It ain't the heat, it's the humility. - Yogi Berra

For the record, there is nothing like a hot, sweaty, drooling baby crawling around to let you know just how inadequate that last bout of vacuuming was.
Or perhaps futile is a better word choice.

What are we doing today?
Visiting Dad at work?
Going to the public library to find book about tornadoes, Primo’s latest obsession?
Visiting their old preschool before it closes for good at the end of June?
Getting Mama some caffeine? [This is NOT an option, but a necessity.]
Grocery shopping for diapers and wipes and shaving cream and laundry detergent and any number of other necessities I would SWEAR I had JUST stocked up on?
Buying the boys their summer sandals and new sneakers?
Visiting the library where I work because they have an excellent children’s collection?
So many options.

It’s going to be ninety degrees here today.
That must factor in.
It’s so hot that even the goldfish looks hot.

Did I mention that Segundo is potty-training?
He’s doing great, but god, it’s so much work.
It’s almost - I say almost – easier to just deal with diapers.
But he must be trained to attend preschool in the fall.

Also, for whatever reason, my children REFUSE to accept that it’s like Africa-hot, and insist on wearing sweatpants, long-sleeved t-shirts – yesterday I had to wrestle a polarfleece out of Segundo’s literally hot little hands. Time for a dresser drawer purge of all things winter-like. Even the long-sleeved t-shirts I left there for cool summer evenings at the park or the beach – must be hidden.

The only sure thing is that tonight? I drink. With other mamas from Primo’s preschool who have also just endured their first few days full-day with *their* preschooler(s).

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So we traveled far and wide today.

First – H’s office. I NEVER understand this, his wanting us to come visit him there. He inevitably looks harried and worried because there are people trying to WORK, and I spend the whole time comparing my sweaty, fat, stringy-haired, squinty-eyed self to all the sleek and well-turned-out office-types who are not stressed out trying to herd three small children quietly throughout the halls. And then I think, “Oh, crap, they probably all think I am checking up on H,” when the reality of it is? I don’t care. At this particular moment. If anyone wants his self-absorbed, slightly-geeky, semi-Asperger’s self? They are welcome to him.
I mean, I love him and all, but I DO have that sticky-out-y stomach issue going on. AS HE CONTINUES TO POINT OUT.
So I ask you, would YOU want him?

Then we walked the two blocks (was I insane?) to the library, where all the computers were down. So the kind lady behind the counter had to handwrite all the barcodes for all our books – all, oh, sixteen of them – for checking-out purposes. Now here is where H redeems himself – he drove the car from where it was parked in front of his office building and left it right outside the library for me. God bless him, because anyone knows that the most difficult thing of any outing is getting the kids in and out of the car. Everything else in between, I can handle with (some) equanimity.

THEN we drove to the boys’ old daycare, which is closing at the end of this month, so H and I thought it would be nice for the boys to go say hi and good-bye to everyone. I enjoyed seeing everyone, but the fact of the matter is that I can never remember whose child is whose, and what people’s names are, and my boys acted like they had never ever seen these people before in their lives. Except the baby, who was thrilled to bits to discover that there are other people his size out there in the big wide world! And they would smile at him! And let him teeth their toys! Oh joy!

And then I descended to the lowest depths of decadence and bad-mama-ism: I not only bought Happy Meals on the way home? I CHARGED THEM so I wouldn’t have to stop at an ATM. I think fast food restaurants accepting credit cards is pretty much the end of civilization as we know it, a depravity like unto the Roman Empire’s all-you-can-eat Christian buffets, and the need for a portion of their houses to be actually named the vomitorium. It’s only the first full day of vacation, and here I am. How much lower can I go? I am all too afraid we shall soon find out.

Then this is where I should blog about what this blog is meant to be about (ya folla?): books. Soon, I swear. I, as Blackbird might say and I believe has, pinky swear. I PROMISE YOU. But now, enough about that literary crap. It’s hot and I desperately need a drink. Preferably alcoholic.

Cheers!

"Running is a big question mark that's there each and every day. It asks you, 'Are you going to be a wimp or are you going to be strong today?'"

Things I noticed on my run this morning:

The friendliest people are always the old black guys. They smile and say Good morning, almost without fail. In fact, it gets a little weird sometimes – we’re all running laps around a mile loop of the reservoir, so as you can imagine, you pass each other with some frequency. At some point it HAS to be ok to ignore each other, having said Hello or Good Morning the past three or four times.

The least friendly are the old Italian ladies. I don’t say little old Italian ladies, because these are no frail old nonnies; no, they are of the battle-axe variety, stumping along, speaking Italian to each other. I am always convinced they are discussing how fat I am. No, I am not paranoid.

Which reminds me that I hate running past the little old Italian men, because I don’t like even three-hundred-year old men who are discussing bocce in loud Italian to see the jiggly fat on the back of my legs and my wide-load ass.

I have back fat. And it too jiggles when I run. Which is a disconcerting sensation.

I am not losing any noticeable weight. But of course, I am still consuming my usual amount of chocolate. So, you do the math.

There are not many ducks left on the reservoir. There used to be entire flocks. I read an article in the newspaper recently that said that fourteen dead ducks had been discovered up at the reservoir; their cause of death was malnutrition. Now, the reservoir obviously is not a natural habitat, and under its waters do NOT grow greens and weeds and water plants. But there are ponds within the park, so couldn’t the ducks go there? As H pointed out, perhaps any animal that dies of malnutrition in the wild more or less, Darwinically-speaking, deserves to die.

There is honeysuckle in two corners of the reservoir. It smells so nice. I love honeysuckle.

The steps leading into the reservoir waters were down today. I have never seen them down before, they normally must be folded up and fastened, at the side of the waterline. They lead right down into the water and then about a dozen steps below it. I notice these sorts of things because, given my history for swimming illegally in various bodies of water, I have often considered, especially at the end of a run, how refreshing it might be to jump into the reservoir. Steps would make it easier.

Someone had pitched a paint bucket into the water. Um, hello, idiots, that’s our drinking water supply. And it’s nice that the upper reservoir is not covered; the lower one is. If you want the public works people to insist on covering the upper one, then yeah, continue to do stupid shit like that.

Yes, yes, I know - paint, sweaty runner's body - six of one, blah, blah, blah. But *I* am organic at least.

The gardens surrounding the fountain area are lovely. Whoever planned them did a superb job. The irises are just blooming – deep purple with yellow hearts – and the yarrow – and those Dr Seuss-y looking puff balls on tall tall stems. (What ARE those?) The lavender is up. The tulips are done but the lilies are about to come up. Really a beautiful and pleasing display of garden planning know-how.

The water fountains have been turned on, and their fixtures replaced. Definitely a boon for runners, especially in the summer and especially now that the Italian Ice guy won’t be there at the park anymore.

The ribbons left to commemorate and memorialize the Italian ice guy are gone. They weren't left there all that long, considering the guy had plied his trade at the park for well over twenty years.

I need to start weight-training again. My legs need more muscle to support the longer runs I am soon going to have to do, in order to be ready for that 10K in September.

I LOOOOOOOOOVVVVEE endorphins.

We are all meant to shine, as children do. - Marianne Williamson

On the way to graduation. My little Primo marches manfully down the street. He looked so handsome in his white shirt and khakis, with a paper tie he'd painted last week at preschool looped around his neck.

Graduation mayhem. Yes, it was as loud as it looks. And there were multi-generational dealios going on here. Parents and siblings who had attended the preschool were there to watch their children and sisters and brothers graduate.

SOME smart people brought coffee for their loved ones. I was not that smart. Or that loved. Note to self: if you are going to be in a room packed full of preschoolers, various siblings, grandparents, and parents for any length of time - coffee in the form of a double-shot latte is most definitely in order. Since even I can't condone vodka at 9am. Although this could soon change with the advent of summer vacation.

There was singing, and cheerful greetings to the attendees spoken in unison, and funny little speeches by the two teachers. And a play. Note the troll - very un-troll-like, absolutely adorable M - starring in "The Three Billy Goats Gruff."

With Primo as the Middle Billy Goat Gruff. When he spoke his lines, saying that the Troll really should wait for his bigger, juicier brother to come along, and eat HIM instead, I noticed that Segundo grew visibly nervous.

The surprise finale was a karaoke rendition of "We Will Rock You," complete with hand-painted guitars. A truly classic moment. "You've got mud on your face, a big disgrace, somebody better put you back in your place..."

The four graduates got diplomas. They seemed pleased and proud.
They also quickly came up with several alternate uses for the diplomas. Since my diplomas are lying in a box somewhere in my attic, I'd say that this use is actually pretty ...useful.

The copious amounts of artwork had to come down off the walls. No one wanted to take the Stic-Tack home.

Parents brough cookies and punch and cheese and crackers, for a party afterwards, while we all tried to plan outings over the summer and gathered up the gigantic, nay, did I say COPIOUS?, amounts of artwork.
Terzo wanted DOWN. It was way past his naptime but he was a good sport once I handed him one of my next-door neighbor's to-DIE-for homemade snickerdoodle cookies.

In fact, they were so delectable that he didn't want to waste one. single. crumb. And I took some home and ate them for lunch.

