casablanca

separated at the photo booth

2012-01-23T00:12:00.000-05:00

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

2012-01-17T16:26:00.001-05:00

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

2012-01-09T22:51:00.001-05:00

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

2012-01-04T19:33:00.000-05:00

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)

2011-12-09T22:29:00.002-05:00

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

2011-12-05T17:49:00.000-05:00

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!

2011-12-02T00:32:00.000-05:00

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?

2011-10-30T22:47:00.000-04:00

Flattery Will Get You Nowhere.

2011-10-26T14:48:00.000-04:00

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.

2011-10-25T20:57:00.002-04:00

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

2011-10-21T15:20:00.000-04:00

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"

2011-10-20T18:15:00.000-04:00

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

2011-10-18T17:32:00.000-04:00

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

2011-10-15T14:52:00.001-04:00

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"

2011-10-12T20:55:00.002-04:00

"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

2011-10-11T17:41:00.000-04:00

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

2011-10-10T22:50:00.000-04:00

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

2011-10-09T20:57:00.000-04:00

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.

2011-10-08T16:31:00.000-04:00

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

2011-10-01T20:59:00.001-04:00

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.

schooled

2011-09-30T01:58:00.000-04:00

Neve is eagerly teaching herself to read. This makes me very happy.

Today I overhear her sound out this sentence, except she confused the soft "u" for a soft "i" sound.

This cheap humor was lost on my children (thank goodness), but was clearly enough to spark an intertest for me to revive the 'ole blog.

Forgive my absence, for I am not a dick. Or a duck.

A CRY FOR HELP!

2011-07-28T22:52:00.002-04:00

Dear friends and family,

This is not my normal anecdotal blog post. This post asks something more of you. (More than my usual "just finish reading to the bottom of the page" request.) I'm asking that you read this, then the article I attach, and (if compelled to do so) please sign the petition and call the number posted as well.

All of these instructions will make sense in a minute.

So. To start...

I met a wonderful woman and her wonderful family a few years ago. Hope, her sons Malcolm and Andy, her daughter Shammah (who's the same age and friends with Fiona), and her mother (affectionately known as GoGo) had recently joined our church when we first met. Their story blew our minds.

**click here for the full story and news clip**

left to right: Robin Hood, Wonder Woman, Bat Girl, Super Shammah, arch nemesis Little Sister, and Green Power Ranger at Fiona's 5th birthday party.

I've never known anyone to experience the fear that her and her family have had to endure. They are trying their hardest to do things right and honestly in order to stay in the States, but it seems like the harder they've tried the harder ICE has come down on them.

Andy, her oldest son, was deported two days ago. His life is in great danger now, and I can only imagine Hope's heartbreak as she worries about him. The rest of the family is waiting to find out if they will also be deported on August 2nd.

By signing the petition (here) and making the call to Rep. John Lewis, you may help keep the rest of Mathe family safe. Please take a moment... it's a very simple script and they will get the message. While Andy's deportation happened unnecessarily, there still may be hope for the rest of them to stay.

Last thing... I realize that Andy's arrival back in South Africa is not necessarily dire or hopeless. Who knows what God has in store for him there. Please pray for his safety and for peace.

Thank you.

The Boys, Part 2.

2011-05-16T22:38:00.000-04:00

From the other room I hear Fiona yelling through laughter, "Mom! Mohhhhhmmmmm! You have to hear what Neve just said!"

I walk in and Neve is curled up in a ball on the couch.

Like any good parent I assume she just called her sister a slut, or told her sister to shut her f@#$ing whore mouth, or said that her doll is prettier than her doll, or something really awful like that*.

Based on Neve's curled ball of shame posture, and Fiona's uncontrollable laughter, I prepare myself for the worst.

Fiona: "Neve just said... (laughing)... that she wants to marry... (laughing)... DADDY! Bwahahaha!"

Neve: (embarrassed) "Noooo! I said, 'If Daddy still looks this good when I'm old, then I'll marry him.'"

Fiona: (on the floor, holding her stomach, laughing)

Those are fair conditions.

*My children do not know or use the words slut, f@#$ing, whore, or the like. If they are like their mother they will wait until they are 30 to use them for flavor in future blog posts.

The Boys, Part 1

2011-05-16T17:36:00.000-04:00

I'm driving home from Fiona's school when she asks me this in a soft voice:

Fiona: "Mom? Did you ever like a boy when you were my age?"

Me: (thinking, "I loved boys in the womb. By seven, I was already over this dating thing and ready to settle down.")

"Yeah, I think so."

Fiona: "Were you ever afraid that he didn't like you back?"

Me: (thinking, "There was little to no fear in my approach. Capture, sieze, and conquer. Much easier.")

"Sure. Is there a boy that you like?"

Fiona: (silence)

I adjust the rearview mirror, and see the reddest face smiling back at me. I have my answer.

Me: "It's okay. You don't have to be embarrassed. Is it someone I know?"

Fiona: (nods with her face buried in her hands)

Me: "Fiona, do I have to guess every boy in our lives or are you going to tell me?"

Fiona: "I'll give you a guess."

Me: "A 'hint'?"

Fiona: "Mmm hmmm.

1. He's really smart.
2. He has curly hair.
3. His skin looks like your coffee."

Neve: "Oh, yeah. So he's from France?"

Fiona: "Neve, shhh. That's not what France people look like. He looks like he's from Mexico except he's not. Maybe his grandma is from Mexico... (trailing off)."

(snapped back) "... and when he taught me how easy it is to count in one hundreds (100 + 100 = 200, 200 + 300 = 500, etc.), I remembered it. I'll always remember that." (So romantic.)

For the sake of their adorable little privacy, I won't say his name. But it's a nice name. And he is smart. Like, he skipped a grade smart. And he's shy, like her. And his skin does look like my coffee. And even though I get a little queasy at the thought of my seven year old having these feelings already, I love that she chose him.

Most importantly, I love that she told me.

Neve: (snickering) "Fiona likes a boy."

Me: "Oh, leave her alone. It's just a little seven year old crush."

Fiona: (writing his name in the foggy car window) "No, mom. It's not a little crush. It's a huge crush."

And there you have it.

mother's day II: for me

2011-05-09T23:26:00.000-04:00

frittatas and lattes for breakfast,

a beautiful mother's day card and a copy of "bossypants" (almost read it cover to cover in an afternon... it's so great),

a few rounds of hide-n-seek in the yard,

my grandmother's eggplant parmesan for dinner,

and we ended the evening with a nice hike and some romping in the creek. as an added bonus, there was a tadpole pool that terry and neve found (complete with huge bullfrog tadpoles), and an endless supply of honeysuckle.

after baths and tick-checks (such a motherly thing to do after all), i read the girls my newest favorite children's book, "orlando the marmalade cat", and we fell asleep in each other's arms.

being a mom to these girls has been bigger, better, and more fun than anything else in my wildest dreams. now fiona, can you stop giving me those teenagery looks for at least a few more years?

mother's day

2011-05-09T22:41:00.000-04:00

our family recently found old super 8 home movies. these aren't all of them, or even the best of what we watched, but i tried to capture what i could.

in honor of my mother on mother's day, here are a few clips with her in them. she's such a beaut.

this was the day my grandmother and grandfather brought my mom home from the hospital. it's not easy to make out, but my handsome grandpa is holding her in his arms.

my mom worked at a summer camp for kids when she was young. this was one of her projects.

and this was my parents' wedding day. while my father was not seen in this (probably warming up with his band... they were their own entertainment), my mom can be seen with beautiful long brown hair, her lovely hippie wedding dress, and a flower crown. so very mom.

happy mama's day, mama. you're still my hero.

What I Want To Say

2011-03-28T17:29:00.002-04:00

I feel like a stranger here. It's just been so long.

I want to fill you all in on all the stories you've missed in the last year... all those times I said to myself, "this needs to be documented!", but wound up watching a movie with the man instead.

I want to tell you about the (not so) new job.

I want to tell you every single delicious new recipe I've tried.

I want to give you a full analysis of our family dynamic since Banjo has left home, complete with the count of how many times we've said, "he broke our hearts" after smelling something foul that reminded us of his stinky self.

I want to tell you about how we can hardly contain our excitement as we see spring burst in the trees and blooms outside... (and how our white legs have burst out of our tights!)

I want to talk about every book I've obsessed over in the last few months.

I want to tell you about Fiona's adventures in school. Like the time she...

1. Had opinions about being white, in regards to MLK Day:

an explanatory note about something she drew from her wonderful teacher.

"I mean, if I get in trouble for not cleaning my room, then..."

2. Apologized for being too sick to go to a friend's birthday party:

"Please PLYS forgive me for ruining your party by not being there!?"

3. S-P-E-L-L-E-D it out for her derelict mother:

"It was nice doing business with you, daughter."

4. Played Langston Hughes in a class presentation of African American Heroes:

For weeks she thought Langston Hughes was a young girl.

She was a good sport when she found out that she would be playing the part of a mustached man instead. (She still talks about the Harlem Renaissance too!)

I want to tell you about how much Neve likes her school (after months of crying at drop-off), and how she calls her Chinese teacher Ms. Yang and Ms. Yang's assistant Ms. Dang (not her name), and how she lied to her sister at the beginning of the year telling her that the giant paw painted on the outside of the school was there to represent the Open Puppy Policy they have, and that her class has 10 (count 'em- 10!) puppies in her class, so as to make her sister jealous, which worked, and now Neve struggles daily to maintain this ridiculous lie.

I want to tell you about how we are going to Disney World next week, and how (in spite of the fact that it's already peak waiting-in-line season, it's already 93º in Orlando right now, and that 2 days there costs as much as 1 mortgage payment here) excited we are! It'll be so worth it just to see their little faces light up. I've got my fanny pack, white sneakers, and mouse-eared visor ready!

In case it's another month (or more) before I write again, you can find me on insta.gram. Buddy Erin from swonderland convinced me to give it a whirl, and now I'm addicted.

