Feh

Today my fu has the funk.

Phooey.

Why I Hate Berkeley (S)Mothers

Arabis and I headed off to Totland early this morning, leaving Monkey Boi home in bed (he was up too late playing Starcraft on the computer). We get there and Arabis heads off running to check out all her favorite stuff. There are two older girls on the slide (about seven and five: far older than the normal Totland demographic) and they are monopolizing the slide, climbing up it the wrong way and not letting other kids get on. Arabis manages to wriggle past them and as she is on the ladder almost to the top, the older one runs around to climb up the stairs and pushes past her, almost sending her tumbling backwards down the stairs. Then both girls stand at the top of the slide and prevent Arabis from going down. Arabis looks askance for a moment before deciding that she's just going back down the stairs. There is no adult in sight supervising them.

I come over and tell her that those girls didn't want to share and we'd just go play on something else. She was fine with that and we go off and play on some other equipment. We talked to another mother and grandmother who complimented Arabis on her t-shirt ("Hello, my name is Trouble") and her rock star sunglasses. I pushed her on the baby swings and we played on the big wooden structure and drove cars around.

Then she wanted to go on the adult swing (there are two in the corner). The older of the two girls from the slide was on one so I took Arabis to the other swing and pushed her very gently for a little bit (she's just getting the hang of the how the big swing works). She got down after a little while and walked in front of the other swing. I cried out and dove to grab her but the girl sped up and kicked Arabis in the head, sending her sprawling in the sand.

She had sand in her mouth, on her teeth, streaked down her face on the tracks of tears, in her hair. I scooped her up and carried her hysterical to the bench, checking her for any obvious injury and trying to comfort her as much as possible. Got her to drink some water and eventually calm down. Scooped the sand out of her mouth and checked all her teeth for anything loose (no, thank goodness) and cleaned her up as best I could. One woman came over to see if we were okay, which was very nice.

I look over and notice an adult talking to the older girl who is still on the swing. The girl gets off the swing and follows the woman to a stroller where the woman proceeds to strap the younger girl in to. I pick up Arabis, who has stopped crying and gasping and walk over to them.

"Your daughters almost pushed my child down the steps of the slide about a half hour ago. They have been bullying other kids in this playground and now your daughter just kicked my child in the head," I tell this woman in a voice so calm I frightened myself.

"Thank you for informing me of their actions," says the woman, not looking up at me and fiddling with her bag and the stroller.

"I would like your daughter to apologize," I tell her through clenched teeth.

"Only if you apologize first for being so angry," the miserable woman replies.

I was aghast. What the fuck?!? I look down at her kids, who are also refusing to look at me. I look at her with my mouth open in shock. A thousand unutterable names course through my head but I am aware of all the toddlers around us and I manage to not call her a miserable sniveling c*nt of a camel's whore and just say, "Excuse me?"

She repeated her desire that I needed to apologize for my anger before her child would apologize to Arabis for kicking her in the head.

"You're insane," I said. And she walked away.

I took Arabis to the car and gave her some milk and held her while she got hysterical again. Then after I got her calmed down I called my friend Shemena to rant because I got hysterical.

We went home and she's fine. She's got some bruising around one temple so I gave her some Tylenol. Her pupils are fine. She and Monkey Boi played with the Duplo blocks for a while and chased each other around laughing, so I think she is fine. I'll still watch her and look for any additional bruising in the bath tonight.

On a happier note, here are a couple portraits taken this morning prior to going to the park. It's hard to take self-portraits with a wiggly todder: we never both look good in the same shot!

The Sky is Falling!

I bought a chicken today. Or more accurately, I purchased a carcass that once housed the soul of a chicken (if chickens can be said to possess souls {which is a philosophical discussion for another time}).

This is kind of a big deal for me. In no way am I the "Suzy Homemaker" type. No domestic diva, I. Martha Stewart and Rachel Ray (annoying woman who my mother adores) have nothing to fear from me. In short, I flunked Girl101.

I hate to cook. (Disclaimer: this does not apply to Armenian food. I am an awesome Armenian cook.) I love to bake and am quite good at that, but just the thought of cooking can still send shudders of horror and anxiety through me. I've gotten better over the years and especially in these last two and half years that have found me out of the workplace. Dare I say it, I've gotten almost adventuresome. I've cooked steaks. I've tried recipes from cookbooks. I've even deviated from them and branched out on my own. Now, I face the final frontier: the chicken.

