The Brain Washing Is Working!

So, this morning, as I was brushing my teeth and ignoring the happy* cries, clumps and don't-touch-that-it's-mine! from downstairs (In the interest of good oral hygiene of course.) I stumbled across the fact that it was National Doughnut Day! And, since I missed out on National Running Day, there was no way I was missing out on this too! So, I chucked my toothbrush over my shoulder and had this conversation with Katie and Ellie:

Me: (yelling down the stairs) Hey! Guys! Come here!
Katie and Ellie: (as they come running) What?
Me: Did you know that it's National Doughnut Day!?!
Katie: (skeptically) It is?
Me: Totally.  Aunt Ginger said so on Facebook, so it must be true!
Ellie: Do we get to eat doughnuts!?!
Me: Yes!
Ellie: (runs excitedly in circles, yelling) YAAAAaaaaAAAAaaaaYYYYY!!!!!
Katie: (walks away, picks up book, comes back and starts reading out loud) It says, Mom, that we should "Start the day with a good breakfast: It'll give you energy! Try not to eat too many chips, fried foods, candy, chocolate, or other sweets, when possible. They are difficult to digest and usually don't have the nutrients your body really needs!**" So, I don't think doughnuts are a healthy breakfast for us.
Me: (pausing. thinking. realizing. ignoring.) Go get your sweater kid because It's NATIONAL DOUGHNUT DAY!!!

Then I made them do the official doughnut dance. While singing the official National Doughnut Day song. With streamers.

*Lies.

**Stilton, Geronimo. The Mouse Island Marathon. New York: Scholastic Inc., 2007. Print.

This Post Was Previously Published On Twitter For Governmental Convenience

So, I heard this report on NPR while driving around yesterday, and, granted I only heard like 9.35% of it because Ellie was in the backseat, and she had some very pressing questions about power lines. *See sound bite below. Basically, (and I'm using basically to mean 9.35%, obviously) the report said that the government is listening in on our conversations on Twitter. Which, duh. There's a reason aluminum foil was invented.  But. It got me to thinking. Maybe that's why airport security hasn't had a complete overhaul yet! I mean, dude, President Obama, it's been at least two years since my post! What are you doing over there in the White House? Besides being kissed on the collar by an auntie, that is.  Which, really, you used the word auntie? I mean, who calls people that? Then again, I call my bowel movements tut-tut, so touche Mr. President. Touche.

Anywho....

My open letter to the government:

Dear Governmental People Lurking Around Twitter,

It's been at least five months since I've flown in an airplane. However, when I did, I noticed that while you may have made a few changes, such as no longer requiring me to fight with my two year old over the removal and subsequent disappearance of her shoes (But, Mommy! Where does the moving black counter take them!?! I WANT MY SHOES!!) you still have quite a few scanners installed in the security lanes.  You know, the GMO-pesticide-ridden-nicotine-spewing-supersized-saccharine-fountain-drink-possibly-lard-oozing-ones-and-I-don't-mean-the-non-vegetarian-Mexican-re-fried-bean-lard-I-mean-the-glop-of-lard-on-your-morning-toast-kind-of-oozing-lard-body-scanners. Or, as you probably refer to them, the naked-picture-taking-cancer-causing-body-scanners.  This. Is. Silly. Puppy bomb sniffers are cuter, cheaper, and, truthfully, are better behaved.  Plus, if you catch someone sneaking through more than the one allowed quart sized bag of travel snacks for a two year old through security, TSA totally has backup. Four whole paws worth of backup. Just sayin'.

Signed,
Goldtoe

P.S. Goldtoe is supposed to be an oblique reference to the James Bond movie, Goldfinger. Because it sounded cool.  Which, truthfully, I've never seen. BUT, I did go to Idaho and it did this to my feet:

So, obviously, reference: Nailed.



*Sound Bite:
Ellie: What are those?
Me: Power lines. They bring electricity to houses and businesses. 
Ellie: Why are they black?
Me: I think they wrap them in a black plastic or something to insulate the wires from the cold.
Ellie: No, Mommy, they're painted.  Why are they black?
Me: They wrap them in plastic to keep the electricity from getting cold when it rains.
Ellie: No, Mommy, they're painted.  Why are they black?

Etcetera....

