I've Got The Touch.

Midas was a lucky man. I too have superpowers. Everything I touch turns to *BLEEP*.

I know I've said it before, but I run into things all. the. time.  In the last week alone, I've knocked children over, broken my favorite porcelain sugar spoon, snapped the head off a doll (on accident, not in some psycho fit of rage, I swear), spilled coffee on my favorite coffee table book, ruined my favorite jeans sledding down a hill (somehow ripping a huge hole in the crotch), and burned a hole in Terry's favorite pair of shoes.  The last one happened with such good intentions too.  After our day of sledding, I placed the family's wet shoes behind the fireplace screen to dry out.  Terry's shoes being the biggest, were the only ones that had holes burned right through the toes.  Whoops.

(Terry was such a good sport about it too.  He only made me feel a teensy bit stupid.)

But to top off the week's suck, I made the worst mistake of all: I never read Fiona's class email.  (The one with instructions for Valentine's Day.)

Apparently, all week, the parents of kids in her class were making homemade valentines for their children, secretly giving them to the teachers at drop-off, and were read aloud by the teachers at circle time.  Sweet, right?

Thursday rolled around and Fiona waited for her name to be called, just as all of her friends had.  It never happened because Mommy doesn't read emails in her spam folder.

Later that day, Fiona's sweet teacher, Ms. Lori, walked down the hall to my classroom, holding a heart-decorated piece of paper in hand.

Ms. Lori: "I don't know if you got the memo, but we are reading the kids' valentines that you were supposed to write to your child in front of the class.  Fiona got sick of waiting, so she made herself one.  From you."  (Sad pat on the back.)

∞ FIONA'S HOMEMADE VALENTINE ∞ 

"FIONA (hearts next to her name)

LOVE FOR FIONA 

(open it up)

DEAR FIONA, WHEN YOU CAME OUT OF ME YOU LOOKED LIKE A PRINCESS AND YOU STILL LOOK LIKE A PRINCESS AND I LOVE YOU LOVE NEVE AND DERA AND TERRY.  (drawing of a crown and flowers)"

I got crap for the rest of the day from her teachers for the "princess thing" (we are sooo not princessy here), but I was too distracted by how awful I felt that the poor kid had to write her own valentine to care about anything else.

So, Terry and I made sure that we had her valentine ready for Friday.  It wasn't easy finding a skywriter to write "WHEN YOU CAME OUT OF ME YOU LOOKED LIKE A PRINCESS" over the playground at the last minute, but where there's a will there's a way.

(Valentine flowers from Terry, complete with empty Scotch bottle/vase.  Resourceful and romantic, no?)

Winter Feet

Hi, my name is Dera, and I wear slippers.

Favorite-slipper side effects may include: 
not wanting to leave the house, playing excessive amounts of Wii, baking cookies for no special occasion, sitting (which could lead to laying), eating macaroni and cheese straight from the pot, unintentionally sliding across the hardwood floors, resentment that you are asked to take them off when your husband is hoping to have sexy-time with you, and prying the dog's jaws off the pom-poms.


Rare but serious side effects may include: 
not showering, watching Nora Ephron movies and liking them, playing dolls with my favorite girls, and cuddling so hard you accidentally pinch a kid. 

For as much as the rains are making me lose my mind, this was a pretty great (cozy) weekend.  I'm afraid I enjoyed this laziness too much.  In fact, if you know of any comfort/cozy support groups in the Atlanta area, let me know.  My id won't take off his slippers. 

The Biggest Non-Winner

Day 1 of "Family Night", Fiona's cute little 6 year old idea, courtesy of some WalMart commercial.

Terry: "Let's play Chutes and Ladders."

Dera: "No.  Connect 4."

Neve: "No.  A puzzle."

Fiona: "Yeah, a puzzle contest."

Terry: "Mommy and Neve are on a team.  Me and Fi are on a team."

Neve and I are at an advantage because she had already started a 50 piece Strawberry Shortcake easy-peasy puzzle.  Terry and Fiona dump out all the pieces of a Rand McNally detailed US map puzzle. 

We're ahead, and then... 2 of our puzzle pieces go missing.  Happens every time.  I'm trying to recall if the color and design of the last few pieces I swept up and threw away in the last month match those we need. 

Terry and Fiona are pulling up from behind.  Only Connecticut, Vermont, and Maine to go.

Terry: "Dera, look in the plastic bin on the top shelf of their closet.  I think I threw some stray puzzle pieces up there a while ago."

There are indeed enough stray puzzle pieces to account for the 20 unfinishable puzzles we have in boxes.  However, Strawberry Shortcake pieces are still missing.  I'm pretty sure I swept them up and threw them away.

Vermont and Connecticut are still missing!  I am hoping to find them in the bin of puzzle piece orphans, just so I can sit on them and call it a tie.

Fiona starts freaking out.

