I love fall. Autumn. Fall sounds dangerous. Autumn sounds beautiful.
But it means winter is coming, I know I have about 33 days before I start to get really wrackittey. What does that mean? I don't know. But it's the only word that I can think of that describes how I feel in November and December. Between Halloween and Christmas. I'm usually pretty okay until January 2nd or 3rd. I resolve each year to go into winter with a Good Attitude. But it lasts about a day or two until I am convinced that the world will never warm up and I will have to live a Siberian Existence forever and ever.
But this year will be different. This year I will have a Real Winter Coat. Not like those fake ones I've had before.
That gorgeous red tweed one that my grandmother loved more than anything near the end of her life. That I threw out because I wore it through pregnancy and beyond and it sort of made me look like I was in some sort of pregnant or beyond state and I only kept it last year because my grandmother loved it so much and she died in October and I felt like if I was throwing away something of mine that she loved, it was like throwing her away.
The liner was shredded. And the tweed was starting to twiddle. The buttons were starting to buckle. It was the best $89 ever spent at H&M. I wish they would bring it back. I'll check again this year, just like I do every year.
That navy blue sleeping bag thing I bought at Burlington on a day that started out at 70 and landed at 30. I needed something warm and under $100. The tag said Michael Kors but you can never be too sure at Burlington. It held up for about six months. I had it for three years. The second year I supplemented with a North Face vest. Last year I kept the vest (totally worth the dollars, if you are a coldie like me because you never have to take it off because it doesn't restrict movement. I sleep in mine sometimes.) and added another NF layer. A Redpoint Jacket. Do I love North Face? Not particularly, but I love that jacket. And these mittens. It looks springish and light, but it has some real heft. They update it (read: increase the price and cuteness) every year, and mine was under $100 and not nearly as adorable as they are now. I need a winter coat anytime the temps drop below 65, and this allows me to look like a sane person and keep warm all at the same time.
One of the things that I have taught Jacob is to avoid people who wear winter coats in the summer, despite my affection for winter coats outside of winter days. And also to avoid people with no coats in the winter. And bare feet in the city. And snots on their face/puke in their beards. And ladies with no bras. And men with no shirt away from the beach or home. And people who talk to themselves and aren't wearing a Bluetooth. And people who wear Blueteeth when they aren't using them. Bluetooths. Those douchey things in their ears.
I think I have most avoidances covered.
Also important to note, I bought a Redpoint for Dave too, who is always hot and needed something lighter for days when it is super cold outside. I love mine in October and November and March and April, he loves his in December and January and February. Everyone wins. They should be paying me to tell you this.
This year winter will be different because I have a real wintercoat that doesn't need to be supplemented by any other number of wintercoats. And it was on major sale. With free shipping. From Land's End. Which you can also buy at Sears. And any time you buy something that is available at Sears, you are making a very Grown Up and Responsible Purchase.
I bought it in Autumn Brick.
I love autumn.
9.24.2011
9.23.2011
I am not, by any means, a young mom.
When my parents were my age I was in the ninth grade.
There is something about having a kindergarten child that makes me feel like a freshman. When I meet parents of older kids (there is a lot of meeting other parents at Jacob's school, there is always something for parents to do, so you can drop by on your lunch break or comp time or day off and do something for/at the school) I feel new and inexperienced and raw and a little bit stupid and a lot bit green around the edges. Not because anyone makes me feel that way, really. Everyone has been really nice and open and "we're a big family"ish. It's just me. My issue. I'm not all that mentally great at being new at anything. I like to be seasoned and practiced and ripe. In charge. There isn't a whole lot of competency or versedness or familiarity involved when your kid is just starting his school-aged years.
When people find out how old I am, they are usually surprised. I don't look my age I guess. I'm pretty sure I act my age. Sometimes people tell me I'm really mature for my age. That's a weird sort of complement, because I think I act my age and assume they just don't know what that is.
I get hung up on this sort of stuff, and feel like my head gets patted in that "good girl" way by older adults. The patting probably is more inside my head than on top of it. An insecurity or something else left over from childhood.
I don't like to be/feel patronized.
I usually tell people I'm three years older than I actually am.
So when I am in Jacob's school, surrounded by moms of 1st - 8th graders who have been there and done this and gotten through what I'm getting through, I feel very young. Figuratively speaking.
And literally.
