"One, two! One, two! And through and through, The vorpal blade went snicker-snack! He left it dead and with its head he went galumphing back." *

I have just requested the following three books from the library:

1) Margaret Wise Brown: Awakened by the Moon - Leonard Marcus. Inspired by this new-to-me blog I found, Crooked House, via...via Bookslut, I think, and Jessa’s post on Steph’s post on Beckett for Babies which made me cry laughing and be shiveringly delighted by her genius. I mean, seriously, how awesome is it? Think about it. It’s BRILLIANT.

And in reading Steph's archives, I found another clever and oh-so-smart post on Goodnight Moon, which I too have come to appreciate in the past year, and now I am hooked and am requesting her book recommendations.
It’s a slippery slope, my friends.

2) I also had to request Jess Walter’s Citizen Vince again. Because I am a dork and didn’t pick it up in time, and it was sent back from whence it came. But in ascertaining this fact, I called my local branch library and the librarian-whom-Gina-and-I-love answered the phone and recognized my voice and well, SWOON. I know, you have to be a pretty big dork to be thrilled that your librarian recognizes your voice, but that’s just the kind of dork I am.
And don’t pretend to be surprised, you knew it, too.

3) And last but not least, Josh Swiller’s The Unheard: A Memoir of Deafness and Africa. H spent two years in the Peace Corps, and I am actually sort of fascinated, in a car-wreck sort of way, by the Peace Corps. And what could be more interesting than a deaf person’s take on life in a foreign country, working for the Peace Corps? Rife with possibility, that. Apparently he’s a good writer – it was the reviews on Amazon that actually sucked me in.

And last but not least – wait, I said that already – oh frabjous day! Richard Russo has a new book coming out on September 25. I will hie to the bookstore that day to purchase it. Even with his weak outing last book (Empire Falls) and his redundant short story collection, however brilliantly titled The Whore’s Child, I still think he’s a terrific writer who excels in the slice-of-life style that I tend to fall in love with. Nobody’s Fool is one of my favorite books, and his other novels are no slouches, either. (Oh, and wait: did you know – I did NOT – that Ann Patchett has a new novel, Run, coming out on September 25 also? Calloo callay!)

And in a lovely email this morning, Nutmeg gave me a list of other books I might find interesting. I must stop all this silly eating and breathing and showering and school-dropping-off and school-picking-up and grocery-shopping and working fliff-flaff - I must READ!

*****************

* "Jabberwocky," Lewis Carroll

"I believe public education must help restore the daily ritual of the table in all our childrens' lives." *

I am having one of my (not really that frequent, despite what some may believe) I HATE PEOPLE days.

Hate #1:
My behind-us neighbors, very nice (and very frequently not even there) people, have had their nasty dogs outside all morning, and they’re barking their heads off. Annoying creatures.

It also means that Punto is not as content to hang out in our backyard when we go somewhere for an hour or two as he usually is, as the two dogs stand at the fence and snarl and growl at him.

Hate #2:
Dropping Primo off at school is never easy, as there is no official drop-off point, the parking is limited, and the school is on a fairly busy street (read: people flagrantly ignore the “Slow: School: 15mph” signs). This morning I was lucky enough to get a spot where I could watch for Primo to get into school and wave goodbye. Another mother wasn’t, so she took two minutes to stop, let her child out of the car, and watch him walk into school.

You’d have thought the three or four people behind her were on their way to emergency brain surgery.

When one construction-type guy in a huge white pickup truck honked his horn and shouted at her angrily, I snapped at him, “Cut her a break! She’s watching to make sure her kid gets in!”
“Gets in where?” he asked.
“The school, right there.”
To his credit, he shut up then, and looked suitably abashed.

The fat woman in the SUV behind him wasn’t so nice: “She can pull over! That’s just rude!”
I said, “Do you see anywhere obvious for her to pull over? She’ll just be a minute.”

Note that neither of these people was dropping a child off at school.
Forgive me for not being more understanding.
Fat-Woman zoomed off to her surgery in disgust.
I hope she crashed.

Hate #3:
Paxson is one of two schools in this city’s public school system participating in the Edible Schoolyard program. Founded and directed nationally by Alice Waters of Chez Panisse fame, the program works to teach urban school children where the food they eat comes from, and allows them to participate in its planting, care, harvesting, and preparation – from seed to table. A lot of hard work (parents, teachers, and kids) went into all the grant-writing, fundraising, and then the actual preparation of the schoolyard where the gardens are. Farmer Josh is an integral part of the school faculty now, and the kids greet him happily each morning, asking what’s ready to picked that day and how things are coming along.

