Stuff I'm Thinking About

When I'm not thinking about the rest of my life:

1. Do people ever get tattoos of moles? I don't mean the animal featured on the cover of the NYT Science Times today. Or what if you had to have your belly button removed (for medical reasons, or because you are Adam and never had one), would you get one tattooed on so that potential mates would not be totally creeped out? Just pondering future tattoos, that's all.

2. This blog had its 5th birthday and I completely neglected to mention it. Sorry, blog. I hope for your sake that Twitter and Facebook fail but that the publishing industry doesn't recover. Maybe then I will be back more regularly.

3. I read an interesting blog post today: Things That Never Happen. I feel like I could have written it before I tried to consciously stop speaking in absolutes. (Now I just do it unconsciously). But I agree with it and generally raise my kids in this way when I can get them to stop climbing my legs/following me into the bathroom. But what it doesn't address are the true things to fear. I am leery of letting my kid go around the block because there are so many driveways, and people in California tend to floor it out of their driveways with their eyes closed, even though all their Prius's have the camera that shows them what is behind them when they are in reverse (and which I suspect they all ignore). I wish there were a way of calculating their risk from stuff like that.

4. We just spent two weeks on the East Coast: one in Maine and the other in Boston, and I've come away from it with two competing desires. Maine made me want to give away all our stuff and live simply, possibly as lobstermen. Boston made me want to have a manicurist who does house calls. Have not squared these two impulses except to revert to my normal life, which is somewhere in between. One other thing worth noting about Boston was that I found myself at a Black Eyed Peas show, which I felt could have been lifted from a David Foster Wallace novel, where the band is invented by a marketing firm that relies heavily on focus groups in the tour cities. And the Boston fans are thrilled by how closely tailored the band's act is to their tastes. The Peas sampled House of Pain, for G---'s sake. And U2. Who might as well be from Boston, right? Anyhow, it was fun to hang with my family, but I felt slightly like an anthropologist.

5. In addition to 5 years of blogging, it's also been one year of running. I started on vacation last year (Aug 7-14). I started tracking my miles in January, and have run 322 miles since then. Hoping to do 500 miles in 2010. Trying hard not to regret that I didn't start earlier. I wonder what else I've been poo-poo-ing all these years that I need to try?

What's Going On

This is just a mish-mash post. Enjoy.

This morning, my 6-almost-7 year-old asked us, "Do you know anyone from the '60s? Who lived in the 60s?" He was quite surprised to hear that his grandparents all were alive at that time. I am sure that they will be thrilled to learn that he thinks it is the ancient past. Akin possibly to "the Ordivician".

A co-worker of mine (a single man in his early 30s) was lamenting to me the other day that many of the women he meets in CA are really pretty and nice on the outside, but are sort of cold and petty and mostly concerned with their looks. This was in a discussion about reasons he might move to Chicago. I think he must run with a pretty shallow crowd but I did endorse the idea that the women there are nicer. This got me thinking about the geography of niceness, which allows me to indulge in the sort of gross over-simplifications I so enjoy:

• East Coasters: Act surly and mean, are actually really nice people.
• Midwesterners: Act nice, are nice.
• West Coasters: Act nice, are not always nice.
• Southerners: Act nice, are nosy.

Finally, I have a confession to make. I was in an airport today, agonizing over my reading material choice. The only magazine that really grabbed me was the Harvard Business Review. WHAT THE HELL?!? I bought it, but not before grabbing a Vanity Fair to put on top so no one would see what I was reading. What is happening to me, and is there an antidote?

A question

I know this is incredibly wierd to ask, but it has been baffling me all day. What is the name of the shape of an almond or an eye? Is it just "almond shaped"? The shape I mean is round on the top and bottom but meets at a point on the sides. Thank you, math geniuses for this help in advance.

My Book Proposal

You know how it's all the rage to do something for a year and then write about it? Well, it is the rage, and it has been for like 20 years. The projects have just gotten more outlandish. For example, in high school, I read a book about a man who spent a year at Harvard's Divinity School, and then wrote a book about it. More recently, a guy lived only by the rules in the Bible for a year, and wrote a book. Another read the Oxford English Dictionary. One woman read a different book every single day for a year. Another guy didn't throw out anything, including his own bodily waste. I may be free-styling with that one, but you get the picture.

