It was a quiet weekend here at Chez Us.
I went in for some minor surgery on Friday - the outpatient kind, where they bring you in, have their way with you, and then send you home in a drug-induced haze so you can sleep it off. And three cheers for drug-induced hazes, I say. "Better living through chemistry" - that is my motto.
Well, it's one of them.
There's also "Never ask what you really don't want to know." Sometimes I fall back on "Nobody ever went broke underestimating the intelligence of the American public." Occasionally I am more in an "It's not my fault you're stupid" kind of mood, or "Once you know what the magician knows, it isn't magic anymore." Really, there are just mottoes for every occasion around here. I am sure that someday my children will just roll their eyes whenever I open my mouth, even if it is just to sneeze. Because you never know when some pearl of wisdom will come slipping out, bounce across the floor and get caught in the gears of everyday life, making them smoke and judder to a halt until the sad clown appears downstage right and says something completely unrelated that we are all supposed to nod sagely at - much like the original motto, in fact, which is how life completes one of its many circles.
Where was I? Oh, yes. Drug-induced hazes. Gotta love 'em.
We felt it would probably be best if the girls spent the weekend up with their grandparents rather than bouncing around me, so off they went.
It was kind of eerie, actually.
Not for the girls - no, despite some initial separation anxiety they had a wonderful time once they got there. Playing Uno, going to see Ice Age 3, and eating Cheezy Poofs for two and a half straight days will do that. That sounds pretty good to me, actually. Somewhere I am sure there is a bag of Cheezy Poofs as big as my car, just waiting for me to dive in and eat my way clear to the other side. This might just be a case of the post-drug-induced-haze munchies, though. You can't tell what's real until you start chewing.
I'll add that last bit to my stock of mottoes.
No, mostly it was just quiet here.
On the one hand, this is what I needed - a couple of days to sit around and not do anything more strenuous than eat General Tso Chicken (extra spicy - as in "No, no, no, not the 'midwestern spicy' that this description normally covers. Extra! Spicy! If the aluminum tray is not beginning to melt, please add more peppers") and watch movies with Kim. And we did just that. I can highly recommend The Hangover, though it is not something you should take your children to until they are thirty.
On the other hand, though, it is surprising how silent the house seems without the girls running around. There are times when I wish for this quiet, but whenever I get it I am always sort of bummed about it.
I am in for some sad, sad days when they go off to college.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Today, I Am A Man (of a certain age)
On Monday I officially became a middle-aged man.
Not that this was any real surprise. I blew by 40 a few years ago now, and strictly on an actuarial basis it is not difficult to do the math and discover that I am either at or past the halfway point in my time on this planet. More generally, I have also developed an aversion to most forms of popular culture these days and the limits of my technological expertise are at least a decade old. At some point I expect to begin caring about the lawn, and when that happens I hope someone will sedate me and cart me away.
So middle-agedness has been creeping up on me, slowly but surely, for some time now.
I don't really mind this. It beats the alternative, for one thing. Plus, I was never cool even when I was young enough to care, so my not being so now is not all that much of a hardship. I have friends who are mourning this new uncool status, but I've had all my life to get used to it. It's a less stressful way to live, really. Probably greener, too, so I may well have backed into being cutting edge there. Stranger things have happened.
No, two things happened on Monday.
First, I got a haircut.
Now this in itself is not all that surprising. I manage to do this on a semi-annual basis these days, sometimes more often than that even. There are no actual barbers in Our Little Town anymore - no guys named Tony who will cut your hair, as opposed to guys named Serge who want to design it - so I usually head over to the Big Chain HairCuttery and tell whoever calls my name to make it the same, only shorter.
When I was a kid, my grandfather - whose name actually was Tony - cut all of his grandchildren's hair down in the basement of his home. I think this was something he had gotten into back when he worked for the Navy and figured out that he could cut his co-workers' hair for less than the barbershop charged and bring home some extra coin for his family. We'd go on down there and he'd wrap us in a sheet and start clipping away, and when he was done he'd give us a quarter. It still surprises me, somehow, that the flow of money is reversed these days.
