What's in Your Rehearsal Dinner Box?

I'm sure there is a Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle cure for what's going on with my children this week, but unfortunately she's not online for me to solicit advice from, so we're winging it.
We're having language issues. Not potty mouth (although come to think of it, the middle schooler did get busted on Sunday for typing a funny yet oh-so-inappropriate four letter word into a video game.) Mainly it's a question, though, of language specificity.

Example 1:
Mayhem hasn't been feeling well all week. He's been toughing it out at school but we keep checking his temperature because he looks pasty, has a slight tummy ache and headache. Yesterday before school his temp was 99.3. That was a wee bit up - but maybe just a normal amount up because the kids are usually a bit warmer in the morning when they first start moving around. Ok. So he got oatmeal and advil for breakfast. I get a call from school at 2 pm.
"Mom, the teacher says you need to come get me right now. I have a fever of a hundred and four."
I was there in under five minutes and due to a not-so-safe bit of multitasking while driving a speeding car, had wangled an urgent appointment with the pediatrician who said he might need to go straight to the hospital.
I ran in to the office and there Mayhem was, sitting on the couch. Looking fine. (<--Fine meaning still pasty and not his usual self but CERTAINLY not lethargic and glassy eyed the way you'd expect in an 11-year old with a 104 degree fever.) This would be because he didn't have a 104 degree fever. He had a one hundred POINT four degree fever. How is that for an exciting teacher-kid-parent game of telephone? After rescheduling with the pediatrician for this morning and after leaving a message for the ex to belay that last (and after an internal pep talk to myself where I tried to convince myself I had not over reacted by calling him so quickly in the first place, that I had done what I would have wanted him to do if the situation had been reversed, yada, yada, yada), Mayhem and I had a little chat. He thought it was ridiculously funny. "How fast were you driving?! You've never gotten to school so fast." Ahem. I did not answer that question. I distracted him with talk about decimal points and boys who cry wolf.

Example 2:
This little language confusion vignette stars the middle schooler. At dinner we find out that apparently every day, Chaos rushes out of school to the bus waving his hands wailing "The world is ending!" His friends think this is HILARIOUS. (I mentioned this is middle school, right?) And then he flings himself onto the bus and with a dramatic sigh declares, "Sanction!"
Ummm. Sanction?
Sweet Hubby said, "I think he means 'sanctuary'." Ah.
We explained the difference between 'permission' and 'sacred place, haven.'
"Whatever." says Chaos.
Whatever? Sweet Hubby and I give each other the eye. Good parents that we are, we reserve the one-two punch of humor followed by the threat of future embarassment for special, lesson-teaching occasions. But words and their meanings are important, darn it. So out comes the parenting equivalent of the Play Station triangle-square-square-circle super move: the Rehearsal Dinner Box.
SH: I think this is another story we should write down for 'the box'.
Kids: The box?
Me: I agree. Definitely.
Kids: What box?
Me: You know, the box of stuff we're saving to bring out at the party on the night before your weddings. The Rehearsal Dinner Box.
Chaos: Gork. (<--That is as close as I can get to the sound he made.)
Chaos: What do you mean, stuff you're saving?
SH: You know, like The Rubberband.
Chaos: Gork!
Other Kids: What rubberband?
*The Rubberband says "I love Hannah" on it but Sweet Hubby didn't know that when he pried it off of Chaos' wrist last year. Once he saw the words, SH knew why Chaos had stealthily and steadfastly refused to take it off even though his hand was turning blue. It is definitely going in the box. What future wife wouldn't want to know that her groom was once so infatuated that he was willing to cut off his circulation for love? Anyway, The Rubberband, it is a secret for now. Sweet Hubby has promised not to let anyone else know what it says. Anyone, of course, in our household means 'any of the other kids or any of my friends'. Moms are not just anyone.
Me: I think 'Sanction!' should go right next to 'Seep!' (This distracted the Other Kids from The Rubberband. See how good I am?)
Kids: Seep?
SH: Remember Chaos' vocabulary paper? The one where he defined 'seep' as 'to leak' and then for his example sentence wrote, "I seeped my pants."? That's in the box.
Kids, including Chaos, crack up for a surprisingly long time over "I seeped my pants." They are, in fact, howling with laughter.
Me: We have a box for each of you.
Immediate silence.
Ninja Princessa: Even me?
Chuckle, chuckle. Snicker, snicker. (See how much fun parenting can be? This is why the experts say you should sit down and have dinner with your children every, single night!)
Me: Oh yeah. Personally, my favorite thing in your Rehearsal Dinner Box is a page covered with "Mrs. Ninja Princessa Potter. Mrs. Ninja Potter. Mrs. Ninja Princessa Radcliffe...." And hearts. And swirlies. And butterflies. And lightning bolts.
NP: rolls on the floor claiming she'll never, ever, in a million, quadrillion, bazillion years get married (not even to Daniel Radcliffe!)
All this time Mayhem, who is one of those fiddle-y kinds of kids, has been sticking the tines of his fork anywhere except in his asian salad. He has levered up his plate. He has tapped on his milk glass. He has threaded his napkin in and out of the slots between the tines. He is poking his leg. With the fork.
Me: Mayhem! Stop it! The fork is for eating your salad with. Not for poking yourself in the thigh with!
SH: Yeah, what she said. And besides, it looks like you're stabbing your privates. If you don't stop, we'll have to take away your fork privileges. We'll hang a sign around your neck when you go to school that says "Not allowed to use forks. Spoons only!"
Kids, including Mayhem, lose it. Absolutely lose it. I'm not sure if it's the word 'privates' or 'fork privileges' but they freakin' lose their minds. Forks get dropped on the floor. Milk gets snorted out of noses. Heels kick the legs of chairs. Our youngest, who is seven and probably thinks marriage is as far away as retirement, recovers first - but only manages to set everyone off again.
Havoc: Yeah, and we'll keep the sign and put it in your Reversal Dinner Box!
Chaos: "Spoons Only!"
SH: If y'all keep laughing so hard, you'll seep your pants.
NP: Daniel and I are going to elope.

Don't you want to come have dinner with us? Don't you want to tell us all about your day? So we can make fun of you and record it for all time in your very own Rehearsal Dinner Box?
Peace.

I Ran AND Can Pass 8th Grade Science

Woo Hoo!

You Passed 8th Grade Science

Congratulations, you got 8/8 correct!

Could You Pass 8th Grade Science?

Have Cute Socks, Will Run

Whatever it takes to get me out the door for my first run in THREE weeks, right?

They are cute though, aren't they? I get to about mile three and I start thinking about how cute my feet are (darling socks, skinny shoes). It's like the only thing that keeps me going to mile five sometimes. And, today? I don't know if it's enough to get me to the stop sign (.4 mi). We'll see.

The half marathon is on April 29th. Seven weeks. But no, we shouldn't think about that. Let's get back to the cute socks so we can get our butts out the door, eh?

More on Chaos

Sweet Hubby found the perfect bumper sticker for our 13-year old (whom we call Chaos at home, not just in the blog). The bumper sticker:

Chaos: It's not just a theory. It's a way of life.

Shake It Off (aka More Studio Pix)

In order to distract myself from my earlier abject humiliation, I'm going to show you the new things I've done to my studio.
Remember this?
The desk was so not working for me. Now, it looks like this:

I still have to build a cutting table and sewing surface like DebR's (to go to the left and sort of around the corner into open space you can't quite see in this picture). I won't keep my fabric stash in the baskets. It'll just be on the open shelves. I like to SEE my fabric. It is so sad to have all my lovely fabrics in boxes in the dark at this moment. The baskets, though, are going to be great for yarn. (I mean, I like to see yarn too, but honestly? The knit shop wore me out. I could use a break from having to look at yarn for a while.) The baskets will also be great for stuff like knitting needles, looseleaf patterns, spray adhesives, scissors and specialty quilting rulers. And unsightly UFO's. (Not that I have any of those. Ha!) The white fan is already in place. (Thank you Sweet Hubby!) Today I was lying on my floor daydreaming a bit thinking about how much fun it would be to learn how to do some beading and to make a clunky, chunky, jeweled fan pull for it. (But my brain, which is in charge of the checkbook, said, "STOP NOW - NO NEW HOBBIES ALLOWED!") And I really will someday soon figure out how to replace those old, icky, painted green plugs for shiny, new, white, grounded plugs - with cover plates, even!
Oh, and this is not where my computer is going to be permanently. It's just that I can't cope with another three week black hole of no computer access so I stuck it on the fabric shelf for now. I have another white shelf exactly like the one above that I'm going to put over here for my computer:

This corner is going to be my writing space. There is a closet on the back side of the wall and Sweet Hubby is going to put all the unlovely, but necessary stuff like wireless routers and printers and the computer box itself in the closet and feed just the cables through the wall. I don't print a lot. It won't be a big deal to walk out into the hall to pull stuff off the printer. I think it well worth it to have such a tidy little corner!

I tried to take a picture of my view into the courtyard but the light is so bright outside that it made the room look pitch black (and we've already talked about what a whiz I am with mechanical things so need I 'splain you that I don't know how to adjust the light meter on my digital camera to take all that into account?) Here it is anyway to give you an idea:

Same corner, same time of day. Wow, that ivy needs to be trimmed. Ahem. Also, the arbor has wisteria all over it and right outside the courtyard wall is a huge magnolia tree. When I open my window in the spring I think it's going to smell heavenly! (Errr, except that the dog's favorite poop spot is right under my screen. Can't think about that now!) Thus ends the latest round of "Show Me Your Studio and I'll Show You Mine" but ummm, I went first. And I don't get tired of playing. So show me more!! I LOVE to see the spaces people create to create in.

Peace.

