Can you say that?

Some families have all-out brash political debates at the holidays. Some families fight. Some families talk about popular news. Some families gossip about other family members.

My family, on the other hand, engages in what we know best: infantile humor.

This year, at the Thanksgiving table, my 11-year old cousin, who is generally quite reserved, started farting about halfway through the meal. At first, we politely ignored it, as good Scandinavian Midwesterners do, and then finally his older sister started saying, "Eew! Is that for real?"

My cousin grinned.
Pfffffft!

He turned bright red and fanned out his eleven-year-old boy ears. And then he reached underneath his leg and pulled out a homemade farting toy. His dad, sitting next to him, was also grinning. Clearly, Dad had taught Son a new trick. Go Team Rognes.

It was a contraption made from part of a wire clothes hanger, two rubber bands, and a washer. That easy! We were all fascinated and begged to take turns trying out the farting toy.

This distraction was too much for my three-year-old cousin. She wanted to be the center of attention, and aiming for an interception, she began to chant, "Pop! Pop! Pop, Mommy, I want pop!"

Giving her the attention she needed, another cousin said, "How old are you going to be this year, Leslie?"

"Bour," she said proudly.

"Bour? Do you mean four?"

"Bour."

Ah. She can't say the letter "F." This became apparent to my family very quickly.

Finding this to be a very appropriate time to instigate further puerile family fun, my father decided to ask a few questions of the three-year-old-"F"-less girl.

"So, Leslie. Can you say 'fun'?" my dad asked.

"Bun!" she exclaimed proudly. We all laughed, because really, childish humor is what we have most in common.

"Can you say 'fitch'?" my dad asked.

"Bitch," she said. Laughter erupted, and so the 3-year-old was encouraged to continue. "Bitch!" she exclaimed. "Yeah, bitch! Yeahhhhhhh, bitch! Yeah bitch! Oh yyyyeahhhhhh bitch!" She was screaming, in her toddler voice, and giggling happily in between each exclamation.

At this point, my college-aged brother had to excuse himself from the table. He gets really uncomfortable in situations like this and makes a swift exit. I was also uncomfortable and a little irked at my dad. I mean, who encourages a three-year-old to say bad words (particularly woman-demeaning words) and then thinks it's like sooooo funny?

My family, that's who. Happy Thanksgiving, Yeah, Bitch. Pfffffft.

Later, after all the antics had subsided, I called Stacia and told her about the Thanksgiving dinner. "Maybe it's because I work with kids," I said. "Maybe that's why I don't really find this funny."

"Well, honey," she said. "Now you have no excuse not to join us for Thanksgiving next year!"

She was referring to the annual Thanksgiving party that our friends throw. Our friends? They are similarly puerile, maybe even more so.

"Stacia," I said, "Thank you for the invitation. But....I'm trying to get away from farts and cussing."

Later on, I found the eleven-year-old fart-meister sitting with the three-year-old potty mouth. "Leslie," he was saying, "Do you know where my shirt is from? Abercrombie and Fitch. Can you say that?"

Oh, no you di-in't!

In Spanish class, we all make a circle and then sit down before I start teaching. Today, our circle was more like an egg, and I said so.

"Well, Liz," said four-year-old Dan, in his usual matter-of-fact tone, "Some of us need more room than others. Like you. You're an adult, so you need more room than the kids."

I nodded, "Yep, I need a little more space than you guys."

And Dan finished with, "Because you have a HUUUUGE BUTT!"

...

Yesterday I met a kid who raises his hand to ask questions.

At home.

For a Tenor

We went to the opera--Rossini's The Italian Girl in Algiers--this weekend. Stacia has been a really good sport about going to the opera with me. We both have many concerns with the portrayal of women in classic and romantic opera, but as a soprano and composer I also can appreciate the scale (pun intended) of writing and producing an opera. Not to mention the two or three acts of vocal gymnastics that the performers endure for you.

