Fasting is good for the Soul, but bad for the eyeballs.

In which your humble narrator fasts for a day, has to pee during Kol Nidre and repents all those nasty things he's ever said about Cindy McCain.

Monday was Yom Kippur. As a "pretty good" Jew I fasted from sundown on Sunday until Monday evening. I ate a big meal while the sun still shone on Sunday, preceded by two beers, and followed by three glasses of water. It's best to keep hydrated. Or so they say. The problem is that my bladder thinks otherwise. So despite talking sternly with my digestive system that it wasn't getting any love for 25 hours, I pretty much peed every half hour until I went to bed. And of course, I had to get up in the middle of the hour-and-a-half Kol Nidre Service to go to the potty. Making it even better, my undergrad adviser who I hadn't seen in about a year was there with her husband.  She was great but I used to have to pee during her classes all the time too, which I fear she may remember since she winked at me while I was on the way back to my seat. How embarrassing.

Fasting may be good for the soul but it's pretty bad for my head since every other year it results in a stupendous migraine of near mythical proportions.  We packed up the children and took them to the "Tot Service" at our temple. They were mostly good. Then we went home so that I could not have lunch. Wife didn't fast. She's still lactating which means she doesn't have to fast since it would mean that her milk would dry up and she'd pass out or something. Obviously, the children didn't fast as it's a spiritually enriching joy reserved only for adults. So I'm hanging around mostly succesfully thinking about the things that you're supposed to ponder on the holiest day of the year, like: "I should be a better person," and "I repent," and "I wonder where the Rabbi gets those completely, blindingly, white shoes. Maybe there's a store in Florida or something." But by 4:30 I'm laying on the couch, surfing waves of nausea, trying to pile blankets on my head trying to shut out the accursed light and hoping desperately that Child #1 would stop touching me while intangible ice picks stabbed through my eyeballs into my brain.

This was only a day after I read an article about Cindy McCain's struggle with migraines. Since I've spent a lot of time saying unkind things about Cindy McCain this made me have yet another thing to repent for on Yom Kippur (Thanks a lot, New Yorker Shouts & Murmurs Section!). Lots of snarky people continue to make fun of Cindy's commitment to fund research into migraines. As a usually snarky person, I can relate to this impulse, but I'd still like to invite those people to shut the hell up. That also goes for those of you who claim to suffer from migraines and yet don't really. There's a special place in hell for you too.

I broke down and availed myself of some prescription pharmaceuticals at about 5:30 and then napped until almost sundown. The wife had ordered pizza. Nothing tastes better than the first howlingly non-kosher pepperoni pizza after Yom Kippur.

Sorry, Cindy.

Cake for Breakfast

In which your humble narrator bakes a cake.

Last Monday Child #1 turned two. We celebrated on the preceding Sunday. For him, the largest boon seemed to be the sudden frequent availability of chocolate cake. I wasn't in the mood to do anything fancy-schmancy so I made a chocolate sheet cake with chocolate frosting out of the Cook's Illustrated Baking Book which has not yet steered me wrong. I started making it while Child #1 was eating breakfast. He asked what I was doing and I told him, "I'm making a cake for your birthday."

He looked at me incredulously and asked, "Cake for breakfast?"

I'm not really a baker. I don't enjoy it as much as real cooking. There are all these fussy requirements when you're baking. That said, the cake turned out really well. I made up some green frosting to write "Happy Birthday" on the cake and we stuck a "2" shaped candle on it and sang. Child #1 actually clasped his little hands together in delight when we presented the cake to him.

He's asked for "cake for breakfast" every day since then.

By Alphabet

In which your humble narrator describes a project designed solely to amuse himself in an inexpensive fashion and further comments on Edward Abbey, Reinaldo Arenas and Fidel Castro.

This summer, casting about for something to read, too poor to buy a book I wanted, too lazy to walk three blocks to the library, I picked up the first book from our alphabetized living room shelves. It happened to be Edward Abbey's "Hayduke Lives." I must have gotten it nearly free when I worked at the used bookstore. Boy was it a stinker. It turns out my complete disinterest in the American West that Abbey loved made it a pretty dull read. I have a low tolerance for the moral superiority that people who live in "beautiful" places show toward the rest of us. The literature of the West is streaked through with the assumption that the grandeur of the landscape somehow how reflects the character of its inhabitants. Horse pucky. Go eat at a Perkins in Wyoming and try to tell me about the noble character of the locals.

