It started with the irritation--which was actually unfounded on my part, but it looked good in the title.
I was dropping off books at The Almost Perfect Bookstore (one of a couple of places you can find me in the wild) and I mentioned to Kelley that there was a discussion going on amazon.com in which a kind reader compared me (favorably!) to Stephanie Meyer .
"That's a stretch!" She snorted, and for a moment, I was a little irritated. I mean, I'm not best selling, but I'm not *that* bad, am I? And then I started talking to the guy at the counter, who is a 10 on the preternaturally cool scale and I sort of figured out that she meant that my books had lots of, uhm, sex. And Meyer's have none at all. So, the irritation went away, but the memory of thinking maybe a little much of myself did not.
My next stop was the mall, with Big T--he was in search of shoes--and we passed the Borders Express that carries my books in it on the way through to the shoe store. I'm not entirely a good mama, so I tried to ditch him at Famous Footwear next door, but he wasn't going.
"You know this is stupid, don't you?" I said to him, laughing. "I'm just here for my own dumb ego..."
"Can I help you?" Asked the nice woman at the store, as I was scanning 'romance' for my title.
"I'm good," I replied, grimacing. "I'm just here as an exercise in vanity that's going to result in a bruised ego."
"Oh, hey--are you a writer, looking for a book?" She had a great smile, by the way.
"Yeah," I replied. I was about to say, "But I"m self-published, so I doubt you'd carry me," when she said, (this is the good part!) "Hey--are you Amy Lane?"
"Uhm, yeah!" (Holy Cat, Brapsman--she knows who I am?)
"I really loved your first book--I'm ordering your second and your third. Would you like to do a signing? Here, let's set you up with a book signing...would June 14th be okay?"
And THAT'S the great part. That's the really really really really really REALLY great part--and now, we really will need that fork-lift and back-hoe to get my ego out of the front door. (squee. Squeeeeeeeee. SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!! hee hee hee hee hee hee hee...*whew* Okay, now that that's out of my system...)
And then we went into Famous Footwear and I totally embarrassed myself.
There was a very nice young man, sitting with his three children hanging over him, and I looked at him, and recognized him, and then blanked completely on his name. Student? I thought in a panic, and then I said, helplessly, "Name?"
He was a teacher. We've worked together for six years. I'm SUCH an idiot. I have two things in my defense though--one, I was riding the high of getting my first book signing just handed to me on a silver platter for being visible (the nice woman followed me on the discussion forums...now I'm all thinking about anything I've said that might be embarrassing...CURSE YOU, INTERNET!!!). The other thing is that he was casually dressed with a visor on and looked happy and young.
I mean, how many of us ever look that happy and that young when we're teaching where we teach? Seriously--that alone might have blown it for me, but he was so totally out of context--here I was in book/kid/mall-land, and I was so not expecting anyone from work--but he was very sweet about it. And very cute with his kids, too--it was fun to see.
And that's my post--almost.
This is, (drum roll please!!!) my 400th post. Blessed Merino, patron saint of wool--can you believe that funky bullshit? Anyway, I'm finally going to run a contest. It's sort of a 'raid my stash' contest, but I want to make it stash for anyone--book people, knitting people, whoever--so I figured what I'd do is have you guys leave a comment (anyone who leaves a comment is eligible) but have you name your poison. Do you want books? The new book? The first three books? Some hand-painted sock yarn? Self-striping sock yarn? Do you have a favorite brand? Favorite color? If I have it and I draw your name, it's yours! Some al paca dk? Self-striping worsted in shades of green? I've got a shit-load of black Noro silverthorne that I haven't used...Just name your poison, the yarn/thing you'd like best from my stash or published works, and in addition to any freaky/cool thing I want to throw in the box, if I draw your name, that's what's gonna get sent. It'll be fun, too--we can see what you covet, and that's always fun to know. (I just got a super-cool buzz from making a friend a pair of socks in a color that I personally am not all that thrilled about, but whenever I look at it, I hear her say, 'That's really pretty yarn'. I fully expect to get the same kind of buzz by sending something cool to someone here!!!) So, anything you think I might have that I might be willing to part with--throw it out, and if I draw your name (and it's not one of my kids!) it's very possibly yours.
I'm hoping to get some lurkers in the comments too--that would be a lot of fun! So go ahead, folks--name your poison! And happy blog-o-versary to me;-)
Sunday, May 4, 2008
Saturday, May 3, 2008
Almost...
There's this song by Bowling for Soup called 'Almost'--some of the lines are pretty great:
I almost got drunk at school at thirteen
And I almost got lucky with the homecoming queen
Who almost went off to be Miss Texas
But she lost with a slut with much bigger breast-as
And I al-most had you...
But we'll get back to that.
Anyway, today we were going to the Maker Faire in San Mateo--it's about 120 miles away, and we gave ourselves 2 1/2 hours. It could have been something that just Chicken and I did--and then we would have left at 7:30, and given ourself 3 1/2 hours, but it looked like a lot of fun could be had by all, so Mate and I packed most of the famn damily (T stayed at home), and left at 8:30 instead.
Now, the event that I most wanted to attend was at 11:00 am, but there was another event at 12:00 a.m. that would have made up for it if we'd missed the first one--and we were going to make it! We were--we were 5 minutes away from the San Mateo fair grounds at 10:40 am... and that's when traffic ground to a halt and our car didn't move for 45 minutes.
The short people went insane. We were just sitting there. On the freeway. "Move move move!!!" Both of them, shouting and screaming and losing their little baby nuts because, damn it, they'd been in the fucking car for 2 1/2 going on 3 hours and...and...
And I had to reassess my obsession.
Now, considering how very badly I wanted to attend that event, my next words to Mate were pretty fucking heroic: "So, uhm, do you just want to cut our losses, get out of this mess and find the off-ramp to turn around and go to the San Francisco Zoo?"
And so we did. It took us about 15 minutes to get to the zoo--and once we told the short people where we were going, there was a lot of laughing instead of screeching, so that was good. It was worth it. It was worth it when we had to buy defective diapers at two bucks a pop (that's two bucks A DIAPER) because we forgot the change of clothes backpack at home, and it was worth it when Mate kept getting us lost on the quest for the tiger cage. (The Cave Troll distinguished himself in "Woman of the House" bitchiness here--"DAAAA--AAAAD... You got us lost a-GAIN, and now we have to find ANOTHER MAP!!!" The little man nags better than I ever have, I assure you!) It was worth it when Ladybug insisted on riding on our shoulders (have I mentioned I have neck problems on occasion? OU-UCH.) It was worth it when the Cave Troll dragged me into the umpteenth souvenir shop, looking for THE perfect stuffed toy. It was especially worth it when our lovely and materialistic little Chicken proclaimed rather sententiously that "We're going to have to fix him, mom, he's totally obsessed with toys!" (Mate and I almost wet ourselves laughing at that one!) And, it was worth it when we took them to a strangely still and silent black beach and threw abnormally shiny rocks into a sterile ocean. (Oil spill about six months ago...there were no birds, and it was horror-movie creepy that way, but the kids didn't notice and they had a good time.) It was worth it when we got Ladybug an Ooh-Ahh (stuffed monkey--and yes, she really calls them that and it's so cute that we'd all go without meals just to give her a damned stuff monkey and have her call it an Ooh-Ahh!) and she played with it while sitting on Chicken's shoulders, and I said, "Look--you've got two monkeys in your hair!"
