I have just hammered out a bunch of work and am off to bake a zuchinni bread for a shiva at a friends house. Bringing baked goods is a tradition, but baking is even better. In searching on shiva baking mitzvah, found someone else with a similar blog idea (of course) who is already written a book as well.
http://1000mitzvahs.org/2011/02/24/mitzvahs-arent-fun/
In her case, she had a quantitative target of 1,000 and a reason, mourning the passing of her father. It took her two and a half years and each mitzvah was turned into a story. Of course, in my less patient view of this you could easily whip out 50 mitzvahs a day particularly if you start blessing everything (the bread, the wine, the food, the toilet (really there is a blessing for after going to the bathroom)) so at that hyper mitzvahed rate you could reach the goal in 20 days! Of course documentation would be challenging, takes longer to write about then do some of these. As with so many things in Judiasim, there is room for interpretation. If you ritualize mitzvot, does it cease to be special and just become rote (like blessings)?
As for upping my personal mitzvah count, I worked hard at stopping at four way stops and saying hello to everyone on my morning count. These small kindnesses could add up, but then felt like I blew it all away by honking at a vehicle that decided to just stop at in the middle of a green light at a busy intersection; that plus driving by the grizzled guy with the homeless sign outside the target parking lot, it was harshing my good vibes (to pull a phrase from the 70s). It seems every day brings myriad opportunities to send checks or volunteers, each one poses potential for good doing. But now at least I am trying to think about these events, not just view them as annoyances. I researched the Walter Hoving home, and based on what I learned passed on writing a check. I read the thank-you letter carefully from Planned Parenthood trying to remember if I already gave them money. I had, but they had cleverly thought of asking for more with the thank-you. And when my husband "stole" the front page while I was getting a hot cup of tea, I kept my annoyance to myself. I really did not expect or wasn't cognizant of how many opportunities to extend kindness or contribute to the greater good there were sitting on my doorstep, in my mailbox, email or phone machine each and every day. So maybe this isn't just about doing more..it is about making choices that begin to deepen my own understanding of what I care about it and how I want to live my life. Something to think about while I'm sifting flour.
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Monday, September 19, 2011
9/19/2011
Maybe it is the approaching high holidays or just a nagging sense of life not being as good as it could be but when last weekend's bnai mitzvah spoke about practicing mitzvahs it really resonated. Doing good doesn't necessarily come naturally and isn't always felt to be necessary. Each person walks this path in their own way, but I had the thought for sometime that I should do more. Sometimes this was the guilt of not answering the nightly calls for money from Doctors without Borders among others. The feeling of resentment towards the solicitors for various causes that set up tables outside my local Ralphs. The requests for money at a time that worrying about money is a constant mantra in my life seemed never ending and I felt that the more I turned a way, the harder my heart was. So I wondered, could I each day do small mitzvahs as practice that would lead me to a different place, perhaps one of greater clarity about what I do and don't do. The goal of this blog is to do just that and then talk about it.
It is just past lunch on a Monday and already I have a number of choices to make. I have been asked to usher during high holiday services which I am not sure I want to do. I have a flyer from the Walter Hoving Home sitting on my kitchen counter which I am not sure what to do with. I have already agreed to deliver plants prior to the high holidays to those in need of healing but that is for another day, and I am dropping off stationary so someone else can write thank-yous for our Sisterhood. Is doing something courteous that takes you a bit out of your way, and burns gas, is that truly a mitzvot?
According to Wikipedia, yes! The meaning is quite broad ranging from commandments and laws that are captured in writing to just something as basic as a human kindness.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mitzvot
Under these guidelines, I could work up to a mitzvah a minute! Open doors, let cars cut in front of you, think about God, say a prayer and call your parents! But it also seems like Talmudic scholars have argued (big surprize there) about how intentional mitzvot should be, in other words if you are thinking about it in a sort of look at how good I am way, it defeats the point. Perhaps getting the list of 620 commandments and working may way down the list (like that TV show Earl) is just too structured, although it's tempting. So for now we are going free form and trying different things, and see if I can get to something, some place that matters.
It is just past lunch on a Monday and already I have a number of choices to make. I have been asked to usher during high holiday services which I am not sure I want to do. I have a flyer from the Walter Hoving Home sitting on my kitchen counter which I am not sure what to do with. I have already agreed to deliver plants prior to the high holidays to those in need of healing but that is for another day, and I am dropping off stationary so someone else can write thank-yous for our Sisterhood. Is doing something courteous that takes you a bit out of your way, and burns gas, is that truly a mitzvot?