 P.S. Power lines are black so the birds can see them better as they land on them.  Also, I don't know as much about electricity as I thought.

Some Weeks You Wonder If You Are Raising A Superhero or Supervillain

My two year old has lost the ability to comprehend the meaning of "No." and "Don't do that" and "Please, stop." and "Why are you spitting that back out!" among other idioms.  She has, however, perfected this conversation that she likes to have daily:

Ellie: Mommy! Where are you?
Me: In the bathroom.
Ellie: Mommy!! Where are YOU?
Me: Ellie, I'm on the toilet, give Mommy a few-
Ellie: MOMMY!!! WHERE ARE YOU!?!
Me: I am on the toilet going tut tut, give Mommy a few min-
Ellie: MOMMY!!!! WHERE! ARE! YOU!?!?!?!!!
Me: GOING TUT TUT*!

She also likes to have this conversation while sitting on the other side of the bathroom door.

So, instead of complaining about these precious years that I should hold onto tightly, because before you know it they'll be gone in a whisper of a butterfly's wing, which, let's be honest, right now I'd rather dip my hands in a vat of liquefied coconut oil and juggle them while walking over hot coals, because then I'd get to tut-tut in peace, I'm writing a post with personificated cows.

Because the internet has a shocking deficit of personificated cows.

Seriously.

Like zero "personificated cows" hits on Google.

Plus, when I pulled the hot pan of pumpkin nut bread out of the oven and placed it on the counter next to the open bottle of rubbing alcohol, that someone carelessly left out, nothing exploded. So, you know, slow blog content week.

A Conversation Between Two Personificated Cows In A Field In The Middle Of Idaho

Cowmund: Dude!

Moorice: What?

Cowmund: See that short person over there?

Moorice: Yeah. So?

Cowmund: I dare you to go lick it.
Moorice: Dude.  That's gross. No way, man! I don't lick kids.

Cowmund: Come on. Don't be a chicken.  I double triple quadruple dare you!

Moorice: And if I do?

Cowmund: I'll step in my own fresh cow tut-tut.

Moorice: (raises eyebrow) You did that this morning.

Cowmund: While it's steaming.

Moorice:  (rolls eyes) And if I don't?

Cowmund: Dude! I don't know! Just go lick it!

Moorice: No.

Cowmund: Come on, Dude! I'm bored! Look! It's even holding out some grass! She wants to be licked!

Moorice: No.

Cowmund: Seriously?

Moorice: Serious as your Aunt Betsy with an udder infection.

Cowmund: You need to shut up about my Aunt Betsy.

Moorice: (raises eyebrow)

Cowmund: Dude. Fine. Whatever.  I'll lick it. (Trots over. Closes eyes. Licks Ellie. Runs away spitting and drooling and snorting.)

Moorice: (laughing) What'd I tell you man! What did it taste like?

Cowmund: (cringing) Like peanut butter.  (grimacing) And Nutella. (shutters) Sandwiches.

The End

Of A Conversation Between Personificated Cows

Or, Alternately

Ellie Went To Idaho And Got Licked By A Cow Who Is Not Personified In Real Life

Hopefully something will explode next week.



*Everybody Poops. It's a book. For children.  Meaning while it's an appropriate topic of conversation to have with my two year old, it's still an annoying one. 

Hello 20 Minutes My Old Friend, The Last Time We Met We Talked Of Kraken*

So, for my birthday, I went to see Face Punch.  True. Story.

And, I know, you thought that with the last and final installment of the Stephanie Meyer's saga of love, sparkles, angst, painful facial expressions and mythological creatures stuck in the perpetual hell that is high school giving painful births to teenage love babies who they later have to defend by tearing off other mythological creatures heads last November, I was done with all the Twilight references. But, awesome oblique references never get old.  Especially since I haven't filled my guilty, cheesy, candy book made into an awkward movie void yet. Related: I hope someone brings Northanger Abbey to the big screen sometime, because:

"She had a thin awkward figure, a sallow skin without color, dark lank hair, and strong features-so much for her person; and not less unpropitious for heroism seemed her mind. She was fond of all boy's plays, and greatly preferred cricket not merely to dolls, but to the more heroic enjoyments of infancy, nursing a dormouse, feeding a canary bird, or watering a rose bush."

