Who needs a sled?

While the big kids go to the big hill, the younger ones go to the smaller slopes in the park. Unfortunately, today the boys had taken both sleds, so after sufficiently snow-angeling the neighborhood, Girl-Child and I just used the ice-coated equipment provided by the city.

Did I say snow?

That last post -- nyah, that wasn't a snow storm. Not like what we have now. It's been snowing since Saturday -- you'd think that would give us more than 10 inches, but this is Portland, after all. And half way down in that 10 inches of powder is half an inch of ice, which really spices up the slickness of the roads and walkways. It makes for wonderful sledding, however, and the neighborhood boys have spent considerable time whizzing down the steep and winding hill just a few blocks away, where they have closed the road (no one would be able to drive up it anyway).

And yeah, I know there are terrible winter storms all across the northern half of North America, but as far as our papers and tv-stations are concerned, the world ends at the Oregon border (Vancouver, Washington, which shares the river with Portland and where they've gotten more snow than us, is an honorary Oregon city). I've heard personal rumors that the Midwest is suffering record sub-zero cold, and parts of New York have gotten four feet of snow, but as far as our local news networks are concerned, that world is beyond the Columbia Gorge -- where they've gotten more than three feet of snow and the winds are still howling at 60 mph (enough to blow a semi-truck to another lane): hence, Interstate 84 has been closed for three days.

The U.S. Mail didn't even deliver today.

Nor storm, nor sleet, nor dead of night
Shall delay these couriers
From their appointed rounds.

Yeah, right.

A layer of ice coats everything.

To be fair, rumor has it that Portland only has five snowplows (and I've seen only one in the last two weeks of snow, so I believe it). And no one has told them to plow and then drop gravel, rather than the other way around. And we've gotten enough snow and ice and freezing cold that even the Twin Cities would be slowed by this storm (but not stopped, as we are). Chains are required on all vehicles within the city limits (but HomoDommi -- who was out, bechained with an all-wheel drive vehicle, three times today -- says that a significant number of people are without chains, and they are dangerous, causing accidents and getting stuck in the unplowed intersections all over).

Maybe, in Portland, the world will end in ice. From what I've tasted of desire, I hold with those who favor fire. But ice is also great, and would suffice.



Correction: According to The Oregonian, 23/12/08, we officially have 13" of snow, making this one of the major storms ever for Portland, but still out of the Top 10 for recorded history (since 1880).

I went to the blog and all I got was this lousy update

Something like 24 loads of wash, 6 showers and treatment applications, 8 heads carefully combed (some of those were counted twice), complete household vacuuming, and what the hell, we deep-cleaned the bathrooms, too ... We found two more live ones on Boy-child and some more nits on Girl-child. They have been re-showered (with much complaint at the unusual cleanliness), re-treated, and so far are still clear. The adults haven't self-examined too carefully.

We also adopted Blithe's suggestion of the daily spray of diluted tea tree, lavender and geranium oils. I noticed that the shampoo and conditioner that I purchased last week, before all of this came to light, and which had somewhat reduced my own head itching before all of this began, lists these oils (and chamomile and some others) as primary ingredients. My head is feeling much less itchy these days.

The cats wanted to be in on the fun too. I finally gave in and took Tasha (newly christened to acknowledge her change in status) to the vet today. She has (had) a rampant case of ear mites. Highly contagious among cats, so we must treat all the others, and wash all cat-sleeping blankets in hot water. Like lice, they aren't directly harmful, just live parasitically in the ear of the host -- but they bite and move around, which itches, causing the cat (or dog) to scratch -- sometimes until they bleed, which can get infected and become quite serious.

Tasha's visit to the vet cost more than my own visit yesterday to the dentist (no insurance). It stands in my mind as her formal adoption date -- now I just have to summon the nerve to tell her original owner.

I want to rename her to Portia, because it sounds like Tasha, and it is Shakespearean (to go along with my Prince Harry and Hotspur Percy), and because she bids fair to cost me as much as a porsche. But Girl-Child informs me the cat doesn't look like a Portia, but like a Natasha. So I guess we're stuck with Tasha.

In many ways.

Which isn't so bad.

Got lice?

We do. Or we did. Boy-child was sent home from school yesterday after itching uncovered nits in his hair. I can't see them -- I had checked him a day before (because he was itching), and saw nothing. I mean, I can barely see them when people say, "Look. There. On the end of that comb tooth. Right there." I then do the middle-aged reach -- which is extending my arm so the hand holding the comb is 20+ inches from my face -- and then I can see the tiny less-wide-than-a-hair white speck of nit. If, that is, I'm under the full spectrum light, on high.

