This evening, I drove Pearl down to Selinsgrove to meet up with my mom and spend her Thanksgiving break with her grandma, learning all about consumerism.
I used to listen to Jagged Little Pill over and over and over. I did not remember many of the lyrics to “All I really want,” but the song took me back to being 15 and angry and the way I sympathized with the smart-assed moments of rhyme and allusion. I found out, too, that Lady Alanis is just making a throaty-alt-rock-girl noise when I always thought she was refraining, “A hiiiiiigher ground.” Anyway. I was kind of impressed by the cleverness of the lyrics. They’re tightly written and not boring. And sure, Estella is not an obscure literary figure, but whatever–at least it’s something.
AND THEN, on Fresh Air, one of my favorite programs, Dave Davies interviewed this British veterinarian. Of course, pronouns are fascinating in every case but especially in this one. I’m getting ahead of myself. The program was about end-of-life for pets. When it’s time to put them down, what owners should be reasonably expected to overlook/deal with, etc. But I thought it was really odd that regardless of the sex of the animal, the pronoun both Davies and the British vet used was “it.” So here’s my question: animal rights. Sure, on its own it’s a question, but accepting that animals do or should have rights, and that there are some defined, legally accepted ones. So my question is, why is the academically sanctioned way to refer to animals with the pronoun it?
What’s the deal? Euthanizing animals is totally cool (by which I mean socially and culturally accepted). We do it all the time, and for population reasons/lack-of-human-interest reasons (I think it’s kind of effed up). Also, there are people who have bumper stickers that say “animals are people in fur coats,” and “My boxer is smarter than your honor student.” So clearly, there are folks, even folks I know, who would be incensed by the notion that animals are all its.
Good news: I get paid 3 days early.
Pearl is a healthy weight/height per the pediatrician.
Thursday is Thanksgiving
Do blogs need to have themes? All the blogs I see are about a specific thing. Nobody, who is successful at blogging, has a blog as schizophrenic as mine. I should get a theme. I know it! But I do not have theme for my life. I do and think about lots of things. I am a master of nothing.
The war wages on.
Pearl had a potty accident today. So the Cochran School Nurse called me and requested a change of clothes.
Yesterday, Pearl had the balance of her immunizations and her physical check up. Dr. O’Hara, her pediatrician (who is simply lovely), said that her school nurse is also a beastly, naggy person. I wondered out loud why someone who likes neither children, nor even people, should want to be a school nurse. We all laughed.
After Pearl’s appointment, I dropped her and a copy of the physician’s report (complete with immunization record) at school.
So today, after I helped Pearl change into her fresh clothes, the school nurse, who now has a name (Mrs. Miller–Pearl asked her), said, “Pearl showed me where she had all her shots. Can you give me a record of those?”
I explained, with a chill in my heart and a sneer on my face, that I turned them in with the office. She said, “Oh. Mrs. Thompson must have them.”
Why are these elementary school professionals such poor communicators?
This side note is interesting to me as a feminist: When she called Brad, she called him Mr. Miller. When she called me, she called me April. I mean, I generally dislike being called Ms. or Mrs. Line (I get Mrs. a lot now that I have a kid. It’s a bit creepy since I’m not a missus), but for the Cochran School Nurse, I would make an exception, and I am curious about the higher level of respect she shows to Brad. Hmmmm.
I had a conversation with little Pearl this morning that went like this:
“Mommy, do you remember when I went with you to buy this fix it tape?” she asked me, waving my white-out tape dispenser in the air.
“No, Pearl, I do not.”
“That’s because you don’t have a robot brain like me, mommy.”
Last night, she was dismissed from dinner because she was not eating. Stomping up the stairs to her room, she looked at me with daggers in her little eyes and said, “Don’t look at me!”
Here’s a recipe I made up today. If I want to make it again, I will not remember. This is multi-purpose writing-it-down/sharing with you, so here it is. If you try it, let me know what you think.
Grease loaf pan, a full-sized one, or several smaller ones. Preheat oven to 375 degrees F.
2 c. all purpose flour
1/2 c. sugar
1/2 t. each ground cinnamon, ginger, clove, nutmeg (some extra cinnamon would probably be good)
salt to taste
2 1/2 t. baking powder
pinch chili powder
1 T cocoa powder
2 T olive oil (or other vegetable oil)
12 oz. pumpkin beer
1/2 t. almond extract
large handful walnuts or pecans
2 large handfuls raisins
1. mix together dry ingredients
2. add wet ingredients one by one
3. mix until batter is smooth. There may be a few lumps. It will be runny–thicker than pancake batter, but not at all sticky. No need to strive for total smoothness. You don’t want to beat up the beer. 🙂
4. stir in raisins and nuts.
5. pour batter into prepared loaf pan
6. bake for about an hour (50 minutes minimum) until a toothpick inserted in the center pulls out clean.
I served it with pumpkin cream cheese that I thinned down with milk drizzled over. But you should do what you want. The love man says it’s yummy plain.
Today is the day I consult the physician about having myself sterilized.
Write a story.
Have my first parent-teacher conference.
My mom is coming to visit.
Send a sympathy card and maybe an inspirational book to dear, dear people who have lost someone.
Do laundry and clean our house.
Purchase 10 grocery items and replace our probe thermometer for meat cooking.
Possibly clean myself.
Definitely clean my child.
Play Monopoly Junior.
So I’m in the shower thinking about how my multi vitamin is working because I’m losing less of my hair now (ah, 30). Pearl’s new bottle of bubble bath catches my eye. It is Mr. Bubble. I practically forced her to get it, because like Dum-dum wrappers, the Mr. Bubble T-shirt offer always fascinated me as a child. I Wanted that T-shirt. I thought maybe I’d get it for Pearl. And one for me, too.
So I’m reading the offer, and I get to the part about, “while supplies last,” and I think, Who are they kidding? Supplies have lasted since at last the late 70s, I’m sure.
I do some web research. Go here. Vaguely creepy, but some vintage commercials indicating that the T-shirt offer supplies may have been lasting since the 1960s!
The Village Company? Too evocative of The Village People to ignore. If it wouldn’t be inexcusably tacky, I’d make a label called “things that make me go hmmm.”