It was even worth it as we tooled around the city--the Polk Street Market, specifically, which was a tremendous experience in eclectic people watching , and then the Embarcadero which had a cruise ship as big as a city in the dock, which was also tremendous-- looking for the freeway, with mom hoping to find some random yarn store to make up for the event that she missed.
Alas, it was not to be, but then, we probably almost passed one and didn't see it.
So all in all, it was a really good day, and probably worth all the 'almosts' on the planet. Still, and as much fun as we had, I can't deny, I'm a little depressed we didn't end up at the Maker Faire. I wonder if my unwillingness to sacrifice my family's happiness isn't some sort of defect in me, you know? I mean, if I can't make them sacrifice a little for this one thing that I've coveted for three years, how am I supposed to be a driven artist? How am I supposed to spill the blood that's going to get me into mainstream publishing? How am I supposed to be a strong, badly behaved woman? (Because the well-behaved ones don't make history, right?)
I don't know. I know I had a good time, and I wouldn't change this day for anything.
And I also know that I really wanted to go.
You all know what event I 'almost' got to see, don't you?
Yeah. I thought you did.
I almost got drunk at school at thirteen
And I almost got lucky with the homecoming queen
Who almost went off to be Miss Texas
But she lost with a slut with much bigger breast-as
And I al-most had you...
But we'll get back to that.
Anyway, today we were going to the Maker Faire in San Mateo--it's about 120 miles away, and we gave ourselves 2 1/2 hours. It could have been something that just Chicken and I did--and then we would have left at 7:30, and given ourself 3 1/2 hours, but it looked like a lot of fun could be had by all, so Mate and I packed most of the famn damily (T stayed at home), and left at 8:30 instead.
Now, the event that I most wanted to attend was at 11:00 am, but there was another event at 12:00 a.m. that would have made up for it if we'd missed the first one--and we were going to make it! We were--we were 5 minutes away from the San Mateo fair grounds at 10:40 am... and that's when traffic ground to a halt and our car didn't move for 45 minutes.
The short people went insane. We were just sitting there. On the freeway. "Move move move!!!" Both of them, shouting and screaming and losing their little baby nuts because, damn it, they'd been in the fucking car for 2 1/2 going on 3 hours and...and...
And I had to reassess my obsession.
Now, considering how very badly I wanted to attend that event, my next words to Mate were pretty fucking heroic: "So, uhm, do you just want to cut our losses, get out of this mess and find the off-ramp to turn around and go to the San Francisco Zoo?"
And so we did. It took us about 15 minutes to get to the zoo--and once we told the short people where we were going, there was a lot of laughing instead of screeching, so that was good. It was worth it. It was worth it when we had to buy defective diapers at two bucks a pop (that's two bucks A DIAPER) because we forgot the change of clothes backpack at home, and it was worth it when Mate kept getting us lost on the quest for the tiger cage. (The Cave Troll distinguished himself in "Woman of the House" bitchiness here--"DAAAA--AAAAD... You got us lost a-GAIN, and now we have to find ANOTHER MAP!!!" The little man nags better than I ever have, I assure you!) It was worth it when Ladybug insisted on riding on our shoulders (have I mentioned I have neck problems on occasion? OU-UCH.) It was worth it when the Cave Troll dragged me into the umpteenth souvenir shop, looking for THE perfect stuffed toy. It was especially worth it when our lovely and materialistic little Chicken proclaimed rather sententiously that "We're going to have to fix him, mom, he's totally obsessed with toys!" (Mate and I almost wet ourselves laughing at that one!) And, it was worth it when we took them to a strangely still and silent black beach and threw abnormally shiny rocks into a sterile ocean. (Oil spill about six months ago...there were no birds, and it was horror-movie creepy that way, but the kids didn't notice and they had a good time.) It was worth it when we got Ladybug an Ooh-Ahh (stuffed monkey--and yes, she really calls them that and it's so cute that we'd all go without meals just to give her a damned stuff monkey and have her call it an Ooh-Ahh!) and she played with it while sitting on Chicken's shoulders, and I said, "Look--you've got two monkeys in your hair!"
It was even worth it as we tooled around the city--the Polk Street Market, specifically, which was a tremendous experience in eclectic people watching , and then the Embarcadero which had a cruise ship as big as a city in the dock, which was also tremendous-- looking for the freeway, with mom hoping to find some random yarn store to make up for the event that she missed.
Alas, it was not to be, but then, we probably almost passed one and didn't see it.
So all in all, it was a really good day, and probably worth all the 'almosts' on the planet. Still, and as much fun as we had, I can't deny, I'm a little depressed we didn't end up at the Maker Faire. I wonder if my unwillingness to sacrifice my family's happiness isn't some sort of defect in me, you know? I mean, if I can't make them sacrifice a little for this one thing that I've coveted for three years, how am I supposed to be a driven artist? How am I supposed to spill the blood that's going to get me into mainstream publishing? How am I supposed to be a strong, badly behaved woman? (Because the well-behaved ones don't make history, right?)
I don't know. I know I had a good time, and I wouldn't change this day for anything.
And I also know that I really wanted to go.
You all know what event I 'almost' got to see, don't you?
Yeah. I thought you did.
Thursday, May 1, 2008
Why It's Good to Train Them Early...
When the teenagers were very young, for about a year and a half, we lived on my husband's grandmother's property. There were all sorts of sucky things about the arrangement, and one of them was the house itself--only 1/4 of it sat on a foundation--if you dropped a baby bottle on one side, you'd find it in another room because the floors looked like an acid dream during a midnight showing of The Who's movie Tommy. None of the doors hung plumb, and the house sat on 6 1/2 acres of fucking wilderness, so you never knew what would roll in on the frickin' old carpet.
One day, when Chicken was about six months old and just learning to sit up, it was a tomato worm.
I was sitting next to her on the floor, dozing, because Big T had us both up at dark-thirty a.m., and I looked at her smiling face, and there was a tomato worm (ugly, green, crawly, fat and squooshy grub of my nightmares tomato-fucking-worm!!!) dangling out of my baby's mouth.
I screamed and swatted it away, and then screeched for Mate over the sound of her confused wails. (She was just sitting there and then mama started screaming and SLAPPED her--of course she was crying!!!).
"MATE! GET YOUR ASS OUT HERE AND HELP ME!!!!" (Because I was damned if I was going to pick it up, right?)
Mate's response? And this is very very very important to the rest of the post: "I don't do vomit."
My response was, "Get your ass out here or I'm gonna vomit!!!!" but that is immaterial.
What is material is that there are two things that Mate doesn't deal with in our house--one is spiders, and the other is vomit.
