tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-56999376535277815622024-03-13T10:49:21.282-07:00When Mac and Cheese AttacksMarthahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00837173905052530846noreply@blogger.comBlogger243125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5699937653527781562.post-1056480828132569252018-05-31T16:38:00.000-07:002018-05-31T16:38:17.202-07:00As You Like It: A Critic's Review. An Impartial One. Like A Review Siskel and Ebert Would Have Written If They'd Had A ChildKatie's class performed <i>As You Like It</i> last night. Yes, the play by THE William Shakespeare. With the real words and everything! Now, I don't know about you, but when I was in 5th grade I was steadily reading my way through the complete collection of <i>Sweet Valley High</i> and the only stage presence I had was as Minister #2 in <i>The Emperor's New Clothes</i>. I certainly wasn't lying in wait each evening for when my mom would wander upstairs and start yelling things like, "Dirty socks on the floor! Here! Right! Here! Seriously! Why can't you- And DID YOU PEOPLE EVEN HANG UP YOUR WET TOWELS? NooOOooo! Goodness gracious chiiiiiildren, go, go, GO! DO THE THINGS I ASKED YOU TO DO LIKE TWELVE TIMES ALREADY!!!" just so I could look her dead in the eye (the eye, peeps) and say, "Your gentleness shall force more than your force move us to gentleness." *tsk* Cheeky child, I tell you.<br />
<br />
But, my offspring's Shakespearean insubordination aside, I was quite impressed with the quality of the performance last night. It was presented "in the round", with minimum props. However, the sparsity of the props, I thought, helped us to focus more on the actors and the flow of Shakespeare's iambic pentameter rather than boom boxes, Cabbage Patch dolls and Rubik's Cubes.<br />
<br />
Because.<br />
<br />
Duuuudes!<br />
<br />
The play was themed 80s! No joke. It was tubular. I mean, it was like the story arc of all 5 seasons of <i>Saved by the Bell </i>plus the made for TV movie <i>Saved by the Bell: Wedding in Las Vegas</i>. For cereal. Now, before you literary zeeks are all, "What's your damage, Martha? I mean, like, gag me with a spoon, they are totally not the same, let's bounce." Take a chill pill. I think it works.<br />
<br />
First, let's introduce the characters of <i>As You Like It</i> and their Bayside High doppelgangers:<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Rosalind</b> </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
beautiful, a leader, quick witted, the intellectual heroine of our story </div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK1XcrlMJfDsV-W_mrJh3DB7jHDEYuVotKgHt7Qs5eDmImQyaw7YyXSpDoepQlv44KnWqxGBpQPHuXjM-QWXWjEAEA7KCa-bVWuMAm_ZSes6H6ecgTl_vCD0CgryR3E-eONdBQCosDdPGB/s1600/rosalind.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="689" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK1XcrlMJfDsV-W_mrJh3DB7jHDEYuVotKgHt7Qs5eDmImQyaw7YyXSpDoepQlv44KnWqxGBpQPHuXjM-QWXWjEAEA7KCa-bVWuMAm_ZSes6H6ecgTl_vCD0CgryR3E-eONdBQCosDdPGB/s320/rosalind.JPG" width="215" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">aka Jesse Spano</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Celia</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
sweet, devoted, the moral heroine of our story</div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUbXmuLnk3xNmfvAWAUM0WWUxYslE2KNWrFINw7iG5eCKyz7O0KQ2dZh4DDcZMI_pb8310iXbKY-WHuJ9eeL6N9Rl5iKKhUfhpG6vue0A66NWXV10yDGUH9QfT8NvYTd_ZjA3_Qq4sd91P/s1600/celia.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="436" data-original-width="288" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUbXmuLnk3xNmfvAWAUM0WWUxYslE2KNWrFINw7iG5eCKyz7O0KQ2dZh4DDcZMI_pb8310iXbKY-WHuJ9eeL6N9Rl5iKKhUfhpG6vue0A66NWXV10yDGUH9QfT8NvYTd_ZjA3_Qq4sd91P/s320/celia.jpg" width="211" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">aka Kelly Kapowski</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Duke Senior</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
a kind fair-minded ruler who is easily tricked out of his power</div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTJIbGRKVR6L2hNQrfioeo9f8mkKu2tSScYU65r-8ToQx5Xdm7QyOSEBXHRvzS1gnZh7AdyJPByZsL81v2wGRM1Z75MPmf3rzarJP9KM8aVUsnRlR_esEsN6l8j_ch-S39QeqZ87HObxBS/s1600/DukeSenior.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="411" data-original-width="580" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTJIbGRKVR6L2hNQrfioeo9f8mkKu2tSScYU65r-8ToQx5Xdm7QyOSEBXHRvzS1gnZh7AdyJPByZsL81v2wGRM1Z75MPmf3rzarJP9KM8aVUsnRlR_esEsN6l8j_ch-S39QeqZ87HObxBS/s320/DukeSenior.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">aka Mr. Belding</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Duke Frederick</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
spiteful and petty, would steal power at any chance he gets, and he does</div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO2sL4LfpcuawEBj1shuSlKNPkY6Eix5bY8wBgnB1jSqJMmm1vyyFh3GeJmQYV_qZCBhdgFaAF3myRthlvrC3wGoRZIfx66TC7FHjjQdz5VARSBDrxPpebJWaqlTmL2AjVcdVbcRi3KS2T/s1600/DukeFrederick.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="720" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO2sL4LfpcuawEBj1shuSlKNPkY6Eix5bY8wBgnB1jSqJMmm1vyyFh3GeJmQYV_qZCBhdgFaAF3myRthlvrC3wGoRZIfx66TC7FHjjQdz5VARSBDrxPpebJWaqlTmL2AjVcdVbcRi3KS2T/s320/DukeFrederick.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">aka Mr. Tuttle</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Orlando</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
strong, handsome, but also brave and chivalrous</div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKX3NtNhZj5EYsfaY8lZR5wC5AKkIFK9RNb-blE5cbPaoO_PqnoIVV6UI1gX9scOk0w7zX93p5kP3kn72J8ZOc6qh_04ZS_LbubBP8TNXY5PG1dsX4B1MbpVErIB9vojMHHQNuySwbL20P/s1600/orlando.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1400" data-original-width="1600" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKX3NtNhZj5EYsfaY8lZR5wC5AKkIFK9RNb-blE5cbPaoO_PqnoIVV6UI1gX9scOk0w7zX93p5kP3kn72J8ZOc6qh_04ZS_LbubBP8TNXY5PG1dsX4B1MbpVErIB9vojMHHQNuySwbL20P/s320/orlando.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">aka AC Slater</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Touchstone</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
the jester, witty but is always underestimated by his friends</div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZqFj2nOsZe9kvEY8n3_pPUzceryMR7N2QoQDhRFd2exwEAYD3YhqMwAkcs7PfR9A9pQ91UsSZLpVcWoOJEa8r-z_J4IPJDf9RZJBmlOJCpDntU3BHf4Vn5TxKC9fbb385snZvdYjcr4x0/s1600/touchstone.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1090" data-original-width="1090" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZqFj2nOsZe9kvEY8n3_pPUzceryMR7N2QoQDhRFd2exwEAYD3YhqMwAkcs7PfR9A9pQ91UsSZLpVcWoOJEa8r-z_J4IPJDf9RZJBmlOJCpDntU3BHf4Vn5TxKC9fbb385snZvdYjcr4x0/s320/touchstone.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">aka Samuel "Screech" Powers</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Oliver</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
rich, petty, jealous, let's face it, kind of a jerk, who somehow gets everyone to like him in the end</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4-PFhyphenhyphenBzerH08UcBnuJ21aPUfGyr3LvEG0iC722_FOzqs_Otr6weDt-1hX75_r7d0ju9JJ0w9UvUUPdMe3iSwUsEIZDkKeibd_shZl2LICluPJlYEyuokXWPzhCqsbPo8axsnIMMlh1Le/s1600/oliver.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="375" data-original-width="500" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4-PFhyphenhyphenBzerH08UcBnuJ21aPUfGyr3LvEG0iC722_FOzqs_Otr6weDt-1hX75_r7d0ju9JJ0w9UvUUPdMe3iSwUsEIZDkKeibd_shZl2LICluPJlYEyuokXWPzhCqsbPo8axsnIMMlh1Le/s320/oliver.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">aka Zack Morris</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Homefry, I kid you not, these characters totally fit right into the plot of <i>As You Like It</i> too. It's legit, man.<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>The Plot</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>of</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><i>As You Like It</i></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>aka</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><i>Saved by the Bell</i></b></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<b><br /></b></div>
So, you have this kingdom (Bayside High) where Duke Senior/Mr. Belding, the kind, fair-minded ruler has been banished by the spiteful and petty Duke Frederick/Mr. Tuttle to the Forest of Arden (aka The Max). Also, there's this guy, named Oliver/Zack Morris who comes up with this crazy get rich scheme that will only work if his brother Orlando/A.C. Slater <i>wrestles</i> Hulk Holgan or The Macho Man or someone. Spoiler Alert: The scheme doesn't work. But, after witnessing Orlando/Slater totally beat down this other muscle-y guy, Rosalind/Jesse Spano is all, "Oooo, Orlando/Slater is <i>choice</i>. He's more than a meat head jock. He's brave, chivalrous, and smart too." and falls in love with him. But, then Duke Frederick/Mr. Tuttle banishes Rosalind/Jesse and her cousin Celia/Kelly Kapaowski to the Forest of Arden/the Max as well!<br />
<br />
And that's when things start to get all mental. Because, like, everyone is eventually hangin' at the forest/the Max doing all sort of mondo weird stuff like pinning notes on trees and dancing to <i>Endless Love</i> by Diana Ross and Lionel Richie. (I know, gag me with a spoon.) I mean, you have Rosalind/Jesse, disguised as a boy, roaming the forest with sweet, devoted, good natured Celia/Kelly and their goofy, and always underestimated sidekick, Touchstone/Screech Powers. There's Orlando/Slater wandering the forest trying to avoid the fall out from Oliver/Zack's evil get rich scheme, and there are a bunch of other people in the forest with their own side stories-who we'll just call Maxwell Nerdstrom, Violet Ann Bickerstaff, Louise and Ox.<br />
<br />
In the end, after much high jinx, Duke Senior/Mr. Belding is re-instated as Principal. Rosalind/Jesse and Orlando/Slater are going steady. Touchstone/Screech doesn't end up with anyone, but, let's be honest, he never was going to. And, of course, Oliver/Zack shows up at the end and is all, "Psych! I'm a good guy now! No more of those crazy mental get rich schemes for me anymore. I'm totally gnarly now guys. Can we be friends?" And, do you know what everyone says? They say, "Dude! You are so forgiven. We all think you're the bombdigity now!" And then, Oliver/Zack and Celia/Kelly get married. Because, of course Zack gets the girl in the end.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipzl2p6z-q64Gbx9q9VJqTmqDtJPJdUSb1MwCG7qV6pGczIrSLY8UXWDIRqHKO0-CstJWmpyhdqhAkK8I1_c2IiibLfzP_zsv8MJqQZvlSVVaDsFrzxZnl6p54CwyA86RhkfQ1wCOjpR_O/s1600/OliverandCelia.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="239" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipzl2p6z-q64Gbx9q9VJqTmqDtJPJdUSb1MwCG7qV6pGczIrSLY8UXWDIRqHKO0-CstJWmpyhdqhAkK8I1_c2IiibLfzP_zsv8MJqQZvlSVVaDsFrzxZnl6p54CwyA86RhkfQ1wCOjpR_O/s320/OliverandCelia.jpg" width="152" /></a></div>
<br />
It was, by far, the best rendition of a Shakespeare play I have, literally, ever seen in my life. For cereal.<br />
<br />
But, there is a downside to all this mega bulk-o-rama-ness. A short run. Two shows, and it's gone. No more to be seen, appreciated, danced along to (note play list below). And, perhaps one could argue that it's exclusivity lent to it's awesomeness, but, I would disagree. Those kids earned each and every one of their five star review.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTUEgSOMjO5RxvTSSVkibk0KxDElEojFp7pZ_nn6FEJO-xrlsKUNwdFbNLDs-F-kF5pnP-aOURP_SnhCnJC_HVYjKgYlKQZqsDQIM0M7dNEfQbSsKkVK0kOghN-Rmmc8cv93jorZP6FCTW/s1600/IMG_1311.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTUEgSOMjO5RxvTSSVkibk0KxDElEojFp7pZ_nn6FEJO-xrlsKUNwdFbNLDs-F-kF5pnP-aOURP_SnhCnJC_HVYjKgYlKQZqsDQIM0M7dNEfQbSsKkVK0kOghN-Rmmc8cv93jorZP6FCTW/s320/IMG_1311.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Especially this kid.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<br />
But, for you, dear reader, who sadly missed out on Katie's 5th grade class's first and last five star worthy performance, I leave you with their soundtrack. So, pull your <i>Complete Works of Shakespeare </i>off your shelf, and pump up the jam. It's almost like being there.<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="https://youtu.be/pIgZ7gMze7A" target="_blank">Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go by WHAM</a><br />
<br />
<a href="https://youtu.be/PIb6AZdTr-A" target="_blank">Girls Just Wanna Have Fun by Cyndi Lauper </a><br />
<br />
<a href="https://youtu.be/NDNlYho3A2Y" target="_blank">Endless Love by Diana Ross and Lionel Richie</a><br />
<br />
<a href="https://youtu.be/CdqoNKCCt7A" target="_blank">Don't You Forget About Me by Simple Minds</a><br />
<br />
<a href="https://youtu.be/xMaE6toi4mk" target="_blank">Should I Stay or Should I Go? by The Clash</a><br />
<br />
<a href="https://youtu.be/btPJPFnesV4" target="_blank">Eye of the Tiger by Survivor</a><br />
<a href="https://youtu.be/4B_UYYPb-Gk" target="_blank"><br /></a>
<a href="https://youtu.be/4B_UYYPb-Gk" target="_blank">Walk This Way by RUN DMC</a><br />
<br />
<a href="https://youtu.be/j_QLzthSkfM" target="_blank">Whip It by DEVO</a><br />
<br />
<a href="https://youtu.be/LPn0KFlbqX8" target="_blank">True Colors by Cyndi Lauper</a><br />
<a href="https://youtu.be/SwYN7mTi6HM" target="_blank"><br /></a>
<a href="https://youtu.be/SwYN7mTi6HM" target="_blank">JUMP by Van Halen</a><br />
<br />
<br />Marthahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00837173905052530846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5699937653527781562.post-74139988385126441302018-05-17T13:26:00.001-07:002018-05-18T13:48:40.738-07:00This Is What Happens When You Write Bad Poetry And Print Your Home Address On The Title Page Of Your Self Published Book<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>This post has been rated PG-13 for intense sequences of violence, peril and scary images.</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
Sometimes things get too much. There is too much to do, too much to organize, too much of things not working how I envisioned them to work in my head. And, let's face it. That get's frustrating. And, while running can help cool the ball of aggravation simmering in my belly, sometimes, I need more. Because I've <a href="https://youtu.be/eWu7QAN6g4Y" target="_blank">turned into Fluttershy and have made Pinky Pie and Rarity cry</a>. Figuratively speaking. Unless you think I've nicknamed my kids Pinky Pie and Rarity, which, then, I bow to your mad Jigsaw Jones skillz. And, apparently, I'm not as clever as I thought I was.<br />
<br />
So, the days when I find myself sprinting through the house from the computer (and it's evil piles of email) to the coffee pot while all the caffeine I've already drunk courses through my veins, taking 2 or 3 laps around the neurons in my brain and exploding out the sweat glands in my armpits like a <a href="https://youtu.be/njMWmA0dGyA" target="_blank">green Mitsubishi Eclipse </a>with too much NOS from the first Fast and Furious movie, I like to disengage from the world.<br />
<br />
And hunt down people on the Internets.<br />
<br />
With nefarious purposes in my mind.<br />
<br />
Like a modern day Agatha Christie.<br />
<br />
But with less follow through on the actual writing a murder mystery part.<br />
<br />
My newest mark?<br />
<br />
Benjamin F. Brown.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiVQbDnWAWWa3CsS8uB1zmoZKcfGgenXimIYPOqwNIE6o5tSFIvtdUJFxZO5U-kRFKagpS-1ohTNnSoUtOfzrikxEiJlT19YWvI3RoyUc0c5XDx4os_b2K2BYbmiNQAKaSchIZkiugJxG4/s1600/IMG_1213.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiVQbDnWAWWa3CsS8uB1zmoZKcfGgenXimIYPOqwNIE6o5tSFIvtdUJFxZO5U-kRFKagpS-1ohTNnSoUtOfzrikxEiJlT19YWvI3RoyUc0c5XDx4os_b2K2BYbmiNQAKaSchIZkiugJxG4/s320/IMG_1213.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yeah. This guy.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
See, he's a poet. And each night, after a chapter from one of the books from the Anne of Green Gables series, I read a poem to my girls. I've gone through all our Shel Silverstein books, Edward Lear, TS Elliot, Robert Frost, Emily Dickinson.... But, we bogged down with Walt Whitman. So, I pulled this slender tome off my shelves:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwp5IxoYWl9M-TRSoe1f8vAfvNuVslKKA6yelY-SJKsEMApwVPtIPA4HOAW1ZztqVAShqEicN-DIWzWgSMrukgspHQ70Jsh5eMVaz1xF2l6woB5Oh1RtYCBecYI0qhkiZFRP4KqV-UDvBr/s1600/IMG_1214.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwp5IxoYWl9M-TRSoe1f8vAfvNuVslKKA6yelY-SJKsEMApwVPtIPA4HOAW1ZztqVAShqEicN-DIWzWgSMrukgspHQ70Jsh5eMVaz1xF2l6woB5Oh1RtYCBecYI0qhkiZFRP4KqV-UDvBr/s320/IMG_1214.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
I knew I had purchased it from a used bookstore solely on the reason that it has an inscription on the inside flap that says, "To Bea J. Belknap from Jesse G. Pambrum, Christmas 1917". There's a romance there people, that I wanted to fantasize about. Did Bea and Jesse get married? Did Jesse go off to fight in WWI and die suffocating from mustard gas in the trenches like so many others? Did Bea and Jesse both succumb to influenza on the same day, hundreds of miles apart? Did they hold hands, and troth their love to one another under a canopy of stars on a cold still winter night?<br />
<br />
So, I though, how bad could the poetry be? I mean, sure, I've never heard of Benjamin F. Brown, but, if he spoke to Jesse Pambrum's poetic soul, perhaps he would speak to Ellie and Katie's as well.<br />
<br />
So I read them the poems.<br />
<br />
Including this one:<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<u>Mary's Lamb Croquette</u></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Listen while I tell the story,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Tell the sad and mournful story</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Of the auto swiftly speeding, </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Every obstacle unheeding,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Chauffeur, wild in his endeavor,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Records of high speed to sever, </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Gave his horn an endless tooting,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
By all other autos shooting,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Did not see some sheep come flocking,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And the outcome it was shocking. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Mary from a distance spying,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Saw her lamb go upward flying,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Torn, dis-</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
dismembered, badly....</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
mangled....</div>
<br />
(<b>Note: </b>Look people, here, I paused, looked at the faces of my beautiful innocent children, and, like the idiot I am, read on.)<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
Soon from the trolley wire it...</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
it dangled,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Bleating with a bleat...</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
incessant</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Till in </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>death </i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
it-</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
(<b>Note, again: </b>Here is where my children broke into tears. <i>Tears, </i>flowing from their shining eyes, gulps of grief emanating from their little chests, as they, no lie, curled themselves into a fetal position. That's when I stopped reading. Because I'm a compassionate mother.)<br />
<br />
Now, there is more to this poem, that my children did not hear. You, dear reader, are not a child. You have seen things. You have seen life at it's best, and, let's be real here, if you laughed at even 50% of <a href="https://youtu.be/dLRMA_lWsDY" target="_blank">Ali Wong's Netflix special, "Hard Knock Wife"</a> you've seen. Some. Things. Things that shouldn't be shared with your children until they are much older*. But, for you, my audience who are able to buy tickets to R rated movies without permission from their parent, I will finish Benjamin F. Brown's poem. And then we will wreak our vengeance on him together!<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
