April « 2008 « Sharp Corners

Tales of my mis-spent youth

April 20, 2008

Back in the ’70s, while other girls my age were curling their hair and thinking about boys, I was learning how to program computers… and thinking about boys. It’s sad but true: when I was young, I spent lots of time soldering together motherboards and hooking up my TRS-80 to a modem (doo-doooo-dooooo….shhhhhhkkkkkskskskkskskkskskksks) while other kids were out tipping cows or whatever it is 11-year olds did back then.

One of the other things I liked to do — let’s just complete the full nerd picture, okay? — is try and solve my Rubik’s Cube. I’d practice for hours and hours, trying to get the colors to match on each side. Little did I know that skill would come in handy nearly 30 years later.

Somehow my kids acquired a Rubik’s Cube and, like many other toys they have, it makes periodic appearances from the depths of their playroom. This week was one of those times. Son Two has alternated between trying madly to solve the confounding puzzle and waving it under my nose for days trying to make me do it. Tonight, while making dinner, I finally took him up on it.

I snatched the Cube out of his hand and started twisting. A minute or so later, I handed it back to him and watched as his mouth dropped open in amazement.

“How did you do that?!” my son wanted to know.

I just smiled (maybe a bit smugly) and said, “It’s a gift I have.”

“Bet you can’t do it again,” he challenged.

Heh, Silly boy.

I mixed up the colors, then did it again. And again. And again.

After I was convinced Son Two was duly impressed, I hustled him off to the family room so I could finish dinner.

Here’s where I swear you all to secrecy: My son apparently doesn’t realize that all sides of the cube need to be grouped according to color — not just one.

What? He never asked.

Oh, and like you wouldn’t do the same thing.

3 Comments | Brain lint | Permalink
Posted by Lisa Hoover

Don’t touch him, he’s sterile

April 18, 2008

Sarcasmom asked a great question about my last post.

“How did the kids react?”

Please, let me tell you.

My two oldest sons are total boys and love to get dirty. In fact, I don’t even think it’s possible for them to stay clean more than 6 milliseconds or so. I’ve seen them step out of the tub and be covered in grime by the time they reach for a towel.

My youngest, though, is completely the opposite. He was born to be clean. In fact, he was actually born clean. He washes his hands every half hour and I’m sure if he woke up during the night he’d wash them then, too. He’s even great about washing up after using the restroom and, in fact, has appointed himself the handwashing deputy of the household.

A recent visitor to our home used the powder room off our family room and Son Three posted himself near the door to make sure she used the sink (she did). I didn’t realize the soap was running low so after her next trip to the washroom, she headed to the kitchen sink. My son accosted her in the hallway and said, “Do you remember to wash your HANDS??!???!! I didn’t hear the SINK!!!!”

My other two sons are, um, a little less judicious about sinks and soap — a habit for which Son Three regularly derides them. They, of course, torture him at every opportunity by poking his food and chortling, “I didn’t wash my hands!” Rather than burst into tears, as 7-year olds are wont to do, he looks at them coldly and says, “Well, too bad for you. The germs will kill you, not me” as he dumps his food in the trash.

Normally my son’s propensity for cleanliness doesn’t bother me much, and I actually find it rather endearing. I knew, though, that if I spilled the beans about giraffe tongues ahead of time, there’d be no way I’d get him to go on the safari so I kept my mouth shut. When the guide fessed up at the end of the tour that giraffes use their tongues to clean their nostrils, predictably, my two oldest kids said, “Whoa, dude! Did’ja hear that!? Cool!” My youngest asked what they were referring to and as Son One drew a breath to tell him, I hustled over and clapped my hands over Son Three’s ears. If he heard the truth, he’d shriek as if on fire and throw himself on the ground to begin death throes.

I was able to distract him until the moment passed and, as far as I know, he still doesn’t know the truth. I’m sure if he did, he be in the tub right now, sunk up to his chin in a mixture of bleach and hand sanitizer, scrubbing his hands with a Brillo pad.

You may think his behavior is over the top but I’ve gotten used to it. His next birthday will be hosted in a clean room where we’ll watch back-to-back episodes of Monk and eat washed organic fruit with tweezers.

