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.

Bones in the Ether

Plans have gone awry. I was going to tell you all about it. In fact I did tell you all about it, but you didn't hear. You didn't hear because the power went out. Again. My post was either scattered in the ether or buried in my computer or possibly spontaneously combusted. I am unsure of what happens in that instant when the juice stops flowing. But the final result is that my plan for telling you how awry my plans have gone has gone awry.
You were going to hear all about the quilting retreat I had planned (that didn't happen), about the lovely little Inn we discovered (by accident), about all the major house renovations that we launched yesterday without any prior notice, about the hair I'm fixing not to have, and finally you were to hear about my feelings on the passing of a family matriarch.
Alas, now you are going to hear only that I don't have time to go into all that again. And also that I'll be unplugged for perhaps two weeks. Maybe I can send 'post' cards from another e-access point along the way. (The juice situation being what it is though, I can hardly promise!) What I can promise is loads of pictures of all the fun doings when I get back.
Peace and Health and Prosperity to you all in the coming year!

Spam Worthy

Am I the only one who thinks this sign is errr.... unfortunate? Maybe I've been around the Troll Boys too much but c'mon, it's not a big drop to the gutter. Can't you just imagine this slogan appearing in the subject line of one of 'those' emails?
I will admit, though, that my vulgar-o-meter might need to be recalibrated. I've been reading lots of Jane Austen (again). Having re-read four of her six novels since seeing the movie, Pride and Prejudice, I'm in the middle of Mansfield Park. For the first time, the names are giving me trouble - the heroine is named Fanny (yikes) and her aunt is named Mrs. Norris, which I hate to admit now reminds me inevitably of the red-eyed, skanky cat from Harry Potter. But aside from that, I've had to work my way back into an understanding of the manners of the time. Elizabeth Bennett (of P&P), who is spunky and acerbic and ultimately discerning, is my favorite Austen heroine. Fanny Price...not so much. Not that sympathizing with Fanny is impossible, just difficult. It takes work to see her reticence, deep-felt obligation and self-effacing manners as commendable. It takes some immersion into her context to feel (instead of wonder at) her struggle between duty and desire, which is why I always wait to read Mansfield Park towards the end of my Austen jag. When I saw this sign at BK, I got the all over giggles imagining Fanny Price falling out in a dead faint. (The girl blushes when someone says the word 'limb' for heaven's sake!) I love immersing myself in the world that Jane Austen chronicled. The specificity and richness of the language, the blushes, the gallantries - all wonderful! But the re-entry to the here and now....Pfew. That's a bitch.
Peace.

On Vexer, and Hexer, and Klonker and Spittin'

I am spitting mad.
I want to klonk my sister-in-law over the head with a creche.
I feel hexed and vexed.
And as I lay in bed all agitated and rehashing the Christmas crap that was my day yesterday, the list of my grievances began to sound like psycho names for Santa's reindeer. I could just picture his sleigh being dragged inexorably through the sky towards my house by Vexer and Hexer and Klonker and Spittin'. It made me giggle. And that's a good sign (except that sweet hubby was trying to sleep - it being 3 am and all.)

When I am most aggrieved and can find even a tiny moment of laughter - it loosens something up inside of me and I can begin to let go. A moment of peace or emptiness can signal the turning point too. But laughter is the most powerful predictor of the ebb tide. The first time I noticed this about myself was when I was fourteen. I was awful, and cranky, and unloved, and misunderstood, and achingly lonely ALL THE TIME even though I was surrounded by good friends who appreciated me, a family who loved me, teachers who encouraged me, and a youth minister who opened the doors of faith to me. I was dramatic and hateful, particularly with my mother. Smack in the middle of some HUGE fight with sobbing and ultimatums and more sobbing and apologizing and a renewal of hatefulness (probably because my dramatic apology hadn't changed my mother's mind about whatever it is I wanted to do that she wouldn't allow) and even more sobbing - I wailed to my mom, "I hate you. I hate crying. My head is bursting with pain. My pillow is soaked with tears. My cat is soaked with tears. My blanket is soaked with tears. And it's all your fault!" My mother looked at me and said kindly and solemnly, "I will share with you something that a good friend of mine once said to me ." Through a teary and snot filled silence my mother's friend's wisdom came to me. Mom said, "The more you cry, the less you pee." Completely and utterly against my will, I laughed. I couldn't help it and I couldn't stop. And after that quieted down, I just couldn't muster the spin and churn and spite required to keep the fight going. It didn't 'fix' everything - or anything really. The disagreement was still there: I entrenched in my position and she in hers. It was just the searing rancor in my heart that bled away after the laughter punctured my misery.

So here I am urging 'On Vexer and Hexer and Klonker and Spittin' "with one slight giggle to puncture my latest misery. I'm despeartely counting on it to turn the tide.

