Todd-o asked for a mayonnaise cake for his birthday. I screwed up at least two before I got it right. As you can see, I don’t have much space for the baking of goods and that’s probably for the best since I’m obviously not a graceful baker. Can you imagine a whole kitchen of this?
A guest post from Bob, on-call photographer & wheelbarrow operator.
(Jacques, I shoveled sh*t today. What did you do?)
I channeled Miss Emily Litela today as a parent chaperone on a field trip to the subversive produce mecca of the 17th Street Market, though I didn’t realize it at the time. For those of you not fortunate enough to be reared by parents who worked late into the night, thus allowing you unfettered access to comedians like the brilliant Gilda Radner, take a gander:
Oh, Big Brother and I spent hours dotting and crossing on Mom’s chalkboard! Perhaps this goes some distance explaining why I’m such a teacher groupie, or why I adore the cardigan, or why I can’t pee in the ocean. I think this skit was probably the inspiration behind my brother and I silently, or loudly, saying, “Vacuum!” to one another, though we did occasionally say, “Olive juice,” as well. There was no sport in letting our parents presume we liked each other. Our alliance was forged in secret. Such subversiveness allowed us far more nefarious activity than we otherwise would have enjoyed. When Big Brother is watching over you, you get to hang out at Expresso Royale. Oh, yes. And it went without saying there was nary a snitch about our willfully impious cherry vanilla Italian sodas or peppermint tea brewed in a French press. OUI!
That must have been when all went wrong. Espresso Royale, secret codes, and Miss Emily Litella. “Vacuum? I just did it yesterday. F*** you? Oh. That’s different! Nevermind.” But today was about olive juice with the kid I can actually claim to love in public without Olympic eye gymnastics. Hawt Mz invited us to name our favorite part of the market. Just because I played rugby doesn’t make me a fish fan, but I gotta say the fish monger was my favorite. Brett must have known because he took a picture. And looky who’s there with me!
Yes! I looked deep into the eyes of Emily Litella and hadn’t a clue as she and I mirrored each other’s every move and gesture and indoctrinating comment to future voters of America. At the same time, I think I’m an adequate foil to Hawt Mz, who made fun of me for taking my group to the frozen food isle to admire the ice cream and define decadent for first and second grade students. That’s right! They can’t hear POTUS tell them to stay in school, but it’s totally cool for Emily Litella to define decadent. And that my friends, is nefarious.
If you were paying attention, I attempted to record in my widgets the books the kids and I read this summer. I didn’t do such a great job. The kids read at night when it was too dark for me to see them and it is such a PITA (pain in the ass – via a Solar Rock pal) for them to speak to me, much less tell me what they read. I didn’t do much better recording the books I read. For example, I read a book from the Dear Dumb Diary series and thought it was hi-LAR-ious. Still, I neglected to list it. Nor did I list The Tale of Despereaux. So, I pretty much suck at record keeping. In this case, not such a big deal. In the case of immunization records, such a big deal.
By far our favorite was Lemony Snicket’s A Series of Unfortunate Events series. I must admit, the books aren’t without drawbacks. It’s highly predictable and repetitive, and is critical of the Water Cycle. On the other hand, I enjoyed the Dantesque undertones and the cameos of Melville, Voltaire, Congreve, Woolf, Flaubert, Beckett, and many, many others. Also, the kids and I have been discussing what makes a villain or volunteer. Are you a bad guy if you tell a lie, commit a tiny bit of manslaughter (or at least assault), or neglect to care for your fingernails?
We have yet to read the final book — The End. We don’t have to overly savor that book. In 2012, when my kids insist the world will end in spite of my years, YEARS, of experience with such bogus predictions, all of which I survived, Lemony Snicket is scheduled to present a new four-book series. Between The End and the end (2012), I’ll be attempting to read through all the Newbery Award winners. Care to join me?
