Voices in my Head

Even the Tripe Made Me Sing

2011-10-23T19:13:00.000-07:00

The waiter wheels out the tea cart. The gold-plated teapot sat on the gold-plated heater.

“I will prepare your tea now,” he says. From the 4 potted plants on the tea cart, he clips branches and puts them in the tea pot. After steeping for 5 minutes, he pours a sample into my cup. “Has it finished?” he asks.

I sniffthe bouquet (mint, lemon, chamomile, something I can’t identify...) and sipp. Yes. It’s perfect. He pours my cup. Then, he brings out a box of nine different types of sugar for me to choose from. Normally, I’m a purist, but how does one say ‘no’ to 9 different types of sugar? I select the honey-gel that has been rolled in natural sugar.

Can heaven come in a cup? Oh, sister, yes it can.

And that was just the herbal infusion.

Who knew that spring waters from southern of Italy had different characteristics than waters from northern Italy, and that you could taste the difference? I found out, after looking over the 4 pages of Italian water on the menu. I didn’t even get to the rest of Europe. You may all call me "water snob" now.

You should have seen the carrot foam (which might have made me cry) or the 5 types of seafood on a salt brick. One course, The Sea, simply Was. A pure fish stock, added at the table, to a bite of conch, a bite of sea bass, a bite of squid. I put the conch in my mouth, bit, and it dissipated through the broth. No chewiness, no rubber, just fish and then sea. By that point in the meal, if Heinz Beck, the chef, had prepared it, I would have eaten rock dust.

There was a palate cleanser, of course. Followed by a silver box with 3 drawers per side, for a total of 12 drawers. Each drawer contained 2 bite-size sweets--marzipan so light it melted; cannoli thinner than your pinkie; jam-print cookies no larger than a quarter but with a lighter flake, more perfect butter than I’ve ever tasted. 12 different sweets. And then came the dessert.

Hal had the Gran Dessert. 7 courses, 3 cold and 4 hot, that mimicked a boat, an island, a bit of tiramisu...

And then the chocolates. 20 different one-bite chocolates, filled with hazelnut, or fruit, or dark chocolate cream.

4 hours after arriving, and 39 different tastes (“courses” makes it sound large, but they were all proportioned to get the taste without becoming overwhelmed) we finally rolled out. We spoke with the chef twice (I may have cried again) and left thinking our lives were complete. The staff was attentive (if you left your chair, they picked up your old napkin with a fork, and delivered, via a silver tray, a brand-new napkin) but not aggressive. The waiter, smiling at our "oooh's," explained the 20 different cheeses (my answer was “Pick your favorite 3 for me, thanks,”) and then, when I couldn’t decide, he selected my dessert (I don’t do alcohol, coffee or tea leaves and he delivered what I can only describe as perfect raspberries capped in a cloud topped with apple yogurt ice cream.) What I feared might be a stuffy experience turned into a life-altering, heaven-glimpsing night.

This was our first 3-star Michelin dinner. La Pergola, in the Waldorf-Astoria overlooking Rome. And, honey, let me tell you, food has never made me cry before, but after eating a poached quail egg on amaranth, I have become an acolyte to the only German-born Roman god I’ve ever met.

Goodbye Sex

2011-08-25T16:44:00.001-07:00

Just an update: our local paper ran an article about the libraries. One sentence reads: Computers will now block sexually explicit images. I love it when the good guys win (and by "guys" I mean letter-writting mamas, of course.)

Best One So Far

2011-08-20T12:22:00.000-07:00

I've been receiving a lot of opportunities to save Nigerian Princesses, Chinese Emperors and multi-millionaires stuck in foreign countries. These official documents find their way to my inbox and even the spam filter doesn't kick them out, so I know they're bona fide. This one came today, and I thought I'd share it because it is, by far, the best one. I have a friend who works for the FBI, so I forwarded it to him and asked him to please not take me to the law for money laundry. I have enough regular laundry.

FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION

INTELLIGENCE FIELD UNIT

J. EDGAR HOOVER BUILDING

935 PENNSYLVANIA AVENUE,NW WASHINGTON,D.C.

ATTN: BENEFICIARY

I AM SPECIAL AGENT JOHN EDWARD FROM THE FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION (FBI) INTELLIGENCE UNIT, WE HAVE JUST INTERCEPTED AND CONFISCATED TWO CONSIGNMENT BOXES AT JFK AIRPORT IN NEW YORK, AND WE ARE ON THE VERGE OF MOVING IT TO OUR BUREAU HEAD QUARTERS.

WE HAVE SCANNED THE SAID BOXES, AND HAVE FOUND IT TO CONTAIN LARGE SUM OF MONEY AND ALSO BACKUP DOCUMENT WHICH BEARS YOUR NAME AS THE RECEIVER OF THE MONEY CONTAINED IN THE BOXES, INVESTIGATIONS CARRIED OUT ON THE DIPLOMAT WHICH ACCOMPANIED THE BOXES INTO THE UNITED STATES HAS IT THAT HE WAS TO DELIVER THIS FUNDS TO YOUR RESIDENCE AS PAYMENT WHICH WAS DUE YOU FROM THE OFFICE OF FEDERAL GOVERNMENT IN NIGERIA FROM UNPAID CONTRACT SUMS.

WE CROSS-CHECKED ALL LEGAL DOCUMENTATION IN THE BOXES, AND WERE ABOUT TO RELEASE THE CONSIGNMENT TO THE DIPLOMAT,WHEN WE FOUND OUT THAT THE BOXES IS LACKING ONE VERY IMPORTANT DOCUMENTATION WHICH AS A RESULT, THE BOXES HAS BEEN CONFISCATED.

ACCORDING TO SECTION 229 SUBSECTION 31 OF THE 2005 AMENDED CONSTITUTION IN TAX PAYMENT, YOUR CONSIGNMENT LACKS PROOF OF OWNERSHIP CERTIFICATE FROM THE JOINT TEAM OF THE IRS AND HOMELAND SECURITY, AND THERE FOR, YOU MUST CONTACT US FOR DIRECTION ON HOW TO PROCURE THIS CERTIFICATE, SO THAT YOU CAN BE RELIEVED OF THE CHARGES OF EVADING TAX WHICH IS A PUNISHABLE OFFENSE UNDER SECTION 12 SUBSECTION 441 OF CONSTITUTION ON TAX EVASION.

YOU ARE REQUIRED TO CONTACT THIS BUREAU WITHIN 72HOURS, OR YOU WILL BE ARRESTED, INTERROGATED AND PROSECUTED IN THE COURT OF LAW FOR MONEY LAUNDRY.

ALSO, YOU MUST NOT CONTACT ANY OTHER BANK OR PERSONS IN NIGERIA, THE UNITED KINGDOM OR ANY PART OF THE WORLD FOR ANY PAYMENT, BECAUSE YOUR PAYMENT HAVE BEEN CONFISCATED BY THIS BUREAU HERE IN THE UNITED STATES.

YOURS IN SERVICE,

AGENT JOHN EDWARD

REGIONAL DEPUTY-DIRECTOR

FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION

INTELLIGENCE FIELD UNIT

J. EDGAR HOOVER BUILDING

935 PENNSYLVANIA AVENUE,NW WASHINGTON,D.C.

20535-0001,USA.

No Food, No Drinks, Yes Sex

2011-08-11T11:52:00.000-07:00

Does this seem ironic to you: our local library allows adults to use the internet filter-free. If they want to look at porno, they’re asked (not forced, but asked) to use a privacy screen (picture cardboard wings attached to the side of the computer.) When questioned about it, I’m told that the computers in the children’s section do have filters, and that children are free from porno. In the children’s section. But not if they have to walk with their mommies to the “Learn Italian in 10 Easy Lessons” section. And not if they walk out of the children’s section on their own 2 feet because they are teens and would like to read something other than “Mr. Putter and Tabby Paint the Porch.” And, just because they’re children doesn’t mean they can’t use the adult computers.

Second, I’m told that it’s free speech.

Excuse me?

Last I checked, pictures were not speech. And nude bodies on the streets are not allowed anywhere except Oregon because that’s indecent exposure. So, why are nude bodies on a computer screen suddenly called “speech”? What makes the real thing a no-no but a picture, touched up and posed, okay?

Now, I’m not going to argue that Tom Thumb can’t do what he wants to do on his home computer. If the law allows it in private, and he and his spouse think it’s hunky-dory, fine. In private. But why should I, or my children, or the little boys who may grow up to date my daughters, come across someone’s sex drive on a library computer? It isn’t really a free country, Mr. Washington. It’s set up to protect the innocent, to promote the good of the majority, and to get Bad Hair Reps reelected. It is not set up to provide Has to Buy It with a public spot to enjoy a little looky-looky. And I resent that in a time when the libraries have to close early and stay closed an extra day and have canceled Story Time 3 months of the year because we’re facing a budget crisis, some of those dollars are going to provide What’s Happening in His Pants? with a peep-show.

On a good note, I think the teen boy was appropriately embarrassed. Not enough to leave the library, but enough to step away from the computer. Hope they sanitized that thing.

A Moment

2011-07-29T14:29:00.000-07:00

I’m waiting to turn right at a red light. There’s a truck in front of me with two cowboy hat wearing 20-something men. I’m not in a rush. I don’t inch forward, hoping that somehow the light will sense my impatience and turn green. I’m not trying to edge the truck into the crosswalk so I can snake around him. I’m just sitting. A model of Zen.

The guys in front of me, they’re different than I am. They like music that makes me want to pour acid in my ears. They think a few scraggly hairs on a chin is called a “goatee”, I think it’s called “go shave until you grow up”. They drive a truck and wear cowboy hats. In suburban Big City USA.

But the driver glances at my “got all day” face, pulls his truck hard to the left and edges out a bit. I have a wide turn lane, now. And as I ease forward, I roll down my window, wave and call, “Thank you!”

They wave and call, “Welcome!” back.

I like them.

It’s funny how quickly I can remember that I do, in fact, think human beings have mostly evolved and are mostly worth the sheer energy that required, back when we crawled from whatever DNA swamp that was.

Except Glenn Beck.

I’m so sorry, Norway. I feel heartsick and I wish I could be there to commune with you. I wish I could help.

And I’m sorry that people like Glenn Beck get their ugly faces plastered all over the news, spewing their hatred.

I’m also sorry that he claims a part of the same church I believe in.

In the history of my church we tell a story. In the 1800’s, members of this church were driven from their homes, had their belongings burned, stolen, etc. They were forced to move. During the winter exodus, many people died, most of them were the ones we feel most protective of: the children, the grandparents, the women giving birth. One family carried with them a daughter they knew to be dying. She hadn’t eaten in days. Well, none of them had, but when you’ve got a sick child who won’t eat, well, you know the panic. They passed a farm that still had a few potatoes in the ground. The girl saw the potatoes and begged her parents for one. The father, cap in hand, approached the door to the farmhouse.

Now, here’s a moment for you. It could be beautiful. “Yes,” says the farmer. “Bring your daughter inside. Sit her by the fire. I’ll get the potatoes.”

There are stories like that.

But this is not one of them.

The farmer ran the father off his property.

And I wonder. How did the father not let hate consume him? How did the father return to the wagon, to his wife with her mother’s heart dying, and his daughter who only wanted one small potato, and how did he not fill his life with fury?

I wonder if Norway will be filled with hate, now. Or if they will close their ears to the sound of the Glenn Becks, the stupid, ignorant voices of men who have more screen time than brains. I hope so. Because there are those of us out here who would give whatever we could, if we knew how.

Someday My Prince Will Come

2011-07-16T06:55:00.000-07:00

“You’re so pretty,” I tell the 8 year old after she finally bathes and brushes her hair. It’s the first time this week that soap has seen her body and I’m trying to encourage that behavior.

“Good. Then I’ll get a good husband.”

“What? If you’re good, and kind, and smart...”

“Sure. And if I’m pretty.”

Who is raising these children and why isn’t she instilling any values in them? ‘If I’m pretty I’ll get a good husband.’ I swear, Trophy Wife-to-Be has not received any training from me.

The surprising part of all this is who the comment came from. I would expect it from Youngest Daughter who truly believes that looks are the most important part of any project, personal or otherwise. She and her friends are well on their way to being cheerleaders who know more about clothes than they do math. But the 8 year old? She’s the one who, just this week, asked a camp instructor of they offered a week-long kayaking intensive camp. She dresses according to comfort, not fashion, and has her hair in a ponytail because she doesn’t want it touching her skin. She has no use for boys, as far as I can tell, and hasn’t since she was 5. She climbs mountains like she has suction cups on her feet and she plays basketball like she inherited a different gene structure. So why this belief that looks will get her a good husband?

And define ‘good’. Does she mean a gentle, funny man who loves her and encourages her to pursue goals? Or does she mean Prince Charming, who might be rich but has no lines? Or does she mean some sort of 8 year old-defined boy, who chases her on the playground but leaves her alone during reading time?

And why is this a topic she’s thinking about at 8? I certainly don’t talk about her future marriage. I talk about college, about world travel, about her next outdoor adventure. I do not talk about boys.

I would love to delve into her mind a bit more, but she hasn’t had time for me lately. Between mountain biking and hiking and kayaking and canoeing and climbing, she’s been reading the 4th Harry Potter book and doesn’t want to be bothered. Not with me, and not with things like baths and teeth brushing. How that fits into her world scheme of beauty=good husband I have no idea.

Baby, You Can Drive My Car

2011-07-08T06:37:00.001-07:00

Hello, my dearest friends. I’ve missed you. I have not missed the computer, TV or incessant phone ringing, but I have missed the connection, no matter how electronic, I have to my friends in the blog o’sphere.

For instance, my sister is getting married. Her colors are white, black and pink. I’m in charge of helping her find a wedding site and thinking of decorations. When I linked back in to the world of blogging friends, what did I find? My decorating guru had worked her magic on a wedding and posted pictures.

Check off one item on the list of things I should be doing but am avoiding. See, friends? Avoidance works.

Another way it works: on the car trip home from our mega-visit to family on the other side of the Rockies, our check engine light turned on. Outside of Rock Springs, Wyoming. Now, I don’t know if you’ve ever had the pleasure of touring, by car, that great state of Wyoming, but let me tell you, it is not the place to stop just for fun. In fact, we try not to stop at all. So how did we handle the check engine light? By ignoring it, of course. Now, I don’t recommend this practice in general. But we knew the oil was full and the coolant recently topped-off, so what else could possibly be wrong? And what was the result? The light turned off all by itself. Like magic. When the demon that is our car realized it could not force us to spend extra time in the land of manure and sage brush, it gave up that battle in defeat. I’m sure it’s plotting a new strategy. The constant beeping because it thinks the emergency brake is on can be overcome by turning the radio up louder. The door-light that mysteriously turns on can be ignored, mostly. The fuel gauge that never gets to full can be monitored by time (I know it takes about a week to use a whole tank of gas driving the way I normally drive.) I’m waiting for the car to figure out how to randomly eject the driver, or how to fill the car with noxious fumes.

We need a new car. This most recent car trip settled it. We had all 4 kids, suitcases, loveys, food, drinks, portable DVD players, booster seats, car seats, DS games, etc, piled into the car. There was room to breathe, but only by taking turns. We need a car that can hold our gear, our kids, their friends. We need a car that has a window that divides me, the driver, from them, the screaming noisemakers. We need a car that is it’s own drive-thru so we don’t have to stop in Wyoming for food.

Unfortunately, the cars that fit the above list also destroy the entire world. Yukons, Suburbans, Expeditions--these are what we have on the list. I can’t commit. Buying the minivan was bad enough, but going Texas big on a car? I’ll have to buy a cat-o’nine-tails and do penance for the rest of my life.

I haven’t yet seen a friend blog about her car guilt. Am I the only one who has this dual need: the need to fit comfortably in a car and the need to breathe oxygen? I can’t believe I’m so far removed from everyone else. It must be a conspiracy of silence. So, please, break the silence and help me figure out what to do. Before it’s too late. I hear my minivan honking in derision as we speak.

How to Be a Weiner

2011-06-17T06:35:00.001-07:00

Here’s how it to rise through the levels of the World of Political Stupidity game. I’ll outline it for you so that if you ever become a politician, you’ll know what to do.

Commit an indiscretion. This is important. You must actually be guilty. (Don’t worry. When you walk through the doors of Congress, you’ll have to check your morals, so this won’t be as hard as you think it is.) Now, this indiscretion will be one of two types: monetary or who-who.
Get found out. Someone will tell the media. Someone always tells the media.
Categorically deny everything, including even knowing the people involved. I don’t care if it’s your momma who turns you in, you’ve got to play innocent.
After clear and indisputable evidence comes to light, admit to some guilt, but maintain your overall innocence. This is a good time to yell ‘conspiracy.’ If your indiscretion is of a monetary nature, you’ll stay on level 4 for a long time, and then you’ll eventually be made Secretary of State. This is a good thing. You just won the game.
If your indiscretion involved a who-who, either yours or someone else’s, you’ll need to move to this stage. Admit all guilt. Hold a press conference, preferably with your dying loved one standing by your side, and apologize. Make sure you include a)your constituency b)your spouse, whom you’ve hurt and greatly disappointed c)your children d)your mommma e)the general population of the US, who has had to see your ugly face on every newscast for the past week. Refuse to resign.
Resign.

Now, the only change to this plan is if you are President or a Supreme Justice. They don’t resign. They have to stay on level 5 for a very long time, and every 10 years CNN will run a “where are we now?” update on all the players involved, but you get to keep your job, your interns and your aides. You just won the game.

Here’s the question I have: what moron, who uses the media to win a government job, sends photos through that same media? What was that thought process like? “Oh, I know, I’ll just snap a picture of my nasty and send it via this very private forum to a woman, or young girl, who is not my wife. I think that will end well.”

Sleeping Together

2011-06-10T07:09:00.000-07:00

I’m so tired. I spent from 4:00 AM on being smacked awake by Hal’s 50 lb. arm. His theory is that he fell asleep too close to the middle of the bed, instead of hanging onto the edge like he’s supposed to do, and so I felt the windmill that he is at night. My theory is that since he can no longer keep me awake with his moans, hums and snores (thank you, earplugs) he had to find a different way to torment me. I give it 2 more nights and then I’m moving to the guest room. It’s a more comfortable bed, anyway. Of course, then he’ll take up sleepwalking or some other get-Mama-out-of-bed ritual.

Sleep is not what it used to be. When I was in my 20’s, many long years ago, I could fall asleep at 3:00 AM, sleep until noon, eat breakfast, take a nap until 3:00 PM, and repeat. If a noise woke me up at night, which I don’t recall ever happening, I could immediately fall asleep again.

But now. Ah, now. I lay awake for hours. I doze and wake again. If I open my eyes after 3:30 AM, I might as well just get out of bed because I’m not going to be able to sleep again until I get behind the wheel. Or until we go to a park. Somehow, those 2 places seem the best spots in the world to nap, which I never do, that whole survival thing, you know.

I’ve tried lots of different things. I work out like a dog, so it’s not that I just don’t need the sleep. I’ve tried a calm-down routine, usually involving muttering incoherently to myself. I’ve tried Tylenol PM and Unisom and Advil PM. I won’t try Ambien because of some of the very scary side effects. My current cocktail of choice? Nyquil, cherry flavor. I don’t drink alcohol, but a little medicine mixed with that lovely burn, well, that’s been helping.