• Because today I am going to the bank with crossed fingers and a child support check. I will feel relieved (in the extreme) if it goes through. If it doesn't go through, I will endeavor to feel unsurprised and cynical and I will try not to feel ridiculous for hoping THIS Christmas might be different from the last two. His efforts at trying to take my children away from me have fallen into a pattern. He doesn't pay at Christmas. He attacks my fitness as a mother in January and tries to prove he's 'SuperDad'. In the spring, he makes a legal move of some sort which causes me tremendous anxiety and lots of $$$ to counter. Sometime in early summer he loses either his interest or his ability to pursue the matter. I spend all fall enjoying the temporary civility and waiting for signs of the other shoe to appear. If the check goes through this year, does it mean the rest of the curse is broken? (Or does it mean that even men who use tapioca instead of a brain are capable of realizing judges seldom award custody to deadbeat dads?)
• Because today after I go to the bank I have to go to the mall. The Man in Red got my daughter the PERFECT present (WEEKS AND WEEKS AGO) - which is good because he only brings ONE to each of my five. Sweet Hubby and I get the children little things - always a book or two, usually something necessary (like gloves or a pair of jeans), and a tiny fun thing (like a card game or puzzle.) The Man in Red gets one shot - a big shot - a fun, way cool, it-was-the-number-one-thing-on-their-list kind of shot. And yesterday my step-daughter came home from her aunt's house with her eyes aglow and in raptures, "Look what Aunt Jaci got us kids!!!!! Isn't it great? Isn't it wonderful? Isn't it perfect?" Perfect. Of course if Aunt Jaci had thought for HALF OF A NANOSECOND she might, just possibly have realized that giving my daughter the PERFECT present two days before Christmas without bothering to check with anyone first - might not have been such a thoughtful thing to do!!
• Because today after the bank and after the mall - I have to figure out what to do with the OTHER thing Aunt Jaci gave the Ninja Princessa. The Ninja Princessa is my step-daughter as I've said. Sparing you all the gory details of abandonment, custody battles with the mentally ill, and waxings poetical on what a devoted, stable, and fantastic father Sweet Hubby is - I will explain that the most recent chapter in our history includes Princessa's mother unexpectedly moving out of state (abandoning her daughter again) last Christmas. Even so, SH has been patient and supportive of the importance of his daughter's relationship with her mother. The Ninja Princessa has been across the country by herself to visit her mom several times (once or twice at a grandfather's expense and once at Sweet Hubby's expense). She was supposed to go again this Christmas. But North Korea couldn't "afford it". (You know, North Korea - that country that makes wild accusations, threatens nuclear war, can't feed itself, lies about that fact, makes and breaks international treaties, and in general, wears everyone's ass out?? Yeah, that's her.) Nevermind that NK has known for a year that she would have to pay for the flight - and nevermind that she didn't tell her daughter until the day before she was supposed to leave - nevermind all that. We have been concentrating on how it's important to acknowledge real feelings (like disappointment, sadness, hurt) but ALSO on how important it is to find comfort and positive aspects to the changed situation. Ninja Princessa gets more time with her oldest brother (whom she adores and doesn't get to see but a few times a year). She gets to enjoy the first Christmas in the new house with all of us. She gets to spend more time with her cousin. And her aunt! Her aunt who yesterday dug up this MONSTROSITY of a creche that Sweet Hubby and North Korea bought ON THEIR ANNIVERSARY trip to Ireland. This creche has not been some sentimental, cherished thing. It was brought back and put into the family 'oranament' exchange. Sweet Hubby is from a LARGE Cajun Catholic family - and their exchange is wild and far ranging and uses the word 'ornament' very loosely (and competitively)! The person who got stuck with the creche died a year or so ago and somehow it ended up in Aunt Jaci's garage. The Ninja Princessa knew nothing of it - until her aunt unearthed it - and for some INSANE reason thought it would be a good thing to give her. Right. Just exactly what we want in our house this holiday season and now for all holiday seasons to come: a large (and unsightly) reminder of both a mother who can't get it together for her daughter AND an anniversary trip commemorating a marriage that caused horrible pain when it came to an ugly end. Thank you OH SO MUCH Aunt Jaci!
• And because today I also have to make up with my Very Best Girlfriend. After weeks of waiting for her to come in town, I somehow managed to get in a wad and get my feelings hurt - and THEN I wasn't even capable of explaining it in words even though VBGF wanted to understand and pushed and pushed at me to find a way to explain.

As the sun comes up, is the tide turned? Was the laugh big enough? Am I big enough to hold on to the lesson but not the hurt? Or are there just more fucking reindeer lurking around to be named?

Peace.

She gets sleep. She gets sleep not. She ge.....

When the vet said, "Oh he'll probably just sleep all night and maybe most of the next two days." I believed her. Why did I do that? Wasabi did not sleep. Neither did I. Bless his heart, he's wearing one of those awful funnels around his neck. He keeps bumping into walls and doors. Apparently backing up is not a natural motion for dogs, so he keeps getting stuck in places. He whined all night and tried to chew at his bandages and his stitches. Did I mention that he WHINED the ENTIRE night?
But who needs sleep? Not mothers of five. Not shop owners the week before Christmas. No, no, silly thing, sleep. Totally beside the point, really. I'll be fine. <---in the Southern sense of the word meaning "suffering, but y'all don't worry your heads about lil ole me"
Peace.

Monopoly It's Not

GAME means different things to different folks - but here at Dwelling, it involves phrases like "Pimp My Elf" and "I'm attacking the Darkness" and chants of "Meat! Meat! Meat!". We do play board games (like Killer Bunnies, San Juan, Catan, and Star Munchkin) but that's playing games, not GAME. GAME is all about the mind, man! (Well, the mind and a few props - like this strange orb/claw thing on a staff that is in the corner of my library. The Troll Boys have not offered an explanation and it's likely better not to know <---voice of experience speaking.)

More than one RPG (=Role Playing Game) is played at this house. The kids (our five plus a few of their geekier friends) play a d20 Star Wars RPG most Wednesday nights. Sweet Hubby has been involved in Feng Shui and Shadowrun games before, but currently The Troll Boys are back to the tried and true, hack and slash: Dungeons and Dragons (version 3.5). If you know even a teensy, tiny, little bit about D&D then you should check out the online comic The Order of the Stick. It totally cracks me up.
On the serious side, there are all kinds of valuable lessons to be learned from RPG's and other assorted geeky pursuits. My kids have learned teamwork, attention to detail, index/research skills, how to solve logic puzzles, several versions of the Badger Song and the lyrics to "I Like the Moon". They have also heard the cautionary tale told by my friend E. One of the fellows in E's husband's gaming group moved to California. This is no impediment to participating in GAME. Not with cell phones and conference call technology. He is a mobile gamer. So mobile in fact, that he went to the grocery to pick up a few things right in the middle of a battle with Ogres. Naturally the gaming group defeated all the Evil Ogres and this is what the nice folks at the grocery store heard:
"Is he dead? Well, make sure before you loot the body. Nah, I don't think we need to waste time moving the corpses around. No one will find them in that cave."
Yep - nothing that a ride downtown with some nice men in blue and several MORE phone calls couldn't clear up in a few hours.
Ahhh GAME. What's not to love?