Now, Mate was not always the model Mate he is now. For the first two children, getting the baby was, 90% of the time, MY JOB. I had the breasts--I had the a.m. wake-up calls. This was not really because Mate was insensitive to my need for sleep, either, and certainly not because he didn't want to help--it was mostly because if the task called for waking up between 12:00 and 6:00 a.m., Mate was out. Wasn't gonna do it. Completely unconcious. Nada. Zip. Zero. No dogs, no lights, nothing but a loud snore and a grunt.
Baby 3 ran a clockwork schedule and slept for six hours--he was easy. Baby 4 woke up randomly, and sometimes just for play. I started kicking (sometimes literally) Mate out of bed and making him go sit with her, and Mate started taking his 'get up with the baby' responsibilities a little more seriously.
This morning, it paid off for him in a huge way.
This morning, the Cave Troll sat up in OUR bed and said, "I don't feel good."
Then he barfed. Three times.
Mate, who, heretofore, would have woken up barfed upon, was down the hall before the first splatter hit the pillow.
I sat up and cleaned the Cave Troll off and stripped the bed and got the poor stuffed tiger ready for the wash (while the now much better Cave Troll apologized--"I"m sorry I barfed your room mom. I"m sorry I barfed my tiger, mom." Yes, it did make it all better, why do you ask?) and Mate tried twice to come in and help me. Both times he put his hand over his mouth and ran back to the living room before we would all be sorry.
But I'm betting he's not sorry I taught him how to get his ass out of bed before the alarm rings, is he?
One day, when Chicken was about six months old and just learning to sit up, it was a tomato worm.
I was sitting next to her on the floor, dozing, because Big T had us both up at dark-thirty a.m., and I looked at her smiling face, and there was a tomato worm (ugly, green, crawly, fat and squooshy grub of my nightmares tomato-fucking-worm!!!) dangling out of my baby's mouth.
I screamed and swatted it away, and then screeched for Mate over the sound of her confused wails. (She was just sitting there and then mama started screaming and SLAPPED her--of course she was crying!!!).
"MATE! GET YOUR ASS OUT HERE AND HELP ME!!!!" (Because I was damned if I was going to pick it up, right?)
Mate's response? And this is very very very important to the rest of the post: "I don't do vomit."
My response was, "Get your ass out here or I'm gonna vomit!!!!" but that is immaterial.
What is material is that there are two things that Mate doesn't deal with in our house--one is spiders, and the other is vomit.
Now, Mate was not always the model Mate he is now. For the first two children, getting the baby was, 90% of the time, MY JOB. I had the breasts--I had the a.m. wake-up calls. This was not really because Mate was insensitive to my need for sleep, either, and certainly not because he didn't want to help--it was mostly because if the task called for waking up between 12:00 and 6:00 a.m., Mate was out. Wasn't gonna do it. Completely unconcious. Nada. Zip. Zero. No dogs, no lights, nothing but a loud snore and a grunt.
Baby 3 ran a clockwork schedule and slept for six hours--he was easy. Baby 4 woke up randomly, and sometimes just for play. I started kicking (sometimes literally) Mate out of bed and making him go sit with her, and Mate started taking his 'get up with the baby' responsibilities a little more seriously.
This morning, it paid off for him in a huge way.
This morning, the Cave Troll sat up in OUR bed and said, "I don't feel good."
Then he barfed. Three times.
Mate, who, heretofore, would have woken up barfed upon, was down the hall before the first splatter hit the pillow.
I sat up and cleaned the Cave Troll off and stripped the bed and got the poor stuffed tiger ready for the wash (while the now much better Cave Troll apologized--"I"m sorry I barfed your room mom. I"m sorry I barfed my tiger, mom." Yes, it did make it all better, why do you ask?) and Mate tried twice to come in and help me. Both times he put his hand over his mouth and ran back to the living room before we would all be sorry.
But I'm betting he's not sorry I taught him how to get his ass out of bed before the alarm rings, is he?
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Just stay out of that ***ing house!
The incomparable Eddie Izzard did this bit where he was talking about serial killers, and how we don't know what to do with them. We tend to put them on house arrest, which works for the rest of the world, "Just stay out of that fucking house, right?"
I was driving home from work yesterday to the sounds of the Cave Troll's squeals, when I saw this sign. Now, the Cave Troll usually reads me a travelogue on the way home-- "Mail box, mom."
"That's right, honey."
"MAIL BOX, MOM!!!"
Oh yes--he needs to hear me repeat every freaking thing he says, lest I be giving him the same conversational gambits I give his older brother and sister-- 'uh-hm...yeah... no, that's fine'--you know, the 1/2 a brain engaged sort of thing. "Mail box, honey," I reply.
"Horse, mom."
"Horse, honey."
"We're sharing, mom."
"That's good, you're sharing honey." And so on.
Except yesterday, he and his sister were NOT sharing. When Ladybug was small, the Cave Troll used to take his temper tantrums out on her by smacking her around in her car seat before she could fight back. (We stopped him when we caught him--Big T never dreamed of hitting Chicken--it came as sort of a surprise to us that a child would do this to his littler sister, but I imagine there are little sisters everywhere looking at us with exasperated expressions and a 'Of COURSE big brothers beat us up--it's their fucking mission in life!!!'.) Anyway, that's probably why she's so laid back now--he can scream all he wants, but as long as he's not trying to beat the holy shit out of her, she figures life is good.
But that doesn't mean she doesn't want a little somethin' back, right?
So yesterday, he shared his (MY!)soda with her, and she didn't give it back, and he was losing his little fucking nut over it--and she (the little shit!) had simply angled her body away from his and was clutching that can of soda to her chest. I saw her expression in the rearview, folks--she was GLOATING her chubby baby ass off, and I was laughing my big fat woman's off (if only) and that's when I saw the sign.
"Reptiles For Sale."
WTF? Reptiles? What sorts of reptiles? Lizards that eat bugs? Lizards that are eaten by hawks? Poisonous snakes? Alligators that got too big to flush? Chameleons, iguanas, gila monsters...just what in the FUCK was in that house?
And really, the house didn't look too sound. Would they escape? Did I have to worry about some horrific smuggled Australian snake (you guys have some doozies--I watch animal planet--the snakes in your country scare the hell out of me!!!) crawling into my house? I saw 'Snakes on a Plane'--not pretty, people, NOT FUCKING PRETTY!!!
But then we passed a flock of turkeys, and I figured, "Hey--they're fat, they're stupid, and they're free range."
And I could sleep last night because the dead turkeys would keep us safe.
And by the time this thought eased up, we were home, the Cave Troll's tantrum was over and Ladybug had relented, giving her older brother the soda he, in all probability, did not deserve.
A little imagination is a wonderful thing, folks, yes indeedy it is.
I was driving home from work yesterday to the sounds of the Cave Troll's squeals, when I saw this sign. Now, the Cave Troll usually reads me a travelogue on the way home-- "Mail box, mom."
"That's right, honey."
"MAIL BOX, MOM!!!"
Oh yes--he needs to hear me repeat every freaking thing he says, lest I be giving him the same conversational gambits I give his older brother and sister-- 'uh-hm...yeah... no, that's fine'--you know, the 1/2 a brain engaged sort of thing. "Mail box, honey," I reply.
