Horrific Handiwork

L's class in school has been making some ghoulishly great holiday artwork.

You Just Can't Imagine the Smell...

We've all heard the stories about how some beach community wakes up in the morning and goes out to find that a dozen whales or dolphins have mysteriously beached themselves overnight for no discernible reason. I think something very similar has happened in Harbor City.

I wandered out of my house on Saturday morning to find my concrete driveway littered with the washed up carcasses of dozens of mermaids. Some were pastel green. Others were pastel pink. Yet others were pastel green and pastel pink and pastel yellow stripped. Most looked to be beyond saving, but two of the washed-up mermaids did seem to have some life yet in them. I trust they will adapt quickly enough to their new life on solid ground. If they miss the water badly enough I'm sure I can arrange for them to turn on the hose and help dispose of the remains of their fallen brethren.

Of Painted Toe and Salmon Roe

Stacy got a special treat last weekend. One of her closest friends from college, and her Matron of Honor at our wedding, Jen McNeill came in town for a couple of days with her 9-year-old daughter E. The circumstances made things a little less of a treat for Jen, she was in town for her grandmother's funeral, but in spite of the somber source of the reunion, it was a refreshing time for the girls, and for L who quickly fell in with E and had a blast.



N and I wisely kept our distance from the girl-fest which included, at one point, an overindulgence in nail polish and all the feminine rituals there and unto pertaining. I was happy to hide in my office, emerging only to take the demanded photos and retreat again to my man-cave. N was somewhat more reluctant to forgo a good round of nail-painting, but he acquiesced to my wishes.

I was much more enthused with the idea of going out for sushi one night, though Stacy and Jen insisted on coupling the outing with a sentimental walk down memory lane, with a cold, cloudy beachfront acting as said lane. We parked on the bluffs overlooking south Redondo Beach. It was breezy and chilly and kind of gray and morose. We walked down the incline to the Strand, the biking/pedestrian path that runs dozens of miles up the coast. Since we were going to dinner shortly I authoritatively commanded the kids to keep to the path and out of the sand. My authority held firm for several seconds.

We walked along for a bit, L and N being general nuisances and occasionally specific targets of passing bikers. E didn't believe me when I told her the only reason we came to the beach was to get the fish for the evening's sushi. She refused to wade out and acquire us a tuna.



Eventually we got back to the car, desoiled the kids as best we could, and proceeded to the restaurant. Evidently Stacy and Jen were sushi fiends in college in Santa Barbara; I've always liked it, but we'd never braved it with the kids. Once again E refused to believe me when I told her were were going to have large servings of jellyfish and that not only was the fish raw, but in many cases still had its fins and a good number of delicious scales.

Kids are so jaded and cynical these days.

Sushi may be a few years in the coming for the kids. We were 0 for 3 on the California roll. E sampled and rolled her nose. (She was particularly grossed out by the crunchy salmon eggs sprinkled liberally on top.) L licked hers and gagged. N took a whole mouthful, chewed placidly for 15 or 20 seconds, then got this shocked and panicked look in his eyes and spewed it all back on his plate. So much for appreciation of world culture.

Maybe we'll try Bob's Spinach and Liver Hut tonight.

Truly Hair-Raising

Our neighbors have a set of six-year-old twins, Josh and Jess. Josh is a really cute kid and always has his hair cut short and styled spiky; we always comment on it, which gets a big grin out of him. A couple days ago Josh's personal stylist, his Aunt Ricky, came by our house with an offer to do the do for N. We were all game, so Aunt Ricky hunkered down and worked her magic (and I suspect, an awful lot of styling gel) on N's mop.

N was extremely proud of the results.



For me, however, only one comparison kept springing to mind...

It's Really the World that Hangs in the Balance

I was outside this morning working in the garage when L came running out all excited. "Daddy, come see what I did! It was very tricky!" I told her I would be right in and went about my business. A minute or two later she came out again, tugging at my shirt. "Daddy, come see!" I gave her something like an "All right all ready!" and started setting aside whatever it was I was working on. A minute or two later I headed into the living room to see what evidently couldn't wait.