Until Hal decides to practice his javelin throw in the middle of the night.

If you find him standing on your doorstep with a suitcase, please let him in. He’s a very nice houseguest. But he’ll need his own bed. Sleeping with the man can be a life-threatening situation.

Made for Walking

2011-06-01T06:14:00.000-07:00

The Oldest Girl now has high heels. And I mean, very high heels. At the beginning of this school year, I tried to convince her to get a pair of low mules. She’s never worn anything except flats and tennis shoes and she resisted. But something happened this year. I think it may have been called “Continuation”. All the girls except 2 wore heels. Those two girls were my daughter and her very un-cool best friend. So, the day after Continuation, when I suggested we go shoe shopping, she was overjoyed.

I was thinking she’d try some mules. After all, heels can be tricky, not to mention the whole fear-of-heights thing she inherited from her father.

To my surprise, not only did she choose 2 pairs of low tacones, but she also chose a pair of 3 inch sandals. At first, I thought about nixing the sandals. After all, she’s only 12. But then I thought about the shoes the other girls wore, and about what it means to go into Junior High, and I decided to honor her knowledge about her peer group. It’s a fine line, this wanting a child to fit in but to also be more than just a peg in the social machinations. After all, I kept her out of cheerleading in Texas. What more can a mother do?

She’s been practicing, and so far, there are no broken bones. It reminds me of when she learned to walk. Those teetering, Frankenstein steps, grasping out for a handhold on furniture and walls. By the end of yesterday, though, she could do stairs with confidence, if not exactly grace. But these are the mules she’s trying. We’ll see what happens when she tries to play Dragon Warriors in her new sandals.

One Tribe Ya'll

2011-05-24T10:31:00.000-07:00

I have the great privilege of putting together the 6th grade Continuation slideshow, filled with pictures and songs permanently recording this momentous year. I say privilege, but I really mean “guilt-driven responsibility because I was raised by an Irish/Catholic/Jewish/Mormon mother/grandmother (have I insulted everyone?) and I also have a need to control all media experiences.” The email sent by the teacher went roughly, “Last year, an overachieving parent put together a slideshow for the graduation which we symbolically call ‘continuation’. Since that parent set the standard, your children will all feel unloved and will suffer for the rest of their lives if one of you doesn’t step forward to volunteer to put the slideshow together. You will get nominal help from us and absolutely no support from any other parent because they all know that a) no one will watch the DVD and b) you’re going to screw up somehow and will anger everyone.”

So, with a sell job like that, I shot back an email saying that I’d love to do it and it would be a breeze. Of course, I hadn’t actually made a slideshow on this particular computer before, so the term “breeze” may have been an overstatement. Also, since getting the job (only one other parent volunteered and she was going into surgery 2 weeks before Continuation, lucky dog) I’ve done nothing but complain, so I haven’t really loved doing it. What can I say? I’m a total liar.

But I’m also smart. Or, rather, I remember being a pre-teen. The kids nominated songs. I read all of the lyrics on one of the reliable lyrics websites and tossed out all but 9. Then I tossed out 2 more because they were too old. One was Motley Crue, one was Modern English (while I love M.E., no 12 year old except those who are overly-controlled voluntarily listen to M.E., and I happen to know that the parents of the child who nominated that song do, in fact, control every facet of her life. Even more than I control my children.) Then, I threw out Stronger by Kanye because you just can’t get a clean version. And I threw out Moment 4 Life by Nicki Minaj ft. Drake because it’s stupid and because Drake just can’t help himself, he’s rated R.

Now, this next step is important, and you should take notes in case you are ever asked to put together music for 12 year olds.

After verifying that the lyrics were clean, I YouTubed the videos.

Because I know that what I read as an adult and what the kids see as 12 year olds is completely different.

One of the songs nominated was called Howlin’ for You. Pretty bland lyrics, all about a dog who likes a girl. Catchy tune, made it to my list of possibilities.

But the video? OHMYGOSH, I need to scrub by eyeballs with bleach.

I feel so dirty, so used.

And I promptly balled up that song request and tossed it in the garbage. I did not even recycle the contaminated paper it was written on.

So, in conclusion, out of 9 songs, I narrowed it down to 4 we could use, which was the exact number I needed to be the backdrop for the stunning visuals that are the focal point for this scintillating full-length (16 minutes) feature. The songs are (in case you need to do the same thing this year and I can save you the trouble): Firework, Katy Perry; Unstoppable, Rascal Flats; One Tribe, Black Eyed Peas; Forget You, Cee Lo Green.

Now, I know Forget You has been changed from the original. I debated that. But, in the end, I needed 4 songs and the clean version squeaks. Oh, and if you’re doing this for school, I recommend not putting One Tribe on while you show pictures of the administration. One of the lines says, “Forget about all that evil, the evil that they feed ya.” While it may not mean much to the kids, it may make the adults burst into gales of laughter, and laughter is not allowed at Continuation.

Linwood Delong

2011-05-21T05:27:00.000-07:00

Linwood Delong had just sent me an email promising “no carnal breakdowns 120%.” I’m not sure what the percentage refers to, and I don’t think I can bring myself to begin a conversation with a man called “Linwood Delong”. He also tells me that “Best cures for male libido are sold here on the web!” Is that a cure for women who have male libidos, for men with a libido, or for one or the other who would like to have a male libido but don’t? He also implores me to “Try on lowered prices now!” I think I look better in full-prices, but I’m open to trying on lowered ones, too.

Do people respond to those emails? Is it a good business move? I’m trying to picture, or not picture, I should say, the many sitting at his computer who says to himself, “Yes, that’s exactly what I need.” I imagine he doesn’t do much more than sit at his computer, which makes me sad and more than just a little grossed out. He probably also wins at solitaire and has several games of World of Warcraft going. Poor balding, smelly, hairy, toe-picking, Journey concert-shirt-wearing man.

Hal has gone on a Facebook hiatus. Maybe he was tired of communicating with me via that private forum. He had something he really, really wanted to post, though, so he made me do it for him. It involves a video camera, a troop of Boy Scouts and the title “Campgrounds of Doom.” It is exactly as bad as you think it is. A friend of ours wrote, produced, directed and filmed it. A genius he may be, but if he ever replaces Lucas, I’m going to hold this early movie over his head until he pays me loads of money and promises to name his first born child after me.

For my part, I am not on any sort of hiatus, unless it’s a cleaning hiatus. May has become the new December around here, not only because it’s still snowing, but because the school has thrown in every sort of program, recital, performance and party they can think of. Each child has an end-of-school project, an end-of-school performance and an end-of-school graduation ceremony. I’ve got an end-of-school need to sleep which is not being helped in spite of loads of Tylenol PM. I might need the heavy stuff. I might need a new bottle of Nyquil.

Or maybe I should reply to Linwood’s email. He might have a magic snake medicine that will help me sleep. I’ll let you know if he does.

Raisin in the Sun

2011-05-15T14:16:00.000-07:00

I walked into the gym prepared to battle the treadmill for 11 miles. I have Baby Boy on one hip, my Ipod fully charged and a bottle of zero calorie Vitamin Water, which is nasty and bitter unless you’re dying of thirst. I’m wearing shorts because I hate clothes touching my sweaty body but I haven’t yet found a private nudist gym. Very private, as in only one member--me. I check Baby Boy into the nursery and tell him to be good for the next 2 hours. I’m not a fast runner. I walk to the treadmills which are on the opposite side of the gym. I’m ready. I am a warrior. I am a running maniac. I am...

Wearing a squished raisin on my knee.

I’m not very astute when it comes to fashion, but even I know that wearing big chunks of food should be avoided. Unless you’re Lady Gaga, and then you can only wear meat, it seems. The vegetarian version of that outfit is not nearly as comment-provoking.

But it did get me some good stares, which is why I noticed it.

I would not make a good politician. First of all, because I say stupid things all the time, and stupid things always seem to make the news. Second, because I walk out of the house without checking myself in the mirror. I’m rather surprised that I haven’t had raisins coating my body more often. Third, I have morals. Not high ones, and not anything Mother Teresa would recognize as being moral, but more than politicians have.

So, here’s Mitt Romney. I don’t like him. I don’t trust people with hair that perfect. Aside from his hair, I don’t like his remade political views. But I’ve got to hand it to him. Massachusetts is dying over the ballooning costs of the health care system he put in place, and instead of back-pedaling, he’s chutzpah-ing through it. Man is either stupid or has cajones. I’m still not sending him money, though.

I think Palin and Romney should be on a ticket together. It could be called the Hair Team.

I hate politics. But worse than politics is the lack of a functioning political system. Think of the Congo, where it’s estimated that 1,152 women are raped. A day. That’s 48 women per hour. It takes political control through fear to a whole new level.

Here’s a quote from an 18 year old soldier. “We rape women in order to beat the enemy.” One-third of the rapes involve children, and 13 percent are against children under 10.

This is what I would like to see politicians figuring out. The most powerful nation in the world, at least until our rating is downgraded because we can’t pay our loans, and we’re worried about raisins on our knees instead of the state of our sisters. We’re more worried about seeing Obama’s birth certificate than we are about the suffering of the whole nation of Congo.

Excuse me now. I’ve got to step off my high horse.

Words Words Words

2011-05-10T15:04:00.000-07:00

There. It means a place, a location, as in “over there, under there, in there.” It’s easy to remember: it’s the same as “here” only it takes longer to get there.

Their. It means that the something in question belongs to them. Their download, their heir, their stupid spelling mistake.

When you post a message on YouTube, if you are silly enough to do so, please use the correct their/there. I realize that most people comment on videos are 1) drunk 2) 12 or 3) in a locked correctional facility. But you’d think that they could at least get it right. It’s not like they couldn’t double check--they’ve got time.

We frustrated English majors have nothing better to do than obsess over such things, but I swanney, nothing makes me write off what someone writes faster than a misuse of their/there.

But lest you chalk this up to the rantings of a housewife who shouldn’t even be viewing Black Eyed Peas videos, this is important, people. One misunderstanding, one wrong use, and we could have a new world war. Troy fell because of a misspoken word. OJ was acquitted because the Prosecution misused a word. Oedipus became his own stepfather and killed his dad, all over a word.

Okay, none of that’s true, but you weren’t sure, were you? It could have been true.

These are the things that keep me awake at night, that offer me joy and self-aggrandizement.

On my gravestone, I want you to carve “She knew the difference between their and there.”

Selling It

2011-05-06T09:46:00.000-07:00

When not wiping noses or cursing nap-time-door-bell-ringers, I’ve begun using my free time to wisely peruse Etsy. The addiction began innocently enough. I’m doing an on-line art class with my girls, and the artist in charge has an Etsy shop. Cute stuff, you can find it here. But, like car wrecks and Johnny Depp movies, one look led to another, which led to another...

Some sites I enjoy, like this one that appears to just be a Canadian girl with her markers. Fun. But some? Like this one. What Warhol-would-be needs a planter shaped like a dinosaur? Oh, sure, put the prickly cactus in the dinosaurs back and watch all the kids run screaming for Mommy. “I was just attacking the Diplodocus with the Ichthyosaur when the needles poked me.” Is it a toy? Is it a plant? I need a clear separation between my vegetation and the things that get thrown to the basement when guests are expected.

I also had no idea that so much could be done with felt. You may be getting some of these for Christmas.

And, like Ebay, watch out for the “vintage”. That’s just internet speak for “I found it in my garage and thought I’d sucker someone out of $50.” Olive green boots from the 1970’s? Do I need to say more than “1970?”

You can also buy enough vinyl to cover your entire house with pithy--or not so pithy--sayings. That’s actually a great idea because then you don’t have to have books in your house. You can tell your kids to just go read the walls. If your husband is like mine, though, you may find the words rearranged to have a completely different meaning. I have some wooden blocks that spell “FAMILY”. He rearranged them to say “I Am Fly.” Which is even funnier, given the cottage look of the blocks, the completely suburban house in which they reside, and the uber-white person they were supposed to describe.

I might open an Etsy shop. It’s spring cleaning time, and I’m just itching to get my hands on the middens my children call “bedrooms.”

Warning

2011-05-04T14:00:00.000-07:00

If you bring your child to my house and expect me to be the sole care provider for any amount of time, this is your warning.

If it’s nice outside, your child will get dirty. If your child doesn’t like dirt, your child will not like being at my house. My children love mud, and frequently paint themselves and each other, including guests, with mud. I call it “creativity”. It washes off, so don’t panic. If i† isn’t nice outside, you child will almost certainly end up with paint or nailpolish or makeup all over. Even if he’s a boy. My son prefers his lipstick on his forehead, but yours might like to put eyeshadow there. It’s body art. Be happy I didn’t pull out the Sharpies.
If your child is a picky eater, bring food. I don’t stock chocolate milk, Oreos or PowerBars (yes, I had a child who only wanted chocolate milk--from the container, not mixed--and PowerBars. Don’t know what idiot feeds a child PowerBars, but it isn’t this idiot.) In fact, it might be a good idea to bring food even if your child isn’t a picky eater. My children can eat your child’s Goldfish, and your child can eat my bananas.
If you have a barely-2 year old who you think is now potty trained, pack pullups anyway. I promise you that very few 2 year olds are ready to be in a strange house in panties. Padding is required. And if you don’t pack pullups, you might find your child in a diaper when you pick her up. Because even when I remind her every 15 minutes to go potty, and even if she’s piddled 3 times, she will still poop in her pants and be horribly embarrassed and start crying and I won’t have any little girl panties her size so she’ll have to use a pair of left-over pullups that you’re lucky I could find so next time, just put her in the stupid pullups to begin with!
I don’t like kids jumping on my couch. If you’re watching your child jump on my couch, tell her to stop. If she doesn’t stop, be the parent and put your foot down. If you don’t, and if you leave your child with me, I will pull out those Sharpies and tell her to pretend she’s going on a Navy Seal Op. and there can’t be any white left on her face or she’ll be captured by the enemy.
I really like having children play at my house. I like the smell of Play-do, I don’t mind Moon Sand too much, I make cookies and ants on a log and sandwiches that look like butterflies or hearts. I enjoy loud voices outside, and don’t mind semi-loud ones inside. I like it when all the toys are pulled out and there’s an elaborate game going on. I will be kind to your child, I will try to comfort if comfort is needed, and I will watch any number of plays, talent shows, performances, or baking demonstrations. I will eat cupcakes and icecream made out of dough, bark, sand, or mud, and a few worms thrown on top doesn’t phase me. But I don’t like having the TV on if there are kids to play with. Unless it’s a sleepover and your child has been here more than 3 hours, warn her that I will not let her turn the TV on. And under no circumstances will she be watching The Bachelor, thank you very much. Kid TV is limited to DVDs I supply and 3 stations, none of which play Desperate Housewives or Ghost Whisperer. At your house, you may have different rules, but I don’t care if it’s the last episode ever, it’s not on at my house.

Runaway Imagination

2011-05-01T19:45:00.000-07:00

I’m laughing at myself. All day long, I’ve been imagining William and Kate. Thinking about how sweet, to live in a farmhouse, how fun to wake up in the country to the sound of nothing but nature, how wonderful to be newly married. Okay, I know they’ve been living together for a long time (must be hard to live in the same house and not have sex.) But it makes me remember the fun part of being together in the beginning. Without children. I love my children, but it isn’t the same. First of all, I wear a mouthguard, thick man socks and flannel pajamas to bed now. I don’t imagine Kate wears a mouthguard and flannel pjs, and I certainly can’t picture her wearing man socks to bed. At the very least, her flannel pjs don’t look like mine. I have one pair that has a safety pin holding the shirt together. Well, it would, if I hadn’t taken the safety pin out to use it somewhere else and now it’s lost. So, the shirt has nothing but a couple of threadbare buttons to keep it closed. And it’s 2 sizes too large for me. Talk about sexy. I won’t post a picture because I don’t want your husbands getting all interested in my hot flannel night garb. But I can tell you where to get your own, if you want to tone down the spice in your marriage. Land’s End, my friend, Land’s End. Tell Minnesota Grandma ‘hi’ for me when you call.

Not only have I been thinking about how fun it must be for Balding William and Amazing Kate right now, but I thought about what it would have been like for them to partake in our Sunday Night dinner.

First of all, every single child in my house had the Loud Giggles. The three girls were out-pacing each other in the “no, listen to this!” dinner conversation. The baby refused to sit in his chair, and instead sat on the table. He burped, and when the girls laughed, he practiced burping again. Burp, laugh, burp, laugh... It’s upscale behavior like this that made me start giggling as I pictured the looks-like-a-queen Kate and reserved William sitting with us.

Then, our meal wasn’t exactly British fare. In fact, we had an homage to our ancestors. Bacon, johnnycakes served with maple syrup and strawberry/rhubarb sauce, root beer and strawberry-rhubarb pie for dessert. Yummy, but I’m picturing the royal couple sitting at our table, trying to be polite as they nibble fried cornmeal and listen to the entertainment.

But I’m such a little girl inside, still. I love stories of princesses and weddings and first-blush romance. I can’t wait for the Duke and Duchess to have babies, first of all, because I like to encourage boob sag wherever possible. Second of all, because I’m happy for them, and I want all the joy I can think of to be theirs. Nothing makes a better meal than 4 kids who make a game out of squishing the food between their teeth so their siblings can say, “That’s disgusting! Watch this.”

Mad Hatter

2011-04-29T12:00:00.000-07:00

Poor, poor Eugenie and Beatrice. The ugly cousins to balding-yet-handsome Prince William and scruffy-yet-charming (except for the whole nazi thing) Harry. It must be hard to be chunky, or over-eyelinered, or to have a bow poop on your head, when you’re in the company of a couple who was, I must say, dazzling.

When I get married to a prince, I want to be coiffed and tailored and perfectly put together, too.

But I’m much more likely to be the ugly cousin, adjusting the waistband of my dress because it’s too tight. And ducking the wrong way out of the car because I forgot that my hat is 3 feet high. I’m glad birds didn’t nest in it. It had plenty of branches. Of course, royal birds wouldn’t make that mistake. Only American ones would think she’d worn the hat out of some Earth-day homage.

I’ve got to say, Eugenie’s dress/coat thingy was cute. It would look very good on me. Beatrice’s dress would look good on a 50-year-old time-traveling from the ’80’s. 3 bows on the top? Why? To accentuate the tapestry she’d stolen from Buckingham?

Here’s the only thing that bugged me about the royal couple. While they were sitting in their chairs enjoying the music and speeches, or thinking about FINALLY having sex after having dated for so long, I wanted him to take her hand. Oh, I know, they’re Brits and they’re only allowed to touch at proscribed times. But, I really, really wanted them to hold hands during the entertainment.

When my son becomes a prince and gets married, I’ll tell him to hold her hand.

And when he does, I hope I look as good as Carol Middleton. Classy, classy woman. The fact that she didn’t wet herself while standing next to Queen Elizabeth and Hot-Pants Camilla, well, that shows how much chutzpah she’s got.

My favorite moment of the day: youngest daughter sees Prince William from behind. “He’s bald already?!? That’s gross!” The one thing she grabs onto, out of all the hats, dresses, pomp and horses, is the bald spot on the groom’s head.

