Fiction, Full of Danger

I spent much of yesterday moving area rugs and cleaning the floors underneath. Tiny treasures, such as stale cheerios, old goldfish crackers, pieces of Lego and wooden beads abounded. Moving the furniture by myself (wedging my back under and table and lifting, turtle-like) to smooth out area rugs was a delight--not a necessity, since Martin would have lent a hand, but my preference, because then I don't have to worry about any grumpiness but mine. I couldn't possibly lift the piano, though I tried, so I had to wait for a little extra help. I hate it when I can't do things all by myself. Hmm. Maybe that's where the girls get their sometimes-alarming, mostly-encouraging independence.

Merry just cornered me in the dining room and told me about a book that her friend Cat had read and hated. Turns out the blurb on the back amounted to what they thought was false advertising: it told about the friendship between a boy and a girl, all the wonderful things they did, and the cover showed the smiling little girl about to cross a rope bridge over a rushing river. Unfortunately, Merry says, at the very end of the book, the little girl gets swept into the same river and dies. "Can you believe it?" she says. "It's AWFUL. Why would they have to do that in a story? The mom or dad could have died, and that would have been better. But not the KID." Merry was so upset her eyes were almost watering. It seemed like a good opportunity to talk about fiction, but Merry was not persuaded by any of my arguments. "They were supposed to have good times," Merry said, "The book is actually called the name of the river. That's the main part of the story--" Merry stares at me with incredulous eyes--"She dies."

I felt the same way about "Mill on the Floss," but I had to read through two million pages to get to the final drowning scene. Fiction. It's full of pitfalls. Better to avoid it altogether and focus on daily activities, like moving enormous pieces of furniture.

:) Happy Friday, everyone.

A Little Rant

You know that advertisement when people do stupid things while talking on their cell phone and their neighbor turns to them and says, "REALLY?" Well, that's how Martin felt last night when he went to a memorial service for a student who was recently killed in a traffic accident and sat next to a guy who texted and browsed the internet on his cell phone. REALLY? You'd think at least death would have coaxed that fellow to put away his technology.

Since Martin and I turned in our cell phones more than seven years ago, we've "outside" the cell phone culture, and the cell phone now astonishes us. Increasingly it takes people away from each other's very real presence--I've been on a walk with someone in a beautiful place when they picked up a call and chatted to a person hundreds of miles away--for a good part of our stroll. It didn't make any sense to me--I felt increasingly invisible even though I was present in the flesh, and the person on the other end of the call--an important person but not THERE--received all the attention of my walking partner. Same thing while riding in a car, which I see as a great social interaction UNLESS the person in the passenger seat is locked into a conversation with someone in California. OR. . .wait for it. . .you're sitting with people you love in your kitchen or living room and a person you love becomes so wrapped up in her internet browser on her cell phone that, when you finally leave, she barely glances up at you. Cell phones: possibly ending real community everywhere.

Mind you, most people I know well don't engage in bad cell phone behavior, but occasionally my jaw drops, like Martin's seatmate last night. And before I go all Wendell Barryish on all of you and engage in more badly written arguments about nameless people, I'll close with a weather report.

Sunny, sunny, sunny. I feel like hauling the rugs outside and beating out all the winter doldrums.

I can't resist one last comment. In all honesty, I enjoyed my mother's cell phone usage yesterday when I was able to chat with her as she shopped in Washington State. . .I would have much rather been next to her, digging through scarves, but chatting on and on was the next best thing. And am I not depriving my children of my full attention now by typing out this silly blog entry? In all honesty, I don't think they're missing me at the moment, but in interest of full disclosure, there it is.

Spring Laundry

Laundry is for the birds.
I have hired a passel of robins to grip socks,
underwear, light blouses in their beaks.
They coast down the stairs to the laundry room.
Occasionally en route they leave muddy white ink blots
on the floor, but I don't care,
as long as they're taking care of the children's
clothes, stinking of crayons and spring mud
and cafeterias. In return
for neat stacks that the birds nudge into drawers
I provide platters of coiling worms,
dug fresh out of the garden. It's a good swap:
the robins indoors, singing to themselves as they work,
I in the rows of chilly dirt, dreaming of sugar snap peas
and of being a bird.

early spring sunshine

Is there anything more wonderful than sunshine dappling a frosty hill, a squirrel climbing up a bare branch, the shadow of a bird, a third cup of hot tea, children singing as they play their own games?

Martin ordered sugarsnap and snow pea seeds last night--St. Patty's Day is the magic pea-planting deadline, and though yesterday I would have looked at you incredulously if you'd mentioned the garden, today I can feel the hoe and rake quaking with excitement. . .almost, almost time for us to sink into the soft spring earth again, to feel earthworms about our tines. Our friend Mike has a great big pile of sh--- for us to load into the back of our pick up and spread over our winter-parched beds, and Martin, bright faced, (excitement comes easy at Wazoo Farm) announced this morning that there's a new compost pile ready for all the scraps from last year's garden. I leave the garden full of seeds and twigs and all last year's growth for the birds and cats--the birds love stripping the dried flower heads and the garden cats love to have a bit of a jungle to paw through--little cat prints in the snow make me feel happy, as if the garden is still serving a happy purpose even in the wintertime.

Bea's plastered the red end of a plastic stethoscope to my shoulder and is listening very carefully. I hope she finds a pulse in such an unlikely place. I want to be alive for a very long time.

SUNDAY ADD-A-CAPTION GAME: WINNER!

And the winner is. . .
Anonymous...
babe: Dada. Look. Me float!
pops: Holy *#&%!

Your reward is. . .well, we have nothing for you but love. But since you can't buy love, that's a pretty good reward, wouldn't you say? To claim your reward, write your name and address and the reasons you should be loved (in alphabetical order) on the bottom of a pint of Haagan Daz Five Chocolate ice-cream and hand deliver it to: Wazoo Farm, Pennsylvania. We will then consider your qualifications and radiate some love your way while we eat the Haagan Daz ice cream. Thanks for playing!

I just got one of my favorite stories accepted at a good journal. . .after over 300 days Pending Response. Usually I think really that patience is for the birds, but the wait was worth it this time, I suppose. Tornado and Flooding Watch sent the school kids home early, but inside, it's all sunny with a gaggle of kids doing puzzles on the floor and eating peanuts.

Get your smart captions in by 11 tonight!

SUNDAY ADD-A-CAPTION GAME

You know the rules, you adorable craniums. Go for it.

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. . . .

My friend Sal took this picture. Does it make you curious? Find out more by clicking HERE.

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.

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.

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.