzler-endowed rabblerouser
  • lumberjacks whose axe dance is interrupted quite decisively by a blonde-braided Heidi in a bear costume
  • a tap number by what I'm imagining is a local tap troupe. And I'm not sure what to think about that. They danced without irony, but the Whoop De Doo context, well, let's just say I laughed but I didn't feel good about it.
  • some faboo, irony-free breakdancing
  • a gameshow that included a couple of drag queens and some young audience participants
Maybe you need to be drunk, or something-elsed, like under 25, to fully appreciate the art/comedy of Whoop De Doo, but regardless of degree or type of influence, it's a good time. And because it's classified as art (and not full-scale improv), it can miss funny mountain, which it often does.

It's fun. It's fresh. It's vibrant, energetic. We didn't have any heady conversations or insights after the "show," but we had a good time. Too often and unfortunately, "good time" isn't often found in the same room with art. And it should be.