Crazy

'Tis interesting that in all the few years that I've been slogging through this blog that I've never titled a blog, "Crazy." Considering that I feel crazy most of the time perhaps there's not generally a need to actually label the girl as actually "crazy." I prefer "sanity challenged."

The "management" continues to have issues with the "tenants" (read teenagers). For one, what gives with the locking yourself in the bathroom whenever there's a request to do something difficult like, get up out of the bed you've been ensconced in for 12 hours or to turn off the light in your room? I have keys to the bathroom so locking yourself in there does nothing but make me see those little stars in my peripheral vision (my own personal Leonid meteor shower). 

However, the management did have one break- through with at least one tenant this week.  I keep saying "You have to have a plan. Have a plan. Make up a plan. Strive for something- for so help me God and as God as my witness and we may be dealing with an angry Old Testament God- if you are living in my basement some day, I will just do something undesirable in your general direction."(I don't know what and I'm not commiting to what thing I might do because I shouldn't be using the energy to think about this.)

You know what? One of them came up with a plan. It's a plan that actually has some potential and it involves cash money and college tuition (not paid by me, although I'll happily pay) and a job and an occupation. Of course, I'm not holding the tenant, I mean kid, to this. But, it's a plan!

The other kid doesn't have a plan and no matter how many conversation hearts I speed eat while I type this, I cannot impose upon him a plan. I suppose he'll come up with something one of these days. I hope it involves cash money and maybe a Winnebago for me and Tim. That would be nice.

Back to the crazy, if I have to explain where the crazy fits into all this, then you don't know me at all. For the record, I feel very sane except for the stars.

Good Enough

There's a fine line between perfection and good enough.  Or if you ask the nun I've been working with for the last few months (she's been helping me learn how to stop being insane and just "be." I'm not sure if it's working or not- OK, it's not), it's a big chasm between perfection and good enough. 

(She's a delightful, very centered nun. Probably perfect although I would get in trouble for saying that.)

Perfection: Eye Liner, mascara, contoured eye shadow and $150 eye cream
Good Enough: Glasses. No one can see the bloodshot eyes because of the glare.

Perfection: Iced martini glass, frozen shaker, filtered water ice cubes with suspended raspberries, Dutch vodka and lemon liquor and sugar rimmed crystal glass.
Good Enough: Mid Shelf Vodka and a straw (note that even in the good enough category, it is UNACCEPTABLE to use the bottom shelf.)

Perfection: Even keeled response to all stressful professional situations. (No threats of homicide or bodily injury on myself or others either for affect or as a true threat to the general public.)
Good Enough: Feeling hateful and occasionally spitting.

Perfection: Dressed and fed children reading "War and Peace" on Christmas break while studying ahead for winter finals.
Good Enough: Out of bed before noon, dressed by 5pm, please A&P. And there are frozen waffles, knock yourselves out.

If I can only pound this into my thick, thick skull: good enough is all that anyone asks of you, me or that lady down the street with the perfect Christmas lights. The little voice in the back of my head is really bothered by the laundry in the bathroom and the fruit flies and the cat hair and the dust on the floor in the hall. Said another way, if God wanted things to be perfect I'm certain we wouldn't be celebrating a stable and some stinky shepherds with their equally foul sheep with the accompanying excrement. Or those wise men? Really, Frankincense, aren't those stinky bath salts that the kid can smoke to get high? A savings bond would be way more appropriate.

Lastly, even without the perfect combo of 5 fruits and vegetables per day, my monster children are 6 foot 3 at age 14. God obviously allows for some wiggle room on the requirements.

I declare this post, good enough. If I say it 100 times, maybe I'll believe it.

Boy Scouts and Girlfriends

I found my boys at that giant Boy Scout jamboextravaxecellentcy.

I also found some very fabulous butterflies in the gardens at Mount Vernon.

And I found some super fabulous girlfriends, right under my nose. Just like butterflies, if you slow down long enough and shut the yammering skull cave for a minute or two, the gals appear from the nicest places.

I can't explain what happened here. Peter either got very large or the rest of us got very small. My eyeballs are at his bottom lip. Seriously, this is NOT OK.

On the upside, Andrew is on the left so that part of the universe is still completely under my control.