I am a lot balder in photographs than I am in the mirror, I think. I can look at myself in the mirror and not think I look all that different, hair-wise, than I did in my 20s, but photographs for some reason tend to highlight the thinning. This does not particularly bother me, on the scale of crises - not for me the five strands of hair desperately trying to cover a highly polished dome, or the hair parted just above the ear that lives in deathly fear of strong breezes. I may not age gracefully, but I do plan on aging openly. I will simply have to invest in hats. Or sunscreen. Or just stay inside. It doesn't bother me, but it does puzzle me - I still don't understand why photographs highlight this in a way mirrors don't. Probably physics or something. Beware of science.
But the Big Chain HairCuttery person did a particularly efficient job this time, and there I was, staring at the reflection in the mirror and it struck me that even without the magic of photography, there was a lot more open real estate than I was used to seeing.
I'm growing taller than my hair.
After this, I went over to the doctor's office for my physical. And it was about time, really, since the last primary care physician I had has been gone so long that none of the nurses remember his name anymore. I think he was blonde.
So there I sat in the doctor's office, answering all of the usual questions - no, I don't smoke; no, I'm not allergic to any medications that I know of; yes, I am well aware that I need to lose some weight and stop eating like a graduate student; and so on. It was all going along quite well.
And then they figured out I needed a tetanus shot.
I hate needles. I hate them with a passion that has nothing to do with rational thought or legitimate cost-benefit analysis. Really, I know they don't hurt all that much, and they provide medical benefits. But still. I've had teeth filled without Novocain rather than get the shots. I don't do that anymore - eventually the cost-benefit analysis muscles do kick in - but there you go.
The problem with tetanus shots is that they hurt for just days and days. It's a good thing I didn't go into middle-innings relief pitching, or I'd really be in trouble.
If this were all that happened, it would not have been the Middle-Aged Milestone that it was. You men out there past your 40th birthday, you know exactly what is coming next, don't you? Things are going along swimmingly, you're thinking you'll get out with only minimal medical care being practiced upon you, and then out comes The Glove.
I understand the necessity of this procedure, but it is not something I care to discuss other than to say that Now, I Am A Middle-Aged Man.
Milestones are okay, although they do hurt when you smack into them.
Not that this was any real surprise. I blew by 40 a few years ago now, and strictly on an actuarial basis it is not difficult to do the math and discover that I am either at or past the halfway point in my time on this planet. More generally, I have also developed an aversion to most forms of popular culture these days and the limits of my technological expertise are at least a decade old. At some point I expect to begin caring about the lawn, and when that happens I hope someone will sedate me and cart me away.
So middle-agedness has been creeping up on me, slowly but surely, for some time now.
I don't really mind this. It beats the alternative, for one thing. Plus, I was never cool even when I was young enough to care, so my not being so now is not all that much of a hardship. I have friends who are mourning this new uncool status, but I've had all my life to get used to it. It's a less stressful way to live, really. Probably greener, too, so I may well have backed into being cutting edge there. Stranger things have happened.
No, two things happened on Monday.
First, I got a haircut.
Now this in itself is not all that surprising. I manage to do this on a semi-annual basis these days, sometimes more often than that even. There are no actual barbers in Our Little Town anymore - no guys named Tony who will cut your hair, as opposed to guys named Serge who want to design it - so I usually head over to the Big Chain HairCuttery and tell whoever calls my name to make it the same, only shorter.
When I was a kid, my grandfather - whose name actually was Tony - cut all of his grandchildren's hair down in the basement of his home. I think this was something he had gotten into back when he worked for the Navy and figured out that he could cut his co-workers' hair for less than the barbershop charged and bring home some extra coin for his family. We'd go on down there and he'd wrap us in a sheet and start clipping away, and when he was done he'd give us a quarter. It still surprises me, somehow, that the flow of money is reversed these days.