Picture is from the web. Creeps you out, huh?

So yesterday afternoon and evening were entirely spent de-lousing. Everything in the house that has touched a child's head (or the head of a person who's been near a child's head) must be washed in hot water and dried in hot air for at least 20 minutes, or put in a plastic bag for two weeks. That means all bed linens, cushions, hoodies, shirts, jackets, blankets, towels. Couches and chairs must be sprayed with a nasty-smelling bug killer (Boy-child has been practicing hand-stands recently, head down in the cushions, legs up in the air, You start to look at things differently when you're trying to figure out if a head has pressed up against them). I took a car load to the laundromat -- 11 washer loads. FeminaDommus ran a few here at home, too. The children were shampooed and medicated (uncovering more on Girl-Child than Boy, indicating perhaps the entryway into the household); HomoDommus shampooed and medicated, denying the whole time he needed it.

I have discovered a new etiquette challenge. I went to the gym and shampooed and medicated there, because our water heater is broken (we get only about one shower, or load of wash, an hour from it). I hadn't counted, at 8:30 at night on a Friday, on having company in the open shower area. Does one explain to the naked lady three feet away, under the neighboring shower head, that one is de-lousing oneself? I chose instead to stall, glorying in the unending supply of hot hot water, until they all left the room. Then I quickly applied the treatment, which smells of veterinarian's back rooms and bug spray, and hid away the bottle. Had anyone else joined me, during the 10 minutes I stood there twiddling my thumbs while the toxic treatment did its wonders, I was prepared to joke about these fancy hair products that refresh the moisture in your hair. Luckily no one showed up, and I didn't have to lie.

My head has been itching for weeks, and since the treatment the itching has mostly stopped. We found one nit on my head.

FeminaDommus and the Texan both put off their treatments until this morning, both convinced they have not been affected. FeminaDommus has been told her hair is too thick to support lice -- but just now she combed one out of her wet, post-treatment head today, "so big," reported HomoDommus, "it waved at me." (To which I replied, It wasn't waving, but drowning, since this was after the application of toxic materials. HomoDommus didn't catch the reference until I elbowed him, ruining the wittiness of the riposte.) He is now, in retrospect, totally wigged out by the experience, and I agree, my head has started itching again, in sympathy.

The children's friends have been phoned in warning. One family has already reported back that, after denying the possibility for a few hours, they discovered them on their son -- and were up until after midnight treating the household. We are not ground-zero -- several boys on the basketball team have reported in this week with buzz-cuts.

I don't remember lice being an issue when I was a child. One set of older nephew-niece struggled with them in their school in the early 1990s, and it's a constant fight in the schools here (last fall there was essentially a lockdown at Girl-Child's school, with all coats and hats stored in individual plastic bags every day to cut down on the spread of lice). FeminaDommus suggests that it is not a case of increased lice populations, but rather of diminished causes. No longer are children sent home and quarantined for polio or small pox or scarlet fever. There's a vaccine now for chicken pox. We should be grateful all we have to complain about are relatively harmless, itchy parasites.

Friday Kid Blogging

I have been informed I am not posting enough photos of the children.

Two weekends ago was the end of Boy-child's Soccer season. Bad aunt that I am, or more precisely, asportal aunt that I am, this was the only game I attended all season. It was played in one of my favorite parks, Wiltshire Park. I love the perspective provided by the huge huge trees in this small city residential park, about our importance in the greater scheme of things. Boy-child is in the red socks off to the left of the photo; HomoDomi is barely visible on the right, through the goal posts, in a blue beret and jeans. The other two women in the household are there, as well, in small.

Here's another photo of Boy-child, looking unusually serious. I think I just caught him between expressions.

After the game, Girl-Child and I spent half an hour at the nearby playground. She ran and played on the equipment in that childish way which I have lost myself, throwing herself into the physicality of it all. I, meantime, tested my new camera for focus, shutter-speed, color control, etc. A nice subject for the photos, the Girl-Child and a sunny autumnal afternoon.

Halloween, 2007

A much quieter affair here in Portland than in other places, our Halloween saw about 40 children in costume, two of which were, of course, ours. No princesses, angels, pirates or Spider-men here -- the style for the evening was black.

