Saturday, February 26, 2011
Goin Back, Goin WAAAAY Back
This afternoon at lunch, I tapped the black, deep-dish pizza pan with my fork and reflected, "I feel as if I'm returning to my childhood--the part in the US, anyway."
Martin took a sip from his tall, cloudy plastic cup of root beer. "These cups haven't changed much since I was a kid," he said. I agreed. Though they've done away with the pitcher of pop on the table, and the colored glass hanging lamps were gone, there were still some reassuring Old-School Pizza Hut details. The scrape of the metal server on the pan, the same stringy cheese and buttery crust, the same solid square-shaped ice cubes. No crushed ice and Coke products for Pizza Hut. It's always been Pepsi. The jar of red pepper flakes with the perforated top that my sister once told me were bacon bits. I spent most of that particular meal with a napkin plastered to my burning tongue.
There were no PacMan games silently running in the front, though, and I think I remember that, though I was never allowed to play, of course--a total waste of money. I'm filling my old-school video game longing by an occasional dabble with our friend's old Atari. It turns out, I stink at PacMan, though I think it's all the fault of the sticky joystick.
And Martin and I have been watching The Cosby Show from the beginning, and unlike most TV shows I thought were funny and now seem embarrassingly awful, The Cosby Show still makes me laugh. It's a pleasure, actually, to watch Bill Cosby now that Martin and I are parents--it's all funny from the other side. And there's always the sweater vests and stretchy pant/baggy shirt combos to marvel at.
All these allusions to my childhood have prompted me to choose a venue for my upcoming birthday party in April: RollerRink. Maybe I'll finally fulfill my fifth grade dream of skating forward in a boy's arms as he skates backward. Unfortunately, the boy won't be Martin--he's like a drunk spider on anything with wheels or blades. Maybe I'll take the backwards role and I can pull him along.
Don't forget, dearies, that the Sunday-Add-A-Caption Game--the highlight of your week!--starts at a few minutes before midnight tonight. . . .
Martin took a sip from his tall, cloudy plastic cup of root beer. "These cups haven't changed much since I was a kid," he said. I agreed. Though they've done away with the pitcher of pop on the table, and the colored glass hanging lamps were gone, there were still some reassuring Old-School Pizza Hut details. The scrape of the metal server on the pan, the same stringy cheese and buttery crust, the same solid square-shaped ice cubes. No crushed ice and Coke products for Pizza Hut. It's always been Pepsi. The jar of red pepper flakes with the perforated top that my sister once told me were bacon bits. I spent most of that particular meal with a napkin plastered to my burning tongue.
There were no PacMan games silently running in the front, though, and I think I remember that, though I was never allowed to play, of course--a total waste of money. I'm filling my old-school video game longing by an occasional dabble with our friend's old Atari. It turns out, I stink at PacMan, though I think it's all the fault of the sticky joystick.
And Martin and I have been watching The Cosby Show from the beginning, and unlike most TV shows I thought were funny and now seem embarrassingly awful, The Cosby Show still makes me laugh. It's a pleasure, actually, to watch Bill Cosby now that Martin and I are parents--it's all funny from the other side. And there's always the sweater vests and stretchy pant/baggy shirt combos to marvel at.
All these allusions to my childhood have prompted me to choose a venue for my upcoming birthday party in April: RollerRink. Maybe I'll finally fulfill my fifth grade dream of skating forward in a boy's arms as he skates backward. Unfortunately, the boy won't be Martin--he's like a drunk spider on anything with wheels or blades. Maybe I'll take the backwards role and I can pull him along.
Don't forget, dearies, that the Sunday-Add-A-Caption Game--the highlight of your week!--starts at a few minutes before midnight tonight. . . .
Friday, February 25, 2011
Bicycling With Children
Staying up late feels so wonderfully secret and quiet at night and then I crash about 3:00 the next day. Then I must either steal some sleep or stoke myself with strong tea for the rest of the afternoon.
