Another Way to Cringe

Listen to Another Way to Die, the new Bond song (for the movie Quantum of Solace, which is coming out either October 31 or November 17, depending which trailer you believe, and to which I am looking forward with a greater than reasonable intensity),

here. I'll wait.




So, what did you think?

Me, I'm prepared to be pleasantly surprised if it rocks as a theme song/movie credit music, but on its own, I am tentatively leaning toward the "things that suck" category. Starts out OK, but on balance, too much wailing.

Probably too soon to judge.

I read that the original preference was for Amy Winehouse to write and perform a song for the movie, but she's such a train wreck she can't even sing Happy Birthday these days. Still, maybe they should've let her try.

Of all the states to mess with...

Posted at wonkette a couple days ago (what can I say, I don't blog professionally, y'know), under the heading "DINGUSES": Ralph Nader is on the Florida ballot.

Goddamnit, Ralph. This is not a game.

Ahoy me hearties, &c.

It's International Talk Like A Pirate Day, matey!

Avast! There be a pirate joke on the horizon!



Q. What's a pirate's favorite kind of music?

A. Arrrrrrr&B.


And, just because I like saying it: poopdeck. So there.

Is there anything there *isn't* an online quiz for?

I could survive for 25 seconds chained to a bunk bed with a velociraptor

Chase Rooster Palin

The Palin kids have kooky names. You can find out what your name would've been, if Sarah Palin had been your mommy. Go to the Sarah Palin Baby Name Generator. Good times.

Then, read Anne Lamott's latest essay at Salon.com. I love her.

"Purple Pinot" does have kind of a superhero ring to it.

The Name Game

1. Your rock star name (first pet, current car)
Sophie 4Runner

2. Your gangsta name (favorite ice cream flavor, favorite type of shoe)
Chocolate Mary Jane

3. Your soap opera name (middle name, city where you were born)
Leslie New York

4. Your Star Wars name (the first 3 letters of your last name, first 2 of your first name)
Shosa

5. Superhero name (favorite color, favorite drink)
Purple Pinot

6. NASCAR name (the first names of your grandfathers)
Walter Elmer

7. Dancer name (the name of your favorite perfume/cologne/scent, favorite candy)
Jasmine Toffee

8.TV weather anchor name (your 5th grade teacher’s last name, a major city that starts with the same letter)
Flegler Flagstaff

9.Spy name (your favorite season/holiday, flower)
Labor Daisy

10.Cartoon name:(favorite fruit, article of clothing you’re wearing right now)
Clementine Capris

11.Hippie name (what you ate for breakfast, your favorite tree)
Bagel Willow

12.Movie star name (first pet, first street where you lived)
Sophie Summit

October 31!

Can't wait.

Sunday free association

Play along at Unconscious Mutterings.
She said _______ :: I thought _______

1. House :: home


2. Think :: , dammit!


3. Clot :: aneurysm


4. Believe me :: , I know


5. Fumigation :: cloud


6. Bore :: drone


7. Luck :: good


8. Patient :: hospital


9. Tremors :: earthquake


10. Pickles :: my girls, who dig 'em

So young, they learn to sacrifice for Science...

My husband is upstairs giving the girls their bath, and explaining that tomorrow, he is leaving town for a week or so to do some fieldwork.

He's an oceanographer. Fieldwork means going to sea. (Yes, it's hurricane season. Details, details. He's not explaining that part.)

Anyway I just heard him ask our daughters if he can take their little backyard baby pool on his Big Trip, and solemnly promise to get them a new one "if it gets wrecked." It will help him in his research, he said. (I think he wants to use it to mix a special fluorescent dye, which he'll then dump into the ocean, and track its vertical and horizontal diffusion by measuring its concentrations as it spreads. Some of the measurements will be made using a laser which will be aimed at the dye patch from a small plane flying overhead. It's cool stuff, and none of it can happen without the little plastic pool!)

"So would that be OK, if I borrowed your kiddie pool?"
"Can the new one be pink?" they asked.
"I don't know what color."
"We want it to be pink."
"I don't know what color the new one would be."
"OK, you can take it, but if we need a new one, it should be pink."

Actually, if it's to be used the way I assume it is, the old one will be extraordinarily pink when he's done with it -- and "wrecked" won't quite cover its condition.

Hey, this could be a Teachable Moment... I should sell them baby pool insurance with fine print that excludes damage incurred during use in scientific research by grown-ups. It'll be a tough lesson when they try to collect, but on the up side, they'll be totally prepared to buy homeowner's insurance on Cape Cod.

Update: He's not using the pool to mix the dye; evidently that's done in big barrels. He'll be using it to pre-soak certain instruments in sea water before they get dropped in the ocean. So the old pool will still probably be beat up, but it won't be fluorescent pink. Pity.

No further comment necessary.

T minus... oh wait. Here we are, already.

Hm. I guess my countdown kind of fizzled.

The Bean's first day of first grade, yesterday, went very well. The big change for her is that it's a full school day. Kindergarten was a half day. She's ready, but I think she may also be tired for a couple of weeks. It's longer than she usually has to focus, or sit, or interact with new people.

Actually, the biggest change for all of us is getting going in the morning! We didn't have many planned morning activities this summer, and the girls got used to hanging out in their pajamas, reading and playing quietly before breakfast. I don't think we got downstairs before 9:00 AM all summer long, until we did a week of nature classes at the natural history museum. Any discipline we gained from that was thrown off along with our internal clocks on our California trip. So we did a dry run on Monday to practice, set out clothes the night before to save morning time, things like that. It's working fine. (However! I have got to get to sleep earlier than I have been.)

I got the Bean a simple alarm clock so she won't worry about not waking up on time. We decided that if she gets up at 7:30, that's plenty of time. She set her alarm for 7:15, just in case.

Very early -- criminally early -- yesterday morning, I felt her staring down at me as I slept. I cracked an eye open. (Sometimes, standing completely still and staring at me like that, she briefly reminds me of those girls in The Shining. If she would just blink, or something!) Then a whisper: "Mommy did you forget about the first day of first grade?" "No, Bean," I whispered back. "Right now it is 5:52 on the first day of first grade. We don't have to get up until 7:30, remember?" "Oh." she went back to her room. I heard her alarm go off at 7:15, and heard her turn it off. At 7:18 she appeared, fully dressed, teeth brushed, and wondering if it wouldn't be helpful to wake up her sister? (Um, no. No thanks.)

So I guess we don't have a morning problem with the Bean, though the novelty will soon wear off.

After school, she took my hand as she got off the bus. I'm happy she still does that so naturally. "So BEAN!!!" I said. "How was your first day? TELL ME ALL ABOUT IT!" And she said, "good."

That's it.

I have learned that I will never get a linear narrative about how her school days go. So I turn it into a joke, and ask a thousand questions, most of them ridiculous, being a general pest until eventually she starts talking just to contradict me. "We did NOT ride an elephant at recess! We played good guys and bad guys!" "OHHHH, why didn't you say so! Who were the bad guys?" And so on. I would rather annoy her than have her think I'm not interested in the details :).

Today was the Peanut's turn -- she started preschool this morning. She's been psyched for it ever since her sister was going there and she'd cry because she couldn't stay, too. So the past few weeks have been a very exciting build-up, and she's been literally jumping up and down as she tells people she's going to PRESCHOOL! And she WIPES HER OWN BUM! Yeah, well, what can I say. It's a major accomplishment, and she's proud. It's all good.

So I wasn't expecting this from her, but last night, as I was lying in her bed with her to say goodnight, she burst into tears... full-blown, grieving, wailing, tears. "I DON'T WANT TO BE WITHOUT YOU!!!" she sobbed. We'd been talking about what a nice day we'd had together at the beach after the Bean went to school. She said that was her favorite part of the day, and then she just lost it. I held her close, murmuring about all the wonderful things she was going to get to do at preschool, and that if she felt homesick, she should say to herself, "Mommy loves me, and she'll be here soon," because preschool is only for the morning, and then we'll be together again. Eventually her sobs became shudders, then sighs, then she was asleep in my arms.

