Okay, I’m sorry. I’M SORRY! That was an unforgivable pun, but if you had to live with my husband, you would understand. He has worse ones. Way worse.

I got to wondering about Obama’s potential Presidential pet, and the answer I found: He has no pets. Which is odd to me. Most Presidents I can remember had pets. Shit, we have two Basenjis and a tarantula, and we’re not running for anything. What kind of person doesn’t have a pet? I really want to know.

Bill Clinton had Socks the cat. I think later he got a dog. George W. has his Scottish Terriers. Even Nixon had Checkers the spaniel. So what is up with a guy with no pets? Makes you wonder.

In Southern California, generally the hottest part of the year begins around Labor Day. June and July tend to be fairly temperate, especially June, when most mornings are cloudy and foggy, giving way to sun only in the afternoon. In particular, Labor Day weekend tends to be brutally hot. Most of my California Labor Day memories involve sitting in the swimming pool half the day eating chilled fruit, or sitting in my underwear in front of a box fan.

But here is what Orange County Register science blogger Gary Robbins says about Labor Day weekend 2008:

Labor Day will be 10 degrees cooler than normal — especially at the coast — due to a large low pressure system that’s building over Nevada, says the National Weather Service. Temperatures aren’t expected to rise above the upper 60s or low 70s at the beach, and they’ll only reach the low 80s across much of inland Orange County.

“There’s going to be an onshore flow starting sometime Sunday and lasting into Monday,” says Stan Wasowski, a weather service forecaster. “It’ll send cool, moisture air ashore. It’ll be like one big air conditioner. And the marine layer will be thicker than usual.

“It’ll be quite a change from Labor Day last year, when we had a heat wave. The temperature in Fullerton got up to 108, and it hit 99 at John Wayne Airport.”

We had big heat waves in April this year. Perhaps we’re to be spared this fall? Generally the hot dry weather lasts into October when the fires start and it doesn’t cool off until Halloween. I can’t hope for football weather, but I’m definitely up for a Labor Day that doesn’t swelter everyone’s ass off.

Finally a topic on which I can speak with authority. I attended the University of Delaware, Biden’s undergrad alma mater, and lived in Delaware 1977-1984. Here go the basics:

Pronunciation: It’s not Dela-where, it’s Dela-whirrr with a falling inflection, i.e., no stress on the third syllable. Y’all got that? Thank you.

Geography: Delaware is on the East Coast, southeast of Pennsylvania, north of Maryland, south of New Jersey. It’s within shouting distance of both Philly and D.C. By and large we affiliated with Philadelphia but that could have changed for all I know; when I was there, it was a matter of what TV channels got better reception. Delaware was a slave state but remained in the Union in the Civil War. I shouldn’t have to tell you all this, but I have had Californians ask me things like Isn’t that somewhere in Pennsylvania? and Isn’t that out near Ohio somewhere?

Delaware is divided into two parts: northern Delaware (Wilmington where Biden lives, Newark where the University is) and Lower (Slower) Delaware. Despite what some Wilmingtonians will tell you, Lower Delaware is utterly charming, but it’s a different world. Wilmington is pretty much an upscale (if you have the right zip code) suburb of Philly. Lower Delaware is totally the fucking South, with all the charms and pratfalls of the South.

Joe Biden personally: He has been a Delaware senator since 1972, and Delaware doesn’t willingly suffer fools. At least, not for long. I think it was Wilmington News-Journal reporter Cris Barrish who said that there are six degrees of Kevin Bacon, but there are only two degrees of relation in Northern Delaware. It’s true. If Biden was an asshole, Delaware would have long since sussed him out. I’ve been gone for almost 25 years and I know people who know him. You can’t cut a fart in Wilmington without someone blowing the whistle on you. I’m satisfied Biden is a good guy.

The Obama factor: I told you and told you that Obama needed an old white guy on the ticket if he wants to win. Our old white guy is in place. And Joe? This old white Delaware girl thinks you are an okay guy.

I’d be first in line to pull the switch on him personally.

Evil shithead

Click with trepidation if you’re pregnant or have little kids.

Just now I was looking at the calendar and noting that school starts on September 2, the day after Labor Day, exactly 13 days from today. This year, Matt will be starting kindergarten, and he’s thrilled that he will be at school with Sam and the big kids instead of at day care with Boolie and the babies. Me? I notoriously hate summer, because in Southern California, you don’t get a chance to appreciate it. If you have stuff like rain and snow and slush, then summer means something; you look forward to it. But when summer is rammed up your nose 360 days a year (the other five days it rains), it doesn’t count for much.

So you’d think I’d be glad to see summer end and to see the pumpkin spice lattes come back to Starbucks. But it’s bumming me out, because it means my career as a carefree summertime bum is over, at least for the next nine months.

Since I work flexible hours and can telecommute as much as I please, we called off the usual “time to go to bed” and “time to get up” rules at our house for the summer. The boys stay up until we unplug their video game, douse the lights, and confiscate the remote control, maybe around 10:30. Ben leaves for work around 8 a.m., but the kids and I sleep in for as long as we wish. Some days, that’s till 10 a.m.! Bliss. But starting in 13 days, I’ll have to be up by 6:45 a.m. at the latest and out the door an hour later. My current plan is to ease the boys into an earlier bedtime and earlier wake-up, but it’s not so much working, for the main reason that I don’t want to go to bed early and wake up early. Damn, it’s hard sometimes being the grownup.