Hope everyone is happy and healthy! xoxo, Dera

take me home country roads.

2011-02-24T10:08:00.000-05:00

big skies, bright stars, bare armed days and bundled nights, pine trees, hikes to waterfalls, good friends, fires, remote control planes, wine, girl scout cookies, and a hot tub. heaven.

Come Home, Stupid.

2011-01-31T16:52:00.002-05:00

Our family dog, Banjo, ran away last week. I've hesitated to tell anyone about this for several reasons.

1. I don't love to cry in front of others, in spite of what my husband may say. Let me rephrase. I don't like to cry when things are really really sad. I do, however, like to cry when I watch parades go by, or when I see people juggle, or when I see pictures of rescued elephants that had fallen into wells, or after I push babies out of me, or when I watch Breakin' 2: Electric Boogaloo, or when I see old pictures of Terry in short shorts, athletic knee socks, and a bad homemade haircut (circa 1979). However reasonable or not, these things really do make me cry (not listed in order of importance, by the way) and I don't mind. I do mind getting choked up in front of a bag boy at Publix about our dog being missing though.

2. I'm still shocked. He's always been a dog on a mission to hunt the hell out of a roast beef sandwich (we live a few blocks away from an Arby's with a killer dumpster, apparently), so his backyard escapes are hardly new to us. But we've always recovered him, and usually only within minutes of losing him. He never shied away from an open passenger-side door. He never wanted to be away from us really. At least not longer than the time it takes to find the delicious and then devour the delicious. All he wanted was some take-out and then to end his escapade with a final hunt of the day once he returns: to seek out the softest surface in our house for a nap. (Of course.)

I'm sure last Tuesday's adventure began the same way. I think it was only yesterday that I finally gave up hope that he may come home.

3. I'm trying to be cool for the kids. Poor Fiona is devastated. She's at that age where she gets it. She's pretty certain that someone out there has him, despite his tags, and doesn't want to return him. Or worse. She knows how hard we've worked to look for him, and this time our efforts are not delivering the right result.

Yesterday she said through tears, "If whoever has him gives him a new name, I'll be so so sad."

Neve, on the other hand, is an age-appropriate optimist. She was napping in the backseat as we were putting fliers up around the neighborhood telephone poles. She woke up and excitedly said, "Look! That's him! That's Banjo! See? I told you someone would find him!"

It hurt to have to explain that those were OUR photographs that WE put on the paper.

photo taken by Fiona/Neve White. photo bedazzled by Fiona/Neve White.

photo taken by someone short.

photo taken by Fiona/Neve White, entitled "Awww."

* * *

Now that realty has set in for all of us, I'd like to use this post as a form of closure. For me at least.

Here are the things that I'll never forget about the sweetest jerk of a dog, Banjo:

We found him on Neve's actual 2nd birthday. Please look at pictures here. We celebrated with friends at a little bakery we love out in the country. While sitting outside the bakery, eating cupcakes and opening presents, we heard the distinct sounds of a hungry hound dog. Terry and I followed these sweet little puppy yelps to the back of the bakery, where the dumpsters were enclosed.

We went inside and inquired about him. The exchange went something like this:

Me: "Excuse me, who does that cute puppy belong t--"

Baker: "Ohmygah, please say you'll take him! I found him 2 days ago on the side of the road, and he was starving, but I can't keep him. There's not enough bacon here to satisfy this animal. He needs a home and I'm going to cry if I have to take those ears to the pound! Please, please!?"

Terry and I huddle. We whisper-debate how good of an idea this is. Something about how financially stupid we will be if we take another mouth into our home versus his velvety ears. The ears won, and Neve got the best birthday present to date.

About a month after welcoming Banjo into our lives and making a mark on him (neutered, immunized, and painfully squeezed on a daily basis by two little girls), he left his first mark on our lives. He was so pathetic and sad in his kennel, we decided to give "free-ranging" a try in our home just once. As a trial, you know? We came home that day to the dog catcher, Mike (we would eventually be on a first-name basis with Mike), sitting on our porch with Banjo. Totally confused, I did an intense 2 minute investigation and then realized... he chewed his way out of our living room window! The moulding between the panes of glass had been gnawed through. He avoided any severe cuts, as the glass fell out of the front of the window. And then he probably followed his nose in the direction of Arby's.

photo taken by Neve, titled, "Did you smell something?"

This would set the tone for the next few years, as I've never known a dog with such a bad case of neurosis. Or a dog with leakier anal glands. (Although, I still believe those traits were somehow related.) He paniked when we left, and he literally cried when we'd return. Especially Terry. He was always greeted with the most amazing yowls and bays that I'm sure neighbors thought were the sounds of dog torture. Nope. Those were his cries of happiness.

The first time we took him down to Jacksonville to visit Terry's mom, we had no idea what kind of havoc-wreaking awaited us. Please read about this here. I swear all I remember was flying cat fur and bluegrass music, all while 5 humans are plastered against the wall. But Lani was always very merciful and loving to Banjo, despite the damage that was done to her cats, her carpets, her screened-in porch, + many many more dollar signs. (And to be fair, I should mention that he also destroyed his share of my parents' stuff as well. Like the time he chewed through the cord of my dad's 1 day old potter's wheel. And then my dad turned into Yosemite Sam for about 10 minutes.)

Uncle Joey enjoys a cup of coffee and Banjo.

He will steal your food if you turn your back for a second.

He loves to sleep in leg lagoons at night, but he'll settle for this:

He is 100% hillbilly in every way, except that he loves carrots. And Walt Whitman. I choose to believe that he loves poetry.

His ears are made of velvet bologna.

He likes it when you scratch under his belly, but he LOVES it when you scratch under those ears.

He will endure hours of princess dress-up humiliation.

photo by Anna Watson.

If you have chickens, don't worry- he's all chase and no bite. If you have chicks, do worry- read about it here.

He knows how to open drawers (with edibles inside), and he even taught himself how to open the fridge. You can read more here.

The only thing that calms him down on a long car ride is having his favorite passengers along for the ride.

He may even wear your shoes while you're gone.

Lastly, beware of a hound's instincts to chase wildlife. Banjo will muster up the strength to drag you farther than science says is possible. You should really read about that here.

Miss you so much, Buddy. I'm sorry for the mean things I said to you when you pooped in the house, or when you chewed up lincoln logs, or when you busted out of our windows to be with us. The door's always open (and I'll even make you thick-cut bacon) if you come home.

Preschool Front Disco

2011-01-20T09:45:00.002-05:00

We have made progress.

Neve did not cry the entire way to school today.

In fact, after a few days of playing this,

Find more artists like Morrissey at Myspace Music

today was the first day that she didn't cover her face. And she actually sang along!

We've slightly modified it though.

"But they should know where you've gone, because again and again you've explained. You're going to PRESCHOOL! Preschool, ohhhh, preschool!"

If turning my daughter into a Morrissey hag like her mother is what it takes to like school, well then, so be it.

"pictures of my childhood", by neve white.

2011-01-17T22:20:00.003-05:00

unexpectedly caught by neve while grocery shopping.

Typically I love discovering photos or videos taken by my children without my knowing (or my art direction). Their perspective, their intuitive understanding of composition, and their general attraction of subject matter that I'd otherwise overlook is what fascinates me the most.

And tickles me the most.

And kinda scares me too.

* * *

Once upon a time, I dragged Neve along to my therapist appointment. Normally I make babysitting arrangements for my children when I'm planning to talk about my anger management issues with strange old men, but this time I forgot about my appointment until the day of. (And I had already missed my 24 hour window of time to cancel without being fined.) She would have to tag along for the ride. I figured it would be less traumatic than all the pelvic exams Fiona was forced to sit in on when I was pregnant with Neve.*

Luckily, the office was pretty empty that day (as you'll soon see), and the receptionist was kind enough to keep an eye on her while I lay down on the strange man's couch. (I don't really lay down actually.)

Thank heavens for iphones. I handed her mine, assumed she'd just play a few games, and then I walked back to my doctor's office. Instead of playing, she documented:

This cracked me up and made me feel crazier. Other than the stained couches and chairs, and the depressing light fixtures, I recognize none of this. It's as if while I was in his office, she saddled up next to some other waiting patient and asked to take a picture of his bath toy and boombox. I mean, what?

But my favorite is the last photo. The "Family Connected" [over hot dog night] pamphlet.

So much to over-analyze, so little time.

*I'm so grateful that iphones didn't exist when Fiona sat in on my OB/GYN visits. I'd have gotten some photographic doozies for sure.

Miniature and Mouthy

2011-01-15T21:10:00.002-05:00

This kid.

She doesn't stop talking. Or stop asking questions.

She doesn't wait for or listen to the answers either.

And she's sassy. Or "thathy". (Her lisp is fading, actually, and I'm already mourning it.)

She's sharp and witty, in a way that's completely different from Fiona or me or Terry. And she'll zing you good, so watch out.

When she's happy and sweet, she could give you a toothache. But when she's angry and sour, she will do her best to make sure that you go down with her stinking sinking ship.

* * *

The following are but a few of the quotes I thought to jot down this week.

- "Why is today tomorrow?" (Random backseat question.)

- "You're not even amazing." (Fighting with her sister.)

- "So tell me again, how did the moon and the sun fall in love?" (I never said they did in the first place.)

- "When you were 5 [years old], were we friends, Mom?" (More random backseat questions.)

- "Just show me how to make a robot." (Just.)

- "When they make me lay down for a nap at school (which I'm too old to be doing anymore), all I can think about is your face and then I get sad and I cry. How am I supposed to sleep like that?!" (An argument for why she shouldn't have to go to school.)

- "You're absolute entire adorable." (Talking to a miniature paper machéd filing cabinet.)

- "Guess what my brain wants me to say? It wants me to say, 'You should stop talking now'." (To Fiona who was telling her an uninteresting story. My brain was telling me the same thing too actually.)

- "Look at that handsome man with a beard and glasses. Mmm mmm." (Looking out her bedroom window at her father who is blowing leaves.)