Thoroughly annoyed with myself for owning such a dull, pedantic book I started to wonder what other turd blossoms lurked on my shelves. So I kept reading, alphabetically any book that I'd never before read. I didn't stop reading other things (I usually have 4-5 books "going" at any given time). This brings me to last night. The Wife was using the computer preventing me from playing a dumb game on Facebook so I was forced to entertain  myself with reading a book. I grabbed the next alphabetical candidate from the shelf: Reinaldo Arena's "The Assault."

Wowee! If I were to describe this charming little tome in one word, I would choose: "scatological." And I'm pretty sure it was even filthier in the original Spanish. Arenas, who fled the Castro regime for Miami presents a horrible totalitarian/collectivist dystopia with a healthy dose of oedipal complex. Narrated by an agent of the regime, an inhuman, merciless man, the novel follows his travels through the countryside in search of his hated mother whom he suspects of being a "whisperer," or enemy of the state. Long story short: lots of traveling,  torture and executions, and then it finally turns out that his mother is the head of the regime so the narrator kills her with his penis. Fun, huh?

Frankly, it was pretty hysterical. I'm certainly not an apologist for Castro. I have no use for the certain type of comfortable, American liberal who idealizes the regime in Cuba. Castro has never been a benevolent dictator. That said, I'm not sure what use Arenas' over-the-top, exaggerated, dystopic horror film, in book form, really serves.

"At the Car Wash"

In which your humble narrator observes an extravaganza of antiseptic compulsion at the grocery store.

Wife's sister is in town this weekend for a visit so I used the opportunity to go to the nice grocery store all by myself this morning at about 8:30. I like grocery shopping, especially at the fancy-people's grocery a few blocks from our house. It's a far cry from the grime-encrusted Krogers of my youth. The cashiers are competent. Everything is clean and shiny. The deli salads are all garnished and they must front all the shelves every night. Since I aspire to, one day, be a fancy-person myself, I like to go and pretend that I have unlimited time and don't have to look at the price of everything.

So I walk to the store with my environmentally-conscious, boutique liberal, green (literally!) reusable shopping bags and I get to the door. It automatically whooshes open (I will never tire of automatic doors) and I proceed to go get a cart. At the fancy-people's grocery they have those awful, teeny child-size "shopper in training" carts for the little children whose parents allow that sort of thing. More than one child has slammed into my shins over the years that I've shopped at this store. The Evil Mommy usually, shrugs, smirks and maybe mumbles an apology. I hate those little carts.

I also hate the "fun" carts that have a sort of plastic race car under the basket so your little hellion can pretend to be driving around the grocery while you shop. This brings us back to our story. There's a Evil Daddy and a little boy who have gotten one of the race car carts and dragged it into the middle of the aisle. They are both kneeling on the floor next to the car, rubbing it down with a stack of antiseptic wipes and a bottle of hand sanitizer.

And the Evil Daddy says, "this is just like going to the car wash!"

All the Avas in Target, Let's hear some noise!

In which your humble narrator describes a trip to Target, ponders that all little girls in Minnesota have the same name and rejoices in the fact that his penury has been, at least temporarily, alleviated.

This morning Child #1, Child #2 and I drove Wife to work. She usually takes our sub-par public transit system as we only have one car and drive as little as possible. Most people seem to view this as an act of environmental extremism and look at us like we're eco-terrorists when we comment that we share a vehicle. Mostly it's because the Wife hates to drive. Also the University where we both work charges for parking at an equivalent rate to many studio apartments.

After depositing the breadwinner at her place of business we zipped over to the super-fancy, giant "T1" Uber-Target to grab some diapers and a few odds and sods. I only brave shopping trips with both children early in the morning if I'm alone. I prefer not to inflict their unhappiness on the general public.  However, at 9:00 a.m. the Evil Mommies are out in full force with their comparatively lesser (in terms of quality, not mass) progeny.  Screaming, red-faced children and exasperated Mommies were having pitched battles all over Target. (Full moon?) Today's three observed fits were all little girls. All named "Ava."

