You Shall Know Them By Their Color!

Hello, I am the Mistress of All Evil, and I am a Disney trading pin addict.

(Hello, Mi-mumble mumble what did she say her name was, can you have that as a name?)

Sadly, this is a rapidly progressing disease, and I seem to have very few defenses for it. I have drawn some lines, and tend to focus on a few of the more classic characters: Sleeping Beauty, Pooh, Belle.

But I'm particularly fond of the Bad Girls:

Ursula the Sea Witch from Little Mermaid;




the Evil Queen from Snow White,




and (of course) the original Mistress of All Evil, Maleficent from Sleeping Beauty.




















The junior auxiliary to the Bad Girls are the Not Bad Just Drawn That Way Corps: Megara from Hercules, and Jessica Rabbit from Who Framed Roger Rabbit.





All of them (except for Ursula) are just dead sexy: beautiful, lean, elongated, elegant and dangerous. Ursula doesn't have the looks, but she's got a GREAT song and she pushes all the diva buttons, so she's obviously got to be included. Plus, she uses her magic for evil and turns into the lean, elongated and dangerous Vanessa in order to make the Prince marry her instead of the Little Mermaid.

Anyway, they are all the things I am not but would like to have a bit more of. I'm afraid I'm genetically incapable of carved cheekbones and high arched eyebrows. I'm not exactly short, but I'm no more than average height, and I'm well on the way to being the shortest person in my family. I'm in no way elongated: even during a brief period of being seriously underweight, I was far to curvy to carry off that leggy lean look. Most of all, I'm not direct and straightforward the way they are: They know what they want, and they don't hesitate to get it.

However, there is one other thing they all have in common: they all wear purple. The baddest of them wear purple and black. It's like there's color theory in Disney movies: the ones who are good wear blue and pink and yellow, and the Bad Girls are in purple. Even Meg, who only starts out bad against her will and ends up good, wears lavender.

So, short curvy round-faced nice old me--purple is my favorite color!

PMS = Punish Men Severely?

The husband of a friend of mine made this acronym--that PMS stands for Punish Men Severely. Of course, that's not true, because then it would be all about the guys, when we all know it's all about...ME.

Which is to say that at least there is a medical explanation about why I looked into my closet today and found ABSOLUTELY NOTHING to wear. So, of course, I had to put something on to wear for just long enough for me to go buy something new. It is, in fact, a medical expense that ought to be covered as a drug benefit--do not laugh: retail therapy will become recognized as a non-experimental regimen which alleviates many of the symptoms of PMS.

Along with chocolate--thank goodness we had extra Easter candy around this week--and the rum and diet Cokes (caffeine free) that I was craving all week. At least there is a medical explanation for my unassuageable cravings.

So, what does PMS stand for? Try these:

Pour Me S'moretequila (slur these together--it's how it sounds anyway)
Purchase More Shoes
Provide Many Snacks
Prolonged Money Spending

Operators are standing by to take your suggestions and to tally your preferences. As they say in Chicago: Vote Early And Often!

Off Leash and Loving It

We finally found the St. Paul off-leash dog park, and boy is Bermondsey having a good time! All kinds of dogs in a huge park with hills and trees and puddles and trails and big dogs and little dogs and the whole thing is just so great!

There is definitely some shepherding in his genetic makeup, as he loves to run in huge curves back and forth, up and down hills, his legs stretching full length and his fur blown back from the speed. He's practically generating G forces.

He likes other dogs, a great deal, but he especially likes the big dogs. He can be slightly obnoxious because he wants them to go running with him--I guess he likes the challenge of keeping up. He was absolutely blissed out yesterday when a pair of golden retrievers showed up and began fetching a tennis ball with their owner. Bermondsey had no interest in the ball itself, he just wanted to run.

Sadly, it appears that most large dogs are either congenitally even tempered, or have been well trained--very few of them really want to just take off. Occasionally one will run for a while, but we've found Bermondsey gets really good reactions from the dogs that are close to his size. They don't run to exhaustion like he wants to, but they will take off, and then start exploring the trees and all the good doggie smells.

If only they served pizza and peanut butter, I think this would be Doggie Heaven.

Waking Up Is Hard To Do

The kidlets are getting to an age where life is too much fun to give up and go to sleep, but the mornings are REALLY hard to handle when school starts at the ungodly hour of 8 a.m.

This morning, it took both Mr. Sweetie and me to get them rousted. At one point, the Bunny was crawling deeper and deeper into the covers, so Mr. Sweetie picked up a pillow and began to schwapp her with it. A giant Pooh Bear pillow, with which he proceeded to (gently) beat her about the head and ears.

There is so much wrong with that--the Pooh Bear Morning Smackdown!

Excuses, schmexcuses!

Not blogging.

Addicted.

To eBay.

Just step away from the PayPal, and no one will get hurt.

Damn you, Disney Pins!

I Miss The Mouse

Spring is stuggling to establish itself here in the Frozen North. We've had a couple of days with sunshine, when it is possible to walk outside and THEN remember you've forgotten your jacket...and then realize that you don't really need it.

Against south-facing brick walls, spring bulbs are sprouting: some are three and four inches tall already. It's slightly amazing to see that much new green growing.

I miss DisneyWorld.

While we were there, the weather was absolutely perfect--sunny and breezy and incredibly pleasant. The parks were green, green GREEN, with flower beds all abloom. Trees were in leaf, not like the hard little nubbins of buds visible here. I miss all the happy happy people, and being on vacation.

I want to go back. Now.

The kidlets and I had an abortive mission to the zoo today--it actually closes at 4 this time of year, which makes it hard to get there after school lets out at 3. And, as long as we were already driving south, why not just keep going? I mean, it would only be about 2 more days of driving to get there, right? And, wouldn't it be worth it?

What Becomes A Vacation Most?

So, vacation was fabulous. I'm still in denial that I'm back to my real life. Everyone else in the family has gone back to school and work, but I'm still pretending that I'm on vacation. The laundry situation has gotten to the point where I can't ignore THAT any longer, though, so I guess I'm back.

But--what a great trip! Having your bags claimed at the airport and delivered to your room...wonderful. Having a hotel room on Disney property with a view of Cinderella's castle from the window...magical. Being on a prepaid meal plan that requires only to select where and what to eat...convenient and cooking free! Days of sunshine, breeze and 80 degrees, evenings of 65...truly being away from the ordinary. Seeing the tears of happiness in the eyes of the kidlets when they met their favorite characters (Pooh and Sleeping Beauty)...worth every penny.

Calling home for voicemail and hearing there is a snow emergency and knowing that if you were home, you'd be digging out from 8 inches of additional snowfall...priceless!

Vocabulary Test

The Bunny announced yesterday:

"A city is basically an entanglement of streets."

Has she been into the SAT flashcards again?

In Which I Explain Why I Won't Be Posting For A While

Unlike all the bloggers I read regularly, we are not going to Amsterdam. (Is that like a meme now?)

No--we have kidlets who won't be little much longer, so we're going to Disney World.

Because we are romantic, we are staying "on campus" at the Wilderness Lodge. The nice People From Disney will pick up our luggage from the airport, they will transport us to our hotel, and we plan on being waited on hand and foot for eight days.

Except for the plane ride, of course. After all, we live in a one airline town, and even with the captive market, NorthWorst is in bankruptcy. So, I expect that customer service is not going to be high on their To Do List. On the other hand, they could have stopped all flights completely, or simply stuffed us in the overhead bins...or asked the passengers for volunteer pilots. You never know with bankruptcy.

But! It is of no matter! For we are going to the Happiest Place On Earth (tm) where we will be treated kindly and courteously, and large fluffy animals will pose for pictures with us!

To which I say: Whoo! And Hoo!

We leave Florida's sunny clime late next Wednesday. There is no indication on line that there is internet access there, so you'll just have to wait.

Oh, and it can only help our mood to know that it snowed six inches yesterday, and we will be leaving the winter BEHIND!

BWAAAA-HAAA-HA-HAAAA!

Boomer Tunes

Have I bitc..I mean, blogged about this already? I write so many of these in my head before I post them that I can't remember.

Well, if this is familiar, you have permission to skip it.

Kid movies. We like to go see movies as a family, which means we see a lot of kid/family movies. And I am struck by the music. So many animated movies have a soundtrack that was already "classic rock" when I heard the songs the first time. Thin Lizzie, Styx, Eagles, The Monkees--sure, they are sometimes perfomed by new acts, but the songs are fundamentally NOT kid music. It is the music of their parents...or even older than that.

Which makes me think: if they had used similarly old music for the movies of my childhood, we'd all have been singing "Brother, Can You Spare A Dime" and "Hinky Dinky Parlez Vouz."

You Say It's Your Birthday

So, today is my birthday, and the weather turned impossibly sunny and warm--too warm for a jacket. We are actually going to celebrate when Mr. Sweetie comes home, going out for dinner, then cake and presents at home.

So, what did I do for my birthday today?

I returned some votive candle holders and a copper wall hanging to Pier One.

I returned some books to the library.

I returned a movie to Blockbuster, and I returned to Blockbuster because the Bunny had left the newly rented movies at the store.

So--do you see the theme?

Happy Birthday--and many happy returns!