It was a nice little celebration, and I even may have been a little choked up.
But I'll never admit to it.

I'll just blame it on the lack of caffeine.
And the fact that a mere two minutes after the boys got home, they were fighting, and Segundo was jumping on the furniture and crying that he was being teased, and Primo was calling him stupid and poopy and all manner of other pleasant things, and the baby wanted to be changed and fed and put to bed, and H walked out the door to go to work. Where it's peaceful and quiet. And where he will go all summer long. Every day. Leaving me at home with the crazy-making children.

Now, where did I put the vodka?

In winter I get up at night And dress by yellow candle-light. In summer quite the other way I have to go to bed by day. - Robert Louis Stevenson

List Friday, courtesy of Loretta, of Pomegranates and Paper

This week's theme: The harbingers of summer. Loretta requested five each of activities/drinks/foods. As usual, I played fast and loose with the rules.

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When I was a kid, my dad going out to buy the sand that went under the little pool he put up in our backyard is what signaled summer to me. We were allowed to play in the pool while it was filling up and for some reason, that was almost more fun than swimming in the already-full pool.

- The smell of hot, sun-baked inner tube, and chlorine
- Bubbles and sidewalk chalk and wiffle ball and games of jailbreak
- Not having to come home until the street lights come on
- Crickets and cicadas and the ding of the Mr Softee ice cream truck
- Purple cows drunk at the backyard picnic table
- Hot dogs on the little hibachi-like grill
- The purchase of a new pair of little white canvas Keds.


Now that I am an adult:

The city pools are filled and are open, and I can gaze at them longingly on my way to work. They always look so refreshing.

The porch furniture is scrubbed and set up, and the swing is let down.
The citronella candles are dug up out of the basement where they’ve been gathering dust.

Cocktails on the front porch before and/or after dinner are now a possibility.
And a probability.

I start wanting iced tea for breakfast rather than hot tea.
And frappucinos instead of hot lattes.
And bagels instead of oatmeal.
And popsicles for afternoon snack.

Our CSA begins. Asparagus and strawberries soon, then onto corn, peaches, raspberries, blueberries, and tomatoes.

The tables and chairs outside the coffee shop appear. The boys and I can sit there and wave hello to all the passing busses.

NO. MORE. SOCKS.
And flip-flops or Tevas for shoes.

I have to start shaving my legs regularly.

Having to turn on the ceiling fan for it to be cool enough at night to snuggle under the comforter – and it’s still cool enough at 6am to have to wear a long-sleeved shirt for my run, but warm enough that I take it off halfway through.

We start planning the Kennywood visit. Calloo callay, I am not pregnant this summer, so I can ride the rollercoasters! It’s not summer without a corndog, cotton candy, and a couple Thunderbolt rides.

And we may or may not be going to the beach this summer – but do you suppose if I dunked my arm in saltwater , let it dry, and then licked it, it would taste the same as it does after a day in the ocean and sun?

Arguments with furniture are rarely productive. - Kehlog Albran

Sunday I was on my way to the nursery with Terzo, to let him crawl around a bit, because while he was enjoying the stained glass and the organ, he was also making a bit too much of the joyful noise unto the Lord than is necessary. I was waylaid by the book sale in the parish hall. And then my librarian instincts blindsided me and I helped shelf four boxes of newly-arrived books, and organized what they already had shelved. Ahhhh…..much better.

Turns out the church secretary is on lifting limitations due to recent surgery, so I told her I would be happy to come by and shelve whatever comes in. I was totally honest with her, I am happy to help, but it’ll be nice to get first crack at the donations, too. She didn’t seem to mind at all.

This is what I scored:
I Should Have Stayed Home: The worst trips of great writers - so far really interesting and amusing.
The Silver Anniversary Murder - Lee Harris. I’ve read most of Harris’ “holiday” mysteries. Her detective is an ex-nun, and mostly the mysteries are research-intensive sorts of things, but they’re fun, mindless reads. For when I need that.
Babylon Revisited and other stories - F. Scott Fitzgerald. Why not? Collecting the classics is ok.
The Red Tent - Anita Diamant. I have read this several times, but lent my copy to someone in the book club and I will never see it again. And I want to own it. Although I HATED Diamant’s second novel.
The Hours - Michael Cunningham. Not a huge Woolf fan, but I’ve heard too many things about this not to at least check it out.
The Map of Love - Ahdaf Soueif. It was a Booker finalist. I know nothing else. That’s often enough.
A Beautiful Mind - Sylvia Nasar. I’ve never seen the movie, I can’t stand Russell Crowe. But the book looks interesting. Plus, if I remember correctly, he’s a Carnegie Tech alum.

The boys got a few books – Muppets, a (blech!) Berenstain Bears, and another Richard Scarry for Seggie, and two books about natural disasters and weather, for Primo. Going to church is getting to be an expensive habit.

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Otherwise, things have been a’ shiftin’ around here. We were given a china cupboard. So now all my platters can live in our original, smaller china cabinet, and the pantry is freed up for foodstuffs.



I am ripping up carpet in the bedrooms – why would you not refinish the whole floor? I just wonder.

And we are rearranging minor things. Just turning this rug the other way made the entryway feel much cozier and welcoming. Like you might want to hang up your coat and stay a while. And as soon as we pick up the armoire I bought off Craig’s List, the TV will migrate down to the living room.

At which point the couch will become the crisis.
Because it’s really ugly, with or without the slipcover. But considering that this morning, Seggie was entertaining himself by piling up the cushions and belly-flopping his way down the furniture mountain, I see no reason whatsoever to spend any kind of real cash on new furniture.

Not while the barbarians still reside here.

I must have had rocks in my head. - Jeannette MacDonald

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Thursday Show-and-Tell: A Rock. Courtesy of Blackbird

Communism teaches and seeks two objectives: unrelenting class warfare and the complete eradication of private ownership.

Primo wanted to make sure that everyone knew just what was what, and what was whose, in the TV/computer room.

These shelves and books are clearly Mama's.



This shelf of guitar magazines - obviously Daddy's.

The computer and the desk upon which it sits? Mama's and Daddy's both.


Ditto the printer.

Only adults are permitted to touch the TV and its cabinet. Ipso facto - Mama's and Daddy's.

Also Mama's and Daddy's? The TV tables.

Apparently house components such as windowsills belong to us all. Never mind that Daddy and I are the ones PAYING for this residence.

However, the green leather spinny chair? The boys'.


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This post brought to you by everyone's favorite permanent marker, Sharpie.

And he looked, and, behold, there was a cake baken on the coals, and a cruse of water at his head. And he did eat and drink, and laid him down again.

Cake-baking day. Everyone knows that the thing you need most of all, when baking a cake, is a double-shot latte.

And, you know, a recipe. From Eat Cake.

Not to mention a very --- helpful --- helper....

And someone else to do the pan prep, since it took longer than mixing the cake batter!

The batter that looked like cat sick.

But that baked up into a delicate little cake.

That everyone devoured.


Even Segundo who really does not have much of a sweet tooth.

And the adults? More or less licked their plates clean.

I play the game for the game's own sake. - Sherlock Holmes, in The Adventure of the Bruce-Partington Plans

Swiped from Joke, who swiped it from Badger (who pilfered it from Karla):

1. What's in the glove box of your car? The folder with all the car stuff in it; a toothbrush; a box of tampons; a hair clip; a pen or two; a five-dollar bill; a few maps (Pittsburgh, PA, NJ); an extra clippy thingey for the car seat/seatbelt
2. Favorite classes in college (or high school):
High school: geometry, algebra, biology, calculus
College: Modern Novel, Shakespeare, History of Theatre
3. Shampoo brand: some sort of Herbal Essence – whatever’s citrus-y
4. Favorite piece of furniture you own: a tie between a red-oak Mission-style china cabinet and my cream-painted drop-leaf secretary/desk that my grandfather built. Although I do adore my bed. It's so cozy.
5. Idea of a really good first date: drinks, then a casual-ish dinner, then home or if it’s going really well, a coffee or a schlep around a bookstore. I hate seeing movies on dates.
6. Favorite fruit: oranges, lemons
7. Pick a passage from a favorite book:
Spring has come; windows are open. Green fire burns fiercely along the branches of every tree and shrub. A month ago the wild geese started flying north; over the lake, against a morning sky, the black-dotted wedge of their flying made lovely patterns. Birds have all picked out their house sites among hedgerows and tree-tops. They are hard at work discovering their own building material. Our neighbor’s bees are singing their spring foraging song. The little brown bee does hum – ho-hum.
Through the open window comes the sound of roller skates. Along the macadam road, where by law or caution they should not be, children dart back and forth like low-skimming swallows. Clump – chug – chirr – clump! Arms saw the air. The plaids and checks, the skirts and sweaters, make patterns. A red-head unties a skipping rope from around her waist and thrusts the wodden handles into two hands outstretched to receive them. In a moment she is going to show what can be done on roller skates with a skipping rope.
A solitary figure escapes the huddle. She chugs over to the curb and mounts it to the sidewalk. She stand sthere and shows what a strange little figure she is, different from the rest….
I knew her in an instant; although I had forgotten all about her for years, had forgotten she had ever existed. It gives me a shock to see her, looking so exactly as she should look, so everlastingly full of life andf still on roller skates. I put my head out of the window and call:
“Lucinda!”

