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!
Sunday, May 14, 2006
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]
**************************
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?
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]
**************************
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.
Friday, May 12, 2006
Cancer, Baby
*****************
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.
Thursday, May 11, 2006
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...
***************************
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.
****************
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.
*****************
And hoo boy, that last paragraph is so going to bump up our Google hits...
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...
***************************
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.
****************
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.
*****************
And hoo boy, that last paragraph is so going to bump up our Google hits...
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
"There are no absolutes in life, only vodka."
For Badger:
***************
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!
***************
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!
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
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!
********************
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?
********************
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?
Monday, May 08, 2006
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.
Sunday, May 07, 2006
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.
***************************
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?
**************************
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.
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.
***************************
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?
**************************
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.
Saturday, May 06, 2006
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.
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.
Friday, May 05, 2006
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...
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
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
Thursday, May 04, 2006
“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
***********************************
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.
*************
Thursday Show-and-Tell, courtesy of Blackbird
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
***********************************
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.
*************
Thursday Show-and-Tell, courtesy of Blackbird
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
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.
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.
Monday, May 01, 2006
My spelling is Wobbly. It's good spelling but it Wobbles, and the letters get in the wrong places.- Winnie the Pooh
Does your weblog own you?
Boy, THAT'S a shock, hmmm?
**************
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.
*****************
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.
*******************
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.
********************
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.
**************
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?****************
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
*****************
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]
************
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.
*************
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.
***************
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.]
{
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]
************
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.
*************
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.
***************
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.]
Saturday, April 29, 2006
The supreme accomplishment is to blur the line between work and play. - Arnold Toynbee
List Friday - This week's topic: Your Dream Job
Courtesy of Loretta, of Pomegranates and Paper
I’ve had what some people would consider pretty cool jobs.
I worked as a scenic artist and set designer in theatre for ten years. I enjoyed drawing out the background drops but the painting, eh. And all the dealing with difficult designers bit the big one. And most of them were difficult. Maybe I should have been a draftsman. I was an excellent painter – one of the few things I do not need to be even remotely modest about – and hit the top of the pay scale in this city at the age of about 26. And it was really just so much manual labor and working with toxins…so I got lucky and became a technical writer. My specialty was medical software, which I really enjoyed. I also dabbled in mark-up languages/programming. That was fun but not ultimately incredibly useful.
In between, I worked in a bookstore, that was also cool for a while. No pressure, you just went home at the end of your shift and forgot all about work. And I was a copyeditor – ok, but you really do have to read a bunch of crap you’d rather not. I’ve worked clothing retail – never again. But I got a major discount on some great clothes. But I? Am not so hot with the customer service. I really don’t like people, in case you haven’t noticed. I also toyed with the idea of becoming a real estate agent. H manfully did NOT laugh in my face when I mentioned that.
I actually HAVE my dream job. I love, love, LOVE being a reference librarian at a university. Every day brings a new challenge and a new research topic. I adore doing research. I love telling people I am a librarian. It’s pretty terrific to actually HAVE your dream job – I know I am very lucky. But inn a different life, the following jobs would be something I would consider, for fun, not for profit.
I used this as the signature on my work email for a while; I'll bet my boss did not find it nearly as droll as I did but I never asked:
One of the symptoms of an approaching nervous breakdown is the belief that one's work is terribly important. ~ Bertrand Russell
Courtesy of Loretta, of Pomegranates and Paper
I’ve had what some people would consider pretty cool jobs.
I worked as a scenic artist and set designer in theatre for ten years. I enjoyed drawing out the background drops but the painting, eh. And all the dealing with difficult designers bit the big one. And most of them were difficult. Maybe I should have been a draftsman. I was an excellent painter – one of the few things I do not need to be even remotely modest about – and hit the top of the pay scale in this city at the age of about 26. And it was really just so much manual labor and working with toxins…so I got lucky and became a technical writer. My specialty was medical software, which I really enjoyed. I also dabbled in mark-up languages/programming. That was fun but not ultimately incredibly useful.
In between, I worked in a bookstore, that was also cool for a while. No pressure, you just went home at the end of your shift and forgot all about work. And I was a copyeditor – ok, but you really do have to read a bunch of crap you’d rather not. I’ve worked clothing retail – never again. But I got a major discount on some great clothes. But I? Am not so hot with the customer service. I really don’t like people, in case you haven’t noticed. I also toyed with the idea of becoming a real estate agent. H manfully did NOT laugh in my face when I mentioned that.
