The poor girl is sick for the first time this school year. And it's Halloween. She is pretty sad about it. Not ONLY is she missing the school party, but there's just no way she's going to be able to go trick-or-treating tonight.
Sigh.
The two of us are going to hang out and stay home and she can wear her costume and hand out candy, if she's feeling up to it and we'll watch scary movies (like "Garfield's Halloween Special") on tv. I phoned her dad and told him that I was staying home this year and he said "but you LOVE trick-or-treating!" which instantly made me start to snivel. That walk through the dark, fallen leaves crinkling under foot, the moon a big white penny in the cold sky, all of the children I know running through the streets dressed up as superheroes and fairies and princesses - it's maybe my favorite thing.
I could cry! I could just cry! And now I'm going to arrange my face so that I look cheerful when I head back into the living room, and reassure my poor sick and very, very disappointed Girl that we're going to have SO much fun tonight. Oh, we will.
(while I'm feeling sorry for myself, you should go say hi to my new friend Nadia who also lives in Little Town under the constant threat of getting eaten by bears.)
Friday, October 31, 2008
Thursday, October 30, 2008
An Answer to A Pressing Question
"How tall IS The Baby, anyhow?" you may have wondered. Well, wonder no more! Peter Parker (I made the mistake of calling him "Spiderman", but he corrected me - without the mask, he is PETER PARKER. Good to know.) right there is the same age as her and a fairly standard three year old height. Ha! She's bitty!
And obviously, wearing wings was the in thing this year for the three year old set.
In other news, I have a post up at Five Minutes for Parenting, where I get all Great Depression-y. I also talk about cupcakes. And now I'm off to hang out with my sugar-addled butterfly.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Ghost Town
You can still see a picture of her, standing with her class at a school that no longer exists, one of many small country schools that had one room and more students than I can even imagine now, when the local schools that serve the whole area have shrunk down to under one hundred kids. Now my parent's rural neighborhood is serviced by one very small bus, and the old school is now a shed with an empty bell tower on top.
She is small - much smaller than her classmates, and dark, her face the sullen blur of old photographs, but her white pinafore even now looks carefully pressed and clean, her hair carefully braided. And her mother - I used to think before I had children that parents would love the sickly ones less, but now I know too well the rush of intense, terrified love, the way her mother's work-worn hands must have felt, tenderly braiding her long hair, carefully helping her into her stiff white apron so that she could frown into the autumn sun with her classmates who towered over her.
And then she died, poor little girl.
It was the middle of winter, and the roads were not passable because of the severity of the winter storms, back at the turn of the last century when local snowbanks might engulf smaller houses. There was nothing they could do. So they tucked their little child back into her room, unheated at the top of the stairs, and waited out until the storm passed one week later. Upstairs, there was the end of their dreams and hopes, the end of joy, while downstairs there was still other children to feed and a woodstove to tend and animals milling around the barn outside.
One week. The quiet of that house. The quiet of that room.
No wonder there are ghosts.
Her feet, still loud on the stairs. Her hand, still banging on the piano, still sending toys spinning into the next room. Her voice, still ringing out, echo-less and old. The shape of her, just above you at the top of the stairs, vanishing into the next room, her childhood endless, mirroring my own. Two little girls.
I grew up, moved away to calmer houses. She still rattles around my parent's home, quieter now, but still mischievous, knocking on the guest room door when it's occupied at night, shrieking at my father when it storms.
Go to sleep, little girl. Tuck your braided head down. Let your little bones rest.
She is small - much smaller than her classmates, and dark, her face the sullen blur of old photographs, but her white pinafore even now looks carefully pressed and clean, her hair carefully braided. And her mother - I used to think before I had children that parents would love the sickly ones less, but now I know too well the rush of intense, terrified love, the way her mother's work-worn hands must have felt, tenderly braiding her long hair, carefully helping her into her stiff white apron so that she could frown into the autumn sun with her classmates who towered over her.
And then she died, poor little girl.
It was the middle of winter, and the roads were not passable because of the severity of the winter storms, back at the turn of the last century when local snowbanks might engulf smaller houses. There was nothing they could do. So they tucked their little child back into her room, unheated at the top of the stairs, and waited out until the storm passed one week later. Upstairs, there was the end of their dreams and hopes, the end of joy, while downstairs there was still other children to feed and a woodstove to tend and animals milling around the barn outside.
One week. The quiet of that house. The quiet of that room.
No wonder there are ghosts.
Her feet, still loud on the stairs. Her hand, still banging on the piano, still sending toys spinning into the next room. Her voice, still ringing out, echo-less and old. The shape of her, just above you at the top of the stairs, vanishing into the next room, her childhood endless, mirroring my own. Two little girls.
I grew up, moved away to calmer houses. She still rattles around my parent's home, quieter now, but still mischievous, knocking on the guest room door when it's occupied at night, shrieking at my father when it storms.
Go to sleep, little girl. Tuck your braided head down. Let your little bones rest.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Little Things
It was haying season, mid-August. My dad had hired on three local teenaged boys to help alongside my middle brother, and the five of them would come in at mealtimes, sweaty and silent and exhausted, eating vast quantities of food. I spent the hot, muggy days watching my two year old brother, full of pent-up resentment and boredom and fury.
My parents's house has this floorplan:
A is the kitchen, B is the living room and there's a stairwell closed-in with doors on either side in the middle. In the top left of the kitchen is the front door and there are no other ways in or out.It was lunchtime. My littlest brother and I had been there all day, and all of the menfolk had returned. We were sitting right on the A, at the kitchen table, and one of the boys - who I'll call Bob - went upstairs to use the washroom. Then he came downstairs again, opening the door into the living room, and went outside.
Then Bob came downstairs and walked into the kitchen.
We all jumped up and ran to the front door. There was no one there, the screen door still vibrating from closing just seconds before. But we all saw him walk outside, saw the door open and close, saw someone - his head turned away from the room - go outside, the dog barking.
Most people don't believe in ghosts. Not really. It violates the way the world should work, goes against what science and logic teaches us, and as a (vaguely) sensible human being my brain still reels about it. So how do a group of people react when something that should NOT happen happens?
STARK FREAKING TERROR, that's how. They could not get out of that house fast enough - but my little brother and I had to go back in, eventually, because it was the middle of July and too hot for staying outside, terrified, all day. And nothing ate us.