Not Blogging about Laundry

Really I'm not blogging about laundry, because everyone has laundry. Right? No need to talk about it. A great percentage of everyone surely has at least two loads of laundry a day, every day, rain or shine. Rain, ha ha. Of course on rainy days there's that extra load of wet towels from drying the dog and muddy socks because how on earth can children be expected to abstain from puddle jumping. The entire world does laundry day in day out. In sickness and in health. In sickness, of course, there are the extra two loads of icky sheets and towels which require interesting chemical compounds known as laundry additives to remove all traces of ummm, ickiness. No need to dwell on stenches and stains though. Not during this lovely holiday season. Seasons, ha ha. It's not just me. Everyone contends with seasonal items in their laundry baskets, right? Like unworn, short-sleeve Hawaiin shirts in December when it's 21 degrees. And Gummi eyeballs left over from Halloween (which were gross enough before being washed with heavy agitation and hot water). No, it's far better at this time of year to think of peace and goodwill towards men. GOODWILL! I could give most of our clothes to the GOODWILL! Of course, I would have to wash them first, but still it would be just ONCE more. Those clothes wouldn't come back over and over and over and over. Fa la la la la, la la la la.
Laundry is such a common, everyday, un-blogworthy topic. I'm sure at this moment most of my neighbors are doing laundry too. Ha ha or maybe not since it turns out that many of the shirts I couldn't identify belong to Rachel-across-the-street. FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, someone tell me why I didn't think of that trick before! Ha ha - have the neighbors do your laundry for you! Is THIS the secret? Is this the reason that we're not supposed to blog about laundry? Becuase Lilymane might figure out she's doing not just her huge family's laundry but EVERYONE ON THE PLANET'S laundry?? Well the cat is out of the laundry bag! I figured it out! And I'm telling you right now - don't complain to me if I drop an extra bucket of starch in the load of undies! Hmpfh.
(Peace.)

Oh hey, I ran yesterday

My daughter (the Ninja Princessa) and I found ourselves quite on our own yesterday. I woke up from my two day nap; she pulled her head out of a book and lo and behold there were no boys about! This happens so rarely that it took us a moment to figure out why it was so quiet. It is especially rare on Sunday because that is usually the day the Troll Boys gather for GAME.

Digression - GAME is a whole CATEGORY of posts but for today I will just say a) it was canceled because even Troll Boys have to shop and 2) the game in question isn't Monopoly - or Football (that's my gig) - it's D& D - and
Digression #2 - Football! Sweet Hubby might watch football with me 1) if GAME is canceled and b) if there's a chance for some half time nookie. Ours is probably NOT the typical Amurcan household. The last time GAME was canceled, VBGF and I watched the Colts game together (=on the phone, long distance) while drinking beer (<--Bud Light for me, some shi-shi $3/bottle lager for her) and when I called out to see what SH was doing, he called back from the other room, "I'm watching 'Runaway Bride' on cable." <--I swear. Very secure in his masculinity is my Sweet Hubby. Hey, it works for us.
Digression #2b - Football! I'm sooooo bummed that the Colts lost to the Chargers! And don't get me started on Pacman Jones of the Titans. Am I allowed to curse on Blogger? I mean really, really curse - like I did in the Navy? I probably shouldn't even think about Pacman Jones until I find out the answer to that question. Next.

Finding ourselves in posession of the house, the Ninja Princessa and I did what all good girls should do - we gorged ourselves on baked macaroni & cheese, tomato soup, and half a package of oreo cookies <---double-stuffed - because what's the point if they're not double stuffed? THEN we noticed what a beautiful day it was - sunny and mid 50's. So of course we put on our running gear and headed out the door.

Memo to all Zany Running Girls in the Dwelling:

• 'Warm' is relative and ears still get cold and achy in December winds. Remember to wear a head muffin. (You know, head muffin, that fleecy band thingy that covers your ears and not your whole head? Yeah. Dig it out of the bottom drawer.)
• The correct procedural order is Run then Eat (not the other way around.)

Jointly posted by the Ear and Tummy Departments

Peace.

Holiday Discoveries

Hey - did you know there are Everlasting Gobstopper Candy Canes??!!
HOW COOL IS THAT?!
Christmas music makes me want to hurt someone - but Christmas candy soooo works for me. It connects me to everything KID and FUN and disconnects me from everything STRESSFUL and GROWN UPPY about the holidays.
I used to cut a hole in one of the fresh florida oranges my aunt would send and then stick in a "straw" made out of one of those Leo peppermint sticks that my dad got a tin of every year from some office party. It took a minute and at first you'd have to almost suck your cheeks inside out but then... the orange juice would carve out a path through the peppermint and there was nothing else like it. The smell of the fresh tart orange juice and the sweet minty candy; the taste of the two blended together; the stickiness; the way your teeth and gums hurt afterwards - all of that means Christmas to me. And those Lifesaver "books" we got in our stockings! Did anyone else get those? There were, like, thirty rolls of Lifesavers folded up in a "book". I'm sure I ate every one of them ON Christmas day.

You'd think Halloween would be the candy event of the year, but for me it's Christmas. Maybe it's because you can make your own candy at Christmas. Pralines and peanut brittle! Maybe it's that at Christmas, it's candy without anything scary like axe murderers or spiders. Maybe it's because you don't have to go back to school the very next day. You can suffer from the sugar hangover in peace. I don't know, but as a kid, Christmas meant GOODNESS and PEACE ON EARTH and CANDY to me. There was candy on the tree, candy in bowls around the house, sugarplum candy that danced in your head, candy in the pictures of the North Pole, candy in the stockings, candy, candy, candy!
I mean sure, I remember baking cookies and decorating them, yada, yada, yada. But the CANDY is what did it for me. And now there are Gobstopper Candy Canes! On my Christmas tree, on my desk, on my breakfast plate.
It's beginning to look (and taste) a lot like Christmas. La, da, dee, da, da. (Crunch, crunch)

Nausea and Fever and Random Quotations

...there is something new about my hands, a certain way of
picking up my pipe or fork. Or else it's the fork which now has a certain way of having itself picked up. I don't know.

Jean Paul Sartre, Nausea

No sleep. Work. No sleep. Shopping. No sleep. Feverish children and husband. More no sleep. Laundry. And dog. Still no sleep. At some point everything starts to slide around and look strange. Who needs acid when you can just go for a week without sleep? Much cheaper. Not even illegal. Probably not safer.

CRASH!

At last. Saturday slides away without being noticed. And she dreams in French.

Chaotic Thinking

My son, Chaos, has lost his mind. Maybe not the whole thing - just the part that thinks - or maybe just the part that thinks as I define thinking. Two recent conversations to illustrate my point:
Conversation #1:
Chaos: Mom, you missed the parent meeting.
Me: What parent meeting?
C: The one they just had about the game tomorrow, you know, times and where to meet and all that.
Me: They just now had a parent meeting? And it's over? But I'm here at the exact same time I always pick you up! Practice isn't even supposed to be over for another 10 minutes! When did they schedule the meeting? Did they send a note? How did the other parents know?
C: They told us yesterday. I was going to tell you.
Me: (grrrr) Ok - so what did they say at the meeting? What did coach say about where to meet and when?
C: (looking positively aghast) I don't know! I didn't listen in on it or anything. It was for parents!