This morning: none of that. Everything went fine. But twelve hours after she cried her heart out at the thought of leaving me, I had my own sobfest in the car over leaving her. I don't want to be without her, either. Oh, my Peanut. I'm so glad we still have Tuesdays and Thursdays together. Oh yeah, and every afternoon. Preschool is a big step, but it really isn't a lot of time apart.

Now I'm off to pick her up... she'll tell me All About It. Later we'll meet the Bean's bus, ask her how the second day of first grade was, and she'll say, "good."

So it is, Bean. So it is.

More Thoughts on Sarah Palin (during which my irony meter seriously overheats)

I'm going to need one of these in a minute.

First there's this:
Comments about how Sarah Palin ought not to run for VP because she should be taking care of her family -- are you kidding me? When does anyone tell a man he shouldn't strive for -- well, for anything, because there's a baby in the family? (So he's a "special needs" baby. Does this mean his mother is not entitled to pursue a powerful political career?) What nonsense. Of course it's not hard to believe people are saying Sarah Palin should get herself back in the kitchen -- it's so predictable it's utterly dull. But to hear it from people whose opinions I otherwise respect? from self-described feminists? burns my grits. Come ON. This is precisely why we ARE feminists, no?

Then this:
Gov. Palin states how proud their family is of "Bristol's decision to have her baby." Good for them! Truly! I'd be delighted to leave Bristol out of the political conversation altogether. She's young, and she didn't ask for her life to play out on a national stage, and she deserves her privacy. I would like to follow Barack Obama's example and take the high road, as he so often does.

However: this is a "decision" process that our anti-choice, would-be Vice President fully intends to deny anyone else, yes?

So wait just a damn minute. I think it's fair game to discuss whether or not Gov. Palin sticks to her beliefs when the issue is under her own roof.

Also:
Why is Bristol Palin on some sort of pedestal, while teenage mothers in, say, Gloucester Massachusetts are the bane of their community and have been basically derided as self-indulgent sluts?

And finally:
So, Gramma Palin, how's that abstinence-only sex education thing working out for your family? Could we maybe give reality-based, age-appropriate information a try for our own kids? Cause it looks like that might have better results. Just saying...

Good riddance to this lot, anyway.

Last Friday I took the girls to another lovely Cape Cod town to visit with their grandparents. The five of us went out for ice cream. We were sitting at a picnic table outside the ice cream shop enjoying our treats, when along comes another family... Mom, Dad, a grandmother, and two boys. Ice cream on a beautiful summer day, popular thing to do, smiles all round.

Smiles, until one of the little brats pulls down his pants in the sidewalk and urinates in a giant arc, right on to the ice cream shop building, while his parents stand by and do nothing.

We couldn't believe it.

So as an innocent ice cream customer, do you say something to these boors? Or do you just shake your head in disgust and let it go?

Well, if you're me... and if you've had it with loud, ill-mannered, littering, tailgating summer visitors* and their whining spoiled rotten children... you can't let it go. It's just not OK.

So, gesturing toward the piss stain not yet dry in the sun, I cheerfully asked this family if they pee on the walls at home, too? They stared as if I had two heads. "What did she say?" they said to each other. I smiled, happy to repeat. "What I said was, 'Do you pee on the walls of your own home? Or is that just something special you've set aside to do on vacation in our community?'"

They did have the good grace to reprimand the kid and leave.

Now, I know public toilets are really hard to come by on Cape Cod's quainter main streets. It can be frustrating for residents and visitors alike; all those "No Public Restroom" signs start to seem kind of hostile.

But still. About a year ago, at this very same ice cream shop, my Peanut suddenly had to Pee Right Away! She was new to the whole underpants gig then, and there was no telling her to hold it. But did I tell her "oh, just drop trou and piddle in the walkway"? Of course not. We scooted around behind the hedge at the back of the building and discreetly made the best of an urgent situation. And if that kid had come round back and modestly peed on the hedge, I'd have had no problem with it whatsoever.

So with that lovely encounter fresh in my mind, I have to say that I felt no pangs of sadness whatsoever about the many-mile backup of off-Cape traffic today. Buh-bye!


*admittedly, and thankfully, this is only a subset of summer visitors. Some of my best friends are summer visitors... true story!

Sarah who, now?

Well. Evidently John McCain knows that relative inexperience doesn't matter that much as a qualification for the Presidency. After all, it can't be critical for Barack Obama if it isn't for his own would-be veep.

So now that argument's either more laughable than ever, or just out of play altogether.

Hm. So he must have picked her to appeal to women voters - disillusioned Clinton supporters?

How patronizing. How insulting. How... stupid.

And how interesting. I wonder how it'll play out... what do you think?

"PREPARATIONS TO PROTECT LIFE AND PROPERTY SHOULD BE RUSHED TO COMPLETION. "

...meaning, essentially, run for your life. Hurricane Gustav is on its way.

Mandatory evacuation of New Orleans has been ordered, effective today. All major highways around the city are one-way: out. Mayor Nagin says half the population has already left.

Mandatory evacuation from your city. Can you imagine? The closest thing in my experience is the curfew we were under in L.A. during the 1992 riots. Not nearly the same thing, of course.

"Say a prayer for us," says Nagin to the rest of America.

You got it.

Sunday Free Association

Play the free association game at Unconscious Mutterings. Here's what she said and what I thought this week:

1. Groceries :: shopping


2. Deodorant :: needed


3. Psychic :: fraud


4. Cherries :: red


5. Spooky :: ghost


6. Yogurt :: pink


7. Kitchen :: counter


8. Nothing personal :: yeah right


9. Be nice :: child


10. Delivery :: box

UPS has done a great marketing job with the brown truck, brown uniform thing. The image is almost inextricable from the concept of "delivery." What I thought of was a box, but what I pictured was a box being taken off a brown truck. My girls have known since their earliest awareness that big brown trucks bring boxes. Of course they know that other trucks do too, but that brown truck is forever linked to the whole idea of "is it for me?"

Cool! Thanks!

This lovely blog award is from Old Crone at BearsMountain. Thank you OC!

At the risk of an unforgivable breach of bloggy etiquette, my nominations are pending a longer break between nose-blowings. Damn this stupid cold.

another placeholder

I'm sick. Coughing fits, dizzy spells, more snot than anyone wants to know anything about. Feh.

I'll get better.

In the meantime:

I heart xkcd.com.

Back from vacation. Unpacking, laundry, email, blogs... will get to yours soon.

Your blog, not your laundry.

T minus 14 days: We go on vacation.

So we're leaving for the airport in an hour or so -- off to California to visit family and friends for a week. The days filled up quickly; we'll be scheduled, but not franticly (frantically?) so. We're staying in a hotel, which makes for comfortable downtime. That makes all the difference to me in a visit-intense trip.

Once upon a time, I was an extrovert. But that's a post for another day.

We're leaving behind a garden that is just about to burst full of gorgeous tomatoes. We've encouraged people to pick them while we're gone, but there are only so many any one person can eat. I planted grape and cherry tomatoes, as well as some Celebrities. There were a handful of the little ones ripe every day or so, until last week, when I started picking them by the bowlful. This is the bowl I picked this morning:

The bigger ones are coming ripe as well now. There will still be plenty when we get back and I'll be a sauce-making fiend.

Ooooooooh, saaaaauuuuuce.

We just had a quick thunderstorm go by, and now the sun's shining through the haze. There's steam coming off the street and drifting into the woods. It's hot and humid here. I'm looking forward to some cool dry California nights.

May get to blog a bit, may not. Have a good week, all, in any case.

Sunday Free Association

Play the free association game every Sunday at Unconscious Mutterings. This week, she said, and I thought:

1. signature :: official


2. Olympics :: China (although I confess to an immediate image in my mind's eye of Michael Phelps's pubic bones. So sue me.)


3. 100% :: all


4. Damn! :: forgot


5. Gold :: rush


6. Fresh and natural :: lies, in advertising


7. Fraction :: part


8. Hurry :: up


9. Summer :: almost over


10. 29th :: what's happening on the 29th? Did I forget somewhere we're supposed to be on the 29th? Damn!

One thing I've noticed about playing this game is that often what comes first to my mind is a picture, not a word. Michael Phelps's lower torso speaks for itself. For "fresh and natural," what I thought of was a woman with long wavy brown hair wearing a gauzy pale blue dress walking on the beach. I'm pretty sure this at least approximates a 1970s television ad for Massengill douche. And since feminine hygiene product advertising is rife with patronizing insults and outright lies, that's the association.

