Squirrel Boss

While browsing a catalog for Christmas gifts, I came across the Squirrel Boss Bird Feeder. I haven't yet decided who I'm going to give it to. Apparently it is "the unique brainchild of an aerospace professional" who loves both birds and squirrels and wanted a safe and effective way to keep squirrels off the bird feeder. It "electronically conditions" the squirrels. A remote control allows you to deliver a static shock to the squirrel "from the comfort of your home."

If Moo-moo were still alive, I think it would be the perfect gift for her. I can picture her sitting at the dining room table, watching the bird feeder from the window, and electrocuting squirrels. Humanely, of course.

Watch the Squirrel Boss "action video" from here.

Lily Laments

In accordance with the 6 year old book, I tried a new technique last weekend with Lily. According to the book, six year olds are contrary and difficult and drive you crazy, but need constant reassurance for their fragile egos. Made sense to us, as we were in a downward spiral of Liliness. The first two or three times you ask her to do something like brush her teeth she pretends she doesn’t hear you. Or does hear you, looks right at you, then simply goes back to what she was doing, “Make me” written all over her face. Then comes the decision: do I enforce my authority and do battle, or just let her damn teeth rot. The book’s suggestion was to pick your battles, avoid direct orders whenever possible (because the inevitable answer will be no), when you get resistance, just pretend like it isn’t happening, and the golden technique: give praise.

So, last weekend, I lavished praise on Lily. Preemptive praise. As soon as she woke up, and before she had a chance to really say anything, I commented on how great she had been that morning – no whining!-- and how I was really looking forward to spending the day with her. That got a smile and started the morning off well. I thanked her for being so helpful before I asked her to help me with something, I took every opportunity to tell her she was good at whatever it was she was doing. It had an amazing effect and the entire weekend went fairly smoothly with smiles and snuggles rather than whining and battles. Lily loved the attention, while fully copped on to the technique: “Hey Lily...” Lily interrupts, “I know what you’re going to say, Mom. You think I’m great.”

Despite her perceptiveness, her six year old self needed the praise. And since I’ve been away at work most of the week, she’s begun fishing for it in the evenings. These have turned into her tired laments centered on the theory that she’s not good at anything because Molly can do everything better than her.

Last night, clearly looking for new material, Lily sat at the dinner table, twirling her fork in the air, watching Molly and Shaun and I gobble our food. “I’m always the last one to finish eating; everybody eats faster than I do. It’s not fair.” “Well, Lily, you know there’s a direct correlation between eating and finishing your food. If you sit there and don’t eat, then you will finish after those who are eating.” Lily, not to be deterred by logic, rolled her eyes and put her head on the table, and whined with all the tragedy she could muster, “but it’s NOT FAIR!”

After dinner (which she never finished) I held her in my lap while she went through a mental list of things she wasn’t good at. I let her moan her way through it, then, prepared with my own list of encouragements, began, “But Lily, there are lots of things you ARE good at....” Lily cut me off, her voice dripping with sarcasm: “Yeah, like GETTING SICK AND DYING.”

I believe I’ve mentioned this before: I can’t wait until she’s a teenager.

Why I love my friends

"Hey, Emily, Come see my new bike! I'll take you for a ride on the handlebars!"

"Ah...no."


"Pleeease?? It's so cool."


"Okay, I'll look at it." We walk into the garage to admire his new retro-style schwinn-type bike.


"Isn't it cool? I just attach the flashlight here (he places a large flashlight into a velcroed sling), and fill my thermos with vodka, and put it here (another sling) and it stays! Then I stick three straws together so I can drink while I'm riding!"


"Wow, Brian, that's amazing!"


"Are you sure you don't want to go for a ride on the handlebars? I drive around 50-year-old women in my neighborhood. They do it..."


"Yeah, but how high do you have to get them first?"


"Well...they're already high when I get there."


"Exactly."

Later that evening, Brian has wandered out into the neighborhood. Shaun and I remain in the living-room listening to music with Dan.

"Sometimes," Dan muses, "when Brian is gone, I like to pour myself a glass of red wine and sit here and listen to Barbara Streisand."

"Are you serious? But Dan, that's so completely stereotypical. Do you actually like Barbara Streisand, or do you feel like you have to, like it's some kind of requirement?"

"Really, I like her music. It's very emotional."

Commuting

Even Fremont looks beautiful in the dawn light.

Today in the 'hood

License plate: "Stanken"

License Plate on brand new Cadillac Escalade, owned by my neighbor whose mother recently passed: "RIP MA" (we now know where the life insurance proceeds went).

Multi family barbeque in the park with amplified rappers singing about Jesus (he already paid the price).

Many strips of sod laid out on the cement in front of the house on the corner, a temporary lawn I suppose, already browning. But then, I wondered, if they watered it, would it grow?

Drug dealers doing sales in front of the new "Biodiesel Oasis" solar powered station.

Love it.

