A Pox Upon Our House

Help! I’m trapped in a Kafka novel and can’t get out!

Today’s opening sentence was going to be “There are few things in life more tedious than recreating a teenager’s shot record” but the phone rang just as I was heading upstairs to compute. It was a school nurse who either missed her calling in life or spends way too much time reading espionage novels. Let’s call her Sherlock.

(You might not want to read past this paragraph as I feel a diatribe coming on. For the benefit of any young parents or future parents in the audience, I’ll cut to the chase: your child’s birth certificate and social security number combined are not as vital as the shot record unless you are absolutely positive you will be educating your child in the comfort of your own home. If you foresee a family move at any point between the day your child starts kindergarten and the moment he or she enters college, visit a tattoo parlor tomorrow and get that shot record inked on your torso.)

We have Matt’s medical record, we carried it from Japan to D.C., but his shot record is somewhere in a box with the rest of our household goods. Mike and I blame ourselves for not tucking that shot record in a safe place before the movers stormed our house in Yokosuka, but Matt’s doctor gets some of the credit since he talked me into separating it from the medical record in the first place. In any event, our mission was to recreate the shot record before Matt started school Tuesday morning. A dear friend of ours, a very kind doctor we met when Mike was stationed in Bethesda, took care of the mandatory physical exam and school forms on Monday afternoon. We are indebted to this man.

Enter Sherlock: Mrs. Krentz? I am calling to verify Matthew’s date of birth. June 12, 1992? How do you account for the fact that, according to his shot record, his first three inoculations took place in 1991, BEFORE HE WAS EVEN BORN?

Me: Whoops! I guess the doctor got distracted listening to Matt’s adventures in Japan and accidentally wrote down the wrong date. Just go ahead and switch that 1 to a 2.

Sherlock: That would be against the law.

Me: Oh, sorry. Matt’s real shot record should get here from Japan next week but it might take me a couple of days to figure out which box it’s in. Can you wait a week for the correct information or do we need to try to recreate the record by combing through his medical file?

Sherlock: The law requires we have the information for Matthew to attend school.

Me: Okay, then please send another form home with Matthew and we’ll start recreating that record. Just consider it a creative writing exercise. (chuckle, chuckle)

Sherlock (not laughing): You will definitely want to look at when Matthew received his first vaccination for Measles. What I have in front of me states he was vaccinated six days before his first birthday. Virginia law specifies that this vaccination must occur on or after the first birthday.

Me: Well, he received that vaccination in Virginia and subsequently attended two different schools in Virginia, and his health record was carefully screened by the federal government before we moved to Japan, so I think it’s pretty safe to assume he’s okay on the Measles front.

Sherlock: Be that as it may, if you are unable to provide evidence that Matthew’s vaccination occurred on or after his first birthday, he will need to be re-vaccinated in order to attend school in Virginia. It’s the law.

Me: Okay . . . Well, just send that form home with Matthew and we’ll fill it out and get it back to you within 48 hours.

Sherlock: The form must be signed by a health care provider. It’s the law.

Me: My husband IS a health care provider.

Sherlock: I prefer the forms be signed by non-family members.

Me (Good Lord, lacking a federal or state statute, she’s started enacting her own): No problem.

Sherlock: A nurse’s signature is as good as a doctor’s signature from my perspective.

Me (with apologies to Kathleen Jr): Not from mine.

I don't fault this woman for doing her job (although I’d like to take a peek at her job description and it wouldn’t have hurt her to fake a little chuckle at one of my “jokes”). I miss the old days when school nurses (not that my school had one) could be counted on to take temperatures and dispense First Aid. Does Sherlock really believe all those glaring discrepancies in Matt’s shot record could have slipped past the nurses at seven other schools, not to mention at least 20 different Navy pediatricians, in the past 16 years? Mike and I are going to be wearing surgical masks whenever we're around Matt until the real shot record gets here and we can verify that he isn't a bubonic plague carrier.