Mary from a distance spying, </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Saw her lamb go upward flying,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Torn, dismembered, badly mangled,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Soon from trolley wire it dangled,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Bleating with a bleat incessant</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Till in death it was quiescent.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Mary's heart was filled with sorrow,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Nevermore, today, tomorrow</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Would it follow her to school,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Would it break the teacher's rule.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
On this question Mary pondered,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
In her inmost soul she pondered,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Should she give up auto riding?</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
This the answer then deciding, </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Nevermore should auto take her,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Chalmers, Ford or Studebaker,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Or in any kind whatever</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Would she ride again, no, never;</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
For an auto killed her pet,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Made of it a lamb croquette.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
OK, you see why we must vengeance all up on Benjamin's...rear...butt....(insert your own PG-13 word here). This can't stand. Who combines words like tooting and Studebaker with dismembered nursery rhyme lambs-AND MAKES MY CHILDREN CRY! No one who gets away with it, that's who!<br />
<br />
Guys? I found Benjamin's house:<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWZ_Q49WwWM4wgOKfWS2hWAYVXcaym6eVhg-A3B_2wG4t2FmuWjk4qL08T0V1xg_5wB8Sqfgcf1CYuHGCFSSkTDTP0JkF7k67HChVWh8juQ37WmBKhfXHmo6j-fS0daoXYTt3ObdcCu54u/s1600/Screenshot+2018-05-17+at+11.40.16+AM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1063" data-original-width="1600" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWZ_Q49WwWM4wgOKfWS2hWAYVXcaym6eVhg-A3B_2wG4t2FmuWjk4qL08T0V1xg_5wB8Sqfgcf1CYuHGCFSSkTDTP0JkF7k67HChVWh8juQ37WmBKhfXHmo6j-fS0daoXYTt3ObdcCu54u/s320/Screenshot+2018-05-17+at+11.40.16+AM.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">9 Kepler St. Providence, RI 02908</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I'll meet you there with pitchforks and PG-13 stickers at dusk.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>Note To Litigators, the FBI, CIA, NSA, TSA and All Other Law Enforcement Personnel:</b><br />
I'm aware that Benjamin F. Brown is dead. I'm also aware that attacking people with pitchforks and papering their houses where they lived over 100 years ago with motion picture film rating stickers is <i>completely</i> out of line and I have no intention of doing so. Ever.<br />
<br />
Well....<br />
<br />
Unless....<br />
<br />
Benjamin F. Brown comes back as a zombie.<br />
<br />
Then all bets are off.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
*<i>Ali Wong Parental Warning: </i>Or, if you're me, you may never share. Because Ali drops a lot of inappropriate words in her TV-MA special that my prudish soul wouldn't allow me to hear until I was, like, 40 years old. True story.Marthahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00837173905052530846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5699937653527781562.post-16591713894531675712018-04-27T17:45:00.005-07:002018-04-28T10:11:58.235-07:00Back in 2014 Wil Wheaton Told The Internet To Be Real*. This Is As Real As I Can Stand. Let's Face It, Wil, We Are All Caricatures Here. I've been coming to the coffee shop every Friday after volunteering in Ellie's classroom for a couple months now. I thought if I gave myself a treat: a coffee, a cookie, that I'd stop dreading the hours I spend closed up in a classroom with 7 and 8 year olds. Lord help me, hours I freely volunteered, without any coercion from the school, the teacher, Ellie's baby blue eyes, or the moral judgement of general society. Nope. This. This is something I brought on myself. And every Friday, I. Am. Spent. Spent from working with a classroom full of (and do read this in your best <a href="https://youtu.be/YGBiRpU7jOw" target="_blank">Snow White voice</a>) delightful children with eyes full of promise and innocence. But, the bribery? It's not working. And I sit here, trying to sigh the bleariness out of my brain.<br />
<br />
I end up spending that hour and a half before I have to race off and pick up the girls from school, eating my cookie, drinking my coffee, and staring at my computer screen. I start sentences, I abandon them. I stalk poets from the early 19th century on the internet. (Yeah. I know where you live now, Benjamin F. Brown.) I sigh. Repeatedly. I read computer screens over the shoulders of other coffee patrons. (Just kidding. That's creepy. Totally don't do that.) I listen to the baristas talk about their plans for the weekend. (<a href="https://youtu.be/878_AiEkU4s" target="_blank">Wild Child</a> playing at the Crocodile tonight. Be there or be square.) But, being productive, is not a thing. (And yes, I'm changing the definition of productive from "having the quality of power of producing especially in abundance" to "writing a quality post about Bavarian Folk Dancing and Ventriloquist Wine Tasting Schools"-ah, <a href="https://whenmacandcheeseattacks.blogspot.com/2012/08/socializing-but-with-better-accessories.html" target="_blank">the heady days of 2012</a>...)<br />
<br />
But, today, I'm turning over a new leaf. Well, not a new new leaf. It's more of an old leaf. A leaf circa 1996. Which, is really more of a vintage leaf than an old one, if we want to banter semantics (and write confusing sentences). Although, in my dresser are still some clothes from 1996, so, maybe it's not a vintage leaf, but, more of a grossly out of style leaf-like mom jeans. Oh! Or fanny packs. Remember fanny packs? Hahaha! What were we thinking? (Dudes. I just did a quick google check on fanny packs. Did you know!?! They're, like, a thing again! <a href="https://www.forever21.com/eu/shop/Catalog/Product/F21/ACC_Handbags/1000139583" target="_blank">And they come in faux fur</a>. Like bunny tails.) But sometimes, like XL purple sweat pants from 1996, grossly out of style leaves are exactly what we need.<br />
<br />
Back in 1996 I was in college, carrying 20 credits. And, you know what I got really good at? Putting on my headphones, cranking the Michael W. Smith (don't judge), twisting my hair up with a pencil, and typing. Didn't matter what exactly-a paper for my Music in America class, a lab report for Environmental Science, mapping prehistoric sites for Archaeology in the Southwest, a lesson plan for Principles of Mathematics, a case study (with as many educational buzz words as I could fit and still have it make sense) for Educational Psychology.... Anything that needed to be written, created, listed, formed, could be completed in no more than an hour and a half. As long as I was facing a wall, wearing comfy sweats, hair twisted into a bun and had a pile of off-brand Cheerios beside me, all would be completed. All would be written. All could be faked. No matter how drained I felt.<br />
<br />
So, here I sit, at the coffee shop. Hair held back by a yellow pencil, Wild Child blasting on my headphones (thank you for making me hip and happening, baristas), staring at a blank wall. No distractions. No daydreaming about pursuing my own personal vigilante vendetta vengeance against Benjamin F. Brown, a' la Antonio Banderas style. Just me, and the keyboard. Typing. Like it's 1996 and I have to take a music dictation test over in the music building in 25 minutes.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://whenmacandcheeseattacks.blogspot.com/2014/04/because-some-things-need-to-be-set.html" target="_blank"><br /></a>
<a href="https://whenmacandcheeseattacks.blogspot.com/2014/04/because-some-things-need-to-be-set.html" target="_blank">*Or rather Clive lent me a book, that Wil Wheaton wrote in 2004, that told me to be more real on the internet. So I told everyone that I hate babies. (Still totally true.)</a><br />
<br />
<br />
<b><u>Update:</u></b><br />
Thanks to the magic of the internet (whose superpower is to know all the things) <i><u>I</u></i> now know that:<br />
1) Christopher Walken starred in the movie <a href="https://youtu.be/1JF4cR34t3U" target="_blank">Vendetta</a>,<br />
2) I've never seen Vendetta, and<br />
3) in my head? I was mixing Vendetta up with <a href="https://youtu.be/4HFDlbzK3e0" target="_blank">The Mask of Zorro</a>.<br />
No worries. I mean, I'll need to find a cape, a mask and a sombrero cordobes, but I'm pretty sure I can still make this poet vendetta thing work. *glare* Benjamin.Marthahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00837173905052530846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5699937653527781562.post-62884131171612085512018-03-16T18:18:00.000-07:002018-03-16T18:18:49.890-07:00Worthless.I have 20 minutes.<br />
<br />
Well, I use to have like an hour and half, but, I squandered that, as I am want to do, on raspberry scone nibbling, coffee sipping, and trying not to freak people out at the coffee shop by inadvertently staring at them. (Dude, you are sitting at the table directly across from me, I can't help it. Plus, you've been tapping your foot at the same beat as the song playing in my earbuds, which is weird. I mean, can you hear the music too? Did you hack into my Pandora account and start streaming my Rocky soundtrack station? Are you judging my music preferences right now? Because I made a conscious choice NOT to listen to my Elvis/Little Jimmy Dickens* station in public today. But mostly because sometimes I sing along. Unconsciously.)<br />
<br />
But, now, I have 20 minutes to write something interesting, and at the rate I'm going, it's not going to happen.<br />
<br />
I mean, sure, I could type random words and hope they make sense, like a weird word association game.<br />
<br />
I could write about how I'm still obsession about the "return on investment" conversation I had with people three years ago. A conversation that still sends me in a spiral of self doubt and naval gazing, especially when combined with the reactions I get when I tell people what I do for a living. (Note: nothing)<br />
<br />
I could write about how, once, when I was at the coffee shop I "overheard" (read eavesdropped here) someone tell their friend, "That was balls on the floor funny!" Which I thought was a rather good turn of phrase because it's true. You can't dribble when you're doubled over laughing. You're gonna have to place your basketball on the floor.<br />
<br />
I could write about how I once saw a car, sitting on the side of the road, catch fire. But, it didn't even blow up or anything, so, not really my best story, ya' know?<br />
<br />
But, now, I'm down to three minutes before I have to throw this laptop in my back pack, jump on my bike and race to meet the kids at the bus stop, and, there is no cohesiveness to this post.<br />
<br />
Perhaps that is where my strength lies.<br />
<br />
Handshake<br />
Jam drop<br />
UPS<br />
Hat<br />
Sunny<br />
Day<br />
Over<br />
My-hammy<br />
Moons<br />
Trampoline<br />
Dog pile<br />
Fork<br />
Love<br />
Time<br />
Turning back<br />
Aerobics<br />
Cher<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="https://youtu.be/uE02x2ZIpQg" target="_blank">Ah, high school PE memories....</a> *sigh* Those were the days I almost forgot about...<br />
<br />
<iframe allow="autoplay; encrypted-media" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/uE02x2ZIpQg?rel=0" width="560"></iframe><br />
<br />
<br />
Give yourself $5 if you didn't watch the whole video.<br />
<br />
Give yourself $10 if you watched AND worked out with Cher.<br />
<br />
<br />
*<a href="https://youtu.be/ZfYFx6MOTYU" target="_blank">Learned all my best trash talk from his song. For reals</a>.<br />
<br />Marthahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00837173905052530846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5699937653527781562.post-85530878649871224572018-03-02T16:09:00.000-08:002018-03-02T16:09:03.155-08:00Parenting Buzz Words and IKEA Catalogs Perseverance.<br />
<br />
Determination.<br />
<br />
Resolution.<br />
<br />
Tenacity.<br />
<br />
<i><span style="color: purple; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Se~du~li~ty.</span></i> <i>(nudgenudgewinkwinkerwink)</i><br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-WpmQ26Z5maRfoh8fvS_2kVFkL9v17H8KcWocYHaKgFCfu_en1YBXcBfvWGlTLhba-Rvomzj2XHWwRciYGCIdRYR5nFcsZcu7gdhF4t5IyK68Zho7qpBE4w35F8BFEIVrMaSiVGYU-o4k/s1600/keepcalmworddic.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="231" data-original-width="198" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-WpmQ26Z5maRfoh8fvS_2kVFkL9v17H8KcWocYHaKgFCfu_en1YBXcBfvWGlTLhba-Rvomzj2XHWwRciYGCIdRYR5nFcsZcu7gdhF4t5IyK68Zho7qpBE4w35F8BFEIVrMaSiVGYU-o4k/s1600/keepcalmworddic.png" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
These words are just synonyms for <i>that word. </i>You know the one. The one that's been buzzing around all the cool, engaged parental circles these days: <span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>Grit.</b></span> And, yes, crazy dedicated PTA parents, I totally want my kids to grow up with that attribute. But the best bonus? I can totally use IKEA catalogs as a teaching tool!<br />
<br />
(Did you just say, "What you talkin' about, Willis?" Dude. You. Are. So. Cool.*)<br />
<br />
See, year after year, IKEA, sends me a 200 page catalog. It's a really nice gift, truthfully, because I can gather the children together on the couch, all cozy like in front of the fire, tuck us up in a blanket knitted by Grandma and <strike>poke fun at</strike> <strike>mock</strike> <strike>giggle</strike> use it to enlighten the children on such a complex topic. Because, guys, it takes a lot of grit to keep sending out advertisement gems like:<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQISU3Wut-mW278XtR7vU5Ojl8oWjsKnAF9CTeQvBTmx4p104niAcwJO9uXlNsjdddDugnB9VjHP4tKX87cjHo_nQTtySuIQ2oVwam3FRimcyuwRIIZH6y2igBb4HXHSmAPYkwArQ7-rWX/s1600/IMG_0540.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQISU3Wut-mW278XtR7vU5Ojl8oWjsKnAF9CTeQvBTmx4p104niAcwJO9uXlNsjdddDugnB9VjHP4tKX87cjHo_nQTtySuIQ2oVwam3FRimcyuwRIIZH6y2igBb4HXHSmAPYkwArQ7-rWX/s320/IMG_0540.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Dude, IKEA, let's face it, <br />in my "cook like no one's watching" world <br />those pancakes are already the perfect combo of spatula and plate. <br />The rest is just more dishes I'm gonna have to wash later.<br /> </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihj2BuJvlzNmyLCeFtjAdp56oGXfimHuHYePDjjRHZfA9YQWnySBsstJ6uth5JfxoWfYQAE8swWyGvLg_dgXqk-JXsLn5PRecmZ7namYLmeguG_oDWWJE9Q4U04CTQToBr1Cwn5L8qGbgF/s1600/IMG_0541.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihj2BuJvlzNmyLCeFtjAdp56oGXfimHuHYePDjjRHZfA9YQWnySBsstJ6uth5JfxoWfYQAE8swWyGvLg_dgXqk-JXsLn5PRecmZ7namYLmeguG_oDWWJE9Q4U04CTQToBr1Cwn5L8qGbgF/s320/IMG_0541.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">If, next, you ask me if my refrigerator is running, IKEA, we're done.<br />Done. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi75NbMP82dCV_BPVP_Q7kRU0wm0cxNpxP30A1L1NT_G_Hc7KDYyP1zAyJt6mKJH9HaOAXzXEIqqGGAv26WJ9lOmeiyDCBpcdSzOOquS2hXwCcRrJ7x9oqrfj_OZDKg_Qf8WyqJZpJ1LsO9/s1600/IMG_0542.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi75NbMP82dCV_BPVP_Q7kRU0wm0cxNpxP30A1L1NT_G_Hc7KDYyP1zAyJt6mKJH9HaOAXzXEIqqGGAv26WJ9lOmeiyDCBpcdSzOOquS2hXwCcRrJ7x9oqrfj_OZDKg_Qf8WyqJZpJ1LsO9/s320/IMG_0542.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">"Heeeey....<br />So, listen, bae, like, I love you, you know I do, but...<br />and don't read too far into this...<br />but, in my perfect bathroom oasis fantasy? <br />There's a wall. <br />Between us. <br />Blocking me from seeing your face in the morning. <br />Don't be mad."</td></tr>
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9RArbob8GfCi_jfm0KUFMlZ265DQF6UBKHf3gOCqZ16Yzd929TTTY7Iv_4XD4SoaJuds36dMSm8T1fNMU3ddpTzNY7HaiiKSj2cO4AQUGaAXltmwSN2slzRmPlqwlyP1Rs_6i-vfcHX92/s1600/IMG_0543.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9RArbob8GfCi_jfm0KUFMlZ265DQF6UBKHf3gOCqZ16Yzd929TTTY7Iv_4XD4SoaJuds36dMSm8T1fNMU3ddpTzNY7HaiiKSj2cO4AQUGaAXltmwSN2slzRmPlqwlyP1Rs_6i-vfcHX92/s320/IMG_0543.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">...with your cute wittle sinky-wink<br />and your flushy flush flush where we get to put our tut-tut.<br />You're the cutest. Yes you are. Oh, yes you are!<br /><br />Because baby talk shouldn't be wasted on actual infants.<br /></td></tr>
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And, at the end of the evening, as the last page of the catalog is closed, and you look into your children's eyes, you can be sure IKEA's pictures have provided the experience base your children require in order to profit from this learning experience about true grit.<br />
<br />
If they look back at you like this:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcyubsLu6RTIXKlld8rsqiKdHb_RAv4H6tKjQvVilMqrhac_fkznMX-Vp2kFiezuewpEzu544LV2dUVw1hcPlWn_7dl1scTN68FztC61bSuoiUDSWNNbzmh7Do5DJIifpb1XcN6vqsNRI0/s1600/waynegritsquint.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1079" data-original-width="736" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcyubsLu6RTIXKlld8rsqiKdHb_RAv4H6tKjQvVilMqrhac_fkznMX-Vp2kFiezuewpEzu544LV2dUVw1hcPlWn_7dl1scTN68FztC61bSuoiUDSWNNbzmh7Do5DJIifpb1XcN6vqsNRI0/s320/waynegritsquint.jpg" width="218" /></a></div>
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*That was respect. Not sarcasm.**<br />
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**It's true. I'm that dorky.***<br />
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***I'm sorry.<br />
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Marthahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00837173905052530846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5699937653527781562.post-71960219813117375452018-01-12T16:50:00.001-08:002018-01-12T17:02:54.708-08:00New Year's Resolutions Aren't Real Unless You Write Them Down. I Wrote These Down. Logic Says?There are two ways to write your New Year's resolutions. One, you could sit down and think about all the ways you could improve yourself and/or the world around you, write it down, keep the list in a place you see it every day and then make a plan to accomplish your goals.<br />
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Or...<br />
<br />
You could realize you recently spent three days (straight*) wearing the lounge wear that Fred and Ginger gave you for Christmas:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwHfR0c2TzCvBkmO4l3Aj-VQLqUI-KDZIGrHOBBG1L938vGloRaMJ0THgDs9lgUkuWwIPe_x6HE4blA0W-ebMDQoZaBjneSLliyJ0ZfRsWD4sD2cpGKUnKPPTg0TNCMl1RhUawdcdsp4rj/s1600/pajama+pink+2+cropped.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="713" data-original-width="355" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwHfR0c2TzCvBkmO4l3Aj-VQLqUI-KDZIGrHOBBG1L938vGloRaMJ0THgDs9lgUkuWwIPe_x6HE4blA0W-ebMDQoZaBjneSLliyJ0ZfRsWD4sD2cpGKUnKPPTg0TNCMl1RhUawdcdsp4rj/s320/pajama+pink+2+cropped.jpg" width="159" /></a></div>
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And!</div>
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Then!</div>
