Tuesday morning roundup

The generation gap over immigration is trickier to explain when one's parents are immigrants, but trying to find rationality behind any of my mom's political opinions only makes my head hurt. But yes, shut the f* up and stop whining about having to "press 1 for English." If that's the kind of thing that ruins your day, you have bigger issues.

It's not news that Russia has made a sport--local and national--out of hunting journalists, but how widely and strategically it's practiced is noteworthy.

The Post points out that the oil rig workers who died in the Gulf and their families have been largely ignored.

Also not news: the District's lack of voting representation in Congress. But framed in Petula Dvorak's perspective, it's even more galling.

Especially in light of people's attempts to reframe pro-choice as anti-women, it's important to leverage language to get your political points across.

How Texas' governor and tea party candidate puts taxpayers' money where his mouth isn't.

For the gazillionth time, bottled water is no safer than tap.

Response to comment

I actually loved Japan, and I thought people, for the most part, were very polite. I just don't think I'd want to live there. It's exactly some of the things you mentioned that would grate on me in the long run (enthusiasm for gadgets), as well as the cult of cute. The friend in question left because she couldn't take the misogyny, and apparently, a number of women do the same.

I left the U.K. almost a year before my work permit ran out because I was ready to move on with my life. I needed something after college to clear my head, and my time in Wales worked well for that. I would be the last person to turn down an opportunity to live in London, but it was time to move on.

Monday evening roundup and rambles

Oh, Ukraine.
The Onion on knowing how Jesus felt.

The DC Council has come up with the second best idea ever, after the bag tax. Now if the lobbyist could drop the faux populism (my goodness! people's grocery bills!), we might get somewhere. And I'm looking forward to seeing how another set of lobbyists spin a new study that correlates pesticides with ADHD. Just keep telling people organics are no healthier.

I usually don't care much for stories on social networking, but this Chat Roulette piece from the New Yorker is remarkably insightful about Russian culture and society. Some excerpts:

"Like his grandfather, Andrey Ternovskiy knows when to toe the pro-Russian line; for example, when reporters from state television call. In private, however, he gripes, albeit cautiously, about his country and his countrymen. He doesn’t like his peers’ increasingly anti-Western attitudes, which he says make him “uncomfortable” because most of his virtual friends happen to be in the U.S. He is puzzled by Russia’s hypersensitive self-absorption. He has also been worried about getting drafted into the Russian Army, which has become infamous for hazing so brutal that it kills dozens of draftees every year. As a self-described happy nerd—a word he loves to drop in English—he cringes at the anger and frustration that he sees in his compatriots. When I asked him where he got his optimism, he said, simply, “Dad is happy, Mom is Russian.”

"Ternovskiy also has reason to be skeptical of the Kremlin’s recent interest in grooming intellectual talent, given the exodus of scientists from the country—by 2002, more than half a million had left—and the pitiful state of Russia’s intelligentsia since the fall of Communism. Andrey’s parents are exactly the kind of people Russia might be cultivating in its modernization drive, yet Vladimir makes only five hundred dollars a month and Elena three hundred. Official talk of modernization and innovation rankles Vladimir, who supplements his income with work for Russian Souvenirs. “It’s demagoguery,” he says...

"And Andrey knows that if he stays here no one will support him. The country doesn’t need people like him.”

Andrey, in turn, feels that he doesn’t need the country, and declares that he does not want to run a Russian company, which might be forced to pay “dirty,” under-the-table salaries to avoid a crushing tax burden, or to deal with extortion from corrupt tax and fire-code inspectors."

The story about getting to the airport also really resonated--that is so my family (although even we are more organized than that)--but the bickering was spot on. Bickering, arguing has a varying role in different cultures, and it's a pretty standard thing in Russian families. I was just having this conversation with some friends last week. I was talking about that situation I blogged about last night--how I feel bad about snapping at my parents--when two friends said it was cultural, i.e., in "ethnic" families, snapping at parents is not acceptable. Um, my family is pretty ethnic. They--African Americans--went on to argue that in African American, Latino and Asian families, it's an entirely different situation. A Latina friend disagreed, said that it varies so completely within that "ethnic" category and within families. I spend enough time with Latino friends and other Latino families to know that there is certainly no blanket cultural predilection against snapping at one's elders. Nonetheless, I'll grant you the amount of bickering in my family is largely cultural.