A minor hobby of mine is to come up with something I could do for a year, that would be wierd, but not uncomfortable, and then write a book about it. Actually, my hobby is to think about thinking about that, but never actually coming up with anything. I had my first idea tonight though, while reading the L.L. Bean catalog. What if I only wore stuff from L.L. Bean for a year? Including those heinous mom khakis that bag at the area between your waist and your hips? And Bluchers. Every day, 365 days.

Could I do it? Would my husband still find me attractive? Or would no one notice (my bigger fear)? Is this book deal worthy? Would L.L. Bean vanity-publish this? I realize that this proposal needs some refining, but I want you to know that I've finally jumpstarted my new hobby, "imagining one year projects that could be pitched as book proposals".

Truck Nutz! Errrr, Nissan Nutz!

My kid noticed them first. "Mom! What are those!?"

What is the right answer? Here are some options:

(a) Fake car testicles

(b) It's a weird joke, honey. It's supposed to look like a scrotum on that car. But even if its funny, it's really a private part, so we don't laugh at it, okay?

(c) What? Those? I don't know.

I, of course, went with (b).

More About My Grandmother

It's a popular adage that women turn into their mothers whether they want to or not, and I've come to accept some small quirks (singing everything) while probably not confronting others. But I've always hoped that I would turn into/be more like my grandmother, as you might surmise from my eulogy of her.

However, there were a few habits of my Gram's that I had hoped to avoid. First, she had enormous earlobes, which were the result of her multiple and heavy earrings. That's right. My grandmother wore giant heavy gold earrings, more than one in each ear, and they made her earlobes giant, like some urban legend told to 8 year old girls before they go into Claires to do the deed (i.e. pierce their ears).

Second, she shoved Kleenex into the sleeves of her shirts and sweaters. When she changed clothing, they tumbled out like chunky snowballs. While she could produce a clean tissue like a magician, you never wanted to use it, fearing its history. I do this when I am sick now, but I don't think I've gone the whole way, kimono-style, like Gram.

Finally, she would "grease" her feet every night and put on running socks because of her dry skin.

I now do this. And I am not NOT 91 years old. Or even 79, or 56. But I do it. Just did it 10 minutes ago. Is this the Dorian Gray-like price to pay to acquire some of her grace, wisdom and charm? I guess I wouldn't have it any other way. But I hope someday to develop my own wierd quirks that can't be blamed on my mother and hers.

My New Theory About Guilt

I spend a lot of time pissed off about my job and about certain ideals I once held sacred, but since I want to keep that job and possibly get another one in the future, I have kept quiet about the many theories I have developed about said ideals, and just stew in them. This is w/r/t The Internet, by the way; if you ask me in person, I will spout off at length and possibly to my own career detriment about these issues.

But anyway. I've stumbled upon a theory I can share. Which is a theory of conservation of guilt. Today, I was thinking about this oil spill and feeling simultaneously shitty and nonplussed about it. Shitty, because it is an awful terrible gaping gash in our earth that is spoiling a huge area of our planet. Nonplussed, because there are so many awful gaping badnesses spoiling our earth. Not just environmentally, but also in terms of human life and decency. On top of it all, John Edwards goes out every night and drinks white wine and hits on women. OH MY GOD. STOP. It's all to disgusting to process.

That's a lot of stuff to feel guilty about, right? But what I don't feel guilty about is all that crap that the Catholic Church wanted women to feel guilty about for all those years. Catholics and women and Jews overall seem a lot less guilt-tripped than we were 30 years ago, and I bet a lot of us have been feeling pretty relieved about that. We are not stressed about premarital sex, birth control, having lustful thoughts, eating bacon. I, for one, am pretty pleased about all that, especially that last one.

But while we may feel free of certain kinds of religious guilt, we are now encumbered by far more embarassing social and humanistic guilt. It must even out. While I don't feel even the slightest twinge about missing Mass for the past 20 years, I feel completely awful about all the Sierra Leonan children who are missing limbs and cuddling automatic weapons. And oh, the oil spill gives me a knot in my stomach. Thus, the conservation of guilt. For everything you would have felt guilty about in the past, you will now feel at least equally about something else.