It’s just proof I’m raising my kids with an idea of what’s truly most important in life. Looks.

Reporting on Thorns

2011-04-25T14:20:00.001-07:00

This year, the Easter Bunny was threatened. “Give me chocolate, and I’ll eat you for dinner, you freakishly large rabbit.” He did not give me chocolate. Instead, he gave me a blackberry bush and 2 rose bushes. It’s been a thorny year.

The Easter Bunny is a wimp at heart. Well, he’s a rabbit, so I suppose it’s hereditary. He hides eggs, for Pete’s sake. Eggs? My children died 20 eggs this year, and have eaten exactly none of them. Okay, they’ve eaten 2 of them, deviled, and were pleased, I’m sure, to discover they each had another one for lunch. Wanna know how many we still have in the fridge? A friend takes her kids to a big hill and they all chuck their eggs down the hill. Sounds a bit Canadian Hillbilly to me, not to mention vaguely vandal-like, but at lest they don’t sit in her fridge and mock her. “Hey, so much for your environmentalism. Do you know how much waste is produced so you can buy your $1/dozen Grade A Large Eggs? And here we sit, rotting, just like that swiss chard you swore you’d do something with.”

My fridge is full. It must be time to get rid of the moldy things. Not only the swiss chard, but the mysterious items in Glad plastic bins. Hal has been making a good dent in the extra chocolate buttercream frosting I told him I would totally use if he made, and which I haven’t even looked at since, but it’s frosting. It’ll keep for months. I really need him to start taking spoons of the sauteed carrots and leftover roasted potatoes. How come he never sneaks bites of those? And why do I never catch him sticking his fingers in the almost-wilted spinach? I need KH to make me some spanikopita. Or I need to get over my hatred of working with puff pastry and do it myself.

We have rhubarb going blazes in the front yard. It’s pretty. It’s also only good with about 7,000 tons of sugar and a few strawberries doesn’t hurt, either.

I wonder if rhubarb and wilted spinach would taste good with buttercream frosting?

Taming the Wilderness

2011-04-20T06:08:00.000-07:00

I have a new Summer project. I want a patio in my backyard. To be specific, I want an all-natural flagstone patio. When my children move out of the house and I no longer have nightmares about them drowning, I’ll put in a stone water feature and rock-wall that curves appealingly around the patio. But for this year, I want the patio.

Hal has gone on strike, and this is my problem. In theory, I could build the patio myself. In practice, I don’t think I can single-handedly lift 4 tons of flagstone, which is what the expert rock people said I would need to cover the area I want. In theory, I’ve seen plenty of HGTV shows with the couple digging out, leveling, laying gravel, weed block, sand and finally, the flagstone. It takes them a weekend. There are contests with prizes such as a new grill. There are friends who drop by to lend muscle, to eat pizza, to nod their heads sagely as they contemplate the many hours of peaceful dialogue they will have with the homeowners around the new patio.

Did I mention that Hal is completely, 100%, absolutely, refusing to move flagstone for me? I considered hiring the neighborhood teens to do it. I may still do that. But, suddenly, with no help from Hal (usually, his “help” turns into him doing it all, which may have something to do with his lack of enthusiasm now), I find myself thinking that I can’t do it at all. Who am I to think that I can shovel 400 square feet of dirt just to level the area for the patio? What, am I Cro-Magnon woman, come to defend the clan against the enemy? No. I am Flabby Middle-Aged Housewife who looks at decorator magazines a little too often. I am a woman with 4 children, a huge garden, and more projects than brains.

I tried convincing my dad to come spend a week “helping.” I think Hal warned him. As I recall, the conversation went something like this:

“Hey, Dad, since you’re finished with your backyard, maybe you’d like to...”

(Interrupted by convulsive laughter. Long, long interruption.)

“Like I was saying, maybe you could come work on my...”
(More laughter. You get the picture.)

If I ever get it finished, or even started, I’ll take pictures. In the meantime, if you know anyone who needs a good workout, I’ve got an open air gym with no start-up fee and low monthly dues. They just need to know how to move rock.

Letting the Universe Know

2011-04-16T14:25:00.000-07:00

Dear People Who Annoyed Me This Week,

First, I’m sorry that you’re a man wearing a Statue of Liberty costume. That really sucks for you. It also says a lot about your study habits in High School. But, please, don’t wave your “3 Days Left to File” sign in my direction. If I’m forced to stop my car for a red light and you are on the corner next to me, do not sing your Metallica song in my direction. Do not give me a thumbs-up and ask me to honk. I will not honk. If you were to stand in front of my car, I still would not honk. I might gun the engine and drive quickly over your poor, needs-a-different-job body, but I would not honk. I don’t like being accosted by men. And on a day when you’re reminding me about taxes, I would rather hit you with this dirty diaper that’s been sitting in my car for 4 days because I keep forgetting to put it in the garbage can than give you a thumbs-up in return.

Second, dear lady at the gym, there are two rows of showers. Each of these rows has a series of 4 shower heads, sectioned off by clear plexi-glass. If there is only one person (me) showering, DO NOT TAKE THE SHOWER NEXT TO ME! There are rules, and one of those rules states that you should choose a shower in the opposite row. I don’t want to see your ugly naked butt. I do not want you to see my ugly naked butt. This is not a bonding moment: it is a moment that makes me want to kick your legs out from under you. Men understand the “don’t stand next to me when I pee” rule. Why, oh, why, do you not understand the “don’t stand next to me when I shower” rule? And, if I’m in the shower closest to the drain, you cannot be anywhere in the same row. Because your nasty shower water will wash over my feet and I’ll feel your cooties and I may be tempted to pee on you. I’m just sayin’.

Third, sweaty gross man, ellipticals are for women. Be a man and go lift free weights or jog or do whatever it is that men do, but get off the elliptical trainer. And, if you feel you really must go “swish, swish, swish”, don’t do it next to me. The gym has, count them, 4 rows of ellipticals. There is absolutely no reason for you to put your eu-de-stale-cologne-and-sweat stench in my air space. I can smell you. And it makes me want to puke. So instead of feeling the thrill of going 60 minutes up an elliptical hill, I now need to take a Percoset and sleep. Besides, you think that this is a social occasion and you try to talk. My friends can talk to me while I’m working out. We talk about boobs and vaginas and you don’t have any of that, so keep your body and your chat out of my workout.

Ahh, that feels better.

Steve Jobs Reincarnate

2011-04-10T18:56:00.000-07:00

“My teacher has the coolest thing. It’s an actual tray that you put in the freezer and it makes ice! We should get some of those.” 8 year old is amazed by the technology. Imagine, not having to rely on the ice maker, but actually being able to put the water in a tray and put the tray in the freezer and then having ice cubes.

Maybe I’ll buy some of that new technology for one of the 3 weddings coming up. Making ice together can be a unifying activity. It can remind couples of the need for patience, for perseverance, for remembering to fill the freakin’ tray if you take the last cube. Of course, it could also be a recipe for disaster, along the lines of “where do you squeeze the toothpaste tube” and “toilet seat up or down?”

When Hal and I were first married, he never put the seat down. I gently let him know that he was a fool, but he didn’t listen. Until he dropped his hairbrush in the toilet. And I laughed, heartily, as he reached in to retrieve it. For the next 15 years, he lowered the seat. We solved the toothpaste issue by buying separate tubes. When he almost smacked his elbow into my nose while doing one of his “launch and twist” sleeping moves, we got a king size mattress so he had elbow space and I had nose space. I thought God had smiled on us. On me, particularly.

Until 5 months ago.

5 months ago, Hal stopped lowering the toilet seat.

What, I need poop bacteria all over my face rag? I want a disease from brushing my teeth? Sheesh.

But, we’ve solved that problem, too.

I have my own bathroom, now.

It seems that the best way to function in our marriage is to have totally separate, non-confrontational lives. That way, we only connect on things that are pleasant, like haranguing the children and ridiculing the neighbors. The best way to get along is to avoid all unpleasant situations.

This is the life lesson I’ve taken away from my 16 years of marriage.

It’s just a good thing we’ve never disagreed on where to live.

A Big Bag of Cow Manure

2011-04-07T11:22:00.000-07:00

Spring is here! Oh, wait, no... There, I think I see it... Nope, not that, either. I’d rather have 80 degrees one day and 50 degrees the next than all in the 50’s, but even I’m getting a bit tired of the back and forth, snow then shorts spell we’ve been having.

I’m getting tired of the government, too. All of ‘em. They have one job to do--run the government. That’s what they were hired to do. At this point, I’m not even expecting new, beneficial legislation. I just want them to pay the workers. Just sign a stupid budget already! If it were up to me, I’d spank ‘em and send ‘em to bed until they learn to get along.

I wonder what would happen if everyone worked as well as Congress. Microsoft is the only real-world analogy that comes close--will it turn on? Will it save my document? Will that stupid little paperclip pop up on my screen yet again? Which may be why I switched to a Mac. If an outfit looked as dumb as the US Congress looks, I’d wear it to punish my children. If a maid thought she may or may not clean the toilets, may or may not mop the floor, may or may not show up for work, she may or may not eat, and that’s the end of that career. If I took care of my kids the way Congress is taking care of the people, CPS would step in sooner than you can say “government shutdown”. I could go on all day, but there are tulips in my front yard and I think I’ll go shovel some manure onto my garden. There’s another analogy in there somewhere, but you get it.

Missing

2011-04-03T12:51:00.000-07:00

“We took pictures, we cooked. It was like she was never missing.”

Except for those 23 years.

The story of Nejdra Nance, or Carlina White as she is on her birth certificate, kidnapped as an infant from a hospital and recently reunited with family.

How could it be like she was never missing? Last time her mom saw her, she pooped her pants, drank from a bottle, and didn’t know how to say “911”.

The sentence bothers me. I’m trying to make it fit with my own imagined feelings of what it would be like to have a child returned after 23 years, all the experiences we would have missed together.

No first date. In fact, Nance had her own child before being reunited, so no sitting in the waiting room for the 1st grandchild to be born, either. No first bike ride, no first fight with a friend, no first anything, really. Well, first “reuniting with birth family” but I don’t think that makes up for it.

Maybe the sentence means that she fit in. There was laughter and good feelings and joy, and maybe some “Oh, yah, I do that, too!” moments. And everyone felt connected.

My mother was adopted, and when she found her birth mother, they had some stuff in common. My mom had this “oh, this is why I am this way” thing happen to her. Of course, having BiPolar in common doesn’t seem like the happiest way to connect, but whatever. Other than that, I don’t think they were really so similar. There’s a lot to be said for nature. But here’s the other thing I know. There’s a lot to be said for nurture, too. My mom became who she was in large part because of the parenting of the people who raised her. Why did she like raspberry jam? Because my grandfather made the best frozen raspberry jam in the world, which we put on everything from peanut butter sandwiches to ice cream. Why did she sing “I see the moon and the moon sees me?” Because my grandmother sang it to her. Why was she the worst practical joker, once convincing me that an ex-boyfriend had called me after 2 years of no-contact? Because her mother took great delight in fooling people, too. Her adopted mother, that is. The mother who wiped the boogers off her nose, who taught her about menstruation and acne and how to shave.

What activities would Nance have enjoyed if she’d been raised by her real parents? Maybe she wouldn’t have had a child at 17. Maybe she would have learned to speak Japanese. Maybe she would have discovered that she really loved mixing the stuffing for Thanksgiving dinner, and so that would have become her job, and every year, from the time she was 4, her family would tell the story about the first time she pulled a chair up to the counter and took over the stuffing.

The inside jokes, the glances that mean “I know what you’re thinking, don’t you dare say it”, the nudges that mean “can you believe that happened again?” Those are the things the family will never have, that make it exactly like she’s been missing for 23 years.

But maybe the sentence is a way of dealing with it. Because if my child went missing for 23 years, I think the heartbreak would cause me to find a fantasy world where my arms weren’t empty. So maybe the sentence is a way of saying, “We’ll fit her back in and we’ll be okay in spite of the 23 lost years.”

Into the Gap

2011-03-30T16:10:00.001-07:00

Thank you, Gap. I just bought a pair of skinny jeans that are HIGH RISE. Oh, blessed waist that sits where a waist ought to sit. I would like to buy the whole world a pair of these jeans. I’m so sick of seeing butt cracks. And I don’t care how fancy your dental floss undies are, I don’t want images in my head. It wasn’t attractive on plumbers; it isn’t attractive on you.

I’m also sick of pulling down my shirt and hiking up my pants. Because I’m pretty sure you don’t want to see my butt cleavage, either. It wasn’t pretty pre-kids. It’s not pretty now.

But, Gap, I have to tell you. Why in Thor’s name would I want to buy my daughters low-rise bikini undies? Do I want people lookin’ at their pert little bottoms? No, I do not. Do I think it’s adorable to sell my children’s sexuality at age 5, or 8, or 12? Uh, no. Do I think that pre-emergent adult behavior is cute? Well, when they sweep the floor, or fold the towels, or diaper their babies, then, yes, that’s cute. But low-rise bikini underwear? That is not cute. I don’t think this is a case of me grousing about the evils of the rising generation. This is me saying that “sexy” shouldn’t be an adjective applied to children. Ever. And the only time I wanna see kid undies is in the package or when the kid is hanging upside down on a chair singing a song about boogers.

Except my son. Right now, he’s in his 10-hour-old diaper (read: sagging to his knees), standing on the table, throwing a box around. He thinks he’s Hercules. I don’t know what’s in the box. It’s addressed to Hal and I know it isn’t a present for me because I haven’t emailed any websites with possible Easter ideas, so for all I know, Baby is breaking some valuable Man Item. But probably not. Probably it’s full of something nasty and completely useless, like Muscle Milk or extra-large foam fingers. Oh, those are sexy, let me tell you...

Quilted Northern

2011-03-27T15:32:00.000-07:00

“It has to keep me clean while getting me clean.”

EEEW! Do I need Random Matrons to describe to me what toilet paper is supposed to do? No, I don’t, Newton. I’ve got that all figured out; years of experience, you know.

What is it with commercials giving too many details? Take Viagra. I don’t need the visuals, Mr. Hefner. I totally understand what Viagra is for, and if I don’t, I’ll just ask my doctor. I don’t need a bathtub, set out by the ocean, and a man and woman looking all sexy at each other. Gross. If I wanted to think about other people having sex, I’d pick cute famous people, not ugly strangers.

Same goes for the Axe commercials. First, as though a smell would get some greasy, basement-dwelling World of Warcraft playing 30 year old any girl, let alone multiple girls. Everyone knows that if you’re that man, you’d better also be a rock star, or there’s no sex for you, buddy. If you are a rock star, you can have your pick of supermodels. Funny, that. Men who are flatly disgusting can’t keep the girls off if they have a hit song to back them up. Really? Do you think Mick Jagger should ever have been able to reproduce? Not in a normal world.

Back to the Axe commercials. I truly hate them. Not only because they are so unreal, but because they make my stomach heave. Clearly, I am not their target audience.

Quilted Northern has had its share of bad commercials. Remember a few years ago, when they had all the ladies sitting around the tp “quilting” it? Well, the first few weeks they ran those adds, all the women had knitting needles in their hands. I’m not sure who was in charge of research on that, but I hope they got fired. Like they couldn’t google “quilting” and get a bunch of pictures of grandmas with quilting frames. I was offended. I pictured some NYC 20-something saying, “Yah, I saw a lady quilting in the airport. She had all this yarn and some sticks and they kept making a clicking noise...” Premio for being stupid.

And the baby talking commercials? Where they super-impose talking lips on babies? Creepy. It does not make me want to buy your baby food, but it does make me want to take a few Percoset.

I miss the cat food commercials with dancing cats, though. “Meow meow meow meow...” You know the one I mean. There’s nothing like a dancing cat to make me wish I had a reason to buy Meow Mix.

And, I’ve got to fess up, I also love the Old Spice commercials with the Man. You know who I mean. I’m thinking about buying Hal a pair of those pants, but that might be TMI.

Photo Op

2011-03-22T13:25:00.000-07:00

Three of my children are sick. Patient Zero at our home was the now-recovered 5 year old, who is upset because she has to go to school while everyone else stays home. I’d rather go to school. Not only do I want to pull my hair out by the 3rd episode in the Suite Life on Deck mega-marathon, but Nothing is what Youngest Child wants. Not to be held, not to be put down, not to be fed, not to be hungry, not to read a book, not to... You get it.

It seems that my children aren’t the only ones who have the mysterious “no fever but my tummy hurts and I can’t eat anything” disease. How do you treat that? I’ve heard from 3 other families today, all saying their kids are sick.

It must have spread.

Illness, that’s the olive branch I’m holding out to our military.

Have you read this? And, no, it doesn’t come from some liberal, granola-crunching recycled newspaper. It comes from Germany. Well, originally, it came from Afghanistan, but Germany printed it.

I read it, and I still feel sick. Sick in my stomach. Sick in my heart.

I’m sorry for the victims. I’m sorry for their families, their villages, their countrymen. I’m sorry for the soldiers, who thought that wearing a uniform made it okay to be barbarians. I’m sorry for the soldiers’ families, who sent little boys off to fight in a war and instead of returning proud men, they’re returning full of ugliness and horror.

And I’m sorry for myself. Because the little girl I used to be, the one who waved a flag on the 4th of July, doesn’t want to see that our army isn’t always good, that it has moments of brutality and blood lust, and that makes us more like the bad guys than I’m comfortable being.

So, except for the 5 year old, all of us at my house are sick, and there isn’t a Triaminic that covers what we have. The two oldest girls might benefit from less TV. Boy might benefit from 10 more hours of sleep. But Hal and me? What panacea is there when you’re heart-sick and feel like vomiting?

Elaine and Gary

2011-03-18T13:58:00.000-07:00

When you flip through Architectural Digest or Martha do you think, "Why don't I live that way? Why don't my hand-stitched pillows stay fluffed on the artfully arranged couch in front of the mural I painted myself? Why is my home the only one decorated in Early Peanut Butter Stains?" Well, thanks to a reader who has far too much time on his hands, I'm coping the URl for the story of a family which does live that way. Have a lovely weekend.

Bully For You

2011-03-15T12:50:00.000-07:00

I stood in the middle of the locker room, my shirt, socks and undies on. My pants were the tool of a tug-of-war between me and Donetta. That’s her real name. If she’s reading this, I’ll accept an apology via the comments section.

Donetta and her friends had zeroed in on me, with my braces and glasses and my gangly Middle-school age hair and budding acne. Every day for a year, I raced to the locker room to try to get my clothes before Donetta got them. Mostly, I failed. She’d stolen a necklace my parents bought me in Amsterdam, untold amounts of money, and my dignity.

So, here I was, in a tug-of-war for my clothes. It was a very real possibility that I’d have nothing on my butt when the bell rang.

I don’t remember the rest of the story. Eventually, I got my clothes. Eventually, I moved. Eventually, I’ll stop linking the name Donetta with Devil.

Fast-forward 6 years. I’m a Senior, and I don’t feel threatened by my peers. In fact, I’ve got a pretty good social life. I date as much as I want, I have friends I love, and I haven’t felt out-classed for years.