Girl-Child forgot her broom, but otherwise was in full witch regalia (we realized just a couple of days ago that the witch costume she was so focussed upon came direct, but unconsciously, from a favorite movie, Kiki's Delivery Service). She also has been wanting to dye her hair black for months. Unwilling to use "real" grown-up, semi-permanent, hydrogen peroxide-based, hair dye on her, we tried some black hair gel on her bangs and in streaks in the hair around her face, but it doesn't really show in the photo (or real life). If she wants to dye her hair for real, she just has to wait until she's in college (i.e., no longer living at home).



Boy-Child dressed in a glow-in-the-dark skeleton, with an old Harry Potter robe zipped up over it and a see-through-from-the-inside Dementor hood. All this blackness and the excitement of the evening meant that getting a photo was a little difficult -- this one was snapped without posing, with his trick-or-treating buddy from down the street, who obviously goes to the same tailor.






At the end of the evening, the huge piles of candy were organized and traded upon (I got two Butterfingers for a single hug!), with much sneaking of treats behind the adults backs. Such a good holiday!

A Witch's Birthday

This weekend was spent in soccer (final games for Girl-Child's season, penultimate for Boy-Child's) and birthday party. Most of Sunday was spent in Recovery.

The party went well, as far as the children were concerned. The adults were more than stressed, but given that the kids liked it, I call it a win, all 'round. (Something about having four adults -- we've gotten soft, I expect, from the ability to lean on each other. Two-parent households, not to mention single-parent households, have birthday parties every year. Why do we find it so stressful?)

In the end, including our own, we had six sevenish-year olds (two boys and four girls) and three nine-ish-year-olds (two boys and one girl). Only some of the kids wore obvious costumes -- we had a pink SuperGirl, two Witches, a Tiger, a Skeleton and perhaps a football player (or a numbered t-shirt) and perhaps a fairy princess (or a pretty dress). (Here, the girl-child is opening presents, her blur indicative of her experience at the party.)

Some highlights (in no particular order):

The Hamburger Cake, which although dry and overly sweet, was loved by most of the children. It even had a "burger" in the middle, of brown-color (i.e., not chocolate) frosting. Only one child (whose mother is a Cordon Bleu-trained chef) declined the cake. (His favorite foods, to the annoyance of his mom, are Kraft Mac 'N Cheese and hot dogs, so his temperance on Saturday was an exception.)

Piñatas are now de rigueur at children's parties (the creeping influence of Hispanic customs? the straightforward influence of Dora on TV -- which, of course, has Hispanic antecedents?). Several previous parties (for both children) have been marred by shrieking last minute stays of execution for the candy-stuffed animals. Our gentle-hearted girl throws herself upon the cardboard doll, to the tune of return-shrieking outbursts by her disappointed brother, who somewhat accurately points out that the whacking is what piñatas are all about. We have a collection of unwhacked piñatas, their candy distributed by an adult throwing handfuls in the air.

This year, we were assured in advance that indeed children would be allowed to whack the piñata, as long as it wasn't cute -- so we re-used a non-animate Star, rescued by Girl-Child from a friend's party last summer (or plundered, according to the friend, who wasn't so sure she liked sharing her piñata). (It worked quite well, actually -- all the cracks left by previous whackings allowed candy to shoot out in fits and starts so almost every child managed a whack-with-candy-result.)

I don't know if the children thought this a highlight, but we adults got a kick out of our own meager attempts at costumes -- impulse purchases at Ikea last week. We had a droop-eared bunny (we thought we were getting a basset hound -- no color on the packaging), a gray cat, and a chicken.

Birthday Party Blogging

Or rather, Not-Birthday Party Blogging. Girl-Child awoke this morning with a fever and sore throat. We always like to let our guests leave with something, but a cold is not one of the preferred gifts. So the party has been postponed until next Saturday.

However, we already had gotten the cake(s). Above is the Hamburger and French Fries Cake (purchased, if you couldn't tell). The "fries" are definitely angel food cake; we're not sure about the "burger", because it is a standard 9-inch diameter, smaller than angel food cake pans tend to be. It has just been put in the freezer, fingers crossed that it will not be too dried-out next weekend.

We are not without housewifery skills. Below is the family Cake, a dark chocolate cocoa cake with pumpkin-cream-cheese filling and a cream-chocolate glaze. We'll eat this now.

Se7en

Girl-child's birthday today. We had a surprise party for her on Sunday last -- I was standing behind her, so this photo only shows her stunned stance when (as she hinted she really wanted) we jumped out and yelled Surprise! Ruth and Tom were part of the surprise, but I believe she still takes so little interest in the affairs of adults that we might as well have been talking about their arrival over dinner the preceding several nights. Sometimes they're here, sometimes they're not, if you ask a 7-year-old. Regardless of surprise, it was great to see them, and they made the party special.