Too Stupid To Live

Yep. That's me. I have an acute case of TSTL syndrome.
I'm not talking about embarassing myself in front of strangers, either.
(If only!) No, if this post were about that it would be titled "Everything's Normal Around Here". This is worse. Way worse.
You wanna guess what I just did?
Ever hit the 'reply' button when you thought you'd hit the 'forward' button? Don't you just hate email (or yourself) when you do that?
You wanna guess who I just sent an email to by mistake?
Go on. (Hint: It's not my boss - but that would be a good guess if I had a boss - ESPECIALLY if I had a boss that I routinely (and in email print) wished would permanently relocate to Mars.)
No. Today - instead of forwarding an email (with my added comments) on to my husband, I sent said email (with my added comments) back to my ex-husband. The ex-husband who is making my life (and my children's lives) miserable with a court case to take custody of one of our three children together away from me. The exchange went something like this. I sent:

"Honey, this is the email thread from (insert name of ex-husband here). Well – actually he sent me like six different emails today and I kind of combined them. Just thought you might want to keep up to date with what’s making my stomach hurt today. Love, Lilymane"

I got back:
"I suspect you wanted to send this to your husband, not me.
Sorry to hear about your stomach. I hope it gets better soon."

Do you like the part where he hopes my stomach feels better soon?? Oh, how humiliating! NOT ONLY did I prove that I should have my license to drive a keyboard revoked, but I let him know how much his crap still affects me! If only wailing and whining about it after the fact could make me feel any better. I suppose someone up above is watching out for me though. I think this is the only email I've sent about him in five years that didn't contain the word 'dickhead'.
Small favors and all that.
Peace.

Leeloo Dallas Multipass

Remember way back on Feb 13 , when I told you all about how the thinga ma jiggy that teleports my pictures from my camera to my computer 'just died'? Did I ever remember to tell you how awesome Sweet Hubby is for going out and getting me this cute little number? I'm fixing to post some new pictures of my studio (version 2.2) but as I was reconnecting Leeloo I realized that this is the only piece of technology in recent history that I have not had an initial aversion to! She's cuter than the thing she replaced. She's smarter and friendlier. What more could you ask for?

Pickles and Ice Cream for Lunch

No the rabbit didn't die. The refrigerator did. And we had to throw out everything except the hardy foods like pickles and mustard. And who wants to eat mustard all by itself? Ewww. The freezer is fine - hence the ice cream. Although if you want to be technical about it - it's not really ice cream, it's Luigi's Cherry Italian Ice. Yummy lunch! Healthy! Or not. But it doesn't matter because it's the only thing left in the house except the Oreo's (which I'm saving for dessert) and the beer (which I can't drink since I gave up alcohol for Lent.) And I KNOW it's all we have left, because prior to settling for the pickles and italian ice - I looked in the now-defunct fridge about a million and twelve times. My brain knows the fridge is dead but somehow my brain has not seen fit to forward the message to the rest of the body. Perhaps my brain can be forgiven this lapse as I am certain it is still in shock from having spent $1700 on a new fridge that won't be delivered for a week. A WEEK! Lord, someone tell me how people all over the globe feed huge families like mine without refrigeration. I know they do. They probably go to cute little markets every day and come home to whip up gourmet meals. Or, more likely, they eat beans and rice. I know I shouldn't whine. I am, in fact, very grateful to be getting a new fridge at all (especially one with an automatic icemaker because a never ending ice supply is significantly more fun than just plain ole refrigeration any day of the week and twice on Sundays!) But having said that, I am still feeling awfully whiny about having to be creative and/or having to go to the store - the grocery store which I love the way I love root canals - every day. If my refrigerator weren't already dead, I would kill it for putting me in this position.

Really, I'm not great at handling machine malfunction in general. I'm certainly not great at having to pay a ridiculous amount of money for a machine that I'm not going to like or trust anyway. For example, we still don't own a vacuum cleaner. We drive over and borrow the shop's vacuum every week or so because I hate to vacuum. I swiffer all the time but I hate to vacuum. And who wants to spend hundreds and hundreds of dollars on a machine to help them do something they hate?! Really.

Refrigerators, however, help us eat well. While eating is not my favorite thing, it is, in fact, my children's reason for living. When I ask about school the first thing I ever hear is what they had for lunch, which morphs into a conversation about what they can have for snack and when is dinner going to be ready anyway. I promise you that the folks who created the Cheerio, M&M, and Oreo counting books are marketing geniuses. I don't watch tv, but since my kids like to I make them identify what marketers are trying to sell them. The categories are "Junk we can't afford and don't want anyway" and "Sugar" (aka 'Junk Toys' and 'Junk Food'). It's great to watch cartoons with my kids because they get into a contest with each other about who can shout out the right ad category. (Havoc's Hint: scream 'sugar' every time and you will be right 5 out of 6 times!) Mayhem is the one who told me in confidence that he knows they're just trying to get him to buy junk food - but "Mom, it works! I want to eat that food!" Yes siree I tell him - THAT'S what I want y'all to understand. It works. You have to be strong. Otherwise you will be like a lemming "lovin it" at McD's. Or you will be tricked into believing that you should "be the boss" and "choose your sauce" at ....eeep - some chicken restaurant? KFC? Even if you can't remember the ads, you will not be able to resist when you are tired. You will find yourself like a zombie pulling into the drive thru lane because you can't. figure. out. anything. else. to. eat.
I, myself, would not be sitting here eating the dregs left in the old refrigerator if it weren't for the fact that I absolutely don't want to leave my house! Out of strength or out of laziness, I'm resisting! My resistance movement may be short lived, however. I'm not sure there are enough pickles to go around for supper.
Peace.

Traveling Composure

I may have mentioned that my sister does not live in a thriving metropolis. I may have even gone so far as to say she lives in a quaint little village off the beaten path. Well today I am here to tell you she lives on the backside of Mt. Nowhere. And it was covered with snow. And we had to drive over the tip top of it to slide down it to get to the highway which would eventually lead us to an actual (yet rather small) city that was nevertheless big enough to have a bus terminal so I could take a bus (leaving at 3:45 in the morning!) to get to a city big enough to have an airport so I could get the heck out of Dodge!

Having finally arrived at the airport (with very little sleep, and only stale cheetos and coke for breakfast), I was surprised to find the lines for security so long. You wouldn't think that there would be that many people trying to get out of New Hampshire at 6 am on a Saturday morning. Or maybe you would. After all, I was well nigh desperate to get out of New Hampshire at 6 am on a Saturday morning, so maybe all these other folks were feeling the same way. With the possible exception of the bloke at the front of my security line. From my position of about tenth in a line of sixty or so, I had a nice view of Mr. Clueless. He was obviously flying for the first time since 1992. He had money, as evidenced by his tailored, heavy, leather coat, his perfect briefcase, his expensive loafers, and his "Where's my caddy?" attitude. Mr. Clueless apparently believed that the instructions to take off shoes and coats and place them in the bins and to take laptops out of their cases etc, etc didn't apply to HIM. He suavely stood there with his coffee in hand waiting to walk through the metal detector. The security guy just stared at him. They had already started scanning his briefcase and then had to reverse the conveyor belt.
"Sir, is this your briefcase? Please remove the laptop and open it." (Can you hear the mild grumbling and rustling from the line of sixty?) Mr. Clueless backed out of the metal detector doorway (stepping on the gal behind him.)

If he had been a bumbler, he might have gotten more sympathy from the line. As it was the sympathy ran out immediately. He tried to walk back through the metal detector even though the security guard had told him to take off his jacket and shoes while he was getting out his laptop. The guard blocked the archway and turned the guy around again. This time he almost sloshed his coffee on the woman behind him. She had followed procedure and was trying to get around him but he took up too much room! He transferred his coffee from one hand to the other to take off his jacket and put it through the scanner. Same with his shoes. He sauntered through the metal detector for the third time. The security guard reached out for his boarding pass and Mr. Clueless handed him the coffee! The security guard took the coffee and without taking his eyes of Mr. Clueless, dropped it in the trash and asked for the boarding pass through gritted teeth. Guess where the boarding pass was? You got it. In the pocket of the leather jacket which was just then going through the scanner. They reversed the conveyor belt AGAIN and finally got Mr. Clueless through. The line was huffing and puffing - fuming even. One man snorted and mockingly called out, "Fly much?"

Mr. Clueless didn't deign to respond. He was too busy standing in the bottleneck behind the metal detector reclaiming and rearranging his paraphenalia thereby clotting the security process further. About a dozen people (myself included) pushed past him. We reassembled ourselves in the side area quaintly labeled "Composure Area." I wasn't bothered so much as amused, but I swanee, several of my fellow passengers were going to need a heck of a lot more than a chair off to the side to help them regain their composure.

I got to my gate and got on my plane and it was clearly way to early for most everyone, including the flight attendants. They were yawning. The passengers were fumbling around and talking loudly. The whole plane load seemed unsettled. The designated microphone guy got to the part where he was supposed to make sure everyone was on the right plane by saying it was flight so-and-so going to so-and-so. He managed the flight number and the destination but then added, "with continuing service to... oh, lots of places. Wait a minute. The list is around here somehwere." I was in the front of the plane and he admitted to the first few rows of us that he didn't usually work mornings. He said he wasn't quite in the groove yet. He did his spiel about all the safety procedures and at the end said, "I want to say thank you to those of you who were listening this morning. And to those of you who weren't, good luck!" I'm not sure if that was a sign of him finding his groove or not. Apparently someone found him the right list and he announced the flight schedule. Imagine my surprise when he mentioned Baltimore and then Cleveland and then home. Eep. Not that I'd had any choice, as this was the only way to get home - but I hadn't at all clued in to the fact that I would be in FIVE different states in one day. I had not planned on THREE sets of take off and landings to get home. That's when I began taking Dramamine.

I don't get freaked out about flying, but my tummy doesn't like the TO/L's so much. Especially when I'm tired. Or haven't eaten. I can't quite remember how much dramamine I had or how many pretzels or how much coke. I'm sure it was too much of all three though. I was a little (and by that I mean a WHOLE HECK OF A LOT) goofy by the time my best friend picked me up at the airport. Once home I managed to get started on the backlog of hugs and kisses from my kids, but I didn't stay coherent for long. I was napping on the loveseat in the library when my son Mayhem tried to tell me about his toothache. He had to go get help waking me up. Eventually VBGF managed to wake me enough that I was talking, but I wasn't talking sense. I told her to give him some antibiotics and that I was sorry she was upside down in the pit. Aren't you glad I wasn't blogging in that state?
I'm back to my normal (composed and dramamine-free) self today. I'll have more pictures of my studio to post soon! I am so close to having places to write AND sew that I can almost envision a time when my post will be about quilting!!! Oh the day!
Peace.