And my favorite (which requires a little context):

My mom sent in some Kellogs box tops and redeemed a children's DVD that was sent to our home. It is a collection of short videos based on R.L. Stine's books, Goosebumps. Imagine that the Twilight Zone and Kurt Cameron had a baby... it's kinda like that.

Anyway, the girls were so excited to be receiving a real piece of mail addressed to them (one that could be inserted into a DVD player no less), they asked if they could watch at that very moment. I was happy to grant their wish and grab 90 minutes of rest for myself.

Within the first minute, this song starts:

and Fiona runs to the kitchen. I ask her if she's scared, and she swears she just needs a cup of water. She proceeds to get up and grab a cup of water every time things got a little tense.

One big difference between her and her sister is that not only will Fiona not tolerate even the thought of something scaring her, but she will also not admit that she is in fact scared. Neve, on the other hand, will openly admit that things are scaring her while enduring it on the couch, hands over face, peeping out of the gaps of her fingers.

After the 90 minutes of my unrest is over (credits rolling), Fiona and Neve sit motionless on the couch staring off into space. They were both clearly thinking about what they had just watched- their first taste of a horror movie-esque high (as ugly and tame as it may have been).

Fiona: "Mom. Where's the DVD case? I need to see what it says."

I hand it to her. She angrily begins searching for a disclaimer that says it's not intended for young adults (she doesn't know about ratings yet), hoping to be vindicated of her lies of thirst.

Me: "What are you looking for, Honey?"

Fiona: "The warning on here that says this is too grown up and scary for kids."

Neve grabs it out of her hand, pretends to read the back of the DVD and says (I swear this is quoted verbatim): "Um, according to this, Fiona. . . you're a baby."

Burn.

Best Present A Child Could Receive: Crash Course in Pop Culture

2011-01-13T00:08:00.002-05:00

My mother-in-law brought an Entertainment Weekly mag with her when she visited during Christmas vacation.

She left it behind, and it has since been sitting on our night table.

This was the result:

Terry and I find the girls sitting on our bed silently studying the cover.

Fiona: "Look, Mom! It's Aunt Rachel! With big boobies!"

katy perry, left, and aunt rachel, right. (rachel's photo shamelessly and creepily snagged from her facebook page.)

Neve: "Oh yeah! And there's Harry Potter and... what's that guy's name from Toy Story?"

Dera: "Woody! And holy cow, Terry... she does kinda look like Rachel!"

Fiona: "And there's the pretty lady that Daddy likes."

Dera and Terry, in unison: "Where?"

Terry: "Oh sure. Sophie Vergara."

Dera: "Oh sure. Good 'ole Sophie Vergara. You've been having some quality conversations with your daughters, I see. First name basis now?"

Terry: "You know... Sophie Ver-"

Dera: "Stop saying her name. Especially with that Columbian accent."

Neve: "And there's the guy from Pirates of the Caribbean!"

Dera: "Whoa. Impressive. Yeah, that's Johnny Depp who was in another movie, Alice in Wonderland."

Fiona: "Yeah, the dumb scary one."

Terry: "Here we go. There's the boy Mommy thinks is handsome."

Dera: "You mean man? He's a man."

Fiona: "And there's the other man Mommy likes! He's funny."

Dera: "Conan? How do you know him? Terry, I don't like how much they know about pop culture. They know Conan but don't know Woody!"

Terry: "It's fine."

Neve: "And there's Rapunzel..."

Neve: "... and there's the boy that talks like a girl..."

Dera: "Whoa."

Fiona: "And there's a guy who puts ketchup on his hands."

Neve: "Fiona, that's blood, not ketchup. Why would someone have ketchup on their hands and not wash it off [before taking their photo for the cover of a magazine]?"

Fiona: "To make it look like blood!? Why would anyone have blood on their hands and not wash it off [before taking their photo for the cover of a magazine]?"

Dera: "Good point, Fi."

Neve: "Well, Fiona... I know that's the boy from the movie 'The Power of a Kicking Kid'."

Dera: "Terry, she just called the Karate Kid the 'Power of a Kicking Kid', and I want to pinch her she's so cute."

Terry: "Yeah, that is cute."

Fiona: "And there's Daddy's best BEST girlfriend." She cracks herself up.

Terry: "Betty White? Alright."

Neve: "You're as pretty as Betty White, Mom."

Fiona: "Betty White, Betty White, Pretty like Betty White, Betty White, Betty White, Pretty Like...", improvises song to club house beat. Neve joins her, and they dance around the house for the next 10 minutes singing this delight.

* * *

In other news, we are going Amish for 2011.

Resolution: Keep On Loving the Little.

2011-01-05T20:53:00.000-05:00

Fiona's first bubble gum bubble success.

Neve holds a tiny chocolate burger.

I'm hoping that 2011 is filled with more bubble-blowing-babies, miniature chocolate burgers, tickles and giggles, family bike rides to the park, jokes about body parts, acorn and rock collections, morning family snuggles in bed, nighttime dance parties, elaborate blanket/sheet forts, afternoons of baking, hugs and kisses.

Happy new year to all ya'll!

'Twas the Night Before Christmas

2011-01-02T10:34:00.001-05:00

I hope everyone's holiday was as bright and sparkly as our's was (minus the flu + strep throat combo we all shared).

We were lucky enough to have shared this time with Terry's mom and cousins and uncles and aunts and my grandparents. It was fantastic. And had I felt a tiny bit better that day, I would have been more on my game and taken more pictures.

There was even a little bit of snow- just enough for the girls (and a few adults too) to use their new saucers to go flying down the hill next to my folks' house. And again, while there's no photographic evidence of this, there is a pair of jeans with a hole in the butt to show for all the fun that was had. (I went a good 20 mph faster than everyone else and landed in a hedge of thorns and holly. Baby got back.)

Terry scored big this Christmas. My dad made him a new guitar. And me oh my... it is beautiful! I will upload pictures of it soon. We all played some bluegrass classics, a few Sweetheart of the Rodeo numbers, some Leonard Cohen, and even a Linda Ronstadt tune together. The best.

Happy 2011 to everyone. I virtually kissed each of you at midnight too. (I would check to make sure you didn't get a virtual case of strep throat though.)

To-Do

2010-12-07T22:10:00.002-05:00

I'm really bad about making lists. I forget to do it. And that is probably the very reason why my lists wind up looking like this when I do...

To-Do:

1. Enroll Neve in pre-k.
2. Look for her birth certificate.
3. Organize files/ look online to find cheap filing cabinet. (Ikea?)
4. Put together a baby book for Neve before she starts reading.
5. Send out a belated birth announcement for her too?
6. Laundry.
7. Dishes.
8. Buttons on Terry's shirts.
9. Find Terry's gloves.
10. Find Fiona's gloves.
11. Sign Fiona's field trip permission slips.
12. Make cookies for her teacher.
13. Find xmas present for her teacher.
14. Check Fiona's homework after picking Neve up.
15. Pick Neve up from grandma's house.
16. Grab firewood from grandma's house.
17. Food from grandma's house?
18. Grocery shop (see grocery list).
19. Find red&white baker's twine (Sam Flax?)
20. Find pretty tape (Sam Flax?)
21. Email friends and family back.
22. Ask friends and family for addresses to send out xmas cards and thank-you cards from Neve and Fiona's birthdays.
23. Make xmas cards.
24. Make postcard for work.
25. Draw picture to go on front of tote bag.
26. Upload photos from camera for web headers.
27. Paper maché the elephant's apron and look for coordinating wallpaper.
28. Bring lightbulb (appliance size?) to work for set.
29. Take photos of bear trio for "pick of the month".
30. Think of names of new bunnies.
31. Photograph the new birds.
32. Clean out cage.
33. TAKE ZYRTEC!
34. Sew garland for xmas tree.
35. Start working on xmas presents.
36. Look at kid's calendars to see what days they're off.
37. Look at my work calendar to see what days I have off.
38. Look at Terry's work calendar to see what days he has off.
39. Figure out what to do with kids on the days we don't have off together.

40. Make nightgowns for girls for xmas morning.

41. Find old xmas records to play tonight.

42. Leftover lasagna for dinner?

43. Feed chickens.

44. Make girls fold their clothes.

45. Be more patient. Kiss them all more.

thanksgiving

2010-12-02T16:38:00.001-05:00

stuffing, herb biscuits, ribs, mashed 'taters, onions au gratin, sweet potato casserole, mashed rutabega and pears...

hmmm, what could terry possibly be getting out of the fridge? a beer perhaps?

the hostess with the mostest, kerry, and olivia, scoping out the sweet potatoes.

chef nick and sous chef julie.

brussel sprouts with walnuts, bacon stuffed mushrooms, fried sweet potato skins, complete with the most killer hors d'oeuvres platter you've ever tasted.

Terry, Jake, and one sexy turkey.

pre-dinner beer with boys.

pomegranates on a mantel are apparently considered good luck in the fertility department.

good friends and good food.

the cuter table.

kerry and terry.

the pomegranates on the mantel worked! kate had a beautiful baby boy named clyde only a few days later.

the gang of gals convened outside after dinner.

and then there was "the big show".

dress rehearsal.

the BIG SHOW! (Fiona's faced remained hung and covered the entire time, and Clara unintentionally gave the audience the finger the entire time. Broadway, here they come!)

This was the first year that I've spent away from family for Thanksgiving. And despite how much I missed every sibling, cousin, aunt, uncle, parent and grandparent, I had a really nice time with friends. These are the very best variety of friends too. And the food! I mean, did you see the food?!

Thank you, Escobedos, for your hospitality, the glorious food, and for the memories.

And congratulations Harsh's on your beautiful new addition! I can't wait to hold him!!!

my blabla beginnings

2010-11-20T14:39:00.000-05:00

I got a new job. My first real job since... um, ever. I mean there was that post-college job that involved me and a lot of excel documents about themostboringstuffintheworld and the need for a new wardrobe sans paint-stained pants.

