Examine My What?

I did not see Justin Morneau get his lung bruised on Friday night because sister-cousin Tiffany was in town from Seattle, and that is cause for much hoopla and celebration, as well as lots and lots of sangria.

Tiffany and the rest of the sister-cousins all attended parochial school back in the day, while my parents opted to send my sisters and me to public school. I always considered my 1970s Catholic upbringing to be very “Catholic Lite.” For us, CCD class was heavy on the touchy-feely, peace-and-love. We never once darkened the door of a confessional, and I couldn’t say a rosary to save my life. So we did not know until Friday night that in parochial school health classes, my sister-cousins and their little Catholic-school girlfriends learned some very interesting methods of birth control family planning. I won’t go into the gory details, but the phrase “examine your mucus” became the punchline at more than one point in the evening.

Gross, yes, but still arguably less traumatizing than seeing the American League MVP coughing up blood on TV.

DemiGoddess the Younger spent the weekend up north with my former mother-in-law, while Demi the Elder chose to stay home due to her numerous and pressing social obligations. Well, really, due to just one social obligation, which involved a certain sophomore boy from the cast of “The Visit,” with whom she shared a couple of spectacularly John Hughes-esque moments backstage during rehearsals. So this particular social obligation came in just a smidge higher on her priority list than spending the weekend in Brainerd with grandma. She had little heart bubbles bursting over her head all weekend.

I also took Ms. Elder out to practice driving on Saturday morning. The first time I let her drive my car was over Christmas vacation, and the fact that it took me six months to do it again is absolutely not a reflection on the quality of her driving. It simply took me that long to recover from the cramp in my right wrist, incurred as a result of an extended death grip on the passenger-side door handle during our first lesson.

For our second lesson, I chose the parkway around Lake Harriet, where the traffic is one way and the speed limit is 25 mph. She circled the lake three times, did not hit anything and was only honked at once. And I can still grip a pencil, so I’m calling it a success.

Signs that the School Year is Winding Down

DemiGoddess the Elder’s Girl Scout troop had a bridging ceremony the other night. She and the other girls in her troop, most of whom she’s been chums with since kindergarten, went from being “Cadettes” to “Seniors,” which is the last stop before adults. Looking at the little Brownies who were bridging to "Junior" Girl Scouts, it seemed like Ms. Elder was that little just a couple of days ago. I didn't bawl, though. I think that's progress.

During the ceremony, Ms. Elder paused mid-bridge, in front of all the parents of all the Scouts who were bridging that night, and did a hammy QEII-style wrist wave before crossing over to accept her new sash. I couldn't have been more proud.

Demi the Younger spent today at the pool with the rest of her eighth-grade class. She left for the bus this morning wearing flip-flops and her swimming suit under her clothes, even though it’s only about 70 degrees out today.

The kids got to eat pizza at the pool for lunch, which is just as well. She tells me that the offerings in the school cafeteria get progressively weirder as the last day of school approaches, as the lunch ladies attempt to use up and sell whatever food is left. Last week’s menu included something called “sub sandwich hot dish.” I don’t even want to know.

Damn West Coast Road Trips

Last night My Ho and I were on the phone until way past our regular bedtimes because the Twins were playing in Anaheim, and in spite of our better judgement, we just couldn’t look away.

My Ho watched from his bed at his house, I watched from my bed at my house, and as the game progressed, things started to get a little punchy.

Inning Six—10:45 p.m. CST, Twins 1, Angels 6

ESG: “So, I’ve been watching ‘Flavor of Love Girls: Charm School,’ and flipping to the game during the commercials. It’s a very bad sign when ‘Flavor of Love Girls: Charm School’ is less of a train wreck than the baseball game.”

Ho: “Yes.”

Inning Seven—Twins 1, Angels 8

(A shot of Ron Gardenhire in the dugout, looking toward the field and twirling his index fingers around each other.)

ESG: “What was that?”

Ho: “It was a sign.”

“I know that. What did it MEAN??”

“I don’t know.”

“Maybe it was the sign for, ‘Can we please get this wrapped up so I can go back to the hotel and drink a lot of vodka?’”

“Could be.”

“Actually, no. I think it was the sign for, ‘Does anyone have a sharp object handy? I need something to jam into my eye.’”

Inning Eight—Twins 1, Angels 8

ESG: “Who’s that guy?”

