Back when I was a kid, the last place you ever expected to see your parents was in the school cafeteria, unless it was a PTA meeting or program ... or you were in big trouble.
Not so anymore. It seems the latest badge of a "cool kid" is to have your mom or dad show up at lunchtime to eat with you. Even cooler when they come bearing fast food. It buys you the privilege of sitting at a special table with the 'rents and even picking one or two friends to come along if you are so moved.
So, my youngest wants to be cool, of course. (And maybe, just maybe, she actually likes to see us in the middle of the day for an extra hug and kiss as well.) She laid the heavy guilt on me last night. "Whennn are you going to come eat lunch with me? Todd does it alllll the time and he even has to do it on his day off and you don't even go to work anywhere!"
I told her he was just good at it--better at it than me, obviously. But of course, I showed up today. Fun was had by all, the food was even pretty good. No, I didn't take fast food. Can anyone imagine me getting there in time for lunch AND scheduling it so I managed to buy fast food on the way? Right.
There were only a few questionable situations.
First, the kids in this 5th/6th grade school have been SO BAD at lunch they had silent lunch several days this week. Including today! Yay! I asked Kristen when I got there if she wanted me to stay or come back another day when we could actually talk. She thought I was pretty silly and said you're allowed to talk when you're with your parent at the special table.
It was awkward, however, being one of about 10 people allowed to talk in a cafeteria stuffed with 300 silent 5th and 6th graders staring at you pitifully. Especially the kid sitting across from us (because apparently the special parent table is only the special parent *side* of the table in certain areas). He had long, stringy hair, glasses, loads of uncomfortable looking freckles, appeared to be about 15 instead of 12, and glared at us the whole time we ate and tried to make normal conversation.
We managed reasonably well, though, which leads to questionable situation number two. I picked up a bottle of water in the lunch line because (as I mentioned recently) I am not a fan of milk as a general rule. Especially not school milk. Ew. So, we were eating our pizza, corn on the cob, applesauce, and mandarin oranges, and Kristen asked if she could have a drink of my water. She was out of milk and the pizza was making her verrrry thirsty.
She studied the bottle, took a few swigs, then looked at it again and started reading the label out loud.
Kristen: "Water with fluoride. Isn't that the stuff they use for dead people?"
Me: "No, you must be thinking of formaldehyde." (For today, only, I was apparently smarter than a fifth grader.)
Kristen: "Oh, yeah."
But she pushed it back my way anyway.
The bell rang soon after and thus ended our lunch together. But, if Kristen and I start looking pickled any time in the near future, you'll know why.
Friday, March 28, 2008
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Monday, March 24, 2008
Meme about Me Me
I'm not very good about filling out those surveys people send by email or following through on blog memes (right, Bungi?), but I'm suffering from a severe lack of blog topic today, so I will do it.
My little sister, Brittany, tagged me. She and her hubby, Mark, just found out they are going to be teaching in a private Christian school in Saipan for a year. Saipan? Huh? You can read more about it in her blog.
So here are the rules for Brit's meme:
Link to your tagger and post these 3 rules on your blog.
1. Share 7 facts about yourself on your blog, some random, some weird.
2. Tag 7 people at the end of your post by leaving their names as well as links to their blogs.
3. Let them know they are tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.
And here are my facts:
1. I eat my cereal with milk ... and ice. I am not a big milk fan, and I always put a cube or two in it when I drink it straight. It has to be really, really cold for me to tolerate it. (And preferably skim. So, yeah, can you see that what I really prefer over milk is water?) So, even with cereal, I have to have ice.
2. I have lived in 29 different homes/apartments in my life. Those are the ones I can remember. I'm not planning on making it 30 any time soon. When June arrives, I will have passed more June firsts in a row in my current house than I have ever in any other house--six.
3. I would like to be a published writer someday. I just finished a good first draft of a manuscript I hope to send out to agents one day soon. I consider this my full-time job, even though I'm not getting paid for it yet.
