I couldn't pick just one. Do yourself a favor and go read them all. I laughed so hard I was crying.

So ok, there you have it.
I emailed my resignation letter this morning.

The relief I feel at knowing I only have one more Saturday to work is immense.

The panic I feel that all of my freelance work will now dry up is also immense.

In better, more comforting news:

Everyone’s ears are back to normal-ish. Primo went off to Picture Day with two normal ears and wearing the usual white shirt of his school uniform, because that’s what he wanted to wear and I didn’t have the energy or really even the desire to argue.

I saw my OB yesterday. At 21 weeks, I am still nauseated and have gained no weight, but I have stopped losing weight, and the baby appears healthy. I even look sorta fetching, in a pregnant-person sort of way.

I bought the last Maisie Dobbs I haven’t read, Messenger of Truth. And The Air We Breathe is wonderful.

I am supposed to be running the Scholastic Book Fair at Primo’s school the week of Thanksgiving. I have no clue what I am doing, so I am frantically lining up parent volunteers and setting up meetings.

We have a wedding to attend tomorrow afternoon. As I told H, who works with the couple, I nominate the groom as “Least Likely Person I Have Ever Met to Be Married Once, Let Alone Twice.” And yet here he is, on his second wife. The ways of love are exceedingly strange.

I am off to collect Seg from preschool, along with his little friend C, and haul them and The Baby to the zoo. Because Seg asked, and he never really asks for anything. I HATE the zoo. But I suppose I can stand it for a couple hours. Of course, it’s October 5 and freakishly warm, which makes me very grumpy. You can control many things, but not the weather (or the panic which is threatening again).
Gulp.

I think I will go clean my bathroom.
Life can't be too bad if you have clean bathrooms.

"...For whatever the tortures of hell, I think the boredom of heaven would be even worse." *

Poison ivy. In his ear.
Ask me how.
How, you say?
*I*? Have no fucking clue.
Neither does he, or H.
Best we can figure, he was at the playground with some friends after hockey practice, and they were running around in the bushes.
So he’s on prednisone, which is EXACTLY what you want an impossible six-year-old-who-is-already-acting-like-a-two-year-old to be taking for the next week.
But his ear looks better, and he went to school today. (I have been assured he is NOT contagious.)
Which is good, because if he didn’t go to school, I may have been forced to put him in the dog crate for the day.
(I am KIDDING. Do NOT call CYS. (Maybe the SPCA but not CYS.) But he has been impossible.)

Now, the dog, which is what I know you all really care about, has an ear infection. Also on steroids and anti-inflammatories, and we must swab his ears with this gunk every other day till it clears up. Fuck me. But at least the new baby has not arrived yet.
‘cause remember when the cat got hit by a car right after Terzo was born?
That is exactly where I would be with the dog and his ear infection.
But no one cared about the cat. Why is that?
I received zip, zero, NO emails about the plan to just let the cat die.
Do rabid cat lovers not read blogs?
Inquiring minds want to know.
I want to know.

I also want to get my hair cut.
And lie around eating cannoli from the Italian deli, and reading novels.

Oh well.
People in hell want ice water, as my mother used to compassionately point out.
Speaking of...
(Hell? My mother? Both? Who knows?)
It’s been nine years.
Seems like yesterday in some respects, and eons ago in others.



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

*
"I don't believe in an afterlife, so I don't have to spend my whole life fearing hell, or fearing heaven even more..." Isaac Asimov

“Martyrs, my friend, have to choose between being forgotten, mocked or used. As for being understood -- never.” *

I was ready to ditch Mirabillis but when I started thinking of buying it, to get through the rest of the story and learn the fates of its complex characters, I realized I should just renew it. Some books are worth the work; this might be one of them.

Citizen Vince was an enjoyable read, and I will definitely read other Jess Walter books, but it didn’t knock my socks off. Nonetheless, it was a fun, well-written, and smart quick read.

My copy of Death Warmed Over: Funeral Food, Rituals, and Customs from Around the World arrived in the mail yesterday; I was spurred to buy this book after reading, and then discussing with Jess, the funeral food chapter in Michael Lee West’s wonderful cookbook/memoir Consuming Passions. I am looking forward to perusing the recipes. Although I can say with certainty I will never attempt the Etruscan grape bread. Yuck.

I have started Andrea Barrett’s newest novel, The Air We Breathe. Barrett’s novels are slow, enveloping, lovely books; reading one is like having a warm bath and then a cup of tea tucked up in bed – her prose is gorgeous and deliberate, the scientific research is impeccable yet fascinating, and her pacing is perfect. You can’t rush through a Barrett novel, any more than you should rush through the bath and the tea. Comfort reading for the intelligent and curious.