I am a lot balder in photographs than I am in the mirror, I think. I can look at myself in the mirror and not think I look all that different, hair-wise, than I did in my 20s, but photographs for some reason tend to highlight the thinning. This does not particularly bother me, on the scale of crises - not for me the five strands of hair desperately trying to cover a highly polished dome, or the hair parted just above the ear that lives in deathly fear of strong breezes. I may not age gracefully, but I do plan on aging openly. I will simply have to invest in hats. Or sunscreen. Or just stay inside. It doesn't bother me, but it does puzzle me - I still don't understand why photographs highlight this in a way mirrors don't. Probably physics or something. Beware of science.
But the Big Chain HairCuttery person did a particularly efficient job this time, and there I was, staring at the reflection in the mirror and it struck me that even without the magic of photography, there was a lot more open real estate than I was used to seeing.
I'm growing taller than my hair.
After this, I went over to the doctor's office for my physical. And it was about time, really, since the last primary care physician I had has been gone so long that none of the nurses remember his name anymore. I think he was blonde.
So there I sat in the doctor's office, answering all of the usual questions - no, I don't smoke; no, I'm not allergic to any medications that I know of; yes, I am well aware that I need to lose some weight and stop eating like a graduate student; and so on. It was all going along quite well.
And then they figured out I needed a tetanus shot.
I hate needles. I hate them with a passion that has nothing to do with rational thought or legitimate cost-benefit analysis. Really, I know they don't hurt all that much, and they provide medical benefits. But still. I've had teeth filled without Novocain rather than get the shots. I don't do that anymore - eventually the cost-benefit analysis muscles do kick in - but there you go.
The problem with tetanus shots is that they hurt for just days and days. It's a good thing I didn't go into middle-innings relief pitching, or I'd really be in trouble.
If this were all that happened, it would not have been the Middle-Aged Milestone that it was. You men out there past your 40th birthday, you know exactly what is coming next, don't you? Things are going along swimmingly, you're thinking you'll get out with only minimal medical care being practiced upon you, and then out comes The Glove.
I understand the necessity of this procedure, but it is not something I care to discuss other than to say that Now, I Am A Middle-Aged Man.
Milestones are okay, although they do hurt when you smack into them.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
And Then There Were Two Again
We are back up to our full complement of hamsters.
Last night as I was drifting in and out of sleep, trying to stay in but continually falling back out as is my wont these days, I heard Mithra meowing at us in a stranger-than-usual sort of way. I spent a few minutes lazily trying to incorporate this into whatever dream I was having at the time, but it never quite worked out.
And then it hit me: Cat. Meowing. Hunter. Prey. Oh, sweet dancing monkeys on a stick, that can only mean Hamster.
This math made more sense at midnight, really it did.
Plus, it was correct.
I got up and flipped on the hall light and Mithra took off downstairs. Oh no you don't, I thought, and I pelted down the stairs after her. Sure enough, at the bottom of the steps she dropped her mouthful of snack and waited for me.
Good evening, Vee! Or Hammy! Or whoever!
I scooped up the hamster - rather bedraggled after a week hiding out like some Allied flier behind Nazi lines - and deposited it in her cage, much to the annoyance of the other hamster who had gotten rather used to having the place Just So and was not looking forward to a roommate mucking up the place again.
Well, deal with it, rodent - your partner is back.
They seem to have made up, though. All day long they have groomed and played and now you really can't tell which one is which anymore since all the Bedraggle is gone.
Welcome back, Vee! Or Hammy! Or whoever!
Last night as I was drifting in and out of sleep, trying to stay in but continually falling back out as is my wont these days, I heard Mithra meowing at us in a stranger-than-usual sort of way. I spent a few minutes lazily trying to incorporate this into whatever dream I was having at the time, but it never quite worked out.
And then it hit me: Cat. Meowing. Hunter. Prey. Oh, sweet dancing monkeys on a stick, that can only mean Hamster.
This math made more sense at midnight, really it did.
Plus, it was correct.
I got up and flipped on the hall light and Mithra took off downstairs. Oh no you don't, I thought, and I pelted down the stairs after her. Sure enough, at the bottom of the steps she dropped her mouthful of snack and waited for me.
Good evening, Vee! Or Hammy! Or whoever!
