¡Felíz 28 de julio!

It's Peruvian Independence Day!! Xan spent it basically being held by his Oma and Opa, one of which happens to be Peruvian, though I'm sure he'll at least learn more about how Peru smells with our big party on Saturday. Last year, I kinda forgot to tell anyone I was thinking about throwing a party and so basically no one showed up. And usually people are all excited about our Oscar parties in February and then don't show. This time we planned a little ahead of time and so far 57 people have responded to our invite. Egad!! For those of you in the DC area who read this, you're all invited -- but come early if you want some food, hahaha.

The heat also broke last night, thanks to an amazing thunderstorm, and it's about damn time. My poor parents arrived from wintry, foggy Lima to this horrendous heat wave and then had to sit inside all day yesterday because it was so frigging hot. Today, sitting on the porch and watching traffic with Xan was actually quite pleasant.

Potential masochist? No, just delayed reaction...

We just got back from Xan's 4-month foursome of shots. The amazing thing is that he laughed through the first two. (He realized something was going on by #3.) Still, quite a trooper: it's less than an hor later right now and he seems perfectly fine, shots forgotten.

X sometimes doesn't mark the spot

It is no secret that our son is named Alexander at least in part because of the television series Buffy the Vampire Slayer. The real reason is because we had agreed that he should have a name that could translate into the three languages that we speak -- English, Spanish and Polish -- which meant that he would not get my name, which doesn't translate into any other language at all. Alexander fit very nicely: Aleksander, Alejandro. Plus, it lent itself to the possibilities of a nickname with a "Z" sound, which would make me very happy. (My first choice, Zachary, had long been rejected by both my wife and my mother.)

We couldn't bring ourselves to call him "Xander," however, just because it would be a little too close to the series. Not that we don't love the character Xander Harris -- I, for one, perhaps identified a little too closely to his goofy, sad-sack ways and how much those indeed emulated my own high school experience. (Xander was cooler, however, than I was. Jenny can confirm that.) Angela found that a possible nickname was "Xan," which we thought was way cool, and there we go: our child's nickname.

A few months ago, I found out that an old college friend, Angela Lee, was moving to DC and indeed was also pregnant. She informed us that she was having a boy and that they too had decided on the name Alexander. I thought this was great. A couple weeks ago, right after she got to town, she came to see me on campus and she saw my Xander Harris action figure (in camouflage from the Halloween episode, purchased while I was at a conference from the New Orleans Tower Records entirely because it was 90% off). She said, "That's what Xander Harris is like?" I said, "Oh yeah," and then went off describing the character's life as a loveable loser. "Oh great," she said, "maybe I don't want him to be named that after all."

I laughed it off and didn't think about it. This last weekend, we were both headed to Annapolis to celebrate our friend Ric getting tenure at the USNA. (We were there to assure various people that, yes, Ric used to have very long hair.) I also finally met Angela's husband, whose name is Peter Harris.

It took me until the drive home when Angela finally spelled out for me the problem with now naming him Alexander: the fact that his last name would be, as it turns out, Harris. In other words, their son would have the exact name as the BTVS character.

Somehow I missed that.

Of course, she's 36 weeks pregnant and so far the only other name they have for their child is "Moo-Shiu Godzilla" so maybe there will be a real Alexander Harris after all. (Although wouldn't you want to be a kid named "Godzilla"? Your friend at the playground could point at you while you're arriving, then run away screaming while you stomp on sand sculptures emulating Tokyo. Plus, his initials would then be MSG.)

The agony of dishpan hands

(To combine two late 70s catchphrases concerning ABC's Wide World of Sports and Palmolive...)

Angela and I have developed something of a routine these days over dinner. Given the garbage that is the summer season (and trying to set a decent example for Xan), we have pretty much stopped watching television. Rather than turn on the TV, we have taken to playing nightly games of Scrabble. This presents something of a problem because, quite frankly, I have become a decent casual player and therefore beat the bejeesus out of Angela. This upsets her... and yet the masochistic minx comes back for more! What to do?

My solution was simple. Usually in our house, one person makes dinner and one person does the dishes -- the catch being that we both love to cook and both hate to do dishes. (And we don't generate enough dishes to justify using the dishwasher, but use enough to make washing a load by hand annoying.) When Scrabble is the form of dining entertainment, however, it's the winner that has to do the dishes. In essence, my exhileration at winning (and her depression at losing) is short-lived, since then I'm faced with suds. Says she, "It makes losing a lot better these days." (Today's winning word: POTHERS (meaning something similar to "bothers," seven letters with the S also making BASICS, for 74 points. Go me!)

I mean, why bother posting anything about my OWN life?

Today was really fun.
I got out of bed really early because I had terrible stomach cramps.

I feel sad, because Sarah and Britney are complete bitches. They told everyone I have an STD, just because I slept with both of their boyfriends on Saturday night.

I'm so happy. I just found out that I have been accepted into Harvard. And Yale. I don't know which to choose... oh, why is life so hard sometimes?

Last night I had to shave my entire body. Apparently, the lice that I caught from Amanda's friend are really hard to get rid of. I look quite strange with no hair and eyebrows. I'd post pictures, but my webcam is broken.

I want to tell the world that my girlfriend Amy is the bomb! She made pizza last night, and even though I burnt my lips on the cheese, it was awesome!!!