"Horse, mom."
"Horse, honey."
"We're sharing, mom."
"That's good, you're sharing honey." And so on.
Except yesterday, he and his sister were NOT sharing. When Ladybug was small, the Cave Troll used to take his temper tantrums out on her by smacking her around in her car seat before she could fight back. (We stopped him when we caught him--Big T never dreamed of hitting Chicken--it came as sort of a surprise to us that a child would do this to his littler sister, but I imagine there are little sisters everywhere looking at us with exasperated expressions and a 'Of COURSE big brothers beat us up--it's their fucking mission in life!!!'.) Anyway, that's probably why she's so laid back now--he can scream all he wants, but as long as he's not trying to beat the holy shit out of her, she figures life is good.
But that doesn't mean she doesn't want a little somethin' back, right?
So yesterday, he shared his (MY!)soda with her, and she didn't give it back, and he was losing his little fucking nut over it--and she (the little shit!) had simply angled her body away from his and was clutching that can of soda to her chest. I saw her expression in the rearview, folks--she was GLOATING her chubby baby ass off, and I was laughing my big fat woman's off (if only) and that's when I saw the sign.
"Reptiles For Sale."
WTF? Reptiles? What sorts of reptiles? Lizards that eat bugs? Lizards that are eaten by hawks? Poisonous snakes? Alligators that got too big to flush? Chameleons, iguanas, gila monsters...just what in the FUCK was in that house?
And really, the house didn't look too sound. Would they escape? Did I have to worry about some horrific smuggled Australian snake (you guys have some doozies--I watch animal planet--the snakes in your country scare the hell out of me!!!) crawling into my house? I saw 'Snakes on a Plane'--not pretty, people, NOT FUCKING PRETTY!!!
But then we passed a flock of turkeys, and I figured, "Hey--they're fat, they're stupid, and they're free range."
And I could sleep last night because the dead turkeys would keep us safe.
And by the time this thought eased up, we were home, the Cave Troll's tantrum was over and Ladybug had relented, giving her older brother the soda he, in all probability, did not deserve.
A little imagination is a wonderful thing, folks, yes indeedy it is.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
It's not mellow yellow...it's nipple piercing pink!
I am working on the ugliest pair of legwarmers known to man. Just the word, 'leg warmers' unless I'm talking about the exquisite laceweight ones in the last issue of Interweave Knits should make you shudder, but these are for a student,and she asked for something real bright, so in an effort to ease the pain of working with nipple-piercing-pink acrylic yarn, I doubled the strand, broke out wooden double pointed vampire stakes big enough to be kinky sex toys and went to town. Just thinking about the results makes me want to squint, but then, when I was in high school I used to roll my jeans up to my knees and wear long striped socks. You may wonder what the hell I was thinking, but, quite honestly, I was in high school, so I probably wasn't. This girl's sweet, she works hard when she's there--which isn't as often as she'd like to be--and the legwarmers may be one of the best things to happen to her year. I'll fight the mental squint, oh yes I will!
Of course, one of the hi-lights of these eyeball sizzlers didn't have to do with working on them at all. I was sitting, k2/p2 away, with the Cave Troll on my lap. He was gracing me with periodic methane emissions that would make my eyes water, and I finally figured out where the scent of diapers was coming from. (His sister was napping...)
"Cave Troll, are you just sitting there FARTING on me?" I asked, with appropriate outrage.
He smiled at me beatifically. "Yes, mom. I'm farting."
And then he went back to dozing on my shoulder. I mean, what do you say to that? The boy was doing what boys do, I guess...he had no idea why it should cause so much excitement. And, really, I guess after the damned dog, who has been trying to gas us out of our own home for ten years now, a few left-cheek sneaks are really no big deal.
And beyond that? Sock sock sock! I keep waiting to get really bored of the damned things, and although I wouldn't mind making some sweaters, the only one in the family who really needs a cool looking sweater right now is me, and I'm not really ready to commit to that many stitches. I've read the Big Girl Knits books. I know I should be looking at a three-acre DK weight masterpiece. Give me a few years--that damned baby weight may come of yet!
Oh yeah! Roxie sent me back one of my tangled skeins, bless her heart--she told me it took her ten minutes to detangle--I told her it would have taken me that long to foul it up beyond repair. Oh yeah--speaking of Roxie--girl friend got her picture in the Harlot's blog!!!! I was squealing all over the kitchen--go check her out, she's the one in the ROCKIN' LIZARD QUEEN HAT!!! I really do know the coolest people on the net, don't I!!!
Speaking of cool people, everyone's got their fingers crossed for Donna Lee, right? It should be no big deal tomorrow, and I'm thinking good thoughts for her--but for those of you who read her blog, she's sort of a fantastic good-thought-thinker, and she deserves some extra good ones coming her way.
And other than that? My weekend has been SOOOO mellow. The temperature in other parts of the country may be 'climbing' but ours pole-vaulted into the low nineties, and it's made every outside activity sort of slow and opressive, in spite of the sunshine. In June, a day in the nineties will be mild. After a week of things in the high sixties, it's like waking up and finding yourself in the freaking amazon--and it does take it's toll on the little people. I'm sort of watching the Cave Troll fall asleep on the couch as I type--we spent an hour at the park, and I got two naps and I cooked. Mate did some household chores, and we emptied out the coin jar and bought doughnuts. I mean really--very mellow. If it wasn't for those damned leg warmers, I'd have nothing to tell, seriously! The most subversive thing I've done in two days is point out to the kids where the edited version of Major League should have had swear words and didn't. (They knew--go figure!)
So that's it. My life without drama. If the world doesn't fall apart sometime before my big whatever giveaway, I'll try to come up with a really whacko thought or two... I mean, it does pay to have a brain that functions in the bicycle lane instead of the freeway, right?
Ciou!
Of course, one of the hi-lights of these eyeball sizzlers didn't have to do with working on them at all. I was sitting, k2/p2 away, with the Cave Troll on my lap. He was gracing me with periodic methane emissions that would make my eyes water, and I finally figured out where the scent of diapers was coming from. (His sister was napping...)
"Cave Troll, are you just sitting there FARTING on me?" I asked, with appropriate outrage.
He smiled at me beatifically. "Yes, mom. I'm farting."
And then he went back to dozing on my shoulder. I mean, what do you say to that? The boy was doing what boys do, I guess...he had no idea why it should cause so much excitement. And, really, I guess after the damned dog, who has been trying to gas us out of our own home for ten years now, a few left-cheek sneaks are really no big deal.
And beyond that? Sock sock sock! I keep waiting to get really bored of the damned things, and although I wouldn't mind making some sweaters, the only one in the family who really needs a cool looking sweater right now is me, and I'm not really ready to commit to that many stitches. I've read the Big Girl Knits books. I know I should be looking at a three-acre DK weight masterpiece. Give me a few years--that damned baby weight may come of yet!