4. I once worked a job for a year where I spoke Spanish all day. It was kind of fun.
5. When I was a kid, I loved peanut butter, American cheese, and Miracle Whip sandwiches. Yes, together. One day I realized how gross it was, and never ate another.
6. When I was in high school, I played softball for one season, and that is the extent of my team sports experience. (Well, other than two other failed attempts at church softball.) We were not a recognized team, but we challenged other schools and beat every one. We wore rings in our back pockets with bubblegum chew boxes so they would think we were tough, and apparently, it worked. I played right field, which should come as no surprise. I prefer individual sports where it doesn't matter how much of a klutz I am. :-)
7. I have been keeping this blog for nearly three years. I wasn't sure blogs would be around that long when I started.
I tag...
Gail, Bungi, Donna, Heather, hmm....trying to think of others who might actually do it. Most of the blogs I read are writer blogs and they might not do a meme as a general rule. But, what the heck, Carleen, Diane, and Kathy. No offense if you don't play. You other lurkers might have to come out of hiding if you want to have this kind of fun. You know who you are. If you feel like it, you are tagged, too. ;)
My little sister, Brittany, tagged me. She and her hubby, Mark, just found out they are going to be teaching in a private Christian school in Saipan for a year. Saipan? Huh? You can read more about it in her blog.
So here are the rules for Brit's meme:
Link to your tagger and post these 3 rules on your blog.
1. Share 7 facts about yourself on your blog, some random, some weird.
2. Tag 7 people at the end of your post by leaving their names as well as links to their blogs.
3. Let them know they are tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.
And here are my facts:
1. I eat my cereal with milk ... and ice. I am not a big milk fan, and I always put a cube or two in it when I drink it straight. It has to be really, really cold for me to tolerate it. (And preferably skim. So, yeah, can you see that what I really prefer over milk is water?) So, even with cereal, I have to have ice.
2. I have lived in 29 different homes/apartments in my life. Those are the ones I can remember. I'm not planning on making it 30 any time soon. When June arrives, I will have passed more June firsts in a row in my current house than I have ever in any other house--six.
3. I would like to be a published writer someday. I just finished a good first draft of a manuscript I hope to send out to agents one day soon. I consider this my full-time job, even though I'm not getting paid for it yet.
4. I once worked a job for a year where I spoke Spanish all day. It was kind of fun.
5. When I was a kid, I loved peanut butter, American cheese, and Miracle Whip sandwiches. Yes, together. One day I realized how gross it was, and never ate another.
6. When I was in high school, I played softball for one season, and that is the extent of my team sports experience. (Well, other than two other failed attempts at church softball.) We were not a recognized team, but we challenged other schools and beat every one. We wore rings in our back pockets with bubblegum chew boxes so they would think we were tough, and apparently, it worked. I played right field, which should come as no surprise. I prefer individual sports where it doesn't matter how much of a klutz I am. :-)
7. I have been keeping this blog for nearly three years. I wasn't sure blogs would be around that long when I started.
I tag...
Gail, Bungi, Donna, Heather, hmm....trying to think of others who might actually do it. Most of the blogs I read are writer blogs and they might not do a meme as a general rule. But, what the heck, Carleen, Diane, and Kathy. No offense if you don't play. You other lurkers might have to come out of hiding if you want to have this kind of fun. You know who you are. If you feel like it, you are tagged, too. ;)
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Monday, March 17, 2008
Your Blues Ain't Like Mine
I have read more books this year that have really, really made me think. More than in who knows how long--maybe ever. I've double posted a few times lately on both my blogs,and I'm going to have to do it again tonight.
Over the weekend, I finished the latest--Your Blues Ain't Like Mine, by Bebe Moore Campbell. I happened to see this while browsing at the library a few weeks ago, and remembered a reference to the author in a blurb on Carleen's book, Orange Mint & Honey, of course! And I did not know until just this minute when I went searching for a book link that Campbell is deceased, having died of a brain tumor in 2006.