I scooped up the hamster - rather bedraggled after a week hiding out like some Allied flier behind Nazi lines - and deposited it in her cage, much to the annoyance of the other hamster who had gotten rather used to having the place Just So and was not looking forward to a roommate mucking up the place again.
Well, deal with it, rodent - your partner is back.
They seem to have made up, though. All day long they have groomed and played and now you really can't tell which one is which anymore since all the Bedraggle is gone.
Welcome back, Vee! Or Hammy! Or whoever!
Saturday, July 18, 2009
Separate Lives
Today was the Girl Scouts softball tournament.
Tabitha's Green Eagles did not make it to the final round, for a number of reasons. For one thing, they played both of their qualifying games on a prairie restoration project that sloped down from home plate at approximately thirty degrees. They had to track the ball by following the waves in the grass as they rippled away into the distance. For another, they actually rotated their players as the rules suggested, rather than keep the best ones in the most important positions all game. On the one hand, you get annoyed at teams that don't follow the rules. On the other hand, you have to ask yourself if tangling with such morons is really worth the time and trouble.
Short answer: no.
So the Green Eagles had a grand time and left with happy memories. We'll take that.
Lauren's Hot Pink team had an exhibition game today, though. Well, all of the t-ball teams did. Whoever showed up was divided into two big teams, and we played two innings of coach-pitch ball that was even less coordinated than usual since the girls had not played together in this configuration before.
Not that you could tell, really.
The thing about softball at this level, I've decided, is that there really are two completely separate games going on and the only thing they have in common is the mere physical coincidence of playing on the same diamond.
There is the batting team, which tries to hit the ball and run around the bases. And there is the fielding team, which tries to retrieve the ball and throw it to someone on or near a base. Neither of these teams pays the other any attention, really. The batters hit the ball and run. They stop on all the bases. Eventually they come home. There isn't any room in that scenario for anything the fielding team does. And aside from putting the ball into play, the batters don't really impinge on the consciousness of the fielders either. They retrieve the ball and throw it, and their job is done.
Eventually the two sides switch.
Next year, we introduce the infield fly rule.
Tabitha's Green Eagles did not make it to the final round, for a number of reasons. For one thing, they played both of their qualifying games on a prairie restoration project that sloped down from home plate at approximately thirty degrees. They had to track the ball by following the waves in the grass as they rippled away into the distance. For another, they actually rotated their players as the rules suggested, rather than keep the best ones in the most important positions all game. On the one hand, you get annoyed at teams that don't follow the rules. On the other hand, you have to ask yourself if tangling with such morons is really worth the time and trouble.
Short answer: no.
So the Green Eagles had a grand time and left with happy memories. We'll take that.
Lauren's Hot Pink team had an exhibition game today, though. Well, all of the t-ball teams did. Whoever showed up was divided into two big teams, and we played two innings of coach-pitch ball that was even less coordinated than usual since the girls had not played together in this configuration before.
Not that you could tell, really.
The thing about softball at this level, I've decided, is that there really are two completely separate games going on and the only thing they have in common is the mere physical coincidence of playing on the same diamond.
There is the batting team, which tries to hit the ball and run around the bases. And there is the fielding team, which tries to retrieve the ball and throw it to someone on or near a base. Neither of these teams pays the other any attention, really. The batters hit the ball and run. They stop on all the bases. Eventually they come home. There isn't any room in that scenario for anything the fielding team does. And aside from putting the ball into play, the batters don't really impinge on the consciousness of the fielders either. They retrieve the ball and throw it, and their job is done.
Eventually the two sides switch.
Next year, we introduce the infield fly rule.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Welcome to the World!
We acquired a new relative today!
Kim's brother Rory and his wife Amy had a little girl at just after midnight. Well, Amy did most of the work, by all accounts. But either way, this evening there was a beautiful round little baby - 9 pounds, 4 ounces and all of 20 inches long - for us to drive up to the hospital to see.