It's hard to see but the t-shirt is a Breast Cancer Awareness shirt created by super fantastic cousin Missy and is worn in honor of my very fabulous gal Cathy S- super fierce, always beautiful and walking last weekend to raise money for research. She is awesome. You probably know someone exactly like her and you should donate your time or energy and maybe both to fighting this disease with Cathy.

Back to the butterflies, I am the luckiest person ever.

I am sending you some giggling, a good deal or two, and in honor of a now deceased blogger I stole this from,

Love, love, love.

Just because

Scout Spy

I should have been a spy.

I could take off in my top secret spy plane and take my own pictures of A&P no matter where they are. You shouldn't be able to hide from your Mom.

The picture above is from the BSA Jamboree website. This aerial shot is A&P's sub camp- or so I'm told.

When A&P were little I performed various covert operations like stalking the school bus and hiding on the play ground dressed up like pieces of playground equipment (I don't recommend dressing up like tether ball.)

The first day of school I was reprimanded by the bus driver for rip tearing through town, chasing the bus. I made the mistake of pulling up next to the bus at a stoplight. The door on the bus whooshed open in the way they do with that air noise and a squeak and the driver looked down her nose at me in disgust. "Go to work," she commanded. "They're fine!"  Whatever, they're only really fine, if I know they're fine with my own two eyes, sister, and you have to go over 3 different sets of railroad tracks. How do I know you don't have a bum eye and impaired hearing that prevents you from identifying a speeding train?

I guess I've gotten over that, sort of (hence the sedatives) but I wish I had a spy plane. A better plan would be to dress as a shrub and work my way around Fort AP Hill a stand of trees at a time. There's only 75,000 acres, who would possible notice the same piece of shrubbery?

The next best plan would be to get in the car and drive 12 hours to Virginia and find A&P on that 75,000 acres and make sure they're OK with my own two eyes.

Good idea.

I leave tomorrow.

Summer Squash

A&P were about the size of a summer squash when they were born- together. Separately, probably the size of a couple of large sweet potatoes.

Then they got big. So big, I can't really compare them to food anymore.

Big enough that they could pack their stuff into over sized bags and go away on a bus for two weeks.

Eeek. I need a moment.

OK, I'm back.

Then, it's off on their adventure, see ya, thanks for the memories, can I have some more cash, later gator, outa here, ta-ta, TTFN, blow a kiss, gone Daddy gone. Gone.

I need a moment. And a sedative.

OK, I'm back.

Here's the link for you grandparent types that might want to know where A&P are spending the next 10 days. They're in Subcamp 13 (Ohio and West Virginia), Troop 1324 to be exact.

So there's the story. They were born the size of a squash, they got big and then they stepped on a bus and went away to the 100th Anniversary Boy Scout Jamboree. I'm just positively speechless.
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I would like to point out that in every single picture, Andrew is on the left!

Suite!

I got an email on Wednesday, while zipping to a meeting out of town, offering us tickets to the Detroit Tigers game on Thursday. Turns out the tickets were in a Suite a little to the third base side of home plate at Comerica Park in Detroit. A&P thought they had gone to heaven as we surprised them when we picked them up from a week up at Lake Huron. The tickets even included a parking pass and a special entrance so we were parked about a dozen yards from the gate. Wow. And, the suite had its own bathroom. Besides the view, this held the biggest fascination and why wouldn't it?

My only problem here is that Andrew is not on the left. No one listens to me anymore. Seriously people.

Sunday A&P will head off the the Boy Scout Jamboree at Fort AP Hill in Virginia for the better part of two weeks. Here are their smiling faces before camp a few weeks ago. This is when their clothes were clean, their teeth were brushed and they weren't covered with mosquito bites. Andrew is on the left here. Can you see the height difference? We're baffled because Andrew actually eats. Peter seems to live mostly on Oatmeal Creme pies.

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My new Bible finally showed up. Thanks US Postal Service for rushing it out to me in 14 days. What if I was really having a crisis? I guess the 4th grade Bible would have had to do.  I got sucked into Proverbs 31 this week. I'm not sure who this lady is, but whoa, I'm feeling rather inadequate.

I did manage to paint this desk though. A few folks might recognize it as the Muncie desk that ended up in my house a few years ago. I decided to paint it red. Take that Proverbs 31 lady.