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Claim everything you've done in that lounge wear (while sitting at the kitchen table steadily eating your way through two loaves of homemade pumpkin nut bread) as New Year's resolutions. Completed ones. Guys? I'm totally <span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><b>crushing</b></span> this year!! Just like Hulk Hogan in <i><a href="https://youtu.be/EWyh6_-qFrw" target="_blank">Santa With Muscles</a></i>! Which is an awesome Christmas movie I made my whole family sit and watch this year. <i>Side note:</i> My parents, my sister and my nephew gave the movie two thumbs up, so, sorry not sorry, Jon, because it's now a Christmas tradition, so you can quit being all Scrooge-y about it.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: large;">New Year's Resolutions </span></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Made Into A List</span></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Like An Adult</span></b></div>
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<u><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><b>CRUSHED</b></span> Resolution #1:</u><br />
<u><br /></u>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
Clear out my email inbox of all unnecessary emails.</div>
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That's right, I deleted over 3,000,000,000 emails,dating back to 2009, when gmail sent me one of those threatening messages that say, "Dude. How lazy are you!? I. Am. Not. Kidding. If you don't delete some emails soon we're cutting you off. No more sending, no more receiving of ANYTHING! I mean, look at this, Groupon has sent you approximately 123,452 emails asking you to buy all these cool things like airport parking, hot yoga classes, and Beaugenix blackhead removing peel-off masks and you haven't opened a single one. I can see you through this laptop camera you know, and you could use at least two of those things! It's like you don't even want to improve yourself, 'kay? Just delete them. Delete them NOW!"<br />
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<u><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><b>CRUSHED</b></span> Resolution #2:</u><br />
<u><br /></u>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
Clear out my Google photos of all bad pictures.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
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Yeah. Google. They're playing all creepy stalker guy this month and sent me a similar message about my Google photos. Because, <i>apparently</i>, Google doesn't think I need the photo story from 2010 when Katie insisted the one thing Daddy wanted for his birthday was a blue cake with a purple ear on it:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMAq3aQmQPtpPfIy4CA8-a3a8Svar345IBC8f6xx2TBIzxybv1x5l5UrutxtfciYHCgG0sByynVwsdJlrE58lQtz6AYJZUO9rV54ipSuHRAlIkqZWqmtszBuialJoKh5q80NFbHwkr1rYD/s1600/img_0623.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMAq3aQmQPtpPfIy4CA8-a3a8Svar345IBC8f6xx2TBIzxybv1x5l5UrutxtfciYHCgG0sByynVwsdJlrE58lQtz6AYJZUO9rV54ipSuHRAlIkqZWqmtszBuialJoKh5q80NFbHwkr1rYD/s320/img_0623.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrOVre10W3ivnLy0ZfspbBmL9hWs6HmQ204VYJIZ_6TVPdl5xOVvei32g9msDEk4X4r-rsRzk8heC1WXIK7Q97-yrMaOAOn9A6p3G9Td6yhIdi3gk8qfShR2cmcUA0L77pcrrCcO2WjAr0/s1600/img_0634.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrOVre10W3ivnLy0ZfspbBmL9hWs6HmQ204VYJIZ_6TVPdl5xOVvei32g9msDEk4X4r-rsRzk8heC1WXIK7Q97-yrMaOAOn9A6p3G9Td6yhIdi3gk8qfShR2cmcUA0L77pcrrCcO2WjAr0/s320/img_0634.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0Q50yTRHPShONhZpvvl9tIA1Ple-2BVQHVgxtAwbPlCXHaLJY2jD176MeJLV5hly2n1sfU965jUJ9kqPSaTm8VhNOPkZjLLgkUUJlmiNwdbaiOC0iOKZLizDrJghTxBoXOvc3g22GAX75/s1600/img_0638.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0Q50yTRHPShONhZpvvl9tIA1Ple-2BVQHVgxtAwbPlCXHaLJY2jD176MeJLV5hly2n1sfU965jUJ9kqPSaTm8VhNOPkZjLLgkUUJlmiNwdbaiOC0iOKZLizDrJghTxBoXOvc3g22GAX75/s320/img_0638.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">**</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV3DPKwOqoLkf2IAdejel4pO9J3NWMM_DqPNpUBilykrZktkvXVcXUhyphenhyphenmK-OQRctNSUS5IOvXv3MAEZHg0ZfQzC-sGnU4OXcF96ZqRT-6Qs8ksfvH3ZF4VH1dI29jmDswWKlpsH7wvAUWf/s1600/img_0637.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV3DPKwOqoLkf2IAdejel4pO9J3NWMM_DqPNpUBilykrZktkvXVcXUhyphenhyphenmK-OQRctNSUS5IOvXv3MAEZHg0ZfQzC-sGnU4OXcF96ZqRT-6Qs8ksfvH3ZF4VH1dI29jmDswWKlpsH7wvAUWf/s320/img_0637.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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*tsk* Whatever, these pictures are Au family lore. Yeah, that's right, Google Photos-they're gold.<br />
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Although, truthfully, all the pics Katie took with my phone of the inside of our car on that road trip back in 2012? Yeah. totally not Au. More like Uuh***. You were spot on there, Google.<br />
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<u><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><b>CRUSHING</b></span> Resolution #3:</u><br />
<u><br /></u>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
While deleting things. From my Google accounts. And eating pumpkin bread. In lounge wear. Bright pink fuzzy lounge wear. With hearts on them. Binge watch the TV show <i>The Mysteries of Laura</i>.</div>
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She's a cop! She's a mother! She pulls her gun at the playground and arrests muggers rather than standing around scrolling through Facebook like the rest of us! I'm 18 episodes in and I probably don't need to watch the rest of the season, but, let's face it, I'm totally going to. Because when you don't give up on your New Year's Resolutions it shows for-ti-tude, dude. Besides my new lunge wear is like, super cozy and I don't think I want to change. Ever.<br />
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What New Year's Resolutions are you <span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><b>crushing </b></span>this year?<br />
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*Don't judge me until you've wallowed a day in my warm and fuzzy lounge wear.<br />
** I made Katie use a ruler to measure our ear picture, so we could "decorate the cake to scale." Please note:I don't know how to convert to scale, and I just eyeballed the whole thing. But she doesn't know that and the main point is...Math is Fun ! You can put it on a cake!<br />
***Yes, it's a chemistry joke. No, I didn't run it by Jon first. Why do you ask?Marthahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00837173905052530846noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5699937653527781562.post-50707614219640530452017-12-07T12:28:00.000-08:002017-12-08T14:33:26.870-08:00I Haven't Received A Gift From Santa In Years. Trying Out The Squeaky Wheel Strategy. Nothing To Lose! It's 7:30 in the morning, I've run Ellie to the bus stop, slipping over pre-dawn frozen streets in my Keen's. But gracefully, <a href="https://youtu.be/9lLe9Xkv66Y" target="_blank">like a chicken on ice</a>. I've been up since 5:30 doing things like unloading the dishwasher, making breakfast (a hot breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast and fruit, I'd like to point out) and added this morning? Unloading, unstacking, unpeeling everything from the girl's bunk beds in search of Katie's retainer. Oooohhh, I found it. It was way back in the dark corner, where dust bunnies throw raves with used Kleenexes, behind the magazines, the slippers, the dirty socks, bouncy balls, cut up cardboard shoe boxes, and a bunch of other junk I have no idea why they feel they need to keep! Old glow sticks? Why?? They don't glow anymore, children!!<br />
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Then, instead of eating my breakfast, I got to spend the rest of the early morning wrestling clean sheets onto the bunk beds.<br />
<br />
Remember bunk beds? I never had one, but, oh my goodness, did I covet my friend's. There was no better way to sleep, in my eyes, than 5 1/2 feet up in the air. I was convinced I'd be able to hear the morning chirping of the birds better, rainbows would appear, I'd be hidden from everyone in the house, perched high up on the top bunk of my bed. But mostly, I'd be able to look down on my sister, far, far down on the ground, and say witty things like, "I have a bunk bed and you don't, nah, nah, nah, nah, naaah, nahhh."<br />
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But, ever since purchasing a bunk bed for Katie and Ellie, all that magic is gone. And, I'm sorry to say, childhood Martha, but, bunk beds? are stupid. And dumb. And, and....all sorts of bad words I can't bring myself to type. Because, dude, who here has ever changed the sheets on these things? I KNOW! First off, how can the children sleep with all that junk in their beds? Today, I pulled out 12 books, 37 stuffed animals, a skirt, a ball, a plastic toy from some fast food place, 5 magazines, 8 used glow sticks, one slipper and a hanger! Who sleeps with a hanger!?! And then, when I finally got to the whole sheet part... it was like yoga, but, stupider, more like...I don't know-Pilates. Not kidding, it was full on monkey squats* for like, 20 minutes as I waddled up and down that mattress trying to tuck in sheets and blankets.<br />
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It's probably safe to say, no one when to school with a smile on their face this morning. No. One.<br />
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So, Santa, you want to know what I really want for Christmas this year?<br />
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I would like the children to pick up their own junk and throw it away.<br />
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I would like the children to change the sheets on their own stupid bunk beds.<br />
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I would like the children to quit whining and complaining when I ask them to pick up their room.<br />
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Heck, man, Santa? I would like the children to quit whining and complaining about <i>me</i> whining and complaining about their chaotic, befouled, grubby, neglected hole of a room when I have to actually walk into it to fish their retainer out from under the bed with a broom.<br />
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And, lastly? I would like a sequel made of "Santa With Muscles" because, when you have a Christmas movie starring Hulk Hogan playing a millionaire who thinks he's Santa Claus sword fighting a guy in an astronaut type suit with a magic crystal broken off from a mine underneath a church, you have <a href="https://youtu.be/4XiAYebVwQw" target="_blank">the best Christmas movie of all time </a>calling out for a sequel. For reals.<br />
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<div style="height: 0; padding-bottom: 75.0%; position: relative;">
<iframe allow="encrypted-media" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" gesture="media" height="360" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/4XiAYebVwQw?rel=0&showinfo=0?ecver=2" style="height: 100%; left: 0; position: absolute; width: 100%;" width="480"></iframe></div>
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Don't let the one star rating on IMDB fool you.<br />
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<a href="https://youtu.be/EWyh6_-qFrw" target="_blank">The whole movie is free on You Tube.</a><br />
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Merry Christmas!<br />
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*FYI: Monkey Squats<br />
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<br />Marthahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00837173905052530846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5699937653527781562.post-23491129214724921142017-11-30T18:23:00.000-08:002017-11-30T18:23:27.775-08:00It's November 30th And The End Of The Month. This Is The Only Reason For This Post.I sit down to write. I get up and walk away. I sit myself down again, and again, I'm up, walking, pacing the house for, like, 30 seconds. I'm not sitting too much longer than that, either. Ellie is in the kitchen, making her lunch. I have nowhere I need to be, nothing I need to do or help with. I just need to take the few minutes I have to sit, to type, to see words appear on a computer screen. But, somehow, at 4 o'clock in the afternoon, I can't concentrate. It's too late for coffee, so it's just me, my water glass and a bag of tortilla chips I've secreted under my desk.<br />
<br />
This can be slow going. No, that was my passive voice. This IS slow going. And boring. And other words I don't need to type because they're all there, in your head, lined up all neat and organized one after the other. Like a marching band. Or a crossword puzzle.<br />
<br />
OK. I'm putting the chips away now. Don't let me have any more chips until I've typed a real thing on this computer.<br />
<br />
A couple weeks ago, Ellie's Girl Scout troop participated in a robots class. Guess who was asked to help? I'm serious, they actually wanted me to help these girls program computers to program the robots to draw with markers. Guys? I only know how one of those steps work. (And, yes, it's the markers, that wasn't a hard thing to guess.) I don't know why I agree to these things either. I need a button. A big button. (It has to be big, so people will read it.) That says, "I know as much about computers as your great grandmother". Which will work brilliantly, as long as I start every conversation with, "Is your great grandmother <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dorothy_Vaughan" target="_blank">Dorothy Vaughan</a>?" Because, obviously, my button doesn't apply to those people.<br />
<br />
Long story set in a library with a bunch of Brownies wielding computers, short, we killed the computer. I DON'T KNOW WHAT I HAD THEM DO! But, the screen, went like, blank at one point. Now, it didn't break forever. Just until one of the teen volunteers could come over and fix it for us, while telling me exactly what I did wrong and how to avoid doing what I did, or something like that. Truthfully? I wasn't listening to her, because I had given up any hope of successfully helping program robots and decided, instead, to take control of the only other item on the table I had any familiarity with: the masking tape.<br />
<br />
And no one asked me to do anything different for the rest of the class.<br />
<br />
Near as I could tell by their expressions:<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPsmgsAoUo9l1dixUab7LCDSIFg6hGOqwkQzdl_Law8xKzABAVH60AIanVgEMA7NeqsUL10iH2BmHrl8KgboB-SRf2x-5r00a42goTpNYMEmb1OlIqhVGIKn172907PrvaqAODk6sKpcOO/s1600/IMG_9928.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPsmgsAoUo9l1dixUab7LCDSIFg6hGOqwkQzdl_Law8xKzABAVH60AIanVgEMA7NeqsUL10iH2BmHrl8KgboB-SRf2x-5r00a42goTpNYMEmb1OlIqhVGIKn172907PrvaqAODk6sKpcOO/s320/IMG_9928.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">the robots totally approved.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /><br /><br /><div>
And now? </div>
<div>
I eat the chips again. </div>
<div>
Because I've earned them. </div>
<div>
Obviously.</div>
Marthahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00837173905052530846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5699937653527781562.post-74845292951140151102017-11-03T09:39:00.000-07:002017-11-04T15:04:54.114-07:00Awkward Conversations. On Halloween. Out Loud. Because It's Scarier. And They Promised Me A Cupcake.It's three days after October 31st. Which means, if you have elementary sized children, you either successfully ignored all pleas for help at the classroom Halloween party* OR you were tricked into volunteering through an onslaught of email guilt. And the promise of cupcakes.<br />
<br />
Guess which one I felt forced to chose the other day?<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>AWKWARD CONVERSATIONS WITH MARTHA</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><b>(Class Halloween Party Edition)</b></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>NONE OF WHICH WAS CARRIED OUT IN MY OWN HEAD </b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>BUT I WAS DRESSED AS JULIETTE GORDON LOW</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiTd0XcqQHL6WzkB9ujfdLT4PMT4HD75Ig4hrbawMLdiSig0NFg1i_uGheQK4GOMf-81n0JwRIml5cBIBKECNYuyJaFHmYu-t0YCYkr71ydx1m7HzPUkgCm2Eu4zK5x7QeL3kHMKDVs7b6/s1600/IMG_9905.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiTd0XcqQHL6WzkB9ujfdLT4PMT4HD75Ig4hrbawMLdiSig0NFg1i_uGheQK4GOMf-81n0JwRIml5cBIBKECNYuyJaFHmYu-t0YCYkr71ydx1m7HzPUkgCm2Eu4zK5x7QeL3kHMKDVs7b6/s320/IMG_9905.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Obviously.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>BECAUSE I WAS PROMISED A CUPCAKE</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>AND IT WAS HALLOWEEN</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>ALTHOUGH, LET'S FACE IT, </b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>THE FIRST REASON WAS THE MOST PERSUASIVE</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<u>Conversation #1</u><br />
<i><b>Scene:</b> Arriving at the school office. In costume. To <strike>eat cupcakes</strike> volunteer at the classroom party.</i><br />
<b>School Employee:</b> (<i>coming face to face with me as they are exiting the office</i>) Your highness! (<i>holds door open, does one of those European courtly bow and scrape things</i>)<br />
<b>Me:</b> (<i>in my, "I didn't think before I opened my mouth" tone</i>) Uh. Noooo. Not a queen. (<i>gestures in turn to Brownie sash and birthday crown</i>) Juliette. Gordon. Low.<br />
<b>School Employee:</b> Um?.?. I...<br />
<b>Me:</b> (<i>walks through door. Thinks. Turns back around. </i>) Oh! But, you know, thanks for holding the door for me anyway, even if I'm not a queen!<br />
<br />
<u>Conversation #2</u><br />
<i><b>Scene:</b> In the classroom, next to the q-tip skeleton craft</i><br />
<b>Other Mom, probably here for the cupcakes too/OM,PHFTCT: </b>And you are...a birthday queen?<br />
<b>Me: </b>Oh, no! I'm Juliette Gordon Low. She was born on October 31, 1860, so today is my birthday, or (<i>chuckle)</i> really her birthday because I'm just dressed as Daisy. <i>(smile)</i><br />
<b>OM,PHFTCT: </b>(<i>pausing) </i>I don't think I know who that is.<br />
<b>Me: </b>(<i>In my "I learned from the previous conversation not to think everyone will know who I am but that's ok, I can explain it to them" tone) </i>Ohhh! She founded Girl Scouts in 1912, but, one of the things she was know for, was, after going to fancy parties (<i>swirl skirt</i>) she would typically be found fishing (<i>hold up fishing rod)</i> late at night in her ball gown. She was a very interesting woman! In fact, there was this-<br />
<b>OM, PHFTCT:</b> (<i>quickly)</i> Oh! I forgot! I was, I was, supposed to help organize the, um, mummy yarn craft. So, sorry.<br />
<br />
<u>Conversation #3</u><br />
<i><b>Scene:</b> Near the cupcake table, waiting for the children to fill their plates and leave. So I can eat a cupcake.</i><br />
<b>Some Other Mom:</b> (<i>friendly, with a smile) </i>Hi! I'm Sally.<br />
<b>Me: </b>(<i>barely glancing up from cupcakes, mentally trying to figure out the cupcake to student ratio) </i>Hi! I'm Martha.<br />
<b>Some Other Mom: </b>(<i>friendly, smiling) </i>How are you?<br />
<b>Me: </b><i>(quick glance from the cupcakes, so I don't look rude) </i>Good. How are you?<br />
<b>Some Other Mom: </b> (<i>friendly, smiling) </i>Good.<br />
<b>Me:</b> (<i>caught up in mental cupcake math) </i>Nice. Good to hear. And how are you?<br />
<b>Some Other Mom: </b> (<i>silence)</i><br />
<b>Me: </b><i>(REALLY looking away from cupcakes this time)</i> Ummm. (<i>pause) </i>We already did that part of the conversation, didn't we?<i> </i><br />
<br />
<i><br /></i>
Eventually I did make it to the snack table.<br />
<br />
But, as I looked forlornly and predictably at an empty cupcake platter scattered with crumbs, I thought to myself, "WWDD**?"<br />
<br />
And that's when I went fishing.<br />
<br />
For cupcakes.<br />
<br />
Off of Katie's plate.<br />
<br />
Which, in my defense, I offered to give back if I could tell her <i><u>just one more</u></i> of my Juliette Gordon Low stories.<br />
<br />
But...<br />
<br />
she refused.<br />
<br />
So I ate it.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
*High Five, by the way! Ignore all the glares from all those teacher type readers over there.<br />
**<b>W</b>hat <b>W</b>ould <b>D</b>aisy <b>D</b>o?Marthahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00837173905052530846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5699937653527781562.post-2558064109891417872017-10-28T08:58:00.003-07:002017-10-28T09:02:40.097-07:00Halloween Costumes For Kids. You're Trying Too Hard.Halloween is like, three days away, people. Do you have your kid's costumes all ready?<br />
<br />