Ho: “Jason Miller, one of the new relief pitchers. We saw him during the game against Toronto last weekend.”

“Oh, right. But we were at the Dome for that game, so we were too far away to see that he looks like a turkey.”

Inning Eight—Twins 1, Angels 12

(A shot of the lineup card posted on the wall of the Twins’ dugout.)

ESG: “Did you see that? Right under where Boof’s name was crossed out, Gardy just wrote ‘HELP ME.’”

Inning Eight—Twins 1, Angels 14

ESG: “This is cruel. Why is he still in there?”

Ho: “No reason to burn up somebody else’s arm in this game.”

“If he gives up two more runs, he’ll have doubled the score in a single inning. That would be impressive.”

Inning Eight—Twins 1, Angels 16

ESG: “Called it.”

(Gardy summons Pat Neshek from the bullpen, and then, mercifully, visits the mound to dismiss Jason Miller.)

Inning Nine—Twins 1, Angels 16

ESG: “Did you just see him picking his nose on TV?”

Ho: “It was a double pick, even.”

“Who gives up eight runs in an inning and then sits on the bench and picks his nose??”

“I totally agree.”

“Maybe he was looking for his fastball. I don’t think you’re going to find it up there, Jason.”

Final Score—Angels 16, Twins 3

(For the more intelligent end of the conversation, see here.)

Almost, But Not Quite, Entirely Unlike Chipotlé

Halfway through her burrito last night, DemiGoddess the Younger said, "We're eating Aztec food. I'm doing a report on the Aztecs for school."

"The Aztecs ate rice and black beans and tortillas?" I asked.

"No, they ate dogs and turkeys and humans and tortillas."

"Aah. Sounds tasty."

You Can’t Miss Her

Last night I lost DemiGoddess the Elder in Super Target. One moment she was right there, then she said, “I’m going to look for some eyeshadow,” and she was gone.

In our usual (regular, average, non-super) Target store, this isn’t a big deal. It’s a smallish store, and we always run across each other eventually as we’re shopping. But Super Target is, as the name implies, super big. All the departments where I usually find her are in different places than they are in our Target, and they are    very        far             apart.

On my third loop through the store, I called her name in the women’s dressing room and even checked the bathrooms with no luck. Demi the Elder is well past the age of easy abduction. It’s hard to snatch and run with a 5'5" high-school freshman without drawing a considerable amount of attention. But even so, I started to freak out.

In desperation, I went to the guest services desk and asked the two women working there if they’d page her. They said they only do pages for children under age 11, but they could send a call out to the store's employees over their walkie-talkies. They asked me what she looks like.

I said, “She has dark, wavy hair. And she’s wearing a bright pink T-shirt that says ‘You Have Died of Dysentery.’ ”

I found Ms. Elder a few minutes later in the shoe department.

Seriously.

Is there anything better than driving around on a sunny day with the windows rolled down and the music turned up loud enough to annoy all the neighbors?

Make way for the funk-tastic Nano-licious Goddess mobile, Bitch-ez.

Last Christmas My Ho's Youngster made me a mix CD as a gift, which I thanked him for sincerely and then didn't listen to until, like, February. Because I was afraid.

The Youngster is a member of a high-school garage band named "Ocelot Slaughterhouse." I have never seen them perform in person, but one time My Ho played a CD for me, which Ocelot Slaughterhouse had recorded in one band members' parents' basement or something, and while their enthusiasm was admirable, I found the music to be a smidge heavy on the screaming for my taste. I was pretty sure that this mix disk probably contained a lot of the same.

In fact, there is a little of the screamy stuff on it, but a lot of it is really not all that bad. In fact, some of it is really pretty good, and by bands I probably never would have heard of if not for his gift.

I became so obsessed with one song in particular, "Certified," by Diverse, that when my Nano finally arrived, I went straight to iTunes and downloaded the whole album. I'm sure I look very cutting edge, a thirty-something mother of two driving around in an aged white Honda Civic, blasting the hip-hop music through her iPod. You can call me G-mom. The Original Goddess.

It is, as the kids say, tight.

So Dear, and Also, So Thoroughly Disgusting

Over the weekend I was in my backyard mowing the lawn when I came across an empty hole in the ground, about the diameter of a Coke can. Next to the hole was a little pile of dried grass and grayish tufts of fur, a clear sign that this hole had once been home to a litter of baby rabbits.