Yeah, I guess that's pretty twisted.

Netflix is da bomb

I rant and rave when a company's customer service is terrible; it follows I should sing someone's praises when it's great.

Netflix just sent me an email, saying: well, damn. I deleted it. But it said, basically, that they'd had a problem with their shipping system, which has since been fixed; however, the next DVD on my queue didn't go out as soon as it was supposed to, and they're really sorry about it. They know I count on them to keep the movies a-comin', and they let me down. So they're going to give me a partial credit on my monthly fee. I don't have to do anything, this will happen automatically. Love, &c., from the nice folks with the bright red envelopes.


Total delay in my movie shipment: probably a couple of days. No more than that.

Netflix rocks.

TO: EVERYONE

FROM: sandy shoes
RE: your left brake light

... is out.

follow-up

I almost wish I had an entertaining disaster to report, but we arrived at the appointed hour, and were expected -- all of us -- and dinner was terrific!

I can therefore recommend the Daniel Webster Inn without reservation (har!).

I hope the food is good.

me: Hello, I'm hoping to make a 6:30 reservation for 6 people for dinner this evening.
Restaurant Person: Sure, for how many people?
me: 6 people.
RP: OK, what time?
me: 6:30 would be ideal, but
RP: well for large parties, we only have certain times available.
me: OK then, you tell me -- what time?
RP: we have 4:45, or 6:30.
me, slowly: 6:30 would be fine.
RP: your name?
me: [spells name]
RP: [reads back different name]
me: [corrects name]
RP: OK, we have you down for dinner at 6:30, for 8 people.
me, very slowly: 6 people.


Anyone want to bet they've never heard of us when we arrive?

bumper stickers

Seen any good bumper stickers lately?

My fifth grade teacher used to say that a person's intelligence is inversely proportional to the number of stickers on their car. I don't know if I buy that, but I'm not ashamed to say that I will think less of you if you have a "my kid beat up your honor student" bumper sticker on your car, especially if it's alongside one of Calvin pissing on any professional sports team's logo.

You'd think I'd see more unusual or remarkable bumper stickers in the summertime, with all the cars pouring onto the Cape from other states. But no, not often. So I chuckled last week when I saw this:

(Get one here.)

The "CHOOSE LIFE: YOUR MOTHER DID" stickers are pretty common around here, much more so than the apt retort: "AGAINST ABORTION? DON'T HAVE ONE!"

Best Iraq-related bumper sticker, spotted in Provincetown last year: "OH LOOK HONEY, ANOTHER PRO-LIFER FOR WAR." Ha.

I'm seeing a lot fewer "Support The Troops" ribbons and stickers lately. My favorite bumper sticker in that vein says: "I SUPPORT THE TROOPS MORE THAN YOU DO." Because really, it had gotten ridiculous. When someone sincerely, vehemently, angrily argues with you that it is not possible to support the troops unless you believe unconditionally in whatever their leader has ordered that they do -- well, then it's time to hang it up and take the conversation somewhere else, because a person who genuinely believes this has gone round the bend, and should be left to mop up his own spittle. In the face of that bizarre mentality I definitely can't blame people for being tired of those displays, though I am much heartened to see that local support efforts of actual substance have not slacked off.

But I digress.

I can't find a picture of my all-time favorite bumper sticker. I have the original somewhere (though not on the car), but if I start looking in places I think it might be, I will be hopelessly sidetracked by books I haven't seen in years, photographs, yearbooks and God knows what else. So I can't dig it up; I have to hit the hay. But it's white with simple grey letters, and it says:

UNITARIAN JIHAD

Just because you believe it's true doesn't make it true.

(Remember the Unitarian Jihad article? It's as good now as it was in 2005, I promise.)

Sunday Free Association

Sunday Free Association from Unconscious Mutterings -- she gives you the words, you say what comes to mind.

1. Month to month :: rent


2. Adjusted :: tweaked


3. Prank :: mean


4. Mop :: floor


5. Clarity :: aha!


6. Parenting :: constant


7. Glenn :: Ellen


8. Fingerprint :: ID


9. Pineapple :: yellow


10. Attorney :: suit

TO: Next-door Neighbor's Guest

FROM: sandy shoes
RE: shutting the fuck up

Hey lady... oh, and hi everyone, fine, thanks... lady, did you ever watch Friends? Remember Chandler was eternally breaking up with that Janice person, the one with the voice that cut through everyone's skull like a chainsaw?

That's what you sound like. I have closed my windows and doors, and that's still what you sound like.

So for the love of God, tone it down, take it inside, or shut the fuck up.

(I recommend option 3. NOBODY wants to hear you droning on about what's wrong with everybody else. Nobody. Not even your family wants to listen to that shit, I promise you.)

Have a good weekend, preferably elsewhere.

T minus 27 days and... wait, that's all?

The girls are marching around the house with sweatshirts and backpacks on. They're playing "school." I guess this part of the game is "going to the bus stop." The Bean's backpack is brand new for 1st grade, and the frog backpack has been passed on to the Peanut to last her for preschool and kindergarten. You can't go to first grade with a frog backpack. First grade is the real deal.

(I really, really hope that Peanut stays good-natured about hand-me-downs. So far, so good.)

And as much as I was looking forward to it in June, when I took a deep breath, hoped for the best, and started counting the days till September 2 -- well, of course, the summer has flown by, and I'm not so eager for it to be over.

We've hung out at the pond some. We've had picnics, playgrounds and pre-ballet. We've done beach walks and bike rides and berry picking. There were art classes, family visits, and our town library's summer reading program. Cicadas, toads, and sidewalk chalk. The Barnstable County Fair. A great weekend camping in New Hampshire with friends.

I didn't get to half the things I had in mind for all our unscheduled time, but I'm glad, because the girls have made great use of it. Morning till night, they're in their own pretend worlds, role playing characters from their favorite stories and mixing them up in improbable story lines: "Let's play Laura and Mary [Little House on the Prairie] are ballerinas [Angelina Ballerina] on the Island of Sodor [Thomas the Tank Engine]!" "Let's play Fern and Avery [Charlotte's Web] ride Henry [Thomas the Tank Engine] to the grocery store [real life]!" Pure imaginative wackiness. Good stuff.

There's less than a month to go, and we'll be in California for a whole week of that. Figure in prep and recovery time, and the trip will eat up closer to two weeks. We have family coming to visit before then, and a birthday party this weekend for the Bean (rescheduled from last weekend when the Peanut was recovering from being sick), and nature classes at the Cape Cod Museum of Natural History.

So, it's all but gone -- but it's gone really well. Yes, it's been intense, and I've definitely gotten tired of repeating myself, tired of mediating and scolding and herding. But on the whole, summer's been better than I could have imagined.

Here's hoping for 27 more good days.

Words I never thought I'd type:

Well played, Paris Hilton. Well played.

Nothing like a night in the E.R....

... for some perspective.

What's today, Saturday? Right. Last week, the Peanut had a fever-and-sore-throat virus that we fully expected her to get, as our friends' kids had had it and we all went camping together last weekend. She had the fever, the sore throat, then was better, no big deal. Then Thursday night she woke at 10:00, vomiting. By 11:00 she added diarrhea, and we sat in the bathroom for two hours. My poor Peanut - she was too tired to hold up her own head, and still her body wouldn't quit purging. Wouldn't quit. By 1:00 we were thinking the hospital seemed like the place to be; a call to her doctor's office confirmed it, and I took her in, pretty dehydrated.

I will spare you the details of our wait in the E.R. lobby -- suffice to say that janitorial services were required.

We got a room and a consultation and the general consensus was to get IV fluids in her, pronto. They tried both arms, three times each. They tried her hands, twice each. They tried her feet! Various people, including a neonatal I.V. specialist, were called down. Nobody could get a line in. And my Peanut, poor thing, was crying but not making tears. She didn't yell or pull away, but said "when is it going to be DONE?", and "I don't want to do this again," and "when can we GO?" and all sorts of reasonable, polite things, even whispering a tiny "thank you" when they gave her a teddy bear and a movie to watch. She was such a trooper. Eventually everyone gave up on getting a line in, and I just kept trying tiny sips of Pedialite, licks of a Popsicle... and she kept throwing it all back up.