According to Wikipedia, yes! The meaning is quite broad ranging from commandments and laws that are captured in writing to just something as basic as a human kindness.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mitzvot
Under these guidelines, I could work up to a mitzvah a minute! Open doors, let cars cut in front of you, think about God, say a prayer and call your parents! But it also seems like Talmudic scholars have argued (big surprize there) about how intentional mitzvot should be, in other words if you are thinking about it in a sort of look at how good I am way, it defeats the point. Perhaps getting the list of 620 commandments and working may way down the list (like that TV show Earl) is just too structured, although it's tempting. So for now we are going free form and trying different things, and see if I can get to something, some place that matters.
Monday, January 21, 2008
Election Year
It was 1970, a time of tremendous change for our nation. I was in 8th grade, far removed from these changes, in a town so small we only had one high school, and it included grades 8 through 12. Having had some success as 7th grade class representative and at what I would later realize was the height of my popularity; I stepped up to run for freshman class president. I was nervous about making a speech in front of all 100 of my classmates from a podium in the auditorium with a real microphone. But I practiced and I wrote and re-wrote. It was all sincerity and hard work.
I only had one opponent, the younger sister of a cheerleader, who drove a vintage aqua T-Bird around town, and lived up on “the hill”, in the better part of town. After giving my serious speech, my heart sank as she walked up to the podium with a sign that her sister had made. “I have laryngitis” it read. The audience roared with laughter and sent their approval with their votes.
In politically correct 2007, at my daughter’s private school this would never happen. There is a long list of requirements for eligibility to run for student office of which a “real” speech is one of them, but the lesson I learned about elections still seems to matter, both at the high school level as well as on the national level. We vote for who we like, and not always who will be the best at the job.
So as my daughter contemplates running for student body president at the end of this year, I worry that she will be hurt. She says that she would always regret not running, that she has the teacher’s support, and that she has worked really hard this year as Assistant Commissioner for Spirit, an appointed post. I too had the teacher’s support, so much so that after my election loss, they gave me an adjunct position to the student council, so that I participated in the running of the school and leadership events, but I knew without the imprimatur of my peers, what did it really mean?
I was sharing my worries over the phone with my mother a few weeks ago. My daughter was spending an incredible number of hours in the middle of finals week preparing for the school’s winter formal. She believed her effort would influence the other kids to be impressed with her, perhaps like her more.
My mother asked a question that was so far out of left-field I couldn’t even process it for a few minutes. “Do you think being Jewish matters?” “Of course not!” was my indignant response, and “Why would you ask that?”
“Because, that was why you weren’t elected.” It turns out my mother had a secret that she never shared with me, that long before my ill-fated speech, she had heard from another parent that the word in the halls of the high school was they weren’t going to vote for me because I was Jewish. It had nothing to do with my speech, or my sincerity. I was just a bit too exotic for that small town.
My immediate reaction was, “Why didn’t you tell me?” “It was too painful” she replied. My mother came to the
For me, growing up as one of three Jewish kids in my high school (and one of the other kids was my sister), I took a don’t ask, don’t tell approach to my religion. Every year I would be asked at Christmas if I had my tree yet, or what I got for Christmas presents. So I learned to just say, not yet to the tree question, and just translate my Hanukah experience to whatever was being asked. I wasn’t lying is how I looked at it. When I sang Christmas carols in choir, I was silent during the JC mentions. All of this was benign in comparison to the bizarre Easter question, “Did Jews drink Christ’s blood?” that I got more than once. Sure, just had some for breakfast, I wanted to reply, but typically I would just blow it off and move on.
The more I didn’t fit in, the more underground I went. I went so far as to attend Young Life meetings, and in college to avoid the topic completely. My grandfather was near tears when he heard from a congregant that they had run into me on my way to a football game on Rosh Hashanah. It was only after moving to
One of the things as a parent I am most proud of is that both my children, despite attending a catholic prep school, have never felt the need to sublimate their own identity. They get Hanukah presents from their Christian friends, and matzo is shared at school lunch during Passover. So no, I don’t believe it is a factor, I don’t want to believe it is a factor. It is hard enough to believe that prejudice carried the day in 1970.