I have a "thing" about chickens. It's not really a phobia. It's more of an extreme dislike and lack of respect. I even have trouble eating chicken. It stems from my childhood and spending time in Fresno during the summers. When I was younger, Fresno was the "New Old Country" for Armenians on the West Coast (I think that distinction has moved to Glendale now). And 35 to 40 years ago it was not the urban sprawl in the Central Valley that it is today. There were still orchards and farms quite close to town.

We would go visit my Auntie Zaroohi on her farm. Sometimes we kids would get sent into the fields to pick grape leaves and the old ladies would can them to use later for dolma and yalanchi. Afterwards, we would sit on her porch, drink lemonade and eat pomegranates. Auntie kept chickens. Chickens are disgusting animals. They are dirty and mean with cannibalistic tendencies. Occasionally we had to gather eggs or feed them. I never liked walking through the pen, being that close to them. They would peck at your feet and argue and harass you. The sensation of chicken shit squishing between my bare toes as I walked is one that instills a sense of stomach churning disgust in me to this day.

I have never baked a chicken. Or roasted. Or whatever you call it when you stuff it with dried bread and lay it nicely in a pan with potatoes and carrots and onions around it. But I am going to tonight. I am obviously possessed of a trickster djinn who is going to be greatly amused by the spectacle, but I'm going to give it my best shot. I've got a Joy of Cooking and Mojo has his Betty Crocker Cookbook around here somewhere, and damn it if I'm not going to feed this nasty bird to my loved ones! Just see if I don't!

I'll let you know tomorrow how it goes. Wish me luck!

Housekeeping

My goodness, it's dusty in here! With cobwebs hanging from all the corners. No one has been here for a long time. That's going to have to change.

Let's do a little housekeeping and see what we can come up with.

Is anyone still out there?

It Runs in the Family

It's Saturday night and I am frantically getting ready to head to the art center for the final performance of "Macbeth." My mother has agreed to babysit Arabis for the night and is sitting at the table with my daughter, eating dinner.

From in the bathroom, I hear the following conversation:

Grandma: "Arabis, do you know how to scare a bee?"

Arabis: "Bee!"

Grandma: "You sneak up behind it very quietly and a great big voice yell, BOO BEE!"

Arabis: (giggling) "Boo-bee! Boobie! BOOBIE!!!!!!!!"

(Thanks, Mom.)


In other news: I promise a full post with updates very soon. My life has been crazed these past few months what with moving into a bigger live/work space (in the same building), rehearsing for and performing in a 13-show run of "Macbeth" in Berkeley (just closed this weekend), another possibly big thing in the works that I can't talk about right now and Arabis's second birthday. A lot has been going on. But I miss this forum and I miss everyone (Hi, Boogiemum!) and look forward to being a regular presence on the Interschnitzel once again.

Conversations With My Daughter

Me: Are you my evil minion?

Arabis: Yeah!

Me: Are we going to take over the world?

Arabis: Yeah, yeah!!

Me: Is Mama a benevolent dictator?

Arabis: Eh (shrugs shoulders).

Living on the Freeway

Some of you local San Francisco Bay Area types may have heard of an accident recently involving a tanker loaded with gasoline and a particularly grueling stretch of freeway. What you may not know is that I live, oh, less than half a mile from the section of freeway in question. And now, thanks to the powers that be, all freeway traffic that would normally be bypassing my lonely stretch of industrial West Oakland is hurtling down the major thoroughfare in front of my house at freeway-like speeds.

I've watched the news the last few days (those of you can be as aghast as you want to find that this is not a normal occurrence for me) and listened to traffic reporters gratefully relating how traffic has been lighter than normal. There was even a mobile news van set up on the corner for about six hours on Monday with a reporter going on camera every hour or so. Had I known what kind of hogwash they'd be spilling, I'd have run out there with Arabis in tow and given them what for.

"How's this traffic affecting the neighborhood?" Ross McGowan of KTVU asks the anonymous reporter hanging out at the Arco station up the street.

"Oh, it's no big deal. It's great for small businesses," our clueless correspondent replied.

There is, wait let me count, *ONE* small business between the two points on the detour and that is (da-da-da-DAH, you guessed it!) the ARCO Station (known in the neighborhood as Crackhead Central).

The reality is that between the cars racing down the street, the exhaust that has easily trebled (if not more), the noise pollution of horns, engines and screeching brakes (not to mention the almost constant drone of the helicopters overhead) have made this a nightmare. The irony of the entire situation is there are other routes one could take that go through less populated areas and shorter distances. One news report does have the decency to urge drivers to "Please use extreme caution while driving this detour route as it makes it way through neighborhoods with children playing and going to school." But judging from the behavior of the drivers outside my window, that is not happening.