Fiona: "Where is Conn!?  Where is CONN!?", (saying "conn" instead of Connecticut.) 

Terry: "Calm down.  It's probably wherever Strawberry's shoe is."

Fiona: "But I want to win!"

Terry: "We're just having fun.  Family night, remember?"

Fiona: in a whisper, "Let's just put some silly putty over the holes, and they'll think we're don- "

Me: "I can hear you."

Fiona: "Well, you're still losers."

Terry: "Don't call your mother a loser!  Watch it or you'll go straight to bed."

Fiona: under her breath, "I am, and we still won."

A few minutes pass, and sure enough, Team Strawberry Shortcake and Team Rand McNally are both honestly missing 2 pieces of their puzzles.  A fair tie.  I'm officially ready to call "Family Night" over, as the bed is calling my name, and then Terry says, "Now let's play Chutes and Ladders."

Fiona: "Yeah!  But just us.  Not those cheats!", all sassy and emphatic.

Terry: "Fiona, what's the deal?"

Fiona is now genuinely pissed at me for no good reason.  She can't even look at me without scowling.  I'm increasingly more amused by this, while Terry is getting more mad.  She is the worst loser in history, and she didn't even lose.

Fiona: calling Terry from the living room, "Dad, c'mon.  Let's play out here."

Terry: "No.  Let's stay where we are."

Fiona: "I can't be in the same room with those losers!", lip quivering.

Terry: "Alright!  That's enough.  You're going to bed."

Me: "Let's all go to bed."

And Terry is still in there playing Chutes and Ladders with 2 children who are naughty-tired.  One of which is crying.  I can't tell which one and I don't know why, but I'm guessing it has something to do with being a loser.

Family Night, brought to you by WalMart casablanca.

There's No Place Like Wherever Daddy Is.

This man.  I like him.

He has the week off from work.

He surprised his family with a beautiful Christmas tree today.  He took his girls out to dinner tonight for a Daddy-date (to let his wife decompress at home alone).  He built us a cozy fire as we decorated our tree.  He served us up some leftover pumpkin pie.  He hand-washed my favorite pair of jeans.  He gave our stinky dog a bath.  And right now, he's asleep in my lap (which is why I'm having a hard time typing...)

Don't go back to work, Terry.

AskDrDera.com

Road trips are an invaluable opportunity for communication in our marriage.  We read books aloud, we talk about those things that we're usually too tired to discuss on the average day, we listen to music from our pre-children days, and we try to enjoy the scenery (even if the scenery happens to be miles of Asian Love Den billboards alongside God Speaks billboards).

This particular Thanksgiving Day road trip to Grandma's house was spent reading some good 'ole Dr. Sears Discipline wisdom.  It just felt like the right time to remind myself of some forgotten principles of parenting.  (Like your children.)

Terry was a great sport about my marvelous "cooperative parenting" idea, despite the fact he was probably hoping for a different kind of read-along.  (He packed "Infinite Jest", which was just tooooo heavy for me right now, and a few art magazines.)  He listened, and he occasionally interrupted me with a "can you read that last line again?"... it felt nice to be thinking about issues that we hadn't thought about since our children were toddlers.  Little did we know then that the real need for intervention and Dr. Sears wisdom would come a few years later (like say at age 4 and 6, when yours truly observes the girls yelling at their dolls, "Do you think I'm kidding?!  Because I'm not!  I'm MOMMY!").

Truthfully, (I may be divulging a bit too many of our skeletons here...) I used to be wary of his teachings.  Just his name conjured images of Cailou and his wet dishrag parents, dropping everything they were doing to humor the whiny whims of the bald little s**t.  I really hate that show.  While I wanted to be a modern, loving, and patient parent, I've found myself time and again remembering my parent's (still very loving and patient, but a bit old school) philosophy of, "Children should be seen and not heard."  Yikes.  Did I just write that?*

Clearly, I love my children.  I treasure all their little garbled words, and I actually love playing child-to-adult translator/psychologist, reading between the lines of what they are saying and figuring out what they really mean.  It's why I get out of bed.  It's what makes me feel like I have purpose.  It's the ultimate gift from God.

But.

There are times in life when you just lose sight of such concepts.  Their little voices can sound like fingernails on chalkboard.  (Cailou.)  Their hyperactivity can make me feel like we live in an inflatable Moonwalk.  Their clumsy hands and constant spills can feel intentional and avoidable.  I begin to set expectations of them as if they are 2 adult roommates.  I lose perspective.  And I sound like a barking dog.

That was where Dr. Sears came in.  Not Dr. Brazelton (although his "Touchpoints" is usually my first choice).  Dr. Seuss couldn't even help me for that matter.  I just needed the reminder that they are just. kids.

If you are unfamiliar with this man or are in need of a refresher like I was, click here.  He will surely make you feel like you've been doing things very wrong.