A few days later - the same group of young men AND one more, I think - eating silently again, and a rolling started in the North-East part of my little map, the sound of a toy moving slowly - started by no human agency - across the floor.
Everyone looked at each other, motionless, white-faced.
A toy ball rolled into the kitchen, TURNED THE CORNER, and STOPPED in the middle of the kitchen floor.
In a horror movie, you'd probably roll your eyes if that happened. But in real life, let me tell you, you'd probably nearly pass out with terror. Because these sort of things can not happen, so what does it mean when they do?
So there I was, 15, and our house was acting up and I was all by myself, everyone gone for the afternoon and I was upstairs when all at once the piano played itself in the living room, a cacophonous crash and then a peal of high, childish laughter and then all sound suddenly stopped, leaving the ominous absence of sound.
I was all alone. I remember sitting on the top step, weeping, knowing that I would have to go downstairs, that I needed to get out and how could I possibly? What might I see?
Monday, October 27, 2008
The Headless Horsekid
It's the last week of October, and this week's Kitchen Party is slightly Halloween-tinged, complete with an eerie photo of one of my children WITH A PUMPKIN FOR A HEAD! SO SCARY!
On a less scary note: I am better, thanks. I did have a nasty strep infection, but taking care of it not only made me feel healthier, it also made me feel HAPPIER. I wonder if my recent low mood was due to me coming down with something? Hm.
On a less scary note: I am better, thanks. I did have a nasty strep infection, but taking care of it not only made me feel healthier, it also made me feel HAPPIER. I wonder if my recent low mood was due to me coming down with something? Hm.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Book Report
So I've been pretty much taking it easy this weekend, and - shockingly enough - I've been spending my lovely, lovely bedrest reading.
I read Peter Robinson's latest, All the Colours of Darkness. It's a British police procedural, and it was a spiffy read - I enjoy the Inspector Banks novels, which are a solid, well-written series. And then I read The Private Patient by PD James, which despite being another British police mystery novel was another thing altogether. The 88 year old PD James is a MAGNIFICENT, God-haunted writer, and although this book was slow in bits, it all came together beautifully. The end of the book felt like a wrapping-up of the whole series, and it was quite satisfying.
Ah, British police books. I read so many of them and my ideas of Britain have been shaped as a result - I now picture it as entirely full of decaying grand houses and violent crime and squalid council lots, even though I'm not entirely sure what a council lot is, nor how it got quite so squalid. And then there are British police officers, who are all melancholy, literary and quite desirable middle-aged men, which I'm certain they all are in real life, too.
When I wasn't reading about British people killing each other in baffling and cruel ways, I was reading cookbooks. I read Canadian Living: The Complete Christmas Book, and Canadian Living cookbooks always do have the best recipes, this book being no exception. If you already have Christmas cookbooks in your collection, you might not need to buy this one since it doesn't cover any totally new ground but it's beautifully put together and if you need a book full of Christmas recipes, this one would be a great choice. (Oh, it also has some gluten-free cookie recipes, too! I was glad to see those included.)
And then I read Friday Night Dinners by Bonnie Stern, the well-known Canadian food writer. It's a neat concept, recording what her family really had for dinner on Friday nights*, and all of the photography in the book was done by her son. The book has some wildly interesting recipes (The Girl took it upon herself to circle the recipe for Roasted Sweet Potatoes with Sweet Chili Sauce and Lime...), and I'm planning on trying a LOT of them, although I didn't necessarily find the planned menus all that tempting, but that would be the difference between her family's tastes and mine. I found the book a bit murky, graphically, and for a personal cookbook it was a bit stand-offish, although it was still interesting to read.
(If it was my Friday night dinners? Tacos or pizza. I am LAZY by Friday.)
I do recommend this cookbook, with a whole lot of caveats - that you LOVE to cook (the recipes are not necessarily for beginning or uncertain cooks), that you live in an urban area (most of the recipes call for ingredients that may still be hard to find in smaller towns), and that you have a family who loves trying new foods. (if you have picky kids, this book will just break your heart.)
And now I am done. Back to bed!
I read Peter Robinson's latest, All the Colours of Darkness. It's a British police procedural, and it was a spiffy read - I enjoy the Inspector Banks novels, which are a solid, well-written series. And then I read The Private Patient by PD James, which despite being another British police mystery novel was another thing altogether. The 88 year old PD James is a MAGNIFICENT, God-haunted writer, and although this book was slow in bits, it all came together beautifully. The end of the book felt like a wrapping-up of the whole series, and it was quite satisfying.
Ah, British police books. I read so many of them and my ideas of Britain have been shaped as a result - I now picture it as entirely full of decaying grand houses and violent crime and squalid council lots, even though I'm not entirely sure what a council lot is, nor how it got quite so squalid. And then there are British police officers, who are all melancholy, literary and quite desirable middle-aged men, which I'm certain they all are in real life, too.
When I wasn't reading about British people killing each other in baffling and cruel ways, I was reading cookbooks. I read Canadian Living: The Complete Christmas Book, and Canadian Living cookbooks always do have the best recipes, this book being no exception. If you already have Christmas cookbooks in your collection, you might not need to buy this one since it doesn't cover any totally new ground but it's beautifully put together and if you need a book full of Christmas recipes, this one would be a great choice. (Oh, it also has some gluten-free cookie recipes, too! I was glad to see those included.)
And then I read Friday Night Dinners by Bonnie Stern, the well-known Canadian food writer. It's a neat concept, recording what her family really had for dinner on Friday nights*, and all of the photography in the book was done by her son. The book has some wildly interesting recipes (The Girl took it upon herself to circle the recipe for Roasted Sweet Potatoes with Sweet Chili Sauce and Lime...), and I'm planning on trying a LOT of them, although I didn't necessarily find the planned menus all that tempting, but that would be the difference between her family's tastes and mine. I found the book a bit murky, graphically, and for a personal cookbook it was a bit stand-offish, although it was still interesting to read.
(If it was my Friday night dinners? Tacos or pizza. I am LAZY by Friday.)
I do recommend this cookbook, with a whole lot of caveats - that you LOVE to cook (the recipes are not necessarily for beginning or uncertain cooks), that you live in an urban area (most of the recipes call for ingredients that may still be hard to find in smaller towns), and that you have a family who loves trying new foods. (if you have picky kids, this book will just break your heart.)
And now I am done. Back to bed!
Friday, October 24, 2008
All Sorts Of Excitement
As I write this - right now! right this very minute! - my husband is busy rushing home from work because we're having a medical emergency. Sort of.
