How Do You Break A Tuba?

This evening was the 20th annual TubaChristmas here in the frozen north, and La Famille Evil was there. What is TubaChristmas you ask? And well you might!

There is history, and pedagogy, and performance standards, etc., behind TubaChristmas, but what it turns out to be in actual fact is 117 tuba, Sousaphones, euphoniums (euphonia?) and other assorted members of the Tuba Family. They swarm into a single location, in this case, the sanctuary of our church, and with essentially no practice, perform a hour of Christmas carol while the audience sings along.

And really, how often do you see 117 tubas in one place? Which begs the question: why would you want to?

How do you break a tuba?
With a tuba four.

TubaChristmas has its own website, tubachristmas.com--because tubas are on the technological cutting edge. Do you see any saxophonechristmas website? Huh?

When 117 tubas start to play, the floor vibrates, and the ends of your fingers buzz. Singing along with massed tubas is easiest for altos and basses, as the range is pretty low.

There is something about the kind of person who becomes a tuba player. Who actually pays money for the opportunity to play the tuba. Voluntarily! Quite a few horns were decorated: one woman had her bell stuffed full of poinsettias; a couple were draped with lights that changed color and blinked. Ornaments and even tiny stockings hung off a few, and one Sousaphone had a red light deep in the bell, that cast a rather eerie glow.

Someone even had a "double belled euphonium" which I had only ever heard about in The Music Man, in the song "Seventy-Six Trombones."

Tuba players also dress funny when gathering--top hats, elf hats, scarves & hats that say "Tuba Christmas" and are available at the website.

How do you fix a tuba?
With a tuba glue.

With all apologies to tuba players everywhere--but it is truly a different culture.

Do You Hear What I Hear?

The Famille Evil attended a Christmas concert this evening. The conductor and MC was an older woman who spoke very quickly, and so her words tended to blur together as they traveled the vast open spaces up to the balcony where we sat.

The event included a sing along of old, well known carols--first verses only--but some are not often sung these days. Thus, I had the following whispered colloquy with Bunny:

Bunny: What did she say?

Me: "Good King Wenceslaus."

Bunny: I thought she said "Good King What's-his-face."

See how the brain works to make some sense of random syllables?

The Continuing Saga Of Orientalizing

We continue to Orientalize the Pony's bedroom. Most recent additions are a dark wood and bamboo hamper, a Japanese noren (the split curtains that were once used as doors to the house) depicting two dragons fighting, and the installation of the Chinese Warriors wallpaper border.

The delay in hanging the wallpaper (I almost said "the hang up!" Aren't you glad I didn't?) has been that I have a hole in my memory where the words "wallpaper adhesive" simply disappear and are never heard from again. I can't tell you how many times I have made a mental note to remember the wallpaper adhesive, and how many times I have come home without it.

Today I made a special trip to the Big Box Hardware 'N' Construction Shoppe (aka Menards) and got my equipment.

It's really not too difficult to hang a wallpaper border, I hummed to myself, as I measured the wall, and laid out the border, and happily slapped wallpaper paste on the back side. The Pony's room is like all the rooms on our second floor--at least one side of every room has a sloped ceiling. As a result, there are really only two walls where we think a border looks right, so that's about 18 feet, which is exactly how long the . . .

Wait a minute. . .

Wasn't that supposed to be 18 feet of wallpaper for $15, or was it 15 feet of wallpaper border for $18?

I am 3 feet short. Three stinkin' little feet short of what I needed to actually finish the room! You can see how I messed up those numbers, though. I was certain--absolutely positive--that I only needed one roll of border.

Oh well. I'll let Pony look it over and decide if she wants the border on the other walls as well. Might as well order a couple of rolls at once, if that's what she's going to want to do.

Sigh.

Seasonal Television!

Ah, a cold and snowy Sunday night. Mr. Sweetie is off on another business trip, and the kidlets are taking care of themselves. It's a night of sorting laundry and watching cheesy movies on television. And what do we have on screen tonight? A "Christmas" movie on the "ABC Family" channel called Holiday in Handcuffs. Which is to Christmas movies what The Love Boat was to Saturday night television--slightly romantic, less "naughty" than it thinks it is, wholly unbelievable story about people who are complete strangers who end up in love after only three days!

This one stars Melissa Joan Hart and Mario Lopez as the unlikely couple, and the plot really does not matter. I'm not kidding. It really doesn't. Trust me. I watched totally watched it for Mario Lopez's dimples, which were as completely charming as ever.

What surprised me, was the Dad. Melissa Joan Hart's movie dad was played by, well, he looked like George W. Bush, only slightly less chimp-ish.

This is Timothy Bottoms! Timothy Bottoms! I couldn't believe it. I mean, Timothy Bottoms used to be in big deal movies--according to IMDB, he was in Paper Chase, he was in The Last Picture Show, he was in Look Homeward Angel! Now he's in an off-brand cable movie with Sabrina the Teen Age Witch and Slater from Saved By The Bell, and he's billed lower than Markie Post and June Lockhart! His character doesn't even have a name--he's listed as "Dad Chandler."

I have vivid memories of being introduced to Timothy Bottoms in the TV miniseries version of John Steinbeck's East of Eden, where he tended to gaze off into the middle distance while Jane Seymour (later to become television's Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman, as well as a Star who Dances) proceeded to act circles around him. But still!

It turns out that Timothy Bottoms has, in fact, played George Bush for a Comedy Central series that I have never seen, called "That's My Bush!" so I'm not the only one who thinks he looks like our Primate In Chief.

It sure made it hard for me to warm up to him as a father figure, that's for sure.

As predictable as this movie was, it did have some nice touches. I actually laughed as Markie Post shows Mario Lopez to his room, and Melissa Joan Hart takes a stand. "Mother, I am 27 years old. I am going to stay in the same room as my boyfriend and that's all there is to it." The next scene, we see they have been given the room with the bunk bed.

Porn For Women!

Despite the title, this is a perfectly acceptable SFW post. (Hi Mom!) It is the title of this book I found today while browsing for Christmas gifts. Consider this my virtual Christmas gift to all my girlfriends out there.

Contrary to what is often presented as porn for women, it is not actually aimed at gay men (yes, I'm talking about you, Playgirl), but presents what women really want. And what they really want is a good looking man, a bit of consideration, and a good chuckle.

Take a look inside the book at the Amazon site, but the best ones are farther inside. Who could resist a sensitive New Age guy looking straight at you and saying "I know! Let's take you shoe shopping!" Or a hunky dude gazing lovingly at you across the breakfast table saying "The football playoffs are today, so we should have no trouble finding parking at the craft fair."

True, the particular guys aren't really my type--none of them look nearly as good as Mr. Sweetie (especially in a tux!), but even so. . .

Play It Forward

The wholly delightful ~moe~ (Hi moe!) has inducted me into a game which she calls "Pay It Forward." (You will have to scroll down to the proper entry-sorry.)

Due to my famously fractured reading skills (Does that sign say 'matinee' or "manatee?'), I thought it said "Play It Forward" and now that's how I think of it.

At any rate, I'm doing my part and inviting you, the reader, to play too. Here's the deal. The first three people who respond to this post will receive a handmade gift from me, the Mistress of All Evil. I don't know what it will be yet--I have a number of things I make that I'm pretty good at, and some stuff I'm currently experimenting with. It might be a watercolor painting, a piece of glass jewelry, something made from paper--with me, you just never know. Oh, well, the odds are good it will be shiny, somehow.

Your job is to "play it forward." You need to post on your blog (or other medium of contact--I'm pretty open minded about these things) the same offer--that you will send something handmade to the first three people who respond.

I am tremendously grateful to ~moe~ for starting this game, as it assuages my poutiness over not having won anything from NaBloPoMo. I'm looking forward to getting a surprise from her, AND I'm getting the fun of plotting what I am going to send to you.

Although he doesn't know it yet, this also makes Christmas much easier for Mr. Sweetie, since it takes A CUBIC TON of stress off him. He is no longer under the obligation of finding the perfect "shiny and pretty and exactly what I wanted and I never even knew such a thing existed and I never would have asked for it and now that I have it I can never live without it" gift.

See! Everybody wins!

Radar Love - Golden Earring 1973

Finslippy has this video on her site, which is one of my favorite blogs around. In fact, if you haven't read her, you should stop right now and go read her stuff, as it is totally worth it.

I'll still be here when you get back.

