Le Monde de Fromage de Kate

Leif spent slept over for a few days last week; very festive indeed! He got to use his inflatable Batman “ready-bed” for the first time, so THAT was an occasion in and of itself. Other important activities included:

Perusing the Morning Paper

This was something of a surprise to my Mother and I, as Janet and Erik don’t take a daily paper, as far as we know, and perhaps more importantly, Leif cannot yet read. Nevertheless, while we were watching Robots, Leif excused himself and said he “needed to get something.” He came back in with the paper, sat down, opened it up and scanned it like an expert. After a while he offered sections to my Mom and myself, and also pointed out features he found especially interesting:

When You are Four and a Half, Upside-Down Works, too

When he was finished reading his morning paper, Leif watched some more of the movie, and abruptly declared at one point that “Aunt Fanny,” voiced by Jennifer Coolidge, “has a BIG booty.” This is, indeed, true, but we didn’t think it was vernacular with which Leif was familiar. And perhaps he is not entirely clear on the concept, because from his further explanation it seems he was might have been mixing up “boo boo” with “booty” – the character is always running into things with her super-size posterior. Who knows.

After playing with MY train, it was colouring and drawing time. There was a little fiasco involving my search for some of my drawing implements in one of the downstairs storage rooms and the hurling of a box (I was putting it AWAY) that knocked out a light bulb and I was barefoot and Leif had to rescue me by bringing me shoes so I could traverse what I thought would be an area strewn with glass shards – and what do you know – the bulb came out of its metal threading IN ONE WHOLE PIECE, but still sans the potato…

Anyhoo, this is when I got it straight from the proverbial horse’s mouth as to which crayon is, indeed, Nincompoop Green. I showed Leif the two main contenders, Asparagus and Olive Green:
AND

Without hesitation he chose the Olive Green crayon. Then (as I AM a scientist), I coloured two items next to each other, one with Asparagus and one with Olive Green. So there you have it, Nincompoop Green = Olive Green.

Then is was time for check-ups by Dr. Leif. He is very serious about this activity, following, the “check-up” check-list item by item and making a careful check-mark (in green – NOT Nincompoop Green, but green nonetheless) beside each item. Here he is making a very careful assessment of my Mother’s blood pressure:

“It’s good,” he said.

Take a look at the prescription and you’ll see he already has “Doctor Writing.”

Eat your heart out Doogie!

Throughout his visit Dr. Leif gave a check-up to anyone who would hold relatively still long enough. I was not present, but rumour has it that Shirleen was a VERY uncooperative patient (medical residents actually take classes on such “Difficult Patients”). In exasperation, part way through her examination, Dr. Leif informed her, “You are SICK.” Even my Father, who evidently had no audible heart “beep” (couldn’t bear to “correct” that one – it’s too cute), was not “sick.” Very interesting.

As a preamble, I’d like to say that my wanton and sometimes fickle use of the “u” in “colour” and other such words may annoy some people. They may find it pretentious; at the very least it is probably confusing. But here’s the bottom line: I do not really care. It’s not affect or snobbery; I just like it. And this may sound absolutely ridiculous, but somehow I feel with each little superfluous “u” I am a little closer to a portion of my Euro-Mutt ancestry (a large portion, if you add up all the British Isles people and their predecessors and derivatives from both sides of the family – all of them from delightfully contrasting stations in life – I have no doubt that some of my ancestors oppressed the others and then those ancestors, perhaps, revolted against the the tyrannical ones – it’s festive!!). Oh – and I have a great fondness for Canada, Eh?

Speaking of favourites, today my Mom and Leif were colouring. He turned to her and said, “You can use the nincompoop green.” She asked him which crayon that might be, and he carefully looked through the pile until he found a sagey-green one. This, evidently, is “Nincompoop Green.” And what do you know – it is one of my most FAVOURITE colours (anyone who’s ever lived with me will attest to the preponderance of this colour in my decorating). I’ve used varying terms for this colour over the years, but I am thrilled to know that it its true name is “Nincompoop Green.” Oh – and in case you were wondering – “Nincompoop” is not a phrase that Janet and Erik use in their household. As a matter of fact, Janet wondered at first if there really WAS a crayon labeled “Nincompoop Green” and how Leif had managed to read or know that. In other words, it’s not a part of their vernacular. It shall be, however, forever more the proper and accepted name of one of my very favourite colours. LONG LIVE NINCOMPOOP GREEN!