Hahahahahahaha! Yeah...... Me too.<br />
<br />
But, in my case, the Halloween unpreparedness? That's all on the children. Because since the age of two my kids have insisted on making their own costumes. Now, I'm sure you're sitting there, thinking, "<i>*pish*</i> Someone's a big ol' liar with fiery pants hangin' up there on that telephone wire." But, listen, it's true. See, I realize that, in society's eyes, good moms make their kid's Halloween costumes. They plan, they paint, they sew, or at the very least they go to a store and buy them a costume. In August. And I tried to do that! Once. When Katie was all small and such. But she was having NONE of it! She insisted she was going to wear her pink bandanna like a cape and be Super Senorita or nothing! And, well, parenting is all about raising independent autonomous people, right? So I let her. Because that's also what good moms do. (Who might also be a touch lazy.)<br />
<br />
<b>Note:</b> I was going to include a pic of Katie in her Super Senorita costume in this post, but, my computer somehow deleted, like, all the pictures from 2009. Which is, like, really bad. I mean, if <u style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">I</u> had been responsible for those photos, I'd totally wouldn't have lost them. <b>Related Note:</b> This is why computers shouldn't have babies.<br />
<br />
But! You?! You are ready to dress your sweet little one in a costume. One made with love, and time, and maybe a wee small dusting of societal pressure. So, this morning, while my children were out into the backyard with cardboard, a couple cans of spray paint and some yarn making their own costumes, I sat down with a cup of coffee and <strike>five</strike> <strike>four</strike> <strike>three</strike> a decreasing pile of peanut butter cups stolen from the Halloween candy bowl. To search the Internets. For the worst baby and toddler costumes out there. So you can avoid them.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<u>Bad Costume #1:</u><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>The Mandrake</b></div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2aBm-_qyNmFzy9B5iHQRebO8KCG6isgIFyOrjlc1H9taIIiI-v934GmnkGsCbaCXw2H4d71EGDiEisGNSzozpdlQgsrgvn5KqyFxKS0MK13P3edaZTklwtkkYapuw_YqB07gtR3-GvOWw/s1600/mandrake.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="690" data-original-width="460" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2aBm-_qyNmFzy9B5iHQRebO8KCG6isgIFyOrjlc1H9taIIiI-v934GmnkGsCbaCXw2H4d71EGDiEisGNSzozpdlQgsrgvn5KqyFxKS0MK13P3edaZTklwtkkYapuw_YqB07gtR3-GvOWw/s320/mandrake.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This may seem all cute, with that sign saying <br />
"screams not yet lethal, <br />
but may cause extended periods of unconsciousness". <br />
BUT!<br />
Dudes, you've read the books, right? <br />
What happens to them at the end of The Chamber of Secrets?<br />
Yeah. <br />
They kill them. <br />
Maybe we should examine the whole story line before dressing our babies in this costume. Hmmm?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<u>Bad Costume #2:</u><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>The Pinata</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw2Mdv0t1huiX5WLZlJC1xy9bIpQMqqo5VEtDdhu57k7nVMXiGelyxhCTArX2RIF_vTfiwpHQAT6M5vqq6rRFWdG8xeFPEY1NTfdfuRos77j0xacEo91CBvJacgkbpCcapG7VuGaJ04Ra0/s1600/onlychild.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="508" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw2Mdv0t1huiX5WLZlJC1xy9bIpQMqqo5VEtDdhu57k7nVMXiGelyxhCTArX2RIF_vTfiwpHQAT6M5vqq6rRFWdG8xeFPEY1NTfdfuRos77j0xacEo91CBvJacgkbpCcapG7VuGaJ04Ra0/s320/onlychild.jpg" width="162" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Do you really want to spend the whole night yelling,<br />
"Quit hitting your sister! There is no candy in the baby!"<br />
Because, you know at least one of your kids will try it. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<u>Bad Costume #3:</u><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>The Bun In The Oven</b></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxI_g8rXktUBwmR1KVmI03WptdEUAF0UWyY24fbRZODmiL2QwM_cZzuOGKBPi1rv6Zvvdtcn2XMV2zpzbzPcGWLiHhSG7ZTUmUig_xqc04e1HhjNSFMLP8sivDsxiZGkR3VjSha11LPFyW/s1600/onlythefirstchild.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="807" data-original-width="605" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxI_g8rXktUBwmR1KVmI03WptdEUAF0UWyY24fbRZODmiL2QwM_cZzuOGKBPi1rv6Zvvdtcn2XMV2zpzbzPcGWLiHhSG7ZTUmUig_xqc04e1HhjNSFMLP8sivDsxiZGkR3VjSha11LPFyW/s320/onlythefirstchild.jpg" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This costume <i>really</i> should be avoided if you already have children.<br />
Unless human overpopulation is a cause you care about. <br />
A lot.<br />
<br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<u>Bad Costume #4: </u><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Spaghetti</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg64wx_01yT5B-zq79A1xZFJeFN_WusJqqWF273XPZuN6_u42ONK1goBF-fBPemQHvttoBvIbrRUl6DT6pjVIDbwe4dQppASbOmy6j8bSdTSutDibydQmwJr2Gh5xOJLKQnOOQd5tVq3o0/s1600/spaghetti.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="687" data-original-width="508" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg64wx_01yT5B-zq79A1xZFJeFN_WusJqqWF273XPZuN6_u42ONK1goBF-fBPemQHvttoBvIbrRUl6DT6pjVIDbwe4dQppASbOmy6j8bSdTSutDibydQmwJr2Gh5xOJLKQnOOQd5tVq3o0/s320/spaghetti.jpg" width="236" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ok, yes, it's cute. But, <br />
unless that's real spaghetti, <br />
you <i>know</i> that costume is going to be hanging out<br />
in places you don't want it hanging out from <br />
for a loooong time.<br />
Because babies put everything in their mouths.<br />
And then swallow them.<br />
And they have digestive systems.<br />
That terminate in their diapers.<br />
I may have strung that explanation out a bit too much.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<u>Bad Costume #5:</u><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>The Thanksgiving Turkey</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUIXijD1gsRphLcV8TeO52NAFTRk3rjtnAfigMdN04CeW258tQxdZ7KqjBE47SDUv6YTgf6epz0sJS5KpNvUfA3Mh8lDK2AhUDgIplLzh3di59y8BqEULRHEHOtRVRcf9fS1Q6gKdUBMHF/s1600/thanksgivingturkey.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="266" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUIXijD1gsRphLcV8TeO52NAFTRk3rjtnAfigMdN04CeW258tQxdZ7KqjBE47SDUv6YTgf6epz0sJS5KpNvUfA3Mh8lDK2AhUDgIplLzh3di59y8BqEULRHEHOtRVRcf9fS1Q6gKdUBMHF/s320/thanksgivingturkey.jpg" width="212" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What do we do with Thanksgiving turkeys?<br />
Put them in the oven.<br />
What do we <u style="font-style: italic;">not</u> want to do with babies?<br />
<br />
<br />
Exactly.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<u>Bad Costume #6:</u><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>The Candy Machine</b></div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWuBBeCZSDUoD9pddivjSYrVDN5mdTlAMV98Qbff5MzfTuHkZYsLmqQTEmUeglCtcVVHwPNyOlhG-eR6bv16iHPDuhWoa2YjxV6uIkhZomDkhG-KgPEo2goQJARpgEq8Lssuqlx61-pxih/s1600/Candy-Vending-417x417.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="417" data-original-width="417" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWuBBeCZSDUoD9pddivjSYrVDN5mdTlAMV98Qbff5MzfTuHkZYsLmqQTEmUeglCtcVVHwPNyOlhG-eR6bv16iHPDuhWoa2YjxV6uIkhZomDkhG-KgPEo2goQJARpgEq8Lssuqlx61-pxih/s320/Candy-Vending-417x417.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Just who is giving candy to whom here?<br />
This costume is way too confusing.<br />
Skip it.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<u>Bad Costume #7:</u><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Two Headed Baby</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipD8GTXlHfjwG2OjasXIjgEmoILCyiQQQ_1pOYOnd_oOAYbga6lgMmEQMoF-ujC9Gsyc_w8ZNePezUjSZa58WMw1PVY4aHYOwFcZIydFsFpCVDNtORczo6OayeqHO8eLVxpWDKkTctKCak/s1600/twoheads.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="331" data-original-width="448" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipD8GTXlHfjwG2OjasXIjgEmoILCyiQQQ_1pOYOnd_oOAYbga6lgMmEQMoF-ujC9Gsyc_w8ZNePezUjSZa58WMw1PVY4aHYOwFcZIydFsFpCVDNtORczo6OayeqHO8eLVxpWDKkTctKCak/s320/twoheads.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">The emotional imprint alone people...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<u>Bad Costume #8:</u><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>The Cannibal</b></div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg08i8vHxvbX8TOjRnjM1pYdwbKj2a6de2UuFPyd9sBIjS0Z_h2AaqlbuJ2Pv5GK1mibsmIELG0a7h8DqfKe-dPRl373S4vXvldcmXZ3bUlpuWDpwM7OuGUrjoT7PYDO63R-_ehW5O_2gBU/s1600/cannibal.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="807" data-original-width="605" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg08i8vHxvbX8TOjRnjM1pYdwbKj2a6de2UuFPyd9sBIjS0Z_h2AaqlbuJ2Pv5GK1mibsmIELG0a7h8DqfKe-dPRl373S4vXvldcmXZ3bUlpuWDpwM7OuGUrjoT7PYDO63R-_ehW5O_2gBU/s320/cannibal.jpg" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Your kid has a peanut allergy. We get it.<br />
But, <br />
and I say this as a friend,<br />
this is taking that protective parent thing <br />
just a <i>little</i> too far.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div>
You know what being a lazy parent who lets their kids plan and make their own costumes means? </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It means, your kids are way too happily crafting to notice you eating each and every peanut butter cup from the Halloween candy bowl. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
If you hide from them. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
In the basement. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
What's the worst kid Halloween costume you've found?</div>
<div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
Marthahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00837173905052530846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5699937653527781562.post-5031746052039867182017-10-20T14:49:00.000-07:002017-10-20T14:49:52.736-07:00October And Anne Shirley Can Stuff ItSeptember, that sirenous month full of the first few weeks of school and parental freedom, has lured me in once again, smelling of quiet cups of coffee in the kitchen, sunshine and secret boxes of Chez-Its hidden from the children. Gets me every year. (<i>read next bit in a high pitched stupid whiny voice</i>) I have time! Look! I can go for a run, prep dinner, do laundry, Photoshop pictures of "vomit" from my front yard, cure cancer, end world hunger, cut the children's hair! Whoo! Hoo! There is no end to my productivity!! I have super powers! (<i>insert one of those rude fart noise people make with their lips here</i>) Stupid 1/12th of a Gregorian calendar seductress.<br />
<br />
But then comes October, making it's asinine <i>pew pew</i> noises as it shoots down hour after hour of my free time, like one of those duck galleries at the state fair. "Mom, we have some school forms for you to fill out!" "Six pages? For each of you?" <i>pew pew </i>"Would you be interested in volunteering in Ellie's classroom each week?" <i>pew pew </i>"We need weekly volunteer's at Katie's school, anyone available?" <i>pew pew</i> "Hey! How about our Girl Scout troop meets every week!" <i>pew pew</i> "We're looking for a few parents to volunteer at tonight's school..." <i>pew pew</i> "Mom, are you going to lead my Girl Scout troop this year, too?" <i>pew pew </i>"I can schedule Katie at 10 am on Wednesday with the dentist, but can't get Ellie in until 2:15 on Friday. Will that be a problem?" <i>pew pew</i><br />
<br />
Dudes? Do you know what this means? It means I have to make a schedule now. For my time. Because it's not mine any longer. (<i>I can see all you working parents you know, through the computer screen, with your eye rolls and judgey attitude. Shut up.</i>) My days have been stolen and it's stinky! I mean, no longer do I usher the little children onto the bus in the mornings, go back home and drink coffee, eat secret cheese flavored crackers while finishing up my book from the library, knowing all things that need doing will be done in good time. NooooOOOOoooo. I have to be all efficient. Making a schedule. And other stupid stuff.<br />
<br />
And, you know what? I think I deserve a little pity.<br />
.<br />
.<br />
.<br />
.<br />
.<br />
Or empathy.<br />
.<br />
.<br />
.<br />
.<br />
.<br />
Or compassion.<br />
.<br />
.<br />
.<br />
.<br />
.<br />
Or maybe just some commiseration??<br />
.<br />
.<br />
.<br />
.<br />
.<br />
.<br />
.<br />
.<br />
<br />
<i>(collapses over keyboard) </i><br />
<br />
Fiiiiiinne. <i> </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>*angry sigh*</i><br />
<br />
I'll be an adult this school year.<br />
<br />
But, I'm not changing out of my yoga pants.<br />
<br />
And<br />
<br />
each Friday I'm still going to go to the <a href="https://youtu.be/GWACe7j3pqE" target="_blank">zoo for the penguin's live trout feeding.</a><br />
<br />
Because those penguins are hilarious!<br />
<br />
Me and all the preschooler zoo regulars think so.Marthahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00837173905052530846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5699937653527781562.post-55106029260759432872017-09-19T16:02:00.000-07:002017-09-19T16:14:01.930-07:00My Kids Know More About Jigsaw Jones Than Sherlock Holmes. My kids loose things. All. The. Time. Shoes, lunch boxes, library books, hairbrush, pajamas, special stuffed animals they simply can't sleep without, water bottles, backpacks.... I'm literally talking everything that they can physically pick up with <i>their own two hands</i>, set down again in a slightly different place, walk away from for like 20 seconds-Poof! *gasp* It's gone!<br />
<br />
And, people, there are days, I look them dead in the eyes, when they have asked me to find something for them, and think, "Dude. Are you, kidding me with this? Because, I can't-I can't even-you know what? I'm gonna-I'm gonna-I'm just gonna goooo...pour myself another cup of <strike>addiction</strike> <strike>caffeine</strike> <i>coffee</i> and, just, take a beat." And then, I turn to my <strike>dealer</strike> coffee pot, and pour that cup full to the brim and say, in my best <a href="https://youtu.be/7-naj-VYqHc" target="_blank">Snow White voice</a>, "Oh, sweetie. It sounds like it's time to put on that detective cap and break out your mad <a href="https://youtu.be/382a3UEgxns" target="_blank">Jigsaw Jones Skillz</a>."<br />
<br />
Because parenting through the exploitation of popular children's literature is kinda my thing.<br />
<br />
And, yesterday, when I was on my third Jigsaw Jones poured cup of coffee of the morning, I realized that, <a href="https://whenmacandcheeseattacks.blogspot.com/2017/09/the-kids-have-gone-to-school-i-live-in.html" target="_blank">last week, when I asked you all to play</a> the<br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><i><span style="color: magenta; font-size: x-large;">Is it Vomit </span></i></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: magenta; font-size: x-large;"><b><i>OR</i></b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><i><span style="color: magenta; font-size: x-large;">Is It Diarrhea? </span></i></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><i><span style="color: magenta; font-size: x-large;">Game</span></i></b></div>
<br />
I asked you all to play without providing any Jigsaw Jones clues. Which someone pointed out to me on Facebook. Anonymously. <span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>*cough*Ginger*cough*</i></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>A List of Jigsaw Jones Clues </b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>About This Picture:</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdjEMoHVV7IZ3hta6dsHuJNZgnctQtfhp9993f1hjvlKTrhFKCVo88cljsIXA2uo0tmZzBBUAYF-75OKu97ZYpP2uvCehx0JYRmmk3M3-mJLMsHCbBAVQ64dY267QGZEs5eUi64PIYmWft/s1600/IMG_9771.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdjEMoHVV7IZ3hta6dsHuJNZgnctQtfhp9993f1hjvlKTrhFKCVo88cljsIXA2uo0tmZzBBUAYF-75OKu97ZYpP2uvCehx0JYRmmk3M3-mJLMsHCbBAVQ64dY267QGZEs5eUi64PIYmWft/s320/IMG_9771.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>That I Took Of A Mystery Substance</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>That Showed Up In My Yard</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>A Week Ago</b></div>
<br />
1. <u>Smell</u><br />
There was no smell, really, to speak of. Which, <i>could be</i> a red flag for most people, but, see, unlike at least 51.09% of the world's population, <i>I've been pregnant</i>. Twice. And that lack of smell? All it did was bring back, in vivid recollection, the time my friend invited me over for dinner and made bean soup. Not 10 minutes after eating a whole bowl full, up it came. Into the toilet. And guys? It totally smelled the same, and, a detail you didn't need to know, but, must be shared to keep the spirit of every pregnancy story ever told alive, it full on tasted just the same. (I'm telling you it was a really good soup, Edna! Both times!)<br />
<br />
2. <u>Visual</u><br />
Really, this one was pretty much covered in the Snap-Chatted pic above. And, anyone that's parented a child with diarrhea will tell you that, sometimes? You can see aaaallll the bits. (Especially corn.) Yes, even after their food has ridden that twisty roller coaster called the large intestine. <br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO0NVvmxcaVELtzaWAb3NAk4B0N3iGgepw6YIte27QHw1BWlcXYHs7c5b_0tZ_8k64SGmfkxCs6XRj6tb72z9HkJXgIJGs_3M_sNCuH4uI9pyDCojjWQ84BCvq6tlKOsclgGW7Pgx3t_ft/s1600/colon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="263" data-original-width="350" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO0NVvmxcaVELtzaWAb3NAk4B0N3iGgepw6YIte27QHw1BWlcXYHs7c5b_0tZ_8k64SGmfkxCs6XRj6tb72z9HkJXgIJGs_3M_sNCuH4uI9pyDCojjWQ84BCvq6tlKOsclgGW7Pgx3t_ft/s320/colon.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Like looking in a mirror, people.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWGGE59s0Uh1npDg3NWMVyhTIHuer2A3eO8TP3VTo2TDH-BOsooRdf51QRsfHwo4jV96HicyvsDy0itzsDZJpT0iFwTqCyDh9iCR1qRG6ictzKqp_9cXZXRNEVDn0zr-sV9lMexdzi9VfO/s1600/colonrollercoaster.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="551" data-original-width="736" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWGGE59s0Uh1npDg3NWMVyhTIHuer2A3eO8TP3VTo2TDH-BOsooRdf51QRsfHwo4jV96HicyvsDy0itzsDZJpT0iFwTqCyDh9iCR1qRG6ictzKqp_9cXZXRNEVDn0zr-sV9lMexdzi9VfO/s320/colonrollercoaster.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">A scary butt mirror. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
3. <u>Taste.</u><br />
No.<br />
<br />
4. <u>Previous Knowledge</u><br />
This would not be the first time I'd found weird things in my yard. I mean, sure, it's not a weekly occurrence, but, it happens! I mean, these items can range from<a href="http://whenmacandcheeseattacks.blogspot.com/2016/04/dudes-im-not-joshing-you-this-is-like.html" target="_blank"> an answer to prayer to</a>, well, kinda creepy, really.<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>a cute little kitten who shows up when I enjoy my morning cup of coffee outside</li>
<li>a pair of glasses</li>
<li>a car radiator </li>
<li>a pair of pants with $250 in the pocket</li>
</ul>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
5. <u>The Lay of the Land (aka) The Inside Straight (aka) The Skinny (aka) </u><u>All The Cluez Jon Pointed Out When He Got Home After I Yelled, "Come Look At This! It's Gross!" And Dragged Him Back Outside</u></div>
<div>
<ul>
<li>An opened bag of kelp fertilizer</li>
<li>A watering can, three feet away, dregs of mystery substance inside</li>
<li>Drying water(?) rivulets coming out from main... deposit</li>
<li>Jon and the girls planted carrots at the beginning of the summer next to the fence just outside the picture</li>
</ul>