And Now I Explain I'm Not Here

I'm not there either. I'm somewhere in between. Still hoping to see a moose at the very last second. Or maybe a dragon. But no more snow. (Note to VeryBestGirlfriend - I first typed 'no mow snow' by accident.)
I have really enjoyed my time with Thrasher and I've learned a lot about Life on Pluto (I mean in New England) but I am ready to be home! I'm ready to have a warm tushy while driving without having to have heated seats. I'm ready to finish nesting in my studio. (Hey DebR - feel free to send me advice about making an exact duplicate of your cutting table!) I'm ready to hug my family! Squeeze them silly in fact. It's not so much the journey that makes me anxious as the being in between. Think of me as I travel.
Peace.
"From there to here and here to there, funny things are everywhere."
-One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish by Dr. Seuss

In Which I Remember To Explain Why I'm Here

You may or may not recall back in November (the first time I came to visit Thrasher in the Land of Frozen Cow Poo) that there had not been enough money minted since the invention of money to tempt me to visit these arctic climes during snow season. Turns out that my price has nothing to do with money. All it took to get me up here was a sisterly plea and a chance to stay with my littlest buddy: seven month old Thrasher. My sister (Tidget) and her hubby (let's call him Green Man because he is ALL about the environment) are a)Thrasher's parents and b)in France for a week. To find a place to live. As in LIVE all the time - not like a second home or anything. My sister - by the way - took Spanish in high school. Not because she liked Spanish, but because a language was required and Spanish was supposed to be easier than French or Latin. She took her minimal two years (and if she got more than a C, I don't remember it.) My sister is plenty smart and a very hard worker - but languages weren't her thing. At all. And that's probably because my sister and I divided up the world evenly from the time we were kids. We are two years apart (I'm older) and we look somewhat alike (except she looks older which I used to hate and now love) and consequently, we did everything in our power to be as different from each other as possible. Languages were my thing. By the time I'd graduated from high school I'd taken five years of French, two years of Latin, and a year of Italian. Then I was a Russian linguist and ended up with a degree in French Language and Literature. And guess who is moving to France? (Hint: not me. But I definitely plan to visit.) Life is a little crazy sometimes, the way it works out, don't you think? Anyhoo, that's how I came to be here, in the coldest place I've ever been - while back at home it's been almost 70 degrees every day. But I'm not complaining (even though it sounds an awful lot like I am).

How could it not be worth it? I mean, in addition to learning what life is like on other planets, I get to snuggle with my nephew. This little dude is my buddy Thrasher. (That's not his real name - that's just my name for him. My seester would hate it so of course I can't resist.) Don't you just want to kiss him? Or drive him to playschool through snow drifts?




Yeah, well if you answered 'yes' to that last question, have I got a deal for you. Voila Saint Solida! While she looks like a hearse in this picture, she's really a fantastic car. (A Volvo! Hey, St. Ann Pan! I'm driving a blue Volvo kinda like yours.) With heated seats. Heated. Seats. I worship the person who invented heated seats! And even though my buddy in Atlanta has them in his cute, little, souped up Saturn Vue - it is SO not the same. Here having your tushy warm while driving is not disconcerting and odd, it's miraculous. (Side note: the snowy lump on the other side is a Subaru. I'm convinced you can't get Vermont citizenship without owning at least one Subaru with ski racks on top.)


Here is the BEFORE shot of the icicles. It is also before eight inches of snow fell in one night. If we wanted to be all chronological about it, I should have posted Saint Solida last but I have a feeling I'm pushing my luck with Blogger as it is.

And then the AFTER shot.

As I said yesterday the ARTY IN BETWEEN shot is missing. It would have been cool if I had snapped a pic as an icicle was plunging towards the lens, but umm...that didn't happen. (Snow on my butt as I fell backwards, that's what happened but I don't have a pic of that either.) I had wanted a better picture of the way the icicles looked in a row on the ground, but after this close up of the smashed ice shards, my camera froze. Literally. I thought it had run out of batteries. And I hate to tell you, but I'm not a dedicated enough photographer to drive 45 minutes to buy new batteries just so I can put more pictures on my blog! No siree. (But then the next day I forgot all about the dead battery issue and ran out to record the insane amount of snow fall and guess what? The batteries were fine. The ever helpful ladies at daycare were the ones to explain that I needed a warmer for my camera if I wanted to take more icicle pictures. I really don't know what to make of Vermonters.)

After all that advice and my icy near impalement experience, I think I'm going to stay inside, crank up the heat, and sketch out some quilt ideas until Saint Solida and I have to veture back to daycare to get Thrasher.

Peace y'all.

Blogging Woes and Icicles

Blogger is breaking my heart and pissing me off. I have blogged everyday (Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday) and each time for some reason it doesn't post!
I am trying again. I have had some interesting experiences here close to the North Pole, but I am just not up to typing it all again for the fourth time!!!
Here is a slight recap -
Vermont is insane. The snow is on steroids. We had eight inches of snow in one night! But it's dry and powdery and sparkly like it has mica chips in it. It is exactly like department store snow (only colder.) I think Yankees are crazy as all get out for living up here, but I will say that the Yankee technology of heated seats in the Volvo has made me think nicely of them. Speaking of the Volvo, if cars can be sainted, this one needs to be. Saint Solida! No slidey slidey on the roads. Just crunch, stolid crunch all the way (three whopping miles) to Play School. I am trying to be a good sister and follow Tidget's instructions. I am dutifully taking 7- month old Thrasher to daycare everyday - but yesterday I had to PLUG the car in just to be able to start it so I could then warm it up enough to drive it. It was seven degrees. Seven. Degrees. And then someone at daycare said the wind chill was negative twenty. Negative. Twenty. (I'm not sure they weren't poking fun at me to see how gullible I am - but the seven I can attest to because that's what the house thermometer says.)
Crazy Things about life in Vermont-
-Spending twenty minutes to warm up a car to drive three miles. (Of course the alternative is to WALK those three miles.)
-Chiseling off the holiday decorations: lots of people still have their Christmas decorations (mostly wreaths but some house lights) up. My sister said she thought it was tacky until she tried to pry her wreath off the house and the paint came too. She said she's waiting for the next thaw! Yikes.
-Eating dairy products here: the butter and milk here are HEAVENLY. I knew they had a thing about cows but I had NO IDEA that there would be an actual difference in the butter and milk.
-Finding a church: I have to drive 45 minutes to get to a church for Ash Wednesday service! No lie. 45 minutes to get to a church! Back home, if I drive ANY direction from my house for 45 minutes, I promise you I would pass at least fifty churches (and at least five of them would offer some sort of Ash Wednesday service.)
-Putting "dry gas" in the car: the Volvo didn't start this morning (until a neighbor came over and helped me jump it) and at daycare there were several theories about why this should be. I got quizzed about how much gas I had, how long I'd left the car plugged in, how old the battery is and then someone asked me if I'd put 'dry gas' in it. Uh, don't think so. "Well, then," she said, "that's what you've gotta do. Just get over to the full serve and ask for some dry gas." She said, "There's probably too much moisture in the gas." Again, these Vermonters are very kind but they have a strange sense of humor. I really can't tell when they're poking fun and when they're being serious. The air is so dry that I spend half the day filling up the four humidifiers in the house and rubbing lotion into my hands. I realize there's snow and somehow that's moisture but even the snow feels dry! It's hard to believe that there could be moisture in the gas when there doesn't seem to be moisture anywhere else.
-Watching out for MOOSE: Moose are about as real to me as dragons. In fact, I've seen more pictures and read more about dragons and they are (supposedly) imaginary creatures! Still, I keep watching for moose. I'd love to see one. So far the moose are as elusive as dragons.
-Watching out for ICICLES: no one warned me about icicles! Beautiful. Alluring. Daggers of DEATH. These three foot ice spears hang off house edges waiting to crash down and impale people (who are innocently practicing the new sport of extreme photography by trying to get an 'arty' shot of them. I'll try to attach pictures below, but don't expect to see the arty shot. It was almost my undoing. Instead all I ended up with was a postcard gingerbread house shot and an 'after' shot of a pile of icicles on the ground at my feet.) The neighbor told me (too late!) that the icicles were less likely to come crashing down if the roof stayed cold. She asked if I had heated the upstairs room. Duh! It's freezing up there! Everyone else still has their icicles, and ours are garden spikes in a row in the front yard. Aparently in some macho Vermonter way this marks our house as the 'sissy house' on the block. Everyone has been very nice but I can tell that they think I'm not even close to being hearty enough to be a Vermonter. They cluck and start listing things even MORE dangerous and likely to happen than death by icicle. Still, I keep getting this mental picture of me in an Edward Gorey book: "L is for Lilymane surprised by ice. M is for Mortimer devoured by mice."

Blogger has disappeared my photos - grrrrrr. Sorry. I'll try later. For now I'm off to church - if the car will deign to start without dry gas. And if I can manage to avoid the Icicles of Doom.
Peace.

Wherefore Art Thou Studio?