I assumed that most of the moms in Jacob's class would be somewhere between 25 and 30. Moms who had their kids around the time when moms from my neighborhood have their kids. But they aren't. I am young. -er. Younger.
Less old than the other moms.
Or else they just look rough for their ages.
Like they sleep in tanning beds (wholly possible) and forgo fresh produce and water sort of rough.
And that makes me feel sort of credulous and callow and I need another c-word synonym too.
I'm surprised how many moms from the older grades are well into their forties. Some in their fifties. And some of the dads are older than my dad. It's weird.
Not all of them, of course. But enough that it's worth writing about. I guess the ones I don't see are probably younger. Working jobs that don't allow for the flexibility that lets you jump in to the school for an hour to help out with the Scholastic book fair or to stuff Communication Envelopes that get sent home with every kid every Wednesday or monitor the lunchroom or help the littler kids into their ballet slippers or take their violins down from the shelves.
These are the people living in my neighborhood now. Not necessarily the people who are from my neighborhood. Times are certainly changing.
Which is probably really superty good for my property value.
I will be forty when Jake is in fifth grade.
47 when he graduates high school.
But I'll tell people I'm fifty, because I will look great for fifty.
When my parents were my age I was in the ninth grade.
There is something about having a kindergarten child that makes me feel like a freshman. When I meet parents of older kids (there is a lot of meeting other parents at Jacob's school, there is always something for parents to do, so you can drop by on your lunch break or comp time or day off and do something for/at the school) I feel new and inexperienced and raw and a little bit stupid and a lot bit green around the edges. Not because anyone makes me feel that way, really. Everyone has been really nice and open and "we're a big family"ish. It's just me. My issue. I'm not all that mentally great at being new at anything. I like to be seasoned and practiced and ripe. In charge. There isn't a whole lot of competency or versedness or familiarity involved when your kid is just starting his school-aged years.
When people find out how old I am, they are usually surprised. I don't look my age I guess. I'm pretty sure I act my age. Sometimes people tell me I'm really mature for my age. That's a weird sort of complement, because I think I act my age and assume they just don't know what that is.
I get hung up on this sort of stuff, and feel like my head gets patted in that "good girl" way by older adults. The patting probably is more inside my head than on top of it. An insecurity or something else left over from childhood.
I don't like to be/feel patronized.
I usually tell people I'm three years older than I actually am.
So when I am in Jacob's school, surrounded by moms of 1st - 8th graders who have been there and done this and gotten through what I'm getting through, I feel very young. Figuratively speaking.
And literally.
I assumed that most of the moms in Jacob's class would be somewhere between 25 and 30. Moms who had their kids around the time when moms from my neighborhood have their kids. But they aren't. I am young. -er. Younger.
Less old than the other moms.
Or else they just look rough for their ages.
Like they sleep in tanning beds (wholly possible) and forgo fresh produce and water sort of rough.
And that makes me feel sort of credulous and callow and I need another c-word synonym too.
I'm surprised how many moms from the older grades are well into their forties. Some in their fifties. And some of the dads are older than my dad. It's weird.
Not all of them, of course. But enough that it's worth writing about. I guess the ones I don't see are probably younger. Working jobs that don't allow for the flexibility that lets you jump in to the school for an hour to help out with the Scholastic book fair or to stuff Communication Envelopes that get sent home with every kid every Wednesday or monitor the lunchroom or help the littler kids into their ballet slippers or take their violins down from the shelves.
These are the people living in my neighborhood now. Not necessarily the people who are from my neighborhood. Times are certainly changing.
Which is probably really superty good for my property value.
I will be forty when Jake is in fifth grade.
47 when he graduates high school.
But I'll tell people I'm fifty, because I will look great for fifty.
9.21.2011
I'm a fan of the school uniform.
Monday through Thursday the boys wear charcoal grey slacks (there is no better word for this type of pant, with it's pleats and creases and reinforced knees) and navy polo shirts. Fridays it's black sweat pants and white t-shirts. I bought 4 polo shirts, 3 pairs of slacks, and a navy cardigan- which will be required after October 1st. If a shirt isn't dirty it gets hung up for tomorrow. Same goes for the slacks. Thank all that is holy that these kids don't wear khaki pants and white shirts like the Catholic kids up the street. I'd be living in the laundry room and advising you to buy stock in Oxyclean.