I've been sick all week and I didn't mention it once (I don't think). I was starting to feel like your grandma, the one who complains all the time when you visit about her bunions and her medications and tells you in gross detail about her friends' surgeries and while I certainly do love the elderly, it really wasn't something I aim for so much in myself quite yet. But I've been REALLY sick - fevers! ear aches! being kept up night after night by little kids who may be sleep or who MAY BE TRYING TO KILL ME!
And so this morning I phoned Telehealth Ontario, which is pretty awesome in case you do not live in Ontario and do not know how great it is to have a 24 hour a day helpline that you can call whenever you're feeling a bit iffy. The nurses are friendly and they always end up telling me to take myself and/or my kid to the nearest doctor IMMEDIATELY, since our house is apparently Ground Zero for the next pandemic and we always have something exciting going on, health-wise. So I phoned about The Baby who had stomach pains and then threw up (diagnosis: a stomach bug. Keep her at home and give her water. I probably should know that one by now.), and then the nurse told me that I didn't sound so hot myself. Who, me? Now I get to go the doctor and then I get to spend the rest of the day in bed, which I don't know about you but that sounds FREAKING AWESOME. I feel AWFUL.
Anyhoo. I SAW A BEAR YESTERDAY! I totally did! I was walking The Boy and The Baby across town to pick up The Girl at school and between Point A (My House) and Point B (The School) there was a big freaking black bear, who was mostly interested in garbage cans but I still almost passed out with fear all the way to the school while trying to maintain my composure so I didn't scare the kids. Like so:
The Boy: Hey, that's a BEAR! THERE'S A BEAR ON THIS STREET!
Me: Really? Let's keep walking at a steady pace so the bear doesn't get agitated and maul us!
For some reason, The Boy found that a wee bit exciting. Then we got to the school, I informed them of the Rogue Town Bear and they instituted the Bear Drill (the town kids were released early and walked home by adults, and all of the kids in the school screamed BEAR! and ran out into the parking lot to see if they could catch a glimpse.).
My kids go to a school that has Bear Drills. They're just lucky.
Postscript: Horribly infected lymph nodes. I am not even sure what a lymph node is, but mine are CRAP right now. And numbers of bears seen on trip to doctors: 0.
I've been sick all week and I didn't mention it once (I don't think). I was starting to feel like your grandma, the one who complains all the time when you visit about her bunions and her medications and tells you in gross detail about her friends' surgeries and while I certainly do love the elderly, it really wasn't something I aim for so much in myself quite yet. But I've been REALLY sick - fevers! ear aches! being kept up night after night by little kids who may be sleep or who MAY BE TRYING TO KILL ME!
And so this morning I phoned Telehealth Ontario, which is pretty awesome in case you do not live in Ontario and do not know how great it is to have a 24 hour a day helpline that you can call whenever you're feeling a bit iffy. The nurses are friendly and they always end up telling me to take myself and/or my kid to the nearest doctor IMMEDIATELY, since our house is apparently Ground Zero for the next pandemic and we always have something exciting going on, health-wise. So I phoned about The Baby who had stomach pains and then threw up (diagnosis: a stomach bug. Keep her at home and give her water. I probably should know that one by now.), and then the nurse told me that I didn't sound so hot myself. Who, me? Now I get to go the doctor and then I get to spend the rest of the day in bed, which I don't know about you but that sounds FREAKING AWESOME. I feel AWFUL.
Anyhoo. I SAW A BEAR YESTERDAY! I totally did! I was walking The Boy and The Baby across town to pick up The Girl at school and between Point A (My House) and Point B (The School) there was a big freaking black bear, who was mostly interested in garbage cans but I still almost passed out with fear all the way to the school while trying to maintain my composure so I didn't scare the kids. Like so:
The Boy: Hey, that's a BEAR! THERE'S A BEAR ON THIS STREET!
Me: Really? Let's keep walking at a steady pace so the bear doesn't get agitated and maul us!
For some reason, The Boy found that a wee bit exciting. Then we got to the school, I informed them of the Rogue Town Bear and they instituted the Bear Drill (the town kids were released early and walked home by adults, and all of the kids in the school screamed BEAR! and ran out into the parking lot to see if they could catch a glimpse.).
My kids go to a school that has Bear Drills. They're just lucky.
Postscript: Horribly infected lymph nodes. I am not even sure what a lymph node is, but mine are CRAP right now. And numbers of bears seen on trip to doctors: 0.
Thursday, October 23, 2008
YIKES!
So I went to bed last night with this weird, pressing feeling of something I had forgotten to do, but I couldn't for the life of me think what it might be. It was only TUESDAY, RIGHT? And I haven't any deadlines on Tuesday.
Ahem. Yeah.
Today is my day for writing at Five Minutes For Parenting. I woke up early enough that I was still able to get my post in, but let this be a warning: I am TERRIBLE with deadlines, largely because I'm never quite sure where the week has tethered itself at any particular moment. So today's post is a repost, one that grabbed me as both being poignant on its own and also being poignant because what I was writing of has already gone. OH MY HEART. Go read it and feel a pang along with me.
In addition to also being lax with deadlines, I'm also looking for story suggestions for scary stories to read aloud to a group of 9-12 year olds. I think that's a tricky age range - The Girl, at 9, finds even mildly spooky things a bit much to handle, while a lot of 12 year olds are pretty worldly. Ideas?
Ahem. Yeah.
Today is my day for writing at Five Minutes For Parenting. I woke up early enough that I was still able to get my post in, but let this be a warning: I am TERRIBLE with deadlines, largely because I'm never quite sure where the week has tethered itself at any particular moment. So today's post is a repost, one that grabbed me as both being poignant on its own and also being poignant because what I was writing of has already gone. OH MY HEART. Go read it and feel a pang along with me.
In addition to also being lax with deadlines, I'm also looking for story suggestions for scary stories to read aloud to a group of 9-12 year olds. I think that's a tricky age range - The Girl, at 9, finds even mildly spooky things a bit much to handle, while a lot of 12 year olds are pretty worldly. Ideas?
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
In Which I Torture My Husband
These are all of the questions that came in at the time that he sat down to answer them. Any further questions MIGHT be answered at some future date. Maybe. We'll see.
Mad - Do you see yourself as a fictional character on Beck's blog? Explain.
