In Which I Not-So-Gracefully Accept Some Bloggy Bling

Yippie! Jennifer over at Playgroups are No Place for Children thinks I'm creative! Ha! I sure fooled her, I had nothing to do with those mummified Barbies, and as for all that crazy stuff I write about? Well, my life's just like that - upside down all day long, like a freakin' carnival ride. But for real, thanks Jennifer! Just when I'm starting to feel stale and totally devoid of creative energy, there you were.

And since being creative apparently qualifies me to distribute awards to others, here goes.

As soon as I got this I knew I had to pass it along to Brillig at 'Twas Brillig since I look forward to her Soap Opera Sundays every week, so if you haven't been over there, off you go.

And when it comes to creativity, how can I not give one to Jenny at Absolutely Bananas? I mean come on, she's like a dozen creative women rolled into one and then photoshopped back onto their individual bodies. Or something like that.

I would also like to present this award to Heather, The Queen of Shake-Shake, who manages to write about the kinds of things I try to make my children stop talking about at the dinner table and always makes it funny and entertaining.

There are so many other bloggers who I love, love, love - and I wouldn't love you so much if you weren't creative - but since I can't choose you all, I have to leave it there.

Tickle Torture is SO Five Minutes Ago....

Steve has devised a new form of torture, made especially for me (isn't he sweet?) and he's got the girls in on it. He's threatened before, but I didn't really think he'd do it. Tonight, as I near the middle of the new Harry Potter, Freya comes barreling into the room and stops.

She looks at me with her evil look. Then, in a voice so small and clever-like, she says, "I'm gonna tell you what happens."

My eyes grow wide, "No," I say, "anything but that, please..."

She runs away. Ten seconds later, she's back. "You want to know who dies?" she asks, all cute.

By this time I am screaming, fingers in my ears, trying to read but only managing to repeat the same sentence over and over and over, clearly the curse is working. "Go away!" I yell, but my small tormentor remains, swaying her hips and looking all sassy. Finally, she returns to her master, who laughs and laughs from the living room, as if he had just done something terribly clever.

Steve, darling, don't think this won't come back to haunt you. I know where you sleep.

Say Hello to My Little Friend

Literally. Please go say hello to my friend.

Her name is Eden Acadia, and she is traveling across the country in her parent's station wagon for the next week or so with her dad and her aunt. She will be keeping a "live journal," because apparently a "blog" is just not cool enough for her. God help us all when she hits her teens if she's already this happening at the tender age of eight.

She is moving from Albany, NY to Los Angeles, CA with her family (my dear, dear friends who I will miss so much, but that is a post for another day), and I know she'd love if you all went by her site and said hi.

You've met her once before. I'm sure you remember.

Please, I Wants to Understand...

This email arrived for me this morning:

when to use them, how
Hi. How do you do? Email me at htdci@imailmessage.info only. I am young female. I will show you some of my private pictures
a new academy reference report forever! of free play time, if you are interested in it.

Maybe one of you can help me, dear readers. What does it mean? It is clearly written in some kind of highly advanced code, full of nuances and hidden clues.

If only I had done more drugs as a teenager, perhaps this appeal would get through to me, but alas, the forever! reference report of my past, it is not so much with the free play time for the interested. I do not know when to use them how.

Better Already

Yesterday marks what would have been the halfway point in Steve's Peru trip, and so far the car was in the shop for a week (costing more than I make in a month to repair), the washing machine smells like burning plastic, my other ankle is swollen and purple, and Freya has had more accidents this week than in the past two months combined (which since I can't do laundry is extra super fun).

I got word yesterday that there has been some sort of incident on the Peru trip and a few of the kids are being sent home early. So without having made it to Machu Picchu, Steve will be accompanying them home ahead of schedule.

I have mixed feelings about this. I was so looking forward to the beautiful digital pictures, but... Steve will be home. My dirty clothes feel cleaner already.

and for today, we has a dress

Yeah, it's been sitting half-finished in my closet for weeks. Last night as I watched TV, I sewed on the pocket, snaps and buttons. It is complete.

Not as funny as you might think.

