Well, my Peanut's off on the big yellow bus with her sister. Our bus driver's been looking forward to this almost as much as she has. The two of them are buds, as she's been chattering to him at the bus stop since she was three and the Bean started school. So the girls got on the bus, and the Peanut immediately began walking the aisle, greeting her public.
That's my Peanut. She's got it goin' on.
And yes, I'm feeling the heartache of watching her go, and walking home from the bus stop without her for the first time. But what I'm mostly feeling is grateful to her.
I'm grateful that she still folds up small in my arms and lets me count her toes like I did when she was two, pretending to get it wrong so she can correct me. When we first started playing this game she would really check to be sure she had five toes and not six. AGAIN! she'd say, and we'd do it again.
I'm grateful that she still says AGAIN! like a toddler sometimes. Not for the toe-counting game, she purely indulges me there. But she likes a tickling game in which my hand is a spider who's scared of her and runs all around trying to find a place to hide. "AGAIN, Mommy!" I love that she's holding on to some baby-ness, even as she feels the pure joy of growing up.
I'm grateful that she's been exceptionally affectionate lately, even by her standards, and she's a very demonstrative little girl. All those extra kisses and I-love-you-Mommys and sudden joyous squeezes for no reason -- I'll take 'em. Every one. (But don't think, Peanut, that I don't notice that some of these are timed perfectly for when the Bean's in trouble for something.)
Yesterday in the car on the way to kindergarten orientation... kind of a dress rehearsal for today's real First Day... she said, unprompted, "I'm READY, Mommy! I'm REALLY READY!" And she is, she really is. She embraces changes with open arms, and a smile she can't repress even when she wants to, and a love of everything, just everything.
Oh, my baby. Off you go into this wider world. It's all yours!
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Movie Night catch-up
Holy crow! I haven't posted about a movie all summer long. Partly it's because nothing has really wowed me in a long time, but for better or worse, here's some of what's been showing in the Sandy Shoes Home Theater.
Transporter 3 (2008). We really liked The Transporter, and moderately liked Transporter 2. Now, I don't ask much of sidekick characters in action star vehicle films. I just want them not to annoy me. Sadly, Transporter 3 is intolerable due to the crazy shrieking giggling silly bitch character played by Natalya Rudakova, whom I truly hope never to see again in any context. Jason Statham still rocks, but not enough to overcome this mess. Just watch the original again.
Being There. I thought it would be interesting to revisit this 1979 Peter Sellers classic. Sellers plays a child-like gardner who gets mistaken for a political genius. Eh, whatever. I think maybe this was a child-like movie which got mistaken for genius political satire. But I'm probably just missing a lot of the references.
The DaVinci Code (2006) is a completely improbable, ludicrous movie, based on a completely improbable, ludicrous novel, and I loved them both. Murder, ancient secret societies, intrigue, evil Catholics, suspenseful clue-following escapades -- what more could you ask for? I can't wait to see the next one (Angels and Demons), although I hope Tom Hanks's character has had a haircut since his adventures in Paris. Quiz question: what does this movie have in common with the Transporter films?
The Matador (2005) One night in Mexico City, Pierce Brosnan's kooky hit-man-of-uncertain-motives character runs into Greg Kinnear's sad, boring, dorkish businessman character. The movie is an attempt at ensuing wackiness, but it misses. It's not terrible, but it's not great by far. It did remind me how unappealing Hope Davis is.
Religulous (2008). Religious + ridiculous = see what he did there? Ha! Ha! Yes, this is Bill Mahr skewering religious wingnuts. He makes valid, relevant, necessary points, i.e. separation of church and state is important; crazy people are trying to erase the line, and it's scary how close they get. Agreed on both counts, Bill. But after a while, the skewering gets tiresome. Yeah it's funny, but it's also like shooting fish in a barrel.
Greenfingers (2000) is a feel-good British comedy, "loosely based on a true story," that I missed when it came out. Clive Owen's character is in jail, and finds himself placed in a progressive, low-security work camp style prison. He's completely closed off to everyone and everything, then lo and behold finds he has real talent at making things grow. The supporting cast, including Helen Mirren, is terrific, and this is a really enjoyable little film. Its flaws -- sentimentality and predictability -- are forgivable. Trivia: it was produced by Trudie Styler, who's married to Sting. I didn't know she was in the movie biz, but she's done several good ones (including Guy Ritchie's Lock Stock... and Snatch).
Idiocracy (2006) -- in which yer Average Joe gets put into hibernation and wakes up in the future to find that humans are all so stupid and disgusting that he is the smartest person on the planet -- comes from Mike Judge, of Beavis and Butt-head and King of the Hill fame. I thought that was a good sign. Sadly though, it's merely revolting, and too dull to work as satire except in a couple of details (Costco-as-city, that kind of thing). I do think Mike Judge has strokes of comedic genius, but they're not in evidence here. And yes, I know many people would describe Beavis and Butt-head, which made me laugh, as "merely revolting, and too dull to work as satire..." So why is that funny and this not? I think its being a live action comedy was a huge turnoff. Judge's animated works were funnier from the get-go because of the drawing. Episode length vs. movie length plays a role -- the B&B movie wasn't as good as the shorts. Also, maybe, just maybe, I am turning into a humorless old fart. Whatever the reason, Idiocracy plain sucked, and I urge you not to lose the hour and a half to it that I did.
More anon, though maybe I'll do books next.
What have you been watching?
Transporter 3 (2008). We really liked The Transporter, and moderately liked Transporter 2. Now, I don't ask much of sidekick characters in action star vehicle films. I just want them not to annoy me. Sadly, Transporter 3 is intolerable due to the crazy shrieking giggling silly bitch character played by Natalya Rudakova, whom I truly hope never to see again in any context. Jason Statham still rocks, but not enough to overcome this mess. Just watch the original again.
Being There. I thought it would be interesting to revisit this 1979 Peter Sellers classic. Sellers plays a child-like gardner who gets mistaken for a political genius. Eh, whatever. I think maybe this was a child-like movie which got mistaken for genius political satire. But I'm probably just missing a lot of the references.
The DaVinci Code (2006) is a completely improbable, ludicrous movie, based on a completely improbable, ludicrous novel, and I loved them both. Murder, ancient secret societies, intrigue, evil Catholics, suspenseful clue-following escapades -- what more could you ask for? I can't wait to see the next one (Angels and Demons), although I hope Tom Hanks's character has had a haircut since his adventures in Paris. Quiz question: what does this movie have in common with the Transporter films?
The Matador (2005) One night in Mexico City, Pierce Brosnan's kooky hit-man-of-uncertain-motives character runs into Greg Kinnear's sad, boring, dorkish businessman character. The movie is an attempt at ensuing wackiness, but it misses. It's not terrible, but it's not great by far. It did remind me how unappealing Hope Davis is.
Religulous (2008). Religious + ridiculous = see what he did there? Ha! Ha! Yes, this is Bill Mahr skewering religious wingnuts. He makes valid, relevant, necessary points, i.e. separation of church and state is important; crazy people are trying to erase the line, and it's scary how close they get. Agreed on both counts, Bill. But after a while, the skewering gets tiresome. Yeah it's funny, but it's also like shooting fish in a barrel.
Greenfingers (2000) is a feel-good British comedy, "loosely based on a true story," that I missed when it came out. Clive Owen's character is in jail, and finds himself placed in a progressive, low-security work camp style prison. He's completely closed off to everyone and everything, then lo and behold finds he has real talent at making things grow. The supporting cast, including Helen Mirren, is terrific, and this is a really enjoyable little film. Its flaws -- sentimentality and predictability -- are forgivable. Trivia: it was produced by Trudie Styler, who's married to Sting. I didn't know she was in the movie biz, but she's done several good ones (including Guy Ritchie's Lock Stock... and Snatch).
Idiocracy (2006) -- in which yer Average Joe gets put into hibernation and wakes up in the future to find that humans are all so stupid and disgusting that he is the smartest person on the planet -- comes from Mike Judge, of Beavis and Butt-head and King of the Hill fame. I thought that was a good sign. Sadly though, it's merely revolting, and too dull to work as satire except in a couple of details (Costco-as-city, that kind of thing). I do think Mike Judge has strokes of comedic genius, but they're not in evidence here. And yes, I know many people would describe Beavis and Butt-head, which made me laugh, as "merely revolting, and too dull to work as satire..." So why is that funny and this not? I think its being a live action comedy was a huge turnoff. Judge's animated works were funnier from the get-go because of the drawing. Episode length vs. movie length plays a role -- the B&B movie wasn't as good as the shorts. Also, maybe, just maybe, I am turning into a humorless old fart. Whatever the reason, Idiocracy plain sucked, and I urge you not to lose the hour and a half to it that I did.More anon, though maybe I'll do books next.
What have you been watching?
Friday, September 11, 2009
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Who's walking by
Thirty years ago (yes) I walked home from school sometimes with a girl named Beth. When I'd first asked Beth where she lived, she told me the name of the street (Hugenot Court, I still remember). Figuring out where it was, I asked her "is it a dead end?" meaning only to determine whether there were there any other streets off of it. "NO," she said, turning up her pale, pinched little nose in her pale, pinched little face. "I HATE it when people call it a 'dead end.' It is a COURT." Hm. Maybe it was just the once that we walked home together.
If only she'd said it was a "cul-de-sac," which I could've told her meant "bottom of the bag." I was better at French than making friends, in those days.
Today, I live at the end of a CIRCLE. The street is named _____ Circle. So don't ask me if it's a DEAD END. 'Round these parts, the signs say "NO OUTLET," anyhow, much friendlier and less judgmental than "DEAD END." And streets that are named ____ Circle or _____ Court don't have those signs because most people are smart enough to know that that's what Circle and Court MEAN. Take THAT, 12-year-old self.
I digress. Before I've even started, I digress.
Some people live in places where passers-by are too many to count; for others, a single passer-by would be the news of the day. Our little circle falls in the suburban in-between. We're part of a large-ish neighborhood of mostly year-round residents (a lot of Cape Cod homes, particularly in outer Cape towns, stand empty most of the year). Lots of walkers and joggers make our street part of their loops. Through the window over my desk, I've gotten to recognize the regulars. Here are some of them:
There is a guy about my age, fit, with a head of thick dark brown hair that bounces as he runs. I have no idea who he is but I look forward to his runs. I have started calling him George Stephanopoulos and imagining that he is listening to political news on his ipod.
There's an older man, a wiry fellow, brisk walker. He carries a stick, but doesn't use it for walking support. He just swings it around as he goes. We have some flowers planted at the base of our mailbox at the end of the driveway. As he walks past, Stick Man swats at the flowers. It doesn't seem a malicious gesture, more that he's swinging the stick around and he just can't help trying to make contact. He pulls the punch at the last second and hasn't yet wrecked the flowers. It's the kind of thing I would do, if I walked around swinging a stick.
There are several walkers who always make the rounds in pairs. One pair is of an elderly woman, her back bent at a severe, improbable angle, and a younger one -- daughter? niece? neighbor, companion? They go at a good clip. Bent as she is, that old lady can go. She'll be all right.
There's a young woman, lycra-sporting, ponytailed, who power walks laps around the circle, all the while SHOUTING cheerfully into her phone. Really, shouting.