Modern Sac

I had dinner in a japanese restaurant in downtown Sacramento. It was the night before the first day of the bar exam so I carefully opted for hot soup, thereby avoiding any unecessary risk of food poisoning from raw fish. (I'd also been making sure to pick my feet up to avoid tripping while walking, carefully looking both ways before crossing a street even when it was one-way and I had a green light, and chose not to vacuum my house before leaving lest I throw my back out in the process. After 10 weeks of 8-10 hour days of studying, I wasn't taking any chances of being unable to sit for the exam.)

I used the bathroom before I left the restaurant. Imagine my surprise to find an electronic bidet/toilet with picturesque buttons. Pressing the button with simple ass icon and the word "back" would send a stream of water from this public toilet to clean your behind. Pressing the button with the picture of a girl in a dress and the word "front" would, I assume, squirt the other end of the nether regions (and not merely spray the front of your dress).

The restaurant bidet disturbed me. I stood there staring at it, questions racing through my mind. Did the owners think that this amenity would be the tipping point for customers to choose their restaurant over the other japanese restaurant two doors down? "Yeah, you can get sushi there, but here, you can get sushi and get really clean." Or, was the bidet already in place when they opened the restaurant? If so, how long had it been there, and what was the prior establishment? A spa? A tattoo parlor? Furthermore, how many people have actually used it? Did it cause long lines for the bathroom when the restaurant was busy? Most importantly, why was the toilet seat so yellow?

Although I was tempted, I didn't press any of the buttons to see if the bidet actually worked. Neither did I ask the wait staff for answers to my questions. I guess I prefer the mystery.

Snacks on a Plane

On a recent flight from Sacramento to Chicago, the flight attendant (FA) offered nourishment in the form of "snack boxes" for $6.00.

Me: "Could you tell me what is in the snack box?"
FA: "Snacks."
(pregnant pause)
Me:"Could you be a little more specific?"
FA: "Well, some have carbohydrates, some have protein, you know, like tuna."

Really?

I bought it and I don't even own a pipe.

I guess that's what you'd call great marketing.

Ouch

Why I love Berkeley

I did go to the Jejune institute website to investigate, having suffered from many of the issues they list. Berry Berry Interestink. If you can't read it, click on the image for a larger view.

I'm not crazy. Oh. Wait...

Cramming galore. Definitely not sane. Feeling excited that it's almost over and suffering from regular anxiety attacks because I'm almost out of time... two weeks left! My dream anxieties are completely focused on my hair. I've got bald spots, I'm completely gray, my hair falls out in handfuls. Fortunately, not happening in real life. At least not the balding part. As Lily announced to her kindergarten class and all the parents on the last day of school, "this picture of hair dye reminds me of my mom because she dyes her hair." I love hair dye.

Today I woke up at 3:30 in the morning and started studying because I couldn't sleep. At 8:45 am I started cutting down a dead tree. I was still wearing my bathrobe and nightgown. I was waiting with Molly in my driveway for my cousin Gabby to pick up Molly for Girls' Rock camp (Molly's band is called "Vomit Punks" except the shirt stencil didn't work so her band T just says "vomit"), and noticed that the dead tree was likely to fall onto our car. It's been dead (the tree) and next to our car for about four years, but today it seemed particularly problematic. It's actually on our neighbor's property so I TRESSPASSED on their land by removing the tree, but I had the defense of NECESSITY to prevent the greater harm of the tree falling on my car which would have resutled in the neighbor's TRESSPASS TO MY CHATTEL. These thoughts were going through my head while I cut away, so technically, it counted as studying. Gabby arrived to pick up Molly and yelled out the window "Emily, you look crazy" so I stopped.

Flashcarded for a while in the living room, but then couldn't resist the call of the dead tree. Showered and put on exercise clothing so I wouldn't look "crazy," then went out and tore the tree down with my bare hands. Actually I used a branch cutter and pretended it was my bare hands. It felt really good. It was a small tree, but just the right size to relieve some of my stress, especially when I beat the branches down so they'd fit into the compost container. I was under the delusion that I was totally in control until I got the chance to crush something... Then I went back inside and did more flashcards. Like nothing had happened.

Home Stretch

Flashcard Athlete has finished writing her flashcards. It took over a month, pretty much, full time - with time out for multiple choice questions and practice essays. I celebrated with a little dance when I was done. Then I realized I had forgotten to do cards for criminal procedure. Wind from sails.

Here they are as compared to a standard marshmallow, for perspective. I wanted to take the photo of the cards next to my head, and query: will it all fit? But I couldn't fit my head into the picture. I thought the marshmallow would do as a substitute. In a symbolic act, I ate the marshmallow just after I took the photo.

Irresistable Crap

On our car ride last Sunday, Jane regaled us with stories of she and her old housemate, Chesty, trying to one-up each other with surprise scare tactics (he won: she ended up naked in a fetal position on the floor when he surprised her just after a shower. That uncomfortable moment effectively ended the contest). Jane offhandedly commented that he had scared the crap out of her.

Lily, ever listening, picked up on the turn of phrase and asked in her innocent-sounding six-year-old voice, "Mom, has anyone ever scared the crap out of you?"

"Yes, but Lily, 'crap' is not a nice word, and even though Jane and I just said it, we really shouldn't have."