Sorry to overload the system with three posts in one day - but I'm 'paying forward' as it were because tomorrow I will be journeying by planes, buses, and automobiles for 17 hours to get to the quaint arctic village in which my sister resides. In an effort to put off packing (and facing the fact that I have no clothing which is going to BEGIN to keep me warm in a place that is 5 degrees below zero at noon), I've been blogging my heart out and look what I found.
This post has been sitting in my drafts waiting to get posted in case I found the pictures I was sure were somewhere! But no. It's official. There are NO 'before' pics of my studio which is SUCH a shame. You'll just have to imagine for yourself the royal blue 'sky' with white clouds, the glossy green 'grass', and the sunshine yellow chair rail and trim. I guess it was cute as a kid's room at one point. It was too too much for me - even when this room was my kids' room! It's taken us six months of living in this new house to even decide where to start but I always knew painting this room was at the top of the list (even before I decided to snag it for my own space.) But here are the 'after' pictures. My space is still in process because I've decided I can't live with this huge desk (and not just because it doesn't go with my colors.) This corner (above) is going to be my sewing space. I want to put in a cutting table just like DebR's space which she shared on Valentine's Day. The table will go right in front of that floor vent and then to the right will be a sewing table and to the right of that will be white shelves up high and filing cabinets down low. I'm going to build a tiny little white melamine computer desk and put it right here (to the right of my closet) and right next to the HUGE window that looks out onto the courtyard - but which is difficult for me to take a photograph of given my limited mad photo skilz. I realized I didn't need such a big work surface for my desk - and that my sewing surface could be cleaned off and used if I did. But it doesn't work vice versa. The desk is a terrible sewing surface. And I don't want to have to put up a table and take it down all the time. What would be the point of having my own room if I still have to quilt the way I did when I quilted in the dining room? (Side notes: the white fan is now in although it wasn't in the photo above and the outlets are eventually going to be white too - not green.)
And the picture below shows you the bank of shelves along one wall and the light from the window which faces the front yard. Look - my shelves still have room for new books! I love that part.
I LOVE having a room of my own. I love that I picked out the paint and painted most of it all by myself. (Sweet Hubby is wicked fast at ceilings and he lovingly painted mine for me late, late, late one night while I snoozed on the bare carpet unhelpfully at his feet.) It's hard as a mom in a family this big to justify having a whole room when everyone else is doubling up (except our lone daughter.) I've carved out corners and called dibs on closets for years but suddenly that just wouldn't suit my need (my desperate need) for a Room of My Own one minute longer. Maybe it was a midlife crisis. I don't know. I feel connected to myself, my creativity, my center. Maybe I'm just now fully recovering myself - five years post divorce. Whatever the explanation, I feel more alive and present: able to give to my family and friends than I have felt in a great while.
Peace.

Things Done and Left Undone (aka Eye Fungus Isn't So Bad)

Things I have done today so far -
-whined via blog about my eye doctor anxiety
-driven Chaos to school (& maliciously forbid him to have Mt. Dew for bkfst)
-read Paddington Bear with Mayhem (and snuggled)
-planned 4-H poster with Havoc (and 'reminded' him to make his bed)
-reviewed the Ninja Princessa's weekend plans (cookie booth, hair cut)
-remembered to go to my nail appointment (close to on time)
-accidentally on purpose forgot to go to the eye doctor (umm, ooops?)
-spent fifty dollars at the Used Bookstore (that's like, TEN books)
-tried harder to make myself go to the eye doctor (but not hard enough)

Things I haven't done (and probably will not do) today -
-thrown up (just call me Iron Jaw)
-asked anyone for anthrax vaccine (it probably wouldn't have helped)
-managed to force myself to go to the eye doctor (can you say eye fungus?)

Peace.

Getting Glasses - TODAY

I've started to post about three different things - but really I can't concentrate on anything because I have to go get glasses today.
I have to go get glasses TODAY. I've been meaning to go get them for about a year and a half. I've been putting it off. A year and a half ago I needed to go get glasses but I put it off by digging out my old contact prescription. I really, really, really didn't want to go get another eye exam so I spent 12 hours scrounging through old paperwork to find a contact prescription I'd gotten with my glasses. My glasses had gotten lost and I had to go get the contact prescription filled the very next day before it expired. I could only afford to buy 6 months worth of contacts that day. Now I've stretched that six month supply out far too long. I have one last set of contacts and they are so grubby and cloudy that I know I'm risking an eye infection by even looking at them, much less by putting them in my eyes. I have to go TODAY. Because tomorrow I go to babysit my nephew Thrasher in the Land of Frozen Cow Poo for a week while my sister is in France. I need glasses if I'm going to be responsible for driving a 7-month old around through the frozen wastes! I'm not so good with snow anyway so I need to be in top form. I absolutely must go get glasses TODAY.
But I really, really, really don't want to go get an eye exam.
It makes me feel stupid. It's not just 'failing' the eye test. I know I can't see - duh - I'm there to get glasses. But then they pull that machine down on it's robot arm and they dial up different lenses.
Dr: "Does this look clearer?" Click. Click. "Or does this?"
Me: "Well they both look about the same."
Dr: "Ok. What about this or..." Click. Click. Click. "this?"
Me: "Hmm. I can't really tell a difference."
Dr: "What about now?" CLICK. CLICK. "Right or left?"
Me: "Excuse me?"
Dr: "The RIGHT or the LEFT! Which looks better?"
Me: (still thinking they look exactly the same!!) "Um. Perhaps the right one is a bit clearer."
Dr: "Really? OH. That's unusual. Well, then how about now?" Click. Click.
I think to myself "I knew I should have said 'left'! " And the process continues with minor variations for about 400 minutes until the doctor finally gives up and writes me a random prescription. Then I go out to the 'show room' and pick out the first pair of frames or brand of contacts offered. Eventually I am at home or in the car wearing the eyewear I have acquired. And I have headaches. For weeks. Anytime I have to wear my glasses or contacts I get a headache. After a year or two, my eyes adjust or something and I spend the next four or five years babying my glasses or stretching out my contacts so that I can put off going back to the eye doctor as looooooooonnnnnnnngggg as possible. I KNOW the headaches are probably a result of having the wrong freaking prescription but I don't know how to make the process work! I've TRIED. Really hard. I've VOWED to myself that I would just stick to my guns and tell the stupid doctor that I don't see the difference between his stupid clickety freakin' clicks. I have even tried to explain my issue to the doctor before we get started. But clearly this is not a problem that a lot of people seem to have. The doctor invariably gives me a strange look and reassures me that their machine is very accurate and the lenses are quite distinct. Right. Ok. Here we go again. I've been through this process at least six times in my life and the only time I didn't feel like a complete moron was in Boot Camp. The eye doctor wasn't even listening to my answers and it took not a second more than two minutes from beginning to end (and I got two vaccinations in each arm with those hydraulic gun things at the same time - so hey, bonus). Those were the best (and ugliest) glasses I've ever had. They looked exactly like nerd glasses from the 1950's and they were called 'BC's' for 1) Boot Camp (they were the only glasses allowed in Boot Camp) and 2) Birth Control (because they were so unattractive). I didn't care. They were painless. (Actually... having anthrax, swine flu, bubonic plague, and small pox vaccines pumped into my body at lightspeed with one of those things NASCAR pit crew use to put tires on with - THAT wasn't painless but the eye exam was a breeze.)
For better or for worse, civilian (ha ha - the first time I typed "civillain") eye doctors are different. And I have to go to a civilian eye doctor. TODAY. I have to go today. I know I do. Even if I get the wrong prescription and have a perma-headache, it's got to be better than getting an eye fungus from wearing these contacts one more time. And it certainly has got to be better than trying to navigate by sonar which is what I'm reduced to now.
I'm debating about whether to try to explain yet again about my inability to distinguish between the clickety lenses or whether to ask if they have any anthrax vaccine lying around. Which is my best option, do you think?
Peace.

Some Days He's a Pain in the Potatoes

I realize I've written very little about my middle guy, Mayhem. (So I'm going to make up for that by writing, like, the world's longest post.) To tell you a little bit about Mayhem, I should start out by saying he is SUCH my middle child. You know how astrological people say things like they're a double Virgo with the Big Dipper rising or some such? Well Mayhem is my double middle child with a giggle rising. He is the second of the three I gave birth to and in our blended family, he's the pivotal third of five. And he's usually about this close to a giggle or outright belly laugh.
He's cute, isn't he? He's the one who loves swords. And axes. And wants to grow up to be a dwarf. He's created enough D & D characters to populate the China of the D & D universe. I love him dearly. He is sweet and funny and easy going and smart. He is the one who coined our favorite family phrase by describing a kid at school as a "pain in the potatoes".

I've learned deep and powerful mommy (and life) lessons from being Mayhem's mama. You see, he's my 'special' kid. When he was born, he was a meconium baby so there were about 50 people in the delivery room all whispering in code and fiddling loudly with medical equipment behind a big, billowing curtain. (My OB literally said the phrase, "Ignore the people behind the curtain." Hello Wizard of Oz!) My OB told me he wanted the birth to go slowly. He told me he didn't want my baby to breathe and that my baby would be blue. (Umm, scary! Go slowly? "Push half way then stop"?!!! Are you crazy? I've done this pushing thing before and I don't know if Mother Nature remembered to give me a "stop" button! And I, for one, am all about my baby breathing! Whaddya mean he'll be blue? As in BLUE? Like Cookie Monster?!)