Conversation #2:
Me: So what exams do you have tomorrow?
Chaos: Ummm. Either Science or English. No wait. It's NOT Social Studies. It might be Math. But maybe it's Computer. We don't have an exam in PE.
Me: (you will just have to imagine the completely dumbstruck look on my face) You don't KNOW what exams you have tomorrow? Let me see your assignment book.
Chaos: Uh. I think I left it at school.
Me: (sternly) Well, I guess you'll just have to study for ALL of them tonight just in case. Better pull out your books.
Chaos: (rolling his eyes) Mom, we don't have to use the books. We've been making study guides in class. That's what we've been doing all week.
Me: Then let me see your study guides.
Chaos: I think I left them in my locker.
Me: WHAT???? You don't know what exams you have and you left all of your study materials in your locker? What are you thinking?
Chaos: Mom, I was late for PE. I couldn't go back to my locker or I would've gotten written up and the bus leaves right after PE. I couldn't miss the bus.
Me: (grrrr) HOW COULD YOU CHOOSE PE OVER THE SEMESTER EXAMS OF ALL YOUR OTHER CLASSES?!

Conversation#2b (the next day)
Me: So what exams did you have?
Chaos: Social Studies. (Note that is the only one he was sure he wasn't having that day!)
Chaos: Oh and Math. I got a 96 on the Math. (He's always been smart - which is why this is driving me CRAZY!)
Me: So what exams do you have tomorrow?
Chaos: Probably either Science or Computer. Or maybe English.
Me: Are you telling me YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT EXAM YOU HAVE EVEN THOUGH WE WENT THROUGH ALL OF THIS YESTERDAY????
Chaos: Chill, Mom. I brought home the study guides.
Me: Let me see them.
Chaos: Here. Ummm - where's my computer one? Wait, here's my math. (Note that he brought home the study guide for an exam he'd already taken!) Ok - this is spelling. Oh wait, that's not a study guide. Hey, could you sign this? I think I was supposed to turn it in last week.
Me: (grrrrr)

My response options seem to consist of growls and questions I can't believe I have to ask.

His teachers tell me he is respectful and participates in class. He's getting decent grades at a "good" school! I have no idea how his this can be so when his organizational skills have clearly relocated to Siberia. All those parenting articles I read about 'object lessons' and 'natural consequences' lied to me! His coaches and karate instructors say that he has good focus and persistence. I just don't get it. I used to work with teenagers and I remember parents saying that to me all the time. Their teenager was driving them crazy and they just didn't get it. I told myself to remember it. And I do. I remember it all the time! But you know, I always thought that remembering it meant I would be able to do something about it. (grrrrrr)
Peace.

Stomping in a Winter Wonderland

My fifth graders had their Christmas program last night. Yeah - and it was all Christmas all the time. Not that I'm going to get into how insane I think the right-wingers are for fighting the non-existent 'War on Christmas'. I'll save the political rant for another time and merely say that there was slim to no chance that anyone in the audience (other than myself) was offended by (or likely even noticed) the lack of holiday inclusivity last night.

Instead of ranting, I'm going to say that I love Christmas carols - especially when sung by my children. And I'm also going to say that there is great mystery involved in this because my children and obviously the entire fifth grade at our neighborhood elementary school are completely and absolutely lacking in musical ability. Mr. H (the music teacher - who is utterly cool and plays Led Zepplin on his guitar for the kids) cannot be blamed. He is dedicated and quite gifted and should get immense credit for even creating a program where the carols could be recognized as carols, given the raw lack of talent he had to work with. The children, untroubled by their non-musicality, were clearly having a great time. The program was a half hour of perky, modern Christmas medleys followed by three or four traditional hymns - all choreographed with arm motions, head bobs, claps, and sways.

The claps were the most painful. You could tell that a clapping part was coming up because there were a few foreshadowing claps. Then there was a stacato burst of almost on-beat clapping which trailed off into random clapping punctuaion over the next few verses of the song. But the only reason that the clapping was the most painful is because there was more of it. Otherwise the "What the hell was Mr. H thinking?!" award would have to go to the foot 'tapping' of 102 fifth graders on metal bleachers during "Winter Wonderland". Fortunately the children have even less rhythm in their feet than they do in their hands and so the parents/grandparents/assorted siblings were not deafened, merely startled. And only two fifth graders (neither one mine) fell off the bleachers - one slowly tipping backwards and the other with arms spiraling, making a theatric leap off and then back on. If either of them cried out, the sound was lost in the uninterrupted stomping and humming. Did I mention the humming? I'm not sure Mr. H had planned the humming. It only came from one side of the bleachers and evaporated under what may have been a quelling glance. Come to think of it though, that may also have been a concerned glance since that was the side with the tumbling angels. Hard to tell when, as parents, we only see the back of Mr. H's head. What we could tell was that Mr. H must have exhausted his repertoire of hand/feet motions because after "Winter Wonderland" the children mostly stared dramatically out into the lights with their hands clasped in front of them as the program wound down.

The finale was the off-key (and yet no less angelic) rendition of "Silent Night". I got misty-eyed. In spite of having to sit next to the Tapioca Head (= the ex whom I refuse to blog about even though he sooo deserves it after the last few days) and in spite of having a feverish Sweet Hubby miss the program entirely to stay home with an equally feverish (and also throwing up) seven-year old - I thoroughly enjoyed the school program. One of those Christmas miracles. It got me in the holiday spirit (although I'd personally like to rearrange the phrase and say I am now in the spirit of the holidays.) So....

Ho ho ho, y'all. <------Actual line from the last night's program. (In fact, they said it twice.)
Merry Christmas. <----Which they also said twice.
And Happy Holidays! Happy Yule! Happy Kwanza! Happy Hanukah! <----None of which they said, but which I say.
And Peace.