Back already? I guess it doesn't take long to add her to your favorites list, does it? So, she posted this video, which made me smile. However, I had my doubts about it. This does not look like any kind of 1973 anything. The hair is wrong, the leather jacket is wrong, the pants are too skinny, the whole tone is just too "ironic" for 1973, despite what it says on the front of the video. I could believe 1983, maybe, or even a little bit later, but never 1973.

So I went exploring the web for info on Golden Earring. Imagine my surprise! They've been around forever! Thirty albums? THIRTY albums? No way.

I still wasn't able to get any info about the date of the video, but the boys are apparently still working together, and were considering another US tour as recently as about 2003, so a post-dated video is certainly possible. But, be honest. When you listen to "Radar Love," tell me you don't think of some skinny boys with long hair and skin tight pants. Sort of like Aerosmith still looks today.

Here's what Golden Earring really looked like in 1973:



That I believe.

Words To Live By

This one came home from middle school yesterday:

When things get bad, remember--it takes more muscles to show your middle finger than it takes to punch someone in the face.

I hesitate to ask. I really don't want to know.

More CRAP

I seem to be getting used to the CRAP machine, as I'm sleeping through the night, mostly, with it on, and I mostly am waking up after about 8 1/2 hours of sleep. I'm also noticing that I wake up more quickly--more of a single awakening, and less of a return to the surface after a deep dive.

They told me to expect that my dreams would be more vivid once I started using the machine, and I have to tell you that they were pretty darn vivid anyway.

Just the other night, I had a dream that featured both Henry Kissinger and Kevin Federline. It contained this bizarre statement from Kissinger: "Been there, done that, ate the Red Hots."

I have no idea what that means.

Mighty Fine Pencil Cups!

I did a fun little project here at home over the last two days, and I thought I would share it with you.

I have been trying other forms of art down at the studio, and have hauled out a big old mess of materials. I had so much stuff around that I literally had a 2"x2" area to work, and that just ain't right! I managed to do some organizing on the fly, but it was quickly apparent that I was going to need some kind of storage for markers and paint brushes.

Our Cool Friend has her art supplies set up on a spare room, and has literally dozens of markers tucked in mason jars. This is a very cool solution because it is inexpensive, it allows her to see the colors, it is easily moved to where she can reach, and it looks oh so cool.

Of course! I need some kind of cool pencil cups! But we're talking about me, here, and why use tastefully simple mason jars when I can make something shiny and colorful?

So I went to the nearby JoAnn Fabrics and picked up some lovely sari cloth in Cate-friendly colors: purple, pink and blue. I don't know if anyone uses this fabric for actual saris, but the patterns were lovely with a wide border detail, and they were 60% off! I bought half a yard of each of the three colors.















Since the fabric was so lovely, it didn't matter what I used for the cup, so I salvaged some aluminum cans from the recycling and ran them through the dishwasher. This made them extra clean, plus it dissolved the label adhesive so the labels just rolled off.

Then came the affixing of the fabrics. I have only ever used Mod Podge once, as part of a Girl Scout troop project. The girls made holiday plates, by using Mod Podge on seasonal fabric on the reverse side of a glass plate. I used the left-overs, and made a pencil cup. So I got myself some Mod Podge and a foam brush and started sticking.

















I did three different fabrics, and left them to dry overnight. In the harsh light of morning, however, it was pretty obvious that this darkened the fabric and made it very dull. The light no longer played over the satin and metallic threads. Here you see what the Mod Podged fabric looks like next to the original fabric. I wanted the lighter color, obviously.














The advantage of using aluminum cans for my base is that the Podged fabric peeled right off. If it hadn't, there were others I could get pretty darn easily.

So the Mod Podge didn't work. What would? I wondered--very briefly--if I could sew a can cozy and slip it on like that. However, my sewing machine died, and I can't hand sew very well.

So I turned to the good old reliable--E6000.

It actually worked great! I smeared it around on the can, and wrapped the fabric around. It didn't soak through the fabric, so it didn't darken the colors, and it had a long enough setting time so I could adjust the fabric, but with a strong enough bond that the fabric didn't slide out of place.














I ended up doing four different ones this time around. One thing I didn't do was adjust for the ombre effect on the fabric. The borders were noticeably darker than the body of the fabric, so the pink and the purple ones look almost the same. I turned the pink around on the fourth one, so I got the reverse pattern of pink on gold.














I think I will have to do something about the ravelling, but right now it's not too bad. I could probably use a spray acrylic, but I don't really want to risk darkening the fabric again. I'm looking forward to taking these down to my studio and filling them up!

Snowblowing for Idiots

The snow has been sifting down all day--not a big heavy snow, but a gentle and constant drift of flakes all day. It's very similar to what sifting powdered sugar looks like.

Does anybody even have a sifter anymore? (Apparently they do--which shows you what an excellent baker I am too.)(Because, when I say "excellent" I mean "half-assed.")

My mission today was to equip our snowblower with a new gas can, fresh gas and oil. Which only took me to three different hardware stores, plus the gas station, but that's not important.

What is important is that I filled the tank, and started it up and started to blow snow. And it quickly became apparent that I don't know what I am doing when it comes to snowblowing. Does everybody have to stop at the end of each pass and switch the blow thingie to the other side? It seems like there is probably some pattern that you can use to clear the driveway without having to stop every couple of feet to switch the blower. It is probably passed down from generation to generation, from father to son, which is why I don't know it.

Is it like the Zamboni pattern at the ice rink? Overlapping concentric ovals? Is there some way to avoid blowing snow into the garage?

And how do you get the snowblower from the back of the house to the front of the house? Our lot runs the width of the block, so we front on two streets instead of a street and an alley. Should I just go around the end of the block and clear their sidewalks as I go?

Who do I even ask? Is there a Snow Blower Guru who can answer my questions?

How do you clear your sidewalks?

mmblmm mbbblmbm I'm Sorry mummmble mmm

My last post, in which I demonstrated my big baby-ness? I feel the obligation to clarify. I'm not dangerously depressed. I'm not even mildly depressed. I have a wonderful handsome, smart, funny, sexy, kind, articulate husband who is fully involved in our family life. I have two sweet, kind, responsible, funny, delightful girls. I have a charming little house in a charming neighborhood, I have my own car, I have lovely things. I have my own studio, where I can do any damn thing I want. I have a sweet little doggy who couldn't be more attached to me. I have more than enough blessings in my life, and I know I am a very very lucky woman.

But I still want presents. I'm fully aware of just how spoiled I am.

I'm putting on my big girl panties now, and dealing with it. </whining>

In Which I Reveal How Shallow I Really Am

Okay, so you know that scene that kicks off all the drama in Sleeping Beauty Disney version TM? Maleficient (that would be me) gets her bloomers all in a bundle because she wasn't invited to the party. So she takes it out on the baby, who OBVIOUSLY was the one composing the guest list, or at least gummed Maleficent's invitation into a soggy mess of linen fibers (royalty ALWAYS uses linen based papers--so much more expensive!)

To recap: (allegedly) adult woman has small social set back, takes it out on the innocent.

Now, let's talk about me.

I posted every day in November for NaBloPoMo, and got a lot of joy out of it. I found myself looking at my own life in new and creative ways, and I had fun punching the randomizer and seeing lots of other people's approach to this crazy internet blogging thing. I did it for the pure thrill of seeing if I could do it, and it more than repaid my efforts.

But I didn't get a prize.

And now I'm feeling kind of, well, sad and unloved and just damn sorry for myself, because I love presents so much.

Not that I wanted or needed or would know what the hell to do with a baby sling, or a hand knitted purse or even a Wordpress blog makeover. Not that I need a Barnes & Noble gift certificate, or iTunes, or even a sock zombie all of which I can take my own damn self shopping for to get.

But it would have been so nice to have gotten something anyway.

It gets worse. Because on Saturday, some really cool and energetic and impressive and charming and good-looking friends of ours (they really are all that) had a Holiday Open House. Not just an open house, though, because they had gone up and down Grand Avenue and gotten donations from just about all the businesses within a mile and a half of their condo, and they stood outside on a cold and snowy day and gave away free coffee, cocoa, cider and cookies in return for a donation to a local women's shelter. Donations in any amount were converted into raffle tickets which were drawn at the end of the evening for the prizes.

And I didn't win any of those prizes either.

I know you are all feeling sorry for me, but I can't hear your sympathetic remarks over the keening of my sad violin music. And I can't talk now, because my lower lip is stuck out so far as I pout.

