2009 Report on My Balls

Okay, I admit: I totally neglected this blog for five months. I kept thinking how I really ought to post things, and then I never did, and I really have no excuse for leaving you, dear reader, high and dry for so long--

--except that in the meantime I've been running after a 1-year-old (who is newly walking!), getting dressed up three times a week like a therapist again and being paid nicely for it besides, and finding myself trapped in the time-sucking vortex that is Facebook. Yes, despite my insistence that it would be bad for me professionally to be on any social networking sites, I signed up for Facebook. (And I play a mean game of Scramble, if I do say so myself.)

But this evening I decided it really was time to rejuvenate this blog. And what better subject than my balls?

As previously reported, my balls continue to be quite the awesome delicacy. This year, my balls are more dense than fluffy, although they are by no means cannon shot. The broth is half vegetable, half chicken, and is accented with slices of carrot. I'm proud to report that Tovah is a big fan of my balls.

On that note, Mrs. Gerbil and I realized that this is really the last year that we can talk about my balls. We fear that Tovah (who is already frighteningly intelligent and possessed of a weird sense of humor) will tell her preschool teachers that her favorite food is Mommy's balls. So, starting next year, we will be having plain old matzo balls on Passover. But this year I shall feel free to wax especially rhapsodic about my balls--at least until the leftovers are gone.

Other things Toni Braxton wishes could be reversed, but hasn't immortalized in song

- Unrip My Jeans

- Unburn My Toast

- Untrip My Fuse

- Unsteal My PIN

- Unspill My Drink

- Unlose My Phone

- Unbounce My Check

- Unshave My Head

- Uncrash My Car

A matter of opinion

I present a pair of guide words from our phone book:



I suppose it's all in the ear of the beholder.

Mel Gibson is stalking me

...and he's not doing it very effectively.

Cases in point:

1) In 2002, M. Night Shyamalan's rather disappointing Mel-Gibson-vs.-aliens flick Signs was filmed in and around my charming old historical hometown. But I'd moved from my parents' house to Cleveland a little more than a year prior. Sorry you missed me, Mel.

2) Last week, scenes from the new movie Edge of Darkness were filmed at the book depository of my alma mater, a location also known as the Bunker because it is, well, an old military bunker. I've never actually been to the Bunker, but it's about five miles from our house and I drive past it several times a week. Sorry you missed me again, Mel.

3) Tomorrow, more scenes from Edge of Darkness will be filmed at the old county courthouse, in downtown Northampton. I go to Northampton frequently. In fact, Tovah and I drove through Northampton yesterday and today, and we saw all sorts of cinematic equipment being hung on the courthouse. We also saw throngs of people standing around and watching said equipment-hanging, and police standing around and watching said throngs of people. Partly on account of the filming (and the concomitant traffic delays and even more pronounced lack of parking), and partly on account of lack of need to go to Northampton, I won't be going by the courthouse tomorrow. Mel! Your timing sucks.

Guilty as charged

Yesterday I saw an interesting car. It wasn't a hybrid, bio-diesel, natural gas, or electric vehicle. In fact, it was a rather ordinary late-model wagon, festooned all over with various bumper stickers proclaiming its owner's position on various social issues. For a car parked in Northampton, Mass., this is not so unusual.

What made this otherwise unremarkable car so interesting was that one of its stickers read as follows:

DRIVE & POLLUTE.

I'm always intrigued by this sort of thing. I only hope the irony wasn't lost on the driver.

Dutch treat

The English language has the reputation of being notoriously hard to learn, as it's chock full of words whose pronunciation doesn't match their spelling, bizarrely irregular verbs and plurals, and a subjunctive tense that not even native speakers understand.

Dutch, however, is just plain funny. At least, the English-speaking Mrs. Gerbil and I think so.

For example: did you know that "Monsterhouder" is Dutch for "specimen container"?