Double Stinky Socks

A&P are home from Boy Scout Camp. Can you smell them from there? I think I may have discovered a new bacterium, or 12, in the pile of macerated socks. So much for paying extra for stink guard socks. What a scam.

Those boys make me swoon. (Camp is actually over tomorrow, but they got sprung a few hours early so we can set them off of their next adventure tomorrow morning, but that's another story. I have perfected the art of arranging activities for children that keep them entertained for weeks at a time. I should get paid to do this for rock stars.)  Anyway, back to the swooning...

They have arranged for themselves to have their conference in a few weeks to become Life Scouts. With that, we're one step (and a whole lot of work) from their Eagle. No matter how bright my brother's kids are, surely I'll have done something right to turn out a pair of Eagle Scouts. (Insert humility here).

Here's the best part though- I know they had a good week because they talked the whole way home about camp being the best week ever. They hardly complained about the food they had such a great time. Here's the thing about Boy Scouts, when you can spend your week lighting fires, rolling in the dirt and practicing a tourniquet- what could be better than that?

A maid to wash the socks...
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We're heading into another week without the boys and it's hard to know what project to tackle first. I'm working my way through the Book of Ruth, line by line. I've gotten so fascinated by the detail and the history that I ordered myself the Oxford Annotated Bible. I can hardly wait to dig into it if only Amazon would hurry it up and make my delivery.

So very blessed on this Friday evening. I hope you are in a good place and I'm sending you a hug and a kiss, just in case you need it. Feel better?

Knocked Around

In my quest for some good TV, I stumble around the dial of 200 channels like an inebriated housefly desperately searching the screen for a hole big enough to cram into and escape. Surely TV is an escape for most everyone. After an hour slogging through the machinations that is a VH1 reality show, I flipped over to a narrative of The Wreck of the Whaleship Essex and Hermann Melville. It's one of my favorite stories- gruesome but wonderful language and allegory.





Ever feel like you've been whacked upside the head by a 2 ton right whale? I can't be the only one. But when that happens, there's always the little stuff to get you through, hour by hour, if necessary. Like some of this stuff...





Andrew has a beautiful, young soul. He's not an old soul- I know you know what I mean. He doesn't look at me with those eyes that say "I've done this before, leave me alone." His eyes say "Hey, this is the first time I've seen this and I'm having a wonderful time, thank you very much." It's rather refreshing after a day or two of being knocked about in what feels like a very small, hole riddled boat.





Yesterday he told me that the new shampoo I got him made him so happy because it was a great shade of blue. "It actually made me smile in the shower." How cute is that? It's shampoo so I think that's rather delightful. He never said anything profound when peering into the Grand Canyon a few years back- he said something more like "That's a big hole." I suppose if he can appreciate the small things, I've done my job.





This is what he picked out for me for Mothers' Day...

I've received a variety of opinions about what this means- including one that suggests that he is trying to butter me up should he end up in the slammer. He's not the felonious type generally so that can't be it. Regardless, he was quite proud of the purchase and insisted that I take it to my office. So I did. Hopefully the nuns don't mind the mild profanity. (Incidentally, Peter got me a very nice vase.)

Being knocked about is generally worth it, even when the boat springs a leak, or 12. I found at my local Big Lots a nifty four pack of root beer that helped me focus on what's important even when someone else is yanking the life jacket and pushing my head under water.

It was way up on the top shelf, but not out of reach. Nothing is, if you try hard enough.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to get back to bailing me boat.

Fib Practice

I have a colleague. I don't like this person one bit. Not one iota.

This person thinks I fib. Either that or she likes to check up on me. If you know me at all, you know that this makes me crazytown insane.

So this is what I'm going to do. I am going to call it out. I am going to call it like I see it. If you don't believe what I say and you insist on going behind my back like a 5th grader to see if I what I tell you is true, then I will call this out.

Here's the thing. If I fibbed or made stuff up, I wouldn't be mundane. I would go big. I would tell the biggest whopper you ever heard. So, if you think, Dear Miss Checkerupper that I am lying about someone being out of town, just see what I might tell you if I was really fibtastic.

No, we wouldn't be out of town at a meeting (which for real! it's the truth!) We would be...

Eating tea sandwiches with flying monkeys at a garden shop in Queensland Australia.