Summer reads that I managed to compile in a list-y, link-y format (will someone please return them to the bookshelf?):
The Invention of Hugo Cabret – 9 YO & Mom
A Series of Unfortunate Events, Books 1-12 – ALL
Extraordinary Adventures of Ordinary Basil – 7 & 9 YOs
The Trumpet of the Swan – ALL
Is That A Sick Cat In Your Backpack? – 9 YO
Sound Off! #1 (DANIEL BOOM AKA LOUD BOY) – 9 YO
Howtoons: The Possibilities Are Endless! – 9 YO
Coraline: The Graphic Novel – 7 YO
A.L.I.E.E.E.N. – 7 & 9 YOs
Fashion Kitty and the Unlikely Hero – 7 YO
Sardine in Outer Space 2 – 9 YO
Babymouse #3: Beach Babe – 7 YO
Little Vampire – 9 YO
Babymouse #4: Rock Star – 7 YO Warriors Super Edition: Firestar’s Quest – 9 YO & Mom
Rapunzel’s Revenge – 7 YO
Animorphs #37: The Weakness – 9 YO
In FAIRYLAND. With the Text of The Princess Nobody. Edited & with a Foreword by Cary Wilkins. – 7 YO
Stink: Book 1 – 9 YO
The Twelve Dancing Princesses – 7 YO
Nasty Nature (Horrible Science) – 9 YO
Flat Stanley – 7 YO
Star Wars, Episode III – Revenge of the Sith – 9 YO
Transformers: Beast Wars: The Gathering – 9 YO
Today was the first day of school for Arizona Wildcats, and in a sense, for my son too. Today, a week into school, the 9-YO was assigned a teacher, Mr. Dub*. I’m not complaining (anymore) because 1) he had the most amazing, stupendous, wonderful substitute teacher and 2) his new teacher is gonna be good. One of the things Mr. Dub told us was that he didn’t believe in punishing kids who complete their work early by giving them busy work, but would rather give them tools to help them think more deeply about the subject. Also, he talked about presenting materials in multiple ways rather than in repetitive ways, to catch students how they learn whether it’s visually, orally/audibly, or tactilely (really, people should not let me make up words).
Previously linked to a video at notonthetest.com.
As a mother who tried unsuccessfully to limit wasteful (in all senses of the words) tests (mostly as mandated by NCLB) administered to my innocent children and only quit under threat of meanness (so much for parent rights), I love Mr. Dub’s theory of helping children approach their learning (he is in great company among educators, most of whom would rather not be scripted or teach to the test). Sure, some things have to be rote, but not everything. For example, Stupendous Sub taught math using block printing of Islamic tiles. Oh, she is sooo smooches and cream.
Whatever. I just want to show a photo** of the 9-YO explaining to his art teacher from last year why he wrote “Schookson” (Pima) or “Cuk Ṣon” (Tohono O’Odham) or “Chuk-son” (unsure) or “Schuk-shon” (Pima) in the sky. Using water color and collage techniques she showed him (over the objections of some hum-hum), 9-YO won a Postal History Foundation art contest in both his age group and over all age groups. (Nine-YO’s friend and his little brother came in 4th and 3rd place!)
And also this photo** of the 7-YO with her first teachers, her family, in Sabino Canyon.
Uh, the family is off camera. The critter isn’t actually part of the family and 7-YO’s not going to start a family any time soon so no kissing toads, or frogs. Not yet.
And that’s how you teach a kid (as if I had a clue).
* Names have been changed because I’m fun like that.
** My photos were prettier before Ultimate made me freak out about size. I may have to ignore him. Happy Birthday, Ultimate!
Todd-o and I separated the wheat from the chaff last night. Before you go casting me as a crunchy, wheat-berry hippie, also know that I just polished off a package of Zingers with Suzy Q’s set aside for tomorrow. Diabetes update to follow.
Threshing wheat works nicely, whether by hand or machine. Threshing schools is not such a lovely task. (Winnowing sounds more poetic and does involve a gentle breeze, but it’s not expedient for this transition.) Guess what about charter schools in Arizona! Yeah, that’s what. Needs threshing. Unfortunately, where politicians talk about “government schools” one would expect to see various programs like open enrollment, magnet schools*, and vouchers pop up. In effect, these options overwhelm parents leaving us second-guessing every decision we make with regard to our children’s education. At the same time, these programs suck resources from neighborhood schools and skim the perceived cream. Icky chaff!