I even know that, logically, there are so many people who would get more out of these prizes than I would. I know that I am better off without more stuff coming into out little bijoux of a house. I know that it's awfully selfish of me, when the whole point is to raise money for women who aren't even living in their own homes. I know I know I know I know!

But I still want presents. Just like Lucy.

Blair Muppets

My kids keep referring to this video, so I had to watch it.




Actually, I do think that joke is funny: What do you get when you cross the Atlantic with the Titanic?

Halfway!

I'm a parent--doesn't that mean I am de facto humor impaired?

School Days

My kids go to school. Do your kids go to school, or did they go to school between the ages of 5 and 18 (more or less)? If so, you may have encountered an interesting phenomenon that I have noticed around schools. It's called "teaching."

Maybe it's better called "educating." I have taught some classes in the past, and I certainly think of my activity as "teaching" regardless of whether the students understood any of it. I think they did, but that is what "educating" connotes for me. Teachers teach, and when the students learn, then we have what is whimsically called "education."

Now, take my kids. No! I mean don't take my kids--they are old enough to be fit to live with, so I'll keep 'em, thanks so much. Instead, let's use my kids as examples. They are smart. They are responsible. They pay attention in class and turn in their homework.

They both are frustrated beyond belief by math.

Now math, in our house, is not a bogeyman--we like math, Mr. Sweetie and I. I took math up through calculus, and Mr. Sweetie went so far that his math stopped using numbers at all. Sometimes--geeks that we are--we will race each other to figure out the solution to a math question that arises. Math holds no terrors to us.

And yet our girlies have each stated authoritatively that "my brain just doesn't do math." Now, I have some sympathy, in that they are both such voracious readers, and as a result they have found language arts, and selling, and such activities to come easily to them. Math, however, does not come so easily.

This is not really a surprise--there are very few activities in which you could pick up, say, the multiplication tables as a side benefit. At least not since they stopped running "Schoolhouse Rock" on Saturday morning television.





So, I have sat with the girls and talked them through their homework, and we do pretty well, even with the potentially fraught mother-daughter dynamic. So, I started looking for a math tutor.

Do you even know how many different businesses there are which exist solely to teach your kids what their school can't? Which makes one wonder: if there are this many people making a living teaching kids who aren't learning in school, then what is going on in school?

Mind you, my kids are in a school with kids who are all fluent in English, who largely are from intact families, with a teacher-student ratio that's as good as you will find anywhere. And my girls are just not getting their heads around math.

Me, I of course assume that it's our problem to solve, and start looking for a tutor. I called a friend of mine, whose daughter had been going to a math tutor, to ask for advice, and she raised their radical idea: shouldn't the school actually teach our kids?

And it makes me wonder, why are my kids having such trouble with math? Pony is learning Chinese, where every word has a different character, plus she's learning all her vocabulary in pinyin (which uses the same alphabet we do), plus she's having to learn all the different tones, because one word will mean up to four different things, depending on how it is pronounced. Does she ever get fed up and frustrated? No!

Bunny is studying German, in which "die" is pronounced "dee," and learning to read music (finally!). . .does she say her brain just doesn't get German? Of course not!

But math! Why is math so hard? Why are my girls, who soak up learning like Bounty absorbs spills, having trouble with math? And why do girls generally have trouble with math? Why do we worry about Reviving Ophelia in the middle school years--what is wrong with how we teach math?

I don't know, and I have gotten them into a program for now (which is a whole different post), but I still puzzle over this. Of course, if I had the answer, I think I'd be rich beyond my dreams, so maybe this bears thinking about.

Mental Math

I ran out of the house this morning to drop the girlies off at church, where they were met by Mr. Sweetie, who had to run during the Xmas play practice and needed me to pick up the girlies when they were done. This is the kind of family complexity made possible by the existence of cell phones so everyone can be reached and no one is left wondering where everyone else is.


I pulled up to the church, and had a vivid picture of my cell phone, still sitting on the computer desk at home, recharging. Oh jeez! Because it snowed last night--about 7 inches or so, and it's hard to get out of the driveway because the street hasn't been plowed. It's even harder to park in front of the house, because that street hasn't been plowed either. Really, it's a big ole pain in the patootie to go back home, but we need that cell phone.

So I go home, and guess what! The cell phone WASN'T on the desk recharging, because at some point I had been smart and pulled it off the cord and stuck it in my purse.

Here is the difficult "mental math" question: Do I get smart points, because I had remembered to pick up my cell phone? Or do I get dumb points because I didn't remember that I had picked up my cell phone?

Or do I get extra dumb points for not even checking my purse before I went all the way home?

CW Bermondsey Sez

[Just back from our midday walk]

Snow is okay, but I prefer shoveled sidewalks, THANK YOU VERY MUCH!

It's A Dog's Life

This is what happens on a cozy winter's night, if you are a dog. You hear a questionable sound outdoors, so you leap up to the back of the sofa to look out the window and secure the borders of the territory.

Once the danger has past, you then are overcome by the snooziness of the evening, so you just go limp, and slide off the back of the sofa, fortunately being caught by the accent pillows, thus avoiding any injury.

Too bad Mr. Sweetie had access to his camera phone to capture the result.

It's A Christmas Miracle!

Bunny promised all and sundry that on the first day it snowed --real snow, the kind that sticks and doesn't just melt away immediately--she would go outside, raise her hands to the sky, fall to her knees and holler:

"It's a Christmas miracle!"

This was the day. In fact, the weather reports yesterday promised "100% chance" of precipitation, which must be incorrect, because at 100%, it is no longer a "chance." The promised precipitation was snow, and estimates ranged from 5-12". Bunny did go out this morning onto the front porch, in her pajamas and bare feet, and did fall to her knees and announce the Christmas miracle.

The puppy and I went out for the midday walk. It was warmer than the last couple of days, and the snow swirled in the wind, landing on my hood with an audible clunk--not flakes, but tiny little snowballs, frozen solid and the size of pin points. The wind was at my back at the start of the walk, which was fine for me, but meant that the wind blew straight up the dog's. . .well, let's just say it was probably pretty cold for him.

In fact, we were only about halfway through our walk when the dog got cold. He started walking up all the sidewalks in the hopes that this house was one that would let him come inside. Usually, once we do reach home, he is pulling at the leash, trying to reach one last smelly thing. Today, he was right up at the door and couldn't wait to get inside.

This is a day for sitting in our bijoux parlor with the fire going in our wonderful fireplace. As an added bonus, I can put my laptop on my legs and get the extra warmth.

NaBloPoMo: The Wrap-Up

Well, it's November 30, and time to look back on the month. Yes, it appears that I have successfully posted every day, and not only once. This is, in fact, the 47th post of the month, so I've done about three posts every two days, so that's actually quite an achievement as far as I'm concerned.

Was it worth it? For me, yes. For you? Well, maybe. After all, when you check in, there is always something new to read. Usually. Maybe, depending on when I post and when you read. For me? I get the benefit of pushing myself to notice my own life, to see it as it happens in terms of storytelling, and then to create it and shape it into the form of a post. It's a daily discipline, and those of you who have read either Natalie Goldberg's Writing Down The Bones or done Julia Cameron's The Artist's Way know how important daily writing is.

It's also much more manageable than NaNoWriMo in it's size and level of commitment. I tried, this year, to do NaNoWriMo as a stealth deal. I didn't announce it anywhere, and I didn't sign up or join any websites, figuring that it was hard enough to just do the writing, without adding any obligation to report or support other writers into the bargain. And I did pretty well for the first half of the month, until I missed a couple of days and the wheels just came off that train. Still, I found that the more I wrote, the easier it became to write.

The advantage of such a project is also that if I set a goal of 1700 words a day, I didn't have to change it. I mean, if you are lifting weights, or running, or some other dreary physical exercise, once you reach your goal and it becomes easy, you have to increase your reps, or your distance, or speed, or something. But with writing 1700 words, you can stay at 1700 even after it gets really easy. I think I'll have to pick up that goal again.

In my own defense, while I didn't manage to keep up the novel writing, I am doing some interesting handmade craft/art work, so I'm still trying to be creative on a daily basis.

At the very least, I'd like to keep trying to post daily here on the blog, if only because it makes me feel better when I do.

So, there we go--November is over, or will be in a couple of hours. Creativity is the goal for December, and I fully believe that Christmas decorating and present wrapping fall into the category of "creative!"

Word Snob--Rebuffed!