About a third of the way through the first act, I was uncomfortably listening to Vivica Genoux (beautifully) sing the role of Isabella, an "Italian girl" who uses her body and sexuality as her greatest asset in order to entice men (there was even a bathtub scene where she was presumably naked and singing about her seduction techniques while three men watched from the window--do you suppose Rossini's gaze is male? Maybe?) And let me clarify that if the character of Isabella seemed sexualized, it was only augmented (pun intended) by the misogynist character of Mustafa. Surprise, surprise, misogyny in 19th century opera? Although I will point out that the female lead does not die. That's progress. In fact, she is sort of the hero of the opera.

Anyway, I digress. I am not here to talk about feminist aesthetics (or the lack of) in Rossini's opera. I am here to tell you about a tenor.

So the sexist and sexualized plot was plodding along, and I kept exchanging knowing glances with Stacia, when suddenly, from nowhere, the clearest, loveliest, most amazing voice began soaring over a very gentle and soft orchestra.

Kenneth Tarver, playing the role of Lindoro, pretty much captured my heart in the first phrase of his first aria, Languir per una Bella. Here is J.D. Florez singing the aria--(but you should have heard Kenneth Tarver).


In complete sincerity, I turned to Stacia, who was similarly captivated. Under a terribly hypnotic spell, I whispered, "Honey, if I ever leave you, it will be for a tenor."

I love her a lot. But I could be dissuaded from lesbianism for a tenor voice. I'm only half serious.

The Beastly Ivy, Part II

I once wrote a blog about the Ivy plant that was taking over my apartment. Well, now that I have moved into a house, the Ivy has more options. I had somewhat forgotten about the antics of that malevolent plant until yesterday morning when my roommate Holly came padding down the stairs, looking exhausted and sleepless.

"Holla," I said, "What's the matter?"

"I had a terrible dream," she said. She came and sat on the couch next to me and shook her head. "I dreamed that that plant of yours--the really long one in the kitchen---attacked me. It just wrapped its arms around me and sucked me in."

I was stunned. Holly doesn't read my blogs--she is the only person I know who can go three weeks without checking her email and not miss anything. So she had no idea that I have already had some serious concern about The Plant.

"Whoa, that's creepy," I told her. "I'm sorry. That Plant has a history of acting funny. Do you want me to move it?"

She said no, of course not, and went on about her day, but I'm starting to think that I might have to take drastic measures. Like splitting The Plant. Or trimming it. Haircut anyone?

Tengo pregunta.

You know your pre-school Spanish language students are riveted by the subject matter when they interject with unrelated personal stories:

Liz: Si lleva los zapatos, levanta el mano.
Raven (age 4): Liz? I have a question.
Liz: Ok, Raven, what's your question?
Raven: I have a sister.
Liz: Ok, thank you for your question. Si lleva los zapatos, levanta el.....

Stingy

I rented a U-Haul yesterday to haul my things over to Stacia's house. How does the joke go?
(What do lesbians do on the second date? ---They rent a U-Haul.)

In any case, while we had the U-Haul, I decided to bring my couch to Goodwill, since I won't need it and no one else seems to want it and it's too big to store in Stacia's basement. I expressed concern to Stacia that Goodwill (about 1.1 miles away) may not be open on Veteran's Day, and she said, "Well why not just take it to Savers (about 3.2 miles away)? You know that will be open."

Surprising even myself, at the mention of driving to Minneapolis, I erupted in a stream of, "SAVERS? As in Savers in Minneapolis? I can't afford that kind of mileage!" I was sincerely perturbed. I mean, how could she suggest such a thing? Outrageous! Astounding!

About five minutes of silence passed, as I sat in my cloud of complete bewilderment and Stacia sat, probably confused or amused or maybe annoyed at my outburst.

And then we both began to laugh because ever since I started tracking my mileage for my job I have become really stingy about driving, and it's so out of character for me to be like that. I mean, Savers is only two miles further than Goodwill. Well, four miles round-trip.

But who's counting.