I asked Jacob if they have to say the pledge each day, and he answered, "yes, but it's a weird one. They make us say 'God Bless America' afterwards". I almost puked. I didn't say anything, because I don't want him to know I have an opinion on that whole matter, but the idea of my baby heiling the flag and asking God to Bless America makes me a little dizzy.
If you saw a bunch of three to four foot tall (insert ethnic enemy of choice here) children standing in formation and reciting something to (insert symbol of enemy here) and asking (insert diety of choice here) to bless (insert country enemy of choice here), how would you feel?
The idea creeps me out, no matter what flag/god/country we are dealing with.
God bless my underwear, my only pair.
Stand beside them, and guide them,
Through the rips, through the holes, through the tears.
From the washer, to the dryer, to the clothesline in the air.
God bless my underwear, my only pair.
I'll get over it. And if Al Jazeera has set up cameras in the classroom and uses what they see to promote an Anti-American sentiment video that portrays our children as hate-filled loyalists, I guess we have bigger problems.
I snuck down into the pool yesterday to watch the kids swim, and was absolutely tickled to see Jake on the pool deck with the other boys, holding one another's ankles during sit ups and doing ten pushups with their feet against the wall and their arms on the dive bars (I guess they are dive bars, they are built into the deck on the edge of the pool, about four inches off the floor) and ten jumping jacks and getting back down and doing it again. Their little selves working hard in the equatorial temperatures down there in the pool area. Jake has one of those Abercrombie teen sort of bodies. Long arms and legs and torso that never had chubby rolls or paunches of babyness to them. It's weird to see him use all those tiny muscles that would photograph well in a controversial catalog. It's weird to describe your child's body on the internet.
I found a really good pizza place in University City. By "really good" I mean the pizza is less than $3 a slice and I can hide out there between appointments and catch up on paperwork and Sudokus.
I feel like a racist if I do Sudokus in front of Asian people.
I just finished up 15 hours of training on Group Facilitation, and my 45th hour of Trauma Awareness. I start my final 30 hours of trauma training next week. I'm tired. But smarter than I was 60 hours ago. Classes are in 2.5 hour blocks, meeting every two weeks with about 3 hours of reading and writing between classes. It's a lot. The organization that hosts the classes has a blog that I have in my reader and have been meaning to check out. Maybe you'll beat me to it by clicking here. I'm hoping it is user friendly and people who aren't in the field can get lots of information from it.
Autumn starts on Friday, and I usually cut my hair on the solstices and equinoxes but I'm letting it grow out. I got it cut super short on the first day of winter and again on the first day of summer and I don't plan to cut it again until December 22nd. I did trim some ratty ends a few weeks ago. It's getting longer. For the first time since right after I had Jake, my hair is past my chin all the way around my head.
And it's not falling out anymore. I don't know what made it stop, but I'm glad it did. A year ago I had half the hair I had a year and a half ago. Today I have about 75% of the hair I had a year and a half ago.
I'll take it.
Isn't it weird that if you burp, fart, cough, sniffle, whatever it is your responsibility to excuse yourself to those around you but if you sneeze everyone around you is responsible for excusing the sneeze by making a big blessing and offering you a tissue and saying things like 'my goodness!' and asking if you are okay? I call shenanigans. I'm done taking on the onus of other people's sneezes. The sneeze is seriously like, the most revolting and violent of all bodily expulsions. Germs and spit and snots come rushing out of your head faster than a locomotive engine and it's MY job to clear all that up for you?
No thank you.
God Bless Your Own Damned Self.
Dammit.
Monday through Thursday the boys wear charcoal grey slacks (there is no better word for this type of pant, with it's pleats and creases and reinforced knees) and navy polo shirts. Fridays it's black sweat pants and white t-shirts. I bought 4 polo shirts, 3 pairs of slacks, and a navy cardigan- which will be required after October 1st. If a shirt isn't dirty it gets hung up for tomorrow. Same goes for the slacks. Thank all that is holy that these kids don't wear khaki pants and white shirts like the Catholic kids up the street. I'd be living in the laundry room and advising you to buy stock in Oxyclean.
***
I asked Jacob if they have to say the pledge each day, and he answered, "yes, but it's a weird one. They make us say 'God Bless America' afterwards". I almost puked. I didn't say anything, because I don't want him to know I have an opinion on that whole matter, but the idea of my baby heiling the flag and asking God to Bless America makes me a little dizzy.