from Roller Skates, by Ruth Sawyer
8. What would you eat for dinner if it were your last night on earth? A Bacardi cocktail; Champagne, fresh field salad with balsamic vinaigrette and olives, roasted duck, something blue-cheese-y (maybe in potatoes), and the coconut-chocolate (Mounds-bar-sy) pie from Gulliftey’s – maybe two pieces. With coffee and a cigarette. And then some Armagnac and a cigarette.
9. Free Will or Destiny: free will
10. What would you sing at karaoke? “Sweet Baby James” – James Taylor. Or “When I’m Sixty-Four”
11. Sweater or Sweatshirt? Sweater. Preferably cashmere, and roomy.
12. Paris, NYC, Tokyo, or Rio de Janeiro? Paris.
13. What do you wear to bed usually? Dilapidated t-shirts from long-ago fraternity parties and men’s pj bottoms from Old Navy
14. If you dyed your hair, what colour would you dye it? Auburn, and I usually do.
15. If you went back to school, what would you study? English literature, specifically during the Renaissance – the symbiosis of religion and the creation of literature
16. Gum or mints? Original Trident gum
17. Recurring nightmares? Trying to escape a house in which I am trapped with a psychopath – generally, it’s in my childhood home, and I have to get across the street to my neighbor’s house to call the police
18. Age & location of first kiss? 14, the haunted house ride at Clementon Amusement Park, Clementon, NJ
19. Describe your favourite pair of shoes: I hate shoes.
20. What movie/tv character do you feel like you relate to most? Lindsay on “Freaks and Geeks”; Natalie on “Sports Night”
21. First CD purchase: I can’t remember. Probably the Eric Clapton Layla boxed set as a Christmas present for my then-boyfriend
22. First concert: Amy Grant, before she went secular (it was the album with the traffic light on the front; “El Shaddai” was her big hit)
23. Do you like camping? Not really. Because as with all vacations, I wind up cooking and cleaning. And oh what fun that is at a campsite. Plus I hate all the spiders in the bathrooms, and it ALWAYS rains when we camp. And I am always convinced I am going to be mauled to death by an animal. See below, although THEY generally are not a danger at campsites.
24. If you were doomed to be mauled to death by an animal, what animal would you prefer that to be? A shark.
25. Do you/would you own a gun? No, no, no, NO.
26. What religion would you like to know more about: Judaism
27. Favourite food as a kid: Hershey bars, or those ice cream bars with the ice cream inside and the crunchy stuff, either chocolate or strawberry on the outside. You could buy them in the school cafeteria for 25 cents.
28. How many languages do you speak? Sadly, only one. I can get by in Italian, as long as all I need is change or the bathroom; I can stumble through reading in Spanish and Italian – meaning, I can get the general gist of an abstract or newspaper article (Three hundred dead in hurricane! President overthrown in military coup!), but certainly absolutely none of the details or nuances.
29. If you were a natural disaster, would you be a tornado, hurricane, or earthquake? Hurricane. I like the water. And I’m full of (hot) air.
30. If you could make one state in the US just go away, which state would that be? Texas. Sorry, Badger. I’d make sure you had time to evacuate.
31. How many prescriptions do you take? One daily, one as needed.
32. Lake or Ocean? Ocean (I am a Jersey Girl.)
33. What is the worst lie you've ever told to get out of work, (and don't say you've never lied to get out of work, because that my friend is a lie and you know it)? I said one of my kids was sick.
34. Do you carry a backpack, a satchel or "man bag", tote bag, brief case, or a backpack on wheels? A soft briefcase-y thing from Eddie Bauer, in dark green.
35. Have you ever been arrested/cited for anything other than traffic violations? Um, yes.
36. Would you ever consider spending some time at a nudist colony? As long as my husband weren’t there to comment on my stomach, yes.
39. Best thing you can cook? I bake like a champ. You name it, I can bake it. H would say my biscotti. I like my lemon-curd cake, or my Mexican pineapple cake.
And what happened to 37 and 38? Forty.
40. If you were going to donate 1000 dollars to a charity, what would that be? I’d split it between the public library and the Center for Organ Recovery and Education.

Give us this day our daily bread...

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Cheerfully and flagrantly stolen from Blackbird, who in turn swiped it from various other people, and tracked down at last at The newspaper clipping generator.

Is it progress if a cannibal uses a fork? - Stanislaw Lec

My dear college friend Hungry in LA sent me a birthday package. It contained this:

Sharks and Other Sea Monsters




She knows me so well. I love it.
Thank you, Hungry! I love you!
Is the dog still alive?

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I am currently enjoying The Sex Lives of Cannibals, on both Blackbird’s and Badger’s recommendations. It’s by and about a Westerner working in the equatorial Pacific atolls, and is set in the Republic of Kiribati - which is a neighbor to Tuvalu. Not that anyone we know lives in Tuvalu…

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I went to my orthodontist today. He who reminds me of a fatter – um, maybe heavier is a better word - Colin Firth. Impeccably dressed, as always. Adorable. Married with five children. Good friend of the sweetheart drummer from H’s band. It used to be I couldn’t speak in his presence – I mean, aside from the fact that his hands were in my mouth up to his elbows – but he’s known me through two pregnancies – AND, I am sorry, once a man has seen you having molds of your mouth made – you just know there is never ever going to be any potential there, even for a mild flirtation, not even if you were the last woman and he were the last man on earth.

Double that after he’s handled your retainer.

My teeth are perfect. They haven’t moved in two years.
Because I wear my retainer every single night.
It’s dead sexy.

And then he asked if I was pregnant.

So now, even if by some bizarre twist of fate he found the retainer and the blue mold-making stuff wildly, secretly sexy? I wouldn’t have him.

Pregnant.

Humph.

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Then I went to the thrift shop up the street, run by the Junior League (translates to: They always have nice stuff - and strangely cheap!)

One beautiful thing about a blog is that I can tell YOU all about my thrift shop purchases and modestly accept your approval and kudos for bargains found and fabulous stuff ferreted out. Because when I told my husband, not only did he not care, but then it grossed him out that the clothes I was wearing came from a thrift shop and so then I couldn’t wear them. Which is sort of pointless. So I write a blog, everyone wins. Well, except maybe you, gentle readers, but hey, your fate is in your own hands.

I scored:

• A Saks Fifth Avenue blue-striped cotton bathrobe - not that I ever wear a bathrobe. But if I did, this is the kind I would. And it was only three bucks. So maybe I’ll start wearing a bathrobe, swanning around the house in my blue-stripes, trailing the belt behind me, over cute slouchy pjs from LL Bean. See! I can wear it Christmas morning so I’ll look just like one of those thin and blonde models in the Bean catalog, carrying around a cup of cocoa and ruffling the golden retriever’s fur. Well, except for the thin and blonde part. Oh, and the golden retriever. But three dollars! How could I resist? That whole little fantasy right there was worth the three bucks.
  
  
• Brown linen wide-legged capris from Old Navy, that I wore to work tonight with a grey v-neck t-shirt and a slouchy cloud-grey silk v-neck sweater I gave H for Christmas umpteen years ago and that he never wore so I swiped it back. I look quite cute, even if I say so myself. Very NOT LL Bean, however.
  
  
• Jeans – because no matter how bad they look, you must own a pair of jeans that you can wear
  
  
• Navy and white abstract print skirt – my typical skirt these days – A-line, low-waist. Fine for work.
  
  
• Black and white plaid skirt, long, sort of mermaid-y shaped…still not so sure about this one. It fits over my hips just fine but not particularly well over my tummy. Damn kids.

All for eighteen bucks.

Thrift stores rock the casbah.

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List Friday, courtesy of Loretta, of Pomegranates and Paper

This week's theme: Advice for the college graduate, from the keyboard of one older and wiser - or at least older…

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• Do what you love and the money will follow.
  (Or it might not, but at least you will be happy.
  Although mostly, the money does indeed follow. Maybe not wealth untold, but enough to support yourself.)
  
• That said, try really really hard not to default on your student loans. (But if you do, if you can make the payments on time, in full, for twelve months, you'll be back in the good graces of your lenders. And then you can get a mortgage just fine.)
  
  
• Appreciate your freedom. Family life with kids and a home is wonderful, but it's nice to be footloose and fancy-free too.
  Someday you'll want to have ice cream for dinner and spend whole weekends reading big fat novels and will not be able to.
  
  
• Travel whenever possible. Don't dismiss traveling somewhere you don't think you want to go, because sometimes the best adventures are completely serendipitous.
  
  
• Don't be afraid to try new things and make new friends. But stay in touch with your college friends, because they knew you when, and in fifteen years, that'll be a good thing. Because they’ll send you cool birthday gifts!
  
  
• Invest in a good dictionary, if you don't already have one. (Although if you are a college graduate, WHY don't you have one?)
  And get a library card at your local library.

That is all. I hope you profit from my untold wisdom. It would be nice if SOMEBODY’S kids listened to me.