2 Comments | Monkey boys, Uncategorized | Permalink
Posted by Lisa Hoover

I stood in the no-drool zone

April 16, 2008

Sad to say the ants haven’t returned home yet, and I have no idea what’s become of them. I put a cup of grape juice out, posted little “Have you seen my monomorium minimum?” signs, and activated a White Alert (which is a lot like an Amber Alert, but meant to invoke images of sugar). Nothing. There’s no sign of them anywhere, so I assume they’re all feet-up somewhere in the garden outside my front door. At least I hope so.

In between the organized search parties, I’ve been keeping myself occupied with working and teaching my kids. Or working at teaching my kids. Or teaching my kids to work. Or something like that. One of the fun things about homeschooling is that we get to go and do the coolest stuff and call it learning. Recently we took one of our regular pilgrimages to Busch Gardens to visit the animals, bake in the sun, and wait eleven hours in line to get on a 48-second ride. But it was fun. Really.

Since we’re members and live nearby, I don’t feel the need to see every single attraction on every single visit. We wander around doing different things each time: visiting the gorillas and eating; visiting the play area and eating; feeding the parrots and eating; checking out the coasters and eating (okay, we don’t do that combo very often). I’ll admit, I’m drawn to amusement park food like Paris Hilton to a camera and I could really just do nothing but show up and eat. Give me funnel cakes, or give me death!

This time, I took the kids on a safari so we could go feed the giraffes and check out the zebras up close. It’s the neatest thing: the tour guides load you into the back of an enclosed pickup truck with a bunch of other people and drive you out into The Serengeti where — really, truly — the deer and the antelope play. (A bit of a mixed metaphor, I know. Call it poetic license.).

After driving for about 3 or 4 minutes, they park in the middle of this huge vista (this, not this), and suddenly giraffes being to barrel toward the truck. Well, barrel might be a bit of a stretch. It’s more of an oompa-loompa. Giraffes don’t seem to be particularly speedy animals and, besides, they know we’re not going anywhere until we’ve gotten our money’s worth and fed them every last piece of lettuce, a carrot or two, and the hairpiece of the guy in front of you.

Despite their enormous size, the elegant animals are extremely quiet and graceful. Until they stick out their 18-inch tongue. Man, that thing ought to come with a warning. Apparently, giraffes don’t open their mouth to get food but instead reach out an insanely long tongue, wrap it around whatever they want to eat, and slurp it into their mouths. This, my friends, is the stuff of nightmares.

Now, I’d been on this particular safari once many years ago and I remembered that tongue thing quite well. Actually, I just remembered what the guide had told me back then. After we’d fed the giraffes and tooled around the area looking around at other animals, we headed back in and disembarked the vehicle. Just before the guide released us to run like crazy people to the nearby tiger habitat, she implored us all to cleanse our hands with the liquid sanitizer she just happened to have handy.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I really want to encourage you to wash up,” she said. “Remember the giraffes taking food out of your hand with their tongues? They’re also long enough to reach into their noses, which they do with alarming frequency. In other words, if you thought they were drooling on you, it was actually snot.”

I could barely suppress a giggle while the people around me blanched, and the lady next to me almost retched into her husband’s backpack.

It was one of the best parts of my day.

4 Comments | People say, people do | Permalink
Posted by Lisa Hoover

Maybe I should host a picnic?

April 11, 2008

Ever since the movie hit their radar, my kids have been begging me to let them see Snakes on a Plane. Every time they ask, I laugh until my spleen falls out, then I huff out the words, “Not on a bet” and collapse in an exhausted heap on the floor. Now, I’ve never seen the flick myself but I have it on good authority that it’s not for kids — and probably not for adults either.

While my kids were spending a few days with my mom this summer, she called to tell me that a sanitized version of Snakes on a Plane was going to be on Lifetime Movie Network. It seems that Destination: Infestation had the same premise, but this time the offenders were ants. Lots of the little buggers. And, interestingly, Samuel L. Jackson was no where to be seen (no, I don’t think the ants ate him first).