Elspeth and the girls performed a play for me this afternoon that mostly consisted of endless costume changes under the table. Elspeth was terrifying as a wicked witch, shrugging her shoulders up to her ears in a self-conscious way and grinning: "I'm bad," she said, "Ha, ha, ha, ha!" Two of her friends took up the cry and sang a snippet of Michael Jackson. Then there was yet another interminable costume change.
Let me tell you all something: this period of highly concentrated children in my life is all good and happy except for the noise, noise, noise. . .someone is constantly at my elbow asking me a question or telling me something charming. Occasionally I want to gag them, not because they're being bad but because they know a language and facilitate it often. Writing has become the flag behind my old banana-seat bicycle, tattered and worn and familiar. I pedal furiously around another corner and another and another. My wrists are strained by the handles of grocery bags. And my bicycle basket is full of children, legs akimbo, eyes squinting into the wind, teeth plastered with flies. We're moving THAT FAST.
Better wrap up. Merry's home.
Elspeth and the girls performed a play for me this afternoon that mostly consisted of endless costume changes under the table. Elspeth was terrifying as a wicked witch, shrugging her shoulders up to her ears in a self-conscious way and grinning: "I'm bad," she said, "Ha, ha, ha, ha!" Two of her friends took up the cry and sang a snippet of Michael Jackson. Then there was yet another interminable costume change.
Let me tell you all something: this period of highly concentrated children in my life is all good and happy except for the noise, noise, noise. . .someone is constantly at my elbow asking me a question or telling me something charming. Occasionally I want to gag them, not because they're being bad but because they know a language and facilitate it often. Writing has become the flag behind my old banana-seat bicycle, tattered and worn and familiar. I pedal furiously around another corner and another and another. My wrists are strained by the handles of grocery bags. And my bicycle basket is full of children, legs akimbo, eyes squinting into the wind, teeth plastered with flies. We're moving THAT FAST.
Better wrap up. Merry's home.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Martin just sent me a link to a very entertaining Washington Post article about the author of The Hardy Boys books. Click HERE.
I Feel Nice
. . .like sugar and spice
This song is stuck in my head at the moment, and the only reason I can think of for its entry is that I FEEL GOOD--I knew I would as soon as the sun came out again. I feel so good that I hammered the car (kids giggling inside) with as many snowballs as my bare hands could stand before driving off home from Sal's house through the sunshine today. In my refreshed state, I can muster some praise for snow: it's fun to throw and it is a wonderful catchment for light. I didn't need the lamp last night to find the bed after I finished flossing, and today the bits of sun that break through clouds illuminate the white yard. The birds are like confetti blowing in the warming air--dun and cherry red and licorice black.
Elspeth sits at my left, creating a picture of a cat chasing flying cupcakes; my charge E, is sound asleep on the couch, and Bea has curled around her three Lightning McQueen cars and fallen into sweet afternoon slumber (remember how deeply satisfying that was?). The water is hot for early afternoon tea and my column for the week is safely with my editor, the house is dirty and there's no dinner but all is well, all is well.
Speaking of columns (wait for it. . .here it comes. . .) I am particularly fond of my last column and would love for you all to take a peek; check it by clicking on the geranium to the right of this ramble.
This song is stuck in my head at the moment, and the only reason I can think of for its entry is that I FEEL GOOD--I knew I would as soon as the sun came out again. I feel so good that I hammered the car (kids giggling inside) with as many snowballs as my bare hands could stand before driving off home from Sal's house through the sunshine today. In my refreshed state, I can muster some praise for snow: it's fun to throw and it is a wonderful catchment for light. I didn't need the lamp last night to find the bed after I finished flossing, and today the bits of sun that break through clouds illuminate the white yard. The birds are like confetti blowing in the warming air--dun and cherry red and licorice black.
Elspeth sits at my left, creating a picture of a cat chasing flying cupcakes; my charge E, is sound asleep on the couch, and Bea has curled around her three Lightning McQueen cars and fallen into sweet afternoon slumber (remember how deeply satisfying that was?). The water is hot for early afternoon tea and my column for the week is safely with my editor, the house is dirty and there's no dinner but all is well, all is well.