But along comes Ivy (not her real name, because she’s a victim here.) She’s a Sophomore. And for some reason I still haven’t figured out, I cannot stand her. We should be in the same social settings--we like the same music, the same type of boy, the same clothes. She’s young enough that she doesn’t pose a threat to me. But I do all the mean-girl things. I write pithy, cutting poems and post them on all the lockers around hers. I slam her locker door shut. A lot. I make animal noises when she passes me in the hall. And one time, I left a roll of toilet paper on her doorstep with a note that said, “I would have TP’d you, but you’re not worth the trouble.”

Now, don’t get all psychological on me. I was mature enough to know that I had no right to abuse her like that. And I don’t think it was my Donetta moment.

Here’s what I do know: I’ve felt bad since I graduated.

So, recently on Facebook, I sent her a message, apologizing. I didn’t ask to be her friend--I’m really not interested in that, anyway. I just wanted her to know that, although the poems were very clever, they were evil and I’m sorry.

She responded. I didn’t expect her to, but she was very gracious and grown-up about it all. She said she hopes my life is flourishing, and I didn’t sense any sarcasm in the comment.

Boy, she turned out cool.

And I’m so glad.

But I would like to save other children the emotions I experienced, both as a victim and as a perpetrator.

So I’m working with a middle-school counselor to put together a curriculum for our local 7th and 8th graders. The curriculum will be short, 5 minutes in the classrooms once a month to either roll-play or do a case-study, with follow-ups posted in the newsletters, over the announcements, etc.

To that end, I’m collecting stories about bullying, personal stories. I don’t want them to come from strangers on the internet or from the news--I’d like them to come from you, my friends. I don’t want them to be the sensational “she killed herself because of a bully” story because that’s the exception, and I want to set up a curriculum for the general population.

My theory is that everyone except my brother, for reasons based entirely on his personality, has experienced bullying in some form. Social, physical--maybe even cyber, although we’re all so old, maybe we missed those experiences.

Would you email me your stories? lightdissolved@yahoo.com I’ll change your names, so you don’t need to worry that when you run for President, your past will suddenly find its way to Fox. Thanks.

No Dark Sarcasm

2011-03-13T12:56:00.000-07:00

I only learned the metric system of measurement. I was reminded of this while reading a friend’s blog. Knowing the metric system in the US is only useful if you are A) a scientist or B) Charlie Sheen. It is not useful if you are a housewife who is cooking and needs a 1/4 cup of sugar but can only find a tablespoon. It is also not useful when some says, “Walk 10 yards to the left,” and you start counting the number of houses you pass.

I don’t remember the metric system, because how often does a non-scientific US housewife need to convert decaliters to hectoliters? Never, I tell you. I do remember that it’s a base-10 system, which makes it way easier than trying to remember how many of the king’s feet will fit in a yard.

My oldest daughter has become a pro at taking standardized tests. Around here, they start ‘em in 3rd grade. She gets nervous, but I remind her that it doesn’t affect her life at all, not even a little, and if she wants to make pretty patterns out of the dots, that’s fine with me. I feel slightly guilty, because it does affect her school and her teacher, and I like them, but it doesn’t make me feel guilty enough to encourage her to do her best. I also remind her that testing week means no homework, no schoolwork, and all the junky sugar-loaded carbs she can wolf down during the test. Provided gratis by the parents who get gentle reminders that kids need brain food during the test. Goldfish? Brain food? Not unless they’re swimming, I think.

The stupid things we teach kids. And the stupid ways we do it. I was in a “progressive” school in 6th and 7th grades. It was a pod system, where we had a little group we were assigned to, and within that group we broke out for our separate classes based on abilities. So far, so good. But the building, too, was in a pod structure. Each class opened onto the other classes. So while reading Antigone, we heard the science class learning about geodes and the math class running their abacuses. Yes, we learned how to use an abacus. Because that’s way more efficient and convenient than using a calculator. And, in order to not distract us with thoughts of freedom, there were no windows in the building. Not one. The front door had textured glass that let in a bit of distorted light, but in the winter, we arrived at school in the dark, arrived home in the dark, and didn’t see any Vitamin D the whole day. That is not a good way to spend middle school.

Middle school. Shudder. I have a child who will be in middle school next year. My mantra to get me through it has been, “I can home school. I can home school. I can home school.” Because girls are nasty to each other, and at 12, you can’t hang out with the boys unless you can kick their butts in basketball, which she can’t because she has my DNA. She wouldn’t want to hang out with boys, anyway. They’re clueless and they smell bad.

An ideal school would have no standardized tests, no “progressive ideas” that will be outdated and make stupid mathematicians before the year is even out, and it will have no middle-school age children. Just how to accomplish this I don’t know. I think I would be able to figure it out, but my schools encouraged in-the-box thinking and so that’s where I’m stuck.

Meet Peekaboo Street

2011-03-09T19:04:00.000-08:00

I am not an idiot. I keep telling myself that. But many, many people in Vail would disagree. If they stop laughing long enough to disagree, that is.

I’ve been skiing exactly 4 times. Once, as a teenager in Chicago. That’s the flat midwest, to those who stick to the coastline. Ski hills are more like ski bumps. Then, I went skiing with some friends when I was around 20. That was in Utah, but Buttercup and I managed to stick mainly to the no-need-for-a-lift runs. Except when we went down a real hill. Mostly face-down, if I remember right. At one point, I was stuck in the snow with my skis straight up in the air and Buttercup was the same way and we were laughing so hard neither of us could stand up. Wonder why our friends never offered to take us skiing again?

My third try was this year at a real Rocky Mountain ski resort. I had a lesson. After 2 hours and one knock-everyone-down-because-I-can’t-stop experience, wherein I did, in fact, knock everyone down because I could not stop, the instructor advised me to stay on the very green, not even close to blue, almost flat runs. He was right. But I started feeling pretty confident after a few runs when I realized that A) I could stop by falling and B) falling didn’t hurt so bad on snow.

So, Hal and I decided to use a Groupon and head to Vail to ski. Hal skis. He grew up skiing. He doesn’t think that putting waxed sticks on your feet and going down an icy hill is a stupid thing to do. He thinks it’s fun. Sometimes, I think his mother dropped him on his head, but other than his taste for foie gras and sushi, and this whole skiing thing, I have no proof.

We went to Vail. Did I mention it was only the 4th time I’d ever actually put skis on in my whole entire very long life? So, because I like life and because I don’t like casts, I did some recon. I asked lots of different people, “Which are the very easiest green runs? You know, the ones that, say, people who don’t actually know how to ski would be able to go down without, say, breaking a limb?”

I should have known I was in trouble when the supersonic speed chair lift took a good 10 minutes to get to the top of the larger-than-Chicago size mountain. But, I was too busy trying to get my butt out of the chair to take a good look around.

And the first little bit didn’t look too horrendous. I thought, “Oh, if it’s all like this, it’s hard for me, but I think I can do it.”

And then it was too late.

Because by the time I realized that the mountain went down, very far and very steep, I was too far away from the chair lift to climb back on and return to civilization.

Much of that run is a blur, mainly because I was, in point of fact, crying. Snot freezes, by the way. Just in case you were curious. And if you cry and you have on goggles, they fog up. Another point of interest, just in case.

At one spot, I was turned sideways, using my pole to prevent my skis from sliding down the hill. My legs were shaking and my knees kept buckling. Hal was about 10 yards downhill from me, trying to convince me that I needed to move. And I couldn’t. I’m not prone to panic. I can climb a 3 story ladder without being afraid. I gave birth to 4 giant babies and I wasn’t even scared. But staring down that hill, I couldn’t make myself move. I didn’t think I was going to die. I didn’t think about broken bones. I didn’t think at all. I just could not move.

So the ski patrol stopped by. Maybe someone told them, “Hey, there’s an idiot chic on the mountain and she’s not moving,” I dunno. Hal was frantically trying to figure out which of the easy green runs, the runs that the 3 year old kids were cruising down, which of those runs was, in fact, easy enough for his wife who was not moving. Because I could tell he didn’t think that I could just stay where I was until the Spring thaw.

I’m home, now. I enjoyed Vail, the cute little shops full of $300 shirts and giant man-diamonds. I loved the food and I saw a great parade for Fat Tuesday.

But I will not go back in the winter. At least not until the nice ski instructors at the other ski hills tell me I’m ready for the black diamond runs. Because, I figure, if I can ski black diamond runs everywhere else, I might be able to get down a green Vail run without making the ski patrol sweet-talk me down.

Kegel

2011-03-07T12:26:00.001-08:00

Kegel balls.

If you’re a man, you can just stop reading right here because you’ll get all embarrassed and you’ll have to do something manly to compensate, like spit snot on the ground or go hunting.

Back to the normal-chromosome people:

Kegel balls.

This is for you, MurrBurr.

It turns out that one of the reasons women have a challenging time holding in the pee is that we’re not kegelling correctly. So a vocal, unashamed friend told me about Kegel balls.

Now, I tried to google this, but I blushed when reading the first 5 hits, so if you care enough, you’ll have to sort through the websites yourself.

But here’s what I’m thinking would be the problem.

After you use them once, how do you clean them? Dishwasher? Soak ‘em in the sink?

I’m surprised my gym doesn’t have a rack of them.

Someone needs to tell you about these sorts of things, so I’ve taken on that burden. Thank me with chocolate. I’ve almost run through my bag of Hershey’s.

Confessions of a Stalker

2011-03-04T06:15:00.000-08:00

I hate Costco. I bought a bag (75,000 lbs) of Hershey’s miniatures, thinking I would use them for something.

I am.

That something is called: shove them in my face as fast as I can before Hal figures out where I’ve hidden them.

Self control is so over rated.

So is sharing.

Actually, I’ve been very good at sharing. I’ve given Hal all the “Special Dark with Almonds” and all of the “Extra Creamy Milk Chocolate”. Those are nasty. Hal doesn’t realize they’re nasty. He thinks I’m being generous. Silly, silly Hal. Generous? With chocolate? Not unless you’re female. Women appreciate chocolate. Men think of it as just another food item. It is not “just” anything. It is the pinnacle of civilization, the sign that we, as a group, have risen to the Everest of food.

I really need medication.

I friended an old friend on Facebook, one I haven’t heard from in 20 years. This is the first search I’ve done, except for the initial friending of my siblings, who don’t count, since I did the whole “expose yourself on Facebook” thing just for them. Actually, just so I could see pictures of them and their children. Okay, mostly their children. So, I did this search and found one of my dearest High School friends, who happens to be a man. This poses moral questions for me. I have no feelings for the gentleman. I truly just wanted to find out if he’s well, happy, yaddah yaddah yaddah.

So, we chatted a bit, and come to find out, he’s well, happy, yaddah yaddah yaddah.

Now what?

What do you do once you’ve binged on a 20 lb. bag of Hershey’s chocolates?

There’s that whole after-feeling, that thrill and letdown all at the same time.

If I had bulimia, I’d go purge. But I don’t like Facebook purges, and certainly I don’t want to unfriend a friend I asked to friend in the first place.

The right answer, of course, is moderation in all things. A few chocolates a day (under 20) will bring joy and not sorrow. But I’ve proven that I am not good at moderation.

I don’t think I can be trusted with Facebook. Already, I’m thinking of tracking down a friend I had when I was 8. Her name is Cameo. I don’t know her last name, but really, how many Cameo’s can there be in the world?

Booger Fairy

2011-03-02T14:59:00.000-08:00

There must be a booger fairy running loose in my house. Today was “wash the walls” day. I understand fingerprints, I understand food smears, I understand shoe swipes. I do not understand crusty booger-colored bits stuck to the wall that need to be scraped off. I don’t wipe my nose on the wall. I’m pretty sure Hal doesn’t wipe his nose on the wall. And yet, somehow, we get boogers on the wall. This disgusts me and makes me despair that my children will ever grow into normal human beings. Unless, scary thought, normal human beings do wipe their noses on the wall and Hal and I are the bizarre ones.

Strange things happen at our house. Who wiped all the paint brushes off on the walls? Couldn’t have been my sweet cherubs. They were busy composing sonnets to my beauty. Who played Prairie Family and rolled all the dress ups in mud, then washed them in the tub and left the whole lot sitting there for 5 days? Not my children. They were contemplating the relevance of String Theory. Who took every single cup outside to make magic potions and then forgot about them, even when I asked where all the cups had gone? No idea. Cups wander around. It’s a strange, strange world. These are the things parents of famous people never admit.

Question: “Did you know at a young age that Tom was destined to become a famous yet seriously deranged actor?”

Response: “Why, yes, I did. He often pretended he was a snot monster. We’d find boogers all over the house. Under couches, inside the fridge...”

I bet Einstein’s parents never had to re-wash his prairie girl costumes.

I want to know where the Massage Fairy is. I wouldn’t mind a no-strings-attached visit from her. And if she washed the walls on the way out, I’d send her a Christmas card.

Potty

2011-02-26T06:48:00.000-08:00

Here’s a riddle for you: how many adults does it take to corral 4 children at a theme park? Answer: at least 3, but you’d be better off with 8.

In a moment of rational, responsible parenting, we pulled our oldest 3 children out of school, coerced a friend into joining us, and headed for Florida. Thankfully, the weather was typical of past years: 75 was the low, 81 the high. Ahhh, Florida.

I have some advice for you so you can pull the same stunt.

When you visit Hogsmede at Universal Studios and have a butterbeer, which you really should do as soon as possible, I have one recommendation. Drink the butterbeer AFTER you visit the castle. Because if you do it before, even if you’ve taken a Dramamine and you haven’t been sick at all on your other 6 days at Florida’s theme park heaven, you will feel each little bubble of that yummy butterbeer creeping its way back up. And that is not a pleasant feeling. It drowns out the feeling of the poison spiders spitting at you, the whomping willow pounding you, and your bench free-falling through the cave. Can’t tell you what else happens in the ride because at that point, I closed my eyes and began to chant “Don’t throw up. Don’t throw up. Don’t throw up.”
February: great time to visit Disney. President’s Day weekend/Daytona 500 weekend: stupid time to visit Florida.
Hotel with a kitchen: great idea. Relying on the twice per day shuttle service to get you to the theme parks and back: stupid idea.
Pulling your kids out of elementary school to have an unforgettable family vacation: brilliant. Having 2 of those children get the flu on the day we get home: not such good timing.
You really, really need to see The Wizarding World of Harry Potter at Universal. It’s perfect, down to the ice hanging from the buildings and the mildew on the ceilings. Drink a butterbeer, take a picture by the Hogwarts Express, and eat a pasty at the restaurant. But wait a few years. Because even in February, Universal Studios is poorly arranged and lousy at crowd control and planning. You have to stand in line to get a ticket to have a return time to even set foot in Hogsmede. And that doesn’t get you on the rides, in the one bathroom in the area or into Honeydukes with Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Jellybean (with flavors like earthworm, rotten egg and undies, among others). Those all have lines of their own. And skip Olivander’s. It’s a 2 hour wait, in some cases, and the show doesn’t last 10 minutes. You watch one kid get a wand, and that’s it.

Or, if you don’t want to wait until 5 years after the movies have been released on DVD, be at the entrance to Universal half an hour before opening. You, and every other person eager enough to wake up early, will rush to the back of the park. Drop your bags in a safe place and head straight for the castle. It’s amazing and worth a wait, but there’s a separate line for those with no bags, and it goes much faster. And once you’re inside the castle, linger. Ron makes it snow in the Dark Arts classroom, Dumbledore talks to you in his office, the portraits confer, and it’s worth the lines even if you’re not going on the ride at the end (most people I saw didn’t go on the amazing but puke-inducing ride).

Oh, and if you do go to Universal, send me a Pumpkin Juice. I was so busy downing butterbeers that I didn’t have room for Pumpkin Juice.

I Like to Move It

2011-02-14T12:07:00.000-08:00

“I love Mama’s Gas Car!” the 5 year old shouts.

What?

“The movie, Mama’s Gas Car. I watched it with Heidi and I love it!”

Drawing a blank, here. Is this some Disney I’ve never heard of? Or is it a new one by Ron Paul? Politics not working out so well, so he’s moved over to a brainwash-em-through-cartoons career.

The Oldest Child translates for me. Madagascar. Madagascar 2, to be exact.

I hate sequels. That’s why I’ll never get remarried. If Hal and I don’t work, too bad. If the first one wasn’t that good, or even if it was spectacular, the second one isn’t going to be better. I mean, if the ingredients don’t work once, why cook it twice?

People never come in sequels, anyway. Well, maybe if they have a sex change. “Pat before the surgery, Pat after.” I can see that as a sequel. So is Pat II better?

On a totally different vein, are you just in love with James Blunt? Okay, in school, I think he was probably some sort of geeky, big-nose boy with bad breathe. But then he joined the mili, got all moody, and now I’d like to see one of my children marry him. “I’d be the father of your child. I’d spend a lifetime with you.” Hm. A bit creepy, maybe, “So I took what's mine by eternal right.

Took your soul out into the night.”

Whatever that means. What if her soul didn’t want to go out into the night? What if it liked to curl up in flannel PJs and drink hot cocoa at night? What if it preferred staying home? What about that, Mr. Blunt?

What would the “Goodbye My Lover” sequel be? Whipping out a gun and saying goodbye in the Rihanna/Eminem way? Probably not something like, “And then she had my children and grew a saggy butt and had hairs sprouting out of her moles.” Pop stars never write about what happens after the wedding. Well, except for Guns N Roses, and I think that was just a video. I don’t think the song itself is about post-wedding anarchy. But, who knows? Axl Rose was so juiced up he probably doesn’t even remember filming the video, let alone thinking about the higher meaning of the lyrics.

If, as a person, I have a sequel, I want her to be something along the lines of Gwyneth Paltrow meets Queen Elizabeth. Ballsy, can hand a man his own on a platter, but cuter clothes and modern dentistry.

Egypt on My Mind

2011-02-12T06:21:00.000-08:00

I feel like I ought to send a “Congratulations and Best Wishes” card to Egypt. I’m just not sure who to address it to (to whom to address it?) “To Random Person On the Streets of Cairo” doesn’t seem like it would make it there. Clearly, it would be rude to send a sympathy card to Mubarak, especially since the US did so much to support him. Maybe I should go out into the streets of my hometown and try to meet some Egyptian person so I can express my felicitations. But, while I’m sure there must be someone from Egypt living in the greater Metro area, it might take a long time to find that one person. And there may well be only one person. I know there was an Egyptian professor for awhile, but I heard he joined the demonstrations in Egypt and I’m not sure if the postal service could find him.

While I love my town, it’s not the most diverse of cities. Well, I mean, it’s diverse: you can drink Chai or latte or fat free organic free-range milk. You can have your hair in dreads or braids. You can wear Columbia or North Face. There are choices all over the place. I’m just sayin’ it isn’t a mecca for folks from the mid-east, Africa or super-far-south America. In fact, it isn’t even a mecca for folks from below the Mason-Dixon line unless they’re working on farms, and that’s a post for another day.