And then there was last year's job at the girls' preschool that involved aproned criss-crossed apple-sauced me singing songs about ms. owl's hoots and mr. squirrel's nuts.

Oh, wait. I forgot about the job of pushing 2 kids out of ms. owl's hoot and raising them. And while that was the most rewarding job in the whole world for sure, paying me in ways that I can't even put into words, it still failed as a form of currency that could get me through the checkout line at the grocery store. (Thank goodness for Daddy!)

But I've never really been paid to do exactly what I love. And, as far as I can tell so far, this is just that job... one that has me doing a litte bit of all that random stuff that gives me a buzz.

The past month has been spent getting a portfolio together, going to the interviews, getting Neve enrolled and settled in school, and starting my first few weeks of work.

Although a little sad that I don't have any more days of leisure with my buddy, Neve, I really feel like I was meant to go back to work and she was meant to be in school. She'll be in kindergarten next year after all. And the fact that this job is so perfect makes the decision that much easier.

On to the details:

I'm assisting the designer at blabla. They make these cute things:

Along with sweaters, and pants, and hats, and booties, and back packs... aren't they sweet? Check out their line here. (And look for Neve in a few of their product shots too!)

I'll be photographing for their website; helping the designer, Florence (I'm working on a bunny now!); doing window displays; and other odd jobs I'm sure. Flo is this amazing french lady with an eye for all things aesthetic (check out her blog) and the mastermind behind blabla. She designs them right here in Atlanta, and then sends the specs to Peru where they are made.

They are so nice (how nice are they?), they were kind enough to offer me custom hours to accomodate my children. I leave at 4:00 everyday to pick up the girls, and go home to make dinner and spend time with my chubbies before bed. Perfect, huh? Also, (for any curious grandmas) Neve is adjusting emotionally just fine to being in school, although physically her immune system is a bit peeved at me. She's spent the last week with the flu, along with two other classmates who have been equally sick. Assuming everyone is better on Monday, we will go back to the new normal then.

I need to also thank a sweet and talented friend for turning down the position (she already works as a designer at another studio) and for passing my name along to them instead. Kendra, thank you! I will forever show my gratitude in knit dolls.

Anyway, I felt like I needed to explain my absence here, but I'm so back. More posts to come! (And more reading of your blogs too!) xoxo/ Dera

Botanical Gardens

2010-11-15T12:08:00.001-05:00

Core Values

2010-11-05T08:56:00.000-04:00

Fiona is working on a project for school last night.

I find a piece of paper on top of her backpack that has this written on it:

"Jostis.

Jostis is vere enportint.

We need jostis.

It maks you smart.

It maks you think mor.

Evre boty wil think your smart."

And then she drew a person with a thought bubble that has 2 + 2 = 4 written in it, and an arrow pointing to the man's head labeled, "JOSTIS."

In case you couldn't decipher Fiona-glyphics, she was writing a "report" on justice.

When I asked her if she knew what justice was, she just shook her head no. Uh oh, evre boty won't think she's smart after all.

We sat and went over "core values".

Me: "Can you tell me what wisdom means?"

Fiona: "It's when you're good and nice."

Me: "Nope."

Fiona: "Smart?"

Me: "Sort of."

Fiona: "Oh, pretty!"

Me: "Not at all. Go back to smart."

Fiona: "Happ-"

Me: "Fiona, let me give you a hint. Nana and Papa are wise. They possess wisdom."

Neve: "Oh! I know! Wisdom means old!"

Me: "Don't say that to Nana, but yes. Old is part of it."

Fiona: "Old and smart?"

Me: "Yes. And what makes Nana and Papa smart? What do they have a lot of?"

Fiona: "Pillows."

Me: "Yeah they do, but no. Experience! Do you know what experience means?"

By this point, Fiona is half on her chair, half off her chair, chewing on her hair, and groaning.

Me: "Okay, okay, let's wrap this up... wisdom is what you gain after years of experience. Nana and Papa are wise because they've seen so much, done so much, and they've been many places. Do you think that makes them smart and experienced (or wise)?"

Fiona: "Mmm hmmm."

Me: "Other than Nana and Papa, can you think of anyone else who's wise?"

Fiona: "Neve."

Me: "No! No offense, Neve, but no! How is she wise? She's 4!"

Fiona: "She is wise with cheese. She's very experienced with cheese. Smart with cheese."

We never got to justice.

Part 2: 8 Years

2010-11-04T18:25:00.001-04:00

Let me recap for a moment...

we were aboard this boat on our way through the west indies.

there are lots of older people in bikinis yelling at their husbands to hold their wine spritzers while they yank a mast.

i get sea sick and fall asleep early one night, while terry has exotic drinks bought for him by a diamond-studded man named bruce and gets hammered. on the first night.

terry is hungover the following day, and yet he still goes biking with me.

we climb out to the bow of the boat that is made of only knotted rope. so amazing!

and we banana-boated with our new fun friends.

... so, after the hung-over bike ride, kayak race, and banana boat fun with Gertie and Herb, we decided to venture out on our own the next day. St. Kitt's, here we come!

St. Kitt's was beautiful, but it was probably the poorest of the islands we explored. We were glaringly pale-skinned (even with the killer tans we had already effortlessly scored), and we just had an all 'round American-tourist aura about us, what with the cameras and fanny packs and whatnot. The moment we stepped foot onto land, we were greeted by rastafarians who were eager to braid my hair, sell me beads, and get Terry stoned.

Terry suggested that we rent a scooter and zip around on that, but just as we were about to sign the rental papers, thunderclouds rolled in over our heads. We opted for a smartcar instead. So much fun!

That day was the weirdest combination of beautiful, dramatic, humbling, and inspiring. And sexy. Honeymoons are always sexy, even in third world countries. I swear, the sight of goats chasing roosters on an overcast day was enough to trigger some newlywed tingle. It's just the way it was.

We found ourself on some desserted beach where there was a little private airport close by, and uncomfortably close-ranged planes flew over our heads while we reenacted scenes from the Blue Lagoon. (As a favor to my husband I should clarify that we didn't really reenact scenes from the Blue Lagoon. Hmph.) We saw kimono dragrons and exotic birds, all wild and public. We ran for shelter when it rained, and we swam around the crystal clear water when the rains stopped. It was crazy and magical. I loved that day.

And after we handed the keys back to the car rental dealer, we headed back to the dock from which we arrived.

"You know what would make this moment even sexier, Terry? If we had a baby with us!" Ha!

We sat there, talked about the things we saw, scrolled through the photos we took, giggled, kissed, talked a little more, and then...

"Terry? Where's the boat?"

That moment looked different from the past twos days where we waited to board the ship. The previous two days there were other shipmates standing next to us. There were dingies that were shuttling groups of 6 or so back to the ship. And more obviously, the ship itself should have been visible from the dock. The setting sun was in perfect view from where we sat, no boat or ship blocking the beautiful vista.

And that's when our hearts sank.

Terry hailed a cab (or some man with a van who said he was a cab driver), and we asked him to take us to the other side of the island. The man claimed that there were only 2 ports on St. Kitt's: the one we came from and the one he was taking us to. We trusted him. We had no other choice. We held hands tight and we flew through the same course we had just come, but at a much speedier, less romantic pace. Fear of getting stuck on a foreign island was, in fact, the one thing that could take the tingle out of a honeymoon.

When we pulled up to the port (which was actually the same beach we were at only an hour earlier), and low and behold... our ship was far off in the distance, getting smaller and smaller by the second.

I go into full on donkey-hysteria mode. "Whatarewegoingtodoohmygodwe'restuckonthisscaryislandwhatarewegoingtodo!?" Terry stays calm and shoots me the shut-up look.

There is a straw-roofed hut in the distance, and a shirtless man with dreadlocks longer than Crystal Gail-locks is walking toward us. He is holding a styrofoam cooler. And sohelpme he said, "Hey mon, you stuck here, eh? I can rent you out some space real cheap! Ha ha ha...", and lightening strike me if I'm not serious, he held up THE STYROFOAM COOLER!

At that point, I am sure that we are about to be chopped from limb to limb and rubbed down with jerk seasoning. Terry must've felt the same chill too, and he begins making deals with the cab driver. The CB radio in his makeshift taxi (I was impressed) managed to call the coast guard. The coast guard called our all-ready-very-serious captain. Our captain refused to turn the ship around for two idiots who can't read an itinerary. However, he did allow the deckhands (still panting) to rescue us in an emergency dingy, all bright orange and Baywatch-looking.

Unlike the dingies that picked us up normally, like the days that we had not missed the boat, these boats wouldn't come ashore. (Or maybe this was just part of captain's orders for proper punishment?) So, we had to wade out waist-deep into the ocean, my skirt floating on top of the clear blue water, and hoist ourselves into a boat that looked just like this:

(ah ha! they do come ashore!)

I have zero upper body strength, by the way. In gym class, I remember dangling from the pull-up bar, unable to do even one pull-up. Well, even in crisis mode I was unable to muster the strength to pull myself up and over the inflatable sides of the boat. As I was stuck there, dangling off the side of the boat, bags and camera drowning in the ocean, Terry has already pulled himself up and over. He is now sitting next to the hot deckhands, all 4 strong able-bodied men watching me struggle to pull my fat water-logged ass up. Either chivalry had died that day, or it was too entertaining to not watch. As if dangling wasn't embarrassing enough, I had to ask for help!

And as they pulled me into the boat, wet fabric sticking to the wrong parts of my body, I hear Terry saying (he didn't help the hot deckhands by the way), "Sorry guys, she's like reeling in a big tuna."

We sped ahead the same way Hasselhoff would have, hitting waves and bumping up and down. I had to hold onto the ropes to keep from flying out. (Goodness knows, wouldn't want the boys to lose their big catch of the day.) And when we began getting closer to the ship, it dawned on me:

We are going to have to board A MOVING SHIP!