Growing up

Although I'm only 17 months and two days away from turning 30 (ZOMGWTF!), I occasionally still have difficulty remembering, and accepting, that I am an adult. Perhaps it is my baby face. Perhaps it's a lingering effect of having been at least a year younger than my classmates in school. Or perhaps it's a function of just how long adolescence lasts in US culture--some theories of development hold that adolescence lasts until age 26!

But there are some things in my daily life that remind me that yes, indeed, I have achieved adult status. I'm not talking about things like approaching my third wedding anniversary, having a baby, having bought a car, or even having moved out of my parents' house seven years ago.

No, I'm talking about much more quotidian things. Things like...


boiling water for tea...


having a fully stocked medicine cabinet...


and knowing how to make (and ice) cupcakes completely from scratch.

Tea, baked goods, and healthcare--these, I think, are the really important things in adult life.

Braaaaaaaaaaaains

I am a very, very bad child of the 80s.

Last weekend I finally saw Michael Jackson's "Thriller" in its entirety. All 14 cheese-tastic minutes of it.

(In my defense, I was three when the video was released, and my parents do not have cable. But still, this is kinda embarrassing.)



And it made me wonder--what, exactly, is involved in an audition for a zombie movie? Do they ask aspiring zombies to stumble around the room? Is it possible to be typecast as a zombie? (Relatedly: is it at all desirable to be typecast as a zombie?)

Also: if you have not yet seen A Hard Day's Night of the Living Dead, what are you waiting for?

Design flaw

What with the rising price of gas, Mrs. Gerbil and I decided it was high time to get new bicycles. My old beloved purple bike had died a valiant death of rust before our move from Ohio to California, and Mrs. Gerbil's black one was sacrificed for our move from California to Massachusetts. Mrs. Gerbil had promised me a new bike for Hanukkah a few years ago, and we'd gone to a bike shop of good repute in Berkeley to check out the stock; but the very nice employee wasn't able to identify the right bike for my overall size (not very big) and posture needs (weird).

So a few weeks ago, on recommendation from one of Mrs. Gerbil's co-workers, we went to Joe's Bike Garage. Joe's Garage is a tiny little place whose website, as far as I can tell, only has an index page; but Joe had the perfect bike for us. We each got a Redline R510, and dang, am I in love with my bike.



The other day I went on an extended little jaunt in search of a prescription and some ingredients for dinner. As I was unchaining my beautiful bike from the trash can at Big Y (note to local businesses: please provide bike racks!), an older man in a boater hat approached me. "Can I ask you a question about your hat?" he asked.

"My helmet?" I asked.

"Yes," he said.

"Sure," I replied.

"Why is it shaped like that?" he asked.

Assuming he was referring to its fairly typical contour, I said, "It's more aerodynamic this way."

"It doesn't cover the side of your face," he said. "Why isn't it shaped like a football helmet?"

"There are some helmets like that," I said, "but I guess this one is just made to protect your brain. If you fall on the side of your face and break your jaw, they can wire it back, but if you hit the top of your head and get a brain injury, you're pretty much screwed."

Dammit, I thought, I shouldn't use words like "screwed" when conversing with nice 80-year-old men.

"Oh, okay," he replied. "But me, if I fell off a bike, I would probably fall on the side of my face. Bye!"

Weekly reader

As a general rule I do not like fantasy as a genre. I also do not care much for science fiction, except for real old-school stuff like Asimov and silly stuff like Douglas Adams (both of whom I started reading when I was about 10). At one point I did like both of these genres, but that point has long been over.

However, I've recently discovered Terry Pratchett, who seems to be to fantasy what Douglas Adams is to science fiction. Over the past few weeks I've read Wyrd Sisters and Witches Abroad, both of which I enjoyed thoroughly. (I'm a little embarrassed that it took me so long to get through them, as normally I'd be able to polish both off in a single afternoon--but "normally" here means "if I did not have a small baby.")

For Christmas, Chip sent us Hogfather. (Thanks, Chip!) I started it today. Anyway, the whole point of this entry is that I would like to share the following quote, from its page 24:

"Getting an education was a bit like a communicable sexual disease. It made you unsuitable for a lot of jobs and then you had the urge to pass it on."

