separated at the photo booth

Thanks to my friend Andrea at hulaseventy (one of the loveliest blogs out there), we discovered a great photo booth very close to our home.

First go around went something like this:

"Mom, why did you pull our hair?"

* * *

When we returned for a second visit a few days ago, Fiona entered with a plan.  Something about sunglasses (again), pigtails, and doll.

Check, check, and check.

Neve looked at me and said, "But Mom, I don't know how to photo booth by myself."

I explained that a smile, a funny face, or whatever would be fine.  She reluctantly closed the red curtain, and then this came out a few minutes later:

She had no choice but to give herself bunny ears.

The Goddess of Enthusiasm and The Goddess of Tart

Greek Mythology:

We've taken a bit of a detour in class to learn a little extra about the juicy lives these immortals lead, beyond  what's been given in our history books.

Me: "So, Fiona, tell me about the Trojan War.  From the beginning."

Fiona: "There was this goddess who liked to watch everyone fight.  She was the goddess of fighting.  Forgot her name.  And she went to the wedding of... I can't remember, but anyway, she brought with her a golden apple.  Mom?  What kind of an apple is a golden apple?  [Granny] Smith apple?  Is that right?"

Me: "I think this was an actual gold apple.  Like one you put on a mantel."  (That's where we put our gold apple.)

Fiona and Neve (seriously) glance at each other and bounce their eyebrows as if to say, "Oooh, faaanc-ay!"

Me: "Go on."

Fiona: "And it had these words on it, 'TO THE FAIREST', which is just like saying, 'TO THE LADY WHO LOOKS THE BEST'."

Neve interrupts: "Yeah, and everybody thinks they look the best."

Fiona: "-Neve!  Let me finish!  And everybody thinks they look the best, so they all wanted her to give the apple to them."

Neve is pouting.

Me: "Neve, can you tell me what happened next?"

Neve, perking up a bit: "Well, they went outside and asked the boy who takes care of sheep to pick the prettiest girl."

Fiona: "It's a GODDESS, Neve.  A goddess!"

Neve: "Well, excuu-uuse me, Fiona!  A GODDESS, okay?"

Me: "Girls, girls, let's be kind to one another.  What happened after Paris, the shepherd, came in?"

Fiona is using one hand to support her other arm that is raised and waving high over her head, gasping for air and making a painful face.  (We've been through this already.)

Me: "Fiona, there are only two of you.  You don't have to raise your hand.  Or fall out of your chair trying to get my attention.  I'm right here."

Fiona, catching her breath: "He picked three goddesses; the goddess of love, Aphro- Aphri- Aphrodite?  Right?  And then the goddess of smart.  What's her name?"

Me: "Athena, right.  She's the goddess of wisdom."

Fiona: "Wisdom.  And then he picked the goddess of... the QUEEN of the gods and goddesses."

Me: "Yep.  Hera."

Fiona: "Hera.  And these three goddesses said they would make him a king, wise, or marry the prettiest lady in the world if he choosed them."

Me: "Chose.  That's right.  And which goddess did he choose, Neve?"

Fiona has her hand over mouth, panting, and kicking her legs.

Neve looks at her with an air of pity and slowly answers: "The goddess who gives wives."

Fiona, all in one breath: "Yeah-but-she-was-already-married-and-so-he-stole-her-in-the-middle-of-the-night-into-a-boat-and-over-to-a-place-far-away!"  { INHALE }

Neve: "Fiona!  What is your problem?  It's just Ancient Greece!  I've gotta pee."

The Blue Moon Caffeine-Induced Saga About 2011

I dread writing posts like this.  They wind up being unnecessarily epic and long-winded because I'm no good at consistently keeping up with this thing.  However, it needs to happen, as so much has changed in the last few months.

The dust has settled.  Let's do this.

the only photo i could find that i felt captured the feeling of settled dust

                                                                                * * *


Months ago, Terry and I made the hard decision to move from our house.  We bought it back in 2005, closing on Neve's due date, which wound up being 3 days after she was actually born.  What were we thinking?  We weren't.  We wanted to buy a house, and nothing would stop us.  Not even a healing episiotomy.

While the house wasn't in the worst shape as-is, and while we weren't in any place (financially speaking) to renovate, we were still determined to make this house 20x better than the condition in which we bought it, using as little money as possible.  (Terry would probably also add that I was eager to meet this goal within a week of closing.  Me and patience, we're still getting to know each other.)

The house, a modest 2 bedroom/1 bathroom was our little labor of love.  (Please read "The Little House" by Virginia Lee Burton if you haven't already.  Aside from the fact that it's a great book, I swear that's our house.  Even now, after having moved, Neve will ask me, "are the window-eyes on the old house still crying since we left?"  Geez.)  We gardened there with good friends, we chased chickens there, we potty-trained 2 kids there, we adopted Banjo there, we celebrated 6 Christmases there (with ornaments getting increasingly lower with every year), we watched the maple tree's leaves turn a fiery red and orange in the front yard every Autumn, and we spent many cozy moments nestled in the close quarters of the house that we would eventually grow out of.