After this 6 hour drive and the accompanied crash course in Discipline 101, I began to think about a few other missing topics he forgot to include in his 300+ page book.  Perhaps the world needs me to write a book on discipline?!  (Reading is such a rare luxury these days that it's not uncommon for me to have delusions of grandeur after reading 1 chapter of any book.  Dr. Seuss books included.)

How would my book read?:

Chapter 1:  Take a shower, you sweaty ho.
-Wash the pre-day Toms-of-Maine-what-are-you-good-for funk off, and you'll be feeling better in no time.  And even more so, avoid any pants with an elastic ankle and/or waist.

Chapter 2:  Don't eat cookies for breakfast.
-It will make you feel like a cookie for the rest of the day.  Otherwise you will eventually need said elastic waisted pants.  And somehow this effects your ability to better parent.

Chapter 3:  Don't turn the tv on in the morning unless you can be sure it will go off before afternoon.
-You know that deep-in-thought look on their little faces as they stare into the neon tube?  They're not actually thinking.

Chapter 4:  I've heard that exercising makes you feel good.
-(It's been a while.)

Chapter 5:  Don't curse in front of your kids.
-They will call grandma a sunuvabitch more clearly than they've ever uttered anything else in their life.

Chapter 6:  Don't spank your children unless you're not really that angry.
-So when do you spank?  According to this logic, you can spank on birthdays, when they make A's on their report cards, and when they earn a brownie badge.  Better not to spank at all then, in my case at least.

Chapter 7:  Try to enjoy being awake as much as you enjoy being asleep.
-read Chapter 1 again.

Chapter 8:  Don't blame your children for your public flubs.
-When getting coffee out at a rather grownup coffee shop and you accidentally spill half-and-half down the side of the counter, don't yell, "{insert child's name here!}" to save your own face.  It may cause some insecurity issues down the road.

Chapter 9:  Don't call your daughter's private parts a "piggy bank".
-Unless you want an aspiring stripper.

Chapter 10:  Smile, sing, keep lots of Glamour Shot photos of yourself around the house.
-The kids will think you're fancy and pretty.  Then, as they get older and wiser, rotate those photos out with photos of you hugging wax museum celebrities.  Using a sharpie, fake an autograph that makes it sound as if you both partied together at Universal Studios.  And, when the day arrives at long last that they have either figured you out or lose interest in your "wall of mommy's memories", just take them to get a matching lower back tattoo with you.

Bottom Line: Build a relationship of trust, love, and respect for themselves and others.  Most importantly, don't wear pants with an elastic ankle.

Buy my product.

*my parents were the best kind of parents one could have.  I find myself using them (and others I love the most) for a laugh on this blog only because I am but a sad clown with low self esteem.  Who was spanked on birthdays.

Foods That Don't Hurt Part 2

There was once a little girl who desperately wanted to be a vegetarian, but loved bacon too much.  You may take a moment to read about it here.

Welcome back.  We are the place that has yet to invent a drama turbine as a means to supply all of the Atlanta area with this huge supply of alternative (and effing annoying) energy.  When we figure it out, don't worry.  We've got you covered.

My daughter, bless her heart, is a mess of emotions that come from the wildest most obscure places.  (She may or may not have inherited this trait from her mother, grandmother, and great grandmother.  Ahem.  Or so I've heard.)  Enjoy:


I have no idea the details, but this morning, Fiona ran inside from playing in the backyard yelling, "I ate an ant!  I ate an ant!"

But instead of looking concerned or scared, she was happy and proud!  She held out her finger of saliva-coated ant remains, smiling from ear to ear.

Me: "Why so happy?  Are you ok?", as I go poking around the inside of her mouth for any more ants.

Fiona:  "Beeeeecaaaaaause... I'm like the gross guy on tv!"  (Andrew Zimmern)

Me:  "So you are!"

A half hour later, the family convenes at the table for breakfast.

Fiona:  "Raise your hand if you'll eat a slug!"  (crickets chirping as Fiona waves her hand high in the air), "I would totally eat a slug."

Me:  "Awesome.  Sounds like some Saturday night fun right there, Zimmern."

Fiona:  "But I won't... WON'T... eat lamb.  Only bad guys eat lamb."

Me:  "Fi, I love lamb.  It's the meat of the good guy too."

Fiona:  "No it's not."

(gets quiet fast as the energy in the room changes and her head falls onto her fist.)

Me:  "You ok?"

Fiona:  (looks up, eyes are glassy, voice is soft)  "yeah."

Neve:  (volume control problems) "BUT THEIR MAMAS AND DADDIES WILL CRY WHEN THEY SEE THEM..." (she mimes decapitation, which was disturbing on another level.  But thats a different story all together.)

Me:  "Well, some animals are raised just for their meat, without families, and they know nothing else.  It's not like they were getting stories read to them at night or anything." (I high-five myself.)