Back to Egypt. Don’t you have images in your head of people demonstrating outside of the pyramids, with sand blowing in their faces and camels hanging out in the background? I’ve looked at the pictures of Cairo and the celebrations, and I still think, “Aw, I wonder if the camels are scared. I hope no one falls off the Sphinx.” When someone says they’re going to Paris, I immediately form an image of the Eiffel Tower and a man with a baguette on a bicycle. As if there’s nothing to Paris but that one idea. Same thing happens when someone says Mississippi. No, I don’t think of the Eiffel Tower and bread. I think of a dirty river and a woman in a cane rocking chair with no teeth. The woman has no teeth. Well, the rocking chair doesn’t have teeth, either, but you know what I mean.

When people say California, I think of a boy with bleached hair and a surf board.

When people say Guatemala, I think of a friend I had, and how she and I would walk together, only she’d wear high heels and have makeup and nice clothes on, and I’d be in my two-day-old sweats with my hair in a pony tail. So, to me, Guatemala means women who “dar un paseo” looking like they mean to be seen.

When someone says England I feel cold and look for an umbrella. I also think of fat men in bowler hats. Do men still wear bowler hats in England?

When someone says Germany, I think of austere concrete buildings and schnitzel. I love schnitzel. I also think of cuckoo clocks and Julie Andrews and no matter how many times I tell myself that Austria is not Germany, I can’t really convince myself of that.

What other images come to mind? Australia: koalas and dry, dry, dry. I’m sorry, Australia, by the way. I’ve been thinking of Queensland and how it should be enough to have just one natural disaster at a time. You shouldn’t be threatened with typhoons, too. I also think of Crocodile Dundee, and I’m sorry about that, too. He isn’t the hottest thing to come out of the outback, but he’s the one that got “Australia” tattooed in my mind, so there you are.

Snow Drift

2011-02-09T18:53:00.000-08:00

4 women. That’s the answer to the riddle: how many women does it take to get a car out of a snow drift? It took 4 of us, and if we’d had some warning, we would have made a casserole to send with the snow-driftee.

Of course, only one of us could drive because it was a stick shift.

But the rest of us dug, pushed, and swore. Actually, the driver swore, too. And I’m so proud of her.

All that Florida weather we’ve been having gave way this past week to sub-zero temperatures and 12 inches of snow. That’s a real 12 inches, as measured by a woman with a ruler (me). I love snow. I don’t care much for sub-zero, unless it comes in stainless steel and says “Wolf” on it. And I’ve been scaling back on the hot cocoa. I can’t remember why right now, but I seem to remember having a good reason.

I have a friend from Canada (“c”-eh, “n”-eh, “d”-eh) who loves to rant about, well, about anything. Currently, it’s about how in Canada they have sub-zero weather for 3 months out of the year and they still walk to school. I don’t say it out loud, but in my head I think, “Barefoot? Uphill?”

Even I, the bastion of close-your-mouth-mothering, couldn’t help myself the other day as I drove my from-the-garage, pre-heated, whinging children to school. “I never got a ride to school until I was 16, and then I scraped the snow off the car and drove myself.” I actually heard my children roll their eyes at me. And I could feel my mother rolling her eyes at me across the vast distance that separates us. “Really? Poor kid. Had her own car at 16 and had to drive it to school. Let me tell you about when I went to school...”

My youngest daughter thinks there’s a good chance her grandfather owned a dinosaur. If you ask her, she laughs and says ‘no’ but then she’ll get a look about her eyes and you’ll see the wheels turning in her head and you know she’s wondering if maybe, just maybe, he really did have a dinosaur that carried him to school on its back. You can see she thinks maybe the good ole days really were a lot better. But you wouldn’t catch her scraping the snow off a dinosaur if she had her own. She’d be a great friend in the summer, but as soon as the first flake fell, she’d leave the poor reptile curled around the house for warmth with a quick “see ya next summer.” She hasn’t given up on the cocoa. In fact, a couple of days ago she dug some dinosaur-age marshmallows from the cupboard, sunk them in a cup, and swore they softened up after awhile. She didn’t break her teeth, so they must not have been as hard as they sounded landing in the mug.

Fetch

2011-02-04T12:03:00.001-08:00

I woke up yesterday absolutely convinced that I needed/wanted/was desperate to have the companionship of a dog. Not just any dog. A large, hairy, probably golden retriever-type dog. I could picture us, walking Last Child to the dog park, throwing balls, snuggling on the couch...

Okay, so the dream deteriorated at the couch part, since I don’t think golden retrievers are exactly lap dogs.

But the feeling of missing a dog is still hovering in the air. I walked into my bedroom and looked at the foot of the bed, knowing that if I saw a dog there, I should call the looney bin. Still, I felt let down when I didn’t see a dog there.

How many blogs ago did I rant about the infestation of living things in my house and how I am not responsible enough to allow one more breathing/food-consuming/vet-demanding being to cross my threshold?

Once, I woke up positive, absolutely sure, that the solution to all the political unrest in the world was the color purple. If everyone loved purple, we’d all get along.

So I take these waking-thoughts as signs of a deranged mind in need of chocolate and more sleep.

But, still, today, I’d like a romping, ball-catching dog. I’ve never had a ball-catching dog. I had a dog that chewed on balls, but she never caught them. In fact, if you threw a ball, she wouldn’t be able to find it. Ever. It would have magically left her world and the ball would sit where it landed until Armageddon before she’d be able to find it again, even if it landed directly in front of her face.

Can’t you picture me? I’d be so cute, so outdoorsy, with my fleece and my hairy ball-catching dog. My children would love me and sing anthems to me. We could take the not-afraid-to-swim dog to the mountains on family excursions and she could run loose. Random children would pet her and the owners would coo about what a beautiful, good, gentle, ball-catching dog we owned.

Except that in real life, it would require teaching that I’m not capable of. Heck, I can’t even teach my children to fetch a ball. I’ve known Hal for 20 years, about, and he’s never once chased a ball for me. So, clearly, no matter how bad I think I want the vision of a dog, in my life that vision would fail miserably and I’d be left with a flatulent puss-ridden four-legged furry child who would never sing anthems to me, no matter how many balls I threw at it.

Shroom

2011-01-30T15:11:00.001-08:00

I am not Chinese. I know this comes as a shock to some of you, but it may also explain why I don’t have a vast mushroom repertoire . Something in me screams, “DON’T EAT IT!” It must be years of anti-fungal conditioning. My ancestors didn’t eat Shitake mushrooms, and so any mushroom that is not perfectly round, with only a bit of brown on top, seems poisonous to me. In fact, when mushrooms grow on our grass (not really a problem now that we’ve moved to the high desert plateau), I won’t even let my children touch them. Poison could seep through their baby skin or get put from baby fingers into baby mouths.

This isn’t to say that I don’t enjoy a portabella grilled, or crimini or buttons thrown on just about everything I eat. But those come nicely sterilized in my local grocery store.

So, how adventurous does it feel to have, in my fridge at this moment, a Maitake mushroom? Also called Hen of the Woods, this looks like something fairies would live in (really rich fairies who can afford a Versailles-type mushroom). Or like the bottom of a ballroom dancer’s gown. It does not look like food.

And I’m going to eat it.

Probably not all of it. Probably I’ll share some with Hal. I’m thinking of making a mushroom-pesto and putting it on crusty french bread, in keeping with the Versailles image. I could put it in some Thai soup because how can you go wrong with coconut milk? If my mother had raised me on coconut milk, I’d be a better person today.

The options are limitless. Well, sort of. I don’t think I’ll sprinkle it with sugar and call it “cereal”, nor will I top it with a scoop if ice cream and call it “cobbler”.

Oooh, cobbler. I might have to think about dessert first, then figure out how to cook the mushroom.

A Little Less Conversation

2011-01-26T06:08:00.000-08:00

Elvis Presley. I know what we’re supposed to think: steamy hot southern boy with too much hip, too much smile. I went through an Elvis movie phase, which shows what classical style, what depth of emotion I achieved as a teenager. But I didn’t watch the movies because he appealed to me. I watched them because there were too many Saturday afternoons when I was a teenager. Saturday afternoon is a dumb time when you’re 15. You can’t really work, so there’s no minimum-wage cashier’s job to go to. The mall wasn’t fun until later, no one had a car anyway, and, in short, there wasn’t anything else to do.

Anyway, back to Elvis. Never had the urge to be one of the screaming bouffant girls. Until recently. I listened to “A Little Less Conversation”. And I wanted to be a bad girl.

Have you heard this song? I know. Me, too.

I confessed to Hal. He laughed. Right, throwing my bra on stage would attract no one, I know. Especially my nursing bras. And he verified the object of my new-found passion. “You don’t want to be bad with him, right? I mean, he’s like, decomposing.” Right. And not the “him” of the last 20 years of his life, either. And not really the black and white him, either, because I like my men in color. I mean the him of the song.

Excuse me now. I need to go shower and then call my ecclesiastical leader for absolution.

The Torture I Withstood

2011-01-22T15:43:00.001-08:00

There is a loose hair in my bra. It has grown from being mildly annoying to a major nuisance.

I’m sitting in the front row of the mezzanine at the symphony. That makes it sound like I attend the symphony often, but this is the first time in, oh, 14 years that I’ve been, so don’t picture me with blue hair yet. I’m just moving that direction.

Anyway, front row of the mezzanine. The lights are not dim. I think that’s to keep us awake, as are the straight-back, non-theater chairs we’re sitting on.

We’re listening to New World Symphony, which apparently is the pre-Disney version of Hiawatha. Who knew? I’m enjoying the concert but this loose hair is making me want to throw myself over the safety railing.

If you’re a non-bra-wearing man and have never had a loose hair trapped, then you’re thinking, “So what?” But that hair has a mind of its own. It moves around. It goes up and down. Even if you hold as still as possible, it plays “feather” and tickles you like a bad boyfriend.

And when you’re sitting in the front row of the mezzanine at the not-dimly-lit symphony, there is absolutely no way to reach between your boobs and pull it out. You can’t even itch. If you were at the Monster Truck rally, sure, go ahead and dig all you want, but at the symphony, you just have to go Marine and bear it.

I did. I’m proud to say that, in spite of my upbringing, I did not pull my top off and scream. I sat politely, listened attentively, and as soon as we got to the car, I dove into my bra and scratched and scratched and scratched.

Rock On

2011-01-18T16:08:00.001-08:00

I just taught my son to throw rocks. I didn’t mean to. We were outside, thinking it’s nice to have Florida weather in winter, when he came to me, eating a fist-sized rock.

“That’s a rock. Don’t eat it.”

He continued to eat it.

“Yuck! Out of your mouth.”

He continued to scrape his teeth along the rock. This makes a very spine-chilling sound. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. I took the rock, said, “Ick!” once more, and tossed it out of his reach.

Oops.

He picked up another fist sized rock. “Ball!” he said.

Big oops.

“No, not a ball. Rock. Rock. It’s a rock,” I panicked.

“Ball!” he insisted, scraping his teeth along it.

“No. Rock. A rock. Just a rock.”

“Ball,” he exclaimed, and to help his dolt of a mother understand, he threw it.

He has a good arm for a 1 year old. Heck, he has a good arm for a 38 year old mother. Luckily, we were far away from any windows. And children. And little old ladies.

Oh, I hope it snows soon.

Boob Job

2011-01-16T17:05:00.000-08:00

We’re at a friend’s house for dinner. I’m taking off my jacket and being introduced to a man and woman I’ve never met. I’m wearing a sassy purple swing top, with a snap closure in front. As I grab my jacket to pull it off, I accidentally grab the top with it and when I pull off the jacket, my blouse unsnaps and shows everyone my girls. Well, at least, it shows everyone that I’m wearing a bra. The girls, gratefully, stay covered. Then, because I’m baring-all, I turn my back to the couple with a “just a second, please” and snap myself back in the now-detested sassy swing top.

I think I recovered pretty well. I handled it the way I thought Jackie O. might handle it, if she were stupid enough to get herself in that situation, which she never would have been, so any conjecture about what she would have done is rather ridiculous. As soon as I had snapped my shirt, I turned around, smiled at the wife and shook her hand, smiled at the husband while looking slightly over his shoulder to the left, so it looked like I wasn’t opposed to making eye contact but there was no way I was going to actually make eye contact. Ever. I also shook his hand, while cleverly avoiding eye contact and smiling.

But that’s not all, folks.

Once, in a huge meeting with some men sitting in front of me, I decided I needed to nurse the baby. Hal wanted me to stay in the meeting, rather than seclude myself a la 1950’s, so I stayed. After nursing, I removed the hooter hider, or the nursing blanket, depending on how Puritan you are, and listened to the meeting. About 20 minutes later, I discovered that I had failed to pull my shirt all the way over my girls. Yup, there I was, in a very non-nursing sort of meeting, showing everyone all my business, which is actually very little business, but still all that I’ve got.

Call me Janet, Ms. Jackson if you’re nasty.

I would also like to state, just in case my children ever read this, that I didn’t plan any of these peep shows, nor did I receive monetary reimbursement.

Unlike the time I flashed a friend in the middle of the library. She gave me a Tootsie Pop for that. I’d do a lot for a Tootsie Pop.

Small and Large

2011-01-12T15:57:00.000-08:00

Life mirrors life, ya know? While Gabrielle Giffords and 17 others played out a large-scale tragedy in Tucson, Arizona on Saturday, our own small lives enacted a personal tragedy in Phoenix. Our sister-in-law, who had fought with cancer, was memorialized in a 2-hour-plus-the-food ceremony. She left behind 3 sons, 2 in High School, and a legally-divorced, but still-dedicated husband. She left a father, a mother, brothers and friends. She left elementary students she had taught for the first half of the year, teenage girls she had mentored through her church, and supporters in a cancer group she had joined.

It isn’t that the death of Danielle means more in the grand scope than the deaths of those 6 people in Tucson, including a 9 year old child. It isn’t that, because she was a recovering drug addict and a “friend of Jesus” her life was more important. It’s just that, because I loved her, because she made me laugh on my wedding day when I thought I’d throw up from nerves, because I knew her boys when they were still peeing in diapers, that makes it seem bigger to me. The void, regardless of the drama that went with her life, feels huge. In part, that’s because I’m now back at home and can’t clean houses, carry casseroles or mow lawns for those boys. And the postmortem psychosis has begun, so there are feuds and arguments and accusations flying around. Gratefully, I’m sheltered from that mess except the occasional email.

But I’m not sheltered from the Tucson shooting. That’s an almost hourly reminder that there are other voids, other holes where lives should be. I don’t look around the corner, expecting to see Danielle. But someone does. And someone, lots of other someones, look for those 6 who were shot down. Still more pray, as we prayed for Danielle, that their loved ones will heal from wounds, that they won’t feel pain, that they will be okay.

The difference, too, is that Danielle’s death didn’t happen in a second. It wasn’t some deranged gun owner who killed her. It was her own body, over producing cells that doctors couldn’t stop. But, still, there was time for everyone to say goodbye. The last words spoken to her were words of love. There was no fight to regret, no anger to repent. So, her death, while being more consuming to me, is less of a sorrow. At least I got to hug her before she died.

Damn, I hate gun owners.

Growing Things

2011-01-06T20:01:00.000-08:00

Hooray! Christmas is packed and waiting to go to the storage shed. The pudding is being worked off. Snow is (finally!) on the ground and so it must be time for SEED CATALOGUES!

I have been (mostly patiently) waiting for the moment I could open these little beauties. It’s a time to contemplate the season when life begins again before the work of that new life kicks in. Sort of like pre-pregnancy planning. I was never such a good parent as I was before I got pregnant. Likewise, I’m never a better gardener than in January.

I’ve got three catalogues in my soil-stained hands. The Cook’s Garden (new to me this year), Burpee (don’t generally trust them after all those stupid little sticks I’ve planted and which never did more than mock me) and my favorite old stand-by, Baker Creek Heirloom Seeds. Someday, I’m going to make a pilgrimage to Mansfield, Missouri to worship at the altar of their tomato genius. I’ve been dropped by Seed Savers, which must have grown wise to my “circle it but never buy it” perusal of their wares.

I’m sure you’re all on the edge of your seats, dying to know what I’m going to plant. Me, too. This year, I’ve got a room set aside, with a window and a grow light, ready for me to start seeds early. I’m going to try tomato seeds. So far, tomato seeds have been like the lottery: always around but never fruitful in my hands. I’ll start them in a couple of weeks. Then, in the Spring, I’ll head over to the local family-owned farm to buy real tomato plants. It’s not pessimism. It’s realism. Realism sweetened by January hope.

Asleep By 11:00

2011-01-02T17:34:00.000-08:00

Okay, so the only time New Year’s Eve has been a big deal for me was when I was a teenager. And then, it wasn’t about ushering out the Old Year and seeing in the New. It was more about maneuvering for a kiss at midnight. Except the coolest year, when I dragged my 2 best friends to a hockey game. They hated hockey. I loved it.

Anyway, here’s the deal about New Year’s Eve. You’re not actually done with anything, are you? So midnight passes--does that mean your financial woes are over? Or that you’ve grown those extra 2 inches? Or that the boy you’ve always wanted will get his stuff together and propose? Or that the fluorescent green you dyed your hair will be a normal shade at the stroke of midnight. Nope. Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but a new year does not mean an end to the stuff that made the old year suck.

But the good news: it also does not mean that the good stuff is gone. I figure, if Bacchus turned the clock and you found yourself a whole new person as soon as 2011 started, then you’d have to give up the happy stuff, too. You can’t choose to send away the bad on the winds of 2010, without effort, just because we go by the Gregorian calendar, unless you’re willing to say “ciao” to the good, too. If I learned anything by reading all those myths as a kid, it’s this: you don’t make bargains with the gods like that. You say you want to blink and all the bad juju will be gone, well, you’ll find that you just lost your only chance to save your wife from the underworld or everything you touch turns to gold or something like that. Gods don’t bargain. They set rules, but they don’t tell you what they are, and the rules are designed to make you fail, anyway. Want to win that race so you can marry the princess? Then you’ve got to cheat a god out of 3 gold apples. You’ll probably lose your life in the process. And even if you don’t, then one of your children will grow up to sleep with his mother and kill you, so you're better off keeping your own set of trials, ya know? Oh, sure, you’ve got a whole slough of heros who defeat the odds. But not because a year turned. Prometheus did not just wake up one morning to find that he had already delivered fire. And, once he had, he still had to deal with Pandora.

I’m saying, here, that there has to be struggle in overcoming challenges. Otherwise, it’s Faust’s bargain, which ain’t much of a bargain. I’d prefer to get my knowledge the hard way, thank you, and keep my soul at the end.

I do, occasionally, make resolutions at the beginning of a new year. A few years ago, I decided I wanted to live deliberately. I wanted each action to mean something. But I gave myself more than a year to accomplish it. I think it’s going well so far. I’m better at it now than I was 10 years ago. I have more fulfilling interactions with people, more beauty in my day, less cleaning. I find cleaning very destructive to living deliberately. I also wanted to eat deliberately. And, while I still find myself stuffing my face with nasty Healthy Choice frozen meals, I also find that I’m more likely to try a sunchoke or make fondue on a Sunday afternoon.

Here’s the summary: I would be very disappointed to think that the end of a year meant the end of the me I had been that year. I would be sad to think that I only had one year to fulfill my goals, or that goals had to work from January to January. Who said 1 rotation around the sun, beginning in the middle of a season no less, would be a good measurement? Why not start in Spring, when everything seems to start? That means Australia and the US would have different “New Years”. Or, what if there’s a bigger rotation, say, once around the Milky Way? Now, that would be something worth staying awake to celebrate.