Lily wondered why it wasn't a nice word, and I explained that it meant poop, and that if a person gets really really scared, they can poop in their pants. Lily was impressed.

The next morning, on the way to camp, Lily turned to Molly in the back seat of the car and said, gleefully, "Molly, I'm going to scare the crap out of you today!"

"Lily, you're not supposed to use that word, remember?"

"I know, Mommy, but now that I know what it means (giggle) I just want to say it all the time! I love scaring the crap out of people!"

I tried to think of alternatives such as "scared the piss out of me" or "scared the pants off me" or "scared me to death" but after the literal explanation of the crap version, none seemed appropriate.

Lily helpfully suggested: "How about if I say "scared the crabs out of me?" That one gave me a nice visual.

This day successfully took my mind off studying

Flashcard Athlete

Progress made. Training continues:

The stack on the right is about 1/2 of the material for the bar exam. The small packet on the left is 100 flashcards.

***

Final Project

At Peet's coffee, I saw a Berkeley High school senior carrying a poster -- her final project for some class. All I was able to read was the heading:

That's Retarded:

Discrimination Against the Disabled

***

I really tried to see the photo collage, but she was moving too fast.

Kind of teddy-bear-ish

This man will be speaking at my graduation. If I were him, I would have chosen the same photo to represent me.

I think the extra name really adds to the mix

According to The Recorder (legal newspaper)

Faatuaiitaua Ofeira Tuani

is officially changing his or her name to

Faatuaiitaua Oferia Tunai Tuala

Bad Parents

"Mommy, this is the third night I've put my tooth under my pillow and the tooth fairy still hasn't come!"

Overheard in Berkeley

“People who are human are highly revered in the spiritual realm.” – Lady to her friend, Espresso Roma

“Recycler bandits reported on the corner of Prince and Woolsey.” – Police radio 8:00 am Tuesday morning.

Disturbing Doggie

On BART this morning I had to stand up in the back of the train and spend the ride looking over the shoulder of the woman sitting in front of me. At first I didn't pay much attention: she appeared to be messing around with her Iphone while plugged into her Ipod, much like the rest of the BART passengers that morning. But then I started to wonder what she was doing with her finger. She kept rubbing it in one place on the screen. I looked at the screen and saw that she was "petting" a digital dog. She pet it for a long time. Then she fed it. Then she gave it a bath. This required rubbing her finger on the screen for a good ten minutes, in one spot, while she lathered him up. Afterwards, she went back to petting him, gave him a treat, and put him to bed.

There didn't appear to be any point to the "game" other than taking care of the digital doggy. I checked. She wasn't earning any points.

I became concerned. What was she getting out of this game? There couldn't be any physical satisfaction from rubbing a cold screen with her forefinger for long periods of time. Neither could it provide her with any intellectual stimulation or physical challenge.

The only possible benefit I could imagine was an emotional one. The dog did emit some digital hearts. Did she think fondly of this pooch and look forward to BART rides when they could be alone together? If this were true, what did it say about her personal life -- that she felt emotionally connected to a half-inch digital image that she couldn't actually touch or communicate with in any way?

It made me sad. It also made me really curious and I tried to see inside her purse for more clues to her life as she put her Iphone away. I managed to glimpse a small plush animal before she checked to see if I was looking over her shoulder. I supposed it was her other friend.

I think I'll pass.

Lily

"How was your field trip today?"

"Fun. We got to see sea lions up real close."

"Oh! That must have been so cool!"

"Yeah, but not close enough to see their blubber or their external ear flap."

No fools working there

Sign in the Clerks office of Bankruptcy Court, San Jose:

"Chapter 7 Bankruptcy filing fee: $299. No personal checks accepted."

This week in Berkeley...

While I am studying in the reading room at the public library, a young woman eschews all the seats at all the empty tables in the room and falls heavily in the chair next to me with a big sigh like some kind of heat-seeking device. She doesn't open the calculus book she's brought, but opens a microwavable burrito and surreptitiously eats it with her head practically in her lap. I notice boxes of cereal in her backpack and that she smells like she hasn't bathed in weeks -- which explain her skin problems and greasy hair. She finishes her food then bangs her forehead down on the table inches from my arm. Two minutes later she stomps off into the stacks, leaving her smell behind her. It's almost time for a lunch break and I decide to weather the smell, because moving to another seat would be so obvious in this empty room, and I don't want to offend her (?!).

A well-dressed elderly man in a tweed jacket and slacks and neatly trimmed white hair and beard walks in front of me, leaning carefully on his elegant cane. He turns his head slightly and I see that he is wearing a bright red clown nose.

A man, approaching me from the other direction as I walk through a central Berkeley neighborhood, stops and inquires whether he could ask me a question.
"Sure."
"Are you Dutch?"
"No"
"Are you Amish?"
"No"
"Are you a pioneer?"
"No"
"Are your ancesters older than that?"
"Older than what?"
"Older than a Dutch, an Amish, or a pioneer?"
"Well, I suppose so."
"Thank you."
He turned and continued walking down the street, leaving me to wonder what his survey was all about and whether he asks everyone the same questions, or whether my appearance somehow sparked that line of questioning.