Fiona:  (real tears at this point), "Mom, if I ever see you going up to a baby lamb or any baby animal to kill it, I will tell you to stop and make you give me the knife."

Me:  "Fiona, I don't kill the animals.  I just eat them." (Jeez.)

Fiona:  "Will you tell me when you make baby animal food please so that I won't eat it."

Me:  "Sure."

Neve:  (still talking too loudly), "DO LIONS EAT ONLY MAMA AND DADDY PEOPLE OR DO THEY EAT BABY PEOPLE TOO?"

Fiona:  (and the Emmy for best Daytime supporting actress goes to...) "Neve, please.  Just stop.  It makes me so. so. sad."

Me:  "Fiona, you don'thave to eat meat anymore.  I'm cool with you becoming a vegetarian if it upsets you too much."  (Did I seriously just say that?  Retract that high-five, D.)

Fiona:  "No.  I'll just make a sign that asks bad people to stop killing baby animals and you can put it on my blog.  Do you think everyone reads my blog?"  (No, but if we can get your good-for-nuthin' meat-eatin' 12 followers to stop killing babies, it'll be a start.)

Me:  "Yes.  So, are you going to stop eating meat?"

Fiona:  (scoffs), "No! The mamas and daddies are still yummy."

Sorry for the poor quality, but our scanner is not working.  In case you can't read it, it says:

FiONA/MaCK(she meant McKay)/White
For Ever.  (No joke.)

PLEAS STOP KILLING (interesting how she knows the correct spelling for that word no problem) BABY LAMS AND SHEEP.

(smiling child holding a bloody knife, and a splayed lamb- BAD. walking lamb in a heart- OKAY.)

Happy Halloween

My lovely friend, Ai (standing on the left):

along with her beautiful family:

invited me and my family to a Halloween block party, hosted by one of our favorite neighborhood boutiques, BlaBla.

It was a blast:

As you can see, Neve is getting down on popcorn balls and Doritos.  What you don't see is the hot dogs, juice boxes, caramel apples, apple cider, gummy worms and tummy aches as well.  I tried taking the picturesque Doritos bag out of her hand for the brief photo-op, but I almost lost a finger.  They both won that day.

And then there was this nonsense:

 

  

which made me spontaneously conceive from the cute overload.

(I'm not really pregnant, Mom.)

And some other fun too:

Nothing screams F-U-N like a 5 year old Elvis.  (And he was the hired entertainment too!  Like some sort of prodigy, he played all of Rubber Soul on piano that day, while his Mom sang along.)

I hope all you goblins have a fun Halloween and get lots and lots of Almond Joys*.

*for me and your mamas.

Oh Autumn

Family and friends spent the most wonderful Fall evening in North Georgia last weekend at a beautiful family-owned pumpkin patch and apple orchard.  We took a trip through the foothills on a hayride at sunset.  The unintentionally comical tour guide/tractor driver imparted some golden nuggets of country wisdom on the lot of us city folk:


"That fallen black walnut tree over there fell 3 years ago durin' Katrina, but see- it held onto it's roots.  It still makes black walnuts 'cause it's roots are so strong.  Moral?  Hold on tight to yer roots, kids.  Even when the storms come."

"We got a real pumpkin patch here, folks. They're all still on their vines and everythin'.  Some are big, some are small, some are purty, and some are rotten.  Just like life and the people in it."

"There was once a seed that fell from it's mama's tree.  It was s'posed to go into the dirt where it'd grow into a big tree, but it fell onto a fence post instead.  At first it was sad 'cause that ain't where a seed's s'posed to be.  But it made up it's mind that it'd keep doin' what a seeds s'posed to do, even on that fence.  So as the rains fell, and as the sun shined, that seed just did what a seed s'posed to do.  And now... (points to a real maple tree that has grown through a fence post)... it's a full grown mama tree itself, and it done split that fence post right in half.  Moral?  When you make yer mind up to do somethin', do it."


It never fails... every outing to rural Georgia becomes a reminder of how out-of-touch I've become with nature.  This man seemed so simple, but he wasn't at all.  He knew the intricacies and detail of his 30+ acres down to each individual tree.  He knew enough to create narratives about these trees.  He loved it so much that he couldn't hide his pride as he pointed these details out to us.  He was inspiring.

Pumpkin bread, scarves, hot coffee, fires, apple cider, color on leaves, red chilly noses at the end of a day of playing outside, scarecrows, jeans and boots, and sewing and knitting and walking the dog and cuddling and pretending like I'm a Menanite and singing songs about corn husk dolls and forcing people to drink hot chocolate... agghh!

I love Autumn so much, I may just hug you.  Or kill you slowly with buttery baked goods.

7 anni e volare

On this day* seven years ago, Terry took my hand in marriage.  I cried (while he laughed) through the course of our vows in the small chapel of the church I attended as a child.  We rode to the Carter Center for our reception in a haze of unbelief.  The day had finally arrived.