Space (or lack of) was not our reason for leaving, but it helped make the decision easier for sure.  We are still trying to figure out what happens next- foreclosure, short sale, or turning it into a rental.  In this economy, I'm inclined to just let it go, cut our losses, and celebrate the fact that we're not landlords.  But that may not be the smartest move.  In any case, we're thrilled to be in a new house in Atlanta that accommodates our family and all of our particulars- studio space, an entire acre lot, mother-in-law suite, finished basement complete with the kids' new drum kit (thank you, Aunt Rachel and Uncle Josh!), and a separate school room.  We are very grateful.  (But man, do I miss Sarah at sportweasel.  I've said it before, but it's especially appropriate now... "You don't miss yer water, 'til the well runs dry."-the Byrds, Sweetheart of the Rodeo.)

                                                                                  * * *


Our next big change was another thing I was hesitant to post here, but I will anyway.  We went gluten free a month ago, and we love it.  Well, I went gluten free a month ago, and the kids and Terry are gluten free when I'm looking.  Word has it, Terry has been cramming pop tarts into his face hole every morning at work after I make him a big bowl of morning millet.*  The girls?  They don't have a say in what I feed them.  Me?  Cooking has never been this fun and satisfying; international dishes I used to be afraid of are now part of our daily menu- veggie sushi, curries, korean barbeque, roasted vegetables, and lots of stewed meats.  (We've also eliminated the dining-out portion of our budget almost completely, give or take the occasional coffee.)

the occasional coffee

To be fair, I did fall off the wagon a few times over

1. an incident (or 2) with beer
2. New Years Eve (that whole night was a blur of wheat)
3. a slice of pizza, in a moment of weakness when my daughters were having a sleepover.  It was way better than the beer incident, I might add.

I'm happy to report that each of those slides resulted in feeling like crap the following day.  Really.  It was confirmation that I needed to hop back on the wagon immediately.  This GF thing is so real, people.

fruit and kefir salad

I'm always hesitant to vocalize changes in my diet, as I don't have the best track record.  I get super excited about "changing my ways", only to find myself right back at a Chick-fil-A drive-thru window.  And then the shame.  And then medicating the shame with french toast wrapped in flour tortillas, or something desperate like that.  (Not really, but why not?) I needed to reach the one-month-mark before claiming to be officially GF.  I mean, I made it through the holidays!  This isn't about a trend diet, but a lifestyle thing.  It's not about losing weight (although the muffin top does go away), but about feeling better all around.  I have these arthritis issues in my fingers and toes that come and go, and they've been gone COMPLETELY since I went GF.  The carb cravings are gone, my skin is clear, energy levels have tripled, my allergies are not as bad (less sneezing and itchy eyes around the cat), and my mood is better than it's been in a long time.  Seriously, you can even ask Terry.  Hold on one sec... he needs to swallow his pop tart first.


                                                                                * * *


Also, the holidays were lovely.  Most of my cousins were in town (minus Jackie... next year, cousin!  Next year!)  My brother came down and brought his sweet girlfriend (who I'd never met... I love her).  Nana and Papa are in good health (a gift in and of itself), and we all enjoyed listening to their familiar stories that we all could practically repeat word for word.  And even though I know Christmas is not about receiving (blah blah blah), I gotta say we all got some cool gifts.

Neve wearing my Morrissey scarf from Terry.

Neve opening a beautiful little wooden box from her grandma Lani on Christmas morning.

Uncle Josh and Neve, minutes after she received her new drum kit.

Everyone made out well, except for maybe the one gift from Terry and me to the girls.  They received rip-off "American Girl" dolls, aka "Journey Girl" dolls, despite their very specific requests for "American Girl" lookalikes.  (These dolls look NOTHING like them.)  Even though we were up until 3:00 a.m. on Christmas Eve taking these blasted dolls out of their packages and cutting off the tags under their clothes, then setting them up in their "Journey Girl" ski resort furniture (we saved enough on the bow-legged dolls to afford a ski resort for them), and doing our best to remove all traces of the words JOURNEY GIRL, Fiona managed to find the one lone tag we missed on her doll's, Kat Katterage's, inner thigh.

Fiona, reading from the inner thigh tag, "Journey Girl?  These aren't American Girl dolls, Mom?"

It was not a shining moment for Terry and myself, as we played dumb, shrugged, and offered the explanation that Santa must make his own line of dolls in the North Pole that are, in fact, superior to anything found at a mall.  "I mean, look at her flowing nylon hair, Fiona.  She's a beaut."  When in doubt, blame it on Santa.

(For any frowning grandmas reading this, they love their dolls and are perfectly happy.  Please don't buy them real "American Girl" dolls out of sadness or grandma-guilt.)

Christmas Dad, 2011.

2011 was one of our bumpiest years yet, but I'm seeing the light at the end of the nauseating car ride.  It was up and then down and then up again, but always moving in the right direction.  I have a happy, healthy (and loud) family along for the ride too.  Who could ask for more than that?  2012 is going to be great.

*Morning millet is the worst.

File That One Under Books To Read To One's Self

Yesterday was our first day of school in 2012.  We have big goals this year, let me tell you.  I was eager to start the new year out right with a really good book.  I chose Mark Twain's, The Adventures of Tom Sawyer.  Fail-proof classic, right?

