Monthly Archives: June 2012

so, a lesbian and a cop walk into a bar.

I don’t know the punchline to that joke because it’s highly inappropriate. But is it as inappropriate as the text my little sister just sent me? Evidently, the state of New York now provides transcripts of the conversations people enjoy with the officers awarding their speeding tickets. HOW IS THIS A GOOD THING? I guess I’ll ask George Orwell—maybe he can tell me. In the meantime, I can hear Margaret’s flat, deadpan voice telling the cop that she “imagines” her ticket is for speeding, and not for inviting him to sit on a stick (her expression, not mine).

Well. I’ve been on the receiving end of plenty of speeding tickets, and how grateful I am that there’s no extant record of me flirting my way out of yet another point on my license. As it is, there’s quite enough fodder to sink my future ill-advised and catastrophic run for Congress without written evidence of me telling a police man how manly he looks in his uniform. (That used to work pretty nicely, by the way. Margaret, you should try it sometime.)


fruit of the doom.

Oh you precious thing. Your father and I have waited and waited for this moment, and now here you are. You tried to hide under that leaf, but we saw you, little coquette! Has there ever been a more adorable alpine mignonette strawberry in the history of alpine mignonette strawberries? Mais non! Bisous, our sweet darling!

p.s. You have no father. That’s right, you’re a bastard. Were a bastard, actually.

burning some bridges, blithely.

boy touches dirt. boy survives.

This is monumental. William has always been what we euphemistically call our “fastidious” child, another way of saying that, until today, he has refused to touch the dirt. It’s been inconvenient, to say the least. Last summer his chores included pulling weeds for half an hour a day, and it was indeed a marvel to observe him removing a weed from the ground without soiling his fingers (total weeds removed last summer: seven). To watch him mix dirt and water into a muddy slurry this morning was actually an emotional experience for me. And to realize that he was performing the entire operation without wearing socks (which, until two days ago, would have been unthinkable) . . . well, let’s just say it’s been a perfect day.

pet cemetery.

Once again I find myself the proud owner of half a pound of frantically reproducing red wigglers. This is a repeat of the summer of 2010, when the Sprogs begged me to let them have a pet. I fended them off by permitting them to practice with worms. Fortunately for me those worms were cooked to a crisp one day when we left them in too sunny a corner of the yard. In such manner I bought myself another two years by observing that if the worms had been puppies, we probably would have been sent to jail. Logic = unassailable. They agreed they’d had a narrow escape.

But now there have been renewed pleas for a pet, and once again I have resorted to vermiculture, hopefully with similarly successful results. And even my frosty heart was touched as Callie festooned the Worm Hotel with peony petals in heady anticipation of the arrival of new occupants. That is so like her, and one of the countless reasons I love this girl. She’s a tender soul, much like her older brother, William, notwithstanding his many insults.

Me: I swear I must be autistic.

William: That’s pretty rude, Mom.

Me: Excuse moi? Are you implying that autistic people would be offended by the mere suggestion that I might be one of them?

William: I’m just saying that they might have feelings.