One of the school parents is a chef, and is doing several cooking demos for the kids, using produce grown in their schoolyard gardens.

It’s an incredible thing, really – it’s exciting and educational and as many parents here are actively involved in ensuring their families eat more organically and more locally, there’s a huge amount of support for the program.

Last week the kids arrived at school to find several of their watermelons smashed all over the sidewalk. They took it in stride, and Farmer Josh handled it well.
But this morning I noticed that some hoodlum(s) had knocked over all the staked tomato plants, which were just about ready for major harvesting, and messed up the compost and its bin.

Do these derelicts have nothing better to do with their time than be destructive and horrible?
I hope they get hit by the fat lady in the SUV.

(It’s a damn good thing there are so many nice, wonderful, loving people in my life, or I just might lose all faith in the future of humanity.)


*********************
* Alice Waters, in Slow Food, Slow Schools

"...just because we don't understand doesn't mean that the explanation doesn't exist." *

So it turns out it’s not as bad as all that – Primo himself does not miss his enrichment while he is at the Gifted Center. He does miss gym. Or at least, he may. Still not ideal, for my antsy, high-energy, athletically-inclined boy. Although it seems enough parents have expressed concern that rescheduling and juggling will take place, so maybe kids will miss…reading for reading enrichment. Ah. Yes. Now THAT makes more sense. I know we are truly blessed to have such problems – the gifted program is really extraordinary, especially for a public school. But I still feel I must be vigilant at all times. It gets wearing, but it’s so worth it.

******************

I have been quite remiss in reading and commenting on blogs lately; it doesn’t mean I don’t love you all, yo. (Channeling Badger, there…) I have just been very nauseated and have a major case of what I call “the systemic blahs.” (Also an excellent name for a garage band.) But for all the lousy-feeling (I felt awful enough at work yesterday that I went home early – an almost unprecedented occurrence for me), I am grateful for the nausea and whatnot. It signifies that the baby is growing and hanging in there and continuing to be healthy. My friend M miscarried this weekend (in her 12th week), and I just found out this morning. My heart breaks for her. Send some good energy her way today if you think of it.

****************

I am rereading A Wind in the Door now, and enjoying it also. Although, having a six-year-old of my own, am finding Charles Wallace just a LEETLE unrealistic, no matter how genius-like he is mean to be. Still, suspending that disbelief, am loving this book.

I want to be Mrs. Murry, God, she is so together. I love that she cooks dinner on a Bunsen burner while proving the existence of farandolae and putting herself in the running for the Nobel Prize. I thought *I* was a decent multi-tasker...

One of the letter-writers to Salon on the article published in the days after l’Engle’s death summed up perfectly my feelings about Mrs Murry:

The main character in A Wrinkle in Time's mother was a scientist. And a mother. She cooked food on the Bunsen burner in their home's basement lab. I don't remember much of the book, but I remember this. Very much so. How a throw-away few lines in just one book managed to counteract every societal message about women and science that I'd been internalizing, I don't know. I sit typing my doctoral thesis, pausing to look up from the laptop and say "Wow!! you made a sandcastle!" and "Grrr! I'm a tiger" to my 2-year-old twins. Madeline L'Engle made this possible.

This unfortunately makes me that much sadder that L’Engle’s books written for adults are proving so disappointing upon rereading.

******************

I am off to pack up some lunches and assorted play paraphernalia, so that when The Baby and I pick up Seg from preschool, we can head straight to the park. It’s a gorgeous day today, and I want to take advantage of the sunshine and moderate temps.

*************

Paraphernalia is the word on which I won the fifth-grade spelling bee.
I will NEVER forget that crazy R in there.


***************

* Mrs Murry, A Wrinkle in Time

"Monday, Monday, can't trust that day..."*

I am rereading Madeleine L’Engle’s A Wrinkle in Time and enjoying it far more than I recall enjoying it the first time round. I am not much of a scifi person, so perhaps that why it didn’t do it for me as a child. But it’s very good. I love Aunt Beast, and want to marry Calvin. I am pleased I am liking it, as my reread of The Small Rain was disappointing. I found it a tad on the histrionic side, and spent much of the novel wanting to slap Katherine Forrester upside her head. Which of course didn’t stop me from putting A Severed Wasp on the reread pile as well.