Mr. Beck - Actually, the real me is a fictional character based on the character in Beck's blog, except maybe less wise, somewhat hairier and less well rested.
No Mother Earth - Cake Decorating 101. (I have two birthdays coming up and need help! And ideas! Cool boy ideas that don't involve cars!!)
Mr. Beck - Beck usually comes up with the cake ideas, I just make them and take all the credit. You could make a square cake and wrap it in rice paper with a nice rice paper bow to look like a present, then put a present on a plate and cover it with icing...or would that be too weird? How about a chocolate cake covered with green shoelace licorice (for grass) and all kinds of candy bugs - dirt & bugs, a boy's favorite things. And let them eat it without utensils! It'll be awesome! And memorable! And messy!!! It's memorable you want right? You aren't worried about silly things like spending hours cleaning floors and walls and ceilings, etc.
Beck's note - go check out the Birthday Cake section at Family Fun. The Boy's Lego Cake was pretty easy and he loved it.
Mad - Do you see yourself as a fictional character on Beck's blog? Explain.
Mr. Beck - Actually, the real me is a fictional character based on the character in Beck's blog, except maybe less wise, somewhat hairier and less well rested.
No Mother Earth - Cake Decorating 101. (I have two birthdays coming up and need help! And ideas! Cool boy ideas that don't involve cars!!)
Mr. Beck - Beck usually comes up with the cake ideas, I just make them and take all the credit. You could make a square cake and wrap it in rice paper with a nice rice paper bow to look like a present, then put a present on a plate and cover it with icing...or would that be too weird? How about a chocolate cake covered with green shoelace licorice (for grass) and all kinds of candy bugs - dirt & bugs, a boy's favorite things. And let them eat it without utensils! It'll be awesome! And memorable! And messy!!! It's memorable you want right? You aren't worried about silly things like spending hours cleaning floors and walls and ceilings, etc.
Beck's note - go check out the Birthday Cake section at Family Fun. The Boy's Lego Cake was pretty easy and he loved it.
Chelle - what it is like to be married to a mastermind?
Mr Beck - I could tell you stories about lost bank cards, forgotten keys and kitchen explosions, as could anybody who lives in the shadow of such eccentric genius. It's (awe) inspiring.
Christine - what is beck's best dinner dish?
Mr Beck - She has the Midas touch. Even her brussel sprouts are great! (And I normally gag if I try to eat brussel sprouts.) No one dish comes to mind. It's all good!
Beck here - This is where I wrote out what I do with Brussel Sprouts. Satisfaction is NOT guaranteed, but it's worth a try.
Janet - Would your friends/family characterize you or Beck as "the funny one" in your relationship?
Mr Beck - This depends on what you mean by 'funny' and what particular friend/family member you might be talking to. I think we are both the kind of people who can be easily taken the wrong way by certain people. Most think we're both funny, some think one or the other of us is "funny". Depending on the circumstances we each have our moments.
Barb - I'd like your husband to do an in depth post on what it's like to be married to you. You're one of the most interesting people I've met in B'ville - I'd love to hear his thoughts on being Beck's husband.
Mr Beck - I'm more of a one-word-answer than an indepth-post kind of guy. Although I can't think of the one word that would answer this. Being Mr Beck is great. I think life would be awfully boring if I wasn't. Also, I'm a little odd but she doesn't seem to mind. (Jamie on Mythbusters reminders her of me. Her brother says Dwight on The Office reminds him of me)
Omaha Mama - I'd like the male version of "What I Know About Marriage". I think that would be a nice perspective.
Mr Beck - What I Know About Marriage - 1.) Don't act like all those other jerks. 2.) Take care of your family. 3.) Do (don't just try) your best. 4.) Be there before you are needed. 5.) Tell your wife and each of your children every day that you love them.
Stupid Bloglines. It hasn't been updating and so I woke up this morning and there were possibly three million unread posts waiting for me. I don't think I'll be getting to all of them.
I feel like I've been a bad blog friend lately - I decided a few months ago that blogging needed to have a more appropriate amount of space in my life, and so I've been pretty strict with myself about time and has that affected how much I can comment? Oh, you betcha. But I don't know what else to DO, unless I give up any pretense at all of cleaning the house and have the Baby drop all of her social schedule. I'm trying, but I don't feel like I'm doing a very good job and so now I have a whole lot of blogging-related GUILT, for pete's sake.
Oh, poor me. I feel guilty about blogging.
I've even felt bad enough that I've considered not blogging anymore, because what sort of blogger doesn't promptly return all comments? (that's a hypothetical question. The answer is A BAD BLOGGER, of course.) But then I'd miss out on all of the posts I have in mind about other things my husband likes to rant about (People crossing the road in dangerous spots with their kids in tow! "Look, sweetie. This is how we create a Cone Of Safety with our Sense of Entitlement!").
And on that husbandly note: I am TOTALLY going to make him write a post sometime this week. HAHAHAHA. (I actually had to post and laugh right there, and my laugh sounded JUST LIKE an evil villain laugh! Awesome.) So what should he write about? Are there any questions you'd like him to answer? Lemme know.
(On a bit of a related note, Blissfully Domestic has republished my Everything I Know About Being Married post. If you missed it the first time or if you want to have another look, go check it out!)
I feel like I've been a bad blog friend lately - I decided a few months ago that blogging needed to have a more appropriate amount of space in my life, and so I've been pretty strict with myself about time and has that affected how much I can comment? Oh, you betcha. But I don't know what else to DO, unless I give up any pretense at all of cleaning the house and have the Baby drop all of her social schedule. I'm trying, but I don't feel like I'm doing a very good job and so now I have a whole lot of blogging-related GUILT, for pete's sake.
Oh, poor me. I feel guilty about blogging.
I've even felt bad enough that I've considered not blogging anymore, because what sort of blogger doesn't promptly return all comments? (that's a hypothetical question. The answer is A BAD BLOGGER, of course.) But then I'd miss out on all of the posts I have in mind about other things my husband likes to rant about (People crossing the road in dangerous spots with their kids in tow! "Look, sweetie. This is how we create a Cone Of Safety with our Sense of Entitlement!").
And on that husbandly note: I am TOTALLY going to make him write a post sometime this week. HAHAHAHA. (I actually had to post and laugh right there, and my laugh sounded JUST LIKE an evil villain laugh! Awesome.) So what should he write about? Are there any questions you'd like him to answer? Lemme know.