Richard Russo’s latest tome – the book is a good two and a half inches thick – is sitting on my nightstand. Russo is also not an author to rush through; this book may well sit there for several months while I await the perfect few days to read it in peace. It may even wait till February when the new baby comes; the two days I spent in the hospital after Terzo’s birth were the closest I have come to a real vacation in seven years. And everyone knows you need a decent book to read on vacation.

Today I must take Primo to the pediatrician, for some sort of weird bug bite which has caused his left ear to swell up to half again its normal size and turn beet-red; take the dog to the vet to see what’s up with his stinky ears; stop at the grocery store for, at the very least, dog food, bread, and diapers; edit a short paper I promised a client by Friday; find the meatloaf I froze last month, that is somewhere in the freezer, to thaw for dinner tonight; buy a rake (so I can clean the leaves up so we don’t have hidden dog poop in the yard anymore). In addition, I am seriously contemplating quitting my job; H is supportive but not pressuring. There is no doubt it would make life easier in many ways. But quitting a job is always a stressful thing, especially since, even though I don’t wish to burn any bridges and would quit professionally (written two weeks’ notice, etc.), the bridges at this place will self-immolate because that’s the kind of place it is. Self-immolation is pretty much the name of the game there. Martyrdom rules. Not so sure I want to be a martyr.




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

*Albert Camus

"O bed! O bed! delicious bed! That heaven upon earth to the weary head." *

So tired.
So very very tired.
Aren’t you supposed to be full of energy in your second trimester?
I am at twenty-one weeks and all I want to do – still – is sleep.

H returned from his trip Friday evening, safe and sound.
It’s good to have him back.
Someone else to yell at, er, care for the children.

I called off work Saturday – something I have not done in the almost three years I have worked there. I have taken vacation days, yes, but not just called and said, “Um, not coming in today.” Which is sort of a big deal as they have no back-up plan for if the Saturday librarian calls off. Panic ensues. I was so tired, I just didn’t care.

Then the in-law infestation yesterday. Which would have been perfectly fine except: 1) the entire event was timed around the Steelers game, about which I personally could not care less; and 2) do people not know when the hell to LEAVE? Hint: if your host has three small children and it’s already an hour past their usual bedtime (of which you are well aware), take your drunken self HOME. Pronto.

I know, I am an ungrateful wretch.
An exhausted, drooping, grumpy, ungrateful wretch.

Who had NO time at all to finish a book, or even read much at all, this past month. How did that happen?


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

*Thomas Hood, Miss Kilmansegg - Her Dream

"Making the decision to have a child is momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body." *

My sweet Terzo is two today.
Happy birthday, love.

I went birthday-present-shopping for him today.
While today is his actual birthday, we will be postponing his party till tomorrow evening when H finally returns.
But he will receive this, which I am fairly certain he will love:



And an Elmo book and this, because he does like his Brown Bear book:


And a Teletubbies DVD because he really digs his Teletubbies books and has never actually seen the TV show, and a cool shirt I found on sale.
A fine birthday haul.

While I was out and about, look what I picked up:


And this! I didn’t even know she had a new book coming out!


Then I came home and ate half a pineapple, leaving my mouth a sore, swollen mess, followed by a chicken sandwich and a Coke.
All of which will stay down.
It is to be hoped.
Because this puking thing is getting waaaaaay old.
I have dropped ten pounds.
Pregnancy as weight loss strategy.
Not obvious, but certainly effective.

In other exciting news, I am now reading y’all via GoogleReader, and I love it.
Why did I not do this ages ago?
Oh, because Bloglines bites, and won’t let me sign into my own account.
I forgot.

It takes a little of the excitement out of checking blogs, but on the other hand, it saves a fair amount of time, both in knowing who has new stuff for me to read, and commenting (since I am already signed in).

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

* Elizabeth Stone

"Eighth time's the charm!" *

I am not much of a television watcher.

Sometimes if H brings home a movie he wants to see, I’ll watch with him. Sometimes he’ll be interested in a (usually long-cancelled) television series, and bring home a DVD of a season or so.
Sometimes during hockey season I’ll sit and watch a period or two of a game.

But generally I would say that, left to my own devices, I would rather read or quilt or noodle around on the computer.

I haven’t watched a show regularly since I freaked out on H for not taping an episode of ‘Ally McBeal.’ The freaking-out over little things was yet another symptom of my depression and OCD; the Zoloft tones that down, and Ally McBeal got stupid and I never really got sucked into a show again, and certainly never screamed at my husband that I hated him just because he forgot to tape something for me. (After all, aren’t there plenty of valid reasons for hating your spouse?)