I had a really – not lousy – it wasn’t BAD – it was just….not GOOD day. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear I was premenstrual. You know, stupid little things like ordering a black iced tea and the lady making me a green tea and then arguing with me when I questioned her. That kind of stupidity. Nothing awful. But I am very ready for the boys to go to bed and leave me in some peace. I did manage to cook a scrummy dinner – mini penne in alfredo sauce with sautéed-in-olive-oil sliced red peppers and arugula, and topped with toasted pine nuts. The boys’ mac-and-cheese was made with heavy cream because I forgot to buy milk at the grocery store. (See, that kind of day. But with penne alfredo-with-yummies for dinner, I can’t complain…)

A legit gripe: Primo tested into the gifted program at school this year (am I permitted to call it that, or is there some other more politically correct name?) This means that one day a week he rides a bus to the Gifted Center to do extra-special advanced math and science. Also, this year, there is a full-time on-site gifted programming teacher who works with the kids during the rest of the week which pleased me and H very much because it means that their gifted programming is not limited to six hours once a week. Primo picked “You Be the Author” since his other gifted stuff is math and science. They get pulled out of their usual class to do this program. The Author program meets twice – once on the day that the gifted kids go to the Gifted Center. Am I insane that this makes absolutely no sense whatsoever to me? The parents of some of the kids involved in the on-site program have chosen not to have their child tested for the out-of-school program, but it seems really unfair to me that my child is going to miss one of his on-site sessions. This seems like very very poor planning. Shit. And this school year was going so well so far. Off I go to peruse private school websites and suburban real estate. Per my usual panicked response. Sigh.

Oh, and the inappropriate book? A YA novel by Mary Steele called The Life (and death) of Sarah Elizabeth Howard which may or may not be a very fine book, but regardless, just not appropriate for a sensitive eight-year-old.


*"Monday Monday," The Mamas & the Papas

"Home is the sailor from the sea, The hunter from the hill."*

I am working.
Working, working, working, working, every free moment.
As Suse would say, flat out like a lizard drinking, which for the longest time I thought meant a lizard, you know, imbibing.
Alcoholic beverages.
Sometimes I am not very bright.

I have this fascinating freelance gig and I am loving it.
It’s a tremendous amount of work, though, and I feel as if every free moment I have, I have to get something done on this project.
Even though the people I am working for are totally laidback and cool.
I just get engrossed and want to keep going.

And I realized today that being a research librarian is just about the perfect job for an antisocial person with OCD tendencies.

Yesterday evening, though, burnt out on research databases, I did a little sleuthing for my friend E whose eight-year-old daughter had brought home from school what E thought might be an age-inappropriate book. (Approved by our (previously evidenced) rather less-than-impressive school librarian. Ahem.)
While neither E nor I believe in censorship, her daughter is a very very bright girl, and very sensitive and a leetle highstrung (have I got any children like that? Hmmm, let me think….) and E was a tad concerned about the effect this book might have on her.
I did some poking through Novelist and WorldCat, and wound up concurring – much more suitable for a middle-schooler - but then felt like I wanted to recommend a few appropriate books that might address the same subject this semi-questionable book thought to address (death).

I wound up emailing E a list of about a dozen books – some dealing with death and how children deal with death (Madeleine L’Engle’s Meet the Austins seemed like a good suggestion, followed with A Ring of Endless Light when E’s daughter is older. Beautifully written and thoughtful, but still good reads. (She has already read Bridge to Terabithia.))

Then I found some books I just thought she’d like. Like me when I was a child, she seems to like many of the old-fashioned children’s books such as Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm, and lots of LM Montgomery. So I had some fun with those kind of proper English boarding-school type books (you know you know what I mean), even though my favorite reccs were for Kaye Umansky’s The Silver Spoon of Solomon Snow and Michael Buckley’s The Fairytale Detectives.

And then I went upstairs and raided my shelves for a pile of books I thought she might enjoy, based on what I have lent her to read previously: Susan Coolidge’s Katy books, LM Montgomery’s Emily books, The Gift of the Golden Cup, Heidi, Lois Duncan’s Motel for Dogs, Theodore Taylor’s heartwrenching The Cay, and a book I had never read called Catherine, Called Birdy, which I promptly took to bed with me and devoured, staying up far too late to finish.