If you've known me very well in "real life" for long, you know racism (i.e., trying to eliminate it) is one of my soapboxes. And yet, my eyes were opened even a bit wider reading this book. I felt such a mixture of anger, shame, and hope while reading. I think the premise behind the book is that we all have our burdens to bear, and that it's far too easy to judge others, believing that our own burden is just a little bit heavier because of what or who we are. You might come away with something altogether different if you read it. And, of course, there are so many big ideas in the book, and that's just one.
But, I want to talk about those emotions a little more here.
Anger. If you can read this story without feeling anger, I am afraid for you. The fictional events are based on a true story, where a young African American man in the deep South, right at the beginning of the civil rights era, was lynched for allegedly speaking inappropriately to a white woman. Lip service was paid to justice, almost making it worse than if it had never been brought up at all. The rest of the story entails the unfolding of the lives of those surrounding the event over the next 30 years--African American, white, and mixed-race characters.
Shame. I had to ask my mom over dinner Saturday evening what happened in our own family to stall racism. I loved my maternal grandma--she was truly one of my favorite people when I was growing up--yet I cringed and felt physically ill every time I heard her or one of her generation in my family use that horrible word you can guess at here.
For some reason, though, my mother wasn't like that. Over dinner, she told me that when she was growing up in New Mexico, they were beginning to talk in the public schools about civil rights and putting a stop to racism, and she guesses she just took it to heart. This suprises me--it was in the 40s and 50s, and that seems pretty progressive to me! She remembers a time when her father was furious with her for accepting a ride home from camp from the family of an African American girl, and another when she went on a date with a Hispanic boy.
Unfortunately, others in my extended family of her same generation weren't influenced like she was, and I am sorry to say some are no different all the way down to my generation. You could say we are not close today. :-D
On the other hand, my father's family was a strange contrast. I was under the impression my paternal grandmother was racist, too, although I did not know her well, but it turns out she was selective--she was prejudiced against Hispanics, but not African Americans.
This could be because, as it turns out, she fell deeply in love with an African American boy when she was in her late teens, and her father forced an end to that relationship, sometime in the 1920s, I guess. Grandma was an unhappy person as long as I knew her, and that went a long way in explaining her personality to me. She also bore the stigma of being one quarter Cherokee. At least, we think it was Cherokee. The family never talked much about it back in those days. It was a stigma, after all, and the guy responsible for that quarter was never publicly in the picture. I think there is a great story idea in there somewhere, and in fact, did a character sketch for a writing class last year based on the few details I knew.
Anyway, all I knew was the story I heard for years--when my father called to tell her he was engaged to a girl at the university he attended in New Mexico, Grandma's first question was, "Is she a Mexican?" And yet, she also sponsored a Jewish family in the displacement camps after WWII to come to the United States--including their grandbaby who had been fathered by a Nazi soldier who was in love with the daughter.
So, shame because I hate the way people related to me acted sometimes, and how some probably act to this day. But also hope.
Hope because I saw how my parents were able to stop this cycle in one family, in one generation, simply by saying to themselves and to us, their children, "This is never, ever acceptable." My dad worked with international students at the University of Colorado when I was a kid, and we had visitors of every race and religion in our house from the earliest time I can remember. It was just the norm.
My brother's best friend called my mom "Mom," too, and frequently asked my mom to give him and his bike a ride home from our house when it got too dark. He said, "White people don't like to see me riding my bike in your neighborhood after dark, sometimes they shoot at my bike license with BB guns." He was my brother's best man in his wedding. I spent the day I came home from the hospital with my middle baby with a broken heart. Alan had tried really hard to build a good life for himself, serving in the military, and trying to raise his son right, eventually as a single parent. Yet, somehow things went seriously awry. We learned that day I came home with my new baby that Alan, a victim of severe poverty and a childhood home in Five Points filled with crime, drugs, and despair, had cracked--he had murdered his own 10-year-old son, whom we had held as a baby, because the little guy had become involved in a gang. At least that was his reasoning.
The story was more horrible than we ever could have imagined, and yet, he wasn't just another statistic to us, he was our big brother, our son, our best friend. And I don't mean that in the sense of those who say, "I love black people. Some of my best friends are black." I admire your intention, but really, are they your best friends? On the other hand, I am not tooting my own horn here. I am sometimes reminded of the instances where I am myself racist, in some form or another. You know how I know? That still, small voice in my heart that whispers to me.