Oscar Bloggerhea

I love watching the Oscars, even though I rarely get to see the movies beforehand. This time, I thought I’d try blogging the telecast, which worked until I got involved and forgot to keep writing. With some editing and additions, here is what I thought about the 2006 Oscar Awards.

First—the red carpet. I had to make dinner and actually be a parent, so I only caught a little bit.

Phillip Seymour Hoffman—Following the trend of becoming blonder for the Oscars. He’s got a deep black outfit, with a white tie. I have no idea whether it’s a good decision sartorially, but in profile, all it does is highlight his enormous belly. It’s a line of bright light curving around his bulk like a crescent moon. Does the ultrasound say it’s going to be a beer keg?

Felicity Huffman—before tonight, the fashionistas predicted she’d do a Swank, and wear something very very girlie—something that announces “yes, I played a man in a movie, but I’ve really got breasts.” She turns up on the red carpet in black Zak Posen, with a décolletage that goes to her waist. There is a huge bell skirt, with a shorter front that hits her mid shin. Not really terribly attractive, and the neckline—which isn’t really there—is not just low, but really disconcertingly wide, showing us that she has a lot of space between her breasts. Inches and inches of space that is just skin and sternum. The giant suspenders of the dress pass for a front, and are plastered across what appear to be non-existent breasts. Actually, I’ve seen some drag queens with that exact look—it’s the illusion of breasts, not the real thing. Which is really sad, as her hair and make-up are really well done and make her look as lovely as I’ve ever seen her.

Amy Adams—What is the deal with her dress? It’s got a ginormous bell shaped skirt with lots of flounces and swags. And, apparently, pockets. Who puts pockets in a ball gown? Amy Adams I guess. OMG—is it…leather? I didn’t see Sandra Bullock’s pocket gown until later—not a fad that should spread.

Jessica Alba—lots of camera time. Yes, she is lovely. Yes, she looks like a million bucks in her beautiful dress, with her beautiful skin and her beautiful smile. But…why is she even at the Oscars? Fantastic 4 didn’t get any nominations so far as I can find…

Keira Knightley—Girlfriend sure is skinny! She has an interesting dark dress, which I later learned was an eggplant Vera Wang, with a cut that like those Barbies from the 1950s. Either that, or she’s had her legs surgically joined at the knees. At least she’s not blonde! Way to buck the trend!

What is this mess Naomi Watts is wearing? The color is nice—shows off her hair, but why oh why is there a seam right around her hips? It’s at an odd spot—not really a dropped waist, because it’s higher than that, but nowhere near her waist. And did she bend over the limo paper shredder on her way to the awards? The bodice of that dress only looks like it was intentional because it matches her hair—which is so crispy and immobile that it couldn’t have been inadvertent. Hey, Naomi—you’re a very pretty woman. Why do you do that with your hair? Suddenly, I’m channeling your mother, aren’t I?

John Stewart—great opening. Love all the past hosts. Halle Berry and George Clooney in bed with Jon.

Who made poor Keira Knightley next to Jack Nicholson? What did she do to be punished so? Who did she refuse to sleep with? Or, who does Jack Nicholson have pictures of that allows him to arrange his seatmates?

Charlize Theron—made up like Goldie Hawn in her salad days. Except Golde Hawn didn’t have a man-eating bow on her shoulder. No, not Goldie—Elizabeth Montgomery. Let’s see if she twitches her nose. No, not quite right—hey! It’s this generation’s Zsa Zsa Gabor! Dahhhhhling!

Keira Knightley again—is that Nick Lachey on her other side? What did she do to the seating arrangement guy?

Love the joke—Capote showed that not all homosexuals are handsome cowboys. Some of them are effete New Yorkers.

Cloons wins! Supporting Actor, which he takes from Nicole Kidman, who is wearing a dress that is actually paler than her skin.

Yeah! Wallace and Grommit wins the Animation Oscar! Helena Bonham Carter and her breasts are in the house, and gave voices in two of the three nominees. After seeing her in the audience, from a cantilevered camera angle, we get the original bosom buddy—Dolly Parton!

Rachel McAdams—blonde? Why blonde? It doesn’t do anything for you, honey—just washes you out and makes the dimples turn into lines. Not everyone can do blonde—be a gorgeous brunette, and stand out!

Oh no, who gave Lauren Bacall such a difficult speech? She looks good—hey, she’s blonde now too? –but her speech! It’s like we had to watch her lose her mind right in front of us. If you’re going to use an icon like she is—make certain nothing goes so frighteningly wrong!

J. Lo! Stay away from the tanning booth! Geez—it’s a good thing you wore a green dress, or you would have looked like an actual film noir, all those sepia tones. Later, I saw a picture of her on the red carpet, gazing at her husband, and there is a HUGE white spot behind her ear where the spray tan missed. Ouch.

The meme tonight is bringing props up for the acceptance speech. We got big floppy bow ties from Nick Park, big stuffed penguins for the winning documentary. What should Heath Ledger and Ang Lee bring up?

How cute! Lily Tomlin and Meryl Streep are presenting Robert Altman’s Honorary Oscar using his trademark overlapping dialogue. Both entertaining and charmingly affectionate.

Wow—was Crash as pretentious as the staging of the nominated song from the movie? Sort of a dry ice version of The Raft of the Medusa!

Uma Thurman wearing a lovely pale pink gown—after last year’s bedsheet debacle she looks especially good.

Hey, I just noticed—all five best movie nominees are also best director nominees. This hasn’t happened for a few years.

Larry McMurtry’s writing partner, Diana Ossana—wow, she looks an awful lot like Ann Margaret. As much like Ann Margaret as a normal human being can look.

Gotta love the make-up presentation. Steve Carrel working those eyelashes. Too bad they had to verbalize the joke—Carrell’s slow blinks were priceless. I guess we know why he’s been a virgin for 40 years.

Crash just won for best picture, and a very excited woman in a tangerine colored strapless gown had to hold an Oscar in one hand and pull her dress back up her boobs. Great camera awareness!

Trend spotter—large teardrop earrings. They can’t be diamonds—they are clear and look like the pieces hanging off the chandeliers in my house when we bought it.

Commercial for Don Pablo’s Mexican restaurants, promotes their “all you can eat” fajitas. Small print indicates that it’s “dine in only.” Which raises the question: How could you do “all you can eat” take-out?

Overall, I thought this year’s Oscars were less weighty, more whimsical than past years. There has been such an uncomfortable pretentiousness to THE OSCARS and the MOST IMPORTANT award on the planet. It lead to some horribly awkward moments as actors—who after all are NOT writers—tried to speak about BIG ISSUES and make the GLOBAL AUDIENCE aware of their pet project. This year, the jokes were smaller, the participants seemed more relaxed and actually attempted to be entertaining! I can get behind a trend where the Oscars aren’t just for the winners, but are designed to be entertaining for the audience too.

I Really Hate To Cook, or I'm Screwed

Okay, I've bitched before about anthropomorphism of animals, and how it makes it very hard to feed children foods that used to be Bessie the cow, or Wilbur the pig. In fact, that very thing has lead The Pony to becoming a vegetarian.

Except she doesn't really like to eat vegetables, so she's more of a cheese-atarian. Which you really can't do and stay healthy--there is too much fat in cheese, so something else has to form a meal.

She would eat poultry. So, being a cook who tends toward a protein, a veg, a carb and a fruit at each meal, we'd have a lot of chicken. Because chicken can be anything! You can put spaghetti sauce on it and it's chicken parmasan. You can stir fry it in soy sauce, and it's chinese! You can slap it on a form of bread and it's a sandwich! Douse it in sauce and it's barbeque! Add rice and cream of chicken soup, and it's casserole!

Infinitely variable, chicken is, and it's a staple of my kitchen repertoire.

Yesterday, The Pony's science teacher brought in a whole chicken from the grocery store, and dissected it. He pulled out the giblets and pointed out the components of the digestive system. He demonstrated the strength of the skin, and the way the tendons hold the bones together.

Chicken is now off the menu.

I am screwed!

Sarcasm Is So Becoming

Billboards are popping up all over town for a kind of coffee called "Seattle's Best."

They grow coffee in Seattle?

Who knew?

Parenting Lessons From The Stars

This clip is from Salon:

Talking to Out magazine, Madonna let it be known that her 9-year-old daughter, Lourdes, has been wondering about mommy's sexuality recently: "She is really obsessed with who is gay, and she even asked, 'Mom, you know they say that you are gay?' And I'm, 'Oh, do they? Why?' And she says, 'Because you kissed Britney Spears.' And I said, 'No, it just means I kissed Britney Spears. I am the mommy pop star and she is the baby pop star.'" (Associated Press)

Does Britney know this?

Oscar Mania!!!

I love the Oscars. Love, love, love, lurve, loave the Oscars. Not because I have seen the movies, because most of the time I haven't. I love it for the beautiful people wearing their most beautiful clothes, groomed to the nth degree, working that beauty for the cameras. I love that they are all happy, and that the winners take their beautiful selves up on stage to accept the beautiful trophy from the beautiful presenter.

Not to even mention the beautiful (and anonymous) trophy bearers. It is truly awesome how beautiful some people can be.

Yes. I'm talking about George Clooney.

Not only is he charming and handsome and well spoken and a good actor and a good director and a good screenplay writer and a guy with a home on Lake Como...his acceptance speech! Maybe Clooney should be our next president! Here is a guy who takes pride in being called "out of the mainstream" in a way that the Democratic Party has been woefully failing to do. He stood up for principles and decency--and he did it while looking incredibly handsome and utterly suave.