And:

"Such were her propensities-her abilities were quite as extraordinary. She never could learn or understand anything before she was taught; and sometimes not even then, for she was often inattentive, and occasionally stupid."

And, obviously, because of this exchange when the heroine, Catherine, finally makes it to Bath:

"How uncomfortable it is," whispered Catherine, "not to have a single acquaintance here!"

"Yes, my dear," replied Mrs. Allen, with perfect serenity, "it is very uncomfortable indeed."

"What shall we do? The gentlemen and ladies at this table look as if they wondered why we came here-we seem forcing ourselves into their party."

"Aye, so we do.  That is very disagreeable. I wish we had a large acquaintance here."

"I wish we had any-it would be somebody to go to."

"Very true, my dear; and if we knew anybody we would join them directly. The Skinners were here last year-I wish they were here now."

Because, dude, not only is Jane Austen's parody of the Gothic novel hilarious I'd totally watch that movie over Face Punch.  Even if Morgan Freeman is in it.

OK, true story back story: Here it was, my birthday, and I was dressed up in my birthday finery:

Meaning, Katie helped pick out my outfit, which someday she will want final say on, because, "Mommy, it would be fancier with purple leggings!"

and Jon and I were off to do things grown ups do out on the town without kids! On a Wednesday night.  So, yeah. We went to the movies.  But, the movie we wanted to see didn't start until 9:30! 9:30 people!! What kind of crazy people go to see a movie that starts at 9:30 on a Wednesday? Exactly. Not this kind of crazy person.  Which meant our other choices were:

1. GI Joe in 3-D, which, eh, never a big GI Joe action figurine type of girl, My Little Ponies on the other hand....
2. Some horrifically scary movie that I will never see because while my threshold for stupid is off the charts my ability to handle scary situations is teeny teeny tiny (I'm holding my thumb and my first finger all close together here. There is no space between them.) 
3. The Host. Which as you all know, because you got the Twilight reference above, is a movie adapted from a Stephanie Meyer book.  
4. Or Face Punch, which the directer cleverly disguised by naming it Olympus Has Fallen.  

And without reading a single plot summary, or review, we chose Face Punch.

Because we're stupid. Or, because I'm a nice wife who decided not to make Jon go see a Stephanie Meyer movie. But mostly the first one.

Dude.  Soooo many people shot in the head.  Sooo many times.  In a row. Which, OK, fine, we've got to get through the carnage to get to the main intense plot line**, so, sure, let's keep  the Secret Service people streaming out the doors of the White House, each and every single one of them getting shot in the head, but then? Then they killed a dog. A dog people. Dude. In my book that is game over.  GAME OVER! But, still, we didn't walk out. Because? We're stupid.  I already covered that.

And, as I sat there nerves literally vibrating with adrenaline or fear or don't-shoot-anyone-else-in-the-head-don't-shoot-anyone-else-in-the-AHHHHH-THEY-JUST-SHOT-SOMEONE-ELSE-IN-THE-HEAD-itis I made up a new rule for my birthday: The Stephanie Meyer Movie Will Be Chosen. Always.

Unless The Absent Minded Professor is playing In 3-D.

Or Herbie The Love Bug.

Or State Fair. (Because of the pig, who doesn't get near enough screen time. Obviously).

Or Swiss Family Robinson.

But not Benji, because I can't take that kind of cute puppy stress anymore.




*Dude. If my last name was Garfunkel I'd rhyme better too.

**Plot line spoiler alert: It was stupid. And completely unbelievable and not in a silly "I just invented Flubber!" kind of way.  In a more, I will shoot more people in the head of you don't give me what I want! No! I will shove my knife into your brain when I find you! type of way. Second plot line spoiler alert: At the end of the movie someone had a knife in their head.

My Running Legs Are Powered By The Promise of Almond Croissants

So, there's this run I like to do from my house to the coffee shop that makes the almond croissants.   It's a gorgeous run. It traces the shoreline for the first half. It ends at the coffee shop that makes the almond croissants.  The views of the Olympic Mountains can be amazing on a clear morning. It ends at the coffee shop that makes the almond croissants.  I run past horses out in their pastures, ponds with ducks swimming in circles, sheep hanging out in the field, and herons standing in the shallows of the water waiting for their breakfast to swim by. But, best of all, IT ENDS AT THE COFFEE SHOP THAT MAKES THE ALMOND CROISSANTS*!!!