Oh yeah! Roxie sent me back one of my tangled skeins, bless her heart--she told me it took her ten minutes to detangle--I told her it would have taken me that long to foul it up beyond repair. Oh yeah--speaking of Roxie--girl friend got her picture in the Harlot's blog!!!! I was squealing all over the kitchen--go check her out, she's the one in the ROCKIN' LIZARD QUEEN HAT!!! I really do know the coolest people on the net, don't I!!!
Speaking of cool people, everyone's got their fingers crossed for Donna Lee, right? It should be no big deal tomorrow, and I'm thinking good thoughts for her--but for those of you who read her blog, she's sort of a fantastic good-thought-thinker, and she deserves some extra good ones coming her way.
And other than that? My weekend has been SOOOO mellow. The temperature in other parts of the country may be 'climbing' but ours pole-vaulted into the low nineties, and it's made every outside activity sort of slow and opressive, in spite of the sunshine. In June, a day in the nineties will be mild. After a week of things in the high sixties, it's like waking up and finding yourself in the freaking amazon--and it does take it's toll on the little people. I'm sort of watching the Cave Troll fall asleep on the couch as I type--we spent an hour at the park, and I got two naps and I cooked. Mate did some household chores, and we emptied out the coin jar and bought doughnuts. I mean really--very mellow. If it wasn't for those damned leg warmers, I'd have nothing to tell, seriously! The most subversive thing I've done in two days is point out to the kids where the edited version of Major League should have had swear words and didn't. (They knew--go figure!)
So that's it. My life without drama. If the world doesn't fall apart sometime before my big whatever giveaway, I'll try to come up with a really whacko thought or two... I mean, it does pay to have a brain that functions in the bicycle lane instead of the freeway, right?
Ciou!
Friday, April 25, 2008
Wow--I might even bore myself!!!
Seriously--I'm not sure if it's because I'm tired or because my funny star alignment is in it's nadir, but I'm thinking I might even bore myself today. (But that's not going to stop me from inflicting my boredom on the Universe--sometimes I'm not a very nice person.)
Anyway, my 2nd period is working on a project, I've satisfied my teacherly duty by stalking among them like an impaired panther three or four times, and now I'm honestly more of a hindrance than a help--I"m in a chatty mood and I keep talking with them about trivialities instead of inspiring them about their projects. Time for me to find something to do at my desk. And, since I have "Star Test Pity Movies" scheduled for the next two periods, when I plan to enter lots of grades, this is a good alternatives--for one thing I can keep an eye on my students while I type. (It totally freaks them out, which is also, always a good thing.) Anyway, it's time to make random observations about life.
For starters, Big T actually hit a funny one out of the park the other day. He often complains that I pick on him to do chores more often than his sister--and to some extent this is true. Chicken has more extracurricular activities, more and harder homework, and is often first in line for childcare, so, yes, I do ask her to take out the garbage less than I ask T. But T--proving his excellent good humor to the world yet again--figured out the REAL reason he's always getting asked to do chores. It's the couch.
Now, when we're sitting down, watching T.V., I get the big club chair with the two kids (you've seen me!) and he usually takes the love seat across from me. The other day, he was on the computer and his sister was in the love seat. T heard me make the request (issue the order?) and suddenly said, "Oh--I get it--it's the couch that makes the difference!!" We all laughed heartily at that--and then, while his sister was taking out the trash or whatever, T moved into her spot, proving I guess, that A. His learning curve ain't steep, and B. He's earned any chores I can throw at him by his simple inability to duck!
I am also getting to the "My big mouth is gonna get me hammered" phase of the year. The other day as I approached an amoeba in Satan's dysentery (also known as a straight F student who's had more suspensions for fighting than I have balls of yarn!) to ask her to stop talking, she said, "Whew! What's that smell!" Trying (because it's not that original and it's not that funny) to be insulting.
I ignored her.
What I wanted to say? What actually jumped to the tip of my tongue with such force that I had to turn away and just write her referral for suspension? Was, "Brain rot--I can tell because it started when you walked in."
It would have been hilarious--if she probably hadn't been armed.
At first I thought that Across the Universe was not nearly as big a hit as I'd hoped--I think the idea of connecting symbolic things together like songs and events is too big a stretch for a lot of my kids. Of course, the dilemma has been solved with my 4th period by knitting in their midst--I stand there, knit, and quietly answer questions about the mo vie, and eventually, once the stuff they don't get is cleared up, they start getting into it. It would have been hard to do with my 5th period though--I was too busy throwing out another dysentery amoeba. (Or would that be crapping out a dysentery amoeba? Or would that be too graphic?)
ANd other than that? Things are puttering along. Bitter Moon II is progressing nicely--about 500 pages in, probably 200-250 or so to go. I"m thinking of another teaser--any preferences? Anyone want to see Yarri? Torrant? Aylan? A combo of the two? Let me know! Oh yeah--another five posts and I'll have my first giveaway. I've never done this before--I think I"ll offer up yarn and/or books, whattdya think?
Let me know!! And does anyone have any ideas for what to do with a weekend when ya got no $$$? That's where we're at, and I'm tired of hangin' out at the homestead!!!
Ciou!
Anyway, my 2nd period is working on a project, I've satisfied my teacherly duty by stalking among them like an impaired panther three or four times, and now I'm honestly more of a hindrance than a help--I"m in a chatty mood and I keep talking with them about trivialities instead of inspiring them about their projects. Time for me to find something to do at my desk. And, since I have "Star Test Pity Movies" scheduled for the next two periods, when I plan to enter lots of grades, this is a good alternatives--for one thing I can keep an eye on my students while I type. (It totally freaks them out, which is also, always a good thing.) Anyway, it's time to make random observations about life.
For starters, Big T actually hit a funny one out of the park the other day. He often complains that I pick on him to do chores more often than his sister--and to some extent this is true. Chicken has more extracurricular activities, more and harder homework, and is often first in line for childcare, so, yes, I do ask her to take out the garbage less than I ask T. But T--proving his excellent good humor to the world yet again--figured out the REAL reason he's always getting asked to do chores. It's the couch.
Now, when we're sitting down, watching T.V., I get the big club chair with the two kids (you've seen me!) and he usually takes the love seat across from me. The other day, he was on the computer and his sister was in the love seat. T heard me make the request (issue the order?) and suddenly said, "Oh--I get it--it's the couch that makes the difference!!" We all laughed heartily at that--and then, while his sister was taking out the trash or whatever, T moved into her spot, proving I guess, that A. His learning curve ain't steep, and B. He's earned any chores I can throw at him by his simple inability to duck!
I am also getting to the "My big mouth is gonna get me hammered" phase of the year. The other day as I approached an amoeba in Satan's dysentery (also known as a straight F student who's had more suspensions for fighting than I have balls of yarn!) to ask her to stop talking, she said, "Whew! What's that smell!" Trying (because it's not that original and it's not that funny) to be insulting.
I ignored her.
What I wanted to say? What actually jumped to the tip of my tongue with such force that I had to turn away and just write her referral for suspension? Was, "Brain rot--I can tell because it started when you walked in."
It would have been hilarious--if she probably hadn't been armed.