My sweet boy was so quintessentially himself at the moment of birth that it still cracks me up to think about it. First, he peed on the OB. Swish, swish, swish. Not normally a polite thing to do, but excusable in a wee one (<--ha ha ha). My boy got style points because he made a perfect letter "Z" on Dr. Zimmerman's scrubs. His Zorro move would have gotten more attention if it hadn't been for the second thing he did. The second thing Mayhem did in life was to do what they didn't want him to do. He took a great big breath and cried and refused to be completely blue, which was startling but ultimately not a problem at all. In fact, what the doctor wanted and expected of my child all turned out to be beside the point. But I wasn't wise enough to know it at that moment. WHISK! My baby was gone - disappeared behind the blue curtain. My husband was torn - stay with me, go see baby, hold my hand, hold his son's hand. I sent him to go see baby and to slide that pesky curtain out of the way so I could see too! The techs were calling out good news (the need for code apparently over). No aspiration, lungs clear, good appearance, healthy boy! My heart was singing. When can I hold him? My husband snuck kisses and touches in to our baby between the techs' ministrations and then came back over to me. He knelt down beside me and looked me in the eyes. Then he took my hand (the one with the IV in it - and he gripped it hard) and he said, "Baby Mayhem is fine except....." He SWEARS he didn't pause, but I think he waited a month to finish his sentence. I noticed everything about that moment. I remember the smell of all those powdery gloves. I remember the beeps and hisses of the machines and the echo-y-ness of the cold/warm clean room. I remember the carefully neutral look on my husband's face. There was enough time in that pause for my mind to come up with 192 things that could be wrong with my baby (all of them from that forbidden last section of What To Expect When You're Expecting that you can't help reading even though you read it with one eye squinting shut like THAT'S going to magically keep all those possiblities from happening) before my husband said, "he only has three fingers on one hand." Even though that possibility wasn't even MENTIONED in WTEWYE, my brain somehow came up with questions quickly and calmly. "Which hand? Which finger is he missing? Oh no, is he missing a thumb too?"
My OB's head popped up. (He'd been effeciently sewing and doing all that other stuff OB's do to you while you're usually too wrapped up in your baby to notice. He sat straight up and his eyes BLINKED and there was silence for a moment. I must have had seen waaay too many muppet movies during that pregnancy because I swear Dr. Z looked EXACTLY like Animal in that scene where they say, "Not Eat drums. BEAT drums." Blink, blink. Pause with WIDE OPEN EYES.)
I guess doctors are supposed to be the ones to discover that kind of thing and break it to you gently. But baby fingers curl up and all those techs were busy sucking stray, tarry black poop atoms out of my infant's lungs. All my husband could reach and hold was our baby's hands. And it turned out that one of these things was not like the other. OB and New Dad rushed over (both probably hoping New Dad had been mistaken) and there was a veritable gaggle of people way over on the other side of the room. And then there was me on this side of the room. Alone. Alone and trying not to wonder if Dr. Z had left a needle and thread dangling from my nether regions brightly lit by that hot spotlight they focus between your legs when you deliver a baby. Alone and trying not to wonder if there was anything else wrong with my baby that they hadn't discovered yet (or WOSRE had discovered and just hadn't told ME about yet). Alone and trying not to wonder if I'd be able to be a good mom to a baby that was different. Alone and trying not to wonder if I'd be able to love this baby as much as I loved the two-year old son I already had. But I'd been trying not to wonder that one for months so that one was easier to squash there in the delivery room with so many NEW things to try not to wonder about.
I got fed up with being alone with all that not wondering. I managed to get someone's attention and demanded someone bring me my baby! (Actually, I'm sure I was very polite and mousy about it. I wish I'd been all strong and dramatic. The reality is that I was tired and scared. And tired of being scared because I'd been scared for hours over something that turned out to be nothing and now here was something entirely different to be scared of and I just don't switch gears that fast, people! I probably cried and held out my empty arms until some nurse figured out what I needed most.)
Whatever the case, I FINALLY got to hold my boy. And he was perfect. Really perfect. I saw his hand and it was fine. It wasn't what I expected but he was in my arms and I knew he was ok no matter what else they discovered, no matter what else happened. And I realized I had already fallen in love. Hard. It was a done deal that I recognized in that moment. I don't know when it actually happened. But somewhere along the way I fell as deeply and suddenly in love with my second child as I had fallen with my first. But it was so different. It wasn't expansive and awakening the way that first moment of motherhood was for me. The first moments of my second motherhood were challenging and deepening. The birth of my second child deepened my connection to the world which had expanded with the birth of my first child. Becoming Mayhem's mama was like diving down deeper into the ocean without coming up for air first and realizing that I could breathe in a whole new way now and it was a good thing because the water was sooooo much deeper than I imagined it could be.

Being Mayhem's mama has taught me about living with things as they are. Aren't middle children traditionally labeled "Peacemakers"? I've learned there's an element of making peace with circumstances you can't control as well as an element of finding outright joy in situations you can't quite understand. There's nothing to be done about his left hand. It is very functional and beautifully formed. It was just formed without the littlest finger (and the musclature to support that finger). It is somewhat smaller, as is his whole arm. Nothing else was found to be 'wrong' with him (thank heavens) and none of the doctors who have seen him over the years have ever seen anything like his case. Usually "digital anomalies" happen in conjunction with other birth defects. One doctor said he thought the odds of having a baby like Mayhem were somewhere on the order of ten billion to one. It made me feel like I'd won the cosmic lottery jackpot.

Being Mayhem's mama has taught me about dealing with other people and their expectations. Right out of the gate we got the question, "Checked all his fingers and toes?" Elbow nudge and pat on the back stop mid-motion when your reply is, "Yeah funny that. Seems he's missing one." Who really thinks about how common that question is? We do now. Later, Mayhem inevitably started fending for himself. In Sunday school when Mayhem was five, a little boy said, "Somebody sure must've not liked you to cut off your finger." Mayhem firmly and pityingly replied with a snort, "EVERBODY likes me. That's my special hand. And you don't have one." I cheered silently from the sidelines. You go boy!

Being Mayhem's mama has taught me to recognize and push back at marginalizing situations. When Mayhem was six and in Kindergarten he got really squirmy and tender before the class program. I tried to talk to him but respected his quietness when he didn't want to talk. The program was cute and he was energetic and fully into it until the last number. I watched my child shrink into himself. I thought he was sick and I was half way out of my seat in the bleachers. Before I could get there, my brave Kindergartener picked his head up and pasted on a fakey smile and held up his arms. I clued into the song. It was a counting song. With hand motions. My husband clenched my arm and I dug my nails into his leg. I had loved Mayhem's teacher all year but at that moment I wanted her head on a platter. I knew this was different from the Sunday school moment. It wasn't about clueless kids and name calling. We (= the teacher and Mayhem and I) had already dealt (beautifully!) with the kids at recess saying insensitive things like "Hey your hand is like Mickey Mouse's" and we'd even dealt with a few kids saying purposefully mean things like "What are you, a mutant?" "Hey Mayhem, are you an alien?" But this was different. Mayhem's facade held until the final moment. Ten. "Just stick your hands out there, just stick your hands out there," I prayed in vain. It still makes me cry mad, sad tears to this day (five years later) to remember how he hung his head and slipped his hands behind his back. Thank God it was the last song and the parents all swarmed down to the gym floor. I scooped him up and probably hugged him too tight and kissed him too many times. I praised his singing and his remembering his line and his dancing. He gave me a weak smile and sort of clucked and said he hadn't liked the last song a lot. (I was going to wait until we were home, but since he brought it up....) I asked why he hadn't just put his hands out and had fun with the song. He looked at me like I was crazy. "Mom, it was TEN. I only have NINE." Oh we talked and talked and talked about all the ways it was okay to do things differently when you needed to. We talked about problem solving and thinking outside the box and changing the world sometimes and changing your actions sometimes when things didn't 'fit'. And then we tickled him and took him out for ice cream.

Being Mayhem's mama has taught me about finding and making new communities. The day after the program, at the post office in the tiny town we lived in at the time, we saw a man in line that was missing his two middle fingers on each hand. Mayhem looked at me and practically shouted "SIX!" before he pulled away from me and ran up to a complete stranger. I had no idea what was going on until I saw my boy hold up his hands and saw the stranger hold up his own. The stranger told us he was a professional studio musician from out of state passing through and that his hands had never kept him from doing what he loved most: making music. He rumpled Mayhem's hair and said, "Find a way, man. Don't let 'em keep you from your true self." (I, myself, think he was an angel. A scruffy, mis-shapen, smelling like smoke angel. If it had been Disney, he would have been a handsome, tidy, angel in a profession that did not require staying up all night and going to bars - but hey, it's not Disney.)

Although, speaking of Disney or Pixar or whoever they are now...being Mayhem's mama has taught me about holding on too tight and about letting go. We went to see "Finding Nemo" with all the kids (plus a friend each) on the day it came out. Yeah, I know, when you do the math, that's ten kids we took to the movies. I mentioned we're nuts, right? We do have a strategy though. We always put the kids in the row in front of us so we can thump them on the head or lean in to settle disputes about popcorn when we have to. Long about the time Nemo and his friends on screen were daring each other to touch the 'butt', Havoc turned around and waved at me with his left hand while whispering "Hey Marlin, I mean Mom, look! It's my special fin!" And he giggled like a fiend and blew me a kiss. I laughed and thumped him on the head (gently) and squeezed Sweet Hubby's hand. Yes, I'm sooooo Marlin. Aren't we all ? At least a little bit?

Lately, being Mayhem's mama has been teaching me how to deal with frustration. I'm getting practice in restraint. I'm learning how to refrain from pinching the heads off of the 11-year old's in the house. Last week, his karate instructor said, "Ok. I want you to do a leg-sweep-take-down-to-a-full-mount-then-cross-mount-to-a-pushover-armbar-NOT- a-pullover-armbar. Got it?!" Mayhem screamed "Yes Ma'am!" with all the others and then looked his grappling partner in the eye and proceeded to do exactly what the instructor had said. Perfectly. Thoroughly. In order. The first time.
This morning I said, "Mayhem, make your bed."



One instruction, three little words, forty-five minutes in which to achieve results. He even said, "Yes ma'am."

Wouldn't you want to pinch his head off too if you walked into his room and saw this?
He can be a real pain in the potatoes. (But I'm pretty glad he's my pain in the potatoes.)

Peace.

Snow Face

Today's blog is my Snow Dog. I don't have time to show you much else. VBGF decided she didn't really have to go home today and the kids are out of school and Sweet Hubby has taken the day off from work and we're playing games and eating Krispy Kreme doughnuts and drinking hot chocolate - and really Life is Good (if a bit rambunctious at the moment!) Wasabi would kiss you with his snowy snout if he could! Peace.

Children's Book Meme

I LOVE ME SOME BOOKS!

I could not resist following DebR's lead! My oldest friends are books. I will put in the disclaimer that I'm sure I don't know in Bookland where the border is between "children's" and "young adult" is. Here goes.

Name your 3 favorite children's series:
I have to say that I think this is a particularly difficult question to limit to "children's". I ejoyed the Pooh books (and the Uncle Remus stories even though that's not PC now) and Paddington Bear was a hooot - but I didn't read any of those myself. When I think about my FAVORITE book or series I find that the memory of actually reading for myself plays into it. And STILL it's hard to narrow down. Sor for just this one category I'm going to cheat and give you my favorite "children's series" and my favorite "probably YA series".