Wonderful book. Funny and smart and honest, with the most endearing heroine I have encountered in quite some time, a heroine with whom, were I a medieval maiden, I would want to hang out.
I added it to E’s daughter’s pile when I finished.

And now I am back to Mirabilis, and stalled a bit on Map of Love, because frankly, I don’t know nearly enough (as in, NOTHING) about British colonialism in Egypt to not have to look stuff up constantly, and it’s somewhat tough going.

And now my boys are home, home from the NASCAR-themed birthday party.
G’night.

***********

*AE Housman - UPDATED: Ok, the quote I really wanted was, as Suse pointed out, "Home is the sailor, home from the sea, and the hunter home from the hill." Which are the first lines of Robert Louis Stevenson's Requiem, and which Housman later used, apparently in honor of Stevenson. Thank you, dear Suse.

“If your house is really a mess and a stranger comes to the door greet him with, 'Who could have done this? We have no enemies.'”*

My children leave cars all over the steps and trains all over the floor.

I step on Legos in the middle of the night and more than once have nearly wiped out flat on my ass from stepping on a book.

Their hockey sticks and baseball gloves are scattered all over my back porch.

Their dirty clothes land everywhere but in their laundry basket.

When they eat, sometimes I think the dog actually gets more food than they do, they drop so much on the floor.

My bathtub is full of plastic boats and rubber fish.
My sink is cluttered with Cars toothbrushes and Winnie the Pooh toothpaste and little cardboard cups with animals on them.
My thirsty, thick blue towels are crowded on the rack by Nemo and Thomas.

None of this really bothers me.
I straighten up at the end of each day, and try to keep the place as uncluttered as possible for my own sanity.

But The Baby’s favorite thing in the whole wide world to do?
Is to take fistfuls of crayons, fling them into the air, and laugh uproariously.

And THIS drives me OVER THE EDGE.


********************
* Phyllis Diller

Even in Hell the peasant will have to serve the landlord, for, while the landlord is boiling in a cauldron the peasant will have to put wood under it.

I tried to go to sleep early last night but there was a fire alarm going off all night in the vacant house across the street and I woke up with a headache and my fan had stopped working and I forgot to take my Zoloft and I could tell it was going to be a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

At breakfast Seg ate the last banana on his cereal and Primo cried because he wanted banana in his Cheerios and Terzo fed the dog his Puffins which is going to give him gas.

I think I’ll move to Australia.

Four times I told Primo to put his socks and shoes on, and at 835 when everyone else was ready to leave he still only had one sock on and I yelled at him so loudly the neighbors must have heard. It made The Baby cry.

I could tell it was going to be a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

The Baby wouldn’t get in his carseat because he didn’t like his shorts.

At the preschool Seg couldn’t open the door and I had to call the teacher on my cell phone to let him in because I couldn’t leave the other boys in the running car by themselves.

At Paxson Primo pouted because I had to pack his lunch in his dorky turquoise lunch box and not his cool grey lunchbox because he’d left his cool grey lunchbox at school yesterday. Who needs lunch anyway? All I need is a drink.
I could tell it was going to be a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

I could tell because my friend E’s son said to me that my car was as filthy as my house, and I needed to vacuum my car too.
I hope you trip on your shoelaces, I said.
I hope you drop your Rice Krispie treat, and all the dog hair in the car gets all over the marshmallow and you can’t eat it, I said.
I hope it lands in Australia. (Ok, I didn’t say ANY of those things.)

Seg got a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and an apple for lunch, and The Baby got leftover rice pilaf and grilled chicken for his lunch, but all I got was two stupid poached eggs on toast because guess whose stomach couldn’t handle anything else?
It was a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

That’s what it was, because when we returned from the Cheese Expedition, that alarm was still going off and my headache got worse and I hadn’t had nearly enough caffeine anyway. I called the landlord but his secretary said he’d gone to Australia. (Not really.)

At naptime The Baby sat in his crib and threw cars around, and Seg lay in his bed and sang tunelessly to himself for forty-five minutes, and the dog lay in the hallway and panted at me. And when I finally fell asleep, I slept through my alarm and I am supposed to pick Primo up at 330 and it was already a quarter to four and my poor guy was sitting patiently in the school office waiting for me and I had left the house in such a rush I had no bra on and grotty flip-flops and I hadn’t brushed my hair and I looked like one of those mothers you see on the news who have their children taken away by CYS.
I am having a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day, I told everybody.
No one even answered. (They only wanted to know what was for snack.)