I actually HAVE my dream job. I love, love, LOVE being a reference librarian at a university. Every day brings a new challenge and a new research topic. I adore doing research. I love telling people I am a librarian. It’s pretty terrific to actually HAVE your dream job – I know I am very lucky. But inn a different life, the following jobs would be something I would consider, for fun, not for profit.
- Forensic pathologist – yes, like Quincy. I would be SO good at this. This has been my dream job since I was little. I just never had the brains/oomph/drive to go to medical school. I could also see my way clear to being a coroner/medical examiner. (I also wouldn't mind being a mortician. Not my dream job, but it'd be ok.)
- Biomedical informationist. With my library graduate degree, I am halfway there! When my kids are grown, I can apply myself to finding a job at a hospital library and see what I can work out from there.
- A hospice social worker. I would be VERY good at this, too; I am at my best in crisis mode. It’s the mundanity of everyday life that gets me down and makes me nutso and crazy to live with. And I could be helping people who really needed the help, in a time of stress and sadness.
- A transplant coordinator. Yes, body organs. I am crazed on the subject of organ donors. Everyone should be one, if at all medically possible.
- Olympic gymnast. Nadia Comaneci was my childhood idol. Yes, I *will* be going to see “Stick It,” no matter how godawful the title and the reviews.
- Run a little used bookshop/café. But I want to be independently filthy rich, so I don’t have to worry about how we are doing, and also so I can hire people to cover for me when I want to sleep in.
- Work for a company that runs estate sales and clears out estates. Do you know that Cheryl Wheeler song, Estate Sale? That pretty much sums it up.
- An auto mechanic. But back when cars were not just all computer-driven. I can change out a muffler, and a carburetor, and all sorts of easy stuff like tires and oil. I can weld. I think I’d be a terrific mechanic.
- Stained glass restorer. I took a class in this within the past year, and was not only pretty decent at it, but also enjoyed it very much. It is soothing work. And my – ahem, shall we call it, “detail-oriented personality” - would prove to be useful.
- A pool boy. Excuse me, pool person.
I used this as the signature on my work email for a while; I'll bet my boss did not find it nearly as droll as I did but I never asked:
One of the symptoms of an approaching nervous breakdown is the belief that one's work is terribly important. ~ Bertrand Russell
Friday, April 28, 2006
"...on the street where you live." - Lerner and Loewe
I have often walked
Down the street before,
But the pavement always
Stayed beneath my feet before.
All at once am I
Several stories high,
Knowing I’m on the street where you live.
Are there lilac trees
In the heart of town?
Can you hear a lark in any other part of town?
Does enchantment pour
Out of every door?
No, it’s just on the street where you live.
******************
I don’t quite feel like this about my street – but I do like my street. Except I have to spell it for EVERYONE because, sigh, people just don’t get a classical education these days.
We live on the corner of an alley and an avenue. This is a shot down the alley.
The boys play hockey and ride bikes in the alley, as do the five neighbor children. We also put our trash out in the alley instead of in front of our house, which is quite nice. The wall along the alley is concrete, and the previous owner planted a gazillion rose bushes all along the wall. It’s gorgeous when they bloom – I’ll post photos, I promise. Maybe someone can tell me what kind of roses they are…the beautiful pink dogwood belongs to the neighbors. They have a lovely garden in their front yard.
This heads down the street towards the not-so-savory part of the neighborhood. The woman who lives in the house on the corner - straight past the white couch that has been sitting out for the garbage men since last Sunday and through the trees – is pregnant with her NINTH child. Little bit of neighborhood trivia for you.
The couch was put there by the people who live in the carriage house-cum-apartments of the monster house on the corner. I don’t know them except they NEVER bring their garbage cans in after trash day (we are horrible people and have taped notes and copies of the trash rules to the lids) and one of the boys owns a car without a muffler, that he starts up to work on for HOURS sometimes.
We have to move our cars around the street-cleaners from April to December. There are signs on the posts reminding us: every first and third Wednesday, one side of the street; every first and third Thursday, the other side of the street. It’s a pain. It’s really the only time I wish we had a driveway. And we’re not allowed to park in the alley.