***
I have something else to add to last night's post about how mom and RM both have a knack for timing: Gracie's awesome that way, too. Guess who pooped and made mommy just miss a train, making her extra late for work this morning? At least Gracie has an "excuse": she poops when she feels neglected, and she's "neglected" when I'm especially busy. Which makes me wonder whether it wasn't a subconscious passive-aggressive power thing on RM's part as well.

***
Speaking of RM--yes, the experience was so traumatic that it continues to haunt me--I was thinking today about how the first rule of interpersonal conflict management is to make sure you're having the same conversation. For example, when I'm having a "I'm sorry I don't like the china" conversation with my mother, we're really having a conversation about how I have a right to determine what takes up precious real estate inside my house, and I have a right to my own tastes. Which means that I may end up paying more for things like flatware then if I just accept from her the set she found at a yard sale, but I'm okay with that, and it's time for her to respect that. If we argue about a specific china set, or a specific lamp, we'll continue to talk past each other (and we have).

With RM, I really did try to have the right level conversation (i.e., the issue is boundaries, not earrings), and he just wasn't hearing it. His power to ignore reality and selectively understand things was just that strong. It took me a while to fully grasp what that level of conversation was, but even when I did, it went nowhere. Well, we're all glad that's over.

***
Thinking about RM, and other people with whom I've recently interacted--a couple of coworkers, and Susan (who is too nice and normal, actually, to be put in the same category as RM)--it's amazing to me how very different these people from me and from most people I know. This got me thinking about "types" of people. At the barbecue I went to yesterday, various types of people were on display, in full contrast. There was one grad school colleague that I'd not seen in ages who is so annoying that people actually chose classes around her (I was not that bothered, although in the couple of classes we had together, I often regretted that). There were the hosts--very good friends of mine, but, at this point, committed suburbanites. Another urbanite guest made a catty comment about the cake (it was a child's birthday party) and its "happy birthday" stenciled lettering. She said, more than once, "I guess this is what people in the suburbs do." Which isn't really fair: there are plenty of people in the city who have chocolate molds. But there were things about the area that struck me. A certain type of person can live there, and it's not me.

The barbecue offered other food for thought about type, more than I can get into here. When the hostess introduced various people to another guest as grad school friends, the other friend pointed out that we were well represented, at which point she (hostess) talked about what a great time it was, and how from a social/interpersonal perspective, it was a great opportunity to make friends. Within certain parameters--and with great variation, actually, we were all a certain 'type' of people. She said it was the first time in her life where, in some ways, she didn't feel like a freak. Not that she wasn't a freak, she added.

To which I said, it seems to me that anyone who could stay sane in Japan for a prolonged period of time is kind of a freak. She agreed, said that she and her other friends who left after a year or so because they couldn't take it often talked about the people that can stay longer--especially men, who are more likely to manage for longer. She's wary about the type of person who can thrive in Japan for more than a year. [Ernessa, I'm not sure how long you were there, but from your previous comments on the matter, I gather you're an exception, in any case.]

Speaking of Japan, I found myself talking about deer poop at the barbecue (at least it's not panda porn). Someone else had talked about how she got for her mother some of that civet poop coffee for mother's day, and watched her open it on Skype. Her mother's reaction was not what she was expecting. (I wish I'd been there to see Jay open his deer poop, but imagining his reaction was good enough).

Back to what's going to have to suffice as a point, I couldn't agree more about how my grad school friends, different as we all are, are my type of people. It's not a value judgment, I'm not suggesting we're better people; just saying we understand each other.

Monday morning roundup

Tom Toles cartoons are awesome.

Paul Krugman says the extreme right is anything but new.

Thank you, Ruth Marcus, for responding to the infuriating Capehart post I blogged about yesterday.

Schools find an innovative but controversial way of teaching the connection between behavior and consequences.

Shanghainese stand up for their right to wear pajamas in public.

Stop. switching. phone companies.