<div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So, after writing down all these clues in pixels and Javascript, I realize that the world can't really be broken up into two camps: vomit and diarrhea. I mean, there are probably many different Sherlockian deductions one could come to with all this info. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>A Sample Deduction, </b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>For Illustrative Purposes, </b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Obviously</b></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Someone, in the dark of the night, stumbled into our yard, saw the bag of kelp fertilizer left sitting on the deck stairs, and thought, "Kelp. That's seaweed! Duuuuuude! It's free sushi in a bag!" (Did I mention, in my head, this person is, like, really drunk). </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The inebriated person pulls out a spoon (which they keep on their person for obvious ice cream reasons) and begins to shovel the kelp fertilizer directly into their stomachs, through their mouths because this is a believable deduction and doesn't have aliens in it. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Almost immediately, the inebriated person's stomach yells out, "THIS IS NOT SUSHI!" And projectile vomits into the watering can, sitting just to the left of the not really sushi kelp bag.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And, just like when you were 6 and you vomited into your sister's sand bucket on the family road trip, guilt sets in, and our inebriated friend tries desperately to clean out the watering can using the garden hose. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It doesn't work, and they scramble off, leaving a big pile of:</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK5oTObWTIls5vUdnBXlqigCoM5kLCUalaCdGY1rk-Fi3S2aQbxMdY_hyuNQzZoQiBSz182W4JuOZSPgWvUcCVWTi6VeEvTODZwZx5s7hY5spa6xQMXc_5vv8JElFEGGsVJ2Fsl1E3JhO0/s1600/IMG_9766.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK5oTObWTIls5vUdnBXlqigCoM5kLCUalaCdGY1rk-Fi3S2aQbxMdY_hyuNQzZoQiBSz182W4JuOZSPgWvUcCVWTi6VeEvTODZwZx5s7hY5spa6xQMXc_5vv8JElFEGGsVJ2Fsl1E3JhO0/s320/IMG_9766.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div>
in my yard. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Jon has his own, different deduction, but, let's face it. He left the kelp fertilizer out on the deck. He's cheating. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>Note:</b> In the spirit of fair play and <a href="http://whenmacandcheeseattacks.blogspot.com/2011/11/faq-frequently-asked-questions.html" target="_blank">wanting to keep all felony charges off my record</a>, I should probably award all players of the <span style="color: magenta;">Is It Vomit Or Is It Diarrhea? Game</span> 250 points and send each and every one of you a box of mac and cheese. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Yes, even if you don't want it, Anonymous. Because them's the rules. And I know where you live! </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Ok. That sounded creepy. Don't worry, Internet, Anonymous knows it's not. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Probably.</div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>WAIT!</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>OR!</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div>
You can comment on this post! With your own deduction!! And I'll send you TWO boxes of mac and cheese!!!</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Or none....</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<i>*sigh*</i></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
If you insist. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
Marthahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00837173905052530846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5699937653527781562.post-693597163251500902017-09-12T17:16:00.000-07:002017-09-12T17:16:35.295-07:00The Kids Have Gone To School. I Live In The City. I Can Make A Game Out Of That! (P.S. I'm Sorry)My kids have gone back to school this last week.<br />
<br />
Dudes! The house is <i>so</i> QUIET!<br />
<br />
Plus? I can, like, get soooo much done!<br />
<br />
For instance, today? I was, like, super efficient and was able to get out in the front yard, do some weeding AND play a round of the game:<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #674ea7; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-large;"><b><i style="background-color: white;">Is It Vomit?</i></b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #674ea7; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-large;"><b><i style="background-color: white;"> Or </i></b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #674ea7; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-large;"><b><i style="background-color: white;">Is It Diarrhea?</i></b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Which, as everyone knows, can only be played properly</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">With pictures.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Close-ups. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">But classy close-ups. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://youtu.be/zIcC8YJrevQ" target="_blank">Like Mr. DeMille would take.</a></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMIVEp012B85-h-dgt7DlfCDG4vNZT_3nuNbzx4NlTsJp-y7dUKSUWCMkY0Xcuvkjs_xx_HNWw49LLWd0xaGV8GEER6OwjZtYkU5W00Ia4DC5-fH21tnGpLz-A6rP5gY8Ly2kz1Y_eHiTQ/s1600/IMG_9766.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMIVEp012B85-h-dgt7DlfCDG4vNZT_3nuNbzx4NlTsJp-y7dUKSUWCMkY0Xcuvkjs_xx_HNWw49LLWd0xaGV8GEER6OwjZtYkU5W00Ia4DC5-fH21tnGpLz-A6rP5gY8Ly2kz1Y_eHiTQ/s320/IMG_9766.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Wait, Mr. DeMille, </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I can totally make this picture classier. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGelv0k0xnThURUjTw7279-Odl56k5S-Qjo6H4zrsYPRFDlCKf7iCCtnPNSorXzna7IRCCyuKtHMaFdPYmGi0jTaRD4XOsYe1f_k2rK4blFNgxZhhsvYlxJuCquOlhsFB4V82-NTWL4UUD/s1600/IMG_9767.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGelv0k0xnThURUjTw7279-Odl56k5S-Qjo6H4zrsYPRFDlCKf7iCCtnPNSorXzna7IRCCyuKtHMaFdPYmGi0jTaRD4XOsYe1f_k2rK4blFNgxZhhsvYlxJuCquOlhsFB4V82-NTWL4UUD/s320/IMG_9767.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Totes better. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Ok, fine, I know what you're thinking, "Martha, it's 2017, not 1952, people don't classy things up DeMille style anymore, you need to Snap Chat that.......stuff."</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Really? </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Oh.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Huh. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I mean, well... sure. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I guess I could!</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyawQnh2H6Wx4Rflt0Mmrig0IyS_TUdQTyrhen-tptoEnzvWzNw8pXR31gCXJJNzgFrsLK3GMMXiL75MnCmz0aMMRQmSPjeLziRBLmpp8tTYJcyopHfdylhbh0SpPq0ir2n56C-R90ZXmT/s1600/IMG_9768.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyawQnh2H6Wx4Rflt0Mmrig0IyS_TUdQTyrhen-tptoEnzvWzNw8pXR31gCXJJNzgFrsLK3GMMXiL75MnCmz0aMMRQmSPjeLziRBLmpp8tTYJcyopHfdylhbh0SpPq0ir2n56C-R90ZXmT/s320/IMG_9768.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
How's that? </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Maybe add a filter?</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieRQvGXamDK8MaATKuNrZ3xn0TfJNR5crpe30hxvO7msC5EtKQKcqivOxVvKNGsk1Y7D7s79CFzX2Aw7EXagDhIYmMhlKBL_33ih0-u-tiig7zgQegvFwblBiti7LUfC6RuD9xLZfeJrQs/s1600/IMG_9769.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieRQvGXamDK8MaATKuNrZ3xn0TfJNR5crpe30hxvO7msC5EtKQKcqivOxVvKNGsk1Y7D7s79CFzX2Aw7EXagDhIYmMhlKBL_33ih0-u-tiig7zgQegvFwblBiti7LUfC6RuD9xLZfeJrQs/s320/IMG_9769.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
And a frame!!</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzD8z5UT8VBYykxfUioQntdKW-B_67958pFSkOl1mZ2pU_M5t36snYjdB4vf_E0pqrY954Auinq7BC20qXEwFZibSVu0Cvb_D1FKipQv4irJcNQIisxtwaVvYUKa_eCuXhDLv0QKpATCap/s1600/IMG_9770.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzD8z5UT8VBYykxfUioQntdKW-B_67958pFSkOl1mZ2pU_M5t36snYjdB4vf_E0pqrY954Auinq7BC20qXEwFZibSVu0Cvb_D1FKipQv4irJcNQIisxtwaVvYUKa_eCuXhDLv0QKpATCap/s320/IMG_9770.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Step. Back. Willis.<br />
<br />
I have the most 'tim-mate idea! Ev. Er.<br />
<br />
1) Snap Chat flower wreath,<br />
<br />
2) Filter it with a vintage Polaroid look<br />
<br />
AND FINALLY<br />
<br />
3) A funky camera angle to show that the unidentified crap in my yard doesn't take itself too seriously, you know, in the whole "I just woke up like this" Instagram pic style. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLm5vTsvicuH8LFGFWL0EtEv95MnMkQBVYPyny1e9PnR5YCHx-wXWDviZE8A1ARKCVGZA1D03PbdDesdzHCo41AqsvlgQM0mWK6J947qmEarMT0dLDw5lNB1OYzaqlzc62Oif5z5Yv2CEr/s1600/IMG_9771.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLm5vTsvicuH8LFGFWL0EtEv95MnMkQBVYPyny1e9PnR5YCHx-wXWDviZE8A1ARKCVGZA1D03PbdDesdzHCo41AqsvlgQM0mWK6J947qmEarMT0dLDw5lNB1OYzaqlzc62Oif5z5Yv2CEr/s320/IMG_9771.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Perfect. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
No. But, in all seriousness, people. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Is it vomit or diarrhea? </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Award yourself 250 points (YES A WHOLE 250!!!) if you play the game </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
PLUS! </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I'll send a box of mac and cheese to the winner!</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I'm not kidding. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<a href="http://whenmacandcheeseattacks.blogspot.com/2011/11/faq-frequently-asked-questions.html" target="_blank">I follow through on my promises.</a></div>
Marthahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00837173905052530846noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5699937653527781562.post-57506400612287473322017-06-30T10:38:00.000-07:002017-06-30T10:38:20.005-07:00Just When You Think Your Mailbox Knows You...Guys? It seems I've turned the corner, age wise. According to my mailbox, no longer am I a strong, virile* woman, mind like a steel trap:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHaokZe7d5s-r2z6M8kvi7oOSLCnyARKctMDvUlQ74DbzctAef68OAHrNiOGvqOZmg_3MlMelhVqOIX4jbrdmSc0pkHz4DEC1uVbPuWdm4NWIJDuy6tV8xxIGSQNEUfmxwVkexV-CkjwOC/s1600/IMG_8931.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHaokZe7d5s-r2z6M8kvi7oOSLCnyARKctMDvUlQ74DbzctAef68OAHrNiOGvqOZmg_3MlMelhVqOIX4jbrdmSc0pkHz4DEC1uVbPuWdm4NWIJDuy6tV8xxIGSQNEUfmxwVkexV-CkjwOC/s320/IMG_8931.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
sleeping the night away, confident that in the morning my eye hand coordination will be on point<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoDFhOpXq_1pY5yBjV6qjWAjywmD758AqGfjx2Wm2UhVRWSRzcgCfEB5ogzqN8_DNbXeMtsj2mu1HFHAYYX7BFx3yWme5bBWYpz8aR_FAolUFyzCEbbwVZ4zrgtHbprCkOz9XDt_hLveea/s1600/rotatedsleepnomore.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoDFhOpXq_1pY5yBjV6qjWAjywmD758AqGfjx2Wm2UhVRWSRzcgCfEB5ogzqN8_DNbXeMtsj2mu1HFHAYYX7BFx3yWme5bBWYpz8aR_FAolUFyzCEbbwVZ4zrgtHbprCkOz9XDt_hLveea/s320/rotatedsleepnomore.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Oh, no. Instead, it seems I am having problems. In the bathroom. Explosive ones.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRjhNktN1zN0sISREYyXZXDmIIKfq4iGOjKZYxT9_I1lHmru0czxyncQ5dyTohBB6HCHfJPhM9OESROuVWQQBzNMjRTG4S6heexD4feO8EADPHzUZhaTt4D7-NDY7UsaTVBQFgQHU3J1s1/s1600/rotatedexplodingbowel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRjhNktN1zN0sISREYyXZXDmIIKfq4iGOjKZYxT9_I1lHmru0czxyncQ5dyTohBB6HCHfJPhM9OESROuVWQQBzNMjRTG4S6heexD4feO8EADPHzUZhaTt4D7-NDY7UsaTVBQFgQHU3J1s1/s320/rotatedexplodingbowel.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Dudes. I didn't even <i>know</i> I had explosions going on all up and down in my bowel.<br />
<br />
Unfortunately, it looks like in order to fix my bathroom jam...quagmire...toughie...enigma...stumper... metaphorical Gordian knot (<i>Huh? *wink wink* Huh? *nudge nudge* Get it?</i>) I need to add peppermint candies and bananas to my diet:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizIdb5NKspqx-2wZ5ruhRA6AWY2mU2MtRfANCNvJCbnRFeRUTlE1zLC1TtlqOzx8Dh8KZzr8YMIjr-9aa5owaGXzke6MhaVQOuO6pNJJie1taZMmmNsm19J2jiDqI24z2h55QlzZxDKMdr/s1600/IMG_8935.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizIdb5NKspqx-2wZ5ruhRA6AWY2mU2MtRfANCNvJCbnRFeRUTlE1zLC1TtlqOzx8Dh8KZzr8YMIjr-9aa5owaGXzke6MhaVQOuO6pNJJie1taZMmmNsm19J2jiDqI24z2h55QlzZxDKMdr/s320/IMG_8935.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
(<i>cue whiny voice</i>) Ah. Maaaaaan. I hate peppermint. And bananas! Can't I just use coffee to set off, like, controlled explosions or something?<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2xjZJrJ3kssyr0bdeLZZ6sqHDFRJc_jsWBv1Q7jSCmnYg-wpQawV4Y10bGLctHodmOJJude7xkQisL_TcplemBlHzCHHPe-FlObGiTFMJX5xRQSHbk6XowwcEr52OkwABDDvoGLBPdihC/s1600/rotatedherbalteaexplosion.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2xjZJrJ3kssyr0bdeLZZ6sqHDFRJc_jsWBv1Q7jSCmnYg-wpQawV4Y10bGLctHodmOJJude7xkQisL_TcplemBlHzCHHPe-FlObGiTFMJX5xRQSHbk6XowwcEr52OkwABDDvoGLBPdihC/s320/rotatedherbalteaexplosion.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Apparently not.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
But, yesterday, as I sat down, bowl of sliced bananas and crushed peppermint candies at my elbow, my recently arrived Mind, Mood & Memory crossword puzzle in front of me, and the ghost of my daily crossword completing Grandma in the corner, being all:<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw47_AVSk7rbkqZmeyoIaCA0m0_Y155ppNAsISNBueH2k2LAZmSH_YHKXZYTVRhNANE5AXzbADW3qwUvZ-Q9vGOnCYNw0izxc5wpUNNznsBh2QmKDa1XhxvGxXV7rnhaM_GA23p3eaWtg3/s1600/toldyouso.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw47_AVSk7rbkqZmeyoIaCA0m0_Y155ppNAsISNBueH2k2LAZmSH_YHKXZYTVRhNANE5AXzbADW3qwUvZ-Q9vGOnCYNw0izxc5wpUNNznsBh2QmKDa1XhxvGxXV7rnhaM_GA23p3eaWtg3/s320/toldyouso.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
the doorbell rang.<br />
<br />
I had a package!<br />
<br />
And it was this:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHEwtXj1-5QtFUpQB4xZ5jCUVvGXKvIoEOmDCsFhqoFgBqfbSNCQY6JZ8XJQplMgTSHcnq2D-ljTFO-0UHbvcyb6qz24wesFzIyJ1_NmsvEA9E88nnNJIInXhZS-DsP3uoXacv6WrwC1Du/s1600/rotatedformula.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHEwtXj1-5QtFUpQB4xZ5jCUVvGXKvIoEOmDCsFhqoFgBqfbSNCQY6JZ8XJQplMgTSHcnq2D-ljTFO-0UHbvcyb6qz24wesFzIyJ1_NmsvEA9E88nnNJIInXhZS-DsP3uoXacv6WrwC1Du/s320/rotatedformula.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
I kid you not:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwu_cz9eVJ1YFZXj3PJICK4HauhVKqgEXT2UKawWcHdKJqRhvPXX5RW38hHgFVQCSkUPmCJLiJjO6GxMKkI-RqLfosZxM0XIjbt6Hj0OOxyaaM91pt0xtFth1wd-QNUrt_TojomgKwnhca/s1600/IMG_8938.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwu_cz9eVJ1YFZXj3PJICK4HauhVKqgEXT2UKawWcHdKJqRhvPXX5RW38hHgFVQCSkUPmCJLiJjO6GxMKkI-RqLfosZxM0XIjbt6Hj0OOxyaaM91pt0xtFth1wd-QNUrt_TojomgKwnhca/s320/IMG_8938.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
And after a quick check-in with my uterus (because, dude, seriously, that wouldn't be cool), I began to realize, my mail box, after years of a relationship full of giving and receiving, full on bonding through rain, wind, snow, sun, heat and even bird poop, doesn't know me. At. All.<br />
<br />
*<i>sigh</i>*<br />
<br />
<a href="https://www.theguardian.com/technology/2016/dec/04/google-democracy-truth-internet-search-facebook" target="_blank">At least my Google searches and I are still besties. Well, maybe.</a><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<br />
*<b>Anecdote to support my vocabulary choice:</b> A year or two ago some lady walked up to me in the airport restroom as I was standing in front of one of the stalls waiting for Ellie, looked me in the eye and said, "Do you need some help. <i>*deliberate pause* </i>Sir?" So, see, I'm thinking, woman can totally be virile.**<br />
<br />
**<b>What I didn't say to the bathroom lady's face but did say in my head:</b> Look, <i><u>lady</u></i>, if there is one place you can be sure someone is self identifying.....Marthahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00837173905052530846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5699937653527781562.post-27095584024668858932017-06-22T17:31:00.000-07:002017-06-22T17:31:54.765-07:00Names Changed To Protect The Innocent (Even Though They Aren't)It probably comes as no surprise that I've spent something like the last 10 years of my life living in a baby proof house, leaping over baby gates I'm too lazy to open when hauling laundry up the stairs. 10 years of living with a combination of babies and toddlers who can't be trusted not to pull the bleach out from under the bathroom sink and drink it. 10 years of feeling comfortable telling all my friends exactly how many times my children put the tut-tut into the potty "like a big girl!" (And then making them high five me. For my own sense of fulfillment.) 10 years of trying to go to the bathroom, quickly, by myself, while yelling things like "What was that crash? What are you doing?" and "Quit banging on the door, mommy will be done in a minute. A second. Ok, ok, I'll...just...well, Ok, I'm done. Close enough. (<i>flings open door</i>) WHAT DO YOU WANT?!" 10 years of trying to entice my children to eat through the clever use of bribes, toys and pleadings. 10 years of pulling weird things they shouldn't eat out of their mouths: grass, sticks, rocks, shoes, books..... 10 years of having to spend 98% of my day with a child attached to my body one way or another, even though both were weaned before they could walk with any confidence. (<i>Note to the breast feeding mafia: Simmer down there, Capone. My children were very late walkers. Which, by the way, I think is totally awesome, because <a href="http://whenmacandcheeseattacks.blogspot.com/2010/11/my-kids-are-smarter-than-yours.html" target="_blank">I once read that lack of kinetic skill development in toddlers correlates with higher intelligence. Dudes, my kids are full on geniuses.</a></i>)<br />
<br />
10 years.<br />
<br />
It's a long time. A long time, people.<br />
<br />
And then, a year or so ago, I realized those days were behind me and I began to relax. I began to sit down on the couch to drink my coffee out of a real grown up type mug instead of a sippy one. I took all the locks off the bathroom cabinets. I gave away the baby gates and poured the syrup of ipecac into the garbage. I stopped updating my running partner on the number of times Ellie or Katie tut-tut-tutted without having to be told that "big girls take care of their needs."<br />
<br />
And then.<br />
<br />
Jon.<br />
<br />
Jon began to look at me with those eyes.<br />
<br />
And then?<br />
<br />
The children.<br />
<br />
The children were giving me the same look.<br />
<br />
So I caved.<br />
<br />
Because I'm a weak, weak womyn, people.<br />
<br />
And the next thing you know, my house is the site of a rotating cast of living beings that survive on the strength of their cuteness.<br />
<br />
Yes, I am now a puppy sitter.<br />
<br />
Hey! Why don't you all check your shoes in case we missed any tut-tut piles in the front yard, hop over my newly purchased baby gate and come on in! I'll introduce you!<br />
<br />
Meet Queenie,<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2utcMEd6WOw-COjRiYYlXa5Qh4LmOj1ZF0c9GCfsmuy0mpiD4MbcW-iff-upN5uaDVKpv-B_tp5BF9A_8gRBmJ7TIoSxLSYTr2tqhtkNxXJ4f6Q1q7RjKT_j3r0sJHHx-VCaC1Np5QpjG/s1600/IMG_20170124_095015.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2utcMEd6WOw-COjRiYYlXa5Qh4LmOj1ZF0c9GCfsmuy0mpiD4MbcW-iff-upN5uaDVKpv-B_tp5BF9A_8gRBmJ7TIoSxLSYTr2tqhtkNxXJ4f6Q1q7RjKT_j3r0sJHHx-VCaC1Np5QpjG/s320/IMG_20170124_095015.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">who can't tell the difference between real animals and ones on tv, and must be consoled when she sees either. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
And Spot,<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoy4MZuwcp7ApM9Es2njolimr45kbFcwBseKw2BooQmXbyk9TW62hepoUQmvTIOq_Qp31oevSddEZGiT8eAxnDDKID5pEWDY3TMjZBPrvbXBhcR0UzncQ0lYpZOYlknlCtE2QSwdiIDqkR/s1600/IMG_20170126_154015.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoy4MZuwcp7ApM9Es2njolimr45kbFcwBseKw2BooQmXbyk9TW62hepoUQmvTIOq_Qp31oevSddEZGiT8eAxnDDKID5pEWDY3TMjZBPrvbXBhcR0UzncQ0lYpZOYlknlCtE2QSwdiIDqkR/s320/IMG_20170126_154015.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">who requires me to constantly remove gross things from her mouth. Most recently? Chewed gum she found on the sidewalk.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