A Potential Venue for My Anpanman Masks

This poor man suffers from a virulent strain of attention deficit disorder. Notice everyone else in the picture is looking away from rather than toward him. Although he did not remove that mask during four of the barkingest hours of the dog days of summer, his image was never projected on the giant centerfield screen. Even the photographer pointing the "kissing cam" shunned him. Out of sympathy, empathy, or a mixture of the two, I thought the least I could do was take his picture.

The "kissing cam" was cause for some concern in our little section of upper left field seats. What if the camera zoomed in on us and projected Katie and Pete on the screen or, worse yet, Colleen and Mike? Eeeeeew. The guy sitting on my immediate right was probably entertaining similar fears.

Yankees Win, 8-7

What do these people have in common? They have just endured four hours of the slowest pitching in the history of Major League Baseball. Let's take a peek inside their heads.

Mike: Yippee! The Yankees won! I hope people didn't mistake my Yomiuri Giants' cap for an Orioles' hat. Maybe our household goods shipment will come this week so I can wear my official Yankees' jersey and ballcaps (2) to the game in the Bronx next Saturday. Kathy doesn't seem real keen on the idea of investing in a third Yankees' hat. I hate it when she gets all practical on me.

Matt: Baseball has to be the most boring spectator sport on earth but at least I didn't have to spend the afternoon "reading" Ethan Frome. If we get home in time to watch the Closing Ceremony of the Olympics, I can postpone that for another four hours by feigning interest in Placido Domingo.

Pete: Tomorrow is the first day of school. I forgot to decorate my classroom and copy my handouts.

Colleen: Pete's Aunt Kathy is totally adorable. Meeting her has been the highpoint of my life.

Kate: Tomorrow is the first day of school. I still can't decide which classes to take. Maybe Mom will fold my laundry if I "accidentally" leave it in her dryer.

Buy Me Some Peanuts and Funnelcake . . .

The Yankees are playing in Baltimore today, one of those excruciatingly hot and sweaty Sunday afternoon games, so we are off to Camden Yards as soon as Katie waltzes up the Metro elevator. Mike bought these tickets before we left Japan. He's a true blue Yankees' fan. He is such a true blue fan, in fact, that next weekend we're taking the train to New York City to catch a game in Yankee Stadium before it's demolished.

Pete and Colleen are going to see today's game with us. It's a rare treat to meet a nephew's or niece's . . . special friend? paramour? main squeeze? . . . this early in the relationship. So I'll be on my very best behavior.

P.S. While I was in Japan, Camille and Rob got themselves a dog, a Labradoodle they named Bailey. I am trying to not take it personally.

Blogging is Aerobic

Yes, I know. It's been a few days. I have lots of excuses. Here are just a few.

1. My computer is upstairs, on the first floor, but we're still living in the basement until our furniture gets here. When the sun goes down and Mike starts snoring, Matt and I head up the back stairs to our computers. I walk up five cement steps, turn left, leap over an 18-inch wide river of landscape stones (note to self: wear shoes next time), walk up five wood steps, turn left, walk up five more wood steps, turn left, walk down narrow deck to kitchen door. Then I try to open the door quietly so as not to disturb the amorous young couple leaning against the wall six feet below me. Then I realize I left my drink in the basement so I retrace my steps. Then I remember I haven't uploaded my pictures lately and my camera is--you guessed it--in the basement. After three or four trips back and forth from my computer to the basement, I glance at the clock on my computer screen and realize I'll never finish posting by midnight. So I might as well wait until tomorrow.


2. We've been racing against the clock to get Matt ready for his first day of school next Tuesday. He's picked his classes, we've ordered books and uniforms, he's attended Transfer Student Orientation (now, there's a nice concept) where he met most of the 39 other "new kids", and he's sporting a fresh haircut. He even has an appointment for a school physical next Monday. Once we identify a name to list under Katie's on the school's emergency contact card, we will have checked all the boxes. Matt and I have also collected discount cards from just about every D.C. bookstore within walking distance of a Metro station while searching for the summer reading assignment books, Ethan Frome and October Sky. Both of us are easily distracted by the free concerts near some of the Metro stations (above) but we (yes, "we") have finally cracked open Ethan Frome which, happily, is just 98 pages long with a better plot than I expected. We read 15-20 pages and then he reads a manga (Japanese comic) to clear his head. Need I point out that Matt selected the English class requiring the fewest summer books?