I hung up the phone and wondered. Would it have made me feel better, to not question my speech making abilities or to know walking up to that podium I had no chance? That my opponent had to do nothing to win, by having the “right” background the right heritage. I have tried my whole life to not be defined in the work place by my gender or my religion, but I know deep down, it is still sometimes a factor.
We are watching the presidential primaries closely in our house. This could be the year we elect a president not based on race or gender, although clearly charisma still matters. And for those of you who voted for my opponent in 1970, well shame on you!
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
I gave at the grocery store
I started this blog to have a place to vent on stuff, but then decided that I had better things to write about. But today I have decided to vent. I am tired of being hit up for donations every time I go to the grocery store, and now that Christmas is approaching we have the usual bell ringers at the front door, but that used to be a short term deal. It seems like 365 days a year the store is asking for something for someone at the register, "Would you like to add $5 to your bill today for -----add your own disease or need of the moment..while outside there is a table collecting money for homeless people or a barbecue for needy kids. So I guess I sound pretty scrooge like but this isn't about money for me. I write my checks and donate my time to causes and groups that I care about. I even went door to door for the American Cancer Society one year. But I'd like to just go to the grocery store, buy my stuff and leave without feeling like I have to duck out to avoid the conversation about a charity I never heard of. This seems like a short step up from panhandling. Matter of fact eliminate the middle man and just throw dollar bills at the people standing at the freeway entrance, who cares if they spend it on the largest bottle of fermented potato water you can buy at Ralph's. Of course there are panhandlers outside some of our stores as well, but according to a sign just posted they aren't welcome. So what about the other charities....and why this huge influx? It used to be that besides girl scout cookies and the christmas bell ringers, you could pretty much shop in peace. What's in it for Ralph's? Altruisim? Who gets the tax credit for the money they collect? And do they keep a management fee. I hope not, but this all seems like United Way DejaVu back in my corporate days where there was a big strong arm to give or you might not get promoted. And then it turns out United Way is running this big organization and keeping quite a bit of the proceeds for themselves. So maybe I just don't like getting hit up by big businesses to donate to non-profits that are basically big corporations themselves. I'm sending my check to Dafur. Hope some of the money gets there.
Monday, December 17, 2007
Have Chopsticks Will Travel
We turned the corner at San Gabriel Boulevard and Valley, and were astounded to see 2 miles of high rise shopping plazas, each one a kind of multi-story strip mall, most in the common Californish architectural style of cheezy Spanish Revival. And each plaza, a palate of competing neon, all of it in Chinese. Dorothy, you are not in Los Angeles anymore. Unlike it's predecessors, the original downtown Chinatown, a ghost town at night, with its great kitchy pagaoda style buildings, or Monterey Park to the east off the 10, where low slung strip malls intermix with the occasional big white building holding a seafood palace, San Gabriel the next stop on the Chinese immigrant chain heading east, seems most like another city, Shanghai perhaps or Beijing, a blur of bright colors and signs, and throngs of people walking the streets on a Sunday night. At first glance all those signs look like restaurants but on closer examination, there are dentist offices, and tea shops, and lawyers, furniture, jewelry, clothing stores, and at the far end a multi-story Hilton Hotel. You could get off a plane, check in and never have to use a word of English. We are definitely talking english as a second language territory. And in the newest version of questionable labor practices, foot massage parlors abound where for the inexplicable price of $15 someone will massage your feet and back for an hour. And the places were packed at 9 pm on Sunday.
We were here to meet friends for Chinese food, but after a short walk around, the question becomes what kind of Chinese food...Shanghai, Hunan, Hong-Kong Style, and if that is not enough Japanese options like Tepanaki, Ramen noodle houses and Shabu. And everybody seems to be doing brisk business. There were at least 200 places to eat in that 2 mile stretch. I was thinking about checking into the Hilton myself and just eating my way up and down the street.
The difference between eating Chinese here and Pasadena (perhaps the last Caucasian bastion in the San Gabriel Valley) is that in Pasadena the choice is between expensive and cheap Chinese, but region is not even an option. As someone who has always shuddered a bit when someone orders their fried rice and orange chicken, it was kind of amazing that not even 6 miles from my house there was food so authentic I have never even heard of it or seen it.