At first I thought that Across the Universe was not nearly as big a hit as I'd hoped--I think the idea of connecting symbolic things together like songs and events is too big a stretch for a lot of my kids. Of course, the dilemma has been solved with my 4th period by knitting in their midst--I stand there, knit, and quietly answer questions about the mo vie, and eventually, once the stuff they don't get is cleared up, they start getting into it. It would have been hard to do with my 5th period though--I was too busy throwing out another dysentery amoeba. (Or would that be crapping out a dysentery amoeba? Or would that be too graphic?)
ANd other than that? Things are puttering along. Bitter Moon II is progressing nicely--about 500 pages in, probably 200-250 or so to go. I"m thinking of another teaser--any preferences? Anyone want to see Yarri? Torrant? Aylan? A combo of the two? Let me know! Oh yeah--another five posts and I'll have my first giveaway. I've never done this before--I think I"ll offer up yarn and/or books, whattdya think?
Let me know!! And does anyone have any ideas for what to do with a weekend when ya got no $$$? That's where we're at, and I'm tired of hangin' out at the homestead!!!
Ciou!
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
I don't know... is it me?
I snarfed this one from Donna Lee--I'm such a sucker for stuff like this!!!
You Are An INFP |
 The Idealist You are creative with a great imagination, living in your own inner world. Open minded and accepting, you strive for harmony in your important relationships. It takes a long time for people to get to know you. You are hesitant to let people get close. But once you care for someone, you do everything you can to help them grow and develop. In love, you tend to have high (and often unrealistic) standards. You are very sensitive. You tend to have intense feelings. At work, you need to do something that expresses your personal values. You would make an excellent writer, psychologist, or artist. How you see yourself: Unselfish, empathetic, and spiritual When other people don't get you, they see you as: Unrealistic, naive, and weak |
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Passing with failing colors...
I'm watching my kids take their STAR tests with such an incredibly mixed set of feelings that it's hard to even sort them out of the bag, and I think I'll spend this post actually trying.
(Pause, while I make a kid take his earphones out of his ears. Realize that I don't object to him wearing his earphones personally, but that it's a school policy. Debate with myself how badly I want to enforce that policy. Argue with kid. Sigh.)
I think what I'm going to do is just pull ou the little card out of my psyche with the feeling on it, and just lay it out for you--no actual sorting necessary.
* We do need some sort of basket of things that we, as a society actually decide to teach our kids.
* I don't think the bubble tests cover this even remotely.
* Kids need to believe in order, in some sort of higher purpose, in knowledge as a positive, self-actualizing thing for them to take these tests seriously. Maybe 22% of my students have that sort of belief system. 25% of them will take the tests because they believe our spurious claims of self-benefit, but otherwise, most of them have nursed from well of anarchy for so long that they see no particular reason why they should even try to answer the questions put before them. The reason, "Because I can!!!" Which seems to have been a motivating force for most of their teachers, is not even on the waiting list as a valid purpose for them. I have a hard time combating this attitude. I don't even know where to start.
* The bubble tests have way too much reading, and way too many dumb-ass questions about stuff that doesn't even connect to the purpose of why we USUALLY read for the kids to feel good about taking them. I'd fail these fucking tests--and I kicked ass on the ones I took in school.
* If a kid has a .05 total G.P.A. He's not gonna give a flying pig's winkie about how he does on a goddamned test. I can't believe our totally fucked up government wants my pay dependent on what these little bastards do or do not deem important. My house is overflowing with books, literature, math, computers...it's practically bursting out the windows. I know there are at least five of these little fuckers who cheerfully vandalize my books any chance they get because they respect the books and me, as a representative of the learning institution so very little that they think it's their duty.
* The kids who have learning disabilities and are working their ass off are breaking my heart and making me want a fucking bull-whip and a cattle-prod for the kids who aren't working at all.
* I got into this gig because I love to read and I think stories are the heartbeat of life. I don't see how this test can measure that.
* If that one kid doesn't stop flirting with the poor girl who OD'd in my class a couple of weeks ago, I"m going to stomp on his heart and feed it to goats.
* Oh, shit--another one just dropped off to sleep--and I gave them water, and I can tell a bunch of them now have to pee like a freaking racehorse.
* Do you think the Governator could pass this damned test? I'm betting not. I"m betting he really couldn't in my 6th period class, where the little fuckers are going to be staging a rebellion that makes the crowd in Running Man look like a bunch of white-bread weenie Kindergartners.
* It's a bloody good thing I can type without looking at my keyboard that much, or they'd be switching their fucking booklets--yes--I just stopped to catch a couple of kids doing that. WHAT IS WRONG WITH THEM? I don't get it. They're starting to remind me of a Stephen King short story that scared the piss out of me in college and is scaring me more every day that passes. It's about how kids have this sort of evil underbody that floats among them and it drives this one teacher totally mad.
* *sigh* I got snacks for these guys--it at least keeps them quiet out of loyalty. I'm almost out of snacks-- I"m going to have to buy more. And water bottles--that's only humane.
* This whole process is not serving our students. Not that I've been a stellar educator this year, but I know I've put enough in their baskets for them to feel as though they can answer these questions. The problem is, they don't care if they can answer the questions. They want to know what's in it for them. AT this point, the only answer iI can give them is 'snacks and water', and it's not cutting it.
I'm starting to repeat myself--time to sign off. Tune in next time as I debate why belly-buttons are really necessary to the whole look of summer clothes and teenaged girls--and then decide that I don't really give a ripe shit!!!
Later!
(Pause, while I make a kid take his earphones out of his ears. Realize that I don't object to him wearing his earphones personally, but that it's a school policy. Debate with myself how badly I want to enforce that policy. Argue with kid. Sigh.)
I think what I'm going to do is just pull ou the little card out of my psyche with the feeling on it, and just lay it out for you--no actual sorting necessary.
* We do need some sort of basket of things that we, as a society actually decide to teach our kids.
* I don't think the bubble tests cover this even remotely.
* Kids need to believe in order, in some sort of higher purpose, in knowledge as a positive, self-actualizing thing for them to take these tests seriously. Maybe 22% of my students have that sort of belief system. 25% of them will take the tests because they believe our spurious claims of self-benefit, but otherwise, most of them have nursed from well of anarchy for so long that they see no particular reason why they should even try to answer the questions put before them. The reason, "Because I can!!!" Which seems to have been a motivating force for most of their teachers, is not even on the waiting list as a valid purpose for them. I have a hard time combating this attitude. I don't even know where to start.
* The bubble tests have way too much reading, and way too many dumb-ass questions about stuff that doesn't even connect to the purpose of why we USUALLY read for the kids to feel good about taking them. I'd fail these fucking tests--and I kicked ass on the ones I took in school.
* If a kid has a .05 total G.P.A. He's not gonna give a flying pig's winkie about how he does on a goddamned test. I can't believe our totally fucked up government wants my pay dependent on what these little bastards do or do not deem important. My house is overflowing with books, literature, math, computers...it's practically bursting out the windows. I know there are at least five of these little fuckers who cheerfully vandalize my books any chance they get because they respect the books and me, as a representative of the learning institution so very little that they think it's their duty.