You can see that our city maintenance guys do the same weird thing to our tress that they do to Lazy Cow's trees, all the way on the other side of the world in Australia.
The house on the right is a rental unit, inhabited by three or four or eight college students. They are pretty quiet, they only occasionally have parties, and they seem nice enough.
The house on the left is owned by P, who is 94 years old and still goes for a long walk every single morning, up to Bloomfield for a weekly poker game, and about twice a month or so, has an “escort” to his house. I suppose if it were constant, or it were more obvious, I’d be perturbed. But hell, the guy’s NINETY-FOUR and still gets it on at least twice a month? I think that’s fairly impressive. P’s daughter picks him up for dinner twice a week, and his son drops him off afterwards in his company van. They come over and clean up his yard, too. He seems like a nice enough guy, but as he’s deaf as a post – and VERY quiet, which we like - I haven’t really ever talked with him at length. I only know about the hooker because our next-door neighbors thought it was P’s daughter for the longest time, and told us the story of finding out she wasn’t.
On the right side of the photo is the edge of a gigantic, restored mansion, that is a rental unit for ONE family. I think there must have been a divorce or something at some point, because why would you spend all that money renovating a mansion only to rent it out? I know there’s a teenage boy there who practices his trumpet every evening; and that the lawn service they hire cares for the front yard but neglects the side yard, which is what we stare at from our front porch. Because there’s a long stretch of shaded empty street there, several times we have witnessed what I suspect were drug deals or hookers. But they tend to not hang there anymore as this pesky family with three boys moved in across the street and they call the cops ALL THE TIME, plus they are ALWAYS outside. How very annoying and detrimental to the prostitution and drug dealing public. Yeah, the Babes are pains in the ass.
The house on the corner – you can really only see the back – is where our neighborhood paranoid schizophrenics live. I’m not being glib –they are, and they are brother and sister. Dickie spends most of his time throwing a baseball at the stop sign – apparently he could have had quite the career in pro baseball if not for his mental problems, he spent several seasons in minor league ball. He also very carefully lines up his trash bags across his driveway each week for pickup. His sister is hugely overweight and walks with a cane and has a foul, foul mouth on her. Dickie is harmless, but his sister is a bitch.
Then there’s the duplex right next door. I wanted Gina to buy it and live in one half while renting out the other. Purely for selfish reasons, of course. Like having her right next door. If H and I were millionaires, we’d buy it and tear it down, for the yard. The previous owner did a lot of work to it and then sold it. One side is now empty, the other contains a middle-aged black lady and her granddaughter. The lady’s husband used to live there too and cook the most delectable smelling barbecue in the backyard, but apparently she kicked him out.
Which is a shame because he made the neighborhood smell so yummy.
Our street is a direct route up to the park, and so every summer the cars with the thumping radios go up and down our street. One reason H wants to move. That, and all the rental units.
This morning, walking with the boys to Primo’s preschool, I saw four cars parked at the corner, followed by a K-9 cop unit. I thought at first it was a funeral procession, but that didn’t seem right. So I looked again. In each car was a plainclothes cop and a narcotics cop in uniform (with NARCOTICS emblazoned across their sweatshirts, that’s how I knew.) Dickie was pounding on one car’s window, shouting that they were blocking his driveway. I was hissing, “Dickie, they’re COPS. QUIT it!” The boys were entranced by the K-9 truck. Then the cars all peeled off from the curb and raced away. No idea what was going on, but this is not necessarily an unusual sort of occurrence on this street.
So that’s it – my street.
And oh, the towering feeling
Just to know somehow you are near
The overpowering feeling
That any second you may suddenly appear.
People stop and stare
They don’t bother me,
For there’s no where else on earth
That I would rather be...here on the street where you live
***************
Thursday Show-and-Tell, courtesy of Blackbird
Down the street before,
But the pavement always
Stayed beneath my feet before.
All at once am I
Several stories high,
Knowing I’m on the street where you live.
Are there lilac trees
In the heart of town?
Can you hear a lark in any other part of town?
Does enchantment pour
Out of every door?
No, it’s just on the street where you live.