If you saw a bunch of three to four foot tall (insert ethnic enemy of choice here) children standing in formation and reciting something to (insert symbol of enemy here) and asking (insert diety of choice here) to bless (insert country enemy of choice here), how would you feel?
The idea creeps me out, no matter what flag/god/country we are dealing with.
God bless my underwear, my only pair.
Stand beside them, and guide them,
Through the rips, through the holes, through the tears.
From the washer, to the dryer, to the clothesline in the air.
God bless my underwear, my only pair.
I'll get over it. And if Al Jazeera has set up cameras in the classroom and uses what they see to promote an Anti-American sentiment video that portrays our children as hate-filled loyalists, I guess we have bigger problems.
***
I snuck down into the pool yesterday to watch the kids swim, and was absolutely tickled to see Jake on the pool deck with the other boys, holding one another's ankles during sit ups and doing ten pushups with their feet against the wall and their arms on the dive bars (I guess they are dive bars, they are built into the deck on the edge of the pool, about four inches off the floor) and ten jumping jacks and getting back down and doing it again. Their little selves working hard in the equatorial temperatures down there in the pool area. Jake has one of those Abercrombie teen sort of bodies. Long arms and legs and torso that never had chubby rolls or paunches of babyness to them. It's weird to see him use all those tiny muscles that would photograph well in a controversial catalog. It's weird to describe your child's body on the internet.
***
I found a really good pizza place in University City. By "really good" I mean the pizza is less than $3 a slice and I can hide out there between appointments and catch up on paperwork and Sudokus.
I feel like a racist if I do Sudokus in front of Asian people.
***
***
Autumn starts on Friday, and I usually cut my hair on the solstices and equinoxes but I'm letting it grow out. I got it cut super short on the first day of winter and again on the first day of summer and I don't plan to cut it again until December 22nd. I did trim some ratty ends a few weeks ago. It's getting longer. For the first time since right after I had Jake, my hair is past my chin all the way around my head.
And it's not falling out anymore. I don't know what made it stop, but I'm glad it did. A year ago I had half the hair I had a year and a half ago. Today I have about 75% of the hair I had a year and a half ago.
I'll take it.
***
Isn't it weird that if you burp, fart, cough, sniffle, whatever it is your responsibility to excuse yourself to those around you but if you sneeze everyone around you is responsible for excusing the sneeze by making a big blessing and offering you a tissue and saying things like 'my goodness!' and asking if you are okay? I call shenanigans. I'm done taking on the onus of other people's sneezes. The sneeze is seriously like, the most revolting and violent of all bodily expulsions. Germs and spit and snots come rushing out of your head faster than a locomotive engine and it's MY job to clear all that up for you?
No thank you.
God Bless Your Own Damned Self.
Dammit.
9.20.2011
bells
I think I'm almost ready to sit down and write about last week. Jake started kindergarten. Or, as the locals put it- Kiddie Garden. As if there is some sort of top soil involved. Or chicken wire.
It was bigger than I thought it would be. This whole school thing. I thought I would be fine. I have been working full time since my 12 week maternity leave was up. Jake was at Charmaine's until six weeks shy of five years old. Then at preschool and summer camp since January. I didn't think kindergarten would be all that different until we got about four blocks away from kindergarten last Monday when Jake stopped walking and said, "Mom. Mom. This is it, isn't it? This is like, real life. Mom. This is the first day of my real life, Mom, and every Monday from now on I'm going to put on my clothes and head out to school. And then work when I get big. And that's how you know you've started real life"
And he was right.
And now we are a week and two days into real life.
Leaving Jake at kindergarten was more emotional than I thought it would be. I didn't cry at the door, or even at home but I miss him in a whole different way than I missed him when he was at daycare/preschool/summer camp. Parents aren't allowed in the school in the morning, which took me by surprise. But I guess in places where there are school buses parents don't even see the school in the morning. It could be burning down and surrounded by snipers for all anyone would know. You just put your kid on a bus with one grown up and fifty kids and no seatbelts and hope for the best. My mental health does not allow me to think about school buses. Anything bad that ever happened to me at school happened to me on a school bus, not at actual school.
One plus of not being allowed in the school is that the other parents aren't allowed in the school either. Especially that junkie looking dad I saw at kindergarten parent's orientation. Or the Jersey Shore Wannabes who clamor and fuss outside the doors.