Children's:
1. The Happy Hollisters by Jerry West - part of my love of these books is that I found the box of them in my grandmother's garage when I was a girl and she gave them to me. They were written in the early 50's and so in tone, they're a lot like the "Golly Gee Whiz" of The Hardy Boys and Ozzie & Harriet. The Hollisters are a big family (five kids I think) who travel and get into scrapes and solve mysteries. My favorite was The Happy Hollisters and the Little Mermaid where they go to Copenhagen! But I must have loaned it out because I couldn't find it to put in the photograph.
2. The Oz books by Frank L. Baum - all of them, not just the Wizard of Oz. I loved "Scarecrow of Oz" and "Tik Tok of Oz" and I think there are maybe 12 or 13 of them. I only have about seven of them - but how can you not like Queen Zixi of Ix?
3. The Book of Three (and the Black Cauldron) by Lloyd Alexander - I don't know what the name of the series is. I just know the individual books but I LOVED them. They were scary and mythic and Taran was just the right amount of clueless and capable.

Young Adult:
1. Madeleine L'Engle's series about the Austin family - I know, I know, everyone loves Wrinkle In Time and those are great but the Austins are even better. (Or perhaps they just came to me at a time when they fit my need perfectly.) And the two are related in someway. Shared universe. Or W.I.T. The Next Generation. I can't quite remember how they're linked. (I'll have to read them all again! Yipee!) L'Engle does amazing things with character and univeral themes like death and redemption in less than 200 pages! Read these. Read these. Especially Ring of Endless Light.

2. Anne of Green Gables - Anne is my all time favorite heroine. I loved all of the books and wanted to have daughters so I could name them Diana and Rilla. I usually hate it when someone makes a movie of one of my favorite books, but I think the Anne movies with Megan Follows were perfectly true to L. M. Montgomery.

3. The Earthsea Trilogy by Ursula K. LeGuin and Susan Cooper's The Dark is Rising tie for third place. Maybe it's because at my house growing up we had dozens of books on mythology - dozens is NOT an exaggeration - but I lived for mythic, epic stories. My kids like things like Animorphs and Margaret Haddix's Shadow Children - which are fantastic but I would not have been able to handle them as a kid! The difference I see is that over time the location of the creepy element seems to have moved in the story. In the books I loved as a kid, the creepiness seemed slightly removed - a map that leads to another world or a long journey where the struggle is encountered. The heroes either went seeking or haplessly fell into the story conflict. In the books my kids read, the creepiness just walks right into the real world here and now and attacks. Yikes.

Name your 3 favorite non-series children's books:
1. From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler by E.L. Konigsburg - about two children who get locked in (I think) the Metropolitan Museum of Art in NYC and have to discover the real origins of a statue. (And Jennifer, Hecate, Macbeth, William McKinley, and Me, Elizabeth by the same author is fantastic!)

2. Harriet the Spy by Louise Fitzhugh - I wanted to be Harriet (except she ate tomato sandwiches - eeeew.)

3. Island of the Blue Dolphins by Scott O'Dell - I probably read this book 30 times before I was 15. Interestingly, my daughter The Ninja Princessa has a similar favorite book right now: if you like Julie of the Wolves or Island of the Blue Dolphins as a kid and haven't read A Girl Named Disaster by Nancy Farmer - go get it now!

Name your 3 favorite children's book illustrations:
It seems I have a 'type' when it comes to illustrations! What sucks me in is a great central picture with interesting stuff going on in the borders!

1. Jan Brett's Illustrated "The Owl and The Pussycat" - The main story of the gorgeously realized Owl and his beloved happens central panel - BUT there is an under-story. Exquisitely drawn tropical fish are passing on the news of the love as the couple sails along. AND bonus - the border of each page features a different flower and pattern of woven palm fronds. I can't do it justice - you should own this book.

2. Colin Thompson's The Paper Bag Prince - is a wonderful tale of environmental stewardship and reclamation that has lots going on in every picture, but the treasure is in the borders.

3. I was going to say my third favorite is Graeme Base's Animalia (and I love it so), BUT I've decided to break type and share my NEW favorite. Big Momma Makes the World by Phyllis Root and illustrated by Helen Oxenbury is delightful. I collect creation stories and this is simply my very favorite so far. "When Big Momma made the world, she didn't mess around." I would love this book anyway, but it is even more special to me because one of my dearest friends in all the world gave it to me. And my friend, even though she's been out of Georgia living up in Mass and DC - she hasn't lost her perfect reading voice for this story. Really - it takes a soft, southern voice of strength to get Big Momma's words at the end of each day's creation just right. "That's good. That's real good." Really - you should go out and buy this book too. And if you don't have a southerner around to read it to you - go to DC and look my friend T up and beg her to read it out loud to you. Really. I promise you. It's worth it.

Name 3 favorite children's books characters:

1. Anne of Green Gables (L.M. Montgomery)
2. Vicky Austin (from L'Engle's Austin series)
3. Harriet from Harriet the Spy (Fitzhugh)

*Bonus heroine is Alice from Phyllis Naylor's Agony of Alice which didn't make my favorite list only because I discovered as a grown up, not as a kid so there just wasn't enough time to edge out the established beloveds.

I realize that for meme's to keep going you're supposed to tag someone, but the only person I know to tag would be the person I got it from and that doesn't work so well.

Peace.

Before and After

So here we are at long last. First is before any grooming for either one of us. Next is a picture of me and Wasabi about ten minutes ago while watching the Olympics. The studio pictures will be next, but right now Sweet Hubby and I are off to the airport to pick up Very Best Girlfriend who is coming to visit her God Dog for the weekend.

Bonus feature:

Wasabi with Furry Pantaloons & Icky Poodle Pom Pom (and yet more shredded TP!!)

And a better view of what a great job the NEW groomer did (i.e. lack of FP & IPPP)

Knitta Please

Have you seen this? The gals at Knitta Please (AKrylic and PolyCotN) have created knitted urban graffiti! How freakin cool is that?! (And I thought knitting sweaters for penguins was fun!) Now I so want to knit a door handle cozy. Whom would I tag? Don't tell on me but I think I'm gonna!

What is the Point of Mogul Skiing?

Other than providing an extremely lucrative career for knee surgeons (and other than distracting me from blogging yesterday), I don't think there is much point to the mogul ski event. But wow - did I get sucked into watching it. My Very Best Girlfriend tempted me into turning on my TV by telling me speed skating was on. (Side note: I am amazed by speed skating. A-freakin-mazed. I can't actually make a case for it having more of a point than the ski events, but if there were a Speed Skating Channel I would want it. ALL SPEED SKATING ALL THE TIME!) As it was, I had to sit through, like, 3 hours of mogul craziness before I got to see any speed skating but I couldn't stop watching because I didn't want to miss my event. Sure they have that handy little countdown clock that tells you something like "19 minutes: Apolo Anton Ohno, Men's 1000m" but leave the room for a necessary minute to pee and you come back to find you just missed the women's short track semi finals and they're cutting back to more moguls! Grrrr.
After hours of the mogul stuff I
-finally squashed the urge to reach for ibuprofen in sympathy with their knees
-decided that Jeremy Bloom is a cool (and well-spoken) frood who should become an announcer if he doesn't make the NFL
-cheered for Toby Dawson because his mother was SOOOOOO into cheering for her son and he was so cute turning straight to her when he realized that he was going to get a medal no matter what
-figured out that a 720 is two 360's in a row (although what 'off axis' means or what the letter 'D' refers to I still dunno)
-realized that if I'd had TiVo I would have skipped all of that and missed out on my new appreciation for mogul freestyle skiing (of course I have to point out that if I'd had TiVo I would have seen all of the speed skating and blogged so maybe that's a wash)

In other Olympic news (aka My Brush With Fame):
I had the coolest thing happen yesterday. I was in the car coming home from a coffee outing with a dear friend that I never get to see enough of and I was listening to Talk of the Nation on NPR. I listen to a lot of NPR but TOTN comes on when my kids are getting home from school so I never get to hear it. I tuned in during the middle of a discussion between the host and a sports commentator. (On a side note - it was a surprisingly interesting and humorous discussion. The sports commentator was giving an inside look at behind the scenes Olympic life. He talked about how the press folks there don't get the NBC feed so they have NO IDEA what we're seeing or what's being said about what's going out. He gave the example of Bode Miller straggling in at the very tail end of the opening procession and being the only one not to wear a hat. There was big discussion between the sports writers there about whether or not they should mention it. They had no idea if folks in America would be able to see it, if it would be an incident, or what. In answer to the question of whether Johnny Weir was America's Darling now that Michelle Kwan was out, the sports guy said JW makes no bones about wanting that title. He then talked about the politics of being an athlete and staying in the Olympic Village. Johnny Weir, in an apparently charming but direct way, stated that he would NOT be staying in the Olympic Village because he didn't like to carry his own luggage or climb stairs or sleep on uncomfortable mattresses. He said that he was princessy when it came to travel. He stated that he was not a 'Village' person. THE HOST OF TOTN then said - so it sounds like he IS a Village Person but not a Village person. You could hear the sports guy gulp and he said something like "Uh, what you said." The sports writer went on to say that he did think that Johnny Weir was likely the only American male athlete to ever describe himself as 'princessy' and then they segued into more about what a fantastic athlete he is. It was all very amusing. Maybe it sounds snarky the way I've written it out - but it wasn't on the air.) ANYWAY - the whole point before I got sidetracked was to tell you that when I first tuned in I thought the sports guy's voice sounded familiar (but it wasn't Chris Berman or Frank Deford). Then the TOTN host said "We're speaking with ......... a sports columnist for the ................." and I know him! I mean not like I know Frank Deford 'cause I hear him on the radio but like, he's married to a good friend of mine! A friend I've had since I was 11 (although she didn't marry the sports guy until she was 20-something) and so the sports guy's voice should sound familiar because we go to dinner parties and such with them!! (An example of "such" from that last sentence is line dancing like uncoordinated fools in a country/western bar in Anniston Alabama.) Woo hoo! I know someone famous! Errr, I bet my sports guy friend knows Kevin Bacon - and that's only two degrees of separation and I am fairly certain that entitles me to a free margarita somewhere!!!!! (Um, but if you please - not a margarita at that bar in Anniston because those line dancers are crazy!)
OK - well that's all my olympic news today. I must go now and take the pup to the new groomer. (Eeeeeep. Please cross your fingers and hope for the best. No furry pantaloons, no furry pantaloons, no furry pantaloons!)
Peace.