I inadvertently drove above the site early Sunday morning (probably less than six hours after it occurred) while going to breakfast, having heard nothing about it previously (other than the incessant helicopters {which in my 'hood could just signify a big drug bust}). It was the most frightening thing I have ever seen. Instant flashbacks to the Loma Prieta earthquake. Especially since I live right in front of the site of the old Cypress Freeway structure that collapsed in that disaster.

Who knows how long this will take to fix, especially with a purported shortage of steel (most of which is going into the new Bay Bridge currently being built). Estimates range from six weeks to months.

Free public transit on Monday was a good start, but it seems it's going to take more than a little freeway collapse to get folks out of their cars. Until then, can anyone recommend a good air filter?

Armenian Martyrs' Day

"If evil of this magnitude can be ignored, if our own children forget, then we deserve oblivion and earn the world's scorn."

Avedis Aharonian (writer and educator, 1866-1948), English translation by Diana Der-Hovanessian

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Armenian Genocide Commemoration
Tuesday, April 24th, San Francisco CA

5:00 pm - Rally at San Francisco Civic Center, across from City Hall

7:00 pm - Commemoration Program, Herbst Theater, in the Veterans Building, 401 Van Ness Avenue at McAllister, S.F.
The 70 piece Oakland Youth Orchestra will perform Gomidas, Khatcaturian and other Armenian works. This evening will be dedicated to victims of the current genocide in Darfur, Sudan. There will be also be a special dedication to the memory of the recently assassinated Armenian journalist Hrant Dink. Donations may be made at the door.

The Mt. Davidson Cross will be lit on April 24th

****************************************************************


"I should like to see any power of the world destroy this race, this small tribe of unimportant people, whose history is ended, whose wars have all been fought and lost, whose structures have crumbled, whose literature is unread, whose music is unheard, whose prayers are no longer uttered. Go ahead, destroy this race. Let us say that it is again 1915. There is war in the world. Destroy Armenia. See if you can do it. Send them from their homes into the desert. Let them have neither bread nor water. Burn their houses and their churches. See if the race will not live again when two of them meet in a beer parlor, twenty years after, and laugh, and speak in their tongue. Go ahead, see if you can do anything about it. See if you can stop them from mocking the big ideas of the world, you sons of bitches, a couple of Armenians talking in the world, go ahead and try to destroy them....for when two of them meet anywhere in the world, see if they will not create a new Armenia!"

William Saroyan "The Armenian and the Armenian"

Richard of York Gave Battle in Vain

When I put away the dishes, I find myself now stacking my brightly coloured Fiestaware by their order in the colour spectrum. I am doing this with Arabis' plasticware from Ikea as well. This is new behaviour.

Am I turning into a hausfrau or just an obsessive/compulsive?

The Smell of White Gas, the Roar of the Flame

Home from fire rehearsal to find Arabis and Mojo asleep together on the sofa. I strip off my sooty and soiled clothes in the bathroom and immediately jump in the shower. The water is as redemptive as the fire was. I scrub, smile at the familiar smell of burnt hair, close my eyes and let the water run over my face. Today was a shitty day and I was able to burn it all away this evening.

Someone once asked me what the unifying theme was that all fire dancers possessed (um...like fire?). The person pressed and I replied; "None of us have hair on our arms."

I'm starting to feel like I'm coming back.

Moving Right Along

We are moving. Not far...but far enough that it's still going to be a lot of work, albeit no truck will be required.

We are moving down the hall, relinquishing my 1100 square foot warehouse space for a 2300 square foot space. Suffice to say both Mojo and I are giddy with the possibilities. We will each have room for a personal studio/work space. Our living quarters will be quite separate. No more toddler running amok with art supplies and turning off the computer in mid-sentence! No more books piled high out of reach, leaving barren bottom shelves bereft of baby-borne chaos. (Please excuse the alliteration. I'm really tired.) We will have room to actually put our stuff and no longer be maneuvering through trails between furniture, laundry and baby toys. There will also be much purging of useless items. We will have SPACE!

The downside? We have seven days to move. That may sound like all the time in the world, but Mojo can't take any time off work and I am home alone with the Tiny Terror of Toddler Town which makes any ordinary task challenging (and this is no ordinary task).

We haven't even begun to pack. Also: I have another cold.

The upshot is that you may not hear from me for a week or two. But I am looking forward to having a dedicated workspace to actually write and really get this blog up and running again on a regular basis.

Great things are afoot, but right now I just want to scream.

Argh!!!!!!

Hope Springs...

Found on a burnt husk of a house in West Berkeley this morning while Arabis and I were on walkabout.