How do we find top-notch students to segregate away to bastions of learning? We could always test them, but when the best indicator of test performance is zip code (Google “Volvo effect”), then why bother with the tests at all? Just check out the vehicles in the pick-up lane. Put those kids with their parents’ money in one preci$ely located school easily identified by realtors and watch them soar. Of course those left in the time/talent/treasure void may not perform as well as a group and therefore we should punish those kids by closing down their schools and refusing to educate the former enrollees unless their parents manage to secure digs where property taxes are higher, swing their own college education, and give up on any service sector/civil servant jobs in favor of something tastefully white collar. Of course, a few children will slip past our ivy gated communities and we will laud them as an example of why the rest are truly undeserving.
* I’m not a hypocrite as my kids are special. They attend magnet schools where everything is perfect in accordance with the needs of my gifted and talented (and gorgeous) children. Magnet status, btw, didn’t prevent 1/3 of the faculty getting RIF’d and the total absence of a librarian at the 9-YO’s school. On the other hand, they have a part time attendance clerk because someone should watch after Adequate Yearly Progress.
Recently I finished a dish rag I’d been knitting for two years solid. I gave it away straight away, so, no photos. I thought perhaps I could finish a few verbal projects here. I’m terrible at tying up loose ends. I’ll tell a tale like Nugget has joined the Peaceable Kingdom or Apples to Apples: An Ethnography of the Apple Store, and then leave it at that. It’s not that I don’t want to finish the story, it’s just that I’m a lazylou. I also have a 9 year quilt in the closet with my other skeletons. While unfinished is the way I roll, a little catch-up wouldn’t kill me.
The Apple store totally took care of me. New battery, new battery charger, new battery connection, new keyboard plate, and totally wiped down and cleaned up. The outcome feels as luxurious as getting my car detailed, which I’m totally going to do one day so that I know what it feels like to have my car detailed. The best part? The cost of parts and services was over $400, but they charged me nothing. I may not understand the store setup and perhaps I’m doing it all wrong, but I’m not sorry I drank the Apple juice.
Nugget decided to join the rest of our flock and even spent two nights perched with them. Unfortunately, the morning after proved to be no honeymoon. Buttercup would have none of it and, fearing a reprisal of the earlier victimage at the beaks of the Borton birds, Nugget quit roosting with the rest, choosing instead the grapefruit tree. We tired of retrieving her and so have reverted to roosting her ourselves in her segregated cell. I’m at a loss with her. I hate to see outcasts so if you have a suggestion, please let me know.
You may have noticed from my Twitter feed that we were scrambling to find new digs. The landlady called to say she was ready to move in and was sending a contractor over here today. Being a glorious F-Friday, I overheard the contractor tell landlady that she should budget six months just to draw up plans for the renovations. She didn’t say we could stay for those six months, but I’m feeling more relaxed about the situation. Even better, I’ve spent the last seven days on overdrive trying to pare down our possessions in preparation to move. In other words, the house is uncluttered and light weight. In fact, we had a discussion over dinner that we should invite all three of our friends over for a party then tell them how embarrassed we are the house is such a pit. Get it? We’d come off as Model Home folks. Ah, we are so funny. Okay, not really. There’s still much to clean and even cleaner probably wouldn’t approach your level of cleanliness.
Fluffy and Puffy are, for the most part, gone. Must be time to weed again!
Oh, I am so exhausted! It takes the wind out of a person to attend to the details. There is no way I’m going to do the dishes now.
Something wonderful happened on Monday – betts* returned from Mexico. Oh the glory! I straight away stole her son for swimming and hot dogs. He loves him some hot dogs because his mother is a veggie eater. I guess that makes me the awesome mom and I can’t tell you how appreciative I am that betts* gives me that.
Today we relived old times by pulling weeds under the blow-torch that is a Tucson summer sun. Pull, chat, sweat. Pull, chat, sweat. Later Mr. Mechanical, who is still single ladies, showed up to pull weeds with us. The cathartic rhythm of the task at hand and the resultant feeling of tidy accomplishment set me straight for weeding possessions at home. We do need to make space for Landlady, who I still think shouldn’t move in with us nor force us to move out.
I took some bland snapshots that I am going to force you to endure. It may appear as though we pulled everything but the two birds of paradise, but we kept other stuff according to betts*’s aesthetic. She is, after all, a professional landscaper. Even so two birds were the order of the day as we also saw two house finches about four feet away from us as we worked.