It was the most adventurous, crazy, and ugly maneuver of my life... while one deckhand is driving the dingy, another is holding both the side of the boat and my hand. The third deckhand is reaching toward the rope ladder that is flapping off the side of this enormous ship. After he grabs it, he pulls it towards Terry (men first, of course), and Terry steadies himself to start climbing up the side of the boat. It was insane! By the time I start climbing up this long ladder behind Terry (I'm not exaggerating when I say that the base of the boat had to have been at least three stories tall), every person on the ship had come out of their cabins or off the shuffleboard to watch the real entertainment. Nothing beats watching the two youngest (stupidest) shipmates get rescued, all wet and windblown.

Camera flashes are going off, people are shaking their heads in disapproval, and no one is laughing. My cheeks were bright red as I climbed aboard and stepped foot onto the wooden deck. People were unashamedly annoyed by our "antics", as if we missed the boat just for childish kicks. Did no one feel bad for us? Or more so, did no one find this funny?! Had I been watching me climb up the side of a boat, my skirt blowing up over my head, I'd have been doubled over laughing.

The captain met us at the top of the ladder. Arms crossed, standing tall and upright in a uniform much like this,

he says, "I assume you need an itinerary?"

We nod.

"And I assume you will not make 'dis mistake again?"

We nod.

"Go. Wash up for dinner."

And we slink away into our cabin, where we sat on our bed, ears and cheeks burning from embarrassment. Every few minutes we'd look at each other and say, "Did that really happen!?" We had no intention of going to the dining hall for dinner that night, for fear that we would be approached by old people who wanted to lecture us.

Minutes before the kitchen was ready to close, we ran to the dining hall to grab a bite to eat. Sitting in a booth in the corner of the dining hall sat Bruce and his wife. They hailed us over and asked us to join them for more drinks. Drinks sounded great.

Bruce and his wife were in fact the only people aboard S.S.Cranky who found our stunt funny. Very funny actually. Bruce coordinated some sort of secret celebration with the kitchen staff, involving cake, candles, and singing. They surprised us with it, and congratulated us on our marriage. The embarrassment of the afternoon was waning, and we realized how happy we were through cake, drinks, and laughter.

And this story set the tone for our marriage. As soon as you think you're the captain in life, you realize you're actually only a stupid passenger who's lost their itinerary. But moments like that make for great stories that you get to share with the person you love most. (When he's not calling you a tuna.)

That was the last trip we took before having children. (Fiona was conceived a few weeks later.)

Mama Wants Another Baby!

2010-10-20T22:39:00.000-04:00

p.s. part II coming shortly!!!

Part 1: 8 Years yields a story about our honeymoon that involves bananas, hammocks, and banana hammocks.

2010-10-12T23:49:00.000-04:00

Sorry for not writing in over a week, but life has been nutty this week. Between throwing birthday parties, celebrating an anniversary, having family in from out of town, apple-picking, going hiking, and other (not fun enough to mention here) happenings, computer time has been limited to a meager facebook chirp here and an email squeak there.

Now, on to the goods.

. . .

As I said, Terry and I celebrated an anniversary this week. 8 years, ya'll! 8 years is traditionally celebrated with bronze (bronze the first pair of shoes he ever sniffed and subtly recommended I buy scented inserts for, perhaps?), pottery (an urn to hold the ashes of all the pet remains we've shared together, no?), or appliances (his and her bidets, hmmm?). But being the untraditional (broke) types that we are, we decided that our 8th year will be celebrated by:

1. spending this anniversary with our children. The night was great. I made a good dinner, had some friends over (who brought brownies and wine), and we roasted marshmallows in the backyard.
2. calling each other "mama and daddy".
3. eating more meat together. After all, those who meat together, keep together, right?
4. ironing his underwear.
5. reading more books aloud to each other.
6. keeping secrets... as Terry asks me every time I publish a new post, "can't we keep anything private?" Yes, darling. Right after this one story.

. . .

So, since I'm a week late, I thought I would observe the anniversary of our honeymoon (instead of our wedding day) with one of my all time favorite stories that Terry and I have ever shared. Enjoy.

. . .

Terry and I are given the gift of our honeymoon from Terry's mom, Lani. We spent a week in the West Indies, eating and drinking our way up the islands, starting our fun in Barbados. From there, we boarded a large sail boat, or a clipper, that was piloted by a very serious man from Luxembourg. Once aboard, we were greeted by our ship mates who happened to be 75 blue-haired seniors from around the world. It was like being in the Small World Disney ride, except the animatronics had aged. We were unquestionably the youngest people on board (minus the enormous bartender named Egor, the very young, lean, tan... (panting) deckhands... what was I saying again? Oh yes, and the cleaning staff, Poppie the 4 ft. tall masseuse from Thailand, and one other couple. They were young too.)

We began sailing late at night, our course set for St. Lucia. We were given our week's itinerary upon arrival, where we were given choices of the types of activities we could take part in- kayaking, mountain biking, Jeep tours through banana orchards, scuba diving, shopping, or (insert 75 elderly disapproving faces here) exploring on your own and at your own risk.

I doubt that anyone but Terry and I chose the last option. These people were obviously here as a part of their senior reinvention, eager to learn "from the locals all about their culture" via banana boating and souvenir shopping. And let me tell you nothing is more amazing that watching 4 85 year old women straddle one of these:

Now that I am 8 years older, wiser, and more interested than ever to wear a demure cowl-neck swimsuit with matching skirt, I too understand why folks chose to do the packaged stuff. You were paying for the guide, his accent-adorned history lessons and corny jokes, and the free spiced rum that came at the end of each activity. In retrospect it's so easy to see, we were fools to have trusted our own devises on these foreign islands.

The first few days were actually spent doing a few of these activities. We decided kayaking through the inlets around Antigua sounded fun. We learned a great deal about the native flora and fauna of the island from our guide. And while I'm usually very (cough) interested in the difference between herrons and cranes or sea grass and sea weed, this was a time that I really just wanted to "banana boat" with Terry under some palm tree.

Terry sat behind me in this kayak, both of us sweating from our oversized neon life vests, surrounded by 8 or so kayaks of folks with names like Gertie and Herbert. Once our tour was over, our guide, a shirtless black man with long dreadlocks and a bright smile, said that we would race back to the other side of the island for the chance to win a bottle of Antigua's own spiced rum. Gertie on my left and Herbert on my right, we began paddling at the sound of our guide's, "GOOOO!"

In order to make a long story a little less, I'll go ahead and cut to the chase.

It was the first fight we'd had in matrimony. Names were called. Expletives were used. Threats of shoved oars were delivered. Terry and I came in last.

That night, I began feeling a little sea sick. I decided to call it an early night, preparing myself for the following day's activity- mountain biking through the mountains of St. Lucia. I spent my night alternating between the bed and the cabin's bathroom while Terry was sent away. To any place where he couldn't hear his newly wed ralph up chunks of beef bourguignon.

He went up to the top deck, headed straight away for Egon and his clipper-famous mixed drinks, and made friends with a man named Bruce from New Jersey. Bruce, an optometrist by day and something questionable by night, wore diamond rings on his fingers that spelled out B R U C E.

He grew to like Terry rather fast, which isn't surprising. What was surprising though was that Terry grew to like Bruce back. I'm sure it also helped that Terry and Bruce were the only two people at the bar that night who shared the common interest of being born after the Battle of Okinawa. Well, and Egor, the bartender, was too for that matter. Diamond-crusted Bruce, 6'4" artist Terry, and 7" bartender Egor hit it off real nice. Bruce was as generous as he was stylish, and bought all of Terry's many many many drinks that evening/night/morning. And the mixed company was as interesting as the mixed drinks Egor concocted for them, with lemons, salt, egg yolks, and vodka (ralph).

Needless to say, Terry was in no mood to bike through the hills of St. Lucia at oh eight hundred o'clock. I had slept soundly for a good 8 hours (after my final ralph of the night), so I was raring to go. The good sport of a new husband that he was, he conceded to get up, mount a bike, and together fall last in line AGAIN to a group of peddle-pushing nanas for me. Good guy. And, making matters worse, when we finished the course, we were offered cups of that spiced rum that seemed to be everywhere. Doesn't anyone drink water around here?

And so, after two days of getting our asses kicked by the itinerary made for "active adults", we opted for "Explore On Your Own and At Your Own Risk".

Risk? What risk?

. . .

(To Be Continued)

Creek Caper

2010-10-01T20:39:00.000-04:00

I am so happy that Autumn has arrived.

Just Another Crazy Normal Day (photographically speaking)

2010-09-29T23:39:00.002-04:00

Once upon a time, there was a girl who grew into a lady's body but maintained the earnestness of a little girl.

After childhood came teenhood. After teenhood came college. After college came marriage. After marriage came children. After children came a dog. After the dog came chickens. After one of the chickens mysteriously died, her sad buddy paced back and forth with such sadness that she knew it was best to kill the chicken and eat it. (Or at least watch friends do the deed and pluck a few feathers for good measure.) After witnessing her first slaughter came kittens (which felt so right at the time). After kittens came the worst stubbed toe of her life while trying to keep the aforementioned dog from devouring these kittens. After the kittens found a home (thank heavens) came the bruise that has yet to heal on her big fat swollen toe.

And here we are.

Today was a good day, a day like any other. Not very busy. Not very exciting. Just normal. Even the dull ache of my left foot is starting to feel like the norm. However, it's only lately that I've noticed how many unacceptable doings occur in our "normal" day. Come to find out, our norm is not all that normal after all.

The dog. Ugh, the dog. I love him 90% of the time. But that other 10%? That's when he's opening our refrigerator with his teeth, or burying unwrapped (seriously) roast beef sandwiches in our backyard given to him by some employee (we think?) at Arby's, or squeezing his beefy midsection under our fence so as to retrieve the roast beef sandwiches from that person at Arby's, or pulling me so hard and so fast in the direction of those kittens (the ones I mentioned earlier) that I stubb my toe and curse so colorfully that my kids cover their own ears.

