Cabin fever.

When a day begins with a tantrum, it’s never a good sign. "I’M NOT SICK!" my loving daughter shrieked at me this morning. "I’M GOING TO SCHOOL! I DON’T WANT TO STAY HOME!" Repeat for 10 minutes, punctuate with slamming doors. I have no reference point for this; I always enjoyed staying home from school. I enjoyed watching game shows on TV, and holding an open jar of Vicks’ Vap-o-Rub under gnats and other random insects until they passed out and fell into the jar. Ghoulish fun.

The storm passed and she slumped in front of the TV for another morning, all the proof I needed that this mystery ailment isn’t done with her, even after a 13-hour sleep. She stayed pissed, though — the price of parenthood. Just once, I want a Cosby Moment from this kid, something other than "You’re not a bad mom. You don’t yell that much." Gee, thanks.

I had no idea what to do to make her feel better, so I changed her sheets. I always liked it when my mom changed my sheets when I was sick. I don’t care what’s ailing you, clean sheets and clean pajamas always help. I should have been a nurse.

Fortunately, the stars were in alignment for me to get a bit of work done myself, so it wasn’t a wasted day, just a gray, cold, depressing one, where your outsides match your insides. The forsythia is blooming, but looks like someone caught on the front porch in their underwear, and the door’s just blown shut. We’re all sick sick sick of being indoors.

Enough of my existential pain. "At least you have a job," said Alex last night. (He doesn’t.) I cried because I met a man who had no shoes, and then for want of a nail the battle was lost, or something like that.

I also have digital cable, and stayed up last night to watch "The Wonderful, Horrible Life of Leni Riefenstahl," which was as good the second time around as it was when I saw it a few years ago. Hitler’s propaganda artist is a type of woman I’ve always called a cat, because no matter where you drop them, they always land on their feet. "Who orchestrated the party conferences?" she’s asked. "Hitler and Speer," she replies. She certainly had nothing to do with it. She was off in the corner licking her paws.

Here’s a nugget from a bio page: On February 29, 2000 the active 97-year-old Leni Riefenstahl was injured in a helicopter crash in the Sudan while filming her life story there. Riefenstahl came away from the mishap with several broken ribs, while her cameraman was more seriously injured. She was later transfered by air to a Munich hospital and has since recovered.

See what I mean? A cat. Now 100 years old.

You’ll notice the nightstand has also been updated. I finally finished "Gilligan’s Wake" after a mere five weeks of falling asleep over it, which is not to say the book’s boring, only that I’m a poor reader, of late. So I’m shifting gears with a little light mystery. I’m liking these Laura Lippman novels. Girl’s got issues with the newspaper business. I’m recommending them to anyone who ever worked in a newsroom.

Here’s the day’s other treasure, with a warning: If you don’t have a broadband connection, don’t bother — this one takes a while to get into the room. But it’s worth it, a Fun With Photoshop contest on how Fox News might have covered other events in history. From the good folks at Fark. Enjoy.

As for me, I’m off to plumb new depths in dull living. Let’s hope for something better tomorrow.

Posted at 3:15 pm in Uncategorized |

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