But today was the Actual Day. She joyously counted three new stuffed animals, each of them "The Best" (a penguin, a witch cat to match her witch costume, and a teddy bear that glows from the inside with changing-colored lights).

And several pink outfits from various relatives (and one green dress that is adorable but still on probation -- it's green, after all). And an art activity book, which is already almost completed.


In the end, we will have had four cakes -- two on Sunday (chocolate and carrot -- one for Ruth, whose birthday was last Thursday), a chocolate-pumpkin-cream-cheese cake with the family tonight, and a white cake cut and decorated to look like a giant hamburger and french fries (purchased) for the party with friends tomorrow.

Dieting will begin on Sunday.

I can America*

Today, in preparation for that good American holiday Halloween, I went to the fabric store to purchase materials to make a witch costume for Molly. She has very specific ideas about what her witch costume will look like - she drew me a picture. She carefully colored in the hat, and she added the tiny bow at the neckline.

It is to be black. No waistline. No zippers or buttons or ribbons or frills. Short sleeves because she doesn't like the feel of fabric on her elbows. It is to be mid-calf in length. When I told her I would have to find a pattern (because my sewing skills are rusty), she said, "No, no pattern! Only black. Plain black."

The closest fabric store I know about is a Jo-Ann's Superstore, on SE 82nd, in the middle of a territory that God -- or Portland land use zoning law -- has abandoned to strip malls and highways. There are no trees in "outer SE" as it is known. There are no sidewalks. There are cars going fast on the highway, or going slow at the traffic lights, or going slow on the highways during rush hour. The only people you see outside are unfortunates waiting for the bus, in a part of town deemed unworthy of bus shelters, sitting passively in the rain on sodden benches.

I was in JoAnn's for almost 3 hours. The store itself is a huge, clean, windowless warehouse of white walls, lit by cold fluorescent lights hung from a high white ceiling. While I was there, a huge rainstorm hit outside; I had no indication of the storm deep in the center of the store. I was surrounded by 9-foot high shelves stocked with amazing potential for whatever hobby you have -- needle-point, sewing, knitting, machine embroidery, decoupage, home decoration (pre-made and materials for), an assortment of unfinished wooden boxes and small furniture to be used in decoupage and home decoration; dried flower arranging, frames and framing, fabric painting, dying, card-making, and scrap-booking. More than four aisles were aimed for the scrap-bookers: colored archival paper, in matte, gloss and glitter; stickers; devices to create stickers; special scissors to cut shapes to fit into the devices to make unique stickers. Stamps for those who don't want stickers but do want color. Large stamps of color texture, small stamps of intricate Victorian curling ivy, alphabet stamp sets in 4 different sizes and 5 different fonts. And 2 more aisles of compartmentalized storage boxes to keep track of all your scrap-booking supplies.

Oh yes, they do sell fabric, but most of it is fleece (plain, striped, patterned and licensed patterns) and quilting calicos. At this time of year, they are well-stocked with fanciful fabrics for Halloween -- I bypassed several attractive tulles with multi-colored sequins, or deep red-black velvet with burned out skulls and crossbones, in favor of the plain black that Molly requested. Because I only needed a yard, I purchased some delicious velvety black panne (rejected by herself because it has "shiny parts") in addition to the more safe fine wale black corduroy (pronounced "perfect").

The problem was the pattern. Patterns for girls' witches costumes run to the Scary Witches (worn with big green noses and orange-and-white-striped stockings and with tight Victorian bodices and big puffed sleeves and capes) or to the Beautiful Witches (with brightly colored netting overlays, and tight corset-tied Medieval bodices over lacy insets, and long dramatic swooping sleeves). Eventually I found a plain girl's dress, exactly matching the drawing (except intended for a fun fabric, with pockets).

While I was wandering lost in the fields of too much potential, I was helped by three different employees -- a Southeast Asian woman, an Hispanic woman, and a white woman, each with accents (the white woman sounded like she just came down from the ranch -- very Western). The women who sat at the pattern-books with me, looking for Halloween costumes for themselves (not for the 5-year-old boy who patiently paged through the pattern books pointing out costumes for them to wear -- the Wicked Witch of the West for his mother, and Dorothy for her friend) were white, overweight and in their early 20's, wearing similar outfits of t-shirts under shapeless hooded cardigan sweatshirts and jeans.

