It is Tuesday, which means I am at Five Full Plates, with a blog entry that has the following the following Tags: Blah Blah Blah, Ginger, Reebok Easy Tone, Stealth Tooting, T & A, and Whitney Houston. Because these things all naturally go together. Somehow.
Come see me over there and talk me out of spending 125 bucks on shoes destined to be the inevitable cause of my sad demise.
Christmas is for me a religious holiday. I love both Midnight Mass and the traditional Protestant Christmas Eve service, love lighting the Advent candle, opening Advent calendars (preferably with chocolate, because...duh). I adore live nativities, especially the ones with actual fat-legged bottle-fed Jesuses gritching on their exhausted parents. The BEST ONE I ever saw was done outside in a small Alabama town and it had actual ornery little donkeys and too-stupid-to-live sheep milling about with panicky teenager shepherds with giant farm-animal sized pooper-scoopers disguised as crooks. Dig it.
I am not much into the secular Christmas that has grown up around one of my religion’s high holy days, but I get that it is important to other people and whatnot, so more power to ‘em, even though I cannot FATHOM how any human can look at most reigning Mall Santas and think, “I have an idea! I will go plop my precious child down on that hairy stranger, who is probably a felon happy to have a job that allows him to be disguised!” I am sure some Mall Santas are harmless Grampas with real beards who look forward to doing the job every year, and that’s really sweet and such, but....I am willing to bet the ratio of felons to harmless Grampas would be discouraging.
ALSO, I do not like 98% of secular Christmas music, and a few of the traditional, secular carols I hate with a surprising vigor, considering my bland response to most songs. Most songs make me go, “....Oh. A song. Meh.” A rare few---Joy to the World, Oh Come All Ye Faithful, Mary’s Song----the lyrics resonate with me so powerfully that I come to like the song by association. But secular Christmas music with its ring ting jingling-ness makes my teeth grit. Hate Rudolf. Hate him. Unabashedly. Hate ALL twelve of the twelve days of Christmas and who ON EARTH would WANT their boyfriend to give them that many barnyard and water fowl. It’s perverted. I think the song about Frosty would be much improved if midway through there was a verse about someone taking a blow torch to this head, thumpetty thump thump, thumpetty thump thump, look at Frosty convulse in agony, thumpetty thump etc.
There is one thing I REALLY love about secular Christmas. The presents. I dearly love presents. I love to SHOP for presents for people (although I find I enjoy it most when I do it in October before the LOOT-MAS MADNESS cranks up.) I love to WRAP presents. I love to watch people unwrap things and see what they got. I love to GET presents. I like to open wrapped things and not know what is in them and then know. I. LIKE. IT. And yes Christmas should be less commercial blahblahblah, so fine, get the elf animatronics out of the mall, but for the love of all that is holy, THERE MUST BE PRESENTS.
This year, I got AWESOME presents.
From my mom and dad, I got this gorgeous bag that had long been filling my black heart with wild vintage leather-based lusts. I got rice bowls to go with my everyday china. I got pricey bath stuff I would NEVER buy myself. It smells like FIGS and RED TEA.
My brother and his family got Scott a shirt he had seen online, DEARLY WANTED, and declined to buy for himself because if ever bought himself anything it would be so antithetical to his character that it might create an anti-matter Scott and if they ever met and shook hands the world would implode and you would all die. He really WANTED this shirt, but not at the cost of total planetary destruction, so he resisted it, then was all hang doggy for a couple of days saying. “I should have ordered it...” and then he forgot about it. THEN? He got it for Christmas --- they had NO idea of all this at home drama over it, they just saw it said, “Oh! Scott would like that!” It looks like this:
This was the first year my kids bought me presents with NO INPUT from their dad or my mom or common sense. The kids’ school set up a Christmas store --- any kid could bring money and shop for their family all secret-like. My cool son got me a coffee mug because he knows I am an addict. He gave his dad a keychain flashlight. Really THOUGHTFUL and things we both need/like. BUT! Maisy is only seven and WOW! I got a HIDEOUS faux- silver ring that keeps catching in my hair and yoinking pieces out and that is turning my finger green....I LOVE IT. But it was not the BEST thing. Oh no. She got Scott a fake birdhouse that is BRISTLING with plastic greenery and topped with a plastic, mentally ill looking googly eyed cardinal.
