Friday, September 26, 2008

Long Overdue

What is it with the library these days? I remember it being a large building where you could go and borrow books. Not so much anymore. It has become like a town hall, or at the very least, a neighborhood club house. Surely there is some other public gathering spot people can use for their so called meetings. Some of us would actually like to check out these used books, thank you very much.

I have always loved going to libraries, even as a kid. There used to be this big thing called a card catalog, which was someone's anal retentive way of keeping track of all the books. Now everything is bar coded and computer inventoried, and the card catalog is nowhere to be found. It has gone the way of so many things...TV antennae, dial telephones, white dog crap, to name a few. But for me, the library was always about the books. The endless supply of titles and pictures and stories waiting to be taken home and occasionally lost. Library books even have their own smell and look, somewhere between old lunch box, mildew, and stale cigarettes, as well as a collection of crayon scribbles, pen marks, and disturbing mystery stains. These books, shared by us all, are clearly well loved.

My husband doesn't share the same enthusiasm for the library that I do, as he feels most of the books are covered with fecal contaminants or flu virus. And he might be right, but I go every week, and I have yet to report one case of bacterial meningitis. The truth is, I don't think I can afford my reading habit. Well, I can, but the risk is great. What if I buy it and don't like it? I am pretty sure Barnes and Noble won't take a book back because you think it sucks. If I don't like a book at the library, I turn it back in and get another one. Which I do frequently, at least once a week. I have discovered many writers I love at the library, writers I would not have given a chance at a book store. Does that sound cheap or practical? I' m voting for practical.

Which (finally!) brings me to my point. Since when is the library no longer about the books? I tried to go to my local branch three times on three different days last week, and each time I drove away in disgust because there was no available parking. On Monday, the old people took over. Buicks were everywhere, parked haphazardly on curbs and crookedly in parking spaces. I don't know if it was knitting guild day or just a rush after the spotty weekend hours, but either way, I couldn't even get to the drop off box.

On Tuesday, a political rally was held in the large conference room. Trucks plastered with conservative bumper stickers had taken over, and I kept thinking, couldn't they do this at a church? I like to think of a library as being neutral or possibly left leaning, what with its many volumes devoted to learning and educating a free mind. How dare the people who want to burn or ban half its contents use its building to influence more people to vote for someone who will pull funding from such things as...libraries!?!

Wednesday was less politically charged but no less irritating. It's story time on Wednesday, and every stay at home mom with a young child and its home schooled siblings come to decimate the shelves and fill the trashcans with used diapers. The parking lot was overrun with mini vans all driven by the proud parent of a Star of the Week! I again left in disgust, but at least I didn't catch a cold or the pox.

I tried once more on Thursday, and was lucky to find the last parking space in the lot. I grabbed my oversized library bag and hustled in, only to find the entire front area filled with men and women and a cloud of cigarette smoke, Old Spice, and Jean Nate. They were milling about the new book section, taking over all the benches as if waiting for the doors to open at a WWF match. I was mildly curious to know what all these people were waiting for, but not curious enough to ask anyone. My nosiness paid off when I saw several people with Home Depot aprons waltz in, heading straight for that overused conference room in the back. The crowd stood up and slowly made their way to the back of the building, and it appeared to be a library once again. I find it hard to believe that there was no space available in a Home Depot to conduct whatever it was they were conducting here. It's a warehouse, for Christ's sake. At least now I know why you can never find anyone to help you at Home Depot. They are all at the library.

I want my library experience to be like the days of old. Don't write in your books. Turn them in late and incur the wrath of the return desk matron. Cover your mouth when sneezing or eating and reading. Read your magazines in the bathroom, not a book handled by who knows how many other people. No sleeping in the corrals. And above all else, Sssshhhhhh! But if I could add one tiny request, have your community meetings at the back room of the Ryans. Some of us are here to read.