I consider myself a well educated girl, with a large working vocabulary. I do words. It's what I do. Back in my previous life I was a lawyer, and had plenty of latinate words and actual Latin phrases at my command. I have studied French for five years, and have generally been considered able to string together compelling and readable paragraphs.

I don't remember my English SAT scores--that was far too long ago--but suffice it to say that I never worried about that particular test. I regularly finish New York Times crossword puzzles and have an excellent record with cryptograms. I have a strong fundamental understanding of the architecture of words--how they are constructed from their component letters.

And then I tried to play Jumble Vault.

This is a fairly clever variant on Jumble puzzles. Here, you are confronted with a series of dial, each of which has either two or three letters on it. Your job is to open the vault using the letters on the dials to construct three, four, and five letter words. You must make a set number of five letter words to get the vault open. There is no room for cheating with the easier three letter ones.

In the second round, I breezed through the three and four letter words, but was stumped by the necessary five letter words. How well can you do?

The dials have the following letters available. The dials can only be turned, they cannot be switched around in any manner. The last two dials have less than three letters on them, making the task trickier.

Dial 1: S H L
Dial 2: T A O
Dial 3: W A S
Dial 4: E T
Dial 5: S L

What five letter words can you make? I'll wait.



Still waiting.



Oh, and you only have 120 seconds to make all the words. You need four five letter words.



Still having trouble?



Okay, time's up.


I bet, like me, you got three pretty quickly. Hosts, lasts, losts. "Losts" there is pretty dodgy, grammatically, but the game accepts it. What is that last word?


"Hosel."

I know! I've never heard of a "hosel" either. Spell-check doesn't think it's a word. I had to go look it up. It's a golf term:

Hosel is the the socket (or neck) in the head of a golf club into which the shaft is inserted. Hosel is the cylindrical portion of a club head into which the shaft is not only inserted, but cemented. The etymology of "hosel" is a diminutive of the word "hose" (The American Heritage® Dictionary of the English Language: Fourth Edition. 2000).

(I got this definition from this site, which then goes on to use the term to explicate the fundamental gender specific use of the term in labor protests. It's worth checking out. Really. It's clever.)

Clearly, word snob that I am, I am not up to the esoteric refinement of the recondite Jumble crafters. Perhaps I should steer clear of Scrabble as well.

On Edit: This is a "Daily Game," meaning a new set of dials and words are available each day. You can find this "hosel" game in the archives for November 30, if you read this post after that date.

'Tis The Season And All That Jazz

Well tonight was scheduled to be a festive kick-off to the holiday season. Mr. Sweetie's company was holding an office party at the local British Pub, with employees only from 4-6 for nosh and ale, with families welcome after 6. The pub has floor to ceiling windows, and fronts onto the traffic restricted (buses only) Nicollet Mall, creating a perfect viewing position for the Holidazzle Parade.

This illuminated holiday parade is now in its 16th year, and was originally conceived as a way to lure holiday shoppers away from the mammoth Mall of America and back to downtown retailers. There is some anecdotal evidence that it doesn't work, because families come downtown to see the parade, visit the animated show at Macy's (previously Marshall Field's, previously Dayton's), sit on Santa's lap and then go home.

Be that as it may, the plan was to join Mr. Sweetie with the kidlets and watch the parade from the warmth and comfort of a place that serves alcoholic beverages. But it was not to be.

First off, after school tonight was already scheduled for math tutoring. That is its own entry, but suffice it to say that we were already going to be running and gunning to get back from tutoring (usually at about 5 p.m.) get selves and dog fed, get all sufficiently well groomed for a company event, get across the river and parked and into the pub before the parade starts at 6:30.

Then it turned out that the Bunny was doing a lot of math successfully and wasn't quite ready to quit at 4:30. Or 4:45. And really, part of the reason for the tutoring was to turn around the growing insistence that "my brain just doesn't do math." So, she wanted to keep doing math? I was going to let her keep doing math.

Math kept going until roughly 5:45--by which time I had already sent Mr. Sweetie the message that we weren't going to make it. We came home, had dinner, and the girls started on their homework.

And Pony had a meltdown. It's hard being 14, as I think I have mentioned before. We had a number of good days, but tonight it was all just too much. Too much homework, things are too hard, there are teacher requirements that can't be fulfilled in the time they have to do it (just when are you supposed to find time to practice storytelling with 3 different friends, if each telling takes 15 minutes?) Plus, even the classes that used to be fun aren't fun any more because they are doing hard/dumb/complicated/unnecessary things.

This would maybe be funny if it weren't so obviously painful. Pony is a good student, a responsible girl, and is frustrated because she is getting dinged for not turning in assignments that the teachers have misassigned, or that have changed while she was not in the room and so didn't get the change in the assignment.

And what can I do, but listen and murmur sympathetically? And keep her at home on a cold November night so she has at least that time to face the overwhelming task of managing life?

More Better Words of Wisdom

You know one of the signs that it's Christmastime? The innumerable catalogs that arrive, purporting to answer all your shopping needs and providing the "perfect present." Many many of them come in one door and go right out again in the recycling bin. I sort of feel guilty about this--I mean, so many people have worked hard to assemble these glossy bits of temptation: photographers, buyers, layout artists, writers trying to find the ten millionth different way to say "BUY ME!" All that effort, and I don't even crack the covers.

But really, I do it in self defense. It's like sympathetic pregnancy--once I start shopping for other people, I find all sorts of things I suddenly discover I can't do without. Even though I didn't even know they existed until I opened the catalog. But now! I need it! And as long as I'm spending money anyway. . .

Do you think they put some sort of hallucinogen into the paper, which works to give us the illusion that we need this stuff? That we can actually use it, or even have a place for it in our houses once it arrives? You know, that same stuff that they make M&Ms out of, that make it so you can't stop eating them. Only the shopping version.

Well, a catalog came in today, and Mr. Sweetie actually delivered it to me, saying "This is for you, I ain't even touching it!" He knows his grammatical rules cold, so he breaks them sometimes for effect.

I looked at the magazine, which looked harmless in itself. The cover cockily asserted "Something for Everyone On Your List!" A glass snowman wearing a glass jester's hat tilted jauntily across the page, and a couple of red and white peppermints added to the festive scene. What made Mr. Sweetie react so strongly to this particular mailing.

So, I just looked at him quizzically. "It's got stuff in there like 'If it's got tires or testicles, it's going to give you trouble'" he blurted. Ahhh, I understand. A purveyor of those Female Empowerment Through Bashing Males kind of tchotkes. But, since he'd delivered it, I took a cautious glance through.

So far, I haven't found anything particularly insulting, but I did find this, which may have to be my new Words To Live By:

Life should NOT be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in an attractive and well preserved body, but rather to skid in sideways, chocolate in one hand, martini in the other, body thoroughly used up, totally worn out and screaming "WOO HOO, what a ride!

Should you wish to own this particular motto on an attractive knotty pine decor sign with rustic finish, it is available here.

Words Of Wisdom

So, last night as I was brushing out the Pony's long long wet snarly hair (we had a lot of time while doing that) we were discussing this 'n' that, and she delivered some words of advice that I am passing on to you, for free, because they are words of wisdom gratis for nothing.

"If it doesn't work on a sandwich, it won't work on a computer screen. Trust me on this."

I think we were discussing mustard at the time.

No, I don't know what it means either, but what a great fortune cookie it would make.

Queer Eye for the Soldier Guy?

I was doing some internet Christmas shopping, when I stumbled across these quilts and blankets.

And I said to myself, "What the hell?"

Really, now. Who has ever heard of "vintage camo?" Vintage camo? Vintage camo? Vintage camo? Not only does it make no sense on it's own terms, but try typing those to words together four times and they don't make any sense separately, either.

I'm trying to imagine what about this product makes it "vintage" camo. Are the colors the reason? I mean, pink and blue by themselves are not particularly vintage, unless they are made with plant materials using only technology that existed prior to 1820 or something. No aniline dyes for me! I'm sticking with the vegetable based pigments available before the Industrial Revolution!

I certainly don't think that these Pottery Barn Teen pillows and throws are actually made of actual camo fabric that is actually from the 1940s. I mean, seriously?

Or maybe there has been a meeting of the Joint Chiefs of Staff to select new! and modern! camouflage patterns, leaving these particular patterns behind, thus making them vintage?


Imagine Carson Kressley providing consulting advice. "I just don't know, General, these amorphous blobs just don't speak to me. They are so, well, early Manet. Let's bring these textiles into the 21st century, shall we? We need something more urban, more edgy. More Derelicte."