Or wait, this is better. We would be riding blue dragons to a luncheon with the King and Queen of Luxemermia. (That's where I'm from after all. For those of you who don't know me well, I was kidnapped by Russian spies out of my castle in Luxemermia back in 1981. I was only 6 months old and I woke up in an orange crib in Wauwatosa Wisconsin with Paula and Stu. I'm just waiting for the King's people to hook me up with my fortune. Still waiting!)

So here's the deal Miss Checkerupper, if you're too dumb to figure out that I know that you're going around checking up on me like you're some kind of insecure 5th grader, then when I meet you next week, we're going to have some fun. You just won't know it's happening because the whopper will be so big, well, I'll stop there. I don't want to give away my secrets.

Lunch Break

Here's a snapshot of what is floating around in my head (if you watch South Park, I'm probably a bit like what Cartman sees when he closes his eyes). It is nearly noon as I type this. Where does the day go?

I am inspired by the following two things today (beware, things are going to get sappy around here)...

• A quote from Moulin Rouge "The greatest thing you will ever learn is to love and to be loved in return."
• Time spent serving and preparing a community dinner for people who need it on Sunday.

First, the quote... it's just a great quote. I am going to give my boys and the kitty and Timmy and maybe the guinea pig (Not all at the same time) a big squeeze. Peter really needs a big squeeze. He was feeling a little low yesterday. So, if you see him before I do, squeeze him until he squeaks.

Second, the dinner... A&P and a friend needed some more service hours for school so off we went to the community dinner. The boys all worked very hard and made me very proud. They worked for four hours straight to help get dinner on the table for about 50 people who come off of the street once a month for a meal. Some of the people leave prayer requests behind.

I should tell you that Sunday was a miserable rainy day. People came in dripping wet and cold. Some smiled anyway.

I have to tell you about these prayer requests.... if I was homeless or downtrodden and needed a meal... I would be miserable. I would be a pill and a half. I would be pulling my hair out and I would pray for indulgent things like a job and an income and a place to live. This is because I'm selfish and I have too much to learn about how to live my life. Do you know what these people left prayers for? Not a single prayer that I picked up was for something indulgent.

They prayed for...

• the missing oil rig workers
• miners in West Virginia
• peace
• beauty
• happiness
• some signed their names and said thank you
• some didn't say anything at all

Remember, give Peter a squeeze.

Worms: An appreciation

This is a post about worms. If you think worms are icky, you should probably not read this. Although I think worms are icky so I probably can't type anything too gross or I'll make myself sick.

Shall I explain the picture? In preparation for a newsy little post of vermicomposting or some such thing, I decided to find a picture of an earth worm. Instead I found this lovely photo of the Nibelungen Bridge over the Rhine at Worms, Germany. Obtuse? Indeed.

Curiousity got the better of me so I turned to google to find out some more stuff about Worms. Did you know it was founded by Celts and that the people of Worms fight with the people in Cologne about who has the oldest town in Germany? The only thing I ever knew was that Worms was where Martin Luther had his temper tantrum.

Now get this about the name... the Celts back in the olden times before calendars named their little town Borbetomagus which means "settlement in a watery area." How nice and direct of those Celts. Anyway, the Romans came along and started calling it Vormatia and that's just a fancy way to say "worms." I'm not sure the Romans did them any favors with the name change but with Romans stomping around, I'm not sure that the Borbetomagusians had any room to argue.

So there we have it, worms.

I bought a composter. I don't know anything about worms, but I'm going to compost my coffee grounds and my black and white inked junk mail.

All Hail Mighty Worms.

A Walk in the Woods, Final Episode

Greetings Sports fans! Sometimes there's victory and then there's the agony of defeat. If you followed my instructions and read "A Walk in the Woods" then you'll know the agony of the Appalachian Trail (AT) approach trail. Anytime there's an approach to more trail (2,100 miles of it) you may want to think twice. Andrew reminded me that the characters in the book discarded most of their food (Little Debbies and the coffee filters too) in the 7 mile hike on the approach to the terminus of the AT.

We left the Len Foote Inn with some packed lunches and our spirits high since we knew our trail out, although longer, was more down than up. I guess it all depends on your knees whether you like the up or the down, or neither. Me, I'll take any of it because it's not a day bashing my head against a wall at the office (I like that sort of thing, though.)

The picture above is, finally!, what it should be with Andrew on the left. Seriously people. It's not hard.