Merry Freakin' Christmas

2010-12-29T08:44:00.000-08:00

“Why didn’t you wash my white sweater? It was dirty!” 8 year old yells at me.

“Because it wasn’t in the dirty clothes when I did the wash.”

“It’s in the dirty clothes now!”

“Yes, but I did the wash on Monday. On Monday, it was not in the dirty clothes.”

“But it was dirty then!”

“Ah, but was it in the dirty clothes bin?”

Stomp, stomp, stomp. She huffs her way downstairs, complaining loudly, of course.

I head down to my computer to tell you all how wonderful post-Christmas break is.

I hear Rule-Making Oldest Daughter screaming at Youngest Daughter. “You can’t play your DS right now! Put it away immediately!”

Youngest Daughter cannot possibly withstand the wrath of 11-year-old. She’s crying, and trying valiantly to finish the game on the DS so she can put it away before her beloved sister turns into Medusa.

I step in. “Oldest Child, why can’t she play her DS?” I ask.

“Because we’re not allowed to do that right now!”

I look at her and tell her the same thing I’ve been saying for years, and which, to my knowledge, has had no quantifiable impact on her actions. “It is not your job. It is my job.”

She huffs her way into her bedroom, complaining loudly, of course.

2 children down, 2 to go.

I love Christmas break pre-December 25. This year, I’ve done my best to improve the post-Christmas I-Hate-Your-Guts phase. Monday, we went swimming, with Oldest Daughter taking Weird Friend Number 4 to pacify her. Tuesday, Youngest Daughter had 2 playdates, one of which took her to McDonald’s and the park, and both of which took her out of the my-older-sisters-won’t-play-with-me blues. Middle Daughter had a friend over for 3 1/2 hours. Oldest Daughter spent the day re-grouping, reading, lying in bed. No pressure, no requirements for good behavior. Today, after a last-minutes sleep over at our house with Oldest Daughter’s Weird Friend Number 6, Oldest Daughter, Middle Daughter and Youngest Daughter are all going ice skating. With me. Oldest Daughter is taking a friend. Middle Daughter is taking a friend. I’m taking Valium. I hate ice skating. I hate going around and around a frozen rink with 25 other stupid people, none of us being able to do more than hang onto the wall and pray that our tender bottoms don’t fall on our skates. Except, there’s always that one show-off who wanted to be a professional skater but wasn’t quite cut out for it. You know who I’m talking about. It’s the female equivalent of the gym jocks in High School. Not good enough for the team, but too good for you, losers.

So, I’m just looking for a reason to cancel the whole thing and ground everyone to her room. Me included. I would love to crawl back into my flannel jammies and spend the day snuggling Too Busy Son while he tries to pull everything out of the cupboards.

But that isn’t to be. Another day spent staring at each other in the house may actually ignite the flames which are already threatening. Instead, we’ll go get sore and tired and come home to leftover for dinner, which makes me happy but will cause more “you’re the worst mom ever” moments. That’s alright. Eventually, they’ll go away to college and then they’ll be someone else’s problem.

Letter to Shelly, or Why Chickens Are Not Animals

2010-12-23T07:40:00.000-08:00

Dearest Shelly,

Thank you for your thoughtful comment re: Random List of Vital Facts. It has given me pause and allowed me to delve further into the deep psychosis that forms my barely-functioning mind. It was a scary journey, and I’ll spare you the gruesome details, but the following is my thesis on why I don’t want animals but do want chickens.

I agree that there seems to be a disconnect between a person wanting to raise hens and not wanting any animals in the family. But hens are not animals. They are livestock. And while some members of a family may resemble livestock, true livestock does not count as “family.”

For example, if I were herding cattle, which I occasionally feel compelled to do, I would herd them straight to the barn for milking or to the meat market for processing. I would not lavish adoration on them. I would not let them sleep in my bed. I would not buy special toys for them to rip apart, special bones for them to bury or special sweaters for them to wear. They are cows. Their job is to produce food for me and mine. And unless you are a fruitarian, I think you will understand. If you are a fruitarian, please do not comment on my blog since you’ll only make me giggle and my bladder is not always strong enough to take the abuse.

Now, to chickens. I have raised chickens before. They are stupid. Not in the “oh, isn’t that cute!” way, but in the “how do you manage to reproduce” way. Lots of stupid people manage to reproduce, as evidenced by the continuing popularity of Leonardo DiCaprio, but stupid animals don’t usually make it past the “predator bait” phase of evolution. Chickens, in spite of all the odds, not only made it far enough to reproduce once, but their sole purpose seems to be reproduction. This, as far as I’m concerned, is the main reason to have chickens.

The other reason is to scare off solicitors.

Chickens are mean, and when you unwittingly approach a door with your roofing samples or your gourmet meat products, they will charge at you and try to nest in your hair. They also poop a lot, which is good for getting rid of solicitors and good for my garden.

Now, Hal’s reasons for not wanting chickens are pretty lame, if you’ll excuse me for saying so. First, he’s convinced he will be expected to participate in the hen raising. I do not expect him to participate in the hen raising. I expect him to participate, solely and by himself, in the hen killing and plucking. I don’t think this is too much to ask, but apparently Hal doesn’t feel in touch with his Neanderthal man. I’m working on it.

The other reason Hal doesn’t want chickens is his fear that they will hurt him. They probably will. Not only are they mean and stupid, but they have no loyalty and will not hesitate to poop on dress clothes. I think this would be funny, but Hal doesn’t like Charlie Chaplin the way I do.

I feel better, lighter and more carefree. Because of Shelly’s insight and verbalization, I have grown as a human being. So, thank you, Shelly, and Merry Christmas to you.

Random List of Vital Facts

2010-12-20T17:13:00.000-08:00

About Us in 2010

Underwear: what the baby likes to wear on his head.

Lint: the baby’s favorite toy.

Chocolate: the baby’s favorite food. Also, Mama’s best friend.

220: number of pounds I’ve gained since graduating High School.

220: number of pounds I’ve lost since graduating High School.

1: number of gay boyfriends I had in High School.

1: number of friends I knew in High School whom I still see regularly. Note: the friend and the gay boyfriend are not the same person.

Babysitting: what Oldest Daughter is currently doing.

Avoiding Chores: what Youngest Daughter is currently doing.

Eating Rolos: what Mama is currently doing.

Hens: what I’m trying to convince Hal we need in our suburban yard-scape.

*@$@ NO!: Hal’s response to my brilliant idea of raising hens.

GoatHerder: what Hal would really like to be.

Heiress: what I would really like to be.

Sting: the only concert I would give up my children’s college education for.

$5.78: the amount of money set aside for my children’s college education.

Serengeti: what I’d like to see before I die.

Her own cell phone: what my oldest daughter will see over my dead body.

3: current number of irreplaceable, must-have-to-sleep stuffed bunnies in our house.

1: number of real bunnies owned by members of our house.

0: number of animals I would like to have in our family.

1: number of dead pets buried in our yard that I know about.

Sleep: what I would really like to have right now.

Angels and Demons On High

2010-12-15T16:22:00.000-08:00

I love all things Annie Lennox. If she sang a Vioxx commercial, I’d download it from Itunes. There has never been anything Annie that I didn’t think was the greatest creation to come out of a woman’s mouth.

Until now.

At first, I was all excited that Annie had finally done a Christmas CD. And then I listened to it. And it’s sort of like the Devil singing hymns of praise. Or like Godiva giving modesty advice. Or Yogi Berra teaching public speaking. Or any football player saying anything at all. Should I go on? This is sort of fun.

Sting did the same thing to me last year. He has a “winter” CD which made me want to pour acid in my ears the first time I listened to it. There were exactly 2 songs that didn’t make me want to commit suicide, and even those, if you listen to the words, could send a normal person into fits of depression. This year, I’m finding that except for one or two songs, I’m actually enjoying it. You may call it maturity. I call it fatalism.

But Annie? You’ll have to sample it from Itunes--start with Lullay Lullay (Coventry Carol) and work your way down.

Now, doesn’t it sound like the Anti-Christmas? Dean Martin, he does Christmas. Barry Manilow even does Christmas. But Annie? She should stick to Halloween.

Tori Amos does Christmas, too, and while her voice is sweet and ethereal and made my High School boyfriend have visions, she can’t stick to one time signature, which makes the mostly-simple Christmas melodies hard to listen to for more than 10 minutes. But that’s okay, because most of her songs are only about 6 minutes long.

Two of my favorite new songs are free on Amazon. Fleet Foxes does one called “White Winter Hymnal” and Little & Ashley sing “Winter Night”. If I were more computer savvy, or if I cared more, I’d figure out how to post them here so you could be lazy and listen to them without doing much. As it is, you have to actually click. Don’t worry. I’ll still be here when you get back.

Put On Your Red Shoes

2010-12-11T06:08:00.000-08:00

If you’re ever in a bad mood, come over to my house. I’ll make some cocoa, we’ll sit on the couch and watch my children play Just Dance on the WII. I swanney, it’s enough to make you believe in human nature again.

First, there’s something delightful about 4 children doing anything together that doesn’t involve bloodshed, tears or Disney. Second, my children are not exactly the most coordinated of bodies, and the dance moves on the game are not exactly easy. Okay, some of them are, but then the game combines them with other moves, and pretty soon, if you were born with my genetic code, you find yourself pretzel-like and 3 steps behind. The point is, it isn’t like watching Baryshnikov (yum). More like watching a slow-motion train wreck, Charlie Chaplin style. Third, and this may be the most important point, we can sit on the couch. That means we’re not actually doing the work. See the beauty of this mood-improver?

I do, in fact, dance with my children when other adults aren’t present. The first time we played, over Thanksgiving weekend, we laughed so hard my stomach muscles hurt the next day. Now, it’s the favorite play-date activity for Oldest Child. They make rock candy and dance.

We also play Twister together, which also makes us laugh, especially when Toddler Son joins us. Try moving your left hand to red when Boy is lying underneath you, kicking his feet at your face. He also likes to grab the corner of the mat and roll, pulling it around him as he goes. This makes it a bit difficult to play.

He, too, dances when we turn on JD. And if you give him a remote, he’ll usually score pretty high, until he runs off to hide the remote in the toilet, that is.

To England, Please

2010-12-09T07:23:00.000-08:00

They’re getting married in April?!? This April? They clearly have no idea how long it will take to have my dress made, several hats ordered (the British wear a lot of hats), plane tickets reserved, accommodations set up (Buckingham might be a bit full, so we’ll opt for a more private place to unpack our bags). I have to line up babysitters, and April is too soon to have lost the Christmas pudding weight. How rude. And how does one dress for a wedding in April? It may be too cold for short sleeves, but oh, the horror, if it’s too warm for long sleeves. Arm pit stains are so 17th century.

I fully expect to be invited to the Royal Wedding. I want to see if she goes Grace Kelly ball gown or if she’s not afraid of public opinion and chooses to show off her will-never-be-the-same-after-childbirth 20-something body.

When the last British Royal wedding was aired, I watched the whole thing. I couldn’t understand why she would marry him (I was all of 9 years old.) Charles looked so old to me. Well, he still does. Pictures of him at the time seem so old-man.

But this blog is not about that wedding. Nor is it about Kate and William. It’s about me, waiting for my invitation, and wondering if I should do my hair up or let it hang down? I also need to decide whether or not Hal is invited to go with me. Harry is still single, and that isn’t creepy at all.

Letter to St. Nick

2010-12-07T07:34:00.000-08:00

Dear Santa Claus,

Every year for Christmas, I ask for world peace, or at least peace in my home. I ask for everyone to have enough to eat, or at least that my children will eat the food I put in front of them. I ask for shelter from the cold and rain, or at least that I might appreciate the cold and rain if I have to be outside in them. I ask for patience without going through the trials that produce patience. I ask for a sense of well-being, or at least a false sense of well-being. I ask to be 4 inches taller.

Every year, you fail miserably.

So, this year, I say, “Screw it. Let me win the lottery.”

If I win the lottery, I promise not to spend a dime promoting any of the good values I’ve tried to foster in my children. I promise, instead, to get a boob job, a second home somewhere coastal and foreign, and a nanny.

Oh, please, let me get a nanny.

With bigger boobs, a hide-away in the Mediterranean, and a nanny, I think the peace, food, patience, shelter and well-being will take care of themselves. And if not, I’ll have enough money left over to self-medicate in any way I choose.

Wishing you a very Merry Christmas,

Mama

Bone Yard

2010-12-03T11:20:00.000-08:00

Eeeew. I just found a bone in the Healthy Choice, frozen and never-natural meatloaf I was stuffing in my face as fast as I could. (It’s better if you don’t actually taste it.) I do not like being reminded that what I’m eating once chewed its cud. I do not like remembering that it once had organs and ligaments and pooped. I prefer to think that meat, like Republican talking points, comes pre-packaged and cleaned-up-for-the-consumer. If I wanted beef with bones, I would go chew on a cow, thank you.

I’ll tell you the best pre-packaged single-serving food item I’ve tried. Kashi Mayan Harvest. This yummy goodness has a bit of spice, a bit of grain, sweet potatoes and plantains. That’s right, bananas. How can you go wrong with caramelized bananas? If I lived in Miami, I’d be fat and constipated from all the fried plantains I’d eat. But one serving of Kashi’s version won’t do that to you. If you ate several in a row, as I am often tempted to do, that might be a different story. Unless, of course, you follow it up with a few dozen mango lassis. Ooooh, mango lassi. I would marry a mango lassi if it weren’t for that whole Proposition 99 thing, which excludes marriage of women and drinks.

Speaking of propositions, do you find it weird that San Francisco is trying to ban the Happy Meal but is also in the process of legalizing marijuana?

In honor of California’s soon-to-be laws, I’ve come up with a great marketing idea. Marijuana with the Happy Meal. They could call it The Mother’s Happy Meal. Instead of Disney toys, it could come with a pipe, or papers, or, better yet, the pot could be baked into the new McDonald’s dessert: Brownies.

Or, how about this: frozen Happy Meals? That way, I could stock my freezer and not have to go the trouble of moving my butt out to the car to go through the drive-thru. You don’t want people driving in California, anyway. Who knows how many of them will be medicinally doped?

Minty Fresh

2010-12-01T11:00:00.000-08:00

Yesterday morning, I stumble into the bathroom to brush my teeth. I pull out the toothbrush. I put on a sizable dollop of toothpaste. I begin to brush. And I think, “Hmm. This isn’t lathering well.” I brush a bit more. “Hmm. I don’t feel that minty tingle.”

I look at myself in the mirror. There is white stuff all over my teeth, but it isn’t the foamy goodness that says “Goodbye Dragon Breath.” I look at the tube on the bathroom counter.

Balmex.

That’s right. I have successfully eradicated diaper rash from my mouth.

And just in case this happens to you, I’ll tell you now how to get the stuff off your teeth. It takes a new toothbrush, and copious amounts of Sensodyne With Whitening Power. You’ll have to scrub, then rinse with Crest Pro-Health, then throw that new toothbrush away. That’s two toothbrushes down, in case you’re not keeping track. One because you put bum ointment on it, and the second because you scrubbed bum ointment off of your teeth with it. Or, if your husband went in early to work, you could just use his toothbrush as the second toothbrush. He’ll never know.

Do They Drink KoolAid in Britain?

2010-11-21T18:31:00.000-08:00

KoolAid is my Kryptonite. If you walk around my house, you’ll notice little pink polkadots on almost every carpet. How did they get there when the clear household rule is: KoolAid in the kitchen or outside. Is KoolAid allowed in front of the TV? Nope. And yet, somehow, those insidious pink dots made their way there this week. Now, I haven’t posted pictures of my TV room. But I bet you’ve already figured out that Never Seen in the Natural World Pink doesn’t work with my color scheme. In fact, when you walk into the tranquil (if the kids are gone) room, your senses will be jarred by the sudden flash of Barbie Pink and you’ll think to yourself, “Gee, I would have stuck with the greens and browns if I were decorating this room.”

And it makes me weak. Not weak in the “love that man” sense or in the “gotta good deal at the mall” sense, but weak in the “why can’t I have just one room without kid markings?” sense.

Now, I know there are bigger trials in life. I’ve thought of some: being married to a balding Prince and living in a cold, dark castle. Having Charles as a father-in-law. Never, ever being able to live up to the memory of your mother-in-law. All of those things would be worse. But when I look at those pink dots cluttering the otherwise pure landscape of my TV room carpet, I think I’d almost rather go through the prenuptial rigamarole Kate is facing, including the pressure to conceive a healthy male on her wedding night.

On that note, you remember that when Diana and Charles got engaged, the Royal Doctors did a, uh-hum, purity test, right? So, Kate and William have been dating for a long, long time. Longer than many marriages. I’m just sayin’, this might be the time to get rid of that tradition. Because, honey, if they do a test and it comes back ‘thumbs up’, I’ll laugh myself silly.

I know why there hasn’t been a joyful royal marriage since Victoria and Albert. KoolAid. It’s littered the plush carpets of castles world-wide and driven otherwise sane women to the brink. Bad, bad KoolAid.

Boots, A Prequel

2010-11-17T07:50:00.000-08:00

The story behind the reason I bought the black over-the-knee socks that turned out to be such a successful purchase:

I didn’t need a new pair of black boots. I have a pair of perfectly sensible black boots that have proven themselves in the snowiest, iciest days. They look acceptable, if not stunning, with skirts and work well with pants. I did not need a new pair of black boots.

But then I saw them. In a weak moment, I saw a pair of boots. These were not the low-heel, made-to-be-worn boots that sat in my mostly-beige closet. These were man-fantasy, spank-me boots, with 4 inch spike heels and buckles and zippers and an aura of clubby nights I hadn’t seen since, oh, wait, since never. I knew I should walk right by them. But I didn’t. I touched them. I looked at the brand. BCBG. I hadn’t even walked into that store since pre-children, and even then, I never bought anything. Nice girls do not shop at BCBG. I looked at my current outfit. Tommy Hilfiger Boyfriend jeans, cable knit blue sweater, loafers. I was one step away from Talbots. I grabbed the boots.

It took me awhile to figure out how to put them on. With my baby pulling other shoes off the racks, and customers giving me nasty looks when I failed to stop him, I zipped the last zipper and looked at my legs in the boots in the mirror. “These are not me,” I thought. And even as I pulled them off, I found myself grinning in a slightly lewd way.

I told myself to put them away, to not even think about buying them. And even as I told myself that, I saw myself walking toward the register, boots and baby in hand. As I waited my turn, I thought, “Put them down. You can’t carry a baby wearing those boots. How are you going to shlep groceries into the house? How are you going to drive to piano, Mad Science, playdates, in those boots? They’re totally wrong for suburban soccer moms.” After I had them in the sack, I thought, “I’ll just return them. They might work for Rihanna, but, honey, you’re no Rihanna.” These are not the boots of a woman who has had 4 children and truly enjoys bath time. They are the boots of a woman who has nothing saggy. They are the boots of a woman who knows how to dance to Ludacris, who may even know Ludacris. And yet, they are mine.