"Oh, hemmm hemmm harrumph. I don't know. Those camouflages were good enough for my grandfather and they are good enough for me."

"Come now, General. Embrace your fabulosity! There are more colors than just olive drab and desert tan, you know. Let's reach out across the color wheel, shall we? Just say no to those boring old colors and patterns!"

"Vintage" is less old than "antique" but slightly older than "retro," at least in my own personal lexicon, so maybe we're looking at camouflage that makes it hard to see you among other vintage textiles? Like from about 1940? "These fabrics will not protect you in military situations, but when you need to obscure your position in the midst of mid-century tea towel, this is the stuff!"

Is it old-fashioned to try to camouflage one's self in the jungle and desert, thus rendering these patterns "vintage" when modern soldiers have to be camouflaged in Fallujah or Kabul?

On Edit: I had the wrong link to Pottery Barn, which should now be fixed. Plus, Mr. Sweetie (who really does know everything that I don't) says that "vintage camo" really is the pattern--what I consider to be "classic" or "no adjective" camo. It is what camouflage is, isn't it? Apparently, it's the camouflage from WWII and maybe Vietnam, but now there really is a different kind of camo, and it is being used in the non-specific, unending, lack of any concrete goals or measure of success wars that we have been involved in under the current Administration.

Not that I have any opinions about that.

The questions! The lack of answers! How ever will I sleep tonight, knowing that there is the unanswerable questions--why are we here? what is the meaning of it all? why are pink and blue ersatz camouflage called "vintage?"

Calling Terry Pratchett Fans

For those of you who have read and loved the Discworld series of books, this post is for you. For those of you who haven't yet read these funny and satirical British books, this might be a path to a great new author.

Is there anybody who has read these books and doesn't love them? Statistically there must be, but I find it hard to believe.

ANYWAY (yes, I was an English Major--can't you tell by my smooth and literary transistions?)

In 2006, the BBC made a 4 hour version of Hogfather, the Discworld's version of A Christmas Carol. In this book, the Hogfather (fat jolly man, red suit, flying sleigh pulled by four wild boars, delivers presents to kiddies, keeps a list of Naughty and Nice) is missing on Hogswatch Eve. This could cause great problems, so Death (tall skinny guy, black robes, scythe) steps in. It won a bunch of British awards last year, and now it is finally available in the US.

It was aired on ION television last Sunday, which we knew about, but since we were traveling, we tried to videotape it. It was not successful. The good news is that you can buy the DVD from Borders! It is exclusively at Borders, although it will be generally available in March, or some stupid time like that.

But don't wait until March! Get it now, while it is still in season! We got ours yesterday, and are well into the third hour. Some of the characters are just spot on, especially Death and his granddaughter Susan. Personally, I find the idea of a 7 foot tall skeleton wearing a red suit with a pillow stuck in front to be sufficiently funny to carry the whole film. Fortunately, it's better than that.

There is a tiny bit of Doctor Who type shortcuts in the technical effects, but the visualizations are so good that a little bit of bouncing Styrofoam is forgivable.

So, check it out--it's a modern alternative for anyone who has outgrown Charlie Brown.

Dontcha Wish. . .

That's me, leading the glamorous life. On the list of things to do today? Oh, you will be so jealous when you see the way I spend my days:

Laundry
Put out mouse poison (damn buggers)
Laundry
Pick up entire house for cleaning ladies
Unpack from Thanksgiving travel
Did I mention laundry already?
Make beds
Clean out the guinea pig cage
Grocery shop
More laundry

I know! It's A Wonderful Life!

The Other Boleyn Girl Trailer--Putting the Fun Back In Dysfunctional

Okay, I know it's hardly more than a jumped up bodice ripper, but I have a special affection for Philippa Gregory's The Other Boleyn Girl. She has single-handedly rescued Mary Boleyn from obscurity and made 16th century England accessible.

For those few who haven't already read it, The Other Boleyn Girl takes the (amazingly overlooked) fact that Mary Boleyn, sister of the infamous Anne Boleyn, was Henry VIII's mistress, and possibly had two children with him before her sister became his favorite. Its an obscure and nifty parallel to his own situation--Henry divorced his first wife, Catherine of Aragon, claiming that their marriage was illegitimate from the start, because she had been married to his brother. (Which is true--at about age 15, she was married to Arthur Tudor for about 15 months.) Because he was able to scare up a Biblical injunction against marrying his brother's wife, he used it as an explanation for why he had no son as heir and as the basis for marrying Anne Boleyn. He did have to conveniently "forget" his previous relationship with Mary Boleyn--there is also a similar injunction against marrying sisters, or something.

Anyway, I have become semi-obsessed with Tudor history and the family lines particularly as a result of this book (and the sequel--The Boleyn Inheritance). It turns out that two of Queen Elizabeth's greatest favorites--Robert Dudley and Robert Devereaux--were more or less family members. Elizabeth and Dudley met in the Tower during Mary's reign, and many speculate were lovers up until the death of his first wife, Amy Robsart. When Elizabeth refused to marry him (truth? speculation? who knows?), he married Mary Boleyn's granddaughter--Lettice Knollys. Lettice's son--Dudley's stepson--was Robert Devereaux, the Earl of Essex, who is also suspected of being Elizabeth's lover. He was certainly her cousin, a generation or two removed!

I won't even begin to go into the way all this history played out at Hampton Court Palace, which was one of my very very favorite sites we visited when we went to England. Suffice it to say that Philippa Gregory and her sexy view of history has ignited a real interest in the times.

That interest is bound to get greater with the release of The Other Boleyn Girl movie in February. Starring Scarlett Johannson as Mary Boleyn, and Natalie Portman as Anne Boleyn, it will cause history buffs the world over to re-examine Tudor history in light of the important issue raised: how could Henry leave Scarlett Johannson for Natalie Portman? It brings the eternal "Ginger or Mary Ann?" question to a new generation.

And with no further ado, I bring you the trailer for The Other Boleyn Girl. It looks gorgeous. You know I'm totally going to see it the very first weekend it is out.

Are You Scared Of The Dark?

We made the long trek home from KC this afternoon. You know, when you leave at 3 for a 7 hour drive in November--most of the trip is in the dark?

So, Pony and Bunny were amusing themselves, telling each other scary stories.

Bunny: I have one! Once upon a time, there were three boys who made a band. . .called the Jonas Brothers!

Pony: <gasp, shriek> Okay, it's my turn. Once there was a band called the Jonas Brothers. . .and they were joined by a hideous monster called. . .Hannah Montana!

Bunny: <muffled moans and hyperventilating>

Pony: I have another one. Are you sure this won't give you nightmares?

Bunny: I don't know!

Pony: Once there was this group of kids, and they became. . .High School Musical! And worse, there was the horrible. . .Zac Ephron!

Bunny: I think we'd better turn on the light. Heh. Heh. So, um, other people don't get lost. Yeah. That's it.

Do you think they go off and script all this stuff first?

Enchanted, the Movie

We just came back from an afternoon with the grandparents Sweetie: we sorted toys and books for Gramma Sweetie's mission project (providing toys, food & clothing for underprivileged people in Kansas), lunch at a classic KC barbecue restaurant, and then a movie.

We've been looking forward to Enchanted for a while, and knew that it would be fun to take Gramma Sweetie with the girlies as well. We went to a theater at the Legends shopping center, a themed open air mall that you could drop right into Frontierland at Disney World with hardly any trouble. The theater is humungous, with 14 theaters, a balcony bar, and "VIP" seating where you can get food and drink--including alcoholic beverages, I think. The theater we were in was enormous--totally reversing the trend where theaters subdivide so small that you end up watching a wide screen TV with 50 friends. This screen was easily three times the size of most screens I am used to, and the seats! Leather seats! I bet the one theater would seat about 400 people, not counting the VIP balcony. Even cynical, jaded old me was impressed.

The movie was charming as well. It was a gentle ribbing of the conventions of fairy tales, without actually mocking them. Idina Menzel--perhaps most famous for portraying Elphaba in Wicked--articulates the movie's tone in a line where she says "Wow. The way you said that. So straightforward and not ironic. It was. . .romantic." And it is. There are some delightful Disney references--when the evil queen enters the real (non-animated) world, she disguises herself as an old hag and she looks EXACTLY like the hag from Snow White. The Queen's henchman looks almost exactly like Cogswell or Lumiere in human form from Beauty and the Beast.