One of Dave's cousins just finished up at Parris Island and has been shipped off to wherever Marines go after a week home after Parris Island yesterday, so we went over to the house on Sunday afternoon. The idea of anyone's child going to wherever Marines go after a week home makes me want to throw up, and I almost passed out when I saw his battalion class picture. Is that what it is called? I don't know. I don't want to know. They all looked like babies. Scared babies trying to look brave.
I've never seen a military photo of anyone where I can see anything but a scared kid trying to figure out what a brave face and stiff upper lip is supposed to look like. What a soldier is supposed to look like. I'd rather see the candid photographs taken around the base or in the camps. I'd rather see what a soldier actually does look like. Rarely does a soldier look like himself in his formal military photo.
But the point of this isn't about kids joining up, it's about that we were at the house and one of Dave's uncles brought his new girlfriend and she is a first grade teacher at Jake's school. And she went to high school with Dave. And she's good friends with Jake's kindergarten teacher. And Jacob fell in love with her. And that's why living in a small town has its perks. This week is easier than last for lots of reasons, a big one being that there is someone who is practically family working down the hall from the kindergarteners.
Hopefully she sticks around for awhile.
The minutes go by so slowly when Jake is at school. I wonder what he is doing all the time. ALL. THE. TIME. I get jealous when I see moms on the street during school hours with their kids that are just not quite old enough to go to school. Especially those kids who missed the birthday cutoff. Those just-turned-fivers who are probably heartbroken they aren't in school. Unlike my just-turned-five-and-one-halfer. My five-point-fiver. My "I'm-going-to-be-six-pretty-soon-well,I-mean-soon-like-in-March"er.
Jacob got his first loose tooth on Sunday. It's hardly loose. I think it's less loose today than it was then so it might be a fluke. But don't tell him that.
It's a lower left incisor, and that might have been the first one to come in too. I don't think I kept track, but I know those bottom teeth were in first.
Jake knows the story of my first lost tooth. I've shared it before, but I'll recap in fifty words or less:
Swallowed it while eating cinnamon toast. Thought the tooth fairy would have to reach up my butt to pull it out. Grandma died that day/night, and I swore I saw the tooth fairy in my room but now I believe it was her saying goodbye.
Did I make it? I didn't count.
Jake's kindergarten is full day. 7.45am-3.15pm full. And then he has afterschool care until 6. But I try to get him by 5 because they start in on homework at 5 and I don't want him doing his homework without me.
Homework. Now there's where those tears will eventually fall. It's frustrating. We are all tired. And hungry. Or full. Depending on whether we just ate or not.
Eating dinner. It's like a new adventure. Kids get hungry at school, even when you pack them a lunch that is twice what a grownup would eat during the day. A drink and a peanut butter and honey, carrots/grapes/tomatoes/pears/whatever, a grahamish or cheesish sort of cracker snack, something that resembles a chewy fruitish thing, and two Hershey Kisses.
Two Hershey Kisses that the boy kisses before he opens because he believes I kiss them before I put them in his bag.
Can you stand it?
It was bigger than I thought it would be. This whole school thing. I thought I would be fine. I have been working full time since my 12 week maternity leave was up. Jake was at Charmaine's until six weeks shy of five years old. Then at preschool and summer camp since January. I didn't think kindergarten would be all that different until we got about four blocks away from kindergarten last Monday when Jake stopped walking and said, "Mom. Mom. This is it, isn't it? This is like, real life. Mom. This is the first day of my real life, Mom, and every Monday from now on I'm going to put on my clothes and head out to school. And then work when I get big. And that's how you know you've started real life"
And he was right.
And now we are a week and two days into real life.
Leaving Jake at kindergarten was more emotional than I thought it would be. I didn't cry at the door, or even at home but I miss him in a whole different way than I missed him when he was at daycare/preschool/summer camp. Parents aren't allowed in the school in the morning, which took me by surprise. But I guess in places where there are school buses parents don't even see the school in the morning. It could be burning down and surrounded by snipers for all anyone would know. You just put your kid on a bus with one grown up and fifty kids and no seatbelts and hope for the best. My mental health does not allow me to think about school buses. Anything bad that ever happened to me at school happened to me on a school bus, not at actual school.