She was calling to see if I’d mind if the my boys watched this movie and since I know Lifetime is nothing more than a modern day Movie of the Week (albeit with more cleavage), I said it would be fine. The next morning my mother called to tell me that the movie was every bit as insipid as I’d thought, but perfectly harmless where impressionable young children were concerned. I was just happy not to have had to sit through it in the first place and did approximately the same happy dance as when my boyfriend volunteered to take my kids to see Shrek the Third so I wouldn’t have to suffer through the burp jokes.

Later that day my boys called to gush about how great the movie was and how much they loved it. In fact Ants on a Plane, as it became known in my house, has been elevated to Oscar-worthy status in the eyes of my wonderful but misguided children. Sight unseen, I knew that between the creepy little crawlers and the bad acting, I’d just hate the thing. Oh, and the gross-out potential was pretty high, too.

Well, lucky, lucky me: the movie recently became available on iTunes. In a moment of weakness recently I agreed to watch and tonight my kids held me to it. We piled on the couch, fired up AppleTV, and I spent two hours being alternately revolted and, well…. no, I was just plain revolted. For the love of god, who thought this would be a good idea? The special effects were terrible, the acting was worse, and the ants were just sickening. And I itched the entire time.

If you ever get it into your head to see this flick. Just. Don’t.

Now, surely you know that I’m not much for movie reviews so by now maybe you’re wondering why I’m telling you this.

Did I leave something out? Oh, right. Did I mention that we have an ant farm (Yeah, yeah, I know. I’m an enigma. Deal.) So, yeah, a few weeks ago I bought the boys an ant farm to save the lives of the ones they chase around outside with a magnifying glass in the hot sun (cook). Forty little ants have been merrily living in my house, puttering around amid a sandpile encased in plastic for our viewing pleasure, and we watch them conduct their little ant business over breakfast each morning. The first couple of days I didn’t much care for having them around but by day four or so, I’d gotten used to them. Besides, they make the coffee every morning so…

When the movie ended tonight, I glanced over at the farm which sits on a counter just outside of the family room.

They’re gone.

I’m serious.

I have no idea where they went, and they didn’t leave a note. They were there this morning, but this evening they are — poof! — gone. I’ve looked in all the cabinets and all over the floor, but I see no evidence of why they might have disappeared. There aren’t even any slime trails to clue me in…no, wait, that was the snail farm…

It kind of skeeves me out to think a herd of ants might be zipping around the house (and, believe me, if they are, they will be meeting their Queen when the exterminator keeps his standing appointment on Tuesday), but for all I know…

…wait for it…

…they’re already on a plane somewhere with Samuel L.

3 Comments | Brain lint | Permalink
Posted by Lisa Hoover

Meet the new dog, same as the old dog

April 9, 2008

I mentioned recently that I have a different dog than when we last gabbed. If Rocco was a pain in the butt dickens, then Lilo is a bit dim lacking in canine aptitude.

To be sure, she is a doll. How can you not love this face? Oh, I mean this one. She was rescued off the streets a couple years back when she followed my son home one day and gave us that sad look stray animals get when then want to tie your heart in a knot. After long and careful deliberation, we let her adopt us and we’ve had quite an adventurous romp with her ever since.

Lilo considers herself part of the family. Not to put too fine a point on it, she actually considers herself one of my kids. No, really. She tries to sit in the dining room with us when we eat — in a chair. When we go for car rides she has her own seat and damn near tries to wear a safety belt. (I swear I hear her yell, “Shotgun” before we jump in the car to head to the park.) When we pile onto the couch to watch a movie, she gives you a look that says, “If you don’t let me up there with you, I’m going to eat your stash of chocolate bars and commit doggie suicide.”

She’s adorable and she means well, I know she does, but one of us needs a reality check. Take the other night, for example. Despite the fact that dogs have been water-loving animals since the dawn of time, Lilo refuses to set paw outside if there is the merest whispered hint of rain. If there is a cloud somewhere off the coast of the Yucatan Peninsula, that darn dog flatly refuses to go out, lest an errant raindrop touch her fur.