******************
I don’t quite feel like this about my street – but I do like my street. Except I have to spell it for EVERYONE because, sigh, people just don’t get a classical education these days.
We live on the corner of an alley and an avenue. This is a shot down the alley.The boys play hockey and ride bikes in the alley, as do the five neighbor children. We also put our trash out in the alley instead of in front of our house, which is quite nice. The wall along the alley is concrete, and the previous owner planted a gazillion rose bushes all along the wall. It’s gorgeous when they bloom – I’ll post photos, I promise. Maybe someone can tell me what kind of roses they are…the beautiful pink dogwood belongs to the neighbors. They have a lovely garden in their front yard.
This heads down the street towards the not-so-savory part of the neighborhood. The woman who lives in the house on the corner - straight past the white couch that has been sitting out for the garbage men since last Sunday and through the trees – is pregnant with her NINTH child. Little bit of neighborhood trivia for you.The couch was put there by the people who live in the carriage house-cum-apartments of the monster house on the corner. I don’t know them except they NEVER bring their garbage cans in after trash day (we are horrible people and have taped notes and copies of the trash rules to the lids) and one of the boys owns a car without a muffler, that he starts up to work on for HOURS sometimes.
We have to move our cars around the street-cleaners from April to December. There are signs on the posts reminding us: every first and third Wednesday, one side of the street; every first and third Thursday, the other side of the street. It’s a pain. It’s really the only time I wish we had a driveway. And we’re not allowed to park in the alley.
You can see that our city maintenance guys do the same weird thing to our tress that they do to Lazy Cow's trees, all the way on the other side of the world in Australia.
The house on the right is a rental unit, inhabited by three or four or eight college students. They are pretty quiet, they only occasionally have parties, and they seem nice enough.The house on the left is owned by P, who is 94 years old and still goes for a long walk every single morning, up to Bloomfield for a weekly poker game, and about twice a month or so, has an “escort” to his house. I suppose if it were constant, or it were more obvious, I’d be perturbed. But hell, the guy’s NINETY-FOUR and still gets it on at least twice a month? I think that’s fairly impressive. P’s daughter picks him up for dinner twice a week, and his son drops him off afterwards in his company van. They come over and clean up his yard, too. He seems like a nice enough guy, but as he’s deaf as a post – and VERY quiet, which we like - I haven’t really ever talked with him at length. I only know about the hooker because our next-door neighbors thought it was P’s daughter for the longest time, and told us the story of finding out she wasn’t.
On the right side of the photo is the edge of a gigantic, restored mansion, that is a rental unit for ONE family. I think there must have been a divorce or something at some point, because why would you spend all that money renovating a mansion only to rent it out? I know there’s a teenage boy there who practices his trumpet every evening; and that the lawn service they hire cares for the front yard but neglects the side yard, which is what we stare at from our front porch. Because there’s a long stretch of shaded empty street there, several times we have witnessed what I suspect were drug deals or hookers. But they tend to not hang there anymore as this pesky family with three boys moved in across the street and they call the cops ALL THE TIME, plus they are ALWAYS outside. How very annoying and detrimental to the prostitution and drug dealing public. Yeah, the Babes are pains in the ass.
The house on the corner – you can really only see the back – is where our neighborhood paranoid schizophrenics live. I’m not being glib –they are, and they are brother and sister. Dickie spends most of his time throwing a baseball at the stop sign – apparently he could have had quite the career in pro baseball if not for his mental problems, he spent several seasons in minor league ball. He also very carefully lines up his trash bags across his driveway each week for pickup. His sister is hugely overweight and walks with a cane and has a foul, foul mouth on her. Dickie is harmless, but his sister is a bitch.Then there’s the duplex right next door. I wanted Gina to buy it and live in one half while renting out the other. Purely for selfish reasons, of course. Like having her right next door. If H and I were millionaires, we’d buy it and tear it down, for the yard. The previous owner did a lot of work to it and then sold it. One side is now empty, the other contains a middle-aged black lady and her granddaughter. The lady’s husband used to live there too and cook the most delectable smelling barbecue in the backyard, but apparently she kicked him out.
Which is a shame because he made the neighborhood smell so yummy.
Our street is a direct route up to the park, and so every summer the cars with the thumping radios go up and down our street. One reason H wants to move. That, and all the rental units.