I haven’t worn them. I thought about wearing them to church and laughed and laughed and laughed. I showed them to my sisters and step-mum. They smiled politely. I know what they were thinking. “They’ll look great under your ratty old bathrobe.”

But I have a plan. Once a year I socialize with people who work with my husband. Every year, I wear conservative black pants and a festive-yet-understated sweater. This year? Oh, this year, I’m wearing boots.

She's Got Legs (Just Short Ones)

2010-11-15T08:40:00.000-08:00

So, I buy this pair of socks from DSW. They say “Over the Knee Socks” and I think, ‘Great. A pair of socks that will go over my knee.” When I get home, I start to put one of the socks on. It’s got this cute little lace, black, at the top and I’m picturing how adorable they’ll be sitting over my knee, on top of some black boots, below my skirt. You can picture it, right? I’m thinking how stylish I’ll be, how non-soccer mom. And as I pull the sock up to my knee, I realize that it’s not done. So I pull it up to my thigh. And it keeps going. And going. And going. It’s like the Energizer Bunny. Pretty soon, it’s at the point where my leg stops and the sock still has material left to pull. Over the Knee translation: Over Iman’s knee and then some.

Tooth Fairy and Other Mistakes

2010-11-12T07:39:00.000-08:00

Santa Claus never forgets. The Easter Bunny never forgets. But that darn Tooth Fairy? How many times has she missed one of my children’s teeth? She always makes up for it, but, shoot, it’s not a fun adventure, wondering if she’ll come tonight, or wait a week.

We have friends who don’t get money from the tooth fairy if the tooth had a cavity. If I were a kid, I’d want the tooth back. You can’t have the tooth and the money, too, honey.

My kids get to choose: cash or a surprise. For Middle Daughter, that usually means candy. So far, no cavities, but we’re working on it. Her teeth are growing in so funky, she deserves all the solace she can get from other sources. One tooth is growing from the bottom of her gums in the back. She’s got big teeth and the first to come in took all the available real estate. I blame her father. She might have inherited her personality from me, but the mouth thing is all in her dad’s gene pool.

Youngest Child also has big teeth. With 8 teeth, his mouth is about full. On the good side, no one will beat him in a biting contest.

Youngest daughter swears she has 5 loose teeth. She does not have large teeth. Nor are they loose. Not any of them. That doesn’t stop her from walking around to each member of the family, making us try to wiggle her teeth. How do you tell her the truth when she’s staring at you with those hopeful brown eyes? “Keep wiggling it,” I tell her. I mean, eventually it will be loose, right? In a couple of years. Who knows? With enough candy, her teeth might come out earlier than expected.

First Snow

2010-11-09T14:49:00.000-08:00

It’s First Snow today. That’s one of the best days of my year. We still have yellow leaves on the ground because I’m morally opposed to raking (or morally opposed to getting my tookus into Ace to buy that leaf rake or morally opposed to actually making the effort to move the rake along the ground to put the leaves in a pile and then, even more work, to load them into a paper bag, take your pick.) But this year, I feel more prepared for winter. I have jars and jars of lovely apple things, all preserved and waiting for Winter Doldrums to set in. I have quilts upon beds, books upon shelves and outdoor projects mostly caught up. I even tore down the garden this year, leaving the soil bare with its drip hose coiling around itself, looking for something to water and finding, sigh, not even a snake or mouse in sight. I think the mice have moved indoors, but I’m waiting for Hal to set the traps. I could do it, but I don’t want to dirty my dainty hands.

The garage hasn’t been Winterized yet. That means I’ve got so much crud all over the ground that my car won’t fit. I could look at it as an opportunity to build my character by scraping the snow off the car, or I could look at it as God’s way of telling me to make cocoa and stay inside.

I’m inventing indoor projects to keep me occupied while the world outside hibernates. I have 3 years worth of pictures to 1) download 2) label 3) put in albums. That could take the better part of my remaining life span. Or, I could bequeath it to my children after my death with a poignant note about how busy they kept me and how I documented their lives but didn’t have time to organize the story. That way, I could make them cry with memories AND guilt. That gives me extra credit in Mommy School.

Most importantly, I’ve slipped nicely into Bulky Sweater Zone. I can’t tell you how happy it makes me that Christmas Food coincides with Cable Knit. Then, comes January and Resolution Time, which means I have to fight for a parking spot at the gym, but it also allows for a few months to lose the extra bulge before Bikini season, which is not actually Bikini season for me, but more like 1930’s Swim Costume season. Still, it’s nice to be thinner before I put on the black tights and wool skirt.

Happy Snow to you and may all your Novembers be White.

Argh

2010-11-07T11:11:00.000-08:00

7 year old is now 8 year old. She’s never been a dainty thing, and she chose a Pirate theme for her party. It went along with her pirate costume for Halloween and, honestly, her pirate-y nature. Argh.

See the volcano cake? It was a problem-solving cake. Several of her friends don’t like chocolate, but Birthday Party Girl loves chocolate (can’t figure where she gets that from). So, the top half is all chocolate and the bottom half is nothing like chocolate. Of course it had real smoke, a la dry ice, spewing from the top. A pirate broke into our house, left a treasure map, and disappeared. The 10 giggling girls followed the clues to a treasure chest full of gold coins, jewels (silly bands) and skull-n-crossbones suckers.

We divided the loot evenly because that’s the way this pirate rolls. And then came the problem. We’d done all the stuff. Every single thing I had planned. And we still had 20 minutes. 20 minutes of sugar loaded girls with nothing to do sounds like a recipe for mayhem. So we turned off all the lights and I told the story of the Dread Pirate Roberts who stole the gold and jewels and then, in turn, had it stolen from him. It involved audience participation. It was made up on the spot (thank you, Princess Bride, for giving us the Dread Pirate Roberts.) Toward the end of the story, I thought, “Gee, how am I going to get out of this plot line?” Luckily, the doorbell rang, I wrapped the story up in a very cheap, non-scary way, and the girls skee-daddled.

And now, I’m done with parties for a few months. I always love them when they’re done. We’ve been doing on-the-cheap parties this year, and while I love the convenience of making a phone call to, say, Jungle Time, and having that be the total extent of my involvement in the party, there’s something rewarding about making plans, buying craft supplies, and inventing a story on the spot. And, since all the guests were older and well-known to our family, none of the parents stayed. I hate it when parents stay. Deeply, traumatically hate it. If you ever come to a kid party at my house, please just drop the child off. I promise they’ll be safe and I promise they’ll have more fun if you aren’t here. I’ll have more fun if you aren’t here. I love being with kids. It’s the parents I sometimes can’t stand.

Tackling the Beast

2010-11-03T05:38:00.000-07:00

Did you hear me roar? I am Woman, with a capital “W”. That’s after being a Dunce, with a capital “D”.

Somehow, a lovely black pen exploded in the dryer. When Oldest Daughter returned from a week long adventure in the mountains (will blog about that on a different day), I immediately, being the get-it-done sort of girl I am, threw every stitch of winter clothing she owned into the washer, then the dryer. Which means that every pair of jeans, every long-sleeved shirt, her fleece, her pillow case, every thing, had lovely black spots, which did not happen to match the clothing very well. And the dryer? Holy Dalmatian. You know those time-elapsed pictures of the stars? It was that, in miniature, all over the inside of the dryer.

I went online to find out how to remove the spots. All the information said, “Remove ink immediately. Do not dry first.”

Um, it was the drying that did it, Occum.

The clothes spent 2 days in a constant soak/rinse cycle with my new best friend, Biz (thank you, PWC for that tip). All but 3 shirts and one pair of pants came out of the last cycle looking a bit damp but non-inky. Then, I thought it was time to pull out the big guns.

First, I tackled the dryer. I found a great tip online: soak 2 white towels in a bleach/water mix and run them through the dryer. Repeat. This removed about 98% of the ink. The rest I scrubbed off with nail polish remover. Then, I threw the same towels, this time soaked only in water, into the dryer to clean up any residual bleach/nail polish remover. Except for a few lingering stains, you’d never know a ball point threw up in my dryer.

Then, the clothes. Again, I pulled out the nail polish remover, which I had to buy since I don’t actually paint my nails much. On Sunday, I spent about 2 hours dab-dab-dabbing. Luckily, House Hunters International was on. I daydreamed about my house in Fiji (I’d pick the Balinese style with 3 outbuildings) while getting high on legal fumes. The pants and one shirt didn’t fare so well. I think they dipped themselves in bleach while I wasn’t looking. I call that a small price to pay for the salvation of the rest of the clothes.

Spumoni

2010-11-01T05:57:00.000-07:00

Spumoni, spumoni,

My one and only.

Pistachio and cherry

from my ice cream fairy.

Chocolate to top it all

You’re better than the Great Wall

of China

Nothing is finah.

I would eat you any time.

I honor you with this rhyme.

With or without the rum flavoring

To you, my frozen yummy, I sing.

Becoming Irritated

2010-10-29T08:54:00.000-07:00

I watched Becoming Jane last night. Hal was out of town and I thought I’d watch a good, sappy love story.

I hate that movie.

In my head, I knew Jane Austen never married. In my head, I knew the whole Pride and Prejudice ending wouldn’t work for her. And yet. And yet, Hollywood takes so many liberties, why not just one more? Why not add a note at the end, “And Tom’s wife died, so he ran back to Jane and they lived together in love and irony for the rest of their lives, which were long and happy?” I don’t watch movies for reality. If I wanted reality, I’d pay attention to my family. I watch movies for escapism, and my escapism demands a happy ending. And, no, the fact that he named his oldest daughter Jane doesn’t make it better. It makes him creepy. Don’t name your children after ex-loves. That’s rude.

Here’s another thing about movies. The whole “sultry man look”, you know, where he glares appealingly into the camera, looking dangerous, sensual and masculine, yeah, well, that doesn’t work in real life. If Hal tried to give me one of those looks, I think I’d laugh until I peed.

One more complaint about the movie. Where were the bad teeth? I like English people. Some of my best friends are British (that’s a joke for Sean), but they have notoriously bad dental hygiene. And yet, this movie that insisted on tearing my heart out and stomping on it because that’s what happened in “real life”, that same movie had Crest smiles on every single person, including Random Old People. If you’re gonna be real, be real, ya know?

On a good note, I did not find Tom Lefroy (James McAvoy) attractive. I kept thinking “Hobbit”. He’s the guy who played Tumnus in Narnia, and I think he would have made a good Bilbo Baggins. Although, in all fairness, this does NOT go on my list of “Ugly Naked Man” movies. Naked, yes. But not enough hair, not enough fat, not enough ugly to be on the list. I should write to the two naked butt men from the movie to let them know that. That will make them happy, I think.

Jay-Z and Me

2010-10-26T13:05:00.000-07:00

I’m listening to Jay-Z’s Forever Young feat. Mr. Hudson. I’m doing laundry--the 7th batch this week. Toddler One helps by pulling the recently dried clothes out of the hamper and putting them in the garbage. It’s Autumn and I’m feeling melancholy today. I’m thinking about the olden days, back before Wii and DVDs. Forever Young is a song of my youth. Both songs with that title are, although I never was in favor of Rod Stewart.

It isn’t that I want to even know any of the people from my High School. I’d like to know that they’re doing well, mostly, and that Serious Boyfriend did not, in fact, become gay. I think it would be yet another affront on my feminine charms to know that an ex-love-of-my-life chose men over me.

I’m not feeling old. I’m just not feeling young. I huff, now, when I bend over to pick something up. When did I start huffing? I don’t recall huffing when I was 20.

Forever young? I’d be happy to be forever-not-so-creaky. I wonder if Jay-Z would sample that? He’d have to change the lyrics a bit.

“...and the Kool-Aid is always cold

and the music is always Wiggles

And the soccer moms just happen to stop by in the hood

And they hop their saggy butts up on the seat of that minivan.

With lots of wrinkles in today cuz there’s no tomorrow

just a picture perfect day that last a whole lifetime and it never ends...”

I love my life. Wouldn’t go back to being (shudder) 17 for anything in the world. I wouldn’t change places with any 20-something, no matter how Sex and the City her life may be. But Autumn makes me remember not only the past year, but all the past years (which are many), and with Jay-Z playing illicitly on my computer, you’ll have to forgive me for being a bit droopy.

After Apple Pickiing

2010-10-23T08:40:00.000-07:00

When we lived in Massachusetts, we had a ritual. On the first Saturday of October, we would bundle up in cable knit sweaters and thick socks and go apple picking. Our oldest daughter, only a baby at the time, would sit in her backpack and gnaw on apples as Hal and I filled a bushel of different varieties. We'd top it off with apple donuts and fresh, hot, apple cider before heading home to make sauce, butter, pie and chips. I miss those times. Fall is, by far, my favorite season. I would give two summers for one good Autumn. I love the smell of winter closing in, leaves mulching on the garden and moist earth preparing to sleep for a few months. In honor of the season, I'm posting a poem by that quintessential New Englander, Robert Frost.

After Apple Picking

by Robert Frost

My long two-pointed ladder's sticking through a tree

Toward heaven still.

And there's a barrel that I didn't fill

Beside it, and there may be two or three

Apples I didn't pick upon some bough.

But I am done with apple-picking now.

Essence of winter sleep is on the night,

The scent of apples; I am drowsing off.

I cannot shake the shimmer from my sight

I got from looking through a pane of glass

I skimmed this morning from the water-trough,

And held against the world of hoary grass.

It melted, and I let it fall and break.

But I was well

Upon my way to sleep before it fell,

And I could tell

What form my dreaming was about to take.

Magnified apples appear and reappear,

Stem end and blossom end,

And every fleck of russet showing clear.

My instep arch not only keeps the ache,

It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round.

And I keep hearing from the cellar-bin

That rumbling sound

Of load on load of apples coming in.

For I have had too much

Of apple-picking; I am overtired

Of the great harvest I myself desired.

There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch,

Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall,

For all

That struck the earth,

No matter if not bruised, or spiked with stubble,

Went surely to the cider-apple heap

As of no worth.

One can see what will trouble

This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is.

Were he not gone,

The woodchuck could say whether it's like his

Long sleep, as I describe its coming on,

Or just some human sleep.

Girl Quit Playing

2010-10-22T07:27:00.000-07:00

We’ve entered a new phase. It’s the “hang out” phase.

“What do 11 year olds do when they get together?” a very astute friend asked me. My answer? “I have no idea. I guess we’re about to find out.”

I’m trying to encourage my sweet 11 year old to open her circle of friends. She has playdates with a group of 4 other girls, and they are, except one, weird. One is so painfully shy that, when she finally answered a question I asked, after I’d known her for 9 months, had her at our house, taken her to the Butterfly Pavilion and Percy Jackson, all this, and when she finally answered a question directly, without whispering the answer to Oldest Daughter, I felt like Superman after he turned the world back. Successful, but oh, so tired. Another is the Magical Creatures Queen. She and 11 year old are sorceresses, demi-gods, witches, etc, all with an elaborate set of rules that I’ve stopped trying to understand. And what happens if you use a magical word wrong around Friend #2? She corrects you. With a very long, detailed explanation. A third friend hasn’t bathed since 3rd grade. The fourth friend, who never was weird, recently dropped the group in favor of “hanging out” with girls who bathe, do not play the 6th grade version of D&D, and who actually use their verbal skills. I don’t care much for some of the words I’ve heard that group use (example: 11 year old girl to 11 year boy, “I’m a girl and I can prove it!”) So, it isn’t that I really want her to move to those friends. I’d just like to see her extend her friendship to girls who speak loudly enough that I can hear, use words I understand, and don’t grease up my house just by walking through it.

So today, New 11 Year Old Friend has come over. And the answer to the Sphinx’s riddle?

11 year olds give each other makeovers, cook rock candy, and microwave frozen spring rolls when they get hungry.

And they don’t need me around.

Except to clean up, because now there’s peppermint candy all over my floor and the blender is being filled with what I think will become a peppermint chocolate chip shake, assuming they remember to put the lid on.

And kudos to me for not reminding them to put the lid on.

Because I do remember being 11, and one thing is very clear. 11 Year Olds may need Mother Figure to buy the food, but they do not need Mother Figure to speak unless spoken to. She must not make jokes, use slang, listen to music or talk about people 11 year olds know.

Ooops. Hope 11 year old doesn’t read this.

Death Knell

2010-10-15T17:42:00.000-07:00

I’m letting all of you know in case you’re the one to make the decision. You can call this my “living will” or my “directive to health care providers” or you can call it a painful topic you’d rather not read about. Since you are my dearest, closest friends, and may be called upon to determine how my life ends, I’m letting you know now.

First of all, I do not want any song from any Andrew Lloyd Weber production to be played at my funeral. Now, I’m a sucker for Michael Crawford and Sarah Brightman, but I do not want “Wishing You Were Somehow Here Again” or “Close Every Door” or “Jellicle Cats” sung to my cold dead body. I want my grandpa to sing, but since he’s already dead, I’d rather have Maori dancers. I love Maori dancers. In my next life, I want to be a Maori dancer.

Second, I do not want ham or funeral potatoes. I know people going through an emotionally charged event need sustenance. So make spring rolls together, or press grapes with your feet, or do some other communal food making project, but don’t serve pig and spuds. Ham and funeral potatoes sounds alternately cannibalistic and like you’re trying to hurry my friends to heaven through heart disease.

Third, I’d prefer to be buried without the titanium crypt, thank you very much. The thought of having my body stuck underground in a metal box makes me want to join an ashram in India. I like the thought of my body providing nutrients to other living things. Like grass that feeds cows who then provide milk for the President. But if you can’t get around the whole box thing, make it as biodegradable as you can. Even if it means you have to hold a secret burial in Montana. Stupid government safety regulations.

Fourth, and final, I do not want my fingernails painted. And leave the garden dirt under my nails. Seriously, maggots grow out of a dead body so soon, it seems silly to clean me up too much just to pile dirt on me.

One last note, and this is serious. If I have a month to live, let me know. And I’ll choose not to have the radiation. If I have one month, I don’t want to spend it in the hospital. Give me drugs to help with pain and let me die at home. Or, better yet, on a mountain top. I really, really love mountains.

She Works Hard For It, Honey

2010-10-07T13:42:00.001-07:00

My life is so harrowing. I actually had to listen to men work on the roof of my house today. I was terrified, I tell you, hearing them walk around like they weren’t 3 stories up without a safety net. I thought about asking them to walk quieter, but then I realized that would involve me actually getting my rump off the couch, and I just couldn’t do it. I thought loudly to the worker men, although they don’t seem to be tuned in to my thought waves.

We’re getting a new roof. It’s lighter than the old one--not in weight, because how would I know that, honestly? In color. All things being equal, I probably would have chosen the black roof because that’s how I feel on the inside, ha ha, but it turns out that a lighter roof lasts a few years longer. A few years longer than the 30-40 years this new one should last, anyway.

I have a long list of things I ought to do today. Fold kid underwear is among them. But I just can’t be bothered. Instead, I did valuable things like downloading books from Itunes and soaking my gym-sore muscles in a hot bath. I haven’t even bothered to brush my hair, not that anyone would notice, anyway, because I sort of have that fried-at-the-end look going. And roots. Nice, brown roots. Well, brown except for the increasingly large percentage of white roots.