At the top of the mound is a lovely little home for ants. We weeded the crap out of their abode and they didn’t like it. Nope, they didn’t. Not one bit. I swear it was all betts*’s doing as I totally identify with being uprooted by the powers that be, but the ants didn’t see it that way. Nope, they didn’t. As I innocently bagged the weeds upon project completion, those ants came after me. I guess I had a bit of a reaction.
I added the arrows since the 9 YO indicated that the non-swollen hand looked to him as bitten because my normal arthritic (not really) knuckles are so prominent. He also said the hand that had been bitten looked younger. Perhaps ant bites can be used in place of Botox?
I also have a huge blister on my index finger from pulling weeds without using gloves. That blister irritates me most of all because it’s at that spot where I turn locks, the car ignition, and the water faucets, but more importantly because I can’t get a good photo of the blister. The children have nicknamed the blister Fluffy and later thought the swollen knuckles should be called Puffy.
My landlord wants to move in with us, which is totally unacceptable. There’s just not enough space here. It doesn’t seem right that I suggest she find someplace else as the house belongs to her and all, so I’m taking 30 days to move my family out of the home we’ve occupied for five years. After checking out the rental $cene, my plan is to beg her to hold off on the contractor, renovations, and moving in for another nine months. She seemed fairly determined that the contractor come this week and so until I convince her that my bright ideas are always the best, I’m going to act as though she is serious about her move. At this point what that means is that my recycle bin is full to capacity.
In going through the ginormous piles of spelling worksheets, old correspondence, and outdated “to do” lists I discovered a box of letters I sent to my father-in-law. Rather than working on one of the eleventy seven brain blog posts floating in my head and in my drafts folder, I’m just going to reprint an update on my first pregnancy. I’m just lazy like that.
Subject: Asexual Alien Baby?
So, I gained a little extra weight. That’s is good. The baby is growing. But the growth came rapidly and my girlfriend and I decided to see if there was a miracle cream that prevented stretch marks — not that I have any. Palmer’s had been recommended, so off to Target we went. Looking at the ingredient list, we came across the substance urea. Sounds frightful, huh? We left the bottle on the shelf and went to consult our old pal, Webster. He told us that urea is mammalian urine. I’m as vain as the next woman, but I don’t know if I am that desperate yet. People keep telling me what is good and bad for me (my underwire bra will give me cancer; if I don’t have two eggs a day I will birth a naked mole rat, which is ridiculous as how could I birth a clothed one?), and I wonder how good can rubbing a belly with urine be for a baby? Granted my sister-in-law tells me that it usually comes on powder form. I must agree that if you have to have hairy animal urine slathered on you, powder is probably the way to go. I have also heard of a convent in Italy where nuns donate their urine for such a product. Perhaps pristine powdered offerings of divine virgins warrants consideration. Nah, of all the things recommended to me, this is by far the scariest.
But this isn’t about lotions or potions, this is about my neuroses. I have plenty, you know. I went my entire life without a cavity and now I have one. This is definitely the baby’s fault. Doesn’t a mother suffer enough?
But this isn’t about my dentist visit, it’s about my OB Visit. Dr. Anderson says my uterus is looking good. Of course, she only looked at my stomach (thank God she isn’t into vaginal look-sees). She said that I could have a walking epidural during labor but wondered why I would want to walk around a hospital hall with my fanny hanging out. She has a point. She said that she doesn’t give episiotiomosectomies as a rule, unless they are necessary and not more than a centimeter of slicing. Mmmm, more fun. She promised that I will have to have an IV and that there are things more frightening than needles, but I don’t believe her. She supports the Bradly method of labor and delivery because they teach you about what is happening to your body, but at the same time she is a doctor and has her own way. Best of all, she blamed my weight gain on heavier clothes. You see why I think she is wonderful?
The kid is still kicking constantly. The other night the baby’s wiggle made me giggle. Mostly, the movement feels like involuntary muscle spasms but this movement was deliberate. I had Handsome Hubster do the laying on of hands thing and every time the baby kicked he said, “DAMN!” Being the generation that we are, we can’t help but think of the birth scene in Alien. This baby is strong I tell you. I imagine that soon the baby will pop out of my stomach via my belly button. Now that I think of it, I broke no ribbons at any of my bridal showers. I did snip one with scissors and my sister-in-law’s mother-in-law, you know how these extended families are, said that meant I would have a cesarean. Ah, one more thing to think about.