The Car Post

We have two cars. The "other" car is a 1997 Honda Civic, and it is primarily driven by Mr. Scobie on days when he decides to drive to work (rather than BART) or when we both need to drive some place at the same time. This car is usually referred to as "the old car", "the other car", "the Honda" or "(Mr. Scobie's) car". But today, I needed to drive to San Jose, and Mr. Scobie said, "Can you take the crappy car?" and I said, "sure" but when I got in the car, I thought, What a master of re-branding he is. So now I guess the Honda will be known as "the crappy car". The next step from there is a new car, of course.

The other thought I had in the car was, Can you change someone's preset radio stations if the stations are super-corny? Another thought I had was, The popularity of the Segway in San Jose is what is keeping the rest of us from wanting to move here. I didn't tweet either of those thoughts because I was driving and I didn't want to die on 880.

Who? Me?

What am I up to? Oh, just moonin' around in my SF Giants/Fanta slanket. Finished The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest long before the witching hour, mainly because I inhaled like 400 pages of it last night. I'd share a picture, but the one that was taken of me has not been shared with me, and in any case, I probably just look like an orange lump.

Nothing else is going on, and I am trying to keep it that way. I want everything outside of my family and friends to shrink down to nothing. Or rather, some paraphrase of Grover Norquist keeps coming to mind. I often find myself thinking, "I want to shrink this ____ to where I can drown it in the bathtub." Where "this" isn't the government but some more personal bureaucracy. I don't want to be more specific, but man, being a grown-up is complicated. I saw this guy today who had a sweatshirt that said, "Capitalism is a death machine" and I got so annoyed. When did it get more complicated than that? WHY IS EVERYTHING SO NUANCED NOW?

And Tipper and Al are separating? GOD DAMN. I've already lived through my parents' divorce once. Why does this keep happening to me?

Which reminds me of a story. It's a boring one, but bear with me. Mr. Scobie used to call me Tipper Gore. Man, did that ever burn me. It used to make me so mad. Now, I don't care. Of course, he doesn't call me Tipper anymore; he calls me Al. If it's possible to be both, what will happen to me when they divorce? *head exploding*

Action Packed Week

First of all, how cute are these children? I took this picture with an iPhone app that makes everything look like an old Polaroid. Or as my cousin said, an app that makes your children look exactly like you in old pictures. The sleeping bag is SOO earlier this week, when the grown-ups had to take turns camping in the kids room in order to fend off robbers.

Notwithstanding the Crime Spree we faced, the really exciting event this week has been The Loose Tooth. Or possibly The Loose Teeth, or maybe Loose Tooth I and Loose Tooth II. The whole thing has not shaken out yet, but yesterday, Li opened a tupperware container with his teeth (I know, I know, you're thinking, What, you stupid hippies! Haven't you taught your children to fear anything real?) and that resulted in major loosening of a lower front tooth. Anxiety about the loss of this tooth resulted in such award-winning performances as this one, last night:

He's biting his lower lip in order to protect his bottom teeth. He did that from 6:00 pm last night until around 1:30 this afternoon, when I convinced him to try a popsicle (up to that point, no food or water had entered his body for that entire time). TaaaDAH! Instant relief! The other tooth is pretty jaunty too, so I'm hoping the T.F. makes two visits this weekend (Tooth Fairy, not Tom Frank. Although it would be good to see him as well).

The other thing that happened was that a bird flew in the back door yesterday evening, and flew around the house and got freaked out and pooped liberally and hid under the couch. It took much coaching and furniture-moving to get the bird out. It was the most exciting thing to happen to me in a while, but then again, I haven't lost a tooth in years, so what do I know.

A Few Installments of A New Feature

I've decided to start a new feature called "If I Loved . . . , My Life Would Be Awesome" where I would tell you about things which, if I loved, would contribute to a more awesome life on my part. It goes like this:

If I liked walking on Legos, my life would be awesome.

If I liked sleeping on stacks of Bob books, my life would be awesome.

If I liked hearing the Fantastic Fox theme song whistled flatly, my life would be awesome.

If I like decorating with sleeping bags, my life would be awesome.

I acknowledge that some kinder-hearted among you might see these conditions are sweet blessings, and I'm not discounting that possibility. That's why I am trying to imagine a more awesome life out of the awesome life I already have.