Thursday, September 25, 2008

Per Your Request


It has been brought to my attention by my reading community (population: 2) that a photo of Challah Baby would be a lovely belated addition to my entry. I would hate to disappoint the both of you, so here she is, in all her freshly baked splendor. Enjoy!


Monday, September 22, 2008

Check, Please!

Please don't read this post while eating a meal. This blog entry is based on true events. A name has been changed to protect the identity of a certain person. She has requested that I refer to her as "Allison."

We had dinner on Friday night at Mimi's Cafe, a family friendly chain restaurant more commonly found in the West than here in the South. My daughters like to eat there because of the chocolate chip pancakes. I can never go there without overeating, but I tolerate the occasional visit there. To me, it is just like eating at the Cracker Barrel, but without all the Jesus. We met my husband's best friend and his family there, and in between discussing robots with his four year old and watching E, my older daughter, unhinge her jaw to swallow a piece of turkey whole rather than cut it, it was a pleasant enough meal. We had all finished our dinners when my younger daughter, Allison, told me she needed to go to the bathroom and mouthed the word "poo." E offered to take her since she needed to wash her disgusting hands, so I happily let them go off alone to the other side of the restaurant while I picked at the crumbs of my oat bran muffin.

Less than 2 minutes passed before E and Allison had returned. "That was fast," I said. "I am scared of the automatic toilets," Allison told me. I offered to take her back to the bathroom, and we walked hand in hand across the restaurant. The restroom is nicer than most in typical casual dining facilities. It has two regular stalls and one disabled one, as well as that nice foaming soap to which I am attached, and shiny brass sinks. Allison asked me to go with her in the large disabled stall, and I put the paper liner on the seat for her while she dropped trou. I turned my back to her for privacy and listened to the music, which meant it wasn't long before I was dancing and singing. "Stop that, someone will see you," Allison said from her perch on the crapper. "Only you, and I am trying not to watch you. Why don't you ignore me as well?" I was slow dancing with myself to a Nat King Cole song.

The bathroom door opened and I stood as still and silent as Michigan J Frog. A mother and son entered the stall next to us, so I quietly listened to them. "Sit down," the mother said. "But Mama, grown ups stand up when they pee." Mama answered more sternly," I don't care, I said sit down." I turned to look at Allison and she was making big eyes at me. "Almost through?" I asked. She shook her head yes and I saw from where I stood across the room that she had made what had to be the biggest poo any six year old had passed and survived to tell the tale. It was standing straight up out of the water like an angry cobra, and the recessed lighting above the toilet shined down on its unholy grandeur.

"Wow," I said. "That thing is huge! Can I see it?" Allison was appalled. "No! Well, only if you wipe me." She had only recently and reluctantly started wiping herself, as she felt it was better to keep her hands clean. Than, say, my hands, or her ass. The door opened and more people came into the bathroom. I could hear other conversations taking place as ladies waited their turns. "Never mind," I told Allison. "You can do it yourself." I turned around again and waited until she was finished. She stood and pulled up her pants and I heard the toilet flush automatically.

"Mom!" Allison called me as quietly as she could. "Help!" I turned around, expecting water to be flowing over the sides of the bowl. "Come here," she gestured with her hand. I looked down and there, on the inside of the bowl, was one of her turds, looking more like someone placed it there strategically than an accidental marooning. (And no, I did not snap a photo with my camera phone.) The paper seat liner was bobbing gently in the shallow water. I did what I would normally do in such a situation. I cracked up. "Stop laughing," Allison screeched. "What are we going to do?" I had tears running down my cheeks and could not think clearly. I wiped my eyes and looked at the back of the toilet for the little black button that all automatic toilets have in case you are in need of more than one flush. And it was cracked, the plastic all ragged and missing in places. I pressed it and nothing happened. I pressed again, more firmly, and no flush occurred. So I started laughing again.