You know how RM had a knack for being a particularly aggressive talker when I was most tired and busy, when I most wanted time for myself? Not once, he would decide that he wanted to chat right after I'd spent the better part of the weekend running around--forgive the cliche--like a chicken with my head cut off. His special timing powers even worked for individual evenings--say, after an especially crazy work day, when I'd just spent the last few hour or so tidying up or running errands and couldn't wait to sit down and read or watch TV.

I'm wondering whether he learned it from mom?

I just got back from a barbecue that was over a half hour's drive away. On they way home, I stopped at the mall to get a wedding present, and then stopped at a grocery store, because I'm seriously running out of food. I was busy all day yesterday, and this evening I need to prep food for the week, make cookies for a work event, do laundry, and vacuum. I came home to find a message from mom. It sounded pretty urgent, so I called back right away.

Mom: YOU WON'T BELIEVE THIS! IT'S JUST UNBELIEVABLE!
A.: What??
Mom: I got this bill from RCN...
A.: [Sigh.]
Mom: They accused me of not returning the equipment, but I did. I have the receipt! We have to write letters!

To make a long story short, I listened, and told her to call them tomorrow and we'd go from there. I tried to make clear my stance: I will help her rid herself of the unfair bill. We will take the path of least resistance to that end. We will NOT turn this into a cause, and write letters for the sake of writing letters. I mean, she can, but I won't.

I was feeling guilty last week about how impatient I can be with my parents. The feeling was intensified after I volunteered with a family that invests considerably less in the education of the children than my parents did in mine. Both of my parents spent a lot of time teaching me things, and I especially remember how, when I had trouble with math, my dad would come home from work, Barron's book in hand, and explain stuff until it made sense. And now I snap at him because he's not as quick to figure out his GPS system (mind you, my snapping isn't because he's not quick to figure it out, but because he doesn't listen when I try to help). But that's still no excuse to snap.

Similarly, it's not that I don't want to help my mother with her phone company issues. As I've said a gazillion times, it's not the helping--it's that she doesn't meet me half-way. She doesn't help me help her. And we're not going on a crusade for consumer justice; we're just disputing her bill.

Sunday morning roundup

My head may explode. SP does not make "an interesting point." Feminists are not telling young women that they're incapable of doing a lot with their lives; anti-choicers are telling them they're incapable of making life decisions for themselves. Did I miss something? When did choice become about convincing women that working motherhood is too difficult? Isn't it about maintaining control over their, our reproductive choices?

Al Kamen makes an argument for a shorter election cycle. Milbank on tea in Maine.

Jonathan Alter's "Year One" gets a glowing review from the Post; apparently, it's nuanced and offers unique insights into the contradictions inherent in governing.

For the first time in the history of parent/non-parent culture clash stories, I agree with some of these parents. No one's child should be attacked by a dog; parents shouldn't have to keep their kids enclosed in designated spaces. The parents who think they're entitled to block every passageway, everywhere with their stroller, however, need to get over themselves. Some even think we need more mothers on the Supreme Court. Oh, and, by the way, baby names are getting more pretentious.

Speaking of culture wars and people who need to get over themselves, don't get me started on bike-hating drivers. Get. over. it. One of these--a friend of mine--can't stand it when cyclists don't wait at red lights. Well, here's why it doesn't matter.

Frank Rich on the rentboy saga and more. An excerpt:

His only mistake, he told the magazine Christianity Today, was to hire a “travel assistant” without proper vetting. Their travels were not in vain. The good minister expressed gratitude that his rent boy “did let me share the gospel of Jesus Christ with him with many Scriptures in three extended conversations.”

Maureen Dowd on the inane discourse on Elena Kagan's sexuality:

She went to Harvard, not Smith. It’s Elena, not Ellen. She barely drives, much less a Subaru. She’s never been spotted at Home Depot or the Meow Mix bar. And she doesn’t have Ani DiFranco on her iPod.

and

Elena dated some of Eliot Spitzer’s friends at Princeton because her real ambition was to be “The Good Wife.” But now she’s ready to settle for being The Supreme Justice.

Elena is anything but a history-making, barrier-breaking, proud, strong, happy gay woman. She’s a garden-variety, sad, scary, single, childless career woman who can’t get a man because she’s too smart, works too much and refuses to settle.

These "Googlenopes" in response to last week's Style invitational are hilarious. Also: more funny signs abroad.