Heck--I'd vote for him.

Unclear On The Concept: Sports Edition

I have two nephews. The older is only about 7 weeks younger than the Bunny, but it's a case of "Same world, different planets." There is almost no way Danger Boy could be more different than the Bunny.

But I want to talk about his brother--the one with the incredibly large head and the brains to match. (I will have to come up with a better name than that. I know, I know!) Both Danger Boy and Little Brother play hockey. Hey, this is Minnesota. If you don't start your boys playing hockey before they leave the hospital, they are falling behind.

Danger Boy loves sports and loves hockey in particular and is competitive and deeply engaged in the process of winning. Little Brother--not so much.

His take on the game? "I don't like it when they don't share the puck."

How Bad Can It Be?

Dan Brown, the paranoid art major's favorite writer, is being sued. Two of the authors of "Holy Blood, Holy Grail" are claiming that he stole their work for "The DaVinci Code." Random House is the publisher of both books, meaning that the plaintiffs are suing their own publisher. Dan Brown is actually not a defendant, but he is attending the trial and plans to be a witness for the defense.

As a First Amendment junkie since law school, I have my doubts about the validity of the suit here in America. This case is in England, however, and I don't know the copyright laws there. Still, had anyone even heard of "Holy Blood, Holy Grail" before "The DaVinci Code"? Given that DVC has been on the best-seller list since it was published, how could you even get a better marketing campaign for "Holy Blood"?

However, this is not the point. The point is...

Look how charming it is to be sued in London! You are headed to the courthouse, with Tudor half-timbered buildings and neo-Classical structures glimpsed behind the charming double-decker bus. Oh, to be in London, now that the trial is there!

Pretentious Mommy Blogging

Apparently, those of us who waste bandwidth writing about our lives as stay-at-home moms are betraying the revolution. Similar to the current hatin' going on about women leaving upper level type jobs to raise their children--it is to betray women who use the internet to write about Important Things for those, like me, who use this writing thing to exercise our creativity in ways that work for us and our families.

If you've seen this controversy, you know enough about it. If you haven't seen it--lucky you--the above description spares you the vitriol casually tossed about in these, ahem, discussions.

So, I wonder, what if I did my mommy blogging in a pretension sauce? Not politics--that's for an entirely other entry--but literature? World literature? More precisely---Kafka?

Mr. Sweetie and I got to have a date night last weekend, and we went to see Theatre de la Jeune Lune's production of Amerika, or the Disappeared. I must admit that it was not exactly enjoyable, at least in part because the downward spiral of the main character was so painful. Despite his best efforts, he found himself on the wrong side of authority, unable to understand the charges against him, unable to escape punishment for things that were not his fault.

So, because I am who I am, I had to come home and Google Kafka, where I learned that he was the child of a domineering father. Kafka never married, and he was forced to retire in his 40s due to tuberculosis. He spent his last years in treatment, living off the money he received from his parents.

And that's where my mommy instincts kicked in. It's hard to be an adult--but it's something you can't avoid if you raise children. At least raise them responsibly. Kafka never did that--he never established his life and identity separate from his parents--and his art reflects the nature of his efforts to win his father's affection and his failure to do so. (More at my other blog, here.)

So, with that lengthy prologue, I come to my point--the way that parenting has forced me to step entirely outside my role as a daughter of my family of origin, to become a responsible adult in my family of choice. Even when the Pony was a baby, I did a number of things that were not easy (or even wise) for my family because I had not yet begun to think of myself as the mother. The addition of the Bunny made it inevitable--the balance had shifted and I had to be the one making decisions for the best of my family.

Which is not an easy step to take. I am far from certain that the decisions I make and the things that I do are right. I often want someone else to be the expert and give me the right answers. It is only over time that I have begun to realize that no one knows my family better than I do. No one has the "right" answers--there may even no be such things.

So, as I consider Kafka, I see the pain caused by his inability to separate from his parents--pain that is multiplied by the apparent arbitrariness of his father's behavior. It makes me glad that, painful as it is, I have had the opportunity to grow into adulthood.

Not that I don't like a little bit of praise now and then.

Unclear On The Concept

We were watching the Olympics Closing Ceremonies, and the Bunny noticed all the singers and dancers who looked like they were having a really fun time.

"I want to do that!" she cried. "Do they get paid to do that?"

"Those are volunteers, dear."

"Well, I still want to do that. I want to be a paid volunteer."

Sometimes The Disease Is Worse Than The Cure

So--I'm into day 2 of having this cold, and I'm actually feeling slightly better. I still have a tendency to look at any sort of project (emptying the dishwasher, for example, or sorting the cases and cases of Girl Scout cookies for delivery) and feel what little energy I have go whooshing out of my body, leaving me feeling like an old balloon. And, yes, I find myself muttering "Oh God!" under my breath when I have to remain vertical for more that about three minutes.

But! I am not coughing! And I am not so congested! Now it's just my brain that feels like it's been replaced with cotton batting, and not my entire head and sinus cavity that are packed! This is improvement!

Also, Mr. Sweetie and I had a bit of a disagreement this morning. Not a hissed fight, where you yell at each other like snakes, in the misguided hopes of not alarming the children. Not a full volume holler and stomp argument. Not, this was a civilized disagreement, where Mr. Sweetie pointed out to me that I had failed to hold up my end of the social contract in getting the kidlets ready for school. He smiled--a brilliant and shiny smile--and ended with "I need your help."

Okay, so Mr. Sweetie did not have a disagreement--I did. But did I say anything? NO! OF COURSE NOT! Because I can never articulate my thoughts at a time like that. So instead, I SMILED and NODDED MY HEAD! Okay, it probably wasn't anything like a pleasant smile--more a smile of clenched jaw and gritted teeth. My nod wasn't so much agreement, as it was sullen and grumpy! Yes! The most adult way of resolving conflict! Passive aggression is such a healthy way to participate in a relationship!

Shakespeare said it: "One may smile, and smile, and be a villain."

But---but---I'm sick, right? And by rights, I should have still been in bed, right? The fact that I was even up and had done ANYTHING AT ALL to forward the progress to school should have earned me mucho parental award points. Yes, while Mr. Sweetie needed me to help get the kidlets organized and fed and medicined and hair-brushed and backpack packed---which I usually do--

Well, today, I needed him. I needed Mr. Sweetie to organize himself AND the kidlets today. I felt scolded for not doing my job, when I was doing all that I could--and more than I should have been doing. I should have been in bed. I should have been resting and healing so that I could get well. I should not have been the party responsible for making sure that kidlets were ready for school.

But--you know what? I learned something about myself. I learned something good--that I am emotionally stronger and healthier than I have been in the past. Not so long ago, I'd have responded to Mr. Sweetie's (usually reasonable) request with an explosion of the pain and anger that was simmering inside me. Depression is not just sadness, after all, but is sometimes fury and hurt that lashes out at people--like, "how DARE you ask me to change anything when I'm doing the best that I can! You should just feel a little bit of the pain I'm feeling so I'm going to show you!"

I didn't do that! How pacifistic of me!

Nor did I feel that "kicked in the solar plexus" feeling that was also quite common. The deflating sense that no matter how hard I tried, I was just a failure. That I was incapable of doing any better than I was doing, and that I had no way of communicating that--I was just going to keep failing and disappointing everyone I cared about. Feeling like that used to put me to bed for at least 24 hours, just to rebuild a little bit of ego to try again.

I didn't do that either! How non-"conflict averse" of me!

Instead, I just realized that we each had a different understanding of how much I was going to be able to do this morning. Mr. Sweetie had gotten started late, and was running late, and I wasn't able to keep track of time and what needed to be done. So, he had needed my help at the EXACT SAME TIME I needed him to take over for me. Plus, while a cold will knock me flat on my ass for three days, they never even slow him down--no wonder he didn't realize that he was dealing with a virtual zombie this morning.

I'm so proud of myself! Okay, not so proud of the passive-aggressive thing--but I'm working on it!

Do I Need Sudafed, Or Prozac?

The Pony caught a cold and has been home from school all this week. Today, I've noticed a distinct slowing of my own mental processes, sudden and distressing bodily fatigue, and general feelings of not being able to be the one in charge any more.

I'm pretty sure it's just that now I have caught the cold--thanks SO MUCH for sharing, Pony!--but it sure feels similar to early stage depression. I'm already taking the antidepressants, so I guess I'll add some antihistimines. Too bad Sudafed is becoming a controlled substance.

Kids Say The Darndest Things

The Bunny had a short school week, ending today. So the school ran on its Friday schedule, even though the calendar says it's Wednesday. So I asked the Bunny this morning "Is today Friday?"

She thought for a moment and then announced: "It's Friendsday!"

I like that--it should be on the calendar.

Separated At Birth--Toys Division

Which of these are the dog toys? Which are the baby toys? If you can't tell, how can your dog? Or your baby??

Hello, My Name Is

Mr. Sweetie is going to a work event this evening. The annual "Employee Recognition Dinner." I just can't get over imagining conversations at cocktail hour.

"Do you work here? I don't...recognize you."

"Good to see you, Scott. You're not Scott? (surruptitious glance at name tag)--you're Bill?"