By the time we pulled up to the Center, we were escorted again by 2 bossy wedding specialists in 2 different directions.  The dreaded moment for our first dance debut was imminent.  And in true Italian-American fashion, we would meet each other on the dance floor after our bridal party like a Broadway production, and the musician would cue the sacred sounds of this magical first song.

There were 3 big problems, however:

1. We're not Fred and Ginger.  While we had danced before, it was usually separate and ugly.  And we're certainly not the types to rehearse dancing beforehand either.

2. We kinda didn't want the over-the-top Italian-American thing.  Concessions were made (for my grandmother and the many other older Italian family and friends who would be present) for Italian wedding cookies, a non-fondant cake due to the "numbuh of diabetics who'd be theyuh", those wrist pouches that brides are to wear on their thrones when accepting the Italian cash gift, certain menu items that I could have gone without, having it held indoors because "no one wants to remembuh your day with bug bites, Deruh" (and when our hall overlooked the most beautiful gardens in Atlanta!), the flower toss and awful garder thing, and... the first dance.  So already, bad attitude about the whole thing.

3.  Our biggest request (requesting because my mama was shelling out for all of this, by the way) was that we had a real band (good music) there instead of a DJ that would spin Celene Dion, Kool and the Gang, and Richard Marx.  No offense to that music or the weddings that played them, but we just wanted different.  And so, we hired a friend and his band who could be trusted. But, every wedding has it's snafus, and our wedding's snafu was that our friend's band wound up being only our friend, the solo act, that night.  He did pretty well considering he was short 3 guys (and had to rent a PA system an hour before the reception), but he was not ready for that first dagnabbit song.  This ultimately only made the awkward even more awkward.

Let me paint this doozie of a picture for you.  This moment, by the way, is my favorite memory from that entire day:

While the guests (or my Broadway audience) sat waiting for the music to begin, and as Terry and I stood in the most awkward embrace of our life, what was probably only 30 seconds felt like an eternity.  And in swooped the most unsuspecting super hero.

 

My great aunt Diana (on the left), in her 70's, whose body was failing from emphysema, who was small and frail only in appearance but who's intoxicating personality was bigger than anyone else I've ever known... she stood up and belted out:



Aunt Diana saved the day, and it's oneof the last memories I have of her before she passed away.  Terry and I think about it often, and the song has a special place in our hearts.  Viva la guido weddings!

As for the original song, we decided on this:



The song eventually came, and it was good. Our first dance/songs were memorable to say the least.

(Terry is going to kill me, if he finds out I posted these.  He always said that these first 2 photos appear as though I was teaching him how to walk for the first time.  Can you feel the awkward?  Oh, and forgive the quality... nothing like taking a photo of a photo in an unlit house.)

 

(Yup. Still awkward.)

As the night progressed and cheeks became ever more cramped from forced smiles, the champagne cured my ailments. We had the most amazingly beautiful day, thanks to my parents, my extended familia, Terry's mom, friends, and the groom... who has yet to forget our anniversary, sohelpme. We left the reception late into the night under a canopy of sparklers, hopped into our tiny VW unscathed, and drove off into newlywed bliss (drunk and fast asleep on our wedding night.)

Keep liking me, Terry.


*pretend like this is October 5, 2009.

When She Asked, I Said...

"Well, um (clear throat), when two people love each other, their love makes a baby."

This was not enough. "But how does the love make a baby?"

"Daddy and I kissed, and the love in our kiss made a baby."

"Oh. And you had a baby in your tummy after that?"

"Mmm hmmm."

She then instructed me to immediately kiss Daddy when he gets home from work, so that she may have another sibling. Preferably a boy sibling, thankyouverymuch.

That was when I found this in her room, I suppose to act as an inspirational how-to in case the urge arises:

"Good night, Terry." And then BAM- the following morning, reality sets in. "Terry? Terry?"

It all seemed like yesterday that I was pregnant. And as quickly as I made our son (note the male appendage), he had arrived with similar haste. In Fiona's reality, my gestation period is the same as that of a goldfish.

When I asked Fiona to tell me about each character in the drawing, she explained, "The picture of you with the big belly was from before the baby came out." Ok, gotcha. "And then he pops out, (*POP*) and Daddy is so happy he starts dancing." And I see the post-delivery belly sag. The girl is all about some accuracy. "And then you take his picture. And then we tickle him." You say tickle, I say ticill.

We've been here before. And by here I mean the hell-like place that is somewhere between truth (I hate being pregnant, and I'm too vain to get pregnant and gain 80 lbs again) and fable (when does the stork arrive with our bundle of baby boy joy?). And yet, somehow, this 6 year old girl knows just what to say to make me actually consider the happiness of an addition to casablanca.

