Circles of Hell 4: Polly Pockets

Know what Polly Pockets are? If you are a small girl, or parent or relative of a small girl, I bet you are more than well acquainted with the diminutive perky plastic bimbette -- to your cost!

For those who don't know, Polly Pockets is a tiny doll about two to three inches tall, made of hard plastic. She has an oversize head with a perky ponytail (also hard plastic) and she comes with soft rubber clothes and hard plastic accessories.

Sounds kinky, doesn't it?

The soft rubber clothes are molded in one piece with a strategic slit in the back - a doll's version of the special clothing made to dress corpses in coffins. Dressing Polly is not unlike dressing a corpse. You have to pull, twist and manipulate tiny pieces of rubber. It isn't easy. It isn't easy for the Princess' tiny four-year-old fingers, and it definitely isn't easy for my middle-aged sausage digits. As soon as she is dressed (and the clothes are truly horrible colors and shapes), the Princess rips the outfit off and starts wrestling with another.

This may not sound too bad to you, but remember the doll is only two to three inches high. Imagine the shoes. Imagine the rubber blouses. Imagine the teeny tiny hard plastic accessories. Everything is tiny and ends up scattered across a wide area. I've found odd pieces in the dog bed, under the sofa, between sofa cushions, in shoes, in cups, in the cat food, and I think I saw the Princess "mailing" some through a heating duct.

I used to hate the small pieces of Lego that I inevitably stepped on with bare feet first thing in the morning, but now I hate Polly Pocket more with a pure heart. She and all her accessories should be flung into outer darkness where there is weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth. As I can't conjure up a fate of biblical proportions for her, I lie in wait with the vacuum cleaner.

Whoops! Take that Polly's shoes, bag, vile rubber blouse! You may not be biodegradable, and you may last for ever, but sucking you into a swirling mess of dust and dog hair is extremely satisfying.

Now, all I have to do is make some excuse to the Princess...

Not a Matushka - not even close

It isn't easy being a priest's wife (or indeed being a priest's children). Quite apart from the fishbowl effect, or people assuming that we are a direct conduit to my husband, or having to watch what we say because anything we do say can reflect on or be attributed to my husband, there is also the problem of THE NAME.

There are many different Orthodox Christian churches owing allegiance to various jurisdictions, usually identified with a core ethnic group and particular set of traditions and practices. There are four ancient patriarchates: Greece, Jersualem, Antioch, and Alexandria. There are also more recent (and recent is a very relative term) patriarchates -- Russia, Bulgaria, Serbia, Romania, and Georgia. There are also Oriental Orthodox Churches, including India, Armenia, Ethopia, and Eritrea. It's a set of complex global relationships.

What does this have to do with my not being a matushka?

Let me explain.

Matushka is the term usually used of a priest's wife in the Russian tradition. It means "little mother" and designates a specific role for the priest's wife within the parish. This is an unspoken, undefined, and totally assumed role.

Some matushki love the term - can hardly wait till their husbands are ordained and then claim it as their right. That's fine and good for them. I am not one of them.

I don't like the term because it is not what I am. I am a priest's wife, true, but a priest's wife in an English-speaking community among ten or more other priests' wives (I don't live in a parish but a seminary, so if you throw a stone hard enough on the seminary grounds you will probably hit a priest or a matushka).

Why should I be called matushka? My husband is called "Father X". Why do I have to answer to a tradition and a concept which is not mine? Try calling me "Mother X" and you can see how silly it sounds. I am not the "mother" of the campus community, nor frankly do I aspire to be so. I am not Russian (that's my husband's heritage). I don't need the title for status or to identify myself in some way: I have many other legitimate titles that people can use -- Mrs X, Professor X, or Dr X.

Also, there are nebulous expectations associated with being a matushka. Warmth, for one. Practical skills, for another. A willingness to step into the breach (church school, choir, coffee hour). Being cautious. Being self-effacing. Being sweet. Being dowdy seems to be another. Having an excessive respect for clerical hierarchy is assumed too.

I don't fit the bill. I am not warm (though I do care). I don't volunteer for church school, can't sing for toffee, resolutely refuse to have anything to do with organizing coffee hour, and, though I don't set out to embarrass my husband, I have a big mouth, my own opinions, and style of dress.