And this is Fido,<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4WzhrFPe_Xjx7emXLZcS0gqB3QBo6hjMA867WS4JGe1_MqiMYgkYKt7QnH8HoI5bS6iPCQP7NLPODyYdU2Kw9BglbhKZp7AWbjtYDFOzB5FjRUCz29-xdvy37ef6DRQbi314Iq2h7_sLk/s1600/IMG_20170201_062214.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4WzhrFPe_Xjx7emXLZcS0gqB3QBo6hjMA867WS4JGe1_MqiMYgkYKt7QnH8HoI5bS6iPCQP7NLPODyYdU2Kw9BglbhKZp7AWbjtYDFOzB5FjRUCz29-xdvy37ef6DRQbi314Iq2h7_sLk/s320/IMG_20170201_062214.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;"> who must cuddle. At. All. Times. I never get to use the bathroom by myself when he's around.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
And then there's Rocky,<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjptofvN7ZOiNeQuRww6P8buiG-0QuMgRAMN1ileHU2O0nBVXX1aNppIWBUeR_nBf4Uaxnlh-Y6luRk0ac239SjI-KQuVVTzBxs0CYfXSc17PRZEuICp3cKgGZTuKs64te0gcLlVxMkx1L/s1600/IMG_20170202_131224.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjptofvN7ZOiNeQuRww6P8buiG-0QuMgRAMN1ileHU2O0nBVXX1aNppIWBUeR_nBf4Uaxnlh-Y6luRk0ac239SjI-KQuVVTzBxs0CYfXSc17PRZEuICp3cKgGZTuKs64te0gcLlVxMkx1L/s320/IMG_20170202_131224.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">who refuses to eat unless Ellie makes a trail of his kibble around the house, Hansel and Gretel style.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
We've gotten to know Buddy,<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLJ5cKQEB6VI2lGJ5W70P3xiSa6XKsIfJeuZOd4ELT9mDeGu3vI0oK07rGQnWyEIR6BDDA42agUnASbBiPDMseYIVxEPCp5o75tYbpOYaTWGNq_Jfoo7GwVDve1hbbJ5gpvYrpKtWduR_N/s1600/IMG_20170426_145631.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLJ5cKQEB6VI2lGJ5W70P3xiSa6XKsIfJeuZOd4ELT9mDeGu3vI0oK07rGQnWyEIR6BDDA42agUnASbBiPDMseYIVxEPCp5o75tYbpOYaTWGNq_Jfoo7GwVDve1hbbJ5gpvYrpKtWduR_N/s320/IMG_20170426_145631.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">who eats poop. And not just his own. Enough said.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
And, then there is this little bundle of energy named Bandit,<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1CJBIDkkWubuKnpBaBjpa7crM-EHEofxRr7JBRooESUtPFeVdgRMBAiwilugsuWL-Iwn6q8qk1v7N98eDpDxCzMrLafja7pl_4ibjvJLwEzVqZvd0VgcMg-vJmyQabueTLd5Vj_9EE9-a/s1600/IMG_20170516_144001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1CJBIDkkWubuKnpBaBjpa7crM-EHEofxRr7JBRooESUtPFeVdgRMBAiwilugsuWL-Iwn6q8qk1v7N98eDpDxCzMrLafja7pl_4ibjvJLwEzVqZvd0VgcMg-vJmyQabueTLd5Vj_9EE9-a/s320/IMG_20170516_144001.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">who is the reason we don't have nice things anymore.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
We all high fived each other this morning too, when Lucky<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1EExtFWtwo4Bu1meOExpnHoAtpzEg6ITs7RYVsf25JHSkhgpzaZJ13k5RQtbr-P5vZCciDlpm8VeddufgMcoZgFV1Oaj662kc1B7OdseDBpqAiiNaiuzFVM4tj2fLTpMjMYKm0tHSQzyc/s1600/IMG_20170619_121114.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1EExtFWtwo4Bu1meOExpnHoAtpzEg6ITs7RYVsf25JHSkhgpzaZJ13k5RQtbr-P5vZCciDlpm8VeddufgMcoZgFV1Oaj662kc1B7OdseDBpqAiiNaiuzFVM4tj2fLTpMjMYKm0tHSQzyc/s320/IMG_20170619_121114.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">put his tut-tut <b>outside</b>, <i>in the grass! </i><br />
Awwww! He's getting to be such a big boy!<br />
Dudes! You know? I should totally tell Mabel about it on our run this afternoon!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
And, guys? Last week? A puppy named Rex totally fell asleep in my lap. I'm pretty sure this<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqrtzACUMy5wZ3dwfmeOLwjuwJtZwm82sgv6q-iwppw90a8G1fVV85C0ytJVA4eW9nhBlSqa9swihLbbHm8qmAFEr3kGB3jPT7F93nqmd-oZ_-fMjbaHcCVmOzQ8z8ozMmCw-7QH5V01rQ/s1600/rotatedsleepingdog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqrtzACUMy5wZ3dwfmeOLwjuwJtZwm82sgv6q-iwppw90a8G1fVV85C0ytJVA4eW9nhBlSqa9swihLbbHm8qmAFEr3kGB3jPT7F93nqmd-oZ_-fMjbaHcCVmOzQ8z8ozMmCw-7QH5V01rQ/s320/rotatedsleepingdog.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">is the definition of a life come full circle. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Marthahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00837173905052530846noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5699937653527781562.post-37053109393598699792017-05-18T16:41:00.000-07:002017-05-18T16:41:19.608-07:00I Read A Book. A Grown Up Book. Written For Grown Ups. By Grown Ups. Not Angels. Because, Spoiler Alert: Angels Don't Write Books. Um, You Know, Obviously....I found a book at the library, it's called <u>Bachelor Brother's Bed and Breakfast</u>. I picked it up because the back of the book said, "This book will do for Vancouver what Anne did for Prince Edward Island." Really! Seriously! Squeee! Move out of my way, children, Mommy has her own book to check out from the library. Right. Now.<br />
<br />
This is the part I want to tell you that two minutes after I got home, I brewed that perfect cup of coffee, snuggled up under the cozy blanket on the couch and read and read and read..... But. I can't. Because my life doesn't work like that anymore. In reality, I had to physically pull both girls out of the library while also carrying a 60lb bag full of books <i>and</i> by the time we got home dinner needed to be made. Kids needed to be fought with about unloading that huge pile of books from the library bag. (Listen, kids. You created this problem yourselves.) Emails needed to be answered. School lunches needed to be made. Laundry needed to be switched. Life needed to be cleaned, organized and fed. So, the book sat, waiting for me, on my bedside table.<br />
<br />
You caught that keyword there, right? Yeah. Bedside.<br />
<br />
Dudes? The battle was pretty much lost as soon as my head hit that pillow.<br />
<br />
I read 96 words the first night. Then next night? 109. The next? 279! It was a banner night, let me tell you! And there weren't many of these.<br />
<br />
But, with determination, perseverance, and a few days of giving into my caffeine addiction after 4pm, I won the war and finished the book! (Although I'd rather not tell you that the last page took three nights to read...)<br />
<br />
And it was a good book! I <i>like</i> these brothers. I want to go and spend a weekend in their bed and breakfast with their open kitchen, walls filled with books, tree house in the front yard, their guest book filled not with names, but with vignettes written by their lodgers about their lives. Dudes. There's even a cat and a grouchy parrot hanging about the house. Who wouldn't want to go there? *<i>Piffle!*</i> And they say Disneyland is the happiest place on earth!<br />
<br />
But the best part? Hector and Virgil take turns writing chapters, so you get a different perspective on all the doings at the bed and breakfast from each of them!!<br />
<br />
Well.<br />
<br />
At least I <i>thought</i> Hector and Virgil wrote them. But, after I put my Jigsaw Jones detective skillz to work (meaning I looked at the front cover), I saw that the book was written, not, by Hector and Virgil, but by some <i><u>guy</u></i> named Bill Richardson. Yeah, it played out pretty much <a href="https://youtu.be/_O1hM-k3aUY" target="_blank">just like this</a>:<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/_O1hM-k3aUY?rel=0&showinfo=0" width="560"></iframe><br />
<br />
<br />
And, while the let down wasn't quite as big as when I was seven and Mrs. Fry, the school librarian, broke the news that all books are <i>not</i>, in fact, written by angels and published on heaven's printing press (True story, I kid you not.), it still stung a little, you know?<br />
<br />
I mean, these guys seemed like friendly, welcoming people. But quirky! I wanted to not only go to their bed and breakfast but actually talk to them, IN REAL LIFE, which is surprising, because, lets face it, I don't like new people. And, especially not conversations <i>with</i> new people.<br />
<br />
So, I guess, Vancouver Tourist Bureau, I won't be visiting your city anytime soon. And you can blame it on Bill Richardson and his book full of stupid believable characters who aren't real in real life.<br />
<br />
<i>*tsk*</i> Stuff like this never happened when Anne Shirley was alive.<br />
<br />
You know what? Whatever, Vancouver. Because, I can totally just create my <i>own</i> bed and breakfast.<br />
<br />
In my <i>own </i>house.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaBOFFnHc44b31AdBYI1_hhymslV1kmq9M-7QFZlGkVW934dnwJdu6z4fBVFk9bY_gRjum3VF4KTey7pFOXV2pBWiplgCmBlGfgi5yvwvCNsWof5YUyoaRjo3XCknuksDTIeNLueOhMn3r/s1600/cozycorner.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaBOFFnHc44b31AdBYI1_hhymslV1kmq9M-7QFZlGkVW934dnwJdu6z4fBVFk9bY_gRjum3VF4KTey7pFOXV2pBWiplgCmBlGfgi5yvwvCNsWof5YUyoaRjo3XCknuksDTIeNLueOhMn3r/s320/cozycorner.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Look! It's, like, totes easy! <br />All I need is a cozy chair and blanket, cute cuddly kitty, happy cup of coffee,<br />good book, and I can settle in for a nice long read!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgiTU_CSffxqZ_pGEl_jh9-z9CZbH2EF0CifhJRUVpSUXQI88o3g3ThIhFoYFAuxtfT4xZNt114HiSzphspNnCQcyCmBLHzL9YOhSO4D7MXbkqATj-N5iGDRYrZZKNVW25mhoszS8MKTRB/s1600/IMG_8541.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgiTU_CSffxqZ_pGEl_jh9-z9CZbH2EF0CifhJRUVpSUXQI88o3g3ThIhFoYFAuxtfT4xZNt114HiSzphspNnCQcyCmBLHzL9YOhSO4D7MXbkqATj-N5iGDRYrZZKNVW25mhoszS8MKTRB/s320/IMG_8541.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-_t6sT_mwacmfl4NZtHISWxE6eoU7VkrUeurRU_eXahB-RDRlBPHjTr74HSTtCE78BhovojXWBoRq-xKIrVPjdc7tMjxjKh77SAgiwz99c79EbeyHSdP0qwPry1m2TBeKoh8rvhV5qbOf/s1600/IMG_8542.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-_t6sT_mwacmfl4NZtHISWxE6eoU7VkrUeurRU_eXahB-RDRlBPHjTr74HSTtCE78BhovojXWBoRq-xKIrVPjdc7tMjxjKh77SAgiwz99c79EbeyHSdP0qwPry1m2TBeKoh8rvhV5qbOf/s320/IMG_8542.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dude. <br />Ever hear of personal space?<br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Man.... <div>
<br /><div>
<i>*sigh*</i> </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I bet Anne Shirley never had these kids of problems at <i>her</i> PEI bed and breakfast. </div>
</div>
Marthahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00837173905052530846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5699937653527781562.post-35978536623699449442017-04-27T12:53:00.001-07:002017-04-27T12:53:05.042-07:00Playing Catch Up. Or Mustard. And Other Weak Condiment Jokes.<b>End of March:</b><br />
<br />
The early morning runs to school drop off can still be a bit dark at the end of March. The other week, as I was standing out in the middle of the street, gesturing to Ellie that it was safe for her to bike across, I realized that I have a super power.<br />
<br />
No. Joke.<br />
<br />
See, unlike Spider-Man, the manifestation of my powers did not occur overnight, <i>but</i>, had to be developed and strengthened through years of training. Like Batman. (Although, admittedly, Batman's training had way fewer kids calling him "Mom" than mine did.)<br />
<br />
The day I realized my powers had reached their height we were on the way to school, as I said, in those still dark in the Northwest early morning hours. Ellie was waiting, on the corner not only dressed in a bright red and pink ladybug raincoat, sparkle mermaid leggings, light up shoe laces and a helmet liberally covered in reflective stickers shaped like stars, but, sitting on a bright pink butterfly bike with white tires and lights on the handlebars, lights on the seat post, lights on the front flower basket that flash each time she goes over the tiniest bump, lights on the wheels that change color like the dance floor from Saturday Night Fever! I, on the other hand, was standing in the middle of the street dressed for running in varying hues of black, gesturing to Ellie that it was safe to cross because I had stopped all traffic by, get this, SHOOTING BEAMS OF INDOMITABLE WILL OUT OF MY EYEBALLS!<br />
<br />
Seriously.<br />
<br />
There was absolutely no reason that I should be even seen by the cars, <i>but I was</i>. Any logical person would send out the most brilliantly dressed well lit person into the crosswalk first. Like a peacock in a coal mine. Instead? I stopped traffic with intimidation and <i>my indomitable will</i>. That's. Right. Just like Batman. (<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Batman" target="_blank">according to wikipedia</a>)<br />
<br />
<u>Note: </u><br />
Jon continues to deny my super hero status, flying in the face of all <i>scientific evidence</i> I've presented. And each morning, for like a week, I had to endure his boring lectures about how scientific evidence should be based on the results of statistical analysis and the strength of scientific controls and not made up stories, <i>Martha</i>.<br />
<br />
Until I stopped listening.<br />
<br />
And then this showed up. Placed neatly on top of all my superhero running outfits:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirSLeeHPoXou6GDSlKkY5eAu70n-1rKSMKx0NtKCcqwh6WVCVG9uCmp2V1NejWSL9xA0BnQutKJ7K9lJBny79O4xxeitZBLu-xdCwziSMhUpJrCOS_O0OzLiFzIGqg_gsNu3DZIQpgqWqv/s1600/hero.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirSLeeHPoXou6GDSlKkY5eAu70n-1rKSMKx0NtKCcqwh6WVCVG9uCmp2V1NejWSL9xA0BnQutKJ7K9lJBny79O4xxeitZBLu-xdCwziSMhUpJrCOS_O0OzLiFzIGqg_gsNu3DZIQpgqWqv/s320/hero.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
And all I could imagine was that, if Batman's mom had survived that horrific murder in the back alleys of Gotham City, Bruce Wayne and I would be in the exact same boat:<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbZPqgm4SUkGWGt3C2l6ST9Puf97phpX3X6nlRw_DoIk9PsJBktlWb-8zo4KMsdghPEOt7GsEYqJbStuhenOEtOKJ5lESHfeneaAdVtXXpZkNv1aflF0jKV_-Ry0RJP58DICg9UdrdXZMv/s1600/safetyfirst.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="192" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbZPqgm4SUkGWGt3C2l6ST9Puf97phpX3X6nlRw_DoIk9PsJBktlWb-8zo4KMsdghPEOt7GsEYqJbStuhenOEtOKJ5lESHfeneaAdVtXXpZkNv1aflF0jKV_-Ry0RJP58DICg9UdrdXZMv/s320/safetyfirst.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"But, MOM, bats are supposed to be stealthy, blending with the night swooping down on-"<br />Martha Wayne raises eyebrow.<br />"Uhg. Fine."<br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<b><br /></b>
<b>Beginning of April:</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<u>Three things I didn't say </u></div>
<br />
1. He looks like Harry Potter, but driving a Porsche 911 instead of a nimbus 2000.<br />
<br />
2. <i>Someone's</i> kicking herself for going off on that tangent about grizzly bears. Been there done that, sister.<br />
<br />
3. Well, you know what they say, those who can't, get a teaching degree, have a couple kids and start writing a self deprecating mom blog while watching reruns of Gilmore Girls.<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b><br /></b>
<b><br /></b>
<b>Middle of April:</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
We were all over at Mabel's house, sitting on her back porch, enjoying a rare rain free late afternoon and talking like adults while the children ran amok inside the house. Unsupervised. (Unless you count Mabel's cat. Good parents probably wouldn't.)<br />
<br />
<b>Harold:</b> Does society have a perceived correlation between intelligence and how much a person talks? For instance, if a person seems to babble, are they initially perceived as less intelligent?<br />
<b>Me:</b> (<i>looking up from phone</i>) DUDES! VANILLA ICE STARRED IN A MOVIE*!? How did I not know about this? I mean, I've watched all his home improvement shows, Jon too, voluntarily I might add (<i>Jon makes his "what!?!" face</i>) I shouldn't have to find out about these things from Twitter! I mean, <i>sure</i>, when everyone was bustin' a move to "Ice Ice Baby" and sitting in dark theaters watching the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles battle Shredder for the last canister of mutant making ooze I was singing along to my "Chipmunks Go Hollywood" tape and memorizing "Boil Them Cabbage Down" so I could perform with the Junior High Fiddling Club but-<br />
<b>Geraldine:</b> Martha. You told this story, like, five years ago. <br />
<b>Me:</b> (<i>looking to Mabel for confirmation</i>) Really?<br />
<b>Mabel:</b> Yeah.<br />
<b>Me:</b> Oh. Sorry. What were you saying again, Harold?<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b><br /></b>
<b>Today:</b><b><br /></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
I found and open package of wasabi peas buried at the bottom of the snack drawer.<br />
<br />
They're a bit...chewy.<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Probably</i> Jon wouldn't approve of my eating them.<br />
<br />
He would <i>probably</i> lecture me about botulism science. Again.<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>*eye roll*</i><br />
<br />
I swear, it's constraints like this that turn potential superheros into super villains.<br />
<br />
Jon.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
*Videos. Because they needed to be shared.<br />
<a href="https://youtu.be/IX_Ufs0oX5E" target="_blank"> For the Vanilla Ice purist.</a><br />
<a href="https://youtu.be/OZqeTV9mFjE" target="_blank">For the people who would rather mock Vanilla Ice.</a><br />
<a href="https://youtu.be/SlsLbTC3BS0" target="_blank">For the people who think Ice Ice Baby would sound better sung by a penguin.</a>Marthahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00837173905052530846noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5699937653527781562.post-17788787304238202222017-03-18T08:55:00.000-07:002017-03-18T09:29:50.643-07:00Someone Got Really Judgmental This Week And Took Action. Not Me. My Friend. And Now She Needs Some Advice. I need some advice.<br />
<br />
For a friend.<br />
<br />
Let's call her, I don't know, uuuhhhhh....Mary-yeah, good name. Anyway, my friend, Mary, has, like, a huge pet peeve, which, she didn't even <i>know</i> was that big of a pet peeve until she started working at, a kind of library. Not a real library. Like an extra library, only for kids. Anyway, this friend, so I'm told, was sitting there at the library thing, checking out books, as one does at libraries, right? Anyway, as she's helping kids find books to read and reshelving returns and all that, she keeps seeing these kinds of, well, these certain kinds of books...on the shelves. Books that my friend doesn't think are really appropriate for children, or really any people, no matter what walk of life, to be reading. So, one day, after volunteering (note: out of the generosity of her heart) every week for, like, <b>three</b> <b>years</b>, my friend finally cracks and removes the books from the shelves. And marks them as damaged in the computer system. And puts them in her backpack. And takes them home. And hides them under her bed. So the children don't find them. Because it horrifies her, to the depth of her soul toes*, to imagine her family reading them. Because, dudes. They. Are. That. Bad.<br />
<br />
I'm not kidding.<br />
<br />
Seriously!<br />
<br />
Look!<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuvu7E2zsXbmpfzFTBmBem0CgebK_EWFEImmYGLGd35ZbB8Ea-W5eCcowpccL_jfI6fHhv5vaRDRHEFKs237RfoWwDJzVCnOonaRybdw_Utoao7dm6jmfdsbtFBkCKNyvrtwHvDf40_zwL/s1600/IMG_8328.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuvu7E2zsXbmpfzFTBmBem0CgebK_EWFEImmYGLGd35ZbB8Ea-W5eCcowpccL_jfI6fHhv5vaRDRHEFKs237RfoWwDJzVCnOonaRybdw_Utoao7dm6jmfdsbtFBkCKNyvrtwHvDf40_zwL/s320/IMG_8328.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
Maybe you missed it. Let's lean in for a closer look, shall we?<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigksrW8_Z0TtAEK70ovOqpvUOj8aCYP-LSMP3xnr4tjlvqTphSANHailnotJZE5yZjfZYslsMbhq8M8TZTZ7W_eswKMO7YSVoLcKQjLiZnQasAHETua6RPaTT8aD2gBZM8sNkDUG_Cjosg/s1600/abridgedlittlewomen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="152" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigksrW8_Z0TtAEK70ovOqpvUOj8aCYP-LSMP3xnr4tjlvqTphSANHailnotJZE5yZjfZYslsMbhq8M8TZTZ7W_eswKMO7YSVoLcKQjLiZnQasAHETua6RPaTT8aD2gBZM8sNkDUG_Cjosg/s320/abridgedlittlewomen.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