Scent Layering

There are mysterious things in this world that I am deeply comfortable with (e.g. thunderstorms and prayer). There are quite a few campy, kitschy things in this world that I am secretly fond of (e.g. I have one of these). There are Hallmark Holidays (co-opted from pagan traditions even) that I do like (e.g. Halloween, minus the chainsaws). But the commerical industry surrounding Valentine's Day is off-putting. Schizo. Completely and utterly whacked even.
The hype is puzzling without being interesting. The target audience for the marketing is hard to get a read on. Valentine's Day American style is now the season after Christmas and before St. Patrick's Month. The love/sex thing in the media is alarming and both crass and prudish. The whole thing baffles me. Don't get me wrong. I am absolutely willing to take a nationally accepted chance for a romantic dinner with someone I love (especially if it includes wine and is followed by either the presentation of diamonds or the suggestion of massage oil!)
But going to Kroger's during Valentine's Season is surreal. Amid the necessary foodstuffs there are KimPossible and Franklin the Turtle valentines next to bags and bags of chocolate next to grocery store roses (dusty silk or practically frozen real ones - your choice) next to homemaker magazines touting sexy dinner recipes and advice on keeping your man satisfied (here take our Valentine's Day quiz) next to health magazines with this month's special feature: New Research on STD's (here take our Valentine's Day quiz) next to a last minute cooler case at the check out with frozen heart shaped cookie dough with the icing already in the tube! Don't look up because there is a battalion of pink, red, and white mylar cherubs and bears waiting to descend. If you make it out of the grocery store without being clued in (and weirded out) that Valentine's Day is nigh, beware the television ads that seek to inform you of that special getaway in the Smokies that's still available or even more direct are the ads that want to remind you to stock up on your ED medication in preparation for the big day. In case you still need suggestions for making this day meaningful - you can follow this couple's lead. I just don't understand. At all.
And the Valentine's Day concept that I don't understand the most is 'scent layering'. While scent layering is perhaps less frightening (and slightly less permanent) than matching nose jobs, it is still offensive and revolting. Apparently the push is to get you to purchase a 'coordinated bath scent set' for your true love. Nothing says I love you like twelve products whose combined scent could punch a hole through the ozone. I can imagine (barely) some poor schmuck being talked into this purchase by some mesmerizing mall person - BUT I can't begin to imagine being the recipient of such a gift who decides to actually use the entire set in the prescribed manner! But I know they exist because as I ran today a woman (brightly blonde with a fake and bake tan) drove by me in her VW Bug with the windows open. I couldn't actually see the aroma clouds but the smell made my eyes water for the next tenth of a mile! Did she follow the package instructions exactly?! The suggestions on those things read something like this: first scented bath beads, and then scented exfoliating scrub, then scented cleansing gel, followed by scented moisturizer, sealed with a lightly scented spray cologne. And for that special touch just douse your sheets and write a love note on paper that's been spritzed! I might as well stick an ice pick through my eye and get it over with rather than have to be in an elevator with a scent layered person. I don't care whether it's flowery or musky - that much scent concentrated around one person should be illegal. Maybe if I spew vomit on their shoes, they'll be discouraged from future layering efforts?
I'm trying to be non-judgmental and compassionate. Maybe these folks are victims themselves of some earlier, scent-layering fiend and it burned out their olifactory nerves. Maybe they were never able to smell anything in the first place! As pleasant as that thought is on the Perfume Industry's National Holiday - I have to say that not being able to smell anything would suck rocks the rest of the year! Imagine not being able to smell fresh baked bread or your newborn's head! Tragic.
So VW Lady - here's hoping that your nasal passages are not irreversibly damaged and your Bug is not permanently infused with your noxious scent. And oh yeah: here's hoping your Valentine doesn't spew chunks on your shoes!
Peace.

Progress Not Perfection

Turns out that my Sweet Hubby had no desire whatsoever to give me his laptop in exchange for our dishwasher. In spite of his blathering on about our DW's digital controls and sleek black appearance in the comments of my long ago (and yet most recent) post, he declined the proffered trade. Sad. But ultimately probably a good thing as the lack of computer access spurred me on. I FINALLY FINISHED MY STUDIO!!
Now....it's not perfect. And technically it's not really finished as the shelves that will house my fabric stash aren't up yet and my sewing "table" is still in the design stages (so the return on my desk is going to serve in the meantime). Still, my studio is finished enough that I have a desk with a (real) computer on it (and wires strung all over the floor - the wireless portion of the home-improvement-project-from-hell not having panned out yet). Back to the plus side, I also have an entire wall of shelves with books all over them and my crafty things organized in a now open-faced closet. My white fan is being installed by Sweet Hubby at this very moment (which is a VERY good thing as the brass and dark, fakey wood one that was in here is puky looking and was making me crazy!)

I had planned to show you FIRST THING the 'before' and 'after' pictures so that you could be AMAZED by the transformation. Alas, disappointments abound (firstly) in the form of no 'before' pictures to be found (ANYWHERE) of the studio even though I was sure that some had been taken and (secondly) in the fact that the 'after' pictures which I do have are stranded on the memory card with no way to jump to my computer. The memory card reader "just died". That's SH's technical explanation. It looks fine (ummm - well SH says it still looks fine - but to me it looks rather pathetic now that he's pried off (and broken) its plastic case and fiddled with its flat innards). It worked until the very moment I wanted to use it to show off what I've been painstakingly doing for the past freakin' ever. And then, at that instant, it "just died". If it hadn't already hotfooted it to the Great Electronic Beyond, I would have had to kill it for deserting me in my time of need. That would still leave us with no pics (yet) of all the transformations of 2006, but poor SH might have been spared some venting of my spleen!

Well, dear friends, spleen has been vented (offstage and in SH's general direction) and I'm ready to move on to the bragging portion of today's blog. My studio looks fantastic! Imagine if you will my starting point: a room with bright, glossy green walls (on the lower half), bright blue walls with white clouds (top half and ceiling), glaringly yellow chair rail, trim, & slatted closet door, and tired, yucky, old carpet. From that starting point, imagine me not boring you with the tedious details of heating issues, technical obstacles, and six coats of paint. Yes. Six. Coats. Of Pain(t). And, Lord, just shoot me if I ever again insist on decorating with interesting (=expensive) and textured (=impossible to use) paints. Now jump with me to the finished product (and ignore the fact that I don't have the wherewithal to do a thing about the yucky, old carpet for a while). Here's the view: gorgeous, clean, white trim and chair rail; opalescent, metallic lavender walls above the chair rail; darker lavender, perfectly-even, granite-textured walls below; white fan (almost installed), a bank of white book cases, white shelves and plastic storage bins in the closet and a picture window looking out over the courtyard. I LOVE my new space. The left over desk caused me some angst as it is birch and gray. But... it works and since most of the time it's going to be draped in half-finished quilt projects and manuscripts - I have made a decision to be happy with its non-conformist appearance. Hip hip hooray for my gorgeous studio. (Now it's time to make some quilt art and write, write, write!)
Second on my list to brag about is my hair. I told the gal that I wasn't particularly worried about how it looked as long as she cut nearly all of it off my head. I'm happy to report that she managed to cut it almost as short as I wanted it and ALSO made it look good. It is very short on the sides and the back (swirling not quite into a DA) with longer, proto-curls on the top and in the front that fall just the tiniest bit into my face.
I must digress here and say that SH has just finished installing my fan. At my request, this good man pulled our lovely white fan out of the ceiling in the bedroom and put it up in here. So really, I should not complain (should I?) about the fact that he 'improved the design' during relocation and threw away a handful of 'spare parts' that he explains are (somehow) no longer needed. Eeep.
Back to the bragging. My hair feels great and looks pretty darn cute too. Alas, the same cannot be said of Wasabi's coiffure. It's a teeny bit better now, three weeks later, but ....
He came home from his first visit to the groomer looking like he was wearing furry pantaloons. Furry. Pantaloons. And he had a poodly mop on the top of his head. (He's a TERRIER for goshsakes!) And he had no eyebrows. They shaved his face and his back so much so that he looked skinned. But they didn't shave his lower half. They left his fur long there. But not in a way so that the long fur hung down. Oh no. Instead of a dog 'skirt' he had an MC Hammeresque, furry, bubble-butt look going on. And they shaved his ears. He looked freaky. And he smelled very... wrong. Not that I'm so concerned about his masculine image - but this was like my dog had been hosed down with Wal-Mart brand, little-girl targeted perfume. Cloying, powdery, insanely flowery, not-so-clean-smelling perfume. Ickity ick ick ick. Chaos took one look and screamed, "What did you do to my dog??!!!!!!!" We had to bathe him and tell him we still loved him even though he looked weird. [Him = the dog, not the boy. Chaos is required to bathe himself - although I often have to remind him of this fact. And um, while we do tell Chaos we love him even though he looks weird (to us) - it's not as cruel as it may sound at first glance. Err.. Anyway, Chaos' goal (at age 13) is to please us without pleasing us. Poor Wasabi, on the other hand, wants to please us without smelling so bad that he (as a dog with an incredibly acute sense of smell) has to snort dirt to block up his nose. No lie - that's what he did when he got home. He whined and snorted so much dirt up his nose that he was sneezing mudballs for days. Hence the bath and the extra love.]
We've switched groomers (duh) and we're all trying (very) hard not to dread Wasabi's appointment (this coming Thursday). This new groomer comes highly recommended. And she darn well better be FANTASTIC since she charges more than my hair salon does!
So there you have it. OH OH OH! EXCEPT that I almost forgot an important brag. (Did I mention that I'm training for the Music City Half Marathon? Well, I am.) I am not built to be a runner. I'm short and um, top-heavy in a way that SH loves but that is not so comfy for the running. Nevertheless. I am training. I am S-L-O-W but I'm steady. And I love it and feel great. Powerful even. I'm up to five miles (for the first time in ten years) and I've got 11 weeks to add six miles to that. (I'm not going to do the full thirteen until the day of the race. All the training books say that a good solid eleven in training is plenty to get you through the race. I'm choosing to believe them!) NOW you have it. So far, my 2006 is all about progress but not perfection. For studios, hair, fur, and training plans. No more three week hiatuses (hiati?) for me. I'll see y'all tomorrow.
Peace.