"Ya know, if it weren't for this event, I'd have no idea who my employees were. Maybe they should always wear name tags."

Needless to say--I'm not going.

ON EDIT: The characterizations above are entirely fictitious, and do not resemble Mr. Sweetie in any way. Mr. Sweetie DOES, in fact, recognize all the many people who work for him and is now and always has been good with names and faces.

Mr. Sweetie also informs me that the event is actually "Employee Appreciation" and NOT "Recognition." We at MoAE regret the error--especially since there are no jokes to be made about "Employee Appreciation."

When Is A Sale Not A Sale?

Barnes and Noble has put some of its "Barnes and Noble Classic Editions" on sale. Classics--a word which here means "stories written long enough ago, with authors dead enough that there is no longer copyright on them." Also known as "Public Domain."

But still--these are hardcover books, substantially sized so they are, in fact, easy to read. Some of the greats are represented: Dickens, the Brontes, Kafka. Last week, they were three for $10--a very nice price for some solid and good looking books. So I bought some.

This week, they were further discounted to $1 each. The stock was quickly snapped up.

That--of course!--was when I noticed I had purchased only volume 2 of "The Complete Sherlock Holmes." So, in fact, it was NOT complete.

Could I find volume 1? Anywhere? Of course not! But you CAN'T have just volume 2! That's ridiculous! It's not so much the complete Sherlock Holmes as "e plete lock mes." And who wants to read that?

So I had to go online. The matching edition is still available. Full price. Plus shipping. Dang.

This Is Just So Wrong

Okay, you've no doubt had enough of the kerfuffle over the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue. Perennially, we are asked to contemplate just exactly what is the sport involved in lovely women arching against gorgeous beaches in something that is really only a metaphor for swimwear. This year it's worse than ever, with the cover trumpeting "Heidi Klum Wearing Just Paint!"

Yeah, I don't get it either--but I'll admit that doesn't stop me from looking at it and basking in the imagined sunny warm weather. Face it--it's February. You don't survive it without a little fantasy.

But this--this is just so wrong. Click the link and then go to the index on the left for the full effect--the "Plushenko Sex Bomb" video.

That's right--the winner of the 2006 gold medal in Men's Figure Skating is pretending to be a Chippendale's stripper--er, dancer (?)--stripping down to a gold lame bikini and gloves. And black skates. To a Tom Jones song.

With a totally fake muscled bodysuit on. Yeah, from a distance it may look like he's stripping, but he's got more layers on at the end than anyone watching has. Boyfriend is PADDED. Remember the Austrian bodybuilders from SNL, Hans and Franz--"We want to pump (clap) you UP!"? That cheesy.


Which again, raises the question. Is stripping now a sport? Or anyway, pretend stripping? There's already stripper aerobics. Will we see "Pole Dancing" join "Pole Vault" in the 2008 Summer Games?

Perspective

Do you realize what an amazing time we all live in?

Just think about it! All of human history has lead to a moment in time. A moment that is nearly here.

Billions of years, untold complexities of chemistry and physics to create the universe, the unimaginable size of space, all pointing to the coming moment.

Millions of years of evolutionary growth, from single celled creatures to humans who can develop sophisticated tools, can record their own histories...all coming to a culmination in one moment.

One tiny moment.

The moment that is almost here.

It's coming.

It's coming very soon.

It's almost here...almost...be patient...

IT'S HERE!!!



But now it's gone. It's all over...

now what?

The Gateway To Addiction

Here at Chez Evil, we've been watching the Olympics. Or rather, Mr. Sweetie has been watching, and the rest of us sit in the same room and read books, or use the laptop, or play with the guinea pig, or chew rawhide.

Until the figure skating comes on, of course.

I say "of course," but I don't really mean it. That's right--we are not following figure skating this year. "Why?" you ask. "What happened? What has changed about the Olympics that you no longer find yourself following every spiral and triple Lutz? Is it the time difference, so that you can learn the winner before you can see the competition? Is it the new scoring system? Is it the terribly misconceived disasters that pass for costumes?"

No I'm afraid it's none of those. Instead, it appears that my need for sparkly, shiny shiny glitter has increased. Increased to the point that a black bodysuit covered with exploding fireworks of sequins simply fails to hold my attention for four minutes. Sure, I can gawk in horror at the stripper costume donned by the Ukranian ice dancer--what was she thinking? White pasties complete with fringe?!? But it is not the skating that keeps me from being able to turn my eyes away (the heinousness! Is she actually auditioning to be talent at a bachelor kegger later?). Sure, it amuses me that the Italian ice dance pair were refusing to speak to each other like a bad opera--or junior high--but it doesn't keep me watching the skating.

(Italy keeps its reputation for breeding divas, but has to lose its standing as a fashion capital of the world based on what they wore on the ice.)

No, I'm afraid sequins were merely the gateway drug. My need for sparkles and shinies and glitter and bling and tacky huge gems--real or fake, just the bigger the better--has grown. I am no longer satisfied with the dosage that used to keep me happy.

Yes, that's me in the future, wearing rags and begging for change outside the Clare's Boutique.

I Have No Explanation For This

For some reason, the Bunny has become obsessed with the idea of the Ice Hotel. She wants to visit Sweden, just to stay at the Ice Hotel. I would say that she thinks the Ice Hotel is cool, but that would just be lame.

I, however, have NO interest in the Ice Hotel. I like ice in my Diet Coke. That's about it for me and ice. I will ice skate occasionally, but I have no desire WHATSOEVER to stay in a hotel that requires me to remain fully dressed at all times. I live in Minnesota. That's enough cold for me.

So, in an attempt to discourage the Bunny from this obsession (yes, I know. This is Bad Parenting. So sue me.) I mentioned the facts of the beds.

Me: "Did you know that the beds are just slabs of ice?"

Bunny: "You mean ice with a real bed on top of it."

Me: "No. Slabs of ice."

Bunny (excitedly): "You mean like ice all around a mattress and stuff?"

Me: "Nope. Just ice. They do give you some kind of animal skins to lie on."

Bunny: "Cool! That way you don't have to worry about drooling in your sleep and waking up with your face frozen to the bed!"

Now I really don't want to go.

Great Minds Think Alike

Mr. Sweetie and I have a history of buying each other duplicate Valentine's Day gifts. Some years we end up with too many flowers, because we each bought roses for the other.

The first Valentine's we had after finishing graduate school, he picked me up after work, looking very sheepish. "Um. I didn't do anything for you for Valentine's Day." You know how darling Mr. Sweetie looks when he's sheepish? Very.

"Oh good," I blurted out. "I didn't do anything for you either."

I am informed that this is the sort of mistake only a rookie would make, and might only be excused because I was young and in love.

A couple of years ago, we each gave the other Norah Jones' second CD--Feels Like Home.

This year, we got each other noise cancelling headphones for the iPods. Now we can't hear the other one nagging us. It's a gift that keeps on giving!

This Is Why I Love This School

The Bunny slid like Tom Cruise (from Risky Business, before he got psycho) into the doorway of the room where Mr. Sweetie and I were sitting.

"Guess what I got to do in school today!" She glowed with excitement like a lightbulb under her skin.

"We called [the teacher's] sister who was turning 30 today, and we said congratulations! Because she thought she was getting old, so we had to tell her congratulations. And then..."

She paused, because the Bunny has an awesome sense of comic and dramatic timing.

"And then we called South Africa!"

Who did you call in South Africa?

"[The teacher's] daughter! And we sang "Happy Valentine's to you. Happy Valentine's to you!"

[off-stage sfx from the new Harry Potter video game Pony is playing in the kitchen]

"Well...gotta go!"

There Is A Season, Turn Turn Turn

It feels like my world is in the middle of a cycle of demolition. So many things that were part of my life are gone. The bank, where I just opened an account for one of the Girl Scout Troops closed the branch that was so convenient, and now there is nothing but a hole in the ground. The pharmacy that wa within walking distance of my house and where all my prescriptions were--is closed, big posters in the window blaring that our business is welcome at the CVS that displaced it. The restaurant that served 97 flavors of milkshake, including fig, has been obliterated--and I didn't even know it was going until I tried to go there and found an empty lot.

The local Mexican restaurant--which was always good for some wicked margaritas and chips--has shut down, although the building is still there and the sign out front forlornly declares "We Cater." For the first time in about five years, I am not a room mother, and I'm feeling closed out of my kids' schools. The snow is melting, but the ground is still frozen--all is fallow and dead.

In the garden, of course, this inert season is followed by growth and bloom. It starts imperceptibly--a greenish tinge to the creeping sedum, a softer texture to the grass. Spring bulbs start to push up their leaf tips, and the chives are suddenly bright with color.

So, in my heart, I am holding the hope that after the destruction and demolition will come a season of growth and renewal, where we ewill look back at this time and see it as a time of gathering our resources for the next adventure.

Does This Ever Happen To You?

We ran out the door this morning, to get the kidlets to school on time. Despite the list of cool things they have been looking forward to that will happen today, they could not wake up. So, I left the Bunny to collect her things while I scraped the frozen slop off the windshield of the mighty MamaVan.

Got Bunny to school. Got Pony to school. Got phone call on the cel from the Bunny.

"Could you bring my valentines to school? I grabbed the wrong Target bag."