Stressful night.

When morning came, the pediatrician said she wasn't comfortable discharging the still-vomiting Peanut without her being better hydrated. Decision was made to transfer her to Children's Hospital in Boston. Mr. S. came up and we switched; he rode in the ambulance to Boston with Peanut, I headed home for a break.

By the time she got to Children's, the Peanut was holding down water, so they didn't bother struggling with the needle. She recovered sufficiently there to come home, so the Bean -- who by that time was in the fever stage of the original virus (remember that one?) -- and I went up to get them.

All this on 20 minutes' sleep. Somehow that was easier to pull off in college.

The professional verdict is that the Peanut got a bad stomach bug on top of the first virus. Hopefully the Bean won't get it as well. Everyone slept soundly last night, and today, the Peanut's hungry and in good spirits. Normal again.

So yes, perspective. Thursday noon, I was hollering at that Peanut to put things away when she's done playing with them. Thursday midnight, I'd have given anything to have her well again. You know -- toys on the floor just don't matter. And this wasn't even a serious illness. Real perspective is something no parent ever wants to have driven home the hard way.

hm, what? oh, right... hello there.

Ah. Nice to be back.

I have been totally immersed in Facebook. I'd had an account there a while ago, but suspended it due to lack of interest. Since then, it seems, almost everyone I know has gotten on board, so I recently reactivated my account... and have been unable to do anything else online for nearly two weeks. Fun though! I've reconnected with people I haven't been in touch with in 20 years.

As with all these kinds of things, I spend a lot of time on it at first and then taper off. I think my initial burst of activity there is subsiding and I can get back to bloggity-blogging. I'm dumping Twitter, though. Facebook status fills that niche for me.

Some observations, in the meantime:

I hate the name "cuil." Pronounced "cool"? "coo-will"? Whatever. I hate it.

Who the fuck cares what Jon Voight thinks? This is the best the Washington Times can recruit? Pffft. Also, I thought these were the same folks who routinely complain about "Hollywood elites" (whatever that means) spouting off political opinions. Go figure.

Sen. Ted Stevens, proponent of Alaska's famously expensive Bridge To Nowhere, has been indicted. Among other things, it appears that an oil contractor paid to remodel his house in exchange for some legislative influence. (Nice! We had to finish our own basement.) But the best thing about Stevens is still that he called the internet "a series of tubes." I love that. Love. That.

You grow it, I'll mow it.

Ah, mowing the lawn... or is it "cutting the grass"? Of course it is cutting the grass no matter which way you say it, but some people -- must be a regional thing -- don't say "mowing the lawn."

Well, I do. And, Saturday morning, I did.

Probably almost an acre of our lot requires mowing. When we moved here, it was mostly bare patches of packed dust and rocks, some nice moss, lots of fast-growing weeds, and a few sad scraggly patches of grass. Mowing that mess was a miserable job, but it had to be done in order to look slightly less awful. It wasn't one of those lovely maintenance-free Cape Cod moss and pine needle yards that need no upkeep because they are just as they ought to be. Ours had experienced at least a decade of benign neglect, except without the benign part. The previous owner didn't care much. Curb appeal was not a concern under Cape real estate market conditions in 2000, when sellers couldn't lose. Now, of course, you can't even think of putting a house on the market without considerable upgrading, outside and in. We thought about it a few years ago, when it seemed we might move to the west coast. A realtor all but laughed out loud at our perfectly functional but 1980s-pink bathrooms, which we have higher priorities than to redo for ourselves, but which wouldn't fly in today's buyers' market.

I digress.

Over the years, we (by which I mean Mr. S., but "we" by extension, because he would never have gotten to do all this stuff had I not been handling the gestation and subsequent general maintenance of our lovely offspring) have dug up, amended, filled, graded, turned, seeded, watered, seeded, watered, seeded, top dressed, seeded, and watered increasing areas of the yard. We worked from the house outward, so for a while it looked like there was just a bit right outside the door that was cared for -- a bit that grew annually, as if to give neighbors and passers-by some hope that someday it might all be presentable.

In our early discussions of where to plant grass vs. ground cover vs. shrubbery (if I owned a nursery, I would call it Roger The Shrubber. Tag line: "nothing too expensive!"), it became clear that we'd probably end up with a lot of grass, and that it would need cutting. S'fine, I said to my husband. You grow it, I'll mow it.

Well. That man can seed. So now we have nice grass (though not the bizarre emerald green kind that screams I CAN'T STOP! I'VE BEEN FERTILIZED AGAIN!), and I try to hold up my end of the deal.

Mowing appeals to me. Back and forth, back and forth, then when you're done things look great. I like yard work that turns off the brain. Mowing and raking are right up my alley. But sometimes Mr. S. wants the clippings bagged (what?). And sometimes our hand-me-down mower won't start. And sometimes, when it's very hot and humid, I mow for a while and then get to feeling dizzy and as if I might throw up. What a wuss! But it's true. I wilt and feel sick.

Then there are the mystery injuries. Last Saturday I did the whole front yard, no problem. Did most of the back, then had to restart the mower and it wouldn't. Somehow, in my increasing, um, vigor with the pull string, I really injured my hand. I didn't notice until later that my whole right index finger was purple. Later still, it swelled up impressively and I couldn't bend it. The swelling's mostly down as I type now, but it still hurts to touch it, and I can't use it for much. Braiding little girls' hair, for example, is out of the question, and using a pen or pencil is tricky.

We are investigating new mowers. I don't want a rider mower -- I think they call them "lawn tractors" now -- although it'd be fun to plow the driveway with it in wintertime. But we have a lot of trees to go around, and eh, even if we had space to store the thing, it just seems like too much. Walking back and forth isn't the hard part of the job, and now that it's grass instead of dust and rocks underfoot, it isn't even unpleasant. So, a regular mower it is. "So do we really need a 'self propelled' one?" says Mr. S. "Um, YEAH," I say. (Hello?!) "Why would we not want that?" The Sears catalog says the standard push mower is good for 1/4 acre or less. Even allowing for my being a bit stronger and/or less easily duped than the average Sears catalog reader, it seems crazy not to get a mower that helps more with the pushing part. Less time spent mowing means less gas burned, more time for other things. To me, it's a no-brainer. He shrugs, and comes up with his reason: "Exercise?"

I have no answer for this except, oh please. Ten years from now -- because let's face it, 1) nobody's getting younger, and 2) if the 275,000+ miles on our last car is any indication, we will not be buying another new lawn mower until the one we're about to buy absolutely craps out -- how angry am I going to be that for the sake of a hundred bucks or so, he was willing to turn a not-unpleasant chore into an ordeal, under the guise of "exercise?" The mere suggestion is maddening. I hope my silence conveys this.

Needless to say I will have to keep a close eye on the lawn mower purchase.

In the meantime, I think we've got the yard shaped up quite well, actually. We kept a lot of the moss, which I quite like. Grass, ground covers, shrubs and flowers have all been established in appropriate places. Mr. S. has worked really, really hard, and it shows. Most of the season, something is blooming. One of my favorites is a beautiful hydrangea that was barely a foot tall when we bought the place, and which took off like crazy as soon as we gave it some real soil to grow in. It has deep purple blooms: Most hydrangeas around here are light blue, pink if you lime the soil. Every year, I forget that this one is purple, and when it blooms I say "wow, the hydrangea is really purple!" much to Mr. S's amusement. I think he looks forward to my expressing surprise about it. I must seem like the proverbial sheep that's surprised by the sunrise every day. Ah well, at least I entertain him.

Come to think of it, that's also the color my finger got, after the pull string debacle.

boost 'em

Starting today, in Massachusetts, children under 8 years old or shorter than 4'9" are required to be in a child safety or booster seat when riding in a vehicle.

The requirement used to be for kids up to 5 years old or 40 lb. Because of how the seatbelt lies across or potentially digs into one's body, it makes more sense to go with height (I hope they make nice booster seats for diminutive adults).

It floors me how many kids I see riding around completely unrestrained, never mind with the right kind of seat for their dimensions. I really thought we'd gotten smarter than that.