This morning, walking with the boys to Primo’s preschool, I saw four cars parked at the corner, followed by a K-9 cop unit. I thought at first it was a funeral procession, but that didn’t seem right. So I looked again. In each car was a plainclothes cop and a narcotics cop in uniform (with NARCOTICS emblazoned across their sweatshirts, that’s how I knew.) Dickie was pounding on one car’s window, shouting that they were blocking his driveway. I was hissing, “Dickie, they’re COPS. QUIT it!” The boys were entranced by the K-9 truck. Then the cars all peeled off from the curb and raced away. No idea what was going on, but this is not necessarily an unusual sort of occurrence on this street.
So that’s it – my street.
And oh, the towering feeling
Just to know somehow you are near
The overpowering feeling
That any second you may suddenly appear.
People stop and stare
They don’t bother me,
For there’s no where else on earth
That I would rather be...here on the street where you live
***************
Thursday Show-and-Tell, courtesy of Blackbird
Thursday, April 27, 2006
Why, in my day, you could buy meat anywhere! Eggs they had, real butter! Fresh lettuce in the stores! [UPDATED TEN MINUTES LATER VERSION!]
I have had to change my shirt four times today.
Will Terzo EVER stop spitting up?
Wait!
Maybe it’s something he’s eating...
read on…
I found this article on Salon about kids’ food choices so interesting, I thought I’d give you my considered and esteemed opinion on it. Just because I can. Hey, you’re the one still reading...Food is just such a weighted topic. (The letters on this article were vehement, both sides.) And most mothers buy into it wholeheartedly, because we are all trying to be good moms, and *clearly,* good moms don't feed their children things that are bad for them.
This seems to be on everyone’s minds these days; Surfing Free just posted about this yesterday.
And there are medical reasons for more rigorous monitoring: Carolyn of TMI Spot maintains a completely separate blog to track what her glucose- and casein-sensitive son can and can’t eat. (She has links to other moms who are dealing with diet restrictions and toddler nutrition, too, if you’re interested.)
Food for our children is a HOT topic.
Just to be right up front: here is a typical day of eating with my boys, and I admit I am not averse to treats of ice cream, the occasional cookie (preferably homemade – it’s the preservatives and chemicals that scare me more than the sugar), or a lemonade/juice box. Mostly because then, *I* can have a coffee or a chocolate croissant or an ice cream.
And as I noted in a previous post or comment, other than allergens, like nuts and strawberries for the baby, my kids are pretty much allowed anything once in a while, except soda. And that’s for no special reason other than it’s rarely around and they prefer juice anyway.
Breakfast:
2 bowls Honey-Nut Cheerios or corn flakes with whole milk
Half a banana
Cup of apple or orange juice
Lunch:
Dannon fruit yogurt
Strawberries and/or grapes and/or apples
Annie’s whole-wheat bunny crackers
Chocolate whole milk
Snack:
Fig Newtons or graham crackers. They also have some kind of fruit, even if it is just some raisins or dried apricots.
Dinner:
A little of whatever we are having, say:
Baked chicken
Rice
Steamed broccoli
Sliced apples or oranges
Whole white milk or water
Brownberry’s buttermilk or oatnut bread
Once they get up from the table, they are done. They may eat bread and milk if they are still hungry after they have gotten up. But I am not running a restaurant and I don’t generally cook especially for them. That said, if we are having something I KNOW they hate, like tilapia sautéed in lemon-butter sauce with capers (tonight) – I may make them mac-and-cheese (yes, from the box. They HATE homemade.) or chicken or scrambled eggs. If I am feeling benevolent.
I do stress about their food. I stress whether they are getting all the vitamins and minerals they need, that they are getting the proper balance of roughage – very important in this time of potty-training, that they are not getting waaaayyy too much sugar. My husband is a fiend about it, but I think that’s because he is not with them as much as I am. So he can be a hard-ass. Also, their whining doesn’t nearly grate on his nerves as much as it grates on mine.
My pediatrician (he’s mine, I tell you! The rest of you drooling moms – hands off! He loves ME!) explained to me that when judging toddler food, it’s really more important – and realistic – to judge their diet over the average of a week’s worth of meals as opposed to one day. He said there are toddlers who can go two days without eating (with NO chocolate stash in the nightstand drawer!) and then eat their body weight or something like that in one meal. Hmmm.