He that hath a wife and children hath given hostages to fortune; for they are impediments to great enterprises, either of virtue or mischief.

I think I have recovered from my case of Blogger’s Clog - here’s a catch-up post full of whatever has caught my fancy in the past few weeks.

I mentioned that my church was holding a book sale, and that I scored big time. Turns out this sale goes on all. summer. long. The rector says there gets to be a point where people stop buying books and start bringing them. So this is most definitely something to keep my eye on.

Books from the church book sale (there were more, a whole shopping bag full, but some were for the boys and some were just, “Hey this is cheap so let’s check it out” titles; these were the big scores):
Stiff and her newest, Spook, by Mary Roach – in pristine hardcover.
Wickett’s Remedy - also in pristine hardcover. Ok, I know I tried to read this before and didn’t care for it, but I LOVED Bee Season and so for a buck I figured I could give this another shot, especially in such great condition, in hardcover!
Caleb Carr’s Killing Time - not that I was so in love with The Alienist, but hey – it was cheap. Also in great shape.
A couple mysteries, including a Ruth Rendell I have not read.

Someone at my church has a seriously bad brand-new-book habit, my sweet little Internet ones, and apparently money to burn. And I am benefiting. Ah.

I started ripping up the carpet in what will soon be the library/computer room, so I can move the bookshelves in there, so I can move the books in there, so I can organize them again, so I can find what I need to read when I want it. Who says I am not organized? Also, time to catalog the fiction.

Those of you who have been following my so-called Holocaust reading: Stones from the River, Leeway Cottage, A Thread of Grace, add to the list After Long Silence by Helen Fremont. ‘An intense read’ barely begins to describe it. The author was raised in the Midwest as a Roman Catholic and finds out in her early thirties that both of her parents are actually Jewish Holocaust survivors. They do not even go by their real names anymore, and they have maintained this façade for well over thirty years. Apparently there’s been some controversy regarding the author’s motives for delving into her parents’ hidden past and for writing this book, and I do understand that viewpoint – her parents still do not acknowledge her findings – but what an incredible, moving, brave saga. Her parents are extraordinary people. There were parts in the book about the author’s sexuality that I found unnecessary and even distracting, and development of minor characters was spotty, but overall, a terrific addition to survivor literature.

On a much lighter note:
Sarah Louise made me buy Eat Cake so I suppose it’s only fair that she be the first to benefit – I am baking her a cake. Pick a flavor, SL. Because this book, in addition to being funny and heartwarming and having the greatest cast of quirky and smart characters that I’ve run across since Bridget Jones? Totally makes you want to bake - and eat - cake.

I am trying to read a book someone’s agent sent to me, but it’s slow going. I promised said agent a review when I finished. So you will also get the review. But I may not finish it. Which right there is a review in itself.

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I had a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. It was pouring rain. And I thought to myself, “Self, the floors must be vacuumed and mopped.” Because it seems as if the Cheerios have been multiplying and migrating during the night, and I am tired of walking around with cereal bits stuck to the soles of my feet. Didn’t Paul Simon write a song about that? Anyhoo – so I made Nutella and English muffin sandwiches, and sliced up banana, and mixed up a bowl of assorted dried fruits, and set the boys up in front of the TV to watch a movie – big treat around here. Perhaps too big, as it is fraught with all sorts of unseen landmines – like I picked the wrong movie. Arguing and screaming ensued. I turned off the TV. Much more, much louder screaming, that woke the sleeping baby. I lost it, did lots of my own screaming, whacked both of the boys on their butts, and sent them to their room. Crying myself, I called H and sobbed about what a horrible failure I am as a mother, that my children are mean and awful and I was just trying to do something nice for them, and what is wrong with them, and what is wrong with me? Blah blah blah, ad nauseum. Then I had a slug of vodka – no, no, that’s what I wished I had done. I mopped and vacuumed and felt a bit better. And then everyone calmed down and eventually they ate most of their lunch, but we did NOT watch a movie.

My Perfect sister-in-law called last night, to tell me that she is going to be the librarian at her boys’ small, private Catholic school. Now, S has her shit together and usually gets what she wants, but, um, how do I say this? I HAD TO GET A MASTER’S DEGREE to be a librarian. H has pointed out to me that I work as a *reference librarian* in a *university* – do I WANT to be a Catholic-school, part-time librarian? No, but my friends, that is not the point. Is it. Apparently the catch is in her title. She can be whatever she wants, for as long as she wants, as long as she is termed the “interim” whatever. And I am not saying she won’t be the best thing that ever happened to that library – if anyone can argue to get Heather Has Two Mommies on the shelves there, S sure can. And she is a fund-raising wiz, not to mention energetic and enthusiastic and smart. [sotto voce: she also has lovely boobs…ahem….boob job…] but *I* have a master’s degree.
Now I just sound like Bill Nye.

I know I never did the t-shirt Show-and-Tell. I apologize profusely, if not earnestly. But I only wear boring t-shirts – race shirts and old fraternity party shirts - so I was going to use the boys as models and have them wear their favorites. Only I could never get all three clean at the same time, to take the photo. So I will tell you that Primo’s favorite t-shirt is a tie between a very ugly blue-and-yellow shirt with the planets printed on it, and his grey Batman t-shirt that came with the Underoos he got for Christmas. Segundo’s favorite t-shirt is a Pittsburgh Penguins t-shirt with Sidney Crosby’s name and number on the back. The baby doesn’t know it but his favorite t-shirt is a white long-sleeved shirt from BabyGap with a badly-drawn picture of a puppy on the front. Now you know. As if you care.

I found this on a Craig’s List listing:
Brown leather Ikea sofa. Sofa has a rustic appearance. Can send a pic via cell phone. It's about 6-7 years old and was not used much. I do not watch TV and I never had a party while I used this sofa in my living room. I never had sex on it either. Once I spilled a bowl of cereal on it and it wiped right up.

I named my Mother’s Day pig.
Wait for it.
Francis Bacon

I was eating chocolate-covered pretzels the other day and had a brilliant idea: salted chocolate. Yes?

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My apologies ahead of time to L, whose dear little dog is often gussied up in these crazy get-ups. Ingrid is sweet and beautiful, and I don’t mean her when I poke fun. I swear! Although this dress? May just push me over the top:

And dudes? The velour dog hoodie. Actually sorta cute, I guess.

The two-piece bathing suit, though? Just wrong.

And this? How does the dog go to the bathroom?

This is what the well-dressed dog wears to cruise in San Fran…

Do I look fat in this?
Is this not sort of…redundant?
Not to mention it looks more like a fuzzy heart.
Veins in, arteries out…maybe it looks better on...

Now this is actually funny.

But still so wrong.

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It’s the end of the world as I know it.
(But I feel fine.)

I don't know about you but I just want to take a BITE out of one of those delicious baby thighs.

I completely stopped eating dead creatures in 1989. - Bryan Adams

I have blogger's block.

I thnk I expended all my wittiness and humor last weekend for Blackbird's benefit - good heavens, that was TWO weekends ago now - anyway, now I am DRY.

My older brother just left - he came in Sunday evening, wearing a Philadelphia Flyers sweatshirt, which provoked my boys into saying things like, "Yucky Flyers!" and "Punch those Flyers right in the nose!" in affectionate greeting.

Because my brother is a bachelor and subsists on things like Wawa hoagies and supermarket salads, I consider it my right and proper sisterly duty to cook all kinds of delicacies and goodies for him when he comes to visit.

Now, when my little brother comes, I alternate between meals for him - chicken and rice in cream sauce, cornbread, canned cranberry sauce, and this impossibly rich, enormous cheesecake that he and I have been known to devour in a twenty-four hour period, for breakfast, lunch, and dinner - and meals for his beautiful, healthy, and very thin wife - broiled fish, rice, steamed vegetables, baked potatoes, salads.

But when C comes to town, I know he will eat anything I put in front of him - as long as there are no nuts in it, he is allergic - so this is sorta fun for me.

Monday I made turkey sloppy joes on potato rolls, corn on the cob, and homemade oven fries. Also an apple cake. Last night I made baked ziti with sausage and mozzarella, a huge tossed salad, and buttery garlic bread. For breakfast this morning I scrambled him several eggs with green pepper, onion, tomato, and provolone, with a side of toast, and fruit salad.
He ate everything heartily, washed down with several cups of coffee or Guinness, depending on the hour. There is but one slice of apple cake left. Ah. I feel as if I have fulfilled my hostessly obligation, to send my houseguests home with distended bellies and no need to eat for a week.

Visits with C in the past have been tense; sometimes having him around can be like having another child around. The only difference being that HE at least is obedient -his favorite saying is, "I'm just a foot soldier," meaning he just does what he's told, ma'am. Which can be ok but can also be extremely frustrating. But he seems to have reached a good and peaceful place in his life and the past few visits have been fun and he's even been helpful. Heck, he even sprung for a case of beer this visit! And played endless games of table football and Battleship with Primo. Not to mention he can and does hold the baby for hours on end. Which is a good thing as my formerly sweet and easy-going baby has turned into a back-arching tyrant. He seems to actually enjoy throwing himself backwards and banging his head on things. Good thing he grows cuter with each passing day. Because otherwise? I'd give him to the gypsies. As long as they promised to return him when the tyrant phase ended, because I can always use another toddler around telling me I'm "pitty."