The chickens. Blasted chickens. I have a beautiful coop that my dad and Terry made, but I want them to free range for part of the day, so I do. Inevitably after free ranging in our more-than-adequate-space backyard, they fly over the fence into our front yard where people drive by and do double-takes. I swear these chickens are going to cause a car accident one day. (Also, between specialty chicken books, farmer's almanacs, and Google, I've yet to find a method for clipping wings that work.)

And then there's the kids. They are everything. The kids are why I don't get rid of the dog and chickens after they've tried "flying the coop" again and again. So to speak. They require the greatest amount of my energy- and rightfully so. I love doing all the stuff that comes with motherhood!

. . .

So this morning Fiona goes to school. Neve and I take the dog on a short walk. Then we start playing.

I played this one game where I blindfold her and make her smell different things (banana, cinnamon, olive oil, garlic, almonds, crayons, soap, and a shirt straight out of the dryer), guess what they are, and then draw them in her sketchbook. She LOVED this game.

Then she played in her dollhouse while I made lunch.

I did some other important things (like color coordinate the colored pencils) before going to a friend's house for a playdate.

After I picked Fiona up from school, we came home and played a little more.

And when Lincoln Logs got old, we drew faces on our chins and laid upside down on their beds and had a few laughs. Or at least Fiona and I laughed, while Neve complained that it was "too creepy." She actually HATED this game.

So, we cleaned up the Lincoln Logs, did not wash our necks and chins, and headed outside to feed the chickens. We fed the chickens in our bare feet, specifically.

~Camilla goes to town on that cracked corn~

~yup, that's a plastic owl lying on it's side~

~notice the lovely taped toes?~

That's when I noticed how awful our backyard looks.

~the back of our barn~

~lights that dangle so low that Terry gets caught like a fly in a web whenever he passes~

~a basin of water with toys and buckets floating inside from who-knows-when~

Who lives like this!? Why am I just now noticing how depressing it looks back here!? Quick, girls, grab a rake! But wait. Where's the dog? Banjo wiggled his way under the fence when we weren't looking, and he's probably on his way to Arby's.

The girls and myself go running down our street, limping barefoot, with marker-drawn inverted faces on our necks, chasing a dog who has no incentive to turn away from the direction of Arby's. As if it couldn't get any uglier, 2 of our 6 chickens fly over the fence into the front yard, running after us. It's a veritable parade of crazy running down our avenue, flight attendants and pilots watching from their driveways as they're unloading their baggage from their rental cars.

I wave and mutter something like, "Wow. Chasing a dog barefoot is just how I wanted to spend my afternoon...", har, har. But that wanna-be explanation doesn't account for the marker eyes I have staring at them from my neck, or my kids' necks, or the chickens in tow.

Once he's caught (with the help of one of those chilly humorless attendants), I have to carry his 40 lb sack of skin back again. Barefoot. Limping. Kids and chickens following. I'm-looking-at-you-with-my-neck neck.

. . .

And I'd be lying if I said that this was the first time this has happened. (Minus the neck eyes. That was a a first.)

knuckle deep

2010-09-25T19:08:00.000-04:00

Dainty silver spoons for stirring honey into coffee, sliced pumpkin bread, walks to the town festival, big red balloons, melting cotton candy, romping dogs, finding a secret stash of blue eggs (!), daddies at home, stories, and lots and lots of giggling. This is what makes Saturday sweet.

Have a great weekend!

The Great Mario Mistake

2010-09-25T10:36:00.000-04:00

Disclaimer: I have a feeling that this may not be blog material, but I can't resist.

Last week, at pickup, I asked Fiona how her day at school was. She gave me her usual "good", and that was that.

"Did you learn any new Spanish words?"

"Nope."

"Did you like the lunch I packed for you?"

"Yep."

"Did you do any writing today?"

"Mmm, I think so."

{pause}

"Mom? Why do you draw naked people?"

"Huh? What are you- where did you- what do you mean?", the stammering goes on.

. . .

A week before last week's interrogation, Terry and I had friends over for dinner and drinks. The second half of the equation was probably responsible for the pen and paper (grabbing the first notebook I saw), accompanied by side-splitting laughter.

The topic of Mario Batali came up (who I love, by the way), and inevitably we drew him. What started as this:

His wee sweaty pony tail, done by our remains-nameless friend.

evolved into this:

Nose picking Batali over the baby cauldron, done by Terry.

which evolved into this:

Naked Batali holds a salami, done by yours truly.

which evolved into something that would certainly warrant a Blogger Inappropriate Content Flag:

Mario, it wasn't personal. We only did this because we have low self esteem.

. . .

The kicker:

"Mom, I don't mind if you draw naked people, but please just don't draw it in my school writing journal. My teacher will think I'm weird."

Shamefully I consent, "Okay."

Fiona, how does it feel to be more mature than your parents?

p.s. My daughter was so sensible, she said that as soon as she saw it, she closed it and put it back inside her desk. Thank goodness I don't have to explain my perversion at any parent/teacher conferences.

After School Getaway/Breakaway

2010-09-23T23:21:00.000-04:00

After school today, we took a short drive to a place that's much greener.

Fiona was greeted by her favorite horse.

I wouldn't believe it if I hadn't seen it myself, but this one particular horse really does like her. Every time we come here, he heads straight to her, passing Neve and I by.

And this makes her very happy.

He must have sensed that out of the three of us, she's the one who'd open the gate.

Or at least help. And between his determination and her fingers, they did open the gate.

Neve and I got scared. I shuffled him back in and locked the gate again. Neve watched from a safe distance.

If You Want Him Alive...

2010-09-22T23:53:00.000-04:00

We went to Fiona's classroom Open House last week. Sitting on her desk (and the only one with something on her desk) was this:

Me: "Terry, who is Don Rily Wel? And why is Fiona holding him hostage?"

Terry: "Dera, it says, 'I Have Done Really Well'... like in school. Like we don't have to ask the teacher any questions, because Fiona already told us she's doing really well."

Me: "Ah. Well, I like the hostage note better."

Show & Tell: Happy Latelies

2010-09-21T22:32:00.000-04:00

Our two newest girls are laying blue eggs! I've been so excited to have living breathing LAYING Araucanas that I'm still too afraid to name them. I don't want to get too excited, just in case... you know.

I put new knobs on this blechy IKEA dresser, and I'm kinda digging it now.

I've been meaning to photograph these for a while now. My dad made me and my brother matching sets of lamps- one set for his new apartment in cherry wood, and one set for me (because he knew I'd be jealous) in walnut. Aren't they great? Shouldn't he sell them on etsy!?

I love them.

My mother-in-law, Lani, gave the girls her childhood bedroom set a few years ago, complete with the lamp she had in her old bedroom.

The photo isn't great (I was too distracted by the dog), but the headboards are so sweet. And really. Banjo. Will you please just get comfortable?

And lastly. Aren't these adorable? My friend, Ai, brought these back from Japan with her. Our plan is to get together and make some little terrariums to put these guys in. Will Japan adopt me?

My favorite!

Ode To DragonCon 2010: An Attempt To Be A Poet

2010-09-19T01:54:00.000-04:00

Oh DragonCon, Oh DragonCon,

How lovely are thy attendees.

They've donned their pleather pants and how,

All gouty legs don't bother now,

Oh DragonCon, Oh DragonCon,

You make September happy.

Oh DragonCon, Oh DragonCon,

Don't make them mad at Starbucks.

The Hulk is lactose intolerant,

The Flash needs 2 shots, not just one.

Oh DragonCon, Oh DragonCon,

Don't gyp them on their whipped cream!

Oh DragonCon, Oh DragonCon,

There's skin and skin and more skin.

Spandex bulge here, and shelf boobs there,

Pale muffin tops and dark chest hair.

Oh DragonCon, Oh DragonCon,

I'm glad you feel so comfortable.

Oh DragonCon, Oh DragonCon,

The old school stuff still thrills me.

Star Wars is cool, no matter what they say,

Not Trek because it's just too gay,

Oh DragonCon, Oh DragonCon,

My hub still loves slut Leia.

Oh DragonCon, Oh DragonCon,

Mr. Avatar was creepy.

Was under loin cloth blue as well?

My head so cocked I almost fell.

Oh DragonCon, Oh DragonCon,

your answer needed promptly.

Oh DragonCon, Oh DragonCon,

You're fun until you're not fun.

With Mai Tais and clove cigarettes,

Rouses superheroes interests.

Oh DragonCon, Oh DragonCon.

Let's leave before costumes come off.

And good night, folks!

I Don't Want To Be Here

2010-09-16T22:52:00.000-04:00

Tonight was Open House at Fiona's school.

I have had this night marked on the calendar for months now.

I wanted to see where she sits, I wanted to see all the corny but inevitable motivational posters hanging on the walls, I wanted to meet her friends, and I wanted to get the scoop on my kid.

Is she smart? Like, just give it to me straight. From 1- 10, is she like a 6 or a 7? Okay, so maybe she's like a 5 in academics, but c'mon. She's like an 8 or 9 in Art, right? I mean, I can only say that because she has such bad rhythm and probably can't keep a beat in Music class. So, it kinda evens it out, right? Right?

What's that?

Have I seen her...

...what the hell is this? A drawing she did of Hurricane Katrina, you say? Does she even know about Hurricane Katrina?

Holy...

Good grief. I love her too.

When Handsome Went Crazy

2010-09-15T22:56:00.002-04:00

It must be possible to inherit the obsession gene.

My daughters are obsessed with the same music I love (most of the time), as they beg me to play these songs over and over.

The latest song on repeat is this (Blonde Redhead's Spain):

. . .

Neve is singing along in the backseat when she asks, "What does this lady look like?"

I show her a picture.

"And are those her boyfriends?"

"Well, the one without a beard is her husband, and the other guy is his brother."

"Mom? Do you think they're handsome?"

"Yeah. They are."

"Do you think Daddy is handsome?"

"So handsome."

"Mom? Don't you think Daddy would be more handsome if he wasn't so funny all the time?"

"I don't think so."

Holy Kittens

2010-09-13T16:26:00.001-04:00

Neve yells, "Where are we going again? A monster story?"