Saturday morning roundup

Women who ask for a raise are perceived as "significantly less attractive."

The point is, Ms. Palin and Ms. Palin, you chose to continue your pregnancies. All we're saying is, don't take that choice away from the rest of us.

Charles Blow encourages politics watchers to take the long view. Fair enough, but do we really need more of what's happening in Virginia? Even Gail Collins, who starts out with 'fair enough, let those wacky Southerners do their own thing, points out that we're all interconnected (or, in her words, sooner or later everyone has to fly through the Atlanta airport). On a lighter political note, see this Sheneman cartoon.

Allen didn't know it at the time, but he may have the answer to Hello Kitty's woes: cleavers and condom dispensers. Only in Japan--and it makes so much sense for Japan--would you have Anpanman, a character based on a jam-filled pastry.

Meanwhile, China is seeing, encouraging a sort of Confucionist revival.

I'm constantly amazed at people's wishful and simplistic nutritional thinking.

Is your furball normal?

The Liar was awesome. A joy to watch. Go see it.

Friday morning roundup

There really are smarter and stupider ways of eliminating your enemy.

India is dragging its "perpetually decrepit" urban infrastructure into the 21st century, with the Delhi Metro system leading the way. Your move, WMATA.

The Post is down, but I'm going to recommend two or three articles from the print edition, all about Elena Kagan. The first is about how her White House experience is invaluable because of the understanding it gives her of how government--particularly the Executive Branch--works (and doesn't work). Then, see the Ruth Marcus's column about how the assumption that single women are necessarily lesbians is unfortunate. If you'd like, see the article in the Style section about how it's only normal to wonder about sexual orientation, and if Ms. Kagan is a lesbian, it's not like there's anything wrong with that. But that's not the point; the issue is society's perception of single women.

Mangy scavengers...

I traveled to Colorado for work a week and a half after returning from Japan. People in Colorado were really friendly, and even though I'm not generally not one for small talk, it's just fine in some situations. In two such situations, I had to make a conscious effort to respond with airy pleasantries, because Japan was on my mind, but there was no need to talk about it.

I think I told you that the first night there, we ended up going out for Japanese. I ended up ordering green tea ice cream. The waiter thought it was very brave of me, said that it took him a while to get used to it but now he loved it. It struck me as odd, because at that point, green tea ice cream was more normal to me than vanilla.

Then, the morning I left, I had some time in the airport, so I shopped around. In one store, I came upon chocolate-covered peanuts packaged as "deer poop," so I absolutely had to get them for Jason. The woman at the counter said, "those are so good!"

Now, some of you think I have no internal filter, but if that were the case, instead of saying, "oh, that's great!" I'd have said:

"Actually, I don't really care that they're good. I mean, I suppose they may as well be, because Jay's going to eat them anyway--so yes, I'm glad they're good. But that's not why I'm getting them. See, there's this place called Nara Park, with mangy deer--Jay even wrote a haiku about them--they kick/bite/butt/knock down, and poop all over the place..."

Thursday evening roundup

Hawaii's state health department has had enough.

Oh, WashPo! I subscribe to the print edition, and you reward me by putting this image on your front page? Do you think I want to wash my eyes out with soap?

Hopefully this will lead to universal eki-ben, too.

Speidi is usually under my radar, but I can't resist blogging something this slimy.

I love Lewis Black:

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Responses to comment and ramble

I think the 'whoever invites, pays' system is a good, logical one. I always feel awkward, like I did over the past week, initiating events where people will inevitably end up buying me drinks. This was my post-birthday/post-parental-visit pick me up gathering, which a friend suggested after she asked what I was doing for my birthday and I said I'd probably be listening to how fat and overbearing I am. Actually, my birthday was fine, apart from the lamp obsession, although my mother did wait--I'd talked to her that morning several times before they left--until dinner, when my father reminded her, to wish me a happy birthday. Which would be less than newsworthy, had she not, first thing Saturday morning, demanded when I was going to wish her a happy Mother's Day. (I replied, 'tomorrow. on Mother's Day.') But I digress.