Genius, man. Freaking genius.

2008 Report on My Balls

Thursday was a red-letter day in the Passover department. Although we and Stop & Shop had run out of matzo, all was not lost. I made matzo meal bagels for the first time, from my grandma's recipe (which actually came from Manischewitz, but whatever), and they turned out rather nicely. Mrs. Gerbil likes them, though she wouldn't call them bagels, exactly.

For dinner I made matzo ball soup. I am pleased to report that, as in previous years, my balls were again quite splendid. Not too dense, not too fluffy, and swimming with some choice carrots in delectably salty broth.

Though I do love my balls, I'll be glad when Passover is done and I can have sandwiches again.

...and vice versa

Mrs. Gerbil, who is not Jewish, has taken to baking challah every Friday afternoon.

My mother, who is, spent this morning making hot cross buns.

And in other sociocultural/culinary news, I present yours truly, barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen:

On authority

One of the formative events of Mrs. Gerbil's and my relationship was her accompaniment of my audition for the Newtown Chamber Orchestra's Young Musician Competition when we were but wee high school sophomores. I auditioned with the first movement of Vivaldi's Spring. Alas, I did not win (though a few months later I did win the Youth Orchestra of Bucks County's soloist competition, with the third movement of Mozart's Concerto #5); but we had a lot of fun.

As a thank-you to Mrs. Gerbil for her mad piano skills, my parents and I gave her a CD of The Compleat Four Seasons, featuring none other than Patrick Stewart reading the sonnets which the concerti illustrate. (Didn't know that the Seasons are based on sonnets that may--or may not--have been written by Vivaldi himself? Check it out, yo.)

Oddly enough, it took me nearly thirteen years to listen to this CD myself. But I finally did the other day, and I have to say that Patrick Stewart truly has the most wonderful voice. Violinist Arnie Roth isn't half bad himself; but oh, Patrick Stewart is marvelous.

I would do anything Patrick Stewart told me to do.

Okay, fine, if Patrick Stewart told me to jump off a bridge, I wouldn't.

At least, I probably wouldn't.

But I'd do pretty much anything else.



(Oh, and yes, I own that Picard action figure pictured above. Remind me sometime to tell you about the red felt carrying case I fashioned for him and his accessories.)

And the survey says...

First things first: We have phone service! The Verizon guy came this morning and had everything working in less than 10 minutes. Praise the Lord and pass the address book! Haven't heard from our case manager, though we did get a nice (albeit rather superfluous) phone call on our land line to inform us that our phone was now in service. Right-o. That only took two weeks...

And now for other things.

In the mail the other day we received a "Consumer Product Survey of America." I have no intention of filling this out, as doing so will only result in our being bombarded with junk mail. Even if I did not provide our address, I'm guessing that the serial number on the form is already associated with same. And besides, most of the questions don't pertain to our shopping habits anyway.

However, just for laughs I reviewed the survey thoroughly. I found that the "not applicable" field descriptions were priceless. For example:



and my personal favorite:


This all kind of reminds me of lolcat syntax:



I couldn't have said it better myself.

Assorted tidbits

1. If you know me in real life and/or read Mrs. Gerbil's blog, then you already know that we are moving to Massachusetts in a little less than a month. If you don't know me in real life and do not read Mrs. Gerbil's blog, you are hereby informed that we are finally moving back East! (And why aren't you a reader of Mrs. Gerbil's blog? Hm?)

2. Many people have asked whether we will be having a home birth for the gerb. We are not. (Or, at least, we're not planning one.) This is mainly because we doubt our new landlords would appreciate my giving birth on their carpets.

3. It was ridiculously windy here yesterday. I left the house (for a walk to the post office) with wet, fresh-from-the-shower hair. I returned 15 minutes later with completely dry hair.

4. Rite Lite Hanukkah candles totally suck. I think a more appropriate name for them would be "Rong Lite."

Dream on

I had a very strange dream the other night. I don't recall most of it, but high-capacity porta-potties figured prominently therein. And in my dream, they were called...