3. Instead of blogging while Matt's clearing his head, I catch up on laundry and emails and The Washington Post and try to figure out why one of the finest First Class Petty Officers I have ever known was not on the promotion list that came out last week. It's hard for me to write in complete sentences when I smell something rotten.

Three Degrees of Separation

Sometimes I truly amaze myself. Like a minute ago, for instance, when I figured out how to kidnap this picture of my "Miami" nieces from Jessica's Facebook page. Miami is in quotation marks because none of them live in Miami anymore. One never lived there at all.

Did you know I was related to ET? Check out Jen's fingers (front row, wedding reception napkin on head). Her little sister Jes is right behind her. Erin (left) is my nephew Brian's wife and Chrissy (the bride) is my newest niece, via nephew Jeremy. So there you have it.

I've had to resort to lifting pictures from other people because I haven't had a chance to take any myself. Today's best opportunity--Matt leaning out the car window to hand a donation to a homeless guy--was foiled by the impatient driver behind me. My second time behind the wheel earned me as many horn honks as my maiden voyage.

Much as I am trying to avoid driving, school starts one week from today and we thought it would be a good idea to complete all the paperwork, put together a class schedule, order uniforms, buy textbooks, and get started on the summer reading assignments. Matt will be one of 40 transfer students. An incoming tenth grader and her family were on their way in to meet with the scheduling lady as we were leaving. They have just returned to the U.S. from four years in Macedonia. When I saw how miserable that poor girl looked, I realized that these school transitions are a little easier for Matt simply because he has seen his older siblings survive them.

Knighthood Conferred on Matthew

The long-anticipated telephone call came this afternoon: Matt has been accepted by Bishop O'Connell High School. Our Red Devil is going to be a Knight.

Matt is happy because it was his first choice. Mike is happy because he was starting to grasp that Kathy's idea of Plan C involved (a) him being a geographical bachelor and (b) Matt graduating from his mother's alma mater.

13 Years Later, We're Back to Shopping at IKEA

The computers are connected, we found serviceable little tables and plastic folding chairs at IKEA, and at last I am back in business. The first floor of our house looks like the set of "The Office" and Matt and I are arguing over who gets to be Jim and who has to be Dwight. We are in complete agreement on who is playing Michael Scott.

Although more furniture is the last thing we need, the IKEA stuff was amazingly cheap and we're pretty sure one of the kids will offer to take it off our hands sooner rather than later. This kind of thinking is why we currently own three kitchen tables but surely someday at least two of the kids will have eat-in kitchens.

Jonathan went home to Norfolk yesterday but Matt hasn't brought his mattress back down to the basement yet. Cell phones come in handy for essential communications ("The pizza is here" and "Michael Phelps will be swimming in 10 minutes"). Assuming Matt gets a chance to finish high school -- the admissions committee is still awaiting that elusive recommendation from a teacher in Japan -- this could be good practice for when he goes to college. We have some nifty IKEA items to furnish his dorm room.

WATTS In a Statistic?

Metro stations and trains are strikingly ad-free compared to their counterparts in Japan so we're happy to feast our eyes on this one when we switch to the green line at L'Enfant Plaza. Every fat pillar on the platform is swathed in this ad, reminding us of the Watts family - Harry, Kathleen Jr, Sydney, and Julia. Not that there was any chance we'd forget them, but it's nice to have them in our faces like this.

Much as I wanted to theorize a connection between advertisements on public transportation and literacy, Wikipedia and the CIA Factbook insist both Japan and the United States have 99% literacy rates (99% of the population over the age of 15 can read and write). Georgia, in case you wondered, boasts a 100% literacy rate.

Of course, the statistics don't indicate "language of literacy" or number of languages in which the people are literate.