And, whenever I run there, I order an almond croissant, with abandon, because, 1) Jon and the kids come and pick me up so I don't have to run home with a belly full of awesomeness and 2) I thought I was running a nine mile route. Which, in my book, is plenty of mileage to justify inhaling a flaky buttery pastry stuffed full of almond paste while knocking back mug after mug of coffee. (Dude! Up high for free refills!) But I was wrong.  It's not a nine mile route.  It's a 43.4 mile route.  Which, according to RunKeeper on my phone, I ran in under two hours this weekend.  So, basically I looked like this:



But way cooler, because I maintained that pace for 43.4 miles. (In your face Usain Bolt!) Because technology doesn't lie.

And then, after collapsing  sweatily, in a chair surrounded by plates of veggie quiche, almond croissants and mugs of coffee, I had this conversation with Katie:

Me: (shoveling almond croissant AND veggie quiche into my mouth, because I just ran 43.4 miles) I ran 43.4 miles! That means I can eat anything I want!

Katie: (pausing in the careful, and delicate, eating of her grapes) No you can't.

Me: (still shoveling and guzzling) Yes I can!

Katie: (placing her grape, carefully, back down on her plate) No, Mommy, you can't.

Me: (adding an extremely attractive "Pshaw! Whatever!" look to my shoveling and guzzling) Yes. I can. My phone said so!

Katie: No, you can't, because you can't eat 100 hats. (And then she went back to eating her grapes. Victoriously.)


Well played my Katie kid. Well played indeed.





*And, dude, I am not kidding. These almond croissants are almost as good as the croissants they used to sell at the other coffee shop with the church pew, which was completely awesome because my feet could touch the ground and I could spread out my papers on either side of me while I wrote so my fork could have maximum access to the most wonderful almond croissants IN THE WORLD! But then the owner sold the coffee shop and someone else bought it and when the baker came to ask if they still were interested in ordering their almond croissants they said no. Because they were insane. And possibly, a closet almond-paste-wrapped-in-layers-of-flaky-buttery-pastry-drizzled-with-frosting-and-lightly-dusted-with-sliced-almonds-hater. And by possibly, I mean obviously. Obviously.

Three Pictures For Boston And One For Me

I remember walking the streets of Boston when I visited the city years ago. I remember wandering the old cemeteries, climbing Bunker Hill, running down Hull Street toward the Old North Church reciting "The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere" (Yes. I'm a dork.). I remember stopping, refilling my water bottle and sneaking in a bonus reading session at the most beautiful library I had ever seen. I remember walking out of that library and finding the finish line to the Boston Marathon. Painted. Right there. On the street! I may have stood there, staring, imagining myself, one day, running across that very line. For an, hem hem, abnormally long time.... People may have begun to give me weird looks. I may also have turned around, walked into a running store and bought the best souvenir ever! A sports bra. I may have also worn that sports bra for way too long, insisting it was THE BEST SPORTS BRA IN THE HISTORY OF EVER, because, obviously, Boston knows running bras.

But then Monday happened. And, as I laced up my running shoes to head out on a training run for my half marathon in June, I thought. I thought about how three people, ridiculously young, were never going to get to chance to choose to run again. Three people who were never going to get the chance to wander around my running hood, marveling at the beauty I get to run through every day, like I once did through theirs.

Never get to watch the Olympic Mountains emerge on the skyline as they run over the bridge.

Never get to run past the red leafed bushes in spring at sunset. 

Never get to run along the marina waterfront while the ferry comes in to dock.

Never get to share their love of running with their kids. 

 "Scripture tells us to run with endurance the race that is set before us. As we do, may God hold close those who have been taken from us too soon, may He comfort their families and may He continue to watch over these United States of America." -President Barack Obama, at the interfaith healing service at the Cathedral of the Holy Cross in Boston, April 18, 2013.

If Only Bundt Cakes Weren't So Complicated

So, hey, what about this whole spring thing, huh? (nods head, gives knowing look)  I know, dude! It's here!  And woo boy has it been exciting!!

Obviously! Because the other night I had the greatest dream! I mean, I even woke up with one of those happy, little, that-was-the-greatest-dream-in-the-history-of-dreams-smile on my face.  See, in my dream, there I was, kneeling in the flower bed in front of my house, digging through the dirt with my bare hands pulling out root after root after root of crab grass, and, as the weeds mounded higher and higher in my Disney princess bucket (stolen from the children) I felt a calm, a rightness, a connectedness to all of nature descend over my very soul.