Scott got me two months of sessions with a personal trainer, this ENORMOUS HULKING SHREDDED ex army meat-and-fruit-eating muscle fanatic who says he is going to RIP ME UP. I gave Scott a very odd present: PERMISSION to get a tattoo. He in return gave me permission to NOT get a tattoo ever. Thanks, Babe!
And now that I have revealed the depths of my rampant package-driven greed, you must tell me....What was the best thing you gave or got this year?
Best Beloveds, I am off to have a Merry Christmas with the family in Alabama. I will be back Monday to tell you about what PHAT LOOTS I garnered, because THAT, after all, is the TROO MEANING OF XMAS. Or maybe the troo meaning is shopping? I can’t tell because my brain is dazzled by all the white lights on my neighbor’s bushes. MAYBE the troo meaning is squandering electricy? *grin*
No, seriously, for me it is a high holy day, and I will know it is Christmas when we go to the evening service and they sing Joy to the World. I hope there is a trumpet. That song righteously DESERVES a trumpet. I hope you have a lovely holiday with YOUR family and friends and loved ones, and for all of us, my especial hope is that, no matter what else, there is pie. Thank you for existing, oh my beautiful friends inside the computer. You make my non-Christmas days a little more Jingle Bell-y.
Speaking of pie. I blogged over at Five Full Plates about why I will have a much harder time with the pie than you, or wait, maybe it is YOU who has a harder time with pie than me? I forget. But I remember to blog over there every Tuesday. I do not remember to remind you, though, apparently, at least not until it is good and Wednesday.
Oh shush, it made sense in my head. Do not make me get my Pimp Cane.
With thanks to Elena, and PEE ESS, I have met many Many MANY of type four. Many.
Schubert feels better. I know because during his illness, the cat food bowls that dwell in the basement managed to drift close to one another in the way of inanimate objects in a house full of pets and little children. Schubert has not been eating well, so no one noticed the bowls had migrated. This morning, when a modest scoop of kibble landed in each bowl, the thunderous eight-paw response of two big toms galumphing down the stairs told me all was becoming right in cat-world. Then, seeing how the bowls were placed, my chuffy old one-eyed pirate promptly planted his face deeply into one dish and settled his pointy, bald haunches just as deeply into the other.
Boggart stood to one side, watching this. He is such a sociopath that his reaction was, as always, hard to read. Was he quizzical? Angry? No telling. I swear if that cat had thumbs he would be up in a bell tower RIGHT NOW calmly picking off holiday shoppers. If he had more flexible lips, he would be whistling while he did it.
We call Boggart “Dexter Morgan” more than we call him Boggart these days. He has a LOT in common with Dexter. He wants to live in the house with people, but he doesn’t actually want the people to touch him. He does not seem to understand how to have an interactive relationship with other living creatures, unless the creature in question is one of the hapless field mice who sometimes wander into this exact wrong house to get out of the winter. Boggart’s relationships with them are ruthless and efficient and of a very short duration, and, much like Dexter’s most intimate relationships, they leave one party in chunks.
When Schubert, as he often does, comes to wind around and my ankles and bellow to be given his rightful petting dues, Boggart cocks his head to one side and watches like a serial killer turned anthropologist, trying to puzzle out the appeal. He gets closer and closer as he observes the odd phenomena, but if I reach out a hand to try and include him, he rears his head back, ears flattening, and sniffs at my extended hand as if checking it for knives or poison.