(Aside to those who can't understand all this safety "hysteria" because they never even wore a seat belt as a kid and nothing happened to them? Congratulations! Unfortunately, the plural of "anecdote" is not "data." If, say, emergency room nurses and doctors ever come out against a bill like this, I'll certainly give that my full attention.)

T - 53 days and counting: Happy Independence Day!

And wave them we did.

Our little town has a cute parade of floats made by different groups, [hopefully just some of] the town fire and rescue vehicles, boy scout troops, etc., etc. Kids can decorate their bikes or scooters and ride in the parade, so we got the Bean's and Peanut's rigs all decked out in red white and blue, and hit the road. There were streamers, bows, sparkly stars, tiaras, flags, you name it. I was very, very glad we had cloudy skies and temps in the low 70s. Doing this same parade in searing heat and sunshine feels more "forced march" than "happy stroll." But today's parade was delightful, and we barely broke a sweat. It felt a little odd when someone thrust bottles of Poland Spring in our hands, saying "ICE COLD WATER!" as if we were in the middle of some great athletic feat, in danger of collapsing from the strain at any moment. They must've had it leftover from the road race held earlier in the day, from which I'd naturally kept a very safe distance.

It also felt a little odd that I know by name so many of the people we passed. I was fairly anonymous here until my Bean hit the school system and I joined the local "Moms' club," and now it seems everyone I see is familiar to me from one activity or another. I have mixed feelings about this. On one hand, so many familiar faces around town means a lot of people to chat with, and I truly enjoy that. Friendly acquaintances are important to me. However it also means that I really, really have to keep my snark under control, which, let's face it, isn't always easy. Not that I habitually badmouth or berate people by any means -- I don't. But for instance: my insurance agent was being kind of ditsy about arranging the new car's coverage... not returning my calls when she said she would, asking the same questions over and over again, and generally bringing out my impatient, "how hard can it BE, lady?" side. My expectation of that kind of interaction is that I will say things once, and the professional on the other end of the line will use a pencil and paper or whatever technology suits them, and, you know, record the appropriate details. Or better yet, that because I am a long time customer, there might be an actual folder in their office with my name on it, to which they could refer for needed information. You think? Or am I setting the bar too high?

But I digress. Point is, this person I was admittedly getting kind of terse with on the telephone and went to meet in person turns out to be involved with one of the schools in town, and of course we know some of the same people, and of course these aren't people I necessarily want thinking that I am some sort of frayed and raving bitch. They're good people. I'm a good person too, impatience notwithstanding. So while this small town familiarity is warm and happy, it can also be dangerous for someone like me, who has yet to fully master the urge to spit barbed wire and nails when provoked. I don't expect this conflict to go away any time soon. If I were going to outgrow the nail spitting, I would have already. Sadly, hope for greater maturity in that regard dims with each passing year.

In any case, after the parade, ice cream and field games: sack races, egg toss, all that. The Bean wanted to do the egg toss with me until she figured out it meant throwing a real egg, at which point she wanted no part of it. Mr. Sandyshoes tossed an egg with a friend, and they did pretty well, but not well enough. At some point, you have to switch from underhand to overhand throws to make the distance, and then it's much harder to control. There was some real competition from kids in baseball uniforms. Next year though, look out.

Then, after a brief tour of the portable toilets from which the Bean recoiled in horror rather than make use of, it was time to head home. I was looking forward to some quiet anyhow, after all the shouting and sirens and egg toss bullhorn. On to a lovely, uneventful rest-of-the-day, and the popping sound of distant fireworks all through the evening.

Hoping your 4th was good fun as well!

Oh yeah, and hands up all who'll miss Jesse Helms. Anyone? Anyone?

today's tune

Playing in my head this morning, before my eyes were open, and with no reason at all I can figure:



As songs go, this is not a terribly painful one to have on endless loop. I actually like the studio version a lot better (this sounds like a record playing too slowly), but that video has embedding disabled. Feh.

November 7

UPDATE: I guess this video is "no longer available." It was the preview for Quantum of Solace, the next Bond movie, coming out Nov. 7. It's pure coincidence -- at least, I had nothing to do with it -- that the sexy stuff is what happens to be stilled here. I'm actually looking more forward to seeing how they continue the story from Casino Royale. Which, btw, is still holding up to repeated viewings :).

Want.

T-65 days and counting: All aboard!

Summer is progressing happily, on the whole. I have not been X-ing off the days in my calendar as desperately as I thought I might. The girls have been healthy and mostly content, and I seem to be out of whatever funk last had me in its evil grip. All is well.

The Sandyshoes family likes to ride a train ride from time to time. We've really enjoyed Connecticut's Essex Steam Train in years past. That's about two and a half hours from Cape Cod down 95S. It's a nice little train ride which you can opt to combine with a riverboat excursion on a lovely stretch of the Connecticut River. That makes for a beautiful day for sure, but lately it's a bit more sitting and riding than I can fairly expect of my children. It was great when they were very small and not so mobile, but in recent years we've kept it to the train part. I'm sure we'll add the riverboat back in eventually. At the train station in Essex there is a nice gift shop and a good collection of Thomas the Tank Engine toys for kids to play with. Children also get a little prize after the train ride; it's a nice touch. The people who work there genuinely love steam trains, and their pride really shows.

Staying closer to home this year, we hit the Cape Cod Central Railroad (pictured) yesterday for a ride on their "Scenic Fun Train," a two-hour trip from Hyannis to the Cape Cod Canal and back. Some days they stop in Sandwich as well. We took the nonstop round trip, but I'd actually recommend the stop. Start in either Sandwich or Hyannis, disembark at the other end and stroll around for an hour or two, and catch the next train back. That's a nice mix of activities, whether you're a tourist or just playing one for the day. And otherwise, I have to say, the ride seems at least a half hour too long, especially in the heat. The breeze doesn't get through the passenger coaches as well as you'd think it would. An upgrade to the air conditioned "parlor car" is $10/person; we opted not to take it, and heard later that the a/c hadn't been working anyhow.

The Cape train uses diesel engines, so there isn't all the romance and history associated with the steam train experience. The employees are cheerful and nice -- someone comes around to do face painting for children, and the conductor passes out crayons and train pictures to color -- but the reverence for the train itself, for its own sake, isn't as palpable.

During the ride, a Scenic Fun Train commentator speaks about points of interest from Hyannis to the canal; on the way back, they play a collection of train songs (The City of New Orleans, et al.). I love the tour guide stuff. There are some things you just don't learn in other ways. ("Locals call this property 'the gentleman's farm.'" Really? We do? Fascinating.) Also, I like to see if people from other places appear interested in any of it. The commentary includes general information about cranberry bogs and kettle ponds, marshes and dunes, the towns of Barnstable, Sandwich and Bourne, the Sandwich Glass Factory, the Cape Cod Canal, and obligatory mentions of the Kennedys and the Pilgrims.

As for scenic - I don't know how long they're going to continue to be able to make this claim. Frankly, much of the ride isn't all that scenic, simply because vegetation has grown thick and tall on both sides of the track. I don't think they'll get trees cut down for the sake of a better distant glimpse of Cape Cod Bay. There are a couple of superb marsh views, but they go by quickly. Even the Cape Cod Canal is only visible in flashes, because the trees are so thick between it and the tracks. So you have the train yard, and Barnstable Municipal Airport, and a "very exclusive" golf course (oooooh), and the former county jail... and then nothing much for a long stretch. Former farms, mostly residential subdivisions now.

It's perhaps most telling that they include a little old lady named Sally as an actual attraction. "Coming up on the right is Sally," says the commentator. "She comes out to wave at every scheduled train. We'll see if she's out. Yes, there she is! Wave at Sally!" And sure enough, there's an elderly lady waving slowly at us from her backyard as we trundle by, clickety clack, clickety clack. "She comes out for every scheduled train -- she must have a lot of energy!" says the commentator.

I don't know how much energy it takes to step into the backyard and wave twice a day, but I'll certainly give Sally the benefit of the doubt. Frankly, it's more than I want to manage myself, in this heat.

Duped!

That video of the ball girl catching the foul ball, three posts down? Not cool after all. It's fake -- just a Gatorade commercial.