(On a bit of a related note, Blissfully Domestic has republished my Everything I Know About Being Married post. If you missed it the first time or if you want to have another look, go check it out!)
Monday, October 20, 2008
Caper Mishap!
Today is Monday, which means that I'm posting at the Kitchen Party, complete with a photo of an accident with capers. Whoops.
And here is The Baby with a picture of a mouse because it is, she has announced, Mouse Day.
One should celebrate Mouse Day by cleaning one's playroom. ICK ICK ICK ICK.
And here is The Baby with a picture of a mouse because it is, she has announced, Mouse Day.
One should celebrate Mouse Day by cleaning one's playroom. ICK ICK ICK ICK.
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Pipsqueak Charlie
(warning: I swear in this post. For good reason. You'll see.)
My kids love their school (and for all of you who have asked why we aren't homeschooling: there is your reason) - they have well-loved friends and friendly classes and they get good grades and have teachers who love them (especially The Girl, who is being taught by HER GRANDMOTHER this year.) and it's quite a nicely nurturing environment, this little wee school in the middle of nowhere.
And then something happens that makes me scream "THAT IS IT! I'M PULLING YOU GUYS OUT RIGHT NOW!", like OH, THIS PAST WEEK, maybe.
My kids' school has been having Code Red drills lately. In case you do not know, a Code Red drill is like a fire drill, except instead of lining up and going outside in their indoor shoes, the teachers lock them in their classrooms. This is in case someone breaks into the school with the intention of harming children, although the teachers have really downplayed that aspect of it.
This week, three police officers visited the kids' school during the Code Red drill and a female police officer told my son's class - a pre-kindergarten, kindergarten and grade one split - that they shouldn't play in the playhouse area of their classroom should there ever be a REAL Code Red, because - are you ready to hear what she told this class of VERY YOUNG CHILDREN, some of whom are THREE YEARS OLD? READY FOR THIS?
She told them that someone would shoot them through the glass of their classroom window. Yes, she did.
AND THIS IS FEAR-MONGERING BULLSHIT. We live in Northern Ontario, not freaking DETROIT. The chances of someone breaking into their school with the intention of harming them is REMOTE in the first place, and in NO WAY JUSTIFIES terrifying a class full of little children. If there was some sort of emergency that caused the kids to be locked in their classes, their teacher is FULLY CAPABLE of keeping them away from the classroom playhouse area.
As soon as my child told me this after school, I phoned the principal and she said that she would speak with the police officers and make sure that language like that is never used around small children again. However, a police officer came into my little child's classroom and told him that someone might shoot him through the glass of his classroom door, and I cannot even begin to put into words how ragingly furious I am about this.
My kids love their school (and for all of you who have asked why we aren't homeschooling: there is your reason) - they have well-loved friends and friendly classes and they get good grades and have teachers who love them (especially The Girl, who is being taught by HER GRANDMOTHER this year.) and it's quite a nicely nurturing environment, this little wee school in the middle of nowhere.
And then something happens that makes me scream "THAT IS IT! I'M PULLING YOU GUYS OUT RIGHT NOW!", like OH, THIS PAST WEEK, maybe.
My kids' school has been having Code Red drills lately. In case you do not know, a Code Red drill is like a fire drill, except instead of lining up and going outside in their indoor shoes, the teachers lock them in their classrooms. This is in case someone breaks into the school with the intention of harming children, although the teachers have really downplayed that aspect of it.
This week, three police officers visited the kids' school during the Code Red drill and a female police officer told my son's class - a pre-kindergarten, kindergarten and grade one split - that they shouldn't play in the playhouse area of their classroom should there ever be a REAL Code Red, because - are you ready to hear what she told this class of VERY YOUNG CHILDREN, some of whom are THREE YEARS OLD? READY FOR THIS?
She told them that someone would shoot them through the glass of their classroom window. Yes, she did.
AND THIS IS FEAR-MONGERING BULLSHIT. We live in Northern Ontario, not freaking DETROIT. The chances of someone breaking into their school with the intention of harming them is REMOTE in the first place, and in NO WAY JUSTIFIES terrifying a class full of little children. If there was some sort of emergency that caused the kids to be locked in their classes, their teacher is FULLY CAPABLE of keeping them away from the classroom playhouse area.
As soon as my child told me this after school, I phoned the principal and she said that she would speak with the police officers and make sure that language like that is never used around small children again. However, a police officer came into my little child's classroom and told him that someone might shoot him through the glass of his classroom door, and I cannot even begin to put into words how ragingly furious I am about this.
Friday, October 17, 2008
My House: Let The Fear Begin
It's almost Halloween, and my house is REALLY SCARY. Observe!
And finely, our piece de resistance, the pinnacle of horror - BEHOLD MY FAT CAT SQUASHING THE DORA CHAIR AND FEEL TRUE TERROR!
Yeah. Scary.
This was totally inspired by Susie J's ghosts, and I think our windows that need to be replaced add to the horror. Spoooooooooky!
The Baby drew the following Jack-O-Lantern, which looks JUST LIKE HER FATHER:
Except he is not orange and his head isn't shaped like that. Otherwise, JUST LIKE HIM.
More pumpkins and some ghosts.
The Baby's handiwork again, although I cut out the pumpkins and ghosts free-hand, thanks to my wild cutting-out skills.
Here's a close-up of one of the ghosts, so you may admire his spectral nostrils:
And here is a ladybug, finely crafted by The Girl:
.... which isn't too scary until you realize that it's two feet tall and has been taped to the living room door for a year. Spoooooooooooky!
And finely, our piece de resistance, the pinnacle of horror - BEHOLD MY FAT CAT SQUASHING THE DORA CHAIR AND FEEL TRUE TERROR!
Yeah. Scary.
Thursday, October 16, 2008
One of the things that I think is very funny about writing is the way that some things - like this post that I wrote last night for Five Minutes for Parenting - can come across as very calm and abstracted, while in reality I wrote them while bawling my eyes out. In fact, I was crying so hard during that final paragraph that my husband came in to give me a worried look.
You know what I'm ordering right now? Tights. And then I'm going to order a tweed skirt and a bike with no speeds - you know, the old-fashioned kind - and get a dog to ride in the basket and we'll jaunt around town solving crimes. True story.
(now go read my post!)
Edited to add: I am also ordering "athletic pants", so I can become an aerobics instructor/crime solver.Apparently, the site is having quite a bit of "technical difficulties", and people can't click through. Yeah. So you're missing out on an AWESOME post, unlike this one, which is a piece of junk. All fixed!