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I serve this dish often at birthday parties and family dinners as it's easy and makes a lot. To complement it, all you need to do is throw together a tossed salad - maybe with some fresh mozzarella in the salad as well - and slice up some Italian bread. And I have yet to meet anyone who does not like it, or at least parts of it.

Baked Ziti

Olive oil
1 large onion, diced
2 big cloves of garlic, minced
1 lb. sweet Italian sausage
Salt
Pepper
Nutmeg
1/4 cup dry red wine (I have even used cooking wine and it's all right, but a drinkable wine is preferred.)
35-oz can whole plum tomatoes, chopped, with juice
1/4 cup chopped fresh oregano, or 2 TBSP dried
1 cup ricotta
1 cup grated pecorino or other Italian cheese or blend
1/3 cup chopped fresh parsley
1 lb ziti
1/2 lb. fresh mozzarella, cubed

Preheat oven to 425 degrees.
Lightly oil a 9x13 baking dish.

In a large skillet, heat about 2 TBSP olive oil over medium heat. Add onion, saute till soft, about 5 minutes.
Add garlic and sausage, saute till sausage begins to brown.
Season to taste with salt and pepper.
Drain fat if necessary.
Add wine, let boil till almost gone.
Add tomatoes. Cook uncovered, at lively simmer, for about 10 minutes. Sauce will thicken slightly.
Add oregano.

In large bowl, mix ricotta, half the pecorino, parsley, a pinch of nutmeg. Season to taste with salt and pepper.

Meanwhile, cook ziti till al dente.
Drain well and toss with ricotta mixture.
Add sausage and sauce and mix again.
Add mozzarella and toss gently.
Pour into baking dish and sprinkle with remaining pecorino.

Bake uncovered till lightly browned and bubbling, about 20 minutes.

If the people have no bread, let them eat cake. - Marie Antoinette

As I type this, Terzo is intently trying to jam things down the radiator pipe holes in the hardwood floor. I am fairly confident that, at 21 pounds, 5 ounces, HE will not fit. But I digress.

I took the two younger boys to the bookstore this morning, as an excuse to get some coffee and kill some time in a pleasant way. I do have stuff to do, just nothing that could be done with the two of them around so I figured we might as well enjoy ourselves.

Our Barnes and Noble has a Thomas table, with umpteen trains and all the fancy-schmancy pieces. My boys could play there for hours, were I so inclined.
The baby was not mobile the last time we went, so there was that this time around to deal with, but still, I can sit down, give him a train to chew on (preferably one of the not-popular ones, like Duck), and drink my coffee in relative peace. And oddly, the boys do not fight with each other over the B&N trains the way they do at home - probably because they are busy fending off OUTSIDERS.

I decided that since I had a little extra cash left over this week - no idea how that happened - that I would buy the last Kate Martinelli mystery that I hadn't read. So I bought Night Work.
And Sarah Louise was with us, and she recommended a book she has been raving about, Eat Cake. How oh how could I possibly resist that title? I ADORE cake. So I bought that too.
And then, there's this blog that Gina and I found when we'd first started blogging, consisting of Weight Watcher recipe cards from the seventies that are hilarious, with commentary. The woman who posted them got a book deal - and lo and behold, The Amazing Mackerel Diet Plan book was born. And I bought it. Because I really like to support fellow bloggers.. If you ever get a book deal, I promise you, I will buy your book pretty much as soon as it comes out. Because I am a good friend that way. (Although,I have to say, commentary was completely unnecessary in the Jiffy Cooking cookbook Blackbird and I scored last weekend at the Bethlehem thrift shop.)
I wanted to buy the new issue of Outside magazine, the one where Nando Parrado, one of the survivors of the 1972 Andes airplane crash, has his new book excerpted. It's the first time he's ever talked about his experience, and I can't wait to read it. So I decided to wait and just buy the book instead.



And would you like to know what else I bought? This little porker captured my heart at first glance. He has this precious little curling tail, and those teeny, velvety cloven hooves. He is MINE. He will live on my mantel. He will NOT be slobbered upon by babies, or thrown around by toddlers. (I must have pigs on the brain - in Bethlehem, I barely restrained myself from buying a little plush pig with her little nursling piglets attached magnetically - decided it was a bit to close to home...) Anyway, I think I will consider him my Mother's Day gift to myself.

Speaking of, I still think, despite my lovely day, that celebrating Mother's Day is such a scam. I decided this morning that I would rather celebrate National My-Children-Not-Pummeling-Each-Other-to-Death day. Does anyone know when that holiday falls? And if Hallmark makes cards for it? I actually thought I would be spending my Mother's Day at church and then at the Holiday Inn, eating bad food and observing my nephew's First Communion. Although probably in reverse order. I think that this was incredibly poor timing and taste on the part of the Catholic church, to schedule this on Mother's Day, but what can you do? He's my nephew, it's a big deal to him, and we love him - we go. But Mother's Day is normally when I can count on being taken out for an enormous sushi dinner. Which didn't happen this year. Instead I anticipated - not in the positive sense - undercooked chicken and overcooked green beans and wilted salad. At least there would be cake. Surprisingly, SHOCKINGLY, even, the food was good, the cookies were plentiful, and the cake - it was delicious.

Some are kissing mothers and some are scolding mothers, but it is love just the same – and most mothers kiss and scold together. - Pearl S. Buck

I hope all you moms out there had restful and enjoyable Mother’s Days. You all deserve them. Regardless of what you may think.

Now you and I both know that the dads are really just setting the bar for Father’s Day, but the kids really seem to get into it.

Saturday morning Primo came into my room and sternly told me, “Don’t get out of bed tomorrow morning, Mama.” That seemed a bit harsh. I mean, I know I am not the world’s most wonderful mom, but not to get out of bed….oh, I see.
Then he sternly told me that I would NOT be eating oatmeal for breakfast Sunday morning.

All right then. Your command is…my command.

This morning, I was up with Terzo at 6. I was hoping to get in a run but knew that I HAD TO BE IN BED. So I left the baby with H and went back to bed – and to sleep.

Primo brought me the newspaper, so I “wouldn’t get bored waiting for breakfast.” I tucked it under my arm like a stuffed animal and went back to sleep.

Then the procession into my room with the breakfast tray began.
I wish I had taken a picture of this tray – it was GORGEOUS.

Italian-bread French toast with cinnamon and maple syrup. The fatty, salty bacon from the Italian specialty store that I love. A glass of orange juice. A mug of hot strong Irish Breakfast tea. The sugar pourer and milk pitcher. Cutlery and a cloth napkin. All on a cobalt blue tray.

Wow.

I’ll say it again.
WOW.

Of course eating breakfast in bed is one of those things that is lovely in theory, but in reality is kind of a pain in the ass. Especially since the presentation was so lovely that I felt as if I should be wearing some sort of be-ribboned bed jacket instead of a milk-damp grey Yale t-shirt. Especially especially since Primo and Segundo desired to sit on the bed right next to me and watch me eat. It was something like I imagine eating on a ship in a storm at sea would be. Miraculously nothing spilled, and it was delicious.

Primo told me confidentially that Daddy had not helped them cook the breakfast. Daddy had just cooked it all himself. I told him that that was ok.

They gave me presents – a painting on stretched canvas they painted with Miss R, their babysitter – a lovely and vibrantly-colored abstract, complete with Terzo’s thumbprints - and a painted flower pot with a geranium in it, which Primo made at preschool (and that I carried home WITHOUT LOOKING on Friday). The flower is not dead yet, but I am sure I’ll kill it in no time. At least the pot is reusable.

They also had made me cards at the library yesterday afternoon.

Primo is, according to H, distractible (Huh. Now *there’s* a surprise…) and so his card read: I love my Mom because…” she prints out (Prints out, people, PRINTS out. Coloring pictures of Thomas and Dora and whatnot.) And that was it. Distractible, you say? Isn’t that something shiny over there? Is it a penny? Wha?

Segundo is dogged. He also got to dictate to H, so maybe he just had it easier. His number one reason for loving me? She types on the computer. Maybe that means that I leave him the hell alone to do what he likes…? Ooch. His list continued, She lets me sleep in her bed. She sleeps in my bed. (Had I mentioned we nicknamed him Oedipus?) She sings to us. She pats me. She and I like to play with toys. (This is so patently untrue about me that I feel horribly guilty. I think he might be confusing me with the babysitter…) I want her. (Which is what he wails in the middle of the night when he wakes up: “I want you, Mama! I waaaaannnnnnnttttt yeeewwwwwwwww!” Had I mentioned we’ve nicknamed him Oedipus?)

H wrote Terzo’s list for him. Obviously.
I love my mom because…
She feeds me
and helps me stand
and calls me Terzie
and rubs my belly
and sings to me
and picks me up when Daddy says, “Let him cry.”

Awwwwww…….
He’s just so dang DELICIOUS. How can I let that little bundle of nibble-able baby flesh cry?

Then we all went to church and they were having a book sale in the parish hall after the service! And I bought an entire giant shopping bag full of books for mere peanuts!
Even God wanted me to have a good Mother’s Day!