The Scene: Supermarket Checkout Line, 5:30 PM, Plenty of Tabloids, Many Other Customers

[Close Up on Grocery Total]

Me: [overly loud laughter, then, with only slightly exaggerated sense of relief] Oh good, I can afford to pay you, that's always good right? Right? Ha ha!

16-Year-Old Blond Girl (i.e. Cashier): [grimace. maybe an attempt at a smile, but more likely, a grimace] Uh, right.

Topics covered in conversation between myself and my five-year-old between home and grandma's house last night.

• How the people of Maine feel when George Bush is in town.


• Whether or not George Bush is a "Bad Guy" in an action movie kind of way.


• Why he thought the war in Iraq was a good idea. [Saddam Hussein and whether GB as "Bad Guy" makes him the "Good Guy" which it most definitely does not, WMDs, 9/11/2001, Oil.]


• How lying is bad and hurts people.


• Where GB really lives when he's not in Maine.


• The fifty states, their capital cities, and Washington D.C.


• Why we had to drive through Springfield to get to Maine and the significance of Interstate Highways.
  


• Whether or not the "real" Simpsons live in Springfield, Massachusetts or one of those other Springfields.
  


• How she thinks GB should just move to Ireland.


• How I like Ireland, and maybe they don't really want him either.


• The definition of an opinion.


• Cars and how fast they go.


• The sunset.


• What would happen if a person was in the road and got hit by a car.


• If they got hit by my car.


• Why I did not have to go to jail when I ran over a rabbit nineteen months ago.
  

• Why someone would even be in the road in the first place.


• Depression and suicide.
  


• Killing oneself with a sword instead of a car so your friend, the driver, would not have to go to jail.


• Kindergarten and really fun playgrounds.


• How she would now like to be called Tilly instead of Matilda.


• Why my name is Nell.


• Why my brother's name is Sean but used to be John, why it was John and why he changed it.


• How old he was at the time.


• How old I was at the time.


• Why Sean has a girlfriend.


• How much Tilly likes Sean's girlfriend.
  


• Crosswalks and why we use them.


• Stop lights, importance of.
  

An Uneventful Day

"How will you know if I am really sleeping?" Matilda asks.

"I just will," I assure her, in a voice both commanding and benevolent, "I just will."

I find it useful to perpetuate the idea that I am omniscient when it comes to sleeping children.

The girls are upstairs now, "napping." The house seems quiet and somehow bigger with Steve gone. Every now and then one of the girls will forget that he is in Peru and will ask when he's coming home from work.

With our friends gone for the week (not for good yet, more on that next week) things seem dull and the time that I felt like I just didn't have now seems abundant, making it easy for me to squander it on blogging and virtual shopping with money that I don't have. It's so easy to fill shopping carts online and abandon them recklessly, never even looking back.

We wake up early and stay up late. I let the girls rent Cinderella III, which was a huge concession, but the idea of turning back the clock and rewriting the Cinderella story appeals to me an a metafictiony kind of way. (For those of you know don't - bless your little souls - in this sequel the step-mother uses magic to turn back the clock and make the Prince marry one of her daughters instead of Cinderella.)

I am taking advantage of the quiet and working, working, working, blah, while the girls cover the porch with chalk drawings and make paper hair. Sometimes I like to just be doing nothing much, listening to the hum of the window fan and the tap of my own fingers on the keyboard, barely registering the content of my work, letting my mind wander into what if territory.

The children are not sleeping. I know this not because I am omniscient, but because I can hear the sound of the doll bed being dragged across the playroom floor.

The Anointed Ones

And so, on this Friday the thirteenth of July, in the year of our Lord, two-thousand and seven, E. Acadia and Matilda Emmanuel presided over the mummification and ceremonial burial of two of natures greatest creatures. (Eamon and Freya assisted.)

Late into the night, the two grand priestesses gathered their materials: strips of white linen, holy oils of pink and orange, and the sacred sarcophagus, built for two and lined with royal blue velvet.


The dead were gently wrapped in linen shrouds,


before being anointed with the holy oils,


and laid to rest on a bed of velvet.