I do go to church. I do believe. I try (and often fail) to be a Christian.

I am a priest's wife. I am not a matushka.

Circles of Hell 3: Dog Hair

We have the sweetest dog in the world. She is loving and leaning.

Loving because that is just how she is. Leaning because her back legs don't work very well together so she tends to lean heavily against us.

She is also very old and not very smart (whoever thinks all German Shepherds are clever should meet this one!).

Did I mention how sweet she is?

BUT (and you knew that was coming, right?)

She sheds. All German Shepherds shed. They could shed as an Olympic sport. Summer. Winter. The time doesn't seem to matter. Balls of fluff adhere under furniture, cling to clothes, and appear in food.

Our house has sticky rollers like other houses have potpourri.

We brush her. We vacuum. We don't have rugs anymore because it is easier to get the pet hair off wood floors. It doesn't matter. You could weave a new dog out of one week's shedding.

My husband wears black all the time - not as an affectation - it is job-related. He can't stand pet hair on his clothes. The dog is old, so he has been suffering for quite a while. He has been asking about her life-expectancy since she was five.

The hair continues to pile up. I sometimes think that it will continue after she dies. A phantom dog will shed deliberately and lovingly in our house just to let us know she cares.

(I have not shared this idea with my husband)

Circles of Hell 2: Single-ply anything

Are you mean? I am.

I hate spending extra for brand-names, fake colors, and anything that smells like manufactured apple or citrus. Most of the time, my family goes along with my miserly habits. But there have been some justified rebellions.


There is no more one-ply anything in the house. No more raspy toilet paper that disintegrates at inconvenient moments and scours all one's tender areas. No more single-ply tissues that shred around the fingers as one tries (vainly, of course) to stem the tide.

My husband made some eloquent pleas for expensive paper products. The kids backed him up with facts and figures - so many pain-free wipes per roll.

I caved. There have been moments when I have regretted spending extra (like the times that one of the cats takes the toilet paper and deliberately drops it into the toilet, or uses the roll for clawing practice).

But right now, I am glad that I did.

I reach for probably my 100th (no joke) lotion-infused tissue. It still hurts but it hurts a lot lot less.

You can call me Rudolph but, over this at least, you can't call me cheap!

Circles of Hell 1: Apostrophe Abusers

Apostrophe abuse. Doesn't sound very significant does it? But, if I were the judge, all persistent apostrophe abusers would be flung to the outmost circle of Hell - to cringe and grovel in fire and darkness and perpetual misery.

What am I wittering about? People who persistently confuse it's/its and don't know their possessives from their plurals.

Why does this bug me so much?  These are the reasons I can identify most clearly: 

1.  It's a simple rule, not hard to follow. Most students encounter it in second or third grade (maybe earlier). 
• Apostrophes can be used to indicate that letters are missing. E.g. There's = there is, don't = do not wouldn't = would not, you're = you are, and so on.
• A good example of this is IT'S. It's is a contraction meaning "it is" - it never means anything else.
• Apostrophes indicate possession for nouns not pronouns. (So, no apostrophe for his, hers, its, theirs, yours or ours).
• For a possessive singular  noun, put the apostrophe after the noun and follow it with an S. E.g. Cat's tail = tail of a cat.
• For a possessive plural noun, put the apostrophe after the s that marks the plural. E.g. Cats' tails = tails of cats.
• Plurals do not need apostrophes unless they are possessives. 
2. It's (note the contraction!)  not just an error in punctuation but meaning. 
3. My Life's Work has been reading and commenting on other people's writing, which has had a weird and souring effect on my character. Focusing on small details all the time has made me petty and obsessive. Furthermore, mechanical errors leap out at me, haunt me, stalk me everywhere I go.

Apostrophe abusers are not just abusing that poor little punctuation mark by shoving it where it should not go, or refusing to acknowledge its existence at all. The abuse is more widespread than that.


Those careless writers are abusing the English language. They are abusing me.


And I refuse to be a victim. To Hell with them all!

Males And Laundry Hampers - what's the point?

What is it with males and laundry hampers?

We have them in each bedroom (two in the room my sons share). Large white open laundry hampers (very cheap from Ikea should you be wondering).