If evolution really works, how come mothers only have two hands? ~Milton Berle

You Know You're Really a Mom When...

You count the number of sprinkles on each kid's cupcake to make sure they are equal.

You want to take out a contract on the kid who broke your child's favorite toy and made him/her cry.

You have time to shave only one leg at a time.

You hide in the bathroom to be alone.

Your child throws up and you catch it.

Someone else's kid throws up at a party and you keep eating.

You consider finger paint to be a controlled substance.

You mastered the art of placing food on a plate without anything touching.

Your child insists that you read "Once Upon a Potty" out loud in the lobby of the doctor's office and you do it.

You hire a baby sitter because you haven't been out with your husband in ages, then you spend half the night talking about and checking on the kids.

You hope ketchup is a vegetable because it's the only one your child eats.

You find yourself cutting your husband's sandwiches into unusual shapes.

You fast-forward through the scene when the hunter shoots Bambi's mother.

You obsess when your child clings to you upon parting during his first month at school, then you obsess when he skips in without looking back.

You can't bear to give away baby clothes--it's so final.

You hear your mother's voice coming out of your mouth when you say, "Not in your good clothes."

You stop criticizing the way your mother raised you.

You read that the average-five-year old asks 437 questions a day and feel proud that your kid is "above average."

You say at least once a day "I'm not cut out for this job," but you know you wouldn't trade it for anything.

[Um, except for that "not-trading-it-for-anything" part, yeah. - BB]


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This is a public service, from me to anyone contemplating having kids, or who wants to know what having kids is like. (And, no, Phyllis, breastfeeding is NOT fucking transcendental!)

Are You Ready to Have a Baby?

• MESS TEST: Smear peanut butter on the sofa and curtains. Now rub your hands in the wet flower bed and rub on the walls. Place a fish stick behind the couch and leave it there all summer. Obtain a 55-gallon box of Legos. (If Legos are not available, you may substitute roofing tacks or broken bottles.) Have a friend spread them all over the house. Put on a blindfold. Try to walk to the bathroom or kitchen. Do not scream (this could wake a child at night).
  
  
• GROCERY STORE TEST: Borrow one or two small animals (goats are best) and take them with you as you shop at the grocery store. Always keep them in sight and pay for anything they eat or damage.
  
  
• DRESSING TEST: Obtain one large, unhappy, live octopus. Stuff into a small net bag making sure that all arms stay inside.
  
  
• FEEDING TEST: Obtain a large plastic milk jug. Fill halfway with water. Suspend from the ceiling with a stout cord. Start the jug swinging. Try to insert spoonfuls of soggy cereal (such as Fruit Loops or Cheerios) into the mouth of the jug while pretending to be an airplane. Now dump the contents of the jug on the floor.
  
  
• NIGHT TEST: Prepare by obtaining a small cloth bag and fill it with 8 to 12 pounds of sand. Soak it thoroughly in water. At 8:00 PM begin to waltz and hum with the bag until 9:00 PM. Lay down your bag and set your alarm for 10:00 PM.Get up, pick up your bag, and sing every song you have ever heard. Make up about a dozen more and sing these too until 4:00 AM. Set alarm for 5:00 AM. Get up and make breakfast. Keep this up for 5 years. Look cheerful.
  
  
• PHYSICAL TEST: Obtain a large bean-bag chair and attach it to the front of your clothes. Leave it there for 9 months. Now remove 10% of the beans. Purchase a newspaper. Go home and read it quietly for the last time.
  
  
• FINAL ASSIGNMENT: Find a couple who already have a small child. Lecture them on how they can improve their child's discipline, patience, tolerance, toilet training, and table manners. Suggest many ways they can improve. Emphasize to them that they should never allow their children to run wild. Enjoy this experience. It will be the last time you will have all the answers.
  

Cancer, Baby

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TRANSLATION OF KADDISH

May the great Name of God be exalted and sanctified, throughout the world, which he has created according to his will. May his Kingship be established in your lifetime and in your days, and in the lifetime of the entire household of Israel, swiftly and in the near future; and say, Amen.
May his great name be blessed, forever and ever.
Blessed, praised, glorified, exalted, extolled, honored elevated and lauded be the Name of the holy one, Blessed is he- above and beyond any blessings and hymns, Praises and consolations which are uttered in the world; and say Amen. May there be abundant peace from Heaven, and life, upon us and upon all Israel; and say, Amen.

He who makes peace in his high holy places, may he bring peace upon us, and upon all Israel; and say Amen.

With daffodils mad footnotes for the spring, And asters purple asterisks for autumn. - Conrad Aiken

List Friday, courtesy of Loretta, of Pomegranates and Paper

This week's theme: Just think of those plants that bring a smile to your face, that you look forward to seeing each spring and summer, or those that remind you of your grandmother, friend, kid...

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Crocuses - The true harbingers of spring.

Forsythia. I like them wild, not trimmed.

French tulips - My little brother's wife used French tulips at her wedding, and they were so classy and beautiful, just like her.

Grape hyacinth. What said sister-in-law's bridesmaids carried.

Hydrangea - mine are white, but I love the blue ones. It's got something to do with the soil Ph, yes?

Lilacs - The scent is intoxicating. I have an enormous one by my front porch. It always makes me think of the lilac bush in Alice Hoffman's Practical Magic. You know, the one they buried the bad dude under, and then it grew madly. So if, say, H were to piss me off, and disappear, you would know where to start looking...

Sunflowers - Alternate between loving their cheery big faces, and being creeped out by the enormous ones. Primo and I try to plant some each spring but they never ever seem to come up.
My little brother brought my mom sunflowers in the hospital several weeks running. Every time I see them, I think of my little brother and how wonderful he was to my mom. And how amazingly he stepped up to the plate, in so many ways, when she was sick.

Buttercups - I LOVE butter. And every single buttercup I have ever held under my chin has told me so.

Lavender - I try to grow lavender everywhere I live. You should always have lavender in your garden. It's soothing. And it dries so nicely.

Blueberry bushes - how cool is it to have all the blueberries you can eat, growing IN YOUR BACKYARD? Yeah!

Japanese plum trees - so pretty, so delicate.

Sugar maple trees - the colors in the fall are breath-taking. The first real sign of autumn, and then you give in and acknowledge that it's time to break out the sweaters.

Christmas trees. Another intoxicating scent.

Magnolia trees in bloom.

Horse chestnuts - they make such lovely projectiles (see the sweet gum, below).

Violets - scattered thoughout the lawn. They just make me happy.

Honeysuckle - I know there are invasive types, but it just smells so dang yummy.

Those bright orange Stella d'Oro daylilies, that "real" gardeners seem to find so common. There were a ton that grew up out of my dad's compost heap in my childhood home...I noticed them when we were clearing out the house after my mom died...it's the first time I really noticed them. I think they're beautiful and graceful. It also helps that they multiply like crazy, thereby filling in large amounts of space fairly quickly.

Creeping phlox - I just planted a bunch of pinkish-purple, to hang over the concrete wall that borders the alley.

I also like black-eyed susans, and snapdragons, and balloon flowers.
I once tried to plant my backyard with "Meadow Mix" - like meadow-in-a-can, but it didn't work. If I had unending yard, I would designate part of it as the meadow and plant it with nothing but wildflowers (what H calls weeds). I would revel in the dandelions!

Basil - yummy smell, try to keep it growing on my windowsill throughout the winter, and wonderful paired with...

Tomato plants - I adore homegrown, sun-ripened, bursting tomatoes, pulled off the vine in late August and sliced up, layered on cheese and crackers, with a sprinkle of salt and some basil. Heaven on earth to the tastebuds.

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I also have a list of plants I hate, because I am just like that -

Spider plants gross me out.

So do aloe vera and most succulents.

As do spider mums.

I don't really like mums in general.
Although there's a children's book by Kevin Henkes about a little mouse named Chrysanthemum that I like very much.

Cantaloupe plants - I tried to grow cantaloupe once and the plants attract or generate or something these crunchy, long, red bugs. SO revolting.

Do NOT like hosta, except some types of variegated and then only in moderation, and kept small.

There are these evergreen plants on the corner of my block, kinda fringe-y and long-leaved, that smell JUST LIKE cat piss.

What we in Pittsburgh call "jagger bushes."

Also, yards covered with ivy groundcover. The bugs, the bugs that might be hiding under there. Ewwwww.

I have an out-of-control Rose of Sharon that I have just recently decided is straggly and ugly and annoying. And must go.

I find florist shop roses boring (but we have a ton of rosebushes on the alley that will bloom soon, those I love.)

And colored carnations (like blue and green) are an act against Nature.

Magnolia trees AFTER they have bloomed and the petals are all slimy and disgusting underfoot.

Also, I DESPISE gingko trees. Those smelly things that fall off them make me sick. And my running route takes me through an entire gauntlet of the damn things.

My brother hates sweet gum trees, the hundreds of thousands of sweet gum balls that fall off his trees are the very bane of his existence...but I have to admit to a kind of soft spot for those hairy, prickly little ball thingeys. When we were little kids, we'd gather them up and have huge fights with them, throwing them at each other. They HURT. Much worse than snowballs.