SO when Schubert appropriated all the breakfasts, he was unsure how to handle it. The situation seemed to require... *shudder*... conversation, Or, WORSE, contact. After a minute of dead-eyed watchfulness, Boggart released a sharp, short, protesting mewl. Schubert did not respond. Another minute passed, and then Boggart made the same noise again, louder. This time, Schubert deigned to respond by flicking an ear, as if to say, “What? I am warming it up for you. With my butt.”
Or perhaps I too kindly interpret the ear flick because he has been ill. It would be more like Schubert to say, “What? I am warming my second breakfast up for myself. Go eat lint.”
Or perhaps, even, “What? I can eat with both ends now, and also kill you in your sleep. Move along.”
Schubert is not a sociopath, but it is true that he has no use for other animals. He only understands relationships with PEOPLE. And by people I mean, he likes me. He tolerates the children. He does not mind Scott, as long as Scott does not foolishly try to PICK HIM UP. Only I can pick him up. He suffers the dog to live because I seems to like the dog and Schubert wants to please me. He suffered the mice ladies to live because the counter was high, and he suffers Boggart to live for reasons I cannot fathom.
I had missed my old skeezix while he felt so lowly, and it is nice to have him back.
At any rate, I stepped in and moved things around, putting both butt and dish back where they belong so that Boggart got a non-Lint, non-the-blood-of-innocents breakfast. He thanked me by eating a bite, blinking in a meditative way, and then wandering away past me as if I did not exist.
Honestly, the more time I spend with these two, the fonder I become of the DOG.
Problem 1. Solve for Vet, where Vet is X, and Y is a variable that = the number of times you refrained from punching anyone in the face while your poor old skeezixy kitty lost 3 pounds and cried and picked out all his butt hair and lay around acting nothing like himself and licking and weeping with all his skin coming off.
Age of Schubert the Cat: 14
Number of years Schubert the Cat has had a flea allergy that causes disgusting misery if ONE FLEA bites him and he is not treated immediately with Steroids: 14
Number of times my vet told me this was not the same thing, but rather a staff infection, needing wildly expensive intravenous antibiotics: 2
Number of times I said, “NO, I HAVE SEEN THIS ALL HIS LIFE! GIVE HIM STEROIDS! IT WILL RESOLVE ALMOST IMMEDIATELY!”: 2
Number of times I was listened to: 0
Number of dollars spent on two courses of wildy expensive intravenous antibiotics, two vet exams, and then a third exam by a second vet who said, “Oh. Look. A flea allergy,” and pumped him full of steroids and sent him home acting IMMEDIATELY more like his pushy tough chuffy fat self: $520.00
Number of times you said, “EXCUSE ME, DID YOU SAY $520.00?? As in AMERICAN DOLLARS???”and I said, “YES! 520 AMERICAN DOLLARS,” and you said, “It is AMAZING you did not punch anyone in the face!” and I said, “I KNOW! RIGHT???”: At least twice.
Solution: Here X, the vet, is equal to EX-Vet.
Coincidentally, ExVet is also = Mir’s EX-Pediatrician.
Problem two: Solve for Butt Muscles, where Butt muscles previous value was, “I thought I had two, called the glutinous maxi-mooses,” but where Butt Muscles are now quantified as “The Pained Legion.”
Number of Pilates Classes I have taken: 1
Number of pieces of me that hurt: All the pieces. ALL THE PIECES.
Number of pieces I did not know I had until Pilates hurt them: 7
Number of times I have Mocked Yoga for being floppy and full of chimes and foot smells led by men with goatees and toe bells who secretly only learned it because they were hoping to get over on some young, impressionable, and highly flexible chicks by pretending the gym is an Ashram and quoting Sting: Infinity
Number of songs/minutes where my heart rate stayed over 135 and I was flooded with The Beautiful Endorphins and having a SUPER fun time: 11/52
Number of songs/minutes where I sat and listened to chimes and was told to breathe and feel all one-ful w/ the universe and wanted to crawl out of the room hope everyone else was too transcendentaled out to notice but was too wrung out to move and lay on my mat as limp as a kindergartener after lunch: 1/4
Solution: Butt Muscles = I <3 Pilates. But not chimes.