Our neighborhood is thick with rabbits, and my dog has caught several in our backyard. One time I opened the back door to let her in the house, and she came trotting merrily up the deck steps with the freshly eviscerated remains of a full-grown rabbit hanging out of her mouth. I could see that she had plans to bring her prize inside to finish snacking on, on the living room carpet no doubt. After some prying, I got her to drop the carcass into a garbage bag, and when I let her in the door, sans carnage, she flashed me a look that I would later see many times on my thirteen-year-old daughter, a look which clearly said, “Why do you have to be so MEAN? Gawd!”

So on Saturday, as I kicked loose dirt into that hole to fill it in, I tried not to think about what probably had happened to the baby rabbits. I hoped really, really hard that I would not have to find out for certain what had happened to those baby rabbits.

Then, last night, it was dark outside and starting to rain, so I opened the door to let the dog in. As I was admiring the little yellow flowers that have sprouted on the tomato plants in the pots just outside on the deck, the corner of my eye caught something dangling from her muzzle. Before I could say, “NononononoNONONOOOOOOOOO,” she had strolled past me and dropped her dangling something onto the kitchen floor. It was a dark, wet, shapeless little pile, which had tiny pink rabbit feet attached. Based on the smell, these remains were decidedly un-fresh.

Another plastic bag later, the offending pile was out of the house, but its aroma was not. Disgusted, I put the dog into her kennel and latched the door shut.

I watch plenty of “The Dog Whisperer.” I understand that my dog is an animal, and she was only doing what she, as a dog, is hard-wired to do. But at the same time, I was so appalled that I could not even look at her.

This morning when I went to let her out again, I thought I still smelled that smell. Maybe it was only the memory of it that I was detecting. Or, more likely, my darling hound probably took a nice, long roll in her stinky pile before picking it up to bring in the house, and I am going to have to give her a serious scrubbing in deodorizing shampoo tonight.

I am choosing not to wonder exactly how many baby rabbits were once in that hole.

I am also choosing not to wonder where exactly my dog might have others stashed away for later.

Mmmmmm... Rabbits...

I Have an iPod!

I have an iPod!
I have an iPod!
I have an iPod!

I pretended for a really long time that I didn't want one at all, because I didn't WANT to want one. But really I DID. And now I have one of my very own, and it is all silvery and awesome and full of This American Life podcasts and music that is inapproproate for children.

Joy.

Sigh.

Because Batgirl is my friend, and because I compeletely understand and respect her reasons for ending what has been a beloved gift to Twins fans and baseball lovers everywhere, I am not going to tell her how genuinely heartbroken I am right now.

R.I.P. Batgirl.

You will be sorely, sorely missed.

(Also, see here, and here, and here.)

Maybe With a Squeeze of Fresh Lime

It’s been a few days since I posted, so I thought that today I’d share the e-mail I wrote this morning in response to my lovely sister’s inquiry as to how I’m doing:

Well, yesterday I took the morning off of work to try and fix a pipe that was leaking water all over my basement. I thought I had fixed it, and it IS better, but it's still dripping. I think I put a part on wrong, which means I have to take it all apart again. Just about every six months, it seems, some random bit of my house starts dripping/leaking/spurting water. It's awesome.

Last night I busted a DemiGoddess (who shall remain nameless) in the middle of chatting online in Facebook. I've told the Demis that they're not allowed to do online chat rooms, and My Space is forbidden. I never mentioned Facebook specifically, but given that it wasn't until my third inquiry that she finally admitted what she was doing, I'm pretty sure she knew I would not be okay with it. The cable modem is in my purse until further notice.

Yesterday after a visit to her friend's house, the other DemiGoddess (who shall also remain nameless) walked in the door and said to me, "This is going in my memoir, and you are NOT going to look good." My offense? Making her walk home from her friend’s house, which is half a mile away (the same distance as the coffee shop that she walks to at least once a week). With gas at $3.40 a gallon, I will not be driving her a half mile to anywhere.

I didn’t bother to mention that the only reason she got to go to her friend's house after school at all was because I was so distracted by the dripping pipe yesterday morning that I forgot to tell her I had changed my mind about letting her go based on the latest grade update on the school website. Specifically, her grade in Chorus, which was a letter that a person would basically have to be sleeping through Chorus class to receive.