Pink Slip

To the part of me that thought giving Arabis a bowl full of apple yogurt and turning my back on her to wash the dishes was a good thing:

You're fired.

Open Mouth, Insert Foot

We were watching Sesame Street the other day: Mojo, Arabis and I. The fabulous clown, Bill Irwin, came on and danced in front of a curtain.

"Hey!" exclaimed Mojo. "That's Mr Noodle!"

"No it's not." I told him. "That is the Fabulous Clown Bill Irwin."

And I proceeded to give him a rundown of Mr. Irwin's career from his local Pickle Family Circus days to his film and theatrical endeavors. I waxed poetic about having seen him as a child with the Pickles and later as an adult with his show, Fool Moon. I went on a brief tangent explaining who Geoff Hoyle was and their involvement, as well as the tithes owed to other great clowns of the past like Buster Keaton and Harold Lloyd. I was beginning to expound on vaudeville and heading straight for the Italian commedia dell'arte lecture, when I noticed Mojo's eyes glassing over.

"Mr. Noodle is not Bill Irwin. Bill Irwin is a genius! Mr. Noodle is a cheap Bill Irwin impersonator!" I stated with an air of finality. I pretended to ignore Mojo rolling his eyes.

Fastforward to last night. Mojo is surfing the web. I hear a chuckle.

"Could you come here a moment please?" he asks me with a smirk. I have a foreshadowing of my own doom.

There it is. In black and white. IMDB says it's so: Bill Irwin is Mr. Noodle.

We pull up a Sesame Street on "On Demand" and fast forward to "Elmo's World." It's Mr Noodle, all right. Not Mr. Noodle's brother, Mr. Noodle (the late, amazing Michael Jeter), nor is it Mr. Noodle's sister, Ms. Noodle (the annoyingly adorable Kristin Chenoweth). It's Mr. Noodle trying to put on a hat. I look closely, past the wig and false mustache...yep, there he is. Bill Irwin.

I sure hope crow is in season right now. I'm going to be eating a nice big helping.

Jubilations

We've been puke-free for three full days now.

The child was up and playing again as of yesterday, though with a little less enthusiasm then usual. Food is being gradually reintroduced with no upset. We even ventured out into the world today. It's nap-time now and Arabis is in the center of a pile of kitties on the day bed.

I'm trying to gauge whether or not it's safe to take her to her music class tomorrow. We've attended one and missed the following two due to illness. I doubt she's contagious. Just not sure if she's up to it or not. God, I wish the kid could talk.

Although...she did say "caper" yesterday. Heh. My little Bruno.

Thanks to everyone for your well-wishes! We survived (knock on wood, spit thrice)! Yippee!!

State of the Sickie

Arabis went right from having the cold of the century to the stomach virus from hell. And on top of that both ears are infected. We just got back from the doctor. The past 36 hours have been nothing but vomit and diarrhea. The child is a veritable Vesuvius, erupting from both ends. She's lost a pound and a half in weight.

But we have antibiotics for the ear infections and have been doing everything right according to the doctor to keep her hydrated. She's resting now, sleeping peacefully, thank the gods. There hasn't been a lot of sleep for the parental units.

I realize how lucky I am, that this is really only her second illness in 20 months of life, but that doesn't make it any easier. And I had a brief flashback of horror when the doctor said her ears were infected, to my own childhood and my own severe ear problems (resulting in my faulty hearing today). But the days of lancing ear drums are long gone.

She sleeps. I should too.

Courting the Middle Eastern Way

A few days before Christmas, we stopped at the halal market on San Pablo Avenue for supplies needed for the holiday dinner. Mojo, my mid-western goth boi, has developed a taste for Armenian cooking, and I tend to return to my roots when it's especially cold and rainy.

Leaving Mojo in the truck with Arabis and the Monkey Boi, I dashed through the rain and into the market, quickly gathering the necessities (buglar for pilaf, sharia and some paklava as a treat). As I walked toward the counter to pay for my goods, an older man entered and nodded respectfully to the cashier and the butcher, who was standing nearby.

"Happy New Year" he said in English.

"May we all have a happy new year, insh'allah," came the reply.

They proceeded to talk in a mixture of Arabic and English and I caught the word "basterma."

"Do you have basterma?" I interrupted excitedly.

The reply was an enthusiastic affirmative, and the butcher led me into the back of the store, chatting as we walked. He asked me where I was from and I told him I was Armenian. "Then we are cousins," he replied.