I know I am not the only person in the Free World with multiple Target bags around the house. I mean, if you have a Target, you pretty much don't need any other retail outlets, right? And the bags are so useful for stowing trash from inside the car, for hiding the Valentine's presents you haven't wrapped yet, and for carrying class Valentines to school through the frozen slop. As long as you check you have the right one, I guess.

Some More Romance

This is the card Mr. Sweetie left for me this morning, propped up on the keyboard for me to find.

Yes, we really look like that.

Okay, but Mr. Sweetie looks like that...and the heights are exactly right.

And no. I am not going to tell you what he wrote inside. But it gives me goosebumps. 

A Little Romance

We were out, the Family and I, on Saturday night. We had gone to see the Curious George movie, because the Bunny, she is mad for monkeys. We went to the first show we could get the whole family together for, which ended at 6 p.m. So of course, I don't have dinner ready, so Mr. Sweetie (who is fabulous) recommended eating at this funky urban diner--serves breakfast all day, and also horseradish crusted shrimp in miso with soba noodles, so there's something for everybody.

It being Saturday, and thus Date Night, we were directed next door to the coffee shop to await our table--in lieu of a bar, as the restaurant is VERY small.

As we were ordering our idiosyncratic drinks (did you know you can get a marshmallow flavored Italian soda?), Mr. Sweetie turned to me and asked; "Do you know what today is?"

Given that I'm sometimes unable to remember the day of the week, I thought I was doing well to say "Saturday?"

"It's the 25th anniversary of our very first date."

How wonderful that we were already out with our favorite people on a festive and tasty dinner date! How embarassing that I hadn't even noticed such a momentous date! What a great way to be celebrating it anyway!

The Newest Superhero; Or Saved From Math Anxiety

Tonight, the Bunny did NOT want to do her math. She procrastinated until the last possible minute, and sat with her head on her paper, not wanting to even look at the worksheet.

But! Suddenly! in the middle of a problem she leapt up and said "This is a job for Calculator Man!" She went into the other room, and returned with one arm in front of her as if she were flying.

"I am Calculator Man, and I am here to solve the math problems!" And she did. "Twenty-nine divided by 9 is....I am using a dramatic pause....THREE! With a remainder of TWO!"

When she needed a piece of scratch paper she announced "I must find my Special Worksheet!" She picked up her can of Fresca and proclaimed: "This is my special superhero drink, which helps me to do math! It is MathFresca! It is MASCA!"

Calculator Man did about half the problems, but then decided to let the Bunny have a chance to do some math as well, so he flew out into the other room, and after a few moments, the Bunny came back in.

"Hi."
"Bunny! You just missed Calculator Man!"

What's that up in the sky? It's a slide rule...it's an abacus...NO! It's CALCULATOR MAN!

Separated At Birth, or the John Derek Syndrome

Surely you know the John Derek Syndrome. It's when you repeatedly divorce your spouse only to marry HER EXACT DUPLICATE! It's kind of like the Dread Pirate Roberts--the position of Mrs. John Derek was filled for years by women with different names, but they all looked the same: Ursula Andress. Linda Evans. Bo Derek.

It was like he grew them in his basement, and once one was "too old" he simply released a younger model.

So, imagine my horror when I discovered I have that exact Syndrome. Let me explain.

For about the last eight months, I have been virtually marinating in U2. Got the latest album: check. Went to the concert: check. Bought the complete oevre from iTunes: check. Signed up at U2.com, the official web site of the band: check. Stayed up way way too late on a school night to see the band on Conan O'Brien: check. Feels that God is in his heaven and all is right with the world because U2 won all five Grammys for which they were nominated: check. Turn "Vertigo" on EXTREMELY LOUD to get the kids out of bed in the mornings: check. Find myself feeling withdrawal symptoms when I forget to listen to U2 on any given day: check.

So, is it any wonder I have developed a celebrity crush on The Edge?

I mean, just look at him! He's handsome, he's got a lovely smile, he's incredibly talented while remaining criminally unpretentious. He sings! He plays guitar! He lets Bono make fun of him in public! He's my boyfriend and you can't have him!

But, like all the worst fairy tales, I started to wonder. Why does he wear that knitted cap all the time? Sure, he's always worn hats:

But what is the deal with that cap? Is it like the Phantom of the Opera, and he is afraid to take it off? Is he hiding Lord Voldemort on the back of his head? What is it? So, I Googled him, looking for what he looks like without the cap.

And I found one.

And I discovered he looks just exactly like one of my other boyfriends.

Patrick Stewart.

Fun With Rorsach Tests!

So, I was driving along the other day, and I came across this license plate.

So, take a moment and decide what it says.

It's okay. Take your time.

I'll wait.

Done? Good. Here is what your answers say about you:

Love Fashion: You are most likely female, and either under 30 or in the fashion business. You watch the Oscars for the dresses, and regularly watch E! "Fashion Police." You may also be Kelly Osbourne.

Live Fashion: You work at a magazine, or all your favorite novels have a heroine who works at a magazine. The darkest day of your life was when Sex and the City ended. You own more than two pairs of black heels. You secretly wish Santa would bring you one pair of Manolo Blahniks for Christmas. You may also be Sarah Jessica Parker, Sienna Miller or Chloe Sevigny. This is not necessarily a good thing.

Love Fishing: You are male. You do not live on either coast. You have a three car garage to hold your bass boat. You own several dozen caps, which you rotate wearing. No one knows why. You do not shave on weekends.

Live Fishing: You own this license plate.

Math Anxiety

Yup--get out your copies of Raising Ophelia--we have full blown math anxiety in this house.

Which is sort of unusual. Sure, I'm an English major and proud of it, but I put in my time with math, and even got some college credit for calculus. So, numbers don't scare me. Mr. Sweetie is a veritable number cruncher, having taken something called "linear algebra" which you apparently need calculus to even start to understand. Frankly, I was decent at differential calculus, but got in over my head with integral calculus. I don't even want to know about "linear algebra."

So, I've already forgotten more math than most people get to, but THE POINT IS that numbers are not scary here at home.

Apparently, numbers are scary at school. The Pony has a frustrating time with her math--which I put down to the fact that her textbook was written by a mathematician, not an ENGLISH MAJOR, which would have helped enormously. There is nothing more confusing that to read a mathematician's attempt to explain numerical concepts in--there's really no way to say it other than--"English."

Look. If numbers are your first language, that's fine, but when it comes time to introduce algebra to sixth graders, just step aside and let someone who actually speaks the language do it.

But (if you are still with me) this is actually a story about the Bunny. Bunny came home with a worksheet of division problems. About 30 of them, all 2s and 5s, so the math was not onerous. BUT. Half of the problems were in a new format. The dreaded DIVISION BOX!!
____________
2) 24

Does this shape fill you with terror and make you want to cry? It did the Bunny. It was just one too many things at the end of a long day.

"I don't even know where to put the answer!" she cried. And cried.

So, being the MOM--which means it's my job to FIX IT--I came up with a story.

"Imagine," I said, "That this is a little house. It has room for 24 little guinea pigs. That's all the guinea pigs who will fit in that house."

"Like Nut-nut?" she asked, raising her sweet little tear-streaked face.

"Just like Nut-nut. Now, imagine that all the little Nut-nuts are coming to the house in groups of two. How many times do you have to open the door to let them all in?"

This was capturing her imagination. She managed to consider the problem, and then offered, tentatively "Um....12?"

Exactly. So I wrote the answer on the top of the division box. "And that's where your answer goes. So, what's the next one?"
___
It was 2) 12 and Bunny came through. "Six?"

Exactly! She was off to the races.

Except.

She made her sister add up all the divisors in all the division box problems, just so she'd know just exactly how many guinea pigs there were.

After that, the entire page took less than 6 minutes.

Local Cows Express Concern

A proposed dairy in Swift County will be the state's largest if county officials give it the go ahead. The East Dublin Dairy would house 6,600 cows on a 120 acres of land. Some local residents are worried about odors from the dairy, and say the county and the state need to further investigate the environmental affects of such a large farm. Supporters of East Dublin Dairy say the farm will not be an environmental hazard and should boost the area economy.

--from mpr.org

To date, however, no one has asked the cows what they think.

A local Jersey, identified only as "Bessie" states her concerns about the end of a way of life. "We like it, the small town feel of East Dublin. I mean, we chose not to live in the big city, but now we're going to lose that special community you get when you know everybody."

Some express concern for the calves. "Well, once you have that many cows, you have a lot more competition, don't you?" Mrs. Buttercup gestured to her two calves, who were wearing basketball jerseys and gym shorts. "These two have been looking forward to playing varsity sports for years, but now there's no guarantee they'll even make the team. It's a huge disappointment."

Local law enforcement also has concerns. "Look, you get a large number of cows in a short time, you don't know who they are, who their dams are," says Shep, a black-and-white border collie who keeps order among the cows in East Dublin. "We don't want to see some cows coming in, flagging their gang colors, spraying grafitti to mark their territories. We just don't have the dogpower to keep that many cows in order if things get out of hand."

A contrary point of view was expressed by Fernando, a large bull sporting an iron nose ring. "Yeah, well, that should improve my live, ya know? I mean, sure, all cows look the same in the dark, but I appreciate some fresh talent, you know what I mean?"

iPod CoDependency

Mr. Sweetie said it about something else, but my relationship with my iPod is turning into a little bit of Wife Of An Alcoholic. When it's good, it's very good, and when it's bad, I try to convince myself it's not so bad. Really! It's really a nice iPod, when you get to know it! It's just having a bad day! It will change!