First paragraph in, I remember Aunt Polly.  I remember how she spoke.  I remember reading it, ages ago, effortlessly, in my mind, silently, unspoken, unlike an audition for a part as Aunt Polly in a community theater.

Me, page 7: "... Spare the rod and spile the child, as the good book says.  I'm a-laying up sin and suffering for us both, I know.  He's full of the old scratch, but laws-a-me!  he's my own dead sister's boy, poor thing, and I ain't got the heart  to lash him somehow.  Every time I let him off my conscience does hurt me so; and every time I hit him my old heart almost breaks.  Well-a-well, man that is born of a woman is of few days and full of trouble, as the Scripture says, and I reckon it's so...".  Oh dear.

Neve: "Excuse me, Mom.  What are you saying?"

I thumb through the next few pages and there's a whole lot more dialog awaiting us.  I explain what I can and ask them to be patient, to wait and see if they enjoy it more as the book progresses.  (Or hope that Mommy's voice acting improves.)

Me, page 15 (the memorable whitewashed fence scene): "... 'Say Jim; I'll fetch the water if you'll whitewash some.'  Jim shook his head and said: 'Can't, Mar's Tom.  Ole missus she tole me I got to go an' git dis water an' stop foolin' 'roun' wid anybody.  She say she spec' Ma'rs Tom gwyne to ax me to whitewash, an' so she tole me go 'long an' 'tend to my own business- she 'lowed she'd 'tend to de whitewashin'.'"

I am sweating.  I'm completely uncomfortable talking like this, and the girls can tell.  It's too early in the morning to start a conversation about Jim, a character who can only be understood completely with a basic understanding of history and it's injustices.  I'm beginning to doubt my own endurance.  I need to make coffee; yes, coffee will help.

Fiona: "Mom?  Do you like this book?"


Me: "Yes!  It's a beautiful story about a little boy, not unlike you or you, Neve.  He likes to have fun and go on adventures but sometimes gets himself into trouble.  And see?  He hates doing chores too!  It's only that this book was written by a man who lived long ago, when people spoke differently than us... and it's hard for me to read it aloud the same way he probably wanted us to.  I think I'm making it sound weird."

Fiona: "No, you're not.  Keep going."

Okay.

I continue on, and we all enjoy the part where Tom tricks the other children who are passing by to help him whitewash the fence.  I'm feeling good.  Yes, this will be fine.  I can do it.  And then Tom brilliantly manages to get the children to pay him, with random bits of treasure, for the opportunity to paint the very fence he had dreaded doing himself.

Me, page 19: "...Tom gave up the brush with reluctance in his face, but with alacrity in his heart.  And while the late steamer Big Missouri worked and sweated in the sun, the retired artist sat on a barrel in the shade close by, dangled his legs, munched his apple, and planned the slaughter of more innocents.  There was no lack of material; boys happened along every little while; they came to jeer, but they remained to whitewash.  By the time Ben was fagged out, Tom had traded the next chance to Billy Fisher for a kite in good repair; and when he played out, Johnny Miller bought in for a dead rat and a string to swing it with; and so on, and so on, hour after hour.  And when the middle of the afternoon came, from being a poor poverty-stricken boy in the morning Tom was literally rolling in wealth.  He had, besides the things I have mentioned, twelve marbles, part of a jew's harp, a piece of a blue bottle-glass to look through, a spool-cannon, a key that wouldn't unlock anything, a fragment of chalk, a glass stopper of a decanter, a tin soldier, a couple of tadpoles, six fire-crackers, a kitten with only one eye, a brass door-knob, a dog-collar - but no dog - the handle of a knife, four pieces of an orange-peel, and a dilapidated old window-sash..."

At this, both children were hysterically laughing, strangely, almost too hard.

Fiona, through hysterics:  "That's my favorite part!  He wanted a dead rat to swing and a kitten with only one eye!  Isn't that so funny, Mom?"

Neve: "Yeah, when Dad read us that part, we laughed so hard!"

Me: "What do you mean 'when Dad read it'?!  You've already read Tom Sawyer?!  When!?"

Them, nodding in unison: "Yep.  Bedtime story.  A long time ago."

Me: "Why didn't you tell me!?  I just read 4 chapters for nothing?!"

Fiona: "We just wanted to hear that part again.  It's so funny.  Mom, a one-eyed kitten!"

Who knows how Terry got through that book, voices and all.  Had I heard, I would've surely teased him for his community theater delivery.  Perhaps that's the very reason he kept it from me.  At any rate, better him to answer the age-old question, "And what is a jew's harp anyway?" than me.

Good grief, am I glad that's over.

a defining moment (or the day my daughter decided to hate art)

Fiona: "Mom, what's it called when someone takes a video of something and then changes it to make it look like this?"

(She does a weird dance-like thing where she walks back and forth a step, over and over again.)

Me: "Editing?"

(Blank stare and pause)

Fiona: "Are you asking me?  Because I just asked you."

Me: "I think you mean editing.  Someone chops the video up and then puts it back together like a puzzle?"

Fiona: "Yeah, editing.  How do you do it?"