Completely Random

Now that I've tried to start blogging again, I've really noticed how little people blog these days, unless they are professional bloggers. And maybe they don't blog either, since I don't think I actually read any professional bloggers. Anyway, its too bad. I like reading my friends' blogs. For example, I was really happy today to find that T&A Lady had posted. Its a pretty funny post. Notwithstanding the fact that she accurately calls out her ex-boyfriend's non-wisdom, I do have to say that the sentiment against sweat pants outside the house was a strong one in my family. So strong, in fact, that I think I may have rebelled for some years by clinging desperately to a really ugly maroon pair from high school. So deep was my affection, I cut them up and put them in my fabric bin; I intend to use them some day in a quilt, or pillow, or some other novelty gift for my husband, who hates them.

Which is a bummer, isn't it? That men (at least good ones) don't find women attractive in old sweatpants? And its a bummer for men that women don't think that SportsCenter is lady porn. So I guess we're even.

I ran another race on Sunday. And oh mother, was it punishing. It was only a 10k ("only", ha!) but it was in Redwood Park, which is very hilly and it was raining and muddy. So I am half-happy with my time. The reason I am even mentioning this is that I noticed that the race organizers posted on their Facebook page today that several people intentionally cheated in the related 30k. What is the point? If you are punishing yourself by running this insane race, why would you then cheat? I don't think I've ever cheated just to cheat. Strike that. Yes, I have. Sometimes I check for a hint at the back of the Sudoku book. Is that the same thing? It doesn't seem like the same thing.

Finally, I strongly encourage you to kill an hour or two watching Nowmov. Especially you, Seamus. This is my friend's new venture, and it is completely addictive. It's like Pandora mixed with Chatroulette mixed with basic cable. With Brazilians. And lots of Justin Bieber. But you can skip those videos. Anyway, enjoy and spread the word.

Deep Thoughts

Still on the music thing, but in a different genre altogether (assuming George Michael and X-Ray Spex are not in the same genre). I was thinking about the following lyrics: "Though its easy to pretend, I know you're not a fool."

How obnoxious and condescending is that? If any "friend" of mine told me that it would have been easy to pretend that I was a fool, I would be so pissed off.

Although now that everyone knows that most of my waking thoughts are song lyrics from the '80s, they would not be mistaken for thinking that I'm half-witted, I guess.

Musical Influences

On Saturday, Liam asked me if people ever have pet rats, which caused me to sing*, "Freddy tried to strangle me with my plastic popper beads, but I hit him back with my pet rat. Yes, I hit him back with my pet rat!" Li thought this was hilarious, so I spun Germ-Free Adolescents by X-Ray Spex for him in the car the next day. It only took one chorus for him to sing along to Plastic Bag. "My my-nd is like a plas-tic bag (do do do do do do doo)."

I was so proud. I mean, even prouder than the fact that both my kids love Ozzy (well, Crazy Train). But here's the trick. X-Ray Spex released that album in 1977. The year my sister was born. I was three, the same age as my younger son. It was old when I discovered it in 1991. So how can it be cool for me to be playing it for my kids? It just isn't, right? It's the equivalent of my mom playing Phil Ochs and The Band and Simon and Garfunkel**, which was still mildly contemporaneous with my early childhood. So in essence, I am even more of a throwback than my mom was when I was a kid. ~~~ Does not compute ~~~

This marked lack of coolness is something I've never adjusted to. Time to just own up to it and bust out the Doobie Brothers, I guess.

* I have this genetic condition that I inherited from my mother, and passed to my son, whereby I sing non-relevant song lyrics in response to friendly questions. This would drive Mr. Scobie "insane" if he weren't already in that condition due to our children's horrible table manners and their shambled, broken-toy-strewn bedroom.

** I still love The Band and Simon and Garfunkel. Here is my friend Dave's answer to the question "Beatles or Rolling Stones?": "Simon and Garfunkel", and he's right.

Two Steps Forward, One Tiny Step Back

This post is about Oakland. Back in September, I wrote about how impressed I was by O-Town's burgeoning night life, and last month, I was thrilled to run the half marathon in the Oakland Running Festival. This weekend, we stopped by the re-opened Oakland Museum of California, which was packed with people, and I felt particularly proud to watch the immigration rally/protest circling Lake Merritt from the roof of the OMCA. OAKLAND! REPRESENT! Even the NYT caught wind of Oakland's resurgence this weekend.