One plus of not being allowed in the school is that the other parents aren't allowed in the school either. Especially that junkie looking dad I saw at kindergarten parent's orientation. Or the Jersey Shore Wannabes who clamor and fuss outside the doors.
One of Dave's cousins just finished up at Parris Island and has been shipped off to wherever Marines go after a week home after Parris Island yesterday, so we went over to the house on Sunday afternoon. The idea of anyone's child going to wherever Marines go after a week home makes me want to throw up, and I almost passed out when I saw his battalion class picture. Is that what it is called? I don't know. I don't want to know. They all looked like babies. Scared babies trying to look brave.
I've never seen a military photo of anyone where I can see anything but a scared kid trying to figure out what a brave face and stiff upper lip is supposed to look like. What a soldier is supposed to look like. I'd rather see the candid photographs taken around the base or in the camps. I'd rather see what a soldier actually does look like. Rarely does a soldier look like himself in his formal military photo.
But the point of this isn't about kids joining up, it's about that we were at the house and one of Dave's uncles brought his new girlfriend and she is a first grade teacher at Jake's school. And she went to high school with Dave. And she's good friends with Jake's kindergarten teacher. And Jacob fell in love with her. And that's why living in a small town has its perks. This week is easier than last for lots of reasons, a big one being that there is someone who is practically family working down the hall from the kindergarteners.
Hopefully she sticks around for awhile.
The minutes go by so slowly when Jake is at school. I wonder what he is doing all the time. ALL. THE. TIME. I get jealous when I see moms on the street during school hours with their kids that are just not quite old enough to go to school. Especially those kids who missed the birthday cutoff. Those just-turned-fivers who are probably heartbroken they aren't in school. Unlike my just-turned-five-and-one-halfer. My five-point-fiver. My "I'm-going-to-be-six-pretty-soon-well,I-mean-soon-like-in-March"er.
Jacob got his first loose tooth on Sunday. It's hardly loose. I think it's less loose today than it was then so it might be a fluke. But don't tell him that.
It's a lower left incisor, and that might have been the first one to come in too. I don't think I kept track, but I know those bottom teeth were in first.
Jake knows the story of my first lost tooth. I've shared it before, but I'll recap in fifty words or less:
Swallowed it while eating cinnamon toast. Thought the tooth fairy would have to reach up my butt to pull it out. Grandma died that day/night, and I swore I saw the tooth fairy in my room but now I believe it was her saying goodbye.
Did I make it? I didn't count.
Jake's kindergarten is full day. 7.45am-3.15pm full. And then he has afterschool care until 6. But I try to get him by 5 because they start in on homework at 5 and I don't want him doing his homework without me.
Homework. Now there's where those tears will eventually fall. It's frustrating. We are all tired. And hungry. Or full. Depending on whether we just ate or not.
Eating dinner. It's like a new adventure. Kids get hungry at school, even when you pack them a lunch that is twice what a grownup would eat during the day. A drink and a peanut butter and honey, carrots/grapes/tomatoes/pears/whatever, a grahamish or cheesish sort of cracker snack, something that resembles a chewy fruitish thing, and two Hershey Kisses.
Two Hershey Kisses that the boy kisses before he opens because he believes I kiss them before I put them in his bag.
Can you stand it?
9.09.2011
I love to crack my living room windows and watch for the bus to drive by. The way they are lit up so brightly inside, you can see what everyone is doing in there during the two seconds it takes for the bus to pass by. Looking at the lives of people who aren't sitting at home on their couch.
Though, we are so far down near the end of the line that they most likely will be in the next fifteen/twenty. There's not much to do down on that end of town most nights. Just live.
Living room. Living room life. Life in the living room. It's funny how much of life happens in the living room and most of what we do in there is considered to be "nothing". My living room is my child's favorite place in the whole world. Everything he loves ends up there eventually. Especially people.
That's what he says, at least.
"Everything I love ends up here."
Last night we sat on the couch and read Nursery Rhymes for an hour or so. I have two old Nursery Rhyme books. Old old books, from when I was little. One is a Dean's Mother Goose. I keep it on the bookshelf so people can see it and the ones who had it when they were little get really excited to see it.
Something like 93% of all Nursery Rhymes include the word "pussy" or "cock". That's science. Go ahead and look it up.