Breakfast of Champions

Coke and Cheetos.
Before you get too worried, I have to explain that these are NATURAL Cheetos. No preservatives, no artificial flavors, no artificial colors, no orange crud on my keyboard - VERY healthy. Although I have to digress and say I am forevermore plagued by the words 'no preservatives'. I cannot see those words without remembering my little babushka Russian teachers tittering and then cackling and elbowing each other. You see, in Russia (or the Soviet Union as it was called when I learned Russian) 'preservative' means condom.
Yes, I am eating a condom free breakfast.
And you?
Peace.

Cardinal Rules

I will not blog about my ex. I will not blog about my ex. I will not blog about my ex. (If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all, right? And no one wants to hear what a tapioca head he is anyway. But grrrrr.)
I will not blog about laundry. Joshilyn Jackson says that one mustn't unless one has something terribly exciting to say about laundry. I believe her example had something to do with finding an entire herd of possums inhabiting one's washer (eeek). I have had lots of laundry and not a single possum (thank heavens!!!) .
I will not blog about car problems or various sick people (other than to say that I'm happy that both car and kids are not worse than they are. I am grateful for the good prognosises (prognosi? prognoses? sheesh someday I'm going to get the hang of those plurals) ).
I will not blog about cold, gray, blah, blah, and very blaaaaah weather. (Really I won't.)
I will not blog about work. Or about how much Christmas stresses me out.
I will not blog about how much I didn't get to write (especially when I didn't get to write because I was so tied up with all of the things I just promised not to blog about.)
Hmmmmm - the blog fodder larder is getting low.
Taking a page from DebR's book (um, or really, her blog) - I will instead make a mini BLISS list.
So far, a few of the things that are making me feel Blissful in December are -
I've gotten to spend a (long, wonderful) weekend with my Very Best Girlfriend (VBGF). Talk, talk, talk, talk, talk!
Sweet Hubby - brilliant man - gave me the book I've been wanting AND some time to read it!
The Colts are still undefeated and at least the Titans beat the Texans.
The very things I've wanted to get Sweet Hubby for so long were on clearance (75% off!) for Christmas.
I saw the movie Pride and Prejudice with SH and VBGF and, oh the language! I was drenched in beautiful language.
This will be the first Christmas in the new house. What fun!
Many of my friends will be home (=back in town) for the holidays and I'll get to spend time with them.
I've reconncected with a friend from 25 years ago and we're writing a book together!
The fabric in my stash makes me giddy and joyful.
I was teaching my seven year old about singing in rounds - and the only one I could think of was from my youth group days with the words "Father I adore thee, lay my life down before thee, how I lo-ve thee" - and my son sang back to me "Mama I adore thee, you gave me life and I love thee, how I lo-ve you". I cried and gave him a big hug and laughed with him about how much fun it is to have such a wonderful loving family (because he wanted to make up verses for his brothers and sister and step-father and oh - just everyone else he loves too.) In fact, I have to say - that was my most blissed out moment. Love, just pouring out in laughter and song, connecting us to each other and to everyone we love.
Is it possible to have a cardinal guideline? I'm not so fond of RULES - but I am tempted to post a note to myself here "Blog more about the Bliss and less about the Piss."
Just a getle reminder (because what I really, really wanted to do was vent about my least favorite tapioca head!)
Peace.

Blame it on the Crate Training

Did I mention that I've never had my own dog until now?
Here are some things I never ever knew about having a puppy before:
-Puppy teeth fall out. On the carpet. Where you can step on them. Ewww. And ouch!
-Puppies do not understand that 'day off from the shop' is supposed to mean 'uninterrupted time to write'.
-It is cute and fun when your puppy buries his little rawhide 'bone' in the courtyard garden. It is not NEARLY as cute when your puppy digs up and brings back to you his slimy, dirty, now well-seasoned treasure.
-Puppies will try to chew on anything. ANYTHING. Like the toilet.
-Puppies do not all naturally take to 'crate training'. SOME puppies spend the ENTIRE first night exploring the crate: banging into the corners, ramming their heads into the top of the crate, slamming into the metal grate door, turning somersaults, thumping and bumping and whining, chewing and grumbling, yipping and growling.
-Some new puppy moms - especially the ones who need more sleep than the average bear - feel postal at about 1 a.m. on the first night of crate training. Some new puppy moms try to alleviate their postal-ness by thininking of all the reasons why she loves her puppy and why she wanted a puppy in the first place. Some new puppy moms run out of reasons at 1:03 a.m.
-Some new puppy dads - especially the ones who have prior experience both with dogs and with wives who don't get enough sleep - should be nominated for saint hood because they (finally!) take the not-cute-anymore, noisy, little beast to the other end of the house and leave the quiet bedroom all to the new puppy mom.
-Some new puppy moms - even the ones who because of their dear and nearly sainted husbands finally got three hours of sleep - drive their 13 year old sons to middle school in their pajamas completely forgetting that their hair is in a curly, red pony tail on the very tip top of their head which makes them look like Dr. Seuss had a thing or two to do with their appearance.
-Puppies - even the ones who have been subjected to crate training - give kisses and jump for joy and scamper like mad things and do the happy puppy dance when their puppy mom returns from the drive to the middle school and back that took a whole ten minutes.

Maybe I should be the one to sleep in the crate tonight.
Peace.

Thanksgiving without the Turkey

Today I am feeling tired, wrung, lifeless. 'Plumb wore out' as the phrase goes. I don't even have enough energy to have another terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. No, today is the kind of gray, wet, cold, day where everything that is bad and difficult and logistically frustrating is just that - bad, difficult, frustrating.
On days like today something happens inside my head and my heart when I begin to ennumerate for myself all of the obstacles and irritations facing me. My brain gets stuck on the problems and can find no solutions and my heart can offer only consolation, no actual 'help'. My mind wails and worries about how six people are going to get where they need to be with no functioning cars and my heart says, "Thank heavens it's not sleeting." My head frets about the best way to help my mother take care of her desperately ill brother and my heart says, "Oh I am so glad I had that Southwest rapid rewards ticket to give her". On and on through my list. At every point of hardship, I am spurred to gratitude. And at some point the gratitude starts to outpace the hardship. It happens every time.
My blessings outweigh my cursings. It's one more thing to be grateful for on a day looming with ickiness. For whatever reason, the spirit of Thanksgiving stays with me long after the leftover turkey has grown green feathery stuff in the fridge.
Peace.