We had our regularly scheduled Atkins family breakdown about half way down the mountain. This time there was no aggravating incident just some frayed 13 year old nerves. This turned Andrew into a melted mess and Peter into a hiking machine- apparently in an effort to get as far away from the other 75% of his family as quickly as possible. He's a gazelle when motivated like this. We saw him again somewhere near the stream below.

Oddly, I wasn't as worried as I would be in Montana that something would eat him. Either it's that I didn't think something would eat him because we were in Georgia or maybe I was secretly wishing that he would be carried away by a family of wolves. Is that so wrong?

Six miles later, here is the Amicalola Creek that feeds the waterfall. Yippee! We could almost see the car from here! Nothing had eaten Peter and he was perched on a rock not far from the creek with a look on his face that said "I wish you would melt into spring rain sloshed in mountain mud." What a bonus.

Did you make your reservations yet? What are you waiting for? Seriously, you have no excuse.

Did I mention that I would LOVE to do the entire AT through hike? I read everything I can about the AT and through hikers and I met a through hiker named Catfish on this trip. I've been trying to decide what I might name myself- so far the only thing I can come up with is Cosmo (after my favorite drink). I think I can do better than that.

A Walk in the Woods, Part One

I think I have a loose screw in my skull. Before you go judging me and trying to figure out which screw is the loosest, lest you are one of those folks who believe that I have more than one loose piece of hardware, I know just which one. The problem I have is that I have to live some place flat. Clearly we could have picked someplace else that was not as flat. Really, I can't dwell on that. So here we are.

Do you notice a problem? Yes, I am the shortest. That is a problem. Do you notice the other problem? Peter is on the left. That is about the wrong-est thing that can happen in one of my pictures. Ten years from now I will be totally screwed on who is who. Andrew is always on the left- except in this picture because no one listens to me anymore. I think I'm going to have a short snit about that. OK, I'm done.

Anyway, here we are at the top of Amicalola Falls in the state park of the same name, Georgia. We were ready to start our walk into the woods. (If you have not done so, you must read, MUST, I SAY MUST READ, A Walk in the Woods, by Bill Bryson. Indeed, required for this blog.)


Off we went. Normalcy was achieved as above you will find Andrew on the left. Phew. I thought Mercury was in retrograde there for a few minutes. This picture was taken right before the half way point Atkins family meltdown, a.k.a. fight. This time it was about a dented metal water bottle. (Sigh. It's not worth repeating.)

A&P recovered from their mutual hatred and found company on the trail somewhere way ahead of us. They tell us we're old. We tell them they hike too fast. Whatever, I'm right.

We arrived late afternoon at the Len Foote Hike Inn. It's fabulous and I will tell you more about it tomorrow.

More Picture Obstruction & The Beach

Whilst attempting to pose for a family photo at the UGA Botanical Gardens, we again find ourselves obstructed by an interloper. The raised hand has been used to terrorize A&P since they were very little. Uncle Adam, the obstructionist, used the hand to threaten younger versions of A&P by telling them it was a brain sucker. And, the brain sucker was apparently starving. A&P have often told me "Uncle Adam scares me." Ah yes, he scares us too.
But our visit in Athens was short and we were soon off to sandier places outside of St. Augustine. It's amazing how easy A&P are to spot in the water. They're a bit pale after an Ohio winter.

Cousins make good beach pals and we spent our afternoon digging in the sand for shark's teeth and tossing about in the waves.

We'll report again as time permits and without the interloper, I suppose, unless we can find another one.

When in Rome

I don't mean to brag, but I find myself rather amusing. Hilarious, actually. It was one lunch hour last week that I decided that conversational phrases in a supposedly dead language would lilt me through my afternoon. This dalliance into dead linguistics has kept me amused for several days now. It's just too fun not to share.

Have I ever told you how smart my husband is? He's one of those people that knows way too much stuff and will kick your butt at Trivial Pursuit even if he's in a coma or beer induced stupor. Believe me, I've tried (the beer, not the coma, that's a little cruel don't you think?) Anyway, Mr Smartypants took Latin. I did not. I'm jealous. I want to be smart and be able to use e pluribus unum in business meetings. How handy is that? I bet people would run from my conference room and never come back. Something to think about, don't you think?