So then we went home and I made macaroni and cheese for the boys for supper, and tuna macaroni salad and cucumber sambal with Italian bread for H for supper, and all I could even consider eating was another (goddamn) poached egg.
Well, I made one but I still couldn’t eat it.

When H came home, the boys were screaming at each other, and The Baby was covered in mud from the backyard, and the dog wanted a walk, and I was frantically trying to edit a paper I had a deadline on. I didn’t even come close to finishing, and H clearly had second thoughts about having come home at all.

It was a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

Seg wanted his Magnemite Poekmon card and I couldn’t find his Magnemite Pokemon card.

It was bath night, and I hate bath night.

The lights were too bright, the boy were too loud, the air conditioner was making an ominous rattling sound, and Seg made me read a Pokemon book for story. I hate Pokemon books.

When I finally went to bed (with my computer and my book), my wireless was out and the cats were chasing each other like lunatics all over the second floor.

Primo came crying into my room because he’s scared of tsunamis, and wanted me to come sleep with him.

It has been a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

My mom’s gone but I am sure Suse or Lazy Cow would say that some days are like that.

Even in Australia.

“The poets have been mysteriously silent on the subject of cheese.” - GK Chesterton

Yesterday at home, while I was at work, H was searching for the stapler.

Unbeknownst to him, I had organized all my office supplies in a cute little basket that lives on the bottom shelf of a table in my room, so that they would be close to hand when needed. He thought they might be in the drawer of that table, which, to be fair, is where they used to live. But when he opened the drawer, he discovered my deep, dark secret – my chocolate stash.

The lovely and kind Lazy Cow had sent me a bag of peppermint M&Ms, and a mint Aero bar, and various other minty and chocolaty delicacies from Down Under (and some books and a cool postcard, and some neat stickie-notes, the wonderful woman. Thank you, thank you!). Her chocolates were in the drawer, along with a bag of almond M&Ms, a roll of caramel chocolates from IKEA, and a box of chocolate-covered pretzels.

In MY defense, I will say that due to pregnancy hormones or some such crazy thing, my taste for chocolate has waned, and most of these have been in there for at least a week, some longer. The very fact that the pretzels were unopened, and that half a bag remained of an OPEN bag of M&Ms, is not only amazing but in my house, nothing short of miraculous.

Primo happened to be standing close by when H made this gruesome discovery.
According to H, he surveyed the treasure and solemnly said, “Dad, she LIKES chocolate.”

***************

I idly picked up Nick Hornby’s Housekeeping vs. the Dirt this afternoon, and while leafing through it, read an excerpt from Jess Walter’s book Citizen Vince.

I was under the mistaken impression that Walter’s books were YA – maybe because he first came to my attention via Garish and Tweed, and Jess does enjoy her YA lit.
(EXCEPT, I just went and searched Jess’s archives and no where does Jess Walter appear. Huh. Which blogger raved about The Zero? Who was it, ‘fess up...)
Anyhoo – I thoroughly enjoyed this three-page excerpt and promptly requested Citizen Vince from the library. His books are billed as both novels and thrillers, or mysteries. So right up my alley.

In non-thriller land, I am loving the leisurely reading of Ahdaf Soueif’s Map of Love, but I do wish I knew more about late-19th-century British colonialism in Egypt. Fortunately I happen to know an excellent reference librarian...

I am reading, between-times, Susan Cokal’s Mirabilis, which is odd and disturbing but for all that, incredibly engaging. I am trying to figure out just how Bonne the heroine is twisted, or if she will turn out to be very normal. The book so far has a Year of Wonders feel to it: Gina said, when I told her what I was reading, “Oh, you and your Black Plague!”

*****************

The school year begins in earnest tomorrow – Primo in school all day, Seg at preschool the full time (three hours), and The Baby and I will commence the cleaning and vacuuming that have been woefully neglected this summer, because H’s wine-tasting club is coming here Wednesday. And it would not be good if they stuck to the furniture.

But first I must go buy them cheese. Lots and lots of delicious cheese. And some crackers and olives and nuts and things. But mostly cheese. The Baby and I embark upon a Cheese Expedition tomorrow morning. And if the cheese store just HAPPENS to stock Kinder Bueno as well...well, no one will be any the wiser.
Especially since I have relocated my chocolate stash. Just between you and me, I have placed it in the Chocolate Protection Program and it is safely hidden once again.
Shhhh...don’t tell anyone...

"School days, school days, dear old Golden Rule days..."