Lilo also requires encouragement, cheering, and many treats just to pee. If my kids were this difficult to potty train I would have given up long ago and my ten year-old would be in diapers. I won’t tell you the extent I go through to get her to…well, never mind.

Lilo also has a fondness for stuffed toys that borders on psychosis. Well, to be more specific, her molars have a fondness for stuffed toys. Unfortunately, my kids have a fondness for them as well, and I have also been known to receive a plush or two as a gift every now and again. You can’t imagine the colors they’re stuffed with these days (plushies, not dogs). Oh, but I know. I know the assorted rainbow of hues that stuffed animals are filled with, as well as what they look like post-digestion. Lilo has educated me, she is my teacher.

Overall, she’s a good dog but I suppose I’ve been spoiled by my cats all these years. With them it’s always clear who’s in charge, who’s boss, and who rules the roost.

Them.

I always know who would drive if we ever went on a road trip.

Them.

I know just where we stand, and who owns everything in my house (including any stuffed toys).

Them.

I always know who gets the umbrella if it’s raining outside.

Them.

So who’s the fairest one of all among my girlie-dog, Lilo, or my fancy-pants cats?

What? You think I’m gonna answer that? One has fangs, the other has dander. Either way, I’m screwed.

1 Comment | Sharpest pets | Permalink
Posted by Lisa Hoover

Time to eat

April 5, 2008

Perhaps in my last post I gave you the impression that I am overly unforgiving to people who visit my house, and I think it’s important to note that I’ve been trying to lighten up a little bit. For instance, I no longer carry around a rucksack filled with dust cloths and coasters when I have company over. Instead I just twitch quietly with every bead of sweat that rolls down a cold glass and onto my beautiful hand-polished wood coffee table. Heck, 10 years from now I might even let people eat cheese and crackers on the couch.

Speaking of food, that’s an area where my maladjusted approach to certain things will probably never wane. You see, I’m just a wee bit weird when it comes to my food rules.

Nothing can touch. Never, ever, ever. All food items need to have at least two inches clearance between them. There will be no mixing of food on a fork. People who smoosh up their corn and potatoes or pancakes and sausage in the same bite need to live on a desert island away from the common man.
Meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and gravy, however, must be eaten as a unit by the forkful — not separately.
Rolling things, like peas, need their own plate. The same is true for food with a high probability of seepage, like creamed corn. Truthfully, I’d prefer that every thing I’m eating at a given meal have its own plate, but I don’t want anyone to think I’m weird. Be quiet.
Food flavors must remain original. Bananas are yummy. Banana bread is not. Peanuts are fantastic, but have no place in chocolate chip cookies. And don’t even get me started on this.
I love lots of different kinds of food. I regularly eat seaweed salad, spaghetti squash, various iterations of sushi (I guess I like foods that start with “S”), but couldn’t choke down a piece of apple pie or drink a Coke unless I was a contestant on “Fear Factor.”

As you can imagine, I’m loads of fun to have dinner with. Buffets cause me undue stress.

5 Comments | So there | Permalink
Posted by Lisa Hoover

Good thing it was a hat, not a bat

April 4, 2008

You know, I don’t know why some things are so hard for people to figure out. Just because I’ve put something somewhere in the common area of my home that was obviously produced for a specific use, what makes people think they can, you know, use it?

My couch has a few pretty nice throw pillows and I’ve arranged them the way I like, so what makes visitors sit down on the sofa and start rearranging them as if I’d put them there for personal comfort? If they’re in your way, sit on the floor.

Likewise, I have a beautiful tea service but I drink from mugs that look like I robbed a 1950s Howard Johnson dinette. Sadly, I can’t even claim I “save the good stuff for company” because I usually make people bring their own cutlery for meals in my home. Okay, not really. Well, not usually.