Today, I am dealing with the fact that my iTrip (which broadcasts to my radio so I can listen in the car) has decided to strike, and is not recognizing the radio AT ALL. So, since my iPod doesn't hold all my music, I have to make a playlist of what I want in the car, and then I have to add the iTrip station(s) I want to use for broadcast.

Which is not what I want to do, because then the iTrip shows up as a "song" and will get played. Yeah, it's annoying--like a Test Of The Emergency Broadcast System This Is Only A Test. BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP.

So, I tainted my playlist with the iTune station that I need. I plug in my iPod to my computer to update it.

And nothing happens.

So, iTunes now refuses to recognize my iPod. There is a help page for this problem, and there are about 6 or 7 "fixes," most of which involve uninstalling and reinstalling and restarting the computer and....just too much!

So, while iTunes doesn't recognize my iPod, the iPod thinks it's updating and is flashing threatening messages that I MUST NOT DISCONNECT it.

On Tuesday, I was trying to download 3 songs from iTunes to a CD. Currently, iTunes will not burn CDs either.

But really! It's really great when it works!

EDIT: Well, I got the iTunes to recognize the iPod. All it took was to update iTunes, update the iPod, restarting the computer, plugging iPod into a power outlet to flash reset, manually reconfiguring what iTunes downloads, and then reconnecting the iPod.

Next, we teach pigs to fly and examine why women can't play professional football.

And Now.......The Rest Of The Story

For completeness's sake, here are some updates on recent posts.

My Little Pony, the Voyageur.

Despite her disappointment in her costume, Pony DID go to the Rendezvous simulation and actually had a really good time! So, score one for me!

The MoaE in Detention?

Was I engaging in enabling behavior by delivering freshly sharpened skates to the Pony at school? Well, you make the call--the next day she had PE, she forgot them and I had to go get them and deliver them. I'd say: Take away one point from me!

So, I'm back where I started.

Damn Anthropomorphation Anyway!

This is a question that has bothered me ever since I found myself teaching my children about farm animals and the sounds they make.

Why do we train our children to believe that animals are just humans in fur coats? I mean, I found a cute open-the-flaps book back when the Pony was about 2, and the whole text was about what animals say, and the pictures were cute. Darling even. Because the animals all looked like babies do--big eyes and heads, doing cute things. Not necessarily animal behaviors, though.

And, as I was going through this book with my toddler, I wondered why animal sounds are so important? I mean, we live in the city--it's not like cows and pigs and chickens etc. are part of my children's daily lives. The acutal animals might not even be part of their lives at all--if it weren't for a pig roast we attend each year at the Fourth of July, my kids might not ever see a whole pig.

And there I was, teaching my kid to "talk" with animals. Why? I asked myself, Why why why?

Of course, I'm totally anthropomorphizing animals all the dang time. I "know" better, but I still do it.

Why is it such a big deal? Well you might ask!

Because when it comes time to actually deal with animals, I totally suck, because I see them as little people.
The problem is because at the moment, we have mice in our house. Not a big surprise, really--this house was built at the end of the nineteenth century, winters are cold here, and mice are small. They find ways into the house through tiny tiny tiny cracks, and once they are in they Breed! Like! Mice!

Now, I don't have anything against mice per se. My sister, the Fabulous Babe, had at least one pet mouse when she was a kid, and I certainly held it and played with it. Mice as pets are okay, or they were, until their wild relatives took up residence in my house. MY house, not THEIR house.

The real problem with these wild mice is that they totally fail to Respect The Social Contract. I am willing to share my house with them, so long as they keep themselves hidden. But! They don't! NO! They have to run around and leave their droppings in their paths. They chew cords and short out appliances, and they chew the kidlet's stuffed animals to get nest materials. And they eat the guinea pig's food. And they get into everything!

So, they have to go. They just do. But so many rodent removal techniques are so cruel, especially if you think of them as little Beatrix Potter tailors who wear little vests and eyeglasses. They are VERMIN! I KNOW THIS! They are The Enemy! But I just can't bring myself to use glue pads, that stick their feet to the ground until they starve. I can't bring myself to set traps to snap their necks--I don't want to remove carcasses. Plus, those sometimes only maim them, which is even worse.

I tried live traps. Even caught a fair number of them, and found myself putting them into a bucket with some kibble and water until I could release them into some woods. Which I did, only to see a bird swoop down and snatch the little critter with its talons for lunch.

Instead, I was convinced to use a certain kind of poison--which is supposed to dehydrate them, forcing them out into the snow for a water source, where they are supposed to die. Except they don't leave the house. They just get sick and die where we have to remove them, or where we find them later, or where we never find them. I'm not even ready to decide which is worse, and I pull my perogative to behave like a squeamish girl and make Mr. Sweetie deal with them.

Except now, he's not home. And just now, in the middle of the bright afternoon, a little mouse appeared in my kitchen, all hunkered down, looking tiny and terribly vulnerable. This must have been one sick mouse, as my dog came right up to it, wagging his tail with curiosity. Is this a new friend? Will it play with me? Is it a toy? What should I do with it?

I put it in a container and dumped it outside into the freezing winter. I couldn't bring myself to seal it inside the container to suffocate, and I couldn't finish it off myself. So I 'm hoping it dies quickly in the cold where I will never ever ever have to see it or know what happened.

But I do still have this stupid Tom and Jerry kind of reaction--I should pick it up and take care of it! Meanwhile, another primal part of my brain is screaming "EWWWWWWW! YUCK! Get it away from me! EEEEEEKKKKK!"

Damn anthropomorphation!

Things You Might Not Know

Thing #1: In a Victorian era house with exposed radiator pipes (that feed the upstairs radiators), it is The Done Thing to wallpaper the pipes so they match the walls and thus blend in.

Thing #2: When choosing to remove wallpaper from a Victorian era house with exposed radiator pipes--the pipes are a bitch to strip.

Just so you know.

Smile and Say Cheese!

The kidlets are growing up, and it's time to examine orthodontia. Unlike when I was a kid (yes, yes, the T. Rexs all had headgear, and you don't even want to hear how hard it was for them to put it on, with those little arms), braces happen really really early. Like second grade for some kids I know. So the fact that my kidlets are in 4th and 6th grade makes their upcoming introduction to the world of braces seem a bit tardy.

Fortunately, that is not the case. Like me, my kids have remarkably slow growing teeth, and there is very little that the doctor wants to do now. A couple of months of an expander for the Bunny, to help her upper arch grow wide enough for all her teeth, a couple of baby teeth extracted for the Pony, to give her adult canines the room they need to come in straight. Then nothing else for nearly a year.

So, I gotta say YEA! Because I went through a TON of orthodontic mauling, and it looks like the kidlets will escape that.

Yes, I had 4 permanent teeth pulled because my jaw was too small. I had braces from 11th grade to college. I wore headgear for a horrible period of time--it was hard to sleep with that stuff on. I had mandibular advancement surgery--the technical term for jaw surgery to correct an overbite, which required surgery to move my jaw forward, and then eight weeks of my teeth wired together with a retainer between my teeth. The retainer covered most of my teeth, so I couldn't even use the hospital's "liquid diet" because I couldn't get ANYTHING with any mass between the spaces at my gum line. I can't even tell you how much weight I lost. I couldn't talk either. It was a bitch of a time.

But! I now have great teeth! Really great teeth! My last dentist appointment, the hygenist couldn't stop admiring my teeth. "You really have beautiful teeth" she said, at least five times.

Even at the consultation for the kidlets, the assistant admired my magnificent smile. "Great teeth, your smile is really beautiful" she said.

So, Dad and Mom--I think you deserve to hear the compliments, since you had to PAY FOR IT ALL!

I Thought I Was Too Old For Detention

The Pony is ice skating for PE this week, and asked me to sharpen her skates. Which I forgot to do. So, yesterday morning, I found a place that would do it--nearby--and toted the skates over.

As I was walking up the stairs at school to the Pony's locker, I was met by two teachers. The Language Arts teacher was pleasant and took a sort of aesthetic joy in the idea of freshly sharpened skates.

The math teacher, however, started quizzing me.

First of all, this math teacher is a very large man, even on level ground. Several steps above me on the stairway, he was enormous. To look at him, you'd assume he was the gym teacher and/or football coach. He has that air of aggressive good health and hearty exercise. I can only imagine that middle school kids quail before him.

So, he gave me the skunk eye and demanded, "Are we engaging in enabling behavior here?"

And he meant it, don't doubt that! Which I appreciate, because this is where the kids have to learn to be self sufficient in order to succeed in the higher grades. Plus, it's a big change from the lower school, where parents are welcomed and frequently seen around the school. The middle and upper schools discourage parents in the building--and we parents need to be trained about this just as much as the kids do.

Plus, I had been thinking the very same thing, since I had been at the school yesterday, delivering something else the Pony needed and didn't do, so I did it for her.

I said, "Welllll. She did ask earlier, and I was the one who forgot."

Math Teacher immediately lightened up and said, "Well, okay."

"So I don't get detention?"

"No. Not THIS time."

Too Much Time On His Hands

So, I was buying party supplies at the PartyAmerica store--a surprisingly joyless square box lined with celebratory items. Odd, how aisle after aisle of wedding decor, birthday invitations and mylar balloons leaves one with the total impression of white linoleum floors under overly bright fluorescent lights.