Her name is Marin, which is a lovely name except that she is going to spend the rest of her life telling people that it is pronounced "MARE-in" like you're describing the whereabouts of a female horse, and not "Ma-RIN," like the county in California. Eventually she will either get it all straightened out or just accept it as an alternate pronunciation. If she's smart, she'll figure out how to make that work for her, and then the world will just have to watch out, won't it?
We arrived at the hospital a little past dinner time, famished. So after several tries we found the cafeteria and had a nice dinner - this just made Lauren's day, I kid you not. And when we discovered that the pies were safe for Tabitha to eat, well let's just say that multiple days were made right there and then.
And then, blood sugar restored, we headed up to see Marin.
There was quite a crowd there, what with various family members hanging out and assorted staff darting in an out like plovers at the beach. Everyone got to hold Marin except me, since I am still working my way through the Summer Death Cold From Hell and did not want to make this my "Welcome to the World!" gift.
She slept the whole time we were up there. My guess is that this is not happening now.
They're clever that way.
Kim's brother Rory and his wife Amy had a little girl at just after midnight. Well, Amy did most of the work, by all accounts. But either way, this evening there was a beautiful round little baby - 9 pounds, 4 ounces and all of 20 inches long - for us to drive up to the hospital to see.
Her name is Marin, which is a lovely name except that she is going to spend the rest of her life telling people that it is pronounced "MARE-in" like you're describing the whereabouts of a female horse, and not "Ma-RIN," like the county in California. Eventually she will either get it all straightened out or just accept it as an alternate pronunciation. If she's smart, she'll figure out how to make that work for her, and then the world will just have to watch out, won't it?
We arrived at the hospital a little past dinner time, famished. So after several tries we found the cafeteria and had a nice dinner - this just made Lauren's day, I kid you not. And when we discovered that the pies were safe for Tabitha to eat, well let's just say that multiple days were made right there and then.
And then, blood sugar restored, we headed up to see Marin.
There was quite a crowd there, what with various family members hanging out and assorted staff darting in an out like plovers at the beach. Everyone got to hold Marin except me, since I am still working my way through the Summer Death Cold From Hell and did not want to make this my "Welcome to the World!" gift.
She slept the whole time we were up there. My guess is that this is not happening now.
They're clever that way.
And Then There Was One
Well, that didn't take long.
I spent this morning working at Home Campus instead of being glued to my computer at home. I had a student who wanted to talk to me, and given that this student had a lot of ground to make up, I figured this was something I should encourage. And since I was there already, with access to computers and everything, it just made sense to stay there and work instead of going back home.
I got a lot done. It's amazing how much you can get done when you're never sure who is going to walk in on you when you should be working.
Afterward I picked up the girls from their classes at Mas Macho President Elementary, and we stopped in at the nearest food emporium, as Lauren was jonesing for some Gatorade. I know, I don't understand it either, but she likes the stuff and it's at least marginally healthy. It also comes in a variety of pleasing colors these days, so you can match it to your decor.
It was when we got home that we first realized that Something Was Wrong. The hamster cage was in pieces on the floor, surrounded by a three-inch thick pile of bedding and two sleeping cats who had seen my absence as an opportunity to take care of some business.
It's the subtle things that give crimes away.
We had placed the hamster cage on top of the craft bins, and we figured that as long as the cage door was fastened things would be okay. We didn't count on our cats doing a full Incredible Hulk on us and throwing the cage down to the floor so hard it bounced. I must check up on what exactly we feed those cats, and feed them something else.
Kim eventually found one of the hamsters (Vee? Hammy? Who can tell?) hiding in a corner, but so far the other one has not turned up. On the one hand, it is all too easy to imagine what has happened to poor old Hammy. Or Vee. Or whoever. On the other hand, though, it is rare that our cats eat entire animals, and we have found no hamster bits anywhere so far.
So we're keeping the cats outside as much as we can for a while, and keeping our eyes and ears open for any skittering little feet. In the meantime, Kim has placed Hammy (or Vee, or whoever) back in his little cage, and bungeed it to the craft bin cabinet so that the cats can't dislodge it anymore. You do what you have to.
Ah, Hammy! Or Vee! Or whoever! We hardly knew ye.