It occurred to me as I wrote that paragraph that one of the overriding themes in the manuscript I'm currently revising comes directly from my experiences. Several of my characters have a big "difference"--they are deaf. In my story, my main protagonist is deaf, but some of the other deaf characters do bad things. It is impossible to identify the "good guys" or "bad guys" simply based on their physical characteristics. In one scene, my character's granddad reminds him that in the world, there are really only two types of people--those who really care and those who really don't. I know that's pretty broad, but it's also pretty true if you think about it.
Anyway, I encourage you to locate this book. I think this would be an excellent book for a mandatory high school reading list. It's quite graphic, but probably no more graphic than they see every day on television and in movies, if more disturbing.
Sorry for going on so long, but this was on my heart. And how appropriate, the following quote just showed up on an email digest I get.
"People are like stained glass windows: they sparkle and shine when the sun's out, but when the darkness sets in, their true beauty is revealed only if there is light within."
—Elizabeth Kubler-Ross
Over the weekend, I finished the latest--Your Blues Ain't Like Mine, by Bebe Moore Campbell. I happened to see this while browsing at the library a few weeks ago, and remembered a reference to the author in a blurb on Carleen's book, Orange Mint & Honey, of course! And I did not know until just this minute when I went searching for a book link that Campbell is deceased, having died of a brain tumor in 2006.
If you've known me very well in "real life" for long, you know racism (i.e., trying to eliminate it) is one of my soapboxes. And yet, my eyes were opened even a bit wider reading this book. I felt such a mixture of anger, shame, and hope while reading. I think the premise behind the book is that we all have our burdens to bear, and that it's far too easy to judge others, believing that our own burden is just a little bit heavier because of what or who we are. You might come away with something altogether different if you read it. And, of course, there are so many big ideas in the book, and that's just one.
But, I want to talk about those emotions a little more here.
Anger. If you can read this story without feeling anger, I am afraid for you. The fictional events are based on a true story, where a young African American man in the deep South, right at the beginning of the civil rights era, was lynched for allegedly speaking inappropriately to a white woman. Lip service was paid to justice, almost making it worse than if it had never been brought up at all. The rest of the story entails the unfolding of the lives of those surrounding the event over the next 30 years--African American, white, and mixed-race characters.
Shame. I had to ask my mom over dinner Saturday evening what happened in our own family to stall racism. I loved my maternal grandma--she was truly one of my favorite people when I was growing up--yet I cringed and felt physically ill every time I heard her or one of her generation in my family use that horrible word you can guess at here.
For some reason, though, my mother wasn't like that. Over dinner, she told me that when she was growing up in New Mexico, they were beginning to talk in the public schools about civil rights and putting a stop to racism, and she guesses she just took it to heart. This suprises me--it was in the 40s and 50s, and that seems pretty progressive to me! She remembers a time when her father was furious with her for accepting a ride home from camp from the family of an African American girl, and another when she went on a date with a Hispanic boy.
Unfortunately, others in my extended family of her same generation weren't influenced like she was, and I am sorry to say some are no different all the way down to my generation. You could say we are not close today. :-D
On the other hand, my father's family was a strange contrast. I was under the impression my paternal grandmother was racist, too, although I did not know her well, but it turns out she was selective--she was prejudiced against Hispanics, but not African Americans.
This could be because, as it turns out, she fell deeply in love with an African American boy when she was in her late teens, and her father forced an end to that relationship, sometime in the 1920s, I guess. Grandma was an unhappy person as long as I knew her, and that went a long way in explaining her personality to me. She also bore the stigma of being one quarter Cherokee. At least, we think it was Cherokee. The family never talked much about it back in those days. It was a stigma, after all, and the guy responsible for that quarter was never publicly in the picture. I think there is a great story idea in there somewhere, and in fact, did a character sketch for a writing class last year based on the few details I knew.
