Today I caught myself chanting "geriatric troll in a white Civic" over and over and over (and over--you know the drill). I also expressed some concern to my very patient husband over the fact that the phrase "iambic pentameter" is neither. Iambic pentameter HA HA HA would get us up to 10 syllables but the iambs...are not.
Just in case anyone was wondering why I didn't write, you know, a major novel this afternoon. It's because I was extremely busy.
Ten,
L
Friday, October 16, 2009
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Grounded
Falcon Heene, if you're reading this, I want you to know that you are SO GROUNDED right now. I'm glad you're safe but if you ever scare me like that again, you'll still be confined to your quarters for senior prom. Children falling from brightly coloured balloons is not something grown-ups wish to think about or worry over. So from now on, you stay on the ground. Do you understand me?
With relief,
One of your million mothers around the world
With relief,
One of your million mothers around the world
Monday, October 12, 2009
Nuts to you
So I'm sitting here in the detritus of last night's Thanksgiving gathering. There are 1000 dirty plates, more or less, 12 be-turkeyed napkins, cranberry sauce on the dog's head, rougly ten thousand wine glasses, and two pots of turkey soup on the boil. Eventually they will require all the lovely things that they require: defatting, de-yuckifying, straining, mashing, etc. Not for the faint of heart. Really not for the faints of heart who also happen to be vegetarians 260 days a year. (Hi!) Downstairs where the children were milling about there are 17 tiny Jedi bodies, innumerable headless clones, two demolished Republic starships mauled for their parts, a wooden train set spilling down the stairs and over a trestle bridge into the downstairs bathtub, and all 12 disks of the Lord Of the Rings trilogy scattered over the carpet. I should really be getting around to making all of this right, to re-establishing the rule of Order over Chaos, to cleaning and herding and scrubbing and all that.
Instead, I'm doubled over with silent laughter in my office, listening to two little boys cataloguing different euphemisms for their you-know-whats. The people who insist that children call their body parts by their official names are really missing out on some great comedy.
Instead, I'm doubled over with silent laughter in my office, listening to two little boys cataloguing different euphemisms for their you-know-whats. The people who insist that children call their body parts by their official names are really missing out on some great comedy.
Friday, October 9, 2009
Crafty
So, inspired by Fiona, I went ahead and posted a hand-made Pay it Forward offer and am now scouring magazines and websites for things that, if they were titled for my convenience, would read: "Idiot-Proof and Easy-to-Make yet Exquisite Thingies that Your Friends will Love and Not Just Throw Out Right Away."
It's too late to make jam, unless I make it out of winter tubers because that's all that's left here on the frozen stupid tundra I call home. Parsnip compote is maybe better than it sounds?
No one will tell me where they've hidden the sharp scissors.
I want to make Lego-block rings with little diamonds lasered into them but I have no diamonds, no lasers, and my friends are generally the sort who might be freaked out by such a thing. Not by the whimsy but by the idea that anyone would let me play with a laser.
I cannot ship live animals across international borders--and besides, who makes art out of live animals anymore anyhow.
Decoupage? No. Embarrassed by the word itself. It's too close to decollete for my comfort.
Origami. (See above, but you know what I'm getting at.) (Plus it's not ecologically responsible.) (Origami, I mean.)(Plus Jane has already done it.) (Plus origami (I really am feeling weird writing that down.) (Catholicism, eh?) is hard to do when one of your fingers looks like a cocktail weenie.)
Re: origami. I just clicked here and now I feel worse.
I tried to make popsicle stick puppets and a theatre but I liked them so much I kept them. The Anna Wintour popsicle stick has to be kept in a special silk-lined box away from the Lauren Weisberger popsicle stick, but I secretly sometimes just throw them in a drawer together and let the chips fall where they may. The Bai Ling doll was FUN TO DRESS, let me tell you.
Where does one even find honeycomb?
It's hard to know where to draw the line between caricature and cruelty when making home-made nose glasses.
It has been pointed out to me once or twice that just because something has 17 syllables doesn't make it a haiku. Plus, I need to write down things in multiples of 5, so haiku kind of drive me mad unless I can write "la ti da" in invisible ink after the last word.
The last time I knit something, it was a 17-sided scarf for my father. When he's feeling a little low, he takes it out of the closet and cracks up at the memory that my parents used to think I was the smart one.
Off now through the snow and the bitter chill to buy the latest "Tea Cosy Quarterly."
UPDATE: DEAR GOD, LOOK WHAT I FOUND
It's too late to make jam, unless I make it out of winter tubers because that's all that's left here on the frozen stupid tundra I call home. Parsnip compote is maybe better than it sounds?
No one will tell me where they've hidden the sharp scissors.
I want to make Lego-block rings with little diamonds lasered into them but I have no diamonds, no lasers, and my friends are generally the sort who might be freaked out by such a thing. Not by the whimsy but by the idea that anyone would let me play with a laser.
I cannot ship live animals across international borders--and besides, who makes art out of live animals anymore anyhow.
Decoupage? No. Embarrassed by the word itself. It's too close to decollete for my comfort.
Origami. (See above, but you know what I'm getting at.) (Plus it's not ecologically responsible.) (Origami, I mean.)(Plus Jane has already done it.) (Plus origami (I really am feeling weird writing that down.) (Catholicism, eh?) is hard to do when one of your fingers looks like a cocktail weenie.)
Re: origami. I just clicked here and now I feel worse.