Speaking of columns (wait for it. . .here it comes. . .) I am particularly fond of my last column and would love for you all to take a peek; check it by clicking on the geranium to the right of this ramble.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
girls, sleepy me, and just pictures
Sorry, y'all; I'm beat. I feel I cannot summon the power to take all the events of the past days and blend them into a perfect cocktail. I will do it later. Martin's late night and the girls aren't quite in bed; Bea's wailing up a storm because her sisters are still up; Merry's stacking books for late-night reading, and Elspeth is cleaning up the doll house. . .We had a crazy snow last night, the sort that felt like someone was shaking an open feather comforter all over us. I am on strike; the weather is just acting silly and I will not tolerate it. I am tired of being cold and refuse to be cold anymore, so the weather will just have to cooperate if it wants to see my sunny face singing anthems any time soon. The weather became childish last night, when I was called away out of my pre-p.j. shower by a command that I show up at I. T.'s house. Over the phone, I. T. informed Martin, "I would like Kim at my house at 7:15." So I went because I was intrigued, only to be served wine, salad and homemade pizza. My hostess, I. T., told all her guests (I was the only one who found out at the last minute I was going) that she loved and hated her little dog and would have the little dog stuffed when it died and then she would love it all the more because she could pet the little dog and not have to care for its capricious needs anymore. After dinner, I. T.'s husband literally blew in the door and told us all we'd better go home because there was a horrible storm outside (we laughed; we thought he was joking) but then someone remarked he was serious and we all left in huge, tea-saucer sized snowflakes.
I didn't suppose I was going to write much and I shan't write any more, since Bea is terribly and horribly put out.
WINNER: SUNDAY ADD-A-CAPTION GAME
The winner is. . .Anonymous, who wrote two simple but devastating words:
FOOD POISONING!
The judge would also like to give a special shout-out to Jenna and Lauren for their captions, so appropriate to their own context: parents bathing children and big dogs. Nice job!
Winner, assuming you are overage, please write your special winning serial number on the bottom of a hot plate of freshly made enchiladas and come to Wazoo, where we will present you with this:
Wazoo Farms does not guarantee the Malbec unless you guarantee enchiladas are of superior quality and cheesiness. Please note that food poisoning of any kind, whether intentional or unintentional, will be persecuted to the nth degree: you will scrub our tub, and it's not a pretty sight.
FOOD POISONING!
The judge would also like to give a special shout-out to Jenna and Lauren for their captions, so appropriate to their own context: parents bathing children and big dogs. Nice job!
Winner, assuming you are overage, please write your special winning serial number on the bottom of a hot plate of freshly made enchiladas and come to Wazoo, where we will present you with this:
Wazoo Farms does not guarantee the Malbec unless you guarantee enchiladas are of superior quality and cheesiness. Please note that food poisoning of any kind, whether intentional or unintentional, will be persecuted to the nth degree: you will scrub our tub, and it's not a pretty sight.
Monday, February 21, 2011
Bea and Bobby McGee
*Right before bedtime last night, Bea said in a sing-song: "Take a piece of my heart." We don't know where she last heard Janis Joplin, but we're satisfied that her musical education is progressing so well.
Add your caption to the game, below, by eleven tonight! It's a fun thing to do on a rainy day or a Monday, and today fits both those descriptions.
*Pic is not mine; it belongs to Rolling Stone, but I don't think I needed to tell you that.
Saturday, February 19, 2011
Tea is on, house is empty
Party: accomplished. It all felt like a big success. Hearty thanks to everyone who jumped in to make it wonderful. Seventeen children played games for an hour, ate and opened presents for an hour, and then watched a movie while the adults feasted on chicken tikka, homemade garlic naan, three-cream brie, salad, chili, a bottle of Malbec, and performed stupid human tricks. Grossest had to be the eyelid turner-outer. The evening was a lovely mix of children and adults, sophisticated food, and silliness.