Close Encounters of the ILF Kind

An Intelligent Life Form (ILF) was spotted yesterday in the Lincoln Gallery at the Smithsonian American Art Museum. Let's call him Mr. Congenial. He's a security guard who I'm guessing is responsible for making sure museum visitors do not slap, slug, or strangle the myriad haughty graduate students who take sinister pleasure in sternly rebuking visitors who wander too near the artwork.

Electronic Superhighway: Continental U.S., Alaska, Hawaii (pictured here) is an enormous neon-and-video extravaganza by a Korean artist (why it's hanging here rather than in one of the Asian art galleries beats me). Hanging it about two feet higher would have been a great plan because, as it stands-or hangs-now, part of Texas and most of Florida are tucked under the installation. That pale gray line painted on the floor about four feet in front of the map does not exactly compete for the viewer's attention. Should one cross that line, to point out Pensacola, say, to a kid who lived there when he was four years old, a young man loitering nearby and pretending to be similarly enthralled with the piece will suddenly snap to attention and bark, "Step back!"

The young man was no doubt alerted to our presence by his female cohort on the first floor. She trailed us through the Hip-Hop exhibit in order to yell at Jonathan for leaning against a graffiti-covered wall (he wasn't) and rebuke a nice middle-aged lady who, after checking carefully for a "no cameras" sign, pulled a camera out of her purse. Indeed, there was a sign, a very small one painted in that same tasteful pale gray shade inside the doorframe of that particular gallery. The doorframe itself was painted a slighter paler shade of gray.

Mr. Congenial earned his ILF designation (this will come as a HUGE surprise) by agreeing with me that (a) the museum signage leaves much to be desired, (b) those snippy grad students could stand to brush up on their customer service skills, and (c) it is downright rude to chastise visitors for breaking rules that are not clearly delineated. According to Mr. Congenial, the museum director deplores signs (apparently she prefers to alienate visitors) and attempting to convince her otherwise would be a total waste of my time. The mass transit people are a lot more amenable to suggestions and Mr. Congenial encouraged me to send them all the good ideas I picked up in Japan. He also told me to check out the museum cafe which "makes a great $5 sandwich and only charges you $10."

Kate and Matt missed out on chatting with Mr. Congenial. When they saw me wandering in his direction, they scampered off to the other side of the museum. "We thought you were going to be arrested!" I sure hope they have a Plan B if they ever have to make bail.

She Gets Her Shyness from Her Mother

Last week she said she hoped we weren't planning to give her a kimono for her 25th birthday. Today she had no qualms about trying it on outside a coffee shop at a busy intersection during the height of lunch hour. There's a blue obi that goes with it but we're not going to attempt that until Robin or Kathleen Jr. pass along proper kimono-wearing procedures from Kazumi, hopefully before Halloween.

Instrumental Influence

There's an amphitheater next to the Washington Monument called the Sylvan Theater. We dragged the boys there tonight to hear "1812 Overture" and they're still speaking to us. The weather was perfect; the setting was great; the concert was FREE.

Based on the newspaper ad, we expected to hear 20 minutes of Tchaikovsky punctuated by some artillery. The artillery turned out to be four really loud World War II cannons and the "1812 Overture" was preceded by lots of other stirring music showcasing the band's trombonist and vocalists. Best of all, Roger Mudd made a surprise guest appearance as narrator of Aaron Copland's "Portrait of Lincoln."

Matt's friend Jonathan is the closest I've come to producing a musician. Grandpa played the drums, Mom blew the trombone, and I made a few bucks as a teenage church organist, so naturally I assumed one of my children would take up an instrument. Katie flirted with the flute for about 10 minutes, James banged on drums for half a year, and Matt abandoned the keyboard after mastering "Yankee Doodle." In a last-ditch effort to match Matt with an instrument, I took him to hear the Virginia Symphony when he was in third or fourth grade. Jonathan tagged along, took up the violin a few weeks later, and has been playing ever since. Look for my name in the program notes when he makes his Carnegie Hall debut.