Freya's darling, as it turned out, wasn't quite dead yet.


The priestesses and their apprentices took a moment to bid a final farewell to the departed.


The sarcophagus was sealed and the scriptures cast upon it in many hues.


A lack of flashlight batteries necessitated a delay, and an early morning burial.


A grave was dug,


the casket placed gently within,


and the Great Mother Earth took once more unto her bosom those most holy of beings:
Two Plastic Barbie Dolls.


The priestesses then determined that they had neither the time, nor the materials required to build a pyramid, but were comforted to remember that the ancient tombs of the pharaohs had taken many years to complete. The Plastic Barbie Dolls of Death will have their monument, maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon and then until the end of time.

If Only All My Dreams Could Be Realized Just Like This

It is bedtime for children. Andrea and I are mixing up yet another batch of the most delicious drink ever made, and decide that we had better eat something real, something good, something green. So I chop up some kale and am stuffing it into the saute pan when Matilda wanders into the kitchen.

Matilda: Ooh, is that kale?

Me: Uh-huh.

Matilda: Can I have some?

Me: Sure.

Matilda: But I already brushed my teeth.

Me: Oh, well, actually kale is one of those things that you can eat any time, so it's okay.

Matilda: Oh, yummy, I love kale.

She skips away, singing a little song about the kale and how she loves it. Andrea and I exchange a look. I shake my head. I don't know.

Fast forward fifteen minutes, we are eating our kale, Matilda shoveling it into her mouth by the forkful. She stops when her bowl is half empty.

Matilda: I'm done. Can you wrap this up and put it in the fridge so I can eat it for breakfast?

Me: Uh, sure.

Matilda: Thank you.

Again with the skipping and the cheerfulness, she exits.

Fast forward one more time, now we are herding the children up the stairs to bed. Freya is trying to negotiate a later bedtime using her amazing two-year-old logic, but I am wise to her wily ways. Matilda stops, mid-step.

Matilda: I'm hungry. Can I have some more of my kale?

Me: No, it's time for bed, come on.

Matilda: But you said I can eat kale any time.

Me: Touche.

She skittles into the kitchen, takes her kale out of the fridge, unwraps it, eats one more bite, wraps it again and puts it away.

Matilda: Okay, I'm ready for bed.

When did my world turn upside down? If it wasn't for the all-out screaming, bouncing, crying, kicking temper tantrum that Freya threw only moments later I'd think I had entered some kind of strange parallel universe where happy little children skip around eating kale and there is a lovely creamsicle tap just outside my window. I mean, she's a good eater, but seriously, kale? and then she's ready for bed? What?

Best Summer Drink Ever!

the Creamsicle:

2 parts Amaretto
2 parts sour mix
1 part Triple Sec
splash of soda
fill with orange juice and ice
blend.

A Very L-O-N-G Updatey Sort of Post. One you will probably not want to read unless you really love me. Hi Dad.

The summer feels like it's sliding under my feet, every time I think I have a plan that is solid enough to stand on, another friend calls and wants to come stay, or I remember something I wanted to do that I had forgotten. I love my friends, love spending time with them, taking the kids to the lake or a museum, I miss the summers when that was all I had to do. Because it's not finding time for all the things I want to do, as it is finding time for all the things I don't want to do, like work. and do laundry.

Bar Harbor was great, no work, all play, and the craziness that belongs to someone else's family. We ate popovers and took walks and shopped and played and dug in the sand. We bought five dollar ice cream cones and watched the fourth of July parade and fireworks. We ate lobster for Andrea's mom's birthday and played bocce with a local six year old boy who was better at the game than the rest of us put together. Or maybe that was because he was the only one not drinking blueberry ale. (Lots of pictures from the trip are here.)

Steve has arrived in Peru, safe and sound:

"After 24 grueling hours of travel we made it to Lima where we successfully navigated through customs, avoided getting ripped off and were able to secure a taxi to our hostel. This place is great."

He has promised to update his own blog with details on the trip as they make their way to Cuzco and Machu Picchu.