Anyway, all I knew was the story I heard for years--when my father called to tell her he was engaged to a girl at the university he attended in New Mexico, Grandma's first question was, "Is she a Mexican?" And yet, she also sponsored a Jewish family in the displacement camps after WWII to come to the United States--including their grandbaby who had been fathered by a Nazi soldier who was in love with the daughter.
So, shame because I hate the way people related to me acted sometimes, and how some probably act to this day. But also hope.
Hope because I saw how my parents were able to stop this cycle in one family, in one generation, simply by saying to themselves and to us, their children, "This is never, ever acceptable." My dad worked with international students at the University of Colorado when I was a kid, and we had visitors of every race and religion in our house from the earliest time I can remember. It was just the norm.
My brother's best friend called my mom "Mom," too, and frequently asked my mom to give him and his bike a ride home from our house when it got too dark. He said, "White people don't like to see me riding my bike in your neighborhood after dark, sometimes they shoot at my bike license with BB guns." He was my brother's best man in his wedding. I spent the day I came home from the hospital with my middle baby with a broken heart. Alan had tried really hard to build a good life for himself, serving in the military, and trying to raise his son right, eventually as a single parent. Yet, somehow things went seriously awry. We learned that day I came home with my new baby that Alan, a victim of severe poverty and a childhood home in Five Points filled with crime, drugs, and despair, had cracked--he had murdered his own 10-year-old son, whom we had held as a baby, because the little guy had become involved in a gang. At least that was his reasoning.
The story was more horrible than we ever could have imagined, and yet, he wasn't just another statistic to us, he was our big brother, our son, our best friend. And I don't mean that in the sense of those who say, "I love black people. Some of my best friends are black." I admire your intention, but really, are they your best friends? On the other hand, I am not tooting my own horn here. I am sometimes reminded of the instances where I am myself racist, in some form or another. You know how I know? That still, small voice in my heart that whispers to me.
It occurred to me as I wrote that paragraph that one of the overriding themes in the manuscript I'm currently revising comes directly from my experiences. Several of my characters have a big "difference"--they are deaf. In my story, my main protagonist is deaf, but some of the other deaf characters do bad things. It is impossible to identify the "good guys" or "bad guys" simply based on their physical characteristics. In one scene, my character's granddad reminds him that in the world, there are really only two types of people--those who really care and those who really don't. I know that's pretty broad, but it's also pretty true if you think about it.
Anyway, I encourage you to locate this book. I think this would be an excellent book for a mandatory high school reading list. It's quite graphic, but probably no more graphic than they see every day on television and in movies, if more disturbing.
Sorry for going on so long, but this was on my heart. And how appropriate, the following quote just showed up on an email digest I get.
"People are like stained glass windows: they sparkle and shine when the sun's out, but when the darkness sets in, their true beauty is revealed only if there is light within."
—Elizabeth Kubler-Ross
Sunday, March 16, 2008
Scotch tape and glue sticks
Here's a shameless plug. My son posted new recordings of some of his songs on MySpace this weekend, and you can listen to them here. His friend Jarod, who's attending sound recording school and is also a fine musician, did the recording and he did a fantastic job.Ryan and I definitely have our moments--you know the ones, I don't have to go into detail, do I? But, overall, he is such an amazing (almost 20-year-old) kid, and makes me so proud I could spit.
His writing skilz are impressive, in my oh-so-humble-even-if-I'm-the-mom opinion. Here are lyrics to one song--an older one, maybe two or three years, which would have made him about 16 or 17 at the time, but it remains one of my favorites. As a writer and a mom, the pictures he paints in this song make me get all teary-eyed. It's poetry.
Scotch tape and glue sticks
(This is one of the recordings, and you may listen to it here)
You see me
but it's not me, collapsing beneath my feet
I'm falling
faster and faster, picking up the speed
This takedown
spill my ashes, share me with someone new
This old town
resembles a time that I spent with someone who ...