Right. Right there. You see it? Based, which is just another word for abridged. Slashed. Mutilated. Dumbed-down. Snipped like an eight week old kitten**.<br />
<br />
I mean, guys? The book <i>ended</i> with this sentence:<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
They ate and drank and talked and laughed. The day ended with Beth playing carols and everyone singing.</blockquote>
<br />
Step.<br />
<br />
Back.<br />
<br />
Now, maybe you're all like, eh, never liked <u>Little Women</u> anyway, all sweet and way too quaint and what not. Who cares!?<br />
<br />
But, I'm sorry. <br />
<br />
First off, you have crazy coming out of every orifice of your body, and I'm not sure we can still be friends.<br />
<br />
Second, it was not the only "book" on the shelves.<br />
<br />
<u>Robinson Crusoe</u>, widely regarded as one of the greatest novels of all time, had it's description of cannibalism changed from this:<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
When I came to the place my very blood ran chill in my veins, and my heart sunk within me, at the horror of the spectacle; indeed, it was a dreadful sight, at least it was so to me, though Friday made nothing of it. <span style="background-color: lime;">The place was covered with human bones, the ground dyed with their blood, and great pieces of flesh left here and there, half-eaten, mangled, and scorched; and, in short, all the tokens of the triumphant feast they had been making there, after a victory over their enemies. I saw three skulls, five hands, and the bones of three or four legs and feet, and abundance of other parts of the bodies;</span> and Friday, by his signs, made me understand that they brought over four prisoners to feast upon; (...) I found Friday had still a hankering stomach after some of the flesh, and was still a cannibal in his nature; but I showed so much abhorrence at the very thoughts of it, and at the least appearance of it, that he durst not discover it: for I had, by some means, let him know that I would kill him if he offered it.</blockquote>
<br />
<br />
To this:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
When we came to the place in the sand where we left the two cannibals, he showed me that he wanted to uncover and eat them. I let him know that this was very wrong.</blockquote>
<br />
Tell me, Scholastic Junior Classics, exactly where did the chunks of flesh, the blood soaked ground and mangled bodies go? Huh? I mean, if my kid isn't ready to read a semi-biographical detailed description of a cannibalistic feast written in 1719, then, maybe they should just stick to something gentler, like <u>The Wind in the Willows</u>.<br />
<br />
Oh, waaaaiiit. No. Sorry, <i>gosh</i>, never mind, you ruined that one too.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6nD5ffyVchEgK6EQiRRXlTHPZRFONNIFI94LPPxTiBYz-JodqSk1iaYK99UxvmfIczzFNYib2usH9NndnjKg4nEsjnxDkuc-n4VIkZmTKZjN_MHQ3Lnt-Tq6cKiylhDhqmBFueUqGy2Tb/s1600/IMG_8332.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6nD5ffyVchEgK6EQiRRXlTHPZRFONNIFI94LPPxTiBYz-JodqSk1iaYK99UxvmfIczzFNYib2usH9NndnjKg4nEsjnxDkuc-n4VIkZmTKZjN_MHQ3Lnt-Tq6cKiylhDhqmBFueUqGy2Tb/s320/IMG_8332.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Didn't you?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
Goodness, how can we expect the children of today to understand these stories if we don't chop out 80% of the words and then define the last 101 at the bottom of the page?<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj78hR2FDE08z-rdP-uuVOw_nyFK091zXTLHvCzaFgX_LUDN-snNJ4aBLqVeIO6wuNWMvwkBfMI4Rq_A7RBz_irUceB8gCGG0NbgWgl7IuzJkbOHHWMLyUdfI45p1ltVHs1meNL1DK2RB9g/s1600/IMG_8333.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj78hR2FDE08z-rdP-uuVOw_nyFK091zXTLHvCzaFgX_LUDN-snNJ4aBLqVeIO6wuNWMvwkBfMI4Rq_A7RBz_irUceB8gCGG0NbgWgl7IuzJkbOHHWMLyUdfI45p1ltVHs1meNL1DK2RB9g/s320/IMG_8333.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
I mean, what was Anna Sewell even thinking writing <i>all those words</i>? This one is soooo much easier.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpwnjCkFWs5KJAvBGewU5vXbiE-eAR_VskvW7sF3pccz2E1yPGIRqyPjEJ0_eL2jCjL6C4NOFRCStwyRLX1vkOdU5Zkpm-LPua8GmYTJrgOPxD7CBtvSOpV2e-ScRqGz-6qBDV5NtXH2Ho/s1600/IMG_8335.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpwnjCkFWs5KJAvBGewU5vXbiE-eAR_VskvW7sF3pccz2E1yPGIRqyPjEJ0_eL2jCjL6C4NOFRCStwyRLX1vkOdU5Zkpm-LPua8GmYTJrgOPxD7CBtvSOpV2e-ScRqGz-6qBDV5NtXH2Ho/s320/IMG_8335.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And under 60 pages too! (<i>eye roll</i>) Score.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
So, I guess, what I'm asking, hypothetically, for a friend, named Mary, is this: Is what Mary did <i>really </i>considered stealing?<br />
<br />
Now, before you don your judgmental righteous hat (you know, the red one***), and give an answer, hear Mary out. Because, the other day, we were drinking coffee together and we discussed the moral ramifications of her actions, and Mary likened it more to, oh, what did she say, eradicating invasive plants from National Parks? No. Recycling? Noooo that wasn't it either. Oh, yeah! She said what she did was more like adopting one of those tiny traffic circles in her neighborhood, disposing of the used heroin syringes and planting wildflowers. <a href="http://www.popsci.com/save-bumblebees-wildflowers" target="_blank">To save the honeybees. And by extension, mankind itself.</a><br />
<br />
So, maybe my real hypothetical question, for a friend, named Mary is this: Is literature something that needs to be saved, like the honeybee? <a href="http://ideas.time.com/2013/06/03/why-we-should-read-literature/" target="_blank">Do we have a moral right to protect the "intellectual and emotional development" of current and future generations?</a> And, can it be achieved through gorilla type tactics?<br />
<br />
If we have replaced all 16 removed "books" with the real thing****.<br />
<br />
Using our own money.<br />
<br />
Because, let's face it, Mary would do anything for these honeybees:<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqp807ax0w8qQIk6mvHHTzoDXEjou6NmsKzplxW3Eej03fOjl1EVMi9CMIRU9xpSy_njKoGXfPnCiB6KZrSd4EnOc2GIeECZYkwLdgElCAlHIcksK30SRUX955L6KzABq9vXe2CWT4vk9A/s1600/IMG_4363.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqp807ax0w8qQIk6mvHHTzoDXEjou6NmsKzplxW3Eej03fOjl1EVMi9CMIRU9xpSy_njKoGXfPnCiB6KZrSd4EnOc2GIeECZYkwLdgElCAlHIcksK30SRUX955L6KzABq9vXe2CWT4vk9A/s320/IMG_4363.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And by extension, yours too.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
*Yes, souls have toes, and you can't prove otherwise.<br />
<br />
**Because you should spay and neuter your pets, not your classic literature.<br />
<br />
***This isn't the hat you thought it would be, is it?<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTuANSMs3GgPy9QMCgo4yEl1mK14aJT7Z3d4Bw4PB6b2_RgUwieZDp98P85UZ1xIpQ6uu5cHAyVKJN3_QhZcCRvV0ex-kmlLwvkgExPsgv0IKyCZtvCQMzAFtV7yQ7UPXx0-OiNSgXzM-s/s1600/redhat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTuANSMs3GgPy9QMCgo4yEl1mK14aJT7Z3d4Bw4PB6b2_RgUwieZDp98P85UZ1xIpQ6uu5cHAyVKJN3_QhZcCRvV0ex-kmlLwvkgExPsgv0IKyCZtvCQMzAFtV7yQ7UPXx0-OiNSgXzM-s/s320/redhat.jpg" width="224" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
You judgmental person, you.</div>
<br />
<br />
****Complete list of removed (aka damaged) "books". Judge away:<br />
<br />
<ol>
<li><u>"Black Beauty"</u> "by" Anna Sewell (2 books)</li>
<li><u>"The Wind in the Willows"</u> "by" Kenneth Grahame</li>
<li><u>"Anne of Green Gables"</u> "by" L.M. Montgomery</li>
<li><u>"Bleak House"</u> "by" Charles Dickens</li>
<li><u>"A Little House Chapter Book: Laura #1 The Adventures of Laura & Jack"</u> "by" Laura Ingalls Wilder</li>
<li><u>"The Wizard of Oz"</u> "by" L. Frank Baum</li>
<li><u>"Alice in Wonderland"</u> "by" Lewis Carroll</li>
<li><u>"Pride and Prejudice"</u> "by" Jane Austen</li>
<li><u>"Robinson Crusoe"</u> "by" Daniel Defoe</li>
<li><u>"White Fang"</u> "by" Jack London</li>
<li><u>"Martin Chuzzlewit"</u> "by" Charles Dickens</li>
<li><u>"The Mutiny on Board HMS Bounty"</u> "by" William Bligh</li>
<li><u>"Little Women"</u> "by" Louisa May Alcott</li>
<li><u>"Heidi"</u> "by" Johanna Spyri</li>
<li><u>"The Secret Garden"</u> "by" Frances Hodgson Burnett</li>
</ol>
<br />
<br />
<br />Marthahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00837173905052530846noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5699937653527781562.post-6801200039611911082017-03-11T16:22:00.000-08:002017-03-11T16:22:01.674-08:00Whenever I say Grrrrl I Pretend To Be Daniel Tiger From Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood. In My Head. (I've never been cool.)Recently a friend sent me <a href="https://youtu.be/Z1Jbd4-fPOE" target="_blank">this video:</a><br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/Z1Jbd4-fPOE?rel=0&showinfo=0" width="560"></iframe><br />
<br />
And I was all, "Dude, man! It's like <u>Herstory</u> but with more pictures? I'm totally in! Who wants my money!?" (Note: <a href="https://www.rebelgirls.co/products/good-night-stories-for-rebel-girls" target="_blank">this website does</a>)<br />
<br />
But, after the "I bought a new book euphoria*" began to subside, I got to thinking more about the video. Specifically, what books were on the shelves in the video? Time posted their list of 100 best children's books of all time <a href="http://time.com/100-best-childrens-books/" target="_blank">here</a>, and I'm assuming those are the books the video is stocked with. Now, truthfully, there are some really really good books on Time's list! Books I own! (51 out of 100, specifically) Books I've read to my children! (72 out of 100) But, if we look at the idea behind the video, which is the lack of strong female characters in children's literature-they might have a point. Which, really wasn't a problem in the years before Katie could read, as I routinely changed character's genders to suit my agenda. *gasp* But, come on, I mean, who can tell if the little kid from <u>Blueberries for Sal</u> is a boy or a girl, or the kid following the farm animals in <u>Just Me</u>. Or the sheep from <u>Sheep in a Jeep</u>. They're sheep, let's face it, they could go either way! And it worked beautifully. Girls loved trucks! Girls loved trains! Any personificated inanimate object immediately became female. I felt like a genius!<br />
<br />
Until Ellie was born.<br />
<br />
Ellie was having none of that. Because, "Mommy, girls have long hair, and wear dresses." And my retort of, "Mommy doesn't wear dresses all the time and Grandma has short hair." didn't go far because, "Not in books. In books, Mommy, all girls should have long hair and wear dresses." And, so, you know, that's the fun story of the time my two year old called my bluff as I tried to pass boys off as girls during story time. (Thank goodness I won the argument about the WOMAN farmer from the Fisher Price farm set! Probably. Or. She's just been letting me live with that lie for the last few years. Awwww maaaaan....She has, hasn't she? Shoooot.)<br />
<br />
So, back I went, to allowing the book characters to gender identify as the author originally intended, while scouring the library for books with girls as the main characters. Girls who didn't make me want to swack them over the head as they sat there, in their tower, waiting, when, let's face it, they could have cut their own hair off, tied to to the bedpost and climbed down it themselves, as <a href="http://mythresults.com/motorcycle-flip" target="_blank">Mythbusters has proven you can</a>. Those. Those books were harder to find. The video was spot on about that.<br />
<br />
Reading about characters who look like you is powerful. And, while Katie was willing to see herself as a train loving, cookie eating mouse who rode in a jeep with some crazy female sheep, Ellie, she saw herself as a princess. With long hair. And a pretty dress. And those girls need strong characters too.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_mxoQOhwSGWpykj9vG-NG-3s6DQO6bR_y_lQgFD4WnOYN57pw3D78khe5w24ia2RlyG-TuyELxL_1JILpX1UMQ9AMsELj0A6xofXOI8ah5UfcvghI4RzTM4MSrnhcMF6XPRzmvYwhs4tx/s1600/IMG_8320.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_mxoQOhwSGWpykj9vG-NG-3s6DQO6bR_y_lQgFD4WnOYN57pw3D78khe5w24ia2RlyG-TuyELxL_1JILpX1UMQ9AMsELj0A6xofXOI8ah5UfcvghI4RzTM4MSrnhcMF6XPRzmvYwhs4tx/s320/IMG_8320.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'm sure she's not the only one.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
What are your favorite female characters in children's lit?<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div>
<br />
<br />
*With jazz hands.</div>
Marthahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00837173905052530846noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5699937653527781562.post-38491983218575943652017-03-09T18:01:00.000-08:002017-03-11T16:24:14.189-08:00I Can't Just Slap This Post On The Internet Like A Bumper Sticker Full Of Ill-Conceived Grammatical Errors. It Needs Content. Or Maybe Just A Punch Line With Myself Firmly Attached To The Butt Of It.This is not a real post, but if I push the publish button, then, I'll feel like I've accomplished something, because apparently cleaning the kitchen, doing 7 loads of laundry, volunteering at two elementary schools, and standing in the cold with my kids selling Girl Scout cookies isn't doing it for me this week. Plus writing is hard. And I ran out of coffee. And then it was time to pick the kids up from school.<br />
<br />
(<i>Note:</i> Insert more creative excuse here. Maybe one including a chinchilla, a turtle and a big bowl of chili. <i>Note on the note:</i> Adopt a chinchilla and a turtle and convince the kids they actually like chili to add believability to the excuse. <i>Note on the note on the note:</i> This is turning out to be harder than the actual writing work. Plus, let's face it, I'm never going to convince the children they like chili. I'm gonna have to fake that.)<br />
<br />
<br />
I ran a 15k on Sunday, and, at the 10k point my kids and Jon were standing on the sidelines, ready to cheer me on! Ellie even ran out onto the course to give me a high five! So cute! And then? I had this conversation with a fellow runner:<br />
<br />
<b>Me:</b> (<i>high fiving Ellie after veering to the curb so she isn't bowled over by 4,000 runners</i>)<br />
<b>Guy in Shorts:</b> (<i>from really close behind me</i>) Hey! You stole my high five!<br />
<b>Me:</b> (<i>with my sweaty incredulous face</i>) Uh, no.<i> </i>I made that girl. She totally owes me.<br />
<b>Guy in Shorts:</b> But I need it more than you!<br />
<b>Me:</b> (<i>22 minutes later, looking over my shoulder, as I kick through the finish chute</i>) Yeah, ya' did.<br />
<br />
What really happened:<br />
<br />
<b>Me:</b> (<i>high fiving Ellie after veering to the curb so she isn't bowled over by 4,000 runners</i>)<br />
<b>Guy in Shorts:</b> (<i>from really close behind me</i>) Hey! You stole my high five!<br />
<b>Me:</b> (<i>with my sweaty incredulous face</i>) Uh, no. (<i>gesture awkwardly toward uterus) </i>I made that girl. She totally owes me.<br />
<b>Guy in Shorts:</b> But I need it more than you!<br />
<b>Me:</b> (<i>30 minutes later, looking way ahead of me as Guy in Shorts is downing a bottle of water with his race medal around his neck I gasp through the finish chute</i>) Dude...you're such a liar!Marthahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00837173905052530846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5699937653527781562.post-30804482003074494862017-02-04T08:52:00.001-08:002017-02-04T08:54:22.350-08:00I Think My Family "Invited" Me Over To The Dark Side This ChristmasThis has been my Every Morning Coffee Cup:<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_fGkxaMpg9T-1Qv2UxMQPNQh6nhZC6suKSCi3aCpRBZhKnDqnRykOfTa4RBL_DuBKX1zCV_avWNFHaKdH7KuNbjD12BNbGgnr_LMITKEgQEpmDzArv7kJ0oizZG5J3UIAtXV0UTfgMdUw/s1600/lightsidecoffeecup.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_fGkxaMpg9T-1Qv2UxMQPNQh6nhZC6suKSCi3aCpRBZhKnDqnRykOfTa4RBL_DuBKX1zCV_avWNFHaKdH7KuNbjD12BNbGgnr_LMITKEgQEpmDzArv7kJ0oizZG5J3UIAtXV0UTfgMdUw/s1600/lightsidecoffeecup.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It's the shiny happy mug I use to pour caffeine directly into my brain. <br />
(<a href="http://static4.businessinsider.com/~~/f?id=53ff63d86bb3f7b37c6391ed" target="_blank">Yes. Yes, that is exactly how coffee works. It's scientifically proven.</a>)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
But apparently, this Christmas, Fred and Ginger thought it was time for a change- a new outlook on life. You know the life. That life at 6:30 am where small bodies are dragged, protesting, out of the warmth of their book filled beds. You know, the vulnerable mom life.<br />
<br />
In order to bring about this change, Fred and Ginger placed this under the Christmas tree for me:<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhAQwmEYqW3A82vn_nOLk7CZPeAmPzqyJ2Pv2jAp2HLwS1O1YjX_Se4HxIXrBnKcYGsCpQnmbYQhOuApgl-lNfhfU143q5RY9qoLl54BllhMizn9IvJpxpRbb12dFoLRZt8KuTLuAEZMgj/s1600/nocloudsdarkmug.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhAQwmEYqW3A82vn_nOLk7CZPeAmPzqyJ2Pv2jAp2HLwS1O1YjX_Se4HxIXrBnKcYGsCpQnmbYQhOuApgl-lNfhfU143q5RY9qoLl54BllhMizn9IvJpxpRbb12dFoLRZt8KuTLuAEZMgj/s320/nocloudsdarkmug.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lovingly.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Now, I realize, the difference between the two mugs is rather slight. So, I'll do a side by side comparison, just for:<br />
<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaKtiRuo8pGVA9ST7w1LxoM4hjI5OIJ1g0THaK5d8TmrCcV00hX7VJopXDXgf1mguzGsl7-sueqgKXRhKMjwn_Lt6fzaFmzOJn2aqp_eaWEtk3T8Zngml2y8h7XTCtLJxgw6HuHdULrRXp/s1600/lightsidecoffeecupcute.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaKtiRuo8pGVA9ST7w1LxoM4hjI5OIJ1g0THaK5d8TmrCcV00hX7VJopXDXgf1mguzGsl7-sueqgKXRhKMjwn_Lt6fzaFmzOJn2aqp_eaWEtk3T8Zngml2y8h7XTCtLJxgw6HuHdULrRXp/s1600/lightsidecoffeecupcute.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">giggles <br />
and</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOjadieYTcKMEtByozDIjL3iCtC7z6OMoElBi4-n-EEgbkYlFLR4jeGzO3BgRlnXQAqBZL7zZ57-A78wHb36yRJwC-qn6ibGqkThsy7LCNe90OZSMPyemQzDB25dmx9Qhdv19OfM-vrvkq/s1600/cloudsdarkmugcracks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOjadieYTcKMEtByozDIjL3iCtC7z6OMoElBi4-n-EEgbkYlFLR4jeGzO3BgRlnXQAqBZL7zZ57-A78wHb36yRJwC-qn6ibGqkThsy7LCNe90OZSMPyemQzDB25dmx9Qhdv19OfM-vrvkq/s320/cloudsdarkmugcracks.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">ennui.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
(Bonus: There are five differences between these two pictures! Find them!!πΊπ Or, you know. *sigh* Don't. You could just play 'Here we go gathering Nuts in May' with the end part of an ants' nest. It's all the same....)<br />
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<br />
And now, each morning, I wake up to the caffeine whispering, directly into my brain (see link above), "Use the force, Martha". And I mumble the age old space ship influenced philosophical reply into the coffee pot, "Which side?"<br />
<br />
Because, it must be chosen, mustn't it?<br />
<br />
I mean, is it even really possible to walk the thin line between the butterfly and rainbow filled skies of the light side while also sipping from the dark, looking upon it all with indifference and, dare I say, a lack of enthusiasm? Once I drink from the mug, won't I always carry the dark side's influence within me, even if it takes decades for me to realize it?<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Like Luke Skywalker.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
BUT!<br />
<br />
THEN!<br />
<br />
I realized!<br />
<br />
Wait. A. Minute!<br />
<br />
This isn't some Grey Jedi mind trick coffee mug.<br />
<br />
*Pish-shaw*<br />
<br />
NoooOOOoooo!<br />
<br />
This. Is now my<span style="font-size: large;"><i> football watching mug</i>.</span>ππ»π<br />
<br />