I spent this morning working at Home Campus instead of being glued to my computer at home. I had a student who wanted to talk to me, and given that this student had a lot of ground to make up, I figured this was something I should encourage. And since I was there already, with access to computers and everything, it just made sense to stay there and work instead of going back home.
I got a lot done. It's amazing how much you can get done when you're never sure who is going to walk in on you when you should be working.
Afterward I picked up the girls from their classes at Mas Macho President Elementary, and we stopped in at the nearest food emporium, as Lauren was jonesing for some Gatorade. I know, I don't understand it either, but she likes the stuff and it's at least marginally healthy. It also comes in a variety of pleasing colors these days, so you can match it to your decor.
It was when we got home that we first realized that Something Was Wrong. The hamster cage was in pieces on the floor, surrounded by a three-inch thick pile of bedding and two sleeping cats who had seen my absence as an opportunity to take care of some business.
It's the subtle things that give crimes away.
We had placed the hamster cage on top of the craft bins, and we figured that as long as the cage door was fastened things would be okay. We didn't count on our cats doing a full Incredible Hulk on us and throwing the cage down to the floor so hard it bounced. I must check up on what exactly we feed those cats, and feed them something else.
Kim eventually found one of the hamsters (Vee? Hammy? Who can tell?) hiding in a corner, but so far the other one has not turned up. On the one hand, it is all too easy to imagine what has happened to poor old Hammy. Or Vee. Or whoever. On the other hand, though, it is rare that our cats eat entire animals, and we have found no hamster bits anywhere so far.
So we're keeping the cats outside as much as we can for a while, and keeping our eyes and ears open for any skittering little feet. In the meantime, Kim has placed Hammy (or Vee, or whoever) back in his little cage, and bungeed it to the craft bin cabinet so that the cats can't dislodge it anymore. You do what you have to.
Ah, Hammy! Or Vee! Or whoever! We hardly knew ye.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
We Are Overrun With Rodents
We went to the pound yesterday to get some cream puffs and came home with hamsters.
Think about that sequence of events for a minute.
Rationally, there are no two clauses in there that belong together in any meaningful way, and yet it is an accurate description of our day. Fiction has to make sense. Truth is under no such constraint.
We had gone to the local farmers' market that morning for to indulge in some farm product - mostly vegetables this time, since our honey supply is the bees' knees and Kim still had an adequate stockpile of multicolored eggs - plus the inevitable bag of kettle corn as tall as Lauren that we cannot avoid whenever we go. On our way home, though, Kim remembered that the Cream Puff Guy was doing a fundraiser at the Humane Society.
Well.
The Cream Puff Guy is a local hero. If you've never lived in Wisconsin, you really don't understand the importance people here put on cream puffs. It's what high school football is to Texas, only the people are friendlier and less likely to make you want to shoot them on principle. Some benighted individuals will tell you that the best cream puffs are to be had at the State Fair, but they are wrong. The best cream puffs are to be found in Our Little Town, and the Cream Puff Guy has the national championship medal to prove it.
Of course there are national championships for cream puffs. Don't be silly.
The Cream Puff Guy used to be at the County Fair, but somehow he and they have been at odds the last few years so you have to catch him elsewhere. So it is always a big event when he makes an appearance, and when we pulled up to the Humane Society you would have thought the President was there handing out stimulus checks. I got in line, and Kim took the girls and their friend Grace (who had slept over the previous night) inside to see the cats and dogs.
I was almost up to the Cream Puff Window when Tabitha came rushing out to announce that if I agreed to it, Kim would get the girls the two hamsters that were up for adoption. I looked at Kim, who verified this.
Now, we already have two cats, both of whom have well-established credentials as critter-killers. We live under a constant barrage of recently deceased mice, moles, shrews, and rabbits. We also have a brand-new fish, who is shiny and gold but could not possibly compete with hamsters.
But you know, there is only so much ogre in me, so I said "sure" and went back to my cream puff foraging.