Today was the first day both older boys were back at school.



I have laundry to do.
Sheets to buy.
Food to cook.
The dishwasher to empty.
Bananas and dog treats and razors and all manner of other things – including a pencil box and his very own personal box of tissues to take to school for Primo – to shop for at the grocery store.
I need to bake something for us to have around to munch on. Because we all like our desserts.
I have a picture to hang in the bathroom, books to transfer to the bedroom, and tile to pull off the wall in the powder room – although that may wait as we may be ripping it out in the kitchen renovation we just decided on.
I have to call the vet, the boys’ doctor, the ultrasound lab, and the dogsitter.
I have two birthdays coming up for which I must send at least cards, and I totally zoned on my poor nephew’s birthday last month.
I have Terzo’s party to plan, and have to figure out what presents to get him for his second birthday.
I have three packages awaiting a trip to the post office, and a carton of overdue library books to return.
I have more freelance work than I know what to do with – a paper that needs to be edited by tomorrow, references to check, articles to upload, and a database to update.
My kitchen floor is disgusting, and I have cobwebs all over the underside of my staircase.
I am working an extra day this week as I am covering Friday for a coworker.

And so what did Terzo and I do with our first free morning?

We took a long leisurely walk to the coffee shop, where we ate chocolate croissants and I drank a big cup of Irish Breakfast tea, and we kibbutzed with our favorite barista, who made Terzo a big chocolate milk, and then we chatted with all the other regulars, catching up on our summers. Long walk back, throwing pebbles and resting by a tree and dancing on tree stumps and zooming Hot Wheels down driveways.

VERY PRODUCTIVE.

“I don't have pet peeves, I have whole kennels of irritation.” - Whoopi Goldberg

Current pet peeves (and no, this isn’t about my PETS):

None of my maternity clothes fit me anymore.
Between having been passed around from cousins to sisters-in-law to coworkers and being washed/dried God knows how, and the fact that I am thirty pounds heavier to start than I was when I bought all these maternity clothes for my first baby, I have exactly two skirts and a dress that fit me still. All three of which I am heartily sick of, anyway.

Having to take all three children grocery shopping – or for that matter, any kind of shopping – with me. Thank GOD school starts this week. I am already planning a mammoth shopping trip to IKEA with just The Baby. I need some rag rugs for the bathroom floor, and a kitchen clock, and some plain cream-colored fitted sheets and maybe a nice poster for the bathroom wall and a decent poster frame...and I want to look at the wooden bunk beds which we are considering for the two older boys...plus paper napkins and candles – both tapers for the candlesticks and fat columns for the mantelpiece - and...cinnamon rolls. I DEFINITELY need cinnamon rolls.

Opening a book – in this case, a Lord Peter Wimsey mystery I was looking forward to reading, that I picked up at a yard sale or somewhere – and having it REEK of cigarette smoke. Yuck. My already sensitive stomach did a few turns before I gave up and started my brand new copy (courtesy of Gina for, I think, my last birthday) of Sixpence House. Which is delightful - but the author’s taste in used books is a tad...arcane.

People who don’t pick up the Freecycle stuff they said they wanted. If I wanted three cans of Iams dog food, a box of Pez dispensers, and a 16” pillow form to sit on my porch for three days, do you think I’d have posted it on Freecycle in the first place?

People who send your children home from birthday parties full of lemonade and cake and pizza, with a full bag of candy and more junk food. I am all for the little guys having a good time, but really, do they need a whole bag full of crap to bring home, thus necessitating me spiriting it away when they are not looking? Because I’d like them to have some teeth left in their mouth and some lining to their stomachs...

Children’s socks that are not even nearly big enough once they’ve been through the wash. Especially children’s socks with little bulldozers on them that you bought as sort of a treat, instead of the usual boring white sweat socks.

Having H announce at 4 pm over email that he has plans that evening. AFTER you arranged to go out with coworkers after work. And after he has been out two nights already that week. I am hardly a jailer, I am happy he has friends, but God, does the man have an active social life. To the detriment of mine.

Getting a terrific haircut with layers and chunky bangs-sort of things, that will not be pulled back into an elastic any more because of said chunky bangs-sort of things.

******************

Well, except this part:

To my mind, the only possible pet is a cow. Cows love you. . . . They will listen to your problems and never ask a thing in return. They will be your friends forever. And when you get tired of them, you can kill and eat them. Perfect. – Bill Bryson