Me:  "Fiona!  That was my major in college!  Did you know that I took three years of experimental video?  I should show you some of my old videos!  Oooh, and there's this artist named Matthew Barney you may like... one day... you're a little young for his sensibilities I guess, but oh!  I know!  There's a place called the Experimental Television Center where artists, big names, little names, I almost went for a summer in fact, went into the middle of nowhere in NY and just did these crazy experiments with video and technology, but all fun and creative and innovative stuff that would probably blow our minds today.  I bet the work there has changed so much just since I was in school, what was that?  10 years ago?!  10 years ago.  Wow.  But anyway, some were solely video-based, and others were elaborate multi-media installations, and you could even take some classes there one day!  Your father and I would love to see you just explore the medium in an environment free from criticism.  Where you can just be raw and uncensored.  Gah- I almost forgot about this class I took my last year where we used sensors, you know sensors... they're like those things that trigger... aghhh, how do I explain sensors to a kid?  Well, you know how you point your wii remote to that little thing above the tv?  Well there are sensors in there.  Motion sensors in that, but you can also find moisture sensors, sound sensors, you name it, we'll sensor it... anyway, I'm telling you this because I'm thinking about the endless possibilities in the realm of experimental video.  You can literally do just about anything your mind can think up, with a little research, a computer, a video camera, and maybe a few motion sensors hooked up to a circuit board?  Do they use those anymore?  I don't know, but we'll figure it out.  I'm so excited, Fiona!  What a great project to work on.  It's kind of like that robot you wanted to build, but... not.  It's like video, uh, robotics.  Or it's like the interactivity of a robot but with video.  I'm not really doing this whole thing justice, but wait until I show you some of the beautiful pieces out there, your brain will explode!  Oh, Laurie Anderson, you'll probably be really inspired by her.  So much good stuff for us to explore on the subject, Fiona... you want your piece to be interactive, right?  Wait... what's your idea again?"

After I attacked my daughter with information that's useless for at least another 10 years (or maybe for the rest of her life), my eyes rolled back to the front and here's what was staring back:

Fiona: "Um.  I think I want to video myself singing, and then put like stars or something behind me.  Maybe Neve could be in my video too."

Me: "Yes.  I think you just do whatever you'd like and then I'll teach you how to put stars behind you and Neve.  I love you."

Fiona: "I love you too, Mom.  So... you went to college, huh?"

2011 Christmas card rejects

Each caption is Fiona's voice.  Can you tell who's the trouble-maker out of the two?

"neve, be normal."

"that's not normal."

"mom, help?"

"this was actually a good idea, neve.  mom, can we use the orange boobs picture for the christmas card?"

Owl!

Fiona spent the better part of the day making clay sculptures to give to family and friends as Christmas presents.  She has an impressive inventory already lined up to dry, as she begins to think about who she wants to give what to.

"Mom, what would Uncle joey like best?  A sculpture of me?  No.  That's weird.  A monster.  A monster?  I'll make him a monster.  Aaaand, Aunt Rachel.  What should I make her?"  I am beginning to see the hint of crazy in her eye.  You know, the one where everything gets really serious and focused?  I try to reel her back in.

"Well, you made a few owls here that are pretty great.  What about an owl?"

"Uhhh, owls aren't her thing.  She needs a guitar with a smiley face.  I'll make her one of those."

She writes "RACHEL GITS GITAR" on a piece of paper.

"And Uncle Josh?  What does he like?", face scrunched up, pencil under her chin.

"Hmmm, I think he'd like any one of these cute guys you've already made.  After you glaze them, they'll be beautiful!  I know he'll love it."

Here it comes, "Mom!  No!  We can keep these or give them to people who like- you know, people who don't care about stuff- they can get these!  I'm making stuff especially for that person.  I'll think about Uncle Josh later.  Aunt Jackie?  She likes cats, right?  You once said... 'Jackie likes cats'.  I know you did.  She'll get a cat.", as more notes are being taken.  I don't recall ever mentioning Aunt Jackie's love for cats, but I'm sure she wouldn't object to a cat sculpture.

"And Uncle Nat?  He DEFINITELY gets a gun."  Gun.  Check.  (He's in the Air Force.)

"Oh, wow.  A miniature clay gun?  By an eight year old?  I dunno... maybe an owl would be nice instead."

"And Mike- Mike, Mike, Mike.  He's hard."

"No he's not!  He's eight, like you!  Whatever you like, he'll like!  Don't over think it!  Give him an owl!"

"Okay, okay.  Mike... gets... a... owl...", she mutters under her breath as she scribbles it onto the same piece of paper.

And as though she'd been planning this one all year, she says, "Mr. Jake will get a taco."

"Why are you going to make Mr. Jake a clay taco?"

"Because he's Mexican."

I was afraid that was why.

"Fiona, go with the owl please."

What Is A Moment?

Flattery Will Get You Nowhere.

We are reading Aesop's fable "The Fox and the Crow".

In case you're not familiar with this one, here it is:

A crow was sitting on a branch with a piece of cheese in her beak when a fox observed her and set his wits to work to discover some way of getting the cheese.  Coming and standing under the tree he looked up and said, 'What a noble bird I see above me!  Her beauty is without equal, the hue of her plumage is exquisite.  If only her voice is as sweet as her looks are fair, she ought without doubt to be the queen of the birds!'  The crow was hugely flattered by this, and just to show the fox that she could sing she gave a loud caw.  Down came the cheese, of course, and the fox, snatching it up, said, 'You have a voice, madam, I see: but what you want is wits.'