So, yes, Eastern Europeans do their own birthdays. I usually do--i.e. invite people over, cook, etc. I didn't have time to do that this year, so drinks out it was, and I have to say that it was great to be able to catch up with my friends without having to do any work. My mother kept asking me this get-together as if it were the strangest thing; her questioning matched the tone of her questions about the future metro stop at Potomac Yard, i.e., these were not questions that needed to be asked; they were questions to which one might arrive at the answer with a few seconds of deductive reasoning. E.g., Why? Why would you celebrate your birthday after your birthday? (Answer: to get together with my friends). I dwell on this because this is one of those circumstances under which I end up inevitably snapping at mom: I snap when she interrupts mid-sentence, and I snap when she asks a question or series of questions to which she could deduce the answers with straightforward logic. Who would metro to Potomac Yard? People who shop there. Especially those who don't have cars. For my mother, it may be an extrovert thing that she'd rather just think out loud.

Back to the original issue, though: I think when feasible, Miss Manners' advice holds. That's why the first letter still riles many: people need to stop thinking of hosting as a fundraising opportunity, even for an expensive event like a wedding. If you can't afford a wedding, have a smaller wedding. Don't try to extort from your guests.

Wednesday morning roundup

New York City may soon be even better represented on the Supreme Court. Protestants won't be represented at all.

The Post summarizes three new books on organics. I appreciate the role of that first company, but if you want to do even better, put down the jarred baby food and make some yourself.

Although it was the headline--which concerned an engaged couple's "fundraiser" party--that drew my attention, it was the second letter that inspired me to post Miss Manner's column. Really, people? You're going to bring up dishwashing gloves in couples' counseling? I really don't know what to say to you.

While we're on advice columns (and bizarre control issues), see this older one from Carolyn Hax. I'm so glad she's addressing the vegetarian guest of honor issue, this being a discussion I've had many a time with my parents (who, by the way, were just fine without meat or chicken this weekend).

Cultural superiority complexes

In "The Fourth Hand" (John Irving), one way in which a character tries to woo another is by reading a book she liked and sending her passages that resonated with him. When it turns out, passage after passage, that the ones he chooses aren't those she'd have chosen, he realizes that it's not only okay for them to drawn by different parts of the same book, but that it's only normal. There's no reason any two people, no matter how compatible, have to be drawn to the same aspect of a story, or work of art. That's one of the defining features of art: it's personal. It's visceral.

On a more general level, though, being drawn to the same types of art does correlate with compatibility, and not just out of pragmatism. I'd use a food analogy, but I'm the wrong person to present food preferences and their consequences as all practical and not indicative of one's overall personality. You can connecting with people over theater, painting, sculpture, books, music, film, TV, comics, etc. on a much deeper level than you would just verbally exchanging thoughts. I remember sending someone who is now a good friend of mine a short story, after reading a book that she sent me, which her father wrote, that spoke to me--and when she read the story, she knew I got it.

So I'm in no way saying that your choices of 'art' (see play of the same name for a more intellectual discussion of this issue) don't speak to who you are. But I agree with Carolyn on this one--you'd be remiss to judge people by their choices. Like one of the follow-on writers, I think Britney Spears and Kate Hudson are annoying and their music and films, respectively, are dumb. And I doubt I'd be compatible with someone for whom they were the intellectual nourishment. But I, and many people I know, assert our right to our brain candy and only want to tell you to f* off when you have something to say.

Readers of this blog will know that my mom does it--if I'm watching whatever movie is on TV (because how much Fox News or Animal Planet--which are the default channels in my parents' house--need one watch?), she'll start commenting every few minutes on how stupid it is. She'll ask, 'Do you really think this is interesting, thought provoking?' Yes, mom: I watch "Dude, Where's My Car" for intellectual stimulation. Now that I've admitted it, you can stop asking.

I think I've also told you, but I once had a roommate that would come in to see me and the other two roommates watching Soul Food, and would not once pass up the opportunity to make a snide comment, such as, "I'd never guess how smart you guys are based on the crap you watch." It won't surprise you that the three of us are still friends with each other, but not with her.

The point is, people like different things for different reasons. Even if someone does find nourishment for the soul in Britney Spear's "music," that's not an indicator of cultural vacuity. Now, if someone only ever orders burgers and fries, then you can go ahead and judge them. Just kidding.