There's a husky guy with a curly mop of hair and a mustache who used to walk/run around the circle with his German Shepherd. His run seemed more of a play-run than an exercise run. He'd do it in workboots. The dog would be loose and romping around all the yards, and when I'd see him I'd say to myself, dude, if that dog shits on my lawn, you will regret it. (Because I'm just like that about dog shit. Whack my flowers if you must, and I'll probably say "well. That was odd." But do not under any circumstances let your dog crap on my grass.) But the dog never did; he'd just run around like a maniac, following his owner, who'd sometimes run backwards to laugh at him playing. Last time I saw them, the guy was with a young woman pushing a stroller, and the dog was leashed. Happens to the best of us, big dog.
Sometimes my neighbor across the street will stroll around, drink occasionally in hand, to see what Mr. Sandyshoes has been up to. Mr. Sandyshoes is always up to something; it usually involves intriguing noises from power tools, and it's hardly ever possible to tell from the front of the house what it is. I felt for this neighbor. I knew how curious he must be, watching lumber being unloaded, listening to various noises of major projects underway. I was glad when eventually he just came up the driveway and said "so what's all this then?" Sometimes he scares the crap out of me by appearing out of nowhere while I am in my lawn-mowing trance, but that's my own fault. Mr. Sandy startles me just by coming in the room sometimes, and I'll jump damn near out of my skin, and he'll say, "hello, yes, it's me... I live here, remember?"
Who's walking around where you live?
If only she'd said it was a "cul-de-sac," which I could've told her meant "bottom of the bag." I was better at French than making friends, in those days.
Today, I live at the end of a CIRCLE. The street is named _____ Circle. So don't ask me if it's a DEAD END. 'Round these parts, the signs say "NO OUTLET," anyhow, much friendlier and less judgmental than "DEAD END." And streets that are named ____ Circle or _____ Court don't have those signs because most people are smart enough to know that that's what Circle and Court MEAN. Take THAT, 12-year-old self.
I digress. Before I've even started, I digress.
Some people live in places where passers-by are too many to count; for others, a single passer-by would be the news of the day. Our little circle falls in the suburban in-between. We're part of a large-ish neighborhood of mostly year-round residents (a lot of Cape Cod homes, particularly in outer Cape towns, stand empty most of the year). Lots of walkers and joggers make our street part of their loops. Through the window over my desk, I've gotten to recognize the regulars. Here are some of them:
There is a guy about my age, fit, with a head of thick dark brown hair that bounces as he runs. I have no idea who he is but I look forward to his runs. I have started calling him George Stephanopoulos and imagining that he is listening to political news on his ipod.
There's an older man, a wiry fellow, brisk walker. He carries a stick, but doesn't use it for walking support. He just swings it around as he goes. We have some flowers planted at the base of our mailbox at the end of the driveway. As he walks past, Stick Man swats at the flowers. It doesn't seem a malicious gesture, more that he's swinging the stick around and he just can't help trying to make contact. He pulls the punch at the last second and hasn't yet wrecked the flowers. It's the kind of thing I would do, if I walked around swinging a stick.
There are several walkers who always make the rounds in pairs. One pair is of an elderly woman, her back bent at a severe, improbable angle, and a younger one -- daughter? niece? neighbor, companion? They go at a good clip. Bent as she is, that old lady can go. She'll be all right.
There's a young woman, lycra-sporting, ponytailed, who power walks laps around the circle, all the while SHOUTING cheerfully into her phone. Really, shouting.
There's a husky guy with a curly mop of hair and a mustache who used to walk/run around the circle with his German Shepherd. His run seemed more of a play-run than an exercise run. He'd do it in workboots. The dog would be loose and romping around all the yards, and when I'd see him I'd say to myself, dude, if that dog shits on my lawn, you will regret it. (Because I'm just like that about dog shit. Whack my flowers if you must, and I'll probably say "well. That was odd." But do not under any circumstances let your dog crap on my grass.) But the dog never did; he'd just run around like a maniac, following his owner, who'd sometimes run backwards to laugh at him playing. Last time I saw them, the guy was with a young woman pushing a stroller, and the dog was leashed. Happens to the best of us, big dog.
Sometimes my neighbor across the street will stroll around, drink occasionally in hand, to see what Mr. Sandyshoes has been up to. Mr. Sandyshoes is always up to something; it usually involves intriguing noises from power tools, and it's hardly ever possible to tell from the front of the house what it is. I felt for this neighbor. I knew how curious he must be, watching lumber being unloaded, listening to various noises of major projects underway. I was glad when eventually he just came up the driveway and said "so what's all this then?" Sometimes he scares the crap out of me by appearing out of nowhere while I am in my lawn-mowing trance, but that's my own fault. Mr. Sandy startles me just by coming in the room sometimes, and I'll jump damn near out of my skin, and he'll say, "hello, yes, it's me... I live here, remember?"
Who's walking around where you live?
Wednesday, September 09, 2009
This is why my life goes down the intertubes
You know, I try to be an informed citizen. I do. Television news being what it is, I do this through teh interwebz. However, this has its own hazards. Who has the discipline to read Real News Stories when the headline "MAN STRIPS FOR GEORGE CLOONEY" is staring them down? So yeah, I click, I click. And then I share, so, you're welcome.
For your (mild, safe for work - sorry) amusement:
Well, dang. CNN's embed code isn't working. But I'm too far into the post to quit now, so here's the link to the video I was hoping to put here.
I bet George Clooney gets a lot of that.
For your (mild, safe for work - sorry) amusement:
Well, dang. CNN's embed code isn't working. But I'm too far into the post to quit now, so here's the link to the video I was hoping to put here.
I bet George Clooney gets a lot of that.
Tuesday, September 08, 2009
In which I resume blogging, with no promises not to start all my posts with "in which."
I am back.
Thanks for the touching inquiries after my health and safety, as well as for amusing speculations that I might have ditched my lovely family on vacation and run off to parts unknown, never to be heard from again.
I am fine, and ditched nobody. Vacation went well; a nice mix of sightseeing and friend visiting. We had heavy rain and bad traffic on the way down and back, but otherwise perfect weather and smooth travels. Observations from Amish country and (sigh) Sesame Place possibly to be shared later.
Since our return, my online time has been sucked up with noodling around on Facebook, and other stuff well-suited to a low attention span. Hard to write with people asking you things every fifteen seconds - go figure.
But now! Labor Day took most of the excess traffic off our fair peninsula for another nine blissful months. The Bean is an hour or so into her first day of 2nd grade as I type, Mr. Sandyshoes is back to the lab and classroom as another semester takes off for him as well, Peanut starts kindergarten next Monday, and I am happily getting back into the general scheduled-ness of things.
Stay tuned for the obligatory sentimental, schlocky post after the Peanut boards the school bus with her sister next week, because her home with Mommy days are really, really, really All Done, and I'm going to miss her. But for now, I'm opening the windows wide to the cool, crisp September air, fine-tuning the school day routine, and savoring another new beginning.
Thanks for the touching inquiries after my health and safety, as well as for amusing speculations that I might have ditched my lovely family on vacation and run off to parts unknown, never to be heard from again.
I am fine, and ditched nobody. Vacation went well; a nice mix of sightseeing and friend visiting. We had heavy rain and bad traffic on the way down and back, but otherwise perfect weather and smooth travels. Observations from Amish country and (sigh) Sesame Place possibly to be shared later.
Since our return, my online time has been sucked up with noodling around on Facebook, and other stuff well-suited to a low attention span. Hard to write with people asking you things every fifteen seconds - go figure.
But now! Labor Day took most of the excess traffic off our fair peninsula for another nine blissful months. The Bean is an hour or so into her first day of 2nd grade as I type, Mr. Sandyshoes is back to the lab and classroom as another semester takes off for him as well, Peanut starts kindergarten next Monday, and I am happily getting back into the general scheduled-ness of things.
Stay tuned for the obligatory sentimental, schlocky post after the Peanut boards the school bus with her sister next week, because her home with Mommy days are really, really, really All Done, and I'm going to miss her. But for now, I'm opening the windows wide to the cool, crisp September air, fine-tuning the school day routine, and savoring another new beginning.
Friday, August 21, 2009
In which I am a spoiled brat about going on vacation.
It's hella hot and humid here, so guess what? We're leaving on "vacation" to somewhere hotter and more humid.
We'll be in the car for hours, along with everyone else on the eastern seaboard who isn't smart enough to stay the hell home and/or lucky enough to live somewhere not worth fleeing.
But wait, we DO live somewhere not worth fleeing. Everywhere is worse than Cape Cod, in the summertime. Everywhere. Why can't we go away in February? Huh? HUH?
Grrrr.
Things I would've done at home:
On the up side, I do love license plate games. And the people we're going to see are as totally cool as the weather won't be.
We'll be in the car for hours, along with everyone else on the eastern seaboard who isn't smart enough to stay the hell home and/or lucky enough to live somewhere not worth fleeing.
But wait, we DO live somewhere not worth fleeing. Everywhere is worse than Cape Cod, in the summertime. Everywhere. Why can't we go away in February? Huh? HUH?
Grrrr.
Things I would've done at home:
- picked more awesome cherry tomatoes from the garden, which is going gangbusters;
- maybe taken a drive to the outer Cape to check out the Hurricane Bill surf, which looks like it could be really cool.
On the up side, I do love license plate games. And the people we're going to see are as totally cool as the weather won't be.
Monday, August 17, 2009
I take it all back...
...about the swimming lessons.
The last few times I've been down to the lake with the girls, the Bean in particular has really impressed me with her comfort level and eagerness to "swim." She has her head in the water and her arms and legs moving around, and somehow makes forward progress for several seconds at a time. I can't call it swimming, exactly, and Lord help her if she were to discover she was in over her head during the attempt. But still: progress, when I thought there had been none. So, yay Bean!
The Peanut? She still prefers to just roll around in the wet sand, shake her paws off, and have people call her "Simba." But she'll get there.
The last few times I've been down to the lake with the girls, the Bean in particular has really impressed me with her comfort level and eagerness to "swim." She has her head in the water and her arms and legs moving around, and somehow makes forward progress for several seconds at a time. I can't call it swimming, exactly, and Lord help her if she were to discover she was in over her head during the attempt. But still: progress, when I thought there had been none. So, yay Bean!
The Peanut? She still prefers to just roll around in the wet sand, shake her paws off, and have people call her "Simba." But she'll get there.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Friday, August 14, 2009
Food for thought (to be chewed with our mouths closed)
I saw this months and months ago, but it keeps coming back to mind, so I thought I'd share it here.
This is Dan Savage, presumably at a forum or workshop somewhere, answering relationship questions from the audience:
This answer of his clarified something I've observed over the years, in both my own and friends' romantic relationships: that in dealing with the inevitable bumps in the road, it can be useful -- critical, even -- to distinguish between "roommate" issues and "relationship" issues.
Roommate issues include differences of opinion on what constitutes ideal summer and winter room temperature; who leaves too much stuff lying around; when the garage is going to be cleaned out; who squeezes the toothpaste tube where; whether it's OK to bring the car home running on fumes and not mention it to the other person who needs to drive it; whether a single hall light can be left on throughout the evening or whether every single bulb in the house must be extinguished if there isn't a sentient being doing something productive directly beneath it; and whether the cucumber turning to mush in the crisper is just a cucumber that didn't make it this week, or an indicator of an unacceptable and shameful pattern of food waste in the household. Just some examples, you know, from thin air.