It’s not that weird, you know. If I sometimes act like I’m expecting Colin Powell to arrive any second for a military inspection, it’s only because I want things in my house just so. Ask anyone who’s ever been in my kitchen. Mixing bowls get one cabinet to themselves, serving bowls another. Each pantry shelf has its own designated food groups and spices get a shelf near the stove. They are not, however, to co-mingle with unrefrigerated condiments. Ever. In fact, my boyfriend came over one day bearing gifts of jam and honey. He casually put them near the spices and I had them off the shelf and in the correct spot (in the pantry, next to the canned goods, but to the right of the pasta) before he could say, “Dear god, woman, what is your problem?”

I realized recently I was beginning to lose my grip on reality just a little bit when he happened to put his cap on the hat rack in my bedroom one afternoon. At first I said nothing, I just calmly walked over, removed it, and put it on my dresser. When he looked at me questioningly, I mentioned the hat rack was for decoration only and not meant to be used. I couldn’t tell if he was going to laugh or have me committed.

“But it’s a hat rack,” he said.

“Yes, but it’s only there to look nice. It looks nice, don’t you think?”

“Well, yes,” he answered, “but it’s a HAT rack. And I put my HAT there.”

“I know, but you can’t.”

“But you have things hanging on the hat rack already!” he said.

“What? Oh, the jacket? It’s for decoration. So is the scarf. And the sweater too. Decoration.”

Gently, as if talking to a small child, he pointed out, “But you have… a hat…on your hat rack.”

“Yes, but it’s a decorative hat.”

To his credit, he tried one last time, “But I wasn’t going to leave it there for good.”

“I know,” I said. “But it looks better on my dresser.”

I smiled as sweetly as a I could to someone who doesn’t understand the difference between a decorative hat and one that is actually worn by a real person. Then I decided to make lunch.

Before leaving the room, I pointed to the master bathroom and said, “Oh, by the way, I hung some pretty new hooks on my bathroom wall. Don’t even think about using them.”

If you think I’m a bit of a control freak about the stuff that adorns my home, wait until you hear about what I do with the food on my plate.

2 Comments | Me. ME! | Permalink
Posted by Lisa Hoover

I was here all along, you just didn’t see me

April 3, 2008

When some bloggers take a break, it’s for a week or a month. Of course, I never do anything half-way so I took an entire decade off.

Okay, not really, but it sure seems like it.

I sent out some emails in the last few days asking some friends if I should drag this old blog out from the bowels of the Internet and everyone told me I should (right after asking, “Do I know you?”).

To put in perspective how long it’s been since I hurled words at unsuspecting readers, when we last talked Twitter and iPhones didn’t exist. Now it’s not possible to go a day — perhaps an hour — without hearing at least one of those words somewhere.

I don’t have an iPhone (yet) but I do have its severed Siamese twin, the iPod touch, which I regularly fondle and ogle with wild abandon. I also have a Twitter account, which you’ll note is not properly feeding into my sidebar at the moment. (Just pretend you see it. Work with me, people.) So, you see? I have not neglected everything in the world, just this blog and I intend to rectify that.

A lot has happened in the millennium since I last blogged, rendering some of the references in my past posts obsolete. I have, for example, switched dogs. Lilo is a lot smaller than the Great Dane I had, but (oh, joy) not much smarter. I have not, of course, switched kids though I’m fond of telling my youngest he was switched at birth and I actually diapered a lemur for the first few days before noticing.

I’m getting ahead of myself. I can’t bring everyone back up to speed in just one post so I’ll get back to hammering on the site design for a while while I leave you to ponder the single best invention since you last heard from me.

OH HAI, indeed.

5 Comments | Me. ME! | Permalink
Posted by Lisa Hoover

Question of my century

April 2, 2008

Even after trying to quietly kill off this blog for — oh, I don’t know — more than a year now, stats tell me that people still keep coming here. A lot. A lot lot.

So, whaddaya want from me? Want me to actually start blogging here again?

I’ve been scratching that itch elsewhere for a while, but I guess I could dust off this old dog and come back, as long as I won’t be talking to myself.

Random trivia: Besides my name, would you like to know the top search that bring people here? "How to induce a heart attack"

My readers always were a bunch of sickos. But you were my sickos, and I miss you. Have you missed me too?

1 Comment | Brain lint | Permalink
Posted by Lisa Hoover