There is a delightful homage to Snow White when Amy Adams' Giselle wakes up in Patrick Dempsey's apartment and is dismayed at the mess. She opens the window and sings out to call the animals in to help, just as Snow White did. However, since she is in New York City, the animals that respond are not the charming woodland animals we are used to seeing. When the cockroaches swarm up from the drain. . .well, even Giselle seems a bit put off, although she steels herself and points out that it is "always nice to make new friends."

I came out of the theater with my face sore from all the smiling. Even my almost jaded 14 year old really enjoyed it. Mr. Sweetie did opine that it is "definitely a chick flick" and I would have to agree. It is a chick flick, but a charming one and a delightful way to spend a couple of hours.

Black Friday. Revisited.

Do you know why they call it "Black Friday?" It has nothing to do with "Black Tuesday." No, it is called "Black Friday" because it is the "official" start of the Christmas shopping season, which is the time which allows retailers to end their fiscal year in the black.

I heard it on Fox News, so it must be true. Fox News isn't allowed to say anything that isn't true, right? Unless it is "fair and balanced," I guess, in which it can be any old crap they feel like saying.

Where was I? Oh, right. Black Friday. Perhaps I have been a bit harsh about after Thanksgiving shopping in the past. Perhaps? Slightly harsh? Who, me?

Well, it turns out that 4 a.m. was not the most heinous opening time for retailing this morning. No, some stores opened at 12:01 a.m. Because it's hard to be thankful for a full 24 hours unless you have immediate shopping prospects, I guess.

Could that be it? It's merely pent up shopping demand? You know, like anytime you are trying to be perfectly still, and suddenly your nose itches, or your back, or you need to sneeze or something. It happens all the time in detective novels and prison break stories. You are facing immediate discovery, and you have to stay perfectly still so the Bad Guy/Prison Guard don't find you, and suddenly, you have an uncontrollable need to twitch. You never need to scratch unless you can't. And you never need to shop the way you need to on a day when all the stores are closed.

Why do they do that, anyway? Close the stores, I mean. Wouldn't you think that grocery stores might do well to stay open until about, oh maybe 2 p.m., so when you find out the turkey is still frozen, or you burned the potatoes, or your main fuse blew and now the oven won't turn on, you can still recover? Shouldn't liquor stores stay open so when Uncle Morty knocks the shiraz bottle off the counter and it shatters on the floor, you can get another one?

Shouldn't fast food places on major highways stay open so that people who are travelling on Thanksgiving can get something to eat during their seven hour car ride? Actually, I was surprised to find that even McDonald's was closed on Thanksgiving. Even some of the truck stops were closed on Thanksgiving, which is really unbelievable. Truckers don't stop for any sissy holiday like Thanksgiving--they just switch from trucking turkeys to trucking cattle and pigs. Trust me, I know--we shared the highway with many venerable livestock drivers, and none of us were able to stop to eat at McDonald's anywhere from Twin Cities to Kansas City. And we checked!

But, back to Black Friday. Maybe it's just a reaction--people who are denied their Constitutional right to shop because the stores are closed, just need to get out and start buying things. Credit cards need their exercise too, you know.

Me? As predicted, I slept in. A lot. L-tryptophan was my friend.

The Future Of Thanksgiving

The Famille Evil travelled south to Kansas City to spend Turkey Day with the Grandparents Sweetie. The feast was quite exquisite, with enough food to feed three or four times the number of people actually present.

There were, however, another three people virtually present--Uncle Sweetie, with his lovely wife and child, who live in Japan. Yes, through the wonder of Modern Technology (say that with an awesome FM radio announcer voice, with just a touch of echo for the full effect), we had additional guests at dinner.

All it takes is an inexpensive web camera and a Skype account. We had a VOIP/video conference, which ended with setting up a laptop on the buffet overlooking the dinner table. As the food came in from the kitchen, Mr. Sweetie made a point of presenting each dish to his virtually present brother. He stayed on-screen throughout the meal, and claimed that if he thought really hard, he could actually smell the turkey.

This is, in fact, the future of Thanksgiving. Just think--no more long drives in dodgy weather. No more expensive tickets and overcrowded airports. Just staying cozy in your own home, having virtual family reunions.

The best part? As soon as Drunk Uncle Morty starts dribbling wine, or Auntie Beatrice starts pinching cheeks, and your sister-in-law starts a terrible argument with your sister--you can just punch "mute" or disconnect entirely!

The Madness Of The Season

So, the ads for the post Thanksgiving sales/kick-off for Christmas shopping are running about every 2.5 seconds on the radio. Some of them are clever--Target, as one might expect, has ones that are not obnoxious, which is a rare achievement.

I have never understood the "doors open at 6 a.m." deal. Of course, I rarely see 6 a.m. unless given no choice--or I'm coming at it from the other side, staying up all night. So, I'm not the demographic they are aiming for, apparently. And really, is it more pleasant to go Christmas shopping at that hour of the morning than in the middle of the day? Is a checkout line any quicker at 6 or 7 a.m. than later in the day?

It must be, or they wouldn't keep doing it.

But, I heard the kicker this afternoon. It was for Kohl's, which I think of as a step up from say, Sears or J.C. Penneys, but nowhere near a Macy's. I've had some luck buying shoes at Kohl's, and they are trying to upgrade with some ready to wear Vera Wang, so I don't entirely dismiss it. But what the hell do they think they are doing with their "After Thanksgiving Sale?" It starts at 4 a.m.! Four bloody a.m.--in the morning!

I guess it's for those insomniacs, or people who are still nursing hangovers or grudges or both, and need to get away from those relatives! Why wait until 6 a.m. when you can actually begin shopping at 4?

It's not like Amazon isn't open at 4, or anything. If you just can't wait to spend money, there are plenty of internet options that are open 24/7. But, you know, you might still be trapped in the same house with your great aunt Myrtle, or something, so better get your butt to Kohl's! You might miss something--there are only 32 shopping days until Christmas, and getting that 6 hour head start is going to make all the difference!

Me? Oh, I'm going to sleep in. It's what I do best.

Separated At Birth--Siblings Division

These two beautiful women are 7 years apart in age--so not twins, but they surely look related; Amy Adams and Kate Walsh.

Cross Marketing.

New post up at the Book Blog of Evil--Endymion Spring, by Matthew Skelton.

Christmas Is Coming

The Salvation Army bell ringers were out already last weekend. Retail stores moved aside their Halloween remnants and replaced them with Christmas, which I have come to expect.

But the bell ringers now too?

Maybe we should just make it Christmas all the year around. Just like hockey season.

Sexiest Man Alive? Really?

People Magazine does this every year--annoints a new movie star as "sexiest man alive." Well, excuse me, but did George Clooney die already? Brad Pitt? Any of the other dozen or so "former" sexiest men alive?

Have they even seen Mr. Sweetie in a tux?

I didn't think so.

Say what you will about Matt Damon, but this picture? Sexiest man alive? Sexiest Ford dealership employee, maybe, or sexiest CPA as they appear at 12:01 a.m on April 16th. This is not the picture of a man who makes women sigh and fan themselves by his mere appearance. This is the face of the guy who wrote $150 million dollars of new flood insurance policies the day before Hurricane Katrina hit, and hadn't even gotten the first premium payment.

This is a man looking some sort of ruin in the face, and deciding whether to jump out the window, lock himself in the garage with the car running, or using a handgun. This is the kind of guy Fountains of Wayne wrote about on Welcome Interstate Managers.

Thanks, but I'll take Clooney. Or Mr. Sweetie in a tux. Or both.

But, have you ever thought what would happen if Charlotte Bronte's beloved fictional character married Matt Damon's amnesiac covert operative?

She'd be Jane Eyre-Bourne!

Thank you, thank you. Tip your waiters, and tell all your friends I"ll be here until Thursday!

Black and White and Saturday Night

Mr. Sweetie and I are just home from the Black & White charity ball, and Saturday Night lasts as long as you are still in party clothes, or you go to bed. Right? So this is not a late posting as far as I am concerned.

I found a lovely floor length dress with quite the décolletage, so the girls and I were out tonight, and there were celebrities! And Soul Asylum played! And I got to talk with a whole bunch of our friends that I never get to see.

Mr. Sweetie donated a river cruise on Lady Cliff, but we don't know who won it. Mr. Sweetie did bid on a day at a local winery and won, so he/we get to drive the tractor! Pick some grapes! Make some wine and take a case of it home!