Serious Case Of Disconnect

After my usual 'initital resistance phase' as my Sweet Hubby calls the whining I do when introduced to new technology, I've become quite enamored with his laptop computer. He was kind enough to leave it with me this weekend (since my desktop model is still in bits all over the floor of our room while my studio gets cleaned out and painted and wired, etc.) And I think I need to mention what a big deal it was for him to leave his laptop with me. He went with some buddies to a science fiction convention and he left his primary geek tool behind! That is a man who is very secure in his geekilinity.

And I think I need also mention that while the keyboard on this thing is a severe pain in the butt, I have become addicted to blogging in bed. He told me I would. I, naturally and obnoxiously, insisted that I knew myself better than he possibly could and that the defects of the keyboard were just shy of intolerable and there was NO WAY I would ever get used to them. Wrong Pieface! (<----As an English teacher once wrote in scrawling red letters at the top of a paper she handed back to me.) Oh and how many times exactly do I have to have it proven to me that I don't know diddly squat about myself when it comes to technological thingamahoojies? Sweet Hubby could (but never does) recite the ridiculously long list of machines that I vowed to hate in the beginning and have come to rely on and love and want never to be parted from. In fact, I can only think of one machine that I still hate (=the dishwasher). What do you think the odds are that I can convince him to take the DW to work and leave me his laptop?

Pre-emptive Jonesing for Football

I'm watching the pre-game show for the Steelers/Broncos game and it's like reading your favorite book for the first time again. You love it, you can't stop reading, but you don't want it to end. Ever. Every year I go through this. I don't care if the last two games of the season have crappy teams like the Texans, the hated Ravens, or even the putrid Cowboys in them - I will watch them. I will watch them with relish (and Bud Light). I will watch the pre-game and the post-game and I will whine and whine about how little football there is left to watch. And this year I like all of the teams left reasonably well. (Of course I have to mention here, in case you hadn't figured it out - I'm definitely an AFC kinda girl so if I could make it so the Steelers played the Seahawks and the Broncos played the Panthers I would have an easier time choosing who to root for today!) Anyway, I only have three games left (ok - four if you count the Pro Bowl - which is football and which would be fun to go see in person but only because it's in Hawaii. If the Pro Bowl were played in Iowa then I wouldn't be interested. The Pro Bowl is football but it's guys who don't usually play together, it doesn't count for stats, and who can blame them for not risking injury by playing all out?) The POINT is that it's my blog so this year it's where I'm going to whine about football being almost over.
WAAAAAANNNNNNHHHHHH!
You missed me for those three weeks I was gone, didn't you?

She Is Not An Amoeba

VBGF wants to have a baby. But as I said, she is not an amoeba. If she were, making a baby would be a much easier process. Pinch off this cute little piece here and voila! Offspring. It doesn't work that way for humans. (You knew this, right? I mean, I shouldn't have put little asterisks down the side of the page and warned everyone that there was a spoiler coming, right?) Human reproduction (for better or for worse) is more complicated, uncertain, and (in a perfect world) more fun.

VBGF and I were talking about it last night on the phone (and each drinking wine which may or may not have contributed to where the conversation that I'm about to relay to you went.) Once again we were discussing her procreation options. She has tried the sperm bank route before with a previous partner and doesn't want to do that again. Aside from the cost (which is considerable and at this time prohibitive) and aside from the association with the cretin who left her (saying among other things that their inability to conceive a baby was a sign from God that their relationship shouldn't continue), the fact of the matter is that this time VBGF would like not to have to deal with CO2 cartridges and sterile doctors' offices. She has this radically romantic idea that she'd like her baby to be conceived with joy and intention "the old fashioned way."

The hitch in her lovely plan is the distinct lack of available sperm in her world. She's a middle school math teacher and other than the fathers of her students (no) and her male colleagues (more no) - there aren't a lot of eligible guys around. Add to that some fairly disastrous experiences with men early on and a resulting shyness around y-chromosome-laden folks and you begin to see some of the obstacles our heroine is facing. Here's our girl, bio-clock ticking away (two weeks after her most recent birthday), pondering the best way to bring cheap, yet handsome, intelligent, disease-free sperm into her world for just one night (or for whatever number of nights it takes to conceive). Once her mission is accomplished, she plans to be so busy gestating and raising a child that there will be no more room for sperm in her life.

It is harder than you may think to accomplish her goal. We have often debated the pro's and con's of her going to the closest army guy bar, selecting a target, and whispering in the target's ear three magic little words, i.e. "You wanna fuck?" But (most nights) the con's seem to outweigh the pro's, with the shy factor and risk of disease both being ridiculously high in that scenario. Last night, VBGF told me she had a revolutionary idea. She was going to try an experiment. (Actually, I'm sure she said "eckshpriment" but giggling (and arguing) over that led us to giggling (and arguing) over whether she did or did not say "schweaty" the other night when she was trying to say "sweaty" and it took us quite awhile to come back around to the topic of her new idea. In fact, we were talking about groceries when we finally remembered to loop back to the experiment topic. )

She lives in quite a progressive part of the country and "anything goes" seems to be the ethos of her local independent/alternative paper's personals section. So she suggested she run an ad. We looked for the right column and debated over whether her ad would really fit under the "Women seeking Men" category. She decided she needed her own category: "Woman seeking Sperm". Then she listed some things she wanted in sperm - and I had a vision of "sperm" appearing at the top of her grocery list. We got a little silly and started throwing phrases into her ad like "organic" and "free range" and at some point we debated whether or not "hormone free" would be advisable given the necessary delivery method of said sperm.

I can't begin to guess whether this experiment will yield the results that VBGF wants (or whether she'll actually go through with it). There are concerns of course, but I've got to give my girl snaps for unconventional bravery and innovative thinking. And I can't seem to come up with a better or more honest alternative. Can you?
Peace

Did I Say TWO Weeks?

Silly rabbit. Even though I thought at the time I was padding my guess as to when my life would be back in order, I was still off by a factor of ...something too high to count. I STILL don't have my computer situation (or life) settled back to 'normal'. My fortune telling skills being what they are, I won't be giving up my day job any time soon. Or wait! Too late. One of those things I failed to accurately predict that the New Year would bring is the HUGE, UGLY, Jerry Springer-esque *conversation* with my mother on January 3rd. In case you were deaf that day and didn't hear it for yourself, our verbal exchange included the Lord's name being taken in vain and ended with a loud dial tone in my ear. This lovely exercise in failed diplomacy resulted in me leaving my job abruptly. (Pertinent factoids - the "job" I had was running/owning a shop with my mother and leaving it is NOT a bad thing. It's best for the shop, best for my relationship with my mother (which surprisingly is better today than ever), and certainly it's best for my agoraphobic, anti-consumer, solitary self!)
I've been home (in my lovely, quiet, non-commercial-establishment-house of a home) for almost three weeks now. But I've not been alone, oh no. No chance of that. Not when streptococcus decides to move in and invite his best pal (=strange-mutating-untreatable-stomach virus) to sleep over. In a family of seven - it is AMAZING how much laundry can be generated by...but I digress. Back to the part where I gloss over the other factors of my life implosion - like the septic system backing up - and wow, how much fun it is to have no potties or showers for a family of seven (some of whom were still harboring strep & co.) for three days. Or like the ex (=Senor Tapioca Head) who says he won't go to mediation (even though it's required by law). He's decided to skip straight to suing me for custody of our oldest. Just our oldest. I have explained how this is fracturing the relationships between the boys and how much the two younger ones resent his attention just to the older one. I offered the compromise of his spending one night with each of his boys alone each week in addition to the weekend time he already gets. His response was that he would consider having each of the younger ones but only if it was IN ADDITION to getting custody of the oldest. "How exactly do you feel that is one on one time with your younger boys if the older one is with you?!" The word 'Moron' was hovering about my lips but I did NOT utter it. Yay me. No, but I did add that he clearly didn't understand compromise (not that this was a news flash) and that until we went to court we'd stick to the court-ordered agreement (which is FANTASTIC for me because now I get waaay more time with my kiddos AND I don't have to see my ex as much. You'd think I would have stopped compromising a while ago, woudn't you? I guess I just didn't pay enough attention to that whole section in history that talked about appeasement and fascists.) But enough about my ex.....
The result of all this life implosion is that while my life is still messy - and while it doesn't yet involve consistent computer access - I am going to have a room of my own. I will no longer share an office with Sweet Hubby. I will have my very own studio, with a door that closes the rest of the world out. I'm going to paint it silver (which may look terrible but is very much fun for me to get to risk trying). I'm also less than a week away from getting all my hair cut off. Well, not ALL of it. But lots and lots and lots of it. I'm getting it shaved up the back and leaving maybe an inch or two on top to be spiky. I've never in my life had my hair that short and I am soooooo excited about it. I have been reading (when I get too tired to paint or move furniture). I have been running. In fact - I had shelved plans for training for the half marathon in April since I had no time or energy before. NOW - I am back in the training groove. I ran for 38 minutes on Thursday. Unless the weather decides to be all icky and seasonal again - I'm going to run four times a week. (If the weather remembers it's Winter then I might not make my goal because I do NOT run when it's cold. I am a total wimp about it and that's okey dokey with me.) AND, if I haven't been rapturous enough already, I'm going to get to quilt again!!! <-----Please note the restraint in my punctuation. If you only knew how many exclamation points I wanted to put.
I've had a bang-up, fantastic start to 2006 and wish you the same! (Ummm, although I will add that I hope you've managed to avoid both altercations with the mother you adore and Tapioca Headed People in general.)
Peace.