Now, the furniture is back in place, the floors swept and vacuumed, trash tied up, dishes cleaned and leftovers stored. The girls fell asleep as soon as their heads touched their pillows. All that is left is a long, gangly red garland that slowly turns above Martin's nose as he screams out an unwinding song on his guitar.
Dear friends who appeared and flew about our house like sparrows, filling this place with great love, thank you.
And P.S., don't forget: Sunday's Add A Caption Game for this week makes me laugh. It starts at one minute 'til midnight tonight!
Now, the furniture is back in place, the floors swept and vacuumed, trash tied up, dishes cleaned and leftovers stored. The girls fell asleep as soon as their heads touched their pillows. All that is left is a long, gangly red garland that slowly turns above Martin's nose as he screams out an unwinding song on his guitar.
Dear friends who appeared and flew about our house like sparrows, filling this place with great love, thank you.
And P.S., don't forget: Sunday's Add A Caption Game for this week makes me laugh. It starts at one minute 'til midnight tonight!
It's beautiful outside, and the girls and Martin are off somewhere bike riding. I am rearranging furniture and otherwise preparing for Elspeth and Merry's joint birthday party. We are expecting almost thirty people and seventeen of those people are children ages 2 to 9. So far, I've baked two sheet cakes, filled the dining room with tables and seating, and made the kitchen grown-up friendly. Still to do: cook, favors, games, fruit and vegetable platters, decorate, with time to spare to split a beer pre-party with dear old Martin, who is co-charge of the games with Sally. Brave people.
I'll try to take pictures. Hmm. . .maybe I should delegate that task, seeing as I won't be here due to a last-minute duck-out to the local, (nonexistent) pub. Just kidding. I wouldn't miss all those happy delightful people for the world.
I'll try to take pictures. Hmm. . .maybe I should delegate that task, seeing as I won't be here due to a last-minute duck-out to the local, (nonexistent) pub. Just kidding. I wouldn't miss all those happy delightful people for the world.
Friday, February 18, 2011
Happy Friday Thoughts
Oh, my dears, a beautiful, clear day. Through my open window there's a whole cacophony of bird chants, the sound of wind blowing through bare branches and evergreens, wind chimes. It's the kind of day that makes me remember what all my bright childhood was, how it felt to be in college in the spring, falling in love with Martin, and how it feels to lie in the sun with my children's faces moving above me like clouds. In short, it brings me peace and softens my winter self. I know it won't last; still I'm tempted to pack away all the winter coats, just out of faith in the wonder of this brilliant day. Yesterday, Bea was driving me around the bend, and today she is my softest petal. (Neurotic parents? Underrated.)
This afternoon, I could roll down our hill in a fit of sun fever. Instead, I sifted through my spam box and found a favorite: "In every man's mind there is a want to enlarge his nose. Many search out ways to do this and sometimes it works and sometimes not." (I changed one word for kicks--can you imagine what it might be?) I may just slap a bit more blue paint on the front gate (it's been half white and half blue all winter long; I imagine it's caused our neighbor across the street, who keeps her house pristine, a twinge of pain). I may climb on the roof with my bridal veil on and see if it blows like a sail behind me. I will probably shake out the porch rug. I will never, ever put away laundry. It would be an insult to the wind and the sun and the song of the wind chimes.
Y'all make sure to have a happy hour today, you hear? You've earned it.
This afternoon, I could roll down our hill in a fit of sun fever. Instead, I sifted through my spam box and found a favorite: "In every man's mind there is a want to enlarge his nose. Many search out ways to do this and sometimes it works and sometimes not." (I changed one word for kicks--can you imagine what it might be?) I may just slap a bit more blue paint on the front gate (it's been half white and half blue all winter long; I imagine it's caused our neighbor across the street, who keeps her house pristine, a twinge of pain). I may climb on the roof with my bridal veil on and see if it blows like a sail behind me. I will probably shake out the porch rug. I will never, ever put away laundry. It would be an insult to the wind and the sun and the song of the wind chimes.
Y'all make sure to have a happy hour today, you hear? You've earned it.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
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