And then I woke up.  And realized the best dream I'd had in weeks was about weeding.

No. Seriously. Weeding, people. W-e-e-d-i-n-g.

Stop reading and let that sink in for a minute.

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Ok. That's enough sinkage. You can start reading again.

And not even weeding the area around something pretty in my yard, like my Weeping Cherry Tree. Oh, no! Instead, I dreamed about weeding the area in the middle of The Stupid Bush.  Which, yes, is it's real name.  Because any bush who's not smart enough to keep the middle of itself alive in a place that gets, on average, 52 inches of rain a year doesn't deserve a cool name like Weeping Cherry Tree. Stupid gluttonous northwest vegetation....

Obviously, this is unacceptable.  Because normal people don't dream about weeding.  They dream about being a race car driver, or eating the world's largest chocolate peanut butter Easter egg without getting nauseous, or being back in college and telling that freaky English professor to shut up about how smart he is and just teach the class and also TO QUIT STARING AT YOU ON THE BUS, FREAK MAN!, and maybe, now and then, a dream about puppies. Because they're cute. But weeding? No. Just no.

Luckily, my kids like to pick out random books for me from the library in order to expedite their own journey to the children's section, and they had picked out the perfect antidote: The Tourist by Olen Steinhauer.  That's right.  Tonight it's SPY DREAMS!

Now, before I go any further, don't spoil it for me, because I haven't finished the book yet. And for the love of all that is good! don't tell me why an eight month pregnant woman was touring Venice by herself, somehow runs in to a double agent, becomes friends enough with him to find herself in the middle of a cross fire while the good guys try to bring that rogue agent in, and when the double agent is gunned down on the streets of Venice, basically right before her eyes, goes into premature labor, births a daughter, and then ends up marrying the good guy spy fake-named (obviously) Charles Alexander,who had been shot three times (twice in the chest) by the double agent and was bleeding to death (but didn't die!) beside her mere weeks later! Because the answer to that has got to be the key to solving this whole puzzle!

However, after reading part of the book, I've come to realize, most international (and probably non-international) espionage can be thwarted by a good old fashioned block party. And the occasional slice of bundt cake over a cup of coffee.

Case in Point 1:

Spy says: "Oh, wow.  That's super.  Listen, can I use your bathroom? I've been waiting for my girlfriend, Marie, all day.  She just called and it looks like I've got another half hour.  You mind?"

Neighbor says: Sure. By the way, is Marie the one with the wooden leg or the urban chickens? You know what, who cares! Come on in! Feel free to break into her apartment while you pretend to use my bathroom! Mi Casa es su casa!

What the neighbor should have said: Um. Dude. Marie doesn't even have a boyfriend. She hasn't felt emotionally stable enough since the Estonian Count dumped her on her birthday four months ago! I mean, I can't even count the nights I've spent with her, crying into pints of Chunky Monkey, mocking every endearment he ever said in the voice of the count from Sesame Street. Walk on, spy. Walk on.


Case in Point 2:

Spy says: "Uh, excuse me. I'm here about Angela Yates. She's my sister."

Neighbor: Let's out an audible gasp, then buzzes the spy in.

What the neighbor should have said: You're a spy.  Go away.  Angel never had a sister.  Only guinea pigs.  And a parakeet that one summer.


Case in Point 3: 

Spy says: Hold the door, please! I need to get in and check the foundation and make sure it's earthquake certified!

Neighbor says: Holding!

What the neighbor should have said: The building super got that paperwork last week! You're a spy here to replace poor Angela's sleeping pills with poison! You just want to kill her! Murderer! Spy! Bring your pitchforks! Bring your overheated hair dryers! Bring your baseball bat! Charge, neighbors! CHARGE!!



Aaaannnnd. Point proven.

Now, excuse me, I have some weeding to do. In my front yard. In the middle of my neighborhood. Not because I want to see if I can recreate the utter peaceful perfection of my weeding dream in my waking hours. Obviously. But, because, um... I have an international spy to catch? Yeah, that's it! And there simply isn't enough time to bake a bundt cake.