"Ava," a perfectly lovely name was #5 on the social security administration's list of most popular baby names for 2008. It was also the #1 most popular name for baby girls in Minnesota. There are 443 little Minnesota Avas that were born last year. I don't know what the other 440 were doing but 3 of them were having melt-downs of nuclear proportions this morning. Which brings me to two instructional points. First, it's a lovely name, but it's not nearly as original as you think. Second, if you yourself are an obnoxious, whiny person, don't name your kid something heavy on vowel sounds because if you do, people will mock you in their blogs.


Ava: Wahhhhhh! (unintelligible) Wahhhh! (garbled) cookie (?) Mommy! Wahhh (garbled).


Evil Mommy: Aaaaaaaaaaaaa-vuhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh! Sto-o-o-o-o-p Whi-i-i-i-i-i-ning!

And in other news, I picked up another teaching assistant gig for this term. I'm looking forward to being able to eat more than rice and beans this semester.

Minnesota State Fair Redux

In which your humble narrator reflects on the panoply of weirdness at the Great Minnesota Get Together.

Today, Wife and Sister and I returned to the Minnesota State Fair sans children which provided the twin opportunities to both look at things that were not necessarily bright and shiny and to drink beer. The following are a set of lessons learned from this year's fair.

1. Fried cheese curd quality varies within and between purveyors. I should say that when I moved to the frozen tundra in 1997 I thought the very idea of deep-fried cheese was repellent. I was wrong, and you were right, Minnesota, and I'm sorry.

2. The strollers are out of control. I say this even as someone who owns three strollers. One regular stroller that you can also pop the carseat into if desired, one giant double stroller that's only used for walking trips from the house to our neighborhood shopping district, and one ratty old umbrella stroller that Wife bought at a yard sale that's been hanging in the garage unused for many moons. At the Fair, people have giant strollers with 12-18 wheels, seating for 8, shock absorbers (!), storage compartments and windscreens. These tend to be piloted be the same people that drive Lincoln Navigators in a hazardous fashion. I saw two evil Mommies push strollers full of their vile progeny into hapless senior citizens today. Something must be done.

3. The Art at the art show was way more nature-oriented this year. Lots of dull landscape paintings. I assume it has something to do with the economy and President Obama's Punitive "Interesting Art Tax" which has forced all of our best Minnesota artists to flee to the Cayman Islands.

4. Many of the people at the Minnesota Public Radio Pavilion are obviously not public radio listeners. I think they should limit access to the benches to public radio members. Let the great unwashed eat their french fries while standing. If they want to sit down, they can buy a tote bag.

5. I like ducks, but only normal ones. Those freak-ducks with the weird plumage that think they're better than me can go to hell.

6. Manning the "Marty Seifert for Governor" booth appears to be a boring, lonely job.

7. The giant butter heads all look sort of the same this year. I had a Princess Kay of the Milky Way in my class last year. She brought her scrapbook in so I could see her year as a dairy princess. It was very cool. I know the whole "Dairy Princess" thing seems very weird, but you shouldn't be so judgmental.

8. The grass at the fairgrounds does not survive the first 7 days of the Fair.

9. People in Minnesota seem pretty mean and stand-offish until you force them to make eye-contact. Then they're really pretty decent.

10. Pronto Pups are delicious. I still don't understand how they're different than corn dogs.

Socialism in our Schools

In which your humble narrator ponders the red menace.

So the president is giving a speech to the nation's school children next week. It's being broadcast on C-Span and the White House website. Silly old me, I presumed it was going to be a pretty typical "politico speaks to the youths" type address: "study hard, you're our future, lead the way, don't smoke doobies," kind of speech.

MPR's Tom Weber reported today that the Fergus Falls school district was taking a cautious approach:

"Some districts, like Fergus Falls, are not showing the speech live - but will instead tape it and have administrators review it to see if it's appropriate to show later."

And I thought: "Really? To make sure he doesn't tell any off-color jokes?"