But even though I am used to being home by myself, this week I am lonely.
There’s a different feel to H’s absence this week.
Maybe it’s because I am not subconsciously, even in sleep, listening for the car door slam, the beep of the alarm, the key in the lock.
Maybe it’s because I know Punto isn’t barking at H arriving home, but some unseen, possibly menacing something outside.

For whatever reason, this week, after the boys go to bed, I have been switching on the television and finding something to watch.

Last night I watched the first half hour of a program about a family that adopted 23 special-needs children. Then I flicked around and watched bits of a President Bush speech, and some real estate show on TLC, and some baseball. There were numerous repeated commercials for a show called “Lincoln Place,” and a funny preview for Peter Krause’s new series, “Dirty Sexy Money.” I eventually settled on a movie on The Disney Channel called “The Prince and Me.” It starred Julia Stiles as an American premed student who unwittingly falls in love with the Prince of Denmark who has come to her college masquerading as an exchange student. Despite her numerous and very large teeth, I find Stiles engaging and adorable. The prince, played by Luke Mably, grew on me eventually. The romance was gentle and sweet, and built up gradually to some minor sexual situations and a predictable if not terribly typical happy ending.

Tonight, I was unfortunate enough to turn the TV on at 755. Everything that looked any good was just ending. I watched bits and pieces of programs – “Family Guy,” some more baseball, the news, until I came across the last half hour of a show called “Bones.”

Those of you who have read this blog for a while probably are aware of my admiration of Quincy. I wanted to be Quincy when I grew up. This perhaps abnormal and morbid interest in medical detection and the accompanying biological gore translates now into reading anything I can get my hands on about forensic pathology and anthropology, and crime scene analysis. This show should have hit my sweet spot, but it was too scattered. There was too much action and not enough explanation. I suppose I really prefer documentaries.

“House” was on next. I’ve never watched this before, and I really don’t get Hugh Laurie’s sex appeal, but some of you love this show, so I figured, what the hell.

Forgive me, Blackbird, but I really hated it.
He’s an egomaniacal asshole who can’t be bothered to actually think about something, and the plot leapt all over the place. There was no thought, no detection, no debate – and judging from the past show synopses I found on fox.com, this is typical. House seems to stumble his way through a myriad of mistaken diagnoses until he happens to hit upon the accurate diagnosis, by which time you are so thoroughly sick of him you wish he would drop dead along with the patient he invariably almost kills.
His isn’t the deserved arrogance of Daniel Craig, the brilliant if irascible heart surgeon on my beloved “St Elsewhere,” or the passion of a young Doug Ross whose brashness is driven by concern for his patient’s wellbeing; House is lazy, annoying, careless, and thoroughly unlikeable.

I remember now why I don’t watch TV.

And in case I really needed a reminder, I watched the first couple minutes of the local ten o’clock news.
Yawn.

“A beloved family pet falls down a well in Kittaning, details after these messages...”

Or not.

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

* Dr Gregory House

"You can spit shine your shoes, the Pens are going dancing with Lord Stanley." *

It was a hockey night in Pittsburgh!
Even though I was adamantly against the new football and baseball stadiums, I am thrilled to death that the Pens signed a lease till 2040 in the new arena. Heck, I could be dead by 2040. Having watched hockey all the way.

It’s only pre-season, but the Pens played their best line-ups.
Including the inestimable Sidney Crosby, the boys’ new favorite, impossibly clean-cut Jordan Staal, and my sweetie Marc-Andre Fleury (I know, I am old enough to be his mother, shut up.)



The boys wore their special Pens shirts: Seg his Malkin shirt, and Primo his Crosby shirt. By the end of the second period, they sported NEW shirts: Seg, Staal’s 11: And Primo a fancy schmancy Penguins logo shirt.
I treated myself to a Fleury t-shirt. I know it makes me look like a linebacker, but I don’t care.

Very exciting for the boys: Iceburgh put in a close-up appearance, obscured partially by the big-haired teenager in front of me. She reminded me of nothing so much as the hockey groupies from the eighties when I was in high school: the blue eyeshadow, the teased and bleached hair, the tight jeans – only they all wore Tocchet jerseys; she sported a signed Colby Armstrong jersey.

Primo spent the evening kicking the poor girl’s seatback; I spent the evening with my leg in front of Primo’s. This morning my shins were all black and blue. And for some reason, her mother. a perfect stranger, saw fit to tell me that she's just had surgery (a - shhhh! - hysterectomy) two weeks ago, and was on disability from work for two months. And yet there she was, at the hockey game. What possesses people to reveal these sorts of secrets to me? It happens ALL the time. Do I look trustworthy? Do you not know I am going to go home and write about you on my blog?


The boys are as thrilled by the Zambonis as they are by the actual game, I think.