Tantoo: For the Man Who Has Everything

It's Restaurant Week, a semi-annual opportunity to experience lunch or dinner at one of the city's hundreds of restaurants for a fairly reasonable fixed price. Last night we tried Peacock Grand Cafe on K Street, not far from Mike's office. (He made the reservations for 7:00, a wise move on his part since it was 6:45 before he managed to un-Velcro himself from his desk.) By the time the chef emerged from the kitchen to check our pleasure level, we had all agreed Peacock merits a return visit. Thanks to two years in Japan, I'm a much more adventurous eater these days. Who knew avocado soup would be so tasty? My dessert reputation apparently preceded me because the waiter kept trying to put a chocolate volcano in front of me instead of the peach-rhubarb cobbler I virtuously ordered (knowing full well Kate would need help finishing her volcano).

We were celebrating the delivery of our Express Shipment which arrived around noon with seals intact. There were 15 boxes and everything looked familiar until the boys and I ripped open the last one and found all sorts of interesting things Mike must have received sometime between July 3 and July 7. While I won't run the risk of ruining your Christmas morning by disclosing most of the contents, one item has me alternately giggling and scratching my head (no, Jimmy, I don't have dandruff). Who do you suppose gave Mike a tantoo? That's a Japanese seppuku dagger used for ritual suicide by disembowelment. Maybe I should hide it for a few months until he settles into his new job.

Tomorrow we're going to have lunch at another restaurant, this one Mexican, to celebrate Kate's 25th birthday. I'm hoping we'll also be celebrating Matt's acceptance by Bishop O'Connell High School. Their admissions committee met Monday and we didn't manage to track down any of Matt's former teachers until late Sunday night. Lindsey was heading back to Japan and didn't have time to complete the requisite form but promised to whip off a note to the committee before she unplugged her computer. Call me optimistic, but I think it's a good omen that the one teacher we managed to locate is the best writer of the bunch.

Moving Moments of Motherhood

This automatic archive feature is the cat's pajamas--an American colloquialism from the 1920s that gives me an excuse to share this picture Reiko took when she went to the Lantern Festival at Hachimangu Shrine in Kamakura last week. The downside of the automatic archive feature is it forces me to expend some of my precious and rapidly dwindling brain cells on coming up with a title at least slightly related to the topic(s) addressed. Assuming, of course, I actually manage to stick to a topic.

One of us, who must have skipped school to watch Ted Williams the day his arithmetic teacher taught rounding, ran 14.2 miles yesterday. The rest of us helped Kate move to her new apartment in Arlington. Jonathan, Matt's best-friend-since-first-grade, is spending the week with us and that's a good thing because I don't know how we would have wrestled the sofa bed and dining room table down two flights of stairs and up another without him. The next time I'm tempted to pass along a cumbersome piece of furniture to one of my offspring I hope someone will shout in my ear, "Remember the Sofa Bed!" Don't waste your time mentioning the table, however, because I've been sentimentally attached to it for 20 years, ever since Katie insisted on using it as a relay station for the tooth fairy. I have never known a child to be so horrified at the thought of a strange creature entering her bedroom in the dead of night, let alone messing around with her pillow.

I thought my friends who live in Japanese houses had tiny kitchens until I saw Kate's. It makes an airplane galley look roomy while serving a dual function as the passageway between her living room and bedroom. It is almost--but not quite--as small as the one in my cozy cellar but lacks the lovely drainage hose snaking from a dehumidifier on top of the refrigerator into the sink.

Helping Kate move forced me to operate a motor vehicle, something I've managed to avoid since we left Japan (a month ago today). Although my left hand kept flapping around in search of the gear stick, I did remember to stay on the right side of the road and elicited only one horn blast (that I heard) from a speed demon who deserved to be cut off for the safety of all mankind. Okay, I drove a few miles south on the GW Parkway when I was supposed to be driving north, but that just gave me a chance to enjoy some scenic vistas along the Potomac River. The next time I get behind the wheel I'll be sure to take my camera so I can share those vistas with you.