Maybe I was a toddler in a former life.
And maybe the pint of Ben & Jerry's Chubby Hubby I devoured YESTERDAY will be balanced out by all the fruits and veggies I intend to eat TODAY.
[Gah! I just told you what my children eat! So I should tell them that, say, if a woman named Badger pulls up in her minivan and says, "Hey little Segundo, I know you like to eat BAKED BEANS AND CORNBREAD, hop on in!" they should NOT go with her. They should call me and I can go out drinking with her instead.]
Will Terzo EVER stop spitting up?
Wait!
Maybe it’s something he’s eating...
read on…
I found this article on Salon about kids’ food choices so interesting, I thought I’d give you my considered and esteemed opinion on it. Just because I can. Hey, you’re the one still reading...Food is just such a weighted topic. (The letters on this article were vehement, both sides.) And most mothers buy into it wholeheartedly, because we are all trying to be good moms, and *clearly,* good moms don't feed their children things that are bad for them.
This seems to be on everyone’s minds these days; Surfing Free just posted about this yesterday.
And there are medical reasons for more rigorous monitoring: Carolyn of TMI Spot maintains a completely separate blog to track what her glucose- and casein-sensitive son can and can’t eat. (She has links to other moms who are dealing with diet restrictions and toddler nutrition, too, if you’re interested.)
Food for our children is a HOT topic.
Just to be right up front: here is a typical day of eating with my boys, and I admit I am not averse to treats of ice cream, the occasional cookie (preferably homemade – it’s the preservatives and chemicals that scare me more than the sugar), or a lemonade/juice box. Mostly because then, *I* can have a coffee or a chocolate croissant or an ice cream.
And as I noted in a previous post or comment, other than allergens, like nuts and strawberries for the baby, my kids are pretty much allowed anything once in a while, except soda. And that’s for no special reason other than it’s rarely around and they prefer juice anyway.
Breakfast:
2 bowls Honey-Nut Cheerios or corn flakes with whole milk
Half a banana
Cup of apple or orange juice
Lunch:
Dannon fruit yogurt
Strawberries and/or grapes and/or apples
Annie’s whole-wheat bunny crackers
Chocolate whole milk
Snack:
Fig Newtons or graham crackers. They also have some kind of fruit, even if it is just some raisins or dried apricots.
Dinner:
A little of whatever we are having, say:
Baked chicken
Rice
Steamed broccoli
Sliced apples or oranges
Whole white milk or water
Brownberry’s buttermilk or oatnut bread
Once they get up from the table, they are done. They may eat bread and milk if they are still hungry after they have gotten up. But I am not running a restaurant and I don’t generally cook especially for them. That said, if we are having something I KNOW they hate, like tilapia sautéed in lemon-butter sauce with capers (tonight) – I may make them mac-and-cheese (yes, from the box. They HATE homemade.) or chicken or scrambled eggs. If I am feeling benevolent.
- Primo will eat any kind of fruit you put in front of him with the exception of kiwi. He’s tried it twice and hated it. He loves chicken and turkey and salami.
- Segundo’s favorite meal is Bush’s vegetarian baked beans, corn bread, and milk. He is the carb fiend. No danger of him EVER going Atkins on us.
- Terzo has had some real food – bagel, waffles, plain macaroni, rice – and the only baby food at which he has turned his nose up so far is the Gerber jarred rice-and-turkey. Which I suppose is a good call on his part, actually. Not sure what I was thinking with that purchase.
I do stress about their food. I stress whether they are getting all the vitamins and minerals they need, that they are getting the proper balance of roughage – very important in this time of potty-training, that they are not getting waaaayyy too much sugar. My husband is a fiend about it, but I think that’s because he is not with them as much as I am. So he can be a hard-ass. Also, their whining doesn’t nearly grate on his nerves as much as it grates on mine.
My pediatrician (he’s mine, I tell you! The rest of you drooling moms – hands off! He loves ME!) explained to me that when judging toddler food, it’s really more important – and realistic – to judge their diet over the average of a week’s worth of meals as opposed to one day. He said there are toddlers who can go two days without eating (with NO chocolate stash in the nightstand drawer!) and then eat their body weight or something like that in one meal. Hmmm.