Allison grabbed my face in her little possibly poo tainted hands and said again, "Stop laughing! What are we going to do? You have to sit on it to make it flush." By this point, I was crying again. I pretended to sit down, hovering slightly over the seat, and stood up. No flush. I tried again. Nothing. I laughed harder. More women came into the restroom. A line formed outside our stall. "Try again!" Allison screamed under her breath. "Sit longer!" I hovered again while Allison counted to twenty, and then I rose and ran over to the stall door next to her. Success! The water rushed and swirled the bowl.

Allison grabbed my hand and we went back over to peer again into the porcelain bowl. The turd was still sitting there, in all its damp perfection. I laughed harder. "Now what?" Allison was on the verge of tears. I pressed that broken worthless button a few more times. Then I grabbed a big wad of toilet paper and did what any mother would do. I tried to shove it into the water. It worked too, but not without first smearing across the white porcelain. I threw the wad into the water and pretended to sit again while Allison counted to twenty once more. I got up and ran next to her, still cackling, while the water flushed.

We gazed again into the toilet and at last, victory! But alas, it was bittersweet, as the shit smear lingered on the side of the bowl. "What are you going to do about that?" Allison asked, pointing at it. "Nothing," I snorted, and unlocked the door. We stumbled in front of the sinks and washed our hands, pretending like we weren't the ones who just left that stall. I handed her some paper towels and we dried our hands before leaving the restroom. While we stood in the hallway, she again grabbed my face in her little hands and said, "We must never tell this to anyone." "Really?" I said. "No one." She looked very serious.

E walked up to us at this point and said, "Hey guys, what's taking so long?" I started laughing again. "No one," Allison stared at me before walking back to the table. I looked at E and said," Nothing. It's just really crowded in there."

I guess Allison has a new reason to be afraid of automatically flushing toilets. I know I do.

Wednesday, September 17, 2008

What Passes as an Ordinary Monday

I picked the girls up from school yesterday afternoon and took a short cut down a residential street on our way to the orthodontist's office. My oldest daughter, E, inherited her father's tiny little bird mouth and needs to get an expander now at age 8 so that she can have the railroad tracks in a few years. Luckily you don't see kids with full head gear anymore, but if you did, she would be one of those.

We drove by a man walking his effeminate little dog down the street, happily swinging a bag of feces like he had just come from the penny candy store. I said to my girls, "Hey, that guy is carrying a bag of poop." E was on the other side of the car and could not see him. "I sure hope he has a dog," she said. Bada-bing!


We arrived at the orthodontist's office right on time for her appointment. I signed E in and took my seat in the waiting room. The music is typically loud in his office, and yesterday was no different. The song playing had that pop ballad studio produced quality, and I tried to ignore it while organizing the homework the girls needed to do while waiting. "Christ," sang the unknown to me Christian singer. "Chhrrriiissst, my Savviiooouurrrrr." Oh Christ, indeed. Can we not sit at the orthodontist's office without praising His name?

E went back with the assistant to have an impression of her mouth made while S, my other daughter, and I sat and read a "Minnie and Moo" story. I love Minnie and Moo, and so does S. They are such stupid cows. We tried to ignore the exultation of the satellite radio and finish the story when E came mincing back to us. "Already finished? That was fast."

Dr. J followed her into the waiting area and handed me a slip of paper for the front office staff. "She did great!" he announced in his booming voice. Dr. J has a full beard, rosy cheeks, and a plump little belly. If he grays steadily over the next twenty years, he will look exactly like Santa Claus, and lucky for him, he has the voice and the laugh to complete the look. I have to admit, however, that his jolly takes some of the fear out of going to his office, for both me and my daughter.

"Great, huh? Does that mean she didn't throw up?" I asked him quietly. "Yes, it does!" he shouted. "Yesterday, one girl just gagged once and shot it out, but my assistant took a fast step back and missed it." It never occurred to him that might be a better story to keep to himself and his staff. "She sounds very agile," I replied. I scheduled our next appointments and we left. E still had flecks of white from the impression material on her face.