Turn of phrase of the decade

Rebranding communism.

Monday morning

This morning, as I was trying to get everything together (breakfast and coffee for all, snacks for the road for them/lunch for me) and making sure they got everything in the car. Which, by the way, they did not. Funny story: mom somehow managed to dumpster-dive a dehumidifier from half a block away. She tossed it into my backyard, and it's still there. And she won't let me throw it out. I have to hold on to this thing. Who knows what's in there?? Where am I going to put it? I don't want it in the house (nor in the backyard). But I digress. This morning:

Gracie: Meeoooowwww
Mom: A.! She wants something.
A.: I know, mom.
Gracie: Meeoooowwww! Meeeowwwww! Me. Ow.
A.: Don't make me beat you.
Gracie: Meeoooowwww
Mom: A.! Gracie needs you.
Gracie: Meeoooowwww, Meeoooowwww, Meeoooowwww!
Mom: A.! Your cat is talking to you!
A.: Ya think?
Mom: A.! That poor thing.
Gracie: Meow.
Mom: A.! Why don't you feed the poor animal.
A.: Because it's not her breakfast time yet!
Mom: But she's hungry!
A.: She's always hungry.

Gracie: Meeeeooooooowwwwwwwwwww!
Mom: A.!
A.: Mom! I am in the middle of something and you're not helping!

Supersize me

You know how if you don't need something for one price, you don't need it for a lower price? Or free?

Like, if you only want a small cookie, getting more cookie for free does not actually add value. Because you don't need more cookie.

Or like how an outfit that does not work for you at full price isn't suddenly going to work for you just because it's on sale.

But we still gravitate toward more cookie and unflattering outfit, because we think we're getting more for less.

Just as I don't need more cookie, or more unflattering outfits, I do not need daily delivery of the Washington Post. When it's delivered, I feel compelled to read it, and it takes forever. It absolutely pays for itself, even when it costs more--and I'll be getting it practically for free. But I don't have time for daily delivery when it cost more. I don't suddenly have time for it even though it's free. What have I done?

Sunday

I'm taking out the trash when I hear:

Mom, picking up the Post: Is this paper very leftist?
Dad: Probably not.
Mom: Well, I think it's leftist. I'm not going to read it.
Dad: You may as well read it, for the news if not the opinions.
Mom: Who needs the news?

***
I was afraid I'd disappoint my readership with the news that, throughout the entire weekend, the word "fat" was only used in reference to Gracie. As it happened, at some point this evening, mom came through for you.

Mom: Have you gotten fatter?
A.: [Shrug]
Mom: I think you have.
A.: [Shrug]
Mom: Well, that coat you bought over the winter should be plenty of motivation to lose weight.

***
I'm not sure why--perhaps because I've been better about meditation--but I've been better able to stop back and deconstruct the ridiculousness of much of the dialogue between my mother and me. I'm not yet at the point where I keep my patience indefinitely, but I'm closer than I ever have been.

It's not just that she chooses the most inopportune times to ask questions--and she kept doing it throughout the weekend. Dad would explain something about the gate, and at that moment she'd have to say something. I would have to ask her to wait until he was finished--I mean, you just can't listen to two people talk at the same time. Dad would as well, although he was nicer about it. He would say, "which of these topics is more time-sensitive?"

It's also that we speak different "languages," which I've always known, but I see better now. I've seen it before when I've made the mistake of telling a joke in front of my mother (or watching TV with her). She fixates on things that don't matter, asks too many questions about them, and doesn't draw logical conclusions that could help her figure out what's going on. But it's not limited to jokes.

A.: They're going to build a metro stop here.
Mom: But there's one nearby.
A.: There's BR, which is the one near my house. It's a good hour's walk from the mall. There's nothing between the airport and BR.
Mom: The metro's where those big condo complexes are, right?
A.: Yeah. That's a hike from here.
Mom: But who needs to metro here?
A.: People who shop at Target?
Mom: So you'd metro here?
A.: Occasionally.