You know what I'm ordering right now? Tights. And then I'm going to order a tweed skirt and a bike with no speeds - you know, the old-fashioned kind - and get a dog to ride in the basket and we'll jaunt around town solving crimes. True story.
(now go read my post!)
Edited to add: I am also ordering "athletic pants", so I can become an aerobics instructor/crime solver.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
'Tis A Gift To Be Simple
In these hard times, I think it's very important to remember all of the things in our lives that we are grateful for, the simple things that make up so much of what is good in life. And in that spirit, let me present:
2. I am grateful for the astonishing, tireless geniuses behind America's Funniest Home Videos. Without endless clips of morons hurting themselves in painfully humiliating fashion, I don't know what I'd do....
3. I am grateful for the fat guy who strips down to his skivvies, covers himself with Vaseline and then runs up and down the sidewalk while we throw coins at him. Good times.
4. I am grateful for people who take the time to take some lame, horrible show and set all of the luv scenes from it to one of my favorite songs on you tube. That's awesome. Thank you for all of your hard work.
5. I am grateful for my adult-onset acne. Thank you, overactive zit glands, for keeping me looking too young to buy booze. That's terrific.
6. I am grateful for the skunk who has brought part of nature's grandeur to my backyard. God bless you, little black and white guy. Keep on truckin'.
MY SIMPLE GRATITUDE LIST.
1. I am grateful that the Marijuana Party won last night's Canadian election. I will salute our new pot leaf flag with pride and perhaps a tear of patriotic joy. And then I will eat a bunch of stuff.2. I am grateful for the astonishing, tireless geniuses behind America's Funniest Home Videos. Without endless clips of morons hurting themselves in painfully humiliating fashion, I don't know what I'd do....
3. I am grateful for the fat guy who strips down to his skivvies, covers himself with Vaseline and then runs up and down the sidewalk while we throw coins at him. Good times.
4. I am grateful for people who take the time to take some lame, horrible show and set all of the luv scenes from it to one of my favorite songs on you tube. That's awesome. Thank you for all of your hard work.
5. I am grateful for my adult-onset acne. Thank you, overactive zit glands, for keeping me looking too young to buy booze. That's terrific.
6. I am grateful for the skunk who has brought part of nature's grandeur to my backyard. God bless you, little black and white guy. Keep on truckin'.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Oh boy! I get to vote!
Today is Canadian election day. Whoo hoo! We're getting a new Prime Minister*!
*Probably not.
Canada's only once had a superstar politician, and that ended up with him enacting the War Measures Act, which... ugh. We've had good politicians, of course, but the current batch just seem like a bunch of soulless robots and/or gormless hippies and I don't want to vote for ANY of them. And being Canadian, I have MANY choices of parties that I don't want to vote for!
There's the Bloc Quebecois.
There's the Communist Party. Because that's worked out SO well everywhere else, mmhmm.
There's the Marijuana Party. Just writing that makes my eyes sting with patriotic tears. Oh Canada. I LOVE YOU.
And there are 20 other official choices, I think, but the big five are the Bloc, the Conservatives, the Greens, the Liberals and the NDP. We don't vote directly for the leader of whatever party we like (or loathe the least) - we vote for the local candidates running in our riding, and the party with the most ridings gets to put their douchey besuited fella in charge of our country. And I'm not passionate about any of them (can you tell?), although I'll go to our local school gym and half-heartedly vote tonight.
And there you have it: likely the only political post I will ever write. Enjoy!
*Probably not.
Canada's only once had a superstar politician, and that ended up with him enacting the War Measures Act, which... ugh. We've had good politicians, of course, but the current batch just seem like a bunch of soulless robots and/or gormless hippies and I don't want to vote for ANY of them. And being Canadian, I have MANY choices of parties that I don't want to vote for!
There's the Bloc Quebecois.
There's the Communist Party. Because that's worked out SO well everywhere else, mmhmm.
There's the Marijuana Party. Just writing that makes my eyes sting with patriotic tears. Oh Canada. I LOVE YOU.
And there are 20 other official choices, I think, but the big five are the Bloc, the Conservatives, the Greens, the Liberals and the NDP. We don't vote directly for the leader of whatever party we like (or loathe the least) - we vote for the local candidates running in our riding, and the party with the most ridings gets to put their douchey besuited fella in charge of our country. And I'm not passionate about any of them (can you tell?), although I'll go to our local school gym and half-heartedly vote tonight.
And there you have it: likely the only political post I will ever write. Enjoy!
Monday, October 13, 2008
Thanksgiving Monday!
And I'm writing at The Kitchen Party - tales of our Thanksgiving excesses! a picture of The Boy! How can you resist?
Friday, October 10, 2008
These Are A Few Of My Favorite Things
My dear friend Susanne has been hosting the Friday's Fave 5 thingy, and I find it so cozy and consoling to read other people's lists that I thought I'd make one of my own. So let me present, My Five Favorite Things From This Week:1) My mom's homemade relish. I do not even have the words to say how good this is - I put it on EVERYTHING. On tuna sandwiches! On hot dogs! On meat loaf! Stirred into Kraft Dinner! Straight out of the jar and into my mouth! Exclamation mark!
2) Milk by Kings of Leon
3) Mugs of hot chai in the evening, made for me by my very good husband. I went and checked: it's the type made by President's Choice and it's GOOD.
4)The Thin Man
I want a robe just like Nora's.
5) The school's Thanksgiving Feast that the Baby and I are going to go help at RIGHT NOW. There's something so sweet about seeing the kids and all of the other 90 kids in their school, from the wee still-three-year-old Pre-Ks to the almost adult grade 8's all gathered in one room, eating together. Aw.
So what did you love this week? Let me know what's making you happy.
Thursday, October 9, 2008
I like the word pumpkin - it's cheerful, much like the orange fruit (FRUIT? Apparently.) itself. Mine came from my parent's farm and baked without event on the bottom rack of the oven (and on a cookie sheet, lest it explode...), and then came out and was a markedly bland soup, the end. So I don't recommend doing that. I liked Robin's suggestion of making beef stew and serving it in a pumpkin MUCH better.
But the Sally Lunn bread was an out-of-the-park hit - so effortless! so tasty and tender! Here's the recipe, and I really recommend trying it soon, even if you're scared of baking with yeast.