"How did you do?" I asked her once we got in the car. "I get to eat jellybeans for the next three weeks!" she exclaimed. And she is right, she can. Because after that, eating is not going to be something that brings joy to her. I'll let her figure that out on her own.

Wednesday, September 10, 2008

Challah Back, Y'all!

I bought my girls a toy last week from the Judaica shop at my temple. Already this is sounding very out of character, as I am not one to frequent Judaica shops, but I had fifteen minutes to kill, so I moseyed into the coat closet sized room and looked around. And there it was, amidst all the mezuzahs and seder plates, a doll that my daughters have been coveting for months: Challah Baby. Challah Baby is a bread shaped doll, in the same way that a bowling pin with a face drawn on it is a doll. She is more of a loaf with a head, a couple of braids, and a bread cloth, or blanket, swaddling her loafiness. And she is not just loaf shaped; she is also the color of a golden egg washed crust. She looked delicious, and I can see why my daughters craved her so. So I bought her. I explained to my girls that they had to share her, as there was only one left at the shop. They agreed they could handle that, and so we drove home from temple, in love with each other and our new addition.

I expected her to have a fresh yeasty smell when we took her out of her cellophane bread bag, but she just smelled like cotton doll. S thought she was the perfect Jewish toy and held her carefully, then checked her label to see if she was from Israel. "Made in Indonesia!?!" The fact that Challah Baby was from some South Pacific archipelago, most likely made by hands younger than hers, did not lessen S's love. Next was E's turn to cradle her. She carefully rewrapped her in her crusty bunting and immediately worked out a schedule of who gets to sleep with her on which night. I reminded them that they had to share her, and left them to hash out the joint custody arrangements.

All went well the first couple of days. I said goodnight to S the first night and told her to not get crumbs in the bed. The second night was E's turn, and as I went into her room for good night kisses, she was rocking Challah Baby in her arms, softly singing the Hamotzi to her. Apparently, she had a pretend bath in honey and was now tuckered out.

Tonight, however, custody talks fell through. E decided to alter the arrangement, requiring hand washing before handling Challah Baby, then proclaiming that the party in possession had sole guardianship for a period of no less than 24 consecutive hours, and finally that supervised visitation was no longer an option. S, who is in first grade and not her first year of law school, retaliated by crumpling into a mass of tears in her octopus bath towel, naked and red faced. I stepped in, going straight for drama, which egged them on further. "If you two can't work this out, I can always cut her in half and you each get a piece. Jesus, it's a doll! It doesn't even have legs!" I am pretty sure some of that happened once in the Bible, or at the very least, an episode of Veggie Tales. E actually stopped and thought about this option, but S, more like the true mother, was willing to relinquish her claims. My husband decided I caused the situation to escalate and made his own fair and just decree, at which point I went to my bathroom and began inspecting my adult acne and wrinkles.

I know, I know, that's what I get for only buying one doll. But it was the only one they had. Because it was half off. Yes, I am aware of what it looks like when you buy things on sale at the Judaica shop. But I am pretty sure that is the real lesson in King Solomon's story.

Tuesday, September 9, 2008

A Lame Reference to "Poltergeist 2"

Homework is always a pain the ass, especially since I graduated in 1987 and still find myself doing it. My two daughters are both in grade school now and I have to go back and forth between first and third grade homework to help them. Of course, I prefer the first grade work, as it is not taxing, kind of like the crossword puzzle in my local newspaper. Usually my girls and I keep busy with daily practice of spelling words and math problems, and yesterday while we waited for piano lessons was no different.

What was different was the homework the mom next to us reviewed with her kids. I may have mentioned before that a number of the moms at our piano studio have their children indoctrinated at Job Bones University, which begins its, er, brainwashing, at conception and lasts until your first beer, gay experience, or jungle fever date, whichever comes first. Well, this mom of three quizzed her daughters at the same time I quizzed mine.