It's not that I'm impatient, that it bothers me that this conversation could have been a third of its length. It bothers me that my mother loves to ask questions so much that she doesn't bother to think things through. Or recall when she last asked the question. She gets very sensitive when I call her on that, because she might be under the impression that it's age-related, but I'm not worried, because she's always been like that--always asked the same questions, day after day, especially when she didn't like the response last time around. That's not how age-related memory loss manifests itself. Below is a sampling of the questions my mom's asked me at least once a day since Friday. By today, I just said 'what do you think?' and let dad answer. Because he actually pays attention when I answered the first time.

Mom: You don't eat soup, huh?
Mom: How many people fit in your house when you have parties?
Mom: Do you have friends at work?
Mom: Do you park out back every day?
Mom: Why is Gracie so fat?
Mom: What kind of internet do you have?

I get annoyed because some of those questions are her way of communicating judgment in question form; and because I get sick of having the same conversation repeatedly.

***
Speaking of how many people fit in the house at parties...

A.: I'm sorry mom. I appreciate that you wrapped it and lugged it down here, but it just doesn't work for me. It's not my style.
Mom: Well, hold onto it until it is your style.
A.: I don't have room for it.
Mom: It'll come in handy when you have big sit-down dinners some day.
A.: It still don't like it.
Mom: But it's so practical.
A.: I. Don't. Like. It.
Mom: Fine, I guess we'll take it back.

Except we had to have the conversation many more times.

***
It's been an enjoyable visit overall, and very productive, although I'd hoped for more 'fun.' Part of why I paid someone to install a fence/gate was so that my father wouldn't feel like he had to deal with it next time he visited. But the post-snowmageddon winds blew the gate off its posts, and dad insisted on fixing it. He seemed to enjoy working on it, too. If he's happy, I'm fine with it.

Sunday morning roundup

Guyana weighs some possible ways forward.

Intellectual anti-semitism in Britain.

Frank Rich on media.

You may have hardly thought this possible, but Northern Virginia traffic is actually likely to get worse.

Robin Givhan looks at how the Costume Institute tries or doesn't try to define the American woman through fashion.

The dating scene has always been fraught.

Saturday afternoon

Mom: You haven't wished me a happy mother's day yet! When is mother's day?
A.: Tomorrow.
Mom: Oh.

We'd just managed to turn into what was supposed to be a quick run to Trader Joe's into a field trip. Mom really, really likes to stop and look around. At everything. My reason for wanting to make it quick was that I realized I was out of coconut milk, and wanted to have enough time for stuff to marinate. It was so bad that when I realized how long my parents were taking just to get ready, I rubbed the various stuff with Thai curry paste, without the milk, just to give it a chance. Good thing, too. So finally, when we got the milk, I wanted to get it into the marinade soonest. But I didn't even unpack the groceries when mom asked for toothpicks (I heard 'toothbrush.')

Mom: Do you have toothpicks?
A.: This minute?
Mom: Is it a problem?
A.: No... What's that noise?

I run upstairs. Someone had left the faucet running.

A.: Good thing you saved all that water by not using that cloth napkin.
Mom: You always have to be right about everything--even the slightest thing. It's an inferiority complex of yours. You should learn to deal with it.

Saturday morning

If you think mom has let anyone forget about the lamp, you don't know my mother.

I hadn't slept well; it was a noisy Friday night, and a couple of people decided to have a middle-of-the-night conversation right outside my house. It's quieter on the alley side, where the guestrooms are, so my parents slept through the night. Anyway, I would have slept later but Gracie decided to be especially vocal around 6am.

I got up, fed her, read the paper. My dad came down, talked for a bit, went back upstairs. Mom still wasn't up. I decided to do yoga.

Not long into it:

Mom: Ask A. where the towels are!
Dad: A., where are the towels?
A.: I gave you two towels last night. They're in the white thing next the closet in your room.

Five minutes later

Dad: I still can't find them.
A.: Just a minute!

Dad: Oh, you did tell me they were here.
A.: I told you both they were there, but whatever. You'd had a long day.

I get back to yoga. I hear bickering.

Dad: It's her house!
Mom: So? I'm entitled to my opinion!
Dad: She's entitled to her decor!
Mom: I just can't believe it! Look at all of these inadequate lamps!
Dad: Next time, don't ask. Just bring it.
Mom: That's a good idea.

I'm still doing yoga.

Mom: A.! Do you have a comb!
A.: Just a minute.