After fighting unsuccessfully with our CD-R drive and ending up listening to the playlists on the Demis' iPods in the car on the way to the lake for Mother’s Day weekend, last week I finally broke down and ordered a refurbished 4 GB Nano for myself. I'm simultaneously wracked with guilt over spending money on such a frivolity and obsessively checking the "Order Status" link on the Apple website to see when it’s coming and where it is today (Sacramento).

Other than that I've pretty much been driving the Demis around (to places that are more than half a mile away) and watching crappy-ass baseball on TV.

Except for last night's game, which was magnificent.

I bought a bottle of cherry lambic at Trader Joe's last week and I'm thinking seriously about drinking the entire thing tonight while I watch the "Lost" season finale.

Aren't you glad you asked?

DemiGoddess the Elder is a Poet

A few weeks ago, Demi the Elder told me that she’d entered a poem she had written into a poetry contest at school. I knew she was clever and creative in many ways, but until then I did not know she wrote poetry. Intrigued, I asked if I could read her submission.

No, she said. It’s too embarrassing.

Oh, my child, I said. You have no idea about embarrassing. I told her that I had, buried in the basement, reams of my own high school poetry—self-obsessed, pretentious, over-the-top with angst high school poetry. Poetry that is the very definition of embarrassing. And which she might read, if she would let me read hers.

It was a deal.

Her poem is called “Soon They’ll Come Out with a Barbie Girl Mastercard.” It’s a commentary on some of the more rampant consumerists in her peer group, and is scathing, earnest and funny.

Yesterday at school Ms. Elder found out she won first place in that poetry contest at school.

I’m hoping she’ll use the Barnes & Noble gift card she received as a prize to purchase something a little more worthwhile to read than my eleventh-grade creative writing.

22 Games, 2 Home Runs

Halfway through the eighth inning of last night's Twins/Bitch Sox* game, Chicago was ahead 4-1, thanks in large part to an ugly and totally avoidable throwing error by the starting pitcher, Boof Bonser. I left the TV to change laundry loads in the basement (the washer is fixed now—woohoo!), resigned to the fact that this was going to be another one of those games.

When I came back upstairs, the score was 4-3, and thank goodness the DemiGoddesses had been watching so they could fill me in on all the mad piranha action that I had just missed.

To quote Mr. Gleeman: “…if you're going to extend your [hitting] streak to 22 games like Hunter did last night, doing it by tying the game with an eighth-inning, two-out single is the way to go.”

Hell yeah, it is.

And THEN? Justin Morneau came through with a tenth-inning, three-run, second home run of the game (and a monster of a home run, too), for the win.

Have I mentioned how much I enjoy the celebratory man love?

*See Batgirl.

Ten Thousand Years in a School Auditorium Will Give You Such a Crick in the Neck

The four-day run of DemiGoddess the Younger’s school musical, “Aladdin Jr.,” took place over the weekend, and as a result I have had the song “Arabian Nights” circling in my head since Friday evening. Not even an excessively loud Flogging Molly session in the car on the way to work this morning had the power to exorcise the thing from my brain.

(“…more often than NOT, it’s hotter than HOT, in a lot of good waaaaaaays…”)

In the days leading up to opening night, Ms. Younger had expressed doubts about how the choreography was coming along, and commented disdainfully that some of the other actors were still not “off book” yet. (Apparently that’s theater speak, and means that they still hadn’t memorized their lines. Aren’t we just thespians?). But in spite of her reservations, it turned out to be a fun show, with colorful costumes and lots of high-energy musical numbers, and all the kids did an impressive job with the singing and the dancing.

Ms. Younger’s performance, including several spoken lines and a couple of short singing solos, was as spectacular as expected. And I was astonished to hear her good friend K., whom I had long been convinced was incapable of speech (she is almost always completely silent whenever she is at our house) belt out her solo parts at an ear-splitting decibel level. Who knew?

And after three hours of “The Visit” on the previous weekend (not to mention the rest of the past years' consistently lengthy productions) I am not too proud to admit that my favorite part about this particular show was that it was one hour long.

I kept checking my watch after it was over, feeling like someone had just sprung ME from a magic lamp.