At Green Valley, a Shanghai style place which our favorite critic Jonathon Gold gave a thumbs up to, we were confronted with an completely new menu and a waiter who didn't speak enough English to translate. My favorite, stewed chicken and chesnuts, couldn't be further from almond chicken, simmered in a hot pot in a terrific brown sauce. The downside, no won ton soup which I promised my daughter I'd bring home. No problem, made a quick stop at "Tasty" on the first floor,which specializes in fruit custard desserts but also has a noodle soup menu, and we were headed back home with our soup. And the best part, while we were waiting we watched some Chinese rock star who along with his back up dancers got his styling tips from early Pat Benatar meets Liberace with metal studded ripped t-shirts the main look. This guy could be huge in China, or perhaps he is just their Clay Aiken. We'll never know.
On the way out we had to take a quick drive through a huge shopping plaza, with a Ranch 99 and a New Capital Restaurant, an old favorite from Arcadia that vanished, and now we know why and where. There is a lot more competition down here but the number of people eating, shopping and strolling, more than offsets that. Being here made me think about how we have this singular view of China, when it is a huge country with disparate regions both in terms of language and culture. If you come down to San Gabriel, you won't find a Panda Inn so you better do some research and know what kind of food you want. We'll be back. Hong Kong is calling.
We were here to meet friends for Chinese food, but after a short walk around, the question becomes what kind of Chinese food...Shanghai, Hunan, Hong-Kong Style, and if that is not enough Japanese options like Tepanaki, Ramen noodle houses and Shabu. And everybody seems to be doing brisk business. There were at least 200 places to eat in that 2 mile stretch. I was thinking about checking into the Hilton myself and just eating my way up and down the street.
The difference between eating Chinese here and Pasadena (perhaps the last Caucasian bastion in the San Gabriel Valley) is that in Pasadena the choice is between expensive and cheap Chinese, but region is not even an option. As someone who has always shuddered a bit when someone orders their fried rice and orange chicken, it was kind of amazing that not even 6 miles from my house there was food so authentic I have never even heard of it or seen it.
At Green Valley, a Shanghai style place which our favorite critic Jonathon Gold gave a thumbs up to, we were confronted with an completely new menu and a waiter who didn't speak enough English to translate. My favorite, stewed chicken and chesnuts, couldn't be further from almond chicken, simmered in a hot pot in a terrific brown sauce. The downside, no won ton soup which I promised my daughter I'd bring home. No problem, made a quick stop at "Tasty" on the first floor,which specializes in fruit custard desserts but also has a noodle soup menu, and we were headed back home with our soup. And the best part, while we were waiting we watched some Chinese rock star who along with his back up dancers got his styling tips from early Pat Benatar meets Liberace with metal studded ripped t-shirts the main look. This guy could be huge in China, or perhaps he is just their Clay Aiken. We'll never know.
On the way out we had to take a quick drive through a huge shopping plaza, with a Ranch 99 and a New Capital Restaurant, an old favorite from Arcadia that vanished, and now we know why and where. There is a lot more competition down here but the number of people eating, shopping and strolling, more than offsets that. Being here made me think about how we have this singular view of China, when it is a huge country with disparate regions both in terms of language and culture. If you come down to San Gabriel, you won't find a Panda Inn so you better do some research and know what kind of food you want. We'll be back. Hong Kong is calling.
Sunday, November 11, 2007
Cheer Mom
Here is the truth. You are too old to be still sitting in a small room with a large glass window watching your daughter fly through the air, trying to interpret every grimace wondering if the swagger is a John Wayne thing or the hip injury flaring up again. You have been doing some version of this for about a decade now . In the hours spent driving to the far reaches of southern california, spending a tense 5 hours on the edge of your chair and driving back again you could have learned a new language, mastered hip hop dancing or improved your tennis game immeasurably. So as you laugh with the other mom's (there are two dads but they don't join the coffee clatch glued to the window) and worry and say a short silent prayer, please no injuries, you wonder, why am I here?
But in the car ride home there are lots of laughs, a replay of bloopers, competitive spirit bubbling up and the grimaces of before are forgotten. I wouldn't say I encouraged this sport or perhaps I did at first but then when confronted with the ear piercing music, the clothing (or for some squads the lack of clothing), the tumbling free with the occasional collision, the eye make up that would make a drag queen proud, well I wondered, how did I an educated woman, a neo-feminist of sorts, end up dedicating my weekends to this sport that sprung from that most quintessenially all-American of activities, cheerleading? Do they even have cheerleaders at soccer in England, or cricket in India? Doubt it! So count on the old USA to take a little sis boom bah and turn it into something bigger, badder and definitely harder and pure adrenaline and competition. Competitive cheer, a phrase that would have sounded like an oxymoron 2o years ago, is now one of the fastest growing sports in America, and apparently also one of the highest causes of injuries among adolescent girls as well.