This guy?
Looks so much like my high school boyfriend would look now that it literally took my breath away. I spent many minutes staring at him, waiting for him to smile, because Frank had an unmistakable smile. He was sitting with his blonde, gum-chewing wife and two kids, a tweenaged daughter and a younger son. I didn’t quite have the guts to go up to him and ask if it was indeed him; I kind of wish now I had.

The game's end result was disappointing – especially after the Pens scored with less than two minutes left - but it was a good, fast game, and a lot of fun to watch.


It did seem unfair that the walk back to the car was all uphill.
And Seg had to pee.

Everyone was in bed by eleven, and the boys slept in this morning.

It wasn’t quite the relaxing evening a normal hockey game attended just by H and me would be: some beer, a great game, maybe dinner after.
But it was fun nonetheless.

Hockey season proper starts October 6; we are one-fifth owners of two season tickets this year, so I am already lining up babysitters for the Devils and the Sabres games.

We didn’t get the tix to the Flyers game, or I’d have had to break out my Peter Zezel jersey.

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

* Mike Lange, the Voice of the Pittsburgh Penguins

"Crazy is as crazy does." *

H leaves this afternoon for Europe for a week.
His trip is to a conference, wholly work-related, and with minimal –absolutely minimal, as in, he will have time to sleep but that’s probably about it – free time.
Which is one good reason I am not accompanying him.
Well, that, and the minor issue of having someone care for three small, incorrigible boys for a week while I gallivant my pregnant self off to London and Cambridge.
The fact that I have an ironclad excuse not to board a plane crossing the Atlantic Ocean doesn’t hurt either. I REALLY don’t like to fly.

However, being at home by myself for a week with three small boys is no picnic, either.
And I must have forgotten my Zoloft this morning because suddenly some mania is setting in and I am considering doing ALL of the following in the coming week (when really, it will be all I can do to simply SURVIVE):
Buy a couch
Scrape and paint two windows
Start demolishing the kitchen walls
Paint the front porch
Finish my nephew’s quilt
Finish the living room curtains

Really? I am going to order pizza and Chinese for dinners, take the boys to the park, and read as much as I can.
I will go buy the new Richard Russo novel.
I might rake some leaves and put the outdoor summer toys in the basement.
I've already hired someone to walk the dog for the week.
Maybe I'll do some editing work in there somewhere, and a load or two of laundry.

I might be crazy, but I’m not CRAZY.

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

UPDATED: You know, I didn't think I would especially miss H. I mean, we've been married forEVER and honestly, there are times when I think life would be easier without him around all the time. But he's only been gone for eight hours, and maybe the boys' sadness is rubbing off on me, but I do miss him. Not just because I had to put the boys to bed by myself, either. (And if *someone* cranked them all up on pizza and ice cream, well, I have no one to blame but myself, hmmm?)(And no one to thank for them not being worse but Gina - who came to meet us at the park with a football and The Boy, who was insanely patient with three small and annoying boys and pretty much wore them out for me, bless him.)
(Also, Gina? Has quite the throwing arm on her. Most impressive.)

* I made this up. I have never understood that proverb, "Pretty is as pretty does," so I cribbed it for my own. It makes as much sense as anything else, I suppose.

"Dear little baby Jesus, who's sittin' in his crib watchin' the Baby Einstein videos, learnin' 'bout shapes and colors..." *

Wanna know what I watched last night?

Sure ya do.

"Talladega Nights."

H and I laughed ourselves simple(r).

I think Will Ferrell is, if not a genius, at least very funny AND willing to make a total fool of himself in the name of comedy.
He seems to like to run around in his underwear, and dammit it, I love it when he does that because it's so freaking funny. Why is Will Ferrell in his underwear so damn funny? Why? Why, why, why? Because it really is. But I have no idea WHY.

(And I have a wee tiny little bit of a crush on Sacha Baron Cohen, but let's not talk about that.)

The movie made it even harder for me to understand how people take NASCAR seriously.
I mean, c'mon, it’s like WWF, only with...cars.
(I actually know someone who named his daughter Talladega, I kid you not; they call her Tallie for short. God help the poor child.)

I forced myself to bite my tongue last week when Primo expressed interest in car-racing, after attending an especially exciting NASCAR-themed birthday party.
“Primo, it’s not a sport.” I asserted.
“It’s in the Sports page,” he replied.
So are the ads for strip clubs and no one ever suggests that pole-dancing is a sport. (Oh. Wait a minute...)
Fortunately his fascination with weird superheroes trumped, and I don’t expect to ever have to learn the names, makes, or models of cars or drivers.

I do know what every superhero’s weakness is, now, but that might actually come in handy someday, no?


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

* Ricky Bobby (Will Ferrell), in "Talladega Nights"

"...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...