I tried to make popsicle stick puppets and a theatre but I liked them so much I kept them. The Anna Wintour popsicle stick has to be kept in a special silk-lined box away from the Lauren Weisberger popsicle stick, but I secretly sometimes just throw them in a drawer together and let the chips fall where they may. The Bai Ling doll was FUN TO DRESS, let me tell you.
Where does one even find honeycomb?
It's hard to know where to draw the line between caricature and cruelty when making home-made nose glasses.
It has been pointed out to me once or twice that just because something has 17 syllables doesn't make it a haiku. Plus, I need to write down things in multiples of 5, so haiku kind of drive me mad unless I can write "la ti da" in invisible ink after the last word.
The last time I knit something, it was a 17-sided scarf for my father. When he's feeling a little low, he takes it out of the closet and cracks up at the memory that my parents used to think I was the smart one.
Off now through the snow and the bitter chill to buy the latest "Tea Cosy Quarterly."
UPDATE: DEAR GOD, LOOK WHAT I FOUND
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Hot Flashes/Power Surges: All Hail The Queen
This is a comment I wrote at Queen of Spain in response to Erin's entry about how hard it is to find your tribe amongst the other moms at your kid's school. I'm actually lucky in that among the parents of Lief's pals are a number of lovely wackos whom I love dearly (TFlem and Di, I'm talking about you). Re-reading this, I've realized that I'm actually lucky--and have new appreciation for the fabulous women in my life who make this parenting adventure so much more fun than it would be if I were truly on my own.
I really shouldn't work late at night--it makes me maudlin. Anyhow. . . .
Those Grade One classrooms can sure rocket you back to junior high school in a flash, can’t they? And speaking of flashes. . . . here’s how I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the PTA.
Setting: Grade One meet-the-teachers assembly; classroom 18A. Silver-haired 46-year-old mother jammed inelegantly into pastel midget chair looks at 22 much younger (thinner, richer, more flexible, dentally superior, Beemer-driving) mothers who are nursing their babies, or waddling about pregnant and glowing, or making athletic runs to the bathroom with their toddlers. Silver-haired mother starts a slow freak out. Should have put on make up. Should have changed out of t-shirt. Should have walked instead of driving rusted-out station wagon. Should have tried to make Cool Girls like her. Now Kid will be alone on playground for rest of life. No play date invites for Kid. It’s his mother, you know. Very odd. Old, you know.
How old? Look at her, over in the corner HAVING A HOT FLASH. But that hot flash turned out to be a power surge in more ways than one. For through the heat and the sweat and the mud and the blood came the answer. My age is a diadem: I am clearly the Queen. Cookies? Are you mad? I AM THE QUEEN. What sort of Queen would be caught dead in Juicy Couture? Of course my knees creak: I AM THE QUEEN.
And like all queens, I have people who do things for me. Things like phone to remind me that Kid has come to school without his agenda or his sweater. Things like board school buses and go to wind-swept outdoor areas to observe insects and humus and the sad but true things that go on there. And especially to attend PTA meetings and then inform me as to what has gone on there, preferrably via email.
I really shouldn't work late at night--it makes me maudlin. Anyhow. . . .
Those Grade One classrooms can sure rocket you back to junior high school in a flash, can’t they? And speaking of flashes. . . . here’s how I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the PTA.
Setting: Grade One meet-the-teachers assembly; classroom 18A. Silver-haired 46-year-old mother jammed inelegantly into pastel midget chair looks at 22 much younger (thinner, richer, more flexible, dentally superior, Beemer-driving) mothers who are nursing their babies, or waddling about pregnant and glowing, or making athletic runs to the bathroom with their toddlers. Silver-haired mother starts a slow freak out. Should have put on make up. Should have changed out of t-shirt. Should have walked instead of driving rusted-out station wagon. Should have tried to make Cool Girls like her. Now Kid will be alone on playground for rest of life. No play date invites for Kid. It’s his mother, you know. Very odd. Old, you know.
How old? Look at her, over in the corner HAVING A HOT FLASH. But that hot flash turned out to be a power surge in more ways than one. For through the heat and the sweat and the mud and the blood came the answer. My age is a diadem: I am clearly the Queen. Cookies? Are you mad? I AM THE QUEEN. What sort of Queen would be caught dead in Juicy Couture? Of course my knees creak: I AM THE QUEEN.
And like all queens, I have people who do things for me. Things like phone to remind me that Kid has come to school without his agenda or his sweater. Things like board school buses and go to wind-swept outdoor areas to observe insects and humus and the sad but true things that go on there. And especially to attend PTA meetings and then inform me as to what has gone on there, preferrably via email.
Friday, September 25, 2009
What did this man do?
You go to J school planning on changing the world, meeting the famous, talking truth to power or whatever that saying is. And you wind up reporting on a statue of an elephant in a less-than-utterly-thrilling Canadian city on the bald prairie. And you've just got to be wondering to yourself: is this because of that time I didn't make my bed when my mom asked me to about 11 times and then finally had to yell at me in that tone of voice that makes her depressed and reach for a third cup of coffee?
Is this what happened to you? Because you're making a really good example for bad boys everywhere.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Huff? Puff?
Confirm this for me, someone. I find it odd that Kid's elementary school will be hosting a live timberwolf shortly. Am I wrong? Where does one draw the line? Grizzlies? Yeti? Mahmoud Ahmadinejad? (All of which fall further down any sensible person's list than Brooke Shields. Just saying.)
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