Panic

There are two posts of epic proportions waiting to be finished before I can publish them. I just can't seem to find that golden shiny chunk of alone time to finish anything these days. Unless it's to wash dishes or do laundry. But then it's neither golden nor shiny.

Here's how 'goes:

1. Fiona and Neve were intensely sick for a few days, which meant we thought they had caught the swine flu. But, after the third day, it left as fast and furiously as it had arrived. We scratched the possibility of swine flu at that point. (Yet another reason to live under a rock: what you don't know about swine flu outbreaks, won't hurt you. Or make you behave like a hysterical donkey.)

2. Neve is currently en route to the ER with Terry. (It's 10:30pm, by the way.) Yesterday, on our way to the Summer Shade Festival, Neve went running down a steep hill, and hit her head HARD on the sidewalk. Aside from the big egg on her forehead, she seemed more upset by the rasberries on her knees. It wasn't until an hour ago that it dawned on me that her weird listless behavior today could have been caused by yesterday's ugly fall. I think she'll be fine, but better to be safe than sorry. I'm waiting for the call as I type this. (And trying my darndest not to react like a hysterical donkey.)

3. We've lost almost half our flock of chickens in the past couple of weeks. Something (I say it's a raccoon) has enjoyed a bucket of Ginger, Frances, Phyllis (noooo!- she was our blue egg layer!!!), Soup, and Dorothy. The craziest part of it all is that they live in a very sturdy coop that seems impenetrable, unless you have large people hands. I don't even think my children could open their coop door without me. Sure enough, this monster's little fingers (it has to be a raccoon, right?) pryed the door open just enough to sneak in and steal poor sleepy Faye's chicken breasts. He left the rest of her in the coop. It was so gross and so sad.

Terry has taken on the role of bait master, filling the live traps with a hot dog or two each night. The chicken assassin is smart, I tell you. He knows enough to pull those meat tubes out through the holes in the side of the trap, rather than taking the obvious route (through the front) which activates the closing trap door. Terry even went so far as to rake the dirt around the trap real smooth, hoping to identify it's tracks this morning. (My chicken McGyver.) The chicken assassin is a ninja! He leaves no tracks!

Maybe it's our neighbor.

4. I got a job! Whoo! This is the first real punch-a-clock job (is that even the right term for clocking in?) I've had in 6 years. I decided to slowly wet my feet in the work world with a low-key assistant teacher position at my kids' school. That's where my heart, my brain, my money would go anyway... only makes sense that I'd just "cannon-ball" into the deep end and work there too. Seeing as how school is starting in a week (after Labor Day), I'm busy getting the classroom set up, busy training (to be human again, after spending the past 6 years farting uncensored in the privacy of my own home), and busy doing a million things other than cleaning my house. I thought the concept was: if you are spending time outside the home, you should return to a house that is as clean as you left it. I swear somebody's been sleeping in my bed.

Maybe it's our neighbor.

5. And lastly, I've been obsessing over the results of my Myers-Briggs personality test. Before I go on about it (that's the subject of one of the epic posts I've yet to finish), let me encourage you to take the test too. I originally took the one on FB, but took it again here to compare results. I scored the same on all 4 tests I took, so it's definite. I'm a "pain-in-the-ass-that's-way-too-excited-about-others-personality-types-type", according to Terry, Myer, and Briggs. Let's compare results later, okay? (Twirling my hair and smacking my bubble gum).

6. Last, last, lastly, i got an iphone (gasp!). I can't believe that Terry bought me, the most irresponsible of phone owners, the iking of phones. Perhaps he knows that this is the only way to get his wife to keep, charge, or answer her phone- make it pretty and expensive. Or just pretty expensive. But, it has also helped me keep up with important matters like swine flu outbreaks, and fashion trends outbreaks like this:
(Mom, I know that you love the Reebok. And I know you love the picnic gingham. Do I hear Christmas 2009?)

Anyway, if interested in other awesomeness and foolishness, check out The Cool Hunter.

So, let's review. Swine flu, donkey hysteria, chicken assassin, flatulence censorship, Myers-Briggs, gingham hightops, and two especially long posts in waiting. Pandemic!


*** UPDATE ON ER VISIT FOR ANY GRANDPARENTS WITH INSOMNIA ***

She's fine. No concussion. No swine flu. She just has a backlash of whatever flu-like sickness she had last week. She'll be fine in no time.

Lost At Sea and A Sinking Ship: Part 2

After a particularly long day, a no-nap-kind-of-day, an Arby's-mah-fah-free-roast-beef-sandwich-day, a did-my-stomach-just-touch-my-boobs?-kind-of-day, a let's-sleep-this-day-gone-kind-of-day, I decided that I would take dinner to the park on foot as a last attempt to rectify this... day.