My Reading Maniac's Paradise

See this lovely chair? Right here by the window where there's all kinds of lovely light? There is another one of these chairs (only slanted the other way) on the other side of the table.

See this comfy couch? It's big enough to lie down and stretch out on. Especially if you're 10 years old. And there's even a way cool light that you can bendy bend to just the right angle.

See this love seat? It's cozy. Plenty of room to curl up in. It's right across from the cool chairs and quite close to the long couch and all of the seating is conveniently located in the library, next to the books, with thick, lovely rugs cushioning the cold, hard wood floors. And there's great light everywhere. That is, everywhere except there where the Ninja Princessa chooses to read. See her?

Look more closely. Here, I'll give you a close up.

She is sitting wedged into the darkest corner (next to an unlit candle!) on the cold, hardwood floor. She is, however, as close to the books as it is possible to be without actually, physically crawling ONTO the bookshelf. She opens a book and the rest of the world matters not.

If I ever can't find her, this is where I'm looking next.

Scaring the Neighbors

You know the old Kool-Aid commercials where the neighborhood kids came running from all over - and it looked like they really came from all over? I mean, that was the most integrated, diverse neighborhood ever! My neighborhood is not like that. I wish it were. But it's a little uptight and a lot the color that rhymes with that.

We haven't met many of our new neighbors. I once lived in DC in the same apartment building for years and never even met one of my neighbors until there was a small fire forcing us all outside at the same time. Naturally the fire occured the week before I was moving back down South and I left all of my newfound friends behind. But that was an apartment and it was DC. I assumed when you were a real grown up, moving into a real house, in a real (if homogenous) neighborhood in your hometown - that meeting the neighbors was a cinch. Oh silly girl!

The trouble is, I think we scared 'em the day we moved in. Sweet Hubby is handsome and normal looking and wears glasses and um...is a geek. And when I say geek, I mean it. I score a 42.80079% on the Inner Geek Test which qualifies me as a Major Geek but Sweet Hubby ranks well above Geek Godhood. He works in IT, he is the DM for an RPG every week, he's been in the SCA, he beta tests software (for fun in his spare time - not just for work), etc. His (our) friends are a lot like him (us) - except that for the most part they are, how should I say it...overwhelming in the looks department.
Especially when they're all together. In one place. Like our driveway.
Especially when they're in motion and moving big, heavy objects with the assistance of several "engineered" contraptions or without assistance (like Grant who can (and did) carry our living room couch under one arm).
Especially when they all bring their children to play with our children "to keep them entertained". (I think at one point there were 14 who were 14 or younger.)
I'm only guessing, but I would have to say that the number of tattoos and piercings present in our neighborhood the day we moved hit an all time record high.

Don't get me wrong, individually, each of us navigates the mainstream quite well, thank you very much. But even I have to admit, that it probably looked as if the circus were moving in next door. The few tenative waves we got on Moving Day were reflexive and we haven't actually seen those folks again. I am a pretty big chicken when it comes to walking up to a total stranger and saying hi. I figured though, that it might be my best approach. I gave the neighbors a week or so to notice that all of the folks who helped us move in weren't actually staying around. Then I gathered up my courage and went door to door to the houses closest to us. No one was home. I tried going at different times of day. Still no joy. I actually saw my very next door neighbors (on one side) twice, but they went inside and then didn't answer the door. That was it for my bravery.

Even so, we have finally managed to meet a few folks. The neighbors directly next door (on the other side) are delightful and have children in school and scouts with ours. It's amazing what natural icebreakers children (and new puppies) are. The other neighbors we have gotten to know, we've met entirely because of puppies or children (ours or theirs) who scamper across boundaries. And you know what? Even though the neighborhood looked to be relatively tame and uninteresting, the people we've met are real and imperfect and pleasant to chat with - and one even tells very funny stories.

I've been thinking about all this 'how-to-meet-the-neighbors' stuff because last week I moved into the blogosphere (if I've got the terminology right.) It was a quiet little move. It's probably possible to scare the neighbors in the blogging world but I have no idea how one would do that so I'm pretty sure I haven't done it this time around. I've been lurking and I have to tell you that this new neighborhood is fascinating!!! Filled with quilters and writers and musicians and parents and activists and...
It's terrific.

But I don't know how to meet people. Everyone already seems to know each other (which sounds exactly like one of my children whining on the first day in the new school.) In this new world, I don't have the equivalent of dogs or children, so what's a gal to do?
What I did was...nothing. That's what I did. I did nothing. Well - I lurked. And I fixed up my spot to look like the ones I admire (as best I could figure out how). And THEN out of the blue, rudecactus (whose site I admire bery, bery much - in fact I'd like my blog to be just like his when it grows up) he posted a comment on my blog. I was thrilled - and um, a teeny bit scared because I had no idea how he even knew about my little spot. (After giving the matter some thought, I'm guessing real bloggers know how to use all the functions of their blogging tools - and somewhere there's a statistic that showed him I listed his site in my sidebar as one of my faves.)

His comment gave me great courage. (An interesting stranger said hi just 'cause. How cool is that?!) I went right out and posted a comment of my own somewhere else. Yay!
And then I took a step further out into the neighborhood and actually emailed instead of posting because a) she had a 'contact me' line and 2) I didn't really have a relevant comment but I very much wanted to say hi. And guess what? She dropped by and said hi back!
Thank you DebR and rudecactus for having such lovely sites to begin with and for welcoming me to the neighborhood. I think I'll stay.
Peace.

The Ice Habit

As an addendum to Thrasher and the Land of Cow Poo I would like to say that I think it is exceedingly odd that ice is a 'seasonal item' in Vermont. Not ice outside all frozen, glisteny, and hanging off of trees. (I am in favor of making that a 'seasonal item' whose season lasts, say, for the entire day of December 25th.) No, I'm talking about ice inside all cubey, clinky, and in my glass of coke. But in Vermont (ok, ok - perhaps it's not ALL of Vermont - just in the quaint little village in which my sister lives) you cannot go out and buy a bag of ice. They stop selling it at the market on Labor Day weekend. And you can't buy a fountain drink in her village at any time of the year! Tidget assures me that if you go to the movies (an hour's drive away) they sell fountain drinks but 1) I think that's actually in New Hampshire and b) she says you have to tell them you want extra, extra, extra ice or you only get two cubes. What are they, European?
I asked my sister how she could stand it. Her freezer is tiny! There's not nearly room enough for the number of trays required to keep up with our ice habit. She said it turns out it's just not as much of a problem as she thought it would be. After Labor Day, her entire (uninsulated) pantry starts staying cold enough to freeze trays and trays and trays of ice. Her biggest problem is keeping her new Vermonter friends out of her pantry when she has people over to visit. She says they just wouldn't understand.