And it couldn't.

"You're too late," Stacy said cooly. "L had assembled her balancing puzzle, and was all excited to show you, but N has already come in and knocked it down." A puffy-eyed L pouted in the corner. I think N had wisely retreated to his room.

I'm not sure where we got it, but the kids have a little wooden 3-D clown puzzle; you stand up the brightly painted clown, which rocks back and forth, and then stack all these little wooden cylinders on his shoulders, each painted to look like a ball. It's pretty hard to get all the balls to stay balanced on the clown without falling off or the clown rolling over.

Knowing it best for N to maintain his low profile, I swept him up and took him with me to run a few errands. We got back a couple of hours later. Inspiration had struck again while we were gone and this time I managed to hogtie N until I got to see L's masterpiece of poise and balance. She was quite pleased with herself.

Good Phô What Ails Ya

Whenever I get sick and maudlin I want soup. And not just any soup - I want phô, a Vietnamese beef noodle soup that, if you spice it right, burns your eyebrows off. We had a favorite phô house not too far away, but it seems to have closed -- one too many vermin infestations, Stacy expects; it admittedly wasn't the sightliest of places. But I was bummed nonetheless, and I wasn't thrilled with the idea of recovering without my secret Asian mystery concoction. Phô-tunately for me, I remembered a second phô restaurant a couple blocks away that I'd seen before but never had the guts to check out.

I think there's something in the Los Angeles legal code that requires phô noodle houses to abide in only the scariest looking of strip malls. This particular place is wedged between a tacqueria and a liquor store that looks to have seen its fair share of drive-by shootings. I mentioned it to Stacy and she shuddered when she finally figured out what place I was talking about. She refused to go there to get me soup. I was on my own. Phô-tunately N was driving her nuts at the moment, so she agreed to let me take him into the hood with me.

Though the outside looked a little like an exterior from a Spike Lee film, the place actually looked pretty decent inside. The Vietnamese waitress at the register was all giggles and blushes over N, who instinctively saw the opportunity and started laying on the cute with a shovel. (Three-year-olds are incredible chick magnets that break down all racial, linguistic and socio-economic barriers!) We ordered our soup and N chit-chatted the waitress while we waited. It was a toss-up who had the better grammar. I simply sat back in my chair and let him entertain her, trying not to sneeze or let my nose run to demonstrably. Pretty soon another waitress had joined the first in cooing at my son. Eventually we got our order and headed out to the car. Now all the kitchen staff were in the doorway, blushing and giggling and blowing kisses to N.

Safe at home, we dug into our phô. We were quite happy with it. I guess you could say phô-tune had smiled on us. We'll have to go back, but clearly we'll always need to go with N for protection.

The Wizard of Ourz

It's fairly cliché to point out that the younger generation is much more techno-savvy that the preceding one, but the truism has come to settle on me with my son N. I was home from work sick today and Stacy was off taking L to school. N, my responsibility for the hour, came up to me as I was brooding in my office and asked if he could play "Little Einsteins," his favorite web-game. In my cold-medicine stooper I yeah-sure-whatevered him with a dismissive wave of my hand and went back to my really gratifying round of self-pity. A minute or two later my sinus-impacted brain finally let in enough info to come to the conclusion that I'd just agreed to let N have full run of my computer.

I staggered to the kitchen computer desk to find N blissfully playing his game. He had opened the browser, had found the web-site on the favorites pull-down menu, had set the volume, and was happily clicking away helping the Little Einstein crew solve some crisis involving Beethoven's 5th symphony. L is pretty good on a computer, but N smokes her. And he's only three, for crying out loud. I'm so proud of my little computer geek! I almost don't mind the strawberry jelly all over the keyboard.


Now back to my Sudafed^® and wallowing.