Me:  "So, Neve, what can we learn from this story?"

(silence + blank stare)

Me: "Neve?"

Neve, finally: "Not to drop your cheese?"

Me: "Yeah, pretty much.  Fiona, anything else to add?"

Fiona: "Uhhh, that foxes are bad?  No, not bad.  Just mean."

Me:  "What was mean about what the fox said?  It sounded nice."

Fiona: "He told her to sing only because he wanted her cheese, not because he thought she had a pretty voice."

Me: "Exactly.  And do you know what that's called?  The thing he was doing with the 'beautiful feathers' and 'queen of the birds'?

They shake their heads.

Me: "Flattery."

Neve and Fiona, in unison: "Flattery."

Me: "And can you give me and example of 'flattery'?  Flatter me, for example."

Neve: "But don't you need cheese in your mouth first?"

Fiona dives right into this opportunity: "Yeah, Mom... you look BEAUTIFUL today.  Your hair is so... pretty... in that bun.  And your ears are so small on the side of your head.  (begins laughing)  And your little brown eyes are so round.  (laughing more)  And your teeth are... shiny.  No, really do you have something in between your teeth?"

Neve, also laughing: "Fiona, she'd never drop her cheese if she was a crow."

I asked for it.

A Tale of Neighbors, Cat Fights, and Breaking and Entering.

I have a neighbor that... talks.


                       And talks.




                                             And then talks a little more.










And just as soon as you think you've got your key in the door, she says



              one




                                      more







                                                                   thing.




Or two.

Today was one of those days.  And truthfully, I usually don't mind.  She's pretty entertaining actually.

She is a character who deserves many of her own blog posts, what with all of her wisdom nuggets, her antiquated southern vernacular, her ability to retell a story about "Jesse" or "Hernandez" or "Tammy" or (insert name of person I've never met but she talks about as if I have).  I could write a book on the information I've procured from her in my driveway.  Or by the mailbox.  Or in the driver seat of my car.  Or in the front doorway of my home.  Or through the dining room window.

I really do love her.

As I was saying... I pulled into our driveway today, and a her SUV pulls in behind me.  She waits for me to come to her window as she keeps the car running.

I'm smiling.  I remember our last rendezvous in my yard from 2 days ago.  I begin laughing to myself as I approach her window.

Her: "So yer still laughin'?  What is wrong with you!?"

Me:  "I'm sorry.  It was funny.  I mean, I'm sorry it happened.  I'm nervous.  Agh!  I'm sorry!"

Her: "But yer still laughin'!"

Me: "I know.  I know." (I'm literally pulling my face into a frown with my fingers.)

Her: "What exactly were you thinkin'?"

(My kids are calling my name from the front porch.)

Me: "Oh, I wasn't thinking.  It was stupid of me."

Her: "Yeah.  I was tellin' Greg you was laughin' when it happened and that made him laugh and then I was all, 'All you fools is crazy with yer laughin' 'bout animals getting their asses kicked'."

Me: "Ohhh now.  Your precious poodles didn't get their asses kicked.  They were just... threatened... by the cat."

(My kids are now in the backyard calling my name.)

Her: "Yeah, I went home and had to check fer wounds cuz that cat went ape shit on 'em."

Me: "I'm sorry.  It really wasn't funny.  Are they okay?"

Her: "Well, they aint never gonna wanna come outta the house again, are they?  But naw, they didn't get cut up.  For real though.  Why would you let the cat out the house when there are 2 small dawgs out here on leashes?!"

(My kids have now put a ladder up against the fence, climbed to the top and are yelling my name louder than before.)

Me: "I let her out because she's not supposed to be in the house.  I wasn't thinking at all, I swear.  I just thought, 'GET CAT OUT OF HOUSE'.  Who knew she was going to attack!?"


Her: "I knew!  Hell.  Damn cat had her babies when she was no older than a teen herself.  What'd you think would happen!?"


Me: "I'm not following you.  Do you think she was trying to protect the kittens?  They were in the backyard.  And your little dogs were out here on leashes.  I mean, maybe, but..."

(My kids have resorted to threatening me that they will pee in the backyard if I don't let them in the house.)

Me: "Hey, I have to run.  You know, before the kids pee in the garden."

Her: "Oh, let 'em.  They're just tryin' to pull you outta mama time.  It's good for ya.  You could use a little more mama time, Dee.   Now listen, I don't think she was protectin' nobody.  I just think she's a tough ass kitty.  She's been rode hard, if ya know what I mean."

Me: "I guess.  I've just never seen her do that before.  She's usually so sweet.  Again, I'm really sorry.  By the way, who's Greg?"


Her: "You know Greg.  He's always walkin' up an' down this street.  He's fine."


Me: "Oh."  (I don't know Greg.)


Her: "Dee, look there.  How the hell?"


And for the first time in the 6 years that I've known my neighbor, she was speechless.


The girls had BROKEN INTO OUR HOUSE!  They stood behind the screen door waving at us.


Me:  "How did you get in!?"


Neve: "We found a skinny stick and put it in-"


Her: "Nope!  Stop talkin'.  You done told the neighborhood how to break into yer house.  Dee, you better go whip some behinds.  I'll catch you later."