And so, Terry, the kids, Banjo, and myself walked to the nice new park in our neighborhood. We crossed over the street that is shared with drug dealers, hookers, horny pilots (we live near the airport and often see them walking to their crash pads with an attendant or 2), scared and disoriented hotel guests that have ventured across the street to Arby's (free roast beef sandwich day remember?) in their khaki shorts and blinding white socks and sneakers, and other neighborhood characters deserving their own chapters in the book I've not yet written entitled, "We Still Owe How Much On This House?"

So, over the road and through the cemetery. I'm not kidding. And there's a man named "Okay" buried there too.

Pass the nursing home, strangely (or strategically) placed next to said cemetery.

Pass the baseball field, which I've yet to see used for baseball.

Pass the unidentifiable gray building that has people dangling out of it's windows. (I have no idea why.) When the charm is just not there, I like to cloud gaze. Dera, just keep your eyes above the horizon!

And then, boom, there you are. It's the nicest, most out-of-place (but I'm not complaining) park grounds you've ever seen. Paths, lush sodded greenspace, tennis courts, ergonomically propelled high-design play things, picnic tables under cabanas, bathrooms (!), and a huge chimney thing that's really old and cool. It's the park oasis among rows and rows of boarded-window homes. Again, I have no insight... we don't ask why, we just ignorantly and blissfully propel ourselves in an ergonomic fashion. (We should attend a few more Neighborhood Association meetings, huh?)

To add another layer of lovely, conversation en route went like so:

(Sirens blaring, as fire trucks and police cars whip through the intersection between the aforementioned street and the entrance to the cemetery.)

Neve: "That engine has a fire in it, right?"

Me: "What's that?"

Neve: "That engine. It had a fire in it. Right?"

Me: "No. That fire engine is going to put a fire out in a house or a car."

Neve: "Right. Because of the fire in it's engine."

Me: (whispering to Terry) "What is she saying?"

Terry: (goes on to explain fires, engines, and fire engines. I walk ahead, leaving him to it.)

Fiona: "Mom?"

Me: "Yes?"

Fiona: "What is there, other than fire?"

Me: "Hmmm?"

Fiona: "Other than fire, what else is there?"

Me: "Everything other than fire is something other than fire. This sign, the grass, the air, water that puts out fire, the houses that are not on fire, dogs, that man over there and dinner. All things OTHER than fire. Is that what you were asking?"

Fiona: "Yes. (pause- one one thousand, two one thousand, three one thousand, four...) But then there's fire gas."

Me: "Terry? Wrap things up with Engine Fire. I need your help with Fire Gas now."

Sometimes I think they're just screwing with me. I mean, if you heard their tone or saw their faces as they spoke to me you'd think they were genuinely interested in getting to the bottom of these hard-hitting questions. But, I think they conspire after hours. I think they try to scheme the most bizarre conversations or non-sequitur opportunities for confusion for the following day. Just because they like to watch mommy sweat.

Between our unpleasant surroundings, our go-nowhere conversations, and our Arby's and Horsey sauce glow, I was ready to lay down next to Okay and cloud gaze. Give me a good night sleep, something fresh to eat in the morning, and a sunny day, and watch me answer those hard-hitting questions, rapid-fire. Good night, Okay and friends.

No Need To Leave

The sugar snap peas and Amish peas are nearing the end of their life. Fiona and Neve are in denial though, as they flip leaves and lift vines, hoping to find the last of the hidden sweet treasures.

Clever Fiona discovered that there was a trove in the places their short arms couldn't reach. The coop doubled this weekend as a snap pea ladder.

Somehow Neve did the least amount of work (picking snap peas, that is), but managed to eat as much or more than her sister.

And now, time for show-and-tell. I've been wanting to show you the garden at it's peak, but everyday things get larger and new blossoms appear. Apparently, it's still "peaking".

{zucchini blossoms}

{baby straight-neck squash}

{look at the size of these zucchini leaves!}

{parsley}

{can anyone identify these young leaves? this is why martha stewart makes such a big deal about labeling and organization in her gardening how-to's.}

{i think we may just get a successful beet harvest this season. we saw beet shoulders yesterday!}

{can anyone guess what made up this unusual bouquet, compliments of the youngest white girls? take a guess! p.s. the lovely white vase was made by my dad.}

{as the sun began to set, the girls saw their first firefly of the year! this is where fiona's eyes were.}

{fiona playing fetch with her sister. she's nicer to the dog than she is with neve.}

{what you don't see: my beer cozy, terry in the hammock next to me, and banjo in his lap. it was seiously a nice weekend.}

{getting sleepy}

We ended our weekend with sparklers and very itchy limbs. (Darn mosquitos, always trying to ruin the fun.) Early summer days are wonderful, but early summer evenings are the best.