Dang commercial-making video-faker people got me again. Last year I believed a video showing a whale breaching very near a kayak, or something like that. Ridiculous, in retrospect.

I have to stop writing this post now. I just got an email from someone in Nigeria who needs me to hold $15M in my bank account for her. So I'm off to make the arrangements. Don't forget to boycott Exxon-Mobil, so that they'll lower the price of gas! Send this to as many people as possible and something cool will happen! You'll see!

Sigh.

And I love THIS!

Where the hell is Matt?



More about Matt here.

via metrodad

Another thought about George Carlin.

The day of the news of George Carlin's death, I posted a video of one of my favorite of his routines about religion. I thought about how funny and incisive he was, and how he was so fucking good at swearing, and how I'll miss knowing he's around thinking these things and performing them.

I can't believe I neglected to mention the one aspect of his work that has been most present in my life in recent years: George Carlin narrated some of the older Thomas the Tank Engine stories for video. When I first heard them I thought, huh, that's George Carlin, go figure. But over years of listening to these stories, narrated by him and others (Ringo Starr is my other favorite), I came to appreciate how truly great he was at it. As silly as this may sound, Carlin nailed the Thomas and Friends characters. His voices, his timing, his hitting certain words, were all precisely right. Carlin was much better at Thomas than the guy that does the more recent ones, and miles, I mean miles better than that pompous asshole Alec Baldwin.

Another reason to miss him.

This is Henry and the Elephant. No need to watch the whole thing (almost 5 min.); you'll get the idea early on.

Caught!

I love this:



(via The Presurfer)

Good news and bad news.

The good news: My blood pressure has been really good since the dosage of my medicine was last tweaked.

The bad news: My feet are swelling. This is a call-your-doctor-immediately side effect of the medicine.

Fuck. Fuckity fuck fuck FUCK.

T minus 72 days and counting: We Go To The Pond

As it is no secret that summer is not my favorite time of year -- actually it's becoming increasingly clear that there are only about two weeks annually that I enjoy at all (kidding! sorta) -- I thought we might make the most of my foul mood in countdown mode. Hence, a new post category: Countdown To First Day Of School.

Which James Bond movie was it that had the countdown with a heavily accented male voice: "____ seconds, and coun-ting." Moonraker, I suppose. One of the ghastly Roger Moore ones, though at the time I thought it was da bomb. What can I say, I was 12. I totally wanted one of those watches that shoots darts if you flick your wrist just right, though I suspect my powers would have been used for evil even then.

Anyway, it is that countdown voice I am conjuring to amuse myself through these godforsaken, I mean carefree, days of summer.

Yesterday (T - 72 days and coun-ting), we decided to visit our neighborhood pond. (It's a lake. I don't know why Cape Cod folks call them ponds. Where I grew up, a pond is a shallow dark thing, probably with lily pads. Our "pond" is 60 feet deep, crystal clear, and gorgeous.) This seems like it should be a simple thing... get yer swimsuits on and go, right? Noooooo. We called the girls inside. We had them strip down and use the bathroom. We coated them with sunscreen. We put on their bathing suits. We untwisted their straps and put on their coverups. We gathered towels and toys and chairs and an umbrella. We made sandwiches and filled water bottles. We loaded everything in the car and drove the half mile to the pond. Lake. Whatever.

We unloaded everything and trooped down to the beach, signed in, chose a spot and settled down. Mr. S. put the towels over the back of the chairs, which immediately tipped over so that the towels were full of sand. So at least that part of the beach experience was taken care of right away, obviating any need for the usual pointless hope of grit-free drying.

The girls and Mr. S. headed to the water immediately. I decided to stay put and glower at my sandy towels and hideous pale legs. After ten or fifteen minutes I was done fuming, and got up to try the water. The girls were frolicking; Bean edging hand over hand along the dock to "deeper" (read, waist-deep to a five year-old) water, Peanut "swimming" (read, hoovering dirt and plant matter into her bathing suit) along the shore. I got my feet wet, then walked out onto the dock... best to just dive in all at once than inch in a bit at a time, I think. Unless of course you really care about your contact lenses. What to do, what to do. I am mulling this over, letting myself look forward to a little swim one way or another, when the Bean comes tearing by me. There is NO RUNNING ON THE DOCK, mind you, and of course she slips and goes down, scraping up her knee.

And proceeds to scream loud enough to raise the dead.

We stand her up and walk her off the dock back to the chair. She's bleeding just a bit, but it's combined with the lake water dripping off her leg, so she thinks it's A LOT OF BLOOD. She won't. stop. screaming. The good people of the neighborhood are covering their ears in self-defense. She won't stop. None of my usual tricks... talking to her in a low calm voice so she has to quiet down to hear me... encouraging deep breaths... repeating "you're OK, you're OK..." are working. She won't stop screaming. I am a hair away from losing it myself. She is screaming for a BandAid... which, of course, we don't have. Why would we have a Band-Aid? That would've been fucking USEFUL! We have sunscreen, hairbrush, baby powder, wipes, but no goddamn Band-Aid. The beach attendant doesn't have one either. She's still screaming. The Bean, not the beach attendant. Mr. S. eventually picks her up and goes back to the car. I get the sand off the Peanut's feet (baby powder is AWESOME for this; the sand just falls right off), gather what I can carry of our belongings, and we head to the parking lot. The Bean is still at it; Mr. S. can't get her to stop either. I leave the Peanut with them and head back for the stuff I couldn't carry the first time.

The beach attendant, a friendly person I know from the gym I used to belong to (her routine: work out, sunbathe, repeat -- not a bad life if you dig that sort of thing), suggests that I should go to the gym to get some time away from the kids. I tell her I hate the gym even more than I hate the beach. Why am I such an asshole? I could spit nails, but it isn't her fault. It's just not a good time to say nice things to me. And I wonder why I have no friends.

Back at the car, the Bean is still screaming. Mr. S. has decided not to leave until she can quiet down. Good luck with that, I say, and walk home.

On the walk, I get the idea that counting days might be helpful. I hate the thought of wishing life away -- I know, I know that we are all just an accident, a diagnosis, a surprise catastrophe away from losing everything dear to us. I know about living mindfully, and being present. But still. Sometimes "this, too, shall pass" is a better mantra than "live in the moment." T minus 72 days was definitely one of those times.

shit-piss-fuck-cunt-cocksucker-motherfucker-tits-fart-turd-&... twat

George Carlin is gone.

Here he is on "the greatest bullshit story ever told":



Aw, man.

Thanks, George.

Fucking ticks.

Mr. S. and I spent tonight excavating a tick from the Peanut's butt crack. No, she wasn't rolling around in the woods naked. I'm announcing where the tick was as a warning - be careful, really. Check your kids' privates, check their hairlines (there was another one behind her ear, but that one came out quickly), check their bellybuttons. This thing was just a speck -- smaller than a sesame seed -- and it didn't come out cleanly, so much poking had to be done to get it all out. No fun.

Thank God it wasn't the Bean, who just completely loses her shit over anything that happens to her body. Papercut? She has to lie down for a half hour to recover. Scraped knee, with perhaps a single droplet of blood? She's down for the count. Once she got a splinter, and Christ, it was as if she'd lost a limb.

So if this has to happen to either of my children, I guess I'd prefer it be the one who can better deal with it. But still - ticks are nasty, and Lyme disease is awful, and being clamped down and poked with a needle for an hour is utterly miserable. She did a good job, all things considered. She cried for her Taggie, clenched it in her little fist and eventually seemed to almost fall asleep... kind of a self-hypnosis thing happening there, I think. She's my hero.

I need a drink.

And another thing.

I have decided that I hate Alanis Morissette's voice. That little squeak thing she does at the end of a word? It was fine -- it fit -- on Jagged Little Pill. But she seems to have made it permanent. Enough, Alanis. It's affected and grating. Cut it out.

unaccountably morose

I feel... bad. There's no real reason I should, but I do.

I'm tired, even though I get enough sleep. Any time I lie down, I can be near-comatose in moments. Except at bedtime, duh.

I've concluded that the dark circles under my eyes are permanent. Looking in the mirror isn't something I do on purpose any more. There isn't a concealer made that can fight this battle.