But, I needed more than a run of the mill phrase like e pluribus unum. Yea, I'm ready to spout "how much wood could a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood." Take that! (It's
Quantum materiae materietur marmota monax si marmota monax materiam possit materiari? Just in case you needed to know that. And why wouldn't you?

How about...

Aio, quantitas magna frumentorum est (Yes, that is a very large amount of corn.) Useless? No! The county fair? Your local grain silo where Roman immigrants have congregated?

Or...
Recedite, plebes! Gero rem imperialem (Stand aside, little people! I am here on official business.) Do I even need to tell you how to use this? Everything said in Latin sounds more important. Try it next time you're in the back of the line at the bank- sure shootin' you'll be up in front before you know it (or on your butt in the parking lot).

Here's a good one. You're at a cocktail party and you don't want to sound rude so you say...Re vera, potas bene (Say, you sure are drinking a lot.) Instead of being thrown out on your ear, your friend thanks you for your thoughtfulness and immediately hands over the keys. Beautiful, it's almost like Oprah.

And now, for my personal favorites. Are you ready? I don't think they need any explanation...

Catapultam habeo. Nisi pecuniam omnem mihi dabris, ad caput tuum saxum immane mittam.
I have a catapult. Unless you give me all of your money, I will fling an enormous rock at your head. (This gives me such admiration for the Romans!)

Certe, toto, sentio nos in kansate non iam adesse (You know Toto, I have a feeling we're not in Kansas anymore.)

Now what will keep me from losing my mind this week?

Yep, Still Around

I'm not trapped under a rock. My feet are not frozen in a puddle two arms lengths away from my computer. I have some excuses for leaving you high and dry since last Monday. Would you like to hear them?

I have this really crazy job where I fire people all the time. It's pretty draining, but I get to fly all over the place and I'm looking forward to receiving my super triple lithium MasterCard. So, I've been pretty busy.... oh wait. That's "Up in the Air."

OK, truly, we took in a high school student and he needs some extra help with his football plays. I'm good at knowing about football because I follow the SEC. Luckily my husband owns a string of Taco Bells so I never have to cook and I can spend my time with our new family member. So, I've been pretty busy...oh wait. That's "The Blindside."

OK, now I won't fib. I promise. I work in a big building and I have a really great boss and a great staff of writers. But none of these people can do anything on their own and we have a production schedule so I toil day and night in my office, but I'm still looking for love. Hold on.... That's "30 Rock."

Perhaps I haven't blogged because I've been up too late at night watching award shows. But then there's the laundry and the kids that came home on Sunday after not freezing to death at Camp Frozen Fritzel that past weekend. I washed their coats three times and they still smell like a camp fire. I think they rolled in the fire pit. Washing the same thing takes time away from washing my own stuff and holy cow, I really need a wife.

And then Peter got some of his braces yesterday and we had Boy Scouts. I have to follow Peter around to make sure he does his chores because he's incapable of setting aside 34 seconds to make his bed. Surely there is a merit badge for "Do It You Dang Self or Yo Mama dun sellin' you to gypsies."

Somehow no one is making a movie about any of this stuff.

My Hero: Lord Baden Powell

While biding my time until I send my offspring out into a cold, wet, frostbitey winter's night later this week, I figured out a way to motivate them. Calm down, the boxing gloves are not the implement of my success. (I just thought it was a nice picture to show that for once, and for about the next 30 minutes until they figure it out, I'm in control!)

Control? What is that? Ever since the day someone told me that there was two instead of one, I've had no control over anything. Until today...

As I've said before, the Boy Scouts are an amazing lot. Yes, they can start a mean fire and splint your broken foot all while identifying deciduous trees. But that Lord Baden Powell guy? He knew exactly what he was doing 101 years ago when he sent his Scouts out on mules to do whatever he sent them off to do. (He may have been trying to see which ones were too lily-livered to come back.) It's all about motivation. So here's the scheme, er, well thought out parental plan I've hatched...

No Driver's License until you're an Eagle Scout. Evil, huh?

We now have all sorts of possibilities including two boys, who were only fairly motivated, but are now, Eventual Freedom Controlled By Mom, Motivated!

Shockingly, they allowed me to spreadsheet their daily chores for the next 12 weeks.

Guess what happened? They made their beds today- FOR THE FIRST TIME EVER. (Yes, that's pathetic, but there are some things that are just not worth fighting about when you can shut a door. But now, I have a spreadsheet.)