So, they are not hard to find. They are not shy, retiring, animals whom you have to stalk with infinite patience or can observe only if you lurk, quietly and disguised, beside a known watering hole. They are not apt to move  nor do they camouflage themselves cunningly.

In fact, they are extremely easy to find. They are the tall white open (no lids) empty containers surrounded by a foot-deep circular pile of dirty clothes and well-worn underwear.

It's not only my sons who cannot fathom how to put clothes into a hamper, either.

My husband - in almost every respect a prince among men - lobs clothes at the hamper (wicker with a lid) and will even drape items casually on top of the basket. Put dirty clothes into the hamper? Not a chance!

What to do?  I have a couple of (fantasies) ideas. Perhaps I could gather up the clothes (using tongs, if necessary) and stuff them into my sons' pillows?  Or dump all the electronics and the guitars into the hampers (might as well use them for something)? Or heavily spray some very floral fragrances around the room to "cover up" the smell?

Or I could have a meltdown - and they'd listen. Once.

10:00 Opening Time - Why? Why? Why?

It's caught me twice in two days, so it's risen (like scum) to the surface of my bubbling lake of daily irritants. And I need to vent.

What is it?

Stores and other facilities that open at  10:00am. In this neck of the woods, that means everything except the 24-hour super supermarkets and the bodegas.

In the abstract, it doesn't sound too bad, does it? "Oh look, Maude, the stores don't open till 10:00 - so we've got time to really enjoy breakfast before sallying forth for a spot of shopping!"


However, it is truly irritating in practice. Take yesterday....

I dropped my younger son at school (a bit late unfortunately) and set off to get all colors of printer ink (now there's another possible rant!), pay in some checks, check out the local bookstore, which is closing down, and return books to the local library. I was looking forward to all this -- trips undertaken without children, who have to be lifted in and out of the car, who demand lollipops with menaces, and who have to use the bathroom in every single location, are trips that I'm going to relish. But I hadn't factored in that I live in the land of lotus-eaters.

First ,at 8:40am, I struggled with the ATM at the bank. It would only take checks and nothing else, so I left knowing that I'd have to come back when the bank proper is open. Never mind, 9:05am and off to the library...

And the library is closed until 10:00am. I can drop the books in the book drop but that's it. OK, time to wander through the closing-down bookstore and enjoy a cup of coffee there before backtracking to the library and the bank. Nope. Bookstore doesn't open till 10:00am.

Thank goodness for an unnamed office supply store, which was open at 9:20 and had almost all the vastly expensive printer ink cartridges that I needed.

What does this 10:00am opening say? That business people are at work and don't need stores to be open? That noone else wants to shop or has a day that starts before 10:00am.

I guess I'm the only one. GRRRR

Kill Caillou!

I have a four-year old who loves Caillou. I don't. Nor do any adult parents that I know. We share a deep and abiding loathing for the high-pitched prattler (and his irritating relatives).

On the face of it, Caillou isn't a bad show. It doesn't promote glitz, bad behavior, weirdly over-sexualized pre-teens, stupid jokes, or taking down opponent after opponent. Instead, this canadian children's show features a more or less ordinary family -- two rather lumpy-looking working parents, average house, car, desires, style of living -- all revolving around the hero, Caillou.

Caillou is four. He is bald (for no discernible reason) and has a really big head. His name translates roughly as "Pebble." Perhaps I should mention that this is an animated show - everything is presented in primary colors and there are no borders to the pictures, which tail off into a haze. He also has a piping voice and comments, endlessly, all the time, on every aspect of his day.

He has a lot of lessons to learn (this is a show for pre-schoolers, after all). Caillou must deal with disappointment, learn that he grows slowly and isn't yet a big kid, be friendly and supportive with other children, and master some childhood milestones.

It's not Caillou that bother me so much (though his voice is really really irritating!). It's his parents and their parenting that make me want to gouge my eyeballs out with a pink plastic toddler spoon.


Caillou's parents are completely focused on Caillou, Caillou's wants, desires, and ideas. They have endless patience and talk to their children in a special, lovingly patient tone of voice that never fails to send me into the kitchen grinding my teeth and muttering. In Caillou's world (typical, I guess, of most children's worldview) his parents ONLY exist to facilitate and nurture him.