Anyway.

I took my items to the register, where I was met by the stoner high school boy wearing ragged jeans, a black t-shirt from an obscure band, dark and dead black dyed hair. He looked shrunken in this fiercely bright place. I guess Goth fashion just doesn't hold up against perky shiny helium balloons.

He rang up my purchases, swiped my card and presented me with the receipt to sign.

"Man," he said. "Your signature rocks."

Historical Accuracy Is Highly Overrated

Or, as that Great Font of Parenting Wisdom, Ozzy Osborne once said:

"I love you kids more than life itself, but you're driving me fucking nuts."

Today, the Pony's entire grade wraps up their unit on the North American fur trade by staging a Rendezvous. The kids are to come dressed as voyageurs, and they will be eating traditional foods, playing traditional games, trading their pelts for supplies and some trinkets. Historical re-enactment as a teaching tool: both fun and educational.

Except the costume thing. The costume thing is totally out of control.

So, think about it. Voyageurs were (largely) French trappers and hunters, who had to keep everything they owned in a canoe that they had to be able to lift and portage over long distances. These were men who lived far from most other people, who probably didn't bathe or shave or cut their hair from one season to the next, who almost certainly never washed their clothing, who probably didn't have much of that anyway, who bedded and wedded the "local girls" and lived pretty darn primative lives. They wore broad sashes wrapped tightly around their bellies to prevent hernias, and tied strips of cloth below their knees to prevent blood clots or something. Practical, functional, and pretty much "make do."

BUT! They were French. So, that means that what they did wear was as fashionable as possible. The hernia cloths were striped, their hats were long stocking caps that dangled alongside their faces, anything that could be brightly colored was brightly colored.

So, apparently, it's incredibly important to have just the right sort of scruffy clothes to be a 6th grade voyageur, although the word has come down that you aren't supposed to have to buy anything.

Try and resolve that paradox! Especially at 10 minutes before school starts, when you already have a 17 minute commute to even get to school.

I don't know about your household, but we just don't have a whole lot of authentic 18th century wilderness clothing lying around the house. I mean, if they don't sell it at Target, why would we have it anyway? Right?

So, I found a hat that was gray knitted wool, with white snowflakes on it, with a white tassel that hung down the side. No good. All our other hats are basically head hugging, without even a tassel. Pony ended up upset, discouraged, unhappy and basically having sucked all the fun out of the project.

Never mind that we found an awesome hernia belt for her (with tassels!) Never mind that she had really cool knee ties, that had fringe on the ends! Never mind that she was going to be wearing her regular jacket over it all because fully half of the day was going to be spent outside. Never mind that she had felt guilty about buying the hernia belt and knee ties because they weren't supposed to buy anything.

Sometimes you just can't win, and then you just have to silently recite the parenting mantra:

"I love you more than life itself, but you're driving me fucking nuts!"

Avast! Ye Scurvy Dogs! Prepare To Be Boarded!

It's the Dread Pirate Captain Bermondsey, and his First Mate, Pegleg Nutty. They are plotting their next nefarious mission, seeking to find kibble, fresh hay, and carrot and apple slices. I think Captain Bermondsey is whispering the secret coordinates of the treasure hoard to First Mate Nutty.

And Now, A Few Words About The Dog.

This, as you can see, is the world's cutest dog. He has picked up the bad habit of being territorial, so now he barks when anyone comes to the house. We need to go back to doggy school, where he is bound to be the teacher's pet.

In Which We Admire The Renovations To The Parlor

Here you can see the nifty handmade tile we found for the hearth, as well as the piled coals in the firebox. The fireplace is actually a gas burning insert, but it looks awfully good. We saw a bunch of flats for rent in London, and they all had this same kind of fireplace. Care to play Holmes and Watson anyone?

Here you can see the whole thing from an angle. We have removed the wallpaper in the room--although you can see a pinkish swatch which is still there. Isn't it cozy? 

This is a picture of our darling new fireplace. You would not believe the brick monstrosity that was there before. The oak mantel is from circa 1902, and we bought it from a architectural salvage store. It just fits the room perfectly. 

I'd Like An Order Of Bon Mots, Please

So. Rather late to the party, I am reading Jonathan Safran Foer's new book, Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close.

I am in awe.

The writing is so imaginative. The narrator, Oskar Schell, has a voice that is thick with ideas. He imagines a skyscraper where the elevator stays in place and the building goes up and down. He imagines a system where a passing ambulance would be able to detect someone important to the patient inside and flash "DON'T WORRY. DON'T WORRY." But if it was serious, and the patient was at risk of dying, the sign would flash "GOODBYE. I LOVE YOU. GOODBYE. I LOVE YOU."

There is a phrase, a small throw-away line in the middle of a paragraph where Oskar is trying to reach something on a shelf that is too high. He pulls in a chair, but that's not high enough. So he goes to get his complete works of Shakespeare and I brought those over, four tragedies at a time, until I had a stack that was tall enough. I stood on all of that and it worked for a second. But then I had the tips of my fingers on the vase, and the tragedies started to wobble..."

I mean, how can someone take such a marvelous metaphor, and just toss it off like that? I swear if I'd come up with that metaphor, I'd have bashed it into the ground, because when would I ever get another one that good?

But Jonathan Safran Foer can just treat it lightly, because he has so many more.

It's enough to discourage an aspiring writer.

But I'm USUALLY So Responsible!

I am playing hurt. It's sort of an occupational injury, except it's not my occupation to live on the computer. So I guess I have no work comp claim, and OSHA need not be notified. But I have the dreaded computer related condition:

I have Mouse Elbow.

It's kind of like Tennis Elbow, but less athletic. Actually, I blame it on Shockwave. Somehow I got onto these "search and click" games, where you get a limited amount of time to find items in a picture, or to find differences between pictures. So, as my eyes were busily scanning back and forth the screen, I held the mouse at the ready, to get the fastest response time and beat the game.

Now, I doubt there is anything in human developmental history that requires the constant tensing of the right hand, with the index finger slightly raised, the elbow out to the side. The muscles of the forearm are not designed to spend as much time in that position as the games require.

So, my arm hurts. It's hurt for about a week now. And it's not just that it's sore; I actually have less strength in my right hand. I've had to develop my non-dominant hand for all kinds of things, like unloading the dishwasher, lifting cases of soda, pulling up the covers when making the bed. I've even had to switch my mousing hand. I expect that if I don't aggravate it, it will eventually go away. So, I'm not playing any "search and click" computer games for a while.

Besides, I already won them all.

Creative Spelling

The Bunny is writing notes about things and leaving them around the house. Her language is very sophisticated, although her spelling remains creative.

The most recent note was to remind me to do something for her.

It said: "Remomber."

How They Break My Heart

Our Nice Neighbor recently lost her sister, and the matter came up with the kidlets. I had separate conversations with each of them, hoping to help them understand Nice Neighbor's unavailablity due to the sadness of her sister's passing.

Each one of them looked at me with tears welling up in her eyes, and said how sad she would be if anything happened to her sister "Because she's my best friend."

This is what I wished for them when they were mere infants--how lucky are we?

Is Irony Dead? Or, The USAToday-ification of America

Just so you don't think that I'm entirely disconnected from the world--I was reading the paper today. Well, not the NEWSpaper so much as the Sunday extras.

Okay, okay, I admit it! I started my morning with the trashy glossy USAWeekend insert. You know, the one with the Golden Globes as the cover story and the fake celebrity gossip questions on the first page. (Dear USAWeekend. I have always loved [insert name of celebrity with movie/tv series/release from rehab to promote] and I always thought he/she/it was never appreciated. Does he/she/it have a new movie coming out? When will we see a reunion of "Welcome Back Kotter?")

Hah! But that's not all they have. You thought this was just a trashy celebrity obsessed rag! But you are wrong! USAWeekend also covers medical breakthroughs (lose weight by eating less and exercising more!) AND Important Safety Information! (To avoid hotel theft: lock your door!)

Not only that, but they have an ENTIRE page--one with NO ADS AT ALL- devoted to SCIENCE! That's right--scientific developments are important to the USAWeekend audience. Just look at the headline today!

Newly Charted Territory: With the discovery of a new "planet" in our solar system, some people may wonder: Will this affect my horoscope?

That's right! With the recent discovery of a field of objects outside the bounds of Pluto's orbit, scientists are raising new questions about the nature of the solar system, and whether Taureans are REALLY ruled by Venus.

I'm predicting that the scientists at JPL are going to have to start reassigning computing time for this.

NOW--I Am A Woman

So, I've finally done something that marks me as an official grown-up. Really-0, truly-o all the way adult.

I bought furniture.

That's right, I bought REAL furniture from a REAL furniture store. This means the kind of store where you don't buy it and take it home right away. A store where you have to evaluate floor samples and fabric swatches and then you have to imagine THIS sofa with THAT fabric and THAT wood but not in THIS size, more like THAT size, except that the back is lower. Or the seat is higher. Or something.

And Mr. Sweetie and I took home swatches and samples and catelogs and we laid out scale models of our room and the furniture on a grid and we compared colors in incandescent light and natural light and I had even decided what goddam FRINGE we wanted on the goddam accent pillows. Armed with all this we went in this morning to order:

A sofa;
Two chairs;
An ottoman;
A drop leaf table;
Two accent tables;
One floor lamp;
A pair of table lamps.