You may be able to tell that I am loving pregnancy. The weight gain, the back pain, the abdominal strain. For all this work, I expect some goods in return.
Oh and I did get some goods as evidenced here pictorially. I can only blame the pose on inexperience with mommy hormones. On closer inspection of my face it appears as though I just finished crying.
If you are good, I’ll post some other self-obsessed pregnancy rants. Maybe I’ll tell you about the time I was accused of smuggling a basketball out of Wal Mart, which also happened to my cousin, so I guess it’s a family tradition and not so much a unique experience.
Last Friday, I got my panties tied in a knot. If this has ever happened to you, you’ll agree that it ain’t pleasant. It’s about eleventy million degrees in the desert and any business who has a customer come in the door in this weather (and economy) should fall to their knees in gratitude. Okay. Maybe my attitude was skewed, but honestly the Universe should have been on my side.
Have you ever been into an Apple store? There is a culture there that I just cannot crack. I went to one such den of iniquity to purchase iPods for the kiddos at Christmas and, did you know you can’t just go there and buy some? Nope. You cannot. You can go there and order them online. Of course you can do that at your own damn house too and get them monogramed for free. Also, you might foolishly wait in line to buy those only to discover BUZZ wrong line. Also, there is a sign-in sheet, but you gotta know it’s there, where to find it, and what to do once you’ve approached it. I feel incompetent every time I darken their doorstep.
For these reasons, I’ve been delaying the trip to get my laptop fixed. Friday, I decided to bite the bullet, head to the hills, and get a new battery. If you think I could just go in and buy one, then you weren’t paying attention when I told you about the iPods. Nor was I.
So, it’s eleventy million degrees outside and I pack the kids up for a 16-mile trip to RichMan’s Land to get a new battery at the Apple store. I ridiculously wait in line with my MacBook before realizing that this line is a fantasy. I remember that you have to catch as catch can a, uh, what do you call them? They have a name, those applets walking around. They always send me straight home. Let’s make this long, agonizing story short to say, the kids and I embarked on our next errand – me still lugging the dead MacBook.
Next stop, the dry cleaners to retrieve the on-loan dresses belonging to my Fairy God Sister (I changed her designation as she is decades too young to be my mother). You’ll remember there were two borrowed dresses. Additionally, I dropped off a kid’s dress and a kid’s tie. The kid’s dress went in without stains and came home with rust stains. The kid’s tie went in with a chocolate stain, which I pointed out, and was returned with the same said stain. I didn’t have the guts to check my friend’s dresses. The bill for these four items? $47! I should have known to stay home. Nothing good happens in Hell.
I gave up on errands and retreated to sanctuary where I know loveliness awaits me. Handsome Hubster’s great grandmother Inez was a quilt maker. I washed and set out to dry four of her quilts. I thought they were in fairly good condition, but I was wrong.
Even raggedy, I love these fans both traditional and electric. That’s what I’m calling the designs. If you are a purist and want to correct me on the names, then I will require you to send me a handmade quilt, you quilt snob. I may just fill my house with handmade quilts. I’m not sure if you can see in this photo, but Inez cared enough for these beauties that she repaired them. I will find a way to honor her work.
Alas, the dry lines are near the alley by the car port. Once out of the car and en route to the back door, I ran into my pathetic garden. The death sentence of any living thing with the unfortunate luck to be planted here is why, Denveater, you haven’t had an update on my garden. The basil looks great, the hens ate the pepper pant’s leaves, the tomatoes died one at a time with this one croaking while I was in Oklahoma. Sad.
Through the house and to the street out front where we keep the mailbox. Inside, I found something that took away the sting of the Apple shunning, being taken to/at the cleaners, quilts in sad repair, and triple black-thumb death.
Dayna. Dayna. Isn’t that a lovely name? Dayna sent me a gift. It was completely unsolicited. I didn’t even pay her. Frankly, I’ve never even met her, but I love her. I love you, Dayna. Thank you for Going to Seed: Finding, Identifying, and Preparing Edible Plants of the Southwest and for the encouragement as well. I think I will keep writing, even if I suspect you and my dad are in cahoots.