Caillou's parents are always ready to play with him, to read a story to him, and to explain the world to him. Always. They don't get angry. They don't turn on the demanding little whiner (and Caillou could whine competitively for Canada) and tell him to be quiet,  leave them alone, and stop WHINING!

One set of parents I know hate the show so much that they told their kids that Caillou was really really sick and the show was being taken off the air while he recovered.

I suspect it's going to be a very long convalescence!

Weather Idioms - Expletive Ice!

Because we are all locked into the ice today - classes cancelled, schools closed, liturgy postponed (quite a shock, that, as it is a feast day with ordinations planned) - I am sitting in the kitchen and thinking about how we talk about the weather.

I don't mean snow "showers" or "moderate rainfall".  I mean the vivid idioms that people use to describe the extremes of weather and the emotional reactions they provoke.

For instance....

Really really heavy rain might be

• pissing it down
• bucketing down
• a real toad choker
• a frog strangler

An extremely hot day might be

• hotter 'n a June bride in a featherbed [best said with a Tennessee drawl]
• fried egg time [refers to possibility of frying an egg on tarmac]
• hotter than hell

Extremes of cold might be

• cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey [sometimes  abbreviated to "brass monkeys"]
• colder than a pocket full of penguin sh*t Source: AmeriSpeak
• colder than a politician's heart

Perhaps we should create some more? Cold enough to close Concordia?

Snow Shower? NOT!

I've become obsessive about the Weather Channel, and check it first thing each day as I stagger towards the bathroom. Those little icons and the cheering reports (available for 36 Hr forecasts, 10 Day forecasts, and Hourly forecasts) make or break my morning.

Never mind what abstract joy the stars might have in store for me - I want to know whether I need to nag my highschooler to put a raincoat on before he leaves for the station.

However, my relationship with the WC is turning sour. I'm getting broody and sullen. The icons are letting me down. And it all hinges on definition.

Take today, for instance: intermittent show showers were forecast (the big load is waiting for us tonight, apparently). What does this mean?

As far as I am concerned, a shower means drops, a sprinkle, a short  fall of rain or snow or liquid.

Clearly, the Weather Channel and I don't share the same understanding of a short fall - it has been snowing without stopping (save for a brief interval about 10ish) since 8am and it is now 13:45. Call me a curmudgeon if you wish, but this is not, definitely not, absolutely not, in any way, shape, iteration, or definition, a SHOWER.

So there!

It has got me thinking, though. I am going to start looking more closely at the language we use to talk about the weather.

Now I am off to dig out the car from under the "1-2 inches" that were originally predicted (plus another couple of inches that just came along for the ride). Ha! Forecasts!

Idiotic Princes - the dubious messages in some fairytales

 I read fairy tales unquestioningly as a child. Now that I have children, those stories seem less benign.

I loved Cinderella. I had ugly younger brothers, not ugly stepsisters, but that just reinforced the myth for me,  because my parents were manifestly unfair about the boys and housework.

 But, and this is the thing, Cinderella was all about the dresses and winning over the siblings  (she got to go to three  balls in increasingly magnificent dresses in the Ladybird Best Loved Tales Series 606d). The romance was irrelevant except as part of Cinderella's revenge.

Even at six, I knew the Prince did not matter.

Looking back on it now, it is obvious. He is an idiot.

• He doesn't recognize the woman he has been dancing with all night. Where was he looking for heaven's sake? Not at her face, obviously.
• He thinks that shoe size matters. Great basis for choosing a long-term partner!

But he's not the worst. He's just stupid - other fairytale heroes are more morally suspect. Just think how many princes of legend prefer to make love to comatose women.

• Sleeping Beauty (rather says it all, doesn't it!). The Prince fights his way through a densely-woven hedge of spines to fall in love with a woman in a coma (obvious psychoanalytic interpretations). Some versions of the story have the Prince effectively raping Sleeping Beauty while she sleeps. What a hero!
• Snow White's prince also falls in love with a passive heroine - she's dead and lying in a crystal coffin. Necrophilia is not actually illegal in the United States as a whole, but the Prince had better not take his loved one's coffin to Nevada where he could get life-imprisonment.

How on earth did they all live "happily ever after"?

Presumably that could only happen if they had equally dense princesses, but that's another post.