I promise to post some pictures tomorrow.

Luck For Chuckleheads

Some days, I swear I shouldn't be allowed out without supervision. Yesterday, I was feeling very put together. It was my turn to take the girls to school, so I got up, got showered (!) and dressed and packed and got everybody out the door and to school by 8 a.m.

This is not a small deal, for me. Left to my own body clock, I rarely see 8 a.m. If I do, and have to be somewhere, I am usually no more than beta dressed. Like a beta test version of software, I am demo only. Usually at least half of what I am wearing is thrown on over my pyjamas, my hair is only passably organized, and my plan is to finish whatever I'm forced to do, and go home and back to bed. So, to be showered before 7 o'clock? BFD!

Kids safely delivered to school, my next task is to convert my single $10 into four $1, so I can pay the fee to park in the lot by my studio. Among other mini-errands, I stop at the SA and buy a drink. Four singles safely in hand, I go out to my car to find. . .

. . .my keys safely locked inside, lying on the passenger seat. No windows are open. No door has a sticky lock that fortuitously stayed open for me. Nope. All locked up tight.

This is where my day would have spiraled completely out of my grasp, not so long ago. Depression would have convinced me that I had no business impersonating a functioning human being, and I might as well just end everybody's misery, including my own. BUT NOT TODAY, DEMON DEPRESSION! FOR I HAVE VANQUISHED YOU!

Sure--a boneheaded move first thing in the morning can really mess one up. BUT! just look at how everything else worked right!

• I was NOT parked at a pump for gas! Thus, while inconvenient for me, I was not causing snarl ups of other cars trying to nose their ways to the trough!
• Why look, over there! Within sight, and only half a block away--there is a locksmith!
• Even better--a locksmith that opened the store at 8 a.m.! Not 9, not 10--I was not forced to seek nearby shelter for a couple of hours, but could walk right in and ask for help!
• And the locksmith himself was in! He was not out on a call, or on vacation leaving the shop full of truly impressive looking safes in charge of the desk clerk!
• He said he'd meet me at my car, so when I walked back to the SA, there was the locksmith's company van!
• But it wasn't MY locksmith--it was another employee who had stopped at the SA to get himself a drink or something!
• I cleverly asked, as he passed by "Are you here to let me in?" And he said, "Um, no, but I can help you." And he did!

So, right there, can you see how suddenly my luck turned? It was a day where my knuckleheaded move was not an omen of worse to come. Instead it was away to get the worst of the day over first. The rest of the day was bound to be uphill from there.

And it was.

Studio 781

Last week sometime, Dooce was asked by Apartment Therapy to post pictures of her workspace, to let the world see where the deliciousness that is Dooce is created. When I looked at the photos, I immediately squealed "I have those exact same file drawers!"

Yes. I do occasionally squeal like a 4 year old given a pink ballerina costume and a glittery tiara. You are surprised?

Anyway, that was when I realized the I have not taken any photos of my studio since before I had finished the painting of same. So, here it is, just to prove that I do too have some of the same things the cool kids have, and I even got them before I knew the cool kids had them!

These are the file drawers Dooce has as well. I got them at Ikea, which we pronounce EEE-KEEE-uh, because Gramma Sweetie was in Sweden last year and that's how it is pronounced there. Because we are pretentious like that.














I don't know what Dooce uses hers for, but mine are just about ideal for storing beading supplies. I went out and bought a bunch of inexpensive plastic divided boxes--available at all Michaels and JoAnn stores--to hold my beads. When I finally got these drawers, I just used a utility knife to slice off the lids, and they fit perfectly into these wide, flat drawers.

Pretty, aren't they?

I also took an idea I found in a magazine called something hopeful, like Clear Clutter Forever! or maybe it was Organize Your Life This Weekend! The idea was to get alphabet stickers from the scrapbook aisles, and use them to label your storage boxes. I used those here on the drawers.














Over here is the "Storage Nook." Most of this furniture is stuff I took out of the Bunny's room when we redecorated it. I have big canvas storage boxes that also have scrapbook alphabets on them for labels.



















This is the view from the doorway, more or less. The storage nook is to the left. The color is a bit off on the right because I didn't use the flash.



















Above the file cabinets are the print outs of my novel-in-progress. I am making a lot of progress on it, and it is about time I did. It has been in progress for so long that I have to go back and change all the technology, because it is so dated. Nobody even has a cell phone!

I have a couple of extra storage drawers that don't show in these pictures, but it is already clear to me that I need to do some serious re-arranging. It turns out that it is pretty cold right next to the windows, and the printer is in an awkward place relative to where my computer goes, so I have wires running all over where I don't want them. But that is for another time. Right now I am having some real luck with my creative endeavors, so major redecoration will have to wait.

I will probably move the desk, though. I am not kidding--those windows get cold!

Four More Years!

Just because it was to hand, and not at all because it was darling and cute and adorable and. . .

Okay. I'm partisan. Here is the follow-up to the last post. Bunny at age 4.

I remember this picture.

She had just started at a Montessori daycare, and was going afternoons only. We knew it was picture day, but managed to get dressed first and have lunch second. Which was a mistake, because no four year old in the world can eat Spaghetti-O's without leaving a mess.

Fortunately, the turtleneck could be turned around. You can hardly even tell, can you?

A Blast From The Past

Last year, Bunny's 5th grade class did a unit on "Puberty." Everybody hated it, and nobody was willing to come home and talk about it, except when they had to. One of the times they had to was when they were forced--forced! I tell you--to come up with photos of themselves as babies, as 4 year olds, and then currently. This exercise served the important pedagogical purpose of showing that even before puberty, life was about growth and change, and so puberty shouldn't be too scary.

This is the picture we found of the Bunny at her second Christmas. At this point, she must have been almost 16 months old. We are decorating for Christmas, and she has decided to grab the trimming and decorate herself.

I love this picture. I flat out adore this picture. This is my sweet little sugar bowl of a baby. How can you not want to just scoop her up and smooch those sweet baby cheeks? How can you not want to just push your nose into her neck and drink in the smell of that sweet baby flesh?

Look closer. What big blue eyes you have, my dear! All the better to get my way with, Mama.

What long eyelashes you have my dear! All the better to break boys' hearts when I get older, Mama.

What smoochable cheeks you have, my dear!

When we found this photo, I could hardly stand it. The years when she was this little were such hard ones for me. I was hurting all the damn time, and I really had almost no ability to see past the pain. This sweet little toddler lived in my house, let me snuggle her to sleep, was bright and happy and good, and I couldn't appreciate how wonderful she was at the time.

I could appreciate that she wasn't more than I could handle, but that completely failed to do her justice. Now I look at this picture, and I see what I missed, and that it is gone.

Except, the other night, Bunny happened to be standing in front of me, and I saw her in a sort of rear three-quarters view. From right behind her left ear, I could see down the line of her cheek, along the corner of her eye, and there it was! That smoochable cheek of her babyhood!

Of course, it is much harder to catch a 6th grader in a snuggly and smoochable mood. But it can be done! Especially early in the morning, when the alarm is not enough to wake her up. Then I can snuggle and smooch her as much as I want. Until she wakes up.

Still. It's nice to be able to appreciate it now, even if I couldn't then. Life is getting better.

Just A Thought

This has been a very hard week for the Pony. She has my sympathy. Being 14 is like living with PMS. All the time.

Poor thing.

Mid November Rhapsody

It's mid November now, and today the sky is gray and distant. The giant maples in out back yard tower black and naked against the sky. All the leaves are down now, and tiny snow pellets drop from the sky. They don't flat, these pellets, because they are too compact, too dense. The wind catches them, knocking them off their vertical path.

Oddly, the ground is still warm. It must be, because the grass hasn't gone dormant, and the low lying plants of the garden are still green. The yellow color of the fallen maple leaves is creeping into the hosta, which droops on its stems as if exhausted. The Canadian roses, winter hardy and requiring almost no special handling, still glow pinkish red at the end of the long canes. The foliage is beginning to turn brown, from the tips down, a bright colors on a gray day.

It is a day where the fireplace glows temptingly. It is easy to curl up under a blanket, the yellow light of an incandescent reading lamp softening the harsh light from the window. This is a day for bulky sweaters, for shearling slippers, for hot sweet tea and a book.

Winter is dipping its tendrils down from the sky, like drops of ink in water the color of the days change. The people begin to fade into the landscape as well, no longer wearing the dashing, bold colors of summer and fall, pulling out the dark coats, the drab boots, tucking bright hair under warm hoods, hiding light skin inside black gloves.