Yesterday was the last day of school. Summer looms ahead. Personalities like mine love structure, yet everyone loves summer because there isn't any. I am hopelessly unlike everyone else. It feels kind of like Christmas, when everyone goes around saying what fun everything is, and all I can do is count the days till it's over with, but I have to fake enjoying it, or at least shut up about not enjoying it.

I feel like I don't belong anywhere. I can't remember what I think is fun. It's as if the best mood I can hope for is indifference, and sometimes it's a struggle getting to that.

One of my phases I guess. They come and go. Thank God they always go.

Tim Russert

Oh no! Tim Russert died today of an apparent heart attack.

He was only 58.

Tom Brokaw says, "He'll be missed as he was loved: Greatly."

Keys

So we just picked up our new car. Its keys are enormous, and, we were warned, very expensive to replace, particularly if we lose all of them. Oh, and we shouldn't get them wet, either.

Our 2001 vehicle has a no-frills key with a separate fob for the remote unlock/lock function. With the new car, it's all built into the key. This is billed as an advantage, sure to put an end to all our separate-fob-induced headaches. But Mr. S. was happier the "old" way, because he can ditch the fob and still have full use of the car. Not overburdened by having to (gasp) actually insert a key in a car door to unlock it, and disliking a bulky key ring, he doesn't want the bells and whistles embedded in the new key. However, he is stuck with them. He was exasperated to learn that a simple flat metal car key can no longer be had. You can't even have a useful one made at a hardware store; a duplicate thus obtained will unlock the car, but not start it.

This all seems particularly silly because it's just a Corolla, for cryin' out loud. We now have luxury keys to an economy car.

The new key is bulky enough that I needed a bigger ring. That's cool, because the one I was using was so stiff that I needed a blade to pry it open. Transferring my keys to a larger gentler ring, I came across one I don't recognize. Possibly it unlocks a file cabinet where I used to work. Who knows. I put it in the little "misc. keys" box where it will stay forever. Throwing it away would only guarantee that whatever it locks would 1) materialize immediately after the trash was taken to the dump, and 2) contain something of inestimable value. Mr. S., ever the optimist, asked if maybe it's a key to a safety deposit box containing information about a trust fund he'd not known about. I keep telling him "trust fund" was not part of my vocabulary growing up, and that if it were, he'd certainly have earned my trust enough to have been told about it by now. Hm, he says. The trust fund stuff must be somewhere else then.

Anyway my key ring's down to house and car keys, and my library card. I don't keep the grocery store card on my key ring; I have to open my wallet there anyway, so having the card with my keys doesn't seem more convenient. Maybe someday I will write a riveting post about wallets.

In the meantime I have to decide whether to replace the battery in my little key finder gadget. Yes, we have hooks by the door where keys are supposed to be hung. And yes, I still have enough "where the HELL are my KEYS?!" moments that Mr. S. finally got me one of those things that you press to make a responder on your key ring beep. This has come in handy more times than I care to admit. Eventually though, the responder started beeping on its own, continually and without provocation. It happens particularly around one of the Bean's friend's mothers. At her house one day I was beeping so continuously I couldn't wait to leave. Another day we met on the playground and it happened again, though the beep was weaker as it had pretty well worn out its battery by then. I said "dang, I'm beeping again," and she said "Oh I remember that," and I said "hm, maybe you're setting me off." Which I hope was taken in the spirit it was said, though the awkward silence that followed -- punctuated by warbles from the general direction of my pocket -- indicates otherwise.

Alphabet Meme: P - Z. Finally.

P is for people you were with today:

Mr. S., the Bean, the Peanut. Grocery store employees and fellow shoppers. My parents, who came to hang out with the Peanut while I went to the doctor. Then the doctor, and his various staff.


Q is for what you do in quiet times:

Read. Fume. Blog. Daydream.


R is for regrets:

Cue Sinatra: "Regrets... I've had a few..."

I regret my choice of college major/profession. I chose geology for the field trips, which were awesome, but when all's said and done, I'm no good at it. I should've been an expensive shrink, made a boatload of money, and taken my own field trips.

And I regret a string of boys in high school, but who cares anymore.


S is for status:

Married and holding.


T is for time you woke up today:

8:20. I don't usually confess what time I get up; by most parents' standards it is luxurious to the point of being suspect. Are the kids locked in their rooms? No. They're just pretty good at getting up and hanging out quietly. Mr. S. doesn't have to be at work at the crack of dawn, so he doesn't get up early either. The Bean is in afternoon kindergarten, so we have no morning rush. That will change forever in September when Bean will have to be dressed, fed and have lunch and backpack in hand by the time the bus comes at 8:35, so I'm enjoying the low-stress mornings while they last.

Also, though, I stay up too late. Left to my own devices I go to bed after midnight. I'm going to have to reign that in, eventually.


U is for what you consider unique:

I dunno, but I'll tell you what I wish were unique, instead of ubiquitous: the phrase "very unique." Something is either unique, or it isn't. There are not degrees of uniqueness. Cut it out.


V is for favorite vegetable:

Sugar snap peas. But don't eat a whole bag of them raw. Trust me on this.


W is for your worst habit:

Wasting time.


X is for x-rays you have had:

I've had a CT scan on my head (see H for Hospital Stays), an ankle checked for a break (it wasn't), a chest X-ray as part of a medical exam to qualify me as a hazardous waste site professional (see R for Regrets), and a couple of upper G.I. series.


Y is for yummy food you ate today:

Coffee Heath Bar yogurt with hot fudge. What? It's nonfat yogurt!


Z is for zodiac sign:

Taurus -- which I believe is one of the sensible signs that doesn't believe in all the zodiac crap.


And... we're done. Phew! I've seen this alphabet meme several places now, but I'm the only blogger so lame as to stretch it out to eight posts. That's unique. Yay, me!

Alphabet Meme: J - O

J is for favorite juice:

Juice is one of those things I should probably lay off -- too many calories/too much sugar for too little nutritional benefit. I do love it though. My favorite is Trader Joe's Cherry Cider. Failing that, Juicy Juice Berry.


K is for what you'd like to kick:

I would like to kick Rush Limbaugh. In the pills.


L is for last restaurant you dined at:

Griffins in Cresskill, NJ. I highly recommend it.


M is for your favorite muppet:

Kermit. No contest. It's been Kermit since his earliest Sesame Street News days. I love it when he says "would you get outta here! out out out out out!" I say that to my girls all the time. I even wave my flippers like he does.

I also dig Floyd Pepper, especially when he calls Kermit "cricket breath" or "turtle bait."


N is for number of piercings you have:

Two in the left ear, one in the right. That second one in the left ear gives me nothing but trouble though; I've never been able to use it, but it won't go away, either. Bummer.


O is for overnight hospital stays:

Concussion when I was 14 (fainted, nobody knows why -- hit my head on something on the way down) bought me a night's stay for observation. Then passed twenty-one uneventful years in terms of hospital stays, until 2002 when I was in for 5 nights having the Bean, then in 2004, 2 nights for having the Peanut in '04. They do say second labor is easier!

Alphabet Meme: I

I is for instruments played:

None, lately. I can still play the recorder of the type we all got in elementary school before we reached Decision Time: band or chorus, and if band, what instrument. I chose band, and the clarinet, for reasons I don't remember. I do remember going into my parents' room to ask them to buy me a used one, and they asked if I'd be serious about it, and I said yes I would. I stuck with it happily for a couple of years, then stopped liking it. Our band director, Mr. Schneider, was an asshole, and the other clarinetists pointedly ignored me. Practice was stomach-churning. To this day, hearing the Chicago song "25 or 6 to 4" on the radio delivers a now-amusing microdose of middle school angst. I can still pick out the second clarinet part in our tortured arrangement, and picture my place on stage at the obligatory concert.

I remember looking longingly over at the drum section during practice sessions. I hope things have changed in 30 years, and that girls now play the drums too. I would've rocked the drums. In retrospect, it probably wouldn't have made me more of an oddball than I already was, either.

Eventually, between limited ability and limited desire, I decided that other musical endeavors would be less uncomfortable. I think it was about that time I joined the church youth choir, though it wasn't cause-and-effect. Anyway, my mother wrote to Mr. Schneider telling him I was not going to take band any more. I have no idea how she worded it, but he took me aside and said, "I didn't like your mother's note. It was too... smooth." I'm glad he did that; in proving his meanness, he erased any guilt or second thoughts I might've had about quitting.