The hamsters even came with a bright pink plastic cage, with 1930s-style Art Deco grillwork and rounded corners. It's "Streamlined," in a WPA sort of way, and it's modular so you can add all sorts of attachments to it. Eventually it will cover most of the upstairs, and we can cancel our cable TV and watch the hamsters instead. Fun, and educational.
We ate the cream puffs for lunch. Yes, they are that filling. The Cream Puff Guy uses some kind of special cream that has nearly half again the amount of butterfat that most heavy cream has. It's neutron-enriched cream, the kind that bends light around it. You don't eat more than one of these cream puffs a year, not unless you want an up close view of the fireworks from the cardiac wing, but it's worth saving up those carb points for a special treat.
The girls are just thrilled with the hamsters, though we're still working on what to call them. The pound named them Thelma and Louise, which are not the most auspicious names to have, really, and the references go over the heads of most kids. I've been calling them Kibbles and Bits, though there has been resistance to these names. The girls have settled mostly on "Vee" and "Hammy." How can you tell them apart? I ask. "Hammy is rounder," Tabitha says. Well, there you go.
Think about that sequence of events for a minute.
Rationally, there are no two clauses in there that belong together in any meaningful way, and yet it is an accurate description of our day. Fiction has to make sense. Truth is under no such constraint.
We had gone to the local farmers' market that morning for to indulge in some farm product - mostly vegetables this time, since our honey supply is the bees' knees and Kim still had an adequate stockpile of multicolored eggs - plus the inevitable bag of kettle corn as tall as Lauren that we cannot avoid whenever we go. On our way home, though, Kim remembered that the Cream Puff Guy was doing a fundraiser at the Humane Society.
Well.
The Cream Puff Guy is a local hero. If you've never lived in Wisconsin, you really don't understand the importance people here put on cream puffs. It's what high school football is to Texas, only the people are friendlier and less likely to make you want to shoot them on principle. Some benighted individuals will tell you that the best cream puffs are to be had at the State Fair, but they are wrong. The best cream puffs are to be found in Our Little Town, and the Cream Puff Guy has the national championship medal to prove it.
Of course there are national championships for cream puffs. Don't be silly.
The Cream Puff Guy used to be at the County Fair, but somehow he and they have been at odds the last few years so you have to catch him elsewhere. So it is always a big event when he makes an appearance, and when we pulled up to the Humane Society you would have thought the President was there handing out stimulus checks. I got in line, and Kim took the girls and their friend Grace (who had slept over the previous night) inside to see the cats and dogs.
I was almost up to the Cream Puff Window when Tabitha came rushing out to announce that if I agreed to it, Kim would get the girls the two hamsters that were up for adoption. I looked at Kim, who verified this.
Now, we already have two cats, both of whom have well-established credentials as critter-killers. We live under a constant barrage of recently deceased mice, moles, shrews, and rabbits. We also have a brand-new fish, who is shiny and gold but could not possibly compete with hamsters.
But you know, there is only so much ogre in me, so I said "sure" and went back to my cream puff foraging.
The hamsters even came with a bright pink plastic cage, with 1930s-style Art Deco grillwork and rounded corners. It's "Streamlined," in a WPA sort of way, and it's modular so you can add all sorts of attachments to it. Eventually it will cover most of the upstairs, and we can cancel our cable TV and watch the hamsters instead. Fun, and educational.
We ate the cream puffs for lunch. Yes, they are that filling. The Cream Puff Guy uses some kind of special cream that has nearly half again the amount of butterfat that most heavy cream has. It's neutron-enriched cream, the kind that bends light around it. You don't eat more than one of these cream puffs a year, not unless you want an up close view of the fireworks from the cardiac wing, but it's worth saving up those carb points for a special treat.
The girls are just thrilled with the hamsters, though we're still working on what to call them. The pound named them Thelma and Louise, which are not the most auspicious names to have, really, and the references go over the heads of most kids. I've been calling them Kibbles and Bits, though there has been resistance to these names. The girls have settled mostly on "Vee" and "Hammy." How can you tell them apart? I ask. "Hammy is rounder," Tabitha says. Well, there you go.
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