What I Meant to Say... (Day 2)

Well - after asking VBGF for the score of the Stenglers game (because my brain apparently couldn't decide which to say first Bengals or Steelers) I realized that I'm still articulizing today. I've noticed that many writers I have heard speak in public actually suck at it. I've been writing like a mad thing for nearly a week which I think is wonderful but I'm beginning to worry about the long term side effects!
The weather here has been entirely too cold and wet to even think about running so I've been living in my cozy little office/quilt studio. I've been quilting (in my head) and writing (in real life.) For about a year those two were reversed. It is a refreshing change, but I realize that when I quilt, I talk to my project. (Oh please let other people do this too. Really it doesn't feel crazy when I do it!) I just chivvy this little corner there. I try different swatches of color on and ask my piece what it thinks. I have a long (and one-sided) conversation with my quilt in progress. When I write I am completely silent. My voice is crackly when my writing time's up. My brain is still locked into the form and picture of the words and my mouth doesn't move as quickly as my hands in delivering the words. This is the best explanation I can offer of my recent trend towards verbalating. In layman's terms - I think I've sprained my brain. Help!

Articulizing and Verbalating (Not So) Early in the Morning

I called my VBGF (=Very Best Girlfriend) this morning at the crack of brunch to catch up with her in general and to ask specifically how her back is. She has had horrendous back pain all week. Yesterday she told me she was going to focus on some relaxation techniques.
So today I asked her how her breathe deeping was going. She paused for a second and we both laughed. Errr, what I meant to say .... It seems I'm having trouble verbalating this morning.
I know there is a specific word linguists use to describe that little switcheroo. I can't think of it right now. I'm not so sure the language center in my brain came on shift when the rest of us did this morning. Considering that I woke up a good five hours later than usual and was promptly served a lovely bowl of cheese grits for breakfast in bed, my brain has absolutely no excuse for beginning the day understaffed. Note to brain: rine and shise! We have work to do today.

Chaos, Ron and the Hair War

When I went to see Goblet of Fire, I knew I'd lost the Hair War. Not that my son, Chaos, wants to look like Ron Weasley or that he'll even admit that the rest of us are right when we say he does - but ...
Having fought my own skirmishes in the Hair War as a teen (with the teachers at my school, not with my parents who were surprisingly cool with the fact of my purple hair) I have to admit Chaos has a point. I don't buy into the "but everybody does it/has one" philosophy most of the time. But he's 13. He gets to have some say-so over his image and he is arguably correct that the image he is projecting to his peers is not that of the grungy thug that I think he looks like most of the time. The end of the battle went something like this.
Chaos: "Mom - you LIKE Ron. You think he's cute."
Me: "Yes, but he needs a hair cut too!"
Yeah, no chance at victory.
He has to keep it clean and out of his eyes though. Those are the terms of surrender.
I guess it could be worse. He could have gone for the Napoleon Dynamite look.

Our very own Mona Lisa

I think she's been practicing this look in the mirror. It is startlingly beautiful. Wisely childish, softly mature.

She has the sigh mastered. She's working on wistful. The pout was her very first accomplishment. She dabbled a bit with flouncing but it came off as indignant. She gave it up.

She doesn't want to act, she says. She wants to write. Being in front of people makes her nervous. Makes her throw up.

Writing is more dramatical.
Sigh.