Relationship issues are the tougher ones -- questions of trust, power, sex, communication, philosophies of life, personalities, and tons more. I'm not nearly so fluent in any of that, because I Don't Want To Talk About It. In many ways, I'm ill-suited to being half of a pair; it can be very hard for me to get into any of this, even when something's fairly begging to be discussed.
And sure, there's overlap between these broad categories. I've just noticed that the distinction can be helpful, as "roommate" stuff can easily obscure "relationship" stuff. Sometimes what seems to be the problem is immaterial, and the problem itself is buried somewhere underneath aggravation over the way the dishwasher's being loaded, or whatever.
ANYway. I think "the price of admission" is a great concept -- such a helpful way to think about those roommate issues that can annoy us to death, or not, as ultimately we choose. It's a nice mental box to put that stuff in, clearing room to think about the hard stuff, which is where there's relationship paydirt to be hit in bringing out each other's best self, or, as Dan says, in willfully ignoring that that person doesn't really exist.
This is Dan Savage, presumably at a forum or workshop somewhere, answering relationship questions from the audience:
This answer of his clarified something I've observed over the years, in both my own and friends' romantic relationships: that in dealing with the inevitable bumps in the road, it can be useful -- critical, even -- to distinguish between "roommate" issues and "relationship" issues.
Roommate issues include differences of opinion on what constitutes ideal summer and winter room temperature; who leaves too much stuff lying around; when the garage is going to be cleaned out; who squeezes the toothpaste tube where; whether it's OK to bring the car home running on fumes and not mention it to the other person who needs to drive it; whether a single hall light can be left on throughout the evening or whether every single bulb in the house must be extinguished if there isn't a sentient being doing something productive directly beneath it; and whether the cucumber turning to mush in the crisper is just a cucumber that didn't make it this week, or an indicator of an unacceptable and shameful pattern of food waste in the household. Just some examples, you know, from thin air.
Relationship issues are the tougher ones -- questions of trust, power, sex, communication, philosophies of life, personalities, and tons more. I'm not nearly so fluent in any of that, because I Don't Want To Talk About It. In many ways, I'm ill-suited to being half of a pair; it can be very hard for me to get into any of this, even when something's fairly begging to be discussed.
And sure, there's overlap between these broad categories. I've just noticed that the distinction can be helpful, as "roommate" stuff can easily obscure "relationship" stuff. Sometimes what seems to be the problem is immaterial, and the problem itself is buried somewhere underneath aggravation over the way the dishwasher's being loaded, or whatever.
ANYway. I think "the price of admission" is a great concept -- such a helpful way to think about those roommate issues that can annoy us to death, or not, as ultimately we choose. It's a nice mental box to put that stuff in, clearing room to think about the hard stuff, which is where there's relationship paydirt to be hit in bringing out each other's best self, or, as Dan says, in willfully ignoring that that person doesn't really exist.
Monday, August 10, 2009
UPS Next Day Air: You're Welcome.
I just lined up everything I needed for today's errands (a check for the bank; the shopping list and tote bags for a Trader Joe's run; a couple items and their receipt to make a return at AC Moore; money and empty egg cartons for the family from whom we buy fresh eggs), and...
...after a (mercifully brief) search, realized that I'd left my keys in my brother's car, which...
...is now in New Jersey, where he returned last night after a weekend visit up here.
That's a wee bit out of range of the beeping key finder device I had a while back, which, though it did help locate my keys if they were on my desk or in a coat pocket instead of on their hook, turned into something of an embarrassment when it wouldn't stop beeping, unprompted, no matter which battery got replaced or how often.
So I had to call my egg-selling friend back and say I wouldn't be coming after all, because I had no keys. She must think I'm losing my mind. The last time I bought eggs, I was $3 short because I'd left my wallet at home and didn't realize it until I was in her doorway. She was very cheerful about that, and very cheerful about this. I think it must be something of a relief to see there's someone who has her shit less together than you. I guess I don't mind being that person once in a while.
However, a firm Note To Self: Don't take critical items out of their usual places. Just don't. Even if it means bringing the whole handbag when all you need with you is a single key -- bring it. Also: saying out loud, "I AM PUTTING MY KEYS HERE," is not a reliable safeguard against forgetting to pick them back up, though it will help you remember where you left them, once it's too late.
Sigh.
...after a (mercifully brief) search, realized that I'd left my keys in my brother's car, which...
...is now in New Jersey, where he returned last night after a weekend visit up here.
That's a wee bit out of range of the beeping key finder device I had a while back, which, though it did help locate my keys if they were on my desk or in a coat pocket instead of on their hook, turned into something of an embarrassment when it wouldn't stop beeping, unprompted, no matter which battery got replaced or how often.
So I had to call my egg-selling friend back and say I wouldn't be coming after all, because I had no keys. She must think I'm losing my mind. The last time I bought eggs, I was $3 short because I'd left my wallet at home and didn't realize it until I was in her doorway. She was very cheerful about that, and very cheerful about this. I think it must be something of a relief to see there's someone who has her shit less together than you. I guess I don't mind being that person once in a while.
However, a firm Note To Self: Don't take critical items out of their usual places. Just don't. Even if it means bringing the whole handbag when all you need with you is a single key -- bring it. Also: saying out loud, "I AM PUTTING MY KEYS HERE," is not a reliable safeguard against forgetting to pick them back up, though it will help you remember where you left them, once it's too late.
Sigh.
Thursday, August 06, 2009
Pangs
I'm watching out the window as the Bean and her friend J., who's moving away tomorrow, play on their scooters around the circle at the end of our street. The Peanut is on her scooter too -- a littler one, with two wheels in the back instead of just the one -- and she just can't keep up with the bigger girls zooming around. They're only a year and a half apart, but sometimes it really shows. Peanut, left in the proverbial dust at the end of the driveway, is watching for them to come around again. Her helmet makes her appear all top-heavy, and her legs are so skinny, sticking out the bottom of her skirt. She looks like a cartoon.
Oh, my little Peanut.
In a month and a bit, she'll get on the school bus with her sister for the first time. What am I going to do, with nobody to walk home with from the bus stop?
Cry like a baby, is what.
Oh, my little Peanut.
In a month and a bit, she'll get on the school bus with her sister for the first time. What am I going to do, with nobody to walk home with from the bus stop?
Cry like a baby, is what.
"Invalidating legitimate presidencies since 2009!"
Now you, too, can be fantasized by crackpots to have been born in Kenya.
Get yer proof right here! Make it accessible, but not too easily accessible -- maybe a bribe should come into play -- and they're sure to fall for it, and possibly submit it as evidence in a lawsuit!
Good times.
Get yer proof right here! Make it accessible, but not too easily accessible -- maybe a bribe should come into play -- and they're sure to fall for it, and possibly submit it as evidence in a lawsuit!
Good times.
Tuesday, August 04, 2009
Money down the drain: swimming lesson edition
Yeah. So I've been sitting in the goddamn pool area bleachers, where the air is conveniently heated to approximately six thousand goddamn degrees for your viewing comfort, for an hour twice a week all effing summer long. This is for the distinctly faked pleasure of oohing and aaahing in pride every time one of my girls keeps her face in the water for more than a tenth of a second, and enduring excruciating small talk from the parents who aren't faking it. The novelty wore off before the experience even started.
Today was their last swimming lesson of the session (thank God). Progress made, in all these weeks: NONE. Zero. They've spent lesson after lesson after lesson being toted around the pool by lovely young women posing as swimming instructors, who coo "GOOOOD JOB!" at them every time they make any kind of motion; their reports indicate, to nobody's surprise, that neither of the girls has accomplished a single thing, and the next level they should register for is the level they've just supposedly finished.
Screw that. Frankly, I'm in the mood to throw them in the deep end and let them figure it out themselves.
Today was their last swimming lesson of the session (thank God). Progress made, in all these weeks: NONE. Zero. They've spent lesson after lesson after lesson being toted around the pool by lovely young women posing as swimming instructors, who coo "GOOOOD JOB!" at them every time they make any kind of motion; their reports indicate, to nobody's surprise, that neither of the girls has accomplished a single thing, and the next level they should register for is the level they've just supposedly finished.
Screw that. Frankly, I'm in the mood to throw them in the deep end and let them figure it out themselves.
Saturday, August 01, 2009
It's hard to say good-bye.
Imagine you have new neighbors a few houses up the street. They're about your age and stage in life and they seem pretty cool. After seeing each other in passing a few times, you invite them over for a cookout. Turns out you have similar educations and interests, hobbies and politics, all that. Cool! We should do this again!
Some time goes by, and you worry that maybe they didn't like you as much as you like them - ack! (Remember that episode of Friends, when Chandler and Monica met another couple who they thought they hit it off with, but the other couple totally blew them off? Gah!!!! If only Mr. Sandyshoes didn't have answers for everything! If only I didn't pepper my conversation with so many Star Wars and/or Monty Python references!)
But then they do invite you over. It's all good. And it keeps happening. As the years go by, you get together often, spontaneously or planned, with children or, too rarely, without.
The kids are close in age, and all like each other and play well together, even as they go through their various phases and stages. At Thanksgivings, when their teachers ask them what they're thankful for, they name each other. It's lovely to see that they're constants in each other's lives, as they learn to swim and read, as tricycles give way to training wheels, to be cast aside in triumph soon enough. It just feels good to know they'll eventually be getting on the school bus all together every day. There's no guaranteeing they'll always want to hang out together, but they'll have the comfort of having known each other virtually all their lives, and the security of knowing they are always loved and welcome in each other's homes.
Traditions begin to form around shared activities and holidays and maybe an annual summer camping trip. You trust each other's judgment and outlook; you know that you'll be there for each other, whatever need arises.
Now imagine that these cool neighbors, these friends who now seem more like family (in a good way!), have to move almost a thousand miles away.
We've known for months that it's happening, and now the moving van is coming in just a few days. Still, it doesn't seem real.
All of us have lived enough years in enough places to know that distance does not break friendship. But we're sad, just now.
Some time goes by, and you worry that maybe they didn't like you as much as you like them - ack! (Remember that episode of Friends, when Chandler and Monica met another couple who they thought they hit it off with, but the other couple totally blew them off? Gah!!!! If only Mr. Sandyshoes didn't have answers for everything! If only I didn't pepper my conversation with so many Star Wars and/or Monty Python references!)
But then they do invite you over. It's all good. And it keeps happening. As the years go by, you get together often, spontaneously or planned, with children or, too rarely, without.
The kids are close in age, and all like each other and play well together, even as they go through their various phases and stages. At Thanksgivings, when their teachers ask them what they're thankful for, they name each other. It's lovely to see that they're constants in each other's lives, as they learn to swim and read, as tricycles give way to training wheels, to be cast aside in triumph soon enough. It just feels good to know they'll eventually be getting on the school bus all together every day. There's no guaranteeing they'll always want to hang out together, but they'll have the comfort of having known each other virtually all their lives, and the security of knowing they are always loved and welcome in each other's homes.
Traditions begin to form around shared activities and holidays and maybe an annual summer camping trip. You trust each other's judgment and outlook; you know that you'll be there for each other, whatever need arises.
Now imagine that these cool neighbors, these friends who now seem more like family (in a good way!), have to move almost a thousand miles away.
We've known for months that it's happening, and now the moving van is coming in just a few days. Still, it doesn't seem real.
All of us have lived enough years in enough places to know that distance does not break friendship. But we're sad, just now.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Pardon our dust while we make improvements for your enjoyment.