The End.

Deliberations Over Woody Allen

With so many changes happening at once, I've felt pretty small lately.  Not bad, just not as in control of things as I'd like be.  (Do you think I have a control problem?  I refuse to have a control problem.  Stop looking at me.  Say something already!)

That said, I'm old enough now to recognize that times like these are often the ones that supply the best results.  If I was in control of "things" during our first month of marriage, I'd have never had Fiona.  And that was the best non-decision I've ever non-made.*

• • •

Mr. White and I watched Manhattan Murder Mystery last night.  

There's a scene in it that cracks me up.  It's classic Woody Allen:

Diane Keaton wakes him up in the middle of the night, wanting to discuss how sure she is that their neighbor has murdered his wife.

Woody Allen delivers his signature, "Yer craaaa-zy!" and proceeds to compare her to a car that needs to go back to the manufacturer because it's been recalled.  Her response is equally distinctive as she stutters over his hysterical nasal whines.

But the part that makes me laugh, really laugh is when he says to her,

"I command you to go back to bed.  I command you!  As your husband, I command that you sleep!"

His attempts were all in vain, as she gets dressed to sneak into her neighbor's apartment.  His beady little eyes are just blinking through those magnified glasses.  He makes me so nervous, but oh, I love him.

In my movie, I guess Diane Keaton plays the role of my life?  And I'm Woody Allen? Too metaphysical?  Yes, I think so.  Regardless, that's what's great about Woody Allen movies.  They do make you feel better. "Um, ya know, less, uh, craaaa-zy."

*Note to self, delete this post when Fiona is old enough to check this blog.

Also helping lately?  Kitten in a Cup.

"Consider Yourselves Warned"

Given the beautiful Autumn day, we take school outside.

Sitting under a large oak tree, we open our books and begin to read.

Me: "'Pinocchio, as was natural, asked the Fairy's permission to go roun-'  OW!"

An acorn bounced off my skull, on to the table, and finally onto the ground.

Fiona and Neve giggle as I rub the ouch out of my head.

Me: "As I was saying, 'he asked the Fairy's permission to go round the town to make the invitations; and the Fairy said to him: Go if you like and invite your companions for-' OWWW!"

As if the top of my head had a target on it, another acorn, larger than the last, ricocheted off the same tender spot and on to my shoulder and eventually next to his fallen brother acorn on the ground.

The girls are, understandably, more entertained by this than the book.  They hold each other, as they laugh so hard they can barely sit up.

Me: "If it happens to me again, it's a sign."

Fiona:  "What kind of sign?"

Me: "A sign that we shouldn't be reading here."

They simultaneously look at each other and grin.

Me: "Alright, alright.  Let's try it again.  '...invite your companions to the breakfast tomorrow, but remember to return home before dark.  Have you understoo-"

Another acorn, and then another, fall so hard onto the table in front of us, you'd have thought they were being shot from a rifle above.

Fiona: "Whoop!  There you go!  There's the sign!  An angry squirrel wants us to leave!"

Neve: "Yes.  An angry squirrel.  We shouldn't read outside.  Only play."

Still sore from the squirrel's previous threats, I couldn't argue with that logic.

Me: "Let's play."

They Need Each Other

I'm driving home from the grocery store (I'm always driving home from the grocery store), while the girls' heads are buried in coloring books and comics.  This entire exchange happened without either child looking up from their books, but I had the opportunity of watching from the rear view mirror.

Neve: "Mom?  Why are houses so expensive?"

Fiona interrupts: "Because, Neve.  Houses aren't your usual object."

Wow.

Neve: "Fiona, you're doing it again."

Fiona: "Doing what?"

Neve: "Talking like an adult."

Fiona, serious: "I'm a thinker, Neve."

Neve: "You're 8."

these were obviously not taken in the car.  i do put my kids in seat belts.

Yesterday's History Lesson and Smacksy

We've been learning about the secret language of ancient Egypt.  This fascinates Fiona (she wants to make her own secret language now), but bores her sister to tears.  Fiona is on the edge of her seat, holding on to my every word, while Neve blurts out 'pharaoh' or 'Nile' from time to time to avoid any quizzes.  Yesterday, I began explaining where we were on the timeline, on the globe, and then where all of this was taking place in relation to us.  ('Neve!  In relation to us!  Now!  In the time of frozen yogurt!  Any interest yet?')

I read them this excerpt from their history book, "One day some soldiers were digging near Rosetta when they found a stone, something like a tombstone with three kinds of writing on it.  The top was in pictures, which we now call hieroglyphics, and no one understood what it meant.  Below this was written what was supposed to be the same story in the Greek language, and a great many people do understand Greek.  All one had to do, therefore, to find out the meaning of the hieroglyphics, was to compare the two writings.  This puzzle took almost twenty years for one clever man to solve, but after the key to the puzzle was found, men and women were able to read all of the hieroglyphics in Egypt and so to find out what happened in that country long ago.  This stone is called the Rosetta Stone.  It is now in the great British Museum in London and is very famous, because from it we were able to learn so much history that we otherwise would not have known..."

I ask Neve to tell me what I just read and she answers, "...otherwise would not have known."

"Okay.  Fiona?  Anything more to add to that?"