100 Things about Lilymane (and Tribe)

1. I self-identify as Southern even though I was born in Queens, NYC and was raised by parents from Southern California (which is not to be confused with being raised in Southern California by queens from NYC - although that would have been waaaaaay more interesting.)
2. I'm terrible at questionaires because either my answer isn't one of the offered options or I have two answers and only one blank.
3. I am an and/both kinda gal.
4. I love seafood.
5. I always want to know the story behind the author or artist - but I could care less about the love lives of Hollywood stars.
6. I went to an all-girls' school for seven years.
7. Then I joined the Navy.
8. That was a VERY big change.
9. I am not bi-cola. When they ask what kind of Coke I want (which they do in the South), I say "Coke". Pepsi is not alright with me.
10. I wore red glasses just like Buckaroo Bonzai's.
11. I loved them.
12. I didn't skip a class until I was a junior in college.
13. I called my dad long distance to tell him I was skipping.
14. He called me a nerd (ummm, or perhaps he used the word 'egghead') and hung up on me.
15. I have five children - three by giving birth to them and two the "easy" way by getting divorced (i.e. having my soul shredded) and remarrying a fabulous single dad.
16. I LOVE being a mama.
17. My oldest (one of my obtained the 'easy' way ones) is Bug - he's 15. Egad! Driving soon.
18. My next oldest (the one I birthed first) is Chaos - he's 13. 'Nuff said.
19. Oh - here's a good place to mention that red hair was so prevalent in my family tree that it didn't skip for seven generations. Until my generation that is.
20. Chaos has red hair.
21. Mayhem (= birthed son #2) is blond and blue eyed and wants to grow up to be a dwarf.
22. Mayhem is famous for (at age 4) saying that he liked swords, but he LOVED axes. (He's 11 now and is a natural fencer - we're discouraging the axe thing.)
23. The Ninja Princessa (the second of the easily obtained ones) is my only girl. At 10, she loves Harry Potter (yay!) and shopping (eeek!) She is writery and dramatic. We like that about her. (Mostly.)
24. Havoc (= birthed son #3) is also blond and blue eyed. We call him Mr. Enthusiastic - he's a doll. He's also freaking brilliant. We have no idea where that came from.
25. I am not having any more children.
26. I believe in the whole village concept though, so I certainly plan to help raise a few more.
27. I fully intend to live to be 100+.
28. I have known six out of eight of my great-grandparents and all of my grandparents - I'm grateful to have the long-life gene thing going for me.
29. I completed my first triathlon (a decade after I started training for it).
30. I didn't lose a single pound doing it. What's up with that??
31. I completed my degree in French Literature (13 years after I started it.)
32. I may have completion issues.
33. I have a thing for rocks. Diamonds are ok - but I really prefer granite.
34. I am a complete klutz - on land.
35. I am exquisitely graceful - in water.
36. I am an ardent feminist.
37. I LOVE NFL football.
38. Those last two are difficult for me to reconcile.
39. I am allergic to most perfumes.
40. I am a cat person.
41. I have a dog. A cute dog. Who feels like a cat. Who acts like a dog . Who looks like a rug.
42. I like LOTS of ice in my drinks. In fact, the ice is the point of the beverage for me.
43. Um, except tequila. I don't put ice in that. Corralejo (Reposado - the one in the gorgeous tall blue bottle) - that's a tequila to sip - sans ice.
44. Although - I suppose margaritas are tequila over ice - and I like those a LOT. So ignore 43 (but I'm not going to take it out because 100 is hard enough to get to even though I'm cheating by putting in things about the Sweet Hubby, my Very Best Girlfriend, and the kids and the dog for heaven's sake!)
45. Sweet Hubby! Sweet Hubby= SH=Top Dog. I married a younger man. Ok - he's only one year younger. And half the time he forgets which one of us is older. Still. I'm just saying...
46. S.H. has beautiful bluey green/brown eyes - like river water. With sunlight sparkling on it.
47. S.H. is in I.T. (Hmmmmm.)
48. Gads - I'm not even half way there yet! Who came up with the number 100 anyway?
49. My Very Best Girlfriend=VBGF=The Love Piranha (don't ask me, she had that nick name before I knew her) is a younger woman. Ok - she's only six months younger, but she brings it up a LOT.
50. VBGF has beautiful bluey blue/blue eyes - like crazy, freaking gorgeous blue water found in the Caribbean next to Islands of Paradise. We try not to hate her for this.
51. VBGF is a 7th grade math teacher.
52. Chaos is in 7th grade.
53. VBGF lives in a whole 'nother state and therefore is NOT Chaos' math teacher - but we compare notes a LOT.
54. Harry Potter and I have the same birthday.
55. My cool points with the kids went WAY up when they found this out.
56. I LOVE trees, real trees.
57. Not Bradford pears. Bradford pears are the American cheese of trees.
58. Speaking of cheese, I LOVE cheese. (But not American cheese because it's icky.)
59. I used to have purple hair.
60. It wasn't against my high school's rules. Until I did it. I got amnesty but they changed the handbook.
61. I don't have purple hair anymore. Now it's red.
62. I used to wear safety pins in the corner of my mouth (hey, it was the 80's).
63. I don't do that anymore.
64. Now I have a pierced lip.
65. I guess I haven't evolved so much.
66. Speaking of evolution - I'm all for it. Intelligent design is veeeeery interesting (if you define 'interesting' as 'dumb as a bag of hair'.)
67. I'm also pro-choice.
68. I'm also attached to the concepts of social justice, clean, healthy environments, and equality.
69. I'm a 'blue' (not to be confused with either 'cold-to-the-point-of-near-death' or 'sad') girl living in a 'red' (easily confused with 'right-wing, oppressive, theocratic') state.
70. I'm not political.
71. I have a security blanket. Like Linus.
72. I like books. I love books. I heart books. I want more books. I am not a good candidate for a library card. I am pathologically unable to return books to the library ever (forget on time.)
73. I think all life changing moments should happen on the beach.
74. I LOATHE, DESPISE, and HATE the Dallas Cowboys.
75. I'm not terribly fond of the whole state of Texas.
76. Except I like Mary Kay. She was a cool frood. (Even if the pink cadillac thing is odd.)
77. I was on a plane to Tokyo when Emperor Hirohito's death was announced.
78. I went to the Tobermory Highland games when I was 15.
79. I learned (the embarassing way) that 'cider' in Scotland is not the same as the apple cider we have in the States. No wonder it tasted so good.
80. I was in Rome on Epiphany in 1985 when it snowed.
81. My classmates and I had a snowball fight with a bunch of Roman boys before our audience with Pope John Paul II. The snowball fight was pictured in an over head shot in Nat'l Geographic. I'm famous! That's me - the aqua dot right there.
82. I'm not catholic.
83. I went to catholic school for three years (before the all girls' school.)
84. Did you know that they make the non-catholic kids scrub the bird poop off of the statue of the Virgin Mary's head the day before May Day so when the catholic kids process up with their little flower wreaths singing "Oh Mary we crown thee with blossoms today; Queen of the angels, queen of the May" they don't have to lay them upon a pile of guano? Ah, the things I learned at catholic school....
85. My family belonged to the JCC (Jewish Community Center) when I was a kid.
86. My family was never even close to being Jewish. My mother was raised Christian Scientist and became an Episcopalian. My father was raised Southern Baptist, so naturally, by the time I was around, he had become an atheist. No Jewish grandmothers or anything. Can't explain the JCC choice - but it was lovely and they had a great pool.
87. Bowling with the Lutherans was fun.
88. I picked up more mixed messages about religion than I did about sex.
89. And that's saying something.
90. My father told me when I was a teenager that he would obtain any drug I wanted to experiment with. And he would sit there and watch me try it. That way I'd know the difference between a fun drug and a party atmosphere. He also told me that if I did any experimenting with drugs in a party atmosphere instead of with him in a decidedly not-party atmosphere and I got caught and sent to jail, not to waste my one phone call calling him, because he'd leave my ass in jail.
91. I didn't do any drugs whatsoever.
92. I drank like a fish, but no drugs. No way. Nope. Way too scary. (My dad was waaaaayy too scary.)
93. I don't watch tv shows. Only football.
94. I am passionate about art quilting. I will bore the crap out of you if you let me get started talking about art quilts.
95. I don't care which side of the bed I sleep on.
96. I also don't care which way the toilet paper roll faces (as long as there is some tp, I'm cool.)
97. I have a hard time believing people get worked up over that kind of thing.
98. However, it drives me batshit when people (big or small people) touch the stuff on my desk.
99. I love reading the dictionary (but I don't admit that often - I must be scraping the bottom of the barrel).
100. I am unbelievably perky and insufferably awake at 5 am. I am usually exceedingly asleep after 9 pm. Don't know what's up with tonight.

There you have it. A century of enlightening and useless facts about the dwellers of Lilymania.

Peace.