Who knew.

My Parents returned from a trip the other day (I won’t get started about the odd itinerary – BFE, Kansas and Atlanta, Georgia, and Catonsville, Maryland – they called it a business trip “bookended by my brothers”). The spent the bulk of their time in Atlanta at the 2006 American Chemical Society National Meeting. Yes, 13,000 chemists (and chemical engineers, I must specify for my Father) converged on Atlanta. The mind REELS at the sheer number of pocket protectors, cheesy jokes about the good ol’ days of the slide rule and those boxy eyeglasses with the double metal nose-piece (sorry Dad – those are the eyeglasses of SCIENCE, not FASHION). When I find the magazine I’d saved for my blog I’ll tell you the story of how I about had a heart attack when I inadvertently turned right to the page in the Chemical and Engineering News that featured the 2006 ACS Award for Team Innovation winners (five retired Pfizer scientists who invented Zoloft® – my family eats that stuff like CANDY – yum!) and I looked right into the eyes of Dr. Albert Weissman. He’s evidently a very talented chemist and probably a nice person, but his publicity photo is enough to scare the bejeezus out of anyone. My Mom took special care to see him in person and said he looks JUST LIKE HIS PHOTO.

They had a great time at the meeting (my Mom said that as painful as the jokes were, some of the addresses were fascinating) and seeing a handful of the Atlanta sights. They stayed in the tallest hotel and went on the longest escalator (which only goes UP – what’s with that?), went to the largest aquarium, and, much to his IMMENSE delight, my Father got to read fake news from a teleprompter on a tour of CNN – something concerning The Simpsons, which is SO ironically satisfying, as he just does not GET The Simpsons AT ALL.

Anyhoooo, what I set out to say (and could have articulated in a mere two sentences – ha), is that “Peach” truffles from Atlanta MAY be made in New Jersey. Moreover, they may not contain ANY PEACHES WHATSOEVER (they might even be HAZELNUT!). This is, at any rate, the case with the little box of truffles my Mom gave to me. Gotta give them this – there was a PICTURE of a peach on the box.

Yesterday, while visiting Leif and Anders (and Janet, too, I SUPPPOSE), my Mom drew a few tiny pictures in the corner of a piece of paper (fruit, a conifer, cereal, etc.), then Leif took over. After a while he handed the completed masterpiece back to her saying, “Here is your ECTOMORIAM.” Ah, yes, an ectomoriam. Here is a scan of said “ectomoriam”:

Here’s a more comprehensive view of my Mother’s Ectomoriam:

Oh – What IS an “ectomoriam,” you ask? Well, Leif penned a detailed description of an “ectomoriam” on the back of the work of art:

So there you have it. That was very…illuminating.

I would like to point out my favorite character in Leif’s magnum opus. It is this one:

My Mother started drawing the character. Says she:

It was supposed to be Elmo, but my markers weren’t working correctly.

Hmm. What is it that they say about “blaming your tools?” Whether or not she considers her illustration a failure to realize the true face of Elmo, I LOVE it, because I think it makes him look like he’s wearing a Lucha Libre wrestling mask. (I also really like his left leg, which is 7.5 inches long – FIVE TIMES the length of his entire personage!!!) Elmo as Lucha Libre, somehow, just seems right to me; I did, after all, learn most of the Spanish I know watching Sesame Street. You know – abierto. ¡Cerrado! ¿Abierto? ¡CERRADO! This will come in very handy when I go on my “open” and “closed” tour of Mexico. I can also say “I’m sorry,” “I don’t understand Spanish,” and “One moment, please,” so that should cover everything else. Oh – but wait – my trump card is: blanqueador sin cloro. (That means “non-chlorinated bleach.”) If I say if with FEELING…

Now this whole Lucha Libre Elmo thing has me thinking. We’ve had Tickle me Elmo®, the giggling sensation, and now we have Bird’s the Word Elmo, Sing & Hum Elmo, Shout! Elmo, Check-up Time® Elmo, Potty Elmo®, Hokey Pokey Elmo, Bilingual Elmo®, E-L-M-O®, Elmo Loves You®, Chicken Dancers Elmo, and, the mysterious T.M.X®, – I say be FRIGHTENED, very, VERY frightened – to be released on the tenth anniversary of Tickle Me Elmo®. Why NOT Lucha Libre Elmo? Perhaps Bilingual Elmo® could just don the costume and change his phrases to wrestling-related terms. It could work.