I got sick of the old template so I'm noodling around. Feedback welcome.
Monday, July 20, 2009
Jimmy Carter is awesome.
He's leaving his church because of how it treats women and girls.
Say what you will about the man, he is no hypocrite.
Would that more public figures would follow. Shoot, would that *anyone* would follow. I just don't get why people tolerate -- let alone fork over their money to support -- the institutionalized misogyny in their religions.
People talk a lot about trying to change things from within. I would buy that line if things were, you know, changing.
Kudos to President Carter for voting with his feet. Thank you, sir.
Say what you will about the man, he is no hypocrite.
Would that more public figures would follow. Shoot, would that *anyone* would follow. I just don't get why people tolerate -- let alone fork over their money to support -- the institutionalized misogyny in their religions.
People talk a lot about trying to change things from within. I would buy that line if things were, you know, changing.
Kudos to President Carter for voting with his feet. Thank you, sir.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
How do you feed a flock of kids in the summertime?
Make roughly a thousand peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, cut up a watermelon, and put it all outside the back door. Repeat as needed.
Life is good.
Life is good.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Hurrah for Johnny; Angie, not so much.
No, not Depp and Jolie. I'm just taking an opportunity to publicly dis, and publicly praise, a couple of restaurants.
Last month the Sandyshoes family spent a weekend in Mystic, CT. We usually head down there for the first weekend in June, which we chose because it's not too awfully hot yet, and with school still in session, the crowds are manageable. Our routine has been to get into town for dinner Friday night, settle in, then visit the Mystic Aquarium on Saturday morning. Always looking to avoid the high cost and poor nutrition of "attraction food," we bring a simple picnic lunch to eat in the grass near the car, then go back in to spend more time at any exhibits we feel we shortchanged in the morning. Then it's back to the hotel for some quiet time before we go out to dinner.
For a few years now we've been going to Angie's Pizza -- a very basic family restaurant, easy parking, large-portioned pasta dishes and the like. This year we ordered a pizza. And waited. And waited. And waited. And finally asked what was going on? We were told it was coming right out... and still we waited. And waited. Then our server came out and said, "I'm so sorry, but they just dropped your pizza..." ...and the girls burst into tears, and we got up to leave. But not before being charged $5.50 for a bowl of pale lettuce that they called a "garden salad." Now if you're in the restaurant business, do you keep customers waiting almost an hour for a pizza, then drop it, and still charge them for a pathetic salad? I didn't think so. We won't be back. It was adequate in years past, but not so great that it's worth recommending or returning to anymore.
Unfortunately, it was now later than we'd wanted to be out, and we were now quite hungry. Earlier that day we'd noticed a Chinese and Japanese restaurant, Johnny's Peking Tokyo, in a strip mall near our hotel. From the outside it didn't look like anything special, but Chinese food is usually pretty quick to come to table, so we gave it a shot. What a pleasant surprise. If you like sushi, there's a bustling sushi bar. But with the hungry, cranky girls to think about first, we opted for simple, familiar dishes... cold sesame noodles (people seem to love or hate these -- I love them a lot), steamed dumplings, chicken with garlic sauce. Everything was very tasty, and the service was fast and friendly. We'll be back, at a more leisurely pace and with a more adventurous spirit, menu-wise, though I'm not big on sushi. An odd little bonus: the place was playing Latin dance music. This made the Peanut very happy. We don't know who Johnny is, but we're grateful to him.
Last month the Sandyshoes family spent a weekend in Mystic, CT. We usually head down there for the first weekend in June, which we chose because it's not too awfully hot yet, and with school still in session, the crowds are manageable. Our routine has been to get into town for dinner Friday night, settle in, then visit the Mystic Aquarium on Saturday morning. Always looking to avoid the high cost and poor nutrition of "attraction food," we bring a simple picnic lunch to eat in the grass near the car, then go back in to spend more time at any exhibits we feel we shortchanged in the morning. Then it's back to the hotel for some quiet time before we go out to dinner.
For a few years now we've been going to Angie's Pizza -- a very basic family restaurant, easy parking, large-portioned pasta dishes and the like. This year we ordered a pizza. And waited. And waited. And waited. And finally asked what was going on? We were told it was coming right out... and still we waited. And waited. Then our server came out and said, "I'm so sorry, but they just dropped your pizza..." ...and the girls burst into tears, and we got up to leave. But not before being charged $5.50 for a bowl of pale lettuce that they called a "garden salad." Now if you're in the restaurant business, do you keep customers waiting almost an hour for a pizza, then drop it, and still charge them for a pathetic salad? I didn't think so. We won't be back. It was adequate in years past, but not so great that it's worth recommending or returning to anymore.
Unfortunately, it was now later than we'd wanted to be out, and we were now quite hungry. Earlier that day we'd noticed a Chinese and Japanese restaurant, Johnny's Peking Tokyo, in a strip mall near our hotel. From the outside it didn't look like anything special, but Chinese food is usually pretty quick to come to table, so we gave it a shot. What a pleasant surprise. If you like sushi, there's a bustling sushi bar. But with the hungry, cranky girls to think about first, we opted for simple, familiar dishes... cold sesame noodles (people seem to love or hate these -- I love them a lot), steamed dumplings, chicken with garlic sauce. Everything was very tasty, and the service was fast and friendly. We'll be back, at a more leisurely pace and with a more adventurous spirit, menu-wise, though I'm not big on sushi. An odd little bonus: the place was playing Latin dance music. This made the Peanut very happy. We don't know who Johnny is, but we're grateful to him.
Thursday, July 09, 2009
Wait, what's this? I actually have a half hour to write?!
Well hello there! Summer is fully underway. Countdown enthusiasts will note that we're at T-57 days till school starts. Between piano lessons (mine and theirs), tennis lessons (mine), swimming lessons (theirs), playgrounds and play dates and various other activities -- including In Which The Bean Swallows a Nickel and We Go To The Hospital, and In Which I Dye My Hair An Alarming and Unintended Shade of Orange, and the popular favorite, In Which I Mow The Lawn Yet Again -- I've let blogging take a back seat for a while. But we are still here, and all is well, despite the rare screaming fit that gets one of us exiled to the deck in the rain.
Ah, the rain. I think I'm the only person on Cape Cod who truly savored our cool, cloudy June, and who is still loving the not-too-hot temperatures -- and occasional sun, even! -- in July. We haven't turned on the air conditioning even once! That's so great. I just don't get the craving for hot hot hot in summertime, though I could always use a brief dose of it midwinter.
Actually, summer in general can have me feeling a bit lonesome and out of sorts. It feels a bit like Christmas, in that everyone likes it except me, and I get to feeling even more out of place than usual. I especially dislike long days sitting at the beach, squinting under the searing sun and surrounded by littering tourists and their whining brats. No, thanks. You can have the beach in summertime. I'll wait till Labor Day.
In the meantime, there's lots of other cool stuff to do, and we're doing a fair bit of it and having a grand old time. Hope you're having a terrific summer too, whatever shape that takes for you!
Ah, the rain. I think I'm the only person on Cape Cod who truly savored our cool, cloudy June, and who is still loving the not-too-hot temperatures -- and occasional sun, even! -- in July. We haven't turned on the air conditioning even once! That's so great. I just don't get the craving for hot hot hot in summertime, though I could always use a brief dose of it midwinter.
Actually, summer in general can have me feeling a bit lonesome and out of sorts. It feels a bit like Christmas, in that everyone likes it except me, and I get to feeling even more out of place than usual. I especially dislike long days sitting at the beach, squinting under the searing sun and surrounded by littering tourists and their whining brats. No, thanks. You can have the beach in summertime. I'll wait till Labor Day.
In the meantime, there's lots of other cool stuff to do, and we're doing a fair bit of it and having a grand old time. Hope you're having a terrific summer too, whatever shape that takes for you!
Friday, June 26, 2009
Not our finest hour.
The Bean is outside screaming her head off. It is raining outside, and she is in her socks. I'm sure that upsets her. However, moments ago, she was inside screaming her head off, and I have decided to drive home the point that I won't listen to it.
Is this perfect parenting? Probably not. But at least it's not wintertime. I have been known to plop her down in a snowbank and go back in the house rather than let her throw a tantrum. I just. Won't. Put up with it. And when she calls my bluff, she's got an outdoor experience coming.
Is this perfect parenting? Probably not. But at least it's not wintertime. I have been known to plop her down in a snowbank and go back in the house rather than let her throw a tantrum. I just. Won't. Put up with it. And when she calls my bluff, she's got an outdoor experience coming.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Appalachia, Argentina... let's call the whole thing off.
If only the Republicans would quit being so gosh-darned preachy about [so-called] "family values," it wouldn't cause so many people to go "BWAHAHAHAHAHA!!!" every time another GOP leader cheats on his wife.
Who is it that the sanctity of marriage needs defending from, again?
Who is it that the sanctity of marriage needs defending from, again?
Monday, June 22, 2009
What a difference a few years makes.
The other day, Mr. Sandyshoes and I stood together at the kitchen counter, opening our mail. His contained a decent check, which was payment for a consulting job he'd recently wrapped up. As I opened mine, out dropped a lone dollar bill and two coupons for goat cheese. Yes. That was to thank me for my time completing a survey about said goat cheese.
Now I've said it before, and I'll say it again: I have no regrets whatsoever about ditching my mediocre career to be with my babies as they've grown into girls. But I miss paychecks with my name on them. I really do.
I have realized during this hiatus from paid work (goat cheese surveys notwithstanding) that I truly don't want to go back into hazardous waste site cleanup (shocking, I know). However, I have no clue what's next for me professionally, and no idea how to figure it out. I have a Master's degree in Geology, but these days I can't remember a damn thing I learned in school. So what's going for me? Well, I'm reasonably intelligent. I can write clearly. I like to learn things and go places. I'm a good planner. I have common sense. I'm great at reading out loud. I'm an excellent driver. I can very quickly find a grammatical or spelling error in damn near any written work. I make really delicious banana bread.
Sigh.
Yeah, I'd better sign off. I've been invited to complete a survey on salad dressing.
Now I've said it before, and I'll say it again: I have no regrets whatsoever about ditching my mediocre career to be with my babies as they've grown into girls. But I miss paychecks with my name on them. I really do.
I have realized during this hiatus from paid work (goat cheese surveys notwithstanding) that I truly don't want to go back into hazardous waste site cleanup (shocking, I know). However, I have no clue what's next for me professionally, and no idea how to figure it out. I have a Master's degree in Geology, but these days I can't remember a damn thing I learned in school. So what's going for me? Well, I'm reasonably intelligent. I can write clearly. I like to learn things and go places. I'm a good planner. I have common sense. I'm great at reading out loud. I'm an excellent driver. I can very quickly find a grammatical or spelling error in damn near any written work. I make really delicious banana bread.
Sigh.
Yeah, I'd better sign off. I've been invited to complete a survey on salad dressing.