Know what I’d really like to do today? Lay on a blanket in the backyard, soaking up the perfect 70 degree weather. Except, we’re getting a new roof. And it feels a bit creepy to lay out, even fully dressed, when we have 5 men in steel-toed boots climbing up and down ladders. Sort of Misery-creepy. Sort of old-white-lady-looking-for-a-hoochie-man creepy.

Besides, I’d have to move my body, and I really, really don’t feel like moving again.

Give Me The Beet, Boy

2010-10-03T15:52:00.000-07:00

What do you do with 40 lbs. of potatoes and 30 lbs. of beets? Fry them, of course. Being as how we don’t have a root cellar, we opted for grease. Once upon a time, we had a good friend and pseudo-relative who worked for Frito-Lay. He said that once you tasted a chip fresh from the fryer, you’d never eat them from a bag again. I don’t know if that jingle would work for advertising, but I think he’s right. I’m imagining fresh chips with barbecue seasoning, ranch seasoning, rosemary, chipotle, maple... I may need a Fry Daddy. 70 lbs. total, you know.

Here’s what we had for lunch. Remember, I had to match the potato and beet chips. We had hot dogs and M&M’s. I’m calling it “protein” and “little chocolate pills of joy”. My sister hates M&M’s (plain). How can you hate M&M’s? They’re candy coated yumminess. I usually eat one at a time, but today I was downing them by the handfuls. I’m not sure how that fits into the “lose last 3 lbs. of baby fat” regimen, but maybe it’ll all go to muscle. If it does, if this sneaky new diet gives me abs that can crush walnuts, I’ll get M&M tattooed on my tummy. It’ll be so rock-solid that I might even wear a bikini to show off the tattoo. Although probably not, because no amount of muscle hides the pasty-whiteness of my constantly-covered-regions.

What would you do with 30 lbs. of beets?

Booked

2010-09-26T20:14:00.000-07:00

The 11 year old is making up poetry as she washes dishes. “They went to sea in sieve, sieve, sieve. And so you see, my dear, they did not live, live, live.” Hooray for the poetry. I apologize now if my child becomes a writer. Who needs another Anne Rice?

I have not got on board with the whole Twilight thing. Partly because the books hit while I was still mourning Harry Potter and I didn’t feel like rushing into a new relationship. Partly, now, out of rebellion. I want to be the only woman on earth who is not in love with a vampire. Or a werewolf.

The baby’s first word was “book”. He also barks, but I don’t think he’s a werewolf. He’s not hairy enough. He brings us books, sits on our lap and points. He also says, “Bob,” whenever he sees anything furry. Thanks, Sandra Boynton.

I’ve been reading very depressing books lately and I need to stop. Maybe I should switch over to Twilight. I’ve read Little Bee, which begins horrifically and then declines. It’s well written, which makes it even harder to sleep at night. I’m reading Tales of a Female Nomad, which isn’t horrible, but it also doesn’t make me happy. It’s a true story of a woman who, funny enough, becomes a nomad. I actually hate the woman herself. She leaves her newly-adult children and her aging parents to travel among indigenous people. Maybe I’m just jealous. I did re-read Princess Bride, but it wasn’t as funny as I remember it being. Maybe it’s just been too long since I’ve seen Cary Elwes.

What I need is a smart, well-written, not-trying-to-teach-you-anything book. Any ideas?

Stuff You Missed

2010-09-22T08:50:00.000-07:00

I’ve been painting. That’s why I haven’t answered the phone, the door or the voices in my head. I’m too busy. I’ve painted walls, ceilings and trim. I hate ceilings. In my next house, we’re going to have glass ceilings with automatic cleaners. Of course, if you walked into my house, you wouldn’t notice. No one notices but me. Does this make me crazy? All this painting so that I can feel better about my circa ’70’s house? If it doesn’t make me nuts, then the paint that has dripped into my eyeballs from the ceiling will certainly make me blind. Blind and nuts. Alms, anyone?

While I’ve been soaking up paint fumes, I’ve discovered a new favorite podcast. Stuff You Missed In History Class, from HowStuffWorks.com. Free to those of us with the ability to click “subscribe.” At first, I thought, “Wow, who knew I was such a history buff? Who knew I had this latent cool streak in me?” Then I realized that it isn’t about the histories. It’s about the stories. I love stories. So, I’m not so cool. But I do know a lot about the Medici, the molasses spill in Boston, the Romanovs, Oscar Wilde, the caning of Charles Sumner... Oh, I’m so well-rounded. There’s one episode I suggest you skip, though. I’m telling you this as friend who’s been there. Don’t listen to the real story of Bluebeard. I thought he was a pirate. Nope, not a pirate. Not even close. Don’t listen to it. You’ll cry and you’ll be miserable and you’ll hate all men by association. And you’ll hug your sweet little babies until they roll their eyes at you and ask if they can please move to another, less needy family. Seriously.

Product Placement

2010-09-16T07:40:00.000-07:00

I’m sure you’re as outraged as I am. You know what I’m talking about. The new Gatorade ads. If you are, as I am, forced to watch various sports on TV, you will have probably seen them. For those of you with eyes too tender for football, I’ll explain. The commercials start off with black and white clips of sports in days of yore. (What does ‘yore’ mean? I mean, I know what it means, but what’s the OED on it?) The voice over describes how Gatorade revolutionized Sport by allowing athletes to go longer, harder, faster.
Yes, that’s right. Gatorade is claiming credit for improving athlete performance.
Please. Everyone knows that steroids deserve that Hall of Fame spot.
I need Mother Steroids. Today, Just Started Kindergarten refused to a walk to school. I couldn’t drive them because Naps in the Morning had just fallen asleep, and you know the saying, “Let sleeping dogs and babies lie.” I heard her outside for 7 minutes, crying and refusing to walk, because she couldn’t find her bag of chocolate Cheerios I’d given her for a snack today. It’s Field Day, so all rules are off. Instead of chocolate, she had to take an emergency bag of plain oat and sugar Cheerios. And she was mad. I’d told her to focus on the joyful things of the day: playing outside all day, lunch out with Mom and older Sister, popsicles after Field Day...
But we’re still in the throes of First Month, and this has been a monster for her. I don’t think she’s used her normally sweet voice once since school began. She has, however, thrown things, bitten, scratched and clawed. Yesterday, Oldest Responsible One slammed in the door and said, “I’m never walking her home from school again. She clawed my arm because I tried to hold her hand.” Apparently, Out of Control decided she didn’t need to move her feet.
I understand tired. I know this time will end. But, if Gatorade really wanted to help the world, it would create First Month of School Fuel. For kids and moms.

A Few of My Favorite Things

2010-09-09T14:44:00.000-07:00

These are a few of my favorite new products. (And if anyone would like to send me a freebie for giving away valuable advertising like this, I won’t turn it down.)

Cleaner: Pledge Multisurface. I cleaned my stainless steel finger-print decorated appliances, granite countertops, wood cabinet faces, computer and TV in less time than it took my kids to re-decorate the fridge with their cherubic prints. Spray, wipe, done. And, the one I have is Lavender Fresh, which means you can no longer smell the nasty old potatoes I’m culturing in the pantry.
Fixer: Old English scratch cover for dark woods. Some youngster, who will remain nameless, carved his name in our piano. I know he did it because who else in the world would graffiti a piano by writing Wyatt? A bit of Old English and you can’t see it. Not to mention that portion of the room now smells like a dark sitting room with wood paneling and heirloom lace.
Just For Me: Bath and Body Works Eucalyptus and Spearmint sugar scrub. I’ve been sniffing my elbows all day, plus also, my skin is now soft-as-a-baby’s-bottom. Thank you, Santa, and all the lotions you gave me. After returning them to the store, they magically turned into this luscious treat.
After school snack: 10 minutes to make, I call it a protein, and I’m a hero. I believe the phrase I heard was, “Wow, you’re the best mom in the whole wide universe!” Here’s the recipe:

SuperHeroFood

1 C sugar

1 C Karo Syrup

1 1/2 C peanut butter

5 C chocolate Cheerios

Melt first 3 ingredients, add Cheerios, and lick the pan.

I’m also updating with pictures of my favorite place. Coming soon: pictures of my favorite park. I could seriously spend all day here. With or without kids. Which would make me creepy if I were a man but because I’m a woman it makes me a “naturalist.”

Library Lovin

2010-09-05T14:37:00.000-07:00

All Boy and I went to baby story time at the library. Story time, as in “oh, the stories we have to tell if we go.” Once upon a time in Arlington, I met a dear friend at story time. Our two sweet girls would sing choo-choo songs, apple picking songs, teeth brushing songs, (but not Twinkle Star songs because her daughter had some issues with that particular lullaby.) We’d nurse, or sing, or roll our arms to Wheels on the Bus, and, in general, a grand time was had by all.

I have a feeling I will not meet any kindred spirits at this story time.

First, my son greets other babies by smacking them on the face. For some reason, this causes concern in the other mothers and they whisk their precious First Born children off to be protected and petted. Rather than being offended by this, my Last Born sees it as the perfect way to make sure that the basket of musical instruments and cuddly disease ridden stuffed animals remains all his.

Second, I’m rather tired of asking people what their precocious and brilliant babies are doing. I’m afraid my nasty side will bust out and I’ll say something like, “Really? Only sleeping 12 hours at night? I heard about that syndrome on NPR...” Also, I hate little babies who have things stuck on their heads. If they’ve got hair, great, do something to get it out of their eyes if you’re so inclined. But if they’re bald, leave the stupid headband off the poor kid. (Hal calls them baby garters.) Any day now, my opinion on this vital issue is likely to come spewing out of my mouth so I’m trying to keep my mouth shut very tight. Besides the hair thing, I’ve seen babies in low rise and straight leg jeans. Really? You think that’s a good look for diapered butts? And exactly what is your clothing budget for that child? Because I could do a whole lotta good with that money. You can see why I need to clamp my mouth, right?

I Have a Picture

2010-09-03T12:11:00.000-07:00

Growing Up Too Fast now has a vocabulary. He barks when he sees anything furry, he says ‘boo’, ‘Mama’, ‘book’ and ‘uh-oh.’ I’m waiting for him to say, “Yes, Queen of the World, most beautiful mother, I would truly love to weed the garden for you.”

I’ve had a subtle request from a distant friend to post new pictures. I thought the stunning neighbors were enough to do for awhile, but apparently not. I’ve tried to find the snake, but it’s camera shy. So, I’m posting before and after shots. Not of me. No one needs to see me before or after. I’m posting some pictures of my true love, my child who never argues, although it is often headstrong and willful. My garden. The before is in January, my “don’t clean up for the season” method of gardening. I’m going to say that the dead plants add structural interest in an otherwise grey monotony. The other picture is the living garden. I did have a tomato spring up voluntarily. Which may be my new method of gardening. The “close your eyes and hope the good plants pop back up” method.

My neighbor is German. She rakes her yard every week. When the snow falls, she spreads it in an even layer over her yard. She can’t help herself. She loves me, but I’m also the bane of her existence. I’m striving for an English garden look to the front yard, which currently means that the daisies bloom like mad for a month and then the dandelions take over. I figure, eventually one or the other will win without my interference. The other day, my German friend said, “That’s right, Mama, just keep pulling out the weeds. You’ll get an English garden that way.” That’s her gentle way of saying, “Pull the stupid weeds, you lazy butt.”

Name Dropper

2010-08-29T15:41:00.000-07:00

The Boy has begun nursing again. I channeled my inner La Leche League and gave him many, many chances to nurse. I may never wean him. Is it so wrong to nurse a 1st grader?

Our school has become a “Healthy School.” Yes, that’s in capitals. It means, in short, that instead of maple flavored high fructose corn syrup on the french toast, the kids get shriveled blueberries in high fructose corn syrup. At what point does the fruit cease to be a fruit? Is it so hard to say, “Gee, tomatoes are in season. Why not do something with tomatoes?”

We also can’t bring treats in for our children’s birthdays, which is only sad because Just Started Elementary was looking forward to it. It also means they’ve canceled the Valentine’s Day party and are warning room mums that they are to bring healthful treats for Halloween and Christmas. Ooops, I mean the Fall and Winter parties.

Why the sudden interest in appearing so healthy? Money, of course. Our school gets a grant for ousting the nasty hot dogs and serving, instead, nasty pressed turkey.

It has not, though, changed the list of 37 items I needed to supply for Kindergarten. And then, after having bought all the junk, including the Prang brand watercolors and the cute little folder with the cuddly kitty cats, the teachers inform us that everything will be community property. Excuse me? I searched out Ticonderoga pencils so that my daughter could use those stupid triangle shaped pencils that no self-respecting Kindergartener would be caught dead with? If I’d known they were going to throw it all in the kitty, I’d have saved myself a lot of grief and bought RoseArt everything, thank you. I immediately went home and Sharpied my daughter’s name on the folder and the watercolors. This is my Republican self coming out. This is my deep, dark secret, the part of me that tries to hide from the prying eyes of the neighbors. Oh, sure, I’ll say that it’s fine, that I want other kids to have the best. And I do. But not if it means I went to 3 stores to find the right markers for someone else’s child while my own child uses Walmart brand products. It’s mostly about the effort, it’s partly about the cost, and it’s a lot about expectations. And, yes, this is absolutely the most important thing in my life right now. I’m so pathetic.

No Thought Control

2010-08-25T07:42:00.000-07:00

Ahh, the backpacks, the lunch sacks, the tears, the hurt feelings, the biting, the using one’s head as a battering ram in one’s sister’s stomach--it must be the first week of school.

I’m ambivalent about school. I love the teachers we’ve got this year. I love the field trips, the math, the science, the history, the reading. I love PE, music and art. I love Field Day. I love the responsibilities the school gives my children, such as Conflict Mediator and student leadership. I do not love how tired my daughters are at the end of the day or the enormous amount of scheduling it requires.

Excited About Kindergarten becomes Out of Her Head Tired almost as soon as she walks in the door. No amount of bananas, hugs or “here, let me do that with you,” has helped. She bit a hole in our leather chair. She bit her sister’s shirt and almost tore it. She shoved the same sister in the stomach because she walked into a room at the wrong time. She punched me. That’s just the physical stuff. It would take hours to relate all the drop-on-the-floor hysterical crying she’s done. Usually because I made something green for dinner, but sometimes because we smiled in her direction, the phone rang, or the wrong word was used when speaking to her.

And of course her older sisters are not much help. Oh, they’re nice up until about 45 minutes after the bell rings for dismissal. And then they, too, realize that they’re exhausted, cranky and really just want to watch Zach and Cody for the next 20 years. But even that isn’t exactly right. Monday, I let them watch an hour of TV. Usually, school days are TV free zones, but the first day of school, no homework, worn out kids... Know what I heard that night? “We didn’t even have time to play!” So yesterday, there was no TV and I repeatedly told them to play. Know what I heard? “You never let us watch TV!” Oh, how fickle are the minds of my masters.

There are good memories of these first days, too. Summer Birthday Girl got to pass out party invitations on the first day of school. How cool is that? And Last Year in Elementary is renewing a friendship I feared had died. It will be a good friendship to take into that most dismal abyss--Junior High. Just get us through the next few days without knife throwing and I think we’ll come out in the “pro” column of it all. At least until next year. I reserve the right to homeschool through Junior High.

On The Fairway

2010-08-22T18:58:00.000-07:00

The sign said that it was the exact one seen in State Fair featuring Anne Bancroft and Pat Boone. “Ah,” I thought. “A piece of history. Such a good mom, to bring my children here to experience this.”

But then, I’m not sure that the original Tilt-a-Whirl is really where you want to go with the whole history thing. How long can metal grind against metal and not leave some horrendous, news making event in its wake?

The last week before school starts, and with such a cold start to the summer, we’ve been packing it all in. We brought my sister home with us from our last vacation, and she’s loving it here. She asked me yesterday, “Next time I come to visit, can I just visit?” Apparently, she does not like my free labor method of entertaining guests. She helped move all the heavy furniture from the upstairs to the basement. I tried to make her do it on her own, but she whined when she saw the armoire that had to go down 3 flights of stairs. Whimp.

So, to make up for the turn her “vacation” had taken, I packed everyone in the minivan and we trundled off to a small amusement park. I was amused. I think everyone was amused. I hate amusement parks, but as soon as the Maze Owners handed us each a water gun and told us to have fun, I changed my mind. We snuck around corners, climbed under partitions (turns out, that’s a no-no) and walked out soaked. Being Carried In My Arms Infant wasn’t so thrilled, but I think that’s because he didn’t get his own gun.

I also had a harness tied around my waist, bungee cords attached to my sides, and I jumped. High. Really, really high. And I flipped, on purpose. I put my derrière in the air and did a somersault. Just one, because two would have been more than my old-lady stomach could have borne. I’m also not sure the growing crowd was entirely on my side. I think at least a few of them walked away disappointed when I did not, in fact, throw up.

So, come visit us. We may force you to help us paint, but we’ll end the day with ice-cold water guns and puke.

Master of All He Surveys

2010-08-18T03:28:00.000-07:00

11 Month Old climbed the bunk bed ladder last night.

Obviously, swiping his feet out from under him so he can’t learn to walk has not been enough.

He also drank a glass of whole milk. From a cow, not his Mother Dearest. You see, he decided to wean himself (ouch). He went from 6-8 nursings a day to once, maybe twice, a day, all within the span of 6 hours. Oh, he plays a lot. But latching on? He’s much too grown up for that. Since he’s Last Child, I thought I’d nurse him for, say, forever. But apparently he also has developed an opinion about things I did not give him permission to have an opinion about.

Last night when I took away the pair of scissors he was jabbing at his eye, he dropped his body onto the floor, kicked his feet and screamed. 11 months old.

I think I can look at this in one of two ways. I can live in fear and trembling for what this means for our family when he reaches the strapping age of 3. Or, I can smile, take it as a sign of his destiny (world domination) and cancel that needless 401K.

Nibble Lips

2010-08-06T15:50:00.000-07:00

“He’s my little nibble-lips,” four year old said about Kissable Infant.

We’ve been nibbling on zucchini recently. I planted a total of 8 plants and got (drum roll) exactly 0, zero, zilch that produced. Last year, too, I managed to join the honor roll of Those Who Can Kill Zucchini. You envy me, I know, but some of us have skills and others just wish.

So, a friend who planted (honestly) 14 squash plants gave me good-for-bread zucchinis. 5 of them. We had chocolate zucchini cake, zucchini cookies (kids didn’t know about the squash in them), lasagna rolls with zucchini in the sauce, grilled zucchini (love to add cancer to my veggie), fried zucchini, crudite zucchini... I love zucchini. I love the way it's spelled. I love to say the word. I love the weed-like growth of everyone else's zucchini. If zucchini were a man, I might have to leave Hal. My kids, of course, are now rolling their eyes and saying things like, “Can we have carrots instead?” My answer: Yes. If you eat your zucchini first. Imagine, carrots during zucchini season. Save ‘em for the root cellar and eat your greens!

So, for good grades, they’ve chosen to go to a Moroccan restaurant. That means one night of eating sloppy food with fingers. I’m betting not a single item involves zucchini. But I won’t roll my eyes. There may be tomatoes, and tomatoes will soothe my heartache.