1+1 = So Out of Luck

Remember a few months back, when I did some significant upgrading to my home PC? I had finally started using a digital camera, there was the blogging, the Demis were pining for iPods, and they were both increasingly using the computer for Important! Homework! My old desktop computer was just not cutting the mustard, so, with a little help, I installed a new processor and a new motherboard, boosted the memory and upgraded the software. And for a while, it was all very exciting and good.

The irony, of course, is that the upgrades have allowed the DemiGoddesses to become heavy users of things like iTunes, YouTube and instant messaging. And with just the one desktop PC for the three of us, well, let’s just say that the math hasn’t worked out quite the way I had hoped. I've been forced to come up with some very creative chore assignments just to be able to check my e-mail ("This dog needs waxing. And you, go rotate your dresser drawers. Do I have to do everything around here?").

Oh, the bickering.

So, a couple of weeks ago, when my workplace announced a drawing for a bunch of used IBM Thinkpads, I was all over it. With a laptop, thought I, I would finally be able to get some screen time at home. Why, I could even take a laptop to the neighborhood Cairbou Coffee, where I could drink expensive coffee drinks with whipped cream and candy bits piled on top while I blog, just like the cool kids.

So last week I was thrilled to learn that I had won one of those used IBM Thinkpads, and once again enlisted my skilled and generally high-quality friend Daniel to get me set up with a wireless network. Which he did, again, for the price of a sandwich from Jimmy John’s.

And just last night, after some network wrangling and one more trip to MicroCenter for an Ethernet cable (and, since I am incapable of leaving that store with only the item I went in to buy, a wireless mouse that is SO COOL), we went live.

…aaaaand within fifteen minutes, DemiGoddess the Elder was adding photos to her blog on the desktop PC, while DemiGoddess the Younger was researching current events for school on the Thinkpad.

At which point I went out to the backyard to scratch my next blog post in the dirt with a pointed stick.

In Which I Become a...

The DemiGoddesses have been busy, busy, busy young thespians lately. DemiGoddess the Younger is just finishing up rehearsals for her school musical, “Aladdin,” a junior-high-appropriate show based on the Disney movie. And, over the weekend, DemiGoddess the Elder played a news reporter in her high school’s production of “The Visit,” a play that is weird and dark and a lot like a three-hour episode of “The Twilight Zone.” With eunichs.

My Ho and I saw the show on Friday night, and just like when she performed in “Grease” and “Little Shop of Horrors” and “Anything Goes” and “Love’s Labours Lost,” I was astonished at how articulate and composed Ms. Elder is on stage. I had another one of those sobering moments when I wondered who that pretty dark-haired young woman was, and then realized suddenly that she was my daughter, so close to grown up that it knocked the wind right out of me. Again.

She had a good-sized bit of dialogue, all of it in a single scene toward the end of the play. Because there was no flash photography allowed during the performance, after they'd taken their bows, the kids returned to the stage and worked their way back through the show, re-creating a number of key scenes so that the parents could take pictures. I waited patiently while they set up props and changed costumes and posed for dramatic moment after dramatic moment. As the drama teacher called out scenes from nearer and nearer the beginning of the play, it became clear that she had skipped over Ms. Elder’s big scene. Conflicted, I watched the mass of parents jostling back and forth in front of the stage, cameras flashing as they elbowed each other out of the way, and considered whether the desire to capture my daughter's big moment for posterity outweighed my reluctance to become one of those parents.

The next thing I knew, I was standing behind the drama teacher saying, “Um, excuse me… Hi, I’m Demi the Elder’s mom. Do you think maybe you could have them do that town meeting scene? It’s the only one she had lines in.”

It turned out that the teacher had intended to set up that one, but she’d overlooked it in her notes. She thanked me for reminding her, and then quickly had the kids change back into their act three costumes. I got my superstar her photo, and I only had to hip check two bald guys with video cameras to do it.