But amidst the fun and the Diebenkorns, there was one small thing at the OMCA that made me shake my head. It was the Holistic Hooping demonstration. Oakland is not going to make it to the next level of cool with this hula hoop-based fairy costume sex therapy dance nonsense. And I know that one of them will find this blog post and disagree, so I just want to let that hooper know that when my old dentist's wife started anonymously commenting on this blog, it ended with me giving detailed testimony to another dentist's lawyer in a related litigation matter. So think again, hula hooper.

I've decided to chalk the wood nymph hula squad up to Berkeley and continue to give O its due. But if I see a diaphonous cape or felt upper-arm bands in the vicinity of a hula hoop in Oakland again, I WILL downgrade Oakland to a B+.

And Again

I was reluctant to tackle the subject of our trip to New Jersey, but then I found this website, for the Westmount Country Club, and I realized it was selfish to keep it all to myself. My grandmother's repast (post-funeral lunch) was held at The Westmount, and she would have been in her glory at this place. And I don't mean because she was some old school guidette. Far from it;my grandmother was amazed at tackiness, and would have been thrilled to spend an afternoon soaking up the Westmount and tossing off one-liners at its expense.

Let me back up a bit. My grandmother died April 6, 2010, after a very long and full life. Now that's she deceased, I know that I'm at liberty to tell her age, but when she was alive, her age was not commonly known or shared.

Here's my grandmother's obituary. There was no doubt that her progeny would travel to NJ for the services. Due to the fact that there are no hotels in Clifton, NJ, my uncle reserved a block of rooms at the Holiday in Totowa, just up Route 46 from the church. As an aside, I need to note that my husband and non-NJ cousin mis-pronounced Totowa in various ways, and I had to fight the feeling that their mispronunciation was intentional. It's Toe-toe-WAH, not tot-uh-wah or tuh-TOE-uh. I decided that I don't answer for NJ anymore, and didn't bother to correct them. Plus, I'm probably wrong anyway. The hotel was attached to a night club that doubled as the breakfast buffet. I didn't have the good fortune to visit Ruby's Lounge, but some phrases my family who did visit used in reference to it were, "milling about", "sexy dancing", "old" and "jarring".

Stepping aside from the hilarity of the Ho Inn and the Westmount, I must say that my Gram's mass was very moving and appropriate. I hadn't felt deeply miserable about her passing because it wasn't unexpected, but the mass felt just right for acknowledging who she was and creating a safe space for feeling that sadness. I was lucky that my mom took me up on my offer to speak a few "Words of Remembrance." I share them below, because I figure, I already shared them in public once, and I've already eulogized an old neighbor on this blog, it's only right to honor my grandmother.

When I first heard that Gram had died, I had a flash of self-pity where I thought, "I didn't get to say good-bye to her." Then I realized I had talked with her just a few days earlier. In fact, most of her children and grandchildren spoke to her in the weeks before she died. I talked to Gram almost every week in the past few years, and I can tell you, she was ready for this. In some ways, she was curious about death, almost impatient. I know that she was ready to pass.

Our familiarity makes it hard to remember anecdotes about my grandmother. But I do remember that in the last year they owned the house in Lavallette, Gram learned that a serious winter storm was headed towards the house, and the house hadn't been closed for the winter. She literally tossed me in the car and drove down there. (I think Jack was there.) She worked quickly to lock windows, turn off the water, whatever needed to be done. I am sure that I was no help at all. Before we left though, we walked down to the beach. It was the only time I remember seeing dolphins at Lavallette. Gram turned to me and said, "We should go swimming!" It was pretty classic. She had a way of making the routine seem spontaneous, and by extension, I felt so *included* in everything she did.

When I was very young, Gram taught me how to answer the phone, make a pot of coffee. She let me watch the Today show with her at the kitchen counter , and she'd send me to buy donuts at Cozy Joe's. I felt so important! So grown-up! It seems silly to remember such little things about a woman who accomplished so much. She graduated from Fordham and got her Master's degree in the 1940s. She had a professional career when Irish Catholic women were not professionals. Then she had a family when most women at that time would be considered an old maid. Gram was one for the history books and yet my whole life, I just took it for granted. Of course she did all that. NO big deal; I'll do that too! Sometimes she used her maiden name, sometimes she used her married name. No big deal; I'll do that too!