The children remain bright, as if they are invigorated by the temperature drop, they appear in bright snow suits, with vivid mittens that will stand out when dropped in the snow. They troop in their multicolored variety from the vivid yellow school buses that parade through the streets twice a day.

This is November, revealing her true temperament. She often goes in disguise, casually acting as if a 50 degree day is quite a usual occurrence with her. Or, she tarts herself up in the glitter of the holidays, winking and gleaming from store windows with strings of lights and metallic ornaments. Perhaps November is a chameleon, but even a chameleon has its true color, and today is November showing hers.

Jane Eyre Is No Nancy Drew

So, I've still been mulling over Jane Eyre. There was something that bothered me about the Guthrie production that I couldn't quite place. Given that Jane herself is rather plain and quiet and unobtrusive at Thornfield, and Rochester is given to periodically roaring about the place (as much as can be done on a set that so totally overwhelms the actors and swallows them up), there was bound to be a lack of symmetry between the two. Small quiet Jane, big loud Rochester.

Of course, in the novel, Jane's very vivid and perceptive interior life balances out against Rochester's greater physicality. And since Jane is the protagonist, I was watching the story as filtered through her sensibility.

But, what if I stopped doing that?

Oh my god, does that completely change the whole thing. Almost beyond recognition. I mean, if you don't adopt Jane's viewpoint, what do you have? You have Edward Rochester, starring in his own version of I've Got A Secret, with Jane in the supporting role of World's Worst Amateur Detective Ever. I mean, really--it doesn't take a Nancy Drew to figure out something weird is going on in that house. Doctor Watson would sniff out a mystery here. For heaven's sake, even Scooby Doo would have more awareness of what was going on than Jane does.

Consider her first night at Thornfield--as represented on stage, Mrs. Fairfax leads Jane to her room.

Mrs. Fairfax: I've put you near the main landing. Right here, next to this door--the only functioning piece of architecture on the entire stage.



Jane: What is that noise?

Mrs. Fairfax: Oh, um, well. . . um. . .oh, look! Over there! Is that the Winged Nike of Samothrace?

Jane: Where?!?!

Mrs. Fairfax: Oh, sorry. I guess it wasn't. My mistake. Well, changing the subject, here is your room. There is no door, or wall, or anything here to demarcate it, of course. There is just that door. Over there. The one that we aren't talking about.

Jane: Thank you. I'm sure this imaginary room will be quite comfortable. It has a lovely view of that door over there.

Mrs. Fairfax: What door? Oh, ha ha ha, that door? That door? Oh, yes, a, um lovely view. It's really a very nice looking door, isn't it.



Mrs. Fairfax: Well, good night Jane. Have lovely doors. . .I mean dreams.

Jane: Oh, Mrs. Fairfax? One more thing?

Mrs. Fairfax: Are you going to ask me about the door?

Jane: The door?

Mrs. Fairfax: Yes. Are you going to ask me about that door over there, the one that we keep shut and locked and no body goes there except Grace Poole, whom I am not going to talk about either except to say that perhaps she needs to be reminded about the noise? That noise that I am not hearing coming from behind that door that I don't notice or think about at all? Is that what you are going to ask me?

Jane: No, I was going to ask you something completely unrelated, because I have come to this place thinking you were the owner, which you are not, thinking I was going to be a governess for a girl whom I have not met nor seen any hint of. I have since learned that the house actually is owned by somebody else. What is his name?

Mrs. Fairfax: Oh. That would be Mr. Rochester. He never comes here either, so you probably won't ever see him. I'm off to bed, Jane, in a different part of the house where all the other people who presumably work here are also hiding. Somewhere far away from this door, that is just like all the other doors we would have in this house, if we had any doors or walls or anything, except that this door we keep locked. All the time. Except when we don't. Which is never. Mostly.

Later, after Jane has saved Mr. Rochester, by dousing the fire set on his bed, he questions her.

Mr. Rochester: So, Jane. Now that I'm not burned alive in my bed, what made you come and save me?

Jane: I heard a noise, sir.

Mr. Rochester: A noise? What kind of noise? A noise that sounded like a crazy person escaping from behind a locked door? One that sounded like the mad cackling of a deranged mind, bent on homicide? Did you hear a cracked and rarely used voice shrieking "I will get you, Edward Rochester, and your little dog too?"

Jane: I cannot describe the noise, sir.

Mr. Rochester: Did you happen to look out your door and see anything? Anything that might look like someone with wildly tangled hair that has not been brushed for a decade or more, wearing nothing but the least confining of nightgown, because she is so insane that nothing more can be done for her? Did you see the person who haunts my life by her mere existence--and existence that means nothing to her, since she is so mad that she does not know if she is alive or dead? That person who has ruined my life, who keeps me from any happiness, who has made this house a prison to me so that I never come here?

Jane: No, sir. I saw nothing.

Mr. Rochester: Oh, what a relief! Because other than myself, Mrs. Fairfax, the man who shows up later to have his ear nearly bitten off, and the entire staff of Thornfield, nobody knows about "Grace Poole." So. Don't tell anybody what happened tonight. Nothing to see here. Nothing happened here. Everything is just fine!

It defies all logic. When Mason shows up from Jamaica, he and Rochester come tumbling out of that Door That Is Exactly Normal Like Any Other Door, Mason hysterical and bleeding. Rochester hushes him up, leaves Jane to watch over him until the doctor comes, and says, very slyly and subtly, so no one suspects anything:

"Do not say a word to Jane, Mason. Not a word. I know she bit you, but we aren't going to talk about it. Jane--do not ask Mr. Mason what happened here, or how he got bitten. Or who bit him. Don't ask him anything at all. I'm going to leave you two alone here, in the dark, right beside this Door That Is Not Unusual In Any Way and go get the doctor. I will be back in about three hours. Stay here in the dark, with no way to tend to these wounds, and do not talk to each other until I get back and can hear anything you say. I won't even get any servants to bring you any tea, or more light or anything. Just lie there and bleed quietly, Mason. And did I mention? Don't talk."

Ah well. The Guthrie run is over, and the world is safe from. . .

Oh no! They didn't!

They did!

Jane Eyre is coming back for a short run next spring. Quickly! Run out and don't buy your tickets! You don't want to miss the chance to miss this production!

Playing Nancy Drew

JoMama has passed on the latest of the Her Interactive Nancy Drew computer mysteries: The Legend of the Crystal Skull. We now have a new tradition. We have loaded the game onto my laptop, and I play the game, while the kidlets sit on either side of me and direct my movements.

This bare description does not even begin to do justice to the reality of what is happening. We started on Sunday, I think, a rainy dark November afternoon. I sat on the sofa in the parlor, by feet propped up on the leather footstool/coffee table, the fire glowing warmly in the grate. Adding both the Bunny and Pony to the sofa meant we were completely squished together (it is a very small sofa--really more of a loveseat), shoulder to shoulder, as close as we could comfortably be.

More as a matter of ambiance than actual temperature, we had the faux fur lap rug spread over us, and the heat generated by the laptop made us all slightly sleepy. The game itself takes place in an old house in New Orleans, next door to a cemetary, on a rainy night. The tree of us nestled in our oasis of warmth and light.

Maybe this is happening to you, but as my kidlets get older, they are less physically demonstrative. They are not standoffish or anything, but they would rather not behugged, for example. They are separating to become the adults they will be, and while they are kind, and funny, and affectionate, they are also a bit aloof. But while playing a lightly sppoky game, snuggled up against one another, they are relaxed and happy.

Ti's the same warm and sleepy feeling that I remember having when I held my babies, letting them fall asleep on my lap, or snuggling in bed. That wonderful sense of release, and their little bodies relaxed, and they melted into. It has been years since my girls have fallen asleep nestled up to me, and it's a feeling I had not realized I missed. It's one of the ineffable joys of being a parent, feeling that tiny, sturdy toddler body soften and settle in your arms, while the energy and drive that a toddler needs to do all the learning she has to do just shuts down, and you can see your child's face go back to it's baby shape a bit.

I didn't realize how profound an experience that has been for me00how much of touchstone of my visceral sense of what it means to be a mother, untl Plny fell asleep while leaning against me on Sunday. There is a scent that a sleeping child releases: warm and sweet. Even when said child is a teenager, and taller than I am.

So thank you, JoMama. Playing this game has been more delightful than you could have imagined.