Friday, June 12, 2009
Movie Night: 88 Minutes
I don't have a lot to say about this movie, except:- It's been a long time since I willingly dozed off, without influence of wine or prescription muscle relaxant, during a film that calls itself a "thriller"
- So that's what Leelee Sobieski looks like these days
- Why does Al Pacino do stuff like this? I don't figure he needs the money, but
- if he just said outright "yo, it's to show off my hair," then you couldn't blame the guy.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Flag Day at The Bean's School
The Bean's school (which I should note, before I get ranting, that I really love) had a Flag Day ceremony this morning for grades K-4. Everyone was decked out in red, white and blue. There was an impressive performance by a local equestrian team (with horses in red, white and blue socks!), short addresses by our State Representative and one of our town Selectmen, children reading their essays and poems ("What The Flag Means To Me,") and singing songs.So, a relatively big deal, as in-school events go. At least one newspaper photographer was there.
Oh, but parents? Weren't invited. The Bean had mentioned that there would be some Flag Day-related activity this week, but I only became aware of the date, time and scale (horses! elected officials! press!) of this specific event because I happened to be there yesterday helping with something else. I almost didn't go to see it this morning, but was driving by the school entrance at just the right moment, so figured what the hey. It makes the Bean really happy when I go to school stuff.
And: I love my country -- truly, I do. But if this proud American never hears Toby Keith singing that Lee Greenwood "Proud to be an American" tune again, it'll be too soon. Playing on the loudspeaker as the kids came out and got seated? Toby Keith singing "Proud to be an American!" Music to which the equestrian team performed their routine? Toby Keith singing "Proud to be an American!" Tune the music teacher chose to blare while the children supposedly sang along? "Proud to be an American!"
(Reading a close second on my vapid-country-music-annoy-o-meter (calibrated for patriotism) is "American Child" by Phil Vassar. Does nobody appreciate the irony of a heterosexual white male baby boomer crooning about how in America, "anyone's equal"? Really? No, really?)
Can't we do better than that? Think of the age-appropriate, relevant, reverent, beautiful, classic patriotic songs they didn't sing: America The Beautiful. My Country, 'Tis of Thee. This Land is Your Land. Maybe there aren't prefab CDs of other kids singing these songs already. Based on my (admittedly limited, possibly unfair) observation of our early music program, that seems to be a prerequisite. Canned music gets played, the kids sing along, or don't. Meh.
The highlight of the Selectman's speech was when he asked the kids how they thought the flag might have been different when he was in school. A child raised her hand: "Were the stars still all in a circle back then?" Heh.
Something in our State Representative's little address made me uneasy. He was talking about what the flag makes him think of, which is all well and good, if to my ear a bit heavy on the sacrifice-of-military-families theme for an elementary school audience. Evidently however, one of the things it makes him think of is how the children of today are going to (among other things) wear the military uniforms of tomorrow. Frankly, this gave me the creeps. My daughter is SIX. Leave her the hell alone.
But who am I to say. After all, I wasn't even invited to the thing in the first place.
Hmpf.
Wednesday, June 03, 2009
No, I hadn't been drinking.
Coming downstairs after putting the girls to bed last night, my left foot slipped out from under me and I fell hard, I mean f'ing HARD, on my ass, and slid the rest of the way down the stairs. It hurt a lot.I was wearing tennis socks on bare wood stairs, which is plain stupid, and that hurts too.
I spent the rest of the evening on the couch with an ice pack on my butt. Took off my shorts for fear I wouldn't be able to get them off later due to major swelling. The bruising is substantial. Alarming, even.
Still, I'm glad I didn't hurt my back or break any bones. I'm glad I have pants loose enough to get over my still significantly swollen left butt cheek today.
The first aid book says to apply an ice pack for 20 minutes every 2 hours for the first 48 hours after the injury. Obviously I wasn't setting a timer to get this done overnight, but I'd better get back on it now. Off to the couch with me.
Be careful folks. It's the ordinary things that get ya.
Tuesday, June 02, 2009
The Last Thing I Cooked That A Guest Said They Really Liked
I had a lovely houseguest last week, and as part of dinner one night I made this salad, which I adore and actually crave sometimes, which, given its significant broccoli content, is highly unusual.
Curried Couscous with Broccoli and Feta
1 cup Israeli couscous
2.5 (?*) cups vegetable broth, chicken broth, or water
2 cups small broccoli florets
0.5 cup finely chopped red onion
0.5 cup finely cut carrot
0.5 cup chopped roasted cashews
3 T white wine vinegar
2 T olive oil
2 T sugar
2 t curry powder
2 t minced fresh ginger
1 can chickpeas, rinsed and drained
1 cup crumbled feta cheese
The recipe (like virtually everything I make that's any good) is modified from one I cut out of a long-ago issue of Cooking Light.
The original recipe calls for regular couscous. I'm new to Israeli couscous, but very excited about it. The regular stuff is tasty but it gets everywhere, sticks on everything, and the girls don't like its texture. Most importantly, Mr. Sandyshoes has indicated it is a royal pain in the ass to clean up, and I want Mr. Sandyshoes kept happy, or at least not actively displeased, where cleaning up is concerned. Without his doing the dishes... well. Let's not even think about that. It is too upsetting.
Back to Israeli couscous. It is bigger than the regular kind, so you get all the things you like about couscous and none of the aggravations. I just haven't yet mastered the liquid to couscous ratio for it. The directions on the tub I bought said 4:1, which was way too much, so I'm going to try 2.5:1 next time, which is what I've recommended here, but with question mark and asterisk and no warranty, expressed or implied.
The other issue with Israeli couscous is where to find it. I bought the tub with the faulty directions at Atkins Farms while visiting western Massachusetts, but much as I'd love to, I can't haul myself back there every time I want to make curried couscous with broccoli and feta cheese. I am hoping Trader Joe's will have it.
ANYWAY. Cook whatever couscous you're using in whatever liquid you like. Fluff with fork (that phrase cracks me up for some reason. I am easily amused). Let it cool down.
Steam the broccoli for 3 minutes. Getting the pre-cut broccoli you can microwave in the bag speeds things along quite a bit, but I'm usually too cheap to splurge on it.
Combine everything in a BIG bowl. Voila.
My friend will doubtless make this much spicier, and so can you. I sometimes put in a big handful of raisins, too.
Curried Couscous with Broccoli and Feta
1 cup Israeli couscous
2.5 (?*) cups vegetable broth, chicken broth, or water
2 cups small broccoli florets
0.5 cup finely chopped red onion
0.5 cup finely cut carrot
0.5 cup chopped roasted cashews
3 T white wine vinegar
2 T olive oil
2 T sugar
2 t curry powder
2 t minced fresh ginger
1 can chickpeas, rinsed and drained
1 cup crumbled feta cheese
The recipe (like virtually everything I make that's any good) is modified from one I cut out of a long-ago issue of Cooking Light.
The original recipe calls for regular couscous. I'm new to Israeli couscous, but very excited about it. The regular stuff is tasty but it gets everywhere, sticks on everything, and the girls don't like its texture. Most importantly, Mr. Sandyshoes has indicated it is a royal pain in the ass to clean up, and I want Mr. Sandyshoes kept happy, or at least not actively displeased, where cleaning up is concerned. Without his doing the dishes... well. Let's not even think about that. It is too upsetting.
Back to Israeli couscous. It is bigger than the regular kind, so you get all the things you like about couscous and none of the aggravations. I just haven't yet mastered the liquid to couscous ratio for it. The directions on the tub I bought said 4:1, which was way too much, so I'm going to try 2.5:1 next time, which is what I've recommended here, but with question mark and asterisk and no warranty, expressed or implied.
The other issue with Israeli couscous is where to find it. I bought the tub with the faulty directions at Atkins Farms while visiting western Massachusetts, but much as I'd love to, I can't haul myself back there every time I want to make curried couscous with broccoli and feta cheese. I am hoping Trader Joe's will have it.
ANYWAY. Cook whatever couscous you're using in whatever liquid you like. Fluff with fork (that phrase cracks me up for some reason. I am easily amused). Let it cool down.
Steam the broccoli for 3 minutes. Getting the pre-cut broccoli you can microwave in the bag speeds things along quite a bit, but I'm usually too cheap to splurge on it.
Combine everything in a BIG bowl. Voila.
My friend will doubtless make this much spicier, and so can you. I sometimes put in a big handful of raisins, too.
Monday, June 01, 2009
The Nine, by Jeffrey Toobin: Must-Read Nonfiction
I recently finished this terrific book about the United States Supreme Court: The Nine, by Jeffrey Toobin (2007). It's being widely read at the moment, which is a good thing.Having studied rocks in school, I don't know much about judicial philosophy. I had a general idea that on one hand there are "strict constructionists" -- people who believe the Constitution should be interpreted according to its words, period -- and that on the other, there are those who believe that the Constitution embodies the venerable principles on which our country was founded and on which it continues, but also note (at the risk of stating the obvious) that everything changes over time, so it makes good sense to apply those principles with that in mind.
I learned that there's a wacky branch of strict constructionists called "originalists," who believe, basically, that we should have only laws that the Founding Fathers would have made, and no others. Never mind all the world experience, social change, and technological advances that have occurred since 1787 -- not to mention the impossibility of communing with the Founders to elucidate their precise opinions on matters before the Court. To oversimplify and editorialize: the originalists, substantially backed by religous wingnuts, are hoping to take over the Supreme Court -- and they might, in fact, do it.
The Nine sheds much light on this and other issues, through a mix of legal history and exposition of the character, values and personal stories of the Justices of the Rehnquist and Roberts courts. Some in my reading group found it too heavy on the case history . We all loved reading about the personalities involved, which are complex and fascinating, and not nearly as easy to like or dislike as you might hope. Tidbits: Did you know that Justices Scalia and Ginsburg have a close friendship born of a shared love of opera, and that their families celebrate New Year's together each year? That Clarence Thomas drives around to NASCAR races (a venue at which you may be unsurprised to learn he is rarely recognized) in his RV during the summer recesses? That Justice O'Connor did her best to get Justice Souter married off during their years on the bench?
The whole thing makes for fascinating reading.
The likelihood of Supreme Court appointments to be made by this administration had my 2008 vote for POTUS decided long before a single candidate had even formed an exploratory committee. If you have any doubt whatsoever about the importance of the current nomination of Sonia Sotomayor to the Court, this book will dispel it. Prepare, too, to do some thinking about what the phrase "activist judge" really means.
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Sleeping with the Offspring
I'm writing tonight from the Holiday Inn Express in Mystic, Connecticut, a half-step up from the Best Western around the block, where we had been staying for the last couple times we'd come down to visit the aquarium here. This year, after a weekend trip to my beloved western Massachusetts, I made a solemn vow: no more staying at the absolute cheapest (decent) place in town, if only because that's where kids' sports teams and the like end up. Plenty of people my age have long since sworn off mediocre hotels. I was late to adopt the policy myself, as it seemed needlessly overindulgent. However, one night at the Comfort Inn in Hadley, MA, besieged by preteen boys with lacrosse sticks and not an adult to be seen, is all it took to solidify my resolution. Never again. I still can't justify staying at the Hilton, but two stars is no longer enough.
So here I sit, with wine and wifi; life is good. The rest of my lovely family is asleep behind me, but I'm not ready to hit the hay myself. I'm going to stay up sipping red wine till I'm bound to sleep heavily enough not to be bothered by the Bean's knees in my back, or her elbow in my gut, or whatever it turns out to be tonight. You wouldn't think it'd be such a challenge, sharing a double bed with someone not yet 50 lbs heavy and only yay tall. You'd be wrong. The Peanut is even worse... she sleeps on her back with her limbs splayed like a giant capital X. Plus she talks in her sleep -- alarming, senseless little declarations that leave you uncertain what might come next. Oh sure, she looks all kinds of cute and snuggly, with her little blankie and whatever stuffed animal is currently in highest favor. What could go wrong? Ha. I've let her share my king-sized bed at home, when Mr. Sandyshoes is traveling. Somehow I always end up cowering crosswise across the bottom of the bed, barely out of reach of her cute little feet, while visions of whatever dance in her cute little head up where mine is supposed to be.