With all the materials for the witch dress in my new wooden box (I was not immune to the sirens of all craft projects), I drove straight to Burgerville, the only hamburger joint that our family frequents. Burgerville prides itself on all the buzzwords of the day -- their meat is all locally grown in sustainable farms, range-fed, no antibiotics; they use no trans-fats, locally grown potatoes and other veggies, locally caught fish (I always get the halibut sandwich). They provide full health care benefits to their employees. They are reknowned for their seasonal shakes, made with real ice cream, all locally provenanced as well.

As I returned to the highway, sucking down my really excellent creamy and not-too-sweet Pumpkin Milkshake, I thought about how different my experience was from an equivalent shopping expedition that Kate might have taken in Toulouse. I'm not sure Halloween is celebrated in the same way in Toulouse, for starters. But the giant mega-store -- in a long strip of strip malls, miles from the city center -- filled with some genuinely cool stuff, but so much of it, and so much completely frivolous -- and not even particularly beautiful. Mostly it was cheap, and it feels like a lot of the crafts that JoAnn's supports, exist just to keep idle hands busy. There are some true technicians out there, I'm sure, some artisans of scrap-booking. But much of this stuff is just more consumable stuff, like plastic witch hats made in China and shipped here for use and discard on one day of the year. JoAnn's had 4 different styles of hats for witches -- and I wasn't looking at the pirates or the naughty maid or the monster sections.

The people I encountered there -- also an American experience. Recent immigrants and working class whites, virtually everyone overweight. And that includes me, finishing off my all-American experience with that so-American of meals, a drive-through of a zillion calories, carefully marketed as sustainable and "healthy" fat so I could feel good about myself while I consumed.

*With a nod to Stephen Colbert's new book, "I am America (And So Can You)".

William

William, running away from the camera.

Back-up

Yes, it is only the last day of September, but Molly has posted her letter to Santa. Anne believes it is backup, to cover the toys she may not get for her birthday. Since she wants about half of the toys in the toy catalog (carefully circled in pink and marked with "M"), not to mention a dozen or so au courant toys being advertised on television, it is doubtful that either the birthday or Santa will fulfill her wishes.

Vacation Adventures 3: Minnesota State Fair

This is, in brief, our Day At The Minnesota State Fair.

We rode the Flume.

We saw ducklings (and chicks and calves and lambs and ponies and piglets) at the Miracle of Birth Center.

We drank All The Milk You Can Drink for $1.00. Yes, the price has gone up -- even I used to pay 25¢ in college. But now you can get really really good chocolate milk. We drank about 8 - 16 oz cups, and carried them with us the rest of the day, just in case we came back near the milk truck.
We talked chicken to the roosters (and they talked back)!


We climbed the Forestry Tower at the DNR Building.





We were one with the people.

We sailed down the Big Slide. Twice!












We ate, drank and rested, and listened carefully to our aunt (off-camera). That's Joe, Rob's roommate, on the right.

We saw (but did not ingest) Deep Fried SPAM curds.



On the Midway, we rode the ferris wheel (on the left) and the rollercoaster (on the right) and played many prize-winning games of skeet shooting and toss-the-ball (no photos, we forgot).




We visited the Butter Princesses in the Empire Commons Building, and the Crop Art and Seed contests in the Horticultural Building.


We found the time to look like an extra in a James Dean movie.


And in the end, we had ice cream cones at Izzy's.

And on the Ninth Day, Vacation

We went to Newport (mid-coast of Oregon) for the night, to see the son of Anne's college roommate perform with the All-American Young Boy's Choir. We stayed the night after at the Little Creek Cove Hotel -- a wonderful setup where people buy condominiums but have them rented out as hotel rooms when they aren't staying there. So it's like a homey kitchenette hotel, right on the water. Well, since all the beaches in Oregon are public, right next to the beach.

Will, Molly and I walked up to the top of the Yaquina Head Lighthouse (the tallest lighthouse in Oregon, built in 1873). This involved a 45 minute wait in line (they only let about 10 people into the lighthouse at once) and then a climb up 90+ stairs to the lamp -- still using the original Fresnel lens. Five minutes there, each person perched one at a time at the top of an additional 6 step stairway (which puts you eye to eye with the base of the lamp) to briefly glance at the view, and then back down to the main floor. I found the climb up heart-thuddingly frightening, the terror of the going up narrow open-tread spiral stairs (about which I have a specific phobia) worsened by fear that I'd have to comfort an overwrought child (both of them were sobered, but brave about the climb).

Ate local rockfish fish-and-chips (twice) and pan-fried local oysters, so I had a taste of the coast. Today was one of those picture postcard days of sun, breeze and warm, and it was hard to leave the ocean, but we did. We had to get back to The Porch, of course.