Fiona is laughing at Neve's answer and continues, "Well, see... there was once a man.  And he was very good at digging.  And he LOVED to dig.  So, he digged and digged, wait, Mom.  Is 'digged' a word?"

I shake my head.

"Dug?"

I nod.

"...So, he dug and dug until he came across a HUGE rock that looked like the kind of rock that people put in, what's the place called that dead people are buried at, Mom?"

"Cemetery."

"Yes, cemetery.  You know those rocks with words at a cemetery?  What are they called?"

"Head stones."


"Yes, head stones.  It looked like a head stone from a cemetery, but it had words on it about Egypt, not dead people's names.  The problem was, the man was really good at digging, but he wasn't very good at reading other languages and the other languages were... uhhh, those picture words... hie-ro?  Hiero-gly-phics?  Hieroglyphics?  Is that right, mom?"

I nod.

"It had hieroglyphics pictures on the top and then it had another language under it called something.  French, I think.  And then another one.  I can't remember.  But what he did was, he took it to his friends who COULD speak French and the other language and asked them to tell him what it said.  They told him what it said, and he guessed that it was the same as what the hieroglyphics said.  And then he went to the president or the king or whoever and said, 'you're going to be so happy about this- I CAN SPEAK HIEROGLYPHICS!' And they gave him a metal or an award or something because they were so happy for him and then they took the head stone to a museum and he was famous."

* pause *

"Mom?  Was that right?"

My head was spinning, "Well, you added a little extra to history.  I like that this excites you, but you don't have to add to history.  The truth is enough."

(And that last line was a quote from another great Smacksy post.  Lisa, thanks... I can use all the parenting help I can get.)

Apparently I'm Always "Clenching" and "Grinding"

"Mrs. White, here's what we found", as the dentist holds up some x-rays.  "You have many small cracks on the tops of your molars and wisdom teeth.  Mrs. White, do you grind your teeth?"

"Oh yeah.  Lots."

"When you sleep?  Throughout the day?  When you're stressed?"

"Yes, yes, and yes.  I'm pretty sure I do it even when I'm not stressed.  It's just a thing with me, I guess."

"Well, do you have any pain that you feel may be associated with the teeth grinding?  Headaches?  Jaw aches?  Ear aches?"

"I did come in because of the lower left jaw pain, which I thought was because of a toothache.  Remember?"

He lays my chair back and pulls a television screen over my head.  "Take a look at this video about 'Bruxism'.  This should answer some of your questions."

I didn't know I had any questions about 'Bruxism'.

[**I tried hard to find this exact video pearl on youtube, but no luck.  There are others that address the general idea, but they didn't have the same lady with the weird hair in it.  I'll do my best to do it justice in words.**]

So, the video is only about 5 minutes long.  Aesthetically speaking, it was not unlike something you'd see in 9th grade health class.  And it involved poorly 3D-animated teeth that were grinding so hard and fast that the teeth actually crumbled by the end of the video.  (It was like the recurring dreams I have where I eat my teeth like after dinner mints!)

But the best part was when the narrator introduced the "Various Treatments for 'Bruxism'".  (Obviously, I can't remember what they said verbatim, but this was pretty much it.)

1.  Yoga and stretch exercises.
"Some people find that stretching and other forms of stress-relieving activity will reduce their tendency to grind their teeth.  Deep breaths and mediation may help as well."

2.  Behavior Management.
"Teeth grinding can be classified as a 'bad habit' by many behavior therapists.  Through a series of positioning strategies (how to close your mouth properly, how to chew properly, and various tongue exercises), you could forget your teeth grinding habits in no time!"

3.  Night Guards.
"Many dentists prescribe protective devices to patients who suffer from 'Bruxism' as a way to absorb the pressure.  Some guards may be found over-the-counter but are not recommended.  Over-the-counter devices are not fitted properly and may get lodged in the patient's throat while they are sleeping."

4.  Medication.
"'Bruxism' is often simply a symptom of another condition, such as depression, anxiety, and other psychological disorders.  In seeking the counsel of a psychological professional, you may find that an anti-anxiety medication is right for you."

End.

"Mrs. White, do you have any questions?"

I laugh nervously and say, "I never thought my dentist would have to address my neurosis.  Meds?  Really?"

Unamused he asks, "Have you ever considered taking a Valium before you go to bed?"

"Of course I've considered taking a Valium before bed.  And before waking up.  But I don't."

"Okay", as he quietly jots this down in my file.  "Aaaaand, Mrs. White?", he looks up at me.  "Are your teeth touching as we speak?"

So bizarre.  Of course my teeth are touching!  I used to get in trouble for sitting in church with my mouth open.  I beat that!

"Yes.  Don't you?"

"No, ma'am.  When your mouth is in a resting position, the jaw should be slightly separated."

"Wanna see how clenched things are right now?  In a resting position?", as I draw attention to my Val Kilmer's-jaw-in-Top-Gun profile.

"So then, are you interested in a dental guard?"

"That's probably a good idea.  Yes, a guard."

Dailies

1. This new homeschooling thing is taking some getting used to, but we love it.  We're learning french (a phrase a day... we'll be fluent when I'm 90), and reading more than I ever thought I would/could handle.  Who knew we'd be enjoying it this much.  (Reality-check-posts coming shortly, I'm sure.)