I am really annoyed with those assholes at _are_you_hotter_than_us_?, because I am so much cuter than them, and those photos don't do me justice. They can't reject me, so I'm starting my own rating community. Click here to join (the first five applicants are automatically accepted).

Today, I got a digital camera! Yes! Here's ten thousand photographs of my cat.

I want to say thanks to the academy for giving me this award.

I went to the doctor yesterday, and he said I have a terrible skin disease which prevents me from coming into contact with other human beings. And bipolar disorder.

You should all do this quiz! It's amazingly accurate. You just put in your name and birthday, and it will tell you you're a moron.

That's enough for now. But I'll leave you with my favourite Buffy fan-fiction piece I wrote last year when I was in hospital.

[Thanks to Frooder, whose LiveJournal entry involving this made me crack up. Back to reality of sorts next time.]

Created with the Gregor's Semi-Automatic LiveJournal Updater™. Update your journal today!
Powered by Rum and Monkey

Thoughts on Luna (both Lovegood and celestial)

Angela and I just finished Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince. It took us this long because we tried reading it to each other (very romantically -- also to entertain Xan), although it was quicker for us to read it silently with our heads together tonight over dinner. I have a comment about it in the comments section, which I won't post here since I don't want to spoil it for others yet.

Heather also pointed out that Google is doing a bit of a commemoration concerning the trip to the moon. If you go to this site, you'll find a picture of the moon's surface. Even cooler: zoom in as far as you can into the photo. We cracked up at this.

...and the ugly

On the same day I received my copy of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, I also got a notice which notified me I am being called up for jury duty. D'oh!! (I'm thinking I should take Xan to the courtroom when I finally have to go. You think that ploy will get me out of it?)

My son, the hun

He's looking perhaps a bit too longingly at this postcard, sent by our friend Sachi Ide, who is currently teaching English in Ulaan Bataar for the summer. (This is the same woman who spent last summer learning how to play the steel drum... in Alaska. She's so great.)

"Maybe I can be Genghis Khan..."

Since we're allready talking about rabbits...

The Dooce has a hysterically funny website where she talks about the trials and tribulations of being a mom in Utah. I love reading her stuff. She got some flak recently for joking that Koreans eat dog meat. She brought this up to her babysitter, whose boyfriend was picking her up – and who happens to be Peruvian. He mentioned the concept of eating cuy. This inspired me, naturally, to bring up my two experiences involving this fine Peruvian delicacy – neither of which, oddly enough, occurred when I was actually living there.

The first incident took place when I was visiting Lima when I was about 12 or so. (I moved when I was 14.) We were out in La Molina somewhere, back when La Molina was actually considered the boonies, at a parrillada. The waiter came over and gave us menus. I knew some fledgling Spanish at the time, but nothing major. Feeling adventurous, I decided to ask my aunt Elsa to recommend something I had not tried before.

“Have you ever had cuy?” she asked.

“No,” said I.

“Well, try it.”

I ordered. My cousin Monica, who is two years younger than me, looked at me as if I had two heads. “Do you know what cuy is?” she asked.

“No, but your mother says it’s good.”

She turns to my mother. “Tía Alicia, ¿cómo se dice ‘cuy’ en ingles?”

My mother turns to me without expression and says, “Guinea pig.”

Adventurous I am, but not quite that much when I was 12. I changed my order to a steak and was the happier for it.

Many years later, in graduate school at Michigan, I am now teaching elementary Spanish. Peru was only brought up in our textbook twice: once in the section that shows the map and tells you that a Peruvian is a peruano and a Mexican is a mexicano, etc.; and once in a sidebar during the food unit. So when we got to the food unit, I could only guess what was coming. I walked into class and the class confronted me.

"So profe, what does cuy taste like?" someone asks.

Little brats. "I don't know."

“But the book says Peruvians eat guinea pig.”

“Yes, I am aware of this.”

“And you say you’re Peruvian.”

“Yes, I am.”

“But the book has to be true. So something’s fishy here.”

I explained to them that cuy is a delicacy, and one usually prepared in the Andes, not from the coastal city of Lima. And indeed, it’s one of the pricier dishes at the tourist restaurants around Cuzco. So no, I hadn’t tried it yet.

“But,” I promised, “the next time I go to Cuzco, I promise to eat some cuy and take some pictures. And if you’re interested, come find my office in a year and we’ll talk about it.”

Sure enough, on my research trip in 1998, six friends came down over Thanksgiving and we all went to Cuzco. And one night, I ordered the cuy with roasted potatoes. Which they brought out for pictures first – complete with a little hat made out of a tomato and a sprig of parsley, and with a carrot in his mouth. Then they brought it back to the kitchen to cut it up.

And I’d love to say it tasted like something else, but it tastes exactly like dark meat chicken. Savory. Mmm.

Which book am I?

Angela got this website from her Mom's group. She took it and came up with Alex Haley's Roots. I was curious with what I would come up with -- and lo, and behold, I like the result. Naturally, I'm curious to know how other people test...

I'm Watership Down!
by Richard Adams

Though many think of me as a bit young, even childish, I'm actually incredibly deep and complex. I show people the need to rethink their assumptions, and confront them on everything from how they think to where they build their houses. I might be one of the greatest people of all time. I'd be recognized as such if I weren't always talking about talking rabbits.


Take the Book Quiz at the Blue Pyramid.