...Oodles of Doodles.

I'm pretty clever even in my sleep, eh?

The hostess with the mostest

I want there to be Pineapple Upside-Down Minis at my (as yet unscheduled) baby shower.



As Mrs. Gerbil so eloquently put it, "How do you look at those and not see boobs?"

Irony

Yesterday Mrs. Gerbil and I finally bid farewell to the Big Gay Subaru.


My parents bought it new in the spring of 1995, toward the end of Mrs. Gerbil's and my sophomore year of high school (the year we met). It became mine a few years later, and two and a half years ago it became Mrs. Gerbil's also.

It was a good car, but alas, it was growing progressively more senile. And so we traded it in for a piddling amount toward a shiny new 2007 Outback (possibly to be known as the Bigger, Gayer Subaru).

We didn't remove the rear windshield decals from the Big Gay Subaru. They were pretty old and included one from my alma mater, one from my doctoral stomping grounds, and a rainbow flag. We'll be up near my alma mater in a few weeks, making procurement of a new Fairest College decal quite simple.

But here is the ironic part: Though Mrs. Gerbil and I live in possibly the gayest city on the planet, I have absolutely no idea where to get a new rainbow flag sticker.

(Irony part 2: My doctoral stomping grounds of Cleveland were not exactly the most gay-friendly. Even so, I knew exactly where to buy all manner of gay stickers, including the one affixed to our now former vehicle.)

I'm sure I could get thousands of new rainbow flag stickers in the Castro. But I think I'll just wait a few weeks and buy one in Massachusetts.

Strange bedfellows

Hormel Foods is having a drawing for a Toyota Prius.

Yes, you read that correctly. The folks who bring you Spam, that archetype of artificiality, are raffling off a hybrid.



No purchase necessary!

Confession: I am the world's biggest lightweight

I'm allergic to California.

Well, I'm allergic to a lot of things in a lot of places, but California is home to some special type of grass which, I believe, was created especially to torture me. Allergy testing has shown that, indeed, I am ridiculously allergic to California grass. California grass decided to bloom on Tuesday.

Holy crap, did that ever suck.

I broke down and took some Benadryl before going to work. Benadryl and I have a very strained relationship. I will not take the stuff unless I absolutely need it, for it gives me a hangover. Thus: I won't resort to Benadryl unless I'm miserable because it makes me miserable in a completely different way.

Yes, folks, I am a diphenhydramine lightweight.

Between 11 am and midnight, I took one and a half adult doses of Benadryl. I took just enough at work to prevent both sneezing and falling asleep during calls; and enough at bedtime to give me the soundest, most excellent sleep I've had in weeks.

But late Wednesday morning I was still having difficulty forming my thoughts into coherent paragraphs. In the middle of the afternoon, I retreated to bed and took a nap. Mrs. Gerbil called during my nappy-nap and asked for a ride home from BART. On the way there I started to wonder if maybe it wasn't a good time to operate a car or other dangerous machinery, as I couldn't focus on anything less than three car lengths ahead. Against what better judgment I should have had, I didn't hand over the keys for the ride home.

By 6pm I was dizzy and ready to go back to bed, but unlike previous instances I decided that perhaps this was not the best course of action. It had been 18 hours since Benadryl last touched my lips, more than 2 of its half-lives, and this wasn't my usual hangover. I called the NurseLine that comes with our health insurance and was advised (a) to call my doctor and (b) not to get back behind the wheel. So I paged the provider on call, who informed me that (a) there should not be any Benadryl left in my system; (b) even if there were, there's no antidote; and (c) I should probably never take Benadryl again.

Being reminded yet again of my eternal lightweight status made me a very sad, and somewhat embarrassed, sleepy little gerbil. So, Mrs. Gerbil took me out for a nice Italian dinner. We discovered tiramisu to be quite an effective antidote. They don't call it "pick-me-up" for nothing!