Basterma is a marinated and highly spiced meat product, the end result being somewhat akin to beef jerky...only this stuff is lethal to the uninitiated. Mojo, for some bizarre reason, loves it. One of the few odars (non-Armenians) I've ever met who can stomach it.

He showed me where it was kept and began selected a good package for me.

"No, no...not today," I hurriedly told him. "I don't have enough money today. But now I know you have it for next time."

"Not to worry. You don't need money. *I* will buy you the basterma!"

I quickly objected and he insisted that money was no object and the basterma would be a gift from him and that anytime I wanted basterma or soujuk (a spicy sausage) I should come and see him.

"So," he began, "are you married?"

"Yes," I quickly replied. "He is in the car with the children." (NOTE: This is not true. Mojo and I are not married...but marriage is the only concept which carries any weight in this context.)

"Ah. Then, my beautiful cousin, you must buy your own basterma!"

I walked back to the car in the rain laughing happily.

Snotty Nosed Kid

Arabis has THE cold. You know the one? The one everyone is getting/has gotten/or is just getting over? Yeah. That one. The same one that I had and got over. That Mojo had...and got over. That I got again...because sharing is caring. And then he got one more time...can you feel the love?

This is the second time she's ever been sick. In her life. She's almost 20 months old but has been healthy as a little horse. Her first illness was the day before her first birthday. If the kid can't handle turning one, I'd hate to see what happens at her fortieth!

But now? Oh, my goodness! It's Sarah Bernhardt shrunk down to 35 inches tall. She's miserable. And must share. The child is living in a viscous environment. She wants nothing than to lay on Papa and moan. Unfortunately, Papa went to work today. I am currently the second (and non-preferred) choice of cuddle buddy. I don't make it all better like Papa does. (Trying not be bitter. Do I sound bitter? I have a "Daddy's Girl.")

So, to cheer everyone up, and then back to bed, I give you just about my favorite Sesame Street guest appearance ever (...well...the one with Robert DeNiro and Elmo is pretty good too).

"C'mon Monsters! You don't have to cry. We can be happy! Yeah!!"

The Year in Review

I've grown awfully fond of Boogiemum. So much so that I broke my self-imposed cardinal rule and posted a meme in her honor.

And I adore Wannabe Hippie. She did a meme too. So here I am...hopping on the lemming train.

Only it'll be a little truncated since this blog has been in existence for less than a year. The idea is that you post the first sentence from the first post of each month. Click on the month link to read the full entry.

May: I will post in this forum at some point.

June: Bit is obsessed with her own reflection.

July: Post coming soon with lots of photos.

August: We got one of our windows shot out yesterday.

September: I know I've not done a proper update in quite a while, but things have been proceeding at a whirlwind pace and to be perfectly honest, I know of no way to comfortably share with the world the poo-flinging currently going on in my personal monkey hut.

October: On Sunday, Arabis, Mojo and I met my friend Lisa, her husband Evan and their fabulous son Blue for an afternoon of fun at Children's Fairyland in Oakland.

November: Okay.

December: I feel the need to shout out to the world that I live still.

Not terribly exciting, is it? But it is a good reminder that a catchy opening line will do wonders.

Monkey Boi returns to Ohio tomorrow and then things will settle back to normal and I can regale you with holiday photos and tales of joy and mirth...or mayhem and murder. No debauchery. It wasn't that kind of Christmas, not with the two kids around. But we survived, despite my innate dislike of this time of year and the surly countenance that accompanies it.

I do hope everyone had a lovely and safe New Year's and that this upcoming year brings much joy and peace to all of us. This new year is one of transformation, and I am not sorry in any way to see the ass end of 2006 out the door.

Oh, It's a Jolly Holiday

Monkey Boi is in da house. And suddenly Mojo dawns his mantle of Papa-dom. It is an interesting twist on being a parent and I love to see it in action.

Monkey is a typical about-to-turn-13-in-three-weeks boy and has the selective hearing that seems to come with the age. That and the fear of showering. He is fond of stewing in his own musky scent and will do so as long as he can get away with it.

My self-appointed task during the summer was to have him showered and washed every day, along with teeth, and I am proud to say I was rather successful. Of course, he still needed to be reminded numerous times ("Turn on the water, get in the shower, use soap...") on a daily basis before the event actually took place.

As a parent, one can shout "Get in the shower" until one is blue in the face...to no avail. Mojo has a finesse to which I can only hope to aspire. To whit:

"I'm a good natured fellow, a happy-go-lucky scamp. One might even go so far as to describe me as 'jolly.' But if you don't get into the shower right now, I'm going to strangle you with your own large intestines."

Works every time.

God, I adore that man!