* The kids who have learning disabilities and are working their ass off are breaking my heart and making me want a fucking bull-whip and a cattle-prod for the kids who aren't working at all.
* I got into this gig because I love to read and I think stories are the heartbeat of life. I don't see how this test can measure that.
* If that one kid doesn't stop flirting with the poor girl who OD'd in my class a couple of weeks ago, I"m going to stomp on his heart and feed it to goats.
* Oh, shit--another one just dropped off to sleep--and I gave them water, and I can tell a bunch of them now have to pee like a freaking racehorse.
* Do you think the Governator could pass this damned test? I'm betting not. I"m betting he really couldn't in my 6th period class, where the little fuckers are going to be staging a rebellion that makes the crowd in Running Man look like a bunch of white-bread weenie Kindergartners.
* It's a bloody good thing I can type without looking at my keyboard that much, or they'd be switching their fucking booklets--yes--I just stopped to catch a couple of kids doing that. WHAT IS WRONG WITH THEM? I don't get it. They're starting to remind me of a Stephen King short story that scared the piss out of me in college and is scaring me more every day that passes. It's about how kids have this sort of evil underbody that floats among them and it drives this one teacher totally mad.
* *sigh* I got snacks for these guys--it at least keeps them quiet out of loyalty. I'm almost out of snacks-- I"m going to have to buy more. And water bottles--that's only humane.
* This whole process is not serving our students. Not that I've been a stellar educator this year, but I know I've put enough in their baskets for them to feel as though they can answer these questions. The problem is, they don't care if they can answer the questions. They want to know what's in it for them. AT this point, the only answer iI can give them is 'snacks and water', and it's not cutting it.
I'm starting to repeat myself--time to sign off. Tune in next time as I debate why belly-buttons are really necessary to the whole look of summer clothes and teenaged girls--and then decide that I don't really give a ripe shit!!!
Later!
Sunday, April 20, 2008
Less Than Stellar Moments In Parenting..
My last post got me thinking--I had a whole 13 years of parenting under my belt before I started blogging, and you guys missed some real humdingers in terms of me screwing the pooch (and the psyche) as an estrogen bearing progenitor of the species. I thought I'd go back and give you all some highlights of my less than stellar career as a parent. Remember--I'm not proud of these things, but I do try not to repeat them.
Top 10 reasons I will never get parent of the year:
* The time we dragged a three year old Big T kicking and screaming out of Buster Brown shoes for reasons we could not fathom. Turned out, he was really attached to the Thomas the Tank Engine Shoes he had on and didn't want us to remove them--when I heard him saying goodbye to his old shoes after being sent to his room when we got home, I cried for two days.
* The time Chicken's annoying little friend got on her tenth nerve, and Chicken jumped on her chest and started to beat the holy hell out of her. It was so anti-Chicken behavior that the school let her off with a warning, but I was not surprised. In fact, I treasure that moment (this is what makes me evil) because I know that my Chicken will never be a victim for long. Of course, I never told Chicken that:-)
* The time I realized that while I had remembered to feed Chicken's fish while she was away at camp, the fish had been dying for the entire week, and I had mostly been throwing fish flakes on flaking dead fish. I bundled all the dead fish into a bag, took them to the pet store and demanded (as the Cave Troll ran around the store terrorizing the cat) that they give me "seven fish that look exactly like these fish only not dead and covered in Ick." I have not been back to that pet store since.
* The time we were broke and dodging creditors, and got T ear infection medicine on a health insurance account that no longer existed. When Kaiser called asking for T--and pronouncing his name VERY badly--I handed him the phone. What makes this really really awful is that although he was two years old, he could make one sound--YI YI YI YI YI YI... and so he did that into the phone until he handed it to me with a dial tone. (I mentioned I'm not proud of this, right?)
* The time we couldn't find babysitters for a movie so we put Chicken and T in the back of the Ford Escort (hey--it was the family car!) and took them to the (now defunct) drive-in to see Twister. They were two and four.
* The time I tried to comfort Chicken during a tantrum in the back of the car (while I was driving) and she bit my hand. And I tried to beat her to death (exaggerating for effect here--nobody call CPS) while driving down Douglas blvd.
* The time T came down the hallway holding a dead--in fact a DESSICATED--fish in his fingers, sobbing, and I laughed because FINALLY I knew what was causing the stench in my son's room!
* The time I hand-wrote (as neatly as possible) "Chicken's bad handwriting is a disability not a choice" on a piece of paper to convince her teacher to get off her back about it. *&^%ing parochial school. (My handwriting has been described as "unhealthy". The woman took one look at my message, looked horrified, and instantly agreed to back off.)
* The time I asked T's fourth grade teacher if he ever had the same urge I had to jump on T's chest and pull out the baby tooth that had been hanging on so long that the adult tooth had completely grown in behind it. The thing that makes me feel slightly better about this is that his teacher nodded his head and said, "Oh absolutely--I'll hold him down if you pull!!!"
* The time Big T was having some bizarre sort of insomnia attack, and spent the entire night running around his crib (which was in an attached room to ours) laughing like a complete lunatic. Mate and I got up blind with exhaustion (I was pregnant with Chicken at the time) and got him a bottle of juice (also not a source of pride for us, but that's another story) so often that we ran out of bottles. There were TWELVE of them in the crib when we were done, and he never did go to sleep that night. Or that day, either.
* The time I was pregnant with the Cave Troll and had just finished giving the two older children an excruciating, in depth talk about the facts of life, and T was so excited to know about S-E-X that he had to bring it up in every conversation. We were watching a movie in which two of the characters (J-Lo and Ralphe Feines--it wasn't a very good movie) started kissing and the screen faded to black, and Big T said, "I know what they're gonna do. They're gonna have SEX!."
And Mate said, "Yes, Big T--people have sex. Sex makes babies. Your mom and dad have had sex at least three times that you know of."
"Four!" Replied a gleeful T. "Remember--I caught you once!"
Mate turned purple. "Remember--we agreed that that incident never happened. Ever. Ever. Never." And I agreed. Never happened. Ever. Ever. Never.
And that, folks, is why even before the snail incident, I would never get parent of the year.
Top 10 reasons I will never get parent of the year:
* The time we dragged a three year old Big T kicking and screaming out of Buster Brown shoes for reasons we could not fathom. Turned out, he was really attached to the Thomas the Tank Engine Shoes he had on and didn't want us to remove them--when I heard him saying goodbye to his old shoes after being sent to his room when we got home, I cried for two days.
* The time Chicken's annoying little friend got on her tenth nerve, and Chicken jumped on her chest and started to beat the holy hell out of her. It was so anti-Chicken behavior that the school let her off with a warning, but I was not surprised. In fact, I treasure that moment (this is what makes me evil) because I know that my Chicken will never be a victim for long. Of course, I never told Chicken that:-)
* The time I realized that while I had remembered to feed Chicken's fish while she was away at camp, the fish had been dying for the entire week, and I had mostly been throwing fish flakes on flaking dead fish. I bundled all the dead fish into a bag, took them to the pet store and demanded (as the Cave Troll ran around the store terrorizing the cat) that they give me "seven fish that look exactly like these fish only not dead and covered in Ick." I have not been back to that pet store since.