Anyway. Thirteen days, then it is back to the school drop-offs and pickups, the homework and take-home projects (which of course are homework for me just as much as for the boys, at their age), the freakin’ responsibility. I think the boys will welcome a little more structure in their lives, and probably it’ll be good for me too, but meanwhile we are milking the waning summer for all it’s worth.

Yesterday I took Sam to the community pool that belongs to our little townhouse community. Very usually, we have the place to ourselves; yesterday, also present were a trio of twentysomething women, two blondes and a brunette. The brunette was, of course, Hispanic, because there is apparently some sort of law in Orange County against white Anglo-Saxon brunettes.

Anyway. I was reading and generally overseeing Sam, who was practicing swimming, and sort of listening in on these broads’ conversation. And people, it was Jessica Simpson-worthy. They got to talking, of course, about diets and what they were and were not eating:

Girl A: I only eat organic foods. Like, my fridge is full of organic chicken. Because I don’t want to eat an animal that’s had stuff injected into its body.

Girl B: But WE inject stuff into OUR bodies.

Everyone ponders this for a while. The conversation stays on chicken.

Girl C: I love chicken wings.

Girl B: Oh, yeah, me too. I absolutely LOVE chicken wings.

Girl A: But are they REALLY made out of chicken?

At one point Sam went to the bottom of the pool and held his breath and stayed under forever, not moving, in an attempt to freak me out. It did; I ended up running over to the edge of the pool saying Sam? but fortunately he came up for air before I could dive in to save him. That little shit. The girls made quite a flurry over this, chattering back and forth about how freaked out they had been, but finally concluding I didn’t want to have to go in and save him, because I didn’t want to get WET!

Everything you have ever heard about So Cal and its denizens is absolutely true.

So now here is the thing about the spider.

I am crazy, because (1) this used to be MY spider, (2) I shipped him off to Erika’s house, and (3) as of today, he is my spider again. (Or, possibly, she. Have you ever studied how to sex a tarantula? I DON’T WANT TO THINK ABOUT IT. And I’m quite certain that you don’t, either.)

Shortly after Boolie’s birth, I dispatched all living members of the family who were not plants, Basenjis, Ben, children or Sea Monkeys. Because I already had enough living things to worry about, is why. I purchased this spider when he was a baby, about nickel-sized including legs. As you can see, he is All Grown Up.

And why was I insane enough to take him back? Because of this: When Sam started first grade nearly a year ago, he filled out a poster called “All About Me”. And in the spot for “If I could wish for anything in the world, I would want” he wrote and drew: A Tarantula. And I am a sucker.

I am trying to muster up the courage to pick it up and not be afraid enough to drop it on the floor. Because did you know? Tarantulas have exoskeletons, which means they wear their bones on the outside, which means that if you drop it, it will fracture and quite possibly die. I should also point out that they won’t bite unless you seriously fuck with them, and even if so, the bite is about equivalent to a bee sting. There are more poisonous breeds, but they’re not sold as pets.

Anyway. Tarantula. Like I needed this? Sometimes I am floored by my own stupidity.

I have developed a strange new hobby for summer, which is this: Making homemade soup. After the success of my adventure with Old Bay Crab Soup a few weeks back, I’ve started experimenting with soupmaking. It rocks; it may be 85 degrees and swampy outside, but I tell myself I’m just warming up for wintertime, perfecting my technique.

Anyway. I devised the following soup today, which absolutely fucking rocks, and since there’s nothing else like it on the Internet that I can find, the recipe follows. It’s easy to make, too.

Surf & Turf Soup

Ingredients:

• 1 1/2 lb. cooked roast beef, chopped into 1/3″ cubes
• 1 lb. frozen medium to large scallops (available at Trader Joe’s)
• 1 medium onion, chopped
• 32 oz. beef broth
• 1 small can tomato paste
• 3 cups water
• 2 cups shredded fresh cabbage
• 1 can diced tomatoes
• 1 lb. frozen mixed vegetables
• 2-3 medium potatoes, cubed
• Seasonings to taste: I used lots of garlic powder, celery flakes, Old Bay seasoning

Mix together seasonings, beef broth, tomato paste, water and onion. Bring to a boil. Add the tomatoes, potatoes, cabbage and mixed vegetables. Bring back to a boil. Add beef and scallops. Tweak seasonings to taste. Simmer uncovered for 1 hour. Share and enjoy.

(I had forgotten how much I love to cook. For the past seven years, cooking has meant maneuvering through a roomful of clamoring dogs and babies, and has not been much fun, and has too often involved frozen chicken nuggets. Today I spent a relaxing late afternoon making soup, sipping red wine and listening to Elvis Costello’s Get Happy!! (1980) which pairs very nicely with wine and tastes of soup. I highly recommend it. I don’t care if it’s August; crank up the AC and give it a go.)

Boolie has learned, probably because it is summer and she hangs out with her brothers all day, to stomp on bugs. (I suppose I could get all Jainist on your ass and insist this is morally wrong. Believe me, though: In a houseful of three males and one little tomboy, you can run such a concept up the flagpole, but I guarantee you no one will salute.)

Anyway, here is Boolie’s bug-stomping routine: She picks up her foot and poises it in the air and says Peekaboo! Here comes my shoe! And then the bug is toast. She also makes her “mad face” at them, which basically consists of scrunching her little face up and narrowing her eyes. She assures me the bugs are making a mad face at her.

I can’t correct her, because she’s just so delicious. Tomorrow is her actual third birthday, and I will try to get a photo of her flashing her three fingers and her mad face. If she will cooperate, that is. Because Boolie is what Boolie is, and you can’t stop her.