Teenagers these days. A few weeks ago Sarah got FIVE TATTOOS on the same day. I kid you not, FIVE. And if she thinks she can keep them all hidden, she is mistaken. I will now supply artist’s renderings of EVERY SINGLE ONE:

Yes, these are ACTUAL SIZE

Okay, so the doctor gave Sarah the tattoos in order to prepare for the low-level radiation treatment she’s been having. Shirleen was explaining the process to William, as he, true to his fetal-man status, had completely missed that it was going to happen at all. After she had clarified the treatment for a bit, William asked:

Will she get super-powers?

Granted, he was being facetious (okay – he was being – oh, let’s say 85% facetious; he has seen Fantastic Four one too many times). Shirleen enlightened him further, telling him that the radiation was low-level, and that it would be directed to a very specific area of her “mantle” or chest region. He then surmised that perhaps she would just have a super-powered bust. True, that’s a very fifteen-year-old boy thing to say, but I admit to being rather amused at the myriad costume possibilities for a person with such super-powers. The most important part, obviously, would be the brassiere, of an exceedingly stalwart construction. The title options are fun to ponder as well. “LOOK – it’s a bird, it’s a plane – no – IT’S Phenoma-BOOBS!!!” Or, if you’d rather, “The Breast Avenger.” Maybe “Princess Super-Bust” with “Hooter-Powered DOMINANCE?”

Zeke, a wee, shy little toy poodle belonging to William, Sarah and Shirleen escaped from their yard last night. Shirleen had let both their tiny dogs out; they usually scratch on the door in just a few minutes, but last night they did not. Shirleen went to call them after about fifteen minutes; Lily sheepishly came in from around the OUTSIDE of the ajar gate (perhaps opened by the neighbors’ slightly over-zealous, giant teenager Labrador dog – I sent a combination lock home with Shirleen tonight to take care of this possibility), but Zeke was nowhere to be found. Shirleen combed the neighborhood on foot for quite a while, and then drove around for several hours. We’re sending flyers to the animal shelters and vets, too. BUT, if you happen to see this tiny dog:

ZEKE, Neutered Male White Toy Poodle

TINY – At most, 3-4 pounds – HAS MICROCHIP

Shirleen had recently groomed him, so he was not wearing his collar. He does, however, have a microchip. Please call the number on the poster (it’s a Utah Valley number) if you find poor little Zeke or leave a comment here. THANK YOU!

Yesterday, while I was sitting at the computer, my Father came into the room and said, “You’ve done something different with your hair.”

“Yes,” I answered tentatively (having some idea what was about to transpire).

“I liked the color better before,” says Mr. Suave. There was a slight pause during which you could actually HEAR the light bulb click on in his Professor brain telling him – “WARNING – Perhaps that was the wrong thing to say.” So then he tried, “But it looks very nice.” Then, I guess somehow trying to explain what might have been considered an insensitive comment, he said, “It’s just that it was shining in the light from the window and it was so ORANGE!.”

In his defense, he is an engineer. And not JUST an engineer, he is the epitome of the Absent-Minded Professor. Had Fred MacMurray as Professor Ned Brainard (ha ha – BRAINard) not invented “flubber,” and had it anything to do with catalysis, I’m sure my Father would have come up with the substance by now.