Just in Time for Summer

Fruity cocktails count as health food, study finds

WASHINGTON (Reuters) - A fruity cocktail may not only be fun to drink but may count as health food, U.S. and Thai researchers said on Thursday.
Adding ethanol -- the type of alcohol found in rum, vodka, tequila and other spirits -- boosted the antioxidant nutrients in strawberries and blackberries, the researchers found.
Any colored fruit might be made even more healthful with the addition of a splash of alcohol, they report in the Journal of the Science of Food and Agriculture.
Dr. Korakot Chanjirakul and colleagues at Kasetsart University in Thailand and scientists at the U.S.
Department of Agriculture stumbled upon their finding unexpectedly.
They were exploring ways to help keep strawberries fresh during storage. Treating the berries with alcohol increased in antioxidant capacity and free radical scavenging activity, they found.
Any colored fruit or vegetable is rich in antioxidants, which are chemicals that can cancel out the cell-damaging effects of compounds called free radicals.
Berries, for instance, contain compounds known as polyphenols and anthocyanins. People who eat more of these fruits and vegetables have a documented lower risk of cancer, heart disease and some neurological diseases.
The study did not address whether adding a little cocktail umbrella enhanced the effects.

Drink your strawberry margaritas, everybody!
They're GOOD FOR YOU! WOOHOO!!!!

DemiGoddess Guerilla Art

A couple of nights ago, I stepped out my front door to take out the trash and found this:


Spring, it seems, has sprung.

A Little Bit Like the Fireplace at the Cabin

My washing machine crapped out again a couple of weeks ago, which, while annoying, didn’t seem like a big deal at the time because (as I’ve written previously) I was wise enough to purchase the extended warranty when I bought the washer four years ago. So I will not have to pay for this latest $800 repair, just like I didn’t have to pay for the four previous $300 repairs on what has proved to be a highly unreliable home appliance. (I am not strong with the math, but it seems to me they would have been better off buying me a new washer by now, no?)

In fact, however, this latest crapping out has turned out to be a big, giant, smelly pile of a deal, because the repairman can’t fix my washing machine until all the parts arrive from the manufacturer, and to date only two of the four parts he ordered at the time of his first visit—three weeks ago—have arrived.

When the DemiGoddesses were little and we lived in an apartment, schlepping the laundry was a weekly ritual. Our building had only one coin-operated washer and dryer for eight apartments, and those machines were in constant use by other tenants. Not that it really mattered to us, of course, since we were always too broke to pay to use them anyway. For years, every Sunday morning, I hauled both kids and a carload of dirty clothes over to my parents’ house, and then stayed there all day long while I washed and dried load after load after endless bloody load. When we finally bought a house that had a washer and dryer, I swore that I would never complain about doing the laundry again, because my days of hauling baskets of dirty socks and underpants to and from the car were finally OVER.

But about a week and a half ago, strange aromas began to emanate from the DemiGoddesses. I could see that they had stopped wearing socks altogether. I did not ask about underwear. As much as I hated to admit it, I could no longer deny the inevitable. Laundry would have to be schlepped.

So two Thursdays ago I left work early, picked up $30 in quarters at the bank, and took a mountain of clothes to the nearest self-serve laundromat. I had never visited it before and, in fact, had only found the place by looking it up on the internet, even though it turned out to be less than two miles from my house and I have probably driven right past it a thousand times.


I fully expected the laundromat experience to suck rocks. So I was pleasantly surprised to find the place clean (relatively), quiet, and completely empty when I arrived. It smelled reassuringly of fabric softener, and, best of all, there were four triple-sized washers. I washed, dried and folded every article of clothing in the Goddess household in less than two hours.

By yesterday the Demis were running low on clean jeans again, and I was astonished to find myself actually looking forward to another visit to my good friend #40 Mega Washer. I even invited DemiGoddess the Younger to come with me. And, once there, she had to agree with me that it was strangely soothing, watching the suds and the water and her favorite jeans swish, swish, swishing in circles behind the round glass door.

A Question Posed During Last Night’s Merciless Pounding Baseball Game

Why is it that no one on the Yankees team ever seems to age?

Pettitte and Jeter and even Mariano Rivera have looked exactly the same since 1996.
I think they must drink the blood of small children during the off season.

Successful Living with a Teenage Daughter in Four Easy Steps

Step 1—No matter what outrageous, baiting, completely detached from reality utterance comes out of her mouth, DO NOT RESPOND. Do not speak. Don’t even open your mouth.

Step 2—Go directly into your bedroom.

Step 3—Shut the door.

Step 4—Stay there until*:

a) She graduates from high school; or

b) She no longer has any memory whatsoever of what she was angry about in the first place (usually about two hours).

*Alcohol consumption is optional.