All we thought we needed to do was tell our salesperson what we wanted, and pick the color of leather for the ottoman and the color of the lampshades for the table lamps.

It still took better than THREE AND A HALF HOURS.

Oh my God! We had to pick the finish color of the legs of the chairs and the sofa. We had to pick the finish on the drop-leaf table. We had to pick the LEATHER, the NAIL HEADS and the WOOD FINISH on the otttoman. Who knew there were 4,256,385 different colors of leather? Who knew there were 185 different kinds of nail heads? Who knew that there were only 6 colors of wood finish and THAT was what we'd want more of?

So, we got it all ordered, and now we have to.....

wait.


About 3 months.



Before it arrives.



Dang I hate to wait. I'm more into instant gratification. It's kind of my deal.

Diplomacy

Diplomacy is the art of getting what you want by making the other person think it's in his interest to do so.

The Bunny, to her grandmother, who has only broadcast television: no cable, no dish, no TiVo:

"Don't you ever wish you had more channels?"

A Random List of Things That Are Better In Theory Than In Practice

Diet Coke with lime

Victoria's Secret underwear

Aging gracefully

Lineless bifocals

Summer

Computers and the internet as productivity tools

Balancing career and family

Mouse poison

Epidurals

LaMaze

Tantric sex

Sting

Peanut butter Hersey's Kisses

Baker's Square bananas foster pie

Horseradish mayonnaise

Business travel

Frequent flyer miles

Things It Is Entirely Usual To Hear At My House

"Hey, Daddy. Mama has a new funky purple purse!"

I Blame-a Myself, or, The Weather Report

It's been grey and cloudy here for about a month. A bit of snow before Christmas, so that was white, and there's been a tiny bit since then to freshen everything up, but for the most part, the clouds just hovered. Hovering, grey and heavy. Just hovering.

Of course I blame myself.

Just before Christmas I got a pair of prescription sunglasses.

I Am Not Either Contrarian!

We named our dog "Bermondsey." Actually, it's "Constable Windsor Bermondsey of the Back Yard," but when people ask his name, we just say "Bermondsey."

And we are invariably asked "What do you call him?"

I mean, it's not that complicated or long of a name. Bermondsey--like "burgandy," or "Germany," or "Chardonnay" or "Zinfandel." One accented syllable followed by two unaccented ones. It's a bloody anapestic foot--for those of you conversant with metrical terminology.

So, after six months of this, what do we do?

Of course. We give him a nickname...

...that's longer than his name.

So, if you happen to hear any of us call him "Bermonzini," be aware that that 's not what we really call him.

We really call him "The Great and Powerful Bermonzini."

We shortened it for you.

I Gotta Crow

I just have to post this, for the two people in the universe who don't already know this.

Last year, the Pony graduated from the lower school. Among the recognitions that are given at the graduation assembly is a writing award called "Now and Then." The entire fifth grade is given 40 minutes to write a poem. Those poems are reviewed by their homeroom teachers, and five are selected from each class.

The final ten are posted in a prominent location in the school, and the entire faculty votes on the best of them.

Last year, the Pony won. The winner's poem is read aloud at the graduation ceremony, and the winner receives one of the first copies of the year's literary compilation (every student selects one of their writings from the year and they are all printed.)

When the head of school announced the winner of the Now and Then, she just read the poem. And I had no idea that the Pony was even a finalist--she keeps secrets well. As the Head read the poem, I was getting all angry, because the subject was a snake, and I figured it was a boy who wrote it. As the poem progressed, I was thinking "Man, Pony writes that well! She's as good as that!" Then, the farther the poem went, the more I began to relax--it really was a good piece of writing. "Okay, then, whoever wrote that deserves the award."

Imagine my surprise and delight when the Pony's name was announced.

Later, we heard from her homeroom teachers that it was so notably better than any of the other pieces that they felt they only had one poem to submit. Apparently the faculty agreed.

And so, The Mistress Of All Evil presents:

Snake

Way down in a canyon deep,
A snake slowly creeps.
Without a hand, without a food,
For a baby mouse he looks.
Looking down, on the ground,
No prey today is found.
With teeth of pearl and eyes of gold,
Watch the snake's story unfold.
Rabbit napping, quietly sleeping,
In plain sight of the snake that's creeping.
Rabbit awakes, hops away,
The last the the prey Snake will see today.
The sun in high, Snake is looking,
"Dinner for one," snake is bboking.
THe sun is gone, has gone away.
Snake has found no food today.
Way down in the canyon deep,
Watch the snake that slowly creeps.

The New International Language

Back in the day, everyone who was educated studied Latin and Greek, because it was the common language of learning.

Later, French became the international language of diplomacy--and they are waiting for it to become that again. It's gonna be a looooooong wait, guys.

But now, there is a new international language. No, it isn't English, and while international conversations have happened in C++, that's actually a rather limited language.

No, the new international language is.....Disney.

We spent some time this Christmas with my 6 year old niece from Japan. Her mother is Japanese, and her father is my brother-in-law, so she is exposed to both languages. In the US, however, she has to quickly pick up a lot of English, since none of us speak Japanese.

Fortunately, she watches the Disney Channel, even in Japan, and she could talk to the kidlets about that. "Kim Possible!" she cries, and friendship is immediate and fast.

There is a song from Kim Possible that the Niece wanted to sing with the Bunny and Pony. "Naka Mol Lap" she said, and the Pony simply couldn't translate.

"Naka Mol Lap. Naka Mol Lap!" Still no comprehension.

"You know--'yo, yo, yo?'"

"Oh. Naked Mole Rap!"

There is nothing funnier than a six year old Japanese girl rapping. Yo, yo, yo!

Digital Milestones

So, the Fabulous Babe's Christmas presents arrived yesterday. For the kidlets, there were gift cards for iTunes--The Pony's already loaded hers onto her account.

For me--a 4 CD set of FB selected tunes--Rockin' the MamaVan!!

I love love love it. All kinds of good music to play loudly--much of it older stuff that I actually once had on VINYL! (No, dearies--that was AFTER the dinosaurs died--they're what vinyl is made of. Yes, I am THAT OLD!)

But here's the deal--I now have MORE MUSIC THAN THE iPOD WILL HOLD!

I never thought I'd see that day. It's even all music that I like!

I love my iPod--the sprightly green Mini that I got last Valentine's day. But this Christmas, I had to (yes, it WAS TOO a necessity) do some shopping at the Apple store, and I managed to develop a lust for a new iPod.

Not even a Nano, which is what I thought I would have wanted. No, I want the full sized one, that can play video.

Which is entirely stupid, because I play my iPod WHILE DRIVING IN THE CAR! What the hell is the point of a VIDEO iPOD in the CAR?

Doesn't matter. I wanted it.

So, knowing my bad reaction to delayed gratification, I went back to the Apple store and played with the toys. I listened, and played, and watched videos...and after several hours, managed to assuage my acquisitive nature.

BUT NOW! I NEED more memory! Like 120 TIMES MORE MEMORY. Right? Because I don't have enough things on which to spend money I don't have. I must have more memory so I can buy more music PLUS TV SHOWS that I don't even watch when they are free! And MUSIC VIDEOS so I can WATCH THEM IN THE CAR. WHILE I AM DRIVING.

Addiction is such an ugly thing.

Fun With Dogs

JoMama called with this story about the Fabulous Babe, who is my fabulous sister.

FB was walking her dog, Otto von Biscuit--I know, GREAT dog name-- when it started to rain. It must have really rained hard, as they had to take shelter in a pet store. So, being Fabulous, FB began to shop. So did Otto.

Of course, being 3/4 Lhasa Apso, Otto has champagne tastes. They say you can predict a dog's personality from what role it was bred for. Lhasas apparently were bred to be worshipped. (This is true!) So, true to breed, Otto found a VERY expensive dog blanket. Something befitting his status, I guess.

So. He peed on it.

It's his now.

So, I'm looking for the "take away" from this story. Something that I can use when I want something.

(Mr. Sweetie interjects: "You have trouble getting what you want?!?!?!")

Well, whatever--I'm not going to start peeing on merchandise. At least not on purpose.

Physics for Dogs

The problem:

A fourteen pound dog, wearing a leather collar, clipped with a metal clasp and on a steel cable leash attached to a metal stake corkskrewed into the frozen ground--takes off across the yard after a rabbit.

The question:

What element breaks first?

The solution:

Ha! Trick question! The leash was clipped onto a metal ring which held the city license, the pet return information (for the microchip), the rabies tage AND the name plate with the dog's name, address and phone. All of which fell into the snow and buried themselves immediately. I managed to catch the dog in the neighbor's yard, and I found all but the rabies tag, which will certainly turn up in the spring thaw.

Happy New Year 2006!

Last year was a very good year for us. We did some fabulous things, we got some new stuff for the house, we upgraded into the digital media world in a big way, we were happy and healthy and played well together. My wish for 2006 is that it be as good.

Do I have some resolutions? Probably. Are they interesting to anyone else? Probably not.

All they have in common, though, is what E.M. Forester said was the purpose of life (in Howard's End): "Only connect." We need to connect to each other, and somehow, I want to do more of that. More art, more plays, more music, more blogging!

Yeah!