I am looking askance at the commenters who suggested that I sounded drunk and/or high in yesterday's post: pshaw! I was merely giddy with the joys of good mental health and the slapsticky delight of watching SOMEONE's misfortune. Pretty soon, I'm going to descend to the depths of posting America's "Funniest" Home Video clips of small children humiliating themselves in painful fashion, no doubt. Or maybe I won't.
I am looking askance at the commenters who suggested that I sounded drunk and/or high in yesterday's post: pshaw! I was merely giddy with the joys of good mental health and the slapsticky delight of watching SOMEONE's misfortune. Pretty soon, I'm going to descend to the depths of posting America's "Funniest" Home Video clips of small children humiliating themselves in painful fashion, no doubt. Or maybe I won't.
Here is a picture of The Girl JUST about to launch a bottle rocket:
The raincoat was a sensible precaution since everyone else watching it got soaked. And there it goes!
I have a post up at Five Minutes For Parenting today, all about a recent trip to the fire station. It was a good time, except for the screaming part, but that's the way it often goes when you spend a lot of time with three year olds.
The raincoat was a sensible precaution since everyone else watching it got soaked. And there it goes!
I have a post up at Five Minutes For Parenting today, all about a recent trip to the fire station. It was a good time, except for the screaming part, but that's the way it often goes when you spend a lot of time with three year olds. Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Grab The Hand!
It's raining and grey and dismal outside and there are damp yellow leaves gloomily plastering everything - a perfect day to stay in cozy pajamas, a perfect day - in fact - to go back to bed. Which sounds like I'm still in the grips of the Grims, but in reality I am quite chipper and back to my regular twitty self today. Here's proof - just now, WHILE WRITING THIS AND EATING MY LUNCH, I choked on a bite of lunch for one second and as I frantically clawed for air, I thought "Dagnabit! I don't wanna die!". Then it turned out that I'd just swallowed some black pepper and I wasn't actually choking, PHEW.
OH! OH! And earlier today, SOMEONE drove into the ditch at the end of my driveway and then SOMEONE locked themselves out of their truck in the resulting confusion and instead of thinking, forlornly, that This Is The Way Of The World (first your truck is in the ditch and then your keys are STUCK and then the economy collapses, THE END), I stood on my porch and laughed and laughed and laughed. I'm laughing now just thinking about it. I enjoyed The Ditch Incident Of '08 SO MUCH, in fact, that I phoned SOMEONE when they finally got home and laughed at them until they hung up on me. HAHAHAHA.
This afternoon, I'm going to make a pumpkin soup baked INSIDE the pumpkin - which will either be this magical, fairy tale thing coming out of the oven or a big collapsed gourd-y mess, and either way should be pretty amusing. I'm also going to make some no-knead bread, the old recipe call, enchantingly enough, Sally Lunn. And now I'm going to go play with the Baby and maybe phone SOMEONE again. HAHAHAHA.
OH! OH! And earlier today, SOMEONE drove into the ditch at the end of my driveway and then SOMEONE locked themselves out of their truck in the resulting confusion and instead of thinking, forlornly, that This Is The Way Of The World (first your truck is in the ditch and then your keys are STUCK and then the economy collapses, THE END), I stood on my porch and laughed and laughed and laughed. I'm laughing now just thinking about it. I enjoyed The Ditch Incident Of '08 SO MUCH, in fact, that I phoned SOMEONE when they finally got home and laughed at them until they hung up on me. HAHAHAHA.
This afternoon, I'm going to make a pumpkin soup baked INSIDE the pumpkin - which will either be this magical, fairy tale thing coming out of the oven or a big collapsed gourd-y mess, and either way should be pretty amusing. I'm also going to make some no-knead bread, the old recipe call, enchantingly enough, Sally Lunn. And now I'm going to go play with the Baby and maybe phone SOMEONE again. HAHAHAHA.
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
Snow
(I wrote a post much like this on my first blog, which is now deleted - which means that BY LAW I can write it all over again. Hooray for me!)
My grandmother had been vanishing for years into her Alzheimer's, the people from her current life being replaced by her earliest people: my mother became her mother, my father became her father, my youngest brother became my father's child self, and I became her older sister Natty. The one she fought with constantly, the one who didn't invite her to her Strawberry Social Sweet 16th Birthday Party and left her crying on the shore as all of the older girls rowed away in white dresses, the young men soon to vanish forever in the mud of WWII...
Could I go pick up her car that was waiting for her several towns over, her 1940 DeSoto? Could I call her father - dead for sixty years by then - could I call him and tell him to come and get her?
While she was in the nursing home, she fell and broke her hip and we went to visit her in the hospital a few days after Christmas and she was white and tiny and obviously dying and told me that her father was coming in the morning to take her ice fishing.
He is striding across the ice, decades and time falling away with each step, the snow falling away.
That night, the phone rang in the darkness and I knew what it was. I was sharing a room with my brothers for the only time in our lives, visiting our other grandparents and my middle brother and I sat up in the dark, laughing and talking about our grandma, her cups of Carnation-sweet tea, her endless stories, her warm brown house. My mother came in the morning to tell our youngest brother - still a little boy, although his siblings were already in their 20s - and he was pulling on a red sweater and his face broke with the news and then I cried and cried for the first time, the loss suddenly unbearable, unhealable.
He sees her on the other side of the lake, waiting with her sled.
It is just after Christmas.
He is running to her, his child.
My grandmother had been vanishing for years into her Alzheimer's, the people from her current life being replaced by her earliest people: my mother became her mother, my father became her father, my youngest brother became my father's child self, and I became her older sister Natty. The one she fought with constantly, the one who didn't invite her to her Strawberry Social Sweet 16th Birthday Party and left her crying on the shore as all of the older girls rowed away in white dresses, the young men soon to vanish forever in the mud of WWII...
Could I go pick up her car that was waiting for her several towns over, her 1940 DeSoto? Could I call her father - dead for sixty years by then - could I call him and tell him to come and get her?
While she was in the nursing home, she fell and broke her hip and we went to visit her in the hospital a few days after Christmas and she was white and tiny and obviously dying and told me that her father was coming in the morning to take her ice fishing.
He is striding across the ice, decades and time falling away with each step, the snow falling away.