Maybe I was a toddler in a former life.
And maybe the pint of Ben & Jerry's Chubby Hubby I devoured YESTERDAY will be balanced out by all the fruits and veggies I intend to eat TODAY.
[Gah! I just told you what my children eat! So I should tell them that, say, if a woman named Badger pulls up in her minivan and says, "Hey little Segundo, I know you like to eat BAKED BEANS AND CORNBREAD, hop on in!" they should NOT go with her. They should call me and I can go out drinking with her instead.]
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
Christmas comes but once a year...
Primo just presented me with his CHRISTMAS LIST.
Oh, for the optimism of a five-year-old...
Oh, for the optimism of a five-year-old...
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
Or maybe you could yell, This is the police! and it'll open right up!
OK, Badger’s post re: posting kids’ photos on the Internet has sent some of us – well, me and Gina - into a tailspin. Gina and I exchanged several emails about issues surrounding posting our kids’ names and photos, and should we go back through the archives and delete? Gina suggested just deleting her posts altogether. Which I think would just suck, because I LIKE her posts.
A few months ago I changed the boys’ names to pseudonyms. And I recently decided that I will no longer post readily identifiable photos of the boys, and this policy now includes the baby, which it didn’t at first because he’s SO.DAMN.CUTE, and how could I not share? And I kinda think all babies look alike.
I don’t know that I’ll go through the archives and delete photos. I did offer to do it for Gina if she wanted me to. And I will.
I myself have never used my real name mostly due to a weird but ultimately harmless episode of stalking that happened lo these many years ago now. Also because, what if – in some alternate universe, but still - my mother-in-law learned to set up and plug in her computer, set up and access her email and the Internet, and somehow came upon THE BLOG? I can’t afford a divorce. Although she might see her way clear to lending me the money…
I don’t post pictures of myself because I am FAT. And I want you all to like me. And you might not if you saw how wildly unattractive I can be.
But my children? Are adorable. As some of you well know. And while Behind the Stove may never grow to Dooce-like proportions (God, I hope not! I couldn't take the pressure!), it’s still best to be safe and cautious and what not with your readership. Because you know, for all we really know, one of us may be an axe murderer, or a black-market body-organ profiteer. Or – this is where I get serious – a pedophile. The thought of any sicko seeing my little boys on their computer screen and then twisting those images to suit their own perverted fantasies makes my skin crawl and my stomach roil. So, those of you who have seen my kids, I am glad you got to. Because have I mentioned that they are adorable? And those who haven’t – sorry. I can’t post pictures of them anymore. At least not close-ups or identifiable ones. Because I need to be able to sleep at night. And let me tell you, with three children, I don’t do too much of that anyway.
I’m sorry if I am going on and on about this, but it really upset me, how naïve and careless I can be, with the most precious people in the world to me.
***************
My plumber has (FINALLY!) come and gone, and I now have a functioning laundry pipe system/doohickey thing.
Let the Laundry Games begin!
[Oops. I spoke too soon. The babysitter just called me. She ran a load of towels and put them in the dryer and the DRYER DID NOT WORK. As in, the towels are still wet. As in, please just kill me now and put me out of the misery that seems to be my lot this week. Like having my mother-in-law fold all my towels.]
****************
Literary snippets:
No, no idea why "The Poseidon Adventure" is on the brain. Sorry.
http://www.post-gazette.com/pg/06113/684139-294.stm
Scroll down for the winners of caption contest #25. All you librarian types will especially appreciate this.
Gina and I also figured out why I so enjoyed The Thief Lord but not so much Inkheart - different translator. Yes, we have become such geeks that the translator matters now. I spent fifteen minutes trying to find out if Inkheart had been translated by more than one person, in the hopes that I could still read it without being BORED. Of course, I did go out of my way several years ago to find Dante’s Inferno translated by Robert Pinsky, so I suppose I knew translation mattered. But still…it so explains the difference between the two.
I am thoroughly enjoying the latest Mary Russell, although the part where Holmes meets Dashiell Hammett is a leetle too…too. So far. But gosh, I have a weakness for heroes with tuberculosis. Color me weird. I also find Sherlock Holmes incredibly sexy. Color me even weirder, I suppose.