In fact, Marie Winberry Costello has many names. To the older grandchildren, she is Gram. To the younger, and to her great grandchildren, she is Memaw.

Regardless of what we called her, she was crazy about all of us. The younger kids were beautiful, hilarious and, wonderful. I never heard her use baby talk until I had kids. Rachael got Gram to shoot a music video a couple of years ago. She thought you were all hilarious. Every time she was with you, she was 70 years younger.

And making Gram laugh was one of her favorite things in the world.. When I got married, I asked her how I could have a long and happy marriage like hers. The first thing she said was, "Keep laughing with one another." She and Pop definitely did that. The other advice she gave me: "Never speak ill of his family, no matter how long you are married." And, "Feel free to go to bed angry - you'll know in the morning what you were really mad about." But keep laughing was the main advice I try to use every day.

I wanted you to know how much she appreciated that you could make her laugh.

What about us older kids? What did we mean to her?

There are enough people she loved in this world that I cannot say that we meant "everything". But the five oldest grandchildren were all the products of divorces by the time we were in our early teams. Each of us struggled in ways and through issues that Gram and her children never envisioned that we would.

And for that, Gram, above all, admired us. She was so proud of us. Every time I talked to her, she bragged to me about my sister, my cousins, my husband, my sister's husband, my cousin's husbands, my cousin's wife. She bragged to me about my own kids. She bragged to me about ME. She didn't understand everything that we did, but she thought we were all just amazing. And she respected us. Not just once were coping adults, but throughout our lives. She trusted us to answer her phone, make the coffee, hear some adult news - because she respected us, and our intelligence.

When I talked to Gram that last time, we didn't have any deep conversation. She had questions about being a criminal defense attorney - she was watching Law and Order - and wanted to know more about a half marathon I had run a few weeks ago. But she also let me know again, in simple ways, that she was really impressed by me, and more important, she was at peace with her own future.

The level of love and respect that I got from Gram, I got to reciprocate almost weekly. While I don't feel like there's anything I didn't say to her, I want to say this to you: If you want to remember my Gram, then take excellence for granted, respect eachother, and above all, keep laughing together. Thank you.

Another Blog Post, Finally

I've really been struggling to think of something to blog about lately. Obviously, the non-blogger side of me has been winning. I'll try to rectify that tonight, if I can. But coming up with a blog post was really challenging, especially since I DVRed the final episode of Project Runway, and I really should watch it tonight. It aired 5 days ago and the whole Western world knows who won, and I have been intentionally ignoring any source of information that might reveal the winner. So I really need to see it before the news blackout breaks down.

But okay, here I am.

Went to Jersey this weekend. Can't even begin to tackle this topic, I've reverted to such a neophyte weakling-blogger state. I just don't have the physical and emotional constitution to tackle New Jersey right now. It's like I've had blogger pneumonia, and I need to ease back into it.

Here's a topic I can handle: I finished reading Union Atlantic by Adam Haslett yesterday. I can't really recommend it. It got great reviews I think. Actually, maybe only my mother-in-law liked it. I don't know. It was on the cover of the NY Times Book Review, and I therefore assume they gave it a good review. Only Saul Bellows or Don DeLillo would get the cover and also a bad review, right?

Why did I dislike it? A few reasons:

(1) It was Gatsby-esque but not in a subtle enough way to be anything other than derivative.

(2) Speaking of derivatives (buh-dum-bum), the story involves a stock market crisis that takes place at the beginning of the war in Iraq, thus causing the reader to be forced to reckon with two monumental national disasters simultaneously. But the crisis feels anachronistic or something. Or maybe you are supposed to shake your head and lament that we never learn from our (snore).

(3) The main character is boring as shit and totally unlikeable. And not unlikeable in a Saul Bellow character way, where you can't wait to read what ludicrous prejudice is going to be next attributed to this character. It's more like, "Okay Doug is a power tripper, and now he's taking his shirt off again." (flip, flip, flip)

(4) In fact, all the characters are unlikeable, really. At least in small ways. And the things that are supposed to make them complex and interesting, aren't. Nate is gay? OMG! I just thought he was goth!