I think I'm going to ask Santa for a Kindle. I have an unhealthy attachment to real books, but I think I'm ready to move past it. Almost. A few months ago I was straightening and dusting my books on the shelves and Jake said, "mom, why don't you just get a Kindle like a lot of people have? It's cleaner and takes up less space."
"Well, I like my books."
"Mom, you know that people will still think you are smart even if they can't see all the books you've read, don't you? And you can always let them browse through your reading list on your reader."
What?
What?
Okay.
Five year old.
He's right.
But man alive do I love my books.
And I really love when you look over my books when we are hanging out.
And I love when you've read some of those books up there and I love when some of those books used to be your books and we traded so some of my books are at your house now and I love to say "yes" if you ask if you can borrow one of them.
My favorite science is Quantum Entanglement. This week. It might be different next week.
I had an ah-ha moment about cows making cheese and moons made of cheese and cows jumping over the moon and now I want to write a children's story about cows making moons and stars and planets by jumping up really high.
That might be the basis of Hinduism. I'm not sure. I should probably look into that before I get started. See why cows are so sacred.
I'm usually pretty worldly about cheese. Not so much about major faith practices.
You know it has been the longest hottest wettest American summer when you think you see a rainbow on a stormy day so you reach down to grab your phone and when you look back up you realize that it's not a rainbow at all, but the emissions release from the smokestack at that factory thing down there near the river by Ikea and Target and Shoprite. Grey on grey on grey on sticky on sweaty. There has been a lot of that these past few weeks. I haven't gotten out much.
Friends is on Nick at Nite. That's how you know you're getting old. Used to be the only shows that came on Nick at Nite was Hazel and Car 54 and My Three Sons.
You'll feel a lot better about your body if you look at Jennifer Aniston circa 1993 than you will looking at Jennifer Aniston today.
The early nineties were fun because no one thought having a healthy body weight was unattractive. Then something called "Heroin Chic" happened. HEROIN CHIC. So disgusting.
I made cookies tonight. Chocolate chip. My secret ingredient is bourbon instead of vanilla.
And pecans instead of walnuts.
And of course real butter. Room temperature.
Dark brown sugar instead of light brown sugar.
Course ground sea salt (pink is the most adorable) instead of table salt.
And "large" sized eggs are more important than most people think. It's all part of the chemistry.
So is cold cookie sheets. I put them in the freezer between their turns in the oven.
A little cinnamon is good, when the weather gets cold.
Other than that they are just Toll House.
I guess I have lots of secret ingredients.
And now they aren't so secret.
Though, we are so far down near the end of the line that they most likely will be in the next fifteen/twenty. There's not much to do down on that end of town most nights. Just live.
Living room. Living room life. Life in the living room. It's funny how much of life happens in the living room and most of what we do in there is considered to be "nothing". My living room is my child's favorite place in the whole world. Everything he loves ends up there eventually. Especially people.
That's what he says, at least.
"Everything I love ends up here."
Last night we sat on the couch and read Nursery Rhymes for an hour or so. I have two old Nursery Rhyme books. Old old books, from when I was little. One is a Dean's Mother Goose. I keep it on the bookshelf so people can see it and the ones who had it when they were little get really excited to see it.
Something like 93% of all Nursery Rhymes include the word "pussy" or "cock". That's science. Go ahead and look it up.
I think I'm going to ask Santa for a Kindle. I have an unhealthy attachment to real books, but I think I'm ready to move past it. Almost. A few months ago I was straightening and dusting my books on the shelves and Jake said, "mom, why don't you just get a Kindle like a lot of people have? It's cleaner and takes up less space."
"Well, I like my books."
"Mom, you know that people will still think you are smart even if they can't see all the books you've read, don't you? And you can always let them browse through your reading list on your reader."
What?
What?
Okay.
Five year old.
He's right.
But man alive do I love my books.
And I really love when you look over my books when we are hanging out.
And I love when you've read some of those books up there and I love when some of those books used to be your books and we traded so some of my books are at your house now and I love to say "yes" if you ask if you can borrow one of them.
My favorite science is Quantum Entanglement. This week. It might be different next week.
I had an ah-ha moment about cows making cheese and moons made of cheese and cows jumping over the moon and now I want to write a children's story about cows making moons and stars and planets by jumping up really high.
That might be the basis of Hinduism. I'm not sure. I should probably look into that before I get started. See why cows are so sacred.
I'm usually pretty worldly about cheese. Not so much about major faith practices.