You loved this
spot beneath the willows, buried by the sound of sea
I will miss
every chance I got to make you so angry with me
And we know that
every part of the sky is a secret
We'll show that
we'll open her up, and reveal the missing thing
The cold wind
inhibits the joints, and makes it so hard to move
We'll speak then
when voices are heard and seen, when traveling between two
It's so quiet
but the wind's indecision will fly, and we'll all change moons
So tell me
So tell me
And I don't want you to fake this
But I'm sure that I will break this
And I really want to shake this
But I'm so alone
And I'm trying to fly away
But these wings won't carry me
They were made in the first grade
When love was easy
And I'm trying to fly away
But these wings won't carry me
They were made in the first grade
When Scotch tape and glue sticks would fix everything
You see me
but it's not me, collapsing beneath my feet
I'm falling
faster and faster, picking up the speed
This takedown
spill my ashes, share me with someone new
This old town
resembles a time that I spent with someone I
Love
© Ryan Pickop
Friday, March 14, 2008
Putting the burger back in burgers
If you're a newer reader, you might not know that I live by the Murphy's Law of Fast Food Experiences. Can I get a witness?
Tonight was no different. My friend Gail and I drove to Dallas to hear Anne Lamott speak as part of the Dallas Arts and Letters series. We stopped at Sonic on the way back to grab a bite to eat--everything else closes at 10 here in Texas, and it was 10:01. (I love that in some other parts of the world, places stay open a wee bit later.)
I decided to go fully leaded and ordered the Combo #5: Bacon Cheeseburger Toaster, Tots, and a Diet Cherry Limeade. (Because the diet drink cancelled the fat and calories in the other items, right?) I mentioned I didn't want onions, but I did want the onion RING. Weird, I know.
I ended up with two sandwiches. You want to know why? (Sure you do.)
They forgot to put the burger in the bacon cheeseburger.
???
I would have gladly traded in the original. I'm not completely sure they believed me when I reported that my burger appeared to be missing the burger. The manager got on the intercom and said, "I understand you have a problem with your cheeseburger?" Gail (because she was on the side by the intercom) said, "She's missing the hamburger patty from her--" and the guy cut in. He said, "Just a second." Alas, he never came back.
But, a few minutes later, voila, I was presented with a hot, fresh BCT, including the burger. The mutant was in plain site on the dash, but they didn't want it back.
So, I guess for lunch tomorrow I'm having a Bacon Cheeseburger, hold the burger.
Tonight was no different. My friend Gail and I drove to Dallas to hear Anne Lamott speak as part of the Dallas Arts and Letters series. We stopped at Sonic on the way back to grab a bite to eat--everything else closes at 10 here in Texas, and it was 10:01. (I love that in some other parts of the world, places stay open a wee bit later.)
I decided to go fully leaded and ordered the Combo #5: Bacon Cheeseburger Toaster, Tots, and a Diet Cherry Limeade. (Because the diet drink cancelled the fat and calories in the other items, right?) I mentioned I didn't want onions, but I did want the onion RING. Weird, I know.
I ended up with two sandwiches. You want to know why? (Sure you do.)
They forgot to put the burger in the bacon cheeseburger.
???
I would have gladly traded in the original. I'm not completely sure they believed me when I reported that my burger appeared to be missing the burger. The manager got on the intercom and said, "I understand you have a problem with your cheeseburger?" Gail (because she was on the side by the intercom) said, "She's missing the hamburger patty from her--" and the guy cut in. He said, "Just a second." Alas, he never came back.
But, a few minutes later, voila, I was presented with a hot, fresh BCT, including the burger. The mutant was in plain site on the dash, but they didn't want it back.
So, I guess for lunch tomorrow I'm having a Bacon Cheeseburger, hold the burger.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
Just when you think truth can't possibly get any stranger than fiction ...
There's this.
(If you have delicate sensitivies, do not click on that link. I warned ya.)
It brings a whole new meaning to the phrase $%#& or get off the pot, doesn't it?
Thanks, Heather, for pointing me in the direction of this article. ;) We obviously have nothing better to do at midnight than laugh together at news of the strange. (And yes, it is also sad. Please don't think I'm a totally warped person and don't also see the tragedy in this situation.)