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And hoo boy, that last paragraph is so going to bump up our Google hits...

"There are no absolutes in life, only vodka."

For Badger:

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OK, here is the running tally of wireless connections I have had to set up for people, utilizing my mad translation skills (NOT!):

2 - PC connections, in English
1 - PC connection, in German
1 - Mac connection, in Chinese

If I ever have to do one in Russian -

ПОЖАЛУЙСТА передайте водку!

I don't speak Chinese. I don't read Chinese. I don't write Chinese. How the hell am I supposed to set up your Mac for the wireless network IN CHINESE?

These are from my friend A who worked for me this past Saturday so I could cavort in Bethlehem. Thanks, A! You are a champ!

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Cleanliness is next to...

Ah, love!

Out of the mouths of babes...

Why do you suppose this one makes me think of Badger - even though I know she doesn't drink coffee?

No distance of place or lapse of time can lessen the friendship of those who are thoroughly persuaded of each other's worth. - Robert Southey

I KNOW there are people who wish to know, so below is a list of books I picked up at the thrift store in Bethlehem. I left behind a copy of Art Speigelman’s In the Shadow of No Towers and AS Byatt’s Babel Tower, because I already own those. But there was a kick-ass book selection for a thrift store! Blackbird and I also found a fabulous cookbook, with recipe blurbs like, “You will never guess what you are eating…” and “Glamorize and gloss up yams with an orange-gelatin glaze…” I laughed so hard reading that book that I nearly fell off my desk chair. I am sure Blackbird just LOVED having me read bits and pieces to her in between fits of giggles and other conversation…. She is a patient woman.

Bridget Jones’s Diary - Helen Fielding
Bridget Jones – The Edge of Reason - Helen Fielding
Pilgrim at Tinker Creek - Annie Dillard
Frankenstein - Mary Shelley
Echo House - Ward Just
Strange Pilgrims - Gabriel Garcia Marquez
Green Dolphin Street - Elizabeth Goudge (THIS is the book Anna Quindlen talks about, NOT On Green Dolphin Street. I can’t wait to start it!)
Romantically Challenged - Beth Orsoff
1000 Great Quilt Blocks
Feeding the Kids - Judith and Marguerite Patten
Lullabies and Good Night – A collection of lullaby poetry featuring the artwork of Mary Cassatt
A Very Young Gymnast - Jill Krementz – these three are a total blast from my pre-teen years!
A Very Young Dancer
A Very Young Skater
Solo Plus One - a cute picture book for the boys
Noddy and the Lost Animals
Clifford’s Tricks
George and Martha One Fine Day
The Mystery of the Hidden Beach (Boxcar Children, for Primo)
Richard Scarry’s Best Story Book Ever - this is from 1958, and is in great shape. I LOVE it.

I paid – wait for it – nine dollars and thirty cents for all these, plus a purse (Liz Claiborne! A little floral canvas bag with brown leather straps) and this fabulously hideous home-sewn skirt:

So damn ugly it’s wonderful. It closes up the back with Velcro, and has wraps that tie around your waist, and it fits like it was made for me.

Blackbird brought me a present:


I purchased a little something for us both at the best (worst) Crappe Shoppe, for her to remember our weekend by. But what? Shall remain our secret. YOU SHOULD HAVE BEEN THERE.

I don’t know why I took a photo of these wipes, except we both like The Good Home Beach House scent and it cracked me up to think of buying fifteen-dollar disinfecting wipes that smell like Beach House. That little shop was next to the Panera – lots of adorable stuff – and the cutest baby stuff EVER. Made me want to try for a girl…sorta.

That Panera was also where a VERY LARGE woman fell off her chair right behind me, and nearly took me down with her. We were OF COURSE the epitome of politeness and concern - because we are nice people - but I was DYING inside. It might have been the only time of the whole weekend when I wasn’t howling with laughter.

We did not eat at this restaurant – but those whiskers! How could I not take a picture? Aren’t they just wildly appetizing, and making you want to partake of whatever food they might serve there? Then I returned to my car and I had a parking ticket. For five dollars. To fund the little town of Bethlehem. It was a small price to pay.

Look! It was a directive from above! How could we not obey?

And I brought the boys presents from the best toy store, and also, bought the baby a birthday present. Except I am in love and want to keep him for myself.

Today the window guys are here, replacing five windows.
Tomorrow I work.
This week I must get the boys pictures taken, and move the TV to the living room, and paint ceilings so H can install ceiling fans in the boys’ rooms.

But I am full of pep and energy, from all the sleep I got this past weekend. Go, me!

And it occurred to me that perhaps the breast milk from Bethlehem – should only be served to the baby AFTRER FIVE.

The hopes and fears of all the years are met in thee tonight.

Sunday confession - I do not like to shower.
I find it an appalling waste of time.
Yet totally necessary.
Is there a single other activity - other than dinner with your in-laws - that falls into that category? It's because no one has figured out how to multi-task in the shower. Think about it. ALL YOU CAN DO is clean yourself. You can't, say, read and shampoo your hair, or blog and shave your legs. You must shampoo, shave, soap up, and rinse - all without doing one single other useful thing. (Unless you count singing a song of your own composition or mentally composing a grocery list useful. Me, not so much.) So, yeah, if I didn't HAVE to shower, I probably wouldn't. Whereas my husband would shower two or three times a day, half an hour at a time, if he could. But men are never any good at multi-tasking anyway.

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I am a bad hotel guest. It stresses me out when I hear housekeeping in the hall and know I am going to have to - gasp - open the door and politely tell them I need a half an hour. Because I forgot to put the little "Do Not Disturb" sign on the door the night before.
Because I am self-conscious about THAT as well. If I am with my husband, then clearly that card screams that TWO PEOPLE ARE HAVING SEX IN THIS ROOM, BEHIND THIS CLOSED DOOR AND THIS SIGN. And if I am not with my husband, and the card is on the door - what the hell am I doing in there by myself?

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For the record: Blackbird LIES.
I am NOT ravishing.
I am tall. Five-nine. But sadly, not thin, so it doesn't look as tall as you might hope. I mean, I am not Quasimodo or anything - I look like pretty much every other thirty-something mom with boring brown hair and glasses.
I do have an ginormous pimple on my right chin. I mean, on the right side of my chin. I do only have one chin. So far. Thank God.
But you know, pimples and glasses don't make for good blog reading. So Blackbird embellished.

And what does Blackbird look like, you ask?
In best blogger fashion I will tell you that Blackbird?
Is REALLY a six-foot-tall black man.
And now you know.

But she does return home with all of her body organs intact, and I return home with a clogged milk duct and a cooler full of milk.

how still we see thee lie...

Dudes!
I just slept FOR SEVEN HOURS STRAIGHT.
I haven't done that in...
in...
how old is Primo?
Add nine months to THAT - that's how long.

No sleep-talking, no falling out of bed, no wanting water or food.
Peace, quiet (well, except for the ice machine which is right near my door, but who is complaning as I am refilling the cooler every few hours or so, to keep the breastmilk cold...so am actually thankful for the proximity.)

And I? Just ate a chocolate bar.
At eight in the morning.
And checked my email and the news.
And don't need to pour ANYONE Cheerios for at least another twenty-four hours.

Ah. Life is GOOD.

O little town of Bethlehem

Here I am...in the Bethlehem Marriott.

Blackbird and I wish we had had the foresight to book rooms in the Bethlehem Inn.
I especially appreciated the illuminated star, above the red neon sign.
But there was probably no room...

We had Mexican food for dinner.
The Internet reviews were scattered - one called the restaurant "a jewel of the Northeast" (ringing enodrsement for Mexican, eh?); another claimed it was a racist establishment with lousy food and service.
I don't know about any of that - the food was fine, the service passable, in our experience - but there WAS a strolling guitar player complete with giant black velvet sombrero.
And Blackbird cheerfully wished our waitress a "happy Cinco de Mayo."

We did some window-"shopping" on Main Street.
There are an AWFUL LOT of Nativity-themed thingamabobs and geegaws here.
And weirdo wildlife - stuffed horses with some bizarrely-proportioned Santa Claus astride its back.
Dolphin coffee table sculptures.
"Hon, move the dolphin, wouldja, I want to put my glass down."

The town drunk stumbled by us.
Or maybe she was just a disheveled middle-aged woman having trouble with her wedge-heeled espadrilles.

I told the hotel clerk that we met on the Internet.
Well, Christ, I didn't want her thinking we were with the cheerleading convention.
Ha!

It only took me half an hour to figure out why my Internet connection was not functioning.
Now I am having anightcap, watching "House" on cable, and enjoying the view from my balcony.
Of the parking lot.
And the Super CVS.

We debated visiting Unclaimed Freight tomorrow.
I remember the cheesy TV commercials from when I was little.
"Unnnn(nnnnn) Claimed(aimmmmmmeeddddd) Freight(ttttttttttt)!!!!!!"
It might be a nostalgia trip...

DREADFUL

Someone ate the baby,
It's rather sad to say.
Someone ate the baby
So she won't be out to play.
We'll never hear her whiney cry
Or have to feel if she is dry.
We'll never hear her asking "Why?"
Someone ate the baby.