So back to the original question, why am I here? Because my daughter isn't just good at this, she's is really good, and she likes being really good at something, because don't we all like being really good at something. And because I love her, watching her do the thing that she is good at is one of the most enthralling shows of all. I may not know a standing full from a whatever but I'll be there cheering her on again next Sunday , saying my prayers, win or lose, for those two minutes of glory.
But in the car ride home there are lots of laughs, a replay of bloopers, competitive spirit bubbling up and the grimaces of before are forgotten. I wouldn't say I encouraged this sport or perhaps I did at first but then when confronted with the ear piercing music, the clothing (or for some squads the lack of clothing), the tumbling free with the occasional collision, the eye make up that would make a drag queen proud, well I wondered, how did I an educated woman, a neo-feminist of sorts, end up dedicating my weekends to this sport that sprung from that most quintessenially all-American of activities, cheerleading? Do they even have cheerleaders at soccer in England, or cricket in India? Doubt it! So count on the old USA to take a little sis boom bah and turn it into something bigger, badder and definitely harder and pure adrenaline and competition. Competitive cheer, a phrase that would have sounded like an oxymoron 2o years ago, is now one of the fastest growing sports in America, and apparently also one of the highest causes of injuries among adolescent girls as well.
So back to the original question, why am I here? Because my daughter isn't just good at this, she's is really good, and she likes being really good at something, because don't we all like being really good at something. And because I love her, watching her do the thing that she is good at is one of the most enthralling shows of all. I may not know a standing full from a whatever but I'll be there cheering her on again next Sunday , saying my prayers, win or lose, for those two minutes of glory.
Friday, October 5, 2007
Snake Eggs
So on a beautiful Sunday morning, I went out in the yard to do some last minute clean-up in preparation for a party we were having that evening. First, I tried to trim the bushes along the path but discovered we know longer had the right tool for bush trimming. Then I tried to move furniture around but discovered this was a two person job, so gave that up.
The next thing I did is still kind of a mystery to me why I did this. I decided to see what was under the drain covers that line our patio. For the past 9 years we've lived here, when a contractor or gardener asks, "Do you have drainage?" I shrug my shoulders and point to the green plastic rectangles lining the patio. But recently, I was asked do we have west side drainage, and it sounded really important so I thought do we? So the week before when I cleaned out the area where the rabbit lived and deposited all his goodies, which believe it or not had not decomposed even after more than a year after the rabbit ran away, I discovered a square drain covered with dirt and cleaned it off. This was very satisfying, and so on this beautiful sunny day, it seemed the perfect time to see what was under the green plastic rectangles.
The first one easily pulled up, despite dirt and mulch filled to the top. But then I was curious, what was underneath. But I couldn't find our spade either (which gives you some idea how often we garden), so grabbed a large kitchen spoon and began to dig out the debris. It was great dirt, packed with earthworms, so I deposited it under some rose bushes that I knew would appreciate it and then spent an hour digging out 12 feet of drainage all the way down to its silver bottom with a kitchen spoon.
I was thrilled when I was finished and decided to test this critical segment of the west side drainage by running water, which unfortunately ran for a second and then sat filling the previously empty channel.
Not to be daunted, I went to the next station in the drainage path, the previously covered with rabbit poop drain, and sure enough that hole was filled with water. Ah ha I thought and shoved my hand in to the murky water and pulled roots out that were clogging the drainage area. There was a slight movement of water forward but that was it. So I sleuthed out the next stop. This drain, an 8X8 green rectangle was screwed shut, clearly installed by someone else at some other time from all the others (by the way all the rectangle drains were installed upside down. It is amazing we have any working drainage at all. Or do we?) I peered through the slats to see if there was water in there and what do I see to my amazement, sitting on top of a bed of leaves, a half dozen speckled birds eggs.