Then, guess what? They took the trash out - WITHOUT COMPLAINING.

Right now? They are voluntarily cleaning up the basement family room so they can get a gold star on their charts. This is nothing short of miraculous.

Hold your applause. I need to quit while I'm ahead. But, I didn't. They each wrote a letter to their school principal for a letter of reference that they need. Then, they each wrote a letter to our United States Senators requesting their support for relief efforts in Haiti.

If Lord Powell was alive, I'd kiss him, right on the mouth.

Can You Repeat That?

On the way home from music lessons last night...

Kid: I think I will be reincarnated.
Me: OK, Bhuddist are we?
Kid: I'm coming back as a bumblebee. A bumblebee named Roger.
Me: Roger? I'm not sure that bees have regular people names.
Other Kid: That's just dumb. You die and you're done. Don't you listen in church?
Me: By done, you don't mean done...
Other Kid: Right, heaven.
Kid: I've decided to be Buddhist and I'm coming back.
Me: Something to atone for? Like the towel in a wad on the bathroom floor?
Other Kid: I'll get it right the first time.
Me: You're even worse with the towel. If anyone's coming back, it's you.
Other Kid: That hurts. Can I have a cell phone?
Me: Seriously. I giveth and I taketh away. And your grades need improvement by Thursday.
Other Kid: I'll get them up. You have no faith in me.
Me: That's ridiculous.
Kid: Roger won't have to worry about cell phones or homework. Did you know they have Prince Charles in a can?
Me: What did you say?
Kid: Prince Charles in a can. You call someone and you say...
Me: You mean Prince Albert.
Kid: Oh.

Christmas Eve Delivery?

Yesterday, it hit me that I will have 7 people for Christmas Eve dinner and not 6. I think I forgot to count myself.

This was quite a shock. I had washed 6 napkins.

So, now what? The dining table is too small. It has no leaves. We bought it right before we got married and it's been holding court in the dining room since we moved here for lack of any other place to put it or anything to put in its place.

This is not due to a lack of effort. Not a lot of effort, mind you, but I can never decide what I want. Provincial? Stuffy. Country? Casual. Colonial? Too George Washington-y.

I tromped to the basement for my normal "the table is too small solution"- a card table tacked on the end. I was completely non-plussed. This looked awful and I was so totally over the shabby chic. Now what? It's 2 days before Christmas. Tables are big and something that large won't fit in my VW. Nor will the chairs. Sigh. It would be pretty mean to make one of the boys sit in the kitchen alone just to cut out a chair.

I drove to a furniture store and walked in- sullen. I found exactly what I wanted. More depression, why didn't I do this in April? "So," I say sweetly, "any chance this could be delivered tomorrow?" YES!

So, tonight may you enjoy good food at a table that is big enough for all the people that you can cram around it. Merry Christmas.

A Christmas Present

This is not the conversation I expected to have about Christmas. As a matter of fact, in my wildest dreams I never could have imagined this request or how hard it is to fill it... what a wish fulfilling failure I've turned out to be...

Me: What do you want for Christmas?
Kid: I don't really need anything.
Me: True, but there has to be something.
Kid: I need mittens.
Me: DONE!

Until, I can't find mittens. Why didn't I know this in July when I was cruising art and craft fairs? Why don't I have a neighbor that knits? Why don't I know anyone that knits? Come to think of it, I'd be happy to learn if it's possible to drink martinis and knit. So, who wants a scarf next year for Christmas, knitted by a drunken knitter? That's a sales pitch if I've ever heard one.

In desperation, I called my in-laws. Help me, I said. The kid wants mittens. You're old, you have to have an old friend that knits. I can't let a kid down on Christmas for lack of mittens! This is almost Little Timmy Cratchett awful. The kid has everything. No, he has two or three of everything known to man and all he wants are mittens! He'll freeze his digits waiting for the bus in January without a fuzzy pair of hand knit mittens.

Christmas 2009 is now the holiday that may go down in the book as the Christmas where all the kid wanted was a pair of knit mittens and his lousy, too busy mother can't figure that out. I can feed him sushi and take him to see a Jasper James exhibit, but I can't rouse up one pair of mittens! I'm a failure!

And, now, it's worse. The other kid wants them too. Two pairs of mittens. I've got 9 days.