Anyway. The girls were really hard to settle down last night... the first night of a weekend trip always seems to be a tough one... and we had to threaten them with turning around and coming right back home. That Bean just wouldn't go to sleep. This morning, the Peanut wouldn't *stay* asleep. Another thing I've learned about staying in hotels: you should always bring one of those enormous binder clips along, in case the light-blocking curtains don't completely close on their own. It's surprising how often this is a problem, what with hotel rooms being intended specifically for sleeping in. Our present room is big enough and has most of the things we need, but there's a five-foot gap between where the heavy drapes end. That's plenty of space to allow the entire bright insult of early daylight to fill the room, adding to the injury of hours spent next to one of the offspring. Naturally Mr. Sandyshoes has rigged up something ingenious to correct the curtain problem, but I'm thinking for future reference, one of those binder clips would save a lot of rigging.
Our most successful hotel sleeping strategy has been to split the girls up. They don't share a room at home, and it doesn't seem to help them settle down if they're set up right next to each other in a hotel room. So we get a room with two double beds, divide and conquer. We stack pillows so they can't look over at each other, then we say goodnight and retreat with a book to whatever space is left us in the nook between the door and the bathroom, until we're ready to go to bed ourselves. Tonight's room has quite a bit of space, so that's nice. Sometimes there isn't anywhere to go... which is why I ended up reading Tucker Max's I Hope They Serve Beer In Hell* in the bathroom of our room at the Comfort Inn in Hadley, which actually seems sort of appropriate in retrospect.
I should sleep. More on the aquarium etc. in another post. In the meantime, what hotel chains have you found are best for staying with your kids? Any hints (besides "get a suite") for making it more restful? How about hints (besides "drug them") for settling excited kiddos?
*If even half the things Tucker Max says about himself are true, he is a genuine asshole, but a sometimes-funny one. My college roommate said she read this book and thought of me. I don't know what to make of that. I'm assuming she thought "sandy shoes will laugh at this book," not "this asshole reminds me of sandy shoes in earlier days," but I am afraid to ask.
So here I sit, with wine and wifi; life is good. The rest of my lovely family is asleep behind me, but I'm not ready to hit the hay myself. I'm going to stay up sipping red wine till I'm bound to sleep heavily enough not to be bothered by the Bean's knees in my back, or her elbow in my gut, or whatever it turns out to be tonight. You wouldn't think it'd be such a challenge, sharing a double bed with someone not yet 50 lbs heavy and only yay tall. You'd be wrong. The Peanut is even worse... she sleeps on her back with her limbs splayed like a giant capital X. Plus she talks in her sleep -- alarming, senseless little declarations that leave you uncertain what might come next. Oh sure, she looks all kinds of cute and snuggly, with her little blankie and whatever stuffed animal is currently in highest favor. What could go wrong? Ha. I've let her share my king-sized bed at home, when Mr. Sandyshoes is traveling. Somehow I always end up cowering crosswise across the bottom of the bed, barely out of reach of her cute little feet, while visions of whatever dance in her cute little head up where mine is supposed to be.
Anyway. The girls were really hard to settle down last night... the first night of a weekend trip always seems to be a tough one... and we had to threaten them with turning around and coming right back home. That Bean just wouldn't go to sleep. This morning, the Peanut wouldn't *stay* asleep. Another thing I've learned about staying in hotels: you should always bring one of those enormous binder clips along, in case the light-blocking curtains don't completely close on their own. It's surprising how often this is a problem, what with hotel rooms being intended specifically for sleeping in. Our present room is big enough and has most of the things we need, but there's a five-foot gap between where the heavy drapes end. That's plenty of space to allow the entire bright insult of early daylight to fill the room, adding to the injury of hours spent next to one of the offspring. Naturally Mr. Sandyshoes has rigged up something ingenious to correct the curtain problem, but I'm thinking for future reference, one of those binder clips would save a lot of rigging.
Our most successful hotel sleeping strategy has been to split the girls up. They don't share a room at home, and it doesn't seem to help them settle down if they're set up right next to each other in a hotel room. So we get a room with two double beds, divide and conquer. We stack pillows so they can't look over at each other, then we say goodnight and retreat with a book to whatever space is left us in the nook between the door and the bathroom, until we're ready to go to bed ourselves. Tonight's room has quite a bit of space, so that's nice. Sometimes there isn't anywhere to go... which is why I ended up reading Tucker Max's I Hope They Serve Beer In Hell* in the bathroom of our room at the Comfort Inn in Hadley, which actually seems sort of appropriate in retrospect.
I should sleep. More on the aquarium etc. in another post. In the meantime, what hotel chains have you found are best for staying with your kids? Any hints (besides "get a suite") for making it more restful? How about hints (besides "drug them") for settling excited kiddos?
*If even half the things Tucker Max says about himself are true, he is a genuine asshole, but a sometimes-funny one. My college roommate said she read this book and thought of me. I don't know what to make of that. I'm assuming she thought "sandy shoes will laugh at this book," not "this asshole reminds me of sandy shoes in earlier days," but I am afraid to ask.
Friday, May 29, 2009
Monday, May 25, 2009
Memorial Day
I'm a little disconnected from Memorial Day this year. I just got home from a few days away, which were so good for the soul. There is meal planning and grocery shopping to do. I need to feed my friends' cats while they're away, and decide how best to suggest to my mother that she please not ever cut my daughter's hair again. It is laundry day, and I have to mow the lawn. There are preparations to make for a friend coming to visit this week.Haircut aside, it's all good. I feel great.
I know, too, that my happy busy-ness and disconnection from the meaning of this day are a luxury. Many families today are remembering loved ones lost in battles. "Happy Memorial Day!" seems like a strange thing to say to someone, frankly.
As I type this, one daughter has been sent to her room for punching the other one. Like so many parents, we teach our children not to use physical violence out of frustration, or to get what they want. It seems a lesson worth imparting.
Somewhere along the line they, like most adults, will probably become disconnected from that idea. No, they won't go around punching people on subways or in grocery stores, but they might see some justifications for violence against other people, other nations. When the numbers are big, the personal stories anonymous and hard to understand, the problems complex and overlapping, maybe it doesn't seem like simple common sense anymore, not to hurt or kill other people.
I don't know. I feel disconnected from the premise, even as I lay a mental wreath for those fallen, and do, truly, appreciate their sacrifice.
To our veterans and current military: Thank you for the risks you took, and take, to life, limb, and peace of mind, in service of our country.
To all who lost loved ones in military service: thank you, and, I'm sorry.
I'm sorry we humans, for all our greatness, still haven't figured out a better way to solve our problems than to maim and kill each other over them.
Let's keep working on it.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Lunch with the first grade.
Because Mr. Sandyshoes works at home on Tuesdays, I can sometimes go to the Bean's school to have lunch with her. This is a mixed blessing. On one hand, as long as it's allowed for parents to join their kids for lunch, and as long as the Bean wants me to, I'm glad that I can. On the other... it's lunch in the cafeteria with the whole first grade, and all the noise and mayhem that entails. Take your Advil before you get there so it's kicking in in plenty of time. Still, once a week, I can hack it. The Bean is a nice kid with nice friends, so overall, it's cool to hang with them for a bit. Her class is used to seeing me around; that's cool too. It's definitely a different perspective than seeing them in the classroom.
One day I looked up from talking with the Bean and her friend and noticed that the boy sitting across the table from me was trembling, and his bottom lip was quivering, and he was having a hard time holding it together. "Ted? Are you hurt?" I asked, and he just lost it. He told me he was upset because he hadn't finished some of his work so he'd had to have "time off" his recess.
Now, their teacher is very clear about the rules of the classroom, and the consequences for choosing to do other than follow them. One consequence of not finishing what you're supposed to finish is that you miss some recess to get it done. I don't know if he didn't finish because he was goofing around, or because the work was too hard or too much for him, or because he didn't listen, or because he forgot. I do know that he was stressed to the point of tears because of it, and his friends were starting to notice. Just what every kid wants: to be the bawling center of attention at lunchtime.
Fortunately he was sitting next to Marcus, a kid I've come to really like. Without skipping a beat, he took the spotlight, even while throwing a comforting arm around Ted's shoulders. "OH WOW," he said. "I'VE had to stay in TONS of times!" (Marcus talks in all caps, blue eyes wide as if he can't even believe it himself.) I nudged the Bean to tell about when she didn't finish and had to miss recess. She nodded, and Marcus remembered that day too: "YEAH! EVEN THE BEAN!" They all started talking about the times they got "time off recess." Ted forgot his tears, listening to his pals spin their tales of woe. Marcus had commanded a whole audience to another story of his own, by that point. The whole thing was just a moment, and the moment passed, and very soon it was time to pretend it never happened. I went back to talking with the Bean. From across the table I heard Ted mumble something to Marcus, and his reply, "no, it's not bad. You just look like you were running around. MY face gets REALLY red when I cry..." I peeked up at them, heads bent together, in damage control mode.
What a good kid. Sometimes, they are really all right. I felt happy to be there that day, to get that little glimpse of the kind people some of them are growing up to be.
It almost made up for all the times I've had to tell them to please not empty the last of their chocolate milk on each other's shirts.
One day I looked up from talking with the Bean and her friend and noticed that the boy sitting across the table from me was trembling, and his bottom lip was quivering, and he was having a hard time holding it together. "Ted? Are you hurt?" I asked, and he just lost it. He told me he was upset because he hadn't finished some of his work so he'd had to have "time off" his recess.
Now, their teacher is very clear about the rules of the classroom, and the consequences for choosing to do other than follow them. One consequence of not finishing what you're supposed to finish is that you miss some recess to get it done. I don't know if he didn't finish because he was goofing around, or because the work was too hard or too much for him, or because he didn't listen, or because he forgot. I do know that he was stressed to the point of tears because of it, and his friends were starting to notice. Just what every kid wants: to be the bawling center of attention at lunchtime.
Fortunately he was sitting next to Marcus, a kid I've come to really like. Without skipping a beat, he took the spotlight, even while throwing a comforting arm around Ted's shoulders. "OH WOW," he said. "I'VE had to stay in TONS of times!" (Marcus talks in all caps, blue eyes wide as if he can't even believe it himself.) I nudged the Bean to tell about when she didn't finish and had to miss recess. She nodded, and Marcus remembered that day too: "YEAH! EVEN THE BEAN!" They all started talking about the times they got "time off recess." Ted forgot his tears, listening to his pals spin their tales of woe. Marcus had commanded a whole audience to another story of his own, by that point. The whole thing was just a moment, and the moment passed, and very soon it was time to pretend it never happened. I went back to talking with the Bean. From across the table I heard Ted mumble something to Marcus, and his reply, "no, it's not bad. You just look like you were running around. MY face gets REALLY red when I cry..." I peeked up at them, heads bent together, in damage control mode.
What a good kid. Sometimes, they are really all right. I felt happy to be there that day, to get that little glimpse of the kind people some of them are growing up to be.