2. Terry and I had an anniversary.  9 years!  I can't believe we've been married that long.  Where did the time go?  Flowers are from him.

3. Last weekend, he went hiking and camping with 2 friends in North Carolina.  They had an awesome time, but we sure missed him.  (Neve especially.)

4. And I cleaned out my hole-puncher.  I will take any visual delights I can get in a day.

Thinking Thinking

The girls are learning poetry by Robert Louis Stevenson.  Here is an excerpt from one (The Little Land) that I find particularly lovely.

When at home alone I sit,And am very tired of it,I have just to shut my eyesTo go sailing through the skies—To go sailing far awayTo the pleasant Land of Play;To the fairy land afarWhere the Little People are;Where the clover-tops are trees,And the rain-pools are the seas,And the leaves, like little ships,Sail about on tiny trips;And above the daisy treeThrough the grasses,High o'erhead the Bumble BeeHums and passes.

* * *

Also, I finally got around to watching "Bill Cunningham New York".  What an inspiring extraordinary ordinary man.  I find his passion for his work combined with his sincere humility to be incredibly heartening.

And this quote. This quote is so simple, so fitting for every area of life, and altogether perfect.

"If you look for beauty, you will find it."

Summer's End

Having been away so long, I can't write it all.

I want to write it all, but it's gets blurry and mixed together.

Thank goodness for photos.

i was obsessed with this for weeks: stick a chocolate chip in a raspberry and bloop!  happy nights. 

our nature walks are my favorite moments spent with these girls.

Fiona holds Poe.  Want Poe?  You want Poe.

"Wow!  Now wash your hands."

and now, "...put on your dresses of red and gold, summer is over and the days grow cold."

   

Nor I, Good Sir.

I was spying on the girls playing the other day and caught this exchange:

Neve: "So what do you want me to do anyways?"

Fiona: "I just want you to talk in an old fashion voice."

Neve: "But I don't know what 'old fashion' sounds like!  Why can't I just talk normal?"

Fiona: "Because these are my rules [if you want to play with me].  Here's what you should sound like.
(insert 8 year old's version of a British accent here)

'Why yes, good sir, I would like a biscuit.'

 (and then she bowed.)

... but you don't have to say 'biscuit' or 'good sir' or anything.  Just, you know, kinda like that. "

Neve: look of disgust, "But I don't want to."

Fiona: "Well then, I guess you don't want to play."

Neve: reluctantly, "Okay, okay.  I'll do it."

Fiona:  "Good.  So...

'Hello, ma' lady.  Are you looking for... THIS!?'

(Fiona pulls a pencil out of the inside pocket of the winter coat she's wearing over her pajamas).

Neve: same expression, plus 5 year old robotic-British accent, "Nor, I am not.  Why would I want... THAT!?"

Fiona:  "Why did you say 'nor'?"  

Neve:  "Fiona.  You're 8 and I'm 5, and you didn't know that people from a long time ago say 'nor'!?  Wow."

Fiona: "I know about 'nor', Nev-"

Neve: interrupting, "-MOM!  I JUST WANNA TAKE A BATH!"

~end scene~

First Bite of the Season

This season.  Warm drinks, fires, fairs, marshmallows, scarves, sewing, daisies, and socks.  And baking.  

So much baking.

Here's the latest from the kitchen, taken from an old Bon Appetit.  It may be a new favorite.

* Pistachio and Dried Cherry Biscotti *

1 3/4 cups unbleached all-purpose flour (I used 2 cups spelt flour instead)
1 cup sugar
1/2 cup old-fashioned oats
1 tsp. baking powder
1/2 tsp. baking soda
1/2 tsp. kosher salt
2 large eggs
3 Tbsp. vegetable oil (I used olive oil instead, and I justified it as being more authentically Italian that way... tasted fine)
1 Tbsp. orange zest
2 tsp. lemon zest
1 1/2 tsp. vanilla extract
1/2 tsp. almond extract
1 cup dried cherries
1 cup unsalted, shelled pistachios


Preheat oven to 350°. Line a large rimmed baking sheet with parchment paper. Combine first 6 ingredients in the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with a paddle. Blend on low speed for 30 seconds. Meanwhile, in a separate bowl, whisk together eggs and next 5 ingredients. Add egg mixture to flour mixture; beat on low speed until combined, about 1 1/2 minutes. Fold in cherries and pistachios.


Transfer dough to a lightly floured surface; divide in half. Using floured hands, shape each dough half into a 16"-long log. Brush off excess flour; transfer logs to prepared sheet, spaced 5" apart. Flatten each log into a 2"-wide strip. Bake, rotating sheet halfway through, until browned and set, about 30 minutes. Transfer to a rack; let cool for 15 minutes. Reduce oven to 250° and arrange 1 rack in top third of oven and 1 rack in bottom third.


Line a second baking sheet with parchment paper. Transfer biscotti to a work surface. Using a serrated knife, cut each strip diagonally into 2/3"-thick slices. Arrange slices, cut side down, on baking sheets.


Bake biscotti, rotating baking sheets halfway through, until crisp, about 40 minutes. Transfer baking sheets to racks; let cool.