Don’t know what I want to read next. I am feeling out of sorts with everything right now, including my reading choices.
I just called one of circulation people the “”reserve goddess.” Which would be ok except HE is clearly a man. Fortunately for me, a man who is my friend. I need a drink or a nap or both.
The library is having their annual Scholastic book fair this week. I need to walk across the aisle and see if they have any Magic Tree House books, cheap, for the Primo. [They don’t. Bummer.] But check this book out: Montmorency: Thief, Liar, Gentleman? Looks pretty cool, eh?
**************
All right. As you were.
A few months ago I changed the boys’ names to pseudonyms. And I recently decided that I will no longer post readily identifiable photos of the boys, and this policy now includes the baby, which it didn’t at first because he’s SO.DAMN.CUTE, and how could I not share? And I kinda think all babies look alike.
I don’t know that I’ll go through the archives and delete photos. I did offer to do it for Gina if she wanted me to. And I will.
I myself have never used my real name mostly due to a weird but ultimately harmless episode of stalking that happened lo these many years ago now. Also because, what if – in some alternate universe, but still - my mother-in-law learned to set up and plug in her computer, set up and access her email and the Internet, and somehow came upon THE BLOG? I can’t afford a divorce. Although she might see her way clear to lending me the money…
I don’t post pictures of myself because I am FAT. And I want you all to like me. And you might not if you saw how wildly unattractive I can be.
But my children? Are adorable. As some of you well know. And while Behind the Stove may never grow to Dooce-like proportions (God, I hope not! I couldn't take the pressure!), it’s still best to be safe and cautious and what not with your readership. Because you know, for all we really know, one of us may be an axe murderer, or a black-market body-organ profiteer. Or – this is where I get serious – a pedophile. The thought of any sicko seeing my little boys on their computer screen and then twisting those images to suit their own perverted fantasies makes my skin crawl and my stomach roil. So, those of you who have seen my kids, I am glad you got to. Because have I mentioned that they are adorable? And those who haven’t – sorry. I can’t post pictures of them anymore. At least not close-ups or identifiable ones. Because I need to be able to sleep at night. And let me tell you, with three children, I don’t do too much of that anyway.
I’m sorry if I am going on and on about this, but it really upset me, how naïve and careless I can be, with the most precious people in the world to me.
***************
My plumber has (FINALLY!) come and gone, and I now have a functioning laundry pipe system/doohickey thing.
Let the Laundry Games begin!
[Oops. I spoke too soon. The babysitter just called me. She ran a load of towels and put them in the dryer and the DRYER DID NOT WORK. As in, the towels are still wet. As in, please just kill me now and put me out of the misery that seems to be my lot this week. Like having my mother-in-law fold all my towels.]
****************
Literary snippets:
No, no idea why "The Poseidon Adventure" is on the brain. Sorry.
http://www.post-gazette.com/pg/06113/684139-294.stm
Scroll down for the winners of caption contest #25. All you librarian types will especially appreciate this.
Gina and I also figured out why I so enjoyed The Thief Lord but not so much Inkheart - different translator. Yes, we have become such geeks that the translator matters now. I spent fifteen minutes trying to find out if Inkheart had been translated by more than one person, in the hopes that I could still read it without being BORED. Of course, I did go out of my way several years ago to find Dante’s Inferno translated by Robert Pinsky, so I suppose I knew translation mattered. But still…it so explains the difference between the two.
I am thoroughly enjoying the latest Mary Russell, although the part where Holmes meets Dashiell Hammett is a leetle too…too. So far. But gosh, I have a weakness for heroes with tuberculosis. Color me weird. I also find Sherlock Holmes incredibly sexy. Color me even weirder, I suppose.
Don’t know what I want to read next. I am feeling out of sorts with everything right now, including my reading choices.
I just called one of circulation people the “”reserve goddess.” Which would be ok except HE is clearly a man. Fortunately for me, a man who is my friend. I need a drink or a nap or both.
The library is having their annual Scholastic book fair this week. I need to walk across the aisle and see if they have any Magic Tree House books, cheap, for the Primo. [They don’t. Bummer.] But check this book out: Montmorency: Thief, Liar, Gentleman? Looks pretty cool, eh?
**************
All right. As you were.
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