Had enough snark? I can't say I hate the book. It has enough interesting elements to be worth finishing.

UPDATE: I just checked the NYT review. It's pretty close to glowing, so heck ,maybe I'm wrong. But it reminded me of the talking dog bit, and that made me decide that, yup, I might hate this book.

Update on the Twitter situation, and Day 2 of SD

After I invited everyone to follow me on Twitter, my spouse let me know that I require new followers to be verified by me before they can read my posts. None of you asked to follow me, so I assume no one else tried to follow me there. Probably because you are mainly Luddites who are ambivalent about even reading this so-called blog. Anyway, I added my Twitter feed over there in the right hand column, so you'll have a reason to check back in even if I am not updating the blog.

As for Day 2 of San Diego, all I can say is, Legoland is nirvana for a 6 year old boy. Mine literally ran from place to place, overwhelmed and thrilled by the whole thing. It's probably the best theme park for kids that I've ever been to. My kids are anxious to return this weekend (not happening).

I've Found Something New to Be Annoyed About

In case you thought I'd gotten mellow and maybe more accepting of the world around me, I wanted to let you know that I have a new pet peeve. It is the use of quotation: "The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting the same results."

I'll admit that the first time you hear this quote, you might think "HA! Isn't that clever? And so true...." but in reality, it is rarely true or even descriptive of the event under consideration. This particular iteration of this nonsense is attributable to Meg Whitman, criticizing Jerry Brown's decision to run for Governor. Say what you will about Jerry Brown and crazy, but this isn't actually him repeating himself, expecting the same results.

Another context in which I heard this quote was a meeting at work where someone was bemoaning the failure of program to reduce workplace injuries. The program was never actually fully implemented. I practically bit the woman's head off, and had to restrain myself from giving a lecture about the failure of LBJ's Great Society or War on Poverty or whatever and even now I don't know what that means. In other words, if you don't do something, you can't turn around and say that you did the same thing over and over again.

On reflection, this is just one quote that people use to sound smart and pithy and right without actually having to be thoughtful and articulate and creative. Which describes the use of quotes generally. So I am going to amend my pet peeve to include the use of all quotations in verbal communication.

It Didn't Seem Like Such A Bad Idea At the Time

Mr. Scobie decided to go to CO for a ski weekend with his brother and friend around the same time that I realized that I had a Southwest voucher that will expire in June. So I got the bright idea to take the kids to San Diego for the same weekend, so we could hit Legoland and the Zoo. Now, I've been informed by both Mr. Scobie and his brother that they would also like to visit Legoland and the Zoo, and while I understand that, I also know that I cannot plan a non-skiing trip during the winter for the whole family without some serious backlash, so I went ahead and booked it. Way later than I should have, but the money is spent. This blog post is not to cry over that spilt milk. Instead, I will compose this post as though it were Twitter status updates I had made throughout the day. In fact, I didn't have time to tweet, what with all the yelling and driving rain, but I know a lot of my readers don't follow me on Twitter so I thought I would give you a taste of what it's like to read.

6:22: Up, fed, dressed out the door!

6:22: F! Forgot my coffee and the NYT. Not going back now, already at the end of the block.

6:38: Nasty odor wafting over OAK causing kid to fake-retch is IDed as landfill fumes by security guard. Mystery solved.

6:43: Practically no one at the airport.

6:46: Kids ecstatic to see Southwest airplanes; out of proportion to their abundance.

9:01: Safe flight, safe landing in SAN.

9:33: Car reservation for Mary Dooley found for Tuesday not helpful to me.

9:47 On the road to Legoland.

10:25: Legoland closed. Would be a total disaster if not for killer earthquake/tsunami

10: 25: For perspective, i mean.

(Those were actual posts)

11:30: After more than an hour of tears and recrimination, we are resigned to make the best of it: San Diego Zoo, give us all you've got.

3:49: Hippos are amorous, time to head out.

4:35: Did not get $91 worth of San Diego Zoo.

5:35: Hilton Club Lounge cheese selection not up to unacknowledged expectations. Milk containers don't open with adult assistance.

5:36: more tears and recrimination. Back to the room.

9:41: listening to the yapping of the participants of the San Diego Dog Show who are also guests here tonight.

That covers Day 1.