I called out spelling words to S, my six year old, " bib...limp....crib."

The other mom called out bible verses," Psalms, 3:29." (I am making this verse up. I don't know if there even is a Psalms 3:29. I know John has a 3:14, but I still don't understand what it has to do with football.) After they discussed the fact that none of them understood the significance of that particular verse, they moved on to rote repetition.

"Lap...did...sit," I said.

"Who made you?" she asked. "God did," her children parroted back to her. "And why did He make you?" She followed up with what I thought was a trick question. "For His Glory!" they shouted.

My daughter, S, looked at me with one eyebrow raised, a fairly sophisticated facial expression for a six year old. The questions continued in that fashion for a while, and I called out words louder to try to protect S from this display of holiness. I waited for a worm like creature to slither out of one of the kids' mouths, muttering "God is in His holy temple," but it never happened. At least not while I was watching.

My kids don't learn that stuff at Montessori. My oldest daughter, E, learned about historical timelines this week, such as the Prehistoric Age and the Stone Age. Where are the cavemen in the Bible? I guess the old Old Testament. Perhaps next week we will sit in the car while waiting for piano, where I can better protect my children's ability to think freely.

Thursday, September 4, 2008

No!

I have 144 popsicles in my freezer, and a dozen balloons in my guest room. This is what happens when I cannot learn how to say a simple two letter word.

I am in charge of the popsicle party at my daughters' school this afternoon, one of those meet and greet affairs, but without cheap white wine and a nut crusted cheese ball. I hosted a similar thing last year, only then the school was comfortable with ice cream, and referred to it as a social. But kids these days, burdened as they are by a slew of unusual allergies, which may or may not be linked to their vaccines, food preservatives, global warming, or inbreeding, might be allergic to ice cream ingredients. So we opted for popsicles, which have the added bonus of not requiring any special equipment to be enjoyed.

My children do not go to an ordinary school, they go to a Montessori school. So not only are we hyper vigilant about the ice cream allergy potential, but we can't offer regular old popsicles, of the orange, cherry, and grape variety. No, these popsicles have to be healthy. 100% juice. Or at the very least, heavy on the real fruit, light on the artificial flavors and high fructose corn syrup. I thought, no problem, when I was coerced into heading up this soiree, but that was before I went looking for the allegedly 100% juice popsicles.

I tried Costco with no luck, but that didn't stop me from buying a Benjamin's worth of stuff we don't need. The next day, I skulked my way over to Walmart. I don't shop there as it is against my elitism, but I was attempting to save the school and thus myself some money. But again, I left without popsicles. They carry plenty with extra preservatives, but none of the healthy variety. I finally broke down and spent top dollar on some Breyer's fruit pops at my local Publix, knowing that brand to be popular with the allergic crowd. And those pops, being of premium quality, come 12 to a package. Which meant I cleaned out the entire store supply of fruit pops.

"Wow, someone must like these popsicles," the cashier sweetly said to me as I checked out. Did I really look like the kind of person who would eat 144 popsicles? I know she was making conversation, but really. I had a similar episode when I worked at Publix in high school. A woman came through my line with about 18 boxes of Summer's Eve douches. I don't recall if they were the same type or a variety of fragrances, but I do remember asking her politely if she had a coupon. She didn't, and she was not pleased I drew attention to what was a very personal, if bulk, purchase. Lucky for her I didn't ask, "Wow, someone must like these douches!"

I picked up my dozen helium filled balloons, in festive colors, and one of those brightly colored plastic table cloths as well, so I am all ready. I am sure there will still be criticism of my efforts. Why didn't I find 100% fruit juice pops? Why aren't there more orange ones? Why balloons, they kill endangered birds and confuse the dolphins? Or as my youngest daughter, S, said, why not make all the pops myself?

And all because I can't say a word that even a two year old can master.