Mom: And not a nightgown! Do you need a nightgown?
A.: No.
Mom: Dad's right: the way to go is to just bring stuff without asking permission.
A.: Mom, I sleep in t-shirts and boxers and always will. I have no use for "nightgowns."

Mom: It's just so dark everywhere!
A.: It is?
Mom: I mean, it's not now, but it will be at night! That's why you need a lamp.
A.: There are overhead lamps in all these rooms, plus table lamps.
Mom: That lamp could go so many places.
A.: I really don't want to hear about this lamp all weekend.
Mom: I don't care what you want!

A.: What do you all want for breakfast?
Dad: Whatever you usually have for breakfast.
A.: I usually have oatmeal, which you don't abide.
Dad: I'll have eggs then.
A.: Okay.

I get our respective breakfasts ready. Mom keeps asking unrelated questions.

A.: How many eggs do you want?
Mom, from the other room: The cat's rubbing up against me. What does that mean?
A.: I don't know, mom. You've had cats longer than I have.
Dad: Two, please.
A.: Non-stick or cast iron?
Dad: Whatever you normally use.
A.: It doesn't matter: just tell me and I'll get whichever.
Mom: Do you believe in high power?
A.: What?
Mom: Do you believe in high power?
A.: I don't understand the question.
Mom: She's rubbing up against me again. What does that mean?
A.: I don't know, mom.
Mom: Like, spirituality. Do you believe in higher meaning and stuff?

[Clattering noise from near the pot rack in the kitchen]

A.: What are you doing??
Dad: You said to just take whichever skillet I wanted.
A.: No, I said tell me and I'd get it for you.
Dad: Where's the salt?
Mom: Or do you just believe in what's physically visible?
A.: Right here.
Mom: She's rubbing up against me again. What does that mean?

Mom asked for tea before breakfast, and something sweet to go with it.

Mom: You don't have dried fruit?
A.: No. I've plenty of fresh fruit.
Mom: I'll have chocolate, then. What about nuts?
A.: That we can do.
Mom: Walnuts are the best. Edgar Casey says almonds, too.
A.: Various nuts are good for you in various ways. You don't have to stick with one.
Mom: Generally, walnuts are the best.

Dad found the chocolate they'd brought for the road. Mom had a good candy-bar-sized chunk. We had breakfast.

Mom: I can't finish this oatmeal! I can't believe you can eat all that oatmeal! I just don't eat that much.

We were going to go for a walk after breakfast, but mom crashed so dad started working on the fence. Later, when mom and I were planting stuff, he called me out to help him. He started explaining what to do.

Mom: You have so much clay in your soil!
A., Dad: Just a minute, mom!
Mom: I can help! What can I do?

She comes over. Dad continues to explain. Mom continues to talk.

Mom: What about this?
Dad: Just wait a second.

It's like over the holidays, when I was undoing whatever clusterf* she'd gotten into on her new laptop. She thought it was helpful to look over my shoulder and suggest things, even though she had no idea what was going on.

Mom: You'll definitely need wheels.
A.: Mom!
Dad: T.!

At some point in the morning, dad walked by one of my coffee tables, which still bore evidence of my pathetic and short-lived effort to learn Katakana.

Dad: Did you actually try to learn a few words in Japanese?
A.: I learned more than a few words. I learned lots of words. Just hardly any that were useful.

Dad asked about it. I demoed the program.

RS: [Sentence in Japanese]
Mom, simultaneously: What is he saying?
A.: Mom!

Repeat. And repeat again. RS is hard enough without someone talking over it.

Dad said he wouldn't need us for a bit, so I suggested to mom that we walk down to the Russian store, just for her to see it. He said to look at smoked fish. I warned mom it was lame and overpriced. Nonetheless, she walked in, looked at a few things, and stormed out.

A.: What is wrong with you?
Mom: I've seen enough! This is pathetic.
A.: Of course it is.

She then launched into a lecture about how much less things cost at the Russian stores in Boston.

A.: I know that mom. I thought you might be curious. And dad said to look at smoked fish.
Mom: I knew just from looking at the frozen stuff--we need nothing from there!
A.: Did you not want to take another thirty seconds to walk through?
Mom: No! I've seen enough!
A.: Okay.