And you, whats-yer-face, you new chick wandering around new Orleans PERPETRATING AMPHIBIOUS KISSING. Ladies, I blame YOU for my girl's dedication to Taylor Swift love songs, her desire to see NEW MOON, and the drawing below:
The child is SEVEN.
May we now please see a Princess who, say, goes to Grad School?
PS Mulan? You are exempt from my criticism. Good job with the saving China!
The true truthful truth is, IF I had a Netbook, THEN I could write this book. A Netbook has FIVE hours of battery life, and I truly believe in my pink heart that in NetBookSpeak, five hours means at LEAST four hours.
It would fit inside my big purse so it would always be with me, like my phone, but with MS WORD on it. But better than my phone, because my phone’s keyboard is indeed QWERTY, but it says in teeny teeny teeny print so teeny no one human eye can detect it, “This keyboard only for use by gnomes, sentient hummingbirds, and the prehensile thumbs of adolescent girls.” No one can be expected to write a book on a Crackberry, but the NETBOOK is like if Crackberry and a laptop had a perfect perfect baby who made writing novels a simple and delightful sugarplum laced dream. With skipping. And cake.
Meanwhile, my current laptop is thwarting me and ruining my serenity and leeching out all my writer-mojo. No wonder I am having difficulties, trying to CRAFT WORDS on this an ancient and unweildy Laptoposaurus. My back is ablaze from carting its enormous haunches and its five pound battery about. AND Laptop battery hours are like dog years, in that “two hours” means “mayyyybe, 45 minutes, assuming you sacrifice a helpless, virgin squirrel to the proper dark gods.”
So I can only work in places that let me plug in, which means NOT THE GOOD SUSHI/TEA HOUSE and I have to tote all these impossible yards of various cords, all of whom pretend to go neatly into the bag in tidy coils and the SECOND I shut that bag, they begin trying to impersonate The Ouroboros playing a fun game of Twister with some frantically mating earthworms.
Just thinking about trying to sort those cords out has pre-defeated me. I have gone all brain soft from technological despair and I read on Web MD that is a REAL thing that makes you too FLOPPY in the leg regions to go to the coffee house and work and PS IT IS RAINING. I think I shall allow myself to be dragged by my kids down to the basement to watch Harry Potter and the Billions in Marketing Tie Ins while eating about a POUND of asparagus and Scott’s Orange-Rosemary Glazed Pork Tenerloin.
But...IF I HAD A NETBOOK? I would have finished the book by now. This is just true.
Dear Serial Killers and Opossums,
Scott is home. You heard me. The window for murdering me in my bed/creeping me out by climbing up my grill to LICK the forgotten meat fork with your disgusting possum-tongue (respectively) has firmly closed. My boyfriend is back and you are gonna be in trouble if you even poke one toe onto my back deck. He will end you. HE WILL.
Lady with Gun
Dear Physical Objects I Depend On,
Oh cars, oh computers, oh toilets and air conditioning units, all of you who have already broken, to you I say nothing. We have already had many ugly words pass between us, and all of you are broken and gone, replaced by The Good Cat Car and the toilets from space and etc. so we shall let this sad history BE history.
BUT TO EVERYTHING ELSE I own and need to function at top efficiency---For example, to YOU, dishwasher, YOU who are slowly, one by one, dropping your metal prongs that separate the dishes as if the prongs were loblolly pine needles and you were a tree feeling the chills of winter, and to YOU, clothes drier, who did not get replaced when we replaced the broken washer and who now makes thumpy-whumpy noises as if I had included a pair of Keds in every load. And you most especially ROOF, old gray sagging roof and your attendant saggy gutters. I say to ALL OF YOU, if you are going to break, the next three weeks are your final window.