So for YEARS we’ve been told, “What I nice haircut. I did like it better before…” and other such “compliments.” Mostly we take this unintentional offense in stride. Being a performer (in the olden days, anyway) led to a veritable smorgasbord of these “critical assessments.” Without missing a beat (ha – music), after practically every concert he would say, “That was lovely. But it did sound a lot better when you practiced it at home.” One feels the overwhelming urge at these moments to take the palm of your hand, hit him in the forehead with it and say, “DUH!!!” Because, indeed, as most people understand, that is the nature of the beast. It will ALWAYS sound better when you are practicing it and haven’t any performance anxiety. One can merely endeavor to take performances closer and CLOSER to the sound you achieve in the privacy of your home or a practice room or – the ultimate feat – the shower. Luckily, he never criticized much about my acting (I think he feels more qualified as a music critic), though once, after seeing a high school play I was in (I played Blanche, the bad, BAD mistress in Night Watch), he scared the almighty HELL out of my co-star by awkwardly making a joke about all the stage kissing – something about “kissing my daughter like that” – Tim thought he was serious and a shotgun might be involved (sorry about that).

Tonight we foolishly ventured to explain (again) why some things just DO NOT NEED TO BE SAID. He countered with, “But when I say I need a haircut you say it looks good and I don’t need one.” Yes, Dad, that’s BEFORE you’ve cut it off. It’s much different when you make a comment AFTERWARDS about how it was better before and one can only scramble about looking for clumps of hair and the superglue.

Poor Shirleen has traumatic piano recital memories of being told “he knew she could do much better.” She was eight years old. He said he had perceived that she was dissatisfied with the performance and wanted to tell her that he KNEW she had the ability to achieve more. She was EIGHT YEARS OLD. I, luckily, have managed to displace any memories of piano recital debacles with the myriad of singing performances I had (especially at University). So at least I have retained the ADULT memories more strongly. Poor Shirleen – she’s a through and through perfectionist as it is.

Come to think of it, not only is the “engineer” factor a strong player here, but genetics has a role. I finished my Senior recital with Not Getting Married Today from Company. My dear friend, Rachel, played the “choirgirl” and Dan played Paul. They did a great job. My Grandmother (Father’s Mother), however, came up to Rachel after the performance and said, “Were you supposed to be singing off-key – was that part of the song?” What do you say to that? For the record, she was NOT off-key, but it is a comic piece so her part is very over-dramatic. I was offended – luckily Rachel was not (bless her – and while I’m at it bless that little fetus, too).

Ah well, it’s all Locks of Love and hair dye under the bridge. I used to braid my hair every night before bed like a Jane Austen heroine. I used to be able to put ALL my hair in a ponytail. And my tresses USED to be this colour:

The elaborate rose-entwined coiffure was Bronwen’s doing. We were at a funeral in Canada, after all… (?) She used to say I had “pirate hair.” Having once been a pirate (complete with eye patch and pistol), I say, “Aaaaarrrrrgh!”

My pirate hair days are definitely over. Now, I look like Goth Strawberry Shortcake!!! I could start a diatribe about the untimely resurrection of all these cartoon characters that I thought had gone to their well-earned DEMISE, but that’s a story for another time.

NOTE: Internet Explorer people, I PROMISE I am still trying to fix the whole wiggy stupid column situation. In the meantime, why don’t you just get Firefox? It’s the super-bestest, anyway (those being the highly-technical computer terms for its product superiority). If you don’t believe ME, listen to Chris. He’s a technophile AND an artiste.

Sarah had her Central Broviac® Catheter removed yesterday. I would imagine that she dreams of having a bath or a shower in which she can cover ALL her body parts with water SIMULTANEOUSLY. The post-surgical instruction sheet from Primary Children’s prohibits her from riding her scooter, swinging, and playing on the monkey bars for a few days – so I imagine a pogo stick is RIGHT OUT. They wrote in “driving,” as well, because of her age, but the irony is she doesn’t drive yet and she would probably be very tempted to utilize a pogo stick if given the chance.

Only one more week and you can lounge in a five-hour bath until you are a veritable prune, Sarah!!!! And in the meantime, you don’t have to heparinize every day and have dressing changes with a “sterile field.” Huzzah! The heparinizing is part of “flushing the line,” which explains why Sarah has been peppered daily for the last six months or so with the question, “Did you FLUSH?” She’ll still have to have a few blood draws as part of the radiation and check-ups, but the overwhelming desire to change BACK the expression “Boob-Tube” to its original meaning as a television synonym won over.