"No, it's called a monastery. It's like a big beautiful church where monks live."

My answer means nothing to a child who has never heard of the term "monk", and she may also be losing memory of the term "church".

"Mom?"

"Yes, Neve?"

"Why do we want to go there?"

"Well, for a few reasons. It's supposed to be a beautiful place with a lake and gardens and chestnut trees... and then there's the monks. They're men dressed in robes who sing songs like this-"

{insert my ugly guttural interpretation of a Gregorian chant here}

Through the rearview mirror, Neve looks less than enthusiastic.

"They also make fudge."

"Oh, okay."

We park, get out of the car, and I remember to tell her the most important detail.

"Oh, yeah, and Neve? You can't talk inside the church."

Just as I say this, a monk on a golf cart flies by us, and bows his head while using his elbows to steer as he makes a prayer sign in our direction, as if to say, "God Bless You In a Hurry."

"Mom? What was that?"

. . .

We spent 10 minutes in the cathedral, soaking in the beauty, praying, and trying not to be distracted by the janitor who was using those long school brooms to reach under the pew in front of us.

We spent 5 minutes under the chestnut trees, dissecting those spiky alien-like nuts.

We spent 10 minutes down by the lake, watching other people silently feed the loudest, most agressive geese I've ever seen.

We spent 2 minutes in the garden area, where Neve found familiar plants that smell nice.

And then, we saw it. IT.

IT was a box of kittens. IT was filled with mounds of breathing fur. According to the monks (who do talk), IT didn't have a mother. IT should not have been put in our car and brought home, but it did.

. . .

I walk inside the nearest building and see two men in robes talking to one another in the lobby.

"Excuse me? Do either of you know anything about the box-"

One of the men finish my sentence, "-the box of kittens? Ya' want them?"

"Oh, well. I don't know. Maybe. What's going on with them? Where's their mother?"

"We get animals dropped on our doorstep all the time. Who knows where they came from or where their mother is. But we are gonna be forced to bring them to the Humane Society tonight if no one takes them home."

My brain gears are turning. Kittens need to be bottle fed every 2-3 hours. Will the Humane Society really do this? They're totally going to die if I don't take them home. I'm allergic to them, but if I keep them away from me (except when I'm nursing them) I'll be fine. Banjo. Hmmm. I'll just have to keep him away from them too until we can find them a good home. We can make it work. Right, Neve?

"We can make it work. Right, Neve?"

"Right!"

"Do you want my information? I mean, I have a dog, but he's sweet. I mean, he's a hunting dog and he did kill a baby chick once, but he's not vicious, just kind of impulsive. And I'll be sure to keep them separated until I find them a good home, but who knows? Maybe we'll keep them? I mean, I'm not usually an advocate for outdoor pets, but 3 kitten siblings living on our little lot of urban land... how cute is that? And I forgot to tell you that I'm allergic to cats, but I'll be fine. Oh, and we have chickens! It's kinda perfect. All Old MacDonald and stuff. I mean, once they're old enough to protect themselves they're going to love our yard. And Fiona! She's going to love them!! But what do you guys think? Is it okay if I take them???"

"Uh, yes. That would be great."

And as me and Neve say thank you and goodbye, I hear the men clap their hands together and whisper-shout, "Thank God!"

A chill crawls up my neck.

. . .

We went out of town for the weekend, and my friend Anna babysat them. This was the result of time spent with an amazing photographer:

Isn't she good? And aren't they cute?

If you live in Atlanta and know anyone who wants kittens, please let me know. I can't really keep them. They have been named Figgy, Wander, and Junkyard by my girls, but you may call them whatever you like if you want them.

Gustav Bennett (11/96- 08/10)

2010-09-05T00:11:00.000-04:00

My childhood dog passed away last week. His name was Gus, and he was the BEST dog a kid could ask for. In fact, my brother and I did ask for him on my brother's 10th birthday, 14 years ago.

This was 1996, the year the Olympics came to Atlanta, the year I cut all my hair off into a shamelessly identical bob to that of Claire Danes (1st tv reference of this post), the same year I bought my first pair of Doc Martens, and the year that I'm sure my mother thought I would go blind from my frequent and severe eye-rolls. I was sixteen and my brother was ten. This would prove to be one of the worst years in our sibling hood, as he slid recording devices under my bed in the hopes that I would spill secrets that could get me in big trouble by mom and dad (among other things). All the while I remained misunderstood and broody when there was an audience present.

What he didn't know was that his sister was only cool and interesting by association (by high school standards at least) and not at all living the juicy teenager life that he'd hoped to bust me living. No boy stories, no school skipping (well, once... but I was too scared to leave the school premises, so I sat in a friend's car throughout the entire hour of Anatomy class snickering at the awesomeness of the concept of skipping school, only to be caught on surveillance and given a week of in-school suspension. Oh yeah, and I served with my dad, who happened to also be my art teacher. Kew-el...). I was a veritable Elly May Clampett (2nd tv reference) posing as an Angela Chase.

The glue that held my brother and me together that year was the yellow labrador retriever we agreed upon in the mall pet-store window. He made eye contact with us through the glass, and without a second thought, Joey and I knew he was ours.

Our first 2 dogs, Bluebird and B.C., were English Setters. They were beautiful sweet outdoor dogs. In keeping with the Clampett comparison, up until then we'd only known dogs to be guards of homes by day and porch companions by evening. There was no mixing dog and human company indoors. Only fancy people had dogs without fleas after all.

So in 1996, when Gus had been chosen, named, and adopted, Joseph and I had already moved on to our second agreement: he HAD to be an indoor dog. Or at least one of those hybrid types. My mother agreed under the condition that she would have nothing to do with the house training of this animal. If he was not house trained by some certain date, he would be booted to the Clampett-kennel.

The accuracy of my memories vs. the memories my parents have of this time are questionable. (I need to ask Joey what he remembers...) I recall something to the effect of two kids constantly armed with spray cleaners and rolls of paper towels, constantly cleaning up piles of puppy poo. In fact, I vividly remember one instance when I was chasing after Gus and slipped in a puddle of his pee that made me fall so hard and so fast I was sure I broke my tail bone. I remember laying in the warm wet, crying, while Joey stood over me laughing and pointing.

My parents remember things the same way all parents remember their kids' good deeds- filled with threats and whines. But the point remains the same. Gus took an all 'round sucky year (a bored teenage girl and a bored prepubescent boy living in a log cabin on 24 acres without cable), and made it great. He gave us a purpose, he made us laugh, he kept our feet warm at the foot of our beds at night (a feeling we'd never experienced before).

...

Not long after we'd bought him, I began dating (if you can call it that) the school turd. He was tall, blonde, he played soccer, and was cute by Georgia suburban measure. He was also full of trouble. My mother affectionately and appropriately called him Eddie Haskel (3rd and final tv reference).

I threw my first (maybe only?) party in that house that year, after my parents conceded to pretend to be out of town while really only watching Poirot (gotcha! 4th tv reference!) at my grandparents' house next door. Once I convinced my mom that my friends didn't want cupcakes baked into ice cream cones as snacks (or any snacks that couldn't be drunk for that matter), I had victoriously made my rite of passage into the scary world of teenage girl, endorsed by Zima.

Blonde troubled soccer player boy told me that he bought me a gift, and that he needed to get it out of the glove compartment of his Ford Bronco. I sat on the porch swing, waiting for what I thought would be earrings or a box of chocolates. No, instead Eddie Haskel brought over a small bag of CRANK, the classy drug that hookers make in trailer kitchens. (This was the same guy who bought me an ETIQUETTE BOOK as a Christmas present, just so you know.)

I was shocked. And then scared. And then pissed. I suppose he was picking up on my vibe, and in turn became somewhat defensive and pissed himself. After telling him that I would never... you know... I mean, what?... like, don't you have to have at least smoked pot before you go sniffing meth powders?... unbeknownst to me, he decided it would be funny to give Gus a little bit.

I'm in-tears-livid when I realize what has happened.

Everyone laughed as they watched him run in circles and fall off the porch. Had I known at the time that his heart wasn't going to explode that night, I'd probably have found it funny too. But I was so sad. I wanted everyone to leave so that I could make sure he wouldn't die and so that I could whisper an apology to him. (These are also the same winners that used to tie up alley cats to the tailgates of their pick-up trucks, just so you know.)

My night dove and my heart was broken; that was the first time I really understood what Man's Best Friend meant.

...

Fast forward ten years. I'm married, and I have two young children. We don't yet have a dog living in our own home, so we still claim Gus as ours. My parents have moved out of the log cabin and into suburbia. Joseph comes home to visit a couple times a year from college in New York, most excited to get the best greeting from Gus. Gus spends most of his days under my dad's feet in his wood shop, or annoying my mom while she sews and cooks. All of my parents' neighbors know Gus by name, greeting him as though he's another person. He rarely needed a leash, as he never left my dad's side on walks. And he was known to forget that bees ought not be eaten.

...

Fiona was most torn up when I told her the news. She began crying and said, "But he wasn't sick!" I explained that dogs can often be sick even if they don't seem it; that dogs are far more stoic than humans.

Through tears she asked, "Will he at least get his privates back in heaven?" And folks, let this be our parting words: Gus is probably loving up some bi**hes as I type this, with all his Kibbles and Bits. But we sure miss you here, buddy.

*** I'll post a picture here shortly.

A Link, A Love, and Some Fake Polaroids

2010-09-04T12:34:00.000-04:00

I've fallen in love with another blog who, lucky for me, lives in Atlanta as well. "Pie" is an amazing photographer, who happens to also be the neighbor to one of my good friends. Like the good neighbors that they are, they share ideas and inspirations and children as models and yummy things to eat. And I just hang around in the hopes that I can absorb the happiness too.

After spending over an hour looking through her delicious blog, I walked away with a few iphone apps that I love. Since I'm unable to drop $100 on polaroid film on ebay, I found the 99¢ Hipstamatic, Picture Show, and Shake It apps to be the next best thing.