* The time we were broke and dodging creditors, and got T ear infection medicine on a health insurance account that no longer existed. When Kaiser called asking for T--and pronouncing his name VERY badly--I handed him the phone. What makes this really really awful is that although he was two years old, he could make one sound--YI YI YI YI YI YI... and so he did that into the phone until he handed it to me with a dial tone. (I mentioned I'm not proud of this, right?)
* The time we couldn't find babysitters for a movie so we put Chicken and T in the back of the Ford Escort (hey--it was the family car!) and took them to the (now defunct) drive-in to see Twister. They were two and four.
* The time I tried to comfort Chicken during a tantrum in the back of the car (while I was driving) and she bit my hand. And I tried to beat her to death (exaggerating for effect here--nobody call CPS) while driving down Douglas blvd.
* The time T came down the hallway holding a dead--in fact a DESSICATED--fish in his fingers, sobbing, and I laughed because FINALLY I knew what was causing the stench in my son's room!
* The time I hand-wrote (as neatly as possible) "Chicken's bad handwriting is a disability not a choice" on a piece of paper to convince her teacher to get off her back about it. *&^%ing parochial school. (My handwriting has been described as "unhealthy". The woman took one look at my message, looked horrified, and instantly agreed to back off.)
* The time I asked T's fourth grade teacher if he ever had the same urge I had to jump on T's chest and pull out the baby tooth that had been hanging on so long that the adult tooth had completely grown in behind it. The thing that makes me feel slightly better about this is that his teacher nodded his head and said, "Oh absolutely--I'll hold him down if you pull!!!"
* The time Big T was having some bizarre sort of insomnia attack, and spent the entire night running around his crib (which was in an attached room to ours) laughing like a complete lunatic. Mate and I got up blind with exhaustion (I was pregnant with Chicken at the time) and got him a bottle of juice (also not a source of pride for us, but that's another story) so often that we ran out of bottles. There were TWELVE of them in the crib when we were done, and he never did go to sleep that night. Or that day, either.
* The time I was pregnant with the Cave Troll and had just finished giving the two older children an excruciating, in depth talk about the facts of life, and T was so excited to know about S-E-X that he had to bring it up in every conversation. We were watching a movie in which two of the characters (J-Lo and Ralphe Feines--it wasn't a very good movie) started kissing and the screen faded to black, and Big T said, "I know what they're gonna do. They're gonna have SEX!."
And Mate said, "Yes, Big T--people have sex. Sex makes babies. Your mom and dad have had sex at least three times that you know of."
"Four!" Replied a gleeful T. "Remember--I caught you once!"
Mate turned purple. "Remember--we agreed that that incident never happened. Ever. Ever. Never." And I agreed. Never happened. Ever. Ever. Never.
And that, folks, is why even before the snail incident, I would never get parent of the year.
Friday, April 18, 2008
A crime of hidden pesticide
No no...I'm not qualified to lecture on going green or organic, this is something entirely different.
For the last week or so, in the mornings as we've left, the Cave Troll has gone to the bed with the rose-bushes in it and written a soap opera about snails.
"See mom...that snail is sleeping, and that one's awake. And that one's not dead. And that one's a baby snail, and that one's a mama snail and that that one's moving. See mom, he's moving?"
"Uhm hum...let's get into the car."
"See, mom, he's moving...I like him moving. Is he going to visit the other snails?"
"Uhm hum...c'mon...let's get into the car."
"Can we get flowers! Let's get flowers! I love flowers. The snails love the flowers! Can we bring flowers to the babysitter!"
"Uhm hum...let's bring flowers to the babysitter...but first get into the *&^%car!"
And there I was, wrestling a giant rose of the bush when...
Crack. Crinkle. Squdge.
Aw shit. AWWWWWW shit. I just killed my kids pet snail.
I got into the car with the damned flower.
"Mom...did you squish my snail?"
My kid's not an idiot--he saw where I was stepping. But I am a coward, and I answer like one.
"Nope...snail's fine...trust mama, snail's all good. He was sleeping!"
And all day long, I"m thinking, "O gods, I'm toast. He's a smart kid--he's been checking in on those damned snails for a WEEK. He'll go back to that spot tomorrow and see all the little snail shards and I'll be BUSTED!!!"
And this morning, sure enough, he goes running outside and starts talking to the snails. "And there's a mama snail, and a baby snail and a daddy snail...and that one's moving, and that one's asleep...wake up snail, wake up!"
I go over and look with him. And sure enough, there's three more snails to take the place of the one I squished. Because, like, dudes, I suck as a gardener, and haven't put out snail bait in years...our yard is like a snail safe zone, and the aphids and dandelions don't do badly either.
For once, I couldn't be happier that I totally suck as a homeowner--go mama! In fact, Go Mama Snail!
I finally get it. Pesticide really is evil, and snails have the right to live, same as everybody else. Really, anything that keeps my kid from pointing at me and screaming "LIAR!" like Carol Kane in the Princess Bride is not a bad thing at all, now is it.
For the last week or so, in the mornings as we've left, the Cave Troll has gone to the bed with the rose-bushes in it and written a soap opera about snails.
"See mom...that snail is sleeping, and that one's awake. And that one's not dead. And that one's a baby snail, and that one's a mama snail and that that one's moving. See mom, he's moving?"
"Uhm hum...let's get into the car."
"See, mom, he's moving...I like him moving. Is he going to visit the other snails?"
"Uhm hum...c'mon...let's get into the car."
"Can we get flowers! Let's get flowers! I love flowers. The snails love the flowers! Can we bring flowers to the babysitter!"
"Uhm hum...let's bring flowers to the babysitter...but first get into the *&^%car!"
And there I was, wrestling a giant rose of the bush when...
Crack. Crinkle. Squdge.
Aw shit. AWWWWWW shit. I just killed my kids pet snail.
I got into the car with the damned flower.
"Mom...did you squish my snail?"
My kid's not an idiot--he saw where I was stepping. But I am a coward, and I answer like one.
"Nope...snail's fine...trust mama, snail's all good. He was sleeping!"
And all day long, I"m thinking, "O gods, I'm toast. He's a smart kid--he's been checking in on those damned snails for a WEEK. He'll go back to that spot tomorrow and see all the little snail shards and I'll be BUSTED!!!"
And this morning, sure enough, he goes running outside and starts talking to the snails. "And there's a mama snail, and a baby snail and a daddy snail...and that one's moving, and that one's asleep...wake up snail, wake up!"
I go over and look with him. And sure enough, there's three more snails to take the place of the one I squished. Because, like, dudes, I suck as a gardener, and haven't put out snail bait in years...our yard is like a snail safe zone, and the aphids and dandelions don't do badly either.
For once, I couldn't be happier that I totally suck as a homeowner--go mama! In fact, Go Mama Snail!
I finally get it. Pesticide really is evil, and snails have the right to live, same as everybody else. Really, anything that keeps my kid from pointing at me and screaming "LIAR!" like Carol Kane in the Princess Bride is not a bad thing at all, now is it.
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