Years later, without regret, I gave the clarinet to a boyfriend, a man with a deep and true gift for music, who should have as many instruments as his home can hold.

Lately -- probably part of the tedious midlife crisis -- I am thinking I'd like to learn to play the piano. I wonder if that's even possible?

Alphabet Meme: G, H

G is for favorite game:

Games? I love games! Pick me!!

Except charades. But Scrabble, Trivial Pursuit, Cranium, Monopoly... most board games, and all word games, I love. We had friends that loved games too, and used to invite people over to play dominos. Then we all had kids, and the domino couple moved to the west coast, and time and inclination just don't seem to coincide any more, game-wise. I think when our kids get old enough to play with their friends for longer unsupervised stretches and stay up a bit later without losing it, then maybe we'll pull out whatever it is we still remember how to play, and challenge the neighbors. Heh.

Oh, my favorite... hm. For serious? Scrabble. For fun/groups? Trivial Pursuit I guess, but I'm sure there are other good ones that have come out since. Balderdash is pretty good too.



H is for hometown:

If you know how to say "ten swamps" in Dutch, you've got the name of the New Jersey suburb of my ute. Really.

It doesn't feel like "home," but in recent years I've gotten to the point that when I visit (which I love to do), I feel more comfort than unease. And if that doesn't sound like a ringing endorsement, well, I was definitely in a hurry to live other places. But it's a nice little town with really great schools. My parents chose well.

Alphabet Meme: D, E, F

D is for dog's name:

Well this one's easy - we don't have a dog. I can't take the shedding and the slobber and the doggie smell and the forced walks and the poop scooping (because I would not be the kind of dog owner who leaves dog shit around for people to step in) and the muddy paws and the rolling in dead things and the barking and... any of that. I just can't. Most other people's dogs are fine. I don't want one.

E is for an essential item you use each day:

Various personal hygiene products crossed my mind for this.... soap, toothbrush, etc. ... but the essential thing I need before any of that comes into play is my contact lenses in or my glasses on. Without them, I can see where you are, but I can't see the expression on your face. I can see type on the screen, but I can't read it. So, corrective lenses are my daily-used essential.

F is for your favorite television show:

I don't like many TV shows, but I've been watching something really excellent lately. It's about a New Jersey mob boss who's seeing a psychiatrist because he's started having panic attacks. His mother is pure evil, his uncle is plotting against him, his wife and girlfriend require delicate balancing, his teenagers are, well, teenagers, and all this on top of the particular stresses of his work... the constant threat of law enforcement, difficulty finding competent help, etc. The writing is genius, the acting truly great. It's easily one of the best shows I've ever seen: The Sopranos. Maybe you've heard of it?

Sigh. I am, once again, a decade behind the popular culture curve. I had heard of The Sopranos, but never had HBO. Fortunately Mr. S. had never seen it either. Now we're both hooked.

At least it's not like the last Harry Potter book, which I was afraid someone would inadvertently spoil for me before I'd finished reading it myself. I'm actually glad I know how Sopranos ends, because if I didn't know it was coming, and just saw that ending, I'd have been really fucking pissed off.

Alphabet Meme: C

C is for the car that you drive:

I confess, I primarily drive an SUV. Not one of the disgusting enormous ones, but I guess that's a matter of where you draw the line... mine's disgusting to some folks, I know. All I can say in its defense is that it gets 20 mpg, which is doing better than many large sedans and minivans, and we do sometimes need 4WD.

Our commuter car, driven many more miles annually, is a 1996 Corolla at the end of its life. It's got no rust and still runs pretty well, but at 272,000 miles it is time to look for its successor. The air conditioning gave out last year, which was the deal breaker for me. Plus there is an increasingly unsettling noise coming from the left rear corner. Something to do with the suspension. Between that and the timing belt it is overdue for and that we're not going to replace in a car that old, I fully expect it to grind to a halt at any moment.

To replace it, we looked hard at the Prius vs. another Corolla. I mean we looked really hard. Spreadsheets were created, numbers were crunched, variables were tweaked. We were trying to see if the savings in fuel costs with a Prius would recoup its significantly higher purchase price. Between the higher cost of the car, higher sales and excise taxes, and the higher cost of financing/opportunity cost due to our not investing that money, the Prius just didn't add up to a smart financial move for us, despite the significant gas savings anticipated. So our new Corolla should show up any day now. At 35 mpg, they're no slouch in the mileage department either.

As an aside, why don't cars come in decent colors? You can have white, black, silver, dark grey, and something like sand. Yawn. Maybe red. Yawn. Maybe blue. Woo hoo, blue. Why is the VW bug the only car that comes in cute colors? Where are the yellows, oranges, greens and purples? Do they not offer colors because people won't drive them, or do people not drive them because they're not offered?

Alphabet Meme: B

B is for your burger of choice:

A while back I found a recipe for turkey burgers that involves ginger and soy sauce and scallions and orange juice, and a special sauce made of some of those things and some mayo, and it's just delicious. Only problem is I always make too much of the sauce and have it left over with no clear use for it.

Mr. Sandy usually grills the burgers. That means he has to form the patties himself, because he likes them verrry thin. I make burgers a little thicker with turkey than with beef, because I think they get too dried out otherwise.

I don't know any couples in which the partners use the grill equally often. Seems there can be only one griller-in-chief per household. Do people have conversations about who will assume the role? In man/woman couples, why is it usually the guy who grills? I can use the grill fine, it just never occurs to me. All that back-and-forth in and out of the house, I dunno. Doesn't seem worth it unless another person is doing everything else.

Alphabet Meme: A

This is a good time for the Alphabet Meme, which I have honorably pinched from the lovely Maria at Just Eat Your Cupcake.

It might take me 26 days to get through it!

A is for your age: 41.

This 40-ish zone appears to be a time for exciting medical firsts. First mammogram behind me. First colonoscopy coming up. First anxiety attack. First cysts of various types. First time "throwing my back out," a phrase I never understood until it happened to me, and good God, I hope it never does again.

Also, my blood pressure now has me on the frequent flier program at my doctor's office. We are tweaking my prescriptions till some combination of things appears to work consistently. I am tired of the copayments and scheduling hassles, but very glad that I have health insurance, my doctor is a terrific person, and my husband can work from home on appointment days.

Then there was the first time I was mistaken for my child's grandmother. That felt good, I can tell ya. The memory now shares mental filespace under "Humiliations, Appearance-Related" with the first time someone suggested I "need Botox for those wrinkles." Yes.

On the other hand, at 4o-something, I'm feeling other insecurities fall away. As much as I might wonder sometimes about paths not taken, I now have enough experience behind me to trust that whatever's ahead is going to be all right. Would I repeat my 20s, if I could have a do-over? I don't know. If it were the only way to end up in the life I have now, probably not.

I am starting to learn not to dwell on my every past mistake. Considering how many there are, that is going to save me a ton of emotional time. And who doesn't love a time-saver?

My poor neglected blog.

I've been back and forth to NJ to hang out with a loved one in the hospital. Prognosis is fine, all will be well, but in the meantime, I bloggeth not.

I am, however, still reading your blog, even if I don't comment as much as usual.

TO: Every company on Earth, but today, Eastern Bank.

FROM: Sandy
RE: Calling you.

Why not drop the pretense, hm?

I know full well that the reason you can't take my call right now is not because you are "experiencing unusually high call volume," unless by "high volume" you mean that people are yelling loudly at you, which I have to say would come as no surprise. I doubt very much that you are besieged by sudden demand for your product. Tell the truth: You just don't have enough employees answering the telephone.

"All of our operators are assisting other customers" is another blatant lie. We callers are supposed to hear this and picture rows upon rows of busy, helpful operators busily and helpfully assisting other customers -- satisfied customers who said "thank you" and hung up smiling. But I know damn well you should be saying that "both of our operators are either in the can or getting a coffee. Hang on, and eventually one of them will get so annoyed at the phone beeping that they'll busily and helpfully disconnect you."

You're not fooling anyone, you know. I'm on to you rat bastards.

Not that it does me a damn bit of good.