2009 is the year of everything breaking. AND IT IS ENDING. I have declared a moratorium on HUGE EXPENSIVE REPLACEMENTS AND REPAIRS for 2010. If you limp along through December, prepare to keep on limping. You may break in 2011, if you ask nicely.
With a Steely Glare That Says I Know The Way to Major Appliance Hell and I am not Afraid to Take You There,
Thank you for the AWESOME display of gorgeousness. We had no snow boots or mittens, and thus we were not prepared for your glorious and Christmastastically appropriate white greeting, but we don’t care about that. We LIKED your pretty snow, and as for the boots-n-mittenas, we IMPROVISED:
Chilly and Grateful,
Dear Best of all Possible Beloveds,
My mental illness number, which had reached such a STRATOSPHERIC and DIZZYING pinnacle that my friends were telling me they had heard electroshock doesn’t hurt THAT much and can be an inexpensive alternative to a spiral perm, has reset down to regular. For the first time in weeks, under the vat if mucus currently swamping my lungs, I feel a strange, submerged burbling that I strongly suspect might be happiness.
This has caused me to open my file. The book is moving again. Not forward, oh no NEVER THAT. But definitely sideways, which, considering how stalled I was, I will take sideways. I will kill the fatted calf and throw a FEAST for sideways. I was about half way through, but now I have gone in with a Happy Machete and killed TWENTY-TWO thousand words. HEH. Oh well. Needed to be done. I told my agent about The Great Word Whack and he said, “Oh dear,” and I said, “Well, do you want a book, or do you want a good book?”
He wants a good book. Me too. I want a good book, and to feel inside like this Happy Pointy Snow Fellow with a Crazy Celery Nose looks like he feels outside:
Today? I kinda do.
I have three things to tell you.
1) I feel like any minute I am going to go creep under a house and die like an inconvenient and terminal woodland creature. There I will begin to smell and ruin everyone’s dinner. I think I will choose the house of the fellow who walked around our cul-de-sac today and let both of his SIMPLY ENORMOUS DOGS crap right beside my driveway on my grass. You do not bag your dogs’ biological effluvia? FINE. I shall not bag my swine flu riddled corpse. Fair’s fair.
2) GCP sent me the WHOLE cover for Backseat Saints, and EVEN THOUGH I have shown you the cover I now have to show it to you again with the spine and the back because I can’t GET OVER IT. So pretty. I think they did the back cover this way because there was a small but consistent percent of folks who were creeped out because they were not sure EXACTLY WHOSE HAIR THAT IS Rose is holding.
If a woman cuts off her own long hair, there is built in context from psychology and literature there: She is unburdening in some way, or she is going through an identity change, or she is discovering sexual freedom, things like that.
If, however, a woman goes around with blades all snicker-snackery to whack off someone ELSE’S hair....Yeah. Creepy.
Now Rose is on the back LOFTING her braid in triumph with her chopped off crazy-ragged back hair making it clear she isn’t some sort of psychotic hair thief. I love the ENERGY of it---the VICTORY of the rigid arm! GO, ROSE.
3) A lot of my friends are Crazy Homeschoolers, including my friend Lydia, who has been the evilest of ALL my evil cohorts for, Lo, these 15 years or more. Maybe 17. I am bad at math. She is a pathological organizer of events and projects. One of her pet projects is a home school Science Fair, so kids who are receiving alternative education don’t miss out on the chance to time hamsters in mazes, explain the workings of volcanoes via paper mache and baking soda, or diagram how to bend time and leap all the way across space in a nano-second. (Some of these home school kids are SPOOKY smart.)
Lydia asked everyone she knows who blogs to give her some space to thank the businesses that provided the wonderful support that made her fair possible. SO Here is Lyd:
Thank you to the following homeschool-friendly businesses for supporting the GUESS Homeschool Science Fair and the young scientists of Hampton Roads!
Green Olive Tree is an internet company based in Portsmouth, Virginia and owned and operated by a homeschooling family. They offer a broad range of internet services, from reliable web hosting to corporate infrastructure solutions and server administration.