That night, the phone rang in the darkness and I knew what it was. I was sharing a room with my brothers for the only time in our lives, visiting our other grandparents and my middle brother and I sat up in the dark, laughing and talking about our grandma, her cups of Carnation-sweet tea, her endless stories, her warm brown house. My mother came in the morning to tell our youngest brother - still a little boy, although his siblings were already in their 20s - and he was pulling on a red sweater and his face broke with the news and then I cried and cried for the first time, the loss suddenly unbearable, unhealable.
He sees her on the other side of the lake, waiting with her sled.
It is just after Christmas.
He is running to her, his child.
Monday, October 6, 2008
GEEZ, I am depressed right now. I just really really am. So. I wrote a post about comfort foods and me being bummed out and stuff over at The Kitchen Party, so you could go over there and cheer me up if you like. And maybe I'll be more cheerful tomorrow. We'll see.
xo
xo
Friday, October 3, 2008
Dear Friends and Family - A Letter.
I am glad to see that you also love my children. They ARE cute. And I know that it's fun to give them presents - they're so appreciative and write eye-wateringly adorable thank you letters which I sometimes even mail out! And I know that our family is short on young children and that when something child-oriented grabs your eye in the store, it's only natural that my children should spring to mind.
But please - we beg of you - please do not give our children any more of the following:
1) 1000 piece puzzles.
I realize that my children are bright. And nothing says "bright kid" like a really complicated puzzle, doesn't it? But - and it's making me just about cry to write this - 1000 piece puzzles do not stay in their boxes, and unless we pour glue on our floor first and go for a really funky puzzle flooring treatment, GUESS WHO GETS TO PICK THEM UP?
That's right: my husband. And the poor man has enough to do.
Also - and this is sad - I think the puzzle solving gene is missing from modern kids. The Boy has been known to crack open a shiny new 1000 piece puzzle, take one boggling look, and then back sloooowwly away, lest we make him sit at the table, weeping, until he solves it.
2) Craft kids which involve making plaster figures in molds.
The Boy - again! - spent last weekend making wee dinosaurs out of plaster and having a grand time and now we* get to repaint the bathroom again, thanks to the plastery handprints all over everything.
* my husband.
3) Science Kits That Promise To Blow Things Up
Frankly, The Girl is beginning to scare us a bit.
4) Dead animals from the back of your truck: special My Dad Edition.
Yes, the kids WERE interested in that deceased catfish in the pail. They certainly were. No, they cannot keep it. Thank you for asking me first.
But please - we beg of you - please do not give our children any more of the following:
1) 1000 piece puzzles.
I realize that my children are bright. And nothing says "bright kid" like a really complicated puzzle, doesn't it? But - and it's making me just about cry to write this - 1000 piece puzzles do not stay in their boxes, and unless we pour glue on our floor first and go for a really funky puzzle flooring treatment, GUESS WHO GETS TO PICK THEM UP?
That's right: my husband. And the poor man has enough to do.
Also - and this is sad - I think the puzzle solving gene is missing from modern kids. The Boy has been known to crack open a shiny new 1000 piece puzzle, take one boggling look, and then back sloooowwly away, lest we make him sit at the table, weeping, until he solves it.
2) Craft kids which involve making plaster figures in molds.
The Boy - again! - spent last weekend making wee dinosaurs out of plaster and having a grand time and now we* get to repaint the bathroom again, thanks to the plastery handprints all over everything.
* my husband.
3) Science Kits That Promise To Blow Things Up
Frankly, The Girl is beginning to scare us a bit.
4) Dead animals from the back of your truck: special My Dad Edition.
Yes, the kids WERE interested in that deceased catfish in the pail. They certainly were. No, they cannot keep it. Thank you for asking me first.
Thursday, October 2, 2008
EyeLASH Curler
Of course it was an eyelash and not an eyebrow curler. I think I was so mentally traumatized by the very idea of having her anywhere NEAR my eyes with that thing that I switched it around.
I have a post up at Five Minutes for Parenting today. It's about how over-sensitive I am about what my firstborn does, which I think is an universal experience, although I might be wrong. See you there.
Important update! One of the nursery school teachers just told me that she is "amazed" by The Baby. And if by "amazed" she means "bemused", ME TOO.
I have a post up at Five Minutes for Parenting today. It's about how over-sensitive I am about what my firstborn does, which I think is an universal experience, although I might be wrong. See you there.
Important update! One of the nursery school teachers just told me that she is "amazed" by The Baby. And if by "amazed" she means "bemused", ME TOO.
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
All Fixed Up
Hey, The Baby did my makeup this morning! I keep my makeup in a purse - all the better to tote it around, you see - and The Baby dumped it on the computer desk while we were playing on Educational Preschooler Websites.
"You play that game, mama," she said. "I am going to make you beeee-oooo-tiful."
Uh oh, I thought. And also, what-ever. Go ahead. I did take the precaution of putting up the eyebrow curlers and the mascara, however, because there is NO way that I am letting a three year old come armed near my eyeballs.
So she painted and painted and painted and I was inwardly VERY amused, picturing my face in streaks of blue and green and bright red lipstick EVERYWHERE, and then she proclaimed me as being DONE. I got up to glance in the mirror...
... and looked fine. Tasteful amounts of blush on my cheeks, my eyes were nicely shadowed, my lips wearing a nice amount of tinted gloss.
"Good job!" I said, highly startled.
"That is because I am a makeup designing GENIE-US," she told me. "And now you are not ugly any more, mama." PHEW.
EDITED TO ADD: There are entirely enough pictures of me online, but here is a carefully hand-drawn rendition of my current beeeoooty done in the paint program that comes with the computer:
So true to life!
"You play that game, mama," she said. "I am going to make you beeee-oooo-tiful."
Uh oh, I thought. And also, what-ever. Go ahead. I did take the precaution of putting up the eyebrow curlers and the mascara, however, because there is NO way that I am letting a three year old come armed near my eyeballs.
So she painted and painted and painted and I was inwardly VERY amused, picturing my face in streaks of blue and green and bright red lipstick EVERYWHERE, and then she proclaimed me as being DONE. I got up to glance in the mirror...
... and looked fine. Tasteful amounts of blush on my cheeks, my eyes were nicely shadowed, my lips wearing a nice amount of tinted gloss.
"Good job!" I said, highly startled.
"That is because I am a makeup designing GENIE-US," she told me. "And now you are not ugly any more, mama." PHEW.
EDITED TO ADD: There are entirely enough pictures of me online, but here is a carefully hand-drawn rendition of my current beeeoooty done in the paint program that comes with the computer:
So true to life!
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