Give Him Enough Rope and He'll Hang Himself

I tossed and turned all night when I remembered that Gershwin composed Rhapsody in Blue. Rhapsody in G (minor) is a much less melodious piece by Brahms. So I won’t be adding background music to the blahg anytime soon. Not that I know how.
Duly chastened by my faux pas, I’ve been reading up on those ornamental braided cords Mike is now sporting. They are called aiguillettes (ah-gwe-lets). I can almost hear all you crossword puzzle aficionados shifting in your chairs as it dawns on you that aiguillette looks and sounds an awful lot like aglet, that metal or plastic sheath covering the end of a shoelace to facilitate threading. The aiguillette, in gold cord, is worn on the right shoulder by military aides to the President of the United States, and on the left shoulder by military attachés, General Staff Corps officers, and aides to flag officers (that’s Mike); the cord colors are gold for the Army, gold and blue for the Navy, and silver for the Air Force.
Aguillette originally referred to the lacing used to fasten plate armor together. Sometime in the sixteenth century the definition was expanded to include loops of rope soldiers carried on their shoulders. There are half a dozen legends—none substantiated—about why soldiers starting toting around those loops of rope. My favorite, and the most probable, stars the Duke of Alva, a Spanish General. When a body of Flemish troops took flight during battle, the Duke was so peeved he ordered that any future misconduct on the part of these troops be punished by hanging. The Flemings elected to facilitate the “execution” of this order by henceforth wearing on their shoulders a rope and nail. Their conduct subsequently became so brilliant and exemplary that the rope was transformed into a decorative braid and became a badge of honor to be worn by officers of princely households, the corps d’elite, etc.

Parsing the New Name

• George Gershwin's "Rhapsody in G" is whimsical, a tad melodramatic, and prone to digressions;
• We live on G Street;
• The Search for Signs of Intelligent Life in the Universe, a play written by Jane Wagner, earned Lily Tomlin a Best Actress Tony in 1986. Then they took the show on the road for 4-5 years and I had the good fortune of catching a performance in Dallas.

That's your U.S. History lesson for today.


We had some of the best pizza I've ever tasted near the Clarendon Metro station Tuesday night. Kate and her friend Jana took us there on their way to the Irish pub that hosts their weekly trivia competition. (She has quite a hectic schedule between bocce and trivia contests.) Her cousin Pete also competes regularly on a trivia team; they have a mutual great-grandmother who gets most of the credit for that particular gene.

But back to the pizza. The waitress boxed up the three leftover pieces and I hopped off the subway at Eastern Market to ferret out a hungry-looking soul (between the Marine Corps Barracks and the local homeless population, I figured the pizza would end up in a deserving mouth). I strolled the length of the block, from Starbucks to7-11, and back again as the pizza box cooled off. Just when I contemplated abandoning my mission a guy in a wheelchair asked me (nicely) to fetch him a Pepsi from 7-11. So I handed him the pizza and skipped back down the street where I was accosted (nicely) a second time by a man hoping I could spare him any coins I collected in the 7-11. When I exited the store, I was somewhat surprised to find the man in the wheelchair munching pizza and chatting with the other man, let's call him Al. I handed over the Pepsi and gave Al about a dollar in change before heading back toward the subway station. Al hobbled after me and asked me to wait for him. Uh-oh. Al pledged that nothing bad will ever happen to me in this part of town because he will henceforth be serving as my personal protector.


Mike was in the Navy for 15 years before he merited a driver. I've only been in D.C. three weeks and I've already got a bodyguard. That was possibly the best dollar I've ever spent, although I can't help wishing Al looked a little more like Kevin Costner.


Speaking of Mike, he reported to the Bureau of Medicine and Surgery Tuesday morning and spent three whirlwind days "turning over" with his predecessor. Yesterday he wandered over to the Pentagon to meet his counterparts. Today he's attaching three gaudy gold ropes to his uniform and going solo.

And The Winner Is . . .

. . . Ms. Sandy Sykes, nee Buchanan, of Jackson, Michigan (pictured at left demonstrating yet another of her many talents). Sandy must travel to the nation's Capital to claim her prize: dinner for six at Trattoria Sorrento. The runner-ups and their prizes will be announced later. Right now I'm just trying to see if I can launch this new blog.