Hope you all had an equally nice weekend. xoxo/D

Because Alan Thicke Was Tonight's Gateway Drug

Terry is playing a Super Mario Brothers game on Wii while I'm on the computer reading your blog. The repetitive game music has begun to brand itself onto the left lobe of my brain, as I've been listening to him play for almost 45 minutes.

I say, "Doesn't this sound like the theme song to Perfect Strangers?"


And he's all, "Standing tall, on the wings of our dreams... Rise and fall...", followed up with his worst Balkie imitation, "oh, don't be ridiculous."

I'm impressed.

So, that's when I say (thinking I'm the only person on the planet who's made observation about ugly 80's pop culture), "Isn't it funny how every theme song from the sitcoms of our childhood sound like they were written by the same person?"

And he, "Uh, Alan Thicke?"
And me, "I knew he wrote the opening to Growing Pains, but all of those sitcoms?"

To which he replies, "I think so. I think he was the dude in the day. Family Ties, Diff'rent Strokes (wrote and sang actually), Wheel of Fortune. I dunno, IMDB him." (Another website that has ranked verb status in our home.)

So I do... while simultaneously singing my favorite theme song of all time:

Me and my dad used to sing the melody and harmony parts to this song when it would come on our fuzzy, cable-deprived set at 8:30 in 1988. So sad, so nerdy, and so wonderful a memory.

Terry pokes his head out of the laundry room just as I hit the high "Ooooh ooh, what will we do, baby... without loooove... sha-la-la-la." And it's at that point that I realize that had he heard me do that 7 years ago he may not have married me.

To my disappointment, Family Ties was actually not in Thicke's repitoire. (Trust that if you were here with me tonight, I'd be saying Alan Thicke over and over again, as it has to be one of my favorite names in history.) But, I still say the man should be knighted for his contribution. He hosted Wayne Gretzky's wedding, he's hosted pageants, he used to DJ in college, he was ranked #37 in TV Guide's List of the "50 Greatest Fictional Dads", and he wrote this classic:
Just IMDB him. Or better yet, just YouTube (another website verb) your favorite theme songs from your favorite childhood tv shows. It will make your night.

Punky Brewster
Silver Spoons
Mr.Belvedere
Webster
(are you ready for this?) Small Wonder
Out of This World (holy cow!)
Benson
My Two Dads
Just the Ten of Us
Head of the Class
227 (snap)
The Facts of Life

and when my mother wasn't watching:

I wanted to be Shera.

(None of the above had anything to do with the Thickster, by the way.)

I must say, my fingers were crossed that his birthday would happen to be today, in the hopes that this post would be a more meaningful tribute. But it's not. Hey, you know you're a great guy when you get a blog tribute outside of your birthday and death day.

I Heart Hallmark Holidays

Mother's Day. Big 'ole mixed feelings about this day. On the one hand, yes, it's a Hallmark holiday. On the other hand, who cares if it's a commercially-inspired holiday or not? Mothers can use all the help they can get. So if Hallmark or American Greetings wants to have my back one day a year, then by all means, pressure husbands around the world to celebrate mothers for their calendar-illiterate children. I won't protest that.

But, being that Terry and I also have mothers, we must pay homage to their matriarchy this day as well. And where did our children inherit their calendar-illiteracy? From their parents, of course. So, in order for me to want breakfast in bed, flowers, and a beautiful card on M.D., I better be prepared to give a little to my mama as well. And if I happen to drop the Mother's Day ball (for the 28th year in a row), I like to think it's only because it's just a Hallmark holiday. (By the way, your birthday's week-proximity to Mother's Day does make things a bit more difficult, Mom. Jeez.)

So, with that said, if my mother is absent from all of my Mother's Day photos, don't think I'm the worst daughter on the planet. Confession: I did not see her on Sunday. Instead, imagine family gathered around a birthday cake in honor of her birthday (and her motha' flippin' hood too) only days before. Not to mention that my mother is the leader in the anti-commercial holiday revolution. You've not heard of that? I just made it up.

As for the mama at Casablanca, she did get just what she wanted on Sunday. I had breakfast served to me. Coffee. This awesome card. Fiona deciding that she likes her name spelled with a "y", rather than an "i". Happy Mother's Day!

I had the opportunity to go grocery shopping alone. And this truly a luxury when there aren't children [wanting to be into and then out of carts] in tow.
And then the simple pleasure of emptying out packaged goods into my own jars and canisters, post-grocery shopping. I love doing looking at everything through glass.

And some of us celebrated Mother's Day with a nap. That'ah girl.

Meanwhile, Terry was thoughtful enough to tackle the nasty job of clearing out the aggressive wisteria that has taken over the chicken run in the back yard. There's not nearly enough pretty purple blooms to make up for it's choking ability.


Fiona and I played together. Playing "Pony on Pillow Mountain" is the perfect way to celebrate Mother's Day in my opinion.

And we ended our day with dinner al fresco. Life can't get much better than this. Being a mom is as good as it gets.