I, in sympathy of her procedure, did my best to create a battle-field surgical setting (I skipped the general anesthetic) in order to “touch up my roots.” This entailed an intricate system of clean kitchen garbage bags held in place with masking tape (sorry, Dad, didn’t seem like the occasion for duct tape – though for you, I appreciate that EVERY situation demands duct tape). Then I had a double-bagged “red bag” garbage system set-up for any disposables covered in dye (I didn’t use a real “red biohazard bag,” though I do have some – they make lovely gift wrapping for over-sized gifts) – oh – and none of this refuse will have to be incinerated at a biohazard plant. Athletic tape, latex gloves, yards of plastic wrap and one of those salon capes (under which I wore painting clothes, just in case) were also integral parts of the process. And NO, I didn’t go nutty overboard and use the Sarah’s sterile surgical gloves. I did double glove, but that’s just good planning. I had asked all the necessary (probably daft) questions at the beauty supply place, and I was ready to go. I, naturally, chose the middle of the night during which to endeavor this solo project. I have done it ONCE already (without entirely horrific results). And I learned my lesson the first time about what to watch on TV while processing the colour – no sex shows (despite their scientific demeanor and merit) on TLC or any other “educational” channel. I chose Olympic hockey (Russia versus Kazakhstan).

Since I was attempting to “touch-up” my roots, I was somehow supposed to put the squid ink solution JUST on the root sections first. This defies all laws of physics, especially the rule of Brownian Motion:

The continuous random motion of solid microscopic particles when suspended in a fluid medium due to the consequence of ongoing bombardment by atoms and molecules.

Wait – perhaps this ADHERES to some rules of physics (such as the aforementioned one) and “The Uncertainty Principle.” Whatever the case, trying to saturate ONLY YOUR ROOTS is an absurd pursuit.

I had also decided that after my roots processed for half the time, I’d “comb it through” and then boost the rest of the colour.” My hockey strategy seemed to be working, and I did make it BEFORE the timer buzzed (leaving a minute or two to unwrap some of the strategically placed plastic wrap, add the rest of the dye, and STRUGGLE to comb it through. I sat down (on a protected service, naturally) to watch more hockey during the second processing stage. I was doing really well, but then one of the announcers said, “Ah, ‘stick between the legs’.” Then the other concurred, “Yes, ‘stick between the legs’; that’ll be a penalty” Followed by, I kid you not, “Let’s watch it in slow motion.” Next, during the slow-motion replay, “Ah – there it is – ‘STICK BETWEEN THE LEGS’ – it’s very clear.” This made me snort, guffaw and chortle like a junior-high-aged boy. They said, “STICK BETWEEN THE LEGS.” Snicker, ha ha HAAA! Please cut me a modicum of slack; it was the middle of the night, and what with the pungent chemicals and an excess of plastic wrap and athletic tape about the head and face…

ANYHOO, after I’d been diverted by the above-mentioned hockey penalty for a number of minutes, I had the good sense to go and CHECK the timer, and I caught it immediately after it buzzed. Here’s the dilemma; I’d attributed the exceedingly dark results I’d achieved with the original dye job to the excessive processing time. Alas, this was only part of the trouble. I now know that I am STUCK with a colour that was just too dark in the FIRST PLACE. It isn’t a midnight BLACK auburn, but it was not what I was trying to achieve. At least I am using a product “For the younger, hip, modern client.” I didn’t know. But, as a reminder to myself:

NOT 5.60 Intense Red Auburn

Dear Majestic Goddess Monkey Cats,

I had intended, today, to extol your beautiful performance at the ensemble competition on Monday in this entry (and to talk about my failed but well-meaning intentions to get a pap smear, a breast exam, a general check-up, a tire rotation, and a medication assessment on my birthday), but I am afraid I must change my plans.

I know you will understand, but I didn’t want you to think that I’d forgotten about you. And how COULD I?

Most Sincerely Yours,

Crazy Heathen Aunt Kate Cake

The time just flies by! In what seems like two seconds they will:

Start looking exasperated with you…
And then…

They’ll just wave and drive away.