SKS Science supplies homeschoolers and other educators with all the science supplies you need to turn your dining room table into a proper laboratory. Browse their site for test tubes, bottles, face masks and other lab supplies and books.
Book Exchange is the largest used bookstore in Eastern Virginia. Unlike most musty and confusing used stores, this one is clean, bright, inviting, and has a huge selection of used homeschool books. There's always an interesting curriculum find on these shelves!
Folkmanis Puppets makes the most delightful animal puppets available outside Santa's workshop. Meet their most unusual creations like llamas, Chinese dragons, ostriches, flying squirrels. Unusual materials create realistic textures, and they all move in very realistic ways. Irresistible.
The Happy Scientist, Robert Krampf, hosts an online wonderland for budding scientists. With online science lessons, experiments to try at home, a science photo of the day, and new content added all the time, you'll love setting your kids loose on this site.
Mad Science is Hampton Roads' premier provider of science enrichment classes for children. Summer classes include "Crazy Chemistry" and a space camp developed with NASA! New homeschool science classes are being offered in Norfolk and VA Beach, with more planned for fall.
Moore Expressions is a homeschool bookstore in Virginia Beach, VA. They sell used and new homeschooling curriculum, host a support group, and publish a newsletter called the Bayith Educator. They are the premier source for homeschooling books in the Hampton Roads area.
Norfolk Karate Academy offers classes in Tang Soo Do (Korean karate) and Gracie Jiu Jitsu (Brazilian grappling and self-defense). With classes for children, teens, and adults, it's a great way for anyone to get in shape and kick things in a socially acceptable way!
Brooks Systems offers standalone software and web applications that check legal compliance in all municipalities in all fifty states, and create truth-in-lending documents for residential lenders. Using Brooks for your automated mortgage compliance, you can be sure your loans are safe.
eScienceLabs creates boxes of joy for science loving homeschoolers. In each kit is a complete science experience -- from individual lessons to full years of high school labs. Hands-on science kits are the answer to your laboratory woes. Everything is in there: test tubes, goggles, and fun.
Mariner's Museum has amazing programs for homeschoolers learning about maritime science, history, and even pirates! Their spring homeschool series features lessons about the Civil War. Visit Mariner's Museum for historical exhibits and educational programming.
Virginia Air and Space Center was host to the homeschool science fair this year, and delivered awesome science classes for homeschoolers from their education department. The VASC is the educator resource center for the NASA Langley Research Center.
With Scott out of town, my two biggest problems are
1) I do not sleep
2) I tell everyone on the internet---not just YOU, oh my friends --- but anyone who happens to surf through via a google which could be hordes of roaming perverts, really, considering some recent titles. *ahem*
Last night, I managed to MAGICALLY fall asleep, deep deep beautiful sleep, before eleven. I haven’t had more than 4 consecutive hours since Scott left. 8 days ago. SO this was a BIG deal. I was HAPPY in my sleep. I was dreaming about world freakin’ peace, dancing children building me a new laptop out of candy canes and hope, lions conspiring with lambs to cook me Eggs Benedict...that's how happy I was.
Then the alarm went off. Not the BEDSIDE alarm. The REAL actual "someone is trying to get in your house and kill your children” alarm. I sat up clutching bedside covers. My trusty Bagel, sleeping beside me in a sprawl that managed to spread out fifty pounds worth of dog so as to cover 73% of a king sized bed, heard the ruckus as well.
His response was to crack a single eyeball, flop onto his side, and think at me, "Hey, can you go see if that is murderers? Because if it’s a storm, or just neighborhood kid hijinks, or even a run of the mill burglar, I will let you handle things becau-----snore."