And so, this <strike>Saturday</strike> Sunday, as all around me people raise out of their seats, yelling in vivacity as their team ball is projectiled in some fashion into one of the net? or post??...things they set up on either side of their grassy playing area, I will be able to raise my mug, with the proper amount of enthusiasm I keep in my heart for sporting events.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTAXe40uKt1duiw7tjRESGNmpZCdwqrAJzvFidapFuInYRa9zrSb63g7OcmJ4onKEsz6yzJb44xfkdWuyvqsYRfDXecDNC0H4KzHxPSl4lBIlDz036Pjr4WtDsQ-6espyztHiVOpRMIIrE/s1600/meh.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTAXe40uKt1duiw7tjRESGNmpZCdwqrAJzvFidapFuInYRa9zrSb63g7OcmJ4onKEsz6yzJb44xfkdWuyvqsYRfDXecDNC0H4KzHxPSl4lBIlDz036Pjr4WtDsQ-6espyztHiVOpRMIIrE/s320/meh.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Do the thing.<br />
Win the points.<br />
π</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>UPDATE:</b><br />
I received a <strike>threat</strike> friendly email from Ginger reminding me of the birthday present she sent me earlier this year. Again, lovingly.<br />
<br />
So. Apparently. This is how I will be dressed while raising my mug on Super Foot Ball Sunday:<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh02TTFnUOJXX0Rt-jhYgqZQzJlXlVB9a3W-1jnOONInmRvAbX5Pt8YMhGiYA7Wbo03Zk_8Zh9WPGluPlBq943wKO9cWh_znQin14weBn5RuXIFVMfQ9kDdNN8BtgRTyPQaGA7LSq2Vm-Qj/s1600/seahawksvest.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh02TTFnUOJXX0Rt-jhYgqZQzJlXlVB9a3W-1jnOONInmRvAbX5Pt8YMhGiYA7Wbo03Zk_8Zh9WPGluPlBq943wKO9cWh_znQin14weBn5RuXIFVMfQ9kDdNN8BtgRTyPQaGA7LSq2Vm-Qj/s320/seahawksvest.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
For reals. Because Ginger does Cross Fit now and I'm pretty sure she can substitute out her medicine ball for my inert body during her <a href="https://youtu.be/uLVo9bxLdL4" target="_blank">Wallball sets.</a> Like the Firebreather she is.Marthahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00837173905052530846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5699937653527781562.post-67014142761886835872017-01-26T16:44:00.000-08:002017-01-26T16:44:03.988-08:00When Discussing Art There's Always A Right Answer.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
The other weekend Jon and I took the kids to Canada. Pretty much <i>just</i> to see if their passports worked. Of course, if they actually didn't work I don't know what we were going to do about it. Leave them at the border I suspect. I'm sure they'd find a cozy boxcar and work various odd jobs for pay. Probably for a doctor. I'm sure I read about some kids that did that once....</div>
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Anyway, there we all were in Canada (legally, it turns out) on our way to visit the natural history museum. Because, let's face it, there's nothing our family likes to do more on vacations than visit museums and other educational geological sites. </div>
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Unless it's a giant object! We'd totally go out of our way to see that!</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiEaO5offwFkLghccAOagSYxh-mW_fwWSjum8AP-Ls3DF2twvV_QvAsC5m0Vm9Ww3nrNGd9qrfZ_3kGo2Xsp6uTaI60m1tq6GizdWNNcszgyQ2w9kQ0wWIds2rgMGhR0r4Z5YqHX4lRm1H/s1600/FE66B405-5BAB-42CD-8B19-531D66203F23.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiEaO5offwFkLghccAOagSYxh-mW_fwWSjum8AP-Ls3DF2twvV_QvAsC5m0Vm9Ww3nrNGd9qrfZ_3kGo2Xsp6uTaI60m1tq6GizdWNNcszgyQ2w9kQ0wWIds2rgMGhR0r4Z5YqHX4lRm1H/s320/FE66B405-5BAB-42CD-8B19-531D66203F23.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">GIANT TEAPOT!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9Zr2jJL0A_Hd11mPW3N5UQIwG6gItj1zml-ZZz-4Q8DmqXgyT6pgnwkJaVlYGdV5bHGrhCoZZXQtC0zbbTqeEAB_OtNbAMQBf9R7VbE3i-CFSsKch7ZrfEdCko8WYvk9wfyZCcqWMlQ_t/s1600/IMG_7882.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9Zr2jJL0A_Hd11mPW3N5UQIwG6gItj1zml-ZZz-4Q8DmqXgyT6pgnwkJaVlYGdV5bHGrhCoZZXQtC0zbbTqeEAB_OtNbAMQBf9R7VbE3i-CFSsKch7ZrfEdCko8WYvk9wfyZCcqWMlQ_t/s320/IMG_7882.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">GIANT FRYING PAN!<br /></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzdMV0k9BHErMEMiECDTuNL7_v5OUayBcAuG0HxsIiPZaQ0DpKAe1XFPmMckZ-6xJy5OqVhQFrjrA4Z4Q_kxY_b_9BP6OEiwG1yDcHW0fVFjKlcg82P0YKA9vQEezL53wa-F2_xaMYctiL/s1600/IMG_7875.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzdMV0k9BHErMEMiECDTuNL7_v5OUayBcAuG0HxsIiPZaQ0DpKAe1XFPmMckZ-6xJy5OqVhQFrjrA4Z4Q_kxY_b_9BP6OEiwG1yDcHW0fVFjKlcg82P0YKA9vQEezL53wa-F2_xaMYctiL/s320/IMG_7875.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">GIANT CHOPSTICKS!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqmCcE113gTl08TaS3dFkeKahX2Z2S9o4VZFw-haUBTi5SmSy692ow6I69_01ZKb0jwijPypjMSbn671BLSyclsbU1vV9bJ4_GGrIu0Vu1YjJOEbD7cXIoAI_-uNl7-PNRwZQDpZ-34_Qb/s1600/photo+3+%25283%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqmCcE113gTl08TaS3dFkeKahX2Z2S9o4VZFw-haUBTi5SmSy692ow6I69_01ZKb0jwijPypjMSbn671BLSyclsbU1vV9bJ4_GGrIu0Vu1YjJOEbD7cXIoAI_-uNl7-PNRwZQDpZ-34_Qb/s320/photo+3+%25283%2529.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">GIANT JOHN WAYNE!<br />Which we had to admire from the car. <br />Instead of getting out and posing with. <br />Like cowhands.<br /> Because <i>someone</i> fell asleep. <br />Ellie.</td></tr>
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<a href="http://www.guinnessworldrecords.com/news/2016/10/big-things-in-a-small-town-us-businessman-gets-casey-into-record-books-with-eigh-446101" target="_blank">Note: It is now my dearest heart's wish to visit Casey, Illinois. *sigh* Someday....</a></div>
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Anyway, there we were, in Canada, outside the museum, when my kids stopped and stared at this work of art:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoonGN-vUHdNPoPGflfuoE6UpuRu6t9LJmFASQ3tM26Qcp7Go6tZSehET9a0HlVqWlZPTiUpicnL-IjehGAR5G9hidHEs2s3iMr4nmdd7RWy-LxEgZ-7RK6hJtTcaSSUCB2sxfAMrxxPJf/s1600/lessismore.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoonGN-vUHdNPoPGflfuoE6UpuRu6t9LJmFASQ3tM26Qcp7Go6tZSehET9a0HlVqWlZPTiUpicnL-IjehGAR5G9hidHEs2s3iMr4nmdd7RWy-LxEgZ-7RK6hJtTcaSSUCB2sxfAMrxxPJf/s320/lessismore.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
And we had this conversation:<br />
<br />
<b>Katie:</b> (<i>with her thinking face on, the one that's a bit wrinkled around the eyebrows</i>) How come the parents don't have bodies?<br />
<br />
<b>Ellie:</b> (<i>whisper giggling</i>) They don't have any bottoms!<br />
<br />
<b>Me:</b> Well, it's art. Why do <i>you</i> think the artist didn't make bodies?<br />
<br />
<b>Ellie:</b> (<i>giggling, still, because she's in the stage where the word "bottom" is funny</i>) The <i>baby</i> has a bottom!<br />
<br />
<b>Katie:</b> (<i>hesitating, because she's in the stage where she doesn't like to give the wrong answer</i>) Hmmmm....What do you think, Mommy?<br />
<br />
<b>Me:</b> (<i>without pausing because <u>I'm</u> in the stage of life where I know everything. Because I'm the mom.</i>) Weeeeeelllll... Perhaps the artist is trying to symbolize, through the absence of the parental bodies, the fading of our lives that, as adults, we become aware of when we bring a new life into the world. It's representing how life is a circle, one of death and birth. In this sculpture the baby represents the future. And, perhaps here, the artist wanted to show how life is sustained by the sacrifice of oneself through love, how that sacrificial love is instrumental and necessary in order to bring the future about. How the past, our personal past as well as humanity's collective past, feeds and nourishes that what is to come.<br />
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<b>Katie & Ellie:</b> (<i>giving each other the "um, mommy is being weird but we should be nice about it anyway" look</i>)<br />
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<b>Ellie: </b>(E<i>xplaining. Slowly.</i>) Or, maybe, mommy, the artist just forgot to make the bodies.<br />
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<b>Katie:</b> (<i>head tilt, thinking face</i>) Yeah. That makes sense....<br />
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Dudes. I may have misjudged which stage of life I'm in.Marthahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00837173905052530846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5699937653527781562.post-47990214006226039332017-01-06T13:41:00.002-08:002017-01-06T14:51:45.673-08:00Like Most New Year's Resolutions These Have One Foot In Reality And The Other In, *Sniff-Phew*, Something ElseNew Year's Resolutions, more or less.<br />
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Probably less.<br />
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Because I'm lazy.<br />
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1. Find the body parts that got lost in the car last year so I can quit living in fear of being pulled over by the police and explaining myself to the officer and her cadaver dog. (Note: Don't freak out, people. The body parts are from the children.)<br />
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2. There's a hot dog restaurant in my neighborhood. They serve a Greek Dog: hummus, kalamata olives and tzatziki sauce. Continue to bike on by or try it? Must. Make. A. Decision! (Because my rubber necking is getting embarrassing. People are starting to wave.)<br />
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3. Quit cracking cannibalism jokes when making children climb into giant frying pans while on vacation.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2YauclNeirvCk8q6ZSQRHsmrbBWuIjBNf5RZ5Yi7KVt_mAni0IcCV1wz1QS8H5iTDUnqegiB-f0QuR9ND6tx8vVJRHuK0BcEqBbPxxbDEaUQWbWnOs57vys2Jsc9XWOX_zWDsLwRyr9au/s1600/IMG_7882.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2YauclNeirvCk8q6ZSQRHsmrbBWuIjBNf5RZ5Yi7KVt_mAni0IcCV1wz1QS8H5iTDUnqegiB-f0QuR9ND6tx8vVJRHuK0BcEqBbPxxbDEaUQWbWnOs57vys2Jsc9XWOX_zWDsLwRyr9au/s320/IMG_7882.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Hey kids! What's a cannibal's favorite food? Baked BEINGS!<br />
Smile pretty for mama!"</td></tr>
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4. Tell that story about the last time I went bra shopping and the little old lady sales clerk kept bringing over push up bras and giggling over how much padding was in the cup. And then making me squeeze them.<br />
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5. Invent the evolutionary gene for retractable breasts. So women never have to go bra shopping again*.<br />
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What resolutions did you make this year?<br />
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*<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.3333px; white-space: pre-wrap;">You need to feed your baby? Pop! Out they come! Running a marathon this weekend? Sloop. Done and done back in they go and no need for expensive running bras! This would be perfect for all sorts of women: new mothers, runners, strapless dress wearers, Dolly Parton impersonators-The target market is simply enormous! Or not. Because itβs your choice. </span><br />
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Marthahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00837173905052530846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5699937653527781562.post-64815804767757881742016-12-22T15:20:00.001-08:002016-12-22T15:20:57.878-08:00I Put A 5 Year Old In Charge Of Her Educational Career And Now I Yell At Passing Cars<div style="text-align: left;">
Ellie somehow managed to enroll herself in a Japanese language immersion elementary school. </div>
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I know! I'm not sure how it all happened either....</div>
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I mean, sure, I remember signing some paperwork once a year or so ago, but, it's not like I really <i>thought</i> it was a real option, you know? I just thought it was a "this would be a cool option" option.</div>
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Ok, fine, I'm exaggerating. But only a bit. The VH1 True Backstory here is: I signed her up because back in college, my ECI 304 professor had us watch a documentary where kids were running around a playground talking in French. I'm 95% sure the point of the documentary, all wrapped up in some pedagogical theory, was that kids learn language more easily at a young age. Listen, the room was dark and I maaaay have fallen asleep. In my defense, you shouldn't tell your audience the ending of the movie in the first 2 minutes. It's called a spoiler for a reason, people! </div>
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Anyway, it's year two and Ellie is still skipping to and from school, singing some song in Japanese that has a word that sounds like "booshi" in it. Which, let's face it, makes me giggle. Then, invariably, when she asks <i>why</i> I'm laughing, I lie, and tell her I'm laughing "for the joy of life". But, really, it's because booshi sounds like tushy. And I think it's funny. (Ignorant, uncouth American: party of one.)</div>
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Well, this year, I thought to myself, "Dude. You need to actually try and learn Japanese. You're getting laughed at by six year olds. On the playground. When you call jump ropes Nairobis*. It's getting a little embarrassing." (True story.) So, in defense of all my cool points I need to hold onto with the local six year old Japanese speaking population, I took Ellie out for pizza. Because, let's face it, I work better with a carrot metaphorically covered in cheese and pineapple than a stick. Because you can't eat sticks. But you can eat carrots. Although, full vegetarian disclosure, we didn't order any carrots. But we did order ice cream. Because I worked really really hard yelling out the color of cars in Japanese as they passed by our booth's window. And I deserved a treat. Again.</div>
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Now, what have I retained approximately three weeks later after gorging myself on pizza and ice cream and annoying all the other 5 o'clock diners at the local pizza restaurant? Owl**. Which, <i>almost</i> sounds like the Japanese word for blue. And, unfortunately, even with all of Ellie's corrections, encouragement and patience, is as close as I'm ever going to get to a proper pronunciation. Because I cemented it. Deep down into the roots of my brain. By singing this song. A lot.:</div>
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<blockquote class="tr_bq" style="text-align: left;">
<i>Yo listen up here's a story<br />
About a little guy that lives in a owl world<br />
And all day and all night and everything he sees<br />
Is just owl like him inside and outside<br />
Owl his house with a owl little window<br />
And a owl corvette<br />
And everything is owl for him and himself<br />
And everybody around<br />
'Cause he ain't got nobody to listen to (except an owl, whoo! whoo!)</i> </blockquote>
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<a href="https://youtu.be/68ugkg9RePc" target="_blank">Everybody sing!</a></div>
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<i>I'm owl, da ba dee da ba die,<br />
da ba dee da ba die,<br />
da ba dee da ba die,<br />
da ba dee da ba die,<br />
da ba dee da ba die,<br />
da ba dee da ba die,<br />
da ba dee da ba die.</i></blockquote>
<b>Note:</b> This song is best sung while <a href="https://youtu.be/SILvPVVAhBo" target="_blank">dancing like an owl</a>. Because, as all Disciples of Confucius and education majors know, children learn best when they cement new information auditorily, visually, and kinetically. Pedagogical pyramids don't lie:<br />
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*Because you don't want to be laughed at by six year olds either:<br />
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**Or the way Ellie WANTS you to pronounce it:</div>
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<br />Marthahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00837173905052530846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5699937653527781562.post-70960645587846637322016-12-14T12:06:00.001-08:002016-12-20T13:14:21.733-08:00What's The Looming End Of The Year Without A Little Whine? (But Not The Good Kind That Comes In A Box.)Every Friday morning, as I'm setting up the painting easels at the back of Ellie's classroom, I listen to her teacher, as, in her warm, direct, friendly, and everything explained simply manner, she leads the daily writing lesson. Her main focus these last few weeks? Writing the small moments. Small stories, not big ones. Stories about making cookies with your sister, or riding your bike to school on a cold morning, or going out to dinner for pizza with your family, brushing your teeth before bed. She's encouraging these six year olds to keep it simple, and to add details. And, you know what? They all head back to their tables with the plastic tubs of fat red pencils in the middle and they write. And each week, as I'm washing and refilling the paint cups I think to myself, "Dude, they're like little tiny bloggers with really low tech stylus pens. If they can do it, so can I!"<br />
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And then, two hours later, jeans smeared with paint (because I'm an adult and don't have to use a paper towel<i> if I don't want to</i>), I bike toward home with every intention of sitting down, opening up my computer and typing my own small moment story. But, things, things get in the way. I have laundry to switch, or cupcakes to make for the class holiday party, or I realize that the last time anyone cleaned the shower was, well, it's not a time frame I want published on the Internets if that's any indication.<br />
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Or, I can't focus. And I end up wandering to the kitchen, wondering who drank all the coffee. (Spoiler alert: it was me.) Or looking desperately, searching all the way to the back of the cupboards for a box of Cheeze-Its, or potato chips, or anything processed and bad for me, and cursing the person who keeps buying FRUITS AND VEGETABLES AS SNACK FOOD! (Spoiler Alert: it's me.)<br />
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Or, worse, I sit, and can't for the life of me think of the word that sounds like, say, exchange, but, isn't exchange, it just might start with an e, or have an x in it, or like an x sound, but, it has to do with cows, or rather, it has to do with cow jokes, kind of.... Wait. Or is it clowns? Like, with, three dots under their eye, like teardrops, and Johnny Depp in Cry Baby....GLOBULAR!!! That was the word! Now, how did that relate to the episode of Veronica Mars with the confessional again...?<br />
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It's.<br />
Exhausting.<br />
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Plus, it's an ineffective method for...for writing with any, um... shoot, ok, the word is like the book, with the kids, like 12 of them, they had a car, they all threw out their hands to signal a turn but some were signalling left and others right, bids were taken for household chores...expediency? (What is up with these "ex" words? Oh. My. Gosh.) Cheaper by the Dozen! Um, the dad was an...EFFICIENCY-that's it! It's an ineffective writing, oh, method's not the perfect word there, more like, you know what? Method works just fine in that sentence. It's an ineffective method for writing with any efficiency.<br />
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Because, if I COULD write with any Frank Bunker Gilbreth skill, I'd... I don't know. Maybe I'd be less short tempered with my kids. Maybe I'd volunteer for more chaperone duties at Katie and Ellie's schools. The <a href="http://www.thetreefarm.com/media/catalog/product/cache/1/image/9df78eab33525d08d6e5fb8d27136e95/s/a/sage-powis-castle-plant-greenleaf.jpg" target="_blank">Powis Castle</a> in front of my house would still be alive. I'd finally be able to win a game of Blockus against Katie. I'd speak Japanese. I'd know how to use spreadsheets properly to track Katie's troop's cookie sales instead of secretly having Jon do it. I'd be a faster runner! Fitter! With gloriously shiny and strong hair for full on butt* kicking.<br />
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Dude! I'd totally be a superhero!<br />
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You know...<br />
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I bet superheros have some really interesting small moment stories to write.<br />
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*Yeah. You heard me. Butt. I'll say it again, too. Butt.Marthahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00837173905052530846noreply@blogger.com2