It almost made up for all the times I've had to tell them to please not empty the last of their chocolate milk on each other's shirts.
Saturday, May 16, 2009
One kind of liberation.
The other night I had dinner out with two friends -- like me, mothers of young children, though we knew each other Before All That -- who live a couple of towns away. Family schedules can make it tough to find an evening we're all available, but we make it happen every couple of months. This time we met at Bopha's Stir Crazy, a Cambodian restaurant which, Cape Cod/southeastern Massachusetts readers, you should absolutely visit if you haven't. (Note to self: remember this place when next lamenting the relative lack of really good, fairly casual, not-American-pub-food restaurants on the Cape, as compared to the Pioneer Valley from whence I moved, which has a giddy and delicious abundance thereof and which I sometimes heartily miss.) (Another note to self: who the hell uses "from whence" and "thereof" in casual writing?)Ahem.
Anyway one of my friends arrived a few minutes late. Sitting down, she said she'd just come from the garden center, where she'd had to exchange one kind of hose for another, and that it had taken much longer than she'd thought it would because the cashier didn't know how to conduct the transaction, got the register all muddled up, had to call a manager over, etc., etc. Evidently the cashier behaved very rudely, as well. My mild-mannered, good-natured friend eventually said to her, "hey, there's no need to be that way with me. I didn't mess up the register," and that the cashier, while still gritting her teeth, at least knocked off the overt snippiness.
We all agreed that ten years ago -- even five -- none of us would've likely said anything, however justified. There's something about... what, turning 40? being somebody's mother? ... that has kicked in, and we just don't put up with stuff like that any more.
Looking at the menu, we thought about getting three different entrees to share. "Actually, I'd like to have that to myself," my friend said. Fair enough. If a mommy gets a night out with her friends, the last thing she should have is someone taking unwelcome bites of her dinner. Another thing we're not going to feel sheepish about. There are lots of things like this. I won't share popcorn at the movies. I never liked to, but I won't fake it any more. I want it all myself, and I want to eat it with my tongue, like a frog, if frogs ate popcorn. It's a small thing, but it makes me happy.
So we're feeling changes in our sense of self as we move into middle adulthood. But it's not just about rude strangers and popcorn. Although I still worry about it sometimes, if I'm perfectly honest I have to say I care less and less about whether people in general like me or not. I've realized that the things people might not like about me are really unlikely to change, at this stage of the game. I am who I am. There are six billion people on the planet to choose your friends from... don't choose me, if you don't want to. It's okay. We're both better off. Peace.
(My inner puppy would like to interject at this point that none of this means I'm not a likeable person or a good friend, and that you'd probably like me if we met. OK, puppy. Back in your crate now.)
However, I must not be all grown up yet because I'm still taking crap from people in doctors' offices. For example, take my recent annual ob-gyn appointments. The medical assistant who does the initial stuff -- weight, blood pressure, asking if anything's changed since last time, saying "you can get undressed, the doctor will be with you shortly" -- has become pointedly unfriendly to me. She didn't smile, didn't respond when spoken to, didn't look at me or call me by name. It is weird and unpleasant, and I was really taken aback by it. I have been a patient of this practice (is that the dumbest home page ever? No links!) for ten years now, through two pregnancies and various other bumps in the road that I won't bore you with (you're welcome). That assistant has been there for many of those years, herself, and she hasn't always been such a sourpuss. Something has distinctly changed. I have to wonder, and I'm tempted to ask her, "did I do something to piss you off? or is there just something uncomfortable up your ass?" -- because I don't deserve that.
But I haven't, and I probably won't, because 1) I would probably word it just like that, and become Part of the Problem; and 2) it's very hard to find a new doctor, and I'd hate to burn that bridge. There are only a few places to storm out of in high dudgeon (!) before I'd be out of local options altogether. Doctors around here have really got patients over a barrel. Still, basic civility doesn't seem like it should be too much to ask.
At any rate, this knowing who you are, and not feeling apologetic about it must be what people mean, in part, when they talk about how aging is "liberating." I suppose there's a fine line between "What you think won't hurt me because I'm OK with who I am" and "I don't care what you think because I'm kind of an asshole that way." Here's to achieving the former without coming off as the latter.
Movie Night: Appaloosa
Shown in the Sandy Shoes home theater last night: Appaloosa.
I don't usually dig Westerns, but did mostly like this one. Ed Harris (who also directs) and Viggo Mortensen star as Virgil Cole and Everett Hitch, two hired guns who sign on to police a small New Mexico town being terrorized by a powerful rancher (Jeremy Irons) and his men. Enter Renee Zellweger (can someone please tell me what's appealing about her? Is it the piggy little eyes? The faux whisper?) as a widow of uncertain motives, and things get complicated.
Good: pace, performances, dialogue, overall cool factor.
Bad: I just don't love Renee Zellweger as much as most people do. That aside, her character is problematic... not because she complicates things, but because there's a "this would all be going fine if it weren't for the dang woman" flavor to the whole thing, which is a cheap, cheesy cop-out of a plot device.
I haven't made up my mind about Viggo Mortensen. History of Violence (also Mortensen and Harris) was sooo bad, and his performance in this wasn't much different; just, the Everett Hitch character was perfectly suited to it. I can't remember seeing him in much else; Hidalgo didn't make any impression whatsoever, and I never saw the Lord of the Rings movies.
Anyway, Appaloosa is worth seeing. For those keeping track at home, Mr. Sandyshoes liked it too :).
I don't usually dig Westerns, but did mostly like this one. Ed Harris (who also directs) and Viggo Mortensen star as Virgil Cole and Everett Hitch, two hired guns who sign on to police a small New Mexico town being terrorized by a powerful rancher (Jeremy Irons) and his men. Enter Renee Zellweger (can someone please tell me what's appealing about her? Is it the piggy little eyes? The faux whisper?) as a widow of uncertain motives, and things get complicated.
Good: pace, performances, dialogue, overall cool factor.
Bad: I just don't love Renee Zellweger as much as most people do. That aside, her character is problematic... not because she complicates things, but because there's a "this would all be going fine if it weren't for the dang woman" flavor to the whole thing, which is a cheap, cheesy cop-out of a plot device.
I haven't made up my mind about Viggo Mortensen. History of Violence (also Mortensen and Harris) was sooo bad, and his performance in this wasn't much different; just, the Everett Hitch character was perfectly suited to it. I can't remember seeing him in much else; Hidalgo didn't make any impression whatsoever, and I never saw the Lord of the Rings movies.
Anyway, Appaloosa is worth seeing. For those keeping track at home, Mr. Sandyshoes liked it too :).
Friday, May 15, 2009
Heh heh. Let's pee in it. Heh.
It appears Beavis and Butt-head are alive and well and living in Wyoming.
And as much as it pains me to admit it, I thought that was pretty funny.
Though it would have served 'em right if the timing of their antics had been off. Old Faithful blasts thousands of gallons of scalding water 150 feet into the air every hour and a half...-ish.
Ah well. These two will have to get their Darwin Awards by some other inglorious route.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
The Mommy Survey
This was going around several weeks ago; I just got around to posting mine.
1) What is something that your Mommy always says to you?
1) What is something that your Mommy always says to you?
Peanut: She loves me.
Bean: I love you.
2) What makes your Mommy happy?
Peanut: Please and thank you.
Bean: Me.
3) What makes your Mommy sad?
Peanut: I don't know.
Bean: When I don’t listen.
4) How does your Mommy make you laugh?
Peanut: By saying "Peanut, why are you so sad?"
Bean: Tickling me.
5) What was your Mommy like as a child?
Peanut: Me.
Bean: You hated skirts.
6) How old is your Mommy?
Peanut: I keep forgetting.
Bean: 42.
7) How tall is your Mommy?
Peanut: I know you're not small.
Bean: almost six feet
(I’m 5’ 4” – ed. )
8) What is her favorite thing to do?
Peanut: I think you like to listen to the news.
Bean: Love me.
9) What does your Mommy do when you aren't around?
Peanut: I don't know.
Bean: Play with Peanut.
10) If your Mommy became famous, what would she be famous for?
Peanut: Maybe flowers that you really like!
Bean: Being President.
11) What is your Mommy really good at?
Peanut: Loving me.
Bean: Writing.
12) What is your Mommy not very good at?
Peanut: I don't know.
Bean: Hm. Climbing trees?
13) What does your Mommy do for her job?
Peanut: Take care of me and Bean.
Bean: Take care of us.
14) What is your Mommy's favorite food?
Peanut: There's a squirrel in our yard. Egg salad?
Bean: Things that you cook.
15) What makes you proud of your Mommy?
Peanut: When we go places that me and Bean really like.
Bean: Cooking something that you never did before, like the tofu.
16) If Mommy was a cartoon character, which would she be?
Peanut: Serabe.
Bean: Kermit.
17) What do you and your Mommy do together?
Peanut: Read books and wal
Bean: Go to the bookstore.
18) How are you and your Mommy the same?
Peanut: We both love each other.
Bean: We’re in the same family.
19) How are you and your Mommy different?
Peanut: We don't have the same shirts.
Bean: We’re different sizes.
20) How do you know your Mommy loves you?
Peanut: You say you love me.
Bean: You say it a lot.
21) Where is your Mommy's favorite place to go?
Peanut: I don't know.
Bean: The beach.
Monday, May 11, 2009
Mother's Day recap
Sunday morning Mr. Sandyshoes said to me that... um, er, he didn't plan anything for Mother's Day... because we don't do that kind of holiday, right?
And he's right, we don't, at least not the way most everyone else does. So, while most everyone else was stuck taking/being taken by their families out to eat at crowded restaurants, I happily abandoned my lovely offspring in the care of their lovely father and ran off to the movies. W00t!
And:
I am happy to report that everything good that's being said about Star Trek is true.
It. Is. Awesome. I just wanted to sit there and watch it again.
Also, I got a rock. Peanut painted a rock at preschool, glued a clothespin to it, and voila, I have a paperweight/clip thingy. Bean presented me with a lovely yellow flower, which she had planted at school and brought home. Like an idiot, I lifted it gently out of its cup to see if there was drainage or I should repot it... I should've just asked her, because she knew how it was supposed to drain, and I would've saved her from bursting into tears at all the potting soil I inadvertently dumped on the floor. Sigh.
Yeah whatever. That is a damn good movie. It hit all the right notes -- just campy enough.
Go. See. Report.
And he's right, we don't, at least not the way most everyone else does. So, while most everyone else was stuck taking/being taken by their families out to eat at crowded restaurants, I happily abandoned my lovely offspring in the care of their lovely father and ran off to the movies. W00t!
And:
I am happy to report that everything good that's being said about Star Trek is true. It. Is. Awesome. I just wanted to sit there and watch it again.
Also, I got a rock. Peanut painted a rock at preschool, glued a clothespin to it, and voila, I have a paperweight/clip thingy. Bean presented me with a lovely yellow flower, which she had planted at school and brought home. Like an idiot, I lifted it gently out of its cup to see if there was drainage or I should repot it... I should've just asked her, because she knew how it was supposed to drain, and I would've saved her from bursting into tears at all the potting soil I inadvertently dumped on the floor. Sigh.
Yeah whatever. That is a damn good movie. It hit all the right notes -- just campy enough.
Go. See. Report.
Tuesday, May 05, 2009
R.I.P. Dom Deluise
I just read that Dom Deluise died in his sleep yesterday, at 75.