I leapt out of bed and staggered down the hall, bedchecking that both my children were present. Maisy was lying in a little ribbon under the covers, not moving so much as an eyelash even as the alarm klaxoned and hooted. I thought she must be murdered already and went and snatched her up in a lather of panic, and she said, "MMMMrfmurmble, no Mommy, shhh" at me and flopped back onto the bed. I ran back to the hallway to find Sam alive and well and blinking at me from his bedroom doorway. I sent him back to his room.
The phone rang. It was the alarm company. "Ma’am? Do you want the POLICE?"
I said, "YES. ALL OF THEM."
I hung up and grabbed Scott’s billy club and checked the guest room for slavering creeper-men with axes and bad intentions. I checked the downstairs as well. Murderer free. I was about to check the basement when I realized that I truly, truly, truly did want to go down into the basement with my husband’s billy club. It isn’t even a REAL billy club. It is a PROP billy club left over from a play where he was some kind of a Bobby and went about telling people that Bob was their uncle and ending all his sentences in guv'nor. I also did not want to load up the gun with the police on the way. It seemed like a GREAT way to start an unintentional shoot out.
(Aside: Beloveds, do you see how I managed to convey to the boob surfing internet killers that I have a freakin gun? Pretty sly, eh? Last time the alarm went off – also when Scott was out of town--- I GOT that gun and I loaded it and I ALMOST MURDERED AN OPOSSUM. In Icy cold blood I almost murdered him. So. You have been warned, killers of the world. You have been warned.)
I took the prop billy and sat on the front stairs leading to my kids’ bedroom waiting for the police to arrive. About this time, the dog slithered off the bed, plopped onto the floor, and flopped down beside me at the top of the stairs. I have since renamed my furry guardian, “The Ronco 2000 Attack Carpet.” He put his big head in my lap and drooled in a comforting, protective manner. AWESOME.
Bagel did not TRULY rouse himself until the cops actually arrived, at which point he LEAPT up, tore down the stairs, and madly wagged his whole back in as I escorted two simply ENORMOUS men with GUNS into the house. "Hello! Hello! Welcome!," his back end said in wag-morse-code. "Are you the POLICE? Or MURDERERS come in the dead of night with guns? Either way, can we be FRIENDS! You smell like CRIME! MMM CRIME SMELLS EXCITING! Do you keep any more extra CRIME in your BUTT? Please, allow me to check your butt for interesting crime with my enormous snout!"
I dragged Bagel off the main cop, and we waited nervously at the top of the basement stairs while the main cop and the auxiliary cop went down to check my basement for the slavering creeper-men with axes. I love cops. SO much. They drew their guns and checked all the corners. I said to Bagel, rather pointedly I must confess, "YAY! This is quite a bit more reassuring than, say, BEING DROOOLED ON."
We were certified creeper man clear. The cops said that a combination of house settling warpage and big wind and possible improper latching or, you know, SOMEONE OR SOMETHING PUSHING AT THE DOOR could have caused the alarm circuit to lose contact. Probably just a roving killer. He would have moved on by now. Either that or it was that CUSSED Opossum who seems to KWOW when Scott is out of town and come to bedevil me, and I should have shot him last time.
Guess how much sleep I got LAST night. Heh.
I am SO ashamed of my hatefulness yesterday. I did not want to drive at night in the cold rain. I was foul and tiny-hearted and dread-filled.
I do not like songs, true, but I forgot how very much I like CHILDREN. The recital was super darling. It started with three preschool girls in puffy Christmas dresses singing the song about how to correctly hold their TINY TINY TINY violins. Then they tucked them under their chins, and Miss Anna played POP GOES THE WEASEL and they all stood there earnestly gazing at her until the pop point, when they would all PLUCK! the strings to make the pop. It was the cutest thing that ever happened.
Every child there was dear and earnest like that, and I was just...enchanted. Enchanted the whole time. My own children were superlative, of course. I am completely objective when I report that they were the very best ones. Although Julie’s kids, I am forced to admit, were the very best on violin. (Once again purely objectively speaking.)
From now until March, TUESDAY is my day at 5 Full Plates so I really am only here to apologize for being such a poop.