I had never seen a nest with so many intact eggs, but then I had never seen a nest below ground before. I looked at the slats with about a 1/2 inch of clearance between them and thought that is one small momma bird. I peered again, and the thought occurred to me that they just couldn't be bird eggs. Do rats lay eggs? Possums? Snakes? I used to know something about biology so I was pretty sure rats don't lay eggs or possums but snakes, maybe. The possibility of a half-dozen killer snake eggs inches away is unnerving. I had thought about getting a screw driver and taking this to the next step but I am no Croccodile Dundee or that other guy who died probably putting his hand somewhere he shouldn't have like next to a bunch of killer snake eggs when the momma snake is hiding inside the drainage pipe.
So I did what any sensible woman would do. Waited for my man to come home. I proudly showed him my drainage clearing work ( I think his reaction was, "you decided to do this now?") but as I explained the situation he was clearly intrigued and peered down the drain with the eggs. "Wow," he said and with no prompting from "maybe they are snake eggs" (Okay so remember this part). It took a few seconds to unscrew the drain cover, while I stood about 10 feet away offering helpful hints, like "maybe you should poke them with a stick first dear".
There was no need for alarm. The eggs were ping pong balls, and lots of them. So now if someone asks I can say for sure we do have west side drainage. Anyone up for a game of ping pong? Now if I could only find the paddles.
We now have an ample supply of ping pong balls and yes, I do have west side drainage.
The next thing I did is still kind of a mystery to me why I did this. I decided to see what was under the drain covers that line our patio. For the past 9 years we've lived here, when a contractor or gardener asks, "Do you have drainage?" I shrug my shoulders and point to the green plastic rectangles lining the patio. But recently, I was asked do we have west side drainage, and it sounded really important so I thought do we? So the week before when I cleaned out the area where the rabbit lived and deposited all his goodies, which believe it or not had not decomposed even after more than a year after the rabbit ran away, I discovered a square drain covered with dirt and cleaned it off. This was very satisfying, and so on this beautiful sunny day, it seemed the perfect time to see what was under the green plastic rectangles.
The first one easily pulled up, despite dirt and mulch filled to the top. But then I was curious, what was underneath. But I couldn't find our spade either (which gives you some idea how often we garden), so grabbed a large kitchen spoon and began to dig out the debris. It was great dirt, packed with earthworms, so I deposited it under some rose bushes that I knew would appreciate it and then spent an hour digging out 12 feet of drainage all the way down to its silver bottom with a kitchen spoon.
I was thrilled when I was finished and decided to test this critical segment of the west side drainage by running water, which unfortunately ran for a second and then sat filling the previously empty channel.
Not to be daunted, I went to the next station in the drainage path, the previously covered with rabbit poop drain, and sure enough that hole was filled with water. Ah ha I thought and shoved my hand in to the murky water and pulled roots out that were clogging the drainage area. There was a slight movement of water forward but that was it. So I sleuthed out the next stop. This drain, an 8X8 green rectangle was screwed shut, clearly installed by someone else at some other time from all the others (by the way all the rectangle drains were installed upside down. It is amazing we have any working drainage at all. Or do we?) I peered through the slats to see if there was water in there and what do I see to my amazement, sitting on top of a bed of leaves, a half dozen speckled birds eggs.
I had never seen a nest with so many intact eggs, but then I had never seen a nest below ground before. I looked at the slats with about a 1/2 inch of clearance between them and thought that is one small momma bird. I peered again, and the thought occurred to me that they just couldn't be bird eggs. Do rats lay eggs? Possums? Snakes? I used to know something about biology so I was pretty sure rats don't lay eggs or possums but snakes, maybe. The possibility of a half-dozen killer snake eggs inches away is unnerving. I had thought about getting a screw driver and taking this to the next step but I am no Croccodile Dundee or that other guy who died probably putting his hand somewhere he shouldn't have like next to a bunch of killer snake eggs when the momma snake is hiding inside the drainage pipe.
So I did what any sensible woman would do. Waited for my man to come home. I proudly showed him my drainage clearing work ( I think his reaction was, "you decided to do this now?") but as I explained the situation he was clearly intrigued and peered down the drain with the eggs. "Wow," he said and with no prompting from "maybe they are snake eggs" (Okay so remember this part). It took a few seconds to unscrew the drain cover, while I stood about 10 feet away offering helpful hints, like "maybe you should poke them with a stick first dear".
There was no need for alarm. The eggs were ping pong balls, and lots of them. So now if someone asks I can say for sure we do have west side drainage. Anyone up for a game of ping pong? Now if I could only find the paddles.
We now have an ample supply of ping pong balls and yes, I do have west side drainage.
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