Neve watching tv.

Check her out. And more to come...

Announcing His Debut Release "CIGARIZZIS AND WHISKEY"

2010-08-31T22:11:00.000-04:00

My grandfather, better known as Papa these days, just turned 82. During the celebrations, Fiona leans over to him and says, "Papa, don't worry. You're not old yet. You still have hair and teeth."

Then she looks at my grandma, aka. Nana, and says, "And you still have your personality."

Pat on back.

(yes, he said cigarizzi.)

Oh Snap.

2010-08-25T22:51:00.001-04:00

another beautiful photo by Anna Watson.

I hear the sound of crying coming from the other room.

Angry footsteps approach.

. . .

Neve: MOM! Fiona hurt my feelings!

Me: What happened?

Neve: She did this {air quotes with her fingers} to me, and that's not really NICE!

Me: The nerve.

Neve: Yes! She said, 'I might like the color blue, but I don't like {air quotes} "BLUE FLIP FLOPS"!'

. . .

Fiona comes running toward our direction to defend herself.

Fiona: Mom, She was asking too many questions about the color blue is all!

Around and Around

2010-08-24T18:50:00.000-04:00

Firsts

2010-08-23T08:39:00.001-04:00

Today is the first day of first grade. After waffles and peaches, the whole family walked Fiona to school.

She stopped several times to adjust her backpack, so as to keep her shirt from getting "crinkled".

And when we arrived, she threw us a huge smile and eagerly skipped off.

Neve and I are making cookies for her return at 4:00. My heart is a little achy right now.

Tholar Thunami

2010-08-04T17:03:00.000-04:00

Before Breakfast Yesterday:

Terry: "Guess what's going to happen today, girls?"

Fiona and Neve excitedly ask, "What!?"

Terry: "Today, there's going to be a solar tsunami!"

Neve: "Tholar thunami?"

Fiona: "What is that even?"

Terry: "It's like a tidal wave of lava on the sun instead of water on the earth."

Both girls are quiet. The excitement exits the front door. Brain gears are now turning.

Fiona: "What does that even mean?"

Terry: "Nothing much for us, except maybe some lights in the sky. It may cause some transmitter problems, but that's about it."

Me, thinking: I had no idea I married this guy.

And so, Terry goes off to work and I am left with one child who has already moved on to things of greater importance than the universe, like her cereal. (Where the hell is my cereal, mom?!) And the other child is paralyzed in thought as she ponders her existence and how it relates to the sun and it's solar energy.

Thanks, honey.

Throughout the day, Fiona would ask "what's it called... the thing that's happening on the sun?", obviously unable to shake this morning's bit of space trivia. I must have said "solar tsunami" over 4 times yesterday; a phrase I'd never uttered before in my life.

Around 8:30 as the sun was setting, Fiona says (completely out of the blue):

"Mom? And what's the big deal about those sun waves anyway? I mean, it's not like the earth even cares or anything."

Me: "You're right. It's just the sun's business." (I'm not thinking- just talking.)

Fiona: "Yeah, and Mario (from Super Mario Bros.) didn't even see the sun wave when he went there."

Me: "Honey, Mario isn't real. He's just a cartoon."

Fiona: "I know, but if he was real he wouldn't be scared of sun waves because it's just the sun's business."

Me: "Hey, does the solar tsunami kind of scare you? It's okay if it does..."

Fiona: "Yes."

{pause}

"Because it's like... waves of huge fire."

Me: "Does all of space kind of scare you a little, because it does me a little?"

Fiona: "Yes."

{pause}

"Because it's really big and it's where darkness and God live."

. . .

The good news? Space is just fear of the unknown. There's plenty of stuff right here on earth to frighten you, honey. Like this:

or this:

Sweet dreams!

And I Bite My Tongue

2010-08-03T11:28:00.000-04:00

The girls are in the backseat playing with their dolls. Fiona has the coveted "special doll" (the doll with all of her hair and no pen marks on her face), while Neve has the one that looks like she just escaped an abusive relationship with Ken.

Neve: (in the voice of her doll) "Um, excuse me? Will you go to the carnival with me?"

Fiona: (in the voice of her doll) "No. Sorry. I have to spend the night at my friend's house."

Neve: (in the voice of her doll) "Well, maybe I can go?"

Fiona: (in the voice of her doll) "Probably not."

Neve: (in her real voice now) "Fiona, she wants to play with your girl! Let her go too!"

Fiona: (in her real voice) "Shhhh... she's sleeping."

Neve: (whispering) "When will she wake up?"

Fiona: (whispering) "Tomorrow."

Neve: (still whispering) "Is that like one sleep and one wake-up?"

Fiona: (nods.)

Neve: (in the voice of her doll) "I'll just wait."

she's still waiting.

Baby Bennett

2010-08-02T22:44:00.000-04:00

I met up with an old friend and her new progeny. His name is Bennett, he is ridiculously chubby, and he is unashamedly into being rocked by older women. As you can see, my girls are smitten.

"Becawse Ya Such A Sweet Boy!"

2010-07-31T12:00:00.001-04:00

Terry's friend is celebrating his birthday. Before going to his house for dinner, the girls make him cards.

Neve finishes hers, throws it on the table, and runs back to play.

Fiona labors over each flower she draws and colors, and then each letter, and then the perfect wording for her heartfelt wishes to a 35 year old man. And then she slips it into the envelope, almost licks the flap, but stops.

Fiona: "Wait... should I put a dollar in it?"

Me: (I almost spit out my coffee)

Fiona: "I know, I know... I'm not his Nana."

Whether We Like It Or Not

2010-07-27T16:12:00.000-04:00

A few days ago, Neve told me that she was ready to stop talking like "thith". Like what, Neve? "You know... like thith: thhhhhhh." While I may have mentioned her lisp here, Terry and I would never think of mentioning anything about it in front of her, and I doubt Fiona would be so mean. I just couldn't believe she could hear it herself. And I secretly love it. I don't want her to grow out of it. (Speech therapists, shhh.) It sort of reminds me of this.

Fiona and I went uniform shopping for her new school today. She's so tall. She's so funny. She's so beautiful. She so badly wants to be independent. But I am not ready for her to be in first grade for 8 hours a day. My heart is breaking a little at the thought of this.

While baking the other day, Fiona and Neve asked if they could help. I know I should love cooking with them (and sometimes I do, when I'm feeling especially patient), but I often hide the fact that I'm baking from them to avoid their "help". Awful, I know. Before I had a chance to even tell them what their jobs would be or where to find the utensils, Fiona had round up all the measuring cups and spoons, and asked me if I needed baking soda or baking powder. They both took on the recipe, almost completely without my help. It was the first time I really noticed their capabilities. While I was so proud, I was also a little bit sad.

3 years ago exactly, Terry took a sharpie to our bedroom doorframe and measured the girls' heights. I was a little annoyed (we already had a growth chart hanging in their room that had never been marked), but didn't say anything. After months and now years of more marks, it's one of my favorite spots in our house.

Terry is prepared to replace the doorframe if and when we move, and take this one with us.

Today

2010-07-25T13:57:00.000-04:00

Terry is wearing short denim shorts while working in the yard, and I don't think he realizes how adorable it is.

The girls are practicing music on their Casio in the character of "Super Singer Man". (I love this, as I envision Elton John teaching them chords to Mr. Piano Man in their bedroom.)

Laundry has been folded neatly and there are stacks on every clean surface of our house. While this usually bothers me, today I don't mind.

Our floors and furniture were just polished using a linseed oil that has made everything in our house smell like my dad's workshop.

Iced tea is getting cold in the fridge.

Sundays are so good.

Braq's Mashed Potatoes

2010-07-23T09:54:00.000-04:00

sung by Neve White, who, whaddaya know... LOVES mashed potatoes!

(Thanks Uncle Nate for putting this on the mix you gave us. They listen to it all the time.)

Fifth Stop: Atlanta's Other Food Culture

2010-07-22T20:07:00.000-04:00

The Atlanta that my Georgia-born grandmother and grandfather remembered may have been organic and locally fed, but not because of any reactionary trends going on in the 30's or 40's. It was just life, and it was simple and good and still untainted by looming pesticides and the Corn Industry. (No more soapboxes, I swear.) But most of all, it was tasty and very southern.

Here are some places that may not be fancy, but still certainly represent a different delicious side of Atlanta. (And I know a few of these places were around and enjoyed when my grandma and grandpa were young.)

Carvers Country Kitchen

The Colonnade's Restaurant

Mary Mac's Tea Room

Pitty Pat's Porch

Daddy D'z BBQ

Barbeque Kitchen (College Park)

Zestos

EATs

Once A Week Go Greek (Grecian Gyro)

(not southern, but good and dive-y)

There are others, and I'm sure I'll remember them tonight as I begin falling in and out of sleep. (Fingers crossed that I'll remember where I put my ipod also.) If you know the area, please chime in with your favorites and any spots I've missed!

***Sneak Peak: my next stop will be highlighting some old (gone) Atlanta nightclubs that might answer any questions you didn't know you had... like the ghosts of Auburn Ave, amazing old signs that still hang outside of boarded up buildings in the downtown/ Castleberry Hill areas, or the charm of a Blondie lap dance.***

Don't Forget the Morshmelos

2010-07-20T23:38:00.000-04:00

We were supposed to go camping Saturday, but it rained. The kids seemed okay with it, and they began constructing a little backyard campsite instead.

Neve's Web Show?

2010-07-16T18:48:00.002-04:00

This is what happens when you point a camera in the direction of a talkative child. Apparently, Neve has been wanting to host a show or a telethon or... I don't really know.

Some things you should know:

1. theawesomestvideoofthecatstealingapersonthatknockshimdown.com is not yet registered.
2. I sound like I've been eating a brick of Velveeta cheese.
3. Paypal has a few kinks to work out before accepting 25 computers as a form of payment.
4. My daughter is not a licensed doctor, so proceed with caution as she "doctors you".