He was terrifically funny in many things of course, but I'll remember him best for this:
I have a special love for funny people who performed with the Muppets in the Jim Henson days. Thanks for the laughs, Mr. Deluise. Merdlidop!
He was terrifically funny in many things of course, but I'll remember him best for this:
I have a special love for funny people who performed with the Muppets in the Jim Henson days. Thanks for the laughs, Mr. Deluise. Merdlidop!
Monday, May 04, 2009
(I'm so sorry, but:)
It has come to my attention that today is Star Wars Day.
May the Fourth be with you.
3PO: "I think she might think that's even a little bit funny."
R2: (sad whistle)
May the Fourth be with you.
3PO: "I think she might think that's even a little bit funny."R2: (sad whistle)
Sunday, May 03, 2009
Because I know you're wondering and just don't know how to ask...
...the new lawn mower works great. The self-propelled part takes some adjusting to -- it *really* wants to go forward. Even without that feature engaged, there's more resistance to backing up than there was in the old one. My previous lawn mowing strategy involved a lot of dragging it backwards instead of turning around. So it's faster, it's easier, it STARTS, hurray! -- but it'll take some getting used to as well.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
...and I turn 40something again. But we'll get to that soon enough. First, I have to cut down a tree.
When the weather turns warmish, and sane people start thinking of planting things, it is my instinct to get out there and chop stuff the hell down. I don't know why. To me, For a long while there had been a branch dangling from one of the scrappy useless oak trees along the side of our driveway. It hung right over where a person would have to walk if they were getting in the passenger side of a car parked where visitors usually park. My brother visits us every few weeks, and he and I usually go out to lunch or something while he's here. All winter long I've been walking into that goddamn branch. When decent temperatures finally arrived, I was ready to do some damage. That tree was coming down, baby. Why not just go after the branch, you ask? Well. One of my yard jobs is to rake leaves in the fall. If you're a tree in my yard, you'd better be lovely enough to warrant cleaning up after you. This one didn't qualify by a long shot.
So I went to get my favorite hand saw. We do have a chain saw, but it isn't working. No - it is stuck in Mr. Sandyshoes's particularly excruciating brand of should-I-fix-it-or-buy-a-new-one limbo. Also, I don't love chain saws overmuch. I know a lot of tree guys with too many scars and accident stories. Besides, I am not the most coordinated person you'll ever meet.
My favorite hand saw is now kept, along with all the other implements of outdoor destruction, in our new shed. Mr. Sandyshoes built the shed last year, all by himself. Not from a kit, but "from sticks," as they say. He is pretty damn cool, even though I am about to make it seem otherwise.
Once I got the shed door open (which, note to Mr. Sandyshoes, needs to be made easier to do), I could not get to the saw because there was a brand new lawn mower, still in its box, blocking the way. Now, regular readers may remember that Mr. Sandyshoes and I have had something of an ongoing discussion about a new lawn mower. In brief: although I agreed to do most of the lawn mowing, trying to accomplish it with a machine that doesn't reliably start or continue to run once started was beginning to piss me off something fierce. And as the old saying goes, ain't Mama happy, ain't nobody happy.
So - why the new lawnmower tucked away in the shed, without a peep from my lovely husband about having chosen and bought one? Why, indeed.
I pondered that some, as I sawed away at the object of my wrath and hauled it in pieces onto the brush pile.
When he noticed a couple of days later that I'd cut down the tree, and deduced that I'd have had to go into the shed before doing so, a look passed between us. Later that evening, I showed him this little video:
Nevertheless, the lawn mower appeared on my birthday. Note the sort of smooshed purple bow on the box (top right. It's a small bow. A humble bow. An am-I-sleeping-in-the-shed-tonight sort of bow).
My friends' opinions are about equally divided (and not along gender lines) between "Cool! A lawn mower!" and "What, he couldn't have got you some earrings?" Me? I'm psyched to finally have a new lawn mower (self-propelled! GUARANTEED TO START!), and frankly glad to have been spared the process of choosing one. I'm not overjoyed that my birthday coincides with the onset of lawn mowing season, but whachagonnado.And won't he have a nice Christmas the year the vacuum cleaner needs replacing?
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Birthday Season I, in which the Peanut turns 5...
We have two birthday seasons in our little family: the Peanut and me in April, and the Bean and Mr. Sandyshoes in August.
Peanut just turned five (5!). She'd been counting down to her birthday for so long that I thought she might go nuts with excitement as The Day approached. There was some confusion as to how many days remained until her birthday party (which we had on a weekend), vs. her actual birthday. Either way, the counting was exciting.
The birthday party scene is changing a bit. We always just have them in the backyard and hope for the best, weather-wise. But before Peanut was in preschool, her birthday parties were as much for us as for her. We’d have a couple families over and hang out. This year she wanted to party with her own school friends. So I said what the heck, took a deep breath, and invited all of 'em. When the final count was in we were expecting some 15 preschoolers. That could easily have fallen into the "what the HELL was I thinking" category, but it turned out perfect. They all played outside like maniacs. Our swingset looked like something out of an advertisement, except that a professional photographer might've spaced the kiddos out some. We had a bit of a backup at the top of the spiral tube slide. Kids came flying out of that thing all afternoon and climbing back up for more. Mr. Sandyshoes had wiped it down with furniture polish beforehand. Heh heh. That is one fast slide.
For a party activity, I repeated my sand art triumph from the Bean's 5th birthday two years ago. Briefly: kids scoop colored sand into clean baby food jars to make pretty patterns. I highly recommend it for a party of kids this age. It’s just right for their coordination and attention span, it’s creative and fun, and gives them something pretty to take home. Boys and girls seem to love it equally. Most importantly, it’s easy to clean up.
Then it was cake time. Peanut had requested blue icing with pink letters, which sounds simple enough but sometimes I’m not too good at coloring icing. I ended up with something that looked to me like smoked salmon at the bottom of a swimming pool, but she thought it was cool, and that’s all that matters.
So, the weather was gorgeous, the kids were happy, the sand project rocked, the cake made the Peanut even happier than usual, and all was well in partyville. Ten seconds before the party was scheduled to be over, it started to rain. Incredibly perfect timing.
At bedtime, in the spirit of the countdown, I said, "Peanut, tomorrow is the last day you'll be 4!" -- and she just broke down in tears. Oh, did she ever sob, and I felt sad for making her feel sad. "Oh Peanut," I said, “you really liked being four, didn't you?” Nod, sob, sob. “Well,” I said, “the only thing that changes when you're five is the number of fingers you hold up when someone asks how old you are. Everything that's good about being four stays just the same when you're five.” And we counted some of those good things that won’t change.
Part of me is sad to see four go by, too. But she loves her childhood. That makes me feel really good.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Nothing else really explains it.
The Bean and the Peanut are usually pretty tight. They like each other a lot and play together like peas in a pod. However, I sometimes wonder if they have an actual biological need to scream at each other every so often until one (doesn't matter which, sometimes it's both) of them is crying. There doesn't seem to be anything I can do to prevent it. If I see it coming and separate them, they just wait till the next available opportunity. It's like a necessary, inevitable letting off of steam.
I have learned to just send them outside till it's over. Let the neighbors wonder. "What in hell is that racket? Where on Earth is their mother, and why doesn't she do anything about it?"
I have learned to just send them outside till it's over. Let the neighbors wonder. "What in hell is that racket? Where on Earth is their mother, and why doesn't she do anything about it?"
Friday, April 17, 2009
Back AWAY from the steak knives.
I am dropping EVERYTHING lately.I'm not normally like this. I'm not the most coordinated person ever, but if you throw me a ball, I'm more likely to catch it than not. I generally don't drop stuff more often than the next guy. But the past few days have been messy.
Among other things, I dropped (broke, and spilled) a huge bottle of juice in the checkout at Trader Joe's. I knocked over my own (full, natch) glass of water at the table. I spilled the Peanut's vitamins all over the kitchen floor.
This reminds me of an article I read as a kid, about "biorhythms." I have no idea where I came across it. Did my mother subscribe to Psychology Today? Was it in a magazine in someone's waiting room? Who knows. All I remember is that it said that we supposedly each have emotional, intellectual, and physical cycles, with peaks and valleys (think sine wave). When you have a few days like I'm having, during which everything you pick up seems to be making an independent effort to crash to the floor, it's an indication that your physical biorhythm is at its "critical point," and it's not an optimum time to attempt, say, brain surgery.
It's all crap, of course. People have emotional, intellectual, and physical up days and down days for any number of reasons, but (hormonal cycling aside) the idea that they would be spaced on some kind of predictable frequency based on... what, anyway?... and starting at birth, is hooey.
Still, the phrase cracks me up now as it did then. "I'm sorry, but I probably shouldn't _____. My physical biorhythm is at its critical point."
Needless to say I won't be handling any sharp objects until I can make it across the kitchen with a few more glasses of water. Sheesh.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Amazon fail
This is upsetting. In case you haven't heard -- the internet has been all abuzz about this so forgive my repetition -- here is my understanding of what's going on:Over Easter weekend, Amazon.com appears to have removed sales ranking information in its listings for some books it deems to be of "adult" content. No listed sales rank on Amazon means those titles don't always come up when their subjects are searched for on the site. If the book isn't in anyone's search results, it's not likely anyone's going to come across it and buy it.
Now, that alone should really piss you off. Who is Amazon to decide what is and isn't "adult" content? The way the site works, masking sales rank information becomes, effectively, a form of censorship.
But it's worse than that. The deranking has been shown to have happened preferentially to books about homosexuality, transgenderedness, rape, or feminism; or with gay characters, or by gay authors.
A biography of Ellen Degeneres was deranked; sexually explicit biographies of famous heterosexuals have not been.
The official word from Amazon is that this is a "glitch" and they're working on it. That seems implausible for a couple of reasons: 1) At least one gay author had his memoir deranked back in February, and the explanation wasn't "oh, sorry, our mistake"; rather, he was told his book had been deemed "adult" and that the action was deliberate (it was subsequently reversed, and he dropped the issue). 2) In a response to a concerned author this past weekend, one Amazon representative stated outright that it was a deliberate decision.
There's a ton being written about this, and updates are happening faster than I can read or copy links. Google "amazon rank," or "amazon fail" if you're interested. On Twitter, the hashtags are #amazonfail and #glitchmyass.
I have deleted my wish list at Amazon (fear not, you can buy me Fiestaware at Macy's) and won't be doing business there unless and until this is appropriately resolved. However, even if the whole debacle proves to have been a huge mistake/fuckup/misguided effort by an overambitious homophobe in middle management, and even if a probable explanation and sincere, convincing apology are issued, it's been kind of a wake up call as to how much influence Amazon has; how one corporate entity can effectively block any book, or genre, or type of author it decides it doesn't like.
Unsettling, at best.
Update: a reasoned take on this is presented here. It does seem likelier that this is an artifact of some outdated filter, ineptly effected, than that it is due to institution-wide homophobia on the part of Amazon.com. (My favorite quote: "Indeed, I suspect that dozens of Amazon executives and PR professionals will be having hurried meetings in Seattle this Monday morning, and that consumption of antacids at those meetings will be at an all-time high.") Still -- it bothers me a lot. When all of a sudden the top result of an Amazon search for books on homosexuality is some crap book for parents about how to prevent it in children -- something is wrong. Granted, I don't know for sure what that top result would have been on Friday. But color me skeptical.
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