(If you have delicate sensitivies, do not click on that link. I warned ya.)
It brings a whole new meaning to the phrase $%#& or get off the pot, doesn't it?
Thanks, Heather, for pointing me in the direction of this article. ;) We obviously have nothing better to do at midnight than laugh together at news of the strange. (And yes, it is also sad. Please don't think I'm a totally warped person and don't also see the tragedy in this situation.)
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
rAWfl catz
Heather insisted it was time to do a new post, but I'm not going to write about what she wanted me to. Oh, no, I'm not.
Instead, I thought I'd do a little tribute to my kitty, Yentl. (No, you may not buy a vowel.) She was diagnosed with kidney failure almost four years ago, and at the time, we really thought we'd be saying goodbye soon, but with the help of a special food, she has maintained a steady weight, a good appetite, and a dang high level of orneriness since.
Unfortunately, she is showing signs now of declining, and that makes me sad. She is being especially affectionate these days, and if you have ever heard stories of Yentl, you know this was not always true.
Anyway, we have taken lots and lots of photos of her in the last few years, and lately, we've been in the lolcats phase. Only, we like to call our shots rAWfl catz. :-) I'll leave you with a few.
Instead, I thought I'd do a little tribute to my kitty, Yentl. (No, you may not buy a vowel.) She was diagnosed with kidney failure almost four years ago, and at the time, we really thought we'd be saying goodbye soon, but with the help of a special food, she has maintained a steady weight, a good appetite, and a dang high level of orneriness since.
Unfortunately, she is showing signs now of declining, and that makes me sad. She is being especially affectionate these days, and if you have ever heard stories of Yentl, you know this was not always true.
Anyway, we have taken lots and lots of photos of her in the last few years, and lately, we've been in the lolcats phase. Only, we like to call our shots rAWfl catz. :-) I'll leave you with a few.
Cat'n Jack Spidey
Can cat-ch fur, can do anything
Air cat-tar 
Enough with the camera already ...
I know I'm purdy, but geez
Monday, March 03, 2008
Welcome to the Hotel Texas ...
You can check out any time you want, but you can never leave.That's my theme song tonight, along with good ol' Macy Grey--Though I try to hide it, it's clear, my world crumbles when you are not here.
When Todd leaves town for a few days, we realize just how much we depend on him. Even things that shouldn't logically fall apart without him do.
For instance, on this, one of the coldest days in Texas this year, with temperatures in the low 30s, largish snowflakes falling, and kids needing chauffered here and there all day, my car heater has gone on strike. Yes, it's cold in there. We have to run the defogger for about a minute to see out the window, then QUICK turn it back off before we freeze ourselves to death.
Then, in the middle of the night last night, it was super windy, and it sounded like something fell off our roof and hit the back of the house. All I could see out the windows was one of our patio chairs lying on it's side. I don't think it fell of the roof, but you never know. The girls seem to think their halloween candy buckets were flying around the yard in the wind. Halloween buckets? Huh? Since when do we store those in the back yard, that's what I want to know.
But, back to the Hotel Texas. Tonight, our front door knob fell off. Second time it's happened when Todd's been out of town. I can't figure out how to reinstall it, so we simply stuff a sock in the hole (through which the wind cooled by the low 30s temperatures flows freely!). The outside handle is fine, so you can unlock it and get in, you just can't leave. :-) Thank goodness for garage doors.
I can't wait to see what else happens before Todd gets back home.
Sunday, March 02, 2008
Who'd a thunk it?
Happy Birthday, Bungi!
Who would have imagined I'd have a friend clear on the other side of the world to wish a happy birthday to just a few short months ago? This blog stuff can be such fun!
(Happy Birthday, even though I am still mad at you for giving up Scrabulous for Lent. But, I guess you gotta do what you gotta do, huh?)
Who would have imagined I'd have a friend clear on the other side of the world to wish a happy birthday to just a few short months ago? This blog stuff can be such fun!
(Happy Birthday, even though I am still mad at you for giving up Scrabulous for Lent. But, I guess you gotta do what you gotta do, huh?)
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