This week Andrea and her two children are staying with us since all of their things are now in Los Angeles two weeks ahead of them and they really have no where else to go. Besides, I will miss them all terribly once they've gone, so it's nice to have them here for a while.

Next week is a slight breather from the madness, except for the fact that Steve will still be in Peru and the girls and I will be all alone here with no Daddy.

The following week, Matilda has camp. In a random drawing at the mall a few weeks ago, I won a free week of camp for Matilda. I guess I can't say I never win anything anymore, but up until this drawing that was true. So the last week this month I will be shuttling Matilda back and forth to camp. She's pretty thrilled.

Also there are the Italian lessons, did I mention the Italian lessons? A friend of mine is teaching me Italian in exchange for watching her super cute baby for a few hours, which is great, but is also one more thing to squeeze in, not to mention trying to practice between lessons. The Italian is part of my master plan for getting into a good graduate program for next year. This plan also includes a lot more reading and writing than I have been doing.

Last week one of my oldest, dearest friends asked if she could stay here while she looks for an apartment in Boston, so she will be arriving right around the time Steve returns from Peru and she and her cat will be staying with us until she finds another place to live, hopefully somewhere where she will not have a three hour commute to school. I am very excited about this, but have I mentioned that my house is only 912 square feet? We'll be cozy.

Yesterday another west coast friend emailed that she will be in town around the beginning of August, so of course we must get together. We will, it will be fun.

The car is broken this week, I have left it at the shop and am nervously awaiting a phone call from the shop. They will tell me how much of the money I don't have I will need to give them if I don't want the wheel of my car to fly off at any moment on the highway, with the children in the back. We all know how well I drive.

None of these things are a problem, well, except for the broken car. The problem is that I also have another job, besides the full-time gig as mother. A twenty-hour-a-week, flexible job, which is great, but when exactly am I supposed to get any work done this summer? Tell me. Please. I really need to know.

Poor Freya

Freya woke up pale and droopy. It wasn't long before the two of us ended up on the couch with a bucket, waiting for the vomit to arrive. She just lay there, white and listless, until finally she threw up all over both of us.

I could tell she was trying to hold it inside, and I told her to let it come out, that she'd feel better when she was done.

In a voice so tiny I could barely hear her, she whispered, "But it's my brains."

No wonder she wanted to hold it in.

More about Bar Harbor coming soon, and hi, I missed you all!

Declaring my Independence from Cynicism

Climbing the rocks near Thunder Hole

Most of the time I have problems with the nationalistic patriotism that seems to overtake even people I like on Independence Day. I get all cynical and the sarcasm spews from my mouth like vomit. But somehow, surrounded by friends in Maine, with nothing to really worry about or obsess over, it seems okay. It seems like I can let go of all of my issues with this country and the dysfunctionality of how we run our affairs (and everyone else's) and just relax. I'm trying to at least.

Storytime with Freya

Last night, in a strange (and beautiful) house, Freya wanted to sleep in my bed and she wanted me to cuddle her before she fell asleep.

Me: Tell me a story, Freya.

Freya: You tell me a story.

Me: Okay.

Rather than recycle the stories I've told Matilda a billion times, I started a new one. This one was about a kitten who really, really wants to go outside and catch a mouse. One day, when no one is watching him, he slips out the window and explores the backyard.

Me: ...and then he climbed a tree, and do you know what he found?

Freya: What?

Me: A bird.

Pause.

Freya: Was it dead?

Me: No, it flew away into the sky.

Freya: (sounding disappointed) Oh. So it escaped?

Me: Yes.

The story continued, a squirrel also escaped, and a bug was eaten (at Freya's request). Finally, the little kitten found a mouse.

Me: ...and snuck up on it, and caught it in his paws.

Freya: Did he eat it?

Me: I don't know, what do you think?

Freya: He ate it. He always likes to eat mouses.

Would you like to hear another sweet and wholesome bedtime story, dear? How about a little murder, Eden always says games are no fun without murder, and doesn't she always tell the truth?

Eden is one of the friends with whom we are vacationing. She is eight. This vacation is awesome so far, just the right amount of mayhem, death and fictional animal violence. What will Bar Harbor bring today?