You know it has been the longest hottest wettest American summer when you think you see a rainbow on a stormy day so you reach down to grab your phone and when you look back up you realize that it's not a rainbow at all, but the emissions release from the smokestack at that factory thing down there near the river by Ikea and Target and Shoprite. Grey on grey on grey on sticky on sweaty. There has been a lot of that these past few weeks. I haven't gotten out much.
Friends is on Nick at Nite. That's how you know you're getting old. Used to be the only shows that came on Nick at Nite was Hazel and Car 54 and My Three Sons.
You'll feel a lot better about your body if you look at Jennifer Aniston circa 1993 than you will looking at Jennifer Aniston today.
The early nineties were fun because no one thought having a healthy body weight was unattractive. Then something called "Heroin Chic" happened. HEROIN CHIC. So disgusting.
I made cookies tonight. Chocolate chip. My secret ingredient is bourbon instead of vanilla.
And pecans instead of walnuts.
And of course real butter. Room temperature.
Dark brown sugar instead of light brown sugar.
Course ground sea salt (pink is the most adorable) instead of table salt.
And "large" sized eggs are more important than most people think. It's all part of the chemistry.
So is cold cookie sheets. I put them in the freezer between their turns in the oven.
A little cinnamon is good, when the weather gets cold.
Other than that they are just Toll House.
I guess I have lots of secret ingredients.
And now they aren't so secret.
9.07.2011
rolling
I'm not a conspiracy theorist. I don't think. I don't know.
I'm not a conspiracy theorist, per se. But I do believe that we aren't told everything there is to tell about lots of things, and that is fine by me. My brain is already so full of crap that keeps me up at night. I don't need anything else in there.
Lots of people are opening up about their September 11ths this week. Sharing stories that they haven't shared in ten years. Trying to let go of things or move on from things or figure out some things that have been keeping them in knots for a decade now.
I was lucky. I didn't lose anyone. I didn't lose anything in the resulting econ-crash because I didn't have anything to lose.
My September 11th was probably like most people's September 11th. Horrifying and terrible and life-altering in the way it happens once every generation or so when you get a giant shake-up in the way things are.
My September 12th was a little different. There's a story there that I only tell in small circles.
I went to work that morning and tried my best to be normal but the girl I was working with was shaken. Crying. Nervous. I asked her if she was okay and she said no- that her uncle, who serves as a fighter pilot in our military, called the house in hysterics late last night and told her and her grandmother that he killed people that day. That he had orders to shoot down a plane over Pennsylvania and though he knew he was likely saving the lives of several important people, he killed innocent people in the process.
And then I understood why people spend time wondering about men walking on the moon and the JFK assassination and AIDS and crack being invented by governments and stuff.
Do I believe that he shot it down?
I don't know.
But I do believe that we aren't told everything there is to tell about lots of things, and that is fine by me. My brain is already so full of crap that keeps me up at night. I don't need anything else in there.
I'm not a conspiracy theorist, per se. But I do believe that we aren't told everything there is to tell about lots of things, and that is fine by me. My brain is already so full of crap that keeps me up at night. I don't need anything else in there.
Lots of people are opening up about their September 11ths this week. Sharing stories that they haven't shared in ten years. Trying to let go of things or move on from things or figure out some things that have been keeping them in knots for a decade now.
I was lucky. I didn't lose anyone. I didn't lose anything in the resulting econ-crash because I didn't have anything to lose.
My September 11th was probably like most people's September 11th. Horrifying and terrible and life-altering in the way it happens once every generation or so when you get a giant shake-up in the way things are.
My September 12th was a little different. There's a story there that I only tell in small circles.
I went to work that morning and tried my best to be normal but the girl I was working with was shaken. Crying. Nervous. I asked her if she was okay and she said no- that her uncle, who serves as a fighter pilot in our military, called the house in hysterics late last night and told her and her grandmother that he killed people that day. That he had orders to shoot down a plane over Pennsylvania and though he knew he was likely saving the lives of several important people, he killed innocent people in the process.
And then I understood why people spend time wondering about men walking on the moon and the JFK assassination and AIDS and crack being invented by governments and stuff.
Do I believe that he shot it down?
I don't know.
But I do believe that we aren't told everything there is to tell about lots of things, and that is fine by me. My brain is already so full of crap that keeps me up at night. I don't need anything else in there.
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