Someone ate the baby.
It's absolutely clear
Someone ate the baby
'Cause the baby isn't here.
We'll give away her toys and clothes.
We'll never have to wipe her nose.
Dad says, "That's the way it goes."
Someone ate the baby.


Someone ate the baby.
What a frightful thing to eat!
Someone ate the baby
Though she wasn't very sweet.
It was a heartless thing to do.
The policemen haven't got a clue.
I simply can't imagine who
Would go and (burp) eat the baby.


- Shel Silverstein

“No one can drive us crazy unless we give them the keys.” - Doug Horton

Terzo's new keys:
The blue one is the key to the sky, the green one is the key to the lawn, the yellow one is the key to the mustard, the purple one is the key to the car, and the red one is the key to my heart.

-paraphrased from Anne Lamott, Operating Instructions: A Journal of my Son's First Year


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No, really, here are my keys.

I have a key to my house, a key to my car, a key to Gina's house, my Giant Eagle Advantage card, and my library card, on a French Quarter, New Orleans keychain H bought me in New Orleans our first time there.

I like to travel light.


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Thursday Show-and-Tell, courtesy of Blackbird

YOU WORE FLIP-FLOPS TO THE WHITE HOUSE?????!!!!!!!

If your head is very big, wear one of those fitted ball caps. Because if you have one with an adjustable band in the back? Everyone can STILL see your bald spot.

Women should NEVER wear one of those foam-and-net ball caps that feature companies like John Deere or the local plumber.

Joke, your mission, should you choose to accept it…
Three out of four men who wear ties tie them too short.

Men should not wear flip-flops. Ever.
For that matter, I am sick to death of flip-flops being considered footwear suitable for all occasions. Feet are ugly, people. I am sick of looking at ‘em.

Also SICK OF BRA STRAPS.

Long toenails are GROSS. I don’t care if there is polish on them.

Yesterday on the bus, there was this dude with long, very pretty strawberry-blonde hair, nicely shaped eyebrows, a clean and trimmed Van Dyke, and reasonable sideburns. All in all, a great hair thing going on. But he had freakishly large ears. So sad.

Because I? Am a paragon of fashion.
And feel better about myself as even this skinny-yet-horribly-hairdo’ed model can’t pull off the wrap dress.

My spelling is Wobbly. It's good spelling but it Wobbles, and the letters get in the wrong places.- Winnie the Pooh

My weblog owns 43.75 % of me.
Does your weblog own you?

Boy, THAT'S a shock, hmmm?

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The boys and I made it to Ben and Jerry’s yesterday and imagine my dismay when they did NOT have Coconut Almond Fudge Chip (and yes, I too am shocked they can’t come up with a more imaginative name.) I didn’t know WHAT to do.
Primo ordered a scoop of chocolate chip cookie dough.
Segundo is a purist, and got a scoop of chocolate.
I suffered in silence with a scoop of Sweet-Cream-and-Cookies (Oreo ice cream).
Terzo benefited from my dilemma, however, as I had no trouble feeding him titbits of sweet cream ice cream, whereas he might not have enjoyed coconut nearly so much.
I also took great comfort in knowing that I had two pints of Chubby Hubby at home in my freezer.
I will be happy to stick to Baskin Robbins from now on.
If they’d only bring back my German Chocolate Cake ice cream flavor…

After we ate ice cream, we walked up to the library.
That branch was remodeled several years ago.
Before, it was shabby and crowded and dingy.
Now it is sterile and industrial and cold and unwelcoming.
Some of us are never pleased.
BUT…
I borrowed a copy of Helen Fremont’s After Long Silence, which a friend recommended to me. She’s the same woman who told me about The Sparrow, which even though she hated it and couldn’t finish it, thought I might like. And she was right. So the Fremont will travel to Bethlehem with me, probably.
In the for-sale section, I picked up, for a total of two dollars, Carrie Fisher’s The Best Awful, because I find her amusing; Seabiscuit, just because all I know about it is that Laura Hillenbrand suffers from chronic fatigue syndrome; Two for the Summit, by Geoffrey Norman, because I am a sucker for mountain-climbing/adventure stories (Ack! That just reminded me that I MUST buy a copy of this month’s Outside magazine, as Nando Parrado’s book Miracle in the Andes is excerpted)(those of you who are worried about the Ick factor will NOT like this...); and The Gluten-Free Gourmet, which will be winging its way to Carolyn as soon as I can get myself to the post office.

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I am rereading Anne Lamott’s Operating Instructions: A Journal of My Son’s First Year, and I had forgotten, when I read this after Primo was born, how much this book resonated with me. It was a book that made me feel really so much better about the whole baby thing, when I got down on myself. Only I couldn’t ever hope to be nearly as funny as Anne was.

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I have NO IDEA why these qualify as sport ANYTHING, but Ritter Sport dark chocolate with marzipan is my new chocolate bar fixation.
AND I can get them at the grocery store.
AND they’re on sale this week, five for ten dollars.

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Sarah Louise and I took Seg and Terzo grocery shopping today. SL bought – a blueberry bagel. I bought two hundred bucks worth of groceries. Well, and new moisturizer (CG Smoothers SPF 15 Tinted Moisture in Fair-to-Light) and powder (CG Smoothers in Translucent Fair), and some chocolate. Plus three packs of diapers. Why H and I did not buy Pampers stock before I gave birth to Primo, I will never know, and certainly regret as one of our stupider financial moves.
On the days I go grocery shopping (seems like it’s about every other day but it isn’t, not really), I generally serve for dinner a slap-together meal of fresh stuff that won’t necessarily keep. Last night we had salami-and-provolone sandwiches with roasted red peppers on fresh crusty Italian bread, and a tossed green salad with tomatoes and fresh mozzarella. I also bought a pepperoni roll for my lunch today. Tonight, H will have to cook up the fish, another thing I like to eat as soon as possible, so it’s fresh.
Gosh, how I love food.

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Is the handicapped icon on the word verif new? And if so, should I tell Blogger that the word verif articulated was NOT the same as the letters on my screen?

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Little known fact about me: I was the state spelling champion in the fifth grade.
Granted, it was New Jersey, and it was only private schools. But.

For everyone who has wandered around Starbucks this past few weeks, seeing ad copy for “Akeelah and the Bee”:

argillaceous adj. (ca. 1731) : of, relating to, or containing clay or clay minerals

brunneous adj. : dark brown – used chiefly scientifically

euonym noun : a name well suited to the person, place, or thing named

autochthonous adj. (1805) : 1 : INDIGENOUS, NATIVE 2 : formed or originating in the place where found

succedaneum noun : one that succeeds to the place of another : SUBSTITUTE

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Is there anything more *delicious* than a warm baby?

To paraphrase: Else construct! We don't need no stinkin' else construct!

If (Child goes to sleep for the night at six pm)
{
He will be wide awake and full of beans and ready to go, Mama! At 430 am;
}

[today's title quote brought to you by the Slide-Rule Association of America]

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I was going to list all the books I picked up at the library book sale – and have been bringing home in increments – but I think I am too lazy and so will wait till I read them and mention it then, okay? Great.
But I did buy the boys, at the half-price Scholastic book sale last week, Scholastic’s Encyclopedia, and a book about the Beatles, and the new Sandra Boynton, Dog Train. We are HUGE Philadelphia Chickens fans in this house (and I don’t just mean fat me), so I look forward to Dog Train. I am probably going to sneak and listen to it before I gift it to one of the boys for some occasion. Yeah, I’m rotten.

I finished Locked Rooms by Laurie R. King and it was every bit as good as all the other Mary Russell books. I am all caught up now, which is sad, because now I have to wait on her to write a new one. But I do have another Kate Martinelli mystery to read, and she has a new one coming out at the end of May. So it could be worse.

I am currently reading Albert Camus’ The Plague, which sounds all intellectual and whatnot, but is not. Like Gone With the Wind - a great classic, blah, blah blah, but reads like a potboiler with a half-naked woman on the cover, only better written. And without throbbing members.

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My *only* goal this weekend was to take the boys to Ben and Jerry’s for ice cream.
I managed to put new trim molding on the porch column that was missing it, and wash down all the porch furniture preparatory to painting/polyurethaning it. I also managed to get in two runs, and worked yesterday, and cooked some meals. And ran, folded, and put away a gazillion loads of laundry. But alas. No ice cream. I am very sad about this. What a waste of a weekend.

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Next weekend, round about this time or a few hours previously, I will be returning from Bethlehem, no longer pregnant, still on the damn donkey, with a wailing infant Jes…oh wait! That’s not me! Sorry! But I will be returning from Bethlehem.

If you’re going, please let Blackbird or me know and we will all figure out some general meeting place for Friday evening:

babelbabe(at)comcast.net
OR
blackbirdintuvalu(at)mac.com

Or otherwise it’ll be me and Blackbird, sitting morosely in the hotel bar, staring at each other. Or one of us will wind up in an ice bath, minus a kidney…no, no, really, I do NOT think Blackbird is a serial killer or anything. But if you